Now that I’m back in the land of high-speed internet, I’ve finally gotten some pictures up. You can check out my albums at:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/AlbumMenu.jsp?UV=986203949123_969531840211
re-entry July 30, 2008
I don’t know where a year has gone, but it has gone. My arrival back in the United States is scheduled for August 4th, just a few days away. In preparation for my return, let’s go through some basic guidelines for how best to interact with your favorite missionary.
Questions that you should NOT, under any circumstances, ask me:
- How was it?
Um, seriously? You expect me to sum up an entire year of Africa in some pleasantry? Impossible. It was amazing. It was difficult. It was frustrating and overwhelming. It was heartbreaking. It was incredibly fulfilling. Sometimes all in one day. It was the best year of my life, and I will not reduce the experience to “It was good”.
2. Are you happy to be home?
Of course I’m happy to be home. Home is home, and home is comforting. I’m excited to move to a new city and start law school. I can’t wait to see friends and shop at Target. It is so nice to get in a car without worrying about it breaking down. Reliable electricity is such a treat. I love the United States, and it is great to be back.
At the same time, I am absolutely devastated. I have left 51 children that I love more than anything. I don’t know when or if I will see them again. It breaks my heart. And I miss Africa. Africa is an adventure, always. I miss the feeling that I am doing something that really matters. I miss the sun; I miss the bush. A piece of me will be there forever.
If you’re searching for something to say upon greeting me, I would like to suggest “It’s nice to see you again” or “We’re glad that you’re back”.
Please also understand that I am not the same person who left in September. Though I may still love Will Ferrell movies and high heels, a lot has happened in the past 11 months. I have been witness to things that you can’t comprehend. I have made choices that you never will.
My entire perspective has totally shifted. It’s going to require a lot more patience from me to listen to someone complain about their broken cell phone because I know people who don’t have enough food to eat. And don’t whine to me about the price of gas until it costs you so much that you have to move into a mud hut.
Unless you have lived in Africa, you cannot understand.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to share this year with you. I am so looking forward to talking about what God is doing here. I have dozens of amusing look-at-the-silly-white-girl stories to recount. My kids are fabulous, and I want to tell you all about them. There is much to say.
August 4th. First stop, Starbucks. Caramel frappucino. With whipped cream, because I’ve earned it.
no flashing lights, but there wasn’t much traffic either July 30, 2008
“We just passed by your place,” Sheri recounted on the phone, “and there’s a man lying by the road. I don’t think that he’s dead, but maybe you could go take a look”. 8:30 am and there’s already a casualty. “Sure,” I replied, “no problem”.
Well, this definitely isn’t my domain. Dirty nappies, formula, and the occasional sewage challenge, those are the areas to which I am assigned. I will just let the clinic get this one. Walking over, I note that Sal isn’t around because he’s out in the bush, doing a rural clinic. No big deal, that’s what the back-up clinical officer is for. Jeffery will certainly go check out the unconscious man.
Unfortunately, Jeffery is in the middle of another emergency. Hmmm, okay, plan B. I will send one of the drivers. I start asking around. Turns out that Herrod has gone on the market run and Mwanza is conveniently out of the cell service area. For a moment, I ponder just waiting to see if another person licensed to operate a motor vehicle shows up. But the minutes are passing and my pesky conscious keeps reminding me that there is a man lying by the road.
Fine, I’ll do it. I grab a large, male clinic staffer and head out to the tarmac. Sure enough, there is a man lying in a ditch beside it. His bike and possessions flung out next to him. We venture a bit closer and determine that, sure enough, he is still breathing. He doesn’t appear injured, so we guess intoxication. In any case, he is in rough shape. Load ‘em up.
As the man moans in the back seat, I think about how messed up this whole thing is. I mean, this man was literally splayed out by the side of the road and no one was attending to him. Cars, including our friend Sheri, drove by and kept going. What’s more, there was no one to call for help. The police don’t offer pick-up services and ambulances don’t exist here. I guess that we are who people call for help.
Pulling up beside the clinic, I jump out of the car and gladly relinquish all medical duties. Turns out that our mystery man is indeed intoxicated. However, it’s a bit more serious than that. He has apparently spent the previous night lying beside the road and his body temperature is now freakishly low, like 94. Warm towels from the dryer are prescribed. He’ll likely have a massive hangover, but he’ll pull through.
