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.

A First

That’s right, this is my finger above, my left pinky to be precise. I am proud to announce that I was the first one to ever have an x-ray taken of me on the M/V Africa Mercy. (No, I didn’t get a certificate or anything.) Some of you may be asking: “Scott, why did you have an x-ray taken of your finger?” If so, that’s a good question.

I was playing basketball (not football, roller skating, bowling, skiing, soccer, or street hockey- all sports that I have broken bones in.) I went up for a rebound and was struck on my finger and felt a familiar snapping sensation. It felt the opposite of good. I checked it out thoroughly, and proceeded to play a little longer. A few minutes later I decided that it would be a good idea to stop. So I did. By the morning it had blossomed into a visually pleasant spectrum of deep reds, purples, and even a little bit of light green. The next day I paid a visit to our friendly crew clinic.

Our radiologist was delighted to have an opportunity to play with our new toy. I thought it would be fun too. So with a ‘cheese’, we took a couple pictures of my finger. We then went across the pier together to the other ship and developed my portrait… it didn’t turn out, but it was cool to see the process that we employ here in Liberia. Later in the afternoon, after she did some fidgeting, we took another pair of pictures. I saw her a little bit later in the afternoon as she hiked up the gangway. She shared that it looked like I had a broken bone. So we looked at the film together in the sunlight. “Number ten” I thought to myself. Fortunately, later on, when the crew doctor took a look at it, he shared that all should be well, that it was only a little deformity. He said that it looked like the little shard on the underside of the second knuckle grew that way. “Or maybe it is from the last time I broke the finger playing football” I thought. Anyway, I simply tape my fingers together for the meantime because they look cool that way. Well, not really, but it keeps the little guy from hurting. In a few days it should be fine.

During the whole process, I shared my picture with a handful of people between the top of the gangway and the time I made it down to deck 3. I thought it was fun to look at. My friends thought the same. In the back of my mind, I thought ‘you’re not supposed to share medical stuff like this with other people’. I still did anyway, but couldn’t help but ask: “Why not?” Why is a picture of my insides supposed to be so private? Aren’t we all the same anyway? And finances? Are they that different? I guess that some people feel sensitive about such things. For me, it’s just my finger, a body part. Heck, everybody has a body! But nobody has been the first one to be radiated here except this one!

Blood Diamond

I watched the movie ‘Blood Diamond’ on Thursday. A few pieces of it take place in Liberia. The rest of the film takes place in Sierra Leone, England, South Africa, and references the US from time to time. Of our audiences of seven here in Liberia, four were from the US (who imports 2/3rd of the worlds sold diamonds), one was South African who understood the Afrikaans that was spoken, one was British, and one was from Benin (the home country of the main actor) who had been in Sierra Leone in 2004 and talked with those who had ‘short sleeves’ and ‘long sleeves’ from the uncivil war.

Charles Taylor trained the rebel commander in Sierra Leone who oversaw the killing. Taylor sold the blood diamonds across the border into Liberia for the rebels, helping them to further finance their endeavours, and his. His trial for war crimes (17 counts) began two weeks ago.

Lord of War, Traffic, Syriana, Inconvenient Truth, Blood Diamond… powerful cinematography. Each has stirred me. They are just movies, but point to many of the veiled results of our current global community.

It was unique for me because for the first time, I am living in close vicinity to the communities that have been devastated from being on the short end of the stick. The soil is the same color here. The nationalities represented in the film were represented in our small group.

It isn’t a distant land over the horizon when you live here. Now, most of the passion that had welled up inside of me was gone when I woke up the next morning. It was more of a passing thought. But the reminders here do not go away. The stories live on. The bullet holes remain. The four brothers, of my taxi driver yesterday, who where killed in the war are still absent. And he still tells us about it freely if we simply ask.

On one hand, I have a world of watching and learning to do here. On the other hand, I must continue to engage such things. I am reminded of the quote that “we must read the Bible in one hand with the newspaper in the other”. My faith understanding and faith experience thus far, given my social context, speak loudly into life here greatly. Life here greatly speaks into my faith understanding and faith experience thus far, given my social context. May they continue to sharpen each other.

