Liberia is alive

At 7 AM on a Saturday morning, the usual bustle of the Monrovia city streets are just beginning to stir. Workers begin loading the flat beds of a coal engine train that will take us up country to Bong County, where we will visit the Bong Mines.

The engine waits patiently, and so must we, as various pieces of cargo (lumber, steel, different metals) and cars (owners of scrap metal companies, visitors, etc.) are loaded onto the flatbeds.



I've been told that we will be sitting outside during this train ride, which is part of the appeal. The missing detail was that we'd be loading the Land Rover onto the flatbed where the car will be parked, and that we'd be sitting on top of the Land Rover. There is a small red flag that comes up in my mind. I presume that they will secure the wheels of the vehicles. When I sadly totalled my vehicle in 2003, I remember the tow company throwing it on a flatbed and then securing its wheels with a belt like device. And today, they do secure our vehicle. With large cantaloupe sized boulders that they place behind the wheels of our Land Rover so that it doesn't roll backwards. And off we go.



We leave the city and head northwest into the country. Weaving through the city, the sounds of cars honking are replaced with silence, and the churning of the train. City huts made out of sheet metal are replaced by thatched roof huts. But in all cases, children run out to greet the train, to greet the Mercy Ships vehicles, and to catch a glimpse of foreigners. Their voices are joyful sounds, hatching out of nowhere, a welcome delight for someone in a foreign place.









The wind rushes through our hair. The clouds are creating big shadows on the ground, as we travel through patches of sunlight and shade. Carol scratches her face, nudges her hat and it flies off into the distance, lost to the jungles of Liberia. The foliage is vibrant, green and alive from last night's rain. Bananas and mangos dangle from the trunks of trees. Small bursts of leaves rise from a thick cluster of dark green bushes, stemming towards the sky like giraffes. Looking around, I thought to myself that it is indeed man who ruins God's creation, not the other way around. Liberia is blessed, luscious, and precious with its many fertile resources - iron, gold, diamonds and rubber.



Forty five minutes or so past. My bottom is beginning to fall asleep. The train slows to a stop. We have travelled through a long distance through the jungle, and then we arrive at a small township. We pick up a mother, a small child and a large bag of rice the size of the child.

We marvel at how people seem to travel from long distances in order to get to the train tracks. I suspect that they are waiting for different trains for purposes of trade or transportation. Also, walking along the train tracks provides a cleared path for them to travel upon.



As for us, we enjoy the sun and fresh air which we rarely receive in Monrovia and on the ship. Smiling happy and proud, here we are sitting on top of a Land Rover, trundling through the jungle on a train. From left to right: Timon (Switzerland), myself (USA), Debbie (Australia), Ester (Norway), Leena (South Africa) and Rosemary (England).



At the Bong Mines, our driver Odecious, formerly an employer at the mine, recalls the day that the LURD rebels came and drove everyone out. They captured strongholds of prosperity in the country and the mine was an attractive prosperous place. From accents, looks, behaviors and dialects, the LURD discerned between different tribe members. Odecious made it through. The others who were of the wrong tribe were shot here, the Ezekiel Valley. Over 5000 bodies were thrown in this valley. When President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf came to power, she held a memorial service here.

You would not think such a beautiful place, as it is now, was once a trench of horrors.

Leena becomes silent. She turns to me and says, 'Would you pray with me?' I nod and she utters words that come from that place that has none.



Odecious gives us a tour of the formerly prosperous mine, now a place where people scrap for metal to sell.



It is a broke down palace.





Odecious shows us some lakes in the surrounding land. There are still people living in Bong County. Before the war, people lived here then worked at the mine and enjoyed this beautiful countryside.



My ears are ringing. It is deafeningly quiet. I have been so attuned to the sounds of the engine whirring all day, the loud talking of Liberians, and the sounds of traffic that when I meet silence, it overwhelms me. Ester notices this too. We eat our lunch on a small jetty that reaches out into the lake, watching large dragonflies dart around in the air.



