Like a winding river wrapping through dense jungle with all it’s subsidiaries, creeks and brooks stemming from it along the way, the washed out mountain roads of dirt and rock here in our village, break into smaller trails of daily swept orange dirt that lead to the simple homes of simple people.  Built on the foundations of over a thousand years tradition and local unearthed rock, the walls of many are not more than wet and dried and hardened soil smashed as an almost ancient mortar between a web of skinny, disjointed sticks.  Within these walls dwells the workhorse of a continent and the beating hearts of babus and bebes, babas and mamas, dadas and kakas, all whose daily routine revolve around a lifestyle of manual labor necessary for survival.  As an American walking on distant and foreign soil, I naturally first see the decay and weathered holes of exposed wood in these walls.  I see coca-cola bottle caps pressed into the mud.  I see the passed off, old shirts and pants that do not qualify as American rags in our thrift stores as the cherished drapes that block the harsh sun from the inner chambers of these homes.  Three weeks immersed and I have been granted vision to see past the American garbage that stuffs these home made walls.

I do not see walls of primitive construction in desperate need of repair by the savior concrete of the western world that were the images my American eyes initially betrayed me with.  I see walls that are weathered and cracked but I now see that these walls are as warm and strong as the dark black African hands that fabricated them from the earth. Warmth and beauty grow here, as tall and mighty as the baobab or the acacia trees.   Pride and nationalism resonate from the voices that greet each other on the streets here.  Although curious and ignorant, the eyes of youth submit with respect.  There is sincerity in the welcome of an elder, cordially declaring that you are their grandchild.  There is love for family here and love for God.  This is a spiritual land with spiritual citizens.  It is these ingredients that comprise the walls of every humble home here and that is why they stand today and will continue to tomorrow.          

Africa is not without problems as the rest of the world is not either.  Africa is not helpless, however because Africans are not helpless.  May we never solicit a perception of this place as one in need of a messiah from the West to others, or subscribe to the typical American stereotypes of a poor and wretched African culture that are advertised and sold to us daily.  May we see both sides of the schilling and open our eyes to pain paired with happiness and long suffering married to the profound and redemptive strength that saturates the air here.  Africa strong and Africa bold, this is the Africa I have come to know.   

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