Somewhere in Between

Hot, hectic and half-working. Sums up Accra nicely.

After a month of no water, my apartment complex finally got running water. Kind of. I stepped in to take a shower, but there was not enough pressure for the water to come out of the shower head. I was left attempting to take a shower with water from the bottom spout, at my knees. As I began washing myself, the light in the bathroom stopped working. But water is water; it still felt like I struck gold.

Meanwhile, I have air conditioning. My apartment is freezing while it is 100 degrees outside. I also have a refrigerator and freezer so my food doesn’t spoil. I just killed the biggest cockroach I have ever seen.

On my way into the main part of town, I pass children sleeping on the steps of businesses. Sound asleep. An old Ghanaian professor once told me, “Nobody is homeless in Ghana. Everybody has a home, a place to come back to. Some people move to the cities to find work, and they end up sleeping on the streets. But don’t be mistaken, they have a home.”

The sewers in the city are all open, filled with garbage, feces and god knows what else. There are taxis everywhere; in fact, I don’t know how all of these drivers are still employed. It seems like there are always empty cabs honking at me, waiting to pick me up, to attempt to rip me off until they realize I have been here long enough to know that a five minute taxi ride is one cedi, not five. They laugh when they realize I’m not a complete fool. The funny thing is, they play the same game with Ghanaians.

I finally found a coffee shop, owned by Lebanese, with wireless internet. It allows me to use a computer that does not have a broken or sticky keyboard, like most of the computers at the other internet cafes. I can have an overpriced cup of real coffee and surf the net, feel connected to my friends in America. As I am about to push “send,” the internet stops working.

I need to print off a proposal, so I walk to another 24 hour internet café to use their printer. “Sorry, the internet is down. Come back tonight,” the clerk tells me. I walk to the café around the corner. Same thing. I return to the café at night to check my email, and the internet is still down.

After my fifth last-minute cancellation of the week, I am stuck in the area around Parliament in my button-down shirt, in need of a beer. I pass the Mali embassy, with a huge fence. On the fence, there are stencils every five feet that say, “Post no bill.” This means, “Don’t advertise here,” and “No vandalism or graffiti” They have to post this on private property in attempt to prevent this. Below these stencils, are the words “Don’t urinate.” I look across the street, and a man steps out of his car and begins to pee. He made sure not to urinate on the side of the street where the sign was.

Everybody has a cell phone, probably two. There are people selling phone credit refills on every corner. If a person is too cheap to spend money on a phone call, they will call you and immediately hang up. You must then call them back. They pick up the phone surprised that you have called.

When I visited the slums, most houses had televisions. All had electricity. I wondered why my expensive apartment was without water, while these slums had pipes that brought water to every dwelling. Kids run around and dance. You know a peaceful and loving culture when the children dance. Especially when they dance naked.

If you want to get anything done in this city, you must have the women on your side. The men make promises; then they break them. But women won’t lie. They are the ones who get shit done. At a restaurant, you simply need to hiss at them. It’s the equivalent of snapping your fingers. But it is not rude here; you simply want your food.

But the food always comes, and it is usually quite tasty.

If only I could find a functioning bathroom when the meal is over; it is always needed.