It's A Jungle Out There

24 Hour Fitness

2011-12-10T13:03:00.002-02:00

I confess, I am a fan of the TV show The Biggest Loser, of which I have watched several seasons. When you watch the show, you see constant advertisements for 24 Hour Fitness. I live in Africa, so I admit that I don’t know if that means that it is open 24 hours a day... that is my assumption.

For those of you who know me, most know that I have been on a weight loss journey of my own. In the past 2 years, I have lost about 70 lbs. It has taken a lot of hard work and diligence – especially in a country where I can get few vegetables on a regular basis, and I can rarely count calories, since I make a lot of casseroles, and a lot of my ingredients are written in some language that I cannot read. . . .

As I fight to keep the weight off, and lose a little more, I have to be very consistent in my exercise. I need to exercise at least 5 days a week. Our closer friends in the village know that I exercise, because if they come in the morning, I often can’t answer the door because I am in the middle of it or, in an emergency, I answer the door all sweaty. I have seen a look of consternation on their faces – trying to figure out why I take the time to do that. It seems absurd to them.

The longer I live here, the more I understand their confusion. No one here in the village has to work to lose weight No one seems to have even a pound of fat on them. For the majority of them, their arms are toned, their stomachs are flat, and their muscles are well- defined. And it is easy to see why. Nearly everything they do requires physical labor. They wash their clothes by hand, pound their rice by hand, cut their rice by hand, plant their crops by hand – see a pattern…. Everything is done by hand. Most places they go are on foot or by bicycle.

My friend Isatu is on a quest to teach me how to be a Yalunka woman.

On my resume so far….

1. Removing beans from the pods by pounding and then fanning away the chaff.

2. Slicing okra to dry in the sun

3. Pounding rice

4. Twisting dead fish into circles…. Recently I learned this valuable skill that I am sure many people DON’T have. There is a certain kind of fish here – most of which are 5 – 9 inches long. Many people here smoke them over a fire and put them in their sauce for their rice. For reasons that no one can explain, when they dry them, they fold the whole, gutted bodies nearly in half, and then jam a side head fin bone thing (probably not the scientific name) into the tail, holding it in place in a semi circle, and then lay them on the grate to smoke. (Let me know if you want me to come to the US and do a seminar for you.)

5. Pounding whole fish into fish balls.

And last week, I went to the farm to learn how to dig up sweet potatoes. By sweet potatoes, I don’t mean the nice, deep yellow ones in the US. I mean the very white and very starchy ones here – of which I am not a big fan. But in the interest of learning something new, I went. The day was hot as the sun was beating down. I met Isatu at the farm where she was working with her 3 little kids. There were long heaps of very dry and very hard ground.

The lesson began.

You take your hoe and you start digging – looking for cracks in the ground to signify that there MIGHT be potatoes there. You might dig a 2 foot by 2 foot area and find nothing. Or you might hit the jackpot (is that possible with sweet potatoes?) and find many. Of course, many times, you end up chopping the potato right in half (at least I did). Isatu was so pleased with my progress that she said I could keep all the ones I dug up. That wasn’t exactly motivational, but I couldn’t stop when I saw how happy she was.

I kept digging and digging. Sweat was pouring off me. I realized again how VERY spoiled most of the world is in regard to food. We don’t give it a second thought and we certainly don’t have to work physically hard for it. My hands were getting sore and I could feel a blister starting to form. She asked how I was doing and was I tired. No – I hedged. I am fine. (Not technically a lie because I was still upright and my hands weren’t bleeding or anything).

At the end of our time, we needed to walk home – a short walk, compared to many who walk several miles home, lugging their goods with them. She gave some stuff to her kids, handed me a small, light plastic pan, and hefted a massive, heavy pan FILLED with sweet potatoes onto her head –at least I helped with that part. Of course, she was able to carry her load with no problem –balancing it perfectly as she walked down the uneven gravel road.

I also (sort of) balanced my pan, though, about every 3 steps, I had to stop and readjust. Not my fault, you see, since apparently my hair is SLIMY – at least that is the word they use for it. (I share that in case you were worried that I might be getting a big head here about my appearance.)

She didn’t have an extra cloth that they twist into a donut to help balance the pans – so it REALLY wasn’t my fault. We marched through town like that. I felt like a toddler – people were clapping and cheering. When I passed Kanko’s hut (my friend who does my dishes), she was very pleased. I told her that the next day, I was going to try and balance a Big, metal open pan of red oil (like liquid gold around here) on my head and walk around. She didn’t seem to feel that was a good next step - not sure why!

It is my short forays into my friend's world that make me incredibly grateful for the relative ease of my life – even in a little village in Africa. It also makes me even more grateful when they share with me – as I realize the time and work that went into growing or making anything. And I am not yet ready to start my own farm. I guess I will have to stick with exercise DVDs at my house – no matter how strange that seems to people.

The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But the Truth

2011-12-10T12:56:00.002-02:00

Recently I had an interesting experience where I had to balance telling the whole truth with being culturally sensitive.

It all started one evening……

Last Sunday Jim and I went to town like we normally do. When we got Isatu’s house, she was excited to see me. She was just getting ready to make fish balls, something she had been desperately wanting to teach me. So we got started.

She had already gutted the fish, which were all around 6 – 8 inches long, and had them piled deep in a wooden mortar. She handed me the long wood pestle and I started to pound. The fish made a kind of sloshing sound as the wood pounded into them – smashing apart their bodies. Over and over I slammed down the wood, smashing bones and heads and fins. Isatu surveyed my work. She had me stop and she added corn powder, bullion, onions, pepper, salt, and peanut butter. Then I pounded again.

The mixture began to get heavy and thick. It stuck to the pestle. It was a bit like trying to pull your tennis- shoed foot out of a deep mud bog. The longer I kept at it, more and more of the fish meshed into a think, brown paste. There were, however, heads and tail fins that kept surfacing. I asked about them. I understood her to say that they would be discarded. I was relieved.

Finally, Isatu looked at the goop and declared it done. Okaaaaay………. We sat down on stools and began to form the paste into balls. When I got to a big piece of head or tail fin, I set it aside. Soon, I discovered that Isatu was picking them up and working them into balls. Several thoughts were running through my head:

1. I am glad to don’t have to eat these.

2. I can’t imagine being hungry enough to eat them.

3. How am I going to get the smell of fish off my hands?

Meanwhile, Isatu started water mixed with peanut butter boiling over the fire – settling the pot on three stones over the wood. When it was hot enough, I plopped the balls in the water. She assured me that the bones would soften as they cooked.

When the fish balls were done cooking, she would remove them, finish the sauce with tomato paste and then put the balls back in. She would then serve it over rice. I was feeling rather relieved that we needed to head home and was also feeling thankful that I had leftover pizza in the fridge.

We went home and ate supper. Jim, Hannah and I were laying on the bed, playing cribbage, when I heard a voice calling out my name in the darkness. It was Isatu, who had come to the house, with a small pan of rice and fish balls and sauce. OH BOY! I thanked her profusely and said good night. When I returned to the game, I had a small bowl of rice, sauce. . . and one fish ball.

Hannah barely touched the rice and declared it too spicy. I gave Jim a small bite. I could see the bones in it as I cut into the ball apart. He bravely chewed it up. Then it was my turn. I tried, I really did. I took a small bite. . . and nearly threw up. The small bones were hitting my tongue, but more than that, I could still see and hear the fish bodies as I smashed them together. I am not a big fan of fish under the best of circumstances, which this was NOT. I couldn’t eat any more. That was enough for one night. I put it in the fridge.

I was dreading what came next. I had been incredibly touched that she was willing to share with me. There are a lot of kids in their family and I felt guilty that she shared so generously when I didn’t even want the gift. And I KNEW she was coming the next morning and would want to know what I thought. What could I say? The rice was good but the fish balls were disgusting. They made me gag. Somehow that answer seemed wrong. I did not, however, want to lie to her for several reasons.

1. I prefer to tell the truth.

2. I didn’t want her to think I liked them and then bring me MORE.

Answers rolled over and over I my head. By the next morning, I was ready. She showed up, right on time. She praised my work the day before, saying that they had company that night and the people were very impressed when they heard that I had made the fish balls. I decided to take the offensive.

Isatu, Those fish balls have SOOOOO many vitamins in them. People who eat them will not soon be hungry! She was so happy. I did tell her that Hannah didn’t like the pepper and we left it at that.

I am still struggling with whether or not I should say more. If it comes up again, I think I will tell her that the bones were hard for me to eat because I am not used to them. It is an often encountered issue here – trying to be sensitive, and also to tell the truth. Step by step, I guess. . . .

Sure she can cure seizures, but can she cook?

2011-12-10T12:54:00.001-02:00

Today, I again ran into a total dichotomy that I have noticed before in the village. Frankly, it astounds me. It all started like a normal day……

I don’t treat patients on Wednesdays. Never the less, I spent a great deal of time on the porch today, explaining that to people. These are not people from town – we are talking people from hours away. One man came from nearly 20 HOURS away – solely to be treated here. I was amazed. I kept saying, but did you come to greet your family or do SOMETHING else???? The answer was no – he had heard from a friend in Conakry (whom I had treated for the same illness he had) that I was here and could help. I spoke to someone else from another far away town – here with a kid who is having seizures. People who suffer from seizures are coming out of the woodwork, so to speak. I saw a girl from Conakry this week who suffers from them. Word is spreading like wildfire that I can help people who suffer from seizures – and they are coming on a weekly basis.

At first, I was reluctant to treat them. I am not a doctor, after all, and, though people here do not believe it, there are MANY things that I am not qualified to treat. (I do say that I can cure seizures tongue-in-cheek because I always give the big, long speech about how some illnesses can be cured (malaria) and some can just be controlled (diabetes, seizures) –they always say, Oh, I see. Well, I will bring this patient until they are ALL BETTER. And I say, Um, OK….) People have an amazing amount of trust in me – it is a little scary sometimes. I do a lot of praying and a lot of researching. And the Lord is blessing.

On the other hand, later today, I went to visit Isatu, who usually comes to learn about the Jesus road at my house on Wednesday afternoons – but who got caught at the farm today. She felt badly that she was late, and I said, no problem. Let’s just go and visit at your house. So we went and she brought out a bucket full of okra that she had picked and that needed to be sliced to be set it the sun to dry.

I offered to help, so she gave me a knife and we worked and chatted. Their backyard is a main path in the village and many people passed us, stopping in amazement as they watched me working. What is she doing? they wondered. Does she know what she is doing? Isatu said, She is learning how to cut okra. I am teaching her. People kept saying – Look at the work Gulun-nga (me) is doing. Others picked up the slices to inspect my work. Some have never seen me do that kind of work before today.

I loved the time I spent in town today. I love to prove that I am capable of manual labor and I love hanging out with women as they do the daily chores of life. When I got home, I was sharing what happened with Jim. I told him – you know, it amazes me that people have this incredible trust in my ability to treat sick people – undoubtedly much more than I deserve. It is humbling and scary. On the other hand, they have absolutely NO confidence in my ability to cook a meal or do other menial tasks – undoubtedly much LESS than I observe. That is also humbling.

Oh well, I guess I just need to keep proving myself. Tomorrow I get to learn how to cut sweet potato leaf to make sauce for my husband……….

Special Delivery

2011-10-22T19:41:00.003-02:00

Caution: this may be a little graphic for some people – read at your own risk.

Recently, I have been contemplating childbirth. Not that I am wanting more children, mind you. N bata wasa – translation, I am satisfied – what I tell the villagers when they beg me to have more kids…. :^)

I think all of the contemplating came from a few sources – my sister-in-law was pregnant when we left the US, and also, right before I left the US, I got to spend the morning with a great OB-GYN who taught me how to use a Doppler to detect fetal heartbeats. I spent the morning in a beautiful office, with sinks and soap in every room, and access to lab work and ultrasound machines. It reminded me how very blessed we are in the US.

Last Saturday, October 1st, my sister-in-law was in labor and gave birth to a beautiful little girl named Maren. She was about a month early and spent some time in the NICU. I can imagine the scene from when I had my kids at the hospital – squeaky clean floors, lots of medical personnel, all kinds of equipment and excitement. Thankfully, we hear she is doing well. I am so thankful for medical technology and for the wisdom that God has given to doctors.

About 6 hours later, I also had an experience with a birth – but it was slightly different. You see, I have a friend, the daughter of one of our believers here in town. Her name is Gnouma. She had a little boy- about 3 years old – and showed up on my doorstep when we returned from the US – looking very pregnant.

She visited me several times over the past few weeks and I began to tease her that I thought there might be 2 or 3 babies in there. She was never overly amused and said that if she had more than one, she was giving one to me. As her due date grew closer, my thoughts turned to her throughout the day and I spent most nights expecting to be called out to her hut for a delivery. I asked her dad about her often.

Finally on Saturday, I told her dad to have her come that evening and let me check her out. She showed up an hour later, complaining that she had been having contractions and back pain and pressure. I offered to check her then for the placement of the baby, or to meet her at her house. She opted for my front porch, and the next thing I knew, she whipped off her skirt and lay down behind a short wall.

Okay then. I got my gloves on and checked her – and could feel the baby’s head. I told her to walk back to her house and that I would meet her there. A few minutes later, someone called me from the front porch as I was bustling about, grabbing my bag and letting my family know what was going on. It was the girl’s aunt –who had met her walking on the road and told her to come to her hut to deliver the baby, since most of the village had gone to the farm. No problem, I said. I am on my way.

I grabbed some leftovers for a quick lunch and headed out the door. The hut was just a short walk from my house. I had on some cotton Capri’s and a comfortable shirt, but was wrapped up with a cloth as a skirt so I would not be indecent in the village. We got her settled and I checked her again. Baby was definitely coming but I had no idea how long it would take. Gnouma was exhausted, having been up much of the night with contractions. She lay on the floor, on top of a plastic covering and I sat on the wooden bed. It was dark in the hut, but fairly cool, considering that is was blazing hot outside.

As she rested, I looked down at my bare feet on the cow dung floor and contemplated what my new OB-GYN friend did during her deliveries at the hospital. I watched chickens and a cat and some goats wander by outside – stopping to peer in the open door, intrigued, no doubt, to find a white woman there. After she rested for a while, I asked Gnouma to get up and walk – hoping to stimulate the contractions again. She was amazing- did everything I told her to without complaint.

After a while, I checked her again and her bag of water broke. I could see the baby’s hair. She pushed and I encouraged and out came the baby’s head. I suctioned its nose and mouth and she pushed again – out came baby. A beautiful little girl. I was pumped since she already had a boy. I got her dried off and the cord clamped and cut and wrapped her up.

Now it was time for the placenta to come – the baby’s friend, as they call it here. She pushed and pushed – we tried everything. No luck. She tried jamming a stick down her throat – a common practice here in the village, I have come to discover – one which I am anxious to put a stop to. No luck. I was starting to get a little concerned. Only one time in my village nursing career have I had to manually remove a placenta –it scared me to death, and I did not want to repeat that.

I told her to lie down and try to push once more. She did, and what I felt was not a placenta, it was another head. It’s another baby, I said loudly. Sure enough, one big push and out popped a little boy. I suctioned him out and dried him off and cut the cord. I couldn’t stop smiling. This time, the placenta was easy to deliver. I was still smiling. Gnouma looked at me – why are you laughing? she asked. You called these twins – this is your fault. I just smiled.

We went out front and washed up the babies – scrubbing their heads and faces and bodies with a rough plastic scrubber. I stopped short of suspending them from each limb and giving them a good shake like my African midwives do. We dressed them in donated shirts and hats and wrapping them in little blankets. I helped Gnouma wash up and get settled on the bed. I put ointment in their eyes and tucked them in beside mom, telling her to rest a little and then try to nurse them. I needed to run home, I said, but I would be right back. The whole time I was saying, I can’t believe she had twins.

I updated Jim and Hannah, grabbed a few supplies –including Gatorade – and headed back. I was still smiling. I gave her some Tylenol, started her on vitamins, and encouraged her to nurse the babies. When I went back a few hours later, I saw those two little ones again and marveled at the miracle of birth. Here I was, in a small crowded grass roofed African hut, listening to lots of women chatting and admiring the babies. Little kids with snotty noses ran around, chickens clucked outside, several of us were piled on the bed beside Gnouma and the babies – including a dozing 6 month old.

I couldn’t help thinking of the differences between the medical care in the first world and what we deal with in the third world. I am thankful for every opportunity I have to teach hygiene and good after care instructions. Some days I feel like I am making progress.

And then we have days like yesterday. Jim is gone and I had gone into the village to say hi to people. I was sitting outside the hut of my friend Kanko when the village midwife happened to wander by and mentioned that she had someone I might want to see – if I had time. She had delivered a baby the night before but they were never able to deliver the placenta. What do you mean? I asked. Well, the mom had delivered the baby at midnight, and here is was after 6 pm the next day. Where is the mom? I asked. In her hut, was the answer.

I got scared, and then I got mad.

SERIOUSLY – this woman had been lying in her hut for 18 hours without delivering the placenta and NO ONE came to get me. Well, it is Sunday and you don’t work on Sundays – was the reply. I guess MAYBE the plan was to come on Monday to have me check her. I was so frustrated that I could barely speak. They took me to her hut. As I ducked in under the grass, a terrible smell hit me – the smell of rotting flesh – never a good sign.

Sure enough, there she was, with the umbilical cord tied neatly with cloth in two places to the inside of her leg. I ran back to my house to get my supplies, and to call my teammate to talk through my options. I could manually remove the placenta with my hand – but was very afraid to do that after 18 hours. The only other option, though, was to put her on the back of a motorcycle and bounce her down the road for 3 hours in the dark to the hospital. That didn’t seem like a great option either.

I grabbed my bag and some antibiotics and my trusty Gatorade (good for rehydrating even the nearly dead!). The midwife met me on the road. I tried to keep my voice calm…. I started in with the thoughts swirling through my head -You realized that she can die from this, right. And if she doesn’t die, she might not be able to have more kids. Her child-lying –down place might be permanently ruined. Of course, she said, as if it was completely obvious. I decided it was best no to say anything else, going with the "if you can’t say anything nice" principle.

We got back to the hut and I had mom start drinking the Gatorade and started her on 2 different antibiotics. I was so afraid – what if the placenta falls apart in my hand? What if the mom goes into shock? What if she starts to hemorrhage? I am 3 hours from a hospital and Jim was gone so I had no vehicle. There are also no vehicles anywhere in town. I got her prepped, knelt down beside her, put my hands on her, and started to pray.

I prayed that Jesus, who is stronger than anything and who had created this woman, would help us to get the placenta out. I prayed that He would protect her and her baby. I prayed that, through this event, that the whole village, and this girl in particular, would know that Jesus was powerful and that His was the only road that led to heaven.

Then I started. I reached in with my triple gloved hands and began to peel the placenta away from the uterus. I didn’t have to do much. I could feel it loosening. I could see it. I told her to push. The midwife told her to push. And out it came – intact, as far as I could tell. I praised the Lord. It was amazing. We got baby nursing –which had not been done yet in the 18 hours since his birth. He is beautiful and was very hungry. I told them what warning signs to watch for in case of infection and went home hugely relieved. Today, several times, I have talked with people about it – using it as an opportunity to tell how great God is and to teach about the dangers of what could have happened.

All in all, given my choices, between shiny floors and cow dung floors, between comfortable hospital beds and mud huts, between lots of medical personnel and just one person trying to make a difference, I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. It feels great to know that you are making a difference – no matter how small. Even on those – 2 steps forward, 3 steps back kind of days…..

Selfishness

2011-09-27T18:55:00.000-02:00

One time, at a wedding shower I attended, the women were giving advice to the bride to be. One lady offered this advice – never underestimate your capability for selfishness. At the time, it seemed a little strange. I was a newlywed, so still in that blissful stage.

Over the years, I have realized that I do have a bent towards selfishness and have spent time praying that God would help me to live to serve others and to put them first. He is helping me. There is, however, nothing like living in a foreign culture, to bring character flaws into a glaring light. That happens to me on many occasions. Recently, I found the disease of selfishness rearing its ugly head. It all started with my washboard…

I have a washboard, you see. And by washboard, I mean the wooden kind your Grandma probably used to wash her clothes. I bought it last year when our washing machine died. I don’t really know how to use it, mind you, and don’t really need it anymore since I currently have a functioning washing machine. Isatu, who helps me by washing our clothes, is the one who uses it. But don’t worry; it is not just sitting around collecting dust. Isatu took it to her house right after we arrived – and I have not seen it since.

