oh the places you'll go... the people you'll meet

"you haven't ever been to the bomfiri butterfly sanctuary?" sofie was asking me.

"no, i haven't."

it wasn't that big of a deal to me. it was 20 minutes away, and because of it's close proximity i knew i would go sometime. i didn't need to fret.

"you should come along." she said.

her mother made a 2 week visit, swept through boamadumase in a day, and was continuing journeying north. "we're leaving in an hour if you'd like to come."

it sounded fun, but i was busy in my room, throwing piles of clothes and papers around, looking for my wallet. i had lost it. i bit my tongue a million times and told myself it was my fault. i had misplaced it. but every part of me wanted to blame it on seth, wanted to say he had secretly snuck into my room and taken my plane ticket and credit card. he really was out to get me, or get away.

but he wasn't.

fact of the matter is, i am disorganized and i hate to admit it. its easier to blame my roommate, the roommate who refuses to make eye contact, who walks with his head down past me on a road with just us two.

"i'm really worried about seth" sofie said when she came into my room. she wanted to talk with him before we left on our trip. "i can't go and promote health at the clinic all day, then come home to this man who is obviously sick and just ignore it. did i tell you about what i think it is?"

"no." i said.

"i think it's sleeping sickness, from the tsetse fly." she said it like she had just discovered a treasure chest, and had taken out the most rare dated coin, and was telling me it's origin.

"isn't he just depressed?" i asked.

"no, i talked to him. well, if he is he completely denied it, which is scary. depression is such a cultural thing. back home, all i do is talk to people who tell me they are depressed. but here, people don't admit it. i told him he seemed miserable and he said he was fine. but you've seen it, haven't you, the personality change?"

i double checked my bedroom doors to make sure they were locked, daily. "yes." i said. "i've seen it."

"its really bad." she said.

"i know. does he scare you?" i asked.

"no, oh no. he doesn't scare me but-"

"if you shared a bathroom with him would he scare you?"

"don't be afraid of him. what's he going to do? he's just sick. i think my new diagnosis is sleeping sickness. loss of appetite, constant lethargy, personality change..."

"i think he stole my wallet."

"what???"

i hated myself for not being able to hold that back. seth wasn't a theif but i wasn't ready to come to terms with my own weaknesses. that i would be irresponsible enough to lose my plane ticket home, and my credit card. not that Visa did me much good in the village.

"i mean, no i don't think that. but i can't find it anywhere. and i want to go to the butterfly sanctuary with you guys, i think it will be fun. but this wallet thing. i have to find my wallet."

"the taxi is leaving in an hour."

"okay," i said "i'll be ready."

i didn't find anything in that time, but decided to just forget it all. i loaded up in the taxi, which sofie had privately rented. just sofie, her mother and i, and Mr. taxi man who drove sister Yaa on her trip to Konongo Hospital. i liked this driver. i was suprised his car was still running, although, the village is full of mechanical miracles like that. last time i rode in his car, from the main road to my house, he had to get out of the driver seat every 10 feet and give his car mouth to mouth. literally. he grabbed a small black tube connected to the big metal engine , sucked until the petrol filled his mouth, then spat it down another black tube. he'd get back behind the wheel and clear the remaining petrol saliva out of his mouth with one big "hhhhcck!", then stop again to repeat the process.

and now, he was out on the road again, driving us around.

"i like this driver" sofie said "he's the only one who would give us a ride. no one else was willing to leave the village."

bush taxis prefer the bush. the big wide open asphalt road is just too much. they prefer the snaking, head jolting back roads. most of the drivers haven't renewed their licences, if they have them, since back in the 80's. their cars aren't registered and they're too poor to pay a dash (bribe) to the police. they'd rather just stay, than go.

the butterfly sanctuary wasn't far at all, and when we pulled up i was suprised i hadn't been there before!

"it's absolutely lovely!" sofie's mom said. "oh it's charming."

she was referring to the architecture of the guesthouse and the restaraunt. we humans, we like what we know. i liked it too because it reminded me of my house back home. a quaint cottage type feel.

the sanctuary was a reserve, a plot of land bought and saved from complete destruction then designed to educate. it was beautiful, trees climbing to the sky, some bushy some lanky. green everywhere, enough green my lungs dissolved into complete relaxation mode. we didn't get to see many butterflies before it was dark, before dinner arrived, but we got something better than butterflies. we got their Number One Fan.

"mind if we join you?" i asked the old man, sitting on the porch. he was sitting in one of the six plush rattan chairs that circled a low table.

he looked up, peered through his glasses, and scooted over. "no." he said. then he went back to smoking his pipe, an ancient looking thing.

there was an uncomfortable silence, of when groups join individuals. it takes a few moments to ascertain whether to be inclusive or to leave alone. its an animal moment, sniffing, checking.

everything was okay. this man wanted to talk.

