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

Shabbat Shalom! I said to the woman in the market this morning! You too! she smiled. Oh do I love cross cultural communication.

Ghana is a particularly religious country, and Christianity permeates nearly every realm of life. Yesterday, my geography teacher began lecture by describing his epic journey to Jerusalem and his general love of Israel. He noted that "some people do not even believe in the bible!!"...now pointing to the class, "are you one of those people!?" "NO!!" replies the class! Oh boy. My favorite is when he asks if any of us are Muslim. "Well I'm Jewish!" I think- I bite my tongue.

At night, most of the campus facilities turn into churches, and there are more denominations than I can count on all my fingers and toes. On my way home from class one night, I hear loud screams coming from the dining hall and suggest to my friend that we take a look to make sure everything is alright. He lets out a big laugh... "He's just thanking Jesus!" Of course he was!

At sunrise, students and teachers alike gather on the soccer fields to pray and sing, often with the help of a megaphone. This is an extra...special, way to wake up. I try to imagine Jews doing this- waking up at four a.m. to stand in the middle of a dirt field and belt out the Amidah so loud that the street dogs cover their ears. Ha, I don't think so. I mean people complain enough as it is in shul about the air conditioning! :)

Ghana is in this way the antithesis to the separation of church and state. But I am never made to feel guilty or uncomfortable. I find it endearing that people are so eager to welcome me into their community and place of worship.

But of course not every Ghanaian goes to church. There is a community of Jews outside of Accra, a small population of Muslims settled mainly in the north, and a slew of other spiritual practitioners.

And then there are those who may have no religious or spiritual affiliation at all, or perhaps simply opt of a sunday morning ritual. It is with these fine folks that I spent last Sunday with on a booze cruise of sorts, the "Dodi Island Princess Cruise." This boat was right out of Michael Scott's booze cruise, complete with a live band and kiddy pool. Dodi Island is a small island on Lake Volta, about two hours from the University. It is marketed as a tourist destination for those visitors who would like to "mingle with the locals," buy a few craft pieces from the village, and join in some traditional songs and dances. Someone had the idea to monopolize the transportation so that you must pay about 45 american dollars to take the cruise to and from the island. The ride is about two hours each way, which means most patrons occupy themselves with large quantities of alcohol and several rounds of "Uno." Exhilarating.

I go aboard the ship with two of my friends and we sit at a table toward the back of the boat. Two older white men claim the table next to us and their lovely Ghanaian escorts. Now I don't know exactly what kinds of signals I'm subconciously giving off, but I seem to be attracting these sorts of neighbors- this must be the fourth time I have sat next to a prostitute and her client. These girls are beautiful, young, and vibrant, and they give a mangificent portrayl of a woman in love with her grandfather. I feast on a buffet lunch but the smooching and groping is kind of nauseating. Pepto bismol anyone?

Two hours later, we have arrived at our destination, Dodi Island! I am expecting (as promised) a fun afternoon of shopping, singing, and dancing. To my surprise and dismay we are greeted by several small children- so small, some of them are still in diapers. The children grab our hands and forcefully shuffle us from one path to another, exploring this seemingly deserted island. There is not an adult in sight, except for one woman who is assisting her young child as she scoops river water into his mouth.

When I ask the children where their parents are, one girl tells me that her parents are dead- five minutes later she slips that her mother is in the village on the other side of the island. The littlest ones of the bunch do not speak English, but have nailed "money." I'm beginning to get the picture.

Just twenty minutes after our arrival, the captain blows the horn and we are summoned back to the ship. As I begin my descent toward the dock, an older girl approaches me and takes the small child who has been my Dodi docent. "Please give me money for school and books, please madam, please"- she is polite but persistent.

"Where are your parents? Where is the village?" I ask. "Money for books!" she protests.

As I board the ship, I am bombarded by more than twenty to thirty children, all begging for money and gifts. I give the eldest a few Ghana cedi. My heart melts as the boat reluctantly pulls away from the dock- so this is Dodi Island.

I am left baffled and utterly disappointed. Who is caring for these children? I feel a deep sense of anger- angry that these children are exploited, that wealthy tourists are seemingly set up and taken advantage of, that I am personally perpetuating this cycle, and all while I sit in a chlorinated kiddy pool with a refrigerated beverage in my hand. And on a sunday, a holy day, a day for God and community.