She has a big family and no washboard – so she took it to use it. And that bothers me. Not because I know how to use it or even need it, but because, well, it is mine and it seems like it should be at my house. She didn’t really even ask to borrow it – certainly not to borrow it for months at a time. I could give it to her, I suppose, but here in Guinea, there is always the chance your washing machine will break and we will have to go back to the board full time. I don’t mind her borrowing it sometimes.

She also has one of my big metal plates that she borrowed a year ago. To be honest, I kind of forgot I had it or that I loaned it to her. But the other night, Jim and I were walking in town and we saw her son with it on his head, filled with little mounds of peanut butter for sale. Jim – that is MY plate, I said. That also is a possession I don’t really need. I have 2 others that I rarely use, but again, it IS mine and she really didn’t ask to borrow it permanently. Sometimes I just want my stuff.

Culturally, the person who has the most need for a borrowed possession gets to use it until the owner again has a need for it. So, really, I have no grounds for asking for those things back – because I really don’t have a NEED for them. There are times when we try to explain why we need our things back and people just look at us like, REALLY? You want that back so you can just set it in your house and collect dust on it? It IS a little hard to rationalize sometimes. And it seems a little toddlerish to say – I want it because it is MINE!

Before you judge me too harshly in your heart, I really do like to share and give, most of the time. I suppose it has something to do with me making the choice to share – not someone else making the choice to permanently borrow something. I don’t want possessions to get in the way or ruin our witness in the village. And we want to strike a balance between being taken advantage of and being very generous with our neighbors. People have been very generous with us and we want to pass that on.

So, if I borrowed something from you month back, let me know and I will try to return it……… It is YOURS, after all. And you probably just want your stuff……

Dreaming of Walmart

2011-09-27T18:51:00.000-02:00

I called my Dad the other day and he said that he was in Wal-Mart. I remember Wal-Mart – clean products, shopping carts, nice parking, bright lighting, prices that don’t vary with the color of your skin, not many flies, and clean aisles that are RARELY running with raw sewage. It is a little different than my final shopping trip in CKY a few weeks ago…

Dawn C. and I had just flown in from dropping the kids off in Dakar the night before and we wanted to start the journey home that afternoon. We both had a few things we still needed to pick up – and knew that if we could leave town by 1 pm, we could easily make it to our stopping spot for the night.

We awoke to drizzling rain. By the time we were ready to head to the market, it was a DOWNPOUR – not the best shopping day by anyone’s standards, but what could we do. We really wanted to get home so we decided to go for it. By the time we reached the market, the rain had mostly stopped, but the streets were running with water. The market is right next to a large Catholic church, which was celebrating the ascension of Mary.

The place was packed, forcing us to park VERY long way away. Dawn and I picked our way into the market, splitting up to cover more ground. I needed to pick up a big box of medicine that a friend had purchased for me. I settled the bill with her and left the large box there, heading deeper into the market. There is a small channel in the only market aisle that was flowing with raw sewage and it was packed with people.

I could barely move – being shoved back and forth as I tried to make my way to the little hole of a shop I was looking for. As I shoved my way through the crowd, I had 2 goals – to hang on to my purse so I didn’t get ripped off, and to try not to step directly into the nasty water that was lapping at my sandals. I made it to my friends little shop and stood partway in the aisle as I bought large cans of green beans (the other stores were out) and other things I had missed on my list.

Flies were swarming me – delighted with the raw sewage and the chickens. I don’t mean live chickens – those were a few aisles back. These were the already butchered ones that sat in open boxes for people to buy. I did not know, nor did I want to try to imagine, how long they had been sitting there. I tried not to talk any more than necessary for fear of inhaling a fly (it has happened to me before.) I got part of what I needed, but still needed to stop for veggies and flour and sugar.

I stopped to purchase some veggies (right before the live chicken guy) and then met with a dilemma – there was way too much stuff for me to carry. I struggled to the shop of my friend who had my medicine and she offered for her son to help me. We started off down the road, picking our way around the debris.

I thought – I am never again going to be fussy about a parking spot at Wal-Mart, not matter how far away it seems. We finally made it to the truck and unloaded the stuff. It is really hard to walk with that much stuff in your hands – because I am constantly distracted by the wares people are selling by the side of the road.

I still needed to get flour and sugar so asked Mr. Bah, our Conakry assistant, where I should look and he sent me off the some other part of the bowels of the market. The aisle here was almost worst – there were parts that I could not avoid stepping in the water. It was all I could do to keep going as I imagined the parasites that were making their way in through the pores of my feet. Can someone hand me some bleach water PLEASE?????

I had to ask around but finally found a lady who sold flour. She had to keep batting away the flies as we measured out 10 kilos. I paid her and trotted off with my load to put into the car.

I had to make one more trip back so buy some tiny little potatoes that I just could not resist. I had to try them. I grabbed a few more things and took off to meet Mr. Bah and Dawn down the road. We stopped again for some veggies and took off for the guesthouse. We were still missing some fruits and veggies, but had not found what we needed.

We took off for home. About 2 hours into the journey, we pulled off to a small roadside market that sold fruit and veggies. This was better than the first market in terms of raw sewage – there was none. However, it was filled with women DESPERATE to sell stuff. The second your vehicle pulls off the road, they converge on the vehicle, SHOVING baskets of pineapple, cucumbers, oranges, lemons, tomatoes, eggplant, and various other things in your face.

I could barely open the door to get out. I bought a ton of stuff – though it was a fight to have myself heard over the din of voices. They are always amazed to find a white woman who can communicate in Yalunka so they like to discuss me while I shop. And they are always hopeful. Even if they see I have purchased a BIG basket of pineapple, they continue to shove more in my face, continually reducing the price until I am disgusted that I paid the price that I did in the first place.

Dawn C. was smart enough not to get out of the vehicle to begin with. I barely made it back in and we took off again.

Certainly shopping in Guinea is not for the faint of heart. But what fun is Wal-Mart anyway. No challenge involved – fairly low risk of catching some tropical parasite – always a good chance that what you are looking for will be there – no cashiers shouting at you or shoving products in your face. Very boring, and not much of a sport to the whole thing.

Give me Africa any day……..

The Top 5 Things You Can Give Away in Africa That You Might Not Be Able to Give Away in Anywhere Else

2011-09-27T18:50:00.001-02:00

Yesterday, we returned from our teammate’s house with a giveaway item for our friends and, as they received the gift with joy, it reminded me that these types of gifts are not always well received in other parts of the world….. This is one of the many reasons we LOVE Africa…

1. Old, moldy video tapes – this was the gift we gave away yesterday (though in truth, we kept 2 for ourselves). I can see you racking your brain for a possible use for old moldy videotapes. Don’t hurt yourself – I will help you out. If you pull out the ribbon inside the videotape, you can string it up all over your farm – which, as it flutters in the breeze, will scare away varmints like squirrels and birds. Try it in your garden at home – unless your neighborhood group has a rule against it…

2. Old magazines – they can be 10 or 15 years old – not a problem. People love to see the pictures. They are especially fascinated by pictures of animals.

3. Empty cans and tins and bottles – especially the ones that are plastic and have lids that screw on. You can store ALL kinds of things in them. Of course, it is necessary to get them past your husband first.

4. Old clothes and shoes – even with holes in them. At first I was embarrassed to give them away, but now, when I do, I say, Here are these clothes – I am embarrassed to give them to you because they are not new, but they might be good for farm work…. No one complains. And I see them wearing them. I do give away lots of stuff that is not holey too.

5. Cooked chicken bones – when I cook a chicken or 2 to debone for meals, I set aside the wings and skin and some of the broth and give it to my workers. And I say, Here are some chicken bones. I am embarrassed to give them to you because there is not much meat on them, but the water (broth) is good for you and will make your soup taste good. Again, no one complains and they always come back and tell me how good it was. Try as I might, no one in Fort Wayne this summer seemed to want that kind of a gift.

Never Take a 5 pound Bag of Prepackaged Flour for Granted

2011-09-27T18:48:00.000-02:00

I went shopping yesterday in the market in a town about 1 ½ hours from our house. We were on our way to hang out with our teammates – the deafening quiet of our semi-empty houses was getting to both of us and we needed some fellowship. As is our custom in Faranah, Jim and I split up. He went looking for sandals, bike parts and eggs (what a combination, I know) and I was off in search of medicine, treats for my sick patients, and flour. I took off with my backpack full of money and my plastic bucket for flour.

I scored easily on the treats – cracker type cookies for my smaller patients and suckers for the older ones (in my defense, their teeth are already rotten so I am not really making it worse and I am promoting goodwill!). I stuffed them in my backpack and continued on. I struck out on all of the meds – no one had children’s ibuprofen, or cough syrup, or the blood pressure medicine I was looking for. The lack of medicine was a real bummer because I have been seeing some really sick kids and have been powering through the fever and cough meds and am now out. But I digress….

I knew I would be successful on the flour item so took off for the flour/sugar guy. I found him sleeping on a bench. I woke him up, greeted him and asked about his family and life and business, etc, and then asked for 20 kilos of flour – 10 for my teammate, Dawn, and 10 for me. He slowly got up off the bench and moved over to the 50 kilo bag that sat open on the porch. He situated himself, arranged the 2 plastic bowls on the old balance scale, and stacked a 2 kilo weight and a 1 kilo weight on the one side. Slowly, with a big plastic cup, he would pull flour from the big bag and dump it into the bowl – over and over as he filled it to nearly overflowing – slowing as it grew and started to tip the 3 kilo mark. Finally it tipped the scale.

The first 10 kilos were easy – I had my plastic bucket with a nice lid that nearly perfectly fits 10 kilos. So we went through the process 4 times – in three 3 kilo sections and then a 1 kilo bowl – ten kilos. No problem. The whole time I was shooing away the flies and chatting with the people who were walking by and paying attention to make sure no one grabbed my backpack.

Each time he emptied the bowl of flour into my bucket, he tapped it and scrapped out the last teaspoon of flour that was stuck to the bottom of the bowl – he wanted to make sure I was getting what I paid for. They were amused at my language skills since I speak only a little Pular – and proceeded to talk about the few other white people they knew – who live in other villages – and their ability/lack of ability to speak the language. We completed my 10 kilos and moved on the second ten.

(On a funny side note, as I stood there, a little boy came up to me. He had his hand down by his side and kept waving his hand at me – keeping it down by his side. How friendly, I thought, as I waved back. He waved again, all the time keeping his hand down by his side. I waved back. He looked confused. We went through the process again. Finally it dawned on me what he was doing. He was asking me if I wanted my shoes shined – which, since I was wearing Teva-like sandals, I declined. I can only imagine what he was thinking if he walked away……)

The second 10 kilos of flour were slightly more complicated as I no longer had a neat little bucket to fill. So, we measured out 3 kilos and then needed to find something to put it in. He searched around and found a pink bag and dumped it in. I thought – great – and started to tie up the top. That was wrong – he wanted to give me two 5 kilo bags, thank you very much.

So I left it alone, did as I was told by removing the 2 kilo weight and watched as he slowly filled the bowl again. We dumped that into the plastic bag, and then I was allowed to tie it up. My job was then to put the 1 kilo weight back into the weight bowl so we could start over.

I was under a lot of scrutiny to see if I could perform the task. We finally completed the second 5 kilos and I tied the bag and paid him 150,000fg for the flour. Now I needed to get it back to the car. I strapped on my backpack and took off, my flour bucket in one hand and the 2 bags of flour for Dawn in the other. It was a LONG walk.

I had to stop at one more medicine place to check for the medicine (no luck) and stopped at the bread place (and by bread place I mean the wheelbarrow that sits by the side of the road that is filled with French bread) where I bought 3 short loaves of bread. Thankfully I had room in my backpack; otherwise the bread would have been wrapped in a ripped off piece of paper from an old cement bag.
Now I needed to make it back to the car.

In fairness, my bread vendor did offer to help – seeing how heavy the flour was. But, pride got in the way and I told him I could handle it. I walked down the long road to the gas station where we had parked – trying not to get run over by a motorcycle or car. My arms were burning and my fingers felt like they were going to fall off – but I kept going. I was getting closer.

By the time I arrived at the car, my arms were screaming in pain and I could no long feel my fingers. When I put the flour bags down, I looked at my hand and they were blazing red, striped with white where the bags had cut off circulation to my fingers. It took about 4 hours for my fingers to feel normal again. As I reflected on the whole process, I thought – you know, I don’t think I will ever take a bag of flour, neatly pulled off the grocery shelf and gently placed in my cart, for granted ever again!

The Curious Cocktail of Pain and Peace

2011-09-27T18:46:00.000-02:00

Have you ever looked forward to an event with both excitement and dread? I had that experience recently as I dropped the boys off at Dakar Academy to begin their junior year – the first boarding school experience for them. We knew it was coming, of course. We have been talking about it for a year. Somehow as the time drew close, I was able to distract myself with the busyness of packing and saying goodbye to our friends and family and traveling back from the US.

Even when we got to Conakry and the trip was only days away, we were so overwhelmed with adjusting to being back and trying to get all of the shopping done, that I was able to push it out of my mind. But then the day came and we found ourselves gathered in our guesthouse in a circle, praying over the kids as they left.

That was Hannah’s time to say goodbye to the boys and the tears started. We took off for the airport and again gathered with the other parents in a circle to pray for the whole group. I could feel the pain welling up as I watch Jim say goodbye to the boys, and I found myself relieved that I could put it off for a few days. Two other moms and I accompanied 9 kids as we headed out for Dakar. As we walked up the ramp and into the airport, it felt a little like I was watching myself from above. It was really time for them to go.

We got through customs and sat down with the kids as they chatted and played games and munched on snacks. I pushed away the thoughts of the inevitable that was coming. The flight went smoothly and the arrival was great. All of the trunks arrived and as we got to the parking lot, the two dorm dads from the school arrived to pick us up. The next hours were busy – dropping off kids at dorms and carrying in luggage and unpacking. We found their beds made and a Mountain Dew and some candy sitting beside a welcome note on each bed.

We only had a short time until supper, so we unpacked what we could and I took off to find some supper while the boys ate with their dorm. I returned later that evening. The boys had been busy and most of the unpacking was done. I dropped off medicine with the dorm mom and said goodnight to the boys. I was still safe – I had a few more days to go and there was a lot to do in the mean time.

When I returned to the guesthouse, I found one of the moms I was traveling with there – crying. The adjustment for her first timer was difficult. We cried together. We had both grown up in boarding school and knew what a great opportunity it could be – but the pain was still aching and real. The next day I attended a seminar on how to parent from afar. My tears were flowing as they shared with us that it is okay and even recommended to grieve and mourn for the family situation that you are losing. Then I had lunch with the boys’ dorm parents.

We were able to ask questions and listen to their traditions regarding such things as birthdays. I was crying at the drop of a hat by this time – most of the time I could hold it together, but the pain and loss threatened to overwhelm me sometimes. When the boys would give me a hug, I would think, how can I live without those hugs? When I talked with the dorm parents about medicine, I thought, who will take care of them when they are sick? When we talked about birthdays, I thought, we won’t be here to celebrate with them and bake them a cake.

The next day, there was an open house and I was able to meet their teachers. Would they do okay? I could already pick which teachers and classes would be their favorites. Then we were down to one day. I hung out with the boys in the afternoon and had a precious time with them, watching them laugh and goof off with a friend. It was a gift, but I kept thinking – I have got to get out of here. I cannot take the upcoming goodbye. It felt like a freight training coming down the track and I wanted off. That evening, the other 2 moms and I took all of the kids from Guinea out for supper and ice cream. We had so much fun.

After we got back, I left the boys hanging out with friends. The walk back to the guesthouse seemed long. It is coming – I thought. I can’t get away from it. The whole experience reminded me a little of childbirth. In the months and days leading up to giving birth, there is a great excitement but also a bit of dread about the pain of labor. It is inevitable, and in the end there is joy, but the road through is not always easy.

Sunday morning proved to be a beautiful, sunny day – but I could sense the clouds coming. As we sat in church together, Kaleb leaned over and said, I am going to miss you guys so much. I could not have said it better myself. After church, I headed back to the dorm to say goodbye. Uncle Jim and Aunt Shari, the boys’ dorm parents, invited me to stay for lunch, but I didn’t trust myself not to cry in my lasagna so I declined. I hugged and hugged those two and headed out. I cried the whole way back to the guesthouse. Get me out of here, I thought. I can’t take it anymore.

So, yes, the pain was intense and overwhelming at times. However, in the midst of it, there was a strange sense of peace and joy. It truly was a peace that surpassed all understanding. I could feel the hands of Gods people holding us up in prayer. And I saw snapshots of the great things about the experience. In my mind, I can see Uncle Jim and Aunt Shari as they waited on the boys to get home from school – to ask about how their day was.

I saw the pain that they experienced in leaving some of their kids in the US as they returned to Africa to minister to ours. I saw Aunt Judy (one of the dorm parents who is my sister from boarding school days) hugging on my boys and checking on them. I saw my boys checking on the other kids from Guinea, especially the new ones, to see how they were doing. And I saw the favor returned.

I listened as Uncle Evan, who, with his wife Jewel, is in charge of the boarding program and spiritual life, as he shared comments about the boys that he had heard from the staff – about how sharp the boys were. He and Jewel said several times how well they thought the boys were going to do there. I can picture Ben and Kaleb laughing with their friends. I can see them standing at the movie night, surrounded by girls, as they talked and laughed. And I have treasured all of these things in my heart.

So, yes it was and continues to be hard as we adjust to life as a family of three. The house is very quiet these days. And cooking for three is not an easy task. We miss the boys intensely. At the same time, we are thrilled that they are so happy there and that they are adjusting well. We are overwhelmed by the quality of people that God placed at Dakar Academy who can pour into the boys’ lives. So, in the end, there is peace and joy beyond compare, even in the cocktail of pain. We are so blessed.

Containers

2011-07-20T11:01:00.001-02:00

I have a secret obsession but don’t tell anyone. Here it is – I LOVE containers. I love containers of all types and sizes. I buy things that I need, thrilled if I find it in a container I can reuse in the future. I love to find a container that perfectly suits my needs. I can never have enough containers (do you suppose I need counseling???)

At first, I thought it was just my African friends who loved containers as much as I do. I give away all kinds of things – cans and boxes and jars – all snatched up with lightening speed.

But then I discovered that I am not the only American who has this obsession. Several months ago, I stood in a store in Conakry with a missionary friend looking at a hugely overpriced container of snacking crackers. We stood pondering the purchase, weighing whether or not we could justify spending that kind of money on crackers. As I got ready to open my mouth, she said, well, it does come in a nice container that we could reuse. . . my thoughts exactly!

Today after lunch at Jims aunts house, I was washing out a fantastic metal tin that had stored cookies and I thought, my word, I could put all kinds of things in this. As I shopped for and packed my shipment in June, cramming and stuffing into every type of plastic container I could find, I kept thinking of the things I could store in them when I got to Guinea. I bought containers for my kitchen and bathroom and vehicle and medical supplies. More and more containers……

I even love ziplocks – especially the really big ones. I use them ALL the time in Guinea (note to self, remember to buy some to take back.) They even make the REALLY big ones – that you can store pillow and blankets in. How fabulous is that!
I suspect that my love of containers stems from two facets of my life…

1. I love to organize things – a place for everything and everything in its place. I love to sort and store things in different containers. My joy of seeing everything sorted in its place is topped only by my joy of seeing all of it labeled (with my label maker, of course) and arranged neatly on a shelf.

2. I live in a country that is filled with numerous creatures that want to invade my personal possessions -rats and bugs and roaches and ants and lizards and dust (I know that is not a creature but still). Storing things in airtight plastic or metal containers is good for my sanity. Of course, even heavy plastic does not guarantee that the creatures will not get in, but at least it keeps some things out.

So, if you see a woman in Wal-Mart with a big cartload of containers, you might want to get out of the way (I probably won’t be able to see over the top….). You don’t want to get in between a woman and her obsession.

Adjusting. . . .

2011-05-25T18:16:00.001-02:00

Many people might think that is it strange to have to readapt to your home country but I am here to tell you that reverse culture shock is real. We have been in the US for almost a month now and here are a few things that we have noticed…

1. Hot running water and electricity are NOT to be taken for granted. We have both at our house here in the US – fabulous! Two days after we arrived in Fort Wayne, we lost power for about 6 hours. We just went across the street to the church and plugged in the coffee pot. When someone said, you lost power for 6 hours, I said, yes, but we had power for 18 hours. We never get odds like that in Conakry!

