“When you are at home, your troubles can never defeat you.”

The morning is already warm, and I’m about to turn on the AC. It’s been a noisy morning as there have been a couple of barkfests with at least four dogs joining in, including Gracie. It has also been a pain in the butt sort of morning. When I poured milk into my coffee, it was bad, not smelly, but floating on the top of the cup bad. I grabbed Gracie and went to Dunkin’ Donuts. The drive-up window line was so long I couldn’t see the little voice box for ordering. I couldn’t get out to order as I didn’t get dressed deciding to hide in the car so I was stuck in the long line. Finally I got my two cups of coffee, sighed in relief and went home to my usual coffee and the papers.

One day, only one day until my trip. I am so excited to be going back. Last year I was both excited and a bit apprehensive given the 40 years between visits, but the trip turned out so well that this time I’m just excited to go back. I know I talk about Ghana a lot, maybe too much sometimes, but it is such an important part of who I am, who I became, that every time Ghana comes to mind my heart swells and fills with memories of friends, of shared experiences, of love for another country and for the beautiful Ghanaians, their smiles and their greetings. I know there were downsides, but they were tolerable once I made up my mind that this was home. It was like living in New England and complaining about the cold and the snow.

I’m going to be meeting the current volunteers. We’ll enjoy dinner together. One of them told me they want to hear all about the old days. Now there are 13 volunteers just around the Bolga area. That amazes as there were only 9 of us in the entire Upper Region, now two regions: the Upper East and the Upper West. The region in my day was primitive with very few schools. Even Ghanaians didn’t want to teach in the Upper Region because of the climate. We didn’t know any better so we loved living there far away from Accra, far away from Peace Corps. We thought it ideal.

I have a single errand left for today then I’m going to start packing. The sports bag I bought last year to haul home the Bolga baskets is coming as are the school supplies for one of the primary schools. My bag should weigh in the hundreds as those crayons are darn heavy. My house/pet sitter is coming this afternoon to find out what she needs to do. Her son is coming with her to translate as she speaks only Portuguese and I don’t.

One day left!

That’s all the motorcycle is, a system of concepts worked out in steel.”

I thought I heard rain this morning, but I just turned over and went back to sleep and slept in. I didn’t wake up until 9:30. I even went to bed early for me last night so this was a where’s my prince sort of deep sleep. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see the Seven Dwarves standing by my bedside. The streets were damp when I went to get the paper so it had rained, and that little rain brought us a cloudy day and thick humidity. The sun is appearing infrequently as if it doesn’t really care one way or the other. The paper predicts a hot day.

Sounds are always muted in the humidity. The thickness of the air drowns everything and brings a sort of lethargy. Even the leaves on the oak trees barely stir. The house is cloudy day dark and the window here does little to lighten the room. It’s morning nap time for Fern, Maddie and Gracie. The loudest noise in the house is the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard.

When I lived in Ghana, I had a Honda 70. It was the demure moto, as the Ghanaians call motorcycles, for a woman who always wore a dress. My first year volunteers weren’t allowed motorcycles, but when that changed my second year, I bought one. My first trip, just after learning to ride it, was the hundred miles from Tamale where I bought the bike to Bolga where I lived. I loved that ride. It was a freedom I had never felt in a crowded lorry with every seat taken, people sitting in the middle on small stools and a few chickens and goats along for the ride. That moto gave me the freedom to take back roads leading to the small villages which ringed Bolga. I always brought a canister of extra gas. My friends and I would usually go together; Bill took the baby Kevin safely tied in a backpack and I took Peg his wife on the back of my bike. We’d often bring lunch and stop for a picnic. Those were fun days as we found ourselves in amazing places. Once some guys hauled our bikes across a small pond and we sat by a village watering hole to have lunch. Small boys stood around and watched us. The guys at the pond waited for us to finish as we had given them half a cedi for one way and told them we’d give them the other half if they waited to take the bikes back. That was a lot of money in those days. Another time we went to Tongo. We had brought a small charcoal burner and hot dogs that came in a can to cook almost like at a real barbecue. We set up the burner on a rock. A bit later a man came and yelled at us in FraFra. The small boys in school uniforms who had been standing around and watching us translated. The man wanted money to appease the gods on whose rock we had rested the burner, but the rock had bird poop on it so we didn’t buy his story figuring it was another scam for money. His response was something along the lines of  misfortunes would follow us, but that too we ignored. We finished and packed up to leave. Not far from the rock, Bill’s bike stopped suddenly for no reason. We looked at each other wondering, but Bill’s bike restarted with no problem. We were just glad the old man hadn’t seen it.

