Dedicated to Jim

"Did you have a good flight?" Oof. What a question!

Everyone always says yes/fine/lovely, not out of politeness or an innate desire to keep the glamour of flight alive, but because no grown-up will admit to forgoing sleep so they can kick the chair of the guy in front of them for longer. The kind of hatred inspired by armrest/chair ‘abuses’, while reasonable at the time, seem hard to justify once on the ground.

For me, I also find that the answer ‘good’ to be lot more suitable in general company than ‘I farted the whole bloody way’. I know I’m not the only one - the boyo and I have compared notes and the people next to us both ended up with blankets over their heads…how terrible is that? I’d noticed my seat buddy boarding at Dubai, an Iranian lady who you knew, just by looking at, was a truly kind and good person. I’d hoped she end up next to me, then when she did, felt really awful, feeling the position was more suitable to the twat in front of me who’d just put their seat back and whose chair I was now merrily kicking between gusts.

It was relief all round when our descent began. I, as always with my nose hard against the glass, like an overanxious puppy dog on a hot day - looking at, oh my gosh, Ghana - in all her palm treed, equatorial lushness. Closer still and the details of Accra emerged - the amount of dirt roads running through the capital a surprise, if only to me.

Though glad to be getting off the plane I was a bit worried at how immigration was going to take the ‘geotech’ bruni girl. I’d taken some time to ensure I looked businessy enough to match my visa but would it be enough? Hell yes. I’d barely started stuttering my story before I was waved on through.

I changed some cash, collected my gear and held on tight, expecting, as I rocked out of Kotoka Airport, to be attacked by a horde of guys wanting to carry my bags, arrange a taxi and marry me. I was also expecting to be met by a friendly face wielding a cute lil sign with my name on it but that didn’t happen either…

When I’d last heard from the boyo, in the middle of just one more boozy lunch Perth side, he’d been talking about the possibility of getting someone from the company to pick me up from the airport and drive me to Tarkwa. A change from the/my original plan to stay the night in Accra and bus it down the next day.

I’d figured out in Dubai - after reading my last received message, ‘don’t forget to turn your global roaming on’, that confirmation of these details would be a long time coming. No matter I figured, someone from the hostel, the company or both would be there to collect me.

Yeah right! Planning, meet Africa, Africa meet Planning - heh! Where did Planning go?

All I could do was buy a beer and think. I thought the beer was pretty good….I also did my best, using the bar chicks mobile, to try and get hold of the boyo and check I wouldn’t be disrupting any arrangements by ducking off to the hostel. We couldn’t get through, nor to the hostel so, with the ‘help’ of a guy I’d been chatting to, I got a taxi.

Now, being such a big girl, I could have and would have done this myself. But that would have deprived the fast one of the opportunity to dash me up, “money for the man”. Days later and still, I feel the bad taste. I didn’t ask for help - he offered, then expected me, dumb bruni, to cough up…..akwaaba (welcome) indeed…

My taxi driver, who had the effeminate voice of Michael Jackson (very disturbing!), seemed to be palatably embarrassed by his countryman. At the end of our urban safari he refused, bless him, to take the extra cedis I offered.

I say urban safari because ‘taxi ride' is a way too lame a phrase to describe the adventure that is taxi travel in Accra. Read any blog about Ghana and much ado will be made about the driving and roads. None of it is under exaggerated, I assure you of that.

Navigation, in the absence of road signs, is by landmark. The directions, as provided by the hostel for example, were to find the Darkuman Goil Petrol Filling Station and ask them for further instruction - “we are less than 50m away”. Helpful as this was, we needed to ask many, many people for help, the process for which is as follows: pull to side of road, beep horn, wait for Ghanaian to come running up, ask where “crystaaal ‘ostel” is, go in circle, repeat.

It was a lot of fun. At one stage a crowd of seven were gathered around the taxi, talking away in twi (I think) all pointing in different directions and taking turns to stare at the strange white thing. Michael kept reassuring me ‘we find it’ and indeed we did. The hostel owners didn’t seem too surprised (or upset) that they’d forgotten me and immediately made up for it by sorting me out a beer, local SIM card and more cedis.

Although the local SIM didn’t help in my quest to touch base with the boyo (who I imagined was a little stressed by now) he eventually rang the hostel and we were able to sort out my travel arrangements for the next day. The boyo, not seeming to share my aspiration to travel with a goat, had organised a ride for me. Another time, kid.

In the meantime, I was able to unleash my goat based frustration on the street, tempting digestive fate by munching down on rice balls, ground nut soup and, you guessed it - goat - at a local chop bar (aka restaurant) before finishing with some fried plantains and pepper sauce, freshly cooked over a street-side fire. Sated I slept.

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