Monday I attended what I sadly realized would be my last delivery for some time. It was fast and smooth, and moments after mother and baby were cuddling and feeding, staring contentedly into each other’s eyes. Last week I finally received word from the College of Nurse Midwives that I passed my nursing registration exam and was informed that I could now begin my hospital orientation. Unfortunately the orientation is for general nursing and so the 90 day period includes only a brief allocation to Obstetrics and Gynecology during which I’m not sure whether I will be permitted to attend deliveries. Orientation will finish in mid-April and then, having spent nine months without any income, it will be time for me to head to Texas in search of a well-paid short nursing contract which will keep us going here for another year. That means I will most likely not be attending deliveries again until the fall.
Nurses here still wear white dress uniforms and little white caps (as they do in all wards minus delivery in Malawi as well). I have been able to avoid this up to now by never asking about a dress code and just showing up in my American scrubs. However the letter from the Council explicitly mentioned that I must wear white and the Director of Nursing at KATH – the large teaching hospital where I will do my orientation – made sure I was aware of this. After a few hours worrying and then laughing at the idea of sending my midwifery classmates a picture of me in a white nursing dress, a little white cap, and Minnie Mouse shoes (as my aunt Joanna used to call them) I found a shop selling second hand white scrubs from Europe. I am the only nurse in the hospital wearing trousers but no one has complained so far.
Wednesday was my first day. I left the house at 6:30 and walked to the corner to catch a tro-tro. (After 7am the tro-tros are few and the hopeful passengers many and more aggressive than I can bear.) I don’t mind the 30 minute cross-town trip in a small minivan with 14 other people, I appreciate not having to drive, it is the other part of the commute which I find exhausting. The tro-tro stops on Roman Hill, named for the large Roman Catholic Cathedral perched on top, and from there I walk down the hill, across a corner of Kejetia Market, and up the opposite hill to the hospital. Someday I will have to video the walk. Even at 7am the streets are full, vendors who have already displayed their wares, shout prices to attract customers. Others quickly transform minimal wooden structures into colorful full shops. Permanent shops lining the road sell mattresses, or household items; their goods brought to the road side every morning and repacked every evening. In front of them sit the vendors, each with their little square of land. Women squat in front of large steaming pots selling foods I still can’t identify. Men stand next to tables of brightly packaged pirated copies of movies and CDs, irons and rice cookers, tables of cell phones, stacks of dvd players. At the bottom of the hill women sit beside their produce arranged in colorful heaps, tomatoes, carrots, onions, bell peppers, buckets of lettuce, yams, piles of smoked fish, dried shrip. One woman positioned just where I take my first turn straddles a large bushel of giant snails. Just about everything needed for daily life is available and everyone who has a spot returns to the same location daily.
Vendors sell soap, shampoo, beauty products, costume jewelry, used magazines and books, live chickens, cans of diet coke, vegetable seeds. Men stand at carts piled high with coconuts carving a hole for customers to drink their milk and then cutting them open with swift exact chops from their machetes. For a long stretch both sides of the road are filled with people selling used clothes, some heaped in piles, some displaying the best pieces on the walls of their stalls, some walking up and down with a pile over their shoulder. Along my walk I pass a minimum of three stations for roadside preaching. Each day at every station a different person yells into the microphone connected to enormous pair of speakers blasting his or her voice into the din. People selling CDs also amplify their music – I suppose the idea is to attract customers but it is deafening to anyone close enough to actually browse through their selection. Those who do not have their own corner of the market walk back and forth carrying their wares on their heads. Yesterday I saw a woman with purses hanging from her arms and piled stories high on her head. Men carry stacks of handkerchiefs, towels, used clothes, yogurt, chewing gum. Women carry sachets of water, trays of freshly baked bread, chocolate drinks in bags floating in plastic containers with bubbles of ice, bananas and peanuts, fried plantain chips, cheap plastic toys, women’s underwear, neat packages tied with banana leaves (the inside edible identifiable by the shape, circular, long and rectangular, or small and rectangular), pineapple, dried fish and fried yam.
Then there are people transporting packages. Carry-o girls with their white basins wait to carry items for you for a few cents. Wearing head scarves, and layers of mismatched bright prints, their eyes painted with charcoal, ethnic tattoos on their foreheads they are visible everywhere, some moving swiftly under enormous loads and others sitting or sleeping in the midst of chaos, their bodies draped over empty overturned basins. Wherever tro-tros stop men shout and frantically try to fill them with passerbys. Every day at some point along my walk a man stands in front of me or grabs my wrist pulling me towards his bus asking “where are you going?” but not waiting for a response. Every inch of space is colorful and full. The sound is overwhelming, talking, yelling, music, and endless honking. Cars move slowly, drivers keep their hands on their horns, and people weave through them, across the street and back like trails of ants.
