I have attended three interviews so far. All went very well but it seems not well enough. For two, I met the requirements completely. They were ideal matches and I knew I could have performed brilliantly in the roles. What more do they want from me, blood? My friends keep telling me that something will come up and how could they resist me, they’d be lucky to have me. I’m thinking of rounding up a bunch of them to bring along next time, decked out with pom-poms and Conortje t-shirts. You just never know, perhaps that’s what they’re looking for…

I can’t shake the idea that in Ireland a lot of it comes down to who you know and having lived outside of Ireland for eleven years I’m afraid I have an alarming deficiency in this field. I’m working on dealing with the repeated rejection but boy does it ever make a dent in your ego. I’ve come to loath the bad news e mails that invariably thank me for my interest in their organisation.  It’s increasingly difficult to read that ridiculous sentence without assuming a voice dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. I’d prefer they just concluded with ‘I know this sucks but you know what, just deal with it!’.

My Occasionally Spanish Friend suggested I request some feedback after the most recent interview so I spent a morning composing a friendly e mail asking for any suggestions or advice to help with future interviews. They didn’t even acknowledge my e mail. I’ve been pondering the idea of sending them a follow up thanking them for their disinterest in Conortje.

The scary thing about unemployment is that the longer it continues the less confidence you have of ever getting a job. Your belief in your own abilities begins to evaporate and this is a dangerous snowball.

What hasn’t yet disintegrated is my optimism. When the ‘thank you for your interest’ e mail arrives I spend the following hour or so repeatedly refreshing my inbox in the ludicrous hope that they sent me the wrong message and the correct one will arrive shortly.

Perhaps I need to build on this optimism and learn to turn negative thoughts into positive actions. Should I start learning Japanese or how to remove my shirt in a titillating manner. I’ve a feeling Japanese would be easier. Maybe I could combine both or even incorporate the driving instruction too. I’m sure that’s just what Ireland needs, a Japanese speaking driving instructor who can remove their pants while shifting from third to fourth gear.

15. Safari Disco Club – Yello

Just great pop music that makes me wish I was in Paris swinging my bits to the hits.

14. Velcro – BellX1

Doing what BellX1 do best – making catchy, listener-friendly nuggets of fun

13.  Sweet Dancer – The Waterboys

One of a number of standout tracks from the album An Appointment with Mr Yeats. The words are by WB Yeats and the music by Mike Scott, a match made made in heaven it would seem.

12. Oh Sleep – Lisa Hannigan & Ray Lamontagne

A wonderful duet by two singers I’ve always loved. A sweet lullaby that was the golden moment of Lisa’s album for me.

11. Written on the forehead – PJ Harvey

It’s kind of ridiculous choosing just one song from this incredible album – my favourites change constantly and the whole is far greater than the sum of their parts. But this was the first song I heard from the album and instantly loved its bizarre reggae and the image of people throwing dinars at the bellydancers.

10. Ü Berlin – R.E.M.

A classic R.E.M. song from a pretty great final album. I for one will definitely miss them.

9. Ah! – Linnea Olsson

A great song to jump right into the world of Linnea Olsson and see if, like me, it makes you say Ah!

8.Train – Younger Brother

A wonderfully atmospheric song that grooves along like a train bringing you to a place you’ve always wanted to go to.

7. January Hymn – The Decemberists

An exquisite tune about a separation in the depths of winter when shoveling the snow brings the green ground below. What were the words I meant to say before you left, when I could see your breath lead where you were going to. Stunning!

6. The Stand – Mother Mother

How I absolutely love Mother Mother, the combination and harmonies of their voices with that special pop sprinkled rock is just something I need more of in my life. This was the lead single of their great new album.

5. Shattering Sea – Tori Amos

Just Like with PJ it’s close to impossible to pick just one song from this collection but as the first on the album it’s a great representation of what you might expect. Just like the rest of this album, Shattering Sea is remarkable in its music and scope. It is not necessarily accessible on the first listen but it didn’t take me too long to fall in love.

Shattering Sea

4. Bad as Me – Tom Waits

Waits returned this year with a guttural roar. This track makes me want to pick up a megaphone and shout to passerbys how utterly fabulous this man is. No good you say, well that’s good enough for me. It’s classic Waits’ twisted lyrics, dirty beats and it even has a mid point countdown in Spanish. Crank it up loud, the world needs this!

