The sound of silence...

I had been asked to run a session for an NGO (non government organisation) based in another district to that I live in.  The session was to form part of a STIME (Science, Technology, Innovation and Maths Education) residential camp with a 3:4 ratio of girls: boys, promoting Science Technology Innovation and Maths alongside ‘the girl child’ (it’s one of those Ghanaian English terms).There were to be forty children in total to attend.  I set a simple task for children with a skills focus on team work, they were to design and make a bridge out of newspaper.  This particular NGO who had requested support has the words ‘education’ and ‘inclusion’ in its name in some way.  This is an important fact; keep it in mind as you read on...  I sent an e mail request for the ‘small small’ (Ghanaian English) requirements for the session a couple of weeks in advance of it due to happen. The day before the boundaries set were changed, ten more children were to be included; five students from the deaf school (but only because it was being held there) and five disabled students from mainstream school…(great idea, all about inclusion…but why wasn’t it thought about before?)  He suggested I group all the disabled children together… I suggested that in promoting ‘inclusion’, If he was happy, I would in fact have one boy and disabled child in a group with 3 girl children..…’yes, yes, yes!’ he said ‘great idea we must include… but how will they talk to each other we only have one interpreter?’…’they can use their hands to gesture and write down things…’ I said flummoxed ‘it will all help to promote them working as a team on the problem set’.  In order for the deaf children's experience to be as good as the others I needed to amend things, write teaching and learning resources for the session etc as now my voice would not be enough and, not for the first time in my life, I regretted once more never learning sign.  Plan B commenced.  On the day I had a lot to do.  The session wasn’t to start until 2.30 pm but I needed to get to Navrongo to pick up some photocopying I had done for a session I am to run next year (a 60km round trip and apparently cheaper than Bolga). Around 10.15am I received a text from a VSO colleague who was also supporting the camp: 'utter mayhem here.  Not enough children. We are basically out in the car trying to grab children off the street to make up numbers! No electricity in the dining room either! Already sat around since 7.30am.  Matthew* just arrived.'  That text arrived at 10.16 am.  Mathew is the 'organiser'.  It would seem that my session was unlikely to be at 2.30 . The need for electricity was stipulated in an email 2 weeks ago along with my other list of requirements but it wasn’t necessary and, following the reply from my colleague, clearly not available... 'plan B' scrapped.... better get Plan C into action....  I did wonder why I was bothering to get Plan C into action for my 90 minute session when the ‘organiser’ barely appeared to be using his own Plan A for the two days worth of activities and a residential stay.  In fact plan A for Matthew appeared to be simply following a set of words in order on a page but ignoring any reference to timings.  I discovered this when I eventually caught up with him about 3.30pm.  He appeared to want to just plough through every item on the itinerary for the day come what may, no matter how long it was going to take.  We had to leave at 5/5.30pm at the latest as we had a 40 minute ride home on some dodgy roads and we didn't fancy doing it in the dark.  The judges who had arrived at about 1.30 to do the judging of the Science projects were understandably cheesed off at the disorganisation (as too was I and I am still unsure as to how I didn't crack). 

Cow dung project

Something to do with rice project - I can't remember

Motion project

I suggested that he keep The ‘Judging Science projects’ session as the children had done the work for it and the judges where there and scrap mine and move the final session to the following day… he made some noises about me doing mine the next day (Saturday) too but I had made it clear previously I was travelling to Tamale so would be unable to help on the second day.  Ali and I had spent the afternoon making teaching and learning materials from the power point that was unable to be shown so it was slightly irritating it didn't happen but I can use it all again in a different way. 

On the plus side, we did spend time with the children from the deaf school – the venue for the camp, observing, communicating of sorts and generally getting a feel for the school which we probably wouldn’t have done had we had just gone in for what we were supposed to do. 

My deaf child friend

Trying to get this child to smile was amazingly funny!  

Can you see me at the back?  We were swarmed when the camera came out... they all wanted to be in the 'snap'!

The site was eerily quiet, even at dinner time in the huge hall.

A very quiet lunchtime

A lunch table

It was a strange feeling to have what appeared to be a successful school with out the hustle and bustle of a mainstream school. From afar the institution looks like a prison, solid green and white walls surround the massive site.  Buildings are spread haphazardly across the site making it a mammoth journey to get from the main entrance to the dining hall.  The toilets….I’ll leave it there for fear of vomiting…suffice to say my bladder was full.

Two things shocked me that day.  One when I was beckoning (the Ghanaian way) some deaf children to help move some furniture, a District Assembly (equivalent of our local council) worker said ‘they cannot, they are deaf and dumb you know’.  This shocked me as it implied you cannot attempt to converse with deaf people if you cannot sign (something Ali and I had been doing quite well all afternoon) and two; the use of the word ‘dumb’.  In this context the double meaning of not just unable to talk but unable to do as she seemed to be implying… which from my 5 hours in the school was not the case at all; very observant and hard working and helpful kids I would say.  Far from ‘dumb’. I ignored her and successfully communicated what was needed and the 4 children understood perfectly.  The second shocker involved the member of staff involved with the camp there to sign for the 5 children who were on it.  I was very aware we had a lot of deaf children hanging around desperate to see what was going on in their school that they were not invited to.  I was also aware it was 4pm and school was out, they were just hanging, waiting for food and bed (it was a boarding school).  I suggested to Matthew that the children could sit at the back and watch the science projects get judged and the interpreter could sign for all so they could see and understand what was going on.  Matthew agreed and I went to fill in the interpreter who said, and I quote, ‘Fine, but I hope I’m going to get paid for this’…  How I didn’t punch her lights out I don’t know…

*Name changed

Congo baths v’s Glasgow showers …

It would seem all nations like to jest with their close geographical neighbours; whether that be within country or between countries.  Ghanaians like to discuss the weather nearly as much as the British, so it was on enjoying one of these conversations sat up on the roof wrapped up in a hoodie with a couple of volunteers friends and a Ghanaian friend that the topic of ‘bathing during the harmattan’ came up.  Our Ghanaian friend explained the ‘Congo Bath’ where, you clean your feet, hands, face and brush your teeth… why is it called a ‘Congo Bath?’ asked my housemate ‘Because this is how us Ghanaians think people from the Congo bathe!’ he laughingly replied.  It was at this point when our Scottish vol friend shared the ‘Glasgow Shower’, defined as a simple spray of deodorant under both arms.  It would seem those from Inverness jest with their fellow Glaswegians bathing habits as much as the Ghanaians and Congonians.  Our Ghanaian friend reminded us that this African country rivalry extends to Ghana and Nigeria… Namely the actions of the Nigerian government which led to the ‘Ghana must go’ bags. For those of you unaware of the history of these bags I will explain the general gist; Scene is set in the 80’s in Nigeria. The President at the time flushed out thousands of illegal immigrants from a sub-region who had turned Nigeria into one big training camp for criminals.  Ghana had the highest number of illegal immigrants in Nigeria so it made the whole exercise look like it was directed at Ghanaians alone. They all left in long convoys of Mercedes Benz 911 trucks with their belongings packed into the familiar sack that now attracts the slogan ‘Ghana must go’.

