As my airplane made its decent out of the clouds, I could see the landscape below speckled with large and small structures alike, many with 2 spires pointing heavenward. As my airplane neared touch-down I scanned the horizon of my new home for the next year and from the airplane windows alone, I counted more than seven of the structures with minarets. As my airplane taxied toward the airport, mosque after mosque came into full view.
After being picked up by my fellow Advance Team members, we loaded our borrowed sport utility vehicle and slowly made our way through the crazy traffic in town, toward the apartment we were renting. I took in all the sites around me. The streets were lined with liter, motorcycles, market stands, mosques, taxis, goats, wheelbarrows with items for sale, and men in loose, dress like shirts with pants underneath, all topped off with kippah or taqiyah caps; male prayer caps. Scattered amongst the men where women veiled with hijab, or head coverings that coordinated with their brightly colored African fabric dresses. In the crowd, I also picked out a few women shroud in black burqas and a few others with only their dark, forlorn eyes showing through their niqab or face veils. I had arrived in Conakry, Guinea, where the population is roughly 85% Muslim and the remaining 15% a syncretism of Catholic, Christian faith, Traditional African Religion, Fatalism, or Animism.
Everyday I hear the call to prayer and see a host of people in tiny mosques around the city, on the side of the street, or in offices ceremoniously washing their hands, forearms, head, and feet with water in preparation for their 5 times a day prayer rituals. In some areas of the city, around the time of prayer, all activities cease and traffic comes to a standstill as many people prostrate themselves before their god. In a city where there majority of people have no running water in their homes and the water they do have access to is contaminated with bacteria and parasites, I am left with a feeling of confused-frustration as I see people spending the little money they have on bottled or bagged water or their energy on carting bucket after bucket of water from a well to use for a ceremony mandated by their religion.
Over the past few months it has been interesting to enter meetings where those we are meeting with eagerly greet my male colleagues, but when it comes to me, at times I am not given a handshake and my presence isn’t even acknowledged even though I may be leading the meeting. I thrive on the challenge of learning about new cultures and I am embracing the diversity of my new home, but praying for God to make sense of all I am encountering in my life where one of my constant companions remains the consistency of changing geographical locations and encountering clashing worldviews.
As I pass the women enveloped from head to toe, I cannot help but wonder how “she” feels behind the black veil that is heavy upon her and has to be uncomfortably sweltering in the hot African sun. I don’t know why, but I make a point of it to say “Bonjour” to every woman hidden behind the veil of her culture and religion. I never hear “her” answer back, but I persist in my little practice, maybe one born out of my own egocentric opinion that feels “she” has to be angry, alone, or crying out to be acknowledged, but I think it is more than that….
The 9th month of the Islamic Calendar began just a few weeks ago, ushering in Ramadan; a month of fasting from dawn to sunset for many around me. There is a tangible difference in the Conakry air since Ramadan began. The compulsory fasting (even from water) has left many of those I interact with on a daily basis fatigued, irritable, distracted, and challenging to work with. In the middle of important conversations with governmental officials, about immigration, clearing Mercy Ships shipping containers of medical supplies or medications through customs, training of potential surgeons, locating patients desperately needing help, getting visas for the 1,200 Mercy Ships’ crew members that will pass through Guinea in the 10 months the ship is stationed here, those we are conversing will all of a sudden leave our meetings to wash and pray, they fall asleep, or remain so distracted that we end up repeating ourselves multiple times just to get simple points across.
The ship arrives in less than three weeks and it has been interesting to try and coordinate many tasks with touchy, lethargic, and unfocused government officials. Much is to be done and the time frame is critically short. I want to get the million things crossed of my “to-do-list” that remain… but more than that… I want people to know freedom from mandated rituals, spells, charms, and legalistic actions...I want people to know the beauty of grace...and the God who loves the oppressed… lonely… forgotten…and hurt, as well as the proud… popular… famous… and strong…the God who loves all equally, whether rich or poor… healthy or sick… black or white…male or female…
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Sunday, July 15, 2012
pray that his story is not yet finished
His condition left him alone, isolated, in pain, and suffering. He reached out for help, but none was found. He attempted to get help from all the clinics and hospitals in his village, but even their best medical professionals could not even begin to treat his medical ailment. He put an appeal in with the United States Embassy in Conakry, Guinea to get medical emancipation to the USA, but his request was denied. The Embassy staff have reported they get flooded with requests like his and they cannot help everyone. His medical information was handed back over to the Guinea Minister of Health and set aside in a pile with other files like his. He was another statistic, another “one” they could not help, “one” they would try to find help for, and “one” they would see if an NGO could help.
It is uncertain how long his file sat on the Minister of Health’s desk, but at this point, that is not important. One day, some of Mercy Ships’ Advance Team members were sitting in that office and saw the file. The file was passed to them and they assured the Minister of Health that they would pass the information on to Mercy Ships’ Advance Hospital Liaison and see what could be done… His file is in my hands…
I had him on my list of people to contact, but had to prioritize my mountain of work, so was waiting to contact him until closer to the ship’s August arrival. I wanted to connect with him as soon as I heard about his need, but was forced to deal with the reality that I am just one lone nurse here in Guinea, without the ship, I can not really help him, so I put my personal feelings aside and set his file aside as well.
A few weeks later, we were stuck in traffic, which had become a norm, when I heard someone knocking on our, Mercy Ships’ land-rover, window. Assuming the knock came from just another street vendor trying to sell me Kleenex, a belt, or sun glasses, I didn’t pay much attention to the disturbance. The knocking persisted and being all too familiar with the aggressiveness of street salesmen in Africa, I wasn’t bothered to look up. When the knocking failed to cease, I finally looked up. When I looked up, I saw a timid young man, with a soft-ball sized mass protruding off the side of his face. I felt ashamed for ignoring his knocking and immediately switched into nurse mode asking my translator to help me talk to him. I wanted to know every detail about this young man to see if Mercy Ships could help him. I was so excited to have a potential patient in front of me, that I missed hearing my co-workers say, “This is the “one”...we gave you his file…” Slowly, the pieces started coming together in my mind. This was the patient, waiting to hear from me, the patient holding out hope in Mercy Ships, the “one” denied medical emancipation, the “one…”
Anything but a statistic…a fragile, man, not too many years my junior, one desperate for help, stood in front of me. The thought still rushed through my mind, “the ship isn’t here, he needs a CT Scan and an OPG to determine the severity of his tumor, what can I offer him???” I silenced the thoughts in my head and remembered that I could offer him my listening ear, my time, and hopefully, that would mean something.
He got in our land-rover and we headed to a sandwich place for lunch. When we walked into the restaurant, I saw the way others looked at him and I saw the way he tried to shrink and disappear from the room, to not be subject once again to judgmental eyes and critique. I knew it had to be hard for him, but determined to treat him as I saw him, a valuable person, made in the image of God, not a tumor. I wanted him to feel “normal…” whatever that is...
We ordered sandwiches, sodas, and tried to find something on the menu that my potential patient could eat because his tumor had started to take over his ability to eat. He sat quietly at the table, face down, with his ball cap pulled down over his eyes. My co-workers and I chatted about the day ahead and the remaining meetings we had. My potential patient sat starring at this plate, in silence. The situation was less than comfortable, I wanted to ask him a million questions since the moment I met him, but I didn’t want him to feel as if his tumor defined him, but at the same time, I didn’t want him to feel as if I didn’t notice it or didn’t care. I prayed for wisdom to know what to say and when to say it.