Kejetia market is alluring and repulsive. Enormous piles of trash generated daily by the 10,000 venders and their customers rise along the road. I know the areas on my route where the stench rising from gutters is overpowering and go out of my way to avoid them. As I turn out of the market I pass the same woman in the morning always grinding pepper by hand in her clay pot. Across the street a speaker projects the shouting of an unseen man yelling tro-tro destinations. Every day I see the woman and hear the main in the same monotone shout, “Accra, Accra, Accra, Circle, Circle, Circle, Lelela, Lelela, Lelela . . .” A few paces from there I often meet the same street cleaner, a lone woman sweeping who smiles and says good morning. As I walk I have the sensation that I am again beginning the same day. On one hand it is the disquieting sense that there is no progress but on the other hand there is a sense of reassurance - that the worst has been survived previously and might be survived again if necessary - and a little hope that maybe today may be better.
As I walk up the road the market descends and I am soon overlooking a bus depot filled with hundreds of small buses of every make, year, model, and color imaginable. I continue up the street and approach what appears to be an enormous noisy swarm of birds flying in circles over a few acres of strange brown deformed trees and undeveloped land. But, as I get closer I can see that the birds are actually large bats and the strange brown branches are actually clusters of hanging bats. I walk up a back street filled with men weaving baskets and book stands then through the gate leading to the dorms for medical students and flats for doctors. There always seems to be a few chickens roaming freely followed by a cluster of fuzzy chicks.
When I reach the hospital I find a closet or an exam room where I change into my white scrubs and then find the room where I am supposed to report and introduce myself to the doctor. This week I spent two days in the outpatient pediatric triage room and two days in the adult triage room. All consultations are conducted in Twi, the most widely used local language of which I only understand a handful of words. Over the past few days all the doctors have willingly translated a summary of the patient’s complaint and involved me in their thinking process while making a diagnosis. Malaria accounted for a high percentage of the hospital visits. These cases are relatively straight forward a patient typically presents with chills, fever, and occasionally nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. Many times even if malaria is consider only a possible diagnosis the physician will prescribe the treatment because delayed treatment can be devastating and there are not enough resources to test everyone who comes in with such symptoms. While in pediatrics I saw a child come in and have a febrile seizure while in his mother’s arms. I saw two sisters with imperforate hymens. I was very impressed by the fact that the triage doctor just walked the mother with her young girls down the hall to see a specialist (in Malawi there are few physicians fewer specialists) and I was very impressed by the specialist who talked to the five year old, asking her her name, telling her what he would do and asking her permission – something else I have rarely seen. Back in the consultation room I saw several children with sickle cell anemia. Sickle cell anemia is much more common here than in Malawi. Children are currently tested at birth and at least in large cities there are regular clinics for positive children to help make sure their lives are as long and healthy as possible. The pediatrician I followed one morning said that sickle cell positive people in Ghana can live into their fifties but many patients die young and suffer greatly.
In the adult consulting room I saw many cases of malaria and many more of hypertension. Hypertensive patients came to refill medication which either they were not taking correctly or they were taking correctly but failed to control their blood pressure. I did not see a single well controlled hypertensive and many who came had blood pressures which classified them as severe. A few of these people were overweight but most of them were just middle-aged women (one of the male physicians said men would rarely their medicine, much less come for a refill, because of the side effect of impotence). One relatively fit looking young man perhaps in his early forties came for his medication refill, his limp and posture evidence of a previous stroke, and his blood pressure frightening at 170/110. There were a few elderly patients with bladder infections, an elderly woman with congestive heart failure, and a confused man with an infected laceration. Then there were the two men who pushed their relative through the door in his wheel chair, saying that three days previously their relative was normal and had complained of knee pain. I eyed the patient, suspicious of his immobility. He sat upright, eyes closed and his face relaxed. While the doctor conversed with the men I first thought he might have a psychiatric condition. Then I watched his chest for movement and saw nothing. The doctor checked his pupils with her pen light, felt for a pulse and then told the men that people from the mortuary would come and collect the body. The relative asked a few more questions of the doctor and when he left the room she said that he had no idea the man was dead until she mentioned the mortuary. He was a hypertensive and was only 48.
