Am i getting confused about where to go to the bathroom and having to stop myself from peeing outside in the middle of the night when the urge strikes me (yes…i would pee outside in the bush rather than make the 100 yard trek to my latrine)? And the answer is…no. Besides, it’s too cold to pee outside here. I mean, it’s freezing. I’m
inside right now and i’m wearing a hat because it’s cold, even indoors. I do have to resist the urge to not flush the toilet after merely urinating…using four (i’m guessing…not sure how much water fits in a toilet) gallons of water just for a little pee? Seems so unreasonable.

And I just re-read what i just wrote and am convinced that I have crossed over into freak-dom.

Oh, and it’s also 4:45am. I’ve been up since 3am. In Ghana it’s already 9:45am, and on a normal day I would have been up for four hours already, being woken up by the 4:30am call to prayer. I’d force myself to stay in bed a little longer, but it was always such a comfort to know that while I was lying in bed, the rest of my neighbors were up to give thanks and praise God. But, here…just jetlag. This is day two of waking up (I mean, WIDE awake) at 3 on the dot. America is tiring. Oh, so tiring. Actually, it’s probably not as tiring as it feels right now. What’s tiring is spending 27 hours either in the air or in an airport getting from West Africa to the blessed US of A. And prior to that I spent three days getting to Accra from Zoggu/the bush. Now, that is tiring.

But also…America is AMAZING! And so, so very organized! Traffic laws are respected here! Really, really respected! Everything is so orderly. A place for everything and everything in its place. On my last day in Ghana I combed an affluent shopping center (sort of like a strip mall) in Accra (the most American-esque place in West Africa) in search of safety pins. Not one storefront had sewing kits or safety pins. Then, in a last-ditch effort on my way back to the bunkhouse (where I was to pack it up to go home) I randomly asked a street vendor selling jewelry if she had anything that could hold together a broken zipper (my luggage is struggling). Thankfully she had some in her purse and just gave them to me (for free!). But that whole safety-pin-locating-mission took over an hour.  Man…here, I bet I could get my hands on some safety pins in less than 7 minutes regardless of my current location. For real. I went to Target yesterday and realized that I could take up residence there and live an extraordinary life just in Target. Shelter…check. Fruits and vegetables…check (it was a Super Target!). Exercise equipment…check. Entertainment in the form of electronics/books/dvds/computers…check. Pharmacy (I’m asthmatic, you know, and rely on medications to keep me healthy)…check. And for nights when I want to shake it up, do something nice for myself, Starbucks…CHECK (yeah, baby!). When relaying all this information to a friend, he said, “Yeah…all you’d need is a shower and you’d be set.” To which I replied, “Shower? Ha! I just need a bucket and a drain and some tap water. Who needs a shower?” And then, after my bucket bath (I could do that outside if there was no place inside Target with a drain), I could pamper myself with products from the aisles and aisles of lotions and potions to make me beautiful! It’s like a consumerist’s dream. Seriously.

But really, as for being back in America, I’ll say two things. First, I. LOVE. AMERICA. iloveitiloveitiloveit!!!! It’s so nice here! So, so, so very nice! And my family is here. I love my family so much. My parents (I hate to break this to all of you who were not created by my parents) are just the nicest, most loving parents in the universe. And my friends? Seriously…how did I win the karmic jackpot? I have no idea. Really. I really, really love this place. It’s just so organized!

Second, America is busy! My dad (the nicest guy on the planet) has generously offered to lend me his brand-spanking new cell phone while I’m here. And now I’m always accessible. I mean, I’m always accessible. I’ve had like seven hour-plus phone conversations since I’ve been here. But, see? This ties in with winning the karmic jackpot and having so many great people to catch up with.

But still, I’m freaking exhausted.

And tonight there’s a small get together at a great local restaurant (for you Austinites…Matt’s El Rancho, 5:30pm…you are all invited!). Cheese and margaritas, baby. I’ll post pictures of that later. And when I say later I mean tomorrow or the next day. Because I’m never further than 7 minutes away from internet here! And safety pins!!! GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!!!

And to Val, Shawn, Tommy, Mack and Ashley…less than a week and I’ll tackle you all!

For now, I hope you are all well and happy and healthy and full of love!!

Sincerely,

Kimmie

my dear friend, maria, came to visit me last week.  she brought her fancy camera and took some pictures of me during my last days in zoggu. 

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2039278&id=1051239038&l=24e2e5ee7c

one week from now i’ll be in america! 

i hope you are all well and happy!

love,

kimmie

Okay.

So.  Lots going on right now.

Let me first say this.  Thanksgiving at the US Ambassador’s house.  12 turkeys.  For real.  Here are some highlights (and some old photos from the village that I don’t think I’ve shown you…it’s a long link…you may have to cut and paste the web address):

http://picasaweb.google.com/kimmieellison/Thanksgiving2009WithSomeOldOnesFromTheVillage?authkey=Gv1sRgCO-Zrf-UpYKwKQ&feat=directlink

Spending a year in the bush has given me a whole new perspective on how exactly thankful I need to be.  I can’t really put it into words.  Going from the land of plenty to a land of such need…seeing so many people with so little…and yet seeing how gratitude remains despite their lack of “things.”  And when I say “things” I don’t mean fancy cars, flat screen tvs.  I mean running water, beds, shoes.  Shoes, people!  You name it, the people I’ve been living amongst probably don’t have it.  And yet they seem, on average, happier than I am on my best day.  And, I hate to say it, probably happier than you are on your best day.  I can sum it up all in this simple little equation:

Things ≠ Happiness

On the contrary, living in the bush has taught me this:

Gratitude (usually) = Happiness

For real.  It’s hard.  I’m not always thankful.  Much of the time I’m incredibly frustrated.  But I like this little ditty by Ralph Waldo Emerson (yes…for my facebook friends reading this…I even liked it enough to make it my fb status):

“For each new morning with its light, For rest and shelter of the night, For health and food, for love and friends, For everything Thy goodness sends.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson

So true!  So, so true.

And now, some big news…

As of next year (starting in January), I’ll be moving to Tamale (yes…the big city) to teach nursing students at the University for Development Studies.  Specifically I’ll be teaching anatomy and physiology to second trimester undergraduate nursing students. Here’s what happened:

The department head for the nursing school caught wind that there was a Peace Corps volunteer who also happened to be a nurse with a masters degree.

Said department head approached me about coming to teach in the nursing school at the university.

I called my people at Peace Corps and said, “hey…this sounds like a good idea.”  My bosses at Peace Corps agreed.

The volunteer who lives at the Tamale bunk house/office (she has the title of Peace Corps Volunteer Leader) completes her service in December.

So…me, and the University for Development Studies, and Peace Corps worked it out so that I could better utilize my skills here in Ghana by moving into the Tamale house, taking on the role of “Peace Corps Volunteer Leader”, and teaching future nurses about how the body functions.

So…I’m moving to Tamale.  It’s nice.  There’s a flush toilet.  And my room has A/C.  I’m a sell out.  But the gig at UDS was just too good to pass up.  From day one here in Ghana I’ve had a beef with the lack of fundamental nursing knowledge among so many of the nurses here.  Now I can do something (be it relatively small) to help alleviate that issue.

So I’m moving.  And if moving is a pain in the States, you can only imagine what it is like here.

But, also, I’m sad to leave Zoggu.  My village of Zoggu.  That place that caused my level of frustration to reach heights I thought not at all possible.  My little, typical, rural West African village.  My perspective-changer.  Where I learned that you really don’t need electricity to survive.  And running water?  Completely non-essential.  Where my idea of comfort was smashed, vaporized, demolished.  Where I met members of my human family I had no clue existed.  Where I saw the human condition unspoiled by consumerism while simultaneously repressed by abject poverty and lack of education.  The place where I learned that truly, life is not fair for so many people (yet has been ultra fair for me).  Where I learned that when I go back to America I really have absolutely nothing to complain about ever, ever again.  Please, God, let these lessons stick.  Please!

