Accra, June 28

Day One

Exasperated. I’ve been awake since 5:00am on Saturday, June 27th. At the moment, it’s 12:30am local time in Accra, and it’s now officially Monday, June 29th. My poor body thinks that it’s 8:30pm on Sunday, which is a little better, I suppose, except for the fact that it still means I’ve been awake for 39 consecutive hours.

Didn’t I sleep on the plane, you ask? Not really. I tried. God, did I try. I purposefully avoided caffeinated beverages before the overnight portion of the flight (Dulles to Heathrow). I wore the dumb eye mask. Essentially, I did everything I was supposed to do, but sleep never came. I was freezing. In case you’re wondering, the exit row on an international flight is fabulous in many ways…temperature is not one of them. I was wearing jeans and a jacket, too, but to no avail. I really think that there’s a crack there where the ginormous exit door meets the plane walls, exposing little old me to the -50 degree temperatures of the stratosphere. My pants were too short (I noticed this on Saturday and truthfully thought about changing because I looked like a tool…but never did). When I sat down in seat 27K, my little bare ankles were exposed above my ankle socks and proceeded to go numb about 2 hours into the flight. British Airways gives you a nice little blanket, but it’s about the thickness of a paper towel, so it didn’t really do anything to help the situation. I even resorted (much to my chagrin) to putting on the complimentary blue polyester socks that they provide as well, but it didn’t put me to sleep. It did help in making the shortness of my pants a little less obvious, though. Sigh. Jesse, this is the moment where I will admit that you were 10,000% correct when you suggested (and I refused) sleeping pills.

What a site for sore eyes…grey sweatshirt-ish jacket (complete with salad dressing stain after my first in-flight meal), ankle-cropped blue jeans, navy polyester socks, and dingy gray New Balance shoes. Those who have traveled with me in the past probably recognize this as my travel uniform (minus the blue socks), and they’re right. It hasn’t changed and it probably never will. I will not be that Eastern European woman in stiletto heels.

When I landed at Heathrow, it was 4:15am (my body time). The flesh hanging on my bones was very pissed at my brain for continuing to shuffle onward. I tried to find a semi-secluded place to sit and nap, but sitting upright in a hard chair while trying to protect my carry-on wasn’t happening. Plus, if you’ve ever seen Terminal 5 of the Heathrow airport, you can attest to the fact that there’s really no such thing as a secluded spot. There’s an Apple Store (get excited, Jess); two different versions of Harrod’s, the department store; music and electronics stores on every corner (in which I bought Regina Spektor’s newest album); and a plethora of restaurants. The place was nothing but five hours of constant stimulus.

I waited a few hours once I had gotten there, staring blankly into space, and then walked into a UK favorite—Wagamama’s—for lunch. Deepti, I thought about you. I think I was a little cantankerous when I walked in, but I do have to report that the Heathrow airport Wagamama’s is not nearly as good as the one I remembered from downtown London. Perhaps it’s the airport part of the equation, or perhaps it’s the fact that I have a totally distorted memory of my first Wagamama’s experience because of the people with whom I dined.

Anyway, I boarded the second leg of my flight at 2:00pm (local time). I saw Cindy Stanton, one of my former professors, in line ahead of me. I reintroduced myself (I could tell she didn’t know my name), and chatted with her for 15 minutes. Take-off was slated for 2:25, but take-off, much like sleep, didn’t come. At least not for another 2 hours. An hour into our wait on the plane we were informed that there were technical difficulties and that we would need to change planes. None of this really came as shocking news given the fact that the air had stopped working in the cabin some 30 minutes prior and people were starting to smell ripe. Twenty minutes later, just as we were set to disembark for a replacement plane, the world was brought to order, luggage was re-loaded, and our original plane was deemed safe to fly. We jumped back in the take-off queue and finally left the UK around 4:30.

All goes well for 6 hours and 30 minutes until the pilot comes on the intercom and announces that some people will soon be discovering that their baggage did not make it to Accra. I think, as did most other people on the plane, that the pilot had been sitting on this nugget of bad news for almost 6 hours before she decided to tell us. At the time of the announcement, I was fairly convinced that this would not affect me, because a five-hour layover is surely enough time to transfer bags from one plane to another. After 30 minutes standing in the immigration line, I’m disappointed to realize that I am indeed one of nearly 40 people with missing luggage! Not just a piece…but both pieces. I end up at the back of a large throng of people trying to fill out baggage claim paperwork, meaning I don’t actually walk out of the baggage claim until 3 hours after I was originally set to arrive in Accra. Bagless…but with the glimmer of hope that it will show up on tomorrow’s 9pm arrival from London.

When I exit customs, I’m greeted by a nice-looking young man who sticks out his hand to shake mine. “No, thanks,” I say, thinking that he’s a taxi driver trying to lure me off to some skeezy hotel where he gets a commission (these are my Tanzania memories). I know better than this. “No, hello. You’re with me,” he responds, and I start to get testy. I know that I’m looking for someone named Nick Pereta, who is supposedly from Tufts University. I don’t know what Nick will look like, but African he is not. I look back at the guy and say, “Hey, man, I’m meeting someone here. I don’t need a ride,” and he stares back at me blankly. “Ginny, it’s Amos. Don’t you remember me from Dr. Gray’s class?,” he responds, and I feel a wave of pure shittiness sweep over me. I know this guy. At least I’m supposed to know this guy. I didn’t expect him to be picking me up, and frankly, I had sort of forgotten what he looked like, but clear as day, here is Amos Laar, a former visiting scholar with the Gates Institute, here to meet me after having waited a mere three hours for my belated arrival. And I’m the jerk that basically accuses him of being a scam-artist of a taxi driver (in not so many words). Ugh—what a fantastic start. I try to recover as we walk out of the airport, saying something along the lines of, ‘I heard you got married!’ (because I want to prove to him that I actually do remember him). I think it worked…it doesn’t make me any less of a shit, though. Terri, you’ll be happy to know that he still speaks of you fondly ☺

We drive less than 10 minutes, talking soccer the entire way, before Amos pulls down a deeply rutted red clay driveway to my hostel, which I discover is called “Kingdom International Hostel.” With my one carry-on bag (that includes this computer), I jump out of his car and he walks me into the reception area. I fill out some simple paperwork and I’m shown to my room on the 3rd floor. It has AC, a 12” TV, and a self-contained bathroom, so by African standards, it’s pretty sweet. By reading my Ghana guidebook over lunch earlier in the day, I had learned that low-budget Ghanaian hotels usually don’t include a top-sheet on the bed (only a fitted sheet), so that doesn’t come as a complete surprise when I walk in the door. I brought my own blanket to Africa, so I’ll survive once my bags arrive. I’ve got nothing to change into at the moment, and I didn’t even think to grab the free British Airways toothbrush as I raced off the plane, so my teeth, along with the rest of me, are starting to feel a little gross. I’m sleeping with my clothes on tonight, because I don’t have a top-sheet and because I don’t have my malaria meds on me. The AC should keep buggies away, but a little extra precaution never hurt anyone.

So, I’m here. Drained…but here. I could be alarmingly pissy given the past 40 hours’ worth of events, but I’m not. My African adventure has begun. It’s going to be good. I’ll confirm these sentiments tomorrow when I’m actually able to retrieve my bags from the airport.