A few days later, John and Darla drove up from Florida after spending a month in St. Augustine—a trip I would have found arduous—but they arrived on our doorstep with smiles, their overnight bags, and Katrina, their Coton de Tulear.

Darla handed me a plush bathmat with the words “Squeaky Clean” and a copy of Jeanette Walls’ Half Broke Horses. “I was needing a new mat for our guest bathroom,” I said, and told her I knew I would enjoy the novel, having loved The Glass Castle. Somehow, Darla always knows the exact right gift—not just for us, but for everyone she knows. Intuitive shopping is her super power.

We spoke in whispers—it being a tad past nine and Bob already retired—while Katrina padded through the house, finding the food and water bowls that I had set out. I wondered if she remembered them from her last visit.

“This house smells like Nana’s house,” John said, nose lifted. We both knew that Nana’s house represented the very best moments of our childhoods. I blushed, realizing that my ovearching life goal has been to make a space where others would feel as at home as I had been at our Nana’s. This, I thought, was my super power.

What was that smell, we wondered, trying to pick it apart. “Do you use Calgon bath salts?” John asked.

“No, no bathtub here. Windex and fried onions, perhaps.”

“Remember that face cream Nana kept in the downstairs bathroom with her makeup?” And we drifted down memory lane, thinking about our grandmother special smells and our days as children on her acre of paradise.

The next morning the five of us sat in our yellow dining room and when our plates were empty, it was time for show and tell. First, John went out to the van to fetch a small alligator head that Darla had picked up for someone back home in Pennsylvania.

Next, Bob gave a tour of his gorgeous orchids. Like Bob, Darla wears the green thumb in their house. She, too, has a few orchids.

Show and tell is boring for little dogs, but Katrina is made of patience. She lay down in our living room, bathed in orchid lights, and waited for a good smell to appear, or for her people to move toward the door.

We soon said our goodbyes on the lawn, promising to drop in on each other as often as possible, no matter for how long or short. We’ve often enjoyed John and Darla’s hospitality and were pleased to return the favor. They are the kind of hosts who leave chocolates for their guests, and post “Welcome, Camille and Bob,” on their refrigerator.

After their van had vanished down the road, I went inside to strip the bed and looking out the window, wondered when I’ll get around to finishing washing the others. Maybe next week, I thought, and turned my attention to other, less productive pursuits.

When Bob retires, I told myself, he will take back the vegetable garden and start hauling the trash. Our garden had always been Bob’s domain—he of the big, green thumb—while I tended to focus on the flower beds, but I took responsibility for the veggies a few years ago when I retired and he dove into a demanding job requiring travel.

We had yet to buy the house before Bob and Lyle went to work transforming the ruined swimming pool into a place to grow food. When they were finished, Bob named it the Sunken Gardens of Moncure.

Trash, I’d always heard, was a man’s job, but for some reason, I never handed this chore off to Bob. In fact, I bought my Model Y mainly because it boasted seventy-two cubic feet of cargo space, nearly as much as my Subaru Outback. It also has the ground clearance to handle long gravel roads, making visiting friends and getting to the barn easy.

It makes me happy to round up all our paper packaging, cans, bottles, and garbage and leave it at the county collection center, that magic land of “away.” And, unless I’m in a big hurry, I take a peek into the swap shop, where people bring reusables like books and clothing. Many of our chairs and tables come from this shed of surprises, including my bedroom dresser and mirror and a giant braided carpet that covers the most damaged spots in our back porch Astroturf.

When I pointed out that new rug to Lyle, he beamed and told me how he had a hand creating the swap shops. Another score, a leather Norwegian designer chair from the ’60s, lived on our back porch for some years before we gave it to Lyle for his outdoor patio. We all agree it feels right to use cast-offs instead of buying new stuff.

It’s been too hot and buggy to ride this past month. Buddy and Gallen hang in the shade of their loafing shed, where the ferocious horse flies are less likely to feed on their tender flesh. I now understand why local horse owners haul up to Uwharrie, an hour away, to ride in the summer.

Meanwhile, my friend, Sharyl, rides with her friends all summer in Colorado, where the humidity stays below 50%. She sends me a picture of one of her friends’ new horse, who looks so much like Gallen that I feel a pang of longing for cooler fall days.

