The airport announcements in Amsterdam are surprisingly urgent and guilt based: "Mr Nakazawa, traveling to Bahrain, YOU ARE DELAYING THE FLIGHT. Please board at gate A7. We are preparing to offload your luggage." I was shocked at Mr. Nakazawa's behavior and determined to never be that person, the guilty flight-delayer. At least, I was shocked the first 17 or so times I heard that style of announcement. By the end of my 9 hour layover, it was background noise, just like the recording on the moving sidewalks instructing no one in particular to "please mind your step. please mind your step." The Amsterdam airport is a wonder, with shiny floors and big spaces and a basically unenforced smoking ban. How very European. But the real highlight are the Comfort Seats- herds of big comfy reclining chairs, tucked into otherwise unusable space throughout the airport and perfect for sleeping while spooning with one's carry-on.
And so, after 36 hours, 2 lattes, innumerable naps, 3 on-board movies, countless glasses of water, a very strange chicken sandwich and a follow-up dramamine, I arrived ten minutes early in the District of Columbia. Passport control was no trouble, but baggage claim? I think my big black suitcase is out to get me. It looks basically like every other big black suitcase, so I inspect each one as it goes by. But I think my suitcase changes its appearance on purpose before exiting the aircraft, bragging to the other luggage, "I bet I can go past her at least 3 times without her recognizing me!" When I arrived in Nairobi, I rejected the suitcase as mine because, and I'm certain of this, the main zipper had switched sides. And this time, it had shed its large metal plate proclaiming "Atlantic" in easily distinguishable letters. So yes, it went past me repeatedly before I finally recognized it. I'm pretty sure I heard it snickering as I pulled through customs.
But it was soon drowned out in the sounds of reunion with my parents, complete with purple flowers, a few tears, and a down jacket for the equatorial dweller. America is strangely normal and surprisingly not. It's interesting the things you notice in a newly-new place: my nose is cold. The sunlight arrives at such a slanted angle. Internet pages load so quickly. There's so much space between the cars. Zeke is much grayer than when I left. But most important- I can feel my strength returning with each bite of USDA approved beef. Surely I will be whole and energetic by January.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Surprise!
Exciting news- I'm going back to the U.S. today! I was able to change my flight to tonight, 4 days earlier than scheduled. In 12 hours, I will be flying out of Nairobi. I'd better get going- there's a lot to do and only a few hours to do it in! Fortunately I wrote a packing list while I was in the hospital. Doesn't that just sound like me? =)
Please pray that the travel goes well, that I don't have much pain, and that I arrive in DC in a shape that doesn't scare my parents. Praise God that I was able to get this flight!
Please pray that the travel goes well, that I don't have much pain, and that I arrive in DC in a shape that doesn't scare my parents. Praise God that I was able to get this flight!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Out of the Hospital Again
Sequels are rarely as good as the originals, and I'm not on as much pain medicine as I was when I wrote the first "Out of Hospital" post, so there's really no hope for cleverness.
But what I lack in style I will make up in brevity: after another 4 nights in the hospital, I am again quite happy to be home. This stay was unrelated to the mumps, and I was much more patient and peaceful during round two. I continue to push fluids to help my system recover, the doctor doesn't want me at work for the rest of the semester, and I'm praying that I will be able to take my planned trip to the US in 1 week.
That sums it up.
But what I lack in style I will make up in brevity: after another 4 nights in the hospital, I am again quite happy to be home. This stay was unrelated to the mumps, and I was much more patient and peaceful during round two. I continue to push fluids to help my system recover, the doctor doesn't want me at work for the rest of the semester, and I'm praying that I will be able to take my planned trip to the US in 1 week.
That sums it up.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Fall
So a quick & funny story:
About a month ago, I was missing autumn- the falling leaves, the cooler weather, the smells of firewood and cinnamon. And when I walked out of my apartment one morning, I found hundreds of delicate leaves scattered across the pavement, clearly shed by some plant with roots in North America.
I was delighted until I learned that they were actually the discarded wings of flying termites. Ew.
Gives a whole new meaning to "fall," eh?
About a month ago, I was missing autumn- the falling leaves, the cooler weather, the smells of firewood and cinnamon. And when I walked out of my apartment one morning, I found hundreds of delicate leaves scattered across the pavement, clearly shed by some plant with roots in North America.
I was delighted until I learned that they were actually the discarded wings of flying termites. Ew.
Gives a whole new meaning to "fall," eh?
Monday, December 3, 2007
Previously, on The Gregarious Impala
Let's pretend my blog is a TV series you've missed the last few episodes of, and this is that montage at the beginning of the show that catches you up. For best results, read with a dramatic announcer's voice:
Setting: doctor's office. "Jessie, you have the mumps and must stay in quarantine for an additional seven days after you become asymptomatic." (girl, distraught, is frustrated by this news but accepts it as necessary)
Setting: a very small apartment, stir-crazy girl lying in bed reading email off her laptop. "Would you like to spend a few days with us across town to break the monotony of your isolation? You won't be able to come with us to Thanksgiving dinner, but we'll bring a plate back for you. We used to live in Los Alamos and have a significant stockpile of chile to share."
Setting: Baptist missionary housing across town. Veteran missionary couple and new girl at table, sharing red chile enchiladas. "Glad you're doing better." "Me too- thanks so much for inviting me! Hopefully yesterday was the first and last Thanksgiving dinner I'll ever eat alone..."
Setting: upstairs of same house the next day. "Do you have any ibuprofen? I'm not feeling so great."
Setting: back in the very small apartment, next door neighbor/nurse visiting. "Well, if you're feeling worse, we should probably go see the doctor tomorrow. Never fear. If he wants to admit you, I'll talk him out of it."
And now, onto this exciting episode of The Gregarious Impala. Events occur in African time (in other words, painfully slowly to the American mind).
---
So yes, the doctor examined me, confirmed complications from the mumps, and wanted to admit me. And, as promised, Jane talked him out of it. At least until my fever spiked in the waiting room and I fainted on her while moving from the couch to a wheelchair. Then she talked me into it.
So pretty soon I was on IV fluids and major painkillers, awaiting ultrasounds on my upper and lower abdomen. There were lots of great things about this hospital- big, private rooms, cable TV, great food. And, since Kenya is so British, it was essential that I "take tea" at 10 and 4 each day: delicious Earl Gray, hot milk, and some sort of biscuit (cookie), all brought on a silver tray to my hospital bed. I ordered each meal off an extensive menu- 5 vegetarian dishes, 5
chicken, 5 beef, 5 fish, fresh-squeezed tropical juices, a variety of desserts, and of course soup. Apparently soup is key. I don't particularly love soup, so at first I didn't order it. But the man in the coat and tie who served my meals would ask multiple times, "And what kind of soup would you like?" I can pick up on cultural necessities eventually; I recognized it was important for me to order soup. I still don't know quite why, but my "waiters" were much more at ease once I chose a soup. And as it turned out, the soups were quite tasty. There was quite an emphasis on making patients comfortable- they had vases for the flowers people brought, they replaced the batteries on my remote more than once (I didn't think they were low, but what do I know?), and, unlike hospitals in the States, no one pestered me to take my vitals...
Honestly, I experienced a pretty strong wave of culture shock while in the hospital. This makes sense in some ways- it was my first extended interaction with a Kenyan institution. Now, every hospital has its problems with communication and getting everything done at the right time, but when tests had to be put off because no one had told me I couldn't eat beforehand, or when I didn't see or hear from my doctor for a couple of days, or when nurses forgot to give me my medicine, I had a hard time being FLEXIBLE! And of course, any small measure of cultural sensitivity I possessed was pretty well buried under physical discomfort, loneliness, extreme homesickness, and anxiety about how this would all turn out. I wish I could say I had peace, I trusted God, I just went with whatever happened. But it isn't true. I was frustrated with what I saw as lack of efficiency and competence, and I even snapped at a nurse once. I feel terrible.
Being in the hospital is much more common here than in the US. It seems like they admit you in the States only if you're at death's door. Here, they admitted me for rest and for pain control. There, your diet is carefully regulated and what you do and don't eat is noted. Here, they still brought 5 packets of sugar with my tea though my doctor was concerned about diabetes brought on by pancreas damage from the virus. No one knew if I was awake or asleep all night- no one ever opened my door. I could never tell if the question "How was your night?" was just a translation of the Swahili greeting (to which the only answer is "good") or if they really wanted to know. Diagnostic tests can wait- go ahead and finish talking on your cell phone. They wanted me to be happy; I wish they were a little more concerned about me being healthy.
So to summarize the medical stuff, my final diagnosis was "mumps with bilateral oophritis." (Look it up if you really want to know, but you probably don't). My blood sugar came back down, cysts they had seen on ultrasound weren't visible the next day, and my pain decreased significantly. They had been considering exploratory surgery if the swelling didn't go down, but it did, and so they sent me home. I believe all of that to be the result of prayer on my behalf, so thanks for praying.
I am no longer contagious, but in some ways I feel worse than I did a week and a half ago- I still have some abdominal pain, and my energy is low. I went to school for the first 2 periods this morning, and that knocked me out for the rest of the day. It's a balancing act- if I do too much, I hurt and I don't get better. If I do too little, my energy stays low and I feel like I'll never be able to live my normal life. I have a bit more compassion for my mom's daily challenges of figuring out what she can and can't do. We'll be quite the pair at Christmastime...
But ultimately, I think I am getting better. God answered many prayers of my church in Los Alamos and my coworkers here. Many serious complications were ruled out, and the others we just have to wait and pray some more about. And while I was in the hospital, I felt very loved: I got lots of flowers- from friends in America, from other teachers, and from parents I work with here. I had about 20 visitors at different times, and my kids made banners and cards that made me smile. And finally, I'm incredibly grateful I'm planning to be with my mom and dad over the holiday break; it was hard on us to be apart during all this uncertainty.
So I'm home (and my apartment doesn't feel nearly as small compared to my hospital room), I'm able to be with people, and I'm trying to restart life as normal.
Hopefully the next few weeks won't be nearly as exciting.
Setting: doctor's office. "Jessie, you have the mumps and must stay in quarantine for an additional seven days after you become asymptomatic." (girl, distraught, is frustrated by this news but accepts it as necessary)
Setting: a very small apartment, stir-crazy girl lying in bed reading email off her laptop. "Would you like to spend a few days with us across town to break the monotony of your isolation? You won't be able to come with us to Thanksgiving dinner, but we'll bring a plate back for you. We used to live in Los Alamos and have a significant stockpile of chile to share."
Setting: Baptist missionary housing across town. Veteran missionary couple and new girl at table, sharing red chile enchiladas. "Glad you're doing better." "Me too- thanks so much for inviting me! Hopefully yesterday was the first and last Thanksgiving dinner I'll ever eat alone..."
Setting: upstairs of same house the next day. "Do you have any ibuprofen? I'm not feeling so great."
Setting: back in the very small apartment, next door neighbor/nurse visiting. "Well, if you're feeling worse, we should probably go see the doctor tomorrow. Never fear. If he wants to admit you, I'll talk him out of it."
And now, onto this exciting episode of The Gregarious Impala. Events occur in African time (in other words, painfully slowly to the American mind).
---
So yes, the doctor examined me, confirmed complications from the mumps, and wanted to admit me. And, as promised, Jane talked him out of it. At least until my fever spiked in the waiting room and I fainted on her while moving from the couch to a wheelchair. Then she talked me into it.
So pretty soon I was on IV fluids and major painkillers, awaiting ultrasounds on my upper and lower abdomen. There were lots of great things about this hospital- big, private rooms, cable TV, great food. And, since Kenya is so British, it was essential that I "take tea" at 10 and 4 each day: delicious Earl Gray, hot milk, and some sort of biscuit (cookie), all brought on a silver tray to my hospital bed. I ordered each meal off an extensive menu- 5 vegetarian dishes, 5
chicken, 5 beef, 5 fish, fresh-squeezed tropical juices, a variety of desserts, and of course soup. Apparently soup is key. I don't particularly love soup, so at first I didn't order it. But the man in the coat and tie who served my meals would ask multiple times, "And what kind of soup would you like?" I can pick up on cultural necessities eventually; I recognized it was important for me to order soup. I still don't know quite why, but my "waiters" were much more at ease once I chose a soup. And as it turned out, the soups were quite tasty. There was quite an emphasis on making patients comfortable- they had vases for the flowers people brought, they replaced the batteries on my remote more than once (I didn't think they were low, but what do I know?), and, unlike hospitals in the States, no one pestered me to take my vitals...
Honestly, I experienced a pretty strong wave of culture shock while in the hospital. This makes sense in some ways- it was my first extended interaction with a Kenyan institution. Now, every hospital has its problems with communication and getting everything done at the right time, but when tests had to be put off because no one had told me I couldn't eat beforehand, or when I didn't see or hear from my doctor for a couple of days, or when nurses forgot to give me my medicine, I had a hard time being FLEXIBLE! And of course, any small measure of cultural sensitivity I possessed was pretty well buried under physical discomfort, loneliness, extreme homesickness, and anxiety about how this would all turn out. I wish I could say I had peace, I trusted God, I just went with whatever happened. But it isn't true. I was frustrated with what I saw as lack of efficiency and competence, and I even snapped at a nurse once. I feel terrible.