Odecious drives down a dirt road in the Land Rover. In Los Angeles, people drive Range Rovers and Land Rovers, but on well paved streets to go fetch their starbucks. Here, the Land Rovers rise up to the challenge and we drive over gravel, rocks, large pools of water and other things that Land Rovers were created to to.



We also visit a local hospital, which I will discuss in a later blog post. On our way back, we drive through the township to buy mangos, coconuts and pineapples. We stop off for a cold one at a local cafe.



As we return to Monrovia, I fall asleep inside the Land Rover, the warm breeze rushing against my sweat drenched clothes. Suddenly, Carol yells, 'My hat!' A man is standing on the side of the tracks, his hand in the air, her hat in his hand. He has been waiting all day for the train to come by. We are unable to stop, but she smiles at him.

Lightning strikes and it begins to rain. We pass through this patch uneventfully. I climb out of the Land Rover to breathe in my reserve of fresh air. The train rushes head long downhill. The speed picks up. I hold on with one hand to the roll bars of the vehicle. And with a smile on my face and the other hand in the air, I wave, and wave, and wave.

Liberia is alive.

Under Kaybo's skin

** Warning. The following post is about my time observing surgery and there are photos that some may find gory and graphic. So if you are on your lunch break and think you can’t hold that ham sandwich in your stomach, I suggest coming back at some other time. But I do hope you come back as this has been one of my best experiences here!**

After a couple slices of bread, some tomatoes and rice, I run down to the Women’s Locker Room to change into scrubs. I wonder to myself why they suggest eating lunch before observing surgery, since I assume some may have trouble holding onto their lunches. I pull the loose blue scrubs over my head and wonder if my lunch will stay in place, especially in the midst of riding out that stomach virus this week.

Right before 1 pm, I tell the OR (operating room) supervisor that I am ready to go. There are three surgeries going on. One involves some bone fusing that has been going on since the morning time and looks like it will take the rest of the day. Lots of blood. Everywhere. Second, a 15-minute surgery that involves removing some tongue that has been stuck to the bottom of the mouth. Third, the removal of a large egg-sized tumor from the carotid area as well as two fat packs from the patient’s arm.

‘Which would you like to see?’ she asks.

Bone fusing, tumor removing, tongue releasing. My lunch is about to give her an answer, but then I say, ‘If possible, may I watch the tongue surgery and then switch over to the tumor?’ I really want to see a surgery from beginning to end, and bone carnage is at the bottom of my list, anyway.

I walk into OR One and see that Dr. Gary has started begun. Only the patient’s mouth is in the open. The rest of the body is draped in aquamarine drop cloth. He has already freed the tongue and is now sewing the sutures. Like a skilled craftsman, and not unlike advanced knitters or embroiderers I’ve seen, his hands are swift, nimble, and very precise. He uses two forceps to sew up the suture. I am unable to see anything, and at this point am unsure if I want to see anything. It is very calm, very quick and as promised, fifteen minutes pass and he is done. The nurse asks me to step outside and wait for the tumor operation in OR Four.

As I am waiting outside, Dr. Gary comes out. I have never heard a bad word spoken against him. Gracious. Capable. Respectable. Those are commonly spoken of Dr. Gary. He is the kind of man who can smile with his eyes (which helps especially when constantly wearing a surgical mask.).

Dr. Gary stops to explain the tumor surgery to me. It is a tumor in the carotid area (neck, underneath the chin) on the left side. He has to be careful in cutting out the tumor because it is close to some nerves essential to blinking, smiling, and other functions he’s sure the patient wants to keep. It will take a while, he says. The patient has also developed two fat packs on her shoulder and forearm which causes her to look very disfigured.

When the patient is fully anesthesized, I am allowed in the room.

On the operating table is a fully grown woman with closely cropped hair. Her small feet poke out from beneath the aquamarine cloths and in passing I notice her chipped toe nails. Her head is turned to her right side and on her left, the tumor, as described by Dr. Gary. It bulges outward. The jaw line ceases at that point as the tumor hills and crests behind her ear.



