TrekFeet

A better version of ourselves. February 25, 2007

I took a long walk through the snowy city this morning. Out into the still finale of a night’s downfall and through the abandoned streets as the storm got its second wind and pooled on my cheek bones.  

I know conventional wisdom awards the country a monopoly on solitude and peace. 

But I promise you there is no quiet like the city on a morning like this. I cannot keep myself inside on these rare days - nights when the snow insulates the city walks and the lampposts cast a muted glow up into the purple canopy of the cloudy dome.  Hazy afternoons by the lakes where your ears search for any sound and report back only the faroff swish of cross country skies and what must be the noise snow makes as it falls on to piles of itself.

Today, I trudged past cafes where steamed glass windows presented a silent show: Family joints where waitresses navigate towheaded kids chasing dogs through slicks of melted snow. Elitist coffee shops where the wi-fi crowd sit in wire rims and uniform black and admire the weather during downloads. Past businesses abandoned for the day, amphitheaters without audiences, a gamble of sidewalks alternately plowed by industrious neighbors and neglected by lazy blocks still tucked into Sunday morning rituals. I barely noticed a noise the whole time I was gone, but I took in every wordless sight - of drifted doors and frosted branches, dog prints in shin deep walks and this black and white world reflected back even more elegantly in bay windows.    

Maybe it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be when the heavens open than in a city - if only for the contrast.  Today, we are unhurried, observant and slow to speak…a better version of ourselves.

Out of Africa, Redux… February 18, 2007

We watched “Out of Africa” again the other evening.  And I, being a certain kind of woman, obviously heaved and sighed throughout with devout admiration of the indomitable Karen Blixen. 

The Times We Didn’t Ask For February 6, 2007

 From a perch on the roof of the all but deserted Sammo Guest House in Cape Coast, Ghana, I knew I probably wasn’t where I was supposed to be. 

Meaning, I guess, that I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere on the road to the quaint beach villages bragged up by guidebooks and travel blogs. Instead, I sat in a slowly bustling African port town where the ocean was used for sustenance and bathing and the concept of sunbathing was laughable.

After the first day’s walk through town, I realized I was the only tourist and Bruni (which you’ll remember from our previous Lessons in Derogatory Ghanaian Slang essentially means “whitey”) in sight.

That wasn’t always the case. Once upon a time, Cape Coast was colonial turf - the kind of place where clergy engaged in competitions to build their church steeple higher than the Presbyterians, who had outdone the Baptists, who had dwarfed the Lutherans.  The one-time launching point for slave ships, ashamed castles now hunker at the water’s edge, concealing dungeons and holding pits under their skirts.  Rumor has it a reputable college still thrives on the outskirts of town, though I have to admit I never made it over for a campus tour.

The Cape Coast I remember was a brassy adaptation of the old British showcase. The colonial architecture had fallen down upon itself but was now used for purposes more sensible and essential than art. The four corners of main street were flanked by hundreds of tin and plywood shanties where static-crusted music blared, foo foo was pounded for dinner, children played naked and chickens - random, frantic chickens - paced day and night.

A hundred paces from the slums led you to the cusp of the sea which roiled with activity. Sinewy men dragged in fishing nets from rudimentary pirate ships. Women scrubbed children and laundry in the salt water and piled baskets of both on their head for the walk home. Boys who were clever enough to sneak way from the hard and slow domestic chores played joyful soccer half clothed in the dusk.

Cape Coast, at least the rutted, dirt pathed heart of Cape Coast where I slept, was not a beach paradise. There were no charming markets of mass produced and politely ethnic souvenirs. The bank in town was open suspiciously erratic hours and then only for regulars.  There was a restaurant on a pier, open air and said to comfort expats on a regular basis. I never made it down to see for myself.

Instead, I wandered through town and pretended I couldn’t hear crass Twi catcalls and didn’t feel the kind of unabashedly curious stares locals are allowed to give.  I sat on a shaded bench in the dirt courtyard of my guest house, next to a dried up fountain where geckos darted and I read.  I lingered on the roof of Sammo’s every night and I wrote until the darkness crawled down to the bay. And then by candlelight, I ate the best fried chicken I’ve ever had - recommended to me by the barefoot waiter who promised “my sister makes the best fried chicken you’ve ever had.”

Cape Coast was cluttered, irritatingly hot and curtly practical. It was also chock full of painful history, historic strides in human rights and a proud community who is nonchalantly doing the best it can. 

I remember feeling more alone there than at almost any other point in my life.  Out of place and secretly annoyed at having missed out on the trip I’d anticipated - romantic beachside huts, hammocks, tropical drinks. 

Now, I just think I was lucky to stumble upon the truly exotic in an everyday cape town that didn’t think anyone was watching.