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.