AFAR is my new favorite travel magazine. In the Dec/Jan 2010 issue, the editor Mr. Sullivan asked “When did you first see yourself as a global citizen?”. In 2001, I took a 5 month research trip Ghana, West Africa in search of an endangered primate. This is my response to his question complied from my journal entries.

Bouncing along in the back of our “Bush Baby”, scenic Ghana in all it’s desperate glory flashes by. I’m sitting in the truck bed and the landscape is being sucked away at about 40mph. I never tire from waving at almost every pedestrian that’s walking down the road and turns, even with a ridiculous amount of weight on their head, to yell out “Abruni”, which means white girl.

And I’m definitely in Ghana. I was hired for 5 months as the “botanist” for a research project on a critically endangered species of primate, the Diana Roloway Guenon. We’re here to find out where they are, how many are left, and what they’re eating. We ended up buying a Toyota King Cab truck and spent an extra $3000 to put a new engine in. It took about a week to figure everything out, much longer than we had planned, in which time we got a wake up call to the pacing and communication style of the Ghanaian culture. Much slower and more ambiguous than we’re used to. “Will it be ready in 2 days?” “By all means, yes. “ “Is it ready now?” “Without a doubt, by tomorrow.” “You said that 3 days ago.” “Absolutely, by the morning.” 8 days later we were finally on the road.

Along with the truck we hired a driver, George, a jolly conservative man who dresses neatly in his government uniform and is very good at what he does. (see pic of George and I above) We also brought on a man named Attinga from the Forestry Department, he’s the tree master and my research partner. Addison is our third employee and the official guide and translator.

Now, I’m not an expert in plants but my partner Attinga sure is. He knows the names, common, scientific, and Ghanaian, of all the important tree species. And it’s not easy with most of the trees being 40’-100 ft tall. If he can’t see the leaves, he’ll slash the bark of the tree and identify it by smell and texture while I stand amazed at his detective skills. We spend our days trucking through the untamed jungle following Lindsay’s early morning transect flags, doing vegetation surveys, while walking slowly and quietly to try and see or hear any monkeys. We walk two 5km transects a day. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. I have yet to see any monkeys in the 2 months I’ve been here.

And I’m in Ghana, by all means, virus free thus far. For 6 weeks we stayed in Mim, a tiny village of about 150 people on the rim of the forest reserve called Krokosua Hills. We were welcomed by the chief and his male bloodline. After the ceremony in which we stated our purpose and got their support, each participant poured libation with a shot of Apeteche, their local palm wine alcohol. When it came to my turn, all eyes were wondering whether the Abruni would drink it or not. I had been warned that it was very strong. Of course I didn’t pass up the challenge and after pouring one to the spirits, I gulped the rest of the shot. The burn was deep.

The chief Nana Obeng graciously rented us 2 rooms, one for us women and the mice that claimed the corner of our room, and one for our staff. The chief’s 2 wives cooked 3 meals a day for us in their mud huts for $4 a week. We took cold bucket showers in the open air and ate stew with FuFu cooked with loads of palm oil almost nightly. We went to bed around 9, as soon as the sun went down my eyes grew heavy with the dim lighting of the lantern.

The “toilet” was a rectangular hole dug in the ground with planks set atop it. You had to balance, breathe, and squeeze, while trying not to fall between the planks and staying alert for any large venomous snakes that might be feasting on the chickens that visit the hole to munch on the corn cobs people use to wipe with. While using the facilities late one night, Lindsay saw a 4-ft. cobra slithering out of the cesspool and from that moment on I held it until morning.

My sugar cravings sometimes got the best of me, we had Cokes in the village but I had to drink them behind closed doors because if any of the kids saw me, they’d want one and we didn’t have enough to go around. There were no stores in Mim. Between the intense physical work, the heavy oily food, the gluttonous ravages of sugar, the Larium, the culture shock, and having only one other American to relate to, frequent mood swings plagued me. Yep, just as I suspected. It’s rather difficult adjusting to 3rd world living when you come from a privileged, materialistic consumer based society.

Without a doubt, I’m in Ghana, falling in love with this forlorn but bright, and colorful country, savoring the many moments of utter bliss that I’ve experienced since being here; dancing the traditional chicken dance with a bunch of drunk women at a funeral, meeting a self proclaimed “prophet” who brings cows and cash to every village he visits, rocking out front row to the band at the prophet’s church service, singing and playing Ghanaian songs with a family from Mim, teaching a crowd of children how to juggle oranges, and sitting in the back of our truck watching the vibrant reds and greens of the forested iron drenched landscape go by as we bounce down the terribly treacherous dirt road on our way to visit various chiefs and villages. And every passerby carrying a load of stuff on their head who turns to look at the white ladies passing can’t help but smile, and so I smile and wave and they wave back and the waving continues until we can’t see each other anymore. We were the only white people up in the western region and everyone was very happy to see us.

These moments of bliss are what make all the hard work worth it. So I was quite irritated when our driver George told me that I couldn’t sit in the back of the truck anymore. He didn’t tell me why, he just said with authority that I couldn’t. And me being the feisty and naïve woman that I am fought back, I wasn’t going to play the submissive female role. Riding in the back was my sacred time to be alone and absorb the nature around me and I couldn’t understand why I shouldn’t be able to do that. So against the wishes of George, I continued for some weeks to ride in the back wherever we went, each time causing more tension between him and I.

Before I left the US, my godmother had given me some wise words. She said, “Now remember, you’re an ambassador to our country. So act like it.” I kind of giggled and shrugged off the comment. What did she think I was going to do, bomb a building? I wished I had contemplated the meaning of that statement a little more because I learned what it meant the hard way. By this simple gesture of defiance, I was making us and our hosts look bad. What I didn’t know was that by riding in the back of the truck, I was sending a message to the people who saw us. What they saw was our Ghanaian hosts treating a white visitor poorly by making them ride in the back of the truck. No Ghanaian in their right mind would choose to do such a thing that I enjoyed so much. The back of the truck was for dirty workers and locals.

When I finally confronted George and found out the truth, I was angry why he hadn’t just communicated this to me. But in the interest of saving the morale of the team, I swallowed my pride, apologized and we hugged it out. It took awhile for us become friends again, but with each load up of the car and me acquiescing to sit in the cab, the tension eased. By all means, I learned a valuable lesson from that experience. Going with the flow, in a foreign country, is the best way to make friends. For now, I’ll have to just wave out the window.