If you want to surround yourself with some of Ghana’s elite, take an internal flight from Tamale to Accra. Whilst the flight costs about 90 pounds, it is certainly beyond the budgetary means of the average Northerner, who must resort to using shared buses to get to the country capital. I took a shared bus up to the north on the way up to Bolgatanga, and the differences in the people you encounter and their attitudes – whilst perhaps obvious – are striking: conversations are no longer conducted in Twi but rather English; people drink bottled water, not the sachet water prevalent along the roadside; and people are seen drinking herbal teas before boarding as opposed to the Milo that I thought was a staple of every African’s breakfast.
The conversation you hear in the Tamale airport lounge is too predictable: personal competitions about accomplishments. One woman, whose suitcases were carried for her from her car through customs, and onto the plane, seemed to be having a competition with another man about who had been abroad the most. ‘I hate going through London when I go to Canada,’ the woman said. ‘It means that I am in transit for nearly four hours.’ To this, the man responded: ‘Just go through the States direct. Delta has a direct service from Accra to New York, and you can connect to Canada. First class is not as good as they say, though…’ The discussion soon turned to where their children were educated.
The most noticeable difference between taking the bus and the plane is people’s sense of time. Whereas time is a non-issue for people on the bus, many of whom appear glad when it breaks down, in the middle of nowhere, eager to share their stories with one another, people boarding the plane are highly conscious of the time. ‘I hope this plane leaves on time,’ another woman said, after looking at her watch for the 45th time and to no one in particular, ‘because I have a meeting in Accra at 9.’ The time consciousness stems largely from where these people were educated or where they have spent significant portions of their lives: in Europe or North America. The obsession with deadlines, though, seems almost forced: I mean, who in Accra actually shows up for a meeting on the day, let alone at 9 o’clock?
These same people have likely never seen the inside of shared transport in Ghana, have drivers to take them to the Lebanese-owned grocery stores in Accra, have a house with 10 bedrooms, and have children in the country’s top private schools. I attracted frowns from many of them, likely because I was the only one boarding the plane who was not wearing a suit of some sort. In all likelihood, I would have attracted even more frowns had they known that I occasionally drink sachet water, that I take tro-tros regularly, that I eat food cooked at the roadside, that I don’t have a driver, and that the only reason I was taking the plane was because I discovered 100 pounds in my bag that I never knew was there.
Boy, to be rich in Africa…
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