Day by the Roadside.

Five months ago, I was stranded in the middle of the road between Bamboi and Wa. I was still five hours away from where I wanted to be. Hot, thirsty, and alone, I really thought that day started out so well. 

I had a successful training session the day before at the In-Service Training and a good night with all the PCVs who were there. I didn’t have to worry about getting up at the crack of dawn to waddle through the chaotic murk of Kumasi station to find a car because there was a Peace Corps car heading toward Upper West, and I had a seat on it. The ride was smooth, Aikin the driver was wonderful, I was in good company with one of my good friends. We garbed and carped while speeding through the Wa-Kumasi road with the optimism that I could make it home early that day. I was definitely sad when we reach the car’s last stop, Techiman. It was time for me to get on my own. 

Anticipated to spend a few hours waiting for a car to Wa, I felt absolutely in luck when the first car glided up was shouting “Wa, Wa, Wa!” The prospect of me getting home before dusk was looking good. I hopped in, found a seat by the window. The car wasn’t crowded. The road was empty. And soon enough, we were approaching the mid-way point, Bamboi. Wa was 3 hours away. Thing were going smoothly.

The mate began to collect the lory fare, and I was happy to pay. Since I have never taken a car from this point before, I wasn’t sure of the cost, but knowing the route, I had an anticipating number. So when the small boy (who was actually a young man) told me the price, I thought I heard him wrong. The cost was as if I had taken the car straight from Kumasi, and despite my protest, people were paying! Part of me wanted to shell out the money to just get home, but the cheaper part of me just didn’t want to pay that much money to go half the distance I normally would. Meanwhile, everyone was trying to convince the fighting white lady (me) to calm down and that the fare has always been this way. No it has not, damn it. It felt as if I was in the middle of a conspiracy.

In the end, I just couldn’t pay knowing that the fare was overpriced. Living on the Peace Corps allowance, I was definitely cheap, but also because I couldn’t stand being in the vehicle knowing that we were all being taken advantage by the driver, and everyone else was accepting it because they didn’t have a choice. It was not the first time this has happened in Ghana, and though I normally pick my battle, I just couldn’t give in that day. As soon as the car reached Bamboi and out of the middle-of-nowhere stretch, I decided to take my chance at hitch hiking. By this point, it was everyone’s business that the white woman didn’t want to pay the fee and wanted to get off. They were convinced that I wouldn’t be able to find another car. Jokes were made, advices were given. They didn’t think I was going to really leave them and walk the road alone. The driver even caravanned after me saying he would reduce the price, but I was already committed to hitch hiking, so I ignored him. 

I wasn’t worried when I watched the car sped up toward Wa. I have hitch hiked numerous times before. Hitch hiking in Ghana is significantly less creepy and dangerous than the urban-legend-horror-stories-American version. You never know who is going to pick you up, the interesting “big man” who wants to befriend the random white person walking alone on the road or just a good samaritan. In fact, most PCVs prefer to hitch hike because sometime it’s the better alternative to stuffing yourself in a broken down minivan for 6 hours. Better days have seen me in a AC-powered truck with working suspension and seat belts. And that was what I was hoping to find me. 

I walked up the road for about 15-20 minutes and stopped for water. My backpack felt heavy. Bamboi was still in my vision field. I opted to stop walking and sat by the side of the road, rehydrating and watching cars going by from the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. I felt like that was a recurring theme. Cars going where you don’t need to go — somehow strangely poetic when it shouldn’t be. The occasional bicyclist or motorist wheezed pass me staring. People never get tired at seeing a foreigner, even though Bamboi was a bigger town and definitely has seen its share of non-locals. We even used to have a Peace Corps Volunteer here a few months back. Still, people stared.

