THURSDAY, JULY 21, 2011
The numbers are in. As of this morning, I have 66 mosquito bites on my right leg and 59 on my left leg. I am dying.
As of this evening, aka now, I know these are not mosquito bites. A day at the Crystal Eye Clinic resulted in my learning that there are maybe 10 mosquito bites on my right leg. The rest are hives spots. I am the itchiest I have ever been in my life. Even though an anesthetic has been applied to both of my legs, I am still squirming. I can’t take this! I am terribly uncomfortable.
This is the worst part about my Ghanaian experience. Worse than having my wallet stolen and then having hope restored and then crushed again after a person had contacted me and said he had my wallet with my cards and then demanded money and then was unreachable; worse than being bitten in the face; worse than bruising my toe while deciding to run in the waterfall; maybe not as worse than the feelings associated with not being able to help people who really need help; but, definitely worse than all those times I was shouted at, grabbed, and ripped off because I am white; and also maybe not as bad as how I felt when my car ran over a baby goat; but, worse than when I had to rewash all of my clothes in my suitcase by hand because I put a wet towel in my suitcase and then my laundry was returned to me smelling musty because it was sitting in a bucket after it was washed and couldn’t be hanged immediately due to the rain; and worse than when I was having many a very frustrating vocal battle, during which I took sides against blindly accepting literal interpretations of the bible and against the supposed fairness of Ghanaian’s law stipulating that men can marry as many women as they please, but a woman can marry only one. These hives are making me terribly uncomfortable just sitting here. I’m so itchy I could cry. I can’t resist scratching.
There are, of course, good things happening in Ghana as well. I’ve felt so happy to be able to use my French language skills when we’ve neared the Togo and Cote d’Ivoire borders during outreach. In fact, I was able to see buildings in the capital of Togo while on a drive on a broken road across a marsh in Ghana’s central region, and then ate the delicious food of a Togo native who, prior to her arrival in Ghana five months ago, was a cook for the Ghanaian Embassy in Togo. I witnessed the famous Dr. Clarke perform 22 life changing eye surgeries, including cataract managements on both eyes of two infants with congenital cataracts, and Unite For Sight’s first white patient who could only speak Italian. I’ve tried and enjoyed many a Ghanaian food from many different places: chop bars; street stands; from the buckets on street hawkers’ heads while riding in cars; from the comforts of people’s homes. I’ve sat through a traditional meeting with a village chief and bowed to him; I’ve seen a Ghanaian football game (Kotoko vs. Asowase); I’ve learned a ton about a different culture. While getting attention simply because of the fact that I’m a female obruni often makes me irritated, sometimes it results in bottles of Obama of Africa wine from Highway View bar at the reduced price from 15 Ghana cedis to 6 Ghana cedis. I’ve seen both the effectiveness and ineffectiveness of global health delivery through NGO-private clinic partnerships, and have realized my strong interest in public health. I’ve met a lot of intelligent people pursuing medicine with whom I’ve had great conversations, a few of whom are Yalies I’ll keep touch with in the fall.
I’m really looking forward to my fall semester where I’ll hear and learn about others’ amazing summer experiences, and seeing how my travels this summer inform my judgments, decisions, and academic performance. I think I’ll see some positive improvements.
TUESDAY, JULY 26, 2011
Ghana is full of surprises and adventures. Friday night I was surprised by the worst nightmare of my life. It was much, much worse than Thursday night’s hives.
After a tame night of ice cream and dancing, my friend Kristen and I were headed home via a cab. These four street kids tried to help us navigate Accra’s traffic and get us a taxi. When we entered one, the kids demanded money. Of course we said no—we could have easily found ourselves a taxi without their help. Since cabs are mostly bare bones vehicles here, the windows are always open to accommodate for lack of air conditioning. I said in the front and, upon my refusal to give money, one among of the pack of four threw himself inside my window and snatched the pouch that was sitting atop my lap and started dashing. It happened in an instant, and I reacted by climbing out of the window (I could have just opened the door), screaming at the top of my lungs and chasing after the senseless prick. I was running super fast and definitely would have caught up with him; but, as soon as I became aware of my surroundings (a pack of other boys were chasing after and encroaching upon me in a dark alley, and the wall I would have to climb was far too high), I grudgingly stopped running and stomped back towards the street where the incident had initially occurred. I was overcome by a huge sense of defeat when I saw that nothing had changed from the first scene. The taxi cab had driven away and people were carrying on with their business as if nothing had happened. I felt helpless and violated.
Hope was restored when a woman named Christy had attested to hearing me and rounded up the three remaining boys. Her method of solving the situation was reassuring in its sincerity, but not its promptness of action. At first the three boys played the ignorant card and would not admit they knew who the culprit was. After I was met with profanities when I used Kristen’s phone to call my stolen phone, I handed the phone to one of the boys who inadvertently slipped the name of the culprit. Christy spoke Twi and caught his slip, and would not let the boys leave her sight until they promised that they would help retrieve my goods from the stealer. We had planned to have Christy call Kristen’s phone when the boys had returned to her the goods, and I would give the boys some money in return for their “services.”
I wasn’t really satisfied with this plan and, despite Kristen’s insistence that we leave the premises, I kind of resisted because I felt like I hadn’t done my best to obtain my belongings that really meant a lot to me. I trudged back to the street and hesitated to enter the taxis she pointed out to me when a silver Mercedes Benz pulled up with its windows rolled down with a very large and intimidating black man peering out from the driver’s window. He asked me, “what is going on?” in a tone that suggested that he was displeased with the vibes of his surroundings. Hope was again restored when I informed him of the problem. It took about two hours of standing amidst a growing pack of aggressive Ghanaian men in a parking lot and behind the bar of the club Bella Rosa where Kristen and I had been earlier (because one of the men “leading” the effort was the club manager) during which time the three remaining street boys were whacked around and faced with threats to spend time in prison until they fessed up about the whereabouts of the fourth boy. When they did, my camera and cheap Ghanaian phone were retrieved and delivered to me as I was receiving my second free drink behind the bar at Bella Rosa. In the end I was short of 7 cedis, a pouch that had maybe cost me 5 cedis, and some pride.