3. Lose it – Austra

Just a delicious song from a totally new name for me. Austra is clearly ridiculously talented and I look forward to where she goes from here seeing as this is the standard of her debut! So good that you have two versions, stripped down or 80′s-tastic – take your pick.

2. Somebody that I used to know – Gotye

Pop songs don’t often come as well rounded as this. He may not be the most consistent artist but when he gets it right he really excels. Everything about this song is perfect.

1. Do you remember – Ane Brun

I think I knew I wouldn’t hear anything finer all year when those first drums beats announced the return of the incredible Ane Brun. I love the rhythms, the melody, the excitement, the vocals, and of course the extraordinary video. Superb! My very favourite of 2011.

Most of my conversations of late have been with people I hardly know or have never even met before. Being ‘stranded’ in Tralee means that I am so far away from my real friends that I’ve had to improvise with anyone who crosses my path, whether they are willing or not. Or even if they haven’t gone anywhere near my path.

It’s a highlight of my day if I can spot the postman and rush out to collect the mail directly as this means we can swap a few words. Even if they might be mumbled in a thick Kerry accent. One nasty wet and windy day when I felt glad I didn’t have to leave the house I spied the man coming up the drive clutching a few envelopes and the promise of some human interaction. Gao..ch… ahirid.. day he said with a concerned look and gestured around him. Wading through the impenetrable dense Kerry fog of pronunciation I assumed that he was complaining about the weather. I mean everyone’s at it – it’s either that or the economy really so I felt pretty safe in responding oh I know, it’s terrible isn’t it? All of a sudden his enunciation improved dramatically and he looked at me in fierce alarm as he replied with accusation I said isn’t it a grand soft day. 

After that I took to conversing online. Well not so much conversing as leaving opinions on news articles on thejournal.ie.  I was delighted when people replied. It stroked my need for interaction, at least somewhat. And then I discovered that people not only can show their appreciation of your view point by clicking a little ‘thumbs up’ icon but also convey their disgust by choosing the downward pointing alternative. I began to quickly despise those nasty little thumbs and wondered with hurt how so many people could vote me down. Butthe more comments I read the more I was shocked at how many horribly racist and narrow minded people are on that site thumbing down anyone with reason or a progressive mind. I vowed to abandon this medium of communication but not before I sprinkled a shower of thumbs up in the hope that a few there would feel good about themselves.

Instead I found myself texting radio shows and writing to newspapers. Unexpectedly I then became penpals with my local Supervalu supermarket. But the less said about that the better as it more than borders mortification (although I will admit that they subsequently provided a box to recycle batteries and restocked my favourite products).

One successful venture was my communication with the Oxford English Dictionary. On the topic of same sex marriage one (of the many) fools on thejournal.ie had said the word marriage should not be used as the Oxford Dictionary defined it as ‘The formal union of a man and a woman, typically as recognized by law’. Cue the following frantic e mail to said dictionary;

————————————————————————————————–

Dear Sir/Madam,

I wish to question your definition of the world marriage as ‘the formal union of a man or woman’. I have countless friends around the world who are married to a partner of the same sex. Their marriage is completely recognised by the law and society. In fact there is no other term to describe their union. This is not a judgment or an opinion but a fact.

Even more puzzling is that the OED further implies that there is an informal use of the term between married partners of the same sex. I will admit that there can be an informal use to describe other unions between differing and same sex couples however a legal marriage is clearly different. I must reiterate that my friends are legally married – this is not informal in any way and there simply is no other term that can be used in this case. It is not a civil partnership but a marriage, as recognised by the law.

I would appreciate if you could clarify what English word they are to use to describe their union as the OED would seem to imply that there is none.

Thank you for your time and attention,

Conortje

—————————————————————————————————–

I was ecstatic with joy when I received the following the very next day;

—————————————————————————————————–

Dear Mr Conortje,

Many thanks for your email to Oxford Dictionaries regarding our definition of marriage. Your point is a very valid one, and we have been considering this issue in some detail recently.

As a result we have revised the wording of the definition so that the subsense previously reading ‘informal a union between partners of the same sex; a civil partnership’, now reads ‘(in some jurisdictions) a union between partners of the same sex’. This revised definition will appear on our website at the next update (which should be in around a month’s time).

