Ghanaian Birthday :)

A micro birthday recap post :)  It's 9:30 PM and I have a call with my girls at ten, a trip to pack for, and a wake-up call at 4:30am, yet here I am sharing some words with you!  I had no idea what to expect from a birthday in Ghana, but my day was lovely.  I woke up to some wonderful birthday love on facebook, skype, and through email that made me smile wide; I opened the cards my family sent me that warmed my heart; and I ate all sorts of imported sweets I paid too much for.  I did some work that had to be done before I leave EARLY tomorrow for a week, then Rianne and Veronica came over to give me some gifts and more love.  They helped me test out some baking stuffs I bought to make chocolate chip cookies and the result...left something to be desired.  All the substitutes I had to make showed, and the "margarine" type solid tastes very artificial which transferred to the "cookie."  I didn't have enough time to cool and harden the melty batter so the cookies all joined up to make one super cookie chocolate chunk bread-like thing with a plastic aftertaste.

After my baking endeavor, Rianne and I headed back to the orphanage she works at for her farewell party.  I was delighted and surprised to find they made the party into a dual affair--Rianne's farewell and my birthday :)  The party was full of gifts, dinner, singing, dancing and icecream!  All the best things I could've asked for.  I was SO grateful for their kindness and generosity.  It really felt like my birthday.

 

 

 

 

I headed back to HCC where I didn't get a single "happy birthday", but that was ok.  I know it's not normally a big deal here :)  I'm just so thankful for the celebration I did get!

Thank you for all the love I received through all the different channels today.  I love you all so much!!!  Thank you, THANK YOU!!!  Now, off to Cape Coast for a little beach holiday :)

Love from Sandema,
Tippy


P.S. If you feel like giving me a little gift, consider donating to Horizons and our building project to provide the boys with a permanent new home :) http://holidaysathorizons.causevox.com/

My first night at a hospital

It’s 1:00 PM Friday and my watch alarm goes off alerting me to take my malaria prophylaxis.  I scoff with all the energy in my increasingly weakening body and let out an audible “feck you.”  My tangled body lay with my head at the foot of my bed and my arms semi-tucked under my body with one knee near my chest and the other leg somewhere I can’t seem to locate.  I pump myself up with all the motivational praise usually for the youth I work with and stretch my arm under my mosquito net to reach in my suitcase for the thermometer.  This, my friends, takes everything out of me.  I rest a beat then uncase the wand and place it in the heat pocket under my tongue.  It seems like brain surgery trying to figure out how to work the thing with the solitary button controlling all the functions (how I felt using an iphone for the first time).  “Give. Me. Answer.” I groaned softly.  It finally seems to tick up and my eyes close waiting for the “beep-beep.  beep-beep.”  102.4.

That morning I was supposed to head to Bolga (the mailbox town) to give a presentation at a volunteer fair and run some errands.  The following day, I was supposed to take up my backpack again for a six-day trip to the northern capital city, Tamale, then to Mole National Park to spot some wild things.  When I woke up on Friday, I felt a vomit on the brink and an even more urgent call from the other end.  Though I felt achy and pretty rough, I thought it was only because of the little sleep I had gotten and brushed it off.  Once at the bus stop and ready to hurl again, I surrendered and accepted the cute guy who works at the general store’s offer to give me a lift home.  Through his coruscating smile he said, “you look dull.”  I’m chalking that one up to language barrier and not taking offense.  As I lay in bed feeling like my energy was being vacuumed out and replaced with an agglomeration of pain knit together by the creepy little parasite, I kept thinking about the unfortunate timing.  I felt wretched for missing the volunteer fair that I know my colleagues back in Canada put hours of preparation into, and I felt that I was letting my friend Rianne (a volunteer from Holland who is heading home soon) down by postponing the trip to Mole.  Ultimately, this is when all of the time I’ve spent reading and praying and meditating on the concept of the current moment being the only one we live in came into play.  I was able to (truly only by the grace of God) understand that I’m in the situation I’m in, I can’t control it, and I can only act from where I am.  I let go of what I couldn’t change and focused on what I could—getting treatment and rest.  I realize that Malaria is mild compared to other things I could have and might face physically, but I’m taking this as preparation for anything that may come my way.  This is something I had to keep reminding myself over and over and over throughout this story.

