Rock Bottom

While I was up north, I met with a Canadian priest who has lived and worked in northern Ghana for more than 30 years. Now he runs the Tamale Institute for Cross Cultural Studies and has become a trained "diviner."

Going for a divination is a lot like having your tarot cards read, except it looks into the past instead reading the future. Most people go to the diviner when something is going wrong and they want someone to peer into the past and see what they did to cause one of the ancestors or spirits to punish them.

The diviner puts some bibs and bobs and cowrie shells into a little bag, gives them a shake or a toss and empties the bag onto the ground or table. Then he interprets them, meaning the magic of the cowries is that they can lead the diviner to the series of questions that may unlock the secrets in the person's conscience of what's causing them anxiety.

I could really use a little read of my recent sins to get the spirits back on my side.

I have recently rented a house down by the beach, in a little slice of Accra known as "La." Ghana has this screwball custom where tenants pay their entire year's rent up front. Everyone does it -- I've talked ot cab drivers lately who say they have to live in rooming houses because they cannot scrape together enough to make a year's deposit on a room in Accra. The country director for JHR told me they were told by a landlord in Kumasi that if they wanted the apartment, they'd have to pay eight years in advance!

Essentially, that meant scrounging around for $7,800 US, meaning my brother reluctantly let me dip into my retirement fund to extract some much-needed cash.

Getting the money here was like the story line for an aspirin commercial. I hired my favourite taxi driver -- and the most reliable and generous person in my life right now, my best friend, Bercy (you will meet him when he comes to Canada) -- to escort me through the day so there was no chance of being robbed. My darling brother called Visa to make sure they would let me have the money and they agreed, so long as I left five per cent with them. I had made arrangements at the forex and ensured that Pearl, the landlady, would be home when I came with the money.

But when I got to the bank, they would hear none of it, saying they could only give me $500 a day.

I was directed to the next teller. She directed me to a man who sat far, far behind the counter. He demanded my credit card and passport. I explained that I had already contacted Visa and could not understand why the bank was telling me something different, when the authorization had come from Visa. He told me it's bank policy. But why!? Why?!

The man told me he would see what he could do and wandered away to nose in on an altercation with another customer. If a butterfly had fluttered past, I'm pretty sure he would have chased it, so long was his attention span. He sat down at a desk for eight seconds, picked up the phone and came back 17 seconds later (after stopping quickly to nose in on yet another customer altercation) and told me he had worked hard and bent the policy and could offer me $2,000.

Thanks, I said, but I was after $7,000.

He nearly had a seizure and railed to anyone in the bank who would listen about how this white woman did not appreciate all of his hard work. "Do you want me to cancel this transaction?" he said menacingly. "You don't want this $2,000 I got for you?" "What transaction?" I said, which made his head blow off and orbit the room.

I walked down the street to Standard Chartered, who told me they could give me $3,000 and the reason is that if they give anymore, they get in trouble from the Bank of Ghana. Well then. There's an explanation, at least.

So, down to the forex bureau with my backpack full of 23,770,000 cedis. In 20,000 notes. I had made arrangements at the forex and had called them that morning to make sure the money was there and had called a second time to request a receipt be ready with the serial numbers written on it, as my landlady is paranoid about counterfeiting.

But when Bercy and I arrived, not only was the cash not there, there was no sign of a receipt. An hour later, we were at the landlady's, who looked crestfalled at the $20 notes included in the bundle. "But I like hundreds," she pouted.

Bercy and I started this little adventure at noon. It was now 4.30 p.m. I was becoming the living embodiment of Murphy's Law.

Did the same thing the next day, but got up early and decided to go when the bank first opened at 8.30 a.m. Essentially that meant I got all the same frustrations, plus the added bonus of having to wait a half hour for the bank employee in charge of Visa transactions to show up.

By Day 3, I decided to take a break from the bank and go fridge shopping instead. I had a bit of a showdown with a friend over the brand new fridge that was left in the house and had lost. It was a new and novel experience not to get my way and I didn't like it one bit. I really don't want it repeated.