I miss birth already but I know I will see a lot during my six day weeks here and I hope that this experience will make me a better nurse in this setting.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
High Life
Two doors down from us lives a famous Ghanaian folk musician. In front of his home, his wife runs a small shop which we often visit between our main shopping outings to restock on sugar, soap, and eggs. During the evenings Koo nimo sits out front on a wooden chair keeping her company and chatting with neighbors as they pass by. The first time I met him he casually asked me about where I was from and told me where he had lived and visited in the US. Always friendly and welcoming it was only over time, hearing from other Ghanaians, that I learned he is considered a living treasure here.
Originally trained as a chemist Koo Nimo worked and taught in the Biochemistry department at the University but in his other life he was known as a brilliant musician responsible for the creation of Ghanaian Palm Wine HighLife music. Through his career he taught courses on ethnomusicology, drumming, dance and guitar in Ghana and at well known Universities both in the States and Europe. He has also toured and performed worldwide. Now in his late 70s he is officially retired from his work at the University but stays busy teaching students from his home and regularly invites groups of foreign exchange students from all over the world to listen, learn, and participate in his passion. One evening as we stopped by to get some crackers he told Clement and me about a recent joyful experience of performing in a hospital and said that, as a way to give back to the community, he will begin performing regularly at hospitals and prisons.
A week ago I saw a bus load of obrunis heading to his house and then from my seat on our porch I listened to the drumming emanating from his compound for a couple hours. The next time I saw him at the shop I mentioned how I had enjoyed the drumming from afar and he invited me to another performance for the same group on Saturday. I woke Saturday morning filled with excitement and paced on our porch until I saw a few white faces walking towards Koo nimo’s home and then I hurried to follow them. They were four American friends of his and for them he played a few pieces on his acoustic guitar accompanied by two incredibly talented Ghanaian students. I sat nearby in a chair and let the beauty of the music wash over me and raise a smile gently to my lips.
Shortly after this group departed, the bus load of students arrived. They took their seats and Koo nimo introduced the musicians, their instruments, and his dancers. (I was slightly surprised to see his son who often mans the shop dressed in traditional Ashanti wear seated behind a drum.) A moment later drumming and dance animated the small courtyard. Drummers poured their bodies into their performance and guided the steps of the dancers across the floor. After several pieces, including a couple with the acoustic guitars and vocals, students were pulled from their seats for basic dance and drumming lessons. It was sweet to watch them initially struggle with the steps and gradually overcome their self-consciousness. Even those who never mastered the steps still clearly enjoyed moving their bodies with the drums. While I watched, Koo nimo leaned over to me and said he recommends everyone dances at least 20 minutes every day and believes dance is the natural cure for diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol and so forth. Certainly even those who stepped up hesitantly with serious expressions soon beamed incontrollable smiles.
Clement and I reached home at the same time. It was a hot day and he had spent the morning hours with Ernest in town looking for a hard drive. Still weak from the malaria Clement collapsed on the bed while I danced around him talking a mile a minute, the joy literally bubbling out of me.
*** You can buy two CDs from Koo Nimo off amazon.com. I highly recommend Osabarima
Originally trained as a chemist Koo Nimo worked and taught in the Biochemistry department at the University but in his other life he was known as a brilliant musician responsible for the creation of Ghanaian Palm Wine HighLife music. Through his career he taught courses on ethnomusicology, drumming, dance and guitar in Ghana and at well known Universities both in the States and Europe. He has also toured and performed worldwide. Now in his late 70s he is officially retired from his work at the University but stays busy teaching students from his home and regularly invites groups of foreign exchange students from all over the world to listen, learn, and participate in his passion. One evening as we stopped by to get some crackers he told Clement and me about a recent joyful experience of performing in a hospital and said that, as a way to give back to the community, he will begin performing regularly at hospitals and prisons.
A week ago I saw a bus load of obrunis heading to his house and then from my seat on our porch I listened to the drumming emanating from his compound for a couple hours. The next time I saw him at the shop I mentioned how I had enjoyed the drumming from afar and he invited me to another performance for the same group on Saturday. I woke Saturday morning filled with excitement and paced on our porch until I saw a few white faces walking towards Koo nimo’s home and then I hurried to follow them. They were four American friends of his and for them he played a few pieces on his acoustic guitar accompanied by two incredibly talented Ghanaian students. I sat nearby in a chair and let the beauty of the music wash over me and raise a smile gently to my lips.
Shortly after this group departed, the bus load of students arrived. They took their seats and Koo nimo introduced the musicians, their instruments, and his dancers. (I was slightly surprised to see his son who often mans the shop dressed in traditional Ashanti wear seated behind a drum.) A moment later drumming and dance animated the small courtyard. Drummers poured their bodies into their performance and guided the steps of the dancers across the floor. After several pieces, including a couple with the acoustic guitars and vocals, students were pulled from their seats for basic dance and drumming lessons. It was sweet to watch them initially struggle with the steps and gradually overcome their self-consciousness. Even those who never mastered the steps still clearly enjoyed moving their bodies with the drums. While I watched, Koo nimo leaned over to me and said he recommends everyone dances at least 20 minutes every day and believes dance is the natural cure for diabetes, hypertension, high cholesterol and so forth. Certainly even those who stepped up hesitantly with serious expressions soon beamed incontrollable smiles.
