Madonna was Right: XPRESS Yo'self

There's nothing better than standing in a room full of individuals so bright they could light a fire. They're ready to take on the world and change the injustices they see - even when it means they must also improve themselves. I got the chance to work with forty-five such individuals at XPRESS Camp, a GYD-led initiative and the first of its kind, with Kimmy Smith in Wa. The purpose of the camp was to encourage leadership and volunteerism within the youth, while fostering self-expression through art. You can probably guess that last bit was my favorite part: I was all "ART ART ART!!!" all week (and we even threw in some theatre and song & dance); basically I was in Emma Heaven.

Because the first day coincided with World Aids Day, after crafts and icebreakers were over, Kevin Lenihan and I took the opportunity to share the stories of our uncles with the kiddos. By doing this, we were able to discuss stigma and life with HIV, after which, we were met with a rather interesting Q and A. The questions were interesting (and thorough), so I think it was a hit ... then again, I always say that :)

Over the next four days, we did an array of things - 'inner expression' masks, social problem brainstorms with coinciding skits, discussion of career development and leadership, a talent show (during which, PCVs preformed 'The Thriller'), and poster creations to encourage community volunteerism on a small scale. We culminated all of this in a public trash pick up in the Wa Market on market day. It was interesting, to say the least. Aside from the 'normal' kind of harassment that comes with picking up trash, I think the students found it hard to deal with accusations of reimbursement for work that was obviously voluntary. It was a common agreement we were all able to share and might have changed the way some of them saw the PCV leaders.

Despite a few hardships, I think most (if not all) students came away having learned a great deal. They made friends and opened up; they learned the value of respecting each other and the value of teamwork in projects big and small; they even got to use REAL flush-toilets. I think, in the very least, we taught them to be louder about their cause (ie. 'Hey! Don't drop that there: use a rubbish bin!" or "Hey! HIV is serious and stigma isn't something to laugh at!") which is always good when applied in the right way. 'Occupy Wall Street' would be so proud ... We also came to the conclusion that this model had to be repeated - you wouldn't believe the feeling of inspiration being thrown around by everyone; it was the perfect storm.

After being involved in such a thing, I can see why teachers do what they do - the potential of one young person (let alone forty-five) is enough to invest in thousands. And thank goodness these students have volunteers in their communities - it was amazing to see how good a positive role model could be in just a few days. Makes me proud to do what we do.

With the vision of a prophet, Kimmy (just call her Mohammed) organized our closing ceremony on International Volunteerism Day; five schools in the Wa district were invited to join in our festivities (and what's more, they all showed up!!) Three brilliant student speeches later (and a lot of certificates) we were finished without any serious hitches. Will Smith got to stay in his box.

Now that we're all back at our respective sites, planning has commenced for at least three more regional camps. I speak entirely for myself, of course, when I say that I've been channeling some serious artsy vibes, as well (which manifest themselves in Christmas decorations, if you must know). Personally, I'm as proud of us as I'm surprised that Christmas is a mere two weeks away (which is a lot). I can't wait to hold my own XPRESS camp in the Upper East! Nothing in the world sounds better to me than encouraging leadership and volunteerism at the same time as creative expression. Seriously. The only thing that could be better is another performance of The Thriller. Which is bound to happen some time.

Any way, I think we can finally change that old saying about shooting for the moon ... something like: "With so much potential in that sky, forget about the moon! Go catch some shinies!"

Whatever, mine's way better ... :)

xx

Fight the Good Fight: World Aids Day

If you know anything about me, you probably know that my uncle, Monkey Alan, died of pneumonia due to complications with AIDS. If you don't know me, but you're good at connecting dots, it's pretty easy to figure out that he's my constant inspiration - especially when it comes my work in Ghana. Tomorrow, December 1st, marks another year in the fight - the fight for a cure; the fight for universal medicine; the fight against discrimination; the fight for Monkey Alans all over the world.

Over 33.3 million people are living with HIV today; over 25 million people have died in the last twenty-six years - 25 million sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, uncles and friends. Twenty five million Monkey Alans.

Maybe you know one of them; maybe, like me, you've lost someone already; maybe you don't know anyone, but still support the cause. Well, tomorrow's your day to display your support: wear red, wear a red ribbon, volunteer to hand out condoms, attend a rally or a vigil or a concert. Do your part to support the fight.

