September 9, 2007- First Week Finish (Alternate Title: Poo)

 

Went to bed with a stomach ache, had some Pepto, woke up with explosive diarrhea. 

My stomach felt gross and my tongue had a black sludgy film on it.  Edem thought it was colored from “taking alcohol” last night, which he does not condone.  I had brushed my teeth, I’m pretty sure.  Maybe I accidently drank some water?  Sonjelle says that black tongue can happen if your body’s PH is off, so maybe it was the Pepto.  I just hope I don’t have some disease from eating poo-contaminated things that kills me, starting with my tongue.  

In the tro tro on the way to the lake.

I wasn’t going to let a little bout of diarrhea and possible impending death stop me from going on the fieldtrip to Lake Volta, though.  Sonjelle and I were taking the kids, and only two of them had ever seen the lake even though it’s less than a fifteen-minute drive away.  I munched on Pepto and Imodium, Matilda handed Sonjelle a travel bag with a rice and hot sauce to-go lunch for each person, and we all squeezed into our tro tro.  

The older kids were psyched and sang and drummed on their knees the whole ride.  It was market day at the lake, so there were dozens of ladies walking along, straining under the weight of the full baskets of goods they carried on their heads.  Emma sat in my lap, gaping out the window as his world got bigger and bigger, and flew by faster and faster.

Justice and Isaac grew up near Lake Volta.  The brothers were proud tour guides for our wide-eyed troupe and negotiated with some fishermen to let us stand on the deck of a ferryboat and sit in a grounded canoe. 

Apart from dealing with the aftermath of stepping in what was almost certainly human feces, I spent most of the time counting the heads of our children as we bobbed and squeezed through the crowded market.  There wasn’t much room between the wooden stalls to begin with, and everyone was carrying huge bags of goods on their heads, so you couldn’t see very far in front of you.  I was relieved when Justice suggested he show us a different, less packed part of the lake. 

We all followed him on a worn dirt path to a residential area past the marketplace, mostly along the water.  Sad looking dogs escorted us from one circle of crumbling shelters to the next.  The trees were few and far between, and our crew started to look sweaty and dusty.  We skirted around discarded tin roofs, smoldering piles of coals, and clotheslines holding articles that appeared both clean and filthy at the same time.  We were deep into the community before I noticed any locals.  As we walked through the middle of one man’s dirt yard he growled “yavu” in a way that sounded like it could mean “dirty scoundrel dog.”   At the next house we were solicited for money, and the woman was less than pleased when we did not oblige, furrowing her brow, pursing her lips and flapping her hands at us to move on.  The next few locals greeted us similarly, and finally Sonjelle asked Justice to turn us back around. 

It took less time to get back to the main parking lot than it did for us to venture into the middle of the slum.  After all that excitement Sonjelle thought we could use a break and bought everyone a soda.  We “took minerals,” as it is called, at a little bar at the edge of the parking lot.  The kids were so delighted you would think it was Christmas morning.

While they relaxed, I went in search of a bathroom.  It wasn’t an emergency emergency yet, but it could turn into one.  There wasn’t one at the little bar, but one of the men who worked there told me to follow him.  We stopped in front of a huge cement building with a fresh coat of white paint on it.  Very fancy.  He pointed to a walkway that went to the back of the building.  I followed the walkway to a ramp leading to a large open doorway.  Inside was a woman selling toilet paper, but I had brought my own (you don’t wake up with explosive diarrhea and go on a fieldtrip in Ghana without bringing some toilet paper).  I shook my head and indicated that I had my own, and stepped in the ladies room.  There were a few stalls and one had a flushing toilet, which I selected.  Everything went just as planned.  As I left, the toilet paper woman called out something and was pointing at me.  Having no idea what she was saying, I just smiled, said “akpe ka-ka-ka,” which means roughly “thanks a lot” or “thank you many times,” and left.  She kept talking at me, and it occurred to me that she may have wanted me to pay even though I didn’t need toilet paper.  I was already down the path so I didn’t turn back.  I felt like there was the possibility that she decided that since I’m white she should ask me for money whether I used the toilet paper or not.  Or, I was supposed to pay regardless and I just stole five minutes on the can.   Part of me was a little afraid that I’d be scooped up and put in a jail cell, but no one came after me.

The kids sat and finished their soda while we waited for a tro.  Sonjelle and I were drinking from bags of water.  All drinkable water comes in little plastic bags.  They cost about 5 cents each (except for the $3 bags at the airport) and taste like plastic if you’re lucky.  If you’re not lucky, the water somehow tastes like a campfire or dirt.  I can imagine how water, stacked next to a fire, might taste smoky, but it’s beyond me how it would acquire the flavor of dirt.

The cab driver tried to overcharge us by 50 cents (most likely because we’re white girls with a bunch of kids) but Justice – our unofficial translator- sorted it out and we got our change.  I wonder if Justice enjoys constantly negotiating on behalf of yavos or if he finds it arduous. 

