portraits

     Where I'm from, it's the old crossing guard from Hough,  the Kooker's guy, and my mother's Pilates, I'm sorry, "Synergy" instructor. At school, it's the woman who used to own Wildflower Cafe and the crusty man I sometimes sit next to in church. In every corner of the world, we stumble upon a precious few hidden heroes.

Those whose very nature spur one towards a higher level of existence. Those rare souls whose generosity imbues us with courage and hope and mostly, joy. Of course, our close family and friends can do this, but sometimes, we find strength in the most unlikely of faces.


     The first of this breed whom I encountered in Ghana was my Twi language professor, "short Kofi."  You see, the other Twi teacher is also a Kofi, but he towers above his students while I have to peer down from my desk to watch our guy in action.  In emails from our program director, on paperwork, everywhere- he is known as "short Kofi". I don't even know his last name.
    Short Kofi loves what he does. You can see it in his sunken-in eyes and his pointy belly that greets you long before his face.  But what a face. His wrinkly smile falls under the overhang of these massive nostrils that must have been part of the inspiration for the animators of Shrek. All of his endearing features work together to manifest the inner vitality and joy of a man who cares about his work.
     We put hours every week into learning this language that we will have no use for come December, but for those sessions on Mondays and Tuesdays it seems to me the most important task there is. Short Kofi tells us that we are his "disciples spreading the message of Twi." Between guttural laughs we are instructed to "kill the teacher" when he misspells something, to "kill the student" for a wrong answer, or when a blonde girl spills her water bottle- "Your drink seems to be giving you trouble. Kill it and be free." He's full of encouragement (That deserves a four star hotel! followed by a series of handshakes) and advice (Never envy anybody with too many pens). 
     The other day the classroom dialogue flowed from a lecture on the various euphemisms for having to use the toilet (roughly translating to I'm going to greet the chief and I'm going to wash my gun) into our earnest questions about short Kofi's life outside of school. We learned that the man is up by 4:10 every morning for his radio show (the only radio program in Twi in all of Ghana) and then off to a long day of teaching after which he helps the student radio station with their programming before heading home late in the evening. At that point, he finishes other paperwork past midnight. "That's my life," he grins. I had thought that his level of positivity and energy were only available to those clocking in at least 7 or 8 hours of REM cycles. It is truly remarkable that this little man can so consistently deliver such great focus and enthusiasm to his intro level class of foreigners. I refuse to let exhaustion be an excuse any longer.

    It was early morning and we were embarking on one in a varied series of weekend trips. I have forgotten where we were going and who I sat next to. All that remains of the ride through the rain is an image that grabbed me for a few moments at a stoplight. Many products are sold out of large baskets atop women's heads. The massive goods that they are able to balance with such grace and fluidity is truly amazing. I once saw a woman with six monster suitcases stacked atop her head floating lightly through rush hour traffic. But on this particular morning, I locked eyes with a small girl. Her body concealed the years conveyed in her stern eyes. She must have been about my age. Her bare feet pounded against the hot pavement. Just over her feet- a gray dress I think I saw at Forever 21 many years ago. Above the dress- tied to her back- a baby; his head rolling around, dipping in and out of the sweat on her back. Above the baby her eyes darted for the familiar hiss of a potential customer. Above the eyes, atop her head, a wide bowl big enough to bathe in. Towering over the bowl, at least 300 bananas, carefully stacked and arranged to appeal to those of us riding high above the black pavement.  I watched her move towards a man in a taxi, dig for change in the pocket of the baby fabric, run as the traffic began to move, snatch a banana off the tower on her head, and deliver it while she calmed the wailing child on her back. In that moment, it seemed I would never work as hard in my life as this peer of mine. I doubt I will. I am trying to hold onto this image. Rather, it is holding onto me. I think about this girl now, and wonder where she gets her bananas from.

