Better Late Than Never

My apologies to any loyal readers out there for the lack of recent posts. Most of my writing in the few weeks has been devoted to preparing essays for secondary medical school applications-- far less fun than writing about adventuring!

I’m sitting down to write with a bittersweet sentiment. Keesha and I recently moved out of our apartment in Akwatia, returning to Accra for our last two weeks in Ghana. Doris is returning to her work as a full-time midwife at the hospital. Without a translator we can’t interview any more women. Thus, we moved back to Accra, where we’ll have time to finish up our transcription, start working on the background and methods sections of our pending papers, meet with Dr. Adanu a few more times, and hopefully have a few final Ghanaian adventures.

Before heading off, Ma Doe had us over for a fu-fu pounding lesson. Having seen and heard many a Ghanaian pound fu-fu, I had been after Ma Doe to let us come over for a lesson. Most requests were met with an “Ohhh Harry!!” and lots of laughing, but eventually I convinced her that I really did want to learn. Joyce was sure that I didn’t understand how hard pounding fu-fu is, she just kept telling me “you cannot! You’re palms with turn red and sore!” On a Wednesday afternoon Keesha and I arrived at Ma Doe’s house. Doris lives in a small flat on the hospital campus, as do many of the other hospital employees. Her house consists of a living room that doubles as a bedroom with a bunk bed for Caleb and Leena, a bedroom for Ma Doe, a small kitchen and bathroom. All the rooms are situated around, and open onto, a cement ground level outdoor patio. A few steps from the patio hangs a clothes line bordered by yam plants, plantan and banana trees. I’d see numerous yam plants growing by the side of the road during our stay… and hilariously enough, not knowing what they were, thought they looked decidedly like marijuana plants…. Not quite! Joyce explained that the tuberous yam is ready to be picked when the stalk of the tall slender plant, with its pot like leaves, starts to turn brown and dry. The plant is then plucked out of the ground, the yam is cut off and the stalk is replanted, ready to grow a new yam.

Yams are a central ingredient in fu-fu, as are plantains. Another similar looking Ghanaian delicacy, banku, is made a bit differently from yams and cassava. The finished fu-fu product looks like an oily ball of cookie dough minus the chocolate chips. It’s served to each individual diner in a sizeable soup bowl, with a liquidy soup, containing large hunks of some kind of fish or meat. But, I’m getting ahead of myself—in order to make fu-fu, the yams and plantains are peeled, cut into large pieces and boiled. Once their boiled, you’re all set to start pounding! Fu-fu is pounded in a large wooden base, carved out of a chuck of a tree trunk. From the side, the base has an hour glass figure. Looking down on the circular top of the wooden cylinder, a 4 inch deep basin, with a few inches of rim is carved—allowing the wooden basin to be used as the bowl for something like a giant mortar and pestle. The pounding device is a 6 foot long thick stick. The bottom of the stick that strikes the wooden bowl is frayed outward- like a paint brush would be if you pressed down on the bristles. As I learned Wednesday, the yams and plantains are first pounded as two separate batches. The resulting dough balls are combine in the final round of pounding. Pounding fu-fu is a two person job- It involves one brave soul sitting next to the base adding in the plantains or yams, and another person standing, stick in hand pounding the ingredients as they are added. At first the pounding is fairly simple, the goal being to smash each veggie as it is added. Once all the veggies are in the tub, it involves a bit more skill. Pounding the veggies hard enough but mashing them into a dough takes a lot of force, so the stick wielder has to raise the baton a good foot out of the basin and forcefully smash it down on the slop. In order to create a ball and churn the dough the person sitting by the basin reaches in and flips the dough, scrapping the edges of the basin to re-gather the contents between each pound. This occurs at rapid speed with the stick pounder wailing away, bashing the bottom of the basin every two seconds or so, in between which the sitting person is sticking their fingers in the basin, barely missing each smashing. Needless to say Keesha and I were both terrified that we were going to pound Ma Doe’s fingers off—especially given our somewhat inconsistent aim and rhythm. We both had a good go of it though, somehow incident free, interspersed with Joyce, Caleb’s friend Francis, and Leena, showing us up. Apparently an expert and strong pounder like Francis can accomplish the task in 20 minutes, while it would have taken Keesha and I an hour. When all is said and done softball size balls are teased off the dough while the pounding continues, and placed in a bowl for each diner.

Having only sampled a bit of someone else’s fu-fu before, the serving size was a bit daunting. In true motherly hostess form Ma Doe was bent on stuffing us to the gills. Our fu-fu was served with ground nut stew (a peanut type flavor with palm oil and lots of hot spices) containing large chunks of chicken and fish. As I think I described before, the right hand is reserved for eating. Thus, in order to consume fu-fu- you’re supposed to pinch off a chunk of the dough with your right hand, dunk it in the soup the dough is already protruding from, and additionally pinch off a piece of meat to add to the finger full. The result is a spicy, sloppy mixture that feels somewhat slimy in your mouth. It’s one of those things you either love or hate… unfortunately, to be a good guest, I had to convince my gag reflexes that I was in the first group. For the first few bits that wasn’t too difficult—I really did like the taste of the soup, but the fu-fu was less appealing. After half of my softball I was really struggling, not to mention feeling plenty full! Pacing myself I got through a good ¾, (more than poor Keesha!) and after professing how stuffed I was and how extremely delicious it was I tried to set the bowl down. I then learned that real fu-fu eaters tip the bottom of the bowl up and drain the remaining soup… where I had mistakenly left the fish and chicken scraps and bones. I did my best to follow suit, sieving the soup with my front teeth, taking tiny sips to ensure successful swallowing. Just when I was thinking I had made it through, out Ma Doe came with jollof rice, dried fish, pasta (a special treat!), shito sauce, and tomato sauce. A feast to rival thanksgiving! Eventual, feeling like we’d never eat again, Ma Doe sent us home, having been truly immersed in Ghanaian dining.

July 1st was ‘Republic Day’—the Ghanaian equivalent of July 4th. This year Ghana celebrated 53 years of independence from Britain. No fireworks or fanfare, but a day off for us and much of the hospital staff. Keesha and I used our free afternoon on our last tro-tro ride from Akwatia to Accra. Heavy rains had washed out several sections of road, turning the car ride into something more like mud bogging. As always though, we somehow made it to our destination in one piece. Our time in Accra was brief. We went in simply to be there for the early morning bus departure to the Northern Region. Kofi generously arranged a four day outing for the Michigan crew and a few tag-alongs. Kofi offered to arrange the trip, and rent a bus for us, as we had ambitious plans to see a large swath of the Northern attractions on a tight timeline. We rented a bus from Korle Bu, which in typically Ghanaian fashion, pulled in 2-hours late for our departure. By 11 AM, we were all aboard: Keesha and I, the girls from Tema (Megan, Katie, and Ajab), Alex and his father who was visiting, and the Accra pair (Ella and Jennifer). Unfortunately, Nick missed out on the trip, opting to stay home and nurse the nearly-golf ball sized cysts that have cropped up on his neck. It started with one cyst a few weeks ago—apparently an infected bug bite, but in the past week or so several more have popped up. He’s switched rooms and sheets at his hostel, as apparently some sort of bug had infested his room. Since switching rooms no new bites have appeared, but he’s not feeling very social, understandably. He’s on antibiotics and the lab where he is working on culturing the cysts. I’ll stick to my foot worms thank you very much…

The first destination on our list was Kumasi. Kumasi is the largest city in Ghana, located just South of the center of the country. The drive northward took a solid 6 hours, the first of many long drives. The countryside immediately North of Accra is that which I’ve described surrounding Akwatia. Nearing Kumasi and the middle region of Ghana, the rolling hills and jungles of Akwatia transform into rocky outcroppings less densely vegetated. The rocky exposures never really turned into an imposing mountain range, but there were several impressive rock escarpments, cliffs.

Just outside of Kumasi we detoured to visit a kente cloth weaving village. The Asante people, one of the most powerful tribes in Ghana, traditionally wove kente cloth for ceremonial use. The resulting cloth is used for wraps, togas, throws and scarves during important events. Each King of the Asante Kingdom has a particular woven kente cloth pattern that only they are permitted to wear. A number of striped patterns and colors are used traditionally to represent various ideas—like unity, education, or war. Each ruler chooses the pattern that best embodies their ideals which are then shrouded as their pattern in the appropriate cloth. The village that we stopped at, Adanwomase, was one of the Asante village that kente cloth originated from. Kofi had arranged the stop, so the rest of us hadn’t a clue what we were in for. The bus pulled off the main road onto a rough dirt alley that dead ended outside a small building with a single shuttered entrance. Immediately upon pulling in our bus was swarmed with small children thrusting their palms upward asking for money and older kids pushing woven bracelets, trinkets, and food through the bus windows—the unfortunate give-away for a well-worn tourist destination. We had learned from our trek to the slave castle not to tell the swarm any of our names as last time this resulted in a pile of kids waiting outside the slave castle with shells with our mis-spelled names scrawled on them. Foreseeing a repeat with the bracelets the bus load of us did our best to just push through the crowd. We were corralled quickly into the building. Inside the building, the weavers shut the doors on the hawkers outside and pounced on us. The building was just one large room, all the walls adorn from floor to ceiling with kente cloth in a rainbow of colors and patterns. Covering all but a narrow walkway around the perimeter, were a set up of a dozen or so looms, the yarn for which was stretched neatly across the length of the room, creating a giant colorful cat’s cradle. One of the weavers gave us a brief demonstration on the technique, and I got to try my hand a on the loom. A wooden catch was looped around each foot. Sitting almost on the floor within the loom structure pulling the strings alternatively with one foot and then the other the weaver, or in this case me, was able to move the string base of the cloth up and down such that spools of interlocking thread could be passed through creating fabric. The master weaver (a job reserved only for men) wove with impressive speed, particularly in comparison to my bumbling uncoordinated attempt. After the demonstration, the other weavers, each of which had their work displayed on a portion of the wall, herded us to their work, physically standing in our way if we tried to pass by or just browse. It made admiring the work nearly impossible. I tried with no avail to explain that I if I browsed without pressure that I was more likely to find something I liked and buy it… but that didn’t seem to translate. I probably didn’t cement my message very firmly when I ended up buying a scarf from the weaver who ran out of the building after me as we loaded onto the bus. You can’t win them all eh?

