This book could not have been written, or even pondered, without the cooperation and support of my brother, Whit. He gave me complete and uncensored access to his business, even when I poked and prodded in all the corners. He never—well, almost never—asked to change passages that made him uncomfortable (and there were many), but he did read every word and suggest many corrections, clarifications, and elaborations.
My other steadfast reader, collaborator, and companion was Jan Watson. Like Whit, Jan read every word of the book and improved it immeasurably. Her perspective made me think about issues I had not considered, and kept me from veering off course more times than I care to count. In addition, Jan’s entertaining blog about her own Ghanaian adventure (skito coast.blogspot.com) provided much inspiration and filled in some narrative gaps.
Whit’s wife, Shelly Sundberg, read early chapters and made many good suggestions reflecting her knowledge and love of Africa.
In Accra, Charlie and his wife Afi (I wish I could use their real names) were my bedrock. Besides opening up their home for me, both tolerated my endless questions about their country, providing rich background and helping me to understand the Ghanaian people. Their joy, energy, and kindness testify to the indomitable spirit of the African and fills me with optimism for their future. Charlie and Afi: for you I would even pound fufu.
At Burro, Rose Dodd was a constant companion, interpreter, and inspiration who understood that older brothers are wiser, funnier, and have much better iPod playlists than their embryonic siblings. Nii Tettey was a patient and thoughtful guide. Kevin, Adam, Nkansah, and James—pseudonyms all, yet genuine friends: there are not enough ways to express my thanks in all of your poetic languages, so I will only say meda’ase. To the children in the courtyard whose English is slightly better than my Twi: Auntie Max misses you. Thanks to Pamela and Savannah for teaching me how to make peanut soup.
In the villages, Jonas Avademe and Hayford Tetteh were gracious and generous hosts. Thank you for sharpening my machete and story. Their wives—Rebecca and Rose, respectively—worked over open fires, often in the dark, to feed me three squares a day. Their extended clans—parents, siblings, children, and grandchildren—entertained and inspired.
In Utah, Justin King was enormously helpful organizing hundreds of photographs from the four BYU interns and getting them up on the Web for me.
In New York, my agent Sally Wofford-Girand got this book from the beginning and worked overtime to bring it into focus. Elisabeth Dyssegaard, editor in chief at Hyperion, encouraged me at every turn, probably because she understood that her deft editing would somehow make it all work.
In Maine, Sarah, Harper, and William were always there, even though I wasn’t.