Solid Like a Rock

I walked into the room:
A solid, leathered and weathered Mexican gentleman sat on the seat and across him sat a slap-happy teen, topped off nicely with his beanie. ‘What a contrast,’ I thought. He was only here for vaccines and really this should have been a quick visit.

Once the father started wagging his finger and asking me to relay his message ‘via the doctor’s mouth’ to his son, I was in for a longer visit. I can’t put his words in quotes as my Spanish translation is not worthy, but it went something like, tell him that he has to work harder and get better grades in school. This man was a stone cold killer, his body locked up and not a single wrinkle unhinged.

Bypassing any need to isolate the kid from his father, I asked him straight up: “what’s going on in school?” He willingly admitted that his grades are no good, he’s lazy and doesn’t do his homework. I don’t believe that children are lazy, rather they are unmotivated because they have problems learning or something is not right in their life. He did poorly the last two years, but was doing well prior to that. So what changed? This kid doesn’t have a learning disorder or ADD, etc.

The father’s finger wagged again, complaining about his endless hours on the computer into the wee hours of the night. “Remove the computer after hours, cut the cable. This is still in your hands.” I firmly offered advise. And…then the father piggy-backed off my words with a stern look and, yet another, finger wag. One has to wonder if these finger wags have magical powers because they offered up in the spoonfuls in my clinic.

Alas the visit came to an end, “problem solved,” aka ‘I feel like I said enough to leave the room and something will change.’ Nothing will change. It breaks my heart to watch kids lose their parents right in front of their own eyes, more magic.

I quickly called them back in and realized for the first time as I was saying it: children are smart and will out do us, especially with technology, in every way. We cannot control the world they are exposed to, but, and a big but, we can keep them close to us. We can let them know we are here for them and they can bring their worries and concerns home to us. The finger magic wagging and judging has to stop, cuz it’s not really magic and it doesn’t really work. If everyone only realized that in judging ourselves harshly we judge others, especially our kids, harshly. I just figured that out this week.

I watch the stone-faced killer. He was stone-faced, not a wrinkle budged, not a tweak of the lips. I also saw his unscarred, hopeful and carefree son, crane his neck to see his father’s response to what I had said; more so, I saw him crane his neck to catch his glance. He stared, stone-faced, at me. “When was the last time you said ‘I love you’ or gave him a hug?” I asked him in Spanish to which he replied, “Y dalo chichi tambien?” (and give him the breast too?). Now I was the stone-faced killer, breaking through that hardened rock ain’t easy. Just because he was deprived as a child, as his father didn’t know how to demonstrate that love, his son, too, shouldn’t suffer.

I asked him to tell his son he loved him. His son was standing RIGHT in front of him. He over him to me and told me of course he loves his son. I told him to tell his son, the words barely came out.

I reminded him of what I witness walk through those doors everyday, Mexican and Central American immigrants who sweat blood and tears to cross that border to give their children a better life. Now they’re here but don’t know their own kids. Now they’re here and their kids are lost on the streets or lost in the dreamy eyes of their boyfriend or girlfriend who will, in a matter of months, become the parent of their child or lost in the temporary joy ride that is weed and a 40 until some cop pins them to the fence and tosses them in juvi, marking them delinquent for life.

“He is your everything. He is your life.” I pleaded with him. “Show him that.”

Then I asked him to give him a hug. It was the strangest thing: he kinda wrapped his upper arms around his shoulders but couldn’t swing those forearms in, they kinda sat in the air lost for their position in this “hug” that was now happening. The boy soaked every bit of that “almost a complete hug” up.

I looked up at the father, his eyes were red and a little tear welled up in that bottom eyelid. Like true magic, a hardened soul had come back to life and all cuz he dared to see his son standing in front of him. I hope he dares to feel again, though there’s pain, there’s this amazing amount of love that only a child, relentlessly, gives their parent.

Landing on My Own Two Feet...this time in LA

I have been back now, coming on two weeks. But everything seems a bit hazy.
"Go slow" is what Ed, the NGO head kept telling me. I didn't really understand at first. But am now coming to understand a bit more what he meant. In fact, I am realizing that I couldn't speed up a reentry to the US if I wanted to.

