Emergency at the orphanage

I sit in the shade under the roof next to Ellen‘s little shop and wait for Millicent to start the cooking. The children are in school. During break, one of the girls approaches me and says Millicent is gone. - ,So when is she coming back?‘ - ,She is not coming back.‘ I go and ask James what happened. ,Oh, I should have told you. Millicent is gone.‘ Apparently, she left in the morning. Nobody really knows why and whether or when she will come back. ,She said she would visit us. Then we will know whether she comes back.‘ - ,Who is cooking now?‘ - ,The older girls maybe. And Ellen is here.‘ I see myself ending up cooking Banku on my own but luckily Ellen helps. Lunch is much less organised without Millicent, but we get along. It feels strange. Only some of the younger girls say they are sad because Millicent left. Everyone else replies ,I am fine.‘ as usual. I ask one of the older boys why Millicent left. He doesn‘t know, he says, but I think he suppresses a grin. I hear Ellen arguing with some of the older girls. Millicent complained the older kids would insult her, Ellen tells us. She asked the girls but they are not telling the truth. I always felt Millicent had a good relationship to the children but now there seemed to be something else beneath this surface. Especially the apparent lack of worry irritates me. 

I convince Megan, another volunteer, to stay at the orphanage with me for the night. James and Ellen will be there as well, but we think it might be a good thing to do. We come back after dinner, time to do homework. It is noisy in the dining room, there are not enough pens. I read a story to some girls and help with homework. The three youngest fall asleep, head on the table. We bring them to bed. The room empties, it gets quieter. More and more rest their heads on their arms and fall asleep. I help the boys get ready for bed. The eleven-year old boys, Nelson and Anthony, wake up the little ones and send them to the bathroom. They know what to do. Anthony puts his mattress on the floor. He says he prefers to sleep there. Nelson lies down beside him, they pray together, then I am allowed to switch off the light. Megan and I try to sleep in the library. It is cool in the room, but we can hardly sleep.  remember looking at my watch, waiting to fall asleep. In the morning, we hear the cock, footsteps, creaking doors. Someone leaves the house, gets water from the tank outside, comes back. Exactly at 5 am one of the older boys starts clapping to wake up everyone. One by one, they file outside where it is still dark. They form a circle, holding hands, old next to young, girls next to boys. One girl in the middle starts to sing, everyone joins. Then they pray, a rising and fading murmur. Megan and I stand a little bit aside. I am sure, they would open the circle for us, but I don‘t want to intrude. This is their moment, one moment for them alone under the stars. I have goose bumps. Eventually, the circle breaks up and everybody goes back inside. James gives out toothpaste, I help carry water for the children to bath. Then the courtyard is swept. Other students arrive early and help. Just before 8 am, one of the older girls serves the porridge, then it is time for school. 

Megan and I are tired but we feel good. Waiting for a taxi to take us back to Cape Coast, a car pulls up beside us. Megan is a little bit suspicious but I am too tired. We get in the car and the two men give us a lift. 

Holiday at the orphanage

No school today. One of the volunteers organised a trip to Coconut Grove for the day - but only the older children can go. Jolanda and I stay at the orphanage with the rest. We watch them enter the bus and wave goodbye. The kids are sad that they are not allowed to go and moody. We promise to take them somewhere on another day but that doesn‘t satisfy them. We can hardly get them to play something. After a few rounds Hide and Seek everybody ends up in front of the TV despite the poor quality. It is too hot to play outside. One of these Nigerian movies is on. It is not really good and I think the kids do not understand what they are watching but they watch nevertheless. Jolanda brings some Fan Ice which cheers them up for a while. They mix it with the porridge they didn‘t eat in the morning. Nobody is here to tell them what to do. James and Ellen, who should be at the orphanage, are gone and Millicent is in here room, crying. She had a bad dream about something evil coming and destroying the children and her, she tells me the next day. When she called for Jesus, he came and destroyed the evil thing but she still is afraid. Not until later she comes to join us watching TV. After lunch, we play some sort of baseball outside. However, the children fight more than usual and somebody is always crying. I am glad when the bus with the older children comes back from the trip. 

Weekend of Music

Project Abroad is organising a health walk in Accra for Saturday. Volunteers from all the towns in Ghana are going to meet at the office in Accra, walk through Accra‘s streets to an orphanage and make a donation. The walk is planned to start at six o‘clock in the morning and as we can‘t get a bus for Friday evening, we have to leave Cape Coast at 3.30 am. 

At 3 am, Eric rings us to ask where we are. We should wait at the house, he will send us a car to pick us. We don‘t understand why as we were supposed to walk but when the bus finally leaves after 4 am, we hear the story. Two of the volunteers in our area were already waiting for the bus at 3 am and they were robbed by a man with a gun. I am glad Eric didn‘t tell us before we left the house but somehow I don‘t feel affected. 

We reach Accra with a delay of over half an hour but the other groups waited for us. All dressed in green Project Abroad shirts, we start our walk. A small band with trumpets and drums accompanies us - I wonder how much of what they play is improvisation - and policemen who stop the cars at cross roads. The staff members are dancing and cheering, while most volunteers are covered in sweat by the walk itself. It is early in the morning and already hot. At a junction, children from the orphanage dressed in white Project Abroad shirts join us and together we arrive at Osu Children‘s Home after one and a half hours. As if we were not sweating enough, we are welcomed by an enthusiastic man on a podium - with gymnastics. Stretching, boxing, it is actually fun. After some food, a dancing competition is started for the children. In groups and alone they perform crazy moves and the crowd votes for the winner through shouting and cheering. Some are really good. A final group picture, then we get back into the bus and head towards Cape Coast.

