Don't Drink the Water (Caits in Ghana): YOU CAN CALL ME EFUA

I am entirely exhausted and overwhelmed. It takes a lot to even think back to yesterday. After spending the morning in solitude, I found Malaika. She is determined to ignore the fact that the dollar is equal to the cedi and that Ghana's prices have risen tremendously since the year she spent here five years ago. Never-the-less, in this spirit, we trek to seek out her "egg lady," a roadside mini chop bar with egg sandwiches for less than a single cedi. No dice. Instead, we come across an older man who stops us.

"What day were you born?" He asks me.

I don't know the day. July 2nd, I say, hoping that is good enough.

"No! Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday! Which?!"

Fine. Friday, I answer, just for the sake of moving forward in the conversation.

"Efua! Welcome to Ghana! You must teach her, welcome her. Efua my love, where can I find you? What your address? I wait everyday for my love Efua to walk by."

All the dramatics, complete with hand holding.

"She didn't say she loved you!" Malaika gives him the gas face, getting all Inglewood-Brooklyn on him.

"No matter! I am man!"

I shake his grip away and he slides his hand over my bum. I shoot him my best New York grill back. Because of this we miss the van to the markets. (A few days later he asks Malaika for me. "Why do you love her?" Malaika asks. Turns out he once loved a white woman years ago. The poor man has been waiting for his second chance in exoticfication land for the past 20 years!)

Enter Chelsea: (snap shot.) My other closest of close friends on the trip. She is a novelist/ex-bartender extraordinaire who just completed her MFA from Syracuse University. Her spirit is eternally optimistic and her laugh sweet as honey. She is also incredibly beautiful with a big peacock feather tattoo on her arm that I am way envious of. My favorite thing is to watch the boys fawn, only to learn that the engagement ring signifies that her heart belongs to a woman.

Ms. Chelsea

After waiting an hour for the next van to arrive, Chelsea, Malaika and I hop a cab ourselves. The Makola Markets are another world. Think Canal street, amplified one hundred fold. I've never been in the midst of such insanity in my life. Imagine a labyrinth of color and smells and sounds. Shouting and laughing, movement, pushing through people, confused at which way to turn at what stall. "My sistah!" They shout, waving their arms to invite you to their stand. "Free to look!" Pigs feet, enormous snails, peppers, plantains, cloth. The displays were so visually stunning and I wanted desperately to take photos, but it is dangerous. I tried to sneak a snap shot when I felt it safe, but even just pulling my camera out of the bag invited an angry warning from a woman seated on the ground, selling plantains. Our Western heads were spinning, so after fifteen minutes, we decided we'd seen enough.

Off to the next stop: dinner and internet cafe so Malaika can check email before heading to the Dubois Center for the opening ceremony. Yes, this is actually where W.E.B. Dubois lived and worked. The center, from what we saw, was a house and a few buildings, with photos of him on the walls, a library and restaurant/bar outdoors. Ironically, it is across the street from the new and ridiculously large highly secure American Embassy. We arrive a bit early, and on our way to the bar for a bottle of water, two little boys in white dashikis hover around me. The bar was playing Rhiana's "Umbrella" (you know, "ella, ella, ay ay ay," talk about an international hit) and soon we are singing and dancing, joined by a swarm of other young boys and girls and a few young men in their early twenties. A for real accidental dance party! The kids all wanted their photos taken and snatched the camera back after each shot to crack up at their photos. Johnson, the eldest in the group, introduced himself to me. "Aruja Dance Troupe," he holds out his hand. He taught me a few traditional moves right there on the spot and invited me to learn more at their studio. (It is a real shame I never made it there, the morning wasted and the cab ride too long.) We said our goodbyes and headed to the opening ceremony.

Inside the conference space a live band, The Jazz Tones, played jazz music. Readings were given by the equally wonderful South African poet Laureate, Keropatse Kgositsile, Tyehimba Jess and Patricia Jabbah Wesely, followed by Grandmaster Masese, a tradional Kenyan musician who plays the Obokano. There is so much that could be said, but I will leave it at this: each was brilliant and I was filled through the long night with a strong sense of love and desire. For each other, for the words. How understood it is that this is what we do and have passion for. No competition. I was foolish to think I could come here for solitude. So much of this experience is about falling in love with each person, individually and collectively. As I sat next to Senami, a drop-dead gorgeous writer from Francophone Benin (complete with the most charming accent), whom Chelsea says "is like the sun, you have to look away," I am overcome with this conviction. It is amazing how the combined smell of sweat, suntan lotion and bug spray can be such a powerful aphrodisiac. I rode home on cloud nine despite our cab being pulled over by intimdating cops (with big guns strapped to their chest) for his lack of seat belts. And that is where I end tonight: in the sky.