photos

you can follow this link to my online photo album:

http://picasaweb.google.com/lauren.fadely/SierraLeone

monrovia, white plains, and memories

it’s funny to be on a ship again. it’s been four years since i laid foot on a mercy ship, but here i am again, and it feels...good. not the kind of good that makes your stomach bubbly and your heart flutter with excitement, but the kind of good of waking up late on a weekend morning to streaming sunshine and birds singing. it’s a kind of lazy good that says this feels right, but also knows that this moment doesn’t last forever yet can still appreciate the moment for what it is.

the africa mercy is a beautiful ship, but it’s very different from the little ship i called home for so many years. the caribbean mercy was older, much shorter, and thinner with tiered decks that allowed for a lot of outdoor space. the africa mercy is like a floating building, square and full to the edges. there’s very little wood to be found anywhere, but it really is lovely. yesterday my dad told me that we sailed the anastasis for the first time when the ana was twenty-eight years old, and we sailed the afm for the first time when she was twenty-seven. it’s funny then to think of the years ahead of this ship and all of the families that will call it home and the loyalties that it will engender. because that’s really what one feels now, as the anastasis is prepared for her final voyage, the sadness of many goodbyes to many years of memories. what makes us humans so fond of the past, i wonder?

this has been, so far, a nostalgic trip, as i remember life on board the cbm and childhood memories evoked by familiar smells and sounds and other ship-esque things. box milk, fresh bread, food lines, public spaces, the generator’s hum, the gentle listing in port – so many things i didn’t even know i remembered.

then there was our trip yesterday to see the sites of my dad’s childhood, in and around monrovia. we left the ship around midmorning, and drove along a road-turned-river, compliments of the rainy season, to white plains, a retreat center run by the united methodist church, where my dad had spent some holidays and where my grandmother’s heart is buried. after a lot of asking and some backtracking, we met up with the groundskeeper, mr. mo, and he drove with us the rest of the way. we emerged from a small track densely crowded by a hundred shades of green to find a large clearing with several buildings of cinderblock and brick. Walking up the main clearing, flanked by the men’s and women’s dormitories, we came upon a large rectangle of unmarked stone shaded by some young trees. this is karis, mr. mo pointed out, and it was a really special moment. what really struck us the most, throughout our journeying around, was how everyone remembered the name. my dad would only say, i’m jon fadely, the son of tony and karis fadely, and everyone’s eyes would get very big and they would say, ohhhh, and that would be that. everyone remembered or remembered hearing about the young white family from the united states that had lived there thirty years ago, who had pastored the church, and who had taught the choir. in talking with mr. mo, he found out that i was working in sierra leone. “you are in missions like your grandmother,” he said. “thank you for caring about africa.” i nearly cried. it was a beautiful moment.

we also visited the methodist church and the compound in sinkor where my father lived and my grandfather worked. more memories, more friendly and warm greetings from the methodist workers. even though it was raining buckets nearly the whole time, i remember it even now as a beautiful, sunny time.

liberia is, after all, different from sierra leone although they share a border and their west african culture. the first thing i noticed after coming off of the plane was how flat the land here is. freetown, nestled in among the hilly mountains of sierra leone, has a different feel from monrovia which sprawls across a plain. the war here is fresher, and the people are more subdued. the wounds of the war are only just beginning to heal here, it seems. after only a short time in the car with our driver immanuel, who returned to monrovia two years ago after living as a refugee in ghana for six years, the stories began to spill out about the atrocities which he had witnessed and the monumental task of forgiveness and reconciliation which he and others had begun to undertake.

