Moseh, Moseh...

The other day I went out to get water on the other side of town – our cooking water, which we buy in bulk. I took Moses, one of our crack security team, with me for kicks. On the way back, passing this “short cut” that the bunch of us have been thinking of trying but haven’t yet, I asked Moses if he knew the way. “Yalesgo.” (That is, ‘yeah, let’s go’ in Mosesese…)

So we go down this ridiculously bumpy road at 2.5 mph for a while, talking all the way. He keeps reassuring me (because I keep asking) that he knows the way. “Yalesgo.” Okay. A few forks in the road later, my confidence dwindles: “Moses, left or right?” “Lesgo.” Okay. So along comes a river. Well, first there was the bridge over the river. Then there was the REST of the river passing over the road just beside the bridge. (Rainy season – no surprise there.) A taxi bus stacked to the rafters with people and poultry passes through coming the other way, so I reckon it’s pretty safe. Moses nods. In four-wheel drive I let out a whoop of delight as the water passes the headlights, but no problem – Matt wanted to wash the underside of the car anyway. Onward!

Another left and two rights later, the territory finally starts to look familiar – I can see that tower from our house, so we must be close! The puddles, however, are now blending into the swamps beside them. Reassuring myself that the jeep is in 4-wheel drive, and with Moses’s goading, we push through two enormous, muddy messes. Still, the jeep doesn’t hesitate. We round the final corner and down the hill, and we can almost see the house. One more quagmire to negotiate and we should be home fr… Nope. Stuck about a quarter of the way in. It’s deep. I manage to rock it backward a bit, forward a little more, baaack, allllmost there… Nope. JUST shy of the other side of the fifty-foot stretch of clay, we slide sideways into the ruts and settle in. I look at Moses. I look at the clock. I have to drive Cramer to the airport in an hour. I look at Moses again: “Moseh. Moseh, Moseh." “Itolyougoonthaside! Butyougoonthiside!"

Sigh.

Jeep off.

Step out: the chalky brown water is mid-calf. Okay, this may not be so ba—aaaand DROP. Thigh high. Great. Time to call in the cavalry: “Matt. Andrew here. Better bring the shovel and the ratchet straps.”

With Matt comes Cramer, looking a little miffed. “How am I going to get to the airport NOW?!”

“I… I’ll call you a cab… Sorry, dude…”

“I’m just kidding. My flight was cancelled. Dude, you’re really stuck.” Hilarious, Cramer, thanks.

An hour and a half later, with the help of twenty local traffic directors and all the shovels, boards and sticks in a half-mile radius, we’re still thigh-high in muck but proud of our two inches of progress. Finally a good friend – and Canadian, I might add – comes to our rescue with his Land Cruiser and pulls us out without breaking a sweat. With a hearty laugh we all pile in and drive the last 500 yards to the house, where a massive car washing effort is organized. But for the rest of the day, I’m paranoid that every minute sensation in my feet is a worm burrowing its way into me from the muck…

Hon. Uncle Andrew presiding...

I've not been looking forward to these last weeks in Liberia. I figured it would be all work, no play. I figured it would be panic mode all the time, working on wrapping up things here and planning our road trip around the States. Well, it's been busy alright, but not in the ways I feared. On top of all the expected deadlines, we've had several school closings, graduations, and "pinning" ceremonies to attend. I've had the distinct pleasure of being a special guest at two Kindergarten graduations -- one to hand out diplomas and the other as the keynote speaker.
What does one say to such brilliant young minds, you ask?
I had no ideas either, so I left it to the last minute. There was talk of having Cramer accompany me on his guitar, so that at least the kids would be entertained while not listening to me blather on. In the end it went something like "education is a coconut: hard and unappealing on the outside, but sweet if you stick with it..." I think some of the parents may have understood. They were nodding anyway. The kids who were awake looked happy enough, but I'm sure they could tell I was making it up...

Kids Will Be Kids...

The kids have realized that if they are hurt or sick, they get extra attention from Auntie Mariel. Lately I haven’t been able to get out of the car without getting a full play-by-play of who is sick and what happened to everyone since I saw them last. After inspecting all the bumps, bruises, cuts and scrapes, we move onto the more serious issues:
“CheChe sick.”
“Sick? What wrong with him?”
“His skin be hot!”

