Mr. P at Arlanda Airport, being welcomed by the king and queen.

Being a world traveler and all, Mr. P can appreciate most kinds of climates and landscapes. But there’s just something about the clean, simple smell of air below freezing. Especially after having been in a place like Accra, with the humidity and heat and everything. The smells there are so complex.

Here, the smell is simple. It’s nice to be back.

And as if by some weird chance, the marine biology student was seated next to me in the plane from Addis to Stockholm. We continued telling stories from our fieldwork, and I asked her about Zanzibar. I have such fond memories from the island in the Indian ocean, and am almost a bit afraid of going back. What if it isn’t as wonderful as I remember it? She, at least, seemed to have had a wonderful time.

In the morning, when we started descending, and I could see the lakes and the conifers, all covered in snow, I could barely contain my excitement. I was almost home!

We arrived in a Stockholm with a light cover of snow, clear skies, and minus twelve degrees. When I left Accra, it had been thirty-five. An almost fifty degree difference in temperature doesn’t even physically make sense, not for the body. I was in limbo and it will probably take several days for me to get used to all the new sensations.

Dad met me at the airport, and followed me all the way home. Finally, knowing where I was and not having to take all the responsibility by myself.

Coming home, though, was kind of anti-climactic. There was so much that I needed to do: unpack, laundry, grocery shopping, getting my winter clothes from the attic, answer e-mails, pay bills, wash myself, eat.

But then, finally, I could change into my pajama and crawl into my bed, between my sheets, with my pillows and my smells. Quite unbeatable, that feeling.

And that, dear reader, is a nice finish to my trip. The notebook is full, I’m writing these words on the last page. Now, I’ll have some days of rest. And then: the next step in this process of producing a master’s thesis.

Despite for being uncommonly bumpy, the flight was uneventful. I read “The Portrait of a Lady” by Henry James. Ate – the whole feeding procedure was really something, starting with drinks, then food, drinks, coffee, tea and then drinks again, it took at least two hours. A strategy to keep the passengers busy, perhaps? I solved the easy and medium level sudoku puzzle in the in-flight magazine while listening to Swedish podcasts. And I marveled at the beauty of  the Ethiopian alphabet.

At first, I couldn’t photograph it, due to the constant turbulence. But then things calmed down and I could capture this:

Doesn’t it look like magic? It makes me think of the ancient dragon’s tongue in the Earthsea universe, in which every word holds magic powers of the thing that it names. This is how I imagine those words would be written. Oh, she’s amazing, Ursula K. Le Guin.

Now, I’m in my four hour layover at Bole International Airport, Addis Ababa, playing a game of guessing who the Stockholm-bound passengers are. Fjällräven bags, Acne jeans, those kind of things. I know at least one. I ran into her outside one of the Tax Free stores, the very sweet girl whose name I’ve embarrassingly enough forgotten, a marine biology student from Stockholm university (she would have been your classmate, Ro, if you hadn’t switched to SERSD! All the ways in which life can develop, now you got me instead of her!). We were at the same MFS preparatory course in Härnösand in September, and she’s been studying sea weed on coral reefs on Zanzibar. Also returning home now, from successful fieldwork. Think about it. She was there when we were preparing to leave, and I run in to her now, when I’m just about to return. Life, huh? The world isn’t always such a random place, after all.

Now, I’ll go to the gate and wait for departure together with Buffy. I haven’t watched any since mom arrived in Accra. But now, I guess it’s high time to meet Angelus, Angel’s soul-less, nightmare of an alter-ego. Bite the sour apple, as we would say in Swedish, and get it over with. The first step toward Buffy’s and Angel’s final separation.

Bidding West Africa farewell.

The airport city hotel that I had found for us turned out to be a pretty weird one. Aspects of it were definitely luxurious, with large rooms and crystal chandelier in the lobby and a swimming pool, but also – construction fraud. As if their goals had been set so high, but they hadn’t bothered to hire proper contractors. Mom said that that’s typical in this part of the world. Apparently, it’s just the same in Monrovia.

I slept badly, woke up at 4 AM. Roosters were welcoming the morning, even in central Accra – and later, at breakfast by the hotel pool, there was that burned, dusty smell in the air. Breakfast was 45 min late. There were no safety belts in the taxi and the driver didn’t follow traffic rules rules. The border police at the airport was very charming, and then he put a little card in my passport before returning it to me. The card said that if there’s anyone that God loves, IT IS ME, and that this time is still alright for me to give my life to JESUS. What a relief. (BUT, if I think the sun is hot, consider HELL.)

It felt nice, in a way, to have a proper, typical ending to my West Africa trip. I left as I had arrived, and that felt right.

We had to wait for the bus to leave Cape Coast, so I took the opportunity and bought some Magic Malt, a very popular soft drink in Ghana according to the volunteering Belgian doctor that was staying at Stumble Inn over Christmas with his girlfriend.

Magic Malt was like drinking the Finnish dessert mämmi, or really sweet and heavy Finnish rye bread. I must admit, I very much prefer to ingest the solid versions of the flavor.

The second half of the trip took us through the suburbs of the capital. Accra is this huge city that just keeps on going. There are US style malls next to west African markets, crazy traffic, people everywhere. And then: Just getting to the hotel from the bus station is a day’s work, haggling with taxi drivers, realizing they have no idea of where they’re supposed to go, getting directions from people on the street. I was ready to call it a day once we finally arrived at the small, clean, airport city hotel.

We rested for a while, watched the news on BBC. There will be no re-election in Sweden! Maybe the world isn’t completely topsy-turvey after all.

But it was our last night in Ghana, after all. Spending it in a hotel room just felt wrong. So we took a cap down to Oxford Street, the fancy shopping street in town, and did some last-minute shopping.

The street full of young men selling fireworks – they’ve already started celebrating New Years, all through the night there were odd fireworks going off. I found Christmas gifts for Tilda and Kai, the children of the family. It made me feel so pleased with myself!

Then I had a coconut, I bought bissap juice and ate so much pineapple, papaya and mango that my mouth is now almost bleeding. But it was worth it! Oh, I’ll miss the tropical fruits! But, except for that, I have to repeat myself: I don’t think I’ve ever been as ready to go back home in my entire life.

I woke up early, before breakfast, and couldn’t fall back asleep. I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted to go home more than now.

I went down to the beach to watch the waves and write in my journal. The fishermen were returning from the sea. The calm ocean and the mil-colored sky melded together in a soft mist. And the sun, rising, like a copper coin in the sky.

I had my last fruit pancake for breakfast

Oh, he’s gonna miss them.

Woke up this morning, the world was gray. I read, and watched the sea, and read. Finished “The Golden Notebook”. All the dogs came to hang out, one after the other, crawling in underneath the chairs and tables. A safe combination of shadow and containment, I guess.

I asked if it would be possible for me to get hold of a coconut, and the boys in the staff started climbing the palm trees on the property and shaking the coconuts down. It looked completely insane, those small boys up there without any kind of safety equipment, and the coconuts hitting the ground with loud thumps.

But I guess that’s how it’s done. The coconut was delicious. That’s one thing that I’m going to miss. The fresh fruits and nuts.

How do you know if a coconut is ripe? From the size, and if the outside has started getting brown and cracked.