Stubbornness

When someone says stubborn, what comes to mind? Donkey? Moody children? Someone you truly believe is the epitome of imbecilic levels of recalcitrance? If you asked me what first pops into my head at such a mention, I would tell you that the answer is, quite simply, myself. It probably started after my childhood addiction to various genres of books that very few eight year olds have any desire to peruse. Should you be curious, you should know that my diet of reading material has shifted, partly by choice but primarily by circumstance.

This may have been mentioned in posts of yore, but my project in Rwanda has been transferred to other people. I suspect a reason that the donors wanted to pass the project to some Rwandans was my unwillingness to budge. In a rather frank manner, I told the donors that I wouldn't return to finish the project until they had fully developed their plan and had released the funds. I was needed elsewhere and didn't have time to sit idle. That didn't go over well. It wasn't terribly tactful, but it did remove an oxcart load of stress.

Fast forward to last week.

Twas mere days before Christmas and through the compound,
Few azungus at desks or chairs could be found.
For most had epic plans at places quite far,
But most took the bus in lieu of a car.

That left just a handful to hold down the fort,
But plenty of problems did workers report.
'This printer is causing an absolute scare!
Please fix it before I pull out my hair!'
Accounting software took a brief holiday,
For hour upon hour my nerves did it fray.
"Emergency fixes," too many to count,
The pressure to finish them started to mount.
Without any time, my decisions were made.
Consequences of such with me have they stayed.
Although some were happy by the time I went home,
Others said "Fine!" with a "Hmmph" and a groan.

At the set of the sun there was I in great need
Of encouraging words from across the sea.
"This isn't your fault, you cannot feel bad
It was going to happen, no matter how sad
You did all you knew to the best that you could
It will all work out for the ultimate good."
Despite their kind words which I desired so much,
I felt it was I who had pulled out the crutch,
Wrecking the day by my inability
To admit it's not my responsibility.
As I am learning to deal with my own stubbornness,
Which is something I very much need to address,
It's clearer to me that in order to live,
It is me who I cannot forget to forgive.

A Holly, Jolly Grinchmas

It's just a tradition, like cinnamon rolls on Sabbath mornings or picture time in the bleak midwinter afternoons. Yet it is more binding than the Kyoto Protocol. No, it's not a fabulously festive and fatty feast, and not always is there a "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing" in the air. Whenever my sisters and I reunite in the little town of Waverly, an increasingly rare occurrence as of late, we try to watch "The Grinch" movie. Most are familiar with the Dr. Suess story, but we three Roddys of Orient, Africa, and America fill the silent night with raucous laughter during such an occasion. I don't know why, perhaps the good recitations make us rejoice with soul and voice.

But this being my second Christmas away in a strange place, some new traditions are being forged. Yet again, I sit here watching lightning overwhelm a midnight clear. Furthermore, I have been saved once again by angels from the realms of gory Christmas present return adventures or endless traffic nightmares. Will I miss it? Oh come on! You will? I think not. This year will be much quieter than last. It will be the dogs (2-3), the cats (2-3), and perhaps some foreigners (1-3). This Christmas may not have the chilly feel or the dreary look of barren trees, and the grouch deep down inside wants to rise up and follow my festive side, marring it's jolly attitude. But the lights of December in the window and the green leaves keep the grinchy side in line. Most of all, I'm excited for the unsurprising present coming my way in just a couple days, and maybe the chance to go chill out on the mountain. More on that and the number of carol references later. Care to make a guess anyway?

Hurrying for no reason

It's been a long day. It started off with a shower not working, but breakfast distracted me enough to prevent any dissatifaction. Next, we (myself, Dr. Lawson, Julia, and Chris) patiently (some moreso than others) waited for a car to take us to town. After leaving only an hour late, we finally got into town. I knew the car would be going to the airport (in the end, it didn't) but hoped it could at least get me to the other side of town. No luck. With a thousand things to do, I opted to use the slowest means of transport - feet. With 4 stops in Limbe alone, the calories started flying. Quotes, phone calls, "Do you have ____?", and all sorts of other things comprised of my stops. Then a big stroll to Blantyre with stops at the bank, the vet, 3 computer stores, and an office supply shop. By the time 12:30 rolled around, it was game over. Essentially all business completed. Lunch, grocery shopping, and hiking filled the next 3 hours, at which point I discovered something. Even though I had covered nearly 20 km on foot, it was one of the most productive days I've had in Blantyre.

Here's my theory. First of all, I walked alone. When others walk with me, it's a compromised pace, destinations that don't pertain to me, a less efficient route, and a significant dose of whining. Second of all, in this case, walking is better than driving. When driving, there are always lots of people, and I am typically in charge of transporting all of them where they need to go. Since selfishness isn't a virtue and because I don't rule the world, it decreases my personal productivity. Finally, walking ensured that I only went where I needed to go and had time to think about what I needed before arriving.

All worked out well. I finished my shopping, crushed some calories (a pizza in this case), and trudged back to catch hospital transport just 15 minutes before it left. So, today's lesson is that if you want to get something done quickly, do it in the slowest manner possible.

Mosquito nets

Do you remember going camping in the summer and spritzing enough mosquito repellent on your arms/face/neck/legs/eyes to exterminate all life forms from 10 feet away? I do and always remember liking the smell even if it was 100% DEET, 100% toxic, and 100% guaranteed to repulse attractive women. Surprisingly, I can't envelop myself in such cheap diluted non-fragrant chemicals of asphyxiation. I have no mosquito repellent, and, quite honestly, no interest in obtaining any. Here in Malawi (did I tell you I am back in Malawi? I came back about 10 days ago), there are critters. This morning, I found a cockroach in my back pack, a large spider on the ceiling, a grasshopper on the indoor stairs, and gnats in the shower. Finding only 4 species was a bit odd, usually there are more. Last night, I distinctly remember slapping myself in the face for some buzzing vermin that I could hear but not see. If there were 3 dozen cockroaches in my bed or 13 divisions of army ants in my food or the fleas of a thousand camels infesting my armpits, I might complain. However, unlike at home, it is bearable to live with a small collection of these.

One topic on everyone's (ok, "everyone" is a relative term) mind is mosquitos, which means the upcoming malaria season. Mosquitos don't care much for me, but trying to sleep with one buzzing is more impossible than perpetual motion. The most common defense is a net, which seems like the most flimsy defense system ever devised. Since arriving in Africa, I have used a mosquito net about 10% of the time and haven't contracted malaria, which makes me the most fortunate person I know. Yes, there are drugs like mefloquine and doxycycline, but my personal preference is to avoid insomnia, liver damage, sun sensitivity, or whatever other side effects might befall me. But this mosquito net is not a perfect defense. For instance, gnats can breach them, which is annoying. My German friend Julian got tangled in his, which provided a good laugh. Mosquito nets aren't practical for most daytime activities either, particularly anything else that requires movement or physical contact such as fixing medical suction pumps. Mosquito nets have a purpose. However, you must leave the safety and security of your net in order to do the work given to you.

Star Wars

"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away..." just about sums things up, don't you think? Ok, perhaps galaxy is not the correct word but it certainly comes close to it. Some of us think that a long time ago refers to yesterday, and the gap between then and now qualifies as an eternity. I don't claim to disagree. Likewise, "far, far away" seriously depends upon your budget and available forms of transport. But what about the actual story? Perhaps it will read a little like this:

"The land of Nyassa, once under control of the Empire, has gained independence. But a new threat looms on the horizon. The Death Star, designed for protection, has grown in power, wreaking havoc on the federation that these fragile worlds desperately need to survive. On the verge of collapse, a few brave and faithful ones have returned to stem the tide. If they succeed, a new generation will carry on the work. If they fail, nobody will take their place. The fate of all hangs in the balance...."