Clement and I reached home at the same time. It was a hot day and he had spent the morning hours with Ernest in town looking for a hard drive. Still weak from the malaria Clement collapsed on the bed while I danced around him talking a mile a minute, the joy literally bubbling out of me.
*** You can buy two CDs from Koo Nimo off amazon.com. I highly recommend Osabarima
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Christmas and into the New Year
I find I must make a conscious effort to remember the approach of Christmas outside the US. In the States, whether Christian or not, you are made aware of the approaching holiday months before by decorations, lights, Christmas trees, music, and Santa Claus in stores and on street corners. It is easy to begin to associate the holiday with the fluff. In Kumasi I did not notice much change. There was the addition of people selling tinsel on street medians in town and the occasional American Christmas song broadcast from one of the many sidewalk sound systems, but not much more. I recognized just how deeply I have been programmed by American commercial Christmas when I felt a spontaneous flicker of excitement upon hearing “Oh, the weather outside is frightful . . . .” or “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas . . .” in the midst of town despite the ridiculous context where temperatures soared to 100F and everyone moved about with handkerchiefs in hand mopping their faces and drinking water from sachets.
Tuesday, December 23rd I went to the hospital. In the morning I did not notice any additional buzz but while in the labor ward it was at times difficult to auscultate the fetal heart because of the number of cars driving by outside with loudspeakers blasting. I’m not sure if was due to Christmas or the election run offs which were to be held on the 28th. When I left the hospital grounds it felt as though the population of the city had doubled. The nearby streets which cut through the market no longer accommodated cars and as I made my way to the minibus I found I had to be even more vigilant than usual to avoid physical collisions or being inadvertently pushed into gutters. During my third year in college in Rhode Island we had an incredible memorable blizzard (a new experience for a girl from Texas). I was wanted to visit a friend who lived two blocks from me in the evening, so I layered up and set out. The power was out and branches lay in the middle of the road. The snow reached my knees and continued to fall, obscuring everything. I leaned deeply into the wind and labored with every step. When I was just twenty feet from my dorm I began regretting my decision imagining that I could easily die just feet from warm dry shelter. Walking through the crowed market in Kumasi elicited the same feeling. I finally stepped into the minibus and slumped in my seat so happy to allow someone else to take it from there.
In this country where Churches are on every block and services often carry on through the night I expected Christmas to be a notable event. Christmas morning Clement and I woke up and prepared for church. I imagined the women lining the streets waiting for transportation dressed in outfits outshining their usual Sunday glamour. But, when we walked to the curb it looked more like a normal Thursday. The corner shop was open, and vendors were positioned in their usual spots already selling bananas and porridge to the regular crowd. Halfway through the mass the church was full. Mass was relatively simple and brief concluding again with a prayer for peaceful elections. In the evening Clement and I shared dinner with Pamela and Atta. I recently learned that there is an organization for expats married to Ghanaians. The group was formed years ago as a means for political advocacy during a time when foreign spouses were not granted residency and had to regularly fight to stay in the country. Members continue to meet but most are now in their 50s and above. I have met three women and two of their Ghanaian husbands; all are lovely people and are satiating my friend starved appetite. As it turns out Pamela and Atta live just a short walk from us in a simple house/art studio with a beautiful garden. They are the type of people I have long aspired to be - people living fully, but also simply and humbly, enjoying life and adding to its beauty. Pamela filled the table with the most delicious food I have tasted in months – curried prawns, grilled fish, spiced stir fried vegetables, homemade yogurt and chutneys, fruit cake, and miniature mince meat pies. Preparing such a meal is a feat anywhere but more so where ingredients are scarce and kitchen facilities are extremely basic. After filling ourselves beyond full Atta pulled out his computer and a pile of art magazines to show us some exhibitions, his own and a sample of inspirational others. Though it was only my second time with them and Clement’s first time meeting them, it felt incredibly comfortable to be in their presence. When yawns began spreading we said our goodbyes and as we walked home gleeful and grateful we were shocked to see it was already 11pm.
