Crazy American Arrives In Ghana

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan and her series of updates about her recent humanitarian aid trip to Ghana.  It appears here edited for content and length.

I met Barbara, the other RN from Boston Medical, at the ER on the 30^th of October to head off to Logan…at 10:30am. Our flight wasn't until 2:30pm but we had a huge autoclave that we needed to be rid of ASAP via check-in luggage and the awesome crew at EasCare ambulance arranged to drive us to Logan. So, once again, I got a ride in an ambulance without being sick. Nice. 

We checked in, had breakfast, and tooled around a bit. When I arrived at the gate to board the plane, the flight attendant said, "I'm sorry, but you will have to gate-check that bag. It's too large."

This bag had all--and I mean all--my personal belongings in it, including medication for the communities, all my scrubs, all my personal clothing…you get the picture. And we had a very quick layover in JFK before going to Accra, Ghana.

I replied, "No, it's not too big. I really can't gate check this. It will fit."

"Miss, it is a very full flight. Your bag will follow you to your final destination, but you need to check it."

Like hell it will. I'm going to Ghana, not Georgia.

I was already putting together a rough draft of a nasty letter I was going to publish to Delta when my bag did not make it to Ghana. But I figured, "whatever", and dropped the bag at the gate. I turned to Barbara as we were boarding the plane and said "that bag is so not making it to Ghana." She smiled, probably knowing I was right, and we buckled our seats and set off.

With a quick layover at JFK and an immediate boarding to Accra, we were off. I noticed a few people on the flight from the orientation the month prior, but I was tired and figured I had two weeks to get to know them and passed out for the majority of the flight. When the captain announced our landing in 20 minutes, I opened up the window and glanced outside for a peek.

Wow. Beautiful, rolling, green hills with tall trees all around. A light haze covered the area but it wasn't anything close to smog, it was probably the result of the humidity. At the bottom of the hills, small villages with dirt roads and small concrete houses no more than a single story high. Only the main roads were paved, most of the roads were dirt (as I would soon find out, with major potholes). No skyscrapers, nothing modern that stood out; but beautiful.

We got off the plane to a bright sun and it all started right there. The heat, the humidity, the "oh my God I need a shower" feeling. The airport was not air conditioned...anywhere. We went to immigration and met Emma, one of the other RN's, who is some kind of big shot in Accra (and with airport security conviently).  We breezed through customs, all medical supplies and medications in hand. At baggage claim the two large red suitcases I checked in arrived, all filled with medical supplies and extra scrubs. I saw a cute little Mickey Mouse bag go around and smiled. Then I saw it again, and again, and again. Curiously, I didn't see my gate-checked bag going around. Ever. 

I was shocked, obviously. Several of the team members told me, "let's just wait a bit, it might show up." I then told them I gate-checked it and they quickly got the point. Off to lost and found. I informed the desk that I would not have access to a car and they would need to deliver my bag to my address in Swedru. They took down the info and miscellaneous phone numbers and we were all off to Cape Coast for an orientation before starting work in Swedru.

We stopped briefly in the city center for money exchanging and lunch. If you thought taxi drivers were nuts in Boston and NYC, you haven't been to Ghana. I would love to see what the driving test is like over there, if they even have one. Overcrowded streets, congestion and confusion like you can't imagine and in the 8 inch space between cars, people trying to sell you random products and tourist stuff.  They knock on the window with baskets on the head filled with products, produce, water, candy, cell phone cards--everything. And they're stubborn little things too. They'll stare you down, hoping to break you and you'll buy something. They were not mean in any way, just extremely pushy. Then you get out of the car and it doubles. 

You'll be totally surprised to find this out but in Africa, we sort of stood out...just a tad. People were yelling "Abrunee! Sista! Here! Come here! Free to look at my things! Take a look!" 

Abrunee, I quickly learned, is what I was: a white person, not in a derogatory sense, just a title. Sista, meaning sister, is somewhat a term of affection. 

I had men coming up to me saying "Hello. How are you. What is your name?" 

They held their hands out to shake and I accepted. "Meghan, you?" I asked. 

They would give me their name, I would respond with a nice to meet you and they would then ask me to look at their products. 