After confirming in my mind that I definitely had malaria, I called Veronica, my nurse friend, and she promptly came over.  She saw me sweating and shivering and urged me to go to the hospital which was the last thing I wanted to do.  I begged for drugs like a junkie in withdrawal while tears streamed down my face as the sheer thought of moving sounded like a marathon.   She won the battle as I couldn’t fight any longer and she slung me on the back of a friend’s motorcycle and got on the back of another.  Once we arrived at the hospital, we were tossed from the pharmacist, to the doctor, to the lab tech, to the waiting area, to the lab tech, and finally back to the doctor, all which took about an hour and a half with lots of moving.  All the waiting room sitters stared hard and shamelessly at the weird looking white lady zombie about to topple over.  The doctor looked at the lab results that stated malaria and informed me he would have to admit me overnight.  Boys and girls, I wailed.  I had already been on and off crying as my brain felt like fire, my muscles ached like I finished an ironman, vomit and diarrhea kept threatening, and my body yearned to be horizontal like lungs crave air.  (note: I would say I’m usually quite tough when it comes to pain or illness, but I think because I’m always focused on prevention and I’m extremely blessed, I never deal with too much of it.)  I was crying in front of the nice doctor for a few reasons: I JUST WANT TO LIE DOWN AND I’VE BEEN WALKING AROUND FOR TOO LONG, I wanted to go home, and frankly…I was nervous to be treated at this hospital.  I truly mean no disrespect for the doctors and nurses who cared for me and were genuinely concerned about my health, it’s just, I’ve never spent the night in the hospital and I didn’t want this to be the first experience.  I’ll explain as we go on.  So, the sweet doctor tried to persuade me using all the tactics: compassion, scare, and straight begging.  He even tried on a different word thinking it was “admitted” that I was crying about, so he said, “no no, we won’t admit you, we’ll just detain you!”  Yeah, no, that actually makes it worse.  Finally, I gave in knowing there was a bed in my near future and Vero walked me to the ward.  The female ward of this hospital has 30 beds, noisy fans, and a hole in the ground to relieve yourself.  All the nurses looked pristine in their uniform dresses and stark white caps pinned to their heads or their pressed shirts and trousers (though things seem old-fashioned in some ways, the notion of nursing being a female profession doesn’t carry—there are many male nurses here and very little commentary about it).  I couldn’t tell if I had somehow walked into a time warp and ended up in the 1950s or if I was hallucinating from the fever.  

I swear this is almost exactly what the ward looks like except the walls and floors are concrete, everything is less standardized, and they don't give you a cover sheet and pillow

the female uniforms look like this except with a peter pan collar

I was guided to my bed where I was hooked up to an IV and shot in the butt with some meds.   I tried to get some rest, but the loud TV was blaring in the corner and the lights were never fully shut off.   The lady beside me might have coughed up a piece of lung onto me and I constantly had to run to the bathroom.  Because Vero is a nurse and has connections, she asked if I could use the staff toilet which they generously allowed.  At the risk of sounding like a spoiled and privileged brat, I want to continue to share how I felt honestly and I’m still too tired to be PC right now.  The toilet room I used had no light, the toilet had no seat and no flush, which made what I needed it for very unpleasant.  I was still extremely grateful, but my desire to go back to my house was growing.  Vero and Joe were both so incredibly thoughtful and caring that I know I couldn’t have made it without them.  Both bringing me food and whatever else I needed--they were my angels.  I made it through the night and impatiently awaited the doctor to make his rounds.  (insert: we are only in the current moment, we can only do what we can do, this too shall pass, etc. etc.)  When he finally reached me, he checked my notebook, and asked how I was doing.  Thinking of the scratchy sheeted cot I was constantly brushing bugs off of, and my beautiful cozy bed at home, I mustered up an emmy-winning act and told him I was feeling great.  He nodded and told me to stay one more night for observation.  I almost lunged at him and told him, “I must go home today, sir, I must.”  He chuckled and lectured me about oral medication compliance.  I must have nodded like a child while her parent listed the chores she had to do before Disney World.  After the last IV drip dripped, I was sent home.