After a few moments, he looked up at me and said, “Don’t you want to ask me questions about my face?” That was my cue… I asked him if it would be okay if I asked him some questions about his situation, in the restaurant while we ate, or if he preferred we talk privately in the land-rover… He opened up and told me his story…his life had been one ridden with hurt, hopelessness, crushed dreams, loneliness, sleepless nights, and rejection. I saw tears roll down his cheek as he spoke. He told me he was constantly in pain, that he used to attend school, but his physical and emotional pain had become so great, that he withdrew. He didn’t have enough money for pain medicine, didn’t know what medicine to buy, and he was all alone.
I ached for him…I hurt for him…I wished I could have wrapped him in my arms and made his entire situation go away…but, I couldn’t even promise him it would all be okay when the ship arrived...I told him I wanted to see him as soon as the ship arrived, that we would order a CT Scan and other medical tests, but that I could not promise him a surgery…How does one encourage, but not provide false hope??? Either way, he clung to the promise that Mercy Ships would see him in August and he thanked me.
This situation did not sit well with me. I couldn’t leave him the way he was… he had a large, painful tumor on his face…he could actually be called heavenward before the ship arrives…and all I could tell him was… “I’ll see you in a few months.” But, what could I do??? Then I remembered the local pharmacist I had met just a few weeks before who agreed to supply the ship with medicines should they run out. With my potential patient’s approval, we drove to the pharmacy. When we walked in the pharmacy, again he was met with nothing but stares. I had him sit on a little bench while I spoke with the pharmacist.
I bought Ibuprofen and also managed to get my potential patient a strong analgesic that normally requires a prescription in this country. The pharmacist trusted who I was, who I worked with, and since evidence of my patient was starring him in the face, and he graciously gave us the medicine. I carefully instructed the young man how to take the medicine and gave him his first dose with water from a sachet that I purchased out of a basket a lovely African woman was carrying on her head. I prayed the medicine would somehow relieve the burden upon this “one” who was only a few years my junior.
I still had many errands to complete for they day, but wasn’t bothered if this fellow wanted to ride around with me in the land-rover. I told him I would drop him off close to his home, which was near ours, when we finished our tasks for the day. He was thankful for the offer to save his precious coins and one less time he had to take public transport.
Traffic can take anywhere between 40 mins-3 hours to get from downtown Conakry, to our apartment so after I finished my errands, I started to head home. I was thankful, traffic wasn’t too bad. After a few minutes of driving, I looked over my shoulder and saw him sleeping, peacefully.
We neared our apartment and I didn’t want to wake him, he looked so weary, but I had to. He showed us where we could drop him off. We prayed with him before he left us, we made sure he understood how to take his pain medicine, and sent him on his way. As he got out of the car, with shoulders slumped, I prayed that God’s angels would surround this “one”…”one” that was anything but a statistic….”one” that is precious in his site… and I prayed that if the ship can help him that it will come to pass….
Before I went to bed, I reviewed the whirlwind day I had experienced. I prayed for my potential patient…I prayed he would feel a touch from above and that God would do a mighty thing in his life….And I feel asleep…
The next day, when my co-worker returned from work, he had a huge grin on his face and told me he had seen my potential patient downtown. The young man was so excited he had driven his bicycle all the way downtown in hopes of finding us in the Mercy Ships’ land-rover. He wanted us to know he slept the entire night for the first time in months, he had no pain, and he had more energy than he knew what to do with! His tumor remained, but he had slept and was without pain!
I thank God for the young man with the facial tumor and I ask you to pray with me that his story is not yet finished…Pray that maybe he can find hope and healing through the big white ship that is sailing his way!
It is uncertain how long his file sat on the Minister of Health’s desk, but at this point, that is not important. One day, some of Mercy Ships’ Advance Team members were sitting in that office and saw the file. The file was passed to them and they assured the Minister of Health that they would pass the information on to Mercy Ships’ Advance Hospital Liaison and see what could be done… His file is in my hands…
I had him on my list of people to contact, but had to prioritize my mountain of work, so was waiting to contact him until closer to the ship’s August arrival. I wanted to connect with him as soon as I heard about his need, but was forced to deal with the reality that I am just one lone nurse here in Guinea, without the ship, I can not really help him, so I put my personal feelings aside and set his file aside as well.
A few weeks later, we were stuck in traffic, which had become a norm, when I heard someone knocking on our, Mercy Ships’ land-rover, window. Assuming the knock came from just another street vendor trying to sell me Kleenex, a belt, or sun glasses, I didn’t pay much attention to the disturbance. The knocking persisted and being all too familiar with the aggressiveness of street salesmen in Africa, I wasn’t bothered to look up. When the knocking failed to cease, I finally looked up. When I looked up, I saw a timid young man, with a soft-ball sized mass protruding off the side of his face. I felt ashamed for ignoring his knocking and immediately switched into nurse mode asking my translator to help me talk to him. I wanted to know every detail about this young man to see if Mercy Ships could help him. I was so excited to have a potential patient in front of me, that I missed hearing my co-workers say, “This is the “one”...we gave you his file…” Slowly, the pieces started coming together in my mind. This was the patient, waiting to hear from me, the patient holding out hope in Mercy Ships, the “one” denied medical emancipation, the “one…”
Anything but a statistic…a fragile, man, not too many years my junior, one desperate for help, stood in front of me. The thought still rushed through my mind, “the ship isn’t here, he needs a CT Scan and an OPG to determine the severity of his tumor, what can I offer him???” I silenced the thoughts in my head and remembered that I could offer him my listening ear, my time, and hopefully, that would mean something.
He got in our land-rover and we headed to a sandwich place for lunch. When we walked into the restaurant, I saw the way others looked at him and I saw the way he tried to shrink and disappear from the room, to not be subject once again to judgmental eyes and critique. I knew it had to be hard for him, but determined to treat him as I saw him, a valuable person, made in the image of God, not a tumor. I wanted him to feel “normal…” whatever that is...
We ordered sandwiches, sodas, and tried to find something on the menu that my potential patient could eat because his tumor had started to take over his ability to eat. He sat quietly at the table, face down, with his ball cap pulled down over his eyes. My co-workers and I chatted about the day ahead and the remaining meetings we had. My potential patient sat starring at this plate, in silence. The situation was less than comfortable, I wanted to ask him a million questions since the moment I met him, but I didn’t want him to feel as if his tumor defined him, but at the same time, I didn’t want him to feel as if I didn’t notice it or didn’t care. I prayed for wisdom to know what to say and when to say it.
After a few moments, he looked up at me and said, “Don’t you want to ask me questions about my face?” That was my cue… I asked him if it would be okay if I asked him some questions about his situation, in the restaurant while we ate, or if he preferred we talk privately in the land-rover… He opened up and told me his story…his life had been one ridden with hurt, hopelessness, crushed dreams, loneliness, sleepless nights, and rejection. I saw tears roll down his cheek as he spoke. He told me he was constantly in pain, that he used to attend school, but his physical and emotional pain had become so great, that he withdrew. He didn’t have enough money for pain medicine, didn’t know what medicine to buy, and he was all alone.
