Farewell

Friday, July 1. Kwamina sends me a message about a program somewhere. This time, I refuse. Thursday was my last day and it was a good day. Now I have to get some other things done with. The week before he said, there will be no work during the last week. In fact, we had something to do every day. Now I am really finished. 

I want to meet Catherine to say goodbye. She offered to come to Accra with me, but I prefer to say goodbye to her here. Now she couldn’t come anyway. She is sick. It is a sad farewell. Catherine is not feeling well and I can’t help her. She cries and I can’t comfort her. I don’t stay long.

After lunch, I go to New Life. One last time. I wanted to come before vacation starts to see the teachers, but because of work, I didn’t make it the whole week. Ellen said, she heard me on the radio. The nurse that comes to New Life once a week recognized my voice and made Ellen listen through the phone. It is funny someone who actually knows me, listened to the program. Apart from me, no other volunteer is there. Rasmus leaves when I arrive. I wouldn’t know the new volunteers here anyway. Anthony wants me to organize another dancing competition. I couldn’t refuse so I brought the music and now wait for Anthony. He said he would come. Of course, he is late and we decide to start the competition after dinner. I spend the time carrying water. One last time. It is a little bit sad. Finally it is time for the competition. Anthony takes care of the music, James does the rest. The motto is ‘Crazy dance‘ and the kids are really dancing crazily. I just watch, usually with one of them on my lap. I dance only little. I feel tired, but it would be wrong to make them stop and go home. Only when the kids get tired as well, I tell Anthony that it is enough. James also wants to go. He is going to town. The three of us leave together. It is a strange feeling. A final goodbye. Ellen gives me a hug and some of the girls as well. Some of the old boys accompany us to the taxi. Isaac, Nicolas, Frank and small Nelson. He takes my hand while we walk along the road. I am touched. Goodbye New Life.   

Saturday evening, I go to Oasis with Bryn. There is one last drumming and dancing performance to watch. It is a good end to my time in Cape Coast. After the show, Benjamin joins Bryn and me. He is dumb and deaf, but a dancer. How can a deaf person dance to drums? Apparently, it works. Maybe they feel the rhythm somehow. We communicate with our phones and he shows us pictures of himself. He is a nice guy and I agree to come to a church the following morning, where he will perform. I am curious. 

Sunday morning, I get up early to meet Benjamin for church. I am gone even before breakfast, but Benjamin is not there. I am almost thinking about leaving when he comes with another guy to show me the way to the church. Actually, he is not going to perform himself. A group he is training is going to perform and they are drumming, not dancing. The service starts late. Unfortunately, just when they are starting with the drumming, I have to go.

I hurry home where I get my lunch, take a shower and pack the last things together. Bryn comes back from her castle tour. Just in time. Together, we wait for Abdul. He offered me to take me to Accra a long time ago. I reminded him of it and he agreed. Unfortunately he got sick and told me that he can’t drive. Instead, he organized a friend to take me with his car. Another volunteer who is also leaving today is also coming with us. Abdul is very relaxed. I just hope, he will be in time. He is only a bit late. I say goodbye to Agnes, Ruth and Sofia. ‘Oh, I will miss you.’ Agnes presses me against her chest warmly.  My time in Ghana is over. I am so glad that Abdul comes along. It feels better to go with somebody I know. We pick up Miriam, the other volunteer and head off to Accra. Miriam soon falls asleep. I talk a little bit with Abdul and then just listen to him and his friend as they are talking in a mixture of English and Fanti. It is raining. That makes the farewell easier. However, I am not too sad. There are things I am going to miss, but I feel that it is time to go. The boys drop us at the airport. Abdul winks and is gone. We have already left Ghana. After the security checks, we are already far away. It is not Ghana anymore. I write some last text messages to say goodbye and board the plane.    

Last week with Central Press

Monday, office work. We finish the layout, I write the farewell story about our encounter with the chief. Kerstin is not here. Because she was not feeling well and it didn’t get better, she flew back to Austria one week earlier than planned. 

Tuesday, we get a new volunteer, Saul from the UK. Eric brings him to my house junction where we wait together for Kwamina to pick us up. Today, we are going to witness a launch of a festival at the palace of Elmina. It is his first day with the newspaper, so it is Saul’s turn to write the story. I am glad. Felix has the story about the lagoon, if not for Saul, it would be my job. I am not in the mood to write anymore. I am taking pictures only. First National, a bank, donates money to the regional chiefs and his people for the festival. They sit on one side of the courtyard, all dressed with the blue fabric with their emblem. On the other side is the chief and his entourage, dressed with the traditional cloth. They are all talking in Fanti, but we understand the main issue. As tradition prescribes, the bank has to present alcohol to the chief and they give him two bottles of wine. The chief is not satisfied. After a short discussion with the man on his left hand, he declares that he wants more. Now it is the other party’s turn to discuss. Sticking their heads together, they agree to give in. They present more bottles to the chief. Now he is satisfied. Now they are allowed to donate. It is indeed amusing. Speeches are given on both sides. Sometimes, they provoke laughter from the respective opposing party. The bank hands over more packages, wrapped in the blue color of their bank. I follow the other press people to take the pictures. Philip Mensah is also here. It is a long time ago that I saw him and he wants to know where I have been. ‘In and around Cape Coast.’ This is a good last event to end my time with Central Press. Interesting, although it is in Fanti.

Wednesday is another day at the office. For some reason, there still is work to do on the layout. We thought, it is finished. The pages were already filled. However, now stories are missing again. I also give Saul an introduction to the social networking. When Felix and I are gone, he will have to do everything until another volunteer comes. Well, this will definitely be the last day at the office for me and Felix.

Thursday, we have a radio program. Before we go there, however, Kwamina drops me at the university. There is a program about the constitution to report on. I wonder how he will manage to leave, bring the boys somewhere else and come back to pick me to be at the radio station in time. I don’t dare to say that I am not interested in this story and would rather avoid the hassle. At least the program starts almost as planned. Nevertheless, the introductions, opening prayer and welcome address take a lot of time. As it becomes clear that I will miss the main part, I swap from taking notes, which is difficult anyway, to taking pictures. Maybe Kwamina will get the speeches somehow as he usually does. I know when the radio program is supposed to start and watch the time. As expected, Kwamina is late. This time, for the radio program, we can’t be late. It is not possible. I am getting nervous and don’t even really listen to the presenters. When he arrives after all, I hurry to pick my things and we rush to the station. We are still in time, it is a miracle. Without a moment to prepare, we are on air. Fortunately, Kwamina plays some music first and talks about the upcoming Bakatue festival in Elmina. Time to breath. Then he questions Felix and me about our time in Ghana, about our experience with the media. This time, I talk a lot more than during the first radio program we did. It is easy. People call to ask questions directly. One guy calls three times. ‘What will you take home with you from this experience?‘ - ‘Patience.‘ Kwamina told us about this particular question and Felix and I had time to agree on our answers during a short song. A good program, a good goodbye to Central Press. 

After the program, Kwamina wants to bring me back to the discussion about the constitution at the university. I am lucky. They have already finished. We decide that it is not interesting enough for a story. My last act was the radio program.  

The Chief of the Chiefs II

I have a lunch with Central Press today, with the President of House of Chiefs of Central Region, Daasebre Ewsie Kwebu Vll, counselor of the President and board chairman of Central Press.

I don’t know how Kwamina manages to get to these people. This man is not even chief of Cape Coast, but a different area. We already met him at the house of chiefs for Frances’ farewell. This time, we are going to his place, an hour’s drive from Cape Coast. Another board member accompanies us, Victor S., but Kerstin is sick and misses the event. 