Being an achiever, as we all are, is a wonderful thing. It is what allows Haiti to recover, it is what allows rise of the poor, survival of the marginalized and, really, what makes our worlds go round. Blind achieving, however, can become empty and even painful at times. The drive to stay on that anticipated path we've imagined for ourselves can overshadow so much else in life: feeling a moment in its present state, accepting sadness, embracing blissful happiness and the relief of relinquishing complete control on every movement yet to come.

As I reenter my world in LA I feel hands free, perhaps like those mamas with the babies on their backs. I don't feel a loss of control, but I no longer feel the need to hold on tightly. Life now feels more like swimming, perhaps in a bit of murky water right now. But I know I won't sink, even further, I know good and bad lies in front of me and in many senses I just can't control it.

Despite the lack of control, nothing has changed...I never had more control to begin with. Only my perspective has changed.
I tolerate hard times and emotions.
I accept the ups and downs of life and move through them ("like leaves moving down a stream of water" a friend once told me).
I grant myself the patience to move at the pace I need to.
I remain flexible to adapt to what life may toss my way.

Lastly I swim forward, not fully understanding where I am supposed to go or what lies ahead, I just repeat to myself with each stroke: Progress is Happiness.

Signs of the "Ghanian" Times

My time in Ghana is unbelievably coming to a close.
As I believe that signs, TV, food and language reflect so much of a culture, I leave you all with some last interesting signs I've come across on my travels. Lastly, I thank you all that took the time out to follow along with me on this crazy, ridiculous, incredible ride, it was nice to know you were with me all along.

"Grory Be To God"
Obama visits Cape Coast, Ghana

"Coffee Shop and car rental"
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"Jesus is Alive Beauty Saloon"

My visit to Boti Waterfalls

Jesus is the inspiration for many an "enterprise."

The conference I attended in Kumasi, Ghana

"Weep not my child"

My favorite taxi sign: "still Do For Love"

The subtlety was striking.

I enter the madness of an Accra tro-tro station. I hear the crunch of tossed, empty, plastic water sachets as I walk, dragging my “travel” carry-on behind me. The suitcase tires, topples to it’s side, refusing to go further on the bumpy, unpaved station road. I pick her up and reluctantly carry her thinking: ‘did I really need that extra pair of shoes?’

“Can you please show me which tro-tro to take to Kokrobite?” I ask some man standing confidently, looking like he was just supposed to be there. He turns and looks at me. I simplify my question, tossing out all the frivolous verbage: “Please tro-tro to Kokrobite?”

“Take olpllaaschdss” is what I hear him say.
“Where to? Which tro-tro?” I ask again.

His hand points over there. I look up and see three big ratty tatty vehicles, resembling the offspring if a bus and mini-van mated. One is pink, almost full and ready to go. One is an empty space with a queue snaking to infinity. One has people packing themselves in, 6 trying to fit through that van door at the same time; “last one left is a rotten egg.”

We walk over and I try to convince him the pink one is it: “This one?”
“Olbraarreeerr” he responds.
And we repeat our lines of miscommunication.
Please, please don’t let it be the snake line one.
Eventually we narrow it down. It’s the snake line one.

A tro-tro pulls up into the empty space and the snake line comes alive, everyone still respecting the line, however simultaneously shoving to board. Since I am now boarding this tro-tro to “oldbrrararrreeerr,” I am on my toes without a clue where to go. My new best-friend, who I don’t understand, quickly tries to sweep me into the front seat. All I need to do is to piss off all the Ghanaians who have been waiting patiently in the snake queue; to become the asshole obruni. I drag my suitcase with me and we go to the back of the line. My new best friend instructs a young man standing in line in front of me to become my new, new best friend and relinquishes himself of his duty as my temporary caretaker.

The truth is that I don’t need to be taken care of. I just really needed to know which tro-tro to take. Now me and my new, new best friend stand awkwardly in line together.

