The Grind and Water

It seems odd, but every time I come home after spending some time away ‘the grind’ grinds harder. We, as human beings, have the amazing ability to adapt to new environments – the different grinds of different places. Like our animal brethren (and really, bacteria, microbes, viruses, plants and anything else with DNA that mutates) our environment plays a role in who we are and what we are to become. The “Alex” some know in the United States shares many characteristics with the “Alex” some know in Ghana, but the vast difference in the two environments brought out the very subtle differences in me. All the important traits stay constant – my sense of self, my moral code, my desire to positively impact those around me, the desire to love and be loved – but, it’s those minute changes that sometimes take control of your life. For example: I have written and re-written this post three times now because life in the U.S. has been very busy. With what, you may ask? Well, lots of TV. That’s right. I’ve been wasting my time with TV… The irony isn’t lost on me. All these ‘things’ – cable, high speed internet, text messaging – are suppose to increase our efficiency, connect us, simplify our lives. Instead, I find myself falling asleep most nights thinking “shit, what a waste.” In Ghana, I read many books, I wrote in my journal and I became more self aware because I had time. Do I no longer have the time? No. instead I find it easier to turn the TV on and turn my brain off.  

Where am I going with this? Unbeknown to us, we respond very differently in differing environments. That’s science, not conjecture. It seems that the lesson to be learned here is this: We, as human beings are set apart from most of the animal world because we have the ability to critically analyze ourselves – we are self-aware. We can figure out who we are and how we change, and more importantly, WHY we change. Don’t ignore the lessons life teachers you. Take the best parts of ‘who you are’ from whichever environment, person, or experience brought those parts out of you and try to be that person all the time. It takes effort, but everything does.

WATER

Anyway, before I get to far off track, let me bring the focus back to my last two weeks in Ghana. I will split the last two weeks into two different posts, which I will try and post today and tomorrow. Hopefully…

Dirty water, as we’ve heard on the news, in science class and pretty much in any conversation involving public health, is a major source of disease and infection in the third world. Put simply the problem is this: people without access to clean water drink dirty water and then get really, really sick. Diseases like cholera, botulism, dysentery and parasites like guinea worm and Giardia are incubated, transported and subsequently consumed by people consuming water. In the United States and other developed countries infections like these are rare and easily treatable. However, in the third world, millions die every year because they drink dirty water.

Before leaving for Ghana, Josh and I knew we wanted to continue the water purification and education work he had begun last year and with the help of friends and family we raised some money to purchase water filters. Josh had made contact with a distributor, who agreed to meet with us when we arrived in order to plan out the details of our purchase.

Then we arrived in Ghana and our plan began to unravel. Weeks went by without a meeting and we were beginning to worry. Finally, with only a week and a half left, we had dinner with John (name changed for privacy).

During the three weeks prior to our meeting, Josh and I discussed how we could best use our donated funds. Sure, we could buy filters and donate them but that plan is not very sustainable. Once the money is gone it is gone and filters don’t last forever. Distribution was also a big issue because the only two sites selling these filters were located in the northernmost and southernmost regions of the country, effectively cutting off direct access to the area around Lake Volta. John echoed these same concerns when we met so we began to discuss a possible solution and came up with a great plan: use the money to set up a distribution site.

When we got back to Kpando our work began. We approached Doctor with the idea of using part of his pharmacy as a storefront for our products – water filters, water purification tablets, mosquito netting and other products that help promote good health – which, could be sold to his patients at a discounted rate. The proceeds could then fund educational programs and filter donation programs at regional schools, and allow us to provide subsidized filters in the poorest areas along the lake. Doctor loved our idea and agreed to set asides some space in his pharmacy for our products and to help us with our public outreach work. Now, the hard part: the plan.

Distance is our enemy. Josh and I are in Michigan, thousands of miles – and a four hour ride on a tro-tro – away from Kpando and won’t be able to return until next year. We have ordered our first batch of filters and luckily, have Becka back in Kpando to see the initial set up of our distribution site through. Then the real work begins. In the months that follow Josh and I will begin to form a ‘business’ model. Unlike a conventional business our goal is not to maximize profits, but rather, to provide educational support for our clean water project.

In a different sense, distance is our friend. We have time to do the research, put together a plan, gather support and then put our plan into action. We have time to do things the right way.

Stay tuned for more details as time goes on. We are grateful for all those that supported us, monetarily and in spirit. Without your kindness we would not have gotten very far. So, until next time.

Here We Don't Say Goodbye

This will be the last post I write from Kpando. Four weeks have come and gone and in just one day we will board a plane for the homeland. Regretfully, there are so many visits, so many events, so many people I have yet to mention in my writing. Time has the ability to speed-up and then expire very abruptly, just when we've become settled in a place. But before I get all mushy gushy on you, let me tell you a story about a typical Wednesday in Ghana. In a very ironic, yet fitting way, that one day seems to sum up our trip quite perfectly.

PART ONE: LIFE

Wednesday was a hell of a day.

Josh woke me up from a deep sleep and said it was time to go. I sat bolt-upright, startled and confused. My brain, still in 'hibernate mode', could not process why Josh was standing over my bed, dressed in one of his traditional Ghanian shirts, telling me we had someplace to be.

He laughed and explained, “the naming ceremony, for Stone's baby.”

Nope, I thought, he's made a mistake, “...that starts at 7:30 p.m.”

“No, it's at 7:30 a.m.,” he responded.

Really? He must be right. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my jeans, picked out one of Josh's remaining traditional shirts and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Five minutes after my wake-up call we were out the door.

It was only a short walk and as we entered the courtyard where the ceremony was to take place it was obvious that everyone was waiting on us. People all around began speaking in Ewe, laughing after certain words and phrases that called attention to our presence – the two white guys have arrived! Chairs were set up in rows along three of the four buildings which shared this courtyard and Stone, the new father, was seated in the front row to one side. We were directed to sit the front row directly opposite and as soon as lowered into our seats the ceremony began.

