About 95 children live at Wellington Orphanage. They are split between two buildings. All the girls and the younger boys live in the building uphill. The older boys live in the building downhill. 50 of the older boys and girls came to the camp at Njala University.
Some of the kids latched right on to us while others were a bit shy at first. I imagine the kids are accustomed to missionaries coming in and out of their home. It can’t be easy, especially when they get really attached to their foreign visitors. One cannot help but wonder how they ended up at the orphanage. More than likely the older kids, say from age 13-20, are at the orphanage as a result of the civil war. This means that they probably witnessed their village and parents being tortured, maimed, and slaughtered before walking sometimes up to 100 miles to the big city, Freetown, before they somehow connected with Wellington orphanage. Many of the girls were also sold into slavery or prostitution before finding a home at Wellington.
The younger kids were most likely abandoned in the city or left outside Wellington’s doors. They way I saw it, extreme poverty drives people to do things we could never imagine. During the opening ceremony at Njala Reverend Hassan told the story of how he started Wellington 16 years ago. He told us that after walking over 100 miles on foot to Freetown he began teaching at an elementary school. He then found a baby in the street and decided to take him into his home. He has since married and had his own children, but in the meantime continued to give shelter to the abandoned children of the war. I wish I could recount his exact words, but his speech was so moving and beautiful. Later that day at lunch I asked Reverend Hassan who the baby was, and he replied it was Augustine. No more than five minutes later Augustine sat right beside me. Really it felt like an honor to sit beside this quiet, humble young man. Throughout the camp I silently got to know Augustine.
I kept thinking to myself, “How can these kids, or anyone, have trust or have joy in their hearts?” Yet, thanks to the love and support at Wellington orphanage, the kids were generally full of joy; they still preserved some childlike innocence. Though, I do not doubt they were on their best behavior while we were there. I also constantly felt like there was something else going on with the kids that we were not aware of, or that we could not comprehend because of their slightly distant past. We did hear stories of bedwetting and fighting during the earlier days at the orphanage, so the transition to general normalcy certainly took time.
The kids wanted to know all about our families; many even had us write down the names and birthdays of our immediate family members. We learned later that they did this because they write letters to us and to our family members before we depart. These weren’t letters asking for money or things, they were simply letters saying how much they appreciated us, what we were doing, and that they would keep us in their prayers. At first I felt kind of bad talking about my family because I thought it would make the kids miss their family members, but that was not the case. The kids just loved scrolling through all the pictures on my camera. I had pictures of family in Florida, of a visit to my grandfather’s home in Puerto Rico, and of my time working in Costa Rica last year. I’d ask them if they knew where Puerto Rico and Costa Rica were. Most did not, but then I’d ask if they knew where Jamaica and Mexico were---that was close enough.
The first day at the orphanage I would ask kids what they wanted to be when they grow up. Most said they wanted to be accountants, doctors, or lawyers. But in reality they have little idea what persons in those professions do---when have they ever met an accountant? By the end of the camp it was neat because many children said they wanted to go into agricultural economics or crop science. I think one of the most important messages they learned was that accountants, doctors, and lawyers have to eat, and they have to feed their families. If a country cannot feed itself, then how does it expect to nurture white-collar professions?
At some point my roommates and I had a heated discussion about positives and negatives of how the camp was going. It was to be expected that issues would arise with regard to miscommunication and unexpectedly changed plans during the camp. We talked about how important it was to keep a distance between the kids and ourselves because it was not fair to the children to get close to them and then leave, never to know if we would see them again. In theory this makes sense, but boy it is sure hard to put into practice. I mean, I didn’t want to pick favorites- that would be even worse. But, you know, if you spend 14 hours a day in close quarters with very energetic teenagers, they kind of grow on you.
Even when we returned to the orphanage the little ones were so happy to see us—and we only spent a half-day with them! There was one boy in particular, Francis, who surprised me. He was one of the boys playing hand soccer our first day at Wellington. He did not speak much, but after a few words with him I realized this was because he had a lateral lisp (thanks to my mother, the speech therapist, I can identify various speech impediments). Let me tell you—almost as soon as I stepped out of the SUV at Wellington, Francis ran at me like a bullet and hugged me so hard, I couldn’t believe it!