“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Always tell them you are from India.” I hear my Ghanaian friend’s words of advise echo in my head. “Whenever Africans hear America they think money.”
“I’m from India,” I state matter of factly in my totally California drawl.

The conversation closes as I stare extremely interested in the chaos of the tro-tro station in front of me. Five minutes passes.

“But…your English, it’s different…” he hesitates.
Damnit, I’ve been caught. Why do I listen to bad advise?
“Oh well, I lived in India. Now I live in the US,” trying to breathe some confidence into my BS.

My gaze returns, extremely interested, to the chaos of the tro-tro station. I look atop the heads of passing vendors: “pure water,” “mentos & handkerchiefs,” “qtips,” “cotton-balls,” “chocolate.” With each one that passes I wonder if I need some. But I’ve never used a handkerchief before, why start now? Having to lug whatever you buy is a great deterrent to buying crap just cause it’s there, it’s cheap and you’re bored.

Alas, the tro-tro to “Old Barrier” (I clarified with my new, new best friend) pulls up, the snake line comes to life. I wrestle my bag to the back of the van and take a seat, by default, next to my new, new best friend.

“How long have you been in Ghana? Are you a tourist in Ghana?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m a tourist.” I say.
I suppose one lie, beseeches another.
“Did you just come to Accra from America?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, this is your first time in Africa?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you know about the buses and tro-tros so well?”
“I read it in my book and my friends told me.”

Am I on a bad date? It sure feels like one.
‘Mona, be patient,’ I tell myself. ‘He’s nice. ‘

“Wow, how is America?” he continues.
“It’s nice.” I respond.

My American norms of privacy are non-existent here. I am on their soil not mine. Yet the man to the other side of me chuckling signals that his incessant questioning is too much. Finally I say: “Please, I am going to listen to my music for some time.” With a guilty conscience, I breathe a big sigh of relief. After three months of being everyone’s point of fascination in the village I am ready to re-embrace my anonymity.

Acceptance. Tolerance. Flexibility. Patience.

I came to Ghana with these four words in mind. I’ve repeated them like a chant since. As I said earlier my goals are two fold, for others and for myself. As my time here dwindles I find myself thinking: ‘What have I truly gained from this experience?’ However, each time I come to the same conclusion: I won’t truly know until I leave here.

When I think of the four words I think I can say that each has increased, some more than others.

I think of the sick 4 month old we saw in October. I pleaded the family to go immediately to the hospital one hour away. One week later we found out they never went. We, as a team, visited the family at home three times over the last month. I thought about taking medicines to the home and giving it to the family. But I decided otherwise. Dr. Rettig’s words echo: “These families know their child is sick. If they wanted to they would have come in earlier, but they chose not to. There are so many sick children and limited resources, we must focus our resources on those with the families invested in caring for them.” I have accepted my limitations in helping this child. Everyday I pass by the mother’s food stall and greet her. I can only hope she brings her child to the clinic, but there is nothing I can do by force.


I also accepted that I am “fat” here and that, may actually be a compliment. Within my first week of arriving an older woman slapped me on the ass and said: “I like you. You are fat. I consider you to be like my youngest daughter.” I still don’t understand how to put those three sentences together, but I like to think they mean something positive.

“Obruni coco mache” (white red person) is yelled, no, sung by children near and far everytime I pass through the village to go somewhere. I have become tolerant of my label and that I in someone else’s eyes am seen as “the white person.” On most days I not only tolerate but welcome 7 children yelling in chorus “obruni coco mache,”
“Obruni. Obruni. Obruni. Obruni. How are you?,”
“Obruni coco. Obruniobruniobruniobruni Where are you going?”
I think of myself as the Miley Sirus or Mickey Mouse of Buamadumase. I too would be excited every time Micky Mouse walked through my neighborhood if I was four years old.

