Christina In Ghana

On the Path Where You Live

2009-06-30T13:21:00.001-04:00

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Dear Everyone,

I was greeted the other morning with a bright and early visit from Karissa. Okay, maybe it was just early for me. “Did you year the gunshot last night?” she asked. As a matter of fact, I had. She related the whole story—something about going outside with Mommy to tuck the chickens in for the night and finding a couple chickens that were already “sleeping.” Then Daddy came outside to check it out with Uncle Greg (he's new), and that's when they found the snake. A really poisonous one. So Karissa stayed inside with the kids while New Guy Greg stayed outside with the snake; “watch the snake and wait for backup” was, I believe, his job, and let's all welcome him to Ghana. Sarah ran for The Good Guard Abulai (aka the backup), and Nathan found a bludgeon (aka wiffle ball bat) to get started on the snake. The Good Guard Abulai shot the snake, except apparently he missed, but somehow the snake did finally become dead, perhaps due to wiffle ball bat related injuries, and another snake became dead a day or two later, plus also a rat. At my own little house, I caught one bathroom mouse in the trap the day before the snake, and Bernice The Cat dispatched a crunchy, hairless baby mouse from the living room floor the day after. Less exciting, sure, but to be preferred. It's good to be home, eh?

For the past month or so, we've been basically nomadic. We spent two weeks in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso meeting with Karissa's homeschool group. From there we drove south to Accra, Ghana for two weeks of meetings with our mission teammates. And now we are home.

Ouaga was delightful, if hot enough to die. Sarah spent most of the time sick with malaria or some other intestinal ailment, so probably she didn't have much fun. Also it was probably good I did not end up teaching a class so I could hang out with her in the mornings—or rather, hang out with her kids during her morning naps.

Aside from being hot enough to die, the real problem with Ouaga is that almost everybody speaks French and almost nobody understands English. Teacher Angela and I have the additional problem of having used all of our adventurous energy in moving to Africa and, therefore, having none left for exploring the city, especially in French. We found our solution in Teacher Robbie of England, who helps out another family in our homeschool group. When we met Teacher Robbie in Ouaga this past March, he was doing wild, adventurous things like taking taxis into the city by himself to “do a little exploring.” By himself. His penchant for activities such as this, coupled with his very excellent command of French, made him the ideal traveling buddy. When Teacher Angela and I also learned he enjoys shopping, we lost all qualms about drafting him as our personal tour guide and interpreter. The three of us rode all over the city in taxis, shopped for souvenirs at the artisan village, and ate “street food”—piles of beef, chicken, and probably yam with mustard sauce eaten with our hands instead of forks and washed down with coke (for Angela and me) or the hand-washing water (for Robbie, who argued that the water was not for washing and who, in hindsight, did not die after all (but cheers to his adventurous spirit)). We shopped in the rain at little booths along the street and bought trinkets from shysters who pulled tarps off their merchandise and swarmed around us, helpfully shoving beads and carvings into our faces, as the rain made us their only customers (and therefore, apparently, their only hope for the day). And we bought groceries at the ethnic store—which is almost like a grocery store in America (except the labels are in French and they don't carry real ice cream)—where we bought ingredients for Teachers Eat Dinner Night, which we observed among ourselves with the addition of Teacher Christine of Canada, and which consisted of tacos.

After shopping at the ethnic store, Teacher Robbie, Teacher Angela, and I looked for a taxi to take us back to the mission compound. I thought the two guys we talked to were taxi drivers, but it turns out they were only helping us find a taxi. They also tried to help us negotiate a price, but in the end we agreed to pay what the driver was asking because it was about the same amount we'd paid to get down there in the first place and because we wanted to go home. Taxi Finding Guy and his Trusty Sidekick didn't like our agreement, but in the end it wasn't up to them, and we left. When our taxi stopped at the first traffic light, who should we see but Taxi Finding Guy and Trusty Sidekick stopped next to us on a motorcycle. How nice. At the next light it was the same. And at the third. And at the fourth. These creeps seemed to be following us home, which was moderately unpleasant. The taxi dropped us at our corner, and TFG and TS chatted amiably as we all walked toward the mission compound together. It seems they didn't trust the character of the taxi driver and wanted to make sure we got home safely. We stopped at the gate to wrap up our conversation and encourage TFG and TS to move along, but they stopped with us and continued to chat. And chat. Teacher Robbie and Teacher Angela moved off toward our rooms with our groceries, but I stayed by the gate because TFG wouldn't go away, the mission compound's guard is by the gate, and I have a personal rule against letting strangers follow me home as if we were friends. I almost had to hate Teacher Robbie and Teacher Angela as they walked away while I listened to TFG invite the three of us to his house sometime and explain that he had a “good feeling about our relationship” he is sure I will agree. Oy. But then Robbie and Angela, having noticed I wasn't behind them, came back for me, which makes them my heroes and we can be friends again. TFG finally took the hint and took himself elsewhere, never to be heard from again. Robbie, who speaks very excellent French, found out later from the guard that TFG “got a bit tetchy” when the guard explained the mission compound's rules about guests signing in and being accompanied by their hosts while on the compound. Robbie thanked the guard and explained that TFG should not be visiting, as he had only followed us home. Oy. After this incident, each time I told my Esalas where we were going for the evening (you know, just in case they needed to go look for my body, I wanted them to know where to start), Sarah always made sure we were taking Robbie with us. Since Robbie only once tried to marry Angela and I off to a taxi driver (and for only $2.50), and especially because it didn't work (again, insulting), we always were.

From Ouaga, we drove to Accra. It was a long and arduous journey, of course. In Accra we joined Missionary Ali and Missionary Valerie and their families, plus Grandma Alvina, New Guy Greg, and Jim Brings Chocolate (he is in charge of us and came all the way from America), for our team meetings. We also enjoyed fantastic varieties of hanging out generally unavailable to us in the bush. For example, Missionary Ali got a care package full of Mary Kay products, which she shared with the female portion of the group. Then on Dress-Up Dinner Night, we got all dolled up with our new lipsticks and went out to a real actual restaurant and ate ethnic food with forks. Also in Accra, Karissa finished up fourth grade, which was a great accomplishment for both of us, and which brings us to my life and its current direction.

Since Karissa is finished with school for the year, my Esalas are not as in need of a teacher as they used to be. So. I am transferring to Missionary Valerie's family to finish out my time in Ghana as her domestic assistant. I'll be helping her in the house and with her four kids, Michaela, Josiah, Micah, and Joyanna, ages 6, 5, 3, and 1 (or thereabouts), respectively. Valerie is homeschooling her older two in kindergarten, so I'll be available for reading practice for them and for taking point on the younger two during school time. This means I'm moving from my little house in my Esalas' backyard to a new little house in Valerie's front yard in The Village Gbintiri (say “bin-TEER-ee”—The “G” is silent if you're foreign). The Village Gbintiri is about 30 to 45 minutes from my Nasuan Village; Nathan commutes there to the translation office, where he works with Missionary Valerie's husband, Alias Chuck.

In other news, Sarah came over this morning to inform me that a guy had come to greet me and was even now waiting on her front porch so I should come out. While not entirely common, neither is this situation unprecedented. To avoid embarrassing myself when faced with said guy, I quickly grilled Sarah concerning the particulars of the situation and gleaned the following: 1. We don't know this guy at all. We don't know his father or his family or anything about him. On the one hand, this saves me the inconvenience of having to remember anything about him and the embarrassment that comes when I fail. On the other, it does make one wonder why he's come. And, actually, this does make the situation unprecedented. Anyone who has ever come to greet in the past has had some connection to us. 2. Not only has he come to greet, but he's brought me guinea fowl eggs. Eh? 3. Furthermore, he has Nathan's permission for this greeting and guinea fowl egg-giving. 4. Nathan, by the way, isn't home. He's out working on the road that leads to our house. I told Sarah to tell the guy I was sick and couldn't come out. Ever the friend in need, she promised we could beat Nathan up later and dragged me from the house to her front porch, where she, The Good Guard Abulai, Guinea Fowl Guy, and I stood in a little circle having a very proper and somewhat stilted, multilingual conversation, which consisted mostly of “what is your name” and “thanks for these guinea fowl eggs,” and which looked a lot like a small game of telephone except no one was whispering. And in the end, we didn't even get to beat Nathan up. Guinea Fowl Guy had passed Nathan on the road, and Nathan, under the impression that Guinea Fowl Guy was merely delivering a gift of eggs to the family on behalf of someone else (i.e.: someone we know), gave permission for Guinea Fowl Guy to give the eggs to Sarah. Guinea Fowl Guy asked about maybe “another lady” at the house, and Nathan said no, only Sarah. So. Where I was trying to decide whether we should give the guinea fowl eggs to our chickens to see if they could hatch them (because guinea fowl are delicious) or whether I should just break the eggs over Nathan's road-building head, now Nathan is trying to decide whether we should give the guinea fowl eggs to our chickens to see if they could hatch them (after all, guinea fowl eggs are delicious) or whether he should give them back to Guinea Fowl Guy. Currently, Nathan is holding the guinea fowl eggs and The Good Guard Abulai is on the case investigating Guinea Fowl Guy's intentions. I will, of course, keep you informed of any further developments. Oh, the drama.

And now, What I Learned:

City meat rots faster than bush meat. I bought a kilo of ground beef in Accra and thought I'd have about three or four days to deal with it. It probably didn't help that we didn't have electricity—and, therefore, refrigeration—for a couple days in the middle, but it turns out that even with refrigeration, city meat goes in 24 hours or less if you don't cook or freeze it. Then you have the unfortunate task of figuring out how to dispose of meat too rotten even for dogs. I wussed out and asked Missionary Paul to ask the guard to take care of it. Man work, man work, man work. Yelck.
Bush meat still rots fast—especially if you don't refrigerate it. The Good Guard Abulai and Sidekick Simone went out to buy meat for Sarah the other day and came back with a huge pig's entire hind leg. It had started going a bit green around the edges, so Sarah wanted to get it cut up and cooked or frozen fast. She cut chunks off the bone and flopped them onto my cutting board, labeling them “green meat” or “pink meat,” and I cut them bite-sized and sorted them into their appropriate bowls. We started to bleach and cook everything, but I finally had to either leave or throw up, so I left Sarah to finish by herself.
Always remember to refrigerate your dinner. I made sloppy joes for dinner a few nights ago. When I was finished, I cracked the lid on the pot and left the leftovers on the stove, planning to tuck them into the fridge when they were cooler. When I found them still on the stove in the morning, I was understandably distressed. I snapped the lid down and lit the stove, thinking I'd just boil dead any bacteria and dinner would be good as new. That's when I saw the ant on the stove. Two of them, actually. “Gee,” I thought. “I wonder if any of those guys are in the pot.” So I pulled back the cover to find a mass of ants swarming in a solid layer over my fabulous dinner. They swarmed up over the sides of the pot and away from the hot stove as I scooped out stragglers and shook them into the sink. I boiled my dinner several minutes and combed it thoroughly for bodies before sticking it into the freezer for good measure. I will not mention what I ate for dinner last night, but I will say I ate very carefully and not without some internal turmoil.
Culturally appropriate reactions can get you killed if the locals aren't alert for your foreign stupidity. Teacher Christine, Teacher Angela, Teacher Robbie, and I were walking home from dinner. We picked our way along dirt roads in the dark without aid of streetlight or flashlight or any other kind of light All was more or less well until a car turned onto the road behind us and we panicked. First of all, we saw we were standing on large, uneven rocks, so we instantly lost confidence in our footing. Second, we saw we were standing smack in the center of the road. In America, people like to stick to the sides of the roads and leave the middle open for traffic. Based on Teacher Christine's reaction to our situation, I believe this is also the case in Canada; she, Angela, and I all began clutching each other's arms and freaking out at about the same time. Teacher Robbie, however, just sort of stared at us, which gives me reason to wonder about the practices in England. Anyway, Christine, Angela, and I immediately began fleeing together toward the side of the road. Then we remembered that in Burkina (and in Ghana) the safest place to be is in the middle of the treacherous pile of rocks in the center of the road. The sides of roads are generally smoother, so that's where the cars tend to drive. We scooted back to our rocks, the car drove down the far edge of the road, and we were saved.
Oh, the wonders of bleach. Recall the troubles I've had getting clothing that fits. Turns out, though, that there's a tailor in Ouaga who really can make anything really well. He made me a fabulous pair of capri pants with cute little flairs at the bottom of the legs and very handsome cuffs out of maroon cloth with off-white rabbits printed in delightful little groups here and there. When I walked out of the changing room wearing them, Missionary Susan snorted, Teacher Angela hid behind her hand and giggled, and Teacher Robbie called them “certainly eye-catching” in his dry little British accent. The point is they fit and they're fantastic. You can imagine my dismay, then, when I returned to my Nasuan Village and found that my bag had gotten wet and my evil green dress had bled dye on two of my bunnies. And not just any two bunnies either. Nope. These were the bunnies located just south of the center of my posterior. Butt-bunnies, if you will. I consulted with Sarah and we agreed my best bet was to use a q-tip to paint the bunnies with bleach and hope the green dye left while the maroon stayed intact. And lo, I found success, beheld the wonders of bleach, and the people rejoiced.

Today's Quote comes from Aili during one of our interminable car trips. She'd gotten carsick a few times, valiantly calling for a bowl each time before she vomited. We stopped to get gas, and Sarah thought Aili might like some Tampico (like a frozen sachet of orange popsicle), and maybe the rest of us might like an ice cream sachet as well (vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry). She was taking our orders when Aili corrected her: “I not sick. I want chocolate.”

Christina

Baboons, Crocodiles, and Public Transportation

2009-04-28T15:26:00.002-04:00

Thursday, April 09, 2009

Baboons, Crocodiles, and Public Transportation

Dear Everyone,

I’ve spent the last week or so on vacation exploring the wilds of Africa—or at least, the wilds of northern Ghana. Teacher Megan says that we are wild, adventurous women. And while I’m still not quite sure how that happened, I cannot help but agree with her.

Teacher Megan teaches missionary kids in Togo (that’s the country to the right of Ghana), and Teacher Angela teaches missionary kids in Nalerigu (the town with the hospital, where we use the internet). We hung out a bit in Ouaga at our students’ home school group; during said hanging out we decided to take a vacation to Mole (I know you want to say “mole” like the little creature, but you will sound more education and be actually correct if you say “MO-lay”) to see elephants. In my last email, recall that being summoned to Nalerigu for said vacation without accompanying details of our plan was a source of stress for me. Nevertheless, we all met in Nalerigu on Thursday as scheduled.

We acquired two peace corps workers living in Nalerigu, Carolynn and Caroline, and Issahaku the Driver, and went to Mole (keep saying “MO-lay”) with no trouble. We saw elephants, warthogs, monkeys, and many deer-like creatures. Perhaps you recall my previous vacation to Nazinga, Burkina Faso, where I also saw all these animals. The differences between the Nazinga animal reserve and the Mole reserve are 1. Nazinga had more elephants, but Mole had more warthogs and monkeys, 2. In Nazinga, we had to drive out and look for the animals, but in Mole the warthogs grazed among the people just like the goats do in my village, and a baboon came right up to our hotel room window and peeked in as if he were visiting us at the zoo, and 3. In Nazinga we had to stay in the car while driving out looking for the animals, but in Mole our guide carried a big rifle and let us get out of the car to see the elephants closer.

On Sunday, we left Mole. The group left Teacher Megan and I at Missionary Ali’s house in Tamale to continue our vacation. We rode in taxis and shopped in the market (two things I never do), ate fried yam, and hung out with Paul and Ali. I started my grocery shopping for next month and my Christmas shopping. And Megan and I only almost died once.

We’d gone to the bus station to see about getting tickets to Bolga for the next day. The station was busier and more crowded than a market in full swing with vendors keeping shop or selling off their heads, travelers pushing toward buses, and wall to wall taxis, buses, and motorcycles cutting their way through the crowds. We were too overwhelmed to even recognize the ticket office, so we made our way to a fairly calm group of people waiting sandwiched between two buses and asked them about getting to Bolga. We learned we could not purchase advance tickets but that the bus left at 8:30 the next morning and we should be early if we wanted a seat. As we spoke, the man who was our primary source of information (and who, upon further acquaintance with the busing system, I think must’ve been the conductor) took my elbow and pulled me a bit closer to the group. I glanced behind me to see the previously parked bus was beginning to pull out and was getting closer to our group and the bus we stood against. We talked a bit more, and he pulled my elbow again. The bus was getting closer. He pulled my elbow again, and again, until the whole group plus Megan and I were standing shoulder to shoulder, pressed against one bus while the other closed in on us. It was absolutely ridiculous, but Megan and I were the only ones who seemed at all surprised, as evidenced by no one in the group even mentioning that the driver might be an idiot with poor judgment in the health-and-safety area. It’s fortunate Megan and I had already gathered the information we needed because, once we were free of eminent death-by-buses, we discovered a need to flee the scene immediately. I found out later that Megan’s trauma was compounded by the man saving her life pulling her in by the butt, rather than the elbow.

But we caught the bus the next day (the 8:30 bus left at 10:30) and made it to Bolga, where we stayed at the Comme Ci Comme Ca hotel, which lived up to it’s name. Our main goal in taking the bus to Bolga was to be within a taxi ride of Paga, where the crocodiles live. Since we weren’t sure how to find the crocodiles, we went to the hotel reception area, where Megan summoned her inner 4-year-old and announced, “We want to see the crocodiles. We want to pet them.” It worked admirably. We learned how to take a taxi to Paga and how much it should cost, and then a vendor who sells overpriced trinkets to tourists offered to “send” [read: escort] us to the taxi station. So I bought five overpriced bracelets from him for his asking price of four, and he showed us how to weave through the marketplace to the taxi station and helped us get a taxi to drop us at the crocodile pond in Paga. We toured a sketchy village, petted a crocodile, got lots of pictures, and caught the same taxi back to the station in Bolga.

We weaved our way back through the market toward our hotel, Megan, who was in charge of us not getting lost, calling out her landmarks as we passed them—tomatoes, lots of fish, lots of babies, dirty pig. Our hotel was in sight when a young man (or old child) lumbered up to us and bellowed loudly, “Where are you going? Where are you going?” as he kept pace with us and stared rudely into our faces. Maybe this doesn’t sound like a trip highlight to you, but it definitely was for me. Because I’m not usually aware enough of my environment to know when someone is being totally inappropriate. When you begin speaking to someone in Ghana, the proper greeting is, “Good afternoon. How are you?” If you begin speaking with any words other than these, you are terribly rude and can expect similar treatment. Also, I was tired of strange people demanding to know my destination just because I’m foreign—I mean, it’s one thing if I’m wandering timidly through the bus station with luggage, but Megan and I were in the market, which is a perfectly acceptable place to be without going anywhere at all. So I gave him my best you’re-in-big-trouble-young-man look and corrected his manners in my best shame-on-you teacher-voice. “No. You don’t say, ‘Where are you going?’ You should say, ‘Good afternoon. How are you?’” But then of course I had to back off because he became immediately repentant and greeted me quite properly and respectably. And then he asked if he could help me find where I was going, which was also very considerate of him, and I assured him he could not, as my sister and I were only out walking and were not at all lost.

The 6:30 bus from Bolga to Nalerigu left the station at 6:30. It looked . . . somewhat less steady than its brethren. The floor seam mostly met down the center aisle, each half jarring semi-independently as we rocked down the bumpy road, and the whole bus’s great tilt to the left was unignorable; Megan and I sat on the uphill side, that we might be part of the solution. Also noteworthy regarding this part of the journey were the sheep Megan observed being loaded into the bus’s undercarriage. Well, you don’t see that everyday. Also, I met a teacher whose cousin lives in my village. Not that I’ve ever met the cousin, but the teacher and I were pleased to have something in common, and she helped us find our bus stop.

Megan and I hung out with Angela in Nalerigu for a couple days before my Esalas came to get me on Saturday. Then on Sunday we had one of those spontaneous parties that kind of grows and grows . . . we’d planned to just hang out and picnic in Nakpanduri (between Nasuan and Nalerigu), but Nathan was preaching at church, so I think most of the white population of West Africa wanted to take advantage of the occasion. At any rate, the congregation was more white than African—maybe eighteen adults plus hordes of children, with representatives from Ghana, Togo, and Burkina Faso—and we all came back to our house for a potluck afterwards. Our church doesn’t usually have a parking lot, but it did last week.

We did end up going to Nakpanduri after the potluck to see the escarpment, which is a word I did not previously know but now think must mean edge-of-high-cliffs-off-of-which-one-could-quite-easily-plummet-to-her-death. So we hung out there for a bit, tempting fate and flirting with sunburns, which I think was more fun for other people than for me, gravity having a greater pull on me than on most people, and my skin being more sensitive to the sun. This is also the part where Teacher Angela and I were attacked and held captive by a very benign-looking, but very vicious, bush or tumbleweed. I accidentally swished this bush into the path when I walked by it, and Angela became entangled when she tried to pass. Naturally, I went back to save her, becoming entangled myself. The tiny thorns we'd failed to notice before became obvious as they wrapped themselves securely into our skirts and drew blood where they scratched our legs. Others from our group happened upon us and, after laughing and taking pictures, managed to free us (but not without finding the thorns themselves). Happily, Sarah managed to remove the thorn from my thumb upon my return to Nasuan.

In other news, all is well in the village. Bernice vanquished my toilet paper the other day, but we’re speaking again, so no worries there. Nathan, Karissa, and I are taking Grandpa Tom and Cousin Katie to Tamale tomorrow so they can catch their flight to Accra and then America. We will also be running some errands. Armed with the confidence that comes from knowing how to hail a taxi and the map Ali drew for me of the Tamale market, I will be attempting to tackle the grocery shopping for the first time ever without the aid of a shopping buddy (You see? I am a wild, adventurous woman). Also, I cleaned out and disinfected my desk the other day and am pleased to report finding nothing more ominous than a few small dried bug bodies and a bit of mouse poop.

What I Learned:

Sometimes people who don’t speak English are to be preferred. I’m noticing that, in general, Americans and Europeans tend to find African women selling vegetables to be unpleasantly aggressive and, well, vulture-like. Many African vegetable saleswomen have accosted me, shoving their zucchini and potatoes in my face when I really just want to see the carrots and then trying to force more carrots on me than I actually want. They seem to think if I haven’t made up my mind it is because I really want some of everything, helpfully shoving it at me so I can’t see what I’m really shopping for. One lady in Burkina even refuses to give change in money, instead offering two apples or half a kilo of strawberries. Sigh. Because of these tendencies, I was quite surprised when I bought vegetables in Tamale market last week from a woman who was sweet and patient. I didn’t have to fight with her at all over what I was or wasn’t buying, and I realized later this may have been largely because she didn’t know what I was talking about.

It’s totally possible for two men to carry a trussed-up, fully grown cow on a motorcycle through heavy city traffic. I’m not even kidding.

No need to hail a taxi in Ghana. Just walk in the direction you wish you were going, and they’ll hail you. It’s ridiculously convenient.

Sometimes city folk are more sophisticated than villagers. Megan and I didn’t get a single marriage proposal, but one guy did ask me for her email address.

So this is an abrupt ending, but it’ll have to do.

Hope you all are having a very happy Easter.

Christ is risen!

Christina

Sunday, April 27, 2009

Real Neighbors Come Armed

Dear Everyone,

Someday you're going to get tired of hearing stories about marriage proposals and ominous wildlife. Hopefully, today is not that day. Or anyway, I just want to be up front about the variety this current epistle has to offer.

We celebrated Easter in every way that is traditional and American and in very few ways that aren't. We had a potluck and an Easter egg hunt with area missionaries on Saturday. Church on Sunday was standing room only, and all the church choirs sang (and danced). (And then most of the congregation danced.) I colored Easter eggs Sunday afternoon, and they, of course, were beautiful. Some of the eggs blew up while I was boiling them (that's not normal), and then some turned out to be rotten when I peeled them (that's not normal either), but many of them made fine post-Easter egg salad sandwiches, which I believe is quite traditional. I enjoyed a very fine after-sunset service with the Esalas in their living room Sunday evening, and Sarah cooked Easter dinner on Monday night. We had chicken; it was excellent.

