It has been two long and eventful weeks since I have last written, and goodness is there much to tell!

Two weekends ago, our group of about forty students set out on a day trip to the Volta Region (four hours by tro tro) where we planned to visit the Mono Monkey Sanctuary and Wli Waterfalls.

About eight of us decide to extend our stay and enjoy the natural wonders of the nearby villages and tropical forests. On the walk to the waterfall, Janet and I meet Charles, one of our guides. He is a man of about forty, but weathered well into his fifties. Charles tells us about the wife who left and the son who lives in the village with his mother. He is sad and sweet, but mostly lonely. I tell him my grandfather was Charles, and my brother is Charles, and he gives just a hint of a smile, like a secret.

Charles generously offers us room and board in his village, located just a few yards from the falls and nestled right at the base of the mountain. We take Charles up on his offer and for less than five american dollars, I eat a hearty dinner of rice, beans, and a fried egg sandwhich that night- by candle light and the company of at least ten local men who are cooking for us, seemingly delighted and frazzled by our presence.

After dinner we buy a few drinks and sit beneath a star studded sky, playing with local children and enjoying a few bedtime stories courtesy of Charlie. He tells us that- it used to be that a person dies at the falls every fifth day and so you cannot go to the falls every day, but do not have worry because this is no longer the case so you can go to the falls every day. Well phew! :)

The village is quaint, peacfeul, and not exactly "hopping"- it is a saturday night and there are no clubs or bars, just the dances of children and soft songs of baby goats. I lay in a real bed, in a real four walled and roofed room, with high hopes for a good night's sleep before our big climb of Mt. Afadjato tomorrow, the tallest mountain in Ghana!

But alas, no such luck. The goats appear to be night owls, and the roosters seem to have forgotten that the sun does not rise for at least six more hours! They stay up late chatting till the wee hours of the morning.

And then come the bells! GONG-GONG-GONG-GONG, only one strike every three seconds for three minutes in 30 minutes intervals for two hours- which means 240 GONGS! And why in God's name would you want to strike a bell 240 times between the hours of 6 and 8am? It is Sunday, Charles reminds us.

Well then, that is precisely why you want to strike a bell 240 times between the hours of 6 and 8am- in God's name! Apparently it takes 240 GONGS to remind a 600 person village that they are late, later, and the very latest for church.

Ok enough with the bells. So after an early morning wakeup and another fried egg sandwich, we are off on our journey to mount afadjato! A tro tro takes Charles and the eight of us to a village about an hour away where we will climb the mountain and visit another waterfall. The road is a 15 kilometer stretch of copper earth, narrow, pitted, pocked, and lined with overgrown palms and grasses.

Driving down this road is comically disastrous as passengers move toward the center of the tro tro so as not to be impaled by the intruding flora from the windows. My head bobs side to side, up and down, much like Jim Carrey in the opening seen of Ace Ventura, or a dashboard bobble head. I laugh the whole way there, bobbing head and all.

Upon arriving at the next village, the group is joined by another guide by the name of, drum roll please... Kofi! Kofi is handsome and soft spoken. He is the expert climber here, seeing that he climbs the mountain at least four times a day. I am however perplexed by his choice of outfit- despite the heat, humidity, and difficult terrain he wears long sleeves, pants, and sandals!

But who am I to talk- he takes one look at me and chuckles. I am a vision in a white lace blouse, white shorts that come up to my belly button, white tennis shoes, a white sun hat (SPF 50 included) and pearls to do. Seriously? he laughs. Seriously.

We set out for the day, our bags loaded with drinking water, bread, peanut butter, bananas (not mine of course), and a crap load of bug repellent. I slather my entire body in bug repellent but boy do the bugs LOVE me. Its like they knew I was coming and told all of their friends about it- upon entering the forest I am greeted by thousands of insects ready to feed on me. Charles suspects that the bugs mistake me for a large white flower and he courteously swats me with large palm fronds in an attempt to shoo them away. I think, it would be a frickin miracle if I don't get Malaria- oy did I speak too soon.

In the meantime, I am kicking tushi on this hike- wheezing a bit, but still kicking tushi. Every so often there is a stretch of trail which is open to the sun and without the generous shade of the greenery, these parts are the hardest. But then the sun and its heat dissaspear beneath the forest canopy and I am enveloped by more pure and vivid pigments that I have only seen in a crayon box. The tree branches have formed moglie's jungle jim- swings, ladders, the best hideouts for hide and go seek. New
trees use the natural riches of the trees that have died to replenish the forest canopy. After an hour, the mosquitos have grown tired of me and the butterflies drop by for a visit as they flutter around my large white hat- we walk and talk. (Fun fact: there are over two hundred species of butterflies in this forest, more than in the entire continent of North America).

Two hours and some change later, we have made it to the top!- the highest point in Ghana, overlooking several small villages and the neighbouring mountains of Togo. I am sore and smiling and enjoying the world's best ground nut paste and white bread sandwich.

Unfortunately, our joy is short lived as one group member, Gareth, becomes very very ill. It soon becomes apparent that Gareth needs immediate medical attention and so Kofi agrees to take Gareth to the nearest hospital (1 hour on the back of a motorcycle) and the rest of us follow in a tro tro.

The hospital is at best a triage center for a natural disaster. There is no running water, soap, or toilet paper, and I have to go to the local pharmacy to buy Gareth his own needles, IV bags, and clean drinking water. A couple hundred people, mostly women and very very ill children, wait in long lines outside while a lucky few are given beds in the emergency treatment room.
I sit with Gareth in this room, and the three other older women who he shares it with. The woman directly beside him receives frequent visits from her brother and son but does not seem comforted. She is weak and weepy and in need of a hug, I think. When the nurse takes her IV out she squeams and holds back her tears. I go sit with her on her bed and with the touch of
my hand to her arm she is released and water flows down her cheek as she looks at me and nods. I don't speak Ewe and she doesn't speak English but we understand each other perfectly. I received a text message just today from her son informing me that she passed away at 10:15 am. She needed a hug, I thought.

Gareth is too weak to take the tro tro five hours back to the university, so a few of us stay with him while the rest of the group heads back that night. I want to cry. I am dirty, exhausted, and emotionally drained as I see my friend suffering on his cot and hear babies shrieking throughout the hallways. I am grateful that Gareth is getting the help he needs but disheartened to see
two doctors and a handful of nurses tirelessly and single-handedly attempting to serve a community of thousands, and without basic resources. It is hard to stay strong, to be optimistic, in such a seemingly hopeless environment.

A friendly nurse named Isaac sees that Gareth and his posse of three girls struggling to keep our spirits high, and he suggests that we spend the night in the nurses private quarters next to the hospital. He takes us to a nearby town to buy food for ourselves and for Gareth, and introduces us to some of his colleagues who work in medicine and public health. Isaac continues to checks on Gareth throughout the night and keep us updated, even though he is one of two nurses caring for nearly two hundred patients.

Darlene Viault used to tell me that there are angels all around us- people who protect us no matter where in the world we may be. Isaac is certainly an angel. After Gareth had gained strength, we returned to the city and checked him into a better equipped hospital where he received treatment for Malaria, typhoid, and a host of other possible illnesses. Isaac called me twice every day for ten days to ask how Gareth and our group were doing.

To all the angels who made our weekend at the waterfalls so memorable- thank you, medasi, akpe.

with much love and gratitude,
marissa