I am sure that I have become flexible figuratively and literally, as I have been doing yoga a couple times a week. But I certainly am not as bendy as I used to be (again figuratively and literally). Somethings feel like they are pushing my limits until that thing is taken away or, in some cases, added on. The water tank seemed far away until the rainy season ended and now I have to go further away to the pump to fetch my water. I miss the tank full of water. On the other hand, I thought sitting four in the back seat and three in the front of a taxi was a lot. But the other day, while we were waiting for the taxi to fill up, I heard the “baa” of a sheep. Sheep are as common as people in the village, but this one seemed awfully close. I looked, but to no avail could I find her. Finally the car filled and we rolled out, the “baa” followed us. Alas, I realized she was with us all along…sitting in the trunk.

As for patience, I have two words: slow internet.

Rising and Setting With the Sun

Off the Accra to Kumasi road begins a paved road towards Boumadumasi. The pavement is deceiving; for once you reach the top of the first bend a dirt road awaits you. The taxi ride with four people in the back seat always gives my insides a good shaking as we hit the potholes and water puddles on our ride to Bouma. In fact, my body has begun to resist, opting rather to take the two-mile walk on foot. The walk is a peaceful one: Plantain trees and corn crop tower far above me, occasionally making way for the scenic landscape in the distance.

Walking into town at 7am makes me feel late and lazy. Children skip energetically in their bright yellow uniforms. Storeowners sweep vigorously, sending the dust back to the road it came from. Vats of water are carried atop heads to their respective homes, vegetables are neatly arranged into piles for selling and oil is heated to start frying yams. If I didn’t know better I would think it was the middle of the day.

I am now more synchronized with the village; I rise and set with the sun. In a place where electricity comes and goes at its leisure and water is accessible for all at a central pump, the sun is more than your friend; it is your protector, caretaker and provider. Now my eyes open at 6am and start to droop around 7pm.

As I hit the two-month mark in rural Ghana, I realize and have come to respect my own limitations. Reluctantly I admit that I am an American, raised in a comfortable environment with all amenities available at my fingertips. Never have I had to fetch the water I use to wash my body, the dishes and my clothes. For each drop fetched I sweat a couple more. A sink is so commonplace that I never once stopped to appreciate it’s worth. To think, all these years I just stacked my dirty dishes in there, spit my toothpaste out in there, rest my soap conveniently next to the handle. I can’t do that now and I miss the sink. And, of course: electricity. Thank you Benjamin Franklin if it was, in fact, you who discovered it flying a kite. To have light at night, a computer to type on, a phone to call family to has become invaluable to me. Once again, I never anticipated a life without these things.


From these reflections begs the question as to why I’ve come here. Why I have opted for a circumstance so extremely different, no difficult, compared to mine. My thoughts are two fold: one for myself and one for others.

I don’t care what explanation someone gives for volunteering, there is always a selfish component. It is there so I think it is worth acknowledging. In this case my selfish gains are perspective on the world greater than myself and appreciation for so much I take for granted in day-to-day life. Beyond these things, is hearty nourishment for my soul from being surrounded by such enriching company. In simplicity lies truth, there isn’t enough “stuff” to hide behind or distract one’s self with. You see real people, talk a real talk and are forced to acknowledge and accept the environment around you. I do spend time with the stray cat, countless chickens and corn crop everyday…brushing my teeth.

The second part is for the work. The education we go through to become a doctor compared to how we are utilized (at least as Pediatrician’s in the US) are so incongruent. It is hard to justify that giving someone cough syrup or convincing a parent a child doesn’t need antibiotics is the richest career I can have. Coming to rural Ghana has reignited this drive to figure out exactly how a snake bite is treated or what not to miss when treating Malaria. Additionally it pushes me to expand my medical knowledge for a greater purpose: education, education, education. Educating communities on having healthier children, on decreasing Malaria and controlling their hypertension seems to have a much larger and satisfying impact than treating sniffles (unless, of course it is Syphillis…I’m a nerd, I know). Not to mention that the clinic closes at 3pm (a perfect working day finish time).

As the three remaining hours of sunlight last, we wrap up our daily duties. Knowing I have no where to go, no one to report to or any TV shows to watch, I accept my current reality and prepare to shut down not too long after the sun sets.