    In Ghana, my fellow students get to postpone that dreaded first year out of college as they fulfill their mandatory year of national service.  Young people are placed in large companies in the capital city, in obscure programs scattered across the rural villages to the north, and some are even teaching assistants at the university. For some it is a great experience that yields further career opportunities, for others it is a weary twelve month road block en route to their future plans. But, to be sure, the national service contingent provides the foot soldiers for the nation's developing infrastructure. Obviously, most of my contact has been with those stationed at the university and I have been so grateful for their presence on campus. 
     My dance class is taught by a somewhat abrasive woman. Try as we do to please her, the international faction of our class just can't quite move the way she wants us to. She yells and yells, demanding things my body is simply not capable of. But the heaven-sent national service TAs are full of encouragement. There are about seven of them for our medium-sized class who disperse themselves and dance alongside us. They are patient and understanding, though far superior in the art form. I know that teaching white kids to dance is not really the dream; most of their aspirations include professional dance troupes in Ghana and around the world. But they work to make us understand what they love about dance. My favorite, Shamu (yes), comes around after some harsh words from the teacher and repeats, "Smile. Enjoy what you are doing." Over and over. He must say that phrase over 100 times in a class. Yet over time, the words slip into my bones and I stomp and clap to the beat of his encouragement.
     Those completing their National Service remind me what it is to be a servant. To give your all for something other than yourself. I look up to them a great deal as they remind me that no matter what the activity, it is possible to choose to enjoy what you are doing.


     Volunteers come in and out of the orphanage on our own rather irregular rotation. When I leave after four short hours in the bustle of a normal day, I am exhausted. I typically collapse on my bed and escape into a book, gearing myself up for my next brief immersion in the ever-moving, ever-constant life of that house. Every week I am amazed that people actually do this 24-7. That it is someone's job to be here with these children all the time. In the past few weeks, I have been able to observe these unbelievable women up close. There are two that I have seen; the aunties. They could be sisters, both middle-aged strong women, the kind you would want on your team. For anything. The aunties move with a quiet grace that rises unexpectedly in moments of discipline or celebration. The children respond to them as they would a parent and their trust in these women is implicit. Their immature gratitude towards them evident in the collapse of a small body into auntie's arms or the tilt of a bald head up towards her smile.
      Morning after morning after morning for who knows how many years the aunties dress their 44 children. And lunchtime after lunchtime they feed them. Until they pass them along into an adolescence and an adulthood that they will only be a part of in pictures and postcards. And new ones are welcomed. For who knows how many more lunches.

     I give thanks for the chance to drink from the overflow of a generous soul's heart and to experience short Kofi's enthusiasm, the banana girl's perseverance, the joy of those in the national service, and the goodness of the Aunties. And I ask for the courage to express my gratitude to such heroes wherever I might find them.

things i'll never blog about

My pooping patterns.

How little the men in this country are.

I won't post about on how badly I want to get my hair braided but how I'm not sure I can pull it off. Or what to do about my watch tan without risking not knowing what time it is.

How I sometimes miss Illinois with an intensity that physically pains me in my lower left abdomen.

That one fine day I thought about staying here for another semester.

The moments, when the unfinished buildings and shoeless children cloud my vision, that it really does seem hopeless. A project for another lifetime. I keep these private.

How I don't even necessarily miss the best parts of my country. I miss the way an American billboard is laid out and the melodic screeching of women talking over each other on The View.

My parents can't read a blog about how I secretly kind of want to get malaria just to say I had it.

How many things I do just to say I did them.

How "theatre" sometimes gets stuck in my throat when asked what I'm studying. Despite all of the intellectual twisting and sorting I've done crafting a fundamental justification for my major, it is still difficult to look the orphanage director in the eye and feel okay pursuing anything other than feeding the hungry. Of course, I know, I think, I tell myself-  culture matters. But really, how do the arts stand up to the realities of suffering in our world? I'm working on it.

