Guided Tour of Banta

When I first went to Sierra Leone all I had were some pretty dodgy maps to try to piece together an idea of where I was going. While there it was hard to build up a picture of the geography of the place from my 5-foot-something-small vantage point. Since that time I have been able to look at better maps and now, with the help of google, we can see what it all looks like from space. What is really interesting about what is currently available on google is that it is all about 6 years old so we can see what Banta looked like before there was Children of the Nations.

So let's take the tour...

I am going to assume you know where Sierra Leone is in the world and so let's start with a shot of the whole country. As we go through these pictures you can have a look at any one of them in more detail simply by clicking on it.


So if you were flying to Sierra Leone you would land just north of Freetown, across the bay, in a place called Lungi. That's where every journey begins. If we look further south we will find Moyamba District.


You will see Bo city over in the east there and if you look right in the middle you will see a little area of blue, what look like lakes. Now we're getting very close to Banta because these lakes are what has been left by the mining of rutile. People in other parts of Sierra Leone don't generally know where Banta is but if you tell them you are from "the rutile area" they know where you mean. It is suggested that one third of the world's rutile, a mineral used in paint and welding rods amongst other things, is under the soil of this part of Sierra Leone.


Anyone who has been to Banta will be familiar with the river in the eastern side of this picture as it is the river that runs past Mokpangumba, Wubangie, Mokele and others. And you will see that google and I differ on the spelling of Mokpangumba. Look out to the east and you will find Serabu, our nearest hospital.

Now, find Mokpangumba on the river and look over to the east a little and you will see the bauxite mining plant owned by Vemetco. Which means our next picture is going to be of Banta itself and is going to feature a little village called Ngolala. If you have been to Banta look at the below picture, follow the road up from the mining plant and see if you can find Ngolala for yourself before moving on down...


If you aren't sure where to find it, look at the middle of the above picture near the top and just east of the road you have the village we know and love. The below picture gives you a better look.

Let's take a closer look at that...


Finding this was all pretty exciting for me. Ngolala has grown a lot since this picture was taken with many more houses built, especially up at the top of the village. You can see the cleared area at the top which is now "Ngolala Field" football pitch. And, beginning back down in the heart of the village, you can follow the path out to the east through Chief Kobba's palm tree plantation and take a right off the path, heading south across a swampy area to the beautiful village of Senehun, one of my favourite journeys. You can find Senehun at the bottom right corner of that picture.

Let's look more closely then at Ngolala, which from above looks like it has taken the shape of a tear drop.

And here is Senehun.


And if we passed Senehun and went round the corner of the mining road we would find ourselves at Jiminga. All of these villages have grown since these pictures were taken, it looks like there were no houses between the central part of Jiminga and the road at this time.


None of these villages can match the growth of Wondie however. At the time of this picture below, what is now referred to as "the old village" seems to have actually been "the whole village".


Then we have little Mogborie, surrounded by bush.

And Monicawe, by the road.

Let's go back across the river to get a closer look at Mokpangumba...


And then this picture of Mokelle. The little village to the north, at the top of this picture is where you get the boat to cross. If you are taking a dugout canoe you will probably cross more or less straight over and walk down to the village. If you are lucky enough to enjoy the bigger boat with the outboard engine you will travel south, up-stream to the village proper.


Let's go back to this wider shot once more so you can get your bearings again.


Find Ngolala at the top and in the middle of the above picture. Look left to the road from Ngolala and then about the same distance to the left again and you will see the little brown circle of Mogborie. Nowadays there is something pretty big that should show up in the space between these two villages. Nowadays the picture below would be a great shot of Children of the Nations...


Mogborie is there in the top left corner and you can see our swamp to the south of that. Notice that there is just one hut where the village of Ngolala Junction has now grown up. This is an incredible image when you think about what this patch of green jungle has become. I look forward to google updating their images so we can put the before and after side by side.

If you want to search google's representation of this part of our world for yourself then here is a link to start you off: Banta on Google

MTV Wrecking Belfast

As preparations were being made for Snow Patrol's open air gig at Belfast's City Hall...disaster strikes...

The Gospel in Chairs

Get your theological gears working while considering a different perspective on the old, old story...

A & J

I sat and watched Akay as she cradled Jack. They are a gorgeous pair. Akay, with her perfect ebony skin and high cheek bones is a stunningly beautiful young woman. Jack's big dark eyes and his round face are handsome but its when he lights it all up with a smile that you realise just how handsome. Akay holds her young son close, leaning forward and rubbing the front of her chin on his forehead making him giggle.

Akay's brother is sitting next to her mother on the bench beside me. I don't say much on visits to their home like this one. Theirs is a family of storytellers and so I just enjoy the free flowing entertainment. A lady from the village comes to sell some really nice traditional clothing and before his mother knows what is happening, Akay's brother is trying on his favourite. He sends a joke in Jack's direction about how much more handsome he is than his little nephew. Akay sucks her teeth in disagreement and points out Jack's smile and his red lips to back up her argument. Her brother looks at his mother and says, “Aren't you going to speak up for your son, Ma?” She looks at her teenage boy and sighs. He laughs good naturedly and, referring to how much he looks like a young version of his father, says, “Mama says that Papa has gotten old and ugly and that I have stolen his body.” Akay joins the joke now, flashing her own broad smile and laughing, “Oh, Mama looks at you and she remembers those days!” They both clap their hands, hum a beat and pretend to dance, laughing hard at the idea of their parents doing the same in their younger years.

