Mocha Café: For a coffee break beyond borders

When — a few weeks ago — I saw the tasteful “Coming Soon!” placard outside house number 17 on KG 439 Street, I knew something worth waiting for is being cooked behind the green gate. Vision 2020 in Gacuriro is merely a residential area, with everything that makes a suburban neighbourhood truly great: a school, a clinic, green lawns, safety, friendly neighbours, and now — its very own café. Mocha Café is not just a sign of the times that the coffee industry in Kigali is booming; it’s the destiny of its owners, Burhan and Sanaa.

© Mocha Café

The Yemeni couple arrived in Rwanda in April this year and started working on the development of the café on the first of May. “But this is only two months ago,” I exclaimed while spinning around to take in all that has been done in this space: handmade carpentry, interior design, barista equipment, electrics. “It’s been two work-intensive months, but this is also our home, meaning that the anticipation to see the end result is double,” Burhan explains. 

Indeed, for Burhan and Sanaa, Mocha Café isn’t just a business. While sipping my Masala tea and taking bites of the fresh from the oven chocolate cake that Sanaa has just served in a creative and beautifully presented style, I am thinking that they have literally opened their home to me. “It wasn’t intentional to combine the café with our living space, but the moment we saw this house, we knew it was the one,” Burhan says; and continues: “We were dreaming of a place where our customers can feel at home, and we can cater for them as friends.” 

Sanaa’s warm smile and expressive eyes and Burhan’s unhurried manners invite me to ask about their journey to Rwanda. “We got married in 2010, and in 2011 the revolution in Yemen began [which later on escalated to a lengthy war]. And along with it our adventures around the world,” Burhan remarks jokingly. But moving from Malaysia to Jordan to Kenya, back to Jordan, back to Malaysia, to Chad, and Rwanda is most certainly not light reading.   

“We miss home, and we don’t know when it will be possible for us to visit Yemen again. So, we created a home away from home here in Kigali with our love for hospitality, coffee, and cooking,” they say by completing each other’s words. When Burhan is called into the kitchen by Gane, one of the four kind staff members, Sanaa admits: “I am a dentist, and I miss my work, but Mocha Café is our project now, and needs the one hundred per cent from both of us.”

I comfortably sink into my seat and decide to stay a bit longer. “Is it okay if I turn my laptop on to do some work?” I ask, even though I suspect it will be a definite yes. “I am a freelance writer myself,” Burhan says. “Working from home makes me sleepy, so I am always looking for inviting cafés. I am very happy I have created this environment for other people.” 

© Mocha Café

But Mocha Café isn’t just an excellent working space in an area that is isolated from the hustle and bustle of Kigali, amidst lush gardens and chirpy birds. It is also a family spot with a mini playground for children, and your extended living room where you can meet your friends for a meaningful catch-up. If you find yourself alone without company or a laptop, don’t hesitate to grab one of the books from Burhan and Sanaa’s collection.     

Before I slurp the last bit of my banana peanut smoothie (talking about life beyond borders and the future, and looking at the pictures from their travels was so captivating that I didn’t realise I had been served again), I already know that this brand new café in Kigali has effortlessly won my heart. 

© Mocha Café

Where: 17, KG 439 Street, Vision 2020, Gacuriro

Opening hours: 7:30 a.m. to 9:00 p.m.

Menu: The food is home-made and healthy. I have tried the veggie burger and the avocado hummus sandwich, and I can’t recommend them enough. For a lighter option, don’t miss the breakfast fruit and cereal bowl. If you love the aromas of coffee but don’t want the side effects of caffeine, ask for Qishr, a Yemeni traditional hot drink made of coffee shells and spices. 

Attendants: Philamo and Gane in the kitchen and Arek and Zulfa on the floor. 

What’s your postcode again?

Ayvalik

Airports are arenas of emotions, information, objects and human activity; rinks for scintillating scientific performance, which never ceases to amaze me. When people around me complain about the blah food served by the x airline and the limited inflight entertainment options, I divert to the proficiency, competence and intelligence that lead to the arduous event of flying. Absolutely my first air travels in planes weren’t so sophisticated, and by its nature, traveling, regardless of the transport modality, is conquered with practice.

Born in Bulgaria by Bulgarian parents and raised in Greece with the authority of an essentialist national ideology that advocated “You are born Greek, you cannot become Greek”, I was actually nurtured by a secret ambition to become a citizen of the world. Stern necessity or strong personal voice? — living in South Korea these days, I am still an unbroken traveler who is not quite sure where this knack of movement stems from.