We also celebrated Annaka's birthday—a little early so she could share her party with Cousin Katie. We had cake and presents, of course, but the highlight was playing Ghost in the Graveyard—a cross between hide-and-go-seek and tag played outside in the dark, which means a lot of running and screaming—especially if you are Annaka. We were right in the middle of play when our closest neighbor, the Good Guard Abulai, showed up with his rifle and most of his family. Seems they heard Annaka screaming and decided we must be having trouble with a snake. So they came out in force to save us. The epitome of neighborly, I think.

In other wildlife news—I mean, in wildlife news that involves actual wildlife—my house is full of it, though, happily, not in the form of snakes. I currently suffer from four minor plagues of ants: big black ones with really big heads; big black ones with red middles; slightly smaller, mostly red ones that run really fast, and very tiny black ones that move like dust. The big ones prefer to eat sugar and operate out of the kitchen and bathroom—the big heads and the red middles may even be working in collusion. The small dust ants are excavating a habitat in the living room; they prefer to eat the bodies of the big ants. So my nightly ritual has come to include wielding my flip flops in a killing rampage, sweeping up the bodies, spraying any new excavations in the living room, and putting out sweet poison treats in the bathroom and kitchen. I've been thinking about how I might need a pet chicken, and that, I think, is indicative of some sort of change in me. Where before I might've considered poisons and exterminators as the ultimate in pest control, I'm now leaning toward introducing a predator. Just another way I'm going green, I guess. Oy.

I'm also suffering from what seems to be a slight infestation of Peza. “Peza” is my new vocabulary word. It refers to the creatures I was previously calling “little dragons.” Peza range in length from one to two inches. Their bodies have three segments, like ants, but are much larger, some are even the size of a peanut in the shell. The lift themselves off the floor on eight, thick, jointed legs, holding two larger leg-like protrusions out in front of them. They are often a fiery red in color, and they run very, very fast. Asala the House Girl says they come out to scare you and, when you run, they eat your dinner. Caroline the Peace Corps Worker says you will change from a girl into a boy (or vice versa) if one bites you (she says that's what happened to her cat; she has a boy cat with a girl name just like I do). Bernice the Cat hunts Peza and eats them. Sometimes I hunt with Bernice, and sometimes I just stand on a chair and shout encouragement. This week's Peza count is three confirmed kills out of six to eight sightings.

And then, of course, there's the giant gecko that has moved into my kitchen. I am unpleasantly startled when he leaps out of my cupboard at me. The noise I make in that situation is “Nn-d-g-Ah.”

As for marriage proposals, I'm noticing in a not-so-sad sort of way (I mean, it's not like I know these people) it's been a long time since I've gotten one. Nathan, Karissa, and I took Grandpa Tom and Cousin Katie to Tamale the other week so they could fly back to America. Karissa, Cousin Katie, and I triumphed over four separate grocery lists (Sarah's, Marvelous Mona's, Teacher Angela's, and mine), spending enough that one store was moved to give us free ice cream. In that same store, a man announced his desire to marry one of my daughters—either Karissa or Cousin Katie. (He was not under the impression that either Karissa or Cousin Katie were actually my daughters; rather, in keeping with Ghanaian custom, he assumed, and rightly, that my friend might as well be my sister, and any daughter of my sister is a daughter of mine. Naturally, then, Sarah's sister's daughter would also be my daughter. Ghanaian families, it seems, tend to lean toward being inclusive.) We agreed to decide among ourselves and let him know. He then announced to everyone that I was his mother-in-law. Definitely a first for me (and definitely to be preferred).

All the time we were shopping and contemplating husbands (and sons-in-law), we were also being stalked by a very aggressive vegetable saleswoman, who seems to consider us her personal property. We've bought produce from her before, so we know she offers limited selection at higher prices (that's the downside) but will also take your list into the market to buy anything she doesn't have for you and deliver your purchases to your car, which is an upside if you're in a hurry and don't mind being hunted on every subsequent trip to Tamale. Anyway, Nathan and I had already decided to go into the market ourselves to increase our chances of coming out with produce sturdy enough to survive the trip home, so we were pointedly avoiding this lady. (Also, Sarah's list had more negotiable items like “whatever fruit looks good,” which are harder to staff out successfully.) We almost made it, too. I was just coming back to the car with the final items from our lists (squash for Sarah, apples for Marvelous Mona, and mangoes for me) when the Veggie Lady leaped out of nowhere, he hawk eyes plumbing the depths of our car's cargo area. Awkward. Unfortunately, seeing the heaps of produce in our car probably will not dissuade her from hunting us down the next time we're in Tamale. Sigh. Anyway. Our shopping trip was overall successful and satisfying. Note for next time: Make sure the piles of groceries actually get loaded into the car instead of left out in front of the stores. That way Nathan won't have to go back for them. Oy. That was probably my fault.

My only other excitement to report is a leaky pipe under my kitchen sink, which resulted in a substantial pool flowing from under my sink, through the kitchen, and down into the bathroom last Sunday afternoon. After serious efforts to jury rig a solution, Nathan has become convinced that we're going to need actual, legitimate plumbing parts to fix the leak, which means a trip to Nalerigu. In the meantime, the water to my house is shut off, which means I'm carting water in from the Esalas'. From this experience, I've learned the following: that I don't actually use that much water—just one head pan to wash my dishes and one to wash myself, and that hauling water isn't that inconvenient PROVIDED 1. you don't actually need that much, 2. your water source is as close as, say, your neighbors' outdoor spicket, and 3. your cat doesn't do anything gross (like poop on your bed).

Please pray for the Esalas' and my safe travel to Burkina Faso next month to meet with Karissa's home school group.

Christina

Just One of Those Days After Another

2009-04-28T15:26:00.001-04:00

Just One of Those Days After Another

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Dear Everyone,

You know those days when you think if just one more thing happens, it’s over? And you’re not too clear on what “it” might be, but you recognize those “one more things” when about six of them hit you, one after another after the other. Over the past eight or ten days, my one more things have included but not been limited to the following, in roughly chronological order:

Battling a vicious, evil cold, involving severe throat irritation such that even my ears hurt, and is subdued only by high doses of Sudafed and ibuprophen. It waxes and wanes such that I feel better for a day or so before being ready to die again a few days later. (But Dr. Hewitt says I won’t die of this without getting a fever first, so I’ve been watching out for that.) This has been my life for about four weeks, so even though I’m feeling pretty good right now, I’m still not holding my breath. I’ve been fooled before, that’s why.
Finding a dead baby mouse in my desk drawer. I know this is pretty much old hat for me, but I’m always a little wary of my desk drawers anyway, and finding the body was just too much. Annaka and Aili came over to play, but we couldn’t find all of my toys. So I was looking for them in the desk and thinking about Missionary Susan, who found a small poisonous snake in her desk drawer last year when she was looking for her keys. I always think of Susan when I dig through my desk drawers, and, consequently, I tend to avoid digging long or thoroughly. The mouse body was stiff and furry but obviously a baby. I was so disturbed that Aili offered to get rid of it for me, explaining how she could hold the dead baby mouse in her hands and take him out. I managed to scoop him out with the dust pan, but now I’m faced with the joy of cleaning out my whole desk, since mouse babies rarely come in sets of one, and anyway where are his parents?
Finding evidence of adult mouse activity in my food cupboard, in the form of two chewed-through maggi cubes (like chicken bouillon, but really salty) and a shredded box of laughing cow (an inferior cheese product). I’ve tried to move all chewable products to mouse-resistant containers, but I only have so many plastic boxes. That’s why the granola I don’t really like anyway has to stay out on the counter.
Learning that my slightly-sketchy cross-country trip will begin on Thursday. I’m going to Mole (say “MO-lay”) to see elephants and to the coast to see Ghanaian slave castles with Teacher Megan and Teacher Angela—whom I met at Karissa’s home school group in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso a couple weeks ago—and no Esalas. This is supposed to be a vacation, and deep down I know it will be fun. That’s why I’m going. But I don’t actually know where I’m going, and I suspect Megan and Angela also are not sure. I don’t believe we will actually become lost forever in the wilds of Ghana, but we may wander around in them quite a bit before finding our homes again.
Learning that my computer is officially dead, and not even Missionary Paul can fix it with his powers without also replacing the hard drive, from which he can salvage nothing. Sigh.
Finding a very live bat in my living room—not difficult, as he was swooping around my head at the time. I kept telling myself, “He won’t hit you; echolocation,” but that didn’t stop me from flinching and cringing every time it flew near. I had to get Nathan to “help me” get it out, which meant he swung the broom while I waited outside.
Having diarrhea. Today is my fourth day.

Even though I cried six times in the last week and a half (over everything except the computer dying), I have been able to avoid sinking completely into the pit of despair, where one can do nothing but eat Nutella with a spoon. In fact, I have been feeling a little better sometimes in the last day or so and, as evidence, am able to recall a few high points of recent weeks.

We went to Ouaga for Karissa’s home school group, where I played house girl and hung out instead of teaching a class. I acquired several culinary treats, such as green beans and cashews. I made several jars of strawberry jam. I made a few new friends, including Teacher Megan and Teacher Angela. I might have experienced henna for the very first time, or I might have gotten a very lovely design dyed to my ankle in hair dye, depending on whom you ask. I went swimming almost everyday, and even though my swimming suit showed signs of wear such that I wasn’t sure it would last the three weeks, it did last, and I was spared any embarrassing revelations.

Last week, we saw camels in our village—actually, between our house and the village, which is, of course, right in our back yard (or side yard, or whatever). They were three camels traveling with one grumpy guy who wouldn’t let us take pictures and who didn’t even greet us properly even after we very politely greeted him. We usually just get farm animals around here, so seeing something in the “zoo” or “circus” categories was truly a treat.

Also Bernice has very valiantly rescued me from several terrible bugs lately.

Last month, I came home from my birthday party at the Esalas’ to find a big meaty cockroach poised on my refrigerator door, its vile antennae waving menacingly. In my heart, I wanted to get Nathan to come kill it for me (we can’t all be brave everyday, and Bernice had not yet demonstrated his ability to subdue large bugs with dispatch), but I also knew that I could do the job if I could put off being a wuss for just a few seconds. So I held a flip flop—one in each hand for good measure—and made to swipe the fiend off the fridge (and the pictures and the artwork and the magnets I had hanging there) so I could deliver the fatal blow without getting guts on anything I like. My plan was foiled when the villain slipped between the doors to the fridge and freezer and hunkered down in the crack—the dirty cheater. Now probably I shouldn’t go around spraying poison on my refrigerator. Probably when the can says “Do not spray on or near food,” the fridge is part of what’s meant. This being war, however, I resolved to clean the fridge thoroughly when I was through.

Typical of roaches sprayed with poison, this one came flying out of his hideout to flail about in berserk circles on the floor the moment he was sprayed. That’s when Bernice joined the fray, valiantly pouncing on the thrashing roach and very efficiently consuming all but two and a half twitching legs while I smacked the cat on the head with my flip flop and shrieked things like “Bernice, that’s poison! It says, ‘Do not spray on food’!” I’m not sure Bernice speaks English. He held the twitching villain pinned with one paw and crunched through it like a tootsie pop—chomp, chomp, chomp, done.

Since then, Bernice has also killed one of those big scary running bugs with all the legs that likes to run over me while I’m trying to sleep and hurts really bad if it bites you. He made another nice attempt on another one of those bugs last night, but finally we both gave up and I ended up killing it myself later. In the process of hunting that bug, I came across a dead adult mouse body under my desk, which bumps dragging my desk drawers for bodies a little higher on my list.

I suppose you can probably fish prayer topics out of this email without me suggesting them, so I’ll leave that mostly to you. I’m leaving on my trip on Thursday, so that’s a good one. Also, Sarah’s dad and niece are visiting from America, so you can pray against malaria for them and for a good visit overall, which they seem to be on their way to having. And just in case you can’t tell that I have a bad attitude and have been (and am continuing to be) just a bit beyond grumpy lately, I will tell you plainly that I have a bad attitude and have been rather more than grumpy lately, which, of course, is just a bit outside my ideal state. Sigh.

Hope you are well.

Christina

Today’s quote is from Annaka:

“Aunt Christina, we’re camels, right?” She seemed very serious, and it took me a moment to realize she meant “mammals.”

Total Savings: 3 Pounds

2009-01-26T12:29:00.001-05:00

Thursday, January 22, 2009
Total Savings: 3 Pounds

Dear Everyone,

Greetings. Did you miss me?

If you didn’t, and you wish you weren’t hearing from me now, you can email and ask me to take you off my email list. And I’ll do it, probably even without being mad. Otherwise, you’re in for another year of lengthy epistles.

Also, thanks so much to everyone who contributed financially last year. I know all money comes from God, but I appreciate your participation. My budget this year is similar to last year’s—$8,000—but I’m not sure how much of that I still need. If you’d like to send financial support, please write “Christina Riddle Ministry” in the memo line of your check and send it to:

Peter Slayton
Lutheran Bible Translators303 N Lake St
Aurora, IL 60506

If you write “Christina Riddle Ministry” in the memo line of your check, your contribution will be tax-deductible and will be spent on my basic ministry needs, such as travel expenses and food. I also need approximately $2,000 marked “Christina Riddle, personal gift.” This money will be spent on my health insurance and insurance for my car in America. Checks marked “personal gift” will NOT be tax-deductible; LBT will just hand me the money. Apparently, tax-deductible contributions cannot be used on this insurance because of something about my official status as a volunteer and the IRS. I don’t really understand it, but there it is.

Business done; on to the email.

I’ve spent the last few weeks in The City Accra after spending most of October in Nasuan the Village and both November and December in The Motherland. For your reading enjoyment, I’ll just run through the highlights quickly [read: at great, long-winded length].

Leaving the village was a little rough due to my unpleasant medical state. I’d had a headache for about four days and also some diarrhea, so I started taking a malaria treatment, just in case. It’s a take-twice-a-day-with-food medication—with breakfast and dinner, preferably—and that’s when I realized I’d been skipping those meals for rather awhile and existing on just small helpings of lunch. Guess I was sicker than I thought. I finished my malaria treatment the Friday we left the village, and though my headache was gone, I still wasn’t better. I was reheating leftover yams for breakfast, feeling lousy in general, and thinking about how I still had to clean out the fridge and wash the dishes before I was ready to go when Bernice the Cat jumped up onto my kitchen table and knocked my ketchup bottle vase onto the concrete floor, which shattered the bottle and added one more thing to my list. Sigh. I threw Bernice outside and put my shoes on. One problem at a time. Sarah found me sitting in the spray of glass, painfully force-feeding myself yams. Sarah, you know, is a problem-focused coper. She cleaned out my fridge and brought Asala the House Girl for my broken glass and dirty dishes and brought a new medication—this one specialized in giardia and other buggies of that nature—for my diarrhea.

She put Annaka and Aili on the same new medication because they had diarrhea too. And then we all went to The City Tamale, where Missionary Ali and Paul Her Husband live.

Paul and Ali were in The City Accra, so we had their house to ourselves. This was fortunate because it meant I had one bathroom all to myself, Annaka had one bathroom all to herself, and, since Aili was new to the whole toilet system and had brought along her own personal potty chair, one bathroom remaining for Nathan, Sarah, and Karissa to share.

On Saturday, Nathan, Sarah, and Karissa went to run errands and Annaka, Aili, and I stayed home to have diarrhea. We didn’t actually feel too sick, so this was a practical arrangement. The downside was that both Annaka and Aili needed help wiping, so they just had to wait until my diarrhea was finished before I could come help them. I was mildly distressed a couple times when I was busy stuck in the bathroom and I heard Aili’s sweet baby voice calling, “‘Stina! ‘Stina, stinky poop!” Fortunately, she was pretty good at getting most of it into the toilet, Missionary Ali has tile floors, and Sarah had had the foresight to leave behind a spray bottle of disinfectant.

It was a hot day, so Sarah put Annaka and Aili in the bathtubs to play in the water and stay cool. After the power went out, I moved the bathtubs to the veranda, which I think made them swimming pools. No electricity means no fans and no opening the fridge, which means limited air flow and lots of very warm water to drink. But I think that’s all I have to complain about (three months later—gee, Christina, get a grip).

I flew from The City Tamale to The City Accra. I wore my new African suit, which is a very flattering blue print with light blue lace trim and looks quite classy, and my height-of-fashion black high heeled flip flops—the ones with the large gold and black shiny plastic jewelry-things on the toe. So basically, I looked amazing. The flight from Tamale to Accra had been cancelled the day before; when Nathan called the airline to confirm my ticket, they wouldn’t give him any assurances or information beyond “come early.” Oy. So we did and were informed that passengers scheduled to fly the day before would be given first priority, and people with tickets for that morning’s flight would be taken as there was room. Nathan suggested I be put at the top of the list for available seats since I was there first. The Airline Guy agreed, found some scrap paper, and dutifully wrote my name on it. Then Nathan stood watch over the Airline Guy and the scrap paper—a sort of hovering vigilance, if you will. Apparently, if Nathan had abandoned the scrap paper, it would’ve lost its power and I would’ve lost my seat to the very aggressive woman breathing fire at the Airline Guy. But since Nathan was there, the scrap of paper remained enough to sustain the Airline Guy, and I flew out as scheduled, even as many others did not.

Missionary Ali, Paul Her Husband, Hannah is Two and Baby Levi met me at the airport in The City Accra on their way to church. I hung out with them for a day or so before flying to Ohio by way of London and Chicago.

The best part of my trip was going through customs, which was truly a delight. The Passport-Stamping Guy in Ghana asked me to marry him, so that’s always a treat. And I had a nice chat with the Customs Guy in Chicago about why I checked four boxes on my declaration form; it involved him saying things like “So, I guess there were animals all over the place,” and me saying things like “I only held the chickens, honest.”

In America, I tried to play my favorite grocery store game: Which Cereal is the Most Expensive? In Accra, the winner is usually somewhere around $13.00. In Ohio, the winner was $4.50. Other highlights include usurping a Mennonite Bible study—they asked me to speak 5 or 10 minutes, and I spoke 2 hours—and spending a few days in South Carolina with my church friends there. The weather was too cold for me to eat as much ice cream as I wanted, but I still managed to gain 14 pounds, which is respectable if not quite impressive. And then my parents got me a small ice cream maker for Christmas, so having carted it back to Africa, now I’m all set.

And speaking of stuff I carted back to Africa, my total luggage weight came to two suitcases of 52.5 pounds each, a carry on of just over 30 pounds, and a “personal item” (containing two laptops—mine and Sarah’s) weighing a bit over 20 pounds for a total of approximately 160 pounds. In the interest of saving space, I removed all unnecessary packaging before I packed things—for a savings of 3 pounds. Oy.

In other news, the Esalas’ new baby boy was born on December 5th in Accra—Isaac Emmanuel. Probably this is the part where I should include his weight and stuff, but perhaps you’ll settle for a link to the pictures his parents have posted. Go to http://esalas.org/ and click the “photos” link on the right hand side of the page. Or, just trust me. He’s cute. And little. And very baby-like.

So everything is going pretty okay. We left Accra a couple days ago and are stopped briefly in Tamale, well on our way to Nasuan. Today’s excitement involved Missionary Ali’s dog dragging a baby goat into the yard and chewing its head off. It was quite dreadful. I was home by myself and I didn’t know what to do. So I called Ali, and she, of course, had the perfect solution: Call Paul. Brilliant. If any situation had “man work” written all over it, this was the one. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: “Your dog just killed a goat.”
Him: “What?”
Me: “A small one.”
Him: “I’m coming.”

Hope you are well and enjoying your January. Please feel welcome to write back and tell me all about it. Sorry for ending with the bit about the goat.

Christina

All Kinds of Visitors

2008-09-29T15:10:00.000-04:00

Saturday, September 27, 2008
All Kinds of Visitors

Dear Everyone,

For dinner last night, I had tomatoes, beef, and cheese spread on tortillas. As I was thinking about how absolutely fantastic it was, I also thought about how it was totally worth the three hours it took to prepare. But then I realized it actually took longer than three hours. The tortillas alone took two and a half hours to roll out and cook, and that with two people working steadily. The cheese spread came from an ethnic store in Tamale. The tomatoes came from the Market in our village. Sarah bought the beef in the village last week and pressure cooked it into a form chewable by human teeth. And then we made tortillas for three hours.

I spent the last two weeks in Tamale, first at the Tamale Institute of Cross-Cultural Studies (TICCS) for an introduction to Ghanaian culture class, and then at Missionary Ali’s house for a teacher/teacher conference.

The TICCS course was fabulous. My class had 20 students: 18 Roman Catholic clergy members, one anthropology student, and me. We spent the mornings in class discussing cultural differences—delightful, especially since we were from 9 different countries (students from America, Poland, Brazil, Uganda, Ethiopia, Indonesia, Bulgaria, and India, and teachers from Ghana, naturally). We spent the afternoons on fieldtrips in Tamale—to see cloth being woven, pots made from clay, and animal skins turned into leather belts; to meet the chief in Tamale; to see a traditional African diviner; and to drink pito. It was huge fun, and I liked all of my classmates and teachers immensely. TICCS is such a caring place. The Guy From Ethiopia mentioned Ethiopian New Year (which was September 11th), so of course we all gave him New Year’s greetings at breakfast. But the TICCS director found out about it, and he had a cake served after supper, at which point all the Indians led us in a heartfelt chorus of Happy New Year to You—to the tune of Happy Birthday and in about 7 different keys. The Guy From Ethiopia had been looking a little homesick, as if he was missing a holiday and his mother’s cooking, but after cake and Happy New Year to You, he looked more like his holiday had been properly acknowledged.

Missionary Ali and I enjoyed incredible productivity during my week at her house. We went over the plans for Karissa’s fourth grade education, which has somewhat begun but will begin in earnest on Wednesday. We also did some shopping and some baking and tried our hand at potty training Hannah Ali’s Firstborn, all with encouraging if limited results. We also saw a seamstress and were measured for suits; I have high hopes that I might attend classy events (church, for example) more appropriately dressed in the future.

I returned to Nasuan with Nathan and his parents, Grammy and Poppa, who had spent the week in Accra. Grammy and Poppa were the first and most beloved of this week’s visitors, and they were the inspiration for exciting activities such as a treasure hunt, sing along night, and a poetry reading.

Our second arrival is the inspiration for my prayers of thanksgiving to Jesus for his gift of a ferocious attack kitten. Bernice the Cat arrived Monday, courtesy of Missionary Valerie and Family. Karissa and I spent hours pouring over the girl section of Sarah’s name-your-baby book before settling on “Bernice,” which means “bringer of victory.” That meaning, I believe, may be Bernice’s only consolation, as it turns out he is a boy kitty. Who knew? I mean, I investigated, sure, and I was 95% sure he was a girl when we named him. But the next morning he was attacking his Happy Face Sponge (a gift from Karissa) with unprecedented vigor, and from that angle he suddenly looked a lot less feminine, my certainty dropping to 45%. Karissa promptly took him to the Good Guard Abulai for a definitive answer, and, well, there you have it. A boy kitty named Bernice. He is fortunate to have also been given the nickname “Berni,” which sounds a little more masculine (regardless of on which side of the name book we found it).

Aside from our gender and naming issues, Bernice and I are getting along fine. I’m busily learning what cats eat when they’re too little to hunt in a world without cat food (this morning, he had eggs), and Bernice is diligently trying to learn the house rules: 1. Pee in the sandbox, and 2. Don’t bite my feet. He is much better with rule one, which will hopefully change to “Pee EXCLUSIVELY in the sandbox” in the near future. Eventually, we will add 3. Go outside, and 4. Kill mice, but for now we are taking baby steps.

Despite Bernice’s arrival, and bringing us to the end of this week’s list of visitors, this week’s Mouse Count is two. Sadly, only one died politely in the trap. Also sadly, this means you get to hear about the other one. I was in the shower. As I reached out to turn on the water, my right foot descended on something warm and soft and wriggly. My bathroom light does not penetrate the depths of my shower, see, so how was I to know what awaited me? More bad news, the Stepstool of Doom was in the kitchen. I threw on my towel, bolted into the kitchen, and returned wielding my Stepstool toward the vile fiend. Half-maimed and squealing, Shower Mouse maneuvered himself into the corner between shower wall and floor, where my stepstool could not fit to pursue. I returned to the kitchen for the broom, with which I swished Shower Mouse out into the open, switching back to Stepstool to finish the job. Highly traumatized (my foot touched a mouse body, and I was naked), I re-dressed in my dirty clothes and went to the Esalas’ house for cleaning cloths and pity. I related my tale of woe to Sarah, Grammy, and Poppa, who responded with all appropriate horror and sympathy. A major downside to killing Shower Mouse in the dark depths of the shower is that I couldn’t see to tell when the job was finished and so kept bludgeoning away—throwing in a few extra hits just to be sure. Thus, when I did go in with a flashlight and cleaning supplies, my recent victory proved far grizzlier than those past.

