The First Leg

The Galapagos
Wreck Bay, San Cristobal Island
July 2-3, 2012

Got into Wreck Bay on the second for a little diesel and some food.  As much as I would love to stick around and dive, the cost would be about a thousand dollars each after paying all the fees and the various agents and the guides so sadly it's not going to happen.  The islands themselves are pretty barren and desolate looking.  Rocky with low scrub-brush and very irregular topography.

The town itself is simple, yet larger than we thought it would be.  I stopped a man getting on a motorcycle outside a laundry mat and was able to get directions to the supermarket and the fruit/veggie market place.  Both what I'd come to expect from traveling around central america, but things didn't seem quite so crowded and packed together as they often are in that part of the world.

All over the bay are seals lounging in the sun.  On deserted boats, the benches along the docks, dingys tied behind boats and really anywhere flat.  Around nine last night we heard some huffing and puffing around the back of the boat and one big fat guy had plopped himself on our stern.  I snapped a picture and apparently he didn't like the flash for he let out a cry somewhere between that of a dog and a goat as he lumbered in a humping motion off the boat.  They are the local equivalent of squirrels.  As best I can tell, not bothered by humans and very content to lay all over the places all afternoon like heaping masses of fat and bone and fur.  Really they are quite unattractive and awkward looking on land, moaning and burping and shitting all over the place.

In the evening on our neighbors with a nearly identical boat to ours came over for a chat.  He was thirtyish aussie with a wicked accent that Andrew later could best describe as redneck and hickish.  He'd gone to the British Virgin Islands 11 months ago with the intention do the same thing, buy a boat there and then sail it back home over the course of a few months and sell it when he arrived.  But that was 11 months ago and he now has little desire to get home much less sell the boat. He picked up a few backpackers last month and so far their only plans were to stay here for a month or so and then head on to the Marquesas's.  He figures the soonest he'll get home is a year and a half from now.




The End of June

The wind is finally with us an the days have begun to blend together as they tend to do out here.  The boat is in a constant state of heeling and so life is being lived on a slant for the time being.  I want to say about 15 degrees to Starboard, but it varies from time to time as the wind changes and the sails are adjusted accordingly.   One of the first things you learn out here is that one hand belongs to the boat.  Two feet are not enough to stabilize you and so one hand must also be devoted to the task.  This is annoyingly true at this angle.   Two feet, one hand and as many fingers as can be spared from the other plus the occasional shoulder must work together to sustain any movement around the boat.

After leaving Malpelo we went through several days of intense rain storms and were able to fill our water tanks completely, which is a nice change from the last crossing when we were constantly worried about having enough water.  The downside is that we have to worry about a front sneaking up on us in the night.  I was only able to avoid a gnarly one the other night by turning the boat 15 degrees north, bringing us fully broadside to the wind  which heeled us over to a dangerous angle and sent us shooting off above it, taking the full force that the wind had to offer.  We were pumping over waves and and generally causing a ruckus before turning back into the wind, leveling out the boat a bit a watching the front skirt by just south of us.

Other notable events include the catching of fat tuna that yielded two heaping meals of the best sushi I've ever tasted.  You could cut straight through it with a fork in one motion and the flavor was of course perfect.  Unfortunately, the end of June also came with the loss of two lures to a sail fish and a marlin.  Both could be seen surging out of the water before easily snapping our lines.  Finally, last night I had the pleasure of sharing part of the night watch with a pod of dolphins who were racing and dancing across our bow.  At first I thought I was seeing things but after a few minutes it was clear that a pod had come to say hello and mess around with the front of the boat that was occasionally crashing down off the waves with tremendous force.




Day 5
6/27/12
Malpelo Island, Columbia

Woke up bobbing off shore of Malpelo Island.  It's a huge rock that rises 800 feet out of the water and has this one type of bird sitting on every flat surface.  I wanna say that they're frigates but I really don't know shit about birds.  They have roughly the same color scheme as a seagull but the body is long, thin and angular.  The wings are also longer and thinner.  I'd reckon that in a fight to the death one of these things would quickly dispatch any seagull.

