Stranger Claeys

If something is going to happen to me, I want to be there.

Love Actually
Is all around me.
I wake up with a beautiful girl named Maria lying by my side. She lets me know that today is her two year anniversary with the boyfriend she left behind in Sweden. I let her know that I am falling in love with her. Even after we celebrate the moment, I continue to contemplate accepting my part in this affair.
After rolling out of bed late I flag down a taxi to ride to class. I use my limited knowledge of Twi language to say “good morning”, ask “how are you” and reply “I am cool”. The driver smiles.
At the Institute of African Studies I listen to a historian present on the life of Marcus Garvey. I try to imagine the pride filling the air as Garvey, in his elegant uniform and sword in hand, marches down a NYC street in 1921. Suddenly, the voice of Garvey himself fills the room. I marvel over the fact that I am listening to a recorded speech, nearly 100 years later, in Ghana.
On the way back to my dormitory I find myself alone on a dirt path. The light shines down in broken rays between the trees above, giving the world around me an even greater sense of wonder. I realize where I am on earth and how long I have lived. I smile because time is limited.
A girl who loves me returns from class and we continue to talk. When our words turn into kisses I fail to recognize that Maria is not in the mood for more. She leaves my room abruptly.
I lose myself in my studies. I am to defend the progress of the African Union in a class debate next week. The organization faces challenges, yet, an integrated, prosperous and peaceful Africa, driven by its own citizens and representing a dynamic force in the global arena is on the horizon- if we wish to see it. 
I tighten the laces on my green Nike basketball shoes and then knock on Caleb’s door. We walk over to the court and discuss our aspirations. He is half Ghanaian and half Nigerian and pursuing studies in water science. I consider the prospect that his science may change the future.
I am the only obroni playing in any of the games tonight. Eight years ago basketball was my everyday routine. It feels great to be on a team again, even if our captain Tony refuses to pass the ball or sit out when he is clearly ass-tired. Our 39-17 loss still feels like a win to me.
Back at the dorm I talk with Maria about earlier that day. First, I apologize. Then she explains that I need to recognize when she does not like to be touched. I promise to respect her feelings in the future. Later, we sneak off to the shower together.
We decide it is as good a night as any to party. Sam and I make short work of a bottle of tequila and Maria nudges me on the shoulder to ask him my question. There is only one way to go about a bro-posal so I ask him outright, “Will you be my bro?” He agrees and I am relieved that I finally have an established male friend here. The tequila runs dry.
Outside of a club called Firefly a doorman stops our group with his thick forearm. Others pass by us so I ask him what is up. He tells me that they are too crowded. After letting more people in, I ask again. Now he says that he does not like how some of us look. He nods at our Ghanaian friends, including my buddy Will. Some of the girls curse him out for being racist but Will just shrugs. I realize that the club is a culture I will never understand.
A few minutes later I find myself dancing to crappy American hip-hop songs in a greasy club called Duplex. A hundred strangers dance and drink around me as I watch Maria’s blonde hair swing along to the music.
Alone in the taxi home we push the limits of Ghana’s rigid PDA norms. Time to time, the driver eyes us nervously in his rear view mirror. Twenty five and alive.  
As I turn the key in my bedroom door Will asks me if he and Claire can shimmy across my balcony to his room because he is locked out. Maria and I watch as they giggle their way across the narrow balcony ledge. I hear an “oh” right before Will falls about 15 feet to the ground below. His leg catches the roll of barbed wire, pulling it down with him. I lean over the balcony and yell, “Don’t move!” but he is already detangling himself from the razor wire. Maria runs ahead out my door and I grab my emergency first aid kit before I follow.
By the time I get downstairs Will has already made his way to a bathroom. There is blood on the floor, on the mirror and dripping from the sink. Maria is running water over a deep gouge in the fleshy palm of Will’s thumb. I struggle to put on some plastic gloves and then get to work bandaging the wound as best I can. His khaki pants are splattered with dark crimson spots. His foot is clearly bleeding as well. I realize what I did not before. We are all drunk.
The security guard comes into the bathroom complaining about bloody footprints and I yell at him to flag down a taxi. On the way to the hospital Maria and I try to keep Will awake by talking about his love life. Who knew he had a crush on Claire? He has lost a lot of blood.
At 37 Military Hospital a nurse tells us that there is no one in the entire hospital that can sew his hand. I question her again. No one. Then she asks Maria if she wants to sew it up instead.
We flag another taxi and make our way to the next hospital. I pound on the locked emergency room door and call out, “Hello!” A sleepy nurse opens the door and lets us inside. She walks like the dead but says she will call the doctor. Will lies down on a plastic bed and we talk some more about Claire.  
While cleaning out the wound the nurse informs us that no one can sew it up here either. Maria leaves the room at the sight of long needle stuck into the raw flesh. The nurse ends up sewing it after all, complaining all the while that the skin will not reach. I squeeze Will’s good hand and watch as she pokes and prods and pulls together the mess. The human body amazes me; I cannot look away. The first Muslim call to prayer rings out as the predawn light seeps through the window.
We have just enough cash to get us back to campus, sometime after 4am. We see Will to bed; he is going to be fine. I kiss Maria goodnight and hug my pillow farewell.
I am falling in love with life. 
 