Tro Tro Queen

Flies and I have become friends. We shit in the outhouse then walk to clinic together every morning. Initially their incessant buzzing in my ear had me waving my hands around like a mad woman. But their persistence wore me thin and I have just come to accept them as a constant companion on certain pathways and in certain parts of the home.

Tro-tros and I have also become good friends. Tro-tros are the (at least my) staple form of transport between towns in central Ghana. They are mini-vans that putt down the main road from Accra to Kumasi picking up and dropping off passengers en route.

“Kumasi. Kumasi. Kumasi. Kumasi. Kumasi. Kumasi.” You’ll hear the mate hang out the van door and shout. It is just impossible to miss your ride.

My favorite part: the price is just right. Average cost: 70 pesawas = $0.50. You don’t need to know me well to understand how happy that makes me. But I have other favorite parts. The mate is always a point of intrigue. Much like the way you stare at your teacher’s shoes, blouse and twitches in her face while watching her all day long, I watch the mate.

Each tro-tro has a driver and a mate to accompany him. The mate does the shouting, seating and collecting money. The driver and the mate are a dynamic duo: young men spinning their wheels, cruising the main road and making a dime in the process. They communicate without ever talking. A bang on the side of the door means stop, another bang means go.

The tro-tro extends beyond the mate and driver though. Each country and culture has its idiosyncrasies , this is one of them. Everyone moves with a quiet understanding and this system that looks haphazard and crowded actually is hardly at all. A good 12-14 of us pile into the car, you fill the back most seat first. Time to time we stop at some random roadside, from a little corner emerges a town you may have passed by a hundred times and never noticed. Someone in the back second road will deboard. Then we all will reshuffle ourselves to fill the empty spot and leave room up front for the next passenger.

Everyone on board works on the honor system. You just pay the mate and he never bugs you again. When in the back row, you just tap the passenger in front of you on the shoulder and they pass your money up to the mate and your change passes back down the same chain of people. There really is very little haggling or doubt in the whole process.

When stepping on board the passenger next to you often greats you: “Ete Sen?” (how are you) or a “Good Afternoon” in the crisp Ghanian English accent.

Bring your suitcase, bring your wood, bring your chickens, it is all welcome on board here.

Another idiosyncrony I have come to appreciate and admire really is the efficient use of the head. It is essentially a third hand that I never knew about, but somehow every Ghanian does. When I traveled to India in the past I would, time to time, see a woman carry a ceramic dish on her head. But in Ghana it is a different story all together. You name it, it can be carried on your head. A plastic bag with groceries, a couple books, a suitcase, a board holding sunglasses ready to sell, a bucket holding 20 buckets ready to sell, a sewing machine, a crate of chickens! Now if a few did that, then I would, like with a magician, be convinced that it is a talent that only a few are skilled enough or committed enough to accomplish. However, when I see 4 year olds to 94 year olds all doing the same task, turning their head to talk to each other, grabbing their baby to pick them up, reaching down to scratch their leg without flinching or hesitating about the stuff on their head, I wonder why the rest of us missed the boat on this.

So the other day it started to rain, I used that as my justification to walk around Kumasi with a bag on my head. At first I held it hesitantly on my head, using my right hand as my training wheel and eventually I was hands free. ‘Try and look normal Mona,’ I told myself. I am sure I looked like the Obruni (Gringo) trying to be an African. But now, more importantly, I can say I did it.

At the risk of making a overgeneralization, I feel like the tro-tro and head carrying system exemplify something I have noted in Ghana: a lot of common sense and efficiency. I have only been here going on one month now, so there is still a lot more to learn. But I don’t find myself fighting battles to do little things or having to talk to six different people to get a straight answer. Above all, I really feel a lot of genuine intrigue in who I am and concern for my safety. There is a certain level of peace I am able to obtain here that I was lacking back home. Escapism? Life minus LA traffic? Preoccupation with sweeping and washing and fetching water? Who knows, but all I can say is that I am enjoying my time out here.