Recently in Ghana Category

  Whilst sitting on a bus at 4am, wedged between a woman with a baby and a policeman brandishing an AK47, it occurred to me that transport, in all its weird and varied forms, has been one of the defining features of my time in Ghana.

This particular journey was a long one: I was traveling back to Accra from a Travel Weekly assignment in Bolgatanga - a good 15 hour drive away.  Unfortunately for me, my 8am bus - which would have got me into Accra at a comfortable 11pm - had been moved to 1pm, resulting in my ETA being exactly four hours before I was due to start work the next morning.  Not one to whinge, I was stoically grinning and bearing it (well, sort of...) and had even given up my window seat without making too much of a fuss.

The reason for my relative calmness was probably down to the fact that, when put in perspective, this journey wasn't really that terrible after all.  For a start, I had my own seat, a seatbelt - which, admittedly, hadn't been used for so long that once I was clipped in, the chances of managing to remove myself in an emergency were decidedly slim - and I was protected from the outside elements. 

Just 24 hours before, I had been sitting on the lap of a stranger in the front seat of a crowded taxi, my bottom hovering precariously over the gear stick, on my way down a bumpy country road.  Once at my destination (a sacred crocodile pond in Paga), it transpired that I would require another taxi to take me a few miles down the road.  However, when no such taxi appeared, a local offered me a ride on the back of his push bike.  As I balanced myself on the metal ledge over his back wheel, giggling nervously, the rider turned to me, smiled, and said, "Welcome to Africa."

      The other week, I attended a conference marking the launch of a truck company in Accra.  Although the content of the speeches themselves weren't exactly thrilling (heavy-duty earth moving equipment never really was my thing) by the end of the event, I was in a great mood.

The reason for my enjoyment was the entertainment that had been provided in between the speeches: the event organisers had invited a local youth choir to sing.  As you can probably imagine, an African youth choir is a far cry from its British equivalents: these kids are born and bred gospel singers.

The choir sang about four times throughout the conference, providing a bit of light relief in between talk of the government's current road construction targets and the joys of waste removal.  At the end, the chairwoman beckoned over the conductor to made a request. 

    On a sunny weekend such as this, the overwhelming temptation is to grab an overnight bag, get on a bus, and drive as far away from Accra as possible.

The reasons for this are two-fold: firstly, with its open sewers and conjested traffic, hot days in Accra tend to be steamy and smelly; secondly, upon reaching the city limits, the landscape instantly transforms, and all around is scenery that looks as if it has been plucked out of the pages of National Geographic.

Unfortunately, this weekend I seem to have missed the boat rather, and am stuck exactly where I don't want to be: in the middle of Accra. I was supposed to be lying on a beach somewhere in the Volta region, but, due to the unfavourable weather forecast (ha!), some bright spark suggested that we stay in the city and avoid the rain (her name is Fiona - she is actually very nice, if a little too trusting of BBC Weather).

So, here I am, sitting on the veranda of Mrs Djan's house, writing my postcard.

  In 1952, when he was 21, my grandfather left London to start a new life in Ghana.  As a relatively junior bank clerk, his early life in Africa was far from one of colonial luxury, and he lived in a small flat above his office in Accra.

Later, whilst on leave in England, he met my grandmother, fell in love, and took her to Africa with him shortly after they married.  They lived there for 12 years.

In 1959, my grandparents returned to England on leave for the birth of my mother, who they brought back to Ghana shortly afterwards, and in 1962, my uncle was born in the western town of Takoradi. 

  Food, and the preparation of it, can be seen everywhere in Accra. 

In the markets, women line the pavements selling every imaginable foodstuff, both inanimate and live, to hoards of shoppers all day long.  Walking down the street, men and women pass by selling sweets, crisps and biscuits, and fruit-sellers sit on road-side stalls freshly preparing mangoes, pineapples and papaya.

Hot food is also prepared on the streets, with 'chop shops' - small shacks containing basic cooking equipment - selling a range of hot meals throughout the day.  Although meat can sometimes prove a little risky when bought at such vendors, in most places, the food is cooked in front of you, lessening your chances of picking up any unwelcome germs.   

    Arriving in Ghana for the first time, I was immediately struck by the incredible noise of the place.  Having been forewarned by several people about the country's stifling heat, the sensation that hit me when I first stepped off the plane - much like walking into a swimming bath fully clothed - wasn't a huge surprise.  However, the clamour that filled my ears as I made my way out of the airport was completely unexpected; walking through the arrivals gate, I was bombarded by shouts of the bustling crowd, the blaring music from a nearby café, and the honking of a long line of jostling taxis. 

As the first few days passed, it seemed that my experience in the airport was not unique; Ghana is an extremely loud place.

Venturing into Accra the next day for my introductions at the newspaper, I couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed by the amount of activity that was going on around me.  Everywhere, street vendors touted for trade, hissing at passes-by to catch their attention, and holy-men stood in the markets preaching over the loud-speakers.  Being one of very few white women in town, any dreams that I may have been harbouring about blending in with the locals were instantly shattered, as children ran after me shouting "obruni!" ("white lady!") and women stopped me in the street, asking to touch my blonde hair.

My route into work each morning consists of a twenty-minute ride on a tro-tro (a mini-bus that serves as a popular bus service) into the centre of Accra.  In order to successfully navigate yourself onto the right tro-tro, you must listen closely to the shouts of the drivers' sidekicks, who lean out of the side of the buses, shouting their destinations and making corresponding arm signals. 

Once on the correct tro-tro, the journey is more than a little bouncy, with the majority of local roads being partially, or entirely, unpaved.  However, any cries of pain from unlucky passengers banging their heads on the roof (I have been this unlucky person, on several occasions), are easily drowned out by the radio, with most drivers opting to blast out gospel music or recordings of church sermons. 

Although at first rather daunting - especially considering the amount of concentration involved in getting on and off the bus at the right place amongst the confusion - once the tro-ride is mastered, it can actually be quite an uplifting way to start the day.

Once off the bus, my route takes me by foot through a busy market, and up a series backstreets to The Statesman's office at Kokomlemle.   In the market, music blares from shop fronts, and vendors try and entice you into their stalls. Everything is sold here, from exotic fruits to toys and underwear, and many people shop almost entirely at the local market.  Everywhere, men and women carry baskets of goods on their heads, even selling their wares through the windows of moving tro-tros as they make their way out of the marketplace.

After all of this, by the time I arrive at work, I am usually covered in an unsightly layer of red dust, and feeling rather hot and flustered.   Walking into the quiet, air conditioned office is a welcome relief, and before long my composure has returned. 

Unfortunately for me, not everyone considers silence to be golden, and it isn't long before one of my colleagues has set up a playlist on one of the computers, pumping out a variety of nineties classics, on repeat, until the end of the day. 

If anybody was wondering where Celine Dion's fan base had disappeared to, I can confidently assure you that several members are alive and well in the The Statesman's office in Accra.

Frankie Freeman