I rested and slept and bathed and slept in my cozy home for the next couple days.  I’ve been taking my Quinine (the favored cure of the 1940s) faithfully, but it's causing some hearing loss that I'm hoping will be temporary or I will be geriatrically screaming, "WHAT?!" constantly through the rest of my twenties and beyond.  Sadly, getting malaria once doesn't mean you won't get it again, BUT I am feeling better each day and each hour and finally feeling human again.  I’m celebrating every victory!  My pee is clear!  Food doesn’t repulse me!  I can stand up for more than a minute without feeling faint! 

Look how happy I am eating an apple!

I know all this was mellow-dramatic and it’s not like I lost an arm or anything, but I thought it would be fun to share in detail exactly how I felt in all the moments.  Once again, I’m not trying to pass judgment on the lovely people at the hospital or anyone else here, I am simply stating my discomfort with what I’m not accustomed to.   And truthfully, I realize what I’m accustomed to should be cherished.  I am so grateful to be privileged simply because of where I was born to experience such luxuries we take for granted.  All the nurses I was blessed to encounter are intelligent and capable, but just lack resources.  But this is a diatribe for another time.  

My dear DEAR loved ones who have showered me with words of encouragement, prayers, love, and good energy, I want to thank you with everything inside me.  I would go through malaria ten more times if it means I get to keep all you lovelies.  This being my first big sickness here, I craved home (not just my home here) many times.  That junk does weird emotional stuff to you too!  Thank you for letting me know you’re with me no matter what and I could feel every ounce of love you poured and I KNOW it's what brought a speedy recovery!  

OK, I know this post is dreadfully long, so I’ll cut it here and promise that my next sickness won’t warrant a novella.  Love you all to bits and bits.

Love from Sandema,

Tippy

How are you? No, really.

The bouquet of aromas wafting off of my perfected tk-touch stew fills my kitchen as I mindlessly stir with an audiobook keeping me company.  Completely caught off guard, I shrieked as I saw a face in the doorway of my living room, which was received by a chorus of giggles.  Joshua, Nathaniel, and Francis had paid me a visit to see if I was feeling better.  They apparently walked right through the unlocked front door after I had not heard their knocks and “tippy!” shouts.  After hugs, I told them to NEVER do that again.  “Always wait for someone to answer the door regardless of if it is unlocked!”  They continued to giggle and hesitantly nodded with some comprehension.

I’ve been sick for the past few days, riddled with aches and fatigue.  The luxury of being able to guiltlessly lie in bed with nowhere to be and nothing on the agenda but recuperation, strikes me as I realize I haven’t left the house in two full days.  Even being sick is better out here.  I know that if I was truly hit with some debilitating illness, I could send one text message and people would be at my door with medicine, food, and kindness.  Though at home I know I could count on my roommates to pick me up some soup on their way home, I would also be aware that their own busy lives consume them and asking them to help would be asking them to go out of their way.   As I write this, I got a knock on the door and opened it to find that the two youngest boys (Richard age 7ish and Michael age 6ish) had pushed Yaw in his wheel chair from the centre, up the bumpy dirt road, all the way to my house.  They stopped by for a mere five minute visit just to check how I was doing, and then made the arduous journey back under the HOT hot sun at the peak of daylight.  They were my third set of well-wishing visitors of the day.  Though having unexpected company can get a bit tiresome at times (ok, as I just welcomed my fourth visitor while writing this post...a lot tiresome at times), the community aspect of this beautiful culture overwhelms me with warmth and love.  As I mentioned in my first post, even the practice of sitting side-by-side in silence reflects the togetherness that is so rich here.  Now that I have learned how to set boundaries and have informed my beloved family here that I require alone time and privacy at home, I have been able to fully appreciate the beauty of fellowship.  

