This is a writing that began late one night almost three weeks ago, that carried on well into the early morning hours. I just picked it up again and finished it this evening. It is quite personal in nature. Feel free to skip it if you please, because it is long, doesn’t have any classy pictures, and really doesn’t share anything specific to living in Liberia. The last sentence is worth reading again! I place this writing here on this blog because it provides the context of where this adventure with Mercy Ships began in the first place for those who know me and have been following this experience.
I just finished reading the writings of an ancient Jewish leader named Nehemiah. It was an encouragement to me. It is a chronicle written by Nehemiah of his thoughts, his prayers, his interactions with people, and his adventures. In many ways, he was just an ordinary fellow, who sought God's blessing as he went about his business, and by being intentional, some wonderful stories unfolded. God used him. He oversaw the rebuilding of the broken walls of Jerusalem (important for security), he helped the city to begin functioning again, he lived with the people- not enjoying special privilege, and he helped the people focus on what was most important to them. Nehemiah did this while sometimes living with his Jewish people, and other times by living off with the Persians, the peoples who had conquered his people. God used this regular man.
When I read Nehemiah's account, I can't help but be drawn to some of the parallels of his story and my own. I ascribe to be like Nehemiah. I will not pretend for a moment to be anywhere near the man that he was; but in the theme of Nehemiah, of telling stories as they are, and of being thankful for the ways that God moves in simple tangible ways in this Earth, I'd like to go back just over seven months ago, and attempt to provide a context for this journey.
December 22, 2006.
I was alone in my office at church where I was the middle school youth pastor. I had come in to work for a few short hours to wrap up some loose ends before leaving for the Christmas holiday, for a week of vacation. While working there, since day three, it was my custom to begin my time and work at church k by stopping to pray. Sometimes this was thirty seconds, other times this was ten or more minutes. Sometimes it was focused and selfless, other times I was tired or my mind was racing ahead to other things reducing it down to a mere tradition or ritual. It was my way to ask God to move, to honor God with my work, to ask for blessing, and to seek direction for my time. On this afternoon, I was shaken. It was all four of these things.
I almost didn't stop to pray, because I was only going to do busy work. As I glanced over at the chair that I would sit in to pray in this manner, that inner voice in my head asked me bluntly if I was really going to pray. I hesitated, inclining not to. But then I told myself, no, this is indeed why I pray each time. So, I did. This fifteen minutes changed everything.
There are times when I pray when I feel like I am talking to myself (and feel quite silly). There are times when I feel like I am praying to God and that God is somehow absent. There are other times when I pray when I feel a closeness with God and prayer becomes a time of listening with my mind and heart, a time of sharing my thoughts and questions. There have also been a very few times in my life when I have experienced such intimacy with God and have felt tangibly guided by God with that voice in the back of my mind. This was one of those few times.
When I arose from this time of prayer, I felt that it was time to step out of my role as youth pastor accompanied by a tangible, surreal, deep peace. I was bewildered to say the least. I glanced over at the piles of folders stacked on my desk that has just become irrelevant, and left my office.
For the next ten days, until the next staff meeting at church, I processed, and prayed, and recited over and over the reasons for why this couldn't happen. But what about all of the relationships formed for the last year? You don't just step out halfway through the school year! I love this work. What will the students and volunteer leaders do? What will they think? What about finances? What does this mean that I step into... I asked over and over in prayer throughout the days if what had happened that afternoon was real or not. And every time, I felt that it was, and to step out. For the first few days I kept this to myself. I then shared with a few very close friends with a deep faith. We talked through it, we cried, we prayed. I was a mess on the inside, because at 23 years old, you don't do things like this. But the peace never left and my heart kept telling me that indeed this experience was real.
On the eleventh day, after Christmas and New Year's had come and gone, I found myself at the weekly staff meeting looking around the table. Taking a deep breath while my heart fluttered, I shared with my co workers what had happened, starting with the catalyst on that Friday afternoon, to the peace, to my questions, to how I felt it should manifest itself in action. I ended by sharing that I intended on doing exactly what I felt guided to do, to step out now. Four weeks later was my very last day.
These four weeks were a blur of a series of announcements, of meetings, of planning for my absence, and of rapidly tying up loose ends. These four weeks were a blur of emotions and feelings and doubts. I was afraid. I was afraid of being a fool. I was afraid of my identity, my relationships, and of what stepping out meant stepping into. I was a mess. But in this, my posture towards God softened from me telling God what I could do for God, to me trusting that God will do what God will do and that it is my role to offer my whole self to be used if God so desires. One posture is telling God what I can do for him. The second is offering my assistance. Big difference.
This posture continued to soften as I entered two months of uncertainty. I expected for something to come my way immediately, making sense of why I stepped out so suddenly. Instead, I waited for what seemed like an eternity. However, at the beginning, Mercy Ships kept coming to mind when I would stop to pray about what to do. (I didn't know what else to do.) After a week of it coming up over and over, I relented and sent in an application to volunteer. I didn't know much of anything about this group until I finally sent in my application. Expecting something to come up right away, I waited. And then I waited some more. Nothing happened. Well almost nothing happened. I had a lot of time on my hands- a lot of time to try to escape from the deep anxiousness in my heart, and a lot of time to dive straight into it, if I was willing.
To sum up a pretty miserable time, I learned about my identity and about connecting the dots from what I know in my head, to what I believe in my heart. I had to deal with knowing that my identity on the inside doesn't come from my job, or how much money I earn, or how much stuff I own, or how busy I make myself, to what other people think of me, or how I look, or if I'm in a relationship... to believing it. I had to enter into believing in my mind and heart and action, that my identity comes from being created by a loving God, in God's image. Yes, this will manifest itself in all of these other things, but central to who I am is in relationship with Jesus. This was an uncomfortable time of redefining 'success'. But it was good. My perception of many things was turned inside out, for the better. But oh it was hard.
One morning almost two months later, I found myself in my beloved orange chair in the living room as had become my morning ritual. I was there with my coffee, cereal, and Bible to begin my day by trying to be focused. Meanwhile, the application process with Mercy Ships seemed so incredibly slow to the point where I was afraid I wouldn't even be able to serve with them anymore if I was going to come back for the three weddings I was going to be in during the summer. But, I had come to the point in learning about contentedness and identity, where in my chair I thanked God for where I was. I thanked God for where he had brought me thus far, that he was in control, for many of the blessings in my life-big and small, and for a brand new day. I prayed that the application process would be swift, but the thankfulness was genuine. Regardless of what external thing happened, I was grateful. After this, I went to my next ritual of checking my email for any word from Mercy Ships. Ready for another delay, or more likely, no word at all, I waited for my email to slowly pop up on the wireless internet that our neighbours were so kind to share with my housemates and I. But there it was! An email from Mercy Ships inviting me to arrive in England in four days! I read it a second time slowly, got up from the kitchen table, and returned to my orange chair in disbelief. I continued thanking God, when my phone rang. It was from Mercy Ships in Africa! I talked with a nice lady with an English accent who asked if I had gotten her email. I replied that indeed I had. After a few more questions back and forth, we ended on the understanding that I would contact her back in a day with a decision.
It was an exciting day for me. It was what I had been less than patiently waiting for. Internally, I felt every confirmation to go. I met with my parents for dinner to seek their input, and they were a little less than excited to send their son off to a potentially dangerous voyage from England to Africa, and rightfully so. They asked some really good questions and tried really hard to be supportive. I tried hard to emphasize with their concern. That night I got together with a few close friends to seek their council, questions, and prayers. At the end of our gathering, I knew that I would be going!
For the next two days, I made travel arrangements, packed up all of my stuff in the apartment and moved it to my parent's house with the help of friends, acquired new health insurance, discontinued auto insurance and cell phone coverage, packed for an anticipated two months, and said goodbye to people. I was fortunate enough to be able to spend the final evening of youth group for the year with the amazing students to share the news and to say goodbyes, and to even arrive home to a farewell party arranged by friends at my house to celebrate with me. I shared the good news, we celebrated, and they prayed for me before the night was over. Brian Mulder even played a song he had recorded about it! I was sent off with much love.
Fast Forward a little bit here- past travelling, past arrival on the m/v Africa Mercy, past engaging in a new community, past beginning to serve in the galley on board, to a month later.
As the departure of the Africa Mercy came closer and closer, I was faced with a tough decision. The original plan would no longer occur. At first, I was going to serve in England, sail down to Liberia with the ship, be in Monrovia for ten days, and then fly home to be in the wedding of a good friend. Because our estimated date of arrival in Liberia had been moved back, I was faced with the choice of flying out of England prematurely, or of sailing and missing the wedding. After sharing the situation with Tony, he understood, and before I even asked anything, told me that I should sail and see what there is to see in Africa, thereby missing the wedding. So, I did. I dearly missed standing up with my friend in his wedding, and celebrating with his community. I was also exhilarated to continue on in this adventure.
I was left with an open-ended ticket on the Africa Mercy. I was told that there was always a space for me in the galley. It then became my place to choose a date of departure. When I looked at the situation, my options, the remarkable environment I was in, and prayed about it; I felt like I would be in Liberia for quite a while. And I have been!
After quite a while, the date of August 20 kept popping in my head when I would pray about the future. After a handful of times, I got up and looked at a calendar. August 20 is a Monday- the only day each week that has a flight from Monrovia to London, where I had an airplane ticket waiting for me to fly me home from London. A week later, three weeks before August 20, I had purchased an airplane ticket. And now, I’m headed home.
It has been strange for me to be here, not knowing how long I would be here for. It has been good though, helping keep me from becoming complacent. But now that leaving is real, a set of anxieties of what comes next is knocking on my door. The anxiety is back. But, when I look over my shoulder at how leaving to go to college went, at how stepping out and serving with Mission Year in Chicago was, at how I became the youth pastor at church, and at how coming here has gone, I know that it will be ok. I know that it will be more than ok. Serving in a manner like this has been a dream of mine that I never would have expected to have come true so early in life. Looking over my shoulder, I am so thankful and incredibly hopeful for whatever comes next, whatever it may be.
-Scott
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Haircut Fun
Before, During, and AfterOnce upon a time I left for Africa with the longest hair that I have ever had in my life. And then I didn’t cut it for almost five months. And then it was really long and curly and poofy. For a little while it was woven into superb dreadlocks, but that is another picture, and story.
On Thursday my scalp was liberated from carrying the equivalent of a couple winter caps worth of hair, but not before having fun with it. I dressed up for the occasion so Lorah, our wonderful hair stylist on board, and I could take a few glamour shots of the process. Above you will notice a before, during, and after picture of the process. I did have a beautiful mullet, if I may say so myself, for about fifteen minutes, but couldn’t bring myself to wear it for long. (I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night!)
It has taken me a little bit to get used to looking at myself in the mirror. It has taken much longer for everyone else to get used to it. Right after the haircutting time, I walked by dozens of familiar faces and was not recognized. They thought that I must be a new person. Some even offered a courteous ‘hello’. I was even introduced as a joke by Rahel at our community meeting as I ran the sound board. From up front, before beginning the music of our worship gathering, she introduced the not-so-new crew member: Scott. It was met with a pleasant applause. It was a unique experience at first to talk with close friends, and to have them intently searching into your eyes and face to recognize you. They knew the voice and body, but not the face.
On Thursday my scalp was liberated from carrying the equivalent of a couple winter caps worth of hair, but not before having fun with it. I dressed up for the occasion so Lorah, our wonderful hair stylist on board, and I could take a few glamour shots of the process. Above you will notice a before, during, and after picture of the process. I did have a beautiful mullet, if I may say so myself, for about fifteen minutes, but couldn’t bring myself to wear it for long. (I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night!)
It has taken me a little bit to get used to looking at myself in the mirror. It has taken much longer for everyone else to get used to it. Right after the haircutting time, I walked by dozens of familiar faces and was not recognized. They thought that I must be a new person. Some even offered a courteous ‘hello’. I was even introduced as a joke by Rahel at our community meeting as I ran the sound board. From up front, before beginning the music of our worship gathering, she introduced the not-so-new crew member: Scott. It was met with a pleasant applause. It was a unique experience at first to talk with close friends, and to have them intently searching into your eyes and face to recognize you. They knew the voice and body, but not the face.
Nimba Mountain Trip
Our Guest House.JPG)
Hello Ivory Coast.jpg)
On Top of the World.jpg)
Our Expedition.JPG)
A Gigantic Sandbox Toy.jpg)
A Little Work on the Brakes .JPG)
Playing With the Children While We Wait .jpg)
Packing Up Outside Abuja To Return to Monrovia
At this time last week I was climbing up the tallest mountain in all of Liberia. It was beautiful up there in the clouds and above the clouds. With a long glance from left to right we could gaze down upon the countries of Guinea, Ivory Coast, and Liberia. It took our group a day and a half to reach this point, but it was well worth it.
