It always seems to be the case in countries outside of Europe, that the range of comfort in the terrestrial public transportation is extreme. I’ve never traveled in anything as comfortable as the bus me and Natalia took from Cochabamba to La Paz, with seats basically as big as beds. On the same trip, though, I had my least comfortable experience in public transport, sitting in the back of a small truck traveling on the bumpy, muddy road between Rurrenabaque and Trinidad in the Bolivian Amazon, even being forced to sleep on the spare tire after the truck had gotten stuck in the mud too many times.

Ghana is the same. The range is extreme. And for our trip from Accra to Kumasi, we ended up in the luxurious end of the spectrum. What else could be expected from a bus company called VIP?

I sat there, among the pink and gold decorations, for the five hours it took to get to Kumasi, knitting and listening to a weekly news program from the Swedish Radio called Godmorgon världen. They were discussing the re-election that would be taking place in Sweden in March. Seriously, how did we end up here, with the third largest party in the Swedish parliament being just a bunch of political cowboys and petty racists? The prime minister, the leader of the Social democrats, has called them neo-fascists. It’s possible that that was mostly meant as a ploy in the political game on his part, but I think there’s definitely something to it on a deeper level too. The fact that they chose to topple the government’s proposed budget, with the argument that they would never support anything where the Green party had been involved, just shows such disrespect for the processes of parliamentary democracy, and also for the political, economic and social state of Sweden at large. The Social democrat and Green party minority government had been accepted by a democratically elected parliament, so why make it impossible for them to do their job by voting for the opposition’s budget? It’s not only the Sweden Democrats, though. Most of the other parties are also behaving like children, accusing each other of lack of responsibility without seeming to consider the larger picture. Many Swedes are already skeptical toward politicians in general, and this budgetary crisis is not making things any better.

So, yeah, it was a pretty depressing, albeit comfortable journey. Outside the bus windows, the landscape was very green and hilly, beautiful really. But the traffic. It never stopped, even on the highway. The bus could rarely drive at normal speed. Where are all these people going? It’s like there’s a glitch in the system: people’s personal economies have become better, so they can afford to travel a lot or even buy their own cars, but the public economy has not developed at the same speed. Or they just don’t get anything done, due to corruption. I don’t know, I’ve not read enough about Ghanean politics to be able to say. I can only state the obvious: the capacity of the roads in Ghana does in no way meet the demands.

When we reached Kumasi, there was the obligatory heated argumentation with the taxi drivers, after which we were driven to our bed and breakfast. We just dropped off our bags, and took a short walk down the street to a restaurant called The View.

Situated on the top floor of a very new-looking building, it really did have a view. The interior design was stylish, almost Swedish in its light simplicity. And the food and drinks too, when it arrived, was better to look at than to eat. Not that it wasn’t good, it just looked better than it tasted. Made for some old-fashioned food photography.

Wherever you go, airports and backpacker’s hostels will be the same. As will the luxury hotels. Mother needed her caffeine fix, so we went to a place where the chances of getting good quality coffee was high. The five star Mövenpick Hotel. An enormous building in downtown Accra. Outside, the streets are bustling with honking taxis and coconut vendors, but inside the hotel grounds, one could be anywhere. Dar es Salaam, Monrovia, excepting the outdoor pool and the occasional palm tree, even in Stockholm. Or nowhere. It’s this bland, stylish place, with lots of space and quiet, unprovoking music on as a faint whisper in the background.

Now, to honor the season, there were some lavish Christmas decorations in the lobby. Just to put a touch of color into this otherwise cool atmosphere.

Fifteen years ago, when I lived in Dar es Salaam with mom, we used to go to a place called Slipway every weekend. It was this outdoor mall/plaza kind of place, with some small boutiques, restaurants and cafes. Protected, of course, by guards at the entrance, so that we rich people could feel safe while walking around in there, socializing, shopping, eating ice cream. Mom went there to drink coffee at the Italian cafe. I was only eleven, so I didn’t drink any myself, but she would let me spoon up the foam on the top of the cappuccino. They sprinkled cacao on it, and mixed with sugar and a hint of coffee, it was delicious. Cappuccinos still make me think of Saturday mornings at Slipway.

Now I’m twenty-six and I ordered my own cappuccino. I don’t normally drink coffee now either, but I thought the occasion and location deserved a special treat. And just as I got my cappuccino, “Fool again” with Westlife started playing in the background. I’m not particularly proud to admit this, but that was one of my favorite songs when I was eleven. Back when I was living in Dar es Salaam.

It was as if this was meant to be.

So, I stole a fork. Just because.