I ached for him…I hurt for him…I wished I could have wrapped him in my arms and made his entire situation go away…but, I couldn’t even promise him it would all be okay when the ship arrived...I told him I wanted to see him as soon as the ship arrived, that we would order a CT Scan and other medical tests, but that I could not promise him a surgery…How does one encourage, but not provide false hope??? Either way, he clung to the promise that Mercy Ships would see him in August and he thanked me.
This situation did not sit well with me. I couldn’t leave him the way he was… he had a large, painful tumor on his face…he could actually be called heavenward before the ship arrives…and all I could tell him was… “I’ll see you in a few months.” But, what could I do??? Then I remembered the local pharmacist I had met just a few weeks before who agreed to supply the ship with medicines should they run out. With my potential patient’s approval, we drove to the pharmacy. When we walked in the pharmacy, again he was met with nothing but stares. I had him sit on a little bench while I spoke with the pharmacist.
I bought Ibuprofen and also managed to get my potential patient a strong analgesic that normally requires a prescription in this country. The pharmacist trusted who I was, who I worked with, and since evidence of my patient was starring him in the face, and he graciously gave us the medicine. I carefully instructed the young man how to take the medicine and gave him his first dose with water from a sachet that I purchased out of a basket a lovely African woman was carrying on her head. I prayed the medicine would somehow relieve the burden upon this “one” who was only a few years my junior.
I still had many errands to complete for they day, but wasn’t bothered if this fellow wanted to ride around with me in the land-rover. I told him I would drop him off close to his home, which was near ours, when we finished our tasks for the day. He was thankful for the offer to save his precious coins and one less time he had to take public transport.
Traffic can take anywhere between 40 mins-3 hours to get from downtown Conakry, to our apartment so after I finished my errands, I started to head home. I was thankful, traffic wasn’t too bad. After a few minutes of driving, I looked over my shoulder and saw him sleeping, peacefully.
We neared our apartment and I didn’t want to wake him, he looked so weary, but I had to. He showed us where we could drop him off. We prayed with him before he left us, we made sure he understood how to take his pain medicine, and sent him on his way. As he got out of the car, with shoulders slumped, I prayed that God’s angels would surround this “one”…”one” that was anything but a statistic….”one” that is precious in his site… and I prayed that if the ship can help him that it will come to pass….
Before I went to bed, I reviewed the whirlwind day I had experienced. I prayed for my potential patient…I prayed he would feel a touch from above and that God would do a mighty thing in his life….And I feel asleep…
The next day, when my co-worker returned from work, he had a huge grin on his face and told me he had seen my potential patient downtown. The young man was so excited he had driven his bicycle all the way downtown in hopes of finding us in the Mercy Ships’ land-rover. He wanted us to know he slept the entire night for the first time in months, he had no pain, and he had more energy than he knew what to do with! His tumor remained, but he had slept and was without pain!
I thank God for the young man with the facial tumor and I ask you to pray with me that his story is not yet finished…Pray that maybe he can find hope and healing through the big white ship that is sailing his way!
Saturday, July 14, 2012
...laura & her scarves...
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| One of my new little friends in Guinea |
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| I am so known for wearing scarfs that for my 30th Birthday my friends on the ship had a "dress like Laura Z" themed party! Miriam one of my buddies, looked freakishly like me! |
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| As one of the Nurse Clinical Educators aboard the ship we had an IV start class for the nurses that didn't know how to start IVs. I had to learn before the class myself, and my amazing friend donated his veins to my learning- Over a number of days this guy let me place 14 IVs in him! |
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| Some of my little friends in Sierra Leone |
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| One of my little friends in Togo |
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| This little Guinean girl was brave...most the little kids here run away from white skin, not this little girl, she marched up to me, pointed at my camera, then she crouched down next to me, for a photo, we took one, I showed it to her, she smiled, and walked away...just like that! |
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| One of my little patients in Sierra Leone |
a little piece of Idaho & the African market
It was another sunny day in Africa and I was enjoying a walk through the market. The streets were crowded and strewn with rubbish of every shape and form imaginable. I skirted between trucks stacked a few stories high with old plastic bottles, taxis stuffed to overflowing with passengers, mammas carrying babies on their backs and entire vegetable markets on their heads, and around rotting sewage in the streets. I smiled as I past little ones playing in the dirt with marbles. Around the corner I spotted a few kids chasing slightly flattened bike tires down the street with sticks to propel the tires along. I travelled along farther in town and saw a chubby little chocolate baby being placed ever so gently by his older siblings into an empty 24 pack of Coke, cardboard box with the plastic still attached around the bottom. His brothers had carefully tied a string to the little box and they were having a riot dragging their sibling around in the little box like it was a sled on snow. The little one giggled as his little sled slide across the dirt.
I continued on my way, wandering down street after street looking at all the colorful fabrics and listening to the cacophony of the buzzing activity around me. Many a street vendor tried to lure me into buying their merchandise, but nothing was grabbing my eye, besides, I didn’t really need anything, so I found it hard to justify any purchases. After a few hours of wandering around, my friend and I were headed back to the ship when I grabbed her arm and yelled, “Stop!” My friend spun around quickly wondering what in the world was wrong with me. Nothing was wrong, but I had just stumbled on the biggest pile of scarves I’d ever seen in my life! Literally, stumbled over the pile, I tripped on it in the street as I was trying to avoid getting run over by a huge truck driving down the road.
I wasn’t interested in much else that the market had to offer except the occasional baby I could hold in my arms for a quick cuddle, but head scarves, those I could get into! I couldn’t believe it, there were scarves of every color of the rainbow in a pile that came up to my waist. The designs were so beautiful and colorful. The scarf vender handed me scarf after scarf to see if he could persuade me to purchase more. As I was on my hands and knees on a busy street in Africa, digging through the scarf pile, the word “Sun Valley” caught my eye. I thought I had imagined it, but that would be a weird thing to just randomly imagine on the side of the road in Africa. So, I flipped through the scarf pile again and low and behold, I saw the word Sun Valley printed on the edge of a scarf. I pulled the rest of the scarf out of the pile and couldn’t believe my eyes. In front of me was a lovely-ugly green and orange shaded, colored scarf, with a full map of Idaho on it! I looked closer at the map and beyond all believe, Rupert was listed on the map! My little home-town of Rupert, which is rarely listed on USA maps, made it on the Idaho-African Market scarf! I laughed so hard and decided I had to have the Idaho scarf and a few other scarves! Budget or no budget, I purchased 19 scarves from the little scarf man for a total of about $5 USD and one even still had the original tag on it from Wal-mart.
The Lord knows there are those random ocassions when I miss crazy. little Rupert, the Rupert square, Doc's pizza, Idaho potatoes, and fresh corn on the cob, and since Idaho is there....and I am here...God brought a little piece of Idaho my way in a crazy, ugly-green- orange shaded scarf! Thanks God for making my day!
