Ghana blog

AMY MCMANUS' WEBSITE
I am pleased to write you this after returning from the Upper West Region of Ghana, Africa with two youths and two other adults. I thank you all for your prayers regarding our safety and health on the trip. I especially thank all of the donors and benefactors who helped make this trip possible. Although it is difficult to find words to describe the amazing journey we took, I shall try to impart to you some of the main events and the feelings they evoked.
I need to first thank Father Peter for hosting us and being our protector, guide, and friend as we traveled across the country of Ghana. Any of us who know Father Peter—his warmth, his humor, his generosity, would find all of those traits expanded as we watched his personality overflow in his home country. He is a remarkable man and our love for him increased exponentially with each passing day. On behalf of my fellow travelers, I say to Father Peter, “barka!”
This kind of trip is difficult physically, mentally, and emotionally. Nearly all of us had several bouts of heat exhaustion, stomach issues, and severe carsickness. The word “infrastructure” has taken on a whole new meaning for me. It is the source of any economic hardship or triumph in the country. There are few traffic lights in the cities. Imagine the chaos of leaving Ralph Wilson stadium after a Bills game, multiply it by ten thousand, and add about five people per car to account for the vendors who weave in and out of traffic trying to sell their wares. This is what you experience when entering or exiting the capital city of Accra. Likewise a trip to the north that for us would take about eight hours took fourteen hours on one occasion and eighteen on another. 90% of the roads in the north country are dirt and filled with enormous potholes. In hindsight this hardship was necessary in order to experience, even partially, what the average Ghanaian undergoes on a daily basis. The phrase first used by Fr. Peter (a long, humorous story!) of “more or less” became our motto, as any traveling done in Ghana cannot be timed accurately. There are too many factors to take in, and out of necessity one had to learn the art of patience immediately. “How long before we get to Damango, Father?” “Four Hours.” “More or less?” Laughter and a nod. “More or less.”
Our first twenty-four hours were spent in the city, and after the day-long journey north we met Father Cyracus Tang, pastor of Our Lady of the Nativity, his assistant Father James (a gentle soul who lovingly nursed one of us suffering from heat exhaustion for nearly two hours the following day), and various seminarians and staff. We were warmly greeted by the standard Ghanaian “You are welcome,” fed, and escorted to our guest house (a ten minute drive).
Our first welcome at the presbytery (rectory) was an emotional experience. I found myself weeping as I thanked them for welcoming us…within the first few days their loving hearts had already touched me deeply. Father Peter, ever wise, exhorted each of us to come out of our comfort zones and reach out in conversation with each other. There had been much staring and hesitancy—fear mixed with excitement on both sides and his instructions were needed. We were able to take the leap and shared stories about America, our families, and our Faith. Their incredible smiles, sense of humor, intellect, and friendliness quickly melted away any anxiety we had been feeling. We were presented with traditional goat soup—an honor and an indication that you are “most welcome.”
Through the entire week, we were taken care of by Peter and Francisca Kuuire. Peter was our ever-faithful landlord who made sure the generator was on to run our fans, the transportation was on its way, and that much-loved items such as popcorn were occasionally delivered! A sweet man devoted to his parish, humble and jovial “Mr. Peter” was a joy.
Personally I can say I learned the most about this country through Francisca—who through much hardship and life-changing events remains faithful to God and is an exemplary model of the Ghanaian woman’s typical dedication to serving others with self-sacrifice. Many of the women keep their emotions in check, but as we we were leaving, she held my hand and I could see unshed tears in her eyes. She adopted Hannah and Chris as her children, and I declared her as my sister. It is amazing that one human being can love another human being with such intensity after only one week. Her daughter, Rita, came home from college for holiday within a few days of our visit, and we were able to begin a great friendship with her. Rita called a few days ago…Francisca unfortunately ended up in the hospital shortly after we left, stricken with Malaria. She is recovering but please keep her in your prayers.
In those first few days, we met the elders and chiefs of the surrounding villages. We were given a gift (again a goat!) and warmly greeted. Most notably, one of the elders said to me, “I have nothing to give you, no bread, no rice, no goat. I am happy to even have shoes. All I can give you is my faith. I am nothing, but today I am thinking, who am I that God would bless me with your presence here? Praised be to God.” I could not help but think of Elizabeth, greeting Mary: “Who am I that the Mother of my Lord should come to me?” When I returned to our room that evening I wept.
Mono-theism and Christianity are infused into Ghanaian culture. In Kumasi or Accra, you see shops called “Jesus Saves Beauty Salon” or “God Forgives Auto Parts.” It is religious freedom in its purest form, with no lobbying groups or governing agencies forcing political correctness or separation of church and state. Even the country’s official 50 Year Anniversary logo had the Ashanti symbol for “Except for God” imbedded in the “0.” This symbol could be seen in clothing, furniture, our room key rings—nearly everywhere. It means everything is nothing, except for God. It encompasses perfectly the Ghanaian heart.