After Bob and I got home from the gym a couple of weeks ago, I made an impromptu trip to town, primarily to get rid of a piece of rolled, rusted fence. I had plenty of time, so I sauntered to the wooden shed for a look-see. I stood there for a moment, turned away, then walked back, picked up a large framed print, and put it in my car. I couldn’t resist, even though I thought it too big for our little walls.

It’s called White Horses, painted by Ricardo Arenys in the ’60s, and measures 22.5′ x 29.5″, not including the frame. I cleaned it up and hung it in the garage, where it made me silly happy every time I got in a car or took out a bag of trash.

I felt like I had a secret horse in the garage, just like the white horses I imagined lived between the boxwood hedge and our rental house on City Island sixty-some years ago.

Then, Bob, bless him—after the fourth time I mentioned how much I loved this painting—said, “You could put it on this wall.” We were lying in bed, talking like we do nearly every morning. Talking is Bob’s love language. That and rubbing my body smooth. He says, “Your skin is so smooth!” Then he waits half a beat before saying, “I think it’s because I rub you so much.”

“But there’s a picture there already,” I said, and of course, he said we could move it, which—silly me—would never have occurred to me. I pulled on a dress, fetched the painting from the pole barn, hung it, and lay back beside Bob to admire my prize.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above buying new things for myself—just last week, I bought a new bra and a top-of-the-line immersible blender—but I long ago pledged to shrink my ecological footprint by recycling and reusing as much as possible. That, and the thrill of the hunt, keeps me returning to the thrift stores where I score almost new sheets, towels, and clothing.

And although I wouldn’t want to get my underwear from a thrift store or the swap shop, nothing beats a great find like the “White Horses.” Which, by the way, now hangs on our bedroom wall as if it were painted just for me.

I look forward to these shared trips to town. We save gas and electrons and enjoy our windshield time: undistracted conversation, heightened by the sense that we are moving in the same direction. As is our custom, Bob drops me at the Food Lion on his way to pick up mail at The Plant on the east side of town. Sometimes Bob finishes his business before I finish mine, but on this day I was done first.

I sent Bob a text, pocketed my phone, and sat down to wait on a wooden bench inside the store. Ordinarily, I would stand on the sidewalk, but today I had bought frozen peas, and it was already in the mid-80s. So I sat facing the glass wall between me and the parking lot, frozen in time, a victim of circumstances, deliciously sidelined from responsibility, with nothing better to do than watch life parade past.

I felt a swoosh of air each time the automatic doors opened, and with it, an undulating human vibe that wafted off the river of Pittsboro peeps. I imagined I was people-watching in an airport. I pictured myself as a wide-eyed infant, observing life from the inactivity of a bassinet.

It was about the time the kids get out of school, and the parking lot was humming like a beehive. I saw a woman hop up on the back of on her cart with a child on either side, crouched and clinging, the three of them open-mouthed and hair flying, coasting down into the parking lot, catching some free breeze. A rush of love and wistfulness took me by surprise. I felt simultaneously voyeuristic and connected.

A woman sat down next to me and plunged a plastic fork into a carton of deli macaroni and cheese. I nodded and smiled, striving for friendly, but not obtrusive. I moved over a smidge, an accommodating gesture that I hoped didn’t look like recoil, trying to remember the last time I’d shared a seat with a stranger. My stomach rumbled.

The parade continued, some people nodding, some saying, “How you doin’?” Some pausing to chat with the macaroni lady. A woman entered the store with a little girl, her kinky hair in three pompoms that made her look like Minnie Mouse with a bun. A man walked past us carrying a twelve pack of canned beer, and I remember seeing him enter the store. Eventually, the Minnie Mouse girl and her mother walked past us again, too, the little girl walking on the balls of her feet, all the way on out to the parking lot and to their car. “She is sooo cute!” I said, “She’s walking on her toes!” “Like a ballerina!” said the woman, and we both laughed.

A wave of emotion rose as I thought: these are my people, Pittsboro people, simple folks not looking for trouble or to wrong anyone; just trying to get along, and get home and make dinner or whatever. All about to spin off into separate realities, but here in this very moment, here and now with me sitting and watching, while the woman next to me greets them from behind her carton of carbs.

Ever since that day, when I go to town with Bob I find myself hoping I’ll have to wait on that bench again. I wonder if I have the discipline to spend ten minutes sitting idle for no reason. One of these days, I’m going to find out. I’ll drive myself to town, park the car, and sit down on that bench for a spell.