I continued on my way, wandering down street after street looking at all the colorful fabrics and listening to the cacophony of the buzzing activity around me. Many a street vendor tried to lure me into buying their merchandise, but nothing was grabbing my eye, besides, I didn’t really need anything, so I found it hard to justify any purchases. After a few hours of wandering around, my friend and I were headed back to the ship when I grabbed her arm and yelled, “Stop!” My friend spun around quickly wondering what in the world was wrong with me. Nothing was wrong, but I had just stumbled on the biggest pile of scarves I’d ever seen in my life! Literally, stumbled over the pile, I tripped on it in the street as I was trying to avoid getting run over by a huge truck driving down the road.
I wasn’t interested in much else that the market had to offer except the occasional baby I could hold in my arms for a quick cuddle, but head scarves, those I could get into! I couldn’t believe it, there were scarves of every color of the rainbow in a pile that came up to my waist. The designs were so beautiful and colorful. The scarf vender handed me scarf after scarf to see if he could persuade me to purchase more. As I was on my hands and knees on a busy street in Africa, digging through the scarf pile, the word “Sun Valley” caught my eye. I thought I had imagined it, but that would be a weird thing to just randomly imagine on the side of the road in Africa. So, I flipped through the scarf pile again and low and behold, I saw the word Sun Valley printed on the edge of a scarf. I pulled the rest of the scarf out of the pile and couldn’t believe my eyes. In front of me was a lovely-ugly green and orange shaded, colored scarf, with a full map of Idaho on it! I looked closer at the map and beyond all believe, Rupert was listed on the map! My little home-town of Rupert, which is rarely listed on USA maps, made it on the Idaho-African Market scarf! I laughed so hard and decided I had to have the Idaho scarf and a few other scarves! Budget or no budget, I purchased 19 scarves from the little scarf man for a total of about $5 USD and one even still had the original tag on it from Wal-mart.The Lord knows there are those random ocassions when I miss crazy. little Rupert, the Rupert square, Doc's pizza, Idaho potatoes, and fresh corn on the cob, and since Idaho is there....and I am here...God brought a little piece of Idaho my way in a crazy, ugly-green- orange shaded scarf! Thanks God for making my day!
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
the neurosurgeon & one single light bulb
The 9 month old little girl who had travelled all the way from the Gambia to Guinea lay on the worn mattress upon the operating table in the rudimentary operating theater. Although there was paint chipping off the walls, the OR theater appeared clean, sort of. Today the electricity was working and I prayed it would work for the duration of the little one’s operation. The OR lights were broken. I was told they hadn’t worked in years, so the surgeon worked diligently by the light from one single light bulb connected to an extension cord that was carefully strung across the ceiling above the patient. There was no vital sign equipment available to monitor the baby’s oxygen saturation, blood pressure, pulse, or temperature during the operation. The room was hot, sweat dripped down my forehead. The surgeon worked diligently to place the shunt from the baby’s head to her peritoneal area, to drain off the excess fluid that was surrounding her brain. I prayed for safety for the baby as the emergency drug cabinet in the room was sparsely stocked, the suction set was broken, the oxygen was in a huge cylinder with questionable administration sets, and the surgeon had just leaned over to tell me another supply he would like is working coagulation-cauterization equipment, the equipment needed in case a patient starts to bleed.
I selfishly hovered beneath the tiny air-condition in the room trying to cool myself and comprehend that I was in an operating room, in one of the National Hospitals of Guinea, with a neurosurgeon, watching a brain surgery, and all the surgeon had to guide his hands was one small little light bulb. All the supplies he needed for the surgery were donated in a little bag, the surgeon got no more and no less than the quantity in the donated bag. If he had needed one extra piece of gauze, it would not have been available.
For some reason, as I stood in the operating room watching the surgeon’s technique, my mind drifted back to another surgery, in another operating room, that took place the same week, five years ago. The patient that lay on that operating table was scared to death, but was being operated on in one of the finest hospitals in her country, with access to any and every type of equipment the surgeons or nurses would have needed. When she was told she had a brain tumor, she wondered if all her hopes and dreams were vanishing and never going to become reality. She cried for days and days, leading up to the operation, she ate every kind of chocolate in site “eating her feelings,” and hoping to wake up from the bad dream, then she cried some more. Thankfully, without any complications, her highly skilled neurosurgeons, successfully removed her brain tumor. And almost five years later, to the day, that same girl stood in an African operating room… hovering under a tiny air conditioner… praying over the little one on the table, undergoing brain surgery, hoping the baby and others like her would be able to grow up and live their dreams…Thanks to God, I am living my dreams…volunteering as a nurse in Africa with Mercy Ships… and I pray God gives Mercy Ships wisdom to see how they can partner with and help the little children in Guinea needing brain surgeries… by helping the neurosurgeon who operated by one single light bulb.
I selfishly hovered beneath the tiny air-condition in the room trying to cool myself and comprehend that I was in an operating room, in one of the National Hospitals of Guinea, with a neurosurgeon, watching a brain surgery, and all the surgeon had to guide his hands was one small little light bulb. All the supplies he needed for the surgery were donated in a little bag, the surgeon got no more and no less than the quantity in the donated bag. If he had needed one extra piece of gauze, it would not have been available.
For some reason, as I stood in the operating room watching the surgeon’s technique, my mind drifted back to another surgery, in another operating room, that took place the same week, five years ago. The patient that lay on that operating table was scared to death, but was being operated on in one of the finest hospitals in her country, with access to any and every type of equipment the surgeons or nurses would have needed. When she was told she had a brain tumor, she wondered if all her hopes and dreams were vanishing and never going to become reality. She cried for days and days, leading up to the operation, she ate every kind of chocolate in site “eating her feelings,” and hoping to wake up from the bad dream, then she cried some more. Thankfully, without any complications, her highly skilled neurosurgeons, successfully removed her brain tumor. And almost five years later, to the day, that same girl stood in an African operating room… hovering under a tiny air conditioner… praying over the little one on the table, undergoing brain surgery, hoping the baby and others like her would be able to grow up and live their dreams…Thanks to God, I am living my dreams…volunteering as a nurse in Africa with Mercy Ships… and I pray God gives Mercy Ships wisdom to see how they can partner with and help the little children in Guinea needing brain surgeries… by helping the neurosurgeon who operated by one single light bulb.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
...so that Guinea will know God has not forgotten them...
I have temporarily traded in my scrubs, stethoscope, and precious patients for dress pants/skirts, collared shirts, dress shoes, a laptop computer and bag, 2 cell phones (and I’ve never even owned one), business cards with my name on them, and daily appointments with business professionals. I am out of my comfort zone in so many ways! Just a few weeks ago I said good-bye to my floating home in Lomé, Togo and travelled to Conakry, Guinea, my new home and the anticipated location of my floating home, the Africa Mercy, mid-August 2012-June 2013.
I have been busy since I hit the ground. My weeks and days are filled with meeting government officials, medical directors, Engender Health workers, doctors, surgeons, NGO mangers, the first lady, ministry of health representatives, the Peace Corps volunteers, religious leaders, USAID workers, ambassadors, US Embassy staff, Sisters from Mother Teresa’s home & hospital here, hospital owners…you name it. I sit in small and big conference rooms and in big and small offices. Sometimes there is air-conditioning, most the time there isn’t, or the power goes off and on frequently throughout the meetings. As sweat runs down my back and perspiration trails make streaks down my face, I practice my posture and try to keep smiling.
