Black

It is time for Comfort and Christian to leave. As we go, Comfort forms tears in her eyes. She hugs her new friends and packs her bag away neatly. I watch her stuff all her belongings away. She saves a deflated balloon for her 3 year old girl at home. She's ecstatic when I give her a brand new one.

I walk her up the main path and off the ship. I put Christian on the tricycle and carry him to the gate, his mother at our side. The sun beats down on us. Christian's eyes are lazy as usual. Mercy Ships gave him sight last year through the removal of his cataracts. This year, they fixed a fistula in his nose. He is healing quickly. Though he is deaf and dumb, you can tell he is ecstatic to walk out in the open, to not wear a hospital gown, and to be a little boy.

I give Comfort a ball of yarn, some more needles, some candy and a belt of Leena's that I thought was really her style. She loved everything.

'Thank you, Gorpue,' she said, breathlessly.

'You are welcome,' I respond. 'Thank you!'

'Thank you,' she said. 'You have come down to my level.'

I stop pedalling and think for a moment. 'What are you saying, Comfort?'

'Thank you for coming down to my level. You have to come down to my level because I am black.'

Comfort

There are some days I really could care less. This is true.

And yesterday, I just wanted to be sitting in ignorant bliss again. Days when I would read about something terrible in the news, feel the pain of it in my heart, and then the next day, let it roll right off the glossy sheen of pretend concern that we sometimes form over our recited prayers for the world. Nowadays, when I go to bed, I think about the wide, great gap that separates the patients from myself.

I am speaking of the material. The physical, the tangible, the economics of it all. That great wide gap.

We had a pastor's conference here a week ago. As I watched the local pastor's leave the ship donning their finest threads, I heard them chuckle and joke, saying, "Goodbye America, now we are in Liberia again!" In the modest furnishings of our hospital ship, they see the reflection of wealth that the Western world offers.

And in our hospitals, the patients don't understand vital sign machines, the medicines that taste bad or how a person can be opened up, sewn and then recover again.

And when I show a book to an adult patient, the story of Dick and Jane, or a children's Bible, or a story book, they look at me blankly. I think about how my 7 year old nephew is learning how to read and how it will never be a question for him whether or not he will have an education. He will. He just will.

And I am speaking of the spiritual. That great wide gap.

I am talking about a day during which I couldn't care less, and because I couldn't care less, I have to lean into the void of love that is in my heart. In my heart that wishes, I could be numb with pleasure, the things of the world, the happy husband, the happy children, the successful career, the struggle free, sick-free life. With a kind of nice, rustic fence around the house, please. The pretend thing that we all strive for that you will never have. And if you do, then you just want something else. And I walk that 50 feet down the lime green hallway because it is the right thing to do. And it is there that I see Comfort, mother of 10 year old Christian, born deaf and blind.

Comfort is learning how to knit. She is focused. She is proud of her farm. She grows cassava, limes, grapefruit, butter pears (avocados), plums (mangos), and much much more. She wants to make enough money to move to the city. She wants to come back to see me in September before I leave. She gives me a name in her local dialect, Kpelle. She calls me Gorpue. It means "one who shares." She loves Christian, her "pride and joy." She disciplines him, hugs him. He laughs, though he cannot hear his own sweet laughter. He sees now because of a Mercy Ships operation last year. He cannot hear, but he knows a loving touch.

Tonight, the ward is quiet and I am tired. I sit down next to Comfort and tell her just that. She calls me her knitting master. I smile. She begins to sing gospel songs, looking deep into my eyes. Her eyes are brown, like a brown bowl filled with water. She has a slight pink blush against her dark skin. Her hair is braided into a onion sprout pony tail at the top of her head. She sings to me, a song about Jesus and my heart begins filling up. Slowly, slowly. I get up and start dancing, moving around. I can't do African dancing, but its close to it, and the other ladies laugh and clap. She continues to sing, this time in Kpelle. I join her and somehow I know the words, and I think it is because we know the same God.