The game I've made of having to tell guys here that I'm married, as our program recommended we do when they get too pushy. Each time, I add to the myth of my pretend spouse. His name is Philippe. He's a doctor; part-time musician.  Phillippe is 6'9" with dark wavy hair. He cooks and he cleans and he also wants to rhyme our children's names if we have quints. Phillippe loves basketball, Disney movies and playing Harry Potter Clue. He is great fun to brag about, but I imagine it will be disappointing to return home and remember that Phillipe is just a figment.

I won't blog about crying at the post office.
I won't blog about the strike because I don't know how I feel about it.
This is for the journal.

I'll never blog about blogging. About my earnest desire to look back on a collection of stories that are honest and candid. Words that capture the hard questions and serious doubts as well as the mountains and roses of this journey without filtering for anybody.

How glad I am to have Booey here with me.

How sometimes I meet ex-pats and I shake my head. I only ever want to be a pat.

How I try to compare what I'm missing to what I'm gaining, but I can't tell if I'm in the black. A quarter missed of the Greeks in my acting class; four months of the reading and writing I've been yearning for since high school. Falling behind in precious relationships; starting brand new ones. A little less college; a little more exploring. No autumn; extra summer. Apples and oranges, I suppose.

What if being here with so little just makes me even greedier when I get home?

How little I know about the world. About elections, predictions, findings, catastrophes and progress. I'm asking for a subscription to Time magazine for Christmas.

How when it's quiet, as it always is now without my ipod and my "ghana be epic" playlist, I'm surprised and disturbed by the distant destinations of my mind. I've never given it so much free time before.

What if I never come back here?

What if I do?

I won't blog about the surging frustration of not being able to fix things that are broken. Or not even knowing how. Or when it broke.

The difference between changing and growing up. Where I'm at on that spectrum.

Nor will I blog about how slow people walk here and how much it drives me crazy.
Or my weird existential questions about what scale we're supposed to live at. Like, how I can go home with Ghana in mind or if I'm supposed to go back to coffee and Greek life or what this thing has to do with anything.
Or how narcisstic narrating can feel.
Or how much the orphanage smells.





oops.

10-10-10 in togo!

On September 9, 1999, Oprah had a little girl on her show because she was turning nine. That's it. Turning nine on 9/9/99 and you're on Oprah. I remember realizing that one day I would celebrate my birthday on 10-10-10, and even though  I wouldn't exactly be turning ten, I figured that was still talk-show worthy. So all last week, I anxiously awaited Oprah's call. But, my phone stopped working in Togo so she wasn't able to reach me, I guess. I suppose I'll have to wait until the next 10-10-10 rolls around

Yes, I spent the weekend in Togo- the skinny little country that borders Ghana to the east. I wasn't sure what to expect there. I knew they spoke French, but beyond that- would it look pretty much the same? smell the same? sell the same food? Would people look the same? Would I hear different music? Honestly, I didn't anticipate it being too different from the world I've been living in for the last two months.

But the moment we crossed the border (only after waiting two hours for an expensive visa while we watched African after African bribe their way across the border), everything changed. There was a newer quality in the air- cleaner, fresher, calmer. The beach was all the colors that a beach is supposed to be, minus the black trash bags and bottles that sunbathe along Ghana's pasty shores. People milled about in flashy shirts and capris. Actually, everyone was wearing capris. Literally everyone. We exchanged our money from cedis to CFAS which was really just so troublesome. It's roughly 1,000 CFA to 3 cedis. Doesn't that just seem inherently wrong?

A loud roar and we were surrounded by the greatest invention there ever was: moto-taxis. The two among us with some remnants of high school French took the lead on bartering and we were off. As we zoomed down the coast, I realized I had never been on a motorcycle before. The sensation was probably akin to the look on my face my mom remembers when I tried ice cream for the first time: Why have you been hiding this from me? The thrill of cruising down that road with a whole new country on my left and the Atlantic on my right over-shadowed the small part of my Type A brain that was calculating the risk involved on such a vehicle, without a helmet, on a dirt road with 42 potholes for every stoplight. I didn't care. I was on a moto-taxi.

