Western infiltration

To most Americans, mass transit is a novelty done only in places like NYC or DC or Europe. Piloting your own phaeton through the mayhem is a navigational nightmare to say the least. But in the boonies, a bus may be as suited to the terrain as I fit the qualifications for ambassador from the afterlife. Nimble, rugged, simple: all quintessential attributes to daily life here in Rwanda, and even Africa as a whole. Magnify the necessary capabilities four-fold to travel to my meager residence. Why this discourse on the African form of offroading? It all started yesterday morning. I was headed to Kibuye to catch the bus to Kigali. The drive to Kibuye bus station is about 30 km and a mere 1 km of that is surface with tarmac. The remainder bears a smorgasbord of toppings which change daily: wood (bridges), gravel, dirt, mud, boulders, goat scat, streams, and small oceans. To save money, I bummed a ride from the ambulance, as did about 8 other people. My bus was scheduled to leave at 11 (some friends had gone to town earlier and bought my ticket). Finally, about 9:50, the ambulance embarked on its delivery. About half way through, the driver assured me I would arrive in time. However, with 2 km to go, we deviated from the road more traveled because a bridge washed away (not entirely but our Land Cruiser was too wide; motorcycles could still cross, which my friends had ridden). Half way through the detour, we approached two large Isuzu delivery trucks firmly entrenched in the muck with no hope of quick rescue. We had to slither around and between them (they were staggered). 4-Low, lock the differentials, etc. Let's go! 10 meters later, we were stuck and burrowing ever deeper into the ground and despair. But the village people! With 4-wheel and 20-foot drive, we shook loose our bonds and stormed into Kibuye throwing mud everywhere. The bus driver had waited several minutes for me after a plethora of frantic calls. Finally, he resolved to forgo the delay and cut his losses. I was 500 meters away. At the bus station, we learn of our misfortune, but the driver couldn't accept defeat. We jumped back in the now quite dirty Land Cruiser and chased the bus all the way to the next town 15 km away. For added effect and to skirt police interest, lights flashed (it is an ambulance after all) like a laser light extravaganza. Long story in a short format: I both missed and caught the same bus.

I have previously mentioned L'Esperance, a haven to so many on so many levels. A few months ago, the orphanage couldn't have accepted Christmas as a financially feasible endeavor. But some of the first generation of "graduates" from the orphanage decided to change this. While not wealthy by any stretch, they paid for over half of the Christmas festivities, in which I participated. First, on Sabbath, the muzungus (one Philippino-German, 1 Brit, 2 Americans, 2 Ugandans, and the Guatemalan orphanage director) meandered down to Lake Kivu, a 2 mile walk that drops 1,000 feet. Dugout canoes (bailing was mandatory), lunch, relaxation, swimming, huddling in the hut during the rain: all part of the experience. Some kids eventually joined us, having been detained by a zealous evangelist. The real party began Sunday. Volleyball matches, feasts for 150 people, singing, dancing, speeches, gifts, and worship. Miriam, a volunteer from several years ago who returned for the holiday, personally matched gifts with over 100 children, keeping in mind each one's likes and dislikes. What I admired the most was that despite the celebratory nature of the day, they still retained their morning and evening worship services, lest they forget the source of their fortune.

In the course of one day, I see so much variety, especially when traveling between Kigali and Mugonero. Many people walk or bike while people whiz by in Mercedez and Land Rovers. Houses without electricity have fiber-optic internet cables running through the front yard. More than these disparities in living conditions is the level to which Europe and America have imprinted the minds. Who chased a bus 15 km when another bus was leaving in a 2 hours and costs $4? Who sacrificed so much for their "little siblings" at the orphanage? Who held to their most revered activity in the face of an overwhelmingly materialistic celebration? These people overlook the fact that I am so much like the people in Kigali and treat me like one of their own. Knowing the West hasn't brainwashed every aspect of local life brings a smile to my mind, and watching their fascination with my arm hair brings one to my face.

(Pictures are on Facebook, the internet is too slow to upload them here too)

Holiday Cheer

Flickering lights. Greenery. People bustling about. It’s all part of something so familiar to us Western society dwellers. Here in Rwanda, we have all the lights, greenery, and people, but it’s not the same. The lights flicker because the fluorescent bulbs are burning the ballast (that could be your problem Cristy/Elisa), the greenery vaguely describes everything in sight, and people go about their daily business. You ask, “Is Christmas even a holiday in Rwanda?” It most certainly is. School no longer occupies the children. It’s a day of no work, well except in a hospital.

To what do we attribute holiday cheer? What is the source of it? Elaborate feasts? Yuletide carols? Exquisite decorations? Family and friends? Uncharacteristic generosity? Brisk winter air with a hint of apple cider or hot cocoa? Nightmarish shopping sprees? When none of these present themselves, then what? For a Western culture, Christmas without these is like a rapper without his moocher thug posse or a Sigg without its dents; the identity has been lost. Only those who have been there all along to witness all the highs and lows can really understand. I find that despite my best efforts, Christmas has simply not come to town because the typical characteristics are, well, somewhere else, somewhere colder.

What am I doing to get in the holiday spirit? First of all, I created an extensive Christmas playlist on my iPod and have been through it countless times. While many of you are enjoying (or loathing) the snow, daily thunderstorms mesmerize me. I have even been drinking the local version of hot chocolate, laced with sugar to cope with its shortcomings. But more than any of these, I have been thinking about those who support me all over the world. Whether it’s people mocking Karsten and me from the islands, spiritual challenges and reflections from Central America, random 30-second stories from Asia, catching up on the latest news from Southern Africa, or the skype calls from America, you are all helping to bring the season of cheer to me, the Holiday Cheermeister, "...the soul at Christmas who needs it most..."

When the term holiday cheer is separated, I can better relate. On holiday, what happens (stereotypically)? You go to some tropical country where you don’t speak the local language, food is way overpriced because you’re a tourist and it’s “ethnic”, and living more simply is desirable? And that’s a grandiose vacation? After a week of this, you return to your dull American life but have very fond memories of some far away land. That’s the cheer from your holiday. You can imagine me in a hammock, listening to the Beach Boys, eating fresh pineapple, and watching the sunset because that’s the plan after work tomorrow. That’s some good holiday cheer! But this isn't vacation, this is daily work and life.

FDR and his New Deal, Obama’s flurry of everything, George W. Bush and his dictionary of new words – all began in the first 100 days of stepping up to the plate. Today marks the 100th day of my arrival in Africa. What have I done and how has it been? Four countries, four projects, forlorn efforts to learn foreign languages, forfeited luxuries, forays into business and cultural politics, foreseeable improvement, forever changing circumstances, fortifying of my belief I’m doing what God wants, forged friendships. Forgettable? I should say not. Forty-percent done (technically 40.8%), but the forthcoming bit will be the most formidable.

Here are a few pictures. There is one of a memorial to the Rwandan Genocide that happened almost 17 years ago. It's less than 100 meters from my house.

