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We all go back to where we belong

17 11 2011

The trouble is I don’t know where I belong. When I first got back to Ireland I kept repeating the phrase to friends that I was ‘back in reality’. But then when I spoke on the phone with my friends in Ghana it was pretty obvious that that was reality too. And then there are my wonderful friends in The Netherlands, continuing their real lives in the lowlands without me.

Without a job and living in a town where I know nobody apart from family I spent huge chunks of my time pouring over photos from my travels. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my travelling life felt more real to me than trawling through the Irish job sites every morning. Why can’t my reality consist of hiking through the Andes, feeding monkeys on a rooftop in India, gazing at the Moai statues on Easter island trying to figure them out, attempting to establish if the ‘vegetarian intestines’ on the menu in China really were vegetarian or shaking fins with a shark in the deep ocean of the Galapagos? A line in book I read recently summed it all up perfectly:

This is what happened when one left one’s home – pieces of oneself scattered all over the world, no one place ever completely satisfied, always a nostalgia for the places left behind.

And then I figured it all out. All I need to do is have enough money to do everything – be everywhere and with everyone. I closed the browser, reassured that I didn’t need a job after all and I happily sauntered into town to buy a lotto ticket. A modest investment to furnish me with the life I wanted. Why on earth hadn’t I thought of this earlier?

In my head I began making lists of where I’d go and what to bring. Which places would I go back to and which were worth sacrificing for the sake of discovering the new. At 8pm I checked the numbers to be certain of what I knew had to be true. Remarkably by some enormous cosmic cock up something had gone radically wrong. Not even one number? How was this possible? I had decided what was reality and now it turned out it simply didn’t exist. But then again maybe it was merely behind schedule. Maybe reality would start a week later, after next week’s draw… that must be it.

But just in case I checked the job postings again. In fact I had just received an e mail with a ridiculously exciting title. We have found your perfect job. Hurray I thought – if the job title isn’t ‘lotto winner’ then surely it will be something that will get me out of Tralee and enable me to pretend to be a real person again. Who needs reality if you have a super duper fulfilling job?

I opened up the e mail and instantly closed it again in utter shock – clearly I had read it wrong. On my second attempt I realised that the computer hadn’t lied. Recruit Ireland had decided that my perfect job would be as a ‘Beef de-boner in Norway’.

Seeing as I am a vegetarian and find any temperature under 10 degrees a major challenge I decided that Recruit Ireland were finding the concept of reality just as challenging as I was. Anyway why on earth can’t the Norwegian beef eaters deal with the bones themselves?

So now my reality involves desperately searching for an interesting job, interspersing that with diving into the comfort of my photos and trying to wean myself off my newly established weekly gambling problem. One of these days I’ll have to get back to wherever it is I belong.

In the meantime, I wonder how bad can de-boning Norwegian beef really be…


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Enjoy the silence

13 09 2011

I have found myself in many improbable situations over the last few years: running from a pack of wild dogs in Arequijpa, Peru at 1am on a Friday night, hiding behind a line of fire from a disgruntled elephant in Nepal, being spat at by a witch in La Paz, not to mention having my ipod thoroughly examined by a border guard while entering North Korea (in case it was a sneaky device used by Irish spies). When I first came up with the ridiculous idea of quitting my job and going travelling I never would have guessed that a highlight would be sitting on the flat roof of an adobe hut, lit only by moonlight, sharing a roasted cob of corn with my ‘best friend’, The Little Prince.

 As I have less than a week left in Paga I had decided to pay an extended  overnight visit to his village which is a 35 minute cycle from just north of the middle of nowhere in ruralGhana. They have no electricity, so after the spectacular sunset had finished decorating the surrounding savannah the huts were lit only by the occasional small fire as the women prepared the evening meal, and the moonlight which also lit up the surrounding fields of maize and corn in a magical silver twinkle. Not enough to make out any individual plants but enough for your imagination to run free and picture the animals and people coming home after a hard day’s work in the fields. Not a mobile phone in sight, the nearest signal might appear only after a good 15 minute cycle down the nearest dirt road, if you are lucky.

 Chatting on the roof before dinner, overlooking the walled compound of eleven or so huts – otherwise known as the Chief’s Palace – I had noticed a few structures in the compound which had seriously deteriorated, with no roofs or any visible signs of inhabitants. Those families have died out My Little Prince explained,  also many leave to go to the city, if they do then their huts are abandoned, waiting for new people to one day move in. I asked if anyone ever returns here to live after being in the city. Sure he replied, they sometimes come back with wives or sometimes they just return after they have found what they had been looking for. He didn’t offer what it might be they might be looking for and I didn’t want to ask – I just loved the idea that sometimes they found it and returned to this simple place satisfied.

 People sleep out on the flat roofs when the temperature gets unbearable during the dry season. Or sometimes they just come up to eat roasted corn and chat – like this evening.