With time, I have grown an aversion toward nationality as the definitive answer to one’s personality, skills and chances in prosperity. When my mother inquired about my sister’s grade in Greek Literature back in my sister’s high school days, the teacher replied: “What is wrong with grade 17? You are definitely not suggesting that your Bulgarian daughter’s Greek language is at the same level as her Greek classmates.” The truth is that my sister’s Greek was at much higher level than her classmates — she is a gifted polyglot after all. My own class memories spin around my mates gawking at me upon every mention of the word Bulgaria and its derivatives in History classes that were examining the hostile Bulgarian-Greek relationships of the earlier 20th century. Ever since, in social occasions that I have to mention my Bulgarian origin, I get a sudden feeling of warmth spreading through my upper body and face: embarrassment.

Travel to investigate

In the cultural frenzy of my teens, traveling was my pass to invisibility — in these short therapeutic journeys around Europe and to America, I was free to reshuffle my Golden Rules, and come a step closer to who I wanted to be, without the heftiness of what people expected me to be. Upon return I was facing the tangible uphill struggle: holding onto the new nonchalant, lenient and easy self I anticipated. But to be honest, traveling in adolescence is predominantly a whimsical and romantic bliss — I was traveling for the adventure, for the adrenaline rush that hits you in a moment of excitement and for meeting new characters (friends or enemies, lovers or partners).

Travel to learn

Going to England to study a Master’s was the natural walk of life to choose. The journey of international education, which is a small part of the traveling picture of my life was the most enthusiastic and eye-opening outing. The enthusiasm was the result of youth and ignorance — as sophomores we weren’t worrying about whether we could or couldn’t change the world but how we would! Now, I wish we had set our sights on changing the few annoying bits about our neighborhood. What a change we could have brought to the elderly, the coloured, the immigrants, the mothers, the homeless and the drug addicts of our street.

Travel to belong

Goodbyes are the stumbling block to unbiased traveling — the moment you have to enter the airport security area, and you tear yourself apart with anger and sorrow for where you are heading to and whom you are leaving behind. I had been preparing for my trip to the African continent for a few years with interviews, desk research and double shifts at work that boosted my savings account. The day I booked my ticket to Accra, I was holding in my hand (I purchased a physical ticket) all I had ever wanted: a journey to Africa. And my other hand was tangled in my today’s husband hand. There is this feeling of belonging to more than one place that makes me travel.

Travel to understand

My passport is Greek. My husband is a British national, born in Saudi Arabia from Eritrean parents. My extended family (cousins, uncles and aunties, grandparents and nephews) lives in Bulgaria. My sister holds an American only passport and her husband is Ghanaian who was born in Czech Republic and has lived all his adult life in the USA. My two-years-old niece is somehow the flower of all these seeds and my children will probably be born in different countries, unsuspected to me at the moment. In a world defined by the speed of change from traditional to modern and the speed of travels and information, it’s at best vintage to talk about single identities and pure nations.

In his book The World Until Yesterday, Jared Diamond comments: “In the modern Western world we have come to take the freedom to travel for granted, but previously it was exceptional. In 1931 no New Guinean born in Goroka had ever visited Wapenamanda a mere 107 miles to the west; the idea of traveling from Goroka to Wapenamanda, without being killed as an unknown stranger within the first 10 miles from Goroka, would have been unthinkable.” Yet, in 2014 only, I have traveled 20,000 miles internationally and I am getting to know South Korea by taking long weekend trips in despair to seize the world.

Travel to follow

I traveled to South Korea because I followed my husband nine months after he first landed on the country with a two-year employment contract. The confusing mixture of similarities and differences between South Korea and other familiar to me societies, such as the Greek or the British, is part of what fascinates me about this country and its people. South Koreans have a self-contradictory tendency: they are shy but they are open to meeting new people and welcoming them to their lives; the parents are strict but at the same time they let their kids hang around with them in restaurants and bars in the late-night hours.

South Korea is the fourth country after Greece, England and Ghana, where I have arrived as an immigrant — a proud traveler who is prepared for everything to happen along the way and usually suffers quietly at the end of the line, hiding fears, concerns and hardships behind a fulgent smile. Immigration is physically and mentally exhausting: from meteorological conditions and air pollution to smells, sounds and … toilets and beds that are not as you are used them to be. The one way to go through immigration without losing your passions, loves and inspirations is to adapt (i.e. to compromise) and to accept. My level of adaptation has totally shifted my standards and my expectations from people — I dislike bellyachers.

