Five Weeks To Departure

I woke up. It was 1am. And a ladybird had pooed on my face.

I don't get what it is with these ladybirds. For some reason, whenever the first cold snap strikes in October, every single ladybird in the UK performs a mass migration into my bedroom, where they remain until spring of the next year. I came upstairs one day a couple of months ago and counted thirty-six marching in a circle around my windowpane. I have nothing against them as a general rule, they are by no means the ugliest or most irritating of insects, but seriously, why my bedroom?

So, five weeks to go, and now the nerves are really starting to kick in. It transpires there is no medium between needing to get away right NOW and no no no far too soon.... A week or so more and I'll be in full-blown panic mode. Finding myself talking to people, I can hear my voice going "Yes, I'm going to travel to the coast and I'm really ex-cii-tedd..."- and that crack, right in the middle of the sentence, translates as What the hell am I doing? Africa? SIX MONTHS in Africa??? Can't I just stay in my bedroom and eat Malteasers?

The thing is, I still can't make soup without burning the pan. And in five weeks people are going to be expecting me to stand up in front of a classroom of kids, on the other side of the world, and teach them things. Just thinking about it turns my stomach into a snake pit. Now we're on the wrong side of Christmas, six months seems like an awfully long time, and it doesn't help that I keep saying goodbye to family and friends with the line "And I'll see you... ah, well, in July. Hah."

Time to freak out? I rather think so.

Six Weeks to Departure.

An evening with The Stud;

"You are absolutely mental." he said, shaking his head. "You're going to live in Ghana for six months, with a christian reverend, and you can't drink, and you are actually paying to do this. Seriously, what are you thinking?"

"It's going to help me grow, as a person..." I protested.

"Bullshit. Now I'm going to Japan. To be in a band." He coughed and raised his voice slightly, to make sure everyone could hear him. "that's Japan. Playing with my BAND."

Ice skating with The Raconteur; a gift of priscilla, queen of the desert and a blow-by-blow account of why Star Wars Episode I is a totally implausible film.

An emotionally fraught hour on Christmas Eve sobbing in The Actors house. His kitchen is being ripped out, and we sit on the floor of the sitting room with boxes piled high around us. He brings me a small glass of rum, tea and ginger biscuits and tells me it takes time. It has been snowing, but the rain washes it away, leaving small, sad piles of ice sitting around going now what? Tomorrow it will be Christmas Day, and then the new year and I will be gone.

My passport returns to me in the post, a brand new stamp across its page; Republic Of Ghana- Ghana Immigration Service VISAS, endorsed for six months from said date. I keep waking in the middle of the night thinking What The Hell Have I Let Myself In For?? Six weeks is far too close, no time at all. What will I do without my labradoodle?

Christmas Day- a freh start. Rip down all the photos on my bedroom wall and pin up an enormous map in their place. Soon I will start sticking pins in all the places I want to go. Presents of Ultra-lightweight towels, a mosquito net, sheets of soap and washing powder. A silver harmonica- considerably more portable than a grand piano. I plan a road trip from Oda to Busua, via the Kakum National Park, through Cape Coast, Sekondi and Takoradi. More whirling around on ice. Yes, I muse, I am queen of my destiny and full of poise. At least until several small children come ploughing into the back of my legs and send me flying.

Seven weeks to Departure

...Christmas is just around the corner. You can tell through the cold bite of the air, the drunken revelling of that extraordinary work Christmas party, The Medic cringing with embarrassment about her work Christmas party, finally making good the endless ice skating battle with The Raconteur, the return of UniGal from the cold, cold North. And I haven't even begun shopping.

I have sat down and penned a letter to The Reverend. I have done my best to cheerfully introduce myself, without being too desperately friendly. In point of fact, I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to say to a pastor. Will he, I wonder, stare down at my scribbled words and immediately know I am a non-believer? Will he denounce the heading of 'dear sir'? Perhaps I should have written 'Dear Reverend', or 'Dear Vicar'...

Or 'Messenger of God'???

I stared blankly at the sheet, trying to think of some way of fitting Do you have a piano??? into the message. We were advised to send a photograph of ourselves- the instant I was told, I could only think of the prints of myself in a corset and hotpants, with false eyelashes out to here. In the end I simply sprint out of my house, tear down the road and ram the letter into a postbox before I lose my nerve and take a match to it instead. I decided not to include a photo.