 I learned that My Little Prince wasn’t really the son of the chief. His father had died when he was a child and now he looks after his mother, grandmother and three siblings. He toils in the fields during the rainy season, tending and harvesting crops that will hopefully keep them fed in the coming ten months of dry season. The Chief probably calls him a prince because he lives on the ‘palace’ compound. Or maybe it’s because it’s because he is so genuine, kind and admirable that that is the very least honour that should be bestowed on him.

 As well as taking care of his family he also continues his education, cycling for an hour each way to the school in the next big town, Navrongo.  Every day he gets up at 5am and when he gets home after 5pm he does his homework by the light of a tiny, dim, battery fed light. Never once have I heard him complain about anything. Far from it, he is proud of his village and his family and his eagerness to learn more.

 He lives in a hut that has one tiny thin mattress on the ground, a ledge that has his school books, some pamphlets and a Bible. There is just about enough room for two plastic chairs and a fold away table which he opens out only at meal times. The roof is made of strips of interwoven wood which occasionally lets in some water during the heavy rains he admitted with a giggle. He gave me his bed for the night while he slept (or said he did although I seriously question anyone’s ability to do it) on the hard ground of his hut in the space where the chairs are usually kept.

 That night the whole village came together in honour of the visit of some other volunteers and myself who were all staying in the area. They heated up the goat skins of their drums over the naked flames of little fires they kept burning for this purpose. Special whistle players were invited for the occasion and a talented man used an overturned metal bucket and a stick to add to the very African rhythm of the night.

 With the drumming getting more and more frantic a circle was formed and the least self-conscious of villagers began dancing, one at a time, displaying what at times looked like a chicken having an epileptic fit. Awkward white men dancing this was not!  As the night progressed, more and more people joined the festivities coming from homes and farms from all around the area – each eager to have their few seconds to display their dancing prowess in the midst of the enthusiastic onlookers.

 The importance of such an event was explained to me later. They only happen twice a year or so maybe for a wedding or funeral and it’s when the single members of the communities hope to choose a partner – presumably picking their favourite chicken dancer of the group. The dancers were lit by a sole torch shone down on the circle by the tallest member of the group who must have had an unbearably sore arm by the end of the night. Dust was kicked up into the air as the frantic dancers stamped their legs and flapped their arms, the torch light illuminating the falling dust as if a substitute for dry ice.

 In the morning My Little Prince brought me a breakfast of soup and Tuo Zafi (TZ) – a jelly like substance made of grains and other unidentified squidgy ingredients. You break some off and use it to scoop up the soup – all with your hand. Nobody told me that the TZ is scalding but I learned that instantly as I plunged my hands deep into it and let out a roar. I can’t see Kellogs marking it as a new breakfast option but it was great to have another slice of life in the village – even if it did result in second degree burns.

 It was only one night – a few hours really but a wonderful opportunity to step momentarily into another’s shoes. After our chat on the rooftop the evening before we had spent a good ten minutes there, in silence munching on the delicious corn which had been prepared on the open fire in front of his hut moments before, picked from the field a couple of hours before that. I didn’t want to ask any more questions and he seemed to enjoy just sitting there too, happy for two friends to simply gaze below at the moonlit village or up into the starry sky. It is this moment that will be my most valued memory of my time in Ghana.

 As I fell asleep later I wondered if any new couples were formed. I found myself saying a quick prayer that even one match was made – maybe one hut would be restored and a new family would grow to live in this special community. I also wondered if I would ever get a chance to return and see if that had happened.

 Who knows, maybe some day after I have found whatever it is I am looking for…


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Categories : Africa, Ghana

Got a long taxi ride

9 09 2011

A trip to the internet café is always an eventful process which takes most of a day and a lot of patience and bravery to complete. It’s in the nearest city, Bolgatanga (it’s too hot here to waste energy with long words though so the locals just call it Bolga) which of course involves a taxi and waiting until three other people decide to go to the same destination.

While waiting this morning amid the justle and bustle of the taxi rank I became engrossed in a card game between two taxi drivers. They were playing the only card game in Ghana which I had eagerly learned the rules for. I decided that it must be the only game in the country when I asked what it is called and was informed that it is simply called ‘card game’.

While keeping a tally of the score in my head I felt two little hands grab my legs. They belonged to a tiny girl, about four years old, all dressed in her finest, as if off to church. I looked up just in time to see the man who had delivered her to me cycle off speedily. I looked down again with confusion and tried chatting to her. She just continued holding my legs and gazing at my face with two huge, captivating eyes. Her expression didn’t change in the slightest even as I was becoming more and more worried that I had suddenly become responsible for a child. What if my taxi is ready to leave I started panicking. Should I take her with me? I can’t leave her all alone in this taxi rank. It’s too close to the border, you never know who might be about.

I told myself not to be ridiculous – I couldn’t just take her with me. Could I? Maybe it’s a sign. Perhaps it’s my destiny to look after her. I began imagining taking her to all my favourite spots in Ireland. A few more minutes went by and before I knew it I had started wondering about how to go about instigating a legal adoption. Just then a woman appeared from behind a shed, dressed in an adult version of the girl’s pretty dress. She nodded at me, said something in the local language and then took the girl’s hand and off they went together – leaving me all alone and wondering how close I had actually come to kidnapping.