On the eve of the four day weekend I huddled together with James, Carlos, Kassi, Sally, Jacinto, and Nathan in the dining room to review our final details for the trip. We determined who was to secure essential items for our three day, two night voyage such as bug repellent, mosquito nets, flashlights, candles, water, bleach (in case we were stranded with absolutely no clean water), money, cameras, and a touch of food. We also reiterated that we had no secured driver, vehicle, food or water for three days, directions, or place to stay for the nights as of yet. But, we did have a desire to travel up country into the bush to Ganta to spend a night, travel the next day to the mountain, return to sleep in Ganta, and then travel to home sweet home in Monrovia. And with this, we parted ways until the morning for our travels to begin.
It rains here. It rains here often. It is the rainy season. It was defiantly the rainy season when the seven of us hiked down the gangway after signing out for the weekend. It was pouring. We looked as if we were going backpacking decked out in raincoats, and with plastic bags covering our backpacks. We were also exhilarated to begin our travels. As we walked down the port entrance we prayed together for a beautiful weekend together, for safety, and for good times, all of which happened.
We began by taking taxis to Red Light, a main intersection North of Monrovia where there is a large transportation depot with vehicles travelling to all parts of the country. My taxi ride was uneventful, but those in the other taxi had fun. A man entered their car and asked if they were from Mercy Ships. (This happens all the time.) They said that indeed, they were. The man then went on to tell them, and all of the other people in the taxi for the rest of the 20 minute drive how wonderful Mercy Ships was. He had gone to the vision clinic and had received some precious glasses, of which he carefully pulled out of his coat, unwrapped them, and showed to everyone. At the depot, he took it upon himself to find the second group (my group) of travellers. Soon enough, we were reunited to begin a long process of negotiations for our next stage of travel. There were negotiations of whether to take two taxis, a minibus, or a minivan, there were offers and counter offers for prices for each of these, there was figuring out who the driver was and whether or not we had to take a ‘car boy’, all of which is taking place in the middle of a group of animated men fluxing between 10 to 30 of them. And, did I mention that we stand out in the greater surrounding crowd? At the end, we rolled away in a Toyota minivan with our group of seven, a driver, and a ‘car boy’ who was actually a car man.
Our travels down the mostly-paved road were dotted with pee-pee breaks (as they call it here), times to pull off the front tires to adjust the break pressure, times to eat yummy donuts, plantain chips, cooked corn, and glass bottles of pop on the side of the road, and wonderful UNMIL military checkpoints. Every time we stopped there were ‘plenty plenty’ people there to greet us, and lots of cute waving kids.
In Ganta we found a great guest house for five dollars a person. It included hung mosquito nets, a bathroom, a large barrel of water, double beds (to be shared) and generator produced electricity from 7pm to 11pm. It was wonderful. At night we had a feast of local food down the dirt road at Abuja. We also purchased some donuts, bananas, and coconuts on the street for an early morning breakfast the next day for an early departure. At night we played what I like to call ‘stupid camp games’- fun games that are for connecting with each other, not winning. We played one of my new favorites: the animal game. At the end of the night, I climbed into bed and tucked in my mosquito net, ready for the next day.
In the morning we hiked out, much like the morning before, except that this time it was not raining! We went to the local taxi area and began another long stage of negotiations. Yuck. After getting everyone all excited, again, and even having one car that attempted to cut getting cinder blocks placed in front and behind each tire, we made our way with our new ride. Nine of us rolled down the road in this small hatchback taxi for a two hour drive to the base of the mountain. By the way, this is somewhat normal here… We only had to hop out and walk one time, so that our taxi could drive up a steep, muddy hill
When we finally arrived at the base of the mountain, it was like we were in a different world, one that was quiet and beautiful. We hiked around for three hours up there, having a blast. I felt like a little kid in a giant sandbox, playing around with the rocks, abandoned mining equipment, water, and climbing all over the place. It was peaceful up there on top of the world, looking down at everything! For this period of time, we were the tallest people in all of Liberia, Guinea, and Ivory Coast!
On the way down from the base of the mountain, in our taxi again, our seventeen or so year old driver decided to ride the brakes the whole way. Riding shotgun, I shared that when I drive down mountains I pump the brakes on and off so that they don’t overheat. The driver nodded. After a long pause of continual brake-riding, I inquired if the emergency brake worked, pointing to the lever. With a node he said “nope”. I then offered that when the brakes stop working to please use the engine to brake. Being the verbal communicator that he was, he nodded. A minute later when the smoke began billowing from the brakes, and they stopped working, I was delighted that we rolled down the mountain slowly and safely with our engine holding us back. The driver kept the brakes on anyway for reasons unknown to me. At the bottom, in the middle of no where, we stopped for an unplanned repair of the brakes for a while. Let’s just say that throwing cold water on them so that they warp or crack wasn’t a good way to start.
In time, a pickup truck came on by and offered a little boost. We were delighted to accept and go cruising in the back of the 4x4 down the two-track around the mountain. At the end we arrived back in the town at the base and were dropped off. While we waited for our taxi to return we talked with the crowd of 20 kids that assembled and the 20 some adults. Some of us played football (soccer), some talked with the moms, some talked with the various UNMIL, UN police, and Mittal Steel trucks that all stopped to see why there were white people hanging out on the street. Eventually our taxi arrived, and we headed back to our favourite restaurant two hours away, and to our guest house, and slept really well.
Returning home to Monrovia was a piece of cake. We found a Toyota 4 Runner and flew all the way home with our group of seven and one driver. It was the most space that we had had yet!
The trip was so much fun. We saw so much of what makes Liberia what it is- the people, the culture, the land, you name it. What made it so amazing was the company though. Our crew was easy going, incredibly patient, adventurous, encouraging, and down right fun. I am thankful to have made such excellent friends while being here. As we walked back up the port entrance to the ship again, we stopped again to pray, being thankful for a great journey.
On the eve of the four day weekend I huddled together with James, Carlos, Kassi, Sally, Jacinto, and Nathan in the dining room to review our final details for the trip. We determined who was to secure essential items for our three day, two night voyage such as bug repellent, mosquito nets, flashlights, candles, water, bleach (in case we were stranded with absolutely no clean water), money, cameras, and a touch of food. We also reiterated that we had no secured driver, vehicle, food or water for three days, directions, or place to stay for the nights as of yet. But, we did have a desire to travel up country into the bush to Ganta to spend a night, travel the next day to the mountain, return to sleep in Ganta, and then travel to home sweet home in Monrovia. And with this, we parted ways until the morning for our travels to begin.
It rains here. It rains here often. It is the rainy season. It was defiantly the rainy season when the seven of us hiked down the gangway after signing out for the weekend. It was pouring. We looked as if we were going backpacking decked out in raincoats, and with plastic bags covering our backpacks. We were also exhilarated to begin our travels. As we walked down the port entrance we prayed together for a beautiful weekend together, for safety, and for good times, all of which happened.
We began by taking taxis to Red Light, a main intersection North of Monrovia where there is a large transportation depot with vehicles travelling to all parts of the country. My taxi ride was uneventful, but those in the other taxi had fun. A man entered their car and asked if they were from Mercy Ships. (This happens all the time.) They said that indeed, they were. The man then went on to tell them, and all of the other people in the taxi for the rest of the 20 minute drive how wonderful Mercy Ships was. He had gone to the vision clinic and had received some precious glasses, of which he carefully pulled out of his coat, unwrapped them, and showed to everyone. At the depot, he took it upon himself to find the second group (my group) of travellers. Soon enough, we were reunited to begin a long process of negotiations for our next stage of travel. There were negotiations of whether to take two taxis, a minibus, or a minivan, there were offers and counter offers for prices for each of these, there was figuring out who the driver was and whether or not we had to take a ‘car boy’, all of which is taking place in the middle of a group of animated men fluxing between 10 to 30 of them. And, did I mention that we stand out in the greater surrounding crowd? At the end, we rolled away in a Toyota minivan with our group of seven, a driver, and a ‘car boy’ who was actually a car man.
Our travels down the mostly-paved road were dotted with pee-pee breaks (as they call it here), times to pull off the front tires to adjust the break pressure, times to eat yummy donuts, plantain chips, cooked corn, and glass bottles of pop on the side of the road, and wonderful UNMIL military checkpoints. Every time we stopped there were ‘plenty plenty’ people there to greet us, and lots of cute waving kids.
In Ganta we found a great guest house for five dollars a person. It included hung mosquito nets, a bathroom, a large barrel of water, double beds (to be shared) and generator produced electricity from 7pm to 11pm. It was wonderful. At night we had a feast of local food down the dirt road at Abuja. We also purchased some donuts, bananas, and coconuts on the street for an early morning breakfast the next day for an early departure. At night we played what I like to call ‘stupid camp games’- fun games that are for connecting with each other, not winning. We played one of my new favorites: the animal game. At the end of the night, I climbed into bed and tucked in my mosquito net, ready for the next day.
In the morning we hiked out, much like the morning before, except that this time it was not raining! We went to the local taxi area and began another long stage of negotiations. Yuck. After getting everyone all excited, again, and even having one car that attempted to cut getting cinder blocks placed in front and behind each tire, we made our way with our new ride. Nine of us rolled down the road in this small hatchback taxi for a two hour drive to the base of the mountain. By the way, this is somewhat normal here… We only had to hop out and walk one time, so that our taxi could drive up a steep, muddy hill
When we finally arrived at the base of the mountain, it was like we were in a different world, one that was quiet and beautiful. We hiked around for three hours up there, having a blast. I felt like a little kid in a giant sandbox, playing around with the rocks, abandoned mining equipment, water, and climbing all over the place. It was peaceful up there on top of the world, looking down at everything! For this period of time, we were the tallest people in all of Liberia, Guinea, and Ivory Coast!
On the way down from the base of the mountain, in our taxi again, our seventeen or so year old driver decided to ride the brakes the whole way. Riding shotgun, I shared that when I drive down mountains I pump the brakes on and off so that they don’t overheat. The driver nodded. After a long pause of continual brake-riding, I inquired if the emergency brake worked, pointing to the lever. With a node he said “nope”. I then offered that when the brakes stop working to please use the engine to brake. Being the verbal communicator that he was, he nodded. A minute later when the smoke began billowing from the brakes, and they stopped working, I was delighted that we rolled down the mountain slowly and safely with our engine holding us back. The driver kept the brakes on anyway for reasons unknown to me. At the bottom, in the middle of no where, we stopped for an unplanned repair of the brakes for a while. Let’s just say that throwing cold water on them so that they warp or crack wasn’t a good way to start.
In time, a pickup truck came on by and offered a little boost. We were delighted to accept and go cruising in the back of the 4x4 down the two-track around the mountain. At the end we arrived back in the town at the base and were dropped off. While we waited for our taxi to return we talked with the crowd of 20 kids that assembled and the 20 some adults. Some of us played football (soccer), some talked with the moms, some talked with the various UNMIL, UN police, and Mittal Steel trucks that all stopped to see why there were white people hanging out on the street. Eventually our taxi arrived, and we headed back to our favourite restaurant two hours away, and to our guest house, and slept really well.
Returning home to Monrovia was a piece of cake. We found a Toyota 4 Runner and flew all the way home with our group of seven and one driver. It was the most space that we had had yet!
The trip was so much fun. We saw so much of what makes Liberia what it is- the people, the culture, the land, you name it. What made it so amazing was the company though. Our crew was easy going, incredibly patient, adventurous, encouraging, and down right fun. I am thankful to have made such excellent friends while being here. As we walked back up the port entrance to the ship again, we stopped again to pray, being thankful for a great journey.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Return Flight on August 20
I have an airplane ticket to return home! I will fly out of Monrovia, Liberia on August 20. I really love it here, but it would also be wonderful to be home too! It is a win-win situation. I bought the ticket last week, and have been thinking about it for longer, and figured that I should probably pass this on! (More on this later.)
Eye Surgery
I headed downstairs this morning after the breakfast routine was finished to change into scrubs. A few moments later, decked out in some fresh blue pants, blue shirt, blue hair net, and blue show coverings (are you noticing a theme here?), I entered operating theatre number six. This is one of the operating rooms where we do our eye surgeries! For the next hour, I watched intently as a cute three year girl was slowly given vision back in her right eye.
As I sat in the quiet, sterile operating room, the sensation was much like going to a grand sports stadium and rooting on the home team. I found myself cheering for the doctor in my silence, willing him to do well. There were moments of watching the action first hand, and then peering over at the monitor for a close up. There were times of a little tension, and other times of relief, such as when the new lens was finally inserted and in proper position. It was a rush to say the least. And best of all, at the end of the hour, a three year old girl was recovering from anaesthesia with a newly repaired eye! I had to leave afterwards to go help get lunch ready, but by the time I saw the eye surgeon for his lunch, he had already removed cataracts in two other patients. What a great morning. I like this place!
A Foot Washing
Something that has been a challenge for me since first arriving here, has been encounters with seemingly shameless and unwarranted demands (not requests) for money and material items. For me, it isn’t so much the money or specific item, but the idea behind the demand. Integrity, character, honesty, and dignity are priceless… they cannot be bought nor should they be compromised for money, especially meagre amounts of money. It is here where the problem lies for me. If it was a sincere and warranted request to help with a true need, then this is one thing, but a cold, rude demand, as if it were a game, is quite another.