Kumasi itself was shockingly well put together. Having expected something more like Accra, we were all impressed by the roads, the occasional road sign, the occasional bike or pedestrian lane on streets (!!), less sprawl, and better maintained buildings than Accra. Kofi explained that Kumasi boomed in size after Accra and was privy to more planning and forethought. Having made a quick stop and had a shortened after-hours-we-want-to-get-home-and-watch-the-football-game tour of the former Ashanti King’s palace -- a house built by the British…which I’d tell you more about but I think our rushed guided skipped that part. I asked one question about the golden stools seen replicated around Ghana and the guide told me I would have to come back another time if I wanted to learn about it. Football is serious business here! Our bus bee-lined it to the hotel where we were guaranteed a spot to watch the Ghana vs. Uruguay World Cup game. By the time we arrived the whole lot of us was unsure whether the pending game or the chance to eat was more exciting. The bus makes far better time than a tro-tro, but as our tummies learned, the lack of stops also means far fewer chances to buy food through the bus windows—the sustenance we’ve learned to relay on on trips. Stupidly, worried I would forget to take my malaria medicine later in the night I popped my doxicycline before dinner. We’d been warned against taking it on an empty stomach, but I thought that since I was sitting down to eat momentarily it wouldn’t be a probably. Dinner took a little longer than expected, delayed by the cooking staff’s understanding desire to leave their posts to peer out onto the open air patio where we had joined a pile of Ghanaian patrons to watch the game. Turns out my stomach isn’t quite the rock I’d come to think of it as. My night started with me puking for the first time in Ghana, not because of bad food or an illness, but because I took my malaria meds without food. Traveler fail. Ghana nearly made up for my flub up, playing a heart-wrenchingly close game against Uruguay. In the end, Ghana lost in a penalty shoot out, much to the disappointment of the crowd and all of us who had really enjoyed partaking in Ghana’s love affair with football.
Despite being dressed, packed and ready to go by 7 AM, it was passed 10 by the time we rolled out of Kumasi. Our bus acquired three new passengers, including two more students from Michigan working in Kumasi, Erika and Eva, and a friend of theirs, a British student named Shy. Loaded down, we continued Northward, settling in for another day on the bus watching beautiful scenery go by. Driving into the North really did provide wonderful window watching, but the extent of driving the weekend entailed didn’t lend itself well to picture taking. Though I tried repeatedly to capture the scene out of the moving bus window, the blurry pictures certainly don’t do it justice. The rocky out-croppings near Kumasi give way to shallow rolling hills of grassland and deciduous trees that cluster in clumps less dense than the Southern jungle counterparts. Long stretches of grasslands and sparse trees are interrupted by only the occasional small herd of long horn cattle and there shepherd, and a sprinkle of villages. Unlike the mud hut villages of the South that are built around the roads, and have incorporated tro tro travel and the movement of the street as an integral part of village life, the Northern villages are situated away from the road. Each appears as an largely self-sufficient entity secluded from the road. The villages are picturesque close clusters of mud hut compounds distinct from those we’d seen in the South. The Northern huts are mostly round rather than rectangular. Whereas huts in the South stand independently, huts here are built as compounds. Several small round huts with thatch roofs are connected by solid mud walls, creating a small yard like enclosure encircled by the huts and walls. Even the mud walls of these huts looked distinct. In the South water erosion is evident on the crumbling dwellings, but here the houses appear smooth and sturdy. Kofi said this is attributed to a special mixture of mud and cow manure plastered over the finished mud huts as sealant. I guess whatever works right? Apparently, the various huts in each compound serve as a mixture of cooking space and sleeping areas. Kofi told us chuckling that locals know how many wives a man has by the size of the compound. Regardless of who is living there, the villages are incredibly intriguing. The sparse traffic in the North and the offset of the villages from the road creates a completely different culture of travel. The occasional tro-tro speeds past the villages, usually jammed packed and rarely stopping. No one lines the roads sealing snacks or water. Thus, these villages are really far more isolated, and less connected than those in the South, not only from one another but from anything even vaguely resembling a city. Keesha and I felt unquestionably that the issues faced by pregnant women in these Northern villages were undoubtedly different than those faced by their peers in the South.

The only sizeable city North of Kumasi is Tamale, just a few hours shy of the Burkina Faso border. Our bus passed through Tamale, again a city with infrastructure impressive in comparison to Accra, despite its location and much smaller population, just before dusk. In combining an attempt to pack in as many sights as possible with our inability to get the bus on the road on time, we had reached Tamale far later than anticipated. The plan from Tamale was to drive essentially to the border, to the town of Paga, to see the town’s infamous sacred crocodiles. We were all a little confused when Kofi directed the driver to keep on, insisting that we would see crocodiles despite the waning light. Kofi always has a way of making things happen. By the time we rolled into the village of Paga, we were dependent on the bus lights to see the sign pointing to the crocodile ponds. The bus turned off the road, driving off on a dirt path. We pulled over after a half mile or so and Kofi jumped out, exchanged a few words with a man sitting under a tree in the dark, jumped on the back of a moped with the guy and signaled the bus to follow. We’re all goofy with stir-craziness from the bus, wondering what on earth we’re doing in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. But sure enough through the dark, and the assistance of the man on the moped, the bus is directed toward the edge of a pond. We’re unloaded an introduced to a few Ghanaian men, the keepers of the crocodiles, who had been awaiting our arrival. They’re ready with a few young chickens in hand and lead us through swarming bugs to the pond side lit only by the bus lights. As we walk toward the water’s edge red eyes reflect back at us, and a large crocodile shifts onto the grassy shore. Adjusting to the light we realize there are more than a few crocs lurking in the shallow water, making us thankful for the two of three men with sticks standing by the wayside. The legend goes that the founder of this village was out on a hunting trip alone when he wearied from dehydration. In dyer straights, he was collapsed near a tree when he saw a crocodile waddle by. He followed the crocodile, who lead him to water and was thus saved. After drinking, by grabbing the crocodile’s tail he was safety able to ford the river and get home, reportedly followed to safety by the croc. The crocodile thus was celebrated as having saved and befriended the hunter. Thus, when the village was founded, crocodiles were deemed scared. As we were told by the men with sticks while surrounded by crocodiles in the dark at a pond in the middle of nowhere—the crocodiles would never hurt a human. Anyone want to test their luck? Like a truly delinquent bus load of public health students who should know better than to go petting crocodiles, we lined up and one by one approached big crocodile’s back end—some squatting over it for a photo or lifting it while one of the guys tried to distract the big guy with promises of a chicken in his near future. I touched the tail briefly, holding its heavy weight and feeling the texture, like the pad of an animal’s foot, before dropping it promptly when the croc started to turn. I’d like to go home with both arms thank you very much! Having succeeded in getting us to the crocodiles as promised we loaded back on the bus, returning to Tamale before calling it a night.

Our next stop was the main attraction—the centerpiece of this whole outing: Mole National Park. West of Tamale an hour or so, and then a few hours North on a wash board dirt road lies Ghana’s largest and most impressive national park. The park lies just North of the last village on the washboard road: Larabanga. We stopped briefly there to see what is reportedly the oldest mosque in Ghana. Built in a mud-stick West-Sudanese style, the outside of the mosque is painted black and white, looking somewhat formidable supported by the long round wooden beams that protrude from its construction. After disembarking from the bus, we greeted the town elder spiritual leader, a bearded frail African man seated on a wooden stool in the shade in view of mosque. He welcomed us to the town and mosque with a boney handshake while a throng of children gathered round. The children infiltrated the group skillfully, each grabbing a hand, and escorting forward toward the mosque. A man spoke to the group about the mosques history and gave an impromptu lesson on shea butter making, spurred by questions about the gelatinous brown mixture boiling in a nearby cauldron. The children had clearly seen their share of visitors en route to mole, and as if on cue starting asking for specific items as we approached the bus. One pulled one of the boys aside requesting money for a soccer ball, others commented on how lovely our watches would look on them. Once inside the bus they reached through the windows asking specifically for pens. Wooed by their request for pens, I reached into my bag and pulled out the two I had, while a few others on the bus did the same. Before our eyes the children that had meekly held our hands turned into a vicious, brawling mob as soon as the first pen was offered. Despite trying to hand it specifically to a child, the kids shoved, punched and pushed each other forcefully out of the way fighting for the prize, lunging their hands back through the window when it disappeared in the crowd. Immediately realizing our mistake, we uncomfortably tried to close the windows and waited anxiously for the bus to pull out, having to inch its way through the mob of children.

Just out of view of Larabanga, the conflicting encounter fresh in my mind, we pulled up to the Mole Park entrance. Inside the park gate we continued a few more kilometers on the bumpy washboard road, up a hill to the Mole Motel. The mole motel consists of a small restaurant, a seemingly out of place swimming pool, a few free standing stone cabins, and two rows of a dozen or so rooms for rent in classic motel style. The small motel is situated beautifully on a 250 meter overlook poised in perfect view of a large watering hole, surrounded by the expanse of the well forested 4,840 square-kilometers of the park. Having arrived just moments before the afternoon safari walk, we left the bus loaded went directly to the ranger’s station where we were introduced to our guide for the day—Esau. Because of the wildlife the park boasts- including elephants, an occasional lion and commonly jaguars, venturing out without an armed guide is strongly discouraged if not forbidden. Our options for surveying the wildlife were either a jeep safari or a walking safari. Ready to stretch our legs after more than enough time in the bus, 13 of us opted for the walk. As anyone who has ever walked in the woods knows, 13 slap happy students aren’t exactly the ideal candidates for happening upon wildlife. Keen on seeing as much as possible, our inability to be quiet was fairly frustrating. Amazingly, we saw so much wildlife that it really felt like we were in a zoo. Even within the motel parking area wild warthogs bravely encroached, scouting out the garbage cans for goodies, flaunting their bums in the air as they kneeled on their front limbs munching away at the grass. Before even leaving the rangers station, mingling with the wart hogs we spotted a gaggle of red-bummed baboons, sitting conversationally with one another and searching for treats in the grass. Heading out past the rangers station, there were a few cement quarters used by the guides and park staff. The baboons also seemed to have adopted this spot as their hang out. As we approached, we watched a little girl, a child of a staff member run by with two empty grain bags in here hands. In the middle of a tangle of baboons, she dropped a bag, which a baboon promptly snatched up and darted off with playful, much to the chagrin of the girl who went running after him, and the baboon who loped tauntingly in front of her. Beyond the compounds, Esau directed us off the dirt road, into the brush. Rather than following a semblance of a trail, we formed an obedient line behind our leader, crunching through the underbrush, pushing encroaching branches out of the way. Under Esau’s direction we stumbled upon numerous fairy-tail like brush buck, with their mousey brown coats, short stature, and seemingly unnatural array of white strips and dots on their flanks. They look like hand painted miniature deer. Similar in color, but larger in size, we jumped a number of antelope, who were quicker to dart away upon our approach. In some of the larger clearings from the cover of a hillside or brush we also saw a number of male and female water bucks—much larger looking deer with mule-ish brown coats, highlights around their muzzle, eyes, and ears, and wide incredibly cute and innocent looking big ears. Toward the end of the hike as we approached the watering hole that the motel overlooks Esau stopped abruptly, signaling us to couch as we peered over a small hill—two large male water buck’s were tangled in each other’s horns, clashing over a pretty doe grazing nearby. Seeing the two bucks clash, reared up on their back legs, was an amazing treat that made even Esau smile broadly. Our final citing of the day, found after scaling a few dried up water routes violently carved by obviously impressively torrential on slots of rain, was a family of baboons sprawling on a rock bed. Several mamas had newborns in tow—seated with them in their laps, of meandering along as the little ones used their human like fingers to cling on upside down to their mom’s bellies, or climb skillfully onto their backs. We scaled the escarpment back to the motel on steep diagonal, giving my ankle more testing than it probably needed. We returned stoked at the ample array of wildlife, but slightly disappointed that the elephants had eluded us. Over dinner, aside from the momentary distraction of a scorpion found by other patrons, the man conversation was whether a walking of driving safari was more likely to unearth elephants the next day. Having half-way jokingly informed Kofi that I wasn’t leaving until I saw an elephant, we decided on another walking safari, as the walking safaris are better able to approach the watering holes the elephants typically frequent in the morning.