But there was no time to seriously question what had happened as three other souls had been rounded up and my taxi was ready to leave. I got in the back seat and noticed that the car wasn’t just transporting the five humans but we were accompanied by ten (!) goats. There were fifteen hearts beating in that vehicle all thumping just a little quicker than normal considering the road situation in Ghana. Every time we spied another person on the road either on a bicycle, motorbike, walking or sitting by the side of the road we honked at them. This wasn’t to say hello but rather – watch out – we’re coming through and we’re bigger and faster than you and are far more likely to win.

If cows are the ubiquitous animal of India goats are their equivalent in Ghana. They are everywhere; on top of walls, tied to trees, hanging out in the baskets of bicycles, skipping along merrily in yards and scampering about scaring the wits out of chickens. They are tiny little creatures about the size of a medium dog and wander about the place without a worry in the world. Unfortunately this devil-may-care attitude of theirs is also displayed on the roads where they have a treacherous habit of appearing out of nowhere right in front of your vehicle’s wheels. I have had many almost goatacides myself and witnessed a motorbike go right over one only a few days ago. (Both parties survived although the goat was definitely more vocal in the aftermath as the motorcyclist barely registered anything at all and just continued his journey undeterred.)

The sight of any goat on the horizon had our taxi driver on full honk mode and every time he used the horn this terrified our own herd in the back, provoking them into a chorus of frenzied bleating. I began to wonder if the driver and the animals were competing to see who could be louder. Sitting in the back I can guarantee that the goats won – hoofs down.

I arrived in Bolga and did my internet business, calling upon all my reserves of patience when the internet connection disappeared for up to ten minutes at a time (usually while in the middle of downloading a file or sending an e mail).

Then it was time to begin the taxi process back to Paga. Again I was the only interested party in this particular direction so I sat down and commenced my wait. This being Ghana I instantly made a friend as the man sitting next to me introduced himself as Prosper and began quizzing me about Ireland. When I finished my stories he volunteered some information about himself. Before the taxi man called me I had learned all about his history growing up in Bolga and how after he got married his parents forced them to have a child. If we didn’t do it straight away my wife would be considered barren and I would be made to choose a different wife he told me with a hearty laugh.

I reluctantly left my new friend and got into the car. When all passengers were inside three strong men each grabbed a side of the car and began pushing it out of its parking space. (This makes it sounds like it had an actual parking spot when in reality all the taxis are crammed together in any space where they’ll fit, often four or five cars deep and at any angle that takes their fancy). This was a very inauspicious start to our journey and I wondered just how far they were planning on pushing us (Paga is a 40 minute drive away after all). The engine made a clanking, very unengine-like sound and the driver sighed. We rolled a little and came to a halt. He nipped out of the car, rounded up some more volunteers and repeated the process. In fact this happened three times until we made it as far as the gate to the main road when he finally admitted defeat and went off in search of a replacement.

The four of us stood by the side of the road laughing and hoping for a more roadworthy candidate. When it arrived we were satisfied it was a step up and I worried only a little about how shattered the window screen was. Sitting in the front seat I tried imaging how many accidents/scrapes the car had been in to earn so many war wounds. About halfway to Paga it began raining. Not the torrential downpours anymore that we’re used to, as we’re coming to the end of the rainy season. Sadly it’s more sunny spells and scattered showers these days. But the rain was heavy enough that seeing out the window soon became quite the challenge. The three boisterous passengers in the back became quieter and quieter as the rain progressed and it became clear that the window wipers couldn’t be employed. One sweep of them would surely be enough to bring an end to the illusion of a window that remained. To his credit the driver clearly made allowances and reduced his speed from 100km/h to about 90km/h.

I prayed that the goats would stay away, along with any person foolish enough to be out in the rain. If anything were to appear on the road now the chances of us being able to see it were miniscule.

But we made it back safe and sound. I had never been so grateful to see Paga and couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. This involved having to stand up as much as I could and reach my arm out of the car to open the door from the outside as the handle inside was long lost in one of the car’s many past adventures.

Walking back to the house I went through the morning again in my mind and couldn’t wait to write it all down for my blog. And then I realised with delicious irony that posting it on my blog would require another trip back to Bolga.


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Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone

5 09 2011

I’m a little concerned that the tone of your blog and that of your e mail to me don’t coincide my Occasionally Nefarious Friend wrote to me in his last e mail. I understand completely what he means but it’s a tricky one to answer. It’s the close to impossible task of explaining an experience that is both taxing and rewarding.