I am in Conakry, Guinea trying to demonstrate to people here that Jesus hasn’t forgotten them- he is sending a ship their way that will offer free surgeries and demonstrate evidence of God’s love and healing! I am one of four crew members living on land in Guinea- May- September preparing for the ship’s arrival. Right now in the port, there is a berth space reserved for the Africa Mercy, but there is much to be done before that ocean parking space can be taken with by the Africa Mercy. Mercy Ships has a presidential invite to Guinea, but there are many hoops that need to be jumped through to still get the ship and her crew here.
I am the Ship’s Nurse- Medical/Hospital Liaison on land, in charge of setting up everything related to the hospital and the work Mercy Ships plans to do in Guinea September 2012-June 2013. Yikes! I am working closely with the minster of health, setting up screening sites, writing protocols, meeting new people, looking for and helping hire 200+ day volunteers (making sure they are TB free & that they speak English, a law required by the United Nations on our ship & an essential need in the translation process), working with local government and mission hospitals to find patients, meeting new people, coordinating local licensure for all of Mercy Ships’ medical crew, meeting new people, looking for opportunities for capacity building and training of local surgeons, working with the port authority & immigration to make sure we can import the medicines & supplies we need for surgeries, meeting new people, locating a local morgue to work with use if needed, meeting lots of people with fancy titles, making sure emergency medical evacuation services are available for our crew if needed, finding quality labs, pharmacies, and oxygen suppliers to use in country if our supplies or equipment fail us aboard, finding churches that will let us use their space for eye screening, and in case I failed to mention it, I am also meeting new people, among a million other tasks.
In each of my meetings as I prepare to meet “important people” scenes from the Princess Diaries movie flash through my mind and I try to coach myself, “don’t do this, don’t do that, cross your ankles, sit up straight, take small bites.” I think to myself, how in the heck did I end up here? I miss my patients like crazy. I miss the multi-cultural, ever changing, crammed, community living, of the ship. My heart is in an odd state of turmoil, homesick for my bedside nursing and patients, but yet incredibly full of thankfulness at the same time; knowing God is faithful and I am where He wants me for this season.
Although, I feel I was falling in love with the country of Togo, its people, the landscape, the language (Ewe & French), that I am some sort of a failure for leaving before the Togo 2012 outreach concluded, (like I didn’t finish what I started, that I was “missing graduation” because I have finished every other outreach in all the countries I have visited with the ship over the past four years), and it was seriously hard to leave my friends behind especially since I hadn’t seen some of them in four years as they just returned to volunteer at the same time I was scheduled to leave and fly to Guinea, and some of my best friends on the ship that have been there with me since 2008, will not be there when I connect with the ship again; I know I am in the right place and God is confirming that in my heart daily.
I contemplated volunteering at a land-based mission hospital in Togo (same hospital referred to in my Togo trip blogs from 2009) that I am very fond of while the ship is in ship yard, or I dreamed of a “break in the USA”, or time in a snow-bank somewhere to cool off, but I asked God for direction for my plans while the ship is in ship-yard and he directed me here, to Conakry, Guinea, West Africa. My heart has ached and the tears have fallen, but I am okay because I am in God’s hands.
I am an Ambassador for Mercy Ships, playing an important part in the ministry, just a very different role than I am used to. Each day when I put a skirt or collared shirt on that makes me feel claustrophobic and I wish I was putting on scrubs; God is reminding me my job isn’t merely temporal, but eternal. I am not only representing the interests of Mercy Ships and the hospital’s needs, but I have a greater job here in Guinea. I am in a foreign land, literally, and spiritually. As I meet with official ambassadors and listen to information on the work they are doing in Guinea, I work to translate my King’s message so that all will hopefully start to see that I am from the kingdom of God, and his policy is grace, exactly what Mercy Ships tries to show (concepts learned through Rick Warren’s book Better Together).
I am honored that my experience with the ship got me appointed to the position I am now in. My prayer is that I will be worthy of the calling God has placed upon me for the next few months. May I not be purely focused on my future patients, that I am starting to hear about and see around the community, those with obvious needs, (3-5 pound tumors hanging off their faces, crooked legs, or infection eating their faces), that I miss the people I meet daily, with more silent hurts and concerns. God use me to influence every person, no matter what their title, or political status. Help me not to become so busy or frustrated by the learning curve that I find myself in that I ignore the people currently in my path. Jesus I want to be your representative, when I am tired and missing the ship, when I am irritated by “office camping” (waiting outside of offices for hours, waiting to be seen), when I cannot handle closed- toed, dress shoes, politics, or when it takes me five minutes to send a simple text message. Help me to play my part in getting the ship in that reserved berth space in the port of Conakry, Guinea, so that Guinea knows YOU have not forgotten them!
I have been busy since I hit the ground. My weeks and days are filled with meeting government officials, medical directors, Engender Health workers, doctors, surgeons, NGO mangers, the first lady, ministry of health representatives, the Peace Corps volunteers, religious leaders, USAID workers, ambassadors, US Embassy staff, Sisters from Mother Teresa’s home & hospital here, hospital owners…you name it. I sit in small and big conference rooms and in big and small offices. Sometimes there is air-conditioning, most the time there isn’t, or the power goes off and on frequently throughout the meetings. As sweat runs down my back and perspiration trails make streaks down my face, I practice my posture and try to keep smiling.
I am in Conakry, Guinea trying to demonstrate to people here that Jesus hasn’t forgotten them- he is sending a ship their way that will offer free surgeries and demonstrate evidence of God’s love and healing! I am one of four crew members living on land in Guinea- May- September preparing for the ship’s arrival. Right now in the port, there is a berth space reserved for the Africa Mercy, but there is much to be done before that ocean parking space can be taken with by the Africa Mercy. Mercy Ships has a presidential invite to Guinea, but there are many hoops that need to be jumped through to still get the ship and her crew here.
I am the Ship’s Nurse- Medical/Hospital Liaison on land, in charge of setting up everything related to the hospital and the work Mercy Ships plans to do in Guinea September 2012-June 2013. Yikes! I am working closely with the minster of health, setting up screening sites, writing protocols, meeting new people, looking for and helping hire 200+ day volunteers (making sure they are TB free & that they speak English, a law required by the United Nations on our ship & an essential need in the translation process), working with local government and mission hospitals to find patients, meeting new people, coordinating local licensure for all of Mercy Ships’ medical crew, meeting new people, looking for opportunities for capacity building and training of local surgeons, working with the port authority & immigration to make sure we can import the medicines & supplies we need for surgeries, meeting new people, locating a local morgue to work with use if needed, meeting lots of people with fancy titles, making sure emergency medical evacuation services are available for our crew if needed, finding quality labs, pharmacies, and oxygen suppliers to use in country if our supplies or equipment fail us aboard, finding churches that will let us use their space for eye screening, and in case I failed to mention it, I am also meeting new people, among a million other tasks.
In each of my meetings as I prepare to meet “important people” scenes from the Princess Diaries movie flash through my mind and I try to coach myself, “don’t do this, don’t do that, cross your ankles, sit up straight, take small bites.” I think to myself, how in the heck did I end up here? I miss my patients like crazy. I miss the multi-cultural, ever changing, crammed, community living, of the ship. My heart is in an odd state of turmoil, homesick for my bedside nursing and patients, but yet incredibly full of thankfulness at the same time; knowing God is faithful and I am where He wants me for this season.
