The road to Kumasi

A travel writing 'tip' I once saw said something along the lines of 'start in the middle of the action, not in the departure lounge'. I feel therefore that I ought to open this blog with a swashbuckling account of an elephant stampede, the roaring of a pride of hungry lions, or an inspiring narrative of how I singlehandedly transformed the fortunes of an entire continent... but I'm in Essex, I can't sleep and it's drizzling a bit so instead, dear reader, I'll tell the tale of me doing my packing. Are you sitting comfortably?

 

My rucksack is two thirds full, mostly it seems with paperbacks. For the most part I'm keeping to an African/travel writing theme. Apart from the books, it seems to be mostly filled with Malarone - about 1500 boxes of the sodding things. I'm also taking a few clothes and a toothbrush.

 

Things that I know I've forgotten* include:

 

 

My flight landed a few hours late, due to some connection problem. Coming through immigration, there was a huge and lengthy queue (Accra airport seems to have a number of international flights, all of which arrive within a few minutes of each other). The stoic Brits in the queue waited patiently, muttering quietly about inefficiency or 'charming African character' depending on their disposition. A few of the Ghanaians, however, were more vocal in their disapproval - one chap stood for several minutes shouting from the back of the queue at the officials before pushing to the front, shouting, vaulting over the barrier, shouting, banging the desk, and shouting a bit more A few more in the crowd began to shout as well, whether in support or not I couldn't tell. It seemed to me a tad unwise though to be openly supporting the guy, whether you sympathised (I did) or not. A 'crowd scene' looked to be potentially developing.

 

A brief confusion followed, during which several passengers walked through the customs check without stopping or handing over their customs declaration - not sure if that's allowed, but as I slipped through with them I saw a young English girl in tears. Her mother had her arm comfortingly round her shoulder saying 'don't look, just keep walking, keep walking.' Bless. And, er, welcome to Ghana.

 

Shortly afterwards I went on my first overnight bus trip in Africa. Young People We Care (more about them later) sent their Accra rep to the airport, who duly took me to a bus station full of coaches named 'Hallelujah' and 'Amazing Grace'. I boarded 'The Lord is my Shepherd', and a gentleman climbed in with a plastic bag full of DVDs. He began what I initially assumed was a sales pitch, but as I looked at the titles (the Passion, St Paul, Samson and Delilah) I was less sure whether he was evangelising or selling. Some the titles confused me a bit ('The Arse of the Apostles' - I think I might have misheard 'Acts'), but eventually he left, my wallet no lighter and my soul resolutely not saved.

 

The following morning, I arrived at Kumasi bus station or rather, was turfed out by the side of the road. A characteristically African melee of stalls, traders, hawkers and passersby greeted me as I retrieved my rucksack and looked vaguely around for ideas about what to do next. Culture shocked and unslept for over 24 hours, I was possibly now vulnerable to touts, so was wary when a 'helpful' taxidriver asked me where I was going. Bleary eyed, I handed over my welcome letter from YPWC, before realising that he had no idea where the address was (to be fair it was a PO Box number). He eventually managed to get through to George, before taking me a short distance from the bus to wait. While waiting, I had the first of a number of conversations about Chelsea FC (my opinion - they're losing - good), and gradually began to regret classifying my new buddy Mike as a 'tout'. I've been told many times that Ghana is one of the friendliest, unhassliest countries in Africa, and finding only help - in the middle of the night, in a city, from a stranger, in my hour of need? Surely a good sign.