((continuing the long day… we returned to the Fulani center at about 8:00pm.  The choir had been waiting since 4:00.  They were not pacing, they were not grumbling, they were dancing.  ))

We quickly set up a recording studio in the unfinished cement building.  I had hoped to setup outside, during Golden Hour, to get some great photos of the young ladies singing and the men playing instruments… but improvisation is part of the fun here in Africa.  

Boureima asked some of the men to bring 3 extra lights.  We scrambled up a bench and hung the one meter long fluorescent tubes vertically from the iron rebar at the window.  The choir and instrumentalists were arranged facing the faux window, and the harsh bright white light filled the singing and dancing stage.  Who doesn’t travel with nylon line and clothespins to fashion backdrops :-)  After a few knots and clips, we had a background for the celebration.

Splashing handfuls of water, men with buckets zigzagged across the church wetting the floor.  By 9:00pm, we had many shy Fulani faces and a few large grins ready to begin singing.  Two calabash players beat out rhythms.  Made from half of a large gourd, the calabash is part drum, part finger percussion.  Scraps of wire transform their fingers.  Well worn patches on the hemisphere tell stories of the previous celebrations.  The drummers palms beat out rhythms that echoed off the bare cement walls.  Their fingers tapped and slapped.  Made from a single hollowed out log and covered with a goat hide, the bamboo necked guitar was expertly plucked and strummed by one of the Fulani men. The choir was ready.

As we have seen throughout west Africa, choirs begin with a leader boldly singing out the first verse of a song.  The choir then responds, their beautiful voices rising up and filling the church.

The choir sang, danced, and as the hours passed, a red cloud of dust began to rise from the floor. They had not eaten since lunch, and by midnight, we had recorded more than ten beautiful songs of praise. How wonderful to make a joyful noise unto the Lord. The moon, now up above the trees, provided light as we slowly walked back to our rooms, exhausted. Endurance… I still have not shared with you what Boureima taught about Fulani… Ok, I have some catching up to do….

It was hard to leave Boureima’s school, church, and training facility.  He and his wife had shown us such kindness and patience as we learned about the Fulani people.  While in the car, driving back and forth to the city, our host gave us one more lesson on the Fulani. He described six characteristics, some positive, some negative, which we must understand to connect with Fulani, and understand their culture.

Wisdom / Cleverness: “Sometimes, the Fulani will even give you a riddle, or test you in some way”, Boureima explained. “You should be able to figure things out, or they will not respect you.”  Wisdom is respected in almost every culture, but the Fulani also want to be assured you can solve problems, improvise, and are quick-witted. 

Strength / Endurance: Physical strength is respected, but is not sufficient. The Fulani appreciate strength of character, and emotional strength. “A Fulani man should not cry, even if several members of his family are killed,” Boureima told us as he dodged motos and potholes with the SUV.  Endurance is another aspect of strength.  A shepherd should be able to travel great distances, without food or complaints.

Shame: Bringing shame to the family could have deadly consequences. For a Fulani to turn away from Islam brings tremendous shame to the family, and could be met with violence. Actions or words that bring shame to your in-laws can also seed long-standing disputes and cruel behavior.

Patience: “Take your time in all situations,” we were told. To me, being four hours late to record the choir exceeded all Western notions of patience.  However, Boureima is Fulani, and was not concerned.  Walking into the church to find them dancing and a singing was unbelievable.  Could that have happened anywhere in the United States? I think not.

Courage: Fulani should not be afraid, they must be courageous.  “A shepherd only carries a stick to guide the cattle; there are many stories, told and retold, of how a Fulani protected the herd against wild animals or attackers,” we heard Boureima explain as the transmission revved and popped into gear.

Hospitality: Possibly stemming from their North African heritage, the Fulani have a very strong sense of hospitality. Yes, the persecuted and rejected nation of 40 million is shy and cautious in interactions with outsiders, but hospitality is a fundamental part of their culture. We felt it as we walked through the village and were invited to stay and visit.

Grinning, Boureima told us “The Fulani will also give you a name. Pray that it is a good one, you will never hear it, and they will not tell you, but they will name you”. We immediately began to wonder what our names were, given all the Fulani we had been working with. Hmmmm.

Boureima put up with my Western thinking with a nod and smile. When he came by our breakfast table one day, I said good morning and asked about the schedule for the day, what would we be recording, and where we should we set up. He replied “Oh, thank you for asking, my cows are doing very well, and my family is good”. We both laughed at each other. At several points during the day I would put my hand on Boureima’s shoulder and ask him how his goats were doing. “Oh, they are very good, and how is your family and your daughter’s cat?” he would reply.