I made it home just in time (thank you again, Imodium).  

Speaking of poop, this evening two teenagers started taking a dump in the road outside our gate.  Now, I’ve seen people whip it out or hike up their skirt just about anywhere to pee, but despite the “DO NOT SHIT HERE” signs around town, I didn’t actually believe that people would just squat down and take a dump wherever they pleased.  Apparently we need more signs.  Justice got into a shouting match with them.  I can’t be sure, but it looked like he had to threaten bodily harm before they finally zipped up and trotted away.  Ridiculous!

Edem says another volunteer is coming tomorrow.  He can’t pick the guy up because he’s supposed to be at training, and I guess Elvis can’t either.  Elvis is useless.  So, Sonjelle might go pick him up, and I might take two kids to the hospital for a clinic. 

What a place.  What a day.

September 8, 2007, Evening- Keeping Score

September 8, 2007

Evening

I felt like having a beer.  After spending the day at the hospital with Kafui and Ernestina, Sonjelle needed one, too. 

Margaret Marquart Hospital is only just down the road, but I haven’t been there.  From Sonjelle’s descriptions, I don’t think I want to, either.  The children’s ward, like the rest of the hospital, is understaffed, and the staff are under qualified.  Sonjelle has stories: in the waiting room next to a man with broken, dislocated bones, moaning for hours on end; in the hallway because no rooms were open, sitting next to an expectant mother who was alone and wailing on the floor; laying awake all night with one of our babies in a cot next to a crib where the child’s soul had passed on, body forgotten.  I am sure there are stories of healing and recovery, but those aren’t the ones that keep her up at night, and a sorrow shared is a sorrow cut in half. 

We hacked away at our day’s sorrows on the walk to the Maxi Spot.

We bought our “Big Star” brews, which set us back about 80 cents each, and sat in white plastic chairs at a white plastic table under the canopy, as far as we could get from the subwoofers that thumped with early 90’s hip hop and Celine Dion. 

Soon after sitting we were joined by Tim, a Peacecorps volunteer, and Vin, a German Expatriate.  I made it through the small-talk, and then Sonjelle thankfully took over as the conversation turned toward the finer points of capitalism, socialism, and international stereotypes.  I started zoning out as they started exploring Marxist theories as applied to the local economy, but was snapped out of it when Tim asked me how long I’d be in Kpando. 

“Two weeks.  I have about a week left of my stay.”

“See.  That’s part of the problem,” Vin said, flapping his hand in my direction.  Part of what problem, I wasn’t sure, but I felt ashamed just the same.  “You young Americans think you can come to this place and make change in two weeks and then you go home to some high fives and never think of it again.” 

I blushed.  “I just wanted to volunteer.  And experience a new place.  And.  And hug some kids.”  I didn’t mention how number five on my “List of Ways to Make the Most Impact” was “You Know… Make an Impact.”

“Yeah.  And what of those kids?” he spat out to the whole table.  “I see these volunteers come and go.  And those kids.  They stay.  They stay and watch you go.  What of them.  They have nothing.  They have no one.  And you come and go.”  He dismissed me with a flick of his wrist.

“Vacation volunteers,” Tim said down his nose at me.

But I haven’t done anything wrong, I thought to myself.  I just wanted to...  I don’t know.  Do something good.  I came here to be helpful.  Vin, you’re a self-righteous prick.  Being an expat doesn’t make you better than the rest of us.  And neither does being a Peacecorps volunteer, Tim, so quit nodding your head.  But the next sip of Star couldn’t extinguish the fire that had re-kindled in my throat.  They weren’t wrong.  I’m going to go home in a week, and what of those kids? 

I threw back the last gulp of my Big Star and stood up, steadying myself for a second before heading to the bathroom.  Quote, Bathroom, unquote. 

This adventure began by pushing open a dirty swinging door with the back of my hand.  The door led to a positively filthy four foot wide alley between two glorified shacks with a ditch running between them.  The door didn’t lock so I had to hold it shut by pinching a rusty nail that was sticking out where a handle might have been.  Closing the door left me perched on a cement strip about as wide as my foot.  It was too dark to see much, but I could tell that something, possibly another door, was blocking the alley at the street, and piles of beer crates blocked prying eyes from the other direction.  The opposite side of the ditch didn’t have a ledge, so I couldn’t straddle it while holding on to the rusty nail to pee straight down.  My only option was to step to the side of the door, hold the nail with one hand, pull up my skirt with the other hand, and lean back against the building with my hips jutting out, and hope I could get enough of an arch so I wouldn’t have to walk home with my feet smelling like urine. 

Success.  With minimal backsplash I pissed into the ditch like a champ. 

