Back in the swing of Ghana things

We’re back! And as if transitioning from the snow and ice to the heat and dust isn’t enough, we have been having a little trouble with jetlag. Must be getting old … 

Kwame met us at the airport with his big smile and shiny taxi. Soon enough we were back at our flat, where all was pretty much as usual, sans frogs. But the usually blue sky was blocked out by the red dust – the end, Kwame assured us, of the Harmattan winds. Still, the sun remains a huge melon through the haze.

And the campus? When we left in December all was green and blooming, but now it is brown. Outside our little compound there is a sea of brown leaves blowing back and forth in little waves of crunchiness. (Okay, so that last is a bit of a stretch, but I am getting ready to return to the writing clubs at the libraries and I need practice!) Inside the compound the ginger plants are brown, but not dead. They say they will return with the rain. Which it did do yesterday, great torrential waterfalls pouring out of the spouts, splashing into the spare bedroom before I could get the shutters closed.  And Bill was out in little Abena, the Tuesday-baby car, trying to avoid being washed away.

Our neighbors, Hudu and Husseina, were over the other night with a friend, Abu. Hudu, who lived for several years in Canada, had asked us to bring him snow, so we presented him with “instant snow,” which comes in a can. He mixed it up right away and declared it “just like snow!” Abu was so impressed. Hudu mentioned that the only thing missing was the cold, and his friend said, “Is snow cold?”

And there it is, a snowball!

Abu, Hudu and Husseina mixing "snow"

Beach bar getting ready for the Sunday night beach party

Today we went to the beach outside Accra and sat in little blue chairs breathing in the aromas of humanity combined with salty air. (Don’t ask.) Bill indulged in a large beer so that I could use the excuse to drive us home – yes, I’m attempting the Ghanaian streets. After all, I drove in Uganda – nothing could top that! And, actually, dodging potholes is a sport. It’s like one of Cameron’s video games, with motorcycles and tro-tros and taxis all trying to divert you into a bad spot.

Statue of former-President Nkrumah and friend pointing the way for Ghana

Some American kids I met this afternoon asked if it was hard to come back after being home. Oddly enough, the answer is no. It’s familiar – and fun. Our friends are still our friends. Mary and her daughter Salome still throw in extra cucumbers at the night market. The swimming pool people erected some weird fences and new signs (“Do not urinate in the shower,” in the women’s; “Flush the toilet, think of the next person” in the men’s -- to which Bill responds, “give us a little water then.”). Sure, the power was off this a.m., and I am dripping as we speak. A gecko just dashed up the window screen. And, sure, we had to “watch” the Australian Open on play-by-play, old-fashioned text on the BBC website. Call us crazy, but reading writing like this:  “Djokovic, stepping in for a return, stumbles as if he's spent the evening drinking hard liquor and it's Nadal in the ascendancy, holding to love for the second game on the trot…” makes it all worthwhile.

And so it goes …