The city on a hill

I know it's been a while since I wrote, but in the mean time I have been lots of places (which will probably make for a long entry). It started in Gimbi, Ethiopia. Wes arrived in Gimbi about the 28th of November. We surveyed lots of the problems around the hospital, most of which had never been brought to my attention, and developed courses of action. The concrete filters were poured with help and direction from some PUC area folk. The wiring for the new pump house was laid. On Sabbath morning, Taylor, Christina, Ben, Bill, and I set off for a hill to have a church service in nature. We meandered through valleys, tiptoed across creeks, and waded through crowds of children yelling "faranje!" (foreigner). Now I should mention that Gimbi Adventist Hospital is on the side of a hill, but is very close to the top. From our church perch 4 km away (the walking distance was about 6 km one way), we could still see the hospital complex staking its claim as the premier healthcare facility for the region. A song service preceded Ben's Bible study and contained his consistently incredible insight. Before we headed back, we wanted to check out the pits. From a distance, they appeared to be a colorful rock formation in a quarry. Closer inspection revealed that the "rocks" were actually clay and could easily be broken into pieces, revealing even more color beneath.

The following day, David, Wes, Christina, and myself headed to Addis in a minibus all to ourselves. Olivia and Sarah joined us for the Guder-to-Addis stint. Over the next couple days, we traversed the city looking for restaurants (we had Mexican food!), fabric for a project, and quite often each other. Wes and I finally flew out on Tuesday morning, with an early afternoon arrival in Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. A driver from Mugonero Hospital greeted us, and we piled into the Hilux for the drive to the hosptial, which sits 1800 meters above sea level on the western edge of the country. (Hardly a place in the country is flat. Most of the time, the road is carved out of the hillside with the road climbing to over 2.25 km in elevation.) Looking out the windows, I saw gorgeous terrain, much of which was terraced to enhance the yield of the incredibly well-watered soil. And talk about green! Everything from the leaves to the mangoes to the bananas reflects green! Mugonero Hospital sits on top of a hill overlooking Lake Kivu. The best view greeted me the next morning from my porch, Lake Kivu stretched before us, laying a couple kilometers away and several hundred meters below. A beast to be sure, but not of burden. Instead, a source of life for millions.

After having trudged through this and that in the assessment process, Wes and I began looking for a place to potentially drill a well and place a tank for a backup water supply for the hospital. A site on an adjacent hill looked promising, especially once we went to investigate. Exactly where we wanted to locate a water tank sat the cradle for another water tank from years ago. It once supplied the area with a valuable source of water and may soon provide backup water to the hospital.

On Friday, we made our way to the L'Esperance orphanage (not operated by the SDA church). It sits atop an adjacent ridge about 1.5 km away. Run by a Guatemalan, it receives significant funding and many volunteers from international organizations representing Belgium, Germany, and America to name a few. With 127 children in his care, Victor (the headmaster) has quite a handful and yet gives so selflessly and openly to everyone (indeed, he was more welcoming to me than even my own hospital, for whom I will be working free of charge).

The next Sunday, December 12, Wes and I once again were on the road. At a mere 5 hours, this was the least traveling Wes had done on a Sunday in nearly a month. We returned to Kigali primarily so he could catch his flight back to Malawi. However, we had time to do some other business in the capital. Being new to the country, I needed to find some potential suppliers. We needed to know the extent of the hospital property so we could be certain any drilled wells were on hospital property. And Wes wanted to look at a low-cost ceramic filter technology. Kigali is built on a series of hills, with each hill containing a couple boroughs. The place we stayed had a name which I have already forgotten, but it was essentially embassy row and was located along the spine of one of the hills. South Africa, Egypt, the USA, as well as many others were all on our street. And yet, at the bottom of the hill is a local business making silver ion-laced ceramic filters, which help to kill organisms in the water and require no power. The plan is to sell them to the people living in the less developed portions of the country who don't have access to clean water.

And so, it seems that no matter where I go, there is always some beacon on a hill, an institution standing above the rest. Sometimes, the more prominent building with advanced technology considers itself to be respected because of power and might. Other times, the beacon is considered such because of the years of service provided to the community. These buildings mean so much more than what they have to give. Those who visit them, whether for a day or a year, know that the blessing gained by being there is far greater than any services offered.

The Door

Quick question! How long is a minute? The answer is quite obviously dependent upon which side of the bathroom door you happen to occupy. It all started over two weeks ago. One of the guys here (Paul V.) has taken two local boys (both of whom have HIV) under his wing. They come over to the house and one went into the bathroom. Somehow, he managed to lock himself inside the bathroom. The problem is that here, keys are used to open doors from both directions. In this case, the key resided inside the room. Therefore, we couldn't even unlock the door to extract the youngster. After about 10 minutes of confusion, translating, and door knocking, the boy strolled out triumphant at having conquered the door.

Fast forward to almost two weeks ago. It's Monday night and I am scheduled to leave for Addis Ababa at 4:30 Tuesday morning. One last facebook check, necessary emails, more CAD, etc. I finally leave the office about 8 pm. Hunger pangs remind me that lunch was not recent and the throne room beckons. I walk out of Mark's office only to find that the entire administrative hallway is locked. I have keys to lock Mark's office door, but no keys to unlock the entrance to the admin hallway. Ergo, I am locked in the offices and everyone has been gone for hours. Wait! Who's chatting on Skype out in the chapel (which is just outside aforementioned hallway)? Monica. I start banging on the door. I can see through the crack, but she can't see me. A worried glance cast my way. More banging. An "am I going crazy?" glance my way. More banging. Finally she asks what's happening. I explain the situation and she finds a guard to free me from my captivity. Relieved of nothing truly satisfying, I hurry home to change that.

It turned out that I didn't go to Addis on Tuesday. I finally made it on Thursday with about 15 other people from Gimbi. Comfortable would describe the journey as well as balmy describes Siberia. It was as crowded as the Tokyo subway. Still, at least I knew everyone instead of a trip with 50+ strangers. Ah, Addis Ababa, and a hotel and dinner. On the way back, all of us headed for the hotel found a minibus. We didn't intend to turn him into a taxi, but when your group occupies the whole bus, some things just happen. So we are cruising through the streets trying to recall directions. I realize we have missed the turn, but don't know where we missed it. Christina is calling people trying to get directions and our driver keeps going in the wrong direction. Finally, he pulls onto the expressway/freeway and promptly whips a U-turn. Except that this has a barricade instead of a median. He had turned right into oncoming traffic. After a few expletives from passers-by, we return to the correct course, and, after at least three phone calls, arrive at the hotel, frustrated, tired, and overcharged because we are white.