The palace is kept in its traditional way with a balcony and a tiny staircase. Two men in traditional clothes standing on the balcony watch us, as we approach. The rooms are small, rather dark and the walls are hung with pictures of former chiefs and symbols. We wait on some comfortable chairs and after a moment, are called into the conference room. In the middle of the room is a big long table. One wall is hidden by a bookshelf, the rest covered with framed pictures and certificates. At the table, three men with the traditional cloth draped around them, are sitting. Subchiefs who came to see their president, as we are told later. At the head of the table, on a raised chair sits Daasebre Ewsie Kwebu VII, wearing a normal shirt and shorts. This time, perhaps for the first time, even Kwamina has troubles with finding the right words. The Chief himself is very relaxed, though, and Victor’s words sound affected compared with our host’s. Soon a nice conversation is going on about the development in his district, culture and tradition. ‘Without tradition, something is missing. It is dying, but we don’t have to allow it to die.’ The Chief takes tradition very seriously and fights to educate children about it. ‘It is what makes Ghana Ghana.’ From the palace, we are asked to proceed to the Chief’s house. It is a bright, big, generous building. Impressive and worthy of a good chief like this. He is an open-minded, friendly person, definitely a good leader. Victor S. is impressed by the development in the area and he knows what he is talking about. We are served rice and chicken. Unfortunately, the chief himself can’t join us, but only passes by shortly, whether due to a tight schedule or due to tradition. He is not allowed to eat in public. ‘Well, we are not the public, right?’ Over the meal, Kwamina and Victor praise this chief over Cape Coast’s traditional head. He, we learn, does nothing for his district and lives in a tiny place that is not worth of a chief at all. We wonder what he does with all his money then, and the two men suggest that he buys presents for all his mistresses. The lunch is good. When we are finished, the Chief comes to sign our certificates and together we pose in front of the house for the obligatory pictures. His daughter is called Lisa, too, the chief jokes. Now I am his daughter as well. He said that already the first time I met him. I think he remembers our last meeting only faintly. It doesn’t matter. He is relaxed, holds me around the waist and Felix around the shoulder. ‘That’s good. Great. And another one. Good one.’ Soon afterwards, we leave. Not only Felix and I are amazed. 

Quiet week

Wednesday is an interesting working day. Kwamina wants to report on the state of the Oguaa Fosu Lagoon. It is a filthy lagoon and there have been reports on poisoned water and that the fish is affected, too. Following the road from Cape Coast to Elmina, we stop at the bridge and I get out to take first shots of the lagoon. It is the shallow  lagoon we saw from the football stadium. The banks are muddy and spotted with rubbish. I see fishermen wading through the water further up the lagoon. We continue our ride and approach the water from a different side, where the fishermen are working. At first, they are skeptical. The fishermen found that people with cameras do not bring good results. Last time, they spread the news that their fish is poisoned. Kwamina leads the discussion and reassures them, that we want to help and have no bad intentions. Some are willing to talk now. We even find a man who is confident enough to express his opinion in English. For the rest, Kwamina has to translate. They say that their fish is not poisoned. They eat it every day and their health is not affected. However, the lagoon needs to be dredged, they plead. It is filthy, shallow and the stock is decreasing. They catch less and less fish. It is not a bad life, though. One of them tells us proudly, that one of his sons attends university and the other one Senior High School. It must be a hard life, nevertheless. Standing in the water for hours and hours, and the haul is meager. At least, the money is not too bad, as the fish, a delicacy still, is expensive on the markets. Just caught in the lagoon, the fish is directly gutted by the women. They sit together in a group, bent over large bowls with simple knives in their hands. They look at us suspiciously, but when an old woman allows Kwamina to record her voice, they all let us proceed. Kwamina is good in this, he makes them trust him and gets them to talk. He always finds the right tone to address people. We let him talk, throw in some questions, and I take my shots. Having seen this and having heard the fishermen’s opinion, we need to get a different point of view. The next stop is EPA, the Environmental Protection Agency, that I worked with in Tamale. The director is the first person we talk to, but he is new, knows nothing about the lagoon and forwards us to his colleagues. Kwamina introduces us as his international colleagues who very much want to find out about this Fosu lagoon. It would be a great tourist attraction, but yet, the site is neglected. We exchange glances. It is always interesting to hear how our editor introduces us. The officers are not very eager to give any information about the lagoon. They did research on the water there and found that it was not standard. About the fish, they don’t know anything. Neither do they know anything about plans to clean the lagoon or similar projects. The government is responsible, not EPA. We should talk to them. 

We do so the very next day. Kwamina arranged a farewell with the mayor of Cape Coast, Anthony Egyir Aikins. It is a little bit awkward. We saw him a number of times and reported on his speeches at events that we attended. However, we never really met him before and now he is supposed to thank us for our work. We wait more than two hours for this encounter. The mayor is in a meeting and we know very well that his speeches are usually lengthy. So we wait. When he comes, we are asked to enter his personal bureau. It is quite big and richly furnished. Air-conditioned, of course. Quite impressive. We have a conversation about media in Ghana and Germany, about the experiences we made during our time with Central Press and in Central Region in general. As Felix has to write the story about the lagoon, he questions the mayor about this issue, receiving only little new information. Kerstin asks the mayor about Cape Coast in general. How will it change in the next five years? ‘I want to see Cape Coast as a model city.‘ He has big plans, but his statements are rather vague. All in all, the conversation is over after nothing more than 20 minutes. Two other gentlemen are already waiting at a long table in the back of the room. ‘Thank you very much for your precious time. We are grateful indeed and appreciate it.’ That was all work for the day. 

In the evening, I am invited for dinner at Molly’s house, where Anna, the German volunteer, lives. They are having pizza. It is not like the pizza at home, but the first pizza I eat since I left Germany and it gives me a taste of how it is going to be when I am back there in two weeks. In contrast to that, from there I go to Oasis where I meet Sarah. This is a setting I won’t have in Germany. We all sit together around one of the tables far away from the beach. It is chilly today, it is even drizzling a little bit. Apart from me and Sarah, there are two other girls who work for a different organization and three Ghanaian guys. I thought, Sarah would be there with more of our group because they were having dinner at the Castle Restaurant. This constellation is maybe even nicer. The other volunteers indeed come later, but we stay where we are. I don’t talk much and rather listen to the others. The girls are in Ghana for a year. I don’t know whether I should be jealous of them. One of the guys is Kobi, who works at Elijah’s shop. It is the first time, I really meet him knowing his name. He sold me the drum the other day and made Catherine blush by proposing to her for fun. Back then, I didn’t know his name. Now I find out, that he and some other guys were in Busua when Sarah went there. That is how they got to know each other. The second Ghanaian guy is Africa. I talked to him before and found out that he knows James. So many here seem to know James. ‘Because he is a nice guy.’ I can’t really imagine him here, though. I am tired and cold. As soon as the rain weakens, Sarah and I go home. 

I am still tired on Friday, even though all we do is office work. I don’t know what is going on. There is a party in the evening and Sarah and I decide to go. We have to do something. As we have enough time after dinner, we watch a movie on her laptop first, like we did on Wednesday. 28 days later. The title sounds good. The movie is horrible. Having seen it, I am too scared to go outside, I am too scared to sleep. All we do now is wait until it is time to go. I lie on my bed, resting. When I wake up, it is 9:30 pm. Both of us fell asleep. We are not going anywhere tonight.    

Encounter with God

After a quiet Saturday morning, I meet Catherine at her place. I have never been in this part of Cape Coast before and probably wouldn’t be able to find the place on my own again. Catherine lives on a hill, with a great view across parts of Cape Coast. That does not mean it is a desirable area, though. We sit together in a room with a table, chairs, a fridge, couches. There is a picture of her dad on the wall, one of Jesus and a poster with a Ghanaian woman saying ‘Akwaaba’. On the floor is a pile with school books and a bible. I look at the books and we talk about school, learning, education. Catherine says she wants continue her education at university, if God permits. But life is hard right now. We talk about God and Catherine recites verses from the bible. Jesus loves everybody, God’s kingdom will come. Trust in Him and He will help you. He never disappoints anybody. I try to discuss with her what I learned in school. About opposing views in the bible. I receive an answer to everything. My disbelief and insecurity in religious questions worry Catherine. She calls her pastor, maybe he can talk to me. Fortunately for me, he is busy right now. When I come to church the following day, he will pray for me, he promises. I want to know why Catherine attends services at this particular church despite the distance to her home. ‘They helped me. They supported me when I asked them for help.’ I promise that I will meet her Sunday morning to accompany her to church. Her brother comes and she explains to him who I am and what we are doing. I am curious what his view is. He joins us and supports Catherine in what she says, bringing forward quotes that she recited earlier. 

