Even Ghanaians think the weather in Accra is too hot right now.
I have now coached myself to sleep under my discordant fan. I drink 3 litres of water a day. I have t-shirt and toms tan lines. I put factor 50 on my face and yet still it assumes a different ethnicity: 'Pink British'. Thankfully an irremovable layer of dirt takes the edge off this. Slightly.
I live on a diet of fresh vegetables, fruit, water and fan ice, interspersed with an array of Ghanaian specialities that are put in front of me by colleagues and friends alike: fried plantain, burkina, fufu, red red and traditional Ghanaian meat pie which I love because it reminds me of Cornish pasties. My only interaction with alcohol has been to stroke a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in a supermarket in Osu. I wake at 6am every day to the sound of the neighbourhood cockerel and am flat out by 10pm at the very latest. I sleep with no covers, uninterrupted: a first.
I live on a diet of fresh vegetables, fruit, water and fan ice, interspersed with an array of Ghanaian specialities that are put in front of me by colleagues and friends alike: fried plantain, burkina, fufu, red red and traditional Ghanaian meat pie which I love because it reminds me of Cornish pasties. My only interaction with alcohol has been to stroke a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in a supermarket in Osu. I wake at 6am every day to the sound of the neighbourhood cockerel and am flat out by 10pm at the very latest. I sleep with no covers, uninterrupted: a first.
Agoo Hostel is warm, colourful, clean and honest. Within a few hours I had made some firm friends here- not least the wonderful Eva who has been my guide and sounding board in these early days- and built some solid foundations. It was quick to become my base camp, harbour and home.
The manager, David, is a Ghanaian in a Spaniard’s body. In my first week he showed me around the local market where he was met as family. He introduced me to Christiana who sells the ripest fruit on the street corner and who has invited me to her church one Sunday. His many 'sisters' gave me free onions, tomatoes and cucumbers. We ate coconuts on the street and bought yams (which I was convinced were sweet potatoes. You can take the girl out of SW London…).
The manager, David, is a Ghanaian in a Spaniard’s body. In my first week he showed me around the local market where he was met as family. He introduced me to Christiana who sells the ripest fruit on the street corner and who has invited me to her church one Sunday. His many 'sisters' gave me free onions, tomatoes and cucumbers. We ate coconuts on the street and bought yams (which I was convinced were sweet potatoes. You can take the girl out of SW London…).
We are based in Nima, North of the City Centre. Nima is one of the poorest areas of town and every day I am confronted by the harsh reality of the conditions of those living here. In spite of this the community is friendly and inviting; the smiles are infectious. Obrunis are welcomed but rare. All religions live together in harmony and, in the words of a local Muslim man who David befriended during our market trip, ‘we all live as one because we are all promoting peace’.
I am already growing to love the incongruity of Accra: Otis Redding playing out over a slum, suited men with their thinkpads riding trotos and enormous air-conditioned supermarkets surrounded by open sewage. Last week we went into Jamestown to do outreach with the women working there, educating them about family planning and the accessibilty of services. Jamestown is described in my current novel as a, 'fetid seaside slum of tin-and-cardboard shanties'. We spoke with a group of kayeyeis- young female porters- many of whom have nothing yet they all have mobile phones. As I write this we have wifi but no water.
I am already growing to love the incongruity of Accra: Otis Redding playing out over a slum, suited men with their thinkpads riding trotos and enormous air-conditioned supermarkets surrounded by open sewage. Last week we went into Jamestown to do outreach with the women working there, educating them about family planning and the accessibilty of services. Jamestown is described in my current novel as a, 'fetid seaside slum of tin-and-cardboard shanties'. We spoke with a group of kayeyeis- young female porters- many of whom have nothing yet they all have mobile phones. As I write this we have wifi but no water.
Quarshie, Agoo handyman and hero, has spent the day running back and forth trying to resolve our water problem. He has given up his Sunday, his day of rest, and yet as a treat he has cooked us all dinner: a feast of the finest redred and plantain. Around the table sits a German researcher, a Dutch author, a young man from Benin, a Swedish student, an Australian volunteer, an American/Ghanaian couple, the owner Helen, manager David, Quarshie and myself. We debate the finest aspects of our native cuisines. I lose the fight for the steak and kidney pie. I suggest I cook a roast one Sunday to which Helen exclaims, 'Roast goat?!'. As we do the washing up I play DJ and put on Stargirl. David turns to me and says he likes my music but, 'please, what is it?'.
I already long for a bath, a double bed, an interval drink, but, with memories and sunsets such as these to make and behold, I think I can wait.
I already long for a bath, a double bed, an interval drink, but, with memories and sunsets such as these to make and behold, I think I can wait.