11 Maranatha: Heartbreaking Poverty and Deprivation

Maranatha is an isolated, impoverished community on a windswept strip of beach between the open ocean and the Volta River on the south-eastern coast of Ghana.

The fishing community of around 700 people (with more than half the population children) live in huts made of palm trees and the children attend barren classes in dilapidated bamboo shelters with broken concrete floors.

The beach village is one of the poorest corners of Ghana with the greatest need for the basics of food, water, sanitation and buildings. The villagers live mostly on Banku, a dough of corn maize. Rice, fish, goat meat, eggs and the occasion apple are luxuries.

Typical of isolated communities, social problems are entrenched and the most heartbreaking aspect of their plight is the deprivation of education for the village children hungry for more physical activities and mental stimulation.

Our dedicated crew leader Elisabeth is passionate about improving the standard of living in Maranatha. Madventurer is currently building concrete block classrooms to take the kids out of the unsafe structures. And the project desperately needs an injection of funding and skilled UK tradesmen to volunteer to help local workers complete the build. The government is also supposedly committed to building new classrooms but are yet to start.

Unbelievably the villagers use the beach for toileting. And they wash in the river. This unhygienic situation is a daily health risk and also pollutes the pristine environment. Madventurer is keen to build a block of pit latrines to solve the problem. The village also needs water. I believe rainwater tanks are an obvious solution, at least during rainy season.

Elisabeth enthuses about another project to empower the women to make and sell crafts, to create income. Madventurer needs UK businesswomen to volunteer to devise a business plan and steer the project to sustainability. And micro financing, providing small loans to the women, would get them up and running.

Dynamic young Ghanaian man, Winfred who grew up in poverty in a similar island, is the driving force behind transforming the small community. Single-handedly he has set up a beach camp for tourists, the Ada Tourism Board, the Maranatha Women’s Association and established the school. Now Madventurer has joined forced with Winfred and are committed to supporting the community for the next few years.

On this overcast, sultry Wednesday we head off early to catch the 7.30 am boat. In a flustered rush, I forget to take my glasses and my anti-malaria tablet. I am already a dishevelled wreck before the day starts and I notice as we hurry along the muddy main street how the locals are always immaculately turned-out despite the relentless heat and rough conditions.

Elisabeth, Kara, Sam and James and me set off on the boat, driven by a flashy young man called Desmond. Cruising through the calm slate-green waters, the view of long wooden fishing boats and the tranquil coastline is mesmerising, like a moving postcard.

Reaching the shore we stagger through the thick sand and past the beach camp to where the children in smart brown and yellow uniforms are lined up in rows and a tall, thin stern teacher is putting them through the drill of their morning prayers, hymns and singing the National Anthem. They march off to their classrooms and the desultory headmaster assigns us volunteers a class each.

When I tentatively enter Grade Four, their usual teacher is a no-show so I am in charge! How terrifying! These island kids have an aggressive edge so once the novelty of a “blafono” (white person) has worn off in about two minutes, they ignore me and argue loudly with each other in their own languages, Ewe and Dangbe, so I’m bewildered and frantically attempting to restore order.

The kids, aged from 11 to 16, don’t have pens or paper and there’s no chalk! So I reach yet again for my one packet of colouring pencils and trusty colouring books, bought for a pittance from the Tiger discount store in Ealing, and proceed to tear out a page for each student and supervise the sharing of the pencils.

The boisterous kids are suddenly quiet and engrossed and unleash their creativity and unique styles; some flamboyant, some meticulous, one girl likes the challenge of an intricate pattern and another serious little chap uses the colours of the Ghanaian flag. They choose their own sticker and proudly place it on their artwork.

I ask them to write essays on the back of their torn-out pages and scrounge for biros, giving them my own pens from my handbag and somehow they manage to write a few poignant lines about themselves and their unusual lives in the beach community.

Then a fight erupts when one boy insults a girl and she begins sobbing and yelling uncontrollably until a teacher comes in with his big stick and threatens to hit the distraught girl. I put my arms around Augustina and wipe her tears.

This humble little school desperately needs volunteer trained teachers from the UK and other countries who can take English classes, art and craft lessons and sports and support and inspire the local teachers. 

Seeing Maranatha, it is crystal clear that our opportunities in life depend on where we are born and raised. And yet intervention from the outside world can at least give these children an education they deserve and broaden their future prospects.

Beautiful Ashia makes us volunteers very tasty fried rice and I meet handsome Lenny, who runs the ‘drinks bar’. He is wearing a necklace of beads with a Santa trinket and explains that Santa is kind and generous and that’s how he wants to be! He adopts me instantly as his new mummy and asks me to be his mentor giving guidance via his fancy mobile phone, once he tops up the credit.

School finishes early and the teachers drift off so Sam and James organise a kick of the football while Kara and I resort to colouring in with the bored stragglers, who are yelling, “Madame, Madame” eager for praise for their efforts. The miracle continues as the two Tiger colouring books are still going strong as I tear out sheet after sheet, determined to get proper resources for these deprived kids.

The boat zips us across the river and we return to the MAD House, exhausted and dragging our feet, wilting in the high humidity. I’ve got to clear my head so tackle my filthy washing and then visit the small store and buy notebooks and 50 black, blue and red biros for the kids at the beach school.

I cannot face writing about Maranatha straight away. The experience of such deprivation is too disturbing. I feel overwhelmed. I am also grumpy. I’m sick of the heat, sick of being dirty and sticky with insect repellent, sick of craving crisp, green brocolli, sick of the mess.

I’m missing home and my family and wondering why I am buying into these massive problems. But I counsel myself that I’m just tired and I’ll be okay tomorrow after a night’s sleep. Everyone in the house is a little demoralised today and after dinner of rice, chicken, eggs, spicy tomato paste and plantain followed by mangoes, we all sit around reading quietly and collapse into our bunks.