Needless to say, leaving the kids was the hardest part of this trip. Yes, the living conditions were challenging, but memories of no running water fade quickly. The persistent thought in my mind is, “What will become of these children?”
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Living Conditions
Our first half-day (Monday 8/2) was spent at Wellington orphanage in Freetown, and we then traveled to Njala University later that day. We stayed in a guesthouse at Njala for nine days until the following Wednesday, 8/11. From there we returned to Wellington Orphanage until leaving on Friday, 8/13. So, by this means we were able to compare the facilities between both locations.
Common to both was no air conditioning or heat, nor continual running water, and gas-powered generator electricity from about 7:30-8pm to 11:30p-12a. Wellington set aside a room of bunk beds for us to stay, but in order to do this many kids had to double-up in their bunk beds. Some children even slept on the outside balcony floor so that we could sleep in beds. Bathing is a challenge in both locations because it usually involves taking a “bucket shower.” This entails scooping water from a large water bin into a regular-sized bucket. You then take your bucket to the shower area and wash away. I found it greatly helpful to use an empty water bottle to pour water over areas being washed. It sounds bad, but let me tell you---taking a bucket shower feels great after spending all day getting sticky from sweating bullets in the heat. I did technically take one shower with running water at Njala. See, each guesthouse does have a water tank that is filled with water and filters into the sinks, showers, and toilets. But, once that water runs out there is no running water. The water tank is usually filled up every business day, but our challenge was that we were there the whole weekend and the water tanks are not filled over the weekend. To make things even more challenging, the tanks were not filled on Monday either. Even with that, the one running water shower I did take was really just standing under a steady trickle of water coming out of one showerhead shutes. So, it ended up being easier to take a bucket shower anyway. I frequently took a bucket shower after 11p, so that sometimes the generator would turn off before I was done with my bucket shower. It was always sad when the generator turned off, but we got used to it. Fortunately each room in the guesthouse was accommodated with a LED-light lantern, so we took those with us when venturing to other parts of the guest house.
No running water meant flushing the toilet with a half-bucket of water. So, we followed the “If it’s yellow, leave it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down,” policy. Going to the bathroom with no running water poses challenges for many reasons you can imagine. At home we are so used to washing our hands after going to the bathroom. In Sierra Leone we still “cleaned” our hands after going to the bathroom, but it was usually with handi wipes or with antibacterial gel. This reminded me of when I was in elementary and middle school; that there was a time before antibacterial gel and handi wipes when we just washed our hands with soap and water, or just didn’t find it so necessary to wash our hands every five minutes. Anyhow, by the end of our time there, handi wipes became a precious commodity because we all had run through pretty much our entire supply. We were actually using a can of Lysol multi-purpose disinfectant wipes the last few days there. The ongoing joke was that Lysol wipes are at least multi-surface wipes—if they’re good enough for the kitchen counter, then they are good enough for skin!
Since conserving water was a must, all of us (at least the girls) used facial wipes to clean our faces in the morning. Since we could not ingest the water, brushing teeth had to be done with bottled water. Fortunately we were supplied with bottled water every day, but it was important to conserve some for toothbrushing later on. We also reached a critical point with toilet paper toward the end of the week as well. Thank goodness one of the girls in the other guesthouse had a small roll we could use.
The guesthouse rooms had screened-in, curtained windows. Fortunately we did not have problems with mosquitoes there, but that may also have to do with the fact that my roommate and I sprayed Raid bug spray all over the place ever other day. We also were sure to apply bug repellent every morning and evening. It’s funny because halfway through the trip I realized that my bug repellent became what I considered my “body lotion,” because I did not bring any kind of pretty-smelling lotions or sprays for fear of attracting mosquitoes. Wellington had curtained windows, but they were not screened. There were definitely more critters visible there. We did not have mosquito netting, but I just slept with a sheet covering my body every night (yes, it looked funny and this mainly trapped my smelly bug repellent into a confined space while I fell asleep each night).
