INSTRUCTIONS FOR READING THIS BLOG

Hey folks!

Thanks for coming by. Here lives the chronicles of a 24 year old young writer who was lucky enough to snag a full ride scholarship to the inaugural Pan African Writers Forum in Accra, Ghana for 2.5 weeks during July 2008. Serious.

In order to read this properly, please note that it is a blog, which means, the newer posts push to the top. In essence, if you want to read about my experience in chronological order (which would make most sense, of course), please click the "older posts" link at the bottom of the page until you arrive at June 27th. Move up from there! You can also access this by clicking the bottom link in the sidebar labeled June. The first entry is titled, "Before the Trip, a Little Context Please?"

Please do leave comments when something strikes you!

Also, more pictures from the trip can be found here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/caitlinmeissner/sets/72157606292361758/

Many thanks & enjoy!
Caitlin



(Caits & Malaika get goofy in Accra!)

AFTERMATH

P.S. Please indulge in this fabulous article my friend Binyavanga Wainaina wrote. It's simply perfect. Please note, I did not write this! Ok, now you can enjoy.

How to Write About Africa
by Binyavanga Wainaina (Kenya)
in the magazine Granta (http://www.granta.com/About)

Always use the word 'Africa or 'Darkness' or 'Safari' in your title. Subtitles may include the words 'Zanzibar', 'Masai', 'Zulu', 'Zambezi', 'Congo', 'Nile', 'Big', 'Sky, 'Shadow', 'Drum', 'Sun' or 'Bygone'. Also useful are words such as 'Guerrillas', 'Timeless', 'Primordial' and 'Tribal'. Note that 'People' means Africans who are not black, while 'The People' means black Africans.

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it - because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can't live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love - take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa's situation. But do not be too specific.

Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life - but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.

Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the 'real Africa', and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people's property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).

After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa's most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or 'conservation area', and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa's rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.

Readers will be put off if you don't mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical - Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).

You'll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.

Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.

MEDAASIE MEANS THANK YOU IN TWI

Waiting for take off on the plane. There are so many thoughts swimming in my mind. How to process this all? I feel like I am leaving family. Who knows if and when I will see some of these folks again.

My last night in Kokrobite I shared the moon with David on the beach, my Ghanaian sweetheart. We danced in the sand and kissed under the clouds, just how every good story should end. "I will miss you too much," he says, "wait? Is it too or so?" He tells me he loves me in Twi, at which I laugh. David works at the Institute and we met just a few days ago, developing a brief and secret liason, since he is not allowed to converse with the residents and our hand holding could have potentially gotten him fired. I find his smile maddening.

"e'ry second, e'ry time, e'ry ting."

Yesterday Chelsea and I picked up our dresses at the seamstress, a small shanty shop with open windows and no lights, that just barely fits the four old fashion foot peddled sewing machines and the women who power them. The dress had to be altered upwards of five times to fit my body, but within an hour it sat perfect over each small curve. We laughed and danced with the women to music pumping just outside, taking our hands in theirs and spinning around. One yelled, "you have small boobs!" (True enough.) David showed us the shop (we would have never found it otherwise) and he arrived on bike just after 5pm to make sure we made it safe on the other end. I will never forget the joy in his face when I walked back to the Institute, full of confidence in my stride (largely due to the people whom I bought the fabric from yelling across the street, "You look amazing!" and cheering), greeted by that luminous mouth of white teeth.

I must pause briefly to honor the most amazing poster I have ever seen in my entire life. A 18 x 24 inch glory of a calendar, dedicated to the life of a dead TV star, complete with shiny snapshots of crying celebrities (contorted bodies and faces, being held upright by body guards) and the poor man's limp body in its casket. The graphic design mimicked the bootleg CDs sold off blankets on Canal Street. It was probably extremely disrespectful, but Chelsea and I could hardly hold back, the laughter pushing through our fingers like water through a dam made of paper.

Here's the thing about leaving. You start to become familiar with the local characters. The big bellied man with the fabric, the ras selling masks (and other goods, I'm sure), the boy you kiss sweetly who takes you to his Auntie's house. They become a part of your daily routine and just as you start getting all "everybody knows your name," its time to leave, usually, without even a goodbye.