That spiritual gap begins to closes and I see before me some of the richest people in the world.

Fire

“My name Andrew!”

There is a lot of background noise. It is difficult to hear him clearly.

“Andrew?” I ask. His voice seems a bit familiar.

“Yah, Andrew! Mah hah! It burn! It on fire!”

Something is burning.

He continues, “I play the drums for the church.”

An image of a sturdy, tall, albino Liberian man working feverishly at the drums every Sunday. I know this man. I see him in the hospital ward pulling a beat out of the air, weaving a heartbeat into the songs we sing during the services for the patients.

A moment of recognition. “Andrew! Yes, I know you! You are not coming on Sunday? You telling me that?”

“No! I come on Sunday. I call to say my house burning!”

Andrew’s house burned down that night because of an open flame. All of his belongings are gone. He is a former Mercy Ships patient. He was calling for one of the nurses, his friends.

That following Sunday, Andrew plays the drums as promised. His has still been reduced to ashes, but he is still playing with the same passion. The very hands that Mercy Ships operated on slap against the hide and sound bounces off the metal walls of our ship, the paper butterflies hanging by yarn from the ceiling, rattling in our rib cages. Henrietta begins to sing. Her voice is pure, untrained, and her words come from a deep place of experience, and love for God.

Across the room, a woman, the mother of a two-year-old patient, begins to flail in her bed. Her arms and legs fly into the air. She is like a rag doll, under someone else’s control. A doctor tries to subdue her and a nurse takes away the toddler who has begun to cry uncontrollably. The Africans continue singing, clapping and praising God. The mother’s hips jut into the air, her body totally limber. Several African woman place hands on her and begun muttering something under their breath. She stands to her feet and lifts her arms high into the air. A hospital worker holds her by the waist. The mother’s eyes are closed, she is not singing to the song, but she is enraptured.

After a few minutes, she sits back down on her bed. She looks around, breastfeeds her baby and claps to the rhythm of her song. She has no idea what happened. Linda, the ward counselor, asks her later if she is okay. The mother does not have a single memory of what just happened.

After the service, I offer my help and condolences to Andrew. His house is gone he says. It went up in flames. I’m sorry, I tell him. He knows he has friends here and as he leaves, I am glad that he is our friend too. Linda says it is acceptable to help him financially, so I do. As I walk away from her, I turn back and ask, “What happened to that mother?”

“She baptized by the Holy Ghost Fire.” Linda smiled. “She delivered.”

Fire. The destroying kind. The saving kind. The fire that spreads. The fire that is unforgettable, that is unquenchable. The purifying fire that shows us what we are made out of.

Sowing seeds

‘Legotodamahket!’ Odel said.

Huh?

‘Legotodamahket!

During our knitting lesson, I had asked Odel to teach me some Liberian English. There are days were I seriously have no clue if it is English they are speaking or not. But then again, I’m sure they feel the same way about me.

‘Oh, let’s go the market!’ I responded. All my knitting ‘students’ laughed and clapped.

‘My freh! Howdabody?’ I asked. My friend, how’s the body? Where I come from if you go up to someone and ask ‘how the body?’, someone calls it sexual harassment. Here, it means ‘how are you?’

Odel smiled and responded ‘Body strong!’

Odel is here with her fourteen year old daughter, Thelma, who had a cleft lip repaired. They live in Sinkor, a less poor part of town, near the city hall and a popular restaurant named Golden Beach. Incidentally, I was just there this past week and had walked right by her apartment. I know this, because when I asked if there are two small monkeys chained to a tree right outside, she said, yes. While this is Africa, the monkeys-as-pets-living-in-the-city thing is not a common factor, so I know we’re talking about the same place.

