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.