Trans-Atlantic Vonnegut (Traveling XLI)

7.28.09/New York, NY to Somewhere Over the Atlantic/
7.29.09/Somewhere Over the Atlantic to Accra, Ghana/

The thing that I will never grow accustomed to about Trans-Atlantic flight is the loss of a day.  Trans-oceanic flight has granted us all the ability to become unstuck in time; and as that power came with disastrous consequences for Billy Pilgrim, so too does it serve as a harbinger of disorientation and doom for the modern traveler.

Or maybe it's just me.

I woke up earlier than I'd wanted but as late as I felt secure in before the end of Free Hotel Breakfast™.  Because as a Fat Guy™ there's nothing I love more than free carbs.  Carb loading is wise before running and 11 hours on a plane is akin to a marathon.  Waffle, yogurt, croissant, raisin bran, milk...all the cornerstones of a healthy breakfast and great day.

I got 6 hours, which would have been fine if I'd gotten more than 4 the previous night.  I was nervous, I was excited, I was trying to figure out how to prepare, what awaited me, what I was even doing going on this trip.  I didn't know anyone where I was going; I didn't know anyone I was going with, this was a trip as far out of my comfort zone as I could imagine.  And I was worried about ever finding my way back.

When I arrived back in my room I tried to go back to sleep and reclaim some of the lost hours of slumber, but it was no use.  My heart was pounding, fueled by a combination of carbs, fat and anxiety.  I needed to get on the move.  I am first and foremost an American and Americans need to move, our inertia is so great that we cannot stop, we refuse to stop, and we must always be going somewhere.  We lie to ourselves and believe that this constant motion can and will always be upwards for as much as we love movement we abhor downward motion, retrograde motion or worst of all, lateral motion.  Always forward, into the breach.

I left for the airport an hour before it was strictly necessary.  I needed to move.

In the terminal I had time to kill.  I didn't have a ticket or a passport or a visa, I just had a messenger bag, a backpack and a suitcase and the feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong.  It had to go wrong.  That delay into LaGuardia wasn't enough tragedy for a knot this big in my stomach.  Things had been going too well.  

Feeling the depression that comes when dreams waiting to be dashed are combined with anxiety I put on some sad Zeppelin and tried to relax.

I drifted off into my own world, unaware of all the activity around me, or the millions of people that had passed through these doors, running away, running home, seeing off loved ones...the major hubs of the jet age carry with them a wornness that tell you how important these sites are to the right functioning of our world.  They're the gateways to memory, the release valve of diasporic tensions.  They make all right with the world.

Then I saw him.  Our trip leader.  He was in the terminal, right in front of me, holding my passport and ticket, and I couldn't speak.  I tried to yell at him, three feet in front of me, but nothing came, or if it came it was so quiet that he couldn't hear me over the din of the Delta international departures terminal at JFK.  I jumped out of my seat, or what approximated jumping when buried underneath my bags.  

A few minutes later I handed my bag to an agent, I grabbed my new companions and we set off on our journey.

The departure gate was a sea of humanity, faces, nearly all of them darker than mine, ebbed and flowed in anticipation of their trip.  We'd become friends with them standing in line to check our bags, my one suitcase paling in comparison to the dozens, yes, dozens of bags they were taking home.  Presents for friends and family filled the baggage check-in counter, and what couldn't be check in was now with us at the gate, ready to be taken onboard for the 11 hour flight home.

Everywhere I went I was met with smiles and questions.  "You're going to Accra?  Bless you."  Ghanaians love Americans and this was never as apparent as when we were getting ready to board the flight.  It was a nice feeling, being loved because of my nationality, one that I hadn't experienced in many years, though I've been told that while Obamania has fired up the Ghanaian love of Americans, it's not like the Bush years did anything to it.  

The world slowed down as the anxiety of making sure we were on the flight gave way to the dawning reality that "HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT, WE'RE GOING TO AFRICA!"  My companions and I, acquainted only for a few hours became fast friends when bonded by the reality of what was about to happen.  They called our boarding group; we lined up in front of Danny Glover (yes, really) and got on a plane to Africa.  We were so excited, we didn't really have time to feel badly for the two of our group who didn't manage to check in for the flight and were going to be coming out on tomorrow's flight.

It was 5pm on Tuesday when we got on the plane, it was 8:30am Wednesday when we got off.

Stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac was like something out of a movie.  All of the reds and browns were turned up and muted; the color palate was something unlike anything I'd seen before.  I wandered the tarmac for a minute in a daze, where was our protagonist?  Where was the spy attempting to get lost in the crowd on his way to a Cold War rendezvous with a Soviet (or American) agent?

I wanted to stop and take pictures, to spend hours looking around, but none of those images would do the moment any justice, what I needed was a crane, with a cameraman shooting constant footage while descending upon the scene and circling around me.  It was one of the most amazing moments in my life, and one I've tried to relate countless times...but I can't make it come out the way it looks in my head, so this is what you get.

We went through customs and noticed the warning to pedophiles posted on the wall in front of us.  Long story short, pedophiles wishing to be sexual tourists in Ghana aren't welcome.  Which is, I think we'll all agree, a good thing.

We collected our bags and made our way out into the world.  This is when my first clue as to life in Ghana arrived.  Two gentlemen came up to me as soon as I walked out of the airport and told me they were with my tour group and would carry my bags to the bus.  I resisted for a while, but they persisted longer than I could resist and I let them wheel my 55lb suitcase 200 yards to our bus.  Then, they requested a tip.

Then, I told them I didn't have any money, but thank you for the help.

Then, I got on the bus and didn't look back.

I don't know if it was karma or just the Vonnegut reference from above, but this is the point when the wheels came off for me.  I was exhausted.  I was 6 hours ahead of home; I didn't sleep more than an hour on the plane (c'mon they had Watchmen, Milk, How I Met Your Mother, and Doctor Who on the plane...and I was wicked jacked up on adrenaline.)  Add in the sleep deficit I was already in and suddenly I crashed.  I fought to keep my eyes open and watch Accra unfold before my eyes, but I couldn't keep them open.  Eventually, I gave up trying and fell asleep.

The rest of the day was spent trying to get acclimated to being in Ghana and fighting to stay awake.  It was brutal and I fell asleep at 10p only to wake up at midnight.  I stayed up until 3 before falling asleep again.