This doesn’t have the same jesty undertones as the ‘Congo Bath’ and given the background, ironic that when we departed Accra for the far flung regions of the Upper East and West we were given our own ‘Ghana must go’ bags complete with bed sheets, pillow cases, water filter candles and a blanket.   My ‘Ghana must go’ bag is now used as my washing bag and sports a slightly less traditional design than the Tartan one Loui Vitton used for his catwalk collection.(http://www.style.com/fashionshows/review/S2007RTW-LVUITTON/).

Kwame our washer man with our 'Ghana must go' bags... mine is on the right, Hannah my housemate's is on the left.

Harmattan season.

The Harmattan refers to a particular season running from Oct/Nov – Jan/Feb when the rains stop, the winds increase and come from an north easterly direction off the Sahara. The day time temperature is hot (35-39 degrees) and the night time temperature gets decidedly cool (20-25 degrees), cool enough for another layer, at least for me, no fan at night and sometimes even a blanket for the bed.  I'm cold.  Yeap! Cold in Ghana is possible without sticking your head in the freezer (it’s been known!). It means showers in the morning are not possible, far better to wait for the heat of the day to warm up the water in the polytank and enjoy an early evening shower before the night temperature drop sucks the heat from the tank faster than it went in.  If this is not possible, a bucket bath is necessary which involves a kettle full of boiled water for comfort.  The sunsets are pretty cool; hazy, red with a slightly north African Egyptian or Moroccan feel to them - I've never been to either, maybe it’s the images I’ve picked up from the movies or maybe it’s just the sound of the Muslims and their early evening prayers as the sunsets that conger’s up that image… who knows.

Everything dries out dies (including your skin and lips and nails), the countryside and local vicinity goes from a lush green to straw yellow. People generally farm every available bit of land, including areas in between compounds in more built up areas such as where I live, so at this time of year when the crops are harvested, the land looks bare and the rubbish is visible… particularly the black rubbers. It was on our road trip to Zebilla where we could see where the thatch came for the traditional mud houses; stacked on the side of the road where bundles of long dried yellow grass, neatly tied and stacked. I could have been in 18^th century Britain, or 21^st century rural Norfolk….

It’s this lack of green and harvested crops that enables the Ghanaians to let their livestock ‘roam’.  Previous images I may have given you might have suggested this already happens, and it does, locally for small domesticated animals.  I’m now referring to the big ones.  Cows, African Cows with the hump (ugly looking things and always ‘humping each other’), donkeys, goats and such like.  Normally while the crops are growing, particularly in rural areas these animals are tethered so not to eat the crops.  It’s an unwritten Ghanaian law which everyone abides by as it would be no good to anyone if your cows ruined your neighbour’s livelihood.  When the crops have been harvested and food is less plentiful the livestock are untethered and allowed to roam to find food… or get run over.  It’s this time of year when accidents due to livestock increase.  All you have to do is remember; donkeys cannot see in the dark and will simply head for the lights (your headlights), cows walk across the road as a herd one by one (unless they are young, then take a much more skittish and less predictable route across the road).  Pigs, go to cross, then turn around, then turn around again, and again…. Best to just stop for a pig… and goats, bless their skippy jumps, like to jump, right out in front of you and give you no warning…. Don’t get me started on the bird varieties…

The dust, oh the dust.  It’s so… there….; You can feel it in the air, taste it, it accumulates in your nostrils and just 1 hour outside produces enough black snot to make you feel like you have spent the day in London… you can see it in the flash when you take a photo or ‘snap’ (as the Ghanaians would say) at night and it shows up like water spots on the lens but doesn’t convey the amount that is actually there…

Cleaning becomes frustrating and pointless.  As soon as you have swept and mopped the floors, you blink and it’s back. 

It is at this time of the year when the burning starts - visible long black streamers of ash float through the air (and get everywhere, including in the house), the smoke bellows, and the smell is thick.  Burning happens in two ways at this time of year; small local fires made by your neighbours to burn the rubbish which seems to accumulate far more due to the harmattan winds from the Sahara that displace it from wherever it was dropped.  There are also used to keep warm in the early mornings and evening (these are different to the fires produced year round for cooking and are much more contained in oil drums and such like, used to smoke fish and so on. Secondly; they avidly practice the slash and burn method of farming (no regard/understanding for carbon emissions, biodiversity etc, etc) which means huge patches of black wasteland develop. I prefer Ghana when it's hot!

Questions

Question:  How many solomeas can you fit in a Ghanaian taxi?

Answer: …7…. 2 in the front seat 4 on the back seat and one lying across all 4… and don’t forget the driver.

Question: how many plastic chairs can two White West African arsed solomeas break to the point of not being able to use over the space of two days?

Answer:  3…(I broke 2…Note to self: must reduce carb intake)

MSO/TSO meeting

After sat watching my ankle swell for far too long and considering how it resembled at times the belly of a pregnant goat I got round to suggesting/offering to organise a TSO meeting for the Northern regions. TSO stands for the role of ‘Teacher Support Officer.  Officially it would seem I am an SSO (Science Support Officer) which is effectively a Science TSO.  A TSO meeting was due, in fact slightly over due and us newbee’s (from the September intake) were keen to share our thoughts and find out more about various ‘big issues’ related to our role. I didn't want to put out any of the established vols but it would seem that I had some time to spare where as other who were mobile didn't, so it was agreed I would organise the meeting. I turned into an OCD meeting organiser, determined to run a tight ship for the two day meeting and prove it was doable even in Ghana; even if only to myself. The meeting was budgeted for and agreed on by the programme office.  Dates were agreed after some hurried phone calls and the promise of  the long trip coinciding with a party for those travelling from afar (making the gruelling 7 hour trip much palatable especially when having to contend with a 5 hour break down..) made for a much more agreeable invitation compared to a simple 2 day TSO meeting.  Accommodation was found for those travelling; the invites were extended to MSO’s (management support officers).  Attendees were fed watered and snacked up enough to give appropriate, insightful, interesting and valid inputs.  The meeting was a success; it started on time, finished on time (give or take a few minutes as opposed to hours), agenda items were observed, minuted, actioned, responsibility shared and deadlines given. A ‘SMART’, sharp meeting took place and I realised how much I missed the ‘western approaches’ to all things professional.  I do hope however that I hadn't been missing it so much that the meeting went far more the other way and was, shall I say, too ‘mechanical’ with not enough ‘organic’ elements….maybe I should have surrendered to the opening and closing prayers by way of acknowledging our meeting was in Ghana…..hummm.  The feedback was positive, even the mopped floor and rearranged seating was appreciated.  It was obvious that we had a great bunch of proactive MSO/TSO’s.  Maybe there could be some progress in the development context in the northern regions in Ghana?  On the other hand, maybe that’s too much to ask for…

TSO's working hard?!

