Back in Blighty

I have returned. I'm safe, so far! A detour via Nigeria to boot 35 degrees to minus 8 was a bit of a shock, as was my run in with British customs officials. I made it back though. Lots of time now to sit by a roaring fire and recount even more of the goings on in Africa......

House part 1

There had been contract cleaners in on the Monday. They should have been done by the previous week but, obviously GMT was an influence. Our supervision gave nothing to believe they were up to any good. Admittedly it is a large house but it was completely empty of furniture giving them a chance to get to every surface. All the floors are tiled so no carpets to worry about. A “deep clean” or as I used to call it “A builder’s clean”. I have been no stranger to turning up to clean windows of a newly refurbished house, to find the rendering meant for the walls adorning the windows too. One renovated castle I did the work on had massive windows, some of which were sixty feet off the ground. Each unit comprised of thirty two asticles. Every pane of glass and every join were spattered with mortar or render, some even had the stone chips from the render embedded in the mortar. I’m well used to finding the detritus left by builders, conservatory builders or anyone else who fails to take care. My brother and I even knew who had fitted new windows by the mess left behind. Top of the list for being clarty* buggers were CR Smith. Right enough, a polite enquiry to the householder or a look at the manufacturer’s etching on the base of the unit, confirmed our fears. The job at the new house should have been straight forward then. Sarah and Kevin are the second occupants since it was built. All that was needed was a good clean due to the place having been vacant.

We arrived just before eight to find one body tinkering in the kitchen. He was armed with only a sponge. This was no ordinary sponge, it would’ve been about the size of a large car sponge. It resembled a large car sponge that had got stuck in an automatic car brush wash on the full cycle. If that being the case, it might at least have been clean. It was sort of two tone green and shit in colour. The agreement was that the cleaning team started at six so time was already against them. They had to be done and out before the movers on Tuesday unpacked all the boxes. The plan, logical one would have thought, was for them to start at the top of the house and work their way down. The other fly in the ointment, was the kitchen itself. A new worktop had to be fitted, one of the windows didn’t shut right, the cooker hood was dead, cupboard doors were hanging off or squint and the fitted fridge was somewhere on a holiday. It had been here a few days previously but had vanished. Again, this is not something unique in my experience. The house in Fordoun, which you may remember from older entries here, had white goods included when viewed which subsequently went off on holiday as the previous owners left with them. The neighbours had told Katy and me they reappeared late one evening. Presumably after a solicitor having words in an ear. The other challenge, was the air conditioning units all needed serviced. One had a bird’s nest too close to it, one was at a jaunty angle outside the kitchen, some simply refused to switch on. The electrical engineer contracted to do that would also be milling about. More about him and his “qualifications” later.

By lunchtime, the cleaning team had swelled to over fifteen. Great news, more workers, quicker, better results. This did not equate to more productivity though. Notionally, they had been here since six, physically here en mass since about ten. Either way, more than enough time to have finished one room. The first one being mine. I am up one end of the house. I have a good sized bedroom, a dressing room, in which the window also does not close, and a bathroom. A team of fifteen could easily clean the windows and fly screens, the bathroom fittings, light switches and have the floor done in about an hour. How over ten managed to fit in the bathroom, I have no idea, they weren’t doing much of cleaning it seems. On later inspection, the toilet pan was still dirty and the hairs in the plug hole remained. The trouble seemed to be their ability to just wander off. A bit like an old people’s home where the residents suffereing dementia vanish. I found one guy downstairs armed with a mop ended pole. His job was cobwebs apparently. Sarah summonsed him at one point with the words “Oi, Spiderman” Needless to say, in spite of his several hour long cobweb extravaganza, some were still missed. It was obvious they were simply not working hard enough. Kevin went back up to my room to investigate the delay. I tagged along too, curious to hear new excuses from the myriad we had been given up until now. They had moved onto other rooms so he asked the manager what had been done. Was my room finished? So we were told. On venturing inside the door, it was clearly far from finished. Muddy puddles on the floor, new dirty marks all up the walls. Kevin again challenged the manager to confirm that room to be finished. Again he told us the room was done. Kevin warned him just before the third insistence not to lie to him. With the lie now well and truly out there, Kevin let rip with a string of expletives rising to a crescendo and a cowering manager with stunned staff looking on. The light fittings had not been touched; they needed dismantled to clean any dead bugs from inside. Of the tools the cleaners lacked, perhaps ladders and steps were the most obvious. The dirty marks on the walls explained their method here. A small chap would clamber up an inside wall to gain access to the tops of the frames before disappearing outside. His foot and handprints beautifully decorated rooms in his wake. It was probably just as well he did this, as there was no way of telling whether a window had been cleaned or not. That’s not strictly fair to him, the bloody great streaks and water dribbles were a lasting reminder too. A small set of steps did finally appear, as did a scaffold tower. The tower caused it’s own problems later.

Following Kevin’s explosion, I made it my task to be good cop to his bad cop. I developed a rapport with the manager, his name was Kenneth. He would give me updates as to which rooms they thought they had finished and I would inspect the work and send people back in if I was not happy. Any issues I found, I would take Kenneth aside for a quiet word and things were then dealt with. Every time we spoke, I reminded him of our time scales and the problems they would encounter if they over ran. Kevin is over six feet, I come in about five nine and Kenneth comes up to my chin. Referring back to Kevin’s explosion, I impressed on Kenneth that I was trying to keep Kevin calm. That dealing with me, he was safe from “Big Kevin” and that as long as everything went smoothly, I wouldn’t have to get him back upstairs. One of the times I went up to check, I decided not to investigate further. In front of me, was a puddle of water, snaking through the puddle was an extension lead with parts of the plastic case missing. I had already witnessed the wall socket conversion method of just shoving bare wires into the socket. With a maze of electrics face down in water, I concluded I could wait a little longer before my next routine check up.

