Enjoy the silence

I have found myself in many improbable situations over the last few years: running from a pack of wild dogs in Arequijpa, Peru at 1am on a Friday night, hiding behind a line of fire from a disgruntled elephant in Nepal, being spat at by a witch in La Paz, not to mention having my ipod thoroughly examined by a border guard while entering North Korea (in case it was a sneaky device used by Irish spies). When I first came up with the ridiculous idea of quitting my job and going travelling I never would have guessed that a highlight would be sitting on the flat roof of an adobe hut, lit only by moonlight, sharing a roasted cob of corn with my ‘best friend’, The Little Prince.

 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…

Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone

I’m a little concerned that the tone of your blog and that of your e mail to me don’t coincide my Occasionally Nefarious Friend wrote to me in his last e mail. I understand completely what he means but it’s a tricky one to answer. It’s the close to impossible task of explaining an experience that is both taxing and rewarding.

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.

What’s that coming over the hill, is it a monster?

Incredibly, the day after I wrote the blog post about the snake, I discovered a scorpion in our toilet! The room, not the bowl.

This is a source of endless debate between my Very Own Newfoundlander and myself. Toilets that is, not scorpions. He maintains that a toilet is just the bowl and the room should be referred to as a Wash Room. This. I admit, is at least a step up from the American term Bathroom. I refuse to accept that a room without a bath can deserve that very specific title. But similarly I protest that a room with only a toilet, as we have here in Paga, – the sink is in the hallway – surely cannot be a washroom as no washing occurs within its walls. When he recently informed me that he was off to use the washroom while walking in a field recently I just had to laugh, imagining hidden plumbing behind a baobab tree – the bark decked out with a mirror and fresh towel waiting, hanging crisply over a nearby stalk of maize.

But I digress – a scorpion – yes indeed, a scary, vicious looking monster. Lurking in our dimly lit room where people go to relieve themselves. As I walked in I saw something scuttle behind the bucket of water we use to flush. It was so quick and noisy as it scampered that I assumed it was a cockroach or some species of frog. Neither option bothered me enough to postpone my business and so I merrily continued until it was time to flush. I lifted up the bucket, revealing the identity of the imposter, and thus began the meanest stare off I have ever participated in. It was ugly. It was enormous. It was a spider. It was an ugly enormous spider exhibiting two weapons cocked and ready, one at either side of the eyes that were glaring at me. We both stood our ground, each undoubtedly out of fear. Granted I was much larger but felt distinctly unarmed with nothing but an empty bucket to defend myself.

And so I slowly stepped on the toilet – the bowl, not the room – never once taking my eyes off my potential killer. I yelled for MVON to come quickly. I didn’t even mention what room I was in – there was no time for semantics, no matter how right I was. He simply had to follow the sound of my shrieks.

Find me a weapon – quickly I ordered.  Preferably something that might give me the advantage over the two pistons of poison aimed in my direction I thought. MVON fled and the stare-off continued, each of us rooted to our respective positions – neither willing to concede any territory. Deciding that my back-up was taking far too long and this cold war missile crisis needed to reach a solution I grabbed the only object within reach – a toilet brush. And summoning all the bravery I never knew I had – I plunged. Over and over again pounding the body of the biggest, most threatening spider I had ever seen. This was no toilet duck – it was a venomous monster and it was clear that there could only be one survivor.

Death by toilet brush – it has to be one of the most undignified ways for your existence to be brought to a close. Disgusting – on so many levels – but ultimately successful. We had a victor and I triumphantly dismounted the bowl.

Instantly I ran to my faithful Kindle to investigate an identity line-up of killer spiders of Ghana. Within a few minutes of frantic googling I had uncovered a picture of my late nemesis. Pride in my warrior prowess grew enormously when I read that it wasn’t even a spider but actually a scorpion. A Tailless Whip Scorpion to be exact! I battled a scorpion – and won. Little old me – who knew I had it in me?