Z-Fest in Z-Town

‘Z-Fest’ or ‘Zebilla Festival’ was the long awaited ‘Parrrrrrtaaay’ which was originally due to happen on Bonfire night but got postponed for reasons I can’t actually remember.  ‘Z-Town’ refers to ‘Zebilla Town’ where 5 fellow vols, fondly known as Zebillians after the town they reside in, work.  Zebilla is an hour tro or moto ride away hence the party becoming a Festival as it would also involve an old fashioned ‘sleepover’ and lots of tunes.

It’s not the greatest road to Zebilla, I certainly won’t ever complain about a pothole in the UK again.  You haven’t SEEN a pothole until you have ‘done’ the Zebilla road.  A few of my fellow Bolgans (AKA vols from Bolga) chose to make the journey in a convoy by moto.  Great road trip and I can safely say that dodging pot holes is in fact quite a good game… although I am not so sure I would be feeling the same way had I have come off.

Z-Town is a small village really, quite remote and rural and full of traditional round mud huts with only a scattering of the more modern concrete block compounds myself and my fellow vols live in, in Bolga.  There is however still a difference between these more rural compounds and the Bolga ones.  I have another vol friend who lives in Bongo - another rural idyll…. These rural concrete block compounds have no walled garden area…. Just walk straight out into a public area, which means everyone can walk straight under your windows or by your front door and you can’t ‘hide’ as I admit I have sometimes found myself doing when not quite up to greeting for the 50 millionth time that day. The areas that allow access to the rooms are open or semi open which means moving from one room to the next involves no privacy whatsoever at all.  Bottom line; everyone knows when you go to the loo and you can never walk around your house naked.

We arrived in Z-Town intact and in good time, enough time to help with the last minute preparations, shower and put on our party dresses.  It was held at ‘Friends Garden’ a ‘Spot’ or bar, just a short walk from where we were staying.  The atmosphere was perfect which my 8 cedi Christmas lights clearly enhanced! (Brought from the back of a dusty ‘we sell anything and everything’ shop in Bolga – great find!) Ali had organised Madame Sophia, a friend of hers, to cook for us all and we had downloaded a whole load of Christmas and cheesy tunes just for the occasion; the tune download was not so successful but it didn’t dampen the atmosphere one bit. 

There was even a bit of ‘dancin’’ (to be said in a northern accent) just for Ali.  The evening ended at the spot around 1pm with Ali dressing herself up as a Christmas tree (not sure how safe a combination electric lights and sparklers were, but she looked good!) and a spontaneous burst of Christmas carols sung in harmony no less!

We got back with some help due to some broken shoes...

and continued to chat, drink and snack and talked about all things Christmasy, just because it wasn’t.  In order to get us right into the Christmas spirit Helen read us all out loud ‘the night before Christmas’.  Not certain if that is normally what happens when a bunch of primary school teachers get together but it’s what happened in Z -Town… Probably shouldn’t have admitted to it – What happens in Z-Town stays in Z-Town and all that…. Anyway, finally fell asleep just after the muslin prayers started… and woke 4 hours later where Ali and I turned into one crack breakfast team and fed 10 or so before heading back to Bolga on the motos.  Fab weekend all round.

Zar’s leaving party

Zar leaving for her home was a bit of a blow.  She was my Philapino housemate; a whole lot of fun, a great cook and super thoughtful.  She had grand ideas for her leaving party of a chill out area ‘up on the roof’ after our time together as housemates had included a lot of roof top fun.  You know the kind of thing; candles, mats on the floor, cushions, a few drinks, some food and tunes…and it was lovely, fellow vols and Ghanaian colleagues were enjoying the ambiance we had created.   Unfortunately my enjoyment of this particular event was cut short with me literally flying down the spiral staircase which allows access to our roof top terrace.  I somehow managed to miss the customary stepping on the steps part of the journey completely, instead my right foot suddenly ended up somewhere against my arse.  This left the top part of my right foot and bottom of my shin to bounce down the steps aided by the well-padded White West African Arse (I didn’t know I was still able to do that move), and my left foot simply dangled uselessly in front of my bouncing body.  I stopped myself falling all the way down by hooking my arm awkwardly over the spiral bannister (amazingly still holding onto the Smirnoff Ice I was taking down to a friend).  Friction between the metal bannister and my arm being the winning combination for a motionless position and the start of much pain (despite the vodka consumed) and utter embarrassment.  The cause? I blame the grip-less flip-flops not the vodka. The frozen bottle of vodka did however help reduce the bruising on my arm (and a few ‘neat’ swigs of the dregs of the bottle helped stop me crying – as prescribed by Nurse Ali).  A cold pure water sachet helped reduce the swelling on the ankle.  Numerous bruises, a sprained ankle, a couple of packets of codeine with paracetamol, cold compresses and tubigrip bandages; a trip to the clinic after 5 days for an x ray, ibuprofen and a diuretic (I haven’t taken the diuretic- it’s fat not water retention) and 9 days off work later, the ankle was better – not perfect. I had to miss my next adventure to go to the Upper West Region for the weekend. Will have to find out what adventures are in store for me there another time… Further resting of ankle was in order which was most frustrating as everything else was perfectly well and functioning (that is apart from the Ghana Brain).  Thank goodness for good housemates and Nurse Ali from Zebilla -Town.

JIM

It stands for ‘Joint Introductory Meeting’ (everything has an acronym in Ghana) and 11 weeks in it was a bit late for the ‘introductory’ part.  The purpose of the meeting was to review and change the overarching objectives for my job role which had been written in the placement plan, to better suit what I needed to do.  It was just as the meeting was due to start when the Regional Director cornered me in his office and asked me to help him with his blackberry (no euphemism); he couldn't get it to connect to the internet.  I tried; failed and promised to take it to MTN to get it sorted.  It was then he asked me for lessons on the computer.  Priority: facebook and yahoo e mail!

