Living for the Weekend

My third week in Ghana is extremely passive. My mind keeps drifting back to a one hit wonder band, Hard-Fi, and their one hit wonder, ‘Living for the Weekend’. I always liked the song when I was younger, but I never realized it could be taken so literally; that ‘weekday’ and ‘weekend’ could be so radically juxtaposed. I guess I’m just learning what every proper adult knows already.

The week begins with no power, either at home or work. When there’s no power at work, it’s like that for the entire day, whereas at home we know it could come back on at any moment, so we take our chances and work from the apartment. Although when I say work, I really mean twiddling our thumbs till the power comes back on.

Which it doesn’t.

At all.

I pass the time with a leisurely shave, and wash the sandy beach clothes that I soaked the night before. Something about handwashing made me throw all common sense out of the window, and I return to the bucket of various coloured clothing to find my beige shorts have been stained by the dye in my bandana. Looks like I’ll be rocking Red/Beige Camo Army Chic for the next eight weeks. In the afternoon I take a massive chunk out of the bible. Genesis is enjoyable, almost like reading the book of a film you once saw; you recognize all the characters but meet them in more depth. There’s a knock at the door, and I find a plate of plantain and sardines left for me on the dining room table. At first, as always, I’m skeptical of the unknown fish, but after trying them I think sardines are now top of my list. I may even start eating them back home. Evening comes, and I take a shower, rinsing off all the sand that was too repugnant to wash away the night before. The power doesn’t return at all, but just before dinner it comes back on in the main house. As we eat, Uncle Greg explains that there was a fire at one of the power stations, hence the dodgy light schedule. Apparently it’s a three-phase power system, and our apartment runs on just one phase, which is the one that’s not working at the moment. I go to bed hoping that the power station is up and running ASAP, so we can get our stuff charged and actually do some work.

Tuesday we work from home again. It’s the same situation — no power at either end, so we may as well sit tight. Trying to be effective without electricity, I begin to brainstorm ideas for rebranding of our products. I’d like to change the name but the products are already being sold under their current name. I compare our brand identity to a house on dodgy foundations; we’re already selling, so there’s some awareness of our brand. I.e. our house is already being built. But the brand itself isn’t strong or cohesive, so the foundations of the house are pretty iffy. Like a moneygrabbing property developer I’d like to rip out what’s been done so far, change the name into a swanky modern brand and start all over again. But Gerald and I agree that the boss probably won’t like that idea, so I begin to brainstorm logos which can relate to a brand name that has no actual meaning. I sit in the armchair with the pencil in my mouth, the current labels strew across the table in front of me. This is the boring part they don’t bother filming in Mad Men. I begin to crave whiskey and cigarettes and Joan Holloway, then I get real and jot a few ideas down. After just three sketches my creative juices dry. It’s like trying to get blood out of a well done steak. So I sit in the cool patch of my bed and carry on reading the bible. I reach a dull spot, where God keeps repeating all his rules, and after two days in the same house reading the same holy scripture, I feel as if I’m going crazy. I pick up my other book, the postmodern novel about sex addicts and Alzheimer’s. It’s odd; reading about the righteous can drive you mad, and reading about the mad can keep you sane. Over dinner, Aunty Sandra tells me that two more volunteers will be moving in next weekend. They’re the new cycle from our charity, and it’ll be great to have another two faces in the apartment. Gerald also starts planning a party for the weekend coming. I pretty much have nothing to do with it, but it’s a good idea. If we’re hosting, we have to pay for food, but I’m happy to pay for the chicken so long as our guests are polite enough to get us drunk. I go to bed slightly saner with these two prospects in my head.