We thanked Boureima for his patient instruction. He grew up in the small village just down the dirt path from the school and training facility. As a child, polio swept through the area, and the Fulani were not among the first to receive vaccinations. The disease left him with a paralyzed leg. “It is my thorn in the flesh,” he told me. However his disability did not slow him down, but only increased his determination and passion for God. He lived for five years in the UK, working for a bank. During that time, he took a 59 day journey to raise money for Fulani ministries. Using only one leg, he cycled 4500 miles around the coast of the UK, sometimes traveling more than 100 miles in a day. You can read about his journey on the BBC.

It was with a smile, a hug, and a large crate of tomatoes that required two men to lift it into the truck that Boureima and the other Fulani pastors said goodbye. We thanked them with the one Fulani word we know…. “Foofo” (thank you) and drove toward Navrongo, arriving very very late in the evening. The journey to Navrongo is a very long tale, best told in person :-)

The next morning, were were among the Mossi people who speak Moore for church. With colorful dresses, smiles that compel you to smile back, whatever your disposition, and blaring loudspeakers, we had the privilege of worshiping at Selwyn and Richess’ church. As a guest, Ray was called in for an impromptu sermon :-)

The small church had been meeting in a covered, open air section of an old building. They were moving to a new, rented room very close to the central market in town. So after the exciting service, everyone headed to the new location for a dedication service. Most transportation here is via “moto”, and the vibrantly dressed women hiked up their dresses and hopped aboard the two wheelers.

After the dedication service, which of course included some dancing and a clapping and shaking train of people around the entire space, I ventured outside to make friends.

Selwyn and Richess insisted we enjoy a meal with them before driving into the remote bush, so Estella, Richess, Christian, and Enoch all helped prepare meal of Red Red (which happens to be Beth’s favorite). Red Red cannot be considered part of a healthy Mediterranean diet… but Mmmmm, it is tasty. It is made from red plantains and beans and red palm oil. A meat is usually included. The red palm oil swims atop the beans, and we sprinkle dried, powered cassava to soak it all up.

No need for a wakeup alarm, the roosters begin at first light, and must relish strutting up to the window to announce another glorious morning in Ghana.  As each rooster takes his turn crowing with more vigor than the last, I rub my eyes and plead with Beth to make some instant Starbucks coffee as I unplug and untangle the USB devices we charged during the times of night when we actually had power.

At the mission house, our tireless hostess Eva is up and cooking with charcoal. The gas is empty, and the closest distributor is two hours away.  Chickens, guinea fowl, ducks, and pigs are sprawled out in front of the strong steel door, half asleep, enjoying the shade. It’s my turn.  “WHOOOHOOO GOOD MORNING!” I yell running toward the front door and scattering the flapping, oinking, and clucking livestock.  The fleeing animals leave behind some gifts; we zigzag our way in the front door.

After a hot porridge of maze and ginger, we begin our day of recording.  It was a slow morning.  Pastor Jinjong, Richmond, Mercy, Jemimah, and Janet helped us record in Bimoba, the language used here near the border with Togo.  A deadly ongoing conflict among the Bimoba prompted pastor Jinjong to record an exhortation on living in peace and loving your neighbor. Please continue to pray for Pastor Nathaniel and Eva.  Life is challenging here, but they serve the community day and night, with broad smiles.

Shortly after 4:00, with the sun already casting long shadows, we packed up Ray’s Nissan truck and started toward Bimbago.  A small church had prepared music for us.   During the dry season, stretches of the unpaved road seem like red powdered sugar.  Billowing swirls of dust follow us as we zoom toward the small town.

Moments before the sun dips below the palm and mango trees behind us, we get a few snaps of the choir. Before long, a single glaring fluorescent bulb, hung high above the front of the unfinished cement church and dirt floor and my laptop screen provide the only light.

At the beginning of each song, the leader timidly regards the microphone and sweaty white guy hunched over the laptop with some caution.  Yet once the drum starts, and the choir begins shuffling left and right or grooving to the African rhythms, they forget the room full of tech and a smile begins to beam. Their glorious praises to the Lord echo and reverb splendidly off the metal roof.  Each song brings more excitement, more energy, more dancing, and more praises. Beth, facing the singers with her clipboard in hand and a broad smile is rocking back and forth to the native drums and the praises that fill the church.

Several choir leaders take their turn.  Photography is difficult, and I am resistant to using a flash, so we settle for the beauty of the voices and some slow and slightly blurry photos.  One of the pastors leading the choir wears a traditional “fugu”. Instinctively, he steps back from the microphone to sing and twirl the broad, pleated shirt.  The Bimbago singers belted out song after song, until we had more than ten numbers.  We then stayed to record four members of the church tell how God has changed their life and how they came to follow Jesus.

With the music still ringing in our ears and the echoes of drums moving our hips, we packed up and thanked the choir for their hard work and lovely songs that will be processed and provided to the Bimoba people for their mobile phones and on BiblePlus+ units for the most remote villages.  

