Back from Africa

I'm out of Africa. But not without some adventure. While waiting in the Bissau airport on the day of scheduled departure, the airline announced that the flight was canceled. It'll “maybe” come tomorrow, they said. When it became very clear that all the airport officials had absolutely no plan for how to handle a canceled flight, all the English-speaking Westerners banded together. We consisted of two American missionaries, an Italian UN worker, a Scottish and a Portuguese film-maker, and a Spanish tourist. The airline officially dubbed us the “Estangeros” group (translation: “The Foreigners”). We were able to find a hotel and later went out for dinner. I ate a large fish.

Thankfully, the next day an airplane did indeed arrive and take us to Portugal. After getting back to Seattle, I spent a day with family and flew back to Fresno on Monday night. Work started the next day.


Even if you voted (sometimes multiple times) that I would get malaria, I know you intended well. It turns out, I didn't get malaria. At least so far... I'm supposed to take my pills for four weeks after returning from Africa. And my acne situation has never been better. The doxycyline does wonders. It's like a cure-all.

In addition to the photo here, I posted more photos on my Facebook profile.


What can I say of my time in Guinea-Bissau? I think for three reasons I enjoyed my African non-safari more than my six weeks in Iraq. First, the security situation was much more relaxed. Here, I was allowed to mix and mingle with the locals and travel about freely without being constantly on guard. The opposite was true in Iraq. Second, I didn't have the pressure of writing articles, which made my time in Africa much more relaxing and less stressful. Third, it was a unique experience to get to know and fellowship with other Christians on the opposite side of the globe. Though we had never met each other before and, until recently, I had no idea their country existed, our common bond was a shared goal and purpose in life.


I think of especially of some of the people I got to know there: Joel, the pastor's 23-year-old son, Dick, his 19-year-old brother, and John, their 31-year-old uncle, are great guys. It was good to learn about their life histories and future plans. Joel is in charge of the FLAME school as its headmaster, and he's definitely up for the job. John is bright guy who learned English without taking a single class and will be an important instructor to the FLAME school. Pastor Chenda and his wife, Theresa, are also amazing people. Theresa has great cooking skills.


In Africa, everything starts with a radically different perspective: Education is a privilege, not a right; community and family are essential throughout life, not dispensable after a time; and religion does not define your Sunday morning habits, it determines whether you are bound to strict traditions or enjoy true freedom. The spiritual world there is not something people come to recognize at a certain point in life; rather, it's manifested in bizarre yet predictable ways. To ignore it would be naive.


I thank you all for your prayers and emails of support and encouragement. I would like to go back. I'm not sure when or in what capacity, but I think it is a matter of time and timing.

Stranded in Africa...

A half hour before the plane that was supposed to taked us from Bissau to Lisbon, Portugal, had arrived, word spread in the Bissau airport that the flight was canceled. A mechanical problem with the plane forced it to turn around before it got here, stranding a couple hundred would-be travellers in Bissau for at least a day. The flight from Portugal to Lisbon is the main event each week at the small airport (it only arrives once a week). Travellers spent all day checking in luggage and going through security. Then it all fell apart. It was chaos trying to figure out what we were supposed to do. Thankfully, we found some Eñglish-speaking Europeans who knew a nice hotel in Bissau and arranged the Portugese airline to pay for the rooms and dinner.

So tonight ended up an adventure, and a chance to meet some interesting people and see another side of Guinea-Bissau. We ate at a nice restaurant (they actually had menus there) and had some good, sophisticated, high-brow, European conversation. I´m tired now, and ready to turn in. Pray that the flight tomorrow will work out well.

Preacher Chris?

February 11

I don't consider myself a preacher or anything close to being one, though I don't mind public speaking. Here, the Africans don't care what you think about your talents or lack of talents. Some of the young African soloist who I've heard sing in front of their churches remind me of the previews for the first episode of a new American Idol season. So when it comes to Americans visiting this country, the people here throw you up on the pulpit and expect you to start talking. Or at least sing. I'm told it has something to do with the fact that Tom and I are white, and therefore different, and therefore captivating lecturers. It certainly makes me feel special.
So what I've learned is that I must be prepared for anything. Always have at least a Bible verse or two in mind and be ready to say something really profound, or really not profound at all. Either way, they'll be extremely grateful.