Earlier in the day, we had been wandering outside. The air conditioning unit at the jaunty angle caught our attention. From it came a short length of electrical cable. The unit didn’t work so we thought it must’ve been disconnected for some reason. Sarah poked at the wire using her foot – BANG! It was connected then. Apart from being a bit shaken, Sarah was alright. The wall now had a blackened scar across it. Once the power was off, Kevin and I investigated to find this was a cable wired into the connectors of the unit to draw power to somewhere else. It may well have been the water pump whose cables had been ripped out from the ground by a previous contractor who had fitted the electric fence. Where the electrical conduit was buried across the grass, followed exactly the same line as had previously carried the pump cable. When they bury a cable under grass here, the depth is typically in inches rather than feet. I hesitate even to pluralise the inch. The water pump is vital to keep pressure up inside the house. It also serves to draw mains water into the two holding tanks for back up in case of mains water failure. The new pool being built was taking shape. The various utilities severed during its construction slowly reconfigured. The pool boys dug through a sewer, wires for outdoor lights and a water pipe. The sewer was reconnected after a couple of weeks. The only downside of that being, the buttresses built to support the walls of the pool were in the way so they just smashed through them to get a new pipe in. The severed water pipe is the source of water to mix concrete. Rather than put a tap on the end, they chose to just bend it over. Inevitably after a while, the plastic pipe gave up and we had the outside of the foundations filling up with water. Not to mention the mosquito breeding ground, water is metered here so getting a plumber in was important. He didn’t fit a tap but instead pushed a spare piece of electrical conduit inside the pipe and bent that over.

By the end of Monday, the cleaners had finished making a mess upstairs. Things would be tight for time on their return the next day. The new kitchen worktop hadn’t arrived, let alone being fitted. Ten the next morning was when the movers were due. Sarah and Kevin were previously in Libya so there were all their boxes they hadn’t seen in months stacked up in the study. They had their other bits and pieces to move from the apartment which Kevin tasked one of the guards there to arrange transport for. Tuesday came, Sarah and I dropped off the wee one at school before heading to the new house. I had quickly shoved all my belonging back into their cases to save anything getting lost or stolen in transit. We were unsurprised to find no cleaners in attendance. They finally arrived just after nine. We were joined by the guy to fix the air conditioning, he and his staff set to work on the various units throughout the house. He was supposed to have been and gone the previous week. The last thing we needed was even more people under our, and the movers’ feet. As with the cleaners, the AC guy had no ladders. More clambering over roof tiles with FBI grade handprints upon their re-entry. Unless they were using trained ants, there was no way they would reach all the outside units. That would suggest they even bothered about them. Very quickly they disappeared complaining they had run out of gas to recharge units. They also lacked what the guy called his “specialist tool” this later turned out to be a standard pressure washer. The AC man is allegedly an electrical engineer by the name of Emmanuelle, the same name as the ill fated final Carry-On film. How very appropriate except you can sit back and enjoy a carry on film without fear of electrocution, explosion from illegal venting of air conditioning gas or total exasperation from his obvious lack of even basic electrical knowledge. The movers arrived a little late after being sent thirty miles away to where the boxes had been a few weeks before. Immediately, they set to work heaving furniture and boxes upstairs. Below them, the cleaners were wasting time again. Kenneth was summonsed and reminded that although “Big Kevin” wasn’t here, he would be very soon, Kenneth shouted to a few bodies who paid him scant regard. Three large windows look out from the living room. Each measures about eight feet by five, the good thing, is it is only two asticles, only two pieces of glass and a bit of frame. The middle one has sliding doors but the other two are sealed. An easy job that if I were doing, I could have completed in less than five minutes, allowing for possible paint and stubborn marks to need scraped off. To clean the inside of one of these took one cleaner an hour and a half. With that level of meticulous care, one would expect the brightest ever gleam. Something that could be used as a reflector for a giant telescope perhaps? A perfect piece of glazing delight. Of course, it was none of these, it looked like a synchronised swimming team of toddlers had been offered up to the glass and engorged every last drop of spittal and snot. I may be exaggerating slightly; it really was streaky to the extreme. I felt so strongly, I decided it was time for Kenneth to have a window cleaning lesson. I located a two in one mop squeegee; the rubbers on the squeegee had certainly seen better days, a bucket of clean water with washing up liquid added. The liquid was added only after I was able to confirm with Kenneth which unmarked bottle to use. One bottle was marked, that bottle was of solvent paint thinners only found after they left. A small bottle previously used for and marked as mineral water found by a thirsty four year old. Lying just beside this had been a loose razor blade. Just as well then, a certain four year old knew to ask before picking up a drink! I set to work on a downstairs window, explaining my technique as I went along. Soon there were assembled a small crowd watching. I don’t know whether it was for educational stimulation or purely laughing at their boss being shown how to do something by an Abroni. I very much doubt whether Kenneth took any notice of my attempts to help his company work faster and better, it made me feel better at least.

Upstairs the movers were spent the rest of the day flying through their task. Cardboard boxes cascaded into the hallway from above. This display was a sign of how teamwork should be conducted, with only one slight hitch when Kevin had cardboard crash past his ear. It was just cardboard though. The movers unpacked everything from the Libya shipment leaving only the stuff from the apartment to arrive. The moving vehicle was an open 7.5Tonne truck and not everything survived the journey. Firstly, our maid Doreen was left at the apartment to clean everything. As her style dictated, she decided to disregard this and pack everything. That would have been a very lovely thing to do, had she not used a rather unconventional packing technique. Most of my stuff was back in my bags, everything else was stuffed into whatever she could find. Suitcases, plastic bags, anything. No method to this, just
whatever came to hand got tipped in. every morning, I wash my face water. Just water, no soap, no cleansers. Others have suggested using something so my intention had been to use the stuff bought for the purpose. The first morning in the new house, I washed my face with cleanser, I washed my arms with cleanser, I washed my arse with cleanser. Tuesday was the day of moving in, and if you look at that as the nuclear blast, the radiation cloud continued for another week and a half.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible

Apologies for the break in service. A new house and lack of time or internet to blame. A huge amount has happenened in the wekk since we moved. Real blood sweat and tears stuff. Whenever I get the chance to upload at least some of the goings on, I will.

Unlucky in cards, lucky in.......Rock

Thursday saw a couple of social events. Firstly, a game of Canasta, then a pub quiz night. Canasta is a card game introduced to Sarah just before I arrived. Since my arrival, the three of us have been filling evenings with these games. Essential practise then for the big game. After being introduced to all the ladies of the Canasta group, they enquired as to how well I knew the game. Saying we had played almost every night and sometimes until six am, for a week, wouldn’t have shown me to be a beginner. “A few times in the evening” would suffice. The group is a collection of wives living out here. All professionals in their own right, in Ghana because of their husband’s businesses. Oil has not taken over here quite yet, Sarah being the only one whose husband is involved with the oil industry. Wives of lawyers, diplomats, accountants surrounding us, we played cards and enjoyed home bakes. I don’t mind being in a circle of women. They viewed me as something of a novelty. Conversation was varied. I am bound to secrecy as to the content of some discussions. It’s a good chance to realise there are others who struggle with exorbitant supermarket prices and the various mosquito prevention and repellent methods adopted. Some were shocked that Sarah chose to drive here. Most opting to have a local driver to take them anywhere they needed to go. The downside of this, was one admission by a lady who had no idea where she lived in relation to the rest of Accra. If she is looking to go anywhere, she instructs her driver to call the other person’s driver for directions.

