I hated Tuesday. This was the day following that on which the meat delivery was made to the cold room at the company store.

Huge slabs of meat dripping blood, freshly slaughtered beef. Once hanged and allowed to drain of excess fluid, it would be butchered into top-side, silver-side, salmon cut, and the favourite of Europeans, fillet steak.

The offal was held back for purchase by the local population. Their taste was certainly not westernised. The consumption of brains, stomach lining and entrails needed a constitution which our pampered stomachs could not relate to.

I hated Tuesday. Seeing the refrigerated truck drive towards the store the previous day announced the arrival of the meat. This was Tuesday and the day to walk the short distance to the store to purchase my meat for the week ahead.

The sun's rays blazed down onto the parched earth. At just 8am, the heat was unrelenting, 104 deg F with 100%+ humidity, varying little throughout the year. I made my way slowly to the store. We lived on a hill. Practically everyone here lived on a hill. Perhaps the best locale to tolerate the heat, the heat of the West African bush.

I approached the store, sweat pouring down my face steaming up my sunglasses and dripping onto my chest. Rivulets of perspiration ran down my body making obscene wet patches on my light green cotton skirt. This was not just from the heat but also from fear; this was the moment I dreaded. Outside the store, there were spots of blood on the ground, fresh blood. The drops fell from above. I looked up. There above me on the roof of the building was a vulture, it's hooked beak dripping blood from a piece of meat that it had picked up when it had fallen from the truck; already it was starting to putrefy because of the heat.

As the blood touched the ground, so numbers of fellow carrion swooped on the wet spots that once were full of life. I hesitated then stopped, John's advice was to imagine they were pigeons and walk through them, this I could not do. My stomach heaved then I trembled as I watched the filthy beasts, my feet frozen to the ground. Then, realising that they were not going to get much sustenance from the liquid, they spread their wings, a span of some eight feet and lifted their bodies into the air. Once airborne, their wings gently stroked the air to give them momentum. It was a truly beautiful sight to behold, how different from the close encounter. My feet became unfrozen but my stomach still felt queasy. I carried on into the store to make my purchases.

I hated Tuesday, maybe vegetarians had the right idea, but I am a carnivore, I enjoy my meals with meat. This walk of fear couldn't happen in Great Britain when shopping in the local supermarket. This was Ghana, West Africa with all its' wildlife savagery.

Maureen Lewis