Sunday morning, as agreed I wait at Master Sam Junction. I am on time. Catherine is not there. I call her. ‘You are there? Okay, I am coming.’ While I wait for her, I watch people in nice dresses going to their churches. I wonder who of them I will meet again at the service. They will definitely recognize me, a white girl sitting in the sun on a low wall at the corner of a street. Catherine also wears a beautiful, yellow dress, sewn especially for her. A Sunday dress. The church we go to takes place in a classroom. The walls are covered with cloth to hide paintings and posters of the alphabet and numbers. Catherine wants me to meet the pastor, before the service. When she spots him, we go outside to greet him. He is a young man and also concerned about my spiritual welfare when I have to tell him, that I have problems with steadfastly believing in God. Catherine watches us with a look worried but full of expectation. Will I be saved? The pastor leads me behind the building, takes both of my hands, closes his eyes and prays for me. Prays for strength, for guidance, that Jesus may help me find to God and trust in him. When he is finished, he gives me a hug and together we go back inside where everybody is waiting. Of course, the service is in Fanti. There almost only women with some children. Most men, Catherine explains, attend the service on Tuesdays. We sing a lot. Catherine is a front singer and very passionate about it. I didn’t know about that. I don’t know what they are singing and preaching. When they pray, some of the women are almost frenzied. Hands raised, eyes shut closely, they sway forward and backward, murmuring intensely. I am glad that I sit in the back row. Suddenly, everybody turns, kneels down, buries their head in their arms on the plastic chairs and the praying starts again. I have no choice than join them. The pastor is striding through the rows of chairs, encouraging his flock with a loud voice. ‘One more minute hard prayer!’ It is the only time he uses English words. I am getting sick of all this shouting. It is too much for me. ‘We are finishing right now.’ Catherine is reassuring me. Now they pray with oranges in their hand. Apparently, last time they had salt, this time they were told to bring oranges. They want to make a drink out of it. I can’t really follow. Everyone who is born on a Wednesday is called forward and the pastor blesses them. Now everyone is stepping forward and the pastor puts something on each person’s forehead. Some of them he pushes so hard that they stumble backwards. I want to refuse, Catherine is at the front already, singing. However, other women urge me to join them with demanding looks and gestures. I join the queue and allow the pastor to put something slimy, greasy on my brow. It runs into my eyes. ‘What is it?’ - ‘Oil of God.’ I am really uncomfortable now and can’t wait for the service to be over. It has already been three hours. A woman shows around a piece of white cloth with a black pattern, funeral cloth. The pastor’s mother died and for the funeral, everyone is told to buy this cloth. This looks like the end of the service. I want to go, but Catherine wants me to see the pastor again. She pushes me to the front, where the pastor is still talking to other women. It is one of the small boys birthdays. Then it is my turn. My forehead is again covered with more of God’s Oil, the pastor takes my hands into his and prays. In his community, he is sure, I will find God. I can’t tell Catherine how uncomfortable I am, but I can’t hide it completely either. She is sorry for that and apologizes again and again. Maybe it was worth the experience. I don’t need to repeat it, though.

The President

Wednesday, June 15. I am back at work with Central Press and we spend the day in the office. We have a new volunteer, a girl from Austria. She came to work with a radio station but was so unhappy there, that she changed to the newspaper. Thursday is another day full of office work as well as Friday morning. I hear about stories they did while I was traveling and write some own articles for the tourism corner. 

Friday morning, only Felix and I are at the office, when Kwamina calls. There is an event in Elmina, he is coming to pick us. Felix and I discuss, that we don’t have to go both. I can stay here. Second call, Kwamina is in a rush now. He comes with a taxi, his own car is at the workshop. The president’s brother is here, donating something to his former school. I decide to go with them. Another call. It is the President himself who is in Kissi, which is further from Cape Coast than Elmina. The driver is pressed to drive faster. We pass two policemen watching the road to Kissi, nothing else hints on the President’s presence. In the small town, we have to ask for the way to the school. We are excited. Too many people are coming towards us. I get my camera ready. Out of the car, we hurry along a muddy path, partly covered with planks, past some huts. ‘You are too late.’ somebody tells us, as we run past him. We really are. The moment we arrive at the right place, a group of big cars is driving off. Felix and I try to get to the front. I catch a glimpse of the president’s face through one of the black car’s windows and then watch his arm, waving through the open window, a Ghanaian flag in the hand. A moment later, the cars are gone and the rest of the crowd disperses. Felix and I are squeezed between pushing bodies. As the place gets clearer, Kwamina finds us. ‘Did you get a good shot?’ No. No picture of the president. I didn’t see anything and was too slow. Felix says he could have got one if not for the full memory card on Kwamina’s camera. Well, we saw the President of Ghana, John Evans Atta Mills. He came to the school to donate computers, desks and money. We always heard that he is touring through Ghana and will come to Cape Coast soon. Now he was here and we were late because of the short notice. At least now we don’t have to wait for him anymore. Kwamina arranges with other press people that he will get pictures and recordings from them. Then we look for a taxi to take us back. It is so much easier with a private car. Onlookers line the street that the President drove through. They are still there and cheer at us, too. A strange feeling. We are too many in the car as we also take two other media persons with us. Passing the police, we arrange our cameras and the microphone so that they have to be seen and are waved through the control without problems. Lucky me, that I didn’t stay behind on such a day after all. 

Market

I want to see Tamale. There is a National Cultural Museum, for example. I want to see the market and buy some of this beautiful fabric. The variety here is greater than in Cape Coast, I think. 

I have seen a lot of Tamale. Especially this week, I drove around on the motorbike with Manan very often. I never know where we are and what we are seeing, however. I have seen the football stadium, schools, and the orphanage here that Manan was eager to show to me. I could never find these places on my own, and couldn’t even tell where the doctor’s house is on a map. The guys at EPA were always surprised to hear that I don’t go out and ramble through Tamale. Unclo Robert promised to take me to town and show me around. Every time, something comes up that doesn’t allow him to keep his promise. Every time, I am put off until the next weekend. ‘I won’t be here the next weekend.’ - ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’ I reduce my plans. At least I want to see the market. Fadila volunteers to take me. The first afternoon, she forgets. Now it is too late. ‘We will go Saturday morning.’ We don’t. ‘Sunday morning, we will go.’ After lunch, we go to the store. I don’t know what we are waiting for. The plan is for me to return to Cape Coast on Monday, there is no time left. I understand that we are waiting for a motorbike. Manan has to take me to a station to get a ticket for the bus on Monday first. Early afternoon, Fadila and I finally set off. I left money with Manan and he will get the ticket for me. The waiting was worth it. The market is big and bustling with life. Here they sell vegetables. Here are spices, biscuits, trousers, grain. I am shy with taking pictures. Some people don’t like it and shout at me when I lift the camera, so I try to be fast. At the area where they sell goats, chicken and sheep alive, a man stops me from snapping the scene from the distance. Fadila keeps saying that I can take pictures, but I don’t feel comfortable. We walk through the place where they unload sacks with different grains. Men work here. Almost everywhere else, it is women who sell. Men sit in the shadow and chat. Some call me and want me to take pictures of them. Fadila has to translate. They want me to ‘wash the picture’ and give it to them. I explain that I can’t print it. They have to be satisfied with seeing the picture on the screen. Other people don’t want me to take pictures. A woman who sells spices and biscuits allows me to snap the spot, but leaves her position before I take the picture so that she is not in it. The same happens with a woman who fries something on the roadside. I am disgusted by the meat. Here it is men again, who cut the meat that just lies on the wooden tables, surrounded by flies. I have to take a picture of that and ask one of the young man whether I am allowed to. He refuses. A man sitting at a corner calls me and starts a conversation. He is also selling meat. I ask him whether I can take a picture of him and take a picture of him with the meat instead. Fadila doesn’t like talking to the people who call me. Maybe she is embarrassed or impatient. I like to talk to them and learn about their work, and also show that not every white person is unfriendly. Unfortunately, many don’t speak much English. ‘You should learn Dagbani.’ The smells are impressive. Spices here, fruit there. Fresh oranges, pepper. The stench at the meat section is abominable. I want to leave as fast as possible. Colors, smells, faces, sounds. I like the market. It is impressive. I wish my skin was black and I could walk around unnoticed and watch people without arousing attention. 

