whatsnexplorations

AN ACCOUNT OF MY EXPLORATIONS ABROAD. WITH NEW PEOPLE, PLACES, AND EXPERIENCES AROUND EVERY CORNER, WHO KNOWS WHAT’S NEXT?

Mary Ellen Skawinski

…or “welcome” to the account of my explorations abroad. I arrived here in Ghana late Sunday evening, and needless to say, after trekking over 5,000 miles, I was looking forward to sleeping more than blogging. I gave my spirit a day to soak in the sights, sounds, and smells of this new and beautiful continent before whipping out my laptop to virtually record any of it for those of you who may be curious to know what it’s been like. We all know I love to talk; it’s not very often words fail to provide me with an outlet for expression. That being said, I am speechless.

I am not looking to paint a picture of myself as some pseudo-hippie on a journey to save the world. I am here as a student, looking to learn and discover what it means to be a young woman in this ever changing world we share. My posts are not meant to be prophetic statements of enlight-enment, they are simply my personal accounts, insights, and questions regarding the people, places, and events I encounter along the way. That’s all for now- much more to come. Yebeshia! (“See you later!”)

Akwaaba!16AUG

Flying over the Sahara Desert

Keeping today’s post nice and short- I’m exhausted and have a good book and great bar of Ghanaian chocolate waiting for me in bed. We all had to get up early to make the trek up to the

University of Ashesi in Berekusu, where I plan on taking “African Rep-ertory: Music and Dance.” Might as well put my electives to good use! Okay, so I told you today would be short. Signing off for now.

Visiting Ashesi University

Down a village road in Berekusu

17AUG

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

4

My dad referring to me as “poor baby”— thanks in part to me having fallen ill after eating some tainted veggies— got me thinking again about a com-monality that occurred to me just the other day: all babies (and children,

for that matter) are virtually the same, no matter where in the world they come from. I encountered two little boys in a small slum outside of the Labone area the other day. They couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. Immediately upon seeing me, a strange and white foreigner, they began repeatedly asking, “How are YOU?” Clearly this was one of those initial phrases a child learns, and therefore enjoys repeating over and over and over again. How are YOU? How are YOU? “I’m doing well!” I replied, smiling and extending out my hand. They touched it and ran away, excitedly screaming and shouting the same phrase yet again. It reminded me of a particular phrase I was once fond of saying, mainly upon seeing a camcorder, which I likely thought was a camera: “Cheese!” In nearly every home video filmed when I was two or three, that word was all I wanted to say to the camera. Just as that three-word phrase seemed all these boys wanted to say to me. And like the British girl of the same age I witnessed in Amsterdam (“Mama, look! Mama, look!”) Babies will cry (particularly when in a that’s plane taking off or landing), toddlers will try (almost anything if you let them), and children will pry (into your carry-on bag if you leave it open). It doesn’t really matter where they are born or raised. I know I claimed to not be searching out universal truths, but here they are, springing up around every corner- even around a tin-roof shack in the slums.

18AUG

Kids will be kids

Devious, curious, and impervious

Why is it that Americans feel the need to be so gung-ho about the pride they have in their country? I visited the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum today, and couldn’t have been more

humbled by the exhibit’s setup. Nothing elaborate or over-the-top. Sure, the mausoleum was constructed of beautiful imported Italian marble, but it was nothing like Washington D.C., with its overpriced, oversized, tourist trap-like attractions. It was simple, and I think that’s what makes it so beautiful. Correct me if I’m wrong, but if the Lincoln Memorial were destroyed in a political coup d’état, the government would invest millions of dollars in reconstructing it to best match its original state. Take a look at this picture of the historic monument of Kwame Nkrumah, the nation’s former leader at the time of their first announced independence in 1957. Powerful. And pretty damn cool, right? But I’m not quite sure what this makes me proud to be. Okay so it’s late, I hope some of these thoughts are translating into coherent musings.

20AUG

Proud to be…

Destruction can create art

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

6

Watch your step.We went to the market in downtown Labone, where I haggled my way through the streets, collecting up yards of fabric, beads,

and other native bric-a-brac. Unlike in the States, everything sold in the market here is negotiable (compared to, say, New York’s Canal Street, where the vendors have their minds made up about the $20 they’re going to charge you for a pair of knock-off Ray-bans, which you know will break in your purse on the way home anyway.)