You know you’re not in Ghana anymore when:

1. The first pre-dawn sounds are tires on asphalt, not half a dozen roosters
2. Its freezing outside and our windows are closed
3. There are no ants on the counter, floors, toilet paper, etc.
4. You can see your breath on the back porch
5. You smell fire but there’s no plastic in it
6. There’s ice on the laundry line
7. You have electricity 99.9% of the time
8. There isn’t any razor wire on our fences
9. None of our friends live in razor wire compounds, either
10. The road outside our house is paved and pothole free
11. When your car is spoiled you have to get it repaired ASAP because there aren’t any taxis
12. You can’t just pay three guys $5 each to push the car the seven blocks to the repair shop
13. You can call for a tow truck, it arrives in twenty minutes and you pay the driver $77 with a credit card
14. Amy can’t hop on a tro tro from Asheville to Pittsboro
15. The police don’t stop you in town, looking for money
16. You go to the DMV and no one is asleep with their head on their arm at the service window
17. You can’t buy plantain chips off a head pan from the car window, in fact no one is carrying anything on their heads
18. Fresh donuts are $2.50 each at the local bakery
19. Not 25 cents from the woman deep frying them over a charcoal fire on the dirt
20. Children are strapped to car seats, strollers and shopping carts instead of riding on their mothers backs
21. The dogs look really well fed, glossy almost
22. The fruit in the shops is pathetic and costs an arm and a leg
23. You’ve got five pounds of nutritional yeast that no one had to carry in their suitcase
24. UPS brings just about anything you could possibly want right to your door
25. You can’t buy antibiotics over the counter for cheap

While anticipating Amy’s visit to Kumasi, one of the things I looked forward to the most was introducing her to the fine art of shopping in Africa. I couldn’t wait to bring her to the markets overflowing with produce and the little shops we’ve come to love for their selection of Obroni offerings. At the top of my list was Nadville, a little shop on the south side of Atinga junction that I began calling “Radville” after my first visit last July. At that time, my discovery of this well-stocked little store booted my quality of life from “pretty good” to “radical!” Here is the account from my journal entry:

“Do you stock flour?” I asked the lady of the baking aisle at the Melcom the other day. I was nearly out of flour since I began making fry bread to have with our meals. “No have. Try Natville.” When pressed, she told me it was a store up the road at Atinga Junction.

Determined to find a shop in our neighborhood that sells flour, some place I could walk to without having to take a taxi, and pleased with myself for knowing where Atinga Junction was, I strode off with purpose.

What was the name of that place, I started asking myself right away – Nedmart? Redville? Oh well, how hard could it be to find a shop?

When I arrived at the junction I looked closely at every store front and stall for signs of a grocery store but found only fruit vendors, chemists, dog food and electronics. After inspecting all four corners of the junction, I approached a shop keeper and asked if he knew where I could buy flour. He smiled and pointed to a florist shop a few spaces down the street. “No,” I said, pulling out the loaf of bread I’d bought at Melcom, “I’m looking for flour.”

“Oh!” he said and pointed south past the junction. Stepping outside he explained that it was past the two coconut trees. “Me’ da ase pii” I thanked him very much and resumed my journey in the direction of the coconut palms.

And there, across the street, past the palms, shining like an oasis, was my new Mecca! The store that would double my shopping expectations. A little shop tucked behind the neighbor’s bougainvillea with a faded sign that read “Nadville.” I would have missed it if I hadn’t been searching.

Once inside I found flour, couscous, soy milk, flat bread, a great selection of fruit juice and wine, the good beans I’ve been getting on our weekly (taxi enabled) water runs to the Palace Hypermart and much, much more. I was careful not to buy more than I could carry but couldn’t stop myself from picking up potatoes and spinach from the two old men selling produce outside the store.

I arrived home in a state of elation. The next time Bob and I were out and about I introduced him to the joys of the rad little store. We bought a case of ginger beer, roasted peanuts and cashews, juice, more soy milk, sweet chili sauce and oh my!

Radville is our new favorite little store and the shopping ace up my sleeve. Unlike many of the other local shops, they open at 8:00am rather than at 10:00 (11:00am on Sundays!) and as Isacc, the friendly manager happily says, they are the “best shopping in Kumasi.”

Six months later, I happily revealed our shopping secret to Amy, reliving my initial joy at discovering Nadville.