At the store

On my first visit in Tamale, Sakina’s store was all rubble and dust. Now, it is nice and tidy, with one half stocked with soap, noodles, cookies and much more. The second half is reserved for children’s clothes, but there is not enough capital for that yet. They have a boy there, I think his name is Alex, who sells and takes care of the place. I help Manan to fill up the shelves. A woman pours ‘flour water’, a self-made sweet drink, from a big container into old empty bottles. There are flies everywhere. Another time, I help Fadila and two women fill sugar from one big sack into smaller plastic bags. Every day, Rakiya and another girl take some of the goods, load them on a plate and sell them in the streets. I would like to follow them and help, but Manan says, they walk too far. I can’t do it. I will be tired. Maybe I could walk all the way, but I definitely cannot carry as much as they do. I am amazed about how much they can put on one of these small plates. It requires special packing skills.

When there is nothing to do for me, I study whoever or whatever is passing on street. There are all the women with babies on the back and bowls on the head. Fascinating are also the motorbikes. Women in elegant dresses on dusty bikes, men carrying meters long planks with them. How many persons fit on one motorbike? The record I catch are one adult with six children. Two in the front, four in the back. Watching motorbikes is an interesting way of passing the time. 

Next to the store is a shop where seamstresses work. I think one woman teaches younger girls how to sew. Manan and Fadila want me to take a picture of it. ‘Maybe they don’t want that. Maybe they don’t like pictures.‘ I don’t want to take this picture and I don’t know what the girls are saying, but Manan and Fadila urge me to snap them. They make me sit on one of the benches and pose in front of the seamstresses. I am embarrassed and glad when it is over. Whenever a picture is taken, the respective person poses. I very much prefer natural pictures, when somebody is working for example or laughing. Fadila and Manan sit on the bench in front of the store and ask me to take a picture. Alex wants to join them, forces himself next to them. Fadila laughs and tries to push him away. When she sees the picture I took, she is not satisfied. ‘Take another one. I am laughing on that one.’ Manan wants a picture of himself alone. The first one I take at the store when he is sitting behind the counter. ‘It is quite okay.’ At the house, I have to try again. Standing in the courtyard, walking towards me, in front of the house with a pen and an envelope in his hands. They love pictures. The seamstress from next door is hanging around at the store with a little girl. Fadila wants me to snap the girl. I can see that the girl is afraid of me. Whenever the woman pushes her towards me, she starts crying, what they find amusing. ‘I think she is afraid. Why should I take a picture if she doesn’t like it?’ - ‘Snap her. Snap her.’ Fadila takes the camera and takes a picture herself until the little crying girl is in such a great misery that even that even the woman can’t stop her from hiding behind her. 

On Friday, Uncle J.B. visits the store. He is surprised to see me and tells me a story. During my first visit in Tamale, I was reading a book. It often lay around in the summer hut and Jabiru also started to read it and found it very interesting. I couldn’t leave it there for him when I left, because I wanted to finish it myself. I took it with me, promised to send it to him somehow and finished it in Cape Coast. Jabiru gave me the name, number and directions to a man in Accra who could bring the book to him. On our Projects Abroad Health Walk in Accra, I arranged to meet this guy and handed the book over to him. It really reached Jabiru in Tamale. He finished it and gave it to somebody else to read it. ‘I always give it to superior people.’ Everybody else would not handle it with care. I am very pleased to hear that this book is so interesting to them. It is about Africa, its economy, history, politics and daily life. Jabiru was fascinated by the book. 

After an afternoon at the store, I usually go back with Fadila and on the way we buy what we need for dinner. Some things we buy at stalls, some things from passing girls. We buy tomatoes from an old lady. She and Fadila converse with each other in Dagbani. ‘Lisa, she is greeting you.’ I didn’t notice and hastily return the greeting in Dagbani. The lady is pleased, smiles at me and gives us some additional tomatoes. Shopping is always interesting. For flour, Fadila and I enter a yard between a group of round mud huts. A boy is working on his bicycle, a woman with a baby is washing clothes. I feel out of place, but a greeting in Dagbani usually eases the tension and leads to smile and friendly comments that I don’t understand. While Fadila is negotiating with the woman who sits next to the bowls with flour, the other woman approaches me, holding her baby towards me. ‘She says you should take her to your country.’ I laugh and say that I can’t. I always feel uncomfortable when that happens. Fadila and I pass some fields on our way home where men are working. ‘Give me your friend.’ - ‘No. You can’t have her.’ - ‘The doctor is my friend, he will give her to me.’ Here, they don’t ask me directly to marry them but ask my friend to give me to them. It is more awkward than when young guys in Cape Coast ask me to marry them.

Holidays in Tamale

Unclo Robert drops me at the doctor’s house, where I am welcomed with warm smiles. Only Itisan shows more than that. When she walks through the gate and spots me, she is grinning from ear to ear. She has troubles restraining herself from running to me and gives me a big hug. I don’t really know what to do, just stand outside at the summer hut. It is great to be back, but also a bit awkward. A group of kids hangs around in the courtyard, they seem to wait for something. I understand what they are waiting for when Sakina comes out of the house with a bowl. It is this mixture of cow milk. The kids squat down around the bowl and pitch into the food. I am also asked to join them. Fadila comes back from school and we share our spoon. All takes place in silence. When the bowl is empty, Sakina distributes small pieces of guinea fowl and thus provided, the kids soon leave the grounds. I also get my share. How should I call what I have just witnessed, meals for the poor? I don’t feel comfortable in eating what was meant for them, but as I am the guest, I cannot refuse. 

The next days are spent in leisure. In the mornings, I sit in the summer hut, doing nothing. Later, I join one of the girls when they go to Sakina’s store. In the evenings, I help Fadila with the cooking. This time, without the initial reluctance, I am allowed to peel yam, stir the dough and pound dry fish or nuts. Some things changed. Leticia is not here anymore. Some say, she is a boarding student now which will hopefully make her learn more. Others say, she lives with an uncle now. I can’t find out, whether they still see her or not. And I eat alone. The doctor takes his meals in his study, Sakina eats later. Two days after my arrival, I hear that the doctor went to Accra to operate somebody of importance there. Nobody really knows when he will be back. At first, I take my dinner alone in the dining room as usual. Then, I sometimes join Fadila, Rakiya and Itisan in the kitchen or we all sit together on the floor in the dining room. It is much nicer. When we are gathered like this in the evenings, we don’t play cards anymore. Once, I try to teach Itisan how to read which turns out to be extremely difficult for her. Another evening, I help Rakiya to write a letter. She doesn’t like speaking English, even simple sentences are difficult. In the end, it is me who writes the letter for her. 

I am not Siliminga anymore. Kids are the street call me Siliminga, but at the house, nobody does anymore. I am just Lisa. They used to call me Siliminga when they talked to each other, but they stopped. It is very nice.