I am rather worried about the total absence of my passport. I packaged it up with my Visa application and sent it away at the Briefing. Since then, there has been neither hide nor hair of it. It's hard to know when is the fitting time to start panicking about ordering a new one. Perhaps I am being overly anxious- but then, the idea of trying to talk my way into Ghana without it seems altogether too much work.

Cheerful Christmas drinks with The Actor.

"I'm going away in seven weeks! It's so exciting!"

"I'm doomed to suffer a life alone, forever...."

'Tis the season to be jolly indeed.

Eight Weeks to Departure

My Mother calls from the United States of America, where she and the Chatterback are having a luxury weekend away.

"I've bought you a huge Mosquito Net! And a sort of ultraviolet zappy type thing you can neutralise nasty water with!"

"Aaahh... Joy. Thanks very much."

Perhaps it's a sonic screwdriver.

I've seen an awful lot of family members, and repeated again and again where I'm going, what I'm doing, and how excited I am about it. In fact, the date of departure seems to be coming worryingly near. I know I'm going to Africa, but I still feel in the sort of mental state where my brain is thinking "Well I'm going to Africa, but I'm not really going to Africa, not really really." I shall probably step onto the plane and have a complete meltdown. Now I must turn my attentions to my last Hep B jab, and my typhoid and yellow fever.

Ten weeks to departure

THIS IS SO EXCITING!!!

I have been placed in a small, fairly rural community in Ghana. I will be living with the local pastor, and teaching at a small church school of about 120 students. The youngest will be toddling, the oldest about twelve years old. I attended my briefing yesterday, in Reading, after an incredibly arduous train journey. Sat on the train to London bridge- that voice came over the intercom.

"Yars, hello.... We're going to delay the train for about ten minutes cause... well, cause we can't really be bothered. Haha, suckers."

Huh. Never mind, I still had an hour to get to Paddington. The train pulled into London Bridge. I then made the terrible mistake of having one of my Special Ideas. I know what I'll do, I'll jump on the underground to get to Charing Cross, that way I can transfer easily onto the bakerloo line, and it will all be so terribly, terribly simple!

My Special Ideas never work out.

Went happily down several escalators, jumped on the tube and took the Northern line. The tube however, did not take me to Charing Cross, it took me to Bank. What? What?? Jumped off the tube. Shit. Ah, okay, don't panic. Right, it transpires the northern line goes nowhere near Charing Cross. Does Bank have the Bakerloo line? No. I could go south to Elephant and Castle? No, that'll take to long, I'll go and get an overhead train to Charing Cross. Got on an escalator going up, glancing anxiously at my watch, now starting to get a bit stressy about time. Get to the top of the escalator- Trains? Trains? Only the Circle and District Lines. Do they go anywhere near Charing Cross? No. Damn! Turn to go back down the escalator- no! It's only a one way escalator! Shit- run round, go out the exit, then back in, have to go back down and get on the Southern line to get to Elephant and Castle and change onto the bakerloo line there.. Escalator is broken. Run down the stairs, follow sign for the Northern Line. Run down several corridors, accidentally bulldoze a small muslim lady- sign for the Northern line going- up the stairs??? What??? But I've only just come down the stairs, why am I going up more stairs?? Run up the stairs, along more corridors, then down another set of stairs- How I hate all these stairs! Eventually arrive back on the Northern line platform, slightly tearful and screaming I HATE LONDON! I HATE THE TUBE! at unsuspecting tourists. After sixteen years living in this city you would think I had at least a basic grasp of how these things work... Jump on the tube and eventually get to Elephant and Castle, get to the Bakerloo line and reach paddington about half an hour later. Am half an hour behind schedule, have missed the train I wanted to catch, wish I was in Ghana RIGHT NOW, because trains don't exist out there.

I got to Reading at about half eleven, and fell onto a bus. Had to go through the whole debacle of finding exact change to pay the driver, and then as I wandered up the aisle, someone said my name. Tall guy, with dark hair, a long black coat and a trilby. Ah- it was The Scientist.

"Nice to meet you..." I said warily, shaking his hand and wondering whether he was about to stab me for my previous comment about his living in the backarse of nowhere. But no, he didn't seem to bear a grudge, and I was relieved. Even more of a miracle was that I wasn't late for the briefing.