I met with a local seamstress today, who agreed to tailer a handmade dress and pair of what I call “Aladdin” pants, out of the fabric I picked out and purchased in the market. I’ve never owned a one-of-a-kind outfit before– and now I’m designing two. Can’t beat it.

Early bedtime for me tonight; classes start tomorrow…

I went a hagglin’21AUG

Street meat is good. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

“Your world of quality TV”For all of those who know how much I’ve been sweating over the internship position I ap-plied to at Global Media Alliance (and trust me, the sweating factor hasn’t improved since

arriving in Africa) I’m excited to say that I’ve been officially hired! Well, as “official” of work as a student visa will allow me. Another student and myself have been hired and asked to work as a team to go out into the community report on various issues of social, political, and health concern. The end product would be a mini-series of documentaries that aim to shed light on subject matters that may not have otherwise been exposed, mainly because they occur most often within the slums— which, sadly enough, are ignored by many of those with the power to actually make changes. If all goes well, each documentary will be aired on E-TV, one of the largest commercial television channels in Ghana. We’ve also been asked to revise news scripts,

conduct independent research, and record voiceovers for an assortment of news segments (which I’m not exactly excited about, considering my voice is comparable to that of Mickey Mouse.) The workload is going to be intense, but I’m thrilled to start work next week.

Oh and you know how we Americans look forward to our casual Fridays? How about trying traditional Fridays on for size. That is, ev-eryone ditches their suits and ties and comes to work donning their customary African garb. I may need to go visit the local seamstress a few more times…

This just in!23AUG

First it was the brain-eating amoebas running rampant, now earthquakes. How is it that when I come to Africa, the freak occurrences of nature hit the States? And you guys were worried about me!

I’m now convinced you guys face more dangers on a daily basis than I do.

25AUG

Home of the free-ky

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

8

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

10

I haven’t posted in a couple days now; that’s not to say I haven’t had my share of explorations to write about. Indeed, I have experienced yet more people and places— and smells (can’t forget that one)— stirring up those deep-seated emotions people warned you you’d experience while traveling, but figured you were somehow immune to anyway.

We left bright and early Saturday morning for Cape Coast. Well, I’d say dark and early, very early. I spotted an owl while brushing my teeth, if that helps paint a picture of the setting during which we listlessly readied ourselves to board the bus. Once in Cape Coast, we visited what is now the oldest fort in Elmina. Used as a post during the years of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, the Elmina Slave Castle stands over 500 years old, overlook-ing the Gulf of Guinea. I won’t go into much detail about what I experi-enced within the walls of the castle, as it is something that is still resonat-ing within me, not ready yet to be discussed.

What can be discussed, however, was the utter terror-turned-fun at the Kakum National Park. We hiked to the top of a mountain, where I finally faced my fear of

heights by climbing across the canopy walkway. I have to say though, the foliage was so thick you could hardly tell you were 40 meters in the air. It helped walking with a few friends who could laugh off the creaking of the foot-wide boards that made up the walkway. My laughter resembled more of a nervous Chewbacca ‘cry for help.’

When we finally made it back to Coconut Grove, the resort NYU arranged for us to stay at— alas, I finally know where my tuition dollars are going!— we were all ready to eat a solid dinner and lounge by the beachside bonfire. We spent the morning swimming and soaking up some equator sun, and the afternoon squirming on the bus wishing we’d shaded ourselves a bit more from the equator sun.

It’s not until nights like tonight, when I get home and take a look at the homework that’s yet to be done, that I remember I’m still at school.

Conquering Emotions and Succumbing to Sunburns in Cape Coast

4SEP

A view from atop the Elmina Slave Castle

Couldn’t even manage the “Look Mom! No hands!” pose

When I was eleven, I hadn’t a clue what an “act of terror” was. As far as I was concerned, it was the equivalent to an impending snowstorm, or the possibility of a suspicious figure lurking around the school parking lot— it was something that required us to expresses faces of concern (even if we weren’t), and get picked up from school early

by our parents. I meandered down the street to my babchi’s house, wondering what the World Trade Center towers were, and why someone would want to fly a plane into one of them. By the time I got inside and took a look at the TV that was already turned on and tuned in to the ensuing chaos, I noticed footage being replayed over and over, this time of the second tower collapsing. I was still confused, but managed to redirect my attention to something other than the disturbing images themselves (a habit of self-induced ignorance I still find myself guilty of when forced into situations I find uncomfortable or scary.) The media.

