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.