Two parts of the scenario stood out to me as reminiscent of what I’ve seen in Ghana. First, the lone police officer I desperately begged for help did nothing to help me. He stood outside the crowded huddle comprised of a very apparent hierarchy of Osu (downtown Accra)-goers. Since the men who were trying to help me were badge-less, I wasn’t sure I could trust them. They constantly reassured me that all of their intentions were good; but, they were speaking Twi and I could not properly keep tabs on the progression of conversation and action, so I could not help but be skeptical. I was very disturbed that the police officer did not bother to take notice to the very apparent troubles and to my pleas for help. Instead, the entire fiasco was dealt with by this hierarchy of Ghanaian locals.
This shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me because twice in the past, I’d seen Ghanaian police officers let misconduct slide with small bribes. Both times I was in taxi cabs in which we packed in more people than the seatbelts for which the seatbelts could provide. Standing police officers are dispersed along the roads and scan cars as one might see when trying to cross the Canadian/U.S. border. When the cops noticed the cars were overly packed, the cab drivers briefly chatted with them and cupped into their hands a few cedis, and the worries of arrest or being ticketed were eliminated.
The second part of Friday night’s happenings that struck me as typical, yet still upsetting was the fact that not a single woman was present among the collective that was working to obtain my belongings. Ghana is supposedly progressive in terms of social equality relative to most countries in Africa. This may be true, but I still see Ghana as very far from my ideal of social equality. For one, I am treated completely differently because I am obruni. Everyone shouts “obruni!” at me whenever I pass; I am grabbed all the time; I am always asked for money; I constantly feel the air of lust when men look at me. As an obruni woman, I truly feel that my experience here is limited. I hardly ever feel as if I am having a genuine conversation with someone—it always seems as if there is an ulterior motive to marry me. The conversations I’ve had with women have been worthwhile. Just yesterday I was out for a late afternoon jog in the Akoasi village when a 20 year-old English-speaking woman named Abigail on a bicycle caught up with me from behind, rode with me the rest of the trip, showed me her home, bought me a bottle of water (I was sweating bullets), introduced me to her family including her 7 month-old daughter and one of her six siblings, and told me about her life. She wasn’t able to finish school because her mother has been living alone since her husband fled to Nigeria with some other woman he married, and she cannot afford the small fee to send her child to public school.
Tangent not averted, sorry about that. Women are very kind to me here. I really appreciate that. I don’t know how I end up being this target, but even among my fellow obruni volunteers, I still seem to be the one putting up with the most frequent heckles and advances by Ghanaian men. The way I am treated is undoubtedly a consequence of a society that is highly patriarchal. Did you know that a man could marry as many women as he likes, but a woman could marry only one man? There have been so many times men have whispered in my ears that they want to see me alone and talk to me and have my contact information. I am constantly addressed as “wife.” Men tell me they love me all the time. They call out to me on the streets. I am so, so sick of it. I miss being respected. My “strong, footballer-like body” is often a conversation starter for these man whores. On Saturday, I went to a fruit stand and purchased a mango and a papaya. There was a 16 year-old boy present who was teaching my friend some Twi. I ended up hanging around the fruit stand because I was waiting for my friend who had to run back to the Telecentre to get something. I had to go to the bathroom, so he showed me to this place where I could use the washroom. He then proceeded to tell me that he had a secret for me that he would only tell me tomorrow. He insisted that I give him my phone number, and, figuring that I only had 7 more days until my Ghanaian phone number expires, I decided to give it to him. Bad decision. He calls me five times the next day, tells me he loves me and misses me and begs me to love him back. Ask me to read the text messages he sent me. When he called me again on Monday morning, I had to cut him loose.
Sometimes I’ll go for a run because I’m seeking alone time. When I am stared at lustfully and jeered at, however, the pleasures of exercise go remiss in place of frustrations with feelings of powerlessness. My runs produce the opposite effect of what I’m going for: instead of releasing my pent up energies, they build them up even further. Lately, I’ve been a shaken up bottle of soda ready to explode. I really desire some peace and quiet. I miss my developed world. I want to go home.
By the way, Happy 19th Birthday, Henry! I love you.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
--
FRIDAY, JULY 8, 2011
Outreaches this week have been few and far in number because the Kumasi program coordinator has been sick. Of the five days in the week, I attended three outreaches and each of them had fewer than forty patients. Wednesday I was at clinic and spent about an hour observing seven surgeries. Thursday we were off because we missed viewing post-op patients, and I ended up hanging around Kejetia to try and do some mild errands that amounted to an eventful afternoon, including: fixing Omar’s camera that broke at the Indian restaurant when the waitress dropped it after trying to take a picture of us, and a confrontation after a misunderstanding over an unintentional free taxi ride for the Apricot worker Ansare; prowling for what they dub long “light crème” colored hair for my next “do” as opposed to my current “blonde” which is much darker than the blonde I’m used to; trying to figure out why Omar could not withdraw money from the ATM and a way for me to obtain cash from my traveler’s checks (I’ve tried six banks over the past two days, and still the best option I have is to wait for three weeks to have them processed, by which time I’ll have almost left Ghana); hitting up the Vodafone internet café and seeing other obronis; and, filling out stomachs with cheap, authentic street food with the assistance of a kind bohemian/Jamaican-like lad named Gabriel who sadly knows me as Britney from Barcelona. I gave my stomach a go with “cow meat,” which is not so much beef as it is some gelatinous skin part of cow, which was gross (and my stomach is fine! Woohoo). INSERT STREET FOOD PIC HERE!!!