But merely traveling as having a child or a career is not the pattern for a fulfilling life; it’s just my way to a mental settlement that will one day lead me back home. And I look forward to finding out where home is.

Two thousand and thirteen wishes

Ghanaian people welcome the New Year in their church where they have arrived at 6:00 pm on the 31^st of December, and will leave only after 1:00 am of the next year. Family, friends, neighbours; they all meet there to ask Lord for forgiveness for the sins they have committed during the year, and to pray for prosperity, long life and happiness for 2013. Women are dressed in long colourful dresses, men wear suits, and kids look like their parents in extreme for their young age outfits. Songs will be sung; rhythms will be clapped and dances will be danced inside the church. At six o’ clock of the last day of the year, an undeclared battle begins among the churches of each area.

In contradiction to the Christmas Eve, on New Year’s Eve I didn’t have any symptom of homesickness. All the sadness was carried away by the impatience of celebrating at the haunt of Rasta men; Kokrobite beach. The Kokrobite fishing village is 25 km to the West of Accra, and is a well organised tourist resort with five or six decent hostels run by British, Italian and local people in addition to the three white oriented big hotels. To my disappointment, all the cosy and hippie hostels where your room’s toilet has a palm tree for a roof were fully booked. Thus, I had to sleep in an impersonal, 70s kits furnished room with A/C where the water was strongly running and the lights wouldn’t go off.

Everyone at Big Milly’s resort had started warming up for the New Year’s Eve party from the early afternoon, but the spirits went high only when the reggae band started playing, and a group of very strong shaped African men began a dance, which, to be honest, reminded me an X-factor audition. In any case, it was supposed to be a tribal South African dance; in its very commercial form I suppose; ideal to satisfy the ignorance of the European and American couples and teenage volunteers.

The fireworks on the sky and the big bonfire on the ground stroke the New Year in a cloud of smoke and dust while the band was singing:

“One love, one heart
Let’s get together and feel all right
As it was in the beginning
So shall it be in the end
Alright, give thanks and praise to the Lord and I will feel all right
Let’s get together and feel all right”

 The New Year had come. People laid on the beach with their looks towards the sky, as there was nothing else to expect from the evening. But within few hours, the brightness of the 1st of January came through the palm trees and we were all now ready to start breaking our New Year’s resolutions. I would start with a freshly made banana milkshake.

Kokrobite Beach on the 1st of January

Finding the Christmas spirit

This was the best Christmas tree I had ever seen because it was the result of children’s creativity and complete lack of materialism. There was nothing glamorous in hundreds polybags pinned on a tree branch which was thoroughly balanced in a full of red soil tomato paste tin. Yet, the Christmas spirit had never touched me so deep.

Class 5 Christmas tree

The kids and teachers of Montessori Primary School in Dome Pilatu, an area just outside Accra, threw a Christmas party a day before of the beginning of their holidays. As I was an hour late, as soon as I pushed the big gate, I was right away involved in an atmosphere where what you have in your heart cannot compete to anything you have under the Christmas tree in your living room.

Children of three to 12 years old were dancing in the frantic rhythms of azonto which were coming out loud from the four big speakers on what it was supposed to be the stage. The younger of the teachers was more than happy to have undertaken DJ’s duties; especially when he could see that the crowd was so warmly responding to his choices.

From where I come, children at that age are developing shame and self-awareness, and when they will gather in big groups they will very carefully control their feelings. But there, I was dancing Christmas hits among a hundred of smiley singing faces, and I would notice how the younger ones where holding hands with the older. One of the greatest values those African kids have is a respect for the older and a caring responsibility for the younger.

The celebrations ended with a festive meal of vegetable rice and chicken. It was a special treat indeed comparing to the usual rice and salted fish they get on every school day.

Those kids who have seemingly nothing, had so much to give.

The good teacher

The preacher

Azonto dancers

Dancing competition

It’s a gift

Every Friday and Sunday at exactly 7.30 am Juliet calls my name on my window waiting for me to open the front door for her. Each time she greets me with a high 5 gesture ending it with the click of our fingers, while taking off her flip flops, and carefully arranging them with her right toe by the doorstep. She now knows her way around the house. Juliet goes directly behind the big bamboo couch, and changes her always pretty outfit to her work clothes; usually a pair of frayed short jeans and a sleeveless top. She is ready to wash the dishes, clean the floor, wipe the dust and rub the bathroom. After she finishes her excellent work, her small ritual follows a reverse route, and she leaves equally silent and smiley.

