A bit of home

Yesterday, I picked up my American friend, Leslie, and we took off to the environs of Accra for the day. As a Fulbright exchange teacher, Leslie is a quasi-employee of the U.S. government, so she heads out to the U.S. Embassy located in Accra a few times a month to take care of business.

Despite the fact that I and my family have been living here for almost five years now, I’ve never been to the new U.S. Embassy, so I looked at it as an opportunity to check things out. The “old” U.S. Embassy was in a small, crowded dirty building, not easily accessible and certainly, in my opinion, not worth of an embassy, irrespective of which embassy it might be. The fact that it was my embassy only made it that much more disreputable.

First stop before the embassy though, was a detour to Bake Shop Classics, a bakery near the Ghana Trade Fair. Now, I’d never been there before, but I had “heard” that they made and sold “New York Style Bagels.” I haven’t had a bagel, New York, New Jersey or Maryland-style, in almost two years, and I have been dreaming of them. I can stop dreaming, I think. We went in and though they only had a small selection (by U.S. standards, of course) of baked goods, they did have bagels and cinnamon rolls and cheese and fruit danishes. Oh, joy. I have no idea how they will taste, but they sure look good. I buy eight bagels at 60 pesawas each and a cinnamon roll for GHC 1.50.

The morning after my purchase, I can truthfully say, not as good as a New York bagel, but pretty darn close. Add in some cream cheese – no, not Philadelphia but again, close – and it’s a taste of home. I’m wishing now that I had bought more than just eight bagels, since half are gone already. I may have to make a special trip, next week.

From there, we went straight to the Embassy. The Embassy compound is large, with a neatly manicured green grass lawn -- truly a rarity in Ghana. Two security guards stand in front but don’t try to stop us from entering into the visitor’s lounge. Once inside, Leslie puts her bag onto the x-ray machine conveyer belt which scans the contents; no one pays any attention, so no one notices that she carries two phones – mine and hers. I have to fill out a form and show my passport; it doesn’t even get cracked open. Could be my whiteness, my Jersey accent or my “Hi, how ya doing?” is the tip off that I’m an American. Or it could be my entrance with an employee, quasi or otherwise. Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but I actually wish they had looked at my passport a bit more thoroughly; security was just a bit too lax for me.

With a visitor badge strung around my neck and my handbag scanned (minus my cell phone, of course), we’re off to the main building, which belongs to U.S. AID. It’s like being back in any American government office building – open, airy, granite walls, heavy duty air conditioning, and the ubiquitous pictures of G.W., Dick and Condee. Leslie and I joke about how we can’t wait to come back after January 20^th and see Barack, Joe and Hillary up there instead. That alone will be worth the trip.

First things first, I have got to check out the Embassy bathroom. It’s just like back home. Doors that lock, toilets that automatically flush, and toilet paper on a roller – wish I had more to do in here, but my breakfast coffee is long gone.

Leslie conducts her business and shows me around a bit. We head to the Community Liaison Office or CLO for short. Inside are some pamphlets and brochures for local tourist sites and hotels. Nothing special, but what is special is a great big wall of books, all kinds of paperbacks and novels; adult books, kids books, every genre you can imagine. We meet a woman there who is the CLO liaison, Kristen from Annandale, VA. She says the books are loaners, “borrow what you want and return them when you can.” Oh, the honor system. I’m familiar with the concept, of course, but the truth is in Ghana it’s hardly ever put into practice. Finders keepers, is more what we’re used to here. Still, it looks promising.

Kristen tells us that they often have community programs and events, but this is the first I’m hearing of it. I’m kind of ticked off about it, if you want the truth. I’m part of the community, I live here and the Embassy knows I live here, since we’re registered. So, why can’t they send me a newsletter telling me about these events? I’d love for us to get out and meet other Americans. Leslie promises to send me the newsletter that she gets from them, as an employee. It shouldn’t really be this hard, should it? The Embassy does more for American tourists than Americans living here. Weird, huh?

The cafeteria is our next stop. And they’ve got specials, just like home – hamburger or hot dogs with fries, pizza, grilled cheese sandwich – I’m tempted, I’ve got to admit, but I make these things at home, I’d want something really different. What I’m really jazzed about is the cold case – there’s Fresca, Diet Pepsi and Diet Dr. Pepper. The doctor is calling my name. Um, not quite as good as I remember. Next time, I’ll try the Fresca.

Yeah, a Fresca, with a bagel and cream cheese, and it will be like home. If only it were that easy.

Robocall -- Ghana-style

This is a shortie... the house phone just rang, and truthfully, I usually don't answer it. It's usually not for me -- Sly, Sean or Mike, but never me -- but I just figured since Sly is out of the house it might be him, even though he'd normally call my cell.

Me: Hello

"Hello, this is Nana Akufo Addo. I am running for president of Ghana. I urge you to vote for me on Sunday, 7th December. Tell all of your family and friends... Blah blah blah"

Hah! A robocall in Ghana. I thought that we'd be immune to that over here; we are, after all, registered Democrats.

Ghana! We are moving forward!

Thanksgiving in Ghana

I miss Thanksgiving in America. I miss the bite of the wind as I’m running from my car into my brother’s house. I miss the smell of sautéed onions and mushrooms that my dad used to cook every Thanksgiving morning. I miss watching the Macy’s Day Parade on television and getting all stupid and gooney when Santa shows up at the end. I miss the apple cider, the walnuts, the football games, the sweet potatoes, the good-natured ribbing of family we haven’t seen in ages. I miss it all.

In an attempt to recreate an American holiday here, I usually have to plan weeks or even months in advance. I kid you not. Turkeys are not that easy to come by here. You can’t just walk into the supermarket and pick up a 22 lb. Butterball and be on your merry way.
Last year, some of the obroni markets were selling turkeys, for about $75 each, just ahead of Thanksgiving and Christmas. Unfortunately, a lot of them didn’t sell -- $75 is steep, even for a rich white person. Up until July, I saw a couple of frozen turkeys in ShopRite, but they looked like they’d been through the wringer, and I think they were really left over from 2007 and they were being passed off as fresh. Not. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere within 15 feet of that thing when the cellophane was unwrapped. Can you say RIPE?

When I want a turkey, I have to put my “order” in for a fresh one with Herbie, a good friend of ours, months in advance. Herbie raises chickens and turkeys and the occasional goat and rabbit. And each time we visit Herbie, he points out our little gobbler, and we watch him grow fatter and fatter.

This year was no exception; my turkey order has been in place since the 4th of July. So, on Wednesday, Sly went to pick up our turkey which was to be plucked and cleaned. It was plucked, all right, but cleaned? Nope, as it turns out.

I like to make an herb butter concoction that I slip underneath the turkey skin, for flavor. But I couldn’t get my hand under there, for some reason. The skin was really thick and it was still attached. Let me tell you, I’ve been spoiled by the turkeys from the U.S., all of which were cleaned perfectly, with a little bag of giblets stuck in its butt, and a thermometer that popped out when it was cooked to perfection.

Fresh turkeys from Ghana are different. They’re walking around eating everything in sight minutes before they’re intended as someone’s meal. I’ve read that you’re not supposed to feed a turkey that’s to be slaughtered, in order to give it time to clear out of its digestive track. I guess Herbie didn’t know that, or wanted to grant the condemned turkey his last meal. But, there was a mess of crap (or soon to be crap, if we hadn’t already killed him) inside this guy’s throat and it was nasty.

Once Sly finishes cleaning this guy out, I scrub him out with some sea salt and get him ready for the oven. Problem is -- it is friggin hot here! It’s about 90 in the shade, and hotter still in our small house. Sly comes up with the brilliant idea that we’ll cook Tom outside on the barbecue grill. Sounds good to me!

We also don’t know how heavy this dude is, since there’s no little sticker that will help us figure out cooking times. So, we pull out our people scale and figure it out that way. As it turns out, he was about 17 lbs, which is way bigger than the one we got last year. Figure about 3-1/2 hours or so on the grill ought to do it.