"No, medassi" ( meaning, thank you). 

They would ask again. I would smile and say no. They would say OK, see you later. 

Right. Bye. 

Yet sure enough the people I gave my name to, I would see again.  As we headed back to the van that stood out amongst everything else, they would have a product for me...with my name on it. Dammit, tricky little bastards. 

"Here, I made this for you! Free, no charge, you are my new American friend. What is your email address.?" 

Oh hell no. So, just like I did in college, I gave them a fake email address, smiled and said goodbye. The suckers of the group wouldn't have a chance in hell and would cave in and buy. Me, not so much. I threw them off by asking if they sold underwear since I didn't have any.  And they would give me a funny look and walk away. 

Crazy American.

One Last Night In Dublin

After our afternoon stroll along the pier at Dun Laughaire, we journeyed back to the Temple Bar district for dinner and drinks followed by a pub crawl back to the hotel.  And since our last night in Dublin just wouldn't be complete without the city's trademark beverage, I had a shitload of Guinness. In keeping with tradition, we didn't leave the last pub until it shut down.  

The next morning we all went out to breakfast, including my grandmother's sister, Bernadette, and her husband, Jim, who were also staying at our hotel.  Ever since we arrived in country, Gary was itching for a traditional Irish breakfast, and Bernadette and Jim found a place that would deliver, Gallagher's Boxty House, a short walk from our hotel.  After breakfast, the plan was to head back to the hotel, pack up, load the two cars (Bernadette and Jim would be riding with Gary and Josh) and caravan to Cork, where Harry's brother and sister in law, John and Phil were anxiously awaiting our arrival.  

Dublin had not panned out the way I expected at all. Although I could have thrown a stone and hit Trinity College from our hotel, we never actually set foot on campus or even took any pictures from the outside.  We didn't see St. Stephen's Green or visit the President's house, as my brother did on his previous visit.  We took in the city with a local, as locals (drunks) might, which is the way I prefer to travel, as you know.  But as a tourist, I felt a little, well, like a failure.   I travelled all this way, there was one thing I was not going to miss for all the beer in Ireland: a visit to the Guinness Storehouse.  I could ramble on all about the tour, the factory, the brewing process, etc., but I have a feeling you'd much rather hear about a valuable lesson I learned and how I nearly shit my pants.

The Storehouse is about a mile away from Gallagher's.  It was just me, my brother, and Harry the Guard for the tour, so we decided to walk.  It was a brisk Monday morning, August 4th. The date is significant because August 4th, 2008 was a bank holiday in Ireland. This fact became a sobering reality about halfway into our walk, which seemed for me to last an eternity. About halfway through breakfast, I started feeling rumblings in my tummy. I figured it was too much strong coffee and not enough food so early in the morning (even though it was almost 10AM).  I finished my breakfast and gulped down some water, hoping to dilute what seemed like a chemistry experiment taking place in my gut.  Sometimes these sorts of experiments can be controlled. About a quarter mile into our hike, two things were clear to me: the experiment raged on and it was out of control.  I needed a bathroom, fast.  

There's an interesting relationship between discretion and desperation.  Let's say you suffer from claustrophobia.  You're at work and you get into an empty elevator.  At the next floor up the conveyance stops to pick up a few more passengers.  You were the first passenger on, so now you're in the back. It's starting to get a little crowded, you still have a long way to go, and you're beginning to feel the onset of a claustrophobic panic attack.  You stay cool, but you develop an exit strategy.  You discreetly work your way to the front of the box so you can pretend like the next floor is your stop and then you can walk the rest of the way up the spacious wide open staircase. 

At the next floor, a throng of people is waiting, and they squash you back.  Now you're at the rear of the coffin.  The doors close, you can barely breath. The smell of women's perfume is making you nauseous and the heat from all the bodies pressing against you is making you light-headed. Sweat beads up on your forehead.  The doors open at the next floor and desperation kicks in. "For the love of God let me out of this free falling orgy of death!" you shout as you nearly climb over people to get to the door.  

That's the relationship I explored on our trek to the 

Guinness Storehouse.