The UFS van picked up me, Ali, and Omar from Vodafone and we were off to see how publicity works. When the publicity is unsuccessful for an outreach, few patients show up and it’s rather upsetting because of the distance we travel and the investment we make in planning. I still would like to be more informed of the management processes behind the coordination of the eye care programs abroad. Much of the large-scale coordination is done in New Haven, but I am most curious about the micromanagement. Yesterday I learned that a representative from the outreach team meets with the chief of the outreach village the night before an outreach to verify the facility and to make announcements to the community via a prerecorded tape with health information on a loudspeaker atop the van. That was pretty sweet.
Today I went to an outreach that was sub-40 patients and sad and was getting rather frustrated with my lack of work this week. I started to feel better when I ate red-red off the street for the first time and when Kate accompanied me and Ali to the seamstress/tailor to have clothing and other things made from the cloth I had bought at Kejetia the day my wallet was stolen. If we had been there alone, there was no chance we would have been able to communicate our desires for a non-obroni price. Nevertheless, I am still expecting some surprises when I pick up my items on Monday.
Tagging along with Kate and Steve after those two pick-me-ups was fantastic. We drove about 2-3 hours each way to this very rural village. The drive involved some monster truck-style maneuvering and left me unable to sleep in the back seat because of all of the ditches and bumps and general unevenness in the road. However, the Africa I got to see during this car ride was the picturesque Africa I’ve grown up to imagine from documentaries on rural villages and from my Disney movies like Lion King and Madagascar. The fauna is absolutely stunning. We made the most of our speakers atop the van and configured it to play the South African FIFA World Cup song from last summer as we sang along and drove with our fists high in the huge skies out the windows. It was a glorious karaoke van. We had to get out to push the car once when we were caught in a mud puddle. During that push I noticed three iridescent blue beetles to the left on some knee-high plant, and I snagged a picture. INSERT BLUE BEETLE PIC HERE
We arrived at the chief of the village’s place after driving past some bare skinned youngeons with real outie belly buttons (I’ve seen this quite a bit here) and others with distended stomachs in front of their clay houses roofed with palm leaves. We were confused when, after we had sat down after making our rounds shaking hands with all of the villagers present, the villagers then got up and made their rounds to shake our hands again. This was apparently the traditional African greeting. The circle of benches on the sand between some clay houses inset from the road in the unkindly dark was very intimate, and everyone was attentive as Kate gave her spiel about the upcoming outreach the next week. We sat for about a half hour and returned to the van to drive around the village to announce the outreach via the van’s loudspeakers.
This will be a huge outreach with maybe 300 or so patients. The night before it, I’ll be sleeping in the electricity-poor village. Witnessing this process today was surely one of the highlights of my trip, and I am so looking forward to seeing the outcome next Wednesday.
SATURDAY, JULY 9, 2011
New discovery: eggs don’t make me sick anymore! For the longest time I would only eat eggs if I wanted to be sick so I didn’t have to go to school or practice. Now that I’ve had the same fried egg breakfast every day this past week in my lodge in Kumasi, I’ve discovered that I can eat eggs for breakfast and not have to worry about them making me nauseous! There are pros and cons to this finding. Pros: I now have more eating food varieties from which to choose, and a new domain to explore for experimental cooking! Cons: I’ve lost my go-to food that has always guaranteed me a stomach sickness. If I could choose I’d probably choose what I have now because eggs are very delicious. I can’t wait to go home and make some omelets de fromage. Mmm.
We hit up some obroni hot spots today. I was crushed when, along the way, our van hit a baby goat. I love the goats. I want a goat someday. I couldn’t believe that I was in the car that made this innocent creature who was being chased into the street by a stray dog go spinning off the side of the road in front of what I’m sure was its goat and human families. The roads were god awful, and at one point we had to get out and push the van in a depression where the rainwater had collected and caused the wheels to have no traction for a good half mile stretch. It was a bit too close for comfort when the huge Yak obronimobile behind us approached and two taxis came from the front. It was a four-way car pileup and all it would have taken was the slightest incorrect maneuvering of a driver’s wheel and it would have been dominoes volume 2: cars in Africa toppling and mashing the pie of doom in their passengers’ faces. Despite such vehicle troubles, I am still upset that the goat did not survive.
Obroni hot spot number 1 was the monkey sanctuary where we learned about parasitic trees and how they are awesome to climb; saw monkeys of the mona and colubus breeds and listened to them squeal to each other as they hopped from branch to branch; and, were educated about how only descendants of the original priests of the village could truly “own” the monkeys and be buried with their monkeys in the monkey cemetery within the forest. We spotted at least 5 obronis there.
Then, along our way to obroni hot spot number 3, the waterfall at ___, we stopped at a chop shop and saw a few more. Despite the abundance, the waiter spit in my ear and told me that he’d like to “see me” after I was finished eating. I couldn’t escape skidaddling without his notice, and I ended up having the same conversation I have with a million other Ghanaian men: they all want me to take them along with me when I go back home to America, and they love me and want me to marry them. Oh and a lot of times they’ll say “Ahh, America, you mean Obamaland!” They are rather obsessed with Obama here. Yesterday I saw man a-walking on some random street and he was sporting a shirt that had a background with red and white stripes and white stars on blue and then Obama’s face on both the front and back. People here see Omar and ask him if he’s Obama. He respectfully corrects them and says he is Obama’s son.
When we arrived at obroni hot spot number 3, I had decided that each time I see another obroni in Ghana, it is weird. They just don’t fit in and they look painfully uncomfortable. I hope I don’t look like that, because I am rather comfortable on Ghana’s lawn and they kind of look a little pitiful. I suppose this won’t translate to when I’m back in the U.S. with its obroni surplus.
