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.