you were right about the stars

first of all sorry for how long this is. but this post is my favorite 5 days since i have been in Ghana. also, celine dion is currently blaring in the computer lab, not unusual. and my tolerance for spicy food is increasing which means a variation from tikka masala at house of curries may be possible, though chances are still slim.

last weekend it was off to Mole. Mole like the Mexican dish, not the skin imperfection. Mole national park: home of 600 elephants, and vacation hotspot for 80-year olds (in khakis, giant Buddha earrings, and binoculars) who refuse to relinquish dreams of going on an African safari. traveling is me, Thien-Vinh, and Megan. except sometimes I call Thien-Vinh 'Rin-Tin-Tin' and she barks back. and we meet Syntia from Germany at the bus station and she ends up tagging along. for a long time I think her name is Cynthia, and it’s her accent making it sound like Syntia, but it just is Syntia. we have tickets for the 8am bus to Tamale (from Tamale we bus to Larabanga, from Larabanga to Mole) so we wake up at 5am to leave for the station at 6am, water heater, tea, sugar, mugs packed inside our otherwise outwardly appearing rugged backpacking gear. we arrive at the bus station at 730am, and it’s 830, then 930, 1030, and we leave at 11am. on the 8am bus. hours and hours of loud radio and louder soap operas later, we arrive at 1230am. as ‘white’ passengers (me white, weird, I know), we’re ran to and sweet talked so this person can take us to this hotel, and this person can get us this taxi, and finally they understand we don’t need their help and we sleep in the passenger’s lounge. don’t be fooled. passenger’s lounge = long wooden benches on an outdoor platform, security guards snoring, their flashlights sporadically shone in our faces when they arbitrarily decide to awaken for duty. we wake up at 430am, to get tickets for the 6am bus, because lonely planet told us to. 4:35am and the ‘seats are finished’ they tell us (everything in Ghana ‘finishes,’ it’s never sold-out), but DJ Ken from filaFM radio adopts us and convinces us he’s a serious man, he doesn’t deal with non-serious people, and his name alone yields favors. and maybe he was right because suddenly we were on the bus to Larabanga: home of the first mosque of West Africa, and brothers YahYah and Anoosa.

The mosque was beautiful, 600 years old and still used.

Yahyah and Anoosa are so smart, 19 and 15, respectively, and in love with our cameras. ‘I am a pho-tog-rapher’ Yahyah says over and over. ‘I am a pho-tog-rapher.’

I made a friend, our relationship was me talk-talk-talking, he blowing bubbles in response. no words, just bubbles.

me: can I take a photo of you blowing a bubble?

him: [blows bubble]

Yahyah and Anoosa are nephews of Al-Hassan, one of the Salia brothers. they started eco-tourism in Larabanga, ie 2cedis for his nephews to walk us around, show us the mosque, children always following, holding our hands, linking arms. this may be my favorite kind of tourism. Al-Hassan is all hospitality, serving us food despite our insistence that we just ate. ‘but food that isn’t free isn’t food,’ was his irrefutable response.

and finally we are driven in the community cab the 15 minutes to Mole. the cab was donated by an NGO for driving tourists to Mole, and pregnant women to the hospital in the next town to give birth. i wondered if a baby had been born in the taxi.

first baboon sighting at the front entrance!

settled in, we sit poolside with cokes and cards and swim dips while baboons swing at the giant tree yards away, pick at our bread, and elephants bathe at the water hole just below the pool area. this is the giant baboon-filled tree and those black spots in the water are elephants. and our seats atthe pool starts where the sandy dirt in this photo ends. surreal.

Mole is lovely, we sit in our bright-curtained rooms, Africa our backyard. cockroaches live with us. we name them Fred 1 and Fred 2. sunsets are pink skies, Lion King-esque tree silhouettes.

we wake up early for our safari and Abu with a gun is our guide. he has worked there for twenty years, sweet eyes and a sweet laugh.

we walk behind him through ‘the bush’, feet away from pumbas (warthogs, but spoken of as ‘pumbas’ throughout our travels). they look noble. we decided it’s the mustache. like they could smoke a pipe

when we finally see the elephants it’s magic because they’re huge and peaceful and I can’t describe their majesty. we watch their slow, heavy, dance-leap steps through the water, a parade.

elephant lovers:

evenings are teatime and spreading-out our towels on the porch and looking out at the trees and up at the stars and saying hello to the pumbas walking nonchalantly past us, close enough to be invited to tea. the next day we say our good-byes to the Freds.

this is how we get back to Larabanga. i feel like i'm flying.

we meet up with Daniel and Tara. they’re English and in love and together discovering the world. Daniel is in dreads, Tara in beads, and I admire their courage, leaving jobs and comforts only 6 months after finishing university for the adventures of W. Africa. the six of us talk about politics, life, and Tara’s father. He is the owner of Larchill Gardens in Ireland: a Victorian property with fields and lakes turned into a rarebreeds (fluffy chickens, emus, llamas, etc.) farm. Children walk through a door that stands alone in the meadow into the world of fairies, moving statues, and magical animals, kissing frogs to help sculptures regain the long-lost loves whose absences turned them to stone.

The Salia Brothers’ Guesthouse in Larabanga is a dozen children (Al-Hassan’s nieces and nephews) running around and jumping and screaming, flying colors, and I feel like they’re all walking on trampolines as they poke at us, leap at us, asking our names, teaching us songs and games. we play jump rope with them then teach them limbo.

they are fascinated with our cameras: run around, snap, run around, snap, climb to the roof, snap, ‘stay there, stay there,’ snap.

Tee-Tee's portrait of me:
my portrait of Tee-Tee:

photos taken by the kids; Larabanga through their eyes:

one of the girls prepares a delicious meal of yam stew and we sit around the table, Al-Hassan sharing his frustrations of trying to help his community develop, starting more schools, saying over and over ‘I feel I am in the wrong society’ and all I can think of is how I hope YahYah and Anoosa can go to college but it’s hard coming from a small village.

stuffed and sleepier we climb the ladder and it’s up on the roof with flowered-mattresses and our sheets to sleep under the stars. the sky is everywhere and all around, and looking up I felt we were on the bottom of a snow globe. because suddenly the world was small, the sky's edges curving under us. and I have never ever seen so many stars. I was ready for a Christmas-awaiting child to shake the globe and for the stars to come showering down like snow on our African holiday.

'I leap free this spring. On fire. How my hair curls.'

i'm behind! but frantically attempting to catch up, i promise. not this last weekend but the weekend before i visited Kokrobite Beach. we stayed at BIG MILLYS BACKYARD. a huge courtyard-esque property along the sand with huts and tents spread among the resident -dogs and -rastas that are pleased to make your acquaintance, for petting and dancing, respectively.

we were sandy and dirty, hair out to here, showering in the Atlantic.
swinging with our childhoods.
hammock-ing with our reads.
walking with shells.
and swimming with tens of naked Ghanaian children who have found the meaning of life: jump in, jump out, roll in sand, repeat.

i think they may be on to something.