After a few days at Njala we had the opportunity to have our dirty clothes washed. I expected it would probably be gone for a couple days. Well, little did we know it would be gone until the day we left. So, most of us wore the same outfit at least three or four times. This wasn’t so bad because eventually all of our clothes were drenched in sweat; we just got used to it. But, it sure is nice to have a clean, dry outfit every once in a while. We discovered that the delay in returning our clothes was not completely the washer’s fault. It turns out that when a first batch of clothes were returned after four days the men in our party inadvertently kept a large bag of clothes under a chair in their guesthouse. This bag turned out to contain the majority of our clothing.
All things considered, we were staying at some of the best accommodations in the country. I never did see what the Njala dorms were like where our students stayed that week. I can only imagine our guesthouses were at least ten times nicer than them. On more than one occasion I walked by some dilapidated structure—like something that used to be a small house, but was basically destroyed by the war—and think there was no way a person could live there. I’d walk by it again and realize a whole family was either living there or conducting some part of their daily life there—like cooking or washing clothes.
Common to both was no air conditioning or heat, nor continual running water, and gas-powered generator electricity from about 7:30-8pm to 11:30p-12a. Wellington set aside a room of bunk beds for us to stay, but in order to do this many kids had to double-up in their bunk beds. Some children even slept on the outside balcony floor so that we could sleep in beds. Bathing is a challenge in both locations because it usually involves taking a “bucket shower.” This entails scooping water from a large water bin into a regular-sized bucket. You then take your bucket to the shower area and wash away. I found it greatly helpful to use an empty water bottle to pour water over areas being washed. It sounds bad, but let me tell you---taking a bucket shower feels great after spending all day getting sticky from sweating bullets in the heat. I did technically take one shower with running water at Njala. See, each guesthouse does have a water tank that is filled with water and filters into the sinks, showers, and toilets. But, once that water runs out there is no running water. The water tank is usually filled up every business day, but our challenge was that we were there the whole weekend and the water tanks are not filled over the weekend. To make things even more challenging, the tanks were not filled on Monday either. Even with that, the one running water shower I did take was really just standing under a steady trickle of water coming out of one showerhead shutes. So, it ended up being easier to take a bucket shower anyway. I frequently took a bucket shower after 11p, so that sometimes the generator would turn off before I was done with my bucket shower. It was always sad when the generator turned off, but we got used to it. Fortunately each room in the guesthouse was accommodated with a LED-light lantern, so we took those with us when venturing to other parts of the guest house.
No running water meant flushing the toilet with a half-bucket of water. So, we followed the “If it’s yellow, leave it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down,” policy. Going to the bathroom with no running water poses challenges for many reasons you can imagine. At home we are so used to washing our hands after going to the bathroom. In Sierra Leone we still “cleaned” our hands after going to the bathroom, but it was usually with handi wipes or with antibacterial gel. This reminded me of when I was in elementary and middle school; that there was a time before antibacterial gel and handi wipes when we just washed our hands with soap and water, or just didn’t find it so necessary to wash our hands every five minutes. Anyhow, by the end of our time there, handi wipes became a precious commodity because we all had run through pretty much our entire supply. We were actually using a can of Lysol multi-purpose disinfectant wipes the last few days there. The ongoing joke was that Lysol wipes are at least multi-surface wipes—if they’re good enough for the kitchen counter, then they are good enough for skin!
Since conserving water was a must, all of us (at least the girls) used facial wipes to clean our faces in the morning. Since we could not ingest the water, brushing teeth had to be done with bottled water. Fortunately we were supplied with bottled water every day, but it was important to conserve some for toothbrushing later on. We also reached a critical point with toilet paper toward the end of the week as well. Thank goodness one of the girls in the other guesthouse had a small roll we could use.