2. The microwave is also not to be taken for granted. I am not sure you can imagine the joy of reheating something in the microwave. In Guinea, everything has to be reheated in the oven or in a pan. However, while I LOVE the microwave, apparently there is some measure of talent to making microwave popcorn. I have burned every single bag I have made. And I don’t mean that it was a little brown – I mean smoke rolling out of the bag kind of burned! But I persevere – there was also a time when I could not bake a potato in the oven and I have conquered that!

3. No matter what time of day, or where we go, there is always gas at the gas station. It might be pricey, but it is always available and it is still cheaper than what we pay in Guinea!

4. The roads here are SO smooth. When we first got here, my in-laws were with us. I usually had my father in law or mother in law sit in the front with Jim, so I took one of the back seats. I was SO nervous because we have car insurance through my parent’s policy and I was CONVINCED that Jim was speeding around at break neck speeds and would surely be caught by the police – causing the insurance rates to sky rocket because of his speeding ticket.

As it turns out, he was really only traveling at 30 – 40 miles per hour – which I discovered when I started sitting in the front seat, where I could nonchalantly peer over at the speedometer and check what he was doing. (Notice that I did not cry out "SLOW down!" or nag him incessantly, which I was considering doing but kept my mouth shut. Does that make me a Proverbs 31 wife????)

5. There is an incredible amount of food in this country! Seriously, EVERYWHERE you turn, there is food. And most of it is not that great for you. Amazing! Glenbrook Mall and Jefferson Point are like a gauntlet of fat and cholesterol – and it SMELLS great.

6. Not only are there a plethora of restaurants and grocery stores – there is also just a whole lot of meat walking around our neighborhood. We see tons of big raccoons, plump squirrels, juicy rabbits, fat geese, and muskrats. I am fairly certain that we could feed our entire village with the beef that we see in just a 30 minute evening walk. It is INCREDIBLE. It is killing my hunter husband not be able to bag some of that for our friends in Guinea.

Most of the readjustment is fun and not too overwhelming. It has been so fun to see friends and catch up with people. But, wow, there is a lot that goes into reentry! So, next time you see some beef, or make microwave popcorn, think of us……

Camping. . . Africa Style

2011-04-11T11:37:00.005-02:00

Last week we went camping with about 40 other missionaries. We drove about 8 hours west and then north to a beautiful part of the country. As in years past, we camped next to a huge waterfalls – hiking down daily to enjoy the refreshing (and hopefully not parasite filled) water at the bottom of one set of falls. Sadly, someone has begun clearing away our previous campsites and burning it to make a bridge. Who knows what we will find there next year.

So, what does one take camping in Africa? Well, much of the same things you take in America, I suppose. There are the tents (one extra for the boys who are officially too old to camp in the same tent as their parents), the sleeping bags, the clothes, the food, etc. Our truck was filled to overflowing. The boys were mortified! Why does it take so much to camp, they wondered? Well, I said, what should we leave behind – the five gallon containers of filtered water? The coolers and trunks with the food?

What about the tables and chairs so we don’t have to set everything on the ground with the snakes and the ants? The TP and the shovel to dig a hole? What about the medical supplies – including antibiotics for all occasions, Tylenol and Ibuprofen, antihistamines, stun gun for snake bites and scorpion stings, sutures and steri-strips for lacerations, gauze and ace wraps, etc??? We certainly can’t leave behind the 15 gallons of gas we might need, in case we can’t find fuel on the road. So off we went.

We weren’t extreme like some people who brought a little generator. We, of course, made fun of them constantly, though. Their campsite, with the lights strung up under the little canvas gazebo, was a very popular Rook playing spot each evening! Camping with 40 other missionaries is great fun. No one has the responsibility of answering the door, or doing business. It is relaxing to sit around the campfire and sing and play games and catch up on each other’s lives. It is great to relax together. You certainly see a different side of people when they are out of their normal routine of life.

The system that is in place has everyone sharing the evening meals. The campers are divided up for the meals – with different families teamed up to provide for the whole group on different nights. So, on the three nights we camp, each family only cooks once for the evening meal.

Sadly, this year, we didn’t see or hear any chimps or gorillas like we usually do. We did see some snakes, though all of them escaped being killed. So glad we didn’t need that stun gun!!! Overall, despite the work and effort, I certainly recommend camping in the wilds of Africa!!! We go every year in March – so make plans for next year to join us!!!

A Peak Into Another World

2011-03-24T14:39:00.000-02:00

Last week, Mindie and I attended a CHE conference. CHE stands for Community Health Evangelism (or Education – depending on the context). We traveled 8 ½ to the south of us – to what is called the Forest region here in Guinea. It is a beautiful place – one of the first to have the gospel, many years ago. Colleagues of ours, with CAMA services, have built a hospital there and they hosted the event.

Originally, there were to be 25 participants, but this being Africa, 35 people showed up and were allowed to attend. There were 6 women – one Guinean and 5 expatriates -three from the US, one from Britain, and a Swiss German lady. So, the room was busting at the seams with Guinean men – formally educated, Christians, leaders. The conference was totally in French and was taught by a Togolese man named Daniel. He was an incredible educator with a gift at communicating and drawing in his audience - amazing to watch.

As we filed in and found seats, we were given our first assignment. We were paired up with another participant and asked to get certain bits of information – relating to family, occupation, etc, and also their favorite meal. We were then to introduce that person to the rest of the class. Mind you, this can be a little intimidating when you are a white woman, not from the country, with French language skills (not my mother language) that are deteriorating the longer I live in the village and try to learn tribal languages.

With every tribal language that I try to add, and with every month that passes that I don’t use my French, what I have acquired seems to fall out of my brain, which of course, I don’t notice until I go to Conakry every 3 – 4 months and then I try to use the French. OYE!!!! There are some words that I just can’t find in French when I am speaking – so it all gets mixed up with tribal words – and comes out like a stir fry of languages….. But again, I digress.

I was paired with Daniel – a blessing, because he knew what information I needed and graciously wrote it all on a piece of paper so I didn’t need to remember it all. As the introductions began, I knew we were in for an incredible view into the culture as EVERY man, without fail, introduced his person by saying, This is __________. He is married to only one wife, and has ___________ kids. It struck me that in the US we would never say, Hi, I am Jim and I only have one wife. I thought, Buckle up – here we go!

The whole three days were like that – finding nuggets of information and getting this wonderful chance to see the worldview of our African colleagues. We listened to them pray and sing, watched them do skits, heard discussions and arguments, and watched as ideas of development and education struck them in a new way. It was really fascinating! They were gracious with our communication skills, and allowed us to express opinions, which often struck them as odd – judging by the look on their faces.

One of the most interesting exercises to me was when we began to discuss what were the major issues in Guinea that were the causes of poverty, poor health, and problems here – the things that are perpetually keeping countries like Guinea in a third world status. As an expat and as a nurse, I have many things that top my list, but it was interesting what came from the other participants. We each had to pick up an object in the room and place it in a line on the floor – noting with it one of the problems that we see. Daniel then wrote down the issues.

Frankly, it was a little discouraging to see such a LONG line of things that need to be battled. Things like lack of education, malaria, lack of clean drinking water, alcohol, malnutrition, diarrhea, sorcery, drugs, a mentality of poverty, brain drain (educated people leaving the country and never returning), and corruption, etc. topped the list. We then had to choose what we thought were the top three issues facing the country and voted by placing a piece of paper on each issue.

The votes were then tallied and the top 5 problems were each assigned to a group to come up with solutions on how they could be solved. It was really interesting to watch. Here are the top 5 chosen by the guys: malaria, lack of clean drinking water, lack of education, female circumcision, and tatouage (which I don’t completely understand but appears to be a time when boys are taken out into the forest and initiated into manhood through drugs and sorcery.)

The last two really surprised me – not that they were issues, but that the Africans saw them as top issues. I was in a group assigned to tackle how to solve the problems of female circumcision and the discussion was very revealing.

By the end of the three days, I was mentally exhausted from all of the French and sitting and interaction, but came away with a new appreciation for what God is doing in this country and a new heart of thankfulness that He is allowing our family to be a part of it!

The Incredible Journey

2011-03-24T14:36:00.001-02:00

With the song LIFE IS A HIGHWAY floating through the truck, five of us set off for the edge of the world. Mr. Bah, our driver, expertly piloted the vehicle, and Mindie and Elijah Tice, along with Marci (Mindie’s sister) and I bounced our way to the conference. Of the 8 hours, 5 are on great road and the other 3 on terrible roads. We dozed and chatted and munched our way along. Fuel was an issue as we stopped in every major town, asking if any was available. The answer was usually no. We finally found some about half way there.

Mr. Bah pulled up to the pump, but was distraught that we were sitting at a bit of an angle. When you buy gas here in Guinea, everyone LOVES to fill the tank to the very top – usually to the point of overflowing the tank. They stand there and rock the vehicle back and forth – trying to settle what is in there to allow for maximum filling! (For those of us who get car sick, the rocking motion, combined with the smell of the gas, is a sure way to get a sick stomach.) He was frustrated with the slant, so pulled forward and turned around.

As he shut off the vehicle, he realized that the gas tank was now on the wrong side of the truck. (I was glad to see someone else do that too.) His solution was for Mindie and Marci to roll down their windows and pass the gas hose through the back seat. That proposal was unanimously nixed in very short order and we assured him that we were okay with filling the tank – even if it was not overflowing. So we turned around again.

The rest of the trip was uneventful – until we reached the last big town where we needed to turn off to find the clinic. I was the only one who had been there before – when Kaleb had his emergency appendectomy several years ago – but at that time, we were following someone who lived at Hope Clinic so it was not a problem. I, however, was not worried. I knew that if we would find the right road, I would recognize the clinic. I had forgotten, however, what a BIG town it was. I could not find the turnoff. So we began to ask for directions.

After about 6 people had, with great confidence, given us conflicting directions, I began to get discouraged. Finally we found a helpful police man, but he wasn’t sure where to go. He trotted off to confer with some people, and returned with a man and his ten year old boy. The man knew Hope clinic well, and began to explain how to get there – but that was less than helpful, since we had NO idea where we were. Finally he said, here is what we can do. My son here knows the way to the clinic. I will send him with you to give you directions and then I will come in a while and pick him up.

We were dumbfounded. Here is a man, whom we have never met in our lives, offering for us to take his ten year old son off in our truck. Mr. Bah was thrilled and told me- move over, move over. So I got out and let the little boy in – both of us sharing the front bucket seat. Off we went. The little boy bounced along – giving Mr. Bah directions – turn left, go straight. He was adorable. We gave him a sucker. He led us straight to where we needed to go. (As we thought about it, we were amazed at the difference between the US and here – NEVER would you send your child off with a truck full of strangers – offering to come at a later time to pick him up! Our message of Never get in the car with strangers and never take candy from a stranger went right out the window!)

We arrived without further incident and got settled. The dad arrived, and we offered him some gas money. He tried to refuse it, saying that this was his town and he just wanted us to have a good stay but we insisted. He helped us one last time by taking us across the road to the village and helping us find the house where Mr. Bah was going to stay.

Please Support a Newborn's Head. . . and Other Myths

2011-03-24T14:32:00.002-02:00

So, I was at delivery this week and it was a beautiful baby girl. My neighbor had her on Tuesday morning. By the time I arrived, the baby was not far from being born, but the mom was in labor -sitting on the dried cow dung/dirt floor (hello tetanus!) so I went home to get some plastic for her to sit on. By the time I returned, the baby was out, lying on a dirty cloth and with her tiny arms covered with dirt.

The dad had gone off to town to see if he could buy a razor blade to cut the cord with, but I decided not to wait and used my equipment instead. Then I grabbed her and suctioned out her nose and mouth and bundled her close to me so she would not get cold. (The Africans think I am just hysterical about how much I worry about cold stress with newborns. They just laugh and laugh at me – sorry, but there is too much pediatric nurse in me still. Africa has not sweated all of that out of me just yet.)

Anyway, I was cuddling her as they heated water on the fire to wash her and as we waited for the dad (who had returned with the razor blade but was now off looking for soap to buy so we could wash the baby…. Those nine months just pass so quickly and it just kind of sneaks up on you, even if your wife has been in labor for 3 days……) But I digress. The water was finally warm, but the dad was nowhere in sight, so off I went to my house to get some soap. We got the water in the tub and I began to scrub the baby.

The soap I had was not great – something we got from a hotel, I think – and was not doing a good job. Finally someone brought some other soap so the midwife and I worked on getting her clean. The midwife decided to finish so we could rinse her off. She scrubbed and scrubbed – and as she scrubbed each arm, she would pull it far behind the baby’s back – like she was getting ready to handcuff her. Then she did the other side. Finally she pronounced her clean, and rinsed her, and stood up.

I reached out with a clean cloth to take the baby so I could wrap her back up (all that cold and all) but alas, the midwife was not quite finished. She proceeded to take her by each arm and give her a few good shakes as she dangled over the tub. Then she grabbed her by the feet and shook a few times again. After putting some soap on her finger and cleaning out the baby’s mouth, I was allowed to grab her and swaddle her.

As I watched the process, two things came to mind. The first was an old commercial for (I think) ziplock bags where someone puts some kind of liquid inside a bag and then holds it upside down and sings, shake-a-shake-a –shake…… The other was that we are just WAY too paranoid in the US about holding babies and thinking that they might break. Invariably, when a baby is born and someone goes to hold it, everyone warns, SUPPORT THE HEAD. Wow, these babies are pretty hardy out here. I am used to seeing 1 week old babies being swung up by one arm to be gently tossed onto their mothers back, but this was the first time I had seen the shake treatment at birth.

Mind you, I am not a new advocate for that kind of action. It makes me wonder if it plays any part in the high infant mortality we see out here. But, I do have to say, that, with each passing week, I wonder more and more about the bubble we place around newborns in the US. However, don’t worry, if you wander into our village and see me cleaning a newborn – you will still see me cuddling it close and I can promise that I will not be reenacting any ziplock commercials.

Hampered By A Hangnail

2011-03-24T14:27:00.001-02:00

Okay so I am a little bit of a wimp. I am not a big fan of pain. Take my infected hangnail for instance….

I have an infected hangnail on my finger. I have been moderately working on curing it. I have soaked it in hot salt water and put antibiotic ointment on it, but it is not getting better. I am not over diligent about doing those things, mind you -just when it starts to bother me. Well, it is progressively getting more painful. Several times this week, I could barely stand to pump up the blood pressure cuff to check the blood pressure on my patients because of the pain it caused in my finger. I thought about telling my family that I could not cook and clean – but alas, even I am not that much of a wimp!

But JUST about the time I begin to think I am really suffering, someone shows up on my porch with an actual reason to complain! Honestly, it amazes me what people here can endure. Over and over, people of all ages come with burns. I am not talking a little “I burned myself on the oven” kind of burn. I am talking whole sections of bodies – a woman who was cooking topless and dumped hot water down her front, a little girl who tumbled backwards and sat down in a cooking fire, a little boy who accidently knelt down in hot coals. And what amazes me even more is that, often, the burns are days or weeks old. I cannot even fathom that kind of pain. So I dress the wounds and give them Tylenol and Ibuprofen and the relief that it brings is amazing.

I also see wounds – big, deep, gaping wounds that would level most grown men. But not here! I am currently treating a man who was attacked by a monkey and has 2 incisions on his calf from where the monkey got him – both about an inch deep. He is up walking around, even though it hurts. Other people show up with infected hands or legs or feet – swollen 2 – 3 times bigger than the other one. And they are still functioning! I treated one lady whose whole face and neck was swollen and hard from a tooth infection gone bad! It never ceases to amaze me what the human body can endure.

So, when I see those people, and hear how grateful they are for help, I try to suck it up and not complain. Really, what is a hangnail compared to what they have to endure. I try to be more grateful for access to medical care and Tylenol that I can dispense myself. This reminds me, I need to go take some – all of this typing is hurting my finger!

Honored By The Invitation

2011-01-01T15:54:00.001-02:00

Last night I had an interesting experience. It had been a busy day. At the start, it was filled with all of the normal stuff: school, laundry, pumping water, cooking, baking, cleaning, etc. In regard to sick people, it was INSANE. Starting at 9 am, I had people on the porch. While I don’t treat people in the morning, I had to go out 4 times and explain that work would be starting in the afternoon at 4 pm. That alone consumed 20-30 minutes of my time. To make matters worse, Jim had gone to the farm, so I was left to deal with everyone on my own. Around 10am, the people that had showed up decided just to wait it out, on the porch.

For 6 hours, there was constant noise from the front of the house – babies crying, people talking, benches scraping on the ground, etc. Finally, around 3:30pm, I gave up trying to accomplish anything inside and went out to start seeing patients. I got slammed. There are SO many sick kids in town right now – and I think at least half were at my house (okay, that may be an exaggeration….) People were starting to get surly – I was here first, I need to go finish cooking, I have a long way to go to get home. In turn, I was starting to get surly – I said, I am only one person; if everyone doesn’t settle down, I will walk into the house and no one will get medicine today. That seemed to help.

By 7 pm, I was finally done, and I was exhausted. Jim had returned and we had supper. I was lying on the couch, prepared to relax for the evening when I heard my name called in the darkness from the side window. It was the husband of a friend of mine, telling me that she was in labor and asking if I could come. (I had been visiting this woman frequently and teasing her that she was going to deliver twins – she seemed less than amused by that.) The midwife had been called as well and asked me to come too. I have not been in a delivery with her yet, and I wanted to see how she handled things. I also wanted to be there for my friend, so I told him I would come.

I got my bag, changed my clothes, arranged things with the kids- leaving a 2 way radio behind so they could call me- and took off in the dark. The night was getting cold and the sky was clear and beautiful. The stars were amazing! I arrived at the hut and was ushered inside. The midwife was sitting on the bed beside another older woman. The co-wife of my friend was there, with her 4 month old baby sleeping quietly on one of the beds. Deliveries in Africa never cease to amaze me – I usually learn a lot of cultural things as I sit quietly and listen to all of the chatter around me. They wanted me to check the woman’s progress, and in doing so, I discovered that it was going to be awhile before the baby arrived, so we settled in. We chatted for a while, and then the midwife and older woman lay down to get some sleep.

As I sat on a little stool in the semi-darkness of the hut, bare feet on the cow dung floor, praying for the baby and the mom, listening to the co-wife who was not in labor encouraging the other, I was overwhelmed by the privilege it is for us to be here and overwhelmed by the honor our friends here bestow on us to invite us into the very private moments of our lives. They could ignore us. We do, after all, have a very limited understanding of their culture. It is completely outside my realm of understanding of how two women can share one husband.

I don’t understand how they can (seemingly) so casually deal with the death of a child. I don’t truly understand the work and effort they expend just to stay alive. And yet, they invite and are gracious. They patiently explain things and repeat it again if we didn’t catch the words.
After about an hour and a half, I needed to stretch my legs and told them I was going to go home and get some medicine for the mom for after she delivered. (I am fairly popular with the moms because I give them Tylenol after delivery, which they don’t normally get.)

I told them I would be right back. They were amazed – you are going, all by yourself???? Of course, I said, I will be right back. But, they said, no one is here to walk with you. Not a problem, I said, it is not very far (it is less than a 5 minute walk). Oh, but it is very far – and it is dark, aren’t you afraid? they asked. I am not afraid, I said. But my husband is not here to walk with you, she said. It is okay, I said, I am not afraid. I will be right back.

As I walked under the starry night, praising God for His goodness in allowing us to be here, I also felt sad that so many of my friends live in such fear of the dark and the spirits that live in the darkness. Our prayer is that some day they, too, will live in freedom from that fear.
I returned back to the hut and waited several more hours. Everyone else was lying down and they were very worried about me, sitting on my stool. I finally consented to lying down and curled up with the midwife on a straw bed NOT built for 2 people.

The labor was progressing very slowly – amazing considering that this was her 8th baby. Finally around midnight, with my friend sleeping quietly on the floor, I decided that I needed to go home. It didn’t look like the baby was coming any time soon. They promised to call me if they needed me.

I woke up at 6:50 am and, after a cup of coffee and some Bible reading, I went to check on my friend. As I walked towards her hut, 3 of the kids came running up to me and threw their arms around me. I said, do you have a new baby? They were all smiles and pulled me into the hut.

My friend had delivered a beautiful girl not terrible long after I left. She is gorgeous. I gave them some clothes and stocking hat for the baby, put ointment in her eyes, recorded her birth date in her medical folder, and thanked the mom for working so hard to have such a beautiful baby. As I left, there was a trail of kids calling after me – goodbye Gulunga, goobye Gulunga.