Out come the malaria tests. I can’t help but feel a slight guilt when he, completely trusting, offers his little finger to be pricked for a blood sample. I warn him that it will “hurt small”, but that he will be “alright”. The poke comes, he jumps, and big tears roll down his face. I hold him while we wait for the results: definitely positive. We work out the dosing of the malaria meds and give him some Tylenol. I explain to the director the importance of finishing the meds and how to give them properly. CheChe says that he can eat his pills fine, and that’s exactly what he does: chews them, not even grimacing at the bitterness. Then he rests his head on my chest and nearly falls asleep. Before I go I notice his little body already cooling off. I know that next time I go to the orphanage he will be one of the first kids to find me. After being sick there is always a special bond with Auntie Mariel…

Liberian Pinning

We were invited last weekend to the closing ceremony for the school at one of the orphanages we’ve been working with. We’ve been around Africa long enough to know that when the invitation says we’re being honored, it usually includes bright colorful one-size-fits-all clothing, speeches, songs, dancing, and food.

This weekend was no exception. Being “pinned” was a new experience, though. After being robed in our new clothes, we were informed that the pinning would occur. Anyone who wanted to honor or thank us was to bring flowers, ribbons, or candy to pin on us. I must confess, I was a little worried about 78 kids running at me with stickpins. I was only stuck once though. I was impressed at how careful they were.

It was humbling to have so many individuals come up and thank us for what we had done. At times it seems like so little. But as I looked around, I saw happy, healthy kids. I couldn’t help but think of how far they’ve come. How much untapped potential exists for so many other Liberian children?

The upside of home

I wish I'd had a camera with me today. Words cannot describe the shapes, smells, textures rising out of that bowl toward me...
"Dumboy and peppa soup."
"What kind of meat is it?"
"Meat."
"And that?"
"From the intestine. Cow. Good."
The beefy parts look good, but around them float raw, squid-like, spongy bits -- some spiky, some
little squares like coral, some like half-plucked chicken skin. My mind races back to grade twelve biology: does a cow have three stomachs or seven?
I eat the beefy parts, I eat the dough, I even eat the Boni-fish (boney, indeed)... Success! My friends are sipping their last spoonfuls, and I have a meeting to get to. "Darn. Time small-o!" They laugh, unconvinced but gracious.

What do cheerios taste like? Ice cream? Home's less than two weeks away, now... I wonder if I'll have celebrity-status withdrawal -- no staring, no heckling, no haggling over prices. I don't want to leave, but I can't wait to be home.

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"Don't just do something. Stand there and think."

That's the "aid worker's adage" from a book I'm reading. Just read it this morning, and it's uncomfortable, but definitely the motto of this week.
Last week had momentum: our partners made commitments, and meetings took on an optimistic tone of progress. This week, all of that is under threat of stagnation -- perhaps the most devastating of all forms of corruption.
I felt the full wisdom of this adage yesterday as I felt like I was dragging a stubborn toddler through a department store. But I was in the Health Ministry, trying to get a couple of ringleaders to quit dragging their feet (and leading by example). On the usual day-to-day stuff, fine -- take time. It's Africa. But when it's important, when it's kids that are suffering, MOVE!
I had to check myself, though -- I had to realize I'm going away in a little over two weeks, and this world will keep spinning when I get on that plane. These people will still have their (unpaid) government jobs, and they'll keep on working according to how much they're getting paid. So. Is it a good use of my energy to push the rock up the hill, or better to tell the mountain to jump? The latter. The mustardseed.

Today, the frustrations.
Tomorrow I'll tell you about the joys.

(It's not my jeep...)

Overdue: OneLove and some young Texans

BLUE FLASH

OK fellow bloggers, here’s a little piece of fun for you. It all happened on a cold, rainy, dark night in Liberia… Well it was dark anyway. Mariel and I were driving home from a crazy day of looking after kids. It was about 11 when it started to rain – and when it rains here, it rains. Next there’s a flash of lighting and a crash thunder. No big deal – I’ve been in plenty of thunderstorms before. So we roll up to our gate. Which just happens to be one of the large iron kinds. I back the car up, and it starts really pouring down. There is a big bang just as I’m jumping out of the car, so I dash to close the gate. (Yes, the big red iron one – I know, but someone’s got to close it!) I get to within about 12 inches of it when the air became so full of static you could feel your hair standing up on your arms. Then before you could say ‘this could hurt’, the sky lights up all around me with the biggest crack of thunder my little ears have ever heard. It was bright daylight for a second as I watched the lighting strike maybe 50 feet away. But that wasn’t what got my attention – it was the BLUE FLASH that jumped from the gate to my thumb as I was still in the process of trying to close the gate. It was like a static shock you get from cars but a touch bigger.
As you can see, I lived to tell the tale. But I did have a witness: a black mark on my thumb for a day or so. I’m also a bit more wary of thunder storms now too. One last thing: don’t tell my mum.