Love Actually

Is all around me.

I wake up with a beautiful girl named Maria lying by my side. She lets me know that today is her two year anniversary with the boyfriend she left behind in Sweden. I let her know that I am falling in love with her. Even after we celebrate the moment, I continue to contemplate accepting my part in this affair.

After rolling out of bed late I flag down a taxi to ride to class. I use my limited knowledge of Twi language to say “good morning”, ask “how are you” and reply “I am cool”. The driver smiles.

At the Institute of African Studies I listen to a historian present on the life of Marcus Garvey. I try to imagine the pride filling the air as Garvey, in his elegant uniform and sword in hand, marches down a NYC street in 1921. Suddenly, the voice of Garvey himself fills the room. I marvel over the fact that I am listening to a recorded speech, nearly 100 years later, in Ghana.

On the way back to my dormitory I find myself alone on a dirt path. The light shines down in broken rays between the trees above, giving the world around me an even greater sense of wonder. I realize where I am on earth and how long I have lived. I smile because time is limited.

A girl who loves me returns from class and we continue to talk. When our words turn into kisses I fail to recognize that Maria is not in the mood for more. She leaves my room abruptly.

I lose myself in my studies. I am to defend the progress of the African Union in a class debate next week. The organization faces challenges, yet, an integrated, prosperous and peaceful Africa, driven by its own citizens and representing a dynamic force in the global arena is on the horizon- if we wish to see it. 

I tighten the laces on my green Nike basketball shoes and then knock on Caleb’s door. We walk over to the court and discuss our aspirations. He is half Ghanaian and half Nigerian and pursuing studies in water science. I consider the prospect that his science may change the future.

I am the only obroni playing in any of the games tonight. Eight years ago basketball was my everyday routine. It feels great to be on a team again, even if our captain Tony refuses to pass the ball or sit out when he is clearly ass-tired. Our 39-17 loss still feels like a win to me.

Back at the dorm I talk with Maria about earlier that day. First, I apologize. Then she explains that I need to recognize when she does not like to be touched. I promise to respect her feelings in the future. Later, we sneak off to the shower together.

We decide it is as good a night as any to party. Sam and I make short work of a bottle of tequila and Maria nudges me on the shoulder to ask him my question. There is only one way to go about a bro-posal so I ask him outright, “Will you be my bro?” He agrees and I am relieved that I finally have an established male friend here. The tequila runs dry.

Outside of a club called Firefly a doorman stops our group with his thick forearm. Others pass by us so I ask him what is up. He tells me that they are too crowded. After letting more people in, I ask again. Now he says that he does not like how some of us look. He nods at our Ghanaian friends, including my buddy Will. Some of the girls curse him out for being racist but Will just shrugs. I realize that the club is a culture I will never understand.

A few minutes later I find myself dancing to crappy American hip-hop songs in a greasy club called Duplex. A hundred strangers dance and drink around me as I watch Maria’s blonde hair swing along to the music.

Alone in the taxi home we push the limits of Ghana’s rigid PDA norms. Time to time, the driver eyes us nervously in his rear view mirror. Twenty five and alive.  

As I turn the key in my bedroom door Will asks me if he and Claire can shimmy across my balcony to his room because he is locked out. Maria and I watch as they giggle their way across the narrow balcony ledge. I hear an “oh” right before Will falls about 15 feet to the ground below. His leg catches the roll of barbed wire, pulling it down with him. I lean over the balcony and yell, “Don’t move!” but he is already detangling himself from the razor wire. Maria runs ahead out my door and I grab my emergency first aid kit before I follow.

By the time I get downstairs Will has already made his way to a bathroom. There is blood on the floor, on the mirror and dripping from the sink. Maria is running water over a deep gouge in the fleshy palm of Will’s thumb. I struggle to put on some plastic gloves and then get to work bandaging the wound as best I can. His khaki pants are splattered with dark crimson spots. His foot is clearly bleeding as well. I realize what I did not before. We are all drunk.

The security guard comes into the bathroom complaining about bloody footprints and I yell at him to flag down a taxi. On the way to the hospital Maria and I try to keep Will awake by talking about his love life. Who knew he had a crush on Claire? He has lost a lot of blood.

At 37 Military Hospital a nurse tells us that there is no one in the entire hospital that can sew his hand. I question her again. No one. Then she asks Maria if she wants to sew it up instead.

We flag another taxi and make our way to the next hospital. I pound on the locked emergency room door and call out, “Hello!” A sleepy nurse opens the door and lets us inside. She walks like the dead but says she will call the doctor. Will lies down on a plastic bed and we talk some more about Claire.  