In a country where the average annual temperature is 35 degrees Celsius, existing itself can be a struggle let alone physical work.

A Ghanaian will follow its rhythm, which might be considered too slow from the Western point of view, but he or she will at the end leave you with the job successfully completed in a respectful silence. The boy who arrived one evening for the leaking kitchen tab, the man who came to install the shower or the neighbour who hung the mosquito net, they all worked in their space without any sign of their presence. At the end, all three men cleaned after themselves the water on the floor and the crumbs of paint that had fallen from the ceiling.

When Ghanaian are doing a job for you, even when it is just a favour such as to carry the box of bottled water from the patio to the kitchen, at that time they offer themselves and all their attention to you. They will never heavily breathe with disapproval or grumble or walk around in vain. This behaviour partly illustrates the African culture which is one of collectivism and exchange. In such a civilisation tasks and actions take the shape of a gift that needs to be rewarded. Juliet cleans the house with all her dedication, but she expects something more than a monthly salary. She is awaiting me to show her my appreciation through a smile or a cup of tea or maybe a small talk.

Individualism is regarded as one of the greatest of values in the Western world but in Africa individualism is a curse; it is a misfortune. And if you want to avoid it, you need to keep your conscience in peace. As soon as you receive a gift, you have to start thinking of how to repay it. Otherwise, you break the balance of the community; the normality.

Me, the White

I am White. This is what I am in Ghana: an obruni. I am not Maria; I am not Greek; I am not even Bulgarian; I am not a journalist; I am not curly-haired. I am first and foremost White. And for the first time in my life my colour has a meaning in my head. I am the colonialist; the rich; the educated; the modern and beautiful. In Africa, my identity has been redefined through their eyes and my conscience of history.

Conventionally, the colonialisation of Africa began in 1883-1885 with the Congress of Berlin where England, France, Belgium, Germany and Portugal distributed among themselves the whole continent, and lasted until Africa’s independence at the second half of the 20^th century. The most disgraceful and brutal expression of this invasion was the transatlantic slave trade which lasted for 300 years. Within three centuries, millions of Africans were transferred beyond the ocean, under inhuman circumstances, to build with their sweat the power of the New World.

The land of Africa was left desolated and depopulated. But the deepest marks of this era were engraved in the memories and feelings of Africans. Centuries of disdain, humiliation and torture had led to an inner sense of injustice and inferiority. So, when theystare at me on the streets, this is what they must be thinking: I am where I am now because of you White person who uprooted my family and devastated my land. You, White person, now owe me a future.

The African man derives the right to approach me straight forwardly from the moral superiority history gives to its victims. Hedidn’t enslave anyone. And to him it doesn’t matter how much of a victim I am in my country’s history. I am White, and if I have suffered because of the Whites, this even more emphasises hispain.

A Ghanaian will not stop me for a one cedi worth portion of wakye.They are too proud for this. But they will not hesitate to ask me for a White husband or to fund their studies in the UK. A White person is someone with possibilities and abilities. The Whites who once came here to harm them, they are now here to change their fate into a better one. This is a way of thinking, as simple and innocent, as the people who represent it.

Eyaristus is an 18-year-old boy who wants to go to the University, but does not have the money. He met me one afternoon, while I was eating fu fu at the bar in front of my house. He greeted the lady who owned the bar, and immediately grabbed one of the piled plastic chairs in the corner, and sat with me. “Good afternoon. I am Eyaristus. Please tell me about your country, and what documents do I need to go there? I want to be an accountant.” In civilisations like this, documents are of great importance and bureaucrats hold the power. The escape is a matter of stamps and papers and photographs that you have to obtain and submit after days of hopefully standing on queues.

The question was too uncomfortable for me, so I postponed my answer by asking the meaning of his name. “Prosperity” he replied, and continued: “So, you must know how I can become an accountant in your country. Tell me.” Prosperity I thought. I tried to confront his naïte with respect and shortly explained the procedure in order to enter my country. I didn’t have to mention which my country was. I was not asked.