Tolerance

Only a few weeks left. Something like three. Which leads a guy to wonder what's changed.

And the first thing I notice -- because they are the first thing I notice every day -- is my tolerance of every variety of bug. Every night there is the constant barrage of mosquitoes -- not standard North American mosquitoes but silent, stealthy, unnoticeable-until-it's-too-late couriers of cerebral malaria. No problem. Then there are the giant cockroaches -- but again, the opposite of what I'm used to. Aren't cockroaches supposed to be the unseen, invincible menace? These guys are just big and dumb. They lift up my net and crawl inside (what can I say? I'm magnetic) -- and then die for no reason. In the halls, in the closets, everywhere: they just keel over and die for no apparent reason.
A couple of days ago, a new addition: this little monster. He was a little smushed when I found him in my doorway, which tells me that I probably stepped on him in the middle of the night, on my way to the bathroom.

It never ceases to crack me up how normal the oddest things have become... Bizarro world inevitably becomes home.

Snakes & Ladders

Yesterday was an adventure in three parts. First I spent several hours at the Ministry of Health helping department heads finalize their proposal for family tracing & reunification of non-orphans in orphanages.
They called the night before: “Computer trouble. It’s spoiled.”
Then, at the request of one of the social workers, I went along to assess an orphanage that, though it’s still accredited and eligible, had lost all its food support over a year ago. The place looked great, but a few of the kids were terrible – among the worst I’d seen. What I imagine kids would look like if they’d eaten little but indigestible buckwheat porridge for a year. One in particular is still haunting me, but more on that later…
Back to the Ministry for a meeting with a rep from UNICEF to gather advice on some of the orphanages we’re considering starting relationships with. Everyone from the minister on down to the secretary is disillusioned, running on empty. They appreciate my energy (and see the frustrations it produces), but I can tell they’re waiting for me to become discouraged too. I make a mental note to step aside if that happens: too many in these offices have forgotten that they work for children.
Just as the meeting is breaking up, someone receives a call. I’m asked for a ride over to the police hq next door. Apparently ten kids have been trafficked and, just now, “intercepted”. It’s late on a Friday for serious business that I know nothing about, but I agree to play chauffeur at least.
In behind the make-shift tent/trailer that is the headquarters of the Women And Children Protection Service is a fenced-in area between generators. As I round the corner, a deep breath: what it will look like I can’t imagine. Then there they are: ten of the most normal – if exhausted – looking kids you’ve ever seen. They look neither guilty nor abused. Just confused and tired. I try a wink and a high-five, and the boys burst into laughter – Okay, I think, thank God they’re not scarred.
Their story emerges in surprisingly good English, and I grow more and more impressed with every word. Their “uncle” approached their parents – there are three or so groups of siblings – and lured them away with the same old promises of better school, better food, better life in the city. They never quite made it, though – not to the city, not to a better life. I flirt with the younger, silent ones while my colleague takes notes from the older kids.

“How long since you left yo’ people?”
“Since semester two start.” – That is, around five months.
“And what he make you do?”
“Some days I carry thirty-fi’ gallons water. Some days we go into the bush and cut tree’.”
The oldest girl pipes in: “Me, I cook in the mornin’.”
“Good, good. And wha’ you cook?”
“Buckawhea’ porridge.”
“Alright. And fo’ the evenin’?”
“Sometimes we ha’ the buckawhea’, sometimes we fast.”
“Fast? How long you fast-o?”
“Mm, sometimes a week.”
“And who run to the police there?”

The two oldest blush, one boy of 10 and a 12-year old girl. I can’t imagine the courage it must’ve taken to run – to escape your captor, to leave your younger siblings behind, to run to the Liberian National Police for asylum… It’s simply beyond me.
I look again at the little girl on my lap, maybe six. She can hardly keep her eyes open, too exhausted to even be terrified. My colleague finishes commending the older kids for rescuing their little ones, for saving their lives. She warns them that, although they will undoubtedly be beaten when they return home for all the trouble they’ve caused, they were very brave and did the right thing.
“I probably won’ see you, but Uncle Andrew will co’ visit you if he has time…”

Yeah I will. I miss them already. Coolest kids I’ve ever met.

Questionable Toe Rings??