What a life we lead…….

It's Not Easy Being Green

2011-01-01T15:52:00.002-02:00

We run a green household. No, I am not referring to the color of the warthog meat if left out in the sun too long, nor the color my wicker laundry basket turns in the rainy season after sitting full of sweaty clothes for 4 days. I mean green in the environmental sense. We conserve, recycle, and are environmentally aware with the best of them!

Recycling for us does not mean throwing plastics in a big blue tub for the garbage man. Any type of can, plastic, bag or anything that seems REMOTELY useful goes in a pile on the back porch and is taken by our friends. Old magazines and books can be used for entertainment purposes or to wrap medicine or donuts. Our guys LOVE our old AA or AAA batteries. We think they are dead – not giving enough light. They say – wow, when you give us those batteries, they last us for a month. The ones we buy in the market only last for 2 days. It is a LITTLE embarrassing but what to do……

These days, we are dangerously low on toilet paper. The rolls we can buy in country typically last a day – maybe 2 – as long as no one has a runny belly. We got a small supply over Thanksgiving which we need to make last until our teammates return from Conakry. I am fairly certain that my family is VERY tired of me saying – You all REMEMBER how low we are on toilet paper – right? If you blow your nose on a Kleenex, don’t throw it away. Recycle it as toilet paper. By the way – 2 -3 squares is sufficient! I am REALLY hoping we can make it last so that we don’t have to resort to the teakettle of water that our village friends use! I suppose that would be MORE environmentally friendly but I am not sure I can make the sacrifice!

Very little food gets wasted. We are currently finishing up a bag of flour that has a little extra protein in the form of weevils and their larva. It has already been sifted once – now I am resifting it. Leftover chicken bones and broth (from deboning chickens) are highly sought after by my friends. Does your pasta have a few bugs in it? No problem –when you boil it, they float to the top! I did discover some of my pasta was nearly black with bug dust. I put it out on the back porch to throw away and my friend busily put it in a bag to take it home.

Our house is basically run on solar power- an expensive investment up front, but a great source of power here in the African tropics. I can run a bread machine (dough cycle only) and we have lights and I can even plug in my Christmas tree! We do use a generator for a few hours of laundry twice a week. I even have a solar clothes dryer- it strongly resembles a clothesline! :^)

Speaking of laundry, we reuse our water as well. The first wash load gets thrown out, but the rinse water is collected and reused as the wash water for the next load. At the end, the last rinse water is saved for Jim to water his garden, since it is now dry season and the rains are over.

Surrounding our back yard is a living fence. This is the first time we have had this. Before, our back yard was fenced in by a fence made of woven grass. I can just feel the oxygen replenishing in the air from the plant fence.

I suppose it is a good thing to try to preserve the environment, considering the destruction of it that we see all around us. MANY people are making boatloads of money by cutting down trees and selling them to countries like China. As we drive down the road, we see PILES of these huge logs. (Another sad consequence of all of this wood cutting is the mangled fingers and feet from the heavy wood dropping on them, but that is another story for another time…….) While it is a frustrating thing to see, we can certainly understand the desire to try to get ahead in a place where life is overwhelming some times and every day is a struggle to make ends meet. If only they could catch on to reforestation…..

So, we are doing our part to keep our planet alive.

It's a Party!

2010-11-18T14:23:00.001-02:00

This week our village friends (with the rest of the country) celebrated one of the most important days in their calendar. It is a big event. For those who can afford it, everyone gets a new outfit and new shoes. Women and girls get new jewelry and they ALL have their hair styled. Friends and relatives come from far and near to visit. People cook BIG meals and everyone tries to get a little bit of meat to put with it.

In the past, I will confess, it has not been one of my favorite times of year. Several weeks before the big day, my friends (even people I had never met) came and begged me for money to buy the new outfits. As people started to come into town to celebrate, my porch got busier and busier. Everyone wanted to see the white people, everyone wanted to visit and interrupt school, and everyone wanted free medicine. Frankly, it made me fussy. I felt a little like the Grinch.

This year, we got to celebrate in our new village and we actually have friends here now. Yesterday, I decided to head out into town to check out what was going on. I took my camera with me. I saw lots of people dressed up. Little girls were getting washed up and getting their hair done. Everyone wanted their picture taken. I finally stopped at the hut of some friends – the 2 wives of the blacksmith. With 2 wives, there are a flock of adorable kids, and they LOVE me. They like to run up and throw their little, pudgy arms around my legs. They like to hold my hand and pet my arms. One of the wives just had a baby 2 months ago and the other one is about 15 months pregnant (okay, maybe only 9 months – but her stomach is HUGE!)

I sat with them as they got everyone ready. They were trying to plant (braid) the 3 year olds hair – but she could not sit still. There was too much to see. They tried everything: threatening, bribing, yelling – nothing was working. I was playing with the other kids and taking pictures. Finally they told her that if she sat still and got her hair finished, Gulun-nga (that’s me – the twin mom) would take her picture in her new outfit. That did the trick.

As they finished with her, the 12 (ish) year old girl came out all dressed up. She wanted me to put her make-up on. For some reason, that really touched me. If only she knew that I had no idea what I was doing. Their idea of putting on make-up is not the same as ours. I managed to get it on – and it looked pretty darn good. After that, I had a full time job – helping with make-up, earrings, dresses, and being the official photographer. Busy, busy, busy. Finally everyone was ready. They were SO excited – they could not sit still. We got up and danced a little and I headed off to visit some other people. I left there with an overwhelming feeling like I belonged. I was accepted as part of the group, like an aunt or good friend.

I finished my walk through town, talking and greeting and having a great time. Unfortunately, I didn’t reach all of my friends’ houses. My time was cut short by a sick baby that needed medicine, so I had to go home and help him. Bu the whole evening, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of happiness and thankfulness that we get to be here and be a part of their lives and their celebration. There is nothing like a party to bring the world together.

Jim Anderson: Ambulance Driver

2010-11-03T10:18:00.002-02:00

This week we got to see one of Jims other roles here in Guinea – besides that of development worker, father, husband, farmer, and missionary. He put on his ambulance driver hat.

I was sitting at the computer 2 days ago when I heard a big commotion on the porch. I was getting ready to yell out (in love, of course,) I am not working yet – you have to wait a few hours still – when I heard someone crying and moaning. That deserved investigation so I went out to find a man that had been in a motorcycle accident.

Blood was pouring out of his leg – and people were beginning to surround him. The wailing had started – not by him, but by family members. He kept yelling –My leg is broken. Everyone else was yelling – No it isn’t. Be quiet. (African bedside manner is at times hard for me to take.) Considerately, he was moved to the front yard, so he would not bleed on my porch. Anyway, I grabbed some gauze and began to clean the wound. I dug a 1 inch piece of the motorcycle out of the cut, cleaned it with soap, water, and betadine and had one of our friends hold pressure on the wound. It was DEFINITELY broken. I could feel the pieces of bone grinding in my hand as his leg shifted.

By this time, there were tons of people here. His younger sister started wailing and then fainted – causing a big commotion on the porch. Other women were crying. There was much loud discussion about what should be done. People wanted to send for a man here in the village that sets broken bones – but I convinced everyone that this was going to need surgery. (I see MANY people who end up with bone infections from broken bones that are not treated properly – and who end up even 10 years later with pus and fluid leaking from the wound.) I asked about getting a taxi to take him the 1 ½ hours away to the hospital. I was told that in a few hours, a taxi would pass through that may be able to take him. That seemed to be the only plan, but frankly, it was not working for this nurse who is too used to American standards of care. I chatted with Jim and he was more than willing to transport the guy to a big town about ½ hour from us where he would easily be able to get a taxi right away.

We began to prepare him for the trip. I gave him 2 injections – one a powerful antibiotic and then a tetanus shot (thank you to everyone who gives to the medical fund and provides supplies!!!). For pain, he got Tylenol. :^( He also started drinking some Gatorade like drink – which solves so many medical problems on my porch. :^) I wrote a quick note to the doctor at the hospital, explaining what had been done for him and then we splinted his leg with 2 pieces of wood that Jim cut for me.

It was time to load him into the truck – after convincing everyone that he should NOT wait until his wives showed up from the farm. We got him loaded in as 2 of his sons showed up – and the wailing started again. We prayed over him – and off they went. Along the road, Jim met the man who had been driving the motorcycle – but he didn’t look very injured, so they went on and we sent someone else after the driver. The road is very bumpy and filled with pot holes so the going was slow. They had to stop in a nearby town to pass on the news of what had happened and allow everyone to see him and wail.

They arrived in the bigger town and were quickly able to get transport for him to go to the hospital. We have not gotten word yet how he is doing, but are so thankful for the medical supplies that are donated and for God allowing us to be here just at the right time. We are thankful for a great truck that many people helped provide for us. And I am thankful for my husband who is always willing to switch roles and do whatever it takes! He is the best ambulance driver in town!

Some Things Are The Same the World Over

2010-11-03T10:15:00.001-02:00

Some days, it seems we live in the middle of nowhere. We are located in a somewhat remote African village where, as my kids are fond of saying, we are not at the edge of the world, but you can see it from here. We keep in touch with our friends and family by the use of a satellite modem – which is wonderful, but expensive. There are days it is easy to forget that there is a whole world out there and it seems like we could not be more removed from everything that once seemed normal to us. People’s way of life is hard and it is a constant struggle to live. At first glance, our lives could not be more different. Often, though, I see glimpses that make me realize that some things are the same the world over.

I had one such an experience a few weeks ago. I went to visit my friend Isatu. She had recently had a baby and I wanted to pop in and check on how they were doing. I sat in her bedroom with her and we chatted. There were lots of kids outside, playing and making noise. Our conversation headed in a direction that made me remember - I am NOT in America anymore. I won’t go into great detail, for fear there may be young ears listening, but the general gist of the conversation was marital relationships and the lack there of during pregnancy and the 2 -3 years following birth that it takes wean a baby from breastfeeding. (Thus partially explaining why some men have more than one wife!) But I was jolted back to reality by what happened next.

The noise of the kids in the hall and outside got louder. The kids were fighting. I don’t totally understand what the fight was about - I was focused on our conversion. But Isatu’s mom ears were tuned in. She started yelling into the hallway – Who is fighting? Come in here. You guys need to stop fighting or I will send so and so home. Go play nicely. It got quiet for a few minutes and we continued talking. Then the noise escalated again. That was it. She called them all in – That is enough! I told you to play nicely and all you are doing is fighting. If you can’t get along, then you aren’t going to play together. Sana, give me that ball. Your friends have to go home now since you can’t get along. Everyone, go home. You can come back and play when you are ready to play and not fight.

It totally cracked me up, because I believe that I had that exact conversation many times when my kids were younger. And probably moms all over the world were having that exact conversation at that exact moment. It reminded me that most moms are the same and want the same things for their kids. We may have different education levels and different expectations from life, but we all want our kids to be happy and healthy, and for ourselves, we would love a little peace and quiet occasionally. :^)

I also had to smile the following week while I visited her again. The 2 younger boys were going to go out to the farm to see their dad. Isatu insisted that Sana (3 years), the youngest, put a shirt and shoes on first, so she sent Sori (6 years) in the house to get a shirt for Sana. Unfortunately, he chose a button up shirt and he was having great difficulty getting the shirt on Sana, mostly because he started with the shirt inside out. Finally, Isatu had to take over. She got him dressed and instructed him to get his shoes on and off they went. And I realized that not only are moms the same, but so are little kids!

It is great for me to have those moments, because it makes me have more compassion when I get frustrated with the direction people take with the health of their kids or the choices they sometimes make. In many ways, we are the same!

Can You Hear Me Now?

2010-11-03T10:13:00.001-02:00

Jim left this week for his conference in Burkina Faso. I really wanted to talk with him one last time before he left the country, so spent much of my Friday morning debating whether or not I should call and talk to him one last time before he flew out.

Sounds crazy, I know. Why would there be a debate in my mind since I REALLY wanted to hear his voice one more time????

Well, it is like this……

For me to even leave the house, I needed to have the boys pull the solar panels off the top of the Cruiser, where we have them temporarily clamped until Jim builds more racks on the roof. Since they were willing, I decided to go for it. They pulled them off and I headed to town to find 2 guys who wanted to go with me. It took some effort but I finally located them. Off we went.
We have no reception in our town, so getting phone reception requires driving nearly 10 miles and standing under a big mango tree. We arrived at the big mango tree to find around 30 other people there making phone calls as well. (It was market day in the town near-by so the mango tree is busy that day!)

I wandered around in the tall grass, looking for good reception and trying not to be bitten by driver ants or a snake. I finally got through to Jim – and we talked for about 30 second before the line cut. I tried again for about 10 minutes and finally decided that maybe we were out of minutes on the phone. (There is not any way that I know of to figure that out on the phone.) So we jumped into the truck and drove into the near-by town and wandered through the hundreds of people to find the last 2 phone minute cards in town – allowing me 10,000 Guinea franc minutes worth of talking. Then we headed back out to the tree. Voila – the lack of minutes was the problem. There was a big storm coming our way – but I was able to get through to Jim long enough to tell him that I loved him – and he headed off to the airport.

Our friend, Mordeca, wanted to call his sister in the capital, so I dialed the number – and rain started spitting down. As he talked, the rain came harder. I gave him an umbrella and jumped back into the truck to wait. By this time, the mango tree was pretty deserted, as most people had seen the storm coming. There were only about 5 people left besides us. Soon there came a torrential downpour. Mordeca jumped back into the truck. The next thing I knew, the back door opened and 5 people and one baby were trying to jam themselves into the back seat to get out of the rain.

There was NO way everyone was going to fit, so I got out in the rain and opened the very back door for an old lady to jump in. I was SOAKED by the time I got back in. Soon our other friend arrived. Now there were 9 of us jammed in the truck. The rain was pouring down, the lightening was flashing all around, and the truck was getting very hot and steamy from all that hot breath. It was stifling. We waited and we waited. The rain let up a little, so Mordeca jumped back out to call his sister again. I watched him standing out in the rain, under an umbrella, under a huge tree, with lightening flashing all around, talking on a cell phone, and I thought – Now THAT is a good idea!

Thankfully, he finally gave up and got back in. Not long after that, the absolutely thickest streak of lightening I have ever seen smashed into the ground in front of me, followed instantly by the deafening crack of thunder and the ground shaking! It was AMAZING and terrifying. We had been waiting out the rain by nearly an hour by this point. After that lightening streak, I thought, perhaps sitting under a big mango tree was not the best plan ever conceived. But what to do with all of my passengers???? I could hardly shove them out in the rain and lightening – especially the mom with the baby and the old lady. Two people needed to go to the nearby town, and the rest either back to GKB or to a town on the way. I decided that if I was ever going to get home, I needed to drop them all off. So, we turned around and headed back into town.

The rain was lessening some by the time we arrived at the edge of the market. As I off loaded my passengers in the rain and the lightening, I was BOMBARDED by 20 – 30 people who BEGGED me to take them to their homes on the way back. There was NO way everyone could fit. I took 7 – leaving some very fussy people in my wake. I dropped people off in the town not far from us, and ended up picking up more people who wanted to go to GKB. I arrived home about 2 ½ hours after I had left, soaked and muddy – only to find patients waiting for me on the porch.

While I head NO idea what would happen when I went to make my phone call, I knew it would be some kind of adventure – it ALWAYS is. So, it you ever get a phone call from me when I am in the village, you will know that a LOT of thought went into it and you should feel VERY privileged, because it means that that the phone call was worth a LOT of effort.

WANTED: A Subabu

2010-09-17T09:26:00.002-02:00

We are looking for a subabu for some new missionaries (tubabus or white people). It is a FULL time job with low earthly benefits. See job description below:
Applicant:
- Needs to be on call 24/7
- No holidays or vacation
- Needs to have good hearing and understanding to figure out what the white people are saying when they butcher the language.
- Needs to be patient with their lack of understanding of cultural issues
- Needs to control their smiles and laughing when the tubabu runs to get a paper to write a word down or uses the language inappropriately
- May need to explain the tubabus sometimes strange actions to the village and possibly smooth the ruffled feathers on either side
- Needs to be prepared to get constant requests by other Guineans for help in approaching the white people with a need or sick person
- Needs to realize there is no monetary pay here on earth……

Applicants can go to the tubabus house and apply in person.

I often wonder if our friends who are designated to be subabus for us have ANY idea what they are getting themselves into. God has provided wonderful people in each of our villages where we have missionaries to be people of peace for us. A subabu is a type of go-between for two parties. In Soulemania, they have Kelifah, the pastor there. Here in GKB, we have Sayon and Mordeca, our two young believers. Sayon especially was instrumental in getting us here into the village. Now they both have full time jobs keeping us here. It is nothing formal, mind you. They are just the 2 that we call when we need anything and everything. Here are some ways that they help us:

1. If we need a job done, they either do it for us or find someone who can.
2. If we are looking for something (a vegetable, meat, fruit, bike tire, someone to fix something) they can look for it and let us know.
3. If we are having a problem with kids misbehaving, (the kids in the village, not our kids :)) we call them.
4. If we need someone to accompany us some place, they come along.
5. If we need something from the village –or want to give something to the village- it all passes through them.
6. If I need someone to interpret for someone from another people group, we send for them.
7. When we go to CKY, they take turns spending the night and guarding our house.
8. If we take them to a big town, they help us shop and signal us if they think that someone is jacking up the price because of our white skin.

Of course, the pressure does not just come from our side. Knowing the way of life here, people know who has the closest relationship to us here in the village – so the nationals come at them from the other side. This happens especially with sick people. Every week, sometimes daily, they get requests to bring a sick person to our door, asking for help. People search them out at their houses or farms and they have to leave what they are doing to come. This usually applies to people from out of town, people who are coming when I am not working, or adults who are usually fairly ill. People with sick kids from GKB already know they will be treated with no problems. People from other towns who are unfamiliar with my rules or adults who are sick (since I only am allowed to treat adults who have been treated somewhere else – this as an incentive to get the clinic finished here in town) or people who come in the morning when I am not working usually will show up with one of the guys. If they do come here first without them, and I turn them away, it is not unusual for them to return later with either Sayon or Mordeca.

I can usually tell if the guys think I will deny the request because they look kind of sheepish. I will look right at them and they smile with a "Just give me a chance to explain" kind of smile. I know the pressure is high for them. And both of them, Mordeca especially, seem to have the gift of compassion. If they bring me a sick child who is from far away, and it is morning when we are doing school, they know they have a big fight ahead of them, because I will usually deny the request until the evening. But they also know there is a small chance, if I see the child and see he is REALLY sick, that I will help right away. Mordeca will often say to me – Gulunga, its fever is SO high, just put your hand on it and see.

Of course, there are some benefits to being the subabu. We pay well for work done at our house and we pay in full. And if you work for us, and you end up with a sore back, you get Tylenol along with the pay. No one else in town does that! If we have stuff to give away, we hand it to them. The guys usually come and have coffee with Jim in the mornings – and get lots of sugar to make it sweet. They enjoy the trips into Faranah to accompany us – hey, it’s a free ride! They both got to go to Mamou, where they had never been before, several weeks ago with Jim. They can be fairly certain that their family will get good medical care. And we employ both of their wives, which helps to provide for the family as well.

When they guard for us on Conakry trips, they make a boatload of money (about $1.50 a night) while we are gone. And we always bring back some kind of gift – a can of instant coffee or clothes or something small. And you get an up close and personal look into another culture. You get to hang out at the tubabus house and try their food and see their gadgets – since we have a gadget for nearly everything.

While we often make light of the fact that the guys are overworked, we truly do not know what we would do without them. We pray for them and love them and hope that the pressure put on them and the things they do for us will be rewarded in heaven – since we can never repay them here on earth.

Driving Miss Dawn -or- Why Everyone Should Have A Chauffer

2010-07-20T19:14:00.000-02:00

I confess – our team has a chauffeur. His name is Mr. Bah. Sounds like something out of the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, huh? Well, before you rethink supporting people who spend their money frivolously, let me explain……. Actually, if you have every lived in Guinea, I probably don’t really need to explain. But in the off chance you have not had the blessing of visiting our fair country, let me tell you why having him is a REALLY good idea!
While we employ Mr. Bah full time and he does make trips up to the village for us, we mainly use him when we are in the capital. Driving in Conakry is unlike driving in any other place. Everyone seems to make up their own rules. Two lanes can easily become 4 four if you wish. Someone not going fast enough? Just speed around him on the shoulder on the right side. Need to turn around – just do a u-turn in the middle of the road. It is crazy out there. Mr. Bah has driven in several other African capitals – and claims Conakry to be the craziest. The longer we are here, the more we see order trying to be instituted. There are some functioning traffic lights. There are police trying to keep things in order – and doing a great job at some intersections.