The waterfall was absolutely beautiful, and the entire time I went barefoot. It was wonderful to hear and smell the evanescence of the surrounding nature reserve. This waterfall was much more fun for me than the one at Lake Volta because everyone in the group wanted to jump in and play around. It was so much fun! My favorite activity was definitely log rolling down the rocks, and my least favorite was running because I ended up stubbing my toe and bruising it enough such that not even two Advils alleviates any of the pain. My excitement from the latter part probably came from all of the positive attention I was getting from a pack of schoolchildren from Mali who wanted me and the other obronis to stand in pictures with them. It was adorbs.
It was time to go home, and it was another 3 hour car ride, during which I could not sleep and could not read because it was dark, so I listened to some music from my iPod and tried to make myself comfortable. I also munched on the hugest pineapple I had discovered. It was delicious.
Closing up. Ghanaians don’t really eat much. They’ll eat a solid one or two meals a day. I call the late afternoon meal that I have come to know and love here, “dinch,” for “dinner” and “lunch.” What, dinch doesn’t sound appetizing to you?
FRIDAY, JULY 8, 2011
Outreaches this week have been few and far in number because the Kumasi program coordinator has been sick. Of the five days in the week, I attended three outreaches and each of them had fewer than forty patients. Wednesday I was at clinic and spent about an hour observing seven surgeries. Thursday we were off because we missed viewing post-op patients, and I ended up hanging around Kejetia to try and do some mild errands that amounted to an eventful afternoon, including: fixing Omar’s camera that broke at the Indian restaurant when the waitress dropped it after trying to take a picture of us, and a confrontation after a misunderstanding over an unintentional free taxi ride for the Apricot worker Ansare; prowling for what they dub long “light crème” colored hair for my next “do” as opposed to my current “blonde” which is much darker than the blonde I’m used to; trying to figure out why Omar could not withdraw money from the ATM and a way for me to obtain cash from my traveler’s checks (I’ve tried six banks over the past two days, and still the best option I have is to wait for three weeks to have them processed, by which time I’ll have almost left Ghana); hitting up the Vodafone internet café and seeing other obronis; and, filling out stomachs with cheap, authentic street food with the assistance of a kind bohemian/Jamaican-like lad named Gabriel who sadly knows me as Britney from Barcelona. I gave my stomach a go with “cow meat,” which is not so much beef as it is some gelatinous skin part of cow, which was gross (and my stomach is fine! Woohoo). INSERT STREET FOOD PIC HERE!!!
The UFS van picked up me, Ali, and Omar from Vodafone and we were off to see how publicity works. When the publicity is unsuccessful for an outreach, few patients show up and it’s rather upsetting because of the distance we travel and the investment we make in planning. I still would like to be more informed of the management processes behind the coordination of the eye care programs abroad. Much of the large-scale coordination is done in New Haven, but I am most curious about the micromanagement. Yesterday I learned that a representative from the outreach team meets with the chief of the outreach village the night before an outreach to verify the facility and to make announcements to the community via a prerecorded tape with health information on a loudspeaker atop the van. That was pretty sweet.
Today I went to an outreach that was sub-40 patients and sad and was getting rather frustrated with my lack of work this week. I started to feel better when I ate red-red off the street for the first time and when Kate accompanied me and Ali to the seamstress/tailor to have clothing and other things made from the cloth I had bought at Kejetia the day my wallet was stolen. If we had been there alone, there was no chance we would have been able to communicate our desires for a non-obroni price. Nevertheless, I am still expecting some surprises when I pick up my items on Monday.
Tagging along with Kate and Steve after those two pick-me-ups was fantastic. We drove about 2-3 hours each way to this very rural village. The drive involved some monster truck-style maneuvering and left me unable to sleep in the back seat because of all of the ditches and bumps and general unevenness in the road. However, the Africa I got to see during this car ride was the picturesque Africa I’ve grown up to imagine from documentaries on rural villages and from my Disney movies like Lion King and Madagascar. The fauna is absolutely stunning. We made the most of our speakers atop the van and configured it to play the South African FIFA World Cup song from last summer as we sang along and drove with our fists high in the huge skies out the windows. It was a glorious karaoke van. We had to get out to push the car once when we were caught in a mud puddle. During that push I noticed three iridescent blue beetles to the left on some knee-high plant, and I snagged a picture. INSERT BLUE BEETLE PIC HERE
We arrived at the chief of the village’s place after driving past some bare skinned youngeons with real outie belly buttons (I’ve seen this quite a bit here) and others with distended stomachs in front of their clay houses roofed with palm leaves. We were confused when, after we had sat down after making our rounds shaking hands with all of the villagers present, the villagers then got up and made their rounds to shake our hands again. This was apparently the traditional African greeting. The circle of benches on the sand between some clay houses inset from the road in the unkindly dark was very intimate, and everyone was attentive as Kate gave her spiel about the upcoming outreach the next week. We sat for about a half hour and returned to the van to drive around the village to announce the outreach via the van’s loudspeakers.
This will be a huge outreach with maybe 300 or so patients. The night before it, I’ll be sleeping in the electricity-poor village. Witnessing this process today was surely one of the highlights of my trip, and I am so looking forward to seeing the outcome next Wednesday.
SATURDAY, JULY 9, 2011
New discovery: eggs don’t make me sick anymore! For the longest time I would only eat eggs if I wanted to be sick so I didn’t have to go to school or practice. Now that I’ve had the same fried egg breakfast every day this past week in my lodge in Kumasi, I’ve discovered that I can eat eggs for breakfast and not have to worry about them making me nauseous! There are pros and cons to this finding. Pros: I now have more eating food varieties from which to choose, and a new domain to explore for experimental cooking! Cons: I’ve lost my go-to food that has always guaranteed me a stomach sickness. If I could choose I’d probably choose what I have now because eggs are very delicious. I can’t wait to go home and make some omelets de fromage. Mmm.
