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I’m sitting back in my own living room and our giant rhododendron bush is still bright pink with blossoms. I’ve just gotten back from a mind-blowing bike ride around the Stanley Park Seawall. It is a glorious early summer day; one of those days that make you shout because you’re just so happy to be alive. Dad is laying the steaks that Mom has marinated on the barbeque.

A friend asked me to sum up my trip in a word. I’ve been thinking a lot about that, and though it is really general, the word that fits best is “different”. I lived a different life for half a year in a different culture. My experience was different then I expected. The challenges were different and I am now a different person.

I wish I could write a nice ending to this blog. It would be ideal if I could wrap it all up in a convenient paragraph or two. The truth is I can’t. The people I’ve met, the sights I’ve seen, the smells I’ve smelt, and the sounds and words I’ve heard will keep percolating, fermenting, and growing in my brain for months and maybe years to come.

What I can say is that you should go. Seriously. Drop what you are doing and go to Africa. It’s good stuff.

Please do e-mail me in a few weeks (stoph_41@hotmail.com) and I will reply. Maybe by then I will have a more congruent response. Feel free to ask very specific questions.

Until the next adventure, thanks so much for reading,

Stoph

Savoring

My welcome back into modern Western society was most memorable, thanks wholly to the hospitality and efforts of the Villies. The Villies are a remarkable family that hosted me for a night during my layover in Brussels and planned for me the ideally paced day full of savoring good things in life.

After big hugs at the train station, a charming drive through the cobblestone streets of Brussels led to a light lunch in the beautiful Villie abode. They are still in the process of making their beautiful home even more beautiful so the hot shower was out of commission. They had, however, arranged with a neighbor who was out of town so that I would not go without. It felt good. Really good.I had forgot how enjoyable a nice fresh breeze of non-muggy air is and Brussels did not disappoint. A walk to the park to kick around a soccer ball hit the spot nicely.

Where the Villie’s hospitality and French nationality really shine is at dinnertime. First there was a cold beer with an appetizer of shrimp with herb cream cheese on crackers, olives, and potato chips. The main course was a zucchini and eggplant gratin... ...with ricotta, baby spinach, and parmesan linguine. This was followed by a generous slice of goat’s cheese and homemade bread with a glass of red wine. Dessert was strawberry sauce and merangue sprinkled with almond slivers and chased down with a shot of homemade prune schnapps. An evening stroll through an old neighbourhood of Brussels capped off the perfect day. We even found a house that was built in the 1500’s!

An early breakfast, more hearty hugs, and a train ride to the airport commenced the next morning. Brussels airport is the very model of European efficiency. Security was a breeze except they confiscated my bottle of deodorant spray since it was 50ml over the limit. The fact that it was half empty didn’t seem to matter. I bought a ridiculously priced Starbucks latte, but I figured I could afford myself the luxury because it had been a while. After some delays the Swiss Air flight got underway and we were all served a delicious chocolate croissant. I think I am going to enjoy these next two weeks.

My most wonderful aunt Käthi met me at the Zurich airport. A scenic train ride later brought us to her home where I am sitting now, overlooking the farmland, trains whizzing by, and the Alps looming on the horizon.

I’m sure every person that lives away from home for a while talks about this, but I’m really starting to learn about all the things I’ve taken for granted. Hot showers are now a euphoric experience. Soft grass under bare feet is beautiful and you have no idea how thrilled I get to just feel a cool and crisp breeze. Being re-united with familiar smells is also very exciting. Please join me in savoring simple things this week.

Departures

It's that time in life again. The bittersweet goodbye. The emotion-filled farewell. The dramatic departure. I've been spending the last few days saying goodbye to the people and the geography. Final handshakes and hugs, final swims and surfs. I'm not ready to leave, but I am ready to go home. That's a confusing way of putting it, but it makes sense to me.

I'm sitting in the waiting room of Robertsfield Intl Airport after a car ride full of prayer. On my way to the waiting room I was padded down not once but twice and at least seven different officials flipped through my passport, trying to look important. The waiting room features unbareble metal chairs (no cushions) and a bunch of TVs showing CNN. It keeps on cutting in and out and the only time it was clear was for a news report about a dramatic plane crash.