19 people had been invited to the meeting.  13 showed up and were a mixture of JHS teachers, headmasters/mistresses, SHS teachers, Ghana Association of Science Teachers representatives, GES representatives like Mme Vero and Rose, some Assistant Directors at the Regional Office and the Regional Director himself.  Not a bad turn out actually. It didn’t start on time… that was a given.  The problem was I had already used the objectives to make a work plan (that had been sitting on the Regional Directors desk for maybe 8 weeks…). Although we didn’t exactly cover what we should have we reviewed the work plan I had already produced and it was a successful meeting, albeit far too long. There was of course the obligatory opening and closing prayer for the start and the end of the meeting (who needs to sign a contract saying you’ll do something when you’ve asked god to ‘make it so’). The Director was unable to make the beginning of the meeting so he assigned one of the Assistant Directors to do it who spoke of ‘opening a new page with this VSO volunteer’ (clearly couldn’t remember my name).  The Regional Director arrived and spoke fondly of his dealings with VSO and the good work that had occurred via the partnership within previous roles he had had in the Region.  All of this added up to high expectations and I hoped (and prayed) I could deliver…

Happy Clapping and Muslim Prayers

For 2 weeks around midnight and again at 5 am I had been woken by happy clapping and shouting for a significant amount of time – It was so maddening. I couldn't sleep once I’d been woken and it was so loud.  I couldn't explain it or attempt to recreate the warbling which was coming out of this… who knows what? Had a weird cult started up just a few doors down or something?

By day 4 I decided to ask Hananah if a church had started up in the area (a more polite way of asking if a weird cult had dropped into the neighbourhood). ‘No’ she said looking confused, and then ‘Aggghhh… your neighbours, they have a pastor visiting, they invited me but I cannot go because of the shop’… marvellous.

On Friday of the first week I was woken, and remained awake to listen to the disturbance from 1.30 - 3am.  It didn’t stop.  It was persistent, annoying and frustrating.  Not even sleeping with my deaf ear exposed drowned out the racket enough for me to fall asleep (I blame the thin vac packed John Lewis value pillows).  It was all I could do not to get up and tell them to piss off. With a busy weekend to follow it was the last thing I needed and hoped it wasn’t a permanent schedule change…

It carried on through the next week back to the original 12 and 5am schedule.  All sorts of things were going through my head and it reminded me of the ‘Pigeon Problem’ at my old house in the UK. I won’t bore you with the details - you’ve it heard many, many times; about how the pigeon population of Cambridge, their close cousins the doves of Cambridge and all the other stinky winged vermin of Cambridge congregated in and around my neighbour’s postcard patch of a garden encouraged by bucket loads of food.  Generally flapping all sorts of parasites, mites and other itch inducing ichy things as only winged vermin can; dropping shit from great heights in, on and around my back garden on my washing etc etc…. anyway I won’t repeat the story. The winged vermin were persistent, bothersome, infuriating even and I had only one solution possible to keep me mildly sane…. to move.  Whoops! Think I just bored you. This ‘happy clapping’ was the Ghana version of the Pigeon Problem… different cause, same outcome. Ironically I prayed to god that there would be an alternative solution, you see, I like my house.  And then… as suddenly as it started, it stopped.  Only to be superseded by a brand new sound system at the mosque. Bucking marvellous. It would seem that an assumption has been made that everyone in Bolga is Muslim and/or wishes to be woken by, what I can only describe as, the cry of a cat being strangled at 4am ev-er-y buck-ing morning through the biggest, loudest speaker ever… this one isn’t going to leave.  Solution: Stay up so late you are so tired you simply sleep through it…. Not fool proof but better than moving.

Up on the roof

We have a very large roof terrace which is accessible from the outside of the house via a spiral iron staircase.  It’s directly over our veranda and is therefore the same size; I’m guessing 10ft x 20ft. I took to cleaning it; dousing it with buckets of water and sweeping, removing the mud that had accumulated, cleaning the drainage holes, removing the grass which had taken root and generally making it a more pleasant place to sit with the intention of using it more.  Well, it is a huge space with a great view.  Friday night has become ‘Up on the roof’ time which starts sometime soon after 4pm.  Helen a VSO vol who lives just down the road from me is my constant partner in crime for this, what is now deemed, ‘tradition’.  Others have joined us, my housemates, vols visiting from other regions on VSO or other NGO business. Sometimes Ali comes from Zabilla to make the Friday night ‘up on the roof’ tradition.  So what do we do?  Chat, drink, and listen to music, sometimes we even eat up there. We people watch and wave to the neighbours while it’s still light and watch the sun set and the moon rise.  Invariably we will take it in turns in sharing our ‘having a moment’ moment, where we soak up and savour the atmosphere and remind ourselves how lucky we are to have the opportunity to be there, at that moment, on a roof top, in Bolga; about as far north in Ghana as you can get (and still able to have some small sense of something other than utter isolation), in Africa.  When the sun has gone down we star gaze, spot shooting stars and search for sputnicks and fireflies.  Inevitably we’ve made it so cosy and enjoyable that Friday ‘up on the roof’ tradition now extends to any day we can get up there just before it gets dark, for whoever fancies the jaunt up the spiral stairs.  The much talked about ‘sleep over on the rooftop’ will happen too.  We made it to midnight last weekend but even with blankets it was just a little too cold to stay later… well it is the harmattan season and a chilly 20-25 degrees at night.  Compared to the close to 40 degree daytime temperatures it does really feel cold.  We’ll probably wait for the hot season when no doubt sleeping naked will be the only option…

A view from the roof

A view from the front of our compound... you can see Hananah's compound and the shop just across the road behind the two children and behind the two story buildings are Zamstechs Girls dorms.  This was taken in the rainy season.  It is MUCH drier now!

Chop (food)

Chop can be eaten in restaurants, chop bars or as street food from vendors on the side of the road.  I choose the side of the road vendors for lunch where food comes fast, out of buckets, pre prepared, tasty and cheap.  I never have any idea what I’m eating, simply ask for the amount, say 50 pesewa and then they bung it in a bag split in a funny way to enable a very nifty and secure knot to close it but which enables very easy reopening.  It comes, as everything you buy does in this country, with its very own black rubber.  A bag within a bag. 

My experience thus far of Ghanaian food has been pretty limited however I do go to restaurants, chop bars and I have my street food when I’m not at home cooking my staple; noodles with tinned fish, on my 3 ring camping stove (who knew I was a fan of tinned sardines? Not me).  Nevertheless I have gained an absolute food favourite.  The Yam chip with shito; this is not brown, hot and disgusting but red, hot (in the chilli sense of the word) and rather yummy.  Shito makes the rather dry yam chip well worth its weight in gold, and once again so cheap. I’ve also fallen in love with Ghanaian bean stew and vegetable stew, although I am still getting my head around eating stew in such heat (in much the same way as I find wearing jeans here totally wrong). All food in Ghana is dripping with palm nut oil. It’s red and everywhere… so this coupled with the carbs is not a good combo; alongside this they don’t seem to be able to serve one carb in one meal - makes eating meals interesting.