Thank you, once again, for your comments on this matter. They are most appreciated.

Best wishes

OED

————————————————————————————————

While I have all this time on my hands nobody is safe from me pouncing on them to elicit some sort of response to remind me that I am still alive. Most of my attempts sadly end up annoying or embarrassing me, but I have time on my hands and I can only take so much daytime TV. Although it’s startling how your tolerance for mediocrity can change when you’re unemployed. Of course all this means that if you write to me I will definitely reply, probably every day for a month. Whether you like it or not!

We got on famously from the very beginning and then in the summer I almost exploded with love for the thing and eventually I couldn’t contain it anymore and I proposed. Unfortunately it’s still not legal to marry in this jurisdiction and so we are simply living in wonderful sin.

As I may have mentioned I have read an inordinate amount this year and a lot of that is thanks to my trusty Kindle. It allowed me to keep up my habit in Ghana without weighing down my bags and I even managed to stay in touch with the outside world thanks to its (free) 3G internet.

Sadly when I got back to Ireland I discovered the first negative thing about my new obsession; you can’t tell what people are reading.

On my trip back to Kerry on the train from Dublin a lady sat down next to me and began reading a book I had been curious about for a few months. So before even leaving the station I asked her what she thought of it. This began a four hour long conversation about books, friends, life, careers, the economy, children and the world in general. When we parted in Tralee, each armed with book recommendations from the other, she gave me a kiss and a huge hug and I felt like I had made a wonderful new friend. This would never have happened had she, like me, been reading on a kindle.

I always love having a sneak at what people around me are reading. I can tell from their face where in the book they are. I offer knowing nods when they are clearly at the emotional passages and beam big smiles when they get to the funny parts. I remember finishing The Elegance of the Hedgehog in floods of tears on an impossibly packed bus in Bolivia. The Andean lady next to me, all decked out in folds of colourful alpaca wool and trademark hat, stared in shock at me, possibly wondering what the white guy had to cry about on this simple bus. I lifted up my book in explanation which instantly appeased her and elicited an understanding smile. If I had brandished my kindle instead I most likely would have been escorted off the bus.

I have fallen in love with strangers because of the reactions they are having reading book I know and cherish. I have also unjustly judged people reading books that I looked down on. Terrible I know but it’s hard to take anyone seriously reading Katie Price’s 42^nd autobiography.

Wouldn’t it be great if the back of the kindle could proudly show the cover of the book you’re reading? Failing that I would request that I am the only one allowed use the kindle and the rest of the world needs to display the printed version in order to keep me up to date on the tastes of my fellow readers and allow the path to friendship and conversation to remain open.

Reading

Probably the best thing about having so much free time is being able to read and read and read. Oh and getting up at questionable times of the day. And then reading. Back in bed.

I’ve read some wonderful books this year, some so-so offerings and one particular novel that I loathed. My favourites, in the order I feel today, are

10. On Canaan’s Side – Sebastian Barry

9. The Help – Kathryn Stockett

8. Afterwards – Rosamund Lupton

7. Pigeon English  – Stephen Kelman

6. The Book of Negroes – Lawrence Hill

5.  There But For The – Ali Smith

4. The Housekeeper and the Professor – Yoko Ogawa

3. State of Wonder – Ann Patchett

2. Cutting For Stone – Abraham Verghese

1. Come Thou Tortoise – Jessica Grant

Controversy

I wasn’t madly taken with the critics favourites The Tiger’s Wife – Tea Obreht, The Lacuna – Barbara Kingsolver or The Marriage Plot – Jeffery Eugenides although they were all worth reading and had some moments of brilliance.  Sarah’s Key – Tatiana de Rosnay was just foolish chick lit which was a huge shame as it had the bones of an incredibly moving and unique holocaust story. Sadly the author seemed more interested in a tedious modern love story. It was also the worst written novel I read all year – by far, although maybe that was due to its translation. Runner up for least favourite book I read this year is Canadian misery in print, Mercy Among the Children – David Adams Richards.  There were many others that I enjoyed but don’t particularly merit a mention either way. Better to talk about the standout novel which made me despair and wonder about all these critics who seem to fall over themselves celebrating anyone from Ireland who can string a sentence together – Skippy Dies – Paul Murray.

