An Inquiry into Cultural Taboos

October 29, 2014

Since my return from Ghana in July, I have assumed a position as a Special Education Teaching Assistant at the county high school. Prior to working here, I haven't stepped foot through the doors since my own graduation in 2009. Not much has changed outside of my own perspective, with the exception of the integration of cell phones as 'mobile learning devices' and an adjustment to the class schedule every Thursday to accommodate a 30-minute activity period. As with any job, teaching and mentoring students has its challenges and its triumphs; its frustrations and its rewards. One of the most rewarding aspects of my job, to date, has been the discussions I have had with students who are interested in international affairs and my experiences outside of Centreville and the U.S.

I never thought searching for deer droppings would invoke discussions about differences in cultural taboos, but that's exactly what happened today during Environmental Science, my first class of the day. While in search of deer scat (an experiment in experiential education to teach students about random sampling techniques using quadrats), Kat, a very bright student who is interested in potentially pursuing a degree in international diplomacy or economic development policy, began telling me about her best friend who recently went to Europe for a three week celebration of her 16th birthday (talk about a Sweet 16) and brought her back a small souvenir from England. Kat and I have engaged in numerous conversations about college, my experiences abroad and her own global interests, and as with those previous discussions, our conversation turned to current affairs, media portrayals, book recommendations and of course, Ghana. Another student, who was listening intently to our conversation and integrating into it through his own questions and observations, made a random comment about our expedition to find deer scat and his discomfort with the teacher using the word 'poop' so openly. My reply to this was, "You know Justin, everything and everyone poops." Kat retorted with, "Yeah there's even a book called that." We all laughed and this segued into me telling an anecdote about having stomach problems during my time as a student in Ghana living with a host family and how 'poop' was not a taboo topic of discussion, as it typically is in American culture. I detailed my story about how I had to take middle of the night trips to the bathroom, which was only accessible through the bedroom of my host mother, and how she shared this with the neighbors in our compound. When my neighbor asked about my 'running stomach' (as it is referred to in Ghana), admittedly, I was slightly self-conscious, but then quickly realized that talking about illness, particularly words we try so hard to avoid saying aloud in the US, like diarrhea, was nothing to be shy about; in Ghana and in many parts of the world, foodborne diseases are common and so, are central topics of daily discussion. Recalling this experience made me wonder: Why is it that talking about 'poop' in the US is such a hush-hush topic? Has it always been this way, or like Ghana, was our population more open about subjects such as these prior to the establishment of our modern medical system and the advances we have made in public health? What are the factors that influence, shape, and can ultimately change, cultural norms and taboos?

"Ghanaian Culture 101"

Over the past two weeks since returning from my holiday travels, I have been settling in to Kumasi on a more permanent basis and establishing a daily routine for myself here. There is much to tell, so without further delay:

Coming back from vacation and getting back to work was a bit of a readjustment, but I was relatively productive. I officially registered for French classes at Alliance Frances, which are anticipated to begin this coming weekend. While I was filling out the registration paperwork, the receptionist asked me if I was Chinese. I told him that I was American and he seemed a bit surprised. I laughed and asked him, “Why, don’t I look American?” and he replied no, you have small eyes like the Chinese. That was a new one for me; I’ve been asked if I was British, German, French and other variations of European descent, but never Chinese. Guess there’s a first time for everything.

More housing issues arose on Tuesday. While I was eating breakfast, my host mom came into my room and says, “Afia (my Ghanaian name), I would like to collect the rent the first week of every month so I have come to collect what you owe for December.” I told her that was no problem and asked how much I owed her. She replied, “Well, what did I tell you in November when you were here?” I replied that she hadn’t given me a set price; that she told me that she wouldn’t have me pay for the room, just electricity and water only. She countered with, “Is that so?” followed by, “Well what did I tell you to pay for electricity and water?” When I was here in November discussing the possibilities of me staying where I am at present, the conversation went as follows:

Essentially, Louisa (my host mom) told me that if I wanted to stay here, I could have the room for free, adding, “you are my daughter; how could I charge you?” I was very thankful for her offer and asked what then I would pay. She told me I would have to pay for electricity and water, but that she couldn’t tell me a price for that yet because the tariffs for both utilities keep rising (which they do); since she wasn’t sure how much the new tariffs would add to her existing bill, she said that we would just have to wait and discuss what I would pay at the end of January. I told her that was fine and tried to ask her how we would determine the amount of water and electricity I used since she gets one bill for the entire household, but that was a flop. I left the conversation a little skeptical, but willing to try it out and see what happened. Okay, now that you’re caught up, flash forward to the second week of this month.

As I was saying, Louisa asked the price she had quoted me for electricity and water, to which I recalled our earlier discussions from November. After taking a long pause, she said, “Okay, is 200 GHC okay for you?” I asked her if that was the price I would be paying every month and she told me she wasn’t sure. Needing to think about how best to handle the situation, I asked if we could discuss it when I came home from KNUST that afternoon and I would pay her the following day, with which she didn’t have a problem.

At Tech, I met up with my friend Mubarak and later my friend Eugene. I conferred with them about the situation and they both said the same thing: she was taking advantaged of me, which I already knew because when I originally came to Kumasi to search for housing, all of my friends and everyone I spoke with who knows the area well said that I should expect to pay 100 GHC, but could pay between 50 GHC- 150 GHC depending on the room. Where I am living now is roughly a half-hour to hour commute (depending on traffic) from the university, so the price should be lower. For me, it’s not that I can’t afford 200 GHC; it’s the fact that (1) 200 GHC isn’t a fixed price: Louisa told me that she didn’t know what it would be from month to month, which is a bad position to put myself in because it leaves me vulnerable to her adjusting the price as she sees fit, and (2) I don’t find it fair to charge me more just because I am a foreigner and it is perceived that I have a lot of money since I am able to travel from my home country to here. Plus, technically I didn’t owe Louisa any money for December; before Brent came, I spent the first two weeks of December in Kumasi, for which I had already paid her.

That night when I returned home, I went to talk to Louisa about setting a price that both of us felt fair. The first thing Louisa said when I entered her room and sat down on her bed was, “Afia, I don’t want you to feel like I am cheating you or being unfair, so you just tell me a price that is okay for you.” I then told her that I was just confused about the price because one, I had already paid her for my stay in December, so I didn’t owe her for last month, which was the rent she sought that morning, and two, because when we had originally discussed the arrangements for my staying there in November, she told me I would pay for electricity and water only, which I knew I had not used 200 GHC worth of. [I know this because one of my friends in the Peace Corps living in Kumasi told me that her average water bill is 12 GHC/month and 20 GHC/month at most, and her electricity bill is roughly 40 GHC/month. We have similar consumptive behaviors and even if I allow for some leeway, 200 GHC is steep.] I then told her that I don’t have a problem pitching in extra for water and determining a price for that with her, but that I think it would be best to install a separate electricity meter to measure my use in my room so that I would pay for the electricity I use. She wasn’t up for this idea, and told me, “Afia, you know, I am a single mother and things are difficult. So any amount you can give to help out is okay with me.” I just sat quietly, thinking, and told her I would give her an amount the following day. To say the least, I felt a range of conflicting emotions.

