Our quiet village, Boamadumase, was flooded with Methodists this last weekend. Religious men and women (with children) from many major local cities crowded themselves into tro-tros and ventured to visit us- the bush folk.
I had some idea it was going to be an active weekend, mostly because big groups of sweaty men were assembling over twenty tents at the local park, and I heard mutterings of "a camp meeting." I had heard a great deal about camp meetings; weekend long events held in various places. People pilgrimaging to pour out their hearts and souls 24 hours a day. Now I was noticing faces I had never seen before were meeting inside houses and classrooms to pray and sing with a mighty force.
When Simone and I went to buy our beans one morning, a woman dressed in white from head to toe walked over to us with a glowing smile. "Good Morning ..." she said, tilting her head with a twinkle in her eye. She wasn't a villager, but I recognized her. "Do you remember me?" she asked.
"I do."
"From where?" She pressed her palms together in namaste.
"From the prayer meeting, 2 days ago." I said.
Riding our bikes through town that day, both Simone and I were wooed into following the beautiful singing we heard coming from down the hill. We coasted through a soccer game some small boy's were playing, and parked our bikes at the local school. The voices were passionate and loud. We jumped off and walked the perimeter of the building. "They're worshipping God." I said.
Simone couldn't believe it, and replied "I've never heard anything like this, it's incredible. Their voices are amazing. Do you think we can go in?" One can never be close enough when drawn by a mix of authenticity and beauty, and, in less than 2 minutes a man popped his head out and invited us in. We spent the next hour pacing the dark cool room, clapping and singing and praying and observing.
"Yes, that is correct." The woman said. "And do you know what we are doing now?"
She was with a group of about fifteen others, all dressed in white as well.
"No. I don't."
She shifted her neck in, so that our faces were all uncomfortably close. "We are fisssshhhinnng." And when she said this The Smile returned to her face.
I looked at Simone, but before we had time to process the woman clarified for us. "Human fishing, for Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ."
I looked up and down the road and saw that the visitors had metastasized, into smaller formations, and they were clinging to all parts of village life. Some were nodding and talking to the lady who sells bread, others were sharing with the taxi drivers, a few were wandering looking for a catch.
"Ahhhhhhhh." We replied.
"Will you be coming to the prayer and worship meeting tonight, at the park? I hope to see you there! There will be plenty people and we will go alllllll night!"
Simone and I shot each other glances, and she said, "Sure, yeah yeah, we probably will go, I think-" and then I took over "Ya, maybe later, we'll see you?"
"Okay wonderful. Then tonight, we shall meet."
On the walk home I had a mental debate in my head and tried to examine closely why this form of evangelism always makes me feel conflicted. I wondered if we'd actually go later that evening.
But when the sun set, and darkness settled in, both Simone and I had grown restless. Half of my best friends in the village are Methodists (already) and I knew they were at the gathering. It was my last night in the village before I would go traveling and head back to the U.S., so I figured it could double as a great venue to say goodbye. We decided to go. "And you should wear your African outfit, they'll all love it." Simone reminded me.
The health volunteers had adorned me with a gift of a blouse, skirt, and shoes. They had picked out the colorful traditional Kente fabric and secretly had it sewn into an outfit which actually fit me perfectly. On the day of the CPR teaching, we all said goodbye and they gave me the present. I particularly liked the top, how the stiff shoulders blossomed up and out, in a design that would only make a lover of 80's fashion jealous.
"Okay, but the skirt is kind of funny here at the ankles, it makes me walk like a duck. So we'll have to go slow."
When I tried it on, it looked nice, it was just hard to walk in. I went back to Ma the Midwife's house to show her. I know how excited she gets when I wear the local garb. "Ei! Kaisy! You are looking beautiful! The African dress, it suits you! Ei Kaisy... you will have to marry a Ghanaian." She couldn't stop smiling or taking her eyes off me.
"Ma really likes you eh?" Simone said on our slow walk to the "camp meeting". We could hear people warming up on the microphones, a loud screeching from the speakers permeated the air every few seconds or so.
"Yeah, makes me laugh considering where we started from." The first time I met Ma she made it clear she wasn't interested in teaching anyone, and she had a general distaste of my even being around. I think she said, "But why did you come here if you are not even a nurse? And you know nothing of birth?"
I couldn't believe tonite was my last night in the village. I said a prayer, perhaps a little greedy but I wanted all the experience I could get.
Please send me three births tonight!
For some reason, Simone and I decided to purposely leave our flashlight at home. I thought it would make us less recognizable, maybe we could even blend in, especially in my skirt and top, but when we walked up to the gathering I think it was our skin that gave us away. Everyone took note that the oburoni's had arrived. Hundreds and hundreds of plastic chairs had been placed in rows underneath a ring of tents. People filled the chairs, old people, young people, people intent on a purposeful time, and all dressed in white. They looked like a blanket of snow covering the park. We found our place next to my friend and roommate from last year, Sakola.
Everybody stood up and began to sing, great loud voices, this time contained by no walls. Sakola told me my dress looked nice, very nice, kama kama. I said thank you. The crowd broke out dancing, frenzied wild dancing, dancing for Jesus.
Somebody poked me on my shoulder and I turned around to see one of my friends, the drummer of a local church. "Kasim" he said. He's been calling me this for a year and I haven't the heart to pronounce my name correctly, because it's gone past that point. (When is that point any way?)
"Hello!" I said, stretching to turn sideways.
"How are you? And your friend? How is she?"
I looked at Simone so she could answer, and stop being referred to in the third person.
He pulled up a chair and sat next to us. "Do you like to sing?"
"Yeah. I do." I like to sing alone, when no one is listening, or really loudly when everyone else is doing the same.
"Great. And your friend, does she like to sing?"
"Simone? Yes, Simone loves to sing. She has a beautiful voice too."
"Then, will you sing?"
"Sure." I thought he meant at that moment, amidst the crowd.
"Oh great. Then, what song will you sing?"
When I realized he wasn't talking about 'singing along' but going up in front of this crowd of over 400 people and singing on the microphone I started laughing. "Oh you mean, go up there and sing?"
He threw his head back and laughed. "Ohhhh Kasim! Oh ha haa ha. Are you feeling shy?"
I looked at Simone. "We should." She said.
"Yes." He agreed.
My stomach sank when I pictured weak little self standing in front of all these people to perform.
"Anyone who wants to worship God can go up."
The fact that he made me realize it wasn't about ME wasn't helping much.
I looked at Sakola, who happens to be the most zealous singer in the village, with one of the most impressive voices. I asked him "Are you going to sing?"
He looked down into his lap, tried to contain a laugh, and didn't say a thing.
"Are you?" I asked again. "Sakola, answer me. Are you?"
He said in Twi that he hadn't written his name on the list so he wouldn't be able to. It was a lie. He didn't want to stand up in front of half a thousand people is what it really was, and frankly neither did I. But for some reason, looking at Simone, I couldn't refuse. Her eyes turned puppy dog and she looked genuinely excited.
"Okay, sure. I"ll sing."
Later that evening, Simone mentioned "I was surprised how quickly they got us up to the mics." We didn't wait more than two minutes before we were ushered, me taking delicate baby steps, across the lawn.
My drummer friend's final parting words as he pushed me out to the stage were "be sure to sing gospel!" The next thing we knew, Simone and I both had microphones pressed up to our chins and an eager band backing us. We chose a song we had only sung together twice, on a long car ride the day before. It is a gospel song I learned in Kenya, simple really, but somehow in a bout of nervousness it suddenly seemed incredibly complex.
"Ready?" She whispered, her chest puffed out like she was holding her breath too.
"Ya."
The speakers projected our voices so loudly that the first word we sang startled us into a fit of laughter. Everyone else laughed too. We pulled our hands down to our sides so our voices wouldn't get picked up. "Simone..." "Yeah?" "Uh..." "Ready? Let's start again?" "Okay. Uh..." "Ready?" "Yeah I guess so."
"One two three"
Once we began for the second time, and as long as I couldn't hear my voice, everything was fine. I had to sing barefoot, going barefoot always makes me feel better. A few times we sang different words, or my voice crackled and fell out of tune, or shook from being nervous, but after a while it wasn't so bad. We repeated our verses, I even threw my arms up in the air a few times for dramatic affect, imaging that with this simple gesture the mass of people would sing along.
They didn't.
I was starting to remotely enjoy myself, so much so, that I might have fallen to one knee and brought a fist to my chest if my skirt would have allowed me the freedom. When we finished, and I glanced over at Simone, she had an air of thrill circling her and I knew she wanted more.
My drummer friend walked up and gently took her mic. "Now" he said "we'll sing in Twi." And he picked a song he was certain I knew, because he watched my lips sing it in church last year.
Here we go. I thought, cringing but accepting my fate. This was my pay back for watching the Ghanaian American Idol with Efreeyeh and laughing at the parts where English lyrics were sang in muddled made up words. I knew that I could sing this song, but the words? I only knew half of them, the rest were just sounds.
But now I was being blasted from a microphone for the entire village and then some to hear. But thankfully, my mind created a quick solution to the problem and every time I was forced to sing a word I didn't know I pulled the microphone away from my face and threw my head back towards the sky like I was Celine Dion. I think I fooled most of them, maybe even my friends, because when we were finished and Simone and I walked back to our seats, people walked by us and said in Twi "you have done well."
"That was really fun." Simone said, cracking up and looking around. I had to relax and breathe for a few minutes, feeling a little out-of-bodyish. But the feeling only increased when my old pastor walked up to me and said "You must go quickly, I have just sent a church member to the clinic to deliver. Go fast."
Monday, May 26, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Forgot to Mention
We had 20 of the 26 health volunteers gathered together in the early morning. They were semi-punctual, something to appreciate in a culture that doesn't count minutes, let alone hours. The days lesson was the Heimlich maneuver. We explained that when a person is choking there is a very efficient method to dislodge the object in their throat, then, step by step, with pictures, simple sentences, and Simone pumping her fist into my stomach, we taught. After I finished my mock choke, and she saved my life, I was gently guided down to the ground and rolled over into recovery position.
Everyone clapped.
"Now" Simone said to the translator, "it is their turn to try."
A few men stood up and walked into the center of the circle. One very tall lanky man, Moses, a health volunteer who has bought my heart with weekly batches of sweet papaya, paired up with the littlest guy I have seen in Ghana. The little guy went behind Moses and reached his arms up and around his frame. His hands barely met. I tried to be serious but the group wasn't helping, pointing and laughing and slapping their knees.
Three sets of people were standing up, about to bravely attempt the Heimlich for the first time. They were timid to begin so we prompted them a bit. "You can start."
The men standing erupted into a slow motion, melodramatic, reenactment of a picnic time fiasco. Watching Moses I almost felt I was the chicken bone in his throat. The other two were just as good, heaving and flopping themselves forward, making us all uncertain of what would be their fate in the near future. The uncomfortable hacking sounds of choking, the desperate grabbing and clawing at throats, I began to wonder if some of the health volunteers, had been given a different opportunity, could have excelled in theatre, or movies.
I turned to Simone, and immediately we laughed. "Are they going to stop?"
She shrugged.
"Okay," I said to David, the translator, "tell them to practice what they learned now."
The choking scene gave way into the upchuck scene, which progressed into the object flying out the mouth and the each person, relieved, passing out into the supporters arms. Eventually, all of them ended up resting on their sides, with eyes closed peacefully.
When the session was over, and everyone felt they were competent life savers, we had a brief discussion where the curious (and confused) asked more and more questions. Why can't we stick our fingers down the throat and pull the object out? We heard self-induced vomiting is just as good as the Heimlich, is this true? What do you do if you are choking alone?
The questions are only the first course in a feast of spawned conversation and realizations of cultural differences. When Simone and I shared that generally Westerners don't eat fish bones and wouldn't be able to successfully crack a chicken bone, let alone chew and digest it, they laughed.
"As for we Africans" one of the feistier ones began "we like the bones too much! We crrrrrrack them, mmm, mmm mmm, and eat alllllllll. Delicious!"
"Yes, our teeth are strrrronnng!" He smiled and tapped on his side ones to prove. Ironically, this man was missing his front tooth.
The women watched and shook their heads, laughing at the men's enthusiasm over bones.
"Calcium." Someone said, and they all clicked their tongues in agreement. Then he asked, "If you people don't eat the bones, where do you get your calcium?" We made it simple and said "milk".
The very last comment, muttered by one of the shyer volunteers and translated by David, was this. "Usually when we are choking, we just cough for a short time and then we are fine. That is how we do it here. I don't think we people will want to be using this every time we feel to choke."
I could tell it was an honest expression, that he was conflicted in even speaking up, but that he just needed to share Somehow, in the entirety of our teaching, Simone and I had forgotten to mention this was for EMERGENCIES only, in life and death situations. The group was thinking we were advocating jumping up and running over to a person, gripping them from behind, and thrusting your fist into them every time they didn't swallow well.
When it was properly relayed this was a life saving technique a wave of understanding moved through the crowd.
Yesterday's lesson was on CPR, and it began like this.
"In case of an emergency..."
Everyone clapped.
"Now" Simone said to the translator, "it is their turn to try."
A few men stood up and walked into the center of the circle. One very tall lanky man, Moses, a health volunteer who has bought my heart with weekly batches of sweet papaya, paired up with the littlest guy I have seen in Ghana. The little guy went behind Moses and reached his arms up and around his frame. His hands barely met. I tried to be serious but the group wasn't helping, pointing and laughing and slapping their knees.
Three sets of people were standing up, about to bravely attempt the Heimlich for the first time. They were timid to begin so we prompted them a bit. "You can start."
The men standing erupted into a slow motion, melodramatic, reenactment of a picnic time fiasco. Watching Moses I almost felt I was the chicken bone in his throat. The other two were just as good, heaving and flopping themselves forward, making us all uncertain of what would be their fate in the near future. The uncomfortable hacking sounds of choking, the desperate grabbing and clawing at throats, I began to wonder if some of the health volunteers, had been given a different opportunity, could have excelled in theatre, or movies.
I turned to Simone, and immediately we laughed. "Are they going to stop?"
She shrugged.
"Okay," I said to David, the translator, "tell them to practice what they learned now."
The choking scene gave way into the upchuck scene, which progressed into the object flying out the mouth and the each person, relieved, passing out into the supporters arms. Eventually, all of them ended up resting on their sides, with eyes closed peacefully.
When the session was over, and everyone felt they were competent life savers, we had a brief discussion where the curious (and confused) asked more and more questions. Why can't we stick our fingers down the throat and pull the object out? We heard self-induced vomiting is just as good as the Heimlich, is this true? What do you do if you are choking alone?
The questions are only the first course in a feast of spawned conversation and realizations of cultural differences. When Simone and I shared that generally Westerners don't eat fish bones and wouldn't be able to successfully crack a chicken bone, let alone chew and digest it, they laughed.
"As for we Africans" one of the feistier ones began "we like the bones too much! We crrrrrrack them, mmm, mmm mmm, and eat alllllllll. Delicious!"
"Yes, our teeth are strrrronnng!" He smiled and tapped on his side ones to prove. Ironically, this man was missing his front tooth.
The women watched and shook their heads, laughing at the men's enthusiasm over bones.
"Calcium." Someone said, and they all clicked their tongues in agreement. Then he asked, "If you people don't eat the bones, where do you get your calcium?" We made it simple and said "milk".
The very last comment, muttered by one of the shyer volunteers and translated by David, was this. "Usually when we are choking, we just cough for a short time and then we are fine. That is how we do it here. I don't think we people will want to be using this every time we feel to choke."
I could tell it was an honest expression, that he was conflicted in even speaking up, but that he just needed to share Somehow, in the entirety of our teaching, Simone and I had forgotten to mention this was for EMERGENCIES only, in life and death situations. The group was thinking we were advocating jumping up and running over to a person, gripping them from behind, and thrusting your fist into them every time they didn't swallow well.
When it was properly relayed this was a life saving technique a wave of understanding moved through the crowd.
Yesterday's lesson was on CPR, and it began like this.
"In case of an emergency..."
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Better than beans
I heard a taxi pull up in front of the clinic. It was 5 in the morning and the driver laid on his horn a few times before coming to a complete stop. I jumped up to peer out the shutters, half asleep, but hoping it was a case for maternity. The last few dramatic drop offs were mostly for the health clinic, some boy who had a skirmish with his best friend and got slingshotted in the head with a rock, a sick grandmother who couldn't walk, and a teenage child with cerebral malaria whose neck was convulsing sideways. I wasn't in the mood for any of that, I wanted a birth. No better way to start your day.
I kept my eyes focused in on the back seat, where one woman was scooching across and pulling herself out and the other was gathering together a bag of items.
Simone, somewhere between dream state and semi-consciousness asked "is it one?" and then buried her head in the pillow.
I could confidently answer 'yes' after i saw how the woman's sarong jutted out in front and hung down over her globe-like midsection. i went out to greet and invite them in.
"You can go back there." i said in English, too early to think in Twi. She stared at me, perplexed. I tried again. "Ko, ho."
She walked back to the labor ward just as i heard someone else come in. It was Efreeyeh. "Have you already checked her?" She asked.
"No, she just came."
"Then check her Akua."
"Okay, I'll go then-"
"I will go." She said, finishing my sentence. It was our method of learning. We would check how far a woman has dilated, keep it a secret until we both had our conclusions, then tell each other what we found at the same time. This is a tricky part of midwifery for me, considering how different every woman's interior is and not having a lot of instruction while I'm doing it, I literally have to feel my way through this.
We both had our idea and were looking at one another's eyes. "Go." i said.
"6" she said.
"9" i said.
"EI! Akua! 9! You say 9? It isn't 9. She is only 6. Maybe 6 to 7."
