Straddling two worlds

Everywhere there is evidence that Ghana is in the midst of change. A country it seems still very much of villages, it is being forced to find a place for the modern world alongside the old. The two coexist everywhere, reminding me of that awkward age at which our daughter Lily started carrying a purse but only as a place to keep her candy.

Passing a village of mud huts, one sees sprouting from between the crude structures, like stray dandelions, bamboo poles on which have been fastened simple TV antennas. On the road, like a metaphor for the country itself, a truck carrying shiny, brand-new Caterpillar tractors honks at the slow-moving truck in front of it whose bed is heaped with piles of green bananas.

Dogs and stray goats wander the street beside boys talking on their cell phones. A woman hacks open a coconut with a machete below a sign extolling the convenience of the BlackBerry. The examples abound.

Perhaps this is nothing new for Cape Coast. The first to be colonized and long-time hosts to a series of foreign visitors from the developed world, its residents are not strangers to the strange and miraculous. Such things have been arriving from outside for generations, be it the Gatling gun or the MP3 player.

This experience has also nurtured a tireless entrepreneurial zeal among the city’s residents. Everyone has started a business or is searching for capital to get one started. And many do not limit themselves to a single enterprise, pursuing opportunities for economic advancement on the one hand, while making room for community-minded projects on the other.

Yesterday alone I met three young men who claim to have foundations in the works designed to benefit their own. One also makes jewelry, the other coffee at his coffee shop near the Cape Coast Castle. A third is an artist who assured me he is a man who “wants to take care of himself like any man.”

A colorful history

Global Mamas, the fair-trade cooperative with which Shawn is working, was begun in 2003 as part of Women in Progress, an NGO established by two Peace Corps veterans, Kristin Johnson and Renae Adam.

Kristin was stationed in Cape Coast in the late-90s, and helped establish a credit union that today boasts more than a 1,000 members. She currently manages the state-side half of the business, living in Minneapolis, Minn.

For her Peace Corps assignment, Renae lived a short distance outside Cape Coast and helped her village build a water pipeline system to save the local women from the long, hot walk to collect water. It was at the time of its construction the most successfully funded project in Peace Corps history. The system bears her name to this day. Renae, who lives in Accra, manages the production portion of the operation.

Starting with six women, the cooperative now boasts more than 300 batikers, seamstresses and jewelry artists scattered across Ghana in Accra, Cape Coast, Krobo, Ajimako and Ho. Many of the local producers, which started as one-person operations, have now taken on employees, extending the economic lifeline made possible by Global Mamas.

Among the first to join the cooperative in 2003 was a small batiking shop called Eli Emma after its two creators. Today, Eli and Emma have a staff of eight young local women that each week helps design, dye and batik a range of patterns for Global Mamas. Their fabric is then cut and sewn in shirts, skirts, dresses and other articles of clothing.

We visited the shop, which sits literally steps from the beach. Cool ocean breezes blow in the large open windows, rustling the fabric. The plain room is dark and makeshift and smells of the melting paraffin, which bubbles in a pan over a brazier. The stamps used to design the fabric, once carved from wood, are today cut from foam, a much more convenient tool as it holds more wax.

It is a cramped workspace, with a low ceiling and no electricity or running water. The weathered walls are dark from smoke and are lined with a multitude of old stamps in a dizzying array of designs. It all seems less an artist’s studio than a secret backwoods still.

But the women tend to their tasks with smiles, patience and incredible good humor, all looked over on this day by Emma, who is firm but loving in her direction. Emma is probably in her mid-50s. She is round and quick to smile and bears the confidence that here only comes from knowing that your next meal is assured.

“Are any of these girls your daughters?” I ask her.

“They are all my daughters,” she says. This she repeats, but more to herself than to me.

The fishermen at work

The other morning, we watched, and as it turned out, listened to the fishermen bring in the day’s catch. It is a monumental process for scant reward. They push out to sea in darkness, captaining crude, basic crafts hewn from enormous trees cut mostly in the eastern Volta region.

I’m no boater, and I’m certainly no fisherman, but to the untrained eye it’s actually something of a wonder these behemoths float. When idle on the beach they sit dumb and heavy on the sand like an abandoned parade float.