Being in the hospital is much more common here than in the US. It seems like they admit you in the States only if you're at death's door. Here, they admitted me for rest and for pain control. There, your diet is carefully regulated and what you do and don't eat is noted. Here, they still brought 5 packets of sugar with my tea though my doctor was concerned about diabetes brought on by pancreas damage from the virus. No one knew if I was awake or asleep all night- no one ever opened my door. I could never tell if the question "How was your night?" was just a translation of the Swahili greeting (to which the only answer is "good") or if they really wanted to know. Diagnostic tests can wait- go ahead and finish talking on your cell phone. They wanted me to be happy; I wish they were a little more concerned about me being healthy.
So to summarize the medical stuff, my final diagnosis was "mumps with bilateral oophritis." (Look it up if you really want to know, but you probably don't). My blood sugar came back down, cysts they had seen on ultrasound weren't visible the next day, and my pain decreased significantly. They had been considering exploratory surgery if the swelling didn't go down, but it did, and so they sent me home. I believe all of that to be the result of prayer on my behalf, so thanks for praying.
I am no longer contagious, but in some ways I feel worse than I did a week and a half ago- I still have some abdominal pain, and my energy is low. I went to school for the first 2 periods this morning, and that knocked me out for the rest of the day. It's a balancing act- if I do too much, I hurt and I don't get better. If I do too little, my energy stays low and I feel like I'll never be able to live my normal life. I have a bit more compassion for my mom's daily challenges of figuring out what she can and can't do. We'll be quite the pair at Christmastime...
But ultimately, I think I am getting better. God answered many prayers of my church in Los Alamos and my coworkers here. Many serious complications were ruled out, and the others we just have to wait and pray some more about. And while I was in the hospital, I felt very loved: I got lots of flowers- from friends in America, from other teachers, and from parents I work with here. I had about 20 visitors at different times, and my kids made banners and cards that made me smile. And finally, I'm incredibly grateful I'm planning to be with my mom and dad over the holiday break; it was hard on us to be apart during all this uncertainty.
So I'm home (and my apartment doesn't feel nearly as small compared to my hospital room), I'm able to be with people, and I'm trying to restart life as normal.
Hopefully the next few weeks won't be nearly as exciting.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Out of Hospital
Out of hospital. Had been texting to update mom and boss. Still thinking in short sentences. Will write more when on less codeine. God answers prayer!
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Selling Out
Times of solitude sometimes result in public confession: I bought a microwave.
The situation's complicated. I hadn't bought one when I arrived for several reasons- one, they are expensive. Two, I wondered how long I could go without one. Three, my kitchen is super tiny and I didn't quite see where one would fit. Actually I discovered I didn't really need one- food goes bad quickly here since there are almost no preservatives in anything (and because, as I've ascertained by being home all day, the power often goes out so the fridge doesn't run consistently). Plus there are lots of great fresh foods here; why would I pick something rewarmed over that? And finally, I learned to plan ahead and eat any leftovers for lunchtime at school- the staff room does have a microwave.
So my routine was chugging along, and I was feeling pretty self-righteous about not owning one (I still have lurking suspicions of microwaves borne of my mom's hippy tendencies and our family's long delay in getting one in the first place 15 years ago). The houses on campus are pretty close to each other, and I had ambled the 30 feet into other people's kitchens to chat with them and use their microwaves on occasion. It was minorly inconvenient for all involved, but not compelling enough to do something about.
But with the advent of my isolation, it suddenly became just that compelling. People were asking what they could do for me, and many folks brought over food (well, more like left it outside my door and ran away trying not to inhale), and all the meals were way more than a one-person serving. My appetite was gone for the first 4 days of my sickness, as fits the symptoms, so there was lots of food piling up. And when I was hungry, I had better be able to eat exactly what I was craving right away or my hunger would disappear and it would be another day of consuming nothing but lemon tea. As wonderful as lemon tea is, when that's all I eat I black out each time I sit upright. Not conducive to recovery. So when I came back from the doctor on Monday, I wanted the rice and chicken I had in the fridge, but I didn't want it cold, and I couldn't run over to someone else's house and risk infecting them. Plus, I was near tears at the thought of being isolated for and additional 7 days beyond when I started feeling better and didn't feel like doing much running anyway. So that night I sent money to Nakumatt with some friends to buy the cheapest microwave they could find.
And so now I have it, gleaming white and taking up half my counter space. It's one of the cool oldschool ones with the twisty dial to set the time, and when it runs it sounds like a jet taking off. Hey, I like things that have character. I just don't usually buy them new... And of course, the next day the power was off for pretty much the whole day so I couldn't use it anyway. Naturally. But I did evntually grate some cheese over some tortilla chips and mix in some precious green chile from my care package. All New Mexicans know that green chile "burns out the germs," so I nuked my homemade nachos it as soon as the power came back on at dark and enjoyed my not-so-healthy dinner. Yummy.
And the next day, I started to feel much better. I firmly believe in the healing power of God, at work through prayer and green chile, and I am on #2 of the 7 symptom-free days required before I can go back to work. So basically, I feel fine but am still highly contagious. The feeling fine part makes it hard to stay in my apartment. However, my wonderful principal and her husband have invited me over to their house for the weekend so I can be somewhere else for part of my recovery. That sounds great; these 3 rooms are getting exponentially smaller. They are Baptist missionaries who live across town, so I'll get to ride in a car and see some other rooms for a while. I really appreciate her offer. They'll have to leave me behind when they go to Thanksgiving dinner tonight, but that's OK- at least I'll get to be somewhere new!
As expected, homesickness is setting in more severely. My parents and brother and future sister-in-law are all visiting her family in IL for the holiday. It's a bummer to feel left out, but I'll see my parents in a month and then everyone else 2 months after that for the wedding. I'm hoping the days between here and there go more quickly than these days of quarantine, but I'm sure they will: I have a microwave now, and I heard that makes everything faster.
The situation's complicated. I hadn't bought one when I arrived for several reasons- one, they are expensive. Two, I wondered how long I could go without one. Three, my kitchen is super tiny and I didn't quite see where one would fit. Actually I discovered I didn't really need one- food goes bad quickly here since there are almost no preservatives in anything (and because, as I've ascertained by being home all day, the power often goes out so the fridge doesn't run consistently). Plus there are lots of great fresh foods here; why would I pick something rewarmed over that? And finally, I learned to plan ahead and eat any leftovers for lunchtime at school- the staff room does have a microwave.
So my routine was chugging along, and I was feeling pretty self-righteous about not owning one (I still have lurking suspicions of microwaves borne of my mom's hippy tendencies and our family's long delay in getting one in the first place 15 years ago). The houses on campus are pretty close to each other, and I had ambled the 30 feet into other people's kitchens to chat with them and use their microwaves on occasion. It was minorly inconvenient for all involved, but not compelling enough to do something about.
But with the advent of my isolation, it suddenly became just that compelling. People were asking what they could do for me, and many folks brought over food (well, more like left it outside my door and ran away trying not to inhale), and all the meals were way more than a one-person serving. My appetite was gone for the first 4 days of my sickness, as fits the symptoms, so there was lots of food piling up. And when I was hungry, I had better be able to eat exactly what I was craving right away or my hunger would disappear and it would be another day of consuming nothing but lemon tea. As wonderful as lemon tea is, when that's all I eat I black out each time I sit upright. Not conducive to recovery. So when I came back from the doctor on Monday, I wanted the rice and chicken I had in the fridge, but I didn't want it cold, and I couldn't run over to someone else's house and risk infecting them. Plus, I was near tears at the thought of being isolated for and additional 7 days beyond when I started feeling better and didn't feel like doing much running anyway. So that night I sent money to Nakumatt with some friends to buy the cheapest microwave they could find.
And so now I have it, gleaming white and taking up half my counter space. It's one of the cool oldschool ones with the twisty dial to set the time, and when it runs it sounds like a jet taking off. Hey, I like things that have character. I just don't usually buy them new... And of course, the next day the power was off for pretty much the whole day so I couldn't use it anyway. Naturally. But I did evntually grate some cheese over some tortilla chips and mix in some precious green chile from my care package. All New Mexicans know that green chile "burns out the germs," so I nuked my homemade nachos it as soon as the power came back on at dark and enjoyed my not-so-healthy dinner. Yummy.
And the next day, I started to feel much better. I firmly believe in the healing power of God, at work through prayer and green chile, and I am on #2 of the 7 symptom-free days required before I can go back to work. So basically, I feel fine but am still highly contagious. The feeling fine part makes it hard to stay in my apartment. However, my wonderful principal and her husband have invited me over to their house for the weekend so I can be somewhere else for part of my recovery. That sounds great; these 3 rooms are getting exponentially smaller. They are Baptist missionaries who live across town, so I'll get to ride in a car and see some other rooms for a while. I really appreciate her offer. They'll have to leave me behind when they go to Thanksgiving dinner tonight, but that's OK- at least I'll get to be somewhere new!
As expected, homesickness is setting in more severely. My parents and brother and future sister-in-law are all visiting her family in IL for the holiday. It's a bummer to feel left out, but I'll see my parents in a month and then everyone else 2 months after that for the wedding. I'm hoping the days between here and there go more quickly than these days of quarantine, but I'm sure they will: I have a microwave now, and I heard that makes everything faster.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Mumps
So, dear readers, it's official- I have the mumps.
I don't look quite like a chipmunk; in fact the swelling isn't all that noticeable. That's my excuse for not posting pictures of my upside-down-heart shaped face (made worse by my cone-head?).
But the kind pediatrician who diagnosed the other cases here on campus told me that I'm not allowed to go back to work for an additional seven days after all my symptoms are gone. Something about the children being our future... He also says I don't have encephalitis nor an enlarged pancreas, either of which would be bad complications and would be grounds for me writing a blog post entitled The Scenic Hospitals of Nairobi.
So for now I'm focusing on The Scenic Inside of My Apartment, but in the spirit of the season not celebrated in this country, here's a list of things I'm thankful for:
I don't look quite like a chipmunk; in fact the swelling isn't all that noticeable. That's my excuse for not posting pictures of my upside-down-heart shaped face (made worse by my cone-head?).
But the kind pediatrician who diagnosed the other cases here on campus told me that I'm not allowed to go back to work for an additional seven days after all my symptoms are gone. Something about the children being our future... He also says I don't have encephalitis nor an enlarged pancreas, either of which would be bad complications and would be grounds for me writing a blog post entitled The Scenic Hospitals of Nairobi.
So for now I'm focusing on The Scenic Inside of My Apartment, but in the spirit of the season not celebrated in this country, here's a list of things I'm thankful for:
- I now get Thanksgiving day off, even though it's not a Rosslyn holiday
- I will be missing a staff development day
- A couple of great math teachers are covering my classes, one of whom has a student teacher who will be teaching full-time during the next couple of weeks
- I have internet access from my bedroom
- My computer plays DVDs
- I only feel mildly crummy
- My appetite returned this afternoon
- I recently got a care package from my church in New Mexico, and cleverly hidden among the items were 2 seasons of Numb3rs and 2 seasons of 24
- Coworkers who have brought over books to read despite the risk of infection
- A neighbor who gave me a ride to the doctor and has brought me dinner the last 3 nights
- A care package of flowers, instant soup, and popsicles
- Genuine care and support from my administrator
- Parents who skype me each day and feel sorry for me
- Emails from friends who remind me that though I may be invisible, I am not forgotten
Monday, November 12, 2007
More Pictures from The Nest
This is Pam Nipper, our elementary librarian and superintendent's wife. I really like her a lot.
This is Wendy, who teaches next door to me and is new this year as well. She's the friend I'll hang out in Amsterdam with during our layovers at Christmas... 
Shikoo's more melancholy side. =)
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Visiting The Nest
This morning I headed up into the hills of Limuru, a region just outside of Nairobi. It was a beautiful drive, almost entirely uphill past tea farms and markets. Six of us went along with Mel and Kerry, teachers who are connected with a children's home called The Nest. The person who runs the home sends her children to Rosslyn, and each weekend Mel and Kerry keep a baby to give it one on one attention, eye contact, and lots of love. Some of the children at the The Nest have been abandoned and are available for adoption; most have mothers who are in prison. The organization also owns a halfway house near campus where mothers who are just out of prison stay for a while to be reunited with their children and to do some counseling and rehabilitation.
I think the pictures speak for themselves, so I'll let them.
The little girl on the floor next to me is named Shikoo (I have no idea how that's spelled), and she warmed up to me little by little- first unwilling to look at me, then playing a little closer, then eventually crawling into my arms and staying there for hours:
She is one of four children; her brothers and sister are also at The Nest. The two pictured below are Ken and Mary.