After Canasta, we returned back to the apartment where Sarah went through some of my CV with me. I say some of, as I do have rather a lot on there. In the past, trying to condense everything into two pages has proved a challenge. My mother tells me, whenever she has difficulty falling asleep at nights, that she goes through my resume in her head rather than count sheep. She proudly tells me it never fails and she rarely gets to the end before entering the land of nod. My CV therefore needs to be condensed. There has been quite a lot of interest in me since arriving barely a week ago. All these social occasions inevitably lead to people’s occupations and interests. Representatives from multinationals, or those out with aid agencies. It is all very well my taking work out here, the trouble is, I will not be able to attend Canasta and catch up with the gossip!

The regular quiz night at a sports bar was our evening destination. Kevin fought through traffic to get us there early enough to reserve a large booth. We would be eating too. Champs bar is owned by a Canadian, being a sports bar, any wall which is not adorned by television screens, has framed football shirts. From the ceiling, hang flags of countries thousands of miles away. Most of these have been left by visitors. The Scots’ stamp being prominent with several Saltires and Lion Ramparts. The building has air conditioning, it also has vinyl seating. The AC was either needing serviced or set deliberately inefficiently to promote more drinking. The three of us sat while our backsides fused with the vinyl. Only a copious amount of sweat preventing us becoming permanent fixtures. Sarah and Kevin enjoyed kebabs, while I had a themed chicken dish referred to as Chicken Gazza. Any tears would’ve been more appropriate to their choices. Three beef kebabs on skewers. Sauces of piri piri, barbeque and shitto. Yes, shitto. A hot spicy sauce very popular here. I’ve tried it and once you get over the instantaneous sweating, any unpleasant toxins that may have been sitting in your system, become dislodged in much the same way as a drain surges as it finally unblocks. The result is thankfully not as quick as the all over sweat. Only next day do you get the fully flushed feeling! There is a kebab place nearby the current apartment where I’ve been told the shitto is even stronger. As we were finishing up, some more bodies arrived. The team slowly assembled until there ten of us in the booth. I had earlier suggested a team name of “Tro-tros” given that there would be a lot of us crammed in and odd hand gestures may emanate from time to time. In the absence of any better suggestions, that’s the name we agreed upon. A Tro-tro is the bus service here. Usually they are Ford Transit or Mercedes minibuses with a stated capacity of twenty three but all too often, filled with many more. I still have to find one without a single dent. Being bigger than most things on the road, they regularly just pull straight out into a line of traffic. If the drivers bother to use indicators, this is not always obvious. Tail lights rarely are in one piece, or there at all. At nights, it is a common sight, or not, to have a Tro-tro driving along with no lights showing. They have conductors on board. Their job is to hang out the window as they approach agreed stopping points, gesticulating to passengers waiting. With no destination signs, coded hand signals are used. A hand in a downward swirling motion might mean they are going down to the city centre. A signal that could be excused for a cyclist signal for slowing down may mean a different district. With little chance of rust and no chance of having to get through an MOT test, some of these machines are real classics. Ok, classics in my eyes if no one else’s. On my first day in Oxford Street and before I knew what a Tro-tro was, I saw the evolution of the Transit van in a few minutes. First up, a Mark I in red, followed by a dark blue Mark II, oh how that brought back memories of my old Mark II friend. Soon after, appeared a light blue Mark III. I am almost accustomed to them now. Seeing twenty or thirty year old vehicles still in constant use. They will break down from time to time, creating chaos. Obviously when they are working, chaos is still the name of the game, swerving from lane to lane. The battered bodywork a reminder they have done it before and will do it again. Best just to let them through. As the only smokers, the three of us chose to step outside as courtesy to the rest of the team, sliding as best we could over the sticky bench seats. This continued as we anticipated the arrival of the quizmasters. I have been to plenty quiz nights in my time and have even conducted some myself. I was rather puzzled by the numbers involved. Two boffins with bald heads and pony tails, they sat with a laptop each, a lady, whose job it was to gather quiz papers and one man to call the questions. This wasn’t a quiz night, it was an episode of countdown! There were seven or eight teams, ours was by far the largest, well, if you don’t count the fifty million extra helpers our neighbouring team had in the form of Google, a problem that permeates nearly every quiz night. Without an expensive blocking system, where complaints would almost certainly come forward, there is no way of stopping this, unless, of course people grasp the simple concept of cheating being wrong. After the first two rounds, our team were tied with the neighbouring Google team. Perhaps excessively vocal contributors on our team helped them too. We had ages nineteen to fifty, they had ages fifteen to nineteen. It is quite possible those with their phones out were just texting, odd though, that they had the phones out during questions and not so much after. The final few rounds had the focus purely on me. Music lyrics where the Tro-tro hand waving came into play as I racked my brains for the tune, followed by guitar riffs, ending appropriately with some Jethro Tull. We ended the night in third place, a prize of a fifteen Cede bar voucher becoming ours. Not a huge amount but, given that the tab for ten of us for three hours of drinking, was just over sixty, money in a bar goes a lot further here.

Returning to the car, we passed through an open air bar we had visited a few days before. Making eye contact with an attractive local woman at a table, I smiled. To my surprise, she made a kissing motion with her lips. I announced my bite of interest, only to be greeted with laughter from Sarah and Kevin. Once they regained their composure, they confirmed it wouldn’t have mattered how I looked to that particular table of ladies. I’ve been told we should manage a proper night out before I leave, so my fingers remain crossed. At least buying someone a drink won’t cost too much. As long as it’s only the drink I need to buy, I’ll be happy.

AIDS

Monday the first of December is world AIDS day. Nowhere is this more important than in Africa.

I remember the TV adverts of the 1980s with the slogan “Don’t die of ignorance”. In the West, we still hear stories but it is not nearly as high profile as it was, or I think should be. There is still a stigma about it. Some people wrongly believe it is confined only to gay men and intravenous drug users. In fact, due to common sense in the gay community and needle exchange programmes, the highest number of new cases are in young, sexually active heterosexuals. I will now proudly admit I was tested this year. I had been quite promiscuous and was not always careful to use condoms. I no longer fit into the “young” category but I’m still at risk. I was negative by the way. If I do get lucky with a lady or two here, I will, absolutely be using condoms. Two thirds of those in the world with HIV or AIDS live in Africa.