Felicia and Joanna have begun to teach others how to knit, or in Liberian terms, ‘mik da dolly’ – make the doily. Making the doily in ward B right now consists of a simple garter stitch sewn up the sides to create a small cell phone holder or purse. Yesterday, they were all gathered around Debeh (mother of 7 year old Martineh, who had cleft lip surgery). Debeh was very reluctant to learn. When I asked if she wanted to try, she pursed her lips and shook her head, ‘no.’ After a few moments, she said, ‘I try.’ She continued to make mistakes and had a very tough time understanding how to knit. She gave up.

‘The first time, I wanted to give up. Michelle said that I will do it and I did!’ Joanna declared. She turned to me, smiling and said, ‘You said I would do it, and I did it.’ Joanna has completed three projects and is on her fourth.

Debeh picked up her needles again. Today, she had about 5 inches of a knitted piece in her hands. I gave her a hug, holding her work up, and asked her if she was proud of herself. She didn’t say so much, but there was a glimmer of happiness in her eyes.

Over the course of the last two months, I have taught eight women how to ‘make the doily.’ I encourage every single little thing they do in the right direction. The celebration and pride that comes out of these moments vary from a tiny smile (Debeh) to jumping out of the bed and clapping (Felicia, Dehne). It doesn’t matter if they make one stitch or finish an entire project. The beauty of seeing someone fight against their own hopelessness is a powerful and real thing. And while it is nice that they acquire a practical and creative skill that could change what they sell for money, it is priceless that they know that they are talented individuals.

We are created in the image of God. We all possess an aspect of a great Creator - the one who created everything from the simplest blue sky to the most intricate and dynamic systems, the human body. I try to illustrate this truth to them each time we sit down. If they acquire a simple skill, it is only a small success that may fade with interest. But when we understand our own potential, our appetites are whetted. Then we dare to desire, to want, to risk disappointment, even. When we encounter the germ of God that was planted within us, hope is born. Without that encounter, there is no reason to expect anything good and all we have is fear of the unknown.

Dehne left last week with 8-year-old Musa. It was the first time I saw the little boy grin from ear to ear. His face was disfigured in a car crash in 2006. He left with a new smile.





Felicia’s wound is getting better and better. She will leave soon as well as well. Today, her dressing was taken off and I finally saw her entire face for the first time. Her darling baby, Rosetta, is the object of affection for everyone who passes by. We sat outside the hospital room for a while today and had a chat.





She was shocked that I am thirty years old. She is twenty-three. I told her that I have no baby and no husband. I think she felt very sorry for me. I smiled, and said that because I have neither I am able to be in Liberia and to meet her, to sit there that very moment and be her friend.

‘Maybe I will be married one day,’ I said. It is one of those passing comments a person makes when they are not sure if happiness is in store of them. Perhaps afraid of something good, wanting to desire, to risk disappointment.

Through her buck teeth, that shy smile, she looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Do not say maybe. You will. With God, all things are possible.’

Right there, a germ of hope. Planted. A bit of fear removed.

Tonight, we ate an all-American meal of pork chops, beans and fries tonight outside on the dock and celebrated our one year anniversary of operating the Africa Mercy. Though it rained during the afternoon, the clouds pulled back and a lovely sunset appeared.



A year ago, there was a torch-passing ceremony that signified the end of an era for the former ship, the Anastasis. While docked on the opposite side, all the crew members formed a line and passed a lit torch to the Africa Mercy. The torch is made out of wood from the Caribbean Mercy and parts from the Anastasis, two ships from our fleet of yesteryear.

The Anastasis was retired last year after having served for three decades. Former crew members will fondly recall times when the screws were literally coming out of the walls, when cockroaches were abundant and when bonding time came over a bucket chain lined up down the corridors as water leaked in. If this sounds cozy, the lack of air conditioning while sailing around Africa made it nice and toasty.

Since 1978, the Anastasis performed more than 1,000,000 services, at a total value today of some $330 million with an estimated 1.5 million people as direct beneficiaries. She’s now in a bunch of different places and pieces, perhaps scheduled to appear in a stainless steel saucepan near you.

