The day I turn double-nickels, Mare brings me to Cape Coast for internet access. As I try to find the pathway to punctuation on the German keyboard, unsuccessfully, you will find my last entry written in a style that attempts to use minimal punctuation.
Mare walks down a road towards the ocean in Cape Coast, while I struggle with internet. She hears, “Ci Ci” from numerous men and women along the road.
“Hello,” she says.
A tall man steps forward. “Hi, my name is Charles.” He makes a dancing movement.
Mare snaps her fingers and wiggles her hips. She inspires laughter in large groups of men and women. They stand and mimic her amongst howls of laughter.
She continues down the road that ends in a cul-de-sac just above the beach. Three young children attempt to play foosball on a decrepit table. Beyond the table, a massive pile of garbage flows into the ocean upon a stream of sewage. She gags at the smell, while taking a photo.
On her way back up the road, she photographs a child, whose mother granted permission. The same group of onlookers, who stand across the street, yell, “No, no you can’t do that!”
She snaps her fingers and wiggles her hips again, sending them into hysterics. Then she meets me back at internet café and we stroll to the bank.
Cape Coast is a large, sprawling city lined with food and goods vendors. People greet us with friendly manners, and taxis try to court us. Now that we know how to haggle, we cop a taxi ride to the “Tro-Tro” station, for only one cedi. Then we hop a Tro-Tro that stops for anyone needing a ride, all the way back to the intersection of our beach town, for only one cedi each.
We walk in the hot, tropical African sun for three miles before reaching our clay hut. Sweat drenches our bodies, and spills a layer of heat rash upon Mare’s fair legs. We learn to not underestimate the African sun. We also realize that we smell cooking food, instead of the sewage. We are adjusting…
Then, we dance, slow-motion style, during the sunset on the beach, after a cold beer.