Here’s the breakdown of it:

1. Our goal is to raise $7,000 — this money goes directly towards the project. We have purchased sheet metal for roofing material, but we still need hundreds of bags of cement, paint, doors, windows, and more to officially complete the school inside and out.

2. Here’s the link: http://www.ufunded.com/campaigns/akatim-village-school

3. UFunded works through college and university networks. When you pledge, you associate yourself with your school (alma matter or current) which then triggers other alumni of that university to check out our page.

4. What’s the incentive? Brand new TSP gear that’s not even out on a company store yet! $25 gets you a newly designed t-shirt and $50 gets you a sweatshirt! What’s better than being rewarded with awesome gear for your contribution?! Designs can be found on our campaign page.

5. Once you pledge, promote. Share on Facebook, twitter, your school’s fan page, alumni networks — anything! The more awareness we can get the better. Maybe people haven’t heard of us and are tentative. Well if that’s the case then just refer them to our exposure page to see our most recent publications!

6. Here’s the catch — UFunded only funds the project once we reach our goal of $7,000. If we don’t reach it, then your pledges will NOT be deducted from your accounts and received by our organization, which then means we won’t be able to distribute any rewards (and trust me, we’re SO excited to give away TSP gear!) — so  all the more reason to promote and tell your friends about it!

This new campaign has brought a lot of excitement to the TSP community! We have plans to create a sustainable learning conducive environment at the Akatim Village School that involves the District Ministry of Education, Parent Teachers Association, and the teachers of the school, but we can’t implement any of these changes unless they have a completed school! Let’s come together and make a difference that will last a lifetime.

Ubuntu,

Chris Toone, CEO & Co-Founder

Disclaimer: This entry contains graphic material in the forms of uncontrollable vomiting and diarrhea.

Our alarms are set for 3:30 AM, and of course I wake at 3:20. A familiar feeling sweeps through my stomach, and I recognize it as nausea, today, the last day of being subjected to African food. The day we are set to journey about 15 hours across the country. You are not going to puke, I tell myself, but to no avail. I rush out the door and stumble to the steps and toss up last night’s Jollof rice still intact. I’d generously helped myself to three portions the night before, and perhaps it was just too much for my stomach now the size of a walnut. I chug some water, and slip back into bed.

The next urge to purge the water is almost instant, and I realize I’m not just full, I’m actually slowly dying.

The rest of the group creeps from our rooms and watches me retch. “It’s okay, I puked last night too,” Chris tells me, but he seems fine now as I take a shaky sip of water.

Olivia appears, and for once our transportation is ready on time so we rush to pack. I don’t have the heart to tell her my stomach is a time bomb of explosion, especially since I’d raved over her delicious Jollof rice mere hours ago. So we pile into the tro-tro and I lean my head against the rattling, plastic window. Africa stops for no one.

The ride to the station isn’t long, but my stomach is on a tight schedule so I spit up some water onto the bus floor, stifling my moan as I try to pretend it’s simply a spilled water bottle. The moment I hop out of the van I heave again, and the driver offers me a roll of toilet paper and wishes I feel better. Again, I don’t have the heart (or the stomach) to tell him I’d also splashed his van floor, so I thank him graciously instead.

I rummage through my luggage as we board the bus that will be our ass-numbing home for the next seven hours and extract a plastic bag, sizing it up with what must be left in my stomach. This will have to do.

I seat myself between Erin and Amber, then turn to each of them to apologize for what is bound to ensue. The sun rises with my bile, but luckily my stomach is empty enough that the damage is minimal. A woman in front of us retches into her own bag. Her child screams from his father’s lap, and she takes him in her arms and heaves once more.

Beside a minor incident of bile leakage onto our luggage, the bus ride passes in a fog. I slip in and out of not-quite-sleep, not-quite-relief, and an unbearable thirst I cannot allow myself to quench.

At last the bus reaches Tamale, and we dismount, defeated. The sun is unforgiving on our pale, foreign skins. “Well,” says Chris. “It’s up to you. Should we try to get a ride to the park? It’s another three to four hours away.”

But the group is waiting, and Africa stops for no one, and my stomach stops for nothing either. I close my eyes, and envision what I hope to be a cool, clean bed in the Mole Motel. Perhaps, if I even dare to hope, the cold porcelain of a toilet to caress against my cheek. “Let’s do it.”

We pile into a cab where I droop my head out of the window, but my intervals of explosion seem to be growing and we make it all the way to the tro-tro stop incident-free. Out of the cab and back into the sun, this calm does not last as I heave in exhaustion once again. The men loading our luggage onto the bus stop to watch as I empty the slime green poison from my stomach into the nearby open sewer. I can do nothing but challenge their stare, challenge them to look away in shame.

I am thirsty, and at last feel capable of hydrating my body though I know the consequences. We buy waters and they show us to the back of the bus, where we sit and wait for it to fill on seats with absolutely no cushion until our butts become numb.

Northern Ghana is much more Muslim, we come to learn, as turban-clad, dark eyed passengers board the tro-tro. They hesitate to sit near us, crowding toward the front of the bus, and never have we felt so white, so exposed. Vendors crowd around the parked bus in hopes of selling us some last-minute crackers or fish or water bags before we depart.

And in this moment, perched strategically next to the window, I know I have no other choice as the water hits my ungrateful stomach.  The vendors back up a bit, then slowly brave steps forward to shout at me in a language I can’t understand words that I quite frankly couldn’t care less about.  Here, now, surrounded by less-than-pleased Ghanaians who would be sharing the next four hours with me, staring down at the contents of my empty stomach as startled women squawked up at me, I feel relief.

The bus jolts to life and we are off. I spend the first few hours in a haze, napping against the seat in front of me as my body jerks every which way on the winding dirt road. At last I can sleep no more, and I wake to watch as we fly towards Mole. This dirt road is under construction, and while I’m not really sure how one maintains a dirt road I can see why it needs the maintenance. The curves are never-ending: wind left, wind right, don’t mind the overturned semi-truck. The edges of the road are steep and the road itself is narrow, and from my window seat I can see death beckoning us over the ledge.

God gave you ten fingers for a reason, I remember, and so murmuring to myself in the heat and dust and danger I pray a broken rosary. It takes a few attempts to find the rhythm of the Our Father once again, but once I do the rest of the ride passes, a calm acceptance.

We dismount the tro-tro on shaky legs. Amber’s face is streaked with orange, the aftermath of oncoming traffic. Another cab ride and disgruntled driver, and we arrive at the gates to enter Mole National Park.