To the left, the Ana, and to the right, her successor the Africa Mercy.



Festivities tonight included the aforementioned dinner and then some random hi jinks involving potato sacks, goggles, and bread slices on spatulas to be relayed back and forth as a race. Over time, I’m finding that we get more and more creative with whatever little and much we have on the ship. This provides for endless hours of entertainment a person may never have if they had everything at their disposal. For example, I found that the children’s tricycles give me a good work out especially with a good friend in tow. (The knees are showing. Scandalous, I know.)



'Making do with what we have' also means you end up sharing clothing, like we did a few nights ago when invited to the home of Leena’s Indian friend, hence the Indian blouses.



They own a stationery store and live right above it. They are definitely wealthy compared to the other locals nearby. Satellite TV offers them not one, but three stations of Bollywood programs. Much singing, leaping through fields and deep gazing into star crossed lover’s eyes abounded during these movies which we watched in the background.

This family has a four year old son, Shivvy, who was nominated ‘most affectionate’ in his preschool. His father proudly showed us the certificate. Since I met him a few days ago, I think I’ve marveled to at least ten people how tall he is! Check out this irresistible face and note also his height compared to the door handle. Tall, right?





A lovely family indeed, and probably the first time I’ve ever visited someone’s home for the first time and then left with a wristwatch!

Are you hot or cold climate?

‘I wish there was some more coffee cake left,’ Jessica, a crew member, mused, looking around.

Ester handed Jessica her plate. ‘Take some of mine!’

‘Oh no, thank you,’ Jessica responded.

‘Oh, there’s the pan right there,’ I observed. ‘I think there’s a few more pieces left!’

‘Nice!’ Jessica headed towards the cake and grabbed a piece for herself.

Ester chuckled under her breath. ‘She’s so hot climate!’

So, are you hot or cold climate?

On board, we have about 30 different countries represented. You can imagine how one thing said or done can be interpreted in many different ways.

During staff training, we had a presentation on the popular cultural handbook Foreign to Familiar by Sarah A. Lanier. She’s been a speaker on cultural exchanges who has lived in several places, and is conversant in five different languages. Now and then, you’ll hear a Mercy Shipper saying that someone is ‘hot climate’ or ‘cold climate’ and my favorite, ‘warm climate’, which, I guess, is somewhere in the middle.

The word ‘climate’ is literal and refers to the temperature of certain countries. For example, people from England would be cold climate. A friend from Brasil would be hot climate. The Brazilian might invite the English friend for a meal at 6 pm. The English friend may arrive right at 6 pm, perhaps earlier. At this point, the Brazilian is still cutting up vegetables, the children are unfed, and the host may not even be present. When the meal starts, it is 7:30 pm or even 8 pm. A bit frustrating, might you say, for the English person? Yet, these are simply the cultural differences of cold and hot climate cultures. Similarly frustrating would it be for the Brazilian to arrive to the English person’s house for dinner at 6 pm. The Brazilian gets there at 6.30 pm to find that the meal has already progressed. How frustrating it would be to see that dinner has already started! These are vast generations that Lanier makes and there are always exceptions. However, I have found it well observed, true to most cases and helpful especially in the African hot climate culture.

I will not go into the entire book, but the times I’ve seen hot /cold climate discrepancies best reflected in the following areas:

Relationship Versus Task Oriented
Direct Verus Indirect Communication
Individualism Versus Group Identity
Inclusion Versus Privacy
Different Concepts of Hospitality
Different Concepts of Time and Planning

During my shift last week, I watched Fritz (Swiss) pacing back and forth around my desk in the reception area. It was 6 pm. He turned to me and said, ‘Have you seen the tailor? I was to meet him here at 6!’ I looked at the clock. It was 6.05 pm.