Dr. Gary draws a line with a marker. This is where he will cut.



He asks Donna, the anesthestist, who this woman is.

‘Her name is Kaybo,’ she says.

Dr. Gary lays his skilled hands on the patient’s head. He says a prayer for her before he begins.

‘Kaybo, did you say?’ I ask. ‘I just selected her yesterday as my patient!’

I saw her name earlier in the week hanging on the poles for our ‘adopt-a-patient’ program and had a feeling about her. She is 49 years old. She will be here from anywhere from four days to two weeks. I had not visited her yet due to my own maladies, but here I was witnessing her surgery.

‘Well, that certainly isn’t a coincidence!’ Donna replies. Suddenly, the surgery took on a newer meaning. Here was someone I had chosen out of so many to take care of during her stay here. And, perhaps, not quite randomly, she was chosen for me ahead of time.

Dr. Gary picks up a scalpel. The first incision is small but decisive. The skin automatically splits and a layer of yellow fat tissue is revealed. There is a little bit of blood, but not much. I listen to the beeping of the heart monitor. Donna monitors her vitals.



Cut, snip, push, tuck. The movements are both gentle and firm. The tumor is revealed and blood begins to drip out. It is lumpy, foreign, and against the rest of the human body which seems to make sense, one can tell that it should have no place in this woman’s body. Yet, this thing has grown to be a part of her body and is nourished by her blood.



I remember what Dr. Gary says about his need for caution around this area of the body. Just then, he takes he finds a nerve and pokes at it. Kaybo’s mouth twitches. He’s found the nerve and it was only 30 minutes into the surgery. With this information he is able to move about faster.





Dr. Gary and his OR nurse, Steffa, proceed to cut, snip, push, and tuck some more. The tumor is coming out. I feel my tear ducts pinch. I’m about to cry. This woman’s life will change for the better without this tumor and I am so happy for her.







Dr. Gary plucks the tumor out and puts it on a cold, stainless steel tray that Debbie, another nurse, is holding.

‘Dinner?’ She jokes. Dr. Gary sews up the sutures in a neat, clean line.



Dr. Gary moves onto the fat packs. When he opens the skin, the fat cluster bursts out. The cluster is the color of flan, or meringue, or the hue of a bridesmaid’s dress for a summer wedding. He pulls it out with a pair of forceps as matter-of-factly as pulling out a ball of hair from the shower drain. He hands it to Steffa and she puts it on the instrument table. I want to poke at it, but decide not to.





After the second fat pocket, Dr. Gary looks over all the sutures he’s closed up. Kaybo’s heartbeat is normal. She’s breathing evenly. He gets up and removes his gloves, his mask, and outer gown. I thank him for the incredible experience, noting how God has made such amazing machines for human bodies. He makes a casual and humble remark about how it is even more amazing that surgeons don’t get in the way of God’s creation.

‘Wow and all before 3.30!’ I say. I mention that I’m still able to go to my practice fire drill, which I am a part of as my role on the reception team.

‘You’re not staying for OR One?’ He is already down the hallway. ‘I’m doing another surgery right now!’ I laugh, but dismiss myself. He’s in charge of one kind of life saving, but these practice fire drills are so that I can help in another kind of life saving, I hope.

As I leave, I pass by OR One. I see the patient lying down on the operating table before he is anesthesized. We make eye contact. He is very afraid.

Don’t worry, I say to him in my mind. You are in good hands.

Bodily functions, bodily excrements

Blood

At 9.30 pm, I'm sitting behind the front desk waiting for the fourteen new arrivals. Fourteen is a big number to embark. I understand the feeling of arriving, feeling dirty, sick, excited, depressed and tired after a long flight. Some people have lost their luggage, some people haven't slept, some people may only have limited English and then some people wonder if they have lost their mind coming to Africa.

The embarkation process involves some paper work, explaining some security measures, overloading them with probably too much information about where they have to be and when and then wrapping that neatly into a precise yet friendly demeanor.

The airport driver is about 30 minutes overdue. I'm in a holding pattern, web surfing, when the blood lab technician rushes up to the reception desk.

