A Christmas Eve to Remember in Plottier, Argentina.

Neil and I arrived in Plottier from San Martin de Los Andes mid afternoon on the bus. I really needed to crap. I unsurprisingly discovered that there was no toilet paper in the bathroom and upon asking the lady who sells cookies and stuff at the bus station about it, she supplied me some at no cost. We bought some ice cream from her and proceeded to talk about random stuff. Even though I had lived in Plottier for six months, it had been five years since I had been in there and so needed some reminders. I asked her where one could camp. She said there was a private campground far from where we were at and a municipal one much closer. She called someone who then gave me directions to the municipal camping area that was down by the Limay river. 

Why was I intending to camp in a town where I had friends? The reason for this is that the only people I had kept in contact with via facebook over the last five years told me they could not host me and I did not feel like crashing people's Christmas Eve parties. I however fully intended to sleep in someone's house after talking to people at church the following morning. One night camping down by the river would be fine. (Also, most hotels in Argentina cost way more than I am willing to pay so I was adamantly opposed to staying in one). 

So we walked down to the river. Upon entering the camp or park or whatever it merited to be called, we saw a small police building. To our joy there were two police men on duty. We asked them if one could camp there. They affirmed and pointed to an area a little ways away where there were tons of tents and inebriated Argentinians. We asked them if it was safe to camp there and they said no problem. So off we went. 

Two things you need to know about Argentina. First, it is not uncommon for police to be corrupt and unreliable and on this occasion they were probably getting drunk to celebrate the holiday + didn't want any trouble themselves which may explain why they never left their building that night. Second, many people, especially juveniles can be incredibly savage. They will hurt or kill you for nothing and due the corruption of Argentinian laws, juveniles fondly called Pibes in the Argentinian language, usually face few to no consequences for even murder. They are extremely dangerous. 

So off we went. We walked past the camps of Argentines. There were Argentines of all ages. The music was blasting and it was obvious people were getting wicked drunk among other things. I pointed to an area removed from the general disorder and told Neil that is where we would camp. Upon approaching that area a lone man at a table saw us and beckoned us to come to him. He looked to be a unsavory character and Neil asked if we should join him. I said, "this is Plottier, what can happen?" As this was my territory Neil trusted me and so off we went. We were in for an interesting night. 

He immediately addressed the fact that we looked like we were foreigners and inquired as to what we were doing there. I explained that I had been one of those misioneros mormones that walk around everywhere bothering people, but that I was no longer one and was back to visit friends. This pleased the 40 something year old man. He was only moderately inebriated probably due to being high on cocaine and said that he was all alone with no one to share his asado with but that God had sent us to share a meal with him. We did not know it at the time, but us being labeled as men sent by God to keep him company proved to offer us some protection. 

We got the asado cooking and as we got talking we discussed how screwed up the world was etc. etc. etc. A few things that came up raised flashing red danger flags that caused me to realize I had gotten us into a bad situation. I mentioned how there are screwed up places in the world such as Barrio San Lorenzo in the nearby city of Neuquen. He said, "that's where I live!" For me it was one of those "oh $#!+" moments. Barrio San Lorenzo is a savage wild place. It is where those who need to hide from the law and world go. An area of thieves and murderers. Police do not enter the area for it being so dangerous. As I missionary I had been to the boundary of this barrio, and seen many police at that boundary. It was explained to me that that is as far as they go. The police's goal seemed more to keep the savagery in San Lorenzo as opposed to eliminate it. They rarely venture in. In fact, one of my good friends who lived there had the bars over his apartment's windows pulled off by the chorros (argentine robbers) with a crow bar. He and his companion were able to avoid any harm as one grabbed a broom and the other a chair and hid to the side of the passage that led up to the bedroom they were in. As the chorros entered the room, my friend and his companion attacked them with the chair and broom which surprised the chorros enough that they fled. The did not get away with anything and even left their crow bar. Any person from San Lorenzo needs to be treated with caution. 