Akay lives in a mud hut with no electricity and no toilet. She gets her water from a stream behind her home which is where people from her village also bathe. I didn't tell you that at first because I was afraid you would make her an “African” in your head, a cardboard cut-out that was decorated for you by oversimplified news stories, one dimensional charity advertisements and half remembered school projects. I believe that one of the biggest barriers to people's compassion towards the absolute poor is their inability to understand them as real, living, breathing, teasing their sisters and laughing at their ageing fathers people. People just like you. Akay and her brother are two particularly powerful examples of the world's inequality of opportunity. If they had been in your class at school they would have not only been the coolest kids in the place but quite possibly amongst the most successful afterwards. They just brim over with talent and potential. With the help of COTN, their parents and others who care for them, the prayer is that they will defy the odds and live the kind of lives they might dream of. Remember the kinds of dreams you had as you entered your last year of school? Yeah...lives like that...

With the sun beating a hasty evening retreat, and no torch in my bag, I got up to say my goodbyes and go home. Akay got up to “leave” me, which means walk with me a little of the way back, but as she moved she tripped and fell forward. After regaining her balance, she turned to me, stood up perfectly straight and smiled one of those embarrassed little smiles which say, “Ahem...let's pretend that didn't happen...”

Which I thought was cool because that's exactly what you probably would have done...

Fatherhood and friendship bracelets...

Sitting on the end of the hospital “bed” (little more than a mattress sitting on the grubby, tiled floor), the pink bracelet on my daughter's wrist taunted me.

I looked around the ward – some mattresses with women lying prostrate, mosquito nets tied above them and ceiling fans and lights which would never come on. The only thing which could have been labelled as “equipment” was the drip stand which was now feeding drugs in to my girl's bloodstream after a number of painful, abortive attempts by unskilled fingers to find a vein. In this we were lucky, another patient's IV was tied to one of the bars on the window beside their mattress. Our daughter was crying out to me and to the others around me in pain, panic and fear. The doctors reckoned they knew what was wrong but qualified their confidence by explaining that the tests they had the ability of running were severely restricted.

My eyes fell on that pink bracelet. A gift from a friend who works as a doctor in some excellent hospitals. The unfairness of our world screamed in our faces. I could feel anger swell up within me but it was accompanied by something I hadn't felt before in moments like this – it was a sense of guilt or maybe shame. I was being confronted with the question, “Is this the best you can do for your daughter?” I felt a pathetic sense of powerlessness intensified by what that bracelet represented – everything that was needed existed and was available to me. It was just somewhere else.

As I travelled home that evening I wondered if this was what my life was going to be like. Trying to care for people I love in a place that does all it can to prevent you from doing just that. Obviously I was feeling a little sorry for myself. But I don't really feel like I chose this. We are born in to our families. We don't choose them. That's how I feel about our ministry here. Like I didn't choose it any more than I chose my surname. There are times when I panic about money or get frustrated and get to feeling sorry for myself and I wonder about whether this is the place for me or not. And in those moments I could almost get annoyed about that familial connection. Because it refuses any attempts at shaking it off. This doesn't mean that my place in the family will never change but it probably means that I'm going to care about it for ever. Whether I like it or not.

Irritating really.

(And yes, she did get better, praise the Lord and the doctors doing lifesaving work in the bush.)

Shorts: The Seaside

Two Chinese men went to the beach. They paid a man so they could park their car. Then they paid a man so that they could sit on the sand at a nice table with a nice beach umbrella. They paid another man so that they could enjoy a drink and watch the waves. Then one of the Chinese men paid yet another man and he brought over two young women in swimming costumes. One of the Chinese men disappeared with his girl while the other sat at the table he had paid for with the drink he had paid for and the woman he had paid for. And so they had a nice day at the beach.

(Though the men in this story were Chinese they could as easily have been from anywhere else in the world. The girls are always African though.)

–

“Dooong!” The bell sounded and I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it must have sounded like to the slaves it was originally used to call to attention. I was in the village of Dublin (!) on Banana Island, once used as a kind of holding site for slaves before they made their long journey to the Americas or Britain. I looked at the canons that were used to “protect” the slaves from pirates in the way a supermarket security guard protects the potatoes and tried to imagine how the slaves would have felt about them. I walked the trails of the small island, trails that probably haven't changed since slaves were marched up and down them before they were shipped across the Atlantic and tried to imagine how they must have seen this place – to you and me a tropical paradise, to them perhaps the very gateway to hell.

I tried to imagine. But I couldn't.

–

Far out enough that they would be difficult to see from the shore, the local fishermen paddle their small, one-man dug-out canoes despite the swell of the ocean waves. They have a line in the water and hopes of a decent catch, repeating a scene that hasn't changed for hundreds of years. You just have to watch and wonder.

–

We had fought the usual Freetown traffic down one of the busiest streets in the city, Kissy, a hive of people, market stalls, all kinds of vehicles and some more people, but had to walk the last part because a container truck had blocked the road. It was an unremarkable Freetown day as the city sweated, shouted, honked its horns and tried to sell things to itself. Then the next thing we knew we were in what looked like an airport lounge in an American city with people offering to buy us Starbucks coffee.

We were visiting the Mercy Ships floating hospital, Africa Mercy, where one of our kids had surgery earlier this year and where we had a few contacts and wanted to make a few more. I spent a lot of the time just gazing around. Everywhere you looked Americans and Europeans were tapping on Macs or draining coffee cups. These people all contribute to some really amazing work but spend the bulk of their time in this weird western microcosm. I wondered if any of them ever really get to begin to understand where they are. Then our visiting hours were over and we headed back to Sierra Leone and walked up the bustling Kissy Road trying to work out what had just happened.

Internship No. 5

We left the interns off at the airport, got back in to our car and headed for the ferry. A dark Freetown awaited us at the other side of the bay. Amie, one of this year's national interns, called me to let me know that she had arrived to her own home safely. “Ah bo,” she sighed. “All man don scatter.” This year's Global Internship was finally over.