Reading & Controversy

Paul Murray’s Skippy Dies is relentless, not least of all in its unnecessary length – a good third being excessive video game fantasy and scientific drivel, which became tedious to say the least. You are confronted on almost every page with homophobia the like of which I have never encountered in a book before. Without exception every character is devoid of morals, compassion and backbone. Not one adult in the book shows the slightest regard for the children in their lives and the children themselves exhibit extreme cruelty after cruelty to everyone around them. My problem is that there is zero questioning of the homophobia, racism and hatred that spring from every page.  I accept that many people are okay with that but I prefer to read more rounded stories with characters that show more than one dimension. Life is full of hardship but there is also kindness and hope to be found everywhere, no matter how small – something that is entirely absent here. In fact none of the cruelty, racism or homophobia is challenged in any way, why?

I felt the unchallenged onslaught of homophobia by almost every character to be like a chisel slowly hacking away at me. I worry that, like in the school, when you hear something so often it becomes acceptable – but I for one can never read or hear these words of hatred and not be affected. I certainly didn’t laugh at them as many reviewers have been able to.

One of many, many examples of why I severely dislike this novel is the following scene, directed at an Asian lady working in the doughnut shop.

    In her gook voice the words come out, `Can ah help yo?’ like she is retarded. `Yes, I would like an Agent Orange juice please.     You doh have? Okay I will have a napalm sandwich’
`Those gooks have wormy little dicks’. He makes an imaginary rifle with his hands and points it at Gookette and fires two bullets into her. `You stupid bitch, he wants a blow job’. He takes a five-euro note from his wallet and crumples it up and throws it at her.’
Why did the narrative need to take on the appalling racism too? Surely there were enough characters taking on that role to leave the tiniest space for a different voice, an alternative point of view?

A few weeks after Skippy Dies I had the luck to read Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman. Now Mr Murray here is a way to tell a very similar story but in a far more realistic and compassionate way. The main character, Harrrison, is confronted with much the same hardships found in Skippy Dies but manages to retain a strong individual spirit despite the horrific cruelty that exists in school and the inner-city housing estate where he lives. These are very similar themes as in Murray’s book but here you not only see the negative aspects of life and youth but also the optimism and genuine desire to be happy. It is a wonderfully charming and indeed heart wrenching story. It is sensitively written in a way that the humour is rich and the experiences realistic. The characters’ reactions to the very negative situations they find themselves in is the very spirit of the book and it packs a huge emotional punch for that very reason. The drive behind the story and characters is inspiring and understandable. It glows brightly where Skippy Dies manages to suck the life out of everyone.

It is in every way as compelling as Skippy was one-dimensional – a wonderful read.

Clearly blogging has not been one of these. My Occasionally Genius Sister asked me why I wasn’t keeping up my blog and my answer was sure what on earth would I write about?. I suppose I could blog about how I’ve become an expert on daytime television or my unlikely chats with the postman. Would anyone be remotely interested in these, or how I discovered the loveliest lady on earth working in the supermarket. My engineering of strategic queuing to ensure I’m at her checkout is something I’m certain would not make for engaging reading. Maybe I should ask her to be a guest writer instead…

But now my patience for watching other people buying property in the country or singing bad karaoke in the hope of being famous has worn desperately thin. And in truth I have been doing other things, unremarkable though they are. So this week I’ll attempt a roundup of these activities. When you start shaking with desperation at the tedium let me know and I’ll point you towards the week’s finest afternoon television extravaganza.

Without a job and living in a town where I know nobody apart from family I spent huge chunks of my time pouring over photos from my travels. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my travelling life felt more real to me than trawling through the Irish job sites every morning. Why can’t my reality consist of hiking through the Andes, feeding monkeys on a rooftop in India, gazing at the Moai statues on Easter island trying to figure them out, attempting to establish if the ‘vegetarian intestines’ on the menu in China really were vegetarian or shaking fins with a shark in the deep ocean of the Galapagos? A line in book I read recently summed it all up perfectly:

This is what happened when one left one’s home – pieces of oneself scattered all over the world, no one place ever completely satisfied, always a nostalgia for the places left behind.

And then I figured it all out. All I need to do is have enough money to do everything – be everywhere and with everyone. I closed the browser, reassured that I didn’t need a job after all and I happily sauntered into town to buy a lotto ticket. A modest investment to furnish me with the life I wanted. Why on earth hadn’t I thought of this earlier?