They hung out with me for a significant portion of the morning. One small surprise to me- my long, straight hair was a mystery all around, and whenever I sat on the ground, kids would clump behind me to touch it. But I always had Shikoo in my lap to look at and laugh with, so it was fine.
I think the pictures speak for themselves, so I'll let them.
The little girl on the floor next to me is named Shikoo (I have no idea how that's spelled), and she warmed up to me little by little- first unwilling to look at me, then playing a little closer, then eventually crawling into my arms and staying there for hours:
She is one of four children; her brothers and sister are also at The Nest. The two pictured below are Ken and Mary.
They hung out with me for a significant portion of the morning. One small surprise to me- my long, straight hair was a mystery all around, and whenever I sat on the ground, kids would clump behind me to touch it. But I always had Shikoo in my lap to look at and laugh with, so it was fine.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Seasons of Encouragement
This morning when I woke up, I got an email. Not an unusual occurrence, always a welcome one. This particular email was from Gene Smillie, responding to my monthly newsletter. And in a few off-the-cuff sentences, he managed to distill all I had said, reflect back the best of it, encourage me, and give me hope for what God might be up to in my life. Wow. Now that's the kind of teacher I want to be!
So as I sipped my morning coffee, I was thanking God for that encouragement, and He brought to mind just what a long and unexpected story He's told with the Smillies and I over the past 20-some years. And it occurred to me that God seems to bring people in and out of each others' lives unpredictably and yet perfectly purposefully in the retelling:
Gene Smillie baptized me. When, at age 5, I decided I wanted to be baptized to tell people in public that I wanted to follow God, I wanted Gene to do it. Mostly because he told stories in a Donald Duck voice and kept bubbles in his center desk drawer at church. And he was a garbageman. Very cool. I think he was also our associate pastor... My memories of that time aren't particularly linear- I remember him making me and my family laugh, I remember everyone being excited when he and Susie announced their engagement at church camp after I had stubbed my toe really hard, I remember being sure I would drown and die during my baptism when I saw the light fading from under the water, I remember grasping onto his arm with all my might when he pulled me back out. I also remember searching for his and Susie's house in Santa Fe late one night, and my mom finding it because of the paper wedding bells on the front door. All of this was during my pre-school years, so if I have the details wrong I hope he (and my mom who has a more cogent memory of this time period than I do) will forgive me. But I'm sure about Donald Duck and the baptism near-death experience. Those are seared in my memory. :)
Years went on, he and Susie moved to Africa as missionaries, we prayed for them, they had kids, I'd read letters from them now and again and smile when they came back to Los Alamos to visit. I remember he was one of the few people who could match my dad in enthusiasm and craziness. Somehow their family ended up in Chicagoland at the same time I was there. I remember hearing him preach at a Chinese church, a few sentences and then a pause while it was translated. I decided it was the perfect way to hear Gene teach- I actually had time to absorb and understand the depth of what he said!
Again the chronology gets a little fuzzy, but God brought the Smillie family back into my life at a critical time- they were visiting Los Alamos and needed a place to stay; I was renting my parents' huge house, living there alone, and had just gone through some pretty major relationship trauma. I was all primed to become a completely anti-male angry cat lady, and suddenly my house was filled with Gene, Susie, and their 3 teenage boys who ate more than I believed humanly possible. They also got me to laugh. Hard. Through them, God kicked some holes in my bitterness and began healing me.
Fast forward 6 or 7 years, and now I'm in Kenya, sending out monthly emails. I stayed in contact with Gene and his family, so they're on my newsletter list. And these past few months, Gene replies in his conversational way and draws out the core of what's going on in my life, allowing me to observe it more clearly and thank God for it. I especially need that distilling right now; I'm so close to all the changes that I can't quite see the pattern.
And isn't that part of what the Body of Christ does for one another- recount God's redemption story, be witness to His good work in each other's lives, reflect what God is doing so He can be seen even when we're blind? I love that I get to serve a God who puts together a little girl and a pastor/garbageman for a multi-decade trek of trial and encouragement. That's a tagline for a movie I'd pay to see simply because it sounds so weird! I notice that Gene's impact on my life isn't about how much time has been spent. It's all about what God choses to do with a few words here and there, the mundane streaked with the surprising over the span of decades and continents. There are lasting griefs in each of our lives, but bottom line, God tells a good story. I got a glimpse of it this morning.
So as I sipped my morning coffee, I was thanking God for that encouragement, and He brought to mind just what a long and unexpected story He's told with the Smillies and I over the past 20-some years. And it occurred to me that God seems to bring people in and out of each others' lives unpredictably and yet perfectly purposefully in the retelling:
Gene Smillie baptized me. When, at age 5, I decided I wanted to be baptized to tell people in public that I wanted to follow God, I wanted Gene to do it. Mostly because he told stories in a Donald Duck voice and kept bubbles in his center desk drawer at church. And he was a garbageman. Very cool. I think he was also our associate pastor... My memories of that time aren't particularly linear- I remember him making me and my family laugh, I remember everyone being excited when he and Susie announced their engagement at church camp after I had stubbed my toe really hard, I remember being sure I would drown and die during my baptism when I saw the light fading from under the water, I remember grasping onto his arm with all my might when he pulled me back out. I also remember searching for his and Susie's house in Santa Fe late one night, and my mom finding it because of the paper wedding bells on the front door. All of this was during my pre-school years, so if I have the details wrong I hope he (and my mom who has a more cogent memory of this time period than I do) will forgive me. But I'm sure about Donald Duck and the baptism near-death experience. Those are seared in my memory. :)
Years went on, he and Susie moved to Africa as missionaries, we prayed for them, they had kids, I'd read letters from them now and again and smile when they came back to Los Alamos to visit. I remember he was one of the few people who could match my dad in enthusiasm and craziness. Somehow their family ended up in Chicagoland at the same time I was there. I remember hearing him preach at a Chinese church, a few sentences and then a pause while it was translated. I decided it was the perfect way to hear Gene teach- I actually had time to absorb and understand the depth of what he said!
Again the chronology gets a little fuzzy, but God brought the Smillie family back into my life at a critical time- they were visiting Los Alamos and needed a place to stay; I was renting my parents' huge house, living there alone, and had just gone through some pretty major relationship trauma. I was all primed to become a completely anti-male angry cat lady, and suddenly my house was filled with Gene, Susie, and their 3 teenage boys who ate more than I believed humanly possible. They also got me to laugh. Hard. Through them, God kicked some holes in my bitterness and began healing me.
Fast forward 6 or 7 years, and now I'm in Kenya, sending out monthly emails. I stayed in contact with Gene and his family, so they're on my newsletter list. And these past few months, Gene replies in his conversational way and draws out the core of what's going on in my life, allowing me to observe it more clearly and thank God for it. I especially need that distilling right now; I'm so close to all the changes that I can't quite see the pattern.
And isn't that part of what the Body of Christ does for one another- recount God's redemption story, be witness to His good work in each other's lives, reflect what God is doing so He can be seen even when we're blind? I love that I get to serve a God who puts together a little girl and a pastor/garbageman for a multi-decade trek of trial and encouragement. That's a tagline for a movie I'd pay to see simply because it sounds so weird! I notice that Gene's impact on my life isn't about how much time has been spent. It's all about what God choses to do with a few words here and there, the mundane streaked with the surprising over the span of decades and continents. There are lasting griefs in each of our lives, but bottom line, God tells a good story. I got a glimpse of it this morning.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Walking on Water
So we arrive at the beach after dark on Wednesday night, after a rousing day of accreditation meetings back in Nairobi and a couple hours on a very small plane. Dinner has been made for us when we arrive, wonderful white snapper, garlic green beans, and chips (french fries to the American-minded). Delicious- I may learn to like fish yet. And after dinner has settled and we've explored the house a bit, Paul notes that it's low tide and asks if anyone wants to go walk on the reef. All 8 of us are in- we want to get closer to the water, and we figure a nighttime stroll along the beach would be fun. Paul reminds us to put on shoes, which makes sense to me, and I strap on my hiking sandals.
I learned long ago that I don't need to walk with a flashlight. Usually if I'm in a group, there is enough random light from everyone else's torches to get by, and I'm pretty good at the trick of time-delay walking: watching where the person with the flashlight put his feet, then putting my feet there too without needing to actually see where they're landing. It's a skill I developed during late night hikes in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, and it has served me well. So obviously, I didn't bring my flashlight along- there were 4 already, so why should I?
We stumble down the dune towards the beach onto firm sand. I notice that Paul's wearing tennis shoes, and all the other girls have on flip flops with toe rings, perfectly stylish in their khaki capris. Paul points out a shallow pool with a snail in it, and then explains that the snail's highly poisonous. I start to consider what might happen if I step on a poisonous snail, what with not having a flashlight, and I struggle to catch up with Paul. As we start to cut across the bay, the sand gets softer, which is a little harder to walk in, but not impossible. Five feet later, it gets even softer. Maybe muddy's a better description. Another five feet, and the mud starts to smell like sulfur. Soon after, the sticky concoction turns to calf-deep quicksand! Paul's tightly laced high-tops now make sense. My chacos are barely staying on my feet, but girls behind me are losing their flip flops. We try to keep walking, the mud gets deeper, and I hear squeals of discomfort as toe rings are getting sucked clean off and flip flops disappear into the muddy depths... I tell Paul, "This is not fun," but he tells me it's just a little farther. Right when I arrive at more solid ground, one of the guys behind me loses his balance and falls into the mud, taking a white shirt and khaki pants girl down with him. There's screaming. And it's the last straw- 6 bodies and 3 flashlights turn around and head back for the house, throwing muddy flip-flops at each other.
But now that I've made it through the mud, I'm not turning back- I want to see the reef! I'm from New Mexico, for crying out loud, so anything involving water seems glamorous. And I'd never been to the Indian Ocean, so even Indian Ocean mud was kind of exotic. But I ran into an unexpected problem: in my don't-bring-the-flashlight calculations, I was figuring on level ground, multiple flashlights around me, and a full moon. The moon went behind a cloud, all but one of the flashlights had turned back, and the coral was pitted, rutted, and covered in slippery algae. On top of that, Paul was hopping around on the uneven reef like a mountain goat (a coral goat?), pointing his flashlight into random holes and saying things like, "Look- it's a sea urchin. Don't want to step on that!"
Eventually he took pity on my lack of illumination and total cluelessness regarding animal life. He slowed down enough to point things out to me, and we saw some amazing creatures- stonefish, moray eels, sergeant majors, hermit crabs, sea cucumbers, sally lightfeet, 6 kinds of sea urchins, and some pretty purple algae. =) He was on a mission to find an octopus, which we didn't accomplish though we trekked all the way around the point and towards some pretty steep holes. But it was cool to see it all at night- the animals weren't as skittish, they weren't terribly startled by his flashlight, and stars on the ocean are beautiful.
Eventually we turned back towards the house when his flashlight started to die (was he counting on me having one?), and I asked very timidly if we could keep to the side rather than going through the mud again... So we stayed to the edge of the beach, actually under the overhanging coral. Here we met some of the strangest creatures yet- bright red crabs with extra spindles on their legs, nearly-translucent whitish crabs that seem to not have shells, and of course tons of regular grey and black crabs. When we moved quietly, we could hear them skittering along the reef below our feet, to our side, and even over our heads. I've seen way too many Alien movies; that sound kind of freaked me out. But if I moved away from the overhang, I was back in the sulfur mud, so I stayed in the protection of the coral and tried not to think about what might crawl into my intestinal system and burst out onto the dinner table 3 nights hence... It also crossed my mind that I hadn't expected this as part of my missionary experience but that it was improving my prayer life.
We finally made it back around the cove, up the dune, and into the house, and I was glad for the experience overall. But next time, I'm bringing my own flashlight.
I learned long ago that I don't need to walk with a flashlight. Usually if I'm in a group, there is enough random light from everyone else's torches to get by, and I'm pretty good at the trick of time-delay walking: watching where the person with the flashlight put his feet, then putting my feet there too without needing to actually see where they're landing. It's a skill I developed during late night hikes in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, and it has served me well. So obviously, I didn't bring my flashlight along- there were 4 already, so why should I?
We stumble down the dune towards the beach onto firm sand. I notice that Paul's wearing tennis shoes, and all the other girls have on flip flops with toe rings, perfectly stylish in their khaki capris. Paul points out a shallow pool with a snail in it, and then explains that the snail's highly poisonous. I start to consider what might happen if I step on a poisonous snail, what with not having a flashlight, and I struggle to catch up with Paul. As we start to cut across the bay, the sand gets softer, which is a little harder to walk in, but not impossible. Five feet later, it gets even softer. Maybe muddy's a better description. Another five feet, and the mud starts to smell like sulfur. Soon after, the sticky concoction turns to calf-deep quicksand! Paul's tightly laced high-tops now make sense. My chacos are barely staying on my feet, but girls behind me are losing their flip flops. We try to keep walking, the mud gets deeper, and I hear squeals of discomfort as toe rings are getting sucked clean off and flip flops disappear into the muddy depths... I tell Paul, "This is not fun," but he tells me it's just a little farther. Right when I arrive at more solid ground, one of the guys behind me loses his balance and falls into the mud, taking a white shirt and khaki pants girl down with him. There's screaming. And it's the last straw- 6 bodies and 3 flashlights turn around and head back for the house, throwing muddy flip-flops at each other.