Maybe our vehicles use overdrive instead of hyperdrive, and we avoid potholes rather than asteroids. Local names such as Mubuga and Nyirangongo are as alien as Naboo or Tatooine. But consider the essence of it all. What is actually happening? The just cause (not just here, but for the sake of argument) appears lovely but unattainable because of the desire by some to rule with an iron (or at least lead, heavy but malleable) fist. The masters get a sense of foreshadowing because history often repeats itself. Padawans, such as myself, still have much to learn from those who have seen how the Force can corrupt or enrich. It may not all culminate in an epic showdown next week, but to what end is this all headed? The return of the Jedi, whether or not they have yet left, is much needed if there is to be peace and order.

In lieu of my situation, does anyone want to guess what I actually said? If you didn't understand all of it, don't worry, very few, if any at all, will comprehend it.

Confusion

What season follows the cold, dreary months when you want to do nothing but hunker down in front of the fireplace with a hot cup of some beverage (coffee for you rebels, green tea for you tree-huggers, cider for you who reminisce of the good old days, and chocolate for the rest)? Spring, right? The season of endless rain, blossoming flowers, and the return of geese and geriatrics from the southern portions of North America. Also, what holidays do you enjoy in those dark and dank days of depression and despondency we call winter? Christmas, New Year's, Groundhog, and Valentine's?

This is where I keep getting confused. I stumbled into Africa over a year ago (as of last week) and the disorientation is getting worse. The season that follows the cold season is the hot and dry season, not spring. The seasons go more like spring, winter, then summer (fall doesn't really exist, it reminds us that it exists elsewhere by having blustery, leaf-filled days occasionally and unpredictably). Even then, our descriptions of seasons don't entirely apply. More than that, July 4th (here, it's July 6th because that's Malawian Independence Day) will probably require a jacket whereas you'd want to meander about in your birthday suit over Veteran's Day. It's not even backwards. The days and months, holidays and seasons, temperatures and calenders just don't match. It's like someone took the year, cut it into cubes, then played Boggle and couldn't find any words in the puzzle.

My first year felt like a course entitled, "Intro to Africa: Welcome to the well-meaning heart of wrong assumptions." Don't think for one femtosecond that I am now the final authority on all things African. I still wonder why Malawians are visibly scared of dogs even though many people have them and want them. I am curious how people adjust to leaving their wife and children for years in order to advance their education and possibilities for their children. More than those, I am astounded at locals' faith in a Being they cannot see when they don't even believe their biology teachers until they look at cells through a microscope (which almost never happens). Not only have I learned of some unexpected ways of things, some of my expectations that have been utterly obliterated. I assumed that donations and foreign aid would be more like a gift than a recurring nightmare because they are intended for the benefit of the people, that the difference between engineer and mechanic and general contractor was obvious, and that I would embrace the local way of life as much as I loathe the Western waste.

After having stumbled through round one, what do I want to do and where do I want to aim? What are my "new year's" resolutions? I want to spend more time in the wards (working as well as socializing), take more walks through the villages and tea fields, and better appreciate the "spring" even if it comes in summer or winter. Maybe this list will get even longer.

Sticking around

Those of you who have followed my adventures thus far are quite aware that I am nomadic. Over the last year, my record for the longest time without packing up and moving stands at 8 weeks. Having said that, packing and moving everything I own takes less than half an hour. In any case, this is a brief account of my latest adventure - Mozambique on a budget, without planning, and only passable communication.

On Wednesday of last week (8/24), I received word that my skills would be needed at the hospital this week (8/29 - 9/2). A sense of importance - super! However, because my visa was scheduled to expire on 9/5, I needed to immediately exit Malawi. Basically, it meant that my passport and its owner had to leave bright and early the next morning. 18 hours later, a stuffed bag and a couple books escorted me to Thyolo and right onto a minibus. Mozambique, here I come! - uh no! The 60 km from Thyolo to the border required three hours of minibus frustration to traverse. At the border, the Malawian immigration hassled me for having 25,000 kwacha ($130) because people are only allowed to take 3,000 kwacha out of the country. After finally clearing that hurdle, a bike taxi argued with me, asserting my need to pay for a ride to the Mozambique immigration office. I refused him the entire 150 meters to said immigration office. Here, they fussed that I didn't have my immunization document and that I hadn't initiated a visa through the consulate. They overcharged for my visa, but that seemed like a fair bargain for breaking so many laws.

Across the border in Milange, it's an entirely different world. Everyone uses the same language (at least the first 10 km), cell phone company, and side of the road, but the differences were astounding. Cleanliness (much worse), population (much more sparse), general layout of the town (spacious) - it was all strange. I hoped to score a bus or matola or something to the major city of Mocuba. Two hours of waiting at the "bus depot" yielded my first opportunity and success - the most luxurious vehicle I have sat inside in a year. After four hours in a tumble freeze dryer (bouncy, cold, and dehydrated), I was happily in Mocuba for the night. The next morning, whilst foraging for a bakery,I stumbled into a bus going to Quelimane, which is where I wanted to go (buses travel in the eastern part of the country frequently, just not to/from Milange). A few more hours of misery accompanied me on my journey, but the quaintness of the town quickly quelled that. Quelimane is like an avocado, papaya, and lemon juice soup for your granola (thank you Chrislyn!). The landscape is like a Caribbean island. The architecture looks Caribbean and Iberian. Business is Middle Eastern and Indian. Yet the majority of people are, by look and character, clearly African. All I know is that an American-style pizza made all the world right, even if just for a few moments. Another beautiful sunset, restful sleep, and morning beckoned me to the beach. And so, after walking 5 km in the wrong direction, sinking up to my knees in mud and frog poo, becoming the village attraction, and getting redirected, I found my way to the back of a flatbed truck. A hour later, I found myself standing in the Indian Ocean, amazed at the size of the beach, amused at the small waves, and longing for some shade. Within a few minutes, I located some trees fairly close to the sand and waves, pulled out my hammock, and plopped down for some reading and a nap. Had hunger not interrupted my nap, I might still be there now. With some hesitation, I reintroduced my feet to the ground and headed home.

The return trip was more of the same story, sans an amazing hitch. Frigid, frustrating, and forgettable (I wish I could forget the transportation, not the trip). The return trip also gave me time to ponder many things such as "why didn't I bring a coat?", "are we there yet?", "will the border authorities hassle me on the way back as well?", and "do I want to do this again in three months?". Of course, the last question required the most (but still hardly any) thought. Three months in one community feels like no time at all. However, I can barely remember what life was like in Rwanda. A wise woman once told me that we all go through the seasons of life. Most of my life's "seasons" are coincidentally three months long but Malawi is one summer I don't want to end soon.

(a few pictures of my trip are on facebook)

A little warmth

A couple weeks ago, I got shuffled around the mission. My house was temporarily repurposed as an "executive guest house" of sorts. I went from having two housemates in a fairly spacious casa to sharing a single room with those two people. Our new room was smaller than my old room but I was thankful for amenities. First of all, carpet lined the floor. Let me tell you, when your house lacks heating and it's 60 when you wake up, a concrete floor torments more than nails on a chalkboard. A pressurized water heater was also a welcomed addition to my life. Our old house had a water heater, but it had 2 feet of head (a way to measure water pressure. For reference, most of you would complain if you had less than 30 feet of head). The old shower was like having a mouse weep on your shoulder. Since being granted such a lovely luxury, I feel like my personal hygiene has somewhat improved. After my recent trip to Mozambique, a quality bath was in order. You know how you sometimes have a day where you just feel dirty. Your face may be a little gritty and your hair a magnet for all manner of nature, but you feel that waiting a second longer to bathe would be a crime against humanity? I felt like that, and got the satisfaction of a brownish-blackish-gross pool of water in the shower. Without my new-found hot pressurized shower, my hair would still be funky, gross, and a breeding ground for bugs great and small.