Now, I’m sure I’ll leave Zoggu and a few days will go by and Zoggu will be just the same.  The people there will survive.  They won’t thrive but they will get by the same way they have for a long, long time.  My presence there was for the most part novel (“what’s the crazy white lady doing today?  Oh look, she’s carrying water on her head!  Ah, ha, ha, hahaha.”).  Sure, I helped out here and there, but it seems that Zoggu changed me far more, EONS more, than I changed Zoggu.  I mean…that place changed me.  My “toilet” has been a hole in the ground for over a year.  You don’t live like that and then just rebound back to normal.  You don’t see the human condition in such a different light and go back to your old self.

So…in less than three weeks I travel back to America for the Christmas holidays.  I’m manic.  I. Can’t. Wait.  Ican’twaitIcan’twaitIcan’twait!!!!  And rather than return to Zoggu in January, I’ll return to Tamale and start lecturing.  Two days a week, six hours each day.  The other days I’ll be doing stuff that goes along with being the Peace Corps Volunteer Leader.  Perhaps I’ll elaborate more on the duties that pertain to that role in a future entry.  For now…sleep.

I’m writing this on Thanksgiving, though probably won’t post it until several days after.  But let me say that I am completely, truly thankful.  I’m humbled by all the things for which I can be thankful (think Emerson…new mornings, rest, health, friends, love).  Really humbled.  And I hope that you all are doing well and are having/had a wonderful Thanksgiving filled with peace and gratitude in your hearts!

Sincerely,

Kimmie

Hello friends and family.

I’ve added a link under the web albums tab with some recent photos.  I am not a photographer.  The quality is not good.

I hope you are all well and happy!

Sincerely,

Kimmie

I ran a marathon yesterday.  Below is my race report.  But first, a few quick updates.

The first annual “Zoggu Malaria Awareness Day” was a success.  Me and some volunteers I recruited from the village went door to door to 151 huts (there are 208 total) to provide basic malaria education (read “don’t wait until your kid has a seizure to bring him/her to the clinic”) and determine whether or not kids under five were sleeping under mosquito nets.  Turns out Zoggu needs more nets.  I’ve submitted a grant application to Peace Corps for funding to buy nets.

Last week I was in Kumasi for a PEPFAR (President’s Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief) conference and I stayed in a fancy hotel with running water (HOT running water) and A/C.  It was an educational week AND I turned my thermostat down to about 17 degrees Celsius (62 degrees Fahrenheit) and took long, hot showers.  I was very happy.

World AIDS Day is December 1^st and I am planning another event with one of the nurses in the village.  We’re trying to pull together a big event that focuses on testing men for HIV.  The Zoggu clinic tests lots of women (namely pregnant women) but men are harder to convince to test.

Overall I am doing well.

And now….the race report.

Kimmie’s Accra Marathon Race Report

So I generally like to organize my race reports mile to mile.  But the Accra marathon didn’t have mile markers.  There were kilometer markers but they were haphazardly placed and often incorrect (we’ll get to the soul crushing impact of an incorrect kilometer marker later).  So…here we go.  Also, a small warning.  There are several references to swear words in this entry.  No actual swear words, but still, I just wanted to warn you.

2:15am:  Wake up in the Peace Corps bunk house in Accra.  It’s a rented room in a guesthouse called the Swiss Rest (affectionately referred to by volunteers as the Sh*t Rest or the Swiss Mess).  Anyway…it’s not all that nice.  A big room with four bunk beds, no a/c or ceiling fans, and running water that is pretty much just a trickle.  We have two cabs picking up the group (there are 8 of us running the full, 4 running the half) at 3:15 am to go to a fancy hotel where the shuttle is picking us up at 4:30.  But in Ghana, time is sometimes kind of a joke (more on this later), hence the 1 hour 45 minute cushion with the cab driver.

3:30am:  Cab picks us up and takes us to the fancy hotel where the shuttle is to arrive.  We meet some Japanese expats who are running the marathon.  One of them is wearing a pink kimono (seriously) with his race bib pinned to it and he has a teddy bear backpack on his back.  It was interesting.

Between 3:30 and 4:45am:  We watched a prostitute walk up to the hotel to solicit work from all the foreigners be shooed away by the hotel security guard.  We also used the bathroom at the fancy hotel pool (flush toilet!!) a few times.

4:45:  The shuttle that fits 9 people comes to pick us up with 5 people already in it.  We then cram the Peace Corps group and the Japanese expats into the remaining space in the shuttle.  Very Ghana, only this shuttle had a/c.

4:45 to 5:25:  Drive to a distant suburb-like township that is 26ish miles outside of Accra.  The start and much of the race course is on the main highway out of town.

5:27:  Urinate behind a bunch of bushes.

5:30:  Watch the designated start time for the race come and go.

5:31:  Wait to start

5:32:  Wait to start

5:33:  Curse the hot African sun that is now rising.  I will be running the entire race in the sun.  Continue to wait.

6-freaking-45:  After getting up 4 and a half hours earlier, all 100 or so runners start the race.  Apparently Coca-cola, one of the major (read “only”) sponsors, hadn’t shown up on time with the water for water stops.

6:50:  Notice that the road I’m running on is not only a major thoroughfare but that it’s not blocked off AT ALL.  Basically the race is on the shoulder of the highway.

6:55:  Notice that it’s very windy.  VERY WINDY.  And this highway is hilly.  I am not pleased.

7:00:  Notice that when 18-wheelers fly by that they (a) increase the wind by a considerable amount and (b) kick up lots and lots of gravel that somehow feels as if it’s being thrown directly in my face.

Around 7:15ish:  Come to the first 3-kilometer marker.  Crap…how many miles are in 3 kilmeters?  Okay…I think it’s almost two.  Meaning I’m running about 9 minute splits.  9 minute splits equals about a 4 hour marathon.  I can speed up as I go and cut that down.

7:30ish:  Laugh at all of the other runners that came out of the start line too fast.  Think to myself, “Ha…I’ll see them later.  Hahaha.”  (You have to see where this is going.)

7:30ish to 8:15ish:  Wonder why I’m not into a good rhythm yet.  Continue to curse the wind and the traffic and the gravel and the lack of road barriers.  But I am still on a 4 hour pace.  Doing okay.  Though feeling a strange pulling/tightening sensation in my right hamstring, the same hamstring that I pulled (perhaps almost tore) during training.  Some thoughts going through my head at this time:  “Why the #@*& are there no road barriers?!  This is actually a marathon?!  Do I stop to let this truck pass as there is no shoulder to run on or do I run off the road in the bush that is up to my knees?  Do I go left or right at that upcoming fork in the road?  Is that dot in distance in front of/behind me a pedestrian or another runner?  Do I speed up/slow down so that I can run with said runner?  Why did I sign up for this?  Did I feel this bad so early on in any of my other marathons?  Why do I live in Africa?  What do I do about all the starving kids in my village?  How the *&^% can I get the people in my village to wash their hands?  WHAT AM I DOING HERE?!  AMERICA, WHY DID I LEAVE YOU?!?!”

8:30ish:  Briefly panic as I realize that I have most likely re-injured my hamstring.  This is probably around mile 12.  Pray that the next 3km marker/water stop will soon reveal itself.  Realize that it’s incredibly annoying to receive cat calls from truckers while running a marathon with a pulled hamstring.  Realize also that the majority of Ghana does not understand why a bunch of people (most of them white) with numbers on their shirts are running on the shoulder of a major highway on a Sunday morning.  I received lots and lots of, “white lady, where are you going?  Why are you running?”  Or, of particular help was, “White lady, you are too slow…your brothers and sisters are yonder.”  Hey, thanks a**hole!