But now that I've made it through the mud, I'm not turning back- I want to see the reef! I'm from New Mexico, for crying out loud, so anything involving water seems glamorous. And I'd never been to the Indian Ocean, so even Indian Ocean mud was kind of exotic. But I ran into an unexpected problem: in my don't-bring-the-flashlight calculations, I was figuring on level ground, multiple flashlights around me, and a full moon. The moon went behind a cloud, all but one of the flashlights had turned back, and the coral was pitted, rutted, and covered in slippery algae. On top of that, Paul was hopping around on the uneven reef like a mountain goat (a coral goat?), pointing his flashlight into random holes and saying things like, "Look- it's a sea urchin. Don't want to step on that!"
Eventually he took pity on my lack of illumination and total cluelessness regarding animal life. He slowed down enough to point things out to me, and we saw some amazing creatures- stonefish, moray eels, sergeant majors, hermit crabs, sea cucumbers, sally lightfeet, 6 kinds of sea urchins, and some pretty purple algae. =) He was on a mission to find an octopus, which we didn't accomplish though we trekked all the way around the point and towards some pretty steep holes. But it was cool to see it all at night- the animals weren't as skittish, they weren't terribly startled by his flashlight, and stars on the ocean are beautiful.
Eventually we turned back towards the house when his flashlight started to die (was he counting on me having one?), and I asked very timidly if we could keep to the side rather than going through the mud again... So we stayed to the edge of the beach, actually under the overhanging coral. Here we met some of the strangest creatures yet- bright red crabs with extra spindles on their legs, nearly-translucent whitish crabs that seem to not have shells, and of course tons of regular grey and black crabs. When we moved quietly, we could hear them skittering along the reef below our feet, to our side, and even over our heads. I've seen way too many Alien movies; that sound kind of freaked me out. But if I moved away from the overhang, I was back in the sulfur mud, so I stayed in the protection of the coral and tried not to think about what might crawl into my intestinal system and burst out onto the dinner table 3 nights hence... It also crossed my mind that I hadn't expected this as part of my missionary experience but that it was improving my prayer life.
We finally made it back around the cove, up the dune, and into the house, and I was glad for the experience overall. But next time, I'm bringing my own flashlight.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Moi Day, Eid, and Sunburns
So I'm recalling my "Creative Non-Fiction" writing class in college, and I think I need to do a little more mental sifting before I can compose just the right funny story from last weekend.
But to tide you over, here are some pictures of our trip to the beach. As you can see, the 8 of us were really suffering:
The view from our front door
The 8 of us after snorkeling, before the sunburns really hit...
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Nature
I spent part of last week on CFS, and I observed nature in many forms...
Giraffe
Zebra
The Rift Valley and Mount Longanot
Hippo
Wildebeast- some say God made them last to use up the spare parts.
I also observed some more familiar-looking nature, for example: Middle Schoolers on the Pre-Complaining Portion of a Hike
Women Disturbed by Outhouses
Middle School Girls Seeking to Look Alike
(and copy their teacher...)
(and copy their teacher...)
Middle School Boys Playing With Fire
And of course:
Middle School Boy Trying To Be Taller
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Matatu
What is this m-word? Noun? Verb? Adjective? Expletive?
Well, dear readers, a matatu is a mini-bus, a snub-nosed van packed with people careening to or from the city center. There is a driver and a fare collector, both always male, each wearing a solid-color vest to look official. The driver's job is to pass as many vehicles as possible, thereby picking up more passengers than the next guy and making more money. Most Kenyan roads are roughly 2-lane, unless the person in front of you is going too slowly, then you may feel free to pass him, even if you have zero visibility at the time. There are no lines on the road, so driving between them is obviously not a cultural norm. I guess it's kind of like walking on a sidewalk- everyone basically keeps to their own side, unless someone is going too slowly, and then you pass. Yes, just like a sidewalk. Except you're traveling at high speeds in chunks of metal. But as my coworker Tim told me when I cringed as our school bus passed a truck on a winding mountain road, "We're used to it, the other driver's used to it; it's just you that's not."
Anyhow, back to matatus: the fare collector's job is to shout to prospective riders to find out if they want on, alert the driver to stop by whacking the side of the van, open and shut the door, and run alongside and hold on tight since the matatu often leaves before the door is actually shut. The fare collector taps you quietly on the shoulder after a time so you can pay him your coins. He also responds to quiet taps on his shoulder when you want to get off. In addition, he has the tricky task of deciding how much to charge you, which depends on where you are going, how rich you look, and what time of day it is. For example, a trip into Nairobi recently cost me 20 bob, but the trip back by the same route cost 50 because it was almost dark, and I am not. The collector knew I needed to arrive at my destination before nightfall in order to be safe, and so I would have to pay the higher price in order to preserve my well-being...
I am nearly always the only light-skinned rider of the matatu I am in, unless I am with a mzungu friend. A few days back I got a quick course in matatus from my friend Rachel, a Wheaton student from Minnesota. She's one of the HNGR interns placed in Nairobi, and she's standing behind me in the picture from the last post. Matatus are a regular part of her African experience, and when she heard that I didn't know any of the routes nor what exactly to expect when riding and was therefore severely limited in mobility, she came to my rescue. You see, there's about a giant gap between figuring out the public transportation system by myself and having someone show me; there's little likelihood I could master it left on my own. Matatus are a very Kenyan way to travel (cheap, not entirely safe, not entirely comfortable), so almost none of the expatriates at my school ride them. But Rachel met me at the matatu stop nearest my apartment, rode with me downtown, walked me to the other major stops, and introduced me to a cheap downtown coffee shop. She also pointed out the Hilton as a major landmark and free bathroom, and she gave me advice about which areas were safe for a white girl who sticks out like a hard boiled egg in a bag of poppyseeds.
And so I felt somewhat competent the next day when I took a matatu to Hawker's market to buy my vegetables. On the way there, I marveled at the different personalities of matatus- some are MTV on wheels, with pumping bass and semi-obscene music videos playing on a screen at the front. Others are more sedate, with philosophical advice displayed on the sides and ceiling: "To avoid life stress, live according to your standard." The one I rode in that morning had an interesting (and fitting?) combination: "Honesty is the best policy" coupled with "I may not be smart, rich, or good looking, but I am available." And on the return trip I rode in one whose stickers proclaimed "Yesu ni Bwana." I knew my Swahili was improving because I could translate it: "Jesus is Lord." It was the first time I've understood something I've read, and it was a good first sentence. =)
I'm becoming pretty comfortable on matatus; it barely took any effort for me to ride to the hospital this morning. Don't worry, I'm not sick- I went to visit Travis and Lydia because baby Meshach has finally been born!
He's wonderful and vocal and beautiful, and it's delightful to be here for this event. Just like when I came back from HNGR and waited at the hospital for Erin Hausam to be born, Meshach Klingforth reminds me that life continues despite whatever transition I may be experiencing. There is consistency the world over- God is faithful to bring life and sustain it, and evidence of His goodness can be held in human arms.
So I continue my upward growth, and the view is improving: I have a lot more independence, a touch more confidence, and every day more rootedness in this place and its relationships. I'm grateful for matatus and how they expand my horizons, and I'm thankful for relationships with other expatriates whom I can serve and support.
Well, dear readers, a matatu is a mini-bus, a snub-nosed van packed with people careening to or from the city center. There is a driver and a fare collector, both always male, each wearing a solid-color vest to look official. The driver's job is to pass as many vehicles as possible, thereby picking up more passengers than the next guy and making more money. Most Kenyan roads are roughly 2-lane, unless the person in front of you is going too slowly, then you may feel free to pass him, even if you have zero visibility at the time. There are no lines on the road, so driving between them is obviously not a cultural norm. I guess it's kind of like walking on a sidewalk- everyone basically keeps to their own side, unless someone is going too slowly, and then you pass. Yes, just like a sidewalk. Except you're traveling at high speeds in chunks of metal. But as my coworker Tim told me when I cringed as our school bus passed a truck on a winding mountain road, "We're used to it, the other driver's used to it; it's just you that's not."
Anyhow, back to matatus: the fare collector's job is to shout to prospective riders to find out if they want on, alert the driver to stop by whacking the side of the van, open and shut the door, and run alongside and hold on tight since the matatu often leaves before the door is actually shut. The fare collector taps you quietly on the shoulder after a time so you can pay him your coins. He also responds to quiet taps on his shoulder when you want to get off. In addition, he has the tricky task of deciding how much to charge you, which depends on where you are going, how rich you look, and what time of day it is. For example, a trip into Nairobi recently cost me 20 bob, but the trip back by the same route cost 50 because it was almost dark, and I am not. The collector knew I needed to arrive at my destination before nightfall in order to be safe, and so I would have to pay the higher price in order to preserve my well-being...
I am nearly always the only light-skinned rider of the matatu I am in, unless I am with a mzungu friend. A few days back I got a quick course in matatus from my friend Rachel, a Wheaton student from Minnesota. She's one of the HNGR interns placed in Nairobi, and she's standing behind me in the picture from the last post. Matatus are a regular part of her African experience, and when she heard that I didn't know any of the routes nor what exactly to expect when riding and was therefore severely limited in mobility, she came to my rescue. You see, there's about a giant gap between figuring out the public transportation system by myself and having someone show me; there's little likelihood I could master it left on my own. Matatus are a very Kenyan way to travel (cheap, not entirely safe, not entirely comfortable), so almost none of the expatriates at my school ride them. But Rachel met me at the matatu stop nearest my apartment, rode with me downtown, walked me to the other major stops, and introduced me to a cheap downtown coffee shop. She also pointed out the Hilton as a major landmark and free bathroom, and she gave me advice about which areas were safe for a white girl who sticks out like a hard boiled egg in a bag of poppyseeds.
And so I felt somewhat competent the next day when I took a matatu to Hawker's market to buy my vegetables. On the way there, I marveled at the different personalities of matatus- some are MTV on wheels, with pumping bass and semi-obscene music videos playing on a screen at the front. Others are more sedate, with philosophical advice displayed on the sides and ceiling: "To avoid life stress, live according to your standard." The one I rode in that morning had an interesting (and fitting?) combination: "Honesty is the best policy" coupled with "I may not be smart, rich, or good looking, but I am available." And on the return trip I rode in one whose stickers proclaimed "Yesu ni Bwana." I knew my Swahili was improving because I could translate it: "Jesus is Lord." It was the first time I've understood something I've read, and it was a good first sentence. =)
I'm becoming pretty comfortable on matatus; it barely took any effort for me to ride to the hospital this morning. Don't worry, I'm not sick- I went to visit Travis and Lydia because baby Meshach has finally been born!
He's wonderful and vocal and beautiful, and it's delightful to be here for this event. Just like when I came back from HNGR and waited at the hospital for Erin Hausam to be born, Meshach Klingforth reminds me that life continues despite whatever transition I may be experiencing. There is consistency the world over- God is faithful to bring life and sustain it, and evidence of His goodness can be held in human arms.
So I continue my upward growth, and the view is improving: I have a lot more independence, a touch more confidence, and every day more rootedness in this place and its relationships. I'm grateful for matatus and how they expand my horizons, and I'm thankful for relationships with other expatriates whom I can serve and support.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Quick Pic
Here's a picture from 2 Sundays ago- the Matlaks and 2 of their 4 boys on the left, Travis and Lydia on the right, Paul the mzee and 3 interns between the tall men, and Katherine and I in the front. Yes, Katherine is pulling on Danny's tie.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Something To Look Forward To
Recently I've noticed that I'm settling in here. A student teacher arrived at the school this week, and in showing her around I discovered that I did know a little about this place... I think being around someone newer than you makes you feel less clueless. We went to the shopping center and I even sort of showed her where things were, though I'm still not entirely comfortable at Nakumatt: I was there kind of late last Thursday night, and they pulled down the giant metal blue garage doors (like when they close stores at malls in the States) while I was still in the checkout line. As I watched the blue metal descend and lock, I thought about how I had not yet put the number for the US Embassy in my phone, so how would they know to rescue me, trapped in this African Walmart? But despite the occasional Nakumatt-induced anxiety attack, things are looking up.
I can tell because there are things I'm looking forward to. At first, everything in a new place is about survival: How do I eat? Where do I sleep? Will it rain into my apartment? What do I do if I get sick? Are there snakes here? Eventually, resolving those issues becomes more subconscious and I can focus on broader but still pressing questions: How am I relating to people? How are people relating to me? Is there something I should be doing about either of those? What are we doing in class tomorrow? Will this amount of money last the whole month? But now, after 2 months in Kenya and 6 weeks of school, I can say that there's been enough stability that I can see beyond my immediate needs and I have found things to look forward to.
