Missionary Position

by Daisy Prescott

  Another message from Gerhard pinged after I hit send.

  *As long as you’re not the one engaging in either behavior.*

  I laughed. Ursula glanced over her shoulder at me, raising her eyebrow.

  “Ignore me.” I held up my phone.

  Chuckling, and maybe blushing a little at the thought of monkey sex with Gerhard, I typed my response before putting my phone away.

  *Never the former and only the latter with the right man.*

  My Fanmilk frozen brain made me bold. Thoughts of monkey sex with Gerhard made me horny. Damn. I left Dutch BOB at Ama’s.

  *Good to know.*

  We drove over the Volta River and into the hills of the east, heading for the Hohoe region. Signs giving kilometers to Ho and Hohoe informed us we were getting closer to the monkey sanctuary.

  Upon arrival at Tafi Atome, Kofi parked near the guest house in the village. I bounced out of the van, succumbing to my monkey excitement.

  We were surrounded by the cinnamon-colored earth I had expected to find in Ghana. The dusty, unpaved road led into the forest beyond a small cluster of buildings, a pastel painted school house, open stall shops, and the guest house with a dozen brightly painted huts serving as rooms.

  Inside the lobby/gift store/sanctuary entrance, I bought a room temperature orange Fanta and a large bottle of water. After collecting the keys for our rooms, Ezekiel, the man behind the counter, told us we should wait until later in the afternoon for the monkeys. With a promise of meeting up at the entrance, I wandered over to my room in a red painted hut with a tin roof. A simple double bed and a night table holding a single lamp were the only furniture inside. No air-conditioner, but mosquito netting hung above the bed, screens covered the windows, and hopefully there would be a cross-breeze with the shutters open to enhance the small ceiling fan.

  I glanced at my phone again. No signal. I turned it off to save the battery.

  Accra was a capital city full of modern growing pains, like never-ending construction and traffic. Now more than ever, I felt I was in Africa. The air smelled of rich earth, wood smoke, and something spicy, and I was about to hand-feed monkeys.

  We met at the office and followed our guide, Kwami, to the edge of the forest where a group of children played on the dirt. Boys kicked around a soccer ball with their bare or sandal covered feet while girls chased each other in a game of tag. Goats milled about, and a scrawny kitten attempted to climb inside an aluminum bowl.

  Upon seeing us, the children ran over, calling out “hello” and “candy.” Sensing something maternal about Nadine, they surrounded her first while I stood to the side. Adorable faces, scuffed with dirt, above mismatched, motley-clothed, thin bodies smiled up at Nadine. Despite my feelings about children, my heart clenched over these sweet beings. I reached for my supply of pencils inside my purse to give to them.

  “Thank you, auntie,” said a wisp of a voice belonging to a girl with huge brown eyes. Her head reached as high as my hip.

  “You’re welcome.” I smiled down at her.

  Kwami said something to the kids, making them laugh and scatter.

  “What did you say?” Nathan asked.

  “I said you came to visit monkeys, not silly children.” He handed us each a bunch of miniature bananas to feed the primates.

  Chatter in the branches above alerted us to the arrival of the Mona monkeys. Suddenly, there appeared two, then three, then a dozen black, gray, and brown monkeys in the trees around us. Kwami demonstrated how to hold the banana. A monkey clambered down the tree and jumped on his arm to carefully open the banana and eat it, while calmly sitting on his forearm.

  I clapped my hands together in pure joy.

  Carefully, I squatted down and held out a banana, holding my breath. A small monkey dashed over and ripped the banana from my hand before scampering across the dirt and into the tree. Startled, I fell back on my heels and sat heavily on the ground, laughing.

  Kwami laughed and helped me up, instructing me to tighten my grip. Sure enough, the second monkey acted less wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am and sat on my arm, politely eating bites from the banana. Her bright, deep amber eyes focused on mine for a second.

  There were firsts you remembered your entire life:

  First kiss.

  First love.

  First sex.

  I would never forget my first Mona monkey.

  I named her Mona Lisa. I felt certain we shared something special, and she would always remember me, too.