We flash our student ideas and wave the 5 cedis for admission expectantly, but the officer sitting at admissions eyed us cautiously. “Your IDs do not have expiration dates. No student discount.”

Our protests remain unheard, until the cab driver shifts on his feet and tells us he will leave us here, until Amber throws down the 10 cedis and struts away.

“Wait, wait,” the officer calls, takes one last, deliberate look at our IDs, and grants us the student discount.

“Thank you,” we grumble, and the six of us pile back into the cab. The driver charges us each an extra cedi, and we pay it with little protest, our resistance weakened. The sun is still beating relentlessly.

We trek to reception, where we book our rooms for the night. “Only one to a bed,” the receptionist tells us. My heart leaps. It’s been about two weeks since we’ve each had our own bed. “Two triple rooms with air conditioning. Straight ahead and to the right.”

Air conditioning. Running water. A toilet. Cable television. I collapse on a bed and we flick on E! Network. “This is miraculous. This is culture shock.”

“This isn’t culture shock,” Chris chuckles back.

“It’s the most culture shocked I’ve been here,” I mumble before slipping into sleep. I don’t wake until morning.

-

Our alarms shatter the silence at 5 A.M. and we struggle to scramble from our beds. This is what our long journey has been for – an early morning safari before the sun rises to beat down on us all. A chance to see wild animals, and if we’re lucky, an elephant or two. We peel our bodies from our beds and dress in the darkness, at last finding ourselves huddled around the largest group of white people we’ve seen since leaving the States, some head-to-toe in safari gear, plucked straight from National Geographic.

Our group combines with two cheerful British girls and we begin the walk into the sunrise. Our tour guide is gentle, silently pointing out each animal we pass and whispering a detailed description of their species, their behaviors, their diet, inching us closer and closer until the animals scatter.

We creep on crocodiles basking in the sand. We watch warthogs graze in the open. Antelopes leap through high grasses as we stumble after them. The entire tour our guide is tracking elephant activities deeper and deeper into the savannah, timing the footprints and lines in the sand.

I have been plucked up from civilization – from America as well as Ghana – and dropped into The Lion King. Today, I can die happy.

Our tour ends with a slight sigh of disappointment, as we did not manage to track any elephants today. Our guide passes along his number in case we spot one from the grounds above, in which case we will go out again to watch up close.

We sit down with our new British friends to breakfast at the outdoor restaurant alongside the pool, dreaming of the cold water rushing over our dirt-encrusted hides.

Breakfast is peaceful, too peaceful, and as we sit back with satisfied bellies a baboon sprints over to our table, slurps down a sleeve of butter like Go-Gurt, then hops on the table and snatches every piece of toast in sight before running back to the lawn, where he eats our breakfast in front of us mockingly.

Our fear immediately turns to laughter, and we laugh until our stomachs hurt and our heart rates slow to an almost normal tempo until we hear cries from the pool deck. Someone has spotted an elephant.

We scarf down what is left of breakfast and call our guide to venture back out. In no time at all we have found this majestic beast grazing on a few trees, curling his thick trunk around a branch and ripping each leaf off with gentle ease. Slowly, we are allowed to creep closer, and closer, until I am sitting on the ground staring up at this beautiful, wrinkled creature who remains unfazed by the crowd closely observing his breakfast.

We fall to silence, and watch, and wait for nothing at all. The elephant eats tree after tree, until there are no appetizing leaves left, then moves to the next cluster, and we follow in his enormous footsteps.

At last our guide tells us we should go and leave him to wander some more, so we reluctantly peel our eyes away and take hesitant steps back toward the grounds, turning our heads back in wonder.

Our eyes still wide, we rush back to our rooms for makeshift bathing suits, and together, throw our tired, trying bodies into the cold rush of the pool. The chlorine wakens our skin, the cold numbs our aching muscles, as we swim a few laps and pretend the dirt floating around is not all coming from us, though we know full well it’s our first shower in many long days.

Our aching bodies are cool, and for the first time since we’ve arrived in Ghana we bask in the sun.

“This is paradise. Like a real vacation.”

“For real, we almost died to get here.”

“I almost died so many times! Like, seriously thought the puking would never end.”

“And then the tro-tro…”

“I prayed a rosary for us guys. I thought we were goners for sure.”

“Does anyone else feel like we died and went to heaven?”

“I think we died, went to Hell for a little bit, then made it up here to heaven.”

The pool rests atop the safari grounds, and we stare out at the endless land, an occasional animal hopping by. A cool breeze kisses our sunny skin as we stretch and drift back to the air conditioning for mid-day naps.

But like I said, from Hell to heaven, and back to Hell again.

-

We wake from our naps, and each of us in turn feel worse for wear. We drag ourselves to dinner, to the long-awaited cheeseburgers that our stomachs now knot at the thought of. We find Sophie perched by the pool still, beer in hand, surrounded by new friends, by Americans.

We all sit together, a hodgepodge of experiences, some new to Ghana, some living in Ghana, and the six of us, who have been there for two weeks and yet absorbed a lifetime of experiences. We laugh over the winding dirt road that brought us here, a road that is proclaimed the worst road in Ghana by our new friend Clement, a Ghanaian himself. That ride was on Liz’s first day here, Austin’s mother. Austin is in the Peace Corps and has been in Ghana for a year, and we laugh at his mother’s first impression of the country.

Our long-awaited cheeseburgers arrive, and almost instantly Chris and Amber are rushing to the bathroom. Their food remains untouched.

Grant and I pick at our burgers delicately, exchanging nervous glances.

“I feel fine,” Sophie chirps in. “I feel like I should feel terrible since everyone else does, I feel so bad!”

Erin’s stomach is churning, and soon after we are served she returns to the room, Amber in tow once she returns, hunched over, from the bathroom. When the rest of us have nibbled on as much African cheeseburger as we can stomach, turn to the bathroom to check on Chris. He is standing outside, empty-stomached and shivering, his arms tucked into his shirt. He retreats back to the room, defeated.

And then there were three.

Sophie groans softly. “Guys I really don’t feel good now. I’m trying to tell myself it’s all mental but—“

“It’s mental,” I say hastily, and Grant and I agree to go buy some Sprites in hope of settling overturned stomachs.

“Oh God, I really don’t think it is…”

Grant and I pass Sophie rushing back to the room. “I just emptied the entire contents of my stomach,” she murmurs in passing.

And then there were two.