8:40ish:  Traffic is in full swing now.  I’m still running along the “shoulder” (read bush, gravel, sand, curb, etc. etc.) of a major road along the coast of the hub-city of West Africa.  I am also completely solo at this point; no runners in sight in front or behind.  Only 100ish runners equals many different paces and mostly solo, highly dispersed runners.  There are also no spectators (save the people coming out of shops, houses, etc. to ask me why I am running).  I also am conjuring up a very interesting running technique to relieve the pain of my right hamstring.  It’s called try-to-pull/strain/injure-almost-every-other-muscle-group-in-your-legs-to-compensate-for-a-pulled-hamstring.  In retrospect this was stupid.

8:45ish:  Thinking to myself that I should be approaching the halfway point soon.  Concede that this is not my day.  Come to a roundabout in the highway and have no clue which way I am supposed to go.  So…I stop.  I then wait for an opening in the traffic and shuffle to the grassy, circular median in the roundabout.  I look in all four directions and see no other runners.  I think, “Hmmm…would now be a good time to quit?  What if I go the wrong way?!  I’ll be screwed!  But if I quit now, then I can hop into a cab (plenty had been offering me rides as they passed by) and tell the driver the name of the hotel where the finish line is.  But I’d have to DNF (runner-speak for “did not finish”)!  ARGHHH!!!! What should I do?!!”

8:46ish:  Some Ghanaian rent-a-cops notice me stumbling around the roundabout and get my attention.  They direct me to the left.  Apparently they were hired by the marathon to direct the runners.  They were taking a break in their car or something.

8:47ish:  Continue on another busy road, weaving in and out of 18-wheelers that are parked on the shoulder.  Dodge women carrying produce on their heads.  I am basically running through an outdoor market that is split by a paved road down the middle.  And where the f*&^ is the 21km marker?!

8:50ish:  Come across a km marker that says 18km.  WHAT!!!????  I’ve been running for over two hours and I’m not half way yet?  Lose a small amount of my soul.

9ish:  The course now makes its way through a busy neighborhood to a somewhat industrial area of Accra.  It’s now just me, the pavement, and some railcars stacked on top of each other.  It was very lonely.  But, then I spot, in the distance, another runner!  And he’s walking!  I shuffle, shuffle, shuffle to catch up to him.

9:10ish:  Catch up to the runner.  He’s European.  I ask him if he feels like he’s dying.  He says yes!  He, too, is miserable!  I ask is this his first marathon.  He says no!  Yea!!  It’s NOT just me!  This race sucks!

9:12ish:  The European dude continues to walk and I decide to shuffle on.  Soon I am all alone again.

9:20ish:  I come around a sharp curve in the road that is along a ramp to an overpass (thereby blocking my view of what is around the bend).  I immediately run into a sign (no water stop) that says “24 KILOMETERS.”  I decide that I want to die.  I then stop shuffling and begin walking.  The first time I’ve walked in a marathon since my first.  And I was barely halfway through (I later discovered after talking to several of the other runners that the kilometer markers were invariably wrong).  My spirit is squashed.

9:21ish:  The industrial area slowly turns into the coast line.  I am now walking/shuffling along a highway that runs along the beach.  Scenic?  Yes.  Windy?  YES!  Sunny?  YES!  Salty?  YES!  Hot/Humid?  YES! How does salty, humid, sunny wind feel on an already sunburned face?  BAD!

9:30ish:  Sight another runner!  He is walking!  Shuffle for several minutes to catch up.

9:40ish:  Catch up to this runner.  He is Danish.  Immediately upon catching up to him I stop shuffling and begin walking.  Again, with my questions.  Is this your first marathon?  No, it’s my 14^th.  Do you want to die?  Yes.  I regain a miniscule portion of my spirit as I am once again reassured that it is not just me.  I walk with him for about a kilometer and then continue to shuffle.

9:50ish:  I come across a water stop that is out of water.  I am offered some unsweetened guava juice and almost vomit.  I hurl the juice to the ground and curse.

10ish:  The desolate coast ends and I begin to encroach upon a busy, heavily populated area of Accra.  Picture this if you will:  Sunday morning.  Open market place.  Two lane road that is bumper to bumper traffic with tro tros, cabs, private cars, etc.  Everyone is out of their house and on their way to/from church.  The market is hopping.  And I am to run along the “side” (read narrow, dusty, sandy, uneven area of about one foot) of the road past all the shops/ladies-with-things-on-their-heads/motos-weaving-in-and-out-of-traffic/goats/dogs/chickens/etc. for the next 9ish miles.  I can’t put into words what I was thinking.  There are no words.

10ish to 10:30ish:  Walk, shuffle along the “side” of the road.  Try to ignore all of the inquiries, cat calls, shouts, etc. about what I am doing/where I am going/whether or not I am crazy/why I am wearing a number/where is my husband/etc. etc.  My legs seem to have lost nerve enervations from my brain.  I almost trip several times over curbs, stones, grass, and yes chickens and at one point a goat.

10:45ish:  Begin to grow increasingly irritated with a tro tro driver that has slowed down his packed tro tro to harass me about what I am doing/where I am going/whether or not I am crazy/why I am wearing a number/where is my husband.  He has basically stopped traffic by slowing down his tro tro.

10:46ish:  I stop running.

10:46:30ish:  I turn to face the tro tro directly and scream the dirtiest, meanest, most profane curse words that I can think of in a rage-filled shout at the tro tro driver.  People on the side of the road (kids, men, women mostly on their way to/from church) all stop and stare.  The tro tro driver takes the hint and drives away.  I continue to walk/shuffle along the side of the road.

11am:  I sight another runner.  He too is walking!  I shuffle to catch him.

11am to 11:15ish:  Walk with this runner.  He is from the Midwest somewhere.  He, too, has run several marathons.  And he, too, feels bad, bad, bad.  He, however, has to be on a plane to Singapore at 6pm.  I do not!  I somehow am thankful.  He estimates we have about one 5k left in the race.  I wish him luck and continue on.  The sun is high in the sky, the traffic is kicking up dust, and there are people everywhere blocking my path and/or inquiring about what I am doing/where I am going/whether or not I am crazy/why I am wearing a number/where is my husband etc., etc.

11:15ish to 11:25:  Make my way through the busy coastal area to a less populated (but still traffic-heavy) stretch of road.  I am dying.  I am miserable.  I am seriously hoping there are medical professionals (aside from myself) at the finish.  I’m self-diagnosing myself as hyponatremic (low-sodium) which presents itself in all forms of discomfort.  There was no Powerade/Gatorade on the course (this IS Africa, after all) and the four gels I’ve consumed just weren’t enough.  I am covered in sand, salt, and dirt.  I’m sooooo grimy.  My legs…not sure how to describe.  Worse than they’ve ever been.  Particularly my left groin and quad and my right hammy.  I almost fall several times.  I am staggering.

11:30ish:  I come across this Rastafarian next to a car on the side of the road.  He is in a sort-of running outfit (looked kind of like a wet suit, but at this point I am absolutely delirious and cannot distinguish what a normal running outfit would look like from other forms of beach clothing).  I ask him if he knows anything about this marathon.  He says yes, I ran it and finished it a long time ago.  I say where is the finish.  He says it’s not far, I will run there with you.  I say I can’t run, I can only walk.  He says, no, you can run and I will run with you.  I say ok.

11:30 to 11:35ish:  This barefoot Rastafarian begins to run with me along the side of the road which is gravel, sand, rock, etc.  He has his cell phone out and is holding it up.  A Celine Dion song is playing from his phone.  It’s random.  I tell him that I need to walk.  He says no, I have to run.  He says see that signboard (Ghanaian English for billboard) ahead?  The finish is just down a path from that sign.  You will finish on the beach.  I tell him he’s lying.  I am dizzy.  I’m stumbling.  I’ve been running on the equator in the sun for almost five hours.  I have no sodium in my body.  I hate the world.  I would rather be in a coma than running right now.