Sunday is Independence day. Saturday evening a group of volunteers met at Oasis, a beach restaurant and bar, and there a waiter told us the ceremony would start at 8 o‘clock in the morning on a square nearby. Although we are tired, we don‘t want to miss this occasion. We find space on a stand among children who are probably watching their school mates standing on the square, waiting for the ceremony to start. At first, there is no order, then the students form neat rows, holding their school banners in front of them. A group of soldiers marches into the square and stop in front of the students, facing the main tribune which is still empty. An orchestra plays marching music but at the same time music is blared out by antique looking and sounding loudspeakers. Then a voice tells the public we are waiting for the commanders. The soldiers and students stand in the sun, the first begin to faint and red cross members start running. Suddenly a motorbike drives into the square, followed by strong jeeps. The commanders have arrived. The programme starts with a prayer and a march of the soldiers, slow time, then quick time. Then the students join them, marching like them in orderly rows. A teacher and a student lead the group, followed by two students with the banner, the girls, the boys and a second teacher at the end. The rows of uniformed students seem to be endless. The music stops, everybody is back on their position, a second prayer is said and the regional minister gives a speech. More and more students are carried away by the red cross members, they don‘t have enough stretchers. I stop counting when I reach thirty. Even soldiers abandon their positions now. A group of sheep runs across the square, chased by a policeman which provokes laughter from the spectators. The orchestra starts playing again, two of the honourable persons are driven along the rows of soldiers and students, standing next to guarding soldiers on the back of a jeep. Then they all leave again and the students march off. The ceremony is over. 

At the house, a funeral celebration is going on. Pavilions provide shade for the guests. Everybody is dressed in white cloth with grey patterns as this is the second day of the ceremony. The day before it was black and red. A choir is singing, accompanied by a guy with a keyboard which sounds like an organ. He has no notes and neither has the choir. Again I wonder how much of the songs is improvisation. The songs seem to go on for ages without pauses. When at some point the choir stops to have food from the buffet, a DJ takes over playing Nigerian songs. Then the choir starts again, now with songs that sound more African and less like organ music. They enjoy themselves, dance and clap. Guests join them, get up, sing and dance. After hours, the DJ takes over again and more and more people dance. Three young men want us to dance with them and after a while we give in. I am grabbed on my hands and try to follow the moves of this guy whose name I don‘t even know. Occasionally, a young girl or boy tries to get one of my hands and dance with us, but they are pushed away. However, it doesn‘t take long until Agnes calls us back and we withdraw to watch the celebration from the balcony again. As the day grows older, the dancing becomes more lively. The children in the courtyard next to us start dancing, too. Age doesn‘t matter and neither does gender. Hips are shaken, bodies rubbed against other bodies. From old ladies to little boys, everybody can join. I saw some of the young boys drink beer earlier, but not the young men. They have been dancing from the start, a bottle of water in one hand, a handkerchief in the other hand. It is fun to watch them bending and enjoying themselves. Nobody would think of a funeral seeing this. 

Life story

Wednesday, I join Millicent in the kitchen to help her cook. The kitchen is a small hut behind the building with the classrooms. Someone wrote with chalk „office of the food“ on a wall. Next to the hut under a corrugated iron roof is a place for the fire. A hen hatches her eggs in one corner. 

While I am grounding pepper, we talk. Millicent‘s English is not the best, but mostly we understand each other. 

Millicent is 28 years old, sister of five brothers and has worked in the orphanage for eight months. She plans to get back to her real work in March. Sewing. All of her possessions got destroyed in a fire. She was told to come to her father for help but when she arrived he was dead. So she prayed for help and got the work in the orphanage. She says she loves the kids, but still she wants to build up her own shop again. Small small, little by little she works for it and she prays. Her aim is to go to Kumasi. It is hot there and busy. Busy busy, lots of work, not much talking like here in Cape Coast. She is also waiting for someone who offered help. This part is more difficult to understand. If she marries him he would help her, they would work together. But there is also someone in Takoradi who offered help and she said she would wait for him. So either Takoradi or Kumasi. Yes. But would it be an option to stay at the orphanage? Yes. Sometimes I‘m not sure whether she understands my question. 

Today the kids are having Banku and fish. I stir grounded cassava and water in a pot on the fire while Millicent cuts the fish. It is easy in the beginning but the batter gets thicker and thicker. We laugh because I can hardly stir so Millicent takes over. There is no question where she got her muscles from. How do you know when the Banku is ready? - One hour. - There is no watch.  

Church

Sunday morning, Melanie, Ilse and I want to go to a church. A little boy shows us the way to an English Church. We enter a low building and are welcomed by a man who tells us where to sit. Plastic chairs put up in rows face a board in the front part of the room. It is time for bible study and the topic is Divorce and Re-marriage. A woman leads the discussion with the six present parishioners about the causes and effects of divorce. They talk about money, expectations, cooking skills and interfering in-laws. After some time more people come and the service starts. Four young men in bright shirts attend to the music, improvising on a keyboard and drums, a woman begins to sing. The congregation get up, sing and dance, clapping in their hands. Occasionally the singing changes to praying before shifting back to a song again, always accompanied by the music. During one song, everyone starts walking around the chairs to a box in the front and donates some money. When everyone is seated again, one man begins a speech about the responsibility parents have towards their children, emphasising points with Hallelujah and Amen. I don‘t really understand what he is saying. In the back of the room, children have their own service and from next door we hear the singing of a second community. However, everyone seems to listen closely and from time to time shows his or her approval shouting Yes, Hallelujah or Amen. The speaker walks along the aisle between the rows of chairs while telling stories to show that parents should be a good example for their children. Now and then, he asks one of the attendees to read from the bible. When he has finished, another man among the listeners is asked to start the prayer. The music starts again, the listeners stand up and join a loud murmur of prayer, lead by the first man who prays with his arms raised, shouting with fervour, clapping his hands. The praying becomes singing and then praying again. Someone brings the box and a second round of donation starts. Finally, the rising and fading murmur stops. Another man takes the microphone and formally welcomes us, the three white guests, in this community. Then we are accompanied outside and, after three hours, the service is over. 