two of his sisters had been raped a killed by a man who Immanuel knew to live in a certain neighborhood. he met the man and became friends with him while the man was unaware of their connection. then, after several months, immanuel took the man aside and told him, “you know the two women you raped and killed in such-and-such place? they were my sisters. i forgive you.” and the man broke down in tears. “it is the only way,” immanuel said. “the way of forgiveness is the only way.”
after we had seen everything that my dad wanted to show us, we were well past lunch time. immanuel offered to drop us off at a nearby hotel restaurant while he ran and grabbed some food from a local vendor. but it seemed to silly, so condescending to have our “driver” drop us off at this swanky restaurant while he ran off to huddle beside some food stand in the rain. but when we offered to have him join us, he grinned sheepishly and said that he doesn’t like western food. so after a brief discussion it was decided that we would go with him, to eat african food.
a few minutes’ drive brought us to the door of daba’s african food restaurant, and we ran inside. once we stopped dripping, we sat down at the table and looked at the day’s menu. everyday had some standards: fufu with soup, douboy and soup, GB, and then there was a daily special available. monday was potato leaves, tuesday cassava, wednesday palava sauce, thursday jolof rice, friday collard greens, etc. so palava sauce and rice it was, and it was good. much better than royal hotel, i think, and much more human. later, my dad and i had a really wonderful and stimulating conversation on the benevolent prejudices which often plague missionary or charity works, whether overseas or in your own neighborhood. it poses an interesting challenge.

so it is another rainy day in monrovia. i don’t think that i will get to know and love monrovia nearly as well as i have already with freetown, but i am very happy to be here, to see the extended family of mercy shippers that i have missed so much, and to reconnect a bit with the past. my prayer today is with everyone involved with the anastasis’ final voyage. it’s not an easy task to be the bearers of so much scrutiny as everyone is really deeply invested in that beautiful ship. it’s never easy saying goodbye...

another day on the ward...

i can't believe that this week is already nearly over. it has gone so quickly, but at the same time, the days have been so long. i've spent the most part of the week sorting out everything for my study.

monday started off with a bang. i spent the morning structuring the questions and doing research online. then suddenly i heard that there were two women waiting to be screened who had been here before. i dashed off to talk with them, and i had my first two interviews done.

tuesday was also spent in research and helping helen with the vocational training. mostly helping the girls who have had some education to read and write a bit more. then two more previous patients were there, and i had four women in the study.

yesterday, i spent the most part of the day helping with the vocational training. we were doing embroidery, little fish and flower designs on some plain cotton fabric. the girls loved it. it was also gladi-gladi day, and it was a small, intimate group of five as opposed to the eleven or so last week. it was really special, and i got some really good photos - but i haven't been able to get them online yet. still working on that...

and today. what did i do today? in the morning, i sat for a while in the ward and chatted with several of the patients. one girl asked about my hair - she couldn't sort out how i had gotten my hair this way. she puts special creams on it, one of the staff told her. ahhh..., the patient replied. every day i feel more at home in the wards. the patients stay here for an average of one month - what with waiting for surgery and the post-op care, the women stay long enough to build a relationship, which is really wonderful.

then i spent the other bit of the morning cataloguing OR meds and reading with two of our more literate patients. After reading a page, i had to explain to them in broken Krio (or really, really bad english) what they had just read. it was pretty hilarious, i must say. :)

then it was time for chop - pumpkin. i asked if they had pumpkin all the time, because we only have at home in the fall, and the cook said just in the rainy season. it's actually a really good way to eat pumpkin. i'll have to see if i can sort out the recipe from one of the cooks so that i can make it back at school. it's funny, when i say 'school' here, everyone thinks secondary school, so i have to extra sure to say 'university.' :)

my apologies that this isn't more thrilling. it was just another day on the ward...

weekdays and wheelchairs...

It’s been a few days since I’ve written. The power has been up and down, and, honestly, there hasn’t been heaps about which to write. Not that a lot hasn’t gone on, but it’s funny how quickly life, no matter how extraordinary, becomes routine, and you never think to write about the routine.

My research study is well underway. I started on Monday, pulling things together and doing some research online, mostly from the WHO database. Then late Monday afternoon, I was told that two of the women waiting to see the doctors after the surgical day was done were returning for follow up after having gone home. Absolutely perfect! Then there were two more again today, plus one woman already on the ward. I’m so happy for the ease with which it has all begun, but I have to say I’m a bit wary about how long it will be able to go before I’ve exhausted the realm of my reach.

Today was really a day for realizing things taken for granted.