Saturday Clement and I left Kumasi with our friends Ethel and Ernest to visit the Coast. We are all foreigners in this country. We have all have had a difficult period of adjustment but we are ready to love this country and it is time to see more beyond our frequently traveled route in this city. My parents sent us some money for Christmas with explicit instructions that it should be used for travel. Without any income at the moment - just the hope of a 3-month nursing contract in Austin next summer - and the knowledge that AMHI in Malawi is still underfunded, I find it difficult to spend money on anything apart from the basic necessities so I was grateful for the condition placed on their gift. Our first stop was Cape Coast Castle – built by the Swedes in 1652, then transferred to the Danes then on to the Dutch and ultimately captured by the British in 1664. Elmina Castle which lies in a town just west of Cape Coast was built by the Portuguese in 1482, then captured by the Dutch who eventually sold it to the British in 1872. It is estimated that 30 million slaves passed through the dungeons of these two castles, many not surviving to even reach the slave ships, all who passed there experiencing, at minimum, the death of their former selves.
It is common knowledge that most religions have been used at various times to oppress and vindicate often violent ethnocentric marches across the faces of other cultures and people. To know this is one thing but to stand in a dungeon and then climb to the chapel situated directly above is jarring. The walls of the dungeons are made of thick stone and our guides informed us that the floor which appeared to be packed earth was in truth layers of excrement, blood, and vomit from those who occupied the space over hundreds of years. In some areas the original stone floors had been excavated six feet below. To imagine holding in your hands a tool for enlightenment and spiritual transformation and wielding it as a weapon of mass suffering and destruction is deeply disturbing. To stand in the light of today and measure the depth of blindness of others long gone is a powerful experience but also tempts us to quickly turn the page. We try to separate ourselves from such horrors by demonizing the offenders, placing everything we can between us - time, distance, defining factors inherent in them which led to such atrocities. However such atrocities are not unique to Christianity or Islam or any particular religion or race or ethnic group or political group. Unfortunately the ability to twist something good into an evil force is uniquely human. As long as we deny our shared humanity and our shared weaknesses, we allow that darkness a foothold in a corner of our selves.
Thank God that at least we no longer sanction such overt atrocities but our world is far from free of them and many times they are much closer to home than we would like to imagine. It seems the source of our blindness is our ego. Seemingly benign, our human ego is a disruptive force bent on its own survival. Why do we go to such great lengths to prove our righteousness? to justify our actions? to highlight the faults of others so we shine in comparison? All major world religions are founded on love, compassion, service, and forgiveness and in their purest form strive to unite but so often we struggle against these messages. There are few opportunities were can stand close to a monument of exceptional human failure and know that this particular chapter is closed. But, we should take more than comfort with us when we walk away. Let’s not forget that everything is a gradation of something else. The moment we begin to accept the alluring whispers that “we” are better than “they” is the moment we begin to fail.
With the castle walls looming over us we walked through the sand and shallows below, breathing in the space, collecting shells, and watching fishermen sail by. For a few days we toured the towns, and visited the corner of a nearby protected rainforest. In the evenings we sat by the ocean, shared meals, conversation and laughter, and watched the local boys perform acrobatics on the beach for their own amusement.
The December 7th elections went smoothly. In Ghana in order to be elected president a candidate must win a majority of votes (a minimum of 50% plus 1). With numerous parties and candidates running no single candidate was able to obtain that number of votes on the 7th so, a run-off between the two largest parties, NDC and NPP was scheduled for December 28th. Again people worried about peace as the party leaders each took turns vowing not to recognize a win by their competitor. On the 28th there were a few reports of problems – in one constituency 1,000 ballot papers were missing so no one in that area was allowed to vote; there was a story of a man who attempted to steal ballot boxes; and, a story of a reporter beaten after trying to record people stuffing ballot boxes. Yet, overall the elections went smoothly. While touring Cape Coast we listened to the regular updates as the votes were tallied on the 28th and 29th. The final count had NDC leading by 30,000 votes. The constituency which had not voted included a population of just over 30,000 and, though it was in a stronghold of NDC, NPP insisted that these people should vote before the results were announced. Nonetheless many NDC supporters began celebrating on the 29th. Meanwhile NPP supporters never imagined that NDC could win, and the NPP party leaders continued to make accusations of fraud and threatened to take legal action.
After the final votes were tallied John Atta Mills, the candidate for the opposition (NDC), was officially declared the president elect. Thankfully I have not heard any reports of violence. NDC supporters celebrated enthusiastically by painting their bodies the party colors - white, green, and red - and dancing in the streets. I’m sure the grumbling from NPP will continue for a while but at this point it seems Ghanaians have successfully experienced another peaceful transfer of power. As one Ghanaian noted, with each peaceful election the roots of Democracy grow stronger as does people’s confidence in their own power to effect change. Slowly people are beginning to understand that politicians should and can be held accountable for their actions. Atta Mills is not a new figure in Ghanaian politics however and whether his election will lead to any positive change for Ghanaians remains to be seen.