Today’s Suggested Prayer Topics are:

1. Everybody is always traveling. This time, The Esalas Limited are taking Grammy and Poppa to Tamale, as they are returning to America this week (possibly on Monday). At the end of October, I will also be traveling to America.

2. Everybody is always at risk for malaria. Since our internet access is so limited, I can’t generally tell you when people are actually sick, so I’m suggesting you just pray for everybody all the time. In the past few weeks, Sarah and Karissa both had malaria, and both are fine now. Nathan and Karissa had some kind of fever before that (Esala Fever, if you will. Sarah narrowed their illness down to about four fevers, all of which have the same treatment: Treat for malaria just in case, then just be sick until you feel better), and they also have recovered from that. Annaka doesn’t feel well today, so she’s being treated for malaria too (again, just in case). Aili and I, as far as I know, are still feeling pretty good.

3. And thank you, Jesus, for my cat.

Christina

The Happy Accident of My Amazing Bathroom

2008-09-29T15:06:00.000-04:00

Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Happy Accident of My Amazing Bathroom

Dear Everyone,

This week’s mouse count is 1. He died in the trap, as is only good and proper. After several direct hits with poisoned bug spray, Toilet Spider remains alive and thriving. And that’s it for dead animal news.

I successfully painted my little house. It’s amazing how happy paint makes me. I got white, red, and yellow paint in Tamale with the goal of painting my living room peach, my bedroom yellow, and my bathroom um-we’ll-see-what-happens. Ghana is without those handy little we’ll-mix-paint-for-you-in-whatever-shade-you-want centers featured at home improvement stores in the U.S., which meant I found myself mixing my paint myself. That joy (which actually was pretty fun after I got going), coupled with my general unfamiliarity with the special techniques required for working with oil-based paint (namely paint thinner, which, thankfully, Nathan knew to buy), made me especially glad no one was around to watch as I began my painting process. Christina the Incompetent triumphs again. Oy. I endured much dripping and flinging of paint splattering. I discovered oil paint’s amazing stickiness and how it adheres to flesh with great ferocity and soap is no match for it no matter how diligently applied. But by the end, I’d painted my living room a cheerful light peach—almost, but not quite, pink—and my bedroom a darker, warmer orangish-peach. I seem to have an affinity for mixing peach. Karissa, Annaka, and Aili even took their turns with the roller and did a quite admirable job. And my bathroom, by happy accident, became the most amazing bathroom ever. Not kidding.

It all started in January when I arrived in Tamale and Sarah took me shopping at Melcomes (more on The Melcomes Experience later). I needed a shower curtain, and Melcomes had two to choose from: moderately depressing dots or arguably tasteless butterflies. Always preferring tasteless to depressing, I chose the butterflies. To serve as bathmat (the height of luxury, bathmats), we found a bright and cheerful rug made from scraps of fabric by the Coalition of Women in Distress (they have a little shop in Tamale). In the village, I selected bright blue fabric with fluorescent green swirls for curtains because it matched the shower curtain (that’s right: blue and fluorescent green butterflies). I often see this fabric made into clothes in the village, so there’s the added bonus of Sound of Music showtunes suddenly flitting through my head when I’m out in Nasuan. Anyway, I’d thought to paint my bathroom orange—not because I thought orange would compliment the existing décor, but because I had red and yellow paint for the living room and bedroom and it seemed wasteful to buy another whole gallon of paint just to get a “sensible” color for my already sketchy bathroom. I was shooting for a basic, Crayola orange, but, well, I got a little excited with the red and ended up with a very red, tomato-orange—very bright, very shiny. If you’ve ever seen my car, you’ll know the color. It turns out, though, that this red-orange suits my blues and fluorescent greens amazingly well. It dispels the slightly creepy “camping with the spiders” atmosphere my bathroom once had, replacing it with a loud beckoning: “Come. Pee here and Welcome.”

Melcomes, as I mentioned, is a nice [read: the only] place to buy shower curtains and other luxury household items in Tamale. The Melcomes Experience is not just an experience. It’s an Experience. Oy. For contrast, recall that in many stores the shopper moves through the store collecting items to purchase and then gives these items to a cashier, who collects money in exchange for them. At Melcomes, the shopper looks at the items but isn’t allowed to collect them. Instead, sentries stationed at various intervals issue “tickets” (torn scraps of paper bearing indecipherable scribbles) for the items the shopper wishes to purchase. The shopper takes these “tickets” to the cashier, pays money, and receives a receipt. The shopper then takes the receipt on a scavenger hunt back through the store and collects the items he’s purchased, showing the receipt to the sentries, sort of like a permission slip. “See, I have purchased the plastic pitcher with the blue lid. Please allow me to pick it up.” The shopper then takes his items to the second check out counter, where the clerk compares the shopper’s pile of items with his receipt and allows him to exit the store with them. I’ve heard this method is supposed to be some kind of theft deterrent, but all I can figure is that the store might make money on the stuff people pay for but can’t find the second time around.

There’s another store in Accra, called Game. Not sure why it’s called Game; it looks a lot like Sears to me. Anyway, Melcomes has a billboard near the Game store. It says, “At Melcomes, we don’t play Games.” Perhaps they feel scavenger hunts don’t count.

In other village news, I got proposed to again at Market the other week. This proposal is noteworthy because the guy only asked about me after he was absolutely certain Aili was taken. Friends, it was unflattering. If it’s not too rude to mention, Aili was not even looking her best—sleeping tied to Sarah’s back with her mouth open and her sweaty hair plastered to her head. Call it vanity, but nobody likes to be second choice.

Christina

Stepstool of Doom and a Cinnamon Tree

2008-08-19T17:55:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Stepstool of Doom and a Cinnamon Tree

Dear Everyone,

My handkerchiefs molded. My headscarves molded too. I wore my red headscarf to church last week because it smelled only slightly musty and matched my dress. I carried my purple handkerchief even though it clashed because my red one had little black mold specks. Then Sunday night I found green and white fuzzy mold growing up the side of one of my skirts. It could be worse, I reminded myself. The Esalas returned from Accra to moldy beds. I dumped my moldy clothes on the bathroom floor to deal with in the morning (when Wasila Who Does Laundry comes).

Now, I know I shouldn’t just grab stuff up off the floor—and especially not laundry, and especially not off the bathroom floor. I know I should shake each piece out carefully before committing myself to holding it. Monday morning, I scooped up the whole pile of moldy clothes from my bathroom floor, and a small mouse dropped right out of my arms. Traumatic for both of us I’m sure. I thought he was a toad at first, and he also seemed somewhat stunned. Unfortunately for him, I recovered first. My bathroom stepstool was handy and seemed serviceable (nice surface area, you know?), so I pressed it into service as a bludgeon and beat Small Mouse to death. Again, traumatic for both of us. This is the first mouse I have killed without the aid of a mousetrap and/or Nathan. It is perhaps also the first creature I have killed that had an endoskeleton. Although I have come up with many suitable adjectives to relate this experience—descriptive writing makes you feel like you’re there, you know—I will spare you the details except to say that he did not go easily (it took four hits—far more than I’d anticipated) and he did not go cleanly. Fortunately, I have a lot of bleach.

This week’s Mouse Count, then, is 5: two caught in conventional traps and three I bludgeoned to death with my Stepstool of Doom (Small Mouse, of course, and then two more Tuesday evening).

This week’s Spider Count is 100. No kidding. It was 101, but I happened to catch sight of the spider living in my toilet and have deemed him too scary to live there. So I sprayed him with poison. Then yesterday I saw him still alive and sprayed him again. So we’ll see.

The last animal death I have to report is that of White Chicken, who made a very fine pot pie. I believe Black Chicken has been spared thus far because the few young she has left are still depending on her for maternal guidance. Oy. But I feel her time is near.

On a happier note, I’m pleased to report one need not be present to win. David Valerie’s Husband was able to extend my stay in Ghana by three months, at the end of which I will be traveling back to America for a happy visit there of approximately 2 months. Because of this happy development, the Esalas and I were delighted to travel from Accra back to Nasuan at a respectable but not overly taxing pace that included stops to rest and recreate.

We stopped at . . . a garden that has a name I forget, which I think of as the Zoo for Trees. This Tree Zoo had many trees from all over the world, though, naturally, they weren’t fenced. My favorite was the cinnamon tree because we got to eat some of the bark. It tasted like cinnamon, naturally, with a consistency of tree bark.

I think that might be all I have for today. Under two pages; shocking, I know. But it rains in Nasuan, so I’m writing this letter in Nalerigu with hopes of sending it out today. I have big plans to paint my little house this week (the inside), but hopefully that will not provide fodder for a more exciting email next time.

I think I’ve already hit on What I’ve Learned, but just in case I wasn’t clear, here’s a recap:

1. Cinnamon comes from trees.

2. One need not be present to win.

3. Mice take about four hits.

Must Be Present to Win?

2008-07-26T14:11:00.000-04:00

Friday, July 25, 2008
Must Be Present to Win?

Dear Everyone,

Greetings.

We celebrated the Fourth of July on the fifth of July at a barbeque in Nalerigu with several area missionaries and Peace Corps workers. I’d agreed to watch the grill for Sarah. Yisah (say “YEE-suh”), a Ghanaian man, was doing the actual grilling, but Esalas had had unfavorable grilling experiences in the past—i.e. they’d ended up with charred briquette-kabobs—and so it was decided the grill needed watching. Marvelous Mona had malaria, so Sarah had agreed to help her prepare her potluck dishes. And so it was decided that I would watch the grill, with Aili assisting.

Yisah and I started chatting, and the conversation quickly became unpleasant. It started when he asked how long I’d be in Ghana. Standard, non-threatening opening. So I told him I’d be home for Christmas and come back in January. But what if I get married, he wanted to know. Oy. Here we go. “I am not likely to get married this winter,” I said, and Yisah countered, “But what if you meet someone and you are in love?” Oy. “Well, I am still doubtful; I don’t actually know anyone I want to marry, and I’ll only be home less than two months.”

“What if there is a miracle?” he said. Oh. Well, in that case I supposed my miraculous husband could move back to Ghana with me. “But what if he will not come?” Eh? Of course he’ll come. Aside from the fact that we just made him up and he, therefore, has no free will, any mythical husband of mine would be delighted to move to Nasuan. “What if he won’t leave because of his job?” Um, well . . . at this point, I’m out. I’ve got a mythical husband whom I’ve met, dated, and married in under two months—why did I do that again? Oh, yeah. The miracle—which either has totally exhausted his spontaneity (and no wonder) or his spontaneity was limited to conventional activities (then why . . . ? The miracle. Right). Well, I just don’t know. The logic behind this series of events is escaping me.

So then we get to what I suspect may have been the real question all along. Would I consider marrying a Ghanaian? Unfortunately for this line of questioning, I’m pretty much done with this game. Unfortunately for me, I’m still watching the grill.

“You live in Nasuan, right? Have you had many marriage proposals?” Well, I suppose I’ve had a few; though I think of them as more of “marriage announcements” rather than proposals. “If you lived in Nalerigu, you would’ve had 100 by now.” Gee, how . . . flattering. “How about The Chief? Has he proposed?” The Chief said he would find me a husband if I wanted to make my home in Nasuan; he did not say the husband would be him. Yisah explains, “The Chief is just shy. The next time you meet, he will see what you think of him.” Okay, I’m skeptical. The Chief has five wives already. Yisah counters, “The Chief in Nalerigu has eighteen wives.” I explain that American women are selfish and do not like to share, but Yisah knows this already. He returns to his previous train of thought. “People,” he explains again, “are just shy.” Then he highlights himself as an example. He has seen me many times, but he has only spoken to me today. Oy vey. Please don’t bust out in a proposal before the meat gets done. Perhaps, he speculates, people are afraid of Nathan and Sarah. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t been more ardently pursued. Oy. If that’s the case, I’ll have to make more of a point to thank them for their intimidation even as I’m now resolving to make sure Sarah knows just how much I hope she enjoys her meat.

Enough of that topic. Well, more than enough really. Since Sunday comes next chronologically:

I’ve decided sermons in English are my favorite. Nathan preached at our church in Nasuan—must’ve been July 6th, since that’s the day after the 5th—and Elijah the Church Brother translated. The translation seemed just a little more aggressive than the preaching, but I think it worked out okay (I mean, based on my vast knowledge of Konkomba, that’s what I’m concluding). My favorite part was during the “Jesus died for you” climax when Elijah got a little carried away, anticipating passionate emphasis where Nathan hadn’t actually had a chance to speak yet, while Nathan just stood and grinned at him. It felt a little strange to hear Nathan speak Konkomba culture in his English words, and even after I got used to it, it still felt a little like spying. Keeping in mind that what the pastor said and what each listener heard is not always even similar (that’s a disclaimer, lest I inadvertently credit Nathan with heresy), this is a summary of the sermon highlights as I perceived them:

He talked about war and about a humble man who rides his donkey into the middle of conflict and soldiers lay down their arms. This man on the donkey brings peace and freedom to those who are burdened by heavy work. If your work is heavy, you can follow this man. You will still work for him, but when he ties his cart to your back, you will find it fits easily and does not cut into you or rub sore places. You will find you can pull it, and when you have no strength left, you will find that he will give you more strength again. “So,” Nathan asked, “who do you want to follow?” And the congregation answered, “We will follow the Donkey Man.”

In other Nasuan news, with two more attempted homicides, Black Chicken has promoted herself to the top of the Eat List—displacing White Chicken, who was there for crowing too loudly outside Aili’s window during naptime. Our current intention is to carry out Black Chicken’s sentence before she can reproduce again. As for PCD the Goat, we celebrated Nathan’s birthday in Accra with a fantastic dinner of barbequed goat sandwiches.

Our meetings in Accra began about two weeks ago, and when I say “our,” I’m using the term loosely to support the illusion that I was working too. I’ve spent most of the past two weeks playing in dirt. Grueling, I know. The kids and I (six kids, ages 2 to 5, plus Karissa) made gourmet dirt-food and sold it to each other for leaves and bottle caps. When we needed a break from that, we found worms and shared worms and practiced not smushing the worms too much. I’m pretty sure these were the kind of worms you fish with and not the kind of worms you get. Just in case, we were careful to practice pretending to eat dirt instead of really eating it, but some of us were better at that than others, Hannah Federwitz.

I’ve mentioned The Federwitz Family: Paul Extension in previous emails—that’s Missionary Ali and Paul Her Husband, along with their two kids, Hannah (the one who eats dirt and thinks my cooking is “for goats”) and Baby Levi (he’s new). The Federwitz Family: David Extension recently re-arrived in Ghana from their furlough in America. They include Missionary Valerie and David Her Husband, plus their children, Michaela, Josiah, Micah, and Baby Joyanna. None of them have ever sampled my cooking, but I did see Micah (he’s two) accidentally eat dirt. He was trying to eat a rock, and the dirt came as a bonus. David Valerie’s Husband works with Nathan in Gbintiri.

So The Federwitz Family: Paul and David Extensions, Alvina Federwitz the Nana, and the Esala Family Inclusive (that is, including me), met in Accra for the meetings. The Bosses of our team flew in from America for the occasion; perhaps intuitively cognizant of the path to my heart, Jim the Boss came bearing chocolate and mouse traps. Since I didn’t actually attend the meetings, I don’t really have much to say about them. But since they were the whole point of coming to Accra, I thought I might at least bring them up. Otherwise, you might think our point in coming was to go shopping.

A shopping milestone, I made my first purchase out the car window last week. I’d seen Sarah do it many times, both as the driver and as a passenger. Intersections are busy with, well, peddlers weaving in and out of traffic, and they carry their wares on their heads (just like the guy in that book, except instead of stacking them up in a tall tower, they have them piled high in big bowls or laundry baskets, and monkeys probably never steal them—because there just aren’t that many monkeys around). As we inch forward in traffic jams or stop for red lights, Sarah waves a peddler over for a quick exchange of goods for money. She calls it “window shopping.” She says the price is usually a good one because no one has time to haggle in traffic. Available goods include, but are not limited to, cooked food such as rice or yams, toilet paper, toothpaste, bread, sun glasses, ice cream, phone cards, apples, bananas, dog leashes, mushrooms, candy, flip flops, fabric, toilet seats, cell phone accessories, and children’s toys. Once, Sarah says she even saw puppies for sale. I bought two large squares of flannel, from which I intend to make non-disposable feminine products. (Whether or not I let you know how that goes will depend on how in favor of self-disclosure I’m feeling of at the time I have anything to report. But don’t worry; I will warn you before I start dumping that kind of information on you.)

A trip to Accra also means big-city shopping in the form of a trip to the Accra Mall. The mall featured many standard mall features, such as clothing and jewelry I couldn’t afford and real actual ice cream in a real actual food court. As a happy bonus, this mall also included grocery stores selling cornflakes for less than $12.00. Okay, I didn’t actually pay much attention to the cornflakes, but I did choose a very cheap bottle of bleach, with which I intend to wash my dishes (gotta kill the crawlies, you know). As I was nearing the end of the cleaning product aisle, I was accosted by a sales rep promoting her product over the one in my cart. Her clothes sported the logo of a name brand bleach-based cleaning product, near which she was lurking. (I passed several sales reps for various products sprinkled around the store, leading me to believe this attempted customer-stealing must be standard and acceptable.) Her product was better than the one in my cart, she claimed. Her product was an all-purpose cleaner, she said. “It can clean your toilet very well,” she promised, and I responded, “I do not have a toilet.” (I have a pit with a toilet seat, yes; but I’m certainly not bleaching it.) She just blinked at me. I expect she doesn’t get that answer often. Ah, city folk. Oy.

Enough prattle. Now, What I Learned:

My cockroach smashing skills are still intact. After sweeping up a few dry, poisoned bodies earlier in the week, I was startled but not surprised to find a live, juicy one under the wash tub in the kitchen sink. I acted quickly, calling, “Shoe!” and Sarah Esala, ever vigilant, kicked off her very classy brown flip flop with the little beads on the strap so I could smash the cockroach to death with it. Even though she declined to share the joy of victory by viewing the post-battle carcass-and-ooze, I still consider her a first-rate team player and remember her sacrifice with awe and thanksgiving.

Prayer Requests

1. Remember last time when I reported being accidentally legal in terms of leaving the country every two months? This month (this weekend, actually) is my first chance to obey this law knowingly. You’d think I wouldn’t want to miss it. My options are to either go to the immigration office in Tamale and get permission to stay two more months or to cross the boarder—a two day trip one way to Burkina Faso (where I have a visa) or an all day round trip to Togo (where I don’t). We’ve been in Accra almost forever enduring endless meetings and the pressure that comes with teetering on the edge of too much to do with deadlines not quite far enough out, and our only hope in sight has been the hope of a relaxing trip back to Nasuan with brief detours for swimming and vacation-like mini-excursions—along the lines of Ghana’s version of The Largest Ball of Twine, if you will. (Not that I have been personally stressed by too many meetings in too short a time (I, after all, only endured one relatively short meeting and played in the dirt the rest of the time), but I’ve been absorbing stress by proximity and experiencing it in sympathy, which is just as exhausting but without the happy excuse of actually having done anything.) Anyway. With all the stress in the forms of meetings and deadlines, my visa needs become an unhappy and unavoidable addition, not to mention how taking me to Tamale or to a boarder would severely hamper our vacation plans. So we’re thinking maybe my passport can just go take care of its stamps without me actually being present. Delusional? Perhaps. But David Federwitz believes it’s possible. He’s planning to take my passport to Tamale with him since he has to go do a lot of paperwork for his family anyway. And in my next email, I shall discuss that age old question about passport stamps: Must one actually be present to win? I’m praying not. Because Plan B features me on a bus to Tamale. “Nathan will put you on the bus, and David will get you off,” Sarah explained. Just like luggage. Oy.

2. I met a woman named Barbara yesterday who is a church-planting missionary in Europe and is in Ghana to adopt a baby. The adoption process is not going as smoothly as she’d expected, so she’s finding her time in Ghana ambiguously extended. She has no friends or support network to help her out. Furthermore, her stay in Ghana is now exceeding her guest house reservations, so she isn’t even sure she’ll have a bed each night. So she’s waiting and spending her limited resources while her baby waits in the orphanage.

3. And speaking of babies, Sarah is expecting, due end of November. We’re praying for everybody’s health, of course. Additionally, well . . . Nasuan is not the best place to give birth on account of no hospital. So the Esalas Limited (I’ll be in America) will be traveling . . . somewhere in November. One option is to have a short term volunteer doctor—maybe a surgeon or somebody good at delivering babies—come to the Baptist Medical Center in Nalerigu either to help with Sarah or to help with other patients so the doctors aren’t overworked with Sarah there too. (Know anybody who might like to do that?)

4. And speaking of traveling, Marvelous Mona and her family are having their very own Nomad Month to The Ivory Coast and America, ending with Burkina Faso in September. The Esalas and I will be returning to Nasuan in a few days to spend August there, and then we’ll be out a bit more in September with an Introduction to Ghanaian Culture class for me in Tamale. And Nathan’s parents are coming to visit in September too; their coming from Ohio.

5. And I’m still praying for a cat.

Thanks so much for your participation in this ministry. Feel free to send me similarly long-winded epistles detailing your every day activities. You know I want to read them, because “do unto others,” and all that.

Christina

Quote of Today:
“Don’t go outside naked!” Nathan Esala, halting Annaka in her tracks and highlighting a key difference between village and city decorum.

Battle

2008-07-05T10:13:00.000-04:00

Thursday, July 3, 2008
Battle

Dear Everyone,

The thing about getting your electricity from the sun is that rainy days mean you can’t turn on your computer. But you do get grass out of the deal, so I guess it’s a trade off.

Nomad Month concluded successfully a few weeks ago. Nathan and Sarah enjoyed their conference in Accra, and while they weren’t looking, I enjoyed spoiling their kids. I also emerged victorious over illnesses great and small—namely malaria, which you knew about, and giardia, which was the mysterious “typhoid-or-maybe-a-bacteria” we thought I had right after the malaria, remember? The upside to having giardia is that giardia won’t actually cause you to die directly, just as long as you watch for dehydration from the accompanying diarrhea. The downside to having giardia is that to get it you pretty much have to eat poop. And not just any poop either. Contaminated poop. Oy. In other health news, my health practitioner—Sarah Esala: Village Nurse Extraordinaire—has recommended I switch my malaria prevention medication, as she blames the one I was taking for my inability to sleep and accompanying irritability. (But rest easy: This time my irritation was focused indiscriminately at strangers rather than at my personal friends.) Having made the switch, I’m now feeling better all around.

I was mentioning how much we enjoyed Accra, home of exotic plants like pineapple trees and grass. We visited the grocery store and pushed the carts around, and I saw Kellogg’s Cornflakes (with dried apricots) on sale for $12.30.

Another highlight of our travels was observing the tendency of Christian business owners to name their businesses as inspired by their faith. We passed “In Him is Life Electronics,” “God Loves You Beauty Salon,” “Heavenly Redeemer Paints,” “God First Refrigeration Service,” “God’s Grace Rentals,” and “Rock of Ages Fashion.” Followers of other religions no doubt name their businesses similarly, but I don’t recognize them as easily, as I have more trouble following the reference. Other exciting business names include “Mummy Day Care,” “Tender Care School,” and my favorite by far, “Ninja Security Systems.” I think they sell barbed wire.

