A Prelude to a Trip, July 24

     Our flight is delayed by almost three hours; these "found hours" feel like cement blocks  -  I have spent too much time preparing to leave already - trying to make sure that everything anyone might need is packed (while keeping each bag light enough for its owner to transport), that the house is in order, that we have touched base with all the great folks helping with the house while we are gone (do our cat foster parents have the right cat food in the shipping queue?, etc.) - I do not need three more hours to fret about consider other tasks I should undertake!

    Miraculously, my mental toughness kicks in and while I am aimlessly wandering the house, I take  a few minutes to think about the actual trip instead of just the logistics leading up to departing.  I ponder the values and purpose of the adventure.  Why are we going on this trip? What do we wish/anticipate/fear will happen?  What do we hope we will be like and feel like when we return?  Will it all be worth leaving my job and taking the kids out of school and away from their hobbies and friends? 

    As background and for posterity: I left my job with the City of San Francisco in May, Scott has reduced his work hours, and we've taken our three kids out of school for the 2023-24 school year (4th and 7th grade) to spend time a lot of uninterrupted time together, to tutor the kids, and to travel. Our general itinerary for the first ~5 months is UK, Ireland, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Spain, and Portugal, but we want to be flexible and open to deciding to stay in one place for a longer or shorter period, so I will not be surprised if this outline does not exactly hold.  The 'plan' for the subsequent 6 months is even less sketched out. 

Sketch Travel Plan, July - Dec 2023
(fly UK-Italy, Turkey-Spain)

    On the way to the airport on the exciting Bart train (umm, when you are 9, trying to do pullups on those bars that are definitely not for exercise does NOT get old even an hour into the ride!), I consider asking my traveling party these questions, to have a record of our hopes and dreams that we can look back on in a year.  Once we are settled at the gate, we talk generally about our predictions for the trip (which I think is a good prelude to talking about hopes and dreams) and that conversation quickly degenerates into light ribbing, "How many times during the trip will Daddy say, 'we overpacked guys, we've OVERpacked' and How many times will Katie say,  'Let's stay here, I want to LIVE here!' I dutifully recorded our predictions (between 1 and 40 on the first and 3 and 6 on the second, among others).  

    Our overnight flight to London was just fine. The looonggg tube to our hotel, which is about 45 minutes northeast of Central London, in Stratford was a bit rough on so little sleep. After some walking, park play time, and sunlight, we all mercifully were able to lie flat in beds. Scott and I of course woke up in the wee hours of the morning and tried to keep pretending to sleep to allow those wonderfully-flexible kids to keep slumbering as though we hadn't just been on CA time 36 hours ago (oh to get over jet lag like a 12 year old!). As we fake-slept, Katie talked in her sleep. Luke lightly snored. Alex - having awoke cold and discovering that the blankets were fully under and over his bed-partner - sat up in bed and, after tugging on the blankets a bit and meeting resistance, urgently and seriously whispered, "I have.... nothing!" 

I lay in bed thinking.  I don't know the answers to my deeper questions about the whys and the hows of this trip..  But I sorta know that mornings like this - having the luxury of time to listen to your kids sleep-bicker, without any anxiety about wasting time, is some important part of my answer. 

Kicking it on the Left Bank.

 

Where am I? What am I doing?

I used my phone's GPS to locate the school where I am working. My hotel is in Bolgatanga, so I've been spending a lot of time commuting.

I'm working on setting up a basic website for the school, and it's slowly coming together. So, if I've done my job, the site will tell the story better than I can: GIOF Website.

Here's a Google map of the school site. Zoom out to see something. Those "roads" are really just dirt tracks, though they are maintained and have some solid bases.

Bolga Walking

There is a peculiar consequence of being a short-term aid worker in Africa. When you have been picked up and dropped off at various places along the way (Accra airport to hotel, hotel to airport, airport to Tamale airport, airport to Bolga office, Bolga office to hotel, Bolga hotel to Sirigu, etc) you really have no idea where you are. You don't know which was the town is, where the market is (if there is a market), if/where there are banks or restaurants or whatever.

