journal of andre/joernaal van andre

inoculation

2006-12-29T06:34:00.000Z

2 November 2006

I am the only foreigner sitting in a circle with Ghanaians, listening to a pastor preaching passionately on three reasons why bad things happen to good people. Once in a while he asks for an amen, finishing every statement with "Praise the Lord, Amen?" People respond, some with a louder Amen! than others. A lady opens the door of the room we are in, poking in her head with a surprised expression on her face. The pastor, without losing a beat says: "You are welcome, we are sharing the good news - it is for you!" She sheepishly come in and take a seat.

I feel a little out of place, because I am the only person wearing shorts and a baseball cap. We have a fire drill later today so I would only take a shower after that. But I am also actually here to get an inoculation for yellow fever. It is before 8am, and I am sitting in the waiting room of the Tema Port Clinic.

"Can the father in the house close us in prayer?", the pastor asks. A gentleman neatly dressed with a tie sitting next to me rise to his feet and pray. A nurse thanks the pastor for his message, and then says: "Welcome! The Bible says where two or three are gathered there He is in their midst, amen!. Lets give the Lord a clap!!" Everybody claps enthusiastically. Then she gives a 15 minute lecture, starting with yellow fever, then talking about tetanus, and finishing off with AIDS, asking if people knew the ABC for protection against AIDS. She speaks partly English, partly Twi, the local dialect. When she asks if anybody knows what the C stands for, a girl in her twenties answers shyly with a smile, so soft, hardly anybody hears her - 'condom'. The nurse replies loudly, "Yes, if you are planning to go out and play, you need to protect yourself with a condom!"

She finishes her lecture, asking everybody to give an applause to themselves, and everybody claps with the rhythm we used to clap at sports games to encourage our team.

And then chaos breaks out. Most people already registered earlier in the week, and everybody feel they have a valid reason to get their injection first. I sit and observe the shouts and arguments, with the nurse telling four people very bluntly: "You four, you go first!". I try to find out how I can register. I was here earlier in the week, but I was not willing to pay my $14 if I did not get my shot immediately. "Why you did not register when you came the other day? You give me trouble!", the nurse answers, with a look on her face like I am a child who has done something naughty.

She disappears through a door, and after a while comes back and position herself behind a desk, beckoning me to come sit in front of her. I give her my yellow card and 140 000 cedis. She gives me a small card, and tell me: "Go get your injection". I enter into another room, and wait my turn for my injection. After that I sit for another while in the waiting room while the lady register other people. Eventually I get my yellow card back. I thank her as friendly as I can, and as I walk out the room an hour or so later, I say a little prayer:
'Thank you Lord that I only have to do this every ten years!'. ournal of andre/joernaal van andre

inoculation

2006-12-29T06:07:00.000Z

Imprompto preaching

2006-02-15T19:36:00.000Z

Andre, we’ve been invited to attend the induction of a pastor out in Roysville community. Interested to come along?

I know the church my friend Johnny is speaking about. It is in a village outside Monrovia you can only reach by canoe across a river, or by road with a 4 X 4.

How are you going?, I ask. By road. You can drive if you want.

I’ll go, I answer, knowing the only reason I agree is the opportunity to do real 4 X 4 driving with one of our Land Rovers.

On Sunday 10 of us pack the Rover, and when we leave the tarred road towards the Sierra Leone border, we follow a dirt track that is like a ride on a see-saw. Up and down, up and down, up and down. So much fun for me driving, but no fun for the other passengers! Eventually Johnny points out a sand track leading between a grove of palm trees. I switch to low range and keep the wheels as straight as possible as the thick sand plays havoc with the tracking of the wheels. At one stage I had to manoeuvre through a swallow river over a poorly built bridge of logs. Once in a while we go through a small village of wooden and mud brick huts, and I have to slow down for ducks and chickens crossing the road. Eventually we arrive at our destination about 45 minutes later.