While cleaning out the wound the nurse informs us that no one can sew it up here either. Maria leaves the room at the sight of long needle stuck into the raw flesh. The nurse ends up sewing it after all, complaining all the while that the skin will not reach. I squeeze Will’s good hand and watch as she pokes and prods and pulls together the mess. The human body amazes me; I cannot look away. The first Muslim call to prayer rings out as the predawn light seeps through the window.

We have just enough cash to get us back to campus, sometime after 4am. We see Will to bed; he is going to be fine. I kiss Maria goodnight and hug my pillow farewell.

I am falling in love with life. 

 

Under the Mango Tree
Heads Up: This story describes a dog being killed
Maria kicks out the sandal holding my balcony door open and lets it slam shut behind her. I look down at my laptop screen and click pause just as Grant tightens his grip on the shotgun and stares in the direction of the velociraptors. I meet Maria’s eyes with my own and she speaks first, “You absolutely should not go out on the balcony right now”. Without another word she leaves my room. I glance back at Jurassic Park one more time then push myself up off my bed. 
In the hall outside my room I find a distraught Emily, an anxious Melissa and a concerned Maria. They are talking about a dog being hung up from a tree and tortured. I instantly turn back into my room and go out on my balcony. The giant mango tree not 20 feet away has many low lying branches. I do not see a dog. The next nearest trees are both a hundred feet to my left and right and are barren. I see no dog anywhere.
Back in the hall I listen as Emily describes watching a man string up a dog and beat it, then cut its neck. Melissa corrects her and says he cut it down from the tree. “Where?” I ask. “Right outside,” they tell me. 
I return to my balcony, this time squinting my eyes. Between the leaves I can just make out a beige furred animal on its side under the mango tree. I slip into my sandals and hurry outside. 
As I approach the mango tree I prepare myself. If its dead, do I bury it? If it is alive can I save it? If it is suffering, do I put it out of its misery?
The dog lies dead on its side. A deep gouge across the throat reveals bone and cartilage beneath. A thin blue rope is barely visible wrapped around its neck. There is blood splattered on the wilted brown leaves. Its eyes stare sadly. Its tongue hangs loose. 
I notice a pain in my head, behind my right eye. I am standing arms crossed under the tree as Ghanaian students walk on the path behind me. I distract myself from wondering where the man is who did this, or why he did it, by wondering where I can find a shovel. I will bury this dog.
My friend Sam is walking my direction from the market and by his gait and pace I can tell he knows what I am staring at. I immediately ask him what he saw. He tells me that a man hung the dog and smashed it over the head with a wooden plank, then cut its throat with a sword. I point down to a wooden plank at my feet and he confirms it was the one used. I ask him what the man looked like and where the man went. He points up and says, “It was that guy in the blue shirt.” I stiffen my posture and say, “You mean the one on the bike riding right towards us?”
At first I think the man on the bike is going to try and ride by me so I get ready to block his way. However, he veers to my right under the mango tree as if he is on a mission. I notice a long machete strapped to a cardboard box on his bike. Before I can ask him anything I hear a woman’s call from behind me, “Hello?”
I turn to find an older market woman in her apron waddling towards us. I scan back and forth between her and the man until she is close. “It’s my dog,” she claims.
Sam is quick to respond. “If it’s your dog then why did he kill it?”
“Please, I asked him to take care of it. I did not think he would do it like this. My own daughter is crying because she has seen it. I have two other dogs. I thought he would take it.”
Sam questions why she wanted this as I watch the man grab the lifeless dog by its ankles and muscle it into a burlap sack. The woman is saying something regarding students complaining about the dog in the market and Sam is telling her what has happened is wrong. I keep watching as the man ties the sack and rests it inside the box on his bike. I take a gulp to ready my voice as he approaches us.
The market woman and he exchange local words first. She produces the distinctive red, blue, and green Ghanaian bills from her apron for payment. My brow furrows as I witness the almost ten dollar transaction finalized. I am still cross armed as the man looks up at me and our eyes lock. He is wearing a black and green Celtics hat turned slightly askew. I cannot discern anything exceptional about his face. It is just the face of some man.
“Hey,” I begin shakily, “You should not have done this right here for everyone to see. This was suffering. We all watched this dog suffer”.
Sam points over his shoulder towards an open field, “You should have taken this dog far away”. 
The man nods and says in a heavy accent, “I know. It was a short rope. This doesn’t happen in America. I know.” He smirks, mummers “obroni” and kicks his bike forward. I watch as he pedals off with his work.
The woman stares down at the bloodied tree roots. “I didn’t know,” she says apologetically. “Not like this.”
I sit on my balcony in the last glow of daylight. A dog was killed under the mango tree today. 
There are more things to admire in men than to despise, I recall.
I hope I never harden to the truth of silence.  

Under the Mango Tree

Heads Up: This story describes a dog being killed

Maria kicks out the sandal holding my balcony door open and lets it slam shut behind her. I look down at my laptop screen and click pause just as Grant tightens his grip on the shotgun and stares in the direction of the velociraptors. I meet Maria’s eyes with my own and she speaks first, “You absolutely should not go out on the balcony right now”. Without another word she leaves my room. I glance back at Jurassic Park one more time then push myself up off my bed.