Another thing that came up was his job. I asked him what he did for work. He explained that when a politician is striking a deal with someone they bring him along to let whoever they are "dealing" with knows what will happen if they don't comply..... See our friend had his history. He had been in many fights that explained the many scars on his body he proceeded to show us. He had killed multiple people. I asked him why he killed people and he explained "me faltaron el respeto" or "lacked respect" for him. He had had troubles with his family and so had been cut off from his ex wife and children hence him being alone on Christmas Eve. He had a gun with him and proceeded to snort cocaine as he talked with us. He asked us if the cocaine bothered us to which we responded "claro que no" to which he said "good, I didn't think you would judge me". He talked about his general hate for police and how the law was ridiculous in that it would imprison you for killing someone who merited murder. Now for those people who are reading this and are like "yeah, he was pulling your leg just trying to scare you"... you don't get it. Argentina can be a wild and savage place where people like our murderer friend can thrive. None of this nor our situation was a joke. I told Neil that this was the worst situation I had gotten myself into in ALL of my travels. I pleaded for him to not say anything stupid or do anything that would frustrate our friend. I confessed I did not know what to do. 

Things work out in strange ways sometimes. This guy who I was afraid of turned out to be our saving grace. The Pibes from a neighboring camp came over to investigate. Our presence had been noticed. They asked us who we were and where we were from. There were three of them. It was clear they were all younger than eighteen, and immune to criminal prosecution--the most dangerous kind of criminals. One told me to give him my shirt. I responded, "I like your hat. Give it to me!" He was a little shocked by the opposition I presented him. Our murderer friend yelled out "don't play with them, they are being serious." He then interrogated them. He asked where they were from to which they responded "Cutral Co". That scared me. Cutral Co, like San Lorenzo can be a bad place. He said, ah "I know so and so and so and so, etc." Do you know them? They affirmed. He was letting them know who HE was. He then went on, "What do you want? Do you want to rob them? I have a gun with me. It will be easy. You can have their tent, their backpacks. Let's rob them!" The inebriated Pibes were taken back by such an abrupt and open declaration. Their mushy brains understood who he was and that we were with him. They, said, "no, no". Our murderer friend then said, "well, if you have nothing to do here... then leave!"

They returned back to their encampment drug fest. Our murderer friend then apologized and explained that they had come over to rob us of our things but that he let them know who he was and that we were his guests. He then passionately exclaimed that we had "fallen well with him" and that God had sent us to keep him company so he did not have to be alone on Christmas eve. He said we were his guests and as such he would die for us. He then proceeded to snort more cocaine. 

I had read the news. I had heard many stories from local Argentines. I had friends who had been robbed at gun and knife point. One missionary, an ethnic Tongan from California, even had his throat slit out on the street during my missionary time in Argentina. I don't want to think about what those Pibes and their nearby clan would have done to us had we not spent the evening without our murderer friend. Argentina can be an extremely dangerous place (at least more dangerous than most places I have been). 

After the Pibe encounter I told Mr. murderer that we had some friends we were going to meet up with (our tent and everything was set up indicating we had intended to stay). He responded "you told me you had no where or anyone to be with tonight! No me van a faltar el respeto?! (disrespect him)." We said, "Claro que no, nos vamos a quedar." We were stuck there for the night.

Up to that point I had done most of the talking and had run out of things to talk about so Neil took over. He talked to him about Shakira and other common culture things like movies and music that I know little to nothing about. Our friend loved it, and confided his deep and abiding love for 80's pop icon Tina Turner. He then said that his "girlfriend" was going to stop by that evening and that we needed to meet her.

Another thing that came up during our conversation was that he wanted to meet up with us in the next few days. Remembering from my mission something that people instantly found repulsive and drove them away, I invited him to come to church with us. He said "no, that is okay. I do not want to go but thank you for inviting me." I then pleaded, "no please! We would love to have you come. We will wait for you there tomorrow. You will like it!" He said, "no, I will not go but thank you for inviting me." He then forgot about wanting to meet up with us later in the week. 

So the hours passed and this girlfriend finally showed up. He was incredibly pleased to present us to her and after some conversation I got us excused to our tent at two in the morning. There were no signs of him or anyone else going to bed. In the tent we discussed what we should do. Should we sleep or not sleep? Should we run for it? I concluded we should just sleep. If the pibes are going to attack or our friend changed his feelings about us, there was nothing we could do. We were not armed. We might as well just sleep and hope for the best. 

I woke up at 5:30. I checked the surrounding environment. Everyone was asleep except for a few recent arrivals. We quickly broke camp and got out of there. It was a good feeling to be free. It was also a great feeling to walk the streets I had trod as a missionary not as a missionary but as a tourist. So many memories flooded back to my mind. It was bittersweet. Plottier is a place I had suffered in but where I also had had some of my life's sweetest experiences. It was surreal being there after five years. 