I cannot begin to count how many times a sassy young lad has blurted out “Whi’ mon, gimme mo’ney” with an outstretched, open palm, paired with a subdued smile. Sometimes they are eight, other times eighteen. Sometimes it is the raincoat tied around my waist. Other times, the sorry looking bicycle I am sitting on (a bicycle that I wouldn’t even bother to lock up back home.) The worst is the demand for food. Spotting the group before being spotted, the group is perfectly normal and content. They’re talking or laughing or sitting. But when I walk by, a boy says ‘food, gimme food’ meekly, pointing to his open mouth with one hand, holding the stomach with the other. If I look over my shoulder once I am past, they are all laughing together. It encourages the heart to grow cold to sincere needs... There is a similar effect when a price is solidly agreed upon for a taxi ride, before even touching the door handle to enter the car, yet upon arrival there is a demand for more based off of some frivolous or fabricated reason. At this point I find it challenging to not think less of this particular man. It is hard to imagine some positive cultural explanation or innocent excuse for it, when it happens over, and over… and over again. Thank God, this is not always the case.
I eat dinner from time to time at my favourite Liberian Food Ready Now establishment. I am given honest change back when paying for food! When walking back from there last night, the mud/dirt road was extra soupy. The thin, hard packed, dirt trail on the side of the road for pedestrian use disappeared a few times without a makeshift bridge, leaving one to guess the depth of the mud (and who knows what else) you’re stepping in, with your sandals. At one such point, we were clearly on the wrong side of the street as I watched my two friends venture in front of me, accidentally covering half of their feet in the stuff. (It left a funny, distinct line on their feet, like when you wear socks for a whole day when you’re out in the sun, and then when you take them off you have a fantastic tan line. This time, it was a mud line!) We laughed, shrugging our shoulders. The people in the stand next to us on the street laughed too. Fortunately for me, they graciously guided me on a route across the road to keep my feet clean. It worked, and they would know, because despite their flip flop foot apparel, their feet seem to always be clean of the stuff. It is what happened next that was a huge encouragement to me.
A lady had seen what had happened, went inside to get a small pitcher of water, and emerged from her house offering it to my friends to rinse their feet off. She gently insisted without a spoken word. So, my friends took the little plastic pitcher, full of water that she must have purchased, and rinsed their feet off, slowly dripping the water on their feet and sandals on the side of this road.
I nonchalantly passed Kelly a small bill while this was happening to offer the woman as a thank you. I had been conditioned to do this from so many people asking for money in response to favors-turned-services. Well, when Kelly offered, the shy woman declined. Kelly offered again, kindly, thinking she much not have understood what we were offering. She again declined graciously, gesturing that it was a gift. In this moment, she served us, shattering the callous expectations that have grown inside of me here. We were complete strangers and she blessed us. She blessed me. She made my day.
I cannot begin to count how many times a sassy young lad has blurted out “Whi’ mon, gimme mo’ney” with an outstretched, open palm, paired with a subdued smile. Sometimes they are eight, other times eighteen. Sometimes it is the raincoat tied around my waist. Other times, the sorry looking bicycle I am sitting on (a bicycle that I wouldn’t even bother to lock up back home.) The worst is the demand for food. Spotting the group before being spotted, the group is perfectly normal and content. They’re talking or laughing or sitting. But when I walk by, a boy says ‘food, gimme food’ meekly, pointing to his open mouth with one hand, holding the stomach with the other. If I look over my shoulder once I am past, they are all laughing together. It encourages the heart to grow cold to sincere needs... There is a similar effect when a price is solidly agreed upon for a taxi ride, before even touching the door handle to enter the car, yet upon arrival there is a demand for more based off of some frivolous or fabricated reason. At this point I find it challenging to not think less of this particular man. It is hard to imagine some positive cultural explanation or innocent excuse for it, when it happens over, and over… and over again. Thank God, this is not always the case.
I eat dinner from time to time at my favourite Liberian Food Ready Now establishment. I am given honest change back when paying for food! When walking back from there last night, the mud/dirt road was extra soupy. The thin, hard packed, dirt trail on the side of the road for pedestrian use disappeared a few times without a makeshift bridge, leaving one to guess the depth of the mud (and who knows what else) you’re stepping in, with your sandals. At one such point, we were clearly on the wrong side of the street as I watched my two friends venture in front of me, accidentally covering half of their feet in the stuff. (It left a funny, distinct line on their feet, like when you wear socks for a whole day when you’re out in the sun, and then when you take them off you have a fantastic tan line. This time, it was a mud line!) We laughed, shrugging our shoulders. The people in the stand next to us on the street laughed too. Fortunately for me, they graciously guided me on a route across the road to keep my feet clean. It worked, and they would know, because despite their flip flop foot apparel, their feet seem to always be clean of the stuff. It is what happened next that was a huge encouragement to me.
A lady had seen what had happened, went inside to get a small pitcher of water, and emerged from her house offering it to my friends to rinse their feet off. She gently insisted without a spoken word. So, my friends took the little plastic pitcher, full of water that she must have purchased, and rinsed their feet off, slowly dripping the water on their feet and sandals on the side of this road.
I nonchalantly passed Kelly a small bill while this was happening to offer the woman as a thank you. I had been conditioned to do this from so many people asking for money in response to favors-turned-services. Well, when Kelly offered, the shy woman declined. Kelly offered again, kindly, thinking she much not have understood what we were offering. She again declined graciously, gesturing that it was a gift. In this moment, she served us, shattering the callous expectations that have grown inside of me here. We were complete strangers and she blessed us. She blessed me. She made my day.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Joseph
"...So, would you like to go to church with me tomorrow?"
"Sure" I responded. "Where is it again?"
"Down in Monrovia."
"Will we take a car, or a taxi?"
Joseph laughs. "No, I don't have a car. Looks like we'll take a taxi unless you have one."
I look down at my bicycle and gently shake my head. "No car here. Looks like it will be a
taxi. So, when should I come over?"
"We need to leave by seven, so before then."
I swallow hard, dismayed, and try to hide my surprise.
"How about six forty five?"
"Um, sure. Sounds good. I'll see you then." I learned another lesson in this moment yesterday afternoon: ask what time a church service is before you commit to it!
I met Joseph a Saturday afternoon a month go in a Food Is Ready Now 'restaurant'. The one I was familiar with did not have food-ready-now as I walked down Jamaica Road with Lauren, so we kept on walking. Soon enough, we found another, smaller, Food Is Ready Now place (a convenient and catchy name for a food joint) that has become my favourite restaurant here in Liberia.
This Food Is Ready Now place is a small establishment that is half house and half restaurant. There is one small wood table in the corner with a wooden bench on each side where people sit. The table can comfortably accommodate four people by American customs or six or seven people comfortably by Liberian standards. The eight by ten foot room also has one more bench and a few pots and plastic bowls where the food that is ready now, is kept. There is no menu, because you simply ask what the special is for the day. At this location, there is a sauce of the day with rice, or an uber-spicy sauce to accompany fufu. After trying both, I prefer the rice. Sometimes the sauce is potato greens with little peppers. Other times it is cassava. Sometimes it is simply red.
On our first visit, Lauren and I ate rice with red sauce, or soup as the people here call it. We ate the delicious rice and sauce, leaving the meat behind. It's not that we don't trust the people, it's that we don't trust the meat. The rice and sauce were made with unclean water that has boiled for a long time making it ok. The meat: well, we've seen the market that it comes from. No thanks. It won't be wasted anyway. Someone will eventually eat it after we leave.
While we ate we talked with some of the people that were eating beside us. They were friendly and enjoyed talking with us. One of the men present, Joseph, was sitting on the bench behind me. He was warm, smiled a lot, and spoke clear English. (Sometimes the accent here makes it challenging to communicate clearly. The last syllable it often left unenunciated, t's sound like d's more often than not, and it is fast! I mean no disrespect here, but it sounds kind of like talking with a toothbrush in your mouth, minus the lisp, and on steroids.)
We talked for a while, and in particular, about his eyes. He has small cataracts in each. Last year, when Mercy Ships was in the same port, Jose-ph saw the team that works on eyes, but did not come early enough to make a slot for a surgery. A fifteen minute procedure could offer clear vision in one eye, but the precious spots fill up so quickly. We are at seven to ten such procedures right now, and will work up to a pace of twenty such operations a day in the coming weeks. Joseph asked what he needed to do this time so that the same thing wouldn't happen again. We replied the he needed to see one of the eye clinics that take place throughout the town every weekday. We also shared that we didn't know which day the crew was at which location. So, we promised that we would come back soon with a piece of paper stating this precious information. Before walking back to the ship (purchasing monkey apples on the way) Joseph wrote down his name, a friend's cell phone number he could be reached on, and his address for me.
Two days later I returned to Food Is Ready Now with a piece of paper the size of my thumb with the locations of the vision team from Monday through Friday. Joseph wasn't at the restaurant, but one of the people inside walked down the street to find Joseph. A few minutes later I could see Joseph's walking down the dirt road in my direction with a large grin on his face. We talked, I gave him the paper, and all was well. I urged him to go to a clinic soon before the slots filled up again.
A week came and went, and I found myself walking towards my new favourite restaurant with Josh, my roommate (who just flew home to South Carolina this week.) When I poked my head in the shop, there was only rice ready, no sauce or meat. We were just turning around to go to one of the other five similar places on the half mile stretch of road we had just walked, when sure enough, Joseph was walking by. I asked about his eyes. He said that he hadn't gotten around to making the trip yet. I then asked for any suggestions for food. With this, he insisted that we go to his house. So we did.
Josh and I sat with Joseph and some of his extended family on his cement porch in the shade. After a few minutes Joseph had inquired from his neighbours what all was cooking. And then, we had a small feast of different delicacies. We each had a glass bottle of pop that walked down the street on top of someone's head. Josh's donuts with some kind of surprise meat inside arrived the same way. Our rice and delicious sweet pumpkin 'soup' came from next door. (Well not next door, because there are few doors on this road, just doorways, but you get the idea.) To date, this has been my favourite Liberian dish yet. My bottle of Coca Cola was 20 Liberian dollars. The rice and pumpkin was 30 Liberian dollars, even though I offered 40. You can exchange 61 Liberian dollars for a single American dollar bill on the street here.
I talked with Joseph and his friends for quite a while as I ate. We talked about our faith understandings (it is as natural as talking about the weather here) our homes, our family size and locations, our perceptions of America, and the like. As we chatted into the afternoon, Josh decided that it would be more fun to play with the twenty or so little children who had showed up to stare at the white people. He played with the gleeful children while Joseph and I continued in our discussions. Soon after, I was invited to go to church with Joseph and his family. I had to decline because I was scheduled to work that Sunday, but said maybe later.
Yesterday, I rolled down Jamaica Road on a bicycle to quickly check in with my friend to see if he had visited the vision clinic yet. I rolled to a stop in front of his house to see a few familiar faces, but not Joseph's. He soon emerged having just taken a shower. When we shook hands, I was half expecting a warm hand, having come from a hot steaming shower that fogs up the mirror in the bathroom despite the efforts of the ventilation fan. Well, it was a cold hand that had emerged from the cold buckets of water that had just been dumped over it. Anticipating my question, Joseph informed me that he hadn't been out for a week because he has been down for the count with Malaria, a wicked disease. Despite this, he asked if I would like to go to church with him. I was eager to head to a church without a large contingent of fellow Mercy Shippers, because despite trying desperately to fit in, we don't and can end up being a distraction to the worship. I was also looking forward to going as a guest. So, before I knew what I was getting into, I said "sure".
I, Scott the Not Morning Person, hiked down the gangway this morning at 6:29am by myself. (It was a tough sell to my crew mates to ask them if they wanted to go to a church that I didn't know the name of, or exactly where it was, at a splendid seven in the morning.) I walked down the port entrance in the quiet of the morning looking up at the sunrise. There were men running up and down the main road for exercise, and no honking of taxi horns! It was peaceful. Although it stayed quiet, this peace ended abruptly for me when I noticed the still water in the small swamp next to Joseph's house. I had never noticed the swamp before. There was no breeze. A few moments later I was greeting Joseph as my eyes followed a few mosquitoes floating about the porch. It was good to see Joseph. It was not good to see abundant Malaria mosquitoes in the early morning. Only my feet, hands, and head were exposed, but these mosquitoes can kill. Mosquitoes like these kill three thousand people every day with Malaria...
Eventually Joseph, his friend, and I left, walking back down Jamaica Road to the main road to catch a taxi. Soon enough, I was crammed in the back of a tiny car with three others in the back seat. Our hips didn't come close to fitting, so we all turn to our side, half spooning, as we thump and thud down the pot hole-filled road. I was amused when someone would depart our back seat, instigating a process of shifting around. Once they are free, someone else will begin to cram in, often on the other side. On two occasions, the new passenger would go to slam the door closed to lock us all in place, to no avail, the door bouncing open off of their hip. On both occasions, it was not the second, but the third attempt that was successful. I kept my amusement to myself.