Some are small- I know when the new month comes, they will refill the sodas in the staff refrigerator. I have discovered that I really like Stoney, which is like ginger ale on steroids- it's REALLY strong, almost frighteningly so. Sometimes my tongue recoils at the last couple sips, but I like it! Because Stoney is so good, all of them are gone by the middle of the month. So I'm looking forward to the re-stock.
I'm also looking forward to spending more time with Paul Robinson, the director of the HNGR program (HNGR is what I did in Thailand). Paul and his wife Margie are my adopted parents at Wheaton, and Paul is in Africa for a few weeks on HGNR business, staying near campus. As it turns out, there are 4 current interns placed in Nairobi right now, so he brought them over to my apartment last weekend. Travis and Lydia, two more Wheaton friends who are currently missionaries in Kenya, came over too. They each were HNGR interns as well, so they know Paul. The 8 of us celebrated communion together in my living room last Sunday afternoon- it was a balm to my soul. Somehow, seeing the familiar faces of Travis, Lydia and Paul against the backdrop of my apartment here made it real that this is my life now. Something important connected when that happened; I think I decided to really be here. Anyhow, Paul is around for another weekend, so we'll go to church together tomorrow, and I hope to connect with the other interns before they leave in November as well.
Another looming highlight is the birth of Travis and Lydia's baby. They are missionaries in Mehru, their doctor is here in Nairobi, and they're past due, so they're hanging out in the city until the baby comes. Every time I get a text message from them, I check to make sure I have matatu fare to the hospital...
Now, nothing against Paul or the baby, but the thing I am looking forward to the very most has not yet been mentioned: CFS. That stands for Cultural Field Studies, and basically it's a super-cool field trip. Each grade at Rosslyn from 6th -12th goes on a multi-night trip into Kenya to learn about her land and culture and to combat the isolation so often present at international schools. The price is part of tuition, and the teachers go as chaperones. So a week from Wednesday, I leave with the 7th graders for Lake Naivasha. We'll stay at a camp for 2 nights, go hiking, sing silly songs around the campfire, and eat junk food in the cabins. I love taking middle schoolers to camp, so of course that will be great, but it gets even better. You see, there will be hippos. Lake Naivasha has hippo herds. (I love that phrase!) People have tried to explain to me that the hippopotamus is one of the most dangerous animals on planet earth, far more fierce and scary than, say, a grizzly bear, and that my enthusiasm is misplaced. But I am enthusiastic nonetheless- we'll get to take a boat ride to see the hippo herds, and apparently, there is a curfew at the camp because the hippos come up on land at night, and you don't want to tangle with a hippo in the dark! I have a picture in my mind of Rosslyn 7th graders around a campfire, happily singing "Mm-att Went the Little Green Frog," when suddenly the menacing figure of a hippo enters the background. The students run, screaming... I'm looking forward to CFS, and I'll try to post some pictures. ;)
I can tell because there are things I'm looking forward to. At first, everything in a new place is about survival: How do I eat? Where do I sleep? Will it rain into my apartment? What do I do if I get sick? Are there snakes here? Eventually, resolving those issues becomes more subconscious and I can focus on broader but still pressing questions: How am I relating to people? How are people relating to me? Is there something I should be doing about either of those? What are we doing in class tomorrow? Will this amount of money last the whole month? But now, after 2 months in Kenya and 6 weeks of school, I can say that there's been enough stability that I can see beyond my immediate needs and I have found things to look forward to.
Some are small- I know when the new month comes, they will refill the sodas in the staff refrigerator. I have discovered that I really like Stoney, which is like ginger ale on steroids- it's REALLY strong, almost frighteningly so. Sometimes my tongue recoils at the last couple sips, but I like it! Because Stoney is so good, all of them are gone by the middle of the month. So I'm looking forward to the re-stock.
I'm also looking forward to spending more time with Paul Robinson, the director of the HNGR program (HNGR is what I did in Thailand). Paul and his wife Margie are my adopted parents at Wheaton, and Paul is in Africa for a few weeks on HGNR business, staying near campus. As it turns out, there are 4 current interns placed in Nairobi right now, so he brought them over to my apartment last weekend. Travis and Lydia, two more Wheaton friends who are currently missionaries in Kenya, came over too. They each were HNGR interns as well, so they know Paul. The 8 of us celebrated communion together in my living room last Sunday afternoon- it was a balm to my soul. Somehow, seeing the familiar faces of Travis, Lydia and Paul against the backdrop of my apartment here made it real that this is my life now. Something important connected when that happened; I think I decided to really be here. Anyhow, Paul is around for another weekend, so we'll go to church together tomorrow, and I hope to connect with the other interns before they leave in November as well.
Another looming highlight is the birth of Travis and Lydia's baby. They are missionaries in Mehru, their doctor is here in Nairobi, and they're past due, so they're hanging out in the city until the baby comes. Every time I get a text message from them, I check to make sure I have matatu fare to the hospital...
Now, nothing against Paul or the baby, but the thing I am looking forward to the very most has not yet been mentioned: CFS. That stands for Cultural Field Studies, and basically it's a super-cool field trip. Each grade at Rosslyn from 6th -12th goes on a multi-night trip into Kenya to learn about her land and culture and to combat the isolation so often present at international schools. The price is part of tuition, and the teachers go as chaperones. So a week from Wednesday, I leave with the 7th graders for Lake Naivasha. We'll stay at a camp for 2 nights, go hiking, sing silly songs around the campfire, and eat junk food in the cabins. I love taking middle schoolers to camp, so of course that will be great, but it gets even better. You see, there will be hippos. Lake Naivasha has hippo herds. (I love that phrase!) People have tried to explain to me that the hippopotamus is one of the most dangerous animals on planet earth, far more fierce and scary than, say, a grizzly bear, and that my enthusiasm is misplaced. But I am enthusiastic nonetheless- we'll get to take a boat ride to see the hippo herds, and apparently, there is a curfew at the camp because the hippos come up on land at night, and you don't want to tangle with a hippo in the dark! I have a picture in my mind of Rosslyn 7th graders around a campfire, happily singing "Mm-att Went the Little Green Frog," when suddenly the menacing figure of a hippo enters the background. The students run, screaming... I'm looking forward to CFS, and I'll try to post some pictures. ;)
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Another Installment of the Shopping Saga
Today I again attempted driving myself to the store. Yes, you may applaud if you desire; it was a monumental decision. If you don't know why, read "Success?" a couple posts down and you'll be all caught up...
Yep, I once more decided to borrow a school car and travel to the shopping center all by myself! The whole experience was approximately 683 times better than a week ago- I got the Suzuki again and started it on the first try. I'm actually starting to like the little truck! It only took me 10 minutes to get off campus, as opposed to an hour last time, and the guard didn't even have to jump out of my way as I passed the gate. I was able to turn on the lights as soon as the thunderstorm started, and I even knew where the windshield wipers were. (Mostly because I tend to accidentally turn them on when I'm trying to use the turn signal, but still, I knew where they were). Arrival was simple, and even parking went well. This time I didn't forget my list; I forgot my money. But I overcame the obstacle by successfully using the ATM machine- maybe I'm gaining a little resiliency and will be able to live here without trauma eventually. I navigated the extremely confusing set of staircases and ramps down to the food court, ordered my latte, and sat down to grade papers at a table just out of reach of the pouring rain.
Now, when I'm grading I tend to deal with frustration by changing location- if I'm becoming depressed by how kids are doing on a quiz, I'll move to a different setting and restart the grading. Actually, I decided to go grade at Village (the shopping center) because of a different kind of frustration: the power at the school was spiking and diving all day long. In theory we have a generator on campus which stabilizes our power; in reality there were at least 20 outages today. Sometimes the lights would start buzzing again quickly (ah, the wonders of florescence), sometimes they'd get enough juice to light up just as the power would quit again, and sometimes they'd just buzz and occasionally flicker. Holy distraction, Batman! It's especially challenging if you're playing a classwide game that requires the overhead projector, or putting grades into the ancient Dell that sometimes saves automatically and sometimes doesn't... All that to say, I was ready to grade somewhere else by 5:00.
After the latte was gone but there were still plenty of papers to grade, I got hungry for dinner and moved to a restaurant elsewhere in the mall. This was by far the best part of my evening. The restaurant turned out to be a wannabe sports bar; they had a couple of screens showing soccer games and they were pumping Ricky Martin loudly in the background. The waiters outnumbered the customers, no one was dancing nor drinking, and I was grading Algebra tests. I tell you, that's living La Vida Loca. ;) So I was giggling internally about the decade-old latin dance mix and the atmosphere that didn't quite match it when the music suddenly stopped. I was momentarily disappointed until they changed CDs and broke through to a whole new level of musical wonder: Kenny G. My giggling was not entirely internal at this point. But then it got even better! What could be better than pirated Kenny G in an African sports bar, you ask? Well, pirated Kenny G in an African sports bar playing Celine Dion, of course! I believe I laughed aloud when the bus boy started to earnestly whistle along to the soprano sax version of "My Heart Will Go On." I tried to pretend I was reading some really funny math tests, but I'm not sure I pulled it off.
Eventually the grading was done and it was time to brace myself for grocery shopping. I thought I'd imitate the culture around me and use a little tiny shopping cart- when I first moved here, I thought they were for children to push around like they are in the States. But according to my careful observations, they are to be used by anyone who doesn't have all that much to buy. That was me, so I gave it a shot. True, they're lighter, but I found I had trouble keeping it in front of me, and I had to hunch over to reach the bar to steer it. Today I got a B+ in shopping- I mostly found the things I was looking for, and when I came across something that wasn't on my list but hadn't been in stock for the last month, I bought 3 of them. I'm learning. I'm still not a master of the store's organizational layout; I searched high and low for a pencil sharpener in the school supplies section to no avail. Turns out it's in the hardware section (OK, I can see it being a tool), and they're kept locked up in a glass case along with cell phones and digital cameras. These are little plastic hand sharpeners which cost about a nickel. Never mind. I don't understand things here at all. But at least I've learned to ask for help finding what I need, and that's a worthwhile skill.
So all in all, a good Wednesday night: papers graded, groceries bought, and a little Ricky/Kenny/Celine. What more could I ask for?
Yep, I once more decided to borrow a school car and travel to the shopping center all by myself! The whole experience was approximately 683 times better than a week ago- I got the Suzuki again and started it on the first try. I'm actually starting to like the little truck! It only took me 10 minutes to get off campus, as opposed to an hour last time, and the guard didn't even have to jump out of my way as I passed the gate. I was able to turn on the lights as soon as the thunderstorm started, and I even knew where the windshield wipers were. (Mostly because I tend to accidentally turn them on when I'm trying to use the turn signal, but still, I knew where they were). Arrival was simple, and even parking went well. This time I didn't forget my list; I forgot my money. But I overcame the obstacle by successfully using the ATM machine- maybe I'm gaining a little resiliency and will be able to live here without trauma eventually. I navigated the extremely confusing set of staircases and ramps down to the food court, ordered my latte, and sat down to grade papers at a table just out of reach of the pouring rain.
Now, when I'm grading I tend to deal with frustration by changing location- if I'm becoming depressed by how kids are doing on a quiz, I'll move to a different setting and restart the grading. Actually, I decided to go grade at Village (the shopping center) because of a different kind of frustration: the power at the school was spiking and diving all day long. In theory we have a generator on campus which stabilizes our power; in reality there were at least 20 outages today. Sometimes the lights would start buzzing again quickly (ah, the wonders of florescence), sometimes they'd get enough juice to light up just as the power would quit again, and sometimes they'd just buzz and occasionally flicker. Holy distraction, Batman! It's especially challenging if you're playing a classwide game that requires the overhead projector, or putting grades into the ancient Dell that sometimes saves automatically and sometimes doesn't... All that to say, I was ready to grade somewhere else by 5:00.
After the latte was gone but there were still plenty of papers to grade, I got hungry for dinner and moved to a restaurant elsewhere in the mall. This was by far the best part of my evening. The restaurant turned out to be a wannabe sports bar; they had a couple of screens showing soccer games and they were pumping Ricky Martin loudly in the background. The waiters outnumbered the customers, no one was dancing nor drinking, and I was grading Algebra tests. I tell you, that's living La Vida Loca. ;) So I was giggling internally about the decade-old latin dance mix and the atmosphere that didn't quite match it when the music suddenly stopped. I was momentarily disappointed until they changed CDs and broke through to a whole new level of musical wonder: Kenny G. My giggling was not entirely internal at this point. But then it got even better! What could be better than pirated Kenny G in an African sports bar, you ask? Well, pirated Kenny G in an African sports bar playing Celine Dion, of course! I believe I laughed aloud when the bus boy started to earnestly whistle along to the soprano sax version of "My Heart Will Go On." I tried to pretend I was reading some really funny math tests, but I'm not sure I pulled it off.
