In February I traveled, as chaplain, with fourteen other pilgrims to Ghana. The trip, sponsored by Episcopal Relief & Development, was designed to showcase the many and various programs made possible by ERD's support -- a microcosm of their work in developing countries around the globe.

Mosquito netting in use

We visited training programs, schools, a mango plantation and a food bank, and saw firsthand the amazing impact ERD's NetsforLife® program has had, and continues to have in preventing not only death by malaria, but the debilitating aftermath for those who survive the disease.

It's not just about mosquito nets. The whole program is a thoughtful procedure for distribution, education and follow-up documentation. It works. So successful is this effort, in fact, that in 2011 the government of Ghana adopted the NetsforLife® methodology as their official system.

In addition to the show-and-tell aspects, there was also a special focus to this trip-our history of involvement with slave trade. After just visiting the wide array of programs that celebrated our human compassion, we were now confronted with our history of human evil.

We visited Pikworo Slave Camp near Paga, and Elmina and Cape Coast (slave) Castles on the Ivory Coast. The history is sobering. Originally owned and operated by the Portuguese, Dutch and English as holding cells for human cargo, these buildings are now state-managed museums. Field trips for high school children are mandatory in Ghana. It is too easy to forget how our ancestors profited from slavery. Places like Cape Coast and Elmina, while poetically haunting in their outward architectural beauty, contain dark secret tunnels and death rooms.

The plaque on Elmina Castle's wall reads  --------->

Do we? (the living) vow to uphold this? I'm not so sure. Some in our group were there to connect with their roots. For others, like myself, the quest was muddier.

It was after all, a journey of "firsts" for me: my first trip to Africa, my first time as a chaplain, my first encounter with mind-boggling poverty. I was overwhelmed, mostly by the incongruity of my so-called ascetic life as a sister and the reality that I have more in my closet right this minute than many of the poorest of Ghana will ever have in their lifetimes.

It's difficult to describe coherently my mostly incoherent experiences. Everything was too new, too different, too alien -- from the malaria pills to the spicy food to the grueling heat to the barren landscape -- I was awash in my inability to adjust.

In the north, the landscape is a monotonous blur of red dust, brown dust and pale yellow stubble peeking out of more brown dust. What I thought were birds at first -- crows maybe, or the grayish guinea fowl that free range along the sides of the roads--turned out to be shredded black trash bags littering the fields. Breezes would catch at a corner and they would flutter prettily, like wings. Closer inspection showed the reality -- garbage flung out to be devoured or to decompose, all except for the plastic.

The plastic remains.

Basket-weaving in process

But the people were quite a different matter. In the north, where poverty digs its deepest trenches, the warmth and generosity of the native Ghanaians shines like a beacon. We were greeted, welcomed and made to feel (if not at home) accepted and loved. Everywhere we went hands were outstretched to shake ours, smiles and hugs were exchanged, and we were appreciated.

They did not treat us as the ugly Americans we can sometimes be. They treated us as family.


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