Leaving the country again for a non-yet-determined amount of time

We sat on the tarmac for a while as the maintenance guys repaired a broken cable on the door of the airplane. I was impatiently flipping through the New Yorker trying to get interested in some story about a Florida Senator. I woke up this morning feeling a little sore and feverish, probably an oncoming flu. What a day to be sick! Twenty four hours in transit nursing a head-ache. I will take some Benadryl and try to pass out on the flight to Copenhagen.
Looking down as Charlotte began to disappear beneath the clouds was surreal as I remembered that it could be another year and a half before I return. A year and a half out of my country, away from my friends, family, dog, and house. I question the wisdom of this adventure. Liz, the dog, is getting old and the other dog, Tom, died last time I left. Grandma is getting old and I don’t want the last time I see her to be over some mediocre Panini in a noisy deli when I am struggling to maintain conversation because I am hung over. The house might be sold by the time I get back, which I am ok with, though I would like to have a say in packing my things.
The pre-adventure nerves were really kicking this morning. I woke up feeling melancholy as I took a shower, ate some eggs, and petted the dog for the last time…until I get back. No matter how adventurous one is, leaving the comfort and the niceties of home is always jarring. In Ukraine I will probably be sleeping on an uncomfortable bed and breakfast probably won’t be what I’m used to. I dread the day I run out of peanut butter— I only brought 3 pounds along. I really hope this flu goes away because I do not want to be achy and sick in an unfamiliar place with no one around to whine and complain to except my Russian speaking host-mother. On the bright side, this could be an excellent opportunity to work on my Russian medical vocabulary.
Anxiety. What if I don’t meet anyone I like in Kiev? What if I make some faux pas and am ostracized for the rest of the time? What if I miss my friends from home too much? This isn’t like last time. I am not going with an organized group. There won’t be a Shelly, a Marie, or a Maxime. I won’t have kids my age next door and I won’t have English speakers around to escape the Russian world. I don’t think I’ll even have internet in my room. What on earth am I going to do!?
Humbug. Gibberish. Nonsense.
This is what travel is about. The anxiety is what makes it exciting, at least for me. I’m glad that I’ll be stopping in Moscow for a few days first to see my friends. I’ll be staying at Alisa’s apartment. Last time I was at her house I tried salo, a Ukrainian dish of salted pork fat (the white part of bacon, basically) that you eat on bread with a shot of vodka. I’m expecting a warm reception at the airport from a lot of old pals. They said that they would bring some vodka so we could start drinking immediately, but I will probably be too tired.
Here comes a Moscow whirlwind tour. I hope I can hit my favorite Indian restaurant with the Russians in tow. They don’t like Indian food much, but that’s because they haven’t tuned their palates to the finer culinary intricacies and complex flavors that Russian cuisine lacks.

Anyway, I just got off the flight from D.C. to Copenhagen and I am killing time in the airport. On the flight. I sat next to a nice German girl and an American guy who lives in Denmark. I tried to get some sleep hunched over with my pillow on the tray table, but in that position I just ended up drooling all over myself and swallowing a ton of air so that when I sat back up I burped like crazy. The flight was not so bad, though the meat-loaf dinner left something to be desired. At least there was free beer. There were a lot of Danes on board (I was flying Scandinavian Airlines) and they are a pretty bunch of people.
I am exhausted. I’ve been popping ibuprofen every few hours but my neck is still sore. Damn this flu. Damn small airline seats. Damn the hand-rests on the benches in the airport that prevent people from stretching out all the way.

As it turns out, I shouldn’t have complained about the benches, because I found a four-seater with no hand-rests and passed out on it. I was soundly asleep when three Danish police came and woke me up to tell me to take off my shoes. Danish police: enforcing tidiness.
I sat next to some Russian girl and her little sister on the flight, but I only exchanged two words with her before I conked out again. I probably weirded them out drooling all over myself in my sleep. People shouldn’t expect too much composure when someone’s been sitting in upright airline seats for hours 8 hours straight.
Moscow had total cloud cover as we descended. I knew that the cheery sunlight above the clouds would soon be blacked out by the endless grey of the wintery Moscow sky.
They had evidently just received a good dusting of snow as the view out of the window was of a ubiquitous white. The grey snowy drear filled me with radiant joy. Back in Russia!
I was pleased to find that my bag hadn’t been lost in my extremely short layover in D.C., and I was pleased when the customs officers didn’t pay me any attention. I never know what kind of things have to be declared. I brought a bottle of whisky and some nice perfume as gifts and I was a bit worried that they would be seized. Also glad they didn’t find the kilogram of cocaine I had in my backpack, whew!