Beach and football

Saturday, time for beach. Melanie, Ilse, a newly arrived volunteer, and I take a taxi to Coconut Grove in Elmina, a little town twenty minutes from Cape Coast. Coconut Grove is a hotel with a pool but you can also swim in the sea there. Some volunteers are already lying at the pool when we arrive. The bungalows are surrounded by high palm trees rustling in the wind. The cloudy sky doesn‘t promise beach weather, but we still want to refresh ourselves so we choose a nice spot on the deserted beach to spread out our towels. Some locals pass by, barely acknowledging our presence. To them it is incomprehensible why we spend time lying in the sun voluntarily. Two men, guests of the hotel, take pictures of themselves, proudly posing with their beer bellies in front of the waves. I decide to go for a walk as I want to find out where these locals are going. A short distance along the beach, I soon leave the hotel‘s grounds and climb up a little slope. Men are unloading a truck further down the beach and in the distance I see people swimming in the ocean. I am surprised because locals swimming for fun are rather rare in Cape Coast. On top of the hill, where the sand and the cliffs end, there is bush and it is burning. An old woman comes along the path and I point the fire out to her. She doesn‘t speak English but she is not impressed by the fire so I  assume it is a controlled burning. Nevertheless I wait for three passing kids and ask them as well before my mind is put at rest. On my way back to Melanie and Ilse, I meet a guy from the hotel. He says the people I saw swimming are a football team that is going to play in Cape Coast the next day. The news are spread among the volunteers and the next day we meet at the stadium again. We enter, buy tickets for one cedi and settle down on the stand. The stadium is almost empty. Apparently, Ghanaians are not as passionate about local matches as they are about international football. Without any cheering, the players run onto the field and the match begins. My mind wanders off. Behind the stadium, we can see a lake and it looks as if there are people walking in it. Later, we learn from a spectator next to us, that these men are actually fishing. The lake must be very low. I watch kids jumping up and down the stairs of the tribune, entering the field and playing next to the goal. Nobody seems to be bothered. Then the match is over. Who won? The green team, 2:0. I missed both goals. 

Obroni

I am not Siliminga here. Now it is Obroni and there are lots of us. We are followed by shouts of Obroni! everywhere. The children on the streets are used to us and more straightforward. It often goes like this: ,Obroni, what is your name? Please, give me money. Give me fifty pesewas.‘ They are not shy at all. They just run towards you, take your hand, pull your arms, even hug you or sit on your lap. It is hard to make them go. Some are cute but often I think that they exactly know what to do to get what they want. They smile, ask for my name, age and where I come from and then want me to buy them something. 

Adults call us Obroni like the children. They can be very persistent when they ask for your number. I walk along a street and meet some boys coming back from school. One approaches me. ,What is your name? Can I have your number so that we can do some research together?‘ - No. - ,But then how can I contact you?‘ I sit in a taxi. The taxi driver asks me: Obroni, what is your name? - My name is Lisa. - Lisa, I want to marry you. I love you so much.

Exceptions are very refreshing. I sit in a taxi and the driver starts a conversation. Surprisingly, he asks, what I do. He is impressed when I explain that I am not paid but actually pay to work in Ghana. He thanks me - ,God bless you.‘ - and we talk more, about streets and driving in Ghana and Germany, about the economic situations. Some days later, I meet him again. I am glad to see him and even remember his name, Frank, what surprises him. He brings me to the orphanage again and we continue our conversation. To declare our friendship, he charges me less.

It is said that Ghana is one of Africa‘s friendliest countries. Sometimes I feel that Ghanaians are friendly to us Obronis because they see an opportunity in us, to get whatever. Especially where people are beginning to establish tourism every Obroni appears to be seen as a walking cash machine. We are always charged more than Ghanaians. Then again I meet genuinely nice persons who welcome me friendly and help if needed just like that. Pity that I don‘t know better until afterwards. 

First week at the orphanage

On Monday, Eric picks me up at 2 pm to show me the way to the orphanage „New Life“ where I am going to work for the next two months. After a fifteen minutes drive with the taxi we arrive. I am introduced to my supervisor, James, who doesn‘t seem to be very interested. He hands me over to two little boys, Anthony and Nelson, coming back from school to show me around. The orphanage is a one-storey building with three dormitories for boys and three for girls, a dining room with a little kitchen that is not used, a room serving as library, play room and room for the volunteers and one washroom. It hosts children aged from maybe three to eighteen. Next to the orphanage is a private school for younger children, some hundred meters further away a government school. I learn that in private schools, fees have to be paid and the teachers are not qualified. In government schools, there are no school fees, the teachers are qualified and get paid more but they are lazy. Sometimes they strike and on Fridays they don‘t like to work. Now school has finished, time for lunch. Millicent, the cook, scoops bean stew from a big pot, one girl adds some corn, another a trickle of sauce. I help distributing the mostly broken plastic plates to the children. After lunch, the kids play but they don‘t need much help with that. At 5 pm, the other volunteer says we should go. It is hard to find a taxi later. The kids are alone now, except from Millicent, who is cooking in a little hut behind the classrooms, the kitchen.