I discreetly asked my brother how much farther. "We're almost there," he replied.  We were walking along at a pretty good clip, but the volcano of roasted hops in my colon was starting to affect my ability to keep up.  On the edge of discretion, I threw this out: 

"I could use a bathroom if you see one".  

But that's right, this is a bank holiday.  We passed business after business with locked doors and dark windows.  Unbelievable.   I started fantasizing about every dingy port-a-potty I have ever cursed having to use.  How I longed for them now.  Despite the chilly morning air, sweat was building up on my forehead.  

The last time I can remember a gastro-intestinal emergency of these proportions I was in elementary school and ate some bad cheese pizza from the cafeteria at lunch.  I rode my bike home but didn't have my key, so I knocked on the neighbor's door, tried desperately to maintain discretion while practically running through her house and vaulting the fence separating our yards.  I broke into my house, ran to the bathroom, vomited along the way and then slipped on it trying to get to the toilet.  I ended up on my ass in pool of my own puke.  This was heading in that direction, only from the other end.  

Finally, a sign for the Storehouse.  I felt a little relieved then quickly realized this was NO TIME FOR RELIEF!  We crossed the street only to be met with another sign.  We still had a football field to go. "For the love of God!" I heard myself exclaim.  I expected to walk up to the gates of Guinness and see rivers of flowing beer that I could just dip my mug into and take a drink.  All I could see was a sign that said "toilets". Discretion was in the shitter.  

I broke into a walking sprint, leaving my brother and Harry at the entrance. I ran into the men's room, found a stall and fumbled to hastily lock the door.  Then I realized I was wearing three layers of clothing. 

"SWEET JESUS!" 

As I removed my overcoat and jacket in the 3' x 2' stall with the chemistry experiment raging on, the rest of my copilot's phrases started popping into my head. Before I left the men's room, I think I even added a few more. 

With the crisis averted, we took the self-guided tour, culminating in the lounge at the top of the building with free pints of Guinness.  I decided to pass, and instead just enjoyed the 360 degree view of Dublin.  It's like a sin I know, at the fountain of youth and passing on immortality.  They say when you drink Guinness in Ireland it's different because it's local. I don't know if my experience is what people mean when they say that, but one thing is for sure: I had a shitload of Guinness on my one last night in Dublin.  Trust me on this one.

Four Days To Go

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan and her series of updates about her recent humanitarian aid trip to Ghana.  It was originally sent by Meghan on October 26th and appears here edited for content and length.

Let the countdown begin! It's four days left and I'm headed to West Africa. Got all my shots, picked up my Malaria and Cipro prescriptions, and sort-of started packing.

Though I have, with time, gotten much better at pre-packing and arrival times at airports, if you know anything about me, I don't plan ahead very well. In fact, those of you that have traveled with me know I tend to  pack ten minutes before I'm headed to the airport, only to get to the airport 20 minutes before the flight leaves (I think I have only missed one flight ever because I was late, thank you very much).

The only reason I'm mostly packed four days before departure is because I have to give a list to one of our directors as to what is in the suitcases for customs purposes. For the last week or so, my living room has looked like one of those underground plastic surgery clinics in South America, minus the meds and needles. The local ambulance companies and individuals in the medical field have been quite generous with giving us miscellaneous medical stuff, so we've divided all the supplies into each of our suitcases. Now all of the supplies are packed in a big, ugly, cheap red suitcase I bought at an outlet store and am giving to the people of Ghana once we leave. Now all I have left to pack are personal items which I might not have gotten around to buying yet...like towels, bedding for the hotels, sunscreen, bug spray, meds for God knows what I might contract over there.

I bought mosquito repellent clothing. That was different. They smell a tad funny,  but I'm not going over there to pick up a date so whatever keeps the bugs away I'm fine with. I'm making a trip to Walmart on Monday, so I should be all set. I also went to the grocery store to stock up on Vitamin water, protein bars and pre-packed tuna cans.  I'm still counting on getting the travelers bug so I can lose a few pounds. 

All in all, everything is going smoothly so far. The one issue I've had is with the "travel agency" we are signed up with. Long story short, it's been a lot of "who's on first" action going on. I have gotten a phone call from one agent, who speaks very broken English,  asking me for the credit card number for my flight, only to have her call me five minutes later asking for the number again, not remembering she called prior. The agency said they found us a deal on a flight, but I and another nurse found the same flight, same airline, etc. cheaper on another website. Oops.

