If someone were to ask me to describe my time in Ghana- which someone, proverbial or otherwise inevitably will- I am already beginning to fear how I will respond. I guess I would attempt to paint a picture instead of describing events? because I think that is the only way I could make it work (fundamental I know, but bear with me). It wouldn't begin with palm trees or monkeys or Kente cloth or elephants, the way I assume people will assume this time would…I would probably begin with the smell, and the dust…
You are invited…that's what they say here…
You are invited to walk through this smelly, dusty, sticky cloud of a city. Packed with people and presence…this place is unlike any I've ever experienced before, not in the sense that I stand out even before I can attempt t assimilate, not because I have become accustomed to the pace and the energy, but because I think that to come to this country, to really be here, you have to come to terms almost immediately with your social nakedness and be willing to wrap yourself in not what you thought Africa was, but what you become when you are here.
Ghana is the most genuine and honest and uninhibited environment I have been a part of in my limited travels. There is no room for secrets here: don't misunderstand, mystery abounds, but secrecy seems a little futile and worthless.
No one is hiding from any sort of reality. You can tell at a glance how poor- or more obviously how rich- someone is. If you need help or look interesting (or white) the door for conversation is wide open. Again though, there is a veil that the people seem shrouded in…a sort of mosquito net of African-ness and pride that I fear I can never truly penetrate for obvious reasons and maybe a few more subtle ones I will never understand, but it makes me no less passionately curious about what is behind that curtain.
I imagine we are walking as I describe this to you, and you are starting to realize that you can't smell the city anymore; no it hasn't gotten better, you are just becoming used to it. Your eyes don't sting from the dust and the sun like they did yesterday and you are following me fearlessly- well, maybe not fearless yet but with less apprehension- across the undivided and busy street amid taxis and hawkers and goats with chickens at our feet. We are walking nowhere in particular and we're not speaking because it's so loud, but somehow in all the noise you- and I, I can assure you- are thinking more clearly and quickly than you have let yourself in longer than you care to admit. And after a while, you realize that you want to not only speak to me, but to every person we pass…every hand that grabs your elbow is no longer a threat, but an invitation…you are invited to know them, and in that conversation know you.
I stop to buy us water from a girl no older than eleven, pink flip flops and a matching dress, aluminum bowl perched perfectly on her head… I stop only because it's the weekend so I know she can't be skipping school to sell (which is often the case) and secondly, and I can't help but laugh, because you are really hot. Soon you'll get used to it and understand that there is no point in worrying about how dirty you are or how sweaty your backpack is making you or how frizzy your hair is (look at mine!)- I mean, yeah…it's really hot. and sticky. Yes, even when it rains, and it probably won't anyway…I know it looks like it will. I know it's hard because everyone here is beautiful, but you'll get used to it.
We're walking again now and you're biting the corner off your water bag, wondering where to spit the plastic- the ground is the counterintuitive answer. Every child we pass waves and points and laughs- yes at you- but that's something else you'll get used to; and we continue along silently down this raucous, sweaty, sticky rabbit hole.
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