We turned into where the map indicated there was a cove and found a mooring buoy but elected to make a loop of the island to see what else was around.  Tied to another buoy in the next cove was a live aboard dive ship getting ready to send out people and further along we found an isolated research station on a piece of flat land about half way up.  There was an elevated metal walk way with ropes hanging down to pull supplies off of a boat, however we could make out no way for the supplies to get to the outpost several hundred feet higher.  Around the top of the island we motored past a group of darkly colored dolphins of the same variety that we had seen earlier and these ones were equally unsociable.  Andrew remarked that having the dolphins here was a good thing as they don't mix well with sharks.

Returning to the first cove, we tied up to the buoy.  Four hard plastic balls about the size of soccer balls attached to a to an absolutely massive rope that descended into perfectly blue water.  We jumped in expecting it to be cold, but it was nice so we dawned snorkeling gear and struck out towards the cliff and the waves slapping against it.  At first it was nothing but pure, deep blue and then all of a sudden the rock wall and hundreds of fish came into view.  We moved along effortlessly carried by the current, about ten meters out from the wall and the foam.  Out front, partially obscured by the schools of fish I spotted a hammerhead sitting about 50 feet down near where the rock of the island met the sandy bottom.  I turned to show Andrew and found him fixated at something below us.  Half a dozen several meter long hammerheads were gliding through the water not 30 feet below us.  Shadowy grey, outlined against the deep blue water of the bay. they paid no attention to the wall teaming with fish and slid out of view shortly after.  Later, not ten feet from me, the gawping mouth of an eagle spotted sting ray emerged from the foam of the surf and I moved away as calmly as I could while it's spotted undulating body and needle-ish stinger moved past.  Andrew spotted the ugly head of a Moray eel come out of the rocks and down the rock wall but all we talked about back on the boat was school of hammerheads that had frozen us on our tracks earlier.

The decision making process for going to Malpelo, which took place shortly after leaving Panama City is a good example of why the trip is going good so far and why we're getting along so well:

So Spencer, there's an island on the map here that's more or less on the way to the Galapagos and I reckon it might be  worth a look.

Oh yea?

The GPS says it's a bird sanctuary and there's a spot to anchor. So I don't know, you ever heard anything about it?

No, you?

Nope.

Yea, I've never heard of anyone stopping there but why not? Let's do it.

Good enough for me.

...And that's how we ended up snorkeling with hammerheads.




Day 4
6/26/12

Sailed a bit in the morning, tacked around an overturned table and caught an unknown fish which we threw back.  After about 9:30 , things were about as calm as I'd ever seen it and we motored along lazily.  It was an incredibly boring day and at 5 we decided that a real happy hour was in order.  No shitty Pamamanian beer - strong rum and cokes. After the first one we caught a great blue fin tuna and the whole day seemed a bit better.  We each had a heap of raw tuna and some salad for dinner and it was fantastic.

Late in the night we came on to our destination, the island bird reserve of Malpelo, technically part of Columbia.  I had been told by various people that some of the maps used by the GPS were still using data from the 1880's and thought it was bullshit until Malpelo ended being off by 2 kilometers.  In the day light not a big deal, but a bit nerve racking when it's pitch black at 2 am.  We drifted off shore until morning, unable to make out the inlet indicated by the charts.

Day 3

6/25/12

Boredom.

Motored all day more or less.  Andrew says that in the morning a blackhawk helicopter came and checked us out.  Happened as we were leaving Panamanian waters.

Thought we had caught a blue fin tuna, turned out to be shitty tasting blood red flesh.  When we looked closely the back had stripes.  We tossed him back in.  Around 4ish a group of Dolphins came jumping over to us and then dove under the bow not to be seen again.  They looked like the fins we saw chasing fish on the surface the day before.

Night watch.  Lighting storms all around, one black cloud sat off the port side flirting with us all night - occasionally spitting rain.  Around 1, while standing at the helm I was hit in the back of  by a flying fish.  The bench that wraps around the cockpit is open behind the wheel so you can pop it open and access the stern.  Probably attracted by the running light he sailed right through it and into me.  Six inches of flopping, flapping slime bouncing all over.  I pulled out the bucket with the fish filleting board, opened the bench and flipped him out.  Glancing down I noticed a three inch squid, attracted by the light had attempted the same and landed in the drainage grove.  Scooted him out as well and swilled the cockpit.