"Do you have time now to give some of your blood?" A week into my stay here, I had volunteered to be a blood donor. I have O positive blood, the most common blood type. Just yesterday, they had taken a sample. I didn't expect them to call me so soon.

"When?" I ask.

"Could you come now?" She asks. There is a patient who is losing blood faster than they anticipated.

I'm about to jump over the reception desk counter and start drawing my own blood for her. After all, it is what I came to do, but my supervisor says, "Can this wait? We have fourteen embarkations." What?! I'm surprised at his answer.

The lab tech says. "For thirty minutes to an hour, yes. But no more."

Ok. So at least it isn't life or death so to speak, which was a relief.

The arrivals come. I get flustered because I am embarking fourteen people and trying to train a new coworker and also thinking about the man who is running out of blood downstairs. When it is over, I run down to the lab.

We also find Lisa Marie, another O positive blood donor. We're told we need two units total.



And away I go.



(Oh, I'm wearing my work uniform by the way. I don't go around wearing starched white shirts with naval epaulets on my shoulders all the time.)

And then. It stops. My vein collapses and the flow cuts off. My left arm is always a bit smaller, but they cannot draw from my right, since I only gave the sample yesterday. Lisa Marie is quickly filling up a whole unit. Fortunately, we just got word that they need only one unit and not two.

They draw the needle from my arm. The half filled bag of blood, about two cups, is tossed in the hazardous waste bin. They cannot use it because it has too many coagulants in there, I'm told. I'm sincerely disappointed and hope that they will ask me to do it again.



Sweat

Israel agrees to meet us at the reception desk and take us to try Ghanaian food at 1 p.m. It seems us girls have developed a pattern of adopting a few trustworthy male friends who we – let's face it – bribe in order to escort us to local restaurants. In return, there is a lunch or dinner date for them with six or seven (or more!) fabulous females, and we pay for the meal and gas.

After dodging about four potential accidents, we make a right onto a dirt driveway underneath a Cellcom mobile phone tower. This could be someone's backyard, a church parking log, a restaurant parking lot, or just a plot of dirt. In fact, it is all four things.

The carefully stenciled letters on the low ceilinged, square structure reads "God is King Restaurant." It is dim, there is nothing besides natural lighting for our path, although it is exceptionally dark. Flies swarm about in clusters. There are a group of women standing behind a metal counter with large bowls of stewed meats and sauces in front of them. Israel suggests we sit in the back, though we have to divide up into two tables.

Sweat beads along the small of my back, on my forehead and in my palms. Fans whir in a sluggish hum in the corners, and hot air is being pushed from one part of the room to another, with me in between. There is a gauze-like cotton piece of fabric that hangs in the window. Right after I sit down, the sweat from the undersides of my thighs dampen my shirt. My elbows stick to the plastic place mats, where splatters of chili oil stain my forearms.

Lisa Marie and I are feeling faint from last night's blood letting episode. We focus on tiny things in front of us. Grace, a nurse, looks at me and suggests we move right away and get near a fan.

We order fufu, which is a gelatinous mix of ground cassava root and plaintains. It is drenched in spicy sauce and I cannot take even one bite. We move over quickly to a table that has evacuated. Even with the fan pointed right on top of our heads, I feel like I am breathing in wet, hot air.



As we leave, we see two men roping the four legs of a young goat together in the parking lot. They dig a ditch. Israel tells us its for the blood to drain. They sharpen a long machete on the concrete. And then they strike. Once, twice, three times. The goat's tail wags in circles over and over again. I turn to Ester and say, 'At least you know your lunch was fresh.' She laughs.

Tears

The children at the orphanage put on a show for us Saturday morning. We're allowed to take photos for once, to my delight. The young girls do an elegant dance and sing a song for us. Their voices make me smile, and if their voices don't make you tear up just a bit or your heart more tender, then I don't know what will.



They really have alot of creative initiative. The boys perform a humorous skit.