And just in case you don't have a face to put to the cause, I'll show you mine - my daily inspiration, the reason I joined the Peace Corps, the angel over my shoulder - Monkey Alan:

In Loving Memory

xx

   For more information, go to http://aids.gov/world-aids-day/ to see what America is doing for HIV today.

Speak the Truth: TED.com (Chimamanda Adichie)

I stumbled upon this video while browsing TED.com and I thought it important to share; it's a young female writer from Nigeria speaking on the dangers of adopting only one story to describe different people, cultures, and problems. It's kind of like the 'stereotype' talk, only deeper, and I think she has a wonderful point. It doesn't hurt that she's a great speaker, as well.

http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html

xx

Existing in Excess

I know it might be slightly premature, what with a pending extension in the works, but I find myself thinking about what it'll be like when I come home. What I'm refering to here is the inevitable reverse-culture shock. I mean ... where to start? Reliable electricity (that I have to pay for), faster-than-lightning internet, trash-tv, produce aisles (hell, GROCERY STORES), fashion, private cars, movies and movie theatres, candy (and weight gain), the people I love, people I don't know paying absolutely no attention to me, running water, an existence devoid of any comic goat-related moments ... The list only gets longer ...

I just know it: I'm gonna turn into the crazy lady who has a bucket in her shower to bathe, uses only candles as light, and hordes any kind of container for water collection. I will also probably be incredibly cold. 90% of the time.

On the flipside, I'll (probably) overdose on fashion (it's inevitable, really), yell excited obscenities as I drive my own car down a real highway, and use up all my carbon-credit flying across the country to visit people EVERYWHERE. Basically, I'll be a terror; completely out of control. I imagine it'll be terrifying and awesome at the same time, kind of like the Tower of Terror.

What astounds me more than this inevitably loony behavior (almost, but not quite split-personality) is the sudden heightened awareness I'll have for anything in excess. It's going to drive me up the wall ... think about it:

I've not only watched, but experienced just how much effort's involved for most people to get access to water. I watch people walk miles, full basins balanced on their heads, in sweltering heat, for a daily supply. DAILY supply. How will I react when someone next to me in the bathroom runs the tap unnecessarily? Probably fly into an ugly hulk-like rage that ends in tears - mine, of course, as she walks around the crazy lady and toward to well-marked exit.

Can I possibly fight the urge to knock on every door in the neighborhood and tell them the merits of flourescent lights (the blue ones keep away bugs and induce groovy underwater hallucinations); or that they could simply turn OFF most of them to reduce their carbon footprint? Reading by candlelight is fun! And romantic! Besides, no light's gonna keep the hoodoo voodoo man away at night ... sorry, little Tommy.

Just contemplating our excessive nature (as a country) makes me want to curl into a whimpering ball. I've adjusted to my new life so well, it almost seems impossible to need as much as the average household uses (and wastes). Nevermind the crippling self-esteem issues I'll develop with such a drastic drop in marriage proposals and child-parades; it'll be like beating my fists against a brick wall. The waste potential of a produce aisle might make my heart burst! Which is likely, anyway, considering the sudden variety offered to me.

How do I prepare? Is there some kind of Peace Corps bootcamp where Billy Zane comes and beats my ass back into shape? Would I go back, given the chance, to a blissful existence, blindfolded to the rest of the world's struggles? The answer is definitely 'no.' I am going to voluntarily turn into a crazy, walking contradiction; a well dressed, philosophical wreck; a giddy, technology-crazed ball of simultaneous guilt and unbridled joy. This is gonna get weird ... you've all been warned.

xx

Things My Dad Says

Compared to mum's visit, dad's was a whirlwind. I contribute this to two things: the coinciding of his trip to a national holiday - leaving us stranded in Accra for two extra days - and the fact that it was only ten days long. I guess he didn't take me seriously when I told him how long it takes to get to my house :)

After spending way too long in Accra (read: over 36 hours) dad and I (and a rather sturdy, retro-tastic suitcase filled with cheese products) scrambled onto the last bus leaving to Kamasi. The trip was largely uneventful, but I did manage to find and justify buying grapes: HIGHLIGHT. Our guesthouse that night was pleasant and equipped with a TV; I mention the TV because it completely distracted me from an early morning departure .... watching the original 'Last Air Bender' was totally worth it.

Being late meant a longer wait time, but dad got to overdose on culture so I don't think he cared. I have to admit, he was a pretty sneaky paparazzo. He basically documented everything - I think he took over 600 photos in 10 days. He was like a kid in a pile of toys he could secretly document. Referencing Hitchhikers almost non-stop for the entire trip, we arrived in Tamale safely (though a little cramped ... I swear I had eleph-ankles for an entire month).