They forgot to email me my itinerary. That was another three phone calls.  Then there were multiple calls about my passport and Visa fees. I drank a lot of wine the night I had to mail out my passport to these people. But I have just heard that our director has our passports in hand safely and ready to go. Good. Good riddens "travel agency".

I received an email from one of the directors yesterday, telling us where our lodging is going to be. Sounds like we won't exactly be roughing it. The first hotel is located in Cape Coast, near the beach, complete with air conditioning,  small fridges, and even Internet access. Most likely I'll try to shoot out an update from there.

We'll spend two days in Cape Coast getting training on what we will be doing and information on the general Ghanaian culture and proper etiquette, if there is any. From there it's off to Angona Swerdu to the government hospital and the clinics where we will be working. Sounds like the setup for lodging there is a suite layout with bedrooms and a common room. They have air conditioning as well. The last two days will be spent in Accra, the capital. It's wind-down time before heading back to the states. I believe there is a business center at that hotel so that's when another update will probably be sent. Then it's back to the States.

Though they mostly speak English, I should probably start looking at that page of language translations I got over a month ago at our meeting and start learning how to say the important phrases, like "Do you take credit cards?", "Where is the bathroom?", and my personal favorite phrase, which I have learned in over 10 different languages:

"Two beers please."

Cheers

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan and her series of updates about her recent humanitarian aid trip to Ghana.  It has been edited for content and length.

My first thought was "No bloody way!?! THEY ACCEPTED ME?!?! AWESOME!!!"

My second thought was..."What the hell am I doing??"

And of course the third thought was "How the hell am I going to pitch this one to the parents without someone having a breakdown??" A few weeks back, after I had already applied, and NOT told the parents, I met them in Washington D.C. for a mini family reunion/vacation. At dinner, with an alcoholic beverage in all of our hands, I spilled the beans. The conversation went like this:

Meghan: "So, I might have applied for a trip to do some medical volunteer work abroad."

Mom and Dad's eyes get big..the ears perk up and the hands start clasping together. They're bracing for the news. My sister's Eileen and Katie hold back a laugh, knowing that the next ten minutes are going to be a great show to sit back and watch. 

Mom: "Where?"

Pause...wait for it.....

Meghan: "Slightly south of London....."

Mom: "Meghan...get it over with...where??!"

Meghan: (big chug of beer, then...) "Ghana?"

Mom takes a big sigh, with the "of course you are!" look on her face. Dad pops in immediately..

Dad: "I don't like it, it can't be safe. Is it safe?"

I spend the next ten minutes pleading my case that yes, it is safe, there is no war going on in the country, they have electricity, indoor plumbing and even two universities. I will have the proper immunizations and everything will be just fine. 

Dad still isn't too convinced. And like the typical father, asks that other imminent question...

Dad: "How much is this going to cost?"

Meghan: "I'm paying for it all. Promise. We'll be doing fundraisers, raffles to raise money. It will be fine."

Dad: "I still don't totally like the idea of you going to a third world country."

I decide to shoot back with what I thought was a foolproof, win-win, comment.

Meghan: "You know Dad, Mother Teresa did all this charity work and you never disapproved of her doing it!"

And without so much as a breath in between...

Dad: "Mother Teresa didn't owe me money."

I almost choke on my beer. The table goes into hysterical laughter.

Touche.

Dad, 1. Meghan, 0.

As far as I was concerned, the hardest part of the trip was now over with. The parents knew. And I switched on the planning gears and started, well, planning. 

We had our first team meeting in New York City two weeks ago.  The group consists of about 19 people: six doctors, seven nurses, a photographer, a writer, a sculpturer, and a social worker. If you haven't looked at the Unified for Global Healing website, it's not just a medical team. They combine medicine with art to teach the population about healthcare. To get messages across about malaria, AIDS, diseases in general, they use art, since most of the under-served communitiescan't read and write.  It's unique to say the least. 