Two months before I had been loading on to this ferry with three young Americans (a fourth was to come later after fighting her way through the aviation black hole known as Accra, Ghana). The eight weeks in between had seen our group of eight (Four Americans, two Sierra Leoneans and two leaders) involved in all kinds of activities - organising early morning exercise, reorganising our store full of resources, facilitating seminars on leadership, teaching Sunday School, hosting bible clubs for about 700 children in various villages, running camps and retreats for young adults, taking over the running of our Children's Village for a weekend, spending time with local families on their farms and in their homes, teaching biology, helping with our Sponsorship program's constant flow of correspondence and so on and so forth. This year's group did an excellent job, bonding as a team and developing meaningful relationships with the children and young people they came to serve.

One of my own personal highlights of this time saw us reach a village called Wubangie with a three day bible club for kids, the first time we have ever tried that there. Wubangie is a big enough village to make you ponder whether you should describe it as a small town and the Chief, though a Muslim himself, was incredibly welcoming and gracious towards us. Over two hundred children were there to excitedly greet us each day and we shared the story of Jesus with them in three parts. Children in Sierra Leone are excellent at mimicking the actions of anyone put in front of them, something encouraged within the education system here where rote learning is king. When you realise that 200 kids are ready to naturally repeat your every action it helps break language barriers in half and makes game time a whole lot of fun. We would bring all the older kids for games to a dirt football pitch and there were times when you felt like a kind of human puppet master or maybe the Pied Piper of Hamlin – running, jumping, dancing and singing with your every movement copied by over a hundred kids. The kids brought so much energy to what we were doing, something which we fed off, ensuring three exhausting but memorable days.

A part of the internship I always enjoy is called New Skills. This sees us connect interns with children in our Village Partnership Program and their families. The intern will hang out with their new friend and their family a couple of times each week and do whatever they are doing – fetching water, cooking, doing laundry, farming, hanging out. Each year I discover new relationships with families in the villages where we have placed interns and this year was no exception. On one day I joined the two interns serving in Ngolala for a hike to their New Skills family farm where we had planned to plant groundnuts with the boys in the family. We left Fanta, the older girl, cooking the day's dinner, something she does every day after school. It was pretty hot and when we reached the village to meet up with the boys I realised that we had probably seriously underestimated how much water we would need. The farm ended up being miles away, even though the boys would keep assuring us that we were almost there, and we relied on the milk of coconuts we cut down on the way to fend off dehydration. We planted our groundnuts, hung out with the boys, kept an eye out for coconuts and had a pretty great time doing it.

It's funny to think that this is the fifth intern group I have been directly involved with. They are always different and I have learned a whole lot from one group to the next. I won't be involved in quite the same way next year but right now I feel like the last two months were good ones to end on.

"Pujei!"

Cabin Time

It's youth camp and I am sitting down with my group of older boys talking to them about their day and seeing what they thought of some of the lessons taught. This room is usually used to house our primary school's Class One but we have converted it to a camp dorm by putting palm frond thatch and old mosquito nets over the windows. My group is sitting on a thin foam mattress which will later be used by at least three of them to sleep on. Some of the others have just a cotton lappa spread on the concrete floor which won't do anything to make them more comfortable but will keep the floor's dust off them as they sleep. Another lappa, shared of course, will help their snuggled bodies keep warm during the cold rainy season night. We are talking about peer pressure and nature, a strange combination guided by a little piece of paper of scribbled questions someone placed in my hand. My boys are tired after a day of games and songs and rice dinners but they are interested in the conversation. One of them translates in Mende for another struggling to understand my Krio.

Suddenly we hear a loud crash and we exchange brief puzzled glances. Something must have been dropped or have fallen in one of the other primary school classrooms. There is a beat of what would pass at camp for quietness and I am about to continue with a question when the sound of a host of people shrieking together rises up from somewhere else in the building. The sound increases in intensity, is accompanied by the sound of feet pounding on concrete and seems to be rushing in our direction. For a second panic stretches time out between its white knuckled fists and my head spins with unanswered questions. What is happening? Is someone hurt? Is there fear amidst these cries? What is being run from? What can I do?

Suddenly a huge rat bursts through the door to our room and relief washes over me as the pandemonium intensifies. Memory always balloons the size of animals in these kinds of stories but this was a big brown beast of a thing and it was darting around the room desperately searching for a way out that ceased to exist the moment one of the boys slammed the door shut behind it. The hunt was on.

Our neat little groups of boys burst apart as some people dived out of the way of our furry intruder while others dived after it. Chaos soared around the room as frenetically as the rat scuttled and the boys kicked, stamped and tried to catch. One of my interns hurdled the animal as it made its way to a corner where about four boys threw themselves down on it only to see it slip through their frantic fingers. Adrenaline was pumping through everyone but none more so surely then our prey who was now making his way in my direction. Stepping back I aimed a toe poke to the face in his direction which knocked his solid body off course but did little to halt his determined but panicked progress. Another kick sent him amongst the mattresses and a boy threw a bundled sheet on him which a third stamped on. The rodent warrior kept going and sprinted around the corners of the room until finally, finally, he felt a jerk from behind. One of the boys had thrown himself to the ground and come up with a tail in his upper hand. With a yank and a swing of his shoulder, Gogra windmilled his terrified target face first in to the floor. Once. Twice.