Day 2

6/24/12

Writing is hard on the first day, still getting use to the rocking and rolling so writing this on day 3.

Snorkeled around the bay early in the morning saw tons of fish, a sting ray.

Set sail and the inverter promptly broke.  Andrew is an engineer dealing with this kinda stuff so he took it apart but was unable to figure out what is wrong with it.  Currently trying to communicate to someone who can get us a new one in either the Galapagos or Marquesas.

Brief rain shower in the later morning and we nearly caught a wahoo.  Got him right up to the boat before he spit the lure out but not before taking a good chunk of it.  At around 1:30 we pulled in a nice Mahi-Mahi.  Dinner for that night and the next.

Manta Rays jumping all over the place, all day.

After getting the fish the winds picked up enough for us to put the sail up.  No sooner had we then we got caught in a triangle of three storms and all hell broke loose on a small scale for an hour or so.  Waves not terrible but we got a gust of 43 knots, max for sailing in this vessel is about 25.  Rain stinging everything, wind howling and no time to cover up. Things got intense for a bit, kept us on our toes in what would have otherwise been a dreadfully boring afternoon.

Later in the afternoon got some good wind and were able to power down the motor to practically idle.  Ate part of the Mahi-Mahi for dinner and it was awesome.  Took my first night watch of this trip and it was fun learning how to use all the controls to keep the boat with the wind as there was only just enough to keep us going at sometimes.  Around 10:30 had to wake Andrew as the radar was showing a tanker about thirty mins off on a course headed for us. "I didn't want to wake you but I wasn't sure what the protocol is for being run down by a tanker." Ended up passing with half a mile to spare.  An hour later the wind died down and we took in the sails and motored through the rest of the night and into the next day.

Day 1

6/23/12

19:50

8'16.239N  79'4.18W

Left Panama City today after the expected amount of shenanigans and miscommunication at the fuel dock.  We were able to motor sail for most of the way here after getting past the large ships waiting to transit the canal and tried to fish for most of the day.  The new lure was snapped off and another took a bite to the wire between the lure and line but we were unable to catch anything.  At one point a pair of Pelicans flew past and one hit the line but not badly.  He looked confused and landed briefly before taking off again. The most interesting thing was a blunt nosed fish, several hundred yards away and very large that launched itself out of the water in a parallel fashion multiple time in a row before disappearing.  We reckon he was a couple of meters in length and were unable to identify the type.  For all we know it could have been a flying/swimming 2x4.   The other excitement for the day was sailing through a small debris field containing several logs/trees capable of doing some serious harm.  We changed direction twice and it served as a nice way to stay awake in the afternoon lull.

About an hour before sunset we pulled into a great cove in the Perlas Islands. There is a small farm, mostly hidden off to one end with goats grazing on the hill side.  In the middle a small waterfall and more towards the left end a blow hole.  It's about as idyllic as it get.  After setting the anchor we jumped in and dove the anchor.  Andrew was able to find the anchor and it set well enough for the time being.

Crossing the Big Blue: A Young Man's Quest to Escape Boredom by Sailing the Same Ocean for Thirty Days

Today in a chart shop we came across a series of books written by the same author, about the same guy, and all had some of the best subtitles I've ever read:

The Emperor's Coloured Coat: In Which Otto Prohaska, Hero of the Habsburg Empire, Has an Interesting Time While Not Quite Managing to Avert the First World War

The Two-Headed Eagle: In Which Otto Prohaska Takes a Break as the Habsburg Empire's Leading U-boat Ace and Does Something Even More Thanklessly Dangerous

 Tomorrow the World: In which Cadet Otto Prohaska Carries the Habsburg Empire's Civilizing Mission to the Entirely Unreceptive Peoples of Africa and Oceania

...And on that note it's on to the Marquesas.

. . .

Off Again, Finally

Last Friday, I received an email from the boat I'd been speaking with for the last several months saying that that the trip had been cancelled due to technical difficulties.  Luckily they ran into a guy who had suddenly found himself in need of crew to sail to Australia.  So shit sorted itself out and the trip is a go, albeit in shortened form.  Looks as though we will be skipping French Poly and arrive down under by August/September.