Ambulance driver. Is there anything left for me to do here?
maybe if you poke it with a stick (part II) July 24, 2008
“We have a bit of a situation,” announces Katie, coming into the kitchen. I put down the dish towel. A situation? I sigh. It would seem that there is never a good “situation” in Africa. “Well, do you have the key to the boys’ room? Because Joseph has locked himself inside”.
Joseph, a dear boy of 7 years, has a knack for getting himself into trouble. Whether stealing sugar, throwing rocks at his friend or urinating out of a window, he loses more TV time than any other child. Most recently, sweet Joseph got his hands on some matches and lit a fire near the soccer field. Well, the African bush during dry season is basically kindling, so it quickly spread. Thank goodness that it was extinguished before it burnt through a nearby borehole line. This latest stunt netted Joseph a full week of restriction. No play time, no walks and no TV. Harsh but fair.
This night, upon hearing the rest of the group laugh at the antics of Nemo (or some other Disney character) from the confines of his bed, Joseph decided that he’d had enough. To show all of us, he locked himself inside his room. Hmmm… So interesting is the thought process of a 7 year old. I mean, really? How does that hurt me at all? But it was enough to send the aunties into a panic. He might lose an arm in there or something! Call in the Cavalry!
Because (of course) we don’t have a spare key for the room, Scott tried to pick the lock with a bobby pin. Well, Scott isn’t exactly Jack Bauer, so that didn’t go too well. He soon fell into the “if you don’t open this door right now, so help me….” spiel. Joseph was unphased.
Or at least we thought he was unphased. Peering in the window, it would seem that Joseph had actually fallen asleep. Curious, given all of the banging on the door, but kids can sleep through anything, I suppose.
After all of 10 minutes of knocking and stern talking, I gave up. It’s fine, I instructed. When he gets hungry, he’ll have to open the door. Until then, let’s just leave him in there. What’s he going to do? I’m tired.
Walking outside, I discover that the aunties haven’t given up yet. In fact, they are employing a most ingenious method for child persuasion. Taping together two brooms, they have fashioned quite a long pole. They stick the rod through the window and poke Joseph squarely in the back. He sighs and continues his slumber. Poking him harder, they practically lift him from the bed. Still nothing. A few sharp jabs to the leg, a tap on the head, repeated swats on his bottom. Finally, some prodding that is strong enough to turn him over completely does the trick. Joseph is awake! 10 voices shout instructions in Tonga at him. Dazed, he makes his way to the door and turns the handle. Crisis averted.
Walk softly and carry a big stick. Seems good advice for orphanage directors too.
local politics July 24, 2008
I have walked in forbidden territory. Though my passport may not bear the stamp, I have crossed the line into Africa’s headache du jour, Zimbabwe. Okay, so I did little more than take a picture with the ‘You Are Now Entering Zimbabwe’ sign on the bridge connecting Zambia and her troublesome neighbor, but it was thrilling nonetheless. There’s something about a crazy dictator that heightens the excitement.
Living barely 30km from the border, many have asked what is happening here on the ground. To be sure, the region that borders Zambia is much different than Harare. There is still the hope of tourist dollars in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, so it remains largely shielded from the crisis that grips the capital and the rest of the country. No, starving Zimbabweans are not streaming across the border. No, Robert Mugabe is not amassing troops next to the Falls. It would seem that life continues as usual.
Most interesting to me has been the reaction from Zambians, many of whom have closely followed the election woes. Stopping at a typical Indian-owned mini market one evening, I overheard an exchange between the shop keeper and a vendor while waiting to purchase my diet coke. The woman, a Zimbabwean, was in town for a few days, hoping to sell her wares. Very seriously, the owner informed her that he would buy from her only when she and her countrymen had ousted Mugabe. Until then, he instructed, she should not return. The woman bantered back, arguing that she and most of her neighbors were voting for the opposition. Certainly she could not be held responsible for the decision of the masses in a city far away. The shop keeper was unmoved and sent her on her way.
A few days ago, while on our way to a safari in Botswana, our driver mentioned that he had attended classes in Zimbabwe, years ago. When we asked if he had returned recently, he had an interesting reply. “No”, he stated. “Many people, we think that President Mugabe is not right in the head. What if he were to decide to close the borders and we were trapped inside?” Though that seems improbable to me, it is the same man who destroyed the entire farming industry and ordered stores to halve their prices in a ridiculous bid to curb inflation. It is the same man who continues to insist that Western powers are behind the fall of the nation instead of his misguided policies. I suppose, then, that it is fair to question what ludicrous thing he might do next.
