For a total of eleven years, I’d worked outside the States, starting in Tanzania with the Peace Corps. Yet, I planned far more for a two-week trip to Ghana than I’d ever planned for life in another country. Also, this was the most I’d ever paid for a vacation; so, I wanted to make sure that I got my money’s worth.

One of my cousins, who’d toured Ghana before with Dr. Kofi Lomotey, enthusiastically recommended the life-changing experience. Thanks to her advocacy, eight of us, who were either descendants of Jesse Strange, my great grandfather, or married into the family, prepared for months to participate in the excursion.

I renewed my passport, obtained a visa, a yellow fever shot, malaria pills, and arranged for two weeks off. Initially, I’d requested only one week off. Fortunately, I had no problem getting that second week off since I’d started planning months in advance.

The Saturday prior to my departure, I treated all of my clothes, except for underwear and bathing suits, with permethrin. Although I’d read the instructions, I thought spraying my clothes with that mosquito repellant was tedious. So, I poured a container’s worth into a bucket. The first thing I dunked was a pair of jeans.

I learned several lessons: jeans were far too absorbent to dunk; I wasted nearly a whole bottle of permethrin; and spraying was both time- and cost-effective. After those life lessons, I hung up an item at a time in the laundry room to spray.

I laid all the damp items on a drying rack. The treatment would last for weeks even after six washings.

That process allowed me to double check that I had enough clothes, especially underwear since I hadn’t planned to do laundry while on vacation. I strategically put all my clothing and other supplies, such as flushable wipes, into my suitcase.

Wipes. There’s something about traveling, especially to a developing country, that causes a preoccupation about “cleanliness.” Wipes weren’t merely for toilet uses, but to clean my hands before eating, wiping down surfaces and wiping my face during long hours of travel.

As my niece pointed out, they weren’t antibacterial. True, but who wants to wipe their sensitive parts with antibacterial chemicals? That was what hand sanitizer was for. Plus, dining tables are wiped down with far less sanitary cloths.

I’d calmed down from the paranoid state of obsessively cleaning things since COVID, but the virus was still out there, right? Even knowing that Ghana had had a better COVID response than the States didn’t shake the belief that I needed to pack far more wipes than I’d possibly use in two weeks. Just in case.

Finally, my departure date arrived. Normally, I’m not a nervous flier, but during the months of planning for this trip, the political climate had changed. Masses of federal workers had been laid off. Airport controllers, many of whom Reagan had fired back in the 80s, were still in short supply. Tariffs. Travel bans. Would we still have a country to fly out of? Or return to?

My mind churned with paranoia. No one else in our travel group expressed any concerns out loud; so I kept my paranoid thoughts to myself.

My sister convinced me that we had to wake up very early in the morning to make a 90-minute trip to the airport for a noontime flight. At least I wasn’t late.

Despite my meticulous planning and packing, I forgot to pack an umbrella. Fortunately, she had one in her car to lend me. Even so, I would not have asked her to turn the car around.

We stopped at a fastfood place to get breakfast. Perhaps it was too early in the morning for them as well. My sister placed her drive-thru order, but the employee stopped responding when I attempted to order. By the time we pulled up to the window, even my sister’s order had been lost.

I chased away thoughts of that bad service being an ominous sign. If I hadn’t given into paranoia at that point, why let superstition creep in?

We had a beautiful drive while eating our breakfast in the car. No traffic all the way to the airport. Once my sister dropped me off, an airline worker greeted me and handled my check-in, doing everything for me with a smile.

Just like that, those twin demons, paranoia and superstition, disappeared. I happily rolled my luggage to be checked in. That’s when another demon jumped on my shoulder: Snap Judgment.

I placed my luggage onto the scale and greeted the airline worker who sported a prominent drink stain covering most of her chest. (She can still be a competent employee, right?)

Although I made an effort to look into her eyes, I may have faltered or else she was self-conscious because she explained about spilling a breakfast smoothie on herself. Sounded like a fluke occurrence. (You hear that, Snap Judgment?)

Then, she flipped through my passport to check the visa and frowned. (Paranoia reappeared.) Most visas that she’d dealt with had a barcode, but the Ghanaian visa did not. She said that she wasn’t sure which number represented the visa number. After consulting a nearby coworker, she typed in the visa number. (Paranoia disappeared; Snap Judgment lingered.)

After entering the women’s restroom, I looked at the visa, which only had two numbers. One of the numbers was very clearly labeled “passport number.” The other number, typed in large red print, could have only been the visa number. (Snap Judgment threw back its head, laughing, then snapped its finger and disappeared.)

Armed with nothing but an overstuffed purse, I headed toward security. For the first time in years, I kept my shoes on. One of reasons I’d bought a pair of comfortable, stylish slip-on sandals was for the ease of going through airport security. A few days before departure, the rules had changed, allowing passengers to keep their shoes on during the security check.

Although I was far too early, I sat down at the departure gate near an outlet to relax and entertain myself until my cousin’s friend, who was on the same flight, arrived. With that thought, I realized I had no idea what my cousin’s friend looked like.

My phone call woke up my cousin. She was always the last one to do everything, but somehow still on time. She was flying directly to Accra out of DC later that evening and STILL hadn’t finished packing. So, my early-ish phone call actually helped get her day started.

I immediately recognized my cousin’s very stylish friend from the pictures she’d texted me. We’d only had enough time to exchange names when the stylish friend dashed off in search of her cell phone, leaving her carry-on with me.

A few minutes later, I noticed two other women react to Stylish Friend’s name being announced over the airport PA system. When she returned triumphantly with phone in hand, SF introduced me to her coworker and the coworker’s daughter, who’d both heard the announcement.

For our first flight, from RDU to JFK, my initial thought was that the plane was too small. In retrospect, the plane had two seats on either side of the aisle, which was standard for a domestic flight. The actual problem was that it felt cramped.

When I discovered a woman sitting in my window seat instead of her aisle seat, I didn’t complain because she looked even more cramped, jammed up beside the window. She politely offered to switch seats with me. At the time, I didn’t realize I was being played.

