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.