Welcome to Hodzo Achianse

That's Sammy

At some stage I had updated my Facebook status to mention that I was in Ghana and if I remember correctly it also mentioned that I was not entirely happy to be there.

In response an old high-school friend had written me a message to say that she had spent some time in a remote village in Ghana and that she could probably arrange for me to stay there as well: “It is the real Africa” she had assured me – a problematic term that both irritated and seduced me simultaneously. A few emails and a few days later I was waiting at a bus stop at dawn observing the utterly disorderly fashion with which Ghanaians seem to navigate even simple tasks like catching a bus.

I was one of the first sixty people to arrive that morning which meant I was awarded a little piece of an old corn-flake cereal box which guaranteed me a seat on the first bus out. The bus was three and a quarter hours late. I was first occupied by the morning ritual of the families who lived at this bus stop. I watched the women shake their grumbling children awake and pack their few dishevelled belongings into plastic bags and stow them away under the seats before both woman and child heaved a bucket of goods onto their heads and hit the streets. I bought some cookies from one little girl and a sweat-towel from a woman. I definitely needed a sweat towel but the cookies were a pity-purchase. I pitied her cause she had no mother to wake her up, instead she woke up to the ticket seller using a stick to hit the little bundle of blankets that hid her tiny sleeping body.

When the bus did finally arrive I was swept up in the stampede of pushing bodies and frantic arms waving crumpled little images of cornflakes. There were a lot more than sixty people trying to board this bus yelling and waving money around and I decided that I would rather miss it than put up a fight against this mob.

I started to retreat when the ticket seller pushed through the crowd and grabbed my arm pulling me into the bus. I thought ‘how nice of him to help a spineless traveller’, until he asked for a 3 cedi tip. I suppose it was worth it.

The bus was crammed with people in the aisles and luggage piled on laps. With no air-conditioning I really christened my new sweat towel.

The bus pulled up in Ho where I was met by a man named Kofie. Kofie had been sent by the village to fetch me and keep me company until Zoe’s friend Sammy could come and meet me. Sammy would be my guardian whilst I was staying in the village. When he arrived he was sweaty and flustered, he shook my hand and I felt his was rough and calloused with warn away blisters. His eyes were wide and his face a bit gaunt. It unnerved me but I reassured myself with Zoe’s description of him as her ‘second father’.

Kofie and Sammy led me around the bustling market place, I was meant to know what I wanted to eat for the week. I couldn’t think straight and bought an disarranged assortment of rice, eggs, oil, onions and instant coffee.

We said goodbye to Kofie and wedged ourselves into an already over-crowded tro-tro (a van that served as the local minibus). Sammy insisted I sit in the front seat which I was surprised to find empty as usually this was considered the prime position. When the engine choked into action a cloud of thick grey smoke clung to me, leaking from the gear box that sat between me and the driver. It heated up quickly and the left side of my thigh began to burn. The car was a shit-box, like most cars here I was amazed to see it actually move. The petrol gage and speedometer didn’t budge, the glove box was missing, leaving a tangle of wires exposed, the windshield was cracked and the whole car smelt like burning rubber. As soon as people started to get off Sammy insisted I climb through to the back to get away from the smoke. He was so apologetic for putting me there and upset by the thought that the smoke would make me sick, that I began to see why Zoe considered him father-like.

We lurched along the decrepit dirt road and came to a sign that read: ‘Welcome to Hodzo Achianse’. We’d made it without the engine karking it or leaping into flames.

Sammy explained that usually a hundred people live in Hodzo Achianse, but today was Saturday and it was empty due to a funeral in the next village. I felt terrible that my arrival meant he had missed out. He, my caretaker and the ‘chief of the youth’ had all missed the funeral in order to meet and greet me.

My caretakers name is Elaine. I was told that it was her job to cook all my food, fetch my water, wash my clothes and to perform any menial task that I ask of her. It felt wrong, like I had acquired a black slave and I had no intentions of asking her to do anything for me. Sammy was insisting that she was nominated by the village to take on this role and that it was her duty and her honour to fulfil it. She took my groceries away with her and in very broken English told me she would be back with dinner. When I got Sammy alone again I asked what I should be paying her, he said it is up to me if I want to show my thanks but there is no expected fee.

I was taken to my own little house with two rooms, the first had a little wooden table and two plastic chairs, a bar fridge and a kettle, the other had a bed with a mosquito net, a desk and a cushioned seat.

Sammy showed me around the village, and as he did a following of small children gathered in tow. One of the children, a little 4 year old girl who I was told was an orphan, clutched my hand the whole time.

I was taken to the little brick school, and the three straw roofs that were the various churches one catholic, one Pentecostal and the other Protestant. When we came across anyone Sammy would introduce me, and although none of them spoke English they were extremely warm, took my hand, smiled and told Sammy to pass on the message that I was very welcome.

I was also taken to the bakery. The bakery had become one of my reasons for being there. In 2009 Zoe had first met a man named Joy on the internet. Joy had some affiliation with this village and through numerous emails Zoe had decided to live in the village for a while. In a way she had adopted the place, taking it upon herself to support them by paying for a bakery which would make them self-sufficient as well as paying for medical insurance and school uniforms for all the orphans living there. She had asked a favour of me, and that was to report back on the progress of the bakery – had it come together yet, was the money being wasted and were the orphans taken care of.

The bakery was nothing but a shell. It had four walls and a roof but no floor, no windows or doors and absolutely nothing in it. I was told that because they are farmers the village has been too busy to work on the bakery but that they had planned to do the floor this week. I told him I want to be put to work, that I want to help lay the floors and do anything I can to feel useful.

I tried to push one insidious preconception out of my head but it kept creeping back in. I was thinking of one argument used to discuss the ‘problem with Africa’, that believes the reason why Africa is struggling with development and improvement is because Africans are innately unable to get things done, that their work ethic is different, that they lack drive and initiative. I had never given this argument much heed but at the time I couldn’t help but wonder…

Anyway, the bakery wasn’t my responsibility, my job was just to report back to Zoe, so I decided not to get too involved.

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After our walk I returned to my little house to find a bucket of hot water waiting for me. I took my towel to the little brick cubicle and stood naked beneath the darkening sky. I  let the cups full of warm water trickle down my body and goose bumps rose not from cold but from sheer physical delight… this was my idea of heaven!