I declined, thinking I’d have more breathing room with access to the aisle. What I actually had was motivation to dodge everything that came down that aisle before, during and after the flight. I hadn’t flown in six years and had forgotten the dynamics of why I usually chose window seats in the first place.

Our foursome found a restaurant near the departure gate. My only criterion was that the place served wine. Bonus: our server had given us a stack of napkins, which I stuffed into my purse. When traveling around a developing country, I believe in having my own toilet paper supply.

Properly sated, I strolled over to the gate, hugged my cousin who lived in New York and would be my roommate for the next two weeks. She pointed out Dr. Kofi, who stood in the boarding line.

As I boarded a bigger, cramped plane, I knew I wouldn’t be sweetly persuaded out of my window seat. This was the longer leg of the journey; so, in addition to avoiding things bumping into me from the aisle, I’d be able to prop my head against the window for a few hours of sleep. At least half of that came true.

One of the in-flight movies I watched, “Death of a Unicorn,” had an actress who looked like my seat partner from the first flight. Either that was an incredible coincidence or I didn’t have to land in Ghana before my mind started to play tricks on me.

Things actually got undeniably tricky as soon as we landed in Accra.

When had it become Sunday? Surely, while we flew over international waters. Ghana was four hours ahead of the East Coast. But psychologically, the idea of “the next day” didn’t gel because I hadn’t slept.

Despite the fact that my head was cushioned and propped against the window, I couldn’t fall asleep for any appreciable amount of time since my seat partner’s movie screen kept flashing light when the scenes changed. Soon after his screen went dark, the flight attendants raised the cabin lights to serve breakfast.

Even if I’d received proper rest, landing in Accra at 7:15 AM would have still felt like 3:15 AM EST. Once the plane touched ground to a round of applause, I slept-walked, following the herd of passengers.

Grateful to travel with three others, we stood in the customs line together until we were called to one of the self-contained, glass-encased booths arranged in a row. As soon as I approached the customs window, the officer checked my passport and yellow card.

She pointed out that my yellow card was incomplete because the doctor hadn’t filled everything in. For $20, they’d complete it for me. Even with my sleep-deprived mind, I knew that was bullshit.

I asked to inspect the yellow card. I glanced over the card, noting that everything hadn’t been filled out. The officer told me to step to the side so she could continue helping others.

Since the custom officer’s booth was shaped like a small square, I moved from the front of the square to the back. All I really wanted to do was get both my yellow card and passport back without making a scene or paying a bribe.

While she assisted another traveler, I reached into the booth and collected my passport. Then, I got her attention, telling her that I had to rejoin my tour group. I pointed to the other three women who were standing together a few feet away, looking at us. The officer tiredly waved me away.

As I joined my companions, I wondered if the officer had attempted to solicit a bribe from me because I had a lighter skin tone. Colorism was rampant in the States, but that didn’t mean that the phenomenon existed in Ghana. That was merely the framework through which I processed my situation. The familiar hypervigilance coming to the surface after being unfairly singled out.

After all, the other three women were also Americans and had “incomplete” yellow fever shot cards. Yet, we’d all gone to different customs officers. They had been routinely processed without any incident; so, I’ll never really know what confluence of factors had made me a mark.

Next hurdle: getting my checked bag. I’d begun to worry that the suitcase had been lost. I silently chastised myself for not tying a ribbon around my medium-sized, charcoal gray suitcase to distinguish it better. Everyone else in the tour group had received their things. One of my travel companions waited with me for emotional support. Once I finally grabbed my suitcase, she said that she’d seen it go around the conveyor belt at least one time.

We boarded a bus that had both English and Korean lettering. I’d taught ESL in South Korea for 14 months, so I recognized the alphabet, but not the words.

Despite my fatigue, I couldn’t sleep on the bus. So many things reminded me of Tanzania: the colorfully-dressed people, the hustle and bustle, and the near-miss driving patterns with bold pedestrians, including an assortment of vendors, many with products for sell, being carried on their heads.

I’d worked in two other African countries for two years apiece: Tanzania and Egypt. Ghana reminded me more of Tanzania than Egypt. Except for the traffic. Chaotic-looking from the perspective of someone from the States, the only reason I could tell that we were in Sub-Saharan traffic rather than Egyptian traffic was the lack of a donkey cart in the mix.

Our bus unloaded in front of a hotel with a large lobby, decorated with large dark wood carvings. As we sat in the lobby, Dr. Kofi and his support staff circulated around, handing out registration forms.

Eventually, we received our electronic room key and headed off toward the elevator, which was very small and only accommodated about four people, depending on how much luggage was present.

Roommate Cousin and I rolled into our spacious room with two full-size beds. As RC unpacked, I picked up the A/C remote. No matter which sequence of buttons I pushed on the remote, the unit wouldn’t turn on. I double-checked that the outlet, where the unit was plugged into, was turned on. I abandoned the effort to use the bathroom.

That’s when I noticed the row of switches located between the room door and the bathroom. As soon as I put the room key into the slot, the A/C came on along with some of the bedroom lights. By trial and error, we figured out that the two bottom switches in the trio controlled the foyer and main bathroom light, but we never figured out what the top switch did.

The most important switch of them all, turned on the hot water heater. The red light above that switch indicated whether it was on or off. In what became par for the course, I took my shower first in every new accommodation just so I could figure out how to get hot water and explain the process to RC.

Before getting myself situated in the room, I ventured out onto our semi-circle balcony to take pictures of the view, from left to right:

Still not convinced that the international electrical adapter that I bought would work, I plugged in the neck fan first. Since the fan didn’t blow up, I plugged in my phone.

While stretched out on the bed, I did yoga exercises for my low back. The sounds of the city poured through the closed windows: traffic, sirens, construction and the occasional rooster.

Years ago as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’d learned that roosters crowed all day long and not just at the crack of dawn. At that time, I’d heard that, thanks to human interference with our electric lights, roosters “were confused” as a result. It’s laughable now that I’d once believed that since I hadn’t grown up on a farm.

