It has been over a year since I was in Africa, over a year since I awoke to the din of a thousand chickens and barking dogs, all awake long before the sunrise. I feel compelled to begin writing again so that I can better understand where I am and where I am going. I feel compelled to share with you what is going on in my life so that you might know how you can best join with me in prayer and also reasons for thanksgiving. I hope that you'll share your stories with me and with others in your life. By sharing, we understand each other better. By sharing, we understand ourselves better. With greater understanding, we might just discover that we are more alike than we are different, and there just might be peace in our time.
Uncertainty. It is a word that accurately sums up just about everything that has happened since Africa. I returned from Africa uncertain of what was next, and uncertainty certainly didn't disappoint. I don't plan on writing endlessly about what has been, I never did like prequels, no, instead I will start with right now as "day one." Suffice it to say I came home, remained unemployed for a very long time, got to know my family again, got to know my church family, rediscovered friendships and found in myself a renewed sense of purpose and direction. I thought I had grown a lot in Africa, I had no way of knowing then how much growing I would have to do in the first twelve months of being back in the States. Today is "day one," so today I want to spend a little time talking about religion and the "end of the world."
I recently had the very lucky privilege of reading a short paper on religion authored by one of my closest friends as part of a participation assignment for a collegiate "Intro to Religion" course. As I read how religion and its role was intermittent and impotent until faith was born of a personal relationship with Christ Jesus, I realized that this story was common to most, if not all of us at some point in our lives. As I finished reading, I felt moved to share my story, the story of how I came to discover a living, breathing faith, and one that is my constant companion and source of encouragement and comfort. It is with the greatest respect for my friend and out of a place of inspiration that I tell a little bit about what religion has meant to me in my life.
"I have always been interested in religion." There is no truth more true than that. I am both the son and the grandson of Southern Baptist ministers. Despite this extraordinary pedigree, I would be remiss if I did not own up to a rather ordinary childhood with one exception, I was nearly always "about the Lord's business" or at least accompanying the one who was, my dad. Despite the adamant protestations of countless self-ascribed "experts," I seem to be able to remember pretty far back, even as far back as being about two or three years old. That would put me back where it all began, in the rural backwater of a rural town called Dearing, in rural McDuffie County, deep in the Deep South.
I am a Christian. I have always been a Christian. I am a Christian because I believe in the transforming and saving power of Jesus Christ, for whom my religion, Christianity, gets its name. If you know anything about Christianity, I should tell you that it is singularly the most persecuted belief that is also the most tolerant of being persecuted, with a few notable exceptions, something about "crusades," but that's a conversation for another time. Of the Christian religion, Evangelical Christians believe God has commanded each and every Christian to share the good news of Jesus Christ to everyone; saving yourself is not enough and sharing the good news is not solely the job of ministers. Of Evangelical Christians, Southern Baptists are the most active in missions worldwide. While other denominations, or branches of Christianity have sought to update their mission and vision statements to better align themselves with the ever changing popular culture, Southern Baptists have consistently sought to go back to the Bible about every topic that popular culture has raised. I was born into a Southern Baptist family. This is my story.
At a very early age I remember being in the church. A Christian comedian once said, "If the janitor was going to be there cleaning the windows, our family would fill a pew and watch him do it." That would be a pretty accurate picture of my childhood. What's important to note is that proximity to church does not magically imbue a child with Godly behavior. I loved God. I loved Jesus. I went in front of my church to share that I loved Jesus and was later baptized. For years, I went to church with my family. For years, I was either in school or in church. I was just being me though. I was shaped more by friends than by the teachings of the Bible. Eventually, as my teenage life became busier and busier with extra-curricular activities, I found excuses for not going to church. Like many of you, I hardly ever found a reason to read my Bible outside of church, so when I stopped going to church, what little role religion had played in my life was snuffed out. The negative results would only be best seen and understood years later, looking back.
Like the harsh world around me, I became harsh. I became critical, judgemental, arrogant and insensitive and perhaps in some ways cruel. I'd go back to church now and again, but it was always intermittent and non-committal. I never lost my faith or lost sight of what I believed, but it was like a well-read book that I had resigned to a shelf. I knew its contents and I knew where I had put it. As I left my teenage years behind and entered my twenties, work schedule pretty much excluded church attendance and if that sounds like an excuse, it should come as no surprise.
Eventually, I found myself working for the 911 Center. Every shift, I heard the panic and the fear of people in trauma, people experiencing life-changing events. I remember a man, I don't even remember why he called, but I remember that after his emergency was being taken care of, before disconnecting, he asked if he could say a prayer with me. His prayer of thanks for all of us in civil service, his prayer for blessings on each of our lives deeply moved me and capped of a full spectrum of emotion I had experienced at 911. I began to feel in my heart a hunger for knowledge about God. I also needed to feel good about myself, good about the person I was, about the man I had become. I was all too aware of poor choices I had made, people I had hurt and worse still, the damage I had done to my own witness to others that knew I held myself up as a Christian.
I learned that nobody will have a personal relationship with Christ Jesus until they realize that they actually do need Christ Jesus. Well, when will you realize that you need Him? Is it an easy choice? Do you need no convincing? Some people have to reach rock bottom. Some people have to get to a place where they finally realize, unmistakably that they need Jesus. I believed in Jesus. I had been baptized and I was sincere in my public confession of faith, but I had wandered far, far away from the sweet, gentle boy that had been baptized. I accepted an opportunity to go to Africa. It was something that was unmistakably the work of God. I've already shared about the details of how things fell into place and made way where there was no way for me to go. I committed. I went. While I was there, I had only myself and my faith. I found that still, small flickering flame of belief within me - and out of necessity - out of desperation - I asked God what I could do to survive what had quickly become one of the most challenging experiences of my life. Out of that moment of crisis and discovery, I began a new chapter of my life. A chapter I like to call "Out of Nowhere."
The beauty of my faith amazes me and sustains me. What's more, as I got myself into a right relationship, a healthy relationship with Jesus Christ, I found that God was moving mountains on my behalf and was moving amazing blessings into my life. I have experienced a renewed relationship with my family, my church and I have been blessed to share my journey with one of my absolute best friends - the same friend whose World Religions paper inspired me to write this blog today. As I look forward, I am embarking on the best time of my life; a career in law enforcement, getting my own house (not yet, someday sooner than later I hope) and, God willing, having a family of my own. My family will be a Christian family, but not because of tradition. My family will be a Christian family because I will make sure my family knows how being a Christian changed my life, how being a Christian saved my life, how being a Christian took my life and gave it back to me, more wonderful and more blessed than I could have ever imagined.
This has been my story but it's also your story. I hope you'll find your story in my story and I hope it inspires you, just as I was inspired when I found my story in the story of my friend.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
No one has ever seen a whiteman pound fufu...
My dear friends, your humble missionary to Africa has now 9 weeks and just a few days left before the return to the once familiar, now only remembered smells, sights, sounds and faces of what remains in my heart as my true home. I have been to many towns and villages in Ghana since I made my last blog entry. I have met many, many people. My experiences have been sundry and myriad. I wish I knew where to begin or at least how to keep this entry from being too much at one time. I will do my best to keep this entry short and to the point, sharing but the highlights of what has been a most amazing four months.
I have a gastronomical stalker. I am pursued relentlessly by my nemesis. My enemy seems to never tire, never sleep nor ever turn away. My enemy show up when I least expect him and always when I have just begun to relax my guard thinking he is gone at last. Bane! Bane! Thy name is "sugary, black-pepper spicy, Elmer's glue consistency, grey porridge!" **shakes fist at the air** Everywhere I go it seems to be found and never randomly, no, people say, "Kwame, we got this for you!" as if someone is spreading some foul rumor that I love the grey death porridge. I very nearly weep openly when I eat it, I won't lie. It is the absolute outermost edge of what my willpower can overcome and it would seem it is well beyond the realm of what my Korean-American sensibilities of palate can take. I've actually seen the spoonful in my hand shake as I draw my hand to my lips by sheer force of will against better judgement. The bowl is always so large and so deep. Spoonful after spoonful and the bowl never empties. The spicy, sweet, grey death porridge runneth over and mocks me. There is no way to describe its flavor to you - it tastes like...well...itself and nothing else.
