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.