“Life is like a B-movie. You don’t want to leave in the middle of it but you don’t want to see it again.”

 

Today is cloudy and only 71°. I’ve put the screens in the doors and opened the windows. After three days of the AC and isolation, the world is back all around me. I can hear the neighbors next door chatting on their deck, lawnmowers, cars and voices from down the street. The breeze from the windows is a delight and welcomed after the horrific heat of the last three days. It will be in the 60′s tonight and by Tuesday down to the 50′s. Gracie isn’t even panting.

The world is in danger of a new ice age on syfi because of volcanic eruptions in Iceland, but an ice age mightn’t be all that bad an idea as alien insects will be by later, and the cold might deter them from world domination. Today is disaster/bug day on syfi all leading up to an earthquake unleashing monstrous spiders on New Orleans in tonight’s movie. Where’s the popcorn?

It won’t be long before the deck movies start. My friends have never seen Ferris Bueller so it will be the first movie. After that, I’m in a quandary. My taste is different, and I have no ideas as to which movies they’d find entertaining. I struck out last year a few times, but I do have some musicals, not to my liking, but I can sit through most movies as long as I have popcorn and nonpareils. I’m thinking West Side Story which is the one musical I actually like.

In Ghana, the Hotel d’Bull in Bolga, used to show movies on the white wall in the courtyard. I always bought super seats for about a quarter and sat on roof  which had patio chairs and tables. I ate kabobs, mostly beef but a few liver, and saw really old movies: American westerns and Indian movies, pre-Bollywood but still filled with singing. When I went to Accra, I’d always go to the movies. West Side Story was one of the films I saw. Is Paris Burning and The Thomas Crown Affair were a couple more. They too were old but at least were in color. The theaters had seats you placed wherever you wanted, and the screen was outside. If it rained, you picked up your seat, moved to the overhang  and continued watching.

When I traveled in other countries during school vacations, most American embassies had a movie night. I remember being eaten alive by mosquitoes in Niamey, Niger while I was watching a really bad WWII movie, but my standards back then were pretty different based on the rarity of movies. I’d watch just about anything.

Now that I’m thinking about it, my taste hasn’t really changed all that much.  Nothing better than a B movie to while away the day!

 

“When you are sitting in your own house, you don’t learn anything. You must get out of your house to learn.”

Ahoy, me maties. Today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. The sea is ruffled and the sails are billowed. Tis’ a great, grand ship and ye are all welcome aboard. Grab a flask of grog and hear me story.

This is the last of my Ghanaian saga. I spent five days in Bolga and three nights sitting and laughing with my students. One day three of them took me shopping in the market. I just sat while they haggled for my baskets and for the smock I bought. We then visited craft places, and I watched the making of the leather goods. At the dress shop, I picked out the one I wanted and Florence bought it. I protested and she just ignored me. Afterwards, I suggested lunch, and we went to The Diplomat where we all had goat and fried rice. It seems fried rice has become a Ghanaian staple. I treated the bargainers to lunch in thanks for all the money I knew I’d saved. They promised to be back that night, my last night in Bolga.

Six of my students came that night. They drank beer and malt and the table beside us gave us a half bottle of champagne they hadn’t finished. The students brought kelewele, my favorite dish and one I suspect I have mentioned many times. They ordered Guinea fowl without pepper so I could eat it. We all ate with our hands and shared the meal. I didn’t eat the bones, and my students couldn’t understand why. I explained we only ate the meat, and they lectured me about wasting food and they finished off the bones. It was a grand night, and we all shared memories. They did imitations of me in the classroom which were right on target. They were me frustrated about what I was trying to teach, and they repeated exactly what I used to say then roared laughing. They told me how the watchman wasn’t really asleep when I’d come to the school at night and find the gate locked. He was just ignoring me and he told the students how funny he thought it was that the white lady kept yelling, “Watchman, watchman,” and he just didn’t move. Most times I ended up climbing the gate, so much for the security of the watchman. I never did understand how he couldn’t hear me as his dog was barking and barking as I yelled. They remembered the one time I walked out of class as they were not prepared, and how they crammed then begged me to return. I did. They sang me a song they had learned from one of the cassettes I had brought with me. I cried when they sang Leaving on a Jet Plane perfectly. One of them told me she often sings it and always thinks of me when she does. That did me in.

We hugged and kissed and exchanged addresses and phone numbers. Three of them have called me already, and I have called a couple. This time we will not lose touch with one another.