We hit up some obroni hot spots today. I was crushed when, along the way, our van hit a baby goat. I love the goats. I want a goat someday. I couldn’t believe that I was in the car that made this innocent creature who was being chased into the street by a stray dog go spinning off the side of the road in front of what I’m sure was its goat and human families. The roads were god awful, and at one point we had to get out and push the van in a depression where the rainwater had collected and caused the wheels to have no traction for a good half mile stretch. It was a bit too close for comfort when the huge Yak obronimobile behind us approached and two taxis came from the front. It was a four-way car pileup and all it would have taken was the slightest incorrect maneuvering of a driver’s wheel and it would have been dominoes volume 2: cars in Africa toppling and mashing the pie of doom in their passengers’ faces. Despite such vehicle troubles, I am still upset that the goat did not survive.
Obroni hot spot number 1 was the monkey sanctuary where we learned about parasitic trees and how they are awesome to climb; saw monkeys of the mona and colubus breeds and listened to them squeal to each other as they hopped from branch to branch; and, were educated about how only descendants of the original priests of the village could truly “own” the monkeys and be buried with their monkeys in the monkey cemetery within the forest. We spotted at least 5 obronis there.
Then, along our way to obroni hot spot number 3, the waterfall at ___, we stopped at a chop shop and saw a few more. Despite the abundance, the waiter spit in my ear and told me that he’d like to “see me” after I was finished eating. I couldn’t escape skidaddling without his notice, and I ended up having the same conversation I have with a million other Ghanaian men: they all want me to take them along with me when I go back home to America, and they love me and want me to marry them. Oh and a lot of times they’ll say “Ahh, America, you mean Obamaland!” They are rather obsessed with Obama here. Yesterday I saw man a-walking on some random street and he was sporting a shirt that had a background with red and white stripes and white stars on blue and then Obama’s face on both the front and back. People here see Omar and ask him if he’s Obama. He respectfully corrects them and says he is Obama’s son.
When we arrived at obroni hot spot number 3, I had decided that each time I see another obroni in Ghana, it is weird. They just don’t fit in and they look painfully uncomfortable. I hope I don’t look like that, because I am rather comfortable on Ghana’s lawn and they kind of look a little pitiful. I suppose this won’t translate to when I’m back in the U.S. with its obroni surplus.
The waterfall was absolutely beautiful, and the entire time I went barefoot. It was wonderful to hear and smell the evanescence of the surrounding nature reserve. This waterfall was much more fun for me than the one at Lake Volta because everyone in the group wanted to jump in and play around. It was so much fun! My favorite activity was definitely log rolling down the rocks, and my least favorite was running because I ended up stubbing my toe and bruising it enough such that not even two Advils alleviates any of the pain. My excitement from the latter part probably came from all of the positive attention I was getting from a pack of schoolchildren from Mali who wanted me and the other obronis to stand in pictures with them. It was adorbs.
It was time to go home, and it was another 3 hour car ride, during which I could not sleep and could not read because it was dark, so I listened to some music from my iPod and tried to make myself comfortable. I also munched on the hugest pineapple I had discovered. It was delicious.
Closing up. Ghanaians don’t really eat much. They’ll eat a solid one or two meals a day. I call the late afternoon meal that I have come to know and love here, “dinch,” for “dinner” and “lunch.” What, dinch doesn’t sound appetizing to you?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
SATURDAY, JULY 2, 2011
The white breasted crows infest the streets of Accra like pigeons do in New York, and, with each sighting, I am breath taken by their beauty and elegance. I have never seen such unique looking crows until I crossed the Atlantic this summer. Their black coats and white underbellies are reminiscent of that of a handsomely dressed man in a tuxedo at a black tie event. I’ve tried to take some nice pictures of these avian creatures, but, I do not think justice is being served to their bounty. Photographs just do not captivate motion the way it is seen by the human eye. I hope I’ll get a chance to do some more formal bird watching at a national park around here before I leave. Anyhow, this is what I’ve got for you: INSERT CROW PICTURE HERE!!.
I am certain that when I come home I’ll be missing these birds.
In other animal news: I still haven’t succeeded in picking up a goat and petting it. They are all too fast for me! INSERT GOAT CHASING PICTURE HERE!!!
I miss my dogs Sasha, Tiffany, Kashmir, and Tate at home. The dogs here are not cute. They roam freely and are unkempt and of the same breed. They bore me. I miss my American Eskimo Dogs’ fluffiness, neediness, and constant displays of affection.
There were some pigs playing in the mud at a very filthy, trash-ridden beach which my group and I had the misfortune of encountering. The pigs actually grossed me out a little bit. I am not usually satisfied with admiring animals from afar, but here I was comfortable maintaining my 30 foot distance that would shield me from any accidental mud splashings and hoof kickbacks.
The pig sighting occurred on the first day of my first and probably one and only three day weekend! Friday was July 1st, the Ghanaian national holiday Republic Day, which was instated to celebrate the milestone of Ghana becoming a republic. For some reason this holiday exists in addition to Independence Day on March 6th, which basically exists for the same reason and, yet, is more extravagantly celebrated. Still, I’ll take any second-rate holiday that gets me a day off. :P
Our journey to the arts center was quite eventful. It began with bringing the n00bies in town (the volunteers who had just arrived) to exchange their U.S. dollars into Ghana cedis. We could not hitch a tro-tro because all of them were full, but we were able to make our way to Nkrumah Circle via taxi. Nkrumah Circle is a landmark in Accra that is named in honor of Ghana’s first president. I had tried to find some information on Republic Day via the internetz, and I had come across a website that said that the government had put together a photo exhibition of the history of Ghana and that it would be near Nkrumah Circle. Well, that was nonexistent. To discover this was a process involving many arm grabs by Ghanaian men as we were walking on the sidewalk, many attempts at hustling by market vendors, a walk across a bridge above a street congested with cars and crazy drivers, and a run-in at a dance party within the market where everyone was dressed in red and black and apparently celebrating the life of their friend who had just died (which we joined). Needless to say, we may never know if the photo exhibition actually existed, but, in looking for it, a good time was had by all.
