Success!

Note: Scroll down to the entry on December 7 if you wish to read about my trip to West Africa sequentially.

They say if you accomplish one thing in Monrovia, it's a good day. In that case, yesterday was dramatically successful.

We managed to pick up our airline tickets at the DHL office—nothing like getting those on the morning before takeoff. We went to the Brussels Airline office and confirmed our flight. We stopped by the World Hope office and found some young men to repair the sewage pipe that had been stolen the night before. We dropped by the Bible Society and saw some of the material they were providing for Liberians. We visited the Wesleyan Bible College where the Marshall's neighbor Lemuel is president—what a wonderful man and what an inspiring endeavor! We ate a delicious baked chicken dinner. I learned a new game from the neighborhood kids. Plus we caught our flight to Brussels.

Right now I'm snuggling under luscious covers in this 5-star hotel in one of Europe's wealthiest cities, but I miss little Sam's smile. Maybe we'll go back next year.

Red Light District

You have to drive through the Red Light district to get anywhere in Monrovia. Remember there is only one main street through town. There are so many interesting things to look at here, but I'm glad I'm in the car.

One thing that has struck me is the billboards. Vivid signs teach people basic truths: rape is wrong, latrines should be used, AIDS is real. On one level it is discouraging that this stuff has to be taught, but ultimately these signs represent real hope. The war is over, and people are ready to make life good again. That's not something to be discouraged about.

Missing Husband

At the village, we were served a delicious meal of cassava leaf soup and rice, much the same as last night's dinner. Larry ended up with the treasured piece of fat—which he ate with a smile on his face. (He's my hero.) We sat inside Pastor Flomo's new house made of mud walls and a tin roof, which is surprisingly cool. As we ate, Cindy noticed that the assistant pastor didn't look so well. He had malaria—and she happened to have malaria pills in her purse. He should feel better by tomorrow.

We checked out the school that Larry (Marshall) has been helping the villagers to build. (Right now the students are meeting in a makeshift pavilion that will not be adequate for the rainy season.) It's quite impressive how much work they have done without equipment. They carry forty pound buckets of sand on their head up from the stream to make cement to make blocks to build walls. (Larry tried it once and got a bruise on his head.) Everyone carries things on their heads here—even backpacks! :)

We are invited to greet the students, and each of us are expected to say something. In response, the kids sing us a beautiful chorus. As Larry and Cindy conduct some other business, I try to teach the kids tic-tac-toe in the sand, but they just laugh at me—clearly not understanding. Eventually I make my way over to "kitchen" which is another dirt-floor pavilion with a fire pit in the middle. The women sit there quietly and someone pulls a chair from someplace for me; ducks and chickens wander around, pecking at the dirt. No one says anything, even when I try to engage them in conversation. I find out why later:

One of the women was Pastor Flomo's sister, and her husband went missing about three weeks ago. Flomo has been doing all he can to help find him back (there is no police force for this kind of work), but no one is hopeful. The most likely explanation is that he was captured and used for a ritual sacrifice, a common practice even today. I wouldn't talk either if I were facing trauma like that.

On the way home, we gave a few people rides to various locations—and this time I noticed the rubber trees. Amazing to think that rubber drips from trees like maple syrup. Eventually we even picked up a colonel from the Liberian National Police and gave him a ride for about 20 miles or so, which meant we had to stop and chat at each checkpoint rather than being waved through, but that didn't stop us from stopping to buy plantain chips from a roadside vendor (which tasted much like potato chips). The timing worked out fine: We made it to our favorite Thai restaurant and home before dark, and thus avoided the somewhat scary red light district at its worst time.

Off Road

Driving along the main street in Monrovia is an adventure in itself—with the crazy taxi drivers, the UN workers walking around with machine guns, the police officers pulling you over for some "cool water;" but when you go off the main road, the craziness really begins.

This morning we drove for about an hour an half out of Monrovia, and then took another 45 minutes to drive the five off-road miles to Flomotown, one of the villages where Marshalls have been working. The path is narrow and surrounded by the wild—though the only dangerous animals we saw were driver ants: creatures that can take down a large animal and leave only the bones. Thankfully they weren't much interested in our metal vehicle.

