It's like Mali, with chinese places and missionaries

Where do I start? As life in Mali was beginning to get mundane, I pleaded for your suggestions. What the heck to I write about these days? I had drafted a blog entry about the condition of my bicycle and yet another update on the weather. (I bet you can't wait.) But now, as I am sitting in the Peace Corps office of Accra, Ghana (the very first Peace Corps establishment in 1961), I have plenty other things to report.

I sort of explained to my village I was going on a vacation to Ghana and running a 42 kilometer race. I didn’t want to make it too big of a deal, especially in the midst of the Feast of Ramadan this past weekend. The Feast, I am disappointed to say, was not much of a feast. The Muslim calendar and mother nature’s harvest calendar clashed in such a way that no one had any money or means to really celebrate. Oh sure, they killed a goat at the Bouare’s house, and I actually did eat some unidentified parts of it in hoping to get some extra nutrients for this marathon. But even the xylophones weren’t as well attended- people complained about not having any new fancy clothes to wear. Most of my feast was spent at the party of Shaka and his gang of 6 school boys. During the school vacation this summer, they had a little business running errands and doing chores for people around the village. They collectively managed to save up 4500 cfa (almost $9) and splurged on macaroni, tea, sodas and I contributed some fried plantains. They claimed they were going to dance all night in the little open storage hut that my host dad just built next to mine, but a little after midnight most of them had passed out, their tapes of xylophone music still blaring on the old cassette player. It was wicked cute.

Work only started to get really crazy Wednesday morning, as I was about to leave for my trip. Irene was away at a funeral, Sali was tending to a woman in labor, and 50+ screaming babies were waiting for the vaccinations. It was only me, Viay the vacainator, and two community health workers (one so clueless he might have well been one of the babies). Instead of doing my normal weighing routine and individual consuling, I scanned the crowd and hand-picked babies to be weighed (I’ve developed a pretty good eye for malnutrition, even when they’re all tied up on their mother’s backs.) Here I am running here and there, registering kids, trying to understand why they’re not eating, what the mothers should be doing differently, and the sun keeps rising higher and higher. I got to think about getting out of here soon.

I had a lot on my mind. I was to leave Thursday morning on a flight to Lome, Togo, and aftwerwords find ground transport across the Togo boarder to Accra, Ghana. My civilian passport was still sitting in the Togonese embassy across town in Bamako, and my government passport, with my Malian visa, was nowhere to be found. I ripped my hut apart a number of times and resorted to the prayer and chance that I had passed it over in my safe in Bamako. I could get to Ghana (that is if my Togo visa was processed alright) but could I get back into Mali? Not to mention the fact that my debit card was not working in any ATMs I tried, and between cash and what I had in my Peace Corps account, I had barely over $100 to my name. My computer charger was nowhere to be found, and fresh out of hotel vochuers I had no idea where I was going to sleep in Bamako, if I even made it there in the first place.

My route to Ghana would be solo, but I was to meet up with two characters at some random, nook in the wall hotel we chose- Joel, my marathoning buddy, and Maridee, a retired, older volunteer meeting her daughter’s plane from the states in Ghana. Maridee and her daughter were going to travel around shortly after meeting up, and Joel and I were going to stick together. Meet at hotel, stay with some ex-pat named Mike whose number we got from the race director, race, then travel up to Cape Coast for some real vacation time. Heck, we even decided to stick together on the same pace for the first 10-13 miles of the race. It was because I had heard Joel was doing this marathon that convinced me to sign up in the first place.

By 11:00 I was on my bike and off. Fotiki was following me, the father of Sayo. Sayo is 18 months and has been on our malnutrition rehab program for 4 months now. Each week he drops a few more grams. Puzzeled by our many attempts at counseling and treating underlying diseases, Bouare and I referred him to the hospital in Kati. After much convincing and a few loans from friends, Fotiki and his wife Teresi agreed to go for referred treatment. I was to help them check in and get settled.

So I’m swerving down the road of Dio (the brakes on my bike are broken)trying to get things in order by making frantic calls on my cell phone. (Anyone ever driven with me in the States?)

“Hey Joel, are you in Bamako yet? I think I have a package from my parents in and I don’t know if I’ll be in in time to pick it up.”

“Oh, no I’m not,” Joel responded.

“Are you still in village?” I asked.

“Yeah, did you get my message last night?”

“No…”

Turns out Joel is violently ill with some stomach thing and throat infection and any one of those lovely parasites you can pick up here in Africa. Bottom line: He bailed from the trip. I’m in this one alone.

