I spent the greater part of Saturday drawing pictures of corn beef sandwiches on rye bread with mustard and everything bagels with chive cream cheese and slices of tomato with celery salt.
Morale is low.
Last Tuesday night I awoke from a deep slumber to a gurgling stomach that did not sound good. The taste of rotten fish soup was still fresh in my mouth from dinner and I knew what I needed- my Cipro emergency antibiotic supply of traveler's diarrhea. The Cipro didn't do a damn thing, and that's when I knew I was in trouble.
I spent the entire night literally running from my room to outside (as I could not make it to the school bathroom cement hole that is a ways away and used as the toilet here) where I found that even water was coming out my other end in a matter of seconds from me drinking it. I now truly understand why Ghanaians refer to our weak stomachs as 'running,' since that's exactly what I was doing- for too many hours.
When the fever hit 101.4 that's when I knew I had to go to the hospital- as a fever could mean malaria or lots of other fun things. I waited until morning when Promise woke up to tell her that I had to go to the clinic, and in my weak state rode on the back of a motorbike to town with Jemima so we could go to the clinic.
There was no doctor there. Or bathroom.
The doctor sauntered in casually 2 hours after I got there to a line of 30 plus sick people, myself included. The woman who was supposed to take vital signs was also not present, as it seems that the staff can come and go nonchalantly as they please, and she was in no hurry to get started once she did. The vital sign woman actually decided to take her time praying over all of us in Ewe for 10 minutes before she moved at snail pace to take my pulse. I thought I was going to pass out of dehydration and was delirious with fever at this dire point.
Hospitals in Ghana, just like at home, are a lot of sitting and waiting and nothing. So I sat, and waited, and moved to sit in different spots, waited, and there was a whole lot of nothing going on.
When I finally sat down with the doctor, our conversation went something like this:
Me: My stomach is running and I have a fever.
Dr: Do you want malaria medication?
Me: Do I have malaria?
Dr: Do you want malaria medication?
After too much of this, I insisted on getting a blood test- which after more sitting and waiting came back negative- but apparently malaria could still be in my system, so I went on malaria medication anyway; plus some pills that were to stop my running stomach.
I called Jamie from the hospital (the friend who was hospitalized for malaria in the Asante village) with a malaria question, and found out he has dysentary. Of course the first thing I said was I thought that was eradicated with Oregon Trails, and we had a good laugh over this.
I spent the rest of the day resting, and Master Potter Emma and the Clan of 60 Yr Old Pottery Women stood by my side in shifts checking in through out the day, which really cheered me up. They were lots of fun when they came back after dinner to keep me company and they really made me feel like I was part of their family and their support made me feel much better!!
My running stomach and fever finally subsided, and what I was left with are these boils.
Passover has plagued my body with puss filled welts that are extremely painful and filled with fluid. I don't know what the hell these are, but they're attractively placed on my face, arm, and knee. The Clan of 60 Yr Old Pottery Women have taken to rubbing unidentifiable ointments on the welts, but nothing seems to help. With all of the news about Ghana's polluted streams, and knowing that the water kids bathe and play in is the same water I am bathing in and am cooking with makes me nervous and I am hoping that these boils are from heat and not a bacterial infection from the water. I think God is punishing me for celebrating Easter instead of Passover this year.
Malaria scares and welted boils: this is my life.
Easter celebrations have been going on since 9 PM on Thursday, and today is Monday and everyone everywhere is at a standstill for the holiday. I attended 3.5 hours of a 6 hour Catholic church service yesterday and ended up walking out offended that I wasted a good hour of my life hearing a minister haggle off offerings for money from people who don't have enough money to survive- that too me is not what church should be about.
I prayed to nature and science that day.
I was planning on leaving the majority of my clothes in this village, so I bought some fabric to try my luck again at getting clothes made by Promise. I drew Promise a picture of a halter dress I wanted and she agreed to make it in time for Easter.
I ended up wearing that same dress I had made 3 times in Kumasi, the same scoop-neck T Shirt dress I adore so much. I guess I shouldn't try my luck at getting clothes made in Ghana anymore; as I know what the outcome is.
Today when I woke up ready to finally get back to work on pottery, I found out that no; there would not be any work done because of Easter. And unbeknown to me; Master Potter Emma is leaving tomorrow to spend time with a relative. So my limited pottery time has come to a close.
And so I am spending my days drawing pictures of corn beef sandwiches and bagels and playing snake on my brick of a Nokia phone. I'd had enough.
Or so I thought- remember the rotten fish soup I had gotten sick from last week? That's what was for dinner. Vida asked me if I wanted soup or stew and since I could not stomach rice and stew for the 10th time that week, I chose soup. I didn't know there was only one soup option; you'd think I'd have figured Ghana out by now.
So then I'd really had enough.
After calls reaching out to my family of students abroad in Ghana and laughing about everything else that's been going wrong (one of my friends is studying shrines and cannot go into them because she got her period, and Jake and Rachel recounted horrors of ordering a 'hamburger' in Cape Coast and getting a slab of spam on bread with mayonnaise and ketchup) I ended up calling my buddy Dan in Accra and I'm coming to stay with him at his homestay for the rest of the week: leaving tomorrow.
Dan said the first thing we are doing when I get there is getting a good western bite of food to eat- which was music to my ears (I've taken to hiding my food at meals in plastic bags and tossing them when no one's looking. I was sharing with the women of the compound until I was ratted out for not eating enough plantains- so even though I hate wasting food; offending Promise and Vida is way worse right now; so I see no other option as I can't stomach Ghana food anymore)!
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