The myth of roosters only crowing in the morning was perpetuated by entertaining childhood stories and cartoons. (Another good cartoon myth: roadrunners being as large as ostriches.) Roosters crow at the sight of dawning light, to mark territory, to attract females. Pretty much any reason to assert dominance.

Around noon, we crossed the street from our hotel for lunch.

I ordered too much food as if I wanted an impromptu Ghanaian “Thanksgiving.” Not knowing the portion size, I figured hummus with fresh-baked pita would be the appetizer and jollof rice with lamb shank, my entree. Since I still battled fatigue, I ordered a non-alcoholic ginger pineapple drink.

Mom would have loved the strong ginger taste, sweetened by fresh pineapple.

I risked ordering what I considered a Middle Eastern food, but someone in the kitchen knew exactly what they were doing. I shared the appetizer with other tour members who sat near me.

Either I didn’t know what lamb shank was or in the States it wasn’t that large. As soon as the server placed the entree in front of me, I removed all the meat off one side of the bone and put the rest on another plate for the others to share.

One member in our tour group had discovered a half sister via commercial DNA testing. One of the reasons he and his spouse had traveled to Ghana was to meet her. She and her family, which consisted of three beautiful bright-eyed kids with locks, like their parents, arrived at the restaurant.

In contrast, genetic testing had revealed that part of my maternal DNA came from Ghana. So, seven of us, along with two in-laws, had traveled to see our family roots.

We’d finished lunch, but sat idle, waiting for the money exchange guy who would travel around with us every day during our tour. Although I had my tab, I didn’t care to use my credit card nor dollars since I didn’t have any low bills. I’d only bought $50s and $100s because they fetched the highest exchange rate.

“Is that him?” SF asked when she saw a Ghanaian man with a large fanny pack swagger into the restaurant. AKA “Money Man.”

I looked away from the soccer match displayed on one of the large flatscreen TVs. Not that I was a sports fan. I’d needed a distraction.

I’d missed his dramatic entrance, but witnessed Money Man’s slick hand-jive greeting with another guy sitting near us. Coming hours away from Kumasi, he had been delayed due to traffic. He got down to business, working his way up and down the table efficiently changing US dollars for cedi.

After paying our tabs in Ghanaian currency, cedi, a few of us walked from our hotel lobby to the pool where two elementary-aged girls were attending swim lessons. The restaurant where we’d have dinner and breakfast made up one of the walls, surrounding the pool area.

Since I packed light, no laptop nor iPad waited for me in the room. In what became a daily ongoing ritual, I watched TV while journaling. I knew how easily details slipped away unless I recorded them whenever I got the chance. Journaling allowed me to relax and focus on the trip.

Another batch of people in our tour group arrived in time for dinner, including my sister, nieces, brother-in-law, another two cousins and her spouse. At the end of dinner, Dr. Kofi welcomed us all and made several announcements about tomorrow’s itinerary.

A tour member informed us that it was Dr. Kofi’s 75th birthday, prompting us to sing Stevie Wonder’s version of “Happy Birthday.”

After dinner, a group of us went to Dr. Kofi’s room to look at fabric and have clothes made. I was in a sleep-deprived fog as I looked at material from the cloth vendor and was sized by the tailor. I handed the tailor a button-down shirt that I wanted copied.

I practically fled the room in search of a shower. I usually shower at night and was determined to maintain that habit. The last time I’d showered was on Friday night. In my mind, Saturday didn’t count because I had been flying.

I clicked the water heater button. While waiting for the water to heat up, I laid out my clothes, both for the night and the next day, and gathered all my toiletries. Felt like a new woman after that refreshing shower.

I set my alarm for 5:15, so I could join Dr. Kofi on the 6 AM walk. When I’d asked him at lunch if he’d start the morning walks on Monday morning, his response, “Are pigs’ feet pork?”

RC and I joined other early-bird members of our tour group outside of the hotel. To the right of the hotel, a watermelon vendor was ready for business BEFORE 6 AM. Talk about a strong entrepreneurial spirit.

As a matter of fact, there were many people up at that time, just milling about. Then, I looked across the street.

Beside the restaurant where we’d had lunch was a disco. I’d fallen asleep to the various beats that penetrated through the closed hotel windows. Was this the mass Monday morning walk of shame?

Our morning walk started promptly after 6 AM. Dr. Kofi set a casual pace along the street over a variety of urban terrain with very few sidewalks, and the occasional rooster.

At our turn around point, Dr. Kofi bought softball-sized doughnuts for the group. Although they were much larger in size than the doughnuts I’d eaten in Tanzania, they tasted the same.

While waiting for him to complete the transaction, I took a picture of the hot sauce billboard. Not only am I a hot sauce enthusiast, but I loved the proximity of the sauce’s name to a curse word and its potential effect on one’s digestive system.

I nibbled on my doughnut back at the hotel. That didn’t ruin my appetite for the hotel breakfast buffet, consisting of fresh fruit, pastries, spicy ramen, and beef and chicken sausage. One of the servers delivered my omelette to the table.

After breakfast, we filed into the hotel conference room where Prof. Kofi Akpabli, senior lecturer at Central University, gave us some background facts about Ghana. Although I jotted down notes, at times I was sleep writing. So, charge it to my jet lag and not my heart if I recorded incomplete thoughts:

• Ghana ~ same size as Oregon with the population of TX.
• Public universities are well-funded, but more private universities fill in the gaps with 94 of them.
• Colonizers couldn’t eliminate chieftaincy.
• Northern Ghanaian chiefs sit on animal skins. Other chiefs sit on stools (thrones).
• Funerals: people wear traditional colors: black, white and red. Traditionally, women don’t wear makeup, but that’s changing.
• In 1961, Peace Corps makes Ghana first country where volunteers were placed.
• Obama visited Ghana first before Kenya as president.
• A version of the March on Washington occurred in August 1963.
• Big 6: Oanquah, Nkrumah, Qbetsebi-Lamptey, Ofori-Atta, Akufo-Addo, Ako-Adjel.
• Ghana has a rare type of lighthouse and the other is in Michigan. The Ghanaian one is older.
• Ghana has warmth, colorful vibes, round the clock hustle and bustle, poor and good infrastructure; peace and safety; delicious cuisine, people who look like you.
• “Consult the old lady” expression means to use a pragmatic way to solve a situation.
• Chiefs are men, but follows a maternal line. Women are behind the scenes, especially the Akan.
• Colonizers told African kings that they had to be chiefs because King George was the only king.

