driving 101

So I've been trying to convince my boss to teach me to drive a manual...so I can start driving around here. He usually chuckles and changes the subject, as if I am not capable of adapting to the driving style of my national friends and neighbors...I disagree. In fact, in my months here I have picked up valuable and useful tips and methods of getting around in a vehicle that should make my transition onto the roads this African city much more smooth. Riding along in a taxi watching everyone drive can be the best classroom:) I thought I'd share a few of the lessons learned with you.

1. If there is no noticeable traffic pattern...make your own. Curbs, sidewalks, and road shoulders are good options if the road seems blocked.


2. Traffic police don't have guns...therefore it is not necessary to really pay attention to them. I mean, wow, that whistle is scary.


3. When pedestrians walk into the street in front of you (as they are wont to do around here), the best course of action is to accelerate quickly, so as to show them that you, the driver with the large vehicle, are serious about maintaining your course and they had better move it or loose it.


4. If said pedestrian does not take your kind and gentle suggestion to vacate the road and get on the sidewalk where they belong, it is best to slam on your brakes in such a way to come to a full and complete stop one to two feet away from the now frantic pedestrian. This insures that this pedestrian will never again step into the road without second thoughts. It's really for their benefit...really.


5. The lines in the roads are suggestions. If four cars can fit across a "three lane" highway, why not? Really, it's more efficient this way.


6. If the line of cars in the turning lane begins to grow long, just start a new one if the next closest lane. Waiting can be so tedious...


7. Talking on a cell phone while driving is illegal in the city, so drop the phone on the floor when you see a traffic policeman. While you're at it, throw your seat belt around one arm- it totally looks like you buckled it. Totally.


8. Pot holes and bumps in the road are par for the course here, so why avoid them? Who cares if the white people in the back of your rickshaw keep banging their heads on the ceiling...they should be paying better attention.


9. While it is technically correct to drive on the right side of the road, it is 100% understandable to cut across traffic, and drive on the other side of a divided highway against the flow of traffic if your destination is on that side. Or if you just want to. I mean, we're never in a hurry to get anywhere, but if driving in the wrong direction can get us there two minutes earlier...why not? It'll mean I have time to grab some tea with the guys before my meeting.


10. Speed limits...what speed limits?

So I'm still trying to glean what I can from the people around me before my first lesson behind the wheel...but I think I'm really catching on. Besides, I haven an international driver's license from Triple A (AAA is how you really are supposed to write it I guess)- what more do I need?

So if you have been thinking I'm serious while reading this and are, even now, punching in the numbers of my mother's cell phone number to warn her that I am out of control...allow me to ease your mind. I won't really adopt these sandbox driving practice...at least not most of them:) Talk to you all soon.

A few pictures to whet the appetite...or something like that.

Met her on the side of the road when we were walking into the "Downtown", she was going to get water in the wadi. And decided she needed to have a picture taken. I totally agreed.
Pace of life is different...so it's a pretty common site to see people just hanging out, sitting around (who needs chairs anyway? chairs are for sissies. and white girls with namesthat start with an S)

So the village we'll be semi-living in doesn't really have public transportation. Unless you consider this to be public...I didn't see an owner anywhere nearby at least...but careful, they spit.

More pictures to come...big momma wouldn't upload.

So I've been traveling a bit....

So in the past three weeks I have been on five plane rides, two helicopter flights, one very long journey in a minibus, one long hike with my trusty pack through ankle deep mud, and a six mile walk through some of the most beautiful country in the world. I have slept in a tent, fought off locusts, had my passport taken, had my passport returned, screamed at spiders, and spoken with a sultan. And I'm tired:)
But well.
More to come...and pictures, lots of pictures.

Death March 2007 aka. A Day at the Farm

So after the run in with the friendly chickens, we embarked upon the Sandbox Death March of 2007. What began as a "we'd love to see the orchards" turned into an hour and half walk over the whole property...from the farm, through the fruit trees (amazing...but not quite like the neat and tidy orchards you may think of at the Motts Apple Farm), to the River, through the fields, and back to the farm. Strangely enough, despite our best attempts at going early in the morning, we still managed to be walking in the heat of the day.