I left Bolga the next morning. Thomas and I made it to Kumasi and we stayed there for the night. When we arrived, one of the students who had completed school before I arrived in Bolga was waiting for us as the principal of my old school lived in Kumasi. The talking drums of cell phones had found her through that graduate who was kind enough to meet us and take us to Madame Intsiful’s school. It was named St. George’s, after her she told me. Her name is Georgina. When I walked into the room, she looked at me and said, “I know you,” but she didn’t remember my name. She is quite old now so I understood and reintroduced myself. We chatted a short while and then she walked us to the car.

My hotel room was on a noisy street, but it was clean and had a shower and air-conditioning and was pretty cheap. I didn’t roam Kumasi as I didn’t know it in my day and certainly didn’t know the large city it had become. When I lived in Ghana, I went there just to visit Ralph and Michelle. I was country mouse visiting city mice.

Thomas and I left the next morning, and I arrived back at the Triple Crown in the early afternoon, welcomed by the staff. For dinner that night, I had Lebanese food. It was in Ghana where I first tasted hummos as Accra used to be filled with small Lebanese restaurants. Tahal’s was a Peace Corps favorite spot. I watched some of the Nigerian soap opera then took a shower, a hot shower, and fell asleep early.

On Friday, my last full day in Ghana, I hired the van and Isaac and I did a bit of riding around Accra while I picked up a few last-minute gifts. I had him take me through Adabraca, the section of Ghana where the PC hostel used to be, but I couldn’t remember where. That night I met another former volunteer for dinner. She was staying on Ghana a bit longer.

The next day I packed and then mostly sat around until it was time to go to the airport. I was sad to leave and wished I had planned a three-week trip instead of a two, but I suppose at the end of three weeks I would have been wishing for a month.

The flight was amazing as I went home first class and had one of those sleeping pods which make you feel a bit like an astronaut. I decided I had been substituted at birth. My real family had money and always traveled first class.

My trip back to Ghana was everything and more than I had hoped. I found my Ghana then met the new one, no less wonderful but a lot bigger and noisier and filled with far more people. The Ghanaians are warm and welcoming. I was greeted everywhere and waved at when we were on the road. I fell in love all over again with what I have always called my other country. I had always promised myself I would go back to Ghana. I finally fulfilled that promise.

” See you later, alligator. After a while, crocodile.”

This morning is close the windows, put on warm slippers and a sweatshirt cold. The house was 69° when I came downstairs. As if it were winter, I clutched that warm coffee cup between my hands hoping to stave off the cold. I woke up at 7:30 today so it seems my body is finally recognizing it’s home.

Today is Paga day. Paga is the last town in Ghana before Burkina Faso. In my day it was the last town before crossing into Upper Volta. Paga is famous for its sacred crocodile ponds. I visited there forty-two years ago, and it hasn’t changed a bit except for the price. It was 3 cedis for Ghanaians and 6 for non-Ghanaians. I protested that it was wrong to charge white people more, but the man claimed he also charged Africans not from Ghana the same 6 cedis. I asked him how he could tell Ghanaians from non-Ghanaians and he just shrugged. The biggest pond, the Chief Crocodile Pond, is supposed to have around thirty of these sacred crocodiles. No one is allowed to eat the meat or harm the crocs in any way. The pond is lovely with lilies all around the edges and in the middle. A donkey was to one side munching grass. It looked almost idyllic. I tried to see any crocodiles lurking on the surface the way they do in movies but saw none. These beasts are lured from the water by a whistle and the promise of a live chicken which we had to buy. Thomas and I went as close to the edge as we dared, and the man whistled. Out of the pond came one of the biggest crocodiles I’ve ever seen. He ran out of the water on all four legs, and we stepped back, a bit nervous I’ll admit. The croc stopped close to the chicken man and just stayed there immobile for a while. He didn’t look real. The man threw the chicken and the croc grabbed it and ate it in about a minute. A second croc, far smaller than the first, came out of the water to the right of us and started making his way toward us. A small boy scared it away with a branch but it stayed by the edge of the pond and I could see its head above the water. The chicken man then went and held the croc’s tail and asked if anyone else wanted to do the same. When no one was the first to brave the tail, I said yes and up I went and grabbed the end of the tail. After that the men did the same. Thomas wanted his picture taken for posterity. I’ll send it by e-mail to him when I upload my pictures out of the camera. As we were getting into the car, an old man approached us and showed us pictures of the museum like collection of huts and artifacts across the street from the pond. When I asked how much, he said whatever you want so Thomas and I drove across the street.