In the hall outside my room I find a distraught Emily, an anxious Melissa and a concerned Maria. They are talking about a dog being hung up from a tree and tortured. I instantly turn back into my room and go out on my balcony. The giant mango tree not 20 feet away has many low lying branches. I do not see a dog. The next nearest trees are both a hundred feet to my left and right and are barren. I see no dog anywhere.

Back in the hall I listen as Emily describes watching a man string up a dog and beat it, then cut its neck. Melissa corrects her and says he cut it down from the tree. “Where?” I ask. “Right outside,” they tell me.

I return to my balcony, this time squinting my eyes. Between the leaves I can just make out a beige furred animal on its side under the mango tree. I slip into my sandals and hurry outside.

As I approach the mango tree I prepare myself. If its dead, do I bury it? If it is alive can I save it? If it is suffering, do I put it out of its misery?

The dog lies dead on its side. A deep gouge across the throat reveals bone and cartilage beneath. A thin blue rope is barely visible wrapped around its neck. There is blood splattered on the wilted brown leaves. Its eyes stare sadly. Its tongue hangs loose.

I notice a pain in my head, behind my right eye. I am standing arms crossed under the tree as Ghanaian students walk on the path behind me. I distract myself from wondering where the man is who did this, or why he did it, by wondering where I can find a shovel. I will bury this dog.

My friend Sam is walking my direction from the market and by his gait and pace I can tell he knows what I am staring at. I immediately ask him what he saw. He tells me that a man hung the dog and smashed it over the head with a wooden plank, then cut its throat with a sword. I point down to a wooden plank at my feet and he confirms it was the one used. I ask him what the man looked like and where the man went. He points up and says, “It was that guy in the blue shirt.” I stiffen my posture and say, “You mean the one on the bike riding right towards us?”

At first I think the man on the bike is going to try and ride by me so I get ready to block his way. However, he veers to my right under the mango tree as if he is on a mission. I notice a long machete strapped to a cardboard box on his bike. Before I can ask him anything I hear a woman’s call from behind me, “Hello?”

I turn to find an older market woman in her apron waddling towards us. I scan back and forth between her and the man until she is close. “It’s my dog,” she claims.

Sam is quick to respond. “If it’s your dog then why did he kill it?”

“Please, I asked him to take care of it. I did not think he would do it like this. My own daughter is crying because she has seen it. I have two other dogs. I thought he would take it.”

Sam questions why she wanted this as I watch the man grab the lifeless dog by its ankles and muscle it into a burlap sack. The woman is saying something regarding students complaining about the dog in the market and Sam is telling her what has happened is wrong. I keep watching as the man ties the sack and rests it inside the box on his bike. I take a gulp to ready my voice as he approaches us.

The market woman and he exchange local words first. She produces the distinctive red, blue, and green Ghanaian bills from her apron for payment. My brow furrows as I witness the almost ten dollar transaction finalized. I am still cross armed as the man looks up at me and our eyes lock. He is wearing a black and green Celtics hat turned slightly askew. I cannot discern anything exceptional about his face. It is just the face of some man.

“Hey,” I begin shakily, “You should not have done this right here for everyone to see. This was suffering. We all watched this dog suffer”.

Sam points over his shoulder towards an open field, “You should have taken this dog far away”.

The man nods and says in a heavy accent, “I know. It was a short rope. This doesn’t happen in America. I know.” He smirks, mummers “obroni” and kicks his bike forward. I watch as he pedals off with his work.

The woman stares down at the bloodied tree roots. “I didn’t know,” she says apologetically. “Not like this.”

I sit on my balcony in the last glow of daylight. A dog was killed under the mango tree today.

There are more things to admire in men than to despise, I recall.

I hope I never harden to the truth of silence.  

A Post Grad’s Journey Back to Africa

I once had a bar patron joke that my degrees in anthropology and political science would help me study the politics of dead dinosaurs. Indeed, misconceptions about social science in general and anthropology in particular abound.  

Yet, a haunting question still emerges: What has my major prepared me to do in life?

After graduating from UVM in 2011 I was determined to stop working in restaurants and to start climbing the ladder towards my dream career of humanitarian advocacy in Africa.

I quit the restaurant and became a substitute teacher at South Burlington High School. It paid substantially less than the service industry but reinvigorated me to seriously consider my future.

I was surprised when offered a permanent position as a Para-educator, teaching a multitude of subjects to students with developmental and behavioral challenges. I had no experience in education or mental health. Along with tutoring after school I maintained a just-livable income.  

I saw teaching as temporary and was still troubled with how I could transition into my career. Reminiscing on my 2010 study abroad in Ghana had my feet itching to travel again. This is how I found myself in the UVM Fellowships office of the wise and wonderful Britten Chase.