Everyone shown on screen was in a state of panic, fleeing from the various locations under attack. But what about the reporters? Would they run too? Would the screen soon cut to black, hashing the absence of action to “technical difficulties”? I sat there, Indian-style on the then-avocado green carpet, entranced by the commitment of the reporters, cameramen, and anchors situated in the heart of New York City and Washington, D.C. Here were people continuing to report the news to a nation a viewers who had since gone into hiding, crying and barricading themselves indoors with canned food and bottled water. Yet along with these rations were their HD televisions, to which nearly everyone was glued, expecting to be informed about the impending state of the nation. I saw the firefighters and policemen fighting through debris and clouds of smoke, and knew then that many of them would not make it out alive. This upset me, yes, but I’ve always respected these men and women for the bravery shown in their line of work. I knew even at that age that they deserved my utmost gratitude. What amazed me moreover was the stead-fast nature of the news correspondents. It wasn’t their job, I once thought, to stick around when things got dangerous. They were just expected to sit with powdered noses and perfectly quaffed hair, inform-ing us about the stock market or when tomorrow was going to be a “scorcher.” Yet here were the talking heads, acting human. Diane Sawyer with a shiny forehead, looking scared. Peter Jennings, unshaven and haggard, but assuring us he would remain in the newsroom. I realized then that these people were heroes too. Their line of work required a dedication I hadn’t previously credited them with. I cannot speak for others; we all experienced September 11, 2001 differently. For myself, a newfound respect was born for a profession I now find myself, ten years later, potentially working in. For all of the scrutiny we place on the media, I would like to stop and take the time to pay respect to those within the field who remain composed in times of turmoil and who dedicate themselves to keeping the nation and those abroad informed.

History needs “heroes.” Those same heroes need people, in turn, to document history. I would like to recognize them as heroes, too.

No matter where we are in the world, we carry the memories of our past with us. Here’s to living our lives with the awareness that in a single second, everything can change.

11SEP

Here’s to all heroes

Images such as this one are seared into our memories. Now think for a moment about the photographer who actually took it.

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

12

Takoradi, anyone?30AUG

With so few weekends free to roam on our own- as NYU has already planned out numerous group outings- it didn’t take much convincing to round up a group of us for a weekend excursion. A friend of ours knew of a backpacker-friendly spot on the remote beaches of Takoradi, so off we went to the Green Turtle Lodge. One 45-minute taxi ride, a five hour

bus ride (scheduled bathroom breaks on the side of the road included), 30 minutes of haggling for yet another taxi ride an hour and half down what was likely not a road at all, and we made it. At least I think we did. There were no lights. The only indicator that we had made it was the light of a single lantern and the chatter of a few Europeans sitting by the mildewed bar outside, which we were informed had closed (the owners of the lodge having left to go to a funeral?) but were welcomed to hang out at anyway.

Now, like much of my overseas explorations, this one contained a series of unexplained, unpredictable, and inexplicable events: games of coconut cricket, charging into the ocean at uncalled for moments, hours of mancala, dancing in the sand, broken toes, sliced open toes (Mom- you’d be proud, I stepped in as the designated nurse), pretending to sleep in a tent but really just laying awake, smiling and listening to the waves crash behind you. Suffice it to say that it was an stimulating weekend.

Coming back to reality (if you can call life in Accra that) was rough. I’m still trying to get a hold of this Twi class, but unlike any other language I’ve studied, this one is comprised of completely unrelated sounds that make up words

Photo Credit: Tom Hanks

I was under the impression interns were taken on solely as their superior’s go-to person for fetching coffee, run-ning errands, and passing the buck. How is it that the only coffee I encounter is at 5am, my errands have become a four-foot long scroll of to-dos, and the only person to blame for the virtually unattainable workplace goals that

have been set is myself? Can an intern get an intern?

I wonder how they say “HELP” in Twi? I’d ask my language teacher, but he has malaria.

Oh, and I’m writing this on my lunch break.

14SEP

Who ever said 24 hours was enough?

A screen shot taken as my sanity slowly dwindles away... flattering, I know.

