The Life Bush Life of Rural International Workers

"We were poling our way through the outpost country, a country of lonely, isolated farms, of messages that never arrive or arrive too late, of sudden sickness and inexplicable fevers and death, of snakes and bugs and downpours of rain, of loneliness, of women living and working alone all day in hacked-out jungle clearings, hauling water in gourds, pounding clothes on rocks, caring for sickly children, worrying. It was a country of distances, separations, longing, of deferred dreams, of small rewards; of muddy trails, stumbling horses, plants that grow two feet a day and choke the crops, armies of ants, blood-sucking lice on the bodies and in the eyes of the livestock. It is heroic country, too.

But when you ask yourself why anyone would live here, completely cut off from the world of comfort and security, there is no easy answer. Perhaps it is man's deepest wish to struggle against great odds, or perhaps the answer lies in that little band of grandchildren swarming around Don Julio. Maybe it is all for them."
(Living Poor: Peace Corps Chronicle. Moritz Thomsen. Pg 107. Rio Verde, Ecuador)

Africa Taxi Man - Do You Remember Me As I Remember You?

  In February, 2006, I was in Mali, West Africa, researching the Bankagooma people for the first time. Today, December 31 2011, on the New Years Eve to 2012, I am here, living and working in Mali, about to move among the Banka people.  I want to tell you a story back when it all started..... I first published this in 2006...I'll add the story here.

After days of exhausting village research 600 Km east of Bamako, I made the long bus trek back to the capital city. With some time to kill, I had an adventure in mind. So I quickly found a place to eat and began to set the adventure in motion. I waved to a dilapidated piece of junk, it's referred to as a taxi in West Africa, that had fenders and door panels that flapped like wings. I was not totally certain whether I should get into this rust can or not. But the driver gave me a reserved smile.

I threw caution to the wind and said to the taxi man; “I will give you 5000 cfa ($11) to let me sit in the taxi with you as you pick up other clients. I would like to see every corner of the city, and drive with you all day”. He smiled and waved for me to get in the front seat. That was the first of many conversations with him smiling and nodding, but not really understanding much of what I said, because of his sparse French ability; he only spoke Bamabra. However, I did get to see every back corner of the City of Bamako, and crossed the famous Niger River 5-6 times.

Mali taxi man eventually took me to meet his son at the moto shop where he worked as a mechanic. A quick stop to greet and meet his uncle at a road side shop. Later, I was taken to meet his sister and her children. More clients picked up and dropped off in various alleyways, all over the city, and then a trip home to introduce me to his wife and kids. 

Twenty stops on the road to meet and greet other friends we happened to encounter, and conversations with everyone he picked up along the way, as well. I kind of felt a little like a freak show. But on the other hand it was just what I came to Mali for – the people. It was nice. I smiled and gave genuinely sincere greetings, and warm thanks to each person to whom I was “presented”. I was very touched.

This taxi man did not know this strange white guy, yet he saw fit to share his time and use his expensive gas to take me home to meet every person he loved and cherished most. This Malian taxi driver did not merely give me a ride, he gave me part of his life. I had received something significantly more precious than the gas money I gave him. 

We separated, and there I was standing on the side of the road, having graciously been given a mind full of memories, and a heart full of mixed emotions. I was genuinely touched by this mans gesture. A precious man, who's name I don't even remember, so in my prayers I simply refer to him as "The Malian Taxi Man". How I would love to spend more time sharing life with this Muslim man. Over the years since, I wonder if this Malian taxi man even remembers me? Does he remember the day he took this unknown Canadian to those he loves? I can't help but remember him, and what he did for me. I will never forget him the rest of my life.

Things Are Meant For Use!

I want to tell you about an old friend I had in my College days. I never saw him again after the day he left college. My Sister kept in touch with George some. I wish I had done the same. However, it's too late now. George died expectantly at the age of 43 a few years ago.

George was a typical “take life as it is” person from Cape Breton. I remember the day I bought my first brand new car – a shiny deep red 1990 Volkswagen Jetta with a 1.5L Diesel that got 55 miles to the gallon. I took the new jewel over to the student center and told George what I had done. Grinning ear to ear, he said; Let’s go to Tim’s for a coffee and try it out”. We climbed back into the fresh new smelling car and drove to Tim Horton’s for coffee and muffins.