Though I think that most Zambians sympathize with their Zimbabwean neighbors, they can’t help but be happy with their economic windfall from the situation. Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe used to be a premiere tourist destination. It has a better view of the Falls and is more developed (i.e. comfortable) than Livingstone. Now, though, Westerners are scared to visit, unsure of the political climate, concerned about safety. Instead, they change their route just a bit, winding up in Zambia instead. New hotels are opening all over town while a gorgeous, five-star resort just across the river sits almost empty. “Just the Chinese and Indians now, the only friends left,” explained one local.
Zimbabwe is a tragedy. A promising politician with good intentions went the way of too many African leaders and descended into a frenzied grab for power and control. Unable to cede anything for the greater good, he ruined an entire country and isolated a nation. Perhaps even more disheartening is that millions were unable to stop him. Lacking education, power and enforceable term limits, things got so far out of hand that the general public found it impossible to turn them back.
Given this perspective, I have a difficult time listening to my fellow Americans lament that our current President has led us down a path to ruin. Seriously? I don’t need a wheelbarrow full of bank notes to buy a loaf of bread. Farmers haven’t been chased from their land by disgruntled war veterans. And he’s out come January. But I digress…
So, what can we do? How do we help? I don’t know. Though I think that it’s important for the world community to take a stand against the current leadership, real change can only come from the Zimbabweans themselves. It’s their country, it has to be their decision. Until then, we pray. We pray for President Mugabe, we pray for the country and we pray for the people. God is bigger than crazy dictators, even Bob.
big game hunting July 1, 2008
A knock at the door after dark is generally not a visitor just popping in to say “hi”. This night was no exception. “Mr. Jeff”, the guard spoke, “the elephants are back”.
Like any red-blooded American, Jeff seizes every opportunity to fire a gun. Whether shooting a snake out of a tree or intimidating the orphans (just kidding…), he is quick to grab a weapon. Though we can’t legally shoot the elephants, there is no rule about firing off a couple warning shots, just to give them a scare.
I’m always up for an adventure, so I grab my shoes and follow him out to the orchard. With a gun and a flashlight, I felt pretty confident in our ability to best the intruders. Then the flashlight died. And here’s the thing – it is really dark. Really dark. I mean, middle-of-nowhere-in-Africa-dark. Jeff keeps striding forward, so, unwilling to admit my slight fear of stepping on a snake or getting eaten by a lion under the cover of darkness, I too push on.
The waiting guards motion for us to stop. We listen. Tree branches crack, leaves rustle, and I hear audible breathing. Elephants alright. Massive 2-ton creatures probably no further than 10 yards from where I am standing. And we can’t see a thing. You would think that it would be easy to spot the behemoths, but they are enveloped in the black night. Also, aside from the crunching of branches, they are surprisingly quiet. It’s very disconcerting.
My confidence waivers. Visions of being trampled or gored by an ivory tusk flash through my mind. “Jeff, maybe we shouldn’t fire at them,” I suggest, “I mean, it might just make them angry”. Nonsense, we have to show them who’s boss. The crack of a gunshot breaks the stillness. We listen, all on edge, ready to run at the slightest hint that the beasts may charge. I stand behind the guards, figuring that my best plan is to have some bodies between me and the wild animals. But there is nothing. Just more breathing and munching. The elephants, it would appear, are not the least bit phased by our show of force.
Jeff fires off a few more rounds to no avail. We consider shooting one, to let them know that we’re not messing around, but, as we cannot see the creatures, there is no way to aim. Since we’re out in Africa, firing guns, I decide that I want in on the action. Jeff passes his shot gun to me. “Does it have much of a kick?” Jeff assures me that I’ll be fine, so I point the weapon out over the orchard and fire. Um, yes, it definitely has a kick. As I stumble backwards, clutching my sore shoulder, the guards have a good laugh at the white girl. I’m always happy to provide the entertainment.