It was wonderful. The old man was our guide from hut to hut. We were followed by two of his grandchildren. The huts were old and many of their walls had large painted figures. The biggest hut had clay figures that had been dug from the area and were dated to be at least 1000 years old. The old man showed us how the young boys hid on the roof from slavers, other African tribal men who sold their captives to the whites. In the birthing hut the man played a gourd and the music which announced the birth of a son or daughter. He said the hut was still used by some of the local villagers. He had a few local goods for sale, and I bought a beautiful hand-woven cloth and a large calabash which had figures etched on it. The man and I bargained a bit, and I think I got a good price for both. When we were leaving, I left 5 cedis in thanks.

Paga has a slave camp, but I noticed the cost and decided that this non-Ghanaian wasn’t going to pay again. Thomas and I headed back to Bolga.

The road between Paga and Bolga was one of my favorite rides. Lines of large trees periodically appeared on each side of the road and shadowed the road as if you were on a small country by-way. I remember riding to Navrongo, the town between Paga and Bolga, on my motorcycle. I remember the shadows falling across the road from the tree branches covered in leaves. That road has not changed and the ride back to Bolga was a joy.

“If the English language made any sense, lackadaisical would have something to do with a shortage of flowers.”

Mother Nature seems to be extending the summer just a bit longer than usual. The last few days have been hot, and by the time I went to bed last night, it was still so uncomfortably warm and humid I ran the air conditioner in my bedroom. The paper says rain this afternoon, but the day belies the forecast. It is sunny and warm with a deep blue sky. It is deck weather again.

During my first week in Ghana, we sat in a group lecture to learn about Ghana’s culture and languages. Back then, I was the poster child for Boston accents and a great source of humor for my fellow trainees. Prior to the lecture, I had been asked if I would stand up and recite a sentence aloud. I did, and after I’d finished, there were quite a few laughs at the oddity of my accent. The Peace Corps staff member giving the lecture told the group that what they’d just heard was as close to Ghanaian English as anyone of us would get. I smirked.

It took a while for me to learn to speak Ghanaian English. The first month of teaching was a nightmare. I’d teach the whole period, and usually, at the end of the lesson, a student would raise her hand, stand up and say, “Madame, we didn’t hear you.” That meant they didn’t understand a word I’d said. Every lesson was discouraging. I was depressed and lonely and decided I’d leave before Christmas if things didn’t change. Why stay if I was ineffective?

I did learn to speak Ghanaian English well before Christmas. I learned to speak slowly. I learned that words like leTTer, beTTer and waTer had a stress on the T. Students no longer had trouble hearing me. I forgot about leaving.

A strange phenomenon took place whenever we were with our Ghanaian friends. We’d speak regular English to one another then turn and speak Ghanaian English to our friends. We didn’t do it consciously. It just happened.

On the flight home, I asked the stewardess for some waTer. She looked at me and repeated, “WaTer? You want waTer?” I was being made of fun again. This time it was my Ghanaian English.

“I collect clothes-they keep building and building. I buy them instead of having them washed.”

The morning is gone. Blame my tardiness on the sun. Because the day is warm and lovely, I dawdled and sat out on the deck for the longest time, even after I’d finished with my coffee and papers. I watched the birds. The goldfinches are back, mostly males still bright and beautiful in their summer colors, and my crow too is back. He watched quietly from his usual pine tree perch. A slight breeze wafted the aroma of food from my neighbor’s kitchen to my deck . The aroma is both familiar and foreign. It is familiar because I smell it often and foreign because I have no idea what’s cooking. My neighbors are Brazilian, and when I ask about the food, I get the name of the dish in Portuguese. I also get a list of ingredients, but that doesn’t help all that much. Some of those are in Portuguese as well.

The winter covers for the new furniture arrived yesterday, but I left them in their boxes. It’s not yet time to give up the deck. When a sweatshirt and the chiminea stop being enough to keep me warm, I’ll cover the furniture.

Because yesterday was a work day, today I play. That’s one of the rules I established when I retired: no two days in a row are to be wasted on any sort of work. The only exception is making the bed. That’s no chore for me. It has to do with my innate need for tidiness.

My mother never made us do chores when I was growing up. That was just the way it was, and I never gave it any thought. She made our beds, washed clothes and did the dishes every day. When we came down in the morning, breakfast was on the table, and our lunches were already packed for school. I’d throw my dirty clothes in the hall hamper, and a day or two later they would magically reappear washed and folded. It wasn’t until college that I learned to use a washing machine.

On a recent Peace Corps Ghana blog, I saw a picture of line after line of clothing drying in the sun. The caption described the clothes as belonging to trainees who had washed them in buckets. Not once did I ever do that. Even during the first two weeks of training, people found a laundry lady. We’d bring her our clothes one day and fetch them back the next. Our per diem money during training was small small, as they say in Ghana, but none of us ever thought paying for laundry was extravagant, especially after we saw a Ghanaian iron. It was kept hot with charcoal.