My favorite little boy grabbed my hand right away after I got there. I found out that he had misspelled his name the first time I met him. It isn't Sovra but Surviva. Here, he imitates carrying water on his head. He's eight, quite mischevious, but also very clever. Before I leave, we draw a picture of a car.



And other things ...

I licked a postage stamp last night. A local postage stamp from Liberia. As soon as I licked it, I felt compunction. Where had it been? What hands had touched it? Even more, what was the glue made of? I didn't think too much of it until I woke up several times during the night, my stomache in knots. I was told by the nurse that I just needed to let it pass. Nothing has passed except for the entire day of stomache cramps during which I've been eating toasted white bread and drinking water and putting on my mother's Chinese vapor rub ointment (which of course I insisted I didn't need at the time). I wish I could vomit or have diarrhea or something. As for now, I pray that I don't keep night vigil, sitting upright with white bread and water as my friend.

Food, friends and floating

Before I left for Liberia, I half-jokingly said that I would be eating beets and cucumbers all the time. This was only half true. There are rarely beets but there are always cucumbers!

On weekdays, the galley (kitchen) staff and dining room staff faithfully serve 400 crew members food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Meals are put out for 90 minutes each time (except breakfast). During meal times, the dining hall brims with chattering voices, the clanging of silverware and cups, as well as the silence of enjoying a meal after a long day.



Monday nights are typically ‘African nights’ which consist of white rice, plantains, some kind of meat thing, and then kidney beans which are mysteriously delicious though I’m not sure what the seasoning is. I’ve been told that I will tire of the plantains eventually, though I think this caveat is going to fall upon deaf ears. Sweet, fried bananas complimented with an African spice draped across warm rice and a flavorful spoonful of beans has been one of my favorite meals here.



Not all nights inspire such enthusiasm. I have on several occasions stood in line, grabbed my utensils and plate, walked up to the hot chafing dishes and then walk away. No complaints, really, when I compare this to the occasions at home sometimes when my own self-prepared meals turn out to be equally uninspiring! During these times, one can always count on the cold foods – cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, beans. And then, of course, the fall back of a peanut butter, Nutella sandwich is always there.



People complain about the food, and I find this silly. They’re entitled to their opinion, of course, but really – we’re sitting here in Africa with plenty of food to spare, someone prepares your own meal, and you don’t have to get in your car, fight the crazy supermarket, and make your food. So, as far as this writer is concerned, there is nothing to complain about. Check out our menu and hopefully, for those of you who have been worried that I am opening a tin can nightly and eating mush in the dark, you will see that we have fun with what we have.





That’s the beauty of our situation here. No, its not home where if/when we want something, we just get it. You just make do. And sometimes, with a bit of creativity and if you want to brave the local street vendor markets, you can even prepare your own food in the Crew Galley that is stocked with about seven cooking stations and many kitchen instruments. Its like Iron Chef! Sort of.



Some eat outside, on deck 7 where some plastic chairs are set out. You can watch the African sunset and hear the spritely chattering of voices coming from the adjoining play area for the children. On these occasions, one must bring your own silverware and plate, because dining room ware should never leave the dining room.



Sometimes I fix an extra plate of food for later when I am on the graveyard shift, as I was earlier this week. Mash taters, bacon, chicken and peas were yummy at 2 AM. From behind the reception counter, I watched the lightning storm and rain have a conversation with each other.



My roommates have a particular aesthetic for fixing up plates of food. Ester and Leena manage to make these appealing arrangements, as if modeling them for Gourmet magazine. Here is one plate, I found on Leena’s desk, and I snuck in a picture of its incidental charm.



Speaking of Leena and Ester, they are best of friends. They met in 2005 during a Mercy Ships training course in South Africa. Leena is South African and Ester is Norwegian. To my delight, because of a human resources mix up, Leena had to move in to my room after my first week here. She is a bit older than me and we found out that we have many things in common. Ester arrived a week later, and moved into our cabin also. I have never seen a warmer welcome for a person. Leena created a little gift basket for her and printed out welcome signs. Ester, upon her arrival with her large camping backpack, unpacked boxes, bags and parcels of gifts of body lotions and chocolate for Leena. The contents of the backpack consisted of about three-fourths worth of gifts and goodies for Leena. The next morning, I woke up and found a little plate of breakfast that Leena created for Ester, waiting on our desk. (Ester and I share a desk). Witnessing this nurturing and care for another person in a friendship was very new and very endearing to me!