The Baptist church was built in 1876 by missionaries, surrounded by thick sand and a forest. Everybody walks to church…some up to an hour. The outside is built from large corrugated sink plates, and inside the walls and ceiling is covered with wood, with large holes here and there as it became rotten over the years. The benches are simple made out of wood from the forest. The pulpit is built in a half moon from brick and is on a high stage. The stage has seats on both side of the pulpit for the choir and church leaders.

All of us from the ship find seating as close as possible to a window for some fresh air. Even though the church starts at 11am, people are patiently waiting for everyone to make their way. Everyone is dressed in their best, with most men wearing a suit. I am wearing an African shirt and leather sandals, and feel totally underdressed. For most men here the suit they are wearing is the only formal piece of clothing they possess…used for every formal occasion. When most of the 100 congregants have arrived, the service starts at 11.30am. Johnny comes over to me and say they need someone to do an opening prayer. I told him I don’t mind, but then he said; They want you to sit on the stage. There goes my seat with a bit of cool air!

While we do the worship, Johnny leans over to me and whisper in my ear; They have a crisis. The pastor that is supposed to preach and do the induction is not here. Can you preach? If a local pastor asks a white man if he can preach, it is kind of saying you will bring the message, thank you.

I quickly borrow a pen from someone and start to write bullet points on the back of the program someone gave me. The only thing I can think of is the 3 C’s of leadership I recently read about in a leadership book by Bill Hybels. I remember a fourth C, and quickly write down any suitable thoughts popping in to my head. Eventually I start my preaching by telling everyone I want to give some tips to the new incoming pastor, talking about character, competency, chemistry and calling. It went well. I actually thought afterwards maybe I should never prepare my sermons, or keep on speaking about something I actualy know.

About half and hour later I induct the pastor, handing him a new Bible and a wooden hammer as symbols, thinking to myself; I am not a pastor, and I am not even Baptist either!

Airport run

2005-11-12T11:44:00.000Z

November 2005

As our three Land Rovers leave the port of Monrovia in convoy, I know I am back in West Africa. The port itself already is a stark reminder of that. The main harbour area is L-shaped, with one arm a 200m long jetty running in to the water where the Anastasis is moored. The rest of the main harbour runs along the shore, with old one story warehouses, and most curiously, a sunken ship at the middle berth. Apparently a miscalculation in the loading stability of the vessel caused it to capsize, and now half of the ship is still sticking out the water, with the rest slowly rusting away under water.

As we head towards Robertsfield airport situated more than an hour drive from the ship, we pass yellow taxis; mostly late eighty - and early ninety model Toyotas and Nissans, and several 10-seater taxis without windows. Many people are walking purposely to somewhere, several carrying their goods on their heads. Other than most of the West African countries I‚Äôve been to, most people here wear western clothes, a mark of their desire to fashion themselves after America. Many here consider Liberia the 51st state of the USA. I look at the mostly run down buildings and try to recognize the former glory of which was once one of the most promising capital cities of Africa. Large buildings once functioning as hotels or office blocks now are squatter homes with mostly internally displaced refugees. It is past 6pm, and as it gets darker, well, it really gets darker. Monrovia has no running water or sewage, and no electrical grid, probably the only world capital with this status. Here and there some restaurants and shops that have generators are lit up.

We reach the airport after a long drive through countryside. I love the open country‚ it reminds me I am truly in Africa. Nancy is driving the vehicle I am in, so I am enjoying the scenery. We park at a designated area in front of a large unfinished construction, which probably was intended many years ago as the airport building. The airport itself is a smallish one story building, with an area that functions both as the departure and arrival hall where non-passengers are not allowed. We have to wait outside in the parking lot for the new crew members we came to pick up. As the SN Brussels Boeing stops, Nancy and I stand closer to where we assume our new crew will exit the building. Suddenly everybody makes way for a long white Cadillac with dark windows that reverses until it stops right at the building. The next moment a small fire starts at the left front wheel, probably from dripping oil or break fluid on a hot break pad. Pandemonium breaks loose. Some people run away while others frantically throw sand on the wheel. Eventually someone opens the bonnet and quench the small fire with a foam extinguisher, creating a cloud of white smoke. A little while later a yellow fire truck appears on the scene‚ with no fire in sight anymore.

