And They’re Building It

While on a trip up past Makeni there was a moment when something caught both my eye and the eye of my companion, a set of tracks that had seemingly cut its way through the road. An ordinary sight back home but here it was something to behold. Curiosity took hold of us so a quick flick of the wrist and turn of the handlebars and we were of down some unknown dirt road. Some ways there was a feasible ramp up the large berm to our right. Up the hill we went until it plateaued to a gravel top where the tracks had snacked their way back to us again. From there we could see it, a large train with little men scurrying around it. The sound of power tools and hard labor rattled its way through the steel beam that lay on top concrete railroad ties. We walked some ways to reach them but when we did we could see the hard sweet and labor that was being but in to the laying of these tracks that before had seemed to slither its own way through this land. As we watched them pull, heave, weld, and grind these steal beams into the glorious promise they were to be, believe me once placed what we would call mere metallic rods become more that just a place for a train to sit. No, their work for more than just a train, it is for a better tomorrow. Those tracks represent what is happening all over this nation. From their cities al the way into that middle of nowhere my companion and I found ourselves. From shore to boarder they are rising, they are rising. 

How Can I Describe This

There is a term that is thrown around between the NGOs and other foreign aid workers. It is used to describe aspects, more often than not of a ridiculous nature, of this place that have no correlation or equal to any place we call home. This term would do well to some up some things like: Seeing 6 men pilled on one bike riding down the road, or a car with its roof packings being larger that the car it’s self. Seeing a man with a bike riding on the back of another bike. When your riding on the back of an okata reaching in to your pocket to pull out a few coins to throw on the ground and you take a moment to ask yourself how it is that 4 small boys with 5 sticks can set up a toll and make you pay to drive on “their” road. Now I would like to make it clear that Africa, at it’s core, is just like any where else it the world, and it’s people, at their core, are the same as us. That said there are some things distinguishably different, and when faced with these situations that give you pause in your day there is only on thing to say…T.I.A.

His Joyous fury

It was a somber mood I found myself in as I walked up those steps on my way to open air and night sky. Yet when I found myself at those portals to the outside world there was the torrent of gods fury. Lightning without thunder streamed across the night sky and rain, witch by some form of miracle or other did not fall upon me form above but rather for every other angle, rain of the likes I have never before seen. I walked upon the top deck contemplating for a moment what it might be that has made god so angry this evening. I spotted a few of the more adventurous couples taking in torrential down pour. Not a minute past when from be hind me shot a large blur streaking across that glistening grass green metal floor. Once the spray of water settled I fond myself looking upon the chief stewards manager, my boss of bosses. He had been using deck eight as the world’s largest slip-n-slide. It was there, in the middle of slip-n-slides, adventurous romances, and the horrendous fury, that I fond joy.      

Once Again

We had to say goodbye again. This time it was some of our own. For most of the crew life seems to move on just as it did before, but for those of us who do more than roam these hallways, the absence is felt. We miss her smile and her joyous laughter that filled these halls with a sense of joy. When I return to my room at the end of the day this absence is only felt greater. The four of us that called this 15 by 10 foot space home have now become two. I will admit I do appreciate the extra room, but there is an emptiness. These are just the beginning, a mere taste of the great exodus that is to come. Before the end of our time here in Sierra Leone we shall lose 200 more, half the crew. It’s something strange to lose those you have grown close to so often. I mentioned once before that this ship is alive, and like all life it changes, evolves if you will. This constant shifting has given me a strange realization, given that most of my life has been one chaotic change after the other. Change sucks