The guesthouse rooms had screened-in, curtained windows. Fortunately we did not have problems with mosquitoes there, but that may also have to do with the fact that my roommate and I sprayed Raid bug spray all over the place ever other day. We also were sure to apply bug repellent every morning and evening. It’s funny because halfway through the trip I realized that my bug repellent became what I considered my “body lotion,” because I did not bring any kind of pretty-smelling lotions or sprays for fear of attracting mosquitoes. Wellington had curtained windows, but they were not screened. There were definitely more critters visible there. We did not have mosquito netting, but I just slept with a sheet covering my body every night (yes, it looked funny and this mainly trapped my smelly bug repellent into a confined space while I fell asleep each night).
After a few days at Njala we had the opportunity to have our dirty clothes washed. I expected it would probably be gone for a couple days. Well, little did we know it would be gone until the day we left. So, most of us wore the same outfit at least three or four times. This wasn’t so bad because eventually all of our clothes were drenched in sweat; we just got used to it. But, it sure is nice to have a clean, dry outfit every once in a while. We discovered that the delay in returning our clothes was not completely the washer’s fault. It turns out that when a first batch of clothes were returned after four days the men in our party inadvertently kept a large bag of clothes under a chair in their guesthouse. This bag turned out to contain the majority of our clothing.
All things considered, we were staying at some of the best accommodations in the country. I never did see what the Njala dorms were like where our students stayed that week. I can only imagine our guesthouses were at least ten times nicer than them. On more than one occasion I walked by some dilapidated structure—like something that used to be a small house, but was basically destroyed by the war—and think there was no way a person could live there. I’d walk by it again and realize a whole family was either living there or conducting some part of their daily life there—like cooking or washing clothes.
First Impressions
The morning before we left I woke up with a sore throat-the kind that you know is going to turn into something unpleasant. Of course this was about the worst possible timing for a sore throat. So, I pulled out all the stops to try to prevent it from progressing—I took extra vitamin C, took Dayquil, took airborne fizzy tablets, and tried to get a good night’s sleep my last night stateside. The next day I’m pretty sure I broke a fever while packing group supplies. Oh well, at least that meant my sickness was progressing and I was that much closer to getting better.
I tried to sleep as much as I could on the flights over, but you know the anticipation of getting there made it hard to sleep. Here were the flights: Oklahoma City to Houston, then to London/Heathrow, then to Sierra Leone. While we left on Saturday our arrival in Sierra Leone was actually late Sunday evening. I quickly realized that arriving in Sierra Leone did not mean the end of a long journey—oh no—it was only the beginning of an even longer journey.
The airport is actually in a city named Lungi. Upon descending the airplane we walked across the tarmac into the small terminal and waited a while to go through passport inspection. Then it was time to gather all the luggage—we had a good bit of it because most of us brought a second bag with medical and group supplies for the kids. Mind you I was still pretty foggy-headed from the flight and the cold medicine, so a lot of this part was a big daze for me. Next we loaded the luggage into several SUVs and headed for the last ferry of the night destined for Freetown. By the time our cars got in line to drive onto the ferry we were not sure if we would make it. See, it seemed like the line of cars went on for miles—at least in the dead of night that’s what it seemed like. While we sat in the car waiting for word about the ferry, groups of children gathered around our car, selling trays of goods balanced on their heads. The other OSU students began conversing with them, but I was a bit weary of this at first because of my conditioning from living in Chile—see I was always taught not to interact too much with street vendors because it attracts too much attention. But, in reality the kids outside were perfectly friendly and were just fascinated to see foreigners. Either way, I was still pretty sick, so I just kind of listened to the conversations while trying to sleep off my icky sick feeling.
It seemed like forever, but we finally drove onto the ferry. I could tell our driver had done this a thousand times because parking on the ferry required lots of tight three point turns to fit properly with the other dozens of cars squeezing into the limited space. It was great to ride on the ferry because a nice breeze blew through the car windows while riding across the bay. The ride was so smooth you could hardly sense we were moving. Everyone else got out of the car to look at the lights on the coast, but I decided to take advantage of the downtime to rest while I could. Crossing the bay took about 90 minutes. Next was the ride to Wellington orphanage. See, once we made it to the neighborhood we parked on a semi-steep hill from which we then carried our luggage up to the orphanage. By that time it was pretty late at night, but some of the older kids were waiting and helped carry our luggage up the rocky incline. Somehow everyone already knew I was not feeling well so that they went out of their way to make sure I was comfortable—it was so kind.