At the church, surprise!, I was the only 'white man' (properly enunciated "why-mon" with no space in between, and repeated rapidly with growing excitement by little kids as they wave frantically.) But, I did sit with two familiar faces. This ceased when the pastor asked for any first time visitors to stand up. I offered a questioning look to Joseph on my right. He encouraged me to stand up. So, I did, with about four others. We were clapped for. I was relieved because I thought that this was the end! I can endure a little applause. Then, I was asked to come forward. I shot another questioning look down to Joseph who was still sitting like almost everyone else. Maybe no one noticed the six foot tall white giant towards the front and I could casually sit back down? Nope. Not so much. I walked up to the front in the center with four others where there were special chairs awaiting us. We got front seats! No more wooden benches for us, we were in nice plastic patio chairs, with arm rests! This had its perks. There was 'plenty, plenty' space for leg room, for my arms, and for seeing everything that happened. The only downside was that everyone was now watching the back of my head... for the really long service... that was really early in the morning... that as time went on, became harder and harder to stay awake for. With only a few slight bobs of the head, I made it!
After the service, we left quickly so another congregation could meet in the building, and we entered another taxi to take us home. Outside of the port entrance, we hopped out and paid the taxi driver. It cost us 75 Liberian dollars for the three of us to go about five miles through town. I talked with Joseph for a little while, shaking hands many times as we said goodbye. A few minutes later, I was walking back down the port road, and up the gangway at 10:45 as most of my crew mates were leaving to go to their church services. It was an early and unique morning.
"Sure" I responded. "Where is it again?"
"Down in Monrovia."
"Will we take a car, or a taxi?"
Joseph laughs. "No, I don't have a car. Looks like we'll take a taxi unless you have one."
I look down at my bicycle and gently shake my head. "No car here. Looks like it will be a
taxi. So, when should I come over?"
"We need to leave by seven, so before then."
I swallow hard, dismayed, and try to hide my surprise.
"How about six forty five?"
"Um, sure. Sounds good. I'll see you then." I learned another lesson in this moment yesterday afternoon: ask what time a church service is before you commit to it!
I met Joseph a Saturday afternoon a month go in a Food Is Ready Now 'restaurant'. The one I was familiar with did not have food-ready-now as I walked down Jamaica Road with Lauren, so we kept on walking. Soon enough, we found another, smaller, Food Is Ready Now place (a convenient and catchy name for a food joint) that has become my favourite restaurant here in Liberia.
This Food Is Ready Now place is a small establishment that is half house and half restaurant. There is one small wood table in the corner with a wooden bench on each side where people sit. The table can comfortably accommodate four people by American customs or six or seven people comfortably by Liberian standards. The eight by ten foot room also has one more bench and a few pots and plastic bowls where the food that is ready now, is kept. There is no menu, because you simply ask what the special is for the day. At this location, there is a sauce of the day with rice, or an uber-spicy sauce to accompany fufu. After trying both, I prefer the rice. Sometimes the sauce is potato greens with little peppers. Other times it is cassava. Sometimes it is simply red.
On our first visit, Lauren and I ate rice with red sauce, or soup as the people here call it. We ate the delicious rice and sauce, leaving the meat behind. It's not that we don't trust the people, it's that we don't trust the meat. The rice and sauce were made with unclean water that has boiled for a long time making it ok. The meat: well, we've seen the market that it comes from. No thanks. It won't be wasted anyway. Someone will eventually eat it after we leave.
While we ate we talked with some of the people that were eating beside us. They were friendly and enjoyed talking with us. One of the men present, Joseph, was sitting on the bench behind me. He was warm, smiled a lot, and spoke clear English. (Sometimes the accent here makes it challenging to communicate clearly. The last syllable it often left unenunciated, t's sound like d's more often than not, and it is fast! I mean no disrespect here, but it sounds kind of like talking with a toothbrush in your mouth, minus the lisp, and on steroids.)
We talked for a while, and in particular, about his eyes. He has small cataracts in each. Last year, when Mercy Ships was in the same port, Jose-ph saw the team that works on eyes, but did not come early enough to make a slot for a surgery. A fifteen minute procedure could offer clear vision in one eye, but the precious spots fill up so quickly. We are at seven to ten such procedures right now, and will work up to a pace of twenty such operations a day in the coming weeks. Joseph asked what he needed to do this time so that the same thing wouldn't happen again. We replied the he needed to see one of the eye clinics that take place throughout the town every weekday. We also shared that we didn't know which day the crew was at which location. So, we promised that we would come back soon with a piece of paper stating this precious information. Before walking back to the ship (purchasing monkey apples on the way) Joseph wrote down his name, a friend's cell phone number he could be reached on, and his address for me.
Two days later I returned to Food Is Ready Now with a piece of paper the size of my thumb with the locations of the vision team from Monday through Friday. Joseph wasn't at the restaurant, but one of the people inside walked down the street to find Joseph. A few minutes later I could see Joseph's walking down the dirt road in my direction with a large grin on his face. We talked, I gave him the paper, and all was well. I urged him to go to a clinic soon before the slots filled up again.
A week came and went, and I found myself walking towards my new favourite restaurant with Josh, my roommate (who just flew home to South Carolina this week.) When I poked my head in the shop, there was only rice ready, no sauce or meat. We were just turning around to go to one of the other five similar places on the half mile stretch of road we had just walked, when sure enough, Joseph was walking by. I asked about his eyes. He said that he hadn't gotten around to making the trip yet. I then asked for any suggestions for food. With this, he insisted that we go to his house. So we did.
Josh and I sat with Joseph and some of his extended family on his cement porch in the shade. After a few minutes Joseph had inquired from his neighbours what all was cooking. And then, we had a small feast of different delicacies. We each had a glass bottle of pop that walked down the street on top of someone's head. Josh's donuts with some kind of surprise meat inside arrived the same way. Our rice and delicious sweet pumpkin 'soup' came from next door. (Well not next door, because there are few doors on this road, just doorways, but you get the idea.) To date, this has been my favourite Liberian dish yet. My bottle of Coca Cola was 20 Liberian dollars. The rice and pumpkin was 30 Liberian dollars, even though I offered 40. You can exchange 61 Liberian dollars for a single American dollar bill on the street here.
I talked with Joseph and his friends for quite a while as I ate. We talked about our faith understandings (it is as natural as talking about the weather here) our homes, our family size and locations, our perceptions of America, and the like. As we chatted into the afternoon, Josh decided that it would be more fun to play with the twenty or so little children who had showed up to stare at the white people. He played with the gleeful children while Joseph and I continued in our discussions. Soon after, I was invited to go to church with Joseph and his family. I had to decline because I was scheduled to work that Sunday, but said maybe later.
Yesterday, I rolled down Jamaica Road on a bicycle to quickly check in with my friend to see if he had visited the vision clinic yet. I rolled to a stop in front of his house to see a few familiar faces, but not Joseph's. He soon emerged having just taken a shower. When we shook hands, I was half expecting a warm hand, having come from a hot steaming shower that fogs up the mirror in the bathroom despite the efforts of the ventilation fan. Well, it was a cold hand that had emerged from the cold buckets of water that had just been dumped over it. Anticipating my question, Joseph informed me that he hadn't been out for a week because he has been down for the count with Malaria, a wicked disease. Despite this, he asked if I would like to go to church with him. I was eager to head to a church without a large contingent of fellow Mercy Shippers, because despite trying desperately to fit in, we don't and can end up being a distraction to the worship. I was also looking forward to going as a guest. So, before I knew what I was getting into, I said "sure".
I, Scott the Not Morning Person, hiked down the gangway this morning at 6:29am by myself. (It was a tough sell to my crew mates to ask them if they wanted to go to a church that I didn't know the name of, or exactly where it was, at a splendid seven in the morning.) I walked down the port entrance in the quiet of the morning looking up at the sunrise. There were men running up and down the main road for exercise, and no honking of taxi horns! It was peaceful. Although it stayed quiet, this peace ended abruptly for me when I noticed the still water in the small swamp next to Joseph's house. I had never noticed the swamp before. There was no breeze. A few moments later I was greeting Joseph as my eyes followed a few mosquitoes floating about the porch. It was good to see Joseph. It was not good to see abundant Malaria mosquitoes in the early morning. Only my feet, hands, and head were exposed, but these mosquitoes can kill. Mosquitoes like these kill three thousand people every day with Malaria...
Eventually Joseph, his friend, and I left, walking back down Jamaica Road to the main road to catch a taxi. Soon enough, I was crammed in the back of a tiny car with three others in the back seat. Our hips didn't come close to fitting, so we all turn to our side, half spooning, as we thump and thud down the pot hole-filled road. I was amused when someone would depart our back seat, instigating a process of shifting around. Once they are free, someone else will begin to cram in, often on the other side. On two occasions, the new passenger would go to slam the door closed to lock us all in place, to no avail, the door bouncing open off of their hip. On both occasions, it was not the second, but the third attempt that was successful. I kept my amusement to myself.
At the church, surprise!, I was the only 'white man' (properly enunciated "why-mon" with no space in between, and repeated rapidly with growing excitement by little kids as they wave frantically.) But, I did sit with two familiar faces. This ceased when the pastor asked for any first time visitors to stand up. I offered a questioning look to Joseph on my right. He encouraged me to stand up. So, I did, with about four others. We were clapped for. I was relieved because I thought that this was the end! I can endure a little applause. Then, I was asked to come forward. I shot another questioning look down to Joseph who was still sitting like almost everyone else. Maybe no one noticed the six foot tall white giant towards the front and I could casually sit back down? Nope. Not so much. I walked up to the front in the center with four others where there were special chairs awaiting us. We got front seats! No more wooden benches for us, we were in nice plastic patio chairs, with arm rests! This had its perks. There was 'plenty, plenty' space for leg room, for my arms, and for seeing everything that happened. The only downside was that everyone was now watching the back of my head... for the really long service... that was really early in the morning... that as time went on, became harder and harder to stay awake for. With only a few slight bobs of the head, I made it!
After the service, we left quickly so another congregation could meet in the building, and we entered another taxi to take us home. Outside of the port entrance, we hopped out and paid the taxi driver. It cost us 75 Liberian dollars for the three of us to go about five miles through town. I talked with Joseph for a little while, shaking hands many times as we said goodbye. A few minutes later, I was walking back down the port road, and up the gangway at 10:45 as most of my crew mates were leaving to go to their church services. It was an early and unique morning.
On a Bicycle
I delight in biking through Liberia for many reasons. I get a fuller feel for the land, hearing, seeing, smelling, feeling it. It often proves to be an adventure. I get a little exercise while I'm at it. In addition to all of these bonuses, I find that biking offers me a much needed middle ground. I'll come back to this idea later.
I intended on learning what it is like to be poor when I arrived here. I was wrong. I have a better sense for it, but what I have really learned is what it is like to be incomprehensibly wealthy. This is coupled with a tremendously powerful social privilege. They go hand in hand. Whether or not I want this is entirely irrelevant, for I will be treated differently.
No matter where I go, I will be treated with privilege. When I stand by the road with a few friends waiting for a taxi, cars will stop, eject their passengers, and offer us a ride with a smile, whether I like it or not. I don't. (We turn and walk away not making eye contact.) When I walk into a church or school, I will be ushered to sit in a seat of privilege either in a special chair in the very front, or even on the stage looking back at everyone. I have to firmly refuse with determination to simply sit on the bench like everyone else. I can drop the equivalent of three week's wages for someone here (if they can find a job) on a single meal of food. I have smiled and walked through multiple security check points where the very guards, standing next to signs posting 'trespassers will be treated violently', become my personal tour guide. I can go to, and through a prison, because of privilege. Anywhere from one to four prisoner's freedom could be purchased with the amount of money I usually keep in my wallet back home. This privilege is very real.
This privilege makes me sick deep down inside. I am treated as if I am a superior human being. I am ashamed to say that I am treated like a god sometimes. Why pray when you can ask Scott for ______ ? (fill in the blank with 'freedom from prison', 'a visa to America', 'restored sight', 'an unimaginable sum of money') ...I better understand why books written on development from my faith tradition caution about this! It is dangerous to the heart to become conditioned by this for any length of time. I shutter at the thought of "Oh, I must deserve this!" Consequently, they must... not?
It is this very separation that caused such wickedness and bloodshed in this nation. It is rooted in some 133 years of former American slaves essentially making slaves out of the locals. It is rooted in separation and elitism. And then, there was war- a hellish, uncivil, child soldier, rape and pillage the locals, half of the country on international food supplements, hundreds of thousands of refugees created, illegal rainforest lumber and blood diamond funded, war, in its entirety.