We finally took the plunge and went downtown to experience the legendary Kejetia Market, a shopping phenomenon referred to locally as the Central Market. We’d been in Kumasi for for six weeks and felt it was time we saw, smelled and felt the market for ourselves. Lauren was going one last time before she leaves the country this week, so we joined her. Naturally we hired our friend Eric to drive us there and act as point person as we wove our way through the narrow, crowded streets.

This market is massive. It covers twenty-five acres and hosts ten thousand vendors. Following Lauren’s lead, we chose to focus on textiles and beads.

Eric took the point postion, breaking the way through the throng. We followed him trustingly through tightly packed aisles laden with produce, stationery, dried cows hooves and other meat, beans and flour.

This is the best image of what looked to be carefully sculpted cones of lard that I was able to get. Taking picturess is a bit like trying to photograph the shore while shooting rapids. Many of the vendors were not happy to see me point the camera and most of the time we were so packed in that snapping she shutter would only have yielded a snippet of someone skin or clothing. The whole experience is akin to riding a roller coaster but much more fragrant. We soon became immune to the feel of other people’s arms brushing against our skin although I did get dizzy at one point from over stimulation.

When we arrived at the desired destinations we bought fabric and bracelets. I took the opportunity to speak with Hannah, the fabric vendor about the recent fire. She said it cost a lot of vendors their inventory and that people leave their fires going and forget to put them out. After we left her stall with a fine piece of adinkra cloth and some orange patterned batiked cotton, I was more aware of the many fires burning within the market.

I spotted two crispy dough balls at one of those fires which I was hoping were yam balls and bought them for 50 pesewas (25 cents.)

Oh man. They were not yam balls but donuts. Bob refused to eat at the market for sanitary reasons so I shared my dough balls with housemate Justin although I ended up eating one and a half myself.

Its been a long time since I ate a doughnut and these were of the delicious, greasy variety! It took me some time to wipe the oil off my face with the back of my hand while plowing through the wall-to-wall crowds. The smile, however is still lingering.

Just for fun, heres a pretty nice video which captures the essence of Kumasi’s Central Market.

 Bob tries out our keys in our new Post Office Box in Adum and Camille shows off her new dress, paper towels and can opener.

The first order of business was a visit to the Post Office to mail a couple of cards to the States. When we found out we could get a P O Box and begin receiving mail, we went for it! The kind lady at the window sent us around the corner to room 12 on the second floor to purchase the necessary paper work. I was happy to remember that I had a photo of Bob in my wallet and between that and his North Carolina drivers license we had the necessary documentation.

Then we went back downstairs to pay our box fee and receive our number. “What do you want to bet our new number has a seven in it?” I said and was disappointed when the clerk announced our number as 16595. Moments later, when I was writing down our new address though, she corrected me saying it was 16597. Yay! And then we went back upstairs to room 12 to pick up our keys. Finally, we walked around until we found the box itself and tried both keys in it. Worked like a charm.

So drop us a postcard and we’ll mail you one back with a fancy Ghanian stamp on it.

Our new mailing address is:

P O Box KS 16597
Kumasi, Ghana
West Africa

Next, we stopped at Saarnak Vegetarian Food and Health Shop as recommended by awesome vegan Abenaa when she took us horseback riding at Lake Bosumtwi last week. We shared a plate of the best jollof rice we’ve had here yet. And then we bought some fancy vegan groceries for the house, including soy protein nuggets, sunflower seeds and pepitos.

Out on the street, I spotted can openers on display and stopped to buy one and a bottle opener as well. We also checked out the Okopu Trading Post where we found Kahlua and paper towels but no measuring cup. We walked around the corner to Ebenezer’s Health Food Shop and picked up honey, peanut butter and coconut oil, buying some avocados and cucumbers at a produce stand along the way. And we looked at clothing but didn’t find anything that was quite as awesome as the dress I bought yesterday.

We arrived home with full bags and bellies and big smiles on our faces. Life is good when you find what you want!

I find it interesting and a little perplexing that you can buy canned goods but not a can opener and bottled wine but no cork screw.

We’ve been here in Adiebeba for three weeks now and are getting a feel for where to buy most things. We know where to buy drinking water, fresh fruit, vegetables, bread and eggs. We’ve discovered a handy neighborhood supply of locally made tofu for only 1 cedi per 8-ounce block or $1 a pound.