In my head I began making lists of where I’d go and what to bring. Which places would I go back to and which were worth sacrificing for the sake of discovering the new. At 8pm I checked the numbers to be certain of what I knew had to be true. Remarkably by some enormous cosmic cock up something had gone radically wrong. Not even one number? How was this possible? I had decided what was reality and now it turned out it simply didn’t exist. But then again maybe it was merely behind schedule. Maybe reality would start a week later, after next week’s draw… that must be it.

But just in case I checked the job postings again. In fact I had just received an e mail with a ridiculously exciting title. We have found your perfect job. Hurray I thought – if the job title isn’t ‘lotto winner’ then surely it will be something that will get me out of Tralee and enable me to pretend to be a real person again. Who needs reality if you have a super duper fulfilling job?

I opened up the e mail and instantly closed it again in utter shock – clearly I had read it wrong. On my second attempt I realised that the computer hadn’t lied. Recruit Ireland had decided that my perfect job would be as a ‘Beef de-boner in Norway’.

Seeing as I am a vegetarian and find any temperature under 10 degrees a major challenge I decided that Recruit Ireland were finding the concept of reality just as challenging as I was. Anyway why on earth can’t the Norwegian beef eaters deal with the bones themselves?

So now my reality involves desperately searching for an interesting job, interspersing that with diving into the comfort of my photos and trying to wean myself off my newly established weekly gambling problem. One of these days I’ll have to get back to wherever it is I belong.

In the meantime, I wonder how bad can de-boning Norwegian beef really be…

 As I have less than a week left in Paga I had decided to pay an extended  overnight visit to his village which is a 35 minute cycle from just north of the middle of nowhere in ruralGhana. They have no electricity, so after the spectacular sunset had finished decorating the surrounding savannah the huts were lit only by the occasional small fire as the women prepared the evening meal, and the moonlight which also lit up the surrounding fields of maize and corn in a magical silver twinkle. Not enough to make out any individual plants but enough for your imagination to run free and picture the animals and people coming home after a hard day’s work in the fields. Not a mobile phone in sight, the nearest signal might appear only after a good 15 minute cycle down the nearest dirt road, if you are lucky.

 Chatting on the roof before dinner, overlooking the walled compound of eleven or so huts – otherwise known as the Chief’s Palace – I had noticed a few structures in the compound which had seriously deteriorated, with no roofs or any visible signs of inhabitants. Those families have died out My Little Prince explained,  also many leave to go to the city, if they do then their huts are abandoned, waiting for new people to one day move in. I asked if anyone ever returns here to live after being in the city. Sure he replied, they sometimes come back with wives or sometimes they just return after they have found what they had been looking for. He didn’t offer what it might be they might be looking for and I didn’t want to ask – I just loved the idea that sometimes they found it and returned to this simple place satisfied.

 People sleep out on the flat roofs when the temperature gets unbearable during the dry season. Or sometimes they just come up to eat roasted corn and chat – like this evening.

 I learned that My Little Prince wasn’t really the son of the chief. His father had died when he was a child and now he looks after his mother, grandmother and three siblings. He toils in the fields during the rainy season, tending and harvesting crops that will hopefully keep them fed in the coming ten months of dry season. The Chief probably calls him a prince because he lives on the ‘palace’ compound. Or maybe it’s because it’s because he is so genuine, kind and admirable that that is the very least honour that should be bestowed on him.

 As well as taking care of his family he also continues his education, cycling for an hour each way to the school in the next big town, Navrongo.  Every day he gets up at 5am and when he gets home after 5pm he does his homework by the light of a tiny, dim, battery fed light. Never once have I heard him complain about anything. Far from it, he is proud of his village and his family and his eagerness to learn more.

 He lives in a hut that has one tiny thin mattress on the ground, a ledge that has his school books, some pamphlets and a Bible. There is just about enough room for two plastic chairs and a fold away table which he opens out only at meal times. The roof is made of strips of interwoven wood which occasionally lets in some water during the heavy rains he admitted with a giggle. He gave me his bed for the night while he slept (or said he did although I seriously question anyone’s ability to do it) on the hard ground of his hut in the space where the chairs are usually kept.

