How to make Instant Oreo Cream Pie box mix in West Africa

How to make Instant Oreo Cream Pie box mix in West Africa

Step 1: Scour all westernized groceries stores for anything premade.

Step 2: Discover Instant Oreo Cream Pie box kit and become exuberantly happy.

Step 3: Bring kit home, realize it requires milk and refrigeration and you do not have either milk or a refrigerator

Step 4: Put Instant Oreo Cream Pie box kit inside of Ziploc bag, place zip locked kit inside of plastic container with other mixes, put container inside of cupboard and let sit 4 months.

Step 5: Clean cupboard, find box kit and get excited because you’ve recently acquired a refrigerator and have milk inside it.

Step 6: Melt butter over gas stove because the refrigerator part of your frig doesn’t really work, only the freezer part so butter is hard (also there is no such thing as a microwave in West Africa).

Step 7: Combine provided Oreo Crumb crust with butter and mash into bottom of container

Step 8: Pour last of milk into bowl.

Step 9: Pour instant pie mix on top of milk along with two table spoons of dried ants you didn’t realize breached your food security system.

Step 10: Muffle your anger outburst so the guard doesn’t hear you and ask what it wrong.

Step 11: Strain milk, ants and instant pie mix through colander and paper towel (because the mesh is too large on the colander to catch the ants).

Step 12: Realize you have acquired some pretty sturdy paper towels and the milk isn’t leaking through.

Step 13: Milk paper towel like a cow utter until the milk streams through.

Step 14: Ignore any extra flecks of black floating around in your milk

Step 15: Add cold water and scoop of powder milk to make up for milk lost to the draining of the dead ant swimming pool.

Step 16: Congratulate yourself for purchasing two Oreo Cream Pie Instant box kits and steal the instant pie mix from the second box.

Step 17: Examine pie powder before you pour it into the milk (mama didn’t raise no dummy).

Step 18: Whip pie mix into fluffy yumminess and add provided Oreo bits to cover any remaining remnants.

Step 19: Press pie fluff over pie Crust and add more Oreo bits to the top (why not? You now have double the Oreo bits because you have already broken into the second pie box).  

Step 20: Chill in freezer and enjoy.
Step 21: Regret ever making fun of your teammate when you cringed at her for using your fork and she exclaimed “I’ve eaten a dead cockroach!”  

How a Braille Bible made it to Maryland West Africa

 

It’s crazy how life turns out. Back in April 2010, I was still in college and dreaming about hiking the Appalachian Trail and trying to squelch my longings for Africa. I just happened to mention my plans for adventure too my brother who had recently purchased a VW Bus and was about to be a hippy in L.A. I was thinking I would work a bit, then go to Europe, hop some trains, backpack around and then come back to do the ultimate backpack trip and hike the trail. Clay said if I switched things around and started the trail in 2011 that he would go with me. “Really Clay? You are serious? Because I am serious about this? If you really will do it then I’ll see what I can do about moving my classes around so that we can do this.” “Yes Vickie I am serious, if you can make it happen in 2011 then I have always wanted to hike the trail too.” I couldn’t really believe it. All through college I had been asking among my friends and trying to find a hiking partner, some people said they wanted to but no one was ever truly committed. But I knew Clay; he’s a Tarleton, if he says he will do something he will. So that next week I met with professors and Deans and I worked out a plan to complete my remaining courses in one semester instead of two. I Clepped out of three courses, gained 6 credit hours through an international course, wrote my capstone, and kept two jobs that summer… I also hiked some, I was kind of psyched about the Trail. The next semester I could take it easy on the courses, I only took 12 hours but I worked 40 and I had to revise my capstone along the way and with every pay check I bought new hiking gear. When I decide to do something I can get super obsessive. I was always thinking about the trail, about the packs and the food drops, etc. By the time I joined my brother at his hippy pad on Venice Beach L.A. in January 2011 I had already mentally hiked each step of the trail, I knew tourist locations along the way and what shelters to stay in, how many days to take an various portions of the trail, and what we needed to eat to stay healthy. But mentally walking the Trail and actually walking it are very different. Clay and I trained in L.A. at the Tapanga State Park, and one day we hiked 22 miles and I thought well if we can do that we can hike 12-15 miles a day on the trail no problem. But it was a problem.

 

 

 The first day on the trail, I barely made it 8 miles and I started feeling sick. I think we made it 13 miles that day, and that night I started puking and couldn’t stop. I got scared, I rarely get sick like that. I mean I’ve lived in Africa for over a year and I’ve only lost my lunch once on this continent. Which is an incredible record considering what I have eaten along the way. Well I got scared, but thankfully the Trail starts in GA and I have friends familiar with the access roads. I called my friend Keith, and he came out and picked me up and brought Clay and I back to my friend Stephanie’s house so that I could feel better. Stephanie was still living in the basement of a retired missionary to Africa. After a day recouping, we left out again. Mrs. Rhoda came out to greet us before we left, we told her what we were doing and she exclaimed, “Well that is just great practice for the mission field!” She wouldn’t let us go until we held hands and she prayed for our trip. I felt honored to have her praying over us. She was a missionary in Rhodesia before it became Zambia and Zimbabwe. I kind of wish that day she was praying over me for the trip I knew I should have been starting but I was honored all the same and God was doing things even if I wasn’t doing what he wanted. So after that I lasted like maybe 4 more days. I knew by the time I got to Blood Mountain that I wasn’t going to continue. I was miserable trying to keep up the pace and I also knew deep inside that this wasn’t the plan God had laid for me. But I had put so much time and money into this already and there was my pride of finishing what I started. I started trying to psyche myself out to make it up the next mountain. “What would make me want to climb this mountain? If there was something or someone waiting for me at the top, that would make me want to climb it, what would it be?” The answer I discovered was Africa. If I knew that when I reached the top I’d be in Africa, the place I knew God wanted me, then I would be able to run up the next mountain. Well, I thought, “I will at least make it to the first Trail town and then go home”, but I didn’t even make it that far. I made it to the top of Tray mountain about 55 miles of that 2200 mile trail and then a tornado hit and yanked my little Hennessey Hammock ties right out of the ground and soaked me. That was an awful night. Everything was soaked. I couldn’t even find some of my things the next day. I think they blew away. I made Clay Clay skooch over and let me in his tent but I still had to ring out gallons of water out of my sleeping bag the next day before I said goodbye to Clay and walked the opposite way.

