20 Accra: Soul Searching on Leaving Ghana

 Today is Friday, the final day of my stay in Ghana and I’m soul-searching. What has been my motivation for spending and tipping freely, giving gifts, for volunteering, in making on-going commitment to projects and taking on personal cases?

If I’m honest with myself I admit I want to be liked. I’ve long been approval-seeking and a people-pleaser. And it sure is easy to win approval when you’re the one with cash to splash amongst people who are scrambling to survive day to day.  It’s easy to play the Big Shot. 

But coming into maturity I now realise that trying to be liked by others is not necessarily the right motivation. I want to like myself. Like all human beings, I have to live with myself and it feels good to be kind, compassionate and generous. This is how I want to be; living every moment in my core values. 

I want to be a practical Christian, following the scriptural teaching in Matthew 25 when Jesus instructed us to feed the hungry, give water to the thirsty, give shelter to the homeless and clothes to the shivering, help the sick and visit those in prison.

However sporadic handouts by well-meaning tourists like me are not a lasting solution. We who live in the privileged part of the world must assist those living in poverty to solve the problems of food production, clean water, housing and infrastructure, education and employment in sustainable ways.

Redressing the balance requires scrutinising the underlying causes of inequality, facing the uncomfortable reality that our high standard of living in developed countries comes at the expense of people in poor countries, exploited by governments and corporations for their resources and labour. 

‘Sickness’ is a broad term covering emotional and mental heartache and despair as much as physical illness and injury. Caring for the sick means embracing the world as one family, accepting we are responsible for mums and dads, brothers and sisters and children in other countries as much as those in our own families and neighbourhoods.

I believe ‘imprisonment’ includes the entrapment of millions of people globally who are robbed of their safety and freedom through abuse and violations of human rights and the immoral business of war. ‘Visiting those in prison’ means the recovery, rehabilitation and redemption of those traumatised by war and abuse. 

I believe in the power of compassionate people working together to end war and abuse, poverty and social injustice.

So my three-week experience in Ghana has come to an end and I cap off the trip with a delightful visit to Pastor Charles’ beloved mother. Big brother Arnold collects me from the Paloma hotel and takes me to meet Ma Anita, an inspirational, beautiful, intelligent lady.

A legendary cook, Ma Anita has made fresh chilled watermelon, pineapple and mango juice, a scrumptious healthy salad, creamy beans and the best deep fried plantain I’ve eaten in Ghana! We sit outside in her tranquil tropical garden.

With her twinkling eyes and smooth skin, Ma looks much younger than her 82 years. She is the dignified matriarch of a large high-achieving family of two sons and two daughters and numerous grandchildren. She raised her family on her own, putting her children through university by working in insurance then turning to baking bread and running a store.

Well-travelled and well-read, Ma has a vast general knowledge, sharp intellect and, I’m told, a lovely singing voice and she is still active in her church where Arnold is pastor. It is a great honour to meet her and Arnold and enjoy their company for a few hours on my final day here.

Ma shows me the family photo albums, we have an entertaining skype call with Charles and Theresa and Ma gives me an exquisite Ashanti hand woven shawl which I will treasure.

Meeting this well-educated, accomplished family has given me another insight into Ghanaian society. Clearly, education is the key to succeeding in any culture. Ma Anita gave her children that life-changing opportunity and now her grandchildren are all university educated with high-powered careers ahead of them and the strong desire to make a difference.

Hope for positive change lies with new generations of clever, creative and compassionate young people.

Arnold and his lovely wife Elizabeth kindly battle peak hour city traffic to drop me at the airport. We hug goodbye knowing we have bonded as friends.

So here I sit in the departure lounge, waiting to board the 10.45 pm overnight flight with British Airways that will whisk me back to my regular life in a three-storey terrace in West Ealing on the Piccadilly Line.

I suspect I will experience culture shock in reverse as I re-enter normality. My values have been subjected to a major tweaking. I know I will be less consumeristic and less complaining, more appreciative of my privileged lifestyle, education and job opportunities, creature comforts, good toilets, electricity, air conditioning, safe water and nutritious food, and more grateful than ever for my loving, supportive family and friends.

I have directly touched the lives of hundreds of Ghanaians and they have deeply touched my heart. I have given a few little tokens but received immeasurably more intangible gifts of the heart I will cherish forever.

I will honour my promises to those whose dreams I now carry beyond the constraints imposed by poverty into the developed world of opportunities. And I will continue to strive to make a difference for my new friends, their families and communities.

So now I will sign off and say Goodbye Ghana. May God bless you and keep you in peace, kindness and faith and throw in a dash of prosperity too. Thanks you for your warmth and friendship and adventures.   

19 Cape Coast: Discovery of African Talent

Last night when I ventured out in the pitch black to collect my name bracelets from Koby’s mate, who should be waiting in the beer garden for me than the Reggae muso with the bountiful dreadlocks?

In some cosmic coincidence, Kingdom (yes that’s his name) just bumped into me! We walk together to the corner and who should we bump into (another miracle!) but his musician friend Wonder Boy (yes, that’s his name!)

Actually I think the boys are calling and texting each other with tip-offs as to my movements and ambush me, in a very nice way of course!