Big giant trucks also passed, puffing out massive black clouds of polluted smoke ignoring me. The cars that zoomed by showed no interest in stopping. The sun was getting higher and the heat rose. Sweat began to soak through my cap. The cooled water gave into the heat and became warm. I began to feel that maybe I was about to run out of luck and started to doubt if I was going to make it home. The day didn’t feel so great anymore. 

Yet I wasn’t worried about it. I wasn’t afraid that I couldn’t find a ride, or panicking about not making home. I had no idea what was going to happen next, who would come by and pick me up but none of that was a pressing concern. All I felt was that moment. It was long and endless but it wasn’t terrible. I felt calm and okay, and as I mentioned before, strangely poetic. I thought that if I could gather my thoughts together, I would write about it so that’s how we got here.

I woke up this morning thinking about that morning. It was almost exactly five months ago give or take a few days, and taking in where I am now, it felt like a completely different world. Surreal and ephemeral. As I was sitting there watching the empty road, I had no doubt that the long moment was going to end, and even though it wasn’t enjoyable to say the least, I knew I was going to miss it, and I do miss it now. 

Eventually, after about an hour and a half, a truck stopped. The driver was a young man, I couldn’t pronounce his name, but he was polite. I always imagine how strangely sorry I look to Ghanaians when they find me on the road. Sweaty, dehydrated and tired — completely contradicting the popular belief that foreigners have money and can afford anything, like their own car. If my new friend had any inquiries, he kept it to himself as we drove in silence while I took in as much AC air as I could. 

While attempting to make small talks, I learned that my friend has accomplished a lot for a person of his age. Coming from an affluent family, he studied abroad in Hong Kong, and therefore, didn’t make the assumption that I was Chinese (this won him points). He spoke fluent Cantonese from the time he was there, and is preparing to studying for another degree. I was impressed by his experiences and felt relaxed. His questions weren’t invasive (do you have a husband/boyfriend?) and he let me fall asleep when the conversation died out. He even apologized when the car broke down and we had to stop to fix it. We reached Wa promptly, I caught a car to my village and the rest, I assume, was typical because I couldn’t remember it. 

In Peace Corps, we were told “Days are long, weeks, months and years are fast. Two years would go by before you know it.” And whoever they are, they were right. Some days blended together, and the week went by in a blink of an eye. The routine I had made my days automatic and the things I did mundane, even if I did them in a “special African environment”.  So it was experiences like this in Ghana that made the longest lasting impression on me, that I think about the most when I think about the last two years and are also so hard for me to explain when asked the question “how was Africa?”. Days in which I had no anticipations of outcomes, days that were special because they only happen once in your life, moments that felt like a lifetime but felt fleeting when they ended. There were no lessons, no punch line, yet I remember everything. They are so hard to let go, but maybe I want it that. When I think about these days, these moments, I’m sad because I know that I can never repeat it, even if I return to the same place and sit on the same spot. 

Feelings and dealing.

Five days left in the village, and I am not good at saying good bye. Especially when I don’t know when I will return and know that nothing will be the same when I do. My coping mechanism is avoidance, and I have been doing just that. Avoiding thinking about leaving Goli with Vivian, Peter and Hope the dog, who is now familiar with me enough that she follows me to my house and sleeps outside. Avoiding answering the questions like “when will you return?” Avoiding thinking about how I am not going to see that cute baby, Bismark, growing up into a cute boy. Avoiding creating more memories because it feels like my heart my burst if I do. Lazy days sitting under mango tree watching goats bleating and pigs wallowing are dwindling down to no more, and I don’t want to think about it.

As I am approaching the end, it feels as if I have just begun. But of course, I can’t stay. This place has been a home, but I have another home I need to return to as well. Responsibility, expectation and hope are waiting for me and disappointment if I don’t show. I am also avoiding thinking about that. So I have been keeping myself busy, distracted, and that works very well during the day when my mind is running back and forth between programming and planning for Peace Corps. But at nights, I tossed and turned for hours. My mind then runs back and forth between the things I spent the day avoiding. For two years, I slept 12 hours a night and barely any these last few weeks. As difficult these moments are, they are also fleeing by. Days feel shorter even though nights drag on and mornings somehow is worse. I try to avoid noticing that too.

