An ordinary Monday

Kwamina wants us to conduct an interview with the Regional Director of Trade and Industry for our front page story. We are one hour late, but the minister is not there anyway. We wait for maybe another hour and then leave for an NPP event. It is about a football stadium that is to be constructed. The NDC, the leading party, claims that the former government with the NPP did not have a contract to build the stadium. That is why they can’t continue with it. Something like this. It is about money, about fighting the opposition, about politics. At this event, the NPP verifies that there is a contract. We only hear the last five minutes, though, because we are late. Kwamina disappears for an interview with somebody, to get a copy of the speech that was given and returns with a copy of the contract and a man who we take with us in the car. The next event we are visiting to report on is the inauguration of a Unit Committee in a rural district. They are talking in Fantse, but  nevertheless I listen to the speech. As some English words are used, I can somehow guess what they are talking about. I also take a lot of pictures. It still feels a little bit strange to walk up in front of the row of chiefs while they are listening to the speech, holding the camera to their faces to take the portraits Kwamina wants. I feel like I should ask for their permission, say something, nod and smile at them. But I am press now. The men are dressed in layers of cloth, somehow casually draped around them. They wear big rings, watches and golden bracelets. It looks out of place when one of the chiefs receives a call on his mobile phone. The unit committee members form a line in front of the stage and are officially sworn in. I wonder how many of them really understand, what they are reading from a paper or whether they are just repeating what the former member reads out to them. Hands are shaken, then the chief comes with his entourage for a second round. A libation is poured by a priest and the chief himself gives a short speech. The event is over when the crowd disperses and we set off in the car. Kwamina wants to do an interview with somebody, but this person is busy. Felix and I are told to wait in the car and take bananas and groundnuts for lunch. A good lunch, although I wonder who came up with this combination. When Kwamina returns, he obviously got what he wanted and brings us home. 

I have to write a report of this inauguration, but keep it for later in the evening. Instead, I sit on the balcony with my host family and the little girl. A rather rare moment. Sofia ties the baby to my back. I move only slowly as I am not used to it and am a little bit afraid of dropping her but it feels nice. I wonder why we don’t carry our babies like that. It is very practical. 

New look

I have a date with Cathrine, a Ghanaian friend, today. She is bringing me to a hairdresser. At first, we go to the market, to buy hair. Black hair. I just let Cathrine talk as I trust she knows what is best among all this hair. Then I follow her away from town, through some streets that I don’t know. Maybe I have passed here in the car, with Kwamina, but I am not sure. 

We make our way across a few backyards and behind some cloth hanging on a line, we find the place we wanted to go. Cathrine asks a small girl to go and get Sister Anita and we we wait on the small couch in the hair salon. It is a tiny room with all kind of things hairdressers use and posters with different hairstyles. Sister Anita comes and Cathrine tells her what style to do for me. I don’t understand but again I trust them to know what will fit me. Anita takes my new black hair and lets it run through her fingers to make it straight. I am told to sit down on a low stool and then she starts. Standing in front of me, she ties a strand of black hair to my own and braids it. Cathrine holds back the rest of my hair, standing in my back. The first black braid comes down in front of my eyes and braid by braid the curtain becomes thicker and thicker. Some parts on my head are more painful, some less. Anita is careful with me but gradually, talking to Cathrine and another woman, she falls into her normal rhythm and pulls harder. She is fast, but it still takes time and the sitting itself, crouched and bended, becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Through the curtain of braids I watch two small boys playing and then eating and listen to the women talking in Fantse. Cathrine holds my head, and I am glad she is there. After about two hours, the last braid is finished. I can stand up and stretch my legs. I don’t see much through the hair hanging in my face and do not look into the mirror. Then I am told to sit down again and Anita takes all the braids and ties them back into one ponytail. It feels funny when I wrinkle my brow now, as if I can’t look angry anymore. Finally, I look into the mirror. The braids are bigger than it felt and of course I am not used to black hair but it is really nice. It looks so different. The women like it, too and Cathrine calls me Charley, a Ghanaian. 

At that moment, the rain starts. We can’t go out now so we wait and I watch another woman get curls. A girl brings something to eat and she has an umbrella that we borrow from her to go back to town. The rain is really heavy now, but we find a taxi very quickly. A female passenger looks at me and seems to be impressed. “Your hair looks nice.” That is good to hear. Something different than we usually hear in taxis.    

A cold

I got a cold. Maybe I got it from the draughty Tros, maybe from cold nights with the fan turned on. I am glad I don’t have to work on Tuesday, either way, do some washing and decide to visit the kids at New Life. It is strange to have a cold when it is hot like this. 

At New Life, the kids are in school again. I listen to Sir Anthony in class two. They are having Fantse, though, so I can’t do anything and just watch. I am still surprised on how much difficulties they have with reading here. The way the teachers do their work is very different from what I know from home. The kids learn mostly by heart, without really understanding what they are learning. They can repeat, but not get it on their own. They read a text and can’t tell what they read afterwards. They learn combinations of letters to form words by heart, but can’t decipher words on their own. They know the time tables - but only when they chant it, not if you pick one out of row. They learn to pass exams, that is all. And to be honest, the teachers are not very energetic about their work.

After school, the kids have lunch and then do whatever they want. Small Anthony brings me a bed sheet to keep me warm - I said I have a cold - , but I am not the only one feeling sick. In the end, I sit on the stairs, Ruth on my right, Emmanuella on my left side. After a while, the small ones join us. No energy for bat ball today. 

