"Julian, my brother, how is it?" he said, smiling wide as he stepped towards me with arms outstretched. I pulled Sam in close. I had only spent a few hours with Sam in Kokrobite, most of which we were on the dance floor for Big Milly's reggae night, but he had captivated me with his chivalrous nature towards our group and his sincerity in speech. I had come to Accra to see Sam and learn how to make drums.
I spent the morning in a circle of drum makers, straddling various djembes as I finished their lacing. With each weave, my motions became faster and more fluid; with each weave, the skin on my soft hands tore as I stretched drum head tighter; with each weave, I forgot more of Julian and let myself become a drum maker. As we sat weaving, lacing, sanding, and staining djembes under the shade of a palm, every difference between me and Rastafarian drum makers dissipated into the afternoon heat. My mind drifted from the work that was waiting for me back at the refugee camp and settled on the sound of the ocean nearby. My eyes glazed as I gazed past my drum to the soccer match; I silently laced my djembe. My mind resettled on the game. My hands didn't care what my mind was doing. They no longer needed my mind to finish their work. The moved quickly and effortlessly. I stood the drum up and finished polishing the base before setting it in the sun for the skin to dry.
It was already 3 o'clock; I was starting to remember Julian and forget where I was. "I think I'm going to head back to camp. I've got work that needs to get done," I said to Sam as I walked towards the front of his shop.
"You are welcome to leave anytime, but I've just ordered us food," he said through his wide smile.
"...I should get going." I couldn't forget Julian.
He heard the hesitation in my voice and handed me a finished djembe. "Do you play?..."
... Julian was gone again. The African drum maker was again in my body. When we had finished eating our stew, palms still sore and red from drumming, we wandered into "the Jungle" for drinks. The shanty town spanned the gap between the arts market and the beach. The blasting music and cloud of pot smoke that defined the Jungle went largely unnoticed by the tourists occupying the market and the sandy shore. The Jungle was never passed though by tourists; it was only passed around, by-passed. It's only occupants were the various craft makers who lived there and a handful of Cameroonian business men who came there for the cheap food, plentiful drinks, and promiscuous women. After winding our way though the narrow alleys we stopped in front of the white house, a description Sam used even though more than half of the white paint had chipped or pealed off. The inside of the house was clearly visible through the large gaps in the exterior walls. We stepped in and continued up the stairs. "This is where I sleep sometimes when I don't feel like going home," Sam said as he unlatched the trap door to the room above. As I stepped up into the dusty, sunlit room, I could see that the white house contained only a neat row of sneakers and Sam's "sometimes" bed. It was a thin mat that could hardly hide the feeling of the floorboards beneath it, but it was good enough for a place to lay one's head after a night of heavy boozing and smoking in the Jungle.
We continued out onto the 360 degree balcony that wrapped the house. As I stepped out of the door, I momentarily looked down as the floorboards flexed beneath my weight. The rickety house creaked and swayed in the wind and finally came to be motionless again. I looked up. The view was a stunning juxtaposition to the claustrophobic alleys of shouting women, drunken men, and blasting music that lay just below the balcony on which I stood. In the distance, waves crashed into the sandy shores as tourists screamed in excitement and ran to keep the bottoms of their jeans dry. The smell of alcohol and ganja gave way to the aroma of sea water that accompanied the soft ocean mist that just barely reached the house. To our right, we could see the tin roofs of the Jungle sprawling out into the distance. Straight ahead was the beach, and to our left was arts market.
Sam and I sat silently, backs to the white house, bare feet on the railing. We stared into the distant beauty and listened to the world around us. A Ghanaian flag flapped and snapped in the sea breeze; the waves hissed and fizzled as they hit the shore; the djembes of the market let out deep bass notes and high slaps. It was all music to my drum maker's ears.
Update from last time: Apparently the cure for homesickness is exercise. I had been working long hours and not taking time for myself and my body. After a few mornings of working out, I feel like Julian again.
It was already 3 o'clock; I was starting to remember Julian and forget where I was. "I think I'm going to head back to camp. I've got work that needs to get done," I said to Sam as I walked towards the front of his shop.
"You are welcome to leave anytime, but I've just ordered us food," he said through his wide smile.
"...I should get going." I couldn't forget Julian.
He heard the hesitation in my voice and handed me a finished djembe. "Do you play?..."
... Julian was gone again. The African drum maker was again in my body. When we had finished eating our stew, palms still sore and red from drumming, we wandered into "the Jungle" for drinks. The shanty town spanned the gap between the arts market and the beach. The blasting music and cloud of pot smoke that defined the Jungle went largely unnoticed by the tourists occupying the market and the sandy shore. The Jungle was never passed though by tourists; it was only passed around, by-passed. It's only occupants were the various craft makers who lived there and a handful of Cameroonian business men who came there for the cheap food, plentiful drinks, and promiscuous women. After winding our way though the narrow alleys we stopped in front of the white house, a description Sam used even though more than half of the white paint had chipped or pealed off. The inside of the house was clearly visible through the large gaps in the exterior walls. We stepped in and continued up the stairs. "This is where I sleep sometimes when I don't feel like going home," Sam said as he unlatched the trap door to the room above. As I stepped up into the dusty, sunlit room, I could see that the white house contained only a neat row of sneakers and Sam's "sometimes" bed. It was a thin mat that could hardly hide the feeling of the floorboards beneath it, but it was good enough for a place to lay one's head after a night of heavy boozing and smoking in the Jungle.
We continued out onto the 360 degree balcony that wrapped the house. As I stepped out of the door, I momentarily looked down as the floorboards flexed beneath my weight. The rickety house creaked and swayed in the wind and finally came to be motionless again. I looked up. The view was a stunning juxtaposition to the claustrophobic alleys of shouting women, drunken men, and blasting music that lay just below the balcony on which I stood. In the distance, waves crashed into the sandy shores as tourists screamed in excitement and ran to keep the bottoms of their jeans dry. The smell of alcohol and ganja gave way to the aroma of sea water that accompanied the soft ocean mist that just barely reached the house. To our right, we could see the tin roofs of the Jungle sprawling out into the distance. Straight ahead was the beach, and to our left was arts market.
Sam and I sat silently, backs to the white house, bare feet on the railing. We stared into the distant beauty and listened to the world around us. A Ghanaian flag flapped and snapped in the sea breeze; the waves hissed and fizzled as they hit the shore; the djembes of the market let out deep bass notes and high slaps. It was all music to my drum maker's ears.
Update from last time: Apparently the cure for homesickness is exercise. I had been working long hours and not taking time for myself and my body. After a few mornings of working out, I feel like Julian again.