I was invited for chop with my housemate and her colleague just round the corner from where I work for lunch at a local chop bar.  I ordered fish and yam, she ordered chicken and rice, I got chicken and yam, she got fish and rice.  ‘Waitresses’ don’t tend to write orders down, a problem clearly when needing to recount to the ‘chef’ or taking orders from more than one person.  My housemate’s Ghanaian colleague choose ground nut soup (which is ok), banku (a fermented, millet, white, starchy, gloupy ball) and ‘meat’…probably goat.  He proceeded to eat (Yes! EAT) the bones… Not sure how I resisted staring with my gob open at him chomping down on the bones…. Let’s face facts; I probably didn’t.

Banku, fufu, kenkey and TZ are all made from millet, cassava, plantain, yam or corn (not at the same time or in that order) and are all starchy, white, fermented, gloupy balls.  Women are seen making these daily on the side of the road with huge pestles and mortars, pounding them to within an inch of their lives.  Omo Tuo (rice balls) is an alternative non-fermented option. I neither like nor dislike the ones I’ve tried but I imagine they would be most disgusting if eaten alone.  I’ve only had bits drenched in soup or stew which I feel is the only way to go.  Once again, more carbs.

Zom koom is the local non alcoholic drink made from millet and ginger… very refreshing and Hananah makes it in our local shop, taken, like the water, from a bag.  I have yet to try the local alcoholic drink ‘Pito’ which is drunk out of calabashes at Pito Bars.  They have bottled local bear, ‘Star’ among others, Smirnoff Ice and bottled soft drinks called ‘minerals’, like coke and fanta etc.  The African ‘Alvaro’ mineral, (I may have mentioned it before), a malted fruit drink, is my favourite and the ‘Malt’ mineral is my least favourite… it makes me want to vomit.  I can’t describe it… it’s making me retch just thinking about it.

There is no customer service at restaurants.  It is normal to have to wait two hours for food, even if you are ordering Ghanaian food, sometimes that’s just when the first meal arrives on the table…. If there are eight of you…. Well let’s just say they are have not mastered the skill of cooking for many and having all food arriving at the same time.  Salad takes longer to prepare than hot food.  Go figure.  Most waitress are slow to walk and as grumpy as hell.  You will often order something and then 20 minutes later be told there is none left, then 10 minutes later someone else will be told something else is off the menu.  You can guarantee this will happen, so you learn to check before you order what is and isn’t on the menu… even that isn’t fool proof.  Definitely don’t go to eat at a restaurant if you are hungry or are short on time…

All local eating in Ghana is done using the left hand, bits of fufu etc are pulled off from the ball of gloup using only the left hand and dipped into the stew or soup and eaten with a bit of meat.  It is this that I experienced when I was ‘invited’ to eat out of the same bowl as Hananah.  Obviously I couldn’t say no.  The fufu was gloupy, white, fermented and starchy.  The garden egg soup was nice enough and the goat was, well… goat.  Say no more. 

Marvellous. Malaria.

It started on the tro journey home from our weekend by the pool in Tamale.  Ali got sick first.  At first we thought it was just the journey making her feeling nauseous… by the time we reached Bolga I insisted I took her to Afrikids Clinic as I thought it was malaria; unfortunately we didn’t make it through the queue before closing and anyhow, she want to go home as sleeping on a bench and throwing up in the clinic loos was not helping her condition.  It was about midnight, maybe one in the morning when I awoke with a need to run to the bathroom, for what I wasn’t sure but made the right decision and vomited, then sat down and peed out of my backside.  I spent the remaining 6 or so hours either on or over the loo or in bed thinking about being on or over the loo. 

My housemate kindly took us to another clinic the following morning, early.  I was so glad she did, for Ali and I weren’t exactly capable of navigating around the system. I don’t need to describe the clinic to you.  That archetypal image you have in your head from watching movies/documentaries or whatever is it; is it. The queues...the people… standing, sitting and laying… children…. crying and screaming, malnourished bodies… I could go on.  I won’t.  Thankfully the Director of the clinic moved us away from the hustle and bustle of the main clinic having seen our sick solomea faces and sent us to the heady heights of the second floor.  The breeze was amazing… and then we heard the sound of people vomiting in (maybe it was around) the toilets below… not so amazing…. by this time we were the ones lying on the benches. It was all too much. Two hours after arriving, we had had our blood taken, been tested positively for the malaria parasite and had seen the doctor who had prescribed anti-malarial drugs, multi-vitamins and paracetamol… oh and an anti-nausea injection.  A male nurse was to administer this… in our backsides.  We were not looking forward to it and when we were led to the theatre (!) for the deed to be done ‘in private’ (preferential treatment for solomeas it would seem, most people just have it done for all to see), we were by each other’s side, holding each other’s hand like children… not a pleasant experience!  I wondered why the theatre table I was lying on was so incredibly high (I had difficulty getting on) and what the two metal stirrup things were which weren’t quite stirrups… there is a time when questions shouldn’t be asked for the answer wouldn’t be palatable, I sensed this was one… I’m still wondering.  I spent the rest of day either in bed, asleep or on the toilet. 

Day two was pretty much the same.  Bed.  Toilet.  Sleep.  My housemates kept me fed and hydrated.  You have to eat for strength but to be honest you don’t want to and you can only manage small, small amounts. I managed to watch a crap film in bed in the evening.

By Day three I had to go to school to get a meeting sorted for the following week, it was tough getting to school and back, I felt physically exhausted and it’s only down the road so when I got back I rested and watched another crap film.  My housemate and another vol offered to distribute the letters to the other schools… how grateful was I! I felt a bit better by 4pm and the water was back on (it had been off for a day and a half), so I filled all the depleted water vessels again, refilled the drinking filters washed my undies and swept.  I was still ‘running’, and I don’t mean with my legs... not much as I had not been eating much.  The entire evening was spent farting foul smelling farts… I was concerned about following through… it was close. I just hoped my Auntie Carol couldn’t hear me as I skyped her that night.  Something wasn’t quite right and in true 21st century style, I googled typhoid fever as I had a suspicion that was the trouble. It often comes with malaria apparently.

Symptoms of typhoid fever in the first week include:

• fever, which will gradually rise and then settle at around 39–40°C (103–104°F) Yes, but not continual and I hope not that high!
• abdominal pain – yes,
• constipation or diarrhea – diarrhea all the way baby!
• vomiting, usually only in children – Early on, now just nauseous, so was probably the malaria
• dry cough, - No
• dull headache in the front of the head, No, unless a dehydration headache counts…
• delirium/mental confusion – does Ghana Brain count?
• skin rash made up of pink spots 1–4cm wide (usually the rash is made up of fewer than five spots) – I have a rash but thought it might be heat rash??
• a feeling of being increasingly unwell - Oh yes!

