Theme: BODY POSITIVO

22.03.2021

I’m dabbling in Ghana Tinder.

I figured it won’t hurt to check it out.

I’m running the same strategy as back home.

No image of myself.

But ambiguous wording and imagery.

This brought a lot of brilliant individuals my way.

See what happens here in Africa.

Same profile, different setting.

After all, words are my strength.

And my firewall.

Anyone who ventures through there is special.

That’s what I’m looking for.

I asked the girls.

If it was true what they say.

About African men.

And their sex drive.

And tools.

I admit it was more of a rhetorical question.

But I don’t want to presume.

And I asked differently.

I asked if sex tech and vibrators for women were a thing here.

They were laughing.

What for exactly?

And then both started swooning instantly.

If given half a chance, African men could go morning, noon and night.

No worries.

That’s what I heard too.

And they make sure that the woman is pleasured.

Big time.

Apparently.

Wow, here’s a new angle.

I didn’t know that.

“Oooh yes, they love it” is the consensus.

In my experience, a lot of European men either don’t know how or are lazy.

You have to demand it.

Very few I encountered who found female pleasure important.

It was a thing to interject briefly in order to go back to their own thing.

Very few adored giving oral pleasure.

I will explore.

And report.

Shit, my sister has gone to the office.

And took the WiFi with her.

No internet today.

I can’t get shit done.

And it will be like this all week.

I know it’s not her responsibility but it sucks.

Maybe time to go to Takoradi.

Or for a walk.

I need to exchange money.

And an adventure.

I photograph an area map off my laptop screen because I don’t wifi on my phone either.

And go.

Street names are rather sporadic in this hood.

End of the road right.

Then first left.

Then second right.

This should take me to one of the main roads.

All the way to the Total Petrol station.

ATM and a supermarket.

On Spintex Rd.

I pass the house with the large black and red draping and the banner with photos of a mother and daughter.

They recently died in the same incident.

Call to Glory is the headline.

The mum has the same birth year as me.

And the daughter almost my daughter’s age.

I feel a twinge.

A parallel life.

Gone.

There is the little corner shop_shack with the red iron caging selling toilet paper and groceries I recognise.

These little shops are scattered all around the neighbourhood.

Selling similar household things.

That’s what makes it confusing.

Often a remodelled container front with very basic wooden accommodation out the back.

Local peeps shop here.

It’s a steady quiet business.

One rarely sees anyone buying anything or even passing but somehow they seem to earn a living.

Slow and steady.

And sociable.

The container shops are a step up from the basic wooden structures you see dotted, either occupied or abandoned, everywhere by the road side.

Shack traders sell small amounts of fresh produce.

Stacks of yam (ugly large brown root with white flesh which behaves like potato), limes, papaya, plantain (cooking bananas), peanuts.

Everything is open and hopefully sold by the end of the day.

Or balanced off in an aluminium bowl on top of the head.

Container traders are more sophisticated. I bet they pay rent for these.

Selling more valuables.

On my walk I notice quite a few which have little tables inside with women and men on sewing machines.

Selling clothes and offer mending services.

Some of the dresses are rather cool in comparison to bigger shops on the main roads selling a lot of China produced boring stuff it seems.

And polyester.

Wtf.

That shit is so sweaty.

Especially in a country where even Cameroonians complain is too much heat.

Lol.

I am genuinely impressed.

There is a keen eye I recognise.

I wonder if I can get a dress made to my specifications.

I also want to get my favourite sandals reproduced.

I’m mentally inching my way forward.

Into the African way.

I’m finally managing to hit the main road.

Spintex Rd is one of the main veins of traffic blood.

Trucks carrying Maesk containers.

Minibuses.

Really small taxis.

The occasional forklift

Shiny Range Rovers.

Except cocky motorbikes overtaking from both side.

Closing the link to bicycles.

And bicycles to pedestrians.

There is a clear hierarchy.

Then come goats.

And last but not least skinny chickens.

All of it is called traffic.

Every single particle has claimed its space on the wide road.

No markings.

Because everybody knows their place in the road, there is reason and order to the perceived chaos.

Everyone has a mission and tries to accomplish it in the least time possible.

No one waits for no one.

I recognise a Dutch trait here.

The game of chicken.

You go with determination.

And see whoever stops first.

No need to leave space.

I threw myself into it.

On a mission to master.

Holland prepared me well.

I’m not scared of traffic.

Crossing a busy road on foot is always generally interesting.

A car is approaching.

You know they see you.

And both minds gage their own as well as the other’s speed and time and distance.

Basic physics calculations are made in split seconds.

And I am sure this sensibility wasn’t explained in snoring formulas back in High School.

This is life teaching.

And a dance between the two parties involved.

Is there a formula for that?

Explaining distance and time and speed and the interaction of two or more dancers.

Moving in an angular fashion.

With a point of almostly collision.

Calculated in order not to happen.

Quite complex.

The odds that initial lightspeed calculations of the two parties involved is completely aligned, are small.

So one of them has to adjust.

Speeding up or slowing down.

Just a fraction.

Or both.

And the more micro the adjustment, the most satisfying the dance.

I get enormous satisfaction from a dance like that.

Seamlessness is next to Godliness.

If both parties are relaxed, it’s pleasurable play.

It depends on the mood of each.

If one party is being passive aggressive, i.e. the pedestrian slows down to make the car wait or the car speeds up to force the pedestrian to jump out of the way, then it becomes a deliberately induced power struggle.

And if one of them feels they are made to look the chicken, they road rage.

Funny.

Well anyway, I am happy to report that I am still alive.

And after briefly getting lost in a section of unmarked potholed red dirt roads I arrived safely back at the compound.

And I managed to grab a pineapple, papaya, little bananas and Smirnoff Ice for the girls and local smiles along the way.

Feeling positively empowered.

Ha, it’s hilarious.

I’ve already been asked twice if I’m a lingerie model.

I almost spluttered my coffee the first time.

Nobody has ever suggested that before.

I’ve only ever been a model size 34–36 at an age when I wasn’t even aware that size existed.

Hmmm … maybe I should look into it here since it seems a valid option.

And why not?

And with photoshop anything is possible.

It is the age of body positive.