In its defence, the waiting room is air-conditioned. I'm actually wearing a hoodie right now which is a unique and very welcome experience. This airport does have one other luxury. Free wireless! Out comes that MacBook, on goes my favorite Icelandic band, and presto! you get a blog post.

Next update will probably come from the handsome hills and pearly peaks of Switzerland, the land of milk and more milk. I get to mooch off relatives for two weeks before finally making it home.

Rainstorm

I spent most of today sitting inside and feeling sorry for myself. I had managed to develop a nasty head cold; the type where you go through a box of Kleenex in an hour and your head feels like a brick. I almost made it through the whole day being holed up indoors, but then when I was just fixing myself something to eat for dinner it started to rain and I forced myself to go outside and enjoy it.

I sat on that porch and watched the floodgates of heaven open up. The sun had just set and everything was still aglow with a crimson hue. As I watched the trees bend over from the wind and heard the thunder boom (like I have never heard before) I realized that my life is in the hands of someone so much greater then my little problems like a nasty head cold. How could any witness of such a great display of stunning raw power be miserable about trivial things?

I watched as a little girl walked by. You could tell she was 100% alive in that rain, alive in the way that only a thunderous storm can make you. She danced in that rain and she jumped in the puddles and she leapt with the thunder. As I watched I realized, on the eve of my birthday, that I don't ever want to grow up. I want to stumble through life wide-eyed and with my jaw hanging open. I want to live in a world where there is no such thing as commonplace, because I could recognize the miracle in even the smallest of events. I want to see every rainstorm not as a nuiscance, but as an adventure.

Beautiful Barca

I don't know if you are aware, because maybe it isn't a big deal where you are, but we are currently experiencing the final stages of the Champion's League. In Liberia that is a big deal. A very big deal. I have never followed football to a great extent before, but I felt that I'd better pick a side and inform myself a little if I were to survive in the football-crazy culture. I picked FC Barcelona because they are from Spain and because I really want to go there. When I found a Barca jersey in the market for 2 bucks, it sealed the deal. I was now a Barca fan. This meant that I was now best friends with half the town of Ganta and friendly enemies with the rest, who happen to mostly be Chelsea fans. All this football excitement came to a climax yesterday, when Barcelona faced Chelsea in the second leg of their semi-final match.

My good friend with the world's coolest name, Lansana Zomoway, gave me a ride on his motorbike to the town's main video club to watch the game. Now "video club" means a large shack (think wood planks nailed together / zinc roof / no windows) with lots of tightly packed wooden benches, and three suprisingly good TVs on the front. Now imagine that space filled with over a 100 large, sweaty men, packed shoulder to shoulder, screaming at the top of their lungs for an hour and a half.

Drogba and Essein seem to be favorites of the Liberian crowd, especially the latter who is from neighbouring Ghana. Whenever they so much as touched the ball things got pretty loud. Thanks to some confusing regulations all Barcelona needed for the win was a draw. However, Chelsea scored early on and then clung unto that one goal lead desperatly, pushing back wave after wave of Barca attack. Once in stoppage time it seemed like Barca's fate was sealed and the Chelsea fans were laying it on pretty thick. Then with one minute left, the unthinkable happened. They scored.

I checked "crazy" in the Thesarus to see if I could find a word to adequately describe the situation, but the English language fails me. 100 men jumping on top of each other in a space that was not built to hold 100 people.

Studio Time

Just in case you missed the memo, World Malaria Day was last Saturday. It probably wasn't a big thing in your local town, but in a country where malaria remains the number one killer such events have vast effects.

EQUIP Liberia, the NGO I'm volunteering with teamed up with some local artists here in Ganta to record a song about the best ways to prevent malaria. I got to tag along to the studio and watch the recording process unfold.

This is SoundCity, the only studio in Ganta. Its a rather new operation run by a 20-something guy who was trained in Sierra Leone and an older guy called Mohammed who, in his own words likes to "make music that sounds as bad as possible." He's quite a character.

Here's the studio set up.The actual recording room is probably smaller then you closet. The guy who runs the studio (I can't remember his name) is an absolute wizard, considering what he's got to work with. After hearing the song sung a few times he started plunking away at his MIDI keyboard and his computer and within the hour he had fixed up a African beat with accompaning piano and synth parts.