We then caught a tro-tro out of Nkrumah Circle that took us to the arts center, which I had assumed was a building with art in it. Turns out I had assumed incorrectly, as it was just another open market with even more persistent sellers than what I was used to. It sucks having the name Chelsea because everyone remembers it, and I had sellers to whom I had not introduced myself calling out my name from afar. It was unpleasant. Our group thought it would be a good idea to take a breather in the beach area behind the market, but all we found were some pigs rolling in mud and trash everywhere.
So we went back. I went into a few shops and bought some awesome African carved goods. I am not a wealthy woman; in fact, I am a student without an income. When presented with stuff I lust for, I am like a cougar that prowls for young men: I simply can’t help myself. What I spent that day amounts to a number that would put my mother who raised me to shame, so I won’t say it.
It has been an interesting experience to watch volunteers come and go. More and more I am becoming the veteran. I could not fathom spending just 10 or 20 days on this trip. It takes just about the same amount of effort to plan this trip to spend 10 days as it does to spend 60. The only difference between a 10-day and 60-day trip is the cost incurred from lodging. Otherwise, the required fundraising amount is still $1700, the 500 eyeglasses still must be procured, the plane tickets still come near $2000, the required vaccinations are the same, the visa still must be obtained prior to traveling, and the training modules are the same length. Even so, I have seen volunteers come and go. Fleeting friendships are kind of a sad thing to think about, but they are inevitable in life. We simply cannot avoid the fact that we will not ever be the same group again, the same n00bies in town in Accra, Ghana for our first volunteering experience abroad. I don’t know if I’ll ever see many of these people again. For a few of us, Wednesday’s reggae night at Tawala Beach in Osu was the last “hoorah!” before leaving Ghana, maybe forever. We saw many an obroni and did much mingling and chatting beside bamboo fires on the crowded beach. I’m looking forward to Kumasi to get to know the next new bunch, and I’ll probably have to deal with confronting the same inevitable fate that I may not see these wonderful people again. Life can be sad sometimes.
Chyeah. Kumasi will be fun. I’ll be rocking MY NEW HAIR THAT IS NEW AS OF THIS MORNING! World, I have to tell you something. I look different these days. A little more African, a little less Caucasian. Get ready to have your socks blown off. It only cost me 31 GHC (US equivalent of 20 bucks). This success might have launched a new phase in my life. I love the idea of being able to fully customize my hair without having to commit to a color or a style for more than a few weeks. I’ve always wanted to experiment with my hair, and I think I’ve finally crossed the threshold of fear that has been holding me back all of this time.
--
SUNDAY, JULY 3rd, 2011
Things I’ve lost during this trip: my sunglasses; one of my two eyeglasses cases; the cord that connects my camera to my computer (sorry, no more pictures for the blog because of this loss); and, my wallet, which probably had around $300 worth of cash in both Ghana cedis and U.S. dollars. A traveler’s nightmare.
It was almost as if losing my wallet was an act of fate, because a few events of the past week seem to build to this loss. First: I had noticed that I had no use for my traveler’s checks because no place accepted them, so I removed them from my wallet and placed them with my stash of cash that I kept separate in a safe place. I should be able to cash those checks to myself at a bank (yes, there are banks in Ghana)! That is a sure plus.
Second: While purchasing cloth at the Kejetia Market in Kumasi today, I must have been caught up in all of the pretty patterns and shiny colors that I was imagining as pants, shorts, bags, shirts, etc. FYI, this market is the largest open market in West Africa. Anyway, I had left my bag open after making a purchase and a Ghanaian woman came out from behind me and was holding my wallet. She said “you need to close your bag because the next person who sees this may not be so nice.”
Then, after splurging on a pretty huge amount of traditional African kente cloth and various apparel plastered with “Chelsea Football Club” on the front, I had reached my threshold. As the member of the group everyone else had to wait for because I was busy buying things, I knew it was time to call it quits. I declared, “mark my word: this is my last and final purchase!”
Somewhere between my declaration and getting into the cab to find a restaurant for a late lunch (which was actually necessary because everything is closed on Sundays), I either dropped my wallet or someone stole it from me. Whatever the case, someone has my license, credit and debit cards, my toothpicks that I’ve been collecting from my sliced pineapple purchases, a fairly heavy sum of Ghanaian and some U.S. cash, my Yale student ID, and some business cards I collected from a few interesting individuals during this trip. I was super bummed. Some Ghanaian person has a lot of my identifying information and spending money I was hoping to use for this trip. All gone. I felt like an idiot. I still feel like an idiot for letting this happen.
On the bright side: I had some amazing red-red today. Red-red is by far my favorite Ghanaian food. I’m surprised how difficult it is to find relative to other Ghanaian staples that I don’t think taste as good. I also had a slice of pizza, which was not like the pizza I’m used to, but still a friendly reminder of home. The money I had spent on all of those purchases went towards the purchases, not to the person who has my money! So that’s good, I guess. Also, I rode three tro-tros today. This is getting to be too normal.