Downtown, things get even more interesting. Certain streets are one way at certain times of the day. I have NO idea which ones they are. Other streets will suddenly become one way – with no warning. Parking is always tight. People are everywhere. When you stop at a light, beggars come up and try to get money. Motorcycles whip in and out of traffic.

Besides being safer, it is much more interesting being a passenger. You get to see all of the shops and what they are selling. One store we passed last week was selling bottled water and mattresses. I was intrigued by the combination. In the afternoons especially there are kids (mostly) who walk in and out of the lines of traffic selling all sorts of things – CD’s, rechargeable phone cards, plastic flowers, insect spray, off-brand Kleenex, handkerchiefs, apples, sesame seed candy (my personal favorite), jelly. That whole scene fascinates me as well. Why jelly? Why insect spray? Who makes those decisions? I suppose it is kind of like those racks you stand by in the checkout lanes in the US with all kinds of random items.

But Mr. Bah’s helpfulness extends way beyond his driving abilities. He seems to know everyone. We will say – I need to find___________________ (we fill in the blank with various sorts of things.) or I need to have _______________ done. Well, Mr. Bah will reply, I have a cousin who can get that for you. Or, I have a friend who does that. He is amazing. He is incredibly resourceful, and very patient. He will wait for several hours for us to finish a task, if necessary. He loves our kids. He never complains when we ask him to do stuff for us. He worries about us and is incredibly protective.

He calls me Mom or Mommy – a term of respect – he calls all of the team women that. Jim is Mr. Jim or Boss. I love to call him on the phone and hear him answer – Yes, Mom. (He is around 60 years old, by the way.)

We try our best to take good care of him and give him a lot of respect. We ask his advice on a myriad of things. We buy treats for his kids and diapers and medicine for his son who is handicapped. We try to pay him well. We help out when we can.
Here are 2 of my favorite Mr. Bah stories………………

1. This one I shared in a supporter update in March. Mr. Bah traveled home with us that trip, driving one of the vehicles. We stopped for lunch in a shady spot and were having sandwiches. We had received a bag of Doritos from the States and had been saving them. As anyone who lives overseas knows, things like Doritos are very special and so we tend to hoard them a little. I didn’t offer any to Mr. Bah, because I have never seem him eating chips before and figured he would not like them – as they are not rice – his normal meal. As we were getting back into the truck, he found the bag and asked what they were. I told him that they were chips from America and that he should try them. So he took a few, and then a few more. Pretty soon, he was munching away. He said, “Mom, these are really good. Someone will have to take the bag away from me.” I am sure my face matched the kids’ faces, as we watched him downing our precious Doritos.

2. The second story is from our last trip to CKY a week ago. I was out doing some shopping and stopped at a fairly nice air-conditioned grocery store. Mr. Bah waited outside for me, chatting with the security people as he waited. I got back into the truck when I was finished and said, Mr. Bah, are you ready to go? He said, Mommy, look at me. I am covered with dirt. I could see some small smudges on the front of his suit so I asked him what happened. He said, I had to urinate, and so I asked where I could go and they told me to go out behind the store. But when I got there, a big dog was there and it was not tied up and it jumped up on me and grabbed me and I thought I was going to have to call you. (As he recounted the story, his voice got louder and he got more distraught – sadly, I got more and more amused. If you could have seem his face as he told me about it!!) Anyway, he continued, I came back out and I told them, if you tell someone you can urinate somewhere, you need to tell them there is a BIG dog that is not tied up.

The poor man was so upset, and I was so amused. Thankfully, I had bought him a Coke so he could have something to drink and settle down.

He is a wonderful asset to our team and I am not sure what we would ever do without him. So, the next time you visit Conakry and we tell you we need to call our chauffer, you will understand why!

So, That Has Never Happened Before. . . .

2010-06-11T10:09:00.004-02:00

Yesterday, I had a busy day. We did school. I cleaned the house, made supper, and exercised. I wanted to jump in the shower quickly before I saw the patients waiting for me on the porch. I grabbed my purple scrubbie ( my 99 cent Wal-Mart special) and got it soapy with a bar of Palmolive. I scrubbed down and was finishing on my feet when I felt something strange move in my hand. I flung my hand out and looked down on the floor. There, to my surprise, was a scorpion – all clean and bubbly. At first I thought it was dead, but it soon tried to crawl away.

Wow. What a bizarre feeling – to know that it had been in my hand and scrubbie as I washed my whole body!!! For the rest of the night, when I thought about it, I would feel little pinpricks on my skin. I was thankful not to have been stung. Our African friend thought that the scent from the soap confused the scorpion temporarily. Who knows? I definitely do not recommend it as a new skin treatment. :^)

Rudeness

2010-05-25T16:04:00.002-02:00

I was contemplating rudeness this week – actually I do every time someone on a motorcycle arrives at my front door and honks obnoxiously until I show my face. As a student of another culture, it is interesting to discover what this culture considers rude. And it certainly doesn’t take many months to solidify in your mind the practices in your host culture that we Americans would consider rude.

For the most part, the people we live among are fairly polite. They greet everyone they see – multiple times. They ask about each other’s families and farms and relatives and health and on and on. If you walk by them at meal time, there is always an invitation to come and eat.
I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the things I consider rude are NOT considered rude to them. But they have been known to set my teeth on edge.

Take for instance the motorcycle thing. Almost without fail, when someone arrives by motorcycle, they honk, and honk and honk. I am sure it is just a friendly way to say, hey, you have company! But to tell the truth, it snaps my nerves – which are often a little frayed by evening anyway. I hear them do that to each other as well, so I know it is an acceptable practice. Now I try to take deep breaths as I walk out to the porch. I have also been known to mutter under my breath "They are not trying to be rude, they are not trying to be rude, they are not trying to be rude."

Late one evening, a man arrived with a sick child. He was on a motorcycle, and true to form, honked obnoxiously several times so I would know he was there. I went out to greet him, no doubt muttering under my breath (unfortunately, it was probably not “Thank you Lord for the opportunity to serve this person”). When I got to the porch, I discovered that he didn’t speak much Yalunka, so I was able to communicate enough to send him back into town to find someone who did. Off he went on his moto, and when he returned, guess what…. the honking again, "Hey, I’m back!"

I am certain by this point I was muttering loudly – but probably no longer under my breath. As I chatted with Mordeca (our friend and a believer) and he translated for me, I discovered that this man had gone all the way to the big town near us (an hour away) with his sick child to shop, but never bothered to take him to the doctor or hospital. He simply dragged the child, with a high fever, back up here to see me. My frustration grew. It was already dark. I was tired. He had left a town where there were many doctors and much medicine, to return to the village so he could get free medicine from me! (They are from this village to begin with.)

I argued with Mordeca. “Why should I see this kid? They had the opportunity to go and get medicine somewhere else but refused because they wanted it free. What happens when a kid gets sick here in the village and I am out of medicine because this man refused to pay – even though there is a lot of medicine in that town?” Meanwhile, the little boy was just watching me. It was, I confess, not one of my better moments. Back and forth we went. Finally, Mordeca said, “Gulun-nga, you are right. What he did was wrong. But are you going to make this little boy suffer because his father made a wrong choice? I wekile." (That is a Yalunka phrase that has a bunch of meanings – take courage; take heart; or it can be said as kind of “buck up and deal with it.” Mordeca and Sayon have occasionally used it on me when they see me getting tired and fussy on the porch at night when there are still a lot of patients to see. He was meaning it in a nice sense of the word.)

I could feel myself beginning to soften until the horn honking dad spoke up – “Yeah,” he said, “ I wekile” in a tone that sounds suspiciously like “buck up and deal with it.” I took one look at him and then looked at Mordeca – who wisely told the father that it would probably be better if he stopped talking at that point.

Mordeca (who seems to have been given the spiritual gift of mercy) said, “Look at this little boy – he has a fever, you have to help him.” I finally consented, mostly for Mordeca’s sake, and for the little boy – certainly not for the horn honking, rude dad.

Another rudeness issue I deal with in interrupting. This happens often when I am on the porch – usually surrounded by a lot of people – and someone new arrives. Even if I am deep in the middle of a conversation about medical issues, I am expected to stop talking and greet them – even if this is the 10th time if has occurred in the last 5 minutes. It is ALWAYS difficult for me to interrupt my conversation with a person I am trying to focus on to greet. The problem is that it is usually not a “Hey, how is it going?” It is a “Hey, how is it going? I am bringing you this sick person who has been sick for 10 days with a fever and runny belly (diarrhea) and. . . ” So, I put my hand up to stop them and say, you have to wait until I am done. I have no doubt THAT is considered rude here!

As Americans, we provide endless hours of entertainment to the village by our strange language and ways and things. People love to come and watch what we do. They can sit for hours – staring in the back yard through the fence or trying to look inside the house when we open the door or sitting on the porch, just watching and waiting for something exciting to happen. In general, gawking in America is frowned upon. But here, that is just part of being in a village. They do it to each other. Fighting with your wife – no, problem, an outsider can offer a solution. Fighting with your neighbor – everyone is all over that.

I know I have not even begun to scratch the surface of the things they consider rude here in this culture. A big one is the inappropriate use of the left hand. That hand is used for bathroom services – so it is very rude to hand someone something with your left hand. That is slowly becoming ingrained in us – so much that I struggle when we go to the US and have to hand someone money at the drive-thru with my left hand. Thankfully, they are gracious with us – and don’t make a big deal when we mess up.

Not greeting someone and asking about their family, life, health, cows, farms, etc. is also considered rude. So we make an effort to slow down our Western ways of thinking and take the time to visit with people.

I have no doubt I commit numerous acts of rudeness on a weekly basis – mostly out of ignorance. That makes me TRY to give grace. I am working on it and making progress.

Just don’t test me by arriving at my house – horn a blazing!

It only takes a minute for your whole day to go down the well

2010-04-27T14:29:00.002-02:00

Just yesterday morning, Jim and I were having a spirited discussion about organizing our time and the debate about working from a list and also being available for what God want us to do – Jim being less of a list maker, and me being an avid list maker. It is incredibly frustrating for me to arrive at the end of the day – but be far from the end of my list. We ended up talking about what he wanted to get done that day, and off we went.

About 1 hour later, a Fulani man came running up to ask for help. He said there was a man trapped down in a well. The man had climbed in to dig the well deeper, but apparently had not been down there very long before he sat down and became unresponsive to the people at the top of the well, calling to him. They were very concerned and wanted help.

Jim, the boys, Sayon and Mordeca (our friends who were here working on Jim’s garden) ran off with a long climbing rope to see what they could do. When they reached the place– over a mile away – they found an extremely narrow and deep well. With the sun overhead, they could see the man huddled at the bottom, gasping for air. He would not respond to the people yelling to him from the top.

What followed in the next 8 hours was a frustrating and fascinating interaction with another culture. Several people tried to go into the well after him, but got part way down and were unable to breathe because of the lack of oxygen. Jim and the boys were able to hook up a ventilation system with a little 12 volt fan, a tube, a plastic cookie sheet, and a motorcycle battery (MacGyver would have been proud) – in an attempt to pull air out of the well, which would in turn force new oxygenated air down into the well. The man in the well was a well digger – and his friend refused to go in after him. I am told the people there were beating him – in attempt to shame him into going down. There became a fight – why should a Yalunka person go after him, when he was Fulani. Soon the governmental man in charge over the area showed up. Someone took off on a motorcycle, going from village to village, looking for another well digger who would be willing to go down after Musa ( as we learned was his name).

After a while, they began throwing milk and then gasoline down the well. Why would they do that????? We came to find out (when it was all said and done) that people here believe that, in some wells, there are evil spirits and if you go into the well, the evil spirits will steal your breath and kill you. They dumped the milk and gasoline down in an attempt to appease and distract the evil spirits into letting go of the man.

Meanwhile, with each passing hour, our hope of him being brought back up alive was diminishing. The boys related to me how agonizing it was to watch as no progress was made and to hear him gasping for air, and then have that followed by periods of silence, and then the gurgled breathing again. I paced around the house (I got a lot of cleaning done with all the nervous energy), pleading with God to spare the life of Musa – who does not yet know Jesus. I had given Kaleb one of our 2 way radios during one of the trips back to the house for supplies, so we were able to check the progress occasionally.

On the last trip, Sayon and Mordeca came for a pulley and a climbing harness. They were able to rig up a pulley over the hole and lower a well digger that had been found in a bigger town. On his second attempt, he was able to go down quickly, tie a rope under the arm and up over the shoulder of Musa, and be pulled back up. Then the men were able to pull Musa up from what was becoming his grave. Musa arrived at the top alive, with a weak pulse, but unconscious from the lack of oxygen (undoubtedly made worse by the fumes from the gasoline!). Jim was able to call me on the radio to ask what they should do for him medically. Within an hour, he was waking up a little and sat up on his own, and drank a little milk. Jim and the guys began the walk home, along with the dozens of villagers who had gone out to watch the show.

Many people stopped by our house on the way back to thank us for the work that Jim did. It made a huge impression on them that he stayed for the whole time. The area boss guy also thanked Jim for what he did. Today a delegation came from town and from the well village to thank Jim for everything – bring with them a very large rooster as a gift (who crows SO loudly that he is going to find his way into a cooking pot very quickly!) They reported today that Musa is up walking and talking and eating and has no recollection of what happened down in the well.

The whole experience - which had a great ending (praise the Lord)- was an interesting peek into the lives of our friends and neighbors. It brought up an incredible discussion about Jesus’ power over evil spirits, and how as believers, we don’t need to fear the evil spirits. We were excited to see the faith that is growing in our 2 friends here. And we are thankful beyond measure to know that Musa is alive and well. We are trusting that God will use that experience in his life to bring him to the Jesus road.

And I, for one, and thankful that Jim threw aside his to-do-list for the day and followed what the Lord brought before him.

Housekeeping in Guinea

2010-04-27T14:23:00.002-02:00

If you have even an ounce of perfectionism in you when it comes to housekeeping and having things in order, then perhaps Guinea is not the place for you! If God does call you here, you will spend endless days in frustration over the state of your house. Not that housekeeping in America is a breeze, but it does seem that there are not as many things working against you. On a constant basis, I fight one or more of the following:

Desert dust: every day, but especially during the months of December – April, when the rains are non-existent, there is an endless stream of dust that flows into the house. Within a few hours of dusting, you can usually return and write your name visibly on whatever surface you just dusted. Of course, all of that dust lands on the windows too. Windex is rather pointless for cleaning our louvered glass windows. You just need a bucket of water and some soap. After washing my windows and dusting, I enjoy walking around, looking at the surfaces and enjoying their dust free appearance, know it will be short lived.

All of that dust also lands on the floors, along with all the dirt trudged inside by my family. In Niaya, I had someone who swept and mopped all week, but do not have that privilege here yet, so it is up to me to stay on top of it. On top of that, our great room floor was not finished correctly, so in my daily sweeping, I end up with piles of cement dust. When it rains, the dust is less, but I then am left to deal with mud. Also, the rains bring out flying termites – a treat to the national kids who catch them, pull off their wings and roast them as a tasty snack. The white lady is less pleased with their appearance as she is left to contend with hundreds of them who fly around the lights at night, dropping into every container imaginable and then who are gone by morning, leaving behind piles of paper fine wings everywhere. On those nights, it brings to mind the plagues of Egypt – I guess I should be thankful they are not frogs.

Another reason for the constant sweeping and mopping is all the medical work that I do on my front porch. I have established a “pus corner” here on the new porch, where I do all of my lancing and cleaning of wounds. I have an endless stream of visitors as well, with little kids peeing and occasionally pooping right on or just off of my porch. Even if you are inside the porch, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what is happening when you hear me yelling “Hey, this is not a toilet” at someone.

Last but not least, I have piles – not of the Biblical sort – but piles none the less. I have a pile of stuff that I want to give away in the village, a pile of stuff that I need to sort through, a pile of stuff (usually in a trunk) of stuff I need to take back to CKY when I go next time, and always a trunk going of stuff that I need to give to my teammates the next times I see them. That is usually full by the time we meet – even in a week. It is full of books and videos that we trade around, meds that Mindie might need, or a grocery item that someone is short on, things that I want to pass on that someone might be interested in. And then we have paper piles – lists of emails I need to write and things I need to chat with my teammates about, list of groceries needed for whomever is going to CKY next, a pile of medical papers of sick people who are coming back to see me, my to-do list for the day.

All in all, I still LOVE a clean, neat house, but am much less anal about how my house looks than I used to be – mostly to preserve my sanity. My kids might not notice, but it is true. Not if I could just get them to pick up after themselves and experience the joy of a clean, neat room. . . .

Some things I really like about Frigi

2010-04-06T12:32:00.003-02:00

Do you have those people that you just really like to be around? They make you think or laugh or smile inside? Our mason, Frigi, is one of those people.

He has been a friend to our teammates for several years – I think even since they arrived in Soulemania -but we have only really gotten to know him in the past 2 years that he has been working on our house. Of course, for much for much of the first year, I didn’t see him much, as Jim was here building and I was in Niaya with the kids. But starting a little over a year ago, I began to get to know him as I spent more and more time at the house. And the more I am around him, the more things that I find I like about him. Here are just a few of my favorites.

1.
I love to hear him answer when I call. Whether I am asking him if he knows where Jim is or if he is thirsty or hungry or if he needs something, whenever I call – “Mr. Frigi?”, he answers with, “Oui, Madame” in this great singsong kind of voice. A few months ago, he started calling me mom – because I take care of him, he says. That always makes me smile.

2.
I love how much he wants to please Jim and do a good job for him. He likes all of the guys on the team and works hard to please them, but I think there is added pressure because Jim used to be a mason and he wants very much for Jim to approve of his work.

3.
I love how every day he comes and thanks me for the lunch meal and for taking good care of him while he is here in the village working (he lives in another village where our teammates live but comes up for several days at a time.)

4.
I love how patient he is. When he finishes work, he takes a bucket of water and soap and goes out to a little enclosure in the back yard and bathes before going to the hut of our friend where he sleeps. One afternoon, he came to ask where his bucket was. I was busy on the porch with about 20 patients and told him I would get it for him in a few minutes. I got distracted and probably 30 – 40 minutes later I saw him sitting quietly on the porch with all of the patients, just waiting for me to take the time to help him. I felt horrible. I said, Why didn’t you remind me? Well, Madame, he said, you were busy and my needs aren’t as important so I can wait. I wanted to squish his guts! (For all you non-Andersons out there, squishing someone's guts is a good thing.)

5.
I love how he takes care of his wife. He hires workers to go to her farm so she doesn’t have to do that. He says he doesn’t believe that men should beat their wives and that they should help out at home because the women have a lot of work to do. . . that’s almost unheard of in a village guy – even among some American guys. ;^) And he loves to take gifts home for his family. Usually we take him home – so he likes to stop off and buy her some fire wood (the kind that burns quickly so she can cook as fast as all the other women and not be made fun of) and he likes to stop and buy peanuts and crackers for his kids. If our boys are with us, and they shoot a bushfowl, that becomes another gift. Once he bought a big fish and we put it at his feet in a bag, but the truck broke down and by the time we arrived at his house- it was smelling very ripe!!!

6.
I love to see him loitering in front of our house after a full day of work and a bath, in hopes that the boys (who have usually gone hunting) will bring him some “beef”. IF it gets late, he says, “If the twins come back with something, can they bring it up to me??? “ And they always do.

7.
I love that he is such a great person to ask cultural questions to. Since he does not live in our village, he has a different perspective than our friends here. So I can ask him questions and be assured that he will really think over the answer. Sometimes he is hesitant – wanting to make sure he does not offend us. He tries to be honest. He will say – Madame, I really don’t know the price of this or that. I want to be straight with my answer for you.

8.
I love his politeness. If he coughs or sneezes, he always says “pardon.” He apologizes for being late or for causing any trouble for you – whether real or imagined.

The one thing that makes me sad is that he does not know the Jesus road yet. But we are praying for that. In the mean time, we look forward to his visits. His work here is almost finished, and we will miss him a lot.