Another BFO (Blinding Flash of the Obvious) handsome young Kingdom was not chatting me up for my voluptuous body after all! He sees in me a potential UK promoter and publicist for their band!  

If Kingdom is shy and mysterious, Wonder Boy is not reticent in launching into the hard sell on his group of African drummers and dancers. I’m intrigued and, after collecting my bracelets, the three of us wander back to the beer garden for an impromptu business meeting.

The group of three drummers and two dancers (and sometimes Wonder Boy’s sister also dances) is called African Dance Theatre. The talented performers, who’ve been playing since childhood, are a sensation at festivals and gigs up and down Cape Coast with shows that include dramatic fire tricks and acrobatics. And the dynamic team also teach workshops in drumming, dancing and singing to school students and adults.

Like musicians everywhere they yearn to be discovered and get that elusive lucky break. The boys have been praying night and day for years for someone to come along. And you guessed it! I am the answer to their prayers, Heaven sent, direct delivery! Divine Appointment!

I am instantly hired as their International Manager and adopted as Mummy yet again! My mind is racing with ideas. This unexpected discovery, as an accidental talent scout, has triggered my latent fantasy of being a promoter! My networking instinct kicks in, as I mentally list all the people I know who could help the guys in a grand cross-cultural collaboration!

This is crazy and a little bit MAD, but Making A Difference often means suspending common sense and going with the flow. I say goodnight to the boys with a plan to meet them on the beach bright and early for a photo shoot.

So here I am at 8 am in the beer garden, slightly dumbstruck, with camera in hand and the boys show up, Kingdom and Wonder Boy and three others; Antonio, Patrick and Joseph, all with stunning physiques, dazzling smiles and heads exploding with thick black dreadlocks!

Just as planned, we hit the beach with the rising sun in perfect position and the boys strut their stuff, performing with power and passion for the camera. I effortlessly snap the most remarkably beautiful shots and take some footage of the boys drumming, singing and dancing. It is an enthralling spectacle that brings tourists and locals running to watch.

Our spontaneous photo shoot is surreal and could not be better if carefully planned and stage-managed! These talented guys really are naturals! They could take the world by storm! 

Over a big breakfast, they enthuse about their dreams and ambitions to extend beyond Ghana. I am fast getting caught up in their vision of global success!

The excited boys tell me how the newly elected US President Obama came to town in 2009 in the biggest event that’s even happened on the Cape Coast; how everyone across Ghana converged, celebrating with parades and festivals, how powerful jets blew the roofs off shacks, security soldiers swarmed the streets and how Ghana’s President, the village Queen Mothers and King Fathers and all the local chiefs laid on the pomp and ceremony and even built a ‘palace’ for the glamorous couple to stay.

The euphoric celebrations I suspect were not so much adulation for Barrack personally as rejoicing for the inspiring example that a once-disadvantaged black man could rise to a position of greatness through “the audacity of hope.”

All five smiling boys escort me along Obama Street, tracing the famous route, embracing the spirit of possibility, as they direct me to the depot and put me on a bus for Accra. I give them motherly hugs, heavy with a serious sense of responsibility that I am now carrying the hopes and dreams of these young performers.

I’m travelling on a big bus today, not a 15-seat tro tro, but it’s just as cramped as the wide-shouldered man next to me is solid as a rock and not giving an inch! I sit hunched for two and half hours and finally, bone weary and scruffy, end up at the fancy, air-conditioned Paloma Hotel.

No prizes for guessing what comes next: the hot shower, washing my hair, the lashings of skin cream and I’m civilised again. I spot a veggie burger on the Room Service menu. How did I miss that last time?

Now I am coming down the earth, not so much crash landing, as floating on a parachute, as I reflect on the whirlwind two days at Cape Coast. Apparently I am now the Manager of the African Dance Theatre!

If you happen to be bored and stuck in a rut, might I suggest a trip to Africa! Your life will never be dull again!  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJbf7UD3dwA&feature=youtu.be

18 Cape Coast: Beautiful Fishermen, Scary Canopy Walk and Living in Hope

Unlike yesterday’s 4 am start, I’ve overslept and wake with a fright at 7.40 remembering I’m meeting cabbie Abraham at 9 am.

I could take a cheap tro tro to the rainforest but I struck a deal with Abraham to drive me the one-hour, 33 km rough road trip, wait around, and then return me to the Oasis for the grand sum of 40 cedis (£13). The door-to-door, personalised service is convenient and comfortable and I’m happy to give this devoted family man a jackpot fare.

The cabbies in these poor coastal towns rely on the occasional tourist with deep pockets to compensate for endless standing around and squabbling with hoards of cabbies who compete for passengers in their customised yellow-cornered mean machines.

I strap on my heavy hiking boots hauled all the way from home for this starring moment. But first breakfast!

 

Suddenly dozens of fishermen are swarming the beach, hauling on ropes attached to a net, prancing and chanting, their melodious deep voices filling the air. The German couple and I rush with cameras swinging on our wrists, lured by their siren song, captivated by the spectacle of beautiful men at work.

The camaraderie of the beach fishermen is delightful and they appear to be elated as they harmonise and haul ashore their catch of small silver fish, flapping and flashing in the morning sun.