You wouldn't be able to pay for this kind of off-road driving in Colorado. We dug through crater-sized potholes and over precarious palm log bridges, tipping every which direction. The Marshalls have a decent Pathfinder, but Uriah was wishing for his buddy's tricked-out Jeep—and probably his buddy too—to make this slow-going a little more exciting.

It's hard to believe we'll be in Brussels again tomorrow.

Sharks

Liberia reports that the Great White Shark is often consumed in that country as a daily source of protein, especially in the coastal cities and towns (Forestry Development Authority, Republic of Liberia). I didn't eat any shark in Monrovia, but I was afraid one of them would eat me.

We swam for awhile (me in my clothes) in the warm water along the beautiful beach, but I wouldn't go too deep. I heard sharks love warm water and healthy, fat Americans.

Talking about good eating: the Marshall's neighbor Rebekah, who is a sweetheart!, came over to help Cindy make potato leaf soup. I paid close attention so I can make it at home—this stuff is good! Let me know if you want the recipe.

AIDS

We sat in the waiting room with the patients for about fifteen minutes—and I couldn't help wondering which of them had AIDS. This disease is not a huge problem here in West Africa like it is in other parts of the continent, but it's still prevalent enough to give this tiny hospital 700 clients.

Bea is an AIDS counselor and had a lot going on; but she graciously took twenty minutes to answer my questions. Her main objective is to educate AIDS victims and their families on how the disease can be avoided and be treated. Most people are in denial, believing there is no AIDS in Liberia. Many didn't know they had the disease until they went for prenatal care or tried to donate blood ... or got sick.

As Bea talked, I was overwhelmed by how many important issues there are to deal with—this one as important as any others.

Here's a heartbreaking story Bea told me that I've incorporated into my book:

“I’m scared,” Arway whispered.

Lydia turned around and saw Arway staring into space. Lydia gently rubbed her back. What else could she do?

“I knew the end would come, I just didn’t know it would come this soon,” Arway whispered.

“When did you first know you had AIDS?” Lydia asked.

“We saw signs of it in my husband first. I was here at this clinic with him many times—right up until he died.”

“Oh, Arway!”

“His sister had died, leaving behind a 2-year-old child,” Arway explained. “Our tradition was to take the blood of the orphaned child and to pass it among her family to fend off whatever stole the life of the mother.”

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked, horrified.

“It my John who did it,” Arway said. “He took a razor blade and cut the baby’s shoulder. That blade was then passed around the circle for each us to use.”

“Didn’t you know?” Lydia asked.

“No,” Arway responded quietly. “I didn’t know the Lord then, or that His power was stronger than our traditions. I had never heard of AIDS and didn’t know how it was passed around. I didn’t even know why my sister-in-law had died.” She sobbed. “I knew so little. If only we had known . . .”

School in Monrovia

I interviewed some more child combatants, current students at a Wesleyan school. Larry, Uriah, Cindy, and I squeezed into the teacher's tiny, dark, cement office with barely enough room for us to move. The students came one at a time to answer my questions, sharing stories similar to the ones I had already heard. That didn't diminish the effect they had on me. Two things in particular struck me: first, they were looking forward, not back; second, they were smart and savvy. One girl, after I told her why I was here (i.e., to teach kids in America to be more aware of others so they'll be motivated to help), asked pointedly: "How can people in America help us?" I'm glad Cindy was with us to talk about the wells they are digging and the schools they are building. All the more now, I am sincerely praying that the people who read my book (and this blog!) will be inspired to serve others.

There are many schools in Monrovia, sponsored by many different groups, but no public education. The families must come up with the school fees and means of transportation. The teachers are paid only about $20 US per month—not nearly enough for the important work they do. Still, they pull it off: Everywhere you go, you see kids in uniforms (with pure white socks—I don't know how they stay so clean).