I have abandoned the suffocating mossie net, taking my chances, relying solely on anti-malaria tablets and gooey insect repellent. So I lie there on my rock hard bunk, in the dark, listening to the whirring of the fan and the gentle rainfall, ruminating about those desperate kids. 

If you are a plumber who could help with sanitation and water supply; a builder interested in volunteering with the school building project; a trained teacher interested in volunteering at the school; a business woman interested in supporting the women’s empowerment or micro financing projects, a doctor or nurse interested in volunteering to do medical checks on children or a horticulture or permaculture expert who can train the villagers how to grow veggies in sandy soil at the Maranatha beach village in Ghana, please contact John Lawler at 
madventurer

10 Asi-Daahey School: Miraculous Sharing of Meagre Resources

Relaxing on a plastic chair in the sandy yard in the cool dark air under the stars, amongst the washing on a line strung between a towering palm tree and sturdy post, I’m watching the goat make his regular raid on the rubbish pit and reflecting on my hectic day.

It was a miraculous loaves and fishes scenario. Early this morning Elisabeth helps me divide up the bags of resources I lugged from home between the needy Asi-Daahey school and the even more desperately deprived beach camp school at Maranatha.

The excited toddlers come charging with dazzling toothy smiles, cheering and dancing, recognising the new recruits from yesterday.

First stop the nursery where I tear out pages from my one cheap little colouring book, giving a single sheet to each child and sharing a packet of felt-tipped pens and crayons.

It is sheer delight to watch the children scribble earnestly then bring their works of art to Madame Christine for a sticker. Flavia and Beth and some older schoolgirls are supervising and breaking up squabbles. After an hour, the toddlers are worn out and curl up on their mats for a rest!

I give some pens and resources to Madame Christine who is warming to me and posing for photos surrounded by the children. The 13-year-old girls move in on the bag of resources and choose two pens each, some greeting cards, a few stickers and writing pads and they are beaming with their booty.

They want to try out their new pens so I get them to write an essay about themselves and their ambitions; a journalist, a model and a doctor. A group of other young teens politely approach and ask for pens.

The Grade One teacher hears what’s going on and comes to lobby me! I admire her confident style so leave the sleepy toddlers and visit her classroom. Mavis is team teaching with the lovely Georgina I met yesterday and I take a shine to the two elegant women and decide on the spot that their class will be the recipient of the new exercise books. I cant give resources to every class so I figure I have to choose just one.

Each child sits up straight and the teachers hand out the new books and neatly write their names on them and divide up the colouring pens and they launch with rapt concentration into their drawings. I have never before witnessed such a love of learning and appreciation for such small gifts.

I give Georgina and Mavis packets of chalk and crayons, a stylish tin full of good stuff like a stapler, sticky tape, scissors, highlighters; the stationery we in the rich part of the world take for granted and finally a bulging green pencil case. The young teachers are clearly elated. A few simple resources will make their jobs a little easier.

Some cynics might say these handouts are just tokens and even ego trips for do-gooders, but it is not an ideal world and truth is, the school is massively under-resourced and relies on these haphazard donations from volunteers to provide a few extras.   

By now the big kids have heard pens and note books are on offer and suddenly I’m mobbed by forceful teenagers snatching stuff out of my hands.

I can’t blame them. As a stationery lover, I can’t imagine how frustrated I’d be if deprived of pens and paper to write on.

I am frazzled but chuffed that my few meagre resources stretched so far and wish I could bring more. In the afternoon I head off to find a tro tro with Krystel, an Aussie girl from Melbourne whose parents are from Mauritius. Only 18, she signed on as a volunteer straight after high school. A gutsy young woman, she was so determined to overcome her parents’ objections, she chose volunteering in Africa over her first car! Krystel is working at the Asi-Daahey school for two solid months. I am exhausted after just two days so I admire her commitment and stamina!

We make our way on foot to the quirky little internet café at the end of the main street, strolling past the weird and wonderful assortment of market stalls. I send, very slowly, a few emails, on a dodgy computer, and catch up with facebook but I can’t upload my blog posts without Fi Wi. After two hours I wander off but manage to get lost and two courteous men in business clothes escort me back to the MAD House chatting about their jobs and families and asking about life in London.

I go in search of food again at the little stalls, ever hopeful of finding something nutritious, and buy a large squash and cook some craved-for veg and pasta for the household to add to the chips and sausage that our cook, sweet-natured Gifty has made.

Local man Steven is boarding in the MAD house and he’s off to a church meeting so when he returns I give him a massive plate of pasta and squash and make a corny pun about him training as a pastor and eating pasta! Yeah Ha! Ha! Very funny!

I am the last one to bed tonight, still plugging away at my keyboard while the youngies head for their bunks but Sam is still cracking jokes and causing hoots of laughter from the sleepy volunteers. They are wonderful young adults who talk fondly about their families, as they boldly step out into the world. They are having adventures they’ll never forget while making a difference to the lives of children here in remote Ada Foah.

9 Ada Foah: My Foray into the Classroom

I wanted to be a teacher when I was a bright as a button first grader but by the end of primary school after I’d watched every episode of the original Superman on the old black and white telie, my role model switched from the lovely Miss Lamb to that gutsy newspaperwoman, Lois Lane.

So I am finding myself way out of my depth and floundering, like a swimmer caught in a current, in the classrooms at Asi-Daahey as a volunteer English teacher.

First off we all meet the irrepressible Grandpa, the 78-year-old Headmaster who welcomes us to his school and decides we would be most useful sharpening the students’ command of English. He introduces Beth and me to teacher Sarah who gives us the low-down on the lesson plans.

