When had it become Sunday? Surely, while we flew over international waters. Ghana was four hours ahead of the East Coast. But psychologically, the idea of “the next day” didn’t gel because I hadn’t slept.
Despite the fact that my head was cushioned and propped against the window, I couldn’t fall asleep for any appreciable amount of time since my seat partner’s movie screen kept flashing light when the scenes changed. Soon after his screen went dark, the flight attendants raised the cabin lights to serve breakfast.
Even if I’d received proper rest, landing in Accra at 7:15 AM would have still felt like 3:15 AM EST. Once the plane touched ground to a round of applause, I slept-walked, following the herd of passengers.
Grateful to travel with three others, we stood in the customs line together until we were called to one of the self-contained, glass-encased booths arranged in a row. As soon as I approached the customs window, the officer checked my passport and yellow card.
She pointed out that my yellow card was incomplete because the doctor hadn’t filled everything in. For $20, they’d complete it for me. Even with my sleep-deprived mind, I knew that was bullshit.
I asked to inspect the yellow card. I glanced over the card, noting that everything hadn’t been filled out. The officer told me to step to the side so she could continue helping others.
Since the custom officer’s booth was shaped like a small square, I moved from the front of the square to the back. All I really wanted to do was get both my yellow card and passport back without making a scene or paying a bribe.
While she assisted another traveler, I reached into the booth and collected my passport. Then, I got her attention, telling her that I had to rejoin my tour group. I pointed to the other three women who were standing together a few feet away, looking at us. The officer tiredly waved me away.
As I joined my companions, I wondered if the officer had attempted to solicit a bribe from me because I had a lighter skin tone. Colorism was rampant in the States, but that didn’t mean that the phenomenon existed in Ghana. That was merely the framework through which I processed my situation. The familiar hypervigilance coming to the surface after being unfairly singled out.
After all, the other three women were also Americans and had “incomplete” yellow fever shot cards. Yet, we’d all gone to different customs officers. They had been routinely processed without any incident; so, I’ll never really know what confluence of factors had made me a mark.
Next hurdle: getting my checked bag. I’d begun to worry that the suitcase had been lost. I silently chastised myself for not tying a ribbon around my medium-sized, charcoal gray suitcase to distinguish it better. Everyone else in the tour group had received their things. One of my travel companions waited with me for emotional support. Once I finally grabbed my suitcase, she said that she’d seen it go around the conveyor belt at least one time.
We boarded a bus that had both English and Korean lettering. I’d taught ESL in South Korea for 14 months, so I recognized the alphabet, but not the words.
Despite my fatigue, I couldn’t sleep on the bus. So many things reminded me of Tanzania: the colorfully-dressed people, the hustle and bustle, and the near-miss driving patterns with bold pedestrians, including an assortment of vendors, many with products for sell, being carried on their heads.
I’d worked in two other African countries for two years apiece: Tanzania and Egypt. Ghana reminded me more of Tanzania than Egypt. Except for the traffic. Chaotic-looking from the perspective of someone from the States, the only reason I could tell that we were in Sub-Saharan traffic rather than Egyptian traffic was the lack of a donkey cart in the mix.
Our bus unloaded in front of a hotel with a large lobby, decorated with large dark wood carvings. As we sat in the lobby, Dr. Kofi and his support staff circulated around, handing out registration forms.
Eventually, we received our electronic room key and headed off toward the elevator, which was very small and only accommodated about four people, depending on how much luggage was present.
Roommate Cousin and I rolled into our spacious room with two full-size beds. As RC unpacked, I picked up the A/C remote. No matter which sequence of buttons I pushed on the remote, the unit wouldn’t turn on. I double-checked that the outlet, where the unit was plugged into, was turned on. I abandoned the effort to use the bathroom.
That’s when I noticed the row of switches located between the room door and the bathroom. As soon as I put the room key into the slot, the A/C came on along with some of the bedroom lights. By trial and error, we figured out that the two bottom switches in the trio controlled the foyer and main bathroom light, but we never figured out what the top switch did.
The most important switch of them all, turned on the hot water heater. The red light above that switch indicated whether it was on or off. In what became par for the course, I took my shower first in every new accommodation just so I could figure out how to get hot water and explain the process to RC.
Before getting myself situated in the room, I ventured out onto our semi-circle balcony to take pictures of the view, from left to right:
Still not convinced that the international electrical adapter that I bought would work, I plugged in the neck fan first. Since the fan didn’t blow up, I plugged in my phone.