When I woke up in the morning, I assumed my usual routine: walk to the kitchen to boil water to make coffee. Louisa was in the kitchen when I entered and as I walked toward the stove to put the pot of water on fire, she said, “Afia, the second tank for the gas has finished and I need to go and get it filled today. Give me something small so that I can go and fill.” She then showed me the empty tank sitting outside of the kitchen door to ensure that I understood what she was saying. This made me a little peeved in all honesty because the only, literally the only, thing I ever use the stove for is to boil water in the morning. It is the family that uses the stove the majority of the time to cook. I am perfectly fine with pitching in money for gas, which I did, but I just couldn’t understand why it seemed she had only asked me for money, rather than asking me in addition to, for instance, the grandmother who uses the stove in abundance. The situation just reiterated that I should probably look for other housing arrangements because while her being flexible about the amount I pay is great, her not setting a fixed price, which I could then say, “Okay, that’s within my budget,” or “Okay, thank you, but that’s not going to work for me,” leaves me vulnerable to being asked for money for other things. After that, I was pretty resolute that I should move and all of my friends here confirmed that I should, telling me that I am not in a good situation: that if I ask her to lower the price and tell her a price that I feel is fair, she could agree to it, but be upset about it and treat me different and even if I don’t try to lower the price from 200 GHC, she isn’t going to stop asking me for money. I have prospects for a place through a friend that is guaranteeing me a fair price, which I will go and see this week. But, in all honesty, it is not that simple. I feel very torn and conflicted about moving. To begin, Louisa and her family are like a family to me. They are the ones who opened their homes to me the first time I ever came to Kumasi when I was studying here in 2012 and they have been gracious to open their home to me again this time around. I have known them for over a year now; I enjoy their company and have a genuine interest in their well-being, which is why I think it is so hard for me to even consider that my host mom is trying to take advantage of me. It is difficult for me to get super pissed at the situation and be hell-bent on moving because everyone here, including my host mom, is so great to me. I can pay the 200 GHC and would love to help out my host mom, especially if the money will help her to better provide for the family and because she has been so gracious to me, but feel incredibly torn as to whether it is a good idea. For one, I am living in a compound, of which she is the landlord from my understanding (it’s either that or a family member owns the compound, so let’s her and her family stay in their rooms for free). Every other tenant renting a room has a fixed price and isn’t expected to pay more in order to help the family. From the standpoint of professionalism, asking me to help out extra isn’t appropriate. But, I don’t think I am an average tenant. I am foreign to this country and when I was new here and knew nothing of Kumasi, Louisa gave me somewhere to call home and helped me with things that to me now are so simple- like knowing how to get a tro-tro to where I need to go or knowing where to buy food. That is something I believe one can never fully appreciate until they are on their own as stranger in a country so different than the place they call home; in those situations, being comfortable makes all the difference in making an experience enjoyable and I am incredibly indebted to my host family for making me feel like I have a home in Kumasi. So you can see why I feel so torn about the situation.

Part II: Insights into Ghanaian Culture with Kwame

This following week, one of the other Fulbrighters. Alex, came to visit Kumasi with his friend Kwame, who is Ghanaian. Alex and Kwame are based in Koforidua, the capital of the Eastern Region, roughly one-hour north of Accra. They work at a government-funded company that produces all natural herbal medicine. Alex is setting up an electronic records database system for the organization to help them with more efficient record keeping, discovering trends in the impact of the herbal remedies they produce on health, and the likes. It sounds like an amazing project.

Alex and Kwame came to Kumasi for the weekend to see a project that a US organization called Plumpy Peanut is working on in Kumasi. Plumpy Peanut has brought in two American guys, Dietrich and Luke (who I also had the pleasure of meeting; they are great) to build a factory that will produce a groundnut paste that has extra vitamins and nutrients designed to help fight malnutrition amidst children. The goal is that eventually the factory will serve as a distribution center not only for Ghana, but also for the whole region of West Africa. I’m interested to see what the demand for the product is in Ghana and in West Africa as a whole and how the project turns out once the factory is up and running.

Alex also needed to buy some paintings, purses and other knick-knacks to send back to the US for a charity auction. His alma matter, the University of Michigan, hosts a charity auction every year that sells crafts from Ghana; the proceeds from the auction are then sent back to hospitals in Ghana to help fund a program that the university runs here to improve patient care. Pretty awesome. So I took Alex and Kwame into the heart of Kumasi to the cultural center and other shops where Alex could purchase what he needed. After our shopping spree, we took a tour through the Armed Forces Museum, which was not on my bucket list of things to do here, but I am really glad I did. The museum is situated in the Kumasi Fort, which is historically known for its use during the Ashanti Rebellion in the early 1900s. The British who sought to take the Golden Stool of the Ashanti kingdom instigated the Ashanti Rebellion. The Golden Stool is like the Holy Grail of Ashanti culture. According to local tradition and belief, the Golden Stool descended from the heavens in the early 16^th century. As the leader of the Ashanti people, the Asantehene (king) possesses and guards the stool. In the late 1800s/early 1900s, the British decided that they wanted to steal the Golden Stool from the Asantehene. Why? Well really there is no good explanation for this because it was just such an unnecessary, below-the-belt move, but my speculation is that the British tried to steal the Golden Stool as a way to demean the Ashanti people, insult their culture, and aim to further assert their dominance as colonial administrators in the country. Really, an asshole move no matter how you look at it. However, as a people proud of their culture, the Ashantis were not going to take such an insult lying down. The Queen Mother of Ejisu, Ohemaa Yaa Asantewaa, led her people to revolt against the British and protect the Stool. The Rebellion caused deaths on both sides and in the end the Ashanti’s were successful in protecting the stool.  During the rebellion, Yaa Asantewaa was captured and detained by the British at the fort before she was exiled to the Seychelles Islands. The tour included being led through the various rooms where we also learned about Ghana’s and Africa’s involvement in the first and second World Wars. It is amazing to me how important of a role Africa played in both of these wars, yet how little history classes talk about this; it’s quite depressing in many ways to realize how skewed of a historical perspective the average American student is getting, particularly when one considers that since Africa was colonized during this time, Africans didn’t have a choice: their colonial administrators forced them into the war. Many of these men were without, what I would call the most simple of provisions that every soldier should have to assist them in their fighting: shoes. I believe the tour guide told us that it wasn’t until the Second World War that Africans were given shoes when going to war. It’s always amazing to me how humans can be so cruel to one another sometimes.

After the tour, we went out for dinner. Kwame, Alex and I got into a great discussion on Ghanaian culture that helped me to understand so much of my experience here in general and Louisa’s action in particular. Here’s a short recap of some of what we discussed:

RE: Louisa and the rent

Kwame told me that in Ghana, because society is so communal, there is a strong culture of reciprocity. That helps to partly explain why I get asked by random people to buy them things or give them money and it also explains Louisa telling me she would give the room to me for free. Louisa didn’t give me the room for free necessarily because I am her ‘daughter,’ but because in Ghanaian culture the underlying rule is if ‘I do you a favor, then later when I need help with something, you will repay that favor.’ As a custom, this makes a lot of sense to me. We definitely have a variation of this system in the US and in all honesty, I think the rule of reciprocity is a pretty universal concept. Personal relationships are built, not wholly but definitely to a strong extent, in my opinion, on reciprocity. Gift giving aside, think of your best friend: you support him/her in multiple ways with the underlying, unspoken expectation that when you need that same support in return, he/she will give it to you because you did the same for them when they were in need. In the case of Louisa, it seems she wanted to give me the room for free and in hopes that in return, I would help her and the family by pitching in extra for the bill. Looking at it from that perspective made me a lot less irritated about the situation, but not any less conflicted about what to do.

