MRI

Samuel brought the car around 2pm on Tuesday. We stopped by the doctor's office for the prescription, then headed across town toward Korle-Bu. Our trip took us through Ridge and Adabraka. Traffic picked up a bit as we neared the Daily Graphic Newspaper offices along Graphic Road, but cleared out once we hit Ring Road West after Lamptey Circle.



Samuel knew the way, I stared out the window at passing shops and street vendors. One was selling little plastic hooks that can be placed in bathrooms. Another had an assortment of gardening shears and trowels arrayed as a fan on a rectangular board that he displayed, Vanna White style. I purchased a couple of locally produced chocolate bars for 10,000 cedis (9000 = $1) and shared one with Samuel.



At Korle-Bu we headed for radiology, and then searched for a place to park. A uniformed policeman on motorcycle roared up behind us, siren blaring and lights flashing, waving at us angrily to clear the road. A small sedan sped past, surrounded by three other motorcycle police, and pulled with a screech into the radiology parking area in front of us.



"The President's wife is here," explained the doctor inside, apologetically. "If you wouldn't mind, could you come back in perhaps 40 minutes?" I tried to think of something I might do for just 40 minutes, other than wait and stare at the walls of the MRI waiting room.

"What if I come back toward the end of the day," I suggested.

"Of course, come at 6pm, we'll hold the clinic open for you."

"What time do you normally close?"

"Well, 6pm, but we normally keep the doors open until the last patient is served. When you come, just pay the cashier. It will cost 4 million cedis. We charge 2 million for Ghanaians, 4 million for foreigners. I hope you don't mind."

While the first trip out in the early afternoon took about 20 minutes, the early evening trip during rush hour took nearly an hour. I snoozed. Samuel drove, happy to have the overtime pay that evening. We arrived at 5:30.

"The cashier has gone," explained a clerk, "but we can do the MRI for you, and then you can pay when you collect the results."

I agreed and took my seat in the waiting area just outside the MRI room. About five minutes later an attendant took me to a small room, about 2 yards square, roughly the size of a small toilet really, adorned with a single chair. "Please put this on," said the attendant, handing me a hospital gown, "removing all your clothes except your underwear. No metal is allowed in the MRI room. We will take you in soon."

The room was cool from the residual air conditioning from the main waiting area, but after about 10 minutes with the door closed, it became uncomfortably sticky and warm. There was no ventilation. A bright fluorescent bulb glared down at me. There was a tiny window near the ceiling looking out onto a wall of the next building. I could see twilight sky. The window was closed and locked.

After about 15 minutes I arranged my gown and pulled a report from my bag. It was a 50-pager, full of complicated tables and graphs. I finished it.

Around 7pm I opened the door of my cell and peeked outside. The cool air was refreshing. The waiting area was empty but for the attendant.

"Is there any problem?" I inquired.

"No sir, no problem," she politely answered.

"Well, I've been in this little room now for about an hour. It's actually quite warm in here. Do you have any idea when the doctor will be ready to see me?"

"No idea."

I reflected for an instant, and nodded, pulling the door to my cell closed and returning to my chair. I had no more reports to read. The sky visible through my cell window twinkled with stars. I was due to practice with a singing group at 7:30. I'd had no food but for a bit of chocolate since 2pm.

I pulled on my trousers and shirt, and was putting on my socks when suddenly there was a knock and the door opened. Another attendant peered at me in surprise.

"The doctor said 'Ten minutes more'. Please remove your clothes and wait."

"Well," I replied with consternation, "I've had my clothes off now for more than one hour, and I prefer to wear them now." Cheeky, I know, but I was annoyed.

"No, please wait. Only ten minutes."

"No, thank you. And you can close the door now while I continue dressing." The attendant retreated.



I once priced an MRI in the USA for a simple knee exam like mine at $4000. My insurance company refused to authorize it, saying I should instead immobilize the knee for a few months and take cortizone shots. I declined their alternative, and have been living with a bit of pain ever since, which flares up anytime I try anything that involves impact, like jogging.

As MRI's in Ghana are about $500, the equipment is new, and the technicians quite competent, I'll return to Korle-Bu another day.