All my feelings are mumbled jumbled into a heaping pile of insomnia and anxiousness, and a man is hammering something loud right next to my ears and another man is blatantly staring at me while I try to sort out my thoughts. Maybe today isn’t the day for that stuff.

Sunday Funday: Awkward and Probably Offensive

Two interesting things happened to me today that was worth to make a blog post about: Penis enlargement and racial profiling Dickhead. These two things don’t, and wouldn’t, have anything to do with each other in term of relevance, except that they both happened to me today.

First, penis enlargement.  (Quotes are 90% accurate on the account that my short term memory isn’t great, but I tried my best to remember and recall every single juice details).

I hitched a ride with a friend into the main road. It’s normally is a five minute ride, and I often make random chit chattery just to kill the time. Before we started, he got a phone call. Lots of laughs took place. After he hung up, he casually explained to me the nature of the call, as you or I would do when you are with company after a phone call.

Friend: “My brother was just calling because he wants to increase the size of his penis.”

Me:  “Hmm…wow that is… is that possible here?”

Friend: “No, it’s not. He wanted to know if he could use some herbs to increase the size, but you cannot. His wife is complaining that she does not feel him when he goes in. She gave birth sometime ago. And I said, eh, that the wife should go to the clinic, there is medicine for her, but not for him.”

Me: “Well, it’s understandable that after she gives birth, she might… Medicine for her? What kind of medicine? To reduce the size of her vagina?”

Friend: “There are some medicines for the lady, after they give birth, you know, because of whatever reason, or she doesn’t sit correctly after the birth, that she could insert inside to reduce the size, so the man can feel when he goes in. So I said, he can’t increase his size, but she can go and get the medication. For me, eh, after my wife gave birth, I complained because I didn’t feel when going in, and she got the medication and inserted.”

Me: “And now you are fine?”

Friend: “Yes, now we are fine. “

Me: “Well, that’s good. I think if there is really a way to enlarge the penis, I think everyone would do it already.”

Friend: “Well, my own is not big, but I know what to do with it. If a lady complains that mine is small, then she should also try to reduce the size of her own (vagina) to fit me. Some women, eh, they do it too much, and then it would pain them when the man goes in.”

Me: “Do what too much? Use too much of the medicine”

Friend: “Yes, inserting the medicine too much. Like if you only need to insert 2 or 3 times a month, and they do it 5 or 6 times, the size is reduced too small, and the man will pain her when he goes in.”

Me: “So they overdose.”

Friend: “Yes, you have to play with the lady before. African men, some of us don’t know how to play with the lady and just go in. You have to play with the lady so you don’t pain her.”

Then the conversation took an awkward turn when he started talking about his sort of mistress, and we reached the road when I had to catch a car.

Some days, I literally wear dirty sacks as clothes and still get hit on left and right with marriage proposals. Some other days, I am virtually a sexless creature for projection of sex stories, but maybe this has nothing to do with my ping-pong sex appeal and more to do with trust and integration? I would like to think so.

I also think that I learned something super valuable today. Did everyone know about a pill that you can insert to shrink your vaginal wall? What? I for sure did not. That feels as safe as a pill that enlarges your penis. Never mind, I actually don’t know how I feel about all of this. Give me a feel years to think about it.

Second, Dickhead.

Then I took a trotro to Wa, looking forward to some electricity and internet time, but before I quite made it to my destination of both, a car pulled up to me on the street and a man waved for me to come over. As a personal rule in Ghana, I don’t submit to summons, since that is a Ghanaian habit that I find rude and annoying. I promptly ignored the man, even as he sent a street seller to tell me to come over. Yeah right, dude. Finally, he got out of his car and walked over to me. I’m just going to go ahead and call him Dickhead.