Volta Region extended

No Togo, but I still want to make something out of this weekend. Felix won’t go to francophone Togo on his own, so he is fine traveling to the Volta Region again. A little bit disappointed, we leave the crossing behind and look for a Tro to Ho. The sun is setting now and makes the ride more interesting as it gets darker. Felix and I are sitting in the front again and I enjoy watching the landscape rushing past us. The road is worse here and we bump through a number of possible when suddenly a voice comes from behind. “Driver, you are overspeeding.” The driver pulls up at the roadside and turns around. “What is the meaning of that?” He is angry and tells the passenger to get out of the car. He even gets out himself, opens the sliding door at the side and wants to give the passenger his money back if he leaves his car. Other passengers try to calm the driver down and after a while, he gets back behind the wheel, muttering something in his breath. The critic stays - waiting at the roadside at this hour is not really an option. There is no change in speed, though and it gets more scary when we can’t see the potholes anymore. As soon as they appear in the circle of the headlights, it is too late to avoid them or slow down. We reach Ho nevertheless and here we face the next problem. In our guidebook, there are names of hotels but no addresses. Normally there are no street names anyway but some directions would be helpful. It is the first time to go to Ho for the driver, too, so he can’t help us even though he is very friendly to us. Felix and I just alight at a street corner and stop a taxi. The first hotel we arrive at is already full. They give us directions to a second one and luckily we find a car with helpful passengers who accompany us all the way to the reception. Dorllah guesthouse have a room for us and we decide to stay. I get some food at a stall on the roadside. Rice with a spicy sauce and mayonnaise. 

On Saturday, I need exercise. One day in cars was enough so we agree to go for a bit of hiking. At first, we need breakfast what turns out to be more difficult than expected. Ho is a sleepy town. At a time where other cities are already bustling, Ho is still quiet. Very few stalls are occupied, we have problems finding any food. The women selling pineapple and mango are missing. In the end, we are happy with the yam chips and pepper we find at the lorry station. I munch my unusual breakfast as we drive up a steep road, overlooking more and more of the green valleys between the green mountains. I like this region. Our taxi is heading to Amedzofe, a mountain village in the Avatime Hills “that offers breathtaking vistas, a waterfall, forests, cool climate and plenty of hiking opportunities” as my guide book promises. The village itself is small but it has a visitor centre where we meet a young guy. He shows us how to go to Mt Gemi, one of the highest mountains in the area with its 611m. It is only a short walk up to the iron cross and the view is amazing. Mountains covered in green dotted with a few small villages. We can see the Volta in the distance. Heading back along the small path, we meet an old man who welcomes us warmly. He tells us that the cross was put up by Germans and also a number of other buildings in this area. As we approach the village, we hear drumming and singing, but I don’t know where it is coming from exactly. Our next hike’s destination is a waterfall. This time, we take a guide with us, another young man we meet at the visitor centre. He fills us in about the village and its people. About the language they speak, for example. Most of the people here are farmers, planting all kinds of crops. The ground is definitely very fertile. The talking ceases as the path changes from a flat road to a steep track. A rope supports us as we slowly make our way down to the water. It is worth it. The waterfall is rather small and does not carry much water at the moment, but the place is beautiful. A quiet and peaceful hideaway that, according to our guide, was found by a hunter hundreds of years ago. I believe him. This place is not as impressive as the Wli Falls but much more magic. A perfect setting for a fairy-tale without evil characters. We can’t stay forever, though and start climbing up again, having taken the inevitable pictures. Clouds are gathering in the sky now. The guide explains how the weather is unpredictable here. Sun and blue sky one moment, heavy rain the next moment. We hope to get back before the rain starts. I don’t want to imagine a car trying to get down the road when rain is pouring down. There is no car for a very long time, anyway. We wait at the street where we have been told to wait and watch the clouds pass, eating small green and sweet bananas. Other people are waiting, with bags next to them. We hope for a Tro where everybody can fit in, but there is no car at all. A taxi passes but it is full. Another taxi passes but it doesn’t take any passengers, I don’t understand why. Felix and I start walking down the road when finally a Trotro comes. We get in before it enters the village which is good. As soon as the door opens, the waiting people try to squeeze in, leaving their luggage behind. They then direct boys outside to pack it in the back from inside the car. It is difficult to count but we are about twenty people in the car plus the driver. Record for me, I think. 

In the afternoon, we stroll through Ho. I saw a place where we could maybe find something to eat when we came back with the Tro, but it takes a while until we find it. Ho has long, wide streets with pavements and it is a surprisingly clean town, but it is not very exciting. There are people around and now more stalls are open and women are selling fruit, but it is not very busy. A map would help but of course we don’t have any. Wandering through the streets in circles for while, we find the spot again and indeed they serve food here. Rice and chicken. At least it is a nice place to sit down. Music is coming from a neighbouring Senior High School. Some kids are interested in us. They have a different name for us than Obroni but I don’t understand it. Due to our wandering we even find our way back to the hotel on our own without taxis. Ho is friendly enough. A good place to stay to explore the surroundings. 

Sunday morning, we are heading down from the mountains to Akosombo at Lake Volta. At the lorry station we are directed to a Trotro, but it can take only one more person. No over-packing here, it seems. We have to take the next one and I see us waiting there for ages until the car is full, but the driver sets off without waiting for anybody else. Apparently, there can only be one Tro for one place at the station so we start picking up passengers from the roadside. It is stop and go, but at least we are on the road. Atimpoku is the town at the junction at the big suspension bridge across the Volta River. We alight here and look for a place for the night first thing just to be sure. This region is popular and we don’t want to repeat Friday night. At Aylos Bay, one of the more expensive places to stay, we can do a tour on the river to the dam. The dam holds back the water of Lake Volta, thus creating the world’s largest artificial lake. Its gigantic turbines produce electricity that is then sent to all regions in Ghana, Togo, Côte d’Ivoire and Burkina Faso. The big steel constructions and high-voltage lines cut through the beautiful landscape but don’t disturb me much. The sound of the motor that pushes our small wooden boat along the river is more annoying and it takes a while for me to push it to the back of my mind. On the riverside, some fishermen see to their nets and children play in the water. Some are washing clothes or themselves. From one village, we can hear trumpets playing. The river is wide and has smaller branches that our guide steers the boat through. I lost my sense of orientation as we round a bend and suddenly see the huge hydro-electric dam in front of us. It is an enormous construction. Above our heads I notice one line that is bigger than the others and ask our guide about it. If I understand him correctly, people use it to cross the river. That is crazy. The only other way apart from boats is the big suspension bridge our guide takes us to now. I crossed it in Trotros before but from down below it looks even bigger. 