 

 

I was pretty embarrassed about the whole thing. I regretted leaving Clay to hike “alone” but I knew he’d make friends fast and would go a lot father a lot faster without me there. And I was right, when I left he started speeding right along and before I knew it he was already in Virginia getting ready to Aqua Blaze part of the trail. Meanwhile I had visited around GA, MS and SC doing a little ministry mainly making excuses to see old friends, had made my way back up to North KY and completed my J-man application. I was on my way to doing what God wanted me too but I was still feeling pretty ashamed of myself. Clay Clay was just about to meet someone special. He met Amber that summer rafting the Shenandoah River. We started hearing about her mainly through Mom whenever he talked to her on the phone about food drops. Through his description I immediately liked her. None of Clay’s other girlfriends had made the sort of “Yeah she so right for him” impression that I was conjuring from his description. She was tough, courageous, sweet, beautiful and southern to boot. In October Becca, Mom, Dad, and I all traveled up to meet Clay at Katahdyn the final mountain in Maine. We came to hike that bit with him and to pick him up but we were equally excited to see if this girl was all he was saying she was. She was, we liked her a lot. We even liked her Mom and sister too. A week after bringing Clay home I flew out to job placements for J-man program. Then there was Field Personal Orientation in January-March. During that Clay called me to ask “what is the tallest mountain in Georgia” because he wanted to propose to Amber on it. Amber said yes. I was excited for them but worried I’d miss the wedding because I was leaving for my two year term in April. But God was gracious and one year later I was able to come home and be a part of their big day.

But a few months before that, I was on a research vision trip in southern Liberia called Harper Maryland. In Harper we met with pastors and they told us all about the history of the former SBC work there. They really miss the SBC presence in Liberia, it was a huge morale booster for them and SBC also provided theological education for many Liberian pastors. Since the Liberian civil war there has been much tension not only among tribes and peoples but also in the church. There has been church politics just like you see in America and it has left many pastors feeling alone in their struggle for the Gospel. One pastor stood up in the meeting and spoke to the other pastors about their need for unity among the body of Christ. The pastors listened in silent respect to Rev. Appleton. He spoke directly to their hearts though he looked in no particular direction. Rev. Appleton lost his sight sometime after the war, no one really knows why he lost it but they say that it happened rather quickly. After the meeting, Rev. Appleton slowly made his way onto the platform in the church where we were meeting and over to a desk which had pages of braille spread out all over. I watched in awe as he moved his hands over the bumpy paper. In Liberia the literacy rate is extremely low. Some people quote 75% illiterate, yet here was a blind Liberian man reading Braille in the furthest county in the country. While I was watching him, another pastor told me that Rev. Appleton did not have the full Bible in Braille; he had a few portion of it but not the whole thing. That struck me as a very sad thing. Here in a country where it is a feat just to learn how to read with seeing eyes a blind man had somehow learned to read Braille yet still could not read the book which was obviously so precious to him. I knew that it would be impossible to find a Braille Bible here in Liberia; the only way was to get one brought by a team but we did not have any on the schedule. So I made a mental note to try and get a Braille Bible while I was home for Clay Clay’s wedding. A couple of weeks before I was scheduled to leave I looked up some ministries to the Blind in the U.S. One was the Lutheran’s outreach to the blind. They produced NIV Braille Bibles free of charge, they even ship for free but only in the U.S. So I contacted and asked if they could ship me one. They informed me that the Braille Bible was a 40 volume set, weighed 70 Lbs and took up 5 feet of space on a shelf. I was a little shocked. I was expecting it to be large but not that large. Never the less, if they could get me one for free, how could I refuse to take it over? It’s such a precious thing made available free of charge. They were asking questions about what sort of Braille Rev. Appleton read and I did not know so I gave Rev. Appleton a call and explained what I was trying to do for him. He immediately said, “I will take any Braille Bible, NIV, KJV, etc. Grade 1, Grade 2… I don’t want to make things hard but I would be so happy for any Braille Bible.” It took me some time to get him to tell me which he would prefer because he didn’t want to cause trouble, he was just too humbled at the possibility of getting a full Bible. The day before I flew home I called Mom to let her know a few boxes might show up on her door step. And when I walked in the front door to my parent’s North Kentucky home I was surprised to see the four boxes filled with God’s word already sitting in the parlor. My Mom was pretty delighted with delivery of a full braille Bible to our home but rolled her eyes in mockery of the things that show up at our house. After attending the most beautiful wedding I think I will ever be a part of (outdoors, arches, Chinese lanterns, and a very beautiful bride… Clay looked pretty suave too), Rebecca and I packed the 70 lbs. of Bible into our two checked bags, and I still had space for two boxes of life cereal... it’s the important things you make space for.

Did I mention Becca was coming home to Liberia with me? Fhew! This story keeps getting longer.

Way back while I was still traipsing through Guinea, Sierra Leone, Mali and Cape Verde and dreaming of settling in Liberia, we made plans for Becca to come back with me from the wedding and do some ministry with me in Liberia. We came in to Liberia and the first week we told Bible stories to some kids in a village and in an orphanage close to Monrovia. The next week I was really concerned over because that was the week we planned to take the Braille Bible down to Harper Maryland. I was hoping we’d be able to take a helicopter ride down there because I had been told the conditions of the road in rainy season was atrocious and I didn’t really want to waste Becca’s precious Africa time stuck in the mud for several days. However, we could not find a helicopter headed down there so after talking with several Liberians and finding a few good Liberian pastors who agreed to go with us we began our journey down early Tuesday morning.

 

Becca and I left out alone from Monrovia with plans to pick up the two pastors along are route before we hit the back roads of Liberia. However the front roads of Liberia aren’t exactly a walk in the park either and an hour and ½ outside of Monrovia I knocked my battery cord off my battery and shorted out my windshield wipers (a must have during rainy season). I didn’t know what was wrong at first I heard a pop and my windshield wipers froze so I pulled over to see what was up and then I couldn’t get the thing to crank again. I lifted the lid of the vehicle to pretend like I knew what I was doing and peered inside, and there to my great relief was my battery cored popped off. Back in college I had issues with my battery cord corroding on my little Mazda and remember a very trying day being stuck in a Piggly Wiggly parking lot not know what to do. But today things were different and I thanked God for that day in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot as I slipped the clasp back over the metal thingy and drove back to the closest gas station/ mechanic. I was happy to instruct the mechanic to please tighten down the clasp thingy on the metal thingy but dismayed to discover the windshield wipers still not working.  After a few minutes a car electrician was found (I don’t know the difference between a car mechanic and a car electrician but there is one apparently in Liberia). He took of the steering column cover and fiddled with things, I asked him to replace the fuses and he did that, he fiddled with the wires connected to the wiper motor and then declared it “fixed” (he had gotten it to work on one of the three speeds and I had to time it just right to get the wipers to set down and not freeze in front of my face). I thanked the man, paid him and then was getting ready to pull out when the steering column began to smoke. I called him back over told him to try again. The fuse had melted in the box and I could see smoke coming from the wiper motor as well. This time he took the wiper motor off and banged on it for a while before putting everything back together and sending me happily on my way. I don’t know what he did, the detour took us about three hours but the rigged wipers worked the rest of the trip which is all I really wanted at that point.