‘Is this the African tailor you’re looking for?’ I asked. Yes, he asid. I smile and responded, ‘He’ll be here at 6.30 pm.’ At 6.45 pm, Musa, the tailor, arrived. No apologies, no after thought about his timing. In his mind, 6 is six-ish, even if it is almost seven.

Lanier observes that cold climate cultures organize their day by time and by schedules. Hot climate cultures will organize their day according to the event. Things are scheduled in progression or succession around this event.

During my first week here, I went up to the IS (Information Services) department to service my computer. Before I opened the door, someone else opened it from the inside. I did not step in right away. The IS worker inside looked at me and said brusquely, ‘Are you coming in or out?’ His direct communication threw me off guard and thought it rather rude. Now that I know him better, I know he is not a rude person, but he is German and from a cold climate. He was simply asking me a direct question. Are you in or out? And I was being hot climate. I don’t know too many Asians who will step into someone’s room without asking at least.

This directness can lead to many cultural discrepancies. Growing up, if I was visiting someone’s house with my parents as a child, the host may ask me if I wanted something to drink or eat. Never mind that I was either parched or craving the sweets or savories being offered, I was taught to say, ‘No, thank you.’ However, if I was asked several times, it would be impolite to keep refusing. Then there is the dilemma of me truly not wanting something being offered. Trust me, I was really saying ‘no’ during those times when the candy was a bit dodgy looking.

According to Lanier, many hot climate cultures use indirect communication. Many times I have seen my Chinese elders refuse gifts and acts of service. It is not that the hot climate person does not want the gift or act of service, but it would be impolite to accept right away. You may find this problematic, maybe even dishonest, but what is even more problematic is a hot climate person coming in contact with cold climate. Then the weather system becomes a bit crazy!

Cold climate people – such as the Dutchies on board – will have no problem speaking their mind. If they voice an opinion, it has nothing to do with you as a person (well, unless it’s a personal remark, I suppose!), and it should not, for the most part, be taken personally. If someone disagrees with my opinion, my first reflex is to validate that their opinion may be plausible, and ultimately be fair. I am subtly reaffirming – if only to me – the ‘intactness’ of the relationship and not the issue at hand. This, however, translated to the cold climate person might appear wishy-washy on my part or not direct enough.

In the area of my personal time and privacy, I am cold climate. Maybe not frigid, but cold at least ‘in-the-freezer-door’ type cold. I will not do things spontaneously and most likely, have already planned my day by the time I’ve woken up. My friends on board tease me for this. However, I wonder if at times, I come across not valuing our relationship when they ask me to join them and I say, ‘No’ because I already have plans. This could not be less true, because I value my relationships very much. However, for me to have a (perceived?) sense of order and priority in my life, I have a general or specific plan for the day already. It keeps me focused, my priorities aligned and just simply, going.

Even within the US, we can categorize people as cold or hot climate. Southern hospitality may mean you can show up at any time at one’s house, but the New York minute means you must be on time.

Speaking of hospitality, my Nepalese friends, the security guards here, were also in the presentation on hot/climate cultures. They are still learning English and so I explained the lecture to them through examples.

I said to the security guards, ‘If I wanted to come to your house, should I make an appointment to come?’ They laughed out loud. Making an appointment would be absurd. You just come over. Hot climate!

Sharing and group mentality is huge in hot climate cultures. Because we knew that the Nepalese guards struggle with the Western flavors on board, Leena cooked them a nice Indian meal. The ingredients and flavors are similar. The act of preparing a meal is something hot climate cultures relate to. I knew these ‘hot climate’ men were eager to eat when they showed up ten minutes early!



But then again, who wouldn't show up for home made chapati's?

For a better tomorrow

There was a request for monetary donations to the ward for knitting supplies, crochet supplies and craft supplies last week during our community meeting. If you cannot imagine being ‘trapped’ on a ship full time docked in a third world country, imagine being a patient, in a hospital bed, where you may be unable to move around all together due to your condition. The desire for activity, socializing and learning runs deep. Concurrent with the request for supplies for ward activities, I was honored this week when I was told by ward supervisors that I could freely come to the ward to teach knitting whenever I liked.