Community

After a delicious dinner, the guys went out to dig a well. Larry (Marshall) had managed to have a drill rig sent over (at an outrageous price), and was creating a community well just outside his yard. His goal is to dig one working well per week, focusing mostly on rural areas (after this one).

Everyone crowded around to watch, and I got to spend time with the neighborhood kids. I had brought some copies of Tough Stuff and Learn to Read Bible, and since there were so many kids here, this seemed like a great place to distribute them. I've been seeing them reading to each other all day.

I love kids. Wherever I go, I am right in the middle of them. Good thing Larry made me promise to not try to adopt anyone or I'd be going home with a houseful. I love one kid in particular: Sam is stealing my heart. He smiles on cue with so much joy that I simply can't resist him. I can't adopt this darling anyway is because he has a good family. I'm so glad! His sisters dote on him and he protects his baby brother with typical 3-year old passion.

Clean Underwear!

Saidu picked me up at 7am so I could make the 8am helicoptor ride to the Freetown airport. While we waited for helicopter, a comedian performed for tips. His jokes were lame, but his accents were excellent: he was Sierra Leonian, but could pull off British, Chinese, Indian, and American.

At the airport a "skycap" helped me. "You sit right there," he told me. "I'll take care of you. You are my friend." I was glad for the help, and trusted him. (That's usually my problem.) Everything went well—until I realized that he had gotten me to the front of the line in the same manner my friend David had been ranting about two days ago. He had even gotten me through customs without any effort on my own part. Whoops! (I'll avoid your judgment by not telling you how much I tipped him.)

No problems with the return flight to Monrovia. I even learned to push my way forward instead of politely waiting to be invited forward. (If you're polite here, you get pushed to the back of the line.) My flight was only a 1/2 hour late, I had no luggage, and I knew what to do this time, so I was smooching my baby again before noon.

Even better than that (sorry, Larry!), the guys had picked up our luggage from Brussels Airline and I could finally change my underwear!

Not Just Rape

Estee picked up his story where he left off. Like all the others, he seemed anxious to share. I've so often said to my interviewees, "Don't say anything you don't want to," but they all brush my comment away. I think they're relieved to find someone they can share these horrors with. I imagine it doesn't work to talk to each other because they've all been through it. Every single person here has faced significant trauma—and I don't mean just a little thing like bancruptcy or the death of one child or a single act of rape. I mean a decade or more of non-stop terror and loss and shame and lack.

Back to the story: The boy had a gun to his head, and Estee considered overpowering him. But then what? He was held hostage in a rebel-occupied village. Even if he got out of this house, he'd never get past the others outside. He waited. And prayed. Every time he heard a gun shot, his body jolted. I watched Estee's face reveal the fear he was recalling.

The man who owned the home in which Estee was hostage, and who had joined the rebels, recognized Estee as the pastor; when the man heard an execution was in order, he decided to help free the pastor. Estee expected to die as he was led to the gate, and was shocked to discover himself free. He found his family back and they lived in the bush, living on berries and roots. Even when other villagers returned to the abandoned village after the rebels left, Estee kept his family hidden. The risk was too great. The memories were too horrid.

"I don't know what was the worst," he said. "The fear? My daughter was 15, and if she were found..." his voice trailed off. "The waiting? I thought good news would never come. I thought the war would last forever." We sat in silence a moment. "The humility?" His voice broke. "The humility..."

I had composed myself thus far, but when this handsome, charismatic leader raised his head and pointed to the Bible—"It was the Psalms," he said, "that comforted me: 'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.'"—I lost it. I wept. Right in front of Estee.

And all I had to do was listen. He had to live it.

Run!

I promised I'd tell you about Saidu, World Hope's county director for Sierra Leone—and my guide in Freetown. When you first meet the guy, you think he's all about fun. Take last night, for instance: Even though he had been waiting for me to arrive at the airport (with his very bored son) for about five hours he laughed when he saw me and chatted happily as he drove me to my hotel—plus he stuck around until he was sure I was safe and settled. The laughter kept up even while fixing the airline ticket problem and dealing with my poor skills in accent interpretation.

