Yesterday I touched down at Dulles, flew to Boston, took a bus to the Cape and was in my house by 5. By 8 I was asleep-on Ghana time that was late for me, midnight. This morning I was up at 4:30 and went out to the deck. The morning had a chill and a dampness. It was quiet. The whole street was still asleep. I decided to do a bit of laundry, out of necessity, brew real honest to goodness coffee and read the paper, my usual morning.

In Ghana the mornings are busy and loud. Roosters crow and women, bent over, clean the ground using brooms which are merely pieces of straw held together by a string, and you can hear the scrapes as they sweep.  My students used to sweep the dirt in front of my house around 6 until I told time that messy dirt was fine with me. In Bolga, the m0rnings are cool this time of year, the only cool part of the day. I could hear women talking as they walked to market and lorries on the road moving with unhealthy sounding engines. In the air is the smell of charcoal fires and smoke rises to the sky. I was in bed early and up early every morning.

Today I ‘d like to tell you a bit about my trip to Bolga. I’ll save the rest for tomorrow.

We arrived in Bolga from Tamale, a trip I made often. I found my hotel, dropped off my bags and the driver and I went wandering. I had decided to hire a car and driver for an enormous amount, but the choices were limited: a 16 hour bus ride was the best of the other options but then I would have no way to get from place to place. Remembering how I was told by so many that this was the trip of a life time, I went with the car and driver. Thomas was my driver. Right away I had him drive around Bolga. It is enormous and I did not recognize the streets we drove through until we rode down the main street. There was the Hotel d’ Bull now called The Black Star. My post office looks the same and from there to the end of the street was my Bolga, looking old and in need of paint, but I knew every building. The Super Service Inn was still there but the roof  was hanging on one side. The entry to the market now led only to the old market, my market; a new one was on the other side of the lorry park. We drove up the hill I walked so many times to Girls’ Secondary School which is where my school once was. The school compound was filled with many buildings, but I directed Thomas exactly to my house. Behind it are now many staff houses, but I knew my house right away. I knew the road by heart. We also found the classroom block where I taught and the dormitory of which I was house mistress.

That first night, I ate at the hotel. Jollop rice and Guinea fowl were dinner, two favorites of mine. As I walked to the outside  dining area, I passed a table with four people, two men and two women. I said good evening in Hausa as I do not know FraFra, the local tribe’s language. I sat down and started reading. I heard fragments of English in their conversation, and they mentioned teaching. I leaned over, excused my interruption and asked if they were teachers. Yes. I asked the younger of the two women if she knew of any students from Women’s Training College. She pointed to the other woman. I asked her what year. She said she finished in 1971. I told her I taught there from 1969-1971. She leaned closer, looked at me and yelled, “Miss Ryan?” I said yes and she rushed over and gave me a giant hug. I had found the first of my students.