The Church Visit

Since I spent a good amount of time on the roads in Ghana praying for deliverance, it seemed only right and proper that I go to church on my first Sunday back.

At St Michael's the service has the benefit of being in English. And since that's my mother tongue, it does help unravel the mysteries of the almighty. Then again a service in French might be a mystical experience. But I did have enough of those during the road trips in Ghana.

St Michael's is run now by someone who used to be vicar at the church at the end of my road in south London, so there's a certain amount of familiarity with his modus operandi.

What's strange is the area around the church. St Michael's is off the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré which sports some of the top shops. Going along the well scrubbed road just before I went to Ghana, the eldest gasped at a garment that cost 1,500 euros.

"Can you buy me that?" I asked.

Given that I had refused to purchase a Nintendo XXV456LVXYMK4-443 or its upgrade - she naturally refused.

I missed the window shopping with my disinterested girls before the service.

Church has changed in my lifetime. When I was a bairn, there were wooden pews and gritty sermons. Now it's comfy chairs and coffee and biscuits before and after the service. Altogether more humane.

I've never bought into the line that God was all about suffering, distress and having a poor experience of life on earth.

Then again I did notice an inordinate number of churches in Ghana.

The Repose

Solitude is mine once more. The school holidays have taken the family to England and so I've been deserted. Of course that's a gross exaggeration but there's no one here to rein me in.

I took the girls to school for 8.30am. They told me when I picked them up three hours later that there was only a handful of children in school. So they stayed in their classroom and played.

Well there's lip service to the end of term and there's just stupid posturing.

But since I took them away to America back in October for 10 days to see their great grand father, I feel it's only right to have them there right until the end of term.

We phoned him in Jamaica today as he was 91 on Friday. We all wished him a happy birthday and he seemed pleased. Even his two year old great grand son managed to join in with a few murmurs.

It was quite moving.

And just as I was getting used to the raking sounds of my children, they've gone. And all I've got is the ticking of my mind.

I'm not yet sure if that is a boon. But what is undoubted is the unlimited access to my video and DVD collection. There's no need to share the TV screen.

This is almost too much. Where do I start? Quality time with me, myself and I.

Perhaps the four Die Hard films. I was going to take those to Ghana but opted for the Matrix trilogy and Star Wars.

I was a tad disappointed with the Matrix. I didn't remember how number three ended so it was something of a surprise. But I still felt let down for some reason. Maybe it was the heat outside.

Nearly a week back in Paris. Ghana does seem so far away. But while I'm taking the malaria tablets, I still feel slightly exotic.

The Readaptation

It's astounding how quickly I've resumed normality. I've taken the boy into creche and as was my wont I've returned to Chez Prune for a coffee afterwards even though a new cafe on the approach to creche looks quite appealing.

I'm quite pleased about the familiarity. It's so reassuring.

What's not so thrilling is the news from the medics. The nurse at RFI told me to be wary should I get a cold or fever over the next couple of months as it could be malaria.

That's good to know. I've got another four days of the malaria tablets to go and then I'll be free of that concern.

They're a bit jumpy at the radio station about the tablets. This follows the demise of one employee who came back from an assignment abroad and didn't take the tablets once he got home to Paris.

Suffice it to say there was an opening in his department.

I will be vigilant.

Of course the full reimmersion will only begin once I recommence training for the football.

Nothing quite as highpowered as the Africa Cup of Nations just the veterans league.

Ultimately it's all about goals.
F

The Voyage Home

Go Ghana Go was the exuberant cheer which enveloped Ghana's participation in the Africa Cup of Nations. I often heard Go Black Stars Go.

And the chant was valid until the semi final defeat against Cameroon 11 days ago. It was in currency for the third place play-off against Cote D'Ivoire nine days ago.

But now all the Black Stars are back with their clubs around the world. And me, the faithful follower of their footballing fortunes, well I'm back in Paris.

Gone Ghana Gone.

I was whistling Soul to Soul's song Back to Life as I wended my way through Schipol this morning to catch the connecting flight to Paris.

It's a summery tune and it seemed apt as heat is where I had come from. It was -4 in Amsterdam.

I was wearing my flip flops and a tee-shirt. I was also wearing a pair of trousers.

And because I'm a sober sort I had packed an anorak, a pair of socks and shome deck shoes for the final thrust home.

The night flight is perhaps the best way to do the airwaves for me.

The food was wheeled out and I took a couple of small bottles of red with my pasta bolognaise concoction.

I was so becalmed - hardly surprising since it was about 11.15pm - that I couldn't dredge up the energy to watch Elizabeth The Golden Age. Cate Blanchett, who regales us as the regina, is one of my favourite actresses. Maybe it's because she reminds me of a girl I used to step out with.