Friday and the promise of Land Cruisers. The Land Cruiser is the legionnaire of Africa. It travels by road when roads exist and makes them when they don't. It conquers all with little more than a refill of its favorite beverage - diesel. They stand imposingly battle-ready, clad with brushguards, running boards, and roof racks. Whether they are mere infantry (the 70 series), centurions (80 series), generals (90 series), Praetorian guards keeping all manner of foreign and local dignitaries safe (100 series), or Caesar himself (200 series), the presence is never understated and yet never so imposing. If you want the job done right, or even so little as done at all, you have but one choice. We piled into three (two of which were rented), this meant 7 people per Land Cruiser with luggage and food and tents (and in some cases guards with Kalashnikovs, better known as AK-47 assault rifles). The drive to Awash wes only a couple hundred kilometers east, and with good roads, a mere few hours passed until our arrival at the gate. Then came the waiting. The guards couldn't figure out how much to charge us and we couldn't figure out how much to pay to enter Awash National Park. After who knows how long, we climbed aboard our beastly behemoths of burden to enter the park, and by climbed I mean we rode on top. Being in the second car meant we saw a few animals and a ton of dust, all of which took up residence in our eyes, ears, nose, mouth, lungs, and clothing. Then came the waterfall! A wide swath of cascades, thundering and resonating off the canyon walls like your heartbeat if you cliff-jumped down them. There, atop a rock, just slightly lighter in gray, a freshwater crocodile. Their reputation precedes them. After having experienced alligators several years ago, these little crocs' nonchalance made me wonder how true the rumors really were. Better to let someone else learn the lesson. I remained content without experimentation. Off to the campsite, a mere 40 kilometers away. We picked up two additional guards because the campsite we wanted had far less protection but much better accommodations, privacy, and wildlife. More rumbling and tossing and jolting greeted us until we stopped in an ominously flat and yet oddly green lea. Time to set up camp...in the dark...without a plan...without dinner...and without a proper toilet. This happened lickety-split because of someone's foresight at REI in making tents so simple to assemble. Dinner! A simple collection of vegetables, hotdogs (imported from Worthington Foods), bread, pasta, and a little dirt and charcoal to complete the scene. How did it manage to rival the quality of the Mediterranean restaurant the previous night? Sarah and Olivia worked miracles! Anywho, following our sufficient rations came a round of singing the songs you sang around the campfire as children before all this "contemporary" madness polluted our repertoire. Kumbaya, Siyahamba, Side by Side, and Give Me Oil In My Lamp (and all the nonsense verses as well) just to name a few. The quality of this too rivaled that of even the Vienna Boys Choir. The fire clapping its flames to the crackle, the crickets in the background adding their own melody to ours, the stars appearing and reforming their constellations, the shadows of the oasis in the moonlight reaching out to enrapture us. Now time for a dip! No, not a scoop of ice cream but a dip in the hot spring. About half a mile from our campsite was a spring and pool that are as clear as champagne glasses but with the hue of the sky at mid afternoon. It was hot, probably between 115-120 F. It was warm enough to make you consider your choice to enter, but only after you had already done so. It said, "You, my fair-skinned farange friend, may enter me as white and pasty as the ash of your campfire, but you shall exit as red as the coals that cooked your dinner." Some people entered, but I held my camera, flashlight, and peace. After a restless night, the weary white men and women returned to the spring for a morning bath, sans soap and towels and clean clothes and just about everything else associated with bathing. Oh what a morning! Breakfast, not of champions but of heros and conquerors! After more exploring, seeing crocodiles swimming in the same pond from which the cows were drinking, and tearing down camp, we headed back to the falls for lunch. This lunch was eaten quickly and shared with other park occupants, namely baboons who stole most of our food. If only we had taken the precautions to stay on the other side of the door, inside our nearly impervious Japanese chariots. In no time at all, we were back in Addis with grungy looks (and smells), no money, and memories to fill the bathtub needed to clean ourselves.

It wasn't even bright, but it was early and I was once again in the bathroom. Indian food the previous night coupled with some GI stuff from the weekend made Sunday, shall I say unpleasant? But this was no time for cowering in bed. The race of and for my life lay just hours before me. For the last ten years, Addis Ababa has held a 10 kilometer run, the proceeds of which help to fight hunger and poverty. About 10 or 12 of us had decided long ago to run this. And so, without training, in boots (it was all I had), at over 7500 feet elevation, in the heart of the capital, I ran with my life in everybody else's hands. When running with 30,000+ people, the first couple kilometers require about as much effort as brushing your teeth but the sensitivity of a venus fly trap. You know that if you fall, you will get hundreds of footmarks on your back. The crowd will do all the forward pushing, just stay on your feet! It was the most organized riot I have ever seen. And being a riot, you might ask "fight or flight?" Everyone chose the same thing. One hour, nine minutes, and thirty seconds later, I crossed the finish line. I placed 3rd in our Gimbi group and hopefully in the top third of all finishers. What exhaustion!

After the race, and the rest of Sunday for that matter, almost everyone packed and boarded. Mark, Trudy, Jonah, and Becky returned to the States on furlough. Everyone else (except myself and Ashibir) boarded a Gimbi-bound bus on Monday morning. I stayed to extend my visa and shop for some water project parts. Finally, I returned on Thursday, Thanksgiving day. The mode of transit? Ambulance (no patients present thankfully). It was the most luxurious 12 hour trip in Africa so far! Leg room! 110 V outlets! Luggage space! A BED! I would now like to give a shout out to the doctor in Hillsboro, OR who donated it, whose name escapes me.

And now, I must inquire (to nobody in particular) about the sensibility of economics (which really means they are as ludicrous as the amount of food I ate for Thanksgiving). (1). I was looking for flights around Africa. I can fly from Rwanda, through Addis, to Malawi (roundtrip) for half the price of simply flying Addis to Malawi roundtrip. I know this is common even in the States but I have never seen twice the distance for half the price. (2). In Bole International Airport (Addis Ababa), it costs $20 US to enter the country whether tourist or business on a one month, single entry visa. The currencies accepted for the transaction are the US dollar and the Euro (for which they do not give any change). Strange but believable. This week, when I went to the Immigration Office in downtown Addis, I learned that the Immigration Office only accepts USD for visa extensions. They don't even accept Birr, the official Ethiopian currency! (3). While in Malawi, I heard there was a limit to the amount of Malawi Kwacha one could take out of the country. I assume this is fairly common but the amount you are allowed to take out (and then return with to Malawi) will scarcely cover the taxi fare to or from the airport. You can barely even get into the country before you will be flat broke and provide no benefit to the economy. (4). There is a town named Ambo about 125 km from Addis on the way to Gimbi. They make a sparkling mineral water they have creatively named Ambo. This beverage is sold all over the country and yet costs twice as much to buy in an Ambo (town) restaurant than any other place in the country. Way to promote your business to the local community! (5). One thing they have managed to accomplish is ambiguity. Only expensive restaurants have menus, and therefore prices. This means people like me with rusty spots on their arms are suckers for robbery, but we can't often argue. Thankfully, there are usually some locals with us who prevent such. I am indebted to people like Ashibir and Gadisa for saving my hide multiple times this week.