Some do employ basic sails that look like something cooked up by Tom Hanks in “Cast Away.” But most seem to rely on human power, attested to by the physiques of the fishermen themselves. These men are specimens, bodies hardened and chiseled like the very wood of the boats they navigate. It’s hard not to feel like a fillet of cod when standing beside them.

At about 8 a.m. the boats come and the herculean task of bring in the lines begins. This takes upwards of 30 men or more, with most manning the lines as if in a pitched tug-of-war with the ocean, which is, in fact, what it is. Meanwhile, other men at varying depths do what they can to guide the net still in the water. And during the entire process, which drags the men down the beach, they … sing. This is “Graceland” kind of stuff, songs to give you chills. “Come in, fish. Yeah, yeah. Come in, fish.”

This goes on for perhaps an hour, tugging and singing, shouting, moving down the beach. When the net is finally beached, hopefully as full of fish as this one was, it is shared among all who participated. A line of men with large metal bowls forms, removing piles of wriggling fish to a safe distance. Piles are dispersed as a retinue of gleaners scurries about to retrieve any scraps left behind.

And then just like that it is over. The fish are on their way to the market, while the men gather up the hundreds of feet of net over their shoulders to make their way back to the boats, where they prepare to do the same thing tomorrow.

The Kwaws

We are now very comfortably set up at the home of Wallace and Aba Kwaw about 20 minutes outside Cape Coast at the turn in a bumpy dirt road. Wallace, a tour guide at the Elmina Castle for over 20 years, is now a retired man of leisure. Possessed of great charm and wit, and the owner of perhaps the most mellifluous accent in Ghana, Wallace now devotes his energies to reading and watching as much soccer as his satellite dish can deliver.

On the advice of Kristin Johnson, along with Renae Adam one of the brains behind the creation and success of Global Mamas/Women in Progress, we brought Wallace a stack of books about American politics as well as a cache of magazines. Kristin lived with the Kwaws for three years during her Peace Corps years in Ghana and assured us this would be a most welcome gift.

Reading of this kind has made Wallace an astute observer of American politics and he is not the least bit shy about sharing his feelings about the same. As we drove into town together the other day, passing a shop peddling an array of rather weathered looking appliances, he said, “There’s all the garbage you sent us.” This was followed by his trademark laugh.

Our first night we spent asking and answering questions. When Shawn finally turned in, I stayed up and watched some soccer with Wallace, figuring it was time I educate myself about what is the world’s most popular spot and an absolute obsession in Ghana.

Aba, his wife of some 30 years, is a school teacher and cook and caretaker for the three kids still at home, Desmond, Mavis and Gifty, as well as the revolving array of volunteers and other short-time residents living temporarily in her large home.

For Aba, we brought a cookbook of American dishes, a pair of kitchen knives and some thin cutting boards. The arrangement is she will cook for us if we ask, charging 2 Ghanaian dollars a meal, which is equivalent to about US$2 and a steal.

The patriarchal nature of Ghanaian culture means Aba is not as open in conversation as her husband, preferring short answers and smiles to our questions. She largely concentrates on her chores in the house, with help from the kids, and then quietly retires to some other part of the large, rambling house.

The drive to Cape Coast

As we climbed into our taxi in Accra, our driver, Kobe (see left; I'm on the left), explained that his car had been chronically breaking down. He had come from Cape Coast that morning and very matter-of-factly stated that the engine had unceremoniously stopped at least 10 times en route.

“The trip will be long today,” he explained to Renae, who regularly uses him to transport new volunteers to Cape Coast and to move Global Mamas materials between the two stores.

So we set in for a long day in the un-air conditioned cab. I, for one, was looking forward to it as it would be our first glimpse of certain sections of Accra and then of the countryside. I was not disappointed.

While the traffic getting out of the city was at times slow enough to actually really get to know the vendors that approached our window, there was never a shortage of things to look at. It could be a tro-tro full of people pulling up beside us, a couple of guys taking a whiz at the roadside (so common a practice “Do no urinate here” signs are a regular sight), a group of laughing uniformed students or some new thing being carried on a head (e.g., a sewing machine, a bucket of fish).

