IT’S WAR

Me and the mosquito. He may well be innocent and not be a carrier of malaria. But sadly for him (or her) he can’t talk. So it’s war. Two days under a mosquito net, a hacking cough, temperature and threatening cold is hardly the ideal way to begin a trip I’ve been anticipating since I was last here, 5 years ago. And that mosquito is gonna get it if he so much as brushes past me. It’s lights out.

Prior to forced bed rest though, things were moving along. Not smoothy, but in true African style. Let me share the synopsis.

• Red eye flight from San Francisco to London, flight delayed to Accra, Ghana. Arrive in Accra around 11pm. Sleep deprived already.

• Kojo picks me up, with Eric (his brother), and another man that turned out to be the taxi driver. Kojo drops me (and unexpectedly leaves) in a two room place that has no air, plenty of mold, in the heart of Nima, a primarily Muslim community of Accra. Which I found out when the chanting began at around 4:30am. Not that I was asleep. I was fully clothed, without Internet, without bathroom, staring into the darkness and hoping I made it to morning without completely freaking myself out. Of course, I succeeded. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a dodgy travel situation. That said, at this point in my life – it may well be the last.

• Next day, search for new place to stay. Kojo drops me at Internet place (yes, he came back) and I find a hotel online.

• In the meantime I reach out to Kwame, a friend of a friend, and we agree to meet at Frankie’s ice cream shop. Once Kwame heard my story he offered to drive me to pick up my bag (from Kojo) and then take me to the new hotel. Pretty easy, right? WRONG! En route his car overheated multiple times (the traffic is unbelievable, all times of the day) so it took about triple the time. What a patient man. Well, he was externally patient. Eventually got to the new hotel in different part of town: Hotel Sheridan. Ta-daaa!

• First night at Sheridan, after being shown probably 8 rooms by Natalia, owner and from the Ukraine, I chose room 209. Which was perfect until Hope Church began their “singing” around 10pm and continued until 3:45am. Wow, that was loud. Impressively so. And a terrible sound system.

Is it starting to make sense why I’m not well right now?

• Second night at Sheridan (in new room, away from noisy side) and I head out to Kwame’s restaurant – N’daba – for dinner. Natalia’s husband (from Ghana) greeted me the next morning with “We didn’t hear you come in.” Ominous. On the plane a man had guessed me to be older, and in this situation I momentarily felt much younger and facing a parent once more. Oh no! I also went out with make-up on. What must he be thinking?

For some reason, I’m lying here wondering what exactly it is that provides so much comfort when I’m home in America or England or anywhere that has all my clothes, toiletries, stuff for bad coughs. Anywhere that has stores I can shop in to avoid those difficult feelings of a bad day. Anywhere that has controlled pollution levels and clean, attractive surroundings. Anywhere that I can confidently eat a salad.

Back in 2007 I couldn’t really do without those things. Loving Rwanda and the work being done didn’t  quite win over my need for home comforts. But 5 years later, I’m noticing that the comfort is coming from a very different place. A place inside me. Even during that first night at Kojo’s, I watched – with fascination – the part of me who really was scared, alone, and not sure of her options – and I stayed firmly connected with the part of me who knew all really was well. Despite the invitation to feel afraid when Eric (Kojo’s brother) – a stranger to me – offered to carry my bag, I knew he was being kind; and when Kojo left I knew it was because he wanted me to rest; and the accommodation choice I made for that first night was my error and I just don’t do well around mold.

I’m reminded, here in Accra, that it is the people who make our lives. Not the stuff. And so far I’ve felt nothing but a warm welcome. Everywhere. Oh, except for one of the cooks at the hotel who looks terrified every time she sees me. But hey – that’s just because she doesn’t really see me. Yet.

I even managed to squeeze in a little coaching with this fabulous woman named DeLa, who was refusing to relinquish control, believe in anything outside of her charge, and also subsequently was pushing away all her feelings about a recent break-up. She got busy. Anyone relate? I offered up a challenge to her. “The next time you want to cry. Feel it!” She flung her arms up and her head back and laughed loudly, while squealing “Nooooo”! Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. It was just so much fun to once again be facing the truth that we really are all the same.