Spent money today.
In the morning, paid for cab to what turned out to be a non-interview. "The chief executive is not here and only the chief executive can answer questions. Yes, I know we told you to come on down here at two o'clock. I am an ass."
Then down to the artist's community to buy Christmas presents for people. I knew I was going to get taken for everything I had in my pockets, so I arrived with little. Prediction verfied: one hawker talked me out of not only all my cash but the pen I was holding, too. Still, three presents down.
Refilled at bank machine, then met a couple guys at a bar for an actual successful interview. Picked up the tab for about a dollar.
Finally got dinner around 10. There's these guys who sit on a sidewalk corner at night--during the day the say sell gas ovens and refrigerators--and sell grade-A egg sandwhiches. Directions:
Fry two eggs on your street corner burner. Spray with melted butter.
Cut 5" megaslice of whitebread from loaf, then divide slice almost all the way down the center, so that it opens like a book.
Open breadbook, and lay it facedown on top of frying eggs.
Now take out your club--the indispensable tool in the Accra streetside kitchen. Beat the bread like it's a baby seal or something. (If you're cooking along at home, you can also yell "Why not me?" or "No you must!" in cadence with every downswing.) After thirty seconds of clubbing, the bread should be nice and mashed down, and the egg should have latched on to the bread. Now close your bread book.
Spray more butter into the pan, resume clubbing the sandwhich. Flip, give it a final beating, and ready to serve!
Price: forty cents. Greasy-tastey.
Head home to hotel, pay $7 for my bed, collapse. Good night.