It seems that daily we are learning new things about this culture that we live and serve in. Just the other day I was told by an American that here in Liberia, wearing a toe ring is associated with prostitution. I’ve been wearing mine for the last 3 months never even thinking that it could be offensive to anyone. It was just something fun for me, the one piece of jewelry I wore. My first reaction was to laugh and keep wearing it. I’m pretty sure that all the guys that were paying me unwelcome attention weren’t looking at my feet. Still, feeling a little convicted I decided to ask some of my Liberian friends. It turns out that wearing a toe ring doesn’t mean that you’re walking the streets, but most of the girls who do wear them. My friends quickly explained that since they knew me, they knew that I wore the ring just because I liked it. They thought that Liberians needed to be educated and more open-minded. I liked that answer, and was quite content to continue wearing the ring in question, until I remembered how the little girls at the orphanage react to it: “Oh, Mariel got ring!” they point it out, touch it, dust it off if my feet get dirty. What am I teaching these little girls who want to be just like me? It may be okay for me as a western woman who is given grace daily when I make cultural bloopers, but what if all these girls had one? Needless to say, the ring has found a new home in the bottom of my suitcase. I kind of miss it, but then again, I no longer have to remember to take it off before I grab my board and head into the water...

Prolapsed Rectums?!?......

The other week I felt that God was telling me to “let this go deep”. The same week I arrived to find Margaret, a two and a half year old, whimpering. I picked her up and right away noticed that she smelled of poop. I asked why she was crying, and the kids said she was sick. I carried her around to the back of the orphanage and asked the directors what was going on, and they said she had hemorrhoids. Odd for a two year old. I checked, and sure enough, she had a prolapsed rectum. I’ve since learned that this is not that unusual of a problem here given the parasite infections and malnutrition.

Still unsure of exactly what to do, I took Margaret to the Doctors Without Borders clinic down the road. The first words out of the clinician’s mouth were “This child is malnourished. Is she in a feeding program?” I was shocked too. This was the first time I had seen her without her clothes, and every one of her ribs showed. The veins in her stomach were palpable. Her belly wasn’t a cute little plump one, but seemed out of place on a body with stick thin arms and legs. Immediately guilt ridden, I explained that we had just started to deliver food subsidies to her orphanage, but that this was only the second time I had ever seen this child.

After a few tries, they were able to reduce the rectum, but by the time we returned to the orphanage Margaret was restless and whimpering again. When I picked her up she started screaming. With every scream, her prolapsed rectum bulged further out of her body. At the clinic they had told us if it were to happen again that she might need surgery. Not 45 minutes later we were back on the road, this time to the hospital. Liberian emergency rooms are not a fun place to be, especially with a screaming 2 year old. By this time I’d figured out that if I held Margaret on her stomach on my lap, she wasn’t so uncomfortable, but she got bored easily. One of the nurses noticed this, took pity on me, and got us through the waiting room and into the exam room. I’d like to think it was because of the gravity of her condition, and not my skin color, but I wasn’t about to question it with such a sick little baby in my arms. After a few tries the surgeon was able to reduce it, this time placing quite a pressure dressing over her little bottom. I wanted to stop and get her ice cream or something on the way home, but she slept the entire way. I think the diazepam they gave her to relax the muscles finally kicked in during the car ride….

I’m happy to say that since being treated for worms and getting regular food Margaret is doing much better. She never did need surgery. It will take time, though, for her swollen belly and thin little arms to look healthy. I was afraid that she would hate me after our ordeal. She clung to me in the hospital room, but I thought for sure she would cry every time she saw me afterward. Instead she’s become my little girl. The other children and the directors call me her mother. I have to remind them that I am only an auntie. I can’t choose just one. It’s amazing, though, how one little child can motivate you to keep fighting through the frustrations, and how quickly that challenge to “let this go deep” took on a face and name.

NG-1679

It may seem trivial, but any Liberian can tell you what a difference the colour of your license plate makes. Today -- finally! -- we picked up our NGO plate, indicating to police and UN and the general public: We're here to help, don't arrest us, and your chances of getting a 'small thing for friendship' are slim to none!
I'll let you know how it goes...

The day's work

being part of the solution--
     the real one--
is going to take patience like
dinosaur skin
and perseverance
     sensitivity and wisdom
     in how and when to play
     the game.
there will be much more advantage taken,
naivete exploited,
error made in earnest, yet...

yet. still.

we have come as the party is
winding down. we've come
for the hard part.

we've come just in time, i feel.