Wherever you look here, there are very public messages explaining the risks. A poster in the reception of Kevin and Sarah’s daughter’s school has a cartoon showing the right steps. A massive billboard in the city has slogans trying to encourage condom use. The problem here is massive. So far, over twenty million have died of AIDS in Africa. Last year 1.4 million died of AIDS and a further 1.9 million became HIV infected.

With Malaria, cases will still occur, even with precautions. It is treatable and most people are cured with drugs. With AIDS, there is no cure but prevention of spread is easy. Things like African fokelore that having sex with a virgin cures it and the Catholic Church whose workers refuse to distribute condoms are complicit in genocide on a massive scale.

I’m not going to bleat on about it endlessly. Just type “aids in Africa” into Google for more. In the time you have taken to read this, another child has just died of AIDS in Africa.

My figures come from United Nations statistics.

Trading places

If you want designer names, come to Ghana. Everything from Gucci watches to Nike trainers. If you want genuine designer names…don’t.

The entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well in this country. The people can do amazing things with their hands. You take a pair of trainers or a piece of furniture to them. Even a photograph of something you’ve seen, can be turned into a material item. Items might be ready within the day, they may take up to three months dependant on the complexity and on GMT. Despite what I’ve said, they really are hard workers when they put their mind to it. Traders are to be found set up at the side of almost every road. All sorts offered including; leather suites lined up in the dirt, dog houses and freshly cooked sheep’s heads. One man has a line of beds and dog houses on his patch. His sign says “Moses” with a telephone number below. He will apparently turn his hand to most things. He may take a while to produce your product though. Not that I believe him to be lazy, it is the tools of his trade which may hamper him. His saw is a bare hacksaw blade. It takes a long time to cut through a 6x2 for a bed frame with one of those. His single chisel is a sharpened screwdriver and for a smoothing plane, he has a razor blade set into an offcut of wood. I mean no disrespect to this man. Sarah has told me she wants to buy him some proper tools to show her appreciation. I’m sorely tempted to do likewise. He is only one of many who keep themselves going by whatever means necessary.


The roads are often poor quality. Regular bottlenecks through single lane underpasses cause no end of problems. Locals have seized this opportunity by making up red and green flags. A pair of men will station themselves at either end and control traffic. They have no power and some will simply ignore them but the system works pretty well. Every few days, we will stop and hand some change to each one as thanks. Not everyone does this; it must still pay as they are regular fixtures. Everywhere you look, there are people trying to free others of their money. I’ve mentioned the vendors on the pavements. The real pains are the hawkers in traffic queues. Pull up and within seconds, hoards of them descend on the car; Toilet rolls, mobile top up cards, pictures of the last supper, puppies. How about a couple of tins of Guiness for a tired driver? The women carry goods on their heads. Certainly an example of having good posture. Not a hawker, just a chap walking along, had a car battery perfectly balanced on his head. As he turned to look towards the road, the battery slowly spun whilst remaining level, a sight to behold. The hawkers will be drawn more to a car full of white faces. We are known as obronis here, a colloquial word used for those with paler faces than natives of Ghana. It is more used in a descriptive context rather than as an insult. To insult a Ghanaian, offensive words and phrases include; using an otherwise term of endearment such as “You’re being a monkey” is a definite no no. Deep offence is caused by telling someone they are a beast, a fool or an idiot. On no account ever tell someone to shut up. These might be mildly unpleasant phrases back home, here they are worse than saying c**t. The hawkers are trying to make a living like anyone else. Some work independently, sourcing goods to sell off. Others work for shops, they will be given a certain amount of stock and have to sell it throughout the day. One product to definitely avoid is bread being sold in late afternoon. It will be the stuff shops want to get rid of. Perhaps even more alarming, are those selling fish products, no real refrigeration and out in the punishing sun all day. A smile and a shake of the head are often enough to ward them off. If there is something we need and it is safe, we will trade with them. I say safe in connection with the sandwiches some will make for you there and then. These men and women are out all day dodging traffic. When the call of nature presents itself, they will just go. No matter which way the men turn, they are facing some kind of traffic, so seeing one urinate publicly is not at all uncommon. The women wear long skirts. While balancing their load on their head, they will just hike up their skirts and squat down. Picking themselves up again just in time to make you a lovely fresh sandwich! The most common transactions we carry out are for MTN mobile phone credit. We buy the sealed cards with scratch off panels. We could use a shop but when we buy twenty Cedes at a time, and locals are more likely to buy one or two Cedes at most, it boosts their day no end. To carry out a transaction, often means the vendor has to run alongside a car as it moves off. Hesitate here, even for a second, and there is a crescendo of horns. Local people will sometimes just drive off. Alternatively, they can be seen throwing the money out the window and leaving the hawker the unenviable task of scrabbling around the road as traffic rushes past. Probably the single most annoying hawkers, are the window washers. You know the drill; you pull up at a traffic light and out of nowhere appears someone with a mop and squeegee. I’ve described before the method of flicking on the wipers to deter them. This doesn’t always work. They may lift your wipers, leaving them stranded waving side to side in mid air. It’s not just the annoyance factor of someone expecting payment for doing what “wash wipe” already does. It’s the permanent damage to the glass that stones on the cleaning surface have. Whether this is accidental or not is unknown. They get very angry when you drive off and they have layed a mere sud. In their eyes they should be paid for this.

The newest product offered, is Christmas tooters. A Santa face with a roll out tooter in the mouth. First it was a single red candy stripe one, then appeared one with a tooter going out either side of the mouth. Seeing this sent the whole car into a fit of giggles. The whole thing seemed surreal. In fact, the idea of the run up to Christmas in temperatures of 35 degrees, rising by the day is surreal actually. Now the evolution is a green tooter one side and a red one the other. Sort of port and starboard. I’ve made it clear, I will only buy one if they have one with a tooter out their arse too. With the stipulation I don’t buy the display model.

