Tamale

Tamale arrived in a mixture of sights, sounds and smells as we drive back and forth from Giddipass where we took breakfast, lunch and dinner, to the ZoSimili Naa Palace, our home during our stay. We learned roundabouts by the statues at their center: a soccer player (footballer!) by the stadium, the lion, the stone bowl fountain, a dignitary welcoming us, his palm outstretched. The palace was a cement version of the compounds we had seen from the air. Circular huts with conical roofs linked with a wall that contained the courtyard. ZoSimili Naa is painted white and is the Ghanaian home of Chief Susan who spends half of her time in Louisville. In addition to the circular rooms, a two bedroom square house comprised the back wall of the compound and provided us with a living room/gathering area, modern kitchen and additional space for sleeping.

We encountered the mingled scents of jasmine and burning plastic; rain in the dry season, evaporating before it hit the ground; the soft soothe of “Naa!”, (a conglomerate of “good” and “thank you” and “yes”) in response to our clumsy attempts at “Dasiba” (good morning) or “Autine” (good afternoon). Packed red dirt lined the roads, was swept into funnels and deposited as red dust across every surface. Shopkeepers swept the yards in front of their stalls clean with a hand broom of bound sticks, ushering debris and dung into smoldering piles. Everywhere else thin black plastic bags caught on grasses, trees, stones. Billowing with wind, they seemed to probe the earth like chickens, only their too-repetitive movement gave them away. Along with black bags, the clear ones that held purified water, maize milk, fufu balls, and any number of other food and drink that can be sucked from a pouch, tumbled along the ground.

Goats in the road seemed to more or less adhere to the rules, crossing when the way was clear, and speeding to a trot as a car approached. Accompanying them were cows, motorbikes, bicycles. Everything was carried on heads, fifty-pound bags of rice, animals in cages, five gallon bowls of fruit, or shampoo, or eggs. Metal trays heaped with produce, dried meat, sugared eggs, oranges, tomatoes, peppers.

On motorbikes, shoulders and heads served as the bed of a pick up: a trash can new, covered the body of the passenger, the driver held the lid, blue plastic. Eight and 10-foot two-by-fours balanced on a shoulder, hands free. A metal cot with springs was steadied between passenger and driver. And babies strapped to their mothers’ backs with a band of patterned fabric, their feet appearing to either side of her hips. Stalls lined the road painted in advertisements for Vodafone, Zain, and MTN, all made from corrugated steel with container doors that swing shut and padlock. The Muezzin sounded from the mosque. Outside men rinsed hands, heads and feet with water. In an open portico, others unfurled prayer rugs to the east, and knelt to pray.