A few Random things said around our house lately that were probably not heard around yours

2010-03-09T17:38:00.002-02:00

Can someone please bring the yogurt in from the car? I think is it done curing……

I make my own yogurt and it is a great snack for the kids and awesome on homemade granola for breakfast. I used to have an oven with a pilot light, but don’t have that now, so have tried to figure out ways to cure the yogurt to make it set. Recently, a missionary friend shared a tip of setting it in the car, because it gets so hot in there. I decided to try it – and it worked great!!! Yeah for solar energy!

Someone shot a porcupine – do we want to buy some meat?

Last week, my friend brought some meat that was for sale. That happens fairly regularly and so we have to make a decision about whether or not to buy it. We try to determine if it is fresh (if I can smell it walking down the porch steps- that will be a “no”), if the price is good (just what is the going rate for a kilo of porcupine?), and what kind of meat it is. We had a little trouble at first with this one because they were using a name we had not heard before. Fortunately (?), the foot was still attached so we were able to figure it out.

Now, I know my mom fixed porcupine when I was a kid (remember, I grew up in Africa)- so I have eaten it before. But, those of you who know me well, know that I don’t relish the job of butchering meat. (Remember, I like to cut it up and then put it in the freezer and forget it for a while and then pretend that I bought it at the store.) Anyway, our freezer is fairly empty and we are trying to stretch the meat we have to last until 2 ½ weeks from now when we go to CKY. So, we decided to go ahead and buy it. My husband graciously butchered the meat for us and put it in the fridge. But I kept thinking about it – all the while, feeling the bile in my throat. (The quills had been removed and the skin burned so that smell was in my mind.) But, since “I’m every woman”, I tried my best.

I pressured it (gagging as I put it in the pot) and decided to make barbeque beef with it. The “meat” was tough, and I was still feeling the bile in my throat as I prepared it. But I pressed on! It was a crazy busy night with sick people on the porch and so I sent the boys in to heat up the meat. Unfortunately, one of the boys said (really loudly), “Is this that porcupine?” which horrified Hannah, who then refused to eat it. (I do much better with her if she doesn’t know what was being served.)

Frankly, I was thankful for an excuse not to eat the meat either, and fortunately, I had a little bit of leftover chicken in the fridge, so Hannah and I split that. I realize completely that it is all a mental issue ( really, what is the difference in chicken or beef and porcupine, other than the fact that it is a rodent. :^) ) – but I figure as long as I know that, I am okay. Last night, we got some deer meat – which now needs to be pressured into – you guessed it, BBQ sandwiches. :^)

Can someone please pull the clothes off the fence and fold them?

Up until last week, I had no clothesline. So all of our laundry was hung up over the stick fence in the back yard. It actually worked okay and was a lot faster than using clothespins. There were some hazards, like splinters in the underwear, but as long as you were careful, they could be found and tragedy avoided. Then, last week, my husband gave me a gift of love and put up my clothesline. It is great.

Yesterday, I did about 5 loads of clothes and my lines were full of clean clothes, flapping in the breeze. It was a beautiful sight. I need to buy more clothespins in CKY – I have some plastic ones that are quickly dying – probably due to the fact that they were cheap and can’t take the equatorial sun beating down on them. My neighbors no doubt wonder why I would waste good rope that could tied up a cow to hang my clothes on when I could just throw them over the fence or lay them on the ground to dry, like they do. White women are very needy! :^)

I couldn’t bring the bandage for you to wrap my leg because the cow ate it.

I heard that excuse for the first time last week, when I was doing wound care on a little girl with a sore on her leg. It struck me so funny – the African equivalent to “the dog ate my homework.” When I care for a bigger wound, I put medicine and gauze on the wound, and then wrap it with strips of cloth – like the old bandages from WW 1 and WW 2. Each patient gets 2 – so we can rotate and they can wash one and have the other in use. The system works great – except if there are cows wandering through the village – which there always are.

They are fairly destructive and will eat just about anything! Life here for medical things is just rough. Often I am told that a child’s medical carnet (a little booklet with a record of vaccines and medicines) cannot be produced (for my viewing pleasure)for a variety of reasons: my kid dropped it a. in the fire b. in the water c. on the road. Or, my kid peed on it (that is by far the most often heard excuse.) Or, I lost it.

I have been pleased to see that my villagers are quickly catching on to the fact that they MUST bring back the piece of paper I give them with a list of the medicines that they have received here, or I will not see their child again. I hear them telling each other to not lose it and bring it back – as I am treating other patients. Now, if I could just get the cows to cooperate!

See For Yourself

2010-02-26T23:45:00.002-02:00

Remeber Mama Beri from this post? Enjoy.

A Few Random Things Said Around Our House Lately That Were Probably Not Heard Around Yours.

2010-02-26T23:25:00.003-02:00

Can someone please bring the yogurt in from the car? I think is it done curing.

I make my own yogurt and it is a great snack for the kids and awesome on homemade granola for breakfast. I used to have an oven with a pilot light, but don’t have that now, so have tried to figure out ways to cure the yogurt to make it set. Recently, a missionary friend shared a tip of setting it in the car, because it gets so hot in there. I decided to try it and it worked great!!! Yeah for solar energy!

Someone shot a porcupine, do we want to buy some meat?

Last week, my friend brought some meat that was for sale. That happens fairly regularly and so we have to make a decision about whether or not to buy it. We try to determine if it is fresh (if I can smell it walking down the porch steps, that will be a “no”), if the price is good (just what is the going rate for a kilo of porcupine?), and what kind of meat it is. We had a little trouble at first with this one because they were using a name we had not heard before. Fortunately (?), the foot was still attached so we were able to figure it out.

Now, I know my mom fixed porcupine when I was a kid (remember, I grew up in Africa) so I have eaten it before. But, those of you who know me well, know that I don’t relish the job of butchering meat. (Remember, I like to cut it up and then put it in the freezer and forget it for a while and then pretend that I bought it at the store.) Anyway, our freezer is fairly empty and we are trying to stretch the meat we have to last until 2 ½ weeks from now when we go to CKY. So, we decided to go ahead and buy it. My husband graciously butchered the meat for us and put it in the fridge. But I kept thinking about it – all the while, feeling the bile in my throat. (The quills had been removed and the skin burned so that smell was in my mind.) But, since “I’m every woman” I tried my best.

I pressured it (gagging as I put it in the pot) and decided to make barbeque beef with it. The “meat” was tough, and I was still feeling the bile in my throat as I prepared it. But I pressed on! It was a crazy busy night with sick people on the porch and so I sent the boys in to heat up the meat. Unfortunately, one of the boys said (really loudly), “Is this that porcupine?” which horrified Hannah, who then refused to eat it. (I do much better with her if she doesn’t know what was being served.) Frankly, I was thankful for an excuse not to eat the meat either and, fortunately, I had a little bit of leftover chicken in the fridge, so Hannah and I split that.

I realize completely that it is all a mental issue (really, what is the difference in chicken or beef and porcupine, other than the fact that it is a rodent. :^) ) but I figure as long as I know that, I am okay. Last night, we got some deer meat – which now needs to be pressured into, you guessed it, BBQ sandwiches. :^)

Can someone please pull the clothes off the fence and fold them?

Up until last week, I had no clothesline. So all of our laundry was hung up over the stick fence in the back yard. It actually worked okay and was a lot faster than using clothespins. There were some hazards, like splinters in the underwear, but as long as you were careful, they could be found and tragedy avoided. Then, last week, my husband gave me a gift of love and put up my clothesline. It is great. Yesterday, I did about 5 loads of clothes and my lines were full of clean clothes, flapping in the breeze. It was a beautiful sight. I need to buy more clothespins in CKY. I have some plastic ones that are quickly dying, probably due to the fact that they were cheap and can’t take the equatorial sun beating down on them.

My neighbors no doubt wonder why I would waste good rope that could tied up a cow to hang my clothes on when I could just throw them over the fence or lay them on the ground to dry, like they do. White women are very needy! :^)

I couldn’t bring the bandage for you to wrap my leg because the cow ate it. . . .

I heard that excuse for the first time last week, when I was doing wound care on a little girl with a sore on her leg. It struck me so funny – the African equivalent of “the dog ate my homework.” When I care for a bigger wound, I put medicine and gauze on the wound, and then wrap it with strips of cloth, like the old bandages from WWI and WWII. Each patient gets 2 so we can rotate and they can wash one and have the other in use. The system works great, except if there are cows wandering through the village, which there always are. They are fairly destructive and will eat just about anything!

Life here for medical things is just rough.

Often I am told that a child’s medical carnet (a little booklet with a record of vaccines and medicines) cannot be produced for my viewing pleasure for a variety of reasons:

My kid dropped it

a. in the fire

b. in the water

c. on the road.

My kid peed on it. (That is by far the most often heard excuse.)

I lost it.

I have been pleased to see that my villagers are quickly catching on to the fact that they MUST bring back the piece of paper I give them with a list of the medicines that they have received here, or I will not see their child again. I hear them telling each other to not lose it and bring it back as I am treating other patients.

Now, if I could just get the cows to cooperate!

We Are NOT In Kansas Anymore

2010-02-20T12:54:00.002-02:00

Most days, I love living in another culture. I am thankful that I was blessed with a childhood in West Africa . Perhaps that, and the four generations of our family that have served in this part of the world, fuels my love of the people and the languages and allows me to celebrate how God has uniquely created this place and these people. I am fascinated by the way people do things, and the language they speak, how they express themselves and what excites and encourages, as well as what bothers and discourages them. It is amazing to me.

Just this week, Jim and I went to visit the doctor who supervises this area. There were about 15 of us –all squashed into a little room – people sitting on stools and broken chairs and exam tables or just standing. The whole experience was intriguing to me – from the discussion that bounced back and forth between 4 languages (I only understood 2 so was lost at least half of the time), to whom got to sit where, and all the unspoken, but obviously understood, hierarchies of power and influence. I met both of the doctor’s wives. “This is my first wife and this is my second wife.” (We are SO not in Kansas anymore.)

Language is another things that I love to discover more about. I don’t necessarily enjoy the painful process of learning another language, mind you. Speaking like a toddler when you are an adult is frustrating and embarrassing much of the time. Being in the middle of a deep discussion and realizing that you don’t have a certain word that you need (either because you forgot it or never learned it) can make you want to beat your head against the wall. On the other hand, when you do learn a new word, and use it correctly, it can be exciting. Just yesterday, I used the word “yellow” correctly for the first time when describing medicine and the lady I said it to was excited. And it is always fun to meet people who haven’t been around us, because they are AMAZED that a white person can speak their language. Those who are new to us will say, “DID you hear her? She said Hi. Wow, she said that well!” Makes me smile.

In some ways, though, we have been in the country almost 5 years, I feel like we are back at square one because our new village is surrounded by other ethnic groups – so many people have to bring an interpreter with them so we can communicate. Here is a typical discussion:

Why are you here?
My child is sick.
How is your child sick?
His body is warm and his belly is running.
How long has he been sick?
Not only since today.
How long is that?

And on and on we go.

Of course, I speak in Yalunka , which is then translated into another language and then the reverse happens, so the whole process takes a very long time. Lately, I have to smile when our friends Sayon and Mordika help me. The patient will answer and they will say, “Gulun-nga, you heard what they said” and will proceed to translate and I am thinking in my mind, if I heard what they said, I wouldn’t need you to translate for me. :^)

They repeat the same thing to my patient. I will ask a question and they will to say to patient, “You heard what she said” (which obviously they didn’t) and proceed to translate.

I am also intrigued by what is considered important or insulting or what causes joy or sorrow. Here is a great example. Last week, I went back to our old village with my teammate, Dawn, where she led a Bible study with the church ladies there. Dawn has been teaching on marriage and this time, we were discussing what God expects from a husband so they could be informed and help their husbands honor God. (This week is about what God expects from wives.)

I love to sit there with them and hear what they think about different subjects. So, Dawn asks the question "In your culture, how can a man show love to his wife? If he sees his wife is very busy with the kids and the cooking and the farm work, how can he help?" I was thinking about how an American would answer that question. Maybe he could take the kids for the afternoon or offer to make supper or take the family out to eat. . . . I loved what my friends in Niaya came up with. They discussed it for a while and decided that the best way a man could show love to his wife was to hire people to go out to his wife’s farm and pull grass so the rice didn’t get choked out. I LOVE that! What a wonderful expression of the difference in cultures!

We continue in a learning role, studying our new culture and observing and questioning and listening. We're amazed to learn that so much of what we do as people reflects how we have been raised and our culture. How wonderful that we are not all the same! More and more we gain a deep appreciation for our friends here, for their hard work and perseverance. And we find ourselves thankful that we are not in Kansas (or the US) anymore because, while not always easy, it is a huge privilege to be here!

The blind leading the blind. . . sort of.

2010-02-20T12:45:00.001-02:00

As I mentioned in my last entry, languages fascinate me. They confound and frustrate me as well, if I can’t get my point across, but I love to learn expressions and the undercurrents of phrases and sayings. Even in English, I wonder where certain sayings come from – like a bird in the hand is worth 2 in the bush or a stitch in time saves nine. How did those sayings start?

I love to hear sayings from other cultures. For instance, if a Yalunka wants someone to listen, they say, “Stand up your ears!” or to look at something, they say, “Stand up your eyes!” If a child dies, a mom will often say that her child was “taken from her hands” or that her baby “didn’t last long in her hands.” If you are worried, angry or frustrated, your liver is warm or is not sitting down. When you are released from worry, your liver “cools” or “sits down.” (

s I mentioned in the past, to a Yalunka, the liver is the seat of your emotions – used in place of our “heart”. But interestingly, the temperatures differ. To have a warm heart here means you are upset – while for Americans, a warm heart means you are affectionate. To a Yalunka, a cold heart means you have peace, while in our culture, to call someone “cold-hearted” has a negative connotation.

Here are a few more examples:

If someone is crazy, they will say, “her head is not sitting down well.”

If someone is blind or deaf, they say their eyes or ears are “not there”.

While we would say that someone “fell” sick, an African might say that a person was “held” by a sickness.

I had an interesting discussion with Sayon the other day. He was sick. I wrote down a medicine on a paper and how many pills he needed and I told him to go and buy medicine in the market that was coming that day. I followed that by saying, “please, when you buy the medicine, bring it to me because sometimes what I write and what the person selling the medicines sells you is not the same.”

Sayon has heard my speech before. It goes something like this “PLEASE do NOT just go and buy medicine in the market for your child, because, while that person selling the medicine probably has a good liver (translation – they are a good person), they are not a doctor, and they don’t know what medicine you should take. And kids and adults are not the same and don’t take the same strength of medicine…… and on and on I go.

So, he said to me, “Yes, I will bring you the medicine because it is like this: Usually, the person selling the medicine is like a person with no eyes because he is not educated. And the person buying the medicine is also like a person with no eyes, because they are not educated. So you have two people with no eyes who grab each other’s hands and fall into a hole.” I started to laugh. I said, we have that same saying in our language – the blind leading the blind. It amazed me that the same expressions surfaced – worlds apart.

We have also been amused to discover the expressions they use to excuse themselves because they need to go to the bathroom. I have heard Americans say – “I need to go and talk to a man about a dog(or horse)”. Our friends here might say, “I need to go greet my in-laws.” Our guard told us the other day when he returned from the bathroom “Sorry, I had to go and post a letter.”
They can also be very emphatic about things. I treated a little girl the other day and I told the dad that I wanted him to bring her back in a few days so I could see if she was better. He looked at me and said, “If I am NOT dead, I will be back in a few days. If I am not DEAD, I will be here.” I thought, alrighty then. I guess that is about all I can ask for, isn’t it?

Medical cases always bring new expressions too.

If a person has diarrhea, they will say that their bellies are running. I have been told that people have things “walking” in their bellies or “snakes” in there. If a baby has an ear infection, they will come complaining that the mom’s breast is coming out of the child’s ear – for which our teammates coined the term “nipplitis”. (The explanation is that the infection is usually so bad that there is pus draining from the ear, which looks like breast milk, thus the mom’s nipple has fallen into the ear.)

And so goes the school of language and culture. It keeps us on our toes and certainly keeps us humble.

When will she ever learn????????

2010-02-03T17:59:00.000-02:00

I got that look again last weekend. I get it on a regular basis since I have moved here. It is a sad, kind of pitying look – a kind of unbelief that fills people’s eyes as they contemplate how someone who is at least somewhat educated (enough to be a “doctor”) could have made it this far in life without some basic knowledge of how to survive. This week, it was about cassava…….

Cassava is a root vegetable that is similar in texture (but not taste) to a potato and is widely eaten here. It can be boiled, or eaten raw. It can also be dried and then eaten like that (kind of like gnawing on chalk) or pounded and made into powder, then added to water and eaten as a glue-like porridge. The skin is poisonous and has to be removed before eating. It has hardly any nutritional value – but can be filling. The only way I like it is boiled and then served with butter and salt. We are offered it often(raw) and the nationals are always amazed that we eat it. Since I don’t personally know how to cook it, last week I asked my dish lady to cook some that I had been given so we could eat it. She looked at me and said, “Is it the kind that can be cooked?”. Obviously, I had a dumb look on my face because she went on to say, “You know, Gulun-nga, not all cassava can be cooked.” Another dumb look on my part. “Did you ask the people that gave it to you if it could be cooked?” she asked in a patient tone. I hung my head and shook it. Trying to redeem myself, I said “Wait.” and ran inside to get it for her to look at, thinking that maybe she could tell by the look (even though it all looks the same to me). No luck. You can’t tell by looking at it – only by knowing the kind you planted. So I gave it to her to keep and dry, and she walked away, kind of smiling to herself – that sad, pitying smile that tells me she is wondering how I manage to survive.

I have gotten that look before – when people ask me if I have a peanut or rice farm (I have planted peanuts and harvested rice a few times (for a few hours) –though would be hard pressed to feed my family at it), if I can beat and fan rice (which I can’t without spilling it everywhere), or if I can carry water on my head (which I couldn’t if my life depended on it – at least not without holding on to the bucket and spilling more than half before I got to my destination! – unlike my friends, who, along with their kids, heft large, open tubs and buckets of water onto their heads with no effort and trot off down the path without even looking – and they rarely fall – amazing!). As a side note – I have often wondered why these little African girls can carry water on their heads without spilling. Is it genetic or is it training from a young age- or is it both????? But I digress –

Washing clothes is another of my downfalls. Since we only recently (last week) brought our washing machine to the new house, most of my laundry is done by my friend who schleps it off in a big laundry tub on her head three times a week. She washes it with bar soap made in the country and scrubs the life out of them on an old time wash board – which does NOTHING to extend the life of the clothing. She loves the money she makes, and I love having clean clothes. I do miss the smell of Tide, though, I must confess, and am thankful that it is dry season so she can no longer wash them in the river/swamp (there was definitely NO clean smell of Tide there!) Now she does them in the well water at her house. Anyway, I occasionally wash things out by hand – delicate things, unmentionables, etc – which I would like to survive more than a few months. So, I was in the process of washing some items the other day and my dish lady was again watching me. I basically put soap in the water and on the garment and scrub it between my hands for a while. None of it was drastically dirty. But she was fascinated. I scrubbed for a little while and then decided to call it good. “You don’t know how to wash clothes, do you?” she asks. “Yes, I do. This is getting clean,” I retort. “Are you finished already?” she wondered. Embarrassed, I said, “Of course not.” And went back to my scrubbing. Thankfully she left soon after that - sad smile of pity in place -and I stopped with my scrubbing and rinsed and hung them.

Basically, I am fairly useless in all things that it takes to survive here in the bush of Africa. They don’t even think I know how to cook, since I give away all of my jars and tins cans (village recycling) and they think that EVERYTHING we eat comes out of those. When I think about it, just about every meal involves something that started in a can or jar – veggies or tomatoes or mayo or a sauce or oatmeal or jelly or peanut butter. But I chuckle to myself when they say I don’t know how to cook, because I think of how time consuming cooking is in my day here in Africa – and how easy it is to cook in the US. And I think, if you only knew…………

But , bless their hearts, they seem to love me anyway and trust me to take care of their kids. I may not know how to grill peanuts, but I can treat a baby with malaria. I may not know how to beat rice or wash large piles of clothes by hand, but I can deliver babies and clean and bandage wounds. So maybe, just maybe, there is hope for me yet.

What's In A Name?