We have just over three weeks left in Ghana: two in Paga. Some days can be so difficult that the early bed times are a relief. I spend my working days testing a stream of sick people hoping that they will get the treatment they need and deserve. We reuse everything in the clinic apart from needles. Slides for blood samples are all washed and reused until they barely resemble anything that was made from glass. Containers for urine samples likewise. When a stool sample is to be tested I have to dilute it with a solution before stirring it with a twig which I then use to transfer some to the slide for analysis. And that only happens if the electricity is on. Power cuts here are more regular than commercials are on TV at home. With no power we cannot use the microscopes and the sick people simply have to wait, in the oppressive heat – hoping that they’ll get some sort of result which they can then take back to the consultant who will decide if there are drugs available for treatment.  Most of the people are sick with Malaria but there are also many cases of typhoid and other mysterious illnesses that we haven’t a hope of guessing given our resources. Seeing so many pregnant ladies and very young children horribly ill with a disease like malaria that will continue in this area for far too long into the future is depressing beyond words.

Amid all this I am working with three wonderfully upbeat, friendly and competent people. The best I could wish for really. Their jokes and the fact that I can make a wailing child giggle by just producing a lollipop can often make up for just about anything I may be feeling.

I come home and then face more and more rice for lunch and dinner before taking a ‘shower’ with a bucket of cold water. Some days, depending on my mood it can be invigorating, other days it has me cursing – in Dutch just so as I don’t offend anyone within earshot.

I check my kindle constantly for e mails from friends or comments on my blog and these give me more energy than you could ever expect. It’s not that I am lonely here. You are never far from anyone in Paga and they are genuinely the friendliest people I’ve met in all my travels; so welcoming and open. But of course they aren’t my people and I know I’ll be leaving them shortly. Contact with home or a reaction on my blog grounds me so well, helps me remember that I have great friends and family all of my own just waiting for me to return.

A short while ago after a particularly tough day when we had both been ill and had experienced all sorts of difficult situations I reminded My Very Own Newfoundlander that there were only three weeks left. We’re on the home stretch I chirped encouragingly.

I know he replied with a straight face, it’s the ‘stretch’ part that I worry about.

And I know only too well that as much as I cannot wait for a hot shower, a washing machine and a well stocked supermarket that I will miss so much of this place – most likely as soon as I touch down in Europe again. I will miss the two goats always outside our house. The male is just getting over a cold which caused the cutest goat sneezes imaginable. The female is pregnant and getting bigger by the day. I was scandalised to learn that her partner couldn’t have been the father as he had been neutered. My very own soap opera outside my window. Who needs a television?

I will miss Weja who cares for us two like a mother – despite being a young man who should have thousands of other things to occupy his time rather than looking after two needy foreigners. I would love to have the chance to take him to Ireland some day and repay his kindness and generosity. It makes me horribly sad to think that the likelihood of this ever happening is close to zero.

I will yearn for the amazing greetings I receive here, always with a big smile and an extravagant welcome. Or how whenever anyone sits to eat they look at you, smile and say you are invited, which means you are welcome to share their food, no matter how little they may have.

I know I will be thinking about my little prince as I sit at home in Ireland wandering if there was enough rain for the crops to feed his family or if the rumour that they will finally get electricity has materialised. I will miss his wonderful eager smile whenever he sees me, the one that never ceases to produce the mirror image in my own expression.

I will not miss how unorganised and chaotic things can be at times. How there isn’t always enough food or medicine and how goddamn difficult some people’s lives are here How when it rains people just don’t bother going to work. Or how those sick people have to wait so long to get treatment.

And I think everyone knows where I stand on food, showering, laundry and belly aches.

So it’s a complete mixture of thoughts, experiences and emotions. It hasn’t been easy. Has it really been all that hard for me? Not by a long shot– it’s just far too easy to moan. You don’t miss what you never had and the problem is that I’ve had a very blessed life up until now. If I had had any doubts beforehand, living here has made that remarkably clear.

One particular day will stick out – which in a way encompasses how many emotions spin together for me in Paga. I found out through a text message from home that my aunt had passed away. I was on a minibus coming back from the village where my little prince lives. While it wasn’t out of the blue as she had been ill for a while now it is always a shock. I kept my reaction at bay until the bus brought me to my bike and I began my cycle back to the house. As I raced down the hill I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, remembering how she made me a special Christmas pudding for the first Christmas I spent away from home. How I always looked forward to her and my uncle’s visits when I was a kid. Imagining how she would once have played with my father as a child. My Aunt, Uncle and my Dad all no longer with us.

As I sped along on my bike through my watery eyes I noticed I was being greeted on both sides of the road – Hello White Man on one side, Welcome White Man on the other all waving and beaming at me. This continued for my entire journey back interspersed by groups of laughing children who would ran after me waving and singing Fella Fella Good Morning. By the time I had reached my door I honestly didn’t know if I was laughing or crying any more. I certainly wished I could have been with my family but I was also comforted by the fact that while that wasn’t possible – this was really not a bad alternative.

Certainly not for this lucky white man.


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Categories : Africa, Ghana, travel, travelling

What’s that coming over the hill, is it a monster?

