now happily married, thought Fergus a distinct improvement on Rudolf, and Fintan, whose father knew Ghana and the West African coast from service in the merchant navy, blessed the enterprise and wished us well.
8
Weighing Anchor â Liverpool to Takoradi
T
he Elder Dempster liner MV Apapa , one of two ships that plied alternate routes to Ghana, one via the Canary Islands, the other via the Gambia and Sierra Leone, was at the quayside in Liverpool when I disembarked early in the morning from the Belfast boat. Already it was warm, promising one of those glorious early spring days that Northern Ireland, the west of Scotland and Lancashire enjoy before an unpredictable summer sets in. Details have faded, but I negotiated the transfer of three suitcases to my cabin without actually boarding the ship. A steward, uniformed in white, topped with a red fez, had been assigned to take care of my baggage. Instantly likeable, he assured me it would be safe until late in the afternoon, when passengers would be allowed aboard, and told me there was a bunch of red roses waiting for me in my cabin. I asked him to try to keep the roses alive.
Aimless hours in this city, at first sight no more appealing than Belfast, allowed time for some self-examination. In the back of my mind lurked tales of young Ulster women who had disappeared without trace after boarding the Liverpool boat: rumours of white slavery were rife at the time, but I had loftily dismissed them as baseless scaremongering. Now I began to look at some of the solitary characters leaning against walls, or sitting alone in the numerous small cafés, as possibly loitering with intent. Too timid to go to the centre of the town, where I would have found more salubrious cafés and better shops, it was not only fear of the sinister that deterred me. My right leg was hurting: crêpe-bandaged on the advice of a doctor who had failed to diagnose deep-vein thrombosis after treatment for bronchial pneumonia, I knew that by the end of a hot day both legs would be swollen. I picked at dreary sandwiches, and drank cups of viscous coffee â some tasted of chicory, reviving memories of wartime Camp, but by this time espresso bars had begun to flourish in Belfast, so I knew what coffee should taste like.
I rang my mother, but had little to say that had not already been said, apart from telling her that my cases were in good hands. I did not mention the roses. Telegrams were sent instead of emails in that era, and while in theory it was possible to telephone Ghana, Fergus had discouraged me from trying, saying that to do so would reduce me to a frustrated, gibbering mess while expensive minutes ticked away. Air letters were the best option, although slow, and in the early days of Ghanaâs independence, mail, particularly that of international aid workers, was liable to be opened. An incident from early childhood came to mind. It must have been Student Rag Day, when a very tall black man had rattled a collection box in my face and I had burst into tears; both he and San had been embarrassed. Afterwards San told me that he was a prince from the Gold Coast, and could jump longer and higher than any other student at the university. Apart from that encounter, the few Africans I had met had been studying medicine, dentistry or engineering at Queenâs.
Towards the end of the afternoon I joined the queue of passengers waiting to go on board. The deck swarmed with stewards chattering in a variety of tribal dialects. Cheerful, and willing to a man, I found them difficult to understand â this was my first exposure to West African pidgin, and six months were to pass before I became familiar with its manifold bizarre interpretations of the Queenâs English. There is no parallel: in East Africa Swahili is widely spoken, while in the ex-French or ex-Belgian colonies, French is the lingua franca. Ali, the steward, led me down to my cabin, which, although second class, had a
8
Weighing Anchor â Liverpool to Takoradi
T
he Elder Dempster liner MV Apapa , one of two ships that plied alternate routes to Ghana, one via the Canary Islands, the other via the Gambia and Sierra Leone, was at the quayside in Liverpool when I disembarked early in the morning from the Belfast boat. Already it was warm, promising one of those glorious early spring days that Northern Ireland, the west of Scotland and Lancashire enjoy before an unpredictable summer sets in. Details have faded, but I negotiated the transfer of three suitcases to my cabin without actually boarding the ship. A steward, uniformed in white, topped with a red fez, had been assigned to take care of my baggage. Instantly likeable, he assured me it would be safe until late in the afternoon, when passengers would be allowed aboard, and told me there was a bunch of red roses waiting for me in my cabin. I asked him to try to keep the roses alive.
Aimless hours in this city, at first sight no more appealing than Belfast, allowed time for some self-examination. In the back of my mind lurked tales of young Ulster women who had disappeared without trace after boarding the Liverpool boat: rumours of white slavery were rife at the time, but I had loftily dismissed them as baseless scaremongering. Now I began to look at some of the solitary characters leaning against walls, or sitting alone in the numerous small cafés, as possibly loitering with intent. Too timid to go to the centre of the town, where I would have found more salubrious cafés and better shops, it was not only fear of the sinister that deterred me. My right leg was hurting: crêpe-bandaged on the advice of a doctor who had failed to diagnose deep-vein thrombosis after treatment for bronchial pneumonia, I knew that by the end of a hot day both legs would be swollen. I picked at dreary sandwiches, and drank cups of viscous coffee â some tasted of chicory, reviving memories of wartime Camp, but by this time espresso bars had begun to flourish in Belfast, so I knew what coffee should taste like.
I rang my mother, but had little to say that had not already been said, apart from telling her that my cases were in good hands. I did not mention the roses. Telegrams were sent instead of emails in that era, and while in theory it was possible to telephone Ghana, Fergus had discouraged me from trying, saying that to do so would reduce me to a frustrated, gibbering mess while expensive minutes ticked away. Air letters were the best option, although slow, and in the early days of Ghanaâs independence, mail, particularly that of international aid workers, was liable to be opened. An incident from early childhood came to mind. It must have been Student Rag Day, when a very tall black man had rattled a collection box in my face and I had burst into tears; both he and San had been embarrassed. Afterwards San told me that he was a prince from the Gold Coast, and could jump longer and higher than any other student at the university. Apart from that encounter, the few Africans I had met had been studying medicine, dentistry or engineering at Queenâs.
Towards the end of the afternoon I joined the queue of passengers waiting to go on board. The deck swarmed with stewards chattering in a variety of tribal dialects. Cheerful, and willing to a man, I found them difficult to understand â this was my first exposure to West African pidgin, and six months were to pass before I became familiar with its manifold bizarre interpretations of the Queenâs English. There is no parallel: in East Africa Swahili is widely spoken, while in the ex-French or ex-Belgian colonies, French is the lingua franca. Ali, the steward, led me down to my cabin, which, although second class, had a
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