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?

You might live in West Africa If...

You know you live in West Africa when you find a gross looking pussy bite on your side and your first thought is “I hope there is not a worm in that.” You know you’re in West Africa when complete strangers invite you to eat lunch with them on the street. When 80 year old men propose to you but are deterred when you tell them you don’t work in fields. When people call you a bean eater and then laugh good naturedly. When children run up to you like you are Mickey Mouse and shout Tobabou or Forteh (Foreigner!). You know you are in West Africa when people hiss at you to get you attention. When men say “You drive? No, where is your chauffer?” If it acceptable to propose after asking the woman’s name. When people ask you how Obama is doing and you say “I don’t know I’ll ask him some time,” and they believe you. When being told your fat is a compliment. When you buy fabric one day and have a tailor made outfit the next day. When people call and take orders for cheddar cheese because it is so cheap in neighboring countries, meaning it is not $20. When bacon bits is a stellar Christmas gift. You know you live in West Africa when you see a moto (Motorcycle) pass with two people and two goats and you think “what a waist, they could have tied at least three chickens on the back.” You know you live in West Africa when your taxi driver stops at the Mosque so all his passengers can go pray. If you are able to get out of a ticket by telling the police officer “I am sorry but I have no husband to teach me how to drive.” When your taxi breaks down twice and has two flat tires and then the driver decides to take a nap and not one of the 9 passengers (in a 7 seat vehicle) say one word of complaint to the driver. You know you live in West Africa when you realize six flags is just a cheap imitation of African back roading. When you hit a pot hole so hard everyone in the car hits the ceiling, when you apologize all the Africans blame the road, while all the Americans blame you.  When a child pinches you to see if she can get through to the black. When you stop breaking for chickens, honk at goats, swerve for sheep, approach cows with caution (noting their number, position and direction), but always stop for donkeys. When seeing a goat at the beach ceases to be weird. If it is raining you know it is naked day/ bath time for all the kids in the neighborhood. When you don’t think twice about scolding someone else’s kid. If you witness an accident and the first thing you hear is “Oh Allah!” When people give you a live chicken as a welcoming gift, and you genuinely get pretty excited about it. When someone hands you a spoon to eat rice and you feel a little offended. You realize your host really likes you because he included the chicken head in your dish. When you drink out of a plastic bag without spilling juice on yourself. When you ask, “is the monkey a pet or dinner?”

God is Never Random

 

 

      Do you ever feel like God is listening to your thoughts. Like those days when I’m feeling so lonely, and I start to have a bit of a pity party and just as I think, “No one cares…” one of my most favorite persons calls my phone just to say hello. I hang up the phone “Yes Lord, I get it, I’m loved.”  Or the other day when the Guinea heat was getting to me and I was thinking I’d much rather take a car then walk, and then I turned down a street and both the people walking in front of me were lame, they don’t have the car option either. “Okay God I got it, I am blessed.”

 

     There are moments like these that I could take as coincidence or providence. But then there are some moments, like in our travels across Cape Verde that I can really only attribute to providence. Like jumping into the back of a Yassi and just happening to meet a girl, who speaks English, who goes to the church we are about to look for and has time to take us there.

 

     Or the time Rita and I are walking out to a street about to catch a Taxi to go wander around an area in town to locate a denominational office. As we approach the road, I start getting creeped out by this man watching us, there are other people around but he has zoned in on us. He walks forward and back and then asks where we are going. We name the area and he says. “Oh I am going there too. Would you like to share a taxi?” He goes through a big explanation telling us it’s cheaper and faster to share a taxi then to take the bus. “Um okay, we can share a taxi.” In the Taxi we find out he is pastor of an Evangelical church and knows the office we are looking for. When we get out of the taxi he insist on paying the cab driver and then takes us the office we are looking for and introduces us to the man with whom we need to speak. The man gives us the name of another pastor who is Guinea-Bissauan and tells us he is a good contact for finding out about ministry among West Africans in Cape Verde.

 

     The coincidences continue as we leave with a church and a neighborhood name on a piece of paper. Walking down the street we are not sure which way to go, we ask a few people and are being directed towards the ocean. “Can we walk there?” “Oh, yes, it’s not far!” So we keep going we pass a bus stop, just as an overcrowded bus pulls up. Rita wants to get on; I don’t feel like being sweated on. The bus leaves and we start to walk again but suddenly Rita stops. “I want to ask that man!” She exclaims and then walks up to a random guy standing with others at a bus stop, except the word random never really applies with God. This fellow not only knows the neighborhood, he is a Maninka speaker from Guinea, the northern district close to the Mali border. Rita lived in Mali for 9 years and is fluent in Bambara. His Maninka is so close to Bamabara that Rita and our new friend have no trouble understanding one another. This man apparently has plenty of time to take us to the neighborhood. He hails us a taxi and we all set off together. He is obviously enjoying speaking is heart language with Rita but despite his Muslim background, he also seems just as interested as we are in finding this church. When we arrive in the neighborhood he pays for the taxi himself and escorts us to the building, he stays with us through the interview and ask the pastor a few questions of his own. After the interview he suggest a few more evangelical churches we should visit, hails another taxi and takes us into some West African communities. We end the day at his place drinking a cold Fanta and making arrangement to meet again when Rita can Bluetooth some Bambara stories into his phone. At our next meeting, he invites two other West Africans over who speak English (so I won’t be left out), one is from lower Guinea his heart language is Koinyanka, I have a friend working on translation for Koinyanka. I call her up and she sends greetings to him in his native language, huge smile on his face. The other is a Mandingo from Liberia which happens to be the least reached people group in Liberia. He gives me contact so that when I move to Liberia in January I can look up his sister.

 

     This Maninka man and the coincidence of running into such an open person, is what I have heard termed as a “person of peace.” You can read about them in Luke 10:5-6. God not only can and does interact with us even through simple things like a timely call, but he has been at work all over the world long before we gain the initiative to walk into an unreached neighborhood. Many people are afraid to take the step of following God’s lead into overseas missions because they believe they will be beginning with hard soil. But God says, “The harvest is plentiful.” God may not be asking you to lead an entire African village to the Lord, he may just be asking you to go find the person of peace that he has already prepared and invest your time and wisdom with him.  

 

     In closing, God is never random. If you think, “Wow that was a pretty big coincidence,” it probably was not. God has big plans and he reveals them to people who are paying attention. And sometimes even to people who blunder through life like me; who don’t want to inconvenience the girl on the back of the Yassi, who get creeped out by the guy staring across the street, who would have rather passed the man at the bus stop. Stop and pay attention; He is doing stuff.