2 09 2011

Incredibly, the day after I wrote the blog post about the snake, I discovered a scorpion in our toilet! The room, not the bowl.

This is a source of endless debate between my Very Own Newfoundlander and myself. Toilets that is, not scorpions. He maintains that a toilet is just the bowl and the room should be referred to as a Wash Room. This. I admit, is at least a step up from the American term Bathroom. I refuse to accept that a room without a bath can deserve that very specific title. But similarly I protest that a room with only a toilet, as we have here in Paga, – the sink is in the hallway – surely cannot be a washroom as no washing occurs within its walls. When he recently informed me that he was off to use the washroom while walking in a field recently I just had to laugh, imagining hidden plumbing behind a baobab tree – the bark decked out with a mirror and fresh towel waiting, hanging crisply over a nearby stalk of maize.

But I digress – a scorpion – yes indeed, a scary, vicious looking monster. Lurking in our dimly lit room where people go to relieve themselves. As I walked in I saw something scuttle behind the bucket of water we use to flush. It was so quick and noisy as it scampered that I assumed it was a cockroach or some species of frog. Neither option bothered me enough to postpone my business and so I merrily continued until it was time to flush. I lifted up the bucket, revealing the identity of the imposter, and thus began the meanest stare off I have ever participated in. It was ugly. It was enormous. It was a spider. It was an ugly enormous spider exhibiting two weapons cocked and ready, one at either side of the eyes that were glaring at me. We both stood our ground, each undoubtedly out of fear. Granted I was much larger but felt distinctly unarmed with nothing but an empty bucket to defend myself.

And so I slowly stepped on the toilet – the bowl, not the room – never once taking my eyes off my potential killer. I yelled for MVON to come quickly. I didn’t even mention what room I was in – there was no time for semantics, no matter how right I was. He simply had to follow the sound of my shrieks.

Find me a weapon – quickly I ordered.  Preferably something that might give me the advantage over the two pistons of poison aimed in my direction I thought. MVON fled and the stare-off continued, each of us rooted to our respective positions – neither willing to concede any territory. Deciding that my back-up was taking far too long and this cold war missile crisis needed to reach a solution I grabbed the only object within reach – a toilet brush. And summoning all the bravery I never knew I had – I plunged. Over and over again pounding the body of the biggest, most threatening spider I had ever seen. This was no toilet duck – it was a venomous monster and it was clear that there could only be one survivor.

Death by toilet brush – it has to be one of the most undignified ways for your existence to be brought to a close. Disgusting – on so many levels – but ultimately successful. We had a victor and I triumphantly dismounted the bowl.

Instantly I ran to my faithful Kindle to investigate an identity line-up of killer spiders of Ghana. Within a few minutes of frantic googling I had uncovered a picture of my late nemesis. Pride in my warrior prowess grew enormously when I read that it wasn’t even a spider but actually a scorpion. A Tailless Whip Scorpion to be exact! I battled a scorpion – and won. Little old me – who knew I had it in me?

And then the next line deflated my ego mercilessly. The Tailless Whip Scorpion is perfectly harmless to humans.

 I turned off my kindle in disgust and with a sense of shame and regret for having massacred an innocent creature. Nobody needs to know that part of the story I decided. The squashed arachnid did not have a monopoly on being taleless.

We eventually calmed down enough to go to bed – leaving the monstrous corpse where it was so we could impress people the next day.

But in the morning when we woke it had disappeared. No trace whatsoever. Had something eaten it during the night? A peckish lizard? A rodent with a curious culinary taste? Or had he somehow managed to come back to life – as happens in all horror movies and was currently plotting its revenge? Maybe it gave off a special death scent and ten of them came to collect him and are planning an attack suggested MVON.

Well so what I decided – my kindle assured me it was harmless – and I repeated the phrase over and over every time I needed to use the toilet – all the while ensuring I was within easy reach of the deadly toilet brush. The toilet is now a potential battle field – both the bowl AND the room.


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I’ll send all my love every day in a letter

1 09 2011

Before I began my travels I ensured all my shots and vaccinations were in order. In the Netherlands they furnish you with a nifty booklet the colour of a sunflower that looks just like a passport (if perhaps your nation of origin was a yellow submarine). It proved that I would win any battle with yellow fever, cholera, typhoid, Hepatitis B, and tetanus. And indeed it worked – I never got sick – all throughout Asia (even in India – practically the inventor of tummy upsets) and South America.

My inoculations were still valid for my trip to Africa so all I needed was some new anti-malarial drugs. But it seems Africa is a force that even my funky little yellow book couldn’t compete with.

The first sign of illness surfaced in my trusty netbook which I had brought everywhere with me (even into North Korea where it was thoroughly examined with curiosity and mistrust). With it I blogged, kept up to date with the news and stayed in touch with everyone at home. Sadly it hadn’t been vaccinated against anything and had come down with a serious case of the Js. J-itis if you will.

