We Are NOT In Kansas Anymore

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.

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????????

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?

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?

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

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. . . .

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!