Home!

Our hotel in Ghana is basically a gated compound designed to protect us from some unseen Evil; each morning I scan the landscape from the comfort of my 2nd story room searching for Voldemort. From my window I catch a glimpse of the extended family of around ten living just over the hotel’s cement wall in ramshackle, off-the-grid, wooden homes, all of them plotting to break the bars and steal my stash of Aveda shampoo as they sit around the collective fire and pound fufu.

Although the mosquitoes seem to have been given reliable keycard access to my room, for me there is no alternate exit, as the windows are barred shut, and the malfunctioning, smoke detector missing a battery causes just the slightest bit of alarm, as I lay awake at night listening to the spectacular thunder and rain. When we advise the hotel personnel that new batteries are needed for the smoke detectors, housekeeping promptly posts red and black signs on the back of each room door which simply read, “no smoking”.


But I’m not complaining. In fact, I never grumble about the absence of hot water, nor do I make known to the receptionist that the shower has been on strike for 3 straight days.
This may be due in large part to the slight embarrassment I feel when the other Obrunis make regular appearances at the front desk to request this and that, their voices becoming increasingly curt as requests go unrecognized with each passing day.

The only real frustration comes when housekeeping sprays the hotel room with pesticides to root out the mosquitoes. Malaria is serious business, but I’d spent hours driving around the suburbs, upping my carbon footprint, in order to procure a bottle of my favorite Deet free insect repellent, aptly named Repel: Lemon Eucalyptus, and in five minutes I’d been gassed by a bunch of well-intentioned Ghanaians.

I believe there’s a not-so-secret part of us that wants things to go slightly wrong, because that’s just when the remarkable seems to happen. So when five of us spill out of a taxi late one night, and discover that the compound gate is already locked and the security guard nowhere to be found, I don’t hesitate to climb the menacing fence that stands between me and a 10pm phone call with the Engineer. It is fun and easy enough to traverse the spikes, but as I let my body (and my guard) down on the other side, the stubby length of my inseam fails me, and in response, my favorite pants split. Technically, they rip (but in a very compromising place). And, after the jeering from colleagues subsides, I jog back toward the hotel to get some help, where inside the security guard is seated comfortably in the lobby, eyes glued to a Nigerian soap opera.

Back home in Colorado now, I sift through a mound of African trinkets - carved wooden masks, yards of kente cloth, Ghanaian chocolate bars, powder glass bead bracelets – a collection of curiosities delightfully out of context here in our suburban home. I just received a surprise phone call from Kojo, our driver back in Accra, a perfect jump start to the day. I unpack sunscreen, separate laundry; eventually stumbling upon the now infamous pair of pants, I run my fingers across the new, expertly stitched seam.

The morning after climbing the gate, I had walked through the steamy streets of East Legon searching for breakfast bananas and mangos, when I met Mary and Lydia, two young seamstresses who ran a shop sewing beautifully fitted African dresses designed for the curvaceous women of Accra. Admiring their handiwork, I asked if they’d be willing to do a repair job on the pants, and for the price of 2 cedis ($1.50), they agreed.

Remarkable! I believe I'll always cherish experiences more than things.

PS - Thanks to all for such wonderful comments. I appreciate your following along on this journey.