Comfort Zone

After a few days settling into our bungalow in Cape Coast, I still didn’t breathe unconsciously. My anxious stomach remained in my throat, and I still had to remind myself often to take deep breaths. When Patrick and Regina, two of the GVSU students, stopped by to ask how it was going, I shared my discomfort with them.

“I still can’t breathe naturally yet.”

“Yeah. Me neither, Regina said, “All the sand and dust in the air makes it hard to catch your breath.”

“I have the same problem,” Patrick agreed.

They thought I was referring to the Harmaton season, when the sand from the Sahara films the air with a thin yellowish dust. It lasts a couple of months during the dry season. That physical issue actually hadn’t been a problem to me, respitorially speaking. In fact,  I’m pretty sure the sandy sky dulled the heat and brightness of the sun, which was a blessing. We still wore sunglasses, but not to shade our eyes. We wore them to prevent  irritation from the sand. Dakota hadn’t bought any sunglasses yet, so after a few days, his eyes were scratchy red and irritated. Another side effect of the Harmaton was a constant dingy, grimy feeling on our skin. Our clothes were grubby yellow by the end of the day, and the air coated our arms and legs with a thin layer of dirt. That was just from being outside. Elle multiplied her discoloration by playing in the sand and dirt in front of our house, so she was an even darker shade of yellow-gray by the end of each day.



Elle and her dirtball.



“Look, mom,” she announced proudly one morning, crouched  in the dirt driveway. “I made a snowball!” She had a small mound of dirt piled at her feet. She molded it into a ball, and pointed enthusiastically at her creation.

“That’s not a snowball. It’s not made of snow. It’s made of dirt.” I called from the window, where I watched her while working at the kitchen sink.

“Oh,” she corrected herself. “Look Mom, I made a dirt ball!”

“You are a little dirt ball!”

My dirty girl

 By bath time, her little feet and knees and arms were yellowy gray-brown and sticky with sweaty grime. The dirt scrubbed from her limbs muddied the bathwater, making it impossible to see the bottom of the tub in only 2 inches of water. An added bonus was the distinct brown, scummy ring left around the bath tub after I bathed her. In truth, the same ring was left by my own bathwater, and I didn’t even sit and play in the dirt. Just the Harmaton air blessed me with the extra layer of sun-protection.

But it wasn’t the Harmaton that caused my labored breathing. It was pure nerves and panic. I was disappointed with myself. That feeling of empowerment that I had hoped to gain here in Africa, was nowhere to be found. Instead I felt scared, helpless and insignificant. Scott, on the other hand, was a fearless doer. When he said he wanted to do something, he just did it. I was more of a thinker. I had it in my head what I wanted to do or what I should do, but then anxiety of actually doing it paralyzed me so I wouldn’t follow through.  It became an easy out for me to allow Scott to take control and do everything, while I stood silently behind him. Sometimes it was a relief, knowing that Scott would step up to every task when I balked. But more often I became resentful. I thought if he could just be patient and not rush everything, I could do it eventually. I just needed time to gain the courage. I didn’t want to be treated like a useless little child. I wanted to be a respected equal. But I knew to deserve the status I needed to act it. I needed to do SOMETHING! ANYTHING!

On top of my fear and anxiety was utter confusion. So many jobs needed to be done, I had no idea where to start. It reminded me of the feeling I got when moving to a new house in America. I had stacks and stacks of boxes labeled with room names, and empty cupboards and closets and drawers and walls and floors to fill, but the sheer number of decisions and ways to attack the task overwhelmed me, so instead I sat and stared at the boxes, unsure what to do first. In that situation I just had to call my sister, Bethany. She’s task master extraordinaire. She always knows exactly how to arrange everything efficiently, what looks good where, and how to, in the simplest way, make a house look cozy. Unfortunately, at the moment, she was on the other side of the planet. I tried to channel her type-A energy. I pondered what she would tell me to do first. I envisioned her standing, one hand on her hip, perusing the bare bungalow, before declaring, “First, you should…”

Nothing came to mind.

I tried to draw on any prior knowledge. Our accommodations only reminded me of one situation I had experienced in the United States; camping. The cabin-like house, the screened windows and open air, spraying mosquito repellant and sunscreen, heating water in a kettle for washing, dirt roads, minimal showers, bottled water, sweat. What would I do first, I reasoned, if I were camping? And so I planned and followed through on my first independent task in Africa. WIthout asking Scott’s advice or guidance, without needing Scott’s tools or strength, without depending on Scott as a chaperone, I grabbed a blue rope purchased at the market and strode outside. I was making a clothesline. By myself, because we would need it. Pitiful, right? This was my big feat of the day? Still, like Elle’s dirtball, I had thought of it myself and I had followed through, so I was proud of it. I wasn’t useless and I wasn’t helpless.

I tiptoed through the brush from tree to tree, examining every inch of ground covering before planting timid feet. I reached up to slip-knot the rope around the trunk, after thoroughly examining for any sneaky creatures in the bark. I told myself to breathe. While pussy-footing toward the other tree, I heard a muffled yell from Scott inside the house, “CCOOODDDDYYY, GO HELP YOUR MOM PUT UP THE…”

“NO!,” I interrupted. “I can do this by myself!” I wished there were some way for Scott to understand why this independent project was so important to me. I envied his thoughtless bravery in the face of this great unknown existence. For now, I would have to take the small steps that I could, reminding myself to inhale and exhale. You can imagine the energy spent on each movement when I was this uptight. I was on high alert every second. Because of the heat, my forever-tense muscles and anxious, shallow breathing, by the end of a day I was exhausted. I chastised myself and worried and wondered when I would ever feel an ounce of comfort here.

