My Final Journal Entry

An ancient fable relates the tale of a group of blind men upon their first encounter with an elephant. Having heard of an elephant before but not knowing anything about them, these men are given the opportunity to feel the creature in order to know what it is. In this story (which has been told by countless people groups on multiple continents for over a thousand years) a string of 3 to 6 blind men each approach the elephant one at a time, grabbing different parts of the animal.

One, having felt the side of the animal, claims with certainty that an elephant is some form of wall. Another adamantly disagrees with him claiming the elephant is some kind of tree, having wrapped his arms around the animal's leg. A third chimes in stating that it must be some form of farming equipment, like a plow. He, of course, had felt the tusk. Yet another still claims they are all fools stating this is nothing more than a kind of snake, all the while wrestling with the elephants trunk.

Journal Entry - 2/20/10

My last day out in the village for a while. Sun is setting behind the mango tree, and the breeze is unbelievable. It has been that way most evenings as of late. I have been here for a long time now, actually, the longest I have stayed here without returning for supplies. Incidentally, I am broke.* I have been out of money for the last four or five days, just living on what I have here at the house/ hut. (It is still more than the rest of the people out here.) But I have no bread, or any fruit from the weekly market currently due to a lack of funds. I used my last bit of cash to buy medicine for the chief's son. I cannot wait to eat something other than noodles, but I will eat well tomorrow when I leave the bush and get back into town.

I must say that this time out here has been different than any other. It has produced in me a different attitude about being here, a much more quiet attitude. My spirit has been calmer here than normal. Maybe it is all of the events with the kidney stone incident, current civil conditions here, and a healthy dose of spiritual reflection. I do not know.

Here in the village, life seems timeless. Little, black bodies bob up and down in the fields towards the horizon, just as they did yesterday, just as they will tomorrow. The sun comes up at the same time and sets at the same time every day. It has not rained a single time for months, and the temperature is always the same. My friends are complaining back in the states of snow and ice, and I am realizing I live in an endless summer. Some may think that sounds great. As for me, summer is my least favorite season.

I have spent much time in study and the Word these weeks. It has been real good too. I have accomplished much in language study, listened to a dozen of those astronomy lectures, done a study on the book of Jude, started a refresher on basic biblical doctrines, and have made my way through most of the Gospels and the Pentateuch. It is amazing how much you can get done when all the noise of distraction is pulled out of your life. I have no idea what has happened in the rest of the world, and surprisingly, I am okay with this fact. The world is still here, I know that much. I have no temptations to steal my time here. (It is not to say I have no temptations, as I have discovered they abound at every turn.) However, here there is no television or internet to waste time with, no markets or places to leech up hours of my day. It is just me, my back porch, and the same group of villagers passing by day after day.

I started helping my neighbor in the fields this past week. It nearly killed me. Minutes in this equator sun are like hours of sun in America. I did not realize how draining it was until I was finished for the day. I had a headache for the next three days! We watered an acre field of eggplants with a plant feeder... each one, individually. Of course there are no water hoses here, so we had to draw water out of a well, bucket by bucket, and water the plants by hand. (A chore that must be tackled every day during the dry season.) Then we weeded the ground with a hand hoe. I was bent over for hours doing this. There is no mechanical assistance. The fields are plowed with a pair of oxen pulling a steel plow.

Despite the work, I think my neighbor and I are actually becoming friends... real friends. A fact, of which I am indeed proud.

The sun has made its way behind the distant palm trees to the west. Time to go inside and fix my last pot of noodles for a while. It is that thought alone that will help me get them down.

*A side note here: I was simply out of cash on hand in the village, please do not think I am suffering over here without any provisions. I have more than enough financial support!

Journal Entry - 12/16/09

Here is yet another one of my old journal entries. This particular entry was written the day after the last one I posted.

Same as yesterday... on the porch, sun setting, and reflecting on my day. I find this to be a beneficial way to close my days. It allows me to focus my thoughts and prayer. I feel my vision stays more kingdom focused this way. I pray I can continue to find this time.

Today was good. Felt like I was more “on my game,” so to speak. I have been struggling to hold on to my purpose these last few weeks as I have grown accustomed to my new station in life. Some good prayer time and a fresh look at the Sermon on the Mount seems to have set me straight once again. It is funny how the Spirit draws us to what we need when we need it. I have heard, and read, the familiar words of Matthew 5-7 since I was a little kid. One would think its meaning would soon tire or become overused as a broken record does. Or possibly, that it would at least become rote and unappreciated, much like and old toy. One receives it as a new gift, but over time the paint wears thin and the novelty fades.

Praise God such is not true of his Word. I find myself challenged anew with each read of this beautiful passage. Each time, it strikes me as a new gift of revelation from my creator. Each time, it calls me further into obedience than is worldly possible. And somehow, it seeks out my sins, the very ones I am dealing with at present, whatever they are. I am convicted and reminded of what it means to be salt and light.

What a gift.

