Undesirables

Claire McAlpine; sister of David, daughter of Helen, answers to nobody: write for the blog.

Her experiences with us in Ghana make for some mesmerising non-fiction. Enjoy.

When Scott first approached me to write a guest blog about my brief foray to Ghana, I had carefully considered how best I might go about this. I am an Anthropology student at the University of Edinburgh; I thought perhaps I could tie my studies in to what I experienced: maybe I could display my academic know-how and discuss such concerns as the gender divide in Africa, the symbolic structures of Christianity within Ghana or (a personal favourite) the implications of tribal heterogeneity on African politics. After all, I thought, this is my area of expertise. I am sure I could make numerous anthropological references and create a sterling and robust essay in the vein of what I am likely to submit at the end of term.

However, when Scott messaged me, I realised what he wanted was something slightly less obtuse, and a lot less dignified.  “Offer still stands for a guest article on my blog f you have time after exams.” he began. “I think the subject matter you created out there should work well.”

Now, the “subject matter I created” could only reference one thing, since I didn’t really create much of it. Scott and my brother David had already been through North and West Africa and I more or less refrained from altering their plans or decisions -they were now more adept at negotiating the area than I. So I hung back, I ate what I was given- mostly yams, beans, assorted stews packed with chilli, all off the side of the road. I stood back as they got their elbows out to bargain for tro-tros. I didn’t even yell at people when they started clinging onto my arm, insisting, “abroni, abroni, I give you good deal, 10 cedis taxi to airport. Abroni! Are you from America?” Yes indeed, since my holiday was so brief and I had to return to Edinburgh for exams, I largely left the nitty gritty to the two hairy tanned men that I trailed after. So the “subject matter I created” could only have been one particular incident: one that completely, and very publicly, decimated any dignity I may have had; and undoubtedly one of the most embarrassing incidents of my entire life. I implore you to read on at your peril, preferably if you do not know me.

Now, as you may have inferred from the above description of a typical Ghanaian menu: the food is unkind to western stomachs. Particularly one that has been pampered with reams of nanny-state British fair: organic this, obsessively sanitised that. The onslaught of tropical vegetables, stews and chilli dishes, mostly lovingly prepared next to open sewerage, can well be imagined to have disagreed with a stomach largely adjusted to a student diet of muesli and fish fingers. But the timing was my greatest downfall.

As I sheepishly smoked a cigarette outside the ladies’ toilet while I waited for a long tro-tro journey from Hohoe to Accra, I realised that my stomach was growling uncomfortably from the Ghanaian cuisine of the previous night. I then realised that this toilet would now serve a purpose other than shielding me from the castigation of the fiercely anti-smoking locals. Nipping in vacantly, I noticed it wasn’t a “toilet” per se- as much as a room without a roof, and with a small step leading down into two drains. I knew this was not an ideal place to expel the wache stew from last night, but realising my cramps were not amenable to a 5 hour tro-tro journey, I decided to go ahead anyways. A toilet, I thought, was a toilet.

I have since learned that this is not the case.

I then returned to the tro-tro and briefly told my two travel companions that I had possibly made a mistake in assuming that all toilets serve a dual purpose, to which they laughed but didn’t really show much concern. I then took out a book in the seat behind Scott as my brother went off rummaging for some more banku and beans. About 20 minutes later, an enraged face appeared at Scott’s window. Sweat dripping from his massive biceps, pectorals bulging through his purple wifebeater, he bellowed, “Your sistah take shit in the urinal.”

 My heart sank. My face went red. And I briefly considered racing to the front and frantically stomping on the accelerator until, several flat goats later, we were somewhere far from Hohoe. But alas, I just sat there, frozen with shame, wishing the rips in the dusty leather seats were just that much bigger so I could be swallowed up by the foam, even though it had been saturated with untold quantities of groin sweat.

Scott, though visibly flummoxed, responded calmly. “What?”

“Your sistah,” he repeated. “Take shit in the urinal.”

I must have been a vivid hue of scarlet by this stage. Not only did I just deposit a grim delight on the floor of some poor person’s bog, but now Scott was taking the hit.

In my shame I decided to start shouting French at the man. “Parlez vou Francais? Monseur! Oui, oui”!” I thought this was very clever. I will pretend I don’t speak English, I thought. It worked for Scott and Dave at the Mauritanian border so maybe it will work here! Realising I had now shouted the sum total of my French at this man, I switched to Spanish, shouting whatever nonsense came to mind. “Si! Senor! No hablo Ingles! Donde esta el Stacion?” Eventually realising I didn’t know much of that either and then began speaking Afrikaans.

When David returned, he found half the village engulfing the tro-tro, whilst the man with the purple wifebeater had clambered over to the door and was threatening to punch Scott in the jaw whilst I yelled periodically in a colourful array of languages. The man was bellowing to everyone in earshot, in English and Ghanaian, that this cowering abroni had deposited an unhygienic souvenir on top of his drain. David was swiftly enlightened as to what had transpired as he calmly dined on Ghana’s finest street food.

“Hey,” he said to this man, who was now foaming at the mouth. “There is no need to be so nasty to tourists, we bring money into your country and this is how you treat us?”

“Fuck you!” he replied.

“What?”

“Fuck you!”

“No, I’m not dealing with this man anymore, please take him away!”

At the insistence of an old man who had been accompanying the butch hell raiser, a group of his cronies ushered away this quivering wreck of a man, leaving behind the bearded grandpa with a twinkle in his eye.

“You talk to me, we sort this out,” he said to David.

No one had really addressed me at this point, which I was happy with. I congratulated my rudimentary selection of bastard languages. He sighed and obliged, disappearing with this wiley silver fox behind the tro-tro. When he returned, he informed me he was now 2 cedis (about 80p, or R10) poorer. The old man had essentially bribed us to clean up the crudely erected stall in which I had chosen to do the deed.

“Now,” he said when he got back, and repeated endlessly for the rest of the trip, “please learn the difference between a long drop and a urinal before you completely impoverish us.”