People genuinely care for one another and will go far out of their way to help someone who needs it.  It seems that their honor and integrity is at stake and they will do nothing short of bend over backwards to accommodate even a stranger.  I was struck by this first when in Accra with BB.  Not unlike many major cities I have traveled to, we were bombarded by dudes wanting our hands in marriage and peddlers pushing just about anything in our “white” faces for about three times the fair price.  The way that these folks did differ was that they were extremely generous and helpful once put on the spot.  BB would yell, “No, I will not marry you, but why don’t you make yourself useful and tell us where the OA bus station is.”  Without missing a beat, the boy-man would point us in the right direction and would ceaselessly explain how to get there until we would nod with understanding.  One man, who started out hitting on us, ended up changing his tune once he found out we were lost and gently walked us all the way to our location and hit the road after we gushed our gratitude.  The people here take their title of “West Africa’s Friendliest Country” VERY seriously.  Sure, there are baddies here just like everywhere else in the world, but there is this apparent sense of pride in an individual’s goodwill.  I have experienced thoughtfulness and compassion from people I have only known one short month in ways that are rare at home.  At first, I was confused by these phone calls I received from people I had met in Accra or boys who had shipped off to school, that simply had one purpose: to see how I was doing.  At home, we rarely pick up the phone to call someone, and if we do, we make a big event out of it.  Phone calls become phone dates that require precious blocked off hours in our busy schedules.  If we see our phone unexpectedly ringing, we assume something life-changing has happened that prompted such an extraordinary action like speaking voice-to-voice over our texting/internet machines.  We are even annoyed when we receive a phone call that’s purpose could have been communicated through a text message.  But here, this is not the case.  People will use their precious purchased credit to pick up the phone and ask how you are doing.  They have been wondering about your adjustment and wanted to make sure you are fine.  TALK ABOUT CULTURE SHOCK!  People I spent maybe a few hours with were thinking about me and genuinely care about my well-being, something that is not awarded at home to anyone outside of our dear friends and family.  This sense of consideration emanates through every interaction, down to greeting every person you pass with the time-appropriate phrase.  Though there is a script of greetings with learned responses, if you met “how are you” with an actual reporting of how you are in fact not doing so well, you would not be looked at with awkward annoyance, but genuine compassion (then followed up with phone calls and visits until you assure you are feeling good again).  Actions of thoughtfulness are not done expecting any sort of congratulations of being a top-notch friend or even reciprocation.  I reflect honestly and realize that I’m even guilty of this kind of kindness from time to time.  I know that if I go out on a limb for this person during their time of need, they will certainly do the same for me or at least feel guilty if they are unable to do so.  That confession sits like hot rocks in my stomach.  All this not to discount the beautiful and rich friendships I am beyond blessed to have at home and the endless and unconditional love of my family, but to explain the difference of the responsibility people feel they have here towards what we would call strangers or acquaintances.  The benevolence you receive here is not earned with time or shared experience, but granted right away.  I haven't had the ability to test these relationships with time, but I hope there is depth beyond this friendliness where true friendship (as we know it) can blossom.

As I thought I’d surely be wrought with loneliness while “alone” in this foreign country, aside from one or two days in the beginning, I haven’t really had room for its full glory.  I’m most certainly not ruling out its future visits, but as of now, loneliness is somewhere else, haunting some other poor soul.  My family of personality-filled boys and the couple solid friends I have made are making sure I am feeling loved and cared for.  Did I not come here so I could care for these boys?!  How turned around this has become.  As much as I knew I would never be alone with my expert-level friend-making skills, I sincerely believe even the most socially challenged person couldn’t and wouldn’t be all alone here.   I am able to have all the solitary time I need while knowing friendship and conversation are one quick walk or phone call away--the best of both worlds.

A slumber party turned goof session under the baobab tree and stars during a blackout

pretending to sleep

Thank you for your prayers and good energy towards ensuring I find community here, as I know that's what is coming to fruition here.

