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!