It sunk in at 2:30 am. I am going to Ghana. Or as Rudyard Kipling puts it, Oh Best Beloved, to deepest darkest Africa. Outside our home on the edge of Louisville, a dusting of snow lined each branch. The forecasted low for the night, 11˚ F. In Tamale, our destination, already it was full light, and at 10 am, approaching the day’s high of 104˚F. I knew only a few basic facts: English is the official language, Accra the capital. We would be traveling to Tamale in the Northern Region. We would visit our sister schools of TISSEC and Dahin Shelie, and travel to Mole NP. We’d see birds, maybe elephants. We’d sleep under freestanding mosquito netting, coat ourselves in DEET, and not drink the water.
What stories would I find? What sights, smells, and sounds would greet or assault me? My bags were packed, my shots up to date. I’d taken my first malaria pill, and sprayed my clothes with permethrin. In the still-dark of that winter morning, I would rise, shivering, into my cold house, load my bags into the car, scrape ice from my windows, and venture off in my tropic weight clothes.
photograph courtesy of Michael Gaige
What stories would I find? What sights, smells, and sounds would greet or assault me? My bags were packed, my shots up to date. I’d taken my first malaria pill, and sprayed my clothes with permethrin. In the still-dark of that winter morning, I would rise, shivering, into my cold house, load my bags into the car, scrape ice from my windows, and venture off in my tropic weight clothes.
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