Liz rushes over to us, her glass of Maker’s Mark long forgotten on the table. “Stay healthy you two, please!” We can only hope, but my stomach seems to recognize the warning. “You need a mommy hug, come here,” and she wraps us in warmth, and she smells clean and I fight the sudden urge to cry into her curly hair. “Take care of them. Get back home to the city. And take care of yourselves!”

Grant and I nod, stoic. We walk away from our table, knowing full well the night is only beginning.

My room is miraculously peaceful, Amber and Erin resting in their beds quietly conversing. The constant sounds of violent retching are all too familiar through the too-thin walls. We wonder if the toilet’s limited flushes will soon expire.

Minutes later, Grant bursts into our room. “The puking and pooping…it just won’t stop! If it’s not one of them over the toilet it’s the other!” Then, the splatter of fresh vomit outside the window. “They’re both shivering, they made me turn off the air conditioning, and well, it reeks in there so…I’m just going to hang out here for a while.”

We laugh nervously. Eventually, the rhythmic lull of splash, flush, splash, flush eases me to sleep for about an hour, before Grant returns to our room again. “It still hasn’t stopped and it’s been hours. I think we should take them somewhere.”

The clock reads 1:00 A.M., and our bus leaves at 4:00 A.M. “Okay…where? How?”

Grant ventures back out to the restaurant, where he finds Liz, Austin, and Clement still sitting and basking in the coolness of the night. Clement has a cab here at the park, and offers to drive to the health clinic also located on park premises. Grant, Chris, and Sophie disappear into the night.

After hours, or perhaps just long, stretched minutes, Grant bursts through our door once again. “Water…do you guys have any drinkable water left?” We toss him what’s left of our water bottles, demanding a rushed explanation.

“The nurses have no idea what’s wrong with them. They gave them something to stop the puking and the shitting, and they have really high fevers so they’re giving them something to treat that. We think it might be malaria.”

“But they’re only treating the symptoms.”

“Exactly. We’re bringing the British girls back from earlier, the one girl has been here a while and knows a lot about the health care here. She also knows a doctor in the area.”

“And they don’t have water there?”

Grant sighs, sits. “No. The first thing they wanted to do was give them an injection, and I immediately said no to that. Absolutely no needles. They also want to hook them up to and IV but I don’t know, I’m saying no until I hear otherwise from the UK girls. Sophie is begging for it though, and I just don’t know. I have to head back though.”

We exchange fallen glances, unspoken fears. “Well, good luck.”

The night drags like a smoldering cigar. We are interrupted once again by Clement and Jadiza, one of the British girls. “Grant said you had protein bars?” Jadiza asks timidly as we throw open the door.

“Yeah! Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

Jadiza is vague, saying their condition has improved but the nurses are less than capable.

We later come to find this means they are unable to connect an IV drip, digging through Chris’s tendon with complete disregard for both his bulging, dehydrated veins and his squirms in pain until Grant orders them away. We learn that they refuse to treat for malaria in case they treat it wrong, and they will face backlash if the two are admitted to the closest hospital. We learn that this closest hospital is a four hour drive away, and all they want to do is sleep.

“There’s a German doctor here, we need to find him and wake him, and he can help diagnose. You should all get ready and catch the bus. Grant will meet up with you later in the day.” Jadiza tells us before they turn to leave. It’s now 2:30 A.M.

“Wait!” I call, but the cab turns away, nothing but a cloud of orange dust.

“We need to find out what Grant wants us to do. I don’t think we should split up. We need a phone. We need to call him.”

Amber groans from her bed.

“Erin, let’s go find Liz and Austin. We can use Austin’s phone. “

Erin and I trek through the dark, praying we’re about to knock on the right door. When we hear Liz’s voice we release our baited breaths, and Liz coaxes us to perch on her bed.

“You girls just need to get out of here. Get home, get safe.”

Home. Such a foreign, diluted concept. Still half the world away.

We call Grant and he urges us to catch the bus. “We’re coming back now to rest. We’ll take a cab later and meet you guys in Tamale. The UK girls will be on the bus. Stay with them.”

We thank Liz and Austin and bid sober farewells. I think about curling at the end of the bed and not moving until I’ve slept, until the six of us are all together and can laugh until our ribs ache.

But I can’t, so I push the thought away.

Erin and I return to collect Amber, and we pack hastily and step back into the night. It is 3:30. A cab swings up to our hotel door.

Slowly, a crowd piles out of this tiny cab. The German doctor, who turns out to be a German med student, Jadiza and Sayyeda, the two British girls, Clement, Grant, and the shadows of Sophie and Chris. They are a delicate shade of gray. Their eyes are open but they remain still, glassy. They are able to stand, but need a human crutch to walk. They do not speak. They do not smile. We stand in a circle, we stop, we stare.

“You girls need to catch the bus,” says Jadiza, breaking the silence. “Tell the driver to wait for us, we’re going to pack up and we’ll be there shortly.”

Grant and the girls meet us waiting to board the bus shortly. Amber is growing weaker before our eyes, crumpled into a limp ball clutching her stomach. “Ugh, toilet paper. Who has toilet paper? Oh God!”

She grabs a roll and runs into the trees. Erin, Grant, and I can only sigh. Amber returns, shaking her head. “I can’t get on that bus for four hours. I’m gonna need to go back to the room.”

Grant leads her back slowly, and Erin and I board with the two UK girls. The five hours on the bus pass in a haze of feigned sleep, hoping my mind will follow suite. At last we arrive at Tamale, and the sun has risen, and we stand at the same bus stop where we’d decided to continue to Mole only two days ago. It feels like weeks have passed.

Jadiza takes us to a home where we can spend the night, built by a small man with a wide smile exclusively for volunteers to stay at. The house is beautiful, and Erin and I stare at the Hello Kitty mattress with longing.

“This home is beautiful, but we really think we should try to get back to Accra by tonight to see a doctor. We’d like to look for flights,” we explain to the British girls.

“Alright,” they sigh with exhaustion. “Would you like to get breakfast first?”

My stomach doesn’t remember what hunger is anymore, but we agree anyway. We grab our luggage and head back to where the girls are staying, a quaint house tucked away in Tamale where a third British girl is awaiting inside.

Jadiza serves us bread and tea and curls on the corner of a worn, leather couch, drawing a slow sip to her lips. “Ahh, isn’t a cup of tea just lovely right now?”

Yes, yes it is, and this strikes me as such a beautiful moment that we are here, sipping English tea with a Brit herself, admiring the quiet peace of morning tea. And I remember in a few short days I will be in England myself, surrounded by beautiful accents and daily tea time and cold, dreary weather.