I talk more with Fadila than the first time I was in Tamale. One evening, I have a long conversation with Manan, another man and her about Germany in comparison with Ghana. They are surprised that I talk so much. It is nothing really to wonder about. It is because usually they talk nothing but Dagbani that I can’t comment on anything. Now I am eager to correct stories they hear about Germany and believe to be true. ‘The government takes care of children until they are 15 years old, right?’ No, the government does not actually pay parents for their children. ‘Do you have to tie your hair before it becomes plenty?’ That is one of Fadila’s questions. She has some really strange ideas. ‘I didn’t know that white people can have twins. I thought only black people have twins.’ Distance and time are also topics that seem to be understood differently here. ‘My school is too far. It takes 2 or 3 hours to get there.’ Oh, I don’t believe that. That can’t be possible. ‘It is true. When we close school at 2.15 pm, I am home at 3 pm.’ 

Wednesday morning, it is pouring with rain. The girls and I are waiting for it to stop in the kitchen. They won’t go to school until it is over. When it rains, everything stands still. We even cook in the kitchen now instead of outside because of the unstable weather. The rain stops and the girls leave. I decide to visit EPA today. Manan brings me there. Nothing changed at the office. I greet everybody and we sit together and talk. They have more work to do at the moment and I watch them deal with applicants and paper work. In the early afternoon, I walk back to the house. It is the first time I walk back on my own. Nobody is at the house yet, so I just wait in the summer hut and enjoy the peace. I am not feeling well recently, but it doesn’t matter that much as I can rest in the mornings. When Itisan comes back from school, we write together and do exercises until Fadila starts cooking.  

Sometimes, I am alone at midday and have to look for something to heat in the microwave for lunch. Sometimes, Manan comes back from wherever he was to check whether I am eating and what. I want to heat rice and beans, but the power is off. Manan comes and we decide to find something on the streets. ‘What do you want?’ - ‘Anything. Yam chips?’ - ‘You can’t eat yam chips.’ Why not? I don’t get a proper answer. Probably he thinks it is not good enough. We go and get rice and beans from a stall because that was what I planned to take. He notices when I only take a bit of rice and stew for lunch, without meat. When I come to the store in the afternoon, they want me to eat again. Fadila always gives me a corncob when she buys one for herself, even if I am really full. I saw Alex and Manan eat something interesting the other day and as they want to me eat again, I ask for exactly this, whatever it is. They are surprised but they wanted me to choose, so I did it. ‘You can’t eat that.’ - ‘Why?’ - ‘It is too spicy for you.’ I try it nevertheless and it is really good. They laugh at me for eating it. However, I don’t eat the cow skin that Fadila gave me with it. They are a little bit irritated, but this is something I really don’t want to eat. ‘It is too hard for my teeth.’ This explanation is accepted. At first I thought, I like both the Northern food and what we eat in the South of Ghana the same. Now I think, I prefer the Southern dishes. Northern food is somehow heavier. And they won’t give me anything spicy.

Across the Volta to Tamale

7 am Monday morning, we approach the ferry. Nobody is there yet except for a few men who seem to work on the boat, so we just enter. One of them gives us tickets and we sit down on a bench. The morning sun is beautiful on the water. Next to the big ferry, a number of colorful small boats are rolling in the water. People are queuing to get on board. We have been advised not to take one of these boats. In the flat water, a man is washing his motorbike. Another man on the beach is cleaning a Trotro. Two women are fetching water in big bowls that they carry on their heads and drink from the water directly. The ferry is getting full now as well. More and more passengers settle down on the benches and trucks drive onto the ferry’s loading space. Between the trucks, I make out a man and a young woman. The man is dressed normally and playing around with his mobile phone. The woman is only wearing a dirty rag. He holds her around her wrist. When they are in the way of the maneuvering cars, he pushes and pulls her with him very roughly. Nobody else pays attention to them. We came way too early. Better than too late, I soothe myself. Finally, hours later, the bell that made us expecting our departure so often, rings one last time and we set off. The ferry moves slowly. The crossing takes much longer than the planned 45 minutes. A woman spreads out a cloth on the floor and makes herself comfortable to sleep. Some passengers switch sides to move out of the now blazing sun. A man makes his round across the boat, extolling the tinctures and creams he offers for sale. Many actually buy his products. At least it smells not too bad. Drinks are also offered as well as snacks like the usual boiled eggs with this red sauce. I have never tried one of those. 

The young guy from the evening before told us to be fast to catch a car when we disembark. We are still far away from the opposite bank when the first passengers get ready to alight. The ferry puts in, we flow with the crowd and then follow the shouts of ‘Tamale’ to a Tro where we are able to win seats. We soon find out that the car is actually not going to Tamale, but only to Salaga, the next town. From there, we have to catch another Tro to the Northern capital. The road is not too bad and as usual, I watch the scenery rushing past us. It is less dry than in February, some trees have green leaves. The sky looks endlessly high. I love it. Now and then, we pass villages with round mud huts and thatched roofs. I think somebody is traveling with us on the roof, because now and then, I hear movement up there. Suddenly, the car stops. We all get out. Something is wrong with the wheel. While some men work on it, the passengers wait in the shade under trees on the roadside and take the opportunity to stretch their legs. It is the first time for me, that the car I am traveling with breaks down. There is a termites’ nest under the trees. Along the road, man comes on his bicycle. He walks to the termites’ nest and takes some branches that were stuck in the entrance. He shakes them above a basket and dirt and termites fall into it. When it is full, he ties the basket to the back of his bicycle and cycles away. A woman turns to us. ‘It is for the fowl. They feed them with it.’ Thanks for the explanation. After about half an hour, the wheel is fixed. We are lucky. It could have ended worse. Another three hours and then we arrive in Tamale. Alighting, a frail woman offers us to carry our bags on her head. Luckily, we don’t need to carry them anywhere at all. I call Unclo Robert  to pick me up with a motorbike and he also helps Anna and Natalie to catch a taxi. They will continue their journey to Mole, but my journey ends here. 