Although, I feel I was falling in love with the country of Togo, its people, the landscape, the language (Ewe & French), that I am some sort of a failure for leaving before the Togo 2012 outreach concluded, (like I didn’t finish what I started, that I was “missing graduation” because I have finished every other outreach in all the countries I have visited with the ship over the past four years), and it was seriously hard to leave my friends behind especially since I hadn’t seen some of them in four years as they just returned to volunteer at the same time I was scheduled to leave and fly to Guinea, and some of my best friends on the ship that have been there with me since 2008, will not be there when I connect with the ship again; I know I am in the right place and God is confirming that in my heart daily.
I contemplated volunteering at a land-based mission hospital in Togo (same hospital referred to in my Togo trip blogs from 2009) that I am very fond of while the ship is in ship yard, or I dreamed of a “break in the USA”, or time in a snow-bank somewhere to cool off, but I asked God for direction for my plans while the ship is in ship-yard and he directed me here, to Conakry, Guinea, West Africa. My heart has ached and the tears have fallen, but I am okay because I am in God’s hands.
I am an Ambassador for Mercy Ships, playing an important part in the ministry, just a very different role than I am used to. Each day when I put a skirt or collared shirt on that makes me feel claustrophobic and I wish I was putting on scrubs; God is reminding me my job isn’t merely temporal, but eternal. I am not only representing the interests of Mercy Ships and the hospital’s needs, but I have a greater job here in Guinea. I am in a foreign land, literally, and spiritually. As I meet with official ambassadors and listen to information on the work they are doing in Guinea, I work to translate my King’s message so that all will hopefully start to see that I am from the kingdom of God, and his policy is grace, exactly what Mercy Ships tries to show (concepts learned through Rick Warren’s book Better Together).
I am honored that my experience with the ship got me appointed to the position I am now in. My prayer is that I will be worthy of the calling God has placed upon me for the next few months. May I not be purely focused on my future patients, that I am starting to hear about and see around the community, those with obvious needs, (3-5 pound tumors hanging off their faces, crooked legs, or infection eating their faces), that I miss the people I meet daily, with more silent hurts and concerns. God use me to influence every person, no matter what their title, or political status. Help me not to become so busy or frustrated by the learning curve that I find myself in that I ignore the people currently in my path. Jesus I want to be your representative, when I am tired and missing the ship, when I am irritated by “office camping” (waiting outside of offices for hours, waiting to be seen), when I cannot handle closed- toed, dress shoes, politics, or when it takes me five minutes to send a simple text message. Help me to play my part in getting the ship in that reserved berth space in the port of Conakry, Guinea, so that Guinea knows YOU have not forgotten them!
Sunday, February 19, 2012
...part II of the black, rubbish-trash bag adventure...
The next morning I awoke to the banging rhythm of African drums & the sound of chanting echoing from surrounding villages. My rest had been sweet & amazingly I had actually felt cool once in the night! A rare occasion in Africa! The cool feeling didn’t last long. As soon as I went outside our bungalow the hot African sun beat down on my skin & sweat started to pour off my brow. My three friends and I rendezvoused with a local fisherman who had agreed to ferry us across the lake to a tiny village on Lac Togo’s northern shore, in a wooden canoe/fishing boat.
Our canoe captain ferried us across the lake by standing in the back of the canoe while propelling us with one large stick-ore that he shoved off the shallow, lake bottom, in a perfect rhythmic fashion. Our captain’s muscles were huge, as would be expected from making multiple such trips in his lifetime. From across the lake, sticking out among the lush green vegetation, I could see a huge cross on what appeared to be an old historical church; I wondered if that was where we were headed. When we were in the middle of the lake, 30 minutes out from shore, but still far away from the other side of the lake, I determined the projected “30 minute” boat ride was going to be more like an hour & 30 minutes, but I didn’t mind. We didn’t have anywhere to go, except back to the ship and at that point in time, I wasn’t interested in getting on a hard bike seat again anytime soon.
Eventually, the canoe captain rowed our boat into the reeves and weeds on the shore of what we guessed to be our destination. I was excited for our next adventure. We walked across a rickety jetty and were greeted by locals hoping to get the job of being our tour guide. We had indeed reached our destination. The city was built up on a hill & we started to climb an old set of stairs that reminded me of ancient staircases from movies, like those that lead to the top of an Aztec Temple or something. At the top of the stairway/road there was a huge beautiful, ancient, German-built cathedral with a gigantic cross, the building I had seen from the middle of the lake. I hoped we would get the chance to see inside the cathedral.
After bartering for a fair price, we agreed to a tour. We also requested a shortened tour as our time was limited. Our English speaking guide weaved us through red-dirt colored, mud huts, through tiny alleys, around more mud huts, stopping us at town square of sorts. He reported that was where voodoo dances took place. He explained to us that the villagers would approach the voodoo idol (which looked like a large tree stump with mud on it, with seashells for eyes) and offer sacrifices of food, money, or items, to it wishing for protection, healing, safety on a journey, children, or the like.
We continued to walk through the village and our guide kept pointing out voodoo images. I hoped to learn about village life, the children, healthcare, or the village economics, but almost every other sentence out of our guide’s mouth referred to voodoo. As we traversed the city, I decided that I was on a “prayer walk” not a tour. I prayed for the people in that village & that they wouldn’t have to live lives of fear. We passed another huge voodoo idol. This one too looked like a large tree stump that had had its top rounded off to look like a blob or head with slumping shoulders. This idol had red stains dripping down it and a handful of obviously used knives sitting near it. Our guide explained that people could come and pray to the idol if someone was bothering them, they could stab the spirit in the idol to get rid of the person bothering them, or something like that. I didn’t really understand what he was saying; I just prayed that those knives would never physically be stabbed into someone. He also mentioned people were never to walk behind the idol because something bad would happen. I shut out what he was saying, but ached in my heart for those who live in such spiritual captivity. I wanted to walk right behind the idol just to show the idol held no power over me, but I determined it was better to just keep following the tour guide.
Next, we came to two majestic trees. Their roots were huge and stood out of the ground. The trees had to be hundreds of years old. Their roots were so big; I would have had to climb up and over them to get near the actual tree trunk. We were informed that the trees had spirits and were living gods as well. One could offer prayers and sacrifices to them too. Every part of the village that we walked through had some sort of voodoo or animistic theme. When we were on the way out of the labyrinth of mud huts, we passed a mud-shack that had screaming coming out of it. It was explained to us that we were outside of the voodoo convent and someone had just entered into it to appease the spirits. We were rounding the corner and almost near the cathedral when a man wearing just a sheet-skirt, walked out of the convent and in front of us. He was carrying a dead chicken. I saw blood coming from the chicken’s neck. In a ceremonial fashion, the man, possibly a voodoo priest, took the blood and smeared it on a stump then on two sides of a door, and then he went back into the convent. What I had just seen played out before my eyes reminded me of the Old Testament and Passover. I had no fear inside of me; instead the following phrase came rushing to my mind...a phrase I hadn’t thought about for a long time….a coincidence….I don’t think so….this is what came to my mind…Satan’s greatest issue is that he didn’t get to be God. He wanted more than anything to make himself like the Most High, he couldn’t be God, so he set out to counterfeit the actions of God. Therefore, anything God does, Satan tries to counterfeit. Something to ponder….