Frequent sources of amusement were the shop signs along the way. Ghanaians love a catchy business name and as a largely Christian nation seek to shoehorn in mention of God or Jesus wherever possible, making for some very funny results. Others appear to be the product of a break down in translation from the native language into English. Here are just a handful of the signs we saw heading west:

· Oops Night Club
· God First Spare Parts
· Peculiar Child Academy
· Doctor Jesus Prayer Ministry
· Abundant Grace Plumbing
· Near Glory Oil Filling Station

Once out of Accra traffic opened up dramatically and we rattled along in the taxi with all the abandon of an empty can rolling down a flight of stairs. Kobe, our driver (see picture above), proved a pretty taciturn sort. We briefly touched on the upcoming U.S. election and he shared his support for Obama.

When I asked about the Ghanaian presidential election, scheduled to take place on Dec. 7, he dismissed it, saying the New Patriotic Party would win. He seemed resigned to this and the fact that, as he told me, taxis drivers would not benefit from the new administration. This seemed to put him in a disagreeable temper and he remained quiet from then on.

Luckily for us, the car only broke down once, and after just a few minutes under the hood Kobe had us back on the road. We made good time on what was a beautiful drive. We passed through long stretches of lush jungle of palm and bamboo on either side of the road broken up by busy little towns.

Commerce clung to the roadside. From plain thatch coverings to just a spot of dirt, people sold pineapples, tangerines, bananas, piles of coconuts and the occasional grilled grasscutter (think nutria) splayed on a stick. Men, women and children walked along carrying their machetes from or to something that needed hacking or pushed ramshackle wooden flatbeds or merely stood, arms behind their backs, and watched the cars pass.

I could’ve comfortably continued for hours and was actually a bit sad when we finally pulled up in front of the Global Mamas store in Cape Coast. This was all forgotten moments later with the warm welcome we received from the staff at the store. It struck me that this group of perhaps 10 Ghanaians, two Americans and one Japanese would likely become good friends over the next three months, and I felt restored by that idea.

Taking a walk

When you’re walking down the street, especially a street on which there are numerous stands peddling t-shirts or sandals or CDs, do not, and I repeat do not, even cast a passing glance at their wares. To do so is to tacitly ask – nay demand – to be beset by the eager vendors. And once you stop for one it is like a wounded gazelle has fallen, calling every hungry animal from the bush.

I thought he had asked me if I would take his picture. I’d felt photographically handcuffed by the Ghanaians’ sensitivity about having their picture taken, frustrating given their beauty and the sheer abundance of incredible picture opportunities. So I’d stopped. This was my undoing. Instead of picture I was treated to a team-delivered description of his entire t-shirt inventory. And I’m not kidding, every one.

This all attracted the attention of the guy selling leather sandals, which he deemed superior to the ones I was already wearing. Before long I was being shown sunglasses and soccer balls. One especially persistent salesman walked with me for a full block, the necessary time and distance to get the preliminaries of my nation of origin, length of stay in Ghana and name established. The latter he promised to embroider on one of the handsome bracelets he produced as if from thin air.

Just when I thought I had swum free of the current and was in open water again, a nicely dressed man, likely in his mid-50s, fell into step beside me. With all the rehearsed urgency of a telemarketer, he unfolded a story about being a Sierra Leone refugee with inheritance money back at home that he needed some help to liberate. I’m afraid he didn’t last a full block before realizing we were not destined to be partners. He may have been the 10 or 12 times I very generously wished him good luck.

Going to university

We decided to postpone our departure for Cape Coast by a day to visit the University of Ghana about 8 km outside of the city. Shawn’s professor at PSU, Kofi Agorsah, generously gave us names of colleagues of his in the Department of Archaeology.

After navigating traffic, which compares to any that might develop in the event of an approaching natural disaster, we landed at the school. The campus occupies acres and acres of land, stretching off in every direction like it has been pressed down and flattened by the sun. Luckily for us, as we didn’t know where we were going, the Department of Archaeology stood just inside the main gate.

With a bit of wandering and a question or two we tracked down Dr. Ako Okoro after making our way down a flight of stairs, through a door marked “Archaeology Annex,” and down a hallway cluttered with large bags of rocks and other specimens presumably gathered during recent field work.