The next two days, I go to work early and help Jolanda from Holland with her class, seven students in primary 4. It is difficult. Kids walk into the classrooms, even teachers, without any explanation or excuse. There is no door to shut out noise from other classes. But we get along. Mathematics and Integrated science are good subjects for us. We have more difficulties teaching Religious and Moral Education or Fantse, the local language. Sometimes we don‘t get the attention of the students. In the classroom next to ours, I hear the teacher slap the kids. They sit quietly at their tables. 

One morning, I hear singing and clapping when I arrive at the school. All the children of the primary school are in one classroom, some are dancing. Led by teachers, they sing, then pray, and sing again. Subject: Worship. They learn a new song and after a final prayer everyone goes to back to his or her classroom.

In the afternoons, more volunteers arrive to play with the children. I don‘t really know what to do as the kids keep themselves busy well enough, so I help washing the dishes in two basins behind the orphanage. The plates have the colour of the food.   

Home

I live in Abura, a five-minutes taxi drive away from the central market area depending on the traffic. The house is a two-storey building with a balcony and a big courtyard. In this courtyard is a second building where another family lives. We only stay in the upper part of the house. I am not sure about all the persons who live downstairs. One of them is Florence with her daughter Angel and there are also two younger girls. My host mum is Agnes, who lives here with Ruth and Sofia, her grown-up daughters. Sofia has a two-weeks old daughter. Then there are many people coming and going regularly, for example an old lady and a brother of Florence and Isabella, another daughter of Agnes who studies at Cape Coast University. Kofi, an 18 years old boy is usually around the house as well, ready for orders like doing some shopping or whatever there is to do. I am not sure whether he is a relative. Agnes watches TV mostly or sits on the balcony. We volunteers have two rooms with two beds each, a table and a busy fan and a washroom with a real shower. Only from time to time there is no water. The balcony is a nice place to sit as you can see down the street and into the courtyards of the neighbouring huts where the families cook and wash and you are likely to catch a breeze there. A few houses to our left is a school. In the mornings I hear the children drumming on their tables and chanting. The evenings are long as it gets dark very early and there is little light on the streets. However, the day starts early enough to be tired by then. The first thing I hear in the mornings are various cocks and people get up at around half past five. Weekdays and weekends. When I walk down the street to the house or from the house, there are always children shouting Obroni!, running towards me, accompanying me a few metres, occasionally asking for some pesewas or a pen. Next to the gate of the house is the stall of a woman selling credit  for mobile phones and biscuits and another one selling plantain. They always greet and ask where I am going so now and then we have a little chat.  

First weekend in Cape Coast

Anwen goes to Accra to meet her parents who are coming to Ghana for one week, Melanie travels to the Wli Falls in the Volta Region. I am not ready for a trip like this yet, so I meet other volunteers to go to Cape Coast Castle and surprisingly I manage to get a taxi and find the right place. Standing in front of the castle, we see flags behind some huts to our left and decide to walk along the castle‘s wall to get there. We pass men working on fishing nets and then we reach a strip of beach, crammed with boats. Men and boys are pulling boats out of the water and up some stairs. There are fishing nets everywhere. Among all the flags, one bright American flag sticks out. We just stand there and watch. 

After a while, we notice a big door labelled „Door of return“ and we enter. A sign welcomes us, „Akwaaba“. We turn around and see the other side of the door: „Door of no return“. We just entered the castle through the back door. Here is the old dungeon for the female slaves, another one for men next to it. Old cannons are pointing towards the sea. I imagine how boats full of slaves once arrived where now the fishermen are working. 

In one courtyard we find a number of artisan stalls, waiting for tourists. They sell necklaces, drums, knives, bags, masks, small and big wooden figures and lots more. I am tired, but I decide to come back another day and enter the castle through the front door. 

On Sunday we meet at the market. It is busy. People shout and pull my arm to get my attention. Too many taxis try to wind their way past the stalls through the crowd. We look at some fabric and negotiate over the price. This is a skill to be learned. A Trotro brings us out of town to a beach. Here, it is quiet except for the wind and the waves. It is only us, the sand and the sea. Further away we see palm trees. Some boys are digging holes in the sand. Later we find out that they are catching crabs. The water is great. The sun is great. I will regret the lack of shade the same evening.

In the afternoon we meet again to see a football match in the Cape Coast stadium. Someone saw signs on the road about a match Cape Coast vs Accra. When we arrive at the stadium, we are surprised. The stands are empty, the field is empty. There is no match. We wait for a while, but nothing changes. Well, another time.

Cape Coast

I get up early again as I don‘t want to miss anything. After some calls, I can arrange for someone to bring my bag and as soon as it arrives, I am on my way to Cape Coast. Paul, a Projects Abroad staff, accompanies me. A taxi brings us to a bus station where we get into a Trotro and wait for it to fill with passengers and leave. Traffic is bad. There are so many cars. It takes us a long time until we are out of the town. The landscape here is much more green than in the North. We pass ponds and now and then I see the ocean. After about three hours we arrive in Cape Coast. We take a taxi again but I don‘t know where we are heading. On our way we meet Eric and Paul leaves. Eric brings me to a house where I leave my luggage. It is only later that I understand that this is where I am going to stay for the next four months. I am on the road again, the induction starts. Eric explains how to take a taxi, how much to pay and where the important places are. I try to follow and remember. We stop at stalls, have a chat here and there. Eric seems to know every second person we pass. The market is busy, I smell exotic spices and see colourful fabric. „Walk close to the gutter, but don‘t fall into the gutter.“ No, I don‘t want to end up down there. But I don‘t want to be knocked out by taxis either. Then we see Cape Coast Castle and have lunch at a place nearby with a great view on the sea. 