The good news is that I had my camera this time, and have a few to share with you. A Date Palm (they really exist)
My new friend. She was my walking buddy.
Mango (it's almost ripe...I ate it's brother yesterday)
Brother and Sister (with some mango in her mouth. gross)
out of the forest and to the river

My little friends, in the cornfields

The shore of the river...mud turns quickly to cracked earth in the heat

A Sandbox Scarecrow

Grapefruit.

SOoooooo in the end, we arrived back at the truck and drank water, recovered from the long walk, and ate our fruit with a sense of satisfaction that only comes from knowing that you earned it.

REJECTED

On Friday I visited a farm outside of the city. Now when I say "farm" I mean a place where things are grown, not necessarily the farm picture you probably have in your head when I write that. I know this because I had the picture of green hills and a white farmhouse in my head as I woke up and got ready to go- why I still thought this after living here three months I do not know. There was no white house or front porch. There were no green hills. But there were chickens. Lots of chickens.
I like wearing the covering ladies here wear- it goes over all your clothes and around your head and then over your shoulder (sounds complicated. kind of is...but the good news, I haven't tripped on it on a while). The covering I was wearing on Friday was a bright hot pink...and I was feeling pretty and cheerful (don't bother calling me out on my vanity...it solved itself later I promise). So our national friends are giving us a quick tour of their property- and take us to the chicken circle. A courtyard surrounded by huge chicken coop (sp.?)- each holding probably 300 chickens at least. As I slowly meander into the courtyard and approach the first chicken coop (sp?), I begin to hear some rustling in the pen. Then the rustling grows louder as the chickens begin to stir. Then suddenly all 300 chickens are flying around madly and bumping into each other and squawking like I'm there to kill them. I watch with interest, wondering what could be causing this ruckus...mentally berating whatever naughty thing would get the chickens all riled up in this way. I move away from the party coop and am astonished to see the same thing happen in the next pen. And the next. And the next.
A gentleman, apparently one in charge of the rather excited chickens, smiles at me and points to my tob and I smile back and wave- figuring he was interested to know why I would wear the slightly awkward covering. He did not stop pointing though and began speaking to me in Arabic, but alternated pointing to me, then the chickens, then the tob, and then all three over again. I could not hear over the ruckus, so I was puzzled, but kept smiling and shrugged a bit (I've learned when they think I'm dumb, they just leave me alone...lately it has not been hard to convince people of this). Finally a friend who spoke English pointed to my tob and said that the color was upsetting the chickens.
Again with the shrug, but the friend continued and said that I would have to leave the area, I was scaring the chickens.
Nice.
Apparently (don't judge me you people who already know this) they won't lay eggs when they get really scared of something. Friday, that something was me.
Rejected, by chickens.

It's Been A While

Considering it's been almost two months since I last posted one of these (go ahead, judge me), there are two options before me, as I see it. The first would be to write a unbelievably long blog that explains everything I have done since the last time we talked (those who know me would not consider this out of character), and the second is to simply start from here, duly chastised, and try to be better from now on.
So I'm going to go with....number two. Yeah, definitely number two.

It's good to be back. I've figured out how to put pictures on this stupid thing (I think) so I may even put a few of those on. Maybe. See you soon.

Extreme Home Makeover: Africa

We are in the midst of a full scale (on African terms) renovation of our little apartment. Walls that were once a non-descript creamy color are quickly (or at least not slowly) becoming green, robin's egg blue, and the same color pink as the skittles you get in the purple bags. I have learned to stand up to a contractor twice my size who has his own interior decorating ideas ("orange walls look good, yah? same as in my house!")- that we want "white trim, yes white trim, yes Mr. Boss, not brown, but WHITE trim. That's right, white. Impossible? Surely not. If its just very very hard then I expect you to try very hard to do it. That's right." Hope you all can see the end result one day soon.
Pictures to follow- as soon as I figure out to upload them (which may be a while. I'm soooo good at this:). So for the two of you who read this, hold your horses- the visuals are on the way

I Pity the Fooul! I Pity the Fooul.