A knock on the office door was answered by a hearty welcome. Dr. Okoro is a man of definite professorial bearing wearing a crisp shirt, glasses and graying goatee. His office is what one might expect of man of numerous interests and parallel research projects. Every surface is covered in stacks of paper the organization of which is hard to discern. Bookshelves are full to overflowing, and the floor covered in more paper, dusty bags, and boxes.

“I am so glad to meet you,” he said, offering as well a rough, hearty laugh that it was soon clear was the most natural thing to him. He welcomed us with incomparable good will, dismissing it as the common practice of Ghanaians.

For the next hour we discussed Dr. Okoro’s two principal projects, one devoted to fighting what he calls “water poverty” in the villages and the second to building a cultural program in which visitors to Ghana are allowed to experience first-hand various facets of Ghanaian life. We were both inspired by his passion and very appreciative of his hospitality.

When we left, we promised to come again when we returned to Accra. Shawn hopes to seek his advice about her PSU-based classwork on slavery, a specialty of Dr. Okoro’s, and I hope to take advantage of his invitation to sit in on a lecture.

Chance encounters

Shawn began her work in earnest on Monday. As part of Global Mamas’ new line of shea butter, she met with Renae and Comfort, a local woman who makes the shea butter, to discuss possible scents and packaging. We enjoyed spending much of the rest of the afternoon and evening brainstorming names for the products. A blood oath forbids me from revealing the contents of these discussions.

From there we ventured to the waterfront and the Osekan Restaurant for lunch. The Osekan overlooks the Gulf of Guinea and the scattered fishing boats bobbing a few hundred yards offshore. The boats resemble small galleons, powered by teams of oarsmen, who, working in tandem with other boats, draw in large fishing lines, all of it done without benefit of cover from the sun.

The Osekan is simple place with plain wooden tables and chairs and a nice breeze. Almost immediately we began chatting with the man at the next table, who introduced himself as Manny. Born in Tema just up the coast, but now a U.S. citizen, he lives with his wife and a small daughter in Connecticut. He had spent the previous week unsuccessfully trying to arrange visas for his two older children.

“It is very hard,” he said. “We have been apart for eight years now. My daughter doesn’t even know me and wouldn’t really talk to me.”

Despite his disappointing news, he treated us to nothing but smiles and the boundless good humor that we’re quickly learning is a national trait among Ghanaians. We thank him for introducing us to shito, a popular if unfortunately named condiment made from dried pepper, smoked dried fish, and a variety of species, and helping us get a good price on a couple of towels we bought to take with us to Cape Coast.

From the restaurant we walked the nearly gridlocked main streets past the National Court of which our taxi driver had said, “You go and they save ‘Come back tomorrow.’ And you come back and they say ‘Come back tomorrow.’ They love the word ‘tomorrow.’” My attention, it should be said, was divided between this story and the vendor who approached my window with a string of desiccated rats for sale.

It had grown hotter since we’d sat down for lunch, and Shawn’s washing down her food with a Ghana Guinness, which we later learned is made here with a 7.5 percent alcohol content, made the sun seem very close.

Our plan was to visit the nearby art center and then venture over to the sprawling Makola market. Something about the combination of the heat, the beer, the shito and the assault of stall vendors at the art center proved too much for Shawn. I offered to secure her a tincture of desiccated rat but she preferred an early return to the house and a nap.

For dinner she and I and Renae and Callum, a volunteer from Scotland, enjoyed a fantastic dinner of Lebanese food before taking in a few nightcaps at a nearby pub. We attempted a few games of pool but had more success with the drinking.

A busy place

Accra is a busy place. With a population of nearly 2 million, the city is teeming with activity, from the legion of taxis, to the tro-tros (mini-buses) bursting at the rivets with passengers, to men pushing, pulling and sometimes dragging simple wooden carts, to a parade of those on whose heads sits a supermarket’s worth of items. For the curious, here’s a short list of things I’ve seen carried hands-free:


· Tangerines
· Towels
· Tables
· Tree limbs
· Apples
· Water bottles

It has occurred to me that adopting a similar practice in Portland would give busy urban sorts the flexibility to enjoy their iPhones, Blackberries and iPods while also drinking a specialty coffee drink, all the while knowing that one’s head is protected from the rain.