As some help the owner to push his car away, our 13 new crew members appears, unaware of the recent drama that just played off in front of us.

Huisbesoek in Monrovia

2005-11-12T10:57:00.000Z

November 2005

Een Vrydagaand vra ‚Äòn vriend van my aan boord, Tom, om saam met hom te ry om ‚Äòn nuwe bemanningslid se bagasie op te tel in die stad. By die Land Rover aangekom ontmoet ek vir Julie, ‚Äòn Mennoniet van Kanada wat vir twee jaar by ‚Äòn Mennonietiese sendingstasie in Monrovia gewerk het. Sy is maar 20 jaar oud, en dra ‚Äòn tipiese Mennonietiese rok en het so ‚Äòn wit doilie op haar kop. Terwyl Tom bestuur en sy bes doen om al die slaggate van Monrovia te mis, leer ek meer by Julie oor haar denominasie en haar twee jaar in Monrovia. Sy verduidelik dat sy by ‚Äòn plaaslike familie gebly het, en is dankbaar dat ons bereid is om al haar bagasie op te tel, andersins sou sy van die plaaslike taxi diens moes gebruik maak. Omdat dit so donker is, ry Tom plek plek deur ‚Äòn slaggat‚Ä¶ietwat onaangenaam vir die agterstewe in ‚Äòn Land Rover.

Julie beduie vir Tom dat hy moet indraai by ‚Äòn pad vanaf die hoofpad waarop ons ry. Nie een van ons kan sien waar die pad is nie, maar soos wat ons draai sien ons ‚Äòn smal paadjie. Soos wat die Rover ligte die klein paadjie verhelder, betree ons die tipiese Vrydagaand lewe van Monrovia. Die straat is gepak met mense wat loop of in groot groepe rondstaan, en oral verkoop mense van vars produkte tot toiletware by klein stalletjies of uit die hand. Hier en daar is daar ‚Äòn verligte plek met harde musiek‚Ä¶tipe van shebeens. Julie verduidelik dat baie klein plekkies video klubs is‚Ä¶iemand het ‚Äòn generator en ‚Äòn TV, en jy betaal om te kyk wat hulle ookal vertoon‚Ä¶meestal sokker of ‚Äòn fliek gemaak in Nigerie. Ek verkyk my aan die massas mense wat loop of net rondstaan‚Ä¶dis nou waarskynlik Liberiese sosiale lewe op sy beste vir die gewone man op straat. Tom ry so stadig moontlik om niemand te stamp nie‚Ä¶dit is duidelik dat voetgangers hier voorrang geniet en daar is net net genoeg spasie vir ‚Äòn motor om te ry. Ons kom by ‚Äòn woonbuurt, en ons ligte skyn op klein blink swart lyfies van kinders wat besig is om te bad uit groot skottels. Uiteindelik kom ons uit by ons bestemming, en soos wat Tom draai om langs ‚Äòn huis te parkeer, skyn sy ligte op ‚Äòn ou vrou besig om ook uit ‚Äòn skottel te bad. Sy gryp haastig ‚Äòn sari, die material wat hulle hier gebruik as ‚Äòn handdoek, om haar toe te maak terwyl ons skaam anderkant toe kyk en Tom haastig die ligte verdoof.