I was the first to admit if there was fault it was probably mine. "Okay, 6, sounds good." I made a mental note that 6 cm should feel similar to that.
"No but you say 9."
"Yeah but I don't really know. You've been doing this full time for 2 years. I trust you."
Ma the midwife came in shortly. I asked her to check and she said "AH! Why? But you and Efreeyeh are perfect!" I told her that I thought there was meconium (a child's first stool, and generally not a great sign) and I needed her opinion. "But can't you tell?" She queried.
"Yes, but I want you to check too."
"Hand me some gloves."
I gave her the only ones available, small tight bright purple gloves. She is a large woman with hands as plump as fresh baked muffins.
"Kaisy! Ah! How am I supposed to see what is going on when you give me the purple color? And what size are these? AH! Can I see meconium if I wear these?! Ah! Where is Efreeyeh? Go find me some white color."
I ran over to the injection room on the other side of the clinic and brought back white gloves. She put them on and confidently thrust her fingers into the mother. "6", she said pulling them out and ridding herself of the gloves. She plopped down in the chair. There was no mention of the meconium, so I asked. She seemed a little annoyed this morning. I tried to tread lightly with my inquisitiveness.
"There is meconium, so we will monitor the baby every 30 minutes with the fetalscope to assure it isn't distressed. If it is distressed I will refer her to the hospital."
A few hours passed and before long it was 10 o'clock. Still not a lot had changed. The mother's contractions weren't strong, not a lot of progression was being made, and I was getting hungry. But I didn't want to miss a thing so I asked Simone if she would sacrifice missing the birth to go and buy us food from town.
Suddenly some heavy groans were heard and both Simone and I decided to abandon the food.
Ma bellowed out at us "Won't you take your breakfast! Go buy food! Don't wait here it will be some time before this woman delivers. Won't you go and buy your food? If not, all the food will finish."
It didn't seem like it was going to be that long, and looking at my friend we both couldn't help but laugh. The food in the village is limited, and the best breakfast they have, beans, sells out by 10:30. If you don't make it in time for that, you are lucky if you get anything. Lunch is not any more exciting, with plain white rice being the only food available.
What to do?
"Beans" Simone said, raising her left hand up like one half of a scale "or birth." She brought her other hand up, and balanced out the two. "Beans or birth, beans or birth?"
"Beans." I said.
"Yes, beans." Ma said. "And buy me coco (sour porridge) while you are out. Tell them no sugar in my coco."
I wrote on a piece of paper how to say "I want coco with no sugar" and drew out a little map of where to find the coco lady. We laughed considering the 'downtown' can be traversed in 15 seconds, yet the lady selling coco had remained a mystery. She was the one dipping a plastic cup into a huge metal bowl, pouring the contents into little plastic bags, and sometimes i mentioned, she sold peanuts.
Simone returned having successfully completed her first solo mission: operation buy us breakfast and get back before baby arrives.
We had time to eat, wash our hands, and get back in the ward only to find the woman had vomited quite a bit and was being set up to receive fluids intravenously. Ma was close to referring her when we heard the magic words escape her panting, dry mouth. Translated into English they are- "I have to go poop." Every time I hear a woman say these words, and 95% of laboring mothers say this, it is a good sign the head at the end of the tunnel is soon to come. Pressure of her child's cranium creates a sensation that is similar to the feeling of having to use the restroom. It is a delightful phrase, as sweet to the ears as honey is to the tongue.
Ma sat down while Efreeyeh and I stood on both sides of the mother's legs. This was her 5th child, but she was pushing as if it was her first. She was extremely skinny, and exhausted. "Continue to move your fingers like this" Ma said, watching me from her chair. Efreeyeh chanted "Chim chim!" and one of the nurse's assistants came in to support the woman from the back, hoisting her up into a semi-reclined position. Simone was standing to the side of Efreeyeh with her neck poking out and her jaw slacked, staring at the head wedged deep in the birth canal. She looked stunned. Later she admitted that she almost passed out and had to bend over and breathe. "I just kept thinking, how is that thing gonna come out of there! How?!" Last month at work she tried to revive a woman who was on the edge of death. But, she is unaccustomed to birth, and it was a lot to process, considering she hadn't only seen one and it was during nursing school years and years ago. "But I don't remember having that feeling, like, how is it going to come out of there? At first the head looked really small, and i thought, oh that's a small head, but when it all came out, i thought, oh my God that is huge. She just pushed that thing out."
I was thinking the same thing at a certain point. Ma let me do this delivery, but all the pushing and all my guiding and pulling and stretching weren't doing much. Or at least that's how it felt at a certain point. "Ma" i said after a lot of hard work "I need your help." She stood up and walked over, she grabbed a hold of the child and pulled really hard, the lady winced and arched up and said something in the ancient language of childbirth, and the child, along with a lot of thick goopy meconium, was out.
I am always fascinated by meconium, it's texture, it's darkness, it's ability to stick together in a shape like a baby slug. "Look" i wanted Simone to see it. She nodded, but I think she was processing what had just happened and could care less about a newborn's feces. She watched Efreeyeh scrub down the child's thick head of hair, I stepped to the side when the mother said she was having sharp pains, and observed the delivery of the placenta. After it came, Ma and the others broke into a sponatneous song of thanksgiving. They sang to God, thanking Him for watching over everything, and then Ma somehow segued it into gratitude for food as well.
Generally after a delivery, when I go to take the bundled baby to it's mother, who is still recuperating on the flat black padded exam table she just pushed it out on, the mother gives a faint smile lays back down. Efreeyeh scurries around her, wiping the blood off her legs and buttocks. I always expected more, like a yelp of jubilation, or her to sit upright and demand the infant. But I soon became used to this, realizing the work of labor has drained them of any outward expression towards the deep love they must feel for this new being. But it was different with this woman, as I should assume, it will be different with every person and their baby. This mother broke into a huge smile, but more, her face changed completely. She went from a fatigued skinny woman in pain, crying out "why? why God why?" to a confidant radiant life giving mother connecting with her daughter. The transformation was palpable. Even though her little girls eyes were closed they were communicating on the deepest level.
Later Simone noted "I almost, well I did, cry a little bit when- did you see that- when the mom looked at her baby? Wasn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" She sighed and held her hand to her chest.
I kept my eyes focused in on the back seat, where one woman was scooching across and pulling herself out and the other was gathering together a bag of items.
Simone, somewhere between dream state and semi-consciousness asked "is it one?" and then buried her head in the pillow.
I could confidently answer 'yes' after i saw how the woman's sarong jutted out in front and hung down over her globe-like midsection. i went out to greet and invite them in.
"You can go back there." i said in English, too early to think in Twi. She stared at me, perplexed. I tried again. "Ko, ho."
She walked back to the labor ward just as i heard someone else come in. It was Efreeyeh. "Have you already checked her?" She asked.
"No, she just came."
"Then check her Akua."
"Okay, I'll go then-"
"I will go." She said, finishing my sentence. It was our method of learning. We would check how far a woman has dilated, keep it a secret until we both had our conclusions, then tell each other what we found at the same time. This is a tricky part of midwifery for me, considering how different every woman's interior is and not having a lot of instruction while I'm doing it, I literally have to feel my way through this.
We both had our idea and were looking at one another's eyes. "Go." i said.
"6" she said.
"9" i said.
"EI! Akua! 9! You say 9? It isn't 9. She is only 6. Maybe 6 to 7."
I was the first to admit if there was fault it was probably mine. "Okay, 6, sounds good." I made a mental note that 6 cm should feel similar to that.
"No but you say 9."
"Yeah but I don't really know. You've been doing this full time for 2 years. I trust you."
Ma the midwife came in shortly. I asked her to check and she said "AH! Why? But you and Efreeyeh are perfect!" I told her that I thought there was meconium (a child's first stool, and generally not a great sign) and I needed her opinion. "But can't you tell?" She queried.
"Yes, but I want you to check too."
"Hand me some gloves."
I gave her the only ones available, small tight bright purple gloves. She is a large woman with hands as plump as fresh baked muffins.
"Kaisy! Ah! How am I supposed to see what is going on when you give me the purple color? And what size are these? AH! Can I see meconium if I wear these?! Ah! Where is Efreeyeh? Go find me some white color."
I ran over to the injection room on the other side of the clinic and brought back white gloves. She put them on and confidently thrust her fingers into the mother. "6", she said pulling them out and ridding herself of the gloves. She plopped down in the chair. There was no mention of the meconium, so I asked. She seemed a little annoyed this morning. I tried to tread lightly with my inquisitiveness.
"There is meconium, so we will monitor the baby every 30 minutes with the fetalscope to assure it isn't distressed. If it is distressed I will refer her to the hospital."
A few hours passed and before long it was 10 o'clock. Still not a lot had changed. The mother's contractions weren't strong, not a lot of progression was being made, and I was getting hungry. But I didn't want to miss a thing so I asked Simone if she would sacrifice missing the birth to go and buy us food from town.
Suddenly some heavy groans were heard and both Simone and I decided to abandon the food.
Ma bellowed out at us "Won't you take your breakfast! Go buy food! Don't wait here it will be some time before this woman delivers. Won't you go and buy your food? If not, all the food will finish."
It didn't seem like it was going to be that long, and looking at my friend we both couldn't help but laugh. The food in the village is limited, and the best breakfast they have, beans, sells out by 10:30. If you don't make it in time for that, you are lucky if you get anything. Lunch is not any more exciting, with plain white rice being the only food available.
What to do?
"Beans" Simone said, raising her left hand up like one half of a scale "or birth." She brought her other hand up, and balanced out the two. "Beans or birth, beans or birth?"
"Beans." I said.
"Yes, beans." Ma said. "And buy me coco (sour porridge) while you are out. Tell them no sugar in my coco."
I wrote on a piece of paper how to say "I want coco with no sugar" and drew out a little map of where to find the coco lady. We laughed considering the 'downtown' can be traversed in 15 seconds, yet the lady selling coco had remained a mystery. She was the one dipping a plastic cup into a huge metal bowl, pouring the contents into little plastic bags, and sometimes i mentioned, she sold peanuts.
Simone returned having successfully completed her first solo mission: operation buy us breakfast and get back before baby arrives.
We had time to eat, wash our hands, and get back in the ward only to find the woman had vomited quite a bit and was being set up to receive fluids intravenously. Ma was close to referring her when we heard the magic words escape her panting, dry mouth. Translated into English they are- "I have to go poop." Every time I hear a woman say these words, and 95% of laboring mothers say this, it is a good sign the head at the end of the tunnel is soon to come. Pressure of her child's cranium creates a sensation that is similar to the feeling of having to use the restroom. It is a delightful phrase, as sweet to the ears as honey is to the tongue.
Ma sat down while Efreeyeh and I stood on both sides of the mother's legs. This was her 5th child, but she was pushing as if it was her first. She was extremely skinny, and exhausted. "Continue to move your fingers like this" Ma said, watching me from her chair. Efreeyeh chanted "Chim chim!" and one of the nurse's assistants came in to support the woman from the back, hoisting her up into a semi-reclined position. Simone was standing to the side of Efreeyeh with her neck poking out and her jaw slacked, staring at the head wedged deep in the birth canal. She looked stunned. Later she admitted that she almost passed out and had to bend over and breathe. "I just kept thinking, how is that thing gonna come out of there! How?!" Last month at work she tried to revive a woman who was on the edge of death. But, she is unaccustomed to birth, and it was a lot to process, considering she hadn't only seen one and it was during nursing school years and years ago. "But I don't remember having that feeling, like, how is it going to come out of there? At first the head looked really small, and i thought, oh that's a small head, but when it all came out, i thought, oh my God that is huge. She just pushed that thing out."
I was thinking the same thing at a certain point. Ma let me do this delivery, but all the pushing and all my guiding and pulling and stretching weren't doing much. Or at least that's how it felt at a certain point. "Ma" i said after a lot of hard work "I need your help." She stood up and walked over, she grabbed a hold of the child and pulled really hard, the lady winced and arched up and said something in the ancient language of childbirth, and the child, along with a lot of thick goopy meconium, was out.
I am always fascinated by meconium, it's texture, it's darkness, it's ability to stick together in a shape like a baby slug. "Look" i wanted Simone to see it. She nodded, but I think she was processing what had just happened and could care less about a newborn's feces. She watched Efreeyeh scrub down the child's thick head of hair, I stepped to the side when the mother said she was having sharp pains, and observed the delivery of the placenta. After it came, Ma and the others broke into a sponatneous song of thanksgiving. They sang to God, thanking Him for watching over everything, and then Ma somehow segued it into gratitude for food as well.
Generally after a delivery, when I go to take the bundled baby to it's mother, who is still recuperating on the flat black padded exam table she just pushed it out on, the mother gives a faint smile lays back down. Efreeyeh scurries around her, wiping the blood off her legs and buttocks. I always expected more, like a yelp of jubilation, or her to sit upright and demand the infant. But I soon became used to this, realizing the work of labor has drained them of any outward expression towards the deep love they must feel for this new being. But it was different with this woman, as I should assume, it will be different with every person and their baby. This mother broke into a huge smile, but more, her face changed completely. She went from a fatigued skinny woman in pain, crying out "why? why God why?" to a confidant radiant life giving mother connecting with her daughter. The transformation was palpable. Even though her little girls eyes were closed they were communicating on the deepest level.
Later Simone noted "I almost, well I did, cry a little bit when- did you see that- when the mom looked at her baby? Wasn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" She sighed and held her hand to her chest.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Going Solo
"I am not feeling good at all. What has happened..." she shook her head and shut her eyes "Nye Koraa."
I was on the other side of the desk, sitting dejectedly, feeling guilty about a situation I didn't have much control over.
Ma, the 75 year old midwife, continued. "It should not have happened like that. You see?! Ah! They should have called me! Ah! Akua, why did they not call me?! Leaving you alone to deliver the baby! If something would have happened, do you see, it would have been no good at all. Hmpf."
The case had come in at 11 p.m., the first night my friend Simone, from the US, was in the village. We were in our room, in the maternity ward, admiring the new short haircut I had given her earlier that day. Our car had broke down on the side of the road on the way home from the airport. We made use of our 3 hour wait and sat in somebody's corn field, chopping off her waist length locks with midget sized scissors. By the time we were finished our sweaty bodies were plastered in flecks of hair. We looked like true mammals.
"I like the way it's layered back here" Simone said, pointing at the digital photo I had taken of the cut. "It feels sooo good! And short! I wish there were mirrors in Boamadumase!" We laughed at how vain we felt, snapping at least 10 pictures from different angles.
A few minutes later Efreeyeh came in with a laboring mother and we abandoned our chitchat to go see what was happening.
"First stage Akua, 1 cm. I'm going home. It will take too much time." She said, snapping off an exam glove and throwing it down into a little plastic bucket. She was in her pajamas.
"Is this her first?" I asked.
"Yes, she's a primip. As for this one, she will deliver in the morning time. I need to get some rest but I will be back in a few hours to check."
"Okay." I said, believing that to be true.
The next day I tried explaining to Ma. "She was a primip at 1. We thought it would take a long time."
"But if you would have called me I would have washed up and come. Kaisy, as for birth, you can never tell! You cannot say 'this woman will deliver then' or 'that woman will deliver at that time'. You see? Ah. It's too bad. You cannot guess these things. Birth is unpredictable! I learned this very early in my training, which is why I never leave the mother's side. Where is Efreeyeh?"
I knew she was going to yell at her, admonish her, make her feel small. The matriarch was going to reign, call upon her servants and bark at them for their foolish ways.
"She's behind the clinic, at her house i think. I'll go get her."
When i found Efreeyeh I told her to watch out. Ma was angry, fuming, like an over boiled kettle. She said not to worry, if we could only work our stories out the heavy burden of blame could lighten, with a white lie here and a white lie there.
"But ah! You should be happy Akua, you are a midwife now, and a roadside barber." She slapped my arm and walked in to face her destiny.
But I'm not a midwife, yet, and, i wasn't happy. It wasn't until 3 days later that I could see the situation as a gift.
The night of the delivery, I woke from my sleep with the same feeling I had experienced with the woman who birthed on the side of the road. Something felt imminent, the air was still but heavy. It had only been two hours since she arrived, and if we were lucky she would be at 3-4 cm, only a third of the way to pushing. I jumped up and sleepy eyed, walked into the labor ward. The mother was panicking, walking in circles with a distraught scared look on her face. I asked her to lie on the exam table and in broken Twi explained I would be checking to see her progress.
My fingers immediately ran up against an object, something fleshy feeling, semi-hard, like a huge overripe grape.
"Its her bag of waters." i thought, confused. i paused, and tried again.
it doesn't feel like a bag of waters.
Simone came in, with inquiries. A flash of feeling, a frantic electrical current, zipped from my head to my toes. "Can you please go and get Efreeyeh. She's going to deliver soon. Go fast!"
First night in the village and just like Radhika, she was already head deep in the maternity life.
"I don't have any shoes! And, where does Efreeyeh live?"
"She's in the back house, all the way behind the clinic. Take these-" i said, slipping out of my flip flops, trying to clear my head. I ran over and started gathering everything i would soon need for the delivery.
Simone was gone when the woman started pushing. Everyone was gone. The woman was scared. I was scared. I tried to pretend that I wasn't and I told the woman to push with all her might, but really, I wasn't ready for the baby to come. The words came out of my mouth, but they were a lie. I wanted some back up, some support, some people to share this huge responsibility with.
What if something happens?
A slick line of black hair began to emerge. I couldn't think like that anymore. I had to work, to stretch, to support her perineum.
Again, i said, again. Push. Chim. Chim. Chim.
The room felt very lonely. Vacant, even.
