it’s the final night at the transitional conference. your last moments as a peace corps volunteer before your official split from the organization. you say goodbye to peace corps, but not to your friends.
and why do tourists go there? perhaps the ocean? the forts? the slave castle? the beach? the history?
exploring ghana is nothing but an excuse to enjoy the last moments you get to have with your yala yala buddies before each of you scatter off to different parts of the world.
all of you have ideas. but what will each of you end up actually doing?
what was supposed to be a single malian peace corps two year path has now split into three very different futures.
something. you don’t have the words to describe it.
but it doesn’t matter – it won’t be happening now.
you three are healthy. alive. safe. eating well. drinking well too. and most importantly, together in ghana.
guinness. again, like the cigars, you don’t participate. you had one sip, they laughed at your reaction. but in the end you won because you’re the one who ordered chicken with a curry sauce. and had the best lunch of the three.
that’s right. tourism, photography, beer, curry chicken– these are the steps you are taking to readjusting back to your pre-malian lifestyle.
they’re steps backwards – to the things you used to do before mali, but they’re steps forward as well – you are nowhere near the same person you were before.
they haven’t been properly used for six months.
you really did.
but those waves were relentless.
that is one thing that didn’t differ too much between mali and ghana.
you politely turn down the invitation from the atlantic to swim. tempted, yes, but in the end you decide you’re better off staying dry.
and toward the rainforest.
however, no photos from you – you were too terrified to do anything except focus on reaching the end.
but these two probably have beautiful images from that high unstable angle.
you wish you could’ve spent more time exploring the forest – but two reasons stop you. one: this national park has strict rules. and two: you have to go back to accra to catch your flight out of ghana.
so it’s back to accra. when you step into your blue tinted room, you’re momentarily scared. not of the place, not of its seedy nature, but because you’re the who booked it and you’re afraid your yala yala buddies will be angry at the dump you found.
one last full day in accra feeding the chickens together before the taxi to the airport. before the mali path diverges into three hazy futures.
oh, you don’t want to click “publish.” you really would like to leave this entry unpublished forever. because once you do, there aren’t any more things to go back to. there are no more photos. there are no more yala yalas to reminiscence about.
it’ll be europe and the united states after this point.
but it has to happen. stories have to continue, even if they no longer take place in west africa.