It is 7 o'clock in the morning and the woman next to me is eating the most enormous pile of noodles I have ever seen.
I am feeling a little sensitive this morning. Last night was spent eating the finest tillapia on the backstreets of Osu in the company of Tom Bradley, a dear friend of my brother's and brother of my dear friend. He and his girlfriend are in Ghana for three weeks. They shared their plans with me over a bottle of unidentified red wine to the accompaniment of a Ghanaian jazz band. Well, mostly Ghanaian. The trumpet player had a sensational ginger beard: undoubtedly Irish. Probably a distant relative.
It is 7 o'clock in the morning and our trotro driver is now trying to cram two crates of tomatoes onto the back shelf: a feat only made possible by balancing them precariously on wooden planks jutting out through the rear doors. This activity wreaks havoc with my neighbour's noodle eating effort. I am starting to regret the unidentified red wine.
It is 7 o'clock in the morning and the woman sitting next to me has discarded her plastic spoon and has resorted to eating the noodles with her hands. The engine starts. We are embarking on a three hour journey to Ada Foah and now I have to share it with not only the bodily contact and sweat of my neighbour but her noodle juice too.
Thankfully, Ada Foah turned out to be Paradise.
I am feeling a little sensitive this morning. Last night was spent eating the finest tillapia on the backstreets of Osu in the company of Tom Bradley, a dear friend of my brother's and brother of my dear friend. He and his girlfriend are in Ghana for three weeks. They shared their plans with me over a bottle of unidentified red wine to the accompaniment of a Ghanaian jazz band. Well, mostly Ghanaian. The trumpet player had a sensational ginger beard: undoubtedly Irish. Probably a distant relative.
It is 7 o'clock in the morning and our trotro driver is now trying to cram two crates of tomatoes onto the back shelf: a feat only made possible by balancing them precariously on wooden planks jutting out through the rear doors. This activity wreaks havoc with my neighbour's noodle eating effort. I am starting to regret the unidentified red wine.
It is 7 o'clock in the morning and the woman sitting next to me has discarded her plastic spoon and has resorted to eating the noodles with her hands. The engine starts. We are embarking on a three hour journey to Ada Foah and now I have to share it with not only the bodily contact and sweat of my neighbour but her noodle juice too.
Thankfully, Ada Foah turned out to be Paradise.
Those of you reading this who know me well will be aware of my strange affinity with large bodies of water. To find a strip of sand lying between the sea and a large freshwater lake was understandably going to send me off the delirium charts. Ada Foah did exactly that. Our camp, Maranata, was nothing more than a series of wicker huts interspersed with a scattering of palm trees. The huts were utilitarian: a bed, a chair, a hanging bulb (broken) and a carpet of sand. I had a hut all to myself which meant, not only did I get my to realise my dream of a double bed much sooner than anticipated, but it also came complete with ocean sound effects and an early morning swim.
I was in Ada Foah in the company of two fellow Englanders: Lara and Kate. They arrived at Agoo last week, disgustingly brown from a bikini-clad existence in Brazil, and we soon latched onto each other: they like my eclectic music collection (give or take the Sondheim), I like their supply of British magazines. They do however live in Mile End and so, for the sake of uniformity, I have had to keep my Fulham profile on the down low.
I was in Ada Foah in the company of two fellow Englanders: Lara and Kate. They arrived at Agoo last week, disgustingly brown from a bikini-clad existence in Brazil, and we soon latched onto each other: they like my eclectic music collection (give or take the Sondheim), I like their supply of British magazines. They do however live in Mile End and so, for the sake of uniformity, I have had to keep my Fulham profile on the down low.
I will spare you the tales of beach bonfires, fresh coconuts and sunset swims. I will however tell you the tale of Ebenezer. Ebenezer is a father, grandfather and Chief of a two hundred strong community on 'Rum Island' in Ada Foah. His community have been distilling rum for years, selling it legally for twenty. We spent a few hours with Ebenezer on the day of our departure. He met us from our boat in a floor length traditional garment topped off with a pair of adidas popper tracksuit bottoms. Following the most courteous of introductions, we were offered a seat in the shade and a stimulating topic of conversation: how can he marry white girls into his community? Kate and I (the single ones) exchanged nervous glances: we knew where this was going. The fact that Ebenezer was going to put himself forward as a candidate was a little unexpected but we had to hand it to him for showing so much gumption at his age.
Ebenezer's rum is aptly named, Ebenezer, and comes with the tagline, Grown in Ghana. And it absolutely is. The sugar cane is cultivated right there on the island; we were led on a beautiful trail through the crops to conclude our tour. Ebenezer spoke with great eloquence about the history of his community and the work they put into their product. We were shown voluminous guest books telling tales of many nations, many travellers, many sunny days spent in his company. The unique selling point for Ebenezer's rum is the 'manpower' it gives you. I will gloss over Ebenezer's definition of manpower: this is a family-friendly blog. All I will say is that he makes a jolly good sales pitch and we bought two bottles. I had hoped to bring one home but have since decided that trying to get a labelless bottle of clear liquid through customs may not be the best idea.
It is characters like Ebenezer who will imprint on the memory of my existence here. They bring individual tales of Ghanaian spirit, tradition and industry. Olympio, for example, who delivered me safely from my trotro to the boat to the beach camp. He is nineteen years old and is writing a philosophy book. He has never received a formal education but engaged me in a fierce theological debate about the meaning of life. There I stood, Cambridge Theology Graduate, out of my depth. Or the wonderful Quarshie, champion of champions. I was up at 6.30 this morning to do my washing and he had already run the 35km to Tema and back. He is determined to win the Accra Marathon this year and I reckon he will. David bought him a pair of trainers last week. They are the first new pair he has ever owned.
It is characters like Ebenezer who will imprint on the memory of my existence here. They bring individual tales of Ghanaian spirit, tradition and industry. Olympio, for example, who delivered me safely from my trotro to the boat to the beach camp. He is nineteen years old and is writing a philosophy book. He has never received a formal education but engaged me in a fierce theological debate about the meaning of life. There I stood, Cambridge Theology Graduate, out of my depth. Or the wonderful Quarshie, champion of champions. I was up at 6.30 this morning to do my washing and he had already run the 35km to Tema and back. He is determined to win the Accra Marathon this year and I reckon he will. David bought him a pair of trainers last week. They are the first new pair he has ever owned.