Back „home“ I meet the other volunteers who are staying at Agnes‘ house, Melanie and Anwen. Together we go out to meet more volunteers and have dinner. Almost everyone orders pizza. 

Tamale to Accra

Thursday, February 7. It is time to leave Tamale for Accra. I have to go to the office of Projects Abroad who will take me to Cape Coast for volunteering. I have a plane ticket and directions for a taxi to the office. At 4.30 am I get up to pack my last things. Abdul Manan and Ibrahim are already working on the car. At 5.45 am I say goodbye to the doctor, Fadila and Baba. The rest is still sleeping. Sakina accompanies me to the airport with Manan and Ibrahim. We don‘t talk during the ride. At the airport, she takes my hand and waits with me for check-in. I am lucky, they don‘t charge me for my heavy luggage. Sakina seems to fight with tears so I want to make the farewell short. One last goodbye to the boys and her, than I pass the security checks. The plane is supposed to leave at 7.30 am, but I can‘t see any plane. Officers come and go. A plane arrives. Then we are told there is a minor technical problem. The flight will be delayed for one or two hours. Antrak Air offers free sandwiches or omelettes as an apology. I am not hungry. A very talkative woman from the US tells her fellow passengers about her work. She sells baskets woven by Ghanaian women. The clock is ticking. I get hungry and decide to take the Antrak Air breakfast. At 12 am I ask one of the smiling officers for new information. I have to pick up a bag at the airport in Accra before I can join Projects Abroad and go to Cape Coast. I am getting nervous. They are waiting for an engineer. When he arrives, he can tell me more, but until 1 pm we should be ready to leave. The passengers get restless, some buy a second ticket with a different airline. The clock is ticking. I am glad that there are two fans in the room. We can see our aircraft standing outside but there is no one working on it. More passengers arrive. One is a lady I met at a meeting in the hospital. She recognises me and when she notices that I am on the edge of desperation, she talks to some officers. They are arranging flights for us. We are leaving any moment now. At 2 pm officers start running out to the field and back to the room again and pilots arrive. Some passengers gather around them and I see a list of names in one of the officers‘ hands but I have no idea what is going on. A CityLink plane arrives and the newly arrived passengers and those with a second ticket board the plane and leave. Some time later, a few names are called. The lucky passengers are lead to a small aircraft and leave. They are the ones who talked to the pilots and officers. The pilots, however, stay with the rest of the passengers and wait. At 3 pm the American basket seller makes one of the officers talk. Antrak Air is talking to the Air Force to take us to Accra. We should leave at 4 pm. Happy faces. I see how our luggage is taken to a military plane. We wait. At 5 pm, even the American woman looks tired. One of the officers sees my face and offers me something to eat. He says he is sorry. The Air Force is waiting for some „honourable men“ and then we will all leave together. I imagine them having dinner, chatting and laughing. The American woman demands food. We get three sandwiches to share. At 6 pm, our departure is announced. We board the small, hot aircraft and can‘t wait to take off. The American woman gives me a block of word-find to play. She says they will help me to find the office. One and a half hours later, we land in Accra. A bus takes us from the airstrip of the Air Force to the main airport. There is nobody with my bag. One of the passengers is going in the same direction as me so we take a taxi together. I give her the information I have and hope that I‘ll arrive at the right place. We drive through the dark streets and suddenly the taxi driver stops in front of a blue gate. We knock and it really is the right place. I am led to a room with beds and left alone. After a while I ask a woman who walks past the door what is happening next. Someone will bring me to Cape Coast the next morning, she says. I still don‘t have my bag, but I am tired. I turn on the fan and go to sleep.   

Last days in Tamale

Three days are left. We have plans to see some traditional dancing, but somehow it never works out. I don‘t really mind as I enjoy the quiet afternoons and evenings at the house. We walk down the red dusty road and through the houses to buy beans or ground flour, we cook and play. I sit in the pavilion, people are coming and going. „Come and taste.“ The milk tastes different here. Normally, we use milk powder but now Fadila is heating some real milk on the fire. I don‘t understand what it is meant for. Then again „Come and have some.“ Sakina brings a bowl filled with the milk, little chunks of plantain and something else and a couple of spoons and puts it on the floor. „Squat. Squat.“ More and more join us as we gather around the bowl, everyone with a spoon in his or her hand and soon the bowl is empty. That‘s Africa. 

My last evening. We realise that I didn‘t see any dancing, so the girls decide to dance themselves. Of course I have to try as well. Lots of bottom shaking, clapping and laughing. It is more difficult than it looks. While I take some last pictures with the boys who are watching a football match, Itisan falls asleep. It is time to go to sleep.

Out of Tamale

I want to go to Mole National Park. As I can‘t go on my own, I take Fadila with me. On Friday morning, I go to the bus station with Abdul Manan, to get the tickets. There are no tickets left at the office, but we are lucky enough to meet a man who offers us two tickets for a higher price. At one o‘clock Fadila and I start our trip. ,Do you know where we have to go?‘ Well, actually I thought you could help me with that. It is Fadila's first time to travel. We are late and I fear to miss the bus, but when we reach the station the bus didn‘t even arrive yet. So we settle down to wait. There are chairs under a roof where passengers are waiting, boys and girls sell food, water, watches and handkerchiefs. Suddenly I am surrounded by shouting men. Two guys ask why the officer sold me ticket and not them. I have never seen this officer before. They shout some more, other passengers join the shouting. I just wait until they continue their fight further away. At four o‘clock, the bus arrives and we take our seats. The ride takes about five hours, more and more people enter the bus the further we get and the road gets worse and worse. At each stop, we can buy food and water through the windows from girls at the street. To enter Mole National Park, the bus has to pass a gate. An officer enters the bus, picks me and I have to pay an entrance fee. When we arrive at the final stop, we are tired. The bus conductor leads us to Mole Motel where we can take a room. We find something to eat and are happy although it is overpriced. While we are eating a guy comes and speaks to us. It is the usual „What is your name - Where are you from - Oh, I am looking for a German girl to marry“. Unfortunately, Fadila has lost her usual confidence and outspokenness. 