And for those of you who have seen the movie, yes, I continue to use my hand sanitizer.

Monkey Apples

A bowl of monkey apples that is carried on top of one's head

Another delicious morsel

So, I ate four of these today. They were scrumptious. The locals call them Monkey Apples. To eat one, you crack it open with your thumbs to reveal the fruit on the inside. It looks like a little jellyfish inside there. You then pop it into your mouth and try to suck off as much nectar from around the see as you can. It tastes somewhere between a sour cherry and a sweet grapefruit. It was delicious.

On a more serious note, I visited Doctors Without Borders today and began a personal process to spend some time learning from what other NGOs are doing here. As I ventured into their compound and sat down, waiting to be seen, I looked up at the bulletin board in front of me to see two Mercy Ships references in big bold letters. I am now realizing that I am tapping into a vast network of relationships here that weaves through my ship and through the churches I have already worshipped with. It is such a large, yet small community!

Just Another Ordinary Moment

As I walked through the neighbourhood a man came up to me asking for help. I had just left a two hour worship service in the community, and in all honesty, had lunch on my mind. Not wanting to become separated from the group I was trailing, I told him that I needed to keep going. He paused, and asked if he could walk with me. “Sure” I replied. So we walked together, talking back in forth in dialects of English divided by a massive ocean. He asked if I was from Mercy Ships. I replied that I was indeed. He began to tell me about his eyes.

“I see things dimly” he said. He said that he cannot focus any longer and read smaller print. I made it clear that I was not a doctor (a common misperception) and then asked if he had tried glasses. He had, even really strong ones. He wanted to be able to see again so that he could go back to his job with the BBC.

Now, during this transition of the Anastasis leaving and the Africa Mercy arriving, there are no operations occurring. Every day, a long line appears down the gangway of one vessel and up to the top of the other carrying stuff, lots and lots of stuff in transition. We are rapidly preparing for the five operating theatres to be fully functional. And if all continues to go well, they will be in two short weeks. When this happens, I should become armed with little slips of paper, each providing the details of what kind of medical screening is taking place, at what location in the city, on what specific days. But right now, there are no precious pieces of paper to be had. So, I told the man that he would have to wait three or four weeks.

The man did not want to wait.

He had waited for a long time. One month was too much more to wait. When I said that the screenings might take place at JFK hospital, the local hospital, he replied that he didn’t want to go there. He wanted to see a doctor, a Mercy Ships doctor… now. He pleaded in a manner that was kind and respectful, yet passionate and desperate, like a man who longed to be able to see again, and to be able to have a job again to provide for the basics. He smiled and said that he had seen me coming from the church, and said that he wanted to be able to read his Bible again.

I am sure that he is used to waiting. It is what you do in times like these here. You wait for things to get better. You wait for water, for electricity, for the government, and for development. You wait, wait, wait. He didn’t want to wait for the government, and being as close as ever to getting help, didn’t want to let this opportunity go.

So, there on UN Drive we stood, together, trying to communicate back and forth.

In the end, we exchanged names, shook hands a few times, said goodbye. I then crossed the road, walked past the UN soldiers at the checkpoint, down the 200 meter road protected by ten foot cement walls capped with razor wire, and past two more UN security posts on my way to the dock, where the Africa Mercy rests, where my sack lunch was.

This is just another ordinary moment of being here, one that tugs at me on the inside in a host of directions. I am thankful to be here. I am thankful that Mercy Ships is here and will soon have twice the medical capacity than a short month ago. I hope that James will be able to be helped. Maybe he can be helped. Maybe not. Maybe he can be helped by the nurses and doctors that I serve food to here in my home. Maybe not.