While stretched out on the bed, I did yoga exercises for my low back. The sounds of the city poured through the closed windows: traffic, sirens, construction and the occasional rooster.
Years ago as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I’d learned that roosters crowed all day long and not just at the crack of dawn. At that time, I’d heard that, thanks to human interference with our electric lights, roosters “were confused” as a result. It’s laughable now that I’d once believed that since I hadn’t grown up on a farm.
The myth of roosters only crowing in the morning was perpetuated by entertaining childhood stories and cartoons. (Another good cartoon myth: roadrunners being as large as ostriches.) Roosters crow at the sight of dawning light, to mark territory, to attract females. Pretty much any reason to assert dominance.
Around noon, we crossed the street from our hotel for lunch.
I ordered too much food as if I wanted an impromptu Ghanaian “Thanksgiving.” Not knowing the portion size, I figured hummus with fresh-baked pita would be the appetizer and jollof rice with lamb shank, my entree. Since I still battled fatigue, I ordered a non-alcoholic ginger pineapple drink.
Mom would have loved the strong ginger taste, sweetened by fresh pineapple.
I risked ordering what I considered a Middle Eastern food, but someone in the kitchen knew exactly what they were doing. I shared the appetizer with other tour members who sat near me.
Either I didn’t know what lamb shank was or in the States it wasn’t that large. As soon as the server placed the entree in front of me, I removed all the meat off one side of the bone and put the rest on another plate for the others to share.
One member in our tour group had discovered a half sister via commercial DNA testing. One of the reasons he and his spouse had traveled to Ghana was to meet her. She and her family, which consisted of three beautiful bright-eyed kids with locks, like their parents, arrived at the restaurant.
In contrast, genetic testing had revealed that part of my maternal DNA came from Ghana. So, seven of us, along with two in-laws, had traveled to see our family roots.
We’d finished lunch, but sat idle, waiting for the money exchange guy who would travel around with us every day during our tour. Although I had my tab, I didn’t care to use my credit card nor dollars since I didn’t have any low bills. I’d only bought $50s and $100s because they fetched the highest exchange rate.
“Is that him?” SF asked when she saw a Ghanaian man with a large fanny pack swagger into the restaurant. AKA “Money Man.”
I looked away from the soccer match displayed on one of the large flatscreen TVs. Not that I was a sports fan. I’d needed a distraction.
I’d missed his dramatic entrance, but witnessed Money Man’s slick hand-jive greeting with another guy sitting near us. Coming hours away from Kumasi, he had been delayed due to traffic. He got down to business, working his way up and down the table efficiently changing US dollars for cedi.
After paying our tabs in Ghanaian currency, cedi, a few of us walked from our hotel lobby to the pool where two elementary-aged girls were attending swim lessons. The restaurant where we’d have dinner and breakfast made up one of the walls, surrounding the pool area.
Since I packed light, no laptop nor iPad waited for me in the room. In what became a daily ongoing ritual, I watched TV while journaling. I knew how easily details slipped away unless I recorded them whenever I got the chance. Journaling allowed me to relax and focus on the trip.
Another batch of people in our tour group arrived in time for dinner, including my sister, nieces, brother-in-law, another two cousins and her spouse. At the end of dinner, Dr. Kofi welcomed us all and made several announcements about tomorrow’s itinerary.
A tour member informed us that it was Dr. Kofi’s 75th birthday, prompting us to sing Stevie Wonder’s version of “Happy Birthday.”
After dinner, a group of us went to Dr. Kofi’s room to look at fabric and have clothes made. I was in a sleep-deprived fog as I looked at material from the cloth vendor and was sized by the tailor. I handed the tailor a button-down shirt that I wanted copied.
I practically fled the room in search of a shower. I usually shower at night and was determined to maintain that habit. The last time I’d showered was on Friday night. In my mind, Saturday didn’t count because I had been flying.
I clicked the water heater button. While waiting for the water to heat up, I laid out my clothes, both for the night and the next day, and gathered all my toiletries. Felt like a new woman after that refreshing shower.
I set my alarm for 5:15, so I could join Dr. Kofi on the 6 AM walk. When I’d asked him at lunch if he’d start the morning walks on Monday morning, his response, “Are pigs’ feet pork?”