Supermarkets are a more convenient option. With convenience comes higher prices. You could buy a lettuce from a fruit and veg stall for one Cede, go to a supermarket and an imported one with less chance of hidden bugs will set you back twenty Cedes. With an exchange rate of two Cedes to the pound, one point four to the dollar, things start to get very expensive. Admittedly, it is generally on imported goods. A one hundred gram jar of Dowe Egberts instant coffee is anywhere from two to two pounds fifty back home. In one of the supermarkets, I saw it on sale for twenty six Cedes. Christmas tins of chocolates will set you back up to forty Cedes. A large box of Fairy washing powder tipped the scales at ninety eight Cedes. Even chocolate made in this country is expensive. If you do see a nice looking price on a shelf edge, by the time you get to the checkout, the price doesn’t match. A few times so far, things have rung through at higher prices. Shopping is a case of keeping your wits about you. If you see an item at a good price, grab it! Stock of certain items often runs out. Assistants favourite phrase is “It’s finished”. Items that are cheaper include water. Just as well with the amount we go through per day. The tap water is safer here than elsewhere but still only risked for washing and brushing of teeth at a push. A five litre bottle at one sixty seven is great value. Cigarettes are very cheap. Hardly anyone here smokes, something they like to make you painfully aware of. In traffic today, I had one out the window. A car full chased up alongside us and a passenger shouted over “No smoking here, you are not allowed to smoke here” Not true, as Ghana has no smoking ban indoors, let alone on a public highway in a private car. They didn’t give up and kept speeding up to draw alongside to shout insults. Now, whatever your views on smoking might be, publicly heckling others in the open air is unreasonable. They especially don’t like seeing women smoke. Sarah has had some very nasty reactions to just standing in a car park or open street. It is a welcome change to be able to smoke inside bars. If my doctor is reading this, please close your eyes now. My consumption has risen dramatically. A combination of the company I’m in, the mosquito deterrent effect and now deliberately pissing off the hecklers. Ah yes, and cost. Two hundred Pall Mall is eleven Cedes, Rothmans a little more. I have yet to find Benson & Hedges although I’m told they are here. With prices for two hundred, effectively less than I pay for twenty back home, I don’t worry so much about getting every last draw out of them, so maybe my health risk has diminished a little. The other plus side of few fellow smokers here, is that I am very rarely bothered by someone asking for one. I imagine having that level of attention, together with traders antics, would get just too much to cope with.

It’s fair enough that some things are more expensive, especially imported goods. Some imports look decidedly unintended. In a large mall shop that does electrical goods, I found ASDA Smartprice microwaves. Thirty quid back home, the price tag of one hundred and sixty seven Cedes here. It is quite possible they are seconds. It is much more likely that the shipping container became “lost in transit” rather than goods having fallen off the back of a lorry, and they regularly do, quite literally! falling off the back of a container ship is a source of products here. The containers themselves often then being used as roadside shop units. I hate to think how hot it must be to work in those. Something else I’ve spotted very cheap, is Singer sewing machines. The antique treadle ones which have been refurbed. I’m sorely tempted to pick one up to take home and flog on Ebay.

GMT

Down here, we are sitting five degrees from the equator. Only five degrees of latitude further South and you have the sun directly overhead. Here’s a question, if you have a satellite dish in the UK, where does it point? Kind of South and slightly upwards? I haven’t researched this but I think most communication satellites orbit over the equator. Therefore, a lot of dishes here resemble upside down umbrellas. Hopefully, the photograph of this will upload to let you see an example.


According to GPS, the longitude is zero. An imaginary line joins Ghana with London and passes just offshore from Aberdeen. It is Greenwich Mean Time all year round here. Back home, we have daylight saving with BST. In Ghana, there is no need to capitalise on the year round sunshine. Just a reminder then, when you ask me what time it is here, and quite a few have done so far, it is exactly the same time as in the UK. With London being the point from which all times are taken, I had always thought this to be an English thing to ensure they were the centre of the empire. Not so.

As recently as the 1880s, there was no standard time. This became a real headache in the US and Canada. The railroads would pass through towns who all kept different times. Obviously this was a logistical disaster. Timetables were all jumbled up, these towns fixing their times according to local sunrise and sunset times. Across the vast continent, the daylight differed between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. A Canadian engineer named Sandford Fleming, he got a knighthood but probably not until his idea was rolled out, proposed dividing the world up into segments. These are the timezones we know today, thanks to Sir Sandford Fleming who, although I said was Canadian, was actually born in Scotland.

In the timezone GMT, lots of different things happen. In London, everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere. The same too in Ghana. I want to describe the driving here but a thousand words cannot convey the anarchy of the experience. Maybe once I’ve ventured behind the wheel myself, I will have a go. If I survive that is! If you want something done in London, you want it yesterday. There is no room for slackers, apart, of course from our glorious government system. In Ghana, GMT has a whole new meaning. If you want a job done, paperwork processed, or even a meal in a restaurant, you need to understand Ghana Maybe Time. It is wonderful to be chilled out and relaxed, but a combination of bureaucracy, faffing, and lateness persists. I know what you’re thinking “Hey John, you’ll fit right in there”. I know I have my moments but some of the processes take time wasting to a whole new level. The pool boys arrived to continue work at the new house the other day. Their pick up, overloaded with gravel and three workers perched on top of that, appeared at about eight thirty five. By nine thirty, they were all having a break. Friday was a holiday in Ghana, there are a very small percentage of Muslims here. It was the Eid holiday for them. It was also Thanksgiving in the US. Ghana took a holiday. When Britain has a holiday, Ghana takes it too. It is great to have so many breaks, it doesn’t really help in getting stuff done though.