I bought two of his books, Tickling the Ghanaian and The Prince and the Slave. The first book explained cultural phenomena, which I readily saw/experienced while touring the country although I’d read about not chewing fufu too late to be implemented. The second book was a play, depicting the complexities of the slave trade and change of fate on the African continent.

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During the second lecture, my notes were even more sporadic:

• In 1884, European colonizers demarcated the African continent among themselves. Used indirect rule to exploit resources.
• 1897: Rise of nationalist groups.
• 1945: Nkrumah conference about independence.
• Big 6 arrested because three British soldiers killed since the British fired upon peaceful protesters.
• Members of parliament elected from different provinces.
• 3 E’s: Economy, Environment, and Emerging rights.
• China has large presence with cheap products, which kills Ghanaian products.
• Gold, Mg, bauxite, diamonds.
• Funny how POTUS complimented Liberian president’s English-speaking ability since it’s an English-speaking country.

Our first excursion was to the W.E.B. DuBois Museum, which included his former house, exhibition area, and final resting place.

DuBois, historian, sociologist and civil rights activist, was the first Black person to receive a PhD from Harvard in 1895.

The irony didn’t escape me that as one of the cofounders of the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People), DuBois lived his final years outside the States.

One of his beliefs was that elite Blacks, who he called the Talented Tenth, would racially uplift all Blacks.

I’m a believer in the 80/20 rule which dictates that only 20 percent of production yields 80 percent of the results. I don’t merely expect the top ten to be productive, but all of us. No one is so untalented that they cannot contribute something to the cause.

Moreover, the formally educated don’t know it all. Lived experiences and oral tradition greatly contribute to knowledge and progress. Why else should one travel and purposely go out of their comfort zone?

I intentionally packed and wore a T-shirt that depicted the cover of my first book, Tribe of One. The one tourist picture I knew that I wanted was to pose with DuBois’ portrait while wearing it.

When our museum guide led us into his personal library, she said that she’d decorated the space with curtains to depict W.E.B. DuBois’ name. Some of us got real close to the curtains to see if the pattern spelled out his name. After a while, she revealed that since the initials of his first and middle names spelled out “web,” the design was full of spider webs.

Throughout adulthood, especially after graduating from college, I’d juggled creative projects. At no point in my life did I ever think that I had enough money or talent. Only the lack of time invested into a project prevented it from being completed. So, when I read the below quote, I readily agreed that time was the only resource someone needed to do great things.

Since I’d packed light, I hadn’t brought one of my books with me to place with his. From one writer to another. Although I write fictional novels and mostly nonfictional blog posts, I felt that DuBois’ activism helped pave the way for me to have a voice.

For lunch, we went to a richly decorated, upscale restaurant.

Despite the extensive menu, I ordered a traditional meal: fufu. In all the reading I’d done prior to visiting Ghana, no where do I remember being advised not to chew it. Fufu had a very soft texture that I could have easily swallowed it. Call it force of chewing habit. Perhaps servers didn’t advise me due to previous tourists reacting badly after being told not to chew fufu. Whatever the case, it was still delicious.

After lunch, we visited the Kwame Nkrumah Park. Dedicated to Ghana’s first president after independence in 1957, the park recounted how Ghana was the first sub-Saharan African country to free itself of British rule. Different tour groups, from local schoolchildren to we foreign visitors, gathered in front of Nkrumah’s statue to chant one his famous quotes, “Forward ever. Backwards never.”

Next stop: Black Star/Independence Square. Known as the “Lodestar of African Freedom,” the black star, featured in the Ghanaian flag and on various architectural structures, symbolized the emancipation of the country and the African continent.

On our way to dinner, we passed two buildings which had rooftop bars. Their coloration reminded me of the 60s. Although we’d passed by them several times before, I hadn’t bothered to look at the top since the design itself was so striking compared to the rest of the Accra cityscape.

Many found the dinner buffet too spicy. Not only did I love the well-seasoned food, but I also added black pepper sauce. We topped the meal off with vanilla and strawberry ice cream which had a flavor reminding me of lip gloss. As stuffed as I felt, others surprised me, talking about going to the restaurant across the street from our hotel.

I napped on the bus trip back to the hotel. Perhaps others did as well since no one initially seemed enthusiastic about the welcoming ceremony as we filed into the conference room where we’d started off that morning. Yet, things turned lively when support staff gifted us kente cloth sashes with our names on it. (I removed names on most of the pictures below.)

A few days prior to visiting Ghana, I’d watched a late-night comedian where Chance the Rapper was one of the guests. I nearly jumped out of my recliner when he said that he’d visited Ghana, which helped influence his latest album. He recommended that when in Ghana, try KFC. He assured us that their chicken was much better than what we ate in the States.

As a matter of fact, when RC had first visited Ghana, someone in her tour group pointed out Chance the Rapper. They had been souvenir shopping a large market at the same time as he. She hadn’t known who he was prior to that encounter.

One of my cousins and a niece took an Uber to KFC. I was too jet lagged to go, but I asked my niece to bring me a piece of chicken. The seasoning was delicious, but the chicken itself wasn’t all that better than in the States. Then again, I only tasted a drumstick. My niece reported that the chicken breast was really good.

I’ll save that experience for the next visit.

My sister joined us for the 6 AM morning walk. Yesterday, she was late and never caught up with us. Although we retraced our route from the day before, we experienced less traffic, no walk-of-shame club goers and fewer tour group members. We walked past the doughnut vendor and across the bridge.

I pointed out Black Mickey Mouse. Most had walked right past him yesterday without noticing. Honestly, it was challenging to see everything on such a busy urban walk.

This time around, we finished the last leg of our walk, sipping fresh coconut water.