And then the next line deflated my ego mercilessly. The Tailless Whip Scorpion is perfectly harmless to humans.

 I turned off my kindle in disgust and with a sense of shame and regret for having massacred an innocent creature. Nobody needs to know that part of the story I decided. The squashed arachnid did not have a monopoly on being taleless.

We eventually calmed down enough to go to bed – leaving the monstrous corpse where it was so we could impress people the next day.

But in the morning when we woke it had disappeared. No trace whatsoever. Had something eaten it during the night? A peckish lizard? A rodent with a curious culinary taste? Or had he somehow managed to come back to life – as happens in all horror movies and was currently plotting its revenge? Maybe it gave off a special death scent and ten of them came to collect him and are planning an attack suggested MVON.

Well so what I decided – my kindle assured me it was harmless – and I repeated the phrase over and over every time I needed to use the toilet – all the while ensuring I was within easy reach of the deadly toilet brush. The toilet is now a potential battle field – both the bowl AND the room.

On account of all the rattlesnakes

The creepy crawly section of my guide book had been purposely left unread until I had arrived in Ghana and was well settled in Paga. There was always the chance that I would chicken out after reading the lengthy list of undesirable animals just waiting to make my acquaintance. Of course I wouldn’t have admitted that they were the reason. Instead I’d blame my bank balance (which in truth is far scarier than any beast mentioned in my book) or the hand written note I had received from the Ghanaian embassy in Ireland telling me that as I only had one blank page left in my passport, strictly speaking they shouldn’t have issued me my visa. But they did, and of course I arrived.

And recently I collected all my courage and studied what was outside my door waiting for me to discover or more worryingly, what was waiting to discover me.

We share our bedroom with a couple of hundred ants. The first few nights this troubled me but now I am so used to seeing various particles of debris being industriously transported from one side of the room to the other that I hardly notice them at all. I wouldn’t say that I’ve particularly warmed to our room mates, it’s just that a) there’s nothing we can do about them and b) they ARE helping to keep the floor clean.

The guidebook gives a detailed litany of insects, spiders and snakes whose entire existence it seems are devoted to hurting foreigners. Well, not really. It actually says that you are more likely to be hurt on the road in a traffic accident than by any animal – but still. The fact remains there are tonnes of them out there, hiding and ready to pounce. Besides, having just about rid myself of the fear of travelling by cars held together by elastic bands and the collected hope of five passengers, I felt I could now devote more time to my African wildlife fears.

One night we discovered a fairly big spider on the wall: minding his own business, just watching us patiently from his comfy corner. Is this one of the deadly varieties I immediately needed to know and raced off to find our minder, saviour, cook and general font of all Ghanaian knowledge, Weja. Weja is only 22 but seems twenty years older, is impressively tall and as strong as an ox. I feel like I am an eleven year old wimp in his presence.

Weja came out to look at our interloper and quickly answered my direct question – is this one dangerous? I said it in what I attempted to be a voice that displayed only curiosity. Or perhaps curiosity laced with manly bravery. Any such pretence dissolved instantly when his answer, equally straightforward was – yes – he is dangerous. I leapt to the back of the room, all but crouching behind the couch as my hero got a shoe and brought the spider’s life to an abrupt end. Only then did I venture back towards the centre of the room, with hands in my pockets acting as if I could have done that too – had I just wanted to. Weja being just as tactful as he is wise and brave just gave me a knowing manly nod – as if in recognition of my feigned bravery.

From that evening on we slept in a mosquito net wrapped tightly around the mattress. We had not once seen a mosquito inside thanks to an impressive network of protective screens and doors – but now we knew that there were other species liable to walk on in and make a home in our living quarters.

My book also informed me that there is a certain devious insect that is attracted to laundry drying on the line. It hides itself on your clean clothes and then lays eggs while you are wearing it… I closed the book when I got that far not wanting to know what came next. I feared that if I got to the end of the sentence I would be walking about in the same dirty clothes for the next few months. And bearing in mind how hot it is here and how I could compete in a sweating Olympics – that just wasn’t an option. Forget about bliss, ignorance is cleanliness in this case.