The next morning, we actually see where we are. The motel is situated on a hill, overlooking an immense area of bush. It is beautiful. And we are going to walk straight through this landscape in our walking safari. We and five other tourists are guided through the little paths, over salt lakes and across little streams. We see and sometimes do not see monkeys, antelopes, some wild pigs, soldier ants and birds. We learn their scientific names and forget them instantly. We pass ponds and climb hills where we have an amazing view. And then we meet Mr Elephant. He stands about twenty meters away from us, feeding on a tree. He is big but friendly. He even changes direction when our guide asks him to. Pictures are taken, then we leave him alone. One last hill is to be climbed and we are back at the Motel again. 

Fadila is tired, rests on her bed and watches TV but I want to be outside. The view is amazing. I can see an elephant and big birds floating across the sky. Some monkeys are sitting in a tree next to the Motel‘s rooms and on the walls.

When we check out, the receptionist organises someone to take us to Larabanga before we even understand what is going on. They bring us to a guesthouse and I am almost in a bad mood because of course we are charged although we didn‘t ask for this service. The guesthouse consists of five round huts with beds inside, a little distance from the village. Fadila is disappointed after the luxury of the motel but I understand that this is the only guesthouse in Larabanga. Besides, I am eager to take every experience I can get. We want to see the mosque, but it is too hot. So we just wait under a tree. I talk to the owner of the guesthouse and am surprised as this conversation is not the usual - You are from Germany? Wow, take me there. I enjoy this place while Fadila is thinking about biscuits. After a while, someone takes her on a motorbike to buy some. 

When the sun comes down, we walk along the street towards the village. There we find a girl who walks with us to the mosque and afterwards to the mystic stone. The mosque, it is said, was created by God Himself. It just appeared over night. It looks small but inside, it is bigger. It expands. Unfortunately we can‘t enter as it is not prayer time. As for the stone, it is mystic because it cannot be moved. Once, a road was to be build and they removed the stone to make room for the road. The next morning, the stone was back again. The community now surrounded it with a wall. An old man is guarding it, asking for donation if you want to take pictures. We are walking through the village when we see the owner of the guesthouse sitting at the street, surrounded by children. He is working on a laptop, trying to install something with the help of a friend who is talking to him on Skype. It is prayer time, so I take over while the landlord fulfils his duty. It feels strange, following instructions from someone I don‘t know to do something that I don‘t understand. The connection is not very good. When there is no light left except for the screen itself, the landlord takes Fadila and me back to the guesthouse. There we sit next to a fire, get food and chat with some boys who belong to the guesthouse. One of them we met in Mole, but of course I forgot his name. They always remember mine. I think I have to be more careful as I often meet people twice. And when the usual questioning starts, I am often not as friendly as I maybe should be. But how can I know who to block of and who not?

It is too hot to sleep in the mud huts. Someone brings us a mattress and we just lie down under the starry sky. It is a short night anyway. At 3.30 am we get up, scratch our bags together and go to wait beside the road. After a surprisingly short while, lights appear on the road. We wave with a torchlight and the bus stops. I am tired but I enjoy the ride and watch the sky light up and the landscape with its little villages we pass. I see bush burning, women pumping water at a well, groups of girls carrying goods on their heads. 

When we arrive at the bus station in Tamale, Fadila and I decide to take a walk across the market. We are tired of sitting and Fadila is not eager to go home where she expects to pound Fufu. It is Sunday morning and most stalls are empty. The paths are narrow and dark, everywhere is litter, sometimes we cross smelly streams of who-knows-what. The air tastes old. This is where the meat is sold. It lays on the wooden table and boys cut it with machetes. Two women on a motorbike wind their way through the paths. I get lost in this labyrinth. Then I am on the street and in the sun again. The pavement is crowded by women, selling vegetables and fish, just an arm length from the cars. Pedestrians walk half on the street, half on the pavement. Around the corners, jeans are sold and sports shoes, lined up on the kerb. It is busier here. We take a taxi but before we reach the house, Fadila stops the driver. We get off and I see Sakina who is building a store in this street. Baba is there, Ibrahim, Robert and some other men I haven‘t seen before. I guess they use their free sunday to help building but right now nobody is working. They are chatting and I can‘t even tell what they were working at before we came. Ibrahim takes us home where we are welcomed by Itisan‘s hugs. 

I am looking forward to a quiet Sunday afternoon, but when the doctor sees me he asks when I am going to Paga to see the crocodiles. He doesn‘t want us to go the next day as Fadila would miss school so we should go right now. There is no room for protest. We pack our things and head of to the bus station again, this time with Leticia. 

