Ghana has been on my travel hit list for a while. As a seasoned traveller, I took the plunge into the Dark Continent.
I booked this about 3 weeks ago. I knew I needed a holiday. I knew I only had a week, due to work. And I knew I wanted a beach. So I booked into the Labadi Beach Hotel.
It's the party part of Accra. Not normally a requirement, but Ghana has a thriving live music scene. And due to safety advice about never going out a night alone, I thought the hotel would provide. Also due to safety advice, I booked into a good hotel. So, if for any reason, I could stay within the confines of the hotel and still have the chilled, recharge and reset break I needed.
I applied for my visa (this cost £60 for a 3-month, single entry visa) just a day after booking, however, I forgot to include my passport in the package to the Ghanian High Commission in London. By the time I realised, it was less than the required 7 to 10 days turnaround time.
The day before travelling, I headed to Highgate to collect my passport and visa. Phew, in the nick of time.
Because of this, I didn't allowed myself time to prepare, in case my hopes were dashed and I needed to start the process of trying to get some money back.
Hungover, I woke up, packed and set off to Heathrow to catch a Royal Air Maroc flight to Casablanca, Morocco to get a connecting flight to Accra, Ghana.
The throng of people at Heathow's T4 put me instantly in a bad mood. It felt like everyone flying out of that terminal was emigrating. All in possession of panoply of over-sized luggage.
This is when the normal, solo traveller anxiety set in. I'm a white girl on my own. However, no one on the flight or the airports batted an eyelid.
The airline leaves a lot to be desired. It's definitely air, it's definitely a Moroccan company, but there is nothing royal about it. The planes are old, the food is barely edible and seats are tiny. And this is from someone who thinks Easyjet is pretty good, aerplane food isn't that bad and budget flying is the greatest thing to happen to the 21st Century.
As we flew over the darkness that is the interior of Ghana, I began to wonder how different the experience would be compared to the countries I comfortably visited before. I remembered the words from my trusted Lonely Planet; "it's the beginners guide to Africa". Like, Thailand is for Asia and backpackers, I thought.
At that moment, Accra came into view. It looks still in the early hours (02:00), just a carpet of tea lights. No skyscrappers or busy flyovers. Helen wasn't in Reading - or anywhere else recognisable - anymore.
I sailed through immigration at Kokota International Airport only to be stopped by a young man asking for my yellow fever certificate. Fuck. I didn't have it.
I was certain I'd had this shot. But the chaps said I simply needed to pay them £20 and as I'd had it before, I didn't need the inoculation.
As I watched the Europeans walk passed, flashing their yellow booklets, I started to have doubts as to whether I had the shot. Mine wasn't yellow, it was green and had an illustration of a mosquito on it.
Since then, I've been panicking. Not what a girl with anxiety and depression needs. I researched what it is, how you get it, how repel these vampiric creatures who live among us.
The hotel is a dream. Rivers surround the lagoon like pool and the golden, private beach cradles its perimeter. It has all the facilities, from a spa, tennis courts, poolside terrace and even conferencing suites, should the fancy take you. The best thing is the very colonial looking hotel bar, with its imposing leather armchairs, ceiling fans and African artifacts. I should've packed my smoking jacket and pipe.
It's July, it's bearibly humid, with a light breeze. But I left the sunshine in Europe. There is over-cast and the threat of tropical rain.
As with anywhere, the bulk of the staff are male. But the Ghanians are next level chilled out. They nonchalantly serve you and are never intrusive.
It's unearthly quiet, but it's the weekend when Ladadi comes to life.
And it's what I need to alleviate the anxiety levels. Added to by the constant psychosomatic itching. Demanding work, chaotic life and incessant pursuit of happiness has taken its toll.
I sit, contemplating my next few days, the smell of DEET oddly reassuring. Architectural tours of Accra, a food tour and hopefully a trip to Cape Coast awaits.
Along with my holiday reads of On The Road by Jack Kerouac, Love In The Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins.