Food is Ready Now

So I was invited to join a few people to go out for an authentic Liberian dinner last night. Naturally, I opted for the opportunity to walk out of the port and walk into the culture here. We snagged four delicious donuts outside the UN checkpoint for thirty five cents. Donuts in hand (wrapped in newspaper, in a plastic baggie) we crossed the road and walked into the neighborhood. We stepped into the first restaurant on the left. It displayed a promising sign that ‘food is ready now’. This is important because the last two times I’ve ordered food, it has taken an hour to come out.

Six of us shared two plates of regular rice, a plate of spicy rice, a bowl of fish soup, and a bowl of cassava with fish in it. The first few bites took a little bit of getting used to. I don’t know if it was the superior strength of the spices, or that it was just plain different. But after this, it was delicious. The cassava that they make here is really good!

It was good to know that my dinner came from this community. (Note that I didn’t say comforting, but good.) The fish likely came from just down the street earlier in the day. They are displayed in the sunlight in the open air market. The spices and vegetables are the same. If anything, the rice would have come from outside this community because some 90% of it is imported.

My experience in eating food with others, is that it brings you together. This time was no different. Our group came together. Also, it was a good way to connect with the common way of life here. The only thing that I am worried about is my stomach coming together with the little foreign microbes that live in the water here. If something is cooked or boiled, or freshly pealed it should be fine. I did not drink the clear water that was presented to me even though I forgot my water bottle. However I did a no-no and ate the little pieces of tomato that were laced through the spicy rice. (They were so good.) A day later, my digestive system is still fully in tact. May this continue. At the end of the meal, we each contributed a single dollar to collectively pay for our food and to leave a generous tip. It was a successful outing. May there be many more impromptu dinner outings in our community here.

Football

I played in my second match of football (soccer in the U.S.) tonight. The first round was next to CeCe Beach. There is a fishing village next to the restaurant with boats, nets, houses, and people who like to play football. I walked down the shore and watched for a while in the scorching sun. I was beckoned to join, so I did. Now, I felt that I would do all right. I can run for about an hour right now and have always been able to hold my own in the sport. And then, we began to play together. Maybe I’m just a sissy, but after twenty minutes of sprinting back and forth in the sand, without fresh water, under the early afternoon sun, I was pooped. So with a little whimper on the inside, I asked for a sub. The rest of the match lasted another fifteen minutes. No one else took a sub. I also asked how long they had been playing for. The response was casual- three hours. Yikes! Looks like tall white man didn’t hold his own too well. But hey, we all had fun.

Tonight we played in a field inside of the port with ten Mercyshippers. We asked the UN troops from Nepal if they wanted to join, but they were busy doing exercises. A good time was had by all. I was happy to play on solid ground and to wear shoes. I was also happy to land a pair of goals. At the end of the match I finally realized how dirty we all were. The dirt here is like the stuff in Georgia. Can anyone guess what color the soil is here?

After an evening of fun

Sploosh

I really enjoy swimming. It is refreshing, fun, and most enjoyable with others. I really don’t enjoy the initial shock of the cold water on my skin when I first plunge in. But, I do enjoy being in the water and know that twenty seconds of goosebumps is worth an hour or more of swimming goodness.

I really enjoy Liberia. It is beautiful, different from home in most ways, offers so much to learn from, and has amazing people. It is also best to be explored with others. I really haven’t enjoyed being overwhelmed by so much to take in, on the inside. But, I know that this is completely normal, to be expected, and is something good to work through.

I find myself emerging from that tingling sensation after plunging head first into the land and people of Liberia. It has been much to observe with my eyes and ears, and to internalize with my mind and heart. But, I have more of an understanding of what normal is now. And, I really like it here.

Normal

Taxis. Taxis are bright yellow/orange here. There are lots of them. The fleet looks like it has been around for quite some time. Up to eight people, and their items are placed in or on the taxi of choice. You need to make hand gestures on the side of the road to signal which direction you hope to go so that it lines up with the direction of the people already in the car. A flat-palmed hand pointing down the road indicates that you desire to go straight down the road a ways. (Think jazz hands with closed fingers.) A finger curling down the direction of the road means that you hope to go to the next stop down the road. A finger pointing away or across the road means that you hope to go straight down the road and to then turn in the indicated direction at the next intersection. We have much to learn from their carpooling system! Gas is purchased by the gallon. Each gallon is sold in a glass jar that is then poured into a funnel and into your gas tank. If it rains, a communal window-roller-upper will appear. Each person in turn can then roll their window up and pass it along to the next person. If all goes well, it isn’t raining too hard by the time the fourth window is rolled up.