The morning before we headed back to Kumasi, I woke up early and moved outside to read the last few pages of my book. A short distance in front of me over thirty men and a handful of women pulled on the ends of a giant U-shaped net, coordinating their efforts by the deep chanting of one man “o – ei – he – yu . . . . o – ei – he – yu . . . .” A small boy stood between two men, the rope at their waist level was taut above his head. He grasped it with both hands and leaned with the men as they pulled. At the breaking point two men treaded water diving under the waves and tying the net into small sections as it was hauled in. The progress was slow. After twenty minutes the buoyed end of the net still floated freely over deep water. The adults strained and the chanting continued, harmonizing with the sounds of the waves and the calls of the birds. I returned to my book. When I looked again the net had been gathered on the beach and the women were emptying the sections into large aluminum basins. Once full, they overturned the basins on the beach revealing six or seven shimmering silver heaps. Women negotiated with the fishermen as the men coiled the net. A few hundred meters from the shore men dove from their wooden fishing boat and swam to land. On the beach, three men lassoed the net over their bodies and walked to their village in a line, the weight evident in their labored steps through the sand and the tension of their muscles. The women returned the fish to their basins, lifted the basins on their heads, and carried them away to begin their day of selling.
As we headed back to town and then on to Kumasi, we passed through a village and Clement pointed out an astonishingly small lamb. In front of a house where excited children shouted “obruni” as we passed, the lamb struggled to find his balance, legs splayed, his mother’s nose gently touching his side as if giving a word of loving encouragement. I saw a wet line of umbilical cord still dangling from his abdomen. These are images to savor; a holiday enjoyed thoroughly and joyfully concluded.
We arrived in Kumasi happy but exhausted, cleaned the heavy layer of dust left by the Hamatan from the room, ate a minimal dinner and fell into bed. The next morning Clement woke up with a fever and body pains – sure signs of malaria. I cooked some porridge, went to the pharmacy to buy some anti-malarials, washed three large loads of clothes by hand, prepared a simple dinner and then the day was finished. In the morning Clement seemed better though still weak so after a few hours I left to visit Pamela, check emails, and buy groceries. The time passed unchecked and it was dark when I returned. As I walked in the door Clement told me softly that he missed me and when I leaned down to him on the bed he hugged me as though I had been gone a lifetime, the heat from his body no less than that wafting from an open oven door. He said he was feeling terrible but had been even worse a couple hours before. I should have expected another exacerbation and was upset with myself as I imagined him suffering alone. He had recently taken another dose of medicine but the Tylenol did nothing to diminish the pain or quell his fever so, for the next few hours I traded damp towels between his body and the refrigerator. In this life here there is little room for comfort but so much space for gratitude. Life is always fragile and precarious but here it is a fact of which everyone is made perennially aware. I woke this morning and touched my lips gently to his arm so as not to wake him. The coolness of his skin sent a wave of joy through my entire being.
Tuesday, December 23rd I went to the hospital. In the morning I did not notice any additional buzz but while in the labor ward it was at times difficult to auscultate the fetal heart because of the number of cars driving by outside with loudspeakers blasting. I’m not sure if was due to Christmas or the election run offs which were to be held on the 28th. When I left the hospital grounds it felt as though the population of the city had doubled. The nearby streets which cut through the market no longer accommodated cars and as I made my way to the minibus I found I had to be even more vigilant than usual to avoid physical collisions or being inadvertently pushed into gutters. During my third year in college in Rhode Island we had an incredible memorable blizzard (a new experience for a girl from Texas). I was wanted to visit a friend who lived two blocks from me in the evening, so I layered up and set out. The power was out and branches lay in the middle of the road. The snow reached my knees and continued to fall, obscuring everything. I leaned deeply into the wind and labored with every step. When I was just twenty feet from my dorm I began regretting my decision imagining that I could easily die just feet from warm dry shelter. Walking through the crowed market in Kumasi elicited the same feeling. I finally stepped into the minibus and slumped in my seat so happy to allow someone else to take it from there.