At 6:30 AM the group was reunited with Esau. There was actually a bit of tension heading out—with a few of us worried that the large, potentially talkative group would hurt our chances of seeing these elusive elephants. Worries remained high for the next hour or so as we tromped through a different part of the forest. Esau stooping frequently to inspect tracks, and direct our course, but the wildlife hid far more skillfully than the previous day. Just as it seemed that our course was starting to loop back toward the motel sans elephant sighting, Esau proudly raised his arm, pointing ahead of us, and turned to us smiling. “Ell-eh-font” he said proudly. Sure enough, just as we entered a clearing, three elephants moved ahead of us on their way back into the woods. Hoping to circumvent their path, Esau waited until we had all had a glimpse and then led us crouching into the woods. It was like we were playing hid and go seek with shy giants. Crouching in the woods, we could see the elephants at a range of 30-50 yards away through the forest brush. They sensed our presence, and hesitantly changed course, heading toward the clearing where we had seen the family of monkeys the day before. Under Esau’s firm instructions to stay low and follow his every move in order to avoid scaring away our new find, we crept through the forest following the elephants, watching their trucks blend in like hanging branches, their thick legs appearing like tree trucks whenever they heard us and struck a statuesque pose. Having followed these three through the woods for some time, Esau informed us that he could hear others playing in the water hole. Sure enough, arriving at the big water hole visible from the aerial vantage of the motel, six African elephants stood basking in the water. They stood bums together in a half circle, so deep that only their soft black eyes, the tops of their heads and big ears, and their wily trucks protruded from the water. Over joyed, we sat on the ponds edge, less than 35 yards from these impressive creatures, watching them enjoy their morning bath. Soon after settling, a late comer tried to approach the water hole from the entrance we bordered. Unlike the elephants in the woods who were tentative and skiddish, this one was so bent on his bath that he could hardly be bothered to use another entrance to the pond. Esau ended up having to make a racket with sticks in order to convince the stubborn elephant to keep its distance. In the meantime, awestruck, we watched the bathing beauties (actually all males—apparently the females typically stay deep in the woods to protect the ‘little’ ones) as a few slowly emerged from the watering hole. Different from Asian elephants, African elephants have big ears and dark gray, almost black skin. You’d never known it if you saw them in the woods though. Though they emerged from the water sporting their dark gray skin, they quickly dipped their handy trunks into the mud and began slinging it over their shoulder, across their back and sides, giving them a fly repellant and a dirty lighter grey brown color as they dry. Now thoroughly satisfied, after many minutes of quiet watching, we hiked back to the motel.

After breakfast, a quick dip in the pool and a few last peeks out over the beautiful African scrub savanna dotted with animals, we said good bye to Mole and settled in for the long drive back to Accra. Less than an hour into the ride my stomach failed me for the second time in quick succession. Full of delicious food and a precious coffee, the truly horrible dirt road got the best of me and my prone to car sickness self-- quite the way to start a 14 hour ride. We back tracked through Tamale, heading South past the beautiful Northern plains and captivating architecture, through Kumasi traffic, into Southern Ghana as the sun set. The bus detoured to drop Keesha and I in Akwatia just after midnight, leaving the rest of the crew to endure another few hours on the bus. Despite the long ride, the trip was worth it for the breadth it added to our picture of Ghana, and for the beautiful scenery we were privy to on the ride.

In case anyone is still reading, I’ll keep the post-Mole account short. Having returned late Monday night, Keesha and I spent Tuesday through Thursday wrapping up our work in Akwatia. Thursday we had the distinct pleasure of showing our mentor from the US, Cheryl Moyer, and a fellow researcher, an inspirational neonatologist and WHO researcher Dr. Engleman, around St. Dominic’s. Cheryl had never been to the clinic or Akwatia. After having spent so much time there it was wonderful to show her our stomping grounds and to introduce her to the clinic crew—especially Doris. Both Doris and Cheryl are such wonderfully positive and supportive people. Keesha and I were pretty excited to introduce them, given how much the two women have supported us through this project. By the end of our tour and good-byes we were all a little misty eyed—we even had poor Cheryl tearing up! Ma Doe gave Keesha and I matching kente cloth scarves wrapped in shiny paper, with little labels taped to the outside. Mine said: To Harry luv Doris Nimako. That card might be one of my favourite souvenirs from Ghana. It rivals the one that a neighbor boy at the staff village had brought over the night before. This boy had brought me a bag of oranges the week before, and I had chatted with him a few times in passing. Before we left he brought me a card wrapped in wrapping paper. He wouldn’t let me open it until he left- which is probably a good thing, as when I did I couldn’t help but laugh. He’s still in primary school, and I think he just tried to pick out a card he though looked nice—it happened to be a ‘Get Well Soon Card’ with pretty flowers on it. The card was still in its plastic wrapper and tucked inside was a note that said started with, ‘to Hellin’, and went on to list his address and ask me to be his pen pal. Too cute! With a final fairwell and lots of hugs from Ma Doe we said our bittersweet good-byes to St. Dominic’s and Akwatia. We rode back to Accra with Cheryl and by nightfall were unloading into the hostel at Korle Bu, having flashbacks to our first few days in May. We’ve settled back in, despite the current lack of running water. This past weekend was spent at Kokrobite Beach with the Michigan girls and Ella’s parents who are visiting from Michigan. After a big week of travel and goodbyes, the sun, sand, and cheers with the Ghana family, was a great escape.

And that my friends, brings you up to date with the goings on. I’ll do my best to get another post up before we depart for Kenya on July 21st. I think most of the time between now and then will be spent here at Korle Bu wrapping up, but there’s a potential for a brief trip to the Volta Region early next week to cap off my Ghanaian explorations.

Until then,
Much love,

Halley

Sacrificing a Goat and my Patriotism

In my last post I mentioned that Keesha had a worm in her foot. I decided to leave out my worries that I had one too, blaming it on being a hypochondriac. However, after more than a week of itching my big toe, and the obvious migration of a linear lump across the pad, I admitted that I too probably needed to be checked out. The good news is that the little buggers (coetaneous larva migrants) are easily treatable. I’m two days into a four day regime of albendazole 400 mg and the itching is vastly improved. All the locals are flabbergasted by our worm catching abilities. Apparently our feet scream ‘foreigner’ too. In other happier health news—I am now free of my walking cast and down to a small aircast!

We had a great midweek adventure with Doris last week. She grew up in a village near Akwatia and offered to take us to show us around and meet her mom. Though we live in a secluded small town, there are definitely many less accessible really rural villages off the beaten path. I was really interested in getting a chance to learn more about rural life, so Doris’ offer was a great treat! Thursday we wrapped up early at work and headed out. Doris explained that in the last 10 years or so the village has become much more accessible—now tro tros run several times a day from the small tro tro station in Boudua, through and beyond the village of Dwenase (pronounced je-nas-ee). Even at the tro tro station in Boudua my skin color generated comments and lots of grins, the limited obrunies in the area apparently don’t often venture on this route. The tro tro took off in the direction of Kade, turning east not far from Boudua, cutting deep into the rippling hills of dense jungle I described off to the East in an earlier post. The first 20 minutes or so were spent on a smooth road paved for the first time in recent years. Dense elephant grass lined the road, broken only by the occasional footpath, notable only by watchful eyes discerning broken reeds recently parted. Several times passengers signaled the mate to stop when nothing but jungle and elephant grass was visible on the roadside. They would disembark, gather there things, and step confidently through one of the hidden passages. Doris explained that some people live in what she called “cottages” isolated in the jungle, stating that the footpaths usually lead a single home or two well off the road. We came across a few villages, mud and stick homes along side dilapidated cement dwellings, with far fewer roadside vendors than main thoroughfares. On the top of one the rolling ridges running perpendicular to the road, the pavement stopped abruptly and the road narrowed, making it difficult for any opposing vehicle to squeak by. All the while, the beautiful views of the rolling hills of jungles we’ve been admiring from afar came closer and consumed us. We journeyed, past a few bulldozed dirt inlets to the jungle, which Doris explained were private gold mining areas. While Akwatia is known for diamonds, this area to the east is known for gold. The last sizable village before Doris’ had an active little village centre, including a strange entertainment venue created by a pool table awkwardly placed out in the open just a few feet from the road, occupied by a few young men engaged in an intense game. I wonder how that got there…? The dirt path continued on, shared with a number of pedestrians used to trekking without the aid of frequent tro tros.

