Each night, just before sleep the last thing I ask My Very Own Newfoundlander is what his most surreal moment of the day was. It’s telling that I’m only looking for one – the most standout of the day – because you can be assured that there will have been a number to choose from. He then returns the question and happy to have exchanged that day’s top stories we can finally sleep.
One night it was about the crazy man, dressed in flowing black robes who tried to high kick him while walking down the main street in the nearest city, Bolgatanga. Like a crazed crow the man had fluttered his arms, let out a slow yelp and raised his leg high enough to reach MVON’s arm. We managed to scare him away, without sustaining injury but with a good answer for that day’s anecdote.
Another was about the foreign exchange office we had visited. To our bemused confusion we discovered that they offered different exchange rates for different denominations of the US dollar: 50s having a better value than 20s. We tried reasoning with him that a dollar is a dollar no matter what president’s face is on the note but he wasn’t having any of it. As his was the only exchange office in town we had to reluctantly concede. There was a government notice on the wall stating that the office was obliged to offer the official rate advertised. This was clearly used only as decoration as they had their own unique concept of the financial world.
My latest surreal moment, like many others, occurred in a taxi while driving to the city’s internet café. I sat in the front, saying private prayers to whoever might listen as the vehicle trembled and shook along the road, at speeds far beyond what could be expected of an antique without any mirrors, dashboard, handles or upholstery. To take my mind off the road ahead and the real terror of goats aimlessly wandering out into our path, I gazed out at the passing savannah lands and ditches where tired locals sat under the shade of enormous trees, calabash bowls at their feet brimming with eggs they hoped to sell. When the driver twirled the dial on the radio, and finally choose a station playing music at deafening volumes my attention was yanked suddenly back to the moment. It sounded just like…no, it couldn’t be….did the singer just sing about Bundoran and Donegal? Holy mother of tea parties. Daniel O’Donnell was blaring at me, in the northern tip of Ghanawhen Irelandcouldn’t have been further from my thoughts. I sat in shock, for the first time not worrying about surviving the car ride. The song ended and went straight into another – this time it was Galway Bay. I was suddenly incredibly excited, in a Ghanaian taxi shared with four other locals. I couldn’t help myself – this is about my country – I proudly announced. The driver raised one eyebrow and somewhat unimpressed, asked which country that was. Ireland! I sang out wishing that they acknowledged just how odd this all was, at this moment, in this place, in this bone rattling taxi. He simply lowered his eyebrow and said Oh…, in a most unimpressed tone, clearly not interested in pursuing the conversation. It being Daniel O’Donnell I suppose I can’t blame the poor man’s disinterest, especially when two more of his songs were played before the station went into a newscast. This is even odder to swallow considering that this is the very first ‘western’ music I have heard inGhana, anywhere.
When I finally arrived in the city the first person I met was a jolly man fromNigerwho informed me that he was collecting scrap metal. Apologising that I didn’t have any to offer he instead gave me a hearty handshake and wished me a good day. Still reeling from the strangeness of my morning I sat down in front of the computer ready to post my latest blog post. I plugged my USB stick into the computer tower and immediately received an ugly, sharp, electric shock.
Having not even made it to lunch time yet I was going to have some job picking the standout moment later on that night. Plus there was another hectic taxi ride ahead of me just to get back to Paga, with goats, motorcycles, egg sellers and lord only knows what music to contend with.
Conortje 