NGolala Village

It seemed fake – the first time we walked into the village of NGolala [pronounced Guala]. Because it was really that – a village in the middle of Sierra Leone, Africa. Just like photos I’ve seen and movies I’ve watched, here it was right before our eyes and all around us. Across a road, down a narrow dirt pathway and through the jungle is how you get to NGolala Village from the COTN property. With Sarah as our guide, we made our way down the stone staircase to the stream that passes at the entrance to NGolala. Nestled in the middle of bush and trees and thick jungle are more than 50 homes made of mud, sticks and thatch roofs. They are scattered here and there – some close to one another, others at a distance. Little dirt pathways lead to this section of houses and that section. We are greeted by children carrying water from the stream up to their homes for cooking, washing or drinking. They smile at us and greet “Aunty Sarah,” water dripping down their faces and arms – their little bodies full of muscle. We stop at each home to greet each family, cooking women or a grandmother sitting on the porch, lest we leave anyone out. “Buah” [hello], they say to us and “Buah, bicea,” we answer back, hoping we’re pronouncing the words correctly. We shake hands; we smile; we laugh together when neither one of us can speak to the other very well. And yet, we recognize that both sides want to know more about the other.

Here, life seems so basic – its about working to get enough food for your family to eat that day, cooking it and keeping the house running by washing clothes, cleaning the home and raising the children. Sleep comes when its dark, on the reed mat spread out on the dirt floor and under the thatch roof. The early sun awakens everyone for another day. There are distractions in life here, sure, but they are very different than our Western distractions of TV, media, social commitments and everything else that flashes before our eyes each moment at home. Here, life is just a lot more basic – simple. The reliance on God also seems a lot more evident here because the people must trust in Him to literally survive – for their next meal, a job, protection. We in the U.S., we can pretty easily rely on ourselves for all the essentials in life. This, at times, might also make it easier for us to just push God out of the picture.

We continue through the village – trying to take it all in. To grasp the different way of life right before us. When we shake hands with people, there is a genuine look in their eyes that we don’t always see at home – a warmness in their voice that sparks our curiosities – Why do they care so much that we’re here? Why are they so happy to greet us? Why so welcoming to strangers of another color?

We left that day trying to make sense of the jungle village that we saw and the many hard-working people we’d met. Life here is so very different.

Aunty Chris

Scott says the difference between African food and American food is the amount of love that goes into African food – the time that goes into preparing it and the tedious detail that each ingredient is given to make it taste just right. Although, we are spoiled here in Sierra Leone. We have Auntie Christiana – or fondly known as Aunty Chris – as our personal cook for our two months here. Not only does this woman love to cook, she is a professional – trained in culinary school. And, she’s very used to cooking for Americans. She even owns an American cookbook. She’s simply amazing – her ability in a kitchen (without an oven, mind you) is hard for us prim and proper Americans to understand. Scott explains the whole situation as “camping all the time.”

I sit outside in the kitchen area now as the wind blows softly through and watch Aunty Chris make spaghetti sauce. Chickens peck by along with a rooster here and there as young boys bring water they’ve pumped from the nearby well – their bulging muscles showing the work they’ve done. Aunty Chris sits on a crate outside the kitchen, which is a separate room behind the house we’re staying in. She cuts the carrots and green beans, she checks on the black-eyes beans she’s prepared and sets a cover on the cake she has baked as a surprise for us tonight. How she makes a cake without an oven is still a mystery to us, yet we’re delighted to taste it and will shower her with compliments tonight. Nancy is Aunty Chris’ helper – we tease the 15-year-old that she’s in a one-student culinary school. Nancy takes direction from Auntie and grinds the garlic, cuts open the tomato paste cans and mashes the onions, which I had the privilege of peeling a few minutes ago. Aunty Chris turns to the half-cooked chicken she’s boiled and begins to coat each one in egg and then bread crumbs and spices. She dabs spots on the chicken that the egg didn’t get to – just to be sure the entire chicken leg will fry.

She looks up and smiles – her teeth shiny white and a sort of genuine laughter in her eyes. The cloth holding her hair back matches the dress she wears – beige with a black design. In the background are the gardens of the COTN homes, beyond that the Sierra Leone bush – tall palm trees peeking out -- and past that are the rolling mountains, faint in the distance. I take my turn at mashing the onions and tomatoes in the mortar and pistil, only stopping when they are a slushy mix. She will add it to the spaghetti sauce in a moment. Aunty Chris is happy to be here – she considers all of the children at the COTN homes here hers since she was the first house mother when COTN set up shop in 1997. Cooking for us is just an excuse to visit them all – she gives the young boys a hard time when they say they are finished filling the barrels of water and she knows there are more to fill. She laughs at them. She greets one here and chats with one there – the Krio language rolling off her tongue like an instrument. And all the while, she cooks – for us. She lets me taste the sauce she’s combined together now over the charcoal stove. She motions for me to run my finger over the wooden spoon to taste. I obey and am delighted with the mixture on my tongue. She looks, waiting for my agreement that it’s good. And it is, I say, it is.