Sierra Leone

Sierra Leone, God’s beauty shines all around it but the scars of man’s cruelty is deep in every heart. We crossed the Guinea/Sierra Leone border late morning of June 11^th. In our home town, Rita and I picked up M a Malian believer who was born in Sierra Leone but fled the country with his family during the rebellion. M is ethnically Malian and is currently living in Mali but has family and friends all over Mali, Guinea and Sierra Leone. He came to help us with border crossing and because he was familiar with S.L. and some of the languages spoken there. This was M first trip back to S.L. since the bloody rebellion in the 90’s. During the war, many houses were burned and destroyed and even the paved roads were broken up by combatants with sledge hammers which left the landscape very different than when M last saw the country 20 years ago.

                Our first night we spent at the Hope Center in Freetown. Eagerly we began the task of making contacts to help us on our journey to find the unreached people groups of Sierra Leone.  Gd blessed our first location with many, many friends with our same vision and hope. We had only one name coming into the Hope Center but left 2 days later with a list of names, numbers and locations to visit. In Freetown we met with colleagues working through GCPN and also with the local Sierra Leone Baptist Convention. At the SLBC office, the Ch Growth Director showed us their chart hanging on the wall which followed the T4T style that I also was trained in before coming the field. I was impressed that T4T ideals are taking hold even where little SBC or outside forces are present. The T4T movement originated in Asia but has been slowly gaining speed on every continent over the past 20 years.  The chart on the SLBC wall is just what we’d hope to see, local blvrs reaching neighboring UPG’s and spreading the Good News rapidly. Unfortunately, when we asked about the UPG’s that we knew of in the North and East of the country, we were told that those areas were not their responsibility but that of other denominations present in the country.

                So we were off to the North and East to look for these UPG’s and the other denominations apparently responsible to them.  But not before we visited M’s Grandmother and sister deep in the compressed row houses in Freetown.  As we headed out that day in search of M’s Granny house, it was overcast and a storm was looming. We came from Jui which is closer to the entrance of the peninsula and headed down towards the tip where the actual city of Freetown is located. On our way in it began to pour rain, many school children were walking back from school drenched by the storm. M was having trouble finding the streets because of the vast change in the city since his last visit, so we pulled over to ask directions and a girl about 13 years old got in the truck to “show us the way.” The girl was already drenched but content to be out of the rains still falling hard outside. She spoke in Kriol to M and soon we found ourselves on a ridiculously narrow road packed with venders. Our side mirrors bumped along the umbrellas protecting the vender’s goods. Rita kept asking, “Are you sure this is the way? Are cars really allowed on this road?” M would say something to the girl in Kriol, the girl would node in the affirmative and point down the narrow road that we were now trapped in. No turns, no allies to make a U turn, just endless road with venders moving there boxes over so we would not crush them. Then the flood came. Ahead of us the road was filled with water, baskets bobbing up and down in the current and people grabbing their goods which were floating down the road… you can’t make this stuff up. I don’t know how we made it out except for Gd’s providence and Rita crazy awesome driving skills but we did eventually make it out of the ceaseless market road of Freetown.  Apparently, you should not take directions from little girls who generally walk home. 

At M’s Granny’s house we were greeted hospitably and fed a meal of spicy rice with potato leaves.  Rice is the staple of both S.L. and Guinea which is unfortunate for me since I despise it. We ate rice three times that day… and many other times over the next 9 days. Fried rice I like, it’s sticky, it’s delicious, and I’m southern fried anything is right up my ally. But that’s not generally what is served, it’s that bland white rice that feels like your swallowing larva eggs. We started to get pretty creative with our food choices towards the end of the trip... to M’s dismay because no matter where we went, even if other things were offered on the menu, M always ordered rice. Se la vie. M’s family was beautiful, especially his Granny. She was so sweet looking in her yellow Ponya and head wrap. During our border crossing a Guard at a check point gave us a bucket of curdled milk to deliver to the Guinea ambassador… yeah. So anyway during our visit with Granny we had to walk down the steep inclines to the main road were we met the Ambassador in his car and delivered the much cherished milk which he then offered half to us. Weird huh? After much thought, Rita began to wonder if there might have been something special about that milk… or maybe in the milk.

                From Freetown we struck out towards the Northern provinces and into the town of Kabala. We went on a lead to a Guest house called Sengbeh. We were met by the manager who was upper body was scrunched down… I know there is a medical term but I’m not that smart. With him most of the time was an older man who went by Seargent and whose eyes were always half closed. He tilted his head back slightly whenever he spoke to you (only in Kriol) and was dressed in a long white Islamic garb with a round white cap. The first rooms we were shown the windows were nailed shut and since there is no electricity we could just barely see the holes in the sealing above the bed. No sir. “Ah yes very nice…Do you have any rooms without boarded windows?” Yes, the best was held till last… there was still no running water but at least we could see (during the day) what was looming in the corners. We got up with the sun to take the… um road, to Bafodia. 30 miles in three hours, the truck multiple times spinning its wheels and lurching backwards as Rita fought for ground going through the S.L. Mountains.  Each village we putted through, the people greeted us with waves and stares… crazy white women.