Now here I am in Grade 4 with a dozen shiny brown faces and huge eyes staring at me expectantly. So I reach for The Little Red Hen. The story is perhaps meant for younger children so I decide to lift the game by exploring the moral issues, quizzing them about the book’s meaning and introducing the big new word ‘consequences’.

I must admit my philosophical discussion of the consequences of actions is going down like a lead balloon. But we all agree it’s good to help each other in the village, especially if you want the rewards of nice warm bread!

I’m on a roll, so I unleash my other prized resource, The Very Hungry Caterpillar and the kids are mightily impressed with his voracious appetite but even more thrilled when he turns into a resplendent butterfly. The mystery and hope of metamorphosis inspires humans of any age and any culture!

Now the children teach me their language, Dangbe. They seize the one tiny piece of chalk and give a brilliant lesson. But the real teacher has arrived and I hand the class over to him and move on to Grade One.

Stunningly beautiful teacher Georgina invites me to help the children practise their letters. Then I do my star turn with that greedy binge-eater again and the children giggle with delight at the holes in the book and count aloud all the foods he munches through!

But the most joyous response comes from the three-year-olds in the nursery who clap their hands, shriek and cheer with every item the caterpillar devours. Wow! What an appreciative audience! But the whole story-telling session goes belly up when I stupidly give a child the book to look at expecting him to pass it to the next child!

I have forgotten that three-year-olds have not yet learnt the concept of sharing and my determined little friend is hanging on to the precious book with all his might and refusing the release it. Oh dear! What have I done! So I just make it worse but giving The Little Red Hen to another child and now he’s clutching it close to his little chest and kicking anyone who tries to swipe it!

I look around the barren classroom to see if there are any storybooks and there are none. I give the two books to teacher Christine, a patient old Mama, and she stashes them away in a safe place.

And now for a photo session but the toddlers don’t want to share the spotlight in a group shot. They all insist on individual mug shots and giggle with glee to see themselves on the little screen.

More pushing and shoving over possession of the camera! It predictably ends in tears and builds to sobbing and wailing so I wrap my arms around one distraught little chap and soothe him with rocking and whispering “shh, shh, shh” and he melts and calms down, soaking up the affection.

The little Ghanaian children are adorable. Some of the tiny boys look like mini-men; pint-size adults with their perfectly formed facial features and the little girls with their fuzzy heads or rows of tight braids and beaming smiles of snow white teeth are so pretty! And they jump like little monkeys! They launch at you from all directions and wrap their legs around your waist or grab onto a leg, eager for cuddles. All the volunteers, with their maternal juices flowing, have fallen in love with the irresistible children!     

Asi-Daahey school starts from nursery and goes up to Junior High but some of the students are strapping teens of 17, even 18. Set up in 1999 on the far-flung south-eastern coast, it now has about 200 students.

Madventurer supports the school with funding, and volunteers are assisting local skilled tradesmen to build massive dormitories to house orphans and abandoned children, who are assimilated with the other students. Parents pay modest fees as the school receives no government funding.

All the children eat a hot lunch and today us volunteers join the teachers for bean stew served with scoops of coarse, dry grain that tastes to me like saw dust. My naïve plan to introduce the school children to yummy, nutritious lentil burgers is fading fast. It seems the simple menu is set for every day of the week without deviation. 

After lunch students are training on the rough field for Athletics. Not being particularly sporty, Beth and I chat with some inquisitive 13-year-old girls who want to know all about life in England, our jobs and families and they are desperately keen for stationery, even my business cards!

Back at the MAD house, I want to conjure up some guacamole but the humble vegetable store out front doesn’t have avocadoes or very much at all for that matter so I buy some tomatoes, garlic, onions and tomato paste and make some salsa dip and crackers for everyone.

The rest of the volunteers, Aussie chick, Krystel, tall, blonde trainee nurse Grace and the youngest of the group, 17-year-old school girl from Wales, Kara and our two lads, wise-cracking Sam and sensitive James who are doing Business degrees, all return from a riotous trip away so our numbers swell to a very full MAD House with 14 of us sleeping in bunks in two bedrooms.   

  

I whip up an omelette for the vegetarians on a little gas stove in the dark hallway and the rest of the hungry mob tuck into something completely different, chicken and rice! 

It seems that in poor communities when something breaks it stays broken. There is a real need for handymen out here! The water and electricity can go off at any time for no apparent reason. I suspect the authorities ration water and power supply and turn it one and off throughout the day.

Tonight the water is off. Grace and I are rostered to wash the dishes in plastic tubs outside in the dark yard. Excited about throwing the bucket down the well to fetch some water, something I’ve never done before, I accidentally let go of the rope and it lands at the bottom of the well! Clever Elizabeth uses a long metal pole to hook the rope and ease it up the wall then lanky Grace leans in and grabs it, with much applause and cheers!

The dedicated volunteers sit around preparing exercise books for the kids’ lessons tomorrow, laughing and shrieking at their drawing efforts and singing along to some pop songs I’ve never heard. I am the oldie in the group but feel accepted as part of the MAD adventure! 

8 Coast of Ghana: The Road to Ada Foah

My luck has run out. Of all the times to suffer an attack of diarrhoea; in a crowded tro tro roaring along a highway in torrential rain.

Elizabeth pleads with the driver to stop and he argues furiously. Finally he concedes and pulls over at a deserted service station. Deep, muddy puddles surround the dilapidated toilet. An obliging adolescent registered my distress and throws down a plank and I wade through the slush, like a novice circus performer.

Back in the tro tro, saturated but relieved, I pray the imodione kicks in and wonder, pointlessly, what I ate or drank to cause my embarrassing predicament.