RE: Marriage proposals

Kwame asked me how my experience had been so far as a woman in Ghana. I told him that overall I hadn’t had too many negative experiences and that at times I felt like my presence as a white woman has definitely helped me out. The one thing that I know is different for me than for the average Ghanaian woman is the amount of marriage proposals that I seem to get at any point in time. But I told Kwame that this didn’t really bother me; that typically I just laugh it off because I realize people aren’t actually serious- they just want to go to America, so they see marrying me as their ticket to Obama-land, as it is often called here. Kwame told me that for some people that is true, but for most of the guys, they propose because they just want to have sex with me. *Vomit* Kwame explained to me that Ghana is not like the US when it comes to sex. In the US, one-night stands and non-committal sex are not unheard of. In Ghana, a very religious society, the whole culture of ‘hit it and quit it’ is widely looked down upon; that’s not to say it doesn’t happen, but it’s not seen in a positive light and generally speaking, people are less apt to reserve judgment than I feel we are in the US. If you are married to someone, then this isn’t an issue, so, alas, marriage proposals are more about lust than a ticket to America. This is one thing I wish I hadn’t learned about Ghanaian culture because now every time I get a marriage proposal from a 60 year old man or any aged man for that matter, I feel really uncomfortable, grossed out and borderline pissed off because I am being seen as an object to be desired, not as a person with thoughts and emotions.  I also learned more about gender relations here, but some of it is pretty explicit, so I’ll just say that paternalistic attitudes about women’s roles in society are very much prevalent and while Ghana has made more strides in the terms of gender equality than some other African countries, it still has a long way to go.

Getting so much insight from Kwame was very useful. It never ceases to amaze me how different my experience coming to Ghana completely on my own on the Fulbright has been from my experience studying here with a large group of Americans; it hasn’t been in a bad way; each experience has had its positives and negatives, as any and every experience does, but I find myself picking up on more minute aspects of culture that I didn’t notice before because there were times throughout the study abroad program when we were definitely isolated from the culture.

On the topic of insight, I had quite an informative lesson on corruption. About two weeks ago, I went to Obuasi to talk with some members of the Consumer Services Committee there. Mashoud, the director of the PURC (Public Utilities Regulatory Commission), arranged for Ben, his driver, to take me. Driving to Obuasi, a conversation on politics was sparked when upon coming to an unpaved portion of the road, Ben exclaimed, “Eh, Ghana! Corruption, corruption. These politicians just pocket the money. The mayors, they don’t help the people. Look at these roads! As if we are in a village- in the middle of the city! Eh!” I asked Ben what his opinion was of the current party in power. It should be noted that in Ghana, there are clear divisions of support for the two main parties: the NPP and the NDD. Political allegiance is important to many people, especially in Kumasi where tradition and culture and its preservation are deeply engrained, much more so than in Accra. Ben told me that the current party in power is very corrupt and that the NPP, the opposition, would have done a much better job had they been elected. When I asked him to elaborate on this, he said for one, secondary school would have been free for everyone in Ghana (which was the main platform upon which the NPP ran its campaign). I followed up with asking Ben how the NPP would have been able to ensure that every child in Ghana could go to school for free and he said by using the revenues from the country’s fledgling oil sector. According to Ben, the NPP is a party with a large backing and is already well endowed with money and resources they need to campaign; the candidate for president of the NPP, Nana Akumfuor, already had all of the money he needed and wanted to honestly give back and help his country develop. The NDC, however, does not have a lot of money, so they are taking money from development projects that will benefit the country and stashing it to make their ‘pockets swell.’ I then asked Ben his views on the fact that Ghana produces electricity and exports it to Togo while there are millions without access to electricity here within the country’s own borders and even those who do have access to electricity don’t have a consistent, reliable supply. He answered by saying that the practice traces back to a bilateral trade agreement that was established during colonial times and that it would be against international law to abrogate it (not sure I believe the whole against international law bit, but that’s definitely something worth looking into further). Ben said that each country needed one another: it is a source of revenue for Ghana and without the supply that Ghana provides to Togo, much of the country would be “living in the dark.” I then countered with, “well what about the people in Ghana living in the dark? What about the villages, especially in the North, who don’t have electricity at all? Don’t you think they deserve to have a connection to raise their standard of living?” Ben told me that villages don’t need electricity; that it would make farmers lazy and they wouldn’t farm. He expanded on his point of view by saying that villages were too scattered and spread too far apart from one another, so building power lines would be too costly, difficult, and time-consuming; he also said that those in villages wouldn’t pay their bills on time and wouldn’t pay until it became so severe that they were disconnected from the supply. In Ben’s words, “That’s how Ghanaians are.” I disagreed with Ben on many aspects of his argument, particularly the contention that villagers don’t need electricity and that having electricity would make farmers lazy and prevent them from going to the farm. I told Ben that having electricity is so important to creating other opportunities: for instance, if a household has electricity, then the children who go to school can have light to be able to study after the sun goes down (which is quite early, around 6:00 PM.) Assuming the child is able to complete his schooling, he then has more opportunities for jobs and getting out of the cycle of poverty. What about daily chores? My friend Brianan works as the Ghana Country Director for Community Water Solutions (CWS). Recently, CWS has expanded into piloting solar power projects in communities where they have already established working relationships with the people through the water treatment businesses. Bri and I were talking about this initiative and she brought up many good points about simple things, like not having to cook in the dark, that electricity makes easier that we who do not lack access to it often take for granted.

The longer I am here and the more the novelty of my experience wears off, the more I find myself seeing Ghana through a completely new lens; there are many instances where I feel as though I am here for the first time, noticing aspects of daily life and poverty here that I think just seemed so normal to me here, but now make me feel intrigued, empathetic, upset- a whole range of emotions that I can’t even begin to fully describe here. I find myself questioning, as every person interested in international development I think from time to time does, what the one ‘magic bullet’ is that would propel other aspects of development forward; I also wonder quite frequently why it is that development has happened the way it has across the world. Throughout my education at WVU, these very questions were posed through classes and many theories evolved regarding the inequality of power and voice in the global system and the distinct divide between the Global North and the Global South; about histories of places that have accelerated or hampered advancement, but the longer I am here, the more I question how these things could create such a distinct difference in quality of life between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots.’ It’s a perplexing question that I believe I will never know the answer to.

Every day, working in international development, specifically with regards to my interests in water and sanitation, takes on a new meaning to me. I am constantly challenged in so many ways, which is something I really enjoy because I thrive in environments where I am constantly learning, processing and trying to solve problems. I have unquestionably developed a different level of empathy than I have ever had in my life and have also come to the realization that it is okay to think critically, not cynically, but critically, about other cultures, not just one’s own. Overall, being in Ghana so far has been full of personal growth (and all of the other hippy emotions one references when talking about living abroad- please see the website ‘Shit White People Like’ for further information about what I mean) and I am interested to see how my views evolve over the coming months. 

"Holiday Adventures through Ghana: This car goes to Tema Station?, Buy me a bicycle Obruni!, and Nigerian films to hasten the trip to Tamale”

Happy New Year everyone!

The end of 2013 and beginning of 2014 for me has been full of adventure and stories to share, so I’ll get right to it.

As I mentioned in my last blog post, Brent came over the Christmas holiday to visit me. It was his first time ever leaving the States and what an induction into the realm of international travel he had.

