I have found myself in many improbable situations over the last few years: running from a pack of wild dogs in Arequijpa, Peru at 1am on a Friday night, hiding behind a line of fire from a disgruntled elephant in Nepal, being spat at by a witch in La Paz, not to mention having my ipod thoroughly examined by a border guard while entering North Korea (in case it was a sneaky device used by Irish spies). When I first came up with the ridiculous idea of quitting my job and going travelling I never would have guessed that a highlight would be sitting on the flat roof of an adobe hut, lit only by moonlight, sharing a roasted cob of corn with my ‘best friend’, The Little Prince.
As I have less than a week left in Paga I had decided to pay an extended overnight visit to his village which is a 35 minute cycle from just north of the middle of nowhere in ruralGhana. They have no electricity, so after the spectacular sunset had finished decorating the surrounding savannah the huts were lit only by the occasional small fire as the women prepared the evening meal, and the moonlight which also lit up the surrounding fields of maize and corn in a magical silver twinkle. Not enough to make out any individual plants but enough for your imagination to run free and picture the animals and people coming home after a hard day’s work in the fields. Not a mobile phone in sight, the nearest signal might appear only after a good 15 minute cycle down the nearest dirt road, if you are lucky.
Chatting on the roof before dinner, overlooking the walled compound of eleven or so huts – otherwise known as the Chief’s Palace – I had noticed a few structures in the compound which had seriously deteriorated, with no roofs or any visible signs of inhabitants. Those families have died out My Little Prince explained, also many leave to go to the city, if they do then their huts are abandoned, waiting for new people to one day move in. I asked if anyone ever returns here to live after being in the city. Sure he replied, they sometimes come back with wives or sometimes they just return after they have found what they had been looking for. He didn’t offer what it might be they might be looking for and I didn’t want to ask – I just loved the idea that sometimes they found it and returned to this simple place satisfied.
People sleep out on the flat roofs when the temperature gets unbearable during the dry season. Or sometimes they just come up to eat roasted corn and chat – like this evening.
I learned that My Little Prince wasn’t really the son of the chief. His father had died when he was a child and now he looks after his mother, grandmother and three siblings. He toils in the fields during the rainy season, tending and harvesting crops that will hopefully keep them fed in the coming ten months of dry season. The Chief probably calls him a prince because he lives on the ‘palace’ compound. Or maybe it’s because it’s because he is so genuine, kind and admirable that that is the very least honour that should be bestowed on him.
As well as taking care of his family he also continues his education, cycling for an hour each way to the school in the next big town, Navrongo. Every day he gets up at 5am and when he gets home after 5pm he does his homework by the light of a tiny, dim, battery fed light. Never once have I heard him complain about anything. Far from it, he is proud of his village and his family and his eagerness to learn more.
He lives in a hut that has one tiny thin mattress on the ground, a ledge that has his school books, some pamphlets and a Bible. There is just about enough room for two plastic chairs and a fold away table which he opens out only at meal times. The roof is made of strips of interwoven wood which occasionally lets in some water during the heavy rains he admitted with a giggle. He gave me his bed for the night while he slept (or said he did although I seriously question anyone’s ability to do it) on the hard ground of his hut in the space where the chairs are usually kept.
That night the whole village came together in honour of the visit of some other volunteers and myself who were all staying in the area. They heated up the goat skins of their drums over the naked flames of little fires they kept burning for this purpose. Special whistle players were invited for the occasion and a talented man used an overturned metal bucket and a stick to add to the very African rhythm of the night.
With the drumming getting more and more frantic a circle was formed and the least self-conscious of villagers began dancing, one at a time, displaying what at times looked like a chicken having an epileptic fit. Awkward white men dancing this was not! As the night progressed, more and more people joined the festivities coming from homes and farms from all around the area – each eager to have their few seconds to display their dancing prowess in the midst of the enthusiastic onlookers.
The importance of such an event was explained to me later. They only happen twice a year or so maybe for a wedding or funeral and it’s when the single members of the communities hope to choose a partner – presumably picking their favourite chicken dancer of the group. The dancers were lit by a sole torch shone down on the circle by the tallest member of the group who must have had an unbearably sore arm by the end of the night. Dust was kicked up into the air as the frantic dancers stamped their legs and flapped their arms, the torch light illuminating the falling dust as if a substitute for dry ice.
In the morning My Little Prince brought me a breakfast of soup and Tuo Zafi (TZ) – a jelly like substance made of grains and other unidentified squidgy ingredients. You break some off and use it to scoop up the soup – all with your hand. Nobody told me that the TZ is scalding but I learned that instantly as I plunged my hands deep into it and let out a roar. I can’t see Kellogs marking it as a new breakfast option but it was great to have another slice of life in the village – even if it did result in second degree burns.
It was only one night – a few hours really but a wonderful opportunity to step momentarily into another’s shoes. After our chat on the rooftop the evening before we had spent a good ten minutes there, in silence munching on the delicious corn which had been prepared on the open fire in front of his hut moments before, picked from the field a couple of hours before that. I didn’t want to ask any more questions and he seemed to enjoy just sitting there too, happy for two friends to simply gaze below at the moonlit village or up into the starry sky. It is this moment that will be my most valued memory of my time in Ghana.
As I fell asleep later I wondered if any new couples were formed. I found myself saying a quick prayer that even one match was made – maybe one hut would be restored and a new family would grow to live in this special community. I also wondered if I would ever get a chance to return and see if that had happened.
Who knows, maybe some day after I have found whatever it is I am looking for…
Conortje 