I’ve never felt more the frustration of being a single, young, white girl. I was talking about it today with Stefani, an OT from Tyler, and it’s so true. Where you can go and what you can do is delicately contained within the balance of daylight and company. At home or at school, there are always the dodgy places which are best to avoid if you’re out and about alone, but the limitation is only a thin line just below your field of view. Occasionally you see it, but for the most part it’s out of sight and out of mind. Here, though, it’s rather difficult to just blend into a crowd. People watch you, even if you are just walking down the street. Growing up in Central America, it was the same, but then I was a young girl, I never had any inclination to go out and about on my own, and I thought it was all rather funny. Now, a bit older, I realize a bit more of reality, perhaps.

The other thing I have taken for granted is my education. Today, I worked for a bit with some of the literate girls, reading a children’s book and checking for comprehension. There were about five of us gathered about. After the story was done, everyone dispersed except for one, Jinneh – the one that captured my heart last week.

She was sitting, staring at the ground, and I could tell that something was wrong. Thinking of her recent surgery, I asked her if she was in pain. No, she said. After a few moments of silence, she turned her face toward mine and asked me if I go to school. Yes, I said, I go to university in the United States to become a nurse. When do you leave, she asked. Middle of August, I replied. Oh, she said. Silence. Do you have a camera, she suddenly asked. Yes, I answered. Can you take a picture of us for me to have so that I can remember you when you have gone? was her request. I ran to the office where my bag and camera were waiting, and returned to “snap” her. Then we got Helen to “snap” us together. We sat together for a long time, in our sisterly embrace. She’s my age, after all. Then, in a small, small voice she said, “I would like to go back to school. More than anything else.” She left shortly after that. I went to the bathroom and cried.

Another of the girls, Seray, told me her story. She lost her father, probably during the war, and her mother had to care for all of the other children in her family, and could no longer pay her school fees. So she married a man who promised to pay. Then she became pregnant. Now she has a fistula, no husband, and definitely no money for school. How much is school? 35,000 Leones. At the current exchange rate, that adds up to a little under $12.

So Tuesday was a hard day, another one to add to the pile. But the hardest thing is, that when I look into their eyes, I see only my own face ridden with guilt. I am going home on 10 August. I can leave.

One time, as a kid, we visited a hands-on science museum. One of the exhibits was on wheelchairs, and you could get in one and had to try your way around an obstacle course of household things – chairs, tables, books on the floor. It was really fun, and I told my teacher that I really liked being in a wheelchair, and I wished I had another go. Yes, she said, you like it because you can get out when you are done...

from orphanage to market...

Weekends. Always a lovely break from the week, and in Sierra Leone, it’s no different. Sleeping in an extra hour, eating breakfast in your pajamas, having plenty of time to wait for the water to heat in the boiler. Little luxuries which make the weekend such a wonderful time.

I didn’t post a blog yesterday because, comparatively to the earlier week, very little happened. I went with Helen to an orphanage run by a Canadian couple out in Regent. We left a little later in the morning, took a taxi to the main bit of Regent and then hiked for a good half hour up to the top of one of the nearby hills. About fifteen or twenty orphans live in the compound set up by this couple after the war. They are there for various reasons, into which I didn’t really pry.

In any case, we arrived there only to find that no one knew of our coming and the proprietress had gone away for the day (which we were expecting) and she had taken the key to the school room with her (which we were not expecting). So we made do for the morning, practicing some basic math and reading from some of the books collected in the house. I worked mostly with two younger girls, Kathy and Kadiatu. Probably kindergarten or first-grade reading and math level. It kind of reminded me of when I student taught the first-grade kids (Emily, Will Donner, Tim Clark, and Miranda) on board the CBM. :)

We had a fun time, but then the kids all went off to do their chores, and Helen determined that it would be next to impossible to get them all back together again with any kind of focus for work. So we left there a little earlier than normal. Helen had contacted the vocational educator at another VVF centre, but she wasn’t available to meet up, so we headed back to the team house. We couldn’t get transport in Regent, so we walked to IMATT, an international co-operative training center for the Sierra Leonean military. It was a good walk, probably another half-hour or so. Then we found a taxi there that would take us to Mamba Roundabout, a ten minute walk from the house. A lot of walking, but it was really nice to get out and about and see some more of the country.