His flight on Ethiopian Airways was scheduled to leave from Dulles on Friday, December 20^th around 10:15 in the morning, arrive in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia where he would have a 45 minute layover and hop on a flight to Accra, which would land the following morning around 11:20 Ghana time. Before I continue on with the story, I must make it known that when Brent was booking his flight over Christmas break, he was a bit nervous about having only 45 minutes in Ethiopia to make his flight to Ghana; I assured him it should be fine- that it was probably a small airport and that he was likely to arrive before the scheduled time anyway so his layover would likely be longer. Probably should have looked into other tickets…

Brent gets to Dulles with plenty of time before his flight is supposed to leave so he can check in and everything. After going through security, he is told that his flight has been delayed by two hours, meaning that he would miss his connecting flight in Addis to Accra. The attendant at the check-in counter said that he would get to Ethiopia and the airline would probably book him a hotel for the night and put him on a flight to Accra the following day. I just want to note again the probably part of that sentence because I feel like that’s something the airline check-in attendant should definitely know, but I digress. The good news is that Brent was able to tell my dad that his flight was going to be delayed and my dad sent me a text saying he wouldn’t be in the following day, so at least I knew not to go to the airport. That’s a luxury Brent later told me that a lot of other people on his flight to Ethiopia didn’t know. Apparently the airline told people that the airport in Addis would hold their flights for them since the flight from Dulles was delayed.

So Brent boards the plane, not knowing exactly when he will get to Ghana, and arrives in Ethiopia. That’s where the real fun began. Five hours after his flight landed in Addis, Brent facebook messaged me saying that he finally arrived to his hotel, where he would be staying for the night. When he arrived at the airport in Addis, he and everyone on his flight were corralled into a room in the airport, where two uniformed airport workers, who spoke scant English, collected everyone’s passports then proceeded to leave the room. After an hour, the workers came back, randomly started handed passports back to select people, then left the room again. This process continued for the next four hours. Finally, Brent got his passport back with a ticket to Accra for the next day. Two days after leaving the US on what should have been a 20-ish hour journey, Brent was in Ghana.

From the airport, we checked into our hotel, the Rising Phoenix, in Accra and relaxed until dinnertime. We decided to venture to Asylum Down, a nearby neighborhood known for its plethora of chop bars (small restaurants). I’ll just put it this way: we got close to Asylum Down, but never really made it there. In any case, we found a great little food place, called the Honest Chef, which a friend had recommended to me, and ate there. After dinner, we made our way to the station to catch a tro-tro back to the hotel. I had never been to this particular station before, so after asking multiple people, a quaint man named Kofi led us to what we thought was a tro-tro to Tema Station, where we needed go in order to get back to our hotel. I’ll just let the cat out of the bag now: it was not the right tro-tro. The price of the tro was higher and the size larger than any I’ve taken before to travel around Accra, which should have been a red flag to me, but I just went with it. As we left the station and began our trek into the chaos of the highways of Accra, each mile seemed to take us further and further away from the city and closer into the ‘hinterland.’ About twenty minutes into the ride, Brent turned to me and asked if any of this looked familiar, which it did not, so I asked the guy in front of us if the tro was going to Tema Station, to which he replied yes. Then, we passed a sign saying, “Welcome to Tema” and it all made sense: we had indeed gotten on a tro-tro going to Tema station, in the town of Tema, roughly 45 minutes East of Accra. I laughed to myself as I realized that we were going an hour in the opposite direction of our destination. I then asked the guy in front of us again, “Are we going to Tema Station?” Him: “Yes, Tema Station.” Me: “The Tema Station near Jamestown.” Him: “Nooo!! You are on the wrong bus.” Apparently, I should have said Accra Tema Station, not just Tema Station. Who knew? Lesson learned.

When we arrived at Tema Station, the man who I had kept asking if we were on right bus, whose name we learned was Bright, kindly led me and Brent to the correct bus to Accra Tema Station. Brent and I eventually made it back to the hotel thanks to Bright’s help. Though unplanned and slightly inconvenient, the trip to Tema definitely made for a great laugh, a good story, and I think an appropriate introduction to Ghana for Brent because it highlighted the #1 travel rule: the importance of being flexible and patient in situations when plans don’t go accordingly.

The following morning, we checked out of the Rising Phoenix and made our way to Kineshie Station, without any accidental trips to a different part of town I’d like to add, to catch a bus to Elmina, a town along the coast. The bus was full, so it was a bit of a tight squeeze, but it was air conditioned at least. As soon as we left the station to begin the roughly 4 hour trek, a man stood up in the front of the bus, which was roughly the size of a Chevy Astro van with a higher ceiling, so really less a bus than a tro-tro on steroids, and began preaching, very loudly, in Twi. That made for an interesting first two hours of the trip. When we arrived in Elmina, we took a taxi to an eco-lodge called Stumble Inn to meet up with my friend Brianan, who works for Community Water Solutions, and her friends Courtney and Sylvie who work for different NGOs in Tamale. We also met a guy named Peter from Denmark who has been traveling through Africa. We had a relaxing afternoon on the beach and had a great evening swapping stories and getting to know one another over dinner and drinks.

The next day, on Christmas Eve, Brent and I left Stumble Inn to head to Cape Coast to drop our stuff off at Sammo Guesthouse, where we would stay for Christmas, then went to Elmina Castle. Build in 1482 by the Portuguese, Elmina Castle was the first trading post established in the Gulf of Guinea and is the oldest existing European building below the Sahara. Following its inception as a center of trade, the Castle eventually became one of the most infamous centers of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. Though I had been to the castle last year when I was studying in Ghana, the reality of its history is still surreal and emotionally jarring to me. Part of the tour took our group to a courtyard that was overlooked by a balcony off of the governor’s room. The tour guide explained how whenever he was feeling ‘lonely,’ the governor would have his workers corral women who were enslaved at the castle into this courtyard; from his balcony, the governor would then proceed to select a woman who he wanted to sleep with. If the woman refused, she was chained to a cannonball, which anchored her in place, and deprived of food and water as punishment. There were two guys in our tour group who mocked this, acting as though they were selecting women from the balcony and laughing about it, which I found to be disrespectful and immature and frankly pissed me off. I was, and thinking recounting it through this post, still am dumbfounded at how one could be so insensitive as to mock a tragedy as the slave trade. There are just some people that I will never understand. 

View of the courtyard and the governor's balcony

After the tour of Elmina, we went back to Cape Coast, roughly a twenty-minute drive, to get a tro-tro to Kakum National Park, where we would be spending the night in the rainforest. This was definitely an experience. When we got there, Abraham, with whom I had made the arrangements, met us at the gate. He requested that we first pay because the park was about to close. The price he requested was more than what he had quoted to me on the phone when I had called previously, but the prices were posted at the entrance of the park, so I paid and we entered the park. Abraham then left to change and returned an hour later with his son. I’ll admit I was having a problem trusting this guy completely, but after getting over the miscommunications regarding the price and once he came back from collecting his things that he would need, he turned out to be really friendly and enjoyable company. He took us first to the canopy walk, which is a rope bridge with wooden planks for the floor that overlooks the rainforest below. 

Brent and I on the canopy walk

Once we finished the walk, he led us further into the forest to the tree house where we would be spending the night. Part of the package deal of staying the night in the tree house was a guided hour-long night walking tour. Around 9:00PM, we set off for the tour and Abraham and his son took us to see a 350-year-old Baobab tree. It was absolutely huge and it was quite amazing to see something living that was that old. Abraham’s son also pointed out a scorpion spider on the tree, which was like nothing I had ever seen before. The spider was roughly the size of a golf ball and in addition to eight legs, it had two arms like scorpion pinchers, as well as long antennas. Not something you want to mess with. The walk was a bit difficult because Brent and I were sharing a single headlamp. I still have no clue why I didn’t even think to buy a second flashlight to bring on the trip. But in a way, I am glad I didn’t because I know there were insects and other creatures on the ground below my feet that I was glad I couldn’t see- that is, until Brent and I were attacked by carpenter ants on our way back to the tree house. We were walking, then all the sudden we felt a stinging sensation on our legs and feet. In the light of the headlamp, I saw that it was ants with huge pinchers that dug into the skin, which sucked particularly bad because no amount of swatting detached them from our bodies. We tried to stop to get them off of our skin, but our tour guide told us to keep moving or more would get on us. [Once we returned to the tree house, Brent, who at that point was in charge of wearing the headlamp, told me that when we stopped and he looked down with the light, the whole floor of the trail was black because it was covered with ants. I was so glad he had waited to tell me that until after the fact.] The next twenty minutes of the walk home was pretty miserable and filled with a bunch of swatting my legs and feet, accompanied by cursing. I was absolutely elated when we finally got to the tree house and went immediately inside after removing all of the ants from my legs and feet.

