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....