It may be worth mentioning the dubious historical connection between the West coast of Africa and Jamaica here. This was a trading post where slaves brought from the interior of Africa were loaded onto boats, bound for the sugar plantations of the “New World” Maps today, still name the stretch of coastline joining Ghana with its neighbour Ivory Coast as The Slave Coast. I bring this up, because many similarities exist between here and Jamaica. I had a Rastaman accost me the other day. He pushed his hand out to shake mine. Despite my previous resolution not to fall into this trap, it is considered very rude not to shake hands. With waterless alcohol hand gel at up to £4 a bottle, it’s an expensive business. He was trying to give me, yes give me, a CD of local music, all I had to do was give some money towards poor children. Of course, he was who I would pay the money to and he would ensure the money got to the children. I tried to back away, making excuses as I went. Kevin took over when I started to tell the Rasta I didn’t really like that music. Another thing they take deep offence to. It is all very well to say you don’t want something, you will not buy today, maybe another day. Do not belittle the goods they are offering. If it is pure tatt, you are entitled to think that but it is poor etiquette to voice this. Even if someone is badgering to part you from your money. Another custom is the handshake itself. Put your hand out in front of you now as if you were to shake my hand. I shake your hand conventionally, then as I withdraw, I click my finger off yours. This is a trick I still need to perfect. I’ll be practising on everyone when I come home. If the prospect of that scares you, I’ll supply you with some hand gel too. The handshake serves another purpose. Much is bought and sold via a hand shake. The money is gripped between the fingers and passes during the shake. Not because of anything shady like drug deals, however, it does have its uses for bribery. The term “back hander” for a bribe, might apply to the lubrication of some processes out here, but in the literal sense, all bribery is right in front of your nose. I was approached in Oxford Street the other day by a very insistent vendor. He wanted to stitch a threaded arm band with my name on it. I told him and told him “Not today” despite this, he was still starting an embroidered John. The guy really wouldn’t take no for an answer. On telling him I hailed from Scotland, he leaned in and asked “You want hashish?” “No thank you”, I grinned. “You must want hashish, everyone in Scotland wants hashish” Well I certainly do not” My grin had disappeared. Do tourists really come over here just to get stoned? Go to the Middle East and slag off Mohammad. They’ll get you stoned for free. This vendor went on to ask if I was having a Rasta holiday with everyone the following day. I explained I was a guest of my friends and they would decide what was happening to celebrate. Incidentally, a part of it was spent trying to extricate kilt socks for Kevin and Sarah’s shoes, from the hundred and forty boxes labelled in Arabic, stacked up in the office area of the new house. Air conditioning almost non existent. All the units are well overdue for servicing before the big move in. I decided to wear all white. Not the wisest move, with boxes from a shipping container exposed to the desert sands of Libya, their previous home. At least I knew which bits of my T-Shirt were clean to wipe my brow. Even the packing tape on the boxes was melting into whitish goo.

Time is a precious commodity the world over. Ghana has a long history of exporting the good and the not so good commodity. Ivory, slaves, cocoa beans, gold, tuna and now oil. Take a look at a Cadbury bar, a John West tuna tin and spend a minute to think of Ghana. Just don’t linger too long, or you will have just imported their time too.

4077 Medical Hospital

Sarah had not been feeling well for quite a while. Severe headaches, sickness and blurred vision. I broke a tooth while out to lunch the other day too. It doesn’t hurt but a visit to a dentist may be on the cards. Before I left home, I had all the vaccinations I was told by the doctors were needed. On arguing with Sarah about the time between boosters for Hepatitis, we realised I had only been inoculated against Hep A. Hepatitus B is strongly advised here, especially if I’m going to be having any dental work done. Hep C should also be done but I’ll get that if I go into the GU clinic back home and say I’ve been a naughty boy over here. That opportunity has not yet presented itself and I will be very careful to use condoms. I will probably risk only using one at a time however. The “double bagging” method might result in an experience akin to that “flup flup” noise you hear when trucks with loose tarpaulins pass!

Two reasons then, for us to visit the local hospital clinic. With Sarah possibly having Malaria and my need for jags, we set off to Nyaho Clinic. She warned me not to be put off by the basic nature of the place. At first arrival, it seemed relatively Western. A car park with guards. Not the British NCP car park attendant that limps up shouting “you cannae park there” This guard was full of smiles. Just as well, given the large truncheon he was wielding. I say truncheon, but it was more like a sawn off baseball bat. We parked up and headed to the reception desk. Sarah has BUPA Gold cover. I have travel insurance but this only applies if something has actually happened to me. Besides, I was told it would be very cheap. As we sat, Sarah explained that we had come along at night because day times here are pandemonium. There were a few people milling about, but essentially we were the only customers. I had tried to explain to the man at the desk that I only wanted the injection. He insisted that I must be tested first. Anyone who knows me, knows how bad I am with blood tests. I’m not scared of the needle, have no problem seeing my own blood, its just that having very low blood pressure, the first problem is finding a vein, even on finding something, there is no guarantee any blood will flow. When it does come out, I very quicly turn a shade of white in the green spectrum and have been known to crash to the floor as soon I’ve stood. I go armed with chocolate or a sugary drink. This evening, I had none of that and was already feeling the heat which made me a bit queasy. We headed through to the first waiting room. The well appointed reception area, gave way to a slightly more dilapidated interior. If you want to visualise the place, what if I mentioned the 1970s TV show M*A*S*H? We sat while a ceiling fan tried to cool the room. Trying too, to fly off its mountings. Windows were just louvered slats to the outside, the odd bug pinging off the fan from time to time. A nurse entered and went through Sarah’s symptoms before coming to me. I managed to explain to her, I had no reason to believe I had picked up hepatitis and that I only needed the injection. We were ushered through a door to the doctor and we had to repeat everything to him. He was a black man wearing a white lab coat and trousers. A pair of Asics trainers on his feet. This room was special, it had air conditioning, some welcome relief on a hot hot night. Sarah was despatched first, clutching scribbled notes. I followed, asking as I left where I was going. He replied “The nurse weel show you” I left through the side door to the outdoor walkway. There was no sign of a nurse but I spied Sarah up at a door back towards reception. As I caught her up, the door closed. A sign said “Payment room” After knocking again, the woman who answered scanned my scribbles before saying “Pharmacee” Another short wait at the pharmacy window until a different man appeared, clicked a few keys and presented me with an invoice. The price of the vaccine would be 19.20 Cedes. Just under a tenner. Before I paid, we went up to another waiting room to get Sarah’s blood taken. A man in a tan boiler suit entered and changed the bin liner. He or others in the same uniform, seemed to wander aimlessly through the whole complex. I’m guessing he was a janitor but his gait and the blank expression suggested more that he may be an in patient. At this, Sarah reassured me that the asylum was in a different part of town! I don’t know whether reassured was quite the right word there. We were ushered through three more doors to a man sitting at a desk. Before him were containers with all kinds of apparatus. From them, he drew the swab and hypodermic to take Sarah’s blood. Everything was carefully used. All the equipment was sealed before use. In front of us, he squirted blood into a green topped vial, a bit more into a yellow topped vial and the few remaining drops onto a glass slide, before adding a solution. We were told to come back in forty five minutes for her results. This may be a developing country but whenever I’ve had blood tests, I’ve had one on, say a Thursday and told to call them after two on the following Tuesday.