Her mother arrived, ran in the room and chanted in her ear. "Chim, chim, chim!" But she was the most nervous of us all, and succumbed to her fight or flight instinct. Before we knew it, she was gone.
Somewhere in my consciousness I noticed my legs were shaking, a lot. They were visibly wobbling back and forth like I was a cartoon character, or a circus performer about to fall off the tightrope. But the shaking stopped at my waist, and from there up, my hands worked and my mouth spoke and my brain thought. But I didn't let it think too much. I wanted to let everything be.
She pushed again, with her legs flopping out, her feet slipping off the table. I usually hold their legs, i thought, feeling disconnected from my current position. But i focused back in. The strip of black gave way to a circle, and the circle gave way to something with more dimension. It was the head.
The head was completely out and still no one was around.
I prayed to God, out of instinct. I said please. Please. Please. It is all that would manage to come out, as I swiped my fingers around the baby's neck checking to see if the umbilical cord had wrapped itself.
It hadn't.
Thank you.
I grabbed a hold of both sides of the head, pulled lightly, then with more force. I moved my hands down, then up, then splatter pop squish squirt- the child was out.
As if in response to my need, an enormous scream escaped the child and he wiggled on the table before me. I began to clamp and cut just as Simone and Efreeyeh came skidding in to the room. Their presence gave the shake in my legs permission to travel, to make its way up my torso, into my hands, through my voice, although when I tried to talk nothing came out. I didn't know how to feel, or what I was feeling.
It wasn't relief at having someone there. It wasn't happiness at having just done this. It wasn't gratitude for a normal delivery. It wasn't anything, but weird and mixed up and uncomfortable. There was still work to be done, and I wanted to do none of it. I wanted to run, but I moved, with the baby around the room. Washing, weighing, wrapping. With the umbilical cord as I slowly tried to pull and deliver the placenta. "You do the rest." I said to Efreeyeh.
"Oh my God." Simone kept saying as she peered around at what was going on. "You just delivered that baby."
But i didn't feel confidant, or sure, or good. I had a glimpse into the reality of what a midwife is dealt. A midwife guides, she prays, she connects, she reaffirms, and what I now realize, she doubts. I didn't want to doubt, to think about the whatifs, that potentially life and death could rest upon my knowledge, in my accuracy, on the competency of my mind and my skills. "But remember" the head nurse Vic mentioned to me later in conversation, "a midwife prepares. She prepares to reduce the worrying. And with experience and education Kaisy, you are preparing. Little by little, you are preparing. You have done well."
I couldn't sleep that night.
Why do i want to do this? I tried to chase the thought away. Don't I love this?
3 days later, sitting around, the voice came in to my head.
It was a gift. It said.
I had been given the weight of responsibility that occurs with this vocation.
At once, seeming so light and free and beautiful, the word vocation, the idea of a calling, suddenly took on a different flavor, more weighty and serious. I was changing my engagement ring for a wedding band and I saw the full seriousness of the evolution of the relationship.
No going back now.
Midwife, the word hung bright and heavy in my mind. And it hasn't left.
I was on the other side of the desk, sitting dejectedly, feeling guilty about a situation I didn't have much control over.
Ma, the 75 year old midwife, continued. "It should not have happened like that. You see?! Ah! They should have called me! Ah! Akua, why did they not call me?! Leaving you alone to deliver the baby! If something would have happened, do you see, it would have been no good at all. Hmpf."
The case had come in at 11 p.m., the first night my friend Simone, from the US, was in the village. We were in our room, in the maternity ward, admiring the new short haircut I had given her earlier that day. Our car had broke down on the side of the road on the way home from the airport. We made use of our 3 hour wait and sat in somebody's corn field, chopping off her waist length locks with midget sized scissors. By the time we were finished our sweaty bodies were plastered in flecks of hair. We looked like true mammals.
"I like the way it's layered back here" Simone said, pointing at the digital photo I had taken of the cut. "It feels sooo good! And short! I wish there were mirrors in Boamadumase!" We laughed at how vain we felt, snapping at least 10 pictures from different angles.
A few minutes later Efreeyeh came in with a laboring mother and we abandoned our chitchat to go see what was happening.
"First stage Akua, 1 cm. I'm going home. It will take too much time." She said, snapping off an exam glove and throwing it down into a little plastic bucket. She was in her pajamas.
"Is this her first?" I asked.
"Yes, she's a primip. As for this one, she will deliver in the morning time. I need to get some rest but I will be back in a few hours to check."
"Okay." I said, believing that to be true.
The next day I tried explaining to Ma. "She was a primip at 1. We thought it would take a long time."
"But if you would have called me I would have washed up and come. Kaisy, as for birth, you can never tell! You cannot say 'this woman will deliver then' or 'that woman will deliver at that time'. You see? Ah. It's too bad. You cannot guess these things. Birth is unpredictable! I learned this very early in my training, which is why I never leave the mother's side. Where is Efreeyeh?"
I knew she was going to yell at her, admonish her, make her feel small. The matriarch was going to reign, call upon her servants and bark at them for their foolish ways.
"She's behind the clinic, at her house i think. I'll go get her."
When i found Efreeyeh I told her to watch out. Ma was angry, fuming, like an over boiled kettle. She said not to worry, if we could only work our stories out the heavy burden of blame could lighten, with a white lie here and a white lie there.
"But ah! You should be happy Akua, you are a midwife now, and a roadside barber." She slapped my arm and walked in to face her destiny.
But I'm not a midwife, yet, and, i wasn't happy. It wasn't until 3 days later that I could see the situation as a gift.
The night of the delivery, I woke from my sleep with the same feeling I had experienced with the woman who birthed on the side of the road. Something felt imminent, the air was still but heavy. It had only been two hours since she arrived, and if we were lucky she would be at 3-4 cm, only a third of the way to pushing. I jumped up and sleepy eyed, walked into the labor ward. The mother was panicking, walking in circles with a distraught scared look on her face. I asked her to lie on the exam table and in broken Twi explained I would be checking to see her progress.
My fingers immediately ran up against an object, something fleshy feeling, semi-hard, like a huge overripe grape.
"Its her bag of waters." i thought, confused. i paused, and tried again.
it doesn't feel like a bag of waters.
Simone came in, with inquiries. A flash of feeling, a frantic electrical current, zipped from my head to my toes. "Can you please go and get Efreeyeh. She's going to deliver soon. Go fast!"
First night in the village and just like Radhika, she was already head deep in the maternity life.
"I don't have any shoes! And, where does Efreeyeh live?"
"She's in the back house, all the way behind the clinic. Take these-" i said, slipping out of my flip flops, trying to clear my head. I ran over and started gathering everything i would soon need for the delivery.
Simone was gone when the woman started pushing. Everyone was gone. The woman was scared. I was scared. I tried to pretend that I wasn't and I told the woman to push with all her might, but really, I wasn't ready for the baby to come. The words came out of my mouth, but they were a lie. I wanted some back up, some support, some people to share this huge responsibility with.
What if something happens?
A slick line of black hair began to emerge. I couldn't think like that anymore. I had to work, to stretch, to support her perineum.
Again, i said, again. Push. Chim. Chim. Chim.
The room felt very lonely. Vacant, even.
Her mother arrived, ran in the room and chanted in her ear. "Chim, chim, chim!" But she was the most nervous of us all, and succumbed to her fight or flight instinct. Before we knew it, she was gone.
Somewhere in my consciousness I noticed my legs were shaking, a lot. They were visibly wobbling back and forth like I was a cartoon character, or a circus performer about to fall off the tightrope. But the shaking stopped at my waist, and from there up, my hands worked and my mouth spoke and my brain thought. But I didn't let it think too much. I wanted to let everything be.
She pushed again, with her legs flopping out, her feet slipping off the table. I usually hold their legs, i thought, feeling disconnected from my current position. But i focused back in. The strip of black gave way to a circle, and the circle gave way to something with more dimension. It was the head.
The head was completely out and still no one was around.
I prayed to God, out of instinct. I said please. Please. Please. It is all that would manage to come out, as I swiped my fingers around the baby's neck checking to see if the umbilical cord had wrapped itself.
It hadn't.
Thank you.
I grabbed a hold of both sides of the head, pulled lightly, then with more force. I moved my hands down, then up, then splatter pop squish squirt- the child was out.
As if in response to my need, an enormous scream escaped the child and he wiggled on the table before me. I began to clamp and cut just as Simone and Efreeyeh came skidding in to the room. Their presence gave the shake in my legs permission to travel, to make its way up my torso, into my hands, through my voice, although when I tried to talk nothing came out. I didn't know how to feel, or what I was feeling.
It wasn't relief at having someone there. It wasn't happiness at having just done this. It wasn't gratitude for a normal delivery. It wasn't anything, but weird and mixed up and uncomfortable. There was still work to be done, and I wanted to do none of it. I wanted to run, but I moved, with the baby around the room. Washing, weighing, wrapping. With the umbilical cord as I slowly tried to pull and deliver the placenta. "You do the rest." I said to Efreeyeh.
"Oh my God." Simone kept saying as she peered around at what was going on. "You just delivered that baby."
But i didn't feel confidant, or sure, or good. I had a glimpse into the reality of what a midwife is dealt. A midwife guides, she prays, she connects, she reaffirms, and what I now realize, she doubts. I didn't want to doubt, to think about the whatifs, that potentially life and death could rest upon my knowledge, in my accuracy, on the competency of my mind and my skills. "But remember" the head nurse Vic mentioned to me later in conversation, "a midwife prepares. She prepares to reduce the worrying. And with experience and education Kaisy, you are preparing. Little by little, you are preparing. You have done well."
I couldn't sleep that night.
Why do i want to do this? I tried to chase the thought away. Don't I love this?
3 days later, sitting around, the voice came in to my head.
It was a gift. It said.
I had been given the weight of responsibility that occurs with this vocation.
At once, seeming so light and free and beautiful, the word vocation, the idea of a calling, suddenly took on a different flavor, more weighty and serious. I was changing my engagement ring for a wedding band and I saw the full seriousness of the evolution of the relationship.
No going back now.
Midwife, the word hung bright and heavy in my mind. And it hasn't left.
A little love from the hut
Last week was the anniversary of Bob Marley's death. I was spending a weekend at a beach side cottage with Simone, trying to ease her in slowly to life in Ghana. I thought an ocean breeze might take the edge off the heat, a tease really since she was soon to experience the unforgiving rays of the village.
When I picked her up from the airport I let her know as we were driving through the madness of Accra past sundown- the sea of traffic and pollution and peddling vendors- that we were heading somewhere rather peaceful. "It's very mellow there." I said, thinking of this particular place, where our room was booked, where crimpy haired dreadlocked locals strolled the town, nodding and pounding their fists to their chests- saying "Bless" as you walked by.
"Cool." She said, watching skeptically as two cars almost collided in front of us. "These drivers are crazy, eh?"
In the Greater Accra Region of Ghana, (where we would be visiting) May is reserved as a month of reflection and silence. People take this time to listen and connect to their ancestors, and believe it is essential to ban all noise in order to show respect to the spirits of those who have gone before them. Silence is the best way, they believe, to receive messages and give proper thanks. Locals take this very seriously, it is an ancient custom. The Rasta folk are required to put away all instruments, namely their drums, for the 31 days, and reflect.
It was for this very reason I was surprised to hear, on May 10th, the blasting of a Reggae concert when we pulled up to our cottage. Djembe drums, bass, keyboard, guitars, a few wild men shouting into their mic's "Jah Love! Jah Bless! Hale Selasie! Free your miiiiiiiinnnnnnnd"
I asked the man who gave us our room keys about this.
"They are celebrating Bob Marley. It is the anniversary of his death, did you not know?"
I nodded with my eyebrows, pretended that of course I knew the day Bob died. Common knowledge.
"Will you go?" He asked, motioning down to where all the palm trees were swaying oceanside, in the dark, in the area of the party noises.
Simone gave me a smile so I said yes. We would go.
Before I knew it we were shoeless, sweaty, dancing with a crowd passionate about Regaee music, bouncing and bobbing to a stoned tempo. "Welcome to Ghana!" I yelled to Simone, who had already been swooped up by a dancing partner, so huge he dwarfed her in each movement. I decided to link up with the old toothless crazy man in dirty shorts. He didn't leave my side all night, and slipped me his name and number when I told him at 4 am that it was time for me to go. When I said bye I mentioned to him in Twi that I could be his granddaughter and he laughed so hard spit flew out of his mouth in all directions.
The next day we walked on the beach, met some new friends, asked them about this whole respecting your ancestors thing. How deep did it go if they were now pounding wildly on their drums?
"Oh my Queens" they called us "But you must bow down" they said slowly in their heavy Reagee tones, "it is crrruuuccciiaal. Pay RE-spect!"
We joked how Bob Marley trumped their ancestors, and for a second they could see the humor, but with their deep rooted belief that the singer was close to God status they returned to seriousness. "Oh sistah, for 2 days, we must never forget. Never. For 2 days, we gather, we do some meditation on the greatness of the late Bob Marley, our prophet. Burn da fire Always burn da fire. (Smoke pot) Our ancestors, they understand."
We were speaking to a guy by the name of Jah (God) Bless. When Simone and I got inside later that day she told me it was kind of sad, that his name was "job-less". She noted that he did seem a little aimless. "He said it meant God's blessing so I don't feel too bad." I fell over laughing, and joined me when she realized the miscommunication. It's now our fall back phrase in times of boredom, to instigate some humor.
Later he came to fix the neck of her broken guitar. She asked if this was something he wanted to do for free, or did she need to pay him for his services. "Oh my Queen, you can give a little bit, maybe something from your hut."
She came back to me and relayed the conversation. "From our hut? What hut?" We laughed.
"Did he say 'heart'?" I queried. Simone lipped the words the way Jah Bless would have said them.
"OHHH!!! Heart! Ahhaha! I thought he wanted a little something from our hut, like this.." she said picking up a random knicknack, laughing at the recent misunderstandings.
The weekend was a great one, and Simone being a musician herself, appreciated the lift of the silence ban and the acquisition of all these new "friends".
"Everyone is so outgoing."
"Just wait until we get to Boamadumase" I said, sure that the villagers would love her free spirit.
~~~
On a different note, I just want to mention how blessed I feel to have such wonderful family and friends. When I went to the computer today and read all my emails and saw and felt all the love and support you guys give to me I was extremely touched. Thank you for your kind words, your stories, your one-liner keeping in touch emails, your compliments, your updates, your invitations. You are a beautiful thread in my life and I thank you for that.
When I picked her up from the airport I let her know as we were driving through the madness of Accra past sundown- the sea of traffic and pollution and peddling vendors- that we were heading somewhere rather peaceful. "It's very mellow there." I said, thinking of this particular place, where our room was booked, where crimpy haired dreadlocked locals strolled the town, nodding and pounding their fists to their chests- saying "Bless" as you walked by.
"Cool." She said, watching skeptically as two cars almost collided in front of us. "These drivers are crazy, eh?"
In the Greater Accra Region of Ghana, (where we would be visiting) May is reserved as a month of reflection and silence. People take this time to listen and connect to their ancestors, and believe it is essential to ban all noise in order to show respect to the spirits of those who have gone before them. Silence is the best way, they believe, to receive messages and give proper thanks. Locals take this very seriously, it is an ancient custom. The Rasta folk are required to put away all instruments, namely their drums, for the 31 days, and reflect.
It was for this very reason I was surprised to hear, on May 10th, the blasting of a Reggae concert when we pulled up to our cottage. Djembe drums, bass, keyboard, guitars, a few wild men shouting into their mic's "Jah Love! Jah Bless! Hale Selasie! Free your miiiiiiiinnnnnnnd"
I asked the man who gave us our room keys about this.
"They are celebrating Bob Marley. It is the anniversary of his death, did you not know?"
I nodded with my eyebrows, pretended that of course I knew the day Bob died. Common knowledge.
"Will you go?" He asked, motioning down to where all the palm trees were swaying oceanside, in the dark, in the area of the party noises.
Simone gave me a smile so I said yes. We would go.
Before I knew it we were shoeless, sweaty, dancing with a crowd passionate about Regaee music, bouncing and bobbing to a stoned tempo. "Welcome to Ghana!" I yelled to Simone, who had already been swooped up by a dancing partner, so huge he dwarfed her in each movement. I decided to link up with the old toothless crazy man in dirty shorts. He didn't leave my side all night, and slipped me his name and number when I told him at 4 am that it was time for me to go. When I said bye I mentioned to him in Twi that I could be his granddaughter and he laughed so hard spit flew out of his mouth in all directions.
The next day we walked on the beach, met some new friends, asked them about this whole respecting your ancestors thing. How deep did it go if they were now pounding wildly on their drums?
"Oh my Queens" they called us "But you must bow down" they said slowly in their heavy Reagee tones, "it is crrruuuccciiaal. Pay RE-spect!"
We joked how Bob Marley trumped their ancestors, and for a second they could see the humor, but with their deep rooted belief that the singer was close to God status they returned to seriousness. "Oh sistah, for 2 days, we must never forget. Never. For 2 days, we gather, we do some meditation on the greatness of the late Bob Marley, our prophet. Burn da fire Always burn da fire. (Smoke pot) Our ancestors, they understand."
We were speaking to a guy by the name of Jah (God) Bless. When Simone and I got inside later that day she told me it was kind of sad, that his name was "job-less". She noted that he did seem a little aimless. "He said it meant God's blessing so I don't feel too bad." I fell over laughing, and joined me when she realized the miscommunication. It's now our fall back phrase in times of boredom, to instigate some humor.
Later he came to fix the neck of her broken guitar. She asked if this was something he wanted to do for free, or did she need to pay him for his services. "Oh my Queen, you can give a little bit, maybe something from your hut."