We ordered, and George came out swinging his coffee cup and coffee was running down the sides of the cup as usual. He got into my new car and set the dripping coffee cup down on my new dash, with the coffee drops running in every direction. I bit my tongue. George then opened his muffin bag and took out the first muffin and tossed it up on the dash with crumbs flying everywhere, including down the defrost vent, and then proceeded to peal the paper off the second muffin. I finally blew! “George, take it easy on my new car will ya!”, I said. He looked at me and snorted; “What? Got a new car now and you can’t even use it?”
George was right. We enjoyed the old car better because we did not care so much how clean or dirty it was. We just did what guys do and enjoyed "out" time.

I know my friend George had a hard life. But you know, he taught me what it meant to value friends, and enjoy your day as it comes. Life, people, are more important than things.
I needed to be reminded of this more. Things are meant to be used, people are not.

Oh, Baby Baby!

My Fried George Smith died in his mid 40's, in the fall of 2008. I want to share a few stories about him.

While we were attending College, “Oh, Baby Baby!” was the phrase George would say to a passing flock of good looking young ladies in the mall. I use to die of embarrassment every time.

You have to understand George. George could not whisper. He was a jolly short big man, with a deep voice. When he said something, everyone heard. However George was convinced that the flocks of young ladies NEVER heard him say; “Oh baby baby!” Let me tell you they almost ALWAYS heard. George was always a free spirit, and not very self conscious about much. I liked that about him.

The College we attended was in my young brides home town. My greatest fear became this; Being introduced to some 21 year old friend of Lynn’s from earlier days, and having this young lady remember or recognize me as the guy who “Oh Baby Babied” them in the mall. Guilt by association – know what I mean?

How many times had I made George promise he would not do this? Before I would agree to go to the mall with him I would threaten him about it every time. However, “Oh, Baby Baby!” would slip out of this training preachers mouth at the most embarrassing times. I realize he meant nothing insulting by it. He was just saying to himself, so he thought, they were pretty and God creates some very nice things in this world. But they always heard him say it to "himself", and it was wearing thin with me.

One day George “Oh Baby Babied” a group of 4-5 young ladies passing by. Immediately after the young ladies passed by I elbowed George, HARD, and said; “George, will you please lay off? They hear you saying it every time.”

Right out loud George bellows; “What? They did not hear me say Oh, Baby Baby! What are you elbowing me for?”

I said; “Yes they did hear George, they are looking at us right now”

The 4-5 young women had already stopped 10 feet away, turned around, and were laughing as I chewed out my friend for “Oh, Baby Babying” them, and giggling as George insisted at full volume that they did not hear him “Oh Baby Baby” them, and that I had no right to elbow him.

I have often found myself using this phrase very endearingly for my wife over the years. She knows the story behind it, and she likes the sentiment I give with it as well. When I know she needs a compliment, when I just "notice" her, or maybe she asks me how a new outfit looks; at times there is only one phrase that really says how I feel. I say to her; "Oh Baby, Baby!" and she smiles a big grin back. When I haul that phrase out, she knows full well that I really really mean it.

My Friend Steve Was Killed in Africa!

I received a shocking call from Africa today. A friend of ours, about 35 yrs old was killed in Northern Nigeria. Steve Rehn had interned with us in Abengourou, Ivory Coast in 1997. A fun loving adventurous young man. But a passion for people, for Africa, and for languages. He LOVED Africa. Africa got into his blood like it does for so many of us who work there. It kind of messes you up for life.

Anyway, we moved back to Canada and Steve eventually married and he and his Nikki moved back to good old Abengourou for few years, and then on to Cameroon for two years as well. There he help with national Bible translation projects while Nikki taught in a Mission Kid school.
Steve and Nikki eventually moved back to Calgary. However, Steve kept going on short term teaching trips almost every year. Steve was in Burkina Faso this  August- September, helping with some training, and decided to vacation in Africa after the work was done.
He decided to biking all the way from Burkina- through Niger, Northern Nigeria and then down into Cameroon, to his old stomping grounds. A 3000km bike trip in all.