I went to Asanti-Bekwai region. I had met a man named Kwesi at Legon Campus where I used to meet my language coach. The man lives in Asante-Bekwai and invited me to be part of a crusade he was organizing in two small sister villages of Chechewere and Batinko that were remote and in what we loosely refer to in Africa as "the bush." I was, of course, thrilled to no end by this offer and following approval of my host church, I went and stayed with Kwesi for a week and a half. There are pictures on my FaceBook page and I will try to get some new pictures uploaded here within the weekend. I spoke on three of the five nights of the crusade in a village with no running water, no electricity whatsoever and no cars. The houses were mud huts with grass thatched roofs. The villages were made up of the elderly and the very young, the middle age having left the village life for the city, usually never to return. This is similar to the flight that occurred in America from the farmlands to the cities.
While in Asante-Bekwai I shared a one room house that was about 75 ft x 35 ft with two other men. It included a small gas burner hooked up to a propane tank, a large trashcan that held our water supply, a small fridge to keep some foodstuffs preserved, a single bed and a bathroom that was about 8 ft x 3 ft and was the only room with walls. The rest of the house was divided up by curtains hanging from the ceiling. Our only mode of transport was either by foot or a harrowing ride on the back of Kwesi's dirtbike. I told my mom on the phone one day, "Don't tell my mom but there aren't any helmets!" I always felt like some crusader on the back of that bike, racing off to some village here or there to try and tell people about the love of God before it was "too late." By the end of the crusade, a dozen people had made professions of faith. I spoke what little Twi I was able to and the villages were in an uproar of excitement. Few had ever seen a whiteman, none had ever heard a white speak Twi. I met with the two chiefs and they had agreed that the primary physical need of the two villages was to have a five classroom school built, since the young children had to walk 5 km each way, along a buy highway at dawn and dusk to get to school in Asante-Bekwai proper. They also need a village restroom, since there is no sewage system and no indoor plumbing. The entire village goes to a remote spot in the bush, where the user must balance on a few poorly cut scraps of wood and tin above a shallow pit. As the chiefs showed me the place, a boy no older than six or seven was precariously balancing over the pit. Can you imagine being comfortable if your child was doing this? It's incredible, but this is what most West Africans live with as a reality day to day. I was disgusted, not at the practice which was out of necessity, but that in the capital the government offices all have indoor plumbing while a very large portion of the population is still relegated to a practice not seen in the developed world for a nearly a century. Basic necessities of life and happiness; healthy food, clean drinking water, safe living structures, access to basic medical care and a safe, clean and effective bathroom facility. None of these could be readily found in the twin villages. Yet, in the capital, new high-rises are being built every single day. It is my dream to help Africans know their own needs better, help them organize more efficiently, recruit aid among Africans and empower them to help themselves.
The gift that broke my heart. On the morning of the final night of the crusade, Kwesi and I were talking about how to finish big and make sure there was follow-up even after I returned to Accra so that the momentum wouldn't be lost in the villages. There was a knock at our door. I went to see who it was and as I approached the door, I could see through the spaces in the boards that there were two women carrying bundled loads on their heads. I opened the door and greeted the women and received their traditional greeting in like kind. Kwesi was standing beside me by now and I'm thankful because though I understand more Twi than I speak, the speed of delivery can sometimes be a translation problem for my brain. As the women took off their bundled loads they laid out a branch of plantain, a basket full of cassava and a live chicken. These are the ingredients for fufu with chicken and ground nut soup ("peanut butter" soup). The women said the villages had met and been so glad that I had come to tell them about the love of God and the gift of Jesus that they had all gathered together what they had and when they had gathered all they could had sent these two women to bring me a gift of food. As I they spoke and as I understood, I clenched my jaw, grit my teeth and felt my eyes pool up with tears. I had been to their villages, I had walked with their chiefs, I had seen where they lived and what little these people had to wear, to drink and to eat. Here they were giving me a gift of food, a commodity they could not afford to give. To reject the gift, even out of kindness, would be an insult to great to express in words. The gift broke my heart and changed my life. I have never felt anything like that moment before and just retelling it brings tears to my eyes and a sniffle to my nose.
That day, Kwesi and I pounded fufu. Culturally, traditionally, this is a woman's job, but, quite frankly, Kwesi and I wanted fufu and there weren't any women! The rarity of two men pounding fufu got some attention from our dozen or so neighbors where we lived on the outskirts of Asante-Bekwai. When I took the pestle and began to pound, it was as if the world had stopped rotating for these people. Even in Asante-Bekwai few had seen a white man, none had ever heard one speak Twi and no one, not even the oldest had ever seen a whiteman pound fufu. I put pictures up on my FaceBook page, it is a very exhaustive food to prepare! I'll never forget a very old woman holding two small children in front of her, her hands on their shoulders. She held a smile and never took her eyes off me as I pounded but she leaned forward and between the rhythmic thud of the pestle hitting the mortar, she told the little girl and boy, "Now watch this and never forget. You will tell your grandchildren you saw this. No one has ever seen a whiteman pound fufu before, not even before I was as young as you."
I got to walk in the village where whitemen hadn't been seen before. I went into the bush where they said whitemen never go. I ate traditional foods they say the whiteman can't eat and I ate in the traditional way with my hands in the way they say the whiteman won't eat from the same bowl with my new friends. I pounded fufu, washed clothes by hand in a bucket, toted water to fill our trashcan with our daily supply of water and I greeted my new friends in Twi. An respected and ancient woman took me aside and asked me countless questions to find out as much about me as she could. Satisfied at last she smiled a nearly toothless smile and as her eyes sparkled she laughed and said all of these things - it was impossible, all of it, utterly impossible, it couldn't be done. No white can be this way. I remember her checking my arms above my sleeveline and saying I must be "obibini" or black. She concluded that somehow I was "becoming black," surely that was the only way these things were possible! I told her it was by God's grace and because I loved them so much that I could live among them as try so hard to be one of them. She laughed, her eyes shining even more brightly and gave me another addition for my Ghanaian name. "Opam-boa"
It means "to sew stones (together)" which is, of course, impossible. She said it was because I could do the impossible. I laugh every time I think of this story but she said to do what I did that no white was known to do I must be really, really tough. So tough, I "could sew stones together."
That's how I returned to the capital as Kwame Agyeman Opam-Boa.
Stay tuned for part two! I'll tell you about Kumasi, Sunyani and Goaso!
I have a gastronomical stalker. I am pursued relentlessly by my nemesis. My enemy seems to never tire, never sleep nor ever turn away. My enemy show up when I least expect him and always when I have just begun to relax my guard thinking he is gone at last. Bane! Bane! Thy name is "sugary, black-pepper spicy, Elmer's glue consistency, grey porridge!" **shakes fist at the air** Everywhere I go it seems to be found and never randomly, no, people say, "Kwame, we got this for you!" as if someone is spreading some foul rumor that I love the grey death porridge. I very nearly weep openly when I eat it, I won't lie. It is the absolute outermost edge of what my willpower can overcome and it would seem it is well beyond the realm of what my Korean-American sensibilities of palate can take. I've actually seen the spoonful in my hand shake as I draw my hand to my lips by sheer force of will against better judgement. The bowl is always so large and so deep. Spoonful after spoonful and the bowl never empties. The spicy, sweet, grey death porridge runneth over and mocks me. There is no way to describe its flavor to you - it tastes like...well...itself and nothing else.
I went to Asanti-Bekwai region. I had met a man named Kwesi at Legon Campus where I used to meet my language coach. The man lives in Asante-Bekwai and invited me to be part of a crusade he was organizing in two small sister villages of Chechewere and Batinko that were remote and in what we loosely refer to in Africa as "the bush." I was, of course, thrilled to no end by this offer and following approval of my host church, I went and stayed with Kwesi for a week and a half. There are pictures on my FaceBook page and I will try to get some new pictures uploaded here within the weekend. I spoke on three of the five nights of the crusade in a village with no running water, no electricity whatsoever and no cars. The houses were mud huts with grass thatched roofs. The villages were made up of the elderly and the very young, the middle age having left the village life for the city, usually never to return. This is similar to the flight that occurred in America from the farmlands to the cities.