Daily score: Ghana (specifically Matilda and Vin) 2 points, Dana (Bathroom Skills) 1. 

(photo credit: Erika, 2010)

September 8, Afternoon- The Superhero & The Heart-breaker

September 8

Afternoon

Justice, eating in his pinstripe pants.

Justice, wearing his favorite pair of white pants with pink pinstripes (girls pants, donated to the home), was strolling, as he does, by himself around the periphery of the compound listening to his tape player.  He’s 14 years old, born January 27, 1993.  He and his brother Isaac are Kpando natives.  The two of them used to wake up and sell kenke at the market every morning from 5:00AM to 8:00AM, go to school until 2:00PM, then work in the farm until bed.  Justice came to HardtHaven every single morning for a week straight asking Edem to allow his brother and him to come live at the home.  His mother is alive and hasn’t been tested, but their father died from HIV/AIDS.  Although they didn’t exactly meet the criteria and weren’t referred by a social worker, Edem saw Justice’s potential and felt compassion for the boys’ situation, so he welcomed them into the home.  Justice is a very smart boy and pours over nonfiction any chance he can get, asking a million questions while he reads.  He wants to be a pilot someday because they are rich and get to see the world.  But for now, that pair of headphones are almost always sticking out of his ears, connected to a tape player that’s usually playing some Bob Marley music (they call Reggae music “Culture”). As the oldest boy, he’s often too old or too “cool” to play Memory and Uno with the other kids.  I figured he needed to learn a grown-up game.

I’ve never claimed to be much of a chess player, but I can see enough moves ahead that I can hold my own without embarrassing myself too terribly against most opponents.  I just don’t like to play very often, because I don’t like to lose.  Today I taught Justice, and by our third game he was asking me “are you sure you want to move there, Auntie?”

While Justice was defeating me, Christopher and Junior started playing catch with a bouncy-ball. 

Christopher, giggling.

Christopher, Juliet’s younger brother, is an adorably goofy and twiggy five year old (probably— DOB unknown) with big ears and an even bigger grin.  His knobby little knees are always covered in band-aids from his klutzy falls.  He’s a Superhero, you see, and he needs to fly from place to place, pausing only to strike muscle poses for his adoring Auntie-fans.  He taught me the Ghanian finger-snap handshake (regular handshake, slide to fingers-facing-up handshake, back to regular handshake, then slide your middle finger along the other person’s middle finger and snap the other person’s finger with your middle finger and thumb.)  It takes some practice, but he’s an expert, ‘cause he’s cool like that.

Junior, after playing with chalk.

Junior is a heartbreaker.  He cuddles up, shyly at first, with his big, puppy-dog eyes, and melts you into a puddle.  At age five (DOB July 14, 2002) he was Hardthaven’s first border, and in three short months his legs have straightened out so much that he can run like the wind, in a fit of infectious giggles, when chased by Aunties threatening to tickle.  “Auntie, no, stop!”  And then he gives you the puppy-dog eyes until you tickle again, and lets you until he’s out of breath – “Auntie, no!” and so on, until he’s tired you out.

The Superhero & The Heart-breaker

Today the Superhero and the Heartbreaker couldn’t control the wild bouncy ball, though.  They chased it through a game of Uno, sending cards flying.  They scrambled after it, stomping through the circle of older girls who were reading and gossiping at the picnic table on the porch.  They clambered after it as it soared over the twins, waking them from their nap in the shade.  They raced to prevent it from ambushing the kitchen… but they were too late. 

It flew through the open door, wack wack wacked against the wooden table and the floor, and then suddenly changed directions, slipping through poor Christopher’s fingers, and smacked Sister Matilda in the rear.

The boys froze for a brief second, eyes on Sister Matilda’s backside, then scrambled after the assailant, and booked it like their lives depended on it. 

Sister Matilda, the lumbering Sasquatch, thundered after them, bellowing in Ewe “MA-POH!”  (I will beat you!)  A switch appeared in her hand, like Darth Vader using The Force to summon a Light Saber.  She re-emerged from the boy’s room with Christopher shrieking and swinging from her claw, trying desperately to escape, and Junior, head hanging, tears streaming, following behind them.

She pushed Christopher into a stool and held him there as she hiked up her skirt and plopped onto the chair next to him.  She barked something in Ewe and Christopher bravely got up to lean over her knee. 

I found myself running across the compound, sweeping Junior up from his puddle of tears and turning to Sister Matilda.  She was ready for me.  She yanked Junior out of my arms and dismissed me with a firm shake of her hand, an abominable look, and a grunt. 

I just stood there as she caned Christopher.  My head ached and there was fire in my throat.  He squeaked a little each time the switch came down.  My knees felt weak. 

When she finished, she motioned for Junior.  Christopher, holding his backside, tears welling, stepped in front of her reach, shaking his head, whispering something.  Sister Matilda grunted and put Christopher back on her knee, starting over again.