All was going well on my dangerous animal avoidance scheme until yesterday when I bounded out of the house happy that the sun had returned after a few days of rain. There in front of me, right on the doorstep was a snake! Now, we are not taking a massive python but a small, thin snake about ¾ metre long. I froze. Weja wasn’t about and neither was My Very Own Newfoundlander. I spent a good two minutes staring at him trying to figure out from his body language if he was of a dangerous variety or not.

I decided to grab my camera – why I’m not sure – proof that he was here? Evidence of his species in case I was bitten? Gruesome curiosity?

While trying to take a close-up from a remarkably long distance I was spotted by a group of about ten men who were enjoying the shade of the nearby trees. Hey, white man – what are you doing? one called over.

Snake! I replied S-s-s-s-snake!

They instantly came over to check it out – at a very slow, cautious pace.

Now, I said, assuming my fake manly pose, would he be a nasty dangerous one or simply a sly one?

 The response had me inching further and further away from the snake and the group with my camera clutched in my shaking hands: He is a very wicked snake!

 Deciding that wicked just wasn’t a characteristic I felt needed to be captured on my camera I scuttled behind the group as they assembled an arsenal of weapons to use on the creature. Some grabbed rocks while others went to snap branches from the trees.

One man took control and within seconds had whacked the poor creature, repeatedly, before deftly catching his head in the fork of the branch so he could dangle the dead snake in front of us. After a short examination by the group he flung the body into the grass nearby.

Thank you very, very much I managed to utter as the blood came slowly back to my head.

No problem he answered. Welcome to Africa white man.

Daniel you’re a star

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.

Sleep delays my life

When I first got to Paga I was taken aback to hear that people go to bed around 8pm and get up at 5am, or even earlier. How on earth can you go to bed so early? I asked them incredulously. They invariably just shrugged their shoulders and grinned a silent, knowing answer back.

So now a month into my Ghanaian experience I find myself drawn to my own bed earlier and earlier as each evening passes. I haven’t quite made the 8pm cut off just yet, but suffice it to say I haven’t been too far off at times. I think the intense heat just drains the energy from you so that after you have eaten and washed (for at least the second time that day) the thought of just lying down and recharging those tired bones is too enticing to deny. That said I haven’t remotely compensated with the early morning starts that are the norm here. So perhaps I am just one lazy white man.

But then what does one do after dark here? There is nowhere to go, as we eat at home and there isn’t exactly the option of cinemas and coffee shops to distract. There are local bars – called Chop Shops – but the lure of alcohol isn’t enough to drag a tired body out into the dark night. We sleep with the ceiling fan on every night which does its very best to reduce the temperature a degree or so – just enough to be adequately comfortable to fall asleep. It also drowns out the foreign sounds that might keep one awake in wonder as to what they belong to. One cool night after a huge rain storm I turned off the fan before going to bed. Lying down I began hearing a chorus of strange sounds I had never noticed before. I heard the frightened yelping of some anxious animal (I’m hoping a dog) and the drunken calls of some rowdy men who most likely just crossed the border and stopped off for the night before completing their journey the next day. There was an ugly choir of toads from a nearby pond, each seemingly competing with their neighbour to make the loudest, most obnoxious sound a reptile could make. Then there were the puzzling scraping sounds on the roof and walls of our house guests – the lizards. After five minutes of identifying new sounds –  thuds, clatters, calls and bangs –  I decided that the fan needed to go on again. The reassuring, hypnotic whirr blotting out whatever activities were taking place right outside my window. I also double checked that the door was well and truly locked.