The first sign of the town of Dwenase is a clinic, large enough for just a few rooms, on the side of the road. It closed a few years ago, and now sits vacant. The dirt road opens into the center of the quiet village, lined by a handful of cement buildings with rusted tin roofs, nestled amongst picturesque fog capped jungle hills. At first glance the place appeared virtually deserted, with a just person or two sitting by the roadside, or carrying loads expertly atop their heads. Doris was beaming at this point. So, excited to show us her home town. The people who were out all greeted her warmly in passing, “Ma Doe!” (short for Mama Doris!). Our first stop in Dwenase was Ma Doe’s mother’s home. From the main dirt boulevard we turned south toward a beautiful view of an imposing peak lush with foliage, down through a washed out alley between wooden and cement shacks to a two room cement structure, with a well worn roof, and small shaded porch. There sat Doris’ 78 year old mother, dressed in an unbelievably white robe, her eyes looking wise, but cloudy, sad, and well-worn. A few other relatives, and Doris’ skinny elderly step-dad, with his toothless grin greeted us from the porch. We said our hellos, exhausted our limited Twi vocabulary, and then tried a short conversation with Doris’ mom, translated through Doris. Her mom knows some English, and Doris playfully tried to get her to rack her brain for phrases, but frankly I don’t think she felt up to it. She’s not been feeling well, and keeps telling Doris it is her time. It was an honor to meet her—I can’t imagine the life she’s led. We returned to the house again just before leaving the town and took Doris’ picture with the available family and her mom at Doris’ request. Now I just need to find a spot to get it printed for her!

After meeting the family, Doris was determined to track down one of our study participants that we had had a follow-up interview with over the phone the day before. Doris had mentioned to her that we were coming to the village and would try to stop by to check in. As there are no road signs (or footpath signs for that matter) or addresses, the way to find people is to ask locals. Doris wandered into the mission housing, and asked a pretty young women if she knew where we could find this woman. She said she did, and dropped what she was doing to take us there. We walked a little further down the road, then cut off across a footpath, winding through banana trees, deep off the road, behind and through a number of small well maintained clearing with little huts, down into a valley, finally stopping at a row of three huts, connected by full cloth lines, separated by a large cast iron caldron. The woman approached the door, and called the participants name, and vola!, out she came. As far as villages go, this one is considered relatively accessible, but in that moment I was thoroughly impressed that this woman had delivered at St. Dominic’s. She and Doris exchanged pleasantries, and Doris asked to see the baby. She was a little hesitant to bring her out, but did so briefly. Doris later explained that the traditional belief is that the baby must stay in the house for the first week of their life, which is a little funny since the baby was born at St. Dominic’s and had already obviously been out of the house to get home. But, that aside, the belief has been adjusted to account for hospital births, but still remains that once home the child must stay indoors for the first seven days, until the naming ceremony occurs.

Upon leaving the women, Doris decided we needed to find a truly rural Ghanaian treat- palm wine. She inquired with the neighbors, and soon lead us into a nearby yard. Doris introduced us to an elderly scrappy looking gentleman, with stubs for teeth, no shirt, lean well defined muscles, and pants many sizes too big held on with a rope belt. He greeted us warmly, and was happy to oblige my many questions about the wooden bowl with a pointed base he was chiseling out of a large piece of tree trunk. Through Doris’ translation he explained that it was used in gold mining, going through the motions of how one might sift through handfuls of dirt diluted by water using the bowl. Doris used the yard as a mini-teaching station, showing us the reed cooking hut, the clay mortor and pestle, the pots used for boiling palm oil, and finally a cocoa tree. Ripe cocoa fruit, hung directly on the trunk of the bushy trees, looking like large yellow avocados. One was plucked, and a machete was used to hack it open. I must confess that the inside looked decidedly un-tasty. The inside of a cocoa looks like a giant white larva, slimy and segmented in the shape of a grenade. Sections the size of gumballs divide off, and are considered a succulent treat. I wasn’t warned that I should simply suck on the fruit, and instead crunched into it, easily breaking open the bitter cocoa seed inside, turning my mouth purple, and giving our hosts a good laugh. When done correctly sucking on the slimy treat gives off a taste similar to a mango, leaving you with an almond sized cocoa seed to spit out. At one point Ghana was one of the world’s leading cocoa producers. It is still a popular crop, explaining why Cadbury has an office in central Accra.

After finishing off the cocoa, we were led around the back of the hut where another shirtless elderly man was hard at work hacking away at a downed thick trunked palm tree with a machete. Again, he grinned ear to ear and happily told us about his work through Doris. He was working to clear away the bark and expose the wood of the tree high up on the trunk. He explained that once the bark was cleared a tool like an ice pick was used to hollow a rectangular notch several inches wide and deep into the wood, exposing sticky yellow sap. Another tool is then used to pound a smaller hole in the center of the notch all the way through to the other side of the tree. An empty jug is placed under the hole. Given the wide trunk and root system exposed at the lower end of the trunk, the upper shaft of the tree is angled toward the ground, employing gravity to drain the sap out of the palm into the waiting jug. According to Antoe (the palm wine preparing old man) an average tree gives about 4 gallons of wine. Our gracious host, excitedly pulled a jug out from under a nearby tree, after exposing the smelly yellow sap hole to show us the finished product. Someone ran to get a little bit of mesh, and fresh palm wine, straight from the palm was poured out of the jug, through the wide mesh fabric, into a bowl, which was proudly served to us. This is real rural Ghana! We took a few swigs of the cloudy yellow substance that tasted a bit like very fermented pineapple (aburbay in Twi!) juice. The two older men beamed, offered me a job making palm wine, and in the true spirit of Ghana asked to marry us. Doris laughing all the while to the point of tears at the hilarity of the whole scene. A gold connoisseur and a wine maker- one could do worse eh?!

Our tour continued. We collected a large empty white snail shell from the many shells scattered on the forest floor for Keesha’s shell collection much to the continued amusement of Doris, then ventured through more winding paths to say hello to more of Doris’ friends and family. In some of the yards a mossy green grass was growing, bright, and short, making it seem that we were walking on Astroturf or a golf course. We were gifted more cocoa fruit, by the endless acquaintances of Doris. And came across a Ghanaian little person (is that the correct term?) carrying a full bucket of plantans atop her head. Doris greeted her warmly and said she had delivered all of the women’s three children, one of which ended up being our taxi driver on the way home. Doris is the bomb.

As if the day could get better, we wandered back toward the center of the village and happened upon recess at the school yard. A stampede of kids came running toward me pointing, waving and yelling. They were overjoyed and amazed to see an obrunie in their village! The scene was unreal. Doris again laughing, me approaching the kids like an alien pledging that I come in piece. I said hello and then was mobbed by this excited throng of screaming children all wanting to shake my hand and touch my skin, jumping up and down, wanting to pose for photographs, partying like this was the coolest thing to happen in Dwenase since bag water. When school let out a little while later and we had finished walking around, I felt like I was leading a parade, all the school kids in their blue uniforms mobbed me again and walked all the way through town with us, jumping into pictures whenever we tried to snap a shot, all the while were all laughing so hard we can barely walk, and the kids are having just as much fun. When we’d walked far enough for the crowd to thin, Doris doled out candies, further fueling the excitement. During our stay we’d acquired gifts including a large stalk of plantans, a jug of palm oil, and the cocoas, which kids proudly carried for us through the street. They pressed up against the glass of the taxi and ran behind us waving goodbye, capping off our truly rural experience in Dwenase.

Friday afternoon I set out on my next adventure, my first solo trek in Ghana. Keesha decided to stay home for the weekend, while I went into Accra to drop off some paperwork, and then head out on a day trip with Ella and Nicole. At this point I’m fairly comfortable with getting back and forth to Accra, and know the basic lay out of the city, so I wasn’t too worried about going it alone. I found tro tros without a problem, and was quickly on the road. Unfortunately, none of our trips to the city ever seem to go without mishap. This time a ways into the trip our tro tro hit a large goat while going full speed. The tro tro was passing a car going through a village, and the goat trotted out from in front of the car as we came around to pass it. I was sitting in the front sit, as we mowed the poor guy over sending him tumbling and very much dead directly underneath our speeding van. The passengers got riled up, making lots of the frustrating clucking noises that are so popular here, as the driver slowed, peered in the rear-view mirror helplessly and then continued. Just before reaching Accra we got stuck in an hour long traffic jam off cars trying to mud-bog through the mudhole of a construction zone flooded with rainy season rains, but without hitting any other innocent goats, we made it to Accra.

The afternoon was a bit of a mess—me trying to find a copy place through countless misdirection by people on the street, resulting in several marriage proposals, and more than a few “I love you’s” from the less than helpful male vendors. Keesha and I have to renew our visas after 60 days (which is coming up quick) so I needed some copies for that, as well as to fax information to the safari we booked in Kenya (more adventures to come!). I ended up finding the place after deciding to go along with a conversation with a helpful male, in trade for being led to the copy place. Just before we got there he pulled the classic Ghanaian line of best used immediately after meeting someone briefly on the street: “I will never forget you, you are so wonderful, can I have your number?” to which I replied that I was married. By the time I made it back to the tro tro station it was getting dark, my plan had been to take a tro tro to the station near where Kofi was staying to drop off the paperwork, but my plan was foiled when I reached the area where that particular tro tro should be and instead found a line 50 people long waiting for the next van. I waited in the growing darkness and drizzle for 20 minutes before springing for a cab. I ended up having to call Kofi twice to direct the cab driver who, though nice enough, knew his way around Accra about as well as I do.

Exhausted from a day of work and an afternoon of being perpetually turned around, I crashed at the hostel in preparation for an early morning with Nicole and Ella. We left at 6 AM, bought street food at Kaneshie market for breakfast (including a push cart with Nescafe!), and were then on the road to Tema. After bumper to bumper traffic out of Accra , we arrived in Tema (the home of Katie, Megan and Ajab), found amazingly clean porta-potties for 20 pesewas a pee, and hopped the next bus to Ada. Since Nicole and Ella had been before, I had the luxury of kicking back and following their lead on directions.

Outside of Tema the crowded feel of Accra fades away quickly, giving way to scrub brush type lands-- green grasslands with scattered shrubbery covering the fairly flat topography. Much of the roadside is hand tilled farm land, with the occasional small herd of long horned cattle being shepherded along the roadside by a boy on foot. A few old bikes were parked by the roadsides, as there presumed owners, broke their back hoeing the long crooked rows of plants. One of the most popular crops, at least in terms of the roadside stands, were delicious looking watermelons.

