Seven, Eight, Nine

To say that I have mixed feelings about our looming departure might be a bit of an understatement. As it stands a little over a week away, my current mood, as it has been over the last week, is one of decided conflict. When the heat is in the forties and I’m fighting desperate boredom at the farm, I’m ready as ever to leave. When Sam and I are planning our adventures to come or rehashing some ridiculous daydream of food, I’m just aching for us to be on our own, masters of our own destiny once more. But when I’m sitting at the library getting the regular visits from various friends that I’ve made, I feel exceedingly misguided and guilty in my eagerness to depart. Yesterday I felt that I could not have been more miserable yet today, as the tro-tro driver and mate waved to Sam as he saw me off to the library, I felt sad to think that in a short time we should just disappear to all these people who’ve become used to our presence here, and whose company we have enjoyed in our escapades around town. I even felt sad that I should not know exactly how to say goodbye to the nice lady who lets me use her toilet on the days I spend at the library, not to mention the other people with whom I’ve had more than perfunctory conversations. It would be fair to say that overall, I think, I am tired, and my nerves and emotions are raw.

In my better moods, I am trying ever so hard to be present in those moments of clarity when I’m really enjoying myself and completely aware of what a rare experience we’re having. One of those such moments came a few Fridays ago when Paul took me on a trip to a fishing village on the lakeside North of the farm, off the main road near Vakpo. In this village fishing is considered a very important and profitable business; so important that the village children are often found labouring in the boats rather than going to school. Because parents must pay to enroll their children in public schools (uniforms and transportation are the principle expenses) and because the young ones are considered more adept at diving and untangling the snagged nets, a lack of education is a serious threat to the futures of the children and the village.

However, near this village there lives a woman, whom Paul has made an acquaintance, who has taken it upon herself to open a private school for these children. Out of her pocket she has arranged a shuttle to and from the lakeside, about 2 kms away, and donated fabric for school uniforms. Teachers have volunteered and this woman feeds the crowd of 50-80 students one square meal every day, free of charge. The school buildings, if they could be called that, are rickety and impermanent at best, and Paul hopes to apply for funding to build more substantial structures which would protect the children from the elements, and provide a proper venue for their studies. My job on that Friday was to photograph the school and the nearby village in the hopes that these documents might strengthen the appeal. The whole experience was a real thrill and I reveled in my feelings of usefulness as well as the selfish excitement of having snagged such a juicy assignment. Speeding back to the farm on the back of Paul’s bike I knew that I was having a really, really good time.

As we entered our eighth week Paul had a few more surprises for us to break the weekly routine and we found ourselves away from the farm on various other outings. Saturday the 21st of March we went to the town of Ve-Deme, on the road to Hohoe, for a ceremony in honour of the local government representative who had recently been appointed Regional Minister by the new president. The order of the day was welcoming local dignitaries, honouring the Regional Minister with the conferring of bracelets by the local “Queens”, and drumming and dancing, as well as speeches. The next Monday Paul organized for two affable older farmers to take us on an admittedly not-so-leisurely hike (at times reminiscent of the sweaty tramp up Afadjato) up the mountains next to Have, in order to see and photograph some of the farmfields which perch on these slopes.

Otherwise our routine has been fairly set. I go to the library, where I work away under the relief of the fan and wait for about two o’clock in the afternoon when the children start to arrive. Sam works at the farm, hoeing this field or that Mango grove, watering the plants and seedlings, burning brush and always dripping with sweat. We struggle through our meals which are always disappointing, though we reflect that they are not so bad as they once were since we have forgotten what it was like to enjoy food. We brave the heat, which though it has been actually worse some days (we have measured up to 45 degrees) is on the whole much better, especially at night now that a rainshower is an almost daily guarantee. Showers (of the washing variety) come and go as well, but not for long spells. Guests drop in at the farm, and we are generally commended for our attempts at Ewe. By the time we leave Sam will have bested me in number of pages read, but I will surely take the competition of Gin Rummy.

We think of home and family and friends often. Though our fleeting and infrequent internet visits don’t allow for much correspondence from our end, we revel in each note which we read and then save, to re-read and read aloud once we’ve returned from town. For those who might be worried about our capacity to suffer this strange and hot climate, rest assured that we have mapped and memorized the location of the best burger joint in Accra and plan to spend my birthday and a few days thereafter in the blissfully named “Coconut Grove Beach Resort” on the sandy shores of the Gulf of Guinea, West of the picturesque and historic seaside town of Elmina.