The road home goes through Kotoka Airport: Sir, I am a Princess!

I spoke a little too soon on the wonderful amenities of Kotoka Airport.

While the customs and check-in areas are fully air conditioned, and that was greatly appreciated after a 1-1/2 hour sweaty drive in  Accra's rush hour traffic with Bea's younger brother, the rest of the place isn't air conditioned at all. This change was most noticeable as I left the toilet paper and running-water free bathroom and went up to the first of many security checkpoints at Kotoka: the eye and fingerprint scan.  Picture about 300 crabby people in a cavernous, un-airconditioned hall waiting to have red and green lasers flashed into their corneas.  The only good thing about the 45-minute wait was that I met up with a man from India who I had stood behind in the customs line for 45 minutes. You know, before I declared my "clothes and stuff." He was friendly and funny, so we easily passed the time  waiting in a very disorganized line.

In the eye/fingerprint scan area, there was a well-dressed African woman standing several rows behind us who was complaining loudly. She wore a brightly-colored sash across her left shoulder which Bea had explained denotes coming from a chief's family.  The woman left the line and went straight to the Ghanaian Army guy at the front.  This was a bad idea. You know how security people are in airports.  Line jumping gets everyone all excited.  The army guy started yelling at her to get in line, which prompted this response, "Sir! I am a PRINCESS!"

The Indian man I mentioned, who was sweating so profusely, lost his cool, his calm, and his much-appreciated (by me) sense of humor. He also started yelling, "I do not care what kind of princess you ah. In dees airport you ah a passenger, jist like everybahdy else here-ah. Please get back in line you foolish woman." 

And then 2 other army guys came running out, grabbed our princess and made her go to the back of the line. And gave her dirty looks. She was quiet after that.  I think the AK47's across their shoulders had something to do her sudden subdued demeanor.

My issue at this checkpoint was that my pinky fingers are so short they could not reach up into the box where they are supposed to be scanned.  The army woman kept telling me to move up my finger, but because of the way the machine was made, I couldn't. A second army woman came over and tried to stretch my hand to get my dwarf pinky fingertip up to the box. I don't know if the army woman got the pinky fingerprints or not.  I think that, exasperated by the obruni's short fingers, and not wanting to bring in the guys with the AK47's again, she moved on, hoping that the princess ended up in a booth other than hers.  Dwarf pinky fingers, cranky princesses.  What a day at the office for the folks at this checkpoint.

I have never been to an airport where I've had to flash and ID 9 times between entry and leaving. And where there are no washrooms past the final checkpoint that gets you to your gate.  That last security guy eyed me suspiciously as I came back out, used the bathroom and bought what I knew would be my last Malt for awhile.

Then there was the matter of what to do with my leftover cedis.  I thought I might eat before I got on the plane, but I wasn't that hungry, so I purchased: a magnet, a key chain, that last malt, 2 large bottles of water, 2 Cadbury milk chocolate bars and...well, I hadn't had my daily ice cream bar yet.