The following morning we woke up at 6:00 AM to leave and head back to the main entrance of the park. The original plan was to go to the monkey sanctuary that was 2 miles from Kakum on our way back to Cape Coast, but Brent and I were just so ready to get to the beach and civilization (which may sound a bit dramatic, but whatever)- the night before we hadn’t slept well because it was very cold, which we hadn’t anticipated (it is Ghana after all), and we hadn’t brought anything to cover up with besides a towel- that we both decided it was just best to head straight back to the hotel.

We spent Christmas midmorning/early afternoon on the beach. There was a boy around the age of 12 or 13 years who decided to sit near where we were laying, so I talked with him for a bit. He ended up asking me to buy him a bicycle, which I told him I couldn’t do. It reminded me of the point in Wedding Crashers where the young boy goes up to Vince Vaughn’s character at the wedding and screams at him to make him a bicycle when he is making balloon animals for the children there. I never thought I’d be able to draw such an appropriate comparison with an experience here and a movie like Wedding Crashers. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: there really is never a dull moment in Ghana.  We ended up moving further down the beach near some other obrunis because the boy wouldn’t leave when we wanted to go swimming and, unfortunately, I didn’t feel as though I could leave my things without worrying that he would take them since he had also asked me for my watch and money prior to his request for a bicycle.

After the beach, we went to tour Cape Coast Castle. As with Elmina, Cape Coast Castle was originally a trading post for timber and gold later used as a focal point of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. It was constructed in 1653 by the Swedes and transferred hands a number of times, first being overtaken by the Danes and then conquered by the British. Following its use in the slave trade, it became the seat of the British colonial Government in 1844. Just like Elmina, visiting Cape Coast Castle is always an uncanny, solemn experience. We then went out to dinner before going to Elmina to meet Rebecca and Florida, my youngest host sisters from Accra who were visiting their father in Elmina.

I have to admit, it was such an odd feeling to be on a beach in a foreign country away from my family during the holidays. It didn’t really feel like Christmas to me because for one, I was on a beach in 90°F+ weather, which is just so different from the cold weather during this time of year at home, which I’ve come to associate the holidays with. I also missed being with my family because to me, holidays are meant for spending time with the people that mean the most to you in life. I was thankful though that Brent was there at least and also that telecommunications are so developed in Ghana because it was great to get to call home and talk to everyone. Being away definitely has made me appreciate the people and the relationships I have with everyone at home.

The day after Christmas, Brent and I leisurely made our way to Kumasi after a great breakfast near the beach. On the bus, there was a young boy, probably around the age of 2 or 3, that got diarrhea, which was so sad to watch because once the bus starts, it doesn’t stop unless it is doing so to let people off. The mother held her son steady as he squatted into a plastic bag. I felt for not only her son, but her as well because she didn’t have anything to really thoroughly clean herself or her son with once he was finished. I gave her the toilet paper I had and she had some drinking water to rinse her hands, but no soap. Anyway, we made it to Kumasi and just had a relaxing night.

The following day, I showed Brent around the KNUST campus and then took him to meet my host family in Kumasi, which was really great. We then made our way to the STC bus station to head to Tamale. Originally we were going to go to Techiman, a town about two hours from Kumasi and on the way to Tamale, to see the caves there, but decided against it because since we didn’t leave early that morning, we wouldn’t have much time to figure out the logistics of making it to the caves before the sun went down. It just seemed pointless to go if we weren’t going to be able to see the caves or any other attractions highlighted in the guidebook.

Our bus to Tamale was scheduled to leave at 2:00 PM, but in true Ghana fashion, didn’t leave the station until 3:40 PM. That in itself was a bit confusing because they first had everyone going to Tamale board a bus to go to the other STC station in Kumasi because that’s where the bus for Bolgatanga, which would drop us in Tamale, was boarding. Trying to decide which bus to get on was also slightly unclear, but we figured it out and by 4:00 PM we were on our way to Tamale.

For those of you reading this who haven’t been on a bus in Ghana, if you are traveling at least 5 hours by bus, then you are guaranteed to have some sort of cinema experience on board. Typically, there are either Ghanaian or Nigerian soap operas blaring, but for Brent and I’s trip to Tamale, our bus played a Nigerian film called Comfort My Soul, which was a trilogy. To explain the premise of the movie would be too long and a bit confusing, but I will say it was the best and most entertaining film I have seen on any of my bus rides in Ghana. What made the experience though is how involved in the plot and lives of the characters everyone aboard the bus got. There were consistent comments from the woman sitting behind us. Allow me to illustrate: at one point in the film, one of the characters was having an asthma attack, but there was no one around to help her out. The woman behind me says in Twi, “Where is her medicine?! She needs her medicine!” Then, at a different point in the film, the past of one of the characters turned her fiancé and her future family in law against her. The guy across the isle looks at me and says, “I don’t know why she won’t just tell them the truth about what happened. If she did, then they would for sure understand and none of this would even be a problem. Ahh! (Ghanaian expression for something that one cannot understand or doesn’t agree with)” I usually sleep through movies on the bus because typically I’m not very interested in the storyline, but admittedly, audience commentary aside, I was drawn into the drama of this movie and was pretty upset there wasn’t a Comfort My Soul 4.

Brent and I spent the next two full days in Tamale, which was one of my personal favorite parts of our travels because Tamale was my first introduction to Ghana and everyone I know here- Brianan and all the guys at CWS- are amazing people that I really enjoy spending time with. Our first day in Tamale, Brent and I slept in which was nice because we had been traveling so much, which as awesome as it is, can be pretty exhausting. I then went to buy laundry soap to teach Brent how to hand wash clothes. Finding soap proved more difficult than anticipated. After being told by the receptionist at the hotel that there was a stand across the street that sells washing soap, I crossed the street only to find a food seller where the receptionist had described the store being. I asked the girl there where I could buy soap. In Tamale, the local language is Dogbani and I am nowhere near as proficient in Dogbani as I am in Twi, so the fact that I was looking for laundry soap was not coming through. I tried saying I am looking for Omo, which is a popular brand of detergent here. The girl replies, “Oh Omo! You are looking for Omo?” I told her yes, I was. She then says, “Oh, she is not here. She has traveled.” I must have had a puzzled look on my face because she followed up with, “You are looking for Omo, right? The fat girl. She went to school.” I then understood the confusion and laughing, told her, “No not Omo the girl- Omo the soap,” and began rubbing my shirt in a hand washing motion so that she could understand better. She then said, “OH! OMO! You want Omo the soap!” We both began laughing at our cultural miscommunication as she pointed me in the correct direction to buy Omo. Brent and I then hand washed our laundry and went to the cultural center when we were finished.

Luckily, at the cultural center we met up with Amin, one of the translators that works for CWS. Amin introduced us to his friend Ratty and we all shared a calabash of Pito, a local beer made of fermented millet. 