Eventually the grading was done and it was time to brace myself for grocery shopping. I thought I'd imitate the culture around me and use a little tiny shopping cart- when I first moved here, I thought they were for children to push around like they are in the States. But according to my careful observations, they are to be used by anyone who doesn't have all that much to buy. That was me, so I gave it a shot. True, they're lighter, but I found I had trouble keeping it in front of me, and I had to hunch over to reach the bar to steer it. Today I got a B+ in shopping- I mostly found the things I was looking for, and when I came across something that wasn't on my list but hadn't been in stock for the last month, I bought 3 of them. I'm learning. I'm still not a master of the store's organizational layout; I searched high and low for a pencil sharpener in the school supplies section to no avail. Turns out it's in the hardware section (OK, I can see it being a tool), and they're kept locked up in a glass case along with cell phones and digital cameras. These are little plastic hand sharpeners which cost about a nickel. Never mind. I don't understand things here at all. But at least I've learned to ask for help finding what I need, and that's a worthwhile skill.
So all in all, a good Wednesday night: papers graded, groceries bought, and a little Ricky/Kenny/Celine. What more could I ask for?
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Distance
I've recently been hit by the reality of how physically far I truly am from friends and family. This has been brought into sharp focus over recent weeks because of the firing of Ken Kalisch, director of wilderness programs at HoneyRock. HoneyRock is the camp owned by Wheaton where I worked many summers through college and beyond. Ken was my boss as I led backpacking trips in '00, '02, and '04. He and his wife, Fran, are people of character, kindness, and simplicity, and they have influenced countless college and grad students to pursue the "High Road"- lives of Christlike ministry, community, challenge, reflection, and purpose. High Road is the name of the program he developed at HoneyRock; it's kind of a Christian version of Outward Bound. I certainly grew a lot through doing High Road as an incoming freshman at Wheaton, and the friendships I developed through the years at HoneyRock are precious to me. (Plus I got many of my best stories from those trips; that can't be underestimated). I can honestly say I am who I am because of God's intervention in my life through High Road. So as well it should, Ken's termination and the change in HoneyRock's direction disturbs me.
However, the reaction to these events has generally encouraged me- many folks who have been affected by Ken over the years are speaking up, working to celebrate his 30+ years of faithful service and protesting the injustice surrounding his firing. There has been a strong tenor of speaking the truth in love, examining our own hearts, and trying to respond in a Christlike manner. That alone is a powerful testimony to Ken's influence in our lives. The electronic age is great- there's a google group of High Road leaders that started with 2 members and has grown to 130, all sharing ideas about how to respond to this news. As someone on the other side of the world, I very much appreciate being able to be a part of those conversations. It's cool to see where former High Road instructors are and what they are doing; Ken truly has had an international impact on countless educators, social workers, pastors, and missionaries. Even though these are not the most high-paying jobs, people are responding in practical ways: a fund is being set up to support the Kalisch family through this period of financial difficulty, they have been offered a place to live, etc. Many letters have been written to the camp's board of directors, the trustees at Wheaton, and the director of the camp.
But the reason I've been reminded of distance is this: a reunion and celebration of Ken's work is being held in Wisconsin over Columbus Day Weekend. In many ways that's terrific. Tons of Ken's former students are trekking out, they'll all camp together, those who no longer own tents and stoves are borrowing from those that do, and many friendships will be rekindled as part of honoring Ken. The man who worked tirelessly to teach us about community will get to see generations of impact all in one place.
But I don't get to go. Many of you know that I really enjoy traveling across country to support my friends (hence the recent marathon of 12 weddings in 14 months). I love to reconnect with people at events, and I'll usually find a way to get to a party. This is one I don't want to miss: so many people I respect and want to learn from! So many stories to hear again and tell again! So many new insights gained in the years we've been apart! An opportunity to honor someone who's helped us to grow! A chance to worship together, mourn together, and celebrate together! But there's basically no way I could go. Physical distance, financial distance, even time commitment distance make attendance virtually impossible. So I'm sad to be left out of this expression of community. And I think about how this is only one of many events I won't be a part of. Whose births, adoptions, graduations, weddings, funerals, retirement parties, and going away parties will I miss? So many people are so very precious to me, and I've often expressed my care for them by showing up. Now I can't. Whose great idea was this? ;)
But there is one significant consolation in all this: prayer negates distance. (In math nerd talk, prayer is the normal subgroup of the spiritual world; everything it touches gets sucked right in no matter how big or small. Just like multiplying by zero). God is equally accessible to all His people, whether they be in Northern Wisconsin or Nairobi, whether it be the middle of the night or early in the afternoon. God knows no time zone. =) Prayer is miraculous! We are changed when we pray. We are brought into accordance with God's will through His Spirit. So a group of people who are continents apart can still implore God together and be moved to consistent action by His Spirit as a result. Incredible.
So I'm not really left out. I still have the ear of the Holy One. And on September 22, a day of prayer and fasting for HoneyRock, Wheaton, and the Kalisches, I look forward to beating the door of heaven with my fellow High Road instructors. Yes, there is community in prayer.
However, the reaction to these events has generally encouraged me- many folks who have been affected by Ken over the years are speaking up, working to celebrate his 30+ years of faithful service and protesting the injustice surrounding his firing. There has been a strong tenor of speaking the truth in love, examining our own hearts, and trying to respond in a Christlike manner. That alone is a powerful testimony to Ken's influence in our lives. The electronic age is great- there's a google group of High Road leaders that started with 2 members and has grown to 130, all sharing ideas about how to respond to this news. As someone on the other side of the world, I very much appreciate being able to be a part of those conversations. It's cool to see where former High Road instructors are and what they are doing; Ken truly has had an international impact on countless educators, social workers, pastors, and missionaries. Even though these are not the most high-paying jobs, people are responding in practical ways: a fund is being set up to support the Kalisch family through this period of financial difficulty, they have been offered a place to live, etc. Many letters have been written to the camp's board of directors, the trustees at Wheaton, and the director of the camp.
But the reason I've been reminded of distance is this: a reunion and celebration of Ken's work is being held in Wisconsin over Columbus Day Weekend. In many ways that's terrific. Tons of Ken's former students are trekking out, they'll all camp together, those who no longer own tents and stoves are borrowing from those that do, and many friendships will be rekindled as part of honoring Ken. The man who worked tirelessly to teach us about community will get to see generations of impact all in one place.
But I don't get to go. Many of you know that I really enjoy traveling across country to support my friends (hence the recent marathon of 12 weddings in 14 months). I love to reconnect with people at events, and I'll usually find a way to get to a party. This is one I don't want to miss: so many people I respect and want to learn from! So many stories to hear again and tell again! So many new insights gained in the years we've been apart! An opportunity to honor someone who's helped us to grow! A chance to worship together, mourn together, and celebrate together! But there's basically no way I could go. Physical distance, financial distance, even time commitment distance make attendance virtually impossible. So I'm sad to be left out of this expression of community. And I think about how this is only one of many events I won't be a part of. Whose births, adoptions, graduations, weddings, funerals, retirement parties, and going away parties will I miss? So many people are so very precious to me, and I've often expressed my care for them by showing up. Now I can't. Whose great idea was this? ;)
But there is one significant consolation in all this: prayer negates distance. (In math nerd talk, prayer is the normal subgroup of the spiritual world; everything it touches gets sucked right in no matter how big or small. Just like multiplying by zero). God is equally accessible to all His people, whether they be in Northern Wisconsin or Nairobi, whether it be the middle of the night or early in the afternoon. God knows no time zone. =) Prayer is miraculous! We are changed when we pray. We are brought into accordance with God's will through His Spirit. So a group of people who are continents apart can still implore God together and be moved to consistent action by His Spirit as a result. Incredible.
So I'm not really left out. I still have the ear of the Holy One. And on September 22, a day of prayer and fasting for HoneyRock, Wheaton, and the Kalisches, I look forward to beating the door of heaven with my fellow High Road instructors. Yes, there is community in prayer.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Success?
Well, I was thinking recently about how grocery shopping is going much better than it was a few weeks ago. I can find most things, and if they weren't in the location I last saw them, chances are they're gone and may or may not ever reappear. But at least I have _some_ idea of what I'm going to find. And since I'm doing so much better on the grocery shopping front, I decided it was time to branch out to something else that would make me feel incompetent and cause me to cry.
Driving alone was just the ticket! Now, the neighborhood around the school is very safe, what with American Embassy housing next door, chock-full of big patrolling Marines. Plus there are guards every 50 feet at the gates of enormous houses on all the streets, so even the most jumpy Americanites think it's OK to drive to the shopping center alone. Since I don't yet own a car, I decided to use one of the school vehicles; they are available after hours for a fee. I hadn't checked one out myself yet, so I tried to find a friendly staff member to help me. But everyone had bolted to intramural soccer games; I was on my own. Nonetheless, I figured out which key to use to get into the staff room (only to find, once I got in, that the door on the other side was wide open), I eventually discovered the key to get into the safe which held the vehicle keys (I knew there was a reason that key wouldn't open my filing cabinet...), but I was momentarily thrown when the cheapest car was already checked out. I recovered and chose the next cheapest car, but I almost gave up again when its keys were hanging in the safe, but the car itself was nowhere in the parking lot. Hm. By now it's a good half an hour past when I expected leave. However, I can be patient (I'm a teacher after all, right?), so I pressed on. I picked up the keys to a little truck, found the vehicle pretty easily, filled out the paperwork in the glove compartment, put the key in the ignition and...
I can't even turn the key. In fact, the harder I push, the more I feel the plastic on the handle of the key start to give. Actually, there are already cracks in that plastic- apparently someone's had this problem before. I try again. I try jiggling the steering wheel to unlock the ignition. I try some more. I try jiggling the steering wheel while making sure the clutch is fully engaged. I add the brake to the mix. I take off the emergency brake. I try combining any and all of those. I even try humming a few bars of "you're a good little car." Still no luck. I'm starting to feel really stupid- apparently I can't even start a car here! I wander over to nearby offices to see if anyone can help me. No one's there. I get back in the car and weaken the plastic on the key some more. Just then, one of my students who lives on campus walks by; I ask her if her dad is home. She says no, but her mom is, so come on over. When I walk in, her mom agrees to come look at the car with me. She looks for a "kill" button, some magic switch that helps to keep the car from being stolen. No luck. She asks if I _really_ need to go to the grocery store; won't I just come over to their house for dinner instead? A smart person would have said yes. But no, I'm nothing if not stubborn. I need milk. I need coffee. I need all-purpose baking flour. And at this point, it's getting too late to walk (that's not encouraged as dark approaches, even by native Kenyans).
Fortunately, one of the school's bus drivers walks by, and he is able to start the car. However, when I try to do it on my own, I still can't. He keeps telling me, "Do it halfway," and I keep nearly breaking the key off in the ignition. Finally I understand that I need to pull the key half-out of the slot to turn it past the lock position, then re-insert it the rest of the way. Oy. But I'm making progress. I've got a car. I've even got it started. And it's only been an hour. I'm hungry, which definitely increases my desire to cry and quit. But no. I need milk. I need coffee. I need dish soap. So I carefully back out and drive toward the main gate, recalling when I was learning to drive and my mom kept telling me "think left-think left-THINKLEFT!" (it was justified- I nearly drove our VW camper van into the wall of the garage). This time the mom-voice in my head (or maybe it was my voice- we sound so much alike) was screaming "think right!" I cut the gate a little close and maybe scared the guard, but no damage was done.
I finally walked into the grocery store after an extremely shoddy parking job, only to realize I had somehow forgotten my list. Grr. But I can persevere: I need milk. I need coffee. I need chocolate? Clearly. And as it turns out, I'm not as good at grocery shopping as I thought I was. One-time success does not equal mastery; I was pretty frustrated. When I finally got in line to check out, the woman in front of me apparently not only had forgotten half of what she wanted to buy and had the bag boy run and get it for her, but she had a very complicated means of payment involving carefully counted cash, store credit, a visa card, and something about the unshorn hair of her firstborn's head? It took a while- I don't know that I've ever before heard three hits from the 80s all the way through while waiting in a grocery store line. A one person line.
But I got through, paid for my groceries, and headed out to the parking lot. I even found the car right away, which surprised me, but by now it was dark. No worries. It's only a mile or so back to school. Which would be no problem if I could FIGURE OUT HOW TO TURN ON THE STINKING LIGHTS! I pushed every button I could find, using up a lot of windshield wiper fluid and verifying that the heat works but finding no illumination. After 10 minutes, I decided that there were probably enough street lights along the way that I wouldn't hit anything and nothing would hit me if I drove really slow. So I headed to the exit of the parking lot. When I got to that gate (where I hand back the piece of plastic that I got when I pulled in, the one I faithfully hauled around in my purse while in the store, the one that supposedly safeguards against someone escaping the parking lot after stealing my impossible to start car. You know, that gate), the guard asked kindly, "You don't want to turn on your lights?" At this point, I nearly did cry. But when he expertly twisted the end of the turn signal (exactly where the lights are in the car I've owned for the past 7 years...), I thanked him, drove home in safety, made it through the Rosslyn gate without scratching paint off anything, dropped off my groceries, parked between the lines, let myself into the staff room, put the keys back in the safe, walked back to my apartment, and wrote this post.