 We continued on picked up our two Liberian Pastor travel buddies and made it all the way to Tapeta by 4pm. West Africans are generally very severe on Women drivers and are always suggesting that maybe you should let them drive, but I was rather pleased by these pastors reactions. The more I drove, the more impressed they became by this white ladies driving skills. “Wow we are really moving!” they kept exclaiming as we passed town names familiar to them. I was really nervous about the roads ahead and what kinds of conditions I might find so I just kept my foot down and only stopped once for a combined lunch / potty break. But the truth is all those white faces back in Monrovia were wrong, the road was awesome. Rebecca may not believe that but my definition of awesome roads is any day I don’t have to turn on the 4x4. The next morning was the same drill, we were on the road by 5:30, I didn’t let anyone pee and we made it to Harper by 4pm. There was only one short section of the road that I could feel my tires drifting a bit.

The entire trip occasionally the pastors would ask why it was again we were headed down to Harper. This amused me a lot, no American would sign on for a trip like this without fully understanding the reason why and all the “how’s” to the logistics of it but not West Africans. One friend calls another and asks him to assist two strange white girls on a journey down to the furthest county and they don’t even ask why. I tried to explain what a braille bible was and they shook their heads like they understood but I could see they really weren’t getting it. They were just content to be with us and to be with each other, the two pastors were old friends and had not seen each other in several years. One of the pastors had not been down to Maryland since 1979 and was very interested to see the place again. When we got to Harper and greeted the pastors there they again asked about what type of Bibles (plural) we were bringing. And I tried again to explain it was just one Bible and it was Braille for a blind person. “right, right” shaking his head. “It’s really big, you see, because they have to write all the words with little bumps,” I tried to explain. “Yes, yes really big,” he says smiling and shaking his head. Then one of the local pastors says something about Rev. Appleton being blind and being excited about the Bible and suddenly the pastor explodes, “OH! It’s a Braille Bible! For a blind person!” Two day into the journey and now he knows why we are here. Though Liberians speak English and I speak English sometimes I feel there is less communication happening then when I was using my one weeks’ worth of French lessons in Guinea.

The next morning the big unveil happened over at the local Baptist Church where Rev. Appleton has been teaching Bible to the students in the church’s new elementary school. We open up the two trunks filled with the 40 volumes that contain the complete Braille Bible and I present Rev. Appleton with the first volume of Genesis (it comes in two volumes). I explain to him that he now has the full Braille Bible Genesis to Revelation. He is excited to be holding a portion of the Old Testament since he has only had portions of the New Testament up until today. But his excitement barely matches the other pastors present when they see the Bible for the first time. Everyone grabs a volume and begins to exclaim about how big it is. “Wow! Look, this is just 1 Samuel alone!” “Whoa this is the other half of Genesis, do you see it’s so big they had to put it on two books!” Each person runs their fingers over the bumps in awe of this technological feat that allows the blind to read. When everyone settles down the two pastors who traveled with Becca and I, come to shake my hand. Their faces are beaming as they thank us for allowing them to be a part of presenting this Bible and for meeting this need for Rev. Appleton. We all sit back down and as Rev. Appleton feels the name of Genesis impressed on the cover of the volume he says, “This week I am teaching about Abraham but I did not have a copy of Genesis, so whenever I was studying I had to walk out into the street and ask people to read Genesis for me. Now I can read it for myself.”  

The tone of the trip changed after the presentation. Before there had been confusion but now there was joy. We spent the rest of the day visiting and touring around the town of Harper. The two pastors were eager and overjoyed to see the sights of Harper, the old port and the deteriorating monument built in the 60’s. They thanked me often for allowing them to see this part of the country and to see history with their own eyes. I was more thankful to have them along, to see pastors connecting with other pastors and sharing their struggles and their dreams and to see their joy in recognizing that they are not alone. Liberia is a little larger than the state of Ohio. It’s really not that big yet the roads and the poverty keep many pastors cut off from each other. There are so many things they could help each other with and teach each other if they could only reach it each other.

We stayed in Harper only one day and I drove out confidently early that Friday morning thinking now I know the roads I have nothing to fear. We had driven maybe an 1 ½ hours when I noticed my back tires felt odd. I had checked them before I left that morning and everything looked okay but I pulled over to check again. Nothing looked low. So I continued on for a while and one of the pastors asked me to pull over and we both checked the tires again. We got back in and began again, we drove just a short ways and as we were topping a hill I had the thought, “You know it doesn’t really feel like it’s dragging it kind of feels like my back driver tire is wobbling.” Just at that moment my back driver tire came running along beside my window. I think it smirked at me before it went dashing out into the bush. I guess I hit one to many potholes and it gave up the fight. I skid on the drum until I stopped at the bottom of the hill. The pastor in the back seat, thinking we had a flat yelled at me, “Vickie, pull off the road!” I yelled back “I can’t my tire just rolled into the bush!” The two pastors suddenly morphed into road crew; one running off into the bush to retrieve the escapee, the other jacking up the back off the Cruiser. It took maybe 20 minutes and their Liberian ingenuity, as they borrowed a few lug nuts from each of the three faithful tires to re-enslave the fourth tire and we were back on the road. I made use of our satellite phone for the first time to tell Rita what was up and where we were. We limped on for an hour, my confidence in my vehicle shot, until we reached the next town in which we visited the local mechanic. I could hear an abnormal squeak. They took off the tire and opened up the drum, stuck a few things back in place that I had knocked out in the skid and sent us on our way, again it only took like 30 minutes. In most ways Africa is never convenient but in rigging up a vehicle so you can continue a trip, I am on the right continent. The rest of the trip with broad smiles the pastor repeated, “I can’t my tire just rolled into the bush!” I think that made his week. He laughed and laughed and I laughed too, what else can you do?

Things work out weird sometimes. Clay Clay wouldn’t have hiked the trail unless I had been traipsing along doing my own thing (not what God asked me to do) and so he wouldn’t have met Amber and gotten married this past May. I wouldn’t have ended up taking the position in Mali which dissolved and left me in Guinea, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Cape Verde everywhere but Timbuktu (get it, Timbuktu is in Mali) if I had gone straight out of college into the J-man program. If I had started the j-man program sooner Becca would have been too young to visit me in Liberia and I wouldn’t have had a partner to take with me down to Harper. If Clay hadn’t been getting married while I was on my term I wouldn’t have come home and brought that Braille Bible back with me. So there you have it the story of the Braille Bible and how it made it to Harper Maryland in Liberia. But those are just the details, I know what really happened. God loved Rev. Appleton and He saw his faithfulness. He didn’t need me to be in Liberia, I think he would have found another way to bless His servant if this servant had been absent but like the pastors exuberant just to come along for the ride, I am extremely happy He let me ride along.