By the end of the day the song was recorded and mastered and by the next day it was already playing on four radio stations around the county. Here's the finished result:

Where On Google Earth Am I?

This is gift to all you technically enabled people, specifically does that know how to use Google Earth. Below is a link to a .kml file which you can open up with Google Earth. It will show you numerous yellow thumb tacks that highlight the locations of various places around Liberia that I have mentioned in this blog. Click on the yellow thumb tack and you will get a little blurb about said place. Enjoy!

To download, you will need to right-click the link and select "save link as" and then save it on your computer. Clicking directly won't work.

StophLiberia.kml

Because Mom Said It Was Ok to Post a Photo Without Text

Zupfe

Last weekend I decided to make Zupfe. Zupfe, for the un-informed, is one of the best things on this planet. It is so good, in fact, that you should phone my Dad right now and ask him for the recipe and then make a loaf.

After having Dad explain the finer points of the fine art of baking Zupfe, I started mixing and kneading the dough. I had some anxiety over it as it felt a bit too firm, but it rose gloriously. I cut the dough in half, braided it, brushed on the egg yolk, and popped it into the oven.

As I watched it slowly grow and glow golden-brown in the oven I swelled up with pride, feeling honored to be part of such a rich Swiss heritage that included delicious things as Zupfe (and Ovomaltine).

I checked up on it a while later and noticed that the flame in the little propane oven had gone out. I looked at the dial and noticed that it was turned off. Someone had shut off the oven while my Zupfe was inside!

I must have looked at the wrong dial, because when I lit a match and went to re-light the oven, a ball of fire the size of a beachball came wooshing out straight at my face.

When I shook off my suprise the first thing I did was feel for my eyebrows. Thank God! Still there. Then I looked at my arms. Oh no. Oh no. All that remained of almost 18 years of precious arm-hair growth was stubble and charred remains. Feeling around my head I realized that I also manged to reduce my hairline considerably.

One of the best aromas on this planet is that of a freshly baked Zupfe. One of the worst is that of burnt hair. Half a bottle of shampoo and three packs of frozen veggies later, I finally cut off a slice of my now baked to golden perfection Zupfe. I mixed up some honey and butter, spread on a little and started to eat. As soon as I bit down into that little slice of heaven I realized it was all worth it.

Didn't turn out as nice as Dad's, but I figured it was ok for a first time.

Surroundings

Good Good Friday

On Good Friday some people in Monrovia celebrated by making effigies of Judas and then beat it to shreds with sticks. Only in Liberia.

I was in a foul mood on Friday. For some reason everything irked and irritated me. It was unusually hot so I was unusually sweaty which also means I was unusually uncomfortable. I felt annoyed by people's mannerisms or a side remark or any other trivial thing. I was letting all these little things percolate inside of me when God hit me over the head with this:

"But Jesus made no reply, not even to a single charge."

The one man who had most reason to cry out accusingly at the very people he had come to save, did not say a single word.

I think sometimes we often are so focused on the physical brutality of the cross, that we miss just how dark this day really was. Human history has lots of examples of humans who have suffered greater physical pain then the cross. The real suffering was in carrying all of humanity's sin. The weight of that is so great that we can't really comprehend it. It was a weight so heavy that it caused Jesus, God made flesh, to cry out "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"I think back on my moments of greatest guilt and shame and remember how burdened I felt. When I realize that that is only a drop in the ocean of human transgression, I start to get a glimpse of what really happened at Golgotha.

What follows next is, in my opinion, the most beautiful and understated passage in the Bible.

"At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom."

Because of the cross we have the privilege of walking right into the Holy of Holies and start a beautiful relationship with God, creator of the universe.

Awesome.

Into The Bush

I quickly threw a bunch of clothes into a bag, made sure my camera and camcorder were charged, jumped into some shoes and rushed out the door. Thanks to a last minute plan, I was leaving smoggy Monrovia behind for a week and heading off into the bush.

