I should have seen it coming. Every development worker speaks of the corruption anchor, that undismissingly drags at the cundercurrent of otherwise promising embarkments of development. Sometimes it sinks the ship down. Other times it changes its course. But usually we who try to drive our projects forward just keep treading and pushing, too scared or naive to confront what's happening behind our backs. We are determined to progress, despite the shady activity going on beneath the waters.
So then what did I do when all at once, I was a victim of blatant corruption that not only demanded immediate acknowledgement, but also opened my eyes to a series of wrong-doing I had glazed over during the past year?
"B.", as we call him, is always excited to help with a project. He built the school's handwashing stations, headed up construction on the wells, and has recently shown an interest in my latest project idea: solar fruit dryers for mango preservation. He is after all, Dombila's Mr. Fix-it. Shortly after presenting him with some information, he excitedly told me he had called his friend in Kati who makes these things regularly. "I'm gonig to Kati to learn how to build one with him, then I'll bring it back here as an example for people to see."
But he needed some money. $30.
"That sounds a little steep," I said.
"But he's making a big one!"
"Why?"
"He'll make a big one now and later we'll make smaller ones, and I know the price will lower if we make a lot of them at once." Unfortunately, any suspicians I had were crowded out by my excitement and impatience in starting this project. "Even if you give him $20 now, you can pay the rest later."
"And when we write the project proposal, I'll write it in my budget and get refunded," I reasoned.
"Exactly."
Later that day, B came to my house looking for the money. For a Malian, that's a big chunk of change. Why did he need it now? He fished for an answer and finally said that the guy was here in the market and needed it now. I was busy with a million things as always on market day, but what it comes down to is I'm a sucker. I coughed it up.
It didn't take long before I told Irene and my host family the buisness. "$20?" they exclaimed, "A solar table is not worth $20!" I withheld that there was still $10 to be added to it. Irene was upset I didn't go to her first. Daramane, my host father, told me it's common knowledge that if something costs so much, B will tell you its actually more and put the difference in his pocket. The rest of the actors in the scene confessed to seeing B skipping around the market on a shopping spree shortly after I had given him the money.
This was three weeks ago. After that there were all these excuses about why he hadn't gone to Kati yet and how tommorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow- the same song he sang during the slower period of the well project. I went to Ghana expecting to come back to at least a functional mango drier in my compound.
In the week following, excuses included transportation problems, and a very elaborate story about how he went to Kati, knocked on his friend's door, only to find out that he had left town for a funeral and of course forgot his cell phone so couldn't be reached. He can sense my anger now, and makes a promise to go on Friday.
"Ok," I say, "but I want to go with you and meet this guy." Firday comes, B is in no rush to go to Kati, and rolls in on the hot afternoon having decided it would be better to go sleep in Kati tonight and meet us Saturday morning. We were to meet at 8:00 in Malibougou, a small hamlet of Kati where this mysterious capenter, who cannot be reached by cell phone, has been dilegently working on my solar drier.
I spent the night with Caroline. She made a wonderful stew and we talked theology as we counted shooting stars and slapped mosquitos dead on our legs. We went to find a car for Kati bright and early. I called B.
"Are you in Kati?"
"No I'm still in Dombila. Couldn't go last night but I'm on my way."
"Great, we'll wait for you and we'll all go together."
An hour later, I call to find B still in Dombila. "I'm busy," he says, "Work."
"But we've had this appointment all week." What could he possibly be doing?
"And you need to come to Dombila right away. There's a mother with a malnourished baby thats been waiting for you all morning."
"Well Irene's there, she knew I had other work today. She can see them."
"No, we can't find Irene."
"What about Sali?"
"She's busy. There's a ton of people at the CSCOM. They're going to turn the mother away if you don't come."
What a weapon he pulled! Trying to tug at my heartstrtings like that! He knows my weakness, but at this point I know better.
"We're going to Kati," I say, "what's your friend's name and number?"