My first Sunday morning in Guinea-Bissau was spent at the local pastor's church, which is held in the FLAME school building since his tiny, humble church building is too small to accommodate his growing congregation. You know those pamphlets that church greeters hand you as you walk into an American church that outline what's supposed to happen during the service? They don't have those here. They would have been helpful this day. Tom and I were seated on the front. A translator sat to my left and another sat to Tom's right. Pastor Chenda hadn't told us what to expect, or what he expected us to do. Early on in the service, he asked me to come up. I wish he had asked Tom first, then I would have had some idea of what to say/do. So I said hi, thank you, it's my first time in Africa, yes, and much warmer than America. Then I asked Chenda if I should talk some more. “Yes, please,” he said smiling. So I shared some experiences in my life and the reasons why I consider myself a Christian. I was up there for about 10 minutes. Five minutes shy of my 15 minutes of fame.

Two days later I spoke to the church “adolescents” -- the teenagers. Because Africa's demographics are much younger than America's, this crowd basically made up half the church congregation. I spent a good chunk of time preparing a really deep theological talk, but then when I saw how young the audience was, I decided to basically toss my notes. Before I spoke, my translator gave the kids a long lecture about staying awake and paying attention. He also assigned one of the older kids to stand near the back of the room and block the only exit less one of the kids needed to leave to use the bathroom or get some fresh air while I spoke. I'm not sure if this would be legal in some countries. Anyway, I figured now at least I had a captive audience. So I started off by saying I would speak for four hours. Ha ha, just kidding, I said. I went on for 20 or 30 minutes talking about how God is our personal Father. Some of the kids dozed off. Never hire me as a Sunday school instructor.

After I gave my “sermon,” I said I'd be happy to answer any questions about God or about America. For the next 45 minutes, I answered questions about America. It was a great Q&A time.

Canchungo is about 1 ½ hours from Bissau, the capital of Guinea-Bissau. Not including the trip from the Bissau airport, where we flew in to, I've been to the capital twice so far. It's a great place – insane traffic, overflowing minibuses and taxis outnumbering other cars three to one. Even by African standards, Bissau's traffic rules are horrific. The joke is that your average minibus can carry at maximum 12 people in neighboring Senegal or Gambia, but here it's at least 17 or so. Basically as many as you can cram in with the guy at the rear hanging out of the back with one hand on one of the double swinging doors, always open.

If you live in Guinea-Bissau and want access to the Internet, you have to come to Bissau. And the best Internet cafe in town crams you in like sardines. But nevertheless, assuming the connection isn't down, you have access to the outside world. The Superbowl and the Super Tuesday elections were all old news by the time I learned about their outcomes.

Bissau is a crazy place. A few days ago, Joel and Dique (the pastor's sons) and I and a guy named Tom (a different Tom than my teammate Tom Crompton) went there in the morning and sat down at a restaurant for breakfast. It was about 10 a.m. They served us the one item on the menu that day. I'm not sure what it was called, but it resembled beef strogonoff -- with bones. At 10 a.m. ... I ate a few bites.

Later on, we did a little tourist shopping, hit up the Internet cafe, and ran some errands. There was a specific African wrist ornament I wanted to get, so Joel pulled up on the side of a busy street and he and I got out of the car. We crossed the street (which constantly fluctuated between two lanes and three, depending on how aggressive and courageous the drivers were feeling) and its median (a ditch), dodging cars along the way. On the other side was a line of shops with one narrow, unmarked alleyway between two buildings. For whatever reason, a steady stream of people were coming in and out of the alleyway. We walked in, and suddenly there is was: The Bissau Mall. Hundreds of people bustling along this narrow corridor with vendors of every kind on either side. The pathway was maybe 5 feet wide, but jam-packed with people. Trinkets, clothes, stuff and more stuff for as far as I could see (which, with the wall of people in front of me, wasn't very far). It was as if we had walked into the African version of the Magic Wardrobe. So bizarre. The place was crowded. Imagine taking all the people from an American mall and cramming them into a walkway a tenth its normal size. This was Bissau Mall (or at least that's what I call it).