Port town Yeji

As soon as we open the door to our room the next morning, some boys enter and sit on the couch while we prepare ourselves to leave. Dennis passes to say goodbye. He is going to church with other members of the family. Charles stays with us and accompanies us to a Trotro to Kumasi. There is nothing left to do for us in Bonwire and we are not sure how long it will take to Yeji, our next destination. In Kumasi we alight at the same dirty station where we got the car to Bonwire and are directed to an onward Tro to Yeji. While we wait for the car to fill up, I watch the bustling activity of the station. Women are cooking on the roadside. Men pack the roofs of the cars with baskets, packages, everything that needs to be transported. It seems to be a special skill to fasten the meters high load with ropes and nets. We decided to store our backpacks under our seats. There must be more than one Tro going to Yeji. I hear a man shouting for passengers on the other side of the road. They are seriously competing. If someone approaches their car, they try to grab her arms and pull her to the car. I see the locals wrest themselves from the grip of drivers and their helpers. Some become really angry. I have never seen them treat locals like this as well. For the second time on this trip, a preacher enters the car. She is worse than the first one we met in Cape Coast. She claps repeatedly, shouts. I can’t push her to the back of my mind and hope that she won’t travel with us the whole way. Fortunately she doesn’t. When the engine starts running and the car begins to move past other waiting Tros and through all the people hurrying through the station, she collects her money and finally jumps down. The journey is long. After two hours, Anna observes that we have got a quarter of the distance over and done with. I watch the landscape. Luckily, the rest passes much quicker. After about five hours, we arrive in Yeji, a port town on Lake Volta. We have no idea where to alight and wait until the last stop. The market place is bustling with life. This time, nobody jumps on us to offer a taxi or anything. We enquire after a guesthouse. Most people don’t know of any, but the driver of the Tro we came with volunteers to take us back along the road and drop us at a place. In fact, it would have been in walking distance, but we don’t know anything about this town yet. The place we are dropped at does not look very promising. We have a look nevertheless, but the guy there says they are full. It doesn’t look like a proper guesthouse anyway, as much as we can detect in the dark entry room. Anna saw something a little bit down the road. There, we are more lucky. The room cannot be called clean, has only two beds, and is overpriced considering the lack of running water and the state of the bathrooms, but we don’t need much. We want to stay one night and cross the lake to Makongo with the ferry the next morning. ‘The ferry only leaves on Tuesdays.’ What?! We are shocked. Two nights in Yeji, there is nothing to do here. The relief is immense when we realize that the lady is talking about the ferry to Akosombo. That one goes all the way down the Volta and leaves only once a week. We only want to cross to the other side. After a day on the Tro, we are hungry and look for food. On the way, we check where the ferry will leave in the morning. Yeji is a busy town. The roads are lined with stalls selling everything from jeans to food. People stare at us more than usual, I feel tense. We ask two women for directions to the ferry. They exchange a glance that seems to say ‘Why us?’. They don’t understand much English, but point out the right way. Now I really want to eat something. The difficulty is to find out what the women actually are selling. It feels bad to ask about it without taking anything. In the end, I go for dark rice and beans with stew, Anna for plain rice and stew, Natalie for yam chips. She doesn’t trust the street food. At a store, we find cold coke for 60 pesewas the bottle. Thus supplied, we sit together at the restaurant of the guesthouse that is closed at the moment. The food is plenty and very spicy. Good. To avoid spending the evening sitting in our tiny room, we stroll through the town and look for a spot and after a while come across the Lovers’ Inn behind a workshop where men are painting boats. In the bar, two or three men are dancing to the music. A small boy at the counter, maybe twelve years old, sells the drinks. Very soon, we are joined by a young man. He is strange, we can hardly understand what he is saying, try at best to ignore his drivel and are glad when he excuses himself. Another young man joins us and we get into conversation with each other. The guy finished Junior High School and is now waiting for results to continue with Senior High. He says he used to play football, but is a musician now and explains us a lot about Ghanaian stars and their music. When we tell him about our plan to go to Tamale, he warns us about the wicked people that live in the North. According to him, they love to fight and are too interested in sex. He doesn’t like the Northern people, that much is clear. A girl approaches our table. ‘This is my girlfriend. She is Muslim.‘ That doesn’t keep her from drinking and smoking. I am surprised how many smoke here. Before I started this trip, I rarely saw any Ghanaians smoke. Bonwire was the first place I noticed so many smokers at one place and here are even more. All of the young people at this spot smoke. At 8 pm we feel as if it is late at night and make our leave. The dark streets are still crowded. A woman washes her son in the gutter. Although I have nothing else than a straw mat to sleep on, it doesn’t take long for me to fall asleep.   

Royalty and Kente cloth

Saturday, June 4. My hair tied back in a measly pony tail, I meet Anna and Natalie at their place and together we set off to get a Trotro to Kumasi. At the first station we go to, we have no luck. One big Metro Mass bus is just full, the next will take ages to fill up. A driver wants to make us take his Tro, but for some reason decides after a while, he won’t go to Kumasi after all. At the second station, there is a van to Kumasi. It is empty, but one by one, more passengers arrive. While we are waiting, a woman approaches the car and starts preaching. The other passengers don’t look at her, but seem to listen as now and then, they fold their hands, close their eyes or bend their heads all together. Some passengers give the woman money. We wonder whether it is to thank her for praying or to make her stop. The road to Kumasi is bad, full of potholes. In the backseat, I sometimes jump so high that I almost hit my head at the ceiling. Natalie has back problems and is in pains. I find the bumpy ride quite funny. In Kumasi, we take a taxi straight to the next station. We are not keen on spending much time in this overcrowded city. The station is overcrowded as well. Trying to drop us directly at the Tro to Bonwire, our driver has to take a number of angry words and looks. The ground is a mixture of black mud and rubbish. The cars have difficulties in driving off. Our Trotro is full, there is already a queue, but we make good progress and don’t have to wait long. All the passengers are dressed in black and red. There must be a big funeral somewhere. 

Our destination is Bonwire, 18 km from Kumasi and famous for weaving kente cloth, the colorful royal and sacred cloth made by Akan people. As we alight from the Trotro, we directly fall into the hands of a few guys who introduce themselves as members of the royal family. We are looking for a guesthouse and the Tro driver couldn’t help us. The men offer us a homestay. They have a big house and often host volunteers. Especially Natalie is skeptical, but Anna and I convince her to at least take a look at the place. It is a big house indeed, bright and friendly and the room they offer us looks comfortable. We are introduced to the queen mother, an old, tiny lady who is not surprised to see us, and decide to stay. As this is settled, Charles, one of the guys, shows us around the small town. Spread along wide roads, it is rather quiet. This weekend it is unusually busy with people dressed in black and red. It really is a funeral they are attending and it is a big occasion. Charles explains that every first Saturday of the month, a funeral is held for everyone who passed away during the last month. Therefore, many different families gather to celebrate together. We are led to the funeral grounds, where music is played. People are dressed beautifully and we feel a little bit out of place in our travel clothes, so we soon leave the place again. Even as we pass more of the funeral’s guests in the streets, I can’t help marveling at their clothes. The cloth the men drape around their body, Charles says, is ten yards. Ten yards in this heat, I am fascinated. They look really good, though. Bonwire’s roads are lined with shops displaying the colorful cloth. Although formerly the cloth was only meant to be sold to kings and worn on times of importance, it is available to everybody now. The owners try to convince passing foreigners to buy from them and every one of them promises a good price. Charles owns a shop, his brother has one, probably everyone has one. I wonder how they survive. Charles takes as to the Bonwire weaving centre, a long, wooden building full with looms. The workers there show us how to weave and we can try for ourselves, although normally women are not allowed to work on the loom. According to the legend, if the loom touches a woman’s stomach, she will never be able to bear children. Along the walls of the building, apart from the scarf-like cloth, also shoes, ties and bags with the kente design are lain out. All the three of us are asked to buy something and we can’t really refuse as they showed us how to weave, although we are not really eager to buy something that is useless to us and overpriced. Each pattern has its name, such as “Good mother” or “Never give up”, even though there often is little correlation between the appearance and the name. They are derived from proverbs, historical events, plants or important chiefs and queen mothers. Each of us with a little new souvenir in our bags, we leave the weaving centre behind to stroll further through the village. We see more men weaving in backyards and the shadows of their homes. Our royal guide introduces us to various relatives and friends and then excuses himself. He wants to smoke. Both Anna and Natalie are smokers and allowed to smoke in front of the house. Charles goes into hiding at a small hut while we wait outside, chatting with other passing young men. One has a bike and claims to have travelled all the way to Kenya with it. I am inclined to believe him. For food, Charles suggests going to the next small town, Ejisu. In the taxi, we pass Bonwire hotel, the guesthouse and the visitor centre we read about in our guidebook. We probably experienced the less touristic version of Bonwire. The spot, Charles brings us to, is not ready for food yet and our new friend asks us whether we want to accompany him to a place just down the road for a drink. Of course we agree although we have to realize again that the expression ‘not far’ has a different meaning for Ghanaians than we are used to. The place is in fact a backyard where a group of men are gathered, all dressed in funeral clothes. An old lady serves shots of the local alcohol. The smell is enough for me to understand how strong this must be. Despite George’s warnings, a member of my companions’ host family, Natalie tastes the drink. ‘Strong.’ Charles has to finish the rest. Back at the spot, the food is ready. I have rice balls and chicken, the other girls go for Fufu and without meat. They saw that a whole chicken was swimming in the soup. Natalie fishes an eyeball out of her soup. Still, the food tastes really good, is extremely cheap, about 6 Cedis for food and drinks altogether, and it is nice to eat with our hands like everybody else does. 