Dickead: “Can you read?” And showed me his I.D. It said “something something Immigration Office.”

Me: “Yes, okay? What can I do for you?”

Dickhead: “Who are you with?”

Me: “American Peace Corps. Do you know it?”

Dickhead: “Yes, I know most of the Peace Corps workers. But I haven’t seen you.”

Me: “Well, maybe because I live in the village, but I have been here for two years.”

Dickhead: “Have you come to our office?”

Me: “No. I never needed to.”

Dickhead: “Do you have the paper work to be here?”

Me: “I don’t have anything with me right now.”

Dickhead: “Bring them to my office tomorrow.”

Me: “Uh… that’s not going to happen.” Dialed Peace Corps.

So today was a Sunday, and I went to Wa to spend the night so I could go to another PCV’s site for a program early Monday morning. I had no desire or intention to return to my site for my “paper work” and decided to call my Safety and Security Officer instead. While I waited for my SSO to talk to Dickhead on the phone, I realized two things.

1.       I am awfully arrogant against Ghanaian authority under America’s auspice.

2.       I was being racial profile as an attempt to get a bribe.

The first one is a natural Fight or Flight response. In time of possible harassment, I mostly Fight, because I know that they are in the wrong, and I am stupidly stubborn in the face of danger or challenges. In this situation, I knew that I did nothing wrong, and Peace Corps would have an answer for whatever questions are being thrown at me. Dickhead was in plain clothes, and to me, did not look like the kind of guy who would work on a weekday, let alone a weekend, so for him to do actually do his job and question a “questionable character” without any interior motive was obvious not plausible. He wanted to intimidate me, and honestly it wasn’t his fault that men of any size don’t scare me, especially sleazy ass mother fucker. I even enjoyed it a little bit when I handed him my phone so that my SSO could talk to him about me and my reasons for being in Ghana.

The second realization was a lot more obvious. I am Asian. To 99 percents of Ghanaians, I am Chinese. Within recent time, there has been a lot of problem in Ghana concerning illegal Chinese immigrants doing illegal gold mining. Despite Chinese engineers building roads throughout Ghana and business men all over the street of Accra, in general, the Chinese don’t receive very good receptions from locals. People watch a lot of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan pirated DVDs and have gotten in the habit of shouting racist ching chong noises as imitation of a Chinese language when any Asian person walks by. Sometime I don’t know if they love or hate Bruce and Jackie.

Right before Dickhead found me on the street, I was walking behind four white women who were obviously tourists base on their short shorts and skimpy strap tanks. He didn’t stop them. He stopped me because he probably thought that I was illegal and would give him a hefty bribe to get out of a sticky situation. You can’t blame him really, it was Sunday, church was just finished, he probably was hungry and wanted chop (Ghanaian English for both eat and taking bribe).

Too bad he picked on the wrong Asian and got an earful (and probably a new asshole) from my SSO, who seemed to know everyone in the rank in the Immigration Office. I tried to show him my Peace Corps I.D and a copy of my Passport that I happened to have in my bag, but he wanted to see my visa, which was in my actual Passport. I told him that he could drive me back to my village in his private car and we can get the paper or otherwise, he can eat my dick (okay I didn’t say that second part).

At this point, after talking to my SSO, Dickhead realized that he wasn’t going to get lunch money, so he slowly backed off. To save face, he continued to tell me that I should carry my info with me, or at least the copy of my visa. He even mentioned that he had met all the Upper West Peace Corps volunteers in an incident almost two years ago – when I wasn’t around. We settled and parted ways.

I don’t know which was my favorite part, that I didn’t have to fight my own battle, or that a money grubbing official got burned trying to get some grub money. I was mainly confused as of why he thought a small Asian woman would be an illegal immigrant gold miner. But there is a fair chance that I always look like a boy. I was a bit surprise that I was not upset at the situation, but I think it is due to the fact that at this point in Ghana, being upset about these things would just make me sweat more.