Ghana’s National Museum wasn’t a very exciting affair. There were some dusty examples of Ghanean and other West African fabrics, carved wood and metal art, a small exhibition about a Danish slave ship and another showing pictures of young people learning the old traditional dances of Ghana, accompanied by silly texts about how the young people are the future of a country and that museums have an important role in making sure that the kids know their history and heritage. Don’t get me wrong, children are the future and I’m all for museums. The texts in this little display, though, were just so self-evident they felt like jokes.

And about the artifacts, I’ve seen more beautiful, more impressive pieces both from Ghana and other West African countries before. At museums in Europe, both in their own collections and in visiting exhibitions. Especially the British Museum is amazing.

That says something of Ghana’s history, maybe even more than the artifacts at the National Museum. That the most impressive manifestations of the cultural history of a region aren’t in the possession of the countries themselves, but in museums in faraway countries where they can be looked upon as curiosities by school children. “Imagine, there was culture and art in Africa even before the colonialists arrived. I had no idea!”.

They do have some amazing craft traditions here in Ghana. Definitely something to be proud of. Their National Museum, unfortunately, does a poor job showing it.

The town that eventually would turn into Accra started growing around the harbor called James Port back in the 17^th century, and was therefore called Jamestown. Today, Jamestown is one of the poorer neighborhoods of Accra, but it also has plenty of its old houses left. It’s worth a visit, if poverty doesn’t scare you.

The buildings there are definitely old, but also incredibly run down, some barely standing anymore. It’s sad, really.

The one conventional tourist attraction in Jamestown is the lighthouse. As lighthouses go, I’ve seen both higher and more beautiful, but the view from the top is quite stunning.

You can see most of downtown Accra from here, from the makeshift fishing village on the beach to the high-rises in Osu.

We met a young German guy and a French girl up there too. They were both volunteering in separate parts of Ghana, and were visiting Accra on a weekend break. They were not at all interested in what I had to say, but they were completely taken by mom. And I guess I can see why. Here they were, recently graduated from high school and obviously curious about the world, and they meet a woman who seems to have worked in half of the countries in Africa and Latin America, and a couple in Asia too. An enormous amount of experience and a willingness to talk too. I guess she is quite cool, my mom. For me, though, she’ll always mostly be  just that, mother.

Down on the street by the lighthouse, someone had painted this amazing piece on the wall.

As for the newer parts of downtown Accra, I wouldn’t say it’s particularly inspiring, architecturally speaking. The National Theatre is a pretty interesting building, even if I wouldn’t go as far as calling it beautiful, but otherwise. Nah.

Accra is messy and quite unclear, and my first impression of its inhabitants was that it’s full of rude and ignorant taxi drivers, and the odd, very friendly and helpful person passing you on the street.

Mom brought gifts. Swedish crisps. Crazy shit, how happy some salt, saturated fat and flavored carbohydrates can make you.

It felt a bit wrong, the idea of spending another day lying in a bunk bed, sleeping and watching TV shows. I was in a new city, after all. I should do some exploring.

So I went out. Took a walk around the neighborhood. And these were my impressions:

Every taxi honked at me. Wanting my business, presumably, but I wonder if that ever works. If I actually was looking for a taxi, would I really be walking on the sidewalk with my attention anywhere but on the road? Wouldn’t I be standing on the curb, trying to wave a taxi down?

I bought a coconut, drank the water and ate the flesh. Oh, how I love coconuts.

There were plenty of old houses around. Colonial architecture, balconies and pillars – but run down, in desperate need of repair. I find them interesting, though. Probably more so in this condition, than if they had been well looked after. The mold and broken corners shows history. For the architecture buff, does that make me morbid?

There was also some really weird, new stuff. Big and square and loud. I really don’t get it.

I bought a Savanna Dry (oh, the Namibia memories!) at the Indian restaurant down the street from the hostel, and then I returned, checked into the room I had booked for mom’s convenience and spent the rest of the afternoon knitting.

At seven, I went out to the airport to pick up mom.

[Major spoiler alert, stay away if you’re a Buffy virgin and plan to see it sometime in the future.]

I’ve come to the middle of the second season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The episode where Buffy and Angel have sex for the first time, and Angel becomes so happy that his curse is lifted and he loses his soul. And becomes Angelus, the hyper-murderous, evil monster again.

I have to take a break. I don’t feel like watching Angelus torturing a heartbroken Buffy right now. All shows have their necessary evils, and for me, that’s the story of Angel. It needs to be there, and develop in the way it does, but I so really don’t like it.