Try this SoundPrint audio article from Joy FM in Accra about Korle-Bu Teaching Hospital. The link opens up to a description of the story, with a further link to the audio file, which requires RealAudio to play.

School Song

With a few friends in tow, I headed north toward Legon. A soldier in olive green uniform, wearing white gloves for better visibility, helped traffic past the Burma Camp interchange, the traffic lights seeming never to work at even the first sign of a drizzling rain. Storm clouds chased us past the University of Ghana and on toward the Atomic Junction and the turnoff toward Ghana's nuclear research facility, which produces material for x-ray machines and does research on irradiation as a technique for treating pests on exported agricultural products. We instead turned the other direction at Atomic, toward Madina.

On the south side of Madina, just 30 minutes or so from my home, lies the Accra Training College, known locally as ATRACO (ah-trah-ko). I'd been invited by a local non-profit called "Theatre for a Change" (see earlier blog posting by that title) to witness the fruits of their labors. We turned through a faded gate along a hard-packed clay lane, rolling under a canopy of low trees past the occasional park bench, toward an open and bare field in front of a cement-block and tin-roof structure serving as the campus dining hall, doubling as an assembly hall and theater.



Daniel Attrams approached as we emerged from the car. Daniel had earlier been introduced to me by one of my houseguests, and I'd asked him to keep me apprised if ever his organization was having a nearby event that I might attend. He escorted our group inside, and introduced us to the Director of the British Council in Ghana, John Payne.



The British Council is one of the chief local sponsors of Theatre for a Change's "Interact" project, which makes sense given Theatre for a Change's status as both a Ghanaian and a British registered charity with strong ties as well to Britain's Guardian newspaper. British Council focuses on educational opportunities for study in the United Kingdom, on the teaching of English around the world, and on fostering good cultural relations between Britain and the rest of the world. There are 110 British Council offices worldwide, including the United States and of course Ghana.



We took seats with John just behind the main table, arranged in the front of the hall near a raised stage that looked like it might be used either for theater performances or for a "high table" for senior students or lecturers at the College. Behind us were rows of benches neatly arranged with a large center section plus sections on either side, suitable perhaps for 500 people. In the rear of the hall, dining tables had been stacked neatly to make room for the performance that was preparing to unfold, more or less on time. The master of ceremonies introduced John and me, and moved us one row up to sit next to the vice chancellor of the College, who was the official host of the program.



We witnessed a series of skits, introduced by leaders from Theatre for a Change. Each skit was played out by a group of students from one of the three classes of ATRACO. All dealt with the topic of HIV/AIDS, usually beginning with a 19-year-old girl facing the dilemma of predatory boys.



For example, in one skit, a young man offered to give the girl a free cellular telephone and a wad of cash. This was the "sugar daddy" script. I wondered how many of the girls in the room were likely to be approached by boys with such resources. The girls in the room found this scenario particularly amusing, however unrealistic.



In another situation, a boy professed to be saving himself for marriage, but made advances on his girlfriend nonetheless, feeling a need to cash in on his largesse. Each rebuff by the girl was met with peals of laughter by the boys in the room, and loud shouts of "heeeeyyyy!!".



As this was "interactive" theatre (hence the name of the project, "Interact"), audience participation was encouraged. After a demonstration, students were urged to rise from their benches, walk on stage, tap a cast member on the shoulder, and take their place, themselves then performing the scene anew with lines they themselves thought more appropriate. For example, maybe a girl should have been more forceful in rebuffing the boy's advance, or maybe the boy should have been more receptive to the girl's proposition that a condom be used. Since everyone in the audience knew everyone on stage, and given the sensitive subject matter that had everyone on the edge of nervous laughter anyway, the program was doubly entertaining.



The full program lasted about three hours, which seemed a bit long to me, though in a country where many have little access to entertainment other than perhaps a cheap radio, there seemed to be no one in the audience complaining. The seats at the head table where we invited guests were placed were straight-backed wooden chairs with little padding, extremely uncomfortable unless one sat perfectly upright. I found myself wishing for the plastic chairs one row back.

The closing ceremony included a prayer to Jesus and a vote of thanks to College staff and invited guests (aka myself and John from British Council), as well as a singing of the school song, which was actually quite remarkable in and of itself. The students rose as a group and sang together with gusto, through several verses, and with the occasional call and response between boy's and girl's parts. I leaned over to John and asked, "Do you even remember your school song?" He laughed and shook his head, no. "Me neither," I said.