On the mouse front, the battle is fierce, with many casualties suffered on both sides. In response to the heaps and piles of poop scattered liberally around my little house—including in my bed (and not on the plastic cover either, but under every protective layer and directly on the sheet on which I intended to sleep directly)—that greeted me on my return to Nasuan, and because it’s just a worthy habit, I set mousetraps Wednesday night. Thursday morning, I had one kill, of which I disposed under Annaka’s direction, as is our custom; so far so good. I fell asleep Thursday night to the soothing sounds of mousetraps springing, but my gleefully triumphant joy withered Friday morning when I found both traps empty and one even broken. Ugh. But the morning did not completely go to the mice, for as I went about my breakfasting, I heard distinctive mouse-in-distress squeaking from my kitchen drawer—the same drawer you may remember from my encounter with Little Mouse so many months ago. Perhaps a mouse is stuck in the drawer, I thought. I resolved to wait for a more reasonable hour of the morning to call in reinforcements; I prefer dealing with mice after breakfast and, apparently, only deal with mice that are already dead. But Annaka arrived almost immediately requesting my report. I apprised her of the situation, and she went home presumably to brief Nathan, who followed her back a few minutes later. And that’s how the morning’s mouse count came to four small naked babies. Nathan “put them in the field” (which I can only assume is along the lines of sending them to “sleep with the fishes”).

At dinner, Nathan reminded Annaka that I might have a dead mouse in the morning and that he and she could go to my house to see it caught in the trap with its head squished flat (something to look forward to, eh?). She responded with big, excited eyes, almost falling off her kitchen chair as she added to the squished head “and him’s eyes will be open,” and her little fists opened wide near her face in demonstration. Later, Nathan set a few “humane” “mouse traps,” which were essentially sticky pieces of cardstock. I have issue with these traps on several levels. First, sticking a creature to a piece of cardstock hardly seems humane, especially if you just intend to kill it later (and we do). Second, if the mouse can work himself free, then he’s hardly trapped. But I came to these realizations later. When Nathan brought the traps, I thought they sounded fine (except for the part where the mouse is still alive). But Nathan assured me he’d be over early to handle anything caught. Okay. Good plan. Unfortunate, then, that this was the night the Mice dealt their most devastating blow.

At 8:00pm, Sneaky Mouse and Subtle Mouse made their appearance in my kitchen, looking for their lost children, no doubt. I went to sleep as usual but woke at 1:00am to meet Bedtime Mouse, who, while not actually touching me, was decidedly inside my personal space, mere inches from my face as he scurried from my bed into my window. That’s when I decided the best course of action would be to begin an all night vigil immediately, 1:00am being a perfectly reasonable time to begin the day. I read a little, I dozed a little, but mostly I just watched Sneaky and Subtle scurry about my kitchen and over my previously clean dishes. Sneaky got stuck to the “humane” “trap” and dragged it around for some minutes before wrenching himself free. Subtle licked all the peanut butter off the traditional, head-squishing trap on the counter. Light and noise failed to deter them, and their progress only paused briefly in the face of a swinging broom.

I tried to sleep again shortly after 6am, but soon noticed signs of consciousness at the Esala house. So I took my pillow over there. I very clearly and efficiently explained the situation to Nathan when he answered the door—how I’d been up since 1am because a mouse was in my bed, and how I would now like to sleep in an Esala bed if one was available—except I must not have done all that well since his first question was, “Are you sick?” Oy. My second try must’ve gone better, and since no Esala beds were yet free, I slept on the couch until one became available.

Upon awaking, I rediscovered that ever-present perk of life with Esalas: While I’d slept, they combed my house—including my mattress and any other nest-friendly places—for signs of habitation and sprinkled poison liberally about. I slept in the girls’ room that night since we had guests using my house (Paul the Husband of Missionary Ali, Hannah Their Daughter, and Sco Their Friend From America, who were fully informed of all previous mouse activity before agreeing to spend the night there). Sunday morning, Sco Their Friend From America spotted Drunken Stagger Mouse staggering drunkenly across my back porch to fall off the edge and die in the dirt. I was going to investigate when one of Black Chicken’s offspring darted in, captured Drunken Stagger’s body, and fled through the trees with it clutched in her beak. She furthermore refused to relinquish her prize, despite my protests. I advised her that she should not eat poisoned mouse, but I’m not sure she speaks English.

With the addition of Backdoor Mouse, who I found Tuesday morning and chased off with the broom (he ran along my back porch rafters and disappeared in the direction of my bathroom), the Mouse Count for this month is at least 8 but possibly 10.

And that, my friends, is why I’m praying for a cat. “Lord, I know you created mice, and they, as part of your creation, give you glory just by being. So maybe it’s not polite to ask you to kill them all. But what if I asked you for a cat. Then, instead of one of your creatures praying for the death of another, it would be one of your creatures eating another for the benefit of a third. What do you think about that?”

In other animal news, my house lizards are thriving on my big juicy termites. For the past couple days, my evening entertainment has been to watch the lizards eat, some of them with bellies so round I wonder how they can move at all. Both lizards and termites seem to be enjoying my bathroom especially. We caught three lizards as collateral damage in my not-so-humane trap, and even as I type this Nathan and The Good Guard Abulai are in my bathroom knocking down a termite house. I believe Nathan’s comment was, “Cool; more food for the chickens.” So I’m not sure termites are as big of a deal here as they might be in the US.

Black Chicken and Red Chicken are mothers again, and though I don’t know how many chicks they’ve had, neither have I heard of any violent homicides. Karissa is busily naming the chicks, and, she says, if the next chick to hatch is a girl, she’ll be naming it after me. Oh, height of joy.

Sarah has forbidden the naming of our new goat. We’ve been calling her P.C.D. for Pressure Cooked Dinner, since such is her destiny. Surprisingly, Sarah is the one now having second thoughts about P.C.D.’s fate, on the grounds that “she’s so pretty.” Personally, I find her facial markings a little too reminiscent of a German cockroach’s to facilitate my becoming overly fond of her.

What I Learned:

I’ve been accidentally obeying the law for 5 months. Apparently I can only stay in Ghana for 2 months at a time on the visa I’ve got, but who knew? Turns out I have been leaving the country every two months, but I certainly wasn’t doing it on purpose. So praise God for me being legal.

Prayer Requests

1. We’re leaving early Monday to drive to Accra for team meetings with the rest of our mission group, so please pray for safe travel and a pleasant trip for everyone (especially those of us who have to make the trip in car seats).

2. Please also pray for our health all around.

Christina

Quote of Today:
“We do everything politically correct here. . . . Except spank.”
Sarah Esala, on free-range chickens, organic food, water conservation, and solar electricity

A Mini-Email, with Just Two Abrupt Points

2008-05-26T20:46:00.000-04:00

Monday, May 26, 2008
A Mini-Email, with Just Two Abrupt Points

Dear Everyone,

This mini-email is to let you know of my intention to stay in Ghana with the Esalas past the year we'd originally agreed upon. We seem to be a good fit, and we're enjoying working together. So I'm planning to visit America for a bit in December and then return to Ghana in early January. We have not yet figured out a budget for next year, but it will probably be similar to this year's budget, which I think was around $8,000. Just in case you are the financially-supporting type, I thought I’d let you know. Of course, I will also be interested in your continued prayer support, but I feel like you might not need as much notice for that one. And I will continue to inflict you with emails; I’m not sure you can get out of that.

And speaking of your prayer support, I am sick again. My typhoid test came back positive, either because my typhoid vaccination from four years ago is still good or because I do in fact have typhoid. Or I could have bacteria. The bad kind. Fortunately, the same antibiotic is treatment for both, so I am on it to kill whatever I have. And very soon I should be able to venture away from my toilet. The upside is that I’ve had another malaria test and can now be certain my malaria is dead. Furthermore, my blood is absolutely beautiful and shows no signs of anemia, so thanks for praying about that too.

Those are my two abrupt and unrelated points. How nice that they come in this brief mini-email without all those long-winded and somehow plot-less stories to bog them down. Hope all is well with you.

Christina

Everybody Loves a Good Malaria Story

2008-05-24T14:33:00.000-04:00

Saturday, May 24, 2008
Everybody Loves a Good Malaria Story

Dear Everyone,

Greetings from Ouaga! I hope you are well.

Nomad month began on schedule. Sarah and Aili went to the Motherland, Nathan, Karissa, and Annaka went to Nasuan, and I went to Tamale for two weeks.

I stayed in the home of Missionary Ali of Tamale, Paul Her Husband, and Hannah and Baby Levi Their Children. (Hannah is probably technically a baby too, but since she speaks English, I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt.) Missionary Ali’s and my great plan for our two weeks together was to clean out her freezer of all desserts and replace them with fresh ones. Our excuse was Teacher Appreciation Week, which we had to extend into two weeks because our celebrating it in Ghana made it an international holiday instead of just an American one; this excuse was only convenient, not actually necessary, of course. Paul Her Husband’s great plan was to go on a business trip so he wouldn’t have to watch. We did a great job consuming the desserts, but our domestic prowess turned out a big fat negative: I burnt brownies, made wet, gummy wheat bread, and suffered several Chinese dumpling catastrophes including sticky glumping of the skin, dry crusty dumplings sticking together and to the plate and ripping when pulled apart, and slight burning of the pot stickers. Sigh. And Hannah’s comments weren’t exactly uplifting. Hannah eats mud off the car tires and old, sun-crusty rice from the dogs’ dish, but takes one look at even my cooking successes and cheerfully announces, “For goats!”

Missionary Ali’s birthday was observed the Saturday Sarah got back to Tamale. We celebrated with Thanksgiving dinner in the form of chicken, green beans, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. It was Paul Her Husband’s idea to maneuver two desserts, and this is how he was discovered: Shortly after I arrived in Tamale, Paul quietly mentioned Ali’s birthday and asked if I would mind making the cake. He claimed the only other person available to bake was him, and he assured me that would be a bad idea. So I agreed, and he asked that I keep it a secret. Later that week, Ali and I were making our dessert plans, and she mentioned needing to bake her own birthday cake. Well, my cake was supposed to be a surprise, so I cleverly discouraged her cake-baking plans with very unsuspicious comments about probably she didn’t need to bake a cake surely a cake will appear some other way possibly involving magic don’t worry about it. That’s when she said, “My husband says I need to bake my cake because the only other person available to bake is him.” And that’s when both of Paul’s plans were laid side by side and Ali and I decided he clearly meant to have two desserts on Saturday, which, of course, was perfectly fine with us. She made a lovely yellow cake with a coconut and brown sugar topping, and Karissa, Annaka, and Hannah helped me make strawberry shortcake. Paul showed no surprise at having two desserts on Saturday and, when confronted, marveled at the brilliance of his plan, making notes to plan similarly in the future.

Other Tamale events included Baby Levi receiving a Ghanaian name from the Peanut Lady, and Missionary Ali making him give it back a few days later when she found out it was a girl name. The Tailor of Tamale made me a dress and a skirt that are completely perfect; he measured and everything. And on Saturday, May 10, 2008, my feet were clean. And that is worthy of note.

Although I’ve not been to Nasuan since Nomad Month began, Nathan brought reports of Percy the Chicken’s transition from a house chicken to an outside chicken, which is apparently going well. Percy the Chicken seems to still prefer human company during the day, but he is content to sleep with the other chickens at night. In other chicken news, Helen the Chicken, whom Nathan brought to our chicken community only recently, was given away as food due to her illness. He didn’t really go into details, so I don’t know how a chicken can be too sick to live but not too sick to be food. Nathan broke the news to us at dinner in Tamale (not on the night we were eating chicken; this was the night before). “The new white chicken,” he began, and I asked, “Helen?” just as Karissa clarified, “Helen.” Karissa had named her, see, which is convenient for making sure everyone is on the same page. Nathan was perhaps still digesting the new white chicken’s person-name, perhaps in light of the news he had to share, and Annaka asked, “Where is Helen?” And in the lengthy pause that followed, I saw the phrase “Chicken Heaven” pass through Nathan’s mind, but he finally said, “We had to eat Helen.” Because when it comes right down to it, that’s just better theology.

This week I’m in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso at Pretend School. My class of 2nd graders and I are spending these two weeks working on writing descriptive paragraphs. Our theme for the class is “Descriptive writing makes me feel like I’m there.” So even though you’ve never been to China, you’ll feel as if you know the place from the way I’ve described it. And even though you haven’t eaten that particular cookie, you will know the cookie from my description. In keeping with this theme, I shall now relate my experience with malaria, that reading my letter might make you feel like you have it. Generous of me, I know.

Malaria is transmitted by mosquitoes. The little malaria parasites move into the red blood cells and breed. This destroys the blood cells, and that is bad. Since I’ve had malaria, I’ve learned that, in addition to symptoms I knew about—fever, sweating, vomiting, etc.—malaria can also come with gentle symptoms such as tiredness and irritability. So when the little guys are destroying the red blood cells, the person develops anemia, which makes the person irritable. And that, friends, was probably my chief symptom: being pissed off. I cannot describe how irritated I was, at almost everybody and for very shady reasons. If you did not write to me last week, for example, I was probably annoyed at you for not being a very good friend. I’ve been trying very hard to think of anyone I was not angry with last week, and I’ve come up with one friend in Ohio and four out of five Esalas. So to the rest of you, I’m very sorry for being so angry with so little provocation. Please accept my apology and rest assured I am not angry at anyone presently. Oy.

Nathan and Sarah reckon I’d had malaria about a week or so before it was discovered. Based on my irritation, I’d say maybe just over a week. I didn’t actually feel sick, see. Just cranky. But my bad attitude didn’t seem odd to me because I hadn’t been sleeping well at night. Okay, I hadn’t been sleeping at all really. Since I began counting, I hadn’t slept five nights in a row. And that didn’t seem so odd either because Missionary Ali and I had been working so hard to consume all those fabulous desserts . . . well, when you eat chocolate cake with kool-aid less than an hour before bed, you shouldn’t wonder at your sleeping problem. Moving Evening Dessert to afternoon hadn’t quite solved the problem, but we were working on it. And I was napping well. Several hours every afternoon. The day before Sarah arrived in Tamale I had some gentle diarrhea, but I was blaming that on the egg rolls. Oh, that greasy goodness.

Sarah arrived in Tamale Saturday morning and was conscious approximately 4 hours before I was cornered and gently grilled about my health. She says her clue was my afternoon nap, which was, she maintained, not typical for me. It had become typical of me, I argued, but she scoffed. Then she learned of my diarrhea, and that sealed the deal. I overheard her, Nathan, and Missionary Ali in the kitchen discussing whether or not to seek medical care. I thought they might be talking about me, but since I wasn’t actually sick, I wasn’t sure. Aili seemed kind of moody. Maybe Aili was sick and I just didn’t know. (Actually, Aili’s ear infection was discovered a few days later, so you see how it could’ve been her, especially since I wasn’t sick.) I was surprised they decided in favor of medical care, and even more surprised to learn they were serious—as evidenced by Nathan with his shoes on and keys in hand. Oh. Okay. So I dutifully went to the clinic, a little uncomfortable since I wasn’t actually sick, but trying to be okay with the decision since clinics are easier to navigate in Tamale than in Ouaga—apparently because Tamale speaks English and Ouaga speaks French. Right.

So we went. My malaria test cost $2.00 and consisted of a poke in the finger and a little blood smear on a microscope slide. It came back positive. Okay, fine. More surprises for the day because I thought people with malaria were supposed to feel sick. Except that just knowing I had malaria made me feel lousier. More lousy. Whatever.

I didn’t sleep again that night, and the next day we packed and went to Ouagadougou. Except mostly I just sat and let Nathan and Sarah do all the packing. Because sitting down felt pretty good, but more strenuous forms of activity began to feel like work. And when I say “more strenuous forms of activity,” I mean tasks such as reading picture books to small children. Oy. I slept some in the car on the way to Ouaga; I was mostly a slug. We went through customs and I had trouble writing my passport number on the paperwork. I’m almost certain I got our license plate number wrong—only surprising because I was copying off Nathan’s paper—but the Ghanaian customs official who checked my work didn’t mention anything, and I had trouble caring.

In Ouaga, I continued my slug-like activity for the remainder of Saturday. I went to church Sunday morning but left after a couple songs to spend the whole rest of the day closed in Sarah and Nathan’s bedroom at the guest house, which may be the only room in all of Africa that is air conditioned. I was not sleeping—only lying about in a state of perpetual consciousness. Sarah says she gets brilliant ideas when she’s on malaria medication, but I apparently cannot look forward to similarly enlightened experiences. I spent the entire day contemplating the plaid on the bedspread. It was a happy plaid but not tasteful, and I wondered why the places at which blue lines crossed blue lines were darker blue but the places at which blue lines crossed red lines were darker red and not purple. And as the sun went down, I marveled that the lines that had previously seemed blue still seemed blue but that the lines that had seemed dark blue now seemed dark green.

And this was not the worst of my Cognitive Strife:

I was trying to buckle Baby Aili into her car seat so we could leave Tamale for Ouaga. Her buckle has two pieces; just fit them together and click the buckle into the slot. Standard car seat; no problem. And I’ve done it before. I had one part of the buckle in my left hand, and that was good. But I didn’t have the other part of the buckle. I determined it must be on Baby Aili’s other side, and getting it would be just the thing to do. So I reached my right hand down between Aili and the side of the seat, which was not far away but which was out of my line of sight. I was aware of my hand, but I couldn’t see it. I sat thus for quite some time; I was problem-solving. I needed to get the buckle. It might’ve been in my hand. Or, it could’ve been roughly two inches to the left of my hand. But since I couldn’t see it, I didn’t know. With a great deal of effort, I could’ve pulled my hand up to see if indeed I had the buckle. But then what if I didn’t in fact have it? Or, I could’ve moved my hand two inches to find the buckle there. But what if the buckle wasn’t there? What if I was already holding the buckle? Then I would’ve dropped the buckle, see, and moved my hand away from it, and that’s no good. Because I really needed the buckle. If only I knew whether or not the buckle was truly in my hand. But I didn’t know. I felt what was in my hand, but I still didn’t know if I had the buckle—or if I even held anything. I ran through my options again. And again. Still no good; same problems as before. After several problem-solving moments—and I’m not kidding; this was a cognitive exercise—I hit on a workable solution. I realized I was sitting right next to Aili and Annaka. So I explained to them that I needed the other part of the buckle, and I asked them to please get it for me. This worked like a charm. Someone handed me the buckle from wherever it had been, and I fastened Aili’s car seat.

Not as desperate but still a struggle was the problem I faced in reaching my water bottle later that day. By this time, we were in Ouaga. I was in my room lying down, and my water bottle was about two yards away on the desk. The light was on too, and that was bothering me. So I very carefully crafted a plan, which had four parts: 1. Get up. 2. Turn off light. 3. Pick up water bottle. 4. Lie back down. I was proud of the plan; it seemed good. I put it into action, working very hard, and then . . . I felt that something wasn’t right. I’d turned off the light. I’d gotten back in bed. But I didn’t have water. After some minutes, I pinpointed the problem: I had skipped Step 3 of The Plan. Disappointed but not discouraged, I identified my need for a New Plan. Wishing to maintain this forward momentum, I was thinking very hard about what this New Plan might entail, and I was very hopeful, when Sarah showed up. Well. I asked her to reach my water bottle, and she, of course, did, with an amused “been there” sort of expression on her face. But I think I would’ve gotten that water very soon even if she hadn’t shown up. Because with the water I still had ideas. It wasn’t like with the car seat buckle.

On Monday I improved from lying around to sitting around. Pretend school began, and Nathan taught my class. This is only right and proper since my illness was all Nathan’s fault: I didn’t feel sick at all until he dragged me to the clinic. But that’s just another ever-present feature of life with the Esalas: They are solving my problems before I even realize I need something.

I’m doing much better now. I’ve finished my malaria medication, and I’m eating lots of iron to help my red blood cells along. “Pig out on meat,” was, I believe, Sarah’s phrase.

And now, What I’ve Learned:

1. I hesitate to put this one at the end of the malaria email, but at least this way you won’t accuse me of tricking you into an uninformed decision: Lots of missionaries want teachers to come and help them educate their children, but not many teachers are here. If you or someone you know are interested in investigating teaching options in Ghana, please let me know. Missionary Ali, for example, has two great friends named Dan and Di. They are Ghanaian and Canadian, respectively, and are married to each other. Their daughters are 10 and 11 and are currently at boarding school. They live in Tamale, so their teacher would enjoy many luxuries of city living, such as grocery stores, television, and church services in English, plus many other missionary-type service opportunities as desired in addition to teaching. Their teacher will also enjoy living just 3 hours away from me. I can’t think of anything more enticing than that, so I will end the commercial now. (But it will reoccur in the Prayer Requests section.)

2. We eat dinner before dark so we don’t accidentally eat bugs. I cooked and served dinner after dark when I stayed home with Hannah and Baby Levi while Missionary Ali and Paul Her Husband went out to dinner. I spent the whole meal picking bugs out of the pancake batter, off of my plate, out from between the tines in my fork, and out of Hannah’s mouth. Disgusting.

3. I can carry babies on my back. I can’t actually put them up there by myself, but if someone else positions the baby and then acts as a spotter while I tie, I’m not that bad. Missionary Ali let me practice on her kids, so I carried Baby Levi while I swept the floor and Hannah when we all walked down the road to have tea with Paul Ali’s Husband. Sometimes Baby Levi needs a little pep talk before he gets tied back there, but once I reminded him how everyone would know he was foreign if he screamed like that, he did pretty okay.

4. Conga lines are standard offering-collection policy at church. I went to the Presbyterian church with Missionary Ali. Her church is bigger than my Nasuan church. They speak English, they sing hymns I know, and the men and women aren’t segregated. But they still have a conga line at offering time.

5. Also at Missionary Ali’s Presbyterian church, I learned that organ music isn’t as bad as I thought it was. Previously, I held the opinion that the organ sounds basically like a small herd of dying cows. But now I know that organ music just needs accompanied by really loud drums. Then it’s pretty good.

6. Malaria is a grand weight-loss plan. Remember the perfect skirt the Tailor of Tamale made for me—the one that fits so great because he measured me? Well. It fit much better last week than it does now. But no worries. I bought a lot of chocolate at the grocery store today, and I will have that skirt fitting again in no time.

And now, Prayer Requests

1. Missionary Ali’s friends, Dan and Di, need a teacher for their daughters. Please pray for a willing someone who will fit in well with their family.

2. My malaria-induced anemia, and iron absorption to build red blood cells. Praise God that Esalas recognize malaria when they see it and can seek proper treatment.

3. And we’re still in the throes of Nomad Month. We’ll be traveling from Ouaga to Accra next week and back to Nasuan the following week, concluding approximately 6 weeks of travel. Oy.

Thanks for your prayers, letters, and friendship.
Christina

Quote of Today
“It doesn’t count as multitasking if you forget the task you started first.”
Missionary Ali, on another kitchen disaster

Women’s Work

2008-05-20T11:13:00.000-04:00

Sunday, April 27, 2008
Women’s Work

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! I hope you are well.

After a lovely supper of stew, bread, and Melfloquine (for malaria prevention), with chocolate icing for dessert, I’m settling back to watch the termites swarming my overhead light while I write to you. I’m also watching a worm crawl across my rug (it’s a plastic rug, so this isn’t actually that gross). He’s a strange worm with antennae and a body that’s hard, rather than squishy. I think he may have crawled in here and died. The ants are investigating. I’m pulling my feet up into my chair.

With the rain a few days ago and again last night, the bugs are rather more prevalent than they’ve been. Fortunately, with the increase in bugs I’ve also noticed an increase in my house lizards. House lizards are my great blessing. I’ve named them all Thomas.

The rain also means farming time. And farming time means reduced church attendance.

Our church is a one-room building made from mud. We’re Lutheran; other denominational options include Roman Catholic and Assemblies of God. The men sit on the left on rickety wooden benches and the women sit on the right, children in the front. The worship team consists of a few guys with drums and a song leader. We have real live church mice who scurry in the rafters behind the preacher’s head. Sometimes I watch them if the sermon is long and not in English. So that’s pretty much every time. The specifics of the worship service are pretty standard except for collecting the offering, which is basically a conga line. The music is loud and the men go first, singing and clapping as they file out of their rows and snake up to the collection plate, drop their money in, and conga back to their seats. The women fall in at the end of the men’s line.

Church starts when the people arrive. We know it’s time to go to church when we hear the drums calling the people to worship, except that we live so far from the church we almost never hear them. So for us, getting to church on time is sort of like practice for the Second Coming. We know the day, sure; but no one knows the hour. So be ready because church will begin like a thief in the night. Today the Esala womenfold and I heard the drums and were the first ones at church (Nathan was taking a woman from the village to the hospital). We read a Bible story together, but then the babies needed naps so we went back home. Church started later, but we missed it.