The communal window-roller-upper

Roads. Most roads in Monrovia seem to be paved. Most roads outside of Monrovia seem to not be paved. Some such roads flood during the rainy season. (The rainy season only lasts for six months and seems to just be beginning.) A few roads have lines painted on them. I have seen one working stoplight so far. I have seen many UN checkpoints as well. If I am a little bit away from Monrovia, they ask to see some ID. When they see the Mercy Ships ID, I am waved ahead right away in front of others.

I feel that I am adjusting well to everything, but continue to think a lot. I ponder what I am seeing, how it relates to what I have experienced back home, what it means for me, and how it relates to where I am in my journey of faith and in life. (I don’t anticipate this process ending any time soon.) Some encounters contrast so much with each other that I cannot help but entertain their implications in my mind. One such instance is a trip that I have taken to CeCe Beach.

CeCe Beach

Looking back at Monrovia. If you look on the horizon above the left side of the rock you can see a long white ship known as the Africa Mercy

On the way to CeCe Beach is a market where everything is being sold ranging from plums (mangos) and coconuts to cloth and gasoline, eggs and fresh fish to flip flops and cassette tapes. It is crazy in a good way. Add to this lots of dust and exhaust to breathe, car horns for the ears, and lots of people carrying items on their heads, and you have our local market. There are tiny shops and tiny houses lining the road. Most houses here in the city seem to be made of tin sheeting fastened together.

CeCe Beach is a restaurant on a beautiful tropical beach. The sand is clean, there are palm trees dotting the shore, and little huts that you sit under as you watch the waves and eat your food. It is a good place to spend a long Saturday afternoon like I did this past weekend. In addition to downing my entire water bottle, I sipped two icy-cold Sprites and ate part of a chicken dinner as an appetizer. It was an afternoon of genuine rest- rest that was much needed. After my afternoon of paradise I headed back home to the Africa Mercy.

In exchange for a day at the beach, two pops, and some chicken and french fries, I paid five dollars. Pops were a dollar each. The meal was 12 dollars split four ways. Now, by standards back home, this is an exceptional bargain. Here, I’m not so sure. Many of the people that I brush shoulders with in the market live off of a single American dollar each day. This probably covers one and a half meals of food, and not much more. My inexpensive outing was equivalent to five day’s labor more or less? Five dollars can go a long way here and can do a great deal of good (or bad.)

Instances such as this percolate questions in my mind such as: what is my responsibility here as a fellow sympathetic human being, how do the teachings of Jesus speak into this, and why do I have such a hard time weaving these two economic scales together? It asks questions of my heart. And of my identity too. But, I don’t want to bore you with them. As for now, I hope to cultivate a few intentional relationships with the people here because I don’t really know any Liberians, I hope to begin to connect with a few of the other NGOs that I see all over the place, and I hope to begin the work of praying through this stuff.



In other news, I’m not sure how long I will be in the fine country of Liberia. Originally I was going to be here for a week and a half after arriving, and then fly home to be in Tony and Christen’s wedding. Then the schedule of the Africa Mercy’s sail was delayed. Then I talked with Tony and he said that I should sail and see Africa. And then I said thank you Tony for understanding even before I asked if it was ok to sail. And then I was in the Atlantic Ocean when I would have needed to fly home. And now Tony and Christen are successfully married and I am in Liberia. And now I’m not sure how long I am going to be here. I really like it. As of yesterday, I am free to stay here as long as I would like. (Well, actually I need to pay my crew fees for food and lodging and such so it really isn’t ‘free’, but you get the point.) So I’m here, I’m learning tremendously, I’m thankful to be here and to be here with Mercy Ships, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be here for.