Earlier I had rendezvoused with pretty Elizabeth, brown as a berry, the crew leader of the Asi-Daahey and Maranatha schools and hospital projects at coastal Ada Foah in the Dangme East District, where she has been impressively in charge since February, ushering in waves of anxious volunteers. Originally from Carlisle, she’s equipped with a Masters in International Development and Education and at just 23 had already done the hard yards in Tanzania, Kenya and other parts of Ghana.

Like a confident mother hen, Liz gathered together the dazed, culture shocked new recruits; Susie, a speech therapy student from Manchester, Beth, a charity worker from South London, Flavia, a trust manager from Jersey and me, an Aussie journalist now living in Ealing, for a comprehensive, if not mildly daunting, induction.

We convened in the beer garden of the Paloma Hotel and Elizabeth eloquently outlined our roles, the health and safety issues, the rules, the local customs, the natural environment and the cast of characters we would encounter.

Seeking a much-needed vitamin fix, I ordered fresh carrot juice chased by fresh orange juice. Perhaps the kitchen staff added tap water? Elizabeth gave us a caste-iron guarantee that we would get sick if we foolishly drank the water straight up. Plastic sachets were the only safe option.

We were joined for lunch by four amusing girls, brimming with humorous anecdotes from their first week at the projects; Hannah, a biomedical student at Newcastle Uni, and Susie’s friends; Jess, Alix and Charlotte, all speech therapy students from Manchester. Keen for a break from spicy food, we shared a veggie pizza, confident that appetising treat would be a safe food choice!

But the instant I sat in the tightly-packed tro tro, as it filled with passengers including a silent girl with a container of snails on her lap and her mother nursing a metal head dish of yams, I knew something was wrong as I feel all queasy.

But after the bizarre toilet stop, catastrophe is averted! My stomach has stopped churning, the rain has vanished, the sun has broken through the storm clouds, my clothes have dried out and all is well on the road to Ada Foah.

When we arrive in the red dirt top end of town, the cool dudes are out in force, swaggering near their shiny motor bikes; an impromptu welcoming committee for the intriguing procession of fair skinned girls in their shorts and flip flops.

The attractive, fresh-faced girls receive countless proposals on a daily basis and the locals are shocked to know they are not already married with several babies in tow! Their single status is a social disgrace the cheeky lads offer to immediate rectify! The motorbike boys give me the once-over and fortunately I now have the title of ‘Mama’ so I’m in no danger of random marriage proposals!  

Us wide-eyed new recruits enter the the cluttered rooms of the MAD House, which is indeed extremely basic, no-frills accommodation and the volunteers have not wasted time on housework! I resist the urge to play Mum and start tidying up. Instead I make a cup of tea. What else would any self-respecting Aussie-Brit do!

I am rather chuffed that I can figure out how to hang up my mosquito net over my bottom bunk bed without any help and I claim a section of gritty concrete floor space for my gear. Over-flowing bags, tangled clothes and assorted girls’ stuff are strewn everywhere. Just like camping!

I meet a few of the village children who have popped in for a visit. Showing them some photos of my family, my trusty little laptop is fast-fading laptop and I panic, imagining my essential work tool going kaput, then realise it just needs charging!

We venture out for dinner (more rice) at The Brightest Spot. Lounging outside at a long table in the cool dark night, with the African version of Big Brother playing on an overhead screen in the distance, the girls swap entertaining stories and laughs as we watch a group of cute kittens play in the garden, flipping and leaping and wrestling.

So I have arrived at Ada Foah and a new adventure begins. I’m off to bed under my mossie net. Sweet dreams. 

7 Accra: Finding Oneself Travelling Solo

In just one week I am already savouring independence, trying new skills, making decisions without consulting a husband, packing bags my own way and managing my own mental and emotional state without the indulgence of daily venting to a confidante.

Travelling solo confirms my belief that co-dependent twosomes need to venture out as individuals in order to develop. In a long-term marriage your thoughts and feelings and needs and habits get so tangled up, like those football boots in the market stall! An enmeshed couple definitely benefits from an unravelling so you can experience yourself with clear boundaries.

Ironically a strong sense of self is the means to passion. You can only truly desire someone from a distance as a well-formed individual. You can only accept, respect, appreciate and admire your partner when you see him/her as unique and separate, not as some fantasy figure to simply meet all your emotional needs. You learn emotional self-sufficiency with maturity and travel can certainly mature a person.

I say goodbye to Justus with a traditional handshake and say “Ak Pay Ka-Ka-Ka-Ka.” (Thank you very, very much) and I promise to seek plumbers and investors in the UK.

Knowledge and Clinton carry my heavy bags on their backs flanked by Gabi and dancing Emmanuela as we set off to find the tro-tro to Ho but an enterprising young chap offers us a super-charged taxi ride instead.

We are zooming along at high speed in an old bomb of a rust bucket protected by a plastic orange lobster and crab and a large crucifix fixed to the scorched dashboard.

I am cheerfully sandwiched between four men with all the windows down, my wet hair is flying in the breeze and scenes of busy villagers flash past through the cracked windscreen. “This is the life,” says Gabi in his lilting French accent and I have to agree.

We arrive in Ho in record time and Gabi finds us a luxury red tro-tro for 15 passengers, three across five bench seats, with air-conditioning and Reggae-Gospel music. We set off around 9.30 am and I am dreaming of Shia and, recalling the joy of my kids growing up, I can’t help imagine how the village kids would delight in a community swimming pool.

But then I realise the cultural impact; every benefit brings a problem such as the risk of accidents, the need for supervision and maintenance Some jobs for locals? But who would pay? The council or would there be a small charge? Of course the village parents could not afford it. I feel sad.

There are so many photo opportunities along the way of bizarre signage and broken-down dwellings and thatched-roof huts in poor roadside villages but however humble these are their homes and I don’t want to be a rude, supercilious voyeuristic tourist so I keep my camera in my bag.