After an hour or two we reached Ada. Ada sits on a peninsula at the mouth of the River Volta, where it opens into the Atlantic Ocean—one side of the peninsula is washed by the ocean and the other by the river. The tro tro dropped us at the last stop, an empty tro tro station in the village of Ada-Foa. Honestly, without Ella and Nicole I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do next, as there is were no other tro tros or water in site. The next task turned out to be bartering for a boat. The actual peninsula continues for another mile or two. In order to get down-shore where the beaches are, one needs the help of a local boat. The boat driver we found wandering in the tro tro station marched us through a mud hut village and market, through a few back yards, to a little beach where a handful of kids were washing their clothes in the river. He told us to wait for his return with a paddle boat, but instead allowed ourselves to be easily coaxed onto a sturdy motor boat offering the same fare. The drivers mentioned a nearby sugar cane rum factory (?) and crocodiles, but we stayed the course to the beach in the interest of time. The river’s width as it nears the ocean makes it appear more like a turbulent lake, but the opposite shore line appeared thick with palms, and picturesque from afar. The beach on the river’s edge was beautiful, as were the tall palms that shade the wooden huts topped with dried palm fronds. Our boat sped past a number of docked fishing boats with the same construction and colorful paint jobs we’ve seen before at Kokrobite and Elmina. Along the shorelines children romped mostly naked, people bathed with ample suds, clothes were scrubbed, goats romped freely and fishing nets were hauled in and repaired. The shore had a number of inlets, creating little almost-lakes on the peninsula, fed by the river, erecting natural barriers between clusters of huts on the shore. In stark contrast, the huts also shared the coast with a few mini-mansions, with drive in boat garages and covered gazebos over the river.

The boat dropped us at Maranatha Beach Camp on the river side of the peninsula. The camp consists of a few tables and chairs shaded by palm roofs, 20 or so one room cabins made of woven reed walls and palm roofs, with wooden doors painted in honor of a variety of national flags, and a bathroom constructed with the same woven siding, no roof, and a hole in the sand covered with a toilet seat. At this point on the peninsula, the ocean side is essentially a desert of sand and the peninsula is only wide enough to take about 5 minutes to walk from the river across the sand to the ocean. After some much needed food, we spent the remainder of the afternoon walking from the camp around the tip of the peninsula, and back down the ocean side. Thankfully there was a strong breeze, which kept me cool enough to prevent me from being tempting into the shistomiasis laden river water. Instead, we walked along the beautiful river side beach barefoot collecting thick, heavy shells in a variety of shapes and sizes, and scaring the speedy sand colored crabs back and forth across the beach as we walked. Ella found sea glass that made her day, and Nicole happened upon a sizable handsome cowie shell that she was pretty stoked on. The tip of the peninsula narrowed to a pointed strip of sand, washed over with the rough clash of the river current trying to flow out in to the ocean, while strong ocean waves tried to roll inward. The result was a criss-cross of waves with impressive surges. Continuing down the ocean side the strong pull of the tide and crash of the waves has created shear sand cliffs that stretched well above our heads as we walked on the beach below. My aircast and I tested the strength limitations of them by standing on the upper edge, and were rewarded by an avalanche of sand below us, leaving me with more than a little sand in my swimsuit, but no other injuries to report. Unfortunately, the ocean side of this otherwise gorgeous spot was pretty depressing. From the tip of the peninsula onward, the coast was thick with trash. Even the waves rolling in were visibly caked in plastic bags and scraps. Midway down the beach some kids a ways up in the sand started yelling obrunie and waving, all while still squatting in a row relieving themselves in the middle of the coverless beach.

We returned to Maranatha, soaked up a bit more sun, and then headed back to the mainland on a strict timeline to avoid missing the big football match that evening. Our boat driver dropped us off several beaches too early and then turned to a random passenger disembarking and asked him to drive us up the road. It ended up being an incredibly lucky incident. The man was a Ghanaian engineer, and his passenger was a family friend from North Carolina, here in Ghana to visit family. Once we were in the truck and the driver found out where we were headed he insisted on driving us all the way to Tema, where the pair were headed. Thus we lucked out on an incredibly cushy, free, air-conditioned ride in a nice new truck, complete with thoroughly entertaining commentary about Ghanaian life from the well-traveled driver. We made it back to Accra in record time, and were settled in at home long before the game started, despite a lengthy thwarted attempt to eat at an essentially non-existent beach side vegetarian restaurant billed by the guide book as a popular back-packers lodge and eatery. What we actually found was a rundown house hidden behind a crumbling old school yard, where several children introduced us to their high-as-a-kit maybe father who informed us that his ex-pat wife who apparently runs (ran?) the place was out.

Instead we settled in to watch the game with the Accra hostel staple, rice and chicken from His Place. For those who aren’t following the world cup, Ghana is the last African team left in the running. Saturday night Ghana went head to head with the United States, in a single elimination round. Though I’m not a sports watching fanatic by any stretch of the imagination, it was a great game. I surrendered my patriotism and rooted whole heartedly for Ghana—football is such a big deal here, and the World Cup is after all on African soil for the first time! Plus, the longer Ghana is in it the more we get to experience Ghana all hopped up on football frenzy! The game went into overtime (2-2), and was then clinched by a goal from “the hope of Africa”. Though we were in the hostel for the game, every time Ghana scored, and for an hour after the game you could hear the entire city, scattered around TVs and radios absolutely roar, in thundering jubilation.

And that my friends is the latest!
Love from Ghana! (And Go Black Stars!)

Cape Coast

As one might expect, as time goes on and we get more and more comfortable with our surroundings, the days get fuller and really start to fly by. We are now well past the half way point for our time in Ghana, with just four weeks left, followed by two weeks in Kenya and Egypt.

Late last week we reached a big milestone at work. We stopped accepting new women into the study, upon having reached ‘saturation’—a qualitative research term meaning that we’d stopped hearing new information. We capped the study at 85 women (a big number for qualitative research!), and are now hard at work following up with the women who have delivered. I personally am a big fan of the follow-ups, as we have realized we are able to catch a bunch of the women on the ward after delivery, before they are discharged. Thus, I get to see their cute babies, tell them how “eff-eh” (beautiful) they are, while trying to recall by the day of the week they were born what their Ghanaian names are. Each morning Doris and I go to the maternity ward, and stop into all the post-delivery rooms to see if any of our women are there and feel up to a quick 5 minute interview. Doris is a wonderfully patient and knowledgeable midwife, so in making our rounds I also have the chance to learn as Doris can’t help but aid the mom’s who are struggling to breast feed or have questions about some aspect of their experience. She’s a very active and attentive midwife—who all the staff love to work with, because she does far more than her share of the work, much to her frustration. All the baby girls have their ears pierced by the midwives before they leave the hospital. Yesterday Doris was horrified to see a baby whose ears had been pierced far too high, bordering the hard cartilage. With a few swift women to the mother, she pulled out the offending piercing, and used the sharp back of the earring head to re-pierce the lobe in the correct spot, and then turned to me to start the interview. Problem solved! Next!

Mondays the antenatal clinic doubles as a postnatal clinic. Fridays it doubles as a children’s vaccination center; Women stride in with their young ones securely sashed to their backs with a stretch of fabric just over a yard long. The carrying technique fascinates me and looks beautiful. To get the babes up there, the women fold at the hips, as if touching their toes, hoist the child onto their back, so that the child’s arm and legs are hugging the mother, and then lay the stretch of fabric over the child’s back. The top bit of the cloth falls just below the child’s armpits, as well as the mothers. The top of the cloth is crossed in front of the mother and tucked in under her arms, leaving the bottom half hanging. The mother grabs both ends hanging like a cape, and scoops them up so the baby’s bottom is cupped just above her hips. The feet of the baby stick out of the bottom of the cloth at her sides, as the excess is twisted together and tucked neatly into the fabric around her middle. The contraption looks secure, is inexpensive, and seems rather comfortable for both parties… of course when the women at the clinic realized we were not well versed in this method of baby totting they were immediately intent on teaching us. We regularly see 7 year olds carting along their yearling siblings using this method, so the idea that we were incompetent at it was pretty hilarious to them. Thus, this past Friday, on children’s clinic day, when lots of 1 and 2 year olds are brought in for shots, Doris solicited volunteer babies. Amused mothers offered up their clueless kiddos for the entertainment of the clinic—watching an obrunie try to be African—quality entertainment! The first volunteer baby thought my obrunie-self was too scary, and wasn’t having anything to do with me. The second smiled the whole way though it—the women got a really good laugh at me, feeling like I was mimicking their method, but turning out a subpar result. I can’t believe women haul their kids like that with giant piles stacked on their heads—just inching through the clinic I was sure my volunteer baby was going to slip out! Luckily she did not, and after a photo-op was safely returned giggling to her brave mom.

Outside of work in the clinic last week, Keesha and I tried to spice up our social life with a dinner party—our first evening gathering in Akwatia! We invited our adopted Ghanaian mother/translator/midwife Doris, her kids, and our other helper Joyce over for a bring your own plate and silverware dinner party. Initially we had hoped to make something American, but the scarcity of the necessary ingredients, and some lack of foresight fogged Keesha’s initial dreams of something as classic as a hamburger. Instead, we (ie: Keesha, with me as sous chief) made rice with a mixed vegetable and fish sauce and in a ground-nut paste base. Your choice of drinks: mango juice or kool-aid (now that’s American!). Classy eh? For dessert, there were milo based pancake crepe type items with chopped mango and pineapple. Dessert was definitely the best received. Doris was a hoot all of dinner, reminding me of my mom and making up for an otherwise very quiet table. Other than that, all in all it was a hilariously awkward scene. Doris has two biological children—Blessing and Kaleb. Blessing is away at the University of Ghana, and Kaleb, is waiting to find out whether he has been accepted to University. He had polio as a kid (as have a fair number of others we’ve seen in Ghana) and walks using crutches secured to his forearms. Doris also has an adopted daughter Leena, who is 12. Leena was born at St. Dominic’s, but abandoned by her family. Doris was working on the ward, and really took to the child, leading her to end up adopting Leena when the family never returned. Kaleb and Leena came to dinner with Doris, and despite the fact that they both speak English, I barely got 2 sentences out of them the whole night! Leena would just giggle, and about the only thing I could get Kaleb engaged in was teaching us new words in Twi—leading to a few useful phrases like: “many comb” (I’m sleepy) and “Ed-eh” (Delicious!). Joyce turned out to be a picky eater and was falling asleep at the table—not that I can blame her as she works full time as a nurse in the clinic and goes to school at night. Keesha was pre-occupied with worry that the quiet crowd didn’t like her cooking, leaving Doris and I to do the talking, Joyce chimming in loudly with “Ohhh Efffffia and Yaaaa!” (our Ghanaian names) as a stand alone statement, apparently appropriate commentary for any long silence. When 7 PM rolled around and the staff bus came to pick up the night crew our visitors made their exit, hopping a ride back to the hospital, leaving Keesha and I wide eyed wondering what had just happened. We tried! In return Doris has invited us over to make banku next week, which should again, if nothing else, be entertaining and informative!

