Marine Ball

I have to admit, I did feel a twinge of patriotism.

The Way It Is

I haven’t written much lately because life here has become routine. It’s normal for me to wake up to the thwack-thwack of a shoe-repair man swinging a tool behind him that strikes against a wooden box, advertising he is nearby for all those who need their shoes fixed. But today, the first time I've ever needed one of these repairmen, they were nowhere to be found! The water goes out sometimes, but not for as long as it used to when we didn’t have water tanks. It’s still a frightfully cold shock to shower in the mornings though (working on getting a water heater out of our landlord). The power outages continue, forcing me to wear a headlamp while the pasta finishes boiling (the beauty of a gas stove is that it’s not electric). It’s not that noteworthy to find the perfect pair of shoes on the arms of a hawker, roaming about with 10 pairs in his arms. He says 80,000, I say 40,000, and we settle on 60,000. I ride a tro-tro now and then, but not as often as I used to. When I visit a specific former coworker, the fact that she grabs a breast or pinches my butt no longer surprises me, but still makes me feel my personal space has been violated. For lunch, I eat fried yams or rice and beans from the street sellers across from our office, though I did recently see a man preparing to cook dog, something I'd never seen before. I drink water out of a plastic sachet. That’s just life at Kelewele Junction.

Crocodile Rock

I learned how to tell the sex of a rabbit when I was a 4-Her. It really just involves moving some fur around. Well, I recently learned how to sex a crocodile, and something much more…personal…is involved.

Matt found out I was in Ghana from Friendster. When he messaged me, I remembered the name, thought I had the right face to go with it. He was a year behind me in my residential college and he was coming to Ghana for research for his Masters. He had been up north stalking crocodiles for several months before we were finally able to meet up in Accra.

He’d given a lecture for Zoology students at the University of Legon on Saturday and I joined them on Sunday for the hands-on demonstration. I arrived a little late, knowing that noon generally doesn’t really mean noon. But I didn’t want to be too late and miss everything if Matt had not yet succumbed to African timing.

Though I went late, I was still early, so I walked around the zoo while I waited for the others to arrive. I’d been here once, on my birthday 1 ½ years before. Since then, I’d heard stories about poop-throwing primates, so kept my eyes steadily trained on their hands and proximity to any potential projectiles as I eased by their cages. The leopard and lions looked miserable in their metal cages that were smaller than the grass enclosure that the tortoises got. One chimp, who rocked back and forth with her arms wrapped around herself, looked like she had mental issues and was wearing an invisible straightjacket. Only the donkey looked happy. As I made my way past the younger chimps, I kept my distance. One came swinging to the front of the cage, looking at me as if I were the one worth watching. Some noisy Ghanaian teens came by just then and the chimp raced to the other side of the cage, threw some shit at them, and returned with a series of somersaults. He was so proud of himself, so pleased with his mischievousness. I was later informed by a zoo employee that the chimps are racist and tend to target Africans.

Matt arrived with about 15 university students and they got down to the business of catching some crocs. The pools had been drained the day before to make it easier. Matt got a wire rope around the croc’s neck and let it thrash around to wear itself out. It rolled around and when a student expressed concern that it might not be able to breathe, Matt reminded us that it can survive underwater without air for a lot longer and was fine. The fun Crocodile Hunter part comes once it’s tired: you get to jump on it! Matt demonstrated on the first crocodile, but then students volunteered. Almost all of the students were wearing church clothes and leather loafers or sandals, but that didn’t stop them from getting in on the action. The students didn’t really do a great job of jumping on the crocs—they were too slow and hesitant, which could have meant disaster. Luckily, there were no mishaps. Not even when the two girls decided to take on the biggest, baddest Nile croc. While landing on the crocodile, you must simultaneously grab its mouth, then someone else tapes it shut. At that point, it’s possible to measure it and take blood samples. And sex it.

This involves sticking a finger into the only hole that a croc has. If you can feel a ridge, it’s a male. If not, it’s female. I examined one of each and feel confident in my abilities to properly sex a crocodile. I’m even considering adding it to my resume. So if you ever need to know if a crocodile of yours is male or female, now you know who to call.