But Saidu is much more than an all-around nice guy: he's a hard-working, dedicated man of God who has experienced more suffering than many of the people he is serving.

Saidu had been telling his story to me while we drove all over Freetown. It was tough to have the story interupted at such critical moments so often, but it was even worse to sit in the hotel restaurant overlooking the ocean at dinner tonight as "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" played and Christmas lights twinkled in the background. His life was far from wonderful—and I wasn't sure if I could handle any more stories of pain.

Like so many others in West Africa, Saidu and his family had to run from home after home, year after year, to escape the rebels—often surviving with his life by outright miracles. At times he was caught completely unaware and had nothing but a towel around his waist; at other times he was ready with a tank full of gas and extra cans in the back. "Always, though, I was afraid," he said. "Even now, when I see people running, I feel panicked—because people running meant only one thing. Or when I hear voices at night, I think I have to run; I momentarily forget that curfew is no more."

When he leaves, I'm thankful for a few minutes alone so that I can cry. I need to let some of my emotions out so that I can be fully engaged when Estee comes to finish his story. He should be here in a few minutes. Oh, God, give me strength.

Sugar Daddy

He said we were going to a Wesleyan school, but it looked to me like a back ally. After Ruth's story, I guess I should have been afraid—but Saidu had worked too hard to make sure I was getting out of here tomorrow to give me any concern.

The school was started by a woman named Frances who was well-educated, but more interested in giving girls in Sierra Leone an opportunity to survive than to give herself an opportunity to succeed. During the war, when Frances' baby was just eight months old, she had been forced to jump out of a second story window with her child in her arms as the building erupted into flames. The little boy got a concussion and she didn't know where her husband was, but she couldn't make a noise or the rebels would have found her. (You still see many burnt out buildings everywhere you go—most of them, like this one, inhabited again.) Against all odds, Frances escaped, her son lived, and she reunited with her husband. When the war ended they opened this school for girls, which teaches the typical math, english, and geography classes as well as marketable skills like sewing and soapmaking—all between the hours of 2-5 in the afternoon so the girls can keep their day jobs.

The students called Frances Momma, and I know she earned that title. This run-down little campus is the only safe place the girls have. Each one of those I interviewed today told me basically the same story: they had lived upcountry and had to run for safety after their parents were killed by rebels; it had been drilled into them that education was their only chance for a better life, and they were fighting for this opportunity—sometimes sneaking away from their "guardians" who enslaved them in the home or from their "sugar daddies" who provided for their physical needs, and always working to raise enough money for the minimal school fee.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked them. Their answers were either owning their own businesses (i.e., selling their own products from stalls along the road) or becoming teachers to help others. All of them had goals, and I believe each of them will reach it. They have already overcome so much.

Frances and I talked about the girls for a bit after they had all gone back to class. "It's hard," she said, "when I know how they're making their money to come here."

I'm ashamed to admit that my first impulse was to accept the situation. Surely they would be forgiven for this kind of behavior. And what else could they do?

"But I'm not afraid to lecture them about this," Frances continued. "They think it is the only way, but it's not. God will provide a way," she says. "God will provide a way."

Child Combatant

Out for lunch at 2pm ... my first meal of the day. I couldn't possibly complain though. On the contrary: I feel as though I should fast for a few weeks. Still, the fried chicken was good. What wasn't so good was that a bunch of white people appeared out of nowhere. I kind of wanted them to go away ... until I remembered that I'm white too.

After lunch we picked up Sidibay, a fifteen-year-old boy who had been a child combatant. To save a little time, I interviewed him as we drove, but I wished I could have taken an entire week with him. No; I wish I could have taken him home with me. His candor and gentle heart surprised and touched me. I asked Sidibay why he joined the rebels at such a young age; it seemed impossible to fathom that a little boy could commit such atrocities—but his answer made sense: His parents had been murdered during the war when he was just three, and, as soon as he was able, he tried to make sense of his loss and regain some power by joining the only stronghold he could see. He was glad for the war because without it he would have no place to go, no hope.