Traffic is a challenge, both in the number of vehicles on the road and the decidedly laissez-faire approach to movement. Drivers generally keep to their side of the road, but only while it’s convenient. Meanwhile, those without wheels weave through this unpredictable mess with all the aplomb of a first-rate Frogger player, never dropping a single pineapple from the pile perched atop their head.

See more pictures

Oh, and if you want to see other pix, take a look at our evolving photo album.

Readying for Cape Coast

Volunteers from Global Mamas’ Krobo and Cape Coast locations regularly find themselves at the Accra house to gather provisions, or upon exiting or entering the country. Assignments vary from working on the batiking effort that takes place in Cape Coast or the beading work that takes place in Krobo.

Shawn has been assigned to the larger office in Cape Coast, located about four hours east and up the coast from Accra. We are scheduled to make our way there on Tuesday, giving us tomorrow to finish any final preparations and to give Shawn a chance to meet with some manufacturers as part of Global Mamas’ developing shea butter and “black” soap production.

We also hope to see a bit more of Accra.

Talking to the other volunteers has only deepened our excitement about seeing Cape Coast and meeting our host family, whose hospitality has received rave reviews.

Haircuts and karaoke

One doesn’t go to Africa to find a Filipino karaoke party. But sometimes it just finds you. More on that in a moment. In the meantime, I can relate that tropical heat is, in fact, hot. Upon stepping outside the air seems to have a kind of mass of its own, like yogurt, say, and it lays on you and drips off. And this is, by all accounts, the cool season. So I had no choice but to liberate my head of hair. Goodbye Hardy Boys hair, hello free top.

I can also confirm that both the chicken and the pork are deliciuos, and the hot sauce bona fide, at the Tasty Jerk. They are well matched with a large Gunder beer. I can’t tell you where it is or how to get there, so perhaps there is something unfair in my sharing the recommendation. But unfortunately I must seize this rare opportunity to use the words “tasty” and “jerk” together.

We took the day off today, and did little that took us out of the compound; when you awake at 10 the afternoon can disappear quickly. I whiled away some time researching the origin of the constellation of bites I somehow acquired overnight, but decided they gave my skin an added decorative touch that is not without its charms.

This brings me back to the Filipino karaoke party, about which I don’t quite know where to start. It was your typical house party, I suppose. But it was a real United Nations of drunks and bad balladry. We made sure the U.S. was well represented in both categories. But the hosts were very hospitable, providing food and drink to any and all who came. Shawn thanked them with a rousing rendition of Gloria Gaynor's “I Will Survive.” To promote continued positive relations, I steered clear of the microphone.

In addition to the hosts, who are in Ghana in varying business capacities, those in attendance included a representative from the Danish embassy, a passel of former Peace Corps volunteers, development workers of various stripes and a revolving cast of others.

The volunteer house

The volunteer house is actually two buildings, one in which Renae lives, though she generously shares the common space with the ever-changing cast of volunteers, and an outbuilding that has two rooms with two bunkbeds each, a shower room, a bathroom and a small kitchen. There is an AC unit in one, but its labored operation does not produce much cool air, while the other room is outfitted with a large fan that does seem to fight the heavy, humid air.

Going to Greece

“I will take you to Greece,” Duncan said.
“Greece?”
“He takes all the new people there,” Renae said.
“What is it?”
“You just have to go and see,” she said, smiling. “Duncan, this time just make sure you bring them all back with you. Last time he lost one.”
“Lost one?”

Duncan led Shawn, Haley, Laura and me away from the bar, down the uneven road a block or two, then a couple of hundred yards down a rocky dirt side road lit only by the sliver of moon above. Then, without warning, we turned into a darkened courtyard, down a broken stone path, around a shed-like structure and onto a porch. There stood a small bar and a woman who poured us glasses of palm wine.

“This is for akwaba, like a welcome to Ghana,” said Duncan, handing us the distasteful-looking stuff, making sure that we accepted the glass with our right hand (doing anything but one particular thing with your left hand is a no-no).

In the dim light of a single, naked bulb, we clinked glasses and downed the fiery liquor.