The Kid: image by Sophie

Election Day

The sixth democratic elections of Ghana are only hours ahead, and the spirit in the capital of Accra is more than anything, vivacious.

Accra’s main cluster of restaurants, bars and night life, Oxford Street, is the main passage for labelled vehicles with the colours and slogans of both the two dominating political parties: National Democratic Congress (NDC) and New Patriotic Party (NPP). Ghanaian pop music comes from the big speakers fastened at the back of those tracks, and rapturous crowds wearing T-shirts with the faces of President John Mahama or his opponent Nana Akufo-Addo are moving with the rhythms, waving big flags. From the megaphone the main points of the party are announced: Employment, Education, Healthcare, Equality, Corruption etc.

At the bars on and around Oxford Street the people are dancing, and every now and then they raise their beer bottles in the name of the victory of their party, or they say something in Twi to the group standing further away. If the tone is aggressive, they are supporting a different party, but if it is condescending, they have a common aim. In any case though, their faces are smiley, and the atmosphere is one of a big street festival.

But tomorrow, on Friday the 7^th, every polling station in the country will have at least one security man on duty. According to Ghana Police Service about 20,000 security personnel are expected to be deployed to protect 26,000 polling stations, and the rest forces will be on standby to provide their services, if needed. The love for peace Ghanaian have is illustrated in every aspect of their family, social and political life. Peace to them means progress, civilisation and strength. It is definitely part of their personality not to like conflicts, but the constant maintenance of peace demands hard work as well; especially when you are surrounded by preoccupied neighbours who see war as a necessity.

Our table is surrounded by Western European youth who have arrived in Ghana recently to work as teachers or volunteer nurses and therapists. As I am the freshest, they explain to me that the election excitement has been going on for the last three months, but now it is at its zenith. A brother from another mother – as he introduces himself – invades the conversation with a statement: “The change will come from a third force”. I understand that he supports one of the other emerging parties which have tried to offer the alternative, but after five elections it appears that Ghanaian are not ready to assign the national interests to anyone else but NDC or NPP.

It took to Greece, the country I am coming from, 38 years of a two-party sovereignty, an annihilating crisis and a ruthless IMF, to listen to the “smaller” candidates, and most importantly, to translate the interest into votes. If Ghana needs something equally radical to happen within its territory in order to turn its attention towards a change, then the supporters of Reform Patriotic Party (RPP), Democratic Freedom Party (DPF) and Progressive People’s Party (PPP) will have to put their enthusiasm aside for now. Ghana is still under excitement for its growth and development. The youth is following the pulse of their parents and uncles and older cousins. And the political awareness is focused more around the freedom of being able to support and being expressed by a leader, rather than on questioning the candidates’ quality of work and demanding the best.

Like a tropical storm

On Friday afternoon, I and my three German girlfriends set off to Busua Beach on my first adventure away from the city of Accra. After long negotiations with the taxi drivers outside the Swiss – German School of Accra, we managed to get what it is considered to be a reasonable price to the Nkrumah Circle where the bus station is. The traffic at this time of the day was not unbearable, and you can recognise this by the fact that the taxi was consistently moving. That was a good sign for the rest of our trip as well, as it may take up to two hours on the road until you leave the capital behind, and take the first deep breath of fresh air.

Nkrumah Circle is the most important local transport hub and a big market area where you can find a good replacement to your lost camera or your stolen mobile phone. In order to survive in such a congestive place, you have to be alert and focused on three things: your partners, your belongings and your steps; you don’t want to step on someone’s mango crop for the day. The smells of fresh papayas and watermelons, urine and reused vegetable oil lead into an undefinable mixture which enters from your nose and stuck on your throat, intensifying your desire for pure water.

For ten minutes we were pushing our bodies against people who were calling at us or were grasping our wrists, speaking a language that we couldn’t understand, but obviously they were trying to make us buy. It is amazing how plenty food and water are on the streets of Ghana. Then, all in a sudden a man started helping us unload our backpacks; he stored them into the minivan (tro-tro); we were giving him 10 Ghana cedes and he was giving us time to go and find some street food for the trip. Everything is about negotiations here and small but loud talks. Only if our destination was written on our foreheads, I would be able to explain this man’s behaviour. It was his intuition that put us on the tro-tro, as he approached us before we revealed our destination.  But Busua Beach is regarded as among “the best and safest in Ghana; a host to backpackers since 1960″ and this automatically results to lots of White people going there.