Each day towards evening we were taken to different villages to be officially welcomed by the people. We were greeted with traditional song and dance, and each venue became more and more elaborate. Most notably, a group of girls at Pisie from the Children of Mary sang a song called “Empty Hands.” To sum it up, the people in these remote villages come to visitors with nothing to give but their love for God and each other. Again several of us were moved to tears. They may indeed
have empty hands, but their hearts are full—so full that their love overflowed into our hearts. More gifts followed: two hens, a rooster, eggs, gourd pottery and spoons, an altar cloth, and another goat. We especially enjoyed the Bawa dancers and the xylophone.
The first Mass we attended was a funeral. Thousands of villagers gathered in a field to mourn a sixty-year old woman who had perished suddenly from an asthma attack. Fr. Cyracus delivered a twenty-minute homily in the heat of midday sun. Fr. Cyracus is a passionate man—exuberant laughter and conversation are his hallmarks. Therefore, though he spoke in Dagaare, his preaching moved us deeply. You could sense in his voice that he was challenging his parishioners. You laughed when the listeners laughed. You could feel his love for God and his people. I found myself crying (as did another traveling companion) and we told him how much he inspired us. “You understood it?” “No, not a word!” More laughter.
Our welcoming Mass was incredible—you have not heard true worship music until you have participated in an African Mass—trumpets, xylophones, drums and singing with eerily beautiful harmonies with 1,000+ parishioners! Yet very reverent with a lot of bowing and incense. And the beauty of being Catholic is that even though not a word of it was in English, we could follow the Mass parts and place our hearts and minds into each prayer and song. Chris Walsh and Hannah Mikolajczyk were altar servers—Hannah being the first female server in the history of the parish. This was a great honor and she was very moved by the experience. Fr. Cyracus said, “when you come back, you will see girls on the altar, and it will all be because of you!” We were introduced to the parishioners at the conclusion of Mass, and afterwards were greeted by hundreds.
Life in the north country is rife with hardship. The agricultural communities had not gotten the rain they needed (this was also why the heat was unusually intolerable for us) and all they could do was pray that God would give them relief. Most of the villagers are up before 5AM and work in the heat until sunset, about 6:30PM. They toil for the most basic needs, and use everything with little waste. They thank God for their “abundant” blessings and get up the next day to start all over again. It was difficult to return home and see all of our “stuff.” I wonder who is better off…the physically impoverished or the spiritually impoverished? America is a great country, but as I told the group as they sent us off, if we had the hearts of Ghanaians, we could be immensely better.
I cannot underestimate the beauty of the children! They are joyous, faith-filled, generous, and strong physically and mentally. The Ghanaian education system, most especially the Catholic schools in the north country, is exceptional, far exceeding our own. At first the intense looks the people gave us (we were told some of them had never seen a white person, at least not up that close!) were disarming, but once you smiled or waved, their faces exploded into huge, toothy grins that would soften the hardest of hearts. The people have African birth names but are also given beautiful Christian (“known as”) names. We met some of the village boys: Polycarp, Felix, Brunus, Virtus, Virgil, Alex, David, and Isidore. And the girls: Isidore’s older sister, Sweet Irene and her baby Teresa, cousins and neighbors Charity, Agnes, Josephina, Evelyn, baby Francisca, and Benice. Benice, taken in by Francisca so she could go to school, had a beautiful singing voice but is very shy (and stubborn, Francisca told us!). She finally sang for me briefly with Irene accompanying, on our last day—a song about Jesus, of course.
Our send off with the Pastor, priests, seminarians, elders, staff, and sisters took its toll emotionally. Each group’s spokesperson gave heartfelt thanks and Fr. Peter implored each of us to build on this relationship and to continue to grow as co-disciples of Christ. We were given more gifts: beautiful, hand-made clothing and another altar cloth. Tears were shed, more goat soup was eaten (or attempted to eat!), laughter was abundant, we stepped inside for dinner, and then…
…it finally rained.
“God is good,” I said.
“All the time,” Rita added.
This visit was most certainly not about Americans bringing mission to Ghana. It was about the Ghanaians bringing mission to us. Due to their humility, they would deny this, but I can assure you we feel it most immensely. Any material riches we have are far surpassed by the spiritual and emotional riches of the people of Ko, Nandom, Pisie, and the surrounding communities. I wished I could bring each and every one of them back with me. With this trip and Fr. Peter’s blessing, I would like to adopt Our Lady of the Nativity in Ko as our sister Parish. I hope this is the beginning of a long and strong relationship where we are able to communicate regularly with the people of the north and establish connections that enable us to assist them materially. Most importantly, we can allow them to assist us spiritually. I can assure you that each of us can learn much from them—in ways we never imagined possible.
Finally I would like to say to all of our new friends: Francisca, Fr. Cyracus, Fr. James, Doris (the cook), Peter, Rita, Romulus, Elvis and his Father, Nicodemus, Andrus, Presca, Fernanda, the chiefs and elders, Sr. Johanna, Sr. Rosemary and the sisters, Francis, Fr. Jacob, Roland, Luke, Noel, Fr. Richard (ministering in South Africa whom we traveled with), Fr. Carlus, my hero Dr. Dekabo, Fr. Sylvester and Fr. Peter C. (thanks for the American food!), everyone else we came to contact with, with apologies for not remembering specific names, and with much love—Baaki, our saintly driver, whom I was finally convinced was actually human only when I hugged him and found him to be more than spirit,
BARKA, BARKA, BARKA!