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

14

So this weekend was an *ahem* interesting one. I won’t bore you all with the details, but let’s just say it brought a few facts to light for me. Anyone can argue on this point, but I now consider it a hard fact that I am downright lucky to have been born into the family and raised within the society that I was. Sure, Americans take their fair share of hits for being

“ignorant,” “materialistic,” and the like. But me? I’m a 21-year-old young woman, and I am free. Free to take up whatever pro-fession I so desire. Free to get married at any age, or never if that’s what suits me best. Having children is a personal choice. Hell, I could even decide to have my own Brady Bunch without a Mike Brady. The choice is mine.

While the American culture does have a number of dis-cernible flaws (some I hadn’t even noticed until looking at it from a +5,000 mile distance), it likely remains the best one a young woman— or an individual of any age, sex, race, or religion for that matter— could live in.

I never considered myself one of those gung-ho, patri-otic Americans, but once you leave the country and truly experience the possibilities of life outside of it, you quickly recognize how fortunate you truly are. I’m not quite sure if this is the realization my parents were shooting for when they constantly warned me about how I had “better count my lucky stars!” But rest assured, I’ve counted every single one, and I’m holding on to them tightly.

Discovering a new constellation19SEP

Exploring “the infinite” that is my future.

Considering this past weekend was the last one we had free to spend however we wanted, a few of us knew immediately that a trip to Togo was in order. We set out early morning Saturday, and by around noon that day, we were hustling our little selves through the two-room immigration office. You see, while the neighboring country of Togo has much to offer as far as week-

end getaways go, it was more than just a “oh what the hell, why not” trip for us. Upon our return from Morocco in October, our visas will automatically be extended an additional 60 days, which would carry us through the second half of the semester. The only problem is, our current visas expire two days before we leave for Morocco. Now, the thought of chancing it and hoping an immigra-tion official in the airport wouldn’t catch on to the fact that I was technically squatting in Ghana illegally crossed my mind (given that I refused to pay the 40 cedis to extend my visa a mere 48 hours.) But the thought of Togo, and its all-too-eerie— and equally smelly— voodoo markets and seemingly endless stretches of sand along sapphire blue waters, was enough to change my mind. No, I wouldn’t risk getting kicked out of the country; I would simply trek on over to Togo. I’d get to dabble in the dark arts, go for a swim, pretend I can speak French, and get my visa extended. It was win-win (and win and win…) situation all around.

With the Indian look of four-person families stacked on motorbikes zipping down the roads, hawkers shouting at you in French, and voodoo priestesses eying you from within their unlit huts, I’ll be the first to admit it was a bit culturally overwhelming.

That being said, I loved every minute of it. I can’t wait to share more stories with you guys in person, as there are simply far too many to keep track of on a blog alone. I had various artifacts blessed and made sacred by a voodoo chief, body surfed in the gulf, and soaked up some sun, all while still trying to pro-

cess the fact that the sand I was laying in wasn’t that of the Long Island Sound’s.

It was African sand; at an untouched beach in Lomé, Togo. A simple statement, but an excitedly exotic realization for me.

Togo-a-Go-Go

Immediately drawn to the shrunken baboon head. No surprise there.

Serenity. Hot, sweaty, and somewhat sunburned, but serene nonetheless.

26SEP

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

16

I’ll keep this blunt, otherwise this blog post may very well evolve into a novel of sorts… thank you. Thank you all for everything you’ve done for me. By “you” I mean the intimate circle of people that have loved and supported me in taking this giant leap in my life. If it weren’t for you, I can say with utmost certainty that I would not be celebrating

my 22nd birthday in Africa. And so it’d mean more to me to make this day about you; the true few who care enough to read these blog posts. Words are inadequate- I feel you with me everyday, everywhere I go (yes, even while scouring voodoo markets, mucking through lagoons, and bumping along dirt roads in a tro-tro.) I know that when I sit outside and watch the rain, that there’s a good chance, however many thousands of miles away, you may be doing the same. No, seriously. I’ve been monitoring the weather over there, will it ever stop raining?? I’ll end my post with a big hug and kiss. I wouldn’t have made it these 22 years if it weren’t for you. Truly.

