Dalaba musings

The wind whispers to me, combing long fingers through the hair that falls free outside my hammock.

I have kicked off my shoes, let down the tight ponytail, and lifted my face with the morning glories to be kissed by the sunshine from a cloudless sky.  The trees are telling secrets, and I hear a contentment in their voice that echoes my own heart.  It is easy to worship God in such a place, to be still and listen, tucked away and hidden in this secret overlook far above the patchwork valleys and behind the blue mountains.

I first went to Dalaba in November - a brief stop with the team during our screening trip.  It was a peaceful evening and beautiful.  The boys killed chickens and built a fire, while Melodee and I made rice and sauce and chai.  Only one evening, but it allowed us to breathe and just enjoy God's creation, a needed break in the rhythm of hope and heartbreak that is patient screening.

I had a vague idea of where we were going in January, having been there once before.  Following the vision of mountains and cool forests that floated on woodsmoke through my heart, my roommate Heather and I set out on the beginnings of an adventure.

Five hours later, we were still in Conakry.  The popular method of transport here is public taxi, with 9 or more complete strangers packed into a small car and their belongings piled high under a fishnet on top, with stops only to add or let off passengers, for prayers, or the occasional food.  

With a foot planted on the door handle, our driver climbed past me onto the room and our taxi began rocking violently as chicken feathers and small pieces of poop flew through the window in a dusty cloud.  10 minutes later the last piece of fishnet was secure and we were on our way.

It was a long sunny weekend full of peace.  The monkeys chattered and swung overhead as we read and wrote in the hammock or took long quiet walks looking for waterfalls, and the crickets sang at night while the thick blankets of starts danced and we built fires to ward off the evening chill.  There was space to think and pray and listen.

A few months later I was back on the road to Dalaba again, held up at the police checkpoint while an officer frowned at our driver's dubious papers and asked us for advice on his gastroesophageal reflux.  We trekked through dusty villages and mountain forests, feasted on rice and sauce, or crusty street bread and avocados and sweet wild mangos, caught baby goats, and gloried in God's creation.  We may have also shared our beds with some local creatures, as the first night we were graced with mosquitos and bedbugs and and spiders and something dead in the wall (I don't know what), and the second night I industriously swept mouse poop off our bed by headlamp and hoped the culprit would not come nest in our hair as we slept.                                                                                      

 Dalaba and the surrounding mountains and villages have been a much needed adventure in simplicity.  A much needed time simply to rest and enjoy with friends, or trek from village to sand mine to forest in a relief of finally having somewhere to go and go and go for miles without running out of deck space and stairs and falling into the sea.

 I came home thankful - in our packed taxi with a wealth of mangos at my feet and avocados falling on my head, with the chickens scrabbling on the trunk behind and my face covered in dirt and sweat and truck exhaust.  Thankful for peace, for beauty, for space to hike and good friends to share it with... and thankful for a very large freezer to kill all the small things that might have tried to come home in our backpacks.