far distant Ghana beach

The long trotro ride from Accra Mall to the middle of nowhere. The long wait under an awning while a second trotro very slowly filled. The long trotro ride to a small town with a big market. The share taxi to a smaller town with a driver so tender he slowed almost to a stop to get us all over the deep potholes seamlessly. The cute okada rider who followed us until it was time to disembark. The swift and zipping moto ride thorough narrow winding woven-palm-wall and rammed-earth village laneways, past a stream of local men each of whom greeted us gravely as it grew dark, “You are welcome.” The two intelligent teenagers who helped us carry our stuff over the sandy lanes and along under the trees (Lydia is backpacking for a month and I had three different books to read), the trudge over a small rickety bridge with beautiful handpainted fishing prows moored under the palm trees. The lumps in our burning throats when all we had to give them was money but they asked, sensibly, for ‘a book’ to assist with their education. The resolve to carry even more books from now on. The fences built from compilations of old and faded hand painted boat legends, such as GOD IS IN CONTROL/CONSUMING FIRE. The first night sleeping in a sweetly made plump low bed as soft as straw ticking, under a grass roof, on a soft sand floor, within four palmleaf walls, which a gentle man named Mawuli later showed me how to weave… the sea on one side and the freshwater estuary on the other .The fishing boats passing at dusk and at dawn. The annoying rasta who wanted us to pay him too much attention, who took the huff when I politely told him you talk plenty and listen little and you have tired us, please we don’t want your company today. The little black and white doggoe who fell in love and came to coil around my feet everywhere I sat down. The overpriced food und undercleaned toilets. The stripey palms, one of whom had capsized into the river. The water soft and idle and fresh and fast moving on our skins. The sensation of sleeping 13 hours at a time like a sunken ship. The whistling breezes. The bonfire. The night. The night! The night!