The turkey is cooking, I’m assembling a bread stuffing like Dad used to make (only crisper and drier, as it turned out, but really the way I like it!), and getting the mashed potatoes and vegetables ready.

Now, all this time, the kids are at school – as I said, it’s not a holiday here in Ghana. Alex gets home early enough so she’s aware of the turkey on the grill. But we decide to trick the boys. I know, we are so mean. But, Sean deserves a trick. Here’s why: On Wednesday, he was teasing this poor exchange teacher at the school who is from Michigan, and who told the kids he was missing Thanksgiving. Sean, the gloater, couldn’t help but announce how his Mom had a turkey for the next day. The poor guy was probably drooling while he had to listen to Sean go on and one about how there’d be mashed potatoes and stuffing and gravy and this and that… So you see, Sean deserves this.

I pull out an empty chicken nuggets box from the garbage and tape it up, so it looks like it’s unopened. When the boys get home from school, there’s no turkey in the oven, as they expect, and there’s general disappointment from the two of them. Sean tells us that he bypassed lunch because of the turkey. Ha! Mike quickly asks if he can have sausage for dinner. Nope. I was able to stretch out this charade for almost half an hour. The pain/pleasure was tremendous!

Finally, in comes the turkey in the blue enamel pan -- brown and crispy and lovely. With all the fixin’s we could fix. The kids went for numerous rounds – Alex had two drumsticks; Mike had two wings and Sean had four servings of everything! Delicious.

The only thing missing was my family. Hope your Thanksgiving was as great as ours!

Too Sweet Girl

I've created another blog devoted to caring for Alexandra, our daughter with Type 1 Diabetes. If you think it's tough in the developed world, you ain't seen nothing yet. If you're interested in reading it, see the link to your right, on Too Sweet Girl. That would be Alex. Not exactly apropos, since she's generally got a disposition anything but sweet, but you know what I mean.

Sweet Gig: Rubbing Shoulders with President Kufuor

When we moved to Ghana, we thought life was going to be all about retirement and relaxation and raising our kids. How wrong we were. Within a few months, we knew that there was no way we could settle down quietly; first of all, it was too boring, we needed the stimulation of the old gray matter, and second, we could use the extra money. Of course, who couldn’t? So, Sly went into consulting and one of his many assignments is with the Government of Ghana. He is the lead counsel for the Presidential Committee on Emoluments. Fancy words for saying that he helps decide the benefits and privileges (money-wise) of the government bigwigs. His boss, a very nice lady named Mary Chinery-Hesse, happens to be the president’s senior advisor. That’s a serious job, some would argue that she’s closer to the presidency than the vice president, and I wouldn’t dispute it.

Anyway, October 29^th was Mary's 70^th birthday, and Sly and I were invited to a birthday “thanksgiving” service in her honor. We knew that there we would be rubbing shoulders with some of Ghana’s most influential, the movers and the shakers, but we had no idea how close our shoulders would actually be.

What a great excuse for me to get “spiffed” up a bit! I went to a local saloon (no, it’s not a drinking bar with bat wing doors, it’s just that’s what they call it here) and got my nails done (fingers and piggies) and my eyebrows tweezed to perfection – which is truly amazing, I look like I’ve got more eyebrow now then I did before!

Dressing up was fun, but I’m glad I only have to do it once in a while. I got out my pink jacquard silk dress, a pair of pink and white mules from Talbot’s that I never ever wore before and a cute little pink beaded bag. Clothes-wise, I’m good.

But the hair. Oh, boy, what am I gonna do with the hair? I am in desperate need of a real haircut, but I’m still searching for a good place that can cut obroni hair. It’s too late for that now, so I search through the closets for a blow dryer that I haven’t used in ages. Voila! Within a few minutes (I don’t have that much hair), I’m dried and looking more normal than I have in months.

Now, the real challenge is make-up. I am a natural kind of girl, and hardly ever wear make-up – in this climate, it would melt within moments, so I feel like, what’s the point, ya know? Even when I’m in the states, my idea of make-up is a cherry flavored tube of Chap Stick. But, with Alex watching me like a hawk (drooling and desperate to be involved), I start doing the things that girls are supposed to have an innate talent for. Only problem is that my cosmetic gene seems to be defective, so I just take it slow and start light and hope for the best.

Fifteen or so minutes later, I’m as done as I’m gonna get. I put the clothes on, slip on the shoes (no pantyhose, thank God!) and glasses and grab my bag.

The kids are stunned. I guess I don’t dress up often enough. Alex tells me that I look beautiful. Michael wants to keep hugging me. And Sean says I don’t look right. Two out of three ain’t bad.

We hit the road with our driver. My hope is that the traffic won’t be too bad, and that we’ll whiz along at speeds of 50 mph just so that my make-up won’t smear off. I’m not worried about the hair, I’ve got enough hair spray on it that it’s as stiff as a 6 month old corpse.

Less than 15 minutes into the trip, on the Tema Motorway, our van breaks down. I refuse to panic; it’s only 5:30 and we don’t have to be at the church until 6:30. Ekow opens the hood and steam is billowing up out of the radiator… which was supposed to have been fixed today. Now, I’m panicking. There’s a 16 oz bottle of water in the car, half empty -- or half full (depending on how you look at it), but in either event – it’s not enough.

Ekow calls the mechanic, and tells him to bring super glue (!) and two gallons of water. About 30 minutes later, a taxi pulls up behind us and four guys jump up. It is nearing sunset and the skies darken here within minutes, and I’m worried about a semi crashing into the back of us at 65 mph. But if we put on our hazard lights, our battery will die since Ekow has been trying to restart the engine every few minutes. I insist that they put out the triangle… like that will really save us from that crazed semi driver.

Some 45 minutes later, the "mechanics" (and now I am using that term very loosely) have glued what they’ve got to glue and manage to get the car started. The mechanic rides with us (just in case). We only get about 5 miles before the car starts acting up again, so Sly makes the decision that we’ll take the taxi to the birthday celebration and Ekow will take the car back to the mechanics in Tema. Good plan. Cause I’m starting to get really anxious. I hate being late, and we already are. Good thing this is Ghana where lateness is an accepted fact of life – heck, I bet they haven’t even started the church service yet.

Within blocks of the church, there’s no parking, so we walk up to the building. The gates are closed except for a small opening, and there are police patrols everywhere. This must be the place.

Inside, the service already started (!)… it’s only 7:30 at this point; I am in shock that it started on time! The place is absolutely packed, and we have to force our way into a pew. Despite the dozen ceiling fans which are whirring at full speed, the place is like a giant oven. The incense is so cloying that I’m wishing I had remembered my inhaler.

We’ve got a program that the lovely, very well dressed usherettes gave us when we entered. It takes me a few minutes to find our place. Cripes! We’re only on page 8 of a 24 page program! This is going to be a very long night.

I can only take about 30 minutes of the heat and litany and now I need desperately to get outside for some fresh air. Now’s as good as time as any to call home to check on the kids. Fortunately, only a minor glitch – Alex’s high sugar level -- which I’ll have to deal with later.

I use the opportunity to scope out the bathroom and am amazed that it’s not only neat, has running water, but there’s toilet paper!! And for the first time that night, I catch a glimpse of myself in a full length mirror. Holy crap! It’s (a smarter and funnier!) Sarah Palin! I wished I had noticed this resemblance before I left the house, cause I’d have curled my hair instead and wore different glasses. Oh well, I doubt there are too many Democrats (or Republicans, for that matter) here.

I slip back into my seat and try to pay attention, but I’m overwhelmed by the number of dignitaries here. I can’t see or name them all, but Sly can and does. His neck must hurt from swiveling around so much.

When the service comes to an end (finally!), we’re invited to partake of refreshments at the back of the church. But first, we’ve got to find our way out of here. We follow the crowd, a few feet ahead of us is the President and Vice President of Ghana. Sure, I could follow them, but I’m gonna chase down that guy carrying the huge solid gold staff with the elephants on it belonging to the Paramount Chief of the Ga State! “Is that really gold?” I ask Sly, who assures me that it is. At about $730 an ounce, that staff is probably worth gazillions! Where the heck are his security guards?