And then I come rolling down the road on a bicycle, the gears in my head and heart spinning between idealism and realism over and over. In this less than eloquent dance, I'm after the middle ground. I will acknowledge the privilege because I never intended on changing the social fabric of an entire country anyway. Given this, I will do what I can within this position of privilege, taking guidance from an old Jewish prophet Micah: "He has showed you, O man, what is Good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." When I go to prison, I will start out by clarifying that I am no more or less of a man in God's eyes because of my skin colour or passport. I will make eye contact with the legless beggar, shake his hand, and ask what his name is, offering dignity not money. I will seek to buy locally produced and prepared food at local prices. I will continue to praise the beautiful side of the land and people of Liberia when opportunity provides. And I will continue to ride my bicycle.
When I ride the bike I am not wisped away in a massive Land Rover that acts as a tank. I am right there along with everyone else. I can ride in the rear of our group making eye contact with people, smiling and nodding my head, acknowledging people. I will grin when others find it absurd that people of such privilege aren't in their Land Rovers, or even in a chartered taxi, but on a bike? Like some of the people here? Yes. And when it rains profusely, I will laugh so that the bewildered masses know that it is ok to laugh too, and that I understand. That I understand, that they understand. That we're in this together, or at least working slowly in that direction.
It's not a game. There is no use in pretending that I'm from here. I'm not. And I only begin to understand. And the people here are not from my home. There is no use in pretending this either. But we are from the same mass of humanity on this Earth. We are all God's children. We are all the same in God's eyes, in God's heart. It is here that there are many budding relationships that are beginning to cross the divide. Individual relationships that create community can do anything.
I intended on learning what it is like to be poor when I arrived here. I was wrong. I have a better sense for it, but what I have really learned is what it is like to be incomprehensibly wealthy. This is coupled with a tremendously powerful social privilege. They go hand in hand. Whether or not I want this is entirely irrelevant, for I will be treated differently.
No matter where I go, I will be treated with privilege. When I stand by the road with a few friends waiting for a taxi, cars will stop, eject their passengers, and offer us a ride with a smile, whether I like it or not. I don't. (We turn and walk away not making eye contact.) When I walk into a church or school, I will be ushered to sit in a seat of privilege either in a special chair in the very front, or even on the stage looking back at everyone. I have to firmly refuse with determination to simply sit on the bench like everyone else. I can drop the equivalent of three week's wages for someone here (if they can find a job) on a single meal of food. I have smiled and walked through multiple security check points where the very guards, standing next to signs posting 'trespassers will be treated violently', become my personal tour guide. I can go to, and through a prison, because of privilege. Anywhere from one to four prisoner's freedom could be purchased with the amount of money I usually keep in my wallet back home. This privilege is very real.
This privilege makes me sick deep down inside. I am treated as if I am a superior human being. I am ashamed to say that I am treated like a god sometimes. Why pray when you can ask Scott for ______ ? (fill in the blank with 'freedom from prison', 'a visa to America', 'restored sight', 'an unimaginable sum of money') ...I better understand why books written on development from my faith tradition caution about this! It is dangerous to the heart to become conditioned by this for any length of time. I shutter at the thought of "Oh, I must deserve this!" Consequently, they must... not?
It is this very separation that caused such wickedness and bloodshed in this nation. It is rooted in some 133 years of former American slaves essentially making slaves out of the locals. It is rooted in separation and elitism. And then, there was war- a hellish, uncivil, child soldier, rape and pillage the locals, half of the country on international food supplements, hundreds of thousands of refugees created, illegal rainforest lumber and blood diamond funded, war, in its entirety.
And then I come rolling down the road on a bicycle, the gears in my head and heart spinning between idealism and realism over and over. In this less than eloquent dance, I'm after the middle ground. I will acknowledge the privilege because I never intended on changing the social fabric of an entire country anyway. Given this, I will do what I can within this position of privilege, taking guidance from an old Jewish prophet Micah: "He has showed you, O man, what is Good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." When I go to prison, I will start out by clarifying that I am no more or less of a man in God's eyes because of my skin colour or passport. I will make eye contact with the legless beggar, shake his hand, and ask what his name is, offering dignity not money. I will seek to buy locally produced and prepared food at local prices. I will continue to praise the beautiful side of the land and people of Liberia when opportunity provides. And I will continue to ride my bicycle.
When I ride the bike I am not wisped away in a massive Land Rover that acts as a tank. I am right there along with everyone else. I can ride in the rear of our group making eye contact with people, smiling and nodding my head, acknowledging people. I will grin when others find it absurd that people of such privilege aren't in their Land Rovers, or even in a chartered taxi, but on a bike? Like some of the people here? Yes. And when it rains profusely, I will laugh so that the bewildered masses know that it is ok to laugh too, and that I understand. That I understand, that they understand. That we're in this together, or at least working slowly in that direction.
It's not a game. There is no use in pretending that I'm from here. I'm not. And I only begin to understand. And the people here are not from my home. There is no use in pretending this either. But we are from the same mass of humanity on this Earth. We are all God's children. We are all the same in God's eyes, in God's heart. It is here that there are many budding relationships that are beginning to cross the divide. Individual relationships that create community can do anything.
Adopting Abraham #2
Last time I wrote about Abraham, it was just after observing his surgery. This was a while ago! After surgery, the little guy was a little groggy from some of the medicines that he was on, so he was on bed rest from Friday through Sunday. (This is a long time for a squirrelly seven year old!) However, Monday was crutches day, where he learned how to make his way around with one clubbed foot, one healing foot in a full length blue cast, and two brand new crutches. Needless to say, he was a little shaky at first. Despite this, he was eager to enjoy this new rush of freedom. So, when I came down between shifts, he was ready to head up to deck seven. I was too.
Deck seven is our impromptu play area for the children on board until something better can be set up on deck eight. It's long and narrow, but has a few tricycles, and other such scooters. Abraham took a liking to a little black motorcycle and a little green car. He also took a liking to me pushing him all over the place from behind. It was more than slightly awkward for him to prop his cast up on the little vehicles, but he sure enjoyed whizzing around the deck. And with time, he even learned how to steer! I appreciated this. He was a happy camper up on deck seven in the fresh air and with the toys. At the end, it came time to head back inside and down four decks to the hospital.
We played outside on three different days before it was his turn to head home. He arrived on a Wednesday, and headed home the next one. He was still slightly shaky on his crutches, but could whiz down the hall when so desired, for example, play time on deck seven. Abraham will head home with a cast with a closed toe for added protection against the abundant water he will encounter this rainy season. He will also head home with a healing left foot and a healing identity.
Deck seven is our impromptu play area for the children on board until something better can be set up on deck eight. It's long and narrow, but has a few tricycles, and other such scooters. Abraham took a liking to a little black motorcycle and a little green car. He also took a liking to me pushing him all over the place from behind. It was more than slightly awkward for him to prop his cast up on the little vehicles, but he sure enjoyed whizzing around the deck. And with time, he even learned how to steer! I appreciated this. He was a happy camper up on deck seven in the fresh air and with the toys. At the end, it came time to head back inside and down four decks to the hospital.
We played outside on three different days before it was his turn to head home. He arrived on a Wednesday, and headed home the next one. He was still slightly shaky on his crutches, but could whiz down the hall when so desired, for example, play time on deck seven. Abraham will head home with a cast with a closed toe for added protection against the abundant water he will encounter this rainy season. He will also head home with a healing left foot and a healing identity.
I desire for Abraham to be accepted. There are stories from our little patients of rejection, of stones being thrown, of families being ridiculed for having precious feet like my little friend's. Months down the road he will be out of his cast and moving about. After this, he will have a trip to Sierra Leone courtesy of Mercy Ships to have his right foot operated on. I hope he gets to play outside again during his next stay. But more than this, I hope that he knows that he is loved no matter how his feet look.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Adopting Abraham
There is a program called Adopt-A-Patient here on the m/v Africa Mercy. Crew members can volunteer to ‘adopt’ a patient for the duration of their stay here. It is then their role to intentionally spend time with the patient, to listen, and to love on them. On Wednesday I had my first opportunity to adopt a patient, Abraham. (Abraham isn’t his real name, but the one that I’ll use to protect his rights and his identity as I write online.)
Abraham arrived on Thursday afternoon with his sister so that he would be ready for his operation on Friday. He is seven years old, has attentive eyes and a contagious smile. He is gentle, a good sharer, and can play with cars for hours (more on this later.) He is lively and fun! He also has feet that have formed abnormally. But, I want to be clear that this is about Abraham in his entirety (his mind, his heart, his personality, his soul, his body, and all of the other important things that make up a person) who has clubbed feet. This is not the child who has clubbed feet (as his identity) who happens to be named Abraham- an essential distinction.
His feet are turned inward at about a 75 degree angle. They are pigeon toed. To use your hands as a visual, hold your arms and hands straight out, as if you were falling and were going to catch yourself. Rotate your hands so that your fingers are facing each other. If your hands were his feet, they would first be rotated like this. Then roll your hands so that your palms face you. His feet are also turned this way. Imagine walking on the area between your wrist and your knuckle by your little finger. This is how Abraham walks. It can be done, but it is challenging. His feet could have been operated on six and a half years ago… But then again it is better to be fixed now, than in another six and a half years. Also, if it would have been caught earlier, it would have been much easier to treat. On a different note, my feet used to be pigeon toed when I was smaller as well, until I was placed in shoes that pointed my feet in the right direction. As a result of this early treatment, my feet work quite fine right now. (I bet you never knew this smidgen of Scott history.)
I met Abraham on Thursday in the evening after I was done working. I called the nurse on duty in the ward to make sure it was ok, and then headed over. I arrived in a room with about eight kids, four mothers, a few translators, and a few nurses. Some of the children were confined to their beds following their operations while a couple others were playing on the floor unhindered. There were even a few toddlers (siblings) romping about. A few balloons made of latex gloves freely floated about (those nurses!) among two handfuls of toy cars, and colorful building blocks. In this environment I met Abraham and his older sister. He was shy at first. (I sure would be if I were going to have an operation the next day, was surrounded by white people for the first time in my life, was on a ship of all things, that is relatively freezing cold from the air conditioning, that doesn’t have any windows in the hospital, and that makes funny noises.) We played a little bit before I had to leave and go to our community meeting.
The next morning we played for a joyous three hours together before his surgery. We constructed a tower, played with a slinky for the first time ever, but mostly played with cars. I was also excited to play with new Hot Wheels cars for long periods of time! I did find it fascinating that according to Abraham, cars here go ‘beep beep beep’ where as when I was little cars went ‘vroom’. But then again, the taxis here don’t go ‘vroom’ because they go so relatively slow, but they do go ‘beep beep beep’ all day long. We had a lot of fun. After our time together, we were laughing, talking back and forth, and connecting. It also was a great way to keep his mind off of the operation. When the time did come, we picked up our cars and it was time to operate on his left foot. But instead of saying goodbye, I said “see you in a few minutes” because not only is Abraham my adopted patient, but he is also the one surgery that I have the privilege of observing while I am here.
Clothed in my scrubs, shoe booties, surgical hat and facemask, I was reunited with Abraham before he entered the operating theatre. We prayed together with Abraham, his sister, and the nurses for safety and for the doctors. Soon after, Abraham was deep asleep and I watched intently for the next three hours.
Abraham arrived on Thursday afternoon with his sister so that he would be ready for his operation on Friday. He is seven years old, has attentive eyes and a contagious smile. He is gentle, a good sharer, and can play with cars for hours (more on this later.) He is lively and fun! He also has feet that have formed abnormally. But, I want to be clear that this is about Abraham in his entirety (his mind, his heart, his personality, his soul, his body, and all of the other important things that make up a person) who has clubbed feet. This is not the child who has clubbed feet (as his identity) who happens to be named Abraham- an essential distinction.
His feet are turned inward at about a 75 degree angle. They are pigeon toed. To use your hands as a visual, hold your arms and hands straight out, as if you were falling and were going to catch yourself. Rotate your hands so that your fingers are facing each other. If your hands were his feet, they would first be rotated like this. Then roll your hands so that your palms face you. His feet are also turned this way. Imagine walking on the area between your wrist and your knuckle by your little finger. This is how Abraham walks. It can be done, but it is challenging. His feet could have been operated on six and a half years ago… But then again it is better to be fixed now, than in another six and a half years. Also, if it would have been caught earlier, it would have been much easier to treat. On a different note, my feet used to be pigeon toed when I was smaller as well, until I was placed in shoes that pointed my feet in the right direction. As a result of this early treatment, my feet work quite fine right now. (I bet you never knew this smidgen of Scott history.)
I met Abraham on Thursday in the evening after I was done working. I called the nurse on duty in the ward to make sure it was ok, and then headed over. I arrived in a room with about eight kids, four mothers, a few translators, and a few nurses. Some of the children were confined to their beds following their operations while a couple others were playing on the floor unhindered. There were even a few toddlers (siblings) romping about. A few balloons made of latex gloves freely floated about (those nurses!) among two handfuls of toy cars, and colorful building blocks. In this environment I met Abraham and his older sister. He was shy at first. (I sure would be if I were going to have an operation the next day, was surrounded by white people for the first time in my life, was on a ship of all things, that is relatively freezing cold from the air conditioning, that doesn’t have any windows in the hospital, and that makes funny noises.) We played a little bit before I had to leave and go to our community meeting.