Every country has foods they are famous for (okay not every country- I mean does anyone know what Djibouti is famous for? The Maldives? Feel free to comment if you do). Italy has tiramisu and, well, Olive Garden of course. Ireland has potatoes and well, you know the other stuff. Fish and Chips for England. Hamburgers and Fries in America, you get the idea. Good things right? Well, the country I now call home is known for fooul. Yes. Pronounced “fool.” Translation: take some beans, add some water, then cook for hours until they are kind of mushy but still maintain their basic shape. When you add some chopped tomato and onion, a whole lot of salt, and eat it with fresh bread, it can be quite tasty. Every corner shop has a few clay pots (they look like beehives) out front simmering the mixture over a little coal fire in the morning and evening. Each day, people come to the fooul vendor, buy about 50 cents worth of the strange bean dip, the vendor scoops it out of the clay pot and into a plastic bag, and the happy customers take it home to their families.

Being the culturally sensitive people that we are, my sweet sister friends and I decided we would begin buying fooul for breakfast too. Our first night in our apartment, the two adventurous ones (that’s the other two) set out on a late afternoon food jaunt to buy a few things at the dukan and buy fooul with the locals. I straightened up around the house until they arrived home (we were waiting for our appliances to come-they never did), and finally heard weary steps coming up the stairs. The door opens to reveal two faces, slightly defeated but still hopeful. I wasn’t sure how to take this.

“Not ready until 7:00 pm,” they said. So we rested in the darkening room until 7:20. Just to be safe. This is Africa, after all. The three of us set out with high spirits- seeing dinner in sight. Without a fridge, we were limited in our food choices, so by this time we were all very hungry. A half hour of wandering later, we returned home with no fooul and very little dignity once again. Fooul still not ready.

Today the sisters jaunted out once again determined to eat fooul with the rest of the country. Seriously, they have to sell it somewhere- this is the national food for goodness’ sake. A few short minutes later they returned while I was chopping the tomatoes and onions, slammed the door, and came into the kitchen. “Not ready.” They said quickly and left the room.

Three strikes. Yet the hunger remained and we were determined to win.

Two hours later, the two adventurers went out once more…and returned victoriously. Mostly.

I went into the kitchen to grab the vegetables and heard a crash followed by May’s scream and Sahara’s hysterical laughter. Poking my head around the doorframe I was confronted with the sight of fooul spread across the concrete tiles. May’s face looked totally perplexed and slightly defeated, but I couldn’t help but join Sahara in her laughter. Foolish Fooul. It was trying to get the better of us, but then again, it’s just beans. We’re smarter than it. We’re bigger than it. We will win.

And we did. A short while later, we were sitting around the table eating our first fooul and esh (bread) meal. It was, uh, almost everything we hoped for and more.

Pearls

I realized the other day, as I put on my pearl stud earrings for the seventh day in a row, that I have been wearing these little pearls a whole lot since I arrived here. Exclusively actually. This may not appear strange for those who know me, for I was known to wear pearls often and with every outfit possible (my roommate in college used to-still does- make fun of me for not changing my pearl earrings when we dressed to go the gym, “pearls with a t-shirt? Sue, seriously?”) back home in the states. But in the two month before leaving the country I hadn’t worn them once. Not once. I threw them in the jewelry bag as an afterthought. I mean who wears pearls in Africa? I had carefully packed my dangly, funky earrings that would match the brightly colored dresses and coverings I would wear here. I put the pearls on for the long flight over, and somehow, just never took them off in the days that followed. Each morning as we prepared for the day, the sisters with me would put on their fun, funky earrings and offer me a choice from their vast selection. Yet each morning, I would put back in the little white pearls from home.

And then it hit me. Everything in my life right now is unsettled and unfamiliar. The foreign country I now call my home is still very foreign to me in almost every way. The food, the water, the housing, the weather, the language—all new. All of my clothes were strange and different from what I would wear daily at home. So I hold on to the familiar—to the one thing I can control. Each morning I put on this little part of who I used to be: Clean. Sweet. Classy. Put together. In control of my situation. All things which I no longer feel I can possibly be- at least not yet (well the clean thing is questionable for the duration of our time here).

I cling to the familiar- we all do I suppose. When everything around us is uncertain, we hold on to the things we know. In the days since the pearl revelation I have seen that there are other things to hold on to as well: the loyalty and love between my two sister friends and I (despite, uh, less than perfect situations, our conversations grown sweeter and funnier- maybe it’s the heat), the love and thoughts of my family pr for me at home-and writing daily to tell me they love me and haven’t forgotten me, and friends whose wise words for me come always at the exact right time.