I cling to Sly’s hand because if I lose him, I will NEVER find him in this crowd. Instructions are clear – if we separate, he is to look for me! I don’t tend to “blend” as much as he does, so I’m pretty sure he’ll track me down quicker.

The crowd is something fierce and we can hardly move. I’m trying with all my might (and what little grace I possess) not to fall into the open gutter on my right. The crush of people behind me is massive (and they're all pretty friggin pushy, if I do say so myself). There are some whirling dervishes dancing and spinning to my left and the gutter is looking pretty good at this point, as a safe haven of sorts.

Suddenly, I realize that the President is right next to me. Eeeek!! He’s got his private security people all around him, except for between us. I could literally poke him in the ear if I’d wanted to, though I’m sure that that would be considered a sign of aggression, and I didn’t want any trouble with the police (or immigration, for that matter!) so I left him in peace.

The entire rear of the church grounds was done up beautifully in tiny white lights and there's music playing softly (!) in the background -- very different from the Ghanaian norm, which is usually just eardrum bursting noise! Sly and I spot several long white linen covered tables set up with drinks, which we (naturally) head straight for (like a pig to a truffle). I’m used to white wine coming out of a box, so the bottle type had me a little bit flummoxed, but boy did it go down smoooooth!

Sly is trying to scope out Mary so we can pay our best wishes and get out of there (we've got Alex at home with blood sugars in the 300 range to attend do), but Mary's got a throng of well wishers milling around her, too. So, we do the next best thing… we head for the food tables! They had some really nice eats, too… chicken and vegetables kebabs (yum-0), mini pizzas (yucchy, actually), tiny quiches, chicken and cakes and cookies. All of it looked delicious. My only beef (no pun intended) was that the (tacky cheap plastic, by the way) plates were too small! No matter. Even though they're not Chinet plates, I pile it on pretty good and set out to find the ideal spot to observe the action.

Before I know it, within feet of me (again -- Sly's convinced he was following me for another look at my legs... either that or he really did think I was Sarah Palin) was President Kufuor. While not as close as the potential ear poking scenario, he was still near enough for a picture. Note that the little guy to his right (above the stomach of the guy in a pink shirt) is the Vice President Mahama.

So, Sly and I indulged in some nice wine and chicken wings, and hobnobbed with Ghana’s crème de la crème and then went home. On our way out, we scored a lovely little souvenir, too; a pair of candles inside a personalized (Happy 70^th Birthday Mary Chinery-Hesse!) bag.

Here’s a list of the “who’s who” that we spotted:

President John Agyekum Kufuor

Vice President Alhaji Aliu Mahama

Chief Justice of the Ghana Supreme Court Georgina Wood

First Deputy Speaker of Parliament Freddie Blay (who did fall in the gutter... heh heh)

Stanley Nii Adjiri-Blankson, Mayor of Accra

… plus assorted other Ministers, Commissioners, Members of the Council of State, Supreme Court Judges, MPs and heads of states from neighboring countries plus International Labour Organization directors and bigwigs. All told, I’d guestimate that there were nearly 500 people there.

Mind you, this night also happened to be the night of the Ghanaian Presidential Debate, and for these key figures to be here (instead of the debate) is testament to the respect that they accord Mary.

As my friend Leslie put it… sweet gig. Yup. And then some.

Funeral for a Friend: The trip to Pepease

Saturday

A close friend of the family passed away in late August, and this past weekend was the funeral. Eric is the Godfather to Sean, and Sylvester and I are Godparents to his daughter, Ashley. So, when Eric’s father passed away, it was with no second thought that we would all be attending the funeral celebration.

As is the custom in Ghana, the deceased is buried in his village of birth; in this case, it was the village of Pepease, a trip of about 110 miles. We figured, given stoppage time, traffic, road conditions that it would be a 4 hour drive. It took more than 5 hours. Ugh.

Sly and I woke up at 3:30 to prepare the kids, as we expected to leave around 4:30. Unfortunately, our car battery had other plans, and we couldn’t get the car to start; a quick call to our taxi driver and he came over and jumped us. Meanwhile, the kids were being awoken for their showers and to get dressed. If you’ve never done it before, it is NOT easy waking up a kid when the sky is still pitch black. There were complaints and grumbles from every corner. Finally, at about 5:10 we were ready to go.

Sly and I are very good local drivers – we can find our way around no problem, but if we have to stray off the Tema Motorway, we’re in deep doo doo. Fortunately, Ekow our taxi driver was coming with us, and would lead the way. Before the sun even rose at 5:45, all of the kids were sound asleep, including Michael who NEVER SLEEPS IN THE CAR. Ha!




Getting out of Tema was not a problem; the real problem was getting out of Accra, or Achimota to be exact. They are constructing a new roadway, and in Ghana, it is different from anything you’ve ever seen before. The construction site is not a pedestrian-free zone; in fact, there are more pedestrians than construction vehicles! Here we are bouncing through pot holes big enough to put a kitchen sink, dodging crazed tro tro drivers trying to get to a fare before the next guy and trying to avoid running down the hawkers who dance between the traffic with huge bowls of pure water sachets, bags of sliced paw paw, fried plantain chips, Fan Ice and yogurt perched precariously on their head. I am ever so glad I’m sitting in the back seat and not driving, even if I have to have Alex’s very heavy feet in my lap. Bear in mind, all this is going on at around 6:30 a.m.

It is only as we get into Nsawam that the construction stops and traffic thins. The hawkers are ever present, only now the pickings are different; hawkers are primarily selling Nsawam bread (2 cedis for 2 loaves!), fried turkey tail, fried yam with shitor and local daily newspapers. You can tell where you are in Ghana just from the fare being sold by the hawkers.

After Nsawam, famous for its prison, we have a fairly long stretch of road with minimal traffic, though the pot holes are never ending. There is only a single note-worthy rest stop, and that is the Linda Dor in Koforidua, but because the kids are still sleeping, we blow on past. As we go farther north, we encounter lots of little palm frond covered kiosks selling the local fruits and vegetables – cassava, plantain (in huge green bunches!), tangerines, hot peppers and snails. Okay, so that’s not a fruit or vegetable. But it is for sale, and these suckers are huge!!! You'd need at least a pound of butter and a couple of heads of garlic for escargot.


Well, we got to Nkawkaw (how do you like these names, by the way? Real tongue twisters, ain’t they) which is at the base of the Kwahu mountain range. We’d have to take the switchback road to the top of the mountains. The road heading up was being repaired (so what else is new) and we had to drive very very slowly. Meanwhile, taxis were racing down the mountain like it was a slalom course. Again, I am very glad I sat in the back seat.

The kids were in awe because they could see that the top of the mountain was in the clouds (not really, just it was kind of foggy/hazy up there).

As we neared the top, we saw signs for the hotel we were going to stay at, so we planned to stop first and freshen up a bit, before we headed over to the church. It was near 11:00 am when we got to the hotel – The Modak Royal Hotel – the only hotel exclusively for royals, according to the website. I looked around, but didn’t see the Queen of England or even a Queen Mother for that matter, so I can safely presume that you don’t have to be royalty to stay there… you only have to have 38 GHC cash, payable in advance.

As it was near lunch, we went to the terrace bar and ordered some food and drink. When we got there, we were the only ones in sight, so we assumed (wrongly, as it turned out) that service would be quick. The waiter had to run back and forth between the terrace and the restaurant, which was in the next building over. Our drinks got to us okay, but the food took an interminable length of time. And while we waited, the place got packed. First, in came a group of ten people, then six, then three more and finally another three. And mind you, only a single waiter! What really is annoying is that funerals in this town are only on specific weekends in each month, so it's not as though the hotel management is not aware that a funeral will be going on and hire some extra help. That would make sense.

Anyway, 50 minutes later, and still no food – and I ordered simple stuff like pizza, hamburger, fries and Chinese beef fried rice. I can’t wait any more. It’s hot. I have a headache and feel achy because I think the PMS fairy is on her way. Alex is whiny and hungry. I tell Sly I’m going to the room, let them bring the food to me there. Fortunately, about 5 minutes later, the food is coming through the door.