Ahh. This is just really cruddy. I figured out a way to work out in the hotel. I suppose I felt like I needed to do something good for myself after the not ideal happenings of the day. I ran up the three flights of steps they have here ten times and, with each descent, I ran back and forth in the hallway. Also did 100 push-ups today. Also did some of a leg workout outside. I sweated up and felt a lot better. I must say, I really miss exercise-induced sweat.
Kumasi is proving to be a much nicer city than Accra. The roads are all paved and the city’s layout is what I would expect when going to a city—it actually makes sense! I can walk places and not feel as if I’m going nowhere. Even with this sour beginning I think there’s hope for an excellent next two weeks. I’ve counted up the money I stored elsewhere (thank you, Daddy, for this very sage advice) and calculated roughly how much I’ll need for the next month. I should be fine for the rest of the trip. Vundahful (in Ghanaian accent)! I love the dynamic of the group with whom I’m traveling and I’m super excited about our optometrist, Kate, who is a female! She is so warm and nurturing and is a great motherly figure while I’m here. She can surely provide me with advice with my first African hair style.
P.S. I wore pigtails today.
INSERT PIGTAILS PICTURE HERE!
--
MONDAY, JULY 4, 2011
Dear USA,
Happy 205th birthday! I love you more than I ever could have imagined. I wish I could have watched your annual Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest in Staten Island either in person or live on tv. I would have loved to see fireworks displayed in NYC over the water. ‘Twould have been splendid. The idea of eating at a barbeque with meat patties fresh off the grill and corn dogs and ‘freedom’ fries and onion rings and full sour pickles and pasta salad makes my taste buds feel like they’re going for a ride on Aladdin’s magic carpet. I realize I am so fortunate to have been born on your lawn, and I promise to never let a day go by that I do not appreciate your existence. Thank you for being awesome. I love your continual investment in my life. Also, thanks, Mommy and Daddy, for choosing this place to raise me and make my home. I am eternally indebted.
Love always,
Chelsea
The white breasted crows infest the streets of Accra like pigeons do in New York, and, with each sighting, I am breath taken by their beauty and elegance. I have never seen such unique looking crows until I crossed the Atlantic this summer. Their black coats and white underbellies are reminiscent of that of a handsomely dressed man in a tuxedo at a black tie event. I’ve tried to take some nice pictures of these avian creatures, but, I do not think justice is being served to their bounty. Photographs just do not captivate motion the way it is seen by the human eye. I hope I’ll get a chance to do some more formal bird watching at a national park around here before I leave. Anyhow, this is what I’ve got for you: INSERT CROW PICTURE HERE!!.
I am certain that when I come home I’ll be missing these birds.
In other animal news: I still haven’t succeeded in picking up a goat and petting it. They are all too fast for me! INSERT GOAT CHASING PICTURE HERE!!!
I miss my dogs Sasha, Tiffany, Kashmir, and Tate at home. The dogs here are not cute. They roam freely and are unkempt and of the same breed. They bore me. I miss my American Eskimo Dogs’ fluffiness, neediness, and constant displays of affection.
There were some pigs playing in the mud at a very filthy, trash-ridden beach which my group and I had the misfortune of encountering. The pigs actually grossed me out a little bit. I am not usually satisfied with admiring animals from afar, but here I was comfortable maintaining my 30 foot distance that would shield me from any accidental mud splashings and hoof kickbacks.
The pig sighting occurred on the first day of my first and probably one and only three day weekend! Friday was July 1st, the Ghanaian national holiday Republic Day, which was instated to celebrate the milestone of Ghana becoming a republic. For some reason this holiday exists in addition to Independence Day on March 6th, which basically exists for the same reason and, yet, is more extravagantly celebrated. Still, I’ll take any second-rate holiday that gets me a day off. :P
Our journey to the arts center was quite eventful. It began with bringing the n00bies in town (the volunteers who had just arrived) to exchange their U.S. dollars into Ghana cedis. We could not hitch a tro-tro because all of them were full, but we were able to make our way to Nkrumah Circle via taxi. Nkrumah Circle is a landmark in Accra that is named in honor of Ghana’s first president. I had tried to find some information on Republic Day via the internetz, and I had come across a website that said that the government had put together a photo exhibition of the history of Ghana and that it would be near Nkrumah Circle. Well, that was nonexistent. To discover this was a process involving many arm grabs by Ghanaian men as we were walking on the sidewalk, many attempts at hustling by market vendors, a walk across a bridge above a street congested with cars and crazy drivers, and a run-in at a dance party within the market where everyone was dressed in red and black and apparently celebrating the life of their friend who had just died (which we joined). Needless to say, we may never know if the photo exhibition actually existed, but, in looking for it, a good time was had by all.
We then caught a tro-tro out of Nkrumah Circle that took us to the arts center, which I had assumed was a building with art in it. Turns out I had assumed incorrectly, as it was just another open market with even more persistent sellers than what I was used to. It sucks having the name Chelsea because everyone remembers it, and I had sellers to whom I had not introduced myself calling out my name from afar. It was unpleasant. Our group thought it would be a good idea to take a breather in the beach area behind the market, but all we found were some pigs rolling in mud and trash everywhere.
So we went back. I went into a few shops and bought some awesome African carved goods. I am not a wealthy woman; in fact, I am a student without an income. When presented with stuff I lust for, I am like a cougar that prowls for young men: I simply can’t help myself. What I spent that day amounts to a number that would put my mother who raised me to shame, so I won’t say it.