I have a soft spot for children- always have, always will. It is why I spent my childhood caring for and working with children, and why I want to dedicate my life's work to their cause. It is easy to rant about the injustices and the exploitation of Africans, of young people, of women, etc. How can anyone in good conscious waste a person's forty five dollars and six hours of travel time, only to result in additional harassment and financial losses!?How can these parents put their own child's life in danger and let them wander a remote island, and under the care of total strangers?! I am quick to vilify any individual who seemingly exploits another, and especially any parent who puts their child in this situation.

But genuine concern and honest intentions can quickly turn self righteous. What happens if these kids do not beg for money, do not financially contribute to their families? Is it better that their parents take the moral highroad, or let them go to bed hungry? These are questions I would have previously deemed irrelevant- wrong is just plain wrong. But these are complicated problems with even more complicated answers.

Just some food for thought on this Friday.
L'Chaim,
M

Today was perfect. I woke up at around 8:30 and bought an egg sandwich at the market for breakfast. Egg sandwiches are a delightful and familiar treat. They cost about 40 cents, and are cooked to order with onions, peppers, and tomatoes in a warm roll. Yummmm.

Then my drum class started at 9:30 (convert to Ghanaian time= 10:45). The class has about 20 people in it and we sit in a circle in the courtyard of the music department- our melodies are accompanied by a chorus of birds and ladies chatting in the market next door. Our professor is named Johnson and he has the warmest and most genuine smile. Being a drummer in Johnson's class is a big change from playing classical violin in an orchestra- there is no mention of A flat or four-four. The change in pitch is "high-low-high-high-low" and the rhythm is something like "shaka-shaka-shak-A-shaka-shaka." We say music is a universal language, so I must be learning a new dialect.

When the two hours have passed and my hands are sore and happy, I head to the tro-tro stop which takes me to my internship. Tro-tros are city buses on speed; man are they something else! Flying down the road, plastered with "God Bless You" and "Jesus Saves," you can't believe the thing still even runs, since the doors are hanging on by a thread, maybe even dental floss. Each tro-tro can squeeze a good 25 people into it, not including the babies who are wrapped on their mothers backs and the children who sit on their laps. The driver then has an assistant of sorts who literally hangs out of the side door and calls out the destination as we pass tro-tro stops along the roadside. There are various hand signals and calls, all of which are totally unrecognizable to me, so I ask about ten people which tro-tro I should get on, receive eleven different answers, and then hope I get on the right one. A tro-tro ride like practically everything else in Ghana is both phrenetic and therapeutic; getting on the tro-tro is a pain in the tushi but once you're settled in your seat, it's a relaxing ride.

An hour or so later, I have finally arrived at my destination- an unmarked area called "Dimples." It might as well be Freckles. I am meeting a woman named Mrs. Dove who is the head mistress of a special school for children with disabilities, ranging from cerebal palsy to autism and adhd. She wears many hats, and this is just one of the remarkable projects she juggles.If Osu the dance teacher could not bring about world peace, then Nakwale could surely lend a helping hand.

Nakwale Dove is Ghanaian but raised in Scottland by missionaries, and later schooled in London and Paris. In the car ride from Dimples to the school, I learn that she went to college with Prince Charles of England- according to Nakwale, Prince Charles was infatuated with her because she had "gumption."

Mrs. Dove also tells me that she had ten children, one who is in his forties, another with autism, and eight more who all passed away. She has been through hell and back and still manged to open her own school, get her umpteenth degree in Psycho Drama Therapy from NYU at age 50, and serve on practically every social, cultural, and political board in Ghana. What a woman.

And so Mrs. Dove and her colleague (a child psychologist) pick me up from Dimples and her driver takes us to an international school just outside of Accra. Today we are interviewing children at the international school who have been recommended by their teachers to be placed in her special school. We are greeted by the head mistress and escorted to the school library where we interview thirty to forty children, one at a time. Mrs. Dove introduces me as the doctor, and I am given full license to interview the kids about their struggles with school, friends, and family. The kids are beautiful and precocious, ranging in ages, backgrounds, and abilities. After we talk to a little boy with autism, she leans to me and says, "My, he is a very very special one." Words like "autism" or even "hyper activity" give way to discrimination in Ghana, and so Mrs. Dove applies varying degrees of "specialness."

After a long and fufilling day Mrs. Dove has the car drive me back to campus, and insists that I accompany her and the children to the clinic on Tuesday for their neurological exams. Afterall, I am a doctor.