If I may say so, I have a highly developed sense of direction, but when I arose on Saturday with no plans in place for someone to take me somewhere, I was in a bit of a bind. I wasn't even sure what to ask the hotel staff. Where is the Barclay's? Is there a supermarket? Where is the MTN store? And the real challenge is that I would have to understand the answer and tell a taxi driver as he slowly rolled past looking for fares.
So I walked to town. I knew, approximately, which way the center of Bolga was from my hotel. It's the rainy season here, but it is still dreadfully hot and humid for a Bay Area resident like me. And I think I must have walked three or four miles, because it was about an hour when I reached an intersection and recognized the ACDI/VOCA office that I had been chauffeured to and from on Tuesday afternoon.

So I bought a few things (cookies, some water), asked the name of the junction ("SSNIT Junction", pronounced "snit"), and hopped in a taxi back to the hotel.

Taxi ridin'

Sunday, I took a taxi to "snit" and then continued the process. I walked another hour, this time along the Tamale road, then circled back through town to "snit" again.

As a result, I'm finally getting a feel for the place where I'm living. The place where I'm working is another story.

Tamale-Navrongo Road

Typical street in Bolga town (though empty for Sunday)

First, Bolga is pretty large. It's a junction town on the main road from central Ghana to Ougadougou, so the main road is quite large (four lanes divided, in most places). There are several large banks, all the main roads are paved, there's a supermarket (no food, they sell tvs and beds and blenders) and at least a half-dozen large mobile phone stores. It's hard to get a feel for the relative prosperity of the place--on the one hand there are lots of stores and business being conducted. But on the other I still haven't seen the prevalence of food that is apparent in Cameroon, for example.

I did finally find some bananas. Five small bananas for one cedi, which is about 50 cents. So, here is a picture of my ten cent banana. It tastes good, sweeter than our Panama bananas (Cavendish?), but pretty dainty. No worries, I'll have a giant plate of rice at the hotel for dinner.

Ten-cent banana

Send-off

After the chaos of Thursday, I had the very good fortune to be invited to the sendoff in Sirigu for the local Peace Corps Volunteer, Sonia. She's spent two years in the village working with farmers and local community groups, and by all appearances has just completed the quintessential Peace Corps experience--small rural village, no running water, tightly integrated with the community, hot and uncomfortable, et cetera, et cetera.

I never had a proper send-off of my own, so it was a treat to get to live the experience through hers. I was rather hesitant to go, but her counterpart is also mine, and once invited there was really no polite way for me to decline, and from Peter's perspective it was probably unthinkable that I not be there. But a send-off after two years in the community is a special event and I was worried about detracting from Sonia's moment, as it were. So, I went, and in the end tried to make myself useful by taking lots of photos and videos to pass on to her as keepsakes.

I had to sort of arrange my own transport out there and ended up arriving two hours late. That turned out to be fine because the event began three hours late. And the chief arrived almost four hours late. But there were about twenty-five people attending, everyone Sonia had worked with over the last two years, mostly farmers. And most people said a few words, usually either that they hoped she would not forget them, or that they were thankful she had been so friendly ("not like most whites" one guy said), or that she would travel safely home. The event ended with them presenting her with a series of gifts including some very nice clothing and a beautiful bowl. Then we ate the goat that they had butchered that afternoon.

Sonia's send-off party

Inevitably, I was asked to say a few words. There is quite a lot of pressure to speak at an event where you've known noone more than three days, and almost noone more than fifteen minutes. And in the wrong language. And a strange country. But I did my best, said that I had been a Peace Corps volunteer as well, and that you never forget your village or the people you worked with, and that I am sure when Sonia is in Ghana she is an American but when she is in America she will be a Ghanaian.

I had to ride back to Bolga in a minivan after dark, which is a big no-no (though, strangely, less of a no-no when you are traveling on rural dirt roads, as I was, because the speeds are so much slower). But it was fairly clear so I finally got my view of the Southern Cross, which is a requirement of any trip to the tropics.

First Impressions

I arrived in Accra after the usual painful flight. Delta has the only flight to Accra from New York, so they charge a ton and provide poor service. We were two hours late leaving JFK, the A/C vent for my seatmate was missing (and "patched," literally, with duct tape). But we arrived alright, no problems at immigration or customs and I'm in.