A large part of what EQUIP Liberia, the NGO I’m volunteering for, does is to train community health ambassadors. It’s a pretty sweet program. People volunteer for a series of workshops and trainings stretched over a 15 month period. The trainings are all about disease prevention and basic hygiene. Most importantly the CHA’s (as they are called) are equipped to carry what they’ve learned back to their communities and share it through giving health talks, performing dramas, and living out what they preach. Its been a program with HUGE success. When you drive through towns where CHAs are active, you can see a drastic change.

The reason I am explaining this is because I was rushing off into the bush to be a part of three different graduations of these community health workers. My job was to take photos and video for future use in newsletters and promotional material, but that was really just an excuse to get out to some of the more remote parts of Liberia and meet some amazing people.

Destination number one was Karnplay. It was a squeaky clean town by Liberian standards. There were no piles of burning garbage on the side of the road and a lot of the large trees had been left in the midst of all the buildings. The children were unusually polite and serious, too shy to even laugh at my obvious whiteness. We stopped at one house. The small 4 year old boy standing outside took one look at Chris, my fellow Canadian volunteer, and booked it inside, apparently scared that “Jesus” had come.

(school children in Karnplay)

The ceremony was beautiful. It was complete with dramas and a song with the lyrics “Diarrhea is not fun so follow my advice / Wash your hands after poo-poo / Wash your hands after poo-poo / Diarrhea is no fun so follow my advice.” There was one graduate who had started his training years earlier but had to flee with the onset of the civil war. He had faithfully come back ten years later to complete what he began, because of his desire to serve his community. There were younger graduates thirsty for the knowledge, and elderly looking for a way to serve the towns where their grandchildren and great-grandchildren now live.

After the ceremony, the graduates brought out a “little” gift for us EQUIP staff as a thank you. My jaw dropped as they carried in seven bunches of bananas, two bunches of plantain, two pineapples, a whole bag of avocadoes, a pumpkin, and some chickens.
Karnplay was also the place where our car decided not to start. One failed push-start and an opportunistic mechanic later, we were back on the road.

Our Land Cruiser was now packed with goods, the chickens peeing all over the floor and the bananas shifting around precariously on the roof rack. We rolled and bounced our way down the rough dirt road towards Garplay. It seems like all the towns in the area end with “-play.”

About three hours and just as many sketchy log bridges later we pulled into Garplay. It was another gorgeous town, on a slight hill so that you had a view of the expansive rainforest around it. Since the ceremony here wasn’t until the next day, Ma Ester, the regional CHA trainer kindly put us up in her round house.

Soon the kids started to gather, wrestling in the yard. One boy started singing spontaneously and we all held our breath, because it was the most beautiful and fragile voice. After he finished we all clapped and he got really shy, but he sung later for us.

When a good crowd of kids had assembled, I pulled out a pack of bright orange balloons that might very good friends from home had sent me. The kids went nuts. Soon Garplay was filled with groups of children running pell-mell after balloons.

(the children of Garplay)

Around the soup pot that night we had an interesting discussion. We were talking about the different types of meat that the Liberians eat. We had covered the usual suspects like goat, ground-hog, snake, and monkey when Paygar, our Liberian friend said, “But the best meat of all is the chimpanzee. I love the chimpanzee!”
Chris, my fellow volunteer, was quick to interject. “But the chimpanzee is almost extinct. It almost finished!”

“Then we will finish it!”, declared Paygar with a large amount of pride.

That night I sat on the porch and played guitar, a new found skill of mine. Once in a while, and it happens quite rarely, you find yourself in a place void of worries or concerns. That night, sitting on that porch in that little village of Garplay, under a canopy of endless stars, and singing songs for God, I felt completely at peace. Everything was the way it should be. Sarah and Chris, the two other volunteers, came out to join me and we just passed around the guitar and worshipped into the night.

The next day’s ceremony was a smashing success. More songs, more dramas, and more beautiful people.

We headed off to our last destination, burdened with some more plantains. The road was long and soon we found ourselves driving in the dark on a bumpy road, getting pin-balled from side to side. We had just navigated another treacherous log bridge when we ran into real trouble.
A local and his machete proved to be providential and in a matter of minutes he had us through. Bonglay ended up being completely willed with sheep. Not the white, fluffy type on rolling green hills, but the matted-wool, floppy eared, dusty type that poop everywhere. Jerry the regional CHA trainer, a big man with a bigger voice, made us feel welcome and showed us to our beds.