"The Other Side of Heaven"

Yes, the title may be a little confusing. In this account of my actions, thoughts, and experiences, I have tried to always think about whatever it is from a different vantage point (i.e. the other side of "potluck", the other side of "construction", etc.), or sometimes it was actually from a different vantage point (the other side of "the road"). And so, this is "The Other Side of 'The Other Side of Heaven,' " which is my assessment and practical application of a film called "The Other Side of Heaven." It all started last Friday. While at dinner, I asked if any sort of vespers was going to happen. They replied, "Oh yeah, it's over at Paul's house and started half an hour ago. It's mostly singing and stuff." Before the bite of food had even vacated my pie-eating cavity, I was out the door and tripping over concrete steps in the dark. Soon enough, shoes removed themselves from my paws so I could creep into the back row. As life would always have it, almost everyone was facing my direction. There went that stealthy infiltration! Booming basses and screaming soprano children echoed their melodious tones throughout the concrete quarters. Locals and faranjes (the local non-derogatory word for foreigner, which was the first word I learned in Oromo and it still feels derogatory) both sang, but not necessarily in their native tongue. Many of the foreigners sang in Oromo from one of the many Oromo hymn books. Although not quite the talent of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, we sat there praising from the bottom of our hearts (no Katie, not the other way around). A so-much-more-than-satisfactory way to end the week. Heaven must be at least a little like this but so much better!

Again I stumbled through the darkness, missing steps and tripping over cracks until the VD (volunteer dormitory) doorstep welcomed me home. As per typical form, I entered a few minutes into a film. My first mental response? "A movie on the Sabbath? Hades will receive you with open flames, but only after becoming 7 times hotter!" Ok, that was a gross exaggeration, but it did surprise me. A verbal inquiry as to the nature of the film proved my assumptions hasty and ungrounded. "The Other Side of Heaven" tells the story of a Mormon missionary who travels to Tonga alone to minister. Some may think Mormons are good people and some may not. The point is not to cast any light on the depths of whatever shortcomings they have (for we all have something). Typhoons, water shortages, physical ailments (like getting your feet chewed by rats while you sleep), attempted seductions, a disapproving chief, an uncooperative missions board, and a girl back home who might marry someone else could have brought his work to an abrupt end.

Did I finish the plot? Nope. But you can fill in the ending (perhaps by watching it). How does this apply to my life here in Ethiopia? First, of all, the locals have a very specific way of life. I say that because the very way in which it is specific is also vague. Food, work/school, play, sleep. Always the same, but never in any particular order or fashion. This sort appears to be normal in equitorial, non-westernized societies (this is becoming more uncommon due to the infiltration of all manner of Western ideas, principally electricity, electronics, and time). Tonga had some form of religion, whether ancestrally, mythologically, or deity-based. Ethiopia also has many forms of beliefs. Christianity arrived quite early and took a strong foothold. But being so secluded, it morphed into a fairly unique set of traditions, customs, and beliefs. Islam also appeared, although a few centuries later. From my limited exposure, the two have certainly influenced each other, but Islam has better maintained the original identity. But the beliefs seem wrong to those of us from "proper" Christianity. Is Ethiopia lush and green, glittering with white-sand beaches, and bursting with happy and well fed families like Tonga? Lush and green would describe it. Ethiopia has essentially four colors (lots of colors exist but in small quantities). White: the color of most paint (initially anyway); Blue: together with white, are the colors of almost every taxi and minibus and the colors of Gimbi Hospital; Brown: (with a hint of orange) the color of dirt and everything nearby it; and Green: the color of everything else. White-sand beaches are uncommon in landlocked countries such as this. Families, for those who have them, usually have food but rarely leftovers. Happy? I would hope so, but smiles are a rarity in the hospital. These, particularly the last one, remind me that this is not heaven. Heaven may be lush and green, but we also know it has more than four colors. White-sand beaches would be a cool in heaven, especially in the absence of sunburn. Food? Trudy asked me what the Ethiopian equivalent of bears was (in reference to camping with food being abundant). I responded twenty-something year old males. Bring on the food! Families, happy ones without AIDS or deformities or malnutrition or alcohol-induced injuries-please make it happen!

My job is to make this place as much like heaven as possible (yeah, I have a long way to go). The first step (primarily because it was how I got here) was the need for clean water. But that's just a job. This Sabbath, I believe a few of us brought heaven a little bit closer. About 5 of us went through the hospital. We would greet everyone with a smile and a handshake (slightly modified on occasion to match local customs) and open with a song sung in Oromo. Paul and/or Pat would talk for just a few minutes about hope, love, and Jesus. Finally, Courtney or I would pray. Thankfully, we had a translator. Grim faces, both of the patients and the family members, generally cracked, sometimes barely enough to notice, when they heard what was said. I mentioned earlier that we have both Christians and Muslims. There are also those who adhere to nothing in particular. And yet, one's background hardly seemed to change the reaction. My thoughts, almost always analytical and constantly critiquing, continually drifted to the patients. What where they thinking? Why were they smiling? Would I smile if I were in their bed? Do I have a joyful heart in the midst of suffering?

And now that I have internet faster than snail mail (albeit barely), here are some slideshows (hopefully, they aren't working on my end).

This of my third trip to Mt. Mulanje, which was also my last Sabbath in Malawi (Photos courtesy of Cassie, Diane, and Chris). There will be lots of faces you haven't seen. Two guys (Adam and Drew) are Maranatha workers. Three gals (Cassie, Sam, and Alexia) are SMs in Blantyre. The Browns are also present, having only been in Malawi about a week and a half.

My first couple weeks in Gimbi, Ethiopia, including my project and my going-away gift, the "Bon Voyage" leaf Hannah carved for me. It traveled all the way from Malawi and managed to introduce a certain funk (in the form of an odor) to my suitcase and its contents.

The Real World

How many of us will admit to having watched MTV's "The Real World" tv series? I can say I have watched it when nothing else fit my fancy (i.e. the History Channel was talking about the influence of the French monarchy on American art and Sportscenter was on its 12th consecutive rerun). If you are unfamiliar with it, here's the gist:

Step 1.) Find about 9 mid-twenties people who have hot tempers, decent looks, drama beyond belief, and little in the way of morals.

Step 2.) Stick them all in one new-age psychedelic casa in some upscale neighborhood, usually near a beach and/or metropolis.

Step 3.) Give them "jobs" which consist of a fairly simple task or project, almost like they are back in collegiate general studies classes and have no other obligation to pass the class.

Step 4.) Inundate their lives with drinking and emotional trauma, all while separated from everything they have known, and record it with a camera 24/7.

Step 5.) Remove all the boring footage, leaving only the hot-tubbing, drinking, screaming, fighting, swearing, backstabbing, and gossiping to insinuate that life after college is glamorous.

Step 6.) Broadcast to the world this snapshot of a microcosm as ideal and brainwash youngsters with such propaganda.