Now on village life:

Discovered yesterday that my tire was low. After the last tire malfunction, I decided I would be proactive this time and get it inflated before the three hour trek over hill and dale back into the city. I discussed this issue with the chief, and he instructed me to go to a neighboring village. Apparently there was a mechanic there who could inflate my tire. Now I had seen the “mechanics” here and what little they had to work with, but I soon found out that Africa was not finished surprising me yet.

I left for the village and eventually ran across a grass hut with tools strewn around its perimeter. I assumed I had found the mechanic. Indeed, he was the man I was looking for and I explained my dilemma. He was quick to produce a solution, but to my shock, he pulled out a small, plastic bicycle pump. I knew better than to expect an air compressor, but this was beyond anything I had guessed. I did not know it possible to inflate a car tire to sufficient pressure with such a small toy. Nonetheless, he proceeded to try as though he had used it a dozen times on other cars. But try was all he was able to do. After half an hour or so of inflating, the tire was only getting flatter so he decided to throw in the towel with this pump. However, he had not been defeated.

The man began to tell me of another mechanic in the next village up the road. This mechanic was apparently the possessor of a big pump that would solve my problem with ease. So, the man jumped in my car with the promise of delivering me to the next destination. Off we went in search of the “big pump,” which I had merely assumed was a small, generator-ran compressor. We finally arrived at another grass hut, tools decorating the ground around it. The two men quickly began chatting away in their tribal tongue. Eventually, the owner of this fine automotive establishment went into his hut and returned with yet another bicycle pump! I began to thank God that I had a fresh spare tire with me, as I knew this would end badly.

Another 30 minutes passed, and to my utter astonishment, my tire had been inflated to full pressure with a bike pump. I was so impressed with the efforts of these two men that I paid them both three times the asked price. (It was only 60 cents apiece in US dollars, but consider that it is almost a day's wage for many here.) They were exceedingly thankful and I had received my entertainment for the day. Not to mention, I got quite a bit of language practice along the way.

Journal Entry - 12/15/09

 As you have probably noticed, I am going through old journal entries in order to "catch up" my blog on life out here. Here is one from this past December:

It has been entirely too long since I wrote in this journal. It is funny, as life gets increasingly normal here, the desire to chronicle my experiences seems to decrease. My hope was such an "extraordinary adventure" as living in Africa would spur me on to become a journaler. Ironically enough, instead this adventure is just becoming life.

I sit in a chair on my little back porch in the village watching the sun go down over the distant ocean as I write this. Now that this is becoming the norm, it may be more important than ever that I take this time to reflect on my experiences here. I see myself slipping into a numbness to the places, people, and purpose around me. May I not lose sight of my task here... no... of God's task here.

A brief update:
I spend more and more time in the bush now. I have been out here for over a week now and will be here for a couple more. The faces have all become familiar and I no longer look at them as strangers. It appears the same may be true of me as the stares and undue attention paid to my goings on has died down. People do not come to visit as much as they once did. This, of course, necessitates my going to visit them in order to interact. I have lost my "home court advantage," so to speak. Ultimately, that was a good thing.

The season here in West Africa has officially changed. The weather is definitely getting drier. The small ponds strung together in consecutive succession they call roads here have now been replaced by empty bowls of dust. A red haze is beginning to fill the sky as the African dust settles on everything. The bright greens of trees and lush, tropical plantlife is being clothed in a drab, dirty blanket. They call this time of year Harmattan. Supposedly the prevailing winds of the area switch directions and instead of a wet sea breeze flowing in from the coast, a dry air blows in from the north. Of course, the northern "coast" is the West African Sahel, and is indeed bordered by its own kind of sea. The native languages actually refer to this area as a coast (that is originally what Sahel means) to the great sea of sand we call the Sahara desert. As the wind blows across the endless expanse of desert to the north on its way here, it gets continually drier, picking up sand as it goes and depositing it across West Africa.

Despite the dust, the dry climate brings with it a much needed relief from the oppression of the humidity. Nights can even get cool, well, comparatively speaking. I have even went a night or two without my little battery fan.

The sun has now set and its last rays of light are quickly disappearing. I had much more I wanted to say, but it will have to wait until tomorrow...

Another Journal Entry - 11/12/09

Here is a journal entry from last November, after I had started living out in the bush to do my language study. I thought this would be a good one to share.

Well, boredom set in yesterday. All seemed well as the first two or three days moved by. I actually began to think it was not going to be so bad being out here in the middle of nowhere. Then yesterday happened.

I woke up dreading the day, and it got worse from there. It was hot yesterday; hotter than before that is. My little 12 volt fan gave out in the middle of the night because my inverter was giving me fits. It seems my little electricity scheme needs some revisions before it is working the way I need it to. The first revision is a more energy efficient inverter.

The goats, kids, chickens, and every other random noise (including the deaf guy in the village who screams unintelligible phrases in an attempt to communicate with people) had finally found their way to my nerves and were carefully gnawing away at them. Stuff that was easily overlooked at first now collected my attention and began to erode my initial naivety at the ease of my assignment out here. My mood began to sour and patience with the kids began to wane.