I was really exhausted, and crashed around four, after attempting to read and stay awake. I woke up a short time later, but never really got my energy back. The sun and heat had drained it all away! :)

Today, I enjoyed a leisurely morning and was sitting out in the verandah when an old colleague of Annekoos and Bastiaan came to visit with his four year old daughter, Esther. It was really nice to sit and talk with them. It was really enlightening to hear his opinions on George Bush, Tony Blair, Salone (Sierra Leonean) politics, superstitions, etc. He explained that he loves Tony Blair because he is crafty, and has so much power in his speaking. He told me he hates George Bush because of his pride and how he has stumbled into the Middle East, leaving a “scar,” as he put it. He says that the next president should do everything possible to bring reconciliation. I couldn’t agree more.

I just got back from downtown. I went with Anne, Bas, and Sandra to the fabric street. I bought some really lovely print and batik for a skirt and a shirt-dress. I think the tailor is coming later this week, and I can give it to him.

It was really great to walk around the market. So much life and color concentrated in one place. The markets in Central America were similar, but this was much bigger, and the wares much more diverse. I don’t remember ever seeing pig’s feet in Guatemala! :) It was really fun, though. And it was great to get out of the house for a little while. The other three have been here for so long, and are really knowledgeable about how everything works. It’s so great to have them as a resource, and I’m ruing the day when they will be gone. But until then, I’ll try to learn as much as possible, and if I make some mistakes a long the way, then that is also a way to learn…

I wish that all of you could be here with me, or that I at least could connect your mind and your senses to mine. Sierra Leone is a full sensory of experiences. I haven’t taken many pictures as of yet, because I find them so inadequate to convey every part of that moment. What picture, for example, can tell you about the sounds outside the window which have become so common place – the birds, the wind in the trees, the children’s voices, the clinking of rocks being broken down, the distant techno music, laughter, crying, all at once. How can you know the smell of Sierra Leone? The sort of campfire smell mixed with earth and, oftentimes, rain. I don’t want to lose these moments, because I know that they will all pass by fast, fast. But, I suppose, the nooks and crannies of memory will have to suffice. Man has not learned how to capitalize on that God-given system…

plenty pikin and apple pie...

We opened the door to the house and were instantly greeted with the smell of apple pie. A little out of place in this African setting, but welcome, all the same. It was a nice gift at the end of a long day, to be sure.

Today I had the special treat of sitting in with Sandra and Annekoos in the Outpatient Pediatric Clinic which shares a property with the Fistula Centre. It was really, really great for me to get a taste for what a clinic such as that takes to run on a daily basis, and what the work is like, especially since it’s part of my heart to work in such a clinic focusing on maternal-fetal care and well-baby care. I saw lots of babies, lots of young children, and there were a lot of tears. :) But I think that I would cry, too, if I felt crummy and had no other way to express it.

I don’t even remember all of the kids that I saw, but there were a few cases which stood out from among the rest.

One was a three day old baby with a clef lip. Upon giving birth, the mother, one of five wives, was instantly ridiculed and derided by the other women. She packed everything up, I suppose, and headed off almost immediately because she was in Freetown today. She had come to visit her sister, but upon arrival, she found her sister’s house empty. Her sister had gone to Kambia – another town up country, close to Guinea. So she had stayed the night with the neighbor and had come today after someone at another clinic told her about Mercy Ships. The Africa Mercy will be in Sierra Leone in February, and I’m hoping that she will get a surgical spot. Sandra added her to the list of patients she is referring, so we’ll just have to wait and see. It was so sad to see the mother so crushed by the ignorance of the other wives. I can’t even begin to imagine the weight that she has carried since delivery, all the way coming here, believing her child to be completely abnormal, not understanding how this could happen or what it means, blaming herself for doing something wrong during the pregnancy or during delivery…I think that when she left, a lot of that had gone. A beautiful transformation.

The other was a young boy. Really sweet, quiet, and very intelligent-looking, he had come in for various complaints of unknown origin. He came with his father, whose love and deep concern for his son was written all over his features. It wasn’t very long before the father told us that the boy had lost his mother about ten months ago. And suddenly, the pain was there, the uncertainty of suddenly being a single parent with two children, having to do things you’ve never had to do before. And now one is sick, and you’ve never had to sort out the medicines. And you look at the boy, and you wonder how many times he has cried himself to sleep at night.