The people who displaced me from my house were evangelists from the Quiet Hour. I have nothing against the ministry, but their needs and wants strained my patience (derogatory names such as "days of ruckus," "days of thunder," and "happy hour" abounded). The phrase "high-maintenance" certainly applies here. Apparently, they expected to have 4-star hotels in the African bush. Sorry to disappoint! The amount of bending we did to make their stay comfortable greatly exceeded the benefit they provided to the hospital. They journeyed here to conduct an evangelistic series in several villages around the area, like a sort of revival. At the end of their couple weeks here, they had a baptism. Total number submersed and resurrected - 1050. I don't know the demographics, previous religious exposure, or sincerity of those involved. However, you understand my skepticism if you have ever witnessed a week of prayer in an Adventist institution. About 5 days later, I sat under a spreading eucalyptus tree. A lady who had seen me crossing the border started up a chat. While waiting (somewhat patiently, slightly annoyed, and quite desperate), this lady started up a chat. Her name was Bishop Yami, a Pentecostal from Blantyre. I noticed that she wasn't always completely engaged in the conversation. About half an hour later, I saw why.

(the picture won't upload here. It's the third picture in my Mozambique album on facebook)

To give you a little background, this man had seen me (I was quite conspicuous). He introduced himself, which exhausted his knowledge of English, tried to assert my need for his assistance in finding a vehicle, and wanted money in return. I had brushed him aside despite sensing that something wasn't there. Not long after it happened, I wondered if the same thing would have happened if I had taken an interest. Was this one any different from the 1,000+ who had come to hear a white person? Which was more meaningful - the words or the act?

Backseat drivers

This week, I have spent a fair amount of time behind the wheel. Tuesday, I blasted through town on errands for the Water Board, Mbalanguzi Renovation Project, Beit Housing Project, overdue accounts, etc. all while trying to keep track of 3 other people and where they needed to go. Wednesday, I bounced all the way to Mbalanguzi clinic (it's 25 km into the bush) and to the airport. Today, I was just a chauffeur. On Tuesday, Ed complimented me by saying I appeared to know my way around town quite well. However, Cristy asked me to take her some places in town today, very few of which I knew. I turned to her and asked, "Would you like to drive?" (this came out a bit brash even though it was supposed to be jest, pepani amai). She joked that she was content to be a backseat driver and we left it at that.

Why do we have backseat drivers? Some, such as myself, are control freaks. We can't risk our fate to the hands of others, even if our skills are inferior. A few people earnestly believe they are better at driving than whoever is actually driving. A generous dose of criticism occasionally follows, the constructive-ness can be debated. I like to think of a third group as lab rat technicians. They will happily provide helpful suggestions (turn right, change lanes, etc.) even if it's a little bit late. Otherwise, they are content to sit back, watch what happens, and come to conclusions. Occasionally, these are then proclaimed for all to hear. Finally, there are the people who are simply accustomed to driving a different way (slower/faster, aggressive/defensive, granny style/videogame tutored, male college dropout with a street racer and a sound system worth more than his house-style) and comment. But does backseat driving still qualify as such if the driver never hears it?

This week has been exceptionally frustrating, for a menagerie of reasons. There were many times when I wanted to turn to someone and say, "Since you think you can do a better job, here you go!" I see technical shortcomings around the hospital, although more often than not the problems find me. Beyond what is officially given to me are more general issues. Typically and thankfully, I'm not directly involved, but rarely do I lack an opinion. I may think "Yes, he's right", "No, that's not wasteful", "Uh oh, she is showing her knees (here, women showing their knees is considered indecent)", or "That pear bread is delicious." But is it helpful to have an opinion? Should I stick my nose where people haven't requested it be stuck? Is an outside viewpoint going to be helpful? Does playing the devil's advocate make one a heathen, a heretic, or a criminal? My goal for the week is to be less condescending (whether verbally or mentally) to people's faces and less of a flibbertigibbet behind them.

Habits

I love Nutella! Plain and simple. Absolutely anything goes with Nutella. Somethings mesh a little better than other. For instance, mangoes, bananas, and bread are better with a dab (read: glob) than tomatoes. Strangely enough, I hadn't eaten Nutella before coming to Africa, a massive mistake (and perhaps a healthier one). It has become part of my diet, a taste from home or, in this case, a reminder of it. It's things like Nutella, GPS, and driving that remind me of what I was once a member.

Another thing I have noticed is how I speak. To prevent confusion, I use some words such as chips and petrol instead of french fries and gas. The words are of much less importance than the way they are said. In order to be sure someone understands, I try to speak as clearly as possible. This often means spending more time enunciating at the expense of speed. A couple days ago, while sitting in her kitchen, Cristy offered me a hot drink. I replied, "Oh thanks, I will get it myself so I can do a little something something to it" (meaning "make it the way I like it"). In America, "little something something" is pronounced "lil' sum'n sum'n" and more mumbled than spoken. However, I had unintentionally enunciated each syllable. Cristy, being American and familiar with such phrases, turned towards me, gave me this look of "I can't believe you just said that", and laughed.

It's odd the things we bring with us, what is left at home, and what is acquired along the way. I brought clothes from home, clothes familiar to me. They were comfortable because they fit my body, my budget, and my image of myself. Those clothes are still with me although they have suffered long and have aged considerably. Likewise, I brought the "I know, therefore I do. Now I'm done, good-bye" mentality. Western society was like a house key: you don't think about it until you need to get into your own quiet place that feels secure. Many things stayed at home: grilled veggie burgers, well-paved roads to wherever I needed to go, reliable internet, and a scolding hot shower. Occasionally, life teases me and reminds me of America. But what I like the most is what's been acquired along the way (excluding some viruses and the such): appreciation of labor that doesn't require paperwork or a desk, a new-found respect for the simple act of communion, an amalgamation of what I liked about my culture with what I like about this one, just to name a few. Although I, in the somewhat distant future, may ingest copious quantities of Nutella from the comfort of the parents' sofa, I don't want to forget the things gained, the things which don't require a suitcase.

The words you don't want to hear

"This is your captain speaking. We will have a slight delay." Not some words you want to hear when sitting on the tarmac.

I have been doing my best to proceed with the water system at Mugonero Hospital. In doing so, I am torn between working towards the goal of reliable water, and working to please the donors. Too often, I must choose to listen to the donors' requests or listen to logic and reason because doing both is impossible. After hearing this and that from the donors for months, my time ran out. Patience fizzled. I couldn't take it anymore and neither could my superiors. With so much need elsewhere, I packed my bags and headed out, full of gratitude and frustration. Frustration because the people who claim to help are one of the biggest hindrances. Frustration that none of the people I had tried to help even cared. Frustration that I had spent 6 months trying to improve a hospital while accomplishing nothing more than acquiring a stack of messy papers, organizing a pile of rocks, and buying some buckets (ok, so it was a pile of quotations, a 125 cubic-meter stone foundation, and a couple 10,000 liter water tanks) because someone else thought I was incompetent. Gratitude that soon, I would be able to go to work, have more to do than I can accomplish, and go home knowing there is more to do tomorrow. Gratitude that I could soon lay in bed and be satisfied. Gratitude because of the endlessly open arms of my Malamulo family.