But today I am in Ghana. It is around 90 degrees out, and my friends are potentially dying. We need to find a flight; we need to find them; we need to find water. We call Grant from Jadiza’s phone but he’s out of minutes, unreachable.

Erin and I are ready to trek back through Tamale and search for plane tickets, but Jadiza and Sayyeda first freshen up and begin tidying the house. Erin and I stare at our orange dusted, sweat stained shirts and declare them wearable, despite the girls’ reassurance that there’s plenty of time to wash up.

We find a flight to Accra for 3:00 P.M. It is now 11:00 A.M. We need to find our friends. We need to find tickets.

“They really should be treated for malaria as soon as possible,” Sayyeda insists. “There’s no harmful side effects; it’s better to treat as soon as you suspect it. You should wait until tomorrow to return to Accra.”

“But…we have family in Accra. And, well, the doctors should be much better there. We trust the city so much more for this,” we must insist. We’ve explored so much of the Ghanaian health system at this point that we know Accra to be our best option by a landslide.

And so out into the city we go, running from ATM to ATM, from closed ticket office to closed ticket office, Jadiza leading the way. People stop us on the street to ensure we are headed in the right direction, ready to offer advice or suggestions as we pass.

Miraculously, stopped at an ATM, a cab swings up full of familiar white faces. They pile out of the cab and at last we are six again, ready to face any other obstacle to get us home.

“How are they doing?” I whisper to Grant.

“They were great this morning, talking, laughing, drinking water. But well, the cab ride was long and really hot, and they just stopped drinking. They’re out of it again.”

And sure enough, Chris and Sophie are sitting on the steps to a bank, eyes rolling backwards to expose the whites as they slip their lids closed. I thrust bags of cool water into their hands and they bite them and suck them weakly, but at least it’s something for now.

Jadiza finds another lead on a ticket office, and so the group is off once again. We scurry up and down alleys like rats, hovering in the shade as Hedwig knocks on door after door. Sophie and Chris melt into the luggage, napping on the street for five minute intervals as cabs scrape by on the gravel and trash blows in the breeze.

At last we have a contact number, and instantly it seems Jadiza is able to make arrangements for us at the airport and call a cab to rush us there for a reasonable price.

The six of us pile into the four seats and speed off, arriving at the airport with plenty of time to check our luggage and wait to pass through security.

Our boarding passes are laminated, open-seating. Chris is feverish, and he is back and forth between the bathroom and reclining across the unbending, plastic seats. I rush to the counter and ask to see my luggage before it is loaded onto the plane, and a man lets me back through security with a kind smile. I rummage through and grab a handful of ibuprophen and thank him graciously, brushing off his request to return to America with me.

“Here.” I throw a few pills as Chris and force a water bottle into his hand. Offering him some of my valuable stash of Pringles to settle his stomach.

I throw the same at Sophie. “Why?”

“Chris took them.”

“Oh, so cause Chris took drugs I have to?”

“Yes,” I sigh, and pray that this is Sophie’s sense of humor returning. It’s the most life I’ve seen in either of them in days.

At last we can pass through security, and Sophie and Chris continue reclining across a row of seats, not-quite sleeping. We thrust water bottles into their arms just to hold, and watch our plane land in the lot in front of us.

We walk across the lot toward this small plane in the blazing sun, supporting Sophie and Chris’s weak bodies, and I can’t help but feel there should be a camera crew catching our hair blowing back in the wind as the six of us strut forward together, with dramatic, heroic music swelling as we board.

The hour flight to Accra is air-conditioned, and while I fall into not-quite-sleep wrought by terror of the plane crashing or someone dying or my seatbelt coming undone during landing, it is strangely peaceful. There, I find a sense of returning home.

Oliver meets us at the airport, and a familiar face looks like family. We return to the Benneh household once again, to the familiar sticky leather couches and thick drapes that block all chance of a breeze. It is wonderful, and safe.

Oliver understands that we need to make it to a doctor, and he escorts Sophie and Chris while the rest of us climb in Asomah’s car to check in to our hostel.

Our own beds, our own room to the six of us. Again, an inextricable pull toward this room, this makeshift home.

The outpatient hospital is crowded, but perhaps it’s because of Asomah’s status as a police officer or our status as “the white men,” but Chris and Sophie are put to the front of the line. By the time we arrive their blood has already been drawn for the long-awaited malaria test, and Sophie’s blood pressure has been declared dangerously low. She is taken to another room.

Asomah returns to the waiting room a few minutes later and asks for me. He leads me to Sophie’s room, where she is resting delicately on a hospital bed, IV line dripping, heart rate blipping by on a monitor.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just…haven’t seen you all day and I’m…lonely.” Sophie’s voice is weak, and her body is weak, and I just want to hug her but I’m scared she’ll break.

So instead I perch on the end of her bed, watching her blood pressure rise and steady. Slowly, the rest of the group trickles in. Chris is feeling much better, and he and Sophie are once again able to share a laugh over the insanity, the purging, the pain that has been the last 48 hours.

Asomah wants a picture, and Sophie smiles with ease. “I’d do it all over again if I had to,” she says. “I’d do it 119 more times for each kid at that school.”

One saline bag, one antibiotic dose, and one doctor-patient marriage proposal later, we are back at the hostel.

“Can you believe we were in Tamale just this morning? Mole just this morning?”

“Guys, we almost died today.”

“So Liz, think you can crank out a blog entry?”

“Sure,” I yawn, stretching out to take the laptop.

And with the lights bright and my fingers stroking the keys, I silently slip to sleep.

The past few days have been a whirlwind of meetings and spending time at the school and making our final arrangements as we prepare to leave the village tomorrow morning to explore northern Ghana. Amid all of this chaos and scribbled notes page after page in my journal, I was lucky enough to be part of an experience that will linger with me through my entire lifetime.

Grant, Sophie, and I were sent for an overnight visit with the children who attend the school in Akatim to record a “day-in-the-life” documentary to show America what life is really like for rural, African children, in and out of school. Accompanied by a former rural school student and now Accra police officer, Asomah to translate for us, we began walking in the hot, dry sun down the endless orange road “home” with about fifteen kids in tow.

The entirety of the walk ended up being an hour and a half, until we at least reached the outskirts of Akatim where we sat as the villagers gathered, craning their necks to see the white men, as we asked if they were willing to house us for the evening. They roared with laughter, with disbelief, that we were willing to stay in such desolate conditions. But despite the dirt-crusted, simple cluster of houses, we assured them that this is what we had signed up for. Children gathered to greet us, or glimpse us, or
hide behind their parents as we tried to approach them. Many of them were school-aged but did not attend classes Tuesday for a variety of reasons – they did not want to, they were not allowed to, or the walk was simply too long and tiring for their little legs.