 That night the whole village came together in honour of the visit of some other volunteers and myself who were all staying in the area. They heated up the goat skins of their drums over the naked flames of little fires they kept burning for this purpose. Special whistle players were invited for the occasion and a talented man used an overturned metal bucket and a stick to add to the very African rhythm of the night.

 With the drumming getting more and more frantic a circle was formed and the least self-conscious of villagers began dancing, one at a time, displaying what at times looked like a chicken having an epileptic fit. Awkward white men dancing this was not!  As the night progressed, more and more people joined the festivities coming from homes and farms from all around the area – each eager to have their few seconds to display their dancing prowess in the midst of the enthusiastic onlookers.

 The importance of such an event was explained to me later. They only happen twice a year or so maybe for a wedding or funeral and it’s when the single members of the communities hope to choose a partner – presumably picking their favourite chicken dancer of the group. The dancers were lit by a sole torch shone down on the circle by the tallest member of the group who must have had an unbearably sore arm by the end of the night. Dust was kicked up into the air as the frantic dancers stamped their legs and flapped their arms, the torch light illuminating the falling dust as if a substitute for dry ice.

 In the morning My Little Prince brought me a breakfast of soup and Tuo Zafi (TZ) – a jelly like substance made of grains and other unidentified squidgy ingredients. You break some off and use it to scoop up the soup – all with your hand. Nobody told me that the TZ is scalding but I learned that instantly as I plunged my hands deep into it and let out a roar. I can’t see Kellogs marking it as a new breakfast option but it was great to have another slice of life in the village – even if it did result in second degree burns.

 It was only one night – a few hours really but a wonderful opportunity to step momentarily into another’s shoes. After our chat on the rooftop the evening before we had spent a good ten minutes there, in silence munching on the delicious corn which had been prepared on the open fire in front of his hut moments before, picked from the field a couple of hours before that. I didn’t want to ask any more questions and he seemed to enjoy just sitting there too, happy for two friends to simply gaze below at the moonlit village or up into the starry sky. It is this moment that will be my most valued memory of my time in Ghana.

 As I fell asleep later I wondered if any new couples were formed. I found myself saying a quick prayer that even one match was made – maybe one hut would be restored and a new family would grow to live in this special community. I also wondered if I would ever get a chance to return and see if that had happened.

 Who knows, maybe some day after I have found whatever it is I am looking for…

While waiting this morning amid the justle and bustle of the taxi rank I became engrossed in a card game between two taxi drivers. They were playing the only card game in Ghana which I had eagerly learned the rules for. I decided that it must be the only game in the country when I asked what it is called and was informed that it is simply called ‘card game’.

While keeping a tally of the score in my head I felt two little hands grab my legs. They belonged to a tiny girl, about four years old, all dressed in her finest, as if off to church. I looked up just in time to see the man who had delivered her to me cycle off speedily. I looked down again with confusion and tried chatting to her. She just continued holding my legs and gazing at my face with two huge, captivating eyes. Her expression didn’t change in the slightest even as I was becoming more and more worried that I had suddenly become responsible for a child. What if my taxi is ready to leave I started panicking. Should I take her with me? I can’t leave her all alone in this taxi rank. It’s too close to the border, you never know who might be about.

I told myself not to be ridiculous – I couldn’t just take her with me. Could I? Maybe it’s a sign. Perhaps it’s my destiny to look after her. I began imagining taking her to all my favourite spots in Ireland. A few more minutes went by and before I knew it I had started wondering about how to go about instigating a legal adoption. Just then a woman appeared from behind a shed, dressed in an adult version of the girl’s pretty dress. She nodded at me, said something in the local language and then took the girl’s hand and off they went together – leaving me all alone and wondering how close I had actually come to kidnapping.

But there was no time to seriously question what had happened as three other souls had been rounded up and my taxi was ready to leave. I got in the back seat and noticed that the car wasn’t just transporting the five humans but we were accompanied by ten (!) goats. There were fifteen hearts beating in that vehicle all thumping just a little quicker than normal considering the road situation in Ghana. Every time we spied another person on the road either on a bicycle, motorbike, walking or sitting by the side of the road we honked at them. This wasn’t to say hello but rather – watch out – we’re coming through and we’re bigger and faster than you and are far more likely to win.