We arrived at Eva and Nathaniel’s before 7:00am.  Richmond wanted to drop by and record one more Bible story before school started.  Mercy also stepped up to the microphone and carefully told her remaining Bible story before heading off to classes.  The rest of the morning we wrapped up loose ends, planned for future work, and enjoyed conversation with Eva and Nathaniel.  After a few lapel microphone tests with the handheld recorder, Enoch and Christian were ready to record the community health tracks on a later trip. Unfortunately, we could not arrange for a medical worker to provide Bimoba health information during our short stay in Bunkpurugu – Christian and Enoch will have to follow-up and record information on malaria, typhoid, diarrhea, cholera, AIDs, etc.

Before leaving, we posed for some pictures with Eva and Nathan and dropped by the tailor’s shop.  Daniel’s workshop is a small round adobe hut with a thatched roof.  Bare-chested and with a yellow tape measure draped over his shoulder, Daniel waved me inside.  Yesterday, I had dropped off two batik fabrics we had purchased last October.   Holding the tape measure between my shoulders and then from neck to waist, the experienced tailor had sized me up yesterday… no chest measurement, no arm length, just a quick height and width check.  I wondered if he had a mental database of body types. Maybe I was filed under “goofy thin nerd..  The two measurements would just provide an index to look me up.  Daniel proudly showed me his original design. For less than $4.50, Daniel had sewn me a shirt.  Beth had a tiered skirt made for $2.00.  Folding them up neatly he pushed the clothes into a plastic bag and shook my hand.  Still smiling, we waved back towards his hut as we drove off.

I drove the rugged trail from Bunkpurugu to Tamale.  It was an exciting and exhausting seven-hour journey.  Really more like a motocross trail, we navigated from small village to small village as we listened to music and discussed Ghanian and American culture.  There are no road signs providing direction out in the bush. Maybe the idea is that if you need to ask directions, you should not be driving.  My OpenStreetMaps app was remarkably helpful, however.

I’ll have to explain driving some more at some point… but right now, I need to sleep…

We are safely at the airport relaxing.  We arrived early, and have time to just kick back. Of course, I could always be pressed into service to fix a flat tire on the aircraft…

The last big driving day started in Tamale at 4:00am.  Beth and I made some instant coffee, unplugged all the recharging gear, and started packing up for the long drive back to Accra.  Each of our guest rooms at the Tamale International Center for Cultural Studies (TICCS) was $9. Converging at the truck at 4:45, we played one last game of Tetris with our suitcases to pack them tightly into the bed of Ray’s truck.  Our clothes, hands, luggage, and shoes have a beautiful antique patina of red dust.  We huddled in the dark to pray as large fruit bats swooped in and out of the trees and in the distance, the mosques began their loudspeaker calls to prayer.  By 5:15am, I was driving. 

Driving in the dark, even on an asphalt road, is truly terrifying.  Just a week ago, someone from the Bunkpurugu church that we met last year was hit while riding his motorcycle and lost his leg.  Gigantic overloaded semi trucks, with goods stacked so high that they often just topple over, barrel down the road.  On the 14hr drive from Tamale to Accra we saw no less than four semi trucks that had overturned within the past day, goods still scattered along the shoulder.  Also sharing the road are bicycles, motorcycles, and donkeys pulling carts, and sometimes cows or donkeys just wandering across the road.  The majority of those vehicles (and animals) don’t have reflectors.  Imagine driving in the dark at 60mph, headlights stabbing ineffectively at the darkness, and coming across a black-butted donkey standing in the middle of the road.  I don’t have to imagine that particular scenario.  One final hazard keeps my hands gripping the steering wheel and my eyes blinking rapidly:  speed bumps. There are three kinds of speed bumps in Ghana.  First, are the official speed bumps put up in cities.  They come with a joyfully red warning sign followed by a blue sign marking the spot. For attentive drivers immediately spotting the red marker, going from 60 or 80mph to 10mph is possible.  Second, are the unmarked speed bumps for which nobody bothered to put up a sign.  Finally, there are the home made speed bumps – where neighbors have just gone out to the road and arranged a line of large rocks across the road to slow people down.  I’m convinced that about half of the overturned trucks were victims of seen-too-late speed bumps.  More than once I saw the hint, just a shadow, of an unmarked speed bump in the dark and slammed on the brakes, released them before impact, and then pounded into the cement wart, waking everyone in the car and feeling like my kidneys and been worked over by a Rolfing practitioner. In the US, we get accustomed to driving long long stretches of open road with our feet stretched out comfortably, letting the cruise control do the work, and our finger resting on the steering wheel while we text our friends, fiddle with the radio, or get absorbed into a conversation with a friend.  Not here.  No, during the few moments when someone in the car was awake, I could not have a meaningful conversation with them because I was focused completely on avoiding a high speed cow tipping or going airborne with a speed bump and loosing my front tooth on the landing.