If the nights are troubled by the odd unidentified sounds, the mornings arrive with a trumpet call of cacophony. The Muslims begin their prayers at ridiculous o’clock, which is the wake up call for man and beast alike. The cockerels begin their competitive calling matches. One proud old bird circles our house endlessly in the morning, marking this as his territory with an annoying incessant crow that could drive a man completely insane at such an early hour. I shut one ear from the prayers and the other from the cockerel and fool myself into thinking I can still sleep on. Mind over matter. But then the other birds begin. There is a tree outside our house with at least one hundred exotic looking yellow birds who like nothing better than to commence their day by bickering and catching up excitedly on gossip as they put the finishing touches to their nests which dangle from the boughs in balls as if they were the fruit of the tree. I have never seen so many birds in one tree before. Clearly ours is the finest tree in the district as it is the most prized residential location for this particular yellow species.

Soon the people begin to pass by and gather in the clearing directly in front of the living room. There are three trees that provide welcome shade and everyone wants their spot under one to sit and wait. For what I am not sure exactly, but by 8am there can be up to 50 men there arguing, chatting, some praying on their prayer mats, others roaming about selling sun glasses and flip flops. Just ahead of them on the road the enormous trucks are lined up, ready to pass through the border as soon as it opens. Some people lie underneath them in respite from the sun while the more enterprising have brought hammocks that they tie to the belly of the vehicle and somehow manage to continue their sleep. By 7:30am it is already impossibly hot and time for my first wash of the day. I have a full bucket of clean water with which to do so. Hunched down in my modern bath devoid of running water I throw the first jug of cold water over my head and then, only then do I truly become awake. It’s a startling offensive jolt of a start and one which I never look forward to. By the time the bucket has been drained of water and me of my yelps, squeals and shudders the shock has just about subsided. When I’ve dried off and had a quick bite of toasted tea bread it’s time to cycle up the hill to the clinic.

When I arrive I am again covered in sweat, dust from the road and fumes from the filthy lorries speeding past. My face red with effort from cycling in the heat I find myself already beginning to dream of my bed under that comforting, reassuring fan, a half hour earlier tonight I decide. I groan slightly to myself at the day’s work ahead of me, making children cry and trying to reassure them in a foreign language or with bribes of sugar. I sigh at the thought of yet another day which will bring rice for both lunch and dinner and daydream about the supermarkets at home before being jolted back to reality by a question.

Did you sleep well my colleagues ask daily. Oh yes, very well I lie before returning the question. I wouldn’t know how to begin explaining to them how different things here are from what I’m used to. They always smile back, happy that I am content and comfortable in their country. And in an inexplicable way I really am, I just don’t know how to put in words or even quite understand it myself.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

My arrival in Paga has coincided with two equally dramatic calendar events: the rainy season and Ramadan.

Both regularly provide loud and atmospheric reminders that this is their time.

The rains strike quickly but with some warning. An unbearably hot day of around 36 degrees with sunny blue skies will suddenly become so dark, within only a minute or two that you will need to turn on the lights just to read a page in your book. Angry black and grey clouds roar overhead bustling against and over each other, racing impatiently to their final destination. With them comes the wind. The first taste is a touch of a light breeze that makes the curtains flutter and brings with it a cool fresh relief into the stuffy house. A few minutes more and stationary fans will begin to move, powered by the uninvited wind tunneling through the house. There are no windows here, not as we know them at least. Instead there are a series of open glass panels whose angles you can change by forcing a leaver. You can never really close them but you can change the angles of their tilt should you feel the need for more or less air from outside. Soon the wind is racing through the house and then comes the thunder and lightening. Enormous pounding blasts of thunder that make the ground shake and warn everyone to take shelter ASAP. And then the sky empties. In only a few minutes the ground outside is a river and the rain so solid that you can barely see a tree just a few metres in front of you. To be in it for more than two seconds is to be soaked thoroughly to the skin. But nobody risks this. For once there isn’t a soul to be seen outside. No cyclists, no cars – not even a goat. I have seen more rain fall in ten minutes here then I expect Ireland gets in a good rainy six months. It’s biblical and fascinating to watch. The ground cannot keep up with the speed of the deluge and everywhere becomes one muddy lake within seconds. Soon into the storm the electricity goes out adding to the drama and afterwards the mobile phone networks go down. It’s like the opening scene of an apocalypse movie, every few days.