When I opened a new word file it would automatically start typing lines of Js as if possessed by a ghost focused on that one single letter. Oddly enough though if I actually needed to type a J it refused. It was either hundreds of Js or none at all. This meant updating my blog became an almost insurmountable chore. I began making a list of words with Js in them and casting them out of my vocabulary mercilessly.

And then it hit me. My stomach felt like it was also being possessed and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the Js had somehow started multiplying in there too. Was there such a thing as Hepatitis J? My plan of attack was a course of antibiotics which seemed to help somewhat. I had two whole days when I thought I had fully recovered and then out of nowhere came the big sneak attack. Without wanting to go into details I filled the toilet bowl with Js all night long. What about my yellow book I pleaded with them? This shouldn’t be happening. I am ridiculously careful with what I eat, always disinfect my hands and have a very cautious relationship with street food.

And then, sometime later, just like my computer I couldn’t produce even a single J.

I was out for a few more days – for the first time ever in my life I had no appetite – couldn’t eat a thing for two whole days. And when I tried to distract myself by writing, my computer was going crazy filling the screen with that single letter – over and over again. Until one morning out of the blue, it began behaving again.

Right now we both appear to be in remission. Both my body and the computer seemingly restored to their correct states – healed by time and hope. But I am wary and anxious having previously been fooled into believing this prematurely. Who knows when they might strike again?

So I decided to make hay while the sun shone (before the next torrential downpour). I stuffed my face with as much food as possible and would now like to state for the record that I am partial to jokes, japes, jade, high jinks, jabs, objects, rejects, subjects, jeans and jewellery.

This journey hasn’t adjourned just yet!


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On account of all the rattlesnakes

24 08 2011

The creepy crawly section of my guide book had been purposely left unread until I had arrived in Ghana and was well settled in Paga. There was always the chance that I would chicken out after reading the lengthy list of undesirable animals just waiting to make my acquaintance. Of course I wouldn’t have admitted that they were the reason. Instead I’d blame my bank balance (which in truth is far scarier than any beast mentioned in my book) or the hand written note I had received from the Ghanaian embassy in Ireland telling me that as I only had one blank page left in my passport, strictly speaking they shouldn’t have issued me my visa. But they did, and of course I arrived.

And recently I collected all my courage and studied what was outside my door waiting for me to discover or more worryingly, what was waiting to discover me.

We share our bedroom with a couple of hundred ants. The first few nights this troubled me but now I am so used to seeing various particles of debris being industriously transported from one side of the room to the other that I hardly notice them at all. I wouldn’t say that I’ve particularly warmed to our room mates, it’s just that a) there’s nothing we can do about them and b) they ARE helping to keep the floor clean.

The guidebook gives a detailed litany of insects, spiders and snakes whose entire existence it seems are devoted to hurting foreigners. Well, not really. It actually says that you are more likely to be hurt on the road in a traffic accident than by any animal – but still. The fact remains there are tonnes of them out there, hiding and ready to pounce. Besides, having just about rid myself of the fear of travelling by cars held together by elastic bands and the collected hope of five passengers, I felt I could now devote more time to my African wildlife fears.

One night we discovered a fairly big spider on the wall: minding his own business, just watching us patiently from his comfy corner. Is this one of the deadly varieties I immediately needed to know and raced off to find our minder, saviour, cook and general font of all Ghanaian knowledge, Weja. Weja is only 22 but seems twenty years older, is impressively tall and as strong as an ox. I feel like I am an eleven year old wimp in his presence.

Weja came out to look at our interloper and quickly answered my direct question – is this one dangerous? I said it in what I attempted to be a voice that displayed only curiosity. Or perhaps curiosity laced with manly bravery. Any such pretence dissolved instantly when his answer, equally straightforward was – yes – he is dangerous. I leapt to the back of the room, all but crouching behind the couch as my hero got a shoe and brought the spider’s life to an abrupt end. Only then did I venture back towards the centre of the room, with hands in my pockets acting as if I could have done that too – had I just wanted to. Weja being just as tactful as he is wise and brave just gave me a knowing manly nod – as if in recognition of my feigned bravery.

From that evening on we slept in a mosquito net wrapped tightly around the mattress. We had not once seen a mosquito inside thanks to an impressive network of protective screens and doors – but now we knew that there were other species liable to walk on in and make a home in our living quarters.

My book also informed me that there is a certain devious insect that is attracted to laundry drying on the line. It hides itself on your clean clothes and then lays eggs while you are wearing it… I closed the book when I got that far not wanting to know what came next. I feared that if I got to the end of the sentence I would be walking about in the same dirty clothes for the next few months. And bearing in mind how hot it is here and how I could compete in a sweating Olympics – that just wasn’t an option. Forget about bliss, ignorance is cleanliness in this case.

All was going well on my dangerous animal avoidance scheme until yesterday when I bounded out of the house happy that the sun had returned after a few days of rain. There in front of me, right on the doorstep was a snake! Now, we are not taking a massive python but a small, thin snake about ¾ metre long. I froze. Weja wasn’t about and neither was My Very Own Newfoundlander. I spent a good two minutes staring at him trying to figure out from his body language if he was of a dangerous variety or not.