“At a dinner party one should eat wisely but not too well, and talk well but not too wisely”

Another gorgeous day, both sunny and cool, not a bit of humidity. With the gala so close, tomorrow night, I have a filled flow chart of tasks for both today and tomorrow. Today is mostly errands.

We never went anywhere fancy when I was a kid. Most places where we ate had paper napkins. The place settings were a fork, knife and spoon. More than those would have been confusing. It was in Africa when I first encountered multiple forks, linen napkins and serving men wearing white jackets. I was totally out of my element. The event was a luncheon in Bolga for the newly elected Prime Minister, Kofi Busia. I was invited because I was one of the few white people in town, and I always got invited to events at Government House. A formal, embossed, printed invitation was always sent, usually for cocktail parties which I seldom attended. This was the first luncheon ever held as far as I knew. The tables were covered in white linen. Multiple glasses and utensils were beside and around each of  the plates. The waiters wore starched white jackets and had white towels hung over their arms. The Ghanaian women were dressed formally in beautifully colored fabrics. Their dresses were layered with a top, an ankle length skirt and a matching cloth wrapped around the skirt part of the dress. The men wore suits or kente, a traditional Ghanaian hand woven cloth. The kente was worn wrapped around the body with one shoulder uncovered. I was most decidedly under-dressed in my one layer Ghanaian cloth dress and sandals. I tried to stay in the background which was difficult as everyone else was Ghanaian. I shook several hands, took my seat, politely chatted with the guests on each side of me, put the napkin on my lap, took my forks from the outside in and listened to the speakers, especially Mr. Busia, whom I’d heard once before in Bawku when he was campaigning.

The luncheon broke up after his speech, and as Mr. Busia was leaving, he shook a few hands including mine. I smiled and said nothing. Mr. Busia then moved on and out of the room.

That whole event seemed surreal. I, Miss Paper Napkin, had dined with the Prime Minister. It was the most uncomfortable I ever was at any event I attended in Ghana, but I don’t think anybody else noticed. I suspect most guests felt the way I did and were too busy figuring out all those forks. Ghanaians most often ate with their hands. I always liked that, the sharing of a meal with all of us sitting around the dinner pot chatting and laughing.

“I am big! It’s the pictures that got small.”

Today is another gift, cool, sunny and dry. When I stepped out to the deck, I could smell the salt water. Though the ocean isn’t close, the breeze was just right and brought it my way. I sat down and said good morning to my backyard friends. The crow was especially vocal. I looked for the squirrel, but he’s not around, maybe the nest is finished. Today is a perfect deck day.

Last night’s movie was the original War of the Worlds. We ate popcorn, sno-caps and Raisinettes, all perfect movie fare. We look forward to these movie nights, our sitting outside in the cool of the evening and chatting if we want or pausing if we need a break. The projector has a coffee cup button for those necessary pauses and the cup appears on the screen. Trying to find a movie last night, I realized my collection does need expanding so my sister is already talking Christmas and movies and my stocking.

In Ghana, in my day, all the movies were shown outside. You paid in the lobby, bought some munchies and walked from there into a wide courtyard. At my favorite theater in Accra, the chairs were in no special order and could be moved, and there was a balcony. The screen was huge. Overhangs were on three sides of the courtyard so if it rained you just hauled your chair under an overhang and kept watching. The movies weren’t new, but we didn’t care. It was just fun to see a movie.

“We call this a fine mess of squirrels.”

The day is beautiful with a bright sun and a cooling breeze. A bit earlier I went out on the deck to enjoy the morning. I stood there for a while taking in the sunshine then I noticed a spawn of Satan lying dead on its back in my yard. Live animals don’t bother me at all but dead ones do. I know it has be be picked up and disposed of, but the whole idea gives me the willies (another good word by the way). My sister wanted to know how the squirrel died. I have no idea and an autopsy is not on my to-do list. Both my sister and I agreed that the removal of dead animals is a guy thing, sexist maybe, but I don’t care. My friend Tony will be over to save me. He told me to cover it with a sheet and suggested a toe tag. He also wanted to know how the squirrel met its maker. I have no idea. I have only viewed the recently deceased from the deck. There will be no services. In lieu of flowers, do nothing.

The events of the morning have intruded on my usual pleasant musings about life long ago; instead, I’m remembering snakes eating chickens in Tamale and the crocodile pond in Paga where, for the price of a chicken, you get to sit on the crocodile who has just dined on said chicken. I used to buy my chickens live from the market, but we never developed a relationship. Food shouldn’t ever have pet names.

All I could think of this morning was how excited Granny Clampett would have been to see dinner delivered.