I’ve written so much about “man work” that I become concerned it seems my definition of “man work” is “any work that is exciting.” But this is not the case. This week, I participated in the Women’s Work to End All Women’s Work, which, of course, was pounding gravelly dirt into floor. And what’s not exciting about that? Friends, everything is exciting about that.

Houses in the village are comprised of several round, single-room huts arranged in a circle. The huts are connected by a circular wall made of the same mud as the huts to form an open-air courtyard. Functionally, the huts serve as bedrooms for the most part (I think), and the courtyard acts as living room and kitchen. One of the houses (we also call them “compounds”) in the village needed a new floor in the courtyard, so all the women in the village came to pound the floor. It’s a community event—sort of like a barn raising. Each woman has her own floor-pounding tool—a wooden mallet, half a cylinder with a perpendicular, stick-like handle protruding from one end. They grip the pounder by the handle and smack it on the ground like a foot, standing bent 90 degrees at the waist with straight legs and shuffling back and forth over the yard in a great cluster of rows, like a sea of backs and colorful headscarves. They sing and keep in rhythm, sometimes staying always bent over in a quick tempo, pounding on the beat, and sometimes raising up with the pounders high above their heads and bringing them down for a slower beat.

I say “they,” but I mean “we” because I, as a woman in the village, got to play too. Since I’m new, I didn’t have a pounder, of course, but Sarah is not new. She loaned me her pounder because, as she told those around us who were surprised she had one, “If you do not have the tool, then you cannot have the opportunity.” When we arrived at the compound, I was immediately sent home to change my clothes. I’d missed the memo about this work being grubby; I am a rookie. When I arrived for the second time, I was handed over to a teacher to “just follow her.” So I did. In my culture, we bend our knees when we bend over, so keeping my legs straight and folding myself in half was a challenge. Actually, the whole experience was a bit of a cognitive overload. I stepped along with my teacher. Forward. Forward. Don’t pound your feet; don’t pound your face. Forward. Forward. Don’t pound your neighbor’s feet; don’t pound your neighbors face. Backward. Backward. Keep your legs straight; don’t pound your face. Backward. Backward. Keep the rhythm; don’t make divots. Backward. Backward. Keep backing up even though there’s a wall there. Backward. Backward. Wedged behind a hut; don’t pound your neighbor’s face. Forward. Forward.

The whole thing took so much concentration I didn’t notice the huge blister that had formed—and then popped and begun oozing—on my hand until I stopped pounding, at which point it began to hurt rather a lot. Fortunately the floor was mostly finished by that time, and people paused for a little break. Ordinarily, I’m told, this is the part where the pito comes out, but the family of the compound were Muslim (which apparently means no alcohol), so we drank a thin, white, sour liquid instead. On the way home, I learned the mud I’d been pounding was actually a mixture of dirt, a plant product called doua-doua (say “DOW-uh DOW-uh”), and poop. And that’s women’s work.

This week’s mouse count is one small baby, who I accidentally trapped under a book while he squeaked at me. I was going to bash it myself but wussed out and asked Nathan to do it.

Asala the House Girl is feeling better; thanks for praying for her. Falling Star the Chicken (the one hatched on top of the refrigerator) was fatally stepped on the other day, so if you wanted to pray for Karissa’s emotional well-being (since she allegedly did the stepping), that would be appropriate.

Looks like the worm is alive after all. He’s on the move again.

Christina

Chicken Mothers

2008-05-19T15:06:00.000-04:00

Thursday, April 17, 2008
Chicken Mothers

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! I hope you are well.

All is well here. Karissa’s schoolwork is finished for the week, excepting a spelling test she’ll have tomorrow. I spent this morning making yogurt and bread while she worked at my kitchen table, and now I’m just letting the yogurt bacteria flourish and the bread rise while I write this letter to you fine folks. The Queen of Multitasking, that’s me.

Nasuan is killing-hot as we eagerly wait for rain. The borehole behind my little house is busy at all hours since the river is dry and the rains have not yet come to wet it. I hear the people waiting to pump water when I go to sleep at 9:00, and I hear them when I wake at 5:30. Sometimes they peek in my windows (and not subtlety either), and sometimes I Greet them and they Greet back. This morning, as I sat in my living room dressed in shorts, t-shirt, and head scarf and suffered to be stared at, I couldn’t help thinking how strange I must look to them, having overdressed the top of me and underdressed the bottom. But Sarah says I can wear whatever I want at home without being inappropriate. She recommends I add a giraffe mask; she has one she can loan me.

This week’s mouse count is 2. It had been a long time since my last kill, but I remembered Annaka’s admonition to come and get her next time I had a mouse. She’d set the example for me a few days before by running with frantic, uncontained excitement to bring me to see the mostly dead mouse baby Sarah had found in the backyard. So when Sarah and I returned from our walk last Thursday morning, I dutifully asked after Annaka. She was still asleep, but Sarah sent Karissa to wake her and tell her Aunt Christina has a dead mouse. We’d scarcely had time to wait when Annaka spilled out of the front door with a purpose and a raging bed-head. The Esalas are ever conscious of local fashions, and Annaka showed it clad only in her underwear. Karissa and Aili joined us, and we traipsed back to my little house for the happy joy of watching Aunt Christina fish the mouse body up out of her bathroom sink and toss it into the field. All of you who were concerned about our lack of morning cartoons can rest easy. Then I bleached my toothbrush, which was tilted at a slightly different angle than it had been the night before. Better anal than ominous; that’s what I think.

Friday was Market Day. Karissa took my list and Sarah’s and went ahead with her friends, leaving Sarah, Annaka, Aili, and I nothing to do at Market but roam, Greet, and drink pito. Since we don’t need much money for that, we didn’t bring much. We had pito with Madame Elizabeth; I still can’t drink a whole gourd by myself, so we shared. A random inebriated man asked Sarah about the Stranger with her, but Sarah said I’m not a Stranger anymore. So he bought some pito for the teacher, and I had to decide whether to have the fermented (risky because I’d had some already, but easier to share around if it turns out sharing is appropriate) or the unfermented (guaranteeing my ability to walk afterward, but also guaranteeing I’d have to drink it all myself). I got the unfermented because I’m a wimp, and Sarah helped me finish. Annaka was hungry, so we went to find her some fish. We borrowed a pot from Madame Elizabeth, and Sarah, since Annaka picked “heads” over “tails,” bought three fish heads. Annaka put two in the pot on her head and munched on one as we walked. We found the perfect jeans for Sarah, just $1.50 from a man selling used clothing. We found a bed sheet. We found earrings for Aili. We found many other lovely and unexpected luxuries, but we were fairly out of money—$5.00 goes fast—so we decided to go home. Sarah was lamenting not finding anything suitable for dinner at Market and explaining the unreliability of the meats-on-a-stick we were passing, which, she was saying, are pretty good other places—places like Ouaga—but generally disappointing in Nasuan. At this point, we noticed that the surrounding amusement was apparently directed at us; we’d walked right past Nathan without noticing. He was eating a meat stick. He said it was good. We were interested, and he seemed to indicate we might also enjoy a meat stick. He even picked out the ones we bought. Now, you know I like Nathan. And I don’t want to speak ill of him. But I think it’s impolite to help someone buy a meat stick on which some of the meat is still furry without warning them first. Oy. I’m not above eating furry meat. Nathan was right; it was really good. But we are from the same culture, and I think he could’ve tipped me off. Sarah had mentioned that the meat might not be “meat” in the strictest sense, so I was somewhat prepared for the bit of liver and the ambiguous grey blob of squishy chewiness. The great big hunk of bone was more of a surprise, but mostly because I couldn’t figure how they’d gotten the stick through it—and because that’s the piece I’d given to Aili (and she promptly gave back). Since she didn’t appear to have really eaten any of it, I just popped it into my own mouth, which is when I made my discovery. I had just decided I couldn’t make it out of town with that thing in my mouth when Sarah commented she had a bit in her mouth she didn’t want to swallow (and here she turned to look at me just as I spat the huge hunk of bone into my hand) and she was waiting to get away from all these people before she spat. Classy, eh?

Asala the House Girl is still not feeling well. Some days she comes over and tries to work, but she generally has to go home again before she’s finished. You probably don’t think of The Bush, Africa, as a land of luxury, but I’m telling you having someone to help with daily chores is really quite spoiling, and it doesn’t seem to matter that we really need the help. Let’s say, for example, you wanted to have strawberry yogurt with granola for breakfast. You’d have to know far enough in advance to buy your strawberries when you were in Ouaga during strawberry season. You’d bleach your strawberries, then trim their tops and keep them in your freezer. You’d have to make your yogurt from the culture you keep on hand in your freezer, which would take most of the day for the bacteria to grow. You’d also have to make your granola from oats you bought in Tamale. Then everything is going to need sugar if you want it to taste like it does in America, but sugar is available in Nasuan. You can buy it at Market, which happens every six days. Now imagine that Nasuan doesn’t keep any of its dirt under concrete; imagine dirt just flies around wherever the wind takes it, and imagine one of the wind’s favorite places is all over the floor of your house. It might be helpful, don’t you think, if you had someone to come sweep and mop your floors and wash your dishes. But I mentioned we were spoiled. Since Asala is sick, the Esalas and I are doing our own housework. (That is, we’re doing whatever housework is getting done. Just now, I’m ignoring the sand on my floor in favor of writing to you.) But, when I’m mopping the floor to make my mom proud, I don’t think “Oh, now I’m doing some housework.” I think “Oh, now I’m playing house girl.” Pathetic.

As of last week, Black Chicken and Red Chicken are now the proud moms of roughly 10 or 12 baby chicks. And, if you don’t count the one they pecked to death, the violently homicidal moms of one chick. They hate him. They pecked a large bald spot on his little fuzzy head, which the Good Guard Abulai blacked with charcoal, and they tried to peck right through his belly with their big ferocious beaks, but Sarah shooed them away with her stomping feet and her angry eyes. Karissa and Annaka have adopted him, and, considering the standard they’re up against, they’re the best chicken moms Rejected Chicken could ever hope for. They’ve named him Percy, and he’s lived a full 24 hours in their care, which, I think, bodes well for his future. Falling Star the Baby Chicken is also in their care, and he’s doing well too. I’m not entirely sure on the details, but it seems a few of the eggs failed to hatch and Nathan, thinking they must not have been fertilized, gave them to Sarah for cooking. Waste not, want not, eh? Oy. Well, she thought they’d been outside in the heat rather long, so she wasn’t so sure about using them, so she just put them on top of the refrigerator with her other eggs. Then she heard cheeping, thought Karissa had let Percy wander into the kitchen, but looked down and saw “Percy” was the wrong color. One of the eggs had hatched on top of the fridge, and Falling Star was chirping on the floor.

And now, What I’ve Learned:

1. If you ignore some things, they really do just go away. Sometimes Aili comes to my little house for a snack, which she typically crumbs admirably onto the floor. And I mean to clean it up, really I do. But I get distracted. And the next thing I know, an army of ants has swept under my front door and hauled off the mess. Convenient, eh?

2. I can walk home from church in my 3-inch heels carrying Annaka on my shoulders without twisting my ankle. (I’d promised to carry her home from Market, but she ran off with her friends instead, so I decided carrying her home from church would be an acceptable substitute). A quarter mile down somewhat sketchy dirt trails. Amazing, I know.

This week’s Suggested Prayer Topics are Asala, who still doesn’t feel well, and our upcoming Month of the Nomads. We’ve decided to spend the whole month of May traveling, see, because Father Abraham had many sons and we are some of them, and because living in houses is for sissies. Sarah’s brother is getting married, so she and Aili will begin by traveling to the Motherland (Wisconsin, actually). In an effort to maintain the height of propriety, I will be spending that time with Paul and Ali Federwitz in Tamale; they’ve just had a new baby, so possibly I could be of some use to them. So we’re all leaving for Tamale on or around April 29^th or 30^th. Nathan will take Karissa and Annaka back to Nasuan to live in their house (wimps), where he will, I’m sure, enjoy acting as my substitute teacher. Sarah flies back into Tamale about two weeks later, so Nathan, Karissa, and Annaka will return to retrieve her and Aili at the same time they get me. Rather than return to Nasuan, we’re off to Ouagadougou again for two more weeks of pretend school. Karissa and I will finish pretend school on a Friday, leaping immediately into the Esala SUV, which will be waiting with the motor running to whisk us off to Accra (yes, that’s the opposite end of the country), where Sarah and Nathan have some sort of conference for a week or so. We plan to return to Nasuan shortly after the first week in June, but I’ll let you know. I mention this also because I may not be able to write as often as I’d like while we are traveling, so you need not worry if you don’t hear from me. Do, however, continue to harass my sister when you see her at church. She loves that.

Christina

Camping in the City

2008-05-19T15:04:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Camping in the City

Dear Everyone,

Greetings, Friends! Did you miss me? The Esalas and I have returned from Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, and now, after well over a week back in Nasuan, I’m ready to make my report.

After ages of preparation and packing and loading the car, including a brief but thorough—and, happily, not needed—How to Change a Flat Tire tutorial for Sarah and me from Nathan, and armed with our stack of passports and almost no knowledge of French, the Esala women and I began our two day journey. Our trip through customs was long but not unpleasant. When Baby Aili began to cry, the Ghanaian customs official informed her sternly, “If you cry, you don’t go to Ouaga,” and she stopped and pouted at him. Sarah handled the paperwork to take our car across the boarder while I waited by the car with the kids. I suppose there’s nothing like standing by an SUV full of little white children in car seats to make you look married; the men selling sunglasses and general toiletries asked me to let them marry my daughters. “Give me one of your daughters to remember you by,” they said. Oy. Karissa, naturally, didn’t like that idea and announced a few times, though they didn’t hear her, that I wasn’t her mother. We had a little chat about that in the car, about how I will not give her away and how she will please not tell people I’m not married. She quickly saw the wisdom of this plan and is on board for next time. Karissa is a team player.

In Ouaga, we stayed in a little mission compound. My room was very much like a dorm room: 2 small beds, 2 little wardrobes, a desk, and not much floor space. I shared a bathroom with my neighbor to the left, and we both shared a kitchen with our two neighbors to the right. My room assignment had been changed from the room the Esalas had reserved for me, such that I was no longer assigned to use the kitchen that stinks so bad the flies come in and just die. I did visit that kitchen in the interest of seeing this strange phenomenon, but found the stink negligible and the flies very much alive. The Esalas stayed in a two bedroom half-a-house and shared only a front porch with their neighbor. So while my room felt like a dorm, theirs seemed more like camping in a cabin. Actually, the mission compound, while lovely, seemed to offer all the hassles of camping without any of the perks. Packing, dirt, bugs, packing, communal bathroom, dirt, packing, unpacking, repacking, dirty bathroom; but no quiet or campfires.

It takes a lot of stuff to sustain a family through three weeks of pretend school and an Easter holiday, and that’s why the top of the Esala SUV was loaded with large tubs covered in a tarp and tied down to the luggage rack. Ordinarily, Nathan would’ve unpacked them (“man work,” see?). As he was still in Nasuan (he didn’t come to Ouaga until midway through the second week), I had the great privilege (and fun) of climbing onto the roof myself—in my skirt; I felt like Wilderness Woman the Competent—and hauling down the tubs. I had just gotten everything untied and was trying to decide how to hand the containers down to Sarah without falling off the roof or smashing her flat when God answered Nathan’s prayer of the day before by providing two tall men to take the tubs from me as I lowered them over the side of the car. It was quite fantastic because the top of the car was easily and quickly unloaded with their help and I still got to climb it without their help. And Sarah and I shared the happy feeling that comes inside having accomplished “man work” mostly on our own.

At Pretend School, I taught the second grade class for language arts and math. For language arts, I decided to read the class the book The Boxcar Children with the help of a readers’ guide I borrowed from Marvelous Mona. Since the boxcar children have good values and nice manners, the guide highlights a “virtue” prominently exhibited in each chapter. The problem was, well, I think of “virtues” as qualities that are necessarily good, such as gentleness and honesty. Qualities such as alertness and orderliness seem more neutral; they could lend themselves equally well to goodness or evil. So. I decided to call these “qualities” rather than virtues, and I’m glad I did. The first day, our quality was Alertness. I asked for examples of when it might be a good idea to be alert. While I was anticipating answers like “When driving a car” or “When crossing the street,” or even “When we play outside we have to watch for snakes,” their first three responses were “When eavesdropping,” “When spying,” and “If you’re a thief.” Perfect.

For part of math time, each student brought work his or her parent had assigned, and I was supposed to assist as needed. One student, from Australia, had a math book from England. She was learning about place value, and the book claimed an easy way to learn this was through money. English money. Great. “How many of which coins would you need to make the following amounts?” it asked. The coin options were not listed; apparently the student should already know that much about money. Well, my student didn’t, and I didn’t either. We couldn’t switch to American money because she’s from Australia. We couldn’t switch to Australian money because she doesn’t really know about that either. And she lives in Burkina, not Ghana, so I can’t help her with Ghanaian money either. I don’t know anything about Burkina’s money, but neither did she. “My mum usually handles all the money,” she said. So much for math.

Karissa’s class was just across the room from mine, so when I wasn’t busy with my own class I eavesdropped on hers (thereby demonstrating the quality Alertness). Her teacher had them listing all the ways eggs could be prepared. It was a competition: boys against girls. Securing victory for the girls, Karissa made me proud by including “chiffon” on her list.

In other school news, our musical was a smashing success. Miss Heidi, the director, drafted help from the parents at a special parents’ meeting one evening. I stayed at the Esalas’ house with the kids (okay, I was taking a nap) while Sarah went. She came home with the happy news she’d volunteered me to do the choreography. That’s when we almost couldn’t be friends anymore. Then she explained that Miss Heidi’s list had eleven jobs, but only ten parents were at the meeting. Everyone had a job, she said, and only choreography was left, and everyone was bewildered, including Miss Heidi, regarding choreography. So I was won over and agreed to choreograph. Oy. Then Sarah described the nervous shock of the other parents when she volunteered me, her teacher, on whose good side she, obviously, wishes to stay . . . well, that was a happy picture too. And choreography was fun because, after I created it, I got to teach it too, and then I got to direct it during the performance. And this is one of my favorite parts of mission work: In America, I never would’ve been chosen for this task. But because our resources are so few, my ability, meager though it is, turns out to be our best option. Amazing.

Ouaga is definitely a land of many luxuries, internet and honey among them. Other treats of Ouaga include swimming almost everyday; milkshakes; strawberries; vegetables such as green beans, lettuce, and broccoli; ham; French bread; cheese; fantastic new shoes and T-shirts; grocery stores with real actual grocery carts; and church in English with the other families there for school. We had Easter church together Sunday morning and then a woman at the worship service invited us to Easter brunch at her house, which turned out to be a small palace. She, apparently, is not a missionary, but works at the U.S. Embassy in Burkina Faso. She is not the Ambassador, but the Ambassador was there and wearing a fine, pink Easter suit. Anyway, the Easter brunch turned out to be a buffet of all the foods we love but don’t have (Did you know Cinnabun makes mixes? Amazing.), and the promised “activities for the kids” turned out to be a sing along at the piano in the parlor, a small playroom that looked more like a little toy shop, and an Easter egg hunt.

In all the fun and busyness, I will say I missed Nasuan. Specifically, I missed the darkness at night without all the security lighting of the mission compound. I sometimes couldn’t tell whether or not it was really morning, so bright were the lights. I missed my house spiders, who kill my flies and mosquitoes without me having to do anything. In Ouaga, I was without that convenience. And I missed not going places. Swimming everyday is fun, but it’s also a hassle. And the grocery shopping. Oy! We must’ve gone grocery shopping three times in as many weeks. But no worries. It’ll be at least a month before we go shopping again, so we’ll have time to recover.

Our return to Nasuan was uneventful. This time Nathan came with me to my little house to oversee my homecoming (gallant of him, I know). We found nothing more ominous than two large roaches, which Nathan killed with the poison spray, and an extra scary spider. It took me a day or two to decide to kill the spider. On one hand, spiders are generally welcome for their bug-killing tendencies. On the other, bugs larger than my big toe are generally not welcome. Especially if I can see their fangs. So after a few days, I finally killed the extra scary spider with four or five sprays of poison and several whacks with my flip flop. I’m currently deciding whether or not to kill the scary spider that lives under my bathroom cabinet—I think I mentioned before she’d allegedly killed her husband. She ate a whole big meaty cockroach the other day all by herself—took all morning before she discarded his body into my soap dish. On the one hand, that’s certainly a service I appreciate. On the other, I think she just upped her scariness rating.

In other Nasuan news, The Chief’s mother’s funeral was last week (though her death was quite some time ago—perhaps even a year ago), and I went to some of it. It was very dark—darkness frequently being a component of nighttime—and very loud with dancing and drums and flutes and horns. I couldn’t really see the dancing because the crowds were great, but it seemed to involve several large umbrellas similar to the kind Americans associate with lawn furniture. Nathan explained the dance as sort of a competition. When we arrived, a man was just lighting off some gun powder. On the one hand, I was pleased to see evidence the gunshots I’d been hearing on previous nights may not have actually involve bullets. On the other, we were so close to the gun powder I could feel the blast of the explosion on my skin. It was unpleasant. The whole time we were there, I stuck so close to Nathan he could hardly turn around without stepping on me, but I was not easy in the dark and strange environment and I was concerned about becoming lost. Not that I could’ve actually become lost. White skin glows in the dark.

I’m happy to report the Tailor in Nalerigu has altered my skirts so the elastic no longer threatens to bisect me. Sarah and I spoke to his apprentice about my elastic problem, and he agreed to see what he could do. When we suggested measuring me to decide how much elastic to use this time, he responded, “It is elastic, so no need to measure.” Friends, I think we’ve hit on the problem. So Sarah measured me and told him how much elastic to use, which he did, and it worked out well. Then last week I had him make me some pants based off a pair I already have, and he did a wonderful job. These pants, actually, are pajamas, and instead of standard pockets, they have just one very small and seemingly useless pocket in the back, which I’ve discovered is the perfect size for my MP3 player. The Tailor asked if I wanted him to put pockets in the pants (Have I mentioned how fantastic his pockets are?), and I highlighted the small pocket for him. He was slightly disbelieving and quite tickled, but he put in the small pocket perfectly.

You may also wish to know that White Chicken has gone through puberty and begun relations (in the front yard of all places) with Red Chicken and Black Chicken, who are now rumored to be sitting on eggs. Fourth Chicken, whom I may not have mentioned before, seems to be hiding his masculinity, perhaps in an effort to avoid being pecked bald by White Chicken. But I did see him posturing threateningly awhile back, so I’ll keep you informed.

Rather than closing with a list of the things I’ve learned, I’d like to instead highlight three symptoms of my growth as a person I’ve recently noticed. First, know that big meaty cockroaches have been my nemeses since I began battling them a few years ago in Taiwan. When I saw the two roaches that Nathan killed for me, however, I didn’t freak out, as has been my custom in the past. I actually thought, “Those big roaches aren’t so bad; they probably lived outside and just came in. It’s the little brown ones that build their nest in your refrigerator insulation you have to watch out for.” Also, recall that I have been unable to pee if the lizard was in my toilet. As he seems to be making his home there, I’ve grown accustomed to his presence. I still check for him every time, it’s true, but I’m using my toilet without distress whether he’s there or not. And finally, the poison Nathan put in my attic seems to be wearing off, as the mice are back and especially noisy. (Sarah suggests the extra noise is from nest building. Great.) The other night, when I usually would’ve prayed for God to send his creatures back to the field from which they came, or, better, just kill them all, I instead found myself praying, “Lord, if they could please just do something quietly,” and I meant it. Oy. Once I caught myself praying that, I also thought about the roaches and Swamp Lizard, and I couldn’t sleep for the humor of it all. All I could think was, “Next thing you know, you’ll be dating musicians.” (That’s a movie quote for my Sister. Never mind.)

This week’s Suggested Prayer Topic is Asala the House Girl (whose name I previously was writing “Esalla”). She isn’t feeling well. She was treated last week for meningitis, so I pray that all is well with her and she suffers no ill effects from that or from her current predicament.

That’s it then. For awhile, I was concerned I wouldn’t be able to get you a full five pages, but looks like I did okay after all. Oy.

