Western infiltration

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

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

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

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

Holiday Cheer

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

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

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

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

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

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

The city on a hill

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Door

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Other Side of Heaven"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Real World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mirror

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

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

1) Water meters are read to determine usage

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

3) Institutions deduct water bill from employees' paychecks

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

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

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

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

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

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