Interesting fact: I stayed in the same room that mum and I shared before, but this time it was cheaper. Why? Because my father is a man. Nevermind the fact that they're my parents - a same sex couple always pays more. So weird ... anyway, until dad succumbed to his snoring, I read ' The Restaurant at the End of the Universe' outloud and fell into a peaceful, improbability-driven sleep. The next morning we rolled to Bolga (seriously - non-stop traveling at this point), and when I say rolled I ain't kidding:



So far, dad had basically seen the inside of buses and guesthouses. Naturally, neither of these things prepared him for my caddy-shack - pit latrine included. He was kind, though, during his documentation of it, saying things like, "yeah, Roo, it's uh .... it's really cozy ..." Obviously, my house appreciated his political correctness. He also kind of renamed my cat 'shit head,' as in, "What, shit head?" and "Get out of the way, shit head." Sometimes he just said the word 'shit head' as she sat, staring at him in that crazy, cock-eyed way of hers: BFF's for life.

Without slaughtering any goats, we managed to have a pretty successful welcoming party, during which dad (like mum before him) completely out-danced me and recieved a chief's smock. He definitely deserved it, look at him:

For that matter, look at her:

Basically my village LOVED my parents - they are always welcome. WIN.

Aside from having the same sense of humor, my dad has this uncanny ability to say exactly what needs to said, completely unprovoked. They're lightbulb moments, like, "I knew that was true, but only after you confirmed it, kind sir." He's kind of like Mr. Miagi; here are a few of his revelations:

1. Why wouldn't you go to school in DC? Rookie.

2. You need to stay far, far away from boys. Seriously. Wear horse blinders if you have to - you're too easily distracted. In fact, you need a sabbatical.

3. I know you like boys; I used to be the same with girls. Therefor, please see above ...

4. You inherited your horrible timing from me (but also my devilishly good looks - YOUR WELCOME).

5. I love you, Roo.

Okay, so that last one's a given, but the rest of it made up a weeks worth of great "life" discussions with my pops. On top of setting me straight, he managed to simultaneously intimidate and impress everyone he met; I kept saying, "See? Now you know why I try so hard ... just look at my parents!!" So true.

After roaming the village for a few days, I did the only thing possible to perfectly culminate his short trip: I sadistically subjected him to THE NIGHT BUS. Basically, I'm an asshole. And he was miserable. Unlike me, he was unable to curl up like a lapdog in the spacious bucket seat - he spent the night battling terrible, unsubtitled Ghanaian films and creepy Christian Gospel. I honestly don't know which is worse, but I'm fairly certain I won't be reminding him of my cruelty any time soon ... oh wait ... HI DAD!

In Accra we spent his last hours doing the only thing that brings me unadulterated joy: SHOPPING. The Cultural Center in Accra is an assault on tourists; luckily, I'm two things: obnoxious and honorary FraFra. After schmoozing all the Bolgatanga boys with my language skills, I learned how to say 'pain in my ass' and relentlessly recited it whenever they quoted outrageous prices. It worked - dad still got cleaned out, but it worked. I'm not sure how he felt about all of the marriage proposals, but he didn't punch anyone (and we saved a lot of money), so I see it as a clear victory.



We repacked (again) and hung out at Ryan's for happy hour (again) before making the trip to the airport. After a speedy check-in, he decided to go find his gate. I'm not joking when I tell you that one of his parting sentences was, "You know, I'm serious about a boy-sabbatical, Roo. Trust me, you'll be fine. (As long as you stay away from the boys.)" It's a story I've been telling people ever since - ten days in and my dad knew I was too distracted by boys; I should emphasize here that I live alone. It gets great laughs, mainly because it's true, and I can't think of any better way to sum up his trip: STAY AWAY FROM THE BOYS. Or was it, "You'll be fine, Roo"? hehehehe. I love you, pops!

xx

Ps. Speaking of parents, I promised a shout-out to fellow volunteer David, so here it goes: Hey, Mrs. Fields! I can't wait to meet you when you come for a visit and thanks for reading!!! *HUGS*

My Toilet is a Hole in the Ground

Latrines: rumor has it that some are quite high-tech; mine is not. When mum and dad opened the door to find a quaint little hole in the floor, they turned to me with wide, fearful eyes. It was obvious they didn't know whether to politely compliment it or wander off to pick out a bush instead. Having a rather humble, unassuming latrine, it expected neither (and I'd secretly expected less).