It is a long, tiring trip capped off by some corny, maudlin country music that has the power to plunge me into melancholy (perhaps it was the song about the guy who committed suicide?) and we finally arrive in the thick city traffic of Accra around 1 pm and immediately get a cab to the Pink Hostel to connect with Anna.

We all have lunch and a beer and I would truly love to just settled into the internet lounge and plug into the free Wi Fi but my promise to Clintion, Emmanuela and Doris must be fulfilled so I head out in a cab in search of the Mall but the driver takes me to a Supermarket instead so I catch another cab and finally end of at the very plush air-conditioned Mall for well-heeled city workers. But I buy the price for convenience.

I buy the little girl some pretty sandals, a set of three t-shirts and shorts. I find a department store and buy Clintion a bright red Manchester United football. I could have bought a standard black and white one much cheaper but how could I not complete the impressive kit that will surely make him a legend amongst the other boys?

I gulp as I pay a lot more than I would at a market stall but I really cannot face another trip to a market after yesterday’s ordeal! So I fork out the loot and also buy Emmanuela a plastic ball so she can join in the fun. It’s a done deal! I have completed my transaction with my little friend Clintion. Anna and Gabi will take the treasures back to Shia tomorrow when I head to the coast for the next project.

Tonight Gabi and Anna and new recruit Kelly and British traveller Vicky and me find a spacious restaurant called the Baku and we chow down on some gigantic serves of extra spicy traditional foods and I opt for a real chilled coconut and savour the re-hydrating water. It is a balmy evening in downtown Accra and the lads are frisky on the streets, the frogs are croaking and the stars are bright when we grab a taxi back to the hostel to the internet lounge to chill.   

 

6 Shia: Realising Why I was Here in Shia!

Knowledge is so quiet in the background, helping out and running errands whenever Doris bellow “Noli, Noli” that I forget that I haven’t given him a gift.

He is an Accounting student so I give him a calculator, which I brought with me. Perfect!

This Friday morning we are on a mission. With Justus, immaculate in his business suit at the wheel of his sturdy emerald green Toyota Fortuna Four Wheel Drive, we cruise along the wide, freshly made roads through lush vegetation and roadside stalls with ladies in colourful dresses carrying lofty loads with babies tightly wrapped on their backs, little feet sticking out around their hips.

We are off to Ho, Anna and Doris with little Emmanuela to shop for groceries and the excited boys and me in pursuit of the elusive football boots. 

It is not simple. Thankfully Justus accompanies the boys and me to the first store but we strike out. The next store’s football boots are too big. We try another fancy store with a vast array of every style of shoe you can imagine but no football boots. We drive to find a storekeeper friend of Justus and he directs us to a sports store. There is just one pair, which is too small.

The boys’ expectant faces are dropping into gloom and there is no alternative. We have to brave the chaos of the frantic market stalls. Justus bows out and wishes me luck! We spot some shoes but no boots!

But the polite teenager offers to lead us through the back alleys. We find a tangled pile of football boots on the ground in an obscure corner. Eureka! A pair fit Felix! But there are none that fit Clintion. Abject disappointment. Clinton is crushed. I know we MUST find him a pair or the two friends will suffer chronic lop-sidedness.

Our impromptu teenager guide leads us to another stall where, hallelujah, a pair of football boots fit Clinton and he is beaming a smile, which lights up the marketplace!

I offer to give our young guide a cedi for helping us but he refuses to take it. I’ve spent 16 cedis on Felix’s boots and 15 cedis on Clinton but I’m not done. Clinton is on a roll and he’s lobbying hard for jerseys.

We find an enterprising guy with a stack of vivid jerseys on his head and an arm full of matching shorts. The boys deliberate and carefully choose their favourite team colours. Clinton goes for red for Milan and Felix opts for blue for Barcelona! They grab some matching shorts and I haggle our man down to 15 cedis for the lot!

Clinton is not done. Now they need socks! I’m being led through the crowds to a sock and underwear stall! Done deal at five cedis for both pairs. My wallet is completely empty and Clinton is downcast because the final piece of kit is of course a ball. I show him my cashless wallet, turn it upside down and shake it! We must find the others and head for home. Traipsing through the markets has been harrowing and I’m ready to collapse but we push on to find Anna and Doris.

Miraculously we spot Anna but Doris vanishes into the jostling throng. Anna is worn-out too and sets off to catch a tro-tro to Accra to meet more MAD volunteers so the boys and I launch a futile search for Doris amid a profusion of baskets of dried fish, colourful vegetables, beans and spices, live chickens and mysterious foodstuffs that defy description.

The sights and sounds are intoxicating, I’m floating and my senses are soaring. I suddenly realise I’m not taking photos and my snap-happy husband would disapprove of such a wasted opportunity. I whip out my camera and hold it at my side discreetly and click away as we mingle with the multitudes, without making it obvious I’m taking photos as the Ghanaians dislike random, unposed shots.

Of course there is no way we can find Doris so I lead the boys to the main road to call Justus to collect us in the car. We stand under a prominent sign for what seems like eternity in the blazing sun but Justus is waiting somewhere else for Doris. Eventually Clinton spots his mama cheerfully browsing and we make a bee-line and follow Doris to the sanctuary of the big green 4WD! What a crazy ordeal!

Puffy faced and sunburnt, I doze all the way back to Shia where I share a beer on the verandah with Justus and Gabi and take pleasure in furtively watching a bare-chested, well-built young man wash the car! It’s an exquisite vision of male beauty fit for a pin-up poster! 

Tomorrow in Accra I will buy the football and ensure that Clinton’s kit is complete. Maybe this plucky little hustler will become a star striker! I will also buy Emmanuela some school sandals, a top and shorts because, like little sisters everywhere, she has sussed out that her big brother has scored a new outfit and naturally doesn’t want to miss out! I’ll send the goodies back with Anna and Gabi as I will be heading in a new direction.