In this country where Churches are on every block and services often carry on through the night I expected Christmas to be a notable event. Christmas morning Clement and I woke up and prepared for church. I imagined the women lining the streets waiting for transportation dressed in outfits outshining their usual Sunday glamour. But, when we walked to the curb it looked more like a normal Thursday. The corner shop was open, and vendors were positioned in their usual spots already selling bananas and porridge to the regular crowd. Halfway through the mass the church was full. Mass was relatively simple and brief concluding again with a prayer for peaceful elections. In the evening Clement and I shared dinner with Pamela and Atta. I recently learned that there is an organization for expats married to Ghanaians. The group was formed years ago as a means for political advocacy during a time when foreign spouses were not granted residency and had to regularly fight to stay in the country. Members continue to meet but most are now in their 50s and above. I have met three women and two of their Ghanaian husbands; all are lovely people and are satiating my friend starved appetite. As it turns out Pamela and Atta live just a short walk from us in a simple house/art studio with a beautiful garden. They are the type of people I have long aspired to be - people living fully, but also simply and humbly, enjoying life and adding to its beauty. Pamela filled the table with the most delicious food I have tasted in months – curried prawns, grilled fish, spiced stir fried vegetables, homemade yogurt and chutneys, fruit cake, and miniature mince meat pies. Preparing such a meal is a feat anywhere but more so where ingredients are scarce and kitchen facilities are extremely basic. After filling ourselves beyond full Atta pulled out his computer and a pile of art magazines to show us some exhibitions, his own and a sample of inspirational others. Though it was only my second time with them and Clement’s first time meeting them, it felt incredibly comfortable to be in their presence. When yawns began spreading we said our goodbyes and as we walked home gleeful and grateful we were shocked to see it was already 11pm.
Saturday Clement and I left Kumasi with our friends Ethel and Ernest to visit the Coast. We are all foreigners in this country. We have all have had a difficult period of adjustment but we are ready to love this country and it is time to see more beyond our frequently traveled route in this city. My parents sent us some money for Christmas with explicit instructions that it should be used for travel. Without any income at the moment - just the hope of a 3-month nursing contract in Austin next summer - and the knowledge that AMHI in Malawi is still underfunded, I find it difficult to spend money on anything apart from the basic necessities so I was grateful for the condition placed on their gift. Our first stop was Cape Coast Castle – built by the Swedes in 1652, then transferred to the Danes then on to the Dutch and ultimately captured by the British in 1664. Elmina Castle which lies in a town just west of Cape Coast was built by the Portuguese in 1482, then captured by the Dutch who eventually sold it to the British in 1872. It is estimated that 30 million slaves passed through the dungeons of these two castles, many not surviving to even reach the slave ships, all who passed there experiencing, at minimum, the death of their former selves.
It is common knowledge that most religions have been used at various times to oppress and vindicate often violent ethnocentric marches across the faces of other cultures and people. To know this is one thing but to stand in a dungeon and then climb to the chapel situated directly above is jarring. The walls of the dungeons are made of thick stone and our guides informed us that the floor which appeared to be packed earth was in truth layers of excrement, blood, and vomit from those who occupied the space over hundreds of years. In some areas the original stone floors had been excavated six feet below. To imagine holding in your hands a tool for enlightenment and spiritual transformation and wielding it as a weapon of mass suffering and destruction is deeply disturbing. To stand in the light of today and measure the depth of blindness of others long gone is a powerful experience but also tempts us to quickly turn the page. We try to separate ourselves from such horrors by demonizing the offenders, placing everything we can between us - time, distance, defining factors inherent in them which led to such atrocities. However such atrocities are not unique to Christianity or Islam or any particular religion or race or ethnic group or political group. Unfortunately the ability to twist something good into an evil force is uniquely human. As long as we deny our shared humanity and our shared weaknesses, we allow that darkness a foothold in a corner of our selves.
Thank God that at least we no longer sanction such overt atrocities but our world is far from free of them and many times they are much closer to home than we would like to imagine. It seems the source of our blindness is our ego. Seemingly benign, our human ego is a disruptive force bent on its own survival. Why do we go to such great lengths to prove our righteousness? to justify our actions? to highlight the faults of others so we shine in comparison? All major world religions are founded on love, compassion, service, and forgiveness and in their purest form strive to unite but so often we struggle against these messages. There are few opportunities were can stand close to a monument of exceptional human failure and know that this particular chapter is closed. But, we should take more than comfort with us when we walk away. Let’s not forget that everything is a gradation of something else. The moment we begin to accept the alluring whispers that “we” are better than “they” is the moment we begin to fail.
With the castle walls looming over us we walked through the sand and shallows below, breathing in the space, collecting shells, and watching fishermen sail by. For a few days we toured the towns, and visited the corner of a nearby protected rainforest. In the evenings we sat by the ocean, shared meals, conversation and laughter, and watched the local boys perform acrobatics on the beach for their own amusement.
