I'll never scoff at Colonel Sanders again...

Africa fun-fact #4: Pedestrians absolutely do not have the right of way. In fact, they have the opposite of the right of way. They have the wrong of way.

So this is Ben, yet again. As our time here in Africa comes so close to completion, there have been so many stories we would've loved to have shared with you on this bloggy thing... the visit to the place where the slave trade originated, our constant battle with the evil nurses of Korle Bu, our walk on an 8-inch-wide suspension bridge elevated 100 feet above the rainforest floor, our tour of an incredible orphanage outside of Accra, or even how we somehow got conscripted into serving as chaperones on a bus tour for a group of high school students from Seattle. But instead, I'd like to take a brief second to tell you a story. A story of love, a story of loss, a story of sickness and health, pain and healing, and a chicken in a grocery bag.

So let's start where all good stories start...at the beginning. It was last week, and my travel companion/big brown soulmate Farhan had been feeling a tad under the weather. Let's just say that the Ghanaian cuisine was letting him know who runs the show. In any case, in an effort to escape the inevitable fish-based dish that we would likely have had for dinner that night, Farhan made a passing comment to our hostess that, if it were possible, he'd like to have some chicken soup tonight. She replied that she'd be happy to arrange for it, but that we'd have to pick up the chicken on the way home so that Farhan and I could kill it. Oh, how we laughed...

...until we pulled up to the house with a sign out front saying "Poultry and Egg Farm". As we approached the gate, the sound of the chickens could be heard slowly rising over the afternoon breeze. In my mind, they were screaming "Oh crap, customers are coming! Quick, look like you've got the bird flu!" But in reality, they were probably just sayin, "Look at meeeeee, I'm a chicken you're a chicken everybody's a chicken wheeeeeeeeeeeee..." In any case, their cries fell on deaf ears as Christina, Charles, Farhan and I approached the pen. It was at this point that Christina reiterated that we'd be doing the killing, and, in fact, made a point that it should be the surgeon's job to make dinner tonight. Curse these gifted hands!

So then they proceed with the chicken selection process, which was by far the most entertaining thing I'd seen all week. They're picking 'em up, flipping 'em over, rapping them with their knuckles to make sure they're ripe (well maybe not the last one, but still). Finally, one is chosen who I'm sure contained some immutable quality that was imperceptible to the American eye, and then placed into their specially-designed ergonomic poultry transportation device, a.k.a. a plastic grocery sack. Adorable!

So as we drive home with this soon-to-be-succulent fowl in the trunk of our car (and by the sound of it, NOT having a pleasant journey), I'm having an internal debate that I never though I'd have to have. To cook or not to cook... that, my friends, was the question. At first I was like "There ain't no way I'm goin' kill that chicken." And yes, my inner monologue reverts to a 1930's southern black man occasionally. But, after a great deal of soul-searching, I opted to proceed, and the reasons were threefold.



1) This chicken was born and bred for this purpose. If it wasn't me doing it, it'd be someone else, and it would be naive of me to enjoy chicken on a daily basis and not acknowledge that this is a necessary step in basic human cuisine.

2) My great-grandmother used to kill chickens for dinner on a south Texas farm with her bare hands when she was like 8 years old. So there's no way she's showing me up on this one.

3) Brown Bear was sick and needed his chicken soup. End of discussion.




So yes, ladies and gentlemen, the chicken met an untimely end at my hands. And let me tell you, chickens do not go quietly. And frankly, neither would I, so it was understandable. But in the end, my vastly superior medical knowledge combined with my opposable thumbs proved me the victor, and we feasted on soup the likes of which you have never tasted.














So, for all the work we're doing here, and all the life-changing experiences we've encountered on a daily basis, I can tell you the most important thing I've learned about myself on this African adventure:








Campbell's ain't got nothin' on me.