When the war ended, Sidibay didn't know what to do. He was selected to be in a school for displaced children and was shocked to discover that he liked it. He pressed into his studies, and found new hope, real hope. "I want to be an international lawyer for justice someday," he told me proudly. "I'm working very hard."

Gun to My Head

The UN flight is down for maintenance tomorrow. Grrr. We've been going all over the place trying to get my paperwork in order (even coming up with "technical advisor" as my title) ... all for nothing.

Back to Slok.

I'm getting to know this city with all this driving we have to do. It's much hillier than Monrovia, and I can often get a glimpse of the water. The roads are a bit better, but the houses are worse. My host Saidu (more about him later ... he deserves a whole entry) has been doing more work on this little problem than I have.

Good news: Slok had a cancellation. My flight tomorrow is now confirmed. Phew. I don't think I could do another day here without Larry. I'm feeling a bit emotional after hearing all these stories.

I'm sitting at World Hope's MicroFinance office now, waiting to finish my interview with the big boss here. Estee is a former pastor and one of my new favorite people. (People here are like books—too many good ones to decide which is my favorite.) He started telling me his story— about being captured by the rebels, stripped, and threatened. He left me at the point where a little kid is pointing a gun at his head until the rebels return and decide what to do with him.

Estee is gone to deal with some business. I'm not surprised. I had to walk up five flights of stairs where at least a hundred people were waiting to see him. He processes about 80 loans a day, of about $50-$75 each. The applicants have to prove they have a job to get the cash. Fifty dollars here is a lot of money.

Whoops! We're off again. Estee's story will have to wait.

Stranded in Freetown

I'm supposed to go home tomorrow. I mean, back to the Marshall's. Back to my hubby. The trouble is that my return ticket was not confirmed, and there are no more seats available. We're about to go talk to the UN people to see if I can get on their flight to Monrovia tomorrow morning. If not, I'll have to go on standby on Slok or, if that doesn't work, confirm a flight for Friday. Friday! Noooo....

Sex Trafficking

I had the honor of sitting in a room this morning with a woman I considered to be one of the loveliest, most serene people I have ever met. I spent the first hour learning how she and her colleague Janet fought against human trafficking in Sierra Leone—beginning with the basics of advocating for proper laws and training police officers on how to spot trafficking ... all the way to spying on known sex traders to help capture them.

"Aren't you afraid," I asked at one point. These women were not only making the public aware of this issue and empowering women to protect themselves; they were directly battling against these horrid criminals who were used to getting their way.

Ruth shrugged as if the question didn't make sense.

Janet told me about the village people who sent their children to relatives in the city for education without realizing they had placed their children in slavery. They told me about the aunt who had brought her 13-year-old niece to the city to sell to a brothel. They told me about the man who convinced parents to entrust their kids to him for education only to disappear with their money and their children.

And then Ruth began to tell her story. I will never be the same.

When Ruth was 18 years old, she left her small, rural village in northern Sierra Leone to join a older female friend who had convinced Ruth to travel with her to Liberia for vacation. The women had been neighbors for three years, and Ruth was excited for the opportunity. The friend arranged Ruth’s travel and documents, invited an old graying man to join them, and then disappeared.

"She's coming back," Mr. Bob kept promising. But once they were in Liberia, Mr. Bob took Ruth to a private house in Monrovia under the pretense of visiting family members. He told everyone that Ruth was his wife so they were given a room in which to sleep. Ruth had never been to Liberia before and was unfamiliar with the language and people. Not knowing the city, she did not know how to leave on her own. Furthermore, she had no money, travel documents, or even identification. Mr. Bob raped Ruth, whipped and beat her when she refused sex.

And that was just the beginning.

For more than two years, Ruth was trapped in a room without enough food or any way to communicate with the outside world. She was forced to serve as a sex slave to numerous men, and was tightly controlled by Mr. Bob.

One day, a client from Sierra Leone became sympathetic to her situation. The man paid for Ruth's freedom and brought her clothes. Ruth was free for the first time in two years and ended up marrying the man who saved her. They told absolutely no one her story, and had a child together—their first.