While in Asante-Bekwai I shared a one room house that was about 75 ft x 35 ft with two other men. It included a small gas burner hooked up to a propane tank, a large trashcan that held our water supply, a small fridge to keep some foodstuffs preserved, a single bed and a bathroom that was about 8 ft x 3 ft and was the only room with walls. The rest of the house was divided up by curtains hanging from the ceiling. Our only mode of transport was either by foot or a harrowing ride on the back of Kwesi's dirtbike. I told my mom on the phone one day, "Don't tell my mom but there aren't any helmets!" I always felt like some crusader on the back of that bike, racing off to some village here or there to try and tell people about the love of God before it was "too late." By the end of the crusade, a dozen people had made professions of faith. I spoke what little Twi I was able to and the villages were in an uproar of excitement. Few had ever seen a whiteman, none had ever heard a white speak Twi. I met with the two chiefs and they had agreed that the primary physical need of the two villages was to have a five classroom school built, since the young children had to walk 5 km each way, along a buy highway at dawn and dusk to get to school in Asante-Bekwai proper. They also need a village restroom, since there is no sewage system and no indoor plumbing. The entire village goes to a remote spot in the bush, where the user must balance on a few poorly cut scraps of wood and tin above a shallow pit. As the chiefs showed me the place, a boy no older than six or seven was precariously balancing over the pit. Can you imagine being comfortable if your child was doing this? It's incredible, but this is what most West Africans live with as a reality day to day. I was disgusted, not at the practice which was out of necessity, but that in the capital the government offices all have indoor plumbing while a very large portion of the population is still relegated to a practice not seen in the developed world for a nearly a century. Basic necessities of life and happiness; healthy food, clean drinking water, safe living structures, access to basic medical care and a safe, clean and effective bathroom facility. None of these could be readily found in the twin villages. Yet, in the capital, new high-rises are being built every single day. It is my dream to help Africans know their own needs better, help them organize more efficiently, recruit aid among Africans and empower them to help themselves.
The gift that broke my heart. On the morning of the final night of the crusade, Kwesi and I were talking about how to finish big and make sure there was follow-up even after I returned to Accra so that the momentum wouldn't be lost in the villages. There was a knock at our door. I went to see who it was and as I approached the door, I could see through the spaces in the boards that there were two women carrying bundled loads on their heads. I opened the door and greeted the women and received their traditional greeting in like kind. Kwesi was standing beside me by now and I'm thankful because though I understand more Twi than I speak, the speed of delivery can sometimes be a translation problem for my brain. As the women took off their bundled loads they laid out a branch of plantain, a basket full of cassava and a live chicken. These are the ingredients for fufu with chicken and ground nut soup ("peanut butter" soup). The women said the villages had met and been so glad that I had come to tell them about the love of God and the gift of Jesus that they had all gathered together what they had and when they had gathered all they could had sent these two women to bring me a gift of food. As I they spoke and as I understood, I clenched my jaw, grit my teeth and felt my eyes pool up with tears. I had been to their villages, I had walked with their chiefs, I had seen where they lived and what little these people had to wear, to drink and to eat. Here they were giving me a gift of food, a commodity they could not afford to give. To reject the gift, even out of kindness, would be an insult to great to express in words. The gift broke my heart and changed my life. I have never felt anything like that moment before and just retelling it brings tears to my eyes and a sniffle to my nose.
That day, Kwesi and I pounded fufu. Culturally, traditionally, this is a woman's job, but, quite frankly, Kwesi and I wanted fufu and there weren't any women! The rarity of two men pounding fufu got some attention from our dozen or so neighbors where we lived on the outskirts of Asante-Bekwai. When I took the pestle and began to pound, it was as if the world had stopped rotating for these people. Even in Asante-Bekwai few had seen a white man, none had ever heard one speak Twi and no one, not even the oldest had ever seen a whiteman pound fufu. I put pictures up on my FaceBook page, it is a very exhaustive food to prepare! I'll never forget a very old woman holding two small children in front of her, her hands on their shoulders. She held a smile and never took her eyes off me as I pounded but she leaned forward and between the rhythmic thud of the pestle hitting the mortar, she told the little girl and boy, "Now watch this and never forget. You will tell your grandchildren you saw this. No one has ever seen a whiteman pound fufu before, not even before I was as young as you."
I got to walk in the village where whitemen hadn't been seen before. I went into the bush where they said whitemen never go. I ate traditional foods they say the whiteman can't eat and I ate in the traditional way with my hands in the way they say the whiteman won't eat from the same bowl with my new friends. I pounded fufu, washed clothes by hand in a bucket, toted water to fill our trashcan with our daily supply of water and I greeted my new friends in Twi. An respected and ancient woman took me aside and asked me countless questions to find out as much about me as she could. Satisfied at last she smiled a nearly toothless smile and as her eyes sparkled she laughed and said all of these things - it was impossible, all of it, utterly impossible, it couldn't be done. No white can be this way. I remember her checking my arms above my sleeveline and saying I must be "obibini" or black. She concluded that somehow I was "becoming black," surely that was the only way these things were possible! I told her it was by God's grace and because I loved them so much that I could live among them as try so hard to be one of them. She laughed, her eyes shining even more brightly and gave me another addition for my Ghanaian name. "Opam-boa"
It means "to sew stones (together)" which is, of course, impossible. She said it was because I could do the impossible. I laugh every time I think of this story but she said to do what I did that no white was known to do I must be really, really tough. So tough, I "could sew stones together."
That's how I returned to the capital as Kwame Agyeman Opam-Boa.
Stay tuned for part two! I'll tell you about Kumasi, Sunyani and Goaso!
Friday, October 23, 2009
Try just a little bit...
Hello friends! I know it has been a while since I was able to share with you last, so let me take a moment now to pause and say I am sorry. Sharing with you has been one of my great joys while I serve in Africa. Sharing with you has been a source of renewal and mirth amidst an environment that is otherwise challenging and can sometimes be downright difficult! For all of you that have been so kind as to write a long or short e-mail to me or post a comment here on my blog, I want to say a special thank you from the innermost and deepest feeling core of my heart. When I am blessed to have electricity and that much more blessed to have a free half-hour or so in my weekly schedule to go on-line, when I see that I have messages from my friends and partnerships that are waiting to be read, it is a cause for celebration! I cannot express to you how powerful even the shortest and most simple words are to your humble missionary to Africa!
I know that if I were where you are right now, I'd be wondering what I'd be eating next. Will you go out to eat or stay in? How long have I been away from American?, of course you're going out to eat, I always did! In Ghana, we never go out to eat, and though I'm usually decidedly hesitant in the use of infinite terms like always or never, in this case, believe me when I stress to you that, generally speaking, it is definitely true. Perhaps due to culture and custom, maybe due to comparatively high restaurant prices or most likely due to a little of all of the above, most Ghanaians rarely, if ever, go out to eat at a restaurant. This seems to fall increasingly on generational lines, such is the case it would seem due to the relentless march of "westernization" across the developed, developing and even undeveloped places on earth. As I watch an older Ghanaian sit at home and eat and hear of a younger son that is out spending fourteen Ghana Cedis on a single pizza, I'm beginning to understand why the world to varying degrees looks to "the west" and shakes either their fist or their heads with similar emotion. They feel an impending loss of culture and an increasing detachment from their own children that cannot be explained away. Feeling estranged from the next generation is a big deal in Africa because of the importance of relationships, especially family relationships.
A very wise missionary to Africa told me once that throughout his time of service, many Africans asked him, "But what do we have to offer? What can America, that has everything, possibly learn from us?" and the answer is simple, the importance of family. Here is food for thought, if you're lucky you have a mother, father, perhaps even a sibling or two. You see your "family" as who you live under the same roof with, right? Maybe you include an errant uncle, aunt or a few cousins. In Africa, the concept of family is so vast, so far reaching, it can hardly be done service here by your humble missionary. Everyone is an "uncle" or "auntie." It is culturally acceptable for a child to call people of no blood relation "mame" (ma-meee) or "papa." What can you learn from the people of Africa? You can learn the importance of family, and you can widen your definition to include not just the people you share DNA with, but all of the people in your much wider circle of contact, and you can seek to prosper them, encourage them and invest in their success so that when it arrives, you stand alongside them in celebration!
