Matron. In Accra we are hosted by the Atsu family in their self-described ‘third class neighborhood’ of Fadema. The Atsu’s have two corner lots on either side of a rocky side street that intersects another dirt lane leading out to the main paved road. On one side of their site is a corner store named ‘He Cares’ where a variety of canned and dry goods are sold, along with cold drinks. Behind the store is the main Atsu house, occupied by Auntie Philo, husband D and six kids. Three are their kids, and three are being cared for and looked after by the Atsu’s. D. Atsu is a semi-retired carpenter who owns a taxi, which a local man living further up the street drives for him. Along with the shop, it’s a good source of revenue. Thanks to the Atsu’s, this end of the street is relatively level, always swept clean twice a day and the gutters kept clear and flowing.
On our side of the compound are some other revenue streams – a block of four rental apartments and a kitchen/butchers shack leased by a local chop house (restaurant). The apartment we’re given to use is rented by Sammy for the purpose of housing David Peckham when he’s in town, along with other VBP volunteers who rotate through from time to time. Our neighbor is Mr. Atsu’s eldest son from a previous marriage, now recovering from a battle with a late diagnosis of diabetes. At the end of the row lives a family of four from Togo. The father of that clan teaches all the kids French on the weekends. 
While we are in residence, Mr. Atsu also begins constructing a large shed to be used as a carpentry workshop. He owns a number of saws, lathes and presses that will be moved from their current leased location elsewhere in Fadema once the new facility is complete. Despite the lower strata look and feel to the neighborhood, the Atsu’s do well for themselves. 
The businesses are all simple but are kept immaculately. There is a supporting cast of neighbors, tenants and friends who help run the shop, which is a meeting point for much of the community. In short, despite the relative lack of privacy the place is as jovial and exciting as any sit-com family home. We are welcome, safe and comfortable here. Philo rules the roost. She is mother, sister, proprietress, mayor, seer, healer, boss, friend, disciplinarian, taskmaster and community leader. To us, she is Auntie, her clan now our brothers and sisters.
All the children, including the ones they’ve taken in, attend school and get high marks. They get extra tutoring after regular classes and all plan to go on to higher levels of education after exams. All are exceedingly polite, inquisitive and soft spoken, with smiles that are infectious. James, Adom, Papayo, Afie, Ma, Pa and Asegi treat us like family. The neighboring kids come play with us regularly, curious about our backgammon games and life in California. The youngest, Moro, is at first afraid – he’s never seen white skin. We try the universal Polaroid icebreaker to no avail. His mom somehow digs up a white doll for him to play with and within a day he is our silent shadow. Moro dances with more rhythm than you’d think possible in a four year old. He says very little, but he observes everything and cautiously mimics what sticks in his head. TT becomes the pied piper to all kids under 12 when she produces our new icebreaker trick, soap bubbles. The delicate rainbow spheres fill the street and make everyone laugh. 
Money. Like most cash based economies where the currency is so devalued it hurts, Ghanaians tend to count bills by the thickness of the bankroll rather than tediously fanning through the notes. It’s around 9100 Cedis to 1 US Dollar, 16500 to 1 British Pound. The biggest note is a 20000, making hiding your cash a bit of a joke. Is that a brick in your pants? No, just lunch money. Folks who actually have some carry their scratch in black plastic bread bags, lidded mayonnaise tubs or in backpacks worn the front-way ‘round. The value bounces around so much on the exchange market that no one sees value in saving any surplus. If you’ve got some extra loot you just buy something useful with it and save it for later, like a big stack of cinderblocks or a pile of gravel for that house you dream of building. If you need a little extra paper in the meantime, you can always sell some of the pile.
Mozzies. Malaria is not to be taken lightly and the ‘zones’ or ‘bands’ in which it plies its ugly trade are growing every year. The strongest, deadliest strain can be found in the band that stretches across West Africa.
Malaria medicine can really fuck with your head. Larium has been identified (but not proven) as a possible cause of those Gulf War vets coming home and going on murderous rampages. Chloroquine has also led to some sketchy bouts of ‘jungle madness’ – I’ve seen it put a friend in the psych ward after complications from a prolonged trip through the Indian Ocean. Personally, I’ve only experienced the hellish nightmares and paranoia side effects of both drugs on previous travels, but it’s enough to make me wary of them.
