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.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
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).
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).
Monday, January 3, 2011
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.
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.
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