If you know me at all, I bet you can guess where my muscles finally relaxed and I started breathing naturally.

Oasis Bar and Grill is a sea-side, tropical restaurant with grass-roofed shelters over each outdoor table. The floor is cobblestone and the ceiling is the breezy night sky. A circular, wooden hut of a bar, reminiscent of Tom Cruise’s island bar in Cocktail, stands at the rear. There’s a high white wall separating the paradise inside from the dusty desperation on the other side. To the south, the wall dissolves. Instead, ocean waves crash on a wide,  sandy beach. Grass umbrellaed tables line the perimeter of Oasis, and stone steps lead down to the beach. From the moment we walked in, the fresh ocean air enveloped me. It pushed my sweaty hair away from my face. It cooled my sweaty limbs. It filled my lungs. It calmed my soul. It lifted my spirit. Without a conscious reminder, I could inhale and exhale. And I could swallow.

Scott, Dakota, Elle and I sat at a table near a lighted cement stage area. We sat beside Jen, the American woman who’d invited us to join her. She had spent a semester last year teaching at U.C.C. and was back to visit her local friend (maybe boyfriend?), Yahaya, who managed the drumming/dancing group performing tonight. He joined the table as well as some other people connected to the group. All the tables were full, about half of the patrons were white; more white people than we’d seen since arriving in Africa.

Do you spy the little kids peeking over the wall?

The African drummers, shirtless, dark, shiny and cut, began their rhythmic beating. Half of me felt like a sell-out for spending our first night out in an obvious tourist bar, but the larger half of me luxuriated in the comfortable feeling of being amidst people just as displaced as myself. That same larger half couldn’t wait to down her Ghanaian beer and lounge thoughtlessly. Plus, the drummers and dancers were all native, right? The primal beat filled my chest and overflowed through my whole body, replacing the malignant anxiety that had plagued it before.

Scott and the kids ate dinner while I stepped up to the bar to have a cigarette and order another beer. I hadn’t felt like myself for a long time. I hadn’t been at ease in my skin since our plane touched down in Accra. Outside of these walls, I never knew what to expect. I never knew what was expected from me. But here, I knew. No matter the hemisphere, a bar is a bar. I could do a bar, and I could do it confidently. The predictability was a relief, and I could be me.

The bartender was a good-looking, 30-something German. Even though I’d been told- or maybe specifically because I had been told- that bartenders aren’t tipped here, I pushed one cedi from my change back to him. I wasn’t disappointed by his surprised and grateful grin. I visited with the other bar-leaners, asking where they were from and why they were here. One man, Dennis, who called himself the monkey man, was Dutch. He’d been here for 7 years running a wildlife preserve 20 minutes from Cape Coast. I promised him I’d bring my family to see him. Wasef was my favorite barfly, for no other reason than he was a hottie and all of his friends were too! Hey, don’t judge. One, Scott knows who he married, and two, I can still appreciate a hottie when I see one!

My comfort zone...I know...shameless...but fun!

After making my rounds at the bar, I headed back to our table to enjoy the rest of the show. The drummers had been joined on stage by a circle of dancers. Their swaying, bouncing and popping was contagious and I whistled my approval. Now you guess…How long do you suppose it took before I was on that stage dancing? HAHAHAHA No lie!

O.K. so IN MY MIND I looked sexy...UGH!

Of course I was up there, silly. One of the dancers pulled me up (I’m sure Scott had something to do with that!) and motioned for me to follow his moves. My natural ability…uh…and the two 40-ounce Club Beers I’d sucked down, led my body to mirror his. In my mind, I was totally on, matching each move on exactly the right beat of the drum and looking as sexy as hell at the same time. HAHAHAH. As I left the stage, everyone cheered, and the people at our table congratulated me, “You looked great.” “Good job! “You’re a good dancer!” Now you know I was in my element now! Don’t worry, Scott and Elle got a moment in the limelight too! They just didn’t enjoy it as much as I did.

Later, I told Jen I was nervous about finding an outlet for myself while in Ghana. Scott was here for his project and I was afraid I’d be lost without my own pastime. I asked her for any advice on how to find my niche. “You know, you could take dance lessons with the group,” she suggested.

“Really? That would be perfect!” I nearly yelled it I was so excited.

“Sure,” she beckoned Yahaya over to us, “Can’t Molly take dance lessons from your group?”

He laughed and nodded, “Yes, Yes!! If you take lessons with our lead dancer, Filo, for …oh…about two weeks, you could do a dance with the group on stage.”

Music to this attention whore’s ears! I wasn’t only comfortable now. I was actually excited! Scott, of course, supported the idea. He never disappoints in the learning and personal growth department. Yahaya promised to come over to our bungalow the following week to set up lessons.

The show ended with some fire and balancing stunts, along with a theatrical dance. The drums continued in the background as one flutist circled the stage area, whistling a whimsical melody and the dancers gracefully mimed a story. Little village kids perched atop the white wall watched the show. Their white eyes reflected the spotlight ,and they vigorously waved out at the audience, giggling and whispering to each other when someone waved back. As we left Oasis, I told Scotty, “I’m coming here every night!”

His response? “Uh, no…you’re not.”

We exited the tropical respite, passing through a white arch into the gravel parking lot. The ocean wind kicked up dust around our cab. Little boys gathered around us as we got into our taxi. Some reached to touch Elle. Some surrounded Dakota who smiled, shook hands and slapped high-fives all around. Some hung around my legs, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” they called, “Give us one cedi. Can we have one cedi? We’ll share. Mommy, Mommy.” My high crashed back to reality, and to poverty, and to heart-wrenching empathy, and to helplessness. I couldn’t hide behind the white walls of Oasis forever. I thanked God that sometimes I could take a break there, though.