The war in Liberia caused Ruth's family to flee to Sierra Leone, but Ruth's husband did not survive. Ruth and her child ended up in a refugee camp in Guinea, fighting for their lives. There she met Janet and turned her life over to Jesus.

Years later, back in Sierra Leone, Janet, who knew nothing of Ruth's story, invited her to become a public awareness officer for sex trafficking. Today, fifteen years after her escape, Ruth is influencing a nation as she empowers men and women to live a free and safe life.

To Give or Not to Give

I'm still awake. It's strange to be alone here in a foreign country, not so much because I'm afraid, but because there is so much to think about.

They tell you not to give to beggars here, but that's easier said than done, and not just because the beggars are so persistant—it's because they really do need assistance. The kid who asked me for a dollar at the airport tonight had no hands! The rebels probably chopped them off when he was a baby—a form of torture they had used on so many. How am I supposed to say no to that?

One of the things World Hope does is help amputees to take care of themselves by providing protheses for them. West Africans have become used to receiving handouts, and it's ultimately not good for them. Relief work is important for awhile, but eventually we have to move from providing relief to empowering.

Gosh. I act as if I know what I'm talking about. I don't. The people I have met here are so beautiful and so strong. And so desperately poor. If I have the resources, is it wrong to give? I just don't know.

You know the story of the starfish, I'm sure. And you also know the saying, "Give them a fish, feed them for day; teach them to fish, and you feed them for a lifetime." Now that I'm here on the beach, I'm not sure what to do.

Bully

Larry and I smooched like we wouldn't see each other again when it was time for me to leave for Sierra Leone. I usually tend to be too relaxed about things like this, but even I was feeling a bit nervous about taking this trip alone. Oh well. Everything will work out.

Going through security was a cinch, but as I was standing in line at the ticket counter, a white man behind me began bullying some of the airport employees. “Get back!” he shouted over and over as he physically blocked them from bringing luggage to the conveyor belt. “You cannot get past me! I hate your corruption! Get back! Get back!” I was disgusted—and grateful when I got out of line and away from this arrogant American.

The airport in Monrovia has just one gate and schedules are merely guidelines. It was five hours before the plane arrived (Slok airlines is like a shuttle bus that flies from one African country to another, and African countries are not well-known for their promptness), so I was glad when Peter reintroduced himself to me. We had met at church that morning, and he was very willing to answer my many questions about the recently ended war and to offer insight about my own country (i.e., "When America sneezes, everyone gets a cold"). Peter is a good man who put me at ease and removed any of the nervousness I had felt earlier.

The problem was that he happened to be traveling with the "bully." It wasn't until we arrived in Sierra Leone, though, that David and I got talking. “So what are you doing here?” he eventually asked me. Understandable question. I'm sure I did look out of place. I told him my purpose, and then quickly changed the conversation. “What are you doing here?” I asked, wanting to get the attention off myself. People were watching.

David was not afraid of attention. Neither was he arrogant. Or even American. He was a Canadian NGO worker who had made huge sacrifices, spending the last twenty years in West Africa confronting evil that I hadn’t even known existed: from bush devils who cut out people’s hearts to rebel leaders, including the infamous Charles Taylor, who murdered and raped and pillaged David’s closest friends. No wonder it was so easy for him to confront the people who were taking bribes to move passengers to the front of the line. David captivated me with stories of horrors and miracles, trauma and romance so that by the time we boarded the helicopter that brought us from the airport located on a peninsula outside of Freetown, this day-long trip seemed too short.

“Here’s my card,” I said to him as the crowd separated us and I was whisked off to my razor-wire protected hotel overlooking the gorgeous West African Beach. We needed to talk more. I have another story to write.

Church in Monrovia

"Church probably won't be longer than 3 or 4 hours today," Cindy told us. "We have a guest preacher."

