My first taste of Africa

To claim that my flight from JFK to Accra was eventful would be a gross understatement - barring actually crashing into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, everything that possibly could have gone wrong did.

My neighbor Philip, with whom I had numerous prolonged and engrossing conversations, had not been home to Ghana since 1999, a year before the millenium. This anticipation, along with his general fear of aviation, caused him to nervously shake his knees periodically, preventing me from catching even a wink of sleep during the entire 10 and a half hour flight (not to mention the fact he was at least as tall as I am, making our mutual arm rest a virtual war zone). Roughly halfway through the flight, nature asked that I answer its call, prompting me proceeded to the restroom at the rear of the plane. Waiting in a queue (of 5 people! what if it had been an emergency?), I noticed an altercation brewing between the flight attendant and two completely inebriated Ghanian males. The men were alternating swigs of a tall handle of vodka - something that in my opinion should never be found on a plane - when one of the men stumbled face-first onto the floor, head coming very close to dislodging the exit door and launching me and 5 other terrified passengers into the frigid mid-Atlantic. Not an hour later, Philip and I were torn out of a pleasant conversation by a piercing shriek that sounded from somewhere in first-class. The flight attendant later revealed to us that the cry had come from a man who had just discovered that his aged father had died sleeping by his side. By the time we finally touched down on African soil – and the deceased had been carried off of the plane – I stepped off the cursed jet and could but pray that the flight wasn't indicative of how my month-long adventure was going to pan out.

My prayers were clearly answered, as my two hour layover in Accra proved perhaps the most hospitable and entertaining airport experience I've ever had. After managing to escape the interminable line at customs by pretending to be in cohorts with Becky, an American UNESCO representative with whom I'd chatted on the plane, I was befriended by a young airport worker named Cinde who made it her task to ensure that I enjoyed every second of my two hour stay in Ghana. After escorting me to obtain my transit ticket to South Africa, Cinde asked if I was hungry (When am I not?) and she and her friends led me to get some breakfast at one of the many street vendors outside of Kotoka Airport. The beans with chips and tomota-ish paste poured on bread was exactly what I needed after two consecutive putrid Delta-provided meals. We ate while conversing in wide cultural generalizations about Ghanian soccer, Canadian hockey (which I had to explain to her and her friends) and what she called the strangeness of the Chinese language.

After six hours on a nearly deserted Air Namibia flight over more of the Atlantic, Angola and Botswana, I descended the airplane steps onto South African soil, an aggressive, almost tangible odor striking my nostrils harshly – here I was! Unable to find the taxi company that my Johannesburg contact had recommended, I took a chance and succumbed to one of the many private drivers that had been soliciting me - moments later, I found myself whizzing down the highway, my safety and whereabouts in the hands of a complete stranger. Thirty three hours after departing from my NY home, I finally perceived the Johannesburg skyline looming distantly on the horizon, the outline of it's impressive skyscrapers enclosed between two sharp, green mountains on either side of it.