The Toilet Bowl of Life

Strangely, though Besease is really only a hop, skip, and a 10 minute taxi ride due north from the ocean, I rarely go. In fact, a lot of the students and kids in Besease have never been to the ocean. Last winter a volunteer came and organized an excursion for the kids of Star of the Sea School to visit the local College in Komenda (which happens to look like a magical paradise surrounded by exotic jungle trees, perched atop a small cliff overlooking the wild sea). It was the first time that many of the kids had seen the ocean. Only three of the kids among the group knew how to swim. Can you imagine living so close to the ocean, but never going to enjoy it?

I miss swimming. It is my favorite form of exercise. I feel like when I am in Ghana, I don’t exercise much at all. Not like I do at home anyway. At home, I take night walks alone or with the dog, but here that would be considered dangerous for a young woman (especially a white one…I glow at night, so it would be easy to jump me). I go hiking in Minnesota, but in Besease the land isn’t for hiking, it’s for farming. I don’t own a bicycle, and the one that Star of the Sea owns has been used and abused so much over the years it is now just something to look at. If I had a bike here, I would bike everywhere, especially because I dislike running. So one day, feeling rather potato-like and restless, I begged some of the teachers to go to the ocean with me for a swim. And George, my really good friend in Besease, graciously volunteered himself.

George and I immediately had a disagreement when we arrived at the sea. I wanted to go off to the west, toward Komenda college, where it’s hardly populated and very few people swim. Because when I swim in Ghana, I get stared at and the young men bother me, and I just felt like being left alone for the day. But George, being a man of old-time tradition and a good friend, said that area was too dangerous for swimming and insisted we stay where all the people were, nearer to town and the fishing boats. He couldn’t have me drowning. “But I am a good swimmer!” I complained. “But you haven’t grown up around the ocean,” he’d say. And we went back and forth like that until finally I gave in and said, “Fine, I’ll sit with you and wade around a bit.” I was, in fact, a bit miffed and had stubbornly decided to not swim. This was mostly because, by the time we sat down, a crowd of kids had already formed waiting to see what the Bruni would do, and I wasn’t in any mood to be their entertainment for the day. As I said, I felt like being alone, but being stubborn is sometimes stupid and despite your best efforts, something can crack that stubbornness in two. George was wading around, and sulking in my own toilet of stubborness alone, on the beach wasn't doing anything for me or making any points (especially since George took no notice), so I walked down to join him. And instantly, as thought the ocean were laughing in my face, a huge wave came and drenched my skirt. So I thought, to hell with it, and I plucked off my shirt. (Though I had my one piece Speedo on, I left my skirt on as well, since none of the other girls swimming were revealing their legs.) And I jumped in.

George warned me not to go too far, and as the tide was coming in and the waves were rough, I decided to obey. A few girls came and joined us, watching me, then imitating me. And despite my mood earlier, I enjoyed having them there. The kids on the beach lounged around the fishing boats or sat gathered in the sand like they were at the movies. Old men were taking dips completely naked. So as the kids stared at me, I stared at these old men, hanging out in the water and walking around naked as jaybirds, everything free to hang. Sometimes, life is funny. In Ghana, old men swimming naked goes, but kissing in public does not. But in America, kissing in public is expected, old men swimming naked (at least in Minnesota) in a public area, is not. Also, taking a dump in the ocean in Ghana is okay. Well…..it used to be. Justin told me there are now strict laws about it; however, the police don’t go striding up and down the beach in small towns enforcing their no-pooping law, so it still goes on. I asked why in the world people poop in the ocean, because it all just washes up on shore in the end, and you have to gingerly make your way across the beach. He said it was because, the kids mostly, think it will get washed out to sea. Into the ocean, our giant toilet.