This was the peak of the action and details were confused by the amount of sweaty bodies that were jumping and running and throwing and the amount of dust and noise that was kicked up. Samuel, with a piece of lumber in his right hand (pulled from who knows where), would also claim the kill but it was Gogra who held the brute aloft to the roar of the crowd and marched it out of the room. It would be handed over to a security guard and eventually find its way in to a cooking pot somewhere. The laughter, shouting and retelling of the story lasted for a few more moments and then the boys reformed themselves in to their groups. Bedlam disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived and we settled back down on our mattresses.

“So, where were we?”

Old Watering Holes

Return to old watering holes for more than water – friends and dreams are there to meet you.

African Proverb

I wish I could have met Hilary Lyons. She was born in Mayo, in the west of Ireland, but she lived a large part of her life serving as a doctor and a nun in a place called Serabu in Sierra Leone. It just so happens that this is down the road from my home in Ngolala and the hospital which Sister Hilary helped build up between the 1950s and the 1990s is where we take our kids when they get sick. Her book, “Old Watering Holes” paints a great picture of a life's journey I connect with deeply. Sister Hilary even contributed to the training of our own head nurse in Ngolala, one of my African mothers, Mummy Jombla.

One of the things Sister Hilary's story leaves you with is an expanded idea of the destruction the war brought to Sierra Leone. So much of what could be said to be Sister Hilary's life's work was destroyed when the convent and hospital were burned to the ground in 1995 by, in the words of Mummy Jombla, “those stupid boys.” The destruction was far wider than this however as the barbaric violence of those years would also have disastrous consequences for so many of the people Sister Hilary had trained in her hospital and partnered with to create community health committees. You are left with a deep sadness for a place so brutally dragged back to a kind of square one, a sadness intensified by the knowledge of how long lasting and painful the consequences of that have been for this part of this country.

When in Serabu with one of our children recently I took some time away from her sick bed to walk around the grounds. The burned ruins of Sister Hilary's convent and some of the other buildings around it are still there and I stood amongst them for moments which felt edged with a kind of holiness. The utter peace of what was a natural memorial garden stood in sharp contrast to the violent way in which it was created. Small, swallow-like birds were sailing through the air and I tried to imagine the place as Sister Hilary would have seen it. She describes with great affection this part of her world, its flowers and its soul soothing serenity. I wondered about how God feels when he looks at what we do to one another and to the artistry of his creation. It is strange to feel such sadness and such beauty so palpably in the same place and at the same moment but, as Sister Hilary would have known better than me, Sierra Leone has a way of bringing those feelings together.

Time Goes By

I'm not really sure where the time has gone.

I have been back in Banta for about a month and a half. It feels more like a few days. It feels more like a lifetime.

I have celebrated 50 years of Sierra Leonean independence, an overly honoured guest of the Paramount Chief. A new Paramount Chief's staff was unveiled, a gift from the Government to replace the one given by the British in the days before Independence - finally, he joked, the Chiefs too were free of their colonial master's influence, the staffs which represent their power were no longer branded with the Royal Coat of Arms.

I have enjoyed the company of four different teams and COTN's founder and International President. I got to marvel at my friend Jattu who so faithfully returned to her little brothers and sisters and shared a team of her friends with them – a team described by some of our children as “the best yet”. I saw the sweet sorrow of Julius as he was parted from his friend Matt – one a child, the other his short term tutor – neither able to look the other in the eye without coming close to weeping as they said goodbye. I spent a weekend in Senehun village with Matt and some other American friends, narrowly avoided a scalding when taking our nightly bucket baths before working up a sweat by dancing in the dust for hours.

I have bounced around on poda poda journeys, hung on for dear life on Freetown motorbike taxi rides and glided over rivers in dugout canoes. I have been bitten by black flies, mosquitoes and ants but thankfully the bat we found in our room didn't get its teeth in to me and the snake outside our house was too small to defend itself from being stoned to death. I have offered swimming lessons in the Jong river and tested to see how clean its water is. I have watched as new buildings are constructed which will bless our children for years to come. I have met with our national board and spent great lengths of time discussing the ministry with our national staff. I have spent time with my newly married friends, Mr and Mrs Ngoneh, enjoying stories and photographs recounting all that has happened since we were last together. I have spent time with Romanian miners and their drunken monkeys. I have darted about the streets of downtown Freetown on messages which on paper looked like taking five minutes but in practise stretched out for hours.

I was with our children as we broke the news to them of the death of a man who could be described as being a kind of grandfather to many of them. Much time has been spent since telling and retelling stories from his life and his funeral in Freetown was packed with people. Little Fatima had told me that I would be in trouble if her sister and herself didn't get to go to the service, precociously closing one eye and looking with the other down the finger she pointed at me. I made sure their names were on the list – they were special favourites of their grandfather who would always look for them on visits and sneak sweets in to their hands. Another of those close to him, Abi, held me tightly after the service, taking my arms and wrapping them around her little neck.

I have marvelled at the utter beauty of the children I am here to serve – from the adorably cute smiles of Senehun's Jaminatu to the growing beauty and strength of some of our older “children” like Theresa and Karim. I have praised and scolded them, broken up fights and smiled at forming friendships. I have had dinner on the beach with our impressive undergraduate, Precious. On my arrival I was greeted incredibly warmly. On my arrival one girl refused to speak to me for two weeks. I have been told that I am fat more times than I care to remember. The sun has ensured that I have lost weight so such comments have become less common! I have been told that I need to try to marry more times than I care to remember. If I am not careful no woman will want me because I will be too old.

I have again enjoyed the space this place creates for the spiritual, my better angels being encouraged to stretch a little, my bible suddenly seeming to spring to colourful life. I have seen God in thunderstorms of worship. I have seen suffering in wounds which refuse to heal. I have been reunited with toddlers that were babies, teenagers that were children, widows that were wives, mothers that were girls. And so life continues. Though I don't really know where the time goes.