She came back to me and relayed the conversation. "From our hut? What hut?" We laughed.
"Did he say 'heart'?" I queried. Simone lipped the words the way Jah Bless would have said them.
"OHHH!!! Heart! Ahhaha! I thought he wanted a little something from our hut, like this.." she said picking up a random knicknack, laughing at the recent misunderstandings.
The weekend was a great one, and Simone being a musician herself, appreciated the lift of the silence ban and the acquisition of all these new "friends".
"Everyone is so outgoing."
"Just wait until we get to Boamadumase" I said, sure that the villagers would love her free spirit.
~~~
On a different note, I just want to mention how blessed I feel to have such wonderful family and friends. When I went to the computer today and read all my emails and saw and felt all the love and support you guys give to me I was extremely touched. Thank you for your kind words, your stories, your one-liner keeping in touch emails, your compliments, your updates, your invitations. You are a beautiful thread in my life and I thank you for that.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
the journey continues, bike rides, babies and more fresh fruit!
The health outreaches continue to impress me, as we (me and the 26 other local health volunteers) ride our red messenger bikes into the remote villages surrounding the clinic, and give our talks on Family Planning. The journey to get there is always dynamic, across this flooded bridge- wind up the path of the cocoa grove- down a crumbling washed out road- through the head high grasses- jump the fallen tree- zoom through this random person's yard while they stop and stare, hey! a white girl!- watch out for those millions of poisonous ants-...!
When we arrive to our destination, we park our bikes and set up a circle of wooden benches under the shadiest tree around. These trees are usually well known and have folks under them already. If not, somebody will run and beat the gong gong drum to bring attention to our arrival. The communities we visit are minute, and usually only fill up about 3 benches or so. Each volunteer has their spiel, and does it with as much zest in front of 4 people or 40. You'd think they were auditioning for Broadway with how animated and passionately they talk of things like the Depo Provera Injection, Male Sterilization and the advantages of using a condom. (The prop of a freshly picked banana and our flip board of images always help with the lessons)
Question and answer sessions are always lively, except for the Muslim village we visited who when offered condoms kept their fists clenched tightly and shook their heads. I tried to look closely, to see if, although the general consensus was disapproving, I could recognize any of the women who come secretly in the middle of the night to receive their birth control. An interesting discussion followed, and I felt a bit imposing being there, even if I do believe in the power of our message. I sometimes wonder when we gather together and our turnout is less than 5, or in this case the people aren't receptive, what the point is. But i try to remember that we are only educating and offering services, and if one person can benefit then we have done quite a lot for them.
i was nervous to visit our next village, quite well known to be dwelling place of the only fetish priest around. people come from distances for his cures, his potions, and even for his curses (on other unsuspecting folks of course). From experience i remembered at an outreach last year he had a lot of criticisms of Western medicine, and i wanted to be warmly welcomed but prepared otherwise.
The turnout for his community was high and they even prepared beforehand by bringing out the plastic chairs and lace doilies for us! Sophie had remembered the fetish preist enjoys hard liqueur and gifted him a huge bottle of (gin?) from London. She pulled it out of her backpack and everyone began to cheer. In turn, he gave us two bottles of "his stuff" and an open forum to talk. a powerful storm interrupted our meeting and everyone ended up crowded together in a small shed for a little over an hour clapping and singing while i bumped butts dancing with a feisty elderly woman with a hoarse voice.
Most communities agree, that yes, The Pill is a wonderful option to prevent conception AND to get beautiful. "Ladies" they say "if you want to become fat we advise you take The Pill, it will make you feel to eat tooooooo much!" Then they all laugh.
But what seems to be a big hit with the women is the IUD. Trained by Dr. Radhika, Efreeyeh (the midwife's assistant and my best girlfriend in the village) is now competent and waiting at the health center to fit the IUD. I was thrilled to finally get to see my first cervix, and had no idea it would look similar to a strawberry donut! (oh the things which excite us!) and the ladies like this method mostly because it is effective for up to 12 years. A lot of them who have already had 4, 5, + babies are walking out with relief on their faces.
Sophie and Radhika have gone back to the UK, and this Saturday my friend Simone, a nurse, will be arriving to travel around and finish up the last leg of the project with me.
Sophie donated a laptop, and everyone is curious how to use it. I've officially opened up classes for 2 weeks at "Kacie's School of Computer Training". So far, a handful of people know how to turn on the computer, turn off the computer, and move a mouse around. Things are lookin' good! I jumped the gun a bit and secretly brought one of the more educated guys to the Internet lab. He seemed to be taking it all in pretty well, nodding his head a lot and rubbing his eyes, but how do you explain, when somebody is still trying to figure out how to double click, that there is a virtual reality at your fingertips. I tried not to blow his mind too much.
In the ward deliveries have continued to come, and Ma (the 75 yr. old head midwife) feels 100 percent confident in allowing just Efreeyeh and I to be at the births. In fact, she seems to have slipped into the shadows here and on her way into retirement. This has increased my hands on learning and I have been able to deliver a few more children. "Akua, put your hands in the baby's ears here, and pull gently..."
I never cease to be amazed at how quickly the moms here birth their children, and how (what appears to be) effortlessly. I am grateful for my training to be happening in a place where the normalcy of birth is innate, the drama has been reserved for the occasions it actually occurs (which is rare), and the mothers are open to including me in their most intimate moments.
Occasionally I'll walk through the village and see a face that seems to be etched into my soul. Usually the women then reach around and pull their child from off their back and hold them up to me with a smile. I know these are the mothers i spent intense hours with and saw deliver last year. One woman in particular, who was referred last minute due to complications and had her baby in a nearby hospital, seems to be forever grateful for my emotional support at her birth and won't stop insisting that each time i try to buy rice from her (which is daily) i take it for free. "no please" i say, handing her the 20 cents "take it." She turns her head and waves me away.
With the little amount many people here do have, they are generous people.
and the land seems to be generous with them, as well. the baby orange trees i saw being planted last year have grown prolifically.
The tops of the mango trees are rustling, from the little boys who climb up high to retrieve it's gifts by shaking them down. and each day now someone comes to adorn me with more fresh fruit, "take the papaya" or "your sisters have left to the UK, oh! you must be lonely. have this pineapple." i usually end up sitting cross legged somewhere, with a new friend, fruit juice dripping down my chin and elbows, a penknife filled with pulpy remnants, engaged in simple conversation.
Thank you for your emails and updates, they make the journey to the Internet lab worthwhile and moments of missing home bearable. Take care!
When we arrive to our destination, we park our bikes and set up a circle of wooden benches under the shadiest tree around. These trees are usually well known and have folks under them already. If not, somebody will run and beat the gong gong drum to bring attention to our arrival. The communities we visit are minute, and usually only fill up about 3 benches or so. Each volunteer has their spiel, and does it with as much zest in front of 4 people or 40. You'd think they were auditioning for Broadway with how animated and passionately they talk of things like the Depo Provera Injection, Male Sterilization and the advantages of using a condom. (The prop of a freshly picked banana and our flip board of images always help with the lessons)
Question and answer sessions are always lively, except for the Muslim village we visited who when offered condoms kept their fists clenched tightly and shook their heads. I tried to look closely, to see if, although the general consensus was disapproving, I could recognize any of the women who come secretly in the middle of the night to receive their birth control. An interesting discussion followed, and I felt a bit imposing being there, even if I do believe in the power of our message. I sometimes wonder when we gather together and our turnout is less than 5, or in this case the people aren't receptive, what the point is. But i try to remember that we are only educating and offering services, and if one person can benefit then we have done quite a lot for them.
i was nervous to visit our next village, quite well known to be dwelling place of the only fetish priest around. people come from distances for his cures, his potions, and even for his curses (on other unsuspecting folks of course). From experience i remembered at an outreach last year he had a lot of criticisms of Western medicine, and i wanted to be warmly welcomed but prepared otherwise.
The turnout for his community was high and they even prepared beforehand by bringing out the plastic chairs and lace doilies for us! Sophie had remembered the fetish preist enjoys hard liqueur and gifted him a huge bottle of (gin?) from London. She pulled it out of her backpack and everyone began to cheer. In turn, he gave us two bottles of "his stuff" and an open forum to talk. a powerful storm interrupted our meeting and everyone ended up crowded together in a small shed for a little over an hour clapping and singing while i bumped butts dancing with a feisty elderly woman with a hoarse voice.
Most communities agree, that yes, The Pill is a wonderful option to prevent conception AND to get beautiful. "Ladies" they say "if you want to become fat we advise you take The Pill, it will make you feel to eat tooooooo much!" Then they all laugh.
But what seems to be a big hit with the women is the IUD. Trained by Dr. Radhika, Efreeyeh (the midwife's assistant and my best girlfriend in the village) is now competent and waiting at the health center to fit the IUD. I was thrilled to finally get to see my first cervix, and had no idea it would look similar to a strawberry donut! (oh the things which excite us!) and the ladies like this method mostly because it is effective for up to 12 years. A lot of them who have already had 4, 5, + babies are walking out with relief on their faces.
Sophie and Radhika have gone back to the UK, and this Saturday my friend Simone, a nurse, will be arriving to travel around and finish up the last leg of the project with me.
Sophie donated a laptop, and everyone is curious how to use it. I've officially opened up classes for 2 weeks at "Kacie's School of Computer Training". So far, a handful of people know how to turn on the computer, turn off the computer, and move a mouse around. Things are lookin' good! I jumped the gun a bit and secretly brought one of the more educated guys to the Internet lab. He seemed to be taking it all in pretty well, nodding his head a lot and rubbing his eyes, but how do you explain, when somebody is still trying to figure out how to double click, that there is a virtual reality at your fingertips. I tried not to blow his mind too much.
In the ward deliveries have continued to come, and Ma (the 75 yr. old head midwife) feels 100 percent confident in allowing just Efreeyeh and I to be at the births. In fact, she seems to have slipped into the shadows here and on her way into retirement. This has increased my hands on learning and I have been able to deliver a few more children. "Akua, put your hands in the baby's ears here, and pull gently..."
I never cease to be amazed at how quickly the moms here birth their children, and how (what appears to be) effortlessly. I am grateful for my training to be happening in a place where the normalcy of birth is innate, the drama has been reserved for the occasions it actually occurs (which is rare), and the mothers are open to including me in their most intimate moments.
Occasionally I'll walk through the village and see a face that seems to be etched into my soul. Usually the women then reach around and pull their child from off their back and hold them up to me with a smile. I know these are the mothers i spent intense hours with and saw deliver last year. One woman in particular, who was referred last minute due to complications and had her baby in a nearby hospital, seems to be forever grateful for my emotional support at her birth and won't stop insisting that each time i try to buy rice from her (which is daily) i take it for free. "no please" i say, handing her the 20 cents "take it." She turns her head and waves me away.
With the little amount many people here do have, they are generous people.
and the land seems to be generous with them, as well. the baby orange trees i saw being planted last year have grown prolifically.
The tops of the mango trees are rustling, from the little boys who climb up high to retrieve it's gifts by shaking them down. and each day now someone comes to adorn me with more fresh fruit, "take the papaya" or "your sisters have left to the UK, oh! you must be lonely. have this pineapple." i usually end up sitting cross legged somewhere, with a new friend, fruit juice dripping down my chin and elbows, a penknife filled with pulpy remnants, engaged in simple conversation.
Thank you for your emails and updates, they make the journey to the Internet lab worthwhile and moments of missing home bearable. Take care!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Glad I brought the gloves
An update from West Africa...
For those of you i didn't mention it to- I'm back in Ghana, revisiting the village I spent 7 months in last year as a midwife's apprentice. This trip is only for 6 weeks-with a focus on health education, namely, Family Planning/Birth Control. It was noted that during the consultations with pregnant women last year the majority of them seemed overwhelmed by the amount of children they were having, and the frequency. Whenever a test came back positive, there was typically a long silence and then tears.
Our ultimate goal here is to have families giving birth to desired children. And the women are overly receptive to this!
My friend Sophie, along with her friend Radhika (both doctors from London) proposed this 6 week brigade and invited me along. I have never been one who refuses invitations to Africa, so... here I am...
when i first arrived in the village, i jumped out of the taxi and ran into the house i had been living in last year. i was excited to see all my old roommates and a little nervous to see the owner, Auntie, an elderly woman who used to lock me out if i wasn't in by 8 pm. the first thing i noticed was a television blaring from the living room, and when i turned the corner i saw about 30 little kids crowded around sitting on top of one another in complete awe of whatever it was they were watching. my heart sank a little, realizing that electricity had come to the village and this was one of the side effects. i was wondering why i didn't see any tykes in the courtyard running around? i looked for Auntie, so i could greet her and settle my bags. I found her in the kitchen closet, rustling through some bags.
"Auntie? Hi!" i said, glad to see even her.
She turned her head and looked me up and down, grumbled and turned back around.
"Auntie!" i tried again.
Then she slowly turned her head and gave me the weakest half smile ever.
I took that as a cue and ran back outside, jumped in the taxi, and went straight to the health clinic where i knew i would see all my coworkers and friends from the previous year.
There i was bombarded by shouting and hugging and laughing and a lot of "Akua Kessy you have grown fat!". This is supposed to be a term of endearment, so each time I heard it I smiled big and said "Thank you! You too, you are FAT!"
I chose to not return to Auntie's house, but instead, Sophie, Radhika and I cleared an extra room out in the maternity ward (my favorite place any way!) and have been sleeping there.
This has worked to my advantage, and so far I have been a part of 4 births, 2 of which I've been allowed to deliver myself!
Last week I was in my room, reading with Radhika, when one of the head nurses Vic walked by and mentioned "a case" (a pregnant woman ready to deliver) had just come in.
"Where is she?" I asked, looking out my bedroom window and not seeing anybody.
"Ah! She has gone home to collect her things. I told her to stay, but she didn't listen. I checked her and she was close to fully dilated."
I watched Radhika's jaw drop, knowing full well she had never heard of such a thing. I laughed and had a pang of missing birth in Ghana.
"Let's go" i said, "and we should grab 2 pairs of gloves, just in case."
Vic pointed us down the road saying "she lives by the big tree, close to where the old man rests."
I felt the thrill of an impending birth and started to run. We made it to the big tree and started looking but couldn't find any body who looked like they were about to have a baby, until we saw around a corner a tall slender woman, with a fully belly, washing dishes.
"This is incredible!" Radhika said, "she's managing to wash dishes before going to the clinc?!|
But we soon found out this wasn't the woman. The lady we were looking for was wobbling out from behind a mud hut with her hand on the back of her waist and a large grin.
We ran over to her and she leaned both her arms on each of us. We guided her back towards the clinic. At the end of the road Vic, Efreeyeh (the midwifes assistant), and 2 community nurses were yelling at us to "keep moving, keep moving!".
It felt similar to the last leg of a marathon, they were the finishing line.
The woman was walking and spreading her legs wider and wider apart. Her face winced a little and she took a deep breath then quickly hobbled a few extra steps before I felt it. I felt, not physically, but in some energetic change, that the baby was here. I threw on a pair of gloves, raised her dress up, and saw it's wet head dangling there.
"Ahh!" Vic yelled, "it's here!"
The woman fell back into a net of arms that had spontaneously formed around her. I got down on my knees to catch the baby. Some other people came and held up a cloth for the mother's privacy.
The next few minutes were a flurry of adrenaline, teamwork, lots of orders and handoffs. "Clamps! Scissors! Wrap the baby! Take him in to bathe! Let's carry the mother in now!"
45 minutes later we were all able to stand around and laugh at what Vic refers to as "these village women." I was filthy, and my hair was hanging down in my face in frizzy puffs, and most of all I was 100% content.
This is the life, i thought. I'm back, and it's only day 3.
14 days later I have a lot to report...and plan to update my blog and send out some more emails. If you are interested here is the address... www.mashelper-kacie.blogspot.com most of the writing is from last year but new ones will be posted soon.
I hope springtime is bringing life to you as well! Look forward to hearing from you all, take care.
xoxoKacie
For those of you i didn't mention it to- I'm back in Ghana, revisiting the village I spent 7 months in last year as a midwife's apprentice. This trip is only for 6 weeks-with a focus on health education, namely, Family Planning/Birth Control. It was noted that during the consultations with pregnant women last year the majority of them seemed overwhelmed by the amount of children they were having, and the frequency. Whenever a test came back positive, there was typically a long silence and then tears.
Our ultimate goal here is to have families giving birth to desired children. And the women are overly receptive to this!
My friend Sophie, along with her friend Radhika (both doctors from London) proposed this 6 week brigade and invited me along. I have never been one who refuses invitations to Africa, so... here I am...
when i first arrived in the village, i jumped out of the taxi and ran into the house i had been living in last year. i was excited to see all my old roommates and a little nervous to see the owner, Auntie, an elderly woman who used to lock me out if i wasn't in by 8 pm. the first thing i noticed was a television blaring from the living room, and when i turned the corner i saw about 30 little kids crowded around sitting on top of one another in complete awe of whatever it was they were watching. my heart sank a little, realizing that electricity had come to the village and this was one of the side effects. i was wondering why i didn't see any tykes in the courtyard running around? i looked for Auntie, so i could greet her and settle my bags. I found her in the kitchen closet, rustling through some bags.
"Auntie? Hi!" i said, glad to see even her.
She turned her head and looked me up and down, grumbled and turned back around.
"Auntie!" i tried again.
Then she slowly turned her head and gave me the weakest half smile ever.
I took that as a cue and ran back outside, jumped in the taxi, and went straight to the health clinic where i knew i would see all my coworkers and friends from the previous year.
There i was bombarded by shouting and hugging and laughing and a lot of "Akua Kessy you have grown fat!". This is supposed to be a term of endearment, so each time I heard it I smiled big and said "Thank you! You too, you are FAT!"