Life in Africa

My Mom asked me to write about my life in West Africa… my first thought was “haven’t you been reading my blogs?” but I got her point. She wants to know the hard things, the things I forget to mention like the buckets of water by every toilet for when the water stops working and you need to flush. The “yellow mellow” rule in Guinea (also pertains to flushing) and the other different things that don’t happen every day in the U.S. I don’t like to talk about hard things except with sarcasim but here are some of the different and difficult things in my journey through West Africa. I will start with Guinea since I just moved from there and I don’t want to forget.

In Guinea life was different. When I walked out on the streets I did not expect to be understood and there was a lot of preparation in my mind before I ever said a word. I would practice in my head again and again how I was going to ask where can I buy some eggs? And then, listen extremely hard to try to understand the answer. In Guinea, where ever I was I could always hear the local mosque calling out the prayer. The drowning noise at first oppressive became normal. Even early in the morning 5 am I would listen to the plea. In Forecariah, we did not have a well; we relied on city water which would come every two or three days. When the water came it poured into a lower reservoir which we would then pump into the higher reservoir on a raised plat form so that there would be enough pressure to have water come out of the faucets in the house. There was also a pipe system set up to catch rain water off of the roof and funnel it into the lower reservoir which is actually how the tank stayed full most of the time. We were blessed in that we did not have to experience dry season in that house because often city water doesn’t come in dry season and then water had to be carried bucket by bucket full from other locations. In Forecariah we had electricity about every other day, usually at night for about 6 hours at a time. We learned that if we had electricity or ran the generator for about 5 hours a day that was enough to keep our Freezer cold enough to keep meats. Right before we left Forecariah it got its first convenience store, where you could buy things like, canned beans, pasta, spaghetti sauce, canned veggies, etc. But still you could not buy meats, which means you could do two things, purchase meat at the market or purchase meat in Conakry grocery stores and bring it back in a cooler. Based on market meats displays, (blood and meat chunks smashed everywhere, hacked at with a machete and you never knew how long it been sitting in the sun), we picked carry it from Conakry. Our refrigerator was small and the frig part didn’t actually work so we packed as much meat in the Freezer part as possible and were careful to keep it cold. The small amount of time spent in Forecariah I was becoming a rather good cook. In Guinea, there hardly anything pre-made. You have to cook everything from scratch.

 Internet in West Africa can be a challenge, especially when traveling. Internet is done through the cell phone companies and each country has their own companies. So unless we were at the few Guest houses that had internet we would need an internet card that plugs into your USB port. The cell phone towers in some magic way makes this work. But most of the Internet cards required you purchase a month subscription and we were never anywhere that long. In Guinea, I had a support of a community, especially in Conakry. We have several people with the company there and I spent many enjoyable evening playing cards and laughing or worshiping around a camper fire with these lovely people. They also taught me what a true M does. One of these couples has raised their families in Guinea and devoted themselves to a certain people group. I loved going out with them into their community, listening to them chat in the local language and watching them share unashamedly the good news. And watching how they work through the hard things with the local believers. What if your husband isn’t a Christian? What if your family forces you to marry another man? What do you do then? They never took these things lightly, they thought and prayed before they proceeded carefully and they worked with the local church, humbly.

That was life in Guinea. Life on the road was different. I came to Africa with three trunks and a guitar. Two of those trunks remained largely packed until I moved to Liberia a few weeks ago. I have ULA back pack that I purchased when I thought I was tough enough to hike the A.T. I only made the first 55 miles of the trek but that pack made it a considerably farther because at the midway point my brother called and asked to borrow it because of it shifts weight to your hips well. That pack has proven to be well worth what I spent on it. I have lived out of it for most of last year. When my clothes were dirty I transferred them to my old World Changer laundry bag, until my green back pack would look all deflated and then I would know it was time to wash again. Washing clothes is one of the harder things to do. In Forecariah, we had a washer that didn’t really work so we hand washed our clothes, just a bucket, soap and our hands. On the road, if the Guest house had a washer I used it but they usually didn’t have a dryer so you had to plan on being there for at least a day (or more depending on humidity) to hang dry them. More than once I packed damp clothes and rehung them at the next location. Most the time you can find a local who will hand wash your clothes for you, which is what I have been doing this week since I haven’t got the kinks worked out of our new washer set up. Most of the times if you try you can get your clothes washed but sometimes things just don’t work out and you end up wearing dirty clothes. I have enough t-shirts and Ponya’s to last about two weeks but there was a low point in which try as I might I couldn’t get my clothes cleaned in time, I am not nor have I ever been a girly girl but I may have cried a little when I couldn’t find a shirt without visible dirt on it.

 

 As I said before, each country has their own cell phone systems and towers which means in each country you have to get a country specific SIM card. They are easy enough to get, they sell them on the street. But keeping up with them is another challenge as you switch from Liberia to Sierra Leone to Guinea, up to Mali, back to Guinea. It gets confusing. Between that and keeping credit on them and the little internet access, it gets kind of hard to keep contact with people that you love. You end up calling on Birthdays and feeling shocked at their voices and ashamed at the length of time it’s been. You end up missing a lot. Mom will talk about family things that I haven’t heard about at all, like its way in the past. And I’ll be like, wait when did that happen? Three weeks ago… oh. Most the time now I just let it slide and pretend like I’m tracking.

 

I am not incredibly smart but I had traveled some in the past with World Changers and new the value of a good pillow and blanket. Everywhere I go I take my memory foam pillow and my sea to summit sleeping bag liner. I call it my safety blanket and whenever the creepy crawlies start coming out at nights or the mosquitos, I pull the blanket tight over my head and form a giant string bean (it’s a lime green liner). My supervisor and roommate make fun of me for this but I would rather sleep soundly than have mosquitos buzzing my ear all night. I have slept in many beds in West Africa, some more comfortable than others, some I wasn’t sure there was a mattress, some I was sure the mattress was made out of corn cobs. When we visit villages they are gracious and offer us their own beds, usually they vacate the hut for you but sometimes they sleep in the bed with you. Our creepiest (and cheapest $10) place was what we refer to now as the “brothel.” We had nowhere else to go so we stayed in a hotel that was well below par even for West Africa. When I entered that room I noticed there was no lock and I said something to the manager she seemed flustered went into the room and then showed me how you pushed a crooked nail down to keep the door closed.  “Oh right, obviously, the nail.” I pushed my trunk in front of the door, tucked the mosquito net in tight (thank God for Mosquito nets) said a prayer and slept soundly. At many of these guesthouses outside of major cities, there is no running water so you take bucket baths. It’s the same in villages, except where as in motel’s you can choose to take a bucket bath or just wash your face in the village you have to take a bucket bath every night. Your host brings your water and your seen as rather dirty if you don’t take full advantage of it. But in the village that is also a problem as many of the “stalls” that are provided for bathing are also the toilet (some with holes and some used as urinals with no hole). These stalls are often to short (and I’m 5’2 so that is saying something) or partially fallen down. At night it is pretty lovely to take a warm bucket bath under the stars but at twilight when people are still walking about and they are ready for you to bath. It gets a little awkward trying to be modest.

