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