The December 7th elections went smoothly. In Ghana in order to be elected president a candidate must win a majority of votes (a minimum of 50% plus 1). With numerous parties and candidates running no single candidate was able to obtain that number of votes on the 7th so, a run-off between the two largest parties, NDC and NPP was scheduled for December 28th. Again people worried about peace as the party leaders each took turns vowing not to recognize a win by their competitor. On the 28th there were a few reports of problems – in one constituency 1,000 ballot papers were missing so no one in that area was allowed to vote; there was a story of a man who attempted to steal ballot boxes; and, a story of a reporter beaten after trying to record people stuffing ballot boxes. Yet, overall the elections went smoothly. While touring Cape Coast we listened to the regular updates as the votes were tallied on the 28th and 29th. The final count had NDC leading by 30,000 votes. The constituency which had not voted included a population of just over 30,000 and, though it was in a stronghold of NDC, NPP insisted that these people should vote before the results were announced. Nonetheless many NDC supporters began celebrating on the 29th. Meanwhile NPP supporters never imagined that NDC could win, and the NPP party leaders continued to make accusations of fraud and threatened to take legal action.
After the final votes were tallied John Atta Mills, the candidate for the opposition (NDC), was officially declared the president elect. Thankfully I have not heard any reports of violence. NDC supporters celebrated enthusiastically by painting their bodies the party colors - white, green, and red - and dancing in the streets. I’m sure the grumbling from NPP will continue for a while but at this point it seems Ghanaians have successfully experienced another peaceful transfer of power. As one Ghanaian noted, with each peaceful election the roots of Democracy grow stronger as does people’s confidence in their own power to effect change. Slowly people are beginning to understand that politicians should and can be held accountable for their actions. Atta Mills is not a new figure in Ghanaian politics however and whether his election will lead to any positive change for Ghanaians remains to be seen.
The morning before we headed back to Kumasi, I woke up early and moved outside to read the last few pages of my book. A short distance in front of me over thirty men and a handful of women pulled on the ends of a giant U-shaped net, coordinating their efforts by the deep chanting of one man “o – ei – he – yu . . . . o – ei – he – yu . . . .” A small boy stood between two men, the rope at their waist level was taut above his head. He grasped it with both hands and leaned with the men as they pulled. At the breaking point two men treaded water diving under the waves and tying the net into small sections as it was hauled in. The progress was slow. After twenty minutes the buoyed end of the net still floated freely over deep water. The adults strained and the chanting continued, harmonizing with the sounds of the waves and the calls of the birds. I returned to my book. When I looked again the net had been gathered on the beach and the women were emptying the sections into large aluminum basins. Once full, they overturned the basins on the beach revealing six or seven shimmering silver heaps. Women negotiated with the fishermen as the men coiled the net. A few hundred meters from the shore men dove from their wooden fishing boat and swam to land. On the beach, three men lassoed the net over their bodies and walked to their village in a line, the weight evident in their labored steps through the sand and the tension of their muscles. The women returned the fish to their basins, lifted the basins on their heads, and carried them away to begin their day of selling.
As we headed back to town and then on to Kumasi, we passed through a village and Clement pointed out an astonishingly small lamb. In front of a house where excited children shouted “obruni” as we passed, the lamb struggled to find his balance, legs splayed, his mother’s nose gently touching his side as if giving a word of loving encouragement. I saw a wet line of umbilical cord still dangling from his abdomen. These are images to savor; a holiday enjoyed thoroughly and joyfully concluded.
We arrived in Kumasi happy but exhausted, cleaned the heavy layer of dust left by the Hamatan from the room, ate a minimal dinner and fell into bed. The next morning Clement woke up with a fever and body pains – sure signs of malaria. I cooked some porridge, went to the pharmacy to buy some anti-malarials, washed three large loads of clothes by hand, prepared a simple dinner and then the day was finished. In the morning Clement seemed better though still weak so after a few hours I left to visit Pamela, check emails, and buy groceries. The time passed unchecked and it was dark when I returned. As I walked in the door Clement told me softly that he missed me and when I leaned down to him on the bed he hugged me as though I had been gone a lifetime, the heat from his body no less than that wafting from an open oven door. He said he was feeling terrible but had been even worse a couple hours before. I should have expected another exacerbation and was upset with myself as I imagined him suffering alone. He had recently taken another dose of medicine but the Tylenol did nothing to diminish the pain or quell his fever so, for the next few hours I traded damp towels between his body and the refrigerator. In this life here there is little room for comfort but so much space for gratitude. Life is always fragile and precarious but here it is a fact of which everyone is made perennially aware. I woke this morning and touched my lips gently to his arm so as not to wake him. The coolness of his skin sent a wave of joy through my entire being.
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