Barcelona and Casablanca and Accra

Joel on Barcelona and Casablanca

Where to even begin. We spend our last day in Barcelona split up. Mom and Emmanualle go on a bus tour of the Old City, while i stay at the hotel and continue working at my Novel (and despite my best efforts continue to misuse every piece of punctuation i place). While on the bust tour mother and Emanualle get flashed by a penis weilding exhibitionist, and this is the talk of the afternoon. It would soon be eclipsed. On the metro we get pickpocketed by a couple of old hunched spanish ladies who get mother's money belt half way unzipped before she notices and belts one of them in the neck. they give us the finger and scamper off down the tunnels of the metro.

Our flight leaves at 10:00 Pm for Casablanca so we plan on being at the aiurport by 8. We cut it a little too close with the trains and end up running to catch the train to take us to the airport. Somewhere along the run mother's day-pack (which she insists on zipping from both sides so that the to zippers meet at the top of the bag instead of down one side at the bottom) comes open and her $600 eye glasses fall out. We never do recover them. We make the train just in time, and hop on quickly. We are the only ones in our car, but that doesn't bother us. Until the lights turn out. The train stops at a strange looking station on the outskirts of town and the lights come back on. It sits there. For about ten minutes. When the lights come back on suddenly a display lights up informing us that the train we are on is "No Servicio". Now we're a little worried as we are already running behind schedule. It gets worse. The doors won't open. We're locked in the train.
After 5 minutes of banging on the windows and shouting for help, two passersby mercifully let us out and inform us that the train we were on is "No Servicio". Yeah, about that... We ask a few people and find out that a new train is coming soon. I am already quite convinced we are going to miss our flight.

The train comes, we get to the airport, and now we are racing down the walkways scooting from terminal to terminal in search of our flight. By some miraculous fortune (and the general laid-back slowness of the Old World) the flight is delayed and people are still checking their baggage when we arrive. Releived, exhausted, we wander through customs and security and find our gate. gate 59. We still have half an hour till the plane is set to board, so we sit down and enjoy our last mini bottle of wine before leaving the comnforts of Europe for the heat and uncertainty of the African continent.

We finish our wine and head back to the gate.. It's deserted. Everyone is gone. the passengers are gone, the ticket lady is gone, everyone is gone. Now it's panic time. Stupidly, recklessly, we run out onto the tarmac and start shouting through a window at a group of ground crew members on their coffee break that we don't know where our plane is. They look at us like we must be total idiots and rather pointedly explain that we're not allowed to be on the Tarmac. We understand this. We can't find our flight, can you please help us? No. We're not supposed to be there. Ok, back into the terminal and up the stairs it is. Our flight is flight 151 on Royal Air Maroc, so we find the poor check-in girl from Emirates Airways flight 1035 to Bristol and start pouring out our dilemma. Poor woman, she has no idea what we're talking about and probably doesn't speak english well enough to understand two frantic and panicked anglaphones talking at the same time. She tells us to contact the airline. i have a better idea, i check the departure listings on the computer screen.

Now... i',m sure many of you are probably thinking "duh", and you're absolutely right, i have no idea why that wasn't our first and onlyu instinct. The gate has been changed to #53, which is, ironically, right next to the little cafe where we had been drinking wine. We actually watched the passnegers of our flight come up the escalator and line up less than 10 feet from us before running downstairs and entering panic mode. sigh.

No worried, we get on the flight, releived, but WAY stressed out now after our day of misfortune and mischance. When we arrive at Casablanca we hail a taxi and proceed to get the tourist discount. I don't even care that he's overcharging us, i just want to find a hotel and collapse.

Our Hotel is called the Hotel Central, and is located just within the walls of the old city in Ancienne Medina. At this point in my life (we haven't arrived in Ghana yet) it is the poorest slum i have ever seen. By night the old city is a terrifying place, and i am very grateful that the taxi we take is able to bring us to within feet of the door. A word about the taxi ride:

We started out in a normal taxi (no meter, that would be wishful thinking) and at some point as we approached the old city were informed in a combination of arabic and heavily accented french that we would have to transfer to a "petite taxi" to enter the old city. Whatever, let's go. We barely fit in there with all our bags, and the driver of our new taxi has absolutely no idea where the hotel central is. none whatsoever. He starts to drive away, but then stops and ends up idling in the middle of the road shouting out the window at our first taxi driver (presumably asking where the hell this place is and why in god's name any tourist would want to go to the old city) This takes a long time and a lot of words, which i find strange. Soon a third taxi driver has entered the conversation and now they're all shouting and standing in the middle of the road with traffic creaming by heedlessly on either side. After following a second taxi for most of the way and then stopping three times for directions from pewople on the street (they all give us different directions i'm pretty sure) we finally make it to the old city. The taxi driver wants fifty dirham's for his leg of the ride. whatever, he can have 500 dirhams if this place has hot water.

