WHAT IS THIS, NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC?

I slept solidly last night in my austere room (though I was scheduled to share the space, it looks as if the big empty room is all mine, so I spread out in one corner.) After showering, I hop a cab to the Afia to meet Malaika. By the way, right now might be a good time to tell you about Malaika, my homegirl from Brooklyn who I am blessed to share this trip with. She has spent over a year in Ghana and knows the know. An incredible MC and poet, she has one of the most joyous personalities I've ever met and is both comforting and tons of fun. We came friends and left family.

Ms. Malaika

Having set my clock two hours early, I enjoy breakfast alone and think about how I will spend my day after hearing that my one and only friend on the trip has been relegated to airport runs. A multi-colored lizard keeps company on the porch, bobbing up and down in push-up stance. The banana cinnamon crepes are delicious. The waiter answers my questions with, "yes, please."

Enter story: Tonya Foster. Because you will be hearing many stories that include Tonya, allow me to introduce her. Tonya is a woman of no age, meaning, she won't reveal it, even to close friends. This just adds to her sexiness, which is part disguised nerd, but don't tell her I said so. Let's just say, she is definitely older than my 24 and carries a wisdom I grow to cherish. She is a brilliant poet and thinker and teacher and home girl and quickly became one of my absolute closest friends on the trip. I count my blessings that she keeps residence in Harlem for most of the year. Back to story.

Ms. Tonya

Tonya finds me sitting alone and we shake hands, quickly deciding to spend the afternoon exploring Osu together. During this journey, I finally feel the strength of the sun here, baring into my back, waking up parts of my body I'd long forgotten. In case you weren't aware, summer in Africa is a liiiiitle different than summer in Brooklyn. Though December is the most warm, July isn't what you would call cool, either. So, we sweat, walking a long stretch along the main road, which, of course, doesn't include sidewalks, intending on the recommended Oxford markets (though never sure if we've really arrived, considering there are many markets, seemingly everywhere.) On the street, sellers assault both pedestrians and people in cars. They walk up, unashamed, carrying everything from toilet paper to bags of water to masks and carved statues. Though I'm fairly good at refusing purchase, I was won over by a boy named Kofi (every 3rd person is named Kofi here, as it means "born on Friday") who held up two wooden masks for 5 cedi total. The truth is, I only agreed so I could photograph him in his workshop, a roadside table, though it must be said, the masks are quite beautiful. I try to extract some meaning from the boy, but all he tells me is that they represent a man and a woman, family. I tell him I'm not married and he promises to marry me. "Aren't you a bit young?" I ask. He puffs out his chest, "I'm 19!" My first Ghanaian marriage proposal. Of many.

Further down the road we come across an opening between buildings, with stairs leading down to the beach. We ask the man in plain clothes, who may or may not have been the security guard he claimed to be, if we're allowed to enter. Through the opening, down the crooked stone steps, sits the ocean, and a few fishing boats floating close to shore. The smoke from the cooking fish rose from a building far in the distance, finding our nostrils, carried over the water. Two small boys help bath each other using a bucket. It is devastatingly beautiful and sad at once, the way most poverty is. The landscape of decay always strikes my eye as visually pleasing in some manner, despite the reality of the life inhabiting the space. From this stand point, it is quite a task to understand the burden of the photographer. "What is this, National Geographic," Stewart, a fellow conference go-er quipped once when our cameras were pulled out roadside. It is difficult to know when a camera is appropriate, if ever, really, and through out our trip, its a conversation friends and I revisit at length. The distance the lens puts between the voyeur and the subject, what it means to be taking an image of hardship, people's private lives, what is means to be a foreigner, period. All of the questions we never really find the answers to and each time the camera comes out, a pang of guilt pauses the heart.

My first taste of this guilt occurred here, wondering whether photographing these young children was morally out of bounds. I decided to snap the shot anyway, hoping my intentions of documentation (and on some level, celebration and discovery) justified my actions. The security guard assures us photographing is okay, and tells us this was one of many slave ports in Ghana. We turn down the invite into the paid museum knowing we'll be visiting the Elmina and Cape Coast slave castles later in the week. After our conversation, the man demands 1 cedi each for letting us down. We try to argue, "but you didn't tell us we had to pay! We have no money!" He laughed, "it is not much!" Tonya keeps trying to say, "scholarship, we got scholarships to come here," but it was futile. This argument went on for some time, his catch line never faltering (nor his smile) until we unloaded a few pesewas (coins) and dimes and nickels into his palm and he seemed satisfied enough. Even if it's not actually the case, American equals money. I get it.