Here, now, in my room again, I am surrounded by the exuberant sounds of the community around me. I hear the children calling to one another, a mom calling for her son, and men talking business across the road. The clouds roll in to bring more rain, and the room grows dark, only illuminated by my computer screen. My life is so incredibly far from that of the mothers and fathers and children that I saw come through the clinic today. But for a moment, here and there, I understood, and I shared a bit of their life…

freetown, hiv, surgery, and the bible...

so this was supposed to have gone up yesterday, but for some reason it didn't come through:

Today, as is quickly becoming the norm, was a full day.

This morning was Gladi-gladi. It was so special to see all the women dressed to the nines, so happy to be going home. The other women were so excited for them, and you could see in their faces the hope for their gladi-gladi when they (oh, we can only pray!) go home dry as well. The bonds forged between the girls – most of whom thought before coming that they were the only ones with this problem – will last a lifetime. It’s kind of weird to think that you’ll be a part (in the background mostly) of such a life-changing event. I think that’s what draws me to midwifery – the moments that I’ll get to be a part of.

After the singing and dancing was done, Harriet and I headed into Freetown with one of the patients. Her fistula surgery had failed inexplicably, and so she had gone in for HIV testing. She is positive. So we were just taking her in for a follow up exam and to renew her ARV prescription. Freetown is a sight to behold, and I’ll probably have to save a full description for a later date, because it is late, and morning isn’t coming any later. J

We went to Connaught Hospital, a government-run center which was rebuilt after the war by the World Bank, as Harriet informed me. The grounds were beautiful, even if getting through the gate was a bit of a challenge. I only got a peek into one of the wards: a huge, long empty room almost like a two-story warehouse made out of concrete in which all the beds are separated by curtains. The nurses stay at the end and essentially are there to dispense medication, monitor vitals, and contact the doctor in an emergency. As a patient, you must bring your sheets, food, kerosene if you’re going to have surgery (to fuel the generator), and a caregiver – usually a family member who will help you with your daily care.

All in all, it was a really interesting experience. More about it later, yeah?

Okay…so I’m running out of time, so I’ll just give the basics and hopefully fill in over the weekend or something when I’ve a bit more time.

After we got back from Freetown, I hung about the ward a bit while I waited for the doctors to finish the day’s second surgery. Then I scrubbed in for the third and last of the day, which was really fascinating. I hadn’t done so well with surgery during clinical, so I was a bit nervous, but everything went off without a hitch. I was so interested that I didn’t have a second to think about possibly being a bit woozy. I think I had a better face mask on, as well, which helped me from getting overheated and dizzy.

The surgery went really well, and I spent the rest of the afternoon with the doctors in the screening room, having a look at potential patients and following up with current ones. Then the (work) day was over, and I joined up with the doctor’s again to walk home along the beach. The breeze was absolutely gorgeous and the sound of waves was an absolutely perfect ending to the day. On the way, we passed a football (soccer) match which was a bit unique. All of the players only had one leg. Victims of the war, they had all banded together to form a football team, and they were actually in training to go the amputee world football cup in Turkey next month or so. They were all so great – some of the friendliest people I have met here so far, although most are really friendly in general. One of them told me that they play every Saturday in the same place from 8-10 am. Perhaps I’ll be able to go over and watch them a bit more. I’m sure I need to learn a thing or two before I try to do this intramural soccer thing in the fall! J

Then back to the house, a quick rinse-off in the shower, dinner, and then out again for Bible study. I went with Sandra and Bas to an inter-NGO Bible study that’s held here every other week. It was really great to meet all different sorts of people, mostly from the US, although a few from the UK, the Netherlands, and one from South Korea. All involved in different sorts of work. It was really neat. But, alas, there will have to be more about that later. My walk and Bible study took all the time that I usually take to write away, although I gladly gave it over to do something a bit different!

Tomorrow, I think that I’ll be spending a good bit of the day in the pediatric outpatient clinic with Sandra and Annekoos. More stories tomorrow, to be sure!

Fighting fires and fistulas...

Today was a bit of a different day.