Eating on the road can be a challenge too. When I first came I rapidly lost weight because I couldn’t stomach the spicy food that is served in Sierra Leone and Liberia. I have never liked rice, which is rather unfortunate for a person living in West Africa. African’s haven’t eaten until they have had rice. You could feed them a four course meal and if it didn’t include rice they’d still feel incomplete. So when we hit the road without road snacks Rita and I call this our starvation diet. Not all African foods are bad though, we traveled with a man who was made sure we did not have to eat spicy foods in southern Liberia and some of those meals were very decent. I still had to watch out for the ridiculously boney fish (I’m also not a fish fan… picky I know). On the road, we really don’t eat much, we carry tuna and crackers, peanut butter and you can get market bread, and sometimes we make pita sandwiches with meat the day we leave. But sometimes it’s just seems better to be hungry then risk getting a bug at a chop shop. We do often eat at our hotel’s in the evening and I generally get the same thing, Chicken and Chips (French fries) it’s safe and it’s usually the only thing they can make besides rice and soup.

On the road the thing that is always dreaded the most is the border crossings. Some are easier than others, Mali to Guinea, easy (we did get turned around their once but our papers were bad). Sierra Leone to Guinea, okay most the time. Sierra Leone to Liberia, ridiculous! Each border consists of between 8 and 13 stops (just at the border this isn’t including police stops before and after). At each stop they all want to see the same papers, they all want to be greeted and smiled at and complimented. They all want to know why you’re not married and why you don’t marry them. And they all yell out African woman! As you approach in your ponya. Some are nice and some are not so nice. Some official are drunk and sweating all over your money as they insist on emptying your purse and counting everything they find. Some official are smiling and say they remember you from last time! How was your trip? You don’t need to come in today I remember you! On good days border crossings take an hour to an hour and ½ on bad days, they can take four or five. There is always much prayer before each crossing.

The awesome thing about the road is that, it’s the road man! You don’t know what’s around the next bend, whoa what was that totally awesome iridescent bird?! Are we going to get out of this mud hole?! How many people have been to Maryland Liberia? It’s neat, it’s exciting. I hear a lot of cool stories and meet a lot of unique people. But the downside is that I don’t get to keep those people. I have to move on to the next place, it’s hard to put down roots and therefore it’s hard to stay emotionally nourished. I am a rather reserved and introverted person. To build relationships takes time for me to feel safe. So why I feel energized by the mud slinging off our tires and the recording of stats of people groups and Church plants and the things I learn about culture and communities I feel emotionally exhausted by the small talk that happens in between. I hate how it’s called “small” talk because for an introvert it seems rather big.

And then there is the added cultural expectations, and the trouble with those are, you don’t know what is expected. Things change across borders, not drastically but they do change. And for me trying to figure out what to say and how (and I’m not talking about learning a new language here) is tiring.

 

So now we are in Liberia and it has its own set of blessings and opportunities. There is English here, I can “communicate” easily here. When I try to on the phone it is intensely difficult Liberian English is very different then American English but not unrecognizable. I have my own apartment, two bed rooms, a kitchenette, living area. I have a cat… she’s not really mine but she’s living with me right now and keeping away the mice. I can unpack my bags for the first time since January (2012). It is a struggle that the owner of the compound who we are renting from is gone and therefore, all repairs, replacing the stove, installing lights etc has to be done on our own (Rita and I). We are the first of our company back into Liberia since the war started in the 80’s so there is a lot of healing that needs to occur among people here. It’s a new place, and I don’t know where to start. I have had these past two weeks with Rita being out of the country to kind of reevaluate things and try to get my house established. It’s kind of fun to learn things on the fly, I know things I didn’t think I needed to know: things about 12 volt systems and solar panels, things about water towers and pump systems, things about getting vehicles fixed and buying transformers for refrigerators, generator maintenance and how to get furniture made. I know where to go to buy stoves and washer machines and muffin tins. Along the way I’ve learned the city pretty well, where the embassies are and where the car rental places are, where all the major Hotels and Restaurant are located. And that a Ponya is called a Lappas here.

I was freaked out. I have been longing to finally be settled somewhere to really get started on something. But then when it was finally getting here, I didn’t (don’t) know what to do with it.  What if I fail, miserably at this part of my job. What if I don’t make any good relationships, what if I can’t hack it here? May be I missed something, this isn’t really where God wants me right? In this ridiculously outgoing culture, with all these hipsters walking around and shouting at me in the street. And I remembered something that an old supervisor at World Changers ingrained in us my first summer on staff. “The one who called you is faithful and he will do it.” 1 Thessalonian 5:24. I don’t like things out of context (English Major), what did that “it” mean, I wondered.  “May God Himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 24 The one who calls you is faithful and he will do it.”  He will sanctify. Maybe that sounds out of place in context of my outgoingness fears but the truth is deeper than that it’s the fear of failure to live up to expectations.  To sanctify means to bless, consecrate, purify, approve, dedicate, to make holy. And the God who called me can and will do it because he is faithful even in our lack faithfulness (Romans 3:4).

Memories in Mali

“She’s an older lady, well kind of, she’s old but not, and she’s a retired English teacher… trust me you’ll like her.” This was something of the introduction I got for Mrs. M.L. When I saw her bright smiling self, wrapped in her cheetah jacket, come out of the airport terminal in Bamako, I understood what they meant. I don’t think anyone could not like Mrs. M.L. In her late 60’s, Mrs. M.L with the consent of her “very old husband” (her words not mine) has been coming to Mali for the past 5 years with her Church to minister to a remote tribe in the south east. This trip was the first she made alone and so I was there to be a companion, a driver and a partner. To say Mrs. M.L. is a character is an understatement. Her grey hair and her charisma give her a free pass to say just about anything she wants among her people group in Mali and she takes full advantage of this.  In each of the villages we visited, the chiefs and elders were eager to greet and laugh with Mrs. M.L. and Mrs. M.L. never let an opportunity pass to speak the truth to these very animistic people.

Fun stories from my time with Mrs. M.L.