  AFTER MONA LISA and I shared our moment, the group followed a path through the sanctuary’s forest. New monkeys approached for bananas and to chatter at us from the trees.

  Not a single piece of feces was flung.

  No monkey sex was observed.

  Under strings of round lights at the village’s one restaurant, we shared stories about our travel adventures over dinner. Ursula had us in tears with her story of boxing a kangaroo that tried to steal her backpack in Queensland. Nadine warned us about the side effects a dip in the Dead Sea could have on a woman’s tender bits. Nathan reminisced about tacos al pastor he found near a bus station in the Yucatan. We bonded over our adventures well into the evening.

  Far from the light pollution of Accra, our flashlights lit a narrow path through the inky night down the road to the guest house; the sky too hazy for starlight.

  Not until I tucked myself under the mosquito net did I think about Gerhard and how well he would have fit into our international group.

  The next morning, I reluctantly admitted I wasn’t as much of a world traveler as I pretended. After a night of sweating under the netting and thinking malaria-carrying mosquitoes had become trapped inside with me, I confessed to the group I needed air-conditioning and a proper toilet that didn’t require a walk through the deepest, darkest night with only my flashlight lighting the way. Ursula agreed with me, saying she longed for a toilet where you could flush the paper instead of putting it in a little trash bin. We acknowledged Western plumbing had spoiled us.

  Unshowered, covered with a thick layer of red dust and happier because of monkey love, we piled into Kofi’s van. I napped for a short while until we stopped for Nadine to buy Kente cloth from a simple wooden stand along the road. If Tafi Atome was a village, this cluster of huts with thatched roofs, round, plain adobe walls, and chickens scratching the barren dirt was an outpost. Young men with bare feet worked looms, creating long strips of geometric patterned cloth at amazing speed. I handed out hard candy to the children, who once again surrounded us, wide smiles and big eyes happy to see Obruni. Each of us bought something from the stand; a few cedis went far in a village with physical evidence of real poverty around us.

  Reality of this subsistence living left us quiet when we climbed into the van. There by the grace of God we went, blessed by our birthright as Westerners. I turned in my seat to watch the village shrink behind us. A pack of children chased our retreating van down the road for a bit, arms waving, smiles big, and silly antics abounding. I waved at them, helpless to fight my tears or grin.

  Nadine patted my arm and handed me a tissue. “They’ll break your heart and make you believe in God all with a single look.”

  Smiling, I sniffled. “I don’t even like kids.” I laughed. “Damn them!”

  With a sympathetic look and a shake of her head, she turned around, chuckling at my outburst.

  On the return to Accra, Kofi blasted the Sunday soccer game on the radio. My understanding of the game began and ended with the universal “goooallll” shouted by the announcer. If Kofi repeated it, we cheered along for his team scoring, bonding over the commonality of us versus them.

  MY WRITER’S NOTEBOOK transformed into a travel journal during my first weeks in Ghana. I never imagined writing a book about my experiences here, but the local sights, sounds, and smells fascinated me more than pirates who resembled Norse Gods, at least for now.

  On the drive to Accra from the Hohoe, I quizzed Nadine about the business names with God or Bible re
ferences. Even the tro-tros overladen with luggage and passengers, had biblical expressions painted on their windows or along their sides. Hand-painted signs proclaimed His Beloved Son shoe repair, Finger of God nails and Jesus is the Answer cell phones on shops in the small towns we passed. One of my favorites, a fast food chop joint, declared God is First. I guessed the chop meant “chop, chop” like we used for quick. Maybe generations of missionaries had been successful in their conversions.

  Nadine explained Western religion’s deep roots in Ghana dating to the early Portuguese and Dutch colonists. Along the way, traditional spirituality and ancestor worship mixed in with organized religions. Naming a business with something religious conveyed the blessings of God onto the business. Or so the owner hoped. I agreed it made complete sense until the Mickey Mouse burger place. What kind of blessing would the mouse bestow?

  Upon our return, Ama greeted us with hugs and cold drinks. She listened to my excited ramblings about monkey love as if I were the first person to ever feed a monkey a banana. I’d missed her. I had.