Coughing, 22-year-old Haley said, “It tastes like nail polish.”
“We do have one called ‘Nail Polish,’” Duncan said. “You want to try?”
“No, no, thank you,” she said, laughing.

“Greece,” it turns out, came from the inexplicable presence on the rounded porch of half a dozen Greek-looking columns. These gave the spot, lit as it was on the darkened road, the appearance of a derelict plantation house or a once-grand home left to the riot of the tropical elements.

“One for the road?” Duncan said.
“One for the road,” the server woman repeated sleepily, monotone.
Another round was served and tossed back.

We then walked back to the bar, had a couple more drinks, got to know our new friends a little better and finally drove back to the volunteer house and collapsed into bed happy to finally be here.

The cold drink

As we drove through the dark streets, past spots of light at small road-side stands, Renae explained that she had been in Ghana nearly eight years, coming originally on an assignment with the Peace Corps. She launched Global Mamas/Women in Progress, a non-governmental organization (NGO), approximately about six years ago, and she has the stories to prove it.

Our first stop was to a jerk chicken restaurant in the Osu neighborhood of Accra to pick up three other volunteers. Haley is from Eugene and had only just arrived as well, choosing to fly directly rather than break up her trip as we had. Laura, from England, has been in Ghana two months, and Callum, a photographer from Scotland, on his fifth trip to the country.

We found our cold drink, and then some, at Duncan’s, an outdoor bar with blaring music and well-received glasses of bubra, or draft beer, and a delicious gin and lime concoction. The proprietor, a somewhat disheveled and more than somewhat drunk Ghanaian, greeted us very warmly, teaching us the unique handshake-cum-mutual finger snap that is the custom here.

Landing in Accra

The airport is small but more efficient than I had anticipated. There was a moment of panic when the customs agent, after inspecting our passports, informed us that despite our three-month visas he would give us only two months. We questioned him until he asked us if we would prefer a one-month. We acceded and were to learn that the switch to two month is standard, though no one was able to explain why the consulate in the U.S. continues to issue the three-month variety. We were also briefly tested:

Agent: Who are you voting for for president?
Us: In the United States?
Agent: Yes, who are you voting for?
Us: Um, well, uh…
Agent: Barack Obama?
Us: Well, we…
Agent: You must vote for Barack Obama. He has a vision!
Us: Yes, we totally agree.
Agent: (stamps passport) OK. Have a good stay.

The bags were easy to spot on the conveyer, but a little harder to drive on the smallish, errant-wheeled cart. Imagine a drunken man transporting three drunken friends in a shopping cart. Exiting the airport we were greeted by two long rows of touts and hotel reps, and among them one white face. This would be Renae Adam, our contact, and one of the principals of Global Mamas/Women in Progress.

We couldn’t have asked for a better, warmer greeting. She helped us navigate the cart across the street, past a cast of characters looking to help us carry the bags and finally to a parking lot where her SUV was parked.

Renae: Are you guys tired or are you interested in a cold drink somewhere?
Us: Cold drink, cold drink.

The flight to Accra

London’s Heathrow Airport is the picture of efficiency. It is open and airy and everything is well marked. They even staff areas with courteous attendants to answer questions and politely direct you. Even the security check, a laborious process in the States that seems at any moment ready to devolve into chaos, is at Heathrow somehow managed with patience and care.

Upon finding our gate we began to feel excited, noting that we had in crossing the threshold to gate A10 suddenly become the minority. The seats were occupied by Ghanaians returning home, each dressed crisply and carrying their hefty, 90-proof duty-free bags.

The six-hour flight passed comfortably, helped along by a couple of cans of Fuller’s London Pride beer, and for Shawn an Ambian, some wine, and a couple of vodka tonics. It’s a bit like traveling with Lindsay Lohan.

As we prepared for our final descent, the pilot announced that it was nearly 8 p.m. in Accra, cloudy, with humidity at “just about 100 percent.” And to think people laughed at my sponge clothing® idea.

Greg's bday

Today was my birthday. It started with 13 hours of sleep and ended with our remembering to take the first pill in what will be our daily anti-malaria regimen. Curiously, the pill bottle notes that we must not lie down for at least 30 minutes after ingesting, leading to the rather comical situation in which Shawn and I, arriving home late and tired, are forced to stand or sit in our tiny room until well past midnight.