Our beds ended up being in the most peculiar and pretty house in Liberia. Here in this remote jungle town an older couple had carefully nurtured an immaculate dwelling. The walls were covered with an eclectic mix of paintings, family photos, and framed shots of the London Tower guards. I even found a VW poster in one corner of the kitchen. A beautiful queen-sized bed was a welcome site.

Under the morning light Bonglay appeared as a town very much alive. The ceremony was big and noisy. We had to make it all the way back to Ganta that day, so after a quick bowl of rice with groundhog (which, by the way, is delicious) we jumped into the Land Cruiser and headed back.

Coming back out from the bush I felt like I left a little part of me there, under those stars surrounded by those trees and all those beautiful people.

(cooking a cassava snake)

"Pray the Devil Back to Hell"

This last weekend Monrovia has played host to an "International Women's Colloquium." It was a giant gathering of dignitaries (19 heads of state!), NGOs, and community representatives to discuss ways to empower women to improve their situations in conflict, post-conflict, and third-world countries. Cool stuff. There was also a trade fair. Cooler stuff. The fact that Liberia was able to host so many important people without anything crazy going down, is a testament to how far this country has come.

But the real cool stuff was last night. The whole event was hosted at Samuel Kanyon Doe Sports Complex, a giant football stadium. Last night they had all the chairs out on the soccer field and they showed a special screening of a new documentary, "Pray the Devil Back to Hell" on the big score screen, to a crowd of thousands, the president of Liberia in the audience.
The flick is about a group of Christian and Muslim women who came together during the Liberian civil war to pray and protest for the sake of peace. The film didn't fully grip me until I saw footage of the very stadium I was sitting in filled with displaced people seeking refuge. The proximity of it all was overwhelming.

I don't think it is out on DVD in North America yet, but when it is available, don't hesitate to watch it. It is a well told grassroots story about a group of women who managed to bring about change through their prayers and perserverence.

After the film was finished, the president spent almost half an hour wandering around the crowd, shaking hands and making quick conversation. Ellen Johnson Sirleaf is the first female head of state in Africa. To see a person of her position naturally mingling with the crowd was such a refreshing sight. She could easily take on a superior attitude that many past and present Liberian and African leaders have taken in the past, but instead she chooses to be a woman of the people. Fellow volunteer Chris even snuck in a handshake. Apparently she has soft hands.

So Last Night I Hung Out With The Governor General

Don't believe me? Here's evidence!

Going To Town

Since I spend half of my time here in Liberia up in Ganta, I figured it would be ideal to introduce you to the place. I will do so by having come along with me on my late-afternoon walk, covering the fifteen-minute distance from the compound where I am staying and the town. This is a ritual I enjoy every second day or so.

I head out just before 5:00pm, just late enough that the evening has taken the edge off the African heat, but still giving me lots of time before sundown (6:30-7:00). From the compound I cross a swamp/farm and reach my dirt path that will lead to the main road.
The path is lined with all sorts of exotic trees and buhes, peppered with chickens and dogs, and little kids yelling “Queplu! Queplue” (which is “White-man! White-man! in their Mano dialect.)

On my way I pass through the Methodist Mission. Now I can’t tell you about Ganta without telling you about George Harley, the Methodist missionary. He showed up here carried in a hammock in 1923, back when roads were a foreign word here. In fact he was the first person to introduce the wheel to the local Mano tribesmen! After the wheel, he taught them how to fire bricks, how to plank logs, and how to build strong houses. He opened a hospital, a school, built a road, had a car (dismantled into pieces) carried up from Monrovia, built an airstrip, learned how to fly, built an airplane, and flew himself in from the coast. All in all the quintessential jack-of-all-trades. Ganta is his legacy, because if it weren’t for him, it would still be a gathering of mud huts in the middle of the jungle. It is now the second largest city in the country. During my walk I pass his last work here before he left back for America. A beautiful stone church with stain-glass windows. Because of where it is (a country where not a single wall is straight) it is the Since it is exactly 5:00 now, the church bell starts to ring. I stop a listen to what I find to be the most beautiful sound in the world. That and loons, but there aren’t any loons here.