So, yes, since you are curious, David takes me to his Auntie's house one day on his lunch break. His parents live a bus ride away from Kokrobite, so this is where he stays during the week when working. The house is a small, one story concrete building and each room has its own entrance, giving the impression of tiny apartments. I only see the room he shares with his cousin: a mattress on the floor, small love seat, black and white television, posters of Tupac and various soccer players lining the walls. Random family members walk in and wave. Loud music bursts through the windows from an unknown source and goats and chickens wander freely just outside the door. It is unclear to me what the rest of the home looks like and how many people actually live here.

In the spirit of no clarity, there aren't any clear side streets in Kokrobite. Once you step off the main dirt road, it's layers of houses and shops, zig zagging in between buildings. People are hanging everywhere outdoors, sitting and cooking food, sitting with children, just sitting. I don't know how on earth one would give directions here, "right off the road between 'God is Good' hair salon and the woman selling plantains, right at the red and yellow phone card stand, walk straight through the brush, see a house being built, ours is behind that one. Blue."

(All photos taken off the main road in Kokrobite)

I told him he would not believe what New York looks like. The only real thing I have in common with David is our age and that he is going to school for graphic design (which I have a degree in) at the University of Ghana in the fall, pending the passing of his English exam. One night I ask him his dreams. He says, (an organist and drummer at his church- which is hugely important here in Ghana), "I believe in God, so I know wherever I end up is where I need to be. I just ask, God, please, please don't make me poor. That's all. Please don't make me poor."

The night before I left, David puts me on the phone with his fourteen year old brother, who begs me to come meet him before I go. There is a very real fascination with Americans here, especially white Americans. I knew this before coming, but I don't think I could have ever fully prepared for the reality. I've often had the experience of being the lone white person in a room, but it is something entirely different to be the only white face in, literally, miles and miles. Children wave, excited. Women call you beautiful. Men propose. Malaika calls it having "Jesus power." The by-products of colonization. The flip of being resented in Brooklyn and celebrated here, but the roots of both being the same. Though once I did get called Obruni ("white person/foreigner.") Like everywhere else, the real truth is always in interaction that gets beyond any false conception of an individual based on one physical attribute. I never do cross this bridge with David's brother and sign off with a smile.

Last night Malaika put on our new dresses and danced and sang in the bathroom, photographing each other. We talk about the amazing community we have stepped into here. How returning to "the scene" of New York is such a lesser version of what real community can be. All of the fashion and posing and posturing. I know I have been saying it for ages now, but I think it is time to put some real distance between myself and the version of Caitlin that still felt the need to be "looped in." How much happier I am worlds away from that life, with people who are absolutely gorgeous in their refusal to put on airs, in the almost innocent way they seem to not even know how to be anything but themselves.


Tonya catches me on the plane, making her way to the bathroom past my seat. I shoot her a sad look. "We are almost back to real life," I say. She sighs heavy and stops. Collects herself.

We must remember that we create our own reality, Caitlin and perhaps, where we just came from, was the realest it has ever been.

AS I THINK OF IT NOW OUR CONVERSATION WILL BE ABOUT BIG MILLY'S AND OUR CHIPPED TEETH

I can't believe we are leaving so soon. I'm just growing accustomed to the people and the land here. But I suppose this what created the special quality, the leaving is as important as the arriving. I'm sitting listening to Arthur sing and story tell in time with Tyehimba's harmonica, ankle bells clanging along. This morning Chelsea and I spent the last of our money on fabric and trekked to the small town just a fifteen minute walk down the dirt road to get our dresses made. Upon returning, I posted in Tyehimba's hammock and watched Malaika film Stewart dance. Her plan is to project his bouncy dancing self behind her as she performs in real time, her own virtual back up dancer. It was one of the most joyous scenes I have ever encountered! I love these folks. Have I mentioned that already?

But last night was the best, by far. I almost didn't join the group but Malaika said, "Girl, we'll be in Brooklyn in two days. Sleep then!" I decided she was painfully right. What was I thinking? I guess all the shifting around had worn me out. They moved us ladies to the main grounds after all, Chelsea and I sharing a beautifully designed attic space with a lovely South African writer named Shalini. "Ok, I'm in!"

