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. 

Welcome Home

The seats are crowded in front of my gate, I look up to the gate monitor it reads Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. I check my watch, when I came to Africa it had a crisp white band now it is a grayish brown. My clock shows 30 minutes until my board time. “Is this the gate for Conakry?” I ask the lady at the desk, hoping she speaks English. She shakes her head yes then looks up at the monitor and runs off… apparently they forgot to change it. Soon an announcement comes over the loud speaker, it’s in French but I gather by the crowd rushing towards our gate that my flight has arrived. I stand in line perplexed by the mass of people pushing towards the gate entrance. “Don’t these people have tickets? What’s the rush?” I wonder, as I too begin to feel the panic in the room and push forward in the crowed. We all take a bus to the runway where we board the plane; the same mob mentality takes over on the tar mat as people push in towards the plane. Some Asians and I stand towards the back a little ruffled by the chaos.

Soon I am in my seat and the stewardesses are cramming bags in every space possible. There is no space for my bag in the overheads nearby me. “Madame” I say as sweetly as possible to the stewardess and then gesture towards my bag. She takes my bag but also my ticket stub. When the stewardess passes my seat I say “Pardon? Ticket?” She looks confused “I did not return the ticket?” she asks in broken English. “No” I reply trying to be as friendly as possible.  After waiting a long while, she returns with my ticket I smile and say “Merci.” There is a man dressed in a white robe and circular hat sitting beside me. Just after take off the plane groans loudly as the wheels pull into their place. An older woman dressed in an African out fit with a head wrap sitting across the aisle clutches her armrest and looks distressed, the young man sitting beside her looks at me and we both smile and laugh at little. Africa is funny. Sometimes I feel like I’ve walked into a comic strip, there are brightly dressed people walking down every street, many of them doing things that seem silly to me.

When the plane lands in Conakry, we all rush off much as we rushed on and heard into a room to fill out entry papers. As I fill out the paper a young man asks for my pen. I had been guarding my pens like they were gold for the past month and had kept up with the four I carried with me all throughout 40/40 which seemed like a giant feat to me. I wanted to say “no get your own” but that would have been too complicated to say in French so I begrudgingly handed it over to him.  In the Senegal Airport, I had been met by dozens of men with little laminated blue cards speaking in French and flashing the card like it should mean something to me. “Your friend sent me to pick you up,” one of them said. “Oh did he?” I asked, “Then what is my name?” I got a blank stare in return. “You don’t know me.” I was wary that the same scene awaited me behind the fence beyond the passport check.

In line at the passport check I see a small bat is flying inside the building. He is diving and swooping above us. I laugh at the creature and look around at the other airport visitors, no else is as amused with him. I can also see gnats have gathered around the heads of the two Asian girls in front of me. I half wish that the bats would dive down for those gnats and add more fun to the chaos. When it is my turn at the passport check line, the man asks me for an address. I have none to give him, “A friend is picking me up. He said he would be out in baggage claim.” The man does not say anything he just motions me to the side and does not give me back my passport. “Well this is annoying,” I think as I pull out my computer to see if I saved anything with any address at all. “Madame! Madame!” A man is waving at me, my first instinct is to ignore him as one of the mass of men waiting to take advantage of me but then I can see him waving a sign with my name on it. I am afraid to leave the guard-stand at the passport line but he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me so I walk over to the gate. “Is this you?” demands the guard standing at the fence as he takes the sign from the man calling me. “Yes that is me. But they won’t let me though.” The man with the sign gives it to me, there is a note on the back introducing Mr. Conde as a friend who will help me through baggage claim. Mr. Conde passes through the gate and argues with the man at the passport check in French until I can see them scratch out and rewrite a few lines, he then grabs my passport and we are on our way to another world of chaos known as the baggage claim.

 Mr. Conde and I stand and wait for each of my trunks and bags to come around the conveyer belt. I am startled by a young man who taps me on the shoulder and hands me my pen. “Merci” he says as he smiles and leaves. I had already forgotten the pen after waiting in line for 25 minutes. I felt sheepish taking the pen back, he had searched for me in the baggage area to return such a small thing; that would never happen in America. I am happy to see all three of my checked bags made it but worried for my guitar which has not turned up yet. “Is this? Is this?” Mr. Conde asks of each bag passing. “No, we are looking for a guitar.” “Oh okay… Is this?” he asks pointing to a large duffle bag. “No a guitar. Guitare?” I try with my best French accent. He still looks at me confused. So I mime an air guitar. “Oh Guitare!” he exclaims and then runs off to his friends at the conveyer belt. We have my guitar in just a few moments and are again cramming into a mass of people. There are no lines in West Africa but apparently there is some sort of order because the guard yells at a man ahead of us and sends him to the back. Mr. Conde is on his best behavior and we are soon through the mess and headed up the ramp. Mr. Conde is motioning towards the crowd, “There are our friends” he says. I am looking but I do not spot them, finally the crowd opens and I can see my new friends and team mates, finally home.