Then I went and finished off season 3 of Park and Rec. I just started the show 2 days ago. I don't have season 4.

I tried to climb a mountain.

Happy New Year, I spent the last two weeks of the year in the village for a taste of Ghanaian holidays, which everyone spent day drinking and all night dancing. All activities I would be glad to participate any day, except that I am a boring white person at site so I drank water and was in the house by 6pm instead.

In the mean time, there’s a lot to catch up, so let’s talk about the last couple of months of 2013 going backward.

TANZANIA – Kilimanjaro and Zanzibar Facebook albums here -->https://www.facebook.com/chau.d.ngo/media_set?set=a.10102061219785854.1073741828.3324650&type=3

I came back from a whirlwind 14 days in Tanzania with my friends Heather and Chris, two other PCVs. Heather and I needed a vacation and Chris was doing his Close of Service trip. We couldn’t really think of a better way to spend our times than trying to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, the tallest free standing peak in Africa. (Google it). So with minimal planning and maximal optimism, we headed to Tanzania with high hope, figuratively and literally. After the getting over the fact that I forgot my credit card and left our guide book (which was a bunch of pages about Tanzania that we ripped off from a real guide book) back at the office before we even left the country, we left Ghana for Tanzania.

The flights were uneventful, airplane food weren’t too bad, and I drank a lot of ginger ale before stealing a blanket. Heather and I arrived at 3am and slept at the airport for 6 hours waiting for Chris to come in so we can head to Moshi and meet up with our climbing company. Jetlagged and delirious, the first day was a blur. I think there was some talk about mountain and safety and other things. I managed to catch a cold on the way over and started some annoying cough. Fueled by excessive optimism, I was hoping it would go away by the next day when we start the climb. False, but we will get to that later.

The next morning, we enjoyed some scrumptious free breakfast, which was great because I couldn’t recall the last time I had some real breakfast food with fruits in Ghana. I was secretly hoping that we could have stay at the diner forever and didn’t have to do the climb, but sometime, hope falls, and by 8am, we were heading out to start our great adventure. (But not before stopping by the pharmacy for some cough medicine because my cough didn’t go away as I had hope.)

We saw some monkeys on the way to the base of our route. They were pretty cool looking; regular monkey faces with bushy black and white tails. We later learned that they were called Black and White Monkeys. Neither surprising nor unfitting. The second we got to the base of the mountain, it started to rain, and I immediately missed Ghana’s dry and warm weather. We had a packed lunch that was better than a middle schooler’s and began our walk to the base afterward, with me wearing everything that I had on since I was already freezing, a great foreshadow of the days to come.

We learned upon our arrival to the base of the mountain that it was currently the raining season in Tanzania, which explained the wind, rain and my shivering. It probably didn’t help us that we have been living in Ghana’s perpetual summer for the last 2 years. Regardless, we set out aiming for the top.

I have never really gone on a real hike or mountain climbing before, so signing up for Kilimanjaro was nothing less than a nosedive into the deep end of the pool, (I also don’t know how to swim, so there is a pun somewhere in this sentence), but the first day didn’t turn out too bad beside some serious soaking sweat on top of the rain water. Our first night at camp was great. Our cook fed us some great cucumber soup to battle the cold. We ate and joked and called it a night. I felt on top of the world while still at the base of the mountain, full of adrenaline and cough medicine.

The next day was cold. This might have been a bias recollection because no one else acted like they were cold except for us. It was probably our Ghana life style catching up, but no matter, we geared up for a long day, 5-6 hours of some up inclines. Since I wasn’t listening during the briefing, I didn’t know what to expect really. It was my approach to the mountain, and I don’t regret it. We had in some a good few hours of trekking through the rain forest. Chris, Heather and I followed our guide, Cash through some ups and downs, practicing the mantra, “pole pole” which mean, go slowly. We played some 20 questions along the way. Things were going great. I felt better about my coughs.