By Wednesday morning there is still no power in our apartment, so I scavenge a socket in Aunty’s living room and get on the internet for an hour. I receive an email about a competition I entered a few months back; a short piece of creative writing I did has been accepted for an anthology on mixed race heritages. It’s just the boost I need, and I feel myself welling up. It’s good, but not worth crying about. I pull myself together and jump in a taxi for work. There isn’t any power there either, but Wednesday’s are our meeting days so we have to go in no matter the situation. In Ghana you have to do one year of national service, and Gerald has to go and sort out his placement for next year, so I get a solo taxi up to work. I use the opportunity to walk the last ten minutes, allowing me to pop into a shop to buy a pack of cards and a new notepad for jotting down my ideas for my horror film concept. In the office, I find it hard to concentrate. The sun is bearing down on my back through the window behind me, and I’m possibly (probably) dehydrated. I stare incredulously at my laptop; I’m hitting a key per minute, if that. I never planned on working in an office environment, but I didn’t think I’d be this incapable. I’ve always been the type of person who has to be passionate about what I’m doing. I’m just going to have to trick myself into being passionate about branding and accounting. Trick myself into thinking I’m Don Draper. Thankfully, we end the day with our meeting, and I show the boss my design ideas. As usual, she’s pretty hard to read, but she seems engaged by my ideas, which gives me a little hope and motivation. When we get home the light is fully functional, and in celebration we watch two blockbusters back to back, all hooked up to the glorious sound system. It’s Hake for dinner, another fishy favourite, and the tension of the day feeds out and away, slowly but surely.

Thursday is almost too good to be true. The power stays on throughout the day and during the night, going off for half an hour at the most. I suppose it’s just payback time. All the stuff we couldn’t do earlier in the week we get done in just one day. Catching up on work, facebook, emails and the backlog of films we downloaded during training. Aunty Sandra said the power schedule was very generous around Easter, and maybe this was what she meant. If our schedule carries on like this, power day and night, then the seven and a bit weeks left of the programme will be all too easy.

Finally, our first day of ‘Community Action’ has arrived. As part of the programme we have to help a school raise money. Every Friday is dedicated to this cause, which is a real relief after Monday to Thursday. Just getting into a tro tro again feels great; not only are they less stuffy than the taxis, but we’re going somewhere interesting rather than in and out of work. When we get there, the headmistress, Francis, tells us about the school. It consists of one large room and a large yard outside. They teach over 200 students between five ‘classrooms’; each class is split from the next by a sheet of plywood, so kindergarden to year six (and everything in between) are technically taught in the same large room. The students all come from poor backgrounds, so for two and a half cedis a day (about fifty pence) a child receives lunch, education and a bus to and from school. It’s all funded by Loretta, another senior member of staff, who started the school because she wanted to use her inheritance to help the local children. It’s pretty inspirational. The school is next to a massive reservoir that floods the school when the water is too high. But apparently they have more important problems to solve, including:

1) Raising funds to start another building, three stories high to avoid the floods, which would allow them to take on more students.

2) The fact that many of the parents don’t see the point in their kids going to school. Loretta funds the children whose parents won’t pay, but the parents still make it difficult for the kids and staff.

3) Getting a small library together so the children can improve their reading skills.

4) Properly partitioning the classrooms so the kids can focus more.

It’s a fascinating morning. All the little ones are crazily excited to see us. I try not to pick up any of the small ones, even though they’re running up with their arms outstretched. I’m not here to get a Gap Year photo album, and I can already see some of them getting upset because their best friend got carried around and they didn’t. They begin to swamp me and I have no choice but to pick a few up, gently rock them and then place them elsewhere. Eventually the rest of them settle for high fives. They show us a rehearsal of their graduation show, which they’re working on currently; lots of music and lots of dancing. It’s all very entertaining. Afterwards we make our way out, thanking Loretta and Frances for their time. We’re meant to all convene and create a strategy to help the school, but our bellies are rumbling, and by the time we get to West Hills mall we’ve all forgotten that we’re meant to be working.

West Hills is a bit dull, but a nice place to just hang out. We’re planning to head to Jamestown, the historical side of Accra on Sunday, so I’m not too fussed that we’ve gone full Beverly Hills mall for Friday afternoon. We do lots of window shopping, especially in the alcohol sections. The party in our apartment is tomorrow, and everyone is making up their mind up on what to bring. I’m just fascinated by the prices and some of the exotic alcohols. We’re all wearing our charity t-shirts, and one guy in the shop asks us about the organization. He’s a young Ghanaian looking for work experience, so I tell him about the charity and how he should go about applying, and give him my email address in case he needs to contact me. It’s good that people are interested in what we’re doing and the charity itself, and a few us make a note that it might be good to go out in the shirts more often. As we leave the mall the heavens open, and it’s a wet wet journey home. When we get in, I make myself a cup of tea and settle down to watch Monsters University. It’s the first time in Ghana that I’ve ever felt ‘cosy’, and it’s almost like being back at home in November time. I slurp the tea and get immersed in the Monsters world, and the excitement begins to bubble inside me: tomorrow is our party.