Soos wat ek uitklim, sien ek ‚Äòn klein vuurtjie tussen huise brand‚Ä¶vullis wat verbrand word. Ons volg Julie tussen huise deur wat nie in enige reguit lyn gebou is nie. Dis so donker dat ek glad nie kan sien waar ons loop nie, en Julie gebruik haar selfoon om so bietjie lig te gee. Dis nou een ding wat omtrent elkeen in Monrovia besit‚Ä¶‚Äôn selfoon. Hier is geen landlyn telefoonverbindings nie. Julie vertel dat om ‚Äòn selfoon te besit een van die hoogste prioriteite van mense hier is. Ons kom by die huis uit en stap by ‚Äòn sitkamer in met ‚Äòn riet sitkamerstel en koffietafel wat die enigste meubels in die vertrek is sover ek in die swak lig kan uitmaak. ‚Äòn Ou vrou sit op ‚Äòn stoel, met ‚Äòn kerosien lamp wat langs haar brand. Ek en Tom stel onsself voor, en kom gou agter dat sy nie Engels verstaan nie...wel, nie ons Engels nie. Hulle praat ‚Äòn tipe Engels hier wat ons ‚Äòpigeon English‚Äô noem‚Ä¶hulle sluk helfte van die woorde in en praat met so ‚Äòn plat half Amerikaanse aksent. Julie groet mense‚Ä¶sy ken almal hier, en sy praat hulle taal. Nuuskierige klein kinders sit by die deur en vergaap hulle aan ons‚Ä¶ons sien net hulle ogies wat blink. Alles hier is so oop‚Ä¶dit is duidelik dat privaatheid nie so belangrik is nie. Die buurman se radio bler en verskaf vermaak aan die hele buurt.

‚Äòn Jong seun van so 16 jaar kom sit by ons, en ons gesels met hom. Hy sukkel om ons te verstaan, maar ons kan uitmaak dat hy in graad 8 is. Ons vra of hy sokker speel, die gewildste aktiwiteit van seuns, maar hy se nee, hy studeer net. Julie stel ons voor aan die eienares van die huis, Emily, wat baie goed Engels praat. Ons vind uit die ou vrou is haar moeder, en die seun haar jongste broer. Sy vra of ons rys wil he‚Ä¶dit beteken ete.
Ons gaan sit by ‚Äòn tafel met ‚Äòn kers in die middel in ‚Äòn eetkamer wat verbasend vol gemeubuleer is met meestal kitch en boeke. Sy bring twee klein potjies‚Ä¶een met rys wat aanmekaar vassit‚Ä¶dis soos hulle dit hier eet‚Ä¶ons noem dit ‚Äòsticky rice‚Äô op die skip. Die ander potjie het so ‚Äòn bruin sous in wat gemaak is van ‚Äòn bitterbol groente, en gerookte vis, die stapelvoedsel van meeste mense hier. Sy gooi die sous oor die rys in die potjie, en verduidelik dat ons albei so uit die potjie moet eet, want dis hoe hulle hier eet‚Ä¶.elkeen met ‚Äòn lepel. Met die eerste proe brand my mond van die sterk kruie en peper wat hulle in alles gooi. Gelukkig het hulle Fanta wat koud is. Die sous is vol grate, en ek probeer soveel grate uithaal as moontlik. Dit proe eintlik lekker as mens eers aan die kruie gewoond is. Soos wat ons eet verduidelik Emily dat omdat hulle nie krag het en kos koud kan hou nie, koop sy ‚Äòn sak rys wat hulle ‚Äòn tyd lank hou, en elke dag gaan koop sy wat hulle vir aandete sal eet‚Ä¶gewoonlik vis en groente (meestal ‚Äòpatato leaves‚Äô). Vir ‚Äòn spesiale geleentheid koop hulle ‚Äòn vars hoender (dis nou vars soos in lewendig). ‚ÄúHere, gee ons VANDAG ons daaglikse brood.‚Äù
Ek komplimenteer haar met haar broer wat verkies om te studeer eerder as om sokker te speel soos al sy ander maats. Sy se dankie, maar omdat hy polio het en kruppel is, kan hy nie sport speel nie. Ek weet nie regtig wat om te se nie‚Ä¶dit was te donker om te sien hoe hy regtig lyk.

Soos wat ons terugry skip toe, wonder ek of wat ek so pas ervaar het, nie naastenby is soos Jesus geleef het nie. Jesus het nie krag gehad nie‚Ä¶Hy het ook van dag tot dag geleef‚Ä¶en Sy huis het waarskynlik nog minder meubels gehad as die een waar ons was. Die mense hier leef vir mekaar‚Ä¶jy is werklik deel van ‚Äòn gemeenskap.