The next morning we played for a joyous three hours together before his surgery. We constructed a tower, played with a slinky for the first time ever, but mostly played with cars. I was also excited to play with new Hot Wheels cars for long periods of time! I did find it fascinating that according to Abraham, cars here go ‘beep beep beep’ where as when I was little cars went ‘vroom’. But then again, the taxis here don’t go ‘vroom’ because they go so relatively slow, but they do go ‘beep beep beep’ all day long. We had a lot of fun. After our time together, we were laughing, talking back and forth, and connecting. It also was a great way to keep his mind off of the operation. When the time did come, we picked up our cars and it was time to operate on his left foot. But instead of saying goodbye, I said “see you in a few minutes” because not only is Abraham my adopted patient, but he is also the one surgery that I have the privilege of observing while I am here.
Clothed in my scrubs, shoe booties, surgical hat and facemask, I was reunited with Abraham before he entered the operating theatre. We prayed together with Abraham, his sister, and the nurses for safety and for the doctors. Soon after, Abraham was deep asleep and I watched intently for the next three hours.
Observing surgery
Surgery is amazing- the way that we can put someone into such a deep sleep, breathe for them, take away the pain, and cut things and sew them back up so that they can heal properly. The two orthopaedic surgeons were so skilled! They used tools that looked even more intimidating than dentists’ to do the job. Throughout the operation I asked Abi questions, lots of them. She is a medical doctor who is training to be a surgeon who was also observing the surgery. She taught me so much! When it was all finished, Abraham’s Achilles tendon was lengthened, some bone pieces were taken away from the over-extended side and were then grafted onto the other side to make the foot straight again. Then, two pins and some sutures were put in, guarded by a boy-blue cast to hold everything together so that the foot can heal properly. A day later, Abraham has a sore foot, but a straight one! He is in a cast right now, but when it comes off in a few months, he will have a close to normal, healing foot! And finally, when the healing process is over for the left foot, he will visit the Africa Mercy next year in Sierra Leone to have his other foot operated on!
Some of the tools used
I am in awe of how well the medical staff works together. I am in awe of the precise equipment they use. I am in awe of how they can use this teamwork and equipment with their training to heal my little friend. This will allow a seven year old the chance to fit in again and to move more freely. I watched an ‘ordinary’ miracle in the operating room!
Abraham and I played with cars again tonight. He wasn’t quite as perky, but still laughed and smiled as we rolled the cars around his bed, constructed another tower out of all the blocks, and then drove the cars around the tower and each other. He is a special, brave little guy.
Prison
I went to prison today. I still do not know what to say because I feel all heavy inside as it is still sinking in, so I’ll try to offer some under-developed thoughts and initial reactions, and leave it at that.
-All of the men that I talked with came across as normal, everyday Liberian people, in a good way. They were considerate, hospitable, humble, and people of dignity. They shared their stories, and wanted to know about mine.
-Every person that I talked with said that they did not have a trial, did not see a judge, and did not ever talk with a lawyer, that they were sent directly to jail. No one knows how much longer they will be in prison.
-Two men gave me names and phone numbers of relatives to call to inform them that they were presently in jail, because their family did not know where they were. When I called this afternoon, one was surprised, said that this was news to them, and that they would go there immediately on Monday morning when the prison would allow visitors. The other number was out of service so no contact was made.
-One man said that he had been in jail since January 2006 for being accused of stealing a cell phone, and that 1500 Liberian Dollars (25 US) would be enough to pay the guards, to then pay the court, to set him free.
-I sat in a cement cell seven feet long by four and a half feet wide that currently holds five men. Some of these cells hold eight men. Some of these cells hold men that are not mentally stable. Each cell has a plastic bucket with a cover that functions as a toilet that the inmates empty once a day. I did not see any signs of electricity in the cell block.
-I later noticed that the men had taken their flip flops off before entering their home (the cell). The three thin blankets laid next to each other on the floor had been carefully brushed clear of dirt with the remnants of a hand brush sitting in the corner. I still had my sandals on. When I apologized for wearing my shoes inside, they were completely understanding and gracious.
-The toilet buckets (for 600 people) are emptied by the edge of the property. The hand pump well is located about 150 feet away. Many of the inmates are constantly sick…
-Some inmates had long pants and a long shirt to wear, some had just shorts or just a shirt, one had only boxer briefs to wear.
When I was first debating if I should really go, I was anxious about security, and incredibly unsure of what to exactly do upon our arrival. Do I just simply walk in and sit down and talk? Do I listen? What in the world am I doing?!? I only found comfort in two things. First, that I was going with 18 others from Mercy Ships, many whom have gone multiple times and speak highly of it. They have also shared about innocent inmates who they assisted in liberating and about helping to open up sealed windows in pitch black cells to help the inmates. The second, and primary thing that I found comfort in, was the long history of follower of Jesus visiting those in prison. Some of the early church leaders directed the intentional communities to visit, help, and be an advocate for prisoners.
I did not want to go for my sake, as if I was going to a zoo to look at the animals.
By the time I left, I felt that it was a good thing. The words ‘warm, fuzzy, pleasant, and fluffy’ do not come to mind to describe it. It must be miserable to exist there. However, it seemed to be an encouragement to the people, to listen. It seems to have been helpful to contact one family as to the whereabouts of their son, to relay to two families to visit their now sick relative, and to call Big Momma (he assured me that this was her name) to tell her that her son wanted her to come visit and get him out of prison. This is how it all seemed.
I continue to ask myself “What do you do with all of this?” I purse my lips, shake my head slowly from side, and in the end, gently shrug my shoulders. I do not know. I will pray. But I do not know. I do not know. And for the present time, this is ok.
-All of the men that I talked with came across as normal, everyday Liberian people, in a good way. They were considerate, hospitable, humble, and people of dignity. They shared their stories, and wanted to know about mine.
-Every person that I talked with said that they did not have a trial, did not see a judge, and did not ever talk with a lawyer, that they were sent directly to jail. No one knows how much longer they will be in prison.
-Two men gave me names and phone numbers of relatives to call to inform them that they were presently in jail, because their family did not know where they were. When I called this afternoon, one was surprised, said that this was news to them, and that they would go there immediately on Monday morning when the prison would allow visitors. The other number was out of service so no contact was made.
-One man said that he had been in jail since January 2006 for being accused of stealing a cell phone, and that 1500 Liberian Dollars (25 US) would be enough to pay the guards, to then pay the court, to set him free.
-I sat in a cement cell seven feet long by four and a half feet wide that currently holds five men. Some of these cells hold eight men. Some of these cells hold men that are not mentally stable. Each cell has a plastic bucket with a cover that functions as a toilet that the inmates empty once a day. I did not see any signs of electricity in the cell block.
-I later noticed that the men had taken their flip flops off before entering their home (the cell). The three thin blankets laid next to each other on the floor had been carefully brushed clear of dirt with the remnants of a hand brush sitting in the corner. I still had my sandals on. When I apologized for wearing my shoes inside, they were completely understanding and gracious.
-The toilet buckets (for 600 people) are emptied by the edge of the property. The hand pump well is located about 150 feet away. Many of the inmates are constantly sick…
-Some inmates had long pants and a long shirt to wear, some had just shorts or just a shirt, one had only boxer briefs to wear.
When I was first debating if I should really go, I was anxious about security, and incredibly unsure of what to exactly do upon our arrival. Do I just simply walk in and sit down and talk? Do I listen? What in the world am I doing?!? I only found comfort in two things. First, that I was going with 18 others from Mercy Ships, many whom have gone multiple times and speak highly of it. They have also shared about innocent inmates who they assisted in liberating and about helping to open up sealed windows in pitch black cells to help the inmates. The second, and primary thing that I found comfort in, was the long history of follower of Jesus visiting those in prison. Some of the early church leaders directed the intentional communities to visit, help, and be an advocate for prisoners.
I did not want to go for my sake, as if I was going to a zoo to look at the animals.
By the time I left, I felt that it was a good thing. The words ‘warm, fuzzy, pleasant, and fluffy’ do not come to mind to describe it. It must be miserable to exist there. However, it seemed to be an encouragement to the people, to listen. It seems to have been helpful to contact one family as to the whereabouts of their son, to relay to two families to visit their now sick relative, and to call Big Momma (he assured me that this was her name) to tell her that her son wanted her to come visit and get him out of prison. This is how it all seemed.
I continue to ask myself “What do you do with all of this?” I purse my lips, shake my head slowly from side, and in the end, gently shrug my shoulders. I do not know. I will pray. But I do not know. I do not know. And for the present time, this is ok.
Package
A little package arrived with an eye surgeon from Holland yesterday, just for me! Wayne the Barber connected my Dad with this doctor when each shared about Mercy Ships as their hair was snip-snipped away in Holland. Doesn’t your barber assist in hand-delivering packages from across the ocean? It began for me with an email asking if me “If I wanted anything brought to me from home, what would it be?” I pondered and pondered for almost a week before arriving at my conclusion: all that I really want are a few home-baked Mom cookies (also known as Mrs. Parrott Cookies by my friends. They are even more famous in the circles I run in than Grandma’s Cereal Treats! Yes, I am from a fine heritage of baking with love.) Well, needless to say, these delicious morsels baked with love, arrived yesterday. I went to sleep a happy man.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Dental Team Visit
I spent a day with the Mercy Ships Dental Clinic at Redemption hospital here in Monrovia. It was an eye opening experience.
As we rolled up to the hospital entrance this morning, the car brakes screeching us to a stop, a crowd of people stood up from where they were sitting in the shade. They first walked across the pavement to the entrance, then trotted, then a few ran to form today’s line (or cue as everyone else here seems to call it.) It was like back in the days when the elementary school bus turned the corner onto my street signalling for us to pick up our backpacks and make a compressed line, edging our way to the front. Cutting still happens here too…
As we rolled up to the hospital entrance this morning, the car brakes screeching us to a stop, a crowd of people stood up from where they were sitting in the shade. They first walked across the pavement to the entrance, then trotted, then a few ran to form today’s line (or cue as everyone else here seems to call it.) It was like back in the days when the elementary school bus turned the corner onto my street signalling for us to pick up our backpacks and make a compressed line, edging our way to the front. Cutting still happens here too…
When I first arrived inside, I was cognisant of the lack of space. The dental chairs are so close that the staff zigzags around equipment and each other brushing past the patients’ feet. Meanwhile the fans are blowing away trying to frantically cool the place down. The fans need some help! Despite the closeness of everything, the team sure moved efficiently! They were like a colony of ants moving frantically, yet in order. The goal is to help as many people as possible with the best care we can provide, because for every person helped, there will always be another few waiting in line.
Let’s walk through the operation here. To begin with, the patients wait outside the hospital. They are then screened to see if any particularly urgent cases are present so they may be brought to the front. They are then admitted, their information is taken, and they wait in our waiting room. In the waiting room there is entertainment in the form of the Jesus video being played, and teaching about how to properly care for one’s teeth. Both are exciting! When one of the five chairs in the other room becomes open, it is quickly sprayed down and sterile instruments are brought over while the next patient is called.
Upon sitting down, the patient is asked what the problem is. After this a pair of sunglasses is administered to block out the bright light… and anything else that may make its way in the direction of the eyes. And then, the dentists do what they are best at- they work in a tiny dark place with precise instruments to fix the problem so that it may heal. In this, teeth are frequently extracted because there is not much left of them to repair. Most of the problems we encountered would have been much easier to treat in their first stages. Unfortunately, they had grown large enough for them to finally come. There were some instances where root canals could have been performed, but when the option is to help three or four patients in urgent need by removing the problem, or to perform one single root canal and crown, the choice is obvious. (However I have been told that if it is a front tooth that is in need of a root canal, there is a group here that we can send the patient too and sponsor their visit.)
After the dental work, the patient is then forwarded to another station where they are given any necessary pain killers or antibiotics (penicillin). They are then instructed in what to expect to take place with their mouth for the next few days or weeks and are then free to leave the clinic.
The work done while the patient is in the chair is intricate and intense. I watched the volunteer doctors pull out remaining roots from teeth that have decayed away long ago. I have heard the crunching of an impacted wisdom tooth on its way out. The jaw bone was exposed, bone had to be drilled away at the edges to free the roots up, and in the end, the wound was stitched close. (This is really quite expensive in the US!) I watched this one intently a few feet away as the British dentist explained to us what he was doing. I watched things that made me queasy and light headed to the point of watching the white spots dance until I had to look away. I also watched the wiggling, flexed toes of the patients and felt it for them. However, when individual examinations were over, I also watched many sighs of relief when they were finished, and the ensuing smiles.