We returned to the reception where I paid my due account, before returning to the pharmacy to collect my vaccine. Back down the same walkway to the original waiting room. The ceiling fan still trying to shear it’s mountings. I was called by the nurse to follow her to yet another room in a building across the yard. There, I rolled up my sleeve and felt the, not so cold needle stab into my arm muscle. A small sticking plaster and I was done. I rejoined Sarah to return to the car park for a cigarette. About half way through mine, I started to feel incredibly woosy. I stubbed it out and climbed into the car to enjoy some air con. Within a couple of minutes, the cool air soothed me, just as one of the staff beckoned us to get Sarah’s results. She was issued with another bundle of forms, accompanied by an unsealed envelope. Opening it as we walked back to the original waiting room, she proclaimed her Malaria test to be negative. The other results were scribbles, illegible to either one of us. There was no sign of any nurses. A knock on the doctor’s door was in vain so we waited patiently. We waited and waited. I watched the ceiling fan, curious as to whether it would perform a final flourish to it’s captive audience. After an inordinate amount of time, and more loud knocking on the doctor’s door, we ventured out towards the building I had been stabbed in earlier. This time, there were no signs of life. Another door was knocked, still nothing. We doubled back to reception, where the man apologised and picked up the phone. We could hear the ringing getting louder as we trudged back to the waiting room. The phone in the adjacent doctor’s room rang and rang. When it had run off, we waited. A little less patiently this time. Another bug cascaded down from the fan onto the still unstaffed desk beneath. Sarah, becoming quite exasperated, stood up and marched back to reception. I trailed in her wake. The heat and humidity was fraying patience and tempers. Politely, she again told the man at reception no one was attending to us. Again, he apologised and lead the way back down to familiar “waiting room 3” aka funky fan room. He cut across to stab hut looking through each louver as he went. He stopped at the end door and knocked very loudly. A shape in white stirred and rose. A different nurse made her way towards us, came into the waiting room and knocked on the door leading to the doctor. She then opened the door and there, as before, was the doctor sitting at his desk. Sarah and I threw each other a glance. The same thought on our minds. “Had he been here the whole time and just ignored the door?” He told Sarah she did not have Malaria but that he woud prescribe antibiotics for her irregular white blood cell count. We thanked him and left. Back past reception and round to the pharmacist’s window. He seemed to have disappeared too. I suppose it was understandable, it was just after midnight by this point. We were the only visitors. The heat was unbearable, we were both tired and fed up. Heading towards reception, a new patient walked past. Not unusual, except he was bare footed and missing a large portion of his big toe. All that was left were tendons and blood vessels sticking out haphazardly. I felt a bit humbled by this. When I had foot problems earlier this year, I felt unable to do much. Yet here was someone unaccompanied who had obviously got himself to hospital with a very serious amputation. Sarah told the receptionist we were now leaving. She would get the drugs the following day. We left past the baseball bat guard beaming us a smile as he held open the gates and headed home.

Right now, I am sitting in a pair of tartan trews, white shirt and bow tie. It is the St Andrews dinner dance here tonight. I’m very sure there will be a few stories to tell, once I’ve sobered up from that adventure.

Name and shame

Apparently I have a voicemail message. It’s something I forgot to switch off before leaving the UK. With having the Ghana sim card, my phone will be going straight to voicemail. Today I popped back in the Vodafone sim to see if there was anything. Calls cost £1.60 per minute back to the UK on Vodafone. When I called them to ask about roaming charges in Ghana, they told me they had no roaming agreement here. Since my arrival, I’ve found the logo is daubed on everything from shipping containers and roadside trees, to all the mile markers sponsored by them. The company owns the whole land line infrastructure here. They also boast the fastest internet café in Africa. The café just opened on Monday. I called the UK number for voicemails from my local card. After being told I had the wrong pin, I checked and entered it again. Immediately I was greeted with “You have entered the wrong pin number, your mailbox has now been locked, please call customer services, goodbye” Naturally less than enamoured with the response, I called back to the UK customer services number. Force of habit would have me call 191, this would certainly have been answered had I only dialled those digits. Except, over here, the person at the other end would have been asking which emergency service I required! Eventually, I got through to someone who assured me a text would be sent. This was only valid for one hour so I had to move fast. Kevin was finishing off some work before we were due to go over to the new house. I swapped cards over and patiently waited and waited. No text. We had to go so I left it. When we got back, I popped in the Vodafone sim again and still no message. At this, I called customer services and asked them to confirm a call had taken place earlier. I made it clear, in no uncertain terms, how angry I was at having to pay again and that I would not expect to be billed for this phone call. My rant may have continued, except for the little beep in my ear showing this guy had actually done his job properly. He was very apologetic and I made it clear I had no problem with him. I have now checked my message. It was the bodyshop about the damage caused when a guy ran into the back of me over a month ago in Union Street Aberdeen. Something already in hand back home thanks to Ashley.

The reason I was so anxious to retrieve my message, is that I thought it might have been my bank’s fraud department. While I’m on a name and shame, let’s leave Vodafone and move to The Royal Bank of Scotland.

After being stung before by RBS when I’ve tried to take out money abroad, I was wise to this and called my branch to make them aware I was going away. I was armed with the dates I was out of the country so they would not block my debit card….again!! I fully expected this to be a simple case where they would update their automated system to allow reasonable transactions while I was in Ghana. How foolish of me to assume they would make this simple. My branch told me that, regardless of telling them my itinerary, their computer would still automatically block any transaction it decided was fraudulent. I would then need to call the anti fraud team back in the UK to sort it out. I was given the hotline number and immediately called it in an attempt to reason with them. Again, it was explained to me that the computer knows best. Again, I protested “But I’m giving you advance warning of where I’m going, you’re telling me that I’ll get my card blocked whatever I do, AND you will eventually charge me for the privilege of withdrawing my own money abroad” I went on to remind them that while I was in Canada, I missed out on a few drinks in a bar, then when I decided to just have an early night and resolve it in the morning. That smart arse computer called me twice in the middle of the night to tell me what I already knew, that being that I couldn’t take out any money. On that occasion, I finally called the fraud team just before six in the morning, raging with not enough sleep due to the three am and five am alarm calls. Made worse by knowing I was spending a fortune in international call costs and only had one individual coffee pod to keep me sane in the motel room. The best thing about that time had been that I had used my debit card to buy my plane ticket and Duty Free less than a week before. The response I got to this barrage of examples as to why the computer was an ignorant, arrogant piece of shit was “I can only apologise” I didn’t want an apology, I wanted to remind them that my newest debit card proudly proclaims that it can be used in almost every country of the world, yet the first time you try to use it, even with forewarning of it’s use, it gets blocked.
I’m almost afraid to say that this has a happy ending so far. I have withdrawn 200 Cedes, equivalent to just under £100, and not a peep out of the sanctimonious RBS computer. I haven’t been here that long, I’m sure it will bite sooner or later. I should just be thankful it doesn’t carry Malaria! I killed four mosquitoes in about ten minutes outside earlier. Their bodies recycled by the ants. Almost as soon as the dead beastie falls to the ground, an army of omnivores transport it back to be consumed.