Christina

Happy Prayer Team Appreciation Day

2008-03-19T15:05:00.001-04:00

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Happy Prayer Team Appreciation Day

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! Today is Prayer Team Appreciation Day because I have declared it so, and if you’ll just take a moment to recognize it . . . okay, very good, it is now an internationally recognized holiday, observed in . . . I’m counting six countries off the top of my head. So Happy Prayer Team Appreciation Day, whether you’re on my email list yourself, receiving a forward, or visiting my blog, and know that I appreciate you.

I know you’re eager to hear the latest in my battle with the mouse mafia, so that’s why I’m sharing that news right off—also because I’ve a goal to organize this letter chronologically, and, since all the mouse days run together, I’m having trouble remembering which day I caught whom. I will tell you, though, that the mouse mafia is recruiting mice younger and younger these days. Sigh. Anyway, I’m still emptying the traps myself mostly, but rest assured I’m not actually touching any mice. If I can’t pry the trap open without getting my fingers too close to the body, I just find a stick to use as a lever. Because dead mice are okay, but the bodies look so lifelike . . . so mouse-like . . . and what if they’re just sleeping? Ugh. I’ve been keeping a mousetrap set on top of my bathroom cabinet to ward off the drug cartel, as I think I mentioned before. The other day when I went to the bathroom at 2:00 am, I found the trap full. Now, I’m not about to drag dead mouse bodies out to the field in the middle of the night. But what if another mouse comes in between the hours of 2 and 6, and this mouse, safe from the trap and the lure of dangerous treats, successfully attacks my Advil bottle—or worse, my Dramamine? Well. You can see why I had to move the trap from the kitchen and place it next to the full trap on the bathroom cabinet. I thought about moving the dead mouse off the cabinet so his body wouldn’t tip off any potential victims but decided against it. Will a mouse eat from a trap right next to a mouse dead in a trap? Why not make it an experiment? I put the loaded trap next to the full one and went back to bed. Then I got up, washed my hands, and went back to bed.

In the morning, my second trap was gone. Well. You know it wasn’t gone. I poked through the trashcan with a stick and finally found it. I poked the trap, and a furry grey leg seemed to jut back in a manner not likely caused by my probing stick. Oy. I felt like leaving the house immediately, so I took my laundry out to be washed, which took me past the Esala house. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peeked through their screen door. Nathan, Aili, and Annaka were having breakfast, so I explained the situation through the door. “So I’m gonna go poke him again,” I said, “and if he moves again I’m coming back over.” The situation screamed “man work,” see, and apparently Nathan thought so too because he and Annaka followed me over, where he used two sticks to extract a very living, very squeaking, mouse from my trashcan and went ahead and took care of the dead one too. The Twins, I’m calling them. Anyway, the downside is that I’ve been hearing that squeaking noise a lot and had previously been trying to attribute it to bats rather than mice. But now that I’ve heard an actual mouse make it, I won’t be able to live as comfortably with the delusion. Nathan, the Good Guard Abulai, and Sidekick Simone were crawling around my kitchen poking under cupboards the other day, and now they tell me they’ve placed some sort of ominous mouse-deterrent in my attic and under my kitchen sink. Apparently, the Something in the bundle of cloth emits a Something Else, which drives away the mice it doesn’t kill right off. And if I smell it too, I’m supposed to let them know. Oy.

On Thursday, we went to Nalerigu—that’s the day you received my last letter—and had another go with the Tailor. It’s not that there aren’t other tailors; it’s just that this guy makes really nice pockets. So. I wore the skirt he made before and pinched in the sides where I wanted the seams on my new skirts to be. He measured (a good sign!). The new skirts are perfect except for the dreadful elastic that is much too small and very squeezing. Oy. I hope to take them back next week so he can have a go at fixing the problem. Then, perhaps we will have overcome our communication difficulties, and he will make the most fantastic skirts ever. With nice pockets. Love the pockets. If you are interested in keeping events chronologically, you should keep this day in your mind as the day my pink shirt got stolen. Because while I was out getting nice pockets and emailing you, my pink shirt was at home getting stolen. But the story takes more days than just Thursday, see, and that’s why it comes later in the email.

Friday was Free Choice Friday, which means Karissa gets to pick what we learn for our final subject of the day. There are several catches concerning the educational value of the activity, but basically almost anything is fair game, and Karissa wanted to bake a cake. Fine. Cake is no problem. She found a recipe. Also fine; helpful even. I glanced over it and, while I didn’t actually know what “chiffon” meant, it looked pretty okay to me. A little dependant on having an electric mixer, but pretty okay. And that brings us to the first two Things I’ve Learned: 1. “Chiffon” is code for “slave six hours.” 2. If you’re going to make anything “chiffon,” you better make sure you either have an electric mixer or that the battery to your electric drill is charged. And that is not a joke. Oy. In preparation for Lemon Chiffon Cake, I asked Sarah about her electric mixer—namely, did she have one. Well, it broke, but no worries. Nathan’s eyes lit and he became quite animated as he described fitting a beater into his electric drill and how it worked just great if you didn’t mind having only one beater instead of two. The recipe also called for 2 Tablespoons of grated lemon peel and . . . well, Karissa and I took turns grating lemon peel for several hours while the other mixed ingredients. The battery to the drill was dead, so we ended up using one of those manual egg beaters—the shiny silver kind you stand straight up in the bowl and hold the handle with one hand while you turn the crank really fast with the other “until stiff peaks form.” Oy. But other than being really difficult, the cake was great. It baked up nice and fluffy just like all chiffon should and was delightful with the Lemon Glaze (which took 5 easy minutes). The following Friday, last Friday, we made sugar crystals: Stir the sugar into the water, hang a string down into it, wait a few weeks. Brilliant.

Sunday was my birthday, and that was completely fantastic. I was reading in the morning and looked up from my book to see a procession of Esalas parading down the Treacherous Path to my front door with a plate of coconut pancakes (delicious) for breakfast. Then they burst into the most exuberant and fabulous birthday song I’ve ever heard, ending “Happy, happy birthday, from Esalas to you!!” I was transfixed with wonder. And I’ll tell you, that song is definitely the gift that keeps on giving; I get happy giggles just remembering it. And, oh, I’m remembering it. We left for Tamale (say “TA-ma-lay” just 3 hours from our house, and you can probably find this one on your map of Ghana) after church, and my tendency toward motion sickness required pulling over and fishing Dramamine out of my bag—always embarrassing and hateful for me, but let’s all thank God for Dramamine. Amen. In Tamale, we stayed with our friends Paul and Ali Federwitz, who are also LBT missionaries. We celebrated my birthday with tacos and Birthday Punch and chocolate cake with chocolate icing and chocolate ice cream. I received many gifts including a head pan and lots of chocolate-based desserts from the Esalas and an apron made from a fun African fabric from Paul and Ali and their daughter Hannah. My virtual gifts included many insect- and mice-eating animals (from Karissa); and from my prayer team, a virtual mousetrap and death-to-mice cartoon, a virtual movie, virtual snow, and a pretend trip to New York for pretend personal cooking lessons with Rachel Ray and a pretend chance to appear on one of her upcoming shows (thanks, Sister). I also received a promise of homemade cookies from Donna V. My Ohio Church Sister and many fine blessings and wishes against mice and other farm animals, including my favorite, “May you have clothes that are well-fitting and beautiful, a rodent- and pest-free home, good food and friends, and a taste/tolerance for pito,” from Amy My Ohio Church Sister. Virtual gifts were a completely wonderful idea; thanks so much for sending them.

We did our grocery shopping in Tamale on Monday and left Nathan at a conference there Tuesday to go back to Nasuan. He caught a bus to Nalerigu Thursday, and we picked him up there.

And this is the story of how my shirt got stolen. Two Thursdays ago—the Thursday on which I sent my last email to you—I put my pink shirt out with the rest of the laundry, and when we got back from Nalerigu, all the laundry was done except my pink shirt, which was gone. We thought it had just been misplaced because, as Nathan said, “Who would steal a T-shirt?” Well. I searched, the Esalas searched, but we found nothing. Nathan asked the Good Guard Abulai about it, and the Good Guard Abulai took up the investigation, asking Wasila Who Does the Laundry and possibly others. The facts get a little fuzzy to me, but the Good Guard Abulai began to suspect a certain boy who is also rumored to have stolen other things in the past—including cows, which are the village equivalent of people’s life savings and rather a big deal. On the following Wednesday—the Wednesday before we went to Nalerigu to pick up Nathan—I was in my house, and I heard rude, angry yelling. The only word I understood of it was “Madame,” which is usually Sarah’s name and sometimes mine. So I peeked out my window to see who was yelling at Sarah so rudely, and I found it was the Good Guard Abulai. Through a bit of ingenuity that is also fuzzy to me, the Good Guard Abulai had caught the boy, who was standing before him looking dejected and pitiable while Abulai ranted furiously and gestured repeatedly with and to his rifle. Oy. Sarah called for me to come out. Seems the boy was actually wearing my pink shirt at that very moment. Oy. The Good Guard Abulai marched the boy to the village, where he was beaten rather severely, twice. Nathan went to The Chief’s house Friday to identify my shirt as mine and retrieve it. Now stealing is not okay. In fact, stealing is pretty lousy. Even so, I’m thinking a shirt is a pretty stupid thing to get two beatings over, although I realize my shirt is not the only thing this boy stole; it’s just what he got caught stealing. Everyone is happy he got caught; his beating was not about my shirt but about his lifestyle of theft. But what really pisses me off is that my pink shirt now has a hole in it. The guy had it for less than a week. Less than a week! And I got it back with a hole. I’m conserving resources here. And even if I weren’t, I can’t just go to the Walmart, now can I. I’m angry because the punk ruined it for everyone, and now no one can wear my pink shirt. Perhaps I should cut the guy some slack since evading Abulai through the bush and undergoing two beatings without tearing a hole in the shirt you’re wearing is probably quite a feat. Sigh. The upside is that I’ve been thinking more about forgiveness and how it feels to have someone sin against me. Because generally people sin against me in less obvious ways that I might not notice and, therefore, don’t really think about forgiving. But I totally noticed this guy. And the hole in my shirt. So there it is.

I spent today in Gbintiri (say “bin-TEER-ee”) because it is good and proper for me to Greet certain leaders in the Ghanaian church, and these leaders were in Gbintiri today. Nathan works in Gbintiri—it’s about 30 minutes past the Phone Tree—and with most of these people. I think. So all of us planned to go, but then we started thinking how much fun it wouldn’t be to sit around bored off our rockers all day, and we decided that only Nathan and I really needed to go, and everyone else might really enjoy staying home. So we did and they did, but I was only bored off my rocker a little because most of the time when I wasn’t actually meeting people and Greeting them there were chickens to watch, and watching chickens is one of my favorite things. So I met a lot of people, and we helped one of them transport large bags of grain to Nasuan, and we drove another home because his was on our way. I appreciate Nathan as a traveling buddy because he doesn’t let anyone marry me.

Let’s talk about my marital status as it relates to the people in Ghana. To the random villager, I probably look like Nathan’s second wife because I’m around and helping Sarah out with the kids all the time. Sarah says the second wife is basically the slave of the first wife. When Sarah and I are walking together and she’s carrying Aili, the people we pass often say that I should be carrying her instead. Often I am carrying her because Sarah’s back is more delicate than mine and I don’t mind the load, but perhaps it looks like I am carrying her because I am the second wife and it is my job. Awkward, eh? But there’s an upside (don’t you love it when there is?). Since men can marry lots of women, they’re never really “taken.” Women, however, can only marry one man. So if men think I’m already married, they won’t make comments about wanting to marry me themselves. So as long as Nathan himself doesn’t have this misconception . . . I’m deciding not to mind it all that much. Some men, however, aren’t random villagers with their misconceptions. Some men know us from church or something, and they know I’m not married. These men seem to enjoy announcing their desire to marry me. This, it seems, is The Best Joke Ever. The men I met in Gbintiri, since they work with Nathan, fall into this category. The Category of People Who Know Christina is Not Married and, Therefore, Enjoy The Best Joke Ever. Oy. Personally, I don’t enjoy the joke. I find the joke awkward, and I don’t know how to respond to it. Usually. But today, it was a real hoot. In my culture, when you meet someone, you generally say something conventional like, “I’m pleased to meet you.” So today when I met The Guy in the Grey Shirt (I met a lot of people; give me a break) and he skipped “I’m pleased to meet you” and went straight to “I want to marry you,” I found it unpleasant and couldn’t find anything polite to say. At this point, though, Nathan leaned into the conversation and very seriously informed me, “This man is a liar. He has a wife and children.” And Grey Shirt sputtered as if Nathan had foiled his plans, while Nathan launched into a very serious monologue about his duty to the truth since he knows Grey Shirt. And then Blue Lacy Shirt (picture a whole shirt made from white eyelet lace in a beautiful baby blue—and no, it did not look ridiculous) jumped in. If Nathan knows Grey Shirt, then perhaps Nathan could give us the name of Grey Shirt’s eldest child, for that would prove his knowledge beyond doubt. Nathan feels he could probably do that, if they will only give him a moment to think. Our anticipation is great as we wait to see whether or not Nathan really knows Grey Shirt, whether or not he can speak for his character. Nathan is focused in thought. He endures some heckling. Some discussion begins; is Grey Shirt’s eldest a girl or a boy. They debate. Nathan finally decides the eldest is a girl, Julie. Grey Shirt’s smile is triumphant. “My eldest is a boy,” he declares, “but you have not met him. You have met my second child, Marie.” Nathan maintains that he was close. Enter Yellow Shirt. Yellow Shirt is married; his wife’s name is Christina. He seemed to support the argument that Grey Shirt could not marry me because he has not married a Christina before. Not sure where he was going with that. They began loading bags of grain into the trailer, and each bag took three or four men to lift. The end of Grey Shirt’s bag slipped as they went to toss it in, and it didn’t clear the trailer’s edge. Nathan highlighted it as further reason Grey Shirt could not marry me. Because Grey Shirt is not strong. Nathan calls to me, sitting in the shade, from across the lot, “Did you see that, Christina?” I did. He turns back to Grey Shirt. “She saw,” he says. “She knows.” Oy vey.

In other fun news, Sarah and I have started taking walks in the morning. Mornings are not killing hot like afternoons, see, and so they are the best time for any sort of exertion. We start out just after 6:00 am and keep up a nice militant pace for about 40 minutes. We talk, I enjoy the cooler air, and we enjoy the sunrise, which is quite lovely. My goal is to have more energy by using some. Because I’m tired. And while it could be because of the heat or maybe some illness I don’t know I have, I’m suspecting it’s from inactivity of body. And walking across the front yard to the Esalas house and back every day is not actually a lot of exercise. It’s actually less than I get walking from my house to my car in America. So maybe this news is actually more fun to do than to talk about, but there it is.

And now, let’s continue with What I’ve Learned (recall that 1 and 2 were mentioned during my discussion on “chiffon”):

3. Some mice have tails that are thin and cord-like, but some mice have tails that are bushy like an atrophied squirrel’s tail. I don’t know why the difference. Most of my mice have had cord-like tails, but the Twins’ tails were bushy.

4. Plagues must be pretty bad. I have a small cloud of gnats in my bathroom, and it’s pretty unpleasant (and most of the reason I’m happy to live with so many spiders). I’ve also spent this week battling an infestation of fat juicy ants (similar to the ant I had in my soup awhile back). Even though I’ve tried to keep crumbs or other potential ant food cleaned up, my kitchen sink remains a reliable water source. At one point, I had a moderate-sized crowd of ants marching around my sink area, one even charging my bread as I sliced it (I yelled at him and called him “stupid,” but he did not get the hint). It was dreadful. Sarah gave me some ant poison, and I set up a few very successful ant “restaurants,” and now the problem isn’t so bad. Sarah is the Authority on Ants. Anyway, when God sent the plagues on the Egyptians, a few of them involved insects. “All the dust throughout the land of Egypt became gnats” (Exodus 8:17). “Dense swarms of flies poured into Pharoah’s palace and into the houses of his officials, and throughout Egypt the land was ruined by the flies” (Exodus 8:24). “Locusts covered all the ground until it was black” (Exodus 10:15). Oy. That’s all. Just oy.

This week’s Suggested Prayer Topic concerns our upcoming trip to Ouaga (say “WAH-gah”) in Burkina Faso, which will commence next week on Friday and will feature Sarah, the girls, and me. I’ve heard good reports about Ouaga. They say the internet works all the time and is available right in your room. Grocery stores abound, filled with luxuries like strawberries and fine French foods. No one has mentioned milk, but I did hear talk of honey. On the other hand, hushed voices spoke of the kitchen I’ll have available to me, which is so stinky the flies come in and just die. This talk was quickly shushed by Marvelous Mona. “Christina is staying there,” she said. And the response was a sheepish chorus of, “Oh. Sorry.” Well. We’ll be in Ouaga for about 3 weeks for Karissa’s homeschool group. I’ll be teaching the 2^nd grade class—3 students—for language arts, and then I’ll have another class of 3 different students for math. It looks like I have to make a plan for that and should not expect provided curriculum. We will also be doing a musical, of which I am not in charge, though I may be a helper. And when I return, I will provide you with insight regarding Ouaga: Land of Internet and Honey, or Home to the Horrid Kitchen, the Stink of which Even Flies Cannot Bear?

Christina

Wildlife, At Home and Abroad

2008-02-14T08:50:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Wildlife, At Home and Abroad

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! I hope, as I always do, you are well.

I am happy to say the Esalas and I have returned to Nasuan from our vacation in Burkina Faso without undue distress, and I am now sitting comfortably—okay, it’s really hot, but other than that I’m comfortable—in my living room smelling the delightful smells of bread baking. Life is good.

We left early Friday morning and drove almost forever. Nathan and Sarah had some sort of paperwork to do on the way—international drivers licenses renewal and car registration, I think—before we could legally drive ourselves into the next country. It took Nathan and whatever officials a few hours to complete this paperwork, while Sarah and I made good use of our time getting photos taken of Aili and me for visas needed that day and in the future. We also made peanut butter and honey sandwiches for our picnic lunch and had one of the back reflectors on the SUV replaced. And while I did stay in the shade almost the whole time, it apparently wasn’t enough as I acquired my first Ghanaian sunburn on both shoulders and the back of my neck. Here in the land of the Five-Minute Sunburn, I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner; I lasted just over a month, and that’s pretty good for me. So we proceeded to the boarder and crossed without incident. My favorite part was when the customs official in Burkina Faso apologized quite profusely and theatrically as he trimmed my photos down to the appropriate size. He hissed with sympathy and cut gingerly, making overly dramatized please-don’t-be-angry gestures—about what I’d expect from someone with a great fear of needles himself administering a shot. It was a hoot.

Then we were through customs and on our way to Nazinga, Burkina Faso. (For this one, say “nah-ZING-ah;” it helps if you put a little oomph in your “zing.”) We went to the game ranch in Nazinga, which is a magical place where people aren’t allowed to harm the animals (though I heard Dr. Hewitt allegedly killed a scorpion; probably best if you don’t pass that on). So the animals come to the game ranch and fill it up with themselves and their babies, and the humans can drive around and take their pictures, and this we did. We saw elephants, baboons, and crocodiles, but my favorite was the mama warthog and her three little babies. Because who has ever seen anything as wondrous as a warthog before? Absolutely amazing. I took her picture; don’t even worry. The many deer-like creatures were less impressive, perhaps because they look so much like, well, deer; they included gazelles, antelopes, and something that looked a good deal like a deer but had the thick build of a donkey; in keeping with the tradition of Katie My Sister’s “shoats,” Sarah suggested we call this one a “deerkey,” which we were only delighted to do. We ate antelope for dinner, which was very good and Sarah says tasted like venison, but I can’t comment because, while I’m sure I’ve eaten venison before, it was a long time ago and I can’t remember what it tastes like. Possibly like antelope; well, now I’ve got an idea. I’m not sure how antelope meat was acquired if we’re not allowed to kill the animals. Perhaps visitors aren’t allowed, but the rules don’t apply to the staff (if any of the staff could’ve understood us—that is, if any of us spoke French even passably—I might’ve asked). Or maybe we’re just looking the other way as in the case of Dr. Hewitt’s scorpion. Anyway, we drove around with a guide and took pictures, then we sat in the observatory overlooking the watering hole and took more pictures. There’s something especially fantastic about having an elephant in your backyard. Something that drives you to want to take a picture. “Did you really take 96 pictures of elephants?” I hear you ask. Of course not, I answer. There was a warthog, remember? So while most of my 96 pictures are indeed of elephants, all are not. And I only selected nine for my photo website, so fear not: You are spared.

We left Nazinga late Sunday morning and drove back to Nasuan, which took almost forever. At customs in Burkina Faso on the way home, I became convinced I need to learn French immediately. (Because being unable to order dinner only suggests a need to learn French; fumbling through customs makes the suggestion a bit more intense.) The office held two desks, a few benches and chairs, and a refrigerator box (I dunno. It was there). Nathan and I sat before the desk of a pleasant enough French-speaking man while Sarah, Karissa, Annaka, and Aili waited in the car (apparently, you don’t actually have to be present to go through customs; just send in your representative with a huge stack of passports, and that will do it). I understood a little from context, expression, and similarity to English, but I was mostly clueless. Nathan’s French is better than mine, and he went first with his passport stack. The most difficult part seems to be indicating whether you are leaving or entering Burkina. Oy. When it was my turn, the customs official used English to ask if I spoke French. I nearly exhausted my French lexicon by replying, “Bonjour,” which highly amused him. He then spoke to me sometimes in French and a little in English, and I apparently wasn’t getting it even more dreadfully than I thought because at one point he turned to Nathan and asked, in French, “Does she speak English?” Oy. Then Nathan tried to leave to get us something to drink—a plan I endorsed, as I was perishing—but the customs official wouldn’t let him leave. Though I didn’t quite catch the words, his tone and expression said “Don’t even think about leaving me alone to deal with this mute girl.” Oy again.

But we made it out of Burkina and into Ghana where the customs people speak English, and all was well. When we arrived in Nasuan, my homecoming, unfortunately, was not all I’d hoped it’d be. Sigh. As has become my habit, I checked my mousetraps immediately upon arrival. In the kitchen, empty. In the bathroom, um, apparently gone. Wait, I found it. I’d left it on top of the bathroom cabinet to distract Druggie Mouse just in case he returned and made an attempt on my new Advil, and lo! There lay the trap, upside down on the center of the bathroom floor, clutching a mouse so fat he made Crafty Glutton look petite, and taking up nearly the whole aisle to the toilet. Oy. The war on drugs is intense. I needed to pee, but there was no way I was stepping over that. I left the bathroom to continue the coming-home process, and that’s when I noticed my back door was open—you know, the door that is always locked and now isn’t. Ugh. Ugh and oy. I quickly checked to see if anyone was in my house or if anything was missing, but I found neither people nor other creatures, and all I found missing was the canned grapefruit I’d been using to prop open my bedroom door. I was overcome by a desire to be at the Esalas’ house instead of mine, and, really, who can blame me? So I went and explained the situation to Sarah and Nathan. Just as I suspected, this was more “man work,” and Nathan went right over to check it out. Whew. After a few minutes, I was feeling much better and followed. Nathan had secured the door and checked the lock, and all seemed well. (Discussion with the Good Guard Abulai and Sidekick Simone the next day revealed that the wind sometimes blows that door open if it isn’t latched correctly, so we, of course, made a point to latch it correctly. As my grapefruit seems to be the only thing missing, we suspect it was captured by an opportunistic child passing by who saw it through the open door; there are rather a lot of children in the area, and they aren’t generally attended past the age of five. They are, however, often peeking into my house. But I am usually there, and when I Greet them, they answer back and go away.) Nathan then turned to Druggie Mouse and made a noise of surprise—perhaps at Druggie Mouse’s girth (I’m telling you, it was amazing). When he lifted the mouse trap, Druggie Mouse’s body remained sticking straight out from it, which was, of course, pretty disgusting even as it was a wonder to behold. Nathan reset the trap and replaced it on top of my bathroom cabinet.