I wonder how they can possibly split the proceeds from such a modest catch between the myriad eager fishermen. They apparently occupy best part of the day mending holes in their nets bitten through by frenzied fish attempting to escape their fate.

Later Abraham tells me boat fishermen chug further out to sea in motorised canoes chasing bigger fish. My late father, a fearless deep ocean game fisherman would be impressed!

Kakum National Park, sporting a sensational canopy walk, is a major international tourist attraction. The esteemed Bradt travel guide on Ghana devotes two enthusiastic pages of evocative description to the canopy walk, unique across the whole of Africa.

Built to protect and promote the rainforest in 1995 with US aid dollars, the series of seven wood and rope bridges extend 350 metres through the dense forest, towering up to 40 metres above the lush treetops. Tackling the daring walk is not for the faint-hearted or height phobic.

There’s no turning back if you lose your nerve and if you happen to drop your sunnies or camera, well you can say goodbye to them and expect some lucky monkey will be wearing your shades and snapping pictures, the envy of all the forest inhabitants.

Well I’m up for it! This is my very own extreme sports challenge, as adventurous as I get, as bungee jumping, climbing Kilimanjaro and running marathons are out of the question! I am pouring buckets of sweat in the close to 100 per cent humidity when I join a group of garrulous American tourists from Colorado and college students from Virginia.

Our conscientious guide extols the therapeutic virtues of special trees before we climb the steep steps to the viewing platform at the start of first bridge. I follow the others in single file as we wobble and sway with each step on the narrow plank, white-knuckled hands gripping the ropes on each side. Feeling like a baby elephant on a tight rope, I am slightly scared, imagining losing my foothold and slipping off the plank or somehow plummeting headfirst over the ropes.

By the fourth bridge I’m telling myself to trust my feet and look up. The tranquil, vivid greenery is soothing and I stride along, chatting casually, high above the leafy canopy, with the friendly college students who are curious about my career in journalism and why I’m travelling alone at my mature age!

By the time we return to the park entrance, the leaden sky is teeming with rain and we are all saturated like half-drowned furry mammals, having an authentic rainforest experience!

The canopy walk costs an exorbitant 30 cedis for non-Ghanaians. With the promised cash for Abraham folded neatly in my purse, I’m skint and forced to pass on visiting the nearby Monkey Forest Resort, a sanctuary for orphaned and injured animals. I’m disappointed but commit to seeing the wildlife when I travel in Kenya and Uganda, hopefully with Andrew.

We hit the road, cruising past poor villages of broken down huts and bustling markets, which by now are familiar sights. I’m no longer shocked by the ever-present poverty and no longer reaching for my camera. However I am shocked by an impressive mansion, perched brazenly on a hill, emerging from the surrounding slums like a mirage.

Abraham, himself a devout Christian, explains the gleaming new million dollar mansion is a Born-Again church! I can’t help feeling annoyed at such distorted priorities when villagers, who can barely buy food, donate their meagre finances to such an elaborate building. But Abraham accepts the paradox in this fervently religious country.

Nervous to go anywhere near the corner where the hustling lads are lurking, I steel myself to be strong and say NO to their irresistible offers, especially since I don’t possess two coins to rub together! But I will have to return, cashed-up after an emergency withdrawal at the ATM, and I’m sure the razor sharp lads can sniff the fresh supply of money. 

With royal waves and cheery ‘Helloooo’s’ to my endless young male ‘admirers’ (please indulge my delusions, I realise they are only interested in the contents of my purse!) who appear our of nowhere, I have survived the risky stroll to the cash machine and flopped, hungry and thirsty at the Moringa vegetarian café.

I order an exotic selection of yam balls, tofu kebab and ‘Black Beauty’ (battered aubergine) with spicy sauce and coconut-mango-lime juice. A group of Irish girls are venting about their travel hardships and when we start talking I discover they have been volunteering as teachers in Ghana for six months. Jaded and homesick, they are ready to jump on a plane back to Ireland.

Three sweet, innocent little kids approach me asking for donations for they Christian Union Youth Camp. I am now highly suspicious of these donation forms. I have a hunch the ‘official’ forms are printed by a racketeer paying the kids a small percentage of takings from gullible tourists. That’s my theory having been conned several times now. I give the big-eyed kids a cedi each anyway!

Confession! Rounding the corner, almost back safely in my hut, I have succumbed to Koby’s relentless charm and ordered seven more name bracelets from his clever friend and one ‘gold’ bracelet engraved by Koby himself with the symbol for ‘hope’. Is there any hope for me? Probably not, when it comes to sweet-talking, handsome boys. But with such talented entrepreneurs there is indeed hope for Ghana.           

17 Cape Coast: Chatted Up in Hippy Heaven

I have time-travelled back to the Hippy Era of the 1960s to a circular rendered brick and thatched roof beach hut with zany patchwork curtains, wild mosaic floor tiles, bamboo furniture and a concrete framed bed! Very trippy! Very cool! Far-out, Dude! Welcome to the budget-priced Oasis Beach Resort on the time-warped Cape Coast of Ghana! 

I can hear the roar of the roiling grey ocean and finally that mangy dog on a chain has jumped down from the fence and is now biting fleas off his hind leg under the shade of a palm tree.