A Path into the Past

The man’s chest is bulging to one side abnormally. Walking on the outside of his feet, he hobbles up the path towards us as he slurs out a greeting. I look at Marie and Amanda to see their reaction; my first thought is drunk or maybe touched, but then I see Joseph our host smiling kindly at the man. Joseph brings out a chair for the man to sit in, signifying respect and care for the man. Rapson, our friend and interpreter, hurry’s to introduce the man, “He is one of our members.” The man adds, “I saw you at church this morning but I had to leave before the sermon because I was sick.” Each word is heavily slurred and takes effort. This man’s clothes are a little more tattered and worn than most of the people in Singa Village but through the heavy slurring I can piece together a sketch of this man’s rich life. His crippled body has obviously seen better days, as he speaks to us he wants to know what continent we are from, then what region, then what country and what state. This man seems quite knowledgeable; He speaks highly of his many international grade school teachers. They were from Canada, Ireland, England etc. “Canada is in North America,” he proclaims with a wide smile. “Mathematics was my favorite topic, I loved my mathematics teacher, he was from Canada.” In 1963, the British colonized Rhodesia, which encompassed what is now Zambia and Zimbabwe, dissolved and allowed self-government of the two states. This older man received the benefit of these international teachers while under the Rhodesia era.

“Some people say that men came from monkeys…” He looks at us cautiously to see our reaction. We shake our heads, “No we don’t think that, we believe God created man.” “That’s right! That’s right!” He exclaims with pleasure, “How could man come from a monkey?” He asks incredulously. A young girl, maybe four years old, creeps around in the shadow of the house, her eyes fixed on our white skin. “That’s my youngest daughter. Frieda! Frieda! Come and greet these people.” Grinning he says, “She is scared of you, she’s never seen you before.” Frieda runs across the dirt yard and crouches behind us in the shadow of the branches and tree stumps forming a fence for the backyard. “Some say Africans came from Ham…” his voice trails off as he stares at us, as if for guidance, “…some say it is because of climate,” he continues, looking at his arm. The man seems to ramble his white teachers various tainted lessons. He looks at us, as though we are his teachers. I can see him there, in that class room, a young boy, peering up at his red headed school master. I shake my head, half from actual confusion of where the conversation is going but mostly because I do not want to follow the raciest logic of his former teachers. After sitting for many long minutes, the man smiling thanks us for speaking with him, obviously pleased with the visit he struggles to his feet, says his goodbyes and walks back down the dusty path. Two girls who have been standing nearby take this opportunity to greet us; they appear to be about 6 or 7 years old; one of them is Frieda’s sister. “Muli bwanji,” we say warmly to them as we shake their hands, “Bwino bwanji,” they reply bashfully as they curtsy. Finally, with much encouragement from her older sister, Frieda slowly comes closer, bowing on her knees, she reaches out and holds Marie’s hand. “Muli bwanji,” Marie says warmly to the tiny girl. They remain this way for many moments, Marie leaning forward in her chair, Frieda on her knees, her eyes transfixed on Marie’s face. Then slowly Frieda relaxes and looks away, she uses her free hand to trace her finger through the dirt, but she does not let go of Marie’s hand. Several moments pass, Frieda’s sister stays close by, keeping an amused eye on her little sister, sitting among the white women. Then Frieda finally releases Marie and sits a few moments, before wondering away with her sister down the same path her father had taken.

Singa village.. plus some

Our last adventure in Zambia, was the three day home stay in a Zambians home close to Petauke. I went about 30 minutes away from Petauke with two other single girls to a village called Singa. No one from 40/40 had stayed in Singa before so we were all excited to be the first out there. We stayed with Margaret and Joseph and their two sons Jonny (7) and Freddie (3). Also at the house was their friend Rapson who was visiting so that he could translate some for us and take us around the village. Rapson was originally from Singa village but now live 5 Km away with his wife and son in another village. He said one day he would move back to Singa village with his family but first he had to finish paying the “bride” price for his wife. So he lives in his wife’s village. In Zambia, when a couple gets married the man must pay the family a price agreed on by both parties. Originally they would agree on how many cows they would give the family. In modern day, though they may still talk in cow terms, they find out the going rate of a cow and then pay cash.