We head out through the canal on June 20th, 2012 and plan to sail for the Cook Islands shortly after.  Once there is something more interesting to write than an uncensored rant about Panamanian customs and immigration it will be posted below.

The official blog, kept by Andrew can be found at http://www.getjealous.com/bakappoi

(It has pictures!)

The Festival and getting out of Africa

After three hours, two trotros, a bus and a cab I arrived in the town of with my co-worker Clement for his town's yearly tribal festival. The town is up in the mountains east of Accra and the air is cool at night, although I still would sweat from sun up til sun down. The landscape is lushly green and surprisingly the roads are all well paved. The reason being that the area has spawned a number of people who moved down to Accra, become successful and then gave back to the community both in terms of cash and the influence to get the government to perform the necessary infrastructure work. According to Clement the only thing the mountains have going for them in economically was the cool air.

The festival commemorates the new year and is the type of thing which takes up a whole weekend but different towns/tribes have their own big day. Ours was Friday, the next town overs was Saturday. I was expecting something very traditional - dancers in crazy ensembles, beating drums, tons of gold clad tribal chiefs and maybe an animal sacrifice or two. What I found did not disappoint, all of the above minus the animal sacrifice but with a healthy dose of commercialism. Two story tall banners for various local beers, and every tent was sponsored by the mobile phone company MTN in our village, the next one over by Zain.

In the middle of largely impoverished West Africa - a land without constant electricity, running water or paved roads - an epic battle of capitalism is taking place between the mobile phone companies. MTN, Vodafone and Zain are putting their colors on every building they possibly can. You will find numerous walls, store fronts and entire houses brightly painted red for Vodafone or yellow for MTN with thier respective logos plastered across the center. Zain was slacking in Ghana, but their purple and teal was dominant in Burkina Faso. In this village, a very Victorian house standing next to the main road was painted entirely yellow as if it had been dunked in a giant vat of yellow paint. Clement informed me that it was an historic building and the oldest in the town. When I commented that MTN must have paid them a lot of money to submerge the house in yellow he was surprised, saying that he had never thought of it like that cause most people would want to have their houses painted so well. He may very well be right. Clement is a first year business student and one of the smartest people I met there.

The day-time activities consist of everyone gathering to pay their respects to the elderly chief who is seated on a platform in the town square and so gaudily adorned with gold that he can hardly move. In order to get him situated on the throne the other elders circle around him and obscure his movements with their robes, then a man must discretely hold his hand up as the other chiefs and elders come to shake it. The chiefs from the surrounding area enter the square with appropriate fan fare, seated upon what I can best describe as an ornate canoe with an umbrella/sun shade, that is held in the air by a handful of young men. Most of the chiefs carry at least one firearm, usually a shotgun and announce their presence by firing into the air while dancing in their seats to the beat of the drummers in tow. My favorite had a gold plated gun in one hand, a silver one in the other and waved them around like batons.

At night the youth come out, dressed fashionably in Ed Hardy, argyle, Air Force Ones and flat brimmed baseball caps straight out of a trendy American rap video. The streets are filled by a pressing swarm of dark bodies in the night, occasionally, momentarily lit up from below by headlights that streak through the melee of legs as a vehicle parts it's way through the throng on the otherwise unlit streets of the festival at night. The bars along the way sport massive arrays of speakers blasting music so loud that talking is impossible, they do so during the day as well while a handful of people sit around staring at their beers and each other. The scene on the streets at night was probably one of the most surreal experiences of my travels. The mass of black faces in the pitch black streets being lit up by the occasional car that was forced to inch its way through gave me the impression of a completely different world, while at the same time the style of dress was eerily familiar thanks to the prevalence of Americian pop culture. The music too had a familiar ring. Louder and harsher but infused with beats just a few notes shy of our rap songs and lyrics that translate roughly to the same themes - love, sex and power.