As of this Thursday just passed, your humble missionary has been in Ghana, West Africa for exactly one month. I have begun to pick-up the most basic elements of conversational Twi and am taking two one hour classes at the nearby Legon University. The locals are absolutely thrilled and delighted to something far beyond my powers to describe at hearing Ashante Twi bubble forth from my "obruni" (white person) lips. Any utterance of the like is followed by widening eyes, the explosive and contagious laughter of disbelief and sometimes even by people running away a few steps as they experience the former and the latter. To everyone's best recollection, there is only one other "obruni" that took to Twi so quickly and she became somewhat of a marketing legend here in Ghana. To any ability I seem to have in my rapid fluency in the language I give God the glory, I am too rational to be foolish enough to think that I can learn so quickly simply by my own ability. The current favorite of the Kwame Boyd stories to be swapped back and forth at church is the tro-tro tale. At a "tro-tro" station (bus, sort of, but I'll explain later) a street vendor (they wait everywhere and sell everything, more on that later as well) caught sight of me and smiled and half-heartedly chanted "obruni, obruni." I spun 90 degrees on the well worn heels of my sandals and smiled back as I cried "Ey! Obibini! Wo ho te sEn?" which literally means "Hey! Black person! How are you?" The vendor startled and exclaimed "Ey!" and took off at a quick walk, looking over his shoulder laughing and shaking his head. I should point out here briefly that as long as you don't get offended by being called "white person," the African does not get offended by being called "black person." The terms are equally inoffensive and neither bears the burden of an epithet or slur.
Second only to the enjoyment of the language, your humble missionary has had the opportunity, nay, the privilege of consuming myriad local dishes that would boggle the mind and perhaps cause the forearm and neck hairs of my western friends to stand on end. I've boldly sat to plates and bowls of things I never thought of combining or eating for that matter, but I know some of you might be squeamish if I jump right in so instead, with mercy befitting my work, I will walk you slowly into the Ghanaian cuisine. Bear in mind that the things that seem familiar to you aren't anything like what you've had, you have my personal assurance as to that. I've had pineapple that melts in your mouth, so fragrant you can smell it being cut a room's distance away. I've hate water out of small plastic bags, in fact, that's pretty much the only way I've had water to drink! I've had chicken that was clucking not one hour before, fish that I don't even know the names for! Everything is deadly spicy, but that fits in perfectly with the concept I had already instilled in me before leaving America of how to be a "fierce Ghanaian." I've found a common high ground with my host father, who, despite being dyed in sandal Ghanaian, does not like fufu. I have become a bit of an addict of sugar cane, freshly cut, chewed and sucked then spat out forthwith, fried plantain and friend yam (all three I'm proud to say I can prepare myself - to the amusement if not amazement of the locals!).
Now I need to set aside a section wholly separate from the previous for the following. The very young and the very old as well as those with less than stalwart constitutions should probably go ahead and leave the room. Have you left yet? The rest of us will wait...
Okay, I should hope by now that the aforementioned are gone. I have had kenkey and banku, both of which are a heavy dough that is steamed until hot and "cooked," made from corn/maize dough but prepared differently from each other. Both of these are usually served with a slurry of very hot peppers (think salsa at your favorite Mexican restaurant) and various chunks of fish and always whole sardines. You eat the lot with your bare hands - no utensils are requested nor provided. I don't know how you were raised, but my mom was raised in the front pew of a Baptist church in rural Alabama, your hands are for clapping for Jesus and even then only when the Deacons and the Pastor are already clapping. As the grammar might be put over the loudspeaker in Dahlonega, Georgia at Burt's Pumpkin Farm, "Let's don't eat with our hands." For those of you still in the dark as to how traumatizing the prospect was for me before "diving in," shall we say, my father is Korean by birth. This by default makes me genetically half-Korean but more importantly, very nearly 100% Korean culturally. Do you know why Asians use chopsticks? Do you know why Asians invented such long, thing wooden sticks to pick up their food with? Distance. We Asian folk like to keep a serious distance between our hands and our foot. I've always found it humorous that for all things to focus on, Americans usually poke fun of Asians for being "too clean." Hmm, if my calendar is right America is working it's way through the "we don't wash or hands but like to touch our faces flu season." Alas, I kid! Speaking of kids, they are dirty internationally, but more on that later.
You take the banku or kenkey much as you would fufu (though fufu is much, much more runny, gooey and gloppy). From your serving you pinch off about a golf ball sized amount between your thumb, index and middle finger. You mash the ball and, for lack of a better term, play with it until the consistency becomes smooth. You flatten it out on the palm-side of your index and middle finger then plunge said fingers into the stew or bowl of previously mentioned salsa-esque fish slurry. You work little pieces of fish and plenty of life-ending hot pepper into your fingerfull of dough then down the hatch it goes. You repeat this process until both your dough and whatever it was served with are gone. There is a large bowl of water, liquid soap and a towel at the table for afterwards. I find that the smell of spicy fish and the natural red dyes of tomatoes have a tendency to stay in the crevices around your nail and cuticle line for at least a week, by which time it is certainly time for some more kenkey or banku. I have gotten quite deft at extracting fish bones of various lengths and thickness from my mouth mid-chew.
I've had "red red," which is black-eyed peas, small fish bits, rice and fried plantain. I'm quite fond of the dish actually, though I'm sure the fat content is quite high. I've had bananas that stay green but are perfectly ripe, fragrant and amazingly delicious (they taste like the best banana smoothie you've ever had but made better by a power of 100). I've had oranges that also stay green but are ripe and when you peel them your gaze is paused in awe of the flesh of the fruit that is vibrant orange with pink tiger stripes. I've had watermelon that would make you realize you never had real watermelon before you had an African watermelon. While I'm sure I'll get countless e-mails expressing concern, I heartily crunch down on the seeds and eat the entire slice (something I can assure you I never did before). Oh but how I've saved the very best for last. Oh you lucky friend, you lucky chosen one to have read this far!
I have had the extreme dining glory of consuming "cow foot soup." I know, I know, what, without inviting you? I'm sorry, I'll be more inclusive next mealtime. A bowl is placed before you that steam and smells of hot spices. The broth is a rich brown with little else in it but what greets you in the center of your bowl like an island to bovine glory, jutting up out of the brown brothy sea. What delectable treasure is this? you wonder. It's the foot of a cow. How nice. I'm told it's a "delicacy" but that's little comfort since most of the wildest things I've eaten are considered "treats" or "delicacies." You spoon the large hoof out of the broth and remove it to a plate, using your free hand to balance the cloven remainder of a once proudly mooing herbivore. On the plate you skewer it with a fork and use your large soup spoon to cut the hoof, complete with hide into small cubed chunks. Replace now cubed hoof into your broth and now you're all set for a gastronomical extravaganza! After a long boil the texture is soft and somewhere between a baked potato and jello, depending on the hoof to hide ratio of your cube. I can't say that the flavor of the broth and thusly the hoof were undesirable even if the texture was beyond foreign. Regardless, I have done it now and if pressed by culture or etiquette I know now that I can do it again, though your humble missionary hopes that far less "delicate" dishes await the remainder of my mealtimes here in Africa.
I know that if I were where you are right now, I'd be wondering what I'd be eating next. Will you go out to eat or stay in? How long have I been away from American?, of course you're going out to eat, I always did! In Ghana, we never go out to eat, and though I'm usually decidedly hesitant in the use of infinite terms like always or never, in this case, believe me when I stress to you that, generally speaking, it is definitely true. Perhaps due to culture and custom, maybe due to comparatively high restaurant prices or most likely due to a little of all of the above, most Ghanaians rarely, if ever, go out to eat at a restaurant. This seems to fall increasingly on generational lines, such is the case it would seem due to the relentless march of "westernization" across the developed, developing and even undeveloped places on earth. As I watch an older Ghanaian sit at home and eat and hear of a younger son that is out spending fourteen Ghana Cedis on a single pizza, I'm beginning to understand why the world to varying degrees looks to "the west" and shakes either their fist or their heads with similar emotion. They feel an impending loss of culture and an increasing detachment from their own children that cannot be explained away. Feeling estranged from the next generation is a big deal in Africa because of the importance of relationships, especially family relationships.