Brit directed me towards a Fulbright Scholarship as an English Teaching Assistant. This prestigious grant through the US Department of State seemed a perfect way to develop my experience as a cultural and political foreign ambassador. I applied to teach English in Nepal.

Knowing that a Fulbright grant was far from guaranteed I also applied for an English teaching job in the Republic of Georgia through a private company called Greenheart Travel. I was fairly confident that if Fulbright fell through, Greenheart would accept me.

I was elated to find out that I was one of a dozen finalists for six Fulbright grants to Nepal. However, come spring I was not chosen. Shortly thereafter, and without explanation, I was not accepted to teach in Georgia either. My fiery plans had been smothered. Moreover, I felt as if I failed to live up to the expectations I set for the mentors who tirelessly advocated on my behalf.

Out of work for the summer my mind grabbed wildly for any vine swinging any direction. I liked teaching; maybe I should get a teaching degree online? My father and grandfather both served in the Air Force; maybe I could become an intelligence officer? I applied to be an orderly at Fletcher Allen with a dream of returning to nursing school. I filled out my Peace Corps application for the third time but still did not submit it. I had a new plan every week.

I found myself tending bar again to pay the bills. I also jumped ship from mental health work in public education to community support work with a private organization called the Howard Center. I excelled at and enjoyed working with marginalized groups in the community. I felt the work was more in tune with my career goals and balanced my less altruistic job behind the bar.

I committed to working hard, saving my money, and widening my range of opportunities so that I could reignite my humanitarian desires in the world region I coveted most: Africa.  

For most of 2012 I worked 60+ hour weeks, tucked away my cash and planned.

Meanwhile, I decided that I could profit most by continuing my education with a one year Master’s degree in African Studies from the University of Ghana.

The program was affordable, would bring me back to Africa and further develop my analytical and research skills. To help offset airfare and living costs I applied to Fulbright a second time. A funded research project in Ghana could double as my MA thesis.

I was named a finalist for my Fulbright Research Grant in 2013 but alas, I did not receive the funding. Twice a finalist may be construed as twice a failure, but the Fulbright process paid huge dividends in narrowing my focus and fueling my resolve. Another door always opens.

Last August the plane door opened up onto the runway and a surge of humid African air rushed in. My olfactory senses raced with familiarity. I was back in Ghana. Over eight months later I am now winding down my second semester of graduate study!

My program has exceeded my expectations; the cross pollination of ideas between African peers and myself has been invaluable. Particularly advantageous is the theoretical and practical foundation I have gained in social and economic development. My current field research on human rights and mental health in Ghana builds on my demonstrated strengths and passions and will culminate in a thesis I can be proud to present to future employers in the development and rights advocacy sectors. Of course, living and traveling within Ghana has been equally inspiring.

Looking back I realize that anthropology trained me to be an observer, a listener, and curiously watchful of human behavior. I prize cardinal anthropological values such as understanding human diversity and being able to communicate effectively. I am familiar with a wide range of beliefs and values and strive to be culturally flexible in an increasingly multicultural world. I utilize self-reflection, explanatory models and adopt broad perspectives so that I can frame an understanding of the world as it unfolds around me.

am an anthropologist and every job I have held in the last three years harnessed these skills.

I am told that it is not the destination but the journey that matters most. Without a doubt I am exactly where I belong, but it was my three year journey to get here that prepared me for it.

After living in Ghana I tend to carry less- both in things and in expectations.

This fall I will be a post-graduate once again.

Studying the politics of dead dinosaurs has never looked so promising. 

R.I.P. Chief Russel

Chief Russel was poisoned by an angry neighbor. Apparently Russ ate one of the guys hens.

He was an itchy little mutt but he was always happy to see me, which of course, made me happy too.

His owners said that shortly after his death the neighbor who poisoned him suffered a stroke…

Miss ya Russ.

R.I.P JOE

I found out earlier this week that Joe passed away. Apparently they found him early in the morning suffering from a massive nose bleed. There was nothing they could do and he died from the blood loss.

He was a good friend.

I will miss him.

Guinness, Jameson and Green Suspenders

Ryans, the oldest Irish Pub in West Africa was bought out by a South African chain called “Cuzzy Bros” sometime in the last four years. Saddened by this I almost didn’t go out, but ultimately had too much energy to pass down the some-what acceptable atmosphere of an English pub, even if it was called “Honeysuckles”. 

Rough and Rugby

The Obroni Traps killing it at their first two games against Legon Hall. I just started training along with an unofficial men’s team and we combine practices with the girls. Learning a new contact sport at 25 is super fun. Bruising a rib at practice not so much.

Hot Tamale

Stretching out on the half empty bus ride from Mole National Park to Tamale is much more pleasant than the floor ride coming in.

Tamale is the fastest growing city in all of West Africa. There is energy in the air, though a piece of me laments seeing traditional mud houses drowning amongst more modern constructions.

The motorbikes that glide by make the flat, wide roads seem a bit excessive; cars are the exception here. It strikes me as odd that I have not seen a single stray dog since we got to Tamale. Hoards of goats walk the streets with certainty. It is as if they own this town.