I chose to not return to Auntie's house, but instead, Sophie, Radhika and I cleared an extra room out in the maternity ward (my favorite place any way!) and have been sleeping there.
This has worked to my advantage, and so far I have been a part of 4 births, 2 of which I've been allowed to deliver myself!
Last week I was in my room, reading with Radhika, when one of the head nurses Vic walked by and mentioned "a case" (a pregnant woman ready to deliver) had just come in.
"Where is she?" I asked, looking out my bedroom window and not seeing anybody.
"Ah! She has gone home to collect her things. I told her to stay, but she didn't listen. I checked her and she was close to fully dilated."
I watched Radhika's jaw drop, knowing full well she had never heard of such a thing. I laughed and had a pang of missing birth in Ghana.
"Let's go" i said, "and we should grab 2 pairs of gloves, just in case."
Vic pointed us down the road saying "she lives by the big tree, close to where the old man rests."
I felt the thrill of an impending birth and started to run. We made it to the big tree and started looking but couldn't find any body who looked like they were about to have a baby, until we saw around a corner a tall slender woman, with a fully belly, washing dishes.
"This is incredible!" Radhika said, "she's managing to wash dishes before going to the clinc?!|
But we soon found out this wasn't the woman. The lady we were looking for was wobbling out from behind a mud hut with her hand on the back of her waist and a large grin.
We ran over to her and she leaned both her arms on each of us. We guided her back towards the clinic. At the end of the road Vic, Efreeyeh (the midwifes assistant), and 2 community nurses were yelling at us to "keep moving, keep moving!".
It felt similar to the last leg of a marathon, they were the finishing line.
The woman was walking and spreading her legs wider and wider apart. Her face winced a little and she took a deep breath then quickly hobbled a few extra steps before I felt it. I felt, not physically, but in some energetic change, that the baby was here. I threw on a pair of gloves, raised her dress up, and saw it's wet head dangling there.
"Ahh!" Vic yelled, "it's here!"
The woman fell back into a net of arms that had spontaneously formed around her. I got down on my knees to catch the baby. Some other people came and held up a cloth for the mother's privacy.
The next few minutes were a flurry of adrenaline, teamwork, lots of orders and handoffs. "Clamps! Scissors! Wrap the baby! Take him in to bathe! Let's carry the mother in now!"
45 minutes later we were all able to stand around and laugh at what Vic refers to as "these village women." I was filthy, and my hair was hanging down in my face in frizzy puffs, and most of all I was 100% content.
This is the life, i thought. I'm back, and it's only day 3.
14 days later I have a lot to report...and plan to update my blog and send out some more emails. If you are interested here is the address... www.mashelper-kacie.blogspot.com most of the writing is from last year but new ones will be posted soon.
I hope springtime is bringing life to you as well! Look forward to hearing from you all, take care.
xoxoKacie
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
medaase paa boamadumase
Friday was the perfect day to have our party. Sofie and i decided it should start around 5 and go all night. we would try to invite everybody and keep the music going until midnight at least, let it boom across the village to let everybody know we were leaving.
"i usually just sort of sneak out" she said "i don't know how i feel about a proper goodbye."
"you don't have to worry, because, whatever it is" i said "it'll be funny."
she agreed.
around 4:45 we left our house to make our way to the clinic. but on my way i stopped by my seamstresses shop, no bigger than a children's clubhouse. she was inside, finishing up a skirt and top for me, with pins clenched between lips and pumping her foot up and down on her manual sewing machine. she looked over and saw me, then tried to give a smile. in a few minutes, she had finished.
she handed me the green skirt and i took it and went into a tiny sectioned off space in the corner. i had to duck low and steer clear the window that was directly in front of me, a group of preteen boys were playing soccer with rigor and an old deflated ball. i wasn't in the flashing mood.
i put it on and it felt okay, but there was just one tiny problem. the left side of the skirt had a personality of it's own, flinging out stiffly and curling up towards the sky.
i didn't really like that look. i would have let it pass, but i already had one dress with this peculiarity. i had asked sofie if she liked the dress and she just sort of stared at the flip and shrugged.
i mentioned to the seamstress that i'd really love the outfit if she could just cut off the curl and sew it straight.
she said okay and grabbed it from me the second i took it off.
i went and sat on the ledge of the shop, looking out onto the road. it was market day, people had walked miles from the durrounding villages with bundles of yam and plantain on their heads. they were now turning around to take home what they didn't sell.
Tanko walked by.
"TANKO!" i yelled.
he stopped, looked around until he found me perched, waiting.
"Kacie- hello! um, okay, i'm going to escort my sister here" he said, gently grabbing his lady friend by her elbow "and then i'll be coming."
"no, c'mhere, real quick." i wanted to tell him about the party.
he walked over.
"kacie. it seems it has been quite some time since i've seen you. have you been around?"
"yes. i've been here." i said. "but i'm leaving tomorrow."
"TOMORROW!"
"yes, tomorrow, and i wanted to let you know i'm having a going away party. sophie and i are. and... it's probably already started, it's at the clinic, and i want you to come."
he moved his fingers up and down his slim goatee and said "oh, i'm afraid you've given me very short notice". his worried look gave way to certainty "but you can expect me. i'll come soon."
the sky rumbled deep. it was the familiar welcoming sound of a quickly impending storm. we both looked out across the orange grove, over the trees in the distance. people started running with one hand keeping their market goods on their heads. the winds changed and blew the seamstresses shutters shut.
tanko gave me a look.
"the party is happening, rain or shine." i said.
"you'll celebrate even when the rain comes?"
"yup."
He laughed and ran to meet up with his friend, who had inched her way up the road.
when i looked up at the sky things weren't looking promising. promising, that is, if i wanted to stay dry. i calculated about 10 more minutes before the rains fell, before the storm really hit.
i went back into the shop and noticed the seamstress was no where close to being finished. she was picking apart the blue thread with a razor blade and yelling at her son to get in the shop. it was too late to tell her to stop, that i could in fact live with the left side flip, that i'd rather make it to my party.
instead, i went inside and sat on a table, i fingered brightly colored scraps of other people's clothes. clothes i had seen being worn that week in the village. i looked out the window, the soccer game had vanished. people were safe in their homes, and i felt a surge of guilt. the storm would surely last hours, it would hold us captive in this tiny little space for at least half the night, the seamstress wouldn't be able to go home, cook dinner for her family.
i tried to speak to her in twi, she spoke no english. but i struggled communicating, not sure what to say i resorted to small talk. everything i tried to mention casually she took as having extreme importance and listened with full attention. she'd stop her sewing.
and then, the rain came. it fell ferociously, sopping up the once dry ground and turning boamadumase into one huge abandoned mud pit. 3 people who had left the market late took shelter in the shop along with a gang of small boys. after 10 minutes the rain turned horitzontal, forcing us to close the 1 window and 1 door to keep the inside from getting wet. just as door was getting pulled tight auntie squeezed herself through with a look of relief.
the room was now pitch black, full of thick tropical air and heavy breathing. big white eyes blinked all around me, and somehow the seamstress managed to keep working in the dark.
aunties voice broke the silence the same way the thunder had interuppted Tanko and i. another deep grumble, then little words flying left and right, complaints mostly.
i couldn't handle it so i manuevered my way through the people and told them i was going to my party. i had to leave. i opened the door and was amazed by the amount of water outside. i scrunched up my nose and reconsidered. auntie yelled at me and told me to get back in, to wait it out.
"how long?" i asked, as if she had control of the weather.
"not long." she answered, as if she did.
i believed her and went back inside, shutting the door. i shuffled through my purse handling things and making out their shapes the way someone would reluctantly do in a haunted house's touch and feel section. i wanted to find something interesting to do in the dark, but i hadn't prepared for this. i did have one thing that was sure to be a crowd pleaser.
i pulled out my digital camera and took a picture, then showed everyone.
there was instant excitement and requests for more.
the next hour was spent in a photo shoot, where everyone laughed and posed, posed and laughed. besides auntie, the group turned wild and wanted me to document it all.
and... the pictures helped time to pass, until my battery ran out.
my skirt was completed, ironed and folded nicely in a bag, so i bid my new friends farewell and told them i had to go. although i was apprehensive about leaving, the storm was bad and it seemed, nobody was out.
we opened the doors and one of the men in the shop let out a loud hoot and pointed his finger to the road in front of us. the road that had turned into a muddy river.
"HWE! (look)" he said, cackling with delight.
we all turned our heads, saw, and burst out screaming.
jumping down the middle of the road in a line were slippery naked pitch black bodies of three young children. they were playing follow the leader, in the downpour, splashing through what everyone else was avoiding. they clearly had conquered the storm, turning it more into a friend to skip and dance with than something to hide from.
they inspired me. and... i think they inspired all of us, because everyone in the shop gathered around the open doorway glaring out, completely silent, in awe.
we all wanted to be them. the children emitted a joy as powerful as sun, and as liberating as eating dessert first. we took in their every move. they jumped and moved their heads from side to side, the way happy children do.
i looked around the village, and adult heads were popping out of doorways all over. each face looked happy, and the children kept at it, weaving and giggling and jumping around like ponies.
i decided it was time to party.
**********************************************
i made it to the clinic having chanted a positive affirmation which i believe kept me clean and mudless. i wanted to be as free as the kids, to pounce through puddles and not worry about a thing, but the truth was i had dressed up for the going away party in a long blue dress and i wanted to arrive looking, as Ma would say, sweet.
i even put on mascara.
"c'mon!" i said to sofie, before we left the house. "it's a big night..." then i thought for a bit "we better put on some makeup."
she agreed and even went as far as to brush her hair.
my makeup bag consisted of a small leather pouch, which held a pink mascara at least 5 years old, a blush of which the clinique counter lady told me would look great on me after i had been in the african sun for awhile, and some wierd brown sparkely gel that neither one of us knew what to do with.
sofie smeared the gel all over her lips.
i put it on my eyelids.
we looked at each other and laughed.
the only mirror we owned was on the blush and it was only big enough to look at my nose, so instead we used each other.
when i walked into the office at the clinic, i was drenched, but clean. it was a small area for a party, so it was a good thing not many people were there. i left my encrusted moccasins at the foot of the door and walked in barefoot.
"HELLO!!!!!" i announced to everyone there.
i looked around and saw familiar faces, but not whom i had expected.
i whispered to sofie "where is everyone? secetry? vera? you know?"
"they're coming i think, but, if you haven't noticed" she said "there isn't any music. or drinks."
"it'll come." i said, sure of the reliability of my one-armed friend. "is my mascara running?" the question was foreign. sofie ignored it.
"when?"
"it'll come, just wait."
i was very late, but nobody seemed to mind. the weather had made everything turn dark early, so we asked Watchman to turn on the generator, to get some lights going.
after another hour or so, sofie got fed up. "i can't wait any longer, the drinks aren't coming."
more people had shown up, and it was time to provide.
"i'm going to send secetry into town to buy some crates of beer."
i thought that would be a good idea.
"what are we going to do about music?" she asked.
"looks like we won't have any." and i turned to talk to the room full of guests. most of who had arrived were the health volunteers, they had jumped on their red bicycles and pedaled through the rain, each from their own village, miles away, to say goodbye to us.
"akua, soon you will be home and oh! we will miss you and sofie."
i smiled.
a knock outside the office door. we turned to look.
it was sakola, with his friend, little sister, and mother, and standing behind them was the woman we asked to make the food for the party. she had 100 balls of kenkey in a big silver pot on top of her head.
"you guys made it through the rain!" i was happy to see them. people were hungry. "come in come in."
i heard sofie suddenly becoming aware of things neither one of us had thought about.
"shoot man, i didn't even think about plates." she said.
"hmmm..." i said, cringing. "...well at least we don't need forks." as if that helped at all. i was thankful that people preferred eating with their hands.
i became painfully aware that hosting required planning of details, like utensils. it also required reaching out and being overly kind. when sofie asked me if i wanted to serve our guests i told her no, they'd come and eat when they were hungry. i sat in my chair, cracking jokes with some friends, and was suddenly hit with etiquette, with the fact that i needed to stand up and move. i was reluctant at first, because it seemed like a lot of work and hanging out making people laugh seemed so much better. but then i thought of the countless meals that had been served to me over the last 6 months and of all the people who clearly spent extra time and effort to make me feel comfortable. i stood up.
efreeyeh walked in with a stack of plates, all different, some plastic, a few ceramic, most paper. "efreeyeh! you are good." i said. she half way rolled her eyes, and told me to make her up a plate.
the night was progressing smoothly. the space was too small, so we all crowded together, sitting on the arms of chairs, the corner of a desk, perched knees to chest on the floor.
this is what i like best about ghana, the spirit of malleability and of resiliance.
circumstance had changed our vision of a lively, out door celebration filled with dancing, drinks and food into a stuffy indoor half equipped gathering, and people still wanted to party. not one complaint, just laughs and the familiar smell of other people's body odor. i knew i was going to miss it.
suddenly i felt the presence of someone very important arrive in the doorway. i turned to look.
it was Ma, and she had fixed herself up for the party in a powder blue dress, yards of starched fabric full of intent. her head was covered in a beautiful wrap of finely woven kente cloth.
i stood up while she stood for a second or two, assessing the "party".
she barked an order for someone to get her a chair and i offered her mine a second too late. we both looked at my chair, constricting with it's narrow arm rests, and waited for another to come.
"Ma" i said "welcome. you look gorgeous."
"oh thank you." she replied in a barely audible voice, an almost bashful voice.
a small girl brough her in a chair, free of arm rests. Ma pointed to the 3 silver pots sitting on the ground in the middle of the room. "what is this?"
"it's dokono. can i make you a plate?"
she gave one firm nod, so i began to assemble her a meal.
"how many balls, 1 or 2?"
she began to make an excuse even though i knew she would have come with a belly full of fufuo either way. "i wasn't aware you were having food. i have already taken-"
"fufuo!?"
"yes" she laughed. "fufuo. give me 1."
i poured on the sauces, mixed them together, and tried unwrapping the maize flour from the husks that held it together. it was too hot. each time i'd peel back the husk for half a second, i had to shake my hand around for 5 until it cooled off.
i looked very sensitive, very white-girl-raised-with-potholders-esque, and i was very conscious of my antics. but it didn't bother me, it was a feeling i had grown overly familiar with having spent so much time with Ma.
efreeyeh walked in and saw me and it bothered her, my being borderline pathetic. again, just for a moment, i wished i was a little more hard core. i wished for thick callousses on the palms of my hands.
she grabbed the steaming ball of food, removed the husk serenely, plopped it on a plate and handed it to Ma.
i sat back down in a chair next to them both.
across the room was a new volunteer, a white volunteer, who had just arrived in country and was visiting for the bush party from a nearby hospital, in Agogo. sofie invited her. i had spoken with her for a brief time, going through some of the basic getting to know yous, but drifted away from her general vicinity once more people arrived. she looked comfortable with being an outsider, not knowing anyone really, but her face was beginning to perk up in my direction and i could feel that she wanted to engage in further conversation.
now that Ma had arrived and was sitting silently on my left i became stingy with my attentiveness, i didn't want to give her any. this girl did not know that it took some dull empty moments to get Ma to open up. she did not know that Ma was who i wanted to be speaking to, spending my last night in communion with. if i could have snuggled up on Ma's lap, like an old familiar cat, i would have.
i licked the crumbly bits of the meal off my fingers and silently hoped the new volunteer wouldn't make small talk, but as is mostly the case, wishing for something NOT to happen usually spurs it into existence.
"so like, how did you get here?" she asked.
i wasn't sure exactly what she meant when she said "here" (ghana, earth, to the party through the rain?) i pretended that the few other people in the room were talking too loudly, and i hadn't heard a thing. i wondered if my 'hadn't heard a thing face' was too obvious. i tried desperately to think of a conversation starter for Ma but couldn't.
the girl wiggled herself out of the corner of the couch and pointed herself in our direction, but she didn't say anything.
we were all waiting, for something, and nothing was happening so i introduced the two.
"you haven't met Ma yet. this is Ma. she's senior staff here, the head midwife."
Ma glowed and continued to eat.
"you look like a head midwife." the girl said, laughing nervously, filling in the moment of what could have culminated into a response with more talk. "i could tell right when you walked in the room you shouldn't be messed with. i mean..."
it didn't appear that Ma knew how to interpret waht she was saying. was it a compliment? she looked over at me quizzically, like she needed help with a crossword puzzle. i stepped in.
"yes, Ma has taught me everything i know about midwifery. she's been my teacher for the past 6 months..."
i noticed Ma straightening her posture, then tilt her head to look at me, her budding student. she leaned in to me and whispered "and Kaisy, by now, you should have learned everything there is. isn't that so? you can deliver, i've seen you do it nicely. and as for suturing you can study that when you go to your training, ah?" she glanced at the girl and mentioned "here, we deliver women gently, so they won't tear." then back at me. "oh Kaisy, you have done well. very well. i will miss you."
then she frowned and looked down into her lap.
i felt a rising tide of emotions swell inside my chest.
the volunteer spoke up. "so, like, how did you decide you wanted to come here?"
i felt her question was going to pull me away from the moment, the way she said 'here', the way she wanted me to describe an experience i was still having and would soon be gone from.
i ignored her.
"i'll miss you too." i said back.
my heart began to churn and i felt uncomfortable. when i looked at Ma's face i saw her eyes swelling up, glossing over. the room was empty, people had brought the festivities outside now that the rain had cleared, and it was just the 3 of us in the room.
"soon-" Ma said "i will be going back to my house."
"i can escort you if you'd like."
she forced her mouth into a thin line, barely resembling a smile, tight and forced.