This is my last night at Justus’ tranquil home in Shia. It feels like I’ve been here a month, not just six days, and I’ve absorbed a veritable feast of delightful culture, hospitality and warmth.

I now know that the purpose of my stay is much more than bestowing a few gifts. The bigger goals are to find plumbers who will come to this remote community and fix the schools’ toilet blocks and teach the students their trade.

The second major goal is to find a foreign investor for Justus’s visionary cocoa factory that will transform the entire community and allow the humble cocoa farmers and their beautiful families here to prosper and thrive. That is why I was here.   

          

5 Shia: Big Meals, Small Gestures

The rain falls gentle and soothing throughout the night but I am wide-awake at 2 am with a stuffed nose, burning throat and throbbing headache. I dread to think I’m coming down with a bug to spoil my trip. I remember I threw a trusty Vicks inhaler in my first aid kit when packing. So I use the feeble torch light to find it and instantly my nose is cleared and I’m pleased with my forward planning!

I pop two paracetamol and dab lavender oil on my temples and I’m feeling better and drifting off to sleep, lulled by a tuneful choir of frogs and cicadas.

Doris has made a massive bowl of porridge for us three for breakfast and we only manage to eat a fraction and Anna is concerned about wasting food so asks Justus to request that Doris reduces the quantity without causing offence. Her traditional food is delicious, although very high in carbs and a recipe for rapid weight gain!

Childminding is universal. It is impossible to concentrate on my work while watching Emmanuela for Doris who has gone to a Parent-Teacher meeting. The pretty toddler is parading in her best dress for a photo session. I take some snaps and resume typing on my laptop but she is bored and restless and wants my attention.

We read The Very Hungry Caterpillar, a storybook I packed to read to children in the orphanage. I realise that these children don’t have all the foods the caterpillar devours. No apples, pears, plums, strawberries, oranges, chocolate cake, ice-cream, pickles, Swiss cheese, salami, lollipops, cherry pie, sausages or cupcakes…but yes! They do have watermelon! I’m wondering if this book was a dumb choice for Ghanaian children used to simple foods.

Anna and Gabi are back from visiting the neighbouring schools to organise the Frisbee Championships and she recounts a hair-raising journey with the two of them on the back of a motor bike driven by a local guy along bumpy back tracks, strewn with rocks and water-filled pot holes and flooded bogs. At one terrifying point they were going down a steep cliff when the brakes failed but somehow they averted a crash and returned unscathed to tell the tale!

I must admit I’m glad I missed that little adventure! I prefer my vehicles to have four wheels, sides and a roof! (Throw in air conditioning and my favourite CDs, now that’s the way to travel!)    

I am feeling a little lost this afternoon, taken to my room to read the guide book about the final leg of my stay on the coast at Elima and I try to phone to book a hotel but can’t get through so resign myself to just showing up knowing there is sure to be a room in this off-peak season!

I sit outside to catch a breath of cool air and Justus joins me to discuss the finer points of investment in the cocoa project and suddenly I am embarrassingly pouring sweat until I look like I’ve just emerged from a swimming pool, literally dripping wet! I excuse myself to have a shower (bucket wash!)

Ironically the hardest challenge for me is not the basic living conditions but the sweltering humidity and at this stage of life I appreciate the brisk chill of London! Sun-lovers say I’m nuts to prefer a cold climate but that’s what menopause does to us former beach bunnies in middle age!

Doris introduces her mother, Olivia and beautiful slender sister Rose and her younger blossoming sister Fosti. I offer to take some family photos of them with the children and get prints and post to Doris when I get home. I don’t like the hassle of getting prints these days now we’re all digital but I figure it’s a small gesture.

After another filling meal of spicy rice and corn on the cob we sit outside and Doris compliments my dress, a strapless tropical print I bought for a few pounds from Primark. She says: “You give it to me.” It sounds rude but the guide book points out this is a common direct way Ghanaians ask for what they want of white visitors! I like her assertiveness!

I ponder for a second and say ‘Sure’. It is the least I can give as a thank you for her cooking. The sad irony is we can buy cheap clothes in rich countries because they are made in poor countries by exploited labour. So I give back to a woman living in poor conditions a cheap dress she can’t afford. I am not a do-gooder. It is just a very unfair world.

I hope one day we can eliminate poverty and inequality. Meantime we can make a small difference whenever we can.     

4 Shia: A Big Vision for Reviving The Cocoa Glory Days

By Wednesday it is well and truly time to wash my lank hair. The feel of the cold water on my sweaty head and running down my hot, clammy body is blissful. Today is the day to get properly clean and put on a light dress because today I will interview Justus about his distinguished career and vision for the cocoa industry!

I have woken up with a sore throat and stuffy nose and tiny spots on my stomach and have a momentary panic about malaria but realise it is more likely just a minor bacterial infection and flea bites, not mozzie bites.

I spend a solid four hours writing under the fan in the living room, feeling useful and productive, rather than an aimless interloper. It is satisfying to record my observations and subjective experience, hopefully of interest to some curious readers beyond this insular community.

I wander to the dusty High Street in search of throat lozengers but buy two large bottles of gin for Justus instead, to thank him for his hospitality.

After lunch with Anna and Gabi, I settle in for a comprehensive interview with Justus with my little recorder primed for two hours of taping.

I am hoping the Global Development Editor of the Guardian will pick up the story of how this small, rural community is embarking on an innovative and sustainable project that will set up future generations.

Half way through, we are interrupted by a group of villagers who come to consult Justus on some worrying matter. People continually drop by the house to seek his wisdom. He listens for a few minutes and gives a ruling and they leave with the issue resolved. 