While in Ghana, I never felt uncomfortable within a situation, rather I rarely knew what to think. I also never quite knew what to do but I knew that whatever I did would be watched with fascination simply because I was a foreigner - if i acted with perfect tact it would be just as, if not more shocking than if I acted the typical American fool. Staring was to be expected, calls of 'Burni' (translation: white person) would follow everywhere as would requests for money and from the girls, marriage. For a culture known for it's hospitality, I found it incredibly isolating, alienating and mocking. One can say what they want about the shortcomings of America's approach to race but overall we are an incredibly accepting culture. A person of any color can walk down the street of a big city and be treated with an equal amount of respect or disrespect as anyone else. In the month I spent walking down the same road nearly everyday, never once did anyone ask me name or say anything to me but, "HEY BRUNI!" And occasionally, "How are YOU?!" To which I would respond in the local language, "I am good," (I don't know how to write it out) but all I really wanted to say back was, as they say, unrepeatable in polite conversation.

Despite English being the official language, I was largely unable to communicate with those around me. Their English totally different in verbiage and sentence construction, plus being thickly accented made it nearly indecipherable. I still get messages on FaceBook and the CouchSurfing network that I find almost unreadable. All the words are English but they make only vague sense. To make the situation worse no one will listen if you try to correct them. The common come back to me was, "Well we speak British English." I tried to say that it wasn't the case, I'd spent the previous several months in the company of Brits and they didn't speak like that at all, but it was to no avail. Without Clement, who was used to my way of talking and at the festival his friends for whom he could translate, I would have been completely alone in nearly every way yet surrounded by dozens of familiar things.

It would be that constant feeling of alienation that would lead me out of Africa in the weeks that followed. Even before the festival I had set in motion a plan to travel through West Africa, to Senegal and from their catch a cheap flight to Madrid. My scheme began on the first day of classes when a man came to the school selling maps and I made the mistake of buying a world map, hanging it up in my room and then after hours of staring at it, realizing that Europe really wasn't that far away. Next came the realization that after my stints in Sri Lanka and India, I knew people all over Western Europe and thus I was determined to get out of Africa.

...and a few weeks later I was back in the midst of civilization, although the route had to be changed due to horrific bus trips, terrorists in Mali ("Yea they killed a French guy up north last month, but he was old," is what I was told in Burkina Faso.) and visa issues. So I ended up booking a last minuet flight out of Ouagadougou whose airport resembles a large garage and even though I was flying the same airline all the way to Madrid with a stop in Casablanca it was impossible to check my bags all the way through because the computers don't link.



Undeveloped Country |udi'velupt 'kuntre|
noun (pl. -tries)
1 a nation in which the simplest tasks become difficult: the lack of running water in the undeveloped country made showering a memorable experience

Ghanian food

If I had a therapist he would say that need to write this:

The food in Ghana...

The food is hardly edible - big balls of uncooked dough known as 'fufu' and 'banku' eaten with a watery soup usually involving a mildly putrid piece of fish that was probably caught several mornings ago, ripened in the sun for awhile, smoked to death, ripened further by the sun and then served. I understand that the lack of refrigeration is a problem, but seriously - there has to be a better way to do fish than one in which the end product smells more like food for fish than food for people. Overall, I personally prefer my starches cooked and my fish on the raw side.

I can find no explanation as to why the food is so umm... interesting. There is an abundance of tomatoes, onions, carrots and you commonly see vast strips of chilies drying on the roadside. Every family seems to own goats and chickens but I almost never saw the meat eaten and the few tomato, onion and egg omelets I had were great but rare. Once I came home after dinner without informing them that I would do so and was greeted with a great omelet, made even better by the mother explaining that they had made fish but I had missed dinner, so I would have to settle for an omelet.

When meat was served it often came as a large piece of gristle. I was told that this is the hide of the animal? I think something may have been lost in translation during that particular conversation, but what ever it is, the locals think it's really good. I can't say much about it other than that it has the taste and texture of a massive piece of rubbery gristle. Every once in awhile I would find a stand selling sausages and stop immediately to get one. They are partially precooked and then upon ordering, it is deeply scored, rubbed with a seasoning salt, drizzled with oil and cooked fully. With the addition of ketchup I could see this becoming quite popular back home.