Only twenty minutes late, I go straight to my dance class from the tro-tro stop, where I am greeted by seventy smiling and sweaty faces. Dance class, home at last.

Another two hours of dancing, a few chicken kebabs from the night market, and a baby wipe bath- pure bliss.

ciao for now, lots of love,
m

I finally met my Ghanaian roommate and boy does she know how to make an entrance. At around twelve thirty a.m. I heard a knock on my door and a loud, high pitched "hey girl, let me in, it's your roommate!" Caroline had arrived.

Caroline is much like a Ghanaian barbie- petite, and wrapped in pink. In Ghana, one might say she is "portable," which refers to anyone or anything that is cute and small. Caroline's boyfriend makes just as strong as an impression. He loves me because I am from Los Angeles, home of the Lakers and dozens of Maseratis. He gives me a long schpiel about how he likes Maseratis and Kobe Bryant but he does not like Lamar Odom because Lamar Odom married Chloe Kardashian and Chloe Kardashian is just jealous of her sister Kim because Kim is prettier. Oh really? I say. Yes, I watch E News, he firmly replies. I still do not know this man's name because he insists that I call him Kobe- surprise surprise.

She keenly notes that the Americans are rather poorly dressed and so she will take me shopping to get a proper wardrobe since I am apparently lacking all fashion sense. Yesterday she made "light soup" on our porch, filling the room with garlic and ginger. Last night I came home and she had cleaned my side of the room, made my bed, and ironed my pillow case. So begins my semester living with Caroline.

love from room 109,
m

Today is my fourth day without electricity or running water. Welcome to Ghana.

The week kicked off with a surprise 4am evacuation from our dormitories. After the tragic events in Haiti, a few loonies suggested that due to Ghana’s “intrinsic spiritual and cultural connections to Haiti,” Ghana was bound to experience an earthquake as well. And so in the wee hours of Monday morning, I woke up to the frantic calls of our porters, running up and down the five story building with kerosene lamps. After ten minutes of yelling and confusion, several hundred students made their way to the nearest parking lot, half naked and wrapped in bed sheets. Oh what a sight this was- and all this panic and chaos just because of a silly rumor and a few superstitions! Gotta love it.

Dormitory life in general is quite exciting, a bit like Ghanaian “Animal House.” There is large posse of boys who frequently wander the hallways in their boxers, blasting American rap out of their large Prince of Bel Air-esque boom boxes. This morning, one of these young men named Kofi even offered to smoke a joint with me before I went to class. Oh boy. (On a side note- I have learned that when in doubt, a Ghanaian man’s name is Kofi).

Women spend a great deal of time on bathing and laundry- the process is a combination of lethargic relaxation and pure exhaustion. Since there is no running water, I fill up a large bucket from a nearby water tank, and then shlep it up two flights of stairs to my room. I sit on a stool with the bucket in front of me and spend a good three hours washing less than one load’s worth of clothing. Then I hang everything on a clothes line or drying rack, and moments later half of the whites have fallen back in the copper colored earth- I am so tired and apathetic that I usually just put the clothes right back on the line. Oh well, I say, they’re going to get dirty anyway. I have simply accepted that I will be perpetually dirty in Africa- hygienic, but not clean. My feet look like I had a bad spray tan, and that look coupled with the mosquito bites… well it just screams sex appeal.

In the meantime, baby wipes have been my best friend- I don’t think I’ve used this many since I was in diapers. Bucket showers are also a fun one and in this heat and humidity, pouring a gallon of water over your head is pure bliss.

And so this week has turned out to be a particularly challenging one, but none the less loads of fun. We go out practically every night, and tonight (Wednesday night) is reggae on the beach. I think Kofi with the joint will be our escort.

More tomorrow!

Peace, Love, and Bob Marley,
Marissa

I am in a group of about forty other UC students and we spent much of the past two weeks traveling in a sporadically air conditioned "University of Ghana Athletic Coach" throughout the country. This was a BIG ASS bus, maneuvering through one way, completely unpaved, livestock-lined roads. My goodness my mom would have s**t in her pants if she had seen this! And as expected we arrived late everywhere we went, stopping at practically every Ghanaian gas station for what I have affectionately dubbed, angry BM’s. Now I know this may be a bit of a touchy or even inappropriate subject for some (cough, grandma harriett) but having a good BM means EVERYTHING here. The day you stop needing immodium and cipro is an occasion for joyous celebration and noshing, much like a bar mitzvah- It really is the little things in life.