Shocking changes

Before I go to Tamale, I want to remove my black braids. They would be perfect for traveling in draughty Tros, but they are loosening and would maybe not be approved of in the North as they are here. Catherine offered to help me and comes to Agnes’ house in the afternoon. On the balcony we sit down and remove braid after braid. Catherine is rough, but fast, much faster than me. Angel, Florence’s daughter, is on the balcony as well, eating and then doing her homework. She watches us with wide eyes. The pile of black hair on my lap grows. Single hairs shimmer golden in each black strand. I wonder how much of my own hair I am losing. Catherine is not very gentle with me. My head hurts when we are finished but feels lighter. It is time to really wash my hair again, it feels disgusting as I run my hand through it. First, it is time to eat. I sit down next to Angel who still stares at me. ‘Is she the girl who did your hair?’ No, she brought me to the hairdresser and now helped me to remove it. I don’t quite understand why she is so amazed but I am pleased by this change. Often, the only thing I hear from this little girl is ‘Dirty, foolish girl.’ or ‘Your food is dirty.’ Seldom I receive a polite answer to a simple question if any at all. Now, she seems to be really impressed although I don’t know of what. When we finish our dinner, she follows me to the kitchen and cleans her plate herself, asking me to help her turn on the water. As it is my turn to wash my plate, she stays with me and does the drying up. I am overwhelmed.  

I take my shower and am a little concerned. Too much hair is falling out. I comb it. Two strokes. I look at the brush. It is full of hair. A big ball of hair as if a dog with long hair has been brushed and this is all that fell out. Two strokes. There is no other option than continuing. It gets worse, it doesn’t seem to stop or even become less. I am really worried now. A picture of me with a bald head in my mind, I leave my room to find somebody to ask for help. Agnes is watching TV but does not seem very impressed or shocked when I tell her what is happening. I should call Catherine and ask her. She won’t have an answer, I am sure. Instead, I call Anna. She had braids made as well. However, according to her, she didn’t lose much hair. She only had them in for a week. I am desperate now. Avoiding the mirror, I finish combing, pack all the hair in a plastic bag and just go to bed. Tomorrow maybe, everything will appear in a different light. I know it won’t. I can’t sleep. I decide to cut everything as soon as I am home. 

Football fans

Finals of the UEFA Champions League. Barcelona versus Manchester United. Many Ghanaians support one of these teams and therefore, the excitement is great. When I ask Eric whether he wants to go out tonight, he suggests to come together for the match. Of course I didn’t know about this match at all. We meet at the Goil station where they put up a big screen as they did for the match between Ghana and England. The place is crowded, we meet more volunteers and squeeze our way behind them. George is here, a broad-shouldered, tall guy who lives with one of the host families. He was with us in Busua the other weekend and accompanied the girls from his house to the spot. He says he doesn’t support any of the teams, so we are in the same boat. I don’t care who will win this match, I am here for the atmosphere. Our view to the screen is not too bad, but the way we stand crammed together is not very comfortable. I am glad I didn’t come in time so I don’t have to wait through the whole 90 minutes. It is a good match, though. I begin to become interested in football. I can’t hear a commentator, but again, the crowd’s shouts and cheering are enough or even better than that. With each score, one half of the spectators jumps in the air and the fans hug each other. Two minutes before the final whistle, the power goes off. The screen is black. The spectators take it as the end of the match. Barcelona wins, 3:1 versus Manchester United. Shouting, hurrah. Fan shirts being waved through the air. It takes some time before the place gets quieter again. 

Sir Anthony asked me to join him to watch a football match in the stadium. I agreed if we take the three medium boys from New Life with us, Anthony, Bright and Nelson. Sir Anthony accepts and it is my job now to get the permission from Sir James. In the end he allows me to go out with Bright and Anthony. Nelson has a broken foot. 

It is Sunday morning when my phone rings. It is Sir Anthony. ‘I am on my way to Mankessim.’ - ‘What about the match? We are meeting at 2 pm.’ Well, he doesn’t know if he will make it. He will call again. Now I have a serious problem. Sir James will never allow me to take the boys on my own. I tell him I will be at New Life at 2 pm to get the boys. I organized a taxi. Frank, the taxi driver, remembered me and agrees to pick us up and also bring us back after the match. That is settled. ‘May I know who you are going with?’ Apparently, Sir Anthony told Sir James about Mankessim as well. I am desperate. I can’t cancel this, I created a mess already. Who can I take with us? Abdul? I think I wake him up with my call. He sounds very sleepy but says that I can call him when I am at the stadium and he will come. I know that Sir James knows Abdul, but I am not satisfied and fear that Sir James won’t be satisfied with this solution either. One last idea. I text Eric. He is happy to help, of course. Totally shattered, but relieved I set off to New Life in time. When I arrive, I wonder whether the boys know about the trip at all. Sir James is in his room. He doesn’t show up and I don’t dare to knock. They do. With beaming faces Anthony and Bright come running into the house to dress up. Shirts and trousers have to be ironed, shoes polished. I should have known that they won’t be ready. Come on, hurry, I don’t want more to go wrong. The boys must be the only ones who know about the trip. Emmanuella tries to get some information out of me, but if Sir James didn’t inform anybody else, she won’t make me give something away. Nelson’s expression is worse than gloomy. He doesn’t even talk to me, just watches as his friends are getting ready. Frank arrives, absolutely in time. Now I have to tell Sir James we are leaving. He just gives his okay through the closed door. ‘I’ll bring them back safely.’ I hope. The boys want to eat, but we are late so Ellen gives them their lunch as a take-away. They are excited and so am I. My phone drives me mad now, it is turning off constantly for no reason. We have to pick up Eric on the way and we are late. I want to tell him we are coming. Frank is calmness personified and I am very grateful for that. I apologize for ruining his Sunday. I don’t need to worry, Eric is waiting exactly as agreed. Now everything is fine. We are dropped in front of the stadium, queue up and are slowly pushed through the entrance door. The boys are quiet, suddenly they are shy even when we try to make them talk. I hope they are so quiet because they are so impressed or overwhelmed. The stadium is full. The teams are popular and the spectators respond wholeheartedly. Standing ovations, arms in the air. At half-time, I get us something to drink. We take the absolutely necessary group picture and my mood is slightly affected by Anthony’s and Bright’s tense smiles. I try to get Anthony to tell us one of his stories what he usually likes, but his fantasy seems to be asleep today. Bright at least answers my questions about the match with the air of expertise. When the match is over, we wait for the main part of the crowd to pass until we make our way out of the stadium. Now Anthony expresses a bit of opinion. They want something particular to eat and get it. Frank is already waiting outside and together we head back to New Life. The boys are still quiet, but Eric makes them express thanks. I just hope they enjoyed the trip. As soon as we arrive at New Life, they disappear from the car. Eric and I settle everything with Frank. He was the best for this job. To Eric, too, I am deeply indebted now. I ruined his Sunday. He is always there for the volunteers. Even in the taxi, a French volunteer calls and Eric reassures him with an immense patience. For perhaps the tenth time, the guy wants to know when a new volunteer is going to come to his house because he is really afraid of staying alone. Eric dismisses my worries, saying that he enjoyed the day. Even though nothing really worked out as expected and I would not repeat this trip without more planning, I am glad we did it. 