(Let me pause here to wonder at humanity. Ghana isn't the only place with people who hold such sentiments. In fact, most people hold these sentiments. It is why we have giant plastic islands made of bags and bottles swirling in the middle of the ocean, caught in cross currents suffocating and poisoning some air and sea animals and turning the males into females. It is why the Gulf of Mexico has a dead zone and ships coming into harbor find themselves running into old refrigerators and other marine sludge. We treat the ocean like our toilet, sometimes indirectly without meaning to, because we don't think first. I thought we were the most evolved animals, and therefore the smartest, so with all of our education, why do we still shit where we eat? Next time you think about getting that plastic bag at Wal-mart, think of it as a piece of poop that will get washed up onto shore because although you think it might end up in a landfill and so it doesn't matter, it is estimated that nearly 80% of marine debris is blown into the ocean from the land or washed down storm drains into the sea.)

At one point a young man came sprinting down the beach, straight into the water, swam to a huge rock, climbed up, and hurled himself off the other side into the depths and dangers of the oncoming waves. Foolish, stupid, crazy, daring boy. George could see the look in my eye. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “He’s just tempting you to follow.” I wouldn’t have thought about it, but it looked fun and I had been wanting to climb that rock since I saw it. But I knew, that he knew this ocean. That that boy had lived here, gone out on the fishing boats everyday, and I would be mangled to death on that rock with the way the waves were coming in despite my 11 years of swimteam. One of the small girls swimming with me mimicked George and in all seriousness said, “He’s just tempting you.” So I stayed where I was, watching the boy with awe has he flipped himself off the rock into the danger of the untamed sea being, actually, quite a showoff.

The few Ghanaians I have talked to that can swim are curious about floating, as though it is the swimming skill that completely escapes them. Every one of them has specifically asked me if I can float. And I can, it’s as easy as breathing (or not) to me. But as I watched George, I realized it really is a skill. There is a technique: you fill your lungs with air and just relax, lie back in the water as though you are falling asleep on a cloud. The more you tense your body, the less you will float....

I think this can be said about life too. If you find yourself sinking more often than not, take a deep breath and relax. Climb on top of the current instead of struggling against it. And then you'll find, when you need to, you can float atop the toilet bowl of life. (Which reminds me of the Modest Mouse song Float On.)

Funnily, though many of my Ghanaian friends can't seem to float in water, they are very good about floating on the currents of life when need be. I, on the other hand, seem to like struggling against them. But the odd thing is, when I swim, when I float in the water and stare at the sky, all the struggle leaves me and I feel carefree, letting the current take me. Dusk started falling, so George and I gathered our things. We gingerly made our way across the beach, sidestepping poo droppings, followed by a few children. I watched other children more interested in their games, also naked as jaybirds like the old men, playing football on the beach, running and screaming after each other in the ocean. While this day my mood had been stubborn and terrible, after a good swim in humanity's toilet bowl, I found myself going with the flow again.

Cake Time

I’ve never had Ghana cake as it turns out. I’ve had different sorts of ‘cake’ here, but not the cake. Ghana cake is used to make wedding cakes, and birthday cakes, and the like, so it’s an important type of cake. You can buy it in small, undecorated, single-servings (like a muffin) while waiting at the trotro station, or you can get it in sheets, fully decorated and layered for a special occasion. It surprises me that it has somehow managed to pass under my radar, because if you know me at all, you know I love cake.

So here we are chatting between classes at school, at the tables we drag outside and set behind the building to catch some breeze. It’s a hot day and Justin says, “I could really go for a drink and some cake right now.” And, like Cartman from South Park (minus the ‘beef’) I said, “Caaaaaaaaakkkeee.” And then suddenly it was all we could talk about. All you have to say is the word and instantly you crave it, such is the power of cake. But, as it turns out, the cake I was thinking of was not the cake George and Justin were thinking of. When it became apparent I had never had Ghana cake, there was only one thing to do: find it and eat it. Mission Cake was a go.