For one, it started earlier. I woke up at five-thirty to turn the boiler in the bathroom on so that I could have some hot water for my shower. Half and hour later, I jumped in. Showers here are a bit different than at home. Water’s a luxury, so it’s on to get wet, off to soap up, on to rinse. Growing up we called them ‘ship showers’ because we did the same thing in order to conserve water when it was limited on board – during sails, for example.

I left again with the medical team, looking forward to my day shadowing Harriet, the ex-pat nurse and fire-fighter, as I came to see. First fire of the day: one of the nurses called in sick – malaria, again. That one handled, we went about on ward rounds to get report from the night nurses. It was just like being in clinical! Only there were only us and about six other nurses for the fifty-odd patients. Granted, usually these girls’ only medical complaint is the VVF, generally much healthier and mobile than the patients we get in US hospitals.

Next we worked up the discharge cards and papers. Each patient takes with them a copy of their OR notes, in case they see someone else in the future, discharge instructions, and a laminated card with their patient information and the phone number of the clinic. That meant taking everyone’s picture or “snap.” Each girl would stand there, as stoic as the day, but once they saw their face in the back of the digital camera, they would nearly die laughing. I couldn’t help but laugh as well, which only made them laugh more. J

After discharge cards, Harriet ran off to deal with a few more things, including a patient who had come from up country, but who was refusing treatment and therefore needed transport back home. Meanwhile, I sorted through supplies and got everything in a more orderly fashion. One of my most favorite things to do!

Then it was “chop” time. I found myself with a huge bowl full of steaming rice and black-eyed peas cooked with chicken. It tasted quite good, I think. It was kind of hard to tell after the first few bites because the pepper in it had singed all of my taste buds.

After lunch we did a few other things, like teaching one of the women Kegal exercises (pelvic floor muscle-strengthening techniques to increase sphincter control and hopefully improve stress incontinence). That was a sad case. One of the sweetest girls, someone who really struck me yesterday, Fatmata, was fully repaired but was still wet. Another of the patients, being discharged tomorrow, is going home wet. She had a fistula from her bladder and her rectum. The one from her rectum has been repaired and the bladder one has been attempted, but there’s nothing else that we can do. Tomorrow will be a difficult gladi-gladi day for her, I’m sure.

“Gladi” is the Krio word for happy, and in Krio, instead of saying “very” anything, you just repeat it twice. So if you’re very happy, yu gladi-gladi. Gladi-gladi day is when all the women leaving the clinic get their new dresses, headdresses, and we have a big celebration for their home-going. I may actually miss it, though, because I’m going tomorrow with Harriet to the government hospital here in Freetown to follow up with a patient that we have in the Centre who just found out she’s HIV positive. I’m sure that will be quite the eye-opener.

Later in the afternoon, after tea with Harriet and Terri, I got to pop into the screening room to see the girls examined for the first time to determine if they are suitable for surgery and whether the fistula will be a hard or easy one to fix. It was quite a lot of fun to hang around the surgeons and the translator and see the other side of it. I was invited to pop my fingers in for a feel of the fistula, but I didn’t quite want to just at the moment. The lady, who had had three fingers inside her already, hardly looked like she would welcome a fourth. It was really tempting though. I only hope I’ll get another chance.

It was absolutely horrifying to see the histories for some of the girls. Six deliveries and no living children. Ten deliveries and two living children. All of them in labor the last time for at least four days, most of them for seven. Seven days. That’s a week. That means starting contractions now and passing a stillborn child next Tuesday. That’s absolutely ridiculous. I still can’t get over it.

I should probably go, though. Dinner’s about to be served…fish and chips with apple pie (like mince pie but with apples, yeah?) read the note to our cook on the posted menu this morning…

first day...

It’s five thirty, and I am home for the night. One of the staff wasn’t feeling very well, so I came home early with her. My first day of work is done.

It at 4 am when a massive storm woke me up to the sound of roaring. Hurricane-like winds were ripping over the roof above me as sheets of rain lashed the windows and flickers of lightening revealed millisecond images of outside. Back to sleep and then up at 6 to make the 7:10 transport to the clinic. The morning started with rounds with the ex-pat medical team to get report from the circulating nurses – all Sierra Leonean nationals. So I got a tour of the ward and quick introduction to the face of VVF. Nearly fifty women all with the look of hope mixed with fear, silently wishing every moment that this will work.