Another feature of driving in Ghana are police roadblocks.  Sometimes, barriers are strung up across the road, and a policeman with a flashlight swirls his light in some pattern that means pull over, while a different pattern means drive slowly around the barriers.  We probably passed 15 to 20 barriers during the drive. Occasionally, we would roll down the window and wave.  Sometimes, the men with guns slung over their shoulders would wave their light that we could just zigzag through, other times, they wanted to look inside our truck. What I didn’t want to do was smash into a poorly marked chain that had been strung across the road.

After the sun came up, motoring along still required careful attention, but it did not wear out my adrenal glands.  Enoch asked if we had “chewables”.  I wondered if he needed some medication after my driving.  No, “chewables” are the Ghanaian equivalent of “munchies”… peanuts, soybeans, etc.  

At one police checkpoint, a man in a white uniform instead of the green fatigues we had driven past all morning motioned for us to pull over after we had slowly passed him (I didn’t really see him, as he was talking on his cell phone walking along the road).  He wanted to see my International Driver’s Permit (IDP). Of course, I don’t have one.  They are a $20 sham printed by AAA, a USA club. Yet the officer wanted to see it. Bummer.  It was 8:30am, and he told me to pull over and park until 9:00am, when the court would open.  OOOf. Ok, he wanted me to ask if I could pay an “instant fine” right here and now, in cash, instead.  

We waited at the side of the road a few moments, prayed, and then Ray got out of the car and walked back toward the officer.   I slide over into the passenger seat and fiddled with my Internet, hoping to get net and look up how to make myself an IDP online, with my laptop.

A few minutes went by. Spending the night in a Ghanaian jail did come to mind, but I quickly figured my imagination was getting the best of me. Ray returned without a smile, handed me my Illinois Driver’s License that he had retrieved from the policeman, and started driving away.  “We can continue our journey” he told us.  I asked “how much did you pay him?”.  “Nothing, I don’t pay bribes” Ray replied.  Whoohoo! After we had left the police barrier, Ray smiled broadly again. We thanked the Lord for safety through the night driving and taking us through daytime hazards as well.  Next time I go to Ghana, I’m going to print myself an IDP…

Sometime after noon we hit the traffic of Kumasi.  Once again, motorcycles, bikes, pedestrians, trucks, and cars all shared 2 lanes of pavement and potholes.  We purchased a new spare and had it installed while we enjoyed lunch.  Since we were back in central Ghana, it was time for Ray to enjoy some fufu.  Imagine a cantaloupe-sized wad of doughy starch (80% pounded cassava root and 20% plantain) combined with a bowl of spicy soup.  With your right hand, you pinch off apricot sized chunks of the starch, dip it into the orange soup, and then slurp it down as your fingers burn in pain from the hot soup.  The soup was a “light” soup.  When asked, Enoch told me it was made from Garden Eggs.  “What do they look like?” I asked.  They look like the size of eggs, and they are white, and grow on a small bush. I puzzled…. “Are you sure they are not laid by Garden Chickens?” I replied.  After several questions, we figured out that Garden Eggs were a variety of eggplant that were small, not purple, and perfect for light soup.

With full bellies and a new tire we were pushing forward with only a few more hours to Accra. At various points along the road men held up large cat-sized rodents for sale.  They are a local delicacy.  “What are those” I asked Ray.  “Grasscutters” he informed me as he braked for a speed bump. A Google search revealed that the Greater Cane Rat is also called a “grasscutter”.

By evening we had slammed into the traffic of Accra.  We spent another hour going a few miles to the Korum’s house, unloading, and then enjoying dinner at a Turkish restaurant.  All of yesterday and today were spent editing and arranging the Fulani and Bimoba audio tracks we had recorded.  However, we also had a nasty computer glitch.  I won’t bore you with all the details, but it seems that the specialized software made by the company that supports the BiblePlus+ units has not been updated in several years, and uses an old 32-bit Java 6 SE implementation.  The compressed files we had from the Fulani recordings ended up being 2.2GB when assembled into a “bundle” for the player… which is a little too big to be indexed by a 32-bit pointer.  We did not ferret out the cause of the problem until about 6hrs of debugging and a short night of sleep had gone by.  Thanks everyone for your prayers and support, we managed to sort out a workable hypothesis, test it, and prepare a work-around before leaving for the airport.  Whoohoo! We were able to hand Ray 10 Bimoba units for testing and 9 Fulani units.  Over the next few months we should hear back how they like the recordings and if anything needs to be tweaked.

Ok… off to Brussels. I’ll send one final blog post once we are safe at home on Sunday, right before the Superbowl.