After breakfast, professor and writer, Kwesi Yankah, AKA Kwatriot, shared more Ghanaian background with us:

• Queen mother may be a mom or sister to the chief.
• Akan is the largest group, consisting of several other groups.
• Matrilineal inheritance; therefore, trust sister more than wife.
• Naming ceremony is important because slaves lost their names.
• People who commit suicide aren’t admitted to join ancestors in the afterlife.
• Naming ceremony is the 8th day of newborn’s life. Life remains on stool; child’s firmly seated.
• “Visitor has very big eyes, but sees nothing.”
• Put emphasis on the right hand, not the left.
• Kumasi is conservative.
• Gap between teeth is African spirit.

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After ordering my shirt to be made, I had no more interest in looking at fabric, especially since I’d bought fabric from other places where I’d lived and travelled, which was packed away and hadn’t seen the light of day in years. So, the only reason I got off the tour bus when we visited a fabric store was to stretch my legs. Others in the group were on a far more serious mission.

We ate lunch at the AMAZING Abajo restaurant which had live drumming and dancing. Par for the course, the food for our large group took a long time to hit the table, but I was so entertained by the music and dance performance, I didn’t care.

At one point, a band member who was also a contortionist, selected people to dance. He chose my sister. Vengeance was mine. She’d made me line-dance in June during our family reunion despite that being one genre of dances I dislike. She tried her best to get him to recruit me, but I remained seated.

The contortionist also taught four men some dance moves.

I thoroughly enjoyed red red (spicy beans) with kelewele (seasoned fried plantains). Although I’m not a beer-drinker, I sampled Origin, which tasted like cider with an anise after-taste. However, most of the beer-drinkers prefered Club.

Since our tour group had over 20 people, once again, we experienced another production with food coming out and then collecting the tabs. I got lucky when I quickly received the change from paying my drink tab in order to give exact change for the meal tab.

With the post meal production over, the tour group divided into several smaller groups to go shopping. Each small group had at least one support staff escort. Just as my small group entered the market, I witnessed a very frazzled-looking family of nine exiting. They looked as if the market had chewed them up and spat them out.

Thankfully, we had a genius way of shopping. We told our escorts what we wanted to buy and they led us to the appropriate shops. The escorts placed everything we were interested in buying into a basket. At the end of our shopping, the escorts laid out everything in our basket and negotiated the final price. Then, the escort took a picture of everything and then distributed the money to the vendors.

As little as I cared for most shopping, the highlight of my market experience was when four of us ladies sat down in one shop and vendors paraded in and out with things that we wanted. For me: black leather fanny pack, his/her copper bracelets, T-shirts. Others wanted fans, bracelets, dolls, masks, and other things. Best way to shop. Only thing missing was a cup of tea.

After haggling, but before handing the escort the money, I told him that he had to hug me first. He hugged me and gifted me a decorative African continent magnet as well. Once I escaped from the market, I told Dr. Kofi that I was ready for a drink.

For dinner, I ordered a local Ghanaian honey-based whiskey called Black Rock. The buffet offered delicious, traditional food, which most tour members found too spicy except for me.

In the bathroom, I found this common sense, straightforward COVID poster. I’d heard that the pandemic hadn’t devastated Ghana as much as in the States. Then again, at one point, the Insane Clown Posse had more stringent COVID restrictions to attend their concerts than the US federal government.

After returning the room key and placing my suitcase in the bus, I headed to breakfast by 7 AM. Other tour members were waiting in the lobby for 7:30 since that was the breakfast start time on our agenda. They followed me because I announced that breakfast should have already started. The agenda also showed that we were going to be on the bus by 8 AM. We needed to get a jump on breakfast to meet that departure time.

Miraculously, we boarded the bus on time, but began the five-hour journey on Ghanaian time. Dr. Kofi explained that since the highway was under construction, the rules were “open” because everyone improvised their progression along the highway.

We passed a group of goats grazing in the middle of the dusty highway. A lone goat, tied to the top of a sedan, car surfed expertly as its owner maneuvered in the opposite direction. We clapped prematurely for our bus driver after navigating us through construction once we hit smooth road. After three seconds, we returned to rough highway.

During our first rest stop, I passed out those extra napkins I’d received from the restaurant at the JFK airport to women who’d left their toilet paper on the bus. I knew they would come in handy. Of course, I also had a pack of wet wipes in my purse.

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One phenomenon I’d noticed while living in Tanzania was the ubiquitous stray medium brown dogs. Knowing that all canine species derived from wolves, I wondered why all of the strays I’d seen looked mostly like the one pictured below. I always thought that without human-manipulated breeding, canines would appear more wolfish.

At our second rest stop, for two cedis, people used the executive bathroom, which was clean, and had soap, water, and toilet paper. So, I should’ve charged two cedis apiece for the women who I gave a napkin to at the last stop. I’d never been much of an entrepreneur.

By this time, we needed snacks. I got an international mix of prepackaged food: Pringles labelled in both Spanish and English from Jackson, TN; cheese potato chips from China; and cashews from Ghana.

Since I sat by the window, my sister pestered me to take a picture of the red soil, which reminded her of where our mother’s side of the family hailed from, Cascade, VA. Not sure how common red dirt is, but she was so excited to see it in Ghana.

When we walked into the ladies’ room at our third rest stop, I was initially taken aback at the row of sinks that looked like small toilets for kids. Were they actually urinals? We’d entered the women’s bathroom. Perhaps they were for little boys who were escorted by their female caregivers? Moments like those made me wonder if I actually understood what I saw.

Beyond that room were the toilet stalls, which we women used. There were sinks at waist level for us to wash our hands.

There was no misunderstanding the bathroom signage.

One of the snacks my sister had bought reminded us of Oreos. I’d enjoyed those cookies since childhood. Before popping one into my mouth, I noticed that the design was different. We compared cookies then read on the package that they were stamped with symbols from Minecraft.

Another snack my sister offered me looked like gerbil food. Those coconut-ginger flakes were sweetened by honey, which made it hard to remove from the bottle. Interesting texture and I loved the burst of ginger.

