As I write this, I am scratching a mosquito bite.
I know I shouldn't. I know it is so terribly badly behaved of me. But the truth is I have had enough. I have waged war for over a month now and the mosquitoes have won. I give in. They have broken me.
That invaluable medical journal we have come to call the 'internet' once told me that my body would eventually grow immune to mosquitoes and they would leave me in peace. I have come to conclude that that invaluable medical journal we have come to call the internet is a load of codswallop and should be banned from all forms of medical commentary. One other thing: DEET is an illusion.
I know I shouldn't. I know it is so terribly badly behaved of me. But the truth is I have had enough. I have waged war for over a month now and the mosquitoes have won. I give in. They have broken me.
That invaluable medical journal we have come to call the 'internet' once told me that my body would eventually grow immune to mosquitoes and they would leave me in peace. I have come to conclude that that invaluable medical journal we have come to call the internet is a load of codswallop and should be banned from all forms of medical commentary. One other thing: DEET is an illusion.
Still, I cannot and must not complain. These bites are not only a source of great hilarity and intrigue to my Ghanaian counterparts, but they are also a small price to pay for an otherwise joyfully colourful existence in Ghana. In Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert describes herself as, ‘less a chameleon, than a flamingo… with a shortage of personal coolness, which can be a liability in travel’. I feel her pain: I am the Bridget Jones of travel. The other day I was casually alighting a trotro when the metal chair caught my skirt and left the most spectacular hole in the back of it. Yet, like Elizabeth Gilbert, I have grown to love it. I love the stories. I love the nuances. I love Accra.
There is the daily trotro ride to work: an eternal guessing game. To flag down the correct vehicle I must rely on a series of ambiguous gestures made by the mate as he hangs dangerously out of the side door. Routes/destinations/bus stops are all needless indulgences. And they are nowhere near as fun.
There is my favourite lunch spot which serves red red and plantain that puts the M&S Fuller for Longer range to shame. It is served in a dusty courtyard just off the main road in washing up tubs for bowls. The seating area is a series of broken benches underneath a tin canopy; there are hens everywhere.
There is my favourite lunch spot which serves red red and plantain that puts the M&S Fuller for Longer range to shame. It is served in a dusty courtyard just off the main road in washing up tubs for bowls. The seating area is a series of broken benches underneath a tin canopy; there are hens everywhere.
There is drinking water straight out of plastic sachets which will inevitably end up half in my mouth and half all over my face, clothes, laptop.
There is the Ghanaian queuing system. Which I look forward to being invented.
There is the plethora of noises that the people here make: a low Eh-heh to express agreement, an explosive UH to express outrage and then, to seek attention, there is a lip-pursing kiss or a hiss. I have a confession to make: I have started hissing. I can just see myself, months from now, accidentally hissing across a Sunday Roast at my father who will be hoarding the redcurrant jelly. JC- if you are reading this, I can only apologise.
There is the Ghanaian queuing system. Which I look forward to being invented.
There is the plethora of noises that the people here make: a low Eh-heh to express agreement, an explosive UH to express outrage and then, to seek attention, there is a lip-pursing kiss or a hiss. I have a confession to make: I have started hissing. I can just see myself, months from now, accidentally hissing across a Sunday Roast at my father who will be hoarding the redcurrant jelly. JC- if you are reading this, I can only apologise.
Then there is the daily repartee with cab drivers and trotro mates and street vendors, all of whom impose inflated prices on me simply because I am a flamingo. Last week I was taking my standard trotro home when the mate demanded 10 pesua more than normal. Outrage. A lengthy stand-off ensued as we both tried to get our own way. My favourite moment was when we each delivered speeches of Shakespearian magnitude as our fellow passengers hissed and booed and eh-eh'd in all the right places. I finally won the argument on the point of principle. Thankfully the mate did not know what the word 'principle' meant and so backed down.
I immediately texted my friend Nathan to boast of my triumph; he replied informing me that fuel prices had gone up that morning and all fares across Accra had increased. Guilt set in. We were, after all, quibbling over the equivalent of 3 pence. Upon alighting, I looked abashed and, with a coy smile, extended the extra money to my Shylock. The charming boy honoured my victory and refused to accept it; we playfully threw the coin at one another on the streets of Nima until I eventually pocketed it and gleefully skipped on home, hole still in the back of my skirt.
I got on his trotro again yesterday. He smiled knowingly at me and asked if I was going to give him his 10 pesua. I would have gladly but he charged me a reduced fare. What a good soul. It made my day.
I immediately texted my friend Nathan to boast of my triumph; he replied informing me that fuel prices had gone up that morning and all fares across Accra had increased. Guilt set in. We were, after all, quibbling over the equivalent of 3 pence. Upon alighting, I looked abashed and, with a coy smile, extended the extra money to my Shylock. The charming boy honoured my victory and refused to accept it; we playfully threw the coin at one another on the streets of Nima until I eventually pocketed it and gleefully skipped on home, hole still in the back of my skirt.
I got on his trotro again yesterday. He smiled knowingly at me and asked if I was going to give him his 10 pesua. I would have gladly but he charged me a reduced fare. What a good soul. It made my day.