And Tuesday morning, we’d caught another mouse. This time, the trap and body had flipped off the cabinet and nestled down into my bathroom trashcan. Took a bit of hunting to find, it did. Oy. And, well, it happens I was feeling emotionally adventurous that morning, so I decided to acquire a new life-skill and tackle mouse-disposal myself. (That’s right, Friends: Girls can do “man work” too. Sometimes. A little.) Apparently, we toss the bodies into the field. No problem. I reset the trap—my first mouse trap ever—and replaced it on top of the cabinet, and Wednesday morning, another hit! I must say I’m feeling pretty triumphant about this one because I set the trap myself. Very triumphant, actually. And a little gleeful—perhaps even to a distasteful degree. So even though I have no intention of posting dead-mouse pictures on my website, I won’t deny that I took them. Karissa came over and photographed the whole mouse-disposal process—pulling the trap down and even the hand-washing at the end (“so your mom will not be scared,” she said). Her pictures look so fantastic; they’re almost like a how-to manual, and there I am out in the field looking like Wilderness Woman. Oy. I think I may send a couple pictures to Katie My Sister, so if you’re interested in seeing dead-mouse shots, you can contact her at kriddle06@hotmail.com.

In other wildlife news, my house is slowly filling up with spiders, such that I decided if they numbered among the triple digits I was spraying most of them with poison. The problem is the thought that my house contains enough insects to sustain that many spiders, see, because I really didn’t think I had that many bugs—I mean, other than the minor plague of gnats in the bathroom and the ant colony developing around the kitchen sink and the occasional cricket. And a few beetles in the shower. And sometimes a fly or mosquito. Okay, so maybe I’m not seeing the bugs because the spiders are eating them. Anyway, I was moved to count the spiders, and Karissa was pleased to help me. This was the inventory:

In the living room: 10.

In the bathroom: 13

In the bedroom: 4

Small spiders with long legs: 26

Fat, juicy spiders with striped legs: 1

In all, there were 27 spiders. So not nearly as many as I’d thought. And that means everybody can stay, even the juicy spider, who lives under the bathroom cabinet and is strongly suspected to have killed her web’s previous inhabitant, usurping his home and tossing his dry and crusty body to the bathroom floor. (We don’t have cable in the bush, in case that wasn’t obvious). Actually, the spider that really irritates me is the one who perseverates in building his web across my toilet.

Let’s talk about my toilet for a moment (if you don’t mind; bodily functions are an important part of being a missionary). A part of my bathroom wall juts out box-like into the room to form a sort of shelf with a hole in the middle that’s been fitted with a toilet seat-and-lid combo. Lifting the lid, we see the box conceals a pit far deeper than the box should allow (the magic of the box, if you will). It is not the flushing sort of toilet, see. Stuff just goes down and disappears into the void. But so far, it’s working out. I used to keep a flashlight by the toilet so I could peer down and see who I was peeing on, but there was never anybody interesting down there. Except this spider. Sometimes I knock his web down with a broom, and sometimes I just pee on it. Well, what would you? But yesterday, I lifted the lid and found a small gecko, who scurried around and under the seat. That’s when I discovered I am not psychologically strong enough to pee on a gecko, so I went to the Esalas’ house and used their toilet. Later when I had to pee again (it’s Dry Season; we drink a lot), I lifted the seat and then the lid to check for the gecko. As I raised the lid, I saw his little body lose its hold and plummet into the depths of the toilet pit. Oy vey: Swamp Lizard. Turns out, I can pee on Swamp Lizard. (Let me know when this becomes too much information.)

In an effort to pull this email up out of the, um, well, anyway, I’ll end by recounting my trip to market on Monday, where I drank more pito and purchased many beautiful fabrics in preparation for another go with the tailor, in addition to purchasing sugar (because I was out). I’ve mentioned before that it’s customary to Greet people when you meet them, and Market Day is a big day for going about Greeting people. You might just Greet people as you run into them, or you might make a special point to go where they are to Greet them. Sarah and I made a special point to greet her friends Madame Elizabeth (featured in previous emails) and Madame Yah, Isa’s Wife. But we also came across people and Greeted them too. Now you probably suspect, and rightly, that my command of the Konkomba language is not so good. I’ve learned a few Greetings: I can ask about your morning, evening, or Market Day, is it well, is it cool, or is it sweet. It’s like a Greetings Grab Bag—mix and match, if you will. I can initiate them or respond. But it happens, of course, that people don’t always use exactly the phrase I know. They might make only half their sentence from my grab bag and ask if my evening is fine (so I would understand only “evening”) or ask if my afternoon was well (so I would only understand “is it well?”). Fortunately, the proper answer is usually the same, so I can still respond in a way that, I think, is quite grammatical and makes sense to the listener. They’re just Greetings, after all. We Greet people because we like them, not because we have any particular information to share. My general method, then, has been to listen carefully for key words from my grab bag and then give back the answers when I hear them. Well. Some guy Greeted us at Market; Sarah knew him, I did not. He Greeted Sarah and then turned to Greet me. I recognized some words from my grab bag. I thought the conversation went something like this:

Him: Market Day Greetings! Has your day been sweet?

Me: Yes, it has been sweet.

On our way home from Market, however, Sarah (whose Konkomba is better than mine) revealed that our conversation had actually gone like this:

Him: How is your husband? Is he sweet?

Me: Yes, he is sweet.

Well. All I can think is what kind of question is that to ask someone who clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about? Well.

I’ve already mentioned a lot of What I’ve Learned, so here I’ll just recap them:

1. The wonders of warthogs.

2. How to set and empty a mousetrap.

3. The circumstances under which I may or may not pee on a gecko.

This weeks Suggested Prayer Topics are:

1. We’re traveling to Tamale (aka “civilization,” complete with grocery stores, friends we know, and possibly internet) early next week probably—perhaps Sunday or Monday—because Nathan has work there (or thereabouts) and the rest of us enjoy visiting civilization. It’s a three hour drive there, and then, of course, we’ll come back.

2. Sometimes I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I mean, some nights I sleep fine, and other nights I don’t sleep at all or I wake up at some dreadful time like 3:00 am. This doesn’t seem to be related to anything like how tired I am, what time I went to bed, or whether or not I’m thinking about mice or unlocked backdoors.

So that’s what I have for this week. Looks like about five pages, so hats off to you for persevering to the end. I’m still hoping all is well with you and that you’re finding your life in Christ abundant.

Christina

Meet the Esalas

2008-02-08T09:26:00.000-05:00

Thursday, February 7, 2008
Meet the Esalas

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! I hope you are well.

A word about the internet: The connection is, well, mildly lethargic, if you will, to the point of stretching and stressing my patience beyond usual levels. When I tried to send pictures last week, for example, it didn’t work for rather a while, driving me to the point where I only wanted to curl up in a corner and rock. Fortunately, Marvelous Mona (the wife of Dr. Hewitt, who lives in Nalarigoo (which is actually spelled more like “Nalerigu”—much more dignified, I’m sure you’ll agree)) is a computer wizard and was able to shrink my photos to a send-able size. (Hopefully you saw them, and hopefully I can send more this week. But don’t go holding your breath about those videos I mentioned.) Also consider my frustration with adding contacts to my email group on hotmail. The connection is just too slow to proceed by clicking all the buttons until something works (my usual method), so thank you for your help. This slowness-of-connection is why I write these letters during the week and just send them on Email Day. I put the date at the top so we can pretend we’re using a regular post office that takes a few days to deliver the mail. And if you write to me (and you should), I will cut and paste your email into a Word document, I will read it during the week, and you will receive any reply on the following Email Day. Some of you seem concerned about writing too much for me to read on Email Day, so I just want to let you know that cutting and pasting a little is just as convenient as cutting and pasting a lot, plus it gives me letters to read during the week, so no worries. You see that I don’t have a problem writing upwards of 5 pages, so go ahead and follow my example, and be at peace.

I was thinking I should probably tell you a bit about the Esala (say “EH-sa-la”) family, that you might know who is who and thus enjoy stories in which they are featured more fully. Ideally, I would’ve done this before now, but I was only just meeting the Esalas myself, and so how could I do their introductions justice? Even now I may not do them justice, but since they and large portions of their family are receiving these emails, I will try to make something up that is at least plausible, that everyone might continue to believe the things I say.

Sarah is the mom. She is the quintessential Proverbs 31 woman. “She selects wool and flax and works with eager hands.” If choosing fabric at market to take to the tailor counts, check. Plus also, she knits. “She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.” It’s a quarter mile to the village on Market Day, and the grocery stores in Tamale (say “TA-ma-lay”) are 3 hours by car: check. “She gets up while it is still dark;” every time Baby Aili cries: check. “She provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls.” Check, check. “She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.” Um, I don’t know about that one. “She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.” Check. “She watches over the affairs of her household” (check) “and does not eat the bread of idleness” (check). “Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.” Check, check, check. Sarah is a wizard in the kitchen—granola, yogurt, spaghetti sauce, dinner every night—and a wealth of information for the homeschooler—from how science fits together with history to where we keep the dictionary. Icing on the cake, she’s also laid back and adventurous. Her children are bored, whiny, and underfoot? “Go play in the mud!” she tells them. Annaka colors her entire face with every color of marker, leaving almost no white space (or, um, tan space)? Aili bites the end off the marker and dyes her mouth, chin, shirt, and both hands dark green? “Go show Aunt Christina,” she says, later claiming, “It was too good not to share.” And Sarah is always finding that silver lining. Aili has been up barfing all night and now we’re on an unscheduled trip to Nalerigu at 5 am the day after we were just there? “Well, we can get the gas I forgot to get yesterday.” (To be fair, I should also point out that we did not end up getting the gas because, well, we forgot again. But we did come home with a healthy Baby Aili, and that was, after all, the main goal.)

Nathan is the dad. He works with the Konkomba people, helping them translate the Bible into their language, so I guess he’s pretty smart. He’s been to seminary, so the villagers call him “Pastor,” and he seems to have good relationships with them. He loves his family. He plays with his kids and reads them stories. Yesterday, he fixed Annaka’s hair and did a very respectable job. He’s also good at “man work” like setting mouse traps and fixing the whatever, and he’s always willing to do it. A Lutheran through and through, he isn’t big on rules for their own sake. And he enjoys a cleverly humorous story.

Karissa is the oldest child; she’s a third grader. She loves books and all kinds of animals, especially horses. She likes learning all sorts of things, especially science and history. Her writing is absolutely fantastic, but she finds the task dull and tedious. She doesn’t care for much Ghanaian food, but she really likes pito (which is, after all, what counts socially). She has many friends in the village, and they play together at water fights and climbing trees to get at the fruit. She’s a wonder at carrying things on her head. She has good social skills in both cultures and is very responsible.

Annaka will be four in April, and she can tell you all about it. She likes telling stories and hearing stories and sharing with her friends. She likes coloring on her body with markers or whatever. Her dolls are usually reenacting the story of Jesus’ birth. She is very sweet and sensitive. She does not use the pronouns “he” or “she.” And if you talk with your mouth full at the dinner table, she will totally call you out.

Aili (say “EYE-lee”) is not yet two, and she is a small tank of independence. She can do just about everything herself, thank you, including make the quarter-mile hike into town. (But if she needs you to reach or lift something for her, she will let you know.) When we visited The Chief a few weeks ago and were served large portions of a soft drink unpleasant in both taste and thickness (and color and smell . . .), she chugged hers like a pro while Nathan commented, “Wow, look at her go!” She enjoys bath time, books, spooning just about anything from one place to the other, and rubbing gooey anything in her hair (papier mache, yogurt, whatever is at hand). She’ll play with you on equal terms, but don’t pick her up and try to haul her anywhere. She might suffer to hold your hand, but only if she doesn’t come across anything more interesting. Like a stick.

And “Aunt” Christina lives in a small house in the backyard. She enjoys giving babies papier mache and thinks anything involving a real live chicken running free is completely hilarious.

The Good Guard Abulai (say “A-buh-lie”) is the Esalas’ day guard. He hangs out during the day and does “man work” like lifting heavy things, taking out the garbage, and emptying mouse traps. He chases away things that should not be about, like noisy little boys and, um, herds of cows. And he can fix just about anything. He has a large number of children, but it’s hard for me to tell how many because they’re usually in a pack with cousins and friends. The Good Guard Abulai’s children are friends with the Esala children. The Good Guard Abulai’s house is the closest to the Esalas’, and when Nathan is out of town, the Good Guard Abulai sometimes camps outside at night just to make sure everything goes okay. He and his family are Muslim, so they don’t eat pork and he takes every Friday off for prayer.

Esalla (say “eh-SA-la”) is the Good Guard Abulai’s daughter and the Esala’s house girl. She does dishes and windows, sweeps and mops the floors (the Esalas’ and mine), and cooks Ghanaian food for lunch. And she smiles.

Simone is the Good Guard Abulai’s assistant. He comes in the mornings to help with the “man work.”

Wasila (say “wah-SEE-la”) does the laundry—the Esalas’ and mine. She comes early every morning to hand wash it in large round plastic tubs and hang it on the clotheslines. She comes back in the evenings to take it down and send it into the house.

And then there’s Dog. She belongs to the Good Guard Abulai, but the Esalas have sort of adopted her by way of their table scraps. She also chases cows.

The Esalas live in a house that is both Western and Ghanaian. The large Western portion has a kitchen with dining area that is open to the living room, a battery room that handles the electricity, a school room/office, and a back hallway leading to the girls’ room, the bathroom, and the parents’ room, in that order. The floors are concrete, the walls are painted, and the curtains match. The kitchen is built for major cooking with a fantastic amount of counter space and lots of cupboards. The living room sits eight easily, and the far wall is covered with full to bursting bookshelves. Off the kitchen, a screened-in patio leads to the Ghanaian portion of the house. Mud walls join a few small huts to form a round courtyard around a mango tree. I believe the Esalas use the huts to store garage-type things—except for one, which is good for storing chickens.

Now, last week, when Nathan came home from his business trip, he had two stalwart but mildly disgruntled chickens strapped to the back of his motorcycle, which, of course, looks absolutely ridiculous and thoroughly delightful at the same time, which, of course, is why Sarah forbade him to come into the house until she could take his picture. The chickens were gifts from various villages. Since chickens make good food, the Good Guard Abulai slaughtered them, but I didn’t watch because I didn’t quite feel like watching anything die just then. This week, Nathan came home with three chickens, White Chicken, Red Chicken, and Black Chicken. And they are even now still alive.

We had been praying for a safe and productive trip for Nathan all week. I think Thursday’s dinner prayer was my favorite, when Annaka prayed “for Daddy, him can have safe traveling . . .” She prayed on and on and on, first at great length for Nathan and then for her uncle and his upcoming wedding to Aunt Dorothy, that “him can have a wedding, and invite all him’s friends,” while her hungry sisters fidgeted. While her topic was always clear, individual points (or even sentences) were not. Her prayer was so adorable and heartfelt—and not nearly over when Karissa muttered loudly, “Amen” and Annaka, derailed but unperturbed, sweetly echoed, “Amen” in the middle of her thought.

In celebration of Nathan’s safe return, we cooked pizza sandwiches in pie irons over a fire in the courtyard for dinner Friday evening, so we were in perfect position to hear Dog freak out over the new chickens. Barking, barking, barking. Oy. And Nathan telling him to quiet, but I don’t think Dog’s English is very good. So the chickens were “herded” (as much as one can herd a chicken—perhaps I should say “surprised”) into the courtyard and Dog was banished from it. As dinner ended and dusk descended, it came time to put the chickens into their house for the night, which transformed the courtyard into a family dinner theatre. Sarah and I played the role of Audience. With a long stick in each hand and his arms spread wide, Nathan was the Chief Chicken Corraller. Karissa and her friend Barchisu (daughter of the Good Guard Abulai) were Deputy Corrallers. Annaka also participated, though as what I’m not sure. The Corrallers had the chickens surrounded and slowly closed their circle, inch by inch, gradually maneuvering the chickens back behind the mango tree and toward the chicken’s house. Suddenly, Black Chicken made a break for it; head down, he bolted between the Corrallers who, spread too thin, were no match for his flight and broke ranks to pursue. White Chicken and Red Chicken seized their opportunity to flee as well, and the Corrallers were back to square one. Undaunted, the Corrallers regained their formation and prepared to move in for their second attempt. Loud squawking from the chickens had disturbed the fruit bats living in the mango tree—or perhaps it was just that time of night—so now large bats darted and swooped in and out of the tree and around the courtyard, rustling the branches and adding to the, um, atmosphere. The Corrallers were more successful on their second attempt. Black Chicken and Red Chicken were secured, and only White Chicken remained at large—by running out the gate (Who left the gate open? And when?) and flying up to roost in the branches of a nearby cashew fruit tree. The Corrallers, perhaps concluding that two out of three isn’t bad, left off their pursuit, and our theatre was ended for the night.

You may be happy to know that I saw White Chicken walking about the yard foraging breakfast early Saturday morning. I know of no attempt to corral the chickens on subsequent evenings. Rather, I hear all three chickens have been granted autonomy to roost in the cashew fruit tree. There’s more than one way to house a chicken.

On Sunday, I caught a cold—probably from the Esala children (because who else is there?), who have had something on the order of faucet-noses for awhile now. Previously, I believe I had not been nearly sympathetic enough to their situation, but now, armed with first-hand experience, I am ever cognizant of their suffering and empathetic to their plight. I skipped church on Sunday in favor of sleeping. Then Monday, I worked with Karissa in the morning and left her with a pile of “independent work” around 11:00. I decided that chicken soup would be just the thing, so I thawed the chicken I’d been storing in my freezer (no, no one we knew). She was headless and footless but still had her skin, butt, and lots of guts, so I worked diligently to hack bits off (or out of) her slimy body while she had great difficulty sitting still. I couldn’t see her expression, but she seemed disgruntled and not at all cooperative. Finally done, I shut her in the large cook pot (recently retired from mouse trap/treat holding duty) and boiled the life out of her. After quite some time, I fished her out and began dividing her up: meat for me, bones for a little science/art project I read about, cartilage for the compost, and grit [read: guts I missed the first time around] for Dog. (The skin I gave to Sarah. She said the Good Guard Abulai and his family would appreciate it.) Then I put the soup on—broth, meat, carrots, onions, corn, garlic, ginger, salt—and packaged the rest of the broth for freezing (except, of course, what I spilled on the floor and half-heartedly mopped up; let’s all remember that I’m sick or I wouldn’t be doing this at all). I boiled the soup for an hour or so, until the carrots were soft. By this time, I’d been making soup pretty much all day, but I was feeling pretty good about it. I tasted the soup, decided it needed more salt, and was still chewing on little bits of chicken when I noticed a peculiar something in the soup on the stove, part of the same soup I still had in my mouth. What’s this? thought I. There, as if on a raft in a sea of chicken soup, lay a large, soggy, wilted carpenter ant, his plump little ant body, legs, and antennae draped limply across a large slice of carrot as it floated on the surface of the soup. And I with what felt like small bits of chicken still in my mouth. My chicken broth was also ant broth? Ant broth in my mouth. How . . . distasteful. I took his picture, of course. Then I very gently lifted the carrot-raft out of the soup with a fork and slowly pulled the ant body to the edge of the carrot-raft and off and into my sink with my tasting spoon. Did I then eat the soup? I hear you ask. Of course not. It still needed salt, remember. I added the salt, returned the carrot-raft, and boiled the soup several minutes more. Then I ate it. Did I check it constantly for ant bits as I went? Of course. Did I wonder at the color of the broth? Sure. And I even used the same ant-scraping spoon to eat it, though I did not realize it until later. But I had worked all day on that soup, and I was sick besides. I wasn’t going to throw it out just because it boiled an ant for several hours. Carrots, please recall, grow in the ground, so this was likely not the first ant with which that carrot had had contact.

Anyway, I’m feeling much better now. And I have a whole serving of chicken essence-of-ant soup to freeze for the next time illness strikes. So you see how this story has multiple upsides.

And as if that wasn’t enough, I even Learned Something this week:

1. Papier Mache is difficult to remove from hair. This includes arm hair, leg hair, eyebrows, and those wispy, feathery hairs that babies have. It is also, since we’re on the subject, not easily removed from cupboard doors or concrete floors. But it makes an excellent activity for Date Night with Aunt Christina, and Dry Season is just the right time to pull it off.

2. If you buy a watermelon on Friday, and you wait until Saturday the following weekend to cut it, you will find you don’t so much have watermelon as you have a now-punctured vessel of rot-water. This will be disappointing on several levels; in addition to missing the much anticipated joy of watermelon, you will face the unanticipated joy of mopping the floor.

This week’s Suggested Prayer Topics are mostly general—Karissa’s schooling, I’m not sick anymore, Nathan got home safely, and life in general. We are leaving for a two day vacation early Friday morning (February 8th), so you could pray that all goes well with that, especially since it involves driving to another country and all the visa joys that brings.

Hope all is well with you!

Christina

All Manner of Domesticity

2008-01-31T21:41:00.001-05:00

Wednesday, January 30, 2008
All Manner of Domesticity

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! I hope you are well.

I’m happy to say the Esalas, their guests, and I all survived Fire Festival, which is apparently a celebration of West African New Year. From what I can figure, the people tie bundles of long dried grass together, light one end on fire, and twirl them around in and around fields of dry brush (think Fourth of July sparklers on a much more magnificent—and exciting—scale). The key, I think, is not to stand too close to over-excited but under-observant children when they’re whipping about the flaming bundles. But no worries. Sarah and I only almost died once. And “almost,” I’m sure you’ll agree, doesn’t count. In celebration of our success, this week I’ve been tackling domesticity on all fronts and meeting success there as well. Mostly.

I’m pleased to report the demise of Little Mouse. Thanks to the conventional mouse traps Nathan set in my kitchen and bathroom, Little Mouse was tempted beyond his ability to bear and, by his own evil desires, was dragged away and enticed. Lured by a peanut, in fact. I found him in the morning with his head squished flat. Nathan also found a small hole in my bathroom wall, which he filled in with caulking and silicone. I was developing a bit of a drug cartel in the bathroom cabinet, see, as evidenced by the thumb-sized hole in my bottle of Advil (accompanied by a single pellet of mouse poop—and we know whose calling card that is) and the now roughly tapered end of my Dramamine bottle. This Druggie Mouse is perhaps also responsible for the small hole in my tube of Neosporin, which I had previously been attributing to “scuffing.” As in, perhaps my Neosporin has been scuffed on a rock. That somehow made it into my bathroom cabinet without my knowledge. And then disappeared. Right. Anyway, while on some level I appreciate potentially never having to open another child-proof cap again, I would sacrifice the convenience to avoid having mouse cooties on my . . . anything. So. It’s true that Druggie Mouse is still at large, but he has not yet worked his way back inside. Another kitchen mouse, one Crafty Glutton, also met his end in a conventional mouse trap this week. Since we have been unable to locate his entry point as Nathan did Druggie Mouse’s, we’ve been keeping traps set in my kitchen. Crafty Glutton had been evading both Nathan’s conventional mouse traps and my, um, more-innovative-than-effective “trap” for several days, such that I was beginning to think of our “traps” as more “treat-holders” since they seemed to be providing something of a buffet. Crafty Glutton ate the peanuts off the conventional mouse traps without springing them and licked the peanut butter off the inside of my cook pot as far down as he could reach without falling in, but no farther. Nathan and Sarah came over Sunday evening to set the conventional traps with lures of peanut butter this time instead of peanuts, thinking peanut butter requires a good deal more attention to remove from a trap and, after all, is one of Crafty Glutton’s favorites. The traps were set and Nathan and Sarah had not yet been gone five minutes when I heard the soft click of the spring and looked up to see the twitching furry fatness that was Crafty Glutton with his head squished flat. Nathan carried out the body with the comment, “Gee, he’s kind of heavy.” No kidding.

As distasteful as it may be to skip directly from mice to food, please pardon me while I do. While killing mice is all well and good, a foray into domesticity would be incomplete without various culinary delights. Ghanaians don’t seem to eat many weird things, but they also don’t use forks, and that makes eating just as interesting as if we had fish guts and donkey feet everyday.