Mrs. M.L. asks a lot of questions of both me and our translator, Shea. Most of the questions were legitimate but some were impossible to answer like, “What was the chief thinking?” The hardest question of the week came while we were studying in our mosquito tents inside the thatch church building where we slept, “Vickie, Where is the story of Ruth?” “Well Mrs. M.L. I believe that story is in the book of Ruth.” I replied with a broad smile. She looked at me for a moment then laughed and said, “That was a very kind way to answer that question!”

 

As the week went on, Shea and I became very good at preempting Mrs. M.L. request. I realized as I was getting ready to leave the hut that Mrs. M.L. had left the picture prints she was taking to the villages as we visited sitting on the chair. I took them and put them in my bag. She often forgot them, so as I exited Shea asked if I had gotten the photo’s for Mrs. M.L. and told them they were in my bag. We both went and sat down under the tree by the truck where Mrs. M.L. was reading. As we all got ready to go Mrs. M.L. exclaimed, “Oh no I left the pictures in the hut and it’s all locked up again!.” Shea said, “You worry too much, don’t worry. All I have to say is pictures come, and they will come to me.” Mrs. M.L was incredulous, “Oh give me the keys and I will go get them!” she began checking in her purse to be sure they were not there. Shea continued, “You don’t believe me? You worry too much. Pictures come!” I passed the pictures from my bag to Shea’s hand behind his back. “Viola!” he exclaimed.

 

The best moment could have also been the worst. As we drove along the bumpy back roads from time to time Mrs. M.L. would call out for me to stop so she could take pictures of the scenery or of the people. On one such occasion we happened to be crossing a bridge and Mrs. M.L. very much wanted a picture of a fisherman in the water. I thought she would take the picture from the truck and then we would move on but she instantly jumped out and ran to the front of the truck to get a better picture. We were out in the middle of nowhere, no vehicles had passed us the whole ride until that point. I looked ahead of us and knew we were in trouble. There were border control cops up ahead and no sooner had I seen them then one raced up on his Moto. Mrs. M.L. not realizing who he was tried to motion for the Moto to go around so that she could continue to take her picture. Shea got Mrs. M.L. back onto the truck and we pulled off the bridge to go deal with the cops. I told Mrs. M.L. “Okay just stay in the truck, Shea and I will take care of this.” I had been in French speaking West Africa for about 8 months by this time and so was very use too the police check routine. Most the time you just stand and smile and nod your head and show your papers and let them say whatever they want to say about you until they eventually give you your papers back. This time they were making a big deal that I stopped on the bridge and I was “blocking the way” again we had passed not a single vehicle on the way there and for the ten minutes that the angry police officer lectured the point not a single vehicle passed on the road. I was blessed in this instance with Shea because usually I would have to struggle through my limited French Vocab to express my regret in blocking traffic and admit that I was a dumb woman driver but this time Shea did all that for me and I only had to stand and look pitiful. As Shea and I joined Mrs. M.L. in the truck and I started the engine to pull off, Mrs. M.L. was very quiet for a while. I began to feel guilty for the stern way I told her to stay in the truck. I turned to see what she was feeling, She leaned toward me and said, “I would just like to say that all this money stuffed in my underpants is really starting to get uncomfortable.” Apparently my, “stay in the truck” command, had translated to Mrs. M.L. “Hide all the money!” which since we were in the village we had to have a stock of smaller bills (since there are no banks or ATMs you have to have a supply). She had stuffed the entire stock into her underwear. I pulled off the road so she could go “relieve” herself in the privacy of the bush. I laughed until I had tears in my eyes.

 

Oh, Mrs. M.L. was more than a little fun. She kept me laughing and so busy, the entire two weeks. I kept asking “Aren’t you jet lagged? Don’t you get tired?” “I’ll sleep when I get to America!” She loves every person she meets but she especially loves the little ones.

One little fellow in particular named Karim holds a special place in her heart. Back when Karim was just an infant Mrs. M.L. helped snatch from deaths door. Karim’s mother had died and as was tradition in the area there was no close relative to nurse the baby and so he was slowly starving to death. It was late one night when someone put the baby in Mrs. M.L. arms and told her the baby was dying. She made the appropriate contacts and got Karim to a hospital where they put IV’s in him and brought him back into health. She stayed with him while they were starting the initial treatments and made sure that they had all they needed to continue to care for Karim. Karim’s aunt and Grandmother are extremely thankful to Mrs. M.L. for the interest she took in Karim and whenever she is in town they take Karim to see her every day. Unfortunately Karim is not so grateful. Karim is now about 3 years old, many children that age in the village can be afraid of white people and will run and scream and hide behind their parents. Generally if you offer a few kind words and with some coaxing from their parents they will warm up and come greet and shake your hand… not Karim. From the time he catches sight of Mrs. M.L. until his grandmother muffles him as she leaves he screams top notch. That kid is horrified of white people. Mrs. M.L. just laughs and smiles and says “that’s gratitude for you!” And every day without fail you can hear Karim being drug by his grandmother to go greet the woman who helped save him. Each day, Mrs. M.L  presents him with some candy to try to win him over. Mrs. M.L. is convinced that Karim remembers that she was there when he was being poked and given shots as an infant.

Two other little ones, know to her as the “Troubles” also hold a special place in her heart. The troubles are the two youngest twin daughters to our host family. They have 7 older siblings, they are the cutest pair, but they are trouble. Each evening we had a special time for the children to come and color biblical pictures after we told a story using them. There was a limited supply of markers so I manned the marker box and asked them to return their marker before getting a new one. (by ask I mean demonstrated, they didn’t speak English).  The Troubles immediately saw this as a challenge. They were no longer interested in coloring but in seeing how many markers they could sneak from the bucket unnoticed. At first I was oblivious, there were a lot of kids and they were very sly. But soon I noticed a cache of markers stored around the Troubles and began to recollect them. War ensued. The Troubles (laughing and giggling all the while) began to double team their effort in the marker conquering. And soon one jumped on my arm as the other scooped the remaining markers and ran. The markers were not returned until their older sister, Millie, (9 years old and tough as nails) got on their case.

Millie, was Mrs. M.L. special helper. Each night it was her job to pass out a candy to each of the people present at the storying. She took her role very seriously. One day there was a man who came in a bit drunk to listen with the kids and youth, after a few minutes he fell fast asleep in a seated position. When Millie got around to him she held out a candy to him, when he did not respond because he was snoring, she knocked his head around a bit until he woke up and took his candy. Another time as she was walking around the circle passing out candy she ran out and went back to the bag for more, when she resumed where she left off a kid who already had taken a candy reached his hand out for another. She looked at him squarely and without a word pushed him over backwards off his seat, you don’t mess with Millie.