11:40ish:  We come to aforementioned signboard and turn.  I see stretched out ahead of me a sandy/rocky dirt path and think this guy (oh…I somehow got the words out while I was running with him “what is your name” and he said “prince”), so I ask Prince “are you serious?  I have to run the last 200 meters of this race on sand?”  Prince says it’s okay, I can do it, blah blah blah.  Mind you, I am not running, I am barely shuffling.  I am staggering.  I am pathetic.  My right leg is not working.

11:forty-something.  I stumble across the finish line.  My time was somewhere around 4:55 (no pads, no chips, no digital time boards; just a guy with a stop watch at the finish).  Over an hour and a half slower than my last marathon.  8 of the 10 other volunteers (five of whom were running the full marathon I thought I would cheer on at the finish) were waiting for me.  They were all clapping.  There were several hugs.  There were several we-were-so-worried-about-yous, what-happeneds?, etc. etc.

So I think this is what happened…I (re)pulled my right hamstring and probably should have just DNFed but became somehow incredibly masochistic and carried on.  My pride was left somewhere along the beach, perhaps at the misplaced 24km marker.  My electrolytes were also depleted thereby making my pull/strain/injure-almost-every-other-muscle-group-in-your-legs-to-compensate-for-a-pulled-hamstring technique even less effective than it should have been.  Also, my level of fitness has just taken a nose dive since moving to Africa.  I am generally healthy but have so much less control over my exercise routine than I did in the States.

All this being said, everyone one of my Peace Corps friends finished the race.  4 ran the half, 8 the full.  Only three of us had ever run a marathon before, and I apologized profusely for talking the others into running this one.  I had no idea the race was going to be so miserable!  It was MISERABLE!  But, alas, it’s over.  Immediately after I finished this race I decided I would never run another marathon.  Then I decided that you can’t truly be an experienced marathon runner without a few horror stories.  So now I’ve decided on an Accra Marathon Rematch in 2010.

Also, there were very few women who ran the race.  Probably under twenty.  Maybe under 15.  I came in 10^th (perhaps there were only 10 female runners, who knows).  I won 40 cedis.  I spent it all on ice cream (a HUGE luxury) for everyone who ran the race.  I am a lucky girl.

I will post pictures next time.  For now, you’re imagination will have to suffice.

I miss you all and hope you are all happy and healthy!

Love,

Kimmie

Yes, I’m still alive.  Not sure why I haven’t updated my blog recently. Probably because there’s not a whole lot to report.

Let’s see…First off…the “road” to my village is now a swamp (note the lack of quotation marks around swamp…I am not speaking figuratively here…it’s a muddy path that is now covered in lots and lots of water). Here’s a fun travel-to-my-site story for you all:

I am headed home on my dirt “road” after a morning of rain. There’s a huge pool of water covering part of the road…maybe 20 yards across, flanked by tall, tall grass and about 30 yards long. The cab driver merely eyeballs the pool, and rather than assess the actual depth of the pool, he just decides to try his luck and drive straight through. (See where this is going?). Of course, we just nosedive into the water and stop. Then we start to sink. Seemingly on cue, all six (sixish, I think…the car was the equivalent of a 1980 civic maybe?) of the other passengers open the doors (thereby allowing turbid water to pool into the car up to my knees, but at this point I am cross-legged so I am still somewhat dry) and go to the back of the car to push it out of the muddy pool. I am about to brave the muddy water myself (with my backpack above my head) but the driver tells me to stay put so I can “steer.” I basically hold the wheel (I’m still sitting shotgun, crossed legged, with my pack on my lap) while the other passengers try to heave the car out of the pool. Somehow they free the vehicle and push it to dry-ish land and the driver opens the driver-side door and starts scooping the brown water out with his hands. Then he gets in the driver seat and actually tries to start the car. Ha! Of course, the car doesn’t start. So, what does the driver do? He opens the hood, unhooks a hose in the engine, and then starts sucking the turbid water out of the engine and INTO HIS MOUTH.  Gross. But he spits it out so I guess that somehow makes it okay?  Unfortunately (shocker), this doesn’t help and the car still won’t start. So the driver flags down a farmer on a bicycle, borrows the bike from the farmer, goes to Savelugu (sav-UH-loo-goo, the town from whence we came) and, long story short, the other passengers, myself, the [now] bicycle-less farmer wait for three hours until the driver comes back from Savelugu with a mechanic and, miraculously, they get the car to start again. So very Ghana.

In other travel notes, I traveled to the Southern part of Ghana last week to see the new group of trainees get sworn in as new volunteers. That was fun. And I am officially no longer a newbie! Just so you all have a little more perspective on travel in Ghana…travel to the South entails purchasing a bus ticket to Accra from Tamale for 16 cedis (roughly 16 bucks, or I could pay 22.50 for a bus with A/C…but I’m on a budget and I could eat for days, seriously, off of 6 cedis 50 peswa).  The bus ride to Accra is about 12 to 14 hours long. Luckily, the swearing in ceremony was in a town called Koforidua (koh-for-IDGE-uuu-ah), which is only an eight hour ride from Tamale (but there is no direct line there so you have to purchase a ticket for Accra and get off the bus early). What is noteworthy about all this travel is that, by road, it takes a very long time to get anywhere here. There is an airport in Tamale, however. And (if one can afford the 200 cedis…ha!), the trip from Tamale to Accra is ONE HOUR. So…imagine driving from Austin, Texas to Dallas, Texas and having to set aside 14 hours of your time. Then think about how nice it would be to be able to cover the same distance in one fourteenth of that time. Welcome to my world! But, the swearing in ceremony was nice and I was able to see some friends that I hadn’t seen in a long time.

As far as work is going, well…it’s going okay, I guess. My first big project is coming up next week. I’ve officially deemed the 26th of August, 2009 as (drum roll) “Zoggu Malaria Awareness Day.” Basically, I’m asking (read forcing, begging, pleading…anything but providing financial compensation) all of the village health volunteers, clinic staff, Zoggu water and sanitation committee, and ten Ghanaian medical students to go door to door to all the 230 huts in Zoggu to provide malaria education and to assess the use of (or rather, lack there of) mosquito nets for households with children under five. The chief of my village is going to announce the “malaria day” with his domba drummer (aka the village newsman…he’s a guy that stomps around the village with a drum making announcements…there’s not really an American equivalent), and the Imam (the Muslim minister) is going to make a similar announcement over the PA system that sits on top of the mosque. Tuesday will be “training day” at the clinic.  This is where I tell all the volunteers what to say at each house.  I’ll also pass out paper, pencils (to record how many people use/don’t use nets), and chalk (to mark the houses once the education has been completed). This will, of course, all be done via a translator.  My Dagbani still leaves much to be desired. Pray that the day isn’t a total disaster. And that it doesn’t rain. Rain stops everything here.

Also, a special shout out to my running group who sent me a great care package that included a new pair of running shoes!

Also a new camera, so I have added a few new photo albums as well (http://picasaweb.google.com/kimmieellison/AugustRandom?authkey=Gv1sRgCNrU8uf26rLeZA&feat=directlink, http://picasaweb.google.com/kimmieellison/KimmieS31?authkey=Gv1sRgCJvF4IW9vMn6bQ&feat=directlink). There are captions to explain.  I’ve also put links to these same albums under the “web albums” tab.

Now, I can’t mention one care package without paying tribute to my mother…who has kept me in continuous stock of priceless toiletrees, coffee, cookies, pretty much anything I ask for she sends me. Seriously…I’ve been able to enjoy a cup of coffee every day for a while now and it’s all because of her. She has been, by far, the most devoted care-package sender.  And I love her!! Love you momma!!