A very wise missionary to Africa told me once that throughout his time of service, many Africans asked him, "But what do we have to offer? What can America, that has everything, possibly learn from us?" and the answer is simple, the importance of family. Here is food for thought, if you're lucky you have a mother, father, perhaps even a sibling or two. You see your "family" as who you live under the same roof with, right? Maybe you include an errant uncle, aunt or a few cousins. In Africa, the concept of family is so vast, so far reaching, it can hardly be done service here by your humble missionary. Everyone is an "uncle" or "auntie." It is culturally acceptable for a child to call people of no blood relation "mame" (ma-meee) or "papa." What can you learn from the people of Africa? You can learn the importance of family, and you can widen your definition to include not just the people you share DNA with, but all of the people in your much wider circle of contact, and you can seek to prosper them, encourage them and invest in their success so that when it arrives, you stand alongside them in celebration!
As of this Thursday just passed, your humble missionary has been in Ghana, West Africa for exactly one month. I have begun to pick-up the most basic elements of conversational Twi and am taking two one hour classes at the nearby Legon University. The locals are absolutely thrilled and delighted to something far beyond my powers to describe at hearing Ashante Twi bubble forth from my "obruni" (white person) lips. Any utterance of the like is followed by widening eyes, the explosive and contagious laughter of disbelief and sometimes even by people running away a few steps as they experience the former and the latter. To everyone's best recollection, there is only one other "obruni" that took to Twi so quickly and she became somewhat of a marketing legend here in Ghana. To any ability I seem to have in my rapid fluency in the language I give God the glory, I am too rational to be foolish enough to think that I can learn so quickly simply by my own ability. The current favorite of the Kwame Boyd stories to be swapped back and forth at church is the tro-tro tale. At a "tro-tro" station (bus, sort of, but I'll explain later) a street vendor (they wait everywhere and sell everything, more on that later as well) caught sight of me and smiled and half-heartedly chanted "obruni, obruni." I spun 90 degrees on the well worn heels of my sandals and smiled back as I cried "Ey! Obibini! Wo ho te sEn?" which literally means "Hey! Black person! How are you?" The vendor startled and exclaimed "Ey!" and took off at a quick walk, looking over his shoulder laughing and shaking his head. I should point out here briefly that as long as you don't get offended by being called "white person," the African does not get offended by being called "black person." The terms are equally inoffensive and neither bears the burden of an epithet or slur.
Second only to the enjoyment of the language, your humble missionary has had the opportunity, nay, the privilege of consuming myriad local dishes that would boggle the mind and perhaps cause the forearm and neck hairs of my western friends to stand on end. I've boldly sat to plates and bowls of things I never thought of combining or eating for that matter, but I know some of you might be squeamish if I jump right in so instead, with mercy befitting my work, I will walk you slowly into the Ghanaian cuisine. Bear in mind that the things that seem familiar to you aren't anything like what you've had, you have my personal assurance as to that. I've had pineapple that melts in your mouth, so fragrant you can smell it being cut a room's distance away. I've hate water out of small plastic bags, in fact, that's pretty much the only way I've had water to drink! I've had chicken that was clucking not one hour before, fish that I don't even know the names for! Everything is deadly spicy, but that fits in perfectly with the concept I had already instilled in me before leaving America of how to be a "fierce Ghanaian." I've found a common high ground with my host father, who, despite being dyed in sandal Ghanaian, does not like fufu. I have become a bit of an addict of sugar cane, freshly cut, chewed and sucked then spat out forthwith, fried plantain and friend yam (all three I'm proud to say I can prepare myself - to the amusement if not amazement of the locals!).
Now I need to set aside a section wholly separate from the previous for the following. The very young and the very old as well as those with less than stalwart constitutions should probably go ahead and leave the room. Have you left yet? The rest of us will wait...
Okay, I should hope by now that the aforementioned are gone. I have had kenkey and banku, both of which are a heavy dough that is steamed until hot and "cooked," made from corn/maize dough but prepared differently from each other. Both of these are usually served with a slurry of very hot peppers (think salsa at your favorite Mexican restaurant) and various chunks of fish and always whole sardines. You eat the lot with your bare hands - no utensils are requested nor provided. I don't know how you were raised, but my mom was raised in the front pew of a Baptist church in rural Alabama, your hands are for clapping for Jesus and even then only when the Deacons and the Pastor are already clapping. As the grammar might be put over the loudspeaker in Dahlonega, Georgia at Burt's Pumpkin Farm, "Let's don't eat with our hands." For those of you still in the dark as to how traumatizing the prospect was for me before "diving in," shall we say, my father is Korean by birth. This by default makes me genetically half-Korean but more importantly, very nearly 100% Korean culturally. Do you know why Asians use chopsticks? Do you know why Asians invented such long, thing wooden sticks to pick up their food with? Distance. We Asian folk like to keep a serious distance between our hands and our foot. I've always found it humorous that for all things to focus on, Americans usually poke fun of Asians for being "too clean." Hmm, if my calendar is right America is working it's way through the "we don't wash or hands but like to touch our faces flu season." Alas, I kid! Speaking of kids, they are dirty internationally, but more on that later.
You take the banku or kenkey much as you would fufu (though fufu is much, much more runny, gooey and gloppy). From your serving you pinch off about a golf ball sized amount between your thumb, index and middle finger. You mash the ball and, for lack of a better term, play with it until the consistency becomes smooth. You flatten it out on the palm-side of your index and middle finger then plunge said fingers into the stew or bowl of previously mentioned salsa-esque fish slurry. You work little pieces of fish and plenty of life-ending hot pepper into your fingerfull of dough then down the hatch it goes. You repeat this process until both your dough and whatever it was served with are gone. There is a large bowl of water, liquid soap and a towel at the table for afterwards. I find that the smell of spicy fish and the natural red dyes of tomatoes have a tendency to stay in the crevices around your nail and cuticle line for at least a week, by which time it is certainly time for some more kenkey or banku. I have gotten quite deft at extracting fish bones of various lengths and thickness from my mouth mid-chew.
I've had "red red," which is black-eyed peas, small fish bits, rice and fried plantain. I'm quite fond of the dish actually, though I'm sure the fat content is quite high. I've had bananas that stay green but are perfectly ripe, fragrant and amazingly delicious (they taste like the best banana smoothie you've ever had but made better by a power of 100). I've had oranges that also stay green but are ripe and when you peel them your gaze is paused in awe of the flesh of the fruit that is vibrant orange with pink tiger stripes. I've had watermelon that would make you realize you never had real watermelon before you had an African watermelon. While I'm sure I'll get countless e-mails expressing concern, I heartily crunch down on the seeds and eat the entire slice (something I can assure you I never did before). Oh but how I've saved the very best for last. Oh you lucky friend, you lucky chosen one to have read this far!
I have had the extreme dining glory of consuming "cow foot soup." I know, I know, what, without inviting you? I'm sorry, I'll be more inclusive next mealtime. A bowl is placed before you that steam and smells of hot spices. The broth is a rich brown with little else in it but what greets you in the center of your bowl like an island to bovine glory, jutting up out of the brown brothy sea. What delectable treasure is this? you wonder. It's the foot of a cow. How nice. I'm told it's a "delicacy" but that's little comfort since most of the wildest things I've eaten are considered "treats" or "delicacies." You spoon the large hoof out of the broth and remove it to a plate, using your free hand to balance the cloven remainder of a once proudly mooing herbivore. On the plate you skewer it with a fork and use your large soup spoon to cut the hoof, complete with hide into small cubed chunks. Replace now cubed hoof into your broth and now you're all set for a gastronomical extravaganza! After a long boil the texture is soft and somewhere between a baked potato and jello, depending on the hoof to hide ratio of your cube. I can't say that the flavor of the broth and thusly the hoof were undesirable even if the texture was beyond foreign. Regardless, I have done it now and if pressed by culture or etiquette I know now that I can do it again, though your humble missionary hopes that far less "delicate" dishes await the remainder of my mealtimes here in Africa.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
The name is Teiman, not Tema...