It was actually only 2 hours because the guest preacher (Lindsay Cameron, an Australian) had to catch a flight out of Liberia that afternoon, a few hours before I was scheduled to take off. The service could have gone on for another couple hours as far as I was concerned. The singing was incredible (even with rattles being the only instruments) and the energy level was high. The seating was painful, but we stood up often, so it was fine. I'll admit that I'm glad Lindsay was preaching, because I'm still having trouble deciphering the accent—and this sermon was good.

Lunch afterward was at the Thai restaurant we went to Friday. Mmmmm ... good eating. And the dikur (a small deer-like creature) who took refuge there was a pleasant touch.

Helter Skelter

We woke up this morning to the sounds of roosters and voices. We may feel like we're out in the country because the road to the Marshall's house is a dirt path full of huge potholes, but we're actually surrounded by masses of people. Since folks here are not distracted by the tv (the only power is through expensive generators), people actually talk to each other. Kind of neat. :) And since they're all outside (it's dark and hot inside), it sounds like we're at a ball game without the announcer.

Cindy had splurged and bought boxed cereal, so we had a lovely American breakfast (though it did taste a bit like the soap it was packed with en route to Liberia). She could store the powered milk in the new gas-powered fridge they are so excited about. It's amazing how luxurious her tiny kitchen really did feel. The Marshalls even have cold running water because Larry dug a well.

(By the way, Larry and Cindy Marshall are wonderful. They work for World Hope International, and have lived such fascinating lives. Part of our reason for coming out here to Liberia is so that Larry (Wilson) can write up their story. I think I'll try to wrestle that job away from him—these people are beyond inspiring! They're downright convicting.)

My first impression of Monrovia: hot. It's not that the temperture is any higher than summer back home, it's that the humidity must be around 200%. Wow. And it doesn't help that I was wearing one of Cindy's African dresses. Beautiful, but very warm.

Cindy and I went downtown Monrovia today so I could go shopping for something to wear. The main roads are paved, but there are so few main roads. It seems the entire city is driving on the same street—without following any traffic rules as far as I could see. People are everywhere, using the streets as freely as the cars do. Bargaining for clothes was anything but fun. I probably paid three times more than I should have for what I bought (a shirt for each of the guys and two outfits for me—I'm heading to Sierra Leone tomorrow), but they do have plenty of selection and they're happy to accept US dollars. People dress in traditional Liberian clothes or in fashionable American style. They dress quite well, actually.

We also stopped by the ELWA complex (a hospital) to visit an American doctor's family. The house itself was much like the Marshalls, but it was located right on the beach and inside a compound. Gorgeous location! Fascinating family!

The best part of today was visiting an orphanage down the path where Mother Maude takes care of 57 children. With just a word from Maude, the kids came from nowhere to form a choir that sounded better than any recording I ever heard. Wow! I interviewed about five or six of the older boys and heard atrocities you would hardly believe possible. (Most of these kids saw their parents being slaughtered in front of them during the war as the family attempted to get to town for food; others simply lost their parents when the rebels attacked the villages and everyone ran helter skelter.) The buildings at the orphanage were typical cement slabs and everyone stayed outside. Yesterday I would have considered such a place unfit for living, but after spending time here, I am ready to move in. Without this haven, the kids would be defenseless and hungry on the streets. Maude and her pastor husband are true heroes.

After a delicious dinner, we played some cards, answered email (yes, they have wireless in their house), and then heated up water for baths. The generator was turned off at 9, which was fine since we were all exhausted. Time to hit those foam mattresses! (Larry and Cindy brought a waterbed lining and had someone build them a box. It keeps them cool and comfortable at night.)

This life is so different from life in America, but I feel right at home. It's amazing how easy it is to adjust.

First Breath of Africa

Here's some fiction based entirely on my reality (from my book to release this summer):

Lydia stumbled down the aisle toward the doorway of the plane—to feel a blast of African air in her face. It wasn’t just the heat, it was the smell and the taste and the feel. All her senses were suddenly wide awake, as made alive for the first time, and Lydia couldn’t move.

“Go,” Mrs. Hinkle hissed.

