Kate's Point of View

In Ghana, Wonder Boy and I went on a canopy walk in Kakum National Park. This was something I knew I wanted to do before we left and it was a big factor in why I switched from Lariam, which made me insanely dizzy, to a different anti-malaria drug. The pictures I had seen of the walk in my travel book just looked so awesome!

On our recent trip to Ghana, Wonder Boy and I confronted a few gastronomical issues.

1. Vegetarianism is not common so we had to work a little harder to avoid eating dead animals.
2. We took several bus trips when we started our trip with no knowledge of if or when there would be bathroom breaks. To work around this, we moderated how much water we drank. Given that the temperatures outside were about 100 degrees and we were sweating like fools, this may have not been the wisest of methods.
3. Locals don’t drink their own water, so we obviously didn’t either. What food was washed in or cooked with is questionable.

Overall, we did okay. Out luggage included a healthy supply Pepto Bismol, Imodium and a Ciprofloxacin, a medicine used to treat infections caused by bacteria. We managed to make use of all three things but weren‘t too uncomfortable. We always had a large bottle of water on us and avoided street vendors. We didn’t eat uncooked food like salads. We’re experienced travelers, so we were fine, right?

Ha!

On the last day of our trip, the day we were planning on going to the airport for a 11 ½ hour flight to DC followed by a flight to Chicago followed by a flight to Cincinnati, Wonder Boy woke up feeling like death. He was vomiting and … experiencing something we will refer to as dying, which is the euphemism we actively use in our household. The dying continued all morning. Finally we got him feeling okay enough that we went to the hospital to verify that he didn’t have malaria and that he would be okay to travel.

I am pretty certain that Wonder Boy didn’t enjoy that day. I fared much better: I read nearly an entire book and got to learn about the Ghana medical system.

At the hospital we entered a very crowded emergency room (or general waiting room? Not sure.) and Wonder Boy got a seat while I checked him in. I filled out some paperwork that never asked what he was experiencing. So much for triage! Wonder Boy got his very own healthcare card but the name on it was wrong. He was christened Jash.

So Jash and I sat in some chairs next to a very helpful woman and her son who assured us that we were in the right spot and doing the right thing by waiting for our name to be called. And so we waited (and read). And waited (and read). For two hours. After two hours we were put into queue for a room. And then we waited a while more before entering a room with a doctor, nurse and assistant.

The doctor sat behind a desk and just asked questions and took notes. But he was very nice and seemed to know what he was doing. He wrote orders for some lab tests and sent Jash and I to the lab.

At the lab, just a seating area around the corner, we waited (read) some more until Jash was called up. He gave some blood and an unmentionable sample. Then we waited (read) some more until the results were in. With results in hand we went back to the doctor’s office so Jash could get back in queue. (Jash tried to go straight in to see the doctor but was quickly called out on cutting so he took his seat in line.)

The doctor cleared Jash for travel and let us know he was malaria-free. He wrote some prescriptions and we walk to the pharmacy (a seating area around another corner) where we waited (and read) until Jash’s name was called. The unfortunate thing is that since Wonder Boy’s name is not Jash, he didn’t respond when his name was called. The pharmacy tech mentioned this so he said, “I just couldn’t hear my name over the [very loud and very bad] gospel music playing.” Right.

At the end of our day, we had spent 5 hours in the emergency room and spent the equivalent of $30 on care, lab tests and medicine. We (I) read almost an entire book and we learned a lot about medicine.

I also heard a doctor say, quite seriously, the word, “Poo poo.”

It’s with great restraint that I only mention that once, right?

Race is a funny thing. We are all aware of it. We all enjoy privileges or experience adversity because of the color of our skin, though we are often unaware of it. In the United States, people make great efforts to look as if they are unaware of race. Example: As I type this out, I’m considering each and every word very carefully to make sure I’m saying what I want but trying not to offend. On a recent vacation, Wonder Boy and I had a different experience.

When Wonder Boy and I landed in Ghana 2 weeks ago, I was very aware of the color of my skin, which was sickly pale compared to the ebony complexion of nearly everyone around me. (Two weeks in hundred degree weather helped make it at least a nice golden brown.) I wasn’t aware of it because of any discrimination. We were often the only white people we would see all day. Only white people on a bus. Only white people in a hotel or restauraunt. Only white people in a town. (Bigger towns were more diverse, but we were still clearly in the minority.) Perhaps because of our blatant other-ness, people seemed perfectly willing to approach us. And thank goodness because we needed their help to navigate through new towns. People were happy to show us where and how to get bus tickets, how to work our way through the emergency room waiting lines and how to find different places. Despite feeling a little condescended to on occasion, these interactions didn’t make me feel different or inferior. (Maybe a little inferior… mostly dumb.)

Enter the part of the population measuring under 3.5 feet. Everywhere we went kids gawked. In Accra, the capital of Ghana, tiny children looked at us with pure terror in their eyes, like “Who are those pale people and what are they going to do with me?!?” In most other towns, they was open staring at us. If we acknowledged the staring with a smile or wave, it produced shy giggles, smiles and delight in the children. In some towns, like Cape Coast, kids would go out of their way to brush past us in crowds. They would reach out and touch our arms or even water bottles. I was asked for many high fives. I felt like a celebrity.

Stares weren’t the only ways kids got our attention. We would be walking down the street and hear,”Obruni! Obruni!” That means white person. Sometimes they would just yell, “White person!” It was never meant offensively and we didn’t take it that way. It was mostly funny. I can’t imagine that playing out well here in the states. At all.

At one bus station in Tamale, Wonder Boy and I were sitting waiting to board as people around us were talking in the local Twi. Suddenly one of the bus station workers yelled our way, “Obruni! Here.” We hopped to attention and walked his way. He pointed to the bus, indicating we should load our luggage, which we did. Then he waved us back to our seat. Can you picture someone here yelling, “White person! Here!” And then gesturing to get you to do something?

That one incident at the bus station aside, I miss standing out the way I did. I’ve been home four days now and no kid has run up and touched my arm just for the novelty of it. I’m sure I’ve been stared at, but not in any flattering way. I’ve inspired no awe. It’s sort of sad really. And now I am back to pretending I don’t notice the color of people’s skin, when we all know I do. That we all do. And it’s absolutely okay.