(from left to right) Amin, Brent, me and Ratty
sharing some laughs over Pito

Following our excursion to the cultural center, we went to the market to buy some candy to take to Sakpalua the next day. At the stall where we were buying candy, a woman came up and greeted me as I was paying. She said to me, “Wait here! I am going to bring my son so he can touch you. He likes to touch Salamingas (the Dogbani word for white person).” She returned quickly with her son and told him to go up and touch me. I tickled his belly when he went to touch my hand, which made him laugh. Then, when I told him to go and touch Brent, the other Salaminga, he suddenly became shy and wouldn’t do it. Again, there is never a dull moment in Ghana.

That night we met up with Bri for drinks at Giddy Pass, a rooftop bar in town, then went to Swad, an Indian restaurant for dinner.

The following morning was our last day in Tamale. We left early with Amin and Smila (our taxi driver) to visit Sakpalua, the community I worked in to build a water treatment center when I was a fellow with CWS in 2012. This was my second time back since opening the center and I was happy to see Lydia and Damu, the two women who run the water business, again. I was also really thrilled for Brent to get to meet everyone and to see the treatment center because the work I did with CWS and the people I met through my fellowship are what sparked my passion for water-related development. For Brent, I think it was a pretty big shock to be in an area where there are various problems with the most basic of one’s needs being met. But, there is always more that meets the eye in these situations and I think he learned a lot about another way of life, as I continue to do each and every day I am in Ghana. Afterwards, we met Bri for Brunch then just relaxed until dinner.

We flew back to Accra the next morning. Our flight was delayed (to be expected), but even with the hour delay we experienced, it still took less time for us to make it to Accra than it would have had we had to take a bus, which typically takes a minimum of 12 hours because of the state of the roads here and new security measures along the route. It was so amazing to be able to make it to Accra within an hour after boarding. That afternoon, I took Brent to meet my host mother, Magdalene, and the rest of the family that he had not yet met when we stopped by before going to Elmina. Everyone loved him and it was definitely an ego boost for Brent: Magdalene, my host sisters, and my aunt all commented on how handsome he was and how well I’d done and both my aunt and host sister were claiming them as their husband. It was a great time.

The next day was New Year’s Eve and also the day Brent was scheduled to leave Ghana. Based on the experience he had getting here, we made sure to check the status of his flight back to the US the night before and everything was said to be scheduled on time. After Brent went through check-in and went to the departure zone to wait for his fight, I went next door to the domestic departures gate to wait for my flight to Tamale to spend the first week of the New Year with Bri, Sam and the winter fellowship group. The night, while we were all out having a great time ringing in the New Year, complete with cultural dancing at Sparkles, I got a message from Brent saying that he was spending yet another night in Ethiopia. Apparently, right before his plane went to take off from Accra, there were two guys who were speaking with each other and using their cell phones, which they refused to turn off when the plane door was shut. So the plane had to go back to the gate. The airline removed the two guys who were being uncooperative and acting suspicious from the flight and every other passenger had to go back through security and re-board the plane. All the checked luggage also had to go through security again. So the plane, which was scheduled to leave at 12:10 PM, ended up leaving around 4:00PM; even though Brent had a two hour layover in Ethiopia this time, it was useless because the plane was so delayed that he missed his connecting flight. Therefore, he was at the hotel in Ethiopia until 10:00PM the following day when he was booked to take the next flight back to Dulles. Although inconvenient, at least everyone on the plane was safe and Brent can say he rang in 2014 in a different country.

My week in Tamale was amazing. It was filled with relaxation, great food, a lot of laughs, and most importantly, great people. I always love hanging with the CWS crew and I really enjoyed getting to meet the new group of fellows. Sam and Michelle, who is also a past fellow helping to lead the current group, let me go to daily debriefs, where all the fellows, Sam and Michelle gather together to talk about the progress they are making in the implementation process and their impressions of their experiences. Listening to everyone’s highs and lows of the days and hearing their perception of Ghana was so interesting to me because I have never been able to experience the fellowship program from the perspective of someone who isn’t going through it. It caused me to reflect back on my own experience, which was a bit nostalgic, and there were so many great ideas and questions raised by the fellows that I found the daily debriefs to be very entertaining, enriching, and stimulating.

As they say, all good things must come to an end: today marked the official closing of my holiday vacation. I returned to Kumasi this afternoon (after riding a bus with a driver that would randomly slam on the breaks and with an air conditioning unit that would screech whenever it was turned on). Tomorrow I will officially begin the process of trying to get the fieldwork portion of my project underway. I have a feeling it will be slow going, as many offices don’t open from the holiday vacation until tomorrow or Tuesday, but I am confident that before the end of January I will be able to establish somewhat of a more consistent daily routine and at least visit some communities of interest.

To the New Year and a new start.

Chelsea

“Marriage proposals in the hospital that’s open ‘all the time’”

 Hey everyone,

Well it was bound to happen: I got my first case of malaria or some tropical disease that I am still trying to figure out exactly what it is. Usually when I’m abroad and get sick, I don’t like to tell loved ones at home until I have fully recovered because I don’t want to cause anyone any unnecessary worry, but my latest trip to the hospital was just filled with too many funny mishaps to pass up and I feel I really need to share the experience with everyone. I will preface the post by saying that yes I am sick, but I’m by no means on my deathbed and will eventually recover. So don’t worry; sit back and enjoy the glories of the healthcare system in Ghana through this post.

Last Tuesday I started feeling like I had malaria: aching joints, fatigue, a slight headache. But, in Ghana, these symptoms could also be the sign of a long day and all I could really do was wait it out for a few days to see if they were reoccurring. On Wednesday I woke up feeling fine, but by the afternoon I started feeling as I had on Tuesday; this happened again in the exact same fashion on Thursday. While I was studying here last year, I came down with malaria a few times, so I know how my body reacts to the virus. My past experiences at hospitals here were not the most productive or positive: I spent so much time waiting to see the doctor only to be speculatively diagnosed with a range of different possible alignments and prescribed medicine for each one. It can be very frustrating and a waste of an afternoon, so I decided to just go to the pharmacy and buy medicine. I finished treatment on Sunday and was feeling 100% better by Monday morning. Then, Monday evening my knees began to ache and feel stiff, accompanied by slight nausea and discomfort in the left side of my abdomen. These symptoms weren’t consistent, but would rather come and go, which is more annoying, if you ask me, than feeling awful consistently. So here’s the catch-22 to staying healthy here: it is important to be proactive and go to the doctors when not feeling well; however for most of the serious diseases one can come down with here- malaria, hepatitis (in any form- A, B, or C), typhoid, cholera, etc..- it takes anywhere between 10 days to 6 weeks to develop to the point where the virus can be seen through blood tests. Allow me to give you an anecdote to demonstrate my point: last year I thought I had malaria: my joints felt like they were on fire, I was really tired all the time and just overall didn’t feel well. I talked with many of the Ghanaian staff running the program I was on and all of them said that for sure it was malaria. I then went to the doctor to have a blood test done and the test came back negative. After consulting with the doctor, he told me that the malaria virus can remain in ones liver for up to ten days before it is released in the bloodstream; it is not until it is released into the blood stream that it can be detected through a blood test. The doctor gave me malaria medication because he believed it was still in my liver at that point.

Since I had just finished the malaria medication and was still feeling bad, I decided it was probably time to visit the doctor and try to figure out what’s going on. Today I went to a conference then left after the session broke for lunch to head to Trust Hospital in Osu. First mishap: I enter the hospital and go to register for a patient card. Since I haven’t been to this particular hospital before, I was asked for my basic information, including that regarding my insurance policy. Fulbright has provided me insurance through the US State Department’s plan. However, I didn’t have the policy number or provider info: all of this information is in an email I received over the summer, which I have a print out of… in Kumasi- not helpful to me in Accra. I proceeded to check the email inbox on my phone, but it hasn’t retrieved mail from that long ago since I just bought the phone in October. So, then I called my point of contact in the embassy to see if she had the information I needed; she did not. Okay, no problem: Brent is on Facebook and I ask if he can login to my account and search for the email from there, which he happily agrees to do. Unfortunately the search comes up short and he can’t find the email. Thank God for smartphones because I was able to pull up Gmail on my phone and find the info I needed. Many of you are probably wondering why I didn’t do this in the first place- because my internet on my phone wouldn’t load at first, so I resorted to other measures. Obstacle number one overcome? Check. On to the doctor consultation.  