  Even more so, I’d missed my hot water heater and air conditioner. I kissed my fingertips and lovingly touched both when I returned to my room.

  In light of Nadine’s explanation about the business names, I dubbed my appliances Blessed by God Electricity. Famous for rolling blackouts, Ghana’s electrical grid often gave out and a little help from the divine couldn’t hurt.

  After a hot shower, a little time with BOB, and a change of clothes, I joined Ama on the veranda. A new crowd of unfamiliar faces occupied most of the tables. Amid them sat a group of handsome men who fit Ama’s description from the other day. Their crisp khakis and cotton shirts stood out amongst the eclectic clothing of the other patrons. One man laughed loudly, his voice rising above the others in the restaurant. I turned at the sound and my heart paused. His blond hair looked longer and a little disheveled, his skin tanner.

  When he turned in profile to me, his long, hooked nose confirmed he wasn’t Gerhard.

  I shook my head and tried to rejoin Ama’s story about buying clothes at the Makola market. My selection of conservative neutrals and stripes were boring and at odds with the riots of color and pattern worn by Ama and some of the Ghanaian women I’d observed. She generously offered to take me to the market to order some skirts. Like everything here, contacts needed to be made in order to find the best deal and quality.

  “We’ll go tomorrow. I know the best seamstress. She’ll keep your measurements on file. Some don’t. They’ll charge you for new patterns each visit. Rebecca also has a great sense of color.”

  “Sounds perfect. I’m over my khaki clothes.” I observed Ama’s skirt decorated with colorful purple and orange umbrellas.

  Sarah interrupted us to ask Ama about a bill, leaving me alone at our table.

  I eavesdropped on the group of men drinking their beers and gin and tonics. They could have been in any bar where businessmen gathered after work. Already the men sounded foreign to me after my weekend with the monkeys. My mind drifted with memories of big brown eyes and elfin bodies in the Kente village.

  A cough from the group of men brought me out of my reminiscing. I met a pair of hazel eyes. Apparently, I’d been staring at their table.

  “Care to join us?” a deep voice asked. It belonged to a pudgy man with glasses and dark hair. The sleeves of his pale yellow button-down were rolled up to his elbows.

  “Sure.” I shrugged and walked over.

  “You want something to drink?” Not Gerhard asked.

  “I’ll have a Star, thank you.” I looked around the table. Expensive watches subtly displayed each man’s wealth. The majority of left hands bore wedding rings, except Not Gerhard.

  “American?” Pudgy asked.

  “Yes, from Portland. Oregon,” I volunteered.

  “New York,” Pudgy said. “But the rest of these guys are from the Netherlands.”

  My ears perked up.

  “What brings you to Accra?” My interest was piqued.

  “We came for a conference on sustainability in micro-lending next week. Doing some sight-seeing before it begins.” Pudgy acted as the mouthpiece for the group.

  “Sounds fascinating.” It didn’t.

  “And you? Wait—” He interrupted himself. “—Let me guess.”

  This should be amusing. I caught Not Gerhard’s expression and subtle frown.

  “You’re here to work on an orphanage. Or a school.” Pudgy’s eyes roamed my chest as if my cleavage held the answers. Perhaps the size and scope of my breasts would provide support to his assumption.

  “Medical clinic,” said a man with dark hair and a wrinkled blue shirt. The third man at their table agreed.

  “And you?” I asked Not Gerhard.

  He tapped his index finger on his chin and studied my face. After a moment, he spoke, “Organizing women to form a co-operative.” He paused. “Selling beads or some sort of craft.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “You’re all wrong.”

  “Missionary?” Pudgy guessed again.

  Missionary? As if! “Academic.”

  “I was close! I said school!” he whined like a child.

  “Close, but I’m not a volunteer. I don’t even like children.” Or adults who sound like them, I wanted to add but didn’t.

  I explained what brought me to Accra, making it less salacious than I typically would have. Pudgy, despite his wedding ring, stared at my chest too often. The Pudgys of the world were one of the reasons I distrusted marriage.