Oh crap. I totally forgot to tell them exactly how I wanted my food. Silly of me to ask for a hamburger and fries without telling them that we wanted no lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise or fried egg on it! And how stupid for me to assume a simple margherita pizza would have only cheese and sauce – of course they have to put on green peppers and black Greek olives (not pitted naturally). And, d’oh, why didn’t I tell them not to surround my “Chinese” beef fried rice (with spaghetti noodles added to it!) with egg salad.

I have lived in Ghana for 4 years 9 months and 23 days, and have been coming back and forth between the U.S. and Ghana for almost 2 decades. You’d think I would know better. Ghanaian restaurateurs and cooks have a singular common belief: More is better!! I knew I should have ordered the “Beef or Chicken Fajitas (Italian dish)” from the menu! (I learn something new every day! Here, I thought it was the Mexicans who had invented fajitas!)

Anyway, after lunch we quickly washed up and changed into our Day One funeral attire. Each of the kids wore a plain black bottom and a black and white top, I wore a black and white kente dress and Sly dressed in traditional Ghanaian apparel – namely, a pair of white shorts with a huge black and white kente woven cloth which he draped over his shoulder. No, I did not get a picture of him. I want to keep these teeth.

The church was only a few minutes away from where we are, and we would have missed the turn off if it wasn’t for Eric’s nephew, Yaw, who recognized our van and directed us to the driveway. That Nissan Quest is indispensable; I don’t know what we would do without it.

Three funerals were underway inside the very packed church, so we waited outside in the grass. Along with us were probably another hundred sympathizers who milled about, laughing and chatting, buying ice cream or fruit from the hawkers who were all doing a fairly brisk business. We parked our van under a tree which fortunately protected us from the sun, but did nothing at all to help with the ant problem. Ants were constantly crawling up our feet and legs, and before you knew it you’d be slapping them away and scratching at the bite. Ants like me. I must be very sweet or something. This is my leg three days after the ant bite.



We bypassed the cemetery and went straight to one of the reception sites, this where the food was being served. Michael, being the “foodian” of the family, went straight to the serving line and came back with chicken and Jollof rice. I don’t eat Jollof, so I opted for kenkey and fish which Alex invited herself to share. I truly can’t think of a single starchy food that Alex won’t eat. If it’s something that going to raise her blood sugar by 10 points, she’s gonna have it! Urggh!

It was now nearing 3:00 pm and I was definitely feeling anti-social at this point, as my headache was in full bloom despite the four Advils I’d taken at the hotel. I needed a bed in an air conditioned room and I needed it NOW. I think Sly sensed this, so for the preservation of my health and sanity (and his life), he suggested I take the kids back to the room. Good idea.

The A/C was cranked up to full blast, and I confiscated one entire twin bed. The kids all shared the other. They were (blessedly) fairly quiet, and kept the noise to a dull roar. The television held them enthralled with a channel called the Trinity Broadcasting Network – lots of kiddy religious stuff, including Davey and Goliath (remember that one!).

I only got about an hour of nap time before the sound of hushed sobs woke me up. I found out afterward that Alex was running on the paving stones outside of the room and slid part ways down the hill on her knees (Ouch!!). Sean tried to "help" her by taking her into the bathroom and suggesting that she allow him to hose down her legs to get her knees clean. So he puts her in the tub and runs the water out of the hose. Of course, she started screaming that it hurt (and it probably did). She was having none of it. Sean, being Sean, told her that it was fine, but that “within 8 hours you’ll be dead from the infection.” Screaming starts up again and now I am fully awake. **sigh** Sean, what a kind brother. “Always prepared,” that’s one of my mottos, so I had band aids. Bleeding is stopped, she’s covered. She’ll live. This is it 3 days later.



By now, Sly is back to the room taking a breather from his running around and we go to the restaurant to eat. Dinner is (thankfully) non-eventful, since I remembered to be very specific when I ordered the chicken, fries and rice. It only took 30 minutes for the chicken and fries, and 45 minutes for the chicken and (hard) rice. Amazing.

When we get back to our room, Sly departs once again to the funeral (personally, I think he’s having too good a time, if you know what I mean), and we’re on our own yet again. The kids are so tired from the long day that they don’t even argue when I say it’s time for bed at 9:00 pm. Me? I’m oblivious, between the Advil and the Nyquil I took I’m off to la la land. Sly better make sure that he knocks on the door really hard and loud, if he wants to come back in later.

Sunday

We get up early enough to go eat breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Two meals come with each room and we just take whatever they dish out. Someone will eat it (I hope). Sean eats the beans (after he pulls out the onions), Mike eats the eggs (after he picks out the peppers) and Alex eats the bread. See? Everyone was happy. Just bring me coffee, even fake Nescafe, I need the caffeine.

Today, we are all dressed in our Day Two Funeral Attire, which is the “family” cloth purchased especially for the deceased family and close friends. It’s lovely white seersucker with black print on it. I notice though that our seersucker runs vertically and yet some of the others with the same cloth it runs horizontally. I think it was our tailor who goofed, because the print looks like little black birds… and everyone else’s bird is flying and ours looks to be dive bombing. Oh, well. It’s only for this one time. This is the cloth we wore. Note that Ashley's dress is different, as she is a granddaughter and the grandchildren were provided with this cloth.



Our first stop after breakfast is the family house. We stop in and do the obligatory handshaking thing with everyone there. As we sit down, we find out that this is Eric’s father’s family’s house, so Eric’s mother is not here, and she is who we’ve come specifically to see. We need to find his mother’s house, so we get Yaw to drive us over to wherever it is.

Eric’s mother is one of the tribal elders for Pepease, so she was kind of “holding court” when we got there. Again, we followed tradition, entered and shook everyone’s hand and then sat to wait for the chance to announce our intentions. We could only stay for a short while, since we had to drive back to Accra, and we would leave during the church service and wanted to come and extend our sympathies. All of this was said by Sly to Kwase, who is Eric’s older brother, for him to relay the message to his mother. The elders who were there thanked us for coming, and offered us drinks – soda, beer or gin. It was not yet 9:00 am, by the way.

From there, back to the father’s house for more food and beer (it’s a never-ending vicious cycle, ain’t it?). Everyone was getting ready for church and dressing in their black and white outfits. There had to at least have been 40 or so people in the family compound, but it was a big enough place that it wasn’t cramped at all.

Now, this is not the place for potty humor, but I just have to share it here, since it happened at this point. After the majority of the family had left for church, there was a little boy walking around the compound naked. He couldn’t have been more than 2 years old, I guess. That’s not so unusual. Nudity is not really the issue here that it is in the States. But what this kid did was really unusual. In his left hand he held a water bottle cap, and his in right hand he held his penis. Squirt!!! Fill up the cap, toss it on the ground. Squirt!! Fill up the cap, toss it on the ground. At this point, we’re (well, me and kids) laughing hysterically (it really was funny – that kid has got great bladder control!) but Sly is not amused. He calls to the mother who grabs the kids and swings him up into her arms and she just keeps chatting away with the women she was talking to (like they couldn’t see this kid pissing into the bottle cap from 5 feet away?). Sly goes over to her and tells her that she should take the kid and wash him down (I should hope so, really) and tell him that what he did was wrong. (Meanwhile, I kept thinking, “Funny, but wrong” from Steve Martin in Cheaper by the Dozen. Not helpful, I know).

We kill another half hour here and head on back to check out. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, and Sean wants to be home in time to watch the Liverpool-Chelsea match on television.

I wish I could report that the trip home was uneventful, but I can’t. The car broke down after about 2½ into the ride. The radiator hose was broken (we found out) and we were overheating something fierce. Ekow, our driver was vigilant in filling the radiator with water and we managed to nurse our way home. By 5:00 pm, we were pulling into our driveway in Tema.

Despite all of the hassles, headaches and bug bites, none of us would have missed this last chance to show our respect to a very dear man.

Rest In Perfect Peace.