The marathon is in just over a month. Seeing as how I’ve slowed down on the blogging, my next post will probably be after the marathon. I’ll include an update on “Zoggu Malaria Day-2009″ in that post as well.

Overall, I am doing fine. Feeling healthy…staying malaria free (although the mosquitoes are BAD right now…so, SO many children are brought to the clinic with bad, BAD malaria)…and I am so thankful for, well simply, my health.  And also for the health of my friends and family back home. My grandma turned 92 last week! I tell people in the village that my mother’s mother is 92 and the usual response is, “Are you sure?” People here rarely get that old. And if they do, their actual age is a total guessing game. No birth records.

Anyhow…miss you all!

xoxoxo, Kimmie

I finished reading a book last week called When a Crocodile Eats the Sun.  It’s a book about Zimbabwe by a guy named Peter Godwin (who is himself from Zimbabwe).  And in this book the author describes experiencing something called “first world panic” when he is trying to procure proper treatment in a Zimbabwean hospital for his father who has just had a heart attack.

As I was reading about his “first world panic,” I was thinking… “I can  TOTALLY relate.”

Here’s a good story about what I like to call “first world frustration” (we’ll get to the panic a little later) from an American trained nurse (me) living as a health volunteer in Ghana.

Last Sunday I’m waiting, in the heat, for the market lorry to take me to Savelugu because it’s market day there and I’m dangerously low on toilet paper (an item unavailable in the thriving metropolis of Zoggu).  Anyhow…I’m sitting next to a young mother (say 17 or 18?) with a fussy 9 month-ish old baby.  Baby is crying, fussy…nothing out of the ordinary for a child of this age.  If you had asked me, I’d say the kid was probably teething.

Anyhow, the baby just can’t be soothed …the baby won’t eat, her clothes are dry/unsoiled (diapers aren’t used here), and no position that she’s held in seems to make her comfortable.  A few minutes later a small girl (about 12) comes by with a small box of pills from the local chemical store (akin to a pharmacy in Mexico where you can easily buy medications that in the States would require a prescription).  The medicine contains a pain reliever somewhat similar to aspirin or ibuprofen (called diclofenac…not commonly used in the States as far as I know) and gives it to the mother.  So…what does this young mother do with the medicine?  She takes a pill, breaks it in half, crushes a half pill between her fingers, mixes it in a soup ladle filled with cloudy water from a “street” (read…dirt road) vendor, and feeds it to her baby.  Here is the conversation that ensued just prior to her actually administering said concoction (note…the following took place in Dagbani…hence my rudimentary grasp of conventional grammar):

Me:  Your baby does not have health today?

Young mother: No, she does not have health.

Me:  When baby does not have health you need go clinic and talk with midwife.  You not know medicine you give baby good.  You not know why baby has no health today.

Young mother:  I don’t have money for clinic (as she is administering cloudy water/diclofenac concoction).

Me:  Please when your baby has no health go to clinic.  Talk with midwife.

Mind you, in my head, I want to say this: “Okay…please stop what you are doing.  What you are about to feed your baby may cause harm.  Unfortunately, and at no fault of your own, you lack the necessary health knowledge to ensure to the best of your ability that your child remains healthy.  I’ll sit back, watch, and continue to feel helpless as I struggle with the tribal language and customs and hope that the medicinal solution you just gave your baby will not (a) cause any sort of organ damage or allergic reaction from the pill you know nothing about or (b) cause any sort of bacterial or parasitic illness as the water you mixed the crushed pill with was obviously not clean.”

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what I like to refer to as “first world frustration.”  I experience it often.

A note on the health insurance here in Ghana.  I think you pay 8 cedis (roughly $10) for a year of health insurance, meaning consultation and treatment (including medication) at the clinic is free.  If you have no insurance, you pay 2 cedis plus the cost of medication each time you visit the clinic.  Whether or not this young mother even knew the ins-and-outs of her insurance options? I have no clue.  I lack the Dagbani vocabulary to get into a discussion regarding the benefits of health insurance.  I will say, though, 8 cedis, while not an extraordinary amount of money, would provide me with enough food to eat for a week.

Now…another little story on what I call “first world panic.”

I am awoken a few nights ago to knocking on the compound door by a man calling “Ago” (AHH go)…a traditional Twi greeting to announce your arrival in someone’s home.  It’s about 9:30pm, I’ve been asleep for almost an hour (things wind down early here…we’re usually up before 5am to beat the heat).  Anyhow…this gentleman had tried to wake up the midwife but was unsuccessful.  I tried to explain in my broken Dagbani that “midwife tired a lot.  She have four babies at clinic today.”

Anyhow…this gentleman goes on to tell me, in very broken English, that his son is sick and he needs the midwife.  He asks if I can I call her to wake her up?  (Sidenote…the midwife and I are now living in the same compound.  I’ve moved over to the nursing quarters so that the “national malaria eradication” program can use my old compound as an office/storage space for their mosquito spraying equipment. Now I am cohabiting in the same compound with the two community health nurses and the midwife.  It’s nice.)

So now I’m in the courtyard of my compound, dressed in flip flops and two yards of cloth wrapped around me, dialing the midwife’s number on my phone.  I hear the midwife’s phone ringing from where I am standing.   After a few rings the midwife answers and I explain to her that a man is here and his ill son is waiting at the clinic.  She says she on her way.

I walk over to the clinic with the father and the midwife and am slapped in the face with a big dose of “first world panic”.  There is a small boy, about 7 or 8 years of age, rigid as a board, foaming at the mouth, taking shallow, sporadic breaths lying board-like across his grandmother’s lap.  This poor kid was stuck in the middle of a full-on generalized tonic-clonic seizure (medical-speak for “grand mal” seizure).

The midwife takes one look at the child and tells the family in rapid Dagbani, “Go, NOW, to the hospital in Savelugu.  NOW.”

Note – the clinic, while capable of treating many common village illnesses, like uncomplicated malaria and diarrhea (and of course, baby-delivery), has no business caring for a child in this condition.  One of the first things you do in a health-care setting if someone is having a seizure (in the States, mind you, where resources abound) is give the patient some oxygen (via an oxygen tank conveniently located behind the wall with a little gauge you flip to “on” and voile!  Oxygen!).  The only oxygen the clinic has in the air we breathe.  There is no oxygen tank.  No antiseizure meds.  Nada.

After helping the woman tie this small boy onto her back (who was at this point resembling a mannequin frozen in a very awkward, contorted position with frequent twitches…that’s how stiff he was), she then straddles the moto that the boy’s father is driving and off they go.

The fate of this poor little boy?  Unknown.  I wasn’t familiar with him or his family and don’t know if they were from Zoggu or another smaller, surrounding village.  And, I probably will never know, because all too often, children die at home or even at the hospital and it’s just not discussed/reported/even mourned in public.  But, to be honest, I had a very, very bad feeling about him.  Who knows what was causing the seizure…high fever from malaria, meningitis, rabies, tetanus?  Who knows.  None are good.  In fact all of those, when allowed to progress to the point of seizure activity, can very likely end in death.

In my head I’m thinking, “Where am I?  What is the world coming to?  How can an innocent little boy, who probably just prior to entering into seizure-mode felt absolutely dreadful and scared out of his wits and was trusting in the adults around him to take care of him and keep him safe…how can he be stuck here in the middle of nowhere late at night having a seizure like this?  Why didn’t his parents bring him to the clinic earlier when whatever symptoms he had were manageable at the clinic level?  Will his father even really take him to Savelugu?  Or will they go home and just leave the future of this little boy up to fate?  Why!!!! In what universe is this allowed to happen?!?!!”

Now this, this is first world panic.  The injustice of it all brings tears to my eyes and causes me to lose sleep at night.  It knocks the wind right out of me.

