Potpourri of Lost Ghana Memories
A Journalist’s Diary
I continue to squeeze in short bursts of digitizing the journal from my time in Ghana. While it’s a slow process, it’s already refreshed precious memories and filled gaps in what has stayed with me from that month.
The more I progress, the more I’m confronted with the difficulties of deciphering old handwriting and the impatient search for memories.
Among the latest surprises I found are a second special offer, matters of value, and thoughts about food shopping.
The offer, part two
Day 21 in Ghana was a day off from the organized chaos at The Trust.
But it was still a memorable day with experiences that fueled my writing — both planned and unplanned. However, I must confess that I had forgotten about the following experiences.
I remember the tro-tro journey that set the stage for the first one (at least, I think I do).
But apart from the general sensory overflow of navigating Ghana’s public transportation system in the hectic streets of Accra, what I remember to this day is Jon buying dried banana chips at a busy tro-tro park.
The journal entry from that day revealed a few colorful details that had vanished from my radar.
You may remember the special advances we experienced at the tail end of a funky beach party earlier in the month. A trip to the orphanage where Jon worked would entail a sequel.
“Cars in four lanes where is space for maybe two… crazy place…,” begins the passage from that day in my fragmented 2008 journaling style.
We were en route to a place called 37, which was the closest tro-tro stop to the orphanage if I read the fragments of my journal correctly.
My editor had declared the active work week to be complete after another 10+ hour publishing Wednesday spent in the sticky confines of a copy shop somewhere in bubbly-warm winter Accra the day before.
When Jon told me about a basketball game at his workplace, I knew I had found an activity for the first passive work day. Where there’s life, there’s story potential or — at the very least — potential to witness and write about something curious.
Even if it’s not the first rodeo with a specific tro-tro route, guidance from the system was the best bet to navigate the complex web of vans.
That’s especially true at large hubs like Achimoto (note: I could be wrong with the station’s name, but what I can decipher makes me believe it was indeed Achimoto), which appear more like exotic bazaars than transit stations.
We must have looked as lost as we felt (or stuck out naturally as two of the few foreigners in attendance) because we received help quickly.
But something felt off about that guy. I don’t have a visual description. Nor do I have any recollection of him. It’s baffling how memory works.
“Well,” I wrote about the encounter, “he guided us, or should I better say Jon, to the correct tro-tro to 37. We jumped into the big van, an old Mercedes Sprinter, and denied all the offers to buy gum, water […] or whatever.”
So far, so good. “We thought we were fine…,” I concluded.
But “suddenly, the guiding guy was back at the tro-tro.” Huh?
“I didn’t understand everything he said to Jon… but what I did get and that more than once…,” was the following: “I wanna take you as a friend.”
I caught a few more snippets, most of it probably in Twi. But there’s nothing more I recorded, apart from this final exchange.
“A woman sitting just in the row behind us starts laughing and giggling…,” I wrote. “What does it mean,” one of us asked (if my notes are trustworthy).
“The response is just more giggling and head shaking… well… fine…”
Similarly to the beach party taxi guest of honor incident, locals confirmed our suspicions that this was likely our second special offer — one for me, one for Jon. How nice.
What really matters
The day was far from over.
“I arrived at the court a little out of breath…,” I summarized the rest of the trip. The climate, paired with almost a month out of training (my first stint as a runner happened around those years), showed impact.
Refreshments were at hand, though, because I logged that “I bought a water sachet just before reaching the spot.”
“Jon introduced me to Stone (his boss’s name per my journal — I hope that’s accurate…), and I settled down on one of the […] under the big, green tree right next to the court.”
It’s probably not worth spending hours deciphering every word I can’t read immediately. You get the picture.
I worked on loose ends while preparations for the game were underway, especially my journal entries from earlier that week.
The game started. I followed curiously and “took some pictures and shot a few videos and observed the scene,” as my journal reads.
I felt optimistic that I had “kind of an idea” of what I wanted to write about.
Those kids had lost everything: parents, home, education, friends, and potentially hope for a better tomorrow.
During the game, I saw their eyes and how they sparkled. At that moment, I realized how important this project is for them and how important Jon’s work is for them!
“That’s what I wanna write about,” reads the line that ends the journal passage.
Shopping observations
Still, the day wasn’t over.
We prepared for our final travel weekend on our way back to Tesano. A big “Western-style” supermarket, as I labeled it in my journal, was our destination. The name was Koala, I think.
I don’t have much on the visit. It’s so little I wouldn’t even be writing about it now.
But reading those few fragmented lines caused me to remember. It’s not like I could tell you that part of the day in all detail. But I clearly remember going to the supermarket. I remember how similar yet strange everything felt.
Food shopping in foreign places can be a weird experience. While many products are similar (if not the same) to what one is used to, there’s always a touch of the unknown, the unfamiliar attached. It can be daunting to roam through a grocery store, whether the language escapes one or not, whether one is open to new culinary delights or not. I needed time to adjust to American grocery stores and only slowly managed to familiarize myself with their Czech derivatives. Even the frequent “re-decorations” on familiar terrain can be disorienting.
Taking all of that into account, I think the specimen we inspected was refreshingly uncomplicated. I remember a lofty space and aisles that didn’t look too unfamiliar. I remember that we pondered various products. Should we try this? How about that? I remember us buying toast and tuna for sandwiches. I remember lots of bags (though I can’t possibly believe the 20-something that I think I deciphered in my journal is accurate).
“The tro-tro back was weird…,” I concluded the day’s entry. I noticed a “door at the back, a long bench along the right side and a small [two-man seat] to the left… […]. We finally reached Tesano around 5:30 p.m.! A long but good and fun day was dying.”