And then after a few minutes, or an hour, the sky has exhausted itself and just as suddenly it all ceases. The wind is instantly gone but the air remains cool and clean as if a brand new supply has just been delivered as a reward for the days of oppressive heat just gone.  It will take a few hours for the sun to reach its full potential again, all the while the Ghanaians talk about how cold it is. I watch them shivering as I laugh to myself – the temperature will be around 20 degrees or so – a heatwave for Ireland!

Ramadan announced its commencement in as just an obvious manner. It was all the more startling as its triumphant arrival happened at 5am. We live opposite the tiniest mosque I think I have ever seen. It is a beautiful, unimposing building that has more charm than space and for the first week here I hadn’t recorded a single soul entering or leaving the building. I would estimate that it could hold 10 believers, at a squeeze.

Because of its inactivity I assumed that it had been abandoned for a more modern, larger version somewhere nearer the centre of town. And then, on the first day of Ramadan I was awoken by an abrupt deafening wailing that seemed to come from the corner of my bedroom. I shot up in fright and confusion and quickly recognised the Arabic lilt of the call to prayer. There was no imam hiding in my wardrobe – the source was clearly from the miniscule mosque that I had mistakenly believed to be dormant. I was utterly flabbergasted that a tiny mosque could make such an all consuming sound. I have travelled to many countries where I have been woken by such prayers but the volume here was clearly made to compete with any thunder that nature could throw in its way. Or perhaps their aim is to be heard across the border in Burkina Faso. If that was the case then they certainly succeed.

Not only is the call to prayer broadcast for all in the region to hear but so is their entire nightly service, and every prayer during the day and evening too: all at impressively godly volumes. It has got to the stage that I have witnessed the repetitive chants so often and with such volume that I have found myself singing them to myself while waiting in line in the local shop or while cycling to work, as if it were some catchy new pop song.

Who knows, perhaps a miraculous conversion is in the making. More likely however is that I am now so sleep deprived that my brain has resorted to repeating simple phrases over and over again, unable to deal with anything more complex.

Like the cool relief that the rains bring I am counting down the days for the end of the holy month – and the uninterrupted sleep which will follow. I expect it to be utterly divine.

I want a little sugar in my bowl

Two major recent discoveries have eased our constant dull ache for some western luxuries. In one of the small dusty dark shops nearby we found chocolate digestives. Now this probably doesn’t sound like much but we have not had so much as a teaspoon of anything sweet for so long that this small box of deliciousness made us giddy with excitement. We tried not to think about the crazy price as we lusted after the biscuity goodness waiting for us. And not even the fact that the chocolate hadn’t seen a solid state in months deterred our enjoyment of every delicious gooey mouthful. We are now rationing ourselves to two biscuits each a day for fear the shop will run out of their modest supply – which must surely have been a mistake in their ordering in the first place.

The second is much less wholesome but just as satisfying. There are two duty free shops about a minute’s walk from our house – right on the border and we quickly found out that we are allowed to buy whatever we want from them – without question. Their stock is hardly extensive nor are the prices all that remarkable – which makes me wonder who their customer base is. That said, we made the retail discovery of the century – a litre bottle of great gin that they sell for the equivalent of only three euro. Well it would be downright rude not to buy it we decided and augmented our purchase with some cans of tonic which were also on offer. Well it’s really for the quinine we reasoned with ourselves. They use it to fight malaria so we’ll just have gin and tonics as a prophylactic. It simply makes good medical sense.

So now we round off our repetitive daily meal of rice with the occasional G ‘n’ T and the less occasional chocolate digestive. Who’d have thought such simple pleasures could ever create a little bit of heaven for us here, in the very north of the middle of nowhere.

One, two princes kneel before you

With my almost irrational loathing of all things royal I find it utterly perplexing that I have to date met three princes in Paga.