Stone, beaming through his thick white beard, looked especially prophetic today - dressed in a long, loose-fitting, traditional shirt, long pants, leather sandals and a white knit cap. In the center of courtyard, two men, both dressed in jeans and t-shirt seemed to be the misfitting master of ceremony and his assistant. They began by mixing leaves, water and some other root or grass that I couldn't make out into a half-coconut-shell bowl. After saying a few words in Ewe the assistant walked up to Stone's wife, uncovered the baby, and snipped off a small piece of hair, which was also added to the mixture.

This is about the point where Stone's cell phone rang. I thought he would just hang-up on the caller but to my shock he had a full conversation with the person. Josh and I looked at one another and laughed. It was quite a site: Stone sitting there in the front row talking loudly, not worried that he was interupting his own child's ceremony or that everyone could hear every word of his conversation. Cell phones... The juxaposition was blindingly apparent: a traditional African ceremony interupted by a cell phone call. I guess it must happen often.

After Stone finished our MC began once more. Again, he walked over to Stone's wife, this time taking the baby in his hands after uncovering his eight-day-old head and he held him up toward the sun. The man then placed the child on the ground, spoke a few words, picked up the bowl containing the mixture he had prepared and sprayed some on the baby. Then the baby's name was spoken for the first time: "Didi" – meaning desire.

At this point the ceremony had ended and the drinking had begun. The MC and his assistant carried bottles of gin and whisky, pouring a shot for anyone who waved them over, and two women passed out Coke's, Fanta's, and Star (beer). The well-dressed woman sitting next to me must have been thrirsty becasue after drinking a Coke she finished off a Star just a few seconds. I looked across to Josh, wondering if he had noticed. He gave me an smirk, the one that says: wow, impressive.

Somehow, I managed to skip the gin and whisky cue and finished off my Coke without incident. As we sat there another man stood up and began to solicit donations. Now, this was not your typical anonymous church-service "pass around a basket" donatation procession. He took a person's money, held it up for everyone to see, announced the value and, with everyone joining in, thanked the person. I had forgotten my wallet at home, so I felt like an idiot. But, luckily, Josh had some money in his pocket so we were able to save face. The whole process took some time, but afterward the service was finally over.

I thought we were free to go at this point, but Stone invited us over to his house for a "light breakfast." When we arrived we were taken into the living room, which was very odd considering everyone else remained outside, served a plate of rice and fish, and given a cold beer to help wash it down – nevermind that it was only 8:00 a.m. Let me reiterate: we had rice, fish and beer for breakfast. TIA.

After forcing down the rice and finishing off my breakfast beer, Josh and I were invited outside to take pictures. The first set of photos document my first ever encounter with palm wine, a local wine produced by tapping a palm tree and then slowly smoking the liquid that comes out. Josh and I were both poured a healthy portion – half a cocunut shell bowl each – and we drank. It was very smoky, and the alcohol was apparent as the liquid made its way south, but it was very refreshing, nontheless.

By this point I was a little tipsy. The mixture of breakfast beer and palm wine began to shift loudly in my stomach and the heat of the now fully risen sun was not helping. Stone disapeared for a moment and came back with his wife and new baby in tow. Stone explained that he wanted pictures of the baby with his two American fathers, so one by one, Josh and I held Didi and posed for a picture. Didi was asleep, but shifted very slightly when I took him in my arms. Being only eight days old, he felt very fragile. His skin looked soft, unweathered by the world, and his thick black hair seemed oddly out of place on someone so young. He was beautiful.

Later on that day we had a chance to ask Stone about the different parts of the ceremony and thier meaning. The baby had been covered for the first eight days of his life, but today, his face was uncovered for the first time and he was shown the sun. The MC held the baby up in the air to symbolize that, at times during ones life, we may find ourselves far from the ground but that we should not worry. The baby was then placed on the ground to symbolize that we all fall down, alot, and then sprinkled him with the mixture of water, earth and hair as a form of protection.

The ceremony marks the begining of Didi's journey through this world and I was honored to among those who helped send him on his way.

PART TWO: DEATH

After so much excitement so early in the day, Josh and I came back home and tried our best to impersonate vegtables. I napped on-and-off in one of the lounge chairs and Josh went to his bed. After regaining some energy we finally started on our to-do list, item 1: laundry.

Let me just say, we hate doing laundry by hand. I know, I know, how "American" of me. Well I've hand washed many loads of clothes so I think I'm entitled to my opinion. It sucks. First you have to scrub each individual item, sometimes for ten minutes. Not long after you begin, your fingers start to sting. That's because you've rubbed off the top layer of your skin and the laundry soup is seaping into your bloodstream. After washing everything thoroughly, you pour out the blackened water, get new water AND DO IT ALL AGAIN. Then there is a rinse cycle and then, if your clothes are still soapy, you repeat that too.

Josh and I have our own technique, which pains the women here but saves us about an hour. We pre-soak all of our clothes in soap, wash once – one to two minutes per shirt and shorts, less for underwear – soak the clothes in clean water, strain and we're done. After drying, you can see that our method is crap because our clothes gain a stiff-like quality that they didn't have before. Oh well. I don't care.

A few minutes into the wash I looked up and noticed a baby goat walking across the yard. I smiled at the site – the little creature, no larger than a small kitten, prancing around the yard, stoping periodically to eat a leaf off the ground. For a moment I had forgotten that I was scrubbing my hands raw in the dirty water. Life was good. The scene just seemed right.

Not long after that I took part of our load to hang on the clothes line in order to make room in our rinse bucket. When I returned, I heard a cry and I immediately scanned the yard for the little goat. It was lying not twenty feet away, on its side and he looked to be in pain. Cry after cry after cry – you could hear that he was suffering. Josh and I stood over him, feeling confused and very helpless. Finally, Mama came over, took one look and concluding that he must be dying. We couldn't be sure of the cause, but she thought he probably ate something poisonous. Within five minutes his little body went limp and he stopped crying.