Online Liberia

Check out the following two presentations of Tim Hetherington's photographs of Liberia during its violent "crisis".

Liberia Retold

Liberian Graffiti

Hetherington was also involved in filming the below documentary which details the end of the violent conflict in the country about eight years ago.

Fourth, Morning Mocha

Step 1:

Wake up to an African children's choir. This can be energetic and soulful. If a less vocally talented kid is asked to lead it can also be energetic and awful...but in a cute way.

Step 2:

Untuck mosquito net and crawl out of bed. Shorts, shirt, flip flops...ready.

Step 3:

Greet anyone you may see in or around the house.

"Good morning."

"Good morning. How did you sleep?"

"Fine. And you?"

"I say thanks to God."

Step 4:

Take plastic, purple mug. Scoop in one teaspoon of Nescafe instant goodness.

Step 5:

Open tin of milk powder. If tin is empty find Nancy who might let you in to the store eventually... Scoop two heaped teaspoons of milk powder in to purple mug.

Step 6:

Open sugar. Allow sugar ants to disperse. Silently grumble about the person who didn't close the sugar properly allowing the sugar ants excited access. Drop two sugar cubes in to purple mug.

Step 7:

Open cocoa powder. Scoop one teaspoon of cocoa in to purple mug.

Step 8:

Add hot water from the flask to purple mug half full of powder. Stir. Continue to stir.

Step 9:

Bring purple mug of mocha magnificence out on to veranda and sit in the cool(er) morning air. Watch this little world go by. Greet the farmers as they go past. "Buwaa". Greet the kids as they bustle around doing their morning chores. "Morning Uncle!" Greet the little groups of Mogborians who pass by on their way to school with their little green uniforms and their little black plastic bags which might have a worn out copy book, a pencil and probably a razor blade* inside. "Kahuin ye na?"

*The razor blade is for sharpening the pencil. And may have already been used to give a boy a haircut.

Step 10:

Repeat process during cool of evening.

Third, the 4th July

There is a whole bunch of people who think that 4th July is the day when a nation celebrates the overthrow of its colonial masters and the declaration of its independence.

What a load of nonsense.

The 4th July is the day we celebrate the birth of a girl called Massah. Because she makes the world a more beautiful place.

Stick that in your firework and smoke it.

Second, Peemeh

I was in a small poda poda mini bus on the way to Banta trying very hard yet failing really quite spectacularly to grasp the most basic mende greetings. I don’t know if it was the 5 am start from Freetown that was making my mind sluggish. I had really been quite on edge when I squeezed on the bus that morning with my team of American interns – I just had no idea what I was doing and the reality of a year in Sierra Leone was stretching itself out in front of an intimidated me. I found myself seated next to one of my team leaders, Laura and a Sierra Leonean poda poda “apprentice” called Francis. My conversations that day with both Laura and Francis would be the start of my finding my feet in a place I quickly grew to adore.

Francis would say something really basic like “Hello” – “Buwa”. And I would repeat it. And then my mind would take that little piece of knowledge, crumple it up in its hand and nonchalantly toss it over its shoulder.

“I’m sorry Francis, what was it again?”

Looking back that turned out to a blessing disguised as stupidity because it gave Laura the kind of idea that occurs to a lover of exclamation marks and the word “awesome”.

“Let’s make a song out of it! And that’ll help us remember!!! This is going to be awesome!!!”

I can tease Laura because she knows I love her but it actually worked a treat and turned in to a ridiculous rap which we performed to the great hilarity of our children when we arrived. Imagine your reaction if a bunch of West Africans came to your house and started (badly) singing at you with a broadly smiling enthusiasm which you can tell is putting exclamation marks after everything in its head while warbling and rapping the following -

“Hello! Hello! Hello!
Thank you!
How are you!? I thank God!
What’s your name!?”

The kids still sing it at me from time to time.

Francis also gave me a quite precious gift on that dusty and slow road to Banta. He gave me my name. Visitors to Sierra Leone will not have to wait long before they are renamed and for me it was Francis who did the honours. He called me “Peemeh”, the man who runs. And Peemeh has been my African alter-ego ever since.

I have yet to meet another Peemeh which just makes the name all the more “mine”. Since the locations and circumstances around them are so different so there are differences between “Mark” and “Peemeh”. They dress differently, speak differently and spend their time differently. Probably the biggest difference is how much time I spend with children as Peemeh. There are few things I find as joyful as playing ridiculous games, singing silly songs and literally making fun with a group of kids. I was leaving from Belfast City Airport to fly to Freetown via London last year and while I was queued up at security the wee girl in front started playing a little game where she would take her bag and nudge my hand luggage until it nudged back. She seemed to think this was just hilarious entertainment until her father informed her that she wasn’t behaving herself. And I realised that I hadn’t really spent any time with children when I had been at home in Belfast. And how that was about to change. Because I was about to be called “Uncle Peemeh” again.

Alright then, who wants to play Balance Ball?

First, The Mango Tree

In two weeks time I will be packing my bags, frustrated about why I always leave things until the very last moment and wishing I had an intern to bail me out like last August. In two weeks and one day I will be on a plane to West Africa full of Sierra Leoneans flying home to celebrate 50 years of independence.

And so the adventure will continue...

As we entered April it struck me how soon all of this was going to happen. Today a nurse stuck a needle in my arm to restock my supplies of resistance to typhoid, something which also makes future travel feel close. And so over the next few days I will be blogging about the things I am most looking forward to. Of course I could tap on my keyboard about the many things I will miss about being with my family and friends in Belfast and some of the things I won't be excited about finding myself once again in the midst of...but let's be positive here...

First, The Mango Tree.