"You forgot his name already?"
"You never told it to me."
"Yes I did." Pause. "Daouda Coulibaly. I'll call you back with his number." And that was the last I heard from B that day, even with my persistant calling.
Caroline and I lifter our spirits by pretending we were on the Amazing Race or some wacky scavenger hunt. We spent the whole morning in Malibougou and even the center of Kati asking about this carpenter, Daouda Coulibaly, whom nobody seemed to know. Maybe you can ask here, there, over there, did you try that place? We were told. Once we had combed the area thoroughly and concluded that Daouda Coulibaly really doesn't exist, not to mention our solar drier, we headed back to Dio.
I was angry of course and undecided about how I would handle the situation, but honestly felt like I had accomplished something that morning. Case closed. I know the truth now. And I put some more pieces together in my mind- that extra barrel from the handwashing station, the $60 missing from the last project that I made up out of my own pocket, the extra well cement that had disappeared to the black market, and the $14 loan I stupidly made hime to help a sick relative in one of my first naive months here. (First and last loan I ever made here).
Caroline recommended we talk to her carpenter friend, a firery old bearded guy who fixed her window and made desks for the school. A few days later we had a meeting with him in Dombila. He agreed to help with the project, but was not free of B's pestering. B kept interrupting with his enthusiasm and supposed expertise of the project, on fear that he would be out of a job (or out of access to a pot of potential money from Uncle Sam).
"B., Kalanmoko is going to help with this project. It's easier than having to go all the way to Kati, he can make them right here in Dio."
"I was going to go to Kati this afternoon to get your table!" I gave him a blank stare. "Oh, would you rather I get you your money."
"Get me my money."
He never went, still hasn't, and so rests the fate of another handful of good-intended green ones from the American people.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Vacation is over
So I’m back from Ghana and still on cloud nine. That was the best vacation ever. Even my ex-pat friend Mike was impressed with my traveling skills. After the marathon I took off on my own to see some historical sites- the old slave castle in the old British capital of the New World- Cape Coast, the Kakum national part with its canopy walk over the roof of the rainforest. I stayed in youth hostels, took local transportation or hitch-hiked with some more missionaries, found some great Ghanaian street food, and just explored. Beaches, old colonial churches, the rainforest and swamp-lands…it was very liberating traveling around on my own, and a truly amazing experience. When I return, make sure to ask me about the salsa dancing. Some PCVs and I ended up at the hot spot for the beautiful people in Ghana my last night- a large salsa dancing party- me feeling totally out of place in my running shoes and dirty jeans. But nonetheless, I found myself being twirled and dipped by Ghanaian men who despite their tight pants and pretentious sunglasses were actually quite talented dancers.
Now I’m back in Mali. I forgot how dirty it is here. In Ghana, there’s like bathrooms and garbage cans and stuff. And now my legs have that perpetual coat of dirt. Bamako is not my favorite place in the world, so I’ll be happy to get out of here tonight. I wonder what it’s going to be like getting back to village. How long with it take me and my villagers to get back in the swing of things? I feel guilty as always- my villagers, especially my co-workers in the CSCOM work really hard under trying conditions. They never get a vacation to Ghana. And what will my new attitude be toward the work I want to accomplish? Will I have a fresh positive view or be looking at things in a different way? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Before I left, the kids in the village did a relay run. We organized it to learn about clean water and the dangers of dehydration. A similar run will be happening in the HFL schools back in my home town too. They will be working to raise money for the expansion of the well project. Keep your eyes open in the next month because I am planning on posting the project soon. We will be trying to raise somewhere between $3,000- $4,000 to do more top well repairs in the village. So, I’m going to need your help. Again, thanks to all who helped with the hand washing stations- I finally got your names so I’ll be working on the thank-you notes soon!
Allah k’a yafa di an ma, ka keneya ni here di an ma. (My God forgive us, and give us health and peace).