Basketball and shopping

Saturday, May 28. I have no travel plans for the weekend. Michelle, a British volunteer, told me about a basketball match that she has been invited to by a lady she met in town. The lady sits in a wheelchair and is playing herself. Apparently, there is a basketball group for the disabled in Cape Coast. I am impressed, surprised and decide to find out more about this group. Saturday morning, I set off to Victoria Park, where I meet Michelle who introduces me to Joyce. She is breastfeeding one of her children and introduces both of us to her husband, who is also one of the players. Beside the pitch, a canopy has been put up. There, Michelle and I meet the brother of Michelle’s host father who turns out to be one of the organizers of the group and trainer. Cape Coast is a small town. He explains to us, that this is not only a match. They are waiting for an MP who donated a special wheelchair and promises to support the group financially. The actual match is only going to take ten minutes or so. Michelle and I are a little bit disappointed, but I start considering to write an article about this for the newspaper and try to get the relevant contact numbers. The MP is late. We wait over an hour and Michelle decides to go. She is leaving in three days and has to organize a few other things this weekend. The players are getting restless now, too. They complain that the MP is delaying them. While we are waiting, I have a conversation with this trainer and later with a young plantain seller. Apparently she met Michelle before, is now requesting after her and therefore doesn’t give up the talking. She gives me a crumpled piece of paper that has a couple of names on it and asks for a small donation. ‘Michelle also gave me something.’ I can’t find her name on the short list. ‘She said she will write her name later.’ After another thirty minutes, the big car with the honorable guest finally drives up and the program is started. Unfortunately, it is all in Fanti and I can’t follow the speeches that are given. Nevertheless, I take the usual pictures. There are some other press people as well. As soon as I mention Kwamina’s name, they let me do my thing. The actual match between the disabled teams really doesn’t take more than ten minutes, if that. I promise Joyce to pass by another day when they have training. 

Now it is time for me to meet Catherine. She offered to go shopping for souvenirs with me. We meet at the mosque in town and then stroll down the street. Catherine wants to help me bargain, but in fact doesn’t reduce the prices very much. I would like to cut them down even more, but can’t as she takes over the talking. I know that she only means to be helpful. It is not easy to shop with her. I stand in front of a stall with patchwork bags. They are very nice and I look at some, compare them to decide which one I like best. As soon as I take one in my hand, she asks whether I am going to buy it. ‘I don’t know. I have to think and then decide.‘ - ‘She is a good selector. She is very calm. Nice girl.‘ My friend praises me in front of the seller who readily agrees. ‘Which one is nicer?‘ - ‘They are both very nice.‘ Of course, everything I choose is considered to be a good choice. ‘Are you going to buy it?‘ I don’t know. I just want to look at it. I feel pressured. I need something for a friend but I don’t know what he would like. Catherine presents trousers to me, shirts, shoes. I don’t want to give him clothes for they might not fit, I try to explain to her. I feel bad for turning down her suggestions but don’t want to spend money for something I don’t need just to please her. ‘You are smart. I am observing and learning from you, you know.‘ The last stop is Elijah’s shop. I want to find a drum for my little brother. Elijah is not there, but two other boys. We sit and chat as I negotiate with one of them. It is refreshing. They engage Catherine in a conversation in English and make fun. She turns away and maybe is a little bit confused but also laughs with them and enjoys herself. It is a good end to our shopping tour.

Back at the house, I have Fufu. Since I am the only volunteer, it is the usual dish on Saturdays. Today, we all sit on the balcony and eat together. Although of course the conversation is completely in Fanti, it is a nice situation. We never ate all together, Agnes, Ruth, Sofia and me. The baby is also there and after the food, I am allowed to hold her while Sofia finishes her portion. Family life can be so nice.   

Documentary for the MP

Kwamina is working on a documentary for the regional Member of Parliament. Although he is busy, he has taken on another job. Together with Felix and me, he visits sites of projects that the MP started in his term of office. It is usually schools that benefitted. Scholarships were given, desks, beds and computers donated and new classroom blocks are being constructed. Most of them are not finished yet. One new building was put up directly next to a different new building that is still under construction. It was the former MP’s project. Instead of finishing one project, thus saving resources, a new project is started. The MP’s very own project. Many benefiting schools are secondary schools. They are big and often benefit from more than one organization. In Komenda, we pass one school that at first, we don’t recognize as a school. However, Kwamina knows the man sitting in front of the building. He turns out to be the school’s headteacher and tells us about his worries. It is a primary school and the building is also used as a community centre. Most classes sit along the wall in the courtyard under roofs but exposed to the weather. The two real classrooms are separated into more classrooms by removable walls that fall when wind rushes in. This is worth a story. Deprived primary school in Komenda pleads for help. Unfortunately we are under time pressure and have to move on. 

On our way to the next school, I see a long row of students walking on the roadside. It must be a great distance from their school to their homes as we have been driving on this road for quite a while without passing a village. Their bright yellow and blue uniforms make a good picture against the tarmac road, I think, and alight to capture the scene. It is impressive. A young boy starts shouting at me. He doesn’t want me to take a picture of him and his friends and gets impolite. I go back into the car, intimidated. However, Kwamina calls him over. Calmly, he wants to know the guys name and his teacher’s name and then asks him to apologize. Instead of shouting and insulting me, he should have politely expressed his wish. He creates a bad image of Ghanaian people that I am likely to remember and take to my home country. Although grateful for Kwamina’s support, I feel slightly embarrassed. In fact, it is now the young man’s turn to be intimidated. He is probably afraid that Kwamina will tell his teacher about the incident. He even apologizes and promises to improve his behavior. 

I recall another occasion when the photographing was taken badly. Again, we were on the road and passed some persons with canisters. They were fetching water from the nearby village as their own pipe was blocked. Kwamina and other journalists that were with us that moment got out of the car to interview them. I was asked to take shots. A group of students came along the way, all carrying a yellow canister. It was a good picture and I lifted my camera to capture it. At once, the students hid their faces behind their canisters and started laughing and shouting. Kwamina noticed the turmoil and talked to the students. ‘We are journalists and we want to report on your problem with the water.’ Now they were willing to walk back and pose for me to take a good shot. Kwamina interviewed them, too. Although they looked old, they were all primary students. They were eager to talk into the camera but when they were asked to say a few sentences in English, they all laughed and turned away. ‘You should learn English. It is important.’ The journalists were serious with them. 

At one secondary school, we interview a group of students who received scholarships. They are extremely shy and have to be asked repeatedly to speak louder for the recording.  Young students are less reserved. When they see us entering the school grounds, they come running towards us, ask for our names. 

FODACH

I accompany Silvana, a volunteer from Switzerland, to a performance of a dance group where she participates. It is the same group that performed once at Quiz Night, FODACH. While everything is arranged for the show in the courtyard, I stay with the cooking women. They are surprised that I know how to prepare Banku. We are cooking on the roadside, between some shops. On one side men are working on wood, on the other side they are cutting metal. More exactly, they are cutting iron bars with handsaws. 

I hope the rain does not start as I am waiting for the performance to begin. Not even Silvana knows what exactly we are waiting for. Everything seems to be ready. Maybe they wait for more people to come. Two hours later or so, the director of the group, Eric Manu, welcomes his guests officially. We are all taken on a tour around the place and he explains, what FODACH does. Here is the rehearsal ground, this is the internet cafe where ICT lessons take place. Three computers have been donated by a volunteer recently. One man records everything with his camera for a documentation. This is Florence, a young pregnant, deaf and dumb woman. FODACH supports her because she is very talented in drawing. Here are some of her pictures. They are indeed extraordinary. It is an awkward situation. I feel like a visitor getting a presentation of what he is going to support with donations. A group picture is taken Florence in front of her mud house with the whole family. Back in the courtyard, we are asked to take our seats in the front row and the performance begins. I recognize some dances from the first show I saw. This time, I am much closer to the dancers. Too close. I can’t really stand the intense look of some of them, as they dance only an arm length away from me. Nevertheless, I enjoy the show. The dancers and drummers obviously enjoy themselves, too. They smile from ear to ear. Eric Manu, the director, says he has problems to choose dancers for each dance because everybody wants to perform. Like last time, after the show, we are all asked to join and then individual dancers improvise one after the other and show their moves, while the rest cheers, claps and shouts. The guests are all invited for a dinner in the courtyard. Tables are put up and drinks and food is served, Fufu, rice, plantain, meat. As the occasion is a farewell present for Silvana and Michelle, who worked with FODACH for the last two months, many words of thanks are spoken. Eric presents dresses and pictures by Florence to the two volunteers and they are obviously moved. Somebody starts to play music and some of the kids get up to dance.