Would you like to know what the rest of the captain's announcement was? "We are having a problem with a valve in engine number one. Our flight engineer is going to get out and start it by hand." As I nervously looked out the window at engine number one, all that came to mind were the smiling faces waiting for me in Blantyre, Malawi, less than an hour flight away.

Now, as I blaze through a day with no end to work in sight, there are more words that I don't want to hear. "Can you fix my printer and connect me to the internet?" "You're an engineer! Here, do this!" "We need more money for this project. Is there more funding available?" "Today, we are saying farewell to (insert missionary's name)." But the words I fear most? "It's time to go back to Rwanda." Have I become too complacent and content here in Malamulo, the Loma Linda of Central Africa? Aren't we supposed to always be pushing ourselves? Am I fulfilling the command to "Go into all the world"?

That old time religion

Over two months ago, Victor and I unanimously decided that we wanted pizza. Mediocre pizza can be had in Kigali, but importing one from the International Space Station and cooking it during re-entry is a financially-comparable solution. Then, early last week, Victor decided it was time...time to splurge, time to recall old debts and settle them, time to enjoy a staple of the Western diet which long ago faded from the taste buds' memory (Victor forgave a considerable debt in exchange for a pizza).

Why this weekend? Because we had guests. A volunteer has been fearlessly helping for the last two rather exciting weeks, which included him nearly getting struck by lightning in a freak storm. A German and a Brit, both living in Kigali (and both of whom I had previously met) were also out for the weekend. It was a perfectly sized group: enough people to make it special, but few enough that everyone gets plenty of pizza.

So there we were, lounging around a bonfire, absolutely destroying the pizzas and relishing the company, swapping stories of harrowing bus rides and laughing at the locals' frequent mix-ups of "R" and "L" (yep, I'm Arexi just as often as I am Alexi [virtually no Kinyarwandan words end with consonants, which means they tack on an extra "e", "i", or whatever]). As the evening progressed, we even broke out the marshmellows and chocolate, truly a memorable occasion. All that came to mind was "The last time I enjoyed a day this much was as long ago as the last time I had pizza!" (both of which happened 69 days prior). But then, something changed.

In case you didn't guess, I am the oddball around here, and here are some examples. I am white, red-headed, vegetarian, not an alcohol consumer, but a Christian. The first two are the most obvious differences between Rwandans and myself. The last three are notable differences between myself and most other foreigners in Rwanda. And so, when Victor, Ralph, and Julian left for a couple minutes, Lorianne's curiosity got the best of her (she knew I was Adventist). She posed a question which nearly froze the blood in my arteries: "When you return to the States, will you go back to that style of religion?" Other questions like "What is your real hair color?", "Are you vegetarian because of animal rights?", "Would you like a beer?", and "How often do you shave?" have all been voiced many times, but this completely blindsided me. In an attempt to conceal my utter astonishment and to stall for time, I started talking until my wits recovered enough to formulate a coherent response. What was the reply? I honestly can't remember although it followed along the lines of "Probably, although I don't think the Western form of Adventism is all that different from the way the locals worship."

My frazzled nerves struggled to cope with the initial onslaught. Though nothing more was mentioned of the topic, I hardly thought of anything else the rest of the evening. "Are there really so many differences? We sing the same songs and read the same Bible, don't we?"; "Do my convictions mirror the attitude of the local believers?"; "Am I upholding the command to 'GO!'?"

Over the next few weeks, most student missionaries head for home, where open arms await them. They have laughed and wept, suffered and conquered, loved knowing they would lose their new friends soon. But I venture to say they have sensed their purpose, all of them. Some found it early on while others only recently saw the light. What about me? I'm not headed home any time soon, but perhaps this is better. I say such because I may have finally discovered my purpose. It's not to build a water system, fix some pumps, learn a language, or even minister to Rwandans. The first three are object-oriented tasks. Even the Rwandans (most of those who know me are also believers) are unlikely to understand what I say, what I do, and why I do it. On the other hand, westerners know what I gave up to come here. They know that surviving here in the remote corner of the far side of the world isn't a walk in the park. Maybe, just maybe, my assignment is to witness to my own culture by living for Him in the context of an entirely different one.

A graceful day

Do you ever get the feeling that the day will be elegant and glorious? Today, my day was neither elegant nor glorious, but full of grace at every bend. It started before 6 when the guards outside my house took it upon themselves to wake the dead, namely me. Worse things have happened and I enjoyed the additional reading time. Shower, breakfast outside (an exquisitely beautiful moth joined me but wasn't too chatty), and then off to work. Along with the usual email checks and project notes, a trip to Kibuye for cement and some piping supplies constituted my labor, and I was happy to be driving again, despite the risk of a compressed spine and ruptured kidneys (these didn't happen, which seems amazing given the road condition). Some of the orphanage kids scored a lift from me on their way back to secondary school (like boarding academy). Despite the slow pace, they were happy to not be paying for the bus. Before lunch time, I was in Kibuye, loaded with 1000 kg of cement, and relieved of the $300 required to purchase it.

At this point, I looked toward the restaurant where Jean and I typically eat lunch during town trips. It was utterly decimated, along with the stores on either side of it. No problem, we just went to the next closest one and ate the same food as always. Post-lunch, our final shop stop was for some plumbing supplies. As expected, the store didn't have all the parts necessary for a simple solution. After half an hour of rummaging through all the shelves to form an unwieldy solution, we had our booty. I returned to the truck and took it out for a drink, which wasn't cheap. However, that's when things started to go more awry than usual. I couldn't get the truck into gear, which aroused far too much attention. After much straining, we turned for home.

The first few km passed as mundanely as always, that is until we met a bus on a road barely wide enough for one of us. Talk about close! I was piloting the hospital delivery truck, which is right-hand drive. But Rwanda is a left-hand drive country, which made judging distance more difficult. After avoiding the bus with literally centimeters to spare (I looked out the back window to check the separation and must have gone pale), a rather pungent odor filled the cockpit. We both thought it was exhaust from the bus, at least until we noticed a small plume of smoke emanating from the gear shift (the engine is below the cab). After coaxing the rancid vehicle to the top of the hill, I was able to cool the engine on the downhill. My driving became ever more cautious, constantly watching the temperature gauge and never sure if it even worked (most of the gauges don't). On virtually all the major remaining uphills, the truck stalled at least twice.

Finally, almost to Gishyita (the last town before home) and the police tell me to stop for a routine check. I show them my license and they ask for some vehicle papers, which I don't have and have never seen. I direct them to the insurance sticker. Little did I know it was expired. They then asked for some proof of a technical inspection of the vehicle, an inspection the hospital has never undertaken for this vehicle. Because they speak very little English, I call Dr. Mfizi (a hospital administrator) and hand the phone to the police. They chat/argue for several minutes, then return my phone. I'm informed that not all the violations can be forgiven but run out of airtime before Dr. Mfizi finishes. And he won't call me back! Now, Jean won't get back in the truck. He continues chatting with the officers and ignoring me. Finally, after several minutes, he pops back, hands me my license (which the police have had the entire time), and tells me we are free to go. He has convinced the police to let me off the hook! Great! Except that they stopped us on an incline and I can't get the truck into gear. After arousing even more interest (from the police this time), we finally pull away and breathe a heavy sigh of relief. But all is not finished. To save strain on the engine, we head to the orphanage for delivery #1. Our arrival concludes sans mishap and Victor even gives me some cake, which made my day. However, as we depart, the clutch pedal goes straight to the floor. Courtesy of the topography, we are able to make our retreat. Once we get out of the gate, I can't engage any gears since the clutch is annihilated. After a push from some people, I slip it into first and keep it there. The remaining two km pass dreadfully slowly and changing gear is out of the question since everything is steep uphill. Despite numerous children chasing us (most easily kept pace), we stumbled to the maintenance building to part with our burden. Never before have I been so thrilled to unload a ton of cement!