Across the street we see flashes of dancing, a woman's skirt, feet stomping, Highlife music pouring from enormous speakers. "What is happening there?" we ask a passer by. He tells us its an "ah-dor-ay" (correct spelling- your guess as good as mine), a celebration of birth. I want to join in the festivities but Tonya pulls me back. "Are you going," she asks the man. "No!" He laughs. "Not my friend!" ... And neither are we, girl! So we keep on our path until a man warns us about being two women with our cameras out. Though Tonya convinces me to turn around, a bit freaked at the stranger's tip, I do my own share of convincing and pull her into the markets on one of the side streets. Though Tonya is African American, I cajole her by pointing out a very Western looking white couple exiting where we are entering. See! They are safe, we can go! She later thanks me and I never hear a moment of fearfulness from her again.

Mailboxes on the street

The air feels good on my skin. Malaika and I share dinner at the neighboring "Natural Foods" restaurant after the markets. I wonder about the Ghanaian Musicians Union next door, aloud, fantasizing about a free concert in the small outdoor stage instead of the commercial American country music leaking from the small radio. True to Malaika's warnings, Ghana is a land of three musical choices: Reggae, Highlife (Ghanaian music, along with its hip hop offspring, Hiplife) and bad, bad, bad American music. Think R&B and country, mostly. Especially Joe, the R&B artist everyone rightfully forgot about in the states. Ghana is all his.

Tonight was our orientation. Gathered were approximately forty of us, about half of the conference hadn't yet arrived. Staff were introduced and Arthur Flowers did a wonderful performance in the oral tradition, singing and story telling and shaking the bells tied to his ankles with each foot stomp. It was quite remarkable. There are some very important people at this conference, to put it lightly. South Africa's poet laureate, accomplished writers from the diaspora, publishers, everyone boasting larger-than-life bios, with these wildly unorthodox life paths. I'm beginning to believe my own will mimic in its own spirited journey (please, please?) After all the orienting, a throng of us head to "Next Door," a tourist hot spot outdoor dinner and dancing hub. Here is where I break the food-virginity that kept me a safe vegetarian for eight long years. No, no, I have eaten meat and fish for the past three years, but if you know me, you know I would never be caught dead eating something that looks remotely as it did in its alive state. However, you cannot eat meat in Ghana and not get all up in the bones. My Red Red came with a big fish, skin, head, fins and, yes, bones intact and I plowed my way through like a pro. Consider me no longer squeamish. Serve it up!

After the food settled, the familiar dust began to cloud my heart. It was raining and the dance floor was empty as the live Ghanaian band played to no one. I imagined, standing by the ocean, that on dry nights the place would be packed. Just as I was sinking into my own crowded and wistful head space, I spot Stewart ad Maureen dancing together. Now, it is impossible to watch Stewart dance and not want to join in. The man has a spirit that shines larger than life, a huge grin to prove it and dance moves that harkens to '80s house parties. Everyone knows I cannot refuse dancing, but my new friends have yet to be hipped, so I show 'em how Brooklyn does it! I jump in, elated to be moving in the African ocean rain, the band's singer hopping off stage to gyrate his pelvis against mine whilst singing sideways into the mic. (This man's dexterity was incredible. Leg kicks, hops in the air, all without missing a breath or a beat.) Half our crew made their way over and soon it was our own private festival. Exhausted, by the time another stranger made his way to grab my waist, reeking of cologne, I decided it was time to find a cab. Soaked, Mildred and I caught a car home, introducing ourselves by way of country and work. I: Brooklyn, non-profits and poetry. Her: Uganda, fiction and poetry, currently fulfilling a residency in Dakar. Both contest winners and in Ghana for our first time, white knuckled as the cab barreled down the wet streets toward our new home.