When we re-start our interview, Justus outlines his vision for reviving the cocoa industry throughout the region by forming a Union of 300 farmers of small plots. There will be strength in working together. He wants to bring jobs and income to the people here that they once enjoyed before the fires of 1983 destroyed the farms. The ambitious goal is to establish a factory where the beans are ground into powder for export.

Suddenly an afternoon downpour drowns out our conversation and cools the sweetly scented air. A gush of water streams off the roof and runs into the drum filling it for our washing needs, in a perfectly natural cycle. No wonder they are not that worried about the lack of plumbing.

After our interview concludes Justus and Gabi and Anna and I enjoy a glass of gin and tonic and I whip up a bowl of guacamole to have with crackers. Yesterday an old man came to the verandah, sat on floor and took out five plump avocadoes from a sack. We realised this was a wordless transactional moment so I fetched three cedis and he glided away happy and I was impressed with his enterprising home delivery service!

We chat passionately over our drinks about potential cash crops for this verdant tropical region; Justus tells us a substance in mango kernels can be used for weight loss to combat the epidemic of obesity in the west. I suggest coconuts, rich in nutrients are a super food with immense commercial possibilities and permaculture would be ideal for these small farms. I remember an Australian expert whom I will google search. The locals could use some input of outside expertise to train them in these ecological methods. 

Tonight’s meal is a veritable feast; fat yam chips, red curry sauce, chicken for Gabi and Anna and hard boiled eggs for me, mouth-watering corn on the cob followed by chunks of succulent mango.

I never know what will happen next. Clinton approaches me with a request to buy him some football boots. I quiz him about how necessary they are. If he had a choice between boots and camera what would he choose? How dedicated is he to football? He mounts a persuasive case.

Why should I buy Clinton football boots? Because he asked. Because he needs them. Because he wants them. Because I can.

So I ask his mother’s permission and Doris not only agrees but asks if I can also buy some for his best friend Felix. I realise later that she is not being greedy. She is being fair. The boys train together every morning and it wouldn’t be right for Clinton to have the advantage of proper boots with stops over his friend.

John also told me yesterday that you cannot give a Ghanaian one gift. It would be lop sided, like hopping on one foot. Visitors always present two bottles, not one, to the chief. I can not dispute this logic.

 

So we devise a plan to take Clinton and Felix to Ho on Friday when Anna and Doris go food shopping. I will take the boys to try on and buy their boots. Of course Clinton knows exactly where the shop is. He has been praying and wishing for them for a very long time. Everyone deserves to have their prayers and wishes come true.    

3 Shia: A Hectic Visit to the Bustling Town of Ho

For an old girl, I’m surprising myself how quickly I’m adapting to the household routines, lugging heavy buckets of water from the drum on the porch to my bathroom to wash and flush. I’m just a little squeamish about putting used toilet paper in a rubbish bin instead of in the toilet bowl to avoid clogging! But I tie off the plastic bags and the contents are later discreetly burned in the backyard incinerator.

I’m going through anti-bacterial hand wipes at a rapid rate. I perspire profusely in the sultry humidity, and I’m reminded constantly why I left the sub tropics. I feel clammy, lethargic and bloated and need to wear loose dresses instead of tight trousers.

The pure, chilled drinking water comes in plastic bags. Anna shows me how to pierce the corner and deftly decant the refreshing water into my bottle which I carry everywhere and swig every 10 minutes.  

I’m adapting quickly to the basic food but missing a variety of fresh vegetables and my non-meat favourite protein foods like hummus, tofu, lentils, legumes and whole grains. Breakfast is thick, soft white bread and jam and tea with powdered milk.   

I’m finding it difficult to learn simple words and phrases, needing to have them repeated over and over, unlike Anna who masters language quickly. I try to commit to memory the word for Chief, which is ‘Tog-Be’ and ‘Ak-pe’ for thank you but my pronunciation is amusing! I can say ‘Yo’ which means fine!

And Anna has taught me the Ghanaian handshake, which is to end the shake with a squeeze and click of the thumb and middle finger. Now that’s fun!

The happy atmosphere of Ghana is infused with Christian faith. Market stalls are called such evangelical names as Jesus Is The Answer general store, Rock Of Life Refrigeration, the Grace and Glory business centre and God Is The Best beauty salon!

People sing hymns while going about their business and there is a chapel in Justus’ front garden. I awake to the roster’s cry and morning services with the pastor preaching and praying fervently with the locals, some days for healing, some days for deliverance, some days just giving thanks for blessings. The young pastor’s surprising name is Hilarious Brilliant!

This day, Tuesday the MAD girls and I pack up the room and head to the bustling town of Ho, population 100,000, with commerce in full swing, and traffic going in all directions! While John runs some errands and Anna finds the internet centre, us girls hang out at a sprawling hotel with an enticing swimming pool and two pet monkeys in a cage.

It’s enough to eat an early lunch of omelette, chips and rice and curried veggies. The girls are also missing healthy salads and appreciate just how lucky with the infinite variety of foods back home. When John and Anna arrive, we meet with the Head Chief of Shia who happens to be in Ho and when John and the MAD volunteers set off for Accra, he takes Anna and me under his wing.

The clouds have dispersed and the sun is searing as we wander through the busy streets, dodging deep drains and noisy cars to visit the Chief’s family residence in Ho. When in Shia he lives in the palace. Togbe Dadzawa the second has reigned for 20 years after his father was chief for 63 years.

We are honoured to have this important community leader help us sort out mobile phones and escort us to the air-conditioned Vodofone internet centre where we get stuck in for an hour. The Chief takes us by cab to the tro-tro depot and sees us safely handed over to the driver for the return trip to Shia.