As we made our way to the church we passed a few wandering but not dangerous Pibes. The streets were for the most part vacant. We laid out for a few hours in front of the church on the sidewalk. Eventually the Bishop from the ward I had not been a missionary in showed up. He was a little surprised to see people like us (dirty homeless looking tourists with large backpacks) there and asked if we were ex-missionaries. He then let us in. 

It had been an interesting start to my return visit to Argentina, my home of two years. 

Getting smuggled from Cote d'Ivoire to Liberia.

Boring Section of pre-adventure information (skip and scroll down to 5th and Final attempt to get across the Liberian border):

First Crossing Attempt:

I didn't get it. I did not get that the border was closed. Finally I broke down after surmounting evidence that there was no transport to Liberia aside from the motorbikes. Not only could I not get a better transport deal, but all the locals confirmed that was the price. It was getting late and time in my Africa trip was winding down. I wanted to get to Liberia that day so I paid the money. Liberia was to be the highlight of my Africa trip (which it turned out to be). It was Africa's American country, and to be so close to it merited some effort to get into it. So I paid my motorbike driver the money and off we went. We came to a checkpoint where there were half a dozen policemen chilling on chairs next to a road block. They were not happy to see me. My driver pulled out some money to hand to a policeman which the policeman rejected. My driver was confused. It seemed he had not had this problem before. The police yelled at me telling me the border was closed and that I could not pass. No bribes would be accepted. So back to Danane we went. I was confused.

Second Attempt:

When we got back to Danane I demanded forcefully my driver give my money back. He wouldn't. I told him he had to because we did not go to Liberia. I then offered him $8 if he gave my money back so I got back my $32 of my $40. I then stormed off to the central police station and asked some police guy inside of it if it was closed. He said, the border was closed and I could not pass. I asked for special permission to pass, that I had a Liberian visa. He somewhat agitated said "no, the border is closed!"

Upon leaving the police station I was approached by another guy who said he could get me to Liberia. I had nothing to lose so I went with him. He took me to a tailor shop where a few notable characters appeared. One was an English speaking Ivorian who had worked in the past in Liberia and explained he could arrange my passage and another was a soldier who claimed his authority as a soldier (he showed me his ID and everything) would work things out. The English speaking Ivorian then demanded I pay $100. I was put off. That is a HUGE sum of money. I was faced with a big dilemma. I explained to this man I could go into Guinea and enter Liberia from there to try to lower the price (that would have involved going back to Abidjan and waiting 3+ days there for a visa, time I didn't have which would have meant skipping Liberia, Guinea and Sierra Leone and going back to Mali where I had traveled from before entering Cote d'Ivoire or pay the smuggle price). The English speaking Ivorian explained the fee was so high because I was white. As I was white I could possibly be a reporter or something like that which the police were afraid of. They didn't want their allowing people through a closed border business to be discovered or brought to greater attention. Consequently "things" cost more. Seeing I had no other options I decided to do it, but was unable because I did not have $100 and Danane did not have an ATM. A $100 is way too much money to be carrying and way more than I ever needed on me while traveling in Africa.

This mean I had to go back to Man which in theory should have taken two hours but took all day because Africa.

3rd attempt to find a way across:

That evening back in Danane I began to wander around town again I was approached by another motorbike smuggler who offered to take me to Cote d'Ivoire. I explained to him I could not because of the complication of being white. I told him a had a friend in Liberia waiting for me (I did) and that I was sad because I could not see him. That touched the heart of this good young man. He said there were some "white men" at a United Nations military camp (left over from Cote d'Ivoire's recent civil war) a little outside town who could maybe help me. He took me there on his motorbike. I walked up to the gates of the UN compound and asked the UN soldier there if he spoke French. He did not but came back with one who did. They were Moroccans (Berber Arabs). I explained my plight and asked him if they could take me to Liberia during one of their patrols. He responded that they did not do such things.

4th attempt:

Turned down by the United Nations soldiers, I got back on my friend's bike and went to town. The guy who had driven me there offered to let me stay in his house for free when two more Ivorians smugglers showed up on motorbikes. They offered to take me to Liberia for $40. I explained I had tried but they said they could do it. That sounded much better than the $100 the other people offered. They requested I stay in a particular hotel (that cost $4 but the guy had tried to rip me off before when I had investigated it that morning by charging me $7) which I did as that was to be our meeting point. The plan was they would come pick me up at 5 in the morning. I was up at that time waiting for them and they never came (I had slept about four hours that night). At 9 am I was so fed up with waiting and the whole situation so I decided to screw the whole Liberia operation. As I was about to leave they showed up. I said, fine I will try it. They claimed they had a special way they went. So I jumped on and within a few minutes we were at the police post I had been to the day before. The police came over yelling that I could not pass. They were extra extra mad this time. So back to Danane we went. I was furious. My driver had failed. I also went through the whole lose $8 scenario again.