The work done while the patient is in the chair is intricate and intense. I watched the volunteer doctors pull out remaining roots from teeth that have decayed away long ago. I have heard the crunching of an impacted wisdom tooth on its way out. The jaw bone was exposed, bone had to be drilled away at the edges to free the roots up, and in the end, the wound was stitched close. (This is really quite expensive in the US!) I watched this one intently a few feet away as the British dentist explained to us what he was doing. I watched things that made me queasy and light headed to the point of watching the white spots dance until I had to look away. I also watched the wiggling, flexed toes of the patients and felt it for them. However, when individual examinations were over, I also watched many sighs of relief when they were finished, and the ensuing smiles.
By the end of the day, sixty two people were helped for free and the man with an eye problem was instructed to come back a few days later when the vision team will be at the hospital (after his tooth was removed.) Another child who showed up with a clubbed foot was also forwarded to the orthopaedic team to be examined. Another man with a tumor in his mouth had a biopsy taken and will return in a few days to see if he will need to be scheduled for free surgery on our ship. If so, we will schedule him in.
All in all, it was amazing to watch this team work. Yes, I sterilised the instruments in the afternoon, but they served me much more than I ever served them. Because of their various forms of training, these friends and shipmates really helped a lot of people through the medical work, but also in the way that they treated the patients with respect and care. I am blessed to live in a community like this.
Long before these dental tools and techniques were invented, one St. Francis of Assisi was quoted saying “Preach the Gospel (the good news) at all times, and if necessary, use words.” It is a true pleasure to live with such eloquent, yet verbally gentle preachers.
Monday, July 9, 2007
An Eventful Day
Today began nice and peacefully as my day off. I deliberately slept in for a little bit. When I emerged upstairs for a late breakfast, the first three people that I talked to said right away “You just woke up didn’t you?” They were right. I was relaxed. After a scrumptious bowl of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, and a good, long conversation with Kevin, I returned downstairs and spent some rare time by myself. It was good to read, and be still, to reflect and to look ahead.
When I emerged upstairs for a late lunch, the pace of my day quickened. After eating I went out on the dock, past the dozens of patients waiting to be screened, and into the examination room (tent) to observe with Dr. James. I sat like a fly on the wall watching with wide eyes, ears, and heart; for this was the orthopaedic surgery screening that was taking place.
This was the second round. The first screening had already occurred and had directed patients that we could possibly help with our orthopaedic surgeons to this specific day. Once here, two orthopaedic surgeons were screening patients all day long. They examined local Liberians in need of help from eight in the morning to almost eight in the evening! Each waited patiently in the shade of awning for her or his turn to be seen with the hopes of help. And I was able to watch this for two hours.
One girl had wounds from during the war when shrapnel cut through her legs and abdomen while she was a little girl. Her mother was running for shelter with her tied onto her back (as all the women carry their little ones around here) when the girl was injured. It is now about nine years later and she will be helped within the next few weeks.
Another boy with a clubbed foot came through. (This is when the foot turns sideways and/or backwards and cannot be used as usual.) He is also scheduled to be helped soon. There was another little guy with a dislocated knee and a kneecap that was out of place. He will also be scheduled to be helped. As the examinations took place and conversations followed, I watched the eyes of the patients. The wide eyes of the child. The hopeful eyes of the mother or grandmother. Wow.
However not everyone could be helped. Some were told that an operation would do no good, or make the situation worse. An elbow and a leg from a car accident a long time ago, legs broken from falling out of a tree, a foot that didn’t form correctly fifty years before. It was hard to watch this. I felt it for the people sitting a few feet away as the news sunk in. What do you do? What do you say?
In the end, each patient was encouraged regardless of the news. Dr. James went well out of his way to get to know each potential patient asking about family and sports, jobs and preferences. He was good at making them smile.
After spending a special two hours in the toasty tent full of people, watching and learning, I headed out. A few minutes later, I was in a completely different world. I was in a family cabin with 40 other crewmembers (25 little kids, 15 adults) for birthday party for Isabella’s first birthday. She is the cutest toddler ever, and has wonderful parents. Until dinner time I watched a bunch of little kids play games, dance to silly songs, eat cake, and even break open a piñata.
At dinnertime I prepared a dish, put cling wrap on top and set it in my room. I then rendezvoused in reception at five thirty with some friends to go play volleyball at the Nepal UN camp. A few of the troops joined us. Many more watched and laughed with us. When it was finally too dark to see the ball we stopped and walked back home covered in red Liberian soil. And then my day began to slow down again.
I have now showered and am squeaky clean (this is becoming more and more rare these days). I nuked my delayed dinner and had a small feast of fried plantains, rice, and cassava. Yum yum. And now I sit typing these last few sentences, having finished my tea, ready to hike back downstairs to my bed. I want to go to sleep early, because tomorrow I have the privilege of following the dental team to a local hospital to observe and to help out. I am thankful to be here.
I was all done writing, but just before posting this entry I skimmed the news headlines on the BBC world news web page. I was dismayed to find that my home here made one of the two ‘Africa' slots available. You can read the article by clicking here and see a picture about a half mile up the road. Your prayers for this land would be appreciated.
When I emerged upstairs for a late lunch, the pace of my day quickened. After eating I went out on the dock, past the dozens of patients waiting to be screened, and into the examination room (tent) to observe with Dr. James. I sat like a fly on the wall watching with wide eyes, ears, and heart; for this was the orthopaedic surgery screening that was taking place.
This was the second round. The first screening had already occurred and had directed patients that we could possibly help with our orthopaedic surgeons to this specific day. Once here, two orthopaedic surgeons were screening patients all day long. They examined local Liberians in need of help from eight in the morning to almost eight in the evening! Each waited patiently in the shade of awning for her or his turn to be seen with the hopes of help. And I was able to watch this for two hours.
One girl had wounds from during the war when shrapnel cut through her legs and abdomen while she was a little girl. Her mother was running for shelter with her tied onto her back (as all the women carry their little ones around here) when the girl was injured. It is now about nine years later and she will be helped within the next few weeks.
Another boy with a clubbed foot came through. (This is when the foot turns sideways and/or backwards and cannot be used as usual.) He is also scheduled to be helped soon. There was another little guy with a dislocated knee and a kneecap that was out of place. He will also be scheduled to be helped. As the examinations took place and conversations followed, I watched the eyes of the patients. The wide eyes of the child. The hopeful eyes of the mother or grandmother. Wow.
However not everyone could be helped. Some were told that an operation would do no good, or make the situation worse. An elbow and a leg from a car accident a long time ago, legs broken from falling out of a tree, a foot that didn’t form correctly fifty years before. It was hard to watch this. I felt it for the people sitting a few feet away as the news sunk in. What do you do? What do you say?
In the end, each patient was encouraged regardless of the news. Dr. James went well out of his way to get to know each potential patient asking about family and sports, jobs and preferences. He was good at making them smile.
After spending a special two hours in the toasty tent full of people, watching and learning, I headed out. A few minutes later, I was in a completely different world. I was in a family cabin with 40 other crewmembers (25 little kids, 15 adults) for birthday party for Isabella’s first birthday. She is the cutest toddler ever, and has wonderful parents. Until dinner time I watched a bunch of little kids play games, dance to silly songs, eat cake, and even break open a piñata.
At dinnertime I prepared a dish, put cling wrap on top and set it in my room. I then rendezvoused in reception at five thirty with some friends to go play volleyball at the Nepal UN camp. A few of the troops joined us. Many more watched and laughed with us. When it was finally too dark to see the ball we stopped and walked back home covered in red Liberian soil. And then my day began to slow down again.
I have now showered and am squeaky clean (this is becoming more and more rare these days). I nuked my delayed dinner and had a small feast of fried plantains, rice, and cassava. Yum yum. And now I sit typing these last few sentences, having finished my tea, ready to hike back downstairs to my bed. I want to go to sleep early, because tomorrow I have the privilege of following the dental team to a local hospital to observe and to help out. I am thankful to be here.
I was all done writing, but just before posting this entry I skimmed the news headlines on the BBC world news web page. I was dismayed to find that my home here made one of the two ‘Africa' slots available. You can read the article by clicking here and see a picture about a half mile up the road. Your prayers for this land would be appreciated.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
VVF Celebration
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After completing my morning tasks in the dining room, Joanna and I looked at the clock and decided that we wouldn’t be too late for the celebration ceremony happening down in the hospital deck with the VVF women. Trotting down the steps I wondered where it would take place. When I got to the bottom, the generators a deck below were loud (the ones that make the ship vibrate three decks higher as I now type), but the singing and drums fifty meters down the hallway were even louder. As we walked down the corridor it became louder and louder until I could peer through the group congregated at the doorway. They were having genuine ‘church’.
It was a time of celebration for the women who had healed after their operations. They were celebrating the beginning of a new life. When they head home, they will be accepted again, many for the first time in years. For some, it will be the first time in over twenty years. There was singing songs of worship and dancing, lots of it. After a few songs, one of the healed women would step forward and share for a few minutes about their story. There were stories of being turned away by families, but also of being healed. They were thankful to God, to Jesus for a new hope. They were thankful to the doctors, and crew, and for those back in the crew’s home countries for making all of this possible. But mostly, and most importantly, they were thankful to God.
It was a pure time of worship. It was so joyful and free. It was a time of reflecting and of looking ahead. It was a time of singing, dancing, and of sharing stories. It was a time of thankfulness. It was so good. Each woman was wearing a new Sunday dress and had a new Bible to take home. Both were gifts and symbols of new life for them. These sisters in Christ will head home on Monday! Truly good things are happening.
(Insert smooth transition here.)
‘Behold, the kingdom of God is at hand’ said Jesus of Nazareth. He said this in different forms and in different ways. He said this in ancient Israel in the social context where it was declared by the occupying Roman army that ‘Caesar is God’. Caesar was God according to the coins in the monetary system, according to the might of the military, according to the political system, and according to the empire’s state religion. Jesus suggested that another way of life was possible.
By Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase of the scripture of Luke (in the middle of the story)- He (Jesus) came to Nazareth where he had been reared. As he always did on the Sabbath, he went to the meeting place. When he stood up to read, he was handed the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. Unrolling the scroll, he found the place where it was written, God's Spirit is on me; he's chosen me to preach the Message of good news to the poor, Sent me to announce pardon to prisoners and recovery of sight to the blind, To set the burdened and battered free, to announce, "This is God's year to act!"He rolled up the scroll, handed it back to the assistant, and sat down. Every eye in the place was on him, intent. Then he started in, "You've just heard Scripture make history. It came true just now in this place."
At the end of Jesus’ life he shared that even greater things would happen amongst those who follow him and his way of life. It is a tremendous privilege to see pieces of this happening around me here in this community. It is an honor to live and work in such a place. ‘Behold, the kingdom of God is at hand!’
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Other updates that don't fit well under a title, except this one.
The Anastasis departed six days ago. The elegant vessel is on her final voyage to a scrap yard in India. She was used for roughly thirty years as a hospital ship. It was hard for a lot of people to see the vessel depart. More than this, it was hard to see forty Mercyshippers depart with her.
There have been so many goodbyes. They come with the territory, but are still hard. A few good friends left with the Anastasis. My fellow gallymate Geathe left for England this week while my roommate Ryan returned to Florida. This ship continues to be filled with the most amazing people, but the turnover is tricky. This is an in between world. It is not a long term community for most, but yet it is intense because we live, eat, sleep, work, worship, explore, and laugh together. It is not Western yet it isn’t Liberia on board either. It is a unique, delightful place where they collide together, like the different spices that blend together in my mug with hot water for a delicious tea.
There have been so many goodbyes. They come with the territory, but are still hard. A few good friends left with the Anastasis. My fellow gallymate Geathe left for England this week while my roommate Ryan returned to Florida. This ship continues to be filled with the most amazing people, but the turnover is tricky. This is an in between world. It is not a long term community for most, but yet it is intense because we live, eat, sleep, work, worship, explore, and laugh together. It is not Western yet it isn’t Liberia on board either. It is a unique, delightful place where they collide together, like the different spices that blend together in my mug with hot water for a delicious tea.
Medical Stuff
The hospital is open, surgeries are happening, and we have patients! After three months of transition, this ship is doing exactly what it was designed to do! It is exciting to see what is happening just down the hall on deck 3! All of this began last Monday.
On Monday there were five eye surgeries and many VVF patients were admitted. All day long there were nurses under the tent out on the dock checking people’s vitals before they came onboard. As I went about my day on the ship, I would walk past the new patients on the stairs or in the lobby. It was different for me, but this will soon become normal too.
To see a few pictures and read some stories about this, you can check it out at www.mercyships.org by clicking here. (It’s a really well maintained site.) If you watch the video following the first patient on this vessel you’ll see my friend, and across the hall neighbour Naomi helping the patient up the gangway. Our paths crossed on the steps as they headed down to the hospital to remove her protective eye patch. Later in the afternoon when our first patient was doing fine, I went for a run and saw her as she began to walk out of the port back home. Again, these things are becoming normal. We have a large medical staff of doctors, nurses, technicians and the like on board right now. It is wonderful to see them working so diligently.