Then the rain came on our parade, and the rest of the time weren’t so great since it involved steep, muddy inclines. But eventually we made it to camp, shivered, and did some more 20 questions. If there was one thing that Peace Corps Volunteers know how to do best, is to be able to entertain ourselves in any situation. We learned a lot about each other that day. My shoes also broke and ceased to be water proof. Our third day was a short hike, but somehow I didn’t feel too great. I guess being soaked in cold windy weather didn’t benefit my lungs, so snots started to happen, and my cough got worse. But I wasn’t too worried because the sun came out for 10 minutes and some of our wet stuffs were dried. Optimism was still in the air, but I took more drugs to hold my body together. Beside being cold, I recall Chris and Heather doing just fine.

Everyday, our head guide, Casper, took our pulse and oxygen level to make sure we felt okay from breathing to pooping, and I was still doing fine. The fourth day was a long day, and after making it to camp, I didn’t feel okay anymore. My cough medicine was officially not working, and I’m pretty sure I was single handedly responsible for waking up the whole camp with my coughing for the last 2 nights. The hike had been long, and somewhat enervating. We went up to 1599 feet and I experienced many first, walking on snow, walking in the snow, feeling really cold in the snow ect… The scenery was beautiful and if I wasn’t too out of air I probably would have take more photos.

We made it to camp, and I spent most of the night in my tent coughing, which was not a great sign. Caspar wasn’t pleased when he learned that I had a fever and was at 48% oxygen. After receiving oxygen and spending another night coughing. I was still ready to continue, but it wasn’t going to happen like that. So marked the day when Chris, Heather and I parted ways. They continued on their climb while I headed out for a quick descend route. We spend some few minutes taking goofy pictures with the porters and the guides. I tried to take in all the sceneries of the highest place I have ever been albeit the fog was already rolling out. Then we headed out to Umbwe route, a much more intense but quick route that serious climbers would take to get to the top. Normally they do it in 4-5 days.

Cash was my guide now, and we had my porter with us whose name I could never remember but whose shoes I was wearing. He sported pink crocs in place of shoes and was still a much much much better hiker than I would ever be. Umbwe route was pretty much hours of steep rock walls on top of each other. It was suppose to take us between 5-6 hours to descend, but it felt like I was there for an eternity slipping and sliding on rocky edges praying for my ankles. It rained the entire time we descended, which made the rocks wet and slippery and the moss dangerous. Cash slipped a few times, but would just stick out his tongue like a 5 years old who knew he did something mischievous and continued out. I slipped a few times and would poke every rock twice with my stick before putting my foot on it in case the damn thing is loose and decided to roll away while under me.

We were on the edge of the mountain for several hours as the rain slowed us (me) down significantly. I never thought I would see the rain forest. Several times, I contemplated asking Cash to play 20 questions with me because I was so bored of thinking to myself, but he was shy and so I didn’t it. So while him and the porter chit chatted occasionally, I found myself missing Chris and Heather’s company and wondered what they were doing.

We finally made it to the rainforest, which was the lower part of the mountain, and I was pretty excited. At this point, my shirts have been soaked and my shoes and socks were thoroughly wet, and I was looking forward to a shorter and less dangerous walk down. But Umbwe was a hard route for a reason. Even on the lower part, the walk was steep. The path was lined with small rocks and pebbles that rolled under your shoes, add rain water made slipping much easier. So we “pole pole” ourselves, and spend another eternity down some steep paths. I hated this last part more than the rain/snow/cold i endured the first 4 days. It was even more aggravating when Cash kept saying, “not long” until we reach the end.

When we finally did reach the base of the mountain, because of the rain, the car could not pull up to pick us, so it was an additional hour to get out to the car. This time, instead of pebbles, our enemy was wet mud. Pole pole.