"so has it been fun working out here in the village? i just can't imagine what you must have seen?"
i didn't want to hate the volunteer, because she was just being nice. so instead of hating her i was annoyed by her. if i could have flicked her far away into the bush, if i could have cleared her from my area like an unwanted ant on a picnic blanket, i would have.
i tried to remind myself that i was a christian and with that, a short answer flew out of my lips over to her in hopes of satisfying, but before i knew it Ma leaned into me, saying through trembling lips, that she "had to go pass urine."
"okay." i said.
then she stood up slowly, hoisting herself to her feet, and left.
i felt panicky. i didn't want to leave boamadumase, or Ma, or Ghana. i wasn't ready to throw my suitcases into one of the dusty old taxis and wave goodbye. i wanted to spend more time sitting on porches, observing grimy goats scratch their sides against dilapidated buildings, and packs of children climb the old rusty farm equipment abandoned outside the mosque. i wanted to learn more twi, see the mango season come to a close, wait for the papayas to grow in pink and explosive again.
i had to get out of the room, away from anything that took me out of my current reality by making me discuss it.
i squeezed myself between groups of people chatting with one another, gave some firm excitable handshakes, yes yes i'll tell my mother you say hello. i found sakola, and his mother and latched onto them, and after about an hour i realized Ma had left for good.
"sako?" i asked "will you come back to Ma's house with me? i want you to meet her, and i want to make sure she got home alright."
"let's go." he said.
it was my last chance to introduce Ma to Sakola, and i knew she was interested in who he was, mostly because he was just as concerned about what i was going to eat for dinner as she was. she knew i ate with him almost every night, except the oahze nights of course.
Ma's housegirl Gladys was out in the dark compound washing dishes.
"agoo?" i said.
"come."
"is Ma asleep?"
i heard a deep voice from inside yelling at me to come back, so i did. when i walked into ma's bedroom she way lying on her bed with a wrap half way covering her orange brown skin. she was curled in the fetal position and her breasts were exposed, spilling out from all angles. her hair was in disarray. she was sweaty and obviously had been trying to sleep but wasn't successful.
she had a look of relief because i had come to find her, to see how she was.
"kaisy." she said seriously. "i had to leave- i had, to leave- becauseicouldn'tfaceyou."
i didn't say anything back.
"and when i go to work on Monday, i will be all alone."
my throat started to tighten and i could sense the need to cry. i didn't want to cry in front of her, mostly because i was afraid it would somehow shame her and it would make the good bye even harder.
"i brought sakola to see you, he's with his mother, they're outside."
she looked down at her half dressed body and started laughing, belly shaking, boobs hanging, and all. "tell them i am sleeping!" she said.
"i will."
i left to turn and walk out of her room when she yelled "kaisy!"
i faced her.
"tomorrow, if you feel to, you can come here before you leave."
"okay, i'll come."
"oh and have you written down my post? don't let it spoil, you should keep it safe, you must write me once a month so i can know how things are with you."
"yes, i already put it into my address book."
"good. so in your letters, please, let me know how things are going, your training and your family, at least one every month."
"and you too" i said, reminding her "you can write me. efreeyeh has my address."
"yes."
we looked at each other and i was taken aback by this strange relationship i had formed with a woman that needed 2 years of begging to allow me to be her apprentice.
"please, kaisy, pray for me when you are gone."
"i will."
"and i will pray for you, that you find a husband before you are too old to marry."
i laughed. "okay Ma, thanks."
"then, tommorrow?" she said falling back down into her mattress, ripe with insomnia.
"tommorrow." i assured. "rest up."
when i walked outside i tried to keep a few paces ahead of sakola and his mother because tears were slowly dripping down my face and i wanted that to be my secret. i kept my head down and my arms pulled in tight and before long we had made it back to the party, which had quickly turned into more of a fashion shoot now that the photographer had arrived and was flashing everyone's pictures.
the rain began to fall again, and i stared at all my friends posing for the camera man, proudly using a broken down car as a backdrop for their photos.
i heard sakola's mother mumble to him that i was crying and sakola glanced sideways to see if it was true. when he saw that it was he reached out and put his arm around me and leaned his head into mine. then his mother walked around to my other side and wrapped her arm around my waist. we stood there for a long time, and they let me cry with out saying a thing.
language is not always neccesary, sometimes in fact, it is unneccesary. in times like this, differences between cultures, borders, governments, beliefs... they all seem to fade, to recede, and the power of love shines through in its simplicity, in its wholeness.
"akua kessywa you must come and shoot a pikcha with us!"
i had a crowd of friends begging me to join them, to document our good times. the photographer had his eye focused behind a huge camera, with his flash stacked high. he waved us over without removing his face from it's position. i pulled sakola and his mother across the health center lawn, through the rain, and we squeezed in, leaning our backs against the car while more and more people crammed themselves into the space; madame vic, efreeyeh, vera. kingsley was crouching below me, secetry's smile was huge and natural and he was leaning on me, back up against me like i was a podium. townspeople were popping in all over the place and the rain had turned my turquouise dress a deep blue.
"get sofie!" someone yelled, and they dragged her out from inside. in a matter of minutes, sofie's hair was plastered to the side of her face and the we erupted into what reminded me of an opening scene in a movie, where a huge extended (dysfunctional) family attempts to pass food, converse and generally coexist around an enormous dining room table hosting some type of important holiday meal, like thanksgiving.
the amount of pictures they had the camera man take far surpassed obssesive, as we stood there for over an hour completely drenched, smiling and seeing stars. each time sofie and i would try to move away from the photographer, someone else would step in and ask for a picture, just the two-or three- or four- of us.
and the more i stood there the more i thought, this is like Thanksgiving. it is the culmination of my time spent in ghana, of the relationships i've made, of people i care about, of all the things i am grateful for. its my learning about another way to live, a slow and focused way to live, where people are priority and time is abundant.
i looked around and couldn't help but feel blessed at having been placed in this village, with these people, my friends.
and if the white volunteer hadn't left already, i would have pulled her into our pictures, and wrapped my arm around her, and apologized. i would have let her know that Ghana and it's people would wrap it's arms around her during her stay here, and not to worry, that she has come to a place so special, that it might carve out some type of spot in her heart that when she left she'd realize could only be filled with the love and laughter and spirits of all the people who were surrounding us.
i would say, welcome.
"i usually just sort of sneak out" she said "i don't know how i feel about a proper goodbye."
"you don't have to worry, because, whatever it is" i said "it'll be funny."
she agreed.
around 4:45 we left our house to make our way to the clinic. but on my way i stopped by my seamstresses shop, no bigger than a children's clubhouse. she was inside, finishing up a skirt and top for me, with pins clenched between lips and pumping her foot up and down on her manual sewing machine. she looked over and saw me, then tried to give a smile. in a few minutes, she had finished.
she handed me the green skirt and i took it and went into a tiny sectioned off space in the corner. i had to duck low and steer clear the window that was directly in front of me, a group of preteen boys were playing soccer with rigor and an old deflated ball. i wasn't in the flashing mood.
i put it on and it felt okay, but there was just one tiny problem. the left side of the skirt had a personality of it's own, flinging out stiffly and curling up towards the sky.
i didn't really like that look. i would have let it pass, but i already had one dress with this peculiarity. i had asked sofie if she liked the dress and she just sort of stared at the flip and shrugged.
i mentioned to the seamstress that i'd really love the outfit if she could just cut off the curl and sew it straight.
she said okay and grabbed it from me the second i took it off.
i went and sat on the ledge of the shop, looking out onto the road. it was market day, people had walked miles from the durrounding villages with bundles of yam and plantain on their heads. they were now turning around to take home what they didn't sell.
Tanko walked by.
"TANKO!" i yelled.
he stopped, looked around until he found me perched, waiting.
"Kacie- hello! um, okay, i'm going to escort my sister here" he said, gently grabbing his lady friend by her elbow "and then i'll be coming."
"no, c'mhere, real quick." i wanted to tell him about the party.
he walked over.
"kacie. it seems it has been quite some time since i've seen you. have you been around?"
"yes. i've been here." i said. "but i'm leaving tomorrow."
"TOMORROW!"
"yes, tomorrow, and i wanted to let you know i'm having a going away party. sophie and i are. and... it's probably already started, it's at the clinic, and i want you to come."
he moved his fingers up and down his slim goatee and said "oh, i'm afraid you've given me very short notice". his worried look gave way to certainty "but you can expect me. i'll come soon."
the sky rumbled deep. it was the familiar welcoming sound of a quickly impending storm. we both looked out across the orange grove, over the trees in the distance. people started running with one hand keeping their market goods on their heads. the winds changed and blew the seamstresses shutters shut.
tanko gave me a look.
"the party is happening, rain or shine." i said.
"you'll celebrate even when the rain comes?"
"yup."
He laughed and ran to meet up with his friend, who had inched her way up the road.
when i looked up at the sky things weren't looking promising. promising, that is, if i wanted to stay dry. i calculated about 10 more minutes before the rains fell, before the storm really hit.
i went back into the shop and noticed the seamstress was no where close to being finished. she was picking apart the blue thread with a razor blade and yelling at her son to get in the shop. it was too late to tell her to stop, that i could in fact live with the left side flip, that i'd rather make it to my party.
instead, i went inside and sat on a table, i fingered brightly colored scraps of other people's clothes. clothes i had seen being worn that week in the village. i looked out the window, the soccer game had vanished. people were safe in their homes, and i felt a surge of guilt. the storm would surely last hours, it would hold us captive in this tiny little space for at least half the night, the seamstress wouldn't be able to go home, cook dinner for her family.
i tried to speak to her in twi, she spoke no english. but i struggled communicating, not sure what to say i resorted to small talk. everything i tried to mention casually she took as having extreme importance and listened with full attention. she'd stop her sewing.
and then, the rain came. it fell ferociously, sopping up the once dry ground and turning boamadumase into one huge abandoned mud pit. 3 people who had left the market late took shelter in the shop along with a gang of small boys. after 10 minutes the rain turned horitzontal, forcing us to close the 1 window and 1 door to keep the inside from getting wet. just as door was getting pulled tight auntie squeezed herself through with a look of relief.
the room was now pitch black, full of thick tropical air and heavy breathing. big white eyes blinked all around me, and somehow the seamstress managed to keep working in the dark.
aunties voice broke the silence the same way the thunder had interuppted Tanko and i. another deep grumble, then little words flying left and right, complaints mostly.
i couldn't handle it so i manuevered my way through the people and told them i was going to my party. i had to leave. i opened the door and was amazed by the amount of water outside. i scrunched up my nose and reconsidered. auntie yelled at me and told me to get back in, to wait it out.
"how long?" i asked, as if she had control of the weather.
"not long." she answered, as if she did.
i believed her and went back inside, shutting the door. i shuffled through my purse handling things and making out their shapes the way someone would reluctantly do in a haunted house's touch and feel section. i wanted to find something interesting to do in the dark, but i hadn't prepared for this. i did have one thing that was sure to be a crowd pleaser.
i pulled out my digital camera and took a picture, then showed everyone.
there was instant excitement and requests for more.
the next hour was spent in a photo shoot, where everyone laughed and posed, posed and laughed. besides auntie, the group turned wild and wanted me to document it all.
and... the pictures helped time to pass, until my battery ran out.
my skirt was completed, ironed and folded nicely in a bag, so i bid my new friends farewell and told them i had to go. although i was apprehensive about leaving, the storm was bad and it seemed, nobody was out.
we opened the doors and one of the men in the shop let out a loud hoot and pointed his finger to the road in front of us. the road that had turned into a muddy river.
"HWE! (look)" he said, cackling with delight.
we all turned our heads, saw, and burst out screaming.
jumping down the middle of the road in a line were slippery naked pitch black bodies of three young children. they were playing follow the leader, in the downpour, splashing through what everyone else was avoiding. they clearly had conquered the storm, turning it more into a friend to skip and dance with than something to hide from.
they inspired me. and... i think they inspired all of us, because everyone in the shop gathered around the open doorway glaring out, completely silent, in awe.
we all wanted to be them. the children emitted a joy as powerful as sun, and as liberating as eating dessert first. we took in their every move. they jumped and moved their heads from side to side, the way happy children do.
i looked around the village, and adult heads were popping out of doorways all over. each face looked happy, and the children kept at it, weaving and giggling and jumping around like ponies.
i decided it was time to party.
**********************************************
i made it to the clinic having chanted a positive affirmation which i believe kept me clean and mudless. i wanted to be as free as the kids, to pounce through puddles and not worry about a thing, but the truth was i had dressed up for the going away party in a long blue dress and i wanted to arrive looking, as Ma would say, sweet.
i even put on mascara.
"c'mon!" i said to sofie, before we left the house. "it's a big night..." then i thought for a bit "we better put on some makeup."
she agreed and even went as far as to brush her hair.
my makeup bag consisted of a small leather pouch, which held a pink mascara at least 5 years old, a blush of which the clinique counter lady told me would look great on me after i had been in the african sun for awhile, and some wierd brown sparkely gel that neither one of us knew what to do with.
sofie smeared the gel all over her lips.
i put it on my eyelids.
we looked at each other and laughed.
the only mirror we owned was on the blush and it was only big enough to look at my nose, so instead we used each other.
when i walked into the office at the clinic, i was drenched, but clean. it was a small area for a party, so it was a good thing not many people were there. i left my encrusted moccasins at the foot of the door and walked in barefoot.
"HELLO!!!!!" i announced to everyone there.
i looked around and saw familiar faces, but not whom i had expected.
i whispered to sofie "where is everyone? secetry? vera? you know?"
"they're coming i think, but, if you haven't noticed" she said "there isn't any music. or drinks."
"it'll come." i said, sure of the reliability of my one-armed friend. "is my mascara running?" the question was foreign. sofie ignored it.
"when?"
"it'll come, just wait."
i was very late, but nobody seemed to mind. the weather had made everything turn dark early, so we asked Watchman to turn on the generator, to get some lights going.
after another hour or so, sofie got fed up. "i can't wait any longer, the drinks aren't coming."
more people had shown up, and it was time to provide.
"i'm going to send secetry into town to buy some crates of beer."
i thought that would be a good idea.
"what are we going to do about music?" she asked.
"looks like we won't have any." and i turned to talk to the room full of guests. most of who had arrived were the health volunteers, they had jumped on their red bicycles and pedaled through the rain, each from their own village, miles away, to say goodbye to us.
"akua, soon you will be home and oh! we will miss you and sofie."
i smiled.
a knock outside the office door. we turned to look.
it was sakola, with his friend, little sister, and mother, and standing behind them was the woman we asked to make the food for the party. she had 100 balls of kenkey in a big silver pot on top of her head.
"you guys made it through the rain!" i was happy to see them. people were hungry. "come in come in."
i heard sofie suddenly becoming aware of things neither one of us had thought about.
"shoot man, i didn't even think about plates." she said.
"hmmm..." i said, cringing. "...well at least we don't need forks." as if that helped at all. i was thankful that people preferred eating with their hands.
i became painfully aware that hosting required planning of details, like utensils. it also required reaching out and being overly kind. when sofie asked me if i wanted to serve our guests i told her no, they'd come and eat when they were hungry. i sat in my chair, cracking jokes with some friends, and was suddenly hit with etiquette, with the fact that i needed to stand up and move. i was reluctant at first, because it seemed like a lot of work and hanging out making people laugh seemed so much better. but then i thought of the countless meals that had been served to me over the last 6 months and of all the people who clearly spent extra time and effort to make me feel comfortable. i stood up.
efreeyeh walked in with a stack of plates, all different, some plastic, a few ceramic, most paper. "efreeyeh! you are good." i said. she half way rolled her eyes, and told me to make her up a plate.
the night was progressing smoothly. the space was too small, so we all crowded together, sitting on the arms of chairs, the corner of a desk, perched knees to chest on the floor.
this is what i like best about ghana, the spirit of malleability and of resiliance.
circumstance had changed our vision of a lively, out door celebration filled with dancing, drinks and food into a stuffy indoor half equipped gathering, and people still wanted to party. not one complaint, just laughs and the familiar smell of other people's body odor. i knew i was going to miss it.
suddenly i felt the presence of someone very important arrive in the doorway. i turned to look.
it was Ma, and she had fixed herself up for the party in a powder blue dress, yards of starched fabric full of intent. her head was covered in a beautiful wrap of finely woven kente cloth.
i stood up while she stood for a second or two, assessing the "party".
she barked an order for someone to get her a chair and i offered her mine a second too late. we both looked at my chair, constricting with it's narrow arm rests, and waited for another to come.
"Ma" i said "welcome. you look gorgeous."
"oh thank you." she replied in a barely audible voice, an almost bashful voice.
a small girl brough her in a chair, free of arm rests. Ma pointed to the 3 silver pots sitting on the ground in the middle of the room. "what is this?"
"it's dokono. can i make you a plate?"
she gave one firm nod, so i began to assemble her a meal.
"how many balls, 1 or 2?"
she began to make an excuse even though i knew she would have come with a belly full of fufuo either way. "i wasn't aware you were having food. i have already taken-"
"fufuo!?"