Mama picked him by his hind legs and carried it across the yard, tossing it into a bucket by our back gate. I couldn't help but appreciate the imagery – just as Josh and I had tossed our satruated shirts into the rinse bucket, that little, lifeless goat had been tossed into an identical container. Mama picked up a hoe and dug a shallow grave. Then she picked up the little goat, tossed him in, covered him with dirt, and placed two large rocks over top. At first I thought they were makeshift gravestones, but realized the rocks were just there to make it harder for the naiborhood dogs to dig up the shallow grave.

There was no service. Not one words was spoken. Just like that, in the span of thirty-minutes, the life of that baby goat had come to an end. And here in Africa life went on.

PART THREE: LOVE

Later on that night Josh and I met Stone at the Maxy Spot for a celebratory drink. Here in Ghana, bars are called 'spots', but being the immature young men we are, we've changed the Maxy's name to the "Maxy Pad." That's right, we've gone there.

We stat down, ordered a round of Star and a round of meat from Sonny, Josh's meet guy. Most spots have a meat guy that serves slice beef with onions dusted in a special blend of ground spices, but Sonny is by far Kpando's best. Soon our beer was served and our meat was ready, and thus class was in session.

Josh and I both agree that Stone is one of the smartest people we've ever met. He just looks smart – a sagely, white beard covers his round cheeks and his knit hat bumps up his 'prophet' status twofold. On that night he didn't disapoint. Per normal, we discussed world politics. Stone makes sure to watch Al-Jazeera, BBC and CNN every night, so he as able to catch us up on the ongoing struggle in Libya.

After some time Josh inteterupted the conversation and asked Stone if he would be willing to answer a question. He paused, for effect, then asked, "Stone, what is the secret to love?" I was taken aback by the question, but being a few beers in I remember thinking: brilliant.

Stone's answer, like most things he says, suprised us because it was so different from what we expected. Stone is a Traditionalist, and so believes that a man can take more than one wife. Actually, many of the African men we've met, whether they are Christian, Muslim or Traditionalists, will subscribe to this line of thinking. So, you can imagine where we thought this conversation was headed.

To paraphrase, Stone began: Love is complicated. Traditionally, we believe that a man can take more than one wife, and so a man can love more than one women. But, I admire your way of viewing love. You find, then love only one woman and no matter where you go in this world you know that she is waiting home for you, loving just you. And, you only love her. It's beautiful (he uses this phrase often).

Like I said, his answer was the exact opposite of what I was expecting. I was waiting to hear a lecture on how having more than one wife should be encouraged, etc, etc, etc. But, instead he, in such a simple way, put words to one of lifes great mysteries. Prophet? Maybe. Wiseman? Most definately.

Regretably, I've run out of time and space. There is so much left unwritten – the water project, tro-tro's, Meet Me There, Mama Peta and Monique. I will continue to fill in the missing details when I return home, but for now I will channel my inner Anthony Bourdain and close with this final thought:

What will I take away from this place? What will I remember? What will move me to return? To be honest, at times it was challenging. On a few occasions, the heat, the garbage filled gutters and the crowded city buses made me question my decision stay for so long. But, the hardship is quickly washed away by the simplicity of this place. Here people walk to where they are going. No one passes you by at 45 miles-per-hour. So, here, everyone waves and asks, "how are you", and I am always expected to stop and answer. Children sing and clap as I walk past – yevu, yevu, bonsui...white person, white person, chop chop – a left over, mistranslated colonial song. Here I'm more aware of the humanity that exists within the boundaries of a city. Every object, every interaction and every person has something to teach you. You just have to slow down, say "hello" as you walk through town and you're bound to learn some lesson – about youself and about the way this crazy world works.

BAG WATER, ANNA AND A CIRCUMCISION

Before I get to the circumcision, which I am in no hurry to transfer from my memory to words, I would like to spend some time describing some details I've forgotten in previous posts.

Garbage and human waste clog the open gutters systems – a perfect breeding ground for mosquitos, which, dare I say, is one of the reasons why malaria is so prevalent here. And bag water. Let me just say, if you thought we – Americans – with our plastic, BPA saturated, one-use water bottles are something to shake your finger at, you haven't seen bag water. Let me explain: In Ghana, water comes in plastic pouches that are about as big as your hand and hold a half liter of water. There is no twist top. You bite down on a corner, get a firm grip on the soft plastic and rip the bag open. Caution must be observed because to much force usually means getting the front of your shirt soaked – I speak from experience. The water inside has been filtered, or at least that is what I've been told and so that's what I choose to believe. A sucking and squeezing motion is recommended to obtain maximum drinking efficiency, but again, one must be cautious not to suck or squeeze to hard. Time? I take a few minutes to finish a bag, but I've seen women in the market finish a whole bag in 3 seconds. When you're done, simply toss it on the ground, or out a window. They must be biodegradable...

I must apologize to Anna, our roommate, because in four entries I have yet to mention her even once. Luckily, she doesn't read my blog so for the time being I'm safe. If I had to describe Anna in one word it would be: German. Apart from describing where Anna comes from and her cultural background, which I will get to shortly, being German in the Volta Region of Ghana is an especially important characteristic. During colonial rule the Germans controlled the territory east of Lake Volta, which today is part of Ghana, and Togo, calling it Togoland. Even though the Germans, except for Anna, are long gone, they have been preserved in the history classes and folklore of the locals. And, like any good folk tale, very little truth can be massaged out of the stories we hear. For example:

Myth #1: Germans only drink beer, never water, just beer.

This myth, by far my favorite, was started during WWII. Ghanians believe that during the war the Allies poisoned all German water sources and thus beer was the only safe option to stay hydrated. Anna doesn't help to dispel this myth because she loves beer and drinks it often. I have seen her drink water though, so the myth is false. But I'm sure that if we measured it out her beer to water ratio must be close to even.

Myth #2: All Germans speak Ewe(local language).

