Paradise, etc.

Friday morning 3/23 I played hooky, packed up my mosquito net and bathing suit, and went to the STC bus terminal by Circle. The 9:30 bus to Takoradi, not known for its punctuality, was elsewhere. Around 10:15 an old hulk lumbered creaking into the loading area and the crowd of passengers assembled on the platform rushed inexplicably for the ticket kiosk. As it turned out, everyone there had paid for a luxury bus with air-con; and since the route would be serviced by an older model, riders were entitled to a refund. Fifteen minutes later, after considerable jostling and grumbling, each rider settled into his sticky vinyl seat with a crisp GHC 20,000 ($2.20) bill while the heavy diesel air of the station wafted indolently through the open windows.

The engine’s hacking, phlegmy report signaled our departure. The driver shook the rust off with a couple of lurching stalls, then got the bus rocking back and forth, performed a remarkable start without plowing into the loading platform, and backed cautiously out of the slip and the bus yard into the stagnant midmorning traffic approaching West Africa’s largest roundabout. Once we got outside the city the air in the cabin cleared and the ride was comfortable. Five and a half hours later we arrived at the STC terminal in Takoradi, Ghana’s third largest city.

As soon as we stepped down we were descended upon by taxi drivers. Our group of six backpack-toting obrunis was an obvious target. “Green Turtle or Ellis’ Hideout?” was all they asked. That both of these are more an hour outside the city speaks to Takoradi’s cachet as a tourist destination. They were referring to two of the best-known ecotourism spots on Ghana’s coast. Tremendously popular with backpackers and semester-abroad students, each is a cluster of bungalows and tents right on the beach, outfitted with solar panels and composting toilets. I think every white person I know here has visited one of them at least once. I wished that we could have defied their expectations—“Take me to city hall,” or “Where can I find some good okra stew in this town?”—but like so many other palefaced paradise-seekers before us, we waddled off with our bags of plantain chips and our iPods towards the tro tro station and hightailed it to Agona junction, then haggled for a taxi that rambled through Dixcove and down 15km of rough road to deposit us at the entrance to the Green Turtle Lodge.

Paradise is a gently curving beach of powdery sand glowing pink in the light of a low sun. There are leaning palms for effect, and the sound of the surf. The sun stayed out the whole time we were there and at night we slept under the mosquito net while the breeze made the palm fronds clatter together like rain. There was also bodysurfing. And real coffee from a French press. More than once I was nudged by that delicate, fleeting feeling that seems to come only when the world offers no resistance: a slippery awareness that I managed to forget that I am right now falling backwards through a clear sky. Nonsense?

Like my recollections of most events and places that have allowed that mysterious sensation to unfold, my mind’s Green Turtle has the sharpness, coherence, and satisfying completeness of a clever short story.

But more often life here is a novel, and Monday I was back at the office. On Tuesday it rained hard for about an hour. First it became dark and the wind began to whip through the streets, stirring the silty sidewalk dust into little cyclones. The ubiquitous black plastic bags took to the air like the ashen ghosts of jellyfish and migrated towards the ocean. Then came the rumble of thunder and the tropical monsoon.

While the vast network of open sewers was overflowing, flooding the low-lying parts of Accra with impossible filth, we were perched comfortably on the third floor of OI’s head office. There it stayed completely dry, save for a few drips from the edges of the window frames. Most buildings in Accra have louver windows, but since the office was built for air-con, it has large horizontally-sliding panes set in metal frames. So much for an airtight seal; still, what little water managed to sneak through was quickly mopped up without incident.

Most of the next day it was impossible to work because the sound of a power drill boring into metal cut through the entire building. The office maintenance crew was repairing the window frames. To keep water from leaking in and collecting on the floor, they had contrived to create drainage by drilling holes through the frames themselves. The thought was: If we can’t stop the water from coming in, we can at least give it a way out. Unfortunately the drainage holes they drilled are level and gouge just underneath the track where the panes slide. So, temples throbbing after a day full of the torturous dentist’s-chair squeal of the drill, the windows scrape closed on their deformed tracks and outside water has some new ways in. However airtight the seals were (not very), now they are less so. Thus, the cool air we condition for the office we now share to a greater degree with the whole city. In the microfinance business they call that “outreach”.

Though the rain was severe enough in Accra to press into service all the ingenuity of our maintenance squad, it didn’t do a lick of good up at Akosombo, where it might really have helped. On Wednesday afternoon the Volta River Authority shut down a fifth turbine, leaving just one, and instituted a new schedule for the rolling power outages. Now every other day will have 12 hours light off, alternating 6am-6pm and 6pm-6am. For instance, if lights are out Monday during the day, they will also be out Wednesday night, and again Friday during the day, etc. Since I arrived in October they had managed to keep power on all day, cycling light off for just 12 hours every fifth night. Naturally the new arrangement is less than ideal for Accra’s businesses.

Happily OI has a huge diesel-powered generator on the premises, nestled right up next to the building. It is the size of a small SUV. Normally it kicks in only when the power cuts out; I don’t think it was designed to be used for hours on end. It drones and rattles and radiates heat and emits thick diesel exhaust and generally makes the whole area feel like the engine room of an ocean liner.

When it runs continuously it is necessary to keep the building sealed; otherwise, since the exhaust shoots directly onto an outer wall where an updraft carries it to windows on every floor, one ends up inhaling diesel fumes all day. And only when I caught a noseful of that sweet oil smoke wafting through the drainage holes on Friday morning (the first daytime light off at the office) did I appreciate fully what the maintenance crew had achieved with their window repair. The only thing left for them to do is to plug the holes with asbestos when it’s not raining. I think that’s scheduled for next week.