I was happy when we reached the main street of the village and when its gigantic cross was once again within my view. Our tour guide never once spoke about the cathedral in their town. It was huge, beautiful, majestic, but he never mentioned it. It makes me feel as if I imagined it, but I know it was there. We headed back toward the jetty, thanking our guide for the tour. We boarded our wooden fishing boat again and headed back to the other side of the lake. I looked over my shoulder one last time at the village, the only thing I could see was the old cross, on the historic cathedral, towering over the village…
As I peddled my last mile back toward Lomé, in the hot afternoon sun, I reflected on where I had just been. I realized that I had travelled way farther than 60 miles on a bike in a black-rubbish bag that weekend. I had travelled to the heart of the matter…to the central issue in life…Sobering…in our own lives & villages, if the truth of the cross is towering over us, we need to be careful not be blind or immune to it…
Our canoe captain ferried us across the lake by standing in the back of the canoe while propelling us with one large stick-ore that he shoved off the shallow, lake bottom, in a perfect rhythmic fashion. Our captain’s muscles were huge, as would be expected from making multiple such trips in his lifetime. From across the lake, sticking out among the lush green vegetation, I could see a huge cross on what appeared to be an old historical church; I wondered if that was where we were headed. When we were in the middle of the lake, 30 minutes out from shore, but still far away from the other side of the lake, I determined the projected “30 minute” boat ride was going to be more like an hour & 30 minutes, but I didn’t mind. We didn’t have anywhere to go, except back to the ship and at that point in time, I wasn’t interested in getting on a hard bike seat again anytime soon.
Eventually, the canoe captain rowed our boat into the reeves and weeds on the shore of what we guessed to be our destination. I was excited for our next adventure. We walked across a rickety jetty and were greeted by locals hoping to get the job of being our tour guide. We had indeed reached our destination. The city was built up on a hill & we started to climb an old set of stairs that reminded me of ancient staircases from movies, like those that lead to the top of an Aztec Temple or something. At the top of the stairway/road there was a huge beautiful, ancient, German-built cathedral with a gigantic cross, the building I had seen from the middle of the lake. I hoped we would get the chance to see inside the cathedral.
After bartering for a fair price, we agreed to a tour. We also requested a shortened tour as our time was limited. Our English speaking guide weaved us through red-dirt colored, mud huts, through tiny alleys, around more mud huts, stopping us at town square of sorts. He reported that was where voodoo dances took place. He explained to us that the villagers would approach the voodoo idol (which looked like a large tree stump with mud on it, with seashells for eyes) and offer sacrifices of food, money, or items, to it wishing for protection, healing, safety on a journey, children, or the like.
We continued to walk through the village and our guide kept pointing out voodoo images. I hoped to learn about village life, the children, healthcare, or the village economics, but almost every other sentence out of our guide’s mouth referred to voodoo. As we traversed the city, I decided that I was on a “prayer walk” not a tour. I prayed for the people in that village & that they wouldn’t have to live lives of fear. We passed another huge voodoo idol. This one too looked like a large tree stump that had had its top rounded off to look like a blob or head with slumping shoulders. This idol had red stains dripping down it and a handful of obviously used knives sitting near it. Our guide explained that people could come and pray to the idol if someone was bothering them, they could stab the spirit in the idol to get rid of the person bothering them, or something like that. I didn’t really understand what he was saying; I just prayed that those knives would never physically be stabbed into someone. He also mentioned people were never to walk behind the idol because something bad would happen. I shut out what he was saying, but ached in my heart for those who live in such spiritual captivity. I wanted to walk right behind the idol just to show the idol held no power over me, but I determined it was better to just keep following the tour guide.
Next, we came to two majestic trees. Their roots were huge and stood out of the ground. The trees had to be hundreds of years old. Their roots were so big; I would have had to climb up and over them to get near the actual tree trunk. We were informed that the trees had spirits and were living gods as well. One could offer prayers and sacrifices to them too. Every part of the village that we walked through had some sort of voodoo or animistic theme. When we were on the way out of the labyrinth of mud huts, we passed a mud-shack that had screaming coming out of it. It was explained to us that we were outside of the voodoo convent and someone had just entered into it to appease the spirits. We were rounding the corner and almost near the cathedral when a man wearing just a sheet-skirt, walked out of the convent and in front of us. He was carrying a dead chicken. I saw blood coming from the chicken’s neck. In a ceremonial fashion, the man, possibly a voodoo priest, took the blood and smeared it on a stump then on two sides of a door, and then he went back into the convent. What I had just seen played out before my eyes reminded me of the Old Testament and Passover. I had no fear inside of me; instead the following phrase came rushing to my mind...a phrase I hadn’t thought about for a long time….a coincidence….I don’t think so….this is what came to my mind…Satan’s greatest issue is that he didn’t get to be God. He wanted more than anything to make himself like the Most High, he couldn’t be God, so he set out to counterfeit the actions of God. Therefore, anything God does, Satan tries to counterfeit. Something to ponder….
I was happy when we reached the main street of the village and when its gigantic cross was once again within my view. Our tour guide never once spoke about the cathedral in their town. It was huge, beautiful, majestic, but he never mentioned it. It makes me feel as if I imagined it, but I know it was there. We headed back toward the jetty, thanking our guide for the tour. We boarded our wooden fishing boat again and headed back to the other side of the lake. I looked over my shoulder one last time at the village, the only thing I could see was the old cross, on the historic cathedral, towering over the village…
As I peddled my last mile back toward Lomé, in the hot afternoon sun, I reflected on where I had just been. I realized that I had travelled way farther than 60 miles on a bike in a black-rubbish bag that weekend. I had travelled to the heart of the matter…to the central issue in life…Sobering…in our own lives & villages, if the truth of the cross is towering over us, we need to be careful not be blind or immune to it…
Sunday, February 5, 2012
...part I of the black, rubbish-trash bag adventure...
The bright African sun that had been blazing down on the dock just moments before was rapidly being replaced by a dark cloud cover. The gentle breeze coming off the ocean started to pick up and with it came more grey-black clouds. The ominous appearance of the clouds suggested sheets of water would soon be dropping from the sky. There was a refreshing, tangible temperature drop in the air. I looked at the menacing sky wondering if my friends and I would have to cancel the adventure we had planned for the weekend. The four of us stood by our bicycles on the dock as a torrential rain burst forth from the heavens. We ran for cover under the dockside tents that double as a patient waiting area. We contemplated our next plan of action. We took a vote & determined that a little African rain storm would not spoil our planned adventure. One of my friends ran back inside the ship & returned with a handful of large, black, rubbish-trash bags for each of us. I quickly donned one and secured one over-around my back-pack. Other crew members stood on the gangway, laughing at us, reporting we were crazy, but wishing us well. We peddled out the port gate and my friend questioned if we were abusing God’s grace. I turned that question into a prayer & said, “God please give us your grace if we are being stupid.”
We peddled along people-packed dirt roads, through the market, through puddles, and out of Lomé toward Lac Togo (Lake Togo), our weekend destination, a mere 27 kilometers away. We splashed along through puddle after puddle, mud sloshing up all over our legs & bodies. I continued to cycle along, taking in all the sights & sounds around me. I took a deep breath & smiled, I was home again, in Africa!