Past the church is the main road into town. I walk along it, dodging dust clouds spewed from motorcycle tires that whip by. I wave at some kids at the side of the road (yelling “queiplu! Quieplu!”). On the way I stop at one of the many small stands selling sweets. I buy some peanut brittle.
The center of Ganta is one straight strip of shops about eight blocks long. It is always a bustling places full of building supply shops, general merchandise, and street sellers selling everything from fried plantain to roasted “mystery meat” on a skewer.

I make a beeline for the market, ignoring yells of “WHITE MAN!” from every second guy’s lips. The market is a cramped group of stalls with low coverings, forcing me to duck my head. Shopping here is a bit of an art. It is unwise to ignore to ignore people, so you usually end up talking to just about everyone. “How the day?” “The day is fine.” “How the business?” “The business good, thank God.” Something like that. It is also unwise to flat out say “no” to what they are offering you. I find myself using words like “later” and “next time” a lot. They all reassured me that there was no pineapple today but there would be tomorrow.
With your photographic enjoyment in mind I wander over to the meat section, where the market ladies in vain try to fan the flies away. It smells of fish and rotting meat. The chicken feet they are selling don’t help. Here’s some beef.
I leave the market pineapple-less but I bought some limes. Nothing like limes to make water interesting.

My next destination is Ganta’s best kept secret. Here it is:
This little shack is the home of a giant brick oven and one really friendly Guinean baker, who happens to make the best little baguettes around. Nothing in Ganta comes close to sinking your teeth in a piping hot fresh loaf.
This being the end of my shopping, I go by a general merchandise shop and buy a cold coke. There are some chairs outside so I sit down and watch the Ganta bustle stream by. The coke (in a glass bottle of course) being drained I get up and start heading home. The motorbike drivers all offer a ride home, but I refuse, pointing at my legs. A white man that walks everywhere? Weird!

The walk home is uneventful. I stop near the church to watch a football (soccer) match. Never are Liberians more energetic and argumentative. At one point the ball goes wide, hits a palm tree, bounces off my foot, and back into play. The referee just pretends nothing happened.

Here is the last view of my walk, just outside the compound, looking back over the trees that I have snaked my way through. Below me is a bitter ball farm. I still haven’t found out what bitter ball is.
On my way into the compound I get mobbed by a group of kids. “Take my picture, I beg you, take my picture!” How could I resist? They all strike up poses and don’t stop laughing until the camera is back in the bag and I’m stepping inside.

Mountain Madness

I'm pretty mad about mountains. I go crazy without them. I miss them like family. So when the opportunity arose to go up to the only serious Liberian mountains and climb Mount Nimba, the highest point in the country, I didn't hesitate.

Yekepa is a mining ghost town; the leftover of a huge iron ore mining operation by Lamco. It used to be called "mini-New York" because it is probably the only town in all of Liberia that has a complete power grid. Nestled in a lush valley surrounded by mountains, it lies just minutes away from the boarder with Guinea. Lamco left in a hurry when the war started up in 1990, leaving behind skeletons of giant warehouses and machinery as a memento.
Mining has just begun again, this time under the world's largest steel company, Acellor Mittal. They are already half a million dollars in debt on the project.

We whisked through the town on our way to bigger and better things. The winding road led us to the site of the orginal iron ore pit mine. What was once the tallest point around is now a massive layered pit with an emerald lake at the bottom (which is called Emerald Lake).
We left our faboulous driver Solomon with the car, and started our trek. It was the early afternoon and slightly overcast. A cool breeze nipped us we climbed along. We got to higher plateau and were awarded with a breathtaking view of the Ivorian forest stretching for miles. A brief rumble in the distance went unheeded.
We carried on fueled by our quest for reaching the peak. We didn't realize the situation we were in until, after an hour, we reached the top. The distant rumbles were getting to be quite regular and they were increasing in volume. A flash of lightning toar through the sky over Ivory Coast and a huge thunderstorm started marching towards us. Another one was coming from over Liberia. We abandoned all thoughts about the bottle of champagne we had dragged with us to pop at the top, and started the speediest decent known to man. We weren't fast enough.