Yet the one thing that is certain- even more than these- is that you, L, are faithful, and you, L, are true. You do not shift like shadows—Your promises are the same yesterday, today, and in the days to come.

He will be faithful. He will provide for my needs—ALL of my needs. He will never leave me nor forsake me. He will finish this work he’s started in me. He started it, he maintains it, he will finish it. All of it. He will be my strength when I am so weak I cannot stand any longer. He will be my voice when I have no words. He will lead me. He will guide me. He will fight this battle for me- for it is his battle, not mine, anyway. And he will win. Every single time. He will lead me by his mighty right hand besides still waters. He will lift my head, he will be my joy, he will be my hope. He will be my security- my strong tower that I can run into and be saved. He will hide me in the cleft of the rock, and renew my spirit. He will create a clean heart in me- as I die to myself every day. He is my true love, and I will love him most, best, and first. I am his beloved and he will love me unconditionally, consistently for all the days of my life.

There may come a day (will come a day- I loose everything !) when I loose the back on one of my pearl studs, or loose one all together and I will need to put them away for a season. And when that day comes, even thenJ, I can rest in the absolute certainty that he will be faithful and true. And that will be enough. More than enough.

Macaroni and Cheese (and other small comforts)

Macaroni and Cheese (and other comforts)
I have found that when life is totally unstable and uncertain, little things that can bring comfort become very big things. Today I woke to electricity going out (translation- really quiet, really hot) and lay in bed wondering if grace would be enough today (it was, in case you were wondering. MORE than enough). Before 9:00 am, our plans had changed five times over, and at 9:30 I found myself sitting in a language lesson for the second hour of learning the alphabet. I look back on my kindergarten years with amazement and fondness now- why couldn’t they make picture flashcards for Arabic? Seriously. A is for Apple, B is for Ball- I mean, those make sense. By 10:30 am, I knew the alphabet about as well as can be expected and wanted nothing more than a long nap and a little stability. It turns out neither were in the plans for the day, but the Father knows what he’s doing (shocker) and in exchange for the nap I got fajitas. With salsa and sour cream and real cheddar cheese. And the best steak I’ve had in a long time (or maybe it was just steak in a place I didn’t expect it…always makes it taste better). I spent an hour in the kitchen making the salsa and preparing with my supervisor and had wonderful conversation while my other two sisters were out recovering lost baggage (TIA). Unexpected down time after washing dishes lent to a spontaneous pedicure party for all the females of the house complete with the first music from home I’ve heard since leaving it (oh Ipod, how I love thee). An hour later, our toes were sparkly, our heels were smooth, and the three of us were the only ones left. We lay on the cool tile and talked as if we hadn’t been together 24-7 for the last six days. Listening to Derek Webb’s “House Show” for the 600th time, I realized that despite the total instability that characterizes this season of my life, contentment comes in little doses that go quite a long way. The Father does not ask us to be lone rangers, picking the hardest thing we can find just to prove we can do it. Neither does he send us places just to laugh at us when the pressure almost breaks us. No indeed, we cry out to him and in return he sends his love and kindess (Ps. 57). In little things like fajitas, good music and conversation, and clean feet. These things are not guaranteed, they are just little gifts…a hand squeeze from a Dad who loves us a whole lot, sees us right where we are, and has promised to be faithful no matter what.

And if all that wasn’t enough, we had macaroni and cheese for dinner. Heaven.

Dance Dance Revolution

So despite being thousands of miles away from home, bits of home are never far away. Like dance parties, which is a good thing since dancing is one of my favorite things. My roommates and I were up in our room this afternoon working on straightening the seeming impossible mess gathering in our room, and a small head (belonging to a small person who also lives in the house) poked in and asked, “anyone want to play DDR?”

The revolution has reached Africa. Just in time.

THEY'RE OUT (Part 2): Crossing the Street

This morning as I was slowly waking up, trying to open my eyes and think clearly (the usual thoughts “where am I? Why am I sweating already? What’s going on?), my roommate burst through the door with the most exciting news so far: the three of us were going to the market! All alone! I was suddenly very awake.
As I threw on a head covering and sunglasses and rushed out to the kitchen, our supervisor prepped the three of us girls, handing us money and carefully repeating our lines: “salata lee fein” “shu khran” “ma salama” (or however you spell those) .