Ghana: arrival and my first naive impressions

Checking in at Berlin’s Tegel Airport, the entire computer system had crashed. So, we had to wait a few hours as Air Morocco’s representatives checked us in by hand. This also meant that we’d have to re-check our bags in Casablanca. We were with a bunch of Arabs in the line and so I started speaking to a woman who was standing in front of us. Basically, she spoke to us in German and I understood about 10% of it. She started asking me about language and because she was an Arab I spit out the two or three words of Arabic that I know, which are mostly religious in context. This attracted the attention of the other Arabs in the line and so I started talking to this other family from Palestine, who spoke English. By the time we got checked in we all felt like we knew each other really well, and it was a with a bit of sadness that we said goodbye.
The sky was clear as we took off, which was nice since the weather in Berlin had been schizophrenic the last few days with downpours, then sunshine, then downpours again. I guess it’s been a while since I’ve had the window seat because seeing Germany sprawled out under me without cloud cover was a lot more exciting to me than it should have been considering the number of flights I’ve taken recently.
We landed in Morocco at Mohammed V airport and stepped out into the first real heat I’ve seen in six months. Most of the terminal was not air-conditioned and apparently you were allowed to smoke inside. Anyway, I got my passport stamped so legally I’ve been in Morocco. I also got some cool orange slippers there (later edit: which didn’t hold up at all).
Twelve midnight rolled around and we got on the stiflingly hot airplane to Accra. I slept most of the way but Olivia became friends with the flight attendants- two Morrocan guys. I went back there and hung out with them when I woke up and they were friendly folk.
The plane touched down in Accra, local time 3:30 am. Humidity about 95%. Accra airport was just what I imagined an African airport would be like: hot, concrete blocked, one storey. The guy who runs the orphanage we’re working at was supposed to meet us there, but he was nowhere to be found so made set camp outside in the pick up area. There was a huge LED lit advertising board glaring at us as we tried to sleep. Ghanaians approached us one after another, all eager to help and wanting to make sure that we had someone to pick us up. One guy insisted we use his phone (paid for by the minute) to call our ride. We were so exhausted by this point that we laid down on the benches and Mom and Olivia fell asleep.
I started to drift off when Raymond finally showed up with his driver/friend Ernest. They led us out to the car- carrying the baggage for the girls- and we proceeded to try and stuff all of our suitcases carrying a months worth of stuff into a tiny BMW sedan. Eventually, we stuck my bag in the back seat and we were on our way.
It was still dark at the time, around 4:30 am, when we started heading out of Accra. Mom, Olivia and I were crammed in the backseat with my suitcase with no seatbelts and no leg or shoulder room. Ernest was a lead foot so we took the highway at about 85 mph. Mom was having a heart attack. I was too tired to care. Then, it started to rain. We were speeding along in the downpour and about half of the oncoming cars didn’t have headlights on in the morning twilight. It didn’t help that most of the cars were painted grey or off-white. Oh well, a lot of the safety standards we take for granted aren’t present in Ghana.
About two hours into our drive we were pulled over for speeding. The officer showed us his radar gun: 62 km/h in a 50 zone. Apparently Raymond had told Earnest to go slow through the town because the speed traps are notorious; Raymond claimed to have been watching the speedometer the whole time. So, Raymond starts arguing with the cop and the cop is arguing right back; all the while I’m laughing my head off in the back seat.
“My bruddah, I respect you as an officer of the law, but I was watching the speed the whole time. You got the number from the car in front of us…”
Eventually the cop had enough and they “arrested” the driver and said that he had to go to court that very day. One of the cops got into our car while Raymond stayed back to negotiate. We ended up driving around the town while the officer gave us a tour. It was really nice actually and in no way as scary as being detained by the police in an African country sounds.
After a while we went back and found Raymond. Apparently he’d apologized for yelling at the officers and so, we were on our way again.
Driving through the Ghanaian countryside is like watching one of those Christian Children’s Fund commercials. People live in mud-brick homes with tin roofs, no running water, and definitely no electricity. Mothers with babies slung across their backs sit in the front and cook corn in big pots over open fires. Women carry big pots and platters of nuts, fruit, and fish balanced on their heads. Naked toddlers run around barefoot in the dirt while beat-up cars and vans speed by on the potholed roads.
However, unlike those aid commercials, everyone looked very contented, healthy and happy. When we drove by and waved, big smiles bloomed on every face because it’s rather uncommon for white folk to pass through.
Outside of the towns, the road conditions rapidly deteriorate. Ernest often had to dodge potholes 4 feet in diameter and about 6 inches at the deepest. We came across a few road repair crews, which consisted of locals filling the potholes with sand.
Every ten or twenty miles there were police checkpoints where uniformed men with AK-47’s lounged around waiting for cars to come by. They give you a quick look-over, move the road-barrier, and then wave you on with a smile.
After about 5 hours of driving (we were told it’d be a 3 hour drive) we bumped down the dirt road to our hotel, Afagame Guesthouse. Afagame means “in a big house” in the local language, Ewe. The rooms are the size of a standard hotel room, but there are some uniquely African touches! Firstly, only half the rooms (2/4) have air conditioning, and it works intermittently. Of course, Mom was about to get on the next flight home when her air-conditioning wasn’t working. The showers, refrigerator, lights, and toilets didn’t work at first. But, we’ve gotten it all worked out and I for one am very comfortable.
The staff here are super friendly and they cater to our every wish. It’s weird for me because I don’t really like being served. They make us breakfast and dinner of Ghanaian fare. West African food is a lot like Gullah “soul food” at home. Lots of spicy fish, rice, okra, yams and fried chicken. Tasty stuff!

