Accra, July 4

Day Seven

I woke up late today—around 9:30am. I actually woke up (the first time) at 6:30am to shouting outside of my bedroom window, but I tossed and turned on my 4-inch foam mattress for another three hours until I finally decided to get out of bed. I went downstairs to the communal electric kettle, made some raspberry tea—one of the few items I brought from home—and read for about an hour on the hostel’s balcony. I’m reading Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood.” It seems to be one of those books that all good literates have read but I never seemed to encounter in my high school and college readings. I've decided I like Truman Capote--Mrs. Askins, my english teacher from 9th grade, would be pleased. She's a big Harper Lee fan.

I decided to explore the busy road behind my hostel and took off today around 11:30 for a jaunt. Not more than a few hundred yards down the road I discovered a sign announcing a JHPIEGO office (an affiliate of Johns Hopkins), and I was excited to think that I might stumble across some fellow Hopkins-ites. Didn’t happen. Never found the actual building. I later saw a different sign advertising for JHU/CCP (yet another Hopkins affiliate) and never found that building either. Oh well…

I stumbled across an Ethiopian restaurant in a strip shopping center and decided to have lunch there. The proprietress at the front door told me that she had opened her shop late and lunch would not be available until 1pm. My mouth was watering just thinking about some lamb, lentils, and injera. I was pretty mentally committed to eating Ethiopian at that point (in case you couldn’t tell), so I left and continued strolling for another 45 minutes, at which time I made my way back to the restaurant.

Just as I was finishing lunch, in walks a young couple looking to get some coffee. The minute I heard the woman speak, I was elated…an American! She asked if they could join me at the table, and I coolly said ‘yes’ (while on the inside I felt like the kid who was just chosen first for recess kickball).

The American girl’s name is Venise (pronounced like “Denise” but with a “V”), his—Willie. She’s a tall, sporty-looking African-American girl from Minnesota, who’s doing her Masters in Theology at Harvard. (See, Terri, you weren’t the only black person in Minnesota ☺) Venise is here in Ghana with a grant to do research on African religions, and Willie is her fiancée. She and Willie met several summers ago when she was volunteering with an NGO run by his family in Benin. As luck would have it, they’re also staying in my hostel! We chatted for almost an hour and then walked back to the hostel together post-coffee.

Venise has really strong opinions about our hostel—and she’s totally in her right to have some of them. The hostel does advertise online that they’ve got DSTV, internet access, and a rooftop bar, all of which are false. They haven’t had either the DSTV or the internet since some time in January, according to the girls at the front desk. I guess if I had booked this place under that pretense (and paid two-months’ rent up front), I might be pissed, too. Since I knew nothing about the place before moving in, I think my expectations were nil. Starting at a baseline that low, I suppose I can say that they’ve been met…

I went to dinner tonight with Amos. He came to pick me up, and as I jumped in the car, I excitedly said “I’ve heard from my friend Hannah that the best pizza in town is just down the road at the Shangri La hotel…Do you want to try it?” If an African man could turn white, Amos did just that. “I can only eat local food,” he replied sheepishly. No worries…quick adjustment! We ended up at a fantastic African-dish restaurant called “Chez Afrique.” (Most people here know that the “z” shouldn’t be pronounced but choose to pronounce it anyway—in defiance to the French, I suppose.) There was a live band that played reggae and rock, complete with a trumpet, keyboard, and an electric guitar. There was also a makeshift dance floor in front of the band that filled with party-goers as the night progressed. Amos chose a seat pretty close to the amps, so I struggled to hear what he was saying most of the night. I did manage to teach him the slang terms “cover band” and “wallflower,” both of which are good descriptors of our evening at Chez Afrique ☺