A couple days later, I discovered the equivalent in Canchungo – the Canchungo Farmer's Market. As Tom (other Tom, again) and Regina (Joel's girlfriend) and I were walking along the dusty road in Canchungo where many of the vendors sell machetes, pants, underwear, door hinges, string, and just about everything else – Regina stepped into a narrow, nondescript entryway between two vendors. Suddenly, the entire hidden city of Canchungo opened up before my eyes. Tables and tables of fruit, vegetable and fish vendors lined a large, crowded, crammed market. I had been in Canchungo for a week and driven down this road at least a dozen times, but I had no idea this place existed.

Life in Africa....

February 9

Life in a remote West African town is part community, part care-free living, and part chaos. Everything and everyone spills over to the next-door neighbor. Pigs, goats, and dogs roam free. Small children, too. Sometimes rugged wooden stakes mark property boundaries, but more often it is a pile of dirt or unoccupied patch of weeds. There are no code enforcement officers here. In a way, this place reminds me of life in the college dorms. Come and go as you please, our doors are always open.

I'm enjoying life in Africa. I guess if I had to eek out a living here – chores in the early morning, a job at the market or school during the day, and pumping water from the well every few hours (might as well be pumping iron) – I would have a better appreciation of what it means to be an African. But I am a white man -- a “Blanco” as the neighborhood kids constantly remind me. I am living life easy at the missionary house. In this house, the breeze from the sea-fed river that abutts our front yard gently flows through the window screens. The view is fantastic. Sometimes, as I walk around the house in sandals and look out at the sun-lit river, I have to remind myself that I am not in a vacation house somewhere in America. Many of my days are filled with Siestas, reading, reflection, and just chatting or goofing off with the locals. Yesterday I went swimming with a guy my age. He complained about the cold water. The river is as warm as the oceans off a San Diego beach. Other days, however, are activity-packed and filled with hours-long meetings. Either way, I am living the white man's version of the African life. And for that reason, I am sometimes confronted with a sense of uselessness.

The irony is that the pastor and his wife who are working closely with FLAME make lunch and dinner for us and the rest of the many people they feed almost every day. We plan to reimburse them for the cost of the food, but still – it is an odd situation. No matter how much we insist that we have enough food stockpiled already, they continue bring over plates of fried fish, pans of rice and pots of soup. The food – especially the fish -- is fresh and delicious. Salmon in Seattle has nothing on the catches in Canchungo.

But I know that my time here, in fact, serves many purposes. This, my first time in Africa, is a personal education. I am learning much about this part of the world: its needs, its culture and its lessons for Americans. I am also Tom's teammate. An encouragement more than a responsibility, I hope. I am learning about FLAME and its work here. I plan to spread the word when I get back to the states.

The community life here is inspiring. Lately, I've been intentionally spending more time at a gazebo-like structure outside the pastor's house. There the pastor's family and some locals spend their afternoons and evenings hanging out. Meals are held there. Dinners in Africa are much different than America. There are no tables. Instead, everyone walks into the gazebo and two or three people gather around each communal bowl of food. Then they dig in. The dogs lick up the scraps. Any leftovers are swept up on the cement floor afterward. Sometimes we play on a guitar. Other times we just talk. When dusk settles, the night sky is spectacular.

Yet, for some reason, some of the Africans believe their country is not “bonintu” -- beautiful. Waniwu, a young man, told me yesterday, “Everywhere else in the world is beautiful, but not Africa.” Sitting in the gazebo, I opened my laptop and pointed to a photo. I had set it as my computer's desktop background. The picture was taken less than an hour after I woke up from my first night's stay in Canchungo. As the early-morning sun rose over the horizon, its reflection shimmering off the river, a lone fisherman in his canoe was silhouetted against the purple-hued water. The blue river and dawn's red glow mixed together. “That is bonitu,” I told Waniwu.