In between, we enjoyed an unusually sunny and warm London afternoon, a perfect complement to a day of walking and gawking. I last visited London 20 years ago and hadn’t remembered it as being an especially interesting or memorable city. (Sorry to the Anglophiles among you.) But this time I very much enjoyed the cobbled, old-world sidestreets, the imperial bearing of the buildings and the ever conveniently located pubs. Though I do have some memory of appreciating the latter before. Regarding the pubs, I will say this, however: They just can’t compete with the innumerable beer options available in Portland. Only six taps? How the mighty have fallen.

We visited the National Gallery (highlight: Seurat’s "Bathers at Asnieres" [1884]) and the Tate Modern (highlight: Max Ernst’s "Forest and Dove" [1927])and that thing made with soap). We had a beer at a sidewalk stand (highlight: the drinking of the beer) (see above). And the British, despite their reputation for a haughty reserve, are decidedly progressive about walking and drinking. I think we have the drunken soccer hooligan lobby to thank for that. Oy.

The night concluded beautifully with surprise tickets (from Shawn for my birthday) to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at Shakespeare’s Globe, an open-air theater built near the site of and in the style of the famed venue. We had daydreamed about seeing a show there for years and absolutely loved the performance, which at times actually reduced us to tears for laughing.

Now as our as yet unadjusted body clocks keep us wide awake (it is nearly 2 a.m.), I sign off in hopes that I’ve waited long enough before lying down.

Our London stay

I should say a few words about our accommodations in Notting Hill, the unfortunately named Reem Hotel. Actually it’s really one word and the word is “small.” Not necessarily known for my prodigious wingspan, I can nevertheless stand on the bed and nearly touch both walls. The bathroom is similarly diminutive. Let’s just say I’m thankful we brought the travel-sized toiletries. Luckily, my wife shares my opinion that a hotel is little more than a place to sleep and store one’s unmentionables. And on occasion hide out from the law.

On our way

Time was going to Africa required colonial ambitions or the fever brought on by some megalomaniacal need to find the source of the Nile or the last remaining golden-rumped lion tamarin. It was hard. Preparations were undertaken many months in advance and required provisions enough to sustain tens of men for months. Boat passage had to be secured, and a long, ugly, seasick-befouled journey undertaken. When the travelers said goodbye to loved ones, and creditors, it was with the mutual understanding that Africa might let you in, but it might just not let you out.

We’ve only traveled half way, writing this from London, but so far for us it has been exceedingly easy. Before departing we got a visa ($80). We were dosed with a tropical disease buffet that included yellow fever, meningitis, hepatitis A and typhoid ($350 total for each of us). We got 128 malaria pills ($30 for each of us), one for each day we’re in Ghana, starting two days before entering the country and continuing 28 days after leaving.

We bought plane tickets ($1,300/ea). We visited REI. We packed. And then we joined a very nicely appointed British Airlines flight and flew. (We did have to stop in L.A., which may actually even the score, but nevermind.)

Our provisions are few. I have a backpack, Shawn hers, and we each have another small carry-on. We had also agreed some weeks earlier to bringing a “couple of boxes of T-shirts” for Global Mamas, the group Shawn will be working with. They were delivered to Shawn’s parents’ place two days before our departure. When I heard Fed Ex drop them off on the deck I thought pieces of Sputnik had crashed to earth. Small boxes of t-shirts these were not. Instead, we found three 50-lb bags sitting there like the three heads from Easter Island (see pic above).

But we managed. We got the bags, and ourselves, from Portland to L.A. and then from L.A. to London with relative ease and in pretty good comfort. Once in London, the bags were conveniently stowed in left luggage to await our departure to Accra, Ghana on Friday. If we return to find the attendants wearing bright new African shirts, we’ll know someone took their tip early.

And now, after a full day’s travel, I’m sitting in a hotel near the Bayswater tube stop near London’s Notting Hill neighborhood. Shawn is sleeping and I am typing by the light of a headlamp (one of the REI purchases, $19.95). I am dog tired. But it has been a glorious day and half. I love that travel weariness.

Map

We are located in Cape Coast, which you'll find driving about four hours west of the capital, Accra.