Anyway, I got a call from a friend in Ivory Coast named Damon Jones. He asked if we knew anything about Steve. I guess the African bush wire was hot, and the news spread  and hopped and was alive with news they had heard that Steve had been killed in an accident in Northern Nigeria.

I was shell shocked, but I immediately called Steve's parents, Rick and Linn, in Calgary today. Steve's Dad answered and confirmed that Steve was supposedly killed by a car hitting him on his bike while riding in northern in Nigeria, 11 days ago between Sept 26 an 28th. They where just informed by the Canadian embassy in Nigeria yesterday, October 8th.

A Team from the Canadian Embassy is dispatched and was on their way to the north. The local Nigerian police station did not have any phone and none of the police wanted to use their own personal cell phones to call the Capital to inform the Canadian Embassy they had a Canadian on hand.

Rick and Linn decided not to fly over, as the Embassy is sending people up to see what is going on. Anyway, the family is expecting a call soon. They will know more what to do, then.

Steve covered about 1500 miles on his trip to date. But I know he made it the whole way to heaven in an instant.

Africa was made a better place because of people like Steve. Heaven will be all the richer as well for receiving a great servant. I will miss Steve Rehn very much.

My Sympathy to his wife Nikki, to his his Mom and Dad (who stayed with us on Prince Edward Island before) and all his family.
http://justaboutcrazy.blogspot.com/

Link to Steve's Blog

Memories of Steve www Site Link http://memoriesofsteve.com/

Long Live Canadian Imperialism!

Well someone had the great idea of introducing the Canadian Beaver into wild Russia. And surprisingly they adapted well. Too well! They are damming up the whole country it seems. Causing massive problems. In response to the news as delivered in Maclean's mag, two people rote in- WAY to FUNNY read Both. The second is priceless. Long Live Canadian Imperialism!

BEAVERS ON THE MARCH
"NATIONAL PRIDE swelled inside me and my hand went over my heart when I read Malcolm Gray’s story about Canadian beavers chomping their way across Russia (Ivan, what’s that chewing sound? Nature, July 28). Our imperialist little rodents are can’ing a legacy worthy of us putting them on our nickels. I am sure it is not funny for the Finns, Russians and Argentineans, but it does show our beavers are the best. All hail the mighty Canadian beaver and its conquering of the world.
Glen Davis, Carleton Place, Ont."

THANKS FOR the article on the pesky Canadian beaver threatening Moscow. Do you think they’re onto us? All over the world Canucks meet in clandestine corners plotting how we can take over the world using beavers. Phase one: Moscow and Argentina. Phase two: Washington, London and Madrid. After that, the most devastating. Phase three: we clip the flight feathers of Canada geese and place them in downtown parks in foreign cities. Soon Canadian icons will be everywhere. Today, the Great White North, tomorrow, the world! Owen Thornton, London, Ont.

(Maclean’s, August 18^th,2008, Comments )

Jewels in an African's Crown

Kuadio Ambrose's face slowly turned into a smile that became a full grin as all the men began to sing together for the evening worship. So did mine, for I had forgotten the power with which my African brothers sing. When these men sing at night, they sing loud. I am sure the whole village could hear us as I chocked back tears of joy.

This was the beginning of a week long meeting where we were to plan our strategy for the next year. We sing every night for 5 nights while we ate and slept together in the village of Adou.

Kuadio Ambrose is a single man who lives 8 km in the woods from the nearest village (Adjame is 40 km in the bush from a paved road), where he works his fields all week. His small mud house by his fields is referred to as a "campement". Kuadio Ambrose walks 8 km each way to Adjame to lead a group of people every week.

He was almost in tears that night when he gave these words to his brothers near the end of the evening.

“What have I got back home? I go out to the campement and there’s nobody there. I work all day in the field and I come home to nobody. I walk 8 km to the village, and I walk 8 km back home at night, and what do I have to look forward to when I get home? But when I am together with my brothers and sing like this, it encourages my heart.”

Brother Kudaio Amboise, I’m praying for you today out there in that nameless bush where you scratch a living. You encourage my heart too. When I think of all you do, with what little you have been given, and for the little thanks you receive for doing it, brother, I know your crown will have many more jewels than mine, fand you deserve them most.

See you there brother!