My world (particularly the missionaries) here has so many differences, and yet some things are strangely similar. Our tempers rarely flare up in public, we don't have terrible emotional mood shifts, and morals do exist (quite a few in fact). We don't go drinking, and our jobs are truly productive, not to mention rewarding. We don't have cameras constantly monitoring us and propaganda is not our focus. I could go on for some time describing our differences. But what of our similarities? Let's examine. First of all, most of the people here fall in an age range of about +13/-2 years of me. Yes, that means I am one of the young ones. However, nobody is archaic either. Our housing, while quite basic (with our temperature controlled automatic windows [see earlier post]), is certainly on the upper end of the scale of that in our neighborhood. While not confined to one house, the campus seclusion and missionary openness makes any house yours (if we all lived in one house, well it'd be BAD). We also have our emotional issues (not complete mental breakdown every half hour) and are removed from all that we really know to be home. We must rely on each other for some sanity and comfort (sometimes in the form of chocolate). Would life here make a good reality series? Not with my cinematography skills! Even if I had some, I still say no. People might watch it, even the boring parts, and berate us, claiming we have idealized the mission field. You can only understand it through experience.

Whether it's rewiring ICU service columns and repiping the campus with Wes, chatting with Ryan and Sharlene about surguries and cockroaches, putting together jigsaw puzzles and playing cards at the guesthouse, or killing spiders and eating cookies while Cristy jams on the piano, life here is good. I am sad to say that today is my last day here at Malamulo Mission Hospital. No, I'm not headed back to the states. Tomorrow, I leave for a one month stint (so far, that could easily change as my departure plan has changed at least 10 times since Thursday, no joke) in Ethiopia. From there, I am scheduled to move to the western side of Rwanda, where I should be for several months. In less than 7 weeks, I have found a home. The people love sincerely and endlessly. While the work can be hard and frustrate beyond tears (one of our visiting medical students lost an easily-treatable patient due to neglect by the on-duty nursing staff), I wouldn't trade my real world for yours. They have taken me in and will do so to many more after me. I love them all.

The Mirror

How frequently do you glance at a mirror? Maybe even stop for some admiring? What's on the other side? Probably a wall. Unless you have some vendetta against your roommate, plowing through the wall just sounds like a bad idea. How many times a day do you stop in front of a glass door and look at the reflection? How many of those times do you think, "If only I could see what is right behind me"? You may say that the easiest way is to simply turn around. But that's a different perspective and a different focal distance than looking in the reflection. Here, mirrors are rare. Even seeing a reflection in the window happens less often because screens, bars, and dirt tend to impede the view. But a walking through a door is easier than a wall. Besides, it's progress in some direction. That has been this week. Progress.

Over the last couple weeks, I have worked mostly on one project, and it helps to show the fluidity (pun definitely intended but you probably don't understand yet) of life. The Malamulo Water Board (water utility) is in charge of watering the whole Malamulo compound and essentially all the housing around it. Water gets pumped all over the place and people complain when it doesn't arrive. However, nobody complains that the water board has no money. The system in place operates something like this.

1) Water meters are read to determine usage

2) Institutions are informed how much each employee owes for water

3) Institutions deduct water bill from employees' paychecks

4.a) Institutions pay water board for employees usage as well as institutional usage

4.b) Institutions pocket money as additional income instead of paying the utility

Step 4 is split because both 4.a and 4.b occur. Because of this problem, the Water Board is implementing a new billing system that bills the person directly. Another problem is that people here move far more frequently. If you aren't in the loop (which I am not), then you can never keep up with who moved to where, when, and how much water they used before they moved. This makes accounting a nightmare. I have spent the majority of the week working on this system. The software was written for American utilities, where the delinquency rate is much lower, as are many other things. This week, work has been more of a puzzle than anything. The good news is that the software is up and running!

Potluck last Sabbath! We officially welcomed the Browns, Elisa's brother Randy and his family Nicole, Nathan, Ryan, and Trevor, with a Mexican theme. Could I have been more thrilled? I believe no. Attendance was over 40 and dessert was outstanding.

And now back to my glass door discussion. Progress. Progress this week was frustratingly slow, the weather grossly humid, the internet's speed made work time-consuming and mostly unproductive (which is why this update is about a week late). Yet in spite of all these things, the week could hardly have been better. It may have felt 15 days long, but those 15 days were all quite meaningful days. I got to do some good reviewing, refreshing, and recalibrating of life. What did I learn? Not very much actually. But I did get to somewhat relive the last few weeks in the course of just a few days. Here is a slideshow that covers about the first month here. The first picture is in Central Malawi, the next 5 are at Mwami Adventist Hospital in Southeast Zambia, and the rest are from here in Southern Malawi.

Just some notes on the pictures. The two kids hugging in one picture are Kaiza and Benson, who are both 3. The other two children present in the slideshow are Andrew, who is 2, and Hudson, who turned 1 just this week. Kaiza and Andrew are Wes and Chrislyn's kids. Benson and Hudson are Ryan and Sharlene's kids. Ryan and Sharlene are the blond couple. Chrislyn has dark hair and I don't believe Wes made an appearance in the show.

Adventist Circles

Loma Linda? Yep. College Place? Uh-huh. Berrien Springs? Of course. Makwasa, Malawi? Oh yes! We may not have the household familiarity, but the problems are still the same. What problems might you ask? First of all, our work ethic is well, uh, typical adventist. Work Sunday through Friday lunch, and take your Sabbath leave 6 hours before it starts. Cliques exist in a form. It's more like a family. If you're a missionary, any other missionary is your family and their house is always open (even when you get sick at 2 AM with some nasty gastro-intestinal infection multiple times, but that's another story). Potlucks abound, including another one this week. As I write this, another family (Elisa's brother and his family) is on their way here, and we want to welcome them. This will be my 4th potluck in 6 weeks! Catholic jokes. They abound even if there aren't any Catholics.

Last night, I spent some time at the guest house where 4 people about my age reside temporarily. One is British/Greek, one is Zambian, one is Brazilian, and one is American. One of the non-Adventists started asking (not just me, but the whole household) about the why questions concerning Adventists and our strange ways. Sadly, the stereotypical "holier than thou" jokes (even though sarcastic in nature) were mixed thoroughly with the serious responses. These jokes would have been completely acceptable in an Adventist circle, but I don't believe they were appropriate because of the slim chance of confusion. I didn't make the jests and I don't even know if any of them were taken the wrong way, but my prayer is that one's enjoyment didn't have any negative implications. Perhaps the topics will come up again soon.

Just a brief update on life otherwise. Funding for Rwanda is still up in the air, as are travel dates, destinations, and projects in the meantime. Dr. Fam left this week for his furlough in Malaysia, after which he will go to Nigeria. He will be missed, but he will do lots of good wherever he is. IT RAINED TODAY!!! This was the first real rain since I got here. It was that "drench you before you know you're wet" hurricane-type rain. About 10 feet before I got to the front door, some lightning struck extremely close. That was loud. Scary part? I was holding a 2-foot long pair of pliers and had a bunch more metal tools in my backpack. Two minutes after I walked in the door, it started hailing. The balls were about the size of pea gravel. Anyway, the Brown's are having dinner at our casa today. Should probably be there.