You see, not everyone who comes to the clinic walks away continent and dry. Many, in fact, will leave without finding success. Their fistula may be repaired (or it may not be), but the many other complications that follow such a traumatic injury leave them still severely incontinent. The question every morning: “Is she dry?” One can almost tell without asking which patients are dry, which are still wet, and which are awaiting surgery simply by their faces.

After a quick walk about the ward, we all came together in the children’s clinic attached to the Fistula Centre for a few moments of praise and prayer, staff and patients together. After that I teamed up with Helen, ringleader for the education and training programs we provide to the women recovering and waiting. After chatting for a bit about the program, her vision, etc., we got ready for the morning session: numeracy.

The first plan for the ACFC was to teach literacy for the women who came through the doors, but the reality is that it’s nearly impossible to teach several years of education in two weeks. Helen told me that it’s often a huge feat for these women to learn how to hold a pencil properly. So, she said, we start with numbers. After all, most of them are subsistence farmers so being able to add and subtract may very well be much more useful.

We counted on our fingers and practiced identifying numbers on flashcards. They all had it down pretty well. Then while Helen worked with them on a simple worksheet meant to develop fine motor skills for writing, I took about five girls over to the side. These girls had been identified as being literate, or at least had had some formal education. We worked on a worksheet in which they finished the following sentences:

My name is…
I come from…
I get this piss problem for…
I like this hospital because…
I want to….when I get home.

(by the way, we weren’t being vulgar with the whole piss thing – it’s quite a common word here. Harriet, the ex-pat nurse manager told me that the bladder is commonly called the “piss bag”)

The answers were remarkable. One girl who didn’t look any older than myself had been suffering from her fistula for ten years. Another, slightly older, fifteen. What did all of them want to do when they got home? Go back to school. “I want to continue to further my education,” one girl wrote. Her name is Jinnah, and she has stolen my heart. A large number of them want to be nurses, which also made me (and the nurses there) very happy. J

Then it was lunch time: cassava and rice. I didn’t actually eat it as I had brought some food from the house, but it certainly had an interesting smell. Helen said that she likes every lunch they serve at the Centre except for Monday’s, so I have a feeling I didn’t miss much. I suppose I should try it, though, before I go.

I spent the early part of the afternoon making up some simple booklets for the women to practice their numbers by writing and coloring. Then it was craft time. We made pom-poms, and all of the girls loved them. They ended up mostly as necklaces, although several found a clever way to fasten them into their hair. Absolutely amazing. J Fine-fine, I would say (which essentially means, “soooo good!” in Krio). Then they would smile or laugh. I love them all.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on getting some materials prepped for tomorrow. The girls are going to color in name tags to go above their beds - add some pizzazz to the wards and help them see better the letters in their names. Then it was nearly five o’clock, and I headed home!

A pretty fun-filled first day. Exciting and informative and interesting and engaging and challenging and so many things, really. I talked with Terri, my supervisor, for a bit during lunch, and we talked about getting to rotate about the Clinic this first week to get comfortable and adjusted and familiar with everything going on, then looking at going out to do follow-up stuff starting next week. So tomorrow, I’ll probably help Helen a bit, but I’m to shadow Harriet and see what her day looks like! I can’t wait…

lists and lessons

Where do I even begin?

In forty-eight hours I have

• traveled across six time zones
• flew back across one
• spent fifteen hours on planes
• spent nine hours in London Gatwick airport (four too many)
• elbowed several individuals in order to grab my bags off the carousel in Lungi
• whizzed along Sierra Leonean roads by dark
• inched along Sierra Leonean roads by day
• rode a ferry across the river, watching Sierra Leonean soap operas and music videos
• unpacked in my new room
• met my housemates (all lovely :D)
• had tea at the Aberdeen West African Fistula Centre (with a tour of the grounds)
• ate a traditional Scottish meal
• watched a good movie
• found myself quite a bit at home…

Every minute I want to pinch myself to see if I’m really here – on Lumley Road, Freetown, Sierra Leone. But more than anything else, I need to pinch myself because it feels so comfortable. I feel as though I have come home. I know that there are days to come when I am frustrated, exasperated, and confused beyond all belief, but for today, for this moment, I am home.