The night was a whirlwind. A group of us landed on the beach aside Big Milly's, a backpacker's hostel, where the sand is the creamiest, softest I've ever felt against my skin. The clouds had filled the sky like cotton, creating a planetarium dome effect, the almost-full moon holding it all together center-stage like a pin. The blanket of clouds broke only to create a perfect ring of light around the moon. Sitting on the sand, watching the waves roll in, crashing in on themselves over and over again, the whole scene felt nothing other than surreal. Tyehimba says, "I know its cheesy, but it feels like a movie." Hyper-real, I nodded. Of course we dressed up in our rastafari outfits for the occasion, if you know what I'm sayin'.

Our new dwelling at the Institute

The view from our deck

After sometime we joined the bar, where other folks were already gathered. Who knows who kept buying who drinks, but the overall spirit was happily drunken. I swung on the hammoc for what seemed hours, cracking bad jokes with Grant and J.P. until I had to pee, feeling incredibly bad ass for releasing my drink onto the side of the road when I gave up searching for the bathroom. The rest of the night was spent dancing and dancing and laughing and laughing with a rotating combination of people, but mostly, Malaika and Niq, to Bob Marley's Legend on repeat at the bar. No one seemed to mind when "Exodus" came on for the fifth time in a row. In fact, each time we raised our replenished glass to toast in honor of the great man, keeling over with laughter when someone in our group changed the lyrics to "movement of white people," (a significantly different lyric than "movement of JAH people.") Malaika and I decided it was a commentary on gentrification, briefly, until we gave up any attempt at intellectualism and changed the meaning to the hilarious moves of J.P. and my lanky imitation. Another lyric we Weird Al-ed out was "Rock My Boat." Poor J.P., who was the administrative guru in making the forum happen, was barraged with problems of conference go-ers his entire trip. We all rubbed his back and gave him sympathetic "you're doing a great job" looks routinely every time we saw him pacing on the cell phone. In this spirit, we sang to him, "Can't you see? You must believe me. Oh J.P., J.P., we're callin', callin'!"

Niq reveals he will be in New York for a matter of months, fulfilling a residency. We cheer! We'll all go out! We'll get drunk! I offer my couch for the late nights after dancing. Niq slurs that he will sleep with his jeans zipped. When I mention my cat, he pauses. Apparently, it is said that in South Africa old white divorced women keep cats to lick milk from their nether regions until they reach orgasm. (Also, dear readers, Niq is looking for a rich divorcee, himself, so if you have any leads, send them on!) Of course, this is incorporated into jokes all night, complete with gagging motions. I get piggy rided around the bar by Niq and then we slow dance like two drunk hippies at a bad jam band music festival. We all flirted with each other, men and women alike. Flirted with the moment of being in love with each person for their distinct flavor. What a spicy soup we are!

Saucy!

The next day I hear that Tyehimba almost drowns in the very waters we gazed upon the night before. He ventured out too far and the tide swept the ground under his feet away. June and Matt pulled him ashore, but almost lost their grips and went under with him. While catching his breath on the beach, a wave, like a hand, reached far beyond where the water touched the sand and swept across his legs, snatching his glasses, as if it needed to claim apart of him to its power. That's the thing. There are so many forces at work. I silently thank the moon for bringing us through this. For Jodie's mugger on the beach only taking her iPOD, the knife in hand merely a threat, for telling her to run away. For Tyehimba to be alive and breathing with us. For all of this.

AFRICA IS NOT A SMALL TOWN

After lunch I spent two hours on the beach. Got all sorts of sandy, the grains still sticking to my back hours later. A local and I made friends. A drum maker and teacher who talked on and on until I stuck out my hand and wished him a good day (after all, I had come to the beach to be alone.) I walked the length of the shore, watching the water turn wave to foam. Its funny what the memory does. I think of "sea foam green," the name I assigned to a crayon for Crayola's "new color naming contest" as a child. I loved that gigantic rainbow box and spent hours carefully naming the new blank wrapper-ed colors in one of the twelve smaller boxes in the larger container. You can imagine my disappointment when I saw the newly named box months later and cringed at "dog tongue pink." My entries were so much more creative! Those crayons were immeasurably important to me. I think of the small joys I still experience, and how much harder they are to name now. Then Tyehimba plays a harmonica riff and I think, "there's one."