Over the last 3 weeks, I’ve been happily included in the mix along with Lydia, another one of our cabin mates. It is not uncommon to find chocolates on my pillow, a snack, or breakfast saved for me by the time I wake up. (You will rarely find me awake for breakfast which is served from 6.30 am – 7.30 am. Sorry-o, I’m sleeping.)

And while this is not to say I don’t have many female friends, that intimacy shared with women is something I haven’t experienced without some hesitancy or apprehension. I’ve been aware of this for years, which is the reason why I consistently put myself in community living situations with other women to challenge myself. And similar to my other roommates, we make an effort to serve each other. Leena is such a person.

The bathroom was in a scary, bad – I mean, bad – shape. Leena takes the whole thing and restores it to a bathroom that is actually do-able and clean! Here she is vacuuming our cabin. (See, I’m amazing, I just marvel at her and take photos!).



And here's Lydia - at the tender age of 19, a mid westerner from Minnesota and team leader for the dining room staff.



It has only been three weeks, but I can really say that Ester, Lydia and Leena have influenced and challenged me. They are very different unto themselves – in age, background, likes and dislikes. Around them I feel very much myself. I fight any urges to note that they are leaving before me (all leaving during summertime). This is teaching me to live in the present where they are right here, right now.

Part of this chemistry, I believe, has been brewed out of the circumstances we are in. Intimacy, friendships and romance are pressure cooked under these situations. For me, I knew I would eventually make friends, but it has taken me by surprise the quality of the friendships. Our conversations go everywhere - floating in shallow waters, sunk down to the depths and emerging again with a girlish giggles.

Speaking of floating, I’ve been attempting to do some of that. Ester is teaching Leena, Elaine and I how to swim! The talk of the ship is the newly installed swimming pool on Deck 8.

As some of you may know – and conclude that it is ironic that I am living on a boat – I am quite scared of the water and have never learned how to swim. To illustrate to you, how scared I am, as I was approaching the pool, my heart began beating faster. I’m not sure why I am so scared, but it involves feeling claustrophobic being under water, a sense that I lack of control when I float, and the perceived suffering I would endure if I were to drown. Yet, here I was, determined.



Leena, Elaine and I all made a pact that we would learn how to swim before Ester left (early July). There was some handshaking and team powwowing involved, which means I’ve made a pact to overcome something major in my life! Here we are - Leena, Ester, myself and Elaine:



In other news, Musu came by yesterday to do post-op for Semean. I was asleep because of my night shift, but happily found that she left some mangoes (plums in Liberia) and plaintains for me... and you know what that means, fried plaintains! ;)

See you later, Musu & Semean

The phone rang at 9.30 am. It was my day off and I was in bed, indulging in the extra sleep while others began their workday at 8 am. The caller rang again, this time I jumped out of bed. I had an instinct that it was about Musu and Semean.

"Musu and Semean are leaving today. Will you come and see them one last time?" Karoline, the nurse, asked.

I got dressed quickly. I didn't expect them to go today of all days. But we are short on hospital beds and as soon as we see a patient has progressed, we have to make room for a new person. Semean's hypospandia had been fixed. His swelling must have gone down, so now it is time for them to go home. I packed my gifts for them in a bag and dashed over to Ward B.

Musu was sitting on the bed, dressed in her best pink 'suit' (African blouse and skirt). I embraced her, my words choked by tears. She was so radiant to me - a mother full of pride, joy and dignity. She packed the last of her belongings in her canvas bag. Semean was watching Veggie Tales on the TV screen, unwilling to get changed. When he finally did, I felt as though he transformed before my eyes. My heart melted even more. Here standing before me in his sneakers and t-shirt was a normal boy. He reminded me of my own nephew, who is almost the same age.