5th and FINAL attempt to get across Liberian border (the interesting part):

As I was walking to leave town a white guy in a nice car pulled up next to me. He was a Frenchman busy cutting down Cote d'Ivoire's last hardwood forests to send to Europe and was astonished to see me there. He said there were only two white people in that whole region of the country and that he never had seen any white tourists there. He offered to take me breakfast which I declined after which I headed on my way. I decided to consult my Australian friend Aiden Ellis-Patterson on my phone who himself had crossed the border a couple months before. He described his own smuggling experience (he went from Liberia to Cote d'Ivoire in the middle of the night for $60) to me and encouraged me to not give up. I went crawling back to the English speaking Ivorian in the Tailor shop. He asked me what took so long. I did not tell him the truth that I had tried to get by with less money. I then paid him and waited. After about an hour of waiting he came in very angry. He yelled at me "why did you try to cross this morning?! You should have just come straight to me!! Now all the police along the whole border will be looking for you!" I said, "So can I not go?! Fine. I don't need to. I will go to Guinea (which I learned later also had a closed border) or Mali!" He told me to calm down and that he would work it out. Another hour later my motorcycle smuggler showed up. It was the same boy who had tried to take me that morning. That explained how the English speaking Ivorian man knew about my earlier attempt to cross the border.

This is the most stupid thing I have done in Africa or in most of my traveling.

I got on with and off we went. My smuggler yelled at me "HOLD ON!" I have no pictures of the experience because, well, I was holding on for my life.

We first went through rice fields (not in them but on the dikes around them) and over small plank bridges over various channels between fields. The path we were following came up to a house, the inhabitants of which had placed a gate over the path. One came out and my driver gave him a few dollars worth of CFA. The gate was opened and off we went. We paid another couple small bribes and then got onto the main road that lead to Liberia. We had circumvented that first checkpoint I had already visited two times. Soon after getting on the road we saw two Ivorian policemen on motorbikes. They spotted my white skin and starting blowing their whistles for us to stop. What happened next terrified me. My driver put his pedal to the metal and we sped away with them in hot pursuit. We were soon off the road on another dirt path that lead into the jungle. I instantly regretted my decision to get smuggled as for one of the first times up to that point in my life, I thought I could die from what I was doing.

As we raced down twisty jungle paths and over single log bridges that crossed small streams I couldn't help but be in awe of the beauty of the place. There were many village peasants on the paths. My driver would honk the bike's horn and these peasants would literally jump and dive off of the path. They had tattered clothing, baskets on their heads and old rusty machetes. As I looked behind me to see if they were okay from their diving out of our way, I saw they had huge grins on their faces and were waving at me. Africans seriously are the world's warmest people (well, at least most tribes of West Africa are). What scared me more is when we zoomed through villages. These villages had no electricity and the houses had walls made of mud plastered onto stick frames with thatched grass roofs. There were many children in these villages who would scramble and hop off the path as we came through. They would hop up and down waving at us as we drove away. It would have been nice to spend more time in such places to meet these people but given the circumstances that was not possible.

We then got to a truck road where there was another motorbike rider and a police checkpoint. The policeman came out. He was not a happy camper. He was yelling at me and I was getting upset. There was a second motorcycle rider who apparently was part of the smuggling operation who was waiting there for me. He got off his bike and walked up to the policeman. He pulled out a 10,000 CFA ($17) note and put it in the policeman's hand. Even after that the policeman was yelling at him about me. As that was happening we zoomed away. That other smuggler who paid the bribe soon caught up. He was part of the operation "get white man across border".

The last police checkpoint was the most peculiar of the three I had to get past. There was no yelling and the police invited me to sit down. They asked me where I was from and we talked about some random stuff (Trump and Hillary) when my motorcycle smugglers gave that policeman a 10,000 CFA note. It was time to leave. As we were leaving a motorbike with two policemen on it showed up.

I told my driver that if he were in America he would probably win bike races. Seriously though. His skill in riding was to me out of this world. The fact we did not crash and die at any point during that ride or kill anyone in those villages and jungle paths is amazing to me. He then requested I help him get to America. I abandoned that topic. He also talked about how his goal was to get to Spain and inquired if I had been there (I had not).

