A Day in the Life

View from our room, through the mosquito net

The scene: A small bed, with a mattress that feels not dissimilar to a bouncy castle that has just been unplugged and is beginning to deflate. I’m sure one day soon I will wake up on the floor, having sunk completely to the bottom. Two identical beds for my roommates; a Chinese girl and a German girl. At the head of the bed, a miniature pillow in a blue floral case. At the foot of each bed, a disparate collection of suitcases, where most of our clothes are left in the absence of alternative storage space. One small dark wooden chest of drawers, whose middle drawer (assigned to me) promptly falls out if you open it more than a crack. Two wood-framed windows on either end of the room, covered by mosquito nets, permanently thrown wide in an attempt to tempt a breeze to give us a temporary reprieve from the sticky humidity and heat. Through the open window careens the constant cacophony of next door's menacing guard dogs barking, the pet goat family in our garden bleating and somewhere a turkey gobbling. One fan clicking and spinning precariously on the ceiling; we leave it on the lowest setting for fear it will spin right off if we turn it up any higher. Shoes and flip-flops are lined up under the beds in neat rows. Towels hang on any available corner. A bottle of mosquito repellant spray stands on the floor beside each bed (no bedside lockers here). To someone with my predilection for privacy and keeping my room in my own inimitable state of (semi-organized) chaos, this should be something of a nightmare living situation. But actually it works remarkably well. Every week-day, LeiLei gets up at 5.45 to get ready for work. Then I get up at 6.30, and Victoria gets up at 7. The times depend on our various transportation and distance from our workplaces. LeiLei takes a trotro (a minivan with up to twenty people), Victoria gets a lift with a colleague and I take a taxi.

My morning routine has acquired some new habits. After showering, I count how many new mosquito bites have appeared in the night. Despite our persistent precautions (nets, super strong chemical insect-repellant, long clothes, fan on, lights off) we all uncover a couple of new bites every morning. Those mosquitoes are intrepid little buggers when it comes to finding ways into our beds. Then I brush my teeth using bottled water (vital to remember not to drink the tap water, or get any in my mouth while swimming/showering, at the risk of contracting typhoid or any number of other dire and dangerous diseases). The tap water has a distinctly undrinkable whiff, but its relatively safe to use for washing, i.e. it hasn’t caused anyone so far to have an adverse skin reaction/break out in a rash which can apparently sometimes happen depending on the source of the water. 

Cairo Street, outside our house

After swallowing the little blue and white tablet that should hopefully prevent me contracting malaria, or at least make it less severe if I do get it, its time to go and see if those who were up early have left any breakfast for the late risers. Breakfast is slices of white bread with margarine or dry, and a few pieces of fruit; always pineapple, mango, or a green thing that tastes like a cross between an orange and a lemon. One day there was an option of Ghanaian porridge (recipe: take one baby, feed it with too much formula milk, incubate for 5-10 minutes until baby vomits. Serve warm.) I felt as though I could smell it on my hands the whole day. As our water supply can be intermittent, we use one half-filled big blue basin of water left beside of the sink for all of our breakfast dishes so as not to waste tap water. At 7.50, I head out the patterned white-and-blue gate, which contrasts strikingly with the 10 foot wall topped with coils of barbed wire surrounding it. It's time for my daily haggle with the taxi drivers of Accra, but that’s a story for another day.