When you look different from nearly everyone, there’s a tendency to notice those similar to you. I’m sure there’s some psychology behind it—an innate human desire to connect, to ask, “Hey! What the hell are you doing here, too?”
So when I walked into HoneySuckle Bar’s happy hour yesterday, I immediately noticed the only other white person there. I also noticed that the only open table was directly next to him, and groaned. The man was middle-aged, chain-smoking Marlboros, and yelling at someone so loudly down the phone that his New Zealand accent was audible from the entrance.
“Now, why the hell would you cut your dreads?!” he sputtered. “Too long?! I have pubes longer than those things! Now you’re balder than a badger!”
The couple next to him turned their heads and frowned. I felt the need to apologize to my fellow patrons. I tried to catch the eyes of another table, my expression presumably conveying, “Pff! Tourists, right? No respect!” They did not return my glance.
My friend Sophia and I sat down reluctantly. It had already been a long day in Accra. After a grueling ten hours running around town, reporting on a court story and interviewing locals, I felt both absurdly visible and completely see-through—everywhere I went, I was stared at, approached with propositions, and occasionally touched (mostly my hair). At the same time, I felt excluded from conversations, when I didn’t understand the local language or the context of jokes. I felt like a stupid tourist.
Of course, this all comes with the territory of travel. Most of the Ghanaians I met were lovely, and I could usually handle being out of my element. But today was hard and I just wanted my half-priced quesadilla. Now this man was reminding me of all the things I tried so hard not to represent as a foreigner.
“Lemme guess, Germans,” he drawled as we sat down. He had just hung up on his phone conversation.
“Actually, we’re from the states,” Sophia said.
“Hmmm,” the man said, swirling his beer. “So what do you reckon ‘bout these ‘racist’ tweets, eh, from Trump? Load of bollocks?”
Sophia looked at me. This might be a long dinner.
“We think they’re insulting,” I said. “Y’know, insinuating these congresswomen aren’t real Americans just because they disagree with our administration.” I flipped through the menu, wishing we’d sucked it up and sat at the bar.
“Yeaaaaaah but wouldn’t ye say he has a point, though? If ye don’t like America why don’t ye just go back to yer own country?”
Sophia’s face turned a little redder. Here we go.
“Hm. How long have you been in Ghana then?” she asked.
He let out a puff of his cigarette.
“Jesus, twelve years now.”
“And do you like it here?”
“Oh, not particularly. Piece a shit place.”
We couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the lack of self-awareness. Despite his abhorrent rudeness, this conversation might prove to at least be entertaining.
The next two hours pretty much followed suit: the man, whose name we learned was Adam, brought up a controversial topic, then valiantly took the opposite position of whatever ours was. We found Adam to be somehow both God-fearing and an Atheist, sickened by the evils of colonialism and at times bizarrely racist. He hated Donald Trump with all his guts—until we agreed of course, and then he pointed out America’s boosted economy.
It was a verbal game of tug-of-war, and with nothing better to do and avoiding going home, Sophia and I decided to play along.
Adam had an endless supply of beers brought out to the table. I had the feeling he wasn’t paying for a single one. At some point in the night, the waitress swapped out his Guinness for a banana smoothie and he didn’t skip a beat.
“Isn’t soccer a bloody stupid sport?” he roared, gesturing to the AfCon cup on TV and spraying Sophia with banana flecks.
Eventually, Adam’s endless drinking got to him, and he stumbled off to the bathroom.
His mysterious beer benefactor swung by the table and scooped up his empty glasses. She was a beautiful young Ghanaian woman, not much older than us.
“Excuse me,” I called out to the waitress. “So you know Adam?” Almost amused by his antics at this point, we needed to find out who exactly this man was—and why he seemed to have a never-ending bar tab.
“Ohh, I’ve known him since I was a kid,” she said, sounding a little embarrassed. “He used to work with my Dad.”
“Is he always this crazy?”
She laughed. Surveying the nearly empty patio, she set down the glasses and pulled out a chair from our table to join us.
“Actually, he’s going through a bit of a rough patch. He had a Ghanaian wife, but she just left him,” she whispered. “Now he’s not sure where to go. He doesn’t want to stay, but there’s no one left for him in New Zealand.”
Before we could reply, Adam came tumbling back through the patio. “So, ladies? What do we think about climate change?!”
Maybe I understood. For some people, an argument’s better than silence. Sitting with two people who can’t stand you might be better than sitting alone.
I had been feeling lonely and out of place that day, when the feeling should have made me grateful—to be homesick means there’s a home to go back to. I was lucky to travel for the sake of exploration and growth, not escape. I was lucky I didn’t need to start fights to start conversations. I was even lucky for long days at work, and meeting obnoxious fellow tourists.
“Let’s go home, Soph,” I said, standing up, and giving Adam a goodbye pat on the back. “We’ve got work in the morning.”