Friday at Accra Central. Organized chaos.

Ghana has not been immune from the worldwide economic troubles. Yesterday, I paid nearly $1.50 for a beer at an Accra Central chop bar. Can you imagine? I remember when a Star beer was 60 cents. Okay, so it’s a big beer, twice as big as a Heinie, but still, that’s a lot of money in this economy.

Accra Central on a Friday is an amazing place -- crowded, colorful, noisy, smelly, even a bit dangerous. But only for a couple of obronis. Yesterday, a new found obroni friend and I ventured to the big city to do some shopping. Leslie is a high school math teacher (they call it maths teacher here) who is here in Ghana for a year on a Fulbright teacher exchange program. She is teaching at Tema Secondary School, just a hop skip and a jump from where we live, and also my husband’s alma mater.

I picked her up at the school and ventured to Accra the long way around, meaning the Beach Road between Tema and Accra. When you want to move at a fast clip, you have no choice but to take the Tema Motorway. Unless there’s an accident, and there have been significantly less accidents since they removed the cattle bridge a few months ago, the Motorway zips along at speeds of 70 and upwards. Some Ghanaians consider it their own personal Autobahn and rocket past at 100 mph. Fools, all… you never know when a cow is going to cross the road.

But, I digress (as usual). Leslie loved the fact that we were taking the scenic route. She got to see the ocean finally (she knew it was somewhere close by, but had no idea how close – a mere 5 minutes away!). As we approached Nungua, I told her about Evelyn, my “potato lady” who owns a tiny produce stand across from the Regional Maritime Academy. When we lived in Nungua, we stopped there a lot for fresh produce, namely potatoes, because we knew that from her they wouldn’t be soft or rotted. Now that we live in Tema near the motorway we don’t often come around, but when we do, we either stop and buy something, or beep the horn when passing. It’s funny, without fail, as soon as she hears the distinctive sound of our Nissan Quest’s horn, she spins around or looks up from whatever she was doing and grinning, from ear to ear, waves wildly with both hands. Sure enough, she was there yesterday, and grinning and waving to beat the band. I love that lady.

So, off through Nungua we traveled. It was really neat driving with Leslie. It’s like looking at Christmas through a kid’s eyes. Leslie was “Ooh, look at that” or “Oh, what’s that place?” It was kind of fun to play the tour guide, pointing out the place with the fantasy coffins and watching the vendors go by carrying all sorts of things on their heads.

After about an hour in traffic, we arrived at the parking lot near High Street. No matter if they’re packed, when the guy sees our Nissan he knows it’s us and always squeezes us in. Somewhere. It was the same yesterday. He directed me to this tiny spot and I edged my way in. He asked me where “daddy” was. I told him that “daddy” was home and I was free for the day with some money in my pocket. Oops! Must remember to zipper my mouth, next time. Before I could even take two steps away from the car, he tells me that he will be traveling for a funeral that afternoon, and hoped I could help him with “transportation.” Soft touch that I am (and also to safeguard my car!), I offered up 2 cedis. That’s about $2, and more than he probably makes in a day.

You’ve likely read about my shopping experience at Melcom, so I won’t go back into it. Except to say that I still cannot understand WHY THEY CANNOT RESTOCK THE STORE AT NIGHT??!! Every aisle is crowded with shoppers and an equal number of clerks who are bent over boxes and stocking shelves. You can hardly move. After about 15 minutes of madness, we gave up and left, without a single purchase there.

From there we went to Methodist Book Store for Leslie to find some books for the students she tutors. I picked up a couple of used books for the kids, but nothing for me. Paperbacks not written in this or the previous decade are of no interest to me, nor do I find it scintillating to read books with big-bosomed raven-haired vixens.

We walked across the street into Rawlings Park, which has turned into a giant flea market and decided to stop for some refreshment. Beer, Coke, sausage on a stick and beef kebabs. Total price GHC 5.90. Total rip-off. But such is the economy here. Everything has gone up in prices.

We had good seats at the restaurant, right in the firing line. Every single hawker with a bowl on his or her head had something to offer the two obronis. Batik and wax print shirts, only GHC 5 – perfect if we weighed about 250 lbs each, but anyone with a Body Mass Index of less than 25 would be lost in these shirts (I’ve a BMI of about 20, and Leslie probably even less). Oh, BTW, this site calculates your BMI for you and it’s pretty simple. No maths teacher needed.

We also had a couple of bead vendors pass by – one person was selling bootlegged 8-in-1 and 9-in-1 videos with Chinese subtitles, another sold kitschy wooden signs that said something like Jesus Loves Ghana, and a very large woman with a huge bowl of kitchen sponges on her head. Everyone else got a dabi (no), but we stopped the sponge lady. I really needed a new kitchen sponge. Naturally, the obroni price was GHC 3 for 5 sponges, but the obroni counter-offer was GHC 2, which was still probably more than they would have cost an obibini (black person). Oh well.

From there I found a guy selling football kit out of his station wagon. Well, Sean as you may know is a football freak. Not the U.S. kind, but the European/U.K. kind with actually kicking of the ball at all times. Sean loves Chelsea (the team, not Clinton), but loves individual players and I asked if they had Rosicky. I was informed it was Rosisky. Anyway, he plays for Arsenal and he’s #7. They had a brand new shirt and shorts set for GHC 20. Now, that’s not really a bad price. It’s running way higher than that on eBay and I wouldn’t have to ship it. But, since I knew I was getting the obroni price, I countered with GHC 15 and we agreed at GHC 17. Not too terrible. And, guess what, it is NOT Rosisky… I was right, so there!

Leslie was anxious to take some pictures of the market, but Ghanaians don’t usually like for people to do that, so she just bought something and then took the vendor’s picture. That worked out fine. One guy, who was carrying a string of dead rats and mice was willing to take a little gratuity in exchange for the picture… guess Leslie didn’t need a dead rat. Just kidding. He was selling rat poison. But it was pretty funny, in a gruesome kind of way.

After the rat guy, it was getting too hot and too crowded, so we made our way back to the car, battled the Friday funeral traffic, and within an hour we were back to our little hamlet. We arrived home dirty, tired, sweaty, smelly (at least, I was), slightly sunburned and with a blazing headache (again, me). Tema, home sweet home.

Alex's great HBA1C! 6.0% Beat that!

Last week, Alex had to go to the lab for her HBA1C test. We went to do the blood draw on Tuesday and picked up the results on Thursday. For the uninitiated, the HBA1C shows how well insulin and sugar levels are maintained over the previous 3 month period. When Alexandra was diagnosed, her HBA1C was 14.7%. Anything over 10% is poor diabetes management, and all diabetics strive for numbers in the single digits.

Well, drum roll please, Alex's HBA1C was 6.0%!! That is almost as good as mine! (Non-diabetics are usually between 4% and 5%.) Granted, she's still in her honeymoon, so her own body is helping by kicking in a little insulin. But, it means that we're on top of this, and with God's help, we'll stay on top of it.

We go back for another test in December, and hopefully we can stay in that very nice range.

When we saw Alex's doctor on Friday, her jaw dropped so fast and far it nearly hit the desk! I am convinced it's because most locals don't have the tools and means (i.e. money) to keep their kids in range.

On a side note, meters donated by many many people have finally arrived in Ghana and I should be collecting them next week. Dr. Renner will have them in her hands by mid-October when she returns from holiday. I hope that in this small way, we are well on our way to helping other Ghanaian children achieve great HBA1C tests, just like Alex's!

There are other children with Type 1 Diabetes in Ghana! Who knew?

Late Thursday afternoon, we met with a support group of other parents of children with diabetes here in Ghana. There weren’t a lot of people, but there were enough children there for Alexandra to finally understand that she’s not in it alone. The ages of the children ranged from 1 up to 14 years old. Some of them came with their mothers, fathers, aunties and in one case, grandfather. Not all of the individuals spoke English, some of them were clearly from remote villages, but I thought it heartening that they came all the way to Accra, battling crowded trotros with crazy drivers and long waits in traffic jams, to be a part of this group.