“I love you very much”

27SEP

Med wo papaapa!c

Med wo papaapa!c

I’m not so sure how “universal” my sign language really is. That’s supposed to be a heart.. <3

Indeed, it’s “one of those days.” And so I won’t even try to spell it out for you. Kahlil Gibran describes the feeling in a much more eloquent manner than I ever could…

“On Joy and Sorrow” Kahlil Gibran

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.And how else can it be?The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater thar sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”But I say unto you, they are inseparable.Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

One of those days30SEP

ww

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

20

It’s a new day and, yes, I’m still in one piece. One moment, I find myself buried so far underneath a blanket of my own emotions, that I feel hidden; my opinions invisible. Yet in the next, I feel naked and exposed for all those around me to gawk at. Surround-ed at home by the padding of our comfort zones, it seems impossible for outside distractions to ever truly disrupt the ways in

which we choose to live our lives. At least for me, that was always the case. Tell me something I didn’t want to hear? Easy. All I had to do was reach into my hidden collection of facitous retorts and use them to mask my uncomfortability. Well now I’m in a place, both physically and emotionally, that prevents me from falling back into such habits. It’s shaken me up, and given me a lot to think about. That doesn’t, however, mean that I have to subject you all as readers to depressing and/or whiny blog posts!

If you wanted that, I’m sure you’d open up a copy of Mein Kampf or tune into an episode of “The O’Reilly Factor.” And so I will make a concerted effort to keep you up to date and informed about my daily comings and goings, without delving too far into the complexities that formuate my thought process.

So let’s try this out…

Everyone here knows me by “Mary.” In a culture laden with all-things-religious, that means I’m also known by every security guard, coworker, teacher, taxi driver, lady at a fruit stand, fabric vendor at the market (…you get the picture), as “Jesus’ Mother.” Oh look it’s Jesus’ Mother! Jesus’ Mother? Where were you all day? Jesus’ Mother, can yomake a copy of this for me? I wonder what they’d said if I finally snapped back one day and told them that my name is actually Mary Ellen. I’d probably be better off correcting them with a simple, “No, no. You must be confused. I’m more of along the lines of a Mary Magdalene than the one that birthed your Savior.” Or maybe this is just another one of those situations where I’m better off keeping my mouth shut…

4OCT

Mother of God!

This was never the torment I meant to subject you to

“For the love of my son, Bill, would you can it?”

My apologies for not posting anything new for some time. It’s midterm season, and I’ve been battling a head cold for about a week now. Yes, a cold. Ask me how I managed to catch a cold in Africa? I couldn’t even tell you. Perhaps our bodies really are pre-programmed to get sick this time of year, regardless of the environments in which we place them. But rather than

go off on a Galton-ian tangent, I just wanted to check in with you all before I leave the country this weekend. Can you believe fall break is already here? Five of my friends and I will be flying up to Morocco bright and early on Saturday morning. We should arrive in Casablanca before noon, and from there will backpack through the city, up to Tangier, then inland to Chefchaouen. For someone who plans the details of her breakfast the night prior (a small bowl of oatmeal, one piece of lightly buttered toast, a cup of coffee with a splash of milk, no sugar…) I’m amazed at the lack of forethought put into this trip. As a child, I used to fantasize about riding a

camel in the desert, indulging in exotic foods, and wandering through souqs with a monkey on my shoulder; so I figured I’d take matters into my own hands and shoot to experience all of the above- sans the monkey, Professor!

If you don’t hear back from me, just know I’ve fled to Spain.

I’m starting to realize that no matter how much of a frenzy I work myself into, Googling every historical fact about a particular location, it is likely not going to affect my experience there. In fact, in retrospect, overplanning has hindered my ability to remain “in the moment” while on many trips I’ve taken in the past. So I decided to take a more hands-off approach this time around. That’s not to say I’m going to a foreign country completely blind to their culture. I’m aware that because the country is of the Muslim faith, it’s important that I adhere to certain customs, while also refraining from others. No need to worry about me- I’ll keep my eyes open and ankles covered.

The remainder of the week will be spent studying for exams, beginning filming on my documentary for work, and packing for next week. I’ll be sure to post pictures and stories when I return.

12 OCT

Ready, set, break!

Or so the online translation says.

“Take care and I’ll talk to you later!”

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

22

Dear Morocco,

Let me begin by thanking you for the memories you’ve provided me with in the past week alone. Your taxi drivers may have left my friends and I anxiously hugging eachother as tightly as we were the curb as we sped up your mountains, but their

bountiful beauty and crisp winds provided just the right amount of distraction from the fact that, at any given second, we were inches from plummeting off the side of them. It was not all heart-pounding thrills, though. You also managed to melt my heart with your precious children skipping around the various cobble-stone town squares (which you must not ever allow to be paved over!) Your land-scape left my mouth gaping, and fi ngers weary. Good thing I allowed the camera salesman to persuade me into buying the 16 GB memory card. You were well worth the extra $29. Th ank you also for reminding me how much I love meat. I was beginning to

doubt my carnivorous roots, what with being surrounded in this program by canvas-bag toting, glare-at-you-when-you-reach-for-a-second-piece-of-chicken vegetarians, and all.

