Monday, September 29, 2008

All Kinds of Visitors

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

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

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Stepstool of Doom and a Cinnamon Tree

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.

Suggested Prayer Topics are

1. Travel in general, as most people are usually going somewhere and the roads do not always handle rain sufficiently.

2. Health in general, especially Sarah in her pregnancy and everyone at risk for malaria (so, really, everyone).

3. And a cat.

Christina

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Must Be Present to Win?

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.

Saturday, July 5, 2008

Battle

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

Monday, May 26, 2008

A Mini-Email, with Just Two Abrupt Points

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

Saturday, May 24, 2008

Everybody Loves a Good Malaria Story

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

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Women’s Work

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

Monday, May 19, 2008

Chicken Mothers

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 29th or 30th. 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

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