After Tyehimba's lecture on how music influences poetry, I am interested in the conversation that brings to light the fact that, as Nana says, "Africa is not a small town." Often the whole continent is referred to in one sweeping statement, good or bad. Binyavanga talks about how there are over 100 tribes in Kenya alone. How to a Kenyan, Ghana can seem as exotic and foreign as, say, Cuba. I am beginning to develop an idea of cultural differences within the continent through meeting folks here. The dialect, mannerisms, values. Of course, it is vague, but some fuzzy map is forming in my mind. Masese speaks of his music and reminds us over and over that he is really only speaking to his community in Kiisi, which is one of many. He cannot speak for the music of Kenya, even, as a whole.

So yes, not a small town, indeed.

LITTLE GREEN SPEEDOS & WHAT A ROOM FULL OF WRITERS WILL DO

Its now down to four of us in the room. I am thankful for Malaika and Chelsea's company. Last night, exhausted, I passed out at 9pm while we were chattering on. Before hand, Arthur, Bonnie and the three of us discussed the bizarre energy floating around this place. Though the day time feels rather neutral (though our second story balcony has the most gorgeous ocean view and is a perfect place to perch and write, in addition to the love of Uncle Ronnie, the elder South African in the house, who sends me up a cup of instant coffee each morning), the house at night settles into a creepy lull. Our toilet doesn't work so us ladies must trek down to the first floor toilet. I run. Quickly. The house, largely undecorated, feels spacious, unlived in, and as Malaika suggests, institutional. As Arthur says in his gruff, bass voice, "I don't much care for Peter's decor," drawing out each word. Extra emphasis on Peter.

The porch view

The rest of the night Chelsea, Malaika and I spin stories. We are rather suspicious of this Renee character, convinced she may be hustling us all, despite her valiant environmental and Obama efforts (though don't get her engaged in conversation over politics, the woman can go on!) Her story, as we know it, is that she lived in Europe for twelve years before settling here in the 1980s. There are very little details and the conversation around her history is always vague and scattered. Once in discussion, Renee briefly alludes to being part of the Black Panther movement way back when. This piece of information spurs us on. We decide "Auntie" can't go back to the US because of some past history as a panther. I imagine her with a big 'fro and a beret, fist in air. "They're too concerned with Assata to care about Auntie!" Malaika says and we die laughing. Yes, this is her story to be sure. Though our credibility, it has to be said, is a bit shaky. To be fair, we also invented a rather convincing story about the small plot of land across the street that looks, from our balcony, like a make shift graveyard. Upon closer inspection, it seems to be some sort of run down garden with head stone sized planks of wood acting as backbone for small trees to grow straight against. A graveyard would have made the story more juicy, much like my momentary desire for a bigger chip in my front tooth.

The next day Chelsea and I spend the morning on the big porch. The house has "breezes" written on its gate for a reason. The ocean breeze that lifts off the water is the one true treasure in this abode (aside from the porch and Uncle Ronnie's coffee, of course.) Later in the day, the two of us stumble upon a hidden cove off the main road where the water smacks in rhythm against the rocks. It seems to be the site of an old bar, the thatched roof still standing aside a worn picnic table. It strikes me that this secret location would be quite dangerous for drunks, stone steps lead down to the water, the bar and table precariously situated on the titled ground between the steps from the path and the steps to the ocean, all of course, on a serious incline. But like most abandoned sites (and especially those set in nature), there is a distinct charm and story to this small pocket of Kokrobite and we take the opportunity to snap some portraits.



Somewhere later, after Matt's lecture, after the folks left for Big Milly's bar, I lingered behind. I thought about this gift I've been given. To be able to pick up a notebook wherever I am and invent characters. What power that is! To create new people, new stories from the deep crevice of your own ripe and comforting mind. I think there should be no reason to ever feel lonely again.

WHAT IS A BIT OF BONE LOST TO THE MOTHERLAND?

Well. Here we are in Kokrobite. Where to begin?

On the packed bus ride, we waved goodbye to Accra. "I'm llleavvving you for the country!" The blend of accents and laughter wrapped around my shoulders like a blanket, and I sat content catching snippets of various conversations. The long dirt road that is Kokrobite is filled with cheap resorts juxtaposed with intense poverty. It is a beach town, I suppose, but in a very different way than I've ever thought of such a place. Kokro is extremely rural. No ATMs, no fire station, and I'm assuming medical attention would be a far drive, should you be lucky enough to locate a car. The traffic on the road is minimal. When the cars do come barreling down, you need to be keenly aware of your placement and move swiftly into the low brush. On the way home we see a man lying dead in the road, half his brains spilling onto the dirt.

