Blades of Grass 27.09.08

Being holed up in a sweaty, self-catered, brown carpeted, slipslops in the shower, cream coloured, s*x-stained sheets square box on a Sunday afternoon aint what I call a pleasant dream.

No action stories were ever written in a vacuum packed bubble, well, that's unless it said 'bordello' in red neon lights on the outside. And I needed action.

It was time for me to hit the streets of Accra,Ghana and get me dirty.

I wanted to blow some cash on the local economy and so it was to the local art centre that I honed my scope.

Getting there I caught a taxi. I had like 5 okes screaming to get my business, the one oke with bottle of beer in hand is offering me a ride. 'Gees boet, the least you coulda done was put the bottle down before bidding for my business'.

I hop into a bee coloured cab and soon I pull up infront of the market and being a white man in a dark country I was there to be f*ckin raped. It's like I was the f*ckin game winning bingo card in the retirement village Tuesday eve games evening. In the eyes of these craft sellers I was the golden Charlie and the chocolate factory ticket, the answer to all their dreams. If only they knew I left my wallet at home, (a dr evil snigger ensues)

Like f*ckin festerin maggots to carrion, I was overwhelmed by marketers even before id stepped out of the taxi.

They swarm around me like vultures to a fresh kill, hovering, taunting niggling at my limbs

Mike valentine introduces himself, a Ghanaian named mike valentine? Whatever. Anyhoo im kinda enamoured by the guy and he draws me to his store, his minions, all 15 of them in tow. one would have thought this was some coke deal but all I wanted was a frikkin wooden aeroplane, was that too much to ask.

These guys musta thought I was packin a 20litre snakeskin bag of unmarked US dollar bills, meanwhile I got some scrappy ghanain cedis that had seen more action than a cheap whore in pearl harbour.

Having burnt my cash on wooden carvings which this guy's father (he showed me a pic of him) had apparently chiselled with his bare hands, I needed to get outta the den, yes it was dan in the lions den-sounds biblical huh?. the bastards had left me with enough cash to get home, a few shrapnels of silver. Finally after wading my way through the heaps of crafty crud I made it out to the clearing. I sighed relief, when a friendly lad, Rus obi (his name sounds kinda Star Warsy) led me to the taxi rank. there I picked up a trotro, an oversized mini bus taxi a shoe box on wheels squared off edges,and like lil chocolates in a box we sat, except there were no lil pleated chocolate brown cups to separate us-big mommas ass cheeks enveloped me.

After extricating myself outta the cab and eventually getting to where I didn't want to go, it was time to take to foot in the opposite direction. The sun so hot began sucking the life giving brine outta me. I found myself in a position in which I coulda died. Soon id be seeing things-coloured elephants and moving mountains, then delirium would set in ,then my heart would be palpitating fast enough to turn potatoes into mash, then id wither away. Alas I endured.

After walking minutes, I asked if I could walk home and people said 'nooo, its too far, and I asked again, how far is too far, and they said no its too far. In my head im calculating 2 and 2 and its not equalling too far. So I begin marching down the main drag in a direction I generally know will lead me 'home'. So I ask another dude in a black and blue striped golf shirt and he says, 'noo, its too far, catch a taxi', but I tell him I gotta walk cos I got no coupons. So mr golf shirt, after chatting to this other guy in checkered table cloth red shirt then offers that his brother gives me a ride back home enroute to getting his Aircon fixed. It was legendary, it was crazy man, it was a true Hollywood, or Bollywood or Nollywood ending.

This day was the worst experience I've ever had to endure while shopping, I became a stereotype, and I hated it. It's the exploitation of the tourist, it's a world wide phenomenon. But in the end happiness was the winner.

keep scratching my furry friends, from a relieved russian bear hunter

Barak Banana 23.08.09

My dream came true, to work and travel.

but when the fairy god mother said 'be careful what you wish for, it just might come true', I shoulda listened-Africa was not on my radar.

After 6 hours and 2 viewings of Horace Hears a Hoo i dropped in to dark africa (it was night time).

me and about 20 two-toned button-shirted Saffers emerged outta that Boeing 737. on disembarking the vacuum-sealed aircraft, my jeans and t-shirt immediately sucked on me like a fat leach to a gangrenous limb. This place is humid as hell, sweaty as the underside of a west African equatorial fried egg.

Kotoka airport a low slung edifice emblazoned with 1970's way-cool white neon cut out letters, the 'O' and the 'A' short of a fuse, opens its standard hollow core doors to greet me. Entering the terminal, this musty grand ma smell klaps me in the face. Fans blowing the sweat off my brow leave a salt mine behind. I'm in a Hollywood movie of the 70's, but this isn't true after I ram myself into a wall

Remnants of the African Cup of Nations tourney , when the hell that was i don't even know, hang from the blistered ceiling.

I stand in a queue, this big black guy in army kit, looking like he's gonna start a revolution stamps my ink stained passport.

I stroll across the linoleum pasted baggage area, snatch my sack and head out into new territory. Outside the terminal I emerge into the reception area, into the bowl of arrivees surrounded by the festering taxi drivers eager to bundle me into their cab and hold me for ransom.

but there I see my name on glowing billboard-fat khoki marker scratchings like fly sh*t reminiscent of my name on A4 fullscap with lines and margin, punch holes included. Its ben and he's my salvation. He takes my bags-it's all I've ever wanted

My white hairy body is perspiring heavily, 'don't worry, you'll adapt my brother'...yeah whatever. what was the white man thinking when he colonised this place.

As we make way for my lodgings im overwhelmed.

Sweat stained pits, buttoned shirts, raga music, a black and yellow taxi, the wind blowing your eyeballs dry, where every day is a beach day, flapping palm trees, soiled roads , dense green bush, long green grass that you can get lost in, and heaps of that African crafty sh*t.

-this is west Africa, this is Ghana.

scratchings from a questionably african lad

a russian bear hunter