2010-01-04T23:34:00.000-02:00

I was contemplating names the other day, and I realized that I go by many. I did have a nickname as a child – I won’t tell you what it was. :^) My mom still calls me by that occasionally. Of course, I have gone by Dawn as long as I can remember. :^) In 1992, I added the name “wife” to the list, though Jim does not generally use that when he needs me for something. :^) I am not sure I could respond well to “WIFE – come here!” In 1995, I added the name Mommy – which morphed into Mom and now occasionally (by the boys) Mere –which is the French version. Upon entering Guinea, “Madame Anderson” was added as the formal, respectful French name for a married woman. As I entered the village, I acquired 3 new names. I am referred to by the nationals as either “doctor” or “Gulun Nga” (twin mom) or Madame. Recently, since the boys are getting taller than me – they refer to me as gbo-nga (the big kids mom ) as they have nicknamed the boys “gbo.” (In Yalunka culture, you are referred to as the mom of your first born – kind of like saying – oh, you are so and so’s mom.)

Over the radio by my teammates, I am referred to as GKB (formerly as Niaya) Dawn to distinguish me from Soulemania Dawn (Cluckie). And my teammates kids call me “Aunt Dawn.” Of course, this summer, when my “official” blood niece called me Aunt Dawn for the first time, it was an incredibly sweet sound and will still get the child just about anything she wants!

Three years ago, I also added “n to” (pronounced with a long “o” sound) to my names, which means “my namesake” and my little namesake loves to call to me as she runs up for me to hold her. Her mom told me the other day that she tells everyone that her “to” moved to GKB.

One other name that I love is when I am called “mom” or “mommy” by our 60ish year old chauffer, Mr. Bah. He refers to all of the team women that way as a sign of respect and it is very sweet. When I call him, he answers with “yes, Mom” and it brings a smile to my face. And then a few weeks ago, our mason, Frigi, whom we have work with for almost 2 years and is one of my favorite Guineans, started calling me “n na” – my mom. He said I have become his mom now. It was very sweet as well.

My contemplating left me very thankful that I have avenues into each of these “segments” of life that have bestowed different names on me. Occasionally, on a bad day, though, you might find me hiding in response to one of those names being called out loud – especially if it is the 10th or 12th time I have been called in a very short time. But generally, I love them all.

Well it is that time of year again. . . Christmas and New Years parties and Female Circumcision?

2010-01-01T17:31:00.003-02:00

Unfortunately, in the part of the world where we live, those all seem to go together. Since this is read by many people of various ages and walks of life, I will spare you the details of the whole event, which are gruesome, in my opinion. Suffice it to say that female circumcision is widely practiced here, even though declared illegal by the government.

Much of my understanding of the process has brought a great amount of frustration and anger. I have a limited knowledge of the beginnings of the tradition, except that is was started to prevent women from having the desire to cheat on their husbands. Of course, that was many years ago and it has evolved into a “coming of age” type of ceremony. It is practiced by women on girls between 11 and 14. (As a side note, boys are circumcised at the same age as a passage into manhood.) As I stated, I felt only anger about the “tradition”, which leads to a lot of complication in childbirth, both for mom and baby.

In the old village, most people knew how we “white” people felt about the whole thing – and usually avoid talking about it with me – though I did have a few close women friends who would discuss it. I, of course, knew the subject would come up in the new village, and wondered how best to approach it. I hate the practice, but also realize that I am a guest in this country and need to conduct myself in that manner. Two days ago, I heard the dancing and the partying and the gun shots that signify something big is happening in the village and I wondered if it was that time of year. Indeed, Monday morning, I saw numerous women walking back and forth on the path behind our house and I knew what was happening.

My opportunity came just a little while later as I chatted with some of my new friends. I started by asking what was going on and went on to explain that “white doctors” and many African women from other countries do not believe in the practice because it can lead to problems with childbirth (also due to a host of other reasons that I could never begin to explain in another language.) They just smiled, and said they had heard that on the radio as well. They laughed and said, yes, those girls are in pain now, because it hurts so much. That made me mad. Why would you laugh about that? If you had been subjected to that as a girl (the girls have no idea what is going to happen to them), why would you do the same thing to your daughter?

While I feel anger about the whole thing, I also am drawn to watching the whole scene (not the actual ceremony but the events surrounding it). I suppose it is a bit of a morbid fascination, like rubber-necking at a car accident. I watch the women dancing and singing and celebrating, and I realize that they have no clue about the complications that can follow. They are simply celebrating woman hood. Secretly, there have been times when I wished a lot of girls would have immediate complications, so I could point out exactly why I hate the practice (not because I want the girls to be hurt, of course.) Saying that it complicates childbirth is just too vague and with consequences too far away – especially in a fatalistic society where everything that happens is just chance. They were even so pleased about the whole event that they brought the “practitioners” who perform the ceremony to meet me.

And last year, I was shown another side, when one of my best friends in the old village had her daughter circumcised (one of Hannah’s friends). She was terrified for her daughter but saw no alternative if her daughter wanted to get married some day. It is the only way they know for a girl to become a woman in this society.

And so, on I go, educating when I can, and praying for understanding for the women and praying even more for the little girls. Maybe, just maybe, in my lifetime, there will be another way for the women to feel that their daughters can become women.

One Man's Trash

2009-12-11T14:07:00.002-02:00

One thing that amazes me here in Africa is that very little gets wasted. That is a great thing because waste is one thing that nearly makes me insane in the US. We can hardly stand to know how much grocery stores and restaurants throw away, as we watch people go hungry here in the village. So that is one blessing here in Guinea. I rarely throw food away. Even when I cook chickens, people want the broth and bones to use for their rice and sauce. Of course, it took me a little while to feel comfortable offering that to people – but they love it and the broth contains great nutrients for their kids.

But even beyond food, many things we would dispose of in the US gets passed right out my back door. Almost everything gets snatched up. Cardboard boxes – you bet. Batteries that you think are too dead to use – I have many takers. My national friends tell me that they don’t consider a battery dead until “water” is leaking out. 2 -3 inch pieces of glass that we cut to make the windows fit – they are destined to be glass for picture frames. Tin cans – play things and “cooking pots” for little kids. Glass jars – women love them to put oil and salt in. Plastic jugs become new water bottles. Old bike tires – the tube can be cut into strips for tying things and the outside becomes a “car” for a little boy to roll down a path. Old clothes – hand them out. Someone will use them. Big plastic bags become rain slickers for kids or mattress protectors from bed wetters. Fuzzy toilet lid cover – voila – a new hat. The village doctor loves the kid’s old school papers to wrap medicine in. And when you buy bread o the street, it comes wrapped in torn pieces of cement bags.

OF course, there is a limit. Old, used medical gloves become a new balloon. I really try to stop that but the kids break the locks on the trash pits and dig them out to play with them. The concept of germs is just not happening. Even old pregnancy tests become play things – I am sure it puzzles them why the white woman gets really FUSSY when she sees those in their hands and takes away their newly acquired toys!

I am sure we are a mystery to the villagers – giving away perfectly good tins and jars and batteries. But in the end, everyone is happy and we have no landfills here. It is recycling at this best!

If you're going to the bank, take a trunk full of patience. . . .

2009-12-11T13:51:00.002-02:00

Our team does not have a business manager, so each of us take turns going to CKY to accomplish the business that needs to be done. One of our tasks this time in CKY as to sign up to be signatories at the bank. We need a bank account to make wire transfers from the US so we can have money here in country. We recently decided to open an account at a new bank, as we were fairly unimpressed by the service at the other one. The whole process was started in October by our teammate, Jeremy, who made 8 trips to the bank to set up the account, and then one more to pick up money (where he waited for 5 hours). Keep in mind that each of the first 8 trips had to be made to the downtown bank, which takes an hour to get to – so each trip takes up 2 hours of time, without counting time even entering the bank for any business to be accomplished. When you enter the downtown bank, there are literally hundreds of people waiting in many lines. It is a sight to behold.

So, off we went. The first trip went fairly smoothly. We were asked to wait in the wrong line at first, but quickly discovered the mistake. Then we finally found the woman we were looking for – a Guinean woman who had spent 11 years in Houston studying and working. She was awesome (truthfully, we began losing sympathy for Jeremy since we knew he had been able to work through her – though the sympathy quickly returned on subsequent trips.) So, on the first trip, we were able to officially turn in our signatures so that we could have access to the money and business at the bank. Unfortunately, it takes 24 hours for us to become official, so we needed to return the next day to request that our money be transferred from US dollars to Guinean Francs. They said that the cash would be available that afternoon for us after making the request. We also needed to pick up checks for the account.

No problem, we said, we will be back tomorrow. So, the next morning, off we went for the second trip to the bank. As we got downtown, we called our contact to let her know we were almost there. She was not at the bank yet, but said she would arrive within an hour and would call us. After about 1 ½ hours, we called her. No, she said, don’t come yet because the man who has our checks was alone at his post and could not leave to get them – wait a little while. No problem, we said, and finished up some shopping. An hour later, we called again – no, still not ready – call soon. So we grabbed some lunch on the street and called again to say we were coming. No problem, she said. We arrived to find that she had left for lunch but had left our stuff with another woman. So, we signed a paper requesting that we be able to make transfer requests by email, and then picked up the checks and then officially requested that the money be transferred to our franc account.

No problem, they said. But, unfortunately, the system is down so the money request will not go through today. Come back tomorrow.

Well, we needed to take Brad down to do an early check in at the airline, so we said, sure, we will come tomorrow. What do we need to bring? Just your ID and that transfer slip you just filled out – and go to register #6. No problem, I said.

So, for the third day in a row, I headed back downtown – this time taking Brad and the boys as bodyguards. :^) (Jim needed to do some work at the house). We arrived at the bank, waited in line at register #6 for while and finally it was our turn. Communicating in French through bullet proof glass in a lobby filled with hundreds of people is a bit of a challenge – I must warn you if you are ever forced into that situation. Here is what our conversation went like:

So, can I have my money????

Well, no, but thank you for asking. It would seem that the money IS here but not officially authorized, so go and see a man on the second floor. And, by the way, why did you come to register #6, this is the wrong place….

So, off we went to the second floor, but alas, the person we were to ask for was not in. So, I called my contact upstairs for help. Finally we got to the right place and was told that I could withdraw the money – but I needed my checkbook – which I did not bring with me because I was told I did not need it. Sorry – no money for you today!! However, if we wanted to go to the branch closer to our house, we could get the checks from home and go and try there.

Okay, so off we went. Honestly, we were little nervous about withdrawing large sums of money at the branch close to our house because many people know where we live and it seems fairly obvious when you stagger out of the bank with backpacks full of money what you are doing and it seems like it makes you a little bit of a target for robbery. But, we were left with no choice. So, we returned home and picked up the checks and Brad, Kaleb and I took off for the bank. We arrived to find a lobby full of people – most looked comatose, like they had been there for a while. We finally got help to fill out the check and then took a number. We were number 820. The were serving number 706 – and in the 25 minutes that we took to figure out how to write a check, they had served 2 people. Not a good sign!!!

So, we settle in to make ourselves comfortable. Brad even had a quick snooze. One hour passed, and we were approaching two hours. I think we were around customer number 711 by this point. I called my contact downtown and said, Listen, I am happy to wait my turn (actually that was kind of a lie, but I was trying…) but I don’t want to wait for 3, 4,or 5 hours to get to the counter and be told that there was no more money (it has happened to a fellow missionary) so is there someone you can check with to make sure that the money is here? So she asked to talk with a bank employee, who then passed the phone off to another bank employee. I was assured that the money would be there. And then the woman disappeared with my phone. Finally, they closed the big metal doors –locking in those who had already arrived and barring more customers from coming in as the bank was closing (no doubt a fire hazard, but no one seemed concerned.)

Unbeknownst to me, Jim started calling my cell phone and it was being answered by the bank employee, who denied knowing me (since she did not receive the phone from me, she thought it was a bank phone.) He began to panic, thinking that I had lost my phone or had been robbed, so he dropped everything he was doing and rushed to the bank, only to find it locked down. Eventually, he was directed to the back entrance, where he found Brad, Kaleb, and I half comatose from waiting………. I am pretty sure that shaved about 5 years off his life. :^( So we sent Brad and Kaleb home and Jim settled in to wait with me. I was getting a little nervous as we needed to get Brad to the airport, but I was working on NOT getting worked up. After about 2 ½ hours, our downtown contact called to see if we had gotten the money. No, I reported, there were still around 30 people ahead of us (we were only on number 718 but a lot of people had given up and left (or perhaps they were dead of boredom and not answering when their number was called!) They were serving approximately 5 people an hour, so it was going to be a while. She must have made a phone call, because we suddenly got service and loaded up our backpacks and were out the door in 10 minutes – with all of the money and the exact denominations we had asked for. Amazing!!!

I spent most of those 3 days muttering 2 things under my breath

1. How do missionaries survive here in CKY???

2. We need a business manager (which, by the way, we have a family approved and raising support!!!!).

Oh, Africa!

School Canceled for a Python Hunt?

2009-11-11T16:53:00.002-02:00

You know, homeschooling in West Africa, we just don’t get snow days or fog delays. School rarely gets cancelled. But last Wednesday, we had a exception. Our friend, Mordica, came to tell us that there was a python caught in a fish trap at a farm. His question was two-fold: Did the boys want the skull (they had asked about one before) and could they come and kill it with their gun? Apparently, people had tried to kill it but every time they got near it, the python would raise its head and hiss loudly, so no one was willing to get close to it with a cutlass. The kids looked at me with those big eyes, filled with longing for an adventure (and any excuse to get out of school.) I was poised to say “no”, and then I thought, “Really, what is the fun of living in West Africa if you can’t enjoy the exotic moments sometimes?” So, off Jim and Brad went, with the boys and Hannah in tow – Kaleb with his .22 slung over his shoulder.

Apparently, they drove a rather long way on a path (the farther from my house the better, I say) and then walked to a river where there was a wooden fence down in the water and a net to trap fish. As they waded across the top of the fence and approached, the python raise up out of the water at them. Kaleb shot it in the head and then they freed it from the net and returned home. The whole event took several hours. As I waited at home, I was trying to figure out when to start worrying about them and wondered how my grandmother must have felt as she watched my grandpa go off to hunt elephants and lions and probably didn’t hear from him for days. I decided I had nothing to compare it too.

Finally, the triumphant hunters returned, with an 8 foot 2 inch python in tow. According to Mordica, that is just a baby and the mom is out there somewhere. A friend from the village came and helped skin it and they nailed the skin to dry on a board.

In the end, after hearing the story, I was more worried about the water they were wading in and what parasites might be in there than I was about the snake.

So, I thought, that would make an interesting blog posting. Then, last night, Kaleb and Jim went off on a mini-hunt behind our house. Not too long after they left, we heard 2 shots with the .22. I thought perhaps they had killed a pigeon or a bush fowl to share with an old lady in the village. They returned and Jim called me out on the porch. Kaleb, with a big smile, tossed the carcass of a 6 foot python in front of me. It had gotten itself trapped in a fish net in the river behind our house. In chatting with our friends today, they gave me some good news and some bad news. The good news was that people had seen a big snake out in the river and were afraid to go and wash their clothes there. So, Kaleb assisted in removing that fear (if that was the snake they had seen.) The bad news was that there are apparently a LOT of pythons in the area. NICE……….. I am a little worried about our cats. Perhaps to trap them, I should hang fish nets around our house. . . as opposed to wearing fish net stockings, which would be most uncomfortable in the African heat. :^) Never a dull moment………..

Thankful

2009-10-22T16:44:00.004-02:00

The other evening, I was contemplating the things I was MOST thankful for at that moment. There are many things, obviously, but here are the things that came to mind yesterday:

1. I am thankful for indoor plumbing. We now have a toilet in the house – it has to be flushed with a bucket, but it works SO much better than the hole in the back yard surrounded by VERY tall grass and insects and ??????

2. A shower in the house – before we started using the shower, we were bathing in the back yard – either at dusk, with a big chance of being seen – with those very WHITE bodies, or after dark, when you were possibly washing beside snaky kinds of creatures.

3. I am thankful for a lady in town who is willing to wash our clothes by hand. I had to do a few things the other day and about died, I was so tired (shows how wimpy I am.) I am hanging some things on a clothes line, but most are hung of the stick fence on our backyard. We do have to be careful when putting on the clothes and watch for splinters (we are vigilant with those underwear!)

4. I am thankful for Brad, who seems to be able to tackle just about any job we give him – and does it well and without complaining. He has been a great addition to our family and we are thinking about keeping him forever. It has been fun to see his personality emerge the more he gets used to us (I hope he can say the same thing about us???)

5. I am thankful for my husband – who works tirelessly every day. The man just won’t stop. He is so great about thanking me for the work and so thankful to have us all together up there. He goes the extra mile and I am so proud of him.

6. I am thankful for my kids, who are doing a great job of adapting to a less than ideal school and living situation. They are troopers who are working hard to go with the flow in the midst of political unrest and the uncertainty that it brings.

7. Lastly, that day, I was thankful for peanuts. Peanuts, you ask? Yes, I have been receiving pans of peanuts as a “welcome to the community” gift. It is so fun to get to know people and I am touched by the gifts (even though occasionally I feel less thankful than I should since they keep coming and coming an coming.

The Blessing of Uncertainty

2009-10-22T16:42:00.000-02:00

I must start by saying that I am generally a very organized person who likes to have things in a semblance of control in my life. For the most part, I confess, that I operate under the false sense that I have some control over things and I kind of like it that way, if we are being honest. I enjoy it when my life, my house, and my ministry are moving along at a smooth, even pace.

But, there have been significant times in my life, like when we were waiting on visas, or when there is unrest in the country or numerous other times, when I am hit squarely in the face, AGAIN, and reminded that I truly do NOT have control over life and that my only option is to rest in the hands of the One who does have control. I know this happens in many situations, not just mine. A dear friend of mine was just diagnosed with breast cancer. I know other people who have unexpectedly lost loved ones or get a bad diagnosis, and all of those things can make us feel like life is crashing down around me.

Over the last few weeks, as we have watched the situation here with some unease and a small, sick feeling in the pit of our stomachs, I have been reminded over and over again by the Lord that there are blessings to be gained in the midst of uncertain times. I wanted to share a few of them.

First, I think it does me good to remember that, indeed, I am NOT in control. Of course, I say with my mouth that I know that, but sometimes I act like I am the one in control. It is always good when the Lord humbles me and reminds me that He alone holds our future and our family in the palm of His hand.

The second benefit is that it tends to drive me to my knees in prayer. Daily, sometimes hourly – I am driven before God to beg for His intervention in the situation and for His protection and for an overwhelming sense of His peace! Interestingly, our lesson yesterday, in our missionary ladies Bible study, was about the time when Daniel faced the lion’s den. We are studying with Beth Moore and it could not have been better timed. She shared how in times of crisis, we can react in one of 3 ways – we can panic, we can be paralyzed, or we can pray. It was a good reminder that I need to choose praying always, because that is the only choice with a good outcome.

Another reminder she gave us was to pray with thanksgiving. And so that is what we have been trying to do. And it was great, because I had already come to the point where I could say, “Thank you God, even for uncertain times, because it moves me closer to you!” So, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt, that though I do NOT like those times of unease and stress, God is using them to make me into the person He wants me to be.

Mami Beri

2009-10-14T09:52:00.002-02:00

I have a new friend – her name is Mami Beri. She is probably around 70 years old, though I am not sure she knows for sure. She is a cross between my Grandma Leinbach and Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies. She stands under 5 feet tall, but packs a whole lot into that body. She has just a few teeth, but a LOT of gumption. The first time I met her was when we visited the village here. When we were walking around, they told her that my name was Gulun-nga, which means twin mom. She was thrilled and began to dance around and hug me. We have been fast friends ever since. When I was still in Niaya and Jim was working up here, every day she would ask "Where is your wife? Where is my friend?" One time Mami Beri walked by when Jim had called us on the radio (which she calls a telephone) and so she heard us talking from Niaya. She loves to retell that story:“I walked by and Gulunibaba (Jim) was calling you on the telephone and I stood there, right there, and heard you talking on the telephone.”

She was very pleased last year to be able to meet my parents and still talks about them. She loves the kids. In fact she loves the whole family and was very excited the other night when we went to her house for the first time to visit.

You do NOT, however, want to get on her bad side. Often, we can hear her yelling or grumbling or cursing at her cows or goats as she tries to move them from place to place. And recently she laid a plaint on a man (took him to court, basically) who would not tie his cows up like he was supposed to.

She says she is too old to work anymore – but she spends her days caring for her cows out in the field. Sunday, she was carrying a big bucket of water out to one of her cows with a hurt leg.

Last night, I went to visit her and she walked me home. We arrived home to find Brad and the boys kicking the soccer ball around. They kicked it in our direction and she took off running. She kicked the ball back to the boys. It was great. She dropped me off and got ready to walk home and went back after the soccer ball. I was able to catch it on video.