For our traveling pleasure, the driver played a variety of music. The bus trip became long when Sisqo’s “Thong Song” came on.

We rode past several small towns that all hosted sidewalk markets in front of more permanent establishments.

Koo Nimo Village: Musical Dialogue. Once the drumming began, a male dancer slowly performed around the space as if warming it up. At one point, Ghanaians and Dr. Kofi gave two fingers like the peace sign, signifying that the dancer was doing an excellent job. Later, a female dancer joined the male dancer. After a while, the guy left and she performed her solo.

When we were invited to participate, one guy jumped up first, then sat back down because he’d recruited so many people that there was one too many. I danced at least three times.

One move was a samba step where the left foot turned to the left by pivoting on the heel quickly, then the right foot just stepped forward. The professional dancer seemed impressed that I knew how to do that.

Quite a few moves involved a heel-ball-change, followed by some other familiar steps with unfamiliar arms. All of them started off at regular speed, which was a little too fast for most of us, coupled with the arm movements. The pros usually slowed things down to basic footwork and showed us how to move our arms.

In all the African dance classes I’d attended in the States, the instructors advised us to learn a move from the feet up. Once you understood the footwork, the foundation, then you built your way up.

Koo Nimo patiently posed for pictures with all of us before we left for lunch.

I told Dr. Kofi that today would probably be the best day for me out of the entire trip. He confidently stated, “Just wait.”

Dinner consisted of a buffet with a variety of traditional foods with some different things such as meat pizza and salmon rings. For dessert we ate very soft strawberry ice cream.

When we checked into our hotel, we received a key which had no correlation with the floor number. The only logic behind the numbering I thought of was that the owners had retained the original numbering when new additions were built.

As soon as RC plopped down on her bed, she screamed because the bed was so firm. I asked, “Rediscover your coccyx?”

In the middle of laughing at her, I screamed, “NAAAW,” when I entered the bathroom. There was an empty light socket above the sink. Would we have to be in the dark while using the bathroom? Then, I saw a ceiling light.

I had a shorter learning curve, figuring out the hot water strategy: turn on the electrical switch, then turn on the water, followed by the water heater itself. Finally, adjust how much hot water mixed in with another knob.

The one TV channel I wanted to watch had no sound. Every other channel had sound, but were either in a language I didn’t understand or showed subject matter that didn’t interest me. The radio channel came in loud and clear.

Many thought it was too soon to go to bed, but I “made” the bed by putting a Balinese wrap over the fitted sheet since bed didn’t have a top sheet. She looked right at home.

The electricity blinked off twice before I showered and dressed for bed. Since I didn’t pack a headlamp, I brought my phone into the bathroom, thinking that if the electricity blinked out again, I’d be able to grope in the dark for my phone without injuring myself nor damaging the phone. Luckily, I never had to put that theory to the test.

One good thing about staying in at night: not spending any money. I had not quite spent half my money yet. I didn’t want to blow through all my money the first week. One member of tour group had already asked about getting more money from an ATM. I’d bought the rest my souvenirs yesterday, so I should be good.

Despite having showered and dressed for bed early, we didn’t bother to turn off our lights until the church music from a nearby service had stopped blaring past 9 PM.

Perhaps that blaring church music from last night affected me more than I realized. Thursday was actually the 17th!

As I figured, our rural morning walk was wonderful. Less traffic, less noise and no air pollution.

I saw a bar adjacent to a pharmacy and asked aloud, “Which one has the cure?”

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During our walk, I learned that the upstart short woman touring with us had been a nurse for 41 years. I surprised her by guessing that she’d been a cheerleader in high school. She never answered my question about which type of nurse she’d been: Florence Nightingale or Nurse Ratchet. Beloved or feared.

We saw fewer roosters on the rural walk than on the urban one. Perhaps the country setting provided far more places for roosters to strut around than their urban counterparts.

Initially, I thought those towering red mud structures were termite hills, like I’d seen in Tanzania. Someone said they were ant hills. Either way, I didn’t get close enough to inspect the structure to see which insect had constructed it. Once I returned to the States, I researched that Ghana’s capital city, Accra, was the Akan word for “ant.” I also read that Ghana has both ant and termite hills.

During breakfast, we had an amusing conversation about those beads that women drape around their waist. I’d always heard that women wore them to appear more alluring for seduction. However, some women in the tour group had been told at the market that they were for weight management. One could tell they were gaining weight when those beads fit tightly. I thought that was a clever marketing pitch for overweight tourists such as the average American.

For a country swinging in spicy food, there was no hot sauce for my omelette. However, I enjoyed the side dish of cooked cabbage, mixed with carrots. That was the first time I’d ever eaten purple dragon fruit.

While eating, I kept looking at a framed painting of a market. I wondered how dated such a scene was. After living and traveling around developing countries for years, I knew that there were usually pockets of modernization along with pockets of anachronism.

We rode through the Knust area, which had good roads since regular traffic was not allowed.

Employees from the Frema Restaurant came aboard to take lunch preorders, but only had two menus, so the process still took a while to complete. I immediately focused on the “horse oeuvres” choices, but was disappointed that fried calamari wasn’t available.

Instead, I ordered a Black Star with beef. When asked if I wanted it steamed or fried, I chose steamed. The employee stated that Ghanaians normally ate it fried. I smiled, thinking I’d just had a “yes, we have no bananas” moment. I got the dish fried.

Even though we visited the kente cloth capital of the world, I bought NOTHING because I already had so much cloth packed away at home. Instead, I helped my sister negotiate her purchases.

A few cloth designs were called “Obama.” I never got the explanation behind why more than one design was attributed to the first Black POTUS, but knowing human nature, I hypothesized that more than one weaver wanted to honor him.

Speaking of weavers, seeing them in action brought another level of respect for their craft and skills. Using a combination of pictures and video, I attempted to capture the complexity of the process. Watching them work the loom with their bare feet in conjunction with their hands, I wondered what was more challenging to learn: double clutch driving or working a loom.