The boys ran off to their room, hand in hand, to console each other.  The show was over, so the rest of the kids went back to their cards and their books.  The air thinned back out and the birds started chirping again.

I washed my face and went back to the chess game. 

“Justice, are the children beaten often?” I croaked.

“Yes, when they do not behave.  But Sister Matilda likes to beat too much,” he whispered back.

September 8, 2007, Morning- Hm. Delicious.

 

September 8, 2007

Morning

Sister Matilda plopped my plate in front of me this morning and the egg smell made my stomach turn.  I love eggs.  And except for the excessive salt, these are delicious.  Free range and organic, I’m sure.  It’s just that four days in a row is a bit much.  As is rice.  And yam.  Every meal is a slight variation of the last, and I think Sister Matilda is testing our tolerance by making each dish incrementally spicier.

Fried Yam & Salsa

Boiled Yam & Stew

The cornerstone of each meal is an enormous pile of carbohydrates, which are boiled, fried, or mashed.  When the rice and yam are boiled they come with stew, which is a misnomer, because when you think of a bowl of stew you envision chunks of delicious vegetables and a thick savory sauce.  This stew, however, is not stew.  It’s a tomato paste based dipping sauce.  Sometimes it has bits of scrambled egg, sometimes soggy cabbage, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, visible slips of red onion.  If the rice is fried, it’s called “jollof,” which is like fried rice, minus anything resembling a vegetable, plus extra oil and hot pepper.  I complain, but jollof is a welcomed respite from the plain rice or boiled or fried yam.  When the yam is fried it comes with a garnish of salsa, which is nice because you can actually see fresh tomato ground up, even if all you can taste is hot pepper. 

Peanut Stew & Rice Ball

Banku & Soup

Anything mashed comes with “soup,” which is also more of a dipping sauce, but at least it usually has a few chunks of okra or garden egg (tomato sized eggplant, but white in color).  A half cup of soup is served with rice balls, banku (bang-koo), akple (auwk-pl-le), kenkey (ken-kay), or fufu (foo-foo).  Rice balls are mashed (yes, mashed rice), shaped into a ball or a big lump, and served only with peanut stew.  Banku is ground and fermented corn that gets boiled into a playdough-like paste.  It tastes almost like unbaked sourdough and corn.  It’s like putting warm, sour, slimy, gooey playdough into your mouth.  I can’t decide if I like it or if it’s the worst thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.  Akple is exactly the same, except it’s not fermented, so it’s much more palatable.  It’s almost like eating very fine polenta dough.  Kenkey is exactly like eating polenta.  Fufu is made by boiling either yam, or cassava and plantains, and then pounding the shit out of it until it turns into a shiny, slimy, thick dough.  It’s every child’s favorite, but it’s so exhausting to make that they only get to have it on Christmas.  Apparently it’s eaten without chewing.  It’s the one thing I haven’t tried so far.  Edem says I can’t try it because it’s unsanitary because you sweat so much making it.  I think it’s just too much work, so he doesn’t want to ask Matilda.  I certainly don’t. 

There are specific rules as to what soup goes with which mashed carb, but I haven’t figured that out yet.  Some go with peanut soup, others with okra or garden egg.  Some with fish, some with chicken or goat.  At home I eat fish, but, shudder, not here.  The smell is abhorrent. 

It’s a shame, because the Volta Lake is so close that it’s considered part of the Greater Kpando area.  A five minute, thirty peswa cab ride will put you on the shore, standing next to the fishermen.  The minute the millions of tilapia are caught, they go straight into the frier and then to market, carried in tro tros and on women’s heads.  And that’s where they sit in row upon row of baskets for days in the sun with the flies.

Red Red

Bleh.

My mantra before lunch is “please no fish, please be red red.”  Which, as I mentioned, is delightful beans and delicious fried plantain.  I could eat a truckload of fried plantains.  They’re soft with little crispy bits, a little bit salty and a little bit sweet.  Sometimes they’re made with a little hot pepper.  MMMMmmmmm.

Usually Sister Matilda asks Sonjelle “what will you take for lunch.”  This morning Sonjelle was at the hospital with Nancy (possibly malaria), so Sister Matilda asked me instead.

“How about, um, red red?”

“Plantain finish,” she spat.  That means they’re all gone.  She looked at me accusingly.  She thinks that we should buy all the food at the market for ourselves (we already paid for food and board through Cosmic Volunteers).

“Uhh… soup with rice?”  That sounded good.  A nice little change from rice with hot sauce, or soup with fermented dough.

"It is not possible" she answered curtly.  "You will take rice with fish stew," and she turned on her heel, snatching up my empty egg sandwich plate.

(Photo of Fried Yam & Salsa courtesy of Erika, 2011; Photo of Peanut Stew & Rice Ball courtesy of Kristen, 2011)