I am hoping and praying that, because we are here, Mami Beri will have the chance to know Jesus and then you will be able to meet her some day in heaven.

Just look for the little fireball ordering people around or kicking a soccer ball and you will have the right one.

Laundry Secrets

2009-09-17T13:14:00.002-02:00

I THINK I have figured it out – the whole laundry guessing game. Since I know this will be very useful information in the US, thought I would pass it on.

Here is the secret. To hang the laundry on the line, the kind of day you are looking for starts out overcast and even with sprinkles. If you see big thunder clouds, don’t panic. Go ahead and hang the clothes, even if it is sprinkling. Be strong. Resist the urge to pull the clothes off even if the rain picks up a little. So far, I am about 6 for 6 on getting dry clothes at the end of those days.

If, however, you look outside and see sunshine, do not, I repeat, do not do laundry. You are nearly guaranteed a free second and third rinse cycle.

Just wanted to let you know – no use keeping all that great information to myself!

To help or not to help. . . that is the question

2009-09-15T14:12:00.003-02:00

Subtitle: Confessions of a Confused Missionary

Disclaimer: For those of you who don’t know us well and harbor the idea that missionaries are saints who have all the answers and would like to preserve those beliefs, you may need to stop reading because this may destroy that belief. For those of you who know us well, you already know that we are not saints who have it all together so you may continue.

There are MANY great things about ministering in Africa - too numerous to count actually. One of those great things is that it is easy to see and help meet people’s felt needs. This is obviously different than parts of Europe or the US, where most people are fairly self-sufficient, and it can be harder to find an inroad. Almost daily, we are confronted with the opportunity to help people with physical and medical needs. That usually opens up an opportunity to share Jesus’ love and compassion. Sounds too good to be true – and it can be.

I know it sounds confusing – but actually, help of this nature CAN be detrimental sometimes. Let me explain.

Last week, a young mom came to me with a set of 1 month old twin boys. They are beautiful and pretty healthy. Here is her need: she delivered the babies at her house, not at the “hospital” in town or with the midwife. For years, we nurses and the health care people in town have been strongly encouraging women to NOT give birth at home due to the very increased risk of neonatal tetanus from dirty knives and cow dung/mud floors. There are numerous reasons a woman would prefer to deliver at home or maybe she can’t walk to the hospital while in labor (as claimed by this woman who says she didn’t know she was in labor until the babies popped out).

Due to 2 recent cases of infant death from tetanus, the head medical person in the area has imposed a tax of 3 times the amount of money if you deliver at home instead of with the midwife or doctor. You have to pay this money in order to receive a carnet (medical form) that allows your kids to get vaccines. (Incidentally, for no reason that anyone can explain to me, it costs more to deliver a boy than a girl. And no, there is no circumcision at birth that would explain it. But that is another story altogether.)

She came asking for me to pay the fees so her babies can get vaccinated. Well, on the surface, that seems simple. I should help her. But, what does that say to the other women in the village – just have your babies at home, tell Madame that you didn’t know you were in labor, and she will help you? How do I say yes to one person and not the next? If it doesn’t cost her anything, what will stop her from delivering her next baby at home, thus putting her baby at risk? What would the head medical guy have to say if it looks like his solution was being by-passed? Also, where is the father of the twins? Why is he not helping? According to mom, the dad left a few months back and left no money for her to help with the birth or her other child. If I step in, how will that help him learn responsibility the next time? I could go on and on.

What about a sick person? When do we step in with money to help and when do we make the family take responsibility? If the money is provided and costs them nothing, many times they are not careful how it is spent. Or they take the money to buy food or new clothes and let the sick person suffer or die. That makes it difficult to know how best to proceed.

Another factor is that is it often difficult to know what the actual need is. In Western society, we tend to hide our needs, proud that we are self-sufficient. In a third world culture, people tend to hide their strengths and show you their weaknesses. They don’t expect you to meet all that they demand, just a part. In a sense, without asking, they already have a “no” so it doesn’t hurt to try for a “yes”. Often, we have seen or heard of people who will not sell livestock or possessions to gain money to help a sick person get well, but once that person dies, they sell off a cow or something to pay for sacrifices and funeral expenses.

There have been many times we have been “burned” – giving money to help medically and having the person show up with a new outfit, but still sick. Or being told that there is NO money in the house for food, but seeing that same person wearing a new pair of shoes purchased in the market the next day.

Several times we have refused to help someone and later the person figured out a way to get what they needed without our help, increasing their self-esteem. There have also been MANY times that we know if we had not stepped in, the person would have died.

All of that leaves us daily asking God for wisdom to know when we should help and when we should step back. We know we will make mistakes, but we try to rest in knowing that we need to ask for wisdom, and then follow what He tells us to do. Come to think of it – that is probably exactly where He wants us!

Reflections on Rainy Season

2009-08-26T15:33:00.000-02:00

Living in the US, I forgot how much rain effects our life here. In the US, for most people, it might cancel a day of work or mess up plans for an outdoor adventure. (Granted, there are such things as floods that REALLY affect people’s lives, but, for the MOST part, rain is merely an inconvenience.)

We returned during rainy season and I am quickly remembering the reasons that rainy season REALLY irritates me! Lest I sound crabby, bear with me while I explain.

1. Rainy season turns every laundry day into a guessing game where you watch the sky. Trying to look at the sky before you decide to do laundry is pointless, unless it is pouring at that moment. What looks like an overcast, cloudy sky can be a day of cool breezes that never brings rain. Conversely, a sunny day can turn to a downpour within 2 minutes. It is probably better that people cannot hear what I am muttering (or perhaps yelling) as I am scrambling to pull down clothes in time to preserve any semblance of dryness that was there. I do want to maintain that saintly image I have going. So far, of the 3 days I have done laundry in the village, the rain is winning 2 – 1. (The day I "won" I just decided not to chance it and hung the clothes up in the bat filled attic).

2. Envelopes: I brought note cards and envelopes home with us from the States. Hannah and I worked for a long time today, lining the sticky part of the envelopes with waxed paper. Having only been in the country 2 weeks, there were a few that we could not salvage.

3. Boxes of matches left on the counter are pretty much useless after a few days. It can take 4 or 5 matches until you get one dry enough to light a fire.

4. Same thing with salt. If you sit with a bunch of missionaries at a dinner table, you are likely to hear "shake, whack, shake, whack, whack, shake, whack" until the person decides they have gotten enough salt from the shaker or their arm has fallen off from the effort.

5. The dampness also seeps into the wood of the doors, causing them to swell, so they are difficult to open and close. I guess the good thing is that if you are in a hurry to get to the bathroom, you don’t have to pause to lock the door – just push hard and it stays!

6. Mold, mold everywhere! Though it is better at our house now because the shutters are open and I attack it daily.

7. Driver ants: Now is the season for these little black ants that tromp across the land, biting and destroying many things. They have been known to eat a chicken and leave nothing but the bones. Lots of water also tends to drive scorpions out of their holes. Water is no obstacle for the driver ants, though. Check out this video!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBTjQMtbViU

8. Lots of tall grass that makes it much harder to see those nasty snakes!

9. You can’t check email with the sattelite modem when it is raining.

10. Did I mention how much I hate it when it rains on my drying laundry???????

On the upside, there are a few good things about rainy season:

1. You don’t have to worry about conserving water. There is always plenty more where that came from.

2. It means that people can plant their rice, which means they will have something to eat.

3. Hannah loves playing in the 55 gallon drum where we catch water for laundry.

4. There is NOTHING like crawling into bed, snuggling under the covers, and listening to the rain beat down on the tin roof!

On the Road Again

2009-08-16T21:36:00.000-02:00

Well, we are ready to take off tomorrow for home but, of course, traveling is no easy task in West Africa. It involves a whole lot of planning and work and sweat. We spent 2 days shopping for ourselves, a little for our teammates and for the house. Since we cannot buy much upcountry, we need many supplies. It often reminds me (in a small way) of what the pioneers went through. After shopping, almost everything is packed into trunks for easier packing in the truck. After I have finished that, Jim and the boys arrange it in the truck. Today, all of the loading took place in the rain.

Besides groceries, we usually take a case or two of pop, several bottles of propane (so we can run our stove), building supplies and extra fuel for the vehicles in case the stations are out. We usually have two coolers of cold stuff and bags of clean and dirty clothes and dirty linens from the beds we slept in for us to wash and return at a later date. The day before we leave, I head out to the market to purchase fruits and vegetables.

Besides all of that, we need food and water for the road (since Subway is in short supply here) and TP for those roadside pit stops. We also need an “ordre de mission”, a paper giving us permission to travel in the country. We also need money to buy gas and other things on the way – 500,000fg will usually do.

This trip Mr. Bah, our chauffeur, will be driving the van as well, since we have more than the normal amount of stuff, having just returned from the US.

The vehicles are mostly loaded. Tomorrow, we will throw in the cooler stuff, the veggies, the carry-ons, and all those little bags of stuff that seem to multiply. We will shut off the water, lock down the guesthouse, and take off. We will probably pass through 7 – 10 police/army barricades on our 8 – 10 hour trip. We have a place we usually stop to buy pineapples and watermelon (in season) but for the most part, we just try to keep going. We are so excited about getting home.

Shopping

2009-08-16T21:34:00.000-02:00

I am an experienced shopper in Conakry now, but since I was recently spoiled for a few months with Wal-Mart and Kroger’s I just have to share what my past 2 days of shopping have been like. Thankfully, I had the foresight to leave a list behind, knowing that I would forget what I left behind in the village. So, Friday morning Mr. Bah, our chauffeur, and I took off. (I would love to explain all the reasons why we need a chauffeur and how he is so much more than just a chauffeur, but that is for another time.)

It took us over an hour to drive downtown due to traffic. I then shopped at my 2 favorite stores which are right across the street from each other. The shelves were fairly well stocked, which was great. The problem is that I never know which store will have what, and at the better price. I might find powdered sugar at only one store (and then not again for 6 months) or it might be at every store I go to. I found a jar of Jif peanut butter for about $15. I didn’t buy it, though I was begrudging my $2 jar that the customs man took from me!.

Shopping here is, to say the very least, random! (As my teammate Dawn Cluckie said, it really would be best to go to all of the 5 or 6 stores that we usually shop at to price everything and then go back to buy, but that is just not feasible. It would add a day to the shopping experience.) We stopped at another store where I can buy cheese at a decent price. Mozzarella was only about $10/lb. Then I went to another store to order meat. (We don’t know if there will be a warthog available when we get home or if we will have time to butcher it.)

Today, we shopped again in the rain. You can keep your head dry by carrying an umbrella, but slugging through the market sewer water pathways just makes me cringe. Makes me want to go home and take a de-wormer. In the market, I haggled over prices for medicine and IV fluids to take back up to the village and then off we went to the pharmacy. I found 2 things I was looking for there that weren’t available in the market. Then off to another store that you almost have to experience to believe.

You walk in and 2 feet from the door you bump into a counter where most people come and ask for what they want and have it handed to them. We usually buy so much that the owner allows us to squeeze through the 18 inch opening and go behind the counter. Two feet behind the counter there are 2 ½ aisles – each about 2 feet wide (that may be stretching it) with shelves that are piled floor to ceiling with stuff. Behind the counter and in the aisles with you are 5-7 people who work at the store. Eight feet into the store it narrows so there is only 1 aisle that squeezes into a back room. When the electricity is off, they give you a flashlight to see.

I know there must be rats in there, but there are usually cats around, too. The thing about this place is that it is fairly randomly arranged. I can tell that the thought was to put like items together, but then whatever didn’t fit on the shelves just gets put anywhere. Usually, one of the boys working there helps and carries the stuff I want up to the counter until it is a heaping pile. They are usually very helpful and scale the shelves to get stuff down from the top or run off to another store house if what I want is not there. Then we need to add up the price so the boy helping me will call out the items: “10 rolls of toilet paper!” and the guy calculates it in his head “100,000 fg.” (equal to about $20) and then adds it into the calculator and on we go, usually reaching 1.5 to 3 million franc by the time I am done. All the while we are adding, there are 3 to 10 customers asking for things and trying to pay because they certainly don’t want to wait for my order when they only have a few things. (This is not unlike having 5 things in your cart and being behind the person who can’t see over the top of their cart because of all the food!).

The two brothers who own the store are fun to be around and usually give Mr. Bah and me free pop. :^) We made several other stops: to buy screen for the house, to pick up stuff for teammates, to buy rabies vaccines for the cats, to pick up the meat order (which had been packaged for me in 1 pound baggies and frozen flat so they would fit well in a cooler. Isn’t that great service!!!) and to check one other store that has way high prices but randomly marks things 60 to 80 percent off, which I can then afford.

We arrived home and carted it all up to the apartment so I could throw stuff in the freezer and repack everything into trunks for easier hauling upcountry. Despite it all, it felt good to be back! Who needs consistent prices and conveyer belts and wide aisles and carts and clean floors, anyway? That takes all the adventure out of it!

The Trip Home: The Endless Journey

2009-08-16T14:47:00.000-02:00

Our trip back home was filled with excitement – and a lot of stretching emotionally. We spent the night in Indy at a hotel with Gary and Jean (Jim’s parents) and were able to have supper with them and my mom and dad as well. Tuesday morning – we were up and excited to go. Off we went to the airport, dragging 14 trunks and 10 VERY heavy carry-ons (yes, the boys did have those 10 pounds of cheese). We checked in and went thru security, tripped up for a few minutes by the cheese and some summer sausage, which they let pass) and some peanut butter (which they did not). Thankfully, that was rescued by the Kansas grandparents, who are no doubt enjoying it on toast now. SO much for my in-country breakfast menu. . . .

We hung out and then flew to Atlanta, where we ate a final salad (and drank that last iced tea) at TGIFriday’s and boarded the plane for Brussels. The flight was LONG (about 8 hours) but no one was very tired, since it was only 2 am when we arrived. By this point, I am usually feeling a little punchy. Too little sleep, too much time sitting, too much food at weird hours. . . . We arrived in Brussels at 8:30am (around 2:30 am our body time) and transferred to our gate, passing through security again where we were tripped up for a few minutes by a rope the boys had a the bottom of their backpack (it took a few minutes to verify that it was legal and not a lethal weapon) and some shampoo bottles that had to be measured to verify that they were indeed under 3 ounces. There we sat and slept, blissfully unaware that our baggage was being piled up somewhere and forgotten, since the Indy guy never checked it all the way through, like he was supposed to. (Good thing I am not bitter.)

We boarded the plane for CKY and tried to settle in. By this time, we were definitely tired, but sleep on an airplane is hard to come by. We were seated in front of a very nice Lebanese family with 2 small children. Hannah played with the kids while she was not sleeping. Thankfully, the flight was not super full and we were able to stretch out some. We landed in Dakar to off-load passengers and the pilot reported a problem with one of the generators, but said they had parts and a mechanic there so not to worry. We were on the ground for about 2 ½ hours during which we loaded a few more people and then were off again. The flight into CKY from Dakar is only about an hour and 30 minutes and as we started to make our descent into CKY, the pilot announced that we needed to turn around to Dakar, as the problem had returned and there was no one to fix it in CKY. At that point, there was much frustration, because of being so tired and after 2 weeks of being delayed by visa issues and 30 some hours of traveling, we were 30 minutes from home and we had to turn back. OY!!!

They offloaded us at the airport to “wash our faces and hands and relax in the lounge” while they fixed the problem. It was 7 pm at that point. By 11pm, we were told that the problem was not yet fixed and they were going to feed us and take us to a hotel. So, off we went to the restaurant in the airport – dragging those carry-ons up and down stairs until I thought my arm was going to fall off. They finally found seats for everyone and about 40 minutes later, showed up pushing the carts of airline food – which, frankly was a great option because the one plate of food we saw at the place contained a fish (head and all) and I was fairly certain that I could not face that at 11 something at night. They fed us and then transported us to the hotel.

With every move from place to place, there was much pushing and shoving and jockeying for position. It was a little frightening! The hotel was okay – it had electricity and air conditioning and only a few roaches. We fell into bed exhausted and, except for a quick phone call at 8 am to find out about the flight, we slept until 12:30pm. We got up, had lunch that was provided by the airline and then slept a few more hours. The kids swam, we ate supper and then were off to the airport and left after a fairly short wait.

We arrived in CKY at 11:45 pm in the pouring down rain. We have this part down fairly well by now and have a guy who helps us navigate the airport, so, after customs, Hannah and I waited with the large pile of carry-ons while the guys waited for the trunk. And waited. And waited. Pretty soon the airport was empty – not a good sign. We went to fill out a claim – giving the information to a man not used to using the computer program – so he typed n the information and then deleted it and then typed it in and then took it out. By this time, I was near tears again. There was another man who had his luggage gone through and stuff was stolen. He was told “that happens sometimes – it has happened before.” It was probably a good thing that was not me because I probably would have slugged someone.
Bruce was there to meet us. We arrived at the guesthouse and fell into bed. We were blessed by internet access at the guesthouse that allowed us to send a plea to our HQ and Josie to help with the baggage situation – they were wonderful. Thankfully, they all arrived on Saturday.

When it is all said and down, we are no worse for the wear – and will be a little more cautious in the future about checking bags. We even got to meet that great Lebanese family and we hope to contact them when we come back to CKY the next time. We survived another trip to Africa!!! PTL

Contemplating the importance of CHEESE......

2009-08-10T22:41:00.001-02:00

We'll come back soon, you hear!!!!!!

So, the last 24 hours have been filled with all those last minute details - cleaning, giving back things we have borrowed, paying bills, trying to fit in all the little things that we want to take back. Mostly, it all fit but....... there was no space for cheese. Yes, you heard me correctly. Cheese. Why is that important you ask? Well, we have paid over $15 per pound in Guinea, so it is so much cheaper to take it with you.... Tacos and pizza (or at least our versions) are just not the same without cheese. Alas, even with everyone wearing several layers, we were still out of room. But with much cramming and stuffing, tonight we were able to get 10 pounds of cheese in. Whether or not they let us on the plane with the over loaded carry-ons remains to be seen. Last time, they tried to take cheese away from me in Paris - but I am not above pleading with the officials if it calls for that. :^) We will let you know if we make it through - with the cheese intact! Can't wait to set feet on African soil.

Work finishing our new well

2009-08-03T18:40:00.000-02:00

Here are pictures of the final rings being dropped into our new well.

Waiting and Waiting

2009-08-03T18:26:00.000-02:00

It is amazing how a little 3 inch by 2 inch sticker can so disrupt a life...........
We are still in the US - supposedly waiting for the Embassy to get more stickers so Jim and I can get a visa to return to Guinea. The kids already have theirs. We were about 2 hours from walking out of the house to go to Indy when we found out it wasn't going to come through. Honestly, it has been a hard time. The delay is NOT the end of the world, certainly, but it is hard to spend day after day in limbo. Mentally, we are already in Guinea with our teammates and friends there. Physically, we are sitting in Fort Wayne (actually Cleveland at the moment) trying to figure out what to do next.
On the down side, if we don't get those visas this week, we will lose around $12,000 or more in lost tickets and over weight baggage. Also, the work on the house and school stuff will get a little complicated.
On the up side, we have been able to see people and do things that we had missed since we were due to leave last week. We got to go bowling (exciting, I know) and play Rook and Dutch Blitz (I have finally met my match in that game) and the boys and Jim got to fly a little Cessna. Currently, the boys and Jim are hanging out with Grandpa Leinbach. Hannah and I came to Cleveland with Grandma to love on the niece and nephew a little more (and see Glenn and Josie). Now, when Reagan, (2 years), understands something you are saying, she says "Oh, I get you." Cracks me up.
Anyway, we are waiting and praying and trying to rest - all the while anxious to get back to life as we know and love it!!!!

2009-07-26T22:43:00.001-02:00

Saying goodbyes are not fun. We all had to squish Reagan one more time as we left. Of course, at 2, she was not sure what the big deal was and why we were crying!

2009-07-26T22:30:00.000-02:00

Okay, so I am trying to set up a blog in the midst of the craziness that is our life right now! We have spent the last few days trying to make things smaller and lighter weight so everything will fit into trunks and carry-ons. It is unreal how much stuff we accumulated in the past few months and we don't want to leave anything behind because we are going to the land where Walmart does not exist........ Hope they let us on the plane. My plan at this point is to have everyone wear multiple layers of clothing - so if you go to the Indy airport and you see a family of 5 walking stiff legged with their arms straight out to the side, that just might be us!!!!
Still waiting for the visas to arrive so we can leave tomorrow!