 

Over the past five years the children have become a part of Mrs. M.L. heart. She knows each of the 9 children by name, their ages, how they are doing in school. And she has become deeply invested in them. When I think of Mrs. M.L. I hope I am like her one day. She was already older than 60 when she began her journeys to Africa. She didn’t have to come, she every right to stay home and enjoy retirement with her “very old husband.”  She had already given years of her life to educating American youth. But she continued unafraid to do and learn more of what God wanted from her. She denied her “rights” as Christ did for us. Philippians 2:5-11. And I also must give kudos to her “very old husband” who, because of health reason was unable to join his wife physically on her journeys to Africa but in every other way supports her.

A Weird Story, That Isn't Finished Yet.

Z waited two days before he told us about Dee. After eating our evening meal together, we all sat around the fire and Z told us what had really been on his mind, the neighboring village of Dee. Dee is a larger village on the main road to the Gold mines; it’s a trade a village. Z told us the story of a crazy man, prophesy, and ensuing chaos after the crazy man’s death.

 

The story goes something like this (we picked up bits and piece from several people), in Dee there was a crazy man who died a few months ago. When the crazy man was young (old enough to be keeping flocks) everyone watched as he climbed a tree in the center of the village all the way to the top and then flung himself off as if he was attempting to fly. He lay on the ground below unconscious under the tree, when he woke up he was never quite the same. From that time on, everyone in Dee called him crazy. That night he told his mother “I don’t know why I climbed the tree but when I got to the top there was a person who looked not like a man or a woman and was dressed all in white and I heard the name ‘Jesus’. I tried to go to him and forgot I was in a tree.”  After the tree incident whenever the man spoke to people they either could not understand him or did not believe what he was saying. In recent month he began to tell anyone who would listen that he was going to die soon. He gave the day and said that when he dies he wanted to be buried by the Christians because only they had the truth. He told many people but they would not listen so him finally he went to his only friend that trusted him, a Catholic priest named Vance. Vance believed him, on the night that the man said he would die, Vance went out to look for him. He saw the man shouting at the sky and praying at the place where the first white men (Catholic missionaries) came to teach. Later when Vance returned, he found the man’s body there in that place. After his death, the perspective towards the crazy man changed in Dee. Suddenly people began to remember things that he said and some of the things started to make since to them.

 

We visited with the crazy man’s two remaining brothers they told of some of his “prophesies.” “He said that after his funeral when everyone returned back to their houses it would begin to rain and it did just like he said. He said also that a very old man in the village would die a week later and an old man did die the next week.” His brothers also reported that years earlier their brother said that when the time of guns and shooting started that it would be time for him to leave, the coup began back in April. He was buried as a Christian per his request. Now all the people in Dee are considering this man’s life and what he said for the first time. Could this crazy man be right? Do the Christians know the best way? His brothers say that now that the man is gone people are beginning to understand his words.  His brother reported that the crazy man said there would be a time of suffering in Dee and then they will all become believers. Z told us that since his death there have been reports of great confusion and even though the crops were good this harvest for some reason the people of Dee are suffering. Z said that people in Dee are poisoning themselves and that there was so much confusion in the village after the man’s death the police had to come out to calm everyone. When I asked why people were poisoning themselves he answered me solemnly, “It is because the prophesy.”

The story is weird isn’t it? I was sitting their asking questions right there in the village and it still does not make a lot of sense to me. A crazy guy jumped off a tree, said he saw Jesus and now people are poisoning themselves? Is this real? But our very well educated translator believed it enough that he would not allow us to accept any tea or buy any food items while we visited Dee.

There is something going on in Dee, but I don’t know what. We asked to share stories in Dee and both the crazy man’s brothers and the chief promised to gather people if we came back a week later on their rest day. We did as they asked but when we returned both the chief and the brothers flatly refused to gather anyone. They were only interested in what monetary support they might be able to procure from the white people.  We were disappointed and angry. Apparently Dee has not suffered enough yet, they refused the Good News when it was brought to them and denied the village access to it stating that “the people here are no good, they would not come even if we asked them.”

 

The Story of a Village

After a few days rest from my taxi ride from Conakry, I am joined in Bamako by Mrs. M.L. a woman from an Engaging congregation from Georgia. Her congregation has been reaching out to the Senufo people over the past 5 years. I am excited to learn from M.L. experience among these rural people out in the bush of Mali close to Ivory Coast. We drive another 8 hours away from Bamako and are received by her friend Z who hosts us during our two weeks in his village.

One day Z asks us to come and greet his uncle, the chief’s younger brother. As we approach, a young man hurries to find us a bench to sit on. Z’s uncle rises from his sprawl on his own bench in order to receive us. After repeating our greetings, we settle in for a visit. M.L. asks, “Are you the chief’s younger brother?” “Oh yes! Much much younger!” The old man laughs. A young grandson comes to sit in the man’s lap. Z’s Uncle continues to brag, “That brother of mine over there does not know all our stories. He spent too many years abroad in Ivory Coast but our father told me all our stories. Besides he is mean and doesn’t like to talk, I always tell Z to come to me and I will tell him our stories.” In Senufo families it is common practice for the head of the family to choose one son to stay in the village and farm while he sends others away to school (the one he hopes to place in charge). Often the son sent abroad or to a larger city for school, does not come home again to stay until he is needed as the leader of the household. Z is like his uncle, Z’s twin brother was chosen to go away to school while he was picked to stay in The Village and farm. However this did not deter Z from continuing his own education, little by little, Z can read both French and Bambara and knows the Bible better than most Xians in the U.S. Z smiles and blushes at his uncles bold bragging against who he call his father. Z’s “Father,” the Chief of The Village, is actually also his uncle. Senufo family relations are varied and hard to understand from a western mindset. Often children from one father will be sent to be raised by his brother’s family. Always they show as much respect or more for their father’s brother as they do their own fathers. Also often their defenders come from their mother’s brothers, those are the uncles they can joke with and speak with freely. This uncle for Z is a safe person; he always comes to his support when Z is in trouble. “So you know the stories of The Village? Would you please tell us one?”  M.L. inquires. Z’s uncle is more than happy to relate a story. He sits up straighter and pulls his grandson snugger in his lap.

This is the story of how The Village came to be. You see this village is different from others; it was founded by a woman! A Long time ago before the French came, there was a Senufo woman who lived over in a village called Yelen in Ivory Coast.  She was given to be married to a man and had two sons but then her first husband died. The village of Yelen gave her again to a second husband but again this husband died. Then the people of Yelen, chased the woman and her two sons away because of the death of these two husbands.  So the woman left with her two sons, the first son named Zie (meaning first son) and her younger son named Zanga (meaning second son). They walked and walked many miles, when they had walked 5 villages from Yelen and were in the bush the woman stopped and began to cry because they were alone but her first son said to her, “Nah fiaa!” which means “Mother do not cry.” He said we can live here and be our own village. And so this is how the village got its name because Zie said “Mother do not cry.” Then Zie said to his brother Zanga, “You are a hunter and you can protect our land and I am a farmer, so you will be the chief of the land and I will be the chief of the village.” So even today there are two chiefs, the chief of the land who owns all the land and the chief of The Village.