First Impressions

As I stepped from the plane door to the steps, a blast of air hit me. It felt exactly like those heaters you find above doors of shops. Ones where coming in from the cold, the temptation is to bask in the welcome heat. This, of course wasn't one of those heaters, this was Ghana at eight thirty on a November evening.

The shock of the immense heat stayed with me beyond the steps. Passengers swarmed around the tarmac. Two distinct groups. Those who had left from the front door and those, myself among them, from the rear door checking the numbers separated by the overhang of a wing. 'The bus is coming' was shouted. At this, a white airport bus appeared. One of those buses that has about three seats and fifty grab handles. Some of them even have a bendy bit in the middle. Those stuck in the bend, find cornering to be a practical lesson in physics. A reminder of the true sardinelike nature of economy class. Almost before the doors had parted, there were people rushing inside. I was one of the last to attempt to board this bus, carried in by those who really were the last to get aboard. I was hemmed in the middle of the throng. Only two feet from the doors, but unable to get any further in, insulated by another three or four depth of bodies. A grab handle? That would have been invading, not only someone else's face, it would've been close enough to grab any body parts below my or another’s waist. Besides this, I really could not move. Hands pinned by my sides. This also brought to mind the direct nature of KLM’s economy class. British Airways calls economy “world Traveller” Air France uses the term “Voyageur” KLM likes to just have “Economy Class” emblazoned on the divider between them and business class. Kevin was travelling business. I was lucky enough to be invited through for a while. Massive seats with a built in massager. He told me he once saw a sign up in the galley of a KLM flight, setting out meal times for economy passengers. Instead of saying meal times, the cattle connection was being used. It read, “Economy – Grazing times” Upon returning to my cattle float, I was greeted with various packets and cups strewn over my seat. The passenger beside me had been encroaching on my space the entire flight. Elbows leaking across the arm rest, knees keeping time to the music in his ears, knocking my own. I have no idea whether he thought I had left my seat permanently. My bag was still under the seat, we were over the Sahara desert, so it’s highly unlikely I would have just disembarked at thirty eight thousand feet!

The bus took only a couple of minutes to reach the terminal. Doors on the opposite side swung open to begin people’s spillage. Of course, it is bad enough in one of those lifts where the doors open on the opposite side, but being carried backwards out onto the tarmac was rather unnerving.

The terminal building had the air of a shop inside a railway arch. Whitewashed concrete walls set off by tattered advertising boards and notices. Lines were forming to reach the immigration booths. I joined the one for nationals other than those from Ghana. Eventually my turn approached. I obediently stood behind the red painted line until I was called forward. I was greeted by a cheery fellow who asked why I was in the country, briefly flicked through my passport and visa documents, before sending me on my way.

Through now into the customs line and out to the baggage carrousel. I edged into the line of others waiting for stuff. Bag upon bag passed by. A flat screen TV amongst the uniform looking baggage. Everything was wet. The likely cause being condensation from the temperature difference between being up high of minus fifty to the “cool” evening temperature on the ground of plus twenty nine. There went my case… I caught a glimpse just too late to stretch out. Crammed in between fellow travellers, there was no way to chase the bag beyond my small section of floor. Someone else tried to do that a few minutes later, catching a woman who had been resting on a baggage trolley. I would just wait for my case next time around. My second bag should be round soon too. My concern for my second bag only really grew as my first one reappeared. One by one, those around me started to drift off as they had their luggage. My phone rang, it was Kevin. He had been whisked through before all the other passengers and was now waiting on my appearance. I mentioned I now had one bag but that there was no sign of the other. He suggested I try a pile of bags over on a different part of the floor. On getting to this area, I immediately spotted the bag. Apparently, only business and diplomats bags end up in that spot. Very odd I thought and proceeded to struggle through to the exits. When I had hit arrivals, there were staff offering up trolleys. They were in, what could only be described as vague uniform. I had no local money to pay them, had no idea whether they expected to be paid or were staff, and when I saw one trolley without even handles being dished out, I decided to do without. Now the rough concrete was making my exit tricky. My case had wheels; the second bag was balanced on top of this. People passed me shouting back “Why do you not have a trolley” I had thoughts I didn’t air but muttered to myself that at least I had a working handle and only two wheels to worry about. My luggage tags were checked before entering the public area. On scanning the waiting bodies, I picked out Niamh first, followed by Sarah and Kevin.

Dying for a cigarette, I lit up as soon as we hit the air. A man tried to tell me off for smoking but was given short shrift by Sarah. Once into the cars, I was whisked through my first taster of African streets. A window washer spotted the car at a junction. He was fended off by Sarah switching on the wipers and making a fast get away. Before long, we were at the apartments where we decanted inside to the welcome air conditioning.

Saturday we headed into town. The car was started to allow the air con to do it's magic. We lit cigarettes as we stood. We left the gated complex to fight our way through traffic into the town. Oxford Street was the destination. It comes as no surprise that this was an Oxford Street like no other. The night before, Sarah had brought my attention to a group of ants out on the balcony. She had swatted a mosquito and it's dead corpse was spirited away by these ants. More and more joined the army with it's prize. It was this dead corpse we now represented with an onslaught of street hawkers as the ants. Polite but firm is the order of the day here. 'No thank you, no, no' while walking away. I made the mistake once of looking back as I walked. A hand was outstretched. Out of politeness, I put my own out to shake. He asked my name and I told him. 'Ok Joe, pleased to meet you Joe, where are you from?' he continued to spout something while still keeping a firm grip on my hand. I looked forward and could see the others walking away, oblivious to my plight. 'I must go, I must catch my friends' I pulled away a little harder. Still he held on. I had to use some force to separate from him. I caught up with the others just in time to enter the next zone of traders 'No thank you, no, no, no thank you' This time I kept my eyes fixed forwards, my hands safely away from any virtual handcuffs.

Ghana

I will be uploading soon to here again. It will be my little record of life in Africa

When I arrived, my little netbook eeepc was the one I used. Unfortunately it now refuses to connect to the internet. All my writings are on there. To make matters worse, the eeepc now refuses to even power up after I left it without a power supply. I'm currently sitting out on the balcony borrowing an open network. I think I might need some help getting Kevin and Sarah's wireless up and running!

Watch this space....