Before we got to the border we stopped. It was just me and my two smugglers in the jungle. They requested I give them money, claiming they had been paid almost nothing for their troubles (which was probably true as it was the English speaking Ivorian man in the tailor shop I had given the money to).

I was in a tough spot. They could easily turn me into the police. I was in the jungle. I did not know where Liberia was. I did not know the way to Liberia. I did not know how close or far it was. Freak, they could have killed me and stolen all of my stuff and no one would know about it.

So I am ashamed to say it but I caved. I first them a 5000 CFA note. They demanded more. So I gave them another 5000 CFA note. They then demanded another 10,000 note for the police who had just shown up at that last police post. They said there would be trouble if I did not give them the other 10,000 CFA note. I caved. They then demanded more. I told them I did not have more money to give, which was the truth. I needed the rest to get to Monrovia, were I ever to enter Liberia. So they requested a gift.. "to remember me." I caved and gave them my shorts (I never used them much anyway).

They then took me to the Liberian border which is the Cavalla river. I was free! I had made it to Liberia. (Probably not what the freed American and Congolese slaves felt when they got to Liberia but still a good feeling).

There was a raft on the river. I paid the raft operator about 50 american cents in CFA to cross on it. I wanted to wade across the river but given how much I had just shelled out ( $151 on the most recent smuggling operation) I just paid the fee to the poor raft operator and was taken across.

On the Liberian side of the border there were two young men with motorcycles and several uniformed Liberian border guards and officials who accepted me without any problems. Given the size of the border post and the trail I had taken to get there, it was obvious this was not a main border crossing. I honestly had no idea where I was, just that it was Liberia.

P.S. Before you all start calling me a stupid idiot for falling for the bribe and smuggling scheme, the border was in fact closed. President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf of Liberia had opened the Liberian border a few months before while the Ivorians had refused to at that point in time. The Ebola epidemic was over and risk of contracting the virus was very low (in spite of there being a few isolated cases that appeared even after I left Liberia). I had my Liberian visa and was ENTERING not LEAVING the previous Ebola epidemic area and so I do not consider my actions detrimental to humanity (by me spreading the Ebola virus that is) and my actions completely legal and justified.

Traveling to Africa.

I had dreamed of going to Africa for years. I wanted to go in December but kept on putting it off because I did not have enough money and was still in limbo with medical school interviews. February came around and I was getting anxious. I wanted to go but wasn't sure about it. I decided to send my passport in to get a visa for Ghana which I did at the beginning of the month. I learned my friend from college Cassis was going there at the end of the month and after A LOT of anxiety I bought a ticket Feb. 16th so I could meet up with him.

My flight left that Sunday, Feb 28th 2016 at 8:40 in the morning. I left last minute.

I had a three and a half hour stop in Chicago which meant I was leaving the airport because why not. I had never been to Chicago before. I had low expectations. I talked with an incredibly friendly black dude on the train into town who had worked racing horses. He went on and on about how great America was and lucky we were to live in it. To say the least I liked the guy who left me with a nice impression of Chicago. I spent a little over twenty minutes running around and then got back onto the train.

As I ran around, I was surprised how many tourists there were. I guess I shouldn't be surprised as I was in the middle of town. All of my pictures were taken by tourists from Europe and Asia.

In Africa I would show these pictures to many people as an icebreaker. They would want to know what the place was like where I was from, and as I did not bring any pictures with me, the picture I took of Chicago served the purpose. Africans generally thought Chicago looked very beautiful and that I am from an "advanced country".

It was a cold day and these pigeons had learned to adapt. 

I got back to the front desk at the airport with an hour to spare. The lady at the front desk got very angry at me. Said that she had already closed check in and that she did not have to let me through. She started grilling me, asking me where I had been and why I had not checked in before. I guess I had not checked their rules or policies or whatever, but never had I had trouble getting onto a flight an hour before, especially when my bag was already checked in. And the dutch woman (as this was KLM) the dutch airlines, was repulsive in how she treated me. She "managed" to print my ticket (she and the french airlines lady were doing nothing before and after I left) and then I proceeded through security in like 5 minutes. I then waited for almost an hour to leave.

The airplane to Amsterdam was HUGE and maybe half full. There were a bunch of Norwegian high school kids on it. I told them I descended from Norwegians and that I was interested in their country. They could have cared less and ignored me. I ended up having some nice conversation with an American instead.