Chicken scratch

Quick question - who stereotypically has the worst handwriting? Doctors right? Who has the second worst handwriting? I believe it belongs to immigration agents. Today, I went to the immigration office for a visa extension. Traveler visas are free for 30 days. When I entered Malawi, I was processed as a transit rather than a traveler. While also free, a transit visa is only valid for three days. The writing on my passport, while English, could be read as either 3 or 30 days. Basically, the agent informed me I have been an illegal alien in Malawi for three and a half weeks, then had walked straight into the immigration agency and turned myself into the authorities. After lots of arguing and liberal application of the "dumb American" technique, they let me off the hook and extended my visa. Amazingly, they didn't use their half of the "dumb American" technique, a large sum of money to bolster their pockets. They did warn me to not do it again or I would be arrested. I left repeating "zikomo" (thank you).

On the way into Blantyre, Wes and I saw a local whom we knew. He, his name is Kenneth, was hitchhiking/walking to Thyolo (pronounced cheeo-lo although usually slurred to cholo) from Makwasa (where Malamulo is located). It's a distance of about 20 km each direction. The reason? He was headed to the hospital there in an attempt to get medicine for his 5 month old daughter who is ill. He had no money for the minibus (it would have cost less than $2 round trip) and no money for the medicine, which he said he could get for free. Did he ever get some? I don't know but I do hope so. Wes and I even tried to read what his daughter needed. Guess which profession wrote it and how legible it was.

While not everyone did this, many people asked me if I were going to live in a sod hut with a thatched roof here in Africa. I have some disappointing news for you. I live in a house with lots of things that might make you jealous. Today, I have been mentally compiling a list and here are some of them. First of all, brick-paved driveways. Yeah, asphalt exists but rarely on driveways. Bricks are cheaper and labor is also cheap. Speaking of labor, hired help here is affordable. We have a part time gardener Albert and a part time indoor house assistant Yanjinani. They are paid what's expected, but even that is affordable on a missionaries' budget. Some people complain about cold floors but here, any sort of cool is appreciated. Concrete is much cooler than my bed and I'm tempted to sleep on it. Temperature sensitive automatic closing windows. You say such things don't exist? Well they do here! Open your windows before going to sleep. They let the room cool until late in the night when the temperature really starts to drop. The wind picks up and closes the windows for you. Viola! Now your room stays about that temperature. Fruit such as mangos, bananas, papayas, as well as other stuff like avocados grow plentifully and are dirt cheap yet very tasty. The occasional candlelit dinner, a discourtesy of the power company. Canopy beds, with mosquito netting being your canopy (so far I have only used mine once but malaria season is coming). Tea fields are very common around here, are manicured like golf courses, and are at least as green as the courses, even at the end of the dry season. A visible police presence whose primary aim is safety, not budget bolstering by speeding tickets. An Internet connection that is sufficient enough to get done what you need but annoying enough to make sure you don't waste your life away on sites like YouTube or even Facebook during work hours. And so, some of you may think life is rough, in which case you would be absolutely right. But how many of you can honestly say that your life is a walk in the park?

Posted from my iPod

Construction

The other side of construction is, quite frankly, destruction. Destruction happens by sledgehammers, collisions, hungry dogs, and laziness, just to name a few.

Let's begin with demolition. Here in Malawi, much in the way of construction is by modification of the current set of circumstances with a sizable hammer, the bigger the better. While most Americans half-heartedly apply that mantra, no Malawi would forgo the chance to voice a firm "Amen!" or some similar word. I have probably said this before (and will most likely say it again), but construction need not be preceded by demolition in all cases. Furthermore, constructing correctly now will result in less demolition and construction [insert appropriate length of time ranging from 10 seconds to two score] later. However, incorrect construction is job security for most people. If you build it with the intent of having it break tomorrow, you will get called back tomorrow.

I know I just went to Mt. Mulanje last week, but this Sabbath, the Lutz family, Hayton family, and I piled into Nancy the Land Cruiser (9 people in 8 seats). Last time, we visited on Friday. This, being the weekend, meant everybody, their brother, brother's friend, and brother's friend's uncle were available to peddle their wares. Culture lesson: personal space shrinks from about this big (spread arms to full reach) to this big (put hands in pockets with arms plastered against ribs). Not even the walls of a 3 ton behemoth prevent this. Wes, being adventurous and knowing I have experience with ziplines, decided we needed to hook one up across the pool below the waterfall (see pictures from last week). After climbing up rock faces, using tow straps for webbing (which work well by the way), and doing a host of other things, lunch time came. Lunch was followed by more ratcheting and tightening. We were using the rope Wes had at home, about a 9.8 mm static climbing rope (sometimes used for rescues or other things but never for actual climbing). Static climbing rope is a type of rope that's not very stretchy. In the olden days, not very stretchy meant no stretch whatsoever. Modern "non-stretchy" ropes stretch about 7 or 8% (modern dynamic climbing ropes stretch as much as 30% to break falls slowly instead of breaking the climber's back or neck). 7% doesn't sound like much until you try to compensate for it with no handy tools. After much blood and sweat (sorry, no tears from me but the munchkins made up for my insufficiencies), I was ready (read: not at all hopeful). Shedding shoes and shirt, I began bounding down the rocks waiting for the rope to support me. I made it to the water, but only barely. Thus began and ended the service of said zipline. No signifiant bodily harm done, just some minor cuts and scrapes. Probably not even battle scars. In lieu of the aforementioned failure, I was relegated to cliff jumping. Acceptable? I suppose.

Oh the joy instilled in the heart at the sound of a nice piano. Cristy, one of the doctors here, brought a baby grand piano from the States. Cristy also has a dog named Bella. When Bella was younger and slightly less mentally developed, she decided the wires in the bottom of the piano needed some modification and proceeded to chew the ends off all of the cords. What cords you ask? The cords powering the dehumidifier to ensure the piano never reaches the state of untunability. It has survived one wet season fairly well, but who would want to chance another? Side note: outlets here are strange. While they have three prongs, European plugs don't work. American don't work. Not even the international plugs work. One would think all the Americans would have spare USA plugs lying around since they don't work in the outlets. Strangely enough, no. After scavenging for a bit and assigning some things to be available, I had two of the three needed plugs. Some quick wiring stuff and voila, the dehumidifier works, or at least two of the three heaters. Once a third plug is located, the dehumidifier should be back in business. Morals of the story? Dogs, while often friendly, have habits which can be hazardous in a variety of ways. Second part: improvisation and doing what needs to be done. If new heaters had been available, I might never have needed to do this. However, since they weren't available, I did something that would have worried me sick a month ago. Electrical stuff is not my specialty, but it isn't anyone else's either. It's not just me though. Last night, a few of us were sitting around after vespers and even the doctors are doing things they would never have imagined. Lots of American and British medical students who visit say they learn less in a year of medical school than they do in under a month here. Doctors get to treat all kinds of things and surgeons are cutting at the limits of their knowledge. Are they doing these things in any sort of unsafe manner? Absolutely not! They do their research and homework, but specialists don't really exist here and therefore the general doctors specialize in everything.