Ghana pics

AMY MCMANUS' WEBSITE

Ghana 2

AMY MCMANUS' WEBSITE
At the near-conclusion of our mission trip to West Africa, I had to be taken to the hospital in a major city of Ghana this past July 2009. Anyone who really wants universal health care needs to spend time in the hospital of a developing country.
Firstly, thank God my Pastor's brother-in-law is a doctor of internal medicine at said hospital. He met us there at 3AM, but not through the regular emergency or registration doors. We entered the hospital through a seldom-used lobby (not a soul in sight) and the doctor escorted me to the elevator and up to the second floor surgical unit, where he literally looked through doors to find me a bed. Although they did not tell me directly, I strongly suspect that they basically snuck me in. As an American not registered with their health care, it is probable that I would have either been turned away or would have waited for hours (as long as 24, I was told).
I was in severe pain so was unable to really take in what was around me, but as I recovered I was able to walk around and observe the conditions.
I can honestly say that the care I received was excellent insofar as vitals checked, pain relief given, record-keeping, concern of the staff, etc. But I can also say that it is generally known that they practice very conservative medicine by necessity. To keep costs down, there is not a lot of testing—I had no bloodwork done and the only test I received was a sonogram performed in a room that appeared to have double duty as storage. Cost cutting is also evident aesthetically—it was not exactly the cleanest of places. No private bath, most patients were being cared for in an open room (looked like it could hold about 30 people, I counted 15). Upon arrival, I was given a roll of toilet paper and a liter of water and told to "pay now." Through clenched teeth I referred the woman to my Pastor out in the hall. There were no wastebaskets—had to walk down to the hall to throw out some tissues in a trash can at the corner of a room. You can imagine what that looked like. Not very sanitary. Not private at all, either.
Since I had experienced this medical issue before, I was able to tell the doctor what I thought was going on (ruptured, bleeding ovarian cyst). My hospital-mate, Stella, and a medical student were surprised I had not been given a laparoscopy. I did not tell them that I “knew” the doctor. I’m surmising that a laparoscopy may actually be a cheaper, quicker way to diagnose, rather than performing half a dozen tests such as MRI’s, bloodwork, or CAT scans.
Thankfully I recovered within 48 hours. But here's the best part: they did not want me to leave until I paid the bill. A man stood at the door and would not allow me and my companions to exit. Meanwhile, my pastor and his sister (the doc's wife), were in a very austere room with what I thought was a very frightening-looking man, "arranging payment." I assured the "guard" that my "benefactor" was taking care of the bill at that very moment. I batted my eyelashes a bit, and he let me go...I believe the blond hair, green eyes and pale skin helped. Ghanaians are fascinated with "abroni," white people.
Long and short of it is that my pastor and his brother paid my bill—I wept tears of joy upon hearing this—they are generous Catholics but I can honestly say that there must have been some pressure and concern on their parts. My insurance company has assured me that if I submit a copy of the bill, I can eventually remit payment to this caring, brave, and thorough doctor in Ghana.
I can honestly say that as far as the people and the medicine are concerned, I have no issues with the basic health care I received. However when you add everything else, such as the fact that I may have been given special treatment (a realization that actually pains me and gratifies me at the same time), it is most certainly not what Americans are used to nor what we deserve, being the premiere medical provider of the world. It is a way to bring the health of millions of people up to a very basic level in order to lift the general prosperity. I attended a funeral for a woman who died of an asthma attack at age 60. You can see how a country cannot "develop" when its health is so poor. However, it is not really “free.” Even the insured need a huge wad of cash to get "released.” They have to separately pay for anesthesia, food, toilet paper, water, drugs, and bring their own pillow & sheet. Many Ghanaians in the north do not bother with applying for the insurance, as it requires a day’s travel to Accra with fee and documentation—a traveling expense that they simply cannot afford. Having witnessed the poverty in Ghana, I can understand why a young country would want to fund universal health care.
But we are not West Africa. I adore the Ghanaian people, and they deserve better. So would we in America. I have personally experienced what I know we'd become if we had universal health care. Reform from within, forget this massive entitlement.
Incidentally we were in Ghana while the Obamas were there. I was so looking forward to escaping him. Bummer. I'd really like to see how Michele Obama would fair were she in my shoes. Ghanaians love him...'til I tell them about him. Yes I have done my global duty. More on that later.
I guess God wanted me to experience more of the Ghanaian people—their faith, kindness, and good humor—and to look at an issue with a fresh eye. I have changed my mind about the concept of universal health insurance. But not about universal health insurance for America. No way.