Seasons greetings everybody!!
May you all enjoy a happy and safe festive season and new year.
Oh but dont get too drunk - you dont really get more interesting.

Love, Jo xxxxxxxxx

Many of you who live in Adelaide will have noticed by now that I have, in fact, already returned to the wide brown land and place of my birth (and schooling, and training and…), my adventures in lands far away on hold , for now….

I did intend to update the blog rather sooner than this, but somehow there didn’t seem to be much to report, except the fact that I’M PREGNANT and, being 37 and a doctor of sick children, it seemed to take a while before I felt confident enough that the news was good enough to be spread.

The date of conception, theoretically at least, was the 24th of August – the day we returned to Accra from Mali via Togo: so, whilst the baby may never be able to reap the many benefits of a West African passport, it has lived and tasted life in 3 of its fascinating countries already.

So what else has been happening? Matt and I both celebrated birthdays in Accra soon after returning from holidays in Mali – for my birthday that involved (too much) half decent wine and a rare steak at Accra’s Argentinian restaurant (run by Lebanese, as are most of that city’s successful enterprises – the belly dancing show later in the evening really added to that South American-West African experience). Matt had a dinner party with our friend Katya, who announced to us that day that she was also pregnant (one week behind me). Many of our guests were Ghanaian, so we were really able to save on the booze budget that night (despite a good contribution from Matt and Ian and a couple of new ex-pat friends,Will and Christine who, after displaying a willingness to dance to Matt’s collection of hits from the 80’s, soon became some of our best friends in Accra)

The other highlight of our last quarter in Ghana was the inaugural visit of Marg and Drew (my parents) to sub-Saharan Africa. They arrived after a few days with friends in Germany and a brief visit to London and the African section at the British Museum, over their jetlag, and so were taken straight to the heaving throng of Accra’s biggest market and for a Ghanaian buffet at the museum. Both activities they handled with great courage and humour, with Mum only looking a little faded and thirsty as we reached the epicentre of the market (an unfortunate time to feel this way since the thought of the long negotiation ahead to find an exit can sometimes leave one feeling a little like the passengers aboard the upturned Poseidon in the very spooky movie – the original, of course). The baptism over, the next few days were spent with a pretty relaxed itinerary, the only anxiety occurring for my father when one of Korle-Bu’s most impressively sized nurses came at him with I think the worlds largest ear syringe the day I offered to organize assistance for his evolving wax-related deafness. Dad muttered something about indefensible practices in medico-legal circles and then I didn’t see him for a little while.

They took leave of us for a two week tour of Ghana, which we were grateful for, since we could then learn about the 95% of the country we’d been unable to see in a weekend away. Mums camera screen slideshow and an impressive knowledge gained by my father (he’s not shy about asking tour guides questions) left me much better acquainted with the country I’d been living in for nearly a year.

Matt unfortunately missed my parents on their return since he had returned to the horrors of his younger brother’s funeral, who killed himself in late October. He had been a troubled soul for some time, but the knowledge that he was now at peace was little consolation for his family who are left dealing with the un-resolvable grief, guilt and thoughts of wasted potential when they remember the charming and intelligent man he used to be.

Back in Ghana Matt put on a brave face and our social life rattled along much as before. However travel plans were unfortunately put on the back-burner due to my new delicate state. Other hobbies put on hold included drinks on the balcony for sunset hour (known henceforth as malaria hour), curries, walking anywhere near an open sewer, and late nights at Ian and Katya’s. Hobbies which took on an unnatural appeal included sleeping and baby name websites. Also a tendency towards neurosis in me, which only increased the more pregnant I became. Yes, along with apologizing for my child’s behaviour to the ultrasonographer last week (the rascal would not keep still for a head measurement) I have taken on those unfortunate motherly attributes of safety awareness and fear of tropical disease.

Finally, last week, after just too long in a medical system which focuses its energy on just getting pregnant women to see a doctor at least once before she gives birth, and too many times squashed into the back of a share taxi right on top of the leaking exhaust pipe, I returned to the bosom of my favourite health care system. Yep – out of Africa, into the Burnside Hospital maternity suite (a private hospital in one of Adelaide’s most leafy Eastern suburbs and sparkling almost-new – I was particularly excited at the brochure’s promise of fresh coffee at “Café Otto” and “freshly prepared meals from a menu designed by (their) qualified chefs”). I also relish being sent a brochure with more information than I’d think to ask of, after hours spent performing independent PubMed researches in Africa as an alternative to expecting informed advice from a Ghanaian: I have mentioned before the likeness between gathering information in Ghana and the game of twenty questions. (unless you are lucky enough to be on a tour with my father).

Work, however, became more and more satisfying for me. I developed more independence and confidence in theatre, the referrals were coming thicker and faster, and I continued to enjoy my relationships with these charming and grateful people. In many ways it was a great shame to leave just as I was beginning to feel I was making a contribution, however our time in Africa was not ever intended to be permanent, so I would always leave feeling this way. I was able to get from the experience most of what I wished for and I am pretty confident I will be chomping at the bit to get back to this kind of work before too long.

Matt also feels that his work here has been very good experience but that it is time to move on: He will relish teaching students again with a slightly more sophisticated perspective on the world and working with people with a more familiar work ethic (the Ghanaian lack of distinction between work and play makes for a happy work place but having to wake your staff before you can ask them to do something for you can sometimes get a bit tiresome). He did do some more work for TV in the last few months – again, an experience which has been useful for him but which would be more rewarding if he thought the thing would be made with anyone who could act. I do hope I’m not misrepresenting his thoughts too meanly here– I am sure he has many more respectful and complimentary things to say on the topic……..

So, as a final note on the Ghanaian topic (for now?) I’ll leave you something I started writing before my neurosis really took hold.

What I love about being pregnant in Ghana

Ghanaian women make parenting look really easy – apparently all you need is a 2 metre piece of cloth and one or two readily accessible boobs.

Ghanaian children are really damn cute – especially when sleeping on their mothers back.

Unlike Australians, people in Ghana do not think it suspicious behaviour to not drink.

You don’t need to be drunk to dance in Ghana

In Ghana it is quite reasonable to lie down and take a nap whenever and wherever you feel like it.

Ghanaians of all ages, genders and status love babies more than just about anything.

Our friends Ian and Katya are one week less pregnant than us.

Ghanaian clothes look better on people with a bosom

They don’t have soft cheese and pate in Ghana