Transport to Kati was rough, as we stopped to load 50 potato sacks on the top of the bush taxi, and had some dude jumping on and off the roof the whole way there. God knows why. Fotiki, the silent, solemn field farmer he is, was getting impatient. We got there, got settled, dealt with a few helpful and not-so-helpful people at the hospital. Just as I was in the middle of meeting with some of the doctors, my phone rang.

It was Maridee, about to get on her bus. 2 days in the heat across the savannah to Ghana. I’m glad I had a plane ticket at least part of the way.

“Emily- can you pick my daughter up from the airport in Accra tomorrow night? Her plane comes in at 6:30, she’s got long curly hair, her name is Lani. I’m not going to be there until the next morning.” And here I’m trying to get out of the hospital to meet with my friend Camera to help him with a Peace Corps job application, and to get to Bamako, find a place to stay, find my damn passport. I’ve developed a reputation around the volunteers here. Emily is the scatterbrain.

“I’ll try Maridee, but I can’t promise anything.”

Yet things only went smoothly after that. My visa card was working, I even got my Peace Corps paycheck in. My passport ended up being in the desk drawer of the staff member who went to get our Visas renewed, my friend Pete offered me a place to stay, got my vaccine card and boarding pass, I got a fabulous pre-marathon package filled with energy gels, whole grain pasta and new shoes, and I even snagged an old bathing suit top from the lost-and-found. My bathing suit top is lost, but now I can at least hit the beach. (I won’t be matching, oh well…) The only thing that didn’t turn up was my computer charger. So I’m lugging around a dead laptop. Things could be worse.

I’m in a great mood as I check in at the Bamako airport. Being the confusing place it is, I was happy to be on the plane headed for Lome, Togo. Togo is French speaking, and when I arrived I had to find out how I would get to Ghana.

The short taxi drive along the coast ended up at this huge archway with the normal crowds of African beggars and sellers. I get out of my taxi to a rail-thin girl in a lace shawl. “Welcome Sieeeeestarrrrrr!” Pushing through crowds of Africans like this is nothing new, but I didn’t have the trick of being able to speak their native tongue. I showed my papers to a bunch of official looking people, one by one, and was then alone with my two bags, staring at busses and cars.

“We need one more for Accra!” An excited man is yelling standing next to a rather modern, family style SUV. Looks nice. I’ll take it. Because I didn’t have any Ghanian money, I just shoved some CFAs at him, who ran to exchange the money with one of the black market dealers roaming around the coastal scene with wads of bills. Before I knew it, I was on a bumpy road with a Nigerian woman, her brother and his wife, listening to some Rhumba and headed 3 hours West. I take a step back- Did I really just cross the Togo-Ghanian boarder and now I’ve pretty much hitchhiked with a family from Nigeria? Where has life taken me? I’m having a blast already.

Ghana’s a lot different from Mali. Sure, village life is similar all around West Africa, though they’ve replaced millet stalks with palm branches and bamboo on the roofs of their huts. A bit more tropical, a bit more fun. Even the music is better. Instead of this weird, zany, disharmonic xylophone stuff, we got some great base and lively African coastal jams. And to top it all off, ENGLISH SPEAKING. I’m liking Ghana.

The other thing that struck me was the huge Christian presence. We drove by tons of little churches and catholic schools. There were little shack stores like “Jesus is a Winner Plastics” and “God is With You Cold Cuts”. My mind went to the road trip I took with some high school friends a few summers ago on the back roads of Carolina.

We reached the outskirts of Accra, and the Nigerian family just kind of dropped me off on a highway by a little taxi corner. Hmmm, I thought, what to do now. I look at my phone- a little after 5. Well, might as well find the airport.

The Ghana airport was a strange place. There were billboards reading “Trafficking Drugs? You’ll be caught!” “Cocaine Kills!” “Need drug counseling? Call blablabla”. I ran into a whole fleet of missionaries fresh off the plane from Tennessee. They greeted me with enthusiasm knowing I was American. “Oehw! Are yew a missinery tew?”

I got some great Chinese food (well, great to me) and scribbled “Lani” on the back of my boarding pass, and held it up to the exiting travelers feeling like and idiot. It wasn’t long after a confused girl with long curly hair wheeled her luggage around the corner. She did a double-take. “Wait, I’m Lani.”

“Oh! I’m Emily. I know your Mom. We’re supposed to meet her tomorrow morning at the hotel Christanbourg.”

“Oh Ok. I had no idea anyone was coming to meet me!”

