On Wednesday a group of us took part in a medical outreach programme, which meant we went to a village called Lower Dixcove and screened the residents for diabetes, hypertension and dental problems. I've never seen a systolic blood pressure reading of >200, even in the most severely (pre-)eclamptic women I've looked after, but it this village it was not an uncommon finding. As with many aspects of Ghanaian healthcare, the point of undertaking medical screenings and examinations is undermined by the reluctance to act on any abnormal findings, but hey, it was a great opportunity to practice speaking Fante.
In this region of Ghana it is customary for visitors to meet the village chief, and take him a bottle of gin. I made several enquires about securing this position for myself, but I just got laughed at for being a white girl (and a ginger one, at that) trying to speak Fante. Joseph (the Ghana Work the World manager) and 3 of us students went to meet the village chief, which was a surreal experience. I don't know if any of you readers have ever watched Prison Break, but Lower Dixcove really reminded me of Sona: similar shades of mud and dust, people not living but just killing time and, especially, an upper-floor grand room occupied by the 'elite' which seemed an impossible contrast to the poverty below it. As the chief entered the 4 of us had to stand and introduce ourselves in Fante. We were then asked what day we were born - "er... Sunday?" seemed to be the correct answer, and the chief cheered and shouted "essi Emily" which translates as "Emily, born on Sunday". Walking from the chief's house back to the village hall took us through lots of back alleys full of roaming chickens, goats, and children. The children kept stroking my skin, shouting "osei" ("ginger"), "abruni" ("white person") and asking us to take photos of them. They were also huge fans of inflated gloves (+/- a drawn on face).
After finishing the clinic we went to Fort Metal Cross; a fort used for the detainment and exchange of slaves. The 'Metal Cross' part of the name derives from the shape of the instrument used to brand slaves upon arrival. We had a lovely (although questionably appropriate) Ghanian lunch on top of a wall overlooking the sea. A football got produced, a dish of chicken went overboard, and we left shortly after.
To cheer things up a bit we went to Busca beach. Even though it was a pretty overcast day you could still appreciate the beauty of the place, and how untouched it is by western tourists. A nearby bar sold beer for 4 cedi a bottle (approx. £1), so we swam in the sea, played football, and knocked ourselves out!
Update: this post was written on the ride back from the beach. We got pulled over by the police, and the minibus driver didn't have a license.
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