It is only midday when we come back to Aylos Bay so I decide rather than doing nothing, we can go for a tour of the dam. A Trotro brings us to Akosombo but there a taxi driver tells us the visitor centre is closed. We should go with him. I don’t believe him so we go looking for the visitor centre and find it open. People are already waiting for a tour to the dam. Unfortunately, we don’t have a private car to go with but we are lucky enough to be taken by one of the other tourists. He turns out to be a guy from Indonesia who is doing some research for an agricultural project. We have to endure some formalities, but that is no problem for us unlike for an apparently American guy. He has to go back to check his car’s number and is pretty upset. “I am not going out there. It is fucking hot!” Oh dear, you are in Africa and it is not hotter than usual. Finally, we set off and pass the security post in our big air-conditioned cars. When we arrive on top of the dam, I can’t believe my eyes. Out of one car, two women, their husbands and one boy alight. They are European, probably something Scandinavian. The men are fat and they don’t wear shirts. Bear bellies on top of small hips, arms sticking out a bit, camera dangling from the red neck. I don’t mind if muscular young Ghanaians work topless, but these people are tourists and their bodies are not nice to look at. It is more than embarrassing. The tour itself is short and not too interesting. We learn about when the dam was build and how the electricity is produced and distributed. The view is impressive, though. On the one side is the wide river between the green mountains and I can see where we sat in the boat earlier that day, looking up at the dam. On the other side is Lake Volta, stretching far between more green mountains. Opposite of where we are standing, on the far side of the dam, on the top of one mountain is a building. This is where all the important persons reside when they have meetings. It can only be reached by crossing the dam or by helicopter. Typically far away from the people and life, in an extraordinary setting. I feel distanced to real life even driving in this big air-conditioned car. I thought the cars are from the office which organises the dam tours, but in fact they are all private cars. The driver is also a private driver. At first our new friend agrees to drop us at the station in Akosombo but then he wants us to join him for a late lunch. He once was a volunteer himself, he explains. His driver checks with the tour guide for a “special place” and just after a few minutes we alight at the Volta Hotel, probably the most expensive option in the area. Some small tables are on the verandah, looking across Lake Volta and I think this is a nice place. A waiter asks where we want to sit and in my mind I say outside but our friend prefers the cool interior and we are directed around a corner. The tables are covered with white table cloths and chinese lamps are hanging from the ceiling. Well, I didn’t expect that when I woke up this morning. We have a very relaxed conversation, though. Even the driver, eating Jollof rice and chicken, is involved and nods when we talk about educational problems and street security. I tell them about our adventure with the overspeeding Tro and the driver laughs. He knows exactly how the driver reacted. Felix and I refuse with thanks to take a dessert and our friend has to set off as well. As we get into the car, it starts to rain heavily, but we can persuade them to drop us at the station nevertheless. They insist to drop us directly under a roof, though. We realise that we don’t even know our patron’s name. The rain does not last long so Felix and I take a stroll through Akosombo, making our way up a hill. There is not much to see, the view was better on the dam, so we soon head back to our Hotel. As it is still early, we decide to sit down at Aylos Bay for a while and enjoy the scenic river. It is cooler after the rain now and cloudy. It looks as if it is about to rain again and indeed it does. At once, it is dark, the rain is pouring down and the wind blows the chairs away. With the other guests, we hide under the roof at the bar. The power is off, too. There is nothing we can do. We just sit there, watch the rain and the wind and wait. 

Next morning we set off early, because I have to go to the Immigration office in Accra. Luckily, we meet a young man in our first Tro who is also going to Accra and with his help we change to the right car at Kpong. At first we are told that the Tros don’t go to Accra directly because of the traffic. Looking for alternatives on the roadside, however, we suddenly hear someone shouting and follow the young man hurrying into a newly arrived Trotro. We are not the only ones and lucky to get a seat. After a few minutes drive, however, our helpful friend has to ask the driver to turn. He gave him luggage to put in the back of the car but it is not there. The other passengers shout at him for not having checked before they left. I would like to take our friend’s side but they are pretty angry so it is better to just let them fight until they are tired of it. The driver takes it easy, turns, gets the luggage and continues the journey. Again after some minutes, the next fight starts. The driver wants the passenger next to us to pay, but that guy insists he already did and wants his change instead. I remember him paying but again don’t say anything as this guy now is even more enraged. He keeps on shouting even when the other passengers start the usual “It’s ok. It’s ok.” - “I am not stealin’. I am not a thief.” He asks one of the other passengers to check and count his money to see that the amount he gave the driver is missing. You could be surprised he is so infuriated but I can imagine it is the fear to be seen as thief. Some time ago I heard that thieves are usually beaten to death by mobs. A volunteer saw a group chasing a thief just at the next big junction from where I stay and Kwamina confirmed the story. Shortly before Accra the car stops and the driver starts pottering about the front seats. I didn’t even notice the car had a problem but it seems that it is something that has to be taken care of immediately. In the end we arrive in Accra and are even dropped directly at the immigration office. I expected to wait but I didn’t expect to wait even outside the gates. Apparently they are having some ceremony and don’t let any visitors in. I don’t have a choice and wait. I won’t leave now, come back another day and then again to pick my passport up after two weeks. I am annoyed at the people who pretend to go to the front to watch the marching and thus skip the queue. However, at some point of time we are all let in and it takes only one and a half hours until I have filled in all forms correctly and received my receipt. Time to go back to Cape. 

Trip to Togo

Friday, May 6, 6.30 am, I am sitting in a bus to Accra. In front of me is Felix, who I could persuade to come to Togo with me for the weekend after being let down by an American girl - the US embassy warned every American to take extra precautions when traveling because of Bin Laden’s death. Felix has the same problem with his visa like me. We both need to go to Accra for an extension, which means bringing the passport to the immigration office there and going there again after two weeks to (hopefully) pick it up. To avoid this hassle, I want to go to Togo, see some things and get a stamp for 60 days when I cross the border back into Ghana. 