My first major decision for the day was breakfast. I could eat more oatmeal, some of the instant babyfood mix my supervisor had left out here, or crackers. (One must be aware that these three options constitute 75% of my total options for food out here, the final one being Ramen noodles.) I chose oatmeal. I made an attempt to spice it up a little with some drink mix (peach flavor) to no avail. It was not a total waste though... I will work on a recipe.

I ate my peach-flavored mush and did everything I could to stall walking out the door of my house (hut). I did not want to deal with the inevitable trickle of kids that would start leaking around my gate. I did not want to deal with the little old ladies that would come by my fence and asked me the same questions over and over – the same greetings. I did not want the village elder to come by again today and try to teach me their language by getting me to repeat his garbled sentences. He mumbles so bad you can not understand him. Honestly, I did not want to be around these people at all, but being alone was driving me nuts. I felt stuck.

Here I was less than a week into this little experiment and I was beginning to loathe my surroundings. The reality that this would be a long six months began to sink in. The temptation to wall up in my house was starting.

It is funny how culture shock works. The very reason I am here is to be with these people. Yet, the temptation is to do the opposite. God is good though, He is often quick to remind us of our purpose and His plan. In this instance He did just that. Time spent with God is such a great blessing. Oh how thankful we must be for a God that is not totally transcendent. Our God is not far away up in the heavens out of our reach. He is here. He knows us, and we can know Him. What a great privilege!

Five times a day I hear that annoying wail from the village mosque. I wake up to it at 5 am everyday and it is one of the last things I hear before I go to bed. They all go to the mosque to repeat their memorized prayers. What a hopeless condition! My supervisor says they do not pray to God they pray about God saying, “May God do this,” or “May God do that.” To live a life and not know God would be the most miserable fate.

I know God, and He knows me. I spend time with Him, and He with me. The greatest assurance on earth is the familiar sound of God's voice speaking to my heart. Indeed, it was that voice that spoke to me today simply to remind me why He sent me here.

My First Journal Entry

I thought you guys would get a kick out of this. I wrote this a couple of days after getting settled in. Looking back, its a bit dramatic... but this was all new then. Since then, the journal entires have become much less frequent (unfortunately) and I find myself overlooking things that now seem normal to me.

Enjoy...

How does one start a journal? You'd think a degree in journalism would help, but I find my ideas lacking. Of course its supposed to begin with an impacting anecdote, perhaps a recent incident with some moral undertone that sets the stage for the rest of the story. Or maybe it could start with some punchy lead that intrigues the reader and entices them further into the story. Lord knows I have enough of both already, and I haven't been here a week yet.

I currently find myself sitting on a bed, covered with Disney sheets, looking through the rod-iron bars they call windows here staring at broken glass that crowns the high, concrete wall surrounding this place. By the description, you'd think I was in some form of prison, except for the Disney sheets. However, this cannot be a prison, for I am here of my own volition. I have chosen to sit here on this Mickey-clad bed.

This is no prison... its Africa.

I find myself on the dark continent for the second time this year. However, this time my intentions are to stay. It is no less than God himself that has me here. He showed me a need, and I responded. However, we will discuss that more deeply at a later time. For now, I want to write of my surroundings.

This is the place that modernity seems to have forgotten. My new home is a village nestled slightly upcountry from the coast in a West African nation. It is hot here, and the grass left long ago. Streets, yards, and for that matter, any flat piece of land in town is worn completely bare to the red African dirt. This village is possibly the ugliest and most beautiful place I have ever been.

Despite the lack of organic ground cover, the area is lush like I have never seen. Rich, tropical, and green, the plants grow everywhere there is not trodden ground. Seemingly, all of the plants bear some kind of fruit. Mangos, bananas, pineapples, lemons, limes, and a vast array of other edibles hang off the branches of these trees that clutter the landscape. The landscape itself is some of the most majestic scenery one could lay eyes on. Mountains, of some sort I have never seen, force their way up out of the terrain. They are not simply mountains though. Each peak has its own distinct, almost carved look. No two look anything alike. They march across the landscape, each as though it were a hand crafted totem designed by a master creator. That is precisely what they are. 

To be in the middle of nowhere, there are people everywhere. Crowds of African men, women, boys, and girls bustle through the mud-packed market aisles. It seems everyone is selling something, and you almost wonder if anyone is doing the buying. Surprisingly , you can find anything in the market... clothes, food, televisions, radios, cigarettes, and cellphones. Technology in a village where the thought of electricity is laughable for someone from the states. Yet, they find a way with only a little power to have these “finer things of life.” Little kids carry trays of fruits and fried crabs atop their heads pushing the goods into your hands and asking for money.

The sights, smells and sounds of the market are too many to negotiate and run together in one orchestral hit of chaos. It is a chaos that is perfectly normal and startles no one, except me. It is everyday life in an African village.