The Germans are responsible for bringing the alphabet that was used to derive the Ewe language to the Volta Region. For some reason, Ghanaians believe that the Germans teach Ewe at there universities. Ana has assured me that this is false, never even hearing of the language before coming to Ghana. However, she does little to dispel the myth. In three months she has learned enough of the language to have full, meaningful conversations with people. I'm not sure if this can be attributed to the fact that she is multilingual and can pick up new languages quickly, or, the more locally accepted explanation that Ewe is part of her being. Either way, I'm sure she felt more pressure than any one of us to learn the language, especially after being told her people played a crucial part in inventing it...

Anna has a great sense of humor and so Josh and I are constantly teasing her. We've developed a punchline that we like to work in to most situation: “How German of you...” It is very useful. When Anna orders a beer, or when she speaks Ewe, or when she lifts a heavy object, we just chalk it up to her showcasing her cultural predispositions. In fact, Anna has taken to calling herself out when she believes she's acting out a stereotype.

All joking aside, Anna is wonderful. She is currently studying to become a social worker and as part of her degree she is serving in Ghana for six months. Anna has been here for three already, evident by her dark brown skin and flip-flop tan line, and had immersed herself completely in the culture. She has probably forgotten more Ewe than I've learned, everyone in town knows her and she has received no less than three marriage proposals. Anna speaks English with an unexpectedly soft accent, but with perfect grammar and clarity, which she attributes to time spent in Australia. Her strong physical features match her strong personality. She is very kind, always allowing the children to use her phone to “call their family members,” but she isn't scared to stand up to anyone when she senses dishonesty. Most of all, she is constantly smiling and laughing – at herself, the kids and probably, more times than not, at the Americans.

Now the main attraction: THE SURGERY

A few days into our stay in Kpando we were invited to a local private hospital, St. Patrick, to observe a surgery. Doctor gave us some background on the case: A young man had perifimosis, or an infection of the foreskin on an uncircumcised male, and had very bad swelling. The surgery would consist of relieving the swelling then performing a circumcision.

The morning of the surgery we woke up early, ate a full breakfast and waited for Papa to pick us up. We arrived at the hospital in the early morning and taken on a full tour. The compound consists of three buildings: Administrative, Maternity Ward and General Ward. Doctors sees patients out of his office in the Administrative block, which also houses the Accounts Office. The Maternity Wars is a small building with maybe five or six private rooms, and an office for the Midwife. The General Ward is split up into a few rooms: Female Ward, Mens Ward, Operating Theater and Pharmacy. The Female Ward is the largest room, with about 20 beds.

The line at St. Patrick's begins to form early in the morning, on the benches and chairs on the outdoor patio. First, patients are registered then sent to triage area where temperature and blood pressure are taken. Those with emergent complaints or worrisome symptoms are admitted to the wards, while the rest are seen as out-patients by a physician. The doctor usually sees anywhere from 75 to 150 patients per day. Non-emergent cases are typically related to hypertention or diabetes, while those patients who are normally admitted suffer from Malaria. The wards are chaotic. Family members are expected to provide patients with food as well as to pick-up any medications or IV drips the doctor orders from the Pharmacy, so there are always two or three people sitting on one iron bed. The nurses are all dressed in color coded uniforms circa WWII – one piece white or blue dress. The ward is clean, but could use a fresh coat of paint.

We waited, and rounded, and waited, and sat in on out-patient consultations, and waited some more. Finally, about four hours later than we expected, we dawned surgical masks, put on white rain boots and entered the Operating Theater. The patient lay on the operating table, infected area exposed, and the technician stood above him with a scalpel, ready to begin. When I came closer to the table I realized the man was still awake. I pointed this out, looking around for an anesthesiologist. The tech laughed. She informed me that this procedure would be done with just local anesthetic.

And so she began. She started by making many small incisions into the swollen area , which was a bit smaller than a tennis ball but larger than a golf ball. With every slice of the scalpel I looked up at the man's face, waiting for a scream or at least a look of extreme discomfort. He was a champ. The local seemed to be working.

About a half-hour into the procedure the tech made her final incisions. It was then, when she cut into the fluid filled area, that the man jumped. The sudden movement, followed by a painful groan, made Josh jump into me, almost knocking me over. Luckily, the tech and nurse both kept there composure because I would have hated to see what would have happened if her hand made any sudden movements. From that moment on the man felt everything. Every puncture, every clamp and every suture. It's beyond safe to say that Josh and I felt his pain. Every time he groaned we groaned and every time he squirmed we squirmed. And every time the nurse would just chuckle and tell him to suck it up...

With the swelling relieved the tech moved on to the circumcision. I will spare you the play by play, but I have to mention one part in particular: At one point the skin was pulled up clamped and then the tech just cut it, in half. Josh and I both looked at one another, wide-eyed, because we thought the tech had mistakenly cut it in half! After she unclamped the skin we realized all was well. Sigh...

Thirty more minutes, and about twenty painful stitches later – he felt every single one – it was finished. Poor man. He had been cut where no man ever wants be cut and he felt every last stitch of it. The most amazing part of the whole procedure came in the end – the man put on his clothes and walked out of the room.

Josh and I said our thank-you's and started our long walk home, in silence. Every few minutes we would both look at one another, the unspoken words echoing in our minds. Lesson learned. Don't get an infection down there.

The Orphanage and 'Two White Men at a Ghanian Funeral'

As promised, I will describe the orphanage.

The grounds are enclosed by an outer wall, maybe six feet high. Inside, three cinderblock and cement buildings make up the compound.

Here is a quick description of the building. I tried to insert a picture to help, but it will not work. Sorry.

The Main House: Everyone lives in this building. The first floor is shared by the children and Mama and a common sitting area doubles as Mama's sowing room as well as a TV lounge. The second floor is reserved for volunteers. Doors line the long corridor and one bathroom is shared by all. Josh and I have taken his old room, Room 1, which has a double bed (Josh's) and a bunk bed (I took the bottom). At the top of the staircase a sitting area is filled by a long table, two cushioned chairs, a small shelf filled with old games and school materials and, finally, a bookshelf with a small collection of donated books. This is where we take our meals and come to relax every evening.