The bus to Accra is a big bus and comfortable, I even think I sleep for a while. Accra itself is busy as usual, it takes ages to get through this traffic. Tudu station is even worse as we are not protected by a car. People shout at us to try to get us in their Trotro, pull our arms. Unfortunately we actually need their directions as their is no other way to find out which car goes to what place. Finally we are in a Tro that fills up comparatively quickly and leave the capital behind. Out of town, the road is lined with stalls. At first, they sell mangoes on small wooden tables and then water melons. The water melons are just piled up on the roadside, coming directly from the fields next to the road. I wonder, how much they sell like this. We drive along the coast without seeing the ocean but flat green landscape. Only the last bit is not a tarmac road. I go through some french vocabulary in my head. Aflao is the small town bordering Togo. When we arrive there and stop for the first passengers to alight, men offer us to guide us across a “simple” border. However, we rather stick with the official route and stay in the car until the final stop. It is a normal car park and we don’t know where the actual border is. As we start walking, men wave at us with bank notes. Unofficial money changers. Looking a bit lost, a young guy offers his help and shows us where we have to cross the border. He even gets into a fight for us with a very stubborn money changer. At the crossing, we are directed to the Ghana immigration office. Our new friend accompanies us although he tells us, he can just cross without showing a passport or anything. Felix and I have to fill in a form. When the officer looks at my passport, however, she says my visa is not valid anymore. I try to explain that I extended it and show her the stamp I got in Cape Coast for my first three months extension but she insists that if I go to Togo and come back to Ghana, I will have to buy a new visa on arrival for USD 150.  She is right. My multiple entry visa is valid for entry within three months which have already passed. The “visa extension” I bought in Cape Coast is actually a permission to extend my stay, not the visa itself. Felix’s visa is still valid so he crosses the border, has a look at Togo’s capital Lomé and comes back after about one and a half hours. Traveling back into Ghana, he even gets the stamp for 60 days. So it was not all in vain.

The Chiefs of the Chiefs

Felix wants to do a story about the prison here in Central Region. We don’t have an appointment but Kwamina decides to try our luck and just turn up at their gate. Indeed we are lucky and are allowed to meet the officer there without difficulties. However, he says in order to conduct an interview, we have to ask permission in Accra. We thank him for his time and he thanks us for our interest and that is it. 

We are back in the car and I don’t know where we are going to. Kwamina stops here and there, leaves us for a while - “I am coming.” or “Just a minute.” - and then we continue. “One last stop”, he says and pulls up in front of some shops when suddenly we hear a pang. Kwamina tries to turn and make it to a fuel station but is stopped by a man in one of the shops who waves at him hectically. There is a big cut in one of the front tyres. This really is the last stop then, I think. However, we get help and soon the tyre is exchanged. 

We are supposed to meet the President of Central Regional House of Chiefs, the Chief of the Chiefs of Central Region today. He also is the board chairman of Central Press and Kwamina wants him to give Frances her certificate as she is leaving Central Press this Saturday. We are late when we arrive at the House of Chiefs, but he is not there anyway, so we wait on some coaches at the reception. There is a circular hall with impressive chairs and I guess that is where the Chiefs meet. In the middle of the hall on a table is a small pool of water. Apparently, the roof is not good. Hours later, the Chief arrives. He is on his way to Accra to meet the President but he still takes his time for us. We are lead to his office which for once really looks like the office of someone of high rank and take a seat for a conversation with Dasebre Kwebu Ewsie VII. He signs France’s certificate and presents it to her. Of course, we document everything with pictures. After this formality, Felix improvises a short interview about the role of the Chiefs. When he runs out of questions, we say goodbye. It is surprising how easily we meet persons like this Chief. It is a very relaxed meeting.

On air

Monday morning we have to do office work. It gets more interesting in the afternoon when we are going for a radio programme. Tuesday is World Press Freedom Day and Kwamina is doing a special radio programme on it with us volunteers as guests. I am nervous because I don’t really know what we have to do and what we are going to be asked. When we arrive at the station, we have to wait. They are reporting on Bin Laden’s death first. Someone says something about time for a rehearsal but nothing like that happens. Instead we wait, reading the Code of Ethics for journalists, informing ourselves about the Press Freedom Day and watching Ice Age on TV. At about 5pm we are called into the room with the microphones and everything and we start right away. The regional board chairman of Ghana Journalist Association is also present and fortunately he and Kwamina do the most of the talking. We also have a phone call from someone in the States. This guy talks and talks and talks, Kwamina has to stop him by switching the music on. Then he asks us, his international guests, some questions about our experience with media in Ghana. It is not as scary as I expected but it is actually fun and pretty relaxed. I don’t have to do much. I am on the radio - what an experience. 

Work with Central Press

Thursday was office work. We sat around our laptops in the Internet Cafe, wrote our articles, worked on pictures, updated blogspot and facebook. We also went to the place where they print the paper. Apparently they can’t open the document with the last edition and are therefore unable to print it. Well, it will be published with a delay.

On friday Kwamina takes me and Felix to the opening of a bank’s branch in Mankessim, a town east of Cape Coast. Frances is watching the Royal Wedding to report on that. At the opening, I am only taking pictures. Sometimes they speak Fanti, so I wouldn’t be able to take notes anyway. As always, there is an opening and a closing prayer. I still don’t understand this passion. May our Lord support the bank’s work, may he make this project a success story. After the speeches the tape is cut and I almost miss it. I don’t really know what is happening so I am too slow and Kwamina has to direct me through the crowd. Well, there is a lot to learn.