We decide to stay the day and night and leave back to Accra early the next morning. Half of the group elects to take the STC luxury bus while the other half opts for the less cozy Metro Mass. The difference in price is 17 cedi (roughly $7). It seems like pennies to pay for a giant comfortable seat and AC but for me it is more about my budgeting ethos as a traveler. Each time I sacrifice luxury comfort I gain one more souvenir, several beers, or a dozen market meals.

The Catholic Guest House seems like a resort after days of bus travel and living safari dirty in Mole. We book five double rooms with showers and enjoy omelets and toast for breakfast. There is a TV at the far side of the restaurant playing the Disney Channel. Strange as it is, or maybe because it is so strange, I find it hard to break my attention away from it.

The water trickling out of the shower head hits my skin and turns a dark brown before whirling down the drain. When I feel clean enough it dawns on me that my supposed tan has washed off.

In the guest house courtyard I sit cross legged, a chair supporting my back, as I meditate under the shade of a tree. The hotel guard eventually strolls by and asks me if I am alright. His brow scrunches when he realizes that I did not fall out of my chair but purposively chose to sit on the ground. He smiles as if to console me and continues on.

Fed, clean, and rested we are ready to explore some of the sights of Tamale. At the main road we wait to flag down a taxi. Sam starts to talk about how much he would enjoy riding in the back of a tuk-tuk, a three wheeled motorbike that has a small trailer attached to the rear. They are generally used to transport goods and produce but we resolve to try our luck.

A local in a light blue shirt and a pale fisherman hat is riding in our direction so a few of us point at him up and down. Right as he passes us I see an ear to ear smile spread across his face. He jerks the bike to the right and pulls over, immediately looking back as if to make sure what he saw was real. When I ask him if we can pay 5 cedi for a ride up the road he smiles again and nods.

The metal railings and floor of the trailer are piping hot from the sun but we squeeze in anyway. The bike slowly makes its way down the road, depressed by the ten obruni load it bears. Other motorists and taxis pass by to our left, the passengers smile and wave as they do. The giant market emerges to our right and dozens of people call out laughing at the sight of us. A young guy takes a picture with his phone and I nod at two elderly men sitting in the scant shade to be found. They return knowing and courteous nods.

We hesitate outside the Central Mosque unsure of the norms surrounding outsiders, especially girls, wanting to see inside. Sam and I slip off our sandals and go in while the girls wait. The ground floor is split in two basketball court sized rooms, cool and dimly lit. Just a couple of men sit or lie stretched out on their mats, watching us look around like lost souls. I approach an older man in a white tee-shirt with a picture of the Statue of Liberty on it. I ask him if there is any way we can have a look around the mosque. He asks us how we entered and we say that one of the side entrances was unlocked. He ushers us back to the girls, takes in the situation, and explains that they do not normally give tours. However, he says since we are interested he will show us around. Score.

Our impromptu guide takes us up a few flights of stairs and explains that the mosque is split in half, the women praying on one side, the men on the other. The mosque can easily accommodate a thousand people and there are plans to replace the open air windows with glass. When he asks us if we want to go on the roof we all perk up. What a treat to see Tamale from up high. Afterwards we put together 20 cedi and offer it with thanks for the tour.

Our next stop is at the local chief’s palace. The compound consists of both circular mud huts with straw roofs and modern square buildings with bright silver slanted metal roofs. A man tells us that we cannot enter unless we tell him our purpose. We say we are just interested in seeing what the palace looks like. Apparently that satisfies him and he shakes our hands one by one and leads us to a building in the center of the compound.

The open white tiled room has a two-step platform in the back corner with a leather arm chair resting at the top. Each level represents prestige, the chair being reserved for the chief himself. Three men in traditional cloth are lounging on the first step. A very elderly man sits cross legged on the top level, in front of the chair. Their expressions hardly change when we enter. They agree to pictures.

The outskirts of the Tamale market swarm with hundreds of people. Heaps of bags, shoes, and clothes are sprawled out on the ground. Stalls sell food, hats, belts, beads, fabric, books and more. In the midst of all this activity I see a toddler casually weave through the mass. It may appear chaotic but the layout of and maneuvering through the market makes total sense.

After a long trek to the Zongo district we find ourselves at one of Tamale’s famous local leather making factories. The pelts, usually goat and cow, are soaked in water and ash for a day or two. The chemical reaction makes it easy to scrape off the fur. The hairless skin is soaked one more time before being completely dried out in the sun. A combination of water and millet husks is applied to the skin to give it a distinct reddish brown color. Finally, using the heel of the foot the skin is stretched out before being sold to local artisans.

Looking down at my brown leather Keens I realize for the first time that I walk around in another animal’s skin. Seeing this process makes it a little more real for me.

Back at the Catholic Guest House we relax in the dark of night with beers and good food. The TZ and okro stew in Tamale more than makes up for the lousy food experience in Mole. Sleep comes easy to me tonight as I sprawl out in my very own bed.

