Our Village of Bagli

We only lived there two short years, yet somehow the village managed to permanently embed itself in our hearts. It is the one place in Ghana that still feels like home to us. We were glad it was possible, then, to visit Bagli a few weeks ago.

Taken 8 years ago, but it looks the same today. Only,
right now is dry season so there is zero green anywhere.

One of the first people to meet us was a former neighbor lady, a person I was best acquainted with in the village. She met me outside of her gate with outstretched arms to embrace me, an unexpected welcome from an undemonstrative septuagenarian. She also loved up on my baby who went to her without protest. 

Upon leaving her house and walking through the village on our way to greet the chief at his palace, a group of children began collecting behind us. They stepped on the heels of my sandals when I walked and pressed against my legs when we were seated. Except for a short period at night, the crowd of children hanging around us never diminished in size until we left.  

There are two white children in this crowd, but only
one is (sort of) visible.

One of our followers was a child who learned to walk in my house almost nine years ago. She seemed so grown up now and stayed close to my side for the entire visit. I hated leaving her behind when we left. 

When we arrived at the chief's palace, he abandoned normal formalities and met us at the door of his room. This time it was my children who were wrapped in an unexpected hug and led to his throne. They sat with him politely while the chief stroked Sophia's braid and kept an arm around Tyler's shoulders. I was proud of my twosome for being willing to step out of their comfort zone like that. 

We were hosted overnight in the compound of an English-speaking friend. They showed us wonderful hospitality and we are very grateful for all they did for us. It was no fault of theirs that our night was interrupted and not too restful. 

They couldn't help it that a nanny goat gave birth in the wee hours of the morning or that the other residents in the sheepfold protested loudly against being penned in the labor room. So the tin gate was opened, shuddering across the gravel, and the noisy flock was released. They stuffed their faces into the kettles resting on the ground of the outdoor kitchen area. Their little hooves beat a rapid staccato when they were shooed out.

The moon rose around 3 am. My baby took that as an invitation to play and sat on his mat under the stars, playing. It wasn't ideal, but least he wasn't crying, a mercy the fifteen sleeping people around us didn't know to appreciate. Then the rooster began to crow. And my city-born baby was afraid. 

Something living kicked in my ear. A spider, perhaps, though I couldn't see it. Even after I flicked it out. I didn't see where it landed and hoped it wouldn't come back.

A breeze, though glorious and refreshing, rattled the tin roofing sheets, and blew dirt across my face.

After declining the use of a proffered foam mattress, we slept on a thin plastic mat which held us off the mud/cement compound floor by an eighth of an inch. At midnight, I spent some time contemplating whether I wished for twenty extra pounds to pad my hips and offer a softer platform for sleeping on, or if I wished to lose twenty pounds so I would press less heavily against the unrelenting ground.

But the starlit sky helped to make up for unavoidable interruptions. Orion (the only constellation I can pick out) stood in his glory above us. And falling stars left us breathless. For the moment, anyway, until the toes of my oldest dug into my back and the body of my youngest laid heavily against my knees and the mama goat baaed in her pen. It was a combination sleep could not overcome.

The long night finally ended around 5:30 when the women went to fetch water from the pump and lit cooking fires. They were cheerful and happy, regardless of their night. Bagli's women, like most Ghanaians, seem immune to self-pity. They heated more water than our family of five could use to bathe and brought us more food than we could possibly eat.

We spent our morning greeting old friends. Many of them have relocated, but to those still there, we gave family pictures. "This way you can always remember us," we told them.

To some, we also gave pictures we had taken of them nearly ten years ago. Here are two of those: 

Our friendly chief is in the center of the picture. Someone is
holding the umbrella above him and a young wife is seated
close-by, fanning him.

The picture of the children roasting termites for a pre-school snack (and to share with the white folks) was taken on our veranda. The girl with her hand by her face passed away not long after this (no reflection on the termites). Knowing the girl's mother had no pictures of her late daughter, I printed off a copy for her. Giving it to her (and watching her protect it from little hands that wanted to hold it), was a special moment for me.

After we had greeted everyone, we left with hearts full of memories we will carry with us, possibly forever. Two live chickens in a handmade fowl basket rode at my feet in the truck. We put the two large smoked fish from the chief and a bag of beverages from the village's only storekeeper at Tyler's feet. We had already eaten the pigeons gifted to us the night before. 

A Kenyan once told me, "When you drink the waters of Africa, they always stay in your heart." 

He may well be right. 

Maple Syrup: the Flavor of Earliest Spring

"Let's do a taste test," John said, holding the pint jug of maple syrup someone sent to us. 

I was game. The last taste test I took part in was to identify different brands of Malta, a non-alcoholic beverage I'm not particularly fond of. I flunked that test completely. But the taste test John proposed was one I was certain to ace: pure maple syrup vs. my own homemade. 

Maple syrup, in its purity, is part of the fabric of my childhood. I didn't know syrup was kin to liquid gold when I was eight and applying it liberally to pancakes. I always made sure I had enough to puddle on my plate so I could eat it with a spoon after the pancake was gone. Then, if the syrup pitcher was empty, we simply refilled it from a gallon brought up from the storeroom in the basement. This endless supply was possible because my grandpa had a sugar maple woods, and each year the extended family worked together to make syrup. 

We did it the old-fashioned way by hanging tin buckets on the trees.

In March 2006, The Elkhart Truth, a local paper, read: "Grandchildren tromp through the woods on February and March afternoons, crunching fallen leaves with rubber boots. They grab buckets hanging from the 800 or so taps on trees and dump clear liquid into larger buckets. Sometimes sloshing sap onto the hems of their dresses or pants, they carry them to a tank mounted on a trailer and pulled over rutted trails by the Farmall H tractor their grandfather got when he started farming." 

It takes about 40 gallons of sap to make a gallon of maple syrup. That is a lot of buckets. 

Gathering sap always includes mud. Lots of mud. The Elkhart Truth reporter didn't witness anyone losing a boot one pace back in sticky mud, almost an annual event. Nor did they follow us at night in the rare times when rain was imminent and sap was gathered with flashlights and lanterns. Brambles are invisible at night.

When the tank on the trailer was full, it was emptied into a large holding tank at the sugar shanty. 

Ah, the sugar shanty. There is nothing quite like being chilled and walking into the sugar shack. It was steamy and warm and smelled pleasantly of syrup and wood smoke. A fire, fueled by the wood Grandpa cut while cleaning up the woods, burned hot beneath the evaporator. 

My dad and brothers took their turns boiling sap far into the night during the prime of the season. Boiling had to be done almost around the clock (except on Sunday) in order to make room for more. 

And then, finally, there was syrup. Gallons and gallons of amber sweetness. To me, it is so much more than an expensive pancake accompaniment. It is tangible evidence of my happy childhood. 

With that in mind, you will understand why I knew the maple syrup taste test was my moment to shine. Eyes closed in readiness for the taste test, I could imagine myself enfolded in the warm, steamy interior of the sugar shanty. John gave me my first bite. I swallowed and smiled. I tasted the second option and froze. The smoky sweet memories evaporated and dismay rose within me. I had no idea which of the two was the real deal. And I flunked the test. 

In the deep bitterness of the moment, I knew it was past time for me to go back and visit my grandpa’s woods and the sugar shanty.

Or, come to think of it, maybe I should market my own syrup.

Maple Syrup photo sourced from Pixabay. All other photos are my own.