As usual, I finished touring around the kente workshop much sooner than the shopaholics. My sister and brother-in-law led the group for who could buy the most stuff while on vacation. So, I was taken aback when we stopped at yet another shop to look at cloth.

I didn’t step into the store. Why would I after seeing the fascinating process of how the cloth was made?

As I milled about in the street, I ended up in a negotiation with one of the children who was selling jewelry. Initially, he wanted a whopping $10 for a very cheaply made pair of earrings that had bead colors, representing the Ghanaian flag, with a cowrie shell at the end. I paid $2.

I had wanted to buy earrings as a souvenir for myself, but this was more of a purchase for the experience. The child was so politely persistent, including the flattery of calling me his “auntie.”

I took the earrings out of the small pouch and discovered that one earring didn’t have a hook. The other child vendors immediately told my seller, who’d moved on to another potential buyer, what had happened. I saw an ankh earring and took that to go with the cowrie shell and bead earring. I handed him the hookless earring in exchange.

He didn’t seem too happy with the mismatch, but I knew, a) whoever made the earrings could even out the two sets; and b) whenever I wore those earrings, I’d remember this story, which got fleshed out at lunch.

Besides, the photo op with my earring seller was priceless.

At lunch, I told the story behind my mixed earring set. One man at my table, stated that he’d bought something from one of the kids because they had the same name as his. Another man at the table said the same thing had happened with him, coincidentally having the same name as a child vendor. When I showed them the picture of my earring seller, he was the same boy! I concluded that kid would own the country when he grew up.

Next stop: Ntonso, an Adinkra printing village located in the Ashanti region. The view from my side of the bus showed a soccer field with school kids.

On the other side of the bus, we learned how print ink was made from tree bark. First, they soaked the bark in water, then beat it to a pulp with a large mortar and pestle. They boiled and concentrated the pulp multiple times over a week. The color changed from light red to black.

After our tour guide and the printing expert demonstrated how to beat the wood pulp, we were invited to try. My sister, ever so enthusiastic about trying new things, was my partner. We had to sing “Miss Mary Mack,” so she could get the rhythm.

Before entering our lunch venue, I saw the statue of the horse and jockey. I recalled the menu I’d seen in the morning. So, “horse oeuvres” wasn’t a typo, but a play on words?

During lunch, some thought we had already run out of decent table conversation. One of the men talked about killing chickens. I reminisced about the time my grandfather had killed a chicken. My sisters and I wouldn’t eat it. At the request to change the conversation, we then discussed the horrors of American education.

I paired my fried Black Star and salad with Alvaro, a pear-flavored non alcoholic malt drink.

After lunch, I got the opportunity to take a few pictures of our fashionable nonagenarian.

En route to the mall, I asked our tour guide if we could buy postcards. He made a face, confirming what I thought: postcards weren’t much of a thing in Ghana. However, he stated that at Labadi Beach, we may be able to find postcards.

Then, he gave me a mini history lesson. The area and people were called “La.” When colonizers arrived, Ghanaians referred to them as “the bad people,” which transformed into “Labadi.” NEVER refer to nationals as “Labadi.” They are the La people.

Refuelled by lunch, the shopaholics were ready to tackle another type of market, The Kumasi City Mall. They dutifully followed Dr. Kofi into one of his favorite stores to look at even more fabric and premade shirts. They were warned not to haggle.

I only used the bathroom and bought a small tupperware container to replace the broken liquid soap travel bottle. My nieces found a coffee shop.

On our way to the hotel, an advertising for noodles reminded me of The Incredibles.

One silver lining for buying a plastic container at the mall was receiving a lot of change. The designs evoked thoughts of freedom, justice, food staples and beautiful landscapes.

Once we returned to the hotel, a mudcloth vendor and designer shirt/dress vendor were there. I wasn’t tempted in the least, especially since there weren’t any fanny packs among the mudcloth backpacks and duffle bags.

After dinner, Dr. Kofi invited us to introduce ourselves, including what we did for a living and why we were on this trip. Most stories were either funny, poignant or both. Many of us were in the medical or education field. We were all one degree of separation from Dr. Kofi.

One support staff member caught everyone’s attention when he said that one of his hobbies was “mischief.” He explained that he enjoyed saying controversial things to get a better understanding about something.

After all the introductions, one tour member shared that his daughter had had an accident that day and asked for us to keep her in our prayers. Then, my sister announced that our father had passed out today, but he woke up. She asked that he also be kept in prayer.

Once the group prayer had concluded, my tailor arrived with the shirt I’d ordered. Fit like a charm.

After showering, I talked to my parents. The connection wasn’t the best, but it was good to hear their voices. Mom explained that some people forget to breathe, which sounded like a strange explanation since breathing was automatic, but I was happy to hear that dad’s vital signs were normal. As one of my aunt’s once said, “No matter how old you are when you lose your parent, it’s too soon.”

My head was full of prayers for Dad during the morning walk. I thought about my leave-the-country curse. Just before I had left the States to serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Tanzania, my maternal grandfather passed. A few days before I returned to the States after completing my PCV service, my paternal grandmother passed. Shortly after I’d left South Korea after teaching ESL for 14 months, the Asian market crashed. A month after I left the States to teach in Egypt, 9/11 happened. About a week after I relocated back to the States after teaching in Honduras for three years, that country had a coup.

So, yes, I was a bit superstitious. In that same unscientific vein, I hoped to see Dad again since I wasn’t relocating to Ghana. I hadn’t been vacationing in those other instances when bad things happened.

Few things distracted me from thoughts concerning Dad, but I’d love to know the colorful story behind this outer house decoration. Reminded me of a griot enlightening African royalty.

While at breakfast, a registered nurse in our group sat down beside me. I explained to her that Dad had “forgotten” to breathe or held his breath until he passed out. She asked, “Does he have Alzheimer’s?” When I agreed, she told me that sometimes that part of the brain which regulates breathing, stops communicating.

That made far more sense. When that started happening, she explained, patients soon die. She wasn’t that abrupt with the prognosis, but it was still the same conclusion no matter how it was worded.