Now just try to picture forty “white” kids gas station hopping our way through Ghana, running frantically off of the bus in search of a wash closet. I imagine this was extremely entertaining to the local women, walking around with all sorts of items piled high on their heads and babies wrapped around their backs. I find myself staring at these women sometimes, and forget that I am actually the one they are staring at, I am the one who is a bit “weird” and different, hmm… More on this later.

So anyway, this process of causing a ruckus one Ghanaian village at a time lasted for about two weeks, and I loved every minute of it. There is something thrilling about the spontaneity and uncertainty of a road trip, especially with forty other people.

The last stop on our adventure was Elmina, the first European settlement in West Africa. The Portuguese built a castle there in 1482 as headquarters for trade and exploitation of gold, but it was later used for the transatlantic slave trade- through Dutch and British control, Elmina remained an epicenter for African slavery. Today, Elmina is a fishing town of around 20,000 people, and considering the sparkling beaches and majestic palm trees along which the town resides, it is hard to imagine that this was once home to one of the largest slave trading posts. It is baffling that such horrific and ugly things happened in this beautiful place.

When our group arrived at the castle, we were greeted by a single tour guide who was to give us a brief history on Elmina and then show us the grounds. And this is where the story gets interesting. After some brief confusion, a second tour guide arrived and part of the group split off to take a tour with this new man. Coincidence or not, this second group happened to consist of all the African American students from our party- it was suggested that the African American students had requested their own tour group. Regardless, the division created an awkward environment for both the students and the tour guides, and left me with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The group spent a great deal of time reflecting and discussing this situation, yet everyone seemed to walk away with their feathers further ruffled. We even asked our tour guide why this division had occurred, and he suggested that it would help prevent the African American students from getting upset with or “blaming” the white students for their “contribution to slavery.” Oy.

Now this may seem like a trivial matter, but I left the castle feeling frustrated and disappointed after a long week of unity and cohesive strength. This was not the environment of mutual trust and respect that Osu had fostered within our group.

I would never take a group of people to a Holocaust museum and suggest that the Jews and non-Jews take separate tours. Learning about slavery or genocide is not meant to stir up feelings of resentment and bitterness, but to promote an environment of tolerance and understanding. To educate people on what has happened, and to make sure that it never happens again. The Jews, the Blacks- we have all felt like the oppressed other at some point- this is something that we all can unfortunately relate to. And what better way to build tolerance and unity than to go through this learning process together.

As a white person now living in a predominately Black country, and with such seemingly tolerant and loving relations, it is easy to escape to la la land- to forget that the civil rights movement was and is not the end of prejudice and discrimination, of deeply engrained emotions and memories. One must not forget that there is still much work to be done. And what better time, what better place, than Ghana. So in the spirit of MLKJ Day, "Man must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love."

with much love on this beautiful day,

m

I opened facebook this week and to my amusement, had a record breaking 67 new notifications! Most of you have sent messages and comments asking about the food, weather, my daily activities, and all that jazz. Goodness where to begin.

Well from the very first day we arrived (more specifically, just moments after 27 hours of flying) I took part in an African dance class, and have had one almost everyday for the past two weeks. There is a great deal of pelvis thrusting, shimmying, and shaking, and I LOVE it! I am so in my element in the dance studio and I think I'll be spending a great deal of time there. My teacher is a very old man with a wooden staff of sorts and I think his name is Osu, although he speaks with such a heavy and beautiful accent it's hard to catch. He tells us that dance is about unity and acceptance- when we touch one another we are letting someone into our personal space and this requires mutual trust and respect. We are unified as brothers and sisters. He repeats this mantra everyday. I think Osu could single handedly create world peace.

The rest of my days are jam packed, Ghanaian style. This means that we have fifty things planned and we do all of them, only on an average of two hours behind the scheduled time. This is quite the paradox- Ghana's markets are lively and bustling and everyone seems to be on some kind of mission, yet with no real scheduled destination. It does not matter how long it takes you to get from point A to point B, or even what you do in between point A and point B, as long as you get there... eventually. It really is a miracle that anything gets done, but I have stopped worrying about the time or the schedule and am learning to appreciate the journey.

ciao for now, more tomorrow <3 m