While Attending Catholic Church...

The realization that the red soil my feet crushes is Africa has not struck. I feel peaceful and curious. Routines are starting to rise, faces are becoming familiar, boredom has not manifested.

Our group of fifty has dwindled to 45. Two never showed, one became ill, two others developed reservations.

We all met in Philadelphia. We boarded the plane with excitement and shot-ridden arms. We landed in Africa with open, amazed eyes. Two weeks near strangers going through myriad emotional highs and vast speculations and confusion constructed a dam between our old lives and a new one. Thousands of miles from normality became the constructor, being split into work sectors and corralled in villages fifteen minutes apart has created cracks. Every morning, afternoon, and evening the cracks widen with the constant sound of fufu being pounded by great (tree) sticks.

Boom...Boom. Sweat runs down my brow. Boom...Boom. The soup does not burn my fingers. Boom...Boom. Bug bites go unnoticed. Boom...Boom. Africa permeates.

Cultural disconnects are traversed as we trip and stumble like new-borns. It becomes natural to greet anyone in sight and others who yell “obroni,” white man, out of sight. It is perfectly normal to think of breasts as “functional” as an experienced volunteer defined them. Nothing is taboo or hidden when babies are hungry. Bucket baths twice a day are treated with eagerness. Cool and refreshing, something the daily sun does not permit.

I may never have the epiphany of “I'm in Africa.” That would make it inhospitable and troublesome, which Ghanaians won't no part of. Adaptation will likely come slowly, unrealized by my counterparts and me, floating in on drum beats and the banter of cheap flip-flops.