The Dream Hotel, Kokrobite
I wake up to the sound of the threateningly old fan swinging above my head with absolutely no assurance it will stay attached to the ceiling during my last four days in this hotel room. I can’t complain, sporadic national power cuts have recently led the Electricity Company of Ghana (ECG) to release a schedule of 12 hours of power out of 36 – a regimen that even parliament couldn’t pay its way out of -, so it’s actually a rare privilege to have the poor, rusty fan on to struggle on with me through the humid night. The early morning sun creeps through the leaves of abundant coconut trees silhouetted against the gaudy, Grandmother’s rejects curtains. The room, with its faux-antique furniture, rough wooden shutters and my backpack slung in the corner, makes me feel like a seasoned explorer; I could imagine a 19th Century game hunter rising to the dawn chorus in a similar fashion. Feeling in no other way like an intrepid adventurer, I check the time on my smartphone and think about calling my surf instructor for a lesson later.
It’s six o’clock on a Friday in March, 2015. I have one really good stretch in bed and get up to throw open the stained drapes. Two red patas monkeys (one adult, one infant) remain locked in a cage outside, each with a scraggly length of rope around their waists. Monkeys are often domesticated to a degree, but these conditions are enough to make anyone raise their eyebrows. The adult looks me in the eye and makes an ‘o’ with its mouth, a sign of aggression. Against my better instincts, I start to worry if the cage won’t hold them until the end of the weekend.
Friday night is party night in Kokrobite, a seaside town less than an hour outside the capital city. Wealthy young professionals flock here from their high-rise offices in Accra to spend the weekend, or even just a Sunday afternoon, sipping on rum cocktails and smoking shisha pipes to the weekly live reggae bands and late night hip-life discos. I have chosen it as my last stop before returning home because of its cultivated style of laid-back beach life mixed with wild nights alongside Ghana’s notorious party animals.
Kokrobite is also the first stopping point for most young volunteers, fresh from Europe and the Americas, looking to party hard before being sent to some obscure rural village in the North for two months where it’s twice as hot, dry as hell and the nightlife surmounts to a crackly speaker system drowning out any pleasant conversation in a local spot.
In Ghanaian-English slang, a ‘spot’ is a bar where cheap plastic chairs are arranged under a tarpaulin roof and a 625ml bottle of beer costs 80p to a pound, or you can pick up a 40ml sachet of whiskey for around 12 pence.
There’s one in the northern capital of Tamale, on a rooftop overlooking the whole city. Serving relatively overpriced Chinese food, it offers one of the best sights in the country of thriving urban activity. Dominated by a mosque, the view from the Giddipass terrace is very distinct from that of any of the coastal towns. Hot and dry due to its proximity to the Sahara, sandstorms are frequent, termite hills litter the countryside and motorcycling makes up the primary transport.
Down south, I tend to frequent Big Milly’s Backyard; the Hilton of Kokrobite’s lodges and bars. The most popular (and probably the priciest) accommodation site in town, Big Milly’s has a longstanding reputation for its raucous weekend-long parties since it opened in 2000. I am guaranteed to bump into some friends there; either a familiar local face, or some newcomers who will no doubt be on to Ghana’s air of openness by now to enter a spirited dialogue about African poverty while taking advantage of the cheap alcohol.
A small portion of today’s conversation at breakfast is dedicated to political tensions in neighbouring Cote D’Ivoire. Just recovering after national riots during the 2010 presidential election, and never really settled after 2002’s civil war, the political referendum later this year could see more upheaval in the republic. My friend’s complaint is that, if this occurs, his Ivorian relatives will land on his doorstep, and when he’s just rid himself of a set of troublesome lodgers. “It’s not easy-oh!” is a common catchphrase in these times of disruption.Having spent most of the morning dealing with the business end of my poor diet, I decide porridge and fruit salad combined will make a nutritious start to the day. Growing lazy towards the end of my six month post, I have given up on the sloppy dishes of fufu (plantain dumplings) and banku (maize dumplings) served with spicy fish soup. Instead, I choose to dine on pizza and burritos in the many many tourist diners.
Washing down my daily anti-malarial pill with a cup of Lipton’s Yellow Tea and Nestle’s powdered milk, the sea beckons. I shed my sun-bleached t-shirt and twisted cheap flip-flops and escape to the rolling waves of the Atlantic ocean for some inspiration.
Many life-sized thoughts go through your mind while suspended in a great expanse of water; there is something distinctly philosophical about being at the mercy of an unruly and unpredictable force. Nature is a great leveller when you consider how deep the sea and how dense the forest, and just how unknown all of it is to any individual scrabbling around the surface of the Earth trying to make sense of it all. My pensive mood is heightened by the accompaniment of whoever is blasting out Bob Marley at this time in the morning from their beachside spot. All along the shore around me tropical plant life weaves amongst fishermen’s corrugated iron shacks backing on to oil merchants’ holiday compounds; an urban jungle with its own unruly forces at play.
My one problem with this beach is the sea itself. Probably quite a major complaint for a holiday resort, but it is almost black in colour and coming out of the water leaves you feeling greasy. Someone once told me it’s because of all the offshore oil drilling, I don’t know about that but certainly, in Ghana, pollution is all too common. Children bathe in lagoons amongst clusters of dangerous, toxic materials while family livestock runs around in open sewers infested with black, bubbling gangrene. Home to the world’s largest electrical goods dumping ground, the Accra district of Agbogloshie was deemed too toxic for a group of environmental students I met when I first arrived.
A short walk along the beach and, sure enough, I haven’t gone far to find a big dump of litter washed up at the foot of a beautiful baobab tree. Someone else told me that the waste is only so offensive because it’s so visible; Western countries produce tons more than Africa, they just hide it well in refuse sites. I think I still prefer a progressive, if ignorant, attitude to littering over blatant disrespect for local greenery.
On turning round after taking a photo of the pile of rubbish, amongst the paused crowd of amused fishermen as to why the hell I wanted one, a man approaches me with a kind smile.
“You want me to take your picture?”
“Oh, no. Thank you though.”
Ghanaians, whatever their behaviour towards sanitation, are among the most genuinely friendly people in the world. West Africans in general can’t be beat for lively conversation, outbursts of humour, and warm greetings. It’s because of that hospitality what makes Ghana such a popular tourist destination, it’s incredibly safe here. Even during recent riots – aimed at ECG for its ridiculous electricity schedule – there has never been a threat of uprising like the rebels next-door.
And it’s top-down too. After expressing disappointment about an apathetic police investigator, someone suggested to me that some ready cash would have helped my case. State bribery is a pretty standard part of life and bureaucracy out here; on crossing a manned traffic barrier, the driver must ‘dash’ one cedi if there is anything wrong with the car while speeding up civil paperwork will cost a lot more. On Wednesday, I expect to pay 200GHS for border control to overlook my missing visa updates in order to board the plane home. Anything to help the flagging economy.
In earnest, as long as global perceptions of this continent are of needy folk, dependent on foreign aid, its leaders will continue to line their pockets from those with an honest interest in realising Africa’s full potential of supporting itself. It will take great lengths to reverse this, and no amount of dancehall and cheap beer or self-interested charity was ever going to make any great shakes.