I am looking forward to the journey to Banta immensely. Sitting in the van watching the jungle and villages rush past. Waving to kids amused by my funny coloured face. Testing out my rusty krio and even rustier mende on women and kids selling on the side of the road. I love taking this trip with interns and answering their wide eyed questions, pointing things out as we drive and feeling their nervous excitement but I am actually looking forward to travelling alone this time around and just being able to focus on my own feelings of being back again. And then we'll reach Mosenesi Junction and suddenly I'll feel like a coiled spring.

The road from Mosenesi to Ngolala isn't particularly long but my mind plays tricks all the way along as it flicks through memories of numerous past journeys, trying to recall exactly how close that particular corner or village now makes us. Staring out the front window and wanting to see one thing - the mango tree. Ryszard Kapuściński writes about how where you see a mango tree you can often be confident that there will be a village nearby - these trees are so often used as meeting places as people enjoy the shade they provide not to mention the annually amazing season of fresh fruit. The mango tree I will look for sits almost directly opposite the entrance to my African home - Children of the Nations' Banta ministry site.

When I last arrived I stepped out of the van and knew I should wait until everyone else was ready so that we could greet the children, who had all lined up at the gate, together. As the team of interns I was with unloaded from the vehicle I sneaked a peak around its corner. Maseray was stood at the gate post beside Marie Marrah and I could see her do a shy little smile and mouth, "It's Uncle Mark!" I pulled a silly face at her and hid behind the van again. Checking that everyone was ready I turned around to lead them through the gates to where the children were starting to sing their greeting to us.

"You are welcome, welcome now!
You are welcome, welcome now.
So you are welcome.
And I am welcome.
And you are welcome, welcome now!"

But as I turned around I almost tripped over Pastor who had broken from the ranks to wander over and say his own personal hello. He looked up at me and wordlessly jumped up in to my arms.

I was welcome.

Blink Eleven

I reckon this will be the last one of these I do for a while - I will soon be switching to a less internet friendly environment. Blogging will continue but blinking will be on pause.

So then...here goes... Stories from West Africa you may have missed.

Emma Thompson has an adopted son from Rwanda and they both recently visited Liberia.

The situation in Ivory Coast is ever changing - here are some pictures from Abidjan and others from amongst refugees in Liberia.

The state of teenage pregnancy in Sierra Leone.

I think this is a great example of the kinds of difficulties which you can run in to when trying to help someone from a great distance on your own rather than with the help of a person or an organisation based locally.

The story of a compassionate entrepreneur from Liberia - Christine.

An interesting article looking at poverty and development in Africa - some grim reality but also healthy amounts of hope.

The story of a child soldier.

And finally...

The latest famous type I have discovered is really a Sierra Leonean (others being your man from Grey's Anatomy and Ryan Giggs!) - Idris Elba.

Aradhna - "adoration"

I came across this band when I was working on all things Indian in London. With one member being born in India and the other growing up in South East Asia, they blend guitar with sitar and a love of bhajans - a classical form of devotional song in India. As they have released an album with accompanying music videos it is time to share!

"Blessed are the merciful for they will be shown mercy
Those who are poor in this world

Blessed are they, blessed are they
For the kingdom of heaven is theirs

...

Those who make peace will be called the children of God - Sri Yeshu Ji"

Of the next video, the director says this:

The diya, or Indian oil lamp, a symbol of worship,is floated on the Ganges river early in the morning. The vastness and power of the swollen river is a reflection of God who created it.

Not far from this tranquil scene, just up from the river's edge, there is a deep well called the Lolark Kund whose stone steps form the shape of a cross.It remains closed, except for one day in the year.

On this day, thousands of married couples in their last hope to be granted a child by God,descend the steps together break their glass wedding bangles, throw off all visible signs of their marriage,and plunge five times into the claustrophobic waters. They emerge and remove the drenched and cursed clothing, changing into new clothes and climbing the steps with renewed hope.

This is worship. To be content, but to also weep with longing.

God embraces us in either case.

"Truth, we greet you.
In you the whole Universe is held together
...
One without second, we greet you
Your Great Liberation brings us loving oneness with you
As though no separation exists between us.

Oh Supreme One, we greet you
All pervading and eternal."

Blink Ten

Stories from (mostly) West Africa...

Susan is in Silverdale!

Here is the story of the moment when this young woman from Sierra Leone met the sponsors who have been caring for her for years (and here's a video showing that moment too!).

Susan speaks for herself further on down...

What can you buy for $0.03? That depends. Are you in Liberia?

A point of view: Filippo Bozotti from Tribewanted after 6 months on a Freetown beach. Have a read.

Sad news from Africa Mercy where 11 people were hurt and one person died in what sounds like a scrum to get medical treatment from Mercy Ships staff.

UNICEF reckon that the number of children who aren't 5 years old yet but are living in Sierra Leone without enough food to eat is 300,000.

Tensions continue in Ivory Coast as there seem to be growing fears about how this will impact the rest of the region. Particular focus has been on Liberia - many of the refugees have fled there and some fighting has taken place quite close to the Liberian border. In the words of Liberia's President, "May God give them the courage not to follow our path, because we know what that means."

Charles Taylor's trial is finally over and so the verdict will be given in about 4 months.

The University of Michigan is partnering with two Liberian universities to develop programs in engineering, science, technology and agriculture while the US State Department organised a delegation to look in to encouraging women in both Sierra Leone and Liberia in their use of technology for empowerment.

Also...

What has been happening in Japan is too big for any words I can think of trying to lay beside it. I just cannot imagine what those in the middle of it have been through no matter how incredible the images or frightening some of the footage.

And finally...