 Rapson speaks English very well but there were still many awkward moments of miscommunication, no communication or compressed communication. An example, on the first day in Singa Rapson was so happy to have us there he wanted us to share our stories with a neighboring village across the road. So we all went over and found ourselves sitting on a reed mat in front of an older woman’s house. We told Paul’s story and then I told my own and I asked her if she had a story like mine. She could understand English but she could not speak it. She excitedly answered that she did have a story like mine and then went into great detail explaining it in Nianja. She talked for about 5 or more minutes. Than we looked over at Rapson, “what did she say?” I asked.  “She said, ‘Put Gd first.” That is the way most of our translation went in Singa. We had so much fun in Singa village though. I loved every awkward conversation and the long pauses in between when neither person knows what to say or how to say it to communicate it effectively with the other.

 Margaret was so gracious to us. Generally speaking, when you enter an Africans home they will not let you help with a thing. They are so hospitable and the take offense if you were to help them with dinner or to clear the dishes. They are proud of being hospitable. But we were there to learn about the culture and that meant we needed to do those things that generally would be shameful for a guest to do. Often in the past, 40/40 has had trouble convincing home stay host to allow their guest to help with daily task like cooking, cleaning, and fetching water. But not our host, she was eager to teach us all she knew. Margaret was only one year older then I am but she knew way more about keeping a home and feeding a family than I could hope to know any time soon. Everyday we took at least one trip to the well for water. The village well was an open well, everyone gathered around with their buckets on ropes and it was a great time dropping the bucket down and hauling it back up. This was the time to catch up on local news and greet neighbors. All the woman chatted as they worked. Once the buckets were full the women would carry them home on their heads. Some ladies are talented enough to do it without holding it with their hands.

At meal time, Margaret taught us how to make Nshema, the staple food in Zambia. Marie volunteered to help the first day and then became our chief for the week. Maybe it was because Marie was the youngest, or maybe just because she seemed most eager but every meal time Margaret called Marie over to begin cooking the Nshema. “coo-picka Nshema,” that’s what she’d say every day as she stirred the pot of ever thickening white paste.  On one occasion, after going to the field and picking the leaves of wild okra, we were shown how to make “African soda.” Rapson brought into the house a bowl of wet ashes from the fire. The bowl had holes in the bottom of it. Rapson placed an empty bowl underneath the ash bowl, then he poured water into the ash and caught the water that ran through. The result was a murky brown water that did kind of resemble a coke coloring. As Marie, Amanda and I watched, we would catch side way glances at each other. Rapson kept leaving the room for various reasons which gave us an opportunity to discuss what we were going to do. “I am not going to drink that!” was the first response. “No, No if they boil it we can technically consume it.” “You don’t know where that ash has been!” “Gd, if I can get it down, you keep it down!”  Soon both Rapson and Margaret were in the room pouring the African Soda and wild okra leaves into a pot. A mixture of relief and regret came over me when they began to boil it over a coal fire. Relief because it was boiled and therefore all the germs were dead. Regret because now I could not refuse it because it was “safe” to eat. The okra/soda relish was served with that evening Nshema. It was a lovely slimy consistency. I noticed they did not serve themselves any… I beginning to think they were just seeing what the Americans would actually eat.

That same day they tested our durability in another way. Rapson wanted to take us to his village. We asked if it was near or far (very relative terms in Africa), he assured us it was not very far. Later we learned we would need to take bike to get there. We agreed that this was okay so long as he could borrow enough bikes for the four of us. We watched as he collected bikes throughout the day. By afternoon we could see he still only had three bikes. He announced it was time to go and we nervously began our walk towards the main road. The men he was borrowing the other two bikes from did not leave, they were walking with the bikes. I began to realize what I had previously made myself think an impossibility. By “we are going to ride bikes to my village” Rapson meant, we ladies were going to ride and the men would peddle. We watched as a Zambian man and woman zoomed past us on a bike. She was perched uncomfortably on the back rack of the bike (meant for carrying a package) riding side saddle. Yes, side saddle, is there really another way to ride? Another whispered conversation between us ensued, “Can we really do this? We don’t even know what village we’re going too. How the heck do you ride a bike sidesaddle!” I thought this was an impossibility and for the first ten minutes of clinging to the bike with my fingers I still didn’t believe it. But eventually I did open my eyes and start breathing again and discovered, the country of Zambia is beautiful by bike. There were beautiful boulders with vines and bushes growing all over them. When we finally reached Rapson’s village, it was as if we stepped into another world. The children there were pressing in around us, they all wanted to touch us and shake our hands. I ate 8 times that day. At every house we visited they wanted us to eat something that they had prepared, from raw peanuts to an entire meal of Nshema. That day was amazing. As we clung to the bikes again for the 25 minute ride home, Rapson stopped at a kiosk to buy Marie a stick of sugar cane. The way home was even scarier as it was mainly up hill and my cyclist was rather wobbly, especially when the semis tried to blow us off the road. It was more fun than any person should be allowed to have.

