It’s 5:45am and the unforgiving African sun filters mercilessly through my open window. I’ve just opened my eyes and I’m sweating already. I untangle my legs, which are trapped in the mosquito net drooping woefully above my bed.

 

Outside, my host sister, Mamie, is preparing breakfast on a coal pot. Eggs and bread. Someone once told me you should never eat more than two eggs a day. I think I’ve outdone my life quota in Ghana. We eat egg for breakfast, have it in a sandwich for lunch and mix it with a stew or rice for dinner.

 

The running water has been off for a week now so we have to shower and wash our dishes and clothes with a bucket of water from the well. I never realised how much I relied on running water until I didn’t have any. Mamie lifts the heavy bucket onto her head with ease and poise. I hug mine awkwardly in front of me and trudge back up the hill to the house.

 

  

I bring my Ipod and speakers outside and scroll through the playlist with Mamie watching intriguingly over my shoulder. I play the only musician she is familiar with, Bob Marley. With Songs of Freedom floating around us, Mamie and I wash the dishes and our clothes in large buckets of soapy water. My knuckles become tender and sore from ferociously scrubbing the sweaty odours from my shirts.

 

In the shower, I haul a heavy bucket of water up slowly over my head and try to pour the contents over my face. My muscles give and I end up pouring out the whole 10 litres. I’m soaked but I don’t have any water left to wash off soap. Oh well, “This is Africa”, I thought as I dried off.

 

Wandering through the dirt streets, I dodge pot holes and beeping cars. Pedestrians share the road with vehicles because there are no footpaths. A young girl pulls up her school dress and squats over an open sewer. Embarrassed, I look down to see that a thin layer of red dust has already deposited itself onto my sweat-lined shirt.

 

 

There is no sense of urban planning in Ghana. Shops (stalls) in the town centre stand next to businesses and homes, mostly very poor ones made from mud and wood. Alongside a Barclays Bank a mother crouches next to a coal pot cooking stew. She carries her baby like an upright marsupial, tied precariously to her back with fabric. Her washing hangs above her head and her children run around naked in the street. Men in suits dart around goats and chickens in a hurry to get to work. The distinction between administrative, business and residential districts is so blurred it’s meaningless. Many of the houses are only half-built. I was later told that Ghanaians build in stages, buying or making the bricks as they can afford them. Most of the population eke out a living in subsistence farming, which accounts for 50 per cent of GDP. The staple crops are cocoa, millet, maize and rice.

 

Despite the poverty, Ghana has a reputation of being the friendliest country in Africa – a title that is certainly not unjustified. This morning I am met with smiles and shouts of “Akwabaa!” (Welcome). Nearly everyone I pass says “hello, how are you?” and when I get lost a stranger goes out of his way to show me the way to the main street. 

 

I am overwhelmed by the amount of attention I draw – from taxis beeping to being greeted by mobs of exuberant children chanting “Obruni” (white person) as I walk past. A group of children point and giggle at the funny-looking person with ‘milky’ skin.

 

To say it is hot here is an understatement. The beads of sweat on my upper lip have not left since I stepped off the plane. The only place I can escape the heat and stop sweating is if I lie like a starfish on my bed under the fan on the highest setting and make sure I stay incredibly still. To make matters worse, wearing “revealing” clothes such as skirts or shorts above the knee and singlets is frowned upon and may be perceived as making a statement I don’t intend to make. As I walk down the street, unknowingly my top rises above my skirt, revealing a centimetre of my lower back. I turn around to see an elderly lady running up behind me, shaking her finger. “Tsk, tsk”, she says and shoves it back down.

 

 

I approach a stall called “Holy Spirit in Charge Communication Centre” to get some phone credit. Ghanaians are emphatically Christian and freedom of religion is a constitutional right. One of the more idiosyncratic ways they demonstrate their faith is by naming their businesses after religious sayings. My favourite is “Blood of Jesus Restaurant”. The store keeper bolts upright from her sleep when she sees me. My skin must be glowing. She looks disappointed when I buy the lowest value of credit.

 

Time goes fast in Ghana but not much gets done. It’s the Ghanaian way and this morning is no different. Before I know it, its 12 o’clock and time to pick up the younger children from school. The four girls squeal when they see me and fight each other out of the way to get the first hug. They insist I walk home carrying one of them on my back, one on my hip and the other two holding my hands. Suddenly we all tumble to the ground, and my eyes widen as I see Kakra land on all fours on the gravel. She stands up, her knees bloody and her hands scraped. She goes to open her mouth and I prepare myself for the tears but instead the air is filled with her laughter. Apparently it’s funny seeing a white girl fall over.

 

The children at the orphanage are amazing and inspiring. Behind their smiling faces and loving hugs are hearts broken from seeing their parents die from Malaria or AIDS. Some have been sexually abused. Even still, they are full of energy and spirit, and love to sing and dance. They are the most independent and self-sufficient children I have ever met. They cook all their own food, hand-wash their clothes, clean the bathroom and sweep the floors. They never complain.

 

Although English is Ghana’s national language, the younger children cannot speak it well. Many have learning disabilities not picked up or addressed at school, but they love practicing their reading and writing with me. I wonder if it’s just because they are craving the attention and love they have never had.

 

At the end of the day I wave goodbye. I feel a tap on my back and turn around to see 15-year-old Celina looking at me with her 50-year-old eyes. “Goodbye, Kim,” she says. “God bless you.”