Elde Paladar, a Philippino working here at the hospital, has been in the process of creating a new lab for the hospital where the students from the college of health science can come to watch and learn. He has been planning, acquiring materials, and supervising the construction. They have been gutting, retiling, installing cabinets and sinks, etc. Sadly, the laborers try to cut corners at all possible junctions. There are, on occasion, alternative ways of doing something and achieving perfectly acceptable results. These would be called perfectly acceptable alternative ways of doing something, not laziness. I know all these corner cutting measures actually cost him more money because the workers then get the pleasure of going back and doing it right.

I should probably take notes on people management from Elde. Very soon, I will likely be the director/supervisor for an entire water system construction project. The question is where. Until the end of this week, the plan was for me to move north to Rwanda in the beginning of November. However, the donors have suddenly decided they want to install a chlorinated storage tank instead of letting us build a water system. The problem is far more basic. The hospital already has a storage tank, but the tank is empty. Adding a storage tank doesn't make water appear. Several other things have happened that have made the next 5 weeks more uncertain than the lottery. Could be interesting. Please keep these projects in your prayers.

The Road

Mount Mulanje - also known as Mulanje Massif, the highest mountain in Malawi at 3002 meters, also has the tallest open rock face and longest rock-climbing route in Africa

Disclaimer: You all know you can't separate math from me. There will be a bit of it in this.

Yesterday (Friday), a group of us here at Malamulo went on an adventure to Mount Mulanje. The adventure rarely comprises of simply the destination, and this was no exception. We took Cristy and Elisa's car, and oh did I miss Nancy (the Land Cruiser Wes uses, which I took the liberty of naming)! Yet the car was not the problem, but the road. You (and I) would think that potholes would be somewhat randomly distributed right? For an infinite sample size (this is a conservative estimate of the number of potholes), the total for each side of the road should be approximately equal (like flipping a coin). Ergo, the road on your side and the oncoming side should each be smoother than the other about half the time. Taking into account oncoming traffic, one would expect to spend slightly more time on the correct side of the road than on the oncoming side right? Oddly enough, that was not the case. To further confuse statisticians, the trip back was the exact same, occupying the oncoming lane more than our own. Apparently, the grass is always greener...

This shows just a few potholes, most were more severe, more tightly packed, and harder to avoid.

As for the mountain, we didn't actually summit. R&R was the name of the game, and our fearless yet confused leader Bella (Cristy's dog) took us there with some consultation from her master. The climb wasn't treacherous (the footing was in some places) even though the change of elevation was about 300 meters. Within no time, a cascade of water greeted us, at least until we immersed ourselves in it. While not glacial runoff, the brisk temperature suggested that we not stay in too long. With rocks to warm us and part of the river to explore, I had significant trouble breaking out the hammock. And yet, despite my zeal to investigate all that surrounded me, I eventually succumbed to the rest and company of the gang. We swapped stories of lands far away, strange foods, delicious ice cream flavors, and some harrowing adventures of our shorts lives.

The day off yesterday was certainly lovely on all counts. However, the customary Sabbath and Sunday of no work except homework really threw me for a loop. Here it is Sabbath and I feel like I just had one. Complaining? No. Today, we are once again having potluck. This week, we are welcoming the Haytons from the Detroit area. They have committed five years of medical service to the Malamulo Hospital. Ryan Hayton actually lived here about 20 years ago, so I guess a homecoming would more aptly describe it. Estimated attendance? Over 40 missionaries!

The Saw!

Melodious overtones from church bell towers toll throughout valleys all over the globe as a symbol of joy or perhaps a reminder that God is present. In any case, any bell player should know where the sound of the bell is made. It's not the bottom or the top, it's the sides that vibrate and produce the vast majority of a bell's sound. Such vibrations are not limited to a bell. Last week, I got out the sawzall for a little demolition. A long abandoned water tank needed to relocate but was too bulky and heavy to pass through the gate. Eager to get onto other aspects of the destruction, I tackled the 2000 liter tank. Putting the blade to the edge, I squeezed the trigger and promptly regretted it. The cylindrical drum resonated, producing so much noise a 13 year old's stereo would seem whisper quiet by comparison. But since the tank wasn't going to mutilate itself, I trudged forth. Thankfully, the saw sliced through the thin corrugated sheet metal effortlessly, and within no time, I was cutting below the waterline, providing some much sought relief to my senses.

This wasn't the only project of late. My boss Wes and I installed some ethernet bridges (so we have internet at the house [due to a housing shortage, I am staying with Wes, wife Chrislyn, and kids Kaiza and Andrew]), did some ethernet wiring, cleaned out part of the guesthouse to convert space into more guestrooms, repiped around the community water tank, and installed water meters just to name a few. The first two and a half days I was here, Wes and I worked in Zambia at Mwami Adventist Hospital. There, we joined and laid about a kilometer of pipe from the storage tank to the hospital. I mapped out the village with GPS. We also checked and rewired some of the borehole pumps. Just to differentiate, an open shaft where water is drawn by a bucket is called a well. A borehole is a pump-driven, pipe-encased "well", which provides for the water system. At Mwami and most of the hospitals around, the system always leaks, and repairs are never proper or permanent. Because of this, as well as some other reasons, a new water system is actually cheaper, and, if properly built, will last far longer.

Very few of us would agree that air pollution is beneficial to humans, in most cases at least. Also, very few of us would disagree that Americans use a disproportionate amount of the planet's resources. However, don't think for a second the air on my side of the globe is better than your air. The solution to most problems here fall into three categories: a bigger hammer, a bigger wrench, and a bigger fire. All leaves, garbage, and even fields are burned to remove whatever it is. Yes, the land becomes infertile and yes, I do almost constantly smell of smoke, but that's simply how things are done. This means the air is always stank nasty. But, airborne particulate matter, particularly pollution, makes for some amazing sunsets. This past Sabbath, the sun didn't set on the horizon, it set on the layer of haze, disappearing in a cloudless sky before sunset. Odd? I thought so. Watch out SoCal, your smog has some competition!

This week, another family is coming to Malamulo! The Haytons should arrive Wednesday, with a welcoming potluck this weekend. Last week, some short-termers from Loma Linda arrived to construct a computer lab in the health college's library. Their stint here is between 2 and 3 weeks. In other news, it's hot here and will probably get warmer. The dry season ends about late November/early December. Between now and then, it's supposed to warm up even more. Right now, daily highs are in the mid to high 80s with about 30% humidity and absolutely no cloud cover.