Visit from the Chief's wife

    The morning is filled with the songs of some delightful blue rollers. They dance around bush camp, flashing their brilliant teal wings and perching high in the trees. Today we are preparing for the visit from the Chief’s wife. She is coming for tea time and all the women in bush camp are hurrying about to prepare for her arrival. Sarah, De Anne and the girls are running around clipping flowers from every flowering tree and bush. Others are busy stirring bowls of sugar, chocolate and other ingredients for the different treats. I am inside the building helping to move tables and lay “Shatangies” (pieces of cloth used as skirts) for table clothes. We women are very happy to be using our creative and hospitality skills. At about noon, Ms. Suzy drives onto campus with the Chief’s wife and her sister-in-law. As the walk into the building, we sing the a song and curtsy a bit as they pass. Inside we take out seats and continue with more music and a round of introductions. Soon we are all enjoying the treats and some tea. The Chief’s wife graciously allows us to question her about her duties and her daily life. We learn that she is often entertaining people. She is part of a matrilineal tribe, which means that the Chief is chosen from the sons of his sister. Therefore the Chief’s sister is a highly respected person as well. That is why she attended the party with the Chief’s wife. Some ladies and girls presented a skit about Elijah and the widow whose oil and flour did not run out. One of our last events was to sing a song in Nianja. The words where “Mwamba, Mwamba” but the snake in the wall must have that we were say “Mamba Mamba” because he came slithering out of the ceiling rafters to join the party. He came down directly behind the Chiefs wife and sister-in-law. He was just a harmless garden snake but that did not matter in a room full of women. We kept on singing but there were now screams and stomping of feet mixed in as some ran to find the men to kill the snake. The snake was soon deposed of and we continued on our way. Aside from the snake it was a great day of fun and learning.

Telling our stories

A cousin of my friend on the road

    On our way to Chichimona village (whose name means “killer”), a bearded dragon crossed my path and ran up on the black road to sun himself. He was a very cute fellow; I felt like putting him in my pocket and taking him back to the U.S. where I could make some cash on him.  Today is a special day, we have been telling many stories from the good book but today we also get to tell our own. The first hut we walk up on is open and we see two young women inside. They quickly come out to greet us and invite us to come inside. There is a mesh metal container with burning coals siting in the center of the room to keep the chill of the morning outside. The small house is so crammed with furniture we can barely scoot through onto the couches. We soon learn the lady’s names, Elida and Sarah. We ask if they pr anywhere and find out they are Roman Catholic. Neither speaks English so we communicate solely through our guide Margaret. She asks them if they would like to hear our story and the girl graciously agree. Karissa begins by sharing the story of Paul before King Agripa. She tells them that Paul told King Agripa his life story. Then she details briefly how Paul once ruthlessly persecuted the ch and lived to follow the Jewish law. However, one day, Paul is met by a bright light on the road and a voice says, “Paul why are you persecuting me?” And Paul answers, “Who are you?” The voice says, “I am J.C. who you are persecuting.” Then J.C. tells him he is sending him to a people group not his own to tell them about what J.C. has done for them. After telling Paul’s story we transitioned to our own personal stories. I told them that when I was a child my parents were both followed J.C. but I did not. My parents told me about J.C. and what he did for me, and that if I trusted Him I would not have to go to hell but I could go to heaven. I did not want to go to hell so I asked to receive J.C. Then I explained that as I grew older and became a teenager, Gd continued to teach me. He taught me that He did not only want to save me from hell but He also wanted complete control of my life. So when I was 13 I told Gd, “Whatever you want to do with me and wherever you want me to go, I will do it.” I told them, before that day, when I read my B I could not understand it but after that day the H.S. came to me and I could understand what I was reading. When I got to the part about the H.S. explaining the text to me, Elida began to smile and lean forward as she listened. She told me that she also tries to read the B but it did not make since. I asked if they had a story like mine, if they had ever given themselves to Gd. They both shook their heads no but they said they wanted too that day. We explained that there are no special words to say but if they would believe in J.C. and give themselves to Gd that He promises to save them and send the H.S. to teach them. As we left the house, Elida’s face was glowing. I asked Margaret if they really understood, she thought they did.