The packed bus

Roadside, on route to Kokrobite
(the Tro Tros all have religious messages)

Still in Accra

Kokrobite

But the Kokrobitey Institute, an arts and ecology center, is a gorgeous haven. Here is where we'll be staying for the remainder of our trip. The short story, of which I never really get the full version, is that the center was started by Renee, AKA Auntie, in the 1980s. Here, she makes recycled glass beads, shirts, rents the space and heads the Americans in Africa for Obama campaign here in Ghana, all the while opening the space to students and artists (for a fee, of course, are you kidding?) The campus is beautiful, consisting of housing, workshop space, dining on the premises, the ocean just behind.

Of course, I am one of the chosen few who are not staying here. Somehow I've ended up, with a handful of other folks, a twenty minute long walk down the dirt road in an enormous house that has a creepy "I know what you did in Ghana last summer" horror movie vibe. (Who knows its connection to the Institute, or who "Peter" is, as the accommodations were listed as "Peter's House" on the roster. Of course this mysterious Peter becomes the butt of many a joke throughout the week.) The collective mentality of our group upon arriving is, "What. The. Fuck."

After a week in solitude at the dorms, I am now relegated to share a summer camp style week with five other women. Which I've gracefully, and not always so gracefully, resigned to. The problem is, we can't actually get inside the room. Malaika, who arrived on the earlier bus, has taken the only key, unsure where to leave it safely, and is nowhere to be found. So we sit, daunted by the lack of toliet paper and soap, unable to drop off our luggage, heart broken by the lull of the ocean, the sight of it just across the street, but no easily accessible public stretch of sand to park ourselves on. Our dreams of a week beachside vanishes with the arrival of each new piece of information:

Vans before the three provided meals on the main campus at 7:30am, noon and 6pm (WHOOSH)

We should not walk the road alone, it is unsafe (WHOOSH)

The tide is dangerous and the waters are unswimmable (WHOOSH)

Best to have a buddy system (WHOOSH)

Vonani & Niq chill on the porch, unfazed

Finally Renee (or Auntie, if you actually feel comfortable with this title), arrives and we pile into the van for a run to the road side grocery, which is much like an open air tiny bodega, surrounded by, well, nothing. We buy water and some bread (knowing I may not, in fact, wake in time for the 7am breakfast call.) I also indulge in a Fanta, an orange soda extremely popular here. Mistake. As I'm exiting the van, my mouth lands awkwardly on the lip of that classic '70s bottle I've long admired for its sexy recycled glass. The sulfur taste of broken something hits my tongue and I realize I've chipped my front tooth, which is a cap I've worn without incident for the past 13 years after a root canal in the sixth grade. Of course. The chip is barely visible but if you look close, sure enough, there it is. After the initial shock, I resign to laughing. My Ghana tooth. I even joke that if the chip was more noticeable it would make a better story. Arthur assures me I would not, in fact, want a big ole' chipped tooth. Niq shows me his front chipped tooth and we shake hands in chipped tooth solidarity. So it is.


Now, how to get back to the main site for dinner? The promised van hasn't yet arrived so the groundskeepers invite us to hitch a ride in their pick up truck. I shrug. What else can go wrong? The ladies pile into the cab of the truck leaving Arthur and I to brave the pick up's bed, holding onto dear life as the truck bounces down the dirt road until we reach the main site, hop out and devour our first prepared meal of the week.

Later that night the contest winners read. Can we talk about how this is by far the most intimidating audience I have ever stood in front of? I won't bore you with details of my performance, but I will say, it felt awfully good. I will tell you briefly about how June, our "Sunday Salon" (on Monday) host via her series in Kenya, pauses after each sentence like an African Vanna White, posing on the pause as if for a photo. It is incredibly endearing and I tease her about it endlessly. Also, Malaika and Masese collaborate on a piece, which is full of life, and the man himself is wearing a white fuzzy pimp hat with traditional straw arm and leg bands, puka shells strapped over his torso and bells around each ankle. No, I don't have a photo. My camera ran out of batteries. I know, I know.