In fact the very first Ghanaian I met was Prince. He was the saviour who furnished me with the address that allowed my dramatic entry into the country. Everyone calls him Prince and I’m almost certain that that is simply his name. Some of the names here are quite charming while others are baffling. I’ve met people called Justice, Oxygen, Bismark, Success, Charity, Blessing and even an Adolf.

The second Prince I met was whizzing by on his motorbike when he caught sight of the two white men out walking – so of course he veered over for a chat. I am the prince he announced and so I will talk to you. As we are more than happy to converse with locals of any rank we nodded and offered our hands in friendship.

A handshake in Ghana however is not the simple motion we are all familiar with but more like a well coordinated mating dance involving shaking, pressing and hugging the hands all topped off with a grand finale of finger clicks. The idea is that both parties are competent enough so that the clicking is achieved by each person sliding their index finger off the other’s so it lands on the thumb with a satisfying and impressively audible pop. Needless to say this is a constant source of embarrassment to me as I have yet to produce any sound whatsoever and usually offer a separate individual snap once the handshake is long over. The Ghanaians being ridiculously friendly people indulge me this inadequacy and never stop trying to initiate me all the same.

This Prince however wasn’t amused. By anything. Both his eyes were red and we couldn’t establish if he was drunk or stark raving mad. Either way his conversation was even more confusing than we are now used to and so we both just nodded at him and smiled, hoping that that would be enough to satisfy his need for our attention. With a stubbornly serious facial expression he informed us that seeing as he was a prince he would be paying us a proper visit, soon. We used that cue to take our leave and said goodbye leaving him to make his royal exit on his speedy bike.

The third prince is my favourite. In fact I am his best friend. And I met him in the most unorthodox way possible. We had gone to a nearby village with a whole bunch of volunteers to be officially welcomed into the community in a ceremony overseen by the Chief of the area. He himself arrived amid much singing and dancing, with the largest umbrella I have ever seen carried over his head while three older ladies fanned him to further keep his royal self cool in the extreme heat. The ceremony was captivating as we were introduced and then welcomed, first as a group and subsequently individually. All with special dances and songs. It did however drag on somewhat and eventually my bladder had reached emergency capacity after drinking bag upon bag of water to stave off dehydration.

Now in Ghana the world is your toilet and, especially for men, it is never difficult to just slip off somewhere to relieve yourself. However being within the walls of this adobe village surrounded by enthusiastic revelers I hadn’t a clue what to do. So I decided to discretely ask the man I knew best: the man who had helped arrange my position at the clinic.

Where can I go to the toilet I asked him in a whisper as he was with some other men from the village. Hmmm he answered, okay let’s see… and then went quiet, deep in thought for at least a minute making me feel more and more uncomfortable. Surely I am not the first person who has ever needed to relieve himself in the village I thought to myself as I watched him root around in his briefcase before brandishing an A4 printed page. Will this do? He said to me hopefully.

I couldn’t help but laugh and then quickly disguised it with a cough. Ahm, actually I just need to …um…urinate!

Ohhh he said with a huge grin no problem. Vincent here will bring you around the back – no problem at all.

And so Vincent and I walked away from the group and once we rounded the corner he turned to me and asked with an adorable look of expectation will you be my best friend? Of course I will I agreed and he took my hand and led me first to the spot where I could do my business and then on a tour of the entire compound. He is one of the most immediately likable people I have ever met in my life, wonderfully proud of his village and his modest room where he has his bed, a couple of ancient faded pictures and a place to boil water. He offered me a gift of a huge bag of peanuts he had himself harvested and asked me when he could see me again.  When I replied that I would be back as soon as I can he began laughing and again grabbed my hand and led me to one of the villagers who had a camera and demanded that our photo be taken.

