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.