Whatever.

But not even La Blanchett's cheekbones rising wrathful towards the red thatch could halt the march to slumberland. Go Bess Go. Paul's Going, Going. Gone.

I was perhaps still sleepy as I went through the baggage check at Schipol. It didn't seem too horrific.

I was obviously reintegrating into my natural context.

Gone Ghana Gone.

The Chill Out

In a former incarnation I used to get up, have a light breakfast, jump on the bike and cycle over to Tooting Bec Lido where I'd swim anything up to a mile before getting out.

I'd then continue breakfast at the poolside cafe or with things I'd taken along myself.

This was the summer time idyll.

All that came to mind when I woke up on Friday at the Busua Inn. I got out of bed, put on my trunks and took a dip in the ocean before returning to the inn's terrace for coffee and toast.

It's all so simple. Sea, splash, relax. And I'm to the manor born.

I followed the same pattern this morning and I can safely say that it would take quite a while for me to become bored with this regime.

It's probably just as well that my ticket back to Paris is for Sunday evening.

I head to Takoradi in a couple of hours for the four hour coach ride to Accra.

I'm not looking forward to that. But with any amount of joy there must be suffering.

And have I been joyous.

Busua is a zone as yet unspoilt. The beach stretches on and on. The fishermen cast their nets into the sea of a morning and heave them in as a synchronised unit of muscle.

The hotel/restaurant looks out onto the sea and that is the main sound. It was difficult to be churlish about the cock crowing or the reggae pounding out this morning.

That is the vibe.

Three weeks of football, three days on the beach. The structural incompetence of the tournament seems so far away.

As a place to work, Ghana has been a nightmarish gridlock of perceptions. But when time can melt into the distance, it is a dream.

The History Tour Part II

A dozen kilometres away from Cape Coast lies Elmina. And there the oldest European building in Africa. Or maybe I heard that wrong during the tour. Well at any rate Elmina Castle houses the first Christian church to be built in Ghana.

What happened there a bit later wasn't at all Christian. More slaves were shipped off around the world.

The guide told us that the governor had a balcony from which he could select the best looking ladies. They would then be ushered up a ladder and into his chambers. Various forms of torture were explained to us so that dissent was minimised.

We were also shown the cell for unruly European soldiers. It had light and ventilation. The cell for miscreant slaves was altogether more macabre. The Dutch put a skull and crossbones above the door. You knew it was goodbye cruel world.

As we were being shown round, Mark, the guide, told us that the slaves came from all over. From as far away as Tamale and Kumasi. It took them nearly two months to walk the distance.

I nearly said it takes that long to drive the distance. But the idiot within was suppressed. This was not a place for levity.

Which made me wonder what on earth was I doing? I've had two days and two castles with stories of despair and degradation.

Is this my way of earning a few days on the beach with a book?

The Bridge House Hotel, where I'm staying, is wonderfully located. It overlooks the castle and the vibrant fish market.

I started a stroll through the fish market but got out quickly after narrowly avoiding bits of slops nonchalantly thrown towards the water by women skinning and decapitating the catches.

Local colour excites me only up to a point. If the shorts are sullied with bits of snapper and the like, then my wardrobe will suffer.

In view of all that I've seen recently, it seems so effete.

It must be time for the beach.

The History Tour

After three weeks of watching highly paid youngsters run around kicking a ball, I've gone all scholastic.

Went round Cape Coast Castle to see how they used to process people. The atrocities of the slave trade are well documented. And I thought that it wasn't really necessary to go and see where they started their voyage.

Well I was wrong. We went into the male slave dungeon and as we descended into the space, the guide, Morgan, turned the light off. Of course some of us lost our footing.

But he'd done it to lend authenticity to our fleeting experience. There was a small hole in the rock which allowed a fraction of light into the dungeon.

He explained the sanitary arrangements. They didn't involve power showers.

Once back outside in the blaring sunshine, we got a few anecdotes about the colonial executives who were overseeing the deal.

The relatively sad story of Letaetia Maclean who came out to Cape Coast to join her husband the governor but who died after a few months.

Was she poisoned by the African woman who'd become the conduit for Gordon's loins in her absence?

Did she kill herself because of raging jealousy?

Or did she die of yellow fever or malaria?

Well apparently it's one of those and not total guilt over what was happening to thousands of people around her.

The govenor's bedroom and hall were joyously bright; a stark contrast to what was transpiring just a couple of hundred metres away.

The cell where they sent recalcitrant slaves was especially grim. No light, no food, no water until they died. The cell was there pour encourager les autres.

Last days on earth in suffocating darkness.

It was back to the Castle for lunch. I could see the sea this time. Heat, darkness, light. The contrasts are powerful.

You know what you're going to get and you get it.