Not sure what to do next? Go into town and find a cash machine, a late breakfast, an internet café? Abraham, the cabbie delivered me to this exotic ‘resort’ this morning, just a short 15-minute drive from Elmina along the scrubby coastline.

Oh ecstasy, euphoria, elation! I found a vegetarian café! A funky little healthy eatery called Moringa run by a German charity, the Boabab Children’s Foundation. Leisurely reading a political magazine and watching the activity, I devour a fresh salad drenched in delicious oil with…wait for it…avocado and tofu! Manna from Heaven!

I sip on a divine coconut and pineapple smoothie! Coconuts, like pure cocoa, are now being ‘discovered’ (they were under our noses all the time) by the western world. Re-branded a ‘super food’, for centuries the health benefits of coconuts have been know to indigenous cultures; a source of omega oils for the brain, assorted nutrients and instant rehydration that no amount of straight water can match. Arrhhhh! Now I feel better!

Yes I found a cash machine and yes, I found a pokey internet café tucked away in a narrow laneway. I had to turn sideways to squeeze through, now twice my usual size after mountains of carbs. I fire off a few rushed emails and facebook messages and I’m back on the street armed with cash and dangerous. (Warning to Husband: Do Not Read This Bit)

I did some impulse shopping, the best kind! A cornucopia of stalls selling irresistible colourful clothing suddenly springs up out of nowhere in this historic seaside town. I single-handedly boost the local economy buying African apparel for the whole family! I wonder how the wild new outfits will translate in London?

Running the gauntlet of the sweet-talking boys hustling for business, I land back in my groovy beach shack. The more I hang out here, the more I like the peace and solitude and view of the tumultuous waves from my window. I have a cup of tea, thank you very much, and a coconut cake from the veggie café, my laptop and my mythical readers and I am truly content in this sublime moment.  

Some people tell me they suffer inner conflict; that they are constantly arguing with themself! However I have discovered on this trip that I get along with myself very well! I’m enjoying my own company.

One of the pleasures of travelling alone is being free to make my own observations on people and places without absorbing fellow travellers’ views. This is why professional writers, photographers, artists and musicians relish wandering through foreign cultures alone. Creative souls can interpret their surroundings with indisputable subjectively. I’m channelling Vincent Van Gough, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen… did someone slip Magic Mushrooms in my salad?

Better clear my head with a wistful walk on the overcast beach (missing exuberant Labrador Bonny.) The forlorn dog on the chain is standing on the fence again. Maybe I can free him for a romp on the sand?

His owner says ‘No, he bites people,’ which is hard to believe! I saunter off with only my camera as company and get my baggy white pants wet misjudging the reach of the frothy waves. Teenagers are joyfully playing football, fishermen are meticulously tending their boats and three little pigs are foraging on the beach. Three little pigs on the beach? I’m not hallucinating, honestly! 
Nothing surprises me anymore in this easy-going country!

I suddenly remember why I’m tired. I was awake at 4 am, illuminated with light bulb ideas and writing frantically. This attack of creativity is wearing me out! And then I had an in-depth conversation over breakfast with an American nurse who volunteers in a clinic up north and her Ghanaian husband who supports the village through exporting crafts. We shared our enthusiasm for volunteering and agreed that the benefits are mutual.

Tonight at the Oasis beachside restaurant under the stars, I must confess I am tempted to eat fish. Tired of rice, spaghetti, yams and bean stew, I fancy a different taste and a good serve of protein and this being a fishing village, the catch is ultra fresh. In my pre-vegetarian days I did enjoy the succulent snapper and mackerel caught by dad and cooked by mum. I come ever so close but then opted for the ever-reliable veggie pizza.

And another confession! I do believe a Reggae musician with faulty eyesight is chatting me up! When he enquires why I am on my own I explain my husband is home in London missing me and that my son is older than he is. This is the reality check and wake-up call that sends him scurrying into the dark night! Being chatted up by a sexy black man half my age? Flattering, unnerving, actually, quite weird.    

16 Elmina: The Shame of Slavery, the Hope of Escape

When I step out the door of the Brick House I am wearing a flashing neon sign attached to my head reading Dumb Tourist Easy Target.

Ambitious young Andrew is the first to spot me and pounce. We marvel at the coincidence of ‘Andrew’ also being my husband’s name, then he asks my name and the business transaction begins!

Andrew’s clever friend, George weaves name bracelets with his own dextrous fingers using the colours of Ghana’s flag, green, yellow, red and black. I am hooked! Within minutes I’ve notched up 21 names of family and friends for George to create in his ‘studio’ corner by the castle gate. At three cedis each, he’s having a bumper day! Don’t be too alarmed for me! C3 = £1, so divide C63 by 3 = £21 and I haggled for a whopping C3 bulk discount!

But fast-talking Andrew’s not finished with me yet. There’s his soccer club that needs jerseys and boots. Wait a minute, isn’t this a case of déjà vu? I’ve been down this road before with young Clinton and Felix in Shia! And I know how it ends, with me shaking my empty purse!

But I’m a sucker for a good cause and I donate C10 to his club, all signed for officially on a special sponsorship form, and C5 to his mate’s club and a further C10 for Andrew to buy himself an English dictionary.