We arrived at our hotel, Le Galion. It is an adorable guesthouse owned by a French couple featuring an open-air cafe, a balcony, and high-ceilinged rooms that let me pretend, just for the weekend, that I had studied abroad in Europe. I was blown away by how different this country was; Ghana's next-door neighbor looks nothing like it! How is it that none of the influences have seeped across the border even a little? Not even any of the food...?

Oh, the food. That night my friends let me choose the restaurant from the recommended list in our guide book, and I'm not trying to brag or anything, but- I CHOSE WELL. Greenfield might be the best dining experience I have ever had and I fully realize the role that context plays in that superlative. We walk in and Jason Mraz is playing. For those who don't know, Jason is my all-time favorite. And he was playing that night in a restaurant in Togo. Thank you, universe. The outdoor seating area was lovely, covered in brightly colored lanterns and funky artwork.

I can't really describe the ecstasy of reading the menu, but I'll do my best. The suspense was heightened by having to wait for Liz's sloppy but fairly accurate translation of each item I pointed to. I grew more and more overwhelmed by the options before me until I flipped to the last page and saw a word I recognized all too well: guacamole. Yes friends, guacamole. So, one order of guac and chips, a huge plate of ravioli, two scoops of ice cream and one martini (!) later, I sat back, full. Full of food and full of gratitude.  I looked around at the faces of those who had become such quick friends and marveled at their willingness to go to such great lengths to celebrate 21 years they had only been a part of for two months. I am blessed to add these six to my relational world and I was so lucky to have them with me this weekend.

Then we were off to Privilege- the largest night club in all of West Africa where we met the Tunisian soccer team coaches and learned of a big game the next day, lounged on the cheetah couches, made some Israeli friends, and danced to Shakira's "Waka Waka" which the DJ allowed us to request over and over and over.

Sunday morning was spent at the beautiful beach. Looking for every excuse to moto-taxi, I volunteered to go find food, run back to the hotel, find a spot farther down on the beach, etcetera, etcetera.

We decided to check out the Togo-Tunisia soccer game, especially now that we had an in with the coaches. It was unlike any professional sports experience I have ever been a part of. The game was free to get in and try as they might to maintain some kind of orderly entrance, the policemen (with beating sticks in hand) were outnumbered by the hundreds of people pushing against the gates, jumping over and under the fences (we went under- I had a dress on), and scrambling up, up and up to find a place to sit down. I legitimately think the whole country was in attendance. The game itself was very entertaining; fights periodically broke out around us over who knows what, and I came to the conclusion that those horns are only obnoxious if you don't have one yourself.  Tunisia came out victorious and the cold rain at the end of the game echoed the nation's disappointment but we were happy for our buddies.

That night came and went with more new friends who we couldn't really communicate with, crepes, baguettes, and some reflection, perched, as we were, at the halfway point of our trip. Hard to believe.

Monday, we took a day trip to a small village called Togoville that can only be reached by canoe. Our bargaining efforts with the canoe man were pretty unsuccessful given that we really had no other way to get to the town. He could basically charge us whatever he wanted. And he did. He really did.

It was a pretty impoverished town but their claim to fame is a beautiful cathedral on the water with outdoor pews reminiscent of church at K-West. It is also the namesake of this deflated-balloon shaped country. It is believed that the virgin mary is in Lake Togo that surrounds the village and for this reason, Pope John Paul II and many others have made the trek out to this sacred place. There was a sign by the entrance that explained some of this and at the bottom in bold red ink, it read:

pray for us.

I don't know why that got to me, but I was struck by the simple profundity of that request. I sometimes feel so overcome by the problems and plagues of the poor that I forget the power of prayer. I am not as helpless as I fancy myself. If nothing else, if I never come back here, if I never send money or clothes to these people, I can at least pray for them. As they have asked me to.