"yes" she laughed. "fufuo. give me 1."
i poured on the sauces, mixed them together, and tried unwrapping the maize flour from the husks that held it together. it was too hot. each time i'd peel back the husk for half a second, i had to shake my hand around for 5 until it cooled off.
i looked very sensitive, very white-girl-raised-with-potholders-esque, and i was very conscious of my antics. but it didn't bother me, it was a feeling i had grown overly familiar with having spent so much time with Ma.
efreeyeh walked in and saw me and it bothered her, my being borderline pathetic. again, just for a moment, i wished i was a little more hard core. i wished for thick callousses on the palms of my hands.
she grabbed the steaming ball of food, removed the husk serenely, plopped it on a plate and handed it to Ma.
i sat back down in a chair next to them both.
across the room was a new volunteer, a white volunteer, who had just arrived in country and was visiting for the bush party from a nearby hospital, in Agogo. sofie invited her. i had spoken with her for a brief time, going through some of the basic getting to know yous, but drifted away from her general vicinity once more people arrived. she looked comfortable with being an outsider, not knowing anyone really, but her face was beginning to perk up in my direction and i could feel that she wanted to engage in further conversation.
now that Ma had arrived and was sitting silently on my left i became stingy with my attentiveness, i didn't want to give her any. this girl did not know that it took some dull empty moments to get Ma to open up. she did not know that Ma was who i wanted to be speaking to, spending my last night in communion with. if i could have snuggled up on Ma's lap, like an old familiar cat, i would have.
i licked the crumbly bits of the meal off my fingers and silently hoped the new volunteer wouldn't make small talk, but as is mostly the case, wishing for something NOT to happen usually spurs it into existence.
"so like, how did you get here?" she asked.
i wasn't sure exactly what she meant when she said "here" (ghana, earth, to the party through the rain?) i pretended that the few other people in the room were talking too loudly, and i hadn't heard a thing. i wondered if my 'hadn't heard a thing face' was too obvious. i tried desperately to think of a conversation starter for Ma but couldn't.
the girl wiggled herself out of the corner of the couch and pointed herself in our direction, but she didn't say anything.
we were all waiting, for something, and nothing was happening so i introduced the two.
"you haven't met Ma yet. this is Ma. she's senior staff here, the head midwife."
Ma glowed and continued to eat.
"you look like a head midwife." the girl said, laughing nervously, filling in the moment of what could have culminated into a response with more talk. "i could tell right when you walked in the room you shouldn't be messed with. i mean..."
it didn't appear that Ma knew how to interpret waht she was saying. was it a compliment? she looked over at me quizzically, like she needed help with a crossword puzzle. i stepped in.
"yes, Ma has taught me everything i know about midwifery. she's been my teacher for the past 6 months..."
i noticed Ma straightening her posture, then tilt her head to look at me, her budding student. she leaned in to me and whispered "and Kaisy, by now, you should have learned everything there is. isn't that so? you can deliver, i've seen you do it nicely. and as for suturing you can study that when you go to your training, ah?" she glanced at the girl and mentioned "here, we deliver women gently, so they won't tear." then back at me. "oh Kaisy, you have done well. very well. i will miss you."
then she frowned and looked down into her lap.
i felt a rising tide of emotions swell inside my chest.
the volunteer spoke up. "so, like, how did you decide you wanted to come here?"
i felt her question was going to pull me away from the moment, the way she said 'here', the way she wanted me to describe an experience i was still having and would soon be gone from.
i ignored her.
"i'll miss you too." i said back.
my heart began to churn and i felt uncomfortable. when i looked at Ma's face i saw her eyes swelling up, glossing over. the room was empty, people had brought the festivities outside now that the rain had cleared, and it was just the 3 of us in the room.
"soon-" Ma said "i will be going back to my house."
"i can escort you if you'd like."
she forced her mouth into a thin line, barely resembling a smile, tight and forced.
"so has it been fun working out here in the village? i just can't imagine what you must have seen?"
i didn't want to hate the volunteer, because she was just being nice. so instead of hating her i was annoyed by her. if i could have flicked her far away into the bush, if i could have cleared her from my area like an unwanted ant on a picnic blanket, i would have.
i tried to remind myself that i was a christian and with that, a short answer flew out of my lips over to her in hopes of satisfying, but before i knew it Ma leaned into me, saying through trembling lips, that she "had to go pass urine."
"okay." i said.
then she stood up slowly, hoisting herself to her feet, and left.
i felt panicky. i didn't want to leave boamadumase, or Ma, or Ghana. i wasn't ready to throw my suitcases into one of the dusty old taxis and wave goodbye. i wanted to spend more time sitting on porches, observing grimy goats scratch their sides against dilapidated buildings, and packs of children climb the old rusty farm equipment abandoned outside the mosque. i wanted to learn more twi, see the mango season come to a close, wait for the papayas to grow in pink and explosive again.
i had to get out of the room, away from anything that took me out of my current reality by making me discuss it.
i squeezed myself between groups of people chatting with one another, gave some firm excitable handshakes, yes yes i'll tell my mother you say hello. i found sakola, and his mother and latched onto them, and after about an hour i realized Ma had left for good.
"sako?" i asked "will you come back to Ma's house with me? i want you to meet her, and i want to make sure she got home alright."
"let's go." he said.
it was my last chance to introduce Ma to Sakola, and i knew she was interested in who he was, mostly because he was just as concerned about what i was going to eat for dinner as she was. she knew i ate with him almost every night, except the oahze nights of course.
Ma's housegirl Gladys was out in the dark compound washing dishes.
"agoo?" i said.
"come."
"is Ma asleep?"
i heard a deep voice from inside yelling at me to come back, so i did. when i walked into ma's bedroom she way lying on her bed with a wrap half way covering her orange brown skin. she was curled in the fetal position and her breasts were exposed, spilling out from all angles. her hair was in disarray. she was sweaty and obviously had been trying to sleep but wasn't successful.
she had a look of relief because i had come to find her, to see how she was.
"kaisy." she said seriously. "i had to leave- i had, to leave- becauseicouldn'tfaceyou."
i didn't say anything back.
"and when i go to work on Monday, i will be all alone."
my throat started to tighten and i could sense the need to cry. i didn't want to cry in front of her, mostly because i was afraid it would somehow shame her and it would make the good bye even harder.
"i brought sakola to see you, he's with his mother, they're outside."
she looked down at her half dressed body and started laughing, belly shaking, boobs hanging, and all. "tell them i am sleeping!" she said.
"i will."
i left to turn and walk out of her room when she yelled "kaisy!"
i faced her.
"tomorrow, if you feel to, you can come here before you leave."
"okay, i'll come."
"oh and have you written down my post? don't let it spoil, you should keep it safe, you must write me once a month so i can know how things are with you."
"yes, i already put it into my address book."
"good. so in your letters, please, let me know how things are going, your training and your family, at least one every month."
"and you too" i said, reminding her "you can write me. efreeyeh has my address."
"yes."
we looked at each other and i was taken aback by this strange relationship i had formed with a woman that needed 2 years of begging to allow me to be her apprentice.
"please, kaisy, pray for me when you are gone."
"i will."
"and i will pray for you, that you find a husband before you are too old to marry."
i laughed. "okay Ma, thanks."
"then, tommorrow?" she said falling back down into her mattress, ripe with insomnia.
"tommorrow." i assured. "rest up."
when i walked outside i tried to keep a few paces ahead of sakola and his mother because tears were slowly dripping down my face and i wanted that to be my secret. i kept my head down and my arms pulled in tight and before long we had made it back to the party, which had quickly turned into more of a fashion shoot now that the photographer had arrived and was flashing everyone's pictures.
the rain began to fall again, and i stared at all my friends posing for the camera man, proudly using a broken down car as a backdrop for their photos.
i heard sakola's mother mumble to him that i was crying and sakola glanced sideways to see if it was true. when he saw that it was he reached out and put his arm around me and leaned his head into mine. then his mother walked around to my other side and wrapped her arm around my waist. we stood there for a long time, and they let me cry with out saying a thing.
language is not always neccesary, sometimes in fact, it is unneccesary. in times like this, differences between cultures, borders, governments, beliefs... they all seem to fade, to recede, and the power of love shines through in its simplicity, in its wholeness.
"akua kessywa you must come and shoot a pikcha with us!"
i had a crowd of friends begging me to join them, to document our good times. the photographer had his eye focused behind a huge camera, with his flash stacked high. he waved us over without removing his face from it's position. i pulled sakola and his mother across the health center lawn, through the rain, and we squeezed in, leaning our backs against the car while more and more people crammed themselves into the space; madame vic, efreeyeh, vera. kingsley was crouching below me, secetry's smile was huge and natural and he was leaning on me, back up against me like i was a podium. townspeople were popping in all over the place and the rain had turned my turquouise dress a deep blue.
"get sofie!" someone yelled, and they dragged her out from inside. in a matter of minutes, sofie's hair was plastered to the side of her face and the we erupted into what reminded me of an opening scene in a movie, where a huge extended (dysfunctional) family attempts to pass food, converse and generally coexist around an enormous dining room table hosting some type of important holiday meal, like thanksgiving.
the amount of pictures they had the camera man take far surpassed obssesive, as we stood there for over an hour completely drenched, smiling and seeing stars. each time sofie and i would try to move away from the photographer, someone else would step in and ask for a picture, just the two-or three- or four- of us.
and the more i stood there the more i thought, this is like Thanksgiving. it is the culmination of my time spent in ghana, of the relationships i've made, of people i care about, of all the things i am grateful for. its my learning about another way to live, a slow and focused way to live, where people are priority and time is abundant.
i looked around and couldn't help but feel blessed at having been placed in this village, with these people, my friends.
and if the white volunteer hadn't left already, i would have pulled her into our pictures, and wrapped my arm around her, and apologized. i would have let her know that Ghana and it's people would wrap it's arms around her during her stay here, and not to worry, that she has come to a place so special, that it might carve out some type of spot in her heart that when she left she'd realize could only be filled with the love and laughter and spirits of all the people who were surrounding us.
i would say, welcome.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
send off party
"good morning. you are looking beautiful."
Ma gave me her smile that meant the day was going to be smooth. she was in a good mood, feeling peaceful and well rested.
"thank you." i said, i curtsied then i went to sit down. i was wearing a new dress made by a seamstress in town.
"it suits you" Ma said "who made it?"
"some woman down the road."
she nodded. "you're late."
"yes. i got caught up."
"doing what?"
"Ma... i'm trying to organize a party. a huge party, because sofie and i are leaving soon."
"when will you go?"
"friday is our last day in boamadumase."
"eh! kaisssssssyyyyyyyy. hmk hmk hmk. 6 months, the time has gone. oh kaiissy, i will miss you oh."
"Ma! i will miss you too." a moments pause, then "how do you say that in twi??"
"ahhh ha. you want to be a ghanaian, don't you see?"
"but i need you to tell me a few things" i said. "i want to announce on the loudspeaker that sofie and i will be throwing a party, here, at the clinic, on friday night. but first i wanted to ask. would that be alright?"
"you can do it." she said.
earlier that morning, while i was throwing my trash into the bushes outside our gate, my slingshot-making one armed buddy rode by on a bicycle. he had great dexterity. he skidded to a quick stop and said he had knocked on my door early in the morning and no one answered.
"we were probably sleeping." i said.
he continued to tell me he looked for me at the clinic, and since i wasn't around he was riding back to his town. i asked him why he was looking for me and he said someone told him i wanted to know about renting some loudspeakers, he was the guy to talk to. i had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded like fun. "yes, i wanted to speak to you about that." i said. i expanded a 10 second conversation sofie and i had had into a plan. "i'd like to have a party, how much and how long can we have them for."
"200,000 (20 dollars) cedis will be sufficient." he said. "from early in the morning to late at night."
i liked watching him speak, he smiled while he talked.
"okay" i said "can you come around 5, at night, and play all night?"
"yes, i can do that."
"are they the funeral speakers, the really loud ones?"
"yes."
"good." i said.
"and what about drinks?" he said.
i had to think about that one. drinks for an entire village? i didn't have the money.
"okay, bring 8 crates, half minerals and half beer. does that work?"
"yes."
we talked a little longer, enough to make me late for work, enough to ensure there would be some loud ghanaian music on friday night tearing apart the village ear drum. when i told Ma about what had been organized for the send off she had one concern.
"but you didn't get food?!"
"i can't feed the entire village."
"you must have food. prepare something nice."
"if we have food, i won't announce our party on the loudspeaker."
the loudspeaker is the modern version of beating a drum to inform the villagers of important information. every night a man stands in the middle of the dark road, between the stands of women selling egg sandwiches and oahze, and presses a button on his handheld machine. the button sounds like a bad rendition of an ambulance, the sound ripples through boamadumase. it is loud and draws everyone's attention. after it quiets, the man screams out that tuesday is clean up day and all villagers must meet to pick up the street, or he might say the Chief needs people to help him with something at the farm, or anything else that has been appointed for him to say.
i wanted to let everyone know about the party. Ma laughed. "what will you say? you will have to speak it in twi."
"certainly!" i stood up, pretended i was the announcer pressing the button. "beweobeweobeweo! agoo! agoo!"
Ma pushed her hands on the sides of her chair and stretched back. i continued in simple twi.
"agoo! people of boamadumase- listen." i looked around and spread my hands around in front of me, just like the man does it. "it is akua kessywa. i am here to tell you friday-" i stalled, whispered,"how do you say party in twi?" Ma told me. "i am here to tell you friday i will have a party. please come. there will drinks and dancing, there will be no food. bring me a gift."
with these few lines, i had successfully gotten Ma to the point of deep choking laughter, her dress buttons practically ready to pop off. i'm sure it was a combination of my precise white girl twi mixed with my acting. i had her just where i liked her, needing to take deep breaths to recouperate.
"what do you think?" i asked.
she heaved and bent her head down, closing her eyes. then she looked up. "EFREEYEH!!!"
the name echoed through the clinic grounds, and within a minute, in her forest green uniform, efreeyeh appeared. "Ma." she said, standing like a cadet.
"kaisy, do it."
i repeated my act as efreeyeh covered her face and squinted her eyes. under Ma's thumb i know efreeyeh feels as if she is not allowed to laugh at work, but this time she was set up.
"thursday night, in the center of town, i'm doing it." i said.
"akua, they will laugh at you."
Ma chimed in, able to speak now and imparting wisdom "if you tell them there are free drinks, they will come running. you see how we are, if something is free, the entire village will come."
"okay, i'll leave that out. i'll say there will be no food, no drinks, only dancing, and please bring Yaa Sofia and me a gift."
sofie and i had both grown tired of being asked for things. it hadn't really let up since christmas, and i hadn't become immune to it. although, my close friends had refrained, and i loved them even more for that but sometimes it got so bad, people asked me for my clothes while i was wearing them, and these were people i knew had wardrobes of their own. it really challenged me with jesus' words about giving a man your cloak when he asks for your shirt. i decided that if i remained friendly while i refused, that was good enough.
"i was late today, because i met my friend on the road and i had to hire some music. he's coming at 5, here. Ma- will you dance?"
"i will."
"efreeyeh?"
"ahh huhhh..."
"then i will tell everybody, we can celebrate, and we'll get food just for staff and my friends at the house."
"who?" ma asked. "for sakola?"
"yes. and some others."
she liked sakola even though she didn't know him, she only knew we ate dinner together each night, and in Ma's world that meant he was taking care of me. she had asked why i didn't just marry him. i told her, sharing a bowl of fufuo and sharing a life were very different things. "but if he suits you, it can work." i said it probably wouldn't work. then she tried setting me up with ed because we both are white. "he has a girlfriend." but the answer bothered her, she tried every way around it.
"oh kaisy, we will miss you. you are jovial."
"and you Ma, i'll never have another teacher quite like you." "...and my time is running up, i need to make good use of it."
"by all means, a woman will come to deliver. you will see. there will be 3 or 4, you can deliver them."
"okay. can i do some learning right now? can you teach me some things?"
she didn't even need a second to think. she responded "ask efreeyeh."
i smiled, i was going to miss her too.
Ma gave me her smile that meant the day was going to be smooth. she was in a good mood, feeling peaceful and well rested.
"thank you." i said, i curtsied then i went to sit down. i was wearing a new dress made by a seamstress in town.
"it suits you" Ma said "who made it?"
"some woman down the road."
she nodded. "you're late."
"yes. i got caught up."
"doing what?"
"Ma... i'm trying to organize a party. a huge party, because sofie and i are leaving soon."
"when will you go?"
"friday is our last day in boamadumase."
"eh! kaisssssssyyyyyyyy. hmk hmk hmk. 6 months, the time has gone. oh kaiissy, i will miss you oh."
"Ma! i will miss you too." a moments pause, then "how do you say that in twi??"
"ahhh ha. you want to be a ghanaian, don't you see?"
"but i need you to tell me a few things" i said. "i want to announce on the loudspeaker that sofie and i will be throwing a party, here, at the clinic, on friday night. but first i wanted to ask. would that be alright?"
"you can do it." she said.
earlier that morning, while i was throwing my trash into the bushes outside our gate, my slingshot-making one armed buddy rode by on a bicycle. he had great dexterity. he skidded to a quick stop and said he had knocked on my door early in the morning and no one answered.
"we were probably sleeping." i said.
he continued to tell me he looked for me at the clinic, and since i wasn't around he was riding back to his town. i asked him why he was looking for me and he said someone told him i wanted to know about renting some loudspeakers, he was the guy to talk to. i had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded like fun. "yes, i wanted to speak to you about that." i said. i expanded a 10 second conversation sofie and i had had into a plan. "i'd like to have a party, how much and how long can we have them for."
"200,000 (20 dollars) cedis will be sufficient." he said. "from early in the morning to late at night."
i liked watching him speak, he smiled while he talked.
"okay" i said "can you come around 5, at night, and play all night?"
"yes, i can do that."
"are they the funeral speakers, the really loud ones?"
"yes."
"good." i said.
"and what about drinks?" he said.
i had to think about that one. drinks for an entire village? i didn't have the money.
"okay, bring 8 crates, half minerals and half beer. does that work?"
"yes."
we talked a little longer, enough to make me late for work, enough to ensure there would be some loud ghanaian music on friday night tearing apart the village ear drum. when i told Ma about what had been organized for the send off she had one concern.
