The Musician is working for the Ghanaian office of Child Rights International. Check out the web site she built for them, and support them if you're so inclined - theirs is a most worthy cause.

After four months in Ghana, The Musician operates like a local. For example, she knows how to deal with Ghanaian cabbies:

She knows you address them as "Boss" if you want their attention.
She knows you don't turn left or right, you branch left or right ("Boss! Branch left here.")
Most importantly, she knows you have to negotiate the fare before you get into the car, and if you don't want to pay the obruni price, you have to be a remorseless negotiator. Which she is. On many occasions, The Woman (a terrible negotiator, whose idea of an opening gambit is to fan a stack of bills in your face and ask "Is this enough?") and I (a conflict avoider, born and raised) would stand back in quiet awe while The Musician haggled with the driver before he took us where we wanted to go.

She has also grown accustomed to dumsor - the uniquely Ghanaian practice of regular power outages of long duration - which tends to afflict her neighbourhood in the evenings, just as she's returning home from work. And speaking of her residence: she knows not to expect a North American level of comfort, but she also knows where to draw the line with the landlord. (No hot water, so cold showers for months? I'll deal. No key to the front gate, so when I return home in darkness, I have to buzz repeatedly in the faint hope that someone will be home, and hear the buzzer, and let me in? Cough up a key.)

The (shared) kitchen in The Musician's residence.

The Musician knows the best places to eat. On my last night in Ghana, she took us to a restaurant that specializes in the cuisine of Cote d'Ivoire, Ghana's neighbour to the west. I would tell you its name, but I don't think it has one. Nor does it have:

walls or a roof (you eat at a table on the sidewalk, across the street from the storefront that serves as the kitchen)
a washroom (see previous point)
cutlery (apparently, in Cote d'Ivoire, the custom is to eat with one's hands exclusively - but The Woman and I, having been forewarned by The Musician, each smuggled in a fork)

...but damn, was it good!

The Musician is also becoming an adept photographer. Some of the photos in this blog, and in the accompanying gallery, are hers. I can't tell you which, because we pooled our files on a single thumb drive before I returned to Canada.

Finally, I must confess that The Musician has her own blog... and as I type this, she is probably posting her own recollection of our time with her... and if you read it, you'll probably conclude that she's a better blogger than me, in nearly every way that matters. I wouldn't hold it against you. After all, The Musician is a better human being than me in nearly every way that matters - and since I am her her father, what is not to love?