Peace

This morning, I woke to the sound of silence, when the flittering of a moth could overpower a wildebeest stampede. Indeed, even now, the hum of a computer fan incessantly pounds my senses. Most mornings, the administration building hums with the daily tedium of accounting, printing, signing, and deciding. So why is today so serene? It's not entirely due to the soldiers I passed on my way to the hospital this morning. You may ask why soldiers armed with assault rifles patrol the streets on a national day of mourning. The answer to that query lies in the nature of our sadness. Today, we remember the genocide, and the soldiers stand their ground to ensure peace remains.

Two groups of people, the Hutus and the Tutsis, had vied for power for decades. After a civil war between the Tutsi-led RPF and the Hutu regime, the government decided to eliminate the Tutsis (who comprised of about 15% of the populous) and therefore eradicate the opposition. The atrocities began with the elimination of the Hutu president by his fellow Hutus. The assassins felt the president was trying to make peace with the Tutsis and couldn't accept this. Almost immediately extremist Hutus began to execute their plan, execute their countrymen. Many moderate Hutus were given a choice, kill their Tutsi neighbors or suffer the same fate. Finally, after three months, the tides turned and relative peace once again reigned.





Although this happened 17 years ago, the reminders still resonate today. Every day, I see a memorial to locals who lost their lives. Every time I travel to Kigali, I pass at least five monuments to the same tragedy. Like many Westerners, I still struggle to understand how hatred could motivate such actions. I fail to comprehend how those of us who claim to preserve life could have abandoned them and our peacekeeping mission. But I also see the efforts to overcome evil. The current president, Paul Kagame, has promoted peace despite being one of the tribe the Hutus tried to annihilate. I see integration of all people in all aspects of life. I see the respect everyone exhibits for the memorials commemorating those lost.

No longer are labels of Hutu or Tutsi applied. Whether tall or short, rich or poor, light-skinned or dark, we are Rwandans. Today, the towers of pine, mango, and eucalyptus bow their crowns in remembrance of the evils they witnessed yet utter not a word. The thunder roars and wails for its absent audience. The clouds weep their tears for the children who never jumped in the puddles. The rain washes away the auburn stains of the clay. Although we grieve tremendous loss, we can look forward. Why? Because today is a day of forgiveness.

Living off the grid

Have you ever tried to live off the grid? Cooking, bathing, and working off grid? If "living off the grid" meant anything like "living off the land", you would deduce that almost everyone lives off the grid because almost everyone depends upon it for their daily activities. This being the English language, logic isn't applicable. In addition to my regular job, which I discussed last time, I have an array of side projects, which primarily work off the grid. Electricity heats my shower and boils my rice, and the hospital has power for my computer. But notice that washing clothes failed to make that list. Yep, washing clothes takes more than a toss into the machine and a turn of the dials, it's by the brawn of your biceps and the wringing of your radii. That goes for both myself and the hospital. You can imagine the amount of work required for an 80-bed hospital. The current laundry facilities are stretched to capacity and need some refurbishment. That's where I pop into the picture. Even though construction really isn't my cup of tea, as the most technical person around these parts, it falls to my lot. What's the design? It's a simple building with slightly more space and better planning. Washing, drying, folding; two rooms and a courtyard for the primary steps of laundry. This week, we hope to solicit some bids. In perhaps two or three weeks, we may have a contractor and yet another construction project happening here at Mugonero.

For all you parents out there, what is the biggest cost associated with children? Buying clothes? Food? School (if you sent them to private school)? What if you had over 100 kids? You understand the need for a significant source of income, but relying on donations is foolish because of unpredictability. At the orphanage, Victor is creating industries with the profits helping to pay for clothes, food, and education to reduce the dependency upon charity (no, the children are not working in the industries). The government is working with Victor to develop a nursery to sell fruit trees to the locals. During the dry season, these saplings will need water, which is why Victor likes having me at his disposal. Behind the orphanage is a ravine with a creek snaking it's way along the bottom. A couple years ago, a German built a dam and a pump house to pump water up to the orphanage. The pumps are driven by water wheels and require no electricity. However, due of poor design both by the German and the Brazilian pump manufacturer, I have a task - get them working, ideally before the end of the wet season. This water is too dirty to be used for drinking and would clog any filter. However, a little soil with the water is just fine for the plants.

Another cost associated with children is the electricity bill. The orphanage's electricity bill comprises of bottles of distilled water. They have solar panels and a battery bank (courtesy of the German government) to power Victor's computer, the UV water purifier, and two lights so the kids can do their homework after dark. You would think that living so close to the equator would mean plentiful sunshine. But clouds seriously diminish the sunshine available, particularly in the rainy season. Any true Washingtonian can appreciate rain, primarily because it supplies the majority of their electricity. Likewise, my final project is to complete a design that would modify the pump house to include a hydroelectric generator. Thus, whenever the rain renders the solar system incapable of meeting demand, the rain itself will provide electricity. This is certainly the most difficult and complex project, even more so than my actual job, but this is also the most interesting and my favorite.

What do I like doing here in Africa? I like doing what I am most capable of accomplishing. Pilots, doctors, and even translators are all needed in the far reaches of the world. Evangelists and preachers have their calling. But someone decided not to bestow such abilities upon me. Instead, He created me to tackle those non-functional water pumps, a dog-chewed piano dehumidifier, those haphazard sketches of hospital buildings, a leak-prone hospital water system, and numerous other imperfect creations of man. With a passion for such, how can I say no?

Heisenberg

I realized this morning that the primary aim of my being here has never really been disclosed. I have talked so much about of life's aspects with one minute exception, work. Hopefully, this will shed some light on it.

"What do you do?" A rather pertinent inquiry, and one I am frequently asked. Let's first differentiate between the implied meanings of the question by asking more specific questions such as "What is your job title?", "What is your job description?", "In what field of expertise are you trained and proficient?", "What is the plan for your project?", and "What on earth do you actually accomplish?". Now let's divulge some answers. I actually have no idea what my job title is. My equally indeterminate job description might read something like this if it existed: "attempt to create something something capable of surviving a thermonuclear fusion reaction and fix everything that has already succumbed to much less." Area of expertise? If trained and proficient must both apply, then nothing. But I am a trained engineer who is almost proficient in the American dialect. When taken together, these skills are valuable as an ice cube maker in an Antarctic kitchen freezer. Why? Because I don't speak French or Kinyarwanda and almost nobody speaks English.