We doubled back down the road and walked the remaining children back home as some of the new children followed us. Their contrast was stark in their shredded clothing and dull eyes against the brightness of the green and white school uniform and sparked minds. The path to their house branched off into the jungle of cocoa trees, and we reached another cluster of houses where we were greeted by the parents and encouraged them to encourage education. They brought up the same problem of
transportation; many of their children were far too tiny to walk three hours to and from school five times a week. A few of them had not been in school to receive their issued uniforms and did not feel comfortable going to school in their ragged clothing.

Further we plunged into the jungle, and we came to the last house where two of our students live. Their mother greeted us with an entire cluster of bananas, a powpow (a melon fruit) and a sample of her home-brewed palm gin after Asomah gave us a “tour” of her “distillery”: barrels of palm extract that flow through an electric tape straw into a giant wooden crate, 75% alcohol, 150 proof. Between the hours of walking, the unforgiving heat of the sun, and the half a shot that Asomah poured, we were
adequately tipsy for the walk home.

The villagers were waiting for us and eagerly preparing our dinner of fufu. It was a dish we were familiar with though we did not particularly have a taste for: pounded lumps of either cassava and plantain or cassava and yams mashed into warm, doughy balls served over chicken soup. Our first serving we dug into our communal bowl, gnawing on the rubbery chicken and savoring the familiar tomato chicken broth that tasted just like my mother’s homemade chicken soup that has healed hundreds of
colds. Little did we know this was only the beginning, and just when we thought we had stomached an acceptable amount we were served again. Still fufu, but this serving included the entire chicken, from it’s spiky, scaly feet to its stiff, severed head. Asomah laughed as he closed the lid, but I was not mistaken when I saw an unfaltering chicken eye staring at me darkly. This fufu was slightly more difficult to stomach. We were then served fufu once again, our third and final helping. Asomah explained that each of the families served us and we had to at least try each of theirs as a sign of politeness and gratitude, so that when we left each family would be satisfied that the white men tried their food.

We groaned, and explained to Asomah that we felt strange being constantly referred to as “the white men”; the stares we constantly receiving say we’re white enough. That if we walked up to him on a street in America and called “hey, black man!” we would probably walk out of that conversation with at least a black eye. He laughed, and simply told us, “but you are the white men.”

Perhaps these people – men, women, and children alike, have never experienced a single white person before. We were truly in the heart of Ghana, meeting the children who have been left behind, the men and women who may have never left their farms and ventured to the outside world. Yet as unfortunate as they are, with their walls made of dirt clay and sticks and their clothes torn and feet bare, they were the most generous people in this world. They offered us more food than we could ever fathom of eating
in one sitting, and accepted us into their village completely unannounced and offered us a room to stay in just because we walked their children home from school. The strangeness was pronounced, but so was the generosity.

After dinner we were set to have a meeting with the village elders, which ended up being the entire village gathering in the darkness to discuss our mission for coming to Ghana. The villagers debated back and forth, each talking in an orderly manner of garbled Twi, over the main problem that the school was facing. Because the children are often unable to walk to school, they would like transportation to be provided. Some wanted us to build another school for them in this remote area so the children did not
have to walk as far, but others debated that by drawing away their students the Akatim school would collapse.

One young man stood and addressed us directly in English that he was able to complete Junior High School but lacked the funds to attend Senior High School. He pleaded for a job, for funding, for any way that the white man could help him receive his education.

Another child stepped forward and his parents explained he would not attend school because he felt discouraged. He loves to run, and would excel on a track team, but when he tried out for sports he was turned down because he was too small. Because of this, he no longer feels comfortable attending school.

Another young girl with a baby strapped to her back stepped forward. She wants to attend school, but with all of her chores and responsibilities she knows her mother will punish her for going to school. We spoke to these children as well as the girl’s mother, and pleaded for them to attend school with us the next day, to which the children shook our hands in agreement.

We said we would do what we could; that we truly heard them and though we cannot help now we will bring back their problems and raise awareness in America. These are the children left behind. Those half-educated. Those who want to be educated but do not have the means or money. Those who are scared of the school system, who seek comfort in the familiarity of farming.

They showed us to our bedroom: a foam mattress on a table surrounded by a canopy of mosquito netting. We curled up and slept three to a bed, occasionally awaking to the bleeting of a goat through the dirt wall, loud enough to sound as though he were standing right beside us.

The night was restless with Asomah’s echoing, crackling snores, our minds racing with the enormity and yet the simplicity of what we had just experienced.

We rose with the sun to escort the children to school on time. Eleven new students joined us this morning down the orange dirt road, sprinting and squealing and excited to share the hour walk to school together. If these shining, excited faces do not deserve the best opportunities in education to shape their futures, then I don’t know who does.

Saturday was what I like to refer to as a very African day. We began by checking in on the progress of the school, and demanded to be put to work to move the progress along faster. We hauled bricks and learned how to churn cement until it glimmered under the noon sun. My shoulders are sunburned and sore from shoveling, but it felt like the first honest day’s work I’ve had in a while.

We walked around the classrooms again and peered into the schoolbooks, each of us sketching potential lesson plans in our heads. We watched the workers cake cement across the walls as the school went up layer by layer in front of our squinted eyes. We joined them for a lunch of boiled yams and salsa (quite delicious, considering “yams” are basically potatoes and the salsa had that spicy African kick). We walked away from the village down the long, dirt road, waiting for a farming vehicle to pick us up.

The particular truck that picked us up had slats of wood stretched across it as benches, as we bounced along on the dusty, dirt road. We stopped several times along the way to pick up women and children coming in from the fields, each with bunches of plantains, piles of wood, baskets of produce balanced precariously on their heads, anything and everything that can be found in the middle of rural Africa down a winding, orange road.

Luckily the front of the truck was left open to carry these supplies, but the floor was already littered with the first layer of plantains and I was left wondering how we could fit several additional loads as well as the farmers and children themselves. This did not seem to be a problem for those loading the truck. They piled layer upon layer, until fruits and logs of woods towered high over the front of the truck. They perched themselves on top of the truck and basked in the sun as the truck bumped along, calloused feet curved around the plantains to keep them from falling over the sides.

The “bench” behind us collapsed, and the withered woman with a cane grasped my hips tightly to keep from falling on the ground. Asomah roared with laughter as they resituated the plank of wood, and the women behind me resumed stroking my braid and telling me in broken English that they liked my hair.