The other jewellery hawkers want a piece of the action. You can guess how this scene is played out. A beguiling teenage boy with a lovely smile sells me seven bracelets for C20. A bargain! A gentle woman called Comfort moves in and scores C5 for more bracelets.

I break free and make my way to the Elmina Castle with young Andrew in hot pursuit. He gives me a shell with a hand written message and a friendship necklace. I suspect our dealings are not over yet.

Aptly, today is Republic Day, a national holiday celebrating 55 years since Ghana became a Republic in 1957 when they politely asked the British to leave! Being also terribly polite, the British did just that. Ghana has proudly enjoyed democratic elections ever since.

At the entrance I face another obstacle to negotiate. Entry is a small charge for Ghanaians and students but sticky-nose tourists are charged C11 (a reasonable way to redress the balance ever so slightly). But read the fine print! It costs tourists C20 to take photos! Hooley Dooley. That’s a touch unfair! You could knock me down with a feather! This is a first! Not even the Vatican Museum charges for photos!

Having been fleeced already, I opt to refrain from taking photos. It’s like a drug addict promising to abstain! Being a holiday, the grim tourist attraction is over-run with school kids and extra visitors so I tag along with Phillip, the guide, and a school group in lime green polo shirts and a Danish couple.

Phillip explains how the once-grandiose castle was originally built by the Portuguese 530 years ago as a fort to protect missionaries and traders. But interest shifted from gold to human cargo in the 17^th century when

innocent Africans from throughout the continent were rounded up and captured and brought to Elmina Castle, ingloriously converted to horrendously cruel dungeons.

Up to 1000 African people (600 men and 400 women) were held in the dungeons until slaving ships came to transport them in appalling and treacherous conditions.

Soldiers sexually abused female captives. Many got pregnant and countless women died in shame and agony. Men convicted for being Freedom Fighters against slavery were incarcerated in suffocating cells with no food or water. Surviving captives were herded through the Door of No Return to be transported to numerous complicit countries and condemned to lives of immense suffering and hardship.

Between 12 and 20 million Africans were transported across the Atlantic from the late 17^th to the early 19^th century. We like to naively believe that slavery ended back then but human trafficking is still rampant today.

Our guide, Phillip tells us that the British and Dutch attempted to abolish slavery in 1807 but illegal trade continued until 1860 when finally, not so much on humane grounds as the fact machines could now do the job of slaves, the disgraceful practice came to end at Elmina.

A sombre plaque at Elmina Castle reads: ‘In Everlasting Memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We the living vow to uphold this.’

Looking around the soul-chilling dungeons and reflecting on the despicable crimes committed against the African people is a disturbing experience and I head back to the guesthouse for a breather.

Later in the afternoon I emerge to collect my handmade name bracelets from George. My new best friend, young Andrew invites me to the holiday football match so I agree to meet him later.

Young Andrew collects me and steers me through the chaos of stalls and mud and rubbish to the red dirt field where thousands of spectators, all black, are hyped up for the Big Game. Yet again I stand out like a snowman at a Black Panther Convention. People watch me suspiciously, or is it with curiosity, as young Andrew leads me to an ideal vantage point.

We watch the action for half an hour or so and see the home team score a goal to a rapturous response from the crowd! Then I notice the mossies circling me, planning their strategy, ready to launch an attack, and I realise I’ve forgotten to apply the super strength repellent. I’d rather not contract malaria if I can avoid so I inform Andrew I’m going back to the guesthouse and he insists on escorting me. 

Andrew has upped the ante, telling me about his large family of three brothers and three sisters and his parents who are unemployed and struggle to pay the rent and buy food and how they cry with despair.

At the aspirational age of 25, he burns with ambition to study computer technology in the UK and dreams of landing a good job and supporting his family. I’m overcome with compassion and wish I could help him escape this poverty trap through an education and job opportunities.  

I have no idea how the UK immigration system works in regard to visas for Ghanaian people but I tell hopeful young Andrew I will do the research. And I will. I have now “adopted” two young men to help educate and get jobs. Two young lives out of millions. It’s a start. 

15: A Sunday Drive to Elmina and Encounter with Poverty

I cannot haggle with cab drivers. I end up tipping them instead. This patient good-natured cabbie waited while the Divine Miss Larissa used an old-style swipe gadget to process my credit card. Then he waited while she was put on hold when calling the bank for authorisation. And then he waited some more when I dashed to two cash machines en route to Kaneshai Station. Besides, he has three teenage daughters to put through school. He deserves a few extra cedis for his trouble!

Pastor Charles had told me that Ghanaians are renowned for their friendliness and kindness. This is very true and I would add honesty and trustworthiness to the list of good qualities. Their strong Christian values permeate transactions.

The hawkers with their heads piled with dubious snacks who swarm the departing tro tros never persist or badger when you say ‘No’. And traders politely give you the correct change, despite how tough it is to earn a few bucks here. Stallholders are scrupulously honest, not full of trickery, up selling and cross selling, like in some dog eat dog cultures. And Ghanaians are funny, constantly joking, enjoying the moment. Always smiling! (except when you point a camera and they go all solemn!)

The squashed passengers bump along in companionable silence, with Reggae music creating a happy mood. A large pleasant woman presses against me but at least I rescued my laptop from my battered green duffle bag the guy was shoving under her seat with great gusto. The image of my cracked Apple Mac makes me shudder.