Your lamb was outstanding, and I made it a point to provide a play-by-play of every meaty meal for my protein-deprived peers upon my http://a5.sphotos.ak.fb cdn.net/hphotos-ak-sn

c7/304143_2178214050036_1087410107_32122007_273374464_n.jpg return to Accra.

Th e only thing more mouth-watering than your animals smoked in exotic spices, were your men— who, as far as I am concerned, are also smoked in exotic spices. What do you feed them? Lamb, I presume.

I could go on for hours praising the unique nature of your culture. How have you managed to preserve it, in all its great complexities, over the centuries? I sensed a number of European, African, and Asian infl uences, and yet your cultur still looks, feels, smells, tastes, and sounds so distinctly Moroccan. You’ve been a most hospitable host, and I thank for letting me gawk at your boundless beauty; it has yet to cease to amaze me. I hope you’ll be so kind as to have me back again in the near future. I http://a6.sphotos.ak.fb cdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/294194_2178214530048_1087410107_32122008_499276649_n.jpg know a few people who would love to meet you. Once again I must say, shukran, Morocco!

Yours truly,

Mary

…although if you need to reach me at any time over the next two months, just ask for “Jesus’ Mother.”

Yes.

Mary Had a Little Lamb25OCT

No.

First it was a hurricane, then an earthquake, flooding, heat waves (in October?), snow storms (in October?) … come on people, is this some cooked up scheme to trick me into thinking I’m not missing my favorite season of the year? Or was John Cusack right after all? I knew he wasn’t getting the proper recognition for his artful performance in that [apparently accurate] 2009

classic, 2012!

This isn’t the heat-induced delusion talking here. I say heat-induced, because it’s been a steady 90 degrees here, with a humidity level of, I don’t know, 100%?

Although it left every article of clothing I was wearing damp— and by damp I mean soaked in sweat— the weather couldn’t put a damper on the good times to be had this past weekend. We traveled about four hours outside of Accra, to a small village in the Volta Region. There we were put to work building a school for the local children. We fetched water from the well and carried it in basins on our heads. We collected up rocks, which we then helped to crush and mix into cement. We made our own paint, and baked under the sun as we applied coat after coat on the walls.

Hey dad, now I understand why you put me to work doing manual labor around

the house every weekend! Moving piles of rocks to build stone fences, putting up walls in the basement and painting them for what felt like countless hours. You were only preparing me for the work I’d be doing as a 22-year-old in Western Africa. It all makes sense now.

I’m thinking this weekend will be a pretty stark contrast to last. While I know I’ll still sizzle under the sun, this time I’ll have a mojito and lobster waiting for me at the end of the day. A

few friends and I are heading to the small fishing village of Kokrobite to enjoy our last free weekend here in Ghana. Once there, it’s off to Big Milly’s Backyard, where I fully intend on sampling as much fresh seafood as possible.

Word on the street is they have barracuda- that’s still sporting the Kobe Bryant “gameface” when they serve it to you. I’m not a Lakers fan, but I have a good feeling about this one.

Man vs. Wild2NOV

Swindled by the Academy yet again!

Better than Behr

Fool

ww

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

26

Last week I ventured up to Northern Ghana to explore some of the country’s most re-mote regions. Now while I wasn’t expecting the hustle and bustle of Accra, I certainly hadn’t anticipated any of the events that were in store for me. Next stop: culture shock.

A twelve hour bus ride later, and I found myself dropped off on the front page of last month’s National Geographic.

Electricity, running water, any traces of the things we like to consider “basic” were yanked out from under me like a dinner table magic trick gone terribly, terribly wrong. Okay, maybe I’m over exaggerating. Maybe I actually enjoyed the few days of complete and utter remote-ness. Maybe.

Considering that the majority of those living in Tamale, one of Northern Ghana’s most populated cities, are of the Muslim faith, it only seemed fitting to pay my respects at the city’s mosque. Although I had seen countless of these ornate structures throughout my travels in Morocco, customary law there had prevented me from ever being able to step inside one. Bearing in mind that NYU is indeed taking over the world, I was not surprised to find out that they had “pulled some strings” to get us inside the central mosque on a Friday, the holy— and therefore busiest— day of the week for Muslims.