"but you didn't get food?!"
"i can't feed the entire village."
"you must have food. prepare something nice."
"if we have food, i won't announce our party on the loudspeaker."
the loudspeaker is the modern version of beating a drum to inform the villagers of important information. every night a man stands in the middle of the dark road, between the stands of women selling egg sandwiches and oahze, and presses a button on his handheld machine. the button sounds like a bad rendition of an ambulance, the sound ripples through boamadumase. it is loud and draws everyone's attention. after it quiets, the man screams out that tuesday is clean up day and all villagers must meet to pick up the street, or he might say the Chief needs people to help him with something at the farm, or anything else that has been appointed for him to say.
i wanted to let everyone know about the party. Ma laughed. "what will you say? you will have to speak it in twi."
"certainly!" i stood up, pretended i was the announcer pressing the button. "beweobeweobeweo! agoo! agoo!"
Ma pushed her hands on the sides of her chair and stretched back. i continued in simple twi.
"agoo! people of boamadumase- listen." i looked around and spread my hands around in front of me, just like the man does it. "it is akua kessywa. i am here to tell you friday-" i stalled, whispered,"how do you say party in twi?" Ma told me. "i am here to tell you friday i will have a party. please come. there will drinks and dancing, there will be no food. bring me a gift."
with these few lines, i had successfully gotten Ma to the point of deep choking laughter, her dress buttons practically ready to pop off. i'm sure it was a combination of my precise white girl twi mixed with my acting. i had her just where i liked her, needing to take deep breaths to recouperate.
"what do you think?" i asked.
she heaved and bent her head down, closing her eyes. then she looked up. "EFREEYEH!!!"
the name echoed through the clinic grounds, and within a minute, in her forest green uniform, efreeyeh appeared. "Ma." she said, standing like a cadet.
"kaisy, do it."
i repeated my act as efreeyeh covered her face and squinted her eyes. under Ma's thumb i know efreeyeh feels as if she is not allowed to laugh at work, but this time she was set up.
"thursday night, in the center of town, i'm doing it." i said.
"akua, they will laugh at you."
Ma chimed in, able to speak now and imparting wisdom "if you tell them there are free drinks, they will come running. you see how we are, if something is free, the entire village will come."
"okay, i'll leave that out. i'll say there will be no food, no drinks, only dancing, and please bring Yaa Sofia and me a gift."
sofie and i had both grown tired of being asked for things. it hadn't really let up since christmas, and i hadn't become immune to it. although, my close friends had refrained, and i loved them even more for that but sometimes it got so bad, people asked me for my clothes while i was wearing them, and these were people i knew had wardrobes of their own. it really challenged me with jesus' words about giving a man your cloak when he asks for your shirt. i decided that if i remained friendly while i refused, that was good enough.
"i was late today, because i met my friend on the road and i had to hire some music. he's coming at 5, here. Ma- will you dance?"
"i will."
"efreeyeh?"
"ahh huhhh..."
"then i will tell everybody, we can celebrate, and we'll get food just for staff and my friends at the house."
"who?" ma asked. "for sakola?"
"yes. and some others."
she liked sakola even though she didn't know him, she only knew we ate dinner together each night, and in Ma's world that meant he was taking care of me. she had asked why i didn't just marry him. i told her, sharing a bowl of fufuo and sharing a life were very different things. "but if he suits you, it can work." i said it probably wouldn't work. then she tried setting me up with ed because we both are white. "he has a girlfriend." but the answer bothered her, she tried every way around it.
"oh kaisy, we will miss you. you are jovial."
"and you Ma, i'll never have another teacher quite like you." "...and my time is running up, i need to make good use of it."
"by all means, a woman will come to deliver. you will see. there will be 3 or 4, you can deliver them."
"okay. can i do some learning right now? can you teach me some things?"
she didn't even need a second to think. she responded "ask efreeyeh."
i smiled, i was going to miss her too.
dodging coconuts
sofie and i made another trip to the coast, this time a little further north. it was a place i had never been to, a place sofie loved.
"come on" she said "we've got to get out of the village this weekend. i can't be bothered to spend another weekend here, i'm tired of entertaining myself. please come!"
i felt indulgent, considering i had just been a month earlier, but the beaches here are too beautiful to refuse and we both were leaving Ghana in a weeks time. we had been working hard at the clinic, it was another well deserved vacation, i told myself.
"i just want to warn you" she said "it's posh, and there are a lot of oburoni's there."
it is always a little disconcerting transferring oneself between two extremely different realities in such a short amount of time, so i was thankful for the warning. when we arrived to the beachside resort it was much better than i had anticipated; not very crowded, still very earthy and relaxed, and more secluded than i was used to.
"ahhhhhhhhh" we both said when we stretched out on our beachside chaise lounges. i left to buy a water from the restaraunt. when i returned we debated sunscreen. both of us secretly admitted our visions, of people expecting us to have become darker. living in a village does just the opposite, that is, if you are culturally sensitive. sakola had forced me into covering up my legs for 6 months and they were in need of some exposure.
"none for me." i said, looking down my body, imagining white turning brown, then realizing white most often goes red first, "okay" "maybe a little."
the beach was close to empty besides a group of men sitting about 20 feet away from us. we paid them no attention, but when they started barking and screaming we couldn't help but look at them, then at one another.
neither sofie nor i said anything, but we let out a few little grunts of supierority and a secret girl pleasure. we continued to sunbathe.
the strange noises got louder, and they were disturbing our peace, so i sat up to try and see what they were doing.
when i glanced over i noticed one of the four men was peering back at me. he was short and overwieght and enjoying life in a very tight speedo.
he waved.
it was a creepy wave. his palm raised upwards like a balloon that just got away, then it stopped and he curled each finger downwards slowly and stiffly. i didn't want to be rude, so i waved back, emitting no emotion. i tried to look away afterwards but i wasn't quick enough. the man caught my wave as if i had blown him a kiss, he pulled it into his body, and shook all over like an epileptic.
it was a strange interaction. i didn't like it at all, so i laid back down and through clenched teeth told sofie NOT to turn her head.
"why?" she said, lying on her stomach, hugging her chair.
"they're staring." i whispered.
we were in their full view so i had to play it cool.
"oh fuck em." sofie said, but she didn't move either.
"they're gross." i said.
"i know. when you left to get the water they asked me where i was from. they're russian."
the men started up cheering and ranting and raving again. "geez" i said "people say americans are loud."
sofie laughed.
i would have liked to ignore them but instead i took an intense pleasure in being disgusted by them. "look" i said and sofie sat up. "what is he doing?"
the short one was down by the water, rolling down the shore sideways into the waves, like an out of control taquito. then he let the current bob him back up, only to do it again. it looked ridiculous. it looked like something i might have done.
i noticed a few local ghanaians staring.
i wanted to let them know i thought these white men were strange too, i wanted to tell them not all white people know each other.
i tried not to watch the short man but his energy was so demanding, rolling and thrashing about in the waves. then, as if he knew i would be staring, he popped up and waved. i quickly closed my eyes.
his friend was just the opposite, tall and strong with a shaved head, the only similarity was their matching dark blue speedos and how loud they both were. he began pacing underneath his big thatched umbrella, working up some sort of opening dialogue that i knew was coming our way.
"c'mon, we're going swimming."
sofie sensed the urgency in my voice and jumped up. we walked down to the water, fully aware of their eyes on us, and ran in. I submerged myself up to my neck.
"every where you go in the world there is always the guaranteed creepy guy. anywhere."
she agreed.
we swam a bit, the water was nice. "i don't ever want to go to russia." i said, ducking through the waves, glad for the first time to be wearing an unattractive bathing suit.
the pudgy russian had been floating around, circumventing our area. i knew that one moment of accidental eye contact would latch us together for the rest of the weekend. i kept my back to him at all times.
Eventually he made his way to the shore, like a forgotten piece of driftwood, where he lodged himself and didn't move for hours. I took special note of his large patches of back hair, clinging to his sides, like furry Christmas ornaments.
Sofie and I went for a walk down the beach. A man was walking in our direction, fully clothed, and when he got close he pulled out his phone and lined it up to get a picture of us. I quickly wrapped myself in my sarong, then I stared at him and said "people think they are so tricky with their camera phones!" I heard the courtesy shutter sound take the photo, then he slipped it into his pocket and continued.
"what the hell?" I said incredulously.
I was glad I did yoga earlier in the day, it was the only thing giving me inner peace, that and the fact that sofie wasn't noticing these things. "he took our picture?"
I, on the other hand, felt under attack, I felt I needed my slingshot. It would have made things a lot easier.
When we got back to our towels we split up. I went swimming again. The undertow was strong and the water had become rough. I body surfed a few waves then went to sundry.
"whats this?" I said, pointing to the big green coconut propped up right where I was planning to rest.
Sofie had her head buried in her arms and her stomach muscles were flexing from laughing. She wasn't looking at me.
"where did you get this coconut?"
she kept laughing then stuck her eye out in my direction. "it's a present." She said.
"from your boys?" I asked.
"they brought it over for you."
I moved it down to the sand and sat down. "why me?"
"I told them I didn't want it, that I'd give it to you."
The top of the coconut had been sliced open and the water from the inside was glistening in the sun. "I don't take coconuts from strangers, especially if I didn't see it be opened."
"no, you're not serious are you?" sofie asked.
I nodded. "rohypnol."
There was a moment of silence. I was certain sofie would think I was paranoid so I had to ask "why don't you drink it?" the way she was looking at it I knew she was thirsty.
"idunno really. It kind of grosses me out."
I laughed.
The men had created a link with the coconut and neither one of us knew what to do. So it sat in the sand while we both pretended not to be bothered by it.
I looked over at the Russian men and they were coolly staring off into the horizon.
It was a good looking coconut, taken from one of the palms directly above our heads. I could tell the flesh of the coconut would have been delicious, it appeared soft and sweet. I tried to strike a deal. "okay" I said to sofie "you drink it and I'll eat it."
She shook her head a definite 'no'.
"but you're thirsty?"
"don't care."
"okay then I'm going to pour out the water and go ahead."
"NO!"
the coconut and the men were eliciting too much power. I had to go back in the water, get away from it all, wash away the stress.
When I got out for the 3rd time, walked back up to our spot, I noticed the coconut was empty.
Sofie was asleep.
"sofie?!"
"huuuuhhhhh…"
"did you do it?"
"what?" she laughed.
"you drank it?"
"ya, it was rough. Tasted like sea water."
We both agreed that the men were repulsive, and so were their coconuts.
"should we go over and thank them?" she asked.
"THANK THEM! Sofie! and fall into their trap? No way. That was the whole point of the coconut in the first place."
"you're right." She said.
Instead we continued to watch them from afar. They were strange, and the more I observed the more I felt like I was on safari. I knew that if I kept my distance, like in all the wild animal parks, I would have a greater chance of limited contact, and if they tried to approach again, I would run.
"come on" she said "we've got to get out of the village this weekend. i can't be bothered to spend another weekend here, i'm tired of entertaining myself. please come!"
i felt indulgent, considering i had just been a month earlier, but the beaches here are too beautiful to refuse and we both were leaving Ghana in a weeks time. we had been working hard at the clinic, it was another well deserved vacation, i told myself.
"i just want to warn you" she said "it's posh, and there are a lot of oburoni's there."
it is always a little disconcerting transferring oneself between two extremely different realities in such a short amount of time, so i was thankful for the warning. when we arrived to the beachside resort it was much better than i had anticipated; not very crowded, still very earthy and relaxed, and more secluded than i was used to.
"ahhhhhhhhh" we both said when we stretched out on our beachside chaise lounges. i left to buy a water from the restaraunt. when i returned we debated sunscreen. both of us secretly admitted our visions, of people expecting us to have become darker. living in a village does just the opposite, that is, if you are culturally sensitive. sakola had forced me into covering up my legs for 6 months and they were in need of some exposure.
"none for me." i said, looking down my body, imagining white turning brown, then realizing white most often goes red first, "okay" "maybe a little."
the beach was close to empty besides a group of men sitting about 20 feet away from us. we paid them no attention, but when they started barking and screaming we couldn't help but look at them, then at one another.
neither sofie nor i said anything, but we let out a few little grunts of supierority and a secret girl pleasure. we continued to sunbathe.
the strange noises got louder, and they were disturbing our peace, so i sat up to try and see what they were doing.
when i glanced over i noticed one of the four men was peering back at me. he was short and overwieght and enjoying life in a very tight speedo.
he waved.
it was a creepy wave. his palm raised upwards like a balloon that just got away, then it stopped and he curled each finger downwards slowly and stiffly. i didn't want to be rude, so i waved back, emitting no emotion. i tried to look away afterwards but i wasn't quick enough. the man caught my wave as if i had blown him a kiss, he pulled it into his body, and shook all over like an epileptic.
it was a strange interaction. i didn't like it at all, so i laid back down and through clenched teeth told sofie NOT to turn her head.
"why?" she said, lying on her stomach, hugging her chair.
"they're staring." i whispered.
we were in their full view so i had to play it cool.
"oh fuck em." sofie said, but she didn't move either.
"they're gross." i said.
"i know. when you left to get the water they asked me where i was from. they're russian."
the men started up cheering and ranting and raving again. "geez" i said "people say americans are loud."
sofie laughed.
i would have liked to ignore them but instead i took an intense pleasure in being disgusted by them. "look" i said and sofie sat up. "what is he doing?"
the short one was down by the water, rolling down the shore sideways into the waves, like an out of control taquito. then he let the current bob him back up, only to do it again. it looked ridiculous. it looked like something i might have done.
i noticed a few local ghanaians staring.
i wanted to let them know i thought these white men were strange too, i wanted to tell them not all white people know each other.
i tried not to watch the short man but his energy was so demanding, rolling and thrashing about in the waves. then, as if he knew i would be staring, he popped up and waved. i quickly closed my eyes.
his friend was just the opposite, tall and strong with a shaved head, the only similarity was their matching dark blue speedos and how loud they both were. he began pacing underneath his big thatched umbrella, working up some sort of opening dialogue that i knew was coming our way.
"c'mon, we're going swimming."
sofie sensed the urgency in my voice and jumped up. we walked down to the water, fully aware of their eyes on us, and ran in. I submerged myself up to my neck.
"every where you go in the world there is always the guaranteed creepy guy. anywhere."
she agreed.
we swam a bit, the water was nice. "i don't ever want to go to russia." i said, ducking through the waves, glad for the first time to be wearing an unattractive bathing suit.
the pudgy russian had been floating around, circumventing our area. i knew that one moment of accidental eye contact would latch us together for the rest of the weekend. i kept my back to him at all times.
Eventually he made his way to the shore, like a forgotten piece of driftwood, where he lodged himself and didn't move for hours. I took special note of his large patches of back hair, clinging to his sides, like furry Christmas ornaments.
Sofie and I went for a walk down the beach. A man was walking in our direction, fully clothed, and when he got close he pulled out his phone and lined it up to get a picture of us. I quickly wrapped myself in my sarong, then I stared at him and said "people think they are so tricky with their camera phones!" I heard the courtesy shutter sound take the photo, then he slipped it into his pocket and continued.
"what the hell?" I said incredulously.
I was glad I did yoga earlier in the day, it was the only thing giving me inner peace, that and the fact that sofie wasn't noticing these things. "he took our picture?"
I, on the other hand, felt under attack, I felt I needed my slingshot. It would have made things a lot easier.
When we got back to our towels we split up. I went swimming again. The undertow was strong and the water had become rough. I body surfed a few waves then went to sundry.
"whats this?" I said, pointing to the big green coconut propped up right where I was planning to rest.
Sofie had her head buried in her arms and her stomach muscles were flexing from laughing. She wasn't looking at me.
"where did you get this coconut?"
she kept laughing then stuck her eye out in my direction. "it's a present." She said.
"from your boys?" I asked.
"they brought it over for you."
I moved it down to the sand and sat down. "why me?"
"I told them I didn't want it, that I'd give it to you."
The top of the coconut had been sliced open and the water from the inside was glistening in the sun. "I don't take coconuts from strangers, especially if I didn't see it be opened."
"no, you're not serious are you?" sofie asked.
I nodded. "rohypnol."
There was a moment of silence. I was certain sofie would think I was paranoid so I had to ask "why don't you drink it?" the way she was looking at it I knew she was thirsty.
"idunno really. It kind of grosses me out."
I laughed.
The men had created a link with the coconut and neither one of us knew what to do. So it sat in the sand while we both pretended not to be bothered by it.
I looked over at the Russian men and they were coolly staring off into the horizon.
It was a good looking coconut, taken from one of the palms directly above our heads. I could tell the flesh of the coconut would have been delicious, it appeared soft and sweet. I tried to strike a deal. "okay" I said to sofie "you drink it and I'll eat it."
She shook her head a definite 'no'.
"but you're thirsty?"
"don't care."
"okay then I'm going to pour out the water and go ahead."
"NO!"
the coconut and the men were eliciting too much power. I had to go back in the water, get away from it all, wash away the stress.
When I got out for the 3rd time, walked back up to our spot, I noticed the coconut was empty.
Sofie was asleep.
"sofie?!"
"huuuuhhhhh…"
"did you do it?"
"what?" she laughed.
"you drank it?"
"ya, it was rough. Tasted like sea water."
We both agreed that the men were repulsive, and so were their coconuts.
"should we go over and thank them?" she asked.
"THANK THEM! Sofie! and fall into their trap? No way. That was the whole point of the coconut in the first place."
"you're right." She said.
Instead we continued to watch them from afar. They were strange, and the more I observed the more I felt like I was on safari. I knew that if I kept my distance, like in all the wild animal parks, I would have a greater chance of limited contact, and if they tried to approach again, I would run.
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