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Accra International Marathon
After I bid farewell to Maridee and Lani- they were headed for a cheap night’s sleep before their departure for Cape Coast, I pulled out a small piece of scrap paper. On it, I had written numbers and names of connections in Ghana, the most valuable being “the guy Mike” as Joel likes to refer to him. A friend of the marathon race director, Mike is an American living in Ghana who had graciously agreed to put Joel and I up for a couple of nights. I gave him a call, and within minutes I was settling in to a high class apartment in the lush district of Accra.
I couldn’t believe how I was welcomed with a key and instructions to make myself at home. Mike was great company. I middle aged former PCV and also regular marathoner. We exchanged stories about Peace Corps for a while, and I turned in to bed early, in my very own guest room complete with air conditioning. Livin the life.
The next morning, I made friends with the 8 Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana who were registering alongside me the morning before the race. It almost felt like home again, getting all in the running mode. Except for the fact that it took me four hours to get my teeshirt- we’re still in Africa.
They showed me around town and even invited me to the country director’s house for a pre-race pasta dinner. That night, Mike’s guests went from 1 to 5 nomadic Peace Corps volunteers- he seemed to be having a great time though. Alone here on a year long project with NGO consulting, now he had a house full of Peace Corps kids, and was as laid back as you can get.
I had a bit trouble falling asleep because of excitement, and managed to get in 3 or 4 hours total before our alarm went off at 2:30 a.m. We had called a taxi to pick us up and bring us to the shuttle, which would get us to the start plenty of time before the 5:30 gun time. It’s Africa, may I remind you, the marathon actually started at 6:45.
My plan was to start out around 8:40 pace, but that completely went out the window. I ran the first 7 miles with a PCV from Ghana, Serena at about an 8:15 pace. Then I wiped out and after that I was on a mission. I was hitting some good mile times in the middle there, trying to draft off of people as much as I could. We ran with a terrible head wind in our faces for the entire race (it was all in one direction on the coast of the ocean). But drafting off of Africans is difficult. Most of the ones back with me were guys in decent shape but very confused on how to pace themselves. We’d be going 7:15 pace one minute and 9:00 pace the next.
The course was terrible- in mid morning traffic in down-town Accra. They didn’t clear the roads, so I was dodging crazy taxi drivers and breathing in smog. And after the thing spead out, there were many times when I was all alone, wondering if I was still going the right way. Support was pretty good though, enough water-stations, bananas and whatnot. But the Ghanians running the stations half expected me to stop and take an order like I was at McDonalds. I got the hand of yelling “Juice Jucie!” or “Water! Water!” from 20 meters away to get them prepared. I was once handed an entire carton liter of orange juice, what the heck? And took a water cup that always had water in it before, dumped it over my head only to find out it was apple juice.
I definitely slowed down the last 5 miles, but I felt surpisingly good the whole way through. And I got good at yelling “Move! Move!” When I city bus would be letting out a crowd of Ghanaias right in front of my path. I placed 5th among women (1st white girl!) in 3:47. Not bad for a first timer. I’m sure the time could have been faster under better weather and race conditions, but I was happy. I like the marathon, and will most definitely be running more of them (in the states!). My new friends were pretty impressed, as was Mike who left us a feast of lunch meats, pitas, fruit, junk food and drinks back at the apartment. Oh yeah, and I won the equivalent of $100!
I couldn’t believe how I was welcomed with a key and instructions to make myself at home. Mike was great company. I middle aged former PCV and also regular marathoner. We exchanged stories about Peace Corps for a while, and I turned in to bed early, in my very own guest room complete with air conditioning. Livin the life.
The next morning, I made friends with the 8 Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana who were registering alongside me the morning before the race. It almost felt like home again, getting all in the running mode. Except for the fact that it took me four hours to get my teeshirt- we’re still in Africa.
They showed me around town and even invited me to the country director’s house for a pre-race pasta dinner. That night, Mike’s guests went from 1 to 5 nomadic Peace Corps volunteers- he seemed to be having a great time though. Alone here on a year long project with NGO consulting, now he had a house full of Peace Corps kids, and was as laid back as you can get.