The line was pushing behind her so Lydia quickly descended the steps and stood with her father to have their passports checked—only to have others cut in front of them and press into them.

“Observe the process! Observe the process!” she heard guards shouting as people pushed their way through the mob.

Even if the passengers had been observing the process, this place still wouldn’t have resembled any airport she was familiar with. The concrete walls and floors seemed to generate heat, and the wooden stalls for the people who stamped their passports looked like something she could have built herself.

The passport agent asked them all kinds of questions in a form of English Lydia could barely understand; but when Frank finally said, “We’re with Global Impact Ministries, an NGO,” he waved them on to a little wooden doorway people were pushing their way through as a guard attempted to look at their passes.

On the other side, people crowded together around a dirty old carousal waiting for luggage. Lydia spotted their bags first and began to reach for one when a Liberian man came out of nowhere and started lifting it for her. “No, no,” he said. “I help you. You are my friend.”

Frank stepped between them and took the suitcase. “We’ll take care of it, thank you,” he said kindly but firmly. He pushed the suitcase toward Mrs. Hinkle and grabbed the other two—regularly refusing assistance from what Ben later called “the vultures.” With all three suitcases and all three carry-on bags, they walked toward the door where guards waited to check luggage; Lydia clung to one side of Frank and Mrs. Hinkle clung to the other side.

“I need money,” the female guard said as soon as they set the suitcases on the tables for examination. “No, no money,” Frank said firmly.

The woman's eyes narrowed, and then she waved her hand. “Go,” she shouted angrily. “Just go.”

The only difference between Lydia's story and ours is that our luggage got lost. Sigh.

Stats:

• arrived at Roberts Int. Airport around 7:30 pm, only 1 hour late
• waited an hour for luggage which never arrived
• found the Marshalls who drove us from the airport to a restaurant in Monrovia (1 hour)
• ate a delicious meal at a Thai restaurant surrounded by razor-wire fence
• to the Marshall's house around 10:30 for a hot "shower" (stove-warmed water in bucket) and bed
  

D.C. to Brussels

Eight hours from D.C. to Brussels is better than it sounds. United gives you good food and plenty of entertainment. I don't think I've ever watched four movies in a row before.

We arrived in Belgium at 7:30 am (which is 1:30 am at home). After a brief romp to the other side of customs, we have been hanging out in the lovely transit area where they sell Prada wallets, Godiva chocolate, and killer cigarettes. If only I could take a shower. I might not feel like such an American tourist. Nevermind. I'm wearing a jogging suit; they're wearing stiletto boots and expensive scarves. I might as well accept who I am.

It's 9:30 am, and we're getting ready to head to our gate. We should arrive in Monrovia around 6:30 pm (which is 2:30 pm at home).

Maybe I'll watch "Little Miss Sunshine" again.

Good night. (Good morning?)

Satan Will Stop You

All the spiritual people Larry and I had talked to about our upcoming trip to West Africa told us that Satan would try to stop us from going. "It's just what happens," they would say mysteriously. "Expect the unexpected."

Too bad we weren't a little more spiritual, otherwise we might have made it to the airport on time this morning. It's not that we slept in; we even got the kids onto the school bus on time and pulled out of the driveway 3 hours before takeoff—it's that we didn't count on the dusting of snow putting the entire city of Indianapolis in a state of crisis. (There are not very many Canadians around here.)

We arrived at the airport as our plane was leaving.

"The next flight to Dulles is full," the lady sweetly explained to us, "so it looks like you'll miss your flight to Brussels." The problem was that if we missed our flight to Brussels we would miss our flight to Monrovia—and there wasn't another one scheduled until Monday.

"Can you send us to Reagan National instead?" I asked. My motto may be It'll all work out (much to Larry's annoyance), but it doesn't hurt to push things along a bit. I won't bore you with the details of our next twenty frantic minutes, but in the end, Uriah was stuck in first class while Larry and I got to snuggle in the back of the plane; we made it to Dulles with time enough to eat dinner—our last American meal for ten days.

I think I'll start listening to spiritual people from now on.