I didn’t have all, but didn’t need all and thought I ought to ask at the clinic when I got checked to see If I was free of the malaria parasite.  It was at this point, having spent a week stuck to the loo, that I was grateful I found that white loo seat so quickly…. As my Auntie Maureen e-mailed ‘hope the new loo seat is as comfy as it sounds as you have tested it well.’  Indeed I have… indeed I have.  Thank goodness the loo seats are built for West African bums…

Day four was the day of the retest.  When I arrived at the clinic there was no one to distribute my record, I panicked slightly, not sure what to do when I saw the face of the nurse who had stuck me in the arse just 3 days before - Halid.  He wanted to help me and said he wanted to be my friend, ‘let’s exchange numbers’… my malaria brain only saw two options; give number and speed through system or spend whole day at clinic queuing with the locals.  I gave him my number.  It still look me three and a half hours to get through the system and I found myself comforting the locals in the corridor getting injected or having blood taken by Halid the nurse. I decided he didn’t know the meaning of ‘making your patients feel at ease’.

When the results came through it was Halid who told me I had typhoid and that I would need to stay in and be given IV treatment.  It seemed a bit suspect to me (the IV not the typhoid) so I asked to see a Doctor. The Doctor then proceeded to tell me that they thought it would be best if I took the IV treatment until early evening… What would they be giving me intravenously I asked, ‘salts to build you up as you are too dehydrated’ I was told after a bit of insistence for an answer.  I told them it was not necessary, I had rehydration salts at home which I had been taking and would continue to take but what other drugs did he suggest to get rid of the typhoid.  He told me the drug – I asked if they were antibiotics which they were.  He also wanted to prescribe something for nausea, and something for diarrhea.  There was further discussion between the nurse and the doctor and some pointing to the notes where my symptoms were written at which point the doctor said they would like to give me and injection, ‘for what?’ I said.  ‘Nausea’ said the doctor.  ‘The same injection I got on Tuesday?’  He nodded and looked at the nurse ‘In my backside? I said, my voice getting more squeaky, loud and high as the conversation continued. He nodded again. ‘I don’t think so’ I practically spat ‘I’ve had it once and really would rather feel sick than have to do that again... I’ll be fine’.  I was now convinced Halid had either a fetish for sticking people or wanted a good look at my White West African Arse again… maybe both.  It wasn’t going to happen…

I googled the drugs when I got home… well, you’ve gotta check haven’t you?  I knew one drug.  AKA Rennie… hummm… not having said I had acid indigestion I was unsure why I had been given these. I passed on taking those. The antibiotic drugs rang true after a search.  Although, isn’t it funny how you can type something to google… say; ‘what can x x antibiotics be used for?’ and get a whole lot of AIDS treatment websites.  Panic. Then type in ‘can x x antibiotics be used to treat Typhoid?’; and find out it can be used to treat typhoid… along with Cholera and other intestinal diseases...  The final drug I was given I had never heard of.  Following my investigation I found it was for an ulcer of the duodenum/colon. I passed on this drug too, where were the symptoms?  The rule does seem to be that if you go to the clinic you must leave with three different drugs.  This has been confirmed by old vols privy to a trip to the clinic.

An experience, but I survived (although the 9 missed calls from Halid in less than 12 hours nearly drove me barmy) and I will be more in tune with how my body responds to malaria for next time.  There will be a next time.  This is Ghana.

Bank Holiday weekend by the pool…

Sounds divine, doesn’t it? Trouble is our nearest public bath is a 3 hour tro-tro journey away in Tamale; the next big town south of Bolga on the main route towards Accra.  So of course wanting to keep up the British Bank Holiday tradition of pool/beach and the beach not being a stone’s throw away but (in comparison) the pool being so, we decided to ‘make a weekend of it’ in Tamale. That is Ali and I.  Ali is my partner in crime at the weekends and unfortunately for me a short term vol due to leave at Christmas.  She leaves her small village Zabilia, 40 minutes east of Bolga, either fri afternoon or Saturday morning to make the most of the ‘big city life’ (not) Bolga has to offer and recover from the lack of privacy she gets during the week.  I know I said privacy was bad in Bolga but I am one of quite a few solomeas, unlike Ali, who is one of four in Zabilia.  We get on well and enjoy similar things and like to ‘let our hair down’ at the weekends.

The tro journey was not a great one for me.  Ali however had a marvellous time! We were on the same row of seats and as the passenger’s piled in it was clear a rather big bummed lady wanted to join the seat behind.  Ali saw an opportunity and took it!  Ali suggested she move behind and leave the older, larger lady the more accessible seat.  Next to me.  We were now 5 large West African Arses, a baby and 3 year old boy in a row… too much surely for a 3 hour ride?  For some reason some swapping started to go on in our row.  The boy was nearly sat on so I grabbed him and before long this was clearly to be his permanent position.  On my knee, with my bag on the other…. oh boy.  That was not my intention.  What if he needed to go to the loo? What if indeed.  I am still unsure if the urine smell was fresh or just that released from his clothing when both he and I sweated profusely during that journey.  How I survived I don’t know. All I know is looking back at smug Ali was not helping.  She was sandwiched between a very young small boy and a very good looking man who kept putting his arm around her as if giving her an arm to fall asleep into and loving it.  Comfortable as hell was she, like a pig in shit.  The only thing disturbing her otherwise comfortable ride was the smell of urine….

We spent the afternoon recovering from the tro journey by eating homous, flat bread, falafel and samosa at Mikes ( – what a treat!) and relaxing in Bigeza (- what a great name!) hotel pool, enjoying the view of Ghanaian men’s rock solid bodies and trying hard to ignore the hideous tight orange and black shorts or speedos (- which were wrong….all wrong).  We got very excited about going out in Tamele, we heard there was a ‘night life’ so we took an early supper at the ‘Jungle Bar’ attached to the guest house we were staying at and decided on a quick nap before venturing further into town.  This turned into an unexpected deep sleep and the next morning we woke having slept for a good 10 hours having completely missed the Tamale Saturday night life experience!