Irene and I walked Musu out, descending the gangway. Irene gave her some sweet treats, which Semean accepted happily. I gave her yarn, some photographs and took her phone number. I know I will see her again. I hope I see her again.

Standing on the side of dusty UN Drive, we tried to hail a taxi cab. This is not an easy feat in Liberia. Taxi cabs do not go wherever you want them to go. They are more like shuttle buses. Some cabs go only this one, some only that. Musu is gesturing in the air, a perpindicular direction to the road, with two small fingers. This means, I want to go north, and only for a short while. It is a language indecipherable to me as of now. A van slows down.

All of us embrace, and she leaves. Before the van door slams shut, I see Semean one last time, he is waving. He is smiling.

Just the beginning

Semean is in bed one. His mother, Musu, sleeps underneath the bed, where there is about a 3 foot clearance. Next to him, is Sonnie, whom I have also befriended, in bed two. Sonnie is 32 years old. She lives in Red Light district (not a red light district but a section of Monrovia named by that name). She had a shriveled hand and forearm. They grafted some skin from her thigh onto her arm and she will be fine. She has a radiant smile, reflective of her kind heart. She is spunky, confident and slightly mischevious. Today, she was discharged from the ward and allowed to go home.



I visited her this morning to say goodbye. When I came in, she was packing her small leopard print bag. Her face was downcast. I sat down next to her and she forced a small smile. The nurse handed her her medications, wrapped some more gauze on her leg, and gave her some curt instructions. She nodded, wordlessly.

“Are you sad to go?” I ask.

She nodded. No more words.

The women who come to our hospital, aside from getting physical healing from their ailments, also receive a sort of simple respite from their daily lives. As with many other places in the world, these women are often the providers, nurturers, teachers, and leaders of their families. They often do not have a husband or mate who can help out. And while Sonnie has not had any potential suitors, due to the deformity of her hand, I know she was enjoying the atmosphere of our hospital. A break away from the mundane, the everyday life of shame she may have felt from her deformity.

“Sonnie, Mercy Ships is not the end of all the good things in your life. It is the beginning of all good things to come. When you leave this boat, you will be starting a new life. God has many good things for you. He will see to that.” I told her.

She nodded, and began to weep. I pulled her to me and she rested her head upon my shoulder. Musu looked on, concerned.

Sonnie’s nurse pulled me aside.

“Is she your ‘adopt-a-patient’?” The nurse asks.

“No, she’s my friend.” I answer.

Sonnie says her goodbyes to everyone in the ward. Several patients get up and walk her to the end of the hall. I open the big heavy door that leads to the rear gangway. I carry her bag for her and we descend onto the dock.

“I leave you now,” she says.

I smile back. “Yes, but you will be in my heart!” She laughs at this.

We walk down the dock, pass the gates. The Nigerian UN guards nod to us. We nod back. Walking out of the gates, we are on a dirt gravel road, heading towards the street. The sun is baking down on the dirt and the heat from the cement radiates into our skin. Dragonflies are darting around. Geckos skitter across the pathway quickly. The barbed wire along the tops of the cement walls look dismal against this beautiful day.

“Michelle. I cry then because what you say is true. You give me good advice,” she says.

“It must not have been me,” I answer.

“It was something from God!” She decides. Yes, must be, I think to myself.

Sonnie and I talk about all sorts of things. She casts glances over her shoulders and looks at the big, white boat getting smaller and smaller.

“I need to pee!” Sonnie declares. She runs to the side of the path, pulls up her skirt, squats and urinates.

She calls her pastor on her cell phone. I can’t hear what he says, but his voice is ecstatic.

We reach the gate that separates the port from the road. The guard opens the gate for her. Monrovia’s smells and sounds flood through the gate.

See you later, we say to one another. She smiles, stretches out her new hand, and hails a cab to go home.

