The flight home

The flight home to the UK was good. The food was fine but not as fine as that cooked by Tamara, Mrs. ‘G’ or the ladies at Patricia’s Mum’s house. I boarded the plane and the attendant ushered me to the left. There was no ‘Cattle Class’ as my brother calls it, this time. The seats were wide, each with an extra wide padded headrest. At the bottom was a movable leg rest with an extending footrest for my feet. There was a vacuum between the two seats and the two in front. When fully reclined there was no intrusion into my space.

I cannot say the same about the journey to Accra. That was pure ‘Cattle Class’. Three abreast, and when the person in front reclined, my stomach ached from the squeeze. I quickly realised that I could only use my table if they had the courtesy not to recline. She was not courteous, and there was no table for me. The food was good, the service good, but not as good as business class. I had upgraded out of necessity. Either Business Class, or no flight home that week. But given a choice, I would have ask; is it really worth it? Business class is nice, but it is not an essential part of flying abroad. Just ask for a window seat so that there are fewer disturbances: unless of course you are the one that wants to get up (the lady sat next to me decided to make 15 trips to nowhere). That’s 30 times for me to unbuckle the belt, squeeze out of the seat and repeat the process when she returned. She chatted to friends, she made new friends, and she bothered the attendants.

The lady sat next to me in business class could have beaten that record. It would not have mattered as there was so much room around us. I enjoyed the little food that I eat, and I wallowed in the good service. It was also nice to catch a glimpse of the flight deck whenever an Attendant opened the door to check on the pilots. Thankfully, they were still sat there every time she opened the door. It would not have mattered if they had vanished as Jeff believes that a fireman can do anything; fly, sail, put out fires. I did not break that myth, but the truth is: chess, reading, writing, and model making yes. Flying and sailing no. Unless of course I am sat on the ferry or a passenger flying in Business Class.

Sweating in the Air Conditioning

“You are sweating in the Air Conditioning!” I paused and turned. I knew there was going to be trouble. The lady was wearing a smart uniform, she looked official. Here we were stood in the middle of a large airport departure lounge and this guy was sweating even though the air conditioning was pumping out. She was paid to spot trouble. It looked like she had found some. Do you hate it when you want to speak but the words don’t come out? Do I tell her that I am ill, and risk being prevented taking the flight? I can’t lie as my value set will not allow it, I don’t want to try and mislead her. I mention diarrhea. “Oh, you run?” That’s what they call it over here, ‘running’. 100m in 9.42 seconds I reckon. Plus of course the long jump.

The lady accepted my explanation. What I could have also said is that I was waiting in the queue with the minutes counting down to ‘check in’ closure, when someone stood next to me explained that my bags had not been checked. They were heavy bags and I was tired. My friends had not been allowed into the airport. Only those that have a passport and a valid ticket can get past the armed guard. I pulled and carried my bags to security. “Why have you been in Ghana?” “Where have you stayed?” “Where do you live?” I had to open my bags for them to be checked, there was no smiling, just work. At last the guard scrolled chalk marks on two of my bags, “You can go” she said. I thought, “Only if I make check-in”. I was still out of my depth, as check-in is preceded by weigh-in. “Why is your hand luggage so heavy” asked the two men undertaking the weight checks. I wanted to say, because of the gifts from my friends, but the truth is; that my bags were balanced badly as I am a novice at international travel. 8kg this, 38kg that, what do they think? Do they really expect everyone to have a butchers weighing scale dangling from their ceiling at home. A bag is a bag. You fill it until the zipper will not close. Then you sit on it, and if it closes then all is fine.

Now someone notices that I am travelling Business Class and the position changes. “This way, Sir” “Excuse me Madam, you have to wait there. This route is reserved for VIP’s.” Mmm, I like business class.

Blog-It!

You may wonder how seamless some of the posts are and how some have appeared while I was travelling. This is because there are two blogger's, but only one author. I type up the post and my eldest daughter Jodi logs in to correct any spelling errors. Update photo's and create the various layout styles. This cut down on my blogging time while I was in Africa. Jodi is responsible for providing the photo viewer at the top of the home page as well as the archive on the right hand side. All of this is particularly useful whenever the Internet connection at your destination is slow. You could arrange before you travel for a trusted family member or friend to undertake various updates for you. Another useful tip is to write and save your new posts in a WORD Doc and cut and paste into the 'new post' section of your Blog as and when the material is ready. Less likelihood of a programme failure, and you have a second copy in case of a complete Website loss. This is the reason that some of my posts appear to have been written so quickly, when in fact they were cut and pastes from WORD.