The Kitchen: Self explanatory, I would think. Although, I guess it is very different than any kitchen I've seen back home. The room is bare except for a sink, a camping-style cooking range, and a large cauldron-style cooking pot. Definitely not the full kitchen one would think is required in order to feed 30-odd people on a daily basis.

The Dining Hall: A small doorway separates the kitchen and dining hall and much like the previous room there isn't much to look at. A long, wooden table with bench seats is where the children take all of their meals. After dinner, when all of the plates have been washed under the spouts of one of the large water tanks on the premises, this room becomes a study hall. The children bring out their schoolbooks and we help them finish any homework they may have for the night.

Cheeney's Room: Cheeney is the oldest one here, having just graduated from high school not even one week ago, and therefore, gets her own room away from everyone else. If I had to describe her in one word I think I would choose “grown-up.” She appears older than her age, mostly because she has the attitude and whit or a twenty-odd year old women. More to come later.

Although I haven't used the outdoor shower yet, Josh has whenever the water decides to stop running (which is often).

By this point the children's very distinct personalities are no longer a mystery to me. I could probably spend a whole blog post describing each but that would take me into next year, at least. So, I think what I will do is describe individuals when certain events, injuries and accidents occur. More to come, I promise.

THE FUNERAL

Josh and I had decided to visit Doctor, the man who runs one of the local private hospital, called St. Patrick's. Doctor is an older man, maybe in his very late fifties or very early sixties. He wears thick glasses which make his already large eyes appear even larger and at times he mumbles, making it hard for me to follow along in conversations. We sat around and spoke about the clinic, about the Cuban doctors that had left the clinic on very short notice (some tension here), and finally, after two beers Doctor stood up and announced that we should get going if we were going to make it the funeral on time. Josh and I just looked at one another, a little shocked at the pseudo-invitation, but we both silently concluded: I guess we are going to a funeral...

A few weeks before leaving for Ghana there was an article in the New York Times about Ghanian funerals. With a large diaspora living in NYC it seems that they have become quiet popular weekend events in the city. The more I read the less funeral-like the events sounded. On average, the funeral is the most expensive “purchase” in a Ghanian's life – or, afterlife. More is spent on the elaborate, handmade caskets than the cost of a car. Last year in Kpando, one man's family had a brand new house constructed just for the funeral and guests included Nigerian movie stars. You see, death is celebrated on a scale we reserve for weddings and graduation parties.

The funeral we attended was in honor of one of Doctor's former patients, a woman, who had recently passed away. By the time we arrived the funeral had already been in full swing for three days. Two large tents overflowed with guests, some eating, some dancing in a large circle to the rhythm of drumming, and some just talking. Our party was led to a patio and a table and chairs appeared out of a back room. It seemed that Doctor was a 'guest of honor' because not long after we sat down bottles of expensive whisky and gin were brought to our table and drinks were poured. Then, one by one, the family members came over and shook our hands, starting with Doctor, and some words were exchanged.

If I had to describe the atmosphere, I would liken it to a graduation party back in the States. Purely and and simply, it was just one big party. Very anti-funeral... All around people were laughing and dancing and most of the women were dressed in matching, bright yellow and red dresses. I just sat there and took it all it.

As we left, Doctor told us to come by the clinic the following day. There was a surgery scheduled and he promised it would be very interesting...and it was...

STAY TUNED.

Kumasi and Meeting the Children

[If you prefer to read the 'Meeting the Children' part first skip below – it's more tear-at-your-heartstrings...,]

From Cape Coast Josh and I travelled to Kumasi, the capitol of the Ashanti Region and the second largest city in the country. Kumasi reminded me of a less congested, more relaxed Accra. Traffic was manageable, the streets were less crowded and the smell coming out of the drains was not nearly as strong.

Josh suggested that we stay at the Guestline Lodge because he has spent a night there last year and said it would be inexpensive. Now, remember what I said about expectations... After hearing the suggestion I checked out the Lodge in our Brant Ghana guidebook and the description painted a interesting picture:

This backpacker-oriented lodge attracts plenty of travelers but receives mixed feedback, with the broad consensus being that it is very friendly but the rooms could be cleaner & seem poor value at the asking price...

Perfect!

Upon check-in we were greeted by a nice Indian man, whom we assumed was the hotel owner. We made small talk and were surprised to find out that he was actually born and raised in Kumasi – a fact stated on his passport, which he insisted we examined.

Our room turned out to be as advertised: not too clean. The paint on the walls, which I assume used to be white, was now a grayish-brown color and there was a thick layer of dust and dead bug on everything. And the bathroom! The sink swayed every time we turned the faucet on and off, so much so that we thought it may fall off the wall. At first we couldn't find our toilet seat, but we soon realized it had been left in the 'under the sink' position and in order to turn on the shower you had to stick your hand into the wall and turn a release valve on the pipe. Like I said...perfect [Note: I am not being sarcastic.]

We had dinner at Vic Baboo's Cafe, a small, diner-style restaurant also owned by the same family who owns Guestline. The menu very diverse – Ghanian, Indian, pizza and hamburgers – which came in handy the following night because we were both craving a hamburger. I know, I know... I travelled all the way to Ghana and I chose to eat a hamburger. Well, I've eaten rice or some combination of grains and plantains every night since, so let me have it.

After dinner, things at the Lodge took a turn for the epic... Josh and I were sitting on the bed, both reading. From out of nowhere we heard a HUGE CRASH! I mean HUGE! Immediately I looked out the window, thinking that something had fallen off of the building into the street below. Josh, on the other hand went straight for our bathroom.

“It's our sink...it fell!”

He was right. Our sink lay shattered in hundreds of pieces on the bathroom floor. Epic!

We had to re-tell the story a few times before the manager seemed to understand that our sink was no more. She said she would send someone up to take a look and she would notify the owner when he came in first thing in the morning. We thought this was odd since the Indian man we met when we checked in was standing right there... As it turned out, he was not the owner. He is family and just lives at the Lodge. Oh well, a few minutes later our sink was swept up and we were back to reading.