It has been an interesting experience to watch volunteers come and go. More and more I am becoming the veteran. I could not fathom spending just 10 or 20 days on this trip. It takes just about the same amount of effort to plan this trip to spend 10 days as it does to spend 60. The only difference between a 10-day and 60-day trip is the cost incurred from lodging. Otherwise, the required fundraising amount is still $1700, the 500 eyeglasses still must be procured, the plane tickets still come near $2000, the required vaccinations are the same, the visa still must be obtained prior to traveling, and the training modules are the same length. Even so, I have seen volunteers come and go. Fleeting friendships are kind of a sad thing to think about, but they are inevitable in life. We simply cannot avoid the fact that we will not ever be the same group again, the same n00bies in town in Accra, Ghana for our first volunteering experience abroad. I don’t know if I’ll ever see many of these people again. For a few of us, Wednesday’s reggae night at Tawala Beach in Osu was the last “hoorah!” before leaving Ghana, maybe forever. We saw many an obroni and did much mingling and chatting beside bamboo fires on the crowded beach. I’m looking forward to Kumasi to get to know the next new bunch, and I’ll probably have to deal with confronting the same inevitable fate that I may not see these wonderful people again. Life can be sad sometimes.
Chyeah. Kumasi will be fun. I’ll be rocking MY NEW HAIR THAT IS NEW AS OF THIS MORNING! World, I have to tell you something. I look different these days. A little more African, a little less Caucasian. Get ready to have your socks blown off. It only cost me 31 GHC (US equivalent of 20 bucks). This success might have launched a new phase in my life. I love the idea of being able to fully customize my hair without having to commit to a color or a style for more than a few weeks. I’ve always wanted to experiment with my hair, and I think I’ve finally crossed the threshold of fear that has been holding me back all of this time.
--
SUNDAY, JULY 3rd, 2011
Things I’ve lost during this trip: my sunglasses; one of my two eyeglasses cases; the cord that connects my camera to my computer (sorry, no more pictures for the blog because of this loss); and, my wallet, which probably had around $300 worth of cash in both Ghana cedis and U.S. dollars. A traveler’s nightmare.
It was almost as if losing my wallet was an act of fate, because a few events of the past week seem to build to this loss. First: I had noticed that I had no use for my traveler’s checks because no place accepted them, so I removed them from my wallet and placed them with my stash of cash that I kept separate in a safe place. I should be able to cash those checks to myself at a bank (yes, there are banks in Ghana)! That is a sure plus.
Second: While purchasing cloth at the Kejetia Market in Kumasi today, I must have been caught up in all of the pretty patterns and shiny colors that I was imagining as pants, shorts, bags, shirts, etc. FYI, this market is the largest open market in West Africa. Anyway, I had left my bag open after making a purchase and a Ghanaian woman came out from behind me and was holding my wallet. She said “you need to close your bag because the next person who sees this may not be so nice.”
Then, after splurging on a pretty huge amount of traditional African kente cloth and various apparel plastered with “Chelsea Football Club” on the front, I had reached my threshold. As the member of the group everyone else had to wait for because I was busy buying things, I knew it was time to call it quits. I declared, “mark my word: this is my last and final purchase!”
Somewhere between my declaration and getting into the cab to find a restaurant for a late lunch (which was actually necessary because everything is closed on Sundays), I either dropped my wallet or someone stole it from me. Whatever the case, someone has my license, credit and debit cards, my toothpicks that I’ve been collecting from my sliced pineapple purchases, a fairly heavy sum of Ghanaian and some U.S. cash, my Yale student ID, and some business cards I collected from a few interesting individuals during this trip. I was super bummed. Some Ghanaian person has a lot of my identifying information and spending money I was hoping to use for this trip. All gone. I felt like an idiot. I still feel like an idiot for letting this happen.
On the bright side: I had some amazing red-red today. Red-red is by far my favorite Ghanaian food. I’m surprised how difficult it is to find relative to other Ghanaian staples that I don’t think taste as good. I also had a slice of pizza, which was not like the pizza I’m used to, but still a friendly reminder of home. The money I had spent on all of those purchases went towards the purchases, not to the person who has my money! So that’s good, I guess. Also, I rode three tro-tros today. This is getting to be too normal.
Ahh. This is just really cruddy. I figured out a way to work out in the hotel. I suppose I felt like I needed to do something good for myself after the not ideal happenings of the day. I ran up the three flights of steps they have here ten times and, with each descent, I ran back and forth in the hallway. Also did 100 push-ups today. Also did some of a leg workout outside. I sweated up and felt a lot better. I must say, I really miss exercise-induced sweat.
Kumasi is proving to be a much nicer city than Accra. The roads are all paved and the city’s layout is what I would expect when going to a city—it actually makes sense! I can walk places and not feel as if I’m going nowhere. Even with this sour beginning I think there’s hope for an excellent next two weeks. I’ve counted up the money I stored elsewhere (thank you, Daddy, for this very sage advice) and calculated roughly how much I’ll need for the next month. I should be fine for the rest of the trip. Vundahful (in Ghanaian accent)! I love the dynamic of the group with whom I’m traveling and I’m super excited about our optometrist, Kate, who is a female! She is so warm and nurturing and is a great motherly figure while I’m here. She can surely provide me with advice with my first African hair style.
P.S. I wore pigtails today.
INSERT PIGTAILS PICTURE HERE!
--
MONDAY, JULY 4, 2011
Dear USA,
Happy 205th birthday! I love you more than I ever could have imagined. I wish I could have watched your annual Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest in Staten Island either in person or live on tv. I would have loved to see fireworks displayed in NYC over the water. ‘Twould have been splendid. The idea of eating at a barbeque with meat patties fresh off the grill and corn dogs and ‘freedom’ fries and onion rings and full sour pickles and pasta salad makes my taste buds feel like they’re going for a ride on Aladdin’s magic carpet. I realize I am so fortunate to have been born on your lawn, and I promise to never let a day go by that I do not appreciate your existence. Thank you for being awesome. I love your continual investment in my life. Also, thanks, Mommy and Daddy, for choosing this place to raise me and make my home. I am eternally indebted.
Love always,
Chelsea
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)