Success.
Driving alone was just the ticket! Now, the neighborhood around the school is very safe, what with American Embassy housing next door, chock-full of big patrolling Marines. Plus there are guards every 50 feet at the gates of enormous houses on all the streets, so even the most jumpy Americanites think it's OK to drive to the shopping center alone. Since I don't yet own a car, I decided to use one of the school vehicles; they are available after hours for a fee. I hadn't checked one out myself yet, so I tried to find a friendly staff member to help me. But everyone had bolted to intramural soccer games; I was on my own. Nonetheless, I figured out which key to use to get into the staff room (only to find, once I got in, that the door on the other side was wide open), I eventually discovered the key to get into the safe which held the vehicle keys (I knew there was a reason that key wouldn't open my filing cabinet...), but I was momentarily thrown when the cheapest car was already checked out. I recovered and chose the next cheapest car, but I almost gave up again when its keys were hanging in the safe, but the car itself was nowhere in the parking lot. Hm. By now it's a good half an hour past when I expected leave. However, I can be patient (I'm a teacher after all, right?), so I pressed on. I picked up the keys to a little truck, found the vehicle pretty easily, filled out the paperwork in the glove compartment, put the key in the ignition and...
I can't even turn the key. In fact, the harder I push, the more I feel the plastic on the handle of the key start to give. Actually, there are already cracks in that plastic- apparently someone's had this problem before. I try again. I try jiggling the steering wheel to unlock the ignition. I try some more. I try jiggling the steering wheel while making sure the clutch is fully engaged. I add the brake to the mix. I take off the emergency brake. I try combining any and all of those. I even try humming a few bars of "you're a good little car." Still no luck. I'm starting to feel really stupid- apparently I can't even start a car here! I wander over to nearby offices to see if anyone can help me. No one's there. I get back in the car and weaken the plastic on the key some more. Just then, one of my students who lives on campus walks by; I ask her if her dad is home. She says no, but her mom is, so come on over. When I walk in, her mom agrees to come look at the car with me. She looks for a "kill" button, some magic switch that helps to keep the car from being stolen. No luck. She asks if I _really_ need to go to the grocery store; won't I just come over to their house for dinner instead? A smart person would have said yes. But no, I'm nothing if not stubborn. I need milk. I need coffee. I need all-purpose baking flour. And at this point, it's getting too late to walk (that's not encouraged as dark approaches, even by native Kenyans).
Fortunately, one of the school's bus drivers walks by, and he is able to start the car. However, when I try to do it on my own, I still can't. He keeps telling me, "Do it halfway," and I keep nearly breaking the key off in the ignition. Finally I understand that I need to pull the key half-out of the slot to turn it past the lock position, then re-insert it the rest of the way. Oy. But I'm making progress. I've got a car. I've even got it started. And it's only been an hour. I'm hungry, which definitely increases my desire to cry and quit. But no. I need milk. I need coffee. I need dish soap. So I carefully back out and drive toward the main gate, recalling when I was learning to drive and my mom kept telling me "think left-think left-THINKLEFT!" (it was justified- I nearly drove our VW camper van into the wall of the garage). This time the mom-voice in my head (or maybe it was my voice- we sound so much alike) was screaming "think right!" I cut the gate a little close and maybe scared the guard, but no damage was done.
I finally walked into the grocery store after an extremely shoddy parking job, only to realize I had somehow forgotten my list. Grr. But I can persevere: I need milk. I need coffee. I need chocolate? Clearly. And as it turns out, I'm not as good at grocery shopping as I thought I was. One-time success does not equal mastery; I was pretty frustrated. When I finally got in line to check out, the woman in front of me apparently not only had forgotten half of what she wanted to buy and had the bag boy run and get it for her, but she had a very complicated means of payment involving carefully counted cash, store credit, a visa card, and something about the unshorn hair of her firstborn's head? It took a while- I don't know that I've ever before heard three hits from the 80s all the way through while waiting in a grocery store line. A one person line.
But I got through, paid for my groceries, and headed out to the parking lot. I even found the car right away, which surprised me, but by now it was dark. No worries. It's only a mile or so back to school. Which would be no problem if I could FIGURE OUT HOW TO TURN ON THE STINKING LIGHTS! I pushed every button I could find, using up a lot of windshield wiper fluid and verifying that the heat works but finding no illumination. After 10 minutes, I decided that there were probably enough street lights along the way that I wouldn't hit anything and nothing would hit me if I drove really slow. So I headed to the exit of the parking lot. When I got to that gate (where I hand back the piece of plastic that I got when I pulled in, the one I faithfully hauled around in my purse while in the store, the one that supposedly safeguards against someone escaping the parking lot after stealing my impossible to start car. You know, that gate), the guard asked kindly, "You don't want to turn on your lights?" At this point, I nearly did cry. But when he expertly twisted the end of the turn signal (exactly where the lights are in the car I've owned for the past 7 years...), I thanked him, drove home in safety, made it through the Rosslyn gate without scratching paint off anything, dropped off my groceries, parked between the lines, let myself into the staff room, put the keys back in the safe, walked back to my apartment, and wrote this post.
Success.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Different
Lots of people have asked me about what's different here, so I present you with 5 noticeable differences in my routine and surroundings. No particular order, obviously...
Driving on the other side of the road is different, though honestly not as hard to get used to as I expected. I'm still working on mastering roundabouts instead of stoplights. I don't have a car yet, but I've borrowed others' and given driving a shot. It's strange to me that right turns are difficult and left are easy. Shifting with my left hand isn't that hard, but I have occasionally turned on the windshield wipers instead of the turn signal. A little embarrassing, but not disastrous. It's just like I'm waving at oncoming traffic. :)
Almost no one smokes here- it's illegal to smoke in public in Nairobi, so even when I'm walking through a group of people or waiting at a bus stop, I don't smell smoke. Nairobi is famous for its lightning-fast passage of laws- when I first got here, a city ordinance was passed that made it illegal to carry plastic bags on the street. You could, in theory, be arrested for carrying your groceries home in a plastic sack. The reasons behind the law weren't all bad- decrease littering and use of resources, encourage folks to transport supplies in reusable baskets. A police crackdown on plastic-bag-carrying might do that. But it was impractical, and the law was repealed within the same week. Fortunately, the smoking ban has been a bit longer lasting.
I've been drinking my coffee black. Usually I put some milk or cream in it, but the flavor of the coffee here is so good (and I haven't quite gotten used to the dairy products), so black is the new brown...
I have no sense for weather prediction. I know this is typical when moving to a new place- I remember looking out the window during the first week of my freshman year at Wheaton, seeing a cloudy sky, and putting on jeans and a sweatshirt. Not appropriate for August in Chicago. In Los Alamos, cloudy means cold and sunny means warm. Not so in the Midwest, and apparently not so in Kenya. It's not as cold as when I first got here, so I no longer deeply regret leaving my down comforter at home, but I still am clueless as to when it will rain, how warm it's likely to get, and whether I'll freeze in a skirt or boil in a long sleeved shirt. Time will tell; experience is a powerful teacher.
My eye meets hundreds of shades of green whenever I look outside. Here's the view out the front door of my apartment:
This morning one of my friends joked that things grow so well here that she's considering planting a sneaker to save some money on shoes. I'm fascinated by the flame tree between the two apartment buildings (below- see the big orange flowers at the top?), and I'm lucky to have a garden that stays beautiful with just weekly attention from Kennedy the groundskeeper. Perhaps even I could keep a plant alive for more than 3 days here...
So there's a quick glimpse into a few changes I've experienced in this move to Nairobi. I'm at a whiny point in my culture shock right now (i miss green chile... i can't find cold medicine... i want a 3 day weekend for labor day...), so I've tried to mention things I can be positive about. Please pray that God will give me "a willing spirit to sustain me." (Ps. 51) I know He is faithful.
Driving on the other side of the road is different, though honestly not as hard to get used to as I expected. I'm still working on mastering roundabouts instead of stoplights. I don't have a car yet, but I've borrowed others' and given driving a shot. It's strange to me that right turns are difficult and left are easy. Shifting with my left hand isn't that hard, but I have occasionally turned on the windshield wipers instead of the turn signal. A little embarrassing, but not disastrous. It's just like I'm waving at oncoming traffic. :)
Almost no one smokes here- it's illegal to smoke in public in Nairobi, so even when I'm walking through a group of people or waiting at a bus stop, I don't smell smoke. Nairobi is famous for its lightning-fast passage of laws- when I first got here, a city ordinance was passed that made it illegal to carry plastic bags on the street. You could, in theory, be arrested for carrying your groceries home in a plastic sack. The reasons behind the law weren't all bad- decrease littering and use of resources, encourage folks to transport supplies in reusable baskets. A police crackdown on plastic-bag-carrying might do that. But it was impractical, and the law was repealed within the same week. Fortunately, the smoking ban has been a bit longer lasting.
I've been drinking my coffee black. Usually I put some milk or cream in it, but the flavor of the coffee here is so good (and I haven't quite gotten used to the dairy products), so black is the new brown...
I have no sense for weather prediction. I know this is typical when moving to a new place- I remember looking out the window during the first week of my freshman year at Wheaton, seeing a cloudy sky, and putting on jeans and a sweatshirt. Not appropriate for August in Chicago. In Los Alamos, cloudy means cold and sunny means warm. Not so in the Midwest, and apparently not so in Kenya. It's not as cold as when I first got here, so I no longer deeply regret leaving my down comforter at home, but I still am clueless as to when it will rain, how warm it's likely to get, and whether I'll freeze in a skirt or boil in a long sleeved shirt. Time will tell; experience is a powerful teacher.
My eye meets hundreds of shades of green whenever I look outside. Here's the view out the front door of my apartment:
This morning one of my friends joked that things grow so well here that she's considering planting a sneaker to save some money on shoes. I'm fascinated by the flame tree between the two apartment buildings (below- see the big orange flowers at the top?), and I'm lucky to have a garden that stays beautiful with just weekly attention from Kennedy the groundskeeper. Perhaps even I could keep a plant alive for more than 3 days here...
So there's a quick glimpse into a few changes I've experienced in this move to Nairobi. I'm at a whiny point in my culture shock right now (i miss green chile... i can't find cold medicine... i want a 3 day weekend for labor day...), so I've tried to mention things I can be positive about. Please pray that God will give me "a willing spirit to sustain me." (Ps. 51) I know He is faithful.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
My Favorite Day So Far
Greetings, faithful readers (now up to 4...). I know you're surprised to hear from me again so soon, and I'd like to remind you of the first post about low expectations before I launch into a description of what I did today. It's just so cool that I can't _not_ tell you, but I make no promises about the quality of writing...
Today I got to go hiking! I can't ever remember going more than 2 weeks without spending significant time outside, and this was a hike worthy of ending the month-long famine. Four friends and I trekked in the Ngong Hills, of Out of Africa fame.
It was Astrid's idea (Norwegian teacher, red hair), and she and Brenton (red cap) provided the transportation. Ann and Jeremy were able to leave their small boys with a friend, so they came as well. It was a fun group- 3 MKs from Ethiopia, Kenya and Brazil, plus two boring American girls and a whole lot of pancake batter. Hiking with an armed guard took a little getting used to- since we're so obviously white and therefore rich (?), we had to hire Steven to walk with us. His ease in navigating the landscape put us all to shame.
The hike itself was beautiful (and steep, as you can see!).
After 3 hills, we stopped for food, because what is a hike without snacks, I ask you? We drank coffee (yay!) and made Norwegian pancakes on a camp stove. Astrid and Brenton did a great job with the food, and the squeezable strawberry jam was a tasty addition. I contributed pre-pancake peanuts and witty conversation.
I can't even explain how encouraging today's outing was- I got to do something familiar yet adventurous, there were multiple cultures represented, and above all, I was off campus! I actually experienced Kenya, not Little America. The scenery was incredible, we had great views of the city and of the Rift Valley, and there was plenty of hard work involved; the altitude is about the same as the Los Alamos Ski Hill, but the ups and downs of the trail were similar to hiking from the parking lot to the top of Pajarito, then back down, then up again, then taking a jeep trail over to Camp May, then do it all over in reverse. I think I've earned my teacher-girl bedtime of 9:00 tonight!