Our work week was capped off with the realization that that itchy bug bite on Keesha’s big toe in is infected… with a worm. At first we just thought it was itchy and swollen, and when the swelling moved I blamed it on blood flow diffusing the inflammation… but when the distinct shape of a worm emerged under the skin on the pad of her foot… and then moved overnight, making the diagnosis was fairly clear. Too many Discovery channel terror shows about worm migrating to people’s brains had her fairly ready to lob her foot off and jump the next flight home, but we think we’ve got it taken care of now. The docs think it is a sub-cutaneous skin worm, and have prescribed her daily wormer for the next few days. Apparently that should take care of it, but either way, Keesha has sworn off sandals for the duration.

Friday after work Keesha, myself, and her tag-along the worm, high-tailed it to Accra. As per usual the ride in was eventful. A traffic jam in the construction zone outside of Accra brought our tro tro to a standstill. After a few minutes of waiting, and peering out the window to survey the prospects, our driver decided off-roading was the solution, veering off the road, onto the dirt embankment of the construction site, driving underneath a half finished bridge while being screamed at and chased by angry construction workers, presumably shouting in Twi to get back on the road and off the construction site. Some construction workers foresaw the drivers planned escape route and blocked it off with rebar before we got there, invoking a heated yelling match between the driver and the crew, which somehow mysteriously ended in the crew moving the makeshift blockade out of our way, allow the tro tro to skirt the entire jam, putting us back on the road speeding along to Accra. Traveling by tro tro: strong likelihood of a near death experience, but guaranteed entertainment!

This past weekend’s journey to Accra was to join the Michigan crew for a trek to the Cape Coast area of Ghana. Saturday morning we piled into a chartered 15 person van, with the other SPH and MHIRT students in Ghana and Kofi, and set off for the Cape Coast. The Cape Coast, as one might guess, is on the coast of Ghana, located a few hours West of Accra. We drove over lush lands, less hilly than the ones near Akwatia, dotted with fewer trees and more tall elephant grasses and small hand worked farms. The further we got from Accra the further between towns, stretching into deserted sections of land without a soul in sight.

Our first destination was Kakum National Park. The area was declared a National Forest in 1931, and became an official National Park of Ghana in 1994. The park’s main claim to fame is a jungle canopy walk. From the ranger base at the park, complete with a super-pricey gift shop and bar, we hiked a half mile or so into the forest, gaining 250 metres in elevation, over a less than successful attempt at a stone paved path. My crutches never would have made it, but on the walking cast I was a little slow but mostly steady. The first bit of the walk was a mix of deciduous and jungle flora, dense with thick veins (strong enough to swing on… not that I tried or anything) and exposed roots. Along the path were a handful of hand painted signs labeling a few types of trees and species of the forest. My favourite trees included the kyenkyen trees, whose root bases start to spread from the tree a few feet above ground, creating a handful of skinny wedges jutting out from the base for a few feet before disappearing into the ground and the bamboo trees, whose thick cluster of shoots creates a bush looking tree whose base spans a good twelve feet. The real tree heros of the park are the tallest trees the Baku, whose thick stalk straight trunks rise far above the forest canopy. It’s on these trees that the canopy walk was built. The canopy walk is a series of hanging bridges, supported by rope and wire 30 metres above the forest floor. The Indiana-Jones like foot-bridges start from a hut built on the side of a valley, stretching out over the forest, to a series of Baku trees. Swaying under the footfalls of tourists, the walkway offers a unique view down through the jungle trees below, and across the sprawling valley beyond. Unfortunately, given the popularity of the canopy walk, the outing is less than serene, and therefore not likely to result in spotting any fauna to go with the flora. According to the ranger station information postings, the Kakum jungle is hope to a variety of monkeys as well as forest elephants… all of which evaded my probing eye.

Out of the jungle, Kofi directed us to a beach resort 20 minutes from the park. We were all a little amused at his choice of lunch options, as when asked where we wanted to go we unanimously said somewhere local and cheap. After passing a number of truly Ghanaian establishments that any of us would have been content with, instead, Kofi lead us to a picturesque beach, with a beautiful outdoor restaurant overlooking the ocean waves, an outdoor swimming pool for hotel patrons, and allegedly an 18 hole golf course. I think Kofi’s idea of cheap is a little jaded after hosting a few too many international research meetings and donors! The view however was beautiful. Before lunch a few of us went for a stroll on the beach, whose spotless golden sands were contrasted to volcanic looking rock formations spotting the shore, creating foaming explosions of water every time a wave rolled in. Afterwards, with a coffee and tuna-tomato sandwich in hand (not coincidently the cheapest option…), I had readily accepted our lunch location! The other patrons were conveniently crowded around a living screening of Ghana’s second world cup game, projected on a wall, leading us to delay the continuation of our journey until the game ended in a 1-1 tie against Australia.

The final stop on Saturday was the St. George’s slave castle in Elmina. St. George’s Castle, also known as Elmina Castle was built by the Portuguese 528 years ago, eventually changing hands to the Dutch and then English. The castle was the sight of unthinkable atrocities during the years of slave trade. It holds the horrific statistic of having seen the more slaves pass through its hallowed doors than any other site. An estimated 10 to 15 million slaves were marched across present day Ghana and further, to the Elmina Castle. Half of the captors died between capture and departure from Africa, marched and starved to death. The castles sits in ironic glory jutting out on a gorgeous strip of sparking sand, its white exterior glowing in the sun, lit by the colorful backdrop of the bustling fishing port of present day Elmina. Above the castle on a nearby bluff sits St. Jago’s castle, build after Elmina for the fortification of the slave trading grounds. The waters have receded over the years, leaving the castle mote empty-- the waves a solid 10 yards from the walls, rather than flesh against them. A well versed tour guide led us through the castle, sliding room to room conveying the white castle’s many dark secrets. Our first stop was one of the female dungeons. Up to 400 women were stored in the dungeon at a time, sometimes for up to 2 months, laying skin to skin on the uneven rock floor, with little light or ventilation, and only a bucket at each end of the room for release, if one was strong enough to walk there. Other than the dark and foreboding nature, the first sensation that hits you in the dungeon is the smell. It reeks of human waste, even now, after two hundred years of airing out. The stench really is from the battering the room took—only the dungeons smelled that way. From the dungeon we were led into an adjacent courtyard, open only to the blue sky, bordered on the second floor by a wrap around balcony. It was explained that this is where the women got their only exposure to sunlight. Once a day the whole crew of women was corralled into the courtyard. The castle Governor would stand over the crowd on the balcony and point to his chosen woman to rape that day. The rest of the women would be sent back, while cold water was dumped over the selected woman to clean away some of the months of dungeon filth. She was then marched up the stairs to the Governors layer for him to do as he pleased. If she refused, in the middle of the courtyard lay a bowling ball size steel ball to which she would be tethered to until the next day, forced to stand, and go without food. Sorry, I may have failed to warn that this post ends on a less than cheery note.

Out of the women’s quarters, we were led through the men’s and into the ‘room of no return’. 10-15 slaves were tied together in a row and marched through tight corridors, into a light-less room, out through a slit in the wall just large enough for a crouching body, then down a ladder onto an awaiting boat. Peering out the opening today, the sea has shifted, so sand appears below, the ocean to the right, and a picture perfect view of Elmina and beautiful Ghanaian fishing boats to the left. A haunting contrast to the moldy damp dark castle inside, whose only color is offered by the handful of memorial tokens leaning against the wall in the room of no return. From there we continued on to the areas for delinquent staff and slaves—the staff area with air vents and natural light, the slave area without either. We then moved up onto the second floor, touring the spacious Governor’s quarters, kitchen and dining area, pausing for breath-taking views over the castle walls.

One of the most interesting and controversial topics the tour ignited was that of religion. Elmina was home to the first Christian church in Ghana. While still under the purvey of the Portuguese the church was moved from the town, into the interior of the castle. Thus, in the center of the largest slave castle in Africa stands the oldest Christian church in Ghana—a country now incredibly smitten with the Christian faith, with rates of Christianity around 90%. I remain in the belief that if you have spiritual or religious beliefs that give you hope and meaning, or peace and perspective, I fully support your right to worship and mediate on those thoughts. But all too often, religion is used as a tool to leverage much more than a broader meaning to life. I fail to understand how a religion brought to Ghana by the very people that raped the country of humans and resources has been so whole heartedly endorsed and embraced. The oldest Christian church stands in the middle of a freaking slave castle! It’s not the idea of people embracing a religion that frustrates me, I just find it baffling—I know there are aspects of community, of tradition, and unity that draw people to particular religions, but in the case of a country like Ghana, and many others, some of the doctrines informed by purported religious ideology is incredibly frustrating and hypocritical. Obviously, as this old church site attests, at one point slavery was fully endorsed by the Vatican. Today it is clearly not. That is a radical shift in ideology, the acceptance of an entire race—and entire continent. Yet today, religious doctrines continue to single out groups to outcast and wars to wage on differing branches of humanity. In Ghana for example that war wages strong against homosexuality, which more than one Ghanaian has informed me results in a direct ticket to hell. A few hundred years ago someone on the very soil they stand may have declared similar pitiful worth, while manhandling their ancestors, the indigenous people of Africa. The point being that if you believe in a higher being, I respect your right and the meaning it may bring to you to worship and covet those beliefs, but standing in a slave castle staring at the walls of a church centered in its courtyard, I can’t help but beg that religion cease to be cast as a tool for laying judgment, defining superiority, or asserting power. Using it as such has led the world astray time after time, and need not be repeated.

On that note, love from Ghana,

Halley

Mishaps and Misadventures

It took a while to fall into place but now that we’re started, our study is really rolling. Last week we brought our interview total to 63 women—more than we initially anticipated being able to interview over the whole course of the study! We’re learning a lot about the women’s perspectives on pregnancy related care, and I think we’ll have plenty of material for a paper or two. This week we’re planning on starting to follow up with women we’ve already interviewed who have now delivered, in addition to interviewing more pregnant women at the clinic.