It’s only a short list of essentials that continue to elude me. The aforementioned openers are two. Even the tiniest shop sells canned goods yet none sell a can opener. When I spotted a can opener on the counter of Mr. Daniel’s Dimples store on the corner of Roteng and FF Antoh Streets, he said he didn’t sell them but promised to pick me up one next time he went to market. This was a couple of weeks ago and he kindly expresses his apologies each time I walk past his shop or stop to buy pasta or tomato paste.

I check for one at the Melcom, the big grocery within walking distance each time they receive a new shipment but they can only tell me they are “finished.” I’ve checked both times we’ve taken a taxi to the Palace Hyper-Mart for bottled water and receive the same story. It took us awhile to figure out that “finished” means that they used to stock them but now they are out. Must be a country-wide can opener shortage because last week the woman at the Melcom told me “We ask but they no come.”

We bought a bottle of wine the other night while waiting for the Moti Mahal Indian restaurant to open and decided it might be nice to have a before dinner drink so I went back into the liquor store to buy a wine opener. No the man behind the counter said sadly, we don’t have. But he generously offered to open my bottle of wine after fishing around behind the counter to locate his opener and the five of us sat on the curb, glugging red wine from a beige plastic bag.

Also, why can’t I find paper towels to buy? The dirt that sifts in though the window screens stains every towel I use to wipe the counters and the floor. Even bleach will not remove the stains and I have tried. I’m thinking a damp paper towel that I can compost later will help keep our towels clean. Something to pick up the dirt before I dry the counter with that nice white towel.

Since Bob, Jeremy, Lauren and Justin are involved most of the day with project associated work, I offered to cook dinner for the five of us Monday through Friday. I generally wait until Bob gets home to open any cans I might need for dinner with his Swiss Army knife.

I cannot find a calendar either so in the mean time, I’m taking it one week at a time with the help of a dry erase planner I found at the Melcom. Which I must say is a good pace for me. Life is simple when all I need to accomplish is a meal and perhaps some laundry.

There are enough differences in each day to keep things interesting. Yesterday Lauren and I stopped in a dress shop where I bought a dress which looks as if it were made for me. Today Bob and I are taking a taxi into Adum for our first trip to a Ebenezer’s Health Food Shop. Perhaps today will be the day we find a can opener!

Freegan is a new word being used to describe dumpster diving environmentalists who have found a way to live in a wasteful society without compromising their values.

According a recent Denver news story:
“Those subscribing to freeganism range from people who don’t believe in buying food at all to people like Meuser, who say they’re simply trying to minimize their impact on the environment by eating homegrown or organically grown food — and by reclaiming food that’s been thrown out.”
More than 25 million tons of food is throw away annually in the U.S. alone. Every farm, orchard, grocer, food distributor and manufacturer routinely discard blemished and unsold food.

In fact, a 2004 study from the University of Arizona, revealed that nearly half the food in the United States goes to waste.

In a world where eight million people die each year from hunger-related causes, Freeganism makes a lot of sense. Next time I go to the market, I’m going to take a look inside their dumpster!

Every time I hop on my bicycle, I feel as if I am getting away with something! I really love flying down the street with my debit card in my hip pocket and my re-useable grocery bag tucked into the basket that hangs from my handlebars.

One side benefit of only having a small bike basket is that I can’t buy too much stuff at the grocery store. For example, the other day I picked a six-pack Coca-Cola off the shelf and then noticed that two 12-packs were on sale at a savings of $2 under the individual six-pack price.

I stood there for a while, trying to figure out a way to tie 24 cans of Coke on the bike and get them home. I would need to take a safer route home because it’s harder to make sharp turns when the basket is over-loaded. It would take us a month to drink a case of pop, so we’d have to store the case under the bed. And then there was the temptation to drink more of something we don’t need to be drinking just because we had a case of it under the bed. At this point, I decided we didn’t NEED a case of pop – for any price.

On the surface, it seems stupid to buy a 6-pack at the higher price, but in the long run I’m saving. First of all, we save on rent by living in 564 square feet. Second, we make our own iced tea and lemonade, which is a lot cheaper than soda. Third, we’re healthier because we don’t drink too much coca cola, and because we walk and ride our bikes to the grocery store. And fourth, we save money on motor fuel. (According to a study by the Transportation Department, the average American household makes 496 motorized shopping trips a year!)

By the time I got home, I felt pretty good about paying an extra 50 cents for that 6-pack!