Katie My Sister asked about pito (say “PEE-toe”), the beer I drank from the gourd at The Chief’s house. First of all, pito is not a beverage exclusive to The Chief, and that’s why we’re going to call it “pito” and not “Chief’s Beer.” (“Shoats” was brilliant, Sister, but “Chief’s Beer” is right out). Pito seems to fill the social role of coffee in the U.S. It’s everywhere. People make it themselves at home. When you go places, people offer it to you. Not liking it would be a social handicap. Fortunately, pito tastes much better than other beers I’ve tried. I am not a fan of beer; it tastes so . . . yellow . . . with an under-taste of blech. But pito tastes more . . . tan. And while it sometimes has a tart bite in the back of your mouth (somewhat unpleasant but not too bad), it is other times very mild and tastes like . . . apple cider, but not sweet, and leaning more toward beer than toward fruit. It tastes good. But I still can’t drink a whole gourd by myself.

I’m also enjoying the yams and the bean cakes, which Ghanaians typically eat with their hands (but I generally use a fork for the bean cakes since 1. I’m at Sarah’s house, which is full of Westerners who don’t mind, and 2. bean cakes are fairly wet). These are the white yams, not the “yams” that are also known as sweet potatoes, and we boil them and dip them in sauces the Ghanaians call “soup” but you should think of more along the lines of homemade condiments. There’s a nice red soup/condiment with dried fish ground up in it and other soups made from peanuts. The bean cakes, while attractively named, are actually in more of the meatloaf family. Sarah buys a roll of bean “cake” loaf in the market, slices and boils it, and serves it with a sauce entirely comprised of oil and crunchy onions. I’m not a huge fan of oil as a sauce, but the beans and onions have a meat-loafy feel, and what’s not to like about that?

Fufu (say “FOO-foo”) is another fun eat-with-your-hands food and is, in fact, Sarah’s favorite. Esalla (“eh-SA-la”) the House Girl and her mother, who is the Good Guard Abulai’s wife, made fufu for lunch on Friday. They started with a certain kind of yam that is apparently unavailable in the United States, peeled and boiled it and put it into the fufu pot to get the life mashed out of it. They mashed the yams with big long bludgeons until the yams looked like mashed potatoes. Then they mashed them some more and mashed them and mashed them. And then they kept mashing them and adding more water and folding over the yams so they wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the fufu pot. And then more mashing. And then more mashing. And mashing. And then Sarah mashed some. And then I mashed some. And then Esalla and her mother mashed more. And finally, after a few more mashes for good measure, the yams looked like a big squish of play-dough, but just slightly more gelatinous. So Esalla and her mother used their hands to smash the fufu into individual serving sized balls, and we ate it under a peanut and chicken soup.

Since Sarah has an ice cream maker, we also made papaya frozen yogurt, which is totally a health food, so eat up. We made papaya milk, a delight from Taiwan, and Sarah taught me how to make yogurt, so I’m excited to try that soon (nothing like growing bacteria in your kitchen deliberately for consumption). I tried my first cashew fruit today; it was difficult to eat something that sucked all the moisture out of my mouth even as its juice threatened to run down my chin.

And now, What I’ve Learned So Far:

1. If you go to a tailor to have some clothes made, and he refuses to take your measurements but instead relies on your friend to do it even though your friend claims not to know what she is doing, you should run away immediately. In no way should you leave your very beautiful fabrics with this man. Otherwise, all your new clothes may end up being incredibly huge—as in, wear-with-a-friend, pregnancy-might-help-for-the-middle-but-even-that-won’t-help-these-huge-arm-holes large. The “A-line” [read: Rectangular] skirt has a drawstring, so it is mostly okay (if not the most flattering). The skirt’s pockets are completely fantastic, so that is an upside at least. But the dress was mildly horrific and a little bit falling off, so we asked him to take about two inches off the sides, and now it too is mostly okay. In other clothing news, I had asked for two A-line skirts from another seamstress, and they are mostly okay except the elastic is too small in the waist and threatens to bisect me. I was given a choice of a button-and-zipper waistband, an elastic waistband, or a drawstring waistband. I chose the drawstring and got an elastic waistband with a hook and zipper. Oy. Sarah says we need to cover our heads when we go into the village to maintain the height of modest, so the tailors used my extra fabric to make head scarves. I’ve been experimenting with the head scarves, and it isn’t bad at all. Since the shower has no hot water, mid-afternoon is the ideal shower time, and without hairdryers or curling irons, wearing hair you can be proud of becomes a challenge. But we don’t have bad hair days in the village. Pirate hair days, or the occasional gypsy hair day, sure. But never a bad hair day.

2. Kids make a lot of laundry. The Esalas celebrate a different activity each night of the week: Sunday is Game Night; Monday is Family Meeting Night; Wednesday is TV Night. And Saturday is Date Night. Date Night is, naturally, only celebrated by Sarah and Nathan, but it recently became the best big fun when I invited the three Esala girls over on Saturday evenings for Date Night with Aunt Christina (because I can beat an early bedtime any day). We have a picnic dinner on the floor and then do some fantastic activity after dinner. Last week we baked a cake and drew faces on the backs of each other’s toes to make little rows of people we could watch dance in the mirror. The first night, Sarah had to bribe the girls to come with kool-aid and ice cream, but they seem to have warmed up quickly. And my laundry for the week in the towel-and-washcloth area triples in those few hours.

3. There’s totally a phone tree. Sarah and I drove maybe 5 or 10 minutes toward the Middle of Nowhere to a certain large tree, around which cell phones tend to get reception if the wind isn’t too strong. I called my family and talked for about 40 minutes for the bargain price of 5 dollars. “Who needs a phone booth?” Sarah says. Well, who does?

This week’s Suggested Prayer Topics are Karissa’s schooling, our upcoming vacation, and praise God for dead mice. Also, Nathan has been traveling a lot lately and is, in fact, traveling now.

1. Karissa’s schooling is going well, but we’re still looking for the right workload for her. I don’t know what 3^rd graders should be expected to do. We’re trying to find a place where Karissa gets a good education without being unnecessarily overwhelmed.

2. We’re going on vacation next Friday. Just a weekend trip to a game reserve in . . . the country just north of Ghana, name very similar to Burkato Faso, but probably not spelled like that.

3. Dead mice are my favorite kind. I’ve experienced no mouse activity since Crafty Glutton. Woohoo!

4. Nathan and his Ghanaian colleges have been traveling around to various Konkomba villages to share with them about their work. They left Monday morning, and I don’t think anyone quite knows when they’ll be back.

I think that’s about all I’ve got. Just in case you’re interested, Katie My Sister has made a blog for me. So if you are more of a blog person than an email person, you’re invited to <http://christinariddle.blogspot.com/>. Also, I’m hoping to get some photos to Katie My Sister so she can put them online. That website is <http://christinariddle.myphotoalbum.com/>. If all goes well, you can expect to find pictures of Date Night, mafia mouse poop, and various yard animals, plus short videos of Fire Festival and fufu making. I got a very fine picture of some furry pigs; unfortunately, they turned at the last second and left me photographing their backsides. Well, you can’t have everything. Just so you know, I took no pictures of dead mouse bodies, so please be at peace and approach my photo website with confidence.

Christina

No Mouse in the Pot

2008-01-19T13:37:00.001-05:00

Friday, January 18, 2008
No Mouse in the Pot

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! Thanks so much for all your emails. I read and read; it was great.

A word about sheep and goats: Yes, sheep tails go down and goat tails go up, so that is a sure-fire way to tell them apart, as I’ve heard from multiple reliable sources. The thing is . . . well, who goes around looking at animals’ butts first thing? I mean, when you’re about ready to mow one down with your car, are you really thinking, “Whoa! Better watch out for that [quick peek at its hiney] . . .”? No. Because it isn’t quite polite, is it? Katie My Sister suggests I call them all “shoats,” which is, of course, a completely brilliant solution.

I just took a quick break to throw rocks at the cow trying to maul down the tree in my front yard (the one to the left, from which they may not eat). I throw like a girl, but he was still properly intimidated.

Last week, Thursday was Email Day, which means a trek into Nalarigoo (that’s my own special spelling), where the missionaries at the Baptist Medical Center have internet. Their children and the Esala children also have art and science classes together. It’s about a 45 minute trip for us over dirt roads in great need of repair. The Esalas have a formidable SUV, but the craters in the road make for a very bumpy ride nonetheless. (You know how on rollercoasters you sometimes fly up out of your seat a little due to a particularly sudden drop? It’s like that. After one noteworthy crater on the way home, Sarah looked down at the eggs in their uncovered carton on the seat between us and asked, “Wasn’t there an egg in that spot too?” Oy. We quickly found it under her seat, so no worries.) Well. As we bumped our way there, we came across two men on a motorcycle that had broken down. We left one with the bike and took the other with us. We were also transporting Elizabeth, Sarah’s friend from the village. While we were loading Motorcycle Man into the back of the SUV, another motorcycle caught up to us, this one bearing Elizabeth’s son and a man from the village, John, whose hand had swollen inexplicably, and he suspected a snake bite. So we piled John with the Swollen Hand into the back with Motorcycle Man and made our way to Nalarigoo.

The day was exhaustingly full with school and the overall magnitude of the outing, plus a trip to the tailor for me, a stop in the next little town to pick up the mail, and a few stops at little vendors’ booths for things like the afore mentioned eggs (2 ½ dozen, fresh) and chickens (3 whole, dead). The thing is that Nathan usually does half of this stuff while Sarah has school with the kids, but Nathan was out of town and I don’t know how to do anything useful so we all had to do everything together. We were tired but well enough and glad to be going home when we loaded ourselves and John with the Swollen Hand (not a snake bite; the doctors hooked him up with medication) into the SUV and started our trek over the crater-pitted roads toward home.

I mentioned in my last email that Baby Aili (say “EYE-lee) wasn’t feeling well. The thing is she didn’t really have any symptoms, she just wasn’t herself. Well. We were just far enough in our trek home to make turning around and heading back toward the hospital something to decide for or against. I’d like to say she “threw up” or “vomited,” but “blew chunks” (of papaya, it seemed) is a far more accurate description. Oy vey. We continued on home because, as my doctor in Ohio says, “People, in general, tend to get better,” and, after all, everybody feels better after they barf.

Sarah and I had already decided that I should stay for dinner. I would make pancakes in the shape of turtles, and she would focus on 3 kids and baths. So I cooked, and Sarah got baths going, leaving Karissa in charge. Half-naked children skipped through the house holding their clothes. Baby Aili sat in a bucket of bathwater on the kitchen floor, throwing up faster than she could get anything down and whining her distress. Sarah repackaged the food we’d bought for freezing or cooking and got it put away, taking periodic breaks to clean up barf. I burnt the first couple pancakes, but the rest were pretty okay. And yet everyone (except Aili) was perfectly calm. It was the perfect time to totally freak out, but nobody was seizing the opportunity. The only other incident came when Annaka’s turtle pancake allegedly peed on her plate, but that was a great joy to all and in no way cause for distress.

I awoke Friday morning at 5:00 (aka before the sun) to Sarah calling from outside my window. Baby Aili had barfed all night, so we decided to go back to Nalarigoo. I sat by Aili’s car seat to hold the bowl and catch her barf until we got into town, then I held her (which is not her favorite) while Sarah tried to find the doctor, and Aili’s barf mostly made it into the bowl but sometimes made it onto my dress (which is not my favorite). We decided the doctors must’ve either already left for the hospital, or they were still sleeping. So we went to one of the guest houses for breakfast, where we ran into a short term volunteer, who happened to be a pediatrician. She checked Aili over, but we still wanted to see Aili’s doctor. We dropped Karissa and Annaka at Dr. Hewitt’s house because his wife, Mona, is good friends with Sarah and the kids are all friends, and Sarah and I spent the morning trekking through the hospital finding doctors, getting blood work done (the test for malaria—it was negative), and finally getting Aili a shot for nausea in hope she could keep enough down to stay hydrated (which she did). It was a lot of trekking, mostly because Friday is a clinic day at the hospital, so many people had traveled far to see the doctors. We spent most of the day at Mona’s house watching movies, feeding Aili popsicles, and cleaning up popsicles barfed. Mona tried to convince me that this was all part of living in Africa, but except for the part where we camped outside the sleeping doctor’s room for a leisurely breakfast while we waited for her to wake up, it seemed more standard for life with kids than something specific to Africa.

I’ll save Saturday was Market Day and Sunday at church for another email and skip directly to Tuesday: Meeting [pause] The Chief. I mentioned that anyone who lives in the village has to meet The Chief, so I know you’re eager to hear how it went. First of all, hats off to Sarah for suggesting I change my skirt. Turns out ankle-length is best for meeting The Chief because everybody has to squat down in front of him and clap while he’s Greeting people. Well. Nathan came to get me Friday morning and we made the short hike into the village. Sarah couldn’t come because Annaka was barfing. We passed a few people Nathan knew, and he introduced me as his friend’s sister because, in this polygamist society, it’s easier if we have a clearly defined relationship. We sat for a bit to Greet some people Nathan knew (Greeting people is a big deal—that’s why I’m giving it the big “G”), and we ran into John with the Swollen Hand, who is doing much better. It’s funny to hear them talk. I have no idea what anybody’s saying, then abruptly they’ll start making noises and hand-motions that clearly mean “Alright, Nathan, translate what we said and tell the Stranger.” And Nathan dutifully obliges them. This time, they wanted me to know they’d heard I didn’t have a husband (oy vey), and one of them in particular was open to the job, just so I knew. Fantastic.

We finished up there and continued our way through the village. Nathan had briefed me on the squat-and-clap thing, and I was under the impression we were going to Isaac’s house (whoever Isaac is) to have a little practice session, lest I screw it up and off with my head and all that. We walked through a door into a rather large compound, but nobody actually told me we were at The Chief’s house. Someone started arranging molded plastic lawn chairs under the shade of a grass awning, and then The Chief himself (except I didn’t know he was The Chief), another guy (maybe he was Isaac), Nathan, and I all sat down. My first clue that this guy was The Chief was when he started talking and Nathan slid off his chair into a squat and started clapping. So I slid down there too and clapped until Nathan stopped. Then we all had some pito—Nathan and The Chief first, then when The Chief was finished he had his gourd refilled and passed it to me. Pito is beer. They make it in the morning and, as the day progresses, it gets more and more fermented. Pito is served in half a dried gourd, smaller than half a basketball (often), but larger than half a volleyball—just large enough, in fact, that I can’t quite handle it with one hand. Thankfully, since I am a Stranger, everyone is aware I need to become accustomed to pito slowly, so they only give me a little bit and not a full gourd. Oy. So The Chief and Nathan talked while I drank my pito, and eventually The Chief started making those translate-and-tell-the-Stranger motions. The Chief would like me to know that they like strangers here, so I am welcome. And if I would like to return to the U.S. and get more degrees (in what, I’m not sure; perhaps that was in the bit on conversation I missed) and then come back to Ghana, I could make my home here and I would be welcome. The Chief would even find someone for me to marry. Oy.

And now, another happy edition of What I’ve Learned so Far:

1. Pigs can be furry. I’m not talking about “I’m a mammal, you’re a mammal, mammals have fur” kind of fur. I’m talking about dirty, matted, full winter coat, “looks a lot like shag carpet” kind of fur. I know it’s not nice to stare, but it’s pretty unbelievable, and I have trouble looking away.

2. Holland is The Netherlands. Karissa started school together this week (3^rd grade), and that’s what I’ve got so far. I also have hopes of memorizing my multiplication facts (better late than never, eh?) and getting a better grasp on American history (because what’s not fun about that?). I enjoyed reading the book Walk the World’s Rim by Betty Baker, and I recommend it if you’re looking for some easy reading that is also worthy.

3. Sometimes bats can sound like mice. Turns out what I thought must be Circus Mice living behind the ceiling above my bed are actually bats. Nathan was crawling around my attic installing fans, and he saw them. I’m very glad to have bats and not mice.

4. Mouse poop sweeps right up. I was baking bread on Thursday, and I went to the drawer for a measuring cup. A very cute mouse and I were very surprised to see each other, as evidenced by his scramble to flee and my very loud (and amazingly high-pitched) yelp. I retrieved (and washed) my measuring cup, but I left the drawer open (because who wants that kind of experience twice?) and proceeded with the bread. I was almost to the kneading stage with my hands caked in dough when Little Mouse tentatively crept toward the front of the drawer, nose and ears twitching, and rose on his hind legs to peer at me. If I decided to kill things or not based on how cute they were, he would’ve been saved. But that’s not how I operate (note as evidence the variety of the un-cute I have left alive). I tripped down my treacherous path toward the Esalas, calling to Karissa (who was outside), who quickly passed word to Sarah (who was in the house). They came at a sprint with some of Sarah’s house help, but by the time they arrived Little Mouse had wisely fled. They helped clean out my drawer and wash the dishes therein, and that’s when I discovered the poop on the counter (NOT where I was making the bread—the OTHER counter) and that mouse poop sweeps right up, no problem. In case you’re curious, I set my own ingenious trap for Little Mouse involving my large cook pot and a dollop of peanut butter. The idea is he’ll climb into the cook pot to get the peanut butter but won’t be able to climb back up the slippery sides. I’m pretty pumped about my trap; though I’d be more excited if it’d actually caught anything. I don’t think Little Mouse visited last night, as I saw no mouse in the pot and no poop on the counter. Once he’s caught, though, I thought I’d give him to The Good Guard Abulai, who guards our house during the day (well, “guards” is perhaps a strong word; he mostly just hangs out to discourage the wrong kind of lurkers and does man-work like cutting the grass, fixing stuff, and killing mice). The Good Guard Abulai eats mice (or, at least he did once I’ve heard), so I thought he might like to eat Little Mouse. You might think it’s unkind of me to have such thoughts about Little Mouse, but if you poop in my silverware drawer, I’ll have unkind thoughts about you too. In fact, you’ll be lucky if all I do to you is catch you in a pot and turn you over to Abulai.

5. Carrying stuff on your head is harder than it looks. I had my first go at it today on my way home from market when I carried a watermelon in a large head-pan. Sarah and I gave all the villagers a nice laugh when we loaded our Market Day purchases into head-pans and awkwardly perched them on our heads. Sarah isn’t so bad; she’s had a lot of practice. But today was my first day. We needed help to wind the cloth to make a flat place for the pans to sit on our heads, but then we were set in our Western clothes and sun-hats, sunglasses, and head-pans. I’m sure we looked ridiculous, and I needed my arms to balance the pan, but it was pretty fantastic.

This week’s Suggested Prayer Topics are mostly general. Thank God Aili and Annaka are well and no longer throwing up. I’m still healthy too, though I stopped brushing my teeth in bottled water this week and switched to water from the tap. We started Karissa’s schooling this week, and that’s going well. She was pretty whiney today but in general has been a joy to work with. You could pray against mice and snakes and all creatures undesirable. Nathan and some of the villagers are starting to get my English classes set up to begin in a week or two, so you could also pray about that.

Thanks for reading, dear long-suffering people! I’m off now to the Esalas to see Karissa and her friends (Mona’s daughters) who are in from Nalarigoo to visit. We’re all going to the Fire Festival tonight, and I’m in charge of fire-“proofing” everyone’s hair.

Christina

P.S. Saturday, January 19, 2008. When I went into my bedroom to sleep last evening, I found a single pellet of mouse poop on my bed—a message from Little Mouse, no doubt. Apparently, Little Mouse has ties to The Godfather. I admit I am distressed by this development—distressed, but not deterred. Alright, Little Mouse. It is on.

Bats: Good; Rats: Bad

2008-01-19T13:36:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, January 8, 2008
Bats: Good; Rats: Bad

Dear Everyone,

Greetings! I hope this note finds you well (unless you are my sister, in which case you will no doubt be irritated at my throwing around the word “note,” but I hope you are well in every other respect).

Perhaps you’ve heard about the horrifically high temperatures we endure here in Ghana. Well. I won’t say it’s cold precisely, but I will admit to appreciating my blanket at night, enjoying a light sweater in the morning, and wishing my shower had a hot water option in the evening. Or at least a luke-warm water option. Oy.

It is the dry season, you see. This means temperatures are a little lower and anyone who doesn’t drink enough water may evaporate on the spot. It also means I’m combating nosebleeds, much as I do during winter in Ohio. We also endure a phenomenon known as [insert name here], which is when sand storms from the Sahara send their dirt down this way to dust our floors faster than we can mop them and to fill the air such that it looks like fog at dusk.

I arrived in Nasuan a few days ago and have spent the time moving in and unpacking, deciphering Karissa’s school curriculum, and getting settled in in general. My little house is quite quaint, with a nice-sized bedroom and bathroom and a larger main room divided into sections for kitchen and eating area, living room, and office. Sarah Esala has a few plans still underway for improvements—they include a few more curtains (most notably in the bathroom), a new bedspread that matches the curtains, and a few wall-hangings to add that homey touch (the height of luxury, no?)—so I will send along pictures once these little details are in place.

I have not yet ventured into the village (we live sort of on the edge), so I haven’t met many people besides the Esalas and a few other missionaries who live “nearby.” On Saturday, however, I’m going to meet [pause] The Chief [insert forbidding music]. Apparently, anyone who wants to live in the village has to be introduced. So Nathan Esala, as head of the household, is taking me. It also works out that Nathan happens to speak Konkomba and so can communicate with The Chief. Otherwise, The Chief and I could stumble through one basic morning greeting (with the stumbling mostly on my part probably; I suspect The Chief speaks Konkomba fairly well). Then I could say “thank you,” and we’d be out of phrases both of us would understand. Anyway, Chief. Saturday. Something to look forward to. Right.

And Saturday is also Market Day this week, so I’m excited to see how that goes as well.

I need to wrap up and get out because it’s almost Radio Time (not sure what that means, but it does involve switching the electricity to a voltage my computer won’t like), so I won’t have time to tell you how I conquered my gas stove in 15 matches or less while sustaining only one second-degree burn, how I enjoyed eating yams (the white kind, not the sweet potato kind) very much but okra less so because okra looks like snot, and how I often have the pleasure of cows (and the occasional donkey) in my front yard, and the cows may eat from any tree except the tree to the left, lest Sarah throw things at them.

Today’s Suggested Prayer Topics include Karissa’s schooling, which will begin next week; Baby Aili, who doesn’t feel very well; death to mice living in my house and the Esalas’ house; and life in general. I’m praising God for my health: no malaria, and regular bowel movements. Life is good. And the night watchman shot a rat the other day. Plus also, I’m enjoying the bats because they eat mosquitoes and make cool sounds at night.

Hope all is well with you. I’ll hopefully be reading all the emails you’ve been sending, but probably not until after I’ve sent this (so I may not reply until next week).

Christina

Christina Never Had a Farm

2008-01-19T13:33:00.000-05:00

Saturday, January 5, 2008
Christina Never Had a Farm

Greetings, Everyone!

I’m just completing my 3^rd full day in Ghana, and all is well. I’ve only had one near-meltdown so far, and I think we can all agree that, in this case, “close” definitely doesn’t count.

I’ve spent the last 2 days shopping. And since we’re in the habit of agreeing with each other, I know you’ll agree that that in itself is worth crying over. It might’ve been in the fourth or fifth grocery store (because no one grocery store can be expected to carry everything—or even the same things all the time) when I was trying to buy groceries for the entire month (because that’s how long we have between trips to the store) and having no idea what I might need. I just became overwhelmed and instead of logical, sustaining truths such as “people live in the village, so some kind of food must be available,” I could only think of, well, “a person can go 40 days without food, so I should be okay.” Oy vey. Not exactly a cheering thought, eh? Oy.

Anyway, the food shopping is now done, and I even did some clothes shopping as well. The fabrics are so beautiful; I can’t wait to show you—but since the fabrics are still with the tailor, we’ll have to wait a few weeks. We’re heading to Nasuan (that’s the village; say “NA-soo-ahn”) in the morning.

Okay, it’s time to sleep, and that’s why I’m ending this email abruptly with 2 mentions of What I’ve Learned So Far (hopefully a reoccurring feature).

1. Roosters can crow anytime, day or night, and not just in the morning. Who knew?

2. Apparently, I can’t tell the difference between sheep and goats. I mean, when I see a goat, I know it. But sheep are tricky. When I see a sheep, I’m confused but leaning toward thinking it’s a goat. How’s that for a hole in my education? And my dad works for the Ohio Farm Bureau. Embarassing. And no wonder Jesus has to separate those guys in the end.

My Suggested Prayer Topics are still just general. Praise God for uneventful travel and no illness yet despite the mosquitoes and all the fun stuff I’ve been eating. This week I’ll be settling into the village, so that’s kind of a big deal I guess.

Hope all is well with you!

Christina