I am truly on my own now, travelling solo as the only pale-faced, bleached blonde middle-aged woman amongst a van jam-packed with Ghanaians who know where they’re going. It is Sunday, July 1^st, the start of the third week of my adventure when I am free to go sightseeing. I’m on my way to Elmina, a must-see destination in the Bradt tourist guild book.

I haven’t booked a room at the Coconut Grove Bridge House. I couldn’t get through on the phone number. After several failed attempts I gave up and surrendered to the NOW! I’m trusting, like Joseph and Mary, that I’ll eventually find somewhere to shelter tonight!

The rocky two-hour journey is cramped and awkward on the back seat as my sore bum registers every pothole and puddle. The large lady and I grimace as we bounce up and down and stare through the rain-smeared windows passing poor shantytowns, rural slums, of dilapidated shacks and imposing half-finished houses, abandoned dreams, decaying in long grass.   

As the trusty tro tro finally approach Elmina, we pass cheerful little timber stalls with names such as Mama Grace, Mama Lucy, Mama Monica painted in bright letters. I’m looking for the produce on sale but there’s hardly an old cabbage in sight. The poverty is palpable and I’m filled with sadness.

I am hoping for an escape in a luxurious resort but my fantasies are dashed.

The only USP of the rough brick Coconut Grove Bridge House is its location, smack in the middle of the historic town, right next to the infamous castle.

When the porter opens the door, my nostrils are assaulted by a musty smell. The air conditioner is broken, the TV doesn’t work, the fridge is turned off but hey it’s a place to plug in my laptop. But no, it doesn’t have internet.

I venture out for a stroll in the late afternoon. An atmospheric mist hangs over the bustling harbour. The tattered white castle looks eerie on the hill, brightly painted fishing boats sit still in dainty rows as if calmly posing for a picture.

Striding across the bridge that straddles the murky inlet, I’m mobbed by a bunch of rowdy kids. I let them take photos, nervous they’ll run off with my camera but they hand it back, all giggles to see themselves on the screen. I buy a little cling-wrap bag of nuts and crackers and give them a tip. Their big eyes widen with this stroke of luck.

I wander across to the rugged cliff overlooking the wild, grey ocean and snap pictures of a lone pig contentedly grazing under a tree. More marauding goats, a ubiquitous feature of African life. Note To Self: Stop photographing goats!

The main street is teeming with hoards of noisy people, ragtag market stalls of junk, crazy honking cars and loaded bicycles, men with dangerous scowls, hollow-eyed women weary under their loads, mischievous boys begging for coins. I feel slightly intimidated and grip my bulging handbag tightly under my arm. This is a very poor town. And I am very conspicuous!

An old woman emerges from a laneway with her stock of fake gold jewellery and half-heartedly asks me to buy. When I start looking with interest through her dish of trinkets she lights up like she’s just won a TV game show. I buy six pairs of sparkling earrings for two cedis each and she is overwhelmed, on the brink of tears.

I dine alone, missing Andrew, in the empty guesthouse on beer, Red Red bean stew, rice and fried plantain then retire to my smelly little room. All night the ceiling fan is spinning fast like a helicopter about to take off. I have a dull headache from dehydration and I’m out of clean water. I’m tormented by strange dreams.

Instantly awake at 6am with the rooster, I take a shower. No hot water. Then no water at all. I’m having a little taste of Poverty. And like cold, gluggy porridge, the taste is depressing.            

14 Accra: Fresh As A Daisy in an Air Conditioned Hotel Room

The others are ready with their bags on the porch. I do a last minute tidy up as fussy old Mum and the kids roll their eyes. Then the door closes on another chapter of my whirlwind Ghana adventure.

In the tro tro to Accra, Liz and I review the pressing needs of poor communities I’ve visited and I write a Wish List.

1. A foreign investor for the cocoa factory project at Shia

2. A team of plumbers to fix the toilets at the schools at Shia and to help with pit latrines and installing a water supply on Maranatha

3. A team of tradesmen to finish building the orphanage at Ada-Daahey school and the new school at Maranatha

4. A team of qualified teachers to volunteer at Maranatha

5. A team of businesswomen to steer the Women’s Empowerment project on Maranatha

6. A team of permaculture experts to teach Maranatha villagers how to grow veggies in sandy soil

7. A team of doctors, nurses and dentists to run health checks on the school children including checking for worms, eye infections, wounds and illnesses.

Knowing the efficiency of English and Australian tradesmen and tradeswomen, they could really get stuck in and bowl over these building jobs in record time. I know many highly skilled tradies who would find immense fulfilment in this life-changing volunteer work.

Travelling through the countryside in Ghana you see countless half-finished, abandoned houses; whether the owners ran out of cash or out of steam, it seems such a waste of potential. Madventurer is determined to see their projects finished as they have with 300 other projects in countries around the world.

Amongst my network there’s an abundance of business coaches who could use their knowledge and skills to develop creative enterprises amongst the womenfolk at Maranatha that will liberate them from abject poverty and demoralising helplessness.    

Likewise teams of medicos, teachers and farming experts would work wonders in these deprived communities and most importantly the impact would be sustainable, empowering locals with new skills, not fostering dependency.