I've never fretted over something more than I did over that damned latrine before my parent's visited. How could I feel so self-conscious about a giant, empty concrete space? It's clean; I don't keep roaches; and it's not an entirely unpleasant experience - what could possibly go wrong?

A giant crack appeared in the doorway: Great, I thought, my latrine is going to swallow my mum whole. Each of my familiar roommates suddenly became a menace - What if the spiders tried to make friends with my dad? Or a lizard kamakazi'd him in the middle of the night? What if it was haunted by all the bugs I'd killed over the last year and they suddenly returned for their revenge? Clearly I wasn't thinking straight. I was afraid of the gross factor;I'd completely forgotten about the shock factor.

Until dad took not one, but six photos of it, I'd rather gotten used to the idea of my latrine. Perhaps it was the fact that he needed several angles, or the repeated exclamation: 'Paulette is not going to believe this,' but I suddenly remembered that most people I know don't use latrines. Like ever. I remembered my own first encounters - an irrational fear of the dark, followed by an irrational fear of what might fly into the light; my apparent shyness when it came to using something without a flushing mechanism to make it all go away; a frantic search for anything with wings, more than two legs, and pinchers anywhere near me or my backside. Having over a year to get used to my circumstances, I'd completely forgotten how this must look through someone else's eyes; in six different angles; with no flash.

So, for all you world travellers (and hopeful Ghana visitors ... hint, hint), here's a little list in latrine usage. Enjoy!

1.) If your latrine is more than five feet from your house - you may eventually have a problem.

2.) Be prepared for mosquitos to take full advantage of your vulnerabilities.

3.) Though a nuisance, flies aren't smart enough to take advantage of your vulnerabilities; with this in mind, be prepared for them to charge - without reason - at your bare ass anyway.

4.) There are some species of lizards that like to base jump. Onto your head. Consider them mostly harmless. (Extra points for understanding the reference!!!)

5.) If you do not have at least two back-up rolls of toilet paper (in the house and your travel backpack), you are an idiot and you asked for it. On most occassions ... I am an idiot.

6.) Someone else will eventually use your latrine. And they will miss.

7.) If you're travelling and you don't have to pay for it, I wouldn't recommend using it. Consider yourself warned.

8.) That boiled egg you just ate with pepe? You'd better hope your short distance sprints are up-to-par 'cause your latrine is lookin' pretty far away ...

9.) That is, indeed, a small child's eye ball in the crack of your door ... they can't see in, right??? IT'S TOO DARK IN HERE, RIGHT??!!!

10.) A toilet bowl is convenient, but squating is exercise. Choose wisely, grasshopper.

11.) Charcoal. Charcoal, charcoal, charcoal. There's only one place you can toss it and I suggest doing so.

12.) If your door, like mine, can only give credit for its upright status to an intricate web of strings tied around the frame, you may want to check the knots regularly. 'Cause that would just be awkward ...

13.) A mosquito net will only make midnight trips to the latrine even more inconvenient;  perfect your ninja roll.

14.) You are never above aiming: there's no room for arrogance when all you've got is a four inch radius.

15.) Remember: though surprising high-tech for anyone who regularly frequents the bush, visitors will most likely stare, take pictures, and talk crap about your poor, innocent bystander of a latrine. Remind your latrine regularly that it is, indeed, useful; perhaps give it a name to reassure it of its worth; and frequently pretend that you're living in a medieval castle. You're latrine will appreciate you for clinging to its novelty (however terrifying that novelty was in the beginning). It is always good to have a positive relationship with your latrine.

I'm sure there are more - many more - things I could say when it comes to my latrine and foreign latrine experiences. As a friend told me once, "always choose the bathroom you know over the one you don't." Ghana brings a whole new meaning to the phrase.

xx

image: http://www.sswm.info/category/implementation-tools/water-use/hardware/toilet-systems/pit-latrine

Mum Visits Ghana

I've been racking my brain for weeks attempting to write a blog about mum and dad's visit. Obviously I've been failing miserably, though I refuse to take any blame ... (combine an uncommonly unruly brain with four weeks of material to sift through and you've got yourself a pretty inconvenient personal situation). Having said that, last night (after brainstorming, imploring, and finally childishly ignoring my creative mind and it's ridiculous coup), I decided to do something I rarely do: I'm going freestyle. Apologies will come later.

