,

Swinging in the Rain(forest)

,

Edem, KK, James, and myself get the the skinny from the Park Guide. The “swing,” as he calls it, is a third of a mile long, half a football field above the ground, and is “suspended from seven solid trees.” The “solid” part is of interest. I would hate to dangle a half a football field from something less than “solid.”

The Door of No Return

The tunnel leads from the dungeons to the harbor.

At the end of the tunnel hangs an ominous sign: “Door of no return.”

Through this door human beings were marched from the bowels of the castle to the holds of slave ships. The transition from a stone to a wooden prison offered the captives one last gaze to the African sun. They would not see it, their families, or their homes again.

,

The African Bush Elephant

,

Moses of the wilderness talks as we follow tracks in Mole National Park. He is a a wealth of knowledge.

He describes the African bush elephant’s keen sense of smell.

“If someone tries to hurt him, he will take the smell. If that person comes back again, even after many years, twenty years maybe, the elephant will remember and attack him.”

I try to remember what I ate for breakfast. (Pause.) It is already a lost cause.

,

Moses in the Wilderness

,

We stand on a bluff overlooking the largest wildlife refuge in the country of Ghana. Mole (MOH-Lay) National Park unrolls under our feet, soft and green in the rainy season. Life abounds in this savanna wilderness: baboons, warthogs, birds, crocodiles, antelope, and snakes await the curious traveler, as do lions. But we have driven a long and difficult road looking for an even more majestic beast: the African bush elephant (Loxodonta africana).

Africa's Lumpy Head

Africa has a brown lumpy head. Either that or horns. With the Magreb’s Atlas Mountains on the west and the Cyrenian Rise on the east, Africa’s upper corners reach up to hook Europe. Between them sags the Bay of Sidra where the lost sailors in the conclusion of the book of Acts feared submarine sand.

,

The Charming Man

,

I climb up the metal stairs to see the Charming Man. This is my second attempt today. On the first attempt, the wait was so long that the shebab were sitting on the stairs. I picked my way through them so I could look into the narrow room. The two chairs were full and still more shebab were lined up on the couches. I am twice the age of every stripling there. The Charming Man spotted me and waved me in. I declined, pressing my hand to my heart.

,

Urfa's Dergah

,

Urfa is a different town by day.

The night before, when we filed though Urfa’s bazar and dergah, it was a cacophony. Buyers and sellers haggled. Families socialized and ate. Hollering, honking, munching, braying and wailing filled the sultry air. Every space was contested. Tanner was wide-eyed. “Welcome to the Middle East,” I had shouted. Dir balak! “Be careful!”

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake

The squad crosses the road. They are intent on the march, despite a lack of herd and shepherd. That some are speckled, spotted, or streaked makes me smile. After all, this is the village of Haran, the exilic home of Jacob the trickster (see his shenanigans in the text of Gen 30:25-43). It is a place where goats, sheep, and humans have co-existed for millennia.

,

Abraham's Home

,

I stand in a paved courtyard. Surrounding me is a cluster of dwellings constructed of mudbrick (or adobe). A discovery like this is not unusual in a region where wood is scarce and temperatures are extreme. What is odd is the way in which the overhead space is closed. Bricks are stacked in concentric circles that rise upwardly from thick stub walls. They culminate in a tiara made of stone that crowns a tiny chimney hole. I marvel. These are tepees of mud, sedentary versions of the pastoralist’s tent.

,

Hot Camel Flies

,

It is hot. The breeze blowing across the Mesopotamian plain carries no refreshment, only dust.

I do what comes naturally in this part of the world: I recline in the shade of a goat-hair tent and sip hot çay. The tea is served in a tulip glass lacking a handle, so I sip carefully but quickly. I hang on the rim to avoid burning my fingers. My companions do the same. The glasses dance.

,

Manuel's Labor

,

We approach the church that Gagik built. Except Gagik didn’t really build it. He commissioned an architect-monk named Manuel to do the hard work. Of the 10th century complex erected on the island of Aghtamar, the only structure that survives is the Church of the Holy Cross. We are fortunate. Manuel’s labor is a triumph of medieval Armenian architecture.

,

Agh Tamar!

,

The beautiful princess lifted the light and he swam for it. The island where Tamar stood was distant, but with the light as his guide, the peasant boy had direction. On this night, however, the forbidden relationship was discovered. The beacon was smashed to the ground. Disoriented by the sudden loss of signal, the lad swam on and on in the dark. At last he became exhausted. He began to slip beneath the waves. He cried out her name, “Agh Tamar!” These words, his last, were carried away by the wind.

,

Baghdadi's Oriental Bookshop

,

Abdallah Baghdadi rests on a white plastic stool. He leans back against a display case inside his store that faces Azzahra Street. The case behind him is nearly empty. On top of it rest a few baby Jesuses, Christmas bells, a crèche, assorted pendants, and stick pens. I lean forward on my stool and ask him what he thinks.