I went first to see Joanna and then came the flood. Flood of interest, that is.

First there was Joanna, then Dehne, mother of 8 yr old Musa (boy) who received an operation, then came Felicia, whom I met during my first week, and then now Lucy, a Nigerian day worker whom I befriended. None of them knew how to knit. All of them know how to crochet. In fact, only Lucy knew what knitting was. The three others had never seen it done. This was very surprising to me. (My far fetched theory of why they know how to crochet is that since Western Africa was mainly colonized by the French, and crocheting – though not solely French – has some heavy cultivation in France. Somebody want to weigh in?)

Dehne sells mangos, coconuts and plaintains for a living. She has 4 boys. Musa is her youngest, and in 2006, he was in a bad car accident which left a deformity in his right jaw. He is the only child in the ward right now, and I can tell he is very lonely.

Felicia has noma. Noma is a gangrenous, acute infection in the face, common in African nations. It is extremely rapid, due to the hospitable environment of mucous membranes in the mouth.

There are now four ladies knitting in the ward! I was told by one of the nurses that they were up late at night, knitting by the dimmed lights while others slept. I’m known as the ‘little girl’ who comes and teaches. We’re making little knitted clutches (that’s purses, for you men folk), lined with fabric that I foraged from deck 2. A fancy button will hold it shut. Dehne, especially, is excited to learn this so that she can sell knitted items for money.

Because yarn and needles are hard to come by, I cut up some fabric, which is ‘plenty plenty’ (Liberian English) in this country. Felicia gives it a go.





Time drains away in the ward and I can easily spend 2 or 3 hours there at a time without realizing it. I have gotten use to the smells of strong body odor, medicine and bodily fluids. The language barrier is still difficult at times, but it is quite amusing that when I use my Liberian accent, they actually understand me better.

Though I teach them, I feel like I have been at their beck and call. I don’t mind this, but today it rose to near boiling point. I had barely had any time for myself in the last week or so. The last four days especially have very busy during work and off work. I had not left the ship in a week and a walk was desperately needed. Tonight in the ward, Joanna realizes that I had been sitting near Dehne and not with her. She is frustrated and raises her voice with me in front of everyone, asking why I didn’t get her crochet hook as I said I would. I firmly tell her that I cannot get everything she wants right away and that she must wait until tomorrow. Her discontentment hangs on the grimace on her face, and there is slight eye rolling involved. She asks me what I think of her clutch. I tell her it is beautiful and help her fix it a bit.

I need a needle, she says without looking up. I tell her I’ll go get her a new one.

As I get up, I slip on a spot of water and fall hard to my knees. I get up right away, despite the gasps of the nurses. I rush down the corridor, agitated. Slipping made me feel foolish, that little thing that breaks the camels back. Almost.

When I return, I give the needle to Joanna. She says, ‘Thank you.’ There is magic in those two words. Without them, returning tomorrow will be much harder, though I would do it. Gratitude is a luxury anyway when one has decided they will be in servitude of someone else’s purpose and life. Their interests become your primary interests and their wellness comes before yours.

Afterwards, I took a jog and watched the sunset. The wind cooled the sweat off my skin. I thought about my ladies in the ward. They were so thrilled at their first brush with success. Dehne buried her face her hand, giggling, when she was able to knit her first row. Felicia’s crooked smile lifted one corner, when she saw that she could do it as well. And Joanna, though it was hard for her, learned a left handed knitting method, which I taught her due to her skin grafts on her right arm.

Two days ago, Musa prodded for Dehne’s attention, and was kicking her a bit while he laid on the bed and she sat at the edge. Dehne was focused on her knitting. She turned to him, asked him to stop and said, ‘Musa, I learning. I learning for a better tomorrow.’

And that is why I will go back tomorrow, as well.