Missions
The Face of God
MWMc 2000
The thrumming of their voices effortlessly penetrates the impermeable space-age fabric of the two-man tent that serves as our only source of personal space in the pre-dawn coolness of the West African jungle.
The residents of Baliseawee, Guinea, a small forest region community of two hundred or so, have waited, as have several hundred others from neighbouring villages, for nearly three weeks like hopeful children before an unlikely Christmas tree; the quick-framed, palm-thatched compound that will serve as our outpatient clinic. They have walked, some upwards of 37 kilometers (60 miles), and now they wait.
The filthy, yellow nylon braided rope barricade that had, until recently, been used to corral the village livestock, now serves as a temporary checkpoint in order to maintain a semblance of order. A last minute detachment of local men; young, hot-blooded, and tenacious, have been selected by the village Elders as ‘gatekeepers’. They take pride in their position. By 0500 hours, the anticipation ofnovelty and the urgency of physical need betrays the dignity of this people and their collective voice begins to rise and fall like tidal surf crashing upon the sand. We rise and prepare.
The sultry, moist purple-orange sunrise is punctuated by the bubbling of diminutive tree frogs and the spasmodic flurry of multi-hued fowl, along with the incessant hum of indigenous insectopia, provide and animated backdrop for ‘bucket showers’, pasty, lukewarm oatmeal, and a short devotional. We pray for wisdom. We pray for strength. We will need patience.
Soon our in-country interpreters join us; purposeful men who have volunteered to temporarily leave their respective families in order to work alongside us in the clinic. Committed acolytes, these converts do not say that they believe in Jus’e (gee-say), rather that they have, “… repented and now walk in His Way.” We form a circle, 35 strong and we sing; first in anglais, then en francais, and finally in Mano, the local dialect. We sing deliberately and in full view of the waiting villagers.
We sing openly so that they can hear and see that we are followers of Jus’e and it is He Who will bring their healing.
The open-air compound is divided into several 6’x10’ cubicles. After being admitted through a general triage post, each will be directed to the appropriate room. Provider care, women and children, scabies bath, wound care, dentistry, lab, and pharmacy, each manned by one or two members of the team, along with their respective interpreters. 500 cent apiece (about 50 cents), will gain the controlled access of approximately 275 men, women, and children initially. A total of six and a half days will see 1800 or so patients providing enough monetary base to hopefully build a community well for clean water source.
Breath-snatching humidity and palpable heat. By mid-morning the more experienced of our team are calling out for the rest of us to remember to drink the bottled water provided for us from the city of Coya. We are sweating profusely and dehydration is an equal opportunity foe.
Parasitical worms that infest the scopious dirt and breed in the oft-stagnant village water source fill the belly at an early age and are endured a lifetime; 43 for the men, 48 for the women#. This condition, coupled with a low fiber diet, produces incessant constipation that, in turn produces chronic hernias and hemorrhoids from the straining. Sexually transmitted diseases are rampant; late teen and twenty-something females who are unable to conceive because of black periods that are the result of multiple, untreated infections that have irrevocably scarred the uterus and fallopian tubes.
They are fearful for, if the cannot bear children, their husbands will take a another, younger wife and they will be relegated to second or third class status, considered useless except for menial labor and housekeeping.# Solicitous, creamy-eyed, tooth-less old men, long since past their physical prime, will present with the complaint of impotency. They are concerned that they ‘…cannot be with…’ more than two women a night. They are understandably concerned for the tangible legacy of a man lies in his progeny. Venereal disease is prolific. Primitive cultural mores, the consignment of women and children to the status of chattel, combined with ubiquitous illiteracy, sets an appalling stage wherein is played out an ineffable, statistical nightmare.
Infected bug bites, and rotted teeth, leprosy and tuberculosis. Chronic neck and lower back pain, predominately among the older women, who, for years, daily carried 50 kg. (about 110 lbs.) parcels on their heads in traditional fashion, bearing their tenuous livelihood from village to market and then home again. Malaria, filarial (river-blindness), body lice, and fungal infections. Machete cuts; some several days old and pustulent, boils, and sebaceous cysts the size of golf balls. And then there are the burns. Children mostly. Splash burns that occur in the home while making battery acid for sale in the market, that are simply the result of carelessness and proximity, have now become little Petrie dish wounds that reek of infection and decay.