I want to take a moment to clear up something about the exciting work that is slowly beginning in Teiman. When we went to the Chief and the elders, I shared with them that I had come to share the good news of God's love first and foremost. I stated that I believe in a good and loving God that can also meet us all at the very point of our need and in so doing meet all of our needs. That being stated, I shared with them my desire to listen to them and hear what they believed was the most pressing physical need of the people of Teiman. Out of all the possible answers, the Chief and the elders answered unanimously that the village of Teiman needed a medical clinic. The closest medical clinic is far away in Abokobi, only accessible by a long and rough dirt road. Add to this reality the sobering fact that most residents of Teiman do not have a vehicle and can only travel on foot and you begin to understand the need for basic healthcare close to home.
The people of Teiman speak Ga, though they can also manage some Twi and a tiny bit of English. All of my meetings with the Chief have included the pastor of CBC who can speak Akuapem Twi and Momma Comfort, a member of CBC who speaks Ga. In the midst of all this translating and relaying is your humble "obruni" (whiteman) missionary. I didn't understand a key aspect of the first meeting with the people of Teiman and I need to clarify the details of that meeting now so that you can join me in celebration.
I stressed to the Chief and the elders that the primary purpose for me being in Ghana is to share the good news of God's love, but I didn't specify how. After the Chief and the elders agreed to ask for a medical clinic, after they assured us that a land parcel would be specially designated for a medical clinic, friends, I want to tell you that without prompting the people of Teiman offered a second land parcel and asked that we build them a Southern Baptist church!
Why is this significant?
1. We didn't go to Teiman asking to build a church
2. Teiman has six other denominations represented in their small village, none of which it would seem are meeting the spiritual needs of the community, or why would the Chief and the elders offer an additional land parcel for a Southern Baptist church completely of their own accord?
How soon can a new church be started in Teiman?
The answer is simple because a church is not a building, it is simply a place of worship. A place of worship is simply a place the people gather to give thanks for what God has done and to share with one another in the abiding grace of God's love. I will tell you what I have impressed upon the leadership of CBC, a church in Teiman can be started this very hour. I said "I will go, who will go with me?"
I hope to have good news for you soon. The land in Teiman needs to be registered, a process that takes both time and money. Then the land will need to receive a permit before any structure can be erected, a process that will also take time and money. We also need to get a site plan, price out construction materials, labor costs and any associated fees. It is my hope and I hope you will join with me in prayer that I will be able to draw up and submit to you and the other partners a proposed budget and timetable for the medical clinic and the new church start at Teiman! Remember that the new church at Teiman can and should start long before any church building is constructed, so please pray fervently that people in CBC will boldly volunteer to partner with me in going to Teiman to share the good news of God's love. Pray that the Chief and the elders will be receptive to an immediate start for the church and will designate a house or other indoor or outdoor area for us to begin sharing the good news of God's love with the people of Teiman! As we meet to worship and praise our loving God, I am confident that the people of Teiman will be fanned into flame for the love of God as their faith is reaffirmed by the progress they will see on their medical clinic! Let us be known as the people that give themselves away. Let us be known as the people that sought a need and pursued a solution. Let a reputation of selfless service spread through the outlying communities and towns surrounding Teiman so that others may come and ask who are these Christians and what is all this work I have heard about in Teiman?
What to celebrate:
1. The leadership of Teiman is receptive to hearing the Good News of God's love
2. The leadership of Teiman have the hearts of their people in mind and have asked for a medical clinic, knowing that it will benefit not only Teiman but all the communities in the area
3. The leadership of Teiman, without prompting, offered a second, additional land parcel on which they would like to have a Southern Baptist church
4. I am no longer ill (I was not well for the entirety of week 2)
What to pray about:
1. The leadership of Teiman will have a sense of urgency about getting their paperwork in order
2. That members of CBC will volunteer to give of their time to begin street evangelism in Teiman
3. That members of CBC will volunteer to go and begin a "house church" or open air church in Teiman
4. That I will be able to come to you, the mission partners, with a proposed budget for the medical clinic and the church at Teiman by the end of November.
5. That God will put people in my path daily that need to hear the good news of God's love
I have great news to share with you about Awukugua and I hope to share it with you very soon!
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My next two posts will talk about the work at Awukugua, an orphanage called "Hope," my new Ghanaian name that the Chief of Awukugua bestowed on me and some of the foods I've had the privilege of ingesting! Be sure to watch for the next post! Remember, all you have to do is care and you too can...
Become the Change!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Let me speak plainly...
I met with the Chief of the village of Teiman. Several miles outside of Adenta, which is several miles outside of Accra, there is a very small place called Teiman. Don't be fooled, it's not Tema as some would correct you. In Teiman everyone goes to a central location to draw clean water that they then tote back to their homes in various containers. Children chase each other and startle and disperse a small group of goats that were casually tearing at some patchy grass beneath a mango tree. The buildings are single story, shaded by mud and dust they all take on a similar color, being a roughly smoothed plaster over concrete. As we drove up, everyone stopped and began to stand awkwardly straight as they noticed an "obruni" or white man, me, coming to their village.
This was an exploratory first meeting to evaluate the physical needs of the village so all of you would have a better idea of what the needs were and in this way, partnering together, we might be able to meet some of those immediate basic needs. The good news of God's love is first and foremost, that is a given, but meeting the physical need of these people fosters a relationship of trust that cannot be bought or sold at any price. We parked the car and our small commission of myself, Dr. Odoi, a woman named Momma Comfort (no relation to Dr. Odoi's wife by the same name) and our driver got out and began walking towards a small, walled enclave of buildings. We stood in the courtyard as some sort of meeting dispersed and then walked into a small room about ten feet by twenty feet in size. Along the top of the wall there were pictures of men dressed traditionally and wearing gold, these were the past chiefs of Teiman. We entered and began greeting, extending a right-handed handshake and moving counter-clockwise starting that the far wall where a single row of men of various ages faced us. Then we moved over to two very small rows perpendicular to the first row, I had no idea who was chief and I think that is the point of the arrangement. The four of us sat facing the two small rows and Momma Comfort started the introduction, I believe she may have spoken in Ga, which I'm told is the primary language of the people in Teiman,though they can also speak Twi and English (to a degree).
Then the room was introduced to us, the long single row were elders, then moving left to the back of the two short perpendicular rows was the "keeper of the stool" (the small stool is passed on from chief to chief but is considered the corporate possession of the village; it is a way of bestowing the chiefdom), then the chief, next was the the furthest right of the closer small row. The first person was the "speaker," through whom everyone else's idea were expressed, followed by the "cup bearer" to the chief. There were also two secretaries that sat behind our seats that hurriedly scribbled down notes for the meeting. We opened with a word of prayer, which I'm told is customary anyway. Then Dr.Odoi turned to me and translated what the "keeper of the stool" had just said, which was to ask why we had come. Dr. Odoi then said he'd translate for me if I would just tell them a little bit, he said he had already told them that I had come to help and that I knew I needed CBC as a facilitator. I told the room we come to share the good news of God's love, that is first and foremost. I then said we believe that God can take care of us and meet all of our needs. I then said that we wanted to hear from them what they felt were some of the immediate needs of Teiman and that we could then go back and coordinate with sources of support to see what needs we might be able to assist with.
There was some discussion by the elders in Twi or Ga and then the "keeper of the stool" spoke again, first in Twi or Ga and then he said he wanted to speak plainly and looked directly at me. He explained that they needed some specifics because otherwise there could be a never ending list of things. I then shared the core, basic human health matters that we had in mind: water, food, clothing and shelter. There was some more discussion by the elders in Twi or Ga and then the "keeper of the stool" came back with his response. They need a medical clinic and a new school building. Then the chief spoke, leaning forward and putting his right hand on the shoulder of the "speaker" that sat in front of him. They want to give us a piece of land to use for our church work and evangelism, they want to meet with us in one week to show us where they envision a medical clinic for their people and they want to invest sweat equity or offer physical labor as their part of this new partnership if we can help them get a medical clinic.