                We visited 3 other groups;  Karissa and I rotated telling Paul’s story and then telling our own. We spent about an hour speaking with a Jehovah’s Witness about various doctrines. It was a long drawn out discussion back and forth about where we would go when we died and who J.C. really is. I was beginning to feel we were making no headway and wasting our time until I realized there was a young blvr girl also listening to our conversation. When Margaret spoke with her, the girl confessed that she had been going to the Jehovah’s Witness woman for advice. She had not realized there is such a gap between the two theologies. 

Karrisa and I with Margaret

After that, we met a family of blvrs; we sat under a tree and after telling our stories asked about their own. The young mother told this story. Her first baby became very sick. She took him to the hospital but they did not help her. On her way home from the hospital, she met a blvr woman who said to her, “Do not go to a witch doctor or to anyone else about your baby, only pr to Gd. Maybe He will heal the child and maybe not but you should only go to Him.” So she went home and closed the door and got on her knees and pr to Gd. The next morning her baby was healthy again. She said, “From that day I believed in Gd.” Then the woman’s husband told his story. He said while pointing to his wife, “Every day she was pr for me, she wanted me to know Gd. So one day I needed money to pay for a hospital bill. I went to all my neighbors and friend and no one could help me. So she said ‘You should only ask Gd.’ So that night I pr and the next morning a man brought me the money that I needed. From that day on I have followed Gd.” I was astonished by each of the stories. Back in the states I read a book Power Quest that emphasized Africans need to have “power encounters” in order to put faith in J.C. And here Gd had provided two shining examples of His grace. After speaking with that family, it was getting late in the day and we began to head home. We passed by some young girls who were putting the corn into storage. A large pile of un-shucked corn lay in front of the mud hut with a thatch roof. An older girl stood on a stool dumping the baskets of corn into a small door at the top of the “silo.” A few chickens were pecking around the edges of the pile. The girls called out to us in Ninaja as we passed by. Margaret answered back to them, and then she turned to us, “They want you to come tell them a story while they work.” We of course happily consented. We again told the story of Paul and Karissa shared her own story. The girls continued to gather the corn into baskets and pass them to the one standing on the stool to dump through the door. Each of the older girls gathering the corn kept their eyes on us as much as they could while they continued their work. As the pile of corn grew smaller, Karissa came to the close of her story and asked if they had a story like hers. The girls shook their heads no. The one standing on the stool said, “No we do not, but we are all ready to receive J.C. now.” It is hard to know without having any follow up how much Elida and the girl truly understood. As we pr over the girls I asked that Gd would continue to shape them and that they would truly come to know him.  Just as we were about to leave, the woman who had told us her story earlier came to help the girl finish up their work. She was a friend or a relative. I am grateful to Gd that He has provided a witness to them living just next door.

Girl to a Woman

    After spending several days meeting and greeting people in Petauke, we began to walk out into the surrounding villages. The first day Karrisa and I met a woman names Ester. We asked her many questions about what it means to be a woman in Zambia and what the rights of passage are. Ester was very hospitable; she offered us peanuts that she picked from her field. We sat outside her mud house on a reed mat as she described for us the ceremony that takes place when a girl is becoming a woman. When the girl reaches puberty, she is taken inside her house where traditionally she must stay for several weeks or even a few months. Each day, women from the community come to her and teach her what it means to be a women and how to take care of her husband. We later learned that part of this ceremony involves teaching the girls how to “keep” their husbands, i.e. some very sexual content. Most girls are only 11 or 12 years old when this ceremony takes place. We asked our blvr guide what the women at her ch do when their girls become of age. She explained they realized that teaching the girls such explicit things so early in life led to premature sexual activity, so they leave out the sexual content of the ceremony. For the most part, the blvr girls would be taught by older ch members. Just before the girls are to be married they might have a “kitchen” party in which the girls would receive the more adult lessons.