African Wear

The Waiter brought the water that I had ordered for my friends, and the laughter subdued. It was good to chat and watch my four friends enjoy themselves. Friendship is not about giving; it is about listening, helping and caring. I learnt today back in the United Kingdom that it is also about trust. The same trust that you place with your spouse throughout your married life. I trust these friends and I care for them. Apparently Michael had been overwhelmed by one of our two Wedding presents. According to Patricia it showed him how much I cared for him. Not through monetary value, but from the time that it had taken to compile and the thought that had gone into the gift. Michael and Patricia were there to see me off on my long journey home and to present me with a memento of Africa. A fine blue and yellow garment made out of the best material, and one which fits me exceptionally well. It is of real quality and I value the gift, but no gift was needed as I value the friendship more.

To add to the surprise, they had also bought Pauline an African dress made of the same material and a Ghana map stand for my office desk. As we left the restaurant, the heat hit me again and I started to leak.

Hissing

We went for a lovely meal near to the airport. Well, I say lovely, but what I mean is that it looked lovely. Tamara went for what we know as ‘Pancake Rolls’, quite large ones but Jeff helped out. Jeff went for steak, rice and a poached egg. They brought us small warm buns while we waited, which I thought was a nice touch. The room was air conditioned and the tables well spaced out. We could have eaten outside, but as usual I was warm and asked to go into the cool air. The menu was well laid out and if I had been well I would have gone for the Spanish omellette. Jeff’s meal was huge, Tamara’s was not and I went for the fruit salad. A nice combination of two fruits; Pineapple and Water Melon. I manage half. I felt sorry for Tam, and then her main course arrived. Like Jeff’s meal, this was another large plate of rice complete with a poached egg. “That look’s good”, I thought. I then turned back to my fruit salad. Jeff’s phone rang, it was Patricia. They wanted to meet us prior to my flight back to the United Kingdom.

Michael and Patricia joined us at the restaurant and I offered them food. They declined but accepted water. I hissed. Not at my friends, but at the waiter. The waiter who had been walking at full stride some 15 feet away, stopped in his tracks. He turned and moved swiftly to our table. Michael and Patricia, Jeffers and Tam were rolling with laughter. Out loud and with contorted bodies. One with her head face down into her arms, another leaning back in his chair with his head leaning back further and looking at the ceiling, another wiping her eyes. They had never heard me hissing, in fact I suspect they had never heard a White man hiss in their entire life.

Moonwalking

I looked everywhere for Jacko. I looked around the sides of the 50 gallon water drum in the bathroom (not inside it as it has a lid), amongst the many shoes on the low level shoe stand in one of the two corridors inside the house. I checked out the lounge and the two reclining armchairs that form part of the large corner settee unit. I even went back into the pantry. I wondered where Mr. Jacko could be. Maybe he had made it outside? The single storey house forms a square with a hollow in the middle. A bit like the British squares during the Napoleonic Wars of 1815. The small hollow has some vegetation and each of two of the walls have windows with the steel rods and mosquito nets, while the third is open brickwork that lets through the air but is also covered with a fixed mosquito net. The door to the small square garden is in two parts, the first part is a lockable door and the second is a mosquito net door. The weather had been extremely hot for me, and my hosts had opened the locked door to allow more fresh air into the house. Maybe Mr. Jacko had decided to venture in the garden. Although this was not a European garden, as for us it would serve no practical purpose. There were no flowers as such, and the area was too small to sit out in, or to grow vegetables. But in Africa this small square served a particularly useful purpose; it was a source of cool air.

I wandered back to the bedroom, and there he was. Not singing, but frozen to the wall just above my knee height and to my left. Mr. Jacko had returned! He moved, first left then right, across the wooden door surround and then back again onto the wall and down towards the blue carpet. It was not quite moonwalking, but these were crazy moves. Jacko was back in town, and I was really glad.