outreach

it was mid morning and all the health volunteers and i had been standing around waiting for the taxi to arrive.

"c'mon kessie, let's go." secetry was suggesting we should all walk to meet the cab. some people grumbled and would have rather sat till it came, but he was the one organizing the Community Education trips so we followed him and walked down the path away from the clinic.

"i will stay in Boama today." he said. i looked at him and my body asked him why.

"because" he said "i have malaria. i am too sick. i'll stay here, can you go?"

"ya i can go."

"okay then, let's go."

we kept walking and a cab came hauling down the path, dust flying in all directions.

it stopped at our toes, practically touching our kneecaps.

"here is your transportation" he said, as he jiggled the door open so i could get in.

the 6 of us, excluding secetry, piled in. i was instantly wary. i knew the local cabs and have been studying them as closely as i have been studying birth.

the town has about 6 "bush taxis" and each car has a distinct personality. the one we were getting into i had decided after my last ride i would never accept a ride in it again. the space where the radio typically would be was hollowed out straight through into the engine.

that is just fine. most of the cars are like that. then the drivers usually stick foam or plastic bags in the space to keep us all from breathing the fumes. but this man had cut the top and bottom off of a plastic bottle and wedged that in the big vacant spot. the bottle served as a pipe blowing hot exhaust from the front of the car to the back. to make matters even worse, not all the windows roll down so you are stuck in the mess with no chance for an iota of clean air to breathe.

since i didn't have much option, except to stay behind, i looked at the bright side- i had gotten next to the window that opened half way.

the other half of the volunteer team had probably already arrived to our destination, they left early. i wished i was with them, or that i had brought a handkerchief to inhale into.

"bye kessie!" secetry waved and yelled.

i waved back. then i heard him ask faintly from the distance "do you know where you are going? you are going to the fetish village, to visit the fetish priest!"

a fetish village? a fetish priest? i could hear secetry cracking up walking slowly down the road. and we were on our way.

sometimes i'm not sure if it's dustier inside the car, or outside, but i was set on having my head outside the window the entire ride. i looked like the wind sniffing dog they had decided to bring.

we were all slowly becoming asphyxiated and no one seemed to care. i wondered what engine pollution could do to the mind. i thought about showing up at a fetish village freshly high off of exhaust. this could be an interesting day. i stuck my head out the window a little further.

the volunteers and the driver had gotten into a heated discussion about what exactly it is that the bible says. they were all speaking at once. i wasn't sure what they were referring to, i just kept hearing "but the bible says!" "but the bible says!".

the road was starting to get even more narrow, and the surroundings were closing in on the car. long branches swept the roof, and weeds taller than most children brushed the side of the car.

"come inside". someone had ordered me back into the gas chamber. i didn't want to go but due to the road ahead, it looked like i had to. i popped back in just as sharp plants began to make their way in through my window.

"this is a real bush road!" someone else exclaimed. everyone laughed in agreement.

the man whose lap i was practically sitting on top of asked me "in america, do you see roads such as these?"

"yes" i said. although i had never seen one.

"really?"

"well, in some places. but mostly not." i wanted to keep my answers short, that way i could breath less. he noticed my discomfort and alerted the group.

"our friend is getting beat by the road!" he said.

but it wasn't the road, it was the inside of the car. wasn't anyone else suffering? if so i wanted to walk the rest of the way with them! i didn't dare open my mouth, i pressed my lips together and gave him a fake smile.

the car continued down very rough road for quite some time until we finally reached the village.

"look, it is a fetish shrine." he pointed at a cement mound.

the taxi weaved it's way through the quaint settlement, dodging goats and babies scooting themselves through the dirt. the other car was parked underneath a large jacaranda tree that spanned shade throughout the center of the village. the driver was sitting in his seat, sleeping with his mouth wide open.

we parked next to them and unloaded.

the volunteers had already found the local wood benches and brought them to the tree. they were set up in a hexagon shape with people taking up every inch of them. i counted about 40 people.

i liked the feel of this village. it was shady and sloped. everything seemed intimate and nonthreatening. the wind was gentle and kept dropping leaves the size of breath mints down on all our heads. most people didn't notice, the leaves were so light. but each person i looked at had one or two stuck to their hair.