While I don't like the suggestion that today is but a Catholic holiday, I liked how Donald Miller rounded up his St Patrick's Day blog...

Blink Nine

Stories from West Africa you may have missed...

Life in Sierra Leone's main prison - Pademba Road. (If you read this be sure to scroll down and take note of the comment by "Vallens" - an important criticism to be aware of.)

With the incredible events in North Africa and the world's news media rushing from one major incident to the next it is easy to forget the stories that once held our attention. The crisis in Ivory Coast rumbles on.

Sierra Leone is currently hosting the Mercy Ship's floating hospital, Africa Mercy.

Looking at all the children enrolled in Children of the Nation's residential care and village partnership programs in Sierra Leone, half of them are girls and young women. Here the chief economist from USAID talks about the importance of unleashing their power.

Here are two short films about the work of Italian NGO COOPI. With subtitles in Italian it is a chance to see just how good your krio is!

Blink Eight

Is Liberia the toughest place to be a midwife?

Interesting piece looking at the similarities between Ugandan child soldiers and kids caught up in Northern Ireland Troubles.

Mercy Ships are on their way to Sierra Leone again.

Why is life expectancy in Sierra Leone just 40 years?

How is the Ivorian crises affecting the economies of its neighbours?

Liberian refugees still in Ghana.

Charles Taylor on trial - A Warlord's Last Chance.

Criminal justice in West Africa - Liberia's Forgotten Prisoners.

Sierra Leonean version of Akon's "Mama Africa" - Mama Salone!

People of the Second Chance

A thought for today...

WE ARE PEOPLE OF THE SECOND CHANCE from PEOPLE OF THE SECOND CHANCE on Vimeo.

www.potsc.com

My Friend Laura

Whenever I first went to Sierra Leone in 2008 I spent the first two months of my fourteen month stint serving as part of that summer's Global Intern program. That program was led by two Floridians who would become good friends of mine, Scott and Laura. Laura joined Children of the Nations as a staff writer shortly after this trip and it has been great to work with her as she seeks to tell our children's stories.

She's been popping up on-line of late and so I thought I would introduce you...

First up, here is a video of that 2008 Internship we both shared. Magnificent photographs taken by her now husband, Scott.

Sierra Leone Summer from Laura Brost Cook on Vimeo.

Some more great images, this time taken in Malawi and Uganda.

A Writing Trip with Children of the Nations from Laura Brost Cook on Vimeo.

And finally here is an interview she recently gave - offers some pretty good insights in to what Children of the Nations is all about!

For more on what Children of the Nations does check out the website.

GO on the mission...

I've gotten really lucky over the last few years. As teams and groups interning with Children of the Nations in Sierra Leone have come and gone I have met some really fantastic people and have more often than not had the genuine privilege of watching them fall in love with the family. It's always exciting to see what happens when those people head home and they share what they love with their friends and family, they sponsor kids, they package meals, they host fund-raisers, they volunteer and occasionally they plan another trip.

This year we are going to have two teams led by people who interned last year, two teams led by team members from last year and the year before, and a consultant who first came with a team about two years ago. Oh, and we'll also have a team led by a returning leader from last year and another led by someone who came with a team about 2 and a half years ago. I'm telling you, it's that kind of place.

Last spring I got even more lucky than usual when I got to share an intern team with Uncle Muche and Aunty Short. Having gotten engaged shortly before they came, the trip was a really special time for both of them. They got married in the autumn and dates of trips actually paid off for me for once and I made it to their wonderful, TOMS sponsored nuptials...although I did turn up late...something you don't want to do at an American wedding (blink and you miss most of them!). I was really excited to hear that they were planning on leading a team this December and even more so when I saw this little video they have made to encourage people to join them.

Muche, Pato awaits. Short, go and zumba the life in to the place again.

The rest of you? Check out Children of the Nations and go on the mission yourself...

"Motorboat!"

Blink Seven

Stories from West Africa you may have missed...

Charles Taylor's trial is coming to a messy end.

The Economist looks in to the "heart men" of Liberia.

I cannot be certain if this is the Kanga that I know or not. If it is, we have kids from this village in our school. If it's not, it's not far away. Details of life in rural Sierra Leone.

News of immunisations for Ivorian refugees in Liberia.

A piece on one of the latest efforts to reduce maternal mortality in Liberia.

Human Rights Watch accesses Sierra Leone and Liberia.

What can Africa learn from Asia about growing rice?

Blink Six

Another week and another blink...

UNHCR plans a second humanitarian airlift to the east of Liberia where over 31,000 Ivorians have sought refuge.

Liberia's President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf says that the crisis in Ivory Coast "will not threaten Liberia".

Sierra Leone is launching its campaign against pneumonia in children this week.

Uncle Quami's ministry gets some media attention for it's efforts in feeding children living in the Kroo Bay slum.

And finally, a preview of the documentary Shake the Dust...

Shake the Dust - Uganda Sneak Preview from Loose Luggage on Vimeo.

Blink Five

Back for a blink - some of the best of the web relating to Sierra Leone, Liberia and issues of poverty.

The development story of the day is the launch of Save The Children's "No Child Born to Die" campaign and the money that is needed for a comprehensive pneumonia immunisation program.

The UN states that over 30,000 Ivorians have taken refuge in Liberia since the political crisis in their country - "Liberians, once refugees themselves, aid those fleeing Ivory Coast".

Transparency International's interactive take on world corruption with dishonourable mentions for Liberia and Sierra Leone.

A change in the way we look at global poverty - the Bottom Billion.

Story of a scottish doctor who spent time working in Serabu, Sierra Leone, our nearest hospital - Green Oranges on Lion Mountain.