Malorone is the new ‘safe’ pill on the block, they even advertise in the New Yorker. We’re on it but a couple days when the vivid dreams kick in. Or maybe it’s just a couple days before I actually get enough sleep to have a dream. Dead and alive, family, friends and strange celebrities I’ve never met populate my nocturnal haze with acid-flashback intensity. There is no horror or fear, so I guess it’s better than the Larium.
Anything’s better than Malaria – it kills over a million people each year, mostly kids. From what I’ve heard, if you get it bad enough you just wish for death. The Ghanaians we’re with see it as a part of their lives. For the locals who have developed some degree of resistance to the milder strains there are simple medicines to cure it quickly available at any druggist. Not so lucky if you don’t already live in ‘the zone’. Chemically treated nets and DEET lotions will become our friends in the field but here in the city we opt for long sleeves at dusk and depend heavily on the drugs.
One side effect of Malarone is dizziness, and it hits me like a sucker punch around day four. A low protein, high activity day adds to the bonk. Fortunately the dizziness mostly subsides and aside from occasional ice-pick-in-the-eyes headaches, I seem to be handling the drug with passable tolerance. 
Life expectancy. One universal truth about third world travel is, you’re acutely aware that death is one stupid oversight or miscue away. Of course you’re gonna be on alert (without being paranoid or peevish), stash your money smartly and watch what you eat and drink and say. You’ve got to mind your business, in all forms.
You’ve also got to mind your shits. Are you having them regular, are they firm or soft? Bloody or black is obviously a bad sign, as is retching up your stomach lining. Small cuts and abrasions you might normally scoff at and ignore need to be meticulously cleaned and cared for. Sanitation is not a strong suit in this town, much like those of any other developing nation. I tell you this not to cast a bad light on the people of Ghana but to paint a picture of the health risk involved for them and us on a daily basis. Ghanaians eat with the right hand and use the left for other purposes. The local papers point out that only 15% of all households actually have a toilet and even those flushing thrones just empty through a pipe straight to the gutter. What you and I would call a ‘weedy empty lot’ here is called a ‘shitting field’. Most sewers in Accra are not covered. They are usually where the sidewalk should be, and often several feet deep, giving new impetus to being sure of foot while engaged in pedestrian transit on crowded and bustling avenues. Dogs, cats, small children, pigs, goats, bats, chickens, cows and rats roam free and also have shitting fields, aka wherever they feel the need. It rains a lot this time of year and the city sits in a flood plain. This Petri dish of decaying feces is topped with a serious garbage problem, including discarded razor blades, scraps of metal, broken glass, dead frogs, used syringes and pretty much everything else you can imagine. Rabies is the least of the worries. 
Fortunately for us, we have a few bits of ammo to fight the good fight and maintain our bodily welfare. First we’ve had a number of vaccinations to armor our immune systems. Second we know what to look for and what to avoid. Third we’ve got a first aid kit suitable for the environment. It’s stocked with sterile needles, obscure remedies, wound care materiel capable of tending everything from minor scratches to gapping chest wounds and an assortment of prescription antidotes, pain killers and cures. We can even splint and stabilize a fractured limb. Most important, we have the training to find what is needed quickly and use it properly. The problem is, the damn thing is a bulky pig and so it is not always strapped to us when we’re doing fast and light forays into the city proper. Heightened awareness and prevention are always our first line of defense. 
Polio, Typhoid, Dengue, Yellow Fever, bilharzia and a number of other unsettling and deadly or crippling diseases are readily available to everyone here. Each day we see people who have been afflicted or hear of those who have died. Cemeteries are as over crowded as the streets. The concept of ‘universal healthcare’ takes on daunting proportions when viewed through the lens we’re glimpsing now.
Welcome home. Your trip sounds amazing. It's obvious that you have come back with some new informed perspectives. I enjoyed the words and beautiful pictures so far, and look forward to more. (even though you make me feel lazy) Best to you both and hope to see you soon.
Posted by: bigsleep | 06/15/2005 at 04:59