The compound where I am staying is near the bottom of a very steep hill, traversed by an extremely pot-holed dirt road. Through the metal gates, guarded by a national group, I stay in the main house, behind which there are a few more houses with apartments surrounding a little covered portico. In the house, I am on the top floor, down the end of the hall next to the bathroom. B3.

We run the generator from 18:30 to 7:30 on weekdays, 10:00 on weekends. Internet is available during those hours in the common room downstairs. Downstairs also is the kitchen, the laundry, and the supply closet.

A fairly simple house with some subtle nuances: When there isn’t power, the water isn’t heated (as I forgot until shortly before I turned on the tap for my shower this morning). One rubbish bin is for rubbish to be burned, the other is for things which can’t be burned. This trash, when thrown out, will be gone through by some of the people on the street, so nothing which may be dangerous should be thrown out there. Showers and toilet flushes are to be kept to bare minimum as it is scarce. Refrigerators should only be opened sparingly during the day in order to conserve the cool inside. Be nice to the cats because they help to control the pest population.

These are the first of many lessons – some of which will become like a second nature before I leave here nearly two months from now. Others, I’m sure, will continue to surprise me every time I encounter their teacher…

(p.s. as far as pictures go...i'm trying to get some uploaded for everyone to see, but i'm having a bit of trouble, so bear with me! :D)

ready to go

my bags are packed, i'm ready to go...

a couple of summers ago, my best friend spent the summer working on board the m/v anastasis in spain. shortly before she left, she played some of the songs that she had selected at her "mix tape" of sorts for that summer and its many pending adventures. we drove back from tyler with the windows down blaring the peter, paul, and mary hit "leaving on a jet plane." i've found myself humming that tune often this past week as i have rushed from here to there preparing as much as possible for what lies ahead of me in the next few months.

i've made countless lists, checked through them multiple times, crossed and recrossed items from them, and have been to wal-mart more times than i would like to admit. there always was that one thing that i had forgotten... but i had gotten an early start on monday (thanks to my mom) when we packed my bags for the most part.

so by the time that i got to today, i really had nothing to do. which was weird, because i almost always have something to do. :) then it hit me - like a two-by-four between the eyes - i had spent my whole week preparing physically: getting my yellow-fever vaccination, beginning my doxycycline anti-malarial regimen, purchasing last-minute items, yet surprisingly (and yet not so) i did not feel ready. apprehension and stress still gripped my heart and twisted my stomach. there were still so many questions for which i did not have answers! i realized how very little i had done to prepare myself mentally and spiritually for what lies ahead.

because, you see, far before i ever thought of tickets and visas and internships and advanced study grants and budgets and institutional review boards God had called my heart to sierra leone - to this time, this place, and its people. in the middle of everything, i had let go of that truth. today i reclaimed it, and with it came the rush of joy and excitement which threatened to sweep me away.

writing this now, as my house beginst to quiet down for the night, and i sit on my bed for one last evening in a while, i realize what a gift today truly has been. i sat in the garden reading and doing crossword puzzles and glorying the beautiful day. i laughed so hard i wept - literally! not just teared up, but tears streaming - with my family during dinner. we bonded over a ridiculous game of 90's trivial pursuit, and for a moment i truly regretted that i would be leaving tomorrow. not because i wasn't so extremely excited, but because i realized how very far i would be (again) from those that i love so very dearly. my quiet baby brother who is turning into a man before my very eyes and whose sheepish grin melts my heart. my mother who is truly one of my dearest and closest friends. my father who continues to challenge and grow me every day with infinite love. my sister whose new friendship is truly an unexpected blessing - like finding that there is one more delicious morsel left in the cookie jar. i will miss them all.

but then i feel that tingly, bubbling sensation in the bottom of my stomach, and suddenly it's a little harder to breath. it's not the fear and apprehension of a few days ago. it's sheer excitement and bated expectation.

the music on my itunes shuffles to the next song, and i hear the plaintive strumming of a guitar: my bag's are packed, i'm ready to go...