Though they all seem like a great group, I wouldn't be surprised if I catch myself burning incense and doing yoga on this trip.  Obviously, there's nothing wrong with that, but anyone who knows me knows I'm not the yoga type. At all. But at our meeting I learned  there's a cocktail hour every night, so everyone wins. Cheers.

I've gotten all of my shots...six of them. Fun times. Paul, the nurse that gave them all to me, said I was very good and didn't cry. But for two days after my arms were in complete pain. That Hep A shot will kick you. I got a prescription for Malarone, the pill for Malaria and will take that right before I leave and while I'm there. I also got a prescription for Ciprofloxacin in case the food and travel  takes a number on my system. Let's just say while I won't be drinking the water (only bottled), rumor has it I will be visiting the porcelin god a few times the first few days and losing a few pounds. I think that's a total upside; who needs the Atkins diet, just go to Ghana!  

I'm still determined to make it for that cocktail hour every night. 

Ghana Or Bust!

The following is from Road Scholar Meghan.  It is the first in a series of posts about her recent humanitarian aid trip to Ghana.  It has been edited for content and length.

For the last few years I have worked at Boston Medical Center in Boston, MA in the Emergency Room as a nursing assistant, ED tech, whatever p.c. term they use nowadays. I love it. Lots of trauma, fast pace, lots of teaching, lots of experience, lots of amusing stories to tell my friends when they're felling sad (really, they call and ask me to "tell me one of your ER stories, I need a laugh"). The hospital serves mostly lower income families in the city, the homeless and the immigrant communities. The staff, on their own, is very committed to serving this population and, as a result, have joined or formed some outside, non-profit organizations. One of which, Unified for Global Healing, was co-founded by one of our ER Doctors, Thea James. For the last several years, she, along with other people, have traveled to underserved populations and given free medical care to those communities. Well, this year the trip is to Ghana. 

I had (FINALLY) passed my nursing boards back in March/April and the state of MA gave me my official license to practice nursing.  Shortly thereafter, I was looking for nursing jobs all over the place. I was still working at Boston Medical as a nursing assistant because I hadn't really found a nursing job yet. It's a common practice for nursing students who have finished school and even taken the board exam to stay at their current place of employment, as a nursing assistant, for a bit before going out to get a real nursing job. I was in the lounge one day having lunch and I saw a poster with the tagline: "Want to go to Ghana?"

 I looked at the nurse sitting next to me and said "Sure! I'd love to go to Ghana!", paused for a bit, then said  "Where's Ghana?"

So I "Wkikpedia'd" GHANA and this is what came up..enjoy. 

Anyone that knows me realizes I don't take travel lightly. I'm all in if I say yes. Anna, a friend of mine from college, told me one day she was traveling to London for the weekend and, very lightly, asked me if I wanted to go with her. Much to her surprise, I said "Sure!", and bought the ticket. She barely knew my last name at that point, so it made for an interesting conversation. A few years later, she asked me if I wanted to take care of a bunch of kids at an American Boarding School in Switzerland....Yup! Love to! I've had Boston neighbors casually get to know me and at a girls night out, very lightly, ask me over a few drinks if I wanted to go to West Palm Beach in Florida for a few days....Just tell me when! You get the point. And I have the pics to prove it all.

Needless to say, when I said yes to Ghana, I wasn't taking it lightly either. But this trip was going to be somewhat different than any other one before it. I was going to be working, as a nurse, in a foreign country. Granted in Switzerland, my title was nurse, but I was supervised by an actual licensed RN and took care of privileged 6 to 10 year olds whose biggest complaint (minus my one Japanese hemophiliac who I rushed to the local hospital one night) was that their sunscreen smelled funny. Ghana children are going to have slightly different complaints, like "I have malaria". Just a smidge different. But from the moment I chose nursing as  a career, I wanted to do international work. When I found out the trip was a short two weeks, it was enough to convince me it would be a great "stepping stone" or foot in the door to international healthcare. 

I turned in my application. Knowing there were only a few slots available and lots of people applying,  I was pretty sure I wouldn't get accepted but figured at least I'd be on their board when I applied next year.  After an hour long telephone interview and two weeks, I got the email. 

"Congratulations! We welcome you as part of the 2008 medical team to Ghana!"