After receiving my card and paying for the consultation fee to see the doctor, I joined the cue of those waiting to also see the doctor. Surprisingly, and in comparison to my past hospital visits, I didn’t wait long: it was roughly 45 minutes until the doctor called me in to her office. I described my symptoms to her and told her I had just finished the three-day treatment for malaria. She asked me a bunch of lady questions that I won’t go into here because that would just be unnecessary on a variety of levels. Since I am having abdominal pain and recently had my period, she ordered I get an ultrasound. I then told her that I wanted to have blood work done to test for malaria and hepatitis A. Why hepatitis A you ask? Well for one, hepatitis A is easily transmitted when food or water becomes contaminated with fecal matter (AKA people haven’t washed their hands and handle your food.) Unfortunately, it’s fairly common in developing countries. And for two, here’s a fun story: on Sunday I traveled from Kumasi to come back to Accra for the next two weeks. When I arrived, I helped my host sister prepare banku, a local dish, with peppa and fried egg. In Ghana, it is customary to invite others around you to join you when you are eating. Usually when I invite people to join me, they respond with, ‘Medasse’ (thank you), but don’t take any food. While I was eating, the aunt who is also living in the house came out, so I invited her. Well she dug right in and took a big handful of banku, which didn’t bother me. I mean I did invite her after all. However, right after she shoved the food into her mouth and swallowed her bite, she launched a snot rocket across the concrete steps, then, using the same hand, patted my leg. It was incredibly disgusting and made me instantly regret sharing my meal with her. While it would be too early for me to show signs of hepatitis A from this instance, it made me think about the fact that I pretty much buy every meal from street vendors and if their hygiene and sanitation habits are anything like Aunt Adwoa’s, then it wouldn’t be surprising if I have contracted a case of hep A. 

Paperwork in hand with orders from the doctor to get a blood test and ultrasound, I went to the lab section of the hospital. First I was directed to go back to where the ultrasound would be taken. There were no hospital workers present, just a woman who was waiting. She must have noticed the look of confusion across my face as to where I was supposed to go and to whom I was supposed to give the paper because she told me to wait, that someone would come. When a nurse came to attend to her, the woman told the nurse I needed help, so the nurse took my paper and went to bring back the doctor, or so I thought. She returned with a man in regular civilian dress. He told me to come to the office marked with the name of the female doctor who had left for the day. When we went in and sat down, he began speaking to me in Twi, which is fine because I could understand most of what was said to me, but it was a bit annoying because I wasn’t feeling well and he refused to speak English when my understanding of his Twi fell short. He told me, ‘I don’t speak English,’ which, of course isn’t true because (1) English is one of the national languages of Ghana, (2) he is working in a hospital in Accra where they serve foreigners, and (3) schooling is done in English here, so whatever degree he has that got him a job in the hospital, he studied it in English. But whatever. So after we got past all of the basic questions of my name and how to spell it, he began searching the books to see when they could schedule my ultrasound. In the process, he looks at me and asks, “Wo ware?” which in English means, “Are you married?” At this point, I have to admit my patience was wearing a bit thinner than it should have, and I couldn’t help but thinking to myself, “Are you serious right now? I’m here because I’m not feeling well and you’re going to hit on me?” But, I refrained and instead answered, “Yes and my husband is coming here this weekend.” He then spoke to me the rest of the time in English. The conversation turned into a back and forth about what time I should come tomorrow:
Kwame: “Come at 9 AM tomorrow.”

Me: “Okay, but you have me on the schedule for 2:30 PM, so why come at 9?”

Kwame: “No, tomorrow is full, so I am trying to help you out, so come at 8:00 AM.”

Me: “Okay, wait you just said to come at 9 AM, but you still have me on the schedule for 2:30 and now I should come at 8:00? I am not going to wait from 8 in the morning until 2:30 in the afternoon to be seen.”

We went back and forth like this until finally I figured out that the times on the side of the paper were irrelevant. I told him I would be here whenever he wanted me to, I just needed him to tell me a time. He told me 8:00 AM; in other words, I would be here at 8:30 at the earliest the next morning because 8:00 AM really means 9:30 or 10:00 in Ghana time. He also told me that I could not eat before the exam, which I definitely wasn’t looking forward to because I tend to get grumpy and have a lot less patience when I am hungry. Looks like tomorrow will definitely be an experience to be had.

So I had my ultrasound test scheduled; now I needed to go and get my blood work done. Prior to going to see about the ultrasound, I had handed the receptionist at the lab station my papers so that I could get a place in line. When I went back to the window, she handed me my papers with Hepatitis A circled. She told me that I could get my blood tests for Hepatitis B, Typhoid and Malaria today, but would have to come back for Hepatitis A tomorrow because the technician who reads the tests had left for the day. I asked if I could just get all 4 tests done with one blood test tomorrow, which she said I could (this was a process to determine though because cultural miscommunication was incredibly present). After it was established that I should return tomorrow for my tests, I asked what time I should come.

Her response, “Anytime. We are always open.”

Me: “Really? Then why has the technician gone home for the day if you are always open?”

Receptionist: “As for him, he went home. He’s no longer here.”

Me: “Yes, I understand that. I’m asking, when will he be here tomorrow so I can come then for the test?”

Receptionist: “We are always open so you can come anytime.”

Me (new tactic): “Okay, so if I come at 5 in the morning tomorrow, there will be someone here to take my blood for the test?” [being facetious of course. I couldn’t have woken up that early to be there by 5 the following morning even if that had been an option]

Receptionist: “No. As for that one, people usually come around 7 AM.”

Interjection from a lab technician standing nearby: “Ah! No they don’t. They usually won’t come until 8 or 9.” (looking at me) “You come then.”

Receptionist: “Okay, yes. You come around then.”

Me: “And the lab technician who can do the test will be here then? You’re sure.”

Receptionist: “Yes. Someone will be here to do it for you.”

Me: “Okay, thank you.”

So, roughly an hour and a half later, I left the hospital with orders to return the following day.  

Today I left the house and arrived at the hospital around 8:30 AM. I went back to the receptionist from yesterday to try to get my blood tests done. I was instructed that I should first go for my ultrasound. I was directed to a room with at least 10 other people in it, all waiting for an ultrasound as well. Through the course of the hour, the doctor came to the room to call back one woman for her exam. After an hour passed, I figured it would be more beneficial if I went to get my bloodwork done to make sure that I got it before the guy who could read the results of the Hepititis A test left for the day. For those of you who don’t know, I hate needles and getting my blood drawn. I am also terrible with medical issues in general and get squeamish quite easily. Every time I get my blood drawn, without fail, I black out and have to remain seated or lying down to prevent from fainting. Knowing this and knowing that it would probably be even worse because I had to fast in order to have the ultrasound test done, I brought a juicebox and some candy with me to re-elevate my blood sugar levels. I warned the lab technician as well that I would faint, so he should just let me remain seated until I was able to stand again. So he drew blood, I blacked out and when I recovered, I was told that my results for Malaria, Hep. B, and Typhoid would be available in two hours; I would have to return on Friday for the results of the Hepatitis A test because apparently they cannot read the results at the hospital. They have to send the test to another lab that can analyze the results, then have them sent back. I was pretty mad when I heard this because I felt like I was getting a continual flood of contradicting information because the hospital staff weren’t communicating with one another, or at least that is my impression of the total communication error from the day before where the receptionist told me they could read the results of Hep. A tests at the lab, but the man had left for the day and I needed to come back to have it done. In any case, there was nothing I could do about it, so I went back to the ultrasound holding room to continue waiting for my name to be called.