As I was writing this, I walked out of my house to the gazebo. There, about 50 neighborhood kids and teenagers had crammed into it to watch a Christian film. I'm not quite sure what it's about, though it looks like a cheap Spanish soap opera. A few days ago I spoke at the pastor's church to many of the teenagers and kids that are here now. Many of them greet me with smiling faces and yell out my name in their African accent: “Chrees!”

It's 9 p.m. now and probably 65 degrees outside. A perfect evening. Like the one before, and the one before that. Every once in a while I have to stop and re-orientate myself. Here I am in Africa, it's pretty amazing. I've seen things I've never thought I would see. Like a bunch of African kids watching a movie under a gazebo at night. Like the Grade F meat market I saw yesterday with flies everywhere and stray dogs trying to sneak in through the back door. Like a goat climbing a 7-foot-tall termite mound. What a bizarre country.

quick update

Friend and family,

I only have a few minutes at the Internet café to write this up. The last few days have been great. So far, no signs of malaria despite polls that indicate a 50% chance of me contracting the disease. But of course I still have a week to go.

The people here are amazing. Very friendly. The local food is awesome. Except for a few specific dishes… Much of my time is spent meeting with Tom and the local pastor and his son, who is charge of the FLAME school. We have had productive conversations so far, and it´s been interesting for me to learn how easy it is to miscommunicate across cultures and some of the challenges and pitfalls of international missions work.

There is much to write about. I will note some of the things here and remind me if I forget to write more about them: the pet monkey 2Pac, the kids´ fascination with digital cameras, the amazing experience of sitting in on African church services (and I got to teach twice… they´re very eager to hear from American Christians, though we have no special qualifications). It is pretty amazing to be breaking bread and sharing communion with brothers and sisters in Christ on the other side of the world.

Thanks again for your prayers.

Feb. 3, 2008 – Canchungo, Guinea-Bissau

Traveling to another world – or at least half way around the world – is measured in more than miles traveled, visa stamps, and cramped plane trips. It's also measured in bizarre experiences, new friendships, startling and breathtaking sites, moments of peace, clarity, and understanding, being held hostage by airport officials, and, of course, lots and lots of bug bites. For me, I've had it all. In the first three days.

Tom Crompton and I arrived safely in Bissau, Guinea-Bissau, what seems like two or three weeks ago. The four-hour flight from Lisbon, Portugal, was unlike any other I've been on. Most of the passengers were Africans, and they didn't waste their time quietly sitting in their seats. No, I should of known that a culture grounded in community would treat a plane flight less like a plane flight and more like a an evening on the front porch. Many people stood in the narrow isles for up to an hour at a time as I'm sure very frustrated stewardesses squeezed their way through. There was plenty of chatter all around me. The Frenchman sitting next to me didn't speak English, but between my broken Spanish and his slight understanding of Spanish, and a map of the world found in a flight magazine, we were able to have a decent conversation about world travels.

At the airport in Bissau (Guinea-Bissau's capital), we had the choice of going through one of three lines: Residents, Strangers, or Visitors. Almost everyone stood in the Strangers line, but we wondered if we were supposed to go through the much shorter Visitors line. So Tom and I went up the booth (of sorts) and a man came up to us and took our passports, looking official. He told us to grab our luggage and he'll handle our visa stamps. I didn't feel good about letting this guy wander off with our passports in his pocket, so I told Tom I would keep an eye on him while he grabbed the bags. About 10 minutes later I asked him for our passports back. He refused, and said he'd give them to us after the Strangers crowd got through. When that happened, he motioned me into a room off to the side, where I caught the end of what I was sure was a bribery transaction with some obviously reluctant and unhappy travelers. The travelers were paying cash. In return they got their passports back. I knew what was coming.

