BEST WEEKEND OF MY LIFE, PART TWOO

Sunday I wake up with the sun and the goats, dazed and dreamy on a rooftop in Larabanga. Time for elephants! Abraham and his cousin Yusef drive us on motorcycles from the village to Mole National Park. I hold on tight to Yusef as we take yet another twenty minute roller coaster ride. Yusef has little dreadlocks all over his head and is almost never seen without his super cool sunglasses, tan hoody, and cubic zirconium studded belt. After four days without washing and several motorcyle rides, my curls are starting to dread too. Are you a rasta? Yusef asks, hoping for a love match. Not quite. He seems very disappointed.

Yusef may not be the classiest of Larabangans but he does manage to get us a spot for the 7am safari and a guide named Osman. We head off into the bush with Osman who is outfitted in huge boots, camouflage pants, and a shot gun to do. Five minutes in to the safari we see a large, grey, wrinkled tushi peeking through the trees- "oh, woah, that's an elephant" janet notes.

The safari is not as thrilling as I had hoped. There are few animals out and the highlight is really an impromptu face off between Janet and a warthog. (On a side note, I would like to add that warthogs are quite possibly the most unattractive organism I have ever seen, making Pumba in the lion king an exceptionally misleading character.)

The four of us take a break from the large safari group and sit at a nearby restaurant for some lunch. Several gangs of baboons are lurking nearby and there are frequent terrorist attacks as the baboons literally run into the restaurant on two feet, stealing bananas, mangos, french fries, whatever they can get their hands on. A girl of no more than two years runs after the baboon in her diaper, waving her wooden stick and seeking revenge. The children keep a look out and scream baboon! when they see them approaching but these animals are relentless! I hold on to my french fries for dear life and we shoot the baboons a good death stare. Oh no you don't!

Tired of being on baboon watch, we ask Osman to take just the four of us back into the bush. After a short walk through the forest we come to the watering hole and our eyes and mouths grow wide as we have just stepped into the pages of national geographic. I can't help but feel that these magnificent animals are very old and wise men with remarkable tales of their journeys across africa- the places they've been, the people they've seen. They spray water on themselves and each other, playing like young children as white birds sail across them and deer observe from the shore. We spend a good hour just watching the elephants, amazed by their size, beauty, and simple existence outside the cages of a zoo. What a treat, I think.

The sun is beginning to fall so it is time to hop back on our motorcycles, dreads blowing in the wind, and copper earth settling in my laugh lines. Upon returning, I spend my afternoon by the woman's canopy, pounding cassava (fufu) and holding babies, in particular a pair of two month old twins, adorned with beads and gold jewelry for good luck. Abraham watch the boys play football and discussing the enormous challenges of educating women in a Muslim community.

It is now a saturday night and about 40 girls have come to Abraham's courtyard in hopes that they might have a turn at reading one of the fifteen books he has had donated. The girls are not just hungry, but starving for knowledge. Abraham teaches out of a standardized Ghanaian teaching manual, this one on information technology. I doubt these girls have ever seen a computer but we sit in on Abraham's class and watch as he uses a stone wall as a chalk board and spells words (sometimes incorrectly) like "mouse" and "hard disk" as the girls dictate. One by one they stand up and mistake or no mistake, Abraham says, "clap for her!" and we all clap as such, CLAP-CLAP- CLAP CLAP CLAP - CLAP. By nine thirty the girls are becoming restless and the little ones are dozing off. Time for sleep, says Abraham. The girls hurry through the village to their beds and we follow suit. I am woken by Abraham the next morning at 3:30 so we can take the 4am bus back to Tamale, Kumasi, and then Accra. We walk to the bus station (a wood table manned by a gentleman my grandfather's age) in complete silence, dreading our departure and goodbyes. My eyes are heavy with tears but I try so terribly hard to keep them in and hide from Abraham. I already miss you, he tells me.

I don't want to leave Abraham, or Labrabanga, or the girls. I especially don't want to be the tourist that intrudes on a community for just a few days, makes empty but appealing promises, and never returns to make good on them. I don't want to be that person, I think. So Abraham and I hug and say, until we meet again. No goodbye.


This is the constant struggle of the do-gooder. So many bandwagons to jump on, charities to donate to, ngo's to volunteer with, mouths to feed, bodies to cloth. Talk about a migraine and a heartache. Like mother, like daughter, I tend to feel this enormous responsibility to take care of everyone, to fix things that are broken and heal people who are hurt. But I am learning that even though the puzzle may be a bit of disaster, while there are so many problems and not enough solutions, it's ok to take it one piece at a time.

Larbanga is my piece. Larabanga was, is, truly special. And I can't tell you what or who pulled at my heart strings so forcefully, but they're still tugging.