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.

Privacy…

…is not something the Ghanaians understand, in the western sense of the word at least.  In fact I am sure if we looked at the words available in the tribal languages, ‘privacy’ would not be present (neither would you find punctuality or deodorant).  I’ve already mentioned private (of which they are not) toilet habits but the whole non privacy thing extends far further than that.  It’s so deeply cultural, so embedded, I imagine it will never leave.  On the one hand it’s deeply endearing, and on the other highly irritating (when you are having that western ‘I need some alone time/me time’ moment).

The Ghanaians live, within one large compound, often designed around a courtyard with many rooms leading onto it from 2 or three interlocked (sometimes not) single story blocks.  Not only does the immediate family live there but the extended family too.  Ages will range from babies right through to the ‘elderly’, and this dynamic never changes. Life expectancy here is around 60 years old and babies are continually being popped.  Privacy is not something for which you are or will become accustomed too in a Ghanaian household; you live with just too many people. 

 It is culturally accepted and expected that you greet everyone you pass with at least a ‘good morning’ (‘bulika’), ‘good afternoon’ (‘wunteenga’) or ‘good evening’ (‘zaanuure’).  Of which the response is always ‘naabaa’. If you have met them before then the greeting is expected to be extended to ‘how are you?’ (‘La ami nwani?’), where the stock response is ‘I’m fine’ (La ami som’) and when you are asked, your stock response is ‘I’m fine too’ whether they are or not, or you are or not.  Should you know the person well, this greeting can extend to ‘How is your father? How is your mother? How are your children?’…. We could go on…  For each, the answer will always be, ‘they are fine’. Whether they are or not.  Whether they have malaria or not.  All of this is expected in the local language, although English is understood and children will always shout ‘Solomea Hello! Hello Solomea’ until you are out of ear shot.  I make an extra special effort to greet everyone in my street and up to a few streets away as I see them daily and as it is generally considered polite here I do, whether I want to or not. I try to smile, greet with the same enthusiasm which comes to me - ‘Bulika!  La ami nwani?’  I’ll say…. Sometimes though I just can’t be bothered and by the time I reach town I have moved into ‘London mode’.  You know the one; head down, face blank, and movement with purpose.  It’s difficult though, as a ‘solomea’ you stick out a mile and there is always someone who wants to greet, shake your hand and ask how you are. 

At work the same greetings are expected but it is generally accepted that it is in English.  I have learnt that the ritual of greeting every morning is an important one and gets you far more, further down the line.  It is to this end that my walk to the office takes me on a short tour of the building; ensuring the secretaries, typists, accountants and other office officials are greeted before greeting the workers at the Link NGO office, the office directly before mine (if you are walking the long way round as I do).  I have worked out a relatively efficient way of managing this (as only a solomea could) and it doesn’t involve the lengthy Ghanaian sit down and chat version…maybe I’ll work up to that later.

I hasten to add I still only know the names of 3 people in the office (and that doesn’t include the Director - I call him ‘Director or Sir’)… for this I feel really bad but believe I am now past the point, 7 weeks in, of being able to say ‘what is your name again?’ without being super embarrassed and very offending towards whoever it is… this is why all the kids at school were called ‘Darl’ or ‘doll’.  I am utterly hopeless when it comes to British names, let alone African… Don’t even get me started on the surnames 99% (this is NO exaggeration) begin with A in Upper East Region.  Atayeta, Akapale, Abaah, Akolgo, Asoore, Akalunga, Akanyare, Akamboe, Ayelibase, Asakiwine, Akapaah, Adullah, Amoah, Anyedena…. to name but a few. 389 names later and typing these was not an easy job (and totally not capacity building either but that’s another story)… I have found out that this A makes whatever the word is, human; for example, the word could be ‘cow’ write ‘acow’ and it applies to a human…but it’s a cow!  Languages; don’t get them, never have, never will… not even my own.  Will forever remain crap at using them.

I digress, back to privacy.  It doesn’t stop at walking down the street or at the office…

You see, our compound, like most, is in the middle of a residential area (although more of a house and garden surrounding house than traditional courtyard design), every movement is known and, if you are in, the visitors visit.  Sometimes to the point of stalking.  It might be children asking for water, or a neighbour bringing cake, or a colleague popping in for a chat or… and so it goes on.  Mostly inane chat about nothing for nothing, yet it would appear absolutely necessary for this community to sustain itself, and you.  It’s this unconditional safety net which comes with all this frivolous chatter which I love; I know if something is wrong, they would help.  They have already on many an occasions, not just one family, many. 

Sometimes though, I just wish that I could lie on my bed under the fan and not be disturbed by the gate creaking outside and knowing the call of ‘Madame! Madame!’ from outside the window will shortly follow.  Sometimes, I just want to be me. Alone.  I wonder what in the western world has lead us to live such disparate lives where you can, in effect go for days without actually talking to anyone (email and facebook not counted) and be happy with it, but just an 8 hour plane ride away there are people who wouldn’t feel alive if they hadn’t spoken to many, many people throughout the course of the day, for it is this which makes them feel ‘fine’; the company of other people…many people.