The meeting started out with Dr. Renner asking all of the children to introduce themselves – their name, age, school and how long they’d been “friends” with Dr. Renner. Again, the range was broad, Alexandra and 3 other children were all newly diagnosed, within the last 4 months, and a few of them had been with her for 10 years already.

The first guest of the day was really the most encouraging. Nashir is a 49 year old gentleman, of Indian descent, but born and raised in Ghana. At the age of 7, he was diagnosed with diabetes. He told of how difficult it was as a child, how he had lost almost half of his weight due to incorrect diagnoses for 4 months, and finally a doctor at the Military Hospital saying, “Hmmm, could this be diabetes?” He offered such encouragement, maybe not so much to the children who were busying themselves with the free food that Dr. Renner had begun handing out, but the parents were enthralled. He looked fit, trim and healthy, and his outlook on diabetes – as a disorder, not a disease – gave us all hope and reassurance. It is possible to live a long and healthy life, even here in Ghana!

The doctor was talking about nutrition, and I realized that she was aware of the (mis?)information from the dieticians because she indicated that children shouldn’t be restricted to a “finger” of this or “two fingers” of that, which is the way the dieticians describe the amount of food to eat. She understood that children need to eat to grow. With that in mind, she started passing food around. Oh boy.

Just prior to the start of the meeting, Alexandra had polished off half a dozen crackers and a small juice box. She really didn’t need all this food now, but I couldn’t deprive her, because everything looked so nice. First, juice boxes and then individual trays of fruit were handed out to the kids. Alex had both. Then they passed around sandwiches which we were told were “healthy” – consisting of tuna fish, lettuce and tomato on white bread. It looked nice, but Alex preferred the two meat pies that were handed out to the parents! So, she gobbled that down instead. Then cream crackers were passed around and some weird concoction that woman had donated – she claimed it was milk and juice mixed together, but it was warm and not so nice. A lot of whispering was going on as people sniffed and sipped, and I was reminded of one of the Little Rascals episodes… whisper whisper “don’t drink the milk, it’s poisoned.”

A clinical psychologist was on hand to talk to the children about difficulties, and the kids spoke of being upset that they couldn’t eat sweets like their friends could, and some were upset because they were singled out in school or being called “sickler,” which happened to one little girl who had passed out from low blood sugar. That little girl, well, I don’t think she’s got a glucose meter so she never knows how low she goes. Her mother saw me take out Alex’s meter to check her sugar at the end of the meeting, and asked to see it to show the girl’s grandmother.

The doctor singled me out to list some websites on the board which were very handy, and naturally I listed all of my favorites which have been so helpful to me. She also mentioned that a brochure would be available shortly and that Alexandra was going to be on the cover of it!

By the time we left it was almost 6:00 pm, and Alex was due for her insulin. She checked her sugar – 15.7!! – all that food, I guess. But I gave her her insulin and by the time we got home and she was ready for a snack, she was back to normal ranges.

I’m anxious for another parents’ meeting. Hopefully, by that time, I’ll have some donated meters to give out. These kids deserve a chance.

Korle Bu -- Nights 4 and 5 and Finally, Home

Let me forewarn you. This is a long post, so if you've got to use the bathroom or need to refresh your drink, go do it now.

Nights 4 and 5 at Korle Bu were really more of the same, except we we no longer had the room to ourselves. A little boy named Issah was put into the bed next to us -- not sure what was wrong with him, though he did need to be given blood at one point. He cried and cried each time they had to hook him up to the bag. The mother was told that he would be in the hospital for 5 to 6 weeks. WEEKS!!! After the doctors left, I heard her moaning to herself, that she was going to die. You've got to understand, at Korle Bu, the parent is also the nurse, and aide and everything else a child needs. No doubt, she was worried about how she was going to exist in the hospital with her son for that long, basically abandoning every other family member in the process. I learned from her later that this was her youngest child (he was about 5), so the others were home being cared for by someone other than she. I'm sure she was also worried about how much something like that was going to cost.

As I said previously, the "amenity ward" had no amenities... just beds separated by curtains (donated by Angel Trust which was embroidered on them in big gold letters!), a small fridge and a sink in the corner. No television, no toys, nothing at all.

Alex and I were lucky because we had the laptop, so when Issah wasn't sleeping or being tended to, we drew the curtains open, turned the laptop around so they could see, and we all watched the Wizard of Oz (yes, again!) and Sponge Bob cartoons. It kept the kids quiet at least.

By the time we were ready to be discharged on Monday, we waited for the bill to be presented. And waited, and waited and waited. By 1:00 pm, no bill, and Sly was getting annoyed, and the kids were hungry. So, we told the nurse we'd be back on Friday for Alex's check-up, and take care of the bill then. Fortunately, they let us go, but for parents who appear not to have the financial means they wouldn't release them. Trust me on that; those parents would have to stay until the bill was settled. Oh, before I forget, the bill was for (equivalent) $78 for 5 nights, and some medical supplies (I.V. hook ups) and we were given credit for the saline we didn't use and gave to the doctor.

Now, even though we'd been in the hospital for 5 days, we still hadn't seen a nutritionist about Alex's food, nor had we been taught how to use the insulin pen. So we left, and figured we'd figure our way through it. And, of course, we have.

Friday we returned for Alex's check-up, and the doctor was pleased with her blood sugar numbers which showed a nice decline. Then she sent us off to the nutritionist. That was a complete joke. With all due respect to the nutritionists, they haven't a single clue as to what a Type 1 diabetic child needs. The tip off to me should have been the fact that Alex was the only child in the clinic, for the whole 2 hours that we were there.

When we went into the nutrition clinic, there was a room full of adults of all ages and sizes waiting to see the nutritionist. Sly fortunately bullied his way in and got someone to take Alex's weight and fill out her card. Then we waited and waited and waited (again). Over an hour passed before we were set to see the nutritionist. Poor Alex was starving by this point, and I kept passing her crackers and juice to eat, but she really wanted lunch and she was due.

We gave the lady a note from the doctor, which basically said that Alex is now in your care, please bear in mind that she is a child and she needs to eat to grow. Very nice. But, who cares what the doctor says. Not the nutritionist.

She told us Alex could have a piece of bread with butter for breakfast, and some tea or milo with a teaspoon of sugar. She could have a ball of kenkey or banku, she should eat a bowl of fufu. She should not take dairy, except for a few tablespoons of condensed milk and then limit intake to only 2 or 3 times a week. She should eat porridge. She should eat green vegetables like kontomire and spinach. She shouldn't eat more than a tin of meat (the tin being the size of an anchovy can). She shouldn't eat eggs more than twice a week.

Well, we listened politely to all she had to say. Thanked her for her time, and them promptly dismissed all that. How in the hell could Alex grow, much less THRIVE, on so little food?!

Here's my take on this lady. She may know her stuff, but only as it relates to overweight adults or children with type 2 diabetes, who need to diet anyway.

So, we basically ignored her instructions. I went online, found a wonderful support group at www.childrenwithdiabetes.com, and learned that Alex can eat anything she wants, as long as her insulin is covered. Meaning, I have to give her enough food and carbohydrates to support the amount of insulin she gets, so that her blood sugar doesn't fall too low.

On the day of the meeting with the nutritionist, Alex weighed 19 kg (that's about 42 lbs and below the 10th percentile for weight). As of today (almost 3 months since the diagnosis), Alex weighs 23 kg (slightly more than 50 lbs). When we went to see Alex's doctor last month, her doctor was so happy to see that her weight increased. She is now probably at the weight she should be, for her age... I just checked, and she's just below the 50th percentile. YIPPEE!!!

Her HBA1C was 14.7 a week after diagnosis. The HBA1C blood test is an indicator of how well a person's insulin needs are being met over the previous 3 months. A non-diabetic person would be around 5. There is a scale, and for a diabetic, between 6 and 7 is ideal, above 7 means you may have to tweak your insulin management, above 8 means you need a bit more tweaking, above 9% to 11% you've been doing a poor job of managing your insulin. Anything above 12% means you're doing a really crappy job and you better get help fast. Alex was 14.7%. Her next HBA1C is next week, so we'll see how she's doing.