I had a bit trouble falling asleep because of excitement, and managed to get in 3 or 4 hours total before our alarm went off at 2:30 a.m. We had called a taxi to pick us up and bring us to the shuttle, which would get us to the start plenty of time before the 5:30 gun time. It’s Africa, may I remind you, the marathon actually started at 6:45.
My plan was to start out around 8:40 pace, but that completely went out the window. I ran the first 7 miles with a PCV from Ghana, Serena at about an 8:15 pace. Then I wiped out and after that I was on a mission. I was hitting some good mile times in the middle there, trying to draft off of people as much as I could. We ran with a terrible head wind in our faces for the entire race (it was all in one direction on the coast of the ocean). But drafting off of Africans is difficult. Most of the ones back with me were guys in decent shape but very confused on how to pace themselves. We’d be going 7:15 pace one minute and 9:00 pace the next.
The course was terrible- in mid morning traffic in down-town Accra. They didn’t clear the roads, so I was dodging crazy taxi drivers and breathing in smog. And after the thing spead out, there were many times when I was all alone, wondering if I was still going the right way. Support was pretty good though, enough water-stations, bananas and whatnot. But the Ghanians running the stations half expected me to stop and take an order like I was at McDonalds. I got the hand of yelling “Juice Jucie!” or “Water! Water!” from 20 meters away to get them prepared. I was once handed an entire carton liter of orange juice, what the heck? And took a water cup that always had water in it before, dumped it over my head only to find out it was apple juice.
I definitely slowed down the last 5 miles, but I felt surpisingly good the whole way through. And I got good at yelling “Move! Move!” When I city bus would be letting out a crowd of Ghanaias right in front of my path. I placed 5th among women (1st white girl!) in 3:47. Not bad for a first timer. I’m sure the time could have been faster under better weather and race conditions, but I was happy. I like the marathon, and will most definitely be running more of them (in the states!). My new friends were pretty impressed, as was Mike who left us a feast of lunch meats, pitas, fruit, junk food and drinks back at the apartment. Oh yeah, and I won the equivalent of $100!
Friday, September 25, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
What do you want to read?
For those of you that do read this blog, I'd love your feedback. I know it's important to me to write for myself, but I don't have to publish every boring thing that goes on. What do you want to hear about? Culture? Projects? My personal life and thoughts? Descriptions of people in the village? Let me know so that I try to make this blog more exciting for you all to read. I also have some suggested reading for any of you really interested in this stuff.
Books on Peace Corps Life in West Africa:
-Monique and the Mango Rains (Kris Halloway)
-Nine Hills To Nambonkaha (Sarah Erdman)
Adventures in Health Education in Mali:
- Dancing Skeletons (Katherine A. Dettwyler)
(gives a great picture of malnutrition work in Mali by an American anthropologist)
Books on Development and Health
- The White Man's Burden (William Easterly)
- The End of Poverty (Jeffery Sachs)
- Pathologies of Power (Paul Farmer)
Let me know if you get a chance to read any of these.
Peace,
Emily
Books on Peace Corps Life in West Africa:
-Monique and the Mango Rains (Kris Halloway)
-Nine Hills To Nambonkaha (Sarah Erdman)
Adventures in Health Education in Mali:
- Dancing Skeletons (Katherine A. Dettwyler)
(gives a great picture of malnutrition work in Mali by an American anthropologist)
Books on Development and Health
- The White Man's Burden (William Easterly)
- The End of Poverty (Jeffery Sachs)
- Pathologies of Power (Paul Farmer)
Let me know if you get a chance to read any of these.
Peace,
Emily
Partying
I have stories to write about various festivities- ranging from Peace Corps volunteers, to college-kids from Kati, to Muslims in Ramadan. It is the season! And when I return to my computer this entry will be replaced with all the details.
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