I'm glad we saw Togoville. I think I would have left with a false impression of this country had we not. Overall, it was a wonderful getaway and an important reminder of what we all know but so often forget; that Africa is made up of many many different countries that happen to be close to one another. It is unfair and blatantly incorrect to clump these drastically different regions into one big blob of being as we so often do. Each country has their own unique challenges, histories, politics, traditions, and values and they ought to be thought of as such.

So, Lome, Togo has been added to my list of favorite places. And this birthday hs been added to the ranks of the pre-school castle party, the American Girl movie-star shindig, 8 for Dinner, and the sweet sixteen costume party. But be sure to tune into Oprah in 2110. You might just see a familiar face.

the big three-five

This weekend, my home church, Willow Creek celebrates thirty-five years of ministry. If there was one thing I could fly home for it would be a close tie between the services this weekend and Jo's play in November. Oh and the Northwestern/U of I game at Wrigley Field. I'd really like to be there for that, too. Anyways, even across the ocean, I will celebrate and reflect on all that this church has meant to me.

I can remember the twenty-fifth anniversary at the United Center and how exciting it was to feel a part of something so momentous. I remember getting to stay up late that night and having a sleepover with Elisa. I remember the feeling of pride and anticipation for what was to come and the thrilled disbelief that I might have a place in it.

Ten years later, the anniversary passes with a twinge of longing and nostalgia in my heart. Of course, I can still give thanks for all that has happened in the last decade and smile at dreams of what the next ten might hold, but I do so knowing that my involvement and presence has inevitably lessened and will continue to do so as I grow up and away. It is difficult to loosen my grip on a place that was so instrumental in my early years. In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit what an emotional experience it is for me now to attend different churches. I have yet to find another sanctuary that feels like home, but I suppose I should surrender that label to Willow and start looking for a church that feels like now.

Today, my heart is full as I reflect on the tunnel and the in-between-times before the 11:15 and after the 9 and the atrium and Chapter 2 and the Saturday nights and Harvest's slow but steady progression towards a really decent slice of pizza and Jairus and the Santa Day rap and Camp Paradise with the dads and Camp Paradise with Elevate and my first communion and the Sam and Jo in the Know Show and the day I went to the 9:00 and had to be in the white small group and Mom's old office and the time I got lost and that nice man went and found dad for me and  Dudley DoRight and Let's Get it Started and my baptism with Kendra and that moment by myself in the balcony when I knew that it would be okay and He Reigns and He Lives and the many many memories that this church has given me over the years. I stand in awe of what God has done through a small group of high school students. I am so grateful to my parents for including me in this journey and I am proud of the roles they played. I can only hope that someday my own children will bear witness to kingdom work of that magnitude. What a privilege to have been a part of even a fraction of Willow's story! How right it is to celebrate. I wish I could be there.

But, I will be content for now to continue my days in Ghana, recognizing the role that Willow's compassion ministries and rice-and-beans-week played in spurring me to come here. I will prioritize community having learned it from the very best on the Promiseland Drama Team. I will continue pursuing my passion for the arts remembering the lakeside auditorium stage on which I first discovered that love.  And I will continue seeking after the Lord; grateful to have first encountered Him at Willow Creek Community Church.

an account of the palm tree festival in dzodze

This being a timeline of the events I experienced this weekend as a part of a drumming class field trip to a festival in the Volta Region of Ghana.

Friday, October 1st
12:30 pm  So much to do before I leave. Still need to pack and I want to get there early to get a window seat on the bus.
1:30   I arrive at the meeting place half an hour before departure. I am alone.
2:00  Departure time. Still alone.
2:21  A few people have trickled in. No sign of leadership or a bus.
3:03  I need to pee but I am afraid the bus will get here while I'm gone.
3:28  Johnson, our teacher, appears with a sign-up sheet. Things are looking good.
4:19  I pee. Still no bus.
5:42  Doo doo doo doo doo.
6:17  There she is! Not what I would traditionally label a "bus", persay. But a vehicle, nonetheless!
6:59  Try to play the Alphabet Game with fellow travelers. Too dark. No signs. Language barrier.