Comic relief is provided by an African chicken that came to us as the gift of the village Father. He (the chicken) quickly assumes the role of camp mascot and now shows his gratitude by graciously consuming decidedly un-American looking, large insects.
We break for lunch as the sun reaches into every corner of the compound causing a noticeable lack of shade and an equally marked increase in salient sweat. The noontime menu is simplistic; rice, dark, oily peanut sauce, and more water. In truth, we are too tired to eat. Our stalwart interpreters, on the other hand, consume a prodigious amount of the proffered fare that belies their 5’, 6” stature. They have worked hard for us and we are glad for them. More water…a short nap.
By 1630 hours, fatigue woos us like an insidious siren and we grow distracted. A capricious, organic-rich zephyr wafts through one of the squarish portals in our thatched ‘medical center’ bearing with it the dank, odiferous promise of eventide respite. Freshened by this harbinger of a ‘finishing’, we continue, though a little ‘barn-sour’#. We begin to tell extremely bad jokes and are suddenly given to spontaneous bursts of poorly rendered, half-remembered praise choruses.
The line of ticket holders has not decreased – indeed, seems to have exponentially lengthened. We are informed that some will wait through the night, fearful of loosing their ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ opportunity to come in contact with ‘white medicine’. There are no ‘tomorrows’ here only now; this moment, this breath.
“Alleluia!” “Amen!” “Vive la Voca!” “Soli Deo Gloria!”
The late afternoon sees a shift in the attention of the crowd toward the center of the village proper as an evangelistic team of local pastors begins to prepare for the first of four consecutive nights of nocturnal exhortation and invitation. They will sing praise songs with innate passion, accompanied only by traditional shakers and djembes. The conjoined voices are rhythmic, antiphonal, and delightfully un-Western. They swirl and eddy like rivulets of sonate joy thrust upwards into the waiting arms of the starry canopy to be then hidden in some ethereal vault.
Each night, one of three films will be shown. The movies, boasting all-African casts, were produced in the 70’s and scripted in French, the national language of Guinea. They seem corny, overtly dramatic, and mildly offensive to my sophisticated American sensibilities, and yet, each night converts will come; 400 by the end of this arduous, jubilant week. God is not limited by ‘good taste’.
We are invited to attend; some do while others, tired and worn, opt for some extra sleep. Those who make the effort are rewarded by the preternatural rain of the Gospel flowing pure and unhindered onto the ready tilth of the parched, sin-laden hearts of this one African community. We dance with them. Oh, how we dance! And they, reveling in our willingness to simply come and be with them, are titillated by our ‘whiteness’. We will continue to worship with them into the velvety post-midnight hours, beneath the lambent glow of five 60-watt light bulbs strung haphazardly between two tenuously planted steel poles. We will return to our compound, our souls slaked by Living water and our bodies spent in spiritual exhaust. We realize the reason for our trans-Atlantic journey and, somehow, as I lay semi-cocooned on space-age nylon, I sense that I have been embraced by something intrinsically primordial; pitched backwards to an antediluvian innocence where, by virtue of some divinely appointed, magical orchestration,, I have been allowed to touch the face of God.
Six and half days…and nights.
On one thick, starless night we are suddenly held transfixed by a torrential downpour. The tepid deluge douses my body, exhilarating my heart and soul to such a pitch that I steal away from the others and break into an impromptu waltz, Davidic in my approach! However, the sudden storm also produces rather severe flooding of several of the tents while the accompanying post tailwind, equally adroit proceeds to successfully, and quite unceremoniously, dismantle our camp kitchen, while thrashing the men’s shower and toilet as well.
On day four, we eat the comedic rooster. We also fashion a stew from a scruffy Pygmy goat gifted to the team from one of the more affluent families in the village. The goat did not crow every morning, precisely at 0330a and did not have the translucent pallid larvae of some unknown parasite residing in his gut. We liked the goat better.