It has been a hectic outing in the chaotic town and I am relieved to be ‘home’ under the ceiling fans to play with Clinton and Emmaneula. When I give the little girl a gift of a paper fan, she dances and thumps her chest and hoots with pure joy! I give Clinton some pencils and a colouring book and he throws himself into copying the complex patterns. It is overwhelming to witness Emmaneula’s appreciation of a simple trinket and the 12-year-old’s artistic zeal and enthusiasm for a new challenge.

I have already bonded with the children and made new friends with the adults. How is it possible to feel so much a part of my new Shia family within just a few days? In this cross-cultural connection of black and white, there are not that many real differences. We are indeed one human family wherever we are born and raised.     

2 Shia: Touring the Village Brings Insight

Heavy shoes are required. Justus is leading Anna and Gabi and me on a tour of the village today to view the Madventurer projects. We walk along the red dirt High Street greeted by locals tending their shops, our white faces a source of curiosity but being with the respected village elder, it is clear we are guests and dazzling smiles make us welcome.

First stop is a run-down, closed-up house that Justus explains belonged to his cousin, now deceased, which Madventurer can use to accommodate volunteers while they renovate the old disused post office converting it to a MAD house for future volunteers.

We enter the musty old building full of broken furniture and junk and salvage a grubby old foam mattress and dusty pillows and some useful items, making the most of available resources, rather than just chucking stuff away as we do back home.

When Justus shows us inside the derelict post office, I can’t help thinking it needs a visit from the TV crew of Sixty Minute Make-Over. However an enthusiastic team of hard-working MAD volunteers will clean, repair, paint and perform a miracle in a matter of weeks! 

We wander across the road through the lush fields to the School and meet the teachers and peep into classrooms of children in their neatly pressed terracotta and peach uniforms who laugh and greet us with “Ye-Vo, Ye-Vo”.

Justus points out the impressive toilet block that was built by Madventurer some years ago however the toilets aren’t working because the plumping is broken and I realise the school and the whole village is in desperate need of plumbers. Proper sanitation brings hygiene and transforms the quality of life.

We visit the Madventurer building now being used as a kitchen by ladies to cook the children their mid-day meal of Banku. We watch them roll maize dough into balls and wrap them in leaves to bake in coals.

At the kindergarten, the three-year-olds are sitting with straight backs in little chairs in rows on the verandah. All of the children are curious with wide eyes and toothy smiles and giggles but one little boy starts crying and runs for cover and another little girl sobs inconsolably at the sight of three big white skinned people! I say to Justus “We must look like ghosts!” and he laughs and agrees!

We meet the headmaster and Anna discusses plans for a sports project with a team of Frisbee players from the UK coming out later this summer. The Ghanaian children are legendary football players and athletes but Frisbee will be a new experience!

Justus shows us a sturdy pavilion constructed by Madventurer volunteers to be used by senior students for Technical studies in carpentry, plumbing and electrics however without equipment there are no classes so the building stands empty. I register another desperate need for training in the trades. 

When we visit the neighbouring Evangelical Presbyterian school, an elegant teacher is conducting lessons in a rickety building, clearly in need of repair or replacing altogether.

        

The excited children rapidly cluster together for a photos, jostling for front position and squeal with delight when we show them the pictures!

Visiting the school is a delightful experience and like most Ye-Vo’s, my heart is instantly captured by the beautiful, exuberant children with their irresistible big brown eyes, dazzling smiles, tight curls, enthusiasm for learning and good manners.

Continuing our tour around Shia village of around 3000 residents, we visit the impressive Catholic temple and church, the busy clinic which treats people from the whole region and we meet the charming midwife who delivers babies and runs the other and baby health checks.

We wander along dusty streets past humble houses bustling with everyday life and head back to the main street to shop for fresh, free range eggs, palm nut butter and a face washer to mop up the constant perspiration.

This afternoon Head of Madventurer and Shia Chief of Development John Lawler arrives with four pretty young students from Newcastle University. Laura is President of the Students’ Union and Harriet, Sophie and Rosie have been volunteering at an orphanage.

The girls will sleep on mattresses on the floor in my room so they dump their back packs and we all set off to see Justus’ Cocoa farm. It is well established with six-year-old trees yielding healthy yellow pods and a nursery of seedlings ready for planting.

Justus is the driving force behind forming a cocoa farmers union and he has 35,000 seedlings to distribute. Along with Madventurer’s help, the farmers aim to take the industry to the next level. Instead of selling the raw beans to the National Cocoa Board, they want to manufacture and export cocoa powder, which would bring in more revenue, jobs and prosperity for the region.

It’s an exciting project. As John explains Madventurer’s goals are to assist with the community’s basic needs, then education and finally industry and employment. And cocoa growing is perfect for the Volta region’s climate and conditions.

On the way back we spring an impromptu visit on Justus’ nephew Martin who has ingeniously come up with a sideline in his retirement of distilling a potent spirit from the sap of Palm trees. So we savour the Apotesi, which is surprisingly smooth and I imagine that a chocolate liquor would go down a treat around English fireplaces!

We also pay a formal visit to one of the esteemed chiefs and John brings a customary gift of two bottles of Schnapps. The chief makes us welcome in his community and promises our safety. We assemble in the garden for a group photo for the archives.

Justus is tireless and wants to show John and the girls the proposed MAD House but I am flagging so opt to return to the house to refreshen up with a wash, a cup of tea and lie down and maybe even upload my photos. But I discover the girls have locked the room and taken the key so I languish hot and sweaty on the verandah.

When Clinton appears, I show him how my camera works and he races off to practice his creativity. Later I show him how to upload and crop the images on my laptop. He grasps the skill quickly with a budding talent for photography!

We dine on Doris’ simple dish of rice and spicy vegetables and settle in for some socialising, chatting with the girls about their impressions of life in Ghana and their ambitions after graduation. We retire early to allow John and Justus to catch up on village business over a glass of red wine.