7:51  The road moves from pavement to potholes. Bumpity bumpity. I need to get it out of my fourth grade mind that the back of the bus is the cool place to be. Not in Ghana.
8:02  I can see stars for the first time since being here. They do wonders for my soul. Bumpity, bumpity. I'm hungry.
9:24  We've arrived, hopefully, to the place where we'll be having dinner.
9:51  Banku. My favorite.
9:52  Mouth in flames.
10:00 I think this is also where we are staying. We are pointed to a small room which 12 of us will be sharing. Yoga mats made of foam are distributed and we fumble to form some sort of orderly figuration in the dark. I scramble for a spot in the middle; safe from things that creep and crawl. 
10:11 Sweet dreams of that gymnastics gym where we used to jump into the huge pit of foam blocks.


Saturday, October 2nd
5:09 am Seriously?
5:10  Ow, my neck.
5:11 Who do these loud voices belong to and why could they possibly be awake?
7:37 I wonder where/what the toilet is.
7:41  Aha.
8:38  A walk outside and what was hidden in the dark of last night becomes clear. We are staying in a compound; a collection of huts and small stone structures that form a family's home. This is where Johnson, our teacher, grew up and where his extended family now lives. There are children busting out of every nook and cranny and it is impossible to begin to understand how the family tree fits together.

