10th March 2005. Cape Coast.

Conversations I've had in Ghana:

Young Man - I want to be your best friend. I will follow you anywhere.
Me - Uh, thanks.

Baby - HOWAREYOUIMFINE!
Me - Uh, fine.

Waiter - I really really like you.
Me - Uh, OK.

Mad Woman - These are my children! Come to my birthday! I will follow you to London! Plenty fruit in *indecipherable*!
Me - Uh...

Ghana is extremely friendly and chock-full of nutters.

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11th March 2005.

I book a flight home for AB's funeral. One week in England. I fly tomorrow, six months to the day after I left.
I feel a moral weight lifting after I book the flight. Doug and I celebrate by spending the whole day drinking beer and eating three platefuls each - where one would have sufficed - of record-breakingly good spicy prawns. BUUURP.

12th March 2005. Kotoka International Airport, Accra.

"Pissing down" is a vulgar and insensitive phrase used in vernacular UK English to signify heavy rain. I'm waiting to get on the plane to London and they won't even let us on the bus from the terminal to the plane, because - if I may - it's fucking shitting down. Beaucoups de lightning etc. But the first busload of people have made it onto the plane so it must be OK.

Accidentally had 10 large gins on the way, six with Doug in Accra and a further four at the airport. There are only two ways to approach a flight of over six hours.
1. Stone cold sober. I've done this a lot and it's fine.
2. Rat-faced shit-arsed drunk. I've done this as well and it's fine. You pays yer money and you takes yer choice.
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Here's the thing with American dudes; when you overhear them talking, for example in an airport, you can't help thinking "Lawks! How brash". But when you actually meet them and have a conversation they invariably turn out to be
A. hilarious, and
B. cool.
Ain't that freaky?
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