Saturday. One of the parties here, the NPP (New Patriotic Party), has elections for presidential candidates today. We agreed to meet at twelve to go to polling stations but at nine Kwamina texts me that they are going right now. First stop is one the huge campus of the University of Cape Coast. The square in front of a big hall is full of people in red, blue and white. There is music. A group of young men is already celebrating, I don’t know what, but as we approach them to take pictures one of them start to shout. It is Fanti, but there is no chance of missing that he is pretty angry and doesn’t want us to film the group. In the big hall, people are waiting on rows of chairs for the event to start. On the stage, three of the five candidates are sitting next to some desks where polling assistants prepare some papers. A commotion outside tells us something is happening, so we hurry to see the arrival of the fourth candidate, a woman who was a minister a few years ago. When the fifth candidate arrived, the ceremony starts. Each of the candidates has five minutes for a speech. They are talking Fanti, but I can hear from the cheering which candidate has the most support. The spectators are extremely excited, outside and inside the big hall. I take some pictures of voters, throwing their vote in the boxes, then we leave Felix and move on to Elmina. Kwamina is constantly on the phone, talking to someone or conducting interviews. I just follow, trying to get the pictures he wants and not to be in the way of someone. In Elmina the voting has already finished as there was only one candidate. Kwamina talks to someone, I take some pictures, then we continue. Next stop is back in Cape Coast at the town hall, where everything is decorated in red, green, black and white. This is a NDC event, the ruling party. “Get Atta Mills endorsed.” I record a number of speeches, in Fanti of course, and off we go again. Next we go to a polling station in a rural area. They have finished the voting here as well and are waiting for the results. Kwamina interviews two candidates. It seems that he is on radio right now. I take pictures and follow him and two other media persons we took with us in the car. It is time to go back to Cape Coast, the results have been announced. While we are in the car, Kwamina collects results on the phone. Back at the university, the atmosphere is even more excited. The big hall is full of people now, held back by police. When they are allowed to move forward, they storm to the elected candidate, try to hug him, touch him. They carry him on their shoulders, sometimes he disappears in the crowd. Outside, Kwamina manages to get him to talk into his recorder and I take pictures as close as I can get. Finally, he gets on the back of a jeep with a number of his cheering supporters and they drive off, squeezed together but happy as if they just saved the world. It gets quieter now, Felix and I are told to wait in the car. Kwamina disappears and we have a rest from the mad rush. It is five o’clock, when we get home. I am hungry but the day was good. 

First day with Central Press

Again, my first workday. I meet Eric to see how to get to work, but in fact he hands me over to Kwamina Bamfo, the editor, in a taxi. We go directly to my first assignment, without time for an introduction. I don’t know what this building is, who the people are that I am greeting, what this assembly is about, but I am told to sit down in the back and take notes. Fortunately, the presenters speak in English so I figure out that I am witnessing the launch of the “Rural Water and Sanitation Project”. I take as many notes as possible, not knowing what I am supposed to write afterwards. Kwamina disappears now and then, bringing back the presenters’ speeches. A woman is presenting risks of projects like this, when Kwamina asks me whether I heard enough and we leave. I don’t mind, because this woman speaks mainly in Fanti and I don’t understand her. Kwamina says his car is being repaired at the moment so we walk to the office. I am not sure, where we are. The office is in a building that is only finished on the front side. In fact, the office are two tables in an internet cafe. Later I find out, that we work together with the owner of this internet cafe. He does the layout for the newspaper. Kwamina gives me some editions of the newspaper to read and leaves, telling me that he is coming. Central Press started in January 2010 and consists mainly of Kwamina and the volunteers. At the moment we are three volunteers, but Frances is about to leave so it is left with Felix and me. This is going to be a lot of work and it is going to be more serious than at the orphanage. However, I am curious. After what seemed like ages - I read the papers and the entries on blogspot - Kwamina comes back to bring me home. His car is fixed and he explains that he always picks up the volunteers and brings us back. For tomorrow, I have to write the story about the sanitation project, my very first article for Central Press. 

Last day at New Life

Tuesday, April 26. This is my last official day at the orphanage before I start the second placement at the newspaper. It is a quiet day. Some of the kids are watching TV, some are washing their clothes. I play Monday, a game where you have to jump across a thread in different ways. Of course the girls are far more practiced in this, but I get better with the time. Anthony joins us, so we play Judith and Ruby versus Anthony and me. Anthony and me are not even doing too badly. It is exhausting though and the reactions become more and more heated each time somebody tries to cheat, so I am glad when we stop for lunch. I see that Nelson has some table-tennis bats and ask who he is playing with. Anthony said he is coming but obviously he is not so I go and play with Nelson. The table is a construction of four school desks and a wooden slat as a net. It works, though. Nelson is good, but I didn’t forget how to play either and beat him. I am surprised that Nelson keeps on playing. Normally he is offended when he does not win and walks away, but not this time. After a while I go and get more kids to play with us. Nicolas and John join us, two of the older boys, and Daniel, a volunteer. Nicolas and John are even better players, but I still beat them except for two rounds. They are evidently surprised. Too bad I didn’t start playing table tennis with them earlier. It is really fun. Unfortunately, the sky gets dark with clouds so I decide to leave the orphanage. It would be bad to be stuck in Ansepetu. As I walk to the road and say goodbye, it is strange. This is my last regular day at New Life. However, I am convinced that I will visit them as soon as I have the opportunity. 

As it is Tuesday, we have our weekly quiz night, the meeting of all volunteers, in the evening. It is different today, however, because we are not going to have a quiz. Instead, we are going to watch a drumming and dancing performance of a group of young women and men, FODACH. One of us volunteers is dancing with them. At first, we get an introduction but the presenter is still speaking when the group starts to drum and sing. We see a dance to start the performance and welcome us, another one about cows, harvesting and the market and many more. It is impressive and we can see how demanding the dancing is. I feel a little bit awkward watching them with the weekly popcorn in my hand. After the performance, we feel it ourselves. The dancers take our hands and pull us to the front, where we now dance with them. I follow the girl who took me, try to imitate her movements and it is great. We form a circle, one of the dancers jumps in the middle, performs a move, and everybody has to try to do the same. Just after a few minutes, I feel tired. This really is hard work. But it is fun. If only I could move how they move. A group picture as a conclusion, we are invited to join the group and then it is time to say goodbye. 

