A working African vacation

The term "working vacation" is somewhat of an oxymoron. An "African vacation," while not a true oxymoron is still somewhat of a misnomer as I've found many aspects of my time in Africa to be more difficult than work. So why I attempted to "work" while on "vacation" in Africa is beyond me. But at some point I thought it would be a good idea to do a story for my former employer. Unfortunately, the deadline came just when we reached a particularly remote area along the coast. There was not a computer, not to mention internet access, for miles.

To reach the nearest computer I had to walk down the beach to the next village and catch a tro-tro to the town of Busua, about 30 minutes away. Even then, it wasn't guaranteed that there would be internet.

So I make my way to the village. It is tiny, but there are two tro-tros parked on the beach. I ask and someone says that yes I can take the tro-tro to Busua. Ok, I say, is it going to leave soon? Yes, soon, very soon is the reply. So I'm standing for about 20 minutes and finally someone motions for me to just have a seat on the bench in the shade. Getting the feeling that this could take awhile I sit down. Two little kids, a girl and boy about 4 or 5, instantly take an interest in me. The girl especially keeps waving. And instead of calling me obruni, which is what most of the kids here yell out as you walk by, I was upgraded to "my friend," which was a welcome change. She keeps getting braver and braver, coming closer and closer to me, before finally she reaches out, touches my arm, and then runs away giggling. An older boy, probably around 10, who seems to know English much better but is too shy to talk to me himself, is whispering to the girl questions for her to ask me. "What is your name?" "How old are you?" "Where are you from?"

This goes on for about a half hour, then a group of girls around 10 walks over. As soon as they see me sitting there they run over to me, clamoring to get as close as possible. I have one on either side of me, holding onto each hand, and the rest crowded in front, firing questions at me. "My friend, what is your name?" They all wanted me to take pictures of them, but of course my camera is back at the campsite. After the initial enthusiasm dies off, there is one girl who remains attached to my side - Cynthia. She sits down onto the bench next to me as close as possible. Every so often she will ask me a question - her English is limited, but what she knows, she speaks perfectly. She is constantly looking at me and adjusting her position so that it matches mine. Every so often she will reach out and touch my arm. In sum, I waited for the tro tro for about 2 hours--longer than I actually spent using the internet and writing my story, all while a Christian song (something about My Redeemer) was blaring on repeat from the speakers. During the whole ordeal I couldn't help but wonder what my readers (or editors, for that matter) would think if they knew the circumstances under which I wrote the story.