When chicken was served with the Fufu and Banku it commonly came as a collection of boney and rather meatless joints which I was never entirely sure what to do with. After a few meals during which I explained "But I'm eating all the meat?!" I began to get legs and breast pieces. The fried chicken in the roadside stands came as a spine with the shoulders, ribcage and about one bone's worth of each wing still attached. Not all that crazy until one learns who it's eaten. The entire piece, bones and all is to be devoured. The furthest I ever got was to chew up a few of the softer rib bones, but I hear that the spinal cord has great flavor.

A Typical Morning In Ghana

I've been meaning to put this up for awhile but had wanted to add some punctuation and take out a few of the more vulgar words. Turns out that I can't be bothered to do so as it would take valuable time away from doing things like wandering aimlessly around ancient European towns and touring the Prado. Life is too short for grammar or censorship.

The following is pretty much a typical morning in the life of the dysfunctional family I stayed with. The only thing that changed in four weeks is that the rooster's wake up call was replaced by the equally early and much more disturbing sound of goats bleating. I heard a baby pig get butchered in India and it was no where nearly as awful (granted I got to eat it later). I can't even begin to phonetically create a word that accurately represents it's horrific-ness, but the best way to describe it would be to say it's like the sound you expect to hear coming from something being slowly and systematically beaten to death. I believe it was simply mating season.

Anyways, hopefully it makes sense.

My Second Morning in Ghana:

4am-ish (maybe earlier): fuckin' rooster
6am-ish: fucking rooster
7am: expletive expletive rooster expletive rain expletive
7:30: would you like your coffee? yea, that would be great. but please I'll just grab it. No, no, no. please sit. ok ok.
7:35: she went to get bread, wait ten minuets.
7:40: 3 year old grandson does something wrong, is reprimanded by grandmother, ignores, young aunt goes to stop him, he attacks with feet and fists.
7:50: coffee arrives with bread. Thanks, oh and i forgot to say thank you for the eggs yesterday, they were great. you want some today. oh no, don't worry about it. No no, eggs are coming.
8:15: awesome egg, tomato and onion omelet.
8:20: Can you show me how to do the laundry. Bring it and I'll do it this time. Half-assed attempt to insist on doing it myself, followed by ok, but just this once.
8:30: it is pointed out to me that the male duck has mounted the female duck.
8:45: grandson annoys large duck. duck bites kid. kid runs to porch crying.
9:00: I think I am supposed to be at the school. Wait we will take you when we are done.
9:15: dog who has been ignoring the world, at times half covered by dirty clothes, and empty buckets, must feel naked without them, wakes up and begins snapping at flies. a kitten follows suit. soon both are consumed by attempting to consume flies.
9:30 the washing is done, the ladies have gone inside to eat, and avoid the grandson who had just taken to whacking things with a long, narrow piece of plastic tube and then crying whenever one of the young aunts grabs the other end and tries to control him.
9:35: having forgotten the previous encounter with the ducks, the grandson starts acting uber hyper and running around them with a toy pistol.
9:38: with a flurry of wings and quacking the male duck jumps onto the boy's side, latching on with his webbed feet, wings still beating and tries to bite the boys back.
9:38 and 10 seconds: both boy and myself realize that while he can go toe to toe with his aunts, he is no match for the fury of a pissed off white duck with a red face.
9:38 and 12: tears and screaming ensue.
9:38 and 13 seconds: I hop off the porch and whack the duck with my book. duck hisses while the boy clings to my leg before I hoist him onto the porch and he goes running to his Grandma.
9:50: The incident has been forgotten.
9:55: the ducks are fed. why do you keep them around, what are good for? they keep the snakes away. fair enough.
10:15: Leave for school.

Accra to Ouagadougou

I decided that after 4 months in the tropics, it was time to escape to Europe. Here's some of what happened on the way back to civilization.