Just about as soon as my head hit the pillow I was out! We woke up the next morning around 7am for the children’s morning worship service. One of the children led the group in songs followed by Bible verse readings. A young boy immediately took me in and shared his Bible with me-he was so sweet. The kids sang a welcome song for us, wrapped up the service and then cleared the room so the “missionaries” could eat breakfast. It was strange to be called a missionary, but I understood why we were referred to as such. See, the only foreigners who visit the kids are missionaries so that even if we were referred to as students they would still call us missionaries—at least that’s how I justified it in my mind.
Anyhow, we welcomed our warm meal for breakfast. This breakfast became very familiar to us—lightly fried chicken, platanos (fried sweet plantains), pineapple slices, and funnel cake-type bread. It was carbolicious! After breakfast we had time to spend with the kids before heading over to Njala (pronounced Jah-lah) University. The same little boy who sat with me in the morning service welcomed me to join his group of friends. They asked me if I liked soccer—little did I know these kids know everything there possibly is to know about all the world soccer leagues, especially the British clubs. They started reciting various players’ names from teams about which I was embarrassed to know very little. I knew that by the end of my time there I would be an expert too! One of the kids hopped over the patio wall into an alleyway and began collecting “random” items. These items turned out to be materials needed to play a game of hand soccer. Ok, so he gathered two spent D batteries, a long stick, a pebble, and took a couple sardine cans out of his pocket. Within the sardine cans were a collection of bottlecaps that represented soccer players. The boy set two sardine cans lenghthwise next to each other and placed a D battery at each end. After removing the sardine cans, he balanced the stick over the batteries to make a goal post. He then proceeded to place the bottle cap players in various positions to quickly form a full soccer team. See, the boys flick the bottle cap toward the pebble, which is the soccer ball. They sure went into action. My new friend, Joel, became the announcer for the game as the other boys quickly flicked the soccer ball around.
This has to be one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. Over time I learned that one can flick the bottle cap only certain ways and one or two fingers are strategically placed next to or around the pebble/soccer ball so that it goes a particular direction. There were also a multitude of games that can be played—sometimes matches go into penalty kicks, and sometimes bottle caps are stacked and lined up to form a wall—just like in the real life game! I could spend hours watching them play hand soccer. The boys taught me how to flick, but I would need months’ worth of practice to even get close to how precise their shots were. Though I was intrigued by this activity, it was the first time in years I had the sensation of what it is to be bored. I mean, I was definitely not bored, but hand soccer is the type of game one plays as a child, before the time in life of worrying about responsibilities or deadlines. I can’t remember the last time I sat worry-free and played games with friends for hours on end. It was liberating.
I tried to sleep as much as I could on the flights over, but you know the anticipation of getting there made it hard to sleep. Here were the flights: Oklahoma City to Houston, then to London/Heathrow, then to Sierra Leone. While we left on Saturday our arrival in Sierra Leone was actually late Sunday evening. I quickly realized that arriving in Sierra Leone did not mean the end of a long journey—oh no—it was only the beginning of an even longer journey.
The airport is actually in a city named Lungi. Upon descending the airplane we walked across the tarmac into the small terminal and waited a while to go through passport inspection. Then it was time to gather all the luggage—we had a good bit of it because most of us brought a second bag with medical and group supplies for the kids. Mind you I was still pretty foggy-headed from the flight and the cold medicine, so a lot of this part was a big daze for me. Next we loaded the luggage into several SUVs and headed for the last ferry of the night destined for Freetown. By the time our cars got in line to drive onto the ferry we were not sure if we would make it. See, it seemed like the line of cars went on for miles—at least in the dead of night that’s what it seemed like. While we sat in the car waiting for word about the ferry, groups of children gathered around our car, selling trays of goods balanced on their heads. The other OSU students began conversing with them, but I was a bit weary of this at first because of my conditioning from living in Chile—see I was always taught not to interact too much with street vendors because it attracts too much attention. But, in reality the kids outside were perfectly friendly and were just fascinated to see foreigners. Either way, I was still pretty sick, so I just kind of listened to the conversations while trying to sleep off my icky sick feeling.
