As I exited the Accra airport, with its lazy fans, stale air and one sleepy customs agent, the harmattan, a hot, steamy, gritty wind that blows south from the Sahara, smacked me in the face, scraped my lungs and crept through every pore. This was definitely not New York. I had left the city at the tail-end of a massive nation-wide blizzard, with a temperature of 2 degrees (-22 celsius) and had been shivering for months. Before I could fully embrace my mixed emotions about the sweltering heat, I was accosted by a gaggle of cab drivers. I grabbed the only female among them and we made our way through the dusty, sandy air. The 4 mile (8km) drive to the hotel took almost 1 hour fighting traffic, construction, and potholes, on the 2-lane highway in to town.
Thus was my welcome to Ghana, the “Gateway” to Africa.
The first African country to “retrieve” its independence from its colonial rulers in 1957, Ghana can be found at the bottom of the big bulge in northwestern Africa. Known once as the “Gold Coast,” both for the beauty of its beaches and its gold mining, Ghana’s other main export is CHOCOLATE! Excellent Choclolate! Its other claim to fame is its role in the slave trade – a very significant role – but more about that later (in a day or so).
The hotel, Niagara Plus (!?!), was mostly asleep when I arrived around 9:30 am local time. (Is the staff at the nearby sister hotel, known simply as The Niagara, completely comatose? Lucky I chose the “Plus!”) I woke the receptionist, but decided to ignore whomever was asleep bundled under a sheet on the “lobby’s” couch.
I dropped my stuff in my bare-bones room, took a quick shower (no hot water – the faucet was either intentionally taken off or fell off and not repaired) and headed out to a nearby restaurant.
Asanka Local was recommended by my guide book. Spotlessly clean, it was a tranquil haven from the harmattan and chaos blowing outside. It’s gentility did not at all forewarn of the coming dilemma: the fish and side dish I had ordered were accompanied by a bowl of water, and beautiful linen napkins, but something was missing. There was NO SILVERWARE . I looked around. No one was eating with silverware – they were all using their hands, dipping into the water bowl, as needed. I know from other travels that it is completely taboo to use the left hand in any way when eating (the left hand is reserved for other things – things that one does in a restroom), but was I deft enough? No problem you say? You try scooping up the sauce, tearing off the fish’s head and picking out its bones, using only one hand as the sole utensil. Good thing I’m not left-handed! Awkward at first, I was sure everyone was watching me. I managed to make a mess of myself and the beautiful tablecloth, but I finished everything on my plate, paid and was quickly on my way. I was looking for the Atlantic Ocean, at the edge of which the city of Accra sits.