The thought of the bus bringing me closer back to the reality of grad school has me alert and reflecting on the five day trip.

Ten other people made this the largest group I have ever traveled with in West Africa. The diversity of personalities surely added to the shenanigans. However, at times it made paying, decision making and negotiating an exhausting process. When it comes to backpacking here three to five people seems to strike a nice balance between fun and rugged.

More than anything, I am always happy to return home safe.

The tiredness usually fades just in time for the next adventure.

The Jacob Dilemma

It takes me a moment to recognize Jacob outside of his faded green ranger uniform. Now he has a red collared short-sleeve shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. He seems a smaller man.

Still half asleep I sit up on the lounge chair and greet him. He asks me if I will walk with him and discuss something. I am a little confused but I can sense trouble lingering in the air.

After a short stroll to the overlook I take a seat on a bench next to Jacob. He starts by asking me for a major favor because he is in a lot of trouble and without my help he will lose his job.

He confesses that after we paid and tipped him the 220 cedi for the three hour safari he returned to the ranger’s station and claimed that he had only led us on a one hour tour. He turned in 55 cedi to his boss and pocketed the remaining 165 (roughly $66). Another ranger heard about what he did and ratted him out. Now his superiors are investigating the situation.

At once I think back to the two men who sat down at our dinner table tonight. They claimed that they were interested in hearing our group experience at Mole and suggestions for improvements. I was actually excited to see the park taking such initiative. However, I thought it odd that they were so insistent on hearing and recording specific details. Additionally, they took Melissa’s phone number and Sam’s email for future correspondence. I know now that this must have been a cover for the investigation.

Jacob tells me that he stole the money because his family is in dire need. His parents are sick, he has a wife and children, and the park does not compensate him well. He stresses that he needs the money to pay his son’s school fees.

He asks me to cover for him when asked by his superiors and lie that we paid for a one hour tour only.

If the park finds out the truth he will certainly lose his job. Unemployment here is extremely high and he will have no other options to support his family. He concludes by saying that if he is fired he will surely kill himself. There is a profound sadness in his voice and his dead gray eye seems to be somehow gauging my every movement.

I look out into the distance for the perfect response. A deep breath later I am facing Jacob. First I tell him that despite his motivations what he did was wrong and that we trusted him to be honest with the money we gave him. Then I tell him that this is not my decision only, it is the groups and I must discuss it with them first. I assure him that none of us want to see him suffer but that we also do not want to find ourselves in trouble. I also stress that none of us have the capacity to give him any money to help out his situation. I sure up my tone for the final part. I tell him that killing himself will not solve anyone’s problems, especially his family’s. It is not an option and I stand up so as not to continue any discussion concerning it as such.

I tell him I will talk to the group and return to him. He takes my hand and asks for my word to help him. All I can promise him is that we will take this very seriously. He nods and waits.

Half of the group is already asleep in the room so I gather up those awake and recount the situation. Initially there is a general consensus that we should just cover for him. Sam does not want the guilt of someone killing themselves on his conscience. Chris asks whether or not lying would put us in legal trouble. Poppy seems frustrated and voices that she thinks we should turn him in, but she will not go against the group.

I have a different perspective. Jacob just expressed that he is entertaining the thought of killing himself. To me this suggests that he is mentally unstable at the moment. When people lose their ability to think rationally they are prone to commit acts of violence they might otherwise not. For me the real question is how we prioritize the safety of our group in this situation.

After some more discussion we all agree that the best option is to tell Jacob that we will cover for him, whether or not we will actually end up doing so.

Jacob is clearly anxious and struts over to our group as we make our final decision. I walk away a few yards with him and explain to him that we are prepared to cover for him if asked. I reiterate that we are still not happy with what he has done and expect no more contact with him afterwards. He asks me for my word that I will cover for him. I give him my word that I will lie if asked. I tell him to go get some sleep. He thanks me, praises God that there is hope, and walks off into the darkness.

I tell the group that we need to get to our room and be careful until our bus departure at 3am.

We all expect Melissa’s phone to ring the next day but it never happens. Jacob is on my mind for the next week and my imagination tries in vain to construct what could have happened.

Almost a week later Melissa gets a call and a text- from Jacob. He asks to speak to me.

I decide to call him back. He tells me that his superiors will be calling soon and wants to know if I will keep my word. I tell him that we have not changed our plan and that he absolutely needs to stop contacting this phone. Somberly he thanks me again and hangs up.

A few days later Melissa receives some calls from who she figures can only be Jacob’s superiors. She tells them that she does not want to speak to them and hangs up. At the same time Sam receives an email inquiring about the situation and asking for us to assist in finding out if Jacob is guilty. Sam writes that he does not want to have any involvement with the investigation.

After the refusals Melissa gets one more text from Jacob, “PS I need to speak with Matt”.

Aside from the mobile number and my name Jacob is nearly 20 hours away from where we live and has no other information about us. I no longer feel like we are in danger.