PART I: The Much Anticipated Arrival

It was the eve of Peace Corps Fiftieth Anniversary - big stuff, for those of you who don't know - and volunteers from all over Ghana had gathered to 'prepare' (also known as Happy Hour). I was counting the minutes, trying not to fall on my face in a fabulous pair new heels, when suddenly it was time: mum would be landing in 30 minutes. I gathered the troops; Beth, Nikki, Catherine and I (taking one last swig) hopped in a cab and made our way to the airport. I think I may have bounced in my seat the entire way.

    

We soon found ourselves standing behind the appropriate barrier when, "SH*T!" I said (and much too loudly), "I forgot the sign!" How on earth, I reasoned, would mum know who I was without a witty sign? I mean, I'm a gnome! You can hardly see as it is! What would I ... [insert interruption by a large peice of paper in the face, here]: "THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MUM." It had been printed hastily at the airport internet cafe; it was perfect. (Thanks Beth!)

Next came the waiting ... I'd forgoteen about customs ... and as I madly shoved my clever sign in the face of every o'broni exiting the doors (man, woman, child - I cared not), I started to get restless. While I foolishly allowed Nikki to document the many faces of my impatience, Beth plotted with three random strangers to bum-rush their visitors as well as my mum. It seemed to take forever. And, though I vowed NOT to cry like a small child, the moment she came around the corner I squeeled, threw myself under that stupid rope barrier, and tackled her in a fit of tears. It was beautiful; even Beth cried:

We were immediately herded out of the way by airport staff (clearly we were expressing way too much emotional goo), while our impatient taxi driver rolled mum's luggage out the door. She'd barely had time to breath (shoved into the back of a taxi with three of us girls), but damn it - she was in Ghana.

PART II: Swearing-in and Mif Kits

Ignoring completely what must have been a killer case of jet-lag, mum (who'd stayed out for a few drinks and a bit of socializing) woke up with the birds to get ready for the Ambassador's house. The high-pitched shriek we heard from the bathroom told us her first experience in bucket bathing was a success, albeit a chilly one, and soon we were off to catch a free ride the the party. The ceremony was great and being able to share it with mum was even better. I surprised her by singing the National Anthem and, by the end of the ceremony, we were all a little caught up in the fiftieth birthday of the Peace Corps.

Even though I spent a majority of the reception gorging myself on what civilized folk call 'orderves' (we volunteers simply refer to them as "THOSE!!! OVER THERE!!!" before inevitably trampling innocent bystanders), lunch at Pizza Inn (it was 'two-for-tuesdays') immediately followed. Yes: I stuffed more food into my face. I'd be lying if I said I remembered where we waddled to next, but I believe it involved copious amounts of mirth and just the right amount of alcohol. With mid-service medical starting the next day, we were upgraded to a pretty posh hotel (thanks, Richard!) and proceeded to spend the next few days enjoying  the many luxuries of Accra (including, but not limited to: Captain America, shopping at the mall, real wine, the Embassy Marines' BBQ, and a night out on the town - until 5am - with the same Marines). By the time we left Accra, mum knew the city better than I do.

PART III: Ghana and Public Transportation

     Next was our day trip to the Volta. In one day, we were able to check 'acquired heat exhaustion while waiting,' '... we probably almost died back there,' 'was that the engine?' and 'I guess we're hitchiking,' off of her travel to-do list. It was an eventful day (and a crash course in Ghana travel). Though we'd given ourselves ample time, we rushed to catch ... THE NIGHT BUS. 

Those of us who live in Ghana know that nothing compares to the night bus. And, in order to save time, I subjected my poor, unsuspecting mum to the VVIP. Let me tell you a little bit about the night bus: seats, seemingly spacious and comfortable in the day, become gnarled, over-sized torture-buckets at night; loud Nigerian films, played back-to-back, are without subtitles so you CAN'T EVEN FOLLOW ALONG while they keep you awake (angry face); police check-points can be delayed for hours during the night ('cause the bribe's too small) ... I could go on, but I think you get the point. Needless to say, by the time we pulled into Tamale and found our way to the sub-office, mum was ready for a nap:



     I think I let her sleep most of the day; truth be told it was nice to relax. Tomorrow would bring Bolgatanga and I wanted to be well-rested; our hotel room that night had air-conditioning. BOOYA.

PART IV: Bolgatanga and the Most Expensive Party Ever

Our travel fell on a market day, so we were able to meet the new volunteers at a local hang-out; after some chatting, I decided to prep for mum's party. This involved hand-picking a goat to be slaughtered and buying more vegetables/ingredients than I thought possible to prepare. I named the goat 'Food,' but I suspect he didn't like his new name because he made me smell like him for weeks. I can only assume this was just punishment. Thanks, Food.