“Neither did I! Welcome to Africa.”

Lani and I checked into the rusting hotel and walked out with a Ghanaian staff member to get some food for Lani. She was taking it all in, the air, the clothing, the colors. I, on the other hand was thinking how strange this is. We don’t have the secret language anymore. We are around these Ghanaians who can speak their language that we don’t understand, but if we speak English, they DO understand it! It’s all backwords! I’m supposed to be able to say whatever I want in English without the African understanding (almost got in trouble with that one), and they have no defense because I know Bambara. Ghana is pretty cool, but I’ve been stripped of my weapon.

Exhausted from traveling, we went to bed early. The hotel was pretty gross and overpriced, but it was the designated meeting place. And all I had to get me through the rest of the week was some phone numbers ("We're staying with a guy named Mike" Joel had briefly told be a few weeks ago) and the hope that I’d make some new friends at the Peace Corps office. So I cranked up the air conditioning and enjoyed a good night sleep.

MARATHON TRAINING and MISHAPS

I’ve been training fairly well for this thing. Before my taper, I was up to 63 miles a week and had done a couple of 18 mile long runs and a 20 miler. Not in the shape I was in college, and still carrying around some rice weight, but feeling better than I ever have in country. And my body knows something’s up. I’ve been naturally getting up earlier and drinking a ton of water. Not to mention I bought a loaf of wheat bread and ate the entire thing today. Yummmm. I just hope I don’t regret it.

Like the Chinese.

Or maybe it was the smoothie.

Whatever it was, my body was a little surprised and unfamiliar with it this morning. About three miles in to an easy 4 miler, I had an urge. Some call it “Runner’s Trots.” Here in Peace Corps, we call it “Mr. D.” Whatever you want to call it, I needed some sort of toilet facility. Immediately.

I went to a little corner shop and asked the woman if there was a toilet around. Her English was not great and she first started giving me information about renting a toilet. No, I don’t want to rent one, I have to use one!

We walked across the street to her family’s compound. It was a nice place, clean, with a driveway and a few men hosing down a car. But we had walked. And my intestines didn’t want to wait. It was beyond my power, I don’t know if I’ve ever had an experience like this before, and if I have, I’ve been on some back trail with bushes all over the place. Here I am in the middle of a foreign city in some random Ghanian woman’s driveway and there is s**t dropping from my shorts on to it. The men washing the car look at each other and then give me a strange look. “I am very very sick.” I said. Actually, I felt fine, but I just couldn’t control something. But I played it like I’ve never been so sick in my life, bending over, holding my stomach.

There is someone in the bathroom. The woman is yelling at him to come out in Ashanti, (their native language). All I could make out of it was “Poo! Poo!” A frantic man in nothing but a very tight blue speedo comes out, and I run in. The woman hands me a whole role of toilet paper, in which I use the entire thing. It was a pretty clean bathroom, I thought. I almost wished it was a negen so I wouldn’t feel so bad about being in here. I take my time, trying not to leave any trace. I hear her from the outside, “I am waiting for you,” every couple of minutes.

When I finally emerge, this big Ghanian woman, now abuzz and spastic, hurridley shoves me into the neighboring room where a small shower is running. “Now you wash! Wash it all!” I get in the shower with my clothes on and scrub. “And you yooose da soap! Yooose da soap!” I’m thinking I’ll just clean up as best as I can, throw on my running shoes and sprint out of here. I’ve never been so embarrassed as far as I can remember.

She tries to offer me a change of clothes. “No, it’s ok.” I’m still in the shower, you see. “Wash it! Wash it here!” I thought she was talking about the shower floor. She is almost having a heart attack with her thick glasses and her bright orange African garb. She probably thinks I’m super sick or just wicked disgusting. I pick up a loofa sheet and start to wash the floor. “Wash it! No, no- here!” I look at her, she is pointing to her bee-hind. “No- here!” I close the bathroom door and scrub myself clean. With da soap. I put on my shoes, hurriedly apologize to the entire family, and the woman walks me out.

I try to give her money, I’m apologizing excessively now but she is seriously worried about me. She wants to help me get back, she thinks I’m really sick. I said my friends were down the street and I’d be fine. She tells me to come back if I need anything, anytime. Ghanians are nice right? I don’t think I’d tell that to a stranger/foreigner that s**t all over my house. I do the act and limp down the street holding my stomach, and when I turn the corner, start on finishing my run like before. What else is there left to do?

Note to self: No Chinese before the marathon.