Back in the capital, cooped up in a posh hotel, in an anonymous, nowhere special part of town. Talked out – it feels like lala land and dried out by the air con. So easy to become institutionalised so quickly but the spirit lives – itching to get out of here and to escape.
Downtown Oxford Street – in a Lebanese supermarket – at a price you can buy fresh yogurt, good bread, feta cheese, olives and halvah – treats that make me hanker for late Sunday morning breakfasts at home – only the coffee is missing. They don’t do coffee here – it’s milky sweet Nescafe or nothing. It seems that you have to cross the border, or so we are told, to savour some real delights – croissants, baguettes and of course fresh coffee. Here the English bequeathed a legacy of crap bread, weak tea and eggy breakfast.
Sussing out the trotro system takes time, practice and patience and a willingness to be squashed in with your fellow travellers. “37”, “Circle”, and “Burmah Camp” – some of the many destinations – a whole new lexicon with accompanying hand signals. Best of all I love the floppy wrist and twirling hand that indicates “Circle”. Most of these minibuses (it is hard to define the trotro – maybe something that isn’t a taxi and not a bus?) have seen better days in previous incarnations – a lot of them from Germany. I wonder how they get here and imagine that they have probably been driven across the desert from Europe in the same way as you used to see old transits being driven overland to Afghanistan and Pakistan. By the time of their arrival they are a ramshackle hotpotch of various parts cobbled together, welded and bolted and sometimes even tied together. It reminds me of something someone said when the tro broke down – “no it is not broken we are fixing it”.
We catch a football match by the sea. Despite the rocky, dusty pitch this is no kick about – both teams are kitted out – black and white striped shirts against the yellows and there are goal posts with nets – the first ones I have seen. The teams compete in deadly earnest and the home side in the stripes stroke the ball around effortlessly and majestically – they are soon coasting into a two goal lead. Our companion Mohammed, a Rastafarian, tells us that both Essien and Appiah started on this very same pitch and who knows, it could be true. Football competes with religion in the hearts of Ghanaians (or at least the men) and they follow the game with a passion – their own beloved national side the Black Stars and the big European sides. The dream of becoming professional and striking it rich drives hundreds of these young players to make the tortuous journey to Europe in the hope of a trial. Sadly most of those who reach Europe end up destitute on the streets of Paris and Madrid, their dreams shattered.
Dinner at Frankies, sandwiched beneath the hotel of the same name above and the ice cream parlour below. Lebanese fast food – we eat falafel and homos (yes, interesting). The diners are mostly young affluent Ghanaians and a smattering of ex-pats and aid workers. This is a place to be seen in – they pose for pictures, kitted out in their amerikan sports wear and FUBU gear. Outside, down on the street, the big men cruise up and down past the restaurant in their flashy, gleaming 4x4s. The star of the show is the man in the huge black Humvee. He pulls into the parking lot (apparently he does this every evening) and soaks up the admiration and envious stares. Barefoot street kids gaze in wonder, big eyes like saucers. It could be a spacecraft from an alien world and for these kids I guess it is – coming from some fantastical paradise where everything is shiny and clean and where you don’t go hungry for your supper.
