my family: the pilgrims

The architecture was frustrating.  The arrivals terminal consists of a long hallway blocked off from view by two thick partitions. There is a bit of horizontal space in between the walls, so from where I stood, I could see only the torsos of those coming through customs. My eyes would follow their belly buttons until the rest of their bodies were revealed in the opening at the end where they would emerge into the aisle along which we were waiting. Me and other hotel staff, chauffeurs; holding up signs for their unknown guests. How ridiculous that I must stand behind these impersonal interactions when I know exactly who I'm waiting for and have been doing so for quite a long time. I'm not sure if it was the extra three suitcases they had brought to cart my souvenirs home, or my dad's careful counting and re-counting his transaction at the Forex Bureau, or maybe my mom had to pee a lot but for whatever reason, I was kept waiting, tracking abdomens, for an eternity. But finally, I saw it. Jo's torso.
     I watched it float along until she rounded the corner and I bumped past the short man with the "Mr. Buckingham" sign as, in front of our little Ghanaian audience, we ran towards each other, in slow motion. Mom and Dad's torsos soon followed and we were a family once again.
      The week unfolded as I had hoped it would; the central tension, of course, being my desire to force their understanding of the realities in which I'd been living and also my first opportunity in some time to ride in taxis and eat at nice restaurants. I'd say we balanced it pretty well, perhaps with a slight nod to the latter temptations.
     We spent the first part of the week getting settled in, entertaining my friends at our hotel (where we gorged ourselves on grilled vegetables, cheesy potatoes, rolls, steak, and chocolate cake), Jo catching me up on the latest songs (I really like the one about whipping your hair), a trip downtown where we climbed a janky lighthouse in which my parents proved they still got it, and a visit to the major market where I took over the bargaining for a soccer jersey for Jo who was a little too expressive when she saw something she liked. It was neat to be reminded of what is new and different about this country I've grown so used to. Mom and Jo's exclamations over the animals wandering around the sides of the road reminded me that there aren't stray goats in Chicago and Jo's obsession with the babies secured onto backs brought a faint memory of strollers to mind. Being their tour guide helped me to feel tangibly how at home I have come to feel in a place which used to constantly shock and surprise me.
    Mid-week we left for Cape Coast where we visited the old slave castles along the water. I had made the same trip back in September, but it was much more meaningful to me this time around; perhaps, due to a more filled-out context, or maybe, just in the company of my family.
     Back at our hotel, it was time to order from the "indigenous fare" section of the menu. I got us a small sampling including red-red, jollof rice, waakye and groundnut soup with rice balls for us all to share. Now, let's be real. That is a pre-school, negative 100 level, infant's introduction to Ghanaian cuisine. The waakye didn't even come with pepper sauce! A far cry from the fiery fodder and scalding snacks I have grown so accustomed to.  But, I just wasn't sure the Beaches could handle the spicier elements with the same level of maturity and adaptability with which I had so gracefully indulged earlier this semester. And I was right. While my mother complained of the jollof aftertaste, my father refused to eat the soup with his hands, as is traditionally practiced. And my sister? Well, she carefully tore off a chunk of rice ball and slowly, fearfully lowered it towards the soup, allowing only the very bottom tip (about half a grain of rice) to skim the surface before delicately putting it in her mouth. A really noble effort.
     Perhaps the highlight of the week came Thursday morning when we visited the orphanage where I've been volunteering with chalk, bubbles, play-doh and other small gifts in tow. Of course, the kids were off of their usually fighting-crying-peeing rotation, and were angels to my parents. My friend Amber and I kept trying to tell them it's never like this, they're never this well-behaved, but I'm not sure they got it. Maybe the toys had something to do with it. What is it about kids and bubbles? Something in the way they expand, drift, and float away, making the earth a little bit wetter than it was before. Or it could just be that they taste good. Because Joshua, in particular, really seems to think so.
    We had lots of fun reading to them, drawing, letting them take a whirl with our cameras- all the while Jo and I hinting to my parents about a baby brother for Christmas. It is always neat to see my parents interact with children and remember the shape our relationship once was. A lot of the little ones gravitated towards Dad; older men, like him, being conspicuously absent from the only world they've ever known.
    Yes, it wasn't until that evening, Thanksgiving night, that the Beaches really held true to form; unable, as we are, to have a normal trip anywhere.  The night began at a dinner hosted by our program where we had a Rorschach sketch of Thanksgiving food. Mom wasn't feeling well and left early with Dad. Jo and I stayed for awhile before going back to my room to pack up all that I was to send home with them. We got back to the hotel and heard that mom was pretty sick. We went to bed in hopes that she'd feel better in the morning.
     In the middle of some intense REM, I was awoken by the loudest sound I've ever heard. It was the sound of stone crumbling, of a massive earthquake, of a cheetah stampede. First, I thought the roof was caving in. Then, I thought it was more likely an intruder. My fight/flight response was to roll over and drift back asleep.
    The next morning I got up early because I had a class to go to. I stumble into our bathroom and find myself in the middle of a war zone. Toothbrushes, napkins, soap are among the casualties displaced around the room. Towels are not the color they once were. And most noticeably, THE STONE SINK IS IN PIECES ON THE FLOOR. Entirely pulled out from the wall, the marble remains lay at my feet. My family is asleep and no one can explain this to me.
     Later on, I would receive the graphic instant replay. The following is not for the faint of heart, if about to eat Chipotle or something, feel free to skip to the end: Apparently, in the middle of the night, Jo too had gotten sick. She leaned over the sink (interesting choice of vessel, sistah) in order to, you know, vom, and pulled the entire structure out of the wall and into the condition in which I found it. The cacophony awoke my still sick mother as it did me. Unlike me, she actually got out of bed. My father, having popped an Ambien or five, heard nothing.  So, with the blind leading the blind, my sick mother helped my sick sister navigate the apparently fragile washroom as they alternated, you know, doing what you do when you're sick. All while Sam and Warren dreamt of turkey and mashed potatoes.
      Thankfully, their flight was not until the following evening so the invalids had a day to recover. Dad and I, eager to escape the cesspool, attempted to explain the situation to the hotel staff. My Twi didn't go quite as far as I'd hoped it would. But, somehow we all agreed that "the sink was weak" and we were in the clear.
      So, there was a lot more chicken than there was turkey. And yams boldly stepped in for my beloved mashed potatoes. We wore flip flops instead of boots. And spent the morning with kids who redefine family instead of our traditional gathering. There was a whole lot of soccer and they even call it football here, though I'm not sure that fooled my dad. Our Black Friday shopping consisted of a hunt for saltines and toast and I wasn't nearly as full as I usually am. But I tell you, the holiday was not lost on me. I have more to be thankful for this year than ever before. Actually, I'm just more aware this year.  And, I'm discovering that when I'm counting, more and more blessings keep floating my way.
       I said goodbye to Mom, Dad and to Jo's torso. This time our hugs weren't quite as heavy, knowing that it won't be long before I am back at Chipotle with Jo, watching Gilmore Girls with Mom and staying up late eating chocolate-covered raisins with Dad.  So, the Beaches have left their mark in Ghana. They left a treasure trove of American snacks under my bed. They left the bubbles they brought to Beacon House and the kids they loved on for a day. And, in the bathroom of Chalet Four, they left a sink. In shambles.