Now that we’re fairly at home at the clinic, work is getting increasingly entertaining. The crew of six or seven nurses, ward assistants and midwives is the same day in and day out, giving us a chance to get familiar with everyone. The group seems to enjoy having us around, if not for the change in routine, then to razz us. To their credit they are still trying to teach us useful phrases in Twi, despite my consistent inability to use it. Sometimes I worry they’re pulling classic ‘trick the foreigner’ games— I’m pretty sure one of these days, if not already, they’ll tell me a phrase means one thing, while really having me say something ridiculous and inappropriate… not that I would know, as anytime I try to say anything in Twi people laugh! Obrunie fail.

While we anticipated the language jests, we didn’t anticipate the difference in physical boundaries that would emerge out of our relationship with the nurses. It may sound a little strange coming from me, a well known lovely and hugging friend, but Keesha and I were thrown for a bit of a loop by how non-existent the physical friend boundaries seem to be. The other 4 or so 20-something females that work at the clinic are very touchy-feely. When they come in in the morning, they often slide in very close, asking us how we are while stroking our arms and legs and sometimes poor Keesha’s belly! My week was capped off by one of the nurses cupping my boob in front of the clinic crowd and saying “small small”. Really!? I hadn’t noticed! Oh my… Anyway, the point is, the 20-somethings (all single) act similarly together… and now that I’m attuned to it I’ve noticed similar behavior between some men, and even seen several grown men walking hand and hand—all of which seems incredibly ironic to me, given how staunchly homophobic the society in general is. The two guys on our trip for example, had to rent separate rooms for the summer as two grown men sharing a room is forbidden at many establishments in Ghana. Apparently copping a non-consensual feel or a little PDA is fine, but only as friends of course.

That aside, the week was cut short as we ran out of Twi consent forms for the women to sign. Printing is a bit of a challenge. All of our printing is being done in Accra, so we ended up taking Friday off to head back that way. Our day started early Friday morning with me trying to hail a tro tro to Asamankese (Asa). The driveway to the apartment is situated on the back of a little hill. Tro tros to Asa come flying over the hill—much like hailing a cab, on rural roads you just throw your arm out as the tro tro approaches to signal wanting a ride. In addition to a driver, the tro tro is manned by a guy at the side door who has the job of spotting people flagging down rides, collecting money and making change, figuring out where people want to get off, and essentially holding the rickety side door on the van. If the van has space they’ll stop when you flag them, if not they’ll wave at you and pass. Unlike taxis there is no negotiating the price, and unlike in the cities it’s pretty self explanatory where the tro tro is going… there’s only one road. I had yet another Obrunie moment standing on the road, trying to wave down a tro tro Friday. The tro tro sped past, clearly with empty seats. The door man, referred to as “mate” by passengers, did an obvious double take as I flagged him down, very slowly realizing I wanted a ride bringing the van to a screeching halt several hundred yards later. I did my best hobble-run to the tro tro in the walking cast and off we went. In Asa we bee lined it for the same spot in the market where we picked up a tro tro to Accra last time, and sure enough, there was another tro tro to Accra in the exact same spot being jam packed. More impressive organized chaos!

At any tro tro station (a market or alcove where various tro tros clear out their cars and pick up a full load of passengers) there’s a whole throng of sellers that mill around the tro tro as it fills, trying to sell water, snacks and various odds and ends to passengers. My purchases at Asa was a delightful surprise—there are these cold pink plastic packets that I’d seen people buy (the size of popsicle packages), and in the rising sun I decided to give them a go. The packages turned out to be Fanyogo—essentially frozen strawberry yogurt. You bite the corner of the packages off, just like with the bags of water, and then suck the contents out. Fanyogo is my new favorite Ghanaian thing. I can’t believe I missed out on the closest thing to yogurt for the first five weeks! In addition to eating street food with the bravery of someone who has yet to suffer from traveler’s diarrhea (knocking on wood hard!!), we’ve now switched over completely to bag water (oh sush, hear me out on this one mom!). Not only is it far more available (pretty sure we almost bought the stores in Akwatia out of bottles…) but it is much cheaper and readily available! For one cedi, we can buy enough bag water to fill 11, 1.5 liter bottles, saving us 10 cedi—there are even bags made by the same company that we were buying bottles from! The revelation that the good bag water doesn’t taste bad has probably strangely helped my health as I’ve gotten back to drinking a lot more water, and cured the afternoon headaches and drowsiness that plagued my dehydrated pre-bag water self. It’s also really handy to drink in tro tros, as at any town or junction, sellers, often girls, have bowls of bag water on their heads for purchase. Often the tro tros start moving during the buying of the water, and the girls run ago side the tro tros somehow balancing the bowls on their heads while fishing out bags and handing them through tro tro windows, while the passenger passes out a 5 peswae piece or drops it for them… it gets even more complicated when they’re dashing along making change. The bags are 500 mls, and always cool, kept that way by the stocking coolers on the roadside. Two fill my nalgene bottle and I’m ready to roll!

The tro tro we picked up at Asa made a roadside stop a few miles into the journey. The driver and mate opened the back doors and jimmed three large barrels of liquid (smelled like moonshine?) and some palm nut clusters behind the back seat. As one might imagine there isn’t exactly ample cargo space in a tro tro, and in many situations, including this one, the load stick out far beyond the bottom floor, so ropes are used to tie the back doors around the cargo. Once we started moving we had an added surprise… Keesha felt something move under her seat, and we realized we had a new passenger—a little goat! The poor guy bumped and bounced all the way to Accra standing splay legged under the back seat, facing backwards, getting even more of a thrill ride than those of us in the real seats! I’m starting to think the appropriate souvenir from Ghana would be a goat…

So we’re trucking along with our little goat friend, passing through the tiered construction zone I described in a previous post when the tro tro pulls over. A few people get out and I’m thinking it’s just a typical drop off. Then more people get out… then it’s just Keesha and I who are urged to follow suit. I still don’t know exactly what happened, but our best guess is that we ran out of fuel, either way the whole boat load of us was mid-construction zone, a good 10 miles outside Accra without a ride. Words were exchanged in Twi that we didn’t understanding. The group started trying to wave down tro tros looking for a spot or two—occasionally one would pull over and this herd of people would run to it, literally shoving to get on. Keesha and I hung back—stifled by the hilarity of the situation, socially stunned, and not at all wanting to get separated in a tro tro shoving match. Needless to say, we were the last two to get a tro tro, but after 20 minutes or so we found one with two spots, leaving our old driver, tro tro, goat and moonshine sitting patiently in the middle of the dirt construction zone, waiting for the mate to return, hopefully with a quick fix.

We blindly headed into Accra, not really knowing what station we’d be dropped at, but knowing it was better than a construction zone. Like any big city there are many subsections- you could get dropped off in Montreal in Mile End and still be a long ways from Westmount. The mate agreed to drop us at Circle, from where we thought we could find yet another ride to our destination, but the spot we were dropped at looked nothing like the pick-up point at Circle where we’d been before. Now completely in go with the flow mode, we wandered in what seemed to be the direction of the market at circle. We wound through sturdy wooden stalls with narrow isle pathways, human traffic passing neatly left to left, shoulder to shoulder past venders. We followed the widest path, and headed toward the road running parallel to where we were dropped off. Low and behold we emerged at the back of the tro tro station we were familiar with. At this point, we were pretty impressed with ourselves. We wandered the market for a while longer, looking for tie-and-die Ghanaian fabric, and ogling the odds and ends. We then caught a shared taxi to the area called Osu where Keesha wanted to visit a store called Global Mamas to find Ghana style baby stuff for her new niece. Without an address (not that they really exist) or directions beyond “it’s in Osu” we were at the mercy of the directions we received on the street. The directions involved Keesha buying some bracelets from the guy who helped us--but we got there! After Osu it was off to Art Center- a market dedicated completely to Ghanaian arts and crafts. Unlike most American arts and crafts shows, this place is open everyday and the vast majority of sellers are not the people who made the crafts. The stalls are permanent-- each vendor has a 10’ by 10’ spot jam-packed with goods. Lots of hand carved bowls, and wooden figures, oil paintings, died cloth pictures, masks, drums, beadwork, and iron work. Pumped up on our ability to take on Ghana, we walked in well prepared for the unavoidable mobbing by the sellers. People grabbing your hands, stalking you down, telling you to come to their shop, and buy this or that. We used our Ghanaian names (Efia and Ya) as handy pseudonyms, claimed not to have phones when asked for our numbers, and told everyone up front we were window shopping… and we survived! We walked through isle after isle of stalls—all of which really started to blend together. Much of it is beautiful woodwork, but many of the all the sellers have similar if not identical pieces, such that the novelty of it starts to wear off despite the fact that it is cool African art. Not wanting to tot too much with us, we made a few mental notes and escaped Art Center without buying anything. Keesha traded five hugs for a died cloth wall hanging… but that’s a whole ‘nother story! The successful day was capped off by spotting a cluster of tro tros nearby and realizing we were near Tema Station, where we were able to easily get a ride to Korle Bu, to spend the night at the hostel.

Saturday morning we hit the road early, returning to Tema Station with Nicole (the MPH student from Brown) and Ella (a MHIRT student). From Tema we found a tro tro headed to Mampong. After a bit of anxiety caused by language barriers and an inability to confirm that we were getting on a tro tro to the closer city of Mampong, not the Mampong 6 hours away in the Ashanti region, we settled in for a nice ride. We went through a fairly well off area in Accra that we’d never been to, and then headed out into a lush valley, rising up like Blueridge foothills onto the Aburi escarpment, providing beautiful views of luscious valleys of patchy jungle, interspersed with grassy meadows. The highway up the escarpment was smooth pavement, and was even flanked with guard rails—we were floored. Scattered along the road there were fancy gaited homes, creating a ritzier feel than we’ve gotten anywhere else so far. Later, Wisdom told us that the area was previously a strong hold of British colonizers, claiming the area of such beautiful views for their own settlement. Ella had been to Mampong before, but their tro tro had taken a different route, so we were again clueless about where to get off. Worried about ending up going past Mampong, as the tro tro was continuing on, we eventually picked a spot and piled out.