So, I could go on about other depressing, unfair, just wrong moments of panic and frustration…but I’m not sure what good that would do.  But let me just say that in my own, very small way, I know I’m trying to help.  And I know that even though what I’m doing seems completely irrelevant in the face of a seizing child, it’s at least something.

Life’s just not fair.  Period.

Okay…moving on.  I had a new Peace Corps Trainee come and stay with me for her “Vision Quest”.  She was an excellent house guest and will undoubtedly make a very good volunteer following her training.  She was a particularly good sport when I came down with a very unpleasant stomach ailment called giardia which pretty much incapacitated me for an 18 hour period of her stay.

Okay…a brief note on giardia.  I’ll spare you all the gory details as I know many of you that read this aren’t nurses or doctors.  But…it’s a stomach bug that you get from eating contaminated food (I’m blaming some street food I ate in Savelugu two days prior), and it will cause you to drop a kilo or two in a relatively short period of time.

Luckily…this giardia is easily identifiable and the Peace Corps medical officer told me exactly what meds to take and my symptoms are pretty much gone now.  Again…next time you are sick with anything stomach related, while at the time you may be miserable, you can always say to yourself, “at least I’m not afflicted with this stomach illness in a setting where I have to leave my house to go to the bathroom.  And leave town to purchase toilet paper.”

That’s all I have to say about that.

Okay folks, that’s it for now.  I’ve included a picture of me fetching water on my head.  The big, concrete, circular thing in the background is a rain-water reservoir (donated by Christian Children’s Fund of Canada).  The skirt I’m wearing is tie-and-dye fabric purchased here in Ghana and made by my favorite tailor in Tamale.  The bucket can hold 20 liters…I’m able to carry it without spilling any if I fill it with about 17 liters AND use my hands.  I also only have to carry it about 50 yards.  The Zoggu women can carry a large metal drum of containing about 30 liters of water, filled to the brim, over half a mile and spill very negligible amounts.  With NO HANDS.  I’m not there yet.

Anyhow…I’m feeling healthy again (the giardia knows who’s boss now, thanks to a five day course of Flagyl), am thankful for the little niche of novelty that I occupy in my rural, West African community. I think of my friends and family back home often.  I am so thankful for all of the positive energy I receive from my loved ones back home (not to mention the emails, letters, care packages, etc.).  I am also thankful for all of the healthy little kids in the village of Zoggu and for the joy they can bring me by just being their healthy little selves.

Oh, one last last thing.  My flight home for Christmas is BOOKED (thanks to my momma for making the reservation and to the US of A for consistent, high-speed internet)!!!  Come mid-December I will be stuffing my face with deep-fried Turkey (Shawn and Val…get the deep fryer ready please) and of course, a huge bowl of queso.

And of course, A HAPPY FATHERS DAY to my wonderful daddy.  I love and miss you!!!

Sincerely,

Kimmie

I haven’t written in a while…that’s because there’s not a whole lot to report from my end. I’m still working on the health education program. I’ve posted a couple of the pictures that I’m using in my presentations (thanks to some educational materials from UNICEF). As my target audience is largely illiterate, all information has to be conveyed verbally and pictorially. And as they say…

 

A picture is often worth a thousand words. This way no one will be confused on the topic at hand. DIARRHEA! But, all joking aside…a few days of bad diarrhea can kill an infant. So, it’s something that has to be discussed. Pictures like this hopefully will help me to get my point across. Here are some other pictures about malaria and not carrying too much on your head when you’re expecting:

Let’s see…what else. There is a new group of Peace Corps Volunteers arriving this month. So I will no longer be a “new-bie”. Amazing that there will be 60 new volunteers going through the exact same oh-my-GOD-what-did-I-get-myself-into-I’d-rather-die-than-ride-a-tro-tro emotions that I went through only eight months ago!

I’ve been asked to do a presentation on HIV pathology for the new group, so I’ll be headed south, back to my old stomping grounds (Kukurantumi!) in July. And, next week, I’ll be hosting a new volunteer for a few days. Each new volunteer-in-training goes on what is called a “Vision Quest” where he/she stays with a volunteer to get the “real-life” idea of what a volunteer does everyday. Should be interesting. She’ll be here for my first-ever Junior High Health Education class, where I introduce Germ Theory to a bunch of teenagers. She’ll also be here for an “antenatal” day at the clinic where she can see exactly how many of the women in my village are with child (believe me, there are plenty.).

Also, I am back on the running-wagon after a painful five weeks off. First I pulled my hamstring by merely stretching it after an hour-long run in sweltering heat. Then, in an attempt to run with the injured hamstring, I pulled a groin muscle (yes…I know I should know better than to try to run with an injury…I’ve learned my lesson). So I just sucked it up and didn’t run, do yoga, or any other real strenuous activity (besides living in the bush) for four long weeks. Then, as I had my return to the running wagon all planned, I got sick, I mean really sick, for the first time since I’ve been in Africa. Yes…I’ve had a few self-limiting cases of very unpleasant gastroenteritis, but this time I was stricken with what I think was bronchitis. Fever, body aches, nasty cough, etc. (thankfully my GI system was unaffected). Thankfully, again, the Peace Corps medical staffers were on the ball and took good care of me, prescribing a very effective little course of Azithromycin. And in a matter of days I was back to normal…actually, I think I was better than normal because when you are sick and then better again, you are just sooo grateful for being healthy. And being grateful makes for a happier constitution, I think.

But let me just say…it is far more better (for lack of a better term) to be sick in the US of A than to be sick in rural West Africa. It was rough there for a few days. But, as mentioned above, I’m feeling particularly energized and am back on the running wagon…have even done a long run since being down and out with the bronchitis (the Accra marathon is less than four months away! Ship of Fools…None of you have signed up yet. You’ll run back to back Saturday-Sunday marathons but won’t hop the pond to run one in Africa?! C’mon!). I am also enjoying the new, GREEN landscape that surrounds me thanks to the rains that are coming a few times a week. I’ve enclosed a picture. Beautiful!

That’s about all for now, folks. I am doing well, feeling good, and am well nourished with American goodies thanks to the care packages that keep on rolling in (I’ve had M&Ms almost every night for months!). That being said, I’ve also devised three or four staple recipes that sustain me throughout the week. They all contain ginger and ground nut paste (Ghanaian for peanut butter…without all the preservatives…quite tasty!) with different variations of vegetables and pasta. I would still give up my first born for a bowl of queso, but I’ve grown accustomed to what food is available here, and am even spoiled by the delicious freshness of the pineapples, bananas, avocados, beans, etc. that are all grown here (fresher, I dare say, than even Whole Paycheck).

So I am strangely feeling very at home here. It’s a little bizarre to me that I no longer see the novelty in things like brushing my teeth outside (which at night gives a great opportunity for star-gazing!). Same goes for cooking, bathing, and relief of bowel and bladder. All these activities call for at least some time outside (thankfully my latrine and bath house are enclosed). The other day my lorry to Zoggu broke down and all of us passengers got out of the car, laid down on the grass, and took naps for a few hours while we waited for the driver to fix the car. Six months ago I would have panicked. Now? Not scary at all. I’m just happy it wasn’t raining. I think about my friends and family daily which always brings a big smile to my face and a happy feeling in my heart. Then I think about what an interesting experience I’m having here and that makes me happy too. Then I think about a big plate of cheese enchiladas with sour cream and chips and queso and pico de gayo and guacamole with a frozen margarita and I want to cry. But…I suppose Maudie’s will still be in business next time I’m home.

Oh…and I figured out how to add decorations to pictures that I take with my webcam. I thought this border made this picture particularly African-ish. It’s me in my room working on this blog entry! The pictures in the background are pictures of YOU!

I hope you all are doing well!