First impression, Accra seems like a pretty nice place. I've only seen the "rich" quarter, really, and the airport, but it seems to be missing both the hyperactivity of Dar and the in-your-face aggressiveness of Douala.

View from my hotel window in Accra

Richard met me at the airport and brought me to the ACDI/VOCA office. I asked the usual questions about prices and greetings, and promptly forgot all the answers through my fatigue. But so far so good. It is a different experience to be on the aid-worker side of the equation, and to have guys in big cars drive you everywhere you want to go. But once they drop me at my post I'll be abandoned, and then I should get some time to get out and wander about.

The hotel was very nice, wifi and satellite tv and a hot shower. I ate at the restaurant, beans with cow-meat and plantains for $9 and a small beer for $2. Too much, but it was soooo good. With the smell of wood smoke in the air, sitting by the fancy ex-pat pool, life doesn't get much better.

I was up early the next day for a flight to Tamale, then another land-cruiser drive to Bolgatanga, in the Upper East. I expected the north to be something like the north of Cameroon, but it appears to be quite a bit less arid (much more green, that is) with the associated humidity and hazy sky. And while the north of both countries has the most Muslims, I haven't seen the predominance of Muslim dress and mosques here that I used to see in Cameroon.

Nor have I seen as much food as I did in Cameroon. Perhaps that is cultural and it is only found in markets, perhaps it is because we are in the middle of Ramadan, but I haven't seen a banana yet, whereas in Cameroon they available at every stall along the roadside. You never know with first impressions, as the sample size is small, but these are the things I've noticed thus far.

Tomorrow I am off to post to see the school and spend some time discussion the project with the host.

To Ghana

There are many reasons to travel, in the go-see-the-world sense of the word. Sometimes we want to go and see things, and bring home pictures of Niagara Falls or the Washington Monument or the kickoff of a football game. Sometimes we want to understand another place or culture, and bring home memories and experiences and the thrill of making unexpected friends. Sometimes we want to escape our "normal" lives, and leave behind rain and (seeming) drudgery to go spend time on a sunny beach. Sometimes we just want to discover for ourselves, hunting out those few magical moments that occur only when your senses are bombarded by the foreign and your awareness of your surroundings is heightened.

Because of its nature (two years living in one place, one foreign place, with foreign languages and foods and customs and approaches to life) Peace Corps is one of the most intensive travel experiences that I know of. Intercontinental flights and communications have shrunk the world, so that an American businessperson can fly to London, sit in a meeting, and fly home all in the same day. And a tourist can rush through the European capitals a day or two at a time, bringing home a photo of the Eiffel Tower without really pausing to get a feel for the ebb and flo of the place. But a volunteer in a developing country has few options but to take a deep breath and dive into the life of the place.

Peace Corps was developed with three goals in mind. The first is obvious: to transfer skills and specific knowledge to those who lack them, whether in school or on a farm or in a hospital. The other goals are more abstract: to share the American experience with foreigners who might not otherwise have direct knowledge of "us," and to bring a little piece of the foreign culture home to share with Americans who might not otherwise have a direct knowledge of "them." (There were, of course, at least two unwritten goals of Peace Corps--the national one of challenging communism, and the personal one of developing skills and confidences in the volunteers that they could never get in a classroom or from a Paul Theroux book. In the event, one could probably argue that it is this final "goal" that is the most enduring achievement of Peace Corps, having created hundreds of thousands "experts" on rarely touristed parts of the world.) The overall effect on the volunteer is to instill a deep respect for the customs and culture of the host country. It will not bend to accommodate you; you must adapt to it.

I do not mean to ignore the very real service of volunteering and attempting to improve the conditions under which people in many parts of the world find themselves. Nor can I draw an equivalence between the volunteer and the citizens of the host country (we can always get on a plane and come home, or call a friend and get cash wired to us). My point is merely that the experience of volunteering in a developing country is the best sort of travel that I know of.

The costs of this kind of travel have risen enormously for me in the last couple of years. Over the last few weeks, as I've mentioned that I was going to northern Ghana for three weeks to help a school develop a website, the reactions have varied between "Uh, really?" and "Are you crazy?" I suspect that, deep down, my wife feels that way too, and will probably have some harsh words for not-there-me during one of Katie's temper tantrums in the next few days. But, despite the doubts and the naysayers, she was incredibly supportive as this trip came together, and never once gave expression to what must have been an intense inner conflict of my leaving. I will miss them both so much.