The following day Josh and I went down to the front desk to find that the owner would not be in until later on so we decided to find breakfast. Not far from our lodge, we found a little coffee house that advertised “American-style” coffee so we tried it out. It was definitely better than Nescafe – the instant coffee we've been living on – but a few levels below the “American-style” we are used to!

After breakfast we decided to visit the Armed Forces museum. The museum is located in the center of town, inside an old British fort modeled after the Cape Coast Castle. Exhibits showcased wars and conflicts fought in Northern Africa – sabers from WWI, guns from WWII, flags and uniforms, documents. I thought the most interesting exhibit was the one donated by the United Nations. Over the last few decades Ghanaian soldiers have been a part of the peacekeeping force deployed to war torn African countries and some of the artifacts brought back were both disturbing but very interesting. One weapon in particular, the “Head Basher,” stopped both Josh and I cold. The “Head Basher” is a heavy club, about two feet in length, carved out of wood. Rusty three inch nails stick out of the head of the club making it quiet obvious how the weapon got both it's name and its reputation for being one of the most brutal weapons used during the Rwandan conflict.

As I'm sure I don't have the required amount of audience interest locked-in at this point to give an adequate history of the Ashanti people (Ghanians of this region) and their King please visit this site to learn more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ashanti_people. Briefly, the Ashanti's have a rich history, famed for their large collection of gold and for their continued defiance of the British colonial rule. Their most famous possession is the Kings Stool which is made out of solid gold. During the colonial rule, the British tried unsuccessfully to capture the stool in order to showcase their total control over the Ashanti people. When the Brits demanded it be handed over the Ashantis' made a fake while hiding the real one in the mountains. Great, right? A few decades after the Brits had pulled out of the region one room at the fort remained sealed. This room, filled with holding cells, had been where the Ashanti Queen had been held before she was transferred to Cape Coast. The room remained sealed because the Brits had left a sign which hinted that there may be a bomb set to detonate if the room was opened. In the 90's, with the help of the bomb squad, the room was unsealed without incident. Inside they found gold, the King's gold that had been seized during colonial rule. Imagine that...a room full of gold.

Seeing as I'm running out of room and still have so much to say I will start to be more brief.

After leaving the fort Josh and I walked around the outer rim of the Kejetia Market, the largest open air market in Western Africa. The word 'market' does not do it justice, it's a city! I was instantly reminded of the pictures I have seen of the Favellas outside of Rio – tin roofs covering what seemed like miles upon miles of space. Even on the periphery the volume of people was amazing. As we were pushed into the stream of shoppers and vendors, open spaces disappeared. Every person walked shoulder to shoulder. A few times Josh and I became separated and I was sure I would not find him.

The last event worth mentioning is that I ate fufu and grasscutter stew (please see picture of grasscutter: www.jovanafarms.com/ pic/Fish%2002.jpg). All I want to say about grass cutter is that it does taste exactly how it looks...

When we got back to the Lodge our Indian friend from earlier was there and obviously intoxicated. At first this was very amusing, but when we tried explaining why we had still not paid for the night – our missing sink – his slurred interjections just confused the new manager. It got very awkward very fast. The manager didn't understand why we wanted a discount, our Indian friend said something unintelligible, we said it was our lack of sink...and around and around we went. After

a few minutes our friend disappeared into the back office, telling us he would explain our situation to the owner. FAIL! The owner came out a few minutes later, shook our hands and asked us to please explain what was going on. We did. He didn't want to give us a discount. So, around and around we went...

Finally, after we couldn't get a discount he agreed to put us in a new, cheaper room. We went upstairs to collect our things and halfway through the manager came up and said we could stay in our room for our asking price. I think the owner finally realized that by putting us in a new room he would be left with a room he couldn't rent. The better buisiness decision was to just leave us there, sinkless, and rent the other to some future paying costumer.

Josh spent all night sick – bad food – so, we decided to skip our 4 a.m. direct bus and take a detour through Accra. Twelve hour later...we finally made it to Kpando.

[Meeting the Children starts here]

The orphanage is located a short walk down a newly constructed dirt road. The closer we came the faster Josh walked, excited to finally be back. We turned onto a long driveway, front gate in sight. Fifty-yards, forty... “JOSHUA,” a young girl called from our right. The distance and darkness made it hard to make out any facial features, but Josh knew exactly who it was. They exchanged a quick hello and Josh asked about a baby.

“Yes, she had the baby and named it Joshua.”

I wish I would have had my video camera rolling, to capture the confused look on Josh's face.

“After me?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me and smiled and I stated the obvious: “You have a namesake!”

Thinking back, this was the perfect introduction this part of Josh's life – the orphanage, Kpando and the Children. I finally got it. For me, this may be a trip to a new place, but for Josh this was a homecoming.

As soon as we cleared the gate screams filled the air: “BROTHER JOSHUA, BROTHER JOSHUA, BROTHER JOSHUA...” Before I knew it twenty children – ages 3 to 16 – completely swallowed Josh in hugs. As an outsider looking in I was floored by this reception. He had been gone for six months. Six long months. And he had been missed.

With the kids out of the way, Mama was next. Mama Esi is the woman in charge and she looks the part – every bit the motherly figure with a loud 'Santa Clause' laugh. We both received big hugs from Mama. As soon as she let us go we were shepherded upstairs and shown our room, Josh's old room, and fed for the first time all day.

I've gone on long enough. In the next entry I will describe the orphanage, but for now I will just leave you with this flash forward of sorts: We've been living here for the better part of two weeks (yes I'm a little behind in my posts) and I'm feeling more at home every day. 

Part Two: Slavery

“What do you mean the bus left? We had a reservation for 3:30...”

Our 3:30 bus to Cape Coast had left the station at 2:30. It didn't matter that we had made a reservation online and even printed off the receipt. The bus was gone, long gone. As the next bus to Cape Coast wasn't leaving until the following day at 2:30 we were left stranded in Accra.

We hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Osu, a busy commercial district in central Accra. There we found a restaurant and began to strategize. Two beers and a chicken shawarma wrap later we had it all figured out. A Wayne State study abroad group was flying into Accra later in the day and we knew that they would be traveling to Cape Coast the the same night. We knew the faculty and were sure they would take pity on us.

The Catch: A third party, ProWorld, was technically in charge of the groups transportation and we weren't sure if they would allow us to hitch-a-ride.

The Plan: Find the ProWorld staff member, befriend them, plead our case, get on the bus.

Long story short, we succeeded. Four hours later we were in Cape Coast. [Bonus: we also got a free room for the night!]

The next day Josh and I woke up early, ate breakfast and caught a taxi to the Cape Coast Slave Castle. As soon as we stepped out of our taxi we were surrounded by the many sellers of touristy trinkets. I am sure some of you are shaking your heads right now because you know exactly what I mean: the very crafty, very persistent salesmen and women who will stop at nothing to sell you a homemade necklace or shell-bracelet because, naturally, those trinkets will always remind you of the wonderful time you had...

After some effort on our part we finally managed to make it within the Castle's tall, fortified walls. We payed a small fee, and with time to kill before our tour, we headed for the museum. The museum reminded me of the African American Museum in Detroit, with each room showcasing a different era in history starting with the regional history (pre-slave trade) and ending with present day, post-independence, Ghanaian cultural.

12:30, time for the tour.

The first room we visited was the Condemned Cell. It was here that the men who resisted or fought back were locked up and left to die. The room seemed carved out of one large stone and I immediately felt as if I had become a prisoner in Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo, like I was stepping into Dante's cell. With the door closed behind us the room began to shrink from its 20 ft. by 20 ft. diameter until, finally, I had to fight to breath. The smell. The smell will always linger in my memory – a combination or urine, feces and dead bodies. I can't say it wasn't my mind filling in the smell of this rooms history – men so tightly packed that even the dead remained standing – but whatever the cause, I could smell all these things. I could smell death.

Back in the courtyard I could finally breath again. I took in the sea air in gulps as walked to next room, a large assembly hall. A long, rectangular room, this was where the slaves would be presented to prospective buyers. Another long hallway lead us to the main administrative offices and the apartment of the Governor. The Governors Office was made to seem larger because all of the furniture had been removed. Hardwood floors creaked underfoot as we walked through the room and large windows, thrown open, let in the suns rays and the fresh sea air. The Governors Apartment was more modest than I would have imagined and not as well preserved as the rest of the fort, which seemed ironically appropriate.

The Governor's Waiting Room opened up into the southern-most castle wall. Rusty cannons remained pointed at the sea, protecting us from the waves as they attempted to crash through. Stairs led us down into the main courtyard where we were left standing in front of the Men's Dungeon. The door was wide enough that six people could pass easily through at one time. A small stone ramp seemed to extend endlessly into the darkness of the cavern below and the same smell from Condemned Cell seemed to follow me as I stepped very cautiously down the uneven path. At the bottom there were three rooms, each no larger than 30ft. by 30 ft. but capable of holding 200 men each. I wish that I could capture what it felt like to stand in these rooms. Images play across your mind – men chained to the wall, the dead pushed into the gutters filled with human waste, the living left to wonder what would follow. Words just seem inappropriate to describe this large, dark, empty space. As we began to walk toward the second room I noticed a small hole in the upper corner, emitting one ray of sunlight into the cell. An ironic symbol of freedom in this prison.

The saddest moment in the tour occurred while we were standing in the second room. Here, the tour guide informed us that not even 20 feet overhead was the floor an Anglican Church. What disgusting irony. A mere 20 feet and a stone ceiling separated 200 men – human beings – from the Sunday churchgoers. Just imagine the scene: Gospel hymns being sung, Bible verses being read just loudly enough to drown out the groans of the starving and sick men below. I guess piety has a color. White.

A small door, now blocked, leads into a tunnel which runs through the inside of the forts outer wall and stops before a large wooden door: the Door of No Return. As the door opens you are immediately swallowed by light. It was like a movie. Like the scene when a person is dying and the screen is black except for the small light somewhere in the distance. As I stepped over the threshold I tried to imagine what must have been going through the minds of those men and women, taking these same steps so many years ago. How did they feel? Were they pulling back? Did they understand what was happening? I don't know. I can never know. I'm not sure how to feel about that.

Stepping through the door was like entering another world. My feet sunk into soft sand and fishing boats, painted in bright, vivid colors, dotted the the coastline. Old men, shirtless and wrinkled like dried fruit, sat in the shade of the outer wall repairing their fishing nets. It was almost comical. It was beautiful – a beautiful juxtaposition. Had this place served a different purpose it would have been one of the most beautiful places I had ever visited. But it was a slave castle. No, it is a slave castle. Just as the smell still lingers it's history can never be erased.

A new sign has been posted on the outside of the Door of No Return. It reads: The Door of Return. The symbolism is inescapably powerful – an entrance into a place where there are only exits. For decades the direct decedents of those men and women who passed through this very door have been able to return, to do what was impossible those many years ago: return home.

The tour ended in front of the Men's Dungeon, where we were left to read the following plaque:

IN EVERLASTING MEMORY

Of the anguish of our ancestors

May those who died rest in peace

May those who return find their roots

May humanity never again perpetuate

Such injustice against humanity

We. The living. Vow to uphold this

As I read these words again and again, through the watery lens forming in my eyes, I couldn't help but think: Often times, as far as we've come, we forget the lessons learned from our past.

Airport Security and Southern Hospitality

Hello all,

Today marks my eleventh day in Ghana.

In eleven days I have traveled to three different cities, attended my first Ghanian funeral, observed one surgery (perifomosis + circumcision), visited four schools, washed my clothes by hand (twice), discuss politics and religion [together, in the same conversation] with a African Traditionalist, showered using a bucket, and got offered an honorary position as a Village Chief (ceremony pending).

Those of you who know me are probably worried this will be a very long entry. You are right. However, since I would like people to actually read what follows, I will break this entry down into parts.