I got to Amsterdam in the morning and had a six hour interesting layover there. I saw TONS of tourists. But again, I was in the middle of town. Amsterdam is a funny city. EVERYONE was on bikes. Makes sense though as their streets are small and have no parking. The have many canals laid out in an organized manner. In these canals there are little houseboats that people live in and are kinda cute. There is no space between houses and at the front and top of each house is a pulley for hauling furniture to the upper levels of these apartments/houses.

I talked with some Americans on a study abroad "around Europe" and they reminded why I don't usually like Americans. (Rich liberal east coaster white kid vibes if you know what I mean). 

I was asked for directions from other tourists.

I talked to a Peruvian guy in an outdoor market in Spanish (after hearing him speak Spanish) I asked him in Spanish where he was from. That pissed him off because he was "from Amsterdam". Sure he is "from there" now.... 

Soon after I had a conversation with a white Dutch guy about Amsterdam. He went on a rant on how Holland was being taken over by foreigners and how their government is selling them out. That the foreigners would not adapt to Dutch culture and lived of welfare in housing projects in the suburbs. Lol. Maybe that is why the Peruvian guy was so touchy. 

I "wandered the street" for a few hours and found myself a bit lost. I had a map and so asked a Dutch lady walking a dog in a park for some help in orienting me. As she pointed at the map, she let go of her leash and her dog freaked out and ran away. She was distraught, saying she had adopted it a couple of days ago from Romania and that it did not know where home was. I felt terrible so I went looking for it for like an hour. Eventually the dog lady found me and said she went home and found the dog there on the doorstep and had spent almost an hour going around on her bike looking for me to tell me she had found it. Very thoughtful of her. 

I spent ten euro to go into some old fancy palace or government building which I instantly regretted and I only bought bread in a supermarket as I thought everything was terribly overpriced.

Back at the airport I waited and waited at my gate. It was so odd as there were only a couple of people there, also going to Ghana. I thought maybe not a lot of people were going to Ghana? Twenty minutes before the gate was supposed to close, I told the people from Ghana I did not think the plane was leaving from there. I found the correct gate (which was different from my ticket) and found it PACKED. Apparently the flight had been oversold and no one wanted to be bumped. They ended up giving out 600 euros in a flight voucher AND a trip through (in my case it would be to) Kenya!!!!! I had missed it. SO FREAKIN SAD as I had four months to explore and see Africa and so was not in a hurry. Still mad about this writing this a couple years later. 

So for those that know me somewhat well, they will know that I am OBSESSED when it comes to looking at the window. I LOVE LOVE LOVE it. Generations of men (and women for those who are politically correct) have dreamed what the world looks like from the sky, and those who can afford to fly in a plane get to see it. Amazing!

I was sandwiched between to Ghanian girls. The one at the window wouldn't let me have that seat but would let me look out which was nice enough, and even looked out herself from time to time (something most people DON'T look out the window which has always perplexed me. I figure people are stupid and take everything for granted). The girl who had the aisle seat was repulsive. She was extremely sensitive to anything I did. She went to the bathroom and I must have bumped her bag or something because when she came back she accused me of stealing. She then went through her stuff to make sure it was all there. I mean what the heck. Why would some American guy who can afford to fly to Africa freakin go through some chicks purse on an airplane to steal her stuff from her bag. The window girl told me some people are just that way. She took her bag with her the next time she went to the bathroom. Seriously was an odd experience. 

The Sahara was something amazing. It was so vast. It was crazy! Miles and miles of sand with nothing. Some cliffs and mountains here and there. But dry and sandy. I saw a couple roads and even a couple buildings. I remember one house in particular that was clearly inhabited but had no other houses to be seen around it in any direction. I still wonder who lives there and what their life is like. So interesting. Would be crazy interesting to actually visit a place like that if not that place. But life is short and so that will probably never happen.

Getting off the airplane in Accra, Ghana, there was an interesting scuffle while waiting for the bus to pick us up. Two black Ghanians got in a fight right on the tarmac!!! Freakin nuts. It was broken up. The guys who were fighting each other were in very fancy stylish clothing (which I would soon learn is how they do it in Africa). A white Dutchman next to me went on a little rant about how he hated having to put up with this country and couldn't believe I was visiting it for any other reason then to make money from it.

The airport was crap. Lol. Upon walking out of it there were a freakin ton of Ghanian people all yelling stuff at me. It was a bit overwhelming. I had arrived and was ready to start one of my life's greatest adventures.