I am suffering.
I have what feels like a gangrenous wound on my finger from a heroic effort to save a small child from an anaconda.
It’s definitely not from an overzealous attempt to get the last bit of peanut butter from the jar.
However, inquiring minds want to know: What bashi-bazouk makes plastic jars with serrated openings? Are we living in an Indiana Jones movie?!
Speaking of attempts on my life, the temperature is still steadily dropping; I now sleep in a hoodie in a last-ditch effort to stay alive.
The Queen of Sheba’s mom stayed over one night with her friend – they do business here roughly once a month, and I was glad to have her over because I’m happy when some people can spend time with their moms.
Even if it’s not me.
Even if the mom in question has a cough of epic proportions and should not be travelling by boat to frigid towns.
My favourite part of the night was the Queen of Sheba standing in the darkness of a power cut outside my mosquito net, after having showered with minimal hot water in my bathroom, and hissing, “Can I come in, [Kermit]?”
No, you can stand there all night asking for permission to plant your royal butt on my hallowed mattress – just in case I changed my mind after our conversation earlier this evening and decided I would prefer that you sit on my toilet until dawn.
I was hoping I would finally be able to steal some body heat and thaw, but ended up even colder than usual because both the Queen of Sheba and I are extremely hands-off people and my blanket was shared and not doubled up.
That weekend, though I’d been looking forward to a day entirely alone with my peanut butter jar, I again joined a group from church that visits hospitals to pray for the sick. The first trip to a hospital in Baghira, one of the three districts of this town, was eye-opening as it felt like we were in a village. A small child made nasal noises at me while his friends laughed and I stifled the urge to levitate him by his ear. We briefly introduced ourselves to a roomful of women and children, prayed, handed out bars of soap, and left.
I hope you can understand that this experience was less than exceptional. We could just as well have sent one person with soap in hand and slept till 10 prayed at home. So when I first heard where we were going this time, I was selfishly motivated only by a desire to see more of the town.
Carrefour [Edit: I discovered two months later that we actually went to Essence] is a dusty market that resembles nothing more than Mad Max’s parched world, but densely populated by young black people with less spiky cars. I actually hadn’t been very worried before arriving, but was convinced upon descent onto Planet Mars – complete with intelligent life looking at me in the same way the hyenas looked at chubby Simba in the Elephant Graveyard. I was enclosed by my protective guard of two, but as we were surrounded by strangers, I began to doubt their loyalty as well.
Very well. You want me dead. Does the Pastor know about this? Do my coordinators know? You might as well have done it yesterday. I don’t see why I had to wake up early on a Saturday just so you could bring me here, rob me, and end my life – seems like a careless waste of bus fare to me.
It was only later that I found that their scheme was more diabolical. First, I had to climb a hill. Which, in the normal world, is not too hard. In a world where the hill is coiled with houses, gutters, garbage, rocks, sheet metal roofs at eye-gouging-level, everyone is staring at you, you’re shy, you have a 5lb skirt on because you thought it was better to be modest than to be killed for wearing skinny jeans, your shoes are cracked and worn paper-smooth because the ground you walk everyday is one giant, uneven rock...
It’s harder than you think.
Mostly because I was fighting a losing battle between using my scarf as sunblock / air filtration device, hoisting my skirt out of suspicious heaps, and clutching my purse to my chest. Marginally because my few remaining wits were occupied with making sure I didn't slide face-first into someone’s one-room house.
In the end I kept mixing up all of these actions, and may have tried to pull my skirt over my head at some point, so modesty without grace can only get you so far.
One older woman gravely offered some advice in Swahili as we passed – she was apparently informing me that I should get used to walking.
Thanks.
But when we finally reached the highest room in the tallest tower, it was all worth it – there was a new baby. Her name is Davina. I’ll never see her or her soft-spoken mother again, again but I will pray for them as she grows up in that dusty world with all the rest of her little brothers and sisters and friends.
Again, we did the same thing – introduced ourselves, prayed, and handed out soap. A church member who lived in the area had such a bad cough that I half wondered if we should get a room, some prayers, and some soap just for him, but he assured us it was just the dust. But I had a blessed time; at least I could understand some of the Swahili, introduce myself, and ask some questions, which was nice. I still wish we could be there longer, but if this is the ministry the Pastor has envisioned, I will join with it when I can. I also got to see the church member’s house, meet his family, and see where the neighbourhood Bible study meets.
...Very well, it was on the second level and I was worried that I’d crash through the stairs (even though I didn’t hear so much as a creak!) so I remember very little of it other than a fantastic view of the town from a room wallpapered with many misspelled posters, one of which depicted the musculoskeletal system.
I loved it all.
And that’s how God changes me daily from a lazy, selfish person to someone who loves people and is deeply interested in their lives.
The way back down was less perilous because my friends guided me down an easier route and gave me helpful tips such as Faut pas tomber! [It would not do to fall!]
Thanks.