Miss you! -Kimmie

Dear friends and family,

Last time I wrote I described to you Juakin, a little boy that was grossly malnourished. Here’s a photo of him prior to receiving nutrition therapy at the regional nutrition center Karaga, Ghana.

This is Juakin today!

With the help of some intensive nutrition therapy, Juakin almost doubled his weight in only five weeks. He checked in at 4.8 kilograms and now weighs over 7 kilograms. Finally he and his twin sister truly look like they could be twins. Also, he’s now able to pull himself up and stand while holding on to something!! A big milestone for him. Prior to going to the nutrition center he was way behind in his gross motor skills simply because he didn’t have the muscles necessary to support himself. Hopefully he will continue on to be a happy, healthy, fat little boy. I’m just thrilled with his progress.

As for my progress? Well…I’m learning the difficult lesson that it is difficult to get projects rolling in rural Africa. I’ve been here over six months now. I’ve learned from other expats that six months is sort of the magic timeframe when one finally figures out how to live here. So…the culture shock has worn off, thereby giving way to frustrations with regard to my role as a health volunteer. While I am certainly aware of where the health deficits lie here in Zoggu, it is difficult to know where and how to start. My problems lie basically in the fact that (a) I don’t speak Dagbani (at least not well enough to function independently) and (b) there is a general lack of resources where I am. I swear if I had a team of healthcare professionals at my disposal and a full time, female Dagbani translator then I’d be the most effective Peace Corps Volunteer ever! Alas, I have none of the above.

So while I am still hopeful that I can do some good here in my new(ish) home, the realities of my limitations are becoming more and more evident. It’s incredibly frustrating to know what needs to be done yet not know how, exactly, to do it. I sometimes wish I could just parade down Zoggu Main Street (read nameless dirt road…I am truly living, as Bono puts it, “where the streets have no name”) and toss protein bars from the window of an air conditioned vehicle. But…one of my goals is to create something that is sustainable because I won’t be living in Zoggu forever. And a mass influx of protein bars is not sustainable.

So…that’s what’s going on in my neck of the woods. I am in Tamale today (doing my taxes! Fun!!) and have a meeting tomorrow with an NGO that does some work in Zoggu. I am also working with one of the teachers at the Junior Secondary School in Zoggu to establish a health education program for the students there. My ultimate goal is to target women of child-bearing age, but the kinks there lie in the fact that (a) most, if not all, of the women of child-bearing age in Zoggu don’t speak English and (b) it is hard to gather all of them in one place at one time to do any sort of formal teaching as they are busy working themselves to the bone. So…as things stand now…any health education that I am able to provide is piecemeal. But…I have two years. So we’ll see how things go. I have my fingers crossed.

In other news…a few nights ago, when I went to fetch the bucket by which I bathe out of my outdoor bath house, I was surprised to find a black snake hiding in the corner. Kimmie in the States would have shrieked and ran far, far away from the snake. Kimmie in Ghana (aka Wunpini) grabbed a big stick and killed the snake. And the scary thing is is that I wasn’t even that scared. I just reasoned that I could either let the snake go and wonder all night if it was going to make its way into bed with me or send the snake to snake heaven. I chose snake heaven (sorry, Mr. Snake). And all this was done by the light of my head lamp, as this took place at night during lights out. Yes, friends, it has come to that. I am truly that grizzly now. Initially I would say with pride, “Kimmie…you’ve come a long way. You can go three whole days without washing your hair.” Now it’s “Wumpini. Snake. Kill.” See? The six months makes a huge difference. Who knows what’s next.

Also, for your viewing pleasure, I added a new album under the web album tag. It includes a picture of the dead snake. And one of me with a really unattractive heat rash on my face. Neither are too graphic.

Also, official marathon training for the Accra marathon has begun. (It’s September 27th . SOF…Any of you crazy enough to register?!). I can run for about two hours (with absolutely zero gauge on my distance) but I pulled a hamstring yesterday so am having to take this week off.

Really…I have nothing else to report. I try to think of things to write about and I’m like “Heat? Nope…covered that. Starving children? Nope….been done. Poverty? I think I wrote about that a long time ago.” So I hope I’m not boring you.

Thanks to all of you for the letters, cookies (KALLIE!!! Home-made!!!), care packages, etc. They are all truly appreciated and make meal time here much, MUCH more enjoyable. Please know that overall I am doing well, feeling healthy (minus the pulled hamstring), and am thankful for all of my blessings. I hope you are all doing well too!

Sincerely, Kimmie

Things get real in Zoggu

 

Since I last posted a blog entry, things have gotten scarily real here in Zoggu.  Let me tell you the short story of a baby boy named Yakim (pronounced Yah-keem).

 

Yakim is 15 months old and has a twin sister.  He is the youngest of several children and lives in one of the nicer houses in the village (meaning cement walls, zinc roof).  His house is on the main “road” (meaning sandy dirt path about 15 feet across), so I pass by his house every time I travel to and from Zoggu.

 

Yakim had been sick with diarrhea for much of the month of January and part of February.  Sometime in February he visited the clinic and received medicine for his diarrhea from the midwife that runs the clinic.  On a separate occasion his mother brought him to the clinic for a baby weighing day.  He was found to be profoundly underweight.  However, on that particular visit, the diarrhea had abated, and baby Yakim was able to eat small amounts of food.  So, no intervention was offered except to encourage his mother, Meri (pronounced Mary), to encourage him to eat. 

 

Earlier this week I returned from a trip to Daboya (dah BOY ah) where I attended a Peace Corps meeting.  Thankfully, baby Yakim’s house is on the main road, so my lorry passed by his house, as usual, on the way to my house.  Thankfully baby Yakim was outside sitting on the lap of a male relative.  I got just a quick glance at him as the lorry was passing by, but I could see that he was even skinnier than he’d been last I saw him at the clinic.

 

So, I go home, drop my bags off, and go back to Yakim’s house to see if he’d been sick again.  When I arrived at the house I was absolutely shocked at the condition of baby Yakim. 

 

I’d never seen anything like it.  Maybe something akin to his condition I’d seen on a Worldvision commercial late at night.  But to see something like this, live in person, was shocking.  I mean SHOCKING.  Terrifying.  As a nurse I feel that I can hold my own when it comes to blood and guts, suffering, etc., etc.  But this was different.  Here, in front of me, was a helpless child about to starve to death.  Literally.  His head took up about ½ of the surface area of his body.  His body was that tiny.  I could see his little ribs poking out of the skin on his back.  Skin sagged from his legs like something you’d see on an adult who had lost extreme amounts of weight.   And the diameters of his limbs were about the same as that of a roll of quarters.

 

According to Yakim’s mother, he had just stopped eating.  He would barely breast feed (most babies here continue to take breast milk as a supplement food until at least age two).  He would barely eat any other food.  He would barely drink water.  His twin sister, Zakia (zack EYE uh) however, is fat, healthy.  Yakim, at 15 months of age and in his condition, was unable to stand he was so weak.  He could sit up but barely.  Kids his age are usually walking with no problem.  His twin sister is walking with no problem.

 

Yakim’s mother and the other adults that live in the house knew he was in trouble but felt helpless.  They had been to the clinic twice with Yakim and were trying in earnest to follow the instructions they received there (just encourage him to eat), but, obviously, more needed to be done. 

 

I instructed Yakim’s mom to bring him to the clinic first thing in the morning.  I left the house feeling completely helpless and panicked.

 

So, the next day I go to the clinic and, rather than wait for Yakim and Meri to show up there, I decide to take the community health nurse with me to Yakim’s house.  (I hate waiting…my patience has definitely developed since coming to Ghana).