It does. we shower and head straight to bed. it's been probably he most hectic and stressfull day of the trip and we're glad it's over.

The next morning is spent visiting the Mosque of Hassan II, the third largest mosque in the world, and it is a beautiful site. we take lots of pictures. (you can't have any)

Then we wander down into the old city to visit the traditional market, and i am starting to freak out. we are the only pale faces, and everyone is looking at us as we walk by. To my surprise (and releif) the locals are a friendly bunch who give us free fruit and want us to take their picture. a couple old moslem ladies stop to tell mother how beautiful she is and to thank her for respecting their culture by wearing a headscarf.

The roads of the old city are too narrow for cars, and we quickly get very very lost. now i'm really worried as i can no longer sense which direction the sea is in, and am not sure where our hotel is. As we walk down one of the seemingly endless and identical streets i feel a hot palm press up against my nose and eyes and grubby fingers scratching for my sunglasses. I stand there motionless as the assailant somehow misses my glasses (they were probably slippery with sweat) and then runs off ahead of us and around the corner. The locals look a little shocked, but no one asks us if we are ok. I'm not sure if we should continue going the same way (the way the assailant went) or turn back, but i don't want to appear timid or fightened in front of the locals so we continue down the street and round the corner to the left. A few minutes later the assailant attacks me again. This time he grabs onto my bag with one hand and pulls my head back with the other to get a a better shot at the glasses. still he somehow manages to break free and run off without them. i'm quite shooken up now, and getting scared. the locals are just standing there. we stop a few blocks later and ask a policeman for directions, then quickly skirt the edge of what appears to be a brawl in the making and head towards the sounds of vehicle traffic. Finally we get back to the hotel and i am determined to spend the rest of the time until our flight leaves hunkered right there in the lobby. but we don't. we tell the hotel manager about the attack, and he seems very upset by it. he tells us that his hotel depends on tourists for business and it really makes him mad when this sort of thing happens. he says not to let it bother me though, it could have happened to anyone, anywhere. at least i was not hurt, and he tanks God for that. so do i.

Graciously, he offers to drive us back to the mosque where we take a guided tour, and then he reccomends an excellent Morrocan restaurant just a few blocks from our hotel. the food is delicious and i eat way too much. we also drink as much water as we can. soon we will be heading to west africa and i have no idea what the water availability situation is there. we get to the airport for our flight way too early (upon my insistance) and mother talks to Stephane on the phone while i chainsmoke marlboros and listen to two arabs talk in french about nothing in particular. We are the first ones to go through security at our gate (an hour and a bit early) and we sit at the gate all by ourselves for a good 25 minutes beor enayone else even bothers to show up.

Just as the plane is boarding, a young African man at the back of the line falls to his knees at the foot of his European looking escort, an immigration official. He is begging for something, and getting loud and nervous. The poliuce come over, and the immigration official seems to be discussing something with them. i am nervous because the man looks very agitated and i am afraid he could become violent if they let him on the plane. as we board we ask a professional looking african man in front of us what all the commotion was. He tells us that the man does not want to go back to Ghana. It dawns on me then that this man was likely being deported back to his home country after trying to get into the European Union. I saw the look in the man's eyes as he boarded the plane, and could see fear for his life written there. something terrible awaits him back home. It occurs to me as the plane takes off that we are about to willingly head to the one place in the world this man is trying to get away from. i try to not let it worry me, but it's hard.



Corrie from Accra

Joel and I are in Ghana, staying at the Directors house of an organization called Learning, Helping, Living. A nice man, very committed to his work.

Arrival in Accra was shocking. I was expecting a large, modern city, but what I got was 3 million people who live in shacks...mud roads, open sewer ditches. The air is constantly full of smoke that burns the eyes. I was speechless. It is a bit overwhelming. Joel and I are in a small room together, we have a bed each, with a foam mattress and a sheet. There is a large screened window. The chickens outside crow constantly, and the humidity is so high it hurts to breath. There is a modern toilet, and in a separate room, a large bathtub. There is no hot water. We are very priveleged here. This home is considered upper middle class. Godson, the man here, is retired and has 6 children (several of which have given up their beds for us). There is dial up internet and a very old computer, so uploading pics to the blog is out of the question. Even checking mail has taken a very long time.

Today Godson will take Joel and I into the heart of the city, to the market, and to the Ministry of Health. He works closely with them to deliver programs to help educate rural villagers on TB, Aids, and other sexually transmitted diseases. They use many herbal remedies here, and homeopathy and alternative care are widely endorsed by the government and people here.

I am sick with a cold, and the heavy wet air is not helping...I am sticky all over and wishing I had a long loose dress that did not touch my skin...maybe at the market.

I will be working with Godson to review his strategic plan, tweak his funding proposals, and discuss ways to make the most of volunteer tourism.

Love to all, we will try to update you often, but are uncertain as to how long we will be staying in Accra. We may be sleeping in one of the villages soon.