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!           

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!