 

We arrive to the house and see Yakim, who looks even tinier (if that’s possible).  The community health nurse agrees with me that something needs to be done, and fast.  And she asks me, “So, what are you going to do?”  SHE asks ME.  A foreigner who doesn’t speak the language, isn’t licensed to practice nursing in this country, and can barely get around (because you have to wait forever to get anywhere) what I am going to do about this baby.  In my head something along the lines of this was going on:  “I don’t freaking know what to do!!  I need help!  I need a hospital!  I need doctors to tell me what to do!  Pediatricians!  Pediatric nurses!  I need AMERICA!  I need high protein foods and NG tubes and IVs and experts on how to fix severely malnourished kids!  How the *%$# am I supposed to know what to do!  I don’t have a license to practice here!  I don’t even live here, really!!  I’m just a volunteer!!”  Back in the States I could enter a hospital room and say with a certain amount of confidence, “My name is Kimmie…I’m going to be taking care of you today,” and mean it.  Here?  Well…the resources that I enjoyed at home are non-existent.  The environment is completely foreign.  It’s difficult to know what to do, how to help, where to start.

 

So we go back to the clinic and I tell the midwife about poor little Yakim and how freaked out I am about his condition.  She suggests telling his mom to send him either to the Tamale Hospital or the Nutrition Center in Karaga (CARE uh guh, a town about three hours from Zoggu…it is the location of a fabulous facility that treats severe malnutrition in children).  And she tells me that all I/we can do is suggest to Yakim’s family what needs to be done to help him, but whether or the advice is heeded is not our business.  I got the overwhelming sense of, “Kimmie, if you worried about every starving kid in Africa and whether or not he/she received the care he/she needed to live…well, then…you’d be up a river.  There’s not enough worrying in the world to cover that problem.” 

 

Basically, I felt like no one was accountable for this kid.  And he’s a KID!  A BABY!  Helpless!  And he’s starving!  STARVING!

 

Yakim’s mother wanted to take care of him, but just didn’t know what to do, where to go, etc., etc.  And let’s face it…she wouldn’t be the first (or the last) to lose a child.  Unfortunately, it’s the norm here. 

 

My colleagues at the clinic seemed concerned, but all they could tell me was, “You’re right, he needs to go somewhere or he will not survive.”  So, the midwife and I agree that the nutrition center at Karaga is a better place for Yakim.  He is still alert, awake, able to sit up…so medical attention is not what this kid needs at this moment.  What he needs is FOOD.  Besides, I’ve known of several instances where I heard the midwife specifically say to someone “You/He/She needs to go to the Tamale hospital,” and that person chose not to go but rather to wait it out in the bush.  Sometimes he/she fared okay, other times not.

 

So…by the grace of God, Karaga, the city with the nutrition center, is also the site of two Peace Corps Volunteers, a married couple from my training group, Kim and Cam.  So I call Kim to find out what steps need to be taken to get a baby set up at the Karaga nutrition center (locally referred to as “Coco Duu”).  She says that the mother and baby just need to show up.  The cost is three cedis (about three bucks) per week and that includes food, water, and a place to sleep.

 

So, I grab a nursing student from the clinic (to serve as a translator) and head back to Yakim’s house.  We arrive and I basically tell the mom (through the nursing student), “Look…Yakim needs help.  There is a nutrition center in Karaga that may be able to help him.  If he does not get help then I don’t know what will happen to him.”  Thankfully I have my sunglasses on because at this point I am so freaked out and frustrated I am about to burst into tears.

 

She says (through the translating nursing student) that, yes, she knows he needs help, but that she doesn’t know if she can afford the three cedis a week. 

 

So, now, I’m getting freaked out that she won’t do anything. 

 

I then tell her, “Okay…if you want me to go with you to Karaga, I will.”  She says okay.  I am relieved but skeptical.  Traveling anywhere in Ghana is not an easy undertaking.  Especially if you are poor, live in a village, and have kids with you.

 

So, I tell her that I will meet her in Tamale the next morning at 11am at the Karaga bus stop.  She says that she has family she can stay with in Tamale tonight so that she will be sure to be there in the morning.  It’s impossible to get to Tamale from Zoggu…a distance of about 50 miles…before noon on any given day by lorry. You have to have either a moto or a bike.

 

So I tell her, “Good.  Get to Tamale TONIGHT so you can make it to the Karaga station by 11am.”  I tell her I will ride my bike out of Zoggu in the morning and meet here at the station at 11am.

 

So…the next morning, I get to the Tamale as planned and am at the Karaga station by 11am (the bus leaves at 1pm).

 

Meri doesn’t show up.  I’m completely deflated.  She didn’t listen.  She doesn’t understand how grave baby Yakim’s condition is.    

 

I decide to head to Karaga anyway to at least see the nutrition center and visit with Kim and Cam, my Peace Corps friends.

 

So, I get to Karaga and Kim and I head to the nutrition center.  We run into one of Kim’s Ghanaian friends on the way, and Kim introduces me, “This is Wunpini.  She is from Zoggu.”  Her friend says, “Oh…there is a new family at Coco Duu [the nutrition center] from Zoggu.  They arrived on the first bus this morning.” 

 

Oh, joy of joys!!!  Yakim made it!  He’s here!!!  He has a chance!!!  Thank you, GOD!!

 

So…I go to the center and see Meri sitting on a pallet on the floor next to Yakim who is asleep.  They misunderstood my instructions and thought that I would meet them in Karaga at 11am.  But, whatever…they’re here now.

 

Yakim weighed in at 4.8 kilos (about 10.5 lbs)…the average weight of a three month old.  Remember…he’s ONE YEAR and three months.  He has a long row to hoe, but at least now he is with experts who are experienced in the treatment of malnourished children.  Many children of his size are at the center for several months before they are strong enough to go home.  But “Coco Duu” is a wonderful place…not only do they provide comprehensive nutrition for mother and baby, the center also offers instruction and classes on what foods to buy, how to cook, and it’s all done with locally available foods.  So, when Meri comes home to Zoggu, I’m hoping that she will be able to share her new knowledge with the other mothers in Zoggu. 

 

In the meantime, please keep Meri and Yakim in your prayers. 

 

Now…for the hard stuff.  

 

What if I hadn’t been on that lorry and hadn’t seen baby Yakim that day?  What would have happened?  Would someone else have convinced his mom that he needed to go somewhere to get help?  Or would he just have continued to eat smaller and smaller amounts of food until one morning he didn’t wake up?  Harsh, I know.  But, people, this happens!  It HAPPENS!!!  ALL THE TIME!  I had seen Yakim at the clinic just weeks prior.  I knew he was in trouble.  But…I figured that someone else would do something.  Perhaps his mother would make sure that he wouldn’t lose any more weight.  Or that the other clinic staff would follow up.  But the problem is is that no one held themselves accountable for the fate of this poor little boy who was unable to account for himself.

 

And what about all the other starving kids out there?  Believe it or not, there are many villages that are more, yes MORE, remote that Zoggu!  And I’m sure there are starving kids there too!  Kids!!  Babies!!  Who is responsible?  Sure, the parents are responsible, but they lack the resources and the education to get the help that their kids need!  Is it their fault that they were born in a remote African village, didn’t attend school, don’t possess the knowledge on what’s healthy/unhealthy, don’t have the resources of a clinic, hospital, or merely available sources of protein?  Who’s accountable for all that?! 

 

And the answer is…well…I have no clue.  But if I have to start claiming responsibility, then that’s fine.  I’m happy to do it.  It’s just so hard to get things done when resources are so scarce!  But we’re talking about the weakest of the weak here. Children.  Babies.  And they need help.  SO MUCH HELP.

 

Below is a link to a short video of Yakim on the day he arrived at Coco Duu. 

 http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uwiUNDyLbLzAEcV0AsuVxQ?authkey=Gv1sRgCNzk3aeqkueuCg&feat=directlink

 

This is real, people.  And it’s happening EVERYDAY.

 

Think about it.

 

-Kimmie