Our Time Spent

I have mentioned before that this little boat breaths a life of it’s own, and like all biology it changes. It changes with such frequency that change it’s self be comes a constant. Faces come and go; new blood and spirits come as old ones leave. It becomes as such that you take no real notice of it. After the hugs and goodbyes there is a moment of loss but life carries on just the same.  However this is, both sadly and gratefully, not true with all cases. She sat alone when first I saw her, among the clanking and chatter of the lunch time rush, and soon I found my self set across adding to the clanking and chatter. Her hair was brown, short, and wavy. Her eyes were blue and encased by the shimmer and sparkle of the glass that was set before them. She gave way to a smile and a conversation’s start. The words flowed from her lips with the quite beautiful accent of her Belgium homeland. She spent her days fallowing the thin, dark skinned model they called pretty, trying all she could to pull a story out of this place. Her nights were spent with me, discussing life’s great mysteries and the defining events from our past, until, and far into, the dead and silent early hours of morning. We may have never agreed, but understand a respected each other, we assuredly did. The more we spoke the more I would see flickers of a flame that has been far long extinguished. With in one short week she had come to know me better than most have in my 20 years of life. Oh how I with we could have had 100 more suns till our depart, but that was not to be our fate. It seems that a week was all we were fated for, and a week was all we got. Faces come and go, but it seems that some faces are to remain forever with in the persistence of memory.  

Something To Show The World

When she leaves here what will she say? What will we have given her? When she came to us she was hidden from the world. A cloth wrapped tightly around her head, doing all she could to hide away the tumor that had grown in place of her mouth; The same tumor that had taken over her life and had wrecked her with cultural distrainment. All she had to show the world was what she used to see it. Those eyes that had seen so much pain and strife held so much hope. For possibly the greatest gift we might have given her, even more so than a life to live, is a face to show the world.

My Hands To Greater Service

Of all the gift I have to give this world, my hands are by far the greatest. With the direction of myself they are more often than not used for frivolous meaning, but with in the control of another they can mean so much more. Now before you jump to the conclusion that I’m about to go on to a clichéd ramble you should know that I am not speaking of god, rather a little girl.  Her hands were curled, more claw than hand. They were rapped, bandaged, casted, and most importantly, utterly useless. It was among the applause of a puppet show and the rhythm of music that these hands of mine found meaning and the ability to give great joy when bent to the will of another. Although this precious little thing had not the ability to applaud or clap to a rhythm, she could certainly push mine together to make that thunderous pop of witch made her smile. It is quite incredible what these hands can do when given to another. They can bring a smile to a little girl, let her join in with her peers, let her be a part of something, and give her hope, if only for a moment.  

They Call Him King David

It has become somewhat of a normality to hear the name of King David called out repeatedly during my day. Not in use during any bible study, sermon, biblical reference, or any other place you would expect that name to be uttered. Rather I hear it repeatedly as I work, toil, and sweat; as I mop the floor and scrub the stairs. I hear it as I do the kind of work I’m sure David never did during his kingship. I hear this name called out, not in reference to the classic tales of old nor in reference to my self, but rather it is directed to the man who forever stands at my side through out the day; a short, youthful, saleon bobo with skin dark as a panther’s majestic coat. His clothes do well to mirror his body, tattered and dirty. He looks nothing like what you would call king.  He spends his day keeping me company, sweating, and toiling just the same. They see him as he is on his knees doing the most humble of work and they call him king. Not quite what you would expect, but let me tell you before you make your judgments on the matter. Although he spends his day face to the floor, his is undoubtedly David, king, a man after gods own heart, and it is my distinct honor to work beside him.           

              (Saleon bobo: krio for Sierra Leonean boy/man)

The Dismal Science

There is a small poster, framed and pristine, that sits in our cafeteria. It is engraved with a simple truth that this ships wishes to remind us. “For every person we help, there are hundreds more who wait.” I’ve pasted this message a hundred with no more a thought to it than the ground I walk on. It seems that it’s not until you are with it face to face that you realize. I’ll simply say that it is a strange thing to wish and pray for a tumor, and a heartbreaking tragedy to have it be a goiter. No, it’s not until you see the broken and beaten face of this truth that you think about it, but when you realize, it hits you like a freight train. We read of our Jesus healing all those he came to touch, with unlimited power, our god the infinite. Yet this is not our reality. The sad truth is that a fact about our state of being is that we are finite, limited. No matter how vast and infinite our universe may be, it is quite limited to us, and there is simply not enough to go around. So being finite, limited, with only so much to give, we find our selves under the laws and rules of economics. We must use what we have to help the most we can. In the end we are called to help the ones we can and to let go the ones we cannot. Knowing this fact does not make it easier though. How are you suppose to tell someone so broken and beaten that we cannot help them; that we have no cure for the misfortunes of their life? How do you tell someone “you are going to die”?   