8:42 Johnson, age 71, is disappointed we won't take shots with him before breakfast. This is unlike any school trip I have ever been on.
9:02 We follow him to the street where the festivities are beginning. There are people everywhere; faces painted, making music. Everyone is lined up along the sides of the narrow dirt street. I wonder what we're waiting for.
9:23 A large procession rounds the corner. I first make out a small clan of boys painted blue. They lead the way. Behind them comes two Madeline-style lines of women decked out in traditional garb. They are beautiful. Next comes several pairs of strong young men with a platform and chair hoisted upon their shoulders, kind of like in Alladin. Atop the chair is an important man I presume to be the chief. Just over his head floats an tall ornate umbrella; shielding him from the merciless sun that has arrived, uninvited, to the party.
9:31 We are following the parade along with the rest of the village. Suddenly, the movement stops. Everyone turns to the chief with bated breath.
9:32 The chief is standing. He is STANDING UP.
9:33 UPROARIOUS APPLAUSE. Waving of handkerchiefs. Dancing. I try to understand. .
9:42 I'm starting to get into it; parading, pausing, cheering, dancing. P, P, C, D. The pattern continues until we round the corner to the durbar grounds.
9:50 A feast for the eyes. Narnia meets Alice in Wonderland meets the Gatorade Tournament at Beese. A huge open field of sand surrounded by various umbrellas with seating underneath. We are led to some nice courtside seats right by the stage.
10:20 It has to be 110 degrees. The drops of sweat speed down my arms and I am reminded of the raindrop races Jo and I used to have in the back of the car.
10:26 Johnson tells us the action will begin soon, but I am far from bored. There is plenty to look at. Hundreds and hundreds of people; old men and women for whom this must feel like old business, people with crowns and scepters that seem to have walked right out of the stories on my cherry-wood bookshelf, lots and lots of kids popping up between and under chairs and oozing out around the stage. The Ghana policemen are there; scawy, in their black military garb. There are all kinds of snacks atop heads; some delicious sort of fried bread, lots of plantains, and my personal favorite: FanIce- ice cream in a bag. The ground beneath my chair pulses to the beat of hundreds of drums, preparing us for what is to come.
11:11  The ceremony begins. Three prayers are said; one for African traditional religions, one for Islam and one for the Christians. I am struck by what an interesting alternative this is to deal with a diversely religious population.  In most environments I know, we choose to ignore it altogether. Here, we simply account for everybody.
12:22 pm The festival is in honor of the palm tree which gives us palm nuts, palm oil, red-red (a great local dish), and palm wine among other things. As the host introduces the day, a procession of maybe 10 community members dances along the perimeter of the open area; each somehow representing the palm tree. One balances a branch on his head. One carries several jugs of palm wine. One small boy is covered in leaves.
    I think it's really neat to set out a day of gratitude for one of God's natural gifts to us. For a tree. It seems so obvious when Johnson talks about. "The tree gives us so much," he explains. It reminds me of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, one of my all-time favorite books. Perhaps a dramatic reading could be incorporated into next year's festivities.
1:19 The speeches continue in Ewe, a language I unfortunately do not speak.
1:46  I can't race my sweat drops any more. They have become a steady stream covering all of my exposed and gradually reddening skin.
2:13 Every so often there are musical interludes which I greatly enjoy. Now there are a group of older women breaking it down and cooking something right in front of us while they dance.
2:15 They are running around feeding lucky audience members from the magical pot.
2:16 They choose me! Yum, tastes like the love-child of baked potatoes and lasagna.
3:37 There are women dancing right now while other women follow them and keep fires going in their hair. Yes, their hair has been woven into some kind of bowl out of which flames are springing. Wow!
3:38 All for the palm tree. There are a lot of festivals in this part of the world. I consider what our Western equivalent might be. Or at least, the Barrington equivalent. Sidewalk sales? Farmer's Market? Not quite.
5:00 We return to the compound and Johnson offers to lead us around.
5:10 I am taking off our shoes so that I can enter the shrine...?
5:12 We follow Johnson through a gate and duck our heads to enter under a small area shaded by a thatched roof. I am face to back of a saggy woman with a tattoo of bullets in an upside down V.
5:14 She turns around and is introduced as the priestess. She plucks some fruit down that grows from the roof and offers it to me.
5:15 Mmmmm, it is passion fruit: the size of a lemon with gooey seeds inside. Delicious. Strange, how often I drink passion fruit flavored Gatorade or choose passion fruit Skittles without ever knowing what a real passion fruit even looks like.
6:02 Banku for dinner. It's growing on me...?
7:38 We follow the sound of music out to the streets where part two of the festival continues.
10:01 I watch a small baby bounce on the back of his dancing mother. I see an old woman and a teenage guy in a soccer jersey dancing together in the center of the drumming circle. A group of little boys look on in front of two cool older girls in matching metallic belts. I am struck by so many different ages celebrating together. It is a Saturday night and everyone is here under this big tree.  No one is too cool. I love those all-too-rare moments during Easter at the Kasper's or at the Hoellerich's cabin where we can be with extended family or family friends and all just be together. Without making plans of where to go after or the little kids breaking off to go play while we text under the table. Those times when you know that no one in the room would rather be anywhere else.
    I do wish we had more of these common gatherings across generations; that we were better at celebrating together.

Sunday, October 3rd
4:39 am   I stare at the blue ceiling, surrounded by girls I've just met and have one of those where-am-I-and-how-did-I-get-here moments. I listen to the language being spoken quite loudly outside and I smile because even my wild imagination never pictured waking up here in 2010.
8:03 Discover about ten new mosquito bites. But they kind of form a heart shape on my thigh and I like that.
8:48  Just found out Johnson has TEN wives. That explains a lot.

9:42  The kids are way better drummers than us. They're trying to be patient.
11:09 We pull out of the town of Dzodze amidst screaming children and the ever-present drum beat suggesting a slow but steady pace for the road ahead.
12:37 pm  I didn't get a window seat but it is hard to miss the palm trees as we drive through the rural landscape; glowing, as they are, from their weekend in the spotlight. I just hope it doesn't go to their heads.