Mercy Ship log. Date 05-17-11.
Bunce Island, West Africa's Largest Slave Castle
Such a tiny little island. Such tippy little canoes that brought us there. Such tiny episodes of barfing fits our crew had after the trip. (though by the grace of God and Bee's hand-sanitizer, Liz and I narrowly escaped the onslaught of sickness). Yes, such was our incredible trip to Bunce Island!
Upon waking up extra early to a pre-made breakfast that Liz and I had stored, we smushed the entire group into three Landrovers. These magnificent vehicles--called by Top Gear, "The worst car... in the world"--took us over a mountain road that should not even been walkable. Ryan, The Crazy Man, handled the sputtering hulk of oil and gears like a true South Africa matador. I had no doubt in my right mind we would stay on all four wheels, however the left half of my mind was screaming, "IF
THAT TAXI DOESN'T KILL YOU, YOUR HEAD HITTING THE ROOF WILL!" This little voice was quickly silenced as we relaxed onto smooth, bright red dirt roads. We buzzed down these tangled roads, traveling deeper and deeper into Sierra Leone's jungles. I never thought I'd see the stereotypical African woman standing in the middle of a blackened, slash-and-burned field, raising her smiling face in time to see our entourage being chased by the village children all smiling and screaming one word. That word either meant, "White people! White people!" or "Your vehicle is falling apart! Your vehicle is falling apart!" Every image was worthy of National Geographic.
We pulled into a tiny fishing village with brightly colored canoes pulled up onto the beach. Eventually we were loaded into these boats. Because we had to quickly counter-lean in the opposite direction that the tippy canoes would tilt, our abs by the end of the boat ride were nice and tight. The fellows who paddled looked like they had worked out since they were 1.
We skipped across the blue waters and landed on a squat island, barely big enough for a castle, which evidently there once was one. This was Bunce Island.
Bunce Island was known as the largest slaving fortress in West Africa. A staggering number of Africans were captured and herded like cattle (and treated far worse) by their own countrymen, ultimately to be sold as slaves to plantations in the Carolinas. Now what remained of this gloomy place were leaning stone walls now having the tables turned and relying on the vines to be held up. Liz and I wasted no time walking hiking and exploring the vicinity. We found a long row of canons--still in position, pointed out toward the open waters. We found doorways and windows that had once held either beautiful stained glass for the visiting ship captains or iron bars that kept freedom out. It was hard to tell exactly what the purpose of each building was.
The expanse of the facility was quite impressive, and what was more odd was we had free reign over the entire place. If back in the states we visited ruins that were 290 years old, I strongly
doubt they would let us freely walk around it. I felt prepared to somberly and reverently walk through these ruins, mentally comparing what we were about to see to Auschwitz. The ruins were just that though... ruins. Ruins that were slowly being swallowed up by a powerful jungle. Though to be fair, the emotional disconnect I felt probably would not be shared with an African American. They really could do so much with this place.
Nonetheless, the vacant wells (VERY DEEP), the crumbling graveyard, and the dungeons filled with hundreds of screeching bats made the trip very worthwhile. I stooped down and stood in the bat infested dungeon long enough for one to swoop by my ear, another crawl over my sandal, and still another politely introduce himself as Clive. Then I was out of there. It was perhaps the spookiest place I've gone, and definitely one of the most unsanitary. However I can guarantee you that you would never get malaria in that dungeon. Ever.
We ate our lunches on the beach with about 10 local boatmen staring at us. Privacy is just something you don't get in third world countries. I drank my Iron Brew ("South Africa's favorite soda") and Liz, after finishing her Diet Pepsi, finally conceded to giving the obviously empty can to a kid who was pestering her for it. She even shook it upside down to show him that there was nothing left. He took it, smiled thankfully, observed for himself that there was nothing in the can, and nonchalantly threw it in the brush. Liz gave him the wrinkled neck look, picked it up, and put it in her pack.
On the way back the heat was very intense and I was quite thirsty. So being the wise white man that I was, I politely asked the boatman behind me if he needed a hand paddling as I had astutely observed there was an extra paddle under my seat. I think he thought I was telling him a joke because both he and the canoe owner ("Mustafa") (not kidding) laughed so hard the boat nearly tipped. I think my paddling lasted about as long as one of the fishing village's 2 year old girls. My shoulders burned so bad, but I was digging a lot of water... I refused to Phantom Paddle! I was also quite determined to get heat stroke. I kept at it for a half hour, pausing to catch my breath every 5 minutes, to which each time th
is occurred the man behind me slapped me on the back and yelled, "ALMO THERE!"
When we stumbled into the beach where our SUVs were parked we took lots of pictures and paid for our trip (35,000 leone per person). My exhaustion improved when we started driving again and the cool, dusty wind swept through the vehicle. Then it rained. A lot. FYI for the Land Rovers manufacturer (if you are still in business), your vehicles are not watertight.
Then the road magically switched from a running creek back to a dry dusty road again and back we traveled through Grafton to Freetown to our floating homestead. Evidently a few of the crew members got pretty sick the day after. Poor Joe barfed 20 times, but he was talking normally the next day. I'm sure at some point I will stumble into a bug that will wreak havoc on my tummy, but for now thank God everyone's feeling better.
As for work, I've been putting in 8-10 hour days in attempt to get on track with my responsibilities. Things are making a lot more sense compared to a week ago. I'm still in the dark regarding a few aspects, mostly administrative tasks... how things are organized, labeled, and stored. You know when you're having trouble with a math problem, and you tell your teacher you don't understand? That teacher's response is almost always, "Well what part do you not understand?" When it's the whole administrative process from beginning to end, what do you say? You identify the chain of command, humbly ask as many questions as possible, and proactively hit the ground running. I guess it's just that I come from an atypical background. I know my stuff very well, I get things done fast and with good--often different-looking--results, but I do it slightly differently and using different terminology. It must be very difficult to run an organization run by volunteers because they all do things according to their own personal little agendas and experience (e.g. "I can't work like that. I've always done it this way."). You can't necessarily fire anyone... not because they're volunteers but because they're in the middle of Africa. ("Okay clean out your desk. Here's your water jug.") (!) But no seriously, one thing I've observed with Mercy Ships and their volunteers is everyone is extremely skilled at what they do, even if they do come from different backgrounds. It definitely is an elite program and crew, all doing it for Jesus, and because of that there's a huge impact. Simply walking through the streets, people will shout and pester you until one of them whispers "Marcy Sheeps." They all get a lot more respectful.
P.s. I know Auschwitz was meant for different purposes, but I can't get over how good "The African Auschwitz" sounds. Just creepy! And yes! I coined it!
