Things that are Swedish

While at a local Irish pub in Accra, we befriended a group of volunteers. Since first impressions can be a deal-breaker, I wanted to make sure I was on top of my game. I was having a fruitful conversation with my new Dutch acquaintance, when somewhere shortly into the conversation, Ikea, the Scandinavian home furnishing giant, became a topic of discussion. I decided to weigh in by sharing my favorite Ikea memory. Disclaimer: I was not present for the formation of the memory; it only became my memory through the retelling.

Years ago, my friends embarked on a rather ordinary Ikea run. But of course, with my friends, nothing can be ordinary. It turns out that a radio station was broadcasting from the parking lot, and a swelling crowd gathered, similar to the phenomenon when Ikea offers sheet sets on sale for $9.99. Well, it came time for a give-away for an audience contestant who was able to correctly answer a question from the DJ. Of course, my friend Katie exhibited extreme enthusiasm and was selected to demonstrate her knowledge and win the radio promotion.

In front of and broadcasted to a throng of strangers, Katie simply had to name three things that are Swedish. So very confidently, she declared Well, for starters…Holland. A rather quizzical look comes over the radio host. Actually, Holland never has been and never will be Swedish. (Although, since I haven’t conquered the time-space continuum, I can’t officially confirm that Holland will never be Swedish). But who knew that a region in the Netherlands, a Nether-region, would not meet the criteria for something Swedish?

Since I wasn’t present for the original Ikea outing, there is a chance that the fish has grown in size through the retelling, but the there are two things I am certain of. First, that the question was to name three things Swedish. Second, that the answer was Holland. Of course, I couldn’t help but rattle off a few acceptable responses to reveal my superior comprehension to my Dutch friend. Well, for starters…Ikea, Swedish meatballs, my personal favorite, Swedish fish. Perhaps boasting a bit of bravado, I pushed the envelope on my grasp of Nordic societies. Or clogs. It turns out, clogs are not exclusively Swedish. Comprehension checkmated by the Dutchman. I suppose it could have been worse. At least I didn’t suggest windmills.

Sounds Like Octopus

I grew up as a what man, reflexively asking what after being spoken to. Brian, did you finish your homework? What, mom? Brian, did you take the dog for a walk? What, dad? Part of the reason was well-intentioned chore avoidance, but I’m convinced that the larger part of it was because I was, and am, audibly challenged. Perhaps I probed too far with a Q-tip growing up, or maybe it is just a natural defect, but I have found that I often have trouble processing auditory stimuli. Such is the case when it comes to song lyrics. Fortunately for me though, when I can’t understand the lyric, I make them up.

So take my hearing struggles and introduce them into a foreign culture with a slightly different dialect, and the output is scrambled eggs. Thankfully, I’m in good company. While having a pint with a local volunteer from southern Australia, he asked if I was familiar with the local hiplife song that contained the lyric Sexy as cheese. Well, I originally thought maybe the bloke had a roo loose in the top paddock, but quickly dismissed this notion when he began humming the tune. Yes, I was familiar with this song. Soon enough, I too was able to pick out the lyric sexy as cheese. The problem was that I never really considered cheese to be sexy, and if I had, I would at least have had the decency to keep such a fetish to myself. The second problem was that it turns out the lyrics are actually Sexy as she is. Clearly.

Well, I recently put my ears to the test again at Reggae Night. Reggae Night draws a melting pot of personalities. Set on the sands of Labadi Beach, the musical evening brings together a varied clientele from Rastafarian locals to hippy expatriates, from university exchange students to working professionals. This particular evening, my friends and I were blessed with a well-informed emcee, or master of ceremonies as he liked to believe. Every 30 seconds he would interject with just one word. Octopus. I was not sure why he kept drawing attention to our eight-legged mollusk. Perhaps it was our proximity to the ocean, maybe he was informing the masses that octopi are sentient creatures, but whatever the reason for the incessant interjections, I found them disruptive.

Come to find out, the microphone monopolizer wasn’t trying to warn the crowds about a potential octopus invasion, but rather exclaiming On the bus. But how can you keep demanding that I get on the bus without telling me where that bus is going? Please don’t say Tamale.

Times in Transit

Travelling the roads of Ghana; sometimes it can be exhausting. Sometimes it is a fun cultural experience. But always, it comes with a story. As society has yet to master the science of teleportation, I can be thankful for my times in transit.

Tro-tros. Derived from the local Ga language word “tro” meaning three-pence, a tro-tro is the primary means of public transportation in Ghana. This informal yet seemingly codified system is the artery of Accra. It’s usually crowded and confining, yet generally furnished with comity. I once had the pleasure of sitting next to a gentleman who was travelling with his poultry. Slightly humored and mildly terrified, I tried to ignore the feathered squawks coming from below my bum. I fought to block the background bowwow, but eventually found the situation escalating. With great haste, I jumped out of my seat, feeling the chicken attacking my ankles. Causing quite a disturbance, all eyes turned to the loco hombre. I soon realized the farm foul was still safely secured. Turns out it was just my shoelaces. Who’s the chicken now, Brian?

Motored-canoe. The most efficient way to get to Ada Foah is to take the motored-canoe. The motored-canoe is 60 minutes faster than travelling by foot, and about 5,000 ore strokes faster than travelling by traditional canoe. The only flaw in water-travel is that too many people sink the ship. If you are travelling in a large-enough party, someone is given bucket bailer duty. Well, on a recent trip, the captain asked me to come navigate. I’m not sure if he wanted a short nap, or if he just thought it would be funny to have an obruni as his skipper. Either way, I was responsible for steering, speed-changing, and stopping. When we disembarked, I told the captain that perhaps I shouldn’t pay for my fare and that he should pay me for my services instead. He disagreed.

Taxis. As is true of many urban locales, taking a taxi can be as terrifying as sky diving. But sometimes this trill is stretched to the extreme and I’m fearfully waiting for the parachute to deploy. Such was the scenario one evening when my colleagues and I piled into a taxi to head across town. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the driver, let’s call him Charlie, was in the middle of a high speed get-away. As soon as we pulled the taxi door shut, our jockey, Charlie, was off like Citation at the Belmont Stakes. Like most of the world, Ghana uses a similar traffic light pattern; green for go, red for stop. Not for this cab. Red light. Be my guest. By the time we sped through the second highway intersection without regard to the cross-traffic, I was fast-forwarding through the highlights of my life. Thank Beelzebub that the Ghanaian police force found this reckless. We were pulled over and instructed to find safety in another driver. Our taxi-jockey was soon united with that Citation he deserved.