What to Bring Home from Hohoe

by Dorothy S. Conlon

Isn’t it fun when you’re traveling to find souvenirs which will remind you of some special spot after you’re back home?  They might be either store-bought items or gifts from a friend, or even a rock or shell or feather that brings back memories of a picnic or hike you took in a faraway land. But how about bringing home a husband? Or a child? If you go to Ghana, you might have that opportunity.

Here I am in the small city of Hohoe, north of the capital of Accra and near the border with Togo. I’m trudging along a main road at dusk one day when a slim local man materializes from a side lane. In that delightful Ghanaian tradition, he is very friendly, welcoming me to his community and asking how long I have been there and what I am doing. “I’ve worked here as a volunteer for two weeks,” I reply, and ask him his name. “I am Wisdom,” he says, and promptly asks when we can meet again—although we’ve only just met now.

In Ghana, many men have familiar Western names such as David, Joe or Simon. Then I’ve met others named Prosper and Courage. But this is a new one—Wisdom. I am gently edging away, eager to get to our volunteer Home Base in time for supper, but I stop short when Wisdom suddenly says, without any preamble, “Will you marry me?”

This is not so strange as it may sound. I have read about and even met attractive young foreign women who’ve been proposed to by the most casual Ghanaian acquaintance, almost as an expected ritual. And I have heard some of the ingenious responses. For instance, “Why yes, but I already have 16 husbands. Are you willing to be number 17?” I’m not sure what would happen if such a rote proposal were to be taken seriously and accepted by the young expatriate.

Somehow, as an elder with white hair, I have not expected to be honored with one of these dubious proposals myself. So, careful not to laugh, I ask Wisdom how old he is. He says 43--slightly more than half my age. I could be his grandmother, but I don’t think it necessary to tell him so. I kid him along a bit, asking how many wives he has, and how many children. Of course he protests “None,” but it is easy after a bit of banter to slip away with a casual “See you around.” There is nobody else on the road, surprisingly enough, and the lighting is so poor that I can’t even tell what my potential suitor looks like. If I were ever to see him again, I would surely not recognize him.

I virtually run back to our hostel, eager to tell my fellow volunteers, all very young, that my Ghana experience is now complete. I don’t need to stay for my final week of teaching. I have actually been proposed to, and by a man named Wisdom. Imagine that! Did I miss a chance to finally acquire wisdom?

It’s the rainy season now, and wearing sandals or flip flops on muddy lanes all the time exposes my raggedy toenails, with polish all chipped. I neglected to get a pedicure before leaving home and decide to get one here, as much for the adventure as for the improved looks. My Ghanaian friend Mary, who has never had one herself, is happy to escort me one afternoon to a beauty salon she has scouted out.

We arrive at a nondescript place among many small shops on a long block. The large room, open to the street, has a sink in the corner and one hair dryer, the only things which identify it as a beauty parlor. About five young women, brightly dressed in typical two-piece fitted garb, are lounging around, whether customers or staff I cannot determine. One attractive girl saunters outside and soon comes back with a large plastic spa tub of water for me to soak my feet in. Mary, who insists on staying here with me, explains that they have no hot water due to a power failure. I’ve experienced that at our hostel.

As the usual sequence proceeds, I notice that one woman is actually having her hair washed and set. So I’m not the only customer. They’re all very jovial, chatting together in the local Ewe dialect, specific to this Eastern Volta region. They don’t pay any attention to me, although foreigners are rare in Hohoe. Maybe Mary has told them I am a volunteer at her school. The pedicure proceeds efficiently through all the stages I’m accustomed to--soaking, filing calluses, clipping and filing the nails, pumicing and massaging the feet. It feels great. The pedicurist applies nail polish expertly, her left forefinger quickly flicking off any smudges of polish that stray over the ends of my neatly clipped nails, a typical gesture I’ve observed many times before.

While I’m waiting for the top coat of polish to dry, one of the women looks directly across at me and asks a question. Mary translates: Will I take her son back to the States with me when I go? The toddler, young enough to be my great grandson, is very shy, hiding whenever I have tried to smile at him. Startled as I am, I look straight at the mother and say, “You would be very sad without him,” gesturing to indicate tears rolling down my cheeks. She adamantly denies that and acts as though this is a serious request. The idea is so preposterous to me, I would like it to be a joke. All sorts of possibilities race through my mind. Does she want to give her child to me so he can have a better life in America? Does she want to sell him to me? Or is she just having a bad day with him? As any mother knows, there are days when your child is so aggravating that you feel like giving him or her away.

When my toenails are beautiful and dry, I pay the local equivalent of $5.60 and leave the shop with Mary. The little boy stays with his mother.

Ghanaian printed or batik textiles are fabulous and I want to buy one piece—just one—but how can I possibly decide on the perfect one? There are so many choices at the market that I am unable to select just which brilliant color and bold design is my absolute favorite. I love each unique length of cloth more than the next one. My fellow volunteers have bought many flashy fabrics to be transformed by the skilled hands of Beatrice, a favorite dress-maker in town, into beautiful dresses and hoodies and big shoulder bags. I’ve seen and admired them and want a similar memorable garment.

Finally, one afternoon our whole group goes to Beatrice’s for a batik demonstration and lesson. I find myself standing beside a huge sack full of remnants, large and small, from her tailoring shop. Suddenly, a brain storm! Foraging happily, I dig out enough stunning pieces large enough to piece together into patchwork and be made into Capri pants. Beatrice gets into the spirit of the project, and they are ready a few days later. I’m delighted. They’re totally wild, a great reminder of all the color and variety to be found in this West African country.

I may have missed my chance to acquire wisdom or bring home a new family member, but I finally have a useful and unique souvenir of my Ghana adventures.

Dorothy Conlon, an octogenarian globe-trotter, explores destinations that are well off the beaten track. Combining personal travel with volunteer/service learning experiences, she has traveled from the far reaches of the Amazon to Africa, Asia, India and more. She has written about some of her adventures in “At Home in the World: Memoirs of a Traveling Woman.” Learn more at www.dorothyconlon.com