I got up at 4:40 and went to the airport. I got the tickets, the plane was barely half full, went through security, ate a chocolate croissant for my last CFA’s and watched the sun go up.

This is the last I saw of Burkina Faso: morning fog.

The flight was short and smooth, everything fast and easy at Kotoka International Airport – this is a world I know and can handle. Airports are the same everywhere, except for the slight shades in Africa and South America of a little less efficiency.

The taxi driver might have cheated me a little, but I don’t care. Arrived at hostel, and got to check in even though it wasn’t even 10:30 yet. Went straight to the bunk bed and started watching Buffy, eating the last of my homemade Christmas toffee. And there I stayed, for most of the day.

Made it out just before sunset, to get some cash and drinks. The very sweet shop boy changed my Coca Cola bottle to one with a girl’s name on it: Selasie. The hostel is in a calm residential neighborhood, a lot more western than anything in Ouaga. No sidewalks, though.

This is basically all that I saw of Accra today:

Tomorrow, mom will be here. Things are starting to feel good again.

Going down to the hostel restaurant, it was almost empty, only two Americans possibly gossiping about other volunteers in their organization. Eating fried rice with green beans. Feeling good. I know how things work here. I know how to behave in a backpacker’s hostel. No feeling of being completely wrong anymore.

Now, sitting in bed, listening to a preacher screaming PRAISE JESUS though crappy loudspeakers, as if he’s furious, and the congregation repeating his words like a diffuse echo.

December 9^th: Our (what I thought would be) last day in Ouaga, Elli and Helena started by doing yoga by the pool.  We were staying in Christina’s house, a Swedish acquaintance of Helena’s, and Elli and I had been placed in the pool house. It felt funny, in a way, that Elli and I ended our stay in Burkina Faso by sleeping in a pool house. I don’t know why, it just makes me smile.

Elli and I went out to the INERA office and said goodbye to Korodjouma, we visited one of the labs where Elli had left her soil samples, but they had no results for her yet. Instead, they promised that they would have them ready by the end of the week and send them to her by e-mail. Then we picked up Helena and went for some last minute shopping at the artisan market. Elli and Helena wanted to buy statues – and suddenly, among the Tuareg jewelry and carved wooden animals, my entire body started tingling. I felt like I was going to faint, and I had to sit down. I could barely move my muscles, and I almost felt like throwing up. I just wanted to lie down on the ground and not do anything at all. The mere thought of going back to the pool house, packing up the last of my things, sleeping and getting up at sunrise to catch the bus to Ghana made me want to disappear. My head felt like it was full of wet cotton. I just simply couldn’t deal.

I decided to stay in Ouaga for an extra two days, skip Tamale and go straight to Accra with the bus instead.

We had dinner in a nice, Moroccan restaurant. Having decided that I wouldn’t leave yet, I felt a lot better. Still exhausted, though, and secretly so jealous of Elli and Helena because they would get to go home tomorrow, to Stockholm. I was sick and tired of the constant tension of being in a strange land, with strange customs, and sleeping in strange beds.

December 10^th: Saying goodbye to Elli in the morning felt so weird. We had spent almost every day together, most hours of the day, for two months. Shared the same bed. Adjusted to each other’s rhythms. We were classmates when we left Sweden, and not particularly close. What will we be when I get back to Stockholm?

I took it easy that day, ate real, Swedish köttfärssås for lunch, and then we watched the Nobel banquet through SVT Play together, Christina and I, drinking champagne.

December 11^th: I had yet another freak-out about the bus trip to Ghana, this time about the length of it (24 hours to Accra!), the robberies that sometimes happen along highways in Ghana by night, the trickiness of border crossings, and having to constantly be on my guard, the loud movies, smells, engine breakdowns. I was panicking, I obviously couldn’t handle it.

So – I started looking for plane tickets to Accra instead. And there were two planes leaving Ouaga for Accra tomorrow. I just couldn’t buy any tickets because it was Burkina Faso’s Independence Day and consequently, all offices were closed. I would simply have to take a chance, go to the airport tomorrow morning, packed and ready, and just bet on my luck.

The rest of the day, I peeled groundnuts and watched Buffy.

PS. Christina in Ouagadougou is an angel. I just want to put it out there. She took us in and let me stay in her pool house when I couldn’t handle leaving, she fed me with spaghetti&köttfärssås and Kalles kaviar. Pure kindness. There. Now you know.

I know we’re at my last days in Ouaga, but I just want to tell you: IT’S SNOWING. In Stockholm, tonight, January 6th at midnight, it’s snowing.

I just thought you might want to know.

Now, back to Ouagadougou in the beginning of December.