Where is Easter?

After a rest at the house, Melanie and I go to New Life to stay there overnight. We want to go to church with the children early next morning. However, Sunday morning is not as expected. The children take their time with bathing and nobody is ready to go at 7:30 am. Somebody says we are not going to church because the church they usually go to is in Cape Coast today. Not even Ellen knows when we are going or where we are going. At nine, some of the kids begin to dress up. So we are going somewhere. But not everybody is getting ready. I ask Anthony why Kweku is not coming. - ,He doesn‘t have a dress. He would mess around.‘ In the small girl‘s room, dresses are put on and taken off again. ,Why don‘t you wear this one?‘ - ,It is dirty.‘ I don‘t really see the difference but the girls seem to know what they are doing. Before we are going, the kids line up in front of James. Some have to go back and change again, some don‘t return. In the end, Melanie and I leave with seven children. I ask Ruth, why she is not coming and she answers, she didn‘t take her bath yet. Maybe it is because we are not going to their usual church. We walk along the street to Efutu, the next village. On our way we meet Comfort, who is selling something. Like many other children, she left the orphanage for the holidays. Finally we enter a courtyard where the usual portable roofs are put up. Some are already singing as we take our seats under a separate roof with the children. More and more people come for the service, it is getting crowded. The mothers leave their children where we are sitting and I understand that they are having a separate service. After a while, a woman comes and starts to talk to the children in Fantse. I don‘t understand anything except for the shouted „Amen“ of the answering children, but not only because of the language. A man and a woman are singing with the adults now and their microphones are extremely loud. The loudspeakers make horrible sounds. Nelson and Emmanuela disappear and come back with sweets. Despite this noise, little Dansu falls asleep and I take the opportunity to bring him outside to Comfort. As I return, the pastor approaches me. It is difficult to understand him as we shout at each other but I understand that he wants to call Melanie, me and the children to the front to say something. I try to refuse and the loud background helps me to escape. Now Daniel, another volunteer, arrives with two of the older boys. The pastor grabs hold of him and probably asks him the same because Daniel waves to us to come together. He agreed that the children would sing a song. Suddenly, we have problems keeping the kids together. Judith and Lisbeth are gone and the rest runs around a corner. When I go to get them back, they say they were looking for the two girls. In fact, Judith and Lisbeth come back with them, but I am sure, they wanted to go back home. I understand them. Then the pastor waves at us and we try to find a way to the front. Melanie and I withdraw and look for a place at the side behind some rows of chairs where we watch the improvised performance. The little group looks lonely in front of all the parishioners but they sing their song with confidence. As we watch them, someone taps my shoulder and I turn around to see Isaac and Amos, two other boys who left the New Life during the holidays. They stay at Efutu with parts of their families. When I ask if they want to join their singing brothers and sisters, they laugh and refuse - understandable. After the performance, the children want to go home. Anthony says he likes to go to church, but I understand that usually, the service is different. 

Back at home, Melanie and I walk through the town, searching for Easter. We pass other services, some more shops are closed than usual, but that is the only difference. No Easter eggs, no Easter bunny, no Happy Easter. A walk along the beach from Cape Coast Castle past Oasis and Victoria Square brings us to something like a rubbish dump with pigs where we turn and walk back. As there is nothing to see, we take a taxi back home. Passing the stadium, however, we notice that it is full with people today so we stop, buy a ticket and enter. We don‘t know who is playing but definitely somebody popular for the stalls are crowded. As far as I can see, Melanie and I are the only Obronis in the whole stadium. And among only very few girls. It feels a little bit awkward, but this match is far more interesting than the first one I saw here. During the break, some children speak to us. We find out that The Dwarves, that is Cape Coast, are playing and the score is 2:0. So that is why so many people are here. Even on roofs of surrounding houses I can see men standing to watch the match. On the opposite stall, a group is supporting their team with drums. Foul, penalty kick, a third score for The Dwarves. The players foul each other surprisingly often. Once, a spectator gets so upset that the police has to take care of him. While they are shouting at each other, the players wait patiently on the field, looking bored, until the troublemaker is gone. Then suddenly the match is over, the players leave their positions and the spectators hurry outside. I am surprised they are cheering so little. You couldn‘t tell which team won. Outside, however, I can guess why almost nobody stayed for a chat with friends. Everybody tries to get a car but even though many drivers are already waiting, of course they are not enough. Melanie and I decide that we don‘t have a chance and start walking until we are far enough to find an empty car to Abura. An exceptional Easter.