Semean and Musu

This past week, I met Cathrine, an 8 year old who was in our hospital for club foot. Her and her mother had travelled far from up country to have her treated. It was difficult to communicate. In fact, the little girl never said a word to me. Her mother did all the talking, but she spoke in a rural dialect and I needed a translator, word for word. Nonetheless, I got some smiles out of Cathrine, and she knew I was praying for her. I asked her to tie a string around my wrist so that I could have a little reminder to visit her. She did it, happy to be responsible for something.



I was unable to say goodbye before she left so abruptly. However, on the same day we took the photograph above, I met Musu, who was crocheting a maroon table cloth. She made tight, orderly stitches and worked swiftly. I left and returned with my bright pink lace sock that I've been working on. She marvelled at it and asked me to teach her. She watched me closely. She told me she was from nearby, Supermarket, a local neighborhood where Duala Market is.

Duala Market is laid out over a huge expanse - perhaps comprised in the length of six American city blocks - that is crowded with sellers pushing everything from dried fish and meat to colorful fabrics to cell phones perched on a trash dump. It is one of the most unsanitary places I've ever been in. Musu is a vendor herself. She buys fish from Duala and then walks some ways away and sells it elsewhere.

I ask her if her child is here. She says yes.

"There he go! Semean!!"

A boy of seven turns his head. When he sees me, he smiles, shy a bit mischievous. He is playing with Cathrine and Masa, blowing bubbles and trying to catch them. Masa has stickers covering her face. She is very domineering and all the nurses are amused at her.



I ask her what kind of operation he has had. Musu points to her lap. I catch the words "pee pee" "pain" "he get the operation there." I'm nodding. There is alot of nodding between the Shippers and the Liberians when you only understand 60 per cent of one another on a good day.

"I show you Semean?"

Sure, of course, I want to meet your son! I say.

Semean responds to Musu's call. He runs over and she says something to him in their dialect. Before I can realize it, he pulls up his gown and shows me his affliction. He has a huge pustule, or a tumor, maybe the size of a golfball. It is very pink and shiny. I would've tried to get a closer look, but the affliction is right on his penis. It is sad, and I look away so that Semean can drop his gown. He is never for a moment ashamed, but keeps his smile on his face. His mother says that he is in pain and that urinating is very difficult for him. Her face drops and I put my arm around her to comfort her. She puts her head on my shoulder.

We knit together and she begins doing the knit stitch on my sock:



Tonight, I spent about five hours after work with her in the Ward, knitting and teaching her how to knit lace. I chatted with her and another female patient, Sonnie, about America, Liberia, life in the ward. Their relatives came by and visited them and I got to meet Musu's sisters and her brother in law. At one point, conversation turned to me, and I shared with them all about my mother and how she got through the time of my father's death because of her faith and her trust in Him. When I finished, Musu looked confidently into my eyes and said, "God alway make a way. You think there is no way, he alway make way." She told me about how she struggled with Semean and this affliction he's had since birth, but how coming to the ship has really been a huge blessing. Both of us teared up, and we squeezed each other's hands.

We continue knitting. Another crew member, Irene, drops by to say hi to Semean. Irene asks me if Musu knew how to knit before this stay and I say yes. Musu says, "No! You teach me." I disagree, I said, "Of course you knew. You did it so fast!" She shakes her head, insistent that she never knew. I was blown away! I have taught countless people how to knit and it has taken more than just observing to pick it up. Yet, she picked it up by just watching me. I teach her how to cast on the stitches next. My mom taught me sort of a rare, tricky way to do it. Musu watches once and does it perfectly. That has never happened to me where I show somebody this technique once and they catch on immediately. I am in awe of her and tell her so. She laughs and laughs. I ask her, "Are you proud of yourself?!" She smiles, ear to ear, and says, "Yes. I am." Good, I say, good. She is so brilliant and I am humbled that I get the privilege of her company.

Before I get up to go, she hands me a black plastic bag. Inside are three plaintains and two mangos. I walk down the hall, pass the heavy metal doors, and I am back in my cabin, in a different world, and I cannot stop thinking about my new Liberian friends.