It seems that I am allergic to Ghanaian amoxycilin. Ah, well.
I arrived in Ghana with a cough and still have it two weeks in so decided recently that I should probably take medicine to kick it. My mom had been worried beforehand that I might spread my cough to the children, but their immune systems are steel compared to our alumninum-foil susceptibilities. Michelle, our resident nurse among the volunteers until her departure this past Monday, recommended amoxycilin for treatment. She warned that the pharmacy tends to heavily overmedicate by English or US standards so I selected the dosage of one of the teenage girls at the orphanage rather than one of the olidest boys. (We treat their infections with amoxycilin too when appropriate.)
Medicine here, whether for a minor infection or for malaria, is entirely prescription-free. Hospitals and clinics will write down prescriptions for patients, but prescriptions are by no means necessary in the act of medicine acquisition. Tamar and I simply walked the ten minutes to Dodowa pharmacy, asked for 30 amoxycilin tablets, got the pills, and paid. The price? One cedi, 50 pesewas (about $1 US) for the entire course of antibiotics. Malaria medicine is the most expensive I know of thus far, a whopping 4 cedis (under $3 US) for a three-day treatment for a malaria-infected individual. The low cost is good for us, because volunteers pay for all of the kids’ medicines ourselves.
The anti-cough plan was going great until this morning, its third, when I woke up very itchy with what appeared to be mosquito bites on my lower abdomen. Closer examination in the villa suite’s actual mirror (what a novelty) revealed that I had about 25 of these ‘bites’ on my stomach and sides with an unknown quantity spread across the back of my head and neck. After a quick self-diagnosis, I spent much of the rest of the stretch of time from 4:30 to 6 AM using cold water to soothe the hives. When I woke up for the day at 8:30, the spots had morphed into vast raised pink patches. By midday, as last evening’s dose cleared my system, the patches had faded and rejoined the rest of my skin, remaining only slightly pinker than their surrounds.
This allergic reaction, though important in my general future well-being, is much less notable here than it would be in the States. Both Sophie and Niki are on antibiotics for skin infections, Niki’s foot one (which she came to Ghana with a milder manifestation of) having kept her house-bound for two days. Tamar, who joined us this morning from a visit to a friend in Accra, is just now finishing up her meds for typhoid. Back at the volunteer house, Josh’s foot infection used to be far worse than Niki’s ever was. After two malaria-free months, three of the WORCSA kids have had malaria in the past two weeks. This is Africa.
Our weekend retreat, Big Milly’s Backyard at Kokrobite beach, a volunteer oasis on the coast, continues to be jarringly idyllic. After a late breakfast (I enjoyed an actual fruit platter with pineapple, mango, and banana; we all rejected the papaya), we headed out to the beach to soak up the tropical sun. I didn’t stay out as long as my beach-pro companions, but loved spending some time standing amidst the crashing waves at the other edge of the Atlantic Ocean. The hot sand, warm sun, and cool water were a perfect combination for our tropical getaway.
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| Relaxing in a hammock |
I’ve realized that part of the challenge of sinking into the Kokrobite thatched-hut luxury is the same challenge I faced post-AmeriCorps of not doing. One minute away, a white girl with long dreadlocks naps in a hammock. Ten minutes away, Ghanaians go about their lives, stepping over unnoticed litter on rutted-dirt roads as they buy and sell goods from baskets on heads and streetside vendors. Three hours away, our children laugh and play, scream and quarrel, gather firewood and wash mattresses. I love getting to spend a weekend in this tropical paradise with wonderful friends, but I’ll definitely be ready to return to reality tomorrow. Ultimately, I much prefer real Africa. I much prefer our children.
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I made a new friend on the bus from Medina to Kokrobite junction. Emily and Sarah were sitting in the first row with Niki and Sophie directly behind them so I settled in just behind Niki in the third row. As the bus filled (Ghanaian public transportation departs when full), a woman settled in first partly on top of then fully next to me. I quickly learned that she’s a kindergarten teacher who thought I looked interesting. We spent the entire almost-two-hour journey asking each other questions about our respective cultures and learning many, many things. Among the many things I learned, especially about the Ghanaian education system, was the following rather baffling fact.
The school headmistress decides which grade each teacher will teach. My new friend Rita, for example, teaches KG (kindergarten) right now and dislikes maths. If the headmistress decided that form 8 (8th grade) would be a better fit for Rita, she could simply announce the switch for next year. Now, it’d suddenly be up to Rita to learn all the maths in the form 8 curriculum she’s been handed. One issue, she noted, is that teachers are often understandably very hesitant to admit they don’t understand the material they’re meant to be teaching. The tendency, human-naturewise, is to teach less loved material hazily rather than ask another teacher for a thorough pre-lesson lesson. It’s hard to imagine Rita trying to teach maths with her open aversion to the subject. A good headmistress makes a huge difference here.
Rita asked my whether white people get fake nails in the States (yes), if Americans have a word comparable to obruni for blacks (not so much), and whether I want to marry a black man (amor vincit omnia). After the final query, she encouraged me to try to find a Ghanaian man, though admitted two weeks might be a bit short to do so. I’m not the only volunteer to be thus encouraged; many of us have also received outright proposals from various recently-met Ghanaian men. The relationship culture is very different here.
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