Accra
Baptist Guesthouse
The
Cantonments, Accra, Ghana
Johnny Osusuwi was there waiting for me as I came out of the
terminal building. Reporters lifted their hairy microphones, signs expressing
welcome, affection and loyalty were raised from an adoring crowd … and then
lowered in that embarrassed fashion that one uses when discovering that it was
just some old guy and not “the band!”
Moments later the real band members (for a group I don’t know) emerged
and were engulfed by their adoring fans. Traffic was worse than usual.
The trip was “nominal,” I presume because someone named it “long
and boring” and it lived up to the advertising. I have observed before that air
travel is like sausage-making. One starts at one end and moves through metal
tubes of various sizes to be deposited at the other end, transformed and most
likely unrecognizable. Some of the tubes jiggle and in those attendants bring
you food and drink at intervals. Other tubes do not vibrate but you have to
fetch your food yourself. Like sausage and lawmaking, the actual process
should, perhaps, not be described in polite society.
The longest leg of the trip, of course, was from New York’s
JFK to Accra, the capital of Ghana and its largest city. My time on board was
shared with a young lady who eventually slept with her feet in my lap, ate my
lemon drops and tried, unsuccessfully, to steal my cookies. Avery is eighteen
months old and travelling with her mother back to Ghana to see her family for
the first time.
Stepping down from the plane mid-morning, I encountered the
smell of Accra: distant wood smoke, humidity like a warm comforter on a warmer
evening and the faint fetid smell of the Gulf of Guinea. The night before I
managed to get about three hours’ sleep, packing an entire bag filled with mardi
gras beads, kool-ade, stuffed toys, soccer balls, EKG machine, transcutaneous oximeters,
various books and a single can of strawberries. Anyone going up country becomes
the default omnibus carrier for all the missionaries there. I am extremely
lucky to have a friend in Linnie Dickson who helped me wrestle this beast into
his car and dropped me off at 5AM on Thursday morning the 19th in
order to start the sausage-making.
All that said, I had over a hundredweight of impedimenta for Johnny Osusuwi to
wrestle into the elderly Datsun before we braved traffic on the two lane
highway that ground away from the airport. Sometimes, if a stretch of road is
not being used convincingly by the oncoming traffic, entire lines of
automobiles, trucks, matatus (not a really correct name as it is Swahili and I
am in west Africa), motorcycles and bikes postulate one or two additional lanes
of travel, double yellow line notwithstanding. Auto accidents are frequent and
mortal.
After changing my money into Ceti and getting a local sim
card for my phone, I was deposited at the Accra Baptist guest house by 1030. My
room was ready: small, walls entirely of window, ceiling fan set to “sweat
copiously despite use” and a large hard bed. I perspire and doze until
mid-afternoon, repack my bag for tomorrow and go to dinner. I leave at 4 AM to
get a flight for Tamale (TAM eh lay). The real trip begins.
On the road. Thank you for your prayers.
Dr. Walt