Visit to the spirit's rock

Saturday, April 23. Melanie and I set off to the Wassa Domama Rock shrine. We don‘t know for sure how to get there or what we are going to see or do there but we read something in the Bradt guide and there is always a way. We have time. At Kotokuraba market we take the guide and read a name of a junction to a driver who directs us to a station where we read the name again and are pushed in the direction of a Tro. There are already two Obronis in the car which gives us hope that this actually is the right one. However, they drop at Kakum. I try to ask one of the other passengers who doesn‘t seem to understand much English but he gets the name of the junction and makes the car stop to drop us there. At the junction, we find taxis waiting and their drivers who are all too happy to see us. We just wait and let them talk, still not sure where we are going but sure they are charging us too much. From the drivers‘ conversation we find out there is an information centre and decide this is the right place to go. We are told we would have to wait a long time for a shared taxi, but at that moment a car pulls up beside us with a sign „Wassa/ Domama“ and we join it with three other persons. We pass a car that has apparently broken down and the driver offers to take more passengers. We are now eight and a half. Four plus a baby in the back and four in the front. I am used to two passengers on the front passenger seat. Two persons on the driver‘s seat are new to me, though. Melanie and I start to laugh. This is how we like it. He is the spare driver, the rest laughs back. Somehow, we arrive in Domama, a small village and the driver drops us in front of the information centre which is not much more than a wooden shack. Nobody is in there and we begin to wonder what to do when a girl runs up from behind. She shows us a map. The rock shrine we came to see is actually 7.1km from the village itself. Do we have a car or do we want to walk? We agree to charter a car and wait for a seemingly endless time while the girl arranges a guide. Two boys watch us through the windows as we are sitting in the information centre and I feel a little bit like in a zoo. Then the girl comes back with two men in tow. We just assume they are going to be our guides and follow. A third man drives the car along a narrow dirty road. Once again we are covered in dust but not that much this time. I feel like going on a roller-coaster and Melanie and I are grinning. This is crazy. We alight at a place the men call car park where one of them says he is our guide Robert. He takes the lead now as we walk along a track through green bush, the other two men following us. We suddenly pass through a forest of cocoa trees. Robert cuts one fruit, hits it against a tree trunk and gives us the seed to taste. I am not sure whether to eat the whole thing so I suck only the slippery outside without biting it as we were told to do with a fruit we were given on our hike to the Wli Falls. It doesn‘t taste like cocoa at all. The forest grows thicker again when we finally reach the rock shrine. Two gigantic rocks carrying a third rock form something like a cave where we settle down. Robert tells us a story of a hunter who found this rock. A spirit lived in the rock and disturbed by the hunter he lifted the intruder on the upper rock. He only let the hunter down to bring the village‘s chief. The chief though didn‘t believe the hunter and thus didn‘t pay the proper respect to the spirit so he, too, was lifted to the top never to come down again. He was saved by the village‘s priests who could calm the spirit down with rituals. Today, the spirit doesn‘t live in the rocks anymore. Robert points to some lianes hanging down the rock. He wants to show us around. I leave my bag and the camera with Melanie as I follow Robert up. My arms seem to weak to pull my weight up the nearly vertical rock face and I feel my feet slipping on the smooth surface but somehow I manage to do it. Another short climb which is easier as there are more lianes to hold onto and then I stand where once the hunter stood, sweating and laughing. Robert points to a big tree. Years ago, this tree was about to be cut down but as it was about to fall, the trunk jumped back into place. The spirit didn‘t allow the tree to be hurt. Everywhere around me are plants and the view therefore is not spectacular but I am still excited to stand here. I didn‘t think I could climb like this. I didn‘t think of how to get down either. But I guess I know now why we have three men with us although we are only two girls. Luckily, I don‘t need their help. Robert guides us around the rock formation, showing us the now abandoned holes of rats and nests of birds who used to watch out for intruders for the spirit. Through even denser forest, he guides us to another tree where we can see the old marks of a chainsaw. Then it is time for the second part of our tour and we head back to the track which leads to the river Pra. The path is wider now and suddenly we hear children screaming excitingly. They have spotted us and come running towards us as we approach a village. They are drying cocoa seeds here and their smell fills the air. We stop to take pictures and then continue to the river bank. The river is of a yellowish brown colour and two canoes are floating in the water. A boy is already baling out one of them. Melanie, Robert and me put on life vests and get into the boat. The two other men stay at the bank while two boys take a seat and start to paddle. It looks as if it is about to rain but only a few drops fall. We soon realise that there is a problem. The boys only take us some metres up and down the river and think that is it. But we want to go all the way down to a path that leads back to the car park as we saw it on the map. Robert starts arguing softly with the boys. They say there are troubles in the other village but they won‘t explain more. We wait and let Robert do the talking. I wonder whether it is the same with every tourist. How can they offer a tour along the river if nothing is agreed with the villagers who have the canoes? Finally, we are allowed to go back into the boat and float down the Pra. We pass some men who are working on a machine. They are searching for gold. Time passes too quickly and we soon reach our destination and have to get out of the boat. There is no trouble with anybody. As we walk through another group of cocoa trees we approach some huts where two men are sitting under an orange tree. One is fixing his shoes with needle and thread and they have a chat with Robert. He asks them to give us oranges to taste. The second man takes his machete, cuts two oranges from the tree, peels them and chops off the top. We drink the juice. The freshest juice I have ever had. And it is probably the juiciest orange I have ever had, too, as I am still not finished when we reach the car. We race along the road again and are back at Domama within a moment. We are lucky. A metro mass bus, I guess the only one for a long time, is just about to leave to Cape Coast. Melanie and I get in the front seats. The driver seems to know everybody who lives along the road. Every minute or so he waves and laughs at someone on the roadside. He seems to enjoy his job. He also seems to enjoy speed. We overtake every car in front of us, despite the size of the bus and its condition. Not even the speed bumps make the driver slow down very much. We are back at Cape Coast quicker than we think. Definitely a memorable trip. 

Off to Accra?

After lunch, Morgan, Melanie and I pack our things and set off to the Tro station at Pedu junction. It is Thursday and Projects Abroad organises a Easter Party at Accra that is supposed to start at 4 pm. At the station, we have to face a bitter surprise. A long queue has formed and it is not moving. We soon find out why. There are no Trotros. None of the cars parked at the station is going to Accra. I can‘t see why as so many people are trying to get there and for once there would be no problem to fill the cars. A young man who is waiting in front of us says Trotros would come after 4 pm, when they come back from Accra. We wait, hoping for the best. We check other stations but the problem is the same. Too many people and no cars. A man approaches us, apparently talking to Eric on the phone. He says he would see what he can do and my hopes are up at once. We wait. He never comes back. We wait. At five, we decide it is not worth waiting for a Tro to Accra just for a party that has already started. We choose a quiet evening at home over the stress of Accra.

As we are not expected at the house, our dinner is only chocolate biscuits again. It is still early so we go out to find food somewhere else. There is a spot I heard of opposite Solace where we always go for our weekly volunteer‘s meeting. Meet me there. I have never been there but we want to try something new. The place seems quiet and friendly, we manage to order Jollof rice and chicken. The other guests are mostly men, chatting, with a drink in front of them. We are a little bit out of place. I am sure this place doesn‘t see foreigners very often but nobody minds us. It is only five skinny cats, that look at us with their huge eyes when our food comes. And the barman who asks for a contact number. A nice spot for a quiet evening. 