We found a Catholic guesthouse for breakfast around the corner from our guest house which strangely didn’t serve breakfast and got ready to head for the VRA (Volta River Authority) public pool.  Although Bigeza was a nice, relatively clean pool, there was nowhere to lie in the sun; no grass, sun loungers, mats/mattresses but we had heard this was an option at the VRA pool.  The VRA pool is set within the VRA staff accommodation and Club complex.  It reminded me totally of a 1950/60’s holiday camp as we drove through the accommodation compounds and on to the tennis courts and pool Club area.  Imagine the ‘Dirty Dancing’ holiday camp and you are looking at the VRA staff accommodation and Club complex. The pool was big, not as clean as Bigeza with a lovely tree offering shade from the sun and there was hardly anyone in it At 2 cedi to get in it was a bargain compared to the 5 cedi for the Bigeza pool. We spotted so many solomeas; in fact there were some already there when we arrived under the tree.  We asked if we could share their shade as we arrived but they clearly didn’t want to carry on chatting with us. There were a few Ghanaians already in the pool, we noted that they were mainly young boys playing and some men had turned up too.  No women.  We imagined they were still doing the chores along with the girls.  You rarely see girls playing and we only saw a couple of girls/women in the tiny Bigeza pool yesterday, they were mainly men again with a few boys.  Others turned up during the day and early afternoon, still mainly Ghanaian men/boys and quite a few solomeas, the pool got really busy … too busy. Still we were sunbathing under the tree and I really felt like I was on holiday!

Tamale is the NGO capital of Ghana; as such it has the highest proportion of solomeas and interestingly appears to us to be the most unfriendly part of Ghana we have visited to date.  We pondered over a possible cause and effect correlation here…Our usual British Reserve had been thrown to one side weeks ago and our intention was to use our newly found Ghanaian greetings in order to meet and greet other vols thus making new friends and expanding the circle further, enabling more trips to Tamale and the pool! It would seem though that solomeas in Tamale do not want to chat to other unknown solomeas…  It’s this which led us to arrive at this conclusion of the cause of unfriendly Tamale, that and the fact that even the Ghanaians we greeted as we would in the streets of Bolga didn’t respond with the same… enthusiastic retort… if at all.  Very unusual.

Our weekend away was rounded off with lots of good food and a friendly face.  We went back to Mikes to top up on homous for a late lunch, returned to our guesthouse for a small nap and then arranged to meet up with another volunteer who lives in Tamale but whom had been travelling for most of the weekend so we were unable to see her until that point. She recommended SWAD for food which we had heard about. SWAP in Bolga and SWAD in Tamale used to be part of the same chain, the owners fell out and SWAP in Tamale became SWAD in an attempt to disassociate itself with its old Bolga partner.  The menu didn’t change and you get a much better version of the SWAP food in SWAD.   SWAP will never be the same for me!  We took a trip into town but with the fact it was Eid weekend, a Sunday and we were full of food it wasn’t a late one.  We made it back via our volunteer friend’s house for a drink to the guest house for 1am ready for the tro ride back, hopefully childless.

Now I’ve got it, I don’t want it.

A very serious ‘you have no option, I am the man for you’ marriage proposal (which I laughed off… I hope successfully -  I don’t fancy have 2 dead guinea fowl and a goat shoved in dads face in exchange for….), a colleague who comes to visit my office just a little too often in one day and a persistent neighbour later, it seems the old adage holds fast, even in Ghana.  Men are like buses… none turn up for ages (in my case years) and then they all come at once.  Now I’ve got the attention, I don’t really want it (as I suspected).  Us solomea’s it would seem are very hard to please.  Better work on that ‘f**k off’ vibe again….

The best day in Ghana so far… a superbly, super, splendid day...

...and could have so easily have been the worst.  You see, two appointments came up at the same time on the same day.  Neither movable. I needed to visit a school – If I succeeded it would be third time lucky, the previous two times had been very disappointing; the observation had been cancelled; first due to exams being written and the second time due to a meeting of the Ghana Science Teacher Association.  I find it amazing that exams are written within ‘teaching time’ and meetings are dropped on teachers at the last minute - they are expected to drop everything (literally) and go.  Classes are left without teachers and either sit or do work which has been left on the board.  If meetings have been scheduled it’s pertinent to double check before you turn up in case something has happened as diaries do not seem to be used here so no one is ever sure if they have double booked. So you see I couldn’t forego this to make the meeting at the DVLA for my licence, my other appointment…. But it’s for my moto licence!!! So you see my predicament.  After much discussion with other vols regarding the best possible way forward it was decided I would go into school earlier than planned to check the meeting was still happening and if it was, swap the agenda around to enable me to leave the school as early as possible to get to DVLA for the licence.  If DVLA were to actually go ahead we knew a wait would be in store and the likelihood was that no one would have finished at DVLA by the time I arrived at 12.  In any case; the worst case scenario was that neither appointment would come into fruition, best case one appointment would, an outstandingly good day would mean both appointments made were achieved and a superbly, super, splendid day would mean not only would both appointment made be achieved, but both would have a positive outcome.

My meeting at the school was still on when I arrived shortly before 8am; I was able to rearrange the agenda and was due to visit at 9.30 that morning.  I first shared my ideas for some workshops to see if they would be appropriate strategies to share with teachers here.  The ideas seemed to go down well.  On the way to the lesson observation the teacher asked if he could use the yellow cube (a teaching resource I had brought with me) to use in his plenary (end session) for the lesson we were already 10 minutes late for, so he could evaluate the children’s learning. ‘Yes of course’ I said thinking, ‘clearly a well-planned lesson for one which was about to be observed… but at least he wants to find out if they have learnt anything’.  He had already told me he had no practical to do for this lesson on Electronics as there was not enough equipment in the school.  Once we arrived at the lesson he spent the next 10 minutes writing the questions to place on the sides of the cube relating to the lesson.  He had already dismissed my pre prepared ‘generic plenary questions’ as they weren’t about the lesson – I didn’t have time to explain ‘generic’ so I went with what he was comfortable with (… small, small steps…) The lesson consisted of dictation, copying from the board and lecture style activities (I’m surprised I didn’t fall asleep) and LED’s were called ‘Leads’.  Then he got out the yellow cube, looked rather excited, said they were going to play a game and proceeded to bring up one child at a time to the front to throw the cube, read out the question rolled and answer it. After the third child had stood up and about eight minutes later I am afraid I had to interrupt ‘Master’ I said - I couldn’t hold back any more; at this rate we wouldn’t finish till 3pm.  I suggested the students throw it to each other but they were only allowed to throw it to a student who hadn’t yet had the cube.  I stood up, got them clapping, praising and helping each other when they got stuck. They were laughing, clapping, INTERACTING even.  I even reprimanded two boys who were asleep at the front (in my usual don’t mess with me again if I’m in this classroom with a big smile on my face kind of way) and made sure the ‘girl child’ (all 4 of them, there were 40 in the class) were being included.  GOD IT FELT GOOD to be back in the classroom. 