Apparently having eaten their fill of guavas and lemons, we finally hear the elephants move further into the farm. Elephants – 1. Americans with guns – 0.
new website June 16, 2008
If you’ve ever attempted to find out more about the Sons of Thunder Orphanage on the internet, you know that the ministry’s website is horribly out of date. However, a new website specific to the children’s home is now up and running. I’m still working on getting more pictures uploaded, but they are coming soon. Check out our work in progress at: www.sotorphanage.org
Also, a HUGE thanks to St. Pauls member, Dan Magnolia, for getting it all started! In addition to posting the content and pictures, he was endlessly patient when dealing with all of my “and how exactly do I log on?” questions. Thanks again, Dan!
the paper that digs deeper June 16, 2008
If you know me, you know that I am no fan of local news. With stories of famine, earthquakes, war and Paris Hilton streaming in from across the globe, articles on the annual melon festival and high school swimming team seem to me trite and superfluous. The few passages from my hometown paper that I do read (no doubt passed along by my dear mother) usually appear to have been written by those for whom appropriate structure and interesting prose are not exactly held in high regard. I’ll just stick to the Washington Post and CNN.com, thanks.
Despite my snobby aversion to anything of less substance than an Economist-worthy analysis of the global food crisis (or the US Weekly best-dressed list), I have become somewhat desperate, living in a virtual news-bubble for the past 9 months. Without high-speed internet, a TV or even a radio, I have little access to the goings on in the world out here on the farm. Despite the fact that I live a mere 30 kilometres from the Zimbabwean border, I rely on weekly phone calls with my father for the latest on the election crisis. So news starved have I become that I begrudgingly conceded to buying a Zambian paper while in town. I chose the most official looking publication – The Post, “the paper that digs deeper”.
It was perhaps the best 3,000 kwacha that I have spent since arriving. To be sure, there was little actual news, but the entertainment value of the writing is priceless. I have now made a stop at the newspaper vendor part of my regular routine. Here are some selected excerpts for your enjoyment:
“[Former President] Chiluba expressed optimism that the verbal attacks between President Mwanawasa and Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe will phase out in the spirit of Pan-Africanism. Meanwhile, Chiluba said that he dances with his wife Regina in praise of God….. And Chiluba said that when a Christian sings praises to God, the enemies scatter.”
From an article on young entrepreneurs:
“Without doubt Ethel appears to be the embodiment of so many creative young Zambian’s who exude a determined and almost naïve compassion to excel in what they are doing. This is despite them not knowing whom to turn to source support for their brilliant ideas. Many of these young people remain emeralds in the dirt just waiting to be stumbled upon by the so-called relevant authorities.”
“For a long time now, the Office of the Investigator General or the Commission of Investigations can be said to have been inactive because very little is heard about its activities and achievements and yet this is a very important institution in a country like Zambia that has waged a war against corruption. It is difficult to understand that the government passionately wants to fight corruption in the country but at the same time has neglected the office of the Investigator General or Ombudsman in other words.”
Advertisement for a ‘traditional healer’:
“…runaway husbands, wives, boyfriends and girlfriends recalled. Quick marriage to well-to-do people…We have special sweet-lay for both men and women. Defend your husband or wife from chancers. We treat all VD ailments within 5 days…”
It was interesting to note that 25% off the entire June 9th publication was composed of stories from Xinhua, China’s official state-supervised news service. No surprise then to read an article on the Dalai Lama that declared:
“The feudal serfdom that integrated church with state is gone forever. It is futile for Dalai to tour everywhere and preach “human rights” and “high degree of autonomy” as his attempts go against the current of the world. That’s why Dalai could only deplore his helplessness in his separatist endeavour.”
Because why shouldn’t “the paper that digs deeper” print communist propaganda?
In between calls for community development proposals from international aid organizations and public notices about the ongoing electricity crisis, the pages provide interesting insight into Zambian culture and schools of thought. I wouldn’t exactly call it news, but it’s a good read nonetheless.
it’s a dirty job June 11, 2008
In my previous life, I was able to engage in conversation on a wide range of topics. Politics, economics, literature, religion, celebrity gossip – I was well versed enough to conquer any D.C. dinner party (or, rather, not to seem like a complete idiot). Well, 8 months spent largely in the company of toddlers has reduced my repertoire to the point that my parents may begin to wonder if they have anything to show for that large college bill. In fact, my base of knowledge now centers almost completely on one topic – poop.
That’s right, I said it – poop. It’s nasty and it’s smelly, and it has become my life. With 25+ children still in diapers, poop is a dependable presence in my day. Those darling little orphans get it all over the place. It runs down their legs, right onto my shirt. I consider it a tangible reminder of their affection for me. I’ve gotten to the point that a wet spot no longer bothers me. After all, that’s gonna dry – it takes a good, stinky smudge to persuade me to change clothes. I barely remember the girl who wore neatly pressed blouses and heels.