The road to Bolga is a good road and the Trotro is supposed to take only two hours but the ride seems endless to me. The landscape is interesting, though. We cross a river, an arm of the Volta river and see some hills, almost mountains compared to the otherwise flat land. The further we get, the more donkeys we see. They graze next to the road and pull lorries. We arrive at Bolga and look for a taxi to bring us to Paga. The prize they charge makes Fadila cross her arms, lean against a car and put on a hurt face. I am annoyed. Maybe this is her way of bargaining but I want to get on. This won‘t bring us anywhere. Finally we sit in the car and drive another hour from Bolga to Paga. Our driver is more interested in his teeth than in the other cars on the road. The rearview mirror is broken from the windscreen and is now used as a hand mirror. When we reach the crocodile pond, the reason for our visit, the taxi driver directly hands us over to a smiling man who is in charge of a ,museum“ opposite to the pond. He shows us some huts  gathered around a compound and talks about how this is all made by his ancestors. I doubt the authenticity of these artefacts, but don‘t want to be impolite and nod a lot. We are led in a room with dusty masks and handcrafts where we are supposed to buy purses or necklaces, made by the man and his family of course. Then we are asked how much we want to donate to the community. What community? I want to ask. He explains that he can‘t charge us as we are all his daughters but we should still pay something. He is obviously disappointed by our donation but I am not willing to play the happy dumb tourist for him. We are shown to the crocodile pond where some boys are already waiting, eager to collect the entrance fee, camera fee and the cost for the crocodiles‘ food. With the chicken the boys call the biggest crocodile out of the water. When it is calmly crouching at the edge of the water, the boys direct each of us, one after another in three different positions. I imagine how each tourist shows exactly the same picture to his friends to prove the (staged) encounter with the crocodile. One of the boys has a horse and Leticia and Fadila are as fascinated by the horse as by the crocodile. The same procedure begins. We are heaved onto the horse, a picture is taken, new position, picture... Afterwards, we are charged for the „use of the horse“. The hen is given to one of the smaller crocodiles and then the show is over. All the way through, the taxi driver has followed us, asking whether we are enjoying ourselves. He wants to wait for us because we might not find a different taxi for our way back to Bolga. That is actually all I want to do. Go back. We are not the only ones with this aim. On our way back the three of us are crammed in the taxi with three other passengers and a baby. We stop at a gas station and wait for a long while but the driver offers no explanation. The music is way too loud so I ask the driver to turn the volume down. When we alight I am in a very bad mood. For the service the driver offered us apart from the transportation, he says he can‘t charge us, as we are all brothers and sisters. We should give him as much as we think appropriate. I don‘t say what I think would be appropriate to say but I cut the prize down as much as I can. It definitely makes me feel better. Before we look for a Trotro back to Tamale, we want to visit one of Leticia‘s sisters, Fanny, in her school. It is too late for visitors, but we are allowed to see the house mistress. On our way to her office, we pass the dormitory and meet Fanny herself - by pure chance. It is dark by now and as we have to get back, we don‘t stay long. The taxi we take from the school to the bus station brings us to the wrong station and it takes some discussion to make him bring us to the right place. Finally we get into a Trotro. Suddenly, people are scrambling out of the car again, into a second one. „Get out, get out!“ I try, but as a woman is climbing over me, I can‘t move. We somehow manage to get into the second car as well which soon leaves. I don‘t understand what happened. I am just glad we are heading back. The time passes very slowly. My back hurts, every bump makes my head or arm hit something. Most windows are open and wind rushes in. I try to cover my head but the wind is everywhere. We didn‘t eat anything during the day so Fadila buys some fish at a stop. I hear the crunching behind me, the voices of the passengers seem louder than usual. After I don‘t know how long, we alight. I can‘t stop smiling when I see that Ibrahim and Baba are waiting at a junction to take us to the house. I go straight to bed.  

EPA

One morning, I am sent to the office of EPA. I don‘t know what I am doing there, but the director is shocked when he hears that since I arrived in Ghana, I haven‘t been out of Tamale. He instantly calls a staff member, Emmanuel, who gives me a helmet and tells me to take a seat on his motorbike. We soon leave the town behind us and drive through the landscape that I saw from above. EPA stands for Environmental Protection Agency. They work on a project called GEMP, Ghana Environmental Management Project. Emmanuel takes me to a village north of Tamale where they implemented the project. The community consists of a number of round huts with thatched roofs not far from a pond. I see one of the plant nurseries. A thousand seedlings, waiting in the sun to be planted in order to fight deforestation. I meet a desk officer who supervises the region and he tells me about the difficulties of his work and their progress. Then I visit a second community south of Tamale. We follow the road back, pass through the city and are back in nature again. It is now midday, prayer time. The village is quiet because everyone is in the mosque, so we wait. A woman sends her child to bring us some water. In this community the seedlings are yet to be started. Emmanuel chats with the man who takes care of this nursery for a while. The conversation consists of a lot of Mmmhs and pauses, I don‘t understand what they are saying as they are talking Dagbani. We visit the nursery, climb a little hill to see a pond and move on. The roads are bad. Sometimes I have to get down because the motorbike doesn‘t make it through all the sand. I imagine how the roads look in the rainy season. 

One and a half weeks I stay with EPA. Every morning Abdul Manan brings me there either on foot or on motor bike. It is just a short walk. The agency didn‘t get any money yet so they can‘t go out to visit communities. Much time we spend in the office, talking about marriage, gossiping, Valentine‘s Day and the likes. Sometimes we go and visit schools to give presentations about environmental issues. The first I hear is about bush fires. People burn the bush for hunting or to kill snakes and thus destroy the soil. EPA tries to arise awareness of the importance of a healthy environment and encourages the students to form environmental clubs. There is a lot to do but the difficulties are obvious.

More hospital

I join the doctor for his work in the clinic. We are sitting in a small room and patients come to be examined. The room is very crowded, there is almost no space for an old man to walk with his stick. But this is a teaching hospital. The doctor observes his young colleagues and gives them patients to examine while handling his own. Most patients do not come alone. They are accompanied by relatives who help them walk or translate. However, most patients don‘t talk much, they don‘t show their pain. They are not always talking in English, but as far as I understand, they are not complaining. Not even when they are told to go to a different hospital, a different town. They are sent away because the hospital in Tamale does not have the necessary equipment to treat them. But they accept. Many patients go to the traditional healers first. Maybe the hospital is far away or maybe they don‘t have clothes to dress up for their visit at the hospital. They only come to the hospital if the situation deteriorates. And there the doctor has to tell them to go even further, to the next town.

