How can it be this hard?

We are still in Kumasi, Ghana. We explored every conceivable option on how to get back to Mali in the cheapest and most efficient way, and after weighing our options, it still made sense to wait for the STC bus that leaves tomorrow to get to Ouagadougou and maybe rent a taxi to take us straight back to Douentza from there. It is just mind-bogglingly difficult to get distances that are not that far by American standards. For instance, it costs 400 dollars to fly one way from Accra to Ouagadougou, a distance equivalent to flying from Los Angeles to San Francisco. We also looked at another bus company that leaves for Ouaga every evening, but the buses in their lot looked as though someone had taken a crowbar to them, so we shied away from that option. It would cost 500 dollars plus the price of gas to get someone to drive us from Kumasi to Mali, an option we seriously considered, but didn’t go with in the end because we couldn’t locate any drivers by just asking around.

Even more unbelievable, when we went to a travel agency in Kumasi to ask for advice on getting to Mali, the woman replies, “Mali… where is that? North Africa?” Um, no. It’s practically next door to your country. And you’re a travel agent. Get with it.

In the meantime, we’ve pretty much been lounging around the hotel enjoying somewhat spotty wireless internet. Today, we went to the Moti Mahal and got delicious Indian food for lunch. All of this eating of various foods has reignited my passion for cooking, and I’m going to try to find ways of doing more of that when I get back to Mali, perhaps starting with stocking up on exotic spices in Bamako.

Yesterday, we had a burger fiasco. We ate a couple of meals at a shiny new restaurant called It’s My Kitchen, just down the street from our hotel. This place has the most attentive service of any restaurant I’ve been in here. The waiters would constantly reassure you that your food was coming, collect your empty bottle the minute the last drop of soda hit the glass, and bring you a plate of nicely folded napkins when they saw your hands were getting messy. Anyhow, for lunch, both Kevin and I ordered the cheeseburger. In the usual attentive manner, the waiter came over and a big communication failure ensued. He was asking us if we wanted chicken with our cheeseburgers, and we’re like, “No, just the burger” (except that it took a lot more confused conversation to get there). So a few minutes later, our burgers come out, and big delicious buns with what looks like a big delicious chicken patty (unexpected, but not totally incredible given our earlier conversation) in the middle. Upon sinking in our teeth, however, we realized that no, it was not a chicken patty, but a third bun, and there was no meat in the thing at all. We called the waiter over and asked about the meat, and confused, he tells us, “But you ordered the cheeseburger…” This is explains why so many places say “beef burger with cheese” on their menu. In the end, we got a couple of chicken patties each on the burgers, and they were delicious, but it was quite the fiasco.

One thing that makes moving around in Ghanaian cities so entertaining are the various store signs, some with English names that don’t quite hit the mark. Some favorites:

-Elite University: Remedial!!! Remedial!!! Remedial!!!
-The Lord’s Casket Furniture Shop
-Afrigirl Unisex Salon
-Ham Florals and Internal Decoration

I’m sure there have been more, but I just can’t think of them now.

On a work note, I finally was able to parse the name of this plant, Abrus precatorius, with pretty red and black (poisonous seeds). It’s called [ɛ̀nɛ̀gìrìndùgǎy], which, I realize, breaks up into /ɛ̀nɛ̀ gìrì-m dùgɔ̌-y/ ‘the jewelry of sheep herders.’ Plus ten.