PART ONE: AIRPORT SECURITY AND SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

Let me start at the beginning: For the first time in my life I was flagged by TSA as I moved through security. The agent, a women in her fifties, pulled my bag off of rollers, took my water bottle in her hand and shook it, smiled and asked me if there was liquid inside. Maybe?... I guess I had forgotten to empty the water bottle the night before and now I was a tough position: throw out my favorite water bottle, or, go back out past the security checkpoint, pour out the water and start all over? I'm curious...what would you have done? It's a stupid bottle, right? Not worth going all the way through a second time, possibly missing my flight, right? Wrong. As I was escorted out of the security area I unscrewed the lid to my bottle and drank the remaining water and walked straight to the back of the line.

I was lucky. Very lucky. Flint Bishop Airport should make a commercial starring me: Flint Bishop...you can arrive 1 hour before your international flight, go through security multiple times and still make it to your gate...

Two more layovers, 20 hours and one Bailey's (don't judge, everyone was drinking it) later we landed in Ghana. Airport security on the Ghanian side was much more thorough. All the important questions were asked, like: Do you have any drugs or firearms? No? Great, enjoy your stay!

As soon as we exited the terminal three different taxi drivers swarmed us. Josh, being a veteran, just kept walking because he knew we would find a much better price farther away from the terminal. The air was thick, raindrops had started to fall, yet the air was still hotter than I had been expecting. My pack became heavier as we continued to walk and I started to sweat, really sweat, sweat like I hadn't in the very many cold months preceding this very moment. We finally found a taxi driver that agreed to our asking price: 6 Ghana cedes (exchange rate: 1 USD = 1.5 GCD).

Let me digress for a moment. It is my belief that all travelers, especially those traveling to a foreign country, land with two things: luggage and expectations. I mean think about it, what do we do before we travel? We visit the CDC website to check that we are up to date on our vaccines; we order the updated Frommers travel guide...we do our research. Case in point: When I landed in Zimbabwe two years ago I expected the worse. Just a few months before Zimbabwe had made international headlines when their national elections turned violent. The government had split power between two parties, inflation was the worst in the world and there was no food on grocery store shelves. I expected the worse.

Flash forward two years to this trip, Ghana, where I landed with a very different set of expectations. Ghana is hailed by the western world as Africa's great success story. Ghana has been a nation of firsts: free and fair elections followed by the first peaceful exchange of political power, a young, flourishing democratic state, economic stability marked by expansion in the market and in foreign investment. In 2009, President Obama chose to visit Ghana on his tour of the world in order to praise their success. A metaphorical pat on the back, to be compared with the success stories we see come out of Detroit: have you heard of [insert name of business, student, non-profit, community organizer, etc]? Yes, they are doing so well. And look where they grew up...What an inspiration...More people should follow their example. So, what were my expectations? Not the 'City of Gold', but one or two levels below, at least...

Our five mile trip took us roughly 40 minutes, which was great because it gave me plenty of time to take in my new surroundings. Immediately I began to compare Accra to Harare – the architecture, the walls, the government buildings, the traffic. Just as I had been shocked when I found Harare was not the war-zone I had been expecting, but rather a city with large boulevards shaded by massive trees, and very friendly people; I was equally shocked to find that Accra was crowded, fast paced and less colorful than I had imagined. The air was thick, mostly due to the partially combusted petrol spewing from the very old Asian-made taxis. Everything seemed used, in the 'Salvation Army-sense' of the word – things I would still buy, but that showed they had lived through some 'stuff'... The roads we travelled were all one lane, some extending half a lane either way for motorcycles, and traffic was endlessly stagnant. Thankfully, large traffic circles – one example in many of something useful the U.S. has not adopted – help to move cars around busy intersections and into the less crowded secondary and tertiary roads. Once out of downtown traffic, Ghana started to look more like the Africa I had previously known: narrow side roads, houses surrounded by high walls, Embassy compounds and red soil. However, the one major difference were the gutters. The gutters are dug down one or two feet on either side of all roads and inside most public properties and are only covered at driveways or places where people and/or cars need to cross. In a big city like Accra, the smell – a mixture of decaying trash and urine – becomes apparent even to those suffering a moderate cold. Luckily, outside the main city center or market areas the smell does not linger.

We finally pulled up to the Jones' (name changed for their privacy) house. Passing through their gate was like passing through a portal into another world. Their yard was neatly cut, palms and other tropical plants dotted the walkways and an above ground pool, barely visible behind the back corner of the house, looked like an oasis in the morning heat. The inside of the house was reminiscent of most homes in the U.S. The kitchen was large with a dinner table substituting as a center island, large dining and living rooms, satellite TV and high speed internet. What more could you ask for.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Jones were at work, so Josh and I were left in the very capable hands of their daughter, Sarah (name also changed). We had grand plans for the day. Go into Accra, visit the market and eat at this restaurant Josh had wanted to try from his previous trip. We failed. Instead, we showered, sat down on the very comfortable living room sofa's and proceeded to nap on-and-off for most of the day. It must have been a funny sight: Josh and I would be in mid-conversation discussing our plans for the day and one of us would just fall right asleep. I guess the 20+ hours we spent traveling served as a great tranquilizer. Good start to our trip!

Just like the house had seemed very out of place to me when we first arrived, meeting the owners just solidified my belief that I hadn't actually travelled to Africa at all – the Jones' are from the South, the southern part of the U.S. that is. And so they have very distinct accents and an even more distinct sense of hospitality. All of us, Mrs. Jones, Sara, their son Donnie (minus Mr. Jones who had a late night at work), sat around the kitchen table for the rest of the night eating and trading horror stories about crazy medical accidents – personal and witnessed (Mrs. Jones is a nurse).

What an interesting start to the trip. After getting pulled aside by airport security, spending 20+ hours in three different U.S. States, flying over the Atlantic, and drinking a mid-flight Bailey's, I landed on an island in the middle of an African capital – the Alabama of Ghana.

AM