Here we have an opportunity at a long-term relationship with the people of Teiman. Here we have an opportunity to touch lives and make them better spiritually and physically. I need your help! Going forward I will need your prayers intensified, for physical health and for the logistics of planning this large project. We need skilled laborers, if only for advisement and pricing assistance. We need donors to come forward who are willing to partner with us in this great and important life-changing work. I know this is the beginning of something truly incredible, I look forward to experiencing it together. Remember, don't talk about change, become the change! Together, we can save the world!
Find me on FaceBook
Follow me on Twitter
Find me by name on YouTube
Follow me on Blogger
I hope to hear from you!
Become the Change!
This was an exploratory first meeting to evaluate the physical needs of the village so all of you would have a better idea of what the needs were and in this way, partnering together, we might be able to meet some of those immediate basic needs. The good news of God's love is first and foremost, that is a given, but meeting the physical need of these people fosters a relationship of trust that cannot be bought or sold at any price. We parked the car and our small commission of myself, Dr. Odoi, a woman named Momma Comfort (no relation to Dr. Odoi's wife by the same name) and our driver got out and began walking towards a small, walled enclave of buildings. We stood in the courtyard as some sort of meeting dispersed and then walked into a small room about ten feet by twenty feet in size. Along the top of the wall there were pictures of men dressed traditionally and wearing gold, these were the past chiefs of Teiman. We entered and began greeting, extending a right-handed handshake and moving counter-clockwise starting that the far wall where a single row of men of various ages faced us. Then we moved over to two very small rows perpendicular to the first row, I had no idea who was chief and I think that is the point of the arrangement. The four of us sat facing the two small rows and Momma Comfort started the introduction, I believe she may have spoken in Ga, which I'm told is the primary language of the people in Teiman,though they can also speak Twi and English (to a degree).
Then the room was introduced to us, the long single row were elders, then moving left to the back of the two short perpendicular rows was the "keeper of the stool" (the small stool is passed on from chief to chief but is considered the corporate possession of the village; it is a way of bestowing the chiefdom), then the chief, next was the the furthest right of the closer small row. The first person was the "speaker," through whom everyone else's idea were expressed, followed by the "cup bearer" to the chief. There were also two secretaries that sat behind our seats that hurriedly scribbled down notes for the meeting. We opened with a word of prayer, which I'm told is customary anyway. Then Dr.Odoi turned to me and translated what the "keeper of the stool" had just said, which was to ask why we had come. Dr. Odoi then said he'd translate for me if I would just tell them a little bit, he said he had already told them that I had come to help and that I knew I needed CBC as a facilitator. I told the room we come to share the good news of God's love, that is first and foremost. I then said we believe that God can take care of us and meet all of our needs. I then said that we wanted to hear from them what they felt were some of the immediate needs of Teiman and that we could then go back and coordinate with sources of support to see what needs we might be able to assist with.
There was some discussion by the elders in Twi or Ga and then the "keeper of the stool" spoke again, first in Twi or Ga and then he said he wanted to speak plainly and looked directly at me. He explained that they needed some specifics because otherwise there could be a never ending list of things. I then shared the core, basic human health matters that we had in mind: water, food, clothing and shelter. There was some more discussion by the elders in Twi or Ga and then the "keeper of the stool" came back with his response. They need a medical clinic and a new school building. Then the chief spoke, leaning forward and putting his right hand on the shoulder of the "speaker" that sat in front of him. They want to give us a piece of land to use for our church work and evangelism, they want to meet with us in one week to show us where they envision a medical clinic for their people and they want to invest sweat equity or offer physical labor as their part of this new partnership if we can help them get a medical clinic.
Here we have an opportunity at a long-term relationship with the people of Teiman. Here we have an opportunity to touch lives and make them better spiritually and physically. I need your help! Going forward I will need your prayers intensified, for physical health and for the logistics of planning this large project. We need skilled laborers, if only for advisement and pricing assistance. We need donors to come forward who are willing to partner with us in this great and important life-changing work. I know this is the beginning of something truly incredible, I look forward to experiencing it together. Remember, don't talk about change, become the change! Together, we can save the world!
Find me on FaceBook
Follow me on Twitter
Find me by name on YouTube
Follow me on Blogger
I hope to hear from you!
Become the Change!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
It is Africa after all...
Well, I have a free moment or two and it is high time I caught you up on what has been going on in my little address in Africa! I am sorry that I have not been on-line the last two days, I have been under the spell of a rather nasty and persistent African stomach bug (bound to happen eventually). I don't want my posts to only sing the praises of the heat and the ever prevalent roosters so I intend to share with you briefly what I have experienced since landing now almost one week ago exactly.
Thursday night I got home rather late and basically had a free schedule to rest. Friday I went to a Youth fellowship Bible Study that was incredible. I remain very excited to see a group of young people so passionately opinionated about discussing a story from scripture. The interaction was incredible and I was left wondering why youth groups back in the states that I've been a part of lack this kind of excitement and open discussion about scripture. This is definitely something that warrants further study and I plan on revisiting this topic in a later post for all of us to discuss. Saturday started early and we went to a traditional baby naming ceremony. We greeted everyone sitting in the room (counter clockwise of course!), we sang, prayed, pastor read some scripture then we all went around the room and recited the baby's name and then a small bucket is placed on a small stool in the center of the room and gifts (usually money) are placed in the bucket for the benefit of the child. From there we went to our first of two Saturday funerals, this one was at the church for a lady only thirty-three years of age. We went from the church to the graveyard and they actually had several men carry and then lower the casket into a shallow, tile-lined grave. We sang a few songs and then the pastor read who each wreath was from before tossing each into the grave onto the casket. Then a man began shoveling dirt onto the casket and there was one woman in attendance that became hysterical. I find that the space between life and death is so small here that it is almost non-existant, unlike in America where we have developed a more comfortable almost austere and clinical way of handling death.
The second funeral was no where near the church, it was all the way into the mountains in a very rural place called Adukrum, the pastor's hometown. The air was so much cleaner in the hills, I tried to breathe as much as possible in the hopes of storing some clean air for when we returned to the city (the smog is visible, thick and stings the eyes). This funeral was for a man of eighty-three years I believe, and we had a full blown meal while we were there. When we sat to eat, Mamma Comfort (host mom) stopped me from eating the salad, warning that there was no telling when it was made or by whom and it might not be clean (I had already eaten one piece). The car trip there and back to the church took at least an hour but I could be wrong (it could be more!). The distance was likely not so great but the roads here are beyond belief. Enormous, numerous chassis-ending potholes like vast craters make the roads more or less a system of dirt paths around the said holes. Negotiating them at any speed is a jarring experience, traversing the roadways at the speed pastor drives (he's always in a hurry!) is a truly transcendant experience (it draws you into a much closer walk with God). I should at this point mention that we have several drivers that work for the family, this is not the luxury expense it would be in the U.S., instead, it is a normal practice for most middle class Ghanaians. I think this might be a hold over from the days of colonialism.
One of our drivers, Edgar, has been very kind and has walked with me outside the walls of the home and down the dirt path to the main road. He explained the different fruit trees that are growing all over the place and some other basics of Ghanaian culture. I don't think I've mentioned it before but there is a large brick and plaster wall measuring about eight feet high and topped with row upon row of metal spikes that closes in the property of the pastor's home. There is a small but intimidating metal door for pedestrians and a much larger double doored gate for vehicles. There is a large mango tree in the front yard, the backyard has several plaintain and coconut trees. We have a lot of rather large lizards with bright orange and yellow heads and green bodies. There are, of course, the chickens. There are "wall Gekkos" that occassionally race across the interior walls. The floors are decorative concrete (the kind with little flecks of colored bits in them), the windows are moveable horizontal glass slats which, by necessity almost always stay open. Those are covered by curtains that are almost always tied midway by a little piece of rope so as to allow for more air movement. We have a fierce guard dog named Bruno (I'm in talks with him to see if he'll eat a rooster), he has the most curious and interesting coloration I've ever seen and loves to wiggle his little stub of a tail when greeting any family member.
