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