Each stop in the sun only made my shoulders burn more, and the muscles of the truck loaders burned and the rubber tires burned as they spun against the dirt. At long last we made it back to the village, and with shaky legs and shared laughter we unloaded our tired bodies from the bed of the truck.

Once back at home Olivia announced it was laundry day, so we each brought out our dirty clothes and piled them into a bin of soapy water. Olivia and Asomah scrubbed away, their thick hands kneading out the stains and soils from the long, dirty week. Chris and I rinsed the soap away and we hung the clothes on lines stretching across the entire backyard to dry in the cool breeze and the next morning’s hot sun.

Our hard work was rewarded with our most enthusiastly-eaten dinner yet: fried chicken and French fries (well, fried yam technically) doused in ketchup. Olivia whooped with joy as she cleared our empty plates, and we relaxed in the cool stillness of the evening.

The day’s work ended when Asomah showed up with the health care advisor we had met the previous day, with blueprints, a budget, and avid plans to begin work on the medical center in Senase. It was so reassuring to see that this project had already received so much support. The advisor, Frank, informe us that his plan involved collaborating across the board. With financial support from both The Senase

Project and Ghana Health Services as well as the skilled work of citizens of Senase to construct and upkeep the building, this project will evolve to Ghanaians helping Ghanaians, and TSP continuing to improve this upbeat community. Frank’s crazy driving through the dirt roads to the main road led us to the bar, where we washed down the events of the day with a cool drink.

He drove us back as far as his beat up car was able, and in the process lost half a bumper, and laughed enormously at our concern. “Do not worry about this bumper!” he cried over and over. “Your safety is my only concern!” His carefree attitude left our hearts warmed in the cool air, and he exclaimed that God will reward us greatly for all we have done! It is this Ghanaian spirit that continues to drive us forward.

We’ve now been in Ghana for a full week, and are finally growing used to the customs and traditions, as foreign as they are. Each meeting begins with us circling the room shaking hands, thanking those gathered for welcoming us. Once we are invited to sit they then circle the room for another round of handshakes and welcome us with an “akwaaba” and thank them with a round of “yam.” We then each rise and introduce ourselves, and then one of the men in the group must state our reason for visit. There is much conversation to begin the meeting about how we are doing, how we are enjoying Ghana, or as much as we are able to communicate with the obvious language barrier that result in much laughter at our less-than-perfect pronunciation. I can only hope by the end of this trip I can introduce myself as Liz without either laughter or confusion ensuing at such a short, abrupt name. My attempts to go by Elizabeth have only resulted in more confusion so far.

Our meeting today began in this same fashion with the health service center of the Berekum district, but our path leading to this meeting began long ago. When Tyler came on his Semester at Sea voyage in Spring 2011, he met with the elders of Senase who asked him on behalf of our organization to work on a health care center for the community. Tyler brought back this mission, and the organization began planning to fund this project after they were able to complete the school.

Yesterday, Amber and I had our own experience with the health care system in Ghana that gave us a stronger impression of its importance during our meeting today. Between Amber’s heat rash and my previous infection reoccurring, we asked Olivia to escort us to a doctor as soon as she was able to. She quickly arranged to take us to the hospital, which we did not find out to be our destination until we were speeding there in a taxi. We exchanged nervous glances; neither of our ailments felt immediate enough for a hospital visit, and we did not know how long of a journey this would end up becoming.

Once we got to the hospital, we realized that though it was so inherently different from back in America, it was the same painstakingly long wait for service. The hospital was divided into different buildings, with full walls exposed to the outside courtyards. It seemed like such a foreign and unsanitary environment for treating disease. Files were scattered carelessly across the counters, and nurses with empty eyes wandered between open beds mere feet from the waiting room, separated only by tiny bedside tables and absolutely no walls or curtains.

The benches were lined with Ghanaians, some of whom looked near-death. We walked out to register and encountered another line waiting anxiously. We had arrived in between doctor shifts, and the evening doctor was not even in the facilities yet. Each person we passed met us with stares much different than those we encountered on the streets. I did not feel like I needed to be there, though I knew I needed to find antibiotics, but these people were obviously at their last resort, melting to benches outdoors in the sun, waiting hours on end for a doctor to at least arrive, then long last work his way through the line.

Olivia asked us if we would be okay with visiting a private doctor, where the price would be the same and the wait would be much shorter. We immediately agreed and headed out through the large metal gates barring the hospital as the guards were opening them, a flood of people rushing past us.

We sped down a dirt road and arrived at a maternity clinic. These facilities were surprisingly nicer than those at the hospital. We were greeted outside and our information was taken right away. The building was enclosed, each doorway clearly labeled for its intended use. The waiting room was cool, and Teletubbies were dancing across the TV. There were only a few others waiting, and Amber and I breathed a sigh of relief.

After not long we were each called back. A nurse took my temperature, blood pressure, and weight while chatting at ease. He asked where I was from and boldly declared he would be coming back to America with me. We shared a laugh.

The doctor did not speak much to me; perhaps he did not speak any English at all. The nurse in the room took down all of my information and quickly filled my prescription. I was in and out of the office in less than an hour for only 21 cedis, about $11, and three prescriptions. The nurse grabbed my hand and reminded me that he was joining me back to America, and I had to explain to him that I was staying in Ghana for another few weeks in order for him to drop my hand and pick up his cell phone to film us leaving, as the man who greeted us escorted us back out to the road. It became obvious that these independent clinics operated much more efficiently than the government funded hospitals.

And our meeting today targeted just that – starting a clinic for the community of Senase. The health administrators that we met with had already previously proposed a plan for a clinic in the area. They had gone as far as having the chief release them a plot of land to begin construction and had drawn up a budget and a blueprint for the building, but funding had halted their progress.

This was a huge relief for the group to hear. Prior to the meeting we had no idea where to begin: did we want to focus on one prevalent disease, like malaria? Did we want to continue with TSP’s mission of helping children and open a pediatric center? How broad should our focus be?

In order to show us their plans as well as answer these questions, the administrators escorted us to an already existing health center in a neighboring community. The new facility was beautiful and addressed every major health concern that Ghanaian citizens face in modern times. They had clinic rooms for diagnosing patients, as well as outpatient rooms for those who needed to stay for prolonged periods of time. They had birthing rooms and a maternity ward and vaccines for children and medical prevention signs everywhere. The halls were open to a beautiful courtyard, and we stepped outside to view their ambulance and take in the size and scope of the building.