I decided to grab my camera – why I’m not sure – proof that he was here? Evidence of his species in case I was bitten? Gruesome curiosity?

While trying to take a close-up from a remarkably long distance I was spotted by a group of about ten men who were enjoying the shade of the nearby trees. Hey, white man – what are you doing? one called over.

Snake! I replied S-s-s-s-snake!

They instantly came over to check it out – at a very slow, cautious pace.

Now, I said, assuming my fake manly pose, would he be a nasty dangerous one or simply a sly one?

 The response had me inching further and further away from the snake and the group with my camera clutched in my shaking hands: He is a very wicked snake!

 Deciding that wicked just wasn’t a characteristic I felt needed to be captured on my camera I scuttled behind the group as they assembled an arsenal of weapons to use on the creature. Some grabbed rocks while others went to snap branches from the trees.

One man took control and within seconds had whacked the poor creature, repeatedly, before deftly catching his head in the fork of the branch so he could dangle the dead snake in front of us. After a short examination by the group he flung the body into the grass nearby.

Thank you very, very much I managed to utter as the blood came slowly back to my head.

No problem he answered. Welcome to Africa white man.


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Daniel you’re a star

17 08 2011

Each night, just before sleep the last thing I ask My Very Own Newfoundlander is what his most surreal moment of the day was. It’s telling that I’m only looking for one – the most standout of the day – because you can be assured that there will have been a number to choose from. He then returns the question and happy to have exchanged that day’s top stories we can finally sleep.

One night it was about the crazy man, dressed in flowing black robes who tried to high kick him while walking down the main street in the nearest city, Bolgatanga. Like a crazed crow the man had fluttered his arms, let out a slow yelp and raised his leg high enough to reach MVON’s arm. We managed to scare him away, without sustaining injury but with a good answer for that day’s anecdote.

Another was about the foreign exchange office we had visited. To our bemused confusion we discovered that they offered different exchange rates for different denominations of the US dollar: 50s having a better value than 20s. We tried reasoning with him that a dollar is a dollar no matter what president’s face is on the note but he wasn’t having any of it. As his was the only exchange office in town we had to reluctantly concede. There was a government notice on the wall stating that the office was obliged to offer the official rate advertised. This was clearly used only as decoration as they had their own unique concept of the financial world.

My latest surreal moment, like many others, occurred in a taxi while driving to the city’s internet café. I sat in the front, saying private prayers to whoever might listen as the vehicle trembled and shook along the road, at speeds far beyond what could be expected of an antique without any mirrors, dashboard, handles or upholstery. To take my mind off the road ahead and the real terror of goats aimlessly wandering out into our path, I gazed out at the passing savannah lands and ditches where tired locals sat under the shade of enormous trees, calabash bowls at their feet brimming with eggs they hoped to sell. When the driver twirled the dial on the radio, and finally choose a station playing music at deafening volumes my attention was yanked suddenly back to the moment. It sounded just like…no, it couldn’t be….did the singer just sing about Bundoran and Donegal? Holy mother of tea parties. Daniel O’Donnell was blaring at me, in the northern tip of Ghanawhen Irelandcouldn’t have been further from my thoughts. I sat in shock, for the first time not worrying about surviving the car ride. The song ended and went straight into another – this time it was Galway Bay. I was suddenly incredibly excited, in a Ghanaian taxi shared with four other locals. I couldn’t help myself – this is about my country – I proudly announced. The driver raised one eyebrow and somewhat unimpressed, asked which country that was. Ireland! I sang out wishing that they acknowledged just how odd this all was, at this moment, in this place, in this bone rattling taxi. He simply lowered his eyebrow and said Oh…, in a most unimpressed tone, clearly not interested in pursuing the conversation. It being Daniel O’Donnell I suppose I can’t blame the poor man’s disinterest, especially when two more of his songs were played before the station went into a newscast. This is even odder to swallow considering that this is the very first ‘western’ music I have heard inGhana, anywhere.

When I finally arrived in the city the first person I met was a jolly man fromNigerwho informed me that he was collecting scrap metal. Apologising that I didn’t have any to offer he instead gave me a hearty handshake and wished me a good day. Still reeling from the strangeness of my morning I sat down in front of the computer ready to post my latest blog post. I plugged my USB stick into the computer tower and immediately received an ugly, sharp, electric shock.

Having not even made it to lunch time yet I was going to have some job picking the standout moment later on that night. Plus there was another hectic taxi ride ahead of me just to get back to Paga, with goats, motorcycles, egg sellers and lord only knows what music to contend with.


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Categories : Africa, travel, travelling

My life’s an open book

16 08 2011

One of the things that has delighted me most in Ghanais the discovery that baobab trees really exist. I had only ever come across them in one of my very favourite books, The Little Prince, when the title character was perpetually worried that they would take over his tiny planet. I had always assumed that they were fictional.  