After school, I walked to Komenda Junction from Besease (a 20-30 minute trip by foot). Then I boarded a trotro to Cape Coast (a 45 minute ride). I walked all the way down to George’s brother’s place of work from the trotro station (15 minutes by foot) to pick up a computer from him. Then I asked him if he knew where I could get cake. But such a broad request confused him a bit ("Exactly what kind of cake?" "Oh you know, the kind used to make birthday cakes and the like."). So he walked me down to a shop where he thought my question could be better answered. A large woman sat behind a table piled with candy and chocolate and instant coffee and between the three of us, my lack of knowledge about the type of cake I was looking for, Fante and English and translation, I accidentally ordered a grand sized birthday cake complete with decoration. All I wanted was a personal sized cake, but I was in goofy mood and Janet's birthday had been a week before and Justin's was a week away, so I figured, why not? A cake with frosting was better than a cake without.

So I was supposed to come three days later to pick it up. Great! Mission cake completed. Then it dawned on me as I was reaching the trotro station to go home, that I told Justin and George I would come back with cake for them...today, right now. It was getting late. Shops were closing, the sun was setting. I frantically made my way through the maze of the market trying to find cake and found none. As I came out onto the street, I saw one of my favorite vendors dismantling her fruit stand. She saw me glancing around at all the shops, trays, and stands still opened and asked what I wanted. "I'm trying to find cake!" And like a fairy godmother, she grabbed my hand and led me into the trotro station to track down a girl walking around with a plexiglass box often seen on the heads of street vendors. The girl took the box off her head and there it was! I had seen it so many times before, but for some reason I had never bought it. In fact I'm pretty sure I thought it was meat pie. Sometimes you can't be sure about the breaded items in Ghana. I've tried to buy a different kind of cake before and instead got a savory something that had an egg surprise in the middle. It was good, but it wasn't cake. So I bought two for two cedis, and went home. Mission cake completed.

Three days later I picked up the birthday cake. It was marvelous. And expensive. But marvelous nonetheless. So that night, just after the power had gone out (a typical occurrence in Ghana), Kampoh, Patrick and I sat in Kissi and sang happy birthday to Justin. Then entertained ourselves with self-made music and dance until we felt sick from eating.

Adventures in Hospitaland

I had these grand plans not to get sick again. I was going to exercise regularly, take probiotics, do after dinner yoga, and use sheer mental strength to fight any parasites that might come my way. But less than three weeks in, I have gotten malaria and enteric fever and landed myself in the hospital.

I haven't quite been in my right mind the past few days. Within the span of three hours, I went from feeling like "maybe I just overdid it a bit yesterday", to feeling weak, to having severe body pains, to severe fever, to frequent and sporadic vomiting. I had to be carried from my room to a taxi and then wheelchaired all around a hospital and then made to stay there for four days.

 It is seriously the closest I have felt to death through an illness.

The fever did it. I could barely stand by myself. I was trying to sing the pain away or moan it away like a tone-deaf dog. And I found myself lost in thoughts of Scottish highland streams when people were asking me questions. The fever was causing me to lose my faculties and motor control, so when the vomiting racked my body, I couldn't help but urinate on myself. While leaning out the taxi door. In front of the hospital. I didn't tell anybody. I was embarrassed. I find it funny that I at least had the mental capacity to feel embarrassed, if not to control my bladder.

The funny thing about the worst of the fever was that my mind would occasionally fall into lucidity.  For 30 minutes I would cry and sing and then my brain would suddenly become alert enough to think, "You are really sick. Find the phone. Call Sampson. Say you need help." And then I would start acting on this command and fall back into delirium. When Sampson gathered me up for the hospital, my mind cleared briefly, and like a champion remembered I had all my Ghana clinic cards in my first aid kit (important stuff, as they use the cards to locate your records). My memories of that time are odd. I remember seeing Justin's face through the taxi window before we drove away, but not how I got into the taxi, or what anyone said. I remember needing to vomit and seeing a bedpan on the floor, and the extreme amount of focus it took for me to make sure I made it to that bedpan. I remember people asking me questions, and in my mind I understood how to answer, but other curious statements would come out my mouth. I remember laying in the fetal position in the taxi with my head on Sampson's lap as we drove to the University hospital. I remember getting an injection and an IV and then I don't remember anything until my head hit the pillow of my bed in the women's ward. And then I remember thinking that pillow must be the cloud bed of a heavenly angel, it felt so wonderful and so welcome.