While it is not big, it does target almost all common problems that the community has. It can be built in a period of a few years, provided we are able to partner with them to provide funds and supplies. By The Senase Project taking on this health center, it will change the health and outlook of the entire Senase community.

The group was moved at how easily this could be accomplished and the spectrum of change it could have, but this was only the first stop on our tour. We then went to the future site of the Senase health center. It is close enough to the center of town, as well as able to reach smaller villages in the surrounding areas. The area is merely a field of overgrown brush and trees that towered over us, but having just come from the other center we were able to picture the future health clinic standing here with clarity.

Our last stop with the administrators was to an abandoned produce house, where cocoa used to be shipped into when it was harvested. Cocoa is no longer kept locally, but the health care professionals plan to put this building to use once again. They explained that they plan on using this as a temporary health care center while the new one is being built, once they have the supplies to set up basic facilities. The interior is in rough shape, but the team is devoted to getting it in usable shape as soon as they are
able.

Standing on the actual site of the future project and seeing the effort that the community has already put into it was inspiring for the future of TSP. With the school being near completion, it is important to seek ways to continue to improve the morale and situation for the more-than-generous people of Senase. The work here is only beginning, with more and more milestones to strive for on the way. With a full spectrum perspective of Ghanaian health care, I feel assured that TSP is taking a grand step in the right direction and will benefit the community of Senase for generations and generations to come.

I’m actually impressed with our living conditions for the next two weeks. We have two separate bedrooms, one for the boys and one for the girls. The girls room has two large mattresses and a door with a complicated (and therefore secure) lock. Our door opens to the yard where we eat, relax, and spend most of our time when we are not traveling around the village or attending meetings. Last night’s sleep was nothing short of heavenly.

Olivia woke us up after the sun had risen, the first sunrise we had missed since we arrived here. With roughly twelve hours of sleep we were ready to face whatever the day had to offer us: meetings, swarms of children, and a bit of a morning buzz.
Our first stop was to meet with the village of Senase elders. This was essentially a formality to introduce our mission of our visit. How we hope to ensure the community that our focus is still on the school, and enlightening the future for children who have never known hope in the education system. The elders spoke no English, but their gratitude for our presence was made well known. They greeted us with a bottle of Scotch whiskey as a gift, and began the meeting with pouring a shot on the ground while praying, an offering to their ancestors. They then each took a shot, and we each followed in turn. The whiskey was good, but burned especially for it being about 10 am in the morning heat with Mattina, a fiery three-year-old who lives nearby, perched on my lap. Then there was much conversing in Twi, the local language, and somehow another shot was agreed upon. We each then posed for shots on traditional leader seats, one for women and one for men, before many more rounds of handshakes and then goodbyes, each of us slightly giddy with the burn of the whiskey.

We walked to the cab stop to travel to the Education Service of Berekum. We each climbed in the cab, Mattina perched on our laps until Oliva told her she needed to leave. Mattina had to be dragged out of the cab, screaming and crying, throwing her tear-stained face against the window. Each of our hearts broke a little bit, watching the cab pull away from her shining face.
The education ministry meeting was much more focused than our meeting with the villagers. The meeting was held inside the director’s office, white walls and floors, gleaming and clean, with rows of arm chairs as we presented our purpose once again to the director, his secretary, and the director of building schools. They began discussing our goals for completing the school, including other roadblocks that could use our help to make the school succeed. I shifted in my chair to cross my legs and Olivia grasped my thigh to uncross them. This is a sign of boredom. I feel off-kilter from the culture shift and the whiskey, and am glad this meeting does not follow the same pattern of passing around shots.

The directors explained that teachers face a problem commuting to the village. Most of them live in Berekum, which is about a 30-40 minute drive from the school. Some have bikes but others must walk, and they would benefit greatly from transportation to the school. The school also faces a lack of sanitation or bathrooms, causing rodents and snakes to gather around waste. These goals seem achievable and affordable to us for the nearby future. But this was only the beginning.
There is a lack of resources for the children. They have little to no books to study from, and little to no motivation to learn. They are not aware of a world and a future outside of farming, and do not recognize the value that their primary education holds. They are also unable to study at home or work on homework without electricity, and their nights after school end in complete darkness. It would help if they had lanterns to use for light to study by. We then discussed the progress from primary school to junior high school, and while it is requires no national test to pass to this level, many children will not choose to continue their education due to the distance away of the closest junior high school. They would like for us to look into building a new junior high school in the village of Akatim for the primary school children to advance to, but our resources are limited and the village elders are also pushing for a medical center for the village. We ensured them that we are truly devoted to helping these children, but with government support and funding this goal would be much more achievable. They agreed to talk to the assembly and see if this funding will be provided alongside the support of The Senase Project. Our main goal is for the students of Akatim to excel. We want to see them advance to junior and then senior high school, and then secondary education to pursue a career of their choice. Money, transportation, and resources provide endless roadblocks, but our progress is already well-known throughout the region and we can only hope to continue the same, and see a class of children progress through their entire education under our support and guidance.

We followed up this meeting with a visit to a bar with Asomah, Fred’s brother. He grew up in the Berekum area, and the Atomic Bar has become a regular stop of his. We each threw back an enormous beer, then wandered throughout the market place, where we were welcomed by almost everyone we passed. Olivia and Asomah introduced us to every local food we came across, with Olivia grabbing hold of my notebook full of cuisine notes and ran through the list. We returned home for lunch and then a trip through the village (or tour, I should say, given our celebrity status).

We are growing used to shaking hands with each person we pass, a greeting of welcome and our thanks, then their chuckle at our pronunciation. We are also used to the cell phones pointed in our direction behind a snickering Ghanaian, either photographing or filming our every step and sigh. But one thing I don’t think will ever fail to catch my breath is the swarms of children who follow us around. As we walked down the main street of Berekum, more and more children creeped out of the cracks between houses, out of cars, from their homes and with their friends. As the seven of us obronis walked down the street, about fifty children clustered around us, fighting for a chance to hold our hands. They squealed in excitement, greeted us time and time again, asked our names over and over and offered theirs to us.

Olivia walked us through what seemed to be every house in Senase, children seemingly multiplying step by step. They posed with flair for pictures, crowding around the camera after to view the photo and point themselves out. Children shoved others off of our hands, grabbed our arms, stroked our hair, amazed by the texture of it all, the brightness of our skin, the foreignness of our voice. They followed us long away from their homes, down the dirt roads and through the villagers’ houses (in one of which we got to hold a delicate, sleeping two week old baby), through Mattina’s house where she joined the brigade, all the way back home.
We sat around the table, trying our best to answer all of their questions and entertain the crowd of about fifty excited faces who barely understood a word we spoke. They taught us hand games and stroked my braid. We handed them Senase bracelets and asked them about their school. The sun set and the children slowly dwindled away back to their homes with parting kisses on the cheeks. We can only hope to brighten their days again and have ours brightened by them tomorrow, and are motivated now, more than ever, to look toward their futures when we begin work on their school tomorrow.

