I’m awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6 am. I leap
under the my cold ‘shower’ (a single stream of water), throw on some crumpled
clothes and head straight for the little store to buy toilet paper and powdered
milk to replenish the essentials supplies we ran out of at midnight.
Sipping coffee and munching toast, while outside Heaven has
opened, pouring not blessings, but heavy, show-no-mercy rain. Grace, her long
blonde hair in a neat plait and emerald green nurse’s uniform covered by a
waterproof jacket, steps resolutely out the door to catch a tro tro through the
mud to the hospital, some miles away.
Meanwhile a big contingent of us had planned get the boat
across to Maranatha to inspect the building project and look around the village
as the kids are on a random holiday. The rain is a little off-putting. Should
we still go? Yes. Of course we will, despite the reluctant boatman’s
objections!
By the time the boat carves a wedge in the soft shore, the
drizzle has cleared and the sun bursts through the blanket of storm clouds,
turning the hot, damp air into a sauna.
A solitary muscular labourer is stretched on a ladder
working on the stark frame of grey concrete blocks that form four large squares
for future classrooms and a smaller section designed optimistically to become a
functional office and library.
We stand around and watch in awe as two strong women, one
with a baby strapped to her back, carry heavy loads of sand in dishes on their
heads to pass to our man on the ladder.
I take loads of photos as I want to inspire UK builders and
tradesmen to come and assist with this inspiring project that will transform
the lives and futures of these children. In monetary terms, only £10,000 will
complete the build; a small sum compared to the exorbitant cost of building in
well-off countries. Funds stretch a long way and achieve so much in poor
countries.
Elisabeth leads a tour of the village weaving us through a
patchwork of thatched roof huts, past roaming goats, hens huddled in stick
enclosures, under towering coconut and palm tree, a few scruffy veggies plots,
old women sitting languidly on logs, children skipping beside us or carried
aloft on the boys’ shoulders and the girls’ hips.
The photojournalist in me emerges big-time and I’m going
nuts snapping wildly at these exotic images that will impress editors, if not
my friends on facebook!
We end up outside the rickety school classrooms where a
traditional dance class in underway to the steady rhythm of drums. A talented
young village man is demonstrating complex moves to the agile youngsters and
pushing them to perfection.
We flop in the shade and watch and sway mesmerised as the
little kids grab our cameras and indulge their creativity by taking shots at
all angles!
The entertainment is spontaneous so we go with the flow and
soak up this priceless quality time with the laughing, happy kids.
The return journey across the river is scorching. On land again, we trudge through the orange earth for what seems like forever. As usual, rivulets of unladylike ‘perspiration’ are flowing down my grimy face and soaking my top and I’m feeling like a wrung-out rag. Battling these harsh conditions has been a challenge but so character-building (I keep telling myself!)
The other girls had warned us new recruits about him at our
induction.
And this sweaty Friday I get to see the legendary Testicle
Man for myself.
This poor fellow wanders the streets wearing only a t-shirt
and sporting a testicle the size of a watermelon. While freakish and worthy of
a place in the Guinness Book of Records for the biggest ball of all time, his
swollen appendage is clearly a serious medical condition, most likely the
result of a rampant tumour. Why wouldn’t he go to the hospital for help?
All leering and sniggering aside, I can only imagine how
painful, immensely uncomfortable and shameful it must be and he deserves
compassion and proper medical treatment.
I reckon Testicle Man is just the sort of shocking case that
weird TV show Embarrassing Bodies would relish. I might just give the producer
a lead and get those dauntless doctors on the plane to Ghana! And give this man
back his dignity!
This afternoon our zany household is breaking up. Dedicated
medical student Hannah is flying home and six others are excitedly heading off
on a weekend trip to a tourist hotspot. That leaves seven of us up for a night
out on the town!
Grace and Elisabeth throw their long legs over the backs of
shiny motorbikes and zoom off into the black night while Sam and James, Kara
and Kristel and I opt for the relative safety of a cab to ‘Charlies’. Or so we
thought until our driver gets lost and takes us on a Magical Mystery Tour of
the back blocks of the neighbourhood.
Finally we arrive and find Grace and Liz at the sprawling
complex, with shimmering pool and acres of decking, overlooks the inky black
river. We sit in weak light under a pagoda, the only guests in the vast expanse
of the empty holiday resort. We order beer and pizza and wait and wait and
wait.
Hours later, beyond hunger, the waiter appears with our
meals and we chomp though another over-dose of fattening carbs. I’m searching
for the mushrooms promised on the menu but find only bits of green peppers!
This lack of fresh vegetables has made us all grateful for
the abundance of food choices we have in Britain and other developed countries.
The youngies are appreciating their mums’ home cooking in a whole new way!
The cabbie takes us direct to our door and I climb into my
Girl Guide bunk for the last time as tomorrow I will say goodbye, with a
wistful pang, to the MAD House and my new MAD friends.
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