A skilful user of adverbs and a pompous writer could possibly dedicate four pages or more to describe a tro-tro trip. What I will say is that during a five hour tro-tro ride your mind gradually becomes a tabula rasa. We were allocated at the very back four sits of the “American” – as we were told – Ford mini bus, and we were asked to pay two extra Ghana cedes each; one for the air condition and one for the rucksack. We were still standing outside the automobile waiting for our tickets, while the other passengers had already taken their seats, and – what I now call – their tro-tro positions. The locals know that the sooner they are ready for departure, the sooner the tro-tro will leave. There is no such a thing as time schedule or journey duration. At this point I have to say that for 300 km I didn’t see a single sign indicating the distance from one town to another. People in this country live with the common mentality that they hold all the time of the world in their hands.

But back to the tro-tro now. I am squeezed in my seat, and I am counting 12 heads in front of me, all standing still on their necks no matter how hard it is to control such a posture when the car is constantly falling into big potholes. All these heads look sleepy but indifferent. They don’t listen and they don’t seem to see you as well. They give you the impression of empty minds. As soon as the journey is completed, they will recover from the lethargy. Only from time to time you can see someone checking the air condition (which it is not really working) with his extended hand, stretching his big toes or whipping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. And while this state of meditation occurs in a tro-tro, outside of it there is an intense movement. Women with babies hanging on their backs and children running back and forth at each traffic light selling fried prawns, plantains, peanuts, water, chewing gums, bread, oranges, bananas, mobile top up etc. to the drivers and their passengers. And when they see an obruni through the window, they insist more; they will even knock on it.

It was 7 pm already when we arrived at Takoradi; the city that would link us to our final destination. The night had come already. Here in Africa, the condition of dusk lasts for very few minutes. It is always without warning that the bright and stingy sun will give its place to the moon, and your surrounding will be covered by complete darkness. As soon as we got off the tro-tro more sellers run towards us, and some men tried to employ themselves as our protectors or guides. Around I could see crowds, taxis and long trucks. It is rare to see constructions in Ghana. You learn to estimate the size of a city or a town by the number of standing people and of the taxis aligned.

We got a shared taxi to Busua Beach. The four of us were again squeezed at the back seat, and in front was siting a local man. The taxi driver immediately recognised our holiday mood and put loud some azonto. After few miles, just before a junction he asked one of us to lie down, as we would pass by a spot where policemen are known to ambush at night hours. We soon left the main road, and were now driving between tall palm trees and bushes. I hadn’t found myself so close to the jungle before. In contradiction to other forest experiences, jungle flora does not produce smells.

Busua Beach

An hour later we were at Busua; a village which is composed by few shacks that accommodate restaurants, shops, a barber and a sewer; houses and hostels. At the end of Busua’s single road, there are two big hotels for the Westerner’s satisfaction. It was not hard to find Sabina’s hostel. We had lobster with yam chips for dinner and after we headed to the beach – the village’s main spot of social life. The music festival for which we had actually arrived was warming up and the five or six bars/ clubs/ restaurants were playing loud their own music. Around I could see lot of White people who prefer the place for surfing; an alternative to Australia, California and Indonesia.

Butres fishermen

The next morning we walked about 3 km along a footpath to the next fishing village of Butre, on the East side of Busua. We climbed a hill and then went through the bushes until the village unfolded in front of our eyes. On the left there is a small river surrounded by well-wooded peninsula which leads to a wide sandy beach. And on a hill of palm trees stand the ruins of Fort Batenstein; a fortification built by the Dutch in 1656. The village is much more localised than Busua which immediately means it is much prettier, and its local people are less used to obrunis. The kids were running towards us for a hug or a touch of our hands. They make you feel important but what upsets you is that you know that you are nothing, and even worst: you know that you cannot do much for them.

What we could do was a canoe ride on the river. We occupied the canoe man for an hour, and in return he earned 20 Ghana cedes. But the boat he chose was too big and his peddles too small. He got tired soon, and we hadn’t moved much from the shore. The sun was burning our skin and all we could feel was heat and thirst. When we asked him to peddle back, a sense of relief brightened his face. Fortunately, another boat was coming behind us with four muscular fishermen on board. One of them jumped into our canoe and started peddling with rhythm. In exchange he asked for our apple and some water.

