Dessert Storm

Sometimes I forget that I am spending a year in Ghana, far removed from friends and family. With reliable (relatively speaking) internet access, it is easy to stay virtually connected. Other times I realize that the Atlantic Ocean is slightly more imposing than, say, London Bridge.

In early August, my mother put together a thoughtful care package to ship abroad. Included in the package were some freshly baked homemade brownies. Well, I’ve concluded that there’s a bottleneck somewhere in the process. Intercontinental mail has redefined my definition of snail mail. Approximately three months later, I am still awaiting the arrival of this package. But who’s counting?

As September came to a close, my mother emailed me (e > snail) a note of apology, and informed me that she had learned from her mistakes. Included in this email was a link to a 26-page Department of Defense recipe for brownies and a quip about how she should have followed this recipe instead. The benefit of these brownies – a three year lifespan, which coincidentally, is about the average lifespan of a snail.

This story supports the following conclusions:

A. The Bermuda triangle is real.

B. Snails make better escargot.

C. The Federal government spent approximately the same on Dessert Storm as it did on Desert Storm.

Anyway, I can’t wait to sink my teeth into those freshly baked brownies when they finally arrive!

The Curious Incident of the Travelling Church in the Nighttime

Just when I think all of the stars are aligned against me, I come to realize that there are more stars. Such is case when it comes to the curious incident of the travelling church in the nighttime. I already assumed the variables, to include the variable time, were optimized to maximize my disfavor. But this assumption was grounded on the assumption that time was constrained by the human compulsion for sleep.

Contrary to my original belief, I’ve learned that time is neither uniform nor discrete. It is not uniform because I value certain time (e.g., night-time) more than other time. And it is not discrete because there are certain periods where time is no longer black and white, but rather gray. Were you at that fraternity party until late last night or early this morning? Gray.

Well, the tree came crashing through my window during a gray period late last night or early this morning. The travelling church was back with a vengeance, commencing worship in the middle of the night. Literally, the middle of the night?! The upside was that the travelling church heeded my advice and abandoned the camouflage tent. The downside was the congregation failed to eliminate the underlying visibility problem. My next recommendation: God could probably see you better in the daylight instead of beneath the stars, which you may notice, are now all aligned.

London Bridge

When compiling a list of important travel accessories, one cannot afford to overlook the omniscient travel guide book. So before I left America and all of her great qualities (to include, as I’ve discovered, but not limited to: wine and cheese, quiet time, the GOP) I decided to invest in the gift of knowledge, purchasing the Bradt Ghana travel guide.

Through trial and error I have come to learn that on (nearly every) occasion the narrative of the guidebook is telling only part of the story. It’s as if the author thought it would be clever to withhold information so the reader could experience Ghana in an entirely different way. For example, Bradt informed me that it would cost $5 to participate in the Canopy Walk at Kakum National Park. Bradt forgot to mention the one that precedes the five. $15 and empty pockets later, my cohort and I learned the art of hitch-hiking to the local Barclays ATM.

So when, on a weekend excursion, I read that we were close to London Bridge, I couldn’t resist suggesting a visit. Bradt described the bridge as a rather odd and unimposing little bridge dating to the late 19^th century and appropriately garnished with painted United Jacks and the like – it’s worth crossing if only to have a fruit juice at Baab’s juices. After some discussion as to whether or not the walk in the heat was worth the fruit juice at the end of the bridge, we agreed to take our chances.

Unimposing it was. I didn’t realize I had crossed the bridge until I found myself outside of Baab’s juices (closed for the day). Turning around, I realized that the gutter I had stepped across was, in fact, London Bridge. I can only wonder if the reason Baab’s juices was closed on such a warm afternoon was due to juice junkie’s unwillingness to cross the unimposing little bridge.

Faith

On my walk back from the gym one afternoon, I received a brochure from the Glory Gate Chapel informing me that God loves me big time. I was advised to look for a Bible believing Church and this would be the first step of my super Acceptance of His Super Love.

So, when one of my Ghanaian friends invited me to attend a church service with him, I quickly jumped at the opportunity. I knew I would be in for a cultural treat.

We would set off for church at 7:30am…early, yes, but very manageable since the travelling church that was once outside my room has decided to take up permanent residence and commences service at 6:30am.

Well, unbeknownst to me, new worshipers are invited to sit in the front row of the congregation. While I suspect it’s an attempt to bring me closer to God, I could think of a few additional reasons, (a) to make sure that I don’t fall asleep in the back of the congregation and (b) to transform me into a public spectacle since I can no longer rely on cues from my neighbor as to when I should sit and stand.

The church conformed to my preconceptions surrounding African traditions often associated with charismatic churches: the preacher’s tittup across the stage, the praise Gods, and the worship songs and hymns. I did not, however, anticipate playing such an important role in the service. Maybe because I was a first-timer or maybe because I was the only obruni in attendance, the preacher made a point to make me a focal point of his stories.

My favorite (or most terrifying) story was one he told about me and my wife. Even though I know she loved me, when my wife was about to deliver my baby, she was out of her mind and told me that I was despicable. Somehow this story was tied to the seasons, but I guess I was so distraught with my wife finding me despicable that I failed to grasp the connection of the seasons.

I suppose I didn’t mind being front and center. I mean, after all, if I hadn’t been there, how would I have ever found out that my wife was having a baby? Who knew? God works in mysterious ways.