In Mampong we planned to meet up with the Michigan crew, explore a guide book recommended bead factory nearby, and generally see the area. Megan, Katie and Ajab, the other Michigan Public Health students had got a bit turned around getting to Mampong, so with time to spare and hungry tummies we hopped a cab, hoping to eat at a place Ella remembered from her previous trip. The area she’d eaten in before was inside the Aburi Gardens which somehow they’d waltzed in and out of without paying the visitors fee. Not wanting to pay 5 cedi a head to just walk into the gardens to go to the restaurant, we headed into the little village of Aburi next to the gardens to try to find food. Instead, we walked straight into a funeral. All around the dirt road entrance to the hillside town were plastic chairs packed with locals dressed head to toe in black and red. A little tent was set up, and huge speakers were broadcasting to the mourners and across the town. Up onto the main road the black and red attire continued. Men in black wraps, black pants and shirts with a red tie, or something black with a gang looking strip of red fabric tied karate kid like across their forehead. Women wore red and black long fitted skirts and top set, sown in a traditional starchy material. A little thrown off by the entrance we walked up onto the main road of the town and after a bit of searching found a whole in the wall (no really a whole in the wall) spot to get food. The choices were banku or rice balls. We all opted for rice balls, which appeared in a hot red soupy sauce with a piece of chicken in a big bowl. The rice balls were basically overcooked rice mashed in ball form, which you then pitch pieces off of with your right hand and dip into the soup or grab a piece of chicken. The place didn’t have any silverware… they’ve chosen to serve two dishes that don’t require it—brilliant! So, we did our best to scrub up with the water and soap provided and dug in. With cokes all around the four of us ate for 5.7 cedi, and again, lived to tell about it. Ella even braved the bathroom… which was I guess better than peeing behind a bus which she’d resorted to earlier, but apparently was just a room with a dirt floor on a bit of a slant… no hole or anything. Dehydration helped me out this time ;)

Back on the street in search of the girls, we had to step aside as a blaring siren cleared the road for the funeral procession. The whole throng of mourners came through the town, led by several dancing and singing women, a car blasting a siren, then black ambulance/station wagon/coffin carrying car with a flashing light on top, with obviously devastated close relatives balling while holding onto the car and walking along beside it, immersed in a swamp of at least a hundred of similarly dressed followers walking along with the caravan. A very sobering and chilling site to say the least.

After finding the rest of our crew, we tried to round up a tro tro to Somanya, the town with the bead factory. According to the guide book “tro tros from Aburi to Somanya are easy to find”… I’m not sure what towns the author thought he was writing about, but he was way off. After gathering a crowd of taxi and tro tro drivers, we were told that if we wanted to go by tro tro we would need to return to Accra, and get a tro tro there… despite the fact that, again according to the guide book, this place was less than 30 minutes from Aburi in the direction opposite from Accra. A random Ghanaian who helped us find the tro tro station acted as the go-between translator telling the group of drivers where we were trying to go, while we stood befuddled. He paced between the drivers and us, negotiating a price and vehicle for the seven of us. After some serious bargaining we caved and agreed to pay 60 cedis between the seven of us for 2 cabs to drive us to Somanya, wait for us there, and then drive us back. The trip turned out to be a solid 30 minutes along ridges of the escarpment, including several switch back roads, and breath-taking views of jungle valleys. We did our best to follow our route in the cryptic guidebook map, though without labeled towns or roads, or drivers who spoke much English, it was a feat. Eventually we realized the drivers had no idea where they were taking us. I convinced the guy to pull off the road and ask for directions after some elaborate hand gestures signaling, “hey dude, I reeeeally think we passed it” (apparently Ghanaian men don’t like to ask for directions either… ;)). After more than a few times cruising up and down the road… yes, the same road over and over, we did a more significant back track and amazingly found a sign reading “Cedi Beads” posted on the roadside, pointing to a dirt track. The road was a washed out dirt path, rough enough to scrap the taxi bottom several times, but by some miracle it did indeed lead to Cedi Beads.

The taxis pulled into a secluded quiet fenced compound with a few modest single story cement dwellings, and thatched roof work spaces. Moments later we were met by a spry older gentleman, who greeted us warmly as if he’d been expecting us all day. He whisked us to a thatched roof outbuilding where plastic chairs were arranged around a table of raw materials and tools. He introduced himself as Kwadjo Gomoo, a lifelong beadmaker. He offered to lead us through the process of making beads before showing us to the shop. We learned that bead making is a Ghanaian tradition rooted with the Krobo people. Most people in the Somanya area are Krobo, including Kwadjo (whereas for example, most people in Akwatia are Akan). He then launched into explaining the different beads, and how each type is made. I’m sure I’ll badly butcher his talk, but basically, he described five bead types made by his people. They ranged from brightly colored patchy balls with the appearance of melded playdough, to frosted looking glass beads, to a variety of painted, glazed and patterned opaque types. To make most beads glass is crushed into a fine powder and sorted by colors. Then molds made out of clay harvested from termite mounds are used as the base for the beads’ shapes. Driving through the country we often see giant (5+ feet tall) ant hill looking red clay masses—turns out they are termite mounds. Kwadjo explained that the termites burrow deep into the ground and pull out well sorted red clay perfect to withstand the high temperatures. The beadmakers harvest this clay, shape it into molds (clay disks, with half sphere indents of various shapes and sizes), and then coat the molds in a finer, softer clay powder that keeps the beads from sticking to the mold. Apparently with daily firings the molds last a few months before breaking. Though it varies by bead type, essentially the crushed glass is poured into the molds (layering colors as the artist chooses) around a centered stalk of a palm frond, which burns in the kiln and leaves a hole in the center of the bead. Most of the glass used nowadays comes from discarded glass bottles, and all the tools used are scrapped together odds and ends- the side of a milo can molded into a sifter, old bicycle spokes used to prop beads up for painting, ect. Once the mold is filled it is ready for the kiln. Our group moved under Kwadjo’s instruction to another area shaded by a thatched roof. There sat two guys with the world cup cranking on the radio, squatting in front of a flaming kiln. The kiln itself was a clay dome in the center of the hut, stoked by long sticks of wood pushed in gradually as they are eaten away. The dome is open on two sides, exposing a rack, where six or so molds at a time cook to perfection. Most bead types are in the fire for 45 minutes, before a long wooden paddle is used to extract the mold patties. Quickly the two men then take small pencil like picks, poking the hole created by the palm frond, and swirling the still hot and malleable bead in its little mold pocket to make it as round as possible before it hardens. The mold patties then sit on the sandy floor for at least an hour before the beads are tapped out, and then washed in sandy water to remove clay residue before painting and stringing. Our last stop was an area where two women sat stringing beads into bracelets and necklaces. Quite a process! Having seen the whole shin-dig Kwadjo showed us a painting of women decked in beads, explaining that beads are used in many Krobo traditions, most notably marriage. Before marriage, there is a ceremony where the woman is covered in beads and paraded around, apparently to show that she is truly a virgin… though I’m not sure how the two concepts are tied. We also learned that strings of small beads are looped around girl babies’ waists, and remain with them for life… to “create a nice shape” according to Kwadjo. I actually saw a few babies with beads around their tummies and thighs at post-natal day at the clinic last week, but Doris and the moms’ said that was to help them know if the baby was gaining weight. Other beads, like the large beads at the center of many Ghanaian necklaces, symbolize someone’s wealth. These beads, called “bottom beads” are said to indicate someone’s means as the nicer and more expensive or unique your bead is the better off you must be. Kwadjo’s bottom bead was a striped nearly perfect replica Ghanaian flag. Apparently that’s a pretty bling bottom bead to which he is very attached. We capped off our Cedi bead outing at their little store, and then piled back into the taxi’s to return to Mampong, surprised and thrilled with how the day turned out.

Back in Mampong, we stayed at the swanky digs that house our fellow MHIRT students. They are staying in a lodge with a dozen or so rooms, that are empty most of the time. They pretty much have the place to themselves, including a housekeeper who has adopted them as her sons. We rented a room for a pricey 50 cedi, but split it 7 ways. The room had two twin beds pushed together with a large comforter spread over top. We sleep four in the bed, Keesha roughed it in a lounge chair, and two others stole Alex’s bed, leaving him to share with Nick.

Along with a handful of young guys they work with, we spent the evening watching England play the USA in their first world cup match. The guys are all football (soccer) nuts—as are most Ghanaians. For those of us less avid soccer fans, local spirits were provided to aid in the entertainment. The guys are working on a herbal medicine study at the Mampong center—the local alcohol they whipped out is made by the center to help to generate funds for research! Drinking for a cause anyone? I tried a little half Dixie cup of Tonic Wine and Cocoa Liquor… which tasted vaguely like cough syrup, and went down accompanied by a similar scrunchy face. The crew then capped off the night with an impromptu outdoor dance party, alternating Ghanaian and American dance hits and dance moves.

We woke up Sunday morning to our first hot shower in 5 weeks and French toast courtesy of our MHIRT student hosts! The shower in the room had a little box mounted on the wall which could be switched on to warm the water en route to the sprayer—combine with the French toast, it made it a little hard to tare ourselves away from Mampong! Accompanied by Ajab, and Wisdom (who works at the herbal center) we spent the morning on tro tros back to Accra. Every roadstop was mobbed with hawkers selling Ghanaian flags, noise makers, bandanas, t-shirts, and every other possible bit of Ghanaian paraphernalia one could possibly sport to support the country in its first world cup match of the tournament Sunday. Not only is soccer THE sport here, but this world cup is particularly special as it is the first one to be held on African soil (its occurring over the course of the month in South Africa). The hype has been strong since we arrived, but Sunday it exploded. Since Friday when matches started everytime a match is playing as we pass through towns people are clustered in crowds on tip toes outside little shops that happen to have a TV or radio supported by a rickety antenna. 30 or 40 people can be amass around a single tiny snowy TV, all completely immersed. After spending the morning attending church with Ajab in Accra, and picking up more consent forms from Kofi, we hopped a tro tro ride back to Asamankese just as Ghana started its first match, a game against Serbia. We rode with the radio blaring commentary in Twi, and just as we prepared to leave Asamankese for Boudoa the town erupted! Ghana apparently scored in a penalty kick and everyone went crazy! People jumped and honked, celebrating on the streets. We rolled out, still with the radio blasting, and later, when the driver started laying on the horn and pumping his fists out the window, we learned that Ghana had won the match 1-0. As we passed through little villages the towns people were jumping up and down on the side of their mud hut towns, signaling number one with their pumping hands, and running in jubilation alongside the honking bus! The win made Ghana the first African team to win a world cup match on African soil! Cause for major celebration in Ghana!

A little before dark on Sunday night we hop off the party bus outside the staff village. I had left a pot soaking in the sink while we were away. Upon arriving home one of the first things I did was head to scrub out the pot, plunging my hand into the water and stifling a scream when a 4 inch lizard leaped out. Apparently he was vacationing in our sink while we were away… welcome back to life in Akwatia!