The remaining questions require lengthier answers, and all attempts will be make to keep it simple. My primary job entails designing and installing a water storage and distribution system for Mugonero Hospital. This includes purchasing all the parts, arranging transport, paying the laborers, and ensuring everything is built properly. The plan involves building a stone structure to elevate water tanks, laying new pipes to the hospital buildings, and simplifying the system in the process. But what actually gets done? On many days, the evidence suggests I accomplish absolutely nothing. What evidence? First of all, the hospital is occasionally without water (and it always happens when talking to a specific individual). Secondly, a quick comparison of the hospital grounds before I arrived and now would reveal only two differences. The first is a large hole in the ground and the second is a large pile of rocks waiting to fill that hole (and the 3 meters of air above it). By now, you must think I am the laziest person alive. But here's why. I usually discover the water is broken on my own, which occurs about 8-12 hours after it actually broke. By this time, it's too dark to find the problem, much less fix it. The slow construction is because of communication, or rather lack of it. Before I left for Malawi, I instructed the foreman to build the foundation in my absence. This lasted all of one day. The people who know where the current pipes are located didn't tell the foreman that he was about to unearth a concrete valve box. The foreman couldn't call me for a new plan because I was out of the country. The hospital administration didn't contact me until 4 days later, at which point I couldn't understand what they were saying (they are doctors and businessmen) and told them to stop the work (which had happened several days prior). I returned to Rwanda in time to prepare for a geophysical survey team. The team neglected to tell me they had delayed their arrival from Sunday to Thursday. That threw a wrench in the plan after I had dedicated Monday and Tuesday to working with them.

One last question might be "How do you function?". Several answers come to mind. Inefficiently (with little communication, at least three side projects, and a need for social interaction, is this surprising?) seems to best suit the question. Stressed is a common state because my flight leaves in two months and the project looks about 5% done. I have been rather frustrated because I don't like change and the plan has been constantly changing. One thing more terrifying than change is uncertainty. Uncertainty about how long this project will take, how long this system will last, how effective my time here will be, how the donors will want to redirect the project, what I will do when I leave here, where I will go. You know, Werner Heisenberg was dead on with his uncertainty principle. I know my location in life, but don't know my momentum (especially direction, and this is needed because momentum is a vector). Or conversely, I know my project's momentum, but don't fully understand the position in which I find myself. Yes, an igloo in Nunavut sounds fantastic right now. But burying my head in the snow and ignoring all the roadblocks isn't an option. Delay trumps abandonment because delay, unlike neglect, means progress is possible.

Paradise

You have heard me rave about the glories of Rwanda. The green that permeates everything, the frequent rain, the mild climate, pineapples whenever you so desire, a bus schedule, and people willing to help. If you visited and I inquired where you were, one of your first thoughts would be paradise. All of this land is grand and dandy, but what really is a paradise? I have been contemplating what a utopian snapshot of life is. What makes it so idyllic, so perfect? If you are a wee munchkin, it might be a summer day at the park with your mates and a monstrous birthday cake. A engineering student would agree that a day with sleep and without homework ranks at the top of the list. Me? I would like a day with people, people who speak English, people with whom a conversation is more than a formality, people who live and think the way I do.

Last week, I got my wish. On March 1st, I boarded a plane bound for Lilongwe, Malawi. Another purchase shipped me to Blantyre. Despite planning and attempts to contact friends, they were completely unaware as to where I was and I was oblivious to their cluelessness. Needless to say, my second arrival in Malawi was as disorganized as my first. But I stumbled through the door just in time for a glass of water, a stocked fridge, ten smiling faces, and open arms. I also arrived just in time to not join a conference call about my own project, but after 6 hours of sleep over the previous 60 hours, I didn't care.

Wednesday and Thursday, it was back to work, albeit volunteering at Malamulo. With a dam inspection, a roofing project, some sink faucet issues, CAD projects, and a water board account assessment, who had time for Snickers bars in Elisa's office or a trip to the movies? Friday morning dawned, earlier for some of us than others. Cristy, Elisa, Diane, and I jumped into the car and headed to Blantyre for some food, petrol, and Jonathan. With the car filled on all three accounts, we departed for Lake Malawi. The weekend plan? Read, swim, eat, sleep, repeat. And we stuck to it! Our only deviation was a kayak trip with snorkeling on Sunday. This slideshow doesn't even begin to convey the extent of our good times. (Facebook has some more pictures)



What did I take away from this excursion? It reminded me of the importance of people. People with whom you can share a cup of tea, a memory, and a laugh. People with whom you can keep a secret, divulge a struggle, and embrace after a rough day. You say that I can call you any time on any day, which is true. But your digitally reconstructed voice won't allow me to chop onions for your soup, it can't rub lotion on sunburns, nor will it let me take your mug to the kitchen. A phone call won't let me sit on your sofa, read a book, and be glad you joined me. I had impatiently waited months for interaction like this, but have now returned to live in a different paradise.

Phenomenal Weather

What do you consider perfect weather? Clear skies with a light breeze and temperature warm enough to forgo a jacket but cool enough not to perspire? A night so still and soft that the weathermen declare an air stagnation warning (they actually do happen, it warns that the air over a location may be so calm that pollution doesn't even blow away)? A midsummer evening's sunset with crickets and cicadas dueling for the loudest-critter-on-your-back-porch contest?

Those of you who know me know that I typically prefer the aberrant behavior of weather, when Mother Nature has a bad day and unleashes her fury upon us mortals. Yes, I can appreciate the occasional sunny day, crisp morning, and full moon. Though, if given the option, send a blizzard any day (especially in August). Both a light drizzle and an inundating downpour serve the same purpose, but the occasional torrent just feels more special. It's like asking if you would prefer ten packets of mayo from Burger King or an all expenses paid trip to the Hard Rock Cafe in London. At the end of it all, you ingested one of two equally unhealthy meals, but one ruined your day and the other highlighted it.

Due to my duty as engineer of the project, I get to oversee construction. When I say oversee, I actually mean ensure it happens and to a satisfactory standard. Thankfully, I have someone who hires, directs, and pays the laborers. But I still monitor progress and certainly notice when nothing happens. And here is where the dilemma begins. Either I get a day with weather that I love and hate or I get a day with weather that I adore and loathe. Allow me to explain. When the clouds vanish and the sun blazes down upon us, the project progresses because the men can dig and the internet functions. But if the heavens attempt to quench the Dante's Inferno, then emails cease as quickly as the construction. It's a daily, or sometimes hourly, battle between gratifying my wishes. Finish the project soon or appreciate the atmospheric phenomena.

Yesterday was a day of fantastic meteorological conditions, by any account or standard. For starters, the sun shone brilliantly, even endowing me with my first major African sunburn. Last night, Victor and I watched the western horizon drift from yellow to orange to red to black. But the final shift occurred after dark. I strode home at 8 pm under a crystal-clear, moonless night with only lightning to guide my way. Strange, no? The numerous hills had trapped a thunderstorm over the lake but the lightning continued to illuminate my way. And thus my sabbath began.



This photo is a jab at all you "Pollution Pansies" who don't appreciate side effects of adulterating our atmosphere.

Road Safety

Fluids. They provide us all with the life we have. Water is essential for us and and our food to grow. Oil furnishes the food with unnecessary calories, negates any benefits it once had, and can propel our Land Cruisers when fuel is unavailable. Petrol, radiator fluid, transmission fluid, etc. ensure our steel steeds do more than replace flamingos as garden ornaments. It's on these I would like to make a note. In America, when one of the low fluid level warning lights illuminates, or any other alarm for that matter, the typical driver becomes perturbed because of the forthcoming expense. Here, I occupy a passenger seat, but warning lights bring joy to my day. Why? It means nearly everything works. When I see a light, the issue is recent or rare enough that the bulb hasn't burned out. Similarly, the sensor might still work and hasn't been bypassed to save the annoyance. And so, what you consider a nuisance provides me relief.