If cows are the ubiquitous animal of India goats are their equivalent in Ghana. They are everywhere; on top of walls, tied to trees, hanging out in the baskets of bicycles, skipping along merrily in yards and scampering about scaring the wits out of chickens. They are tiny little creatures about the size of a medium dog and wander about the place without a worry in the world. Unfortunately this devil-may-care attitude of theirs is also displayed on the roads where they have a treacherous habit of appearing out of nowhere right in front of your vehicle’s wheels. I have had many almost goatacides myself and witnessed a motorbike go right over one only a few days ago. (Both parties survived although the goat was definitely more vocal in the aftermath as the motorcyclist barely registered anything at all and just continued his journey undeterred.)

The sight of any goat on the horizon had our taxi driver on full honk mode and every time he used the horn this terrified our own herd in the back, provoking them into a chorus of frenzied bleating. I began to wonder if the driver and the animals were competing to see who could be louder. Sitting in the back I can guarantee that the goats won – hoofs down.

I arrived in Bolga and did my internet business, calling upon all my reserves of patience when the internet connection disappeared for up to ten minutes at a time (usually while in the middle of downloading a file or sending an e mail).

Then it was time to begin the taxi process back to Paga. Again I was the only interested party in this particular direction so I sat down and commenced my wait. This being Ghana I instantly made a friend as the man sitting next to me introduced himself as Prosper and began quizzing me about Ireland. When I finished my stories he volunteered some information about himself. Before the taxi man called me I had learned all about his history growing up in Bolga and how after he got married his parents forced them to have a child. If we didn’t do it straight away my wife would be considered barren and I would be made to choose a different wife he told me with a hearty laugh.

I reluctantly left my new friend and got into the car. When all passengers were inside three strong men each grabbed a side of the car and began pushing it out of its parking space. (This makes it sounds like it had an actual parking spot when in reality all the taxis are crammed together in any space where they’ll fit, often four or five cars deep and at any angle that takes their fancy). This was a very inauspicious start to our journey and I wondered just how far they were planning on pushing us (Paga is a 40 minute drive away after all). The engine made a clanking, very unengine-like sound and the driver sighed. We rolled a little and came to a halt. He nipped out of the car, rounded up some more volunteers and repeated the process. In fact this happened three times until we made it as far as the gate to the main road when he finally admitted defeat and went off in search of a replacement.

The four of us stood by the side of the road laughing and hoping for a more roadworthy candidate. When it arrived we were satisfied it was a step up and I worried only a little about how shattered the window screen was. Sitting in the front seat I tried imaging how many accidents/scrapes the car had been in to earn so many war wounds. About halfway to Paga it began raining. Not the torrential downpours anymore that we’re used to, as we’re coming to the end of the rainy season. Sadly it’s more sunny spells and scattered showers these days. But the rain was heavy enough that seeing out the window soon became quite the challenge. The three boisterous passengers in the back became quieter and quieter as the rain progressed and it became clear that the window wipers couldn’t be employed. One sweep of them would surely be enough to bring an end to the illusion of a window that remained. To his credit the driver clearly made allowances and reduced his speed from 100km/h to about 90km/h.

I prayed that the goats would stay away, along with any person foolish enough to be out in the rain. If anything were to appear on the road now the chances of us being able to see it were miniscule.

But we made it back safe and sound. I had never been so grateful to see Paga and couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. This involved having to stand up as much as I could and reach my arm out of the car to open the door from the outside as the handle inside was long lost in one of the car’s many past adventures.

Walking back to the house I went through the morning again in my mind and couldn’t wait to write it all down for my blog. And then I realised with delicious irony that posting it on my blog would require another trip back to Bolga.

We have just over three weeks left in Ghana: two in Paga. Some days can be so difficult that the early bed times are a relief. I spend my working days testing a stream of sick people hoping that they will get the treatment they need and deserve. We reuse everything in the clinic apart from needles. Slides for blood samples are all washed and reused until they barely resemble anything that was made from glass. Containers for urine samples likewise. When a stool sample is to be tested I have to dilute it with a solution before stirring it with a twig which I then use to transfer some to the slide for analysis. And that only happens if the electricity is on. Power cuts here are more regular than commercials are on TV at home. With no power we cannot use the microscopes and the sick people simply have to wait, in the oppressive heat – hoping that they’ll get some sort of result which they can then take back to the consultant who will decide if there are drugs available for treatment.  Most of the people are sick with Malaria but there are also many cases of typhoid and other mysterious illnesses that we haven’t a hope of guessing given our resources. Seeing so many pregnant ladies and very young children horribly ill with a disease like malaria that will continue in this area for far too long into the future is depressing beyond words.