I left feeling high but not prepared to be in any way hopeful for the next appointment… After all DVLA part 3 was about to commence for the 3^rd time… previous experience told me not to get my hopes up.  On arrival via a taxi ride with a harassing, god fearing, preacher of a taxi driver things had been going so well at DVLA that the other vols were all nearly through the system, just one to go and 3 driving licences done.  My papers went in to be inspected, stamped and verified.  I didn’t do an eye test, I was simply given 20/20 vision for the first time in my life. I did as I was told, gave the DVLA boss my mobile number, smiled like a good solomea (making a mental note never to pick up an unknown caller) and then sat down waiting for the next stage in the busy, bustling, standing space only waiting room.  It was about the time when I was mid conversation looking at the TV and thinking that I was sure I had seen that Nigerian movie on the coach on the way up to Bolga, when, just like in a cartoon, power outs.  I actually heard the power stop in slow motion ‘geeerrrrrwuuum’, the TV fizzed to a white blob in the middle of the screen and then turned black. The lights flickered then turned off.  Everything stopped; people stopped moving, pens stopped scribing. The room fell silent…. That is apart from me; shouting, no less, ‘OOOHHHHH GGGOOODDDDD!!!!!’  As a lone white woman amongst a bunch of deeply religious black men, I wouldn’t recommend that reaction… ever. Engage brain Eloise, engage brain. It was about this time that I was deeply happy something that day had at least gone well but yet chastised myself for putting the school before the licence as surely getting the moto was going to offer more impact long term... I mean, I was actually going to be able to visit schools outside Bolga... if I had one.  Eloise became ‘Moods’ repeatedly telling myself that I was not going to get my hopes up, then the power came on. Oh the joy!  Even the Ghanaians whooped at that one.  Shortly afterwards I got passed on to the next stage, the final stage, the licence print out.  I was fifth in line and made sure every Ghanaian man knew I knew I was fifth in line and every Ghanaian man arriving after me knew the solomea wasn’t going to be jumped…. Queue jumped that is.  Given recent experience; a great move, given hindsight; bloody stupido.

Power outages happened approximately every 20 minutes after that (there had been none in the morning).  That is about the time it took the one measly licence printing machine to reboot itself after the power outage, before being forced to shut down again, in fact sometimes less.  This coupled with the fact it had only just been fixed due to the power outs, the wait was excruciating.  And I say again: GEN-ER-A-TOR …get one. Then a Kenyan vol who had just got his licence started ‘helping’ by buttering up the licence printer lady  to get the solomea in more quickly claiming I had to get to Zabilla where he lives, a town about a 40 minute ride away, hence the urgency.  Shortly afterwards he left me to it with the guide from VSO who, as lovely as he is, isn’t the most outspoken person.  By this time it was getting on for 3pm.  I suggested we call it a day, Eid was at the weekend, a long Bank holiday weekend was to follow and closing early from work on the Friday was inevitable.  He wasn’t having it.  And before long I heard ‘Froment’ being called and I was pulled and squeezed into the cupboard (read: office).  The door didn’t close quickly enough and I couldn’t look.  I just heard the commotion and the word ‘solomea’ being flung around a lot. I sat down, held my head in my hands and my head hung low.  I couldn’t have felt worse. My face was mud.  A black man had just used my white skin to get me somewhere faster than the black skins.  As much as I hated this (and when you see the photo on my temporary licence you’ll see it was not my finest hour, the stress shows in my face), I was so grateful to the VSO guide for getting me in and out by 3.30pm before Eid along with everyone else I practically hugged him once we were free of the queue.  I was bowing a pathetic apology as I came out of that cupboard to pass the men I had myself just jumped.  It was close, so close to not being that positive result.  Have to go through the whole damn thing again in 3 months for my full licence.  But with two positive outcomes under my belt in one day it was The Best Day In Ghana So Far which culminated in celebratory vodka on the roof terrace with fellow elated vols. A Superbly, Super, Splendid day.

Tro Tro

The other day when I arrived at the Lorry Park to catch a mode of transport for my second trip to Bongo I found it was to be a tro tro… at 60 pesewa you would think it was a bargain compared to the shared taxi.  I would disagree.  Most uncomfortable.  The tro tro was full after I got on.  Or so I thought.  There are 15 seats (including the driver) or should be, a long seat for two and a pull down seat for one that pulls down to cover the aisle in every row of seats.  So once you are in, you are in.  And if you need to get out, everyone has to get out, or the majority at least. They are rust buckets, 20 + years old, seat covers pealing, repaired paint work in matt finish, electrical wires hanging and a door which doesn’t entirely close, well not without a good shove from the outside.  I sat on the very back row (my first mistake – but I had little choice) which I found to my horror didn’t have a back rest which was attached to the seat.  I was nearly catapulted out of the boot.  There were 3 in our row, very tight but ok.  It was then I realised I’d made the mistake of assuming it was a 15 seater.  Tro tro’s will not depart their station until the tro is full, 4 adults on every row of seats, just thank the good lord above if you don’t have children on your row as well, for they are seen but not heard (or felt it would seem) and don’t count as an extra bottom. So despite the tro looking like it was full, we still had to wait a very hot half an hour for the remaining passengers to get on and everyone on board to buy all the necessary goods from the hawkers which had fully enveloped the bus.  With that number of people inside the bus, and an equal (if not more) number of people surrounding the bus, the body heat was intense.  Coupled with the heat from the sun I’m surprised I didn’t pass out. The moving air through the open windows was a god send once we got moving; I’ve learnt to ignore the smell of old and new body odour that the wind becomes drenched in as it moves over the people in front and heads towards you. Note to self: Don’t sit on the back seat and always get a window seat. The fact I was literally stuck between the school girl (she was about 20 so hardly a girl, as they often are in Senior High Schools here) and a man who had chosen not just to place his arse on the seat but all of his shopping too (no concept of personal space… or a need for it) meant I was unable to move from side to side.  This combined with the fact I couldn’t lean back for fear of fall out the boot meant an uncomfortable back aching hours ride to Bongo.  ‘Why so long?’ I hear you cry‘…when the shared taxi only took 30 minutes…..’ That would be due to all the drops and pick-ups we had to do along the way, of course the person getting out is never the one nearest the door.    Every time we stopped it sounded like a pneumatic drill had started up just behind me, even a kick from the driver at, I can only assume was the exhaust pipe, did not alleviate the sound for more than 2 seconds.  Oh, and as well as the drops and pick-ups we had a flat tyre to contend with that was changed with most of us still on it….

The ride home was much the same (I prayed hard for a shared taxi but god wasn’t working on improving public transport that day).  Despite my new improved knowledge, I still ended up on the back row in the centre with a face full of BO.  This time the demographic of the bus had fallen to no more than thirty years and barring 3 women (myself included) had an unequal gender balance favouring the male working population of Bongo heading home to wherever it might be between Bongo and Bolga.  It was a loud boisterous journey, full of jostles, back slapping, shouting and elbowing by the young testosterone fuelled men who smelt like they were dripping in BO. I leaned forward on the seat in front (not trusting the back rest) and with my head in my arms, dreamed of my little Audi A3 and the tarmacked roads of our green and pleasant land…England.