I talk to a nurse and he tells me they have to improvise a lot when treating patients due to the lack of equipment. He says it is stressful to work in the hospital because they don‘t have enough staff. When I visit the maternity ward and watch an operation, four persons are working on the patient. The anaesthetist, two doctors and a nurse. Ten additional nurses are watching.

The next day, the doctor comes to the theatre. He has five cases to do and the first should start at nine. It doesn‘t start until after ten. Nobody knows with what to begin or seems to care to get the place running. The anaesthetist won‘t come because the place has got no water. Then the power is shut down.

The nurses prepare a patient for an amputation, when we hear that an emergency is coming in. However, this information doesn‘t lead to any perceptible hurry. They stop working on their patient and sit down. Only when the bleeding woman is actually pushed into the room they work faster. One doctor impatiently asks for blood. There has been a car accident. The right leg is ripped open, I can see the muscles lying bare. The doctors and nurses get their mobiles out, make pictures and begin to talk about driving. ,The advantage of driving schools is that you learn about the signs.‘

Language problems

After dinner I join the girls and we talk. They talk. I don‘t understand Dagbani except for the basic greetings. I am laughing because I don‘t understand anything but only see their gestures. They look at me rather irritated. They were talking about graves and ways of burying the dead.

School

In the mornings I see girls and boys in their uniforms on their way to school, walking along the street, riding bicycles or motorbikes. Leticia shows me her school pass which contains the rules of the school. They include the following: It is not allowed to bleach your skin or colour your fingernails. It is not allowed for boarders to let their rooms. It is not allowed to write anonymous letters with false information. Punishments, listed below every rule, are ground work, suspension and dismissal.

I join Fadila and Baba to go to school. On the compound are some low buildings, painted in blue. On one something written: Today the illiterate is not one who cannot read or write but one who cannot use the computer to his/her advantage. It is the computer lab.

Someone brings a chair and I am told to sit. While I am waiting, a man calls every student who arrives late to a room where they are slapped with a branch. Only very few are lucky enough not to be seen and escape. I hear the slaps, but almost no sound from the students. Irritatingly, most of them laugh when they come out of this room and run to their classrooms.

After one hour I am shown to the headmaster. His office is in a small house consisting of two rooms. In the first room a woman and two men are sitting at a table. The second room is even smaller and crammed with all sorts of stuff. Here I find the headmaster. He asks me what I am doing in Tamale, why I want to visit his school. I understand he doesn‘t allow me to sit in one of the classes with Fadila and Baba. He says the school is an institution, there is strong competition and he doesn‘t want any foreigners to see how he is leading his school. I am surprised. I am not planning to give away his secrets and I don‘t mean any harm in listening to one of his teachers. 

So I wait. In the break Fadila takes me to some stalls further down the road where she buys something to eat. Then Abdul Manan comes to bring me home. I don‘t know whether he knew that I can‘t visit the classes or whether Sakina just decided that I should rest.

Customs

There are about twelve persons living in this house. They all belong to one family - somehow. Some of them I see only now and then, when they come to collect food, mostly at dinner time. The food is prepared by the girls - Fadila, Leticia, Rakyia and Itisan. I ask what the boys do: ,They are not doing anything.‘ One of the boys waters the flowers every day, Baba. He still goes to school. I am not sure what the rest work. Abdul Manan and Ibrahim drive the car and clean it. 

It is easy to see where everybody‘s position is. The boys open the door of the car for the doctor and carry his bag. Everybody bows or bends down when they greet him. Sakina, the mother shouts for the boys and the girls. The boys shout for the girls. According to their customs they are not allowed to take food out of a pot so they shout for the girls to serve them. The girls shout for Itisan. She is the youngest and has to run for everybody else. No matter what she is currently doing or whether she is sick. When other children come, they have to run, too. Fetch water or buy beans. They do it without protest. 

I am the guest. I am told to sit and rest. Wherever I go someone brings something for me to sit down. When I offer my help, I get irritated looks. At least I am allowed to peel and cut yam now. However, when it comes to pounding the yam for Fufu, they say I am tired. I should sit. I get tired of sitting and want to go for a walk. The first time, they send Itisan to accompany me. I am taken for a walk. The second time I start on my own but it doesn‘t take long until they come to bring me back to the house. 

Protest, answering back, ,no‘ is not accepted. If you try to refuse an offer, they don‘t understand it or seem offended. So better take what you get. You might appear to behave very rude if you don‘t.

Take me to Germany

While I am sitting in the pavilion, the girls come back from school. They bring some friends who fetch water and wash their clothes. One of them tells me she is an orphan living in the school and the water pipes there are blocked. She says she likes my sandals, my shirt, the colour of my skin, my hair. All students have to cut their hair. That‘s the law. She asks about fish-net stockings, what we apply on our skin, about candies and boyfriends. To leave Ghana and come to Europe seems to be the ultimate dream. When I walk through the streets, people ask me where I come from. When they hear I am from Germany, men propose to me. ,You are beautiful. Marry me.‘ or ,I am looking for a German woman to marry.‘ I wonder what they would do if I said yes. 

I am waiting with Baba next to some women selling oranges. One gives me her baby to hold. After a while she says: „Take her with you to your country.“ They really think I can do that. It is difficult to explain that Germany is not Paradise.