Ferry Ride 
Greeted by the Local Children 
Giving Testimony at a Local Church 
The Outside of the Local Church 
Sunday the 20th, I was scheduled to preach in some small, remote village only reachable by ferry, while bringing along about four others with me. The day began quite differently than a normal Sunday when the on-board church coordinator handed us money for the taxi and ferry ride, a map, and an address. We began by walking up the (what became after a week of exploring) familiar dirt road looking to catch a taxi at the busy intersection. After a short wait, the surprisingly street legal van stopped by to pick us up to go to the ferry terminal. Because so many people utilize the water transportation, we were herded on like cattle before heading to the very top of the 3 decks. The bottom deck was for vehicles and people who wished to only stand, 2nd deck reserved for first class (who were treated to vinyl seating and a big fan for air circulation), and 3rd deck for "coach". Making our way to the top, we were greeted with open air preaching before the ship left the dock. When he was finished, a comedian took the PA system, trying to earn some extra change, and he was followed by an open Muslim preacher. An hour after we left, the ship docked at the other side and most people literally ran off to get the first taxis available, with us slowly taking our sweet time.
Walking up the dirt street in an area I've never visited before was a bit intimidating at first, but after about 50 different kids came running up to the street from their homes joyfully shouting "Oipito" to us, the worries seemed to dissipate. I found out later that Oipito means "white man" in their native tongue, which some children have never seen before in their lives. After aimlessly walking around about and speaking to locals with our map and address, we soon realized that the church we were looking for doesn't even exist! Moving on to plan "B", we stumbled into some random church way off the beaten path that was lined with metal and had a roof made of sticks. The pastor, although surprised to see us (not every day 6 white people stumble into African villages?) welcomed us to worship with them. Power of Pentecost (or P.O.P) was one of only two churches in the entire area because it is mainly Muslim. Even though I didn't have to preach, I still went to the front during "open speaking time" and explained the story about the ship and what we do as missionaries; the people who were still awake seemed quite interested!
When church ended, the pastor, elders, and those in charge invited us to the front to chat. We were shortly welcomed with cold drinks, or what I call: One of the greatest gifts to receive in an African summer. Remembering back to the Caribbean and how people served such exotic fruit drinks, my mind was curious on what variety of drink would be way out in the middle of Sierra Leone...and could I even stomach it? I saw a brown paper bag approach with condensation sweat covering the bottom. By this time I would drink almost anything that wouldn't kill me because of the extent of my thirst. The pastor flashed me a nice grin and pulled out cold cans of Coke, Sprite, and orange Fanta. I reached for the Fanta; haven't had one of those since Phoenix. The first thing that came to my mind was that I was possibly in the only location that had a hotter summer than home; the second was that Fanta is better when you're in West Africa for some strange reason.
We wrapped up the friendly chats and the men took us around the village for a rather pleasant tour while all the children (One in four die before the age of 3 and the average age in Sierra Leone is 18yrs old) made us feel like celebrities. The way they lived was absolutely fascinating; completely self sustained by their various skills. Continuing through the bush, we came up to a closed Islamic community with a Chief unwilling to let the white ones pass, and after some explaining who we actually were by our "tour" guides (some tribes are afraid that the white man will come in and take over their land), the Chief let us walk through the community; perhaps we were the first foreigners ever to do so judging by the look on the people's faces. Soon we made it on the ferry again, taking us back into Freetown. After speaking to the coordinator on the ship, it turns out the originally scheduled church never "confirmed" our visit before we ventured out there. I wasn't too upset though, because the day ended up being very exciting.
A few days later, I was paged from the engine room to go up to the book fair where all the daily visitors are, because a local asked for me. Standing there was the pastor and his staff of men from the church just a few days earlier. I rushed upstairs to grab a few others who joined me that Sunday and brought them down to once again see the friendly church leaders and took them on a personal tour of the Logos Hope. Seems like usually when something doesn't go "to my plan", the end result is more memorable than I could ever imagine.
Memories that will indeed last a lifetime.
Walking up the dirt street in an area I've never visited before was a bit intimidating at first, but after about 50 different kids came running up to the street from their homes joyfully shouting "Oipito" to us, the worries seemed to dissipate. I found out later that Oipito means "white man" in their native tongue, which some children have never seen before in their lives. After aimlessly walking around about and speaking to locals with our map and address, we soon realized that the church we were looking for doesn't even exist! Moving on to plan "B", we stumbled into some random church way off the beaten path that was lined with metal and had a roof made of sticks. The pastor, although surprised to see us (not every day 6 white people stumble into African villages?) welcomed us to worship with them. Power of Pentecost (or P.O.P) was one of only two churches in the entire area because it is mainly Muslim. Even though I didn't have to preach, I still went to the front during "open speaking time" and explained the story about the ship and what we do as missionaries; the people who were still awake seemed quite interested!
When church ended, the pastor, elders, and those in charge invited us to the front to chat. We were shortly welcomed with cold drinks, or what I call: One of the greatest gifts to receive in an African summer. Remembering back to the Caribbean and how people served such exotic fruit drinks, my mind was curious on what variety of drink would be way out in the middle of Sierra Leone...and could I even stomach it? I saw a brown paper bag approach with condensation sweat covering the bottom. By this time I would drink almost anything that wouldn't kill me because of the extent of my thirst. The pastor flashed me a nice grin and pulled out cold cans of Coke, Sprite, and orange Fanta. I reached for the Fanta; haven't had one of those since Phoenix. The first thing that came to my mind was that I was possibly in the only location that had a hotter summer than home; the second was that Fanta is better when you're in West Africa for some strange reason.
We wrapped up the friendly chats and the men took us around the village for a rather pleasant tour while all the children (One in four die before the age of 3 and the average age in Sierra Leone is 18yrs old) made us feel like celebrities. The way they lived was absolutely fascinating; completely self sustained by their various skills. Continuing through the bush, we came up to a closed Islamic community with a Chief unwilling to let the white ones pass, and after some explaining who we actually were by our "tour" guides (some tribes are afraid that the white man will come in and take over their land), the Chief let us walk through the community; perhaps we were the first foreigners ever to do so judging by the look on the people's faces. Soon we made it on the ferry again, taking us back into Freetown. After speaking to the coordinator on the ship, it turns out the originally scheduled church never "confirmed" our visit before we ventured out there. I wasn't too upset though, because the day ended up being very exciting.
A few days later, I was paged from the engine room to go up to the book fair where all the daily visitors are, because a local asked for me. Standing there was the pastor and his staff of men from the church just a few days earlier. I rushed upstairs to grab a few others who joined me that Sunday and brought them down to once again see the friendly church leaders and took them on a personal tour of the Logos Hope. Seems like usually when something doesn't go "to my plan", the end result is more memorable than I could ever imagine.
Memories that will indeed last a lifetime.