The local church member accompanied us back down the hill to the main road, where he happily informed me that they were laying down asphalt – soon his black lung would be but a terrible dream!
I squinted at his outline in the brown, soupy air through which we were wading and prayed for this level of optimism at some point in my existence.
In other news, the Queen of Sheba will be leaving us for better climes. She is to be situated in a village some distance from here by car, and is excited to--
She’s looking forward to--
She will--
She must settle in a new community as part of the Seed initiative to build peace using local partnerships, despite the fact that the organization with which she volunteers does not quite have the funds to start the farm project that she is to supervise in that area.
I’ve tried to tease out whether she’s frustrated so that we can talk about it, share concerns, and possibly work out a new plan for the future, but she just mutters dire warnings about toilets, prices, vegetables, dirty toilets, safety, distance, banks, toilets at night, Mai-Mai, her family, cows, outdoor toilets, the election, kitchens, bread, power, lights, water, etc. and leaves me to draw my own conclusions.
Before she leaves, she has demanded a going-away party, which she thinks is my area of expertise as I rapped at one a few months ago.
It was just the one time!
My coordinators have decided that I should remain in the affluent part of town (likely because of my constant screeching for power and water); when the Queen of Sheba leaves, I may be living with a boy.
Pardon me if that sounds juvenile - it’s because I am. While my young American teammate and I have shared a kitchen table with no one but the gardeners present, we slept in different houses, and it was only for a few nights while we waited for Carrottop and BFG to get home. That’s different from sharing a two-bedroom apartment with a guy for a few months.
On a local level, I think I would be considered just another promiscuous Westerner - however, we’re in a gated compound shared mainly with other foreigners and I think we will only be scandalising the guards. On a familial level, I think my relations in India would find genteel ways to commit suicide just so they could roll over in their graves - I have a very Muslim uncle whom we eye sidelong, but my family may ask me to give their regards as I pass him on my first-class descent into hell. On a personal level, I really don't care if I have to share living quarters with a wizened, cross-eyed, transgendered, bisexual pygmy pantheist from the Amazonian rainforest, as long as he/she understands that after a long week/day/hour of being around people, I don't want to be around more people.
It may even be marginally easier (though the Queen of Sheba is admittedly quiet considering she comes from a family of eight siblings) to explain to an American that I am a shy ISTF/J who enjoys solitude, loud music, peanut butter, chocolate, coffee, books, and people not asking me for money. [Note: This expansion of Maslow's hierarchy is based on a full tank of drinkable water, a bucket of water in the kitchen to do dishes in case the taps are dry, and three buckets of water in my bathroom for showering and laundry.]
It’s definitely not from an overzealous attempt to get the last bit of peanut butter from the jar.
However, inquiring minds want to know: What bashi-bazouk makes plastic jars with serrated openings? Are we living in an Indiana Jones movie?!
Speaking of attempts on my life, the temperature is still steadily dropping; I now sleep in a hoodie in a last-ditch effort to stay alive.
The Queen of Sheba’s mom stayed over one night with her friend – they do business here roughly once a month, and I was glad to have her over because I’m happy when some people can spend time with their moms.
Even if it’s not me.
Even if the mom in question has a cough of epic proportions and should not be travelling by boat to frigid towns.
My favourite part of the night was the Queen of Sheba standing in the darkness of a power cut outside my mosquito net, after having showered with minimal hot water in my bathroom, and hissing, “Can I come in, [Kermit]?”
No, you can stand there all night asking for permission to plant your royal butt on my hallowed mattress – just in case I changed my mind after our conversation earlier this evening and decided I would prefer that you sit on my toilet until dawn.
I was hoping I would finally be able to steal some body heat and thaw, but ended up even colder than usual because both the Queen of Sheba and I are extremely hands-off people and my blanket was shared and not doubled up.
That weekend, though I’d been looking forward to a day entirely alone with my peanut butter jar, I again joined a group from church that visits hospitals to pray for the sick. The first trip to a hospital in Baghira, one of the three districts of this town, was eye-opening as it felt like we were in a village. A small child made nasal noises at me while his friends laughed and I stifled the urge to levitate him by his ear. We briefly introduced ourselves to a roomful of women and children, prayed, handed out bars of soap, and left.
I hope you can understand that this experience was less than exceptional. We could just as well have sent one person with soap in hand and
Carrefour [Edit: I discovered two months later that we actually went to Essence] is a dusty market that resembles nothing more than Mad Max’s parched world, but densely populated by young black people with less spiky cars. I actually hadn’t been very worried before arriving, but was convinced upon descent onto Planet Mars – complete with intelligent life looking at me in the same way the hyenas looked at chubby Simba in the Elephant Graveyard. I was enclosed by my protective guard of two, but as we were surrounded by strangers, I began to doubt their loyalty as well.
Very well. You want me dead. Does the Pastor know about this? Do my coordinators know? You might as well have done it yesterday. I don’t see why I had to wake up early on a Saturday just so you could bring me here, rob me, and end my life – seems like a careless waste of bus fare to me.