And She Breathes

            It is a peculiar thing, this ship. After some time aboard it you begin to realize it is far more than mere metal and wood, more than just a thing. You realize it breaths, and it become a she. She does far more than that too, deep from within the under birth of her bowel, with in the dungeon I call home, she grumbles and moans. From the grumbles that are found with in her bosom she gives us life, and more so a home, and while at times she can be a bit of a temperamental bitch, she is still ours and we love her. Yes this ship lives and we, we are merely apart of her life, no more no less. I know this for with in the quiet hours of the night, with in the solitude and silence of the darkness with in your mind, you can feel her presence. And the more time you spend with in the confines of her body the more you get to know her, the more you see that she is a beautiful thing. 

Resourcefulness

Darwin once said that it is not the strongest organism that survives in the long term, but the one that is most adaptable to change. Adaptation is a necessity on this little vessel. Life is different here, and although we have much of the amenities of home, we are indeed cut of from the rest of the world. this sort of isolation requires a sort of Mickey Mouse resourcefulness. Say for instance prior to your departure you bought a pack of underwear and threw them in your back. Some time after arrival you pull them out and through a pair on only to find that they are a few sizes to big, as if you had some how stolen a pair of fat Albert’s briefs. Not back home the simple solution would be to go to your local friendly Walmart, but here, no Walmart and the only money you have is the 10,000 Leones in your pocket (that equals about $2 and 27 cents). So what do you do, well the simple answer involves a knife, two holes, and a piece of yo-yo string given to you by a friend. Adapt and survive. Oh and Thank you Noah your yo-yo has been more helpful to me than I could have ever imagined. 

A Shirt I Once Wore

Her eyes and skin, as dark and brown as the ground she treds upon. Her hair, black as night. Her face young, yet carved with the gaze of many more years. Her child clutched at her side, and her shirt, her shirt I once wore. This young thing, no older than 17, with her child glued to her hip was wearing a shirt from my own youth. It was a simple thing, but profound and piercing all the same. This young solider fighting for nothing more than the survival of herself and child, so desperate for help, had upon her my own outer layer, my own skin as it were. The same was she and I, yet I was here with such abundance that I was giving away free help, and she so beaten down, desperately begging for help. Hum, funny how tragic the fates of this world can be. 

Starlight Starbright

It’s strange looking up at the night sky. The one place you would think would be the same across the world, the one glimpse back home. The movies and novels play it out as if the night sky is the one great unifier of all mankind, but when I peer into that great void I look into a vary alien sky. Nothing is the same here. I look for a single, solitary group of stars that make up a faint reminder of home and I find none. All of the stars, instead of creating a grand tapestry of Greek myth, appear to be nothing but a random collage of dots, as if Jackson Pollock was in charge of creating the night sky. Not even the sun is the same. Sure its still bright and yellow, but is hues and aurora during the hours of its birth and death are none the same. Its vibrant hues and flare flicker with a beauty I have never before seen nor can I give the proper words to describe. No, when I look up at the sky for some sort of consolment I am only reminded that I sit upon foreign shores, staring at foreign skys, and I and quite content with that. 

As I Leave

            Dear god,

I ask that you watch over all those I leave behind. All those I hold dearest to my heart. All those who have touched my life and my sol in such deep a profound ways. Watch over them as you have for me all these year. For if it is that you are to return me to this land once again I certainly wish for them to be well. For if it were not for them this land would not be called home.