The two storms met us simoultaneously. Devilish whisps of cloud whisked around us and the thunder burst above our heads. That fact that we were standing on top of a mountain famous for its iron ore was not lost to us. The rain hit us heavy and hard; each drop puncturing our clothes and leaving a sting. Within a minute I was absolutely drenched. I felt a river of water fall down my back and into my shorts. Not one inch of fabric was saved. What had been a mountain of dust turned into a waterfall of mud that we picked our way through with our hearts beating fast.

We made it to the car in less then half an hour. Solomon was waiting for us, headlights on and cutlass ready, scared not for our safety but for whatever might come out of that cloud at him. He'd never touched a cloud before.

Climbing to the highest point in Liberia during a thunderstorm may not have been the brightest idea, but it was definetly one of the more thrilling experiences I've had in my life.

For True?

"Is it for true?" This is the Liberian version of "for real?" and I like it a lot better. This morning we had a real "for true" moment.

Around 2:00am in the morning the cellphones across Liberia, all the way from the sprawling capital of Monrovia to the most remote reaches of cell coverage, started buzzing and ringing. People rolled and stumbled out of bed and groped around for the object that had cut the dead silence of the African night. On the other line were worried friends, concerned employees, and pleading relatives. The rumor was passed on; the warning given. All around the country people dropped the cellphones, grabbed their pails, and ran for the nearest well.

What secret whispered in the dark would galvanize a whole country into action in the dead of night? It was simply this: After 6:00am (some reports said 5:00) all the drinking sources in all of the Republic of Liberia would be simultaneously poisoned, and anyone who would drink from them in the next three days would die. Most people spared only a few minutes to pass on the warning to their most loved ones, before rushing out of the door with as many pails as they could carry.

This wasn't just limited to fussy old women in superstitious villages buried in the bush. These were people with high school educations and office jobs; people who honestly knew better.

Dave went out to the yard to witness the commotion of the neighbourhood running around. He posed a question to our security guard, John. "You think the people are smart or stupid to believe this?"
"They stupid-o," he replied, knowing the right answer.
"But you got enough water yourself, right?" Dave asked sincerely.
"Oh, ya. We drew plenty, plenty!" John quipped.

This might be a ridiculous and amusing example of the power of superstition and beliefs in Liberia, but often it can be deadly. People won't sleep under life-saving mosquito nets because they believe that at night their spirit turns into a bird and will be trapped by the net. When a mother watches her child fade away from any number of diseases, she doesn't go seek help at the clinic, but blames it on the fact that someone must be practicing witchcraft against that child. People with leprosy, albinism (which is surprisingly common), or deformities are cast out from society by their obvious signs of devilry.

The more one is surrounded by this startlingly perplexing mindset, the more you realize just how devastating it is. It seems to me that the main reason why Liberia is in such a place of suffering is because of these lies that undercut all common sense and rationality.

Giving someone an education or good health care is very possible, but to change an entire country's worldview is more then a struggle, if not impossible.

Worship

The other day a question that is usually buried somewhere deep in my subconscious decided to pay the conscious part of my mind a visit. "Why am I in Africa?" That opened a floodgate of queries that were soon buzzing around my mind, each one broader and harder to answer. "Why am I anywhere?" "Why am I?" "Why?" You get the point.

What often happens when I am ambushed by a flurry of deep and probing questions, is that I try to think about it really, really hard. What always happens when I try to think about something really, really hard is that a random song will pop up into my head and conveniently block out all nagging questions about my existence and meaning. This time, however, the song served a purpose.

"Here I am to worship, here I am to bow down. Here I am to say that your my God" I had just sung it that Sunday, comforted by the familiar words and melody in a foreign country. But I hadn't really thought about it. Now I did. And the more I thought about it the more I realized that the statement "here I am to worship" is not just for a single moment. We can say that about every waking moment of our lives.

I was musing about all this while walking towards the endless Atlantic for a swim. (By the way, the endless Atlantic is a fine, fine place for musing.) Two of my friends were already in the water, abandoning themselves to the waves, letting God's nature pound into them and tumble them around. I felt God say, "That is worship." We can do the simplest and most mundane tasks in a Spirit of worship, and they are transformed into something that God takes joy in. What more can we ask for?

