During our taxi ride back to Accra, we listened to radio coverage of the 60th anniversary of Ghana’s independence celebrations. Journalists, professors and politicians expressed disappointment about the lack of progress during the last 60 years as a nation. But they also spoke with pride about their home and the Ghanaian people.
Once back at Agoo Hostel, the Presidential celebrations at a nearby stadium flashed across the TV screen. It was a bright day and endless groups of dancers in matching outfits performed energetic dances and formations. It was a striking display of nationalist pride and it made me reflect on our own subdued Fourth of July celebrations: family picnics, dips in the lake, cold beers and fireworks.
Our last day before flying home is forever punctuated in my mind with the memory of nausea, chills and abdominal pains. We didn’t fly out until 11:30 p.m. and I spent most of our last moments with Sean lying on our bunkbed. I’m still not sure what was wrong but Sean seems to think I had some sort of amoebas — probably the most minor illness he faced during his three years. I had a minuscule taste of what 39 months in Togo must have felt like and I can honestly say I have so much more respect for Peace Corps volunteers as a result.
By the time we loaded our bags into our final taxi, I was very ready to be home. I didn’t want to leave Sean or Ghana but I was looking at nearly 24 hours of travel and not anticipating a smooth ride. It was fitting that we got stuck in standstill traffic on our way to the airport. We would sit for ten minutes without moving as the heat of the day seeped in through open windows and closed around us. Our taxi driver blasted skull-scraping music and endless salesmen streamed by, showing goods through the windows. I spent the entire ride with my sunglasses on and my head practically out the window trying to catch a breeze.
We left early for the airport so Sean could eat dinner with us, but we had trouble finding Arrow Star Restaurant. Our driver had no idea where we were trying to go but he gamely drove in circles wherever we directed him to try next. We are a family of problem-solvers and all three of my companions were passionately trying to get us to our destination so I closed my eyes behind my sunglasses and tried to ignore the little blades stabbing my gut. We circled one block multiple times in different directions and still could not find Arrow Star so we eventually admitted defeat and pulled over for help.
Our taxi driver drove up to two young men and a woman sitting on the curb. He rolled down the window and leaned across Sean to ask them about Arrow Star. The conversation quickly eroded into confusion as it became clear this was not a well-known restaurant. More people on the street stopped to help including a cop, but no one could offer any more information. I watched as our map was passed through the window and then carried down the street in search of another opinion. When we pulled away from the curb 20 minutes later none of us were any more enlightened so we just asked our patient driver to bring us to the airport.
As we pulled into the parking lot, we passed a bright red sign that proudly claimed ‘Arrow Star Restaurant.’ We all let out a cheer and dragged our bags over to the outdoor patio. We found a nice table under a huge broadleaf tree and ordered some drinks. We sat there, wind whipping the red tablecloths and the sun fading away, feeling our last moments with Sean slide steadily away.
The moment came, as it always does, and soon we were in line for security to enter the airport. We said rushed, frantic goodbyes and hugged him three times each. Then we were separated by glass doors, and with one final smile and wave, he was gone. We hoisted our bags onto our backs and headed for the terminal.
An eternity later — or was it a blink — we landed in Minneapolis. Back to life as we know it. Back to stability and comfort and certainty.
Months later, my memories of West Africa are blurring into dreams. Our last night in Accra, the four of us drank these huge Ghanaian Star beers up on the roof of our hostel and chatted as the sun drifted towards the horizon. Even the aggressive heat now seems more like a warm cocoon instead of a blazing fire. The sky was hazy yellow, the sunlight softened through millions of little dust particles. I can still see the smoke from Sean’s cigarette floating up in a curtain of gray before dissipating. In the memory, we are happy and content, laughing at stories as we look out over the corrugated tin and thatched roofs that are nestled right next to each other. Somewhere far away, or maybe nearby, the sound of dance music and thrumming drums sifted into the air.
We came home to the jaggedness of a Minnesotan March. The Ghanaian colors had been warm and inviting, but we had returned to a sharp winter sun and snow crystals that glinted like knives. West Africa felt like worlds away.
My Adventures 