I remained half-conscious for a few days. I would get up and shower now and then with a green bar of soap. I would poke at my food (which almost always contained fish). I would vomit. I would sleep. I woke up lucid enough to check what was in my IV bag. Metronidazole. Quinine. I remember thinking, "Why in the world quinine?" There is supposed to be a resistance to Quinine in this part of the world. Additionally, I thought I remembered reading that is was the more problematic of the anti-malarials, causing a larger number side effects and complications. Then at some point my ears began to ring and sounded like they were full of cotton. And when someone spoke to me, I heard three voices talking at once. Then my eyes stopped focusing. And around my IV injection site, my arm started to swell like a shiny buttered loaf of rising bread. I poked it and prodded it absentmindedly even though it hurt. To my addled brain, it looked like the Pillsbury doughboy.

Sometimes I would get a strange nagging sensation and wake up to find students at the foot of my bed praying. A few girls brought me fruit and asked it it would be okay if they said a prayer over me. And though I'm not religious, I let them. I don't know if it was more for their sake or mine. Becasue although I was really sick, my mind never thought of turning back to religion or God or prayer, like many people in times of trouble find themselves doing. However, there was comfort in knowing someone was wishing me good health. And after the prayers I noticed this poor fragile woman, who couldn't be much older than me and who was in the bed at the end of the ward,  watching me. One day her skinny arm grabbed mine as I was going into the bathroom and she gave me her bananas, telling me I needed to eat more fruit to help the vomiting. Then the next day she gave me her bottled water and told me I shouldn't drink the sachet water that is so common in Ghana. She also tried to give me her toilet paper roll since I had none and hadn't been lucid enough to remember to bring money with me to buy any of these things (since the hospital doesn't provide soap or toilet paper). When all was said and done, she was in far worse shape than me and we could barely speak each others' languages, but she gave and helped nonetheless. I haven't met anyone like this woman in a long time. Selfless is the word that comes to mind. (When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I came back the next day with a bag of food and said to her in Fante, "God bless you. Please get better." I don't know what was wrong with her, but she was in such pain, the look on her face nearly made me cry.)

My arm wouldn't stop swelling. Slowly, I started to realize something wasn't right, and as I became more concerned, I became more adamant the nurses pay attention (which they weren't very good at). They finally realized, after the fourth time my IV quit dripping and the fourth time of painfully forcing it to work, that the IV needle had poked through my vein and was pumping into my tissue, hence the swelling. So they pulled it out and switched arms. But I didn't want the quinine anymore. I had the suspicion it was causing problems, an allergic reaction called cinchonism . Despite this, I got the full treatment and the kind words, "It'll be okay." But my eyes and ears got worse. So when the doctor came by on his one-time-a-day visit and noted I was having an allergic reaction, I scowled at the nurses (despite the fact they had a hand in saving my life).

Four days has felt like a strange eternity. It is my first day since wednesday night being able to get up and walk. I found the door to the women's ward and escaped outside for a bit. I feel like a baby toddling its way in the world. Im dizzy, my vision is blurred, my ears are ringing, but I found a patch of bouganvillea that I coudn't stop touching and a spot of sunshine to sit in. I feel like a baby penguin. Don't ask why. And I feel this strange calm. Right now everything looks nice, brand new, and just plain wondrous. What a curious planet we live on. What a nice place. I completely and totally own this moment right now, it is the only one that matters until the next one comes. Be here now.

Sweetness

Justin said, "Life is sweet," as we were walking to Besease. I said, "Why do you say that?" "Because people are enjoying themselves." And in the settling twilight I could see kids chasing each other, laughing and falling as dust rose and settled around them. I could see women dressed in the colorful cloth of Ghana talking, holding each others' arms as they related something funny. I could see goats. Lots of goats. And hear laughter. Lots of laughter.

I hope your life is sweet and you are enjoying yourself.