Sunday breathes over us with a tranquil sigh, sultry and intoxicating. We rest. The afternoon will provide for moments of exploration, personal study, and an impromptu hike with the irrepressible children of Baliseawee. We will this opportunistic moment to teach them indispensable communicative skills such as, “Give me five..” and “Where’re ya’ goin’ boss?” We quickly discover that they are actually human parrots immediately capable of turning anything that comes out of our mouths into a national anthem! We run with them – we laugh with them. “C’est va?” “Oui, tres bien merci, c’est va?” Along every road, in every village and town, when and wherever; the children are drawn to us – an odd mixture of fear and curiosity, and we fall head over heels in love with them.
Day six; not so good. Tension hangs over the clinic like a suffocating wool blanket. It has inadvertently become widespread knowledge that we will leave tomorrow. Young, capable men, recalcitrant and healthy, push their way to the front; physically displacing both women, aged and young, and children. The faithful yellow rope, now more scurvey than ever, has been resolutely cast aside in defiant bravado. Self-seeking intransigent ‘flesh’ displays itself in this Paradise like a scene lifted out of ancient Scripture.
Our collective energy begins to flag. We are haggard and spent. “125 more, and that’s it!” We have to begin closure. The whole of the village seems to understand and has become resigned, but this does not dissuade the querulous few who are adamant about being seen. They are angry, sneaky, and pathetic.
“We cannot see anymore! We have to go…!”
The six by six by ten-foot deep garbage pit, recently filled with rain water and reeking, has to be filled in. If it is not, some will come and scavenge through looking for anything and everything that might be used or better still sold. Inventory must be taken of the remaining medical supplies and the camp must be broken down and loaded onto the pair of rust-brown, derelict cargo trucks that wait nearby. We are enervated and grumpy! From a medical standpoint, we will have effectually have changed very little, providing only a brief hiatus from a handful of besetting, endemic ailments. An unrepentant fatalistic nihilism begins to form in my weary brain, seducing my rationale and I begin to weep. With growing apathy, I step apart in search of privacy and comfort. I am angry and quickly succumbing to internal vagueness. Pulling into the embrace of the verdant backdrop, propped up against a ancient palm, I close my eyes and drift backward toward last Sunday…
In the pastoral, yellow-green of the afternoon, I had inadvertently come across a Mano translation of the New Testament. Elated with my find and giddy with anticipation, anxiously tracked down one of our interpreters and begged him to read to me. I desperately wanted to hear John 3:16 read in tongue. The next hour saw one of the most gratifying bible studies I have had the privilege of participating in! Surrounded by attentive, aspirant men of varying ages, whose quick laughter and transparent curiosity drew from me any and all I might have to offer relative to Scripture, I experienced something akin to a spiritual déjà vu’. For this was the stuff of Antioch – the walk of the Apostles! That transcendent, consuming soul-faith that must become pragmatic reality. Intangible and yet resolute, it will mature into an impenetrable armored reality against the unrelenting ‘slings and arrows’ of the rational persecution that most assuredly will come. The insurgent rejection and ostracism by Animist and Islamic family and tribe members then becomes an ever-present goad that will prove and refine their convictions. They are, at once, strong in their walk and voracious in their consumption of God’s Word. They are dogmatically fierce and unashamedly converted.
As we obediently fall in behind the cargo trucks, awash in acrid blue-grey diesel fumes, we have already begun to partake of our daily-recommended dosage of road grit that has become one of the more romantic notions of riding in the back-end of a wrecking yard salvaged Peugeot station wagon, that only in the meanest abstract, can be lovingly referred to as a ‘bush taxi’. Melancholy wraps herself around me like a wistful lover. We could have stayed – O’ God! How I wanted to stay…! God willing, we will return someday. As I try to correlate my thoughts, I find it impossible to adequately capture the last several days. I am woefully unable, and perhaps, even a little unwilling, to make an attempt at conveying the mind-torquing, code-altering sights, the otherworldly sounds, and the life-thick smells that were forever etched across my soul as I danced with Africa for the first time. She was absolutely nothing at all as I expected her to be; indeed, what I wanted her to be, and yet, my great God!, she was everything I needed her to be.
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