My mind is racing with ideas as we approach the big city yet again. The MAD gang hops off at the Mall for a shopping fix and we hugs abd say our farewells and I travel on to the chaotic marketplace where I cab it to the tropical Paloma.

Arriving in reception dirty and bedraggled at precisely 12 noon, by 1 pm I’m as fresh as a daisy. Just one hour in an air-conditioned hotel room is transformative. I am human again. I wash my icky hair under a hot shower, shave my legs, scrub my feet, do assorted beauty treatments, slather on skin cream and slip into comfy, loose clothes. Arrrrgh, a sigh of relief!

Now I’m clean I hit the keyboard but frustratingly, the internet connection keeps dropping out as I attempt to upload instalments and photos to my blog and post messages to long-lost friends on facebook and add all my new young MAD chums!

By 3 pm I order room service for an in-between meal, lunch and dinner combined; ‘Linner’ and I devour a plate of sauted green beans and veggie spaghetti until I’m groaning! 

Over a cup of tea I exchange facebook messages with my London-Aussie mate Steph who has become my cheer squad leader following my posts with empathy and enthusiasm and providing a boost of encouragement whenever I feel flat.

My hubby Andrew and I have a latenight skype call and catch up on each other’s news. It’s a bit sexy flirting long distance from a hotel room in Africa! Across the miles, as I listen to his familiar voice and gaze at his dark eyes, I realise he’s still the same handsome, cheeky guy I fell for in 1979. And I’m still his fiery, hippy girl embracing causes and chasing front-page scoops. 

13 Ada Foah: Boat Trip in the Rain and a Rare Sighting

I’m awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6 am. I leap under the my cold ‘shower’ (a single stream of water), throw on some crumpled clothes and head straight for the little store to buy toilet paper and powdered milk to replenish the essentials supplies we ran out of at midnight.

Sipping coffee and munching toast, while outside Heaven has opened, pouring not blessings, but heavy, show-no-mercy rain. Grace, her long blonde hair in a neat plait and emerald green nurse’s uniform covered by a waterproof jacket, steps resolutely out the door to catch a tro tro through the mud to the hospital, some miles away.

Meanwhile a big contingent of us had planned get the boat across to Maranatha to inspect the building project and look around the village as the kids are on a random holiday. The rain is a little off-putting. Should we still go? Yes. Of course we will, despite the reluctant boatman’s objections!

By the time the boat carves a wedge in the soft shore, the drizzle has cleared and the sun bursts through the blanket of storm clouds, turning the hot, damp air into a sauna.

A solitary muscular labourer is stretched on a ladder working on the stark frame of grey concrete blocks that form four large squares for future classrooms and a smaller section designed optimistically to become a functional office and library.

We stand around and watch in awe as two strong women, one with a baby strapped to her back, carry heavy loads of sand in dishes on their heads to pass to our man on the ladder.

I take loads of photos as I want to inspire UK builders and tradesmen to come and assist with this inspiring project that will transform the lives and futures of these children. In monetary terms, only £10,000 will complete the build; a small sum compared to the exorbitant cost of building in well-off countries. Funds stretch a long way and achieve so much in poor countries.

Elisabeth leads a tour of the village weaving us through a patchwork of thatched roof huts, past roaming goats, hens huddled in stick enclosures, under towering coconut and palm tree, a few scruffy veggies plots, old women sitting languidly on logs, children skipping beside us or carried aloft on the boys’ shoulders and the girls’ hips. 

The photojournalist in me emerges big-time and I’m going nuts snapping wildly at these exotic images that will impress editors, if not my friends on facebook!

We end up outside the rickety school classrooms where a traditional dance class in underway to the steady rhythm of drums. A talented young village man is demonstrating complex moves to the agile youngsters and pushing them to perfection.

We flop in the shade and watch and sway mesmerised as the little kids grab our cameras and indulge their creativity by taking shots at all angles!

The entertainment is spontaneous so we go with the flow and soak up this priceless quality time with the laughing, happy kids.

The return journey across the river is scorching. On land again, we trudge through the orange earth for what seems like forever. As usual, rivulets of unladylike ‘perspiration’ are flowing down my grimy face and soaking my top and I’m feeling like a wrung-out rag. Battling these harsh conditions has been a challenge but so character-building (I keep telling myself!)

The other girls had warned us new recruits about him at our induction.

And this sweaty Friday I get to see the legendary Testicle Man for myself.

This poor fellow wanders the streets wearing only a t-shirt and sporting a testicle the size of a watermelon. While freakish and worthy of a place in the Guinness Book of Records for the biggest ball of all time, his swollen appendage is clearly a serious medical condition, most likely the result of a rampant tumour. Why wouldn’t he go to the hospital for help?

All leering and sniggering aside, I can only imagine how painful, immensely uncomfortable and shameful it must be and he deserves compassion and proper medical treatment.

I reckon Testicle Man is just the sort of shocking case that weird TV show Embarrassing Bodies would relish. I might just give the producer a lead and get those dauntless doctors on the plane to Ghana! And give this man back his dignity!

This afternoon our zany household is breaking up. Dedicated medical student Hannah is flying home and six others are excitedly heading off on a weekend trip to a tourist hotspot. That leaves seven of us up for a night out on the town!