Potluck

You all know that feeling, and some enjoy it more than others (you and I both know who you are). The lettuce, cheese, tomatoes, salsa, and other goodness awaiting consumption above a sound foundation of chips and beans. Yep, haystacks aren't just in America. Today, the missionaries (doctors, engineers, moms, therapists, students, and children from all over the world) congregated for the traditional Adventist meal. Finally, some familiarity! While some may argue that a potluck requires each to bring some dish for the meal, each house brought some portion of the meal, whether avocado or cilantro or rice. After all was said and done, over 15 people had partaken. First question: When do you eat haystacks? The answer is whenever your heart has the least bit of tradition flowing through its atria. Next question: What event warrants such delicacies (including real cheese!)? For many, both today and in most cases, the event is nothing particularly noteworthy. Perhaps a simple meal with the family or a catch up with old cronies. In my case, this was the first time I met many of the missionaries. Some just returned from furlough while others weren't around yesterday. Thus, for me, this was actually an introductory experience. Is this the real intent of potluck? (Input is welcome)

Travel

The sleek body slicing through the fluid effortlessly whilst passengers relish every moment basked in pristine luxury. Truly a bygone era. This adventure started Sunday afternoon in Columbus with a rather familiar airport, cramped seat, lack of luggage space (because of people bringing 63 changes of clothing for their 2 days of meetings), and other usual drab. The first leg took a little over an hour to get to Charlotte with a second leg going to Washington Dulles. From there, things amazingly took a turn for the better. The flight to addis ababa is rather long and the direction of flight made the day incredibly short. Much to my surprise, the seat adjacent to me remained unoccupied until Ethiopia (we made a fuel stop in Rome). The airline even put me up for the night in a lovely hotel. The hotel tried very hard to look good and did rather well, with king's adopted cousin written all over. The next morning, I proceeded to Lilongwe, Malawi. Here the mystery began.

Statistics would seem to indicate that someone like me would be a rarity in central Africa. Upon finishing customs, I walk toward the airport exit having no idea who is looking for me (I knew a name but no face). A person holding a sign saying "Mr. Reddy" seemed like a good bet (yes it was incorrectly spelled but rather close, could have been a pronunciation error). I go to him and he informs me he's going to take me to "my people". After a 30 km taxi ride, I arrive at a hotel. They say somebody from Zambia (which was actually to be my next destination) called and reserved a room for me. While appreciated, I wasn't convinced this was for me. A couple text messages later, the truth erupted. I had taken and paid for someone else's taxi, nearly paid for their room, and missed my job entirely. After about half an hour, all was solved and Zambia approached. For those of you who know me, travel is never something that goes well for me. This happened to be my error than someone else's. All I know is that it could have been worse, and I am thankful it wasn't.

Sabbath is going to be here very soon. I don't know what it holds, but it does beckon. I will gladly heed.

(from my iPod)

Preparation

Many of us know the feeling. Your plane ticket sits in your inbox while you sit on the sofa daydreaming of what wonders await just beyond the horizon. The packing list lays on the table with nearly everything checked off. It could be something so simple as a trip home for the holidays (which will inevitably become a nightmare if you have my luck) or perhaps the vacation of a lifetime. In any case, enraptured with the looming adventure, you ponder what you might have overlooked.

I am certainly in that state of mind right now. Just over a week ago, my older sister departed for Asia. Her stress levels must have been higher than humanly possible, but I watched her thinking I was better prepared. This week proved my naivety. Health forms, malaria pills, appointments, finances, and everything else! How did I dupe myself so effortlessly? Nonetheless, Sabbath arrived just as it has so many times. Can I possibly find rest in it this time?

The rest of Sabbath - what is it like? Most of you know I worked at Sunset Lake Camp in Washington state this past summer. The last day of the week was actually the most taxing for me. Whether it was hiking and biking up mountains or setting up/running/tearing down programs multiple times, Saturday night approached with a promise of sleep. Despite this physical exertion, there was always a certain peace.

This upcoming year, I hope to once again find this peace. Will it be in the same place? Uh, no. Will it happen in the same way? Who am I to say? Will it still be that time where all else fades away? I do hope so. On this day of renewal, let's not only think about what it is we have survived yet again and what today is, but contemplate what we may do to impact most profoundly the world in which we all reside for the world in which we don't yet reside.

Home-ish

So I know I haven't written anything in a long time, but in my defense, camp has been occupying all my time. This is an update of my life and a plan for the next couple days.

Katie and I finished up camp on Sunday. Mrs. Taber let us crash her house for the next couple of days. Yesterday, we departed for and arrived at Big Lake Youth Camp. Many Walla Wallaians greeted us warmly. However, the weather greeted us much more frigidly. First, Jon taught Katie and I the basics of wind surfing in less than ten minutes. While I'm most certain we were horrible students, at least Jon had some good laughs. By the end of it, Katie and I were both shivering violently but glad we tried it. A cold night outdoors reminded us that we were higher in the mountains than Sunset.

I now author from the residence of Tyler and Brielle in Walla Walla. Partying will be happening at least until dark but potentially not much more. Amber and Ethan are here and their normal selves. The plan so far contains two steps. 1.) Determine what the plan is 2.) Execute the plan upon decision.

Tomorrow begins the good part of the road trip home. Tomorrow night will be spent in Idaho, just a few miles from the Montana and Wyoming borders. The next two nights hopefully will be inside Yellowstone National Park although those can't be reserved, which makes life very difficult and unpredictable. Sunday night will be in South Dakota. Monday night will be in Minnesota. Finally, a grueling drive awaits. Just shy of 1,000 miles is our last leg. From the middle of Minnesota all the way home.

But now I must sleep to survive another day behind the wheel.

SM retreat

This past weekend, outgoing missionaries and several returned missionaries gathered at Camp Touchet for a few quiet hours together. The returned SMs had suggestions about what to do, suggestions about what not to do, and expressed several regrets they realized after returning. Outgoers had the chance to talk to people who undertook similar tasks whether it was teaching, medical, orphanage, construction or any other sort of work. Also got the chance to talk to those who had been in similar parts of the world.

Pat Gustin, a former missionary of nearly 20 years, informed us that wherever we may be going, that place is not 4 things. It's not home, it's not a haven, it's not heaven, and it's not hell. I can agree that it won't be home, at least not for a long time. It may or may not be a haven. I suppose it depends upon what you are trying to escape. Heaven? Uh...yeah. Why would you be a missionary to heaven? Seems a little ridiculous, right? Finally, it's not hell although it may feel like it. I should hope thoughts such as "what am I doing here" remain somewhere other than in my head. Time will answer.

Just so you know

Hello to those reading,

If you are currently or have in times past read this, congratulations! You are literate!

I don't really have much to say except that I plan to have an epic year. College graduation is just over a month away and I'm a little scared. The day I graduate, I also head to my summer home at Sunset Lake Camp in Wilkeson, WA. After camp and a little time at home, I should be headed to Central Africa for almost a year. Pretty exciting? I think so.

Anyway, so keep coming back every now and again. Once stuff really starts happening, I will likely update this more frequently. Otherwise, may your day be filled with sunshine and warmth! Walla Walla's last couple days sure haven't. We are almost 15 degrees below average. But inTents trundles forth!