So I hope your week holds unexpected joys as well, and don't freak out too much about the guard. Just remember: he brought safety, not danger! And we were smart enough to bring him. Pray if you want to, but don't worry. It's not biblical. =)
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Coffee Cups and Heaven
I like coffee. Most people who know me know that. I was often found grading papers in coffee shops, I was on a first-name basis with Colin who makes mochas at Film Festival, and many of my dearest friendships have been formed while holding a hot drink. I inherited this love from my father, who, back when I was less than a continent away, often invited me over for coffee on Saturday mornings. My enjoyment is not about the caffeine (though my friend Robin who makes the best lattes in the world seems to believe it to be his moral obligation to only ever give me decaf... hm). Rather, I enjoy the peace and comfort of holding a hot drink, and my palate appreciates the terrific flavor imparted by the bean. So while I enjoy coffee with friends, my favorite cup is the one I drink by myself in the morning as I quietly start my day in prayer.
So of course I need a good mug. One that holds enough to satisfy yet not so much that I get made fun of, insulates the beverage so that it stays drinkable for 45 minutes yet releases enough heat to feel warm as I hold it, rests perfectly in one or in two hands, and can fit all 4 fingers in the handle. But those are not the only requirements. Oh no- it needs to be heavy enough that I can't knock it over easily (some of you are smiling knowingly), it should represent something I like in my life, it mustn't drip, it has to be unique/unusual, I'd prefer it be handmade, and I want one that is of course purple. If you think I'm being too picky, consider the depth of relationship I have with my coffee cup- it is my companion each morning as I interact with God. It is privy to tears, to joy, to secret crushes, to wakeup hair. It never complains about morning breath. It moves gracefully from kitchen to end table to carefully-balanced-on-a-cushion without incident. It must match equally well with yogurt, toast, or a green chile omelet. Really, the demands on this coffee cup are intense.
Which explains why there was no telling how long it would take to find it. At each market or mall, I'd stop at the pottery stalls and hold the mugs that seemed promising. And yet never did I find The One. I knew it would call out to me- "I will be your companion! I will never spill on you more than twice a week! I am a worthy receptacle for Kenyan AA! Choose me!" Yet for a long month, the coffee cups were silent. But that all changed in a Kazuri Beads store last Sunday. Kazuri is a pottery business that employs disenfranchised members of Kenyan society- single mothers, disabled men, etc. They make beautiful beads, jewelry, and dishes. I had already held and rejected every purple piece of pottery in the place when my eye was drawn to a brown mug with some sort of African creature painted on it. On further inspection, it turned out to be an impala. A Gregarious Impala! The cup met all the other requirements besides color, and so I decided that perhaps it was time for me to expand my very purple horizons. Nine dollars later (hey, Kazuri's a business worth supporting), I had my coffee mug.
While in many ways this is an inspiring tale of triumph, I can't help but feel that I'm being a bit materialistic. Are possessions my source of joy? Does the comfort I take in things overwhelm the comfort I know from God? Or is God working through the things? I'm a big fan of symbols, of tangible objects that remind us of deeper reality- communion that reminds us of Christ's sacrifice and of our unity as believers, colored bracelets from friends in Thailand that remind me that we are knotted together in Christ, an amethyst ring from my mother that reminds me of her love and constancy, a prayer chapel that reminds me that an hour with God is often worth more than an hour of sleep. Physical objects give handles to my heart's knowledge. And I daresay it's heresy to believe that all things physical are bad. We will have new bodies in heaven, no? We will live on a new earth, right? I believe there is God-given value in physical things themselves: freshly baked bread, giant orange flowers growing on the flame tree outside my home, the sound of my brother's belly laugh, and even the feel of just the right coffee cup in my hand. But how important should things be?
In a transition guide for missionaries, we were encouraged to bring "sacred objects"- things that provide a link between where we've been and where we are. I brought some and maybe wish I had brought more. But no matter how much I enjoy the things or depend on them for consistency, it's the relationships I miss. And I can't help but feel that they are forever changed. Many of the people who were my primary friends, well, I haven't heard from since I left. Several folks I didn't expect to continue a connection with have instead strengthened it. I find it all very confusing. But one thing I will say: my longing for heaven is pretty close to the surface during this season of my life. I'm very aware that neither New Mexico nor Kenya is completely my home. I want all my relationships united in one place. I want the wholeness of knowing and being known. I want proper perspective on the physical world. And above all, I look forward to experiencing life distilled from sin and its consequences.
Finally being completely who we were made to be sounds perfect to me- I'm pretty sure I'll fit into God's hands even better than my impala coffee cup rests in mine.
So of course I need a good mug. One that holds enough to satisfy yet not so much that I get made fun of, insulates the beverage so that it stays drinkable for 45 minutes yet releases enough heat to feel warm as I hold it, rests perfectly in one or in two hands, and can fit all 4 fingers in the handle. But those are not the only requirements. Oh no- it needs to be heavy enough that I can't knock it over easily (some of you are smiling knowingly), it should represent something I like in my life, it mustn't drip, it has to be unique/unusual, I'd prefer it be handmade, and I want one that is of course purple. If you think I'm being too picky, consider the depth of relationship I have with my coffee cup- it is my companion each morning as I interact with God. It is privy to tears, to joy, to secret crushes, to wakeup hair. It never complains about morning breath. It moves gracefully from kitchen to end table to carefully-balanced-on-a-cushion without incident. It must match equally well with yogurt, toast, or a green chile omelet. Really, the demands on this coffee cup are intense.
Which explains why there was no telling how long it would take to find it. At each market or mall, I'd stop at the pottery stalls and hold the mugs that seemed promising. And yet never did I find The One. I knew it would call out to me- "I will be your companion! I will never spill on you more than twice a week! I am a worthy receptacle for Kenyan AA! Choose me!" Yet for a long month, the coffee cups were silent. But that all changed in a Kazuri Beads store last Sunday. Kazuri is a pottery business that employs disenfranchised members of Kenyan society- single mothers, disabled men, etc. They make beautiful beads, jewelry, and dishes. I had already held and rejected every purple piece of pottery in the place when my eye was drawn to a brown mug with some sort of African creature painted on it. On further inspection, it turned out to be an impala. A Gregarious Impala! The cup met all the other requirements besides color, and so I decided that perhaps it was time for me to expand my very purple horizons. Nine dollars later (hey, Kazuri's a business worth supporting), I had my coffee mug.
While in many ways this is an inspiring tale of triumph, I can't help but feel that I'm being a bit materialistic. Are possessions my source of joy? Does the comfort I take in things overwhelm the comfort I know from God? Or is God working through the things? I'm a big fan of symbols, of tangible objects that remind us of deeper reality- communion that reminds us of Christ's sacrifice and of our unity as believers, colored bracelets from friends in Thailand that remind me that we are knotted together in Christ, an amethyst ring from my mother that reminds me of her love and constancy, a prayer chapel that reminds me that an hour with God is often worth more than an hour of sleep. Physical objects give handles to my heart's knowledge. And I daresay it's heresy to believe that all things physical are bad. We will have new bodies in heaven, no? We will live on a new earth, right? I believe there is God-given value in physical things themselves: freshly baked bread, giant orange flowers growing on the flame tree outside my home, the sound of my brother's belly laugh, and even the feel of just the right coffee cup in my hand. But how important should things be?
In a transition guide for missionaries, we were encouraged to bring "sacred objects"- things that provide a link between where we've been and where we are. I brought some and maybe wish I had brought more. But no matter how much I enjoy the things or depend on them for consistency, it's the relationships I miss. And I can't help but feel that they are forever changed. Many of the people who were my primary friends, well, I haven't heard from since I left. Several folks I didn't expect to continue a connection with have instead strengthened it. I find it all very confusing. But one thing I will say: my longing for heaven is pretty close to the surface during this season of my life. I'm very aware that neither New Mexico nor Kenya is completely my home. I want all my relationships united in one place. I want the wholeness of knowing and being known. I want proper perspective on the physical world. And above all, I look forward to experiencing life distilled from sin and its consequences.
Finally being completely who we were made to be sounds perfect to me- I'm pretty sure I'll fit into God's hands even better than my impala coffee cup rests in mine.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
What's In A Name?
Now, with that title, I know a percentage of my readership (of a certain age and upbringing...) will immediately have a particular Petra song running through their heads. But we're going to move Beyond Belief (they got that too) and talk about names.
It's on my mind because school started this week, and I've been called "Teacher! Teacher!" an awful lot. It reminds me of when I was a 16 year old aide at the YMCA childcare program, and one little boy always called me "Mrs!" That's all. Not Jessie, not Miss Jessie, not Miss Gac, not even Mrs. Gac, but just "Mrs!" Anyhow, "Teacher-teacher!" has been my name this week. With the two new Asian girls who just started American school, I carefully explained that, though in their culture it was respectful to address all educators as teacher, in our culture we show respect by using the last name but putting "Miss" in front of it. I was proud until they referred to my coworker Paul as "Miss Bedsole." We've clarified that.
My last name presents a challenge even for native English speakers; I spent part of each class period the first day helping them say "Miss Gac" with confidence. And then I explained that since I was picky about how my name was said, I fully expected them to be picky with the pronunciation of their own names. Again, I was humbled. After seven years of Analisas, Ramons, Pedros, and only one Tianyi, I thought I could pronounce names. Il Gon, Eun Chung, Saemy, and especially Ouangatobi might beg to differ. On the other hand, I was told I am the only teacher to ever pronounce "Rodrigo Gaete" correctly on the first try. :)
Unfamiliar names are harder to remember, so I've discovered I can't do my seating charts this weekend like I normally would; I can't quite remember who's who. But in some ways that's a bonus- I've had more restful days off and spent them well. This afternoon some of the other teachers and I went to Hawker's Market, an open-air produce market about 10 minutes away. Here names are important too- if I buy from someone I don't know, I get called "madam" or "mzungu" (whitey) and get terrible prices. But if I buy from Michael, Lucy, or Eunice, they recognize me from last week, smile at me, call me Jessie, and give me a good price. In fact, if they do not have what I need, they will go to a neighboring stand owner, negotiate a fair price for me and introduce me to that person. Obviously, relationships are a pretty important factor here. I appreciate that.
Michael, the fruit stand owner we know, took us to the city park next to the market so we could feed the monkeys. We brought maize and bananas for them, and once I got over my fear that I one would bite me and I would catch a terrible disease, it was lots of fun. They hold your hand while they eat to make sure the food source doesn't go away, and they're obviously not shy! It's about a million times better than feeding the ducks at Ashley Pond, and I chronicled the event with a few pictures:
My friends the monkeys (though I don't yet know their names).
Michael and Jess, both monkey magnets.
A beautiful bouganvilla tree- they grow a little better here than in New Mexico.
It's on my mind because school started this week, and I've been called "Teacher! Teacher!" an awful lot. It reminds me of when I was a 16 year old aide at the YMCA childcare program, and one little boy always called me "Mrs!" That's all. Not Jessie, not Miss Jessie, not Miss Gac, not even Mrs. Gac, but just "Mrs!" Anyhow, "Teacher-teacher!" has been my name this week. With the two new Asian girls who just started American school, I carefully explained that, though in their culture it was respectful to address all educators as teacher, in our culture we show respect by using the last name but putting "Miss" in front of it. I was proud until they referred to my coworker Paul as "Miss Bedsole." We've clarified that.
My last name presents a challenge even for native English speakers; I spent part of each class period the first day helping them say "Miss Gac" with confidence. And then I explained that since I was picky about how my name was said, I fully expected them to be picky with the pronunciation of their own names. Again, I was humbled. After seven years of Analisas, Ramons, Pedros, and only one Tianyi, I thought I could pronounce names. Il Gon, Eun Chung, Saemy, and especially Ouangatobi might beg to differ. On the other hand, I was told I am the only teacher to ever pronounce "Rodrigo Gaete" correctly on the first try. :)
Unfamiliar names are harder to remember, so I've discovered I can't do my seating charts this weekend like I normally would; I can't quite remember who's who. But in some ways that's a bonus- I've had more restful days off and spent them well. This afternoon some of the other teachers and I went to Hawker's Market, an open-air produce market about 10 minutes away. Here names are important too- if I buy from someone I don't know, I get called "madam" or "mzungu" (whitey) and get terrible prices. But if I buy from Michael, Lucy, or Eunice, they recognize me from last week, smile at me, call me Jessie, and give me a good price. In fact, if they do not have what I need, they will go to a neighboring stand owner, negotiate a fair price for me and introduce me to that person. Obviously, relationships are a pretty important factor here. I appreciate that.
Michael, the fruit stand owner we know, took us to the city park next to the market so we could feed the monkeys. We brought maize and bananas for them, and once I got over my fear that I one would bite me and I would catch a terrible disease, it was lots of fun. They hold your hand while they eat to make sure the food source doesn't go away, and they're obviously not shy! It's about a million times better than feeding the ducks at Ashley Pond, and I chronicled the event with a few pictures:
My friends the monkeys (though I don't yet know their names). 
Michael and Jess, both monkey magnets. 
A beautiful bouganvilla tree- they grow a little better here than in New Mexico.
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