It was blessedly cool in the hall, and a heavy rain occasionally battled with the performers for our attention, but that made the weather fresh and clear as we posed outside for the obligatory parting picture.

Pastries

An early-morning meeting had me arriving at the La Palm Hotel by 7:20am. Note, that's the La Palm Hotel, for which "La" refers to the community of "La" and not to the Spanish article. There's also the Labadie Beach and the neighborhood called Labone, all incorporating the same "La." At least that's what I'm told...



We were supposed to give a breakfast presentation to a visiting group from the USA, but the group was late and in any event there was no breakfast, so we wandered over to the hotel restaurant for some coffee. I asked about pastries, and was told I was welcome at the buffet for 110,000 cedis.

(cedi 9020 = US$ 1)

12 bucks for a couple of pastries and a coffee seemed a bit steep, so I just had coffee for 15,000.

Our group finally showed up -- apparently they'd had a rough exit from Senegal, something to do with lost luggage. Sleep deprived, they were nonetheless an interesting and participatory audience for our presentations.

Unfortunately, staff of the hotel showed up with food. Plates filled with sandwiches were passed out to the visiting group members. There didn't seem to be enough to go around, so we let our visitors take their fill. There was a bowl of hard candies on our table, and I amused myself by thinking of how sick I'd get if I simply ate all of them.



Afterward I drove quickly along the coast road to Ring Road, then to the Kanda Overpass and Le Petit Paris, perhaps the best pastry shop in Accra. The sesame and cheese croissants were exquisite. I kicked myself afterward for not trying their coffee.

Golf

I have a regular caddy at the Achimota Golf Club, who lives in the small community called "Christian Village" next door to the course. He's also a superb golfer in his own right, often finishing in the money in caddy tournaments, and probably a better player than most of the members. Well, ok, he's far better than me...



After a long week at the office, my Friday afternoons on the course are a pleasure. We typically play alone, though sometimes we pick up another player. When it's just the caddy and me, he senses my mood, seems to understand whether I need to chat, tells me jokes. He's quite enthusiastic about my good shots. He tells me not to worry about the rest.

He learns quickly. I once told him that if a player finishes a round in a good mood, whether or not the player actually scored well, the tip would likely be much higher. He works very hard to have me finish in a good mood.



My caddy is assisted by a "front man," actually a somewhat younger high school student. The front man is a critical part of the game for members who play my caliber of golf, and are certainly what I'd recommend to American course managers who are concerned about the pace of play. The front man runs ahead on each hole, then turns and watches my shot. He then plunges into the forest, or even wades into ponds, either marking or retrieving my ball.

The front man also doubles as our "sweeper," another very important position, though soon there will be no more need for sweepers at Achimota. There are I think now 17 greens and 1 brown on the course. Sweepers take care of the browns, smoothing the thin layer of sand on top of the hard packed clay soil that forms the surface of what otherwise would be a green if there was enough water available nearby. As Achimota expands its network of irrigation pipes and invests in more turf, the browns are slowly being converted to greens.



To prepare a brown, the sweeper marks the ball by drawing a line on the surface of the brown, perpendicular to the line from the ball to the hole, using the heel of his foot. (I say "his foot" because I know of no female sweepers, or even female caddies for that matter.) He then takes a flat mat with a rope handle, and runs it along the surface of the brown from the ball to the hole, much as infield crews smooth the dirt around the bases in American baseball stadiums.

I like browns. My percentage on long puts seems much higher on browns. They run fairly slow, so require less finesse, which is good, because I don't really do finesse.



The caddy and front man split about 100,000 cedis each time I play. I give it all to the caddy, and he shares it with the front man. I hear some players pay as little as 40,000 for 18 holes. The caddy text messages me every Friday morning from his cell phone to mine, asking when he should expect me, letting me know he's standing by. I guess the money's good enough.

(Cedi 9200 = US$ 1)

My caddy is an astute judge of the nation's economy. He's not too pleased with the current administration in the Government of Ghana. He points out that when the economy is better, more people play golf, and he makes more money. He's not making too much money these days.