Last week, I hurried to Kigali, which proved to be a frivolous endeavor. But I did notice something regarding the motorcycle taxis from the hospital to Kibuye and the return trip the next day. The distance is 30 km and one requires an hour to traverse. Computing the average speed is trivial and straightforward. Instantaneous speed is something I always wondered. Both motorcycles had working speedometers, the first two I had seen on bikes in all of Rwanda! However, both gauges were readily dispensable, but for different reasons. On the way into town on Thursday, the taxi arrived promptly at 8, and we departed. The driver gingerly attacked the road (if you can even call it that). Although missing the bus hardly worried me (indeed I still arrived 45 minutes early), the driver's cautious nature probably rendered the device useless because no laws (if there were any governing the path) were broken. Conversely, on the return trip, the driver made haste and mincemeat of the road. The gauge was of as little interest to the chauffeur as daytime soap operas to an employed person.

And now a story from a few months ago. Some may recall that in late November, about a dozen of the Gimbi-ites ran the Great Ethiopian Run. The night prior, most of us indulged in some (ok, a bit more than some) delicious Indian food. Feeling the need for exercise, we decided to walk back to our lodging, perhaps 3 km away. All was going well. Despite being foreigners in downtown after dark on the eve of a major event, we had safety in numbers. About halfway back, a police cruiser (which was a Land Cruiser) stopped and told us to get in. Odd! He was alone, asked our destination, and offered us a lift. Hesitantly, we accepted, but in no time at all, our compound welcomed us.

Finally, a much more recent narrative. In light of last week's failed Kigali excursion, I departed once again for Kigali on Thursday morning. Although the start was later, our bus driver fancied the accelerator. I met someone for lunch downtown, discussed project matters, visited the suppliers, and checked the time. Nearly 4 pm and I still hadn't secured a sleeping berth. I decided to try to acquire my groceries, it being the last item of business, and catch the last bus home, which egressed Kigali two hours later. Food for home- check, dinner before the trip - check, got on the wrong bus only to be warned five minutes before it left - check (I wasn't the only mistaken one). Darkness descended, but this is when many trucks operate. About halfway through the journey, we caught a dump truck, with a Land Cruiser Prado between us. Several blasts of the horn warned the SUV of the overtake. Then he cuts us off. More honking and more cutting off. The Prado brakes to a halt, always keeping us directly behind him. Because we are a bus, stopping in time was no easy feat. Immediately, the back door of the Prado opens, which sends the bus driver into fanatic mode. Throwing it into reverse, he prepares to make a textbook getaway...in a bus. The man who opened the door exits the vehicle and his clothing identifies him as a police officer. He chats with the bus driver, thanks the Prado driver, and piles into the bus with his comrade as if nothing had happened.

You may rave about all the places you have visited, lauding their beauty, and cursing the cramped space because your sibling overpacked. I am thankful to get there at all, because more often than not, the journey seems to occur on the precipice of disaster.

Holiday Season

Is it so strange that I should continue to be in the holiday season? First, I must report that the spirit of Christmas past arrived a mere 6 weeks late. Furthermore, the as yet unreceived remnants of Christmas past might well be labeled Christmas yet to come. But I must distinguish between my Christmas from Ebenezer Scrooge's visitors. While my packages exhibit a ghoulish pale white exterior, they do have substance and may be rent by knife, bear mauling, or crazed three-year old children in search of sucrose. Furthermore, the evidence lasts more than an hour, even if it's approach wasn't predicted by the chiming of the clock. But I am most thankful for the simple gifts which cost so much to ship.

But holiday season is far from over. Even as I type, the country is, as a general rule, being lazier than I, or perhaps more productive if considered in a different light. The foolhardiness of my ignorance began last week. My essential food stores dipped below the level I deemed acceptable. With other business to complete in Kigali, I proceeded to the capital, as done so many times. Being a Thursday, the usual bustle greeted me, and much to my dismay, a thunderstorm loomed in the distance. Despite my love of such precipitation, I had little shelter and a craving for carbs. A hearty buffet lured me into a haven, although I still received a bit of spray due to a window left ajar. With the bill remunerated, the stomach substantially stouter, and the rain having relented, I ventured out for the first and primary item of business. And what was that item? It was the dreaded "s" word - shopping. However, it was price shopping for electrical breakers, water meters, and pipe threading tools, which much better suited my disposition. A couple quick trips to various businesses satisfied my work ethic. I would have proceeded back home except that I wanted to meet with one more company, and my grocery shopping had yet to commence. The groceries could have been acquired immediately, but I saw no need to lug 10 kg of food to the end of the earth and back, particularly when the bus station sits one block from the store. My plan therefore was to hit up a cafe (preferably with and primarily for internet), do some reading on my new favorite app, and get an early start on the morrow. And so I did. The next morning, I walked the 6 km to downtown only to see the place practically deserted, something I had never seen. A few potential explanations came to mind: 1) SDAs have been wrong, there is a rapture, and I have been left behind because of my error 2) I am hallucinating because the sweat on my brow tells me I am quite awake 3) I stumbled into an alternate reality where peacefulness and serenity predominate or 4) the Chinese New Year doesn't only happen in China. As luck would have it, Friday was a holiday, election day to be precise. Ergo, all shops, banks, and businesses were enjoying the day much more than I. Thankfully, the buses and a few taxis still operated. In no time, I had exchanged my bus ticket for one two hours earlier and headed home sans everything I had come to purchase.

Why am I doing something non-constructive during the middle of a Monday morning? Today is also a holiday, election day part two. This raises more questions. Why do they need two holidays to elect their leaders when Americans are allowed a couple hours on one? Why split the election days with a weekend? How many leaders need to be elected? Does the voting actually have any bearing on who will hold the office, or more importantly, the power? Any retort would be purely conjecture with finitely many lemmas. This hasn't been just a one time deal. I greatly appreciate that Americans work long and hard in their lumbar-supporting leather executive office Lazy-boy chairs with Facebook constantly updating. Here, I too often see individuals engage in a profession for no reason except the salary. In the hospital, this removes much of the caring aspect which constitutes such an important role in healthcare. Despite my jesting, the desire of some people to take up a profession for love of what they do instills in me a need to set an example. What do I want more than almost anything right now? For my Christmas/New Year's/Valentine's/President's Day present, I would appreciate some project progress so my birthday isn't like the day all the Christmas credit card purchases are to be paid.

Belonging

A ten-year old urchin would bound across the field, exhilarated with the feeling of an antelope's swiftness, the agility of a flea, and the stealthiness of an F-117 Nighthawk. He would scamper through the woods all day, wishing night would delay its onset. With an insatiable appetite for sports, knowledge, outdoor adventure, Legos, and food, what importance did something so drab as school have? He could outrun any classmate and most who were several years older, which increased his potential playground popularity. However, his mind guaranteed that he'd be the bane of his peers. But he didn't yearn for school. People intruded his space, the classwork was more dull than a comedian's awkward-silence-breaking joke, and he earnestly believed his time could better be utilized studying the 358, 626, and 940 sections in the Dewey Decimal system. Solitude was his dominion and where he wanted to be.

Upon watching Wes depart from Kigali over two months ago, one memory returned to me. Just over four years prior, I migrated from of life of knowns to the frontier of Walla Walla, where the nearest person I knew lived 1800 miles away and felt a light-year away. Now here I was, the foreigner trying to survive in Rwanda, a land where I didn't speak the first or second language, perceive the customs, comprehend the government, or know where to find a decent restaurant. Only the restaurant conundrum had been present when I descended upon Walla Walla. You can imagine my distress in both instances. More importantly, was I welcomed here in the heart of Africa?

In my house, I rarely suffer from coziness or cramping. Most days, it's as bare as a minimalist's living room. Although emptiness fills the expanse, if anything arrived to occupy a corner of my quarters, it would completely oust me. With nothing to hinder me, I am free to reign over my domain. Is a soaring glider comfortable in the firmament? Is a colobus monkey at home in a tree? So I am in my abode.