Tom was still looking for our bags, and he had no idea I was in this room. As soon a the man stamped and signed our passports, I snatched them off the table and put them in my back pocket. He and his cohort weren't happy about that. They said I had to pay 50 Euros as a "fee." Conveniently, I also had the option of paying U.S. $80 instead. I told them I didn't have any money and needed to talk to Tom. They got frustrated and told me to leave my passports with them and come back with the money. I said no. When I tried to walk out, the airport official blocked my exit. Eventually they closed and locked the door to the small room. This was not a good thing, I thought. I considered just paying the bribe. But for some reason, I wasn't too worried, and prayer for wisdom helped. We argued for probably 20 minutes. I told them all I had was 5 Euros, and I'd be willing to hand that over. It wasn't enough for them. One of the guys kept pointing to the other guy and said, "This is a cop, like in America. He is a police officer. You have to pay a fee." Finally, Tom found a guard who escorted him to the office. After another five minutes of arguing, the airport officials let us go, suddenly deciding that the visa form Tom had gave us an exception to the 50 Euro fee. It saved them face. And it got us on our way.

We were picked up by a middle-aged man named Tom Tourville, who has lived in the missionary house in Canchungo for the last two months helping out the FLAME ministry. Also there to pick us up were Joel, the 23-year-old son of Pastor Chenda, who works closely with FLAME, and Joel's girlfriend and her younger brother. The six of us crammed into the car and drove 1 ½ hours to Canchungo. As my first sites of Africa passed by through the view of the car window, the sudden feeling of awe and amazement that I remember so well from when I visited Iraq came rushing back. Seeing a little-known corner of the world is a startling experience, and it's hard to describe. You feel more alive and aware then at any other time. In a way, everything around you is so foreign, yet it is very real.

Canchungo. A population of only 10,000 – yet a hub for surrounding villages. It's town square is a large, dusty traffic circle. There are no paved roads here. But there are lots of bumps and holes. The people are everywhere. No one stays in their homes all day. They mingle and linger as soon as the weather cools in the evening. Before dawn, they are out in the sea-fed river that borders Canchungo fishing in their canoes. This town is everything America is not. It's impoverished. It's centered around community. It's dusty and undeveloped. It's a startling contrast of modern and ancient. It's thatch huts and cell phones.

I have been living in the plush, solar-powered, three-bedroom missionary house for FLAME. If you can get past the biting ants, small cockroaches, big spiders, cold showers, unrelenting heat, limited water and power supply, cement floor, dogs that bark all night long, and lack of a microwave, it's not too bad. The pros: You're in the middle of a remote African town. Amazing right there. The night sky is beautiful, the people are as warm as the sunny afternoons, the river-front view is captivating, and the food – fresh fish, salads, potato and meat soup – is great. The boxed American supplies in the storage room don't compare.

There is so much more to write about. But it is almost midnight and at 7 tomorrow morning we will travel to Bissau where hopefully I will be able to post this blog using the ultra-slow Internet connections at a Cyber Cafe. (If you are reading this, I was successful).

Please keep Tom and I in your prayers.

Seattle, Amsterdam, Lisbon ... and still not in Africa

After checking in to the Raddison hotel in Lisbon, Portugal, earlier this afternoon, I had a strange sense of deja vu: complete exhaustion. Yes, I remember when I last felt that way... when I traveled 10 hours from Detroit to Amman this past fall. Day and night blend together and all sense of time is gone. All you know is that you're really really tired. At the hotel, Tom and I took a short nap and when we woke up, we felt even more tired. But also hungry. So we went out to find food.

Our Lisbon hotel is only a few minutes from the airport and within walking distance of the Lisbon stadium, which also includes a food court, a theater, and ... a grocery store. Catch a game, buy some milk, all in one stop. We ate at Ranch Burger, and I made the mistake of ordering the "Classico" burger and a small drink. I learned the lesson of the amateur traveller: U.S. food portions are much, much larger than the rest of the world. So instead of getting a Whopper, I got like a mini Whopper Jr. and a kiddie cup drink. But it was food.

During our five-hour layover in Amsterdam, I was supposed to meet up with my cousin, Laura, who was passing through the airport as well on her way back to Seattle. But after scouring the entire airport -- and despite the fact she was apparantly wearing golden ribbons and braided hair -- I couldn't find her. I got to know the airport pretty well though.

Well, I'm exhausted. Thanks for all your guys' optimism about my malaria prospects. Tomorrow morning Tom and I will travel to Bissau. It will be my first day ever stepping foot in Africa.