Then there’s the regular updates on who’s pooping too much or not at all. A little laxative here, a little pepto there. The staff often greet me in the morning with reports of which child has diarrhea that day. Fantastic. I carry ORS (oral rehydration solution) packets practically everywhere I go. It’s not glamorous, but diarrhea kills way more children than AIDS or malaria each year. We have to stay on top of it here.
Currently, a sort-of poop disaster is reducing operations at the children’s home to almost unbearable levels. Our septic tank and pretty much our entire septic field are finished. Full up, completely saturated. Unfortunately, due to the poor construction of the field and the lack of septic companies in Southern Zambia, there is no way to fix them. So, we are digging a new tank/field, by hand. As a sort of stop-gap, we restricted bathroom access and went down to only 2 toilets. I had hoped that would tide us over. However, on Friday evening, I arrived at the children’s home to find poop literally shooting out of one of the pipes in front. Damn. You know who has to deal with that? Me, that’s who. Rolling up my sleeves, I set about disinfecting the areas in which the children are prone to play. We now have 0 working toilets, 50 children and 38 staff, and at least 2 more weeks until completion of the septic project. I won’t go into details, but let’s say that my solution involves little more than glorified buckets.
Are you surprised that I was able to fill an entire entry on the topic of poop? My friends, I have barely scratched the surface. Oh, the stories I could tell…. Poop. It’s kind of my life now.
when it’s child vs. baboon, the baboon usually wins June 2, 2008
Dressed in their Sunday best, I wonder whether the girls are properly attired for a trip to Victoria Falls. When the river is high, it is more like a trip to the water park than a nice stroll. I gently question Linah and Royce, but they insist that the children have to look nice for the outing. At the last minute, I finally convince them to throw some play clothes into the car. The 8 girls are so excited that they sing for the entire ride. It is just about the cutest thing ever.
Arriving at the park, Linah and Royce eye groups of tourists coming out dripping wet. Giving them an ‘I told you so’ look, they concede that the girls should probably change out of their lace trimmed dresses and patent leather shoes. When everyone is finally back in t-shirts, we make our way to the first viewing platform. The girls yell and point and jump up and down. My two supervisors, neither of whom had been to the Falls before, gaze in awe. I pride myself on my brilliant idea for an outing.
My satisfaction, however, is short-lived. Just as I suspected, the spray from the falls drenches us within minutes. At first, the girls think this is fun. Then, they do not. Instead, they are cold and scared of the water that won’t stop pouring down. Each of us adults winds up with two crying girls in our arms, begging to go home. I hurry back along the trail as fast as I can, dragging a couple 6 year olds with me.
When we arrive back at the entrance, I leave the kids with Linah and Royce so that I can get their dry clothes. Imagine my shock when I come back and find 8 little girls stark naked – inside a public park! “They were cold,” Royce explains as I hurry to restore decency. Of course, the girls find it funny to dance around in their underwear, taunting me in my state of obvious embarrassment. Finally, everyone is covered up again, and we head down a trail to have a picnic by the river.
The peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are a big hit, and it seems that the day is saved. Under my watchful eye (you can only go in up to your ankles!), the kids splash and play in the river. We are all down in the water when a very brazen baboon walks up and takes one of our bags. I race up to chase him away, though he does make off with a few banana peels. The girls go crazy – this is just about the funniest thing that they have ever seen.
Heading out of the park, they are all on baboon watch. We are not disappointed, baboons are all over the place. Little Pezo declares that she is going to “beat”one. Before I can stop her, she picks up a rock and throws it at a large male. In an instant, he leaps up in the air and charges at our group, teeth bared. Hysterics ensue. Grace jumps into my arms while Lweendo runs back down the path. The girls are all sobbing and refuse to move. I convince them that we just have to get out of the park, and we inch along towards the gate. Of course, now dozens of baboons seem to materialize out of nowhere, blocking our path. At one point, a particularly surly monkey comes after Chipo, stealing the bag out of her hands as we all watch in horror, unable to move fast enough. When the exit comes into view, the girls break into an all out sprint.
Back in the safety of the car, the tears begin to dry. I decide that there is still one thing can save the day – ice cream! Sure enough, over chocolate and vanilla, the girls concoct tales of battling torrents of raging waters and monkey fights to tell their friends. The day did not go exactly according to plan, but I will still count it as a success.
