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Here we are, facing the end of our final full day here in Ghana. We enjoyed a solid hour of traditional African drumming, styles covering not only the typical Ghanaian fancy. The head drummer was a policeman we'd met at a checkpoint not far from the homestead in Winneba-- thinking about it, it's really interesting, some of the occupations people have here. Policeman slash (professional) traditional African drummer... village chief-slash-auto repair man (that would be the new chief Kwami [sp?] of Awombrew [sp?.. I really should get to know these names better, though I did indeed spell Tamale correctly in my previous post]).

Anyway, yes, the drumming was fantastic, along with the dancers, and though I didn't join the others in rising to dance to the drummers' final bout for the night, I was visably tapping my feet in accordance with the beat the whole time; I can certainly back up Joseph re: In Ghana, the rhythm of life is infectious. It's ever surrounding you, and you can't help but submit to it.

Now, more on our Journey to the North: I've not much time here at the Winneba internet cafe ("Will's Place"), so I'll make this short and elaborate later (I've got a lot written down in my notebook that I'd like to share over the course of the next few days).

The "Honorable" was very warm in his greeting, as he bade us welcome with open arms and a wide ivory Ghanaian smile which, as if reflecting the moon, cut the darkness some, perhaps not the darkness of the night, but certainly the bleakness of our spirits, disheveled from the 15-hour car ride from Winneba. The ladies stayed on-site, but Charles (our driver), Joseph and myself were given our own quarters a half-mile or so down the road in a sort of motel, the details of which I'll post later as I've got them penned in my notebook back at the homestead.

On the general atmosphere of Tamale: I, for one, felt quite comfortable, at ease, and almost at home. Though as "obrunis" we drew more than just an odd glance or two, it was quite fine by me as the local curiosity for the most part ended there. The streets were clean and free of those wretched empty water-bags that so plague the southern beaches. For most of our stay the sky was over-cast, so the sun posed nary a threat to us; contrary to Southern superstitions regarding the north, our noses didn't bleed and our skin didn't crack and bleed. The area was notably much more Muslim than the south, but to be honest I found the 4 a.m. calls to prayer to be a wonderful way to start another fine day.

Same Bat-time, same Bat-place... THE VILLAGE! Stay tuned!