I've been looking at Alex's blood sugar levels and averaging them, and she's down to 5.9 (106 on the U.S. scale); she was higher than 33.3 on diagnosis or up in the U.S. 600s range. We have up days and down days, and days that we can't figure out why she's high or low. But we're managing them, day to day, meal to meal.

She started school on Tuesday (grade 3!), and was entirely on her own. She had learned to check her own sugar level over the summer, so that we didn't have to leave her meter with the librarian, as we originally thought. She has shown some amazing independence, really. She's been on the low side each time she checks her sugar, first day was 2.8 (50 U.S.) and 3.2 (58 U.S.) yesterday, but she knows to eat her glucose tabs when she's low and drink some juice. We have to figure out a better breakfast solution to keep her higher until lunch time, cause her snack is not carrying her over well. Today, I tried 1/2 cup of Lucozade with breakfast, so we'll see how that works.

Today, we're off to Korle Bu again. This time, not for a check-up, but for a meeting with other parents of children with Type 1 diabetes. The doctor has realized that, in me, at least, she has found a very vocal, proactive parent, and I think she's impressed with Alex's progress. So, this meeting is a way to give the other parents some guidance or encouragement, from a parent's perspective. I'm looking forward to it. I hope I can help.

Oh, and after the medical injustice posting earlier, you will not believe the positive response to that! So many people have offered to help Ghanaian children with Type 1 diabetes. The parents forum at the childrenwithdiabetes website really rallied behind me, and we've got about 30 brand new glucose meters and some strips heading over here soon, courtesy of Leanne's wonderful husband... you all remember Leanne, right? Leanne is an American Mom in Africa, who had the best stories of life in Ghana. I'm still waiting for her to start blogging about life in Texas, cause I really miss her creative craziness.

Another poster to that blog post works for a company in the U.S. which produces Lantus insulin, and she has been communicating with me and with Alex's doctor and trying to coordinate something between the doctors at Children's Hospital in D.C. and Dr. Renner at Korle Bu. Keep your fingers crossed that soon, these children here in Ghana will have the same support as children with diabetes in the rest of the world.

Medical Injustice: Don't get Type 1 Diabetes in Ghana (unless you're rich!)

Before I get into Night 4 of our hospital stay, I need to take a minute here to vent about injustice; specifically, the injustice perpetrated by medical product manufacturers and pharmaceutical companies to third world countries, such as Ghana.

Alexandra, as a Type 1 diabetic, has two very basic but very specific lifelong needs. She needs to check her blood glucose levels several times every day, and she needs to have insulin administered via multiple daily injections.

Alexandra is lucky. Not because she has Type 1 diabetes, but because she has parents who have the means and access to the things that she needs, in order to keep her alive. Not to draw too fine a point on this, without regular glucose monitoring and daily insulin injections, Alexandra will die.

I and my husband and our family will do all that we can to prevent that. We will ensure that she has her glucose levels tested as often as necessary, sometimes 6 or 7 times a day. And she will have the insulin injections that she needs to bring high sugar levels down, at least twice a day, but sometimes more. And she will be provided with appropriate and nourishing food to ensure that she will grow and thrive. It’s a tricky balancing act, but we are more than up to the task. We have our most precious commodity to consider.

Not many Ghanaian kids with Type 1 diabetes are as lucky as Alexandra. I spoke with Alex’s doctor last week, and told her that I was receiving a lot of online support from a wonderful network of parents of children with diabetes. In fact, I told her, besides the advice and encouragement, we had been offered additional glucose meters so that Alexandra could have an extra to bring to school, and one we could keep for an emergency.

When I mentioned this, Dr. Renner pointed out that the majority of her T1 patients didn’t have the glucose meters, because their parents couldn’t afford it. The meter that we bought, as soon as we were told of Alexandra’s diagnosis, cost equivalent $62. The meter strips, absolutely necessary meter strips, cost $40 for 50 strips. The lancets for the finger pricks are $20 for a box of 100. The insulin was about $17 per vial. We paid cash for all these things, and we continue to buy the strips on a regular basis. So far, I estimate, we’ve gone through about 250 strips. That would be close to $225.

Now, Dr. Renner told us, that because the parents can’t afford a meter, they don’t monitor their children daily. If they have an extra cedi or two, they might take the child to a local chemist who can check the sugar level there, for a fee. But usually, they wait and hope for the best, and if the child falls very sick, either due to low blood sugar (too much insulin) or high blood sugar (not enough insulin), then they take the kid to the hospital and admit him. It’s actually less expensive to admit a child to the hospital for a couple of days than it is to buy a meter and the needed strips.

What a sin. In the United States and elsewhere, the companies that manufacture glucose meters are giving these out free, like candy, to diabetics. Several parents on the support board had two, three or even five free meters in their house and were kind and generous enough to have them sent to me, through my Mom in N.J. We plan to donate these to the hospital.

Insurance in the U.S. covers diabetic needs, though it varies state to state. In Canada, it’s covered under social medicine. In the Ireland, and I suspect the U.K., they’re also covered. A friend of mine from Ireland told me that meter strips are free there; her husband is diabetic, so she knows. Ghana has National Health Insurance, but it only covers insulin, not the expensive strips. I estimate, in Alexandra’s lifetime (which I hope will be a very very long one), she may use 100,000 glucose meter strips. Isn’t that a frightening statistic? What typical Ghanaian family can afford that? None is the answer.

Don’t third world countries suffer the same medical tragedies as other developed countries? Don’t we have enough injustice here, in all other aspects of life? Shame on LifeScan and Bayer, and all of those other international glucose meter companies… couldn’t you donate a couple of these meters to the hospitals here? No, why not? I’ll tell you why -- because it’s not profitable, and that’s their bottom line. Not helping humanity, it’s to make a Buck or a Pound or a Euro.

Don’t average Ghanaian kids with Type 1 diabetes deserve the same chance to live as Alexandra?

Barb

P.S. I want to personally thank the wonderful people (especially you, Adjoa in Vancouver, B.C. and her sister here in Ghana who forwarded my blog) who have donated meters and strips, for either Alexandra's personal use, or as a donation to the teaching hospital for Type 1 diabetic kids. God bless you all.

Night #3: Rainy night in Accra or "Yikes, the hospital roof is leaking!"

Saturday night saw a great big thunderstorm, and let me tell you, we can use all the rain we can get. We're still experiencing a slight problem with the water levels in our hydro dam, so a little bit rain means fewer "lights off" scenarios.

Except, that the roof leaks. About midnight, right after I'd done Alex's sugar test, I could hear rain outside the window, which is normal, but could also hear it outside the door to the room, which is not normal. Because her level was too high, I had to go tell the nurse who'd have to come and give her a fast acting insulin. I open the door into the hallway, and step into a puddle of water about two inches deep, and about 10 feet in diameter. I'm so glad I had flip-flops, and not my fuzzy bunny slippers on.

This, apparently, is par for the course, as the maintenance man tells me the next morning. "We complain and complain, but no one cares... there's no money to fix it." I can't imagine this ever happening in the states. What a mess. All of the next day, there were half a dozen buckets spread along the corridor to catch the water that must have pooled on the roof.

Alexandra is excited today, because her brothers are coming to see her for the first time. They come in quietly, toting bags of milk and apples for Alex (and Diet Coke and Snickers bars for me), and lunch from a fast food restaurant at the Accra Mall... Barcelo's chicken sandwich is to die for, it is sooo juicy! Alex gets a grilled chicken drumstick and fries (chip, we call it here), and wonders where her candy, juice box and toy are? This is gonna be a hard habit to break.

Mike brings some of his toys for him and Alex to play with, and Sean brings his apron. Yes, you read that right. One of Sean's classes is sewing, and he has brought me his apron to help hem. Final exams are the following week. He's asking for help from the wrong person, let me tell you. I failed home ec in high school. Mrs. Tierney just hated me. It takes me about 90 minutes to finish the hemming (I have got to get needles with bigger eyes... it took me 5 minutes just to thread each one!). Finally, finished, it looks fairly neat and the stitches are about as crappy as Sean's, so the teacher will never know an adult helped. Ha!