However, I did give Jacob my word concerning what I would do. I believe in second chances.

After careful consideration I have decided not to endorse what Jacob chose to do. I gave him my word that I would cover for him if I was questioned by his superiors. Ultimately, I will not put myself in the position where I have to.

I imagine that this situation can happen anywhere in the world where desperate conditions may tempt people to make desperate decisions. As a traveler, guest, and representative of the USA I am content with placing my safety first and foremost.

I have to accept that Jacob’s fate may remain unknown. 

Elephant Love

Into the Wild

When the African safari morning sun gets up so do you.

We take the nets down and roll up our mats. I MacGyver my mat and camel pack to my camera bag and eagerly look out into the bush. Jacob urges me that the others need to hurry up.

In a single file line we march out into the bush behind Jacob. We maintain a northern trajectory with the sun always ahead of us. Twenty four feet make plenty of noise so I try my hardest to reduce my own. I avoid dry leaves and twigs and place my foot toe to heel. I focus on all the sounds around me, hoping that I can hear an animal before I see it.

Jacob veers to the right, stops, and looks down. For a moment I figure that he is lost. Then I notice the two remaining ribs jutting out of a spinal column on the ground. The lions dined well on this antelope.

The next time Jacob stops I recognize right away what he sees in the sand. We are hot on the elephant’s trail.

Now and then an antelope or waterbuck will see us and gallop into the wood. They are much too fast to capture on film. Several vultures circles above and I wonder if a fresh kill is nearby. Or are they waiting on us…?

We are going on our second hour and despite Jacobs contact via cellphone with other rangers we have yet to find out where the elephants are. He encourages us to head back to the lodge and eat and try our luck seeing them this afternoon. It’s unfortunate, but as Jurassic Park taught me: animals don’t operate on park schedules. It’s the essence of chaos theory.

As we approach the hill up to the lodge we see some other groups and rangers walking towards a watering hole. There are seven elephants bathing in the water!

Dozens of spectators surrounding the pond make for a lot of noise but the elephants are no less magnificent. Two juveniles go back and forth standing on top of each other, pushing the other one out of sight underwater momentarily before resurfacing. The adults blow water out from their trunks and stand motionless save for their flapping ears. Every now and then a crocodile head will surface in the water, then dip down and vanish. Jacob tells us to watch our footing on the small cliff or we will become croc chop. I could spend all day watching these creatures.

Back up at the lodge I collect 20 cedi from each member of our group for the three hour tour. That means we are dashing (tipping) Jacob 55 cedi for his help. Considering all he put up with I figure that this is a nice gesture. He takes the cash from me with a nod.

Poppy, Maria, and I decide to take a cheaper breakfast up at the ranger’s station and split off from the rest of the group. We are eating at a small plastic table while one woman grinds ginger, the other cleans out a bowl, a baby lies sleeping on a blanket, and two young girls in dresses laugh and play.

Eventually an off duty ranger sits down by us. One of the women yells at the youngest girl for something and the ranger stands up and yells at the girl too. He grabs her by the wrist and gives her a smack across her legs. The girl’s mouth drops open, her eyes swell, and she begins to wail. Maria stands up from the table and walks briskly off out of the compound. The ranger watches her leave with a half puzzled half innocent look on his face.

Maria is from Sweden, the first country in the world to make it illegal to hit a child in any form. After some talks with her I have come to agree that the practice of an adult hitting a child should not be tolerated. It espouses that aggression from a bigger, stronger adult is an appropriate way to respond to the wrongdoing of a smaller, weaker child. Adults cannot do the same to adults.

When I was a primary school teacher here I was told that African children are more rowdy and thus need to be beaten regularly (usually with sticks). Part of me thinks this ideology may be a vestige of a colonial past, but another part sees patriarchal society in action. Here is an adult male ranger, assumingly not related to this women or her girl child at all, grabbing the child and beating her into submission for her mother. What does this really illustrate?

The group decides to go on a jeep safari after breakfast but Chris and I stay behind to relax. I stretch and meditate out on the overlook, float in the pool, and write.

I return to the ranger’s station to get some waakye (rice and beans) for lunch. As I wait for the food I play mancala with one of the women. The folding two sided wooden board has six slots on each side. The point of most mancala games is to move the small green seeds from one hole to the next and depending on the rules, capture as many as possible.

The woman balances the board across her lap, using her right hand to scoop up the seeds and play and the left arm to hold her infant to her breast as it feeds. By the time I realize the rules of this particular game she has already taken quite a lead on me. Every time she captures seeds she laughingly says, “I catch you obruni”.

Watching the sun set feels like saying good bye to this wonderful wilderness.

The plan is for all of us to squeeze into a two bed room tonight, wake up around 3am and catch the bus that leaves the park back to Tamale. Before I know it I am sleepily stretched out on a pool lounge chair staring up at the stars.

That is when I hear a familiar Ghanaian voice ask Sam if I am around…

Mole Wildlife