By the time we made it to the car and down the mountain, ten hours had passed. That’s twice the amount of time that Caspar said. Somehow I was glad because if it was only 6 hours, and I was feeling the way I felt, I would have feel even more pathetic. My legs were done for the week. One day going down Umbwe hurt me more than 4 days up Lemosho.

The car took me back to the office, and I was a sad sigh. They wanted to send me to the hospital for my cough, but I just wanted to go back to the hotel. So after washing 4 days of mountain smell off in the shower, I spent the night and the next day watching Bollywood music videos recuperating.

I could have taken the time to explore Moshi, except that my cough was so bad that it was embarrassing, and painful. I went into a store to buy some gifts, and after suggesting that I should drink tea with honey, the owner took matter in her own hand and spoon fed me a honey straight out of the jar. Yes. She didn’t even let me hold on to the spoon. Then her neighbor ran over with some fresh ginger and wanted me to chew on them. She peeled and cut the ginger in small bitable bits and offered to send some with me. I bit into the ginger. It was painfully gingerly, but it helped, so I did it again. As suspected, every African woman is a sassy, loving and resourceful caretaker. I love it so much.

After that, I bought some heavy duty cough syrup that knocked me out and spent the rest of my time in my hotel being drowsy.

Chris and Heather surprised me by descending one day early and looking as tattered as a bunch of people who just climbed a mountain. After some needed showering, we regrouped to inspect Heather’s various war wounds that she collected after I left.

Both of her big toes were in trouble, and we decided that the toe nails might have to go. She was also partially blind at night because she accidentally left her glasses on the mountain, but that’s her story, so you’ll have to read her blog.

We spent the next day walking around town search for rooftop bars so we can drink and have a view of Kilimanjaro while getting Heather drunk enough that we can pull her toe nail out without too much pain. The original plan was to punch her really hard in the face while ripping the nail out, but this isn’t prison, or Boon Dock Saints, so in the end, we opted for just giving her a lot of whiskey shots instead. I lined up our medical tools, which were: a Leatherman tool, septic wash, antibiotic ointments, gauze and bandages. Chris blasted some music and was being zero help besides taking a lot of pictures. We soaked Heather’s drunk feet in warm water, and I played the most serious game of doctor yet.

We later learned that in this scenario, you should just let you body heal itself and push the toe nail out on its own, but we still had a few travel days left, and this toe nail was already off of her toe. It was that bad. Amputation was that needed. And so half a small bottle of whiskey in, I pulled the nail out in one yank, and all was well.

We decided not to touch the other nail because it was still intact, albeit hurting.

Chris said this was his favorite part of the time, albeit he just summit Kilimanjaro.

The rest of the trip was much less gory. We spent most of our times day drinking, and parted ways when Chris left for America and Heather and I went to Zanzibar. We bare our pale bodies to the sun for the first time in two years hoping not to blind any by stander, and pooled our money together for beers because we were that broke. Then as we were leaving, we asked a person whom we thought was just a tourist to take a picture of us, hoping that he wasn’t upset that we interrupted his beach whaling time. He didn’t mind, and even ushered us to sit for some cold drinks, then showed off his wallet by charter an expensive taxi ride back with us. We joined the taxi and after several scary speeding moments later, declined dinner invitation and rushed back to our lodge. But thanks to the free taxi ride, we had enough money for street meat for dinner and nothing but good memories from this trip.

That was probably the best vacation I have ever gone on to, even though we were so broke that we couldn’t even afford one can of beer at the airport. Luckily, an American couple overheard us talking, struck up a conversation and bought us 2 rounds of beers. Then when we got back to Accra and couldn’t find a cheap taxi, a Chinese expat invited us in his taxi and dropped us on the way. I couldn’t even lie and say that because Heather and I were such clean and fresh looking girls that we got this treatment. We weren’t. Maybe on better days. So overall, Tanzania was a blast, Hakuna Matata all around.