It was only later that I found that their scheme was more diabolical. First, I had to climb a hill. Which, in the normal world, is not too hard. In a world where the hill is coiled with houses, gutters, garbage, rocks, sheet metal roofs at eye-gouging-level, everyone is staring at you, you’re shy, you have a 5lb skirt on because you thought it was better to be modest than to be killed for wearing skinny jeans, your shoes are cracked and worn paper-smooth because the ground you walk everyday is one giant, uneven rock...
It’s harder than you think.
Mostly because I was fighting a losing battle between using my scarf as sunblock / air filtration device, hoisting my skirt out of suspicious heaps, and clutching my purse to my chest. Marginally because my few remaining wits were occupied with making sure I didn't slide face-first into someone’s one-room house.
In the end I kept mixing up all of these actions, and may have tried to pull my skirt over my head at some point, so modesty without grace can only get you so far.
One older woman gravely offered some advice in Swahili as we passed – she was apparently informing me that I should get used to walking.
Thanks.
But when we finally reached the highest room in the tallest tower, it was all worth it – there was a new baby. Her name is Davina. I’ll never see her or her soft-spoken mother again, again but I will pray for them as she grows up in that dusty world with all the rest of her little brothers and sisters and friends.
Again, we did the same thing – introduced ourselves, prayed, and handed out soap. A church member who lived in the area had such a bad cough that I half wondered if we should get a room, some prayers, and some soap just for him, but he assured us it was just the dust. But I had a blessed time; at least I could understand some of the Swahili, introduce myself, and ask some questions, which was nice. I still wish we could be there longer, but if this is the ministry the Pastor has envisioned, I will join with it when I can. I also got to see the church member’s house, meet his family, and see where the neighbourhood Bible study meets.
...Very well, it was on the second level and I was worried that I’d crash through the stairs (even though I didn’t hear so much as a creak!) so I remember very little of it other than a fantastic view of the town from a room wallpapered with many misspelled posters, one of which depicted the musculoskeletal system.
I loved it all.
And that’s how God changes me daily from a lazy, selfish person to someone who loves people and is deeply interested in their lives.
The way back down was less perilous because my friends guided me down an easier route and gave me helpful tips such as Faut pas tomber! [It would not do to fall!]
Thanks.
The local church member accompanied us back down the hill to the main road, where he happily informed me that they were laying down asphalt – soon his black lung would be but a terrible dream!
I squinted at his outline in the brown, soupy air through which we were wading and prayed for this level of optimism at some point in my existence.
In other news, the Queen of Sheba will be leaving us for better climes. She is to be situated in a village some distance from here by car, and is excited to--
She’s looking forward to--
She will--
She must settle in a new community as part of the Seed initiative to build peace using local partnerships, despite the fact that the organization with which she volunteers does not quite have the funds to start the farm project that she is to supervise in that area.
I’ve tried to tease out whether she’s frustrated so that we can talk about it, share concerns, and possibly work out a new plan for the future, but she just mutters dire warnings about toilets, prices, vegetables, dirty toilets, safety, distance, banks, toilets at night, Mai-Mai, her family, cows, outdoor toilets, the election, kitchens, bread, power, lights, water, etc. and leaves me to draw my own conclusions.
Before she leaves, she has demanded a going-away party, which she thinks is my area of expertise as I rapped at one a few months ago.
It was just the one time!
My coordinators have decided that I should remain in the affluent part of town (likely because of my constant screeching for power and water); when the Queen of Sheba leaves, I may be living with a boy.
Pardon me if that sounds juvenile - it’s because I am. While my young American teammate and I have shared a kitchen table with no one but the gardeners present, we slept in different houses, and it was only for a few nights while we waited for Carrottop and BFG to get home. That’s different from sharing a two-bedroom apartment with a guy for a few months.
On a local level, I think I would be considered just another promiscuous Westerner - however, we’re in a gated compound shared mainly with other foreigners and I think we will only be scandalising the guards. On a familial level, I think my relations in India would find genteel ways to commit suicide just so they could roll over in their graves - I have a very Muslim uncle whom we eye sidelong, but my family may ask me to give their regards as I pass him on my first-class descent into hell. On a personal level, I really don't care if I have to share living quarters with a wizened, cross-eyed, transgendered, bisexual pygmy pantheist from the Amazonian rainforest, as long as he/she understands that after a long week/day/hour of being around people, I don't want to be around more people.
It may even be marginally easier (though the Queen of Sheba is admittedly quiet considering she comes from a family of eight siblings) to explain to an American that I am a shy ISTF/J who enjoys solitude, loud music, peanut butter, chocolate, coffee, books, and people not asking me for money. [Note: This expansion of Maslow's hierarchy is based on a full tank of drinkable water, a bucket of water in the kitchen to do dishes in case the taps are dry, and three buckets of water in my bathroom for showering and laundry.]
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