Waiting indefinitely is honestly one of the most difficult things to do if you ask me. I wanted so badly to leave and say to hell with the ultrasound, but I figured I had to be there until 12 to get the results of my blood tests anyhow, so I may as well just wait and see if I can get it done within that time frame. The room was warm; though it had a ceiling fan, it was not turned on, and I have to say that this made the waiting even worse. As I sat there waiting in a room full of pregnant women, I became frustrated at the lack of urgency on the part of the doctors and medical staff to do their jobs and provide the service we were all waiting on. This was mostly because I knew that as I had been instructed to do, these women also had not eaten at all today- and they are pregnant. Fasting and pregnancy don’t mix well and I felt angry that medical professionals could be so seemingly unconcerned that these women had been waiting since before I had gotten there, so for more than two hours at this point, and had probably been up even longer because most women here wake up around 5 AM or earlier to do household chores and prepare for the day, and had not eaten. Even writing this now causes me to get fired up.

After waiting at the hospital for three hours, I was finally called by the doctor for my ultrasound.

It was a quick procedure and roughly an hour later I got my results for both tests. My blood test came back negative for malaria, hep. B, and typhoid (which didn’t surprise me at all. Even if it was any of these things, it is probably too early to be able to see the virus in my blood stream despite having symptoms, as I said earlier in this post). My ultrasound also showed everything- liver, kidney, spleen- to be normal. So I asked for a consultation with the doctor. When I finally got to see the doctor, she said that sometimes it can take some time after you finish taking medicine to treat malaria to feel completely better. Essentially what it boiled down to was the typical: “We’re just going to have to wait and see.”

Five hours later, I was officially done at the hospital and went to eat. After finding a place that served great Mediterranean food and smoothies, I made my way back to Accra to do some errands for Brent’s and my trip. I ended up getting conned out of 300 cedis in the process (approx.. $150). Here’s what happened:

Traffic was terrible and there were no tro-tros heading in the direction I needed to go. As I waited for transportation, there was a woman next to me who called out to a taxi passing by with a man in the backseat. After they exchanged a few words, she climbed in the back seat of the cab. In Ghana, you can hire a private taxi for just yourself or whoever you’re traveling with, called a drop-in taxi, or you can get a shared taxi where everyone in the car is going in the same general direction, but can opt to be dropped at different areas along the route. Unless I am going somewhere where I absolutely don’t know my way, I typically take shared taxis because they are significantly cheaper. Thinking this taxi was a shared taxi, I went to ask the driver where they were going; he responded with a, “where are you going?” So I told him I needed to go to Medina or Station 37 (where I could then catch transport home) and he motioned for me to get in. Shortly after I got in, the woman had the driver drop her off, leaving just myself and the other guy in the back seat with the driver. As we sat in traffic, the man went to pay the driver his fair, handing him a 20 cedi bill. It’s pretty hard to pay for transport with a bill this big if the fair is less than 10 cedi because drivers don’t usually have a lot of change. Sure enough, the driver told the man he didn’t have change, so asked me if I had any smaller bills so I could change it. I changed it for him, handing him smaller bills, but he didn’t end up giving the guy sitting next to me his change. I didn’t think anything of this; five minutes later, the man asked the driver for his change. Rather than reach into his pocket, the driver reached across the passenger seat and pulled the seat lever so that the headrest of the front passenger seat was directly on my chest. I didn’t understand what was going on; I thought the driver was looking for even smaller bills to hand the man his change or something of that nature. I asked him what he was doing and the driver replied that he needed my help finding the lever for the seat. So I pulled the lever and pushed the seat back up. He quickly said, “No! Not that lever. The other one that brings the seat forward,” and pushed the seat back so that I could barely move again. I told him I couldn’t help him find the lever if he didn’t let me push the seat back up because I couldn’t move, as I pushed the seat forward again. He didn’t let me push it far. At this point, my bag was still safely in my lap, but was hindering my ability to help this guy find whatever lever he was talking about. The guy sitting next to me noticed this and said, “Here, let me help you with your bag.” I was so preoccupied and confused as to what the hell this taxi driver wanted me to do that I let him and said, “thank you.” Roughly a minute later, the driver miraculously found the lever he was looking for and brought the seat forward; apparently the foot of the man sitting next to me had been hurt or something (part of the con). The driver then told me they were going to the embassy, the opposite direction of where I needed to go, and he dropped me at a roundabout so I could take a tro-tro to where I needed to go. He didn’t ask me to pay, so I thanked him and left the car. When I finally got on a tro-tro and went to pay my fare, I noticed all my money, except for about 5 cedis, was gone. It was then that I realized exactly what had happened: the driver had created a diversion so that the guy could reach into my wallet and take my cash. I’m assuming that the guy paying with a 20 cedi and the taxi driver claiming he couldn’t change it and asking me for smaller bills was part of it: to see if I had any money in my wallet.

I’m sure some of you are wondering a lot of things when you read this, like, “Why were you carrying around that much money on you?” Well, if you’re wondering that, the answer is because I knew the hospital was going to cost me- it ended up costing me just over 200 cedi when all was said and done- and then I was planning on making some big purchases later in the day, so I brought it with me to avoid being charged an ATM fee again when I had made a large withdrawal the day before and had cash for what I needed to buy. I’m sure some of you are also asking why I let the guy help me with my bag if he was a stranger. Two reasons: (1) When you are being conned, it happens so quickly that you don’t have any time to process what’s happening and think that someone is taking advantage of you and (2) because I’ve never had a bad experience with trusting a Ghanaian when I’ve been lost or needed help of any kind; in my experience, people have always been very trustworthy, welcoming and friendly, so I didn’t think that the guy ‘helping’ me with my bag would be an excuse for him to steal my money.

But, here are a few positives that I found in the situation: First and foremost, at least I didn’t get hurt. Looking back at the situation, I was in a vulnerable place: I was a lone female in a cab with two men. What if I had refused to let him help me with my bag and they tried to get my money in a more forceful way? I mean that’s not a far-fetched hypothetical; it’s happened before and it’s happened here. Money is replaceable and I am willing to have whatever amount taken as long as I am safe and unhurt. Secondly, at least the douschebag that took my money didn’t take any of my credit cards or my whole wallet and was ‘nice’ enough to leave me bus fair to get home. Third, I think I learned a valuable lesson: even though I feel comfortable trusting people here in general, I still have to make sure I don’t let my guard down so much that I am perceived as naïve and leave myself vulnerable to being taken advantage of. I’ll admit, I find it’s a hard line to draw because I don’t want to seem as the unfriendly obruni who is disillusioned with Ghana or the culture, but I also can’t be so friendly that people see me as an easy target. Just as with everything in life, this was a learning experience and as I said before, I’m just thankful that I didn’t suffer anything other than a minor dent in my bank account.

Tomorrow it’s back to the hospital to get the results of my Hepatitis A test, then to do some more errands before Brent gets here on Saturday.

This will probably be my last post until after the New Year. Brent and I will be traveling during the ten days that he is here, so I won’t be spending much time in front of the computer.

I hope everyone has a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Until 2014,

Chelsea