On Monday there were five eye surgeries and many VVF patients were admitted. All day long there were nurses under the tent out on the dock checking people’s vitals before they came onboard. As I went about my day on the ship, I would walk past the new patients on the stairs or in the lobby. It was different for me, but this will soon become normal too.
To see a few pictures and read some stories about this, you can check it out at www.mercyships.org by clicking here. (It’s a really well maintained site.) If you watch the video following the first patient on this vessel you’ll see my friend, and across the hall neighbour Naomi helping the patient up the gangway. Our paths crossed on the steps as they headed down to the hospital to remove her protective eye patch. Later in the afternoon when our first patient was doing fine, I went for a run and saw her as she began to walk out of the port back home. Again, these things are becoming normal. We have a large medical staff of doctors, nurses, technicians and the like on board right now. It is wonderful to see them working so diligently.
Fantastic Friday
A little over three weeks ago, Naomi, Kelly, and I volunteered to work in the coffee shop. (We have a little Starbucks café onboard, one of the perks of having a board member high up in the ranks of Starbucks. Even better, all of the quality coffee has been donated for free for the next ten years.) We had a good time working together, talking with our friends who came through, and brainstorming about what we could do with the place. By the end of our hour and a half shift, we had the basic plans completed for implementing Fantastic Friday.
For the next week, we constructed a few signs, rounded up sound equipment, made a signup for the open mic, and gathered all of the cake mix we could for the introduction of Cwaffles to the Africa Mercy. Come two Fridays ago, there were many questions of what Cwaffles were, and also how this Fantastic Friday was going to go. As the aroma of the cake batter sizzling in the waffle irons filled the town square, people congregated. And we had a good time together.
It was a pleasure to see so much of our community onboard come out to come together. It was fun to see people intrigued by, and enjoying Cwaffles (cake waffles with a little ice cream on top, an idea passed on by none other than James-I’m-married-to-Teresa-Sorge) There were a few quickly crafted poems that were read, some serious songs were performed, and many silly songs were sung including a fabulous rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” from the Titanic soundtrack done by three gentlemen in high pitched, forced voices. Joy, a four year old cutie, even sang for us! In the end, we had a great time together. We were delighted that so many people came together, for a fantastic Friday.
For the next week, we constructed a few signs, rounded up sound equipment, made a signup for the open mic, and gathered all of the cake mix we could for the introduction of Cwaffles to the Africa Mercy. Come two Fridays ago, there were many questions of what Cwaffles were, and also how this Fantastic Friday was going to go. As the aroma of the cake batter sizzling in the waffle irons filled the town square, people congregated. And we had a good time together.
It was a pleasure to see so much of our community onboard come out to come together. It was fun to see people intrigued by, and enjoying Cwaffles (cake waffles with a little ice cream on top, an idea passed on by none other than James-I’m-married-to-Teresa-Sorge) There were a few quickly crafted poems that were read, some serious songs were performed, and many silly songs were sung including a fabulous rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” from the Titanic soundtrack done by three gentlemen in high pitched, forced voices. Joy, a four year old cutie, even sang for us! In the end, we had a great time together. We were delighted that so many people came together, for a fantastic Friday.
Biking
Biking is always a great way to get a feel for the land. Now that we are well into the rainy season, this becomes literal too. The land actually drips off of you! On Sunday, I pedalled out with two friends. Although it was clear, I was suspicious of the weather, so I wore sandals instead of shoes. (Shoes turn into heavy sponges where sandals remain the same.) My instincts were correct.
We biked into downtown Monrovia because the roads are of better quality than if we were to head in the opposite direction to Dwala Market, and are better equipped to handle the waters. (I have always gone the other way, through the market down to the beach. A few days ago I was told that the road washed out down there. We made a good choice.) The further we cycled from the ship, the more ferociously it rained.
We made our way to Ducor Palace. It sits highest in the city close to the ocean. In its day, it was a five star hotel that American presidents would visit... Two months ago, a ship with UN tanks and soldiers arrived at night next to our pier in the port, unloaded, went to the Ducor Palace, and cleared out the squatters that were living there. Now, someone has purchased the property and is beginning a long process of renovating it. They have a long way to go.
I walked the grounds, next to the empty swimming pool looking up at the windowless rooms, down at the mounds of rubbish on the hill, and out at where our ship would be visible if it weren't raining cats and dogs. The palace must have been quite the place. Now it is but a shell of what it used to be.
The rain didn't relent, so we headed home down the hill as it poured and poured. It was so much fun on my bike! The roads were small rushing rivers- empty rivers with almost no cars on them. About 80% of the traffic is usually taxi traffic. With such heavy rain, no one was going anywhere. The people were all plastered next to buildings under the overhangs. I would watch them as we moved along. They would look, and stare with a perplexed look. I would look back. And then, when the recognition set in that there were indeed three white people sloshing by in the rain on bikes, they would smile a big glowing white teeth contrasted by dark skin smile... I thought it was pretty funny too.
Biking is also a reality check. For example, when I watch family home videos from back in the day, and there is a cute little four year old named Scott who appears on the fuzzy video, although this is a long time ago, I know that the curious, mischievous little guy is me, but I have to continually tell myself this. It is a reality check to have to keep telling myself how things really are and were. In the same way, I have to continually tell myself how things really are here in this place. Of the people that I roll past on a bike… an estimated 10% of the population has AIDS. 80% unemployment. Much of the population living on a dollar or two a day. Half of the little ones in Monrovia (the age of me in those home videos) will contract Malaria this rainy season… It is a reality check. It is challenging to wrap my mind around this, especially when some of the faces are becoming familiar.
We biked into downtown Monrovia because the roads are of better quality than if we were to head in the opposite direction to Dwala Market, and are better equipped to handle the waters. (I have always gone the other way, through the market down to the beach. A few days ago I was told that the road washed out down there. We made a good choice.) The further we cycled from the ship, the more ferociously it rained.
We made our way to Ducor Palace. It sits highest in the city close to the ocean. In its day, it was a five star hotel that American presidents would visit... Two months ago, a ship with UN tanks and soldiers arrived at night next to our pier in the port, unloaded, went to the Ducor Palace, and cleared out the squatters that were living there. Now, someone has purchased the property and is beginning a long process of renovating it. They have a long way to go.
I walked the grounds, next to the empty swimming pool looking up at the windowless rooms, down at the mounds of rubbish on the hill, and out at where our ship would be visible if it weren't raining cats and dogs. The palace must have been quite the place. Now it is but a shell of what it used to be.
The rain didn't relent, so we headed home down the hill as it poured and poured. It was so much fun on my bike! The roads were small rushing rivers- empty rivers with almost no cars on them. About 80% of the traffic is usually taxi traffic. With such heavy rain, no one was going anywhere. The people were all plastered next to buildings under the overhangs. I would watch them as we moved along. They would look, and stare with a perplexed look. I would look back. And then, when the recognition set in that there were indeed three white people sloshing by in the rain on bikes, they would smile a big glowing white teeth contrasted by dark skin smile... I thought it was pretty funny too.
Biking is also a reality check. For example, when I watch family home videos from back in the day, and there is a cute little four year old named Scott who appears on the fuzzy video, although this is a long time ago, I know that the curious, mischievous little guy is me, but I have to continually tell myself this. It is a reality check to have to keep telling myself how things really are and were. In the same way, I have to continually tell myself how things really are here in this place. Of the people that I roll past on a bike… an estimated 10% of the population has AIDS. 80% unemployment. Much of the population living on a dollar or two a day. Half of the little ones in Monrovia (the age of me in those home videos) will contract Malaria this rainy season… It is a reality check. It is challenging to wrap my mind around this, especially when some of the faces are becoming familiar.
Bong Mine Trip
On Saturday morning I hopped in a land rover with my fellow galley team for a trip up country to the Bong Mine. We drove just down the street in the rain to the train yard. When we arrived, we drove up a dirt ramp onto a flat bed rail car. We pulled the parking brake, hopped out, and were ready for our ride. The train was scheduled to depart at 7am so we arrived at 7:30am. We departed at 8:30am. Schedules are a little different here.
Our train consisted of a small locomotive, an empty passenger car, our flatbed car, and three empty cars for hauling gravel. As we chugged out of Monrovia, we stood on the flat bed car, sat in our 4x4, and sat on top of our Land Rover. It was a beautiful view out of the city.
Because we were on the railroad, we saw a different side of Liberia than before. Everything builds up around roads. In contrast, the train tracks cut straight through everything. We went straight through villages, markets, fields, hills, and the rainforest.
At the end of the tracks were the remnants of the Bong Mines. In 1991 the place was destroyed by war. I didn't have to look too far to see the bullet holes that dot this country. It used to be a massive iron ore operation with strip mines, heavy machinery, processing facilities, a railroad to the port in Monrovia, and a power plant. The surrounding area used to have an infrastructure. Now, all that remains are the shells of the buildings that used to house this industry, the rusted remains of what was not harvested for scrap metal during the war, and the railroad track.
We ventured down the rough roads around the mine, through the puddles, to the tops of some of the hills, and to the bottom where there was a lake. I went for a little swim in the fresh water lake. It was a beautiful area. On one hand, the vegetation had reclaimed some of the earth making it gorgeous and I wished that it could stay that way. On the other hand, I desired for the mine to be restarted so that the people could be employed again and so that the country could begin to rebuild more quickly.
Our train consisted of a small locomotive, an empty passenger car, our flatbed car, and three empty cars for hauling gravel. As we chugged out of Monrovia, we stood on the flat bed car, sat in our 4x4, and sat on top of our Land Rover. It was a beautiful view out of the city.Because we were on the railroad, we saw a different side of Liberia than before. Everything builds up around roads. In contrast, the train tracks cut straight through everything. We went straight through villages, markets, fields, hills, and the rainforest.
At the end of the tracks were the remnants of the Bong Mines. In 1991 the place was destroyed by war. I didn't have to look too far to see the bullet holes that dot this country. It used to be a massive iron ore operation with strip mines, heavy machinery, processing facilities, a railroad to the port in Monrovia, and a power plant. The surrounding area used to have an infrastructure. Now, all that remains are the shells of the buildings that used to house this industry, the rusted remains of what was not harvested for scrap metal during the war, and the railroad track.
We ventured down the rough roads around the mine, through the puddles, to the tops of some of the hills, and to the bottom where there was a lake. I went for a little swim in the fresh water lake. It was a beautiful area. On one hand, the vegetation had reclaimed some of the earth making it gorgeous and I wished that it could stay that way. On the other hand, I desired for the mine to be restarted so that the people could be employed again and so that the country could begin to rebuild more quickly.
Monday, July 2, 2007
A Brief Update Before Bedtime
All is well. The past two weeks have been full ones, and quite good ones. During this time, there have been going away celebrations for departing crew, and the welcoming of new crew members, bike rides in the sun and in torrential downpours, a train ride up country to an old mine and even an open mic night in our ship. I have not written in a while, and because it is past my bedtime, will cease to do so soon tonight. I simply wanted to post that I am well because a few people have expressed a little anxiety about the absence of posts, and say that I hope to chronicle what has been happening on this side of the Atlantic very soon, hopefully tomorrow night. Until then, goodnight!
P.S. The medical operations began last week. It was wonderful. We were asked not to share anything about them until today so that our communications crew could share it first with the international media. If you want to check it out, head to www.mercyships.org (or click here) for a fuller picture.
P.S. The medical operations began last week. It was wonderful. We were asked not to share anything about them until today so that our communications crew could share it first with the international media. If you want to check it out, head to www.mercyships.org (or click here) for a fuller picture.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Day Trip
The spacious front two seats of our manuel Nissan Sunny taxi
The less than spacious back three seats
A little bit of sleep after a long day
A beautiful beach with two ship wrecks and some guy with a farmer's tan
Off into the sunset on our way home
On Saturday I embarked upon a day trip down the coast with some friends. We had a wonderful time. We met some great taxi drivers, some cute kids, many friendly Liberians, and a hospitible man from the UN originally from Southern Italy. I also was told that I look like a movie star when I have sunglasses on. There wasn't too much space in our taxis as we bumped along the paved and dirt roads, but then again we only spent a total of seven hours in the things.
At one point we were waiting at a taxi depot for our driver to return, so we spent some time with the large group of children that slowly gathered around us. Two of the little girls were amused at my white skin, and that I had a hairy face. It was new to them. They would touch my arm and pull away giggling. They were in the first and second grade, enjoyed kickball and soccer, and thought I had a funny accent.
On our walk back from the tropical beach, we stopped and talked with an Italian in a UN truck. After a few minutes he offered us a ride and a brief senic detour. We accepted and enjoyed, the new company, the space in the truck, and the air conditioning. We were soon two tracking down a road that resembled a river. A few times the hood of the truck dipped under the water as we roared on, windshield wipers-a-flying. We left a nice wake. At the end of the road was another beautiful, hidden beach. By the time we were driven back to the taxi depot, we had shared stories back and forth and had made a new friend. And if we want to return, there is an open guest room waiting for us in the UN base if we want an extended visit. Again, I am amazed by the hospitality of the people here.
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