When we finally got to the house, my three-legged cat was in a frenzy - I'm pretty sure she thought I'd left her forever (she always does). She bonded with grandmum quickly (which basically means she tangled herself in mum's ankles, which immediately made them best friends forever) and we spent the rest of the night cuddling and unpacking; Gimpy was in heaven. Over the next few days we did our best to wander around town (mum even fetched her own water at the borehole), but everyone was so excited to meet her that it was hard to leave the house. Our party (marked by the early morning departure of a goat named Food) started late, but had everyone dancing past sunset. There was Pito, live drums, and lots of grub: it was a BLAST. They presented mum with her very own smock, forever making her an official FraFra mama and, in the end, it was worth every penny.

PART V: A Monestary and a Sanctuary

We decided to make our way back down more interesting than the night bus up - I'd heard wonderful rumors of the Techiman monestary (a Catholic Monestary built into gigantic climbable rocks), so we decided to give it a go. Mum braved the Metro Mass (seriously, I'm a travel-sadist) and we somehow found this beautiful, secluded, red-brick monestary. We celebrated immediately by taking a four-hour nap; it may have been the best nap of my life.

This place was amazing - quiet, peaceful, and secluded (three rare things in Ghana) - the monks grow their own garden, from which the homemade meals are stocked, and there was a library that SMELLED like a library. (If you know anything about me, you'll know that I drooled all over those poor books.) We arranged a taxi for the monkey sanctuary in the morning, planned an afternoon hike, and enjoyed a quiet dinner (seriously - they take a vow of silence) with four very nice monks.

Our taxi was miraculously early - he spent three minutes honking at a locked gate before we rescued him and negotiated a price; then we drove into the boonies. Seriously, this place could not be more remote if it boasted a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I thought we were going to get mauled by Velociraptors when the car broke down, but our driver (who'd obviously had this problem before) knew what part to shift before the imaginary pack of dinosaurs found us. It turns out all this place had was monkeys (I was overwhemed with relief - raptors know how to open doors) and we were able to enjoy a pleasant walk through the forest in our search for harmless monkeys. We did managed to see both kinds of monkeys (shy and unshy - guess which one is to the right), though visitors can no longer feed them, and I left town with yet another marriage proposal.

Of course, the day was far from over - a shower and a nap later, we took off into the wilderness to clambor over rocks (and clambor we did). We walked, me climbed, we took silly pictures in precarious places, and then we walked some more. It was everything it promised to be. Dinner, with a considerably chattier bunch of monks, proved to be just as entertaining.

VI: Mama Sewah and Cape Coast Castle:

This trip would not have been complete without a homestay visit so, naturally, it was our next stop. We matched our arrival with the Koforidua bead market (so I could sufficiently overload mum's senses and empty her purse - SUCCESS) and visited Mama Sewah for dinner. Though we surprised the family, it didn't stop mama from stuffing us with rice - watching, as a Sewah does - to make sure we'd finished every last piece. After two hours of great conversation, we were headed to Cape Coast; when I tell you we spent more time travelling than we did in the places we visted, I'm not exaggerating.

So is life (or, better put, travel in Ghana).
       

Our final destination was the perfect ending to a very satisfying (but hectic) trip. We visited a volunteer's site, enjoyed the ocean breeze and took a trip to the castle. This is the same castle Obama visted - once one of the largest suppliers of the slave trade. I think they can trace most decendents of the West African clave trade to this port and, while beautiful, the truth behind its walls was sobering. In fact, it was horrible (and I mean that in the best way possible). Mum and I were both sobbing by the end, having learned more about the slave trade than books could ever teach. I'm glad to have visited at least one historically relevant site during mum's travels, but once was enough.

THE FINALE: Mum Departs, Dad Arrives

We spent our last night in Accra before mum left for home, our goodbyes marked with the same emotional goo that began our three week adventure. A small family reunion was had as dad arrived just in time to say goodbye and saying goodbye was probably the hardest thing I've done in a long time. It's safe to say mum left Ghana a slightly different person than she was coming in, but that's the nature of Africa. It was possibly one of the best trips I've ever taken and, in short, we had an amazing time; I missed her before she got on the plane. I love you, mum.

 xx

[stay tuned for dad's visit ... of course, I've got to write it first ... so ... there's that ...]