It seemed like forever, but we finally drove onto the ferry. I could tell our driver had done this a thousand times because parking on the ferry required lots of tight three point turns to fit properly with the other dozens of cars squeezing into the limited space. It was great to ride on the ferry because a nice breeze blew through the car windows while riding across the bay. The ride was so smooth you could hardly sense we were moving. Everyone else got out of the car to look at the lights on the coast, but I decided to take advantage of the downtime to rest while I could. Crossing the bay took about 90 minutes. Next was the ride to Wellington orphanage. See, once we made it to the neighborhood we parked on a semi-steep hill from which we then carried our luggage up to the orphanage. By that time it was pretty late at night, but some of the older kids were waiting and helped carry our luggage up the rocky incline. Somehow everyone already knew I was not feeling well so that they went out of their way to make sure I was comfortable—it was so kind.
Just about as soon as my head hit the pillow I was out! We woke up the next morning around 7am for the children’s morning worship service. One of the children led the group in songs followed by Bible verse readings. A young boy immediately took me in and shared his Bible with me-he was so sweet. The kids sang a welcome song for us, wrapped up the service and then cleared the room so the “missionaries” could eat breakfast. It was strange to be called a missionary, but I understood why we were referred to as such. See, the only foreigners who visit the kids are missionaries so that even if we were referred to as students they would still call us missionaries—at least that’s how I justified it in my mind.
Anyhow, we welcomed our warm meal for breakfast. This breakfast became very familiar to us—lightly fried chicken, platanos (fried sweet plantains), pineapple slices, and funnel cake-type bread. It was carbolicious! After breakfast we had time to spend with the kids before heading over to Njala (pronounced Jah-lah) University. The same little boy who sat with me in the morning service welcomed me to join his group of friends. They asked me if I liked soccer—little did I know these kids know everything there possibly is to know about all the world soccer leagues, especially the British clubs. They started reciting various players’ names from teams about which I was embarrassed to know very little. I knew that by the end of my time there I would be an expert too! One of the kids hopped over the patio wall into an alleyway and began collecting “random” items. These items turned out to be materials needed to play a game of hand soccer. Ok, so he gathered two spent D batteries, a long stick, a pebble, and took a couple sardine cans out of his pocket. Within the sardine cans were a collection of bottlecaps that represented soccer players. The boy set two sardine cans lenghthwise next to each other and placed a D battery at each end. After removing the sardine cans, he balanced the stick over the batteries to make a goal post. He then proceeded to place the bottle cap players in various positions to quickly form a full soccer team. See, the boys flick the bottle cap toward the pebble, which is the soccer ball. They sure went into action. My new friend, Joel, became the announcer for the game as the other boys quickly flicked the soccer ball around.
This has to be one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen. Over time I learned that one can flick the bottle cap only certain ways and one or two fingers are strategically placed next to or around the pebble/soccer ball so that it goes a particular direction. There were also a multitude of games that can be played—sometimes matches go into penalty kicks, and sometimes bottle caps are stacked and lined up to form a wall—just like in the real life game! I could spend hours watching them play hand soccer. The boys taught me how to flick, but I would need months’ worth of practice to even get close to how precise their shots were. Though I was intrigued by this activity, it was the first time in years I had the sensation of what it is to be bored. I mean, I was definitely not bored, but hand soccer is the type of game one plays as a child, before the time in life of worrying about responsibilities or deadlines. I can’t remember the last time I sat worry-free and played games with friends for hours on end. It was liberating.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