We rode kilometer after kilometer, sometimes side-by-side, sometimes single file. We thanked God for the rainfall and cooler air that made the ride pleasantly easier than we had anticipated. We passed little stores, grass-mud huts, hotels, wood-working stands, restaurants, goats running through the streets, naked children bathing, women & children working in fields, the beach, women washing clothing in mud puddles; we passed the beauty of God’s creation.
As I peddled along I had the chance to practice a few of my French phrases as it is customary & entirely rude if one does not greet those they pass on the street. Kilometer after kilometer I said, “Bonjour (good-morning), Bonjour, Comment çe va (how are you)? Bonjour Madame…Bonjour Monsieur… Bonjour…Comment çe va?...” I just kept smiling, peddling, and greeting all those we passed. I laughed as some little; toothless, old men on the side of the road clapped & cheered my friends and me on. I prayed for those going really fast on motorcycles who were so intrigued with four white people riding bikes in the bush that they forgot to watch the road, and instead would stare backward at us until we were out of sight, a dangerous activity with cars coming toward them from the other direction!
I did my best to wave at all the little dark skinned, kids on the side of the road as they jumped up and down singing what we have come to call the “Yovo song”…A little chant that echoes throughout the streets of Togo anywhere a white person is seen. I was amazed at the fact that just when I thought no one was around, out of a field or abandoned looking house-shack-hut, I would hear “Yovo, Yovo, bonsoir, çe va? çe va bien merci! Yovo, Yovo, bonsoir, çe va? çe va bien merci! (White person, white person, afternoon! How are you? I’m fine, thank-you!) Many times I couldn’t even see the little singer, but could only hear the precious, endearing, song!
Early afternoon- we finally reached our destination; Lac Togo & some little bungalows we had hoped to stay at over night. We dropped our back-packs off in our rooms, checked out the lake (contemplating jumping in, but not certain of its “hidden treasures” possible parasites that unleash havoc on one’s body after they secretly burrow in your skin), ate the sandwiches we had packed for lunch, and then chatted about our plan for the rest of the day. It was decided that we hadn’t had enough bike riding for the day, so we headed out on the road again. We decided we would see where we ended up. One destination could have been the Benin border, but we determined we would listen to our muscles and then go from there.
Out on the road again, we passed the little town of Agbodrafo and some other towns with names I could never pronounce & that don’t show up on any maps. It was getting late in the afternoon & we concluded we should find somewhere to get a coke & turn back. We didn’t want to be out on the road in the dark, even though my African friends joke with me, saying, “you glow in the dark” because of my skin color. I didn’t trust my skin color to be my safety reflectors.
We stopped in Aného, the old 19th century, colonial capital of Togo. This city was once a Portuguese slave-trade port. All that remains of its grand history are crumbling buildings that barely show how incredible the city once was. We found a hotel on the beach & enjoyed a coke with the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the background. After our brief break, we mounted our bikes once again to return to Lac Togo. We enjoyed a lovely super back at our beach bungalow, drenched ourselves in mosquito spray, & crashed in bed after making sure our room was cockroach free.
Stay tuned for Part II of this adventure!
We peddled along people-packed dirt roads, through the market, through puddles, and out of Lomé toward Lac Togo (Lake Togo), our weekend destination, a mere 27 kilometers away. We splashed along through puddle after puddle, mud sloshing up all over our legs & bodies. I continued to cycle along, taking in all the sights & sounds around me. I took a deep breath & smiled, I was home again, in Africa!
We rode kilometer after kilometer, sometimes side-by-side, sometimes single file. We thanked God for the rainfall and cooler air that made the ride pleasantly easier than we had anticipated. We passed little stores, grass-mud huts, hotels, wood-working stands, restaurants, goats running through the streets, naked children bathing, women & children working in fields, the beach, women washing clothing in mud puddles; we passed the beauty of God’s creation.
As I peddled along I had the chance to practice a few of my French phrases as it is customary & entirely rude if one does not greet those they pass on the street. Kilometer after kilometer I said, “Bonjour (good-morning), Bonjour, Comment çe va (how are you)? Bonjour Madame…Bonjour Monsieur… Bonjour…Comment çe va?...” I just kept smiling, peddling, and greeting all those we passed. I laughed as some little; toothless, old men on the side of the road clapped & cheered my friends and me on. I prayed for those going really fast on motorcycles who were so intrigued with four white people riding bikes in the bush that they forgot to watch the road, and instead would stare backward at us until we were out of sight, a dangerous activity with cars coming toward them from the other direction!
I did my best to wave at all the little dark skinned, kids on the side of the road as they jumped up and down singing what we have come to call the “Yovo song”…A little chant that echoes throughout the streets of Togo anywhere a white person is seen. I was amazed at the fact that just when I thought no one was around, out of a field or abandoned looking house-shack-hut, I would hear “Yovo, Yovo, bonsoir, çe va? çe va bien merci! Yovo, Yovo, bonsoir, çe va? çe va bien merci! (White person, white person, afternoon! How are you? I’m fine, thank-you!) Many times I couldn’t even see the little singer, but could only hear the precious, endearing, song!
Early afternoon- we finally reached our destination; Lac Togo & some little bungalows we had hoped to stay at over night. We dropped our back-packs off in our rooms, checked out the lake (contemplating jumping in, but not certain of its “hidden treasures” possible parasites that unleash havoc on one’s body after they secretly burrow in your skin), ate the sandwiches we had packed for lunch, and then chatted about our plan for the rest of the day. It was decided that we hadn’t had enough bike riding for the day, so we headed out on the road again. We decided we would see where we ended up. One destination could have been the Benin border, but we determined we would listen to our muscles and then go from there.
Out on the road again, we passed the little town of Agbodrafo and some other towns with names I could never pronounce & that don’t show up on any maps. It was getting late in the afternoon & we concluded we should find somewhere to get a coke & turn back. We didn’t want to be out on the road in the dark, even though my African friends joke with me, saying, “you glow in the dark” because of my skin color. I didn’t trust my skin color to be my safety reflectors.
We stopped in Aného, the old 19th century, colonial capital of Togo. This city was once a Portuguese slave-trade port. All that remains of its grand history are crumbling buildings that barely show how incredible the city once was. We found a hotel on the beach & enjoyed a coke with the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the background. After our brief break, we mounted our bikes once again to return to Lac Togo. We enjoyed a lovely super back at our beach bungalow, drenched ourselves in mosquito spray, & crashed in bed after making sure our room was cockroach free.
Stay tuned for Part II of this adventure!
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The little girl in the yellow dress...
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| Pray for the little girl in the yellow dress. She needs an orthopedic surgery. We won't be doing any ortho this outreach because we are only in Togo for a few months & bone surgeries take too long to heal. We had to tell this precious little girl's mother & many others that we couldn't help them... ...Heart- breaking... |
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
bed...now
I'm alive...tired....left ship at 0400hrs returned dirty, stinky, sweaty, & sun-kissed at 1830 hrs.....the only way to describe the day...amazing & incredible...there was a sense of heavenly peace surrounding the entire stadium/screening process...no trouble...estimations are that over 3500 patients flowed through our screening lines...scheduled as many as possible... pray for all those we were unable to help (there are always more "no" patients than "yes" patients)...bed...now...
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