While I'm playing Susie Homemaker, Sean is messing around on my laptop; he some how gets wifi (how come I couldn't?) and is quick to jump on Runescape (do all kids obsess about this game?). Then, within minutes, there's a fight for the login rights to the game.

Poor Sly had to leave, and is running the diabetes-related errands again. Today he's on a hunt for the insulin pen and cartridges. Parking is horrible in this city, so he grabs a taxi and heads for Accra Central. No luck at the doctor recommended chemist shop. No luck at three other pharmacies he tried either. But Sly got a winner of a taxi driver who tells him he knows one that might have it, so off they go to Labone. Sure enough, the place has got the pen and the cartridges. As it turns out, this shop is 2 minutes from Sly's mother's house... if Sly hadn't been trying to avoid going past the family house, he might have been there earlier, but that's neither here nor there.

By the time he gets back to the hospital, it's starting to get late, and they all need to head back home. Sly cannot drive at night, and night falls very very quickly in the tropics. Alex gets a little depressed watching them leave her behind; I know she wishes she could go home, too, but the numbers are still way too high.

When they get home, Sly calls to tell me they arrived safe and sound, and were just getting ready to eat dinner. Then he tells me that Sean ironed a hole into his apron, right on the part I just finished stitching. He was so upset, he went and hid in the bathroom for 20 minutes (at 13, he's too big to cry in front of his dad, you know how it is). Another home economics failure... must be in the genes.

Pretty soon, Alex and I are back into our regular nighttime routine of watching the Wizard of Oz, and eating sugar-free oatmeal cookies and drinking a glass of milk before bed, and then it's off to la-la land. For one of us, at least.

Once Alex falls asleep, I decide to go down to the shower and get myself ready for bed. I hear water running (unless it's my imagination, now, since I've been hearing drip drip drip all day long), and push open the door to the "amenity ward" shower, and there's a soapy naked man in there! Oops! I can only see the back of him, but I can tell it's the maintenance man. I open the door and he's apologizing. "Don't worry," I tell him, "it's more your shower than mine. Sorry." The poor guy, I probably embarrassed the hell out of him. Didn't bother me, though. Hey, if you've seen one naked black butt, you've seem 'em all.

Korle Bu: Day 2/Night 2

This morning, I beg the nurses to take the IV drip out of Alex’s hand for a little while, so that she can have a shower. Now, I’ve already been down the hall (at about 4:30 am since I couldn’t sleep) and had my morning shower. The water is cold, in case you hadn’t guessed, there’s no hot water heater here. But it’s a refreshing cold, you know, so it didn’t bother me. Yeah, and tofu tastes like chicken. But I can’t subject that to Alex, so I heat up water in a kettle and pour it into our shower bucket, so she can at least have a bucket shower in warm water. I realize that it will be a bit tricky for her to have a shower but not get water on the bandage, so we wrap her hand up in a plastic bag and I wash her down. She’s mostly clean. Good enough.

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The blood sugar meter we’re using is a OneTouch Ultra 2, and I assume it must be fairly new on the market, because the nurses have never seen this one before. No one knows how to work it. So, they ask me. They’re asking me? How the hell do I know how it works? I take the instruction booklet, and try to figure it out myself. Settings, time, readings… okay, I think I’ve got it. For the first 24 hours, the nurses come in and get the meter from me, then do the test on Alex. I’m forewarned, though; today I’m going to start learning how to do this myself. Guess I’ve got no choice, unless I take a nurse home to live with us.

The nurses come in the early afternoon to teach me how to take Alex’s blood sugar readings and how to give her an injection. This ought to be good. A group of about 4 of them stand over me to watch, it must be a pretty funny sight, or else it’s a slow day on the ward. Alex is biting her lip. I know she’s nervous, and I’m nervous, but this has got to be done.

Okay, wipe off the finger tip, put the strip into the meter… no the other way, check the code. Wait, where’s my glasses? I can’t see without my glasses (it sucks getting old). Check the code, what code? Oh, okay, that code. Got it, match. Now prick her finger. Damn, I wish I didn’t have to do this. Jab. Blood. Good, that’s what I was hoping to get. Enough for the reading? Counting down: 5-4-3-2-1. Success!! She’s HI. So what else is new?

Now the insulin shot. I’m an old pro at shots, or so I think. I used to be an IVF patient, and sometimes had to do this kind of stuff to myself. I’ve got to first draw air into the syringe up to the 4 unit mark (God, the markings on this thing are so tiny!), then inject the air into the vial while it’s upside down. Then, I’ve got to draw the 4 units into the syringe. Remove the syringe, wipe down Alex’s arm and inject. No problem. I can do that. Like riding a bicycle. It all comes back to you, right? Except, I do it wrong.

Back in the old IVF days (15+ years ago, mind you), you kind of made a dart throwing motion to get the needle past the thick skin of your butt. I did this to Alex’s skinny little upper arm. She yelped and the nurse oh, oh, ohed, and I knew I screwed up. Gently, gently. Pinch the skin and insert the needle a bit shallowly. Shit. I hurt my daughter. She’s rubbing her arm and shooting daggers out of her eyes. Is this going to get easier?

The nurses depart (with a story to laugh about for at least a week or so), and Alex is apparently already over the needle fiasco, asking me what’s for lunch. God, isn’t it great how kids bounce back? Well, not sure what lunch is going to be, since Sly hasn’t gotten here yet. The fridge is stocked with fruit, milk, yogurt and cheese, and we’ve got corn flakes and cream crackers on standby. After the prerequisite 30 minute after injection wait, I make Alex up a plate of everything. She eats ravenously, and it’s really nice to see, since she had no appetite over the past few weeks.

Sly finally arrives back at noon, but he can’t stay that long. We have to send him on another errand for more insulin, and he has to go to two labs for the test vials for more of Alex’s blood work. Normally, the patient would go to the lab, make the payment and then they’d take the sample and run the test. With Alex hooked up to the IV, Sly had to do the preliminaries, then we had to get a doctor on the ward to draw the blood, then Sly had to deliver the samples back to their respective labs. Poor Sly. But I am so thankful he’s here, otherwise I’d have to do it. By the time he comes back from running all around the hospital grounds, its 2:30 pm. His cell phone rings. Problem. Its our taxi driver who calls to say that because it’s Friday the boys got out of school early. Crap. We totally forgot. We tell Ekow to take the boys to a local café and let them have something to drink and Sly will be home as soon as he can. Oh, well. They’ll live.

Before he leaves, Sly goes off to get us some food, fried fish, kenkey and white rice. That’s dinner for both of us, plus her fruit, milk, cheese, etc. She’s turning into a little pig, but it’s good.

Alex’s blood sugar levels keep saying HI, and the nurses think that maybe the meter is broken, but when she’s tested on another meter, they both read the same. I guess we’ll just have to wait for the drip to flush her out more.

Another long night is ahead of us, but at least this time we know what to expect. Or so I think. About 2:00 am, Alex wakes up and says she has to use the toilet. Not the bedpan, but the toilet, she’s got to go. Now, she’d been constipated for a couple of days, and nothing seemed to loosen her up at all. I’m thinking maybe all this drip is softening the system up, you know. So, off we trot down the hall to the bathroom, and we stop at the nurses’ desk to get unhooked from the drip.

She goes in and sits and sits and sits. Nothing. I’m waiting outside, poking my head in every few minutes. Nothing. Ten or fifteen minutes of nothing. I suggest she forget about it and try later. No such luck. She absolutely refuses. She says, “It’s right there and it’s got to come out and I’m not leaving until it does.” She’s almost in tears. Thirty minutes later, and she’s still sitting there. Finally, I hear noises, and its not just grunting and heavy breathing. Persistence pays off. I retrieve the water to flush, and she gets reattached to her drip, then we’re back in the room washing our hands and sanitizing and she goes back to sleep with a peaceful look on her face. Cue the James Brown, “I Feel Good” music.

Good night.