A very busy afternoon ensued, covering all the basic information. And I have a real problem. In Ghana, doing anything with your left hand is seen as a serious breach of manners. You can't shake hands with your left hand, you can't point at things with your left hand, you cant EAT anything with your left hand... It's all tantamount to wandering into the country and going HULLO. **** YOU ALL!

....I am very, very left-handed. I am now worried that I'm going to have absolutely no friends. My Mother has suggested tying my left hand behind my back between now and January, Victorian-style. I'm going to have to work something out...

At the end of the day an ex-volunteer who went to Ghana last year came to chat to us and show us all of his photos. We all got the opportunity to ask him any questions we wanted, the adults had to leave the room in case anything 'personal' snigger snigger came up. He was a very friendly guy, and at the end of his talk, he put his hands on the desk and said

"I just have one thing to say to you.."

What? What? We all leaned forwards intrigued.

"... You get worms. Living in your feet."

...WHAT?

"Yeah, these parasites, you pick them up from the sand. Don't worry about it, just take some pills and it kills them off. Doesn't hurt, s'just a bit itchy..."

Amazing. I'm going to stay in a country where worms live in my feet and I write with THE HAND OF THE DEVIL.

....I absolutely can't wait.

Eleven Weeks to Departure

My briefing is due to occur this Sunday, in Reading. I wonder how one gets to Reading. To be honest, all I know about Reading is that the Chatterback absolutely hates it there. Still, by the end of the week I will know where I've been placed, who I shall be working with, who my adopted family for six months will be...

The tension is killing me. Fortunately, I have things to do in the interim. Like staggering through gale-force winds to get to the post office, which for once, is not on strike.

"I need a special delivery envelope for my visa application, I think."

"You talk very fast." she says cheerfully.

"...Oh-kay. Um, the envelope?"

"Are you sure you need it?"

Stagger home again ten minutes later, nothing achieved. And now, sitting at the kitchen table with visa application forms, police disclosures, banking statements, multiple invoices, and a hugely long-winded travel insurance policy, I realise that yes, I do need the special envelope after all. I will now have to go back to the post office, and my luck is such that it will be exactly the same woman I have to talk to.

I do wonder sometimes whether I'm actually fit to be a teacher. You certainly wouldn't think so looking at my passport photographs, which are going to go on my Visa application. In short, I have the cold, dead eyes of a killer. I'd like to think that this was because of the 'NO smiling, NO expression, NO movement, NO bodily hair' attitude towards passport photographs these days, but you never know... I have to keep checking the list of things needed for the briefing- no doubt the one thing I will forget shall be the most vital component of all. Ah- valid certificate for yellow fever inoculation, goody goody. More needles. Still have about three jabs to go, and now work is threatening to administer the Swine Flu vaccine on me because I'll be helping out at the flu clinics... Perhaps I should point out that if they give me the vaccine it will actually render my helping out redundant, I'll only be fit for sitting in the corner and twitching...

I am slightly angsty about meeting all my volunteer companions face to face, feel I'm bound to do something memorably stupid if I get nervous enough. During an online conversation with another volunteer a couple of weeks ago I got swiftly through the topics of agas, gas marks, and elderflower champagne before implying that he lived in the backarse of nowhere, and lost his love forever. I couldn't help it, he did Further Maths, Physics, Chemistry and Biology at A-Level, and I've never been able to deal with scientists. I'm just anxious that he'll remember our exchange and hit me with a croquet mallet before I've had a chance to introduce myself to anyone else.

Still, I heard from The Stud yesterday, and there's a party on Saturday night- so at least I can wear the dress that's just sitting in my wardrobe, crying "you don't love me..."

Epiphany

I wake up at half past five in the morning, in the cellar. There is a dull thumping at the very base of my skull, which promises to develop into a truly incredible hangover within a few hours. Throw off several layers of blanket, struggle to sit up, and look over at the two motionless forms of The Medic and The Actor, who are occupying two thirds of the one mattress we are all crammed on. I must have fallen asleep roughly two and a half hours ago. Suddenly need to lie down again rather fast.

While dozing, it occurs to me with crystal clarity that I won't see my friends at all- not even once- when I am in Africa. Perhaps it is the remnants of the alcohol still in my system that makes me want to suddenly wake them up, hug them and tell them I love them.

I refrain. I know neither of them would really appreciate my sentiments at this moment in time.

I close my eyes and drift off again. Outside, the rain has stopped at last.