Grace and Elisabeth throw their long legs over the backs of shiny motorbikes and zoom off into the black night while Sam and James, Kara and Kristel and I opt for the relative safety of a cab to ‘Charlies’. Or so we thought until our driver gets lost and takes us on a Magical Mystery Tour of the back blocks of the neighbourhood.

Finally we arrive and find Grace and Liz at the sprawling complex, with shimmering pool and acres of decking, overlooks the inky black river. We sit in weak light under a pagoda, the only guests in the vast expanse of the empty holiday resort. We order beer and pizza and wait and wait and wait.

Hours later, beyond hunger, the waiter appears with our meals and we chomp though another over-dose of fattening carbs. I’m searching for the mushrooms promised on the menu but find only bits of green peppers!

This lack of fresh vegetables has made us all grateful for the abundance of food choices we have in Britain and other developed countries. The youngies are appreciating their mums’ home cooking in a whole new way!

The cabbie takes us direct to our door and I climb into my Girl Guide bunk for the last time as tomorrow I will say goodbye, with a wistful pang, to the MAD House and my new MAD friends.   

12 The Mad House: Cleaning Up, Brainwaves, Inspiration!

I can resist the urge no longer. I wash my hair, freshen up and get stuck into tidying the MAD House. First I tackle the kitchen and chuck out all the ‘randon’ (favourite word of the facebook generation) rubbish.

I wipe down all surfaces with bleach. I gather up the copious plastic Coke and Fanta bottles, draining the dregs of some and throwing the rest in the fridge, I bundle all similar items together, first aid in one corner, food in another, the mad profusion of phone and camera charges somewhere else. I even find a lace cloth to drape over the sundry food items permanently on the table.

And then what an exciting discovery! Sorting the kids’ stuff piled on the desk in the corner by past and present volunteers, I find a treasure trove of useful materials for the resource-starved Maranatha and Asi-Daahey schools; pencils, crayons, chalk, writing materials, colouring books, stickers and even flash cards and text books!

I’m encouraged that all this stuff will give the students something to use for at least a little while. Next we need to supply decent books to read. And a library! Computers might be a stretch since the beach village has only limited generator power and no internet connection.

I wipe clean an old dish rack and use it to organise the pencils and crayons and bits and bobs on the desk for the local children who regularly play at the house. The desk is a thrilling vision of order. ‘A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place’ is a motto used by mums universally and stands the test of time and applies to all cultures!

I spend hours lost in the bliss of writing and the rest of the weary volunteers return after their challenging stints at the Asi-Daahey school and busy hospital with touching stories to tell.

Delightful Alix, in her broad Yorkshire accent, shares a sad case of a young woman, diagnosed with AIDS, in shock, denial and shame, claims she doesn’t know how it happened because she doesn’t have a husband or boyfriend. Perhaps she is embarrassed to admit she is sexually active, perhaps she contracted the disease through an injury or maybe she was born infected.

What a tragedy. HIV and AIDS are rife throughout the continent of Africa with 40 million people predicted to have the disease by 2020 and as many children left orphaned. It is a chronic pandemic that the rest of world has forgotten.

The volunteers who are working at the hospital, Hannah, Grace, Alix, Jess, Charlotte and Susie are doing it tough, witnessing countless dramas in A & E.    

More medically trained volunteers are always needed and new influx is due to arrive next week.

Forging onward, Elisabeth has been organising a bigger MAD House as the number of volunteers now coming to these projects in Ghana is increasing and this little crowded house with just one shower and one toilet and two bedrooms is groaning under the strain.

She has found a much larger house to rent close by, in fact it’s being re-named facetiously the MAD Mansion! Of course it is far from palatial but the extra bedrooms and bathrooms will amply accommodate the eager young gap year students from the UK, Europe, the States and Australia who are coming this summer.

After my house cleaning frenzy, a satisfying creative writing session and an inspiring interview with our Liz, I am feeling uplifted and positive again and ready to shop!

And I have a mission: to replace the grog I tipped down the sink! In my mumsy zeal, I took a whiff of a mysterious plastic bottle and poured the pungent contents down the sink! Turns out, the strange liquid was a local brew of ‘rum’ so I’m off to the liquor store.

And there’s a groups of chatting ladies in headscarves with theirs laps full of bananas, mangoes, oranges and pineapple. I stagger home with bags of tropical fruit then… Brainwave! I stop by the grocery store and buy some tubs of Ghanaian ice cream!

I give the MAD housemates, whom I hasten to add, only drink sensibly in moderation, a bottle of Ada Foah special rum to redeem myself.

That night we dine royally on mountains of spaghetti lovingly made by Gifty, garlic bread inventively toasted in the frying pan followed by my bountiful fruit salad and ice cream served in mugs!

We are all sitting around the table feasting and laughing when there’s a surprising knock at the door. We freeze and send Sam, the nominated MOTH (Man Of The House). Sam opens the door to find, not a cute little child, but a big black man!

He’s the electrician who Elisabeth had contacted two months ago to fix a faulty switch! Sam manfully sends him away to come back in half an hour. He doesn’t return. Perhaps he will show up in two months! A relaxed style of customer service; just another unique feature of life in the remote village of Ada Foah!