Amid all this I am working with three wonderfully upbeat, friendly and competent people. The best I could wish for really. Their jokes and the fact that I can make a wailing child giggle by just producing a lollipop can often make up for just about anything I may be feeling.

I come home and then face more and more rice for lunch and dinner before taking a ‘shower’ with a bucket of cold water. Some days, depending on my mood it can be invigorating, other days it has me cursing – in Dutch just so as I don’t offend anyone within earshot.

I check my kindle constantly for e mails from friends or comments on my blog and these give me more energy than you could ever expect. It’s not that I am lonely here. You are never far from anyone in Paga and they are genuinely the friendliest people I’ve met in all my travels; so welcoming and open. But of course they aren’t my people and I know I’ll be leaving them shortly. Contact with home or a reaction on my blog grounds me so well, helps me remember that I have great friends and family all of my own just waiting for me to return.

A short while ago after a particularly tough day when we had both been ill and had experienced all sorts of difficult situations I reminded My Very Own Newfoundlander that there were only three weeks left. We’re on the home stretch I chirped encouragingly.

I know he replied with a straight face, it’s the ‘stretch’ part that I worry about.

And I know only too well that as much as I cannot wait for a hot shower, a washing machine and a well stocked supermarket that I will miss so much of this place – most likely as soon as I touch down in Europe again. I will miss the two goats always outside our house. The male is just getting over a cold which caused the cutest goat sneezes imaginable. The female is pregnant and getting bigger by the day. I was scandalised to learn that her partner couldn’t have been the father as he had been neutered. My very own soap opera outside my window. Who needs a television?

I will miss Weja who cares for us two like a mother – despite being a young man who should have thousands of other things to occupy his time rather than looking after two needy foreigners. I would love to have the chance to take him to Ireland some day and repay his kindness and generosity. It makes me horribly sad to think that the likelihood of this ever happening is close to zero.

I will yearn for the amazing greetings I receive here, always with a big smile and an extravagant welcome. Or how whenever anyone sits to eat they look at you, smile and say you are invited, which means you are welcome to share their food, no matter how little they may have.

I know I will be thinking about my little prince as I sit at home in Ireland wandering if there was enough rain for the crops to feed his family or if the rumour that they will finally get electricity has materialised. I will miss his wonderful eager smile whenever he sees me, the one that never ceases to produce the mirror image in my own expression.

I will not miss how unorganised and chaotic things can be at times. How there isn’t always enough food or medicine and how goddamn difficult some people’s lives are here How when it rains people just don’t bother going to work. Or how those sick people have to wait so long to get treatment.

And I think everyone knows where I stand on food, showering, laundry and belly aches.

So it’s a complete mixture of thoughts, experiences and emotions. It hasn’t been easy. Has it really been all that hard for me? Not by a long shot– it’s just far too easy to moan. You don’t miss what you never had and the problem is that I’ve had a very blessed life up until now. If I had had any doubts beforehand, living here has made that remarkably clear.

One particular day will stick out – which in a way encompasses how many emotions spin together for me in Paga. I found out through a text message from home that my aunt had passed away. I was on a minibus coming back from the village where my little prince lives. While it wasn’t out of the blue as she had been ill for a while now it is always a shock. I kept my reaction at bay until the bus brought me to my bike and I began my cycle back to the house. As I raced down the hill I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, remembering how she made me a special Christmas pudding for the first Christmas I spent away from home. How I always looked forward to her and my uncle’s visits when I was a kid. Imagining how she would once have played with my father as a child. My Aunt, Uncle and my Dad all no longer with us.

As I sped along on my bike through my watery eyes I noticed I was being greeted on both sides of the road – Hello White Man on one side, Welcome White Man on the other all waving and beaming at me. This continued for my entire journey back interspersed by groups of laughing children who would ran after me waving and singing Fella Fella Good Morning. By the time I had reached my door I honestly didn’t know if I was laughing or crying any more. I certainly wished I could have been with my family but I was also comforted by the fact that while that wasn’t possible – this was really not a bad alternative.

Certainly not for this lucky white man.