Police

I’ve heard a great deal about the police in Russia and their tendency to scope out “offenders” who are likely to be the biggest cash cows. The police have an incentive to do this because fines can be paid directly to the officer, so all it takes is a little forgetful paperwork and that money disappears as far as the law is concerned. In addition to this legal structure, which facilitates the padding of pockets, bribery is a common practice and few Russians express ideological reservations to feeding this corruption.
A few nights ago we went out for some wholesome entertainment at the billiards hall, and then to the bistro afterwards for a quick dinner. We left the restaurant, which is in sight of our hostel, and began to walk back. One of our comrades had an open beer that he had been drinking at the bistro and was going to finish it on the way home. Having an open container is a finable offense, and as we were crossing the street, a police van tore out of nowhere and an excited looking female officer jumped out demanding our documents.
Passports were presented and to no one’s surprise a violation was spotted. Shelli did not have her immigration card on her. The police demanded to see the sheet of paper, so Shelli’s roommate Nadya had to walk back to the hostel to find it in the room. She returned with the wrong sheet of paper, but by that time the cops had gotten bored with the foreigners and allowed us to go without checking anyone else’s documents.
The po’ were not so lenient with our beer-drinking Russian friend. First, he had to pay a fine for carrying an open container. Reasonable. But, the police then told him that he had to pay if he wanted them to keep his offense secret from the dean, so he paid them more. By the time we were leaving, he was climbing into the police van presumably to work out another deal with these corrupt police.
From what I’ve gathered, this is a typical interaction with the Russian police. I was shocked to watch a police officer accepting a bribe as if it were protocol, like asking for identification during a traffic stop. It makes you wonder how many crimes go unreported because the police are paid to forget. What is a police force that does not uphold the law? It is nothing more than a state-endorsed gang, and the police are nothing more than gangsters. I make this statement based not only on my single experience, but also from the experience of my Russian friends, as they tell me.
For example, my friend’s father died five years ago. He was found dead in his friend’s apartment, with bruises on his body. The official cause of death was cirrhosis of the liver. However, according to my friend, the police stopped investigating because the family did not have the financial means to bribe the police to do its job. Maybe there was foul play, maybe there wasn’t, but my friend will never have the consolation of knowing exactly what happened to her father because of the crooked police force.
There are many other incidents of police misconduct. Another friend was telling me about the unprovoked attacks on “black” (Central-Asian, East Asian, and African) people perpetrated by Russian nationalist groups. Videos have been uploaded to the Internet in recent years of skinhead gangs severely beating and sometimes killing innocent “blacks.” I have read that the police often look the other way and fail to adequately investigate these cold-blooded crimes, and my Russian friend confirmed this. Random attacks against minorities have subsided in the last year, but other politically motivated attacks have recently made headlines. On Nov. 7th a reporter named Oleg Kashin was nearly beaten to death by two unknown and unprovoked assailants. His jaw was shattered, leg was broken, and he suffered a head injury. Two days later, another journalist was beaten up, though not as severely. Both had been reporting on a road construction project through some of the last woodlands on the outskirts of Moscow. None of the assailants have been brought to justice.
The Russian police force is rife with corruption, and every Russian knows it, but few do anything about it. The police levy a heavy tax on Russian society when they extort money from the innocent, and ignore heinous crimes. This must change if the country ever hopes to emerge into liberalism and modernity.