Butre from above

When we arrived back in Busua, the festival had started for good. Ghanaian pop stars on the scene preforming in a Beyonce and Jay-Z style. Everyone was there: the mothers with their half asleep babies hanged on their backs; the little boys playing wrestling games on the sand and the little girls dressed in colourful dresses trying to find an obruni hand and hold it until the end of the night. And then the European and American volunteers who make their presence perceptible: an empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. But I am already writing another piece on those white “rescuers” of the continent. My night ended when a little girl came and sat next to me. She told me: “I am very sleepy” and dropped her face on my laps. At the same moment she was asleep. I was wondering: “Where is her mother? Has she eaten anything today? Does she have a “home”?” The music was continuing to play loud but the little girl and I were now detached from the party.

On Sunday the day was dark and the sky was cloudy. We took an opposite path this time to the other nearest fishing village on the West side of Busua. I thought I had seen poverty already, but the filth of this village along with the children’s bellies brought into my mind those images of Africa that the Western media so much love. I was now thinking if any of those Ghanian NDC, MPP and PPP presidential candidates know about the existence of this village. And how do they dare to talk about a reformed Ghana, if they do?

As soon as we reached Sabina’s hostel, a rain like a waterfall started. It was like a wall made by water. Drops as big as stalactites and as noisy as a drill. So this must be the nature of tropical rain. Refreshing.

A tropical storm

T.I.A means This is Africa

Africa was a dream – a teenage dream – and now I am living in it: walking on dusty grounds; buying rice and eggs from shacks; crossing the highway based on my approximate estimations; waking up in a mixture of water and salt which smells like fish oil; never relying on water and electricity; being admirably stared and called obruni for my skin colour; peacefully coexisting with ants, spiders and lizards and being bitten by life threatening mosquitoes day and night; meeting people who have nothing and yet share what little they have.

No local complains about life and means of surviving in Accra, the capital of Ghana at the West coast of the continent. On the contrary, people here are happy and proud, and most importantly they are thankful for the natural resources and the geographical characteristics God has blessed them with. From the very rich citizen of Accra whom you will find at the outskirt area of East Legon to the middle class and the very poor who earn their day to day income on the streets selling food, fruits or anything that might be or might not be of use, they will all tell you in broken English: “Ghana is nice and people are good. You will love Ghana and maybe you marry a Ghanaian. Ah?”

But it is very hard for my Western conservative mind which tries to rationalise everything and put it in little boxes to conceive the overall beauty of the place.

The smells, the sounds and the colours are the elements that connect people to lands, and give them the sense of comfort, security and belonging. I have traveled a lot within the developed world, and I have to say that there is always something unique in the smells, the sounds and the colours of each Western country. Now think of the smells, the sounds and the colours in the African capital of Accra. Its identity does not resemble to anything I have seen or experienced before in my life. And the shock you get from the unknown surroundings is called cultural.

Cultural shock is a syndrome of our times not only because of the ease but also because of the speed of traveling. It only takes 6 hours to be transferred from the wet London where the heart of the West beats to the developing Accra where every pedestrian, cyclist or chicken gets due warning with a double blast of the horn and where directions are given as: “it is somewhere between the school and the third bridge after the circle you will find on your left (indicating to the right with his stretched arm)”.

The Africans (please note that I am aware of the generalisation but it only serves the purposes of writing) totally match with the scenery here whereas the white man been put among the palm trees, under the strong sun and in the “jungle” of Accra looks odd and incompatible; an intruder. The white man is not meant for Africa. Pale, weak, constantly sweaty he is suffering and scared of the environment around him: the mosquitoes, the tro-tros, the open gutters. Indeed. The white person cannot understand how it is possible for a nation to evolve its life on the streets; not on the pavements but on busy roads with open gutters parallel to them. The white person cannot picture how it is inside the boiling hot shack, and what a pleasure it is to spend the day outside by actually taking part in the social life of your community.

What balances the difficulties in commuting because of the poor transportation system and the difficulties in completing your everyday tasks because of the extremely relaxing rhythms and the non-existing customer service is the people of Ghana who have made this country to be the safest and most hospitable country in Africa. Ghanaian are respectful, strong followers of tradition and Christianity, and have deep familial and communal values. I will stick to those values mentioned last knowing that living in the third world was a personal choice. And I will see the experience as a refreshing change with valuable lessons to teach to the world I came from.

Now, Jane Eyre’s words (Chapter 12) come into my mind as a reminder of how I got here: “It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it”.

Sister Esther is making Fu Fu outside my bedroom