  With his constant chatter, he also made it impossible to chat up Not Gerhard. Luckily, Ama rescued me when she asked me to join her for dinner. I said farewell to the group, making eye contact with Matt aka Not Gerhard. I didn’t bother remembering Pudgy’s name.

  REBECCA’S STALL IN Makola market contained floor to ceiling stacks of neatly folded Dutch wax cloth. Wild patterns featured every imaginable color. Possibilities overwhelmed me. I wanted everything. Ama and Rebecca pulled bolts of fabric and piled them on a narrow table in the center of her open air stall. Rebecca measured my waist and hips, complimenting me on my abundant curves. I loved her.

  After selecting fabric for four skirts, we said good-bye with a promise to return a couple days later to pick up my purchases.

  Makola churned with vendors and shoppers—the Ghanaian equivalent of Whole Foods on the Wednesday prior to Thanksgiving.

  Ama led me through the food section of the market. At Makola, the familiar and bizarre mixed together under a high roof blocking the hot sun. Giant aluminum bowls held gallons of fresh ground peanut butter. Chilies from tiny to enormous filled baskets set on the floor and tables. Pyramids of living snails the size of geoducks sat next to ordinary tomatoes and eggplants. Tailless beaver-looking animals called grass-cutters sat inside cages near chickens. Ama explained they weren’t for pets.

  My senses went into overdrive from the smells and sights, as well as the crowd of shoppers and vendors. Women shouted conversations to each other across aisles, laughing at inside jokes. At the edges of the market, tro-tro and taxi drivers jostled and argued over customers and parking spaces.

  Ama pulled me by the arm into the shade on the other side of the road and handed me a bag of filtered water. “You’re looking a little peaked.”

  I gulped some water. “Thanks. Wow. The market was overwhelming.” I exhaled and fanned myself with my hand. A pair of stray dogs sniffed around a stack of crates in the sun at the market’s edge.

  “Makola always is. You’ll get used to it.”

  I’d heard ‘you’ll get used to it’ countless times since arriving. “Not sure about that. I might have to live off of chicken and rice at your place.”

  “There are modern markets in Accra. You’ll be fine. Or you can stay with me.”

  I blinked at her while I sipped water. “I can’t. I’d love to, but my budget doesn’t allow for months of hotel stay.”

  “No, not at the hotel. I have a little house. You could rent a roo
m. You had planned to rent a place, right? Rent from me. I’ll accept whatever you were planning to pay.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. “Are you serious?” I asked, needing confirmation I wasn’t hallucinating from my near panic attack.

  “Sure. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d worry about you staying at some random apartment on your own.”

  I shot her a dirty look, my hackles rising. “I’m fine on my own. I’ve always been on my own, since school. And I’ve been fine, thank you.”

  “I’m sure you’ve done just fine on your own, but one thing you’ll learn, is no one is alone. You need community to survive. For Ghanaians, it’s their family and tribe. For us Obruni, we have to make our own tribe.”

  The little village of Kente weavers. The communal table at Ama’s.

  “Did you imply it takes a village?” I asked, my tone laced with sarcasm.

  “Aha!” She gave me an indulgent look and patted my arm. “You’re beginning to understand.”

  We walked in the direction of High Street and the hotel. I noted a bookstore I would revisit later. Ahead stood a polished new building with the letters TNG on the side.

  “I didn’t know TNG had an office in Accra,” I said, more to myself than to Ama.

  “TNG? Oh, yes. Of course. They do a lot of good work. I’ve known several of their employees over the years. Good people who want the best future for Ghana.”

  “They’re sponsoring the sculpture exhibit I’m researching.”

  “Next time some of the TNG people visit the bar, I’ll introduce you. In fact, the group you chatted with last night? Some of them work for TNG I think.”

  Not Gerhard came to mind. I wondered if the real one had hung out at Ama’s. “My Dutch friend Gerhard said he had an assignment here three years ago. Sound familiar?”

  Ama wrinkled her forehead. “No Gerhards. Sorry.”

  “No worries. It’s a big city.” Another missed connection.

  “Is this the man who had you smiling like a school girl last week?”

  I nodded.