i didn't feel nervous like i had last tuesday. the place we visited the week prior had twice as many people and it was the first time i had made my 'care during pregnancy speech'. i had butterflies in my stomach before i stood up to talk. this time i hadn't brought the paper of all my facts but figured they were pretty easy to remember. Madame Lydia, the calm dignified director of Foundation Human Nature leaned over and asked me where my paper was.

i tapped on my temple. she gave me a long slow nod and grinned. "okay kaisy." and we were off. she gave her speech about nutrition, i stood up and talked about getting to the clinic early, bringing essential items, and a little bit about protecting yourself against HIV, and then the local doctor charmed everyone with his silly antics and easy going way. he discussed the importance of hand washing and how to recognize Buruli ulcer.

an old man, with pink lined eyes and a shirt blotched with huge bright spots, who had been sitting in a wooden lounge chair very still spoke up across the gathering addressing a guy my age. he chose his words as if picking the right fruit; slowly and carefully in a tone that usually is reserved for intimate conversations. the guy then turned to the doctor and spoke exactly what had just been said again. each person present interrupted in laughter, except me.

i leaned over to madame lydia and asked what was so funny.

"okay well the fetish priest wants to know why in the old days there weren't as many diseases and people weren't dying of so many sicknesses. but now they are. in the old days you could come from the farm and never wash your hands, then go and eat and be healthy. now that is not the case. he said he thinks it's because of the doctors. there are too many doctors and not enough fetish priests, is what he thinks."

i knew fetish priests were considered healers by some, that they were said to cure such things as infertility and disease. i had been to fetish markets in Ghana and a popular one in Togo, which donned everything from iguana heads to turtle shells and parrot wings. but i never had a context to place those items in. they were just another strange market array i got to gawk at. now i was looking at the man who used those things.

the doctor was trying to explain in a humorous and respectful way why he believed the priest was wrong. Madame Lydia rose to explain her point of view, that the pesticides and herbicides are causing ailments we never had to deal with before. she spoke to the fetish priests linguist, the guy sitting across the way, and the linguist relayed the message to the priest. he didn't seem convinced and i wondered how far our simple efforts would reach and how deeply they would penetrate. our time there was almost finished.

the doctor spoke loudly and asked in twi "who is going to start washing their hands BEFORE they eat?".

nothing but silence.

then, from a corner behind all the benches, a chubby mother who was standing holding her breastfeeding child quietly said she would. everyone stared at her. Madame Lydia took out a packet of salt and handed it in her direction.

suddenly agreements broke out all over the place.

"i will i will" "we will". now that something free was involved, assent flowed like water. so the attraction is universal, i noted.

each person who was in attendance got their complimentary packet of salt and left clapping and singing a simple song the doctor had made up.

'when i come from the farm
i wash my hands
when i come to my house
i wash my hands
when i come from the town
i wash my hands'

then he handed it off to them to fill in where they were coming from, and we all sang out "I WASH MY HANDS!"

song and dance seemed like an effective method to get a point across. everyone had turned the rhythm and the clapping into something that sounded quite beautiful and as the people dispersed i could hear it echoing down to the bottom of the village. women had gone into their huts singing, and the children had caught on quickly. we packed up and drove off singing inside the taxis. i had switched cars and was opening my mouth wide, enjoying fresh air and joining in "i wash my hands!"

porch talk

the mother of the owner of the house i live in has been staying with us for the past week. she lives in the village but her son has come to visit for a small time. he is staying in the room next to mine. so she has been around cooking up meals and taking care of him. she's an elderly woman, known to the village folk as "Auntie" with a lot of sass and a good command of the English language. she has a raspy laugh and wears big African frocks that hang low off of one shoulder. she shuffles through the house, busy in her own world. she also happens to be very opinionated.

i didn't know she spoke English so well because she always talks to me in Twi. I also didn't know she had been to California until just the other day.

the sun was going to set soon and i wasn't ready for darkness, so i grabbed an orange and a knife from the kitchen and went out to the front porch to enjoy the last glimmer of the days light.

Auntie was there, with an orange and a knife in her hand too.

"auntie?" i laughed. she turned around to look at me. i said "same same" and pointed to our fruits.

"ohhhh yes, haha, same same." she paused and then looked back up at me. "you shouldn't call me auntie."

"i shouldn't?"

"no because, how old is your mother?" she asked.

"54, i think." i kind of stopped counting after 50.

