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.