Now that my day of feasting is behind me:
I've been doing the African two-step all day. Step one: rage against African infrastructural deficiencies, low standards in professionalism. Step two: notice the outgoing "Need any help?" attitude of the average guy on the street. Feel schmuckish.
My budget has been halving itself every week for a month. I should be doing fine, but I can't get access to my NYC account. My Ohio account is nearly depleted. I try to transfer money online, but the damn transaction always eats itself, and then a warning window pops up, instructing me to call a toll-free American phone number for help.
This American phone number cannot be reached from Africa.
Luckily, pay phones in Africa are usually attached to flimsy metal casings. You can punch them in a pathetic show of frustration, and they make a big booming noise. This is much better than concrete, which just cuts your knuckles and makes you feel like a petulant idiot.
So after I punch the this or scream at the him or kick the that, I usually, within twenty minutes, come across a fellow or a lady who immediately gives
"Hey mister."
"I got no money."
"Hey mister." He's selling newspapers, walking at my shoulder.
"I said I have no money."
"Don't worry. If you are patient, maybe God will help you."
Yeah, I'm pretty sure he will. I'm pretty sure my finances will be sorted out soon enough and my career will be right on schedule. I will likely not be toting newspapers on the blazing streets of Accra, making less than jack.
"Yeah, you too."
"Good luck, my friend."
Repeat this cycle every hour.
