Kumasi: being an Obroni, daily carbon monoxide poisoning, and dodging dried Camelions at Ketija Matket

In Kumasi I'm living with 7 volunteers: 4 brits and 3 Americans still reeling from Trump's victory. Ironically for them were living in a large White House, like something out of a Florida golf course estate. It's set off the main road, along a dirt track surrounded by locals. I was told to mention 'Oberni house' (white person) to any locals if I got lost. Oberni is a phrase used by, well everyone in Kumasi, if they want a tourist's attention. I'm still taking it affectionately.

I'm in Kumasi to work with Paddy. He's an EWB (engineering without borders) volunteer working on water and sanitation who I've been mentoring since September.  Water and sanitation sound quite sterile; it's a project on the rehabilitation of 6 effluent treatment pools that serve the most populated city in Ghana. Once again I've found myself doing charity work through Newton that involves shovelling faeces.

Paddy guides me through the first few days of his 1-2 hour commute. To get to Paddy's office, about 8km from the house, requires us to take 2 tro tros, 1 line taxi and have infinite patience with African timings.

A line taxi runs up and down the same road collecting and dropping passengers at various points. Think battered estate car that failed its MOT 4 years ago and provides your daily dose of carbon monoxide poisoning. 

A tro tro is not much better. It's a beaten up ford transit van stuffed with 18 seats. It's side door is held on only by the strength of the small boy who acts as the bus conductor collecting your 1cedi fare (20p). Local preachers use the tortuous rush hour traffic to shout the word of God to all passengers. I've started to understand the V.I part of my bus journey from Accra. 

The meals have so far lived up the the none descript expectation others had set; the heavy Ghanaian house music that practically caused the salt shaker to have a nervous breakdown over lunch however was not so normal.

I was lulled into thinking I'd settled into a stable daily routine. The 10hrs sleep I was getting had started to remove the almost permanent bags from under my eyes. And the basic utilities seemed more reliable than I'd been informed. 

Wrong! 

On day 3 we had a 5 hour power cut from 5-10pm, forcing the volunteers into sloth-like states, sprawling across the house furniture in hope of radiating out some of the heat that was being forced on us. 

Water was a whole other game. An after-work shower become a chore when half way through, lathered up head to toe in the tiled space we call a cubicle, the water cuts. I wait. I wait and I continue to wait. Hearing the toilet cistern fill up was like hearing the Coca Cola lorries roll into town at Christmas!

Paddy agreed to accompany me to the city's main Ketija Market - thought to be the largest in west Africa with 11,000 stalls and almost 4x the number of people. We went at the end of the day; chaos still ensued. We carved our way into the market, attempting to avoid the tros, carts and hundreds of women walking at pace with large packages on their heads. 

Our nostrils were assaulted several times, we narrowly avoided bags of rubbish being hurled out of shops, paddy got some back splash sprayed on him as a butcher swung a cleaver into a non-descript piece of meat and I had a women grab my arm and thrust a dried chameleon into my face. Delightful.

So I've been in Ghana 4 days and I need a holiday. I'm heading to lake Bosomtwe in search of tranquility. 

Welcome to Ghana

Ghana 

 Janie from the plane set my expectation for Accra - surprisingly modern, developed and teaming with business and opportunity.

The airport baggage reclaim is usually a dull and nervous part of all long haul trips. Not in Accra. Imagine those comedy scenes when a character is trying to stop water leaking out of a pipe. They're using everything they can and all parts of their body to block the holes however every time they move a new escaping spray appears. Now change the flow of water into suitcases that have lost (or maybe never had) any structural rigidity. That was the baggage carousel. Suitcases, if you could call some of the bags that, falling off on all the bends having been loaded on set up to fight with its neighbouring bag. The entrance point to the belt was like whack a mole. Incoming bags joined  the slower flow of bags from a perpendicular angle, in many cases acting as a further source of comedy. Bags were propelled off the carousel into the central section where they would sit like upside down turtles, helpless and waiting for someone to return them to their rightful position. It made me smile.

"Somewhere nice" hostel ended up being 'somewhere nobody knew'. A taxi tour of Accra eventually landed me at the gates of my hostel. Not that you would have known it was a hostel. After 10mins of impersonating an awkward lemon wearing a blue hold-all bag, a man descended the stairs looking like he'd just come off the m1 widening project - no hard hat required. He informed me to stay in my lemon-like state and wait. a shirtless man turned up and claimed to be the receptionist. TIA, right? (This Is Africa)

Eventually I found myself in Sir Toby's dorm - I could have sworn I booked a private room - brushing my teeth on the balcony over looking a dusty street, surprised by the lack of noise, stray animals and dirt. 

Pineapple and chocolate pancakes with avocado and pepper omelettes (classic combination) were my first taste of Ghanaian cuisine - pretty good start. I attempted to speak German to 4 other guests over breakfast; the phrase not-a-word would be appropriate. One of the guests recognised my current book. It's not a classic or a self help book. No, it's a book emblazoned with a pair of pink frilly pants held up by a single index finger . The title: the wrong knickers. Think Bridget Jones without Mr Darcy.

No time to ponder on the messages I'm screaming out to fellow travellers and the rest of the world. 

Onto the VIP bus to Kumasi, Ghana 's previous capital in the 16th century and its current second largest city. I spent 4 hours on the VIP bus, turns out it's not long enough to work out the VI part about it. I was the final passenger to climb on board - for once and maybe the only time on this trip when I'm not working in Africa timings.

I find a seat on the back row of the bus, positioned between two women, one old one young, dressed in equally loud and bright dresses. I have to get myself some of this material before I go home -

A new bed spread, perhaps?

So here is was on my VIP bus, feeling not so Vi. The Mosquitos caught my eye infrequently but enough for me to calculate the probability of a bite. The engine, I assume, cooked me from beneath - I felt like a baked bean simmering away on a low heat stove, every so often bubbling up. 

There were only two advantages I took from sitting on the back row of  the bus withy my colourful sisters. Firstly The ghanian version of eastenders blazed out of the bus Tv, positioned at the front. Again not a word comes to mind but there was a lot of shouting and banging of doors. It must have been serious. Thankfully it was as far away as it could be. 

The second positive - the questionable overtaking and driving was more difficult to judge from the back. The swaying, the horns and the lack of seat belts didn't fill me with confidence but what did I expect when I'd paid 25cedi (£5) to travel 4hours. 

My stewed bean-like state is awakened suddenly when I'm informed its my stop - Jachie junction. I scramble to grab as many of my belongings as I remember. Suzanne, my new sister who offered me some not-so-appetizing yam, hands me what I've forgotten. I pile off the bus in a dazed state.

 Kumasi!

Not what I'd expected. Think back to those American film scenes where the greyhound bus drops the actress on the side of an unmarked road. The camera rolls from the other side while girl, lost with one suitcase and let's say a dog called Toto, stands in utter confusion of were she's been dropped. I'm not in Kansas anymore.