And finally - the BBC in all of its investigative journalism glory. When trying to uncover the truth behind a complicated issue like the impact of the mining industry on a small West African country, only one source of information seems required - the mining company concerned. Hmm...

Between a rock and a hard place

In the opening shots of his film 127 Hours, the story of an American climber who got trapped by a boulder in a Utah canyan, Danny Boyle splits the screen into three and shows us image after image of people. Crowds of them. People at a football match. People getting off an underground train. We see the busy-ness of modern life, the anonymity, the claustrophobia, the relentlessness. Boyle knows exactly how this will make me feel. I sought release. I was immediately connecting with one of the very things which gave Aron Ralston such a passion for the outdoors. Escape.

Aron Ralston loved to be out on his own, to be free from the confines of urban life, to face the wild with only himself to rely on. But of course what made Ralston’s story as tragic as it became was that when he got in to trouble no-one knew where he was. He had chosen to be alone. And alone was what he got.

As the film is coming to an end Danny Boyle reintroduces his crowd shots. We see the same people. Crowds of them. People at a football match. People getting off an underground train. But of course my emotional response to these identical images is now completely different. It is to openly embrace the safety that suddenly numbers represent. It is the embrace of community.

This story is an incredible metaphor for the dangers of individualism, of shirking community, of going it alone. I was really interested to discover that the book “Into The Wild” had been one of the things which inspired Ralston to embark on his life of the outdoors in the first place. And the journey of Chris McCandless seems to have taken him to a similar destination. In the film version of McCandless’ story the following words are put in to his mouth as a way of showing just one of the reasons why he might have embraced the life of a tramp and headed off to experience the wilds of Alaska alone:

I’ll be all the way out there. On my own. No f**king watch. No map. No axel. No nothing. Just be out there in it, you know. Mountains, rivers, sky, game. Just be out there in it, you know. In the wild ... Getting out of this sick society! Society you know, society! Cause, you know what I don't understand? I don't understand why people, why every f**king person is so bad to each other, so f**king often. It doesn't make sense to me. Judgement. Control. All that, the whole spectrum.

And yet whenever McCandless’s body was found in that now famous old wreck of a bus the following epiphany seemed to have occurred to him: Happiness is only real when shared.

Sure, we’re all broken, messed up and pretty crappy people. But we are also wonderful and beautiful creations capable of love. We’re made for one another. We were made for community. The first thing Aron Ralston told James Franco when they met to help Franco prepare for his role in 127 Hours, was that it was thoughts of his family, those he loved, which give him the strength to keep going when all felt lost.

While talking to Leech recently about life in the country, he insightfully suggested that because there is so much space to share around in a rural setting people are less concerned about letting others in a bit more. Where I grew up people didn’t really knock on each others doors so much as let themselves in. There was an openness which I remember being surprised by initially, having lived my earliest years in a town. In those more urban settings it is as if, given how little space there is, those who get their hands on some are unwilling to give much if any of it up to others. Perhaps they fear that to do so would leave nothing left for them. We jealously guard our spaces with gates and walls and hedges, a car for every member of the family and ipods for whenever we’re in the open.

I can’t think of the word ‘community’ anymore without thinking of Sierra Leone. It is a place where personal space barely exists in the way we would understand it. I remember chatting with my friend Kadie one day before she screwed her face up for a second and then plunged her finger in to my ear. She had spotted something which she felt needed removing. I remember one of our staff saying that she would ‘of course’ organise for someone to sleep in the room next to mine so that I would not need to be in my house alone. Her face was so confused when I told her that I thought I would be okay, wrestling with the dilemma of whether I was just being polite or if I could possibly actually be happy being alone. Afterwards the kids would regularly ask me if I was the only one who slept in the house. “Are you not afraid?” they would ask. I remember another time when two of our boys were to spend the night in a room on their own. When I checked on them later in the evening, and even though they had had their pick of eight beds, they had snuggled together on to one.

People need people. The less money people have the clearer their understanding of this seems to be. Money, and the things which come with it, seem to distract people and fool them in to thinking that with ‘stuff’ they can begin to do without one another. The problem is, whenever we retreat and put up these barriers , as western culture most certainly has done, it is very difficult to claw ourselves out of the canyon we have placed ourselves in.

And so we’re all stuck. We need to be in but not of a western culture which more and more offers a life diminishing. We need to be counter cultural without being anti social. We need to strike out in to the wild. But we need fellow travellers.

Aron Ralson only allowed himself one shout for help a day. He didn’t like the sound of his voice, feeling like it smacked of panic. When I am home and I look around me I wonder how trapped we really are, how heavy is the boulder, how much water do we have left and what would it sound like if we cried out.

I need Africa...

I really like the sentiment behind this slogan adopted by the non-profit Mocha Club.

Second Homesick

I am not exactly sure what it is specifically but at the moment I find myself missing Sierra Leone. A lot. This may seem weird since for the first time in a long time I am at home with all the members of my family but it is never the desire to be away that pokes from somewhere beneath my skin, rather it is a longing to be there too.

Part of this has perhaps been caused by a framed picture I gave my parents as a bonus Christmas gift. Taken by a summer intern I inventively dubbed 'Scotland' it has for quite a while now sat to the right of this blog and shows Akey holding her days old son, Jack. She looks down at him affectionately as he looks up at her and the angle of her face somehow accentuates the beauty that runs in her family. It is a gorgeous photograph which illustrates a story and a life very dear to my heart.

Jack’s name was given as a way of honouring me but also serves as an invitation to a kind of familial connection. It is these kinds of connections which inspire me and excite me about the role I currently play in the ministry of Children of the Nations. It is these kinds of connections which see impatience beginning to creep in to my wait for another day in Africa.