Though she is old, she leads–perhaps because she is old.
Three hours from Accra and the roads got really rough. We had been driving into the bush and each mile seemed to take a millennium. The more we drove, the farther back in time we went. As we drove into the village of Yamoransah, young girls stared at us as they mashed roots for food. Young children surrounded us, posing for our cameras. The village Matriarch watched our approach, proudly. She did not speak English. There was no need. This was her village.
As we approached, she slowly rose and the children quieted. She did not need her walking stick for authority. Her voice was soft and quiet, yet the young mothers gathered their children and went inside.
Somewhere, in the delicate balance of past and present, she kept her village safe. The old ways still worked, although her eyes were growing dim.
Teenagers charged their cell phones at a generator near the village well.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
It can be painful when a pilgrimage is not all it was supposed to be.
Tired, alone and far from home, the Eternal City, can be an unforgiving place. Religious tradition may favor the Catholics in Rome, yet Islam entertains apocryphal hope for ultimate victory in the struggle for religious domination. Global politics and religious ideology lose their import when you are sick and hungry. With no place left to go, a bridge over the Tiber River is as good a place as any to end a pilgrimage.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
It was raining in Paris that morning as I sought shelter beneath the balustrades and terraces of the Louvre Palace. My timing was off. The museum was closed. I was not alone in my disappointment as I watched a woman trudge beneath our columned shelter and sit, wearily, against stone. She was not present with the host of tourists surrounding this space. She looked beyond, focused on something my eyes could not see. Trouble, sadness, sorrow, suffering. I could not know. Yet, in her eyes I could see the reflection of ghosts in Paris. On this day, I would not see the Mona Lisa smile.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
A calm before the storm settles over the bay on Upolu, Samoa.
The air was heavy, oppressive. Dark clouds rose above a steel horizon. The humid air made it hard to breathe. I took a shower that morning, but never dried off, still dripping. The clear ocean called to me, but a storm was coming. I could feel it in the quiet slowness. No one was in the water. Most of the locals were resting on mats in their fales. A Samoan home, or fale, is mostly built with bamboo and thatch, allowing maximum airflow. The air was not moving.
Storm clouds bloom over Upolu Island, Samoa.
I watched them come, the dark clouds. The weight of wet-hot weather pushing, pushing down on my chest, holding me in place as I watched them grow, the clouds. I wanted to lie down and not move, sleep until the dark dream dispersed.
When the rains came, it was sudden, as if the ocean moved onshore. The sky was water. The air was liquid. The drops were waves, crashing to earth. The sound rose and swelled, drowning all other sounds.
Then, quiet.
Talofa lava–a young boy waves in greeting.
The rains ceased. Clouds moved on, a pleasant breeze chasing them. The sun emerged from hiding. Children were the first to awaken, laughing and playing in streams winding back to sea. Steam rose above fluorescent flora. The world sparkled with brilliant color.
Rain and mountains make for spectacular waterfalls in Samoa.
I witnessed a transformation of the island, Samoa, sea, sky, land. What I didn’t see, couldn’t see then, was the change Samoa wrought in my heart, not until I left that place.
I have not been back, yet, I long to return, to reconcile the man I am with man I hope to be, in paradise.
Namu’a Island, Samoa, just a short swim away.
Gentle breezes blow through swaying palms in Samoan paradise.
Rain and mountains make for spectacular waterfalls in Samoa.
A woman walks home on a rural Samoan road.
Waterfalls and rain are never far away on Upolu, Samoa.
Samoan wildflower
Samoan wildflower
Samoan wildflower
Giant electric green ferns thrive in the Samoan forests.
Samoan wildflower
Lush vegetation of many colors grow in the Samoan jungle.
Lush vegetation of many colors grow in the Samoan jungle.
Tapa cloth designs create a homey warmth in the Samoan fale.
Rain drops bead on leafy green vegetation in Samoa.
Beautiful flowers grow wild in Samoa.
Coconuts grow wild on Upolu, Samoa.
A boy watches warily, before taking a swim in the ocean.
Samoan boy.
Samoan children pose for the camera.
Brothers, Samoa.
Fresh from a swim in the sea, a Samoan boy leans against his house.
Talofa lava–a young boy waves in greeting.
Coral reefs protect palm-lined sandy beaches on the island of Upolu, Samoa.
Lava flows bear witness to Samoa’s violent geological past.
Drift wood and lava adorn many Samoan beaches.
Put your feet in Samoan sand. You may not want to take them out.
Bench seats.
Perhaps in need of paint, the wooden canoe is still seaworthy.
Samoan canoe.
Hand carved canoes point the way for Samoan mariners.
Samoan Canoes.
Palm trees protect aging canoes from the sun and rain.
Known for centuries as great mariners, Samoan still navigate the seas in wooden canoes.
Peaceful bay in Upolu, Samoa.
Lava Lavas and sandals are formal attire in Samoa.
Storm clouds bloom over Upolu Island, Samoa.
Trade winds push fluffy clouds over coconut palms in Samoa.
A calm before the storm settles over the bay on Upolu, Samoa.
When I showed him this picture, he laughed and laughed. So did his buddies.
Just before sunset, we stopped on the banks of the Lubumbashi river in the DR Congo. Families were washing clothes and bathing in the river. It was hot, and humid. When I pulled out my camera, I was surrounded by children, laughing, dancing and posing. We did not speak the same language, in words. But, the joy of the children was contagious. In a land so different from my own, we shared a laugh, and a smile.
For more info on my show check out a June 11th article in The Spectrum.
They're Calling To Me 