We don't need to be in a church, we don't need to feel the right 'emotions', to be worshiping God. When I made a batch of gingersnaps (thanks for the recipe Holly) that everyone could enjoy, that was an act of worship. When our hearts stops in awe of a sunset that can be an act of worship. When we hug someone that can be an act of worship. When we do something we don't even enjoy doing, but do it with a rejoincing heart, that is worship. We were created to glorify God.

Now here is the best part of it. "Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me." I love Matthew 25:40, because as far as I understand it, when I am hugging someone in love, I AM HUGGING GOD!!!

That's why I am here in Africa. I'm here to worship God in everything I do. That's why I am anywhere. That's why I am.

Having satisfied my nagging subconcious I started belting out "Hear I Am To Worship" and ran into the endless Atlantic.

And I Thought The Pine Beetle Was Bad...

I think you should all check out this link of an article from National Geographic. It is a really big issue, especially in the rural areas where something like this can be so devastating. I haven't actually gone up to see it yet, but I hope I'll get a chance.

Nightmarish Caterpillar Swarm Defies Control In Liberia

Thoughts

• 7 of the 10 deadliest snake species are native to Liberia.
• I don’t care if you call me a sissy; big spiders in showers freak me out.
• Liberia is a perfect example of globalization. Thanks to the latest economic meltdown the price of petroleum has fallen. Since the price of natural rubber (a huge income source here) is directly tied to petroleum prices, people whom live off less then a dollar a day are suffering. So decisions made in boardrooms on Wall Street affect the rubber farm worker who can’t read or write and has left his family to try to make some money to keep them healthy.
• They eat anything that moves here. This is some roasted dog's head. It wasn't hard to say no.

• Fruit is exponentially more delicious here. Even ordinary fruit like oranges or bananas taste exotic.
• Plantain = my favorite! Fried, deep-fried, roasted, or dried – I don’t care cause it is all so good. (Plantain is like a marriage between a banana and something starchier. That’s a terrible description.)
• Since the Liberian diet rarely contains dairy, people get their calcium by chewing bones.
• Surfing is hard. Really hard. It is also very humbling.

Gblarlay

Gblarlay is about as remote as you can get, except for the fact that it can be reached by car (well, half of the time). Five hour drive into the heart of the bush, over nature's biggest speed bumps and sketchy bridges, while the sun set in glorious oranges through the trees. Equip was opening a new clinic there. It would serve a population of over 25,000 people from the neighbouring villages, including Ivorians from across the border. There are about 300 people per practicing doctor in America. In Liberia there are about 100 doctors total, and half of those are administrative positions.

I arrived the night before the ceremony. As we rolled into town at dusk kids started running after our truck, shouting out cries of welcome. When we parked I shook a million people's hands and was shown to a house where there was a spare room. I wandered back to a common gathering place, where the women were already busy preparing a feast, chopping and mashing and stirring mysterious entrees in big metal kettles over coal fires. I sat down on a bench and started talking to an older lady sitting beside me.

I heard singing off in the distance and soon a row of flashlights appeared on the horizon. "Who is that, Ma?" I asked the older lady. "Oh, they are Ivorians. They have come to celebrate." And celebrate they did. They rolled into town to the pulse of a djembe, dancing and singing, dressed in the most colorful fabric you've ever seen. A circle was formed and soon there was a whirlwind of swinging hips and shuffling feet, accompanied by an infectious chorus. I was completely mezmerized.

When I stumbled into bed I could still here the drums off in the distance. Apparently it went on all night. I was woken up at some ridiculously early hour "Come quick. Bring the camera. They are killing the cow!" It was still dark out. I rolled out of bed, grabbed my camera, and headed to the slaughter. I had arrived too late for the big show, but I watched them cut off the hide and took some photos that have a lot of appeal if your really into bovine anatomy. I went back to bed for a few more precious hours of sleep.

When I got up again, the cow was already well chopped up and stewing. There was nothing of it left. Nothing got wasted. Everything was in the soup pot. I tried not to dwell on it for long. Besides the beef, all the women were cooking up potato greens, okra, palm butter, and of course rice. One lady was making some donuts. There are very few things that can compare to a fresh Liberian donut.

The ceremony was great. Lots of cultural dances, lots of uninteresting speeches, and then everyone got fed. Good times in the bush.