"you see? i am 73. i am older than your mother and you call me auntie?! you should call me grandmother."

"okay. i'll do that. but Sakola calls you auntie and so does NanaKwame, so i thought i'd call you auntie too. thats all."

"ohhh i see. yes, everyone calls me auntie. you can call me auntie, i understand."

the conversation was starting to make its way into absurd, so i shrugged and examined her eating her orange.

we both had sliced the skin off in small short strokes and left a pile of shavings sitting in front of us. i was getting better at this simple act. we cut the north pole off and sucked the juice out through the opening. her lips had spent a lifetime wrapping themselves around oranges and slurping out the juice, this style of enjoying my citrus was relatively new to me. i liked watching her staring out into the wild and clumsily spitting seeds onto her lap and the floor around us.

"my daughter, the one who built this house, she lives in California."

"oh really, where?"

"los angeles. i've even been there."

"you have? when?"

"a few years back i was there. actually i have been there two times. one time for, hmmmm, lets say, 3 months and the second time i stayed 1 year and a half. so you know, i know your place. ah California. i know it!"

i was surprised she had spent such a long time there.

"what did you do there?" i asked.

"ohh, i just spent time with my daughter, and my son in law and my granddaughter. they wouldn't let me work so i stayed and relaxed. hm, it was nice. ahh California. and Hollywood- do you know Hollywood?"

"yes" i laughed. "san diego, do you know san diego?"

"ahh yess, san diego. i know the place."

i straightened myself excitedly and told her that was my home.

"so" she said "you can call your mother and tell her auntie who stays here in boamadumase knows your home. i know the place. let's see, i went on a trip there and toured with my son-in-law. i was in this place, i think, hm, it was a museum but i can't remember. but it had many beautiful things. and i spoke twi..." her storytelling was beginning to turn into stage acting. she was pausing and using hand gestures and was lost in the tale "yes, i spoke the twi and some man heard. he walked over- he said- where are you from? i told him, i am an African. he said, from where? i said Ghana. then he spoke the twi back to me. eih!" she clenched her fists and shook them around. "i said eih! you know the twi? he said 'yes, i've been there.' oh! it was nice. so you see, when you go back you can speak the twi with him."

"auntie, san diego is big."

"yes, i know, but just you wait. you'll see. one day the same thing will happen to you. you'll hear the twi and then you can ask that person to be your friend. but you know, when i arrived in the airport my first time to California i was shaking. immigration took my papers and they told me to walk down the red carpet. they wanted to check me. i stood there, like this" she made her body tremble "like that. they said 'why are you here?' i told them to see my daughter. then they said 'when are you leaving?' i told them i didn't know. so they left me there. oh they were big men, and not very friendly. i was shaking. then, they asked if anyone was going to pick me up. i said, why yes of course, my son-in-law. they called him. 4 minutes later he was there and they let me go! ahh immigration, its not nice at all."

i felt instantly sad at how we treat foreigners. it seemed so accusatory. the two worlds colliding seemed unreal. little auntie going to visit her daughter up against a man trained and drained by 'the super power'. talk about culture shock.

i wanted to know how she saw Americans.

she replied "oh they are nice people. very friendly."

"and the food, did you eat our food?"

"oh YES! i told you, i know the place."

"what did you eat?" i asked. i had spent the last hour in my room, drawing pictures of Caesar salad, hamburgers, and pizza in my journal.

"well my favorite is pissa." she said.

"oh PIZZA! yes! did you eat hot dogs?"

she stroked her throat. "oh even hearing it is making me feel for it." she said, but for some reason i didn't believe her. hot dogs are disgusting, and the gesture she made was like she enjoyed swallowing them whole.

we looked at each other and laughed. i noticed how gummy her mouth was, and her teeth looked like tiny yellow watermelon seeds that had been tossed into her mouth and stuck in all directions.

"but you know, the sweetcorn! you have SWEETcorn. and your oranges are different than ours. same with your peppeh. and..."

she talked of what she knew, and told me where i can go to buy cocoa yams, plantain, cassava, and anything else i might need when i'm back home and want to make African food. granted, it is a few hours away from my home, but i don't doubt i will show up there one day eyeing every African in the place, desperate to speak twi and connect back to a time when i sat long hours in the front of a monstrous house and giggled till it was dark and the mosquitoes came.