"did you just arrive?" he asked no one in particular. his voice sounded like a foreign Clint Eastwood.

we all answered our different answers. then "and you? what are you doing here?"

he said- "i kill butterflies."

conversation quickly fell head deep into the subject of butterflies. granted, we were at a butterfly sanctuary, but this man was bringing it to a whole other level. i quickly concluded that if he could become one, he would gladly do so.

sofie's mom would comment nicely and generically, the way someone admiring a butterfly would do. "they're simply beautiful creatures." she'd say. then butterfly master would retort "beautiful sure!? but incredibly interesting!"

it seemed our conversation could stray only 3 paces ahead into a foreign subject, before he wrangled us back in to the winged world.

he was from Denmark and had short cropped grey hair, winona ryderish. it was actually the haircut i would pick for myself, if i had short hair. i admired it, the way it clung in short wisps and framed his face. i wanted to sneak a picture, from all angles, just in case i decided to chop mine.

he spoke with certainty, in a sort of run on sentence, as if he were conducting a small group lecture. as if we had all come to hear him.

sofie's mom thought he had an inferiority complex, which then propelled this childhood hobby into a profession and fueled the publishing of an enormous sized textbook titled "Butterflies of West Africa". he plopped it down in front of me and told me to try and find the butterfly i was mentioning to him, the one i chased down in boamadumase the other day after leaving the health clinic. it was pink and frilly, like a dream. his textbook had millions and millions of pictures lined up with names. i didn't want to look for it, it seemed to methodical a task.

his fascination, within itself, was enough to keep sofie, her mother, and i satisfied. we didn't need true interaction, observation was just fine. he was an odd man, an enthusiast. enthusiasts are generally strange in their own way, in that they love something you don't, and have devoted their lives to it.

"although, greenland has 4 genuinely resident butterflies" he said "iceland doesn't have any true residents, but they've discovered 6 species over time." because of these low numbers, he didn't like greenland or iceland. he liked west africa. he knew almost everything about the butterflies here, but i noticed when the waitress came out that he didn't know how to reply to a greeting in twi. he looked startled when the old ghanaian farmer who walked by the porch and said good evening expected a reply. "huh?" was his response, as if he had just been hit over the head with a cave man club.

it was getting dark, and the generator had popped on, igniting the porch in a false bright light, a flourescent light. we had made it through our meal of spagetti and were now digesting, listening. i spoke very little.

"i'm doing a 100 year survey of the butterflies here. we'll finish in the year two thousand one hundred. tomorrow when you go walking and you're looking for butterflies, go by the mango trees. you'll find them there. or if you find assemblages over water they're generally very big, but... 90% are the same species." he laughed, as if this was a little secret joke of his, then continued "they love the rotting mangoes. it's only 20% of the butterflies that will come to bait. fermented bananas are their favorite."

there was a pause. none of us could get a word in and we didn't need to anymore, we were all staring at the steady climb in population congregating over by the light.

"termites." he said, standing up.

i had been swatting them away as they kamakazied into my face.

he went into the eye of the termite tornado and held his hands up, looking around at the wonder of it all, as if he were under the spray of huge water fountain. "my only legacy in ghana" he said a little louder so we could hear him "is discovering a butterfly that turns 180 degrees when it lands, giving it a much better chance of escaping with it's falsehead." the termites were everywhere, he looked like he was feeding miniature pigeons, the way they were flocking. "and they are VERY sensitive to vibrations, little bit like snakes, some species are virtually impossible to sneak in on."

he snatched a termite and walked over to us. they were crawling in his hair, on his shoulders. he had it by it's wings and he held it out over the table. "they're actually quite delicious." he said. "try it."

the termite resembled a hard thick worm, the color of copper. it didn't want to be eaten, it wanted to mate like all the other termites who had dropped to the ground, and were dragging themselves around, reproducing.

i stood up and walked over.

i opened my mouth and he flicked it in.

sofie gasped. i chewed. the termite wiggled and crunched, then died between my teeth. the butterfly man was an inch away from me, delicately explaining what a delightful experience eating a termite is. "chew a little more, and really, if you can imagine it, a pan with termites, a little salt, a little pepper, some chili. lightly cook it. quite tasty?"

i was still chewing, listening to him commentate my experience, then i swallowed. "how was it?" he asked.

i nodded, lips pressed together, suprised by myself, by this willingness that sprang forward and also by taste of a termite.

it was good.

i sat back down and thought of my mom. she despises insects, mostly worms. i remembered the time we were at a dinner party, and i purposely hand delivered her a beautiful hibiscus, with a juicy worm in the middle. she was sitting on an outdoor patio, drinking wine, eating horsduevors, enjoying time with her adult friends. i was a child, filled with mischief and humor. she gave me a thankful smile, a oh-that-was-so-sweet-of-you-i-love-you-my-daughter smile, then she looked into the middle, screamed, threw the flower in the air, and cried for quite a while.

i was wanting my mom to have seen me eat the termite, only to see her face.

i joined back in listening to the conversation. butterfly man was talking about cats! the kittens that had been playing around the tree, with their mother. sofie mentioned cats get eaten here, in some parts. butterfly man said "most cats i've seen in this country, one wouldn't want to eat. they slink around like shadows- you look at them- they look at you with the full confession they're life is not worth anything, and they're sorry for that."

the night continued, with more listening, more learning of facts i'd forget in my sleep.

the next day we toured the grounds, viewed all the gorgeous butterflies. each time one of us said "oh look at that one! it's so pretty!" we'd look at each other and laugh to ourself, because we knew, it was MORE than JUST beautiful.

when we left the sanctuary, in the taxi to continue on our way, we passed our friend. he was crouched over on the side of the road, with an adult sized butterfly net and his droopy pipe hanging out of his mouth. we waved to him, and he sort of waved back, but he was too involved in observation to really care.

"strange, but interesting." someone said, and we all agreed.