Love from Sandema,

Tippy

Countryside Clarity

As I curiously watched the leggy insect seemingly take in the scenery perched atop a small boy’s head, I contemplated swatting it off knowing full well I would have no way to explain to the child in Buli why the hell I just struck him.  I decided to leave the bug and the boy alone and turned to half-listen to the other men around who were discussing the upcoming Ghanaian election, “…education needs to be accessible to all…he really is great at capturing the attention of the people…but his policies are not well structured…”  We were all huddled under a small shelter while the deluge pounded complex rhythms on the aluminum roof.  We shared the idea to wait out the storm before heading back home.  Joe and I had taken a trip to a nearby village, Kadema, where he started a sustainable dry season farming initiative.  We had a meeting with the farmers and discussed the plans for the upcoming season.  The journey out to Kadema was stunningly gorgeous with the whipped cream skies and the dirt roads that led us through beautiful tropical trees, open skip-worthy-song-singing fields, and hoards of roaming animals.  I swore off motorcycles after the accident with my adventurous but at times over-zealous pops in The Dominican Republic, but there’s really no way to avoid them here.  I’m actually thankful for that as there couldn’t have been a more perfect way to enjoy the trip than on the back of a moto-bike alternating between closed eyes and hungry ones, taking it all in.  This is my life for now.  I’m so grateful.

Do you remember the last time you felt truly rested; at peace; and in-tune with your mind, body, and spirit?  I don’t remember either, but I’ve arrived to this state and can’t even trace the steps for getting here.  This past week, I found clarity I was searching for, motivation I had left somewhere, creativity I had suffocated, and weightless bliss I hadn’t seen in some time.  My life here has no work stress, personal money stress, holiday stress, boyfriend stress, and no social calendar with every hour reserved until two weeks from Tuesday.  I make my own schedule, sleep solid hours, live in a house alone with no rent, guiltlessly read books for hours on a Friday night, and only do what I want.  And surprisingly, I’ve wanted to do many things that I avoided at home.  I have been eagerly grant researching and writing (for an organization where I know all the beneficiaries personally), I’ve been able to creatively conceptualize and work on new projects, I’ve been able to think clearly and without anxiety about my future plans, and I’ve even excitedly updated my resume!  The thing is, I didn’t even realize how foggy and heavy I felt at home until those things were lifted.  It’s amazing how we function in The States running at 135 miles per hour, balancing 8 loads on our head, with our tanks on E.  Are we actually as productive as our schedules boast?  Are we present enough in all of our forty obligations to make it worth it?  When I was home, even the thought of tackling grad school research brought stones to my stomach and flashing lights of migraines with aura.  We’re so overloaded that any additional task seems like the last pebble that collapses the stacked pile.  We find ourselves plagued with psycho-somatic aches and can’t locate the source of the quivering anxiety deep within us.  We try yoga, meditation, therapy, prayer, etc. sometimes without results.  I mean, heck, I’ve tried all those things, but it wasn’t until I was ripped out of my comfort zone and into a rural African town with no friends and no solid direction that I have found some peace and clarity.  Weird, huh?  I don’t think it needs to be so drastic, but I wonder what it will take for me to find this when I catch myself stuck again in the hamster wheel of Western society.  I know this feathery floating will eventually be grounded by the heavy gravitational pull of reality when planning for my year back as my time here dwindles, so I say all this not to brag, but for posterity—to remind my future self that life rules when you can see straight.  I don’t have an answer for how to bring this energy home, but I do hope that some of it naturally sticks to me.  I hope I can remind myself that life is as simple or as complicated as we make it, and sometimes all it takes is a beautiful drive through the quiet countryside to reset.

I always think it so neat when you can watch the clouds blanket the sky and tuck the sun in before a downpour.

Farmers we are supporting with the G-Roots project

This is not the post I had planned for this week, but I had to share before the moment shifts even in the slightest.  Wishing all you dears some of the peace I'm floating in.

Love from Sandema,
Tippy