I cycled to the village again last Saturday and Vincent’s welcome was even greater than before. This time we walked around the huge expanse of land the village is centred on. He explained what crops grew where, which animals did what and asked countless questions about Ireland. As I looked around at the green savannah lands peppered with huge trees, maize, millet, peanuts, yams, peppers and bursting with all sorts of domestic animal life I told him he was very lucky to live here. And I honestly meant it. They don’t have electricity or running water but what they do have is a well founded pride in themselves and their land. Theirs is a completely self sufficient life and a community brimming with good will and harmony, even in the face of hardships I couldn’t even imagine.

The Chief would like to talk with you Vincent informed me when we returned to the buildings.  When I was seated in the cool shade of the Chief’s quarters the man himself shook my hand and thanked me from the bottom of his heart for befriending his son, the prince. I never knew that my friend was his son and therefore had his own important title. I had brought Vincent a gift of a torch and some extra batteries and this had been hugely appreciated. In return the chief handed over a plastic bag brimming with fresh eggs, as a thank you and welcome from the village.

I left with a genuine promise that I’d come to visit again very soon. I also cycled away with a much more accommodating attitude to royalty than I ever thought possible.

Hey Teacher, Leave those kids alone

The children I had met in the school were always utterly delighted to see me. If truth be told it was a tremendous ego boost as well as being wonderfully charming. I love going there as never before has my arrival anywhere been so warmly welcome. They all wanted to hold my hand and show me the work they were proud of. They made me smile, I made them smile – it was a match made in heaven. This is how it should always be I decided and I assumed that all kids in Paga would have a similar reaction.

And then I started working in the clinic. Very quickly it became blatantly clear to me that there is nothing scarier to a local baby or very young child than a white man. Not that I am remotely white. At this stage I am like a swatch sample ranging from various bright pinks to shocking reds on account of the relentless Ghanaian sun.

 

When these kids lay eyes on me they begin roaring – and no amount of funny faces, smiles or encouraging laughing will deter their mission to raise all hell through the use of their tiny but powerful lungs.

And that’s before they realise that I am about to come at them with a sharp needle that will make them bleed. In fact it didn’t take them long to figure out that my only intention was to draw their blood. I have no doubt that there are countless young Ghanaians who now have nightmares of the scary white monster and his vicious weapon.

The very worst cases are the slightly older children who are all smiles at the novelty of meeting me before monitoring closely my movements and quickly working out the destiny that awaits their tiny quivering finger. Their expression instantly turns to one of brutal betrayal. And let me make it perfectly clear that the very last thing I ever want to do in life is hurt the poor wee defenseless kids. It kills me to take out the lancet and jab it into their fingers as streams of tears begin to flow. Some don’t just cry – they roar like no living creature has ever roared before, as if in utter deadly terror. When this happens I feel like rushing around to everyone in the clinic to convince them that I did not come here to torture their children. Little boys are the worst I must admit. Most of them are ridiculous cowards and begin sobbing before they even sit down. Each morning I went to work hoping that I wouldn’t have too many children to test and each evening I attempted to erase the trauma their reactions caused in me.

And then one day a mother and her very young son came in, him sleeping soundly in her arms. As always when I see a parent and child I say a quick prayer that it is only the adult that needs testing. But this time no one answered my pleading and the victim, ahem, patient was the tiny boy. I swabbed his finger while he still slept, took out my needle and as always performed the ordeal as quickly as I could. I braced myself for the piercing screams that would follow and was indeed deafened – by silence. Not a budge from the sleepy soul. He hadn’t even woken up.

From that moment on my sympathy for these kids has diminished dramatically. Virtually Painless the box of lancets proudly displays and I am now inclined to believe it. If it doesn’t even wake a sleeping boy how bad can it really be?

That notwithstanding I have resorted to bribery. When I have completed the procedure and the sobbing is in full swing I now whip out a lollipop or a biscuit. And sometimes, just sometimes the crying stops, they tilt their heads and you can almost imagine their little minds trying to deliberate whether I am really Child’s Enemy No. 1 or just occasionally sadistic.

More often than not however they grab the sweets, and without dipping a single decibel continue their vocal protest and throw me a devastating look of disgust before leaving my room with a drop less of blood and a fist full of candy.