Busua and more

It is Friday. We leave work early to go to a different orphanage, Home of Hope, where Projects Abroad is organising a clean up exercise. The rooms are already empty, all mattresses and beds put outside. On a table shoes are piled up, waiting to be sorted out. The walls have to be scrubbed, as well as the floors. Soon, there is water everywhere, kids having fun pushing it around with mops. Trousers spotted with the blue colour that came off the walls, I withdraw to a small room where other volunteers are sorting out clothes. Each child has a box for his or her clothes but the floor is covered with things as well. One boy helps us bring back some order to the place. We hold up a piece of cloth and he can tell us at once who it belongs to. The room does look tidier when we are finished. After this work, we all go to a park nearby where we have races and play football. A boy comes up to me and says he wants me to win but I have to disappoint him. Having seen me be last, he decides, I am not his friend anymore. 

It is time for us to leave anyway as many of us volunteers decided to spend the weekend in Busua, a beach paradise west of Takoradi. The traveling is surprisingly easy. We get Trotros and find taxis without having to wait long and soon arrive at Peter‘s Place, the guesthouse we are staying at. It is already dark though. We buy some food from a woman on the street and I decide to go for an evening swim. Peter‘s Place is directly on the beach. The water has an agreeable temperature for the soft evening air, the waves are low and the ground falls only slowly. This feels wonderful. Still, it is a little bit scary in the darkness and I don‘t stay in the water for too long. 

Next morning comes with blue sky above blue ocean. Now I see the little island a small distance out in the sea. The beach is deserted except for two dogs and two or three men strolling along the water. I can‘t resist, change and go for a swim. The water is cooler now after the night and refreshing in the already hot sun. The first volunteers wake up and together we go to see Frank, who has a tiny restaurant on the other side of the road. He makes the most delicious pancakes, we hear, and it is true. They are big, tasty and served with banana and chocolate. They are good.

Melanie and I don‘t want to spend the whole weekend on the beach and decide to go for a day trip to Cape Three Points. We are not sure what we are going to do or see there or how we can get there. But we know it is close and it is the most southern part of Ghana. So we set off to the next main trotro station and ask for a Trotro to Cape Three Points. There is a Trotro, they say. It is on its way and will be here soon. However, it is the only Trotro that day and there won‘t be a car to take us back. We should take a taxi instead, explains a man to us. He also mentions he is a tour guide there. At first, we are optimistic that there always is a way back. However, even though we are assured the Trotro will be here any minute, we wait and wait until we don‘t want to wait any longer. After some discussion, we decide to take a taxi, ask the driver to wait for us there and bring us back again. We also ask the man who said he is a tour guide to come with us. We‘d pay for his taxi and he‘d give us a tour for free. He agrees and off we go. The driver takes a second boy with him and we don‘t ask why. The road is dirt and stones. Dust comes into the car and covers everything with a reddish brown layer. We listen to Ghanaian music and enjoy the ride. Climbing up a hill, the car stops. We roll back. We stop, move forward and roll back again. I see us getting out of the car and pushing but then the wheels get a better grip and the car is heaved on top of the hill, racing downwards again. Finally we get out of the car at some dilapidated buildings. The driver‘s friend‘s hair and eyebrows lost their former colour. It looks very funny. Only later I hear that they are constructing a guesthouse here. To be honest, it wouldn‘t be the best location to attract tourists. There is nothing but rough coastline. Beautiful coastline, though. While the driver wipes the dust from his car, we are led to some rocks pointing into the sea and our eyes follow the coast in both directions. This is the second spit of land of the three points that gave the place its name and it is the one that reaches furthest out in the water. Melanie speaks out loud what I am thinking. We could stand here for hours and watch the waves break on the rocks, splashing high into the blue sky, palm trees and other green bush in our back, to our left and to our right. The view is even better from the top of the lighthouse. I feel like falling backwards when I climb up the stairs but it is definitely worth it. The view along the coast is stunning, amazing, beautiful. Again, I could spend hours here. Unfortunately, we promised our driver not to linger there too long so we set off again, back along the dusty road. We stop at the village, a group of mud houses. The villagers are either farmers or fishermen here, explains Bernard, our guide. He directs us through the huts to the beach, where the boats are laying. Some children are playing in the water, other villagers are sitting in the shadows. One young man is getting a new hair cut. Probably most villagers are at work, on their farms or out on the water. The rest watches us, but we are not approached as usual. Only on our way back to the car, a group of children spots our cameras and wants us to take pictures of them. We oblige happily. Then we say goodbye to Bernard and leave the quiet village behind. The road runs through a forest and only now I realise what I saw on our way earlier. To almost every tree a small bowl is attached in which a liquid that runs down spiral cuts in the trunk‘s bark is collected. Rubber, explains our driver. It is too soon that we come across a tarmac street and head back to Busua.

Melanie and I hurry along the one main road Busua seems to consist of to get the highly recommended egg sandwich at a stall. While we were traveling, I didn‘t feel that I was that hungry. The sun is already low when we join the others. The water is high now, leaving only a small strip of sand. It is refreshing when I jump in to wash the dust of my skin. The waves are stronger than in the morning though and suddenly I find myself too far from the beach. It is difficult to swim back as the waves pull me to the open sea and my feet barely touch the ground. The sea is always stronger, I think as a catch my breath looking back to the water. 

Dinner is rice and spaghetti with a very hot sauce from the street and then we sit together at Alaska, the neighbouring guesthouse, and enjoy the evening. They have a hammock there, between palm trees, facing the sea. A bonfire has been lit and some drummers entertain everyone who wants to stop and listen. 

Next morning, we allow ourselves a second breakfast of Frank‘s pancakes and swim one last time in the refreshing water. It soon is very hot again, too hot for healthy sunbathing so we retire to the shadows under Alaska‘s roofs and have lunch before we finally set off to Cape Coast.