A mere stroll away, I know of another home, quite different from my own. Free space is scarce because 130 kids are squeezed into a space designed for 100. Hues of a tropical reef remind me that life isn't only green or brown. Screaming, laughter, and Lady's excitement to see me (Lady is the director's dog) exude a vivacious atmosphere, where life represents more than a job and a house. Victor welcomes me and always tells me to return soon. Here I belong as much as in my own house, provided I make the effort to walk.

Walla Walla, SSL, Malawi, Rwanda: four chapters in the anthology of my life. At each I have felt lonely, abandoned, and distraught. But I have fond memories of each because of one lesson I must consciously and perpetually practice. I must choose to be one of the people as much as the people choose to accept me. Anything less would be hypocrisy.

Writer's block

In America, most of the books on my dilapidated shelf have been neglected for years. But why? I can only answer this in two ways. Some have met this fate because they no longer relate to my age-specific interests, in part due to my extended absence while at boarding academy and college (and now Africa). The other category includes books that I still like, but cannot read due to insufficient weight allowances of airlines. Furthermore, the included facts can be had with but a doddle of Googling. In coming to Africa, I brought three books. One a Dan Brown novel (no, it's not the Da Vinci Code), one a Clive Cussler novel, and my Bible. The first two now reside in Malawi, but my Bible accompanies me, either physically (the big honkin' book) or digitally (on my iPod). In both Malawi and Ethiopia, I devoured books at a pace only matched by long-gone summers of...well...nothing. But since then, only my Bible has occupied my eyes. Does this pose a problem?

The great authors of human history do lots of things. They delve into the character of the proletariat, noting that even a humble humanitarian should be honored for his contribution, no matter how mundane. Proficient professors of the prose enrapture an audience more varied than their diction, straddling generations and cultures. Aristocrats of articulate expression, assign a temperament and disposition to an individual, and yet nearly every reader can associate. These authors...do not include me in their ranks.

I know I speak for many when I say this. Writing is hard, especially for missionaries. There was the initial onset of a brand new way of everything when we arrived. But thus began a problem, which has three facets. Writing versus understanding versus novelty. Everything was new, almost everything was exciting, but nothing was understood. Because of this inundation, as well as the onset of a new job, culture, and lifestyle, writing just couldn't cover the topics. After a few weeks or months, the novelty factor diminished, but didn't necessarily vanish. Time to write existed because we managed to get a grasp on our responsibilities. However, understanding generally eluded us, except for the most keen observers. By Christmas, most of those who left in August or September didn't gasp at (insert local people group) anymore, although they certainly gawked at us. Riding in a cramped/broken bus was as commonplace as mosquitos. We didn't feel like a foreigner, although we couldn't qualify as a local either. We began to uncover the how and why of the ways of life. And though we may occasionally have had a spare moment to inform you of our recent revelation, we usually didn't. Why? It didn't register as noteworthy. The original problem still exists, although the exact nature has changed. At most, we can have two of the facets, but not all of them. By this time in the year, most of us are struggling to find something that fits all these criteria about which to write: we noticed as odd/cool/new, that we know you will show even the least bit of interest, that we haven't already said eighteen thousand times, and that you will be able to understand. With the exception of a few doctors' work (ahem Cristy and Ryan) and the occasional highlight of extraordinary adventure, the daily reviews of our working life are as mundane as yours. Please, forgive our lack of news from the battle front. For us, it is nothing but the normal, no matter how atypical it might be.

As I mentioned, only my Bible do I now have to read (reading the whole internet takes a little bit longer). Do I consider this a hindrance? Hardly. Just two days ago, I enjoyed a conversation with two Catholics visiting the orphanage. They had been volunteering for about ten days and were surrounded by Adventists. We discussed the afterlife, this life, tradition, laws, and prophecy. Had my nose endlessly perused the latest John Grisham works, would I have been able to stand by my faith unafraid? Would my life be the same? Believe so, I do not (to be read with a hint of Yoda).

(And yes, writing this was quite difficult).

A Praire Home Companion

It's Saturday night and the traffic-devoid miles from departure point to destination seem to elongate from 20 to unfathomable. Where have I been? The church gymnasium playing basketball, volleyball, roller hockey, or some other potluck-calorie eradicating activity. Number of casualties? Roller hockey: everyone sans spectators on a good day, everyone on a bad one. As I relax in my seat, I hear Garrison Keillor's soothing monotonous mutterings, quite able to subdue an ADHD 3-year old far better than a car seat. Yet the stories uttered and comedy cracked entertain the adult in charge of piloting our petrol steed. Terminus? A certain mundane chestnut-complexion sofa perched in front of a "Red Green Show" enabled television. A hillbilly sitcom which should be catalogued as "the source of bodged extravagance boggling the field of engineering with innovation through reinvigoration of absolute rubbish." But more than humor of the show are the overtones of a subculture struggling to stand above the scorns of society. Yes, I mean those back-country hicks accused of crimes against humanity including the defilement of the American dialect.

This past Sunday, like the Sunday before it, was a feasting day. Jovial celebrations, the local equivalent of a community-wide bar-b-grill, highlighted the holiday that occurred the previous day (on both occasions). After a suitable session of gorging, orators thanked the benefactors, and the talented children proclaimed their satisfaction in the best way they know: singing and dancing. What better way to empty the abdomen in preparation for another round of gluttony? But time passes and the night settles. Worship and peace. The 1.5 km walk back to my dwelling in the eerily silent darkness strikes me as familiar. The only noises are the chirping of crickets, my feet on the path, and Harry Gregson-Williams emanating from my iPod. And yet this four-song stroll feels so much longer no matter how frantic or idyllic the pace. I'm not overwhelmed with fears of being mauled by a ravenous creature. But I amble in solitude, quite unlike the last few hours of pandemonium. As Captain Ramius said, "Now they will tremble at the sound of our silence." The quietness is more deafening than an anechoic chamber can damp out, but only because I am between a rock and a hard place, between unreserved social immersion and isolation. My hammock patiently awaits my return, and it welcomes better than any embroidered doormat or wreath. Despite being here only a month, this is becoming quite familiar and will, in all likelihood, happen finitely many times again.

In my hammock, I realize it's a weekend evening not so different from my Saturday nights of yore. First came the eating, then the activities with a mix of friends and family and strangers, followed by the travel, and finally the comfort. The comfort of a well-known place, familiar feeling of a venue to put my feet, the warmth of a hot beverage on a cool night. Here resides a people fairly separated from technology and quite content to be so. They are bombarded with supplications to "become civilized" and "part of the world." Their identity comes not from what they do but who they are. They are one people who have overcome a brutal past (both individually [one of the orphans at the age of 9 literally dug his mother's grave because nobody else would] and as a nation [an event which brought the first generation of orphans to L'Esperance]) to stand or even dance.

Do I have Praire Home Companion? Prairies and mountains are more or less mutually exclusive. Ergo, I have no prairie. Do I have a home? Yes, yes I do. Do I know where it is? Yes. Is it here? Not quite yet, but I can sense that it comes ever so slowly, like the Christmas packages sent via snail mail (which still haven't arrived and probably won't for another month). Do I have a companion? Yes. Sometimes the thought is more realistic than this keyboard upon which I type, other times I maintain the far side of Charon is a parsec closer. Here in Rwanda, I see a pressured culture flourishing under the aegis of hope, under which I also find relief and my prairie-less home companion.