If anyone asks me what it means to be a developing country, here is what I would say: It means that they have yet to develop ways to do anything easily. And trying to take a bus from Accra, Ghana to Ouagadougou (pronounced wa-go-do-goo) in Burkina Faso is a perfect example of this. To begin with one must go through no less than five phone numbers listed in various places to find one that works. At this point you are told that reservations can only be made in person, and as a matter of fact the person you are talking to has on idea if there are seats left. Next you are informed that there is a customer service center at a filling station just around the corner so you go there. They call the depot and inform you that yes there are tickets, but they are running out and no the customer service agent cannot reserve one for you. Then you wonder what this person in an office at a random filling station actually does for 8 hours everyday, but figure it's best just not to ask - after all, it's a state run company.

The next step is to go to the depot, it's one day before departure and the agent has already told you their are tickets available. There are, but they are in Kumasi, the next big city about five hours away. The nice lady at the depot calls them for you but the assistant answers as her boss has gone home for the day. Only he can reserve a ticket so you are advised to show up 2 hours early to get one in the morning. I later learned that they had told several guys from Burkina Faso to get there 6 hours early. On the morning of the trip, you arrive at the station early and get a ticket, as you do you observe a sign that says there will be no extra charge for putting your luggage underneath the bus so you go and spend what money you have left on food and drinks for the day (by day I mean +24 hours) long trip.

An hour after the bus was supposed to leave you go and get your bags weighed and the weight is written down on the back of the ticket which you take to an obese lady behind another ticket counter. She will print you up a bill for you luggage which you must pay before boarding. A guy I'd been sitting with had already confirmed the sign at the first ticket counter saying luggage was free of charge and so I was pretty much out of money at this point. To make an already long and painful story short, she was a real bitch about the whole thing. Telling me several times that I would have to get a later bus because I needed the equivalent of 25 cents more, then telling me that I should have the guy who weighed the luggage change the ticket, then he was out to lunch, then she started yelling at me because I didn't have enough money (all white people always have money) and then I yelled back at which point she played the race card and a Burkinabi guy stepped in and gave me the money.

At two points both ladies behind the counter were yelling at me and I was yelling back, "WHY ARE YOU TALKING LIKE THIS!?!?!?" I think that's when the race card got pulled. And yes, I am racist. I hate African people who yell for no reason. Their deep voices make it so much worse than when anyone else does it. When the baggage was being loaded two or three guys screamed at each other for a solid ten mins, I think because one guy had a huge package that weighed next to nothing and the driver was upset about it taking to much room? Or maybe the driver tried to put it in the bus the wrong way? Or possibly the man had tried to put it in himself? Later, while unloading the bus to cross the boarder, a passenger opened one of the undercarriage doors himself and got a good verbal thrashing. Around midnight, a guy got on and was promptly abused for about ten minutes for incorrectly answering a question about his ticket.

The same guy turned out to be pretty interesting. He was a Burkinabi who worked for the private arm of the World Bank, running an energy development program in a country to the south east and I'm fairly certain he could have owned the bus he just got yelled at for boarding. Later he bought me lunch at the boarder crossing and explained that while the Ghanaian's were bad with the yelling, they were nothing compared to the Nigerians, who even the Ghanaian's thought were crazy. He couldn't give a reason for why the Burkinabi's didn't enjoy a good shouting match but I suspect it is because they speak French. I don't think it lends itself as readily verbal abusing. And unlike Ghana, which officially uses English but in reality doesn't in day-to-day life (and when the do the words spoken never make grammatical sense), the people of Burkina Faso speak French all the time. I have no idea why this is, but they also eat lots of French food - couscous, baguettes and omelets at every roadside eatery.

The actual trip to Ouagadougou was hellish. In addition to the coach bus lacking a bathroom, the driver turned out to be a bully, yelling at passengers, stopping every hour or two so he could get out and do whatever it was the he needed to, and driving slow. Slow driving in a developing country is the only thing more dangerous than driving too fast. Partly because people risk their lives to pass you and partly because it makes the passengers want to beat you into a bloody pulp and leave you on a roadside to be devoured by whatever death carrying bugs, worms and mammals happen to be in the area. At one point where the road disappeared and we were forced to maneuver through an obstacle course of potholes, we did a Ghanaian-style reenactment of the opening to the movie Office Space, in which an old lady with a walker is moving faster then the rush hour traffic. In this case it was two teens jogging (slowly) along the deserted road while we bumped our way towards pavement.