Elizabeth Gorney

Every person, no matter their status or wealth, is overwhelmingly friendly. We are consistently welcomed to the country, asked how we are, what our names are, if we are enjoying our stay. Strangers smile. Small children flock and wave, sometimes following us down the block. Cars toot their horns in hello, or to warn you they’re approaching, or that they’re passing, or that traffic is flowing too slowly, or for no apparent reason at all. The least friendly part of the city is the mix of smells: open sewers line the streets, drain into vacant lots and mix with years of dusty litter. Mix that with high traffic exhaust, unfamiliar, unidentifiable cuisine, and the sweat of a hot crowd. Sometimes you can almost smell the oil boiling beneath the dirt. It becomes difficult to tell your own musky scent from everyone — everything — else.

Between the flights and exploring the city we were exhausted, and were lucky enough to be escorted around by Fred’s siblings, Olivia and Oliver. Their family has welcomed us into their home, serving us bag after bag of filtered water as we melted to their sticky leather couches. Our first night in the hostel under the fan and a gentle breeze through the window was the ultimate relief.

Today we awoke with plans to explore the touristy aspects of Ghana, traveling along the coast in a tro-tro, huge, rickety vans that seat about twenty, refreshed with the new day. Our first stop was at Kakum National Park for a canopy walk.   As we drove through the gates I noticed the back of the employees’ shirts read I SURVIVED THE CANOPY WALK in bold red, stark against the white. Without knowing what I was getting myself into but hoping to spot a wild elephant or monkey or zebra, I knew that this was somehow a tour I would need to “survive”. My apprehension mounted as Olivia refused to go, her fear of heights too strong to join us.

I wouldn’t say that I fear heights, but I fear bridges, and the feeling of nothingness beneath you, only gravity waiting to suck you downward. And essentially that is what the canopy walk is: one long walking bridge up in the treetops — literally — about one step wide and 40 meters in the air. (I don’t know the translation to feet or miles, but perhaps it’s better that way.) Hundreds of us fell into line single file and began the tightrope walk across the skyline, from tree to tree. Many of the young children were entertained by us at first; maybe it was our apprehension or maybe just the stark contrast of our skin, but we were photographed and video recorded by giggling faces. Balancing high in the trees it was hard to worry about our near-celebrity status. A group in front of us began singing and chanting, and continued this throughout our entire journey, a soothing serenade as the wood boards creaked beneath our weight. We did not see any animals, but beneath us somewhere were roaming panthers, zebras, cobras, dozens of varieties of wildlife. The walk was exhilarating, with the option to turn back removed there was nothing to do but breathe in the sky and march forward. Olivia greeted us at the end with her infamous wide smile, and once our legs touched solid ground they trembled with relief.

Our next visit was to the Cape Coast Castle, a three hundred year old grand building built on the beach that once housed thousands of slaves during the triangular trade. Walking through the castle and experiencing the conditions of the slaves became so utterly real. So much more tangible than reading print from a textbook. It seems like ancient history in America, but being in Africa it still feels so fresh. Some on the tour likely had descendants ripped from their families, their histories irrevocably torn. Standing in the small, stone underground room with one tiny window of light, one hole in the wall for food once housed 200 slaves for 2-3 month periods. Markings on the wall indicate feces were once piled roughly a foot high throughout the room. Where their food was thrown. Where they were forced to live. Where many of them died. And to think this whole time I’ve been worried about crapping in a hole. To think that I’ve known nothing except modern plumbing my entire life. Things I will never be able to take for granted again.

Then there were holes and cells where “unruly” slaves who attempted to escape for freedom were left to die. Pitch black, no food, no water. No escape except death itself. Bodies piled up and then chucked into the sea. And those who did not rebel were led to the slave vessel to be transported to the New World, where if they were “lucky” enough to survive they were sold into slavery. The tour ends with a memorial for the lives lost. A prayer that their souls can rest in peace, and that we, the living, will never let another stain to humanity such as this happen again. A sense of unity fell upon the group.

Now we have made it back to the hostel, and I am basking in the glory of my first shower since leaving from Buffalo on Thursday. We will explore Accra for another couple of days, before heading to Senase, a journey we have all been itching for all along. Soon we will explore rural, traditional Africa, and at last meet the children whose lives we are trying to improve through the value of education. Though the time we have already spent here feels so long, it will be so short for what we need to accomplish, but we can only hope that our presence and continued efforts will bring hope to those who need it most.

- Elizabeth Gorney

Since this is just a quick hello from us today, I’ll leave you with a quote from someone near and dear to our hearts, a thought that we try to keep in mind each and every day here at The Senase Project.

“Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”  -Archbishop Desmond Tutu

100. The number of uniforms being provided to students in need.

7. The number of people it took to start a movement.

1. The amount you can give to bring the school one brick closer to completion.

Construction is officially underway in Akatim building the final three classrooms of the school and that is thanks to you! As the pictures begin to role in of mass quantities of concrete being purchased and foundations being poured, this is all suddenly becoming very real!

We are building this school together! In order to finish the school as quickly as possible for these students before the rainy season, we are sharing a special opportunity with you. By donating $1, you are purchasing one brick that will be put into the school. Imagine that, how neat would it be to look at these pictures just a few short months from now and think, ‘I was really a part of it! With THAT brick right there!’

I can’t wait to keep you updated in the coming weeks about the progress. Be sure to check back at the end of each month to see the latest and greatest pictures of the Akatim Village School coming to life.

Let’s finish this school together, spreading hope and laying the foundation for the future…brick by brick!

Raina Duggirala

Quinton Brock

Victory for Poland

The Black Shots

The Tins

Through the Crowd
Until the album release, I will be featuring one of these artists/groups in this blog so that you can get to know them a little better!  When the album is released (current release date is TBD), it will be available both in hard copies and online!
Even more good news?  How is this possible?  Next year, after the release of the CD, there will be a concert held on the east coast to celebrate The Senase Project and the change we are creating when we come together.
Check back soon for more information about this campaign!  I’ll keep you updated.  Hope you find a way to make a difference in someone’s life today, living life the TSP way!

-Jules