So in our city, crossing the street is an art form. We approached the main street and were immediately hit with the dust of the speeding traffic and paused on the side of the road. As we surveyed the scene in awe, my wise, slightly insane, roommate Sarah said with deadening calm: “Well, if we don’t just go, we’ll never go.”

With that, she started walking into the street, followed by Maria. A brief glance in the left direction showed a white car coming towards us all at alarming speed. A glance back to the roommates proved they showed no signs of stopping. I shifted my eyes straight forward to the other side of the street and sprinted as daintily as possible after them (trying not to hear the car honking). By dainty I mean as fast as possible in a skirt and head covering.

We managed to make it across the street in one piece (amazing feat) and looked up to see the shopkeepers laughing at us. But then again, we’re stupid, we’re white, and they don’t expect much different from us. At the vegetable stand we all recited our carefully practiced lines to the vendor and he grabbed the tomatoes, onions, and salad greens from his wooden crates. Soon we each had a small plastic sack filled with vegetables but were at a total loss what to do next. Our supervisor had given us a little coin purse filled with several bills and handful of coins (coupled with a hasty explanation of how much we would probably need, a shrug, and a “well, come back with whatever you can”). At the time it had not made much sense, but as we gathered around the small purse (not obvious, right?) discussing how much we should be giving them, the shopkeeper began to become impatient. I handed him a large bill (or it seemed large to me) and but his hand did not move. We eventually handed him every bill in the coin purse, one by one until he seemed satisfied. We walked away, slightly defeated, but convinced that the supervisor wouldn’t have given us a whole lot of money—not on our first market outing. Surely they knew that newcomers get ripped off all the time. Surely she hadn’t given us more than we needed. Surely not. Whatev. We held our head a bit higher after crossing the street for the second time without an incident. I mean, crossing the street twice in one day without loosing a leg has got to count for something.

Or that’s what we’re telling ourselves. That salad was really good too, totally worth every cent.

THEY'RE OUT (Part 1): Visiting

Today we ventured out of our temporary home for the first time. Our supervisors thought they had found a home for us in the city and decided to take us visiting to “check it out” and meet with our prospective landlady. A ten minute ride in the four by four and we pulled up into a surprisingly quiet street, exited the car, and walked through the gate into the loveliest of surprises: a beautiful garden.
We rang the doorbell, and surprise surprise, no one home (despite calling twenty minute prior to let her know we would be arriving- This is Africa). So we sat outside for bit, admiring the view of the, uh, wall, and uh, iron door, and then tried the doorbell once more. This time a young house helper came to the door and silently motioned for us to go upstairs. At the top of the stairs, a lovely, middle aged woman greeted us with the classic hand on the shoulder followed by a handshake. I, of course, did not know this was the classic greeting and fumbled my way through—first offering a hand as she lightly touched my right shoulder and then catching on too late—touching her right shoulder as she offered her hand. I couldn’t help but laugh at my awkwardness and she smiled graciously, even giggled a little with me. We toured the apartment for a time, then settle in on the couches to chat (or rather, for me to listen and the others to chat). The landlady left the room for several minutes, and the three of us looked at each other a bit confused, wondering if we had somehow offended her with our stupidity. She returned with a tray of tea and sent the house helper out for “biscuits” which I assumed meant cookies. With that, tea commenced. By “tea” I mean taking a cup, filling it half way up with sugar, pouring boiling hot tea into the remaining space, and adding an extra spoonful of sugar for good measure. Translation- really, really good tea. As I was sipping, the helper returned with a tin of little cookies, which the landlady passed around to us. We each took one, ate it way too quickly, and then were offered another. Just as I was finishing the last bite of the second cookie a memory flashed into my mind of a friend telling us that in this culture, it is customary to leave one bite left on your plate to demonstrate to the host that you are indeed finished and in need of no more. I froze in mid-chew pondering my options. Spit it out and put it on the plate –not an option. Take another cookie if offered—bad idea since it probably was already a stretch on a limited pocketbook for us to have had two. Pretend to be a stupid foreigner who doesn’t know anything but smiles a whole lot and seems pleasant enough –seemed like the best idea. So smiling broadly, I covered as much of my tea saucer