We thank Z’s uncle for his story and he glows with pride and will not let us leave without a sack of peanuts as a gift. He continues to remind Z to visit as often as possible to learn all of The Village’s stories. We also exhort Z that the history of his village is important to remember and repeat but Z also knows other very important stories that he can share and teach as well. Z is one of The Village’s few believers.  He has begun a new tradition of stories, stories much older than The Village or even the Senufo people. Z knows the stories found in the good book starting with the creation of the world all the way to the one he knows can save his people. Often Z repeats the stories he knows to his own 9 children and to other young people in The Village. He quizzes the children on the details of the stories to be sure they can remember them. The Village is blessed to have Z, many neighboring villages have no one to tell these stories.

Z needs our pr@yers, pr@y he will reach beyond his own village into other with the good news that he loves. Pr@y also for the young people in his influence that they will grow into adults unafraid to share the good stories in their own village and as far as their feet can take them.

African Transport (Taxi ride from Hell)

We are squished four to a normal car bench seat plus a baby, my new friend Amadou is making comments about how ridiculously packed another slightly fuller vehicle is, “there all stuffed in there” while currently he is sitting on part of my leg and the only way we four can fit on the one bench is if we stagger leaning forward and sitting back. He also makes comments on how dangerous it is for people to ride on tops of cars and large trucks, none of us are wearing seat belts, and there are 11 adults in this 8 passenger vehicle, including two teenage boys sitting on each other in the front seat. There are also three children but kids do not go into the people count in vehicle rides and I have adapted. It’s all relative.

This trip started out yesterday morning, I was up anxiously at 6 am packing and praying that my escort (a national pastor that works with our company) would be on time in picking me up at 7. I knew deep in my heart that this anxiousness was in vain, that my friend would most definitely be at least 30 minutes late, this is Africa. But I have taken this nightmare road between Conakry and Kankan before and I know that if we make good time, it should only take 14 hours. I really want to get a few hours of sleep before I take another taxi 6 hours to Bamako the following day.

My escort arrives right when I expect him and we fight the Conakry traffic to the Madina Market where the taxis line up that are heading out of town. We find a taxi for Kankan almost immediately, and I follow some sound advice of fellow ex-pats and purchase two places in the taxi (those two “places” being the front seat). I make sure my backpack is tied securely to the top of the taxi and settle into wait for the Taxi to fill up. It’s already about 8:30 but no sweat I am sure there are lots of people who need to go to Kankan today and surely these people do not want to be riding that cursed road at night. At 11:30 we pull out from Madina Market only to stop a few blocks down for gas (and so our driver can talk to his friends).  Okay, well at least we are the road now, even if this guy is slow I can still check into the guest house for a few hours and shower before I head to Bamako tomorrow.

Flash forward, we have been on the road (off it more than on if you ask this American) for the past 14 hours we should already be in Kankan yet are still barely over the half way mark. We have stopped for 2 meals, stopped at a Mosque for prayer, stopped to change a flat, stopped twice for engine trouble, stopped to gawk at an over turned vehicle, we have been stopped and hassled at every police stop between Conakry and Kankan (apparently the driver does not have all his papers in order), and we have stopped in between those stops every 30 to 45 minutes so that the driver and 7 men in the back seats can pee (what is with their bladders? I never see them drink anything!). It’s is 2am, we met up with another taxi a few hours ago and have been caravanning since it started getting dark. Thankfully the lead taxi is a little more aggressive in his driving and we are finally beginning to make some time. Suddenly our taxi pulls over; our driver gets out and sprawls out comfortably on the hood of his vehicle. He then naps for the next three hours. Only one person shows any irritation at this abrupt decision by our driver. He walks casually over to the sleeping driver and nudges him, (rough translation this is all in French) “Hey friend, I uh thought we were going to Kankan?” Driver grunts and rolls over. Not satisfied the man begins to nudge him again only to be shouted down by other 7 passengers in the car, “Hey man! Leave the chauffer alone! Can’t you see he is trying to sleep?” I hug my computer bag and fall asleep.

 None of the 8 other passenger show any sign of distress. No one else in the vehicle seems the least surprised or irritated that we have just been on a gruesome fourteen hour ride across cheese grater trails and portions of the moon and that this trip is slowly, oh sooo slowly, turning into 24 hours of misery. On the contrary, after the drivers three hour nap, when the car stops again after having only started 45 minutes previously, everyone leaps from the vehicle as though they thought the driver would never give them a break. Patience is a virtue. It skipped me but not Africa. Africans are extremely patient.

We arrive in Kankan exactly 24 hours after we pulled out from the Madina Market. It’s almost noon I am exhausted but beginning to mentally practice in French how I am going to find a taxi to Bamako. I have already called the World Venture Guest house I had reservations at and told them my story and that I would not be staying there unless I failed to catch a taxi too Bamako today. As we are dropping passengers at different locations in Kankan, I meet someone who speaks English and he tells the Taxi driver for me that I need to go to the Taxi stand and find a Taxi to Bamako. I am the last one in the taxi and I am nervous about finding a taxi to Bamako, my French is weak, very weak. The woman who with her husband runs the World Venture Guest House calls me to find out where I am and how I am doing. “So you are going to catch a taxi today… Do you speak French?” “um well, yeah kind of, no, I don’t.” As soon as I step out of my first Taxi, her husband is there to help find another taxi to Bamako. I am in luck (*cough* God), there is one taxi going to Bamako right at this moment and it has one seat left. Also as I wait for my backpack to get secured to the top of the taxi I meet a man named Amadou who speaks English. He had been in the taxi ahead of me on our journey from Conakry and he is also going to Bamako. This is more than just luck, Amadou is loud, outgoing and has apparently learned most of his English from sitcoms but he takes care of me as we cross the Guinea/Mali border (even when I thought I lost the taxi with my computer in it!) and is conveniently from the same neighborhood that I need to find in Bamako.

After the border and only one stop (a quick tire change), we finally arrive in Bamako. Amadou arranges a second taxi for me and all the other women in our taxi and makes sure everyone gets where they need to go safely. We meet Rita at a gas station in sight of the Tour d’ afrique and I exchange numbers with my new friend.  Deep breath. Mali. It only took 36 hours. My head wrap feels a little crusty and comes off in a solid helmet shape but I am here!

 Okay Lord, what am I here for?