After reviving a fellow student who had fainted as we were ascending the upper floors of the mosque (Did I mention it was a minimum of 100-120˚F from sunup to sundown?), we de-cided it was best to explore another area of town. You know, get some fresh air at the market. Of course, we ended up in the middle of what seemed to be a never-ending labyrinth of sti-fling heat, with some thousand or so vendors cramped inside. In case any of you were think-ing about visiting the markets of Northern Ghana, remember not to wear a white shirt, or any shirt you don’t plan on throwing out at the end of the day. While it may seem a smart way to deter the radiating glare of the sun, it will in fact get sprayed with various bodily fluids as you walk past the many butchers violently thrashing slabs of already-rotting carcasses.

Our later visit to Dr. Abdulai’s health clinic seemed, at first, to be the sought after opportunity to catch our breath and mingle with some locals in a quieter setting. What I hadn’t anticipated were the searing sights of some of humanity’s most neglected individuals. Inspired by his own parents who suffered from leprosy, Dr. Abdulai, a perfectly healthy and brilliant man of 60 or so years, opened a free-of-charge health clinic designed to aid the outcasts of local villages. Lepers, vagabonds, addicts, the mentally ill, HIV positive men, women, and children— all are welcome at this clinic.

14NOV

Staring at the fan, alone and at a loss for words, I only hear the chopping of the blades. ...my Martin Sheen moment of contemplation.

Hundreds upon hundreds of vibrant mats. A mosque-must.

A View From Above and a New Way to Love

No one is turned down, or ever forced to leave. He provides them with shelter, three meals a day, and most importantly, love. “So often we want to love others on our terms. We must learn to love others on their terms. That is real love, the kind people will always come back for.” Spoken like a true saint. And you do it all based solely on donations? Dr. Abdulai, you amaze me.

The rest of the weekend was spent exploring the Pikoro slave camp, and visiting the abused and abandoned widows of the Frafra tribe, where we learned about the ways in which they have banded together and carved out a living for them-selves in a hidden village of their own. And the children! As soon as the voices of us obrunis were heard, an eye would poke out from the side of a mud hut. At the sight of us, most came running with excitement, others stood paralyzed with fear (followed by the inevitable burst into tears.)

I didn’t mind that they probably hadn’t ever taken what we consider to be a real bath. I allowed them to scale my legs, touch my hair, and cling to my arms. Wouldn’t you?

All in all, the trip was a fantastically eye-opening experience. I’m still processing much of what I saw, as well as trying to block out the painful 15+ hour trek back to Accra. Did I really think the drive back would be a smooth one? I’ve learned by now that it’s not a journey unless you hit a few potholes (or in our case, massive, sharp rocks) along the way.

A man who knows no limits to his love for others.

Even from above, I see only angels below me.

Sheared 42” tire and the subsequent stranding of our bus at a roadside village.

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

28

So I’m trying a new method of blogging. Words haven’t failed me, but I’m finding that pictures are able to capture certain senti-ments better than my own voice ever could at this point. For the remaining two weeks, I’m going to make an effort to post one picture every day (or at least on those when we actually have an Internet connection). Whether they’re worth 1,000 words or

not, they speak volumes from my heart; they’re the remaining vestiges of beauty I still see in this world.

“Of all of our inventions for mass communication, pictures still speak the most universally understood language.” - Walt Disney

28NOV

Pixels don’t fail me now

If I had a million dollars

“If I had a million dollars, I’d give you a million and one.” - Johnnie Myers, Grandmama

29NOV

30 NOV

“Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.” – Mahatma Gandhi

And if I die before I wake

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

30

Aburi Botanical Gardens

Happy birthday to you!

Just a mirror for the sun

"If I had to choose a religion, the sun as the uni-versal giver of life would be my god." - Napoleon Bonaparte

1DEC

2DEC

3DEC

Finding another brother like you would be harder than finding a needle in a haystack...

Aburi Botanical Gardens

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

ww

32

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS"Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies." - Aristotle ...or three!

Three’s a company4DEC

Love thy neighbor6DEC

Our dovely neighbor

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

ww

34

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

ww

ww

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

WHATSNEXPLORATIONS

38

Mary Ellen Skawinski