Today’s first destination: The Royal Museum of the Kings of Ashanti. I jotted down as many notes as I could while taking pictures. May have been easier to document the visit using video, but I didn’t want to use a lot of storage space on my phone.

• Kings are the strength, carried on men’s shoulders. Queens are the soul, carried on four men’s heads.
• Most common wood: mahogany, which queens are carried in. Kings carried in a wicker basket.
• Prempeh I, King of the Asante Empire, spent 28 years in exile in Seychelles, then returned to a home given by the British, but he didn’t accept it. He paid out right to own the home. He lived in it until 1971, then turned it into a museum. The home became the meeting place of the Asante with three telephones for communicating.
• Asante is a nation, not a tribe.
• 1935 flag colors of Asante made of gold (wealth), black (people) and green (forest)
• A rich Black man living in his forest.
• Eagle, crocodile, python. No matter where you are, you’re supposed to be strong.
• Pronounced “Ah-SAWN-tay” without the “h,” which was what the colonizers mispronounced it.
• Kings are embalmed, then ceremonially buried.
• Ceiling fan was 100 years old. Enjoyed the royal breeze. Sounded like a twin engine.
• Radio was 75 years old.
• TV: had to make an appointment to see it back in the day when that technology was scarce.
• Mirror of Independence presented to the king by Nkrumah.
• Gramophone no longer works.
• Chessboard with customized Ghanaian pieces.
• Gold ore (unprocessed) presented to the 15th Asantehene (King), Otumfuo Opoku Ware II.
• Second living room for prime ministers and other dignitaries.
• 1931-1970 the 14th Asantehene, Otumfuo Nana Sir Osei Tutu Agyeman Prempeh II, at Kumasi airport with eight wives and twenty-one children.
• 1945-1977 Nana Amma Serwaa Nyarko. The king’s sister ruled as queen from same bloodline (NEVER a husband and wife).
• Asante King’s children can never be the king. Only queen’s children since she knows 100% that all the children she births are hers.
• King selects new queen; queen selects new king.
• Queen sits on the left side of the king because that’s where the heart is.
• Thrones are spiritually-charged. If a man sits on them, he gets erectile dysfunction and women become barren.
• If a Black man drinks akpeteshie (Ghanaian spirit distilled from palm wine or sugarcane juice) every day for three months, he then becomes a white man, then dies.
• Clay bowl with three heads, holding hands, symbolizing unity.
• Israeli fridge 75 years old, never repaired it and still works.
• Kenté is over 300 years old.
• The stool is a symbol of power. Once the king dies, stool is blackened with sheep’s blood, wooden ash and sets for 42 days.
• Kings are alive in the spiritual world.
• 42 days in Asante calendar month.
• King Otumfuo Opoku Ware II (lawyer, Italian ambassador (1970-1999)).
• Feet on footstool to protect king from evil intentions.
• 1977-2016 (Queen) Nana Afia Kobi Serwaa Ampem II lived until 111 years old.
• Current King 75 years old and Queen is 99 (brother and sister)
• Asantehene is a chancellor at Nkrumah University.
• In 1874, the British invaded and destroyed Kumasi along with palaces and looted and placed inside British Museum. After 150 years, Ghana finally got some of their artifacts back, but some Ghanaian treasures are on loan from the British.
• Because of the Antiquities Law, the British cannot be prosecuted for what they stole because it was “legal.”
• The British exiled King Prempeh I in Mahé, Seychelles along with chiefs because the Asante people kept walking to wherever the royalty were on land. For 28 years, King Prempeh I educated himself in English.
• 65-year-old Nana Yaa Asantewaa, Queen Mother of Ejisu, credited with leading five thousand Asante people in March 1900 against the British who wanted the Golden Stool. The stool was hidden. The war lasted nine months. Nana Yaa Asantewaa kept Golden Stool with her. The British used enforcement from Northern Ghana, Nigeria and Sudan to eventually defeat the Asante, but the British never captured the Golden Stool.
• In 1695 the Golden Stool was heavenly made, not human-made. Humans aren’t allowed to sit upon it.
• Otumfuo Osei Tutu II (Barima Kwaku Dua) became Asantehene in 1999.

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Many in my tour group wanted to raid the British Museum, Eric Killmonger style, and recapture looted Ghanaian artifacts after hearing the consequences of the Antiquities Law. Imagine stealing another country’s treasures, then passing a law to declare that the theft was legal after the fact.

Fortunately, the museum grounds offered a refreshing break from the consequences of history. Peacocks roamed around as I tried my best to hold onto a rubber tree. The tree definitely won.

The World Peace Bell reminded me of Korean bells I saw and heard when I lived in South Korea, especially during the Buddha’s birthday celebration.

Even with pre-orders, lunch at Ike’s took over two hours and hardly anyone had their drinks with their meal. I had delicious kelewele with groundnuts with an the Everlian salad, which consisted of chopped fried chicken with breading, french fries, greens, and tomatoes. Once again, I had enough leftovers for breakfast.

The ginger maiden (ginger, OJ and cranberry) came very late, but was refreshingly cold and sweet.

As we were about to leave, a young man inquired about my “daughters.” I told him they were my nieces. He said they were very beautiful. He asked one of them where they were from. Then, he attempted to pass his phone to one of my nieces to input her number. I intercepted his phone and told him she and a boyfriend.

For the first time since touring Ghana, I noticed what was written on the side of our bus in English. How I wish I could take a film crew around. I’ll have to get a film crew together first. I realize there’s no expiration date on dreams, but life has a way of getting in the way.

Despite the fact that we went to the mall yesterday, enough people clamored to return today for snack-shopping. One of my nieces wanted to go to jewelry store because someone had bought an inexpensive gold bracelet.

We spent less time at University of Nkrumah than at the mall. Fewer people exited the bus to tour the park. We had seen a few statues while bus traveled around campus before stopping at a small park that hosted a menagerie of statues. Part of me wanted to know the meaning behind the statues; however, my brain couldn’t really absorb and retain more information at that point.

Dinner had the lowest turn out to date. Even the tour guide wanted to skip it. The highlight of the meal was my sister reporting that Dad was in better spirits.