So I am off, on what promises to be the last "traveling" I will do for a few years. I'm about to board the flight from JFK and hope for the best. There will be goods and bads, highs and lows, funnys and sads, even in a short three-week trip. It is terribly exciting, and I'm already experiencing that dilation in time that comes with new experiences, for the first time since Katie's birth. And worried, for the first time ever, that the trip will be difficult beyond the normal discomfort and confusion because of the pure selfishness of the thing.

Egypt

From time to time, events take on an historic significance. Until a few weeks ago, no Arab ruler in modern times was deposed by the will of his people, neither by election nor by popular uprising. Then, a nameless trader in an obscure Tunisian town committed suicide after the Tunisian police turned over his market cart; the event ignited the masses of Tunisia. Soon Zine el-Abidine Ben Ali--dictator of over 25 years--fled the country amidst scenes of joyous celebration in Tunis and across the country.

Fast forward three weeks, and today Hosni Mubarak--dictator of 30 years--resigned the presidency of Egypt amidst similar scenes of celebration. Over the past eighteen days we have witnessed a surreal roller coaster of a revolution, with crowds fighting police, the police disappearing from the streets, journalists and media roughed up by thugs, the army deployed to restore order, a couple of incredibly tone-deaf speeches from Mubarak, and finally his departure to a self-imposed (??) exile. No Egyptian younger than about 35 remembers a president other than Mubarak! and our thoughts should be with them in the months to come as they craft a new nation.

Only occasionally do we have the privilege to witness history in the making, and today is a day for all to celebrate.

Three points come to mind. First, the United States government was caught flat-footed by these events and struggled to triangulate between siding with the legitimate concerns of a repressed people and standing by a longtime ally in Mubarak. But this was a time to stand on principle--aging kleptocrats across the Arab world will soon die anyway--and to "get on the right side of history" (as so many TV pundits have been saying). For most of the world the United States remains an ideal of freedom, and only in the Arab world is this country seen--and rightfully so given our policies in the region--as an oppressor. While it took awhile to get there, the Obama administration did finally come out emphatically on the side of the Egyptian people and probably had some influence on pushing Mubarak from power.

Second, deposing a despot is an incredible accomplishment. I spent two years living in a repressive dictatorship; Paul Biya is seeking "reelection" this year in Cameroon after 29 years in power. And in those two years we were told over and over again, by both Peace Corps staff and local friends, to keep our mouths shut with regards to local politics. But as luck would have it I was there during the disputed Bush-Gore election, and the curiosity expressed about the election by my students was both interesting and intense. There was no thought that such a thing could happen in Cameroon...indeed it was UNTHINKABLE that the people could do anything to get rid of Biya. His control of the security services, the army, and large sections of the economy was absolute. And while he had been pushed by the West to allow opposition parties and to hold periodic elections after 1990, noone believed that any of the elections had been free or fair. So I have watched what has happened in Tunisia and Egypt with a bit of awe these last few weeks, and I imagine that the ecstatic celebrations we see on TV are far, far more emotional than anything in our political experience here at home. The courage of these early protesters to organize and take on the State deserve our respect and awe, and the emotional cascade that they triggered deserves our admiration.

Third, some pundits are "warning" that this revolution will eventually be "hijacked" by Islamist parties who will impose social repressions, and that therefore these events are to be feared. And maybe they are right. But that is no reason to decry the revolution itself. People everywhere want similar things: economic opportunity, a good education for their children, freedom from fear of their government, and given the chance they will vote for these things; they won't vote for slavery and a new repression. It will be up to the people tomorrow to ensure that their hard-won revolution is not lost. And who could ask for more than that?

Finally, when Becca and I visited Tunisia a couple of years ago we remarked on the omnipresent image of Ben Ali in offices, shops, and on billboards. It was rare to find yourself in a city and NOT in view of a smiling Ben Ali. Those pictures have all come down now, as the Mubarak pictures are coming down today. And while Biya's personality cult is still alive and well, one photo we took in a Kumba hotel last year was interesting, and should perhaps be sobering for Biya. For my part, tonight we celebrate!