So Bercy came at 8.30 a.m. and we headed to Makola market, and after three stores, it became clear I was too cheap even for Makola and Bercy decided it was best to hit the second hand stores on the outskirts of town. The fridges and other electrical items there come in shipping containers from Europe. Some of them are pilfered from people's trash piles and refurbished by brilliant African mechanics.

We picked out a little fridge no bigger than me. It was $200. The guy told us we'd have to wait while they filled it with freon. So I bought some "pure water" and Bercy and I sat in the car talking about religion and the UN and Kofi Annan and soccer and everything in between.

Two hours later, the fridge was just cooling down and I was heating up. By the time we delivered the fridge it was 4.30, meaning my sole accomplishment of the day was buying a fridge. Gives me a whole new respect for Sears.

Four days later, I was back at the house divvying up the last of the furniture and pulling things off the walls ready for the painter, when I opened the fridge door and noticed that while the light was on, it was like a sauna in there.

Bercy came to my rescue, but we were unable to fix it. I called the number on the receipt -- which came with a week long guarantee -- and got someone who spoke no English, who passed me on to someone who slurred his words and shouted in my ear.

Bercy came the next morning at 8 a.m. and by 9 a.m. we arrived in Teshie at the refrigerator store, where we were told the mechanic had not arrived and they had no power anyway, so we'd have to leave it and come back tomorrow.

I asked whether we could call to make sure it was ready. The guy pointed to one of the numbers I had called the night before. "That number doesn't work," I said. He started waving his hands in my face, patting my arms and shoulders and telling me it does work. I told him to stop touching me and that I'd also called this other number, who did it belong to? Turns out it was the mechanic who shouted at me the night before. The owner told me he would ask him about it. I was feeling pretty annoyed by this point anyway -- having gotten nearly no sleep the night before after getting some bad news -- and told him that I would like an apology for the inconvenience of having to come back and for having been yelled at.

"This is what I'm telling you," the guy said, again waving his hands in my face, grabbing again at my arms and shoulders.

No, I said. I've been keeping track, listening closely even, and the word sorry has not actually passed your lips.

The guy exploded, the gesticulating would have put an Italian to shame. I lived in Europe for 20 years, don't tell me how things are done! You would never do this in Europe!

I was taking steps backward to avoid the physical onslaught and finally hissed: "Stop touching me. Right now.

I don't care how long you've been in Europe. I don't care about Europe. I'm here, in Africa, standing in front of you, asking you to treat me with a little respect."

At which point, I burst into tears.

Not delicate, gentle, droplet down the cheek tears, but full-on hysterical sobbing tears.

Everyone collectively recoiled in horror.

Africans don't cry. They just don't. They might shed a tear or two at a funeral, but they could slam a door on their finger, witness their husband cheating on them, hear their child take the Lord's name in vain, hear that they've tested positive or whatever else might upset a person and never, but NEVER, shed a tear.

Bercy hustled me to the car. "Don't cry," he said, looking stricken. "Don't cry. Stay strong. Be strong within you. I'm here. Don't worry. Don't cry."

The more he tried to comfort me, the harder I cried. I cried all the way home. I cried as we loaded up Orla's couch. I cried as we carried it home.

And man, I thought "white woman with blond hair" got me a lot of stares. That's nothing compared to "white woman with blond hair and puffy, red-rimmed eyes." I expected to hear a report about it later on Joy News, such was the interest.

When I got to the house, the landlady told me the painter had not arrived. She sighed. I sighed. "I'll be so glad when this is over," I said. She laughed. While I was gone, she'd decided there were two leaks in the roof and all the doors needed sanding and polishing, the garden had to be reseeded and the windows should be replaced.

Eep.

On the upside, a stranger stopped and gave me a lift today. And my contact lenses are fitting well, now that my eyes aren't so dried out. And I do not have cancer. Anymore. And this from my mum: "Oh dear, I'm sure you're exhausted from everything that's been going on in your life lately. Try to put things in perspective - you're healthy, have work, and this is just a bump in the road of life. Wish I could give you a hug. Consider yourself hugged."

Which, of course, just made all the other people at the Internet cafe recoil in horror at me crying, again.