I have introduced my host brother Stephen to Star Wars, yes, yes, I am corrupting a whole new continent with my nerdiness! I had a great discussion with him the other day about what his passion was, he currently works for a mobile phone company and plugs in bits of code to make sure all the calls go through. I briefly met my other host brother Caleb, he's away at school but comes home to do laundry (isn't it cool how all the way in Africa some things are the same?) My host sister Dorcas has been a great friend to me. She has taught me most of the Twi phrases I now know and has made sure I've eaten each and every day. She will be leaving us soon to go live and work up north somewhere with churches there (it is infinitely more rural the further north you go). Sunday I went to the first service (in english exclusively) and then to Sunday school, then to the second service (in Twi exclusively) and then home. I may be mixing up my days (I've been vociferously ill for two days) but I'm pretty sure Sunday night is when Dorcas took me to a graduation ceremony for a Sports Leadership school. They use sports combined with evangelism to equip attendees to go work with the young people of their areas. Students come from all over. One of the first things they did was all the students went to the front and stood together, introducing themselves and saying a simple greeting in their native language, then they sang a song together. As I listened, there were students from Cameroon, Liberia, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Ghana, and other countries. Most of these countries do not get along, some outright seek the anihilation of the other. I knew if I let myself shed a tear Dorcas would never let me live it down (joking) but I'll never forget how incredible it was to sit there and listen to all the different greetings and then hear a song sung together in unity.
Monday I was a volunteer at a school run by a church member. It was a unique experience to be called "Uncle Kwame" over and over and over again by thirty or so children. I helped them with their classwork, read several stories, assisted in feeding some of the younger ones and had an altogether good but tiring day. Tuesday and Wednesday I have been sick, but that about catches us up. I'll blog again soon! I hope to have pictures up by Friday.
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I need your support! Believe me I do!
I've got to go sweat some more, I think I still have some fluids left in me! God bless!
Thursday night I got home rather late and basically had a free schedule to rest. Friday I went to a Youth fellowship Bible Study that was incredible. I remain very excited to see a group of young people so passionately opinionated about discussing a story from scripture. The interaction was incredible and I was left wondering why youth groups back in the states that I've been a part of lack this kind of excitement and open discussion about scripture. This is definitely something that warrants further study and I plan on revisiting this topic in a later post for all of us to discuss. Saturday started early and we went to a traditional baby naming ceremony. We greeted everyone sitting in the room (counter clockwise of course!), we sang, prayed, pastor read some scripture then we all went around the room and recited the baby's name and then a small bucket is placed on a small stool in the center of the room and gifts (usually money) are placed in the bucket for the benefit of the child. From there we went to our first of two Saturday funerals, this one was at the church for a lady only thirty-three years of age. We went from the church to the graveyard and they actually had several men carry and then lower the casket into a shallow, tile-lined grave. We sang a few songs and then the pastor read who each wreath was from before tossing each into the grave onto the casket. Then a man began shoveling dirt onto the casket and there was one woman in attendance that became hysterical. I find that the space between life and death is so small here that it is almost non-existant, unlike in America where we have developed a more comfortable almost austere and clinical way of handling death.
The second funeral was no where near the church, it was all the way into the mountains in a very rural place called Adukrum, the pastor's hometown. The air was so much cleaner in the hills, I tried to breathe as much as possible in the hopes of storing some clean air for when we returned to the city (the smog is visible, thick and stings the eyes). This funeral was for a man of eighty-three years I believe, and we had a full blown meal while we were there. When we sat to eat, Mamma Comfort (host mom) stopped me from eating the salad, warning that there was no telling when it was made or by whom and it might not be clean (I had already eaten one piece). The car trip there and back to the church took at least an hour but I could be wrong (it could be more!). The distance was likely not so great but the roads here are beyond belief. Enormous, numerous chassis-ending potholes like vast craters make the roads more or less a system of dirt paths around the said holes. Negotiating them at any speed is a jarring experience, traversing the roadways at the speed pastor drives (he's always in a hurry!) is a truly transcendant experience (it draws you into a much closer walk with God). I should at this point mention that we have several drivers that work for the family, this is not the luxury expense it would be in the U.S., instead, it is a normal practice for most middle class Ghanaians. I think this might be a hold over from the days of colonialism.
One of our drivers, Edgar, has been very kind and has walked with me outside the walls of the home and down the dirt path to the main road. He explained the different fruit trees that are growing all over the place and some other basics of Ghanaian culture. I don't think I've mentioned it before but there is a large brick and plaster wall measuring about eight feet high and topped with row upon row of metal spikes that closes in the property of the pastor's home. There is a small but intimidating metal door for pedestrians and a much larger double doored gate for vehicles. There is a large mango tree in the front yard, the backyard has several plaintain and coconut trees. We have a lot of rather large lizards with bright orange and yellow heads and green bodies. There are, of course, the chickens. There are "wall Gekkos" that occassionally race across the interior walls. The floors are decorative concrete (the kind with little flecks of colored bits in them), the windows are moveable horizontal glass slats which, by necessity almost always stay open. Those are covered by curtains that are almost always tied midway by a little piece of rope so as to allow for more air movement. We have a fierce guard dog named Bruno (I'm in talks with him to see if he'll eat a rooster), he has the most curious and interesting coloration I've ever seen and loves to wiggle his little stub of a tail when greeting any family member.
I have introduced my host brother Stephen to Star Wars, yes, yes, I am corrupting a whole new continent with my nerdiness! I had a great discussion with him the other day about what his passion was, he currently works for a mobile phone company and plugs in bits of code to make sure all the calls go through. I briefly met my other host brother Caleb, he's away at school but comes home to do laundry (isn't it cool how all the way in Africa some things are the same?) My host sister Dorcas has been a great friend to me. She has taught me most of the Twi phrases I now know and has made sure I've eaten each and every day. She will be leaving us soon to go live and work up north somewhere with churches there (it is infinitely more rural the further north you go). Sunday I went to the first service (in english exclusively) and then to Sunday school, then to the second service (in Twi exclusively) and then home. I may be mixing up my days (I've been vociferously ill for two days) but I'm pretty sure Sunday night is when Dorcas took me to a graduation ceremony for a Sports Leadership school. They use sports combined with evangelism to equip attendees to go work with the young people of their areas. Students come from all over. One of the first things they did was all the students went to the front and stood together, introducing themselves and saying a simple greeting in their native language, then they sang a song together. As I listened, there were students from Cameroon, Liberia, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Ghana, and other countries. Most of these countries do not get along, some outright seek the anihilation of the other. I knew if I let myself shed a tear Dorcas would never let me live it down (joking) but I'll never forget how incredible it was to sit there and listen to all the different greetings and then hear a song sung together in unity.
Monday I was a volunteer at a school run by a church member. It was a unique experience to be called "Uncle Kwame" over and over and over again by thirty or so children. I helped them with their classwork, read several stories, assisted in feeding some of the younger ones and had an altogether good but tiring day. Tuesday and Wednesday I have been sick, but that about catches us up. I'll blog again soon! I hope to have pictures up by Friday.
Follow the blog!
Find me on FaceBook!
Find me on YouTube!
I need your support! Believe me I do!
I've got to go sweat some more, I think I still have some fluids left in me! God bless!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
A Fierce Ghanaian Schedule...
I want to try and catch you up on what I've been up to since arriving. I didn't blog or journal Saturday, and believe me when I tell you that there is a reason for that! Friday I went to a Youth Fellowship and was rewarded greatly with the blessing of seeing a group of young people who are intensely interested about their Bible study and very passionate about their opinions about the text, yet they all loved one another and shared good company. Saturday I went to a traditional baby naming ceremony and then two subsequent traditional funerals in completely different geographic locations. My laptop battery is dying so I'll leave you with this: I will get pictures up by next weekend. I will get a more detailed blog about the things I've seen and done by Wednesday. Pray for me - water is a true commodity here. I find I'm thirsty nearly all the time and often catch myself in the middle of a hydration headache.
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I have to go - I am sweating and going to enjoy a few hours that the rooster isn't awake for...yet.
Have faith that God is speaking to me in powerful and amazing ways which I hope to share with you soon. My heart breaks for the suffering and poverty I have already seen but I feel empowered by my heart's love for these people that are now within my arm's reach. I hope I can count on your continued prayers and support! Peace and blessings! Become the change!
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