 When I saw my first in reality, I was frozen to the spot. I had never imagined such a colossal tree could exist. It was enormous, not just in height but even more impressively in its width. You could easily have fitted fifteen regular tree trunks into that one specimen. How many people would have to link hands to circle the circumference I wondered. And how many years had it taken this incredible living thing to achieve such a stature. I was quite simply awestruck. I loved it instantly. Especially considering it had extra magic from The Little Prince sprinkled all over it.

 Its fruit hangs from the tip of its boughs like Christmas ornaments which just adds to the unusual spectacle. They quickly became one of my favourite things aboutGhanaand whenever I cycle past one I admire its grandiosity and elegance. I wasn’t in the least surprised to discover that the people here consider these trees to be sacred. From the first one I saw I felt exactly the same.

 The plant life here is quite confusing at times. Ripe oranges are green in colour as is a certain variety of tomato. They have thick, lush, green leaves belonging to lord knows what plant that they use to make a delicious stew. Pea nuts are to be found everywhere although I’m finding it hard to get used to eating them fresh, when they taste more like a pea than a nut (which of course makes sense as they are actually a legume). Even more strangely the egg yokes here are white and look like they might be made of white chocolate.

It seems like almost anyone who is anyone in Paga has their own goat. They are tiny little things, the size of small dogs. Initially I naively thought they were being kept as pets – simply because they were so cute, especially when they sneezed or bleated their good mornings in jolly high-pitched notes. You will find these goats tied to trees, being led by men on bicycles, or simply wandering about the place as if completing their daily chores.

 I was devastated to discover their true fate. Most people here don’t own fridges, so keeping their food alive and tied to the nearest tree is as about as fresh as they can keep dinner.

 Once while visiting the village of my best friend, the prince, I was proudly informed by a farmer that their produce is so natural and devoid of chemicals that even vegetarians could eat their goats and chickens. I nodded in feigned fascination and declined to mention my own thoughts on the subject. And then I looked to my right at one of those majestic baobab trees, as always basking in its glory and wonder.

 And only then did I make the connection. Here to my left was a stunning baobab tree, just metres away from me, large enough to possibly cause its own tiny gravity field. And to my right, my very own enchanting little prince, who I have also come to love, for his genuine, kind and simple nature.  I haven’t smiled so much in years.


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You don’t have to take your clothes off, to have a good time

15 08 2011

Ghana is probably the most religious country I have ever been to. In the north where I am it’s a hefty mixture of devout muslims and enthusiastic Christians – of varying denominations. Apparently the followers of the church attached to the school I’ve been volunteering in speak in tongues. I haven’t been to a service yet – partly because I’m already struggling with the established languages of the region without adding this to the mix. The main reason however is that I simply cannot seem to get my act together to make it up the hill that early on a Sunday morning.

People of all ages listen to Christian songs blaring from their phones and use colourful pictures of Jesus as their screen saviour (sic). Inexplicably, as all over the world, Jesus is always portrayed as being white.

Even the shops proudly advertise their faith by means of the name painted on wood over the entrance. The Irish shop names pale in comparison to their Ghanaian equivalents: which include ‘God is Patient Enterprises’, ‘Allah is never wrong grocery shop’, ‘Jesus Can Do It Better Phone Shop’ and my all time favourite ‘Is God Stationary’, selling, yes, stationery. The lack of punctuation and the particular spelling has me wondering if they mean ‘Is God? – Stationery’, or are they really questioning his movements. Either way it’s my favourite shop name ever – competing only with a barber shop in Tralee called ‘Barber Eile’ a joke only an Irish speaker and fan of the bizarre 60’s sci-fi film will enjoy. With all this godliness about I was becoming increasingly concerned of late that it was simply a front for a seedier element in the society. I kept on hearing whispers about cases of flashing in the area. I simply couldn’t imagine it here – just north of the middle of nowhere. Where exactly was it going on? I had visions of lurid men jumping out from behind the tall corn fields to shock the women into unbalancing their loaded heads. As I heard of more and more occurrences I began to seriously worry about this little town I’ve grown so fond of.

And then today it happened to me; at work of all places. I was getting ready to leave, had said my goodbyes to my colleagues, wishing them all a pleasant evening when as I was just out the door the head technician shouted out at me ‘Conor, I just flashed you!’. I was rooted to the spot and slowly turned around, in terror, not knowing what to expect amid the blood samples, lancets and microscopes. But he was just standing there smiling at me, fully dressed with his jacket nicely buttoned up. Seeing my obvious confusion he explained to me that he had just rung my phone and hung up so I’d have his number. It’s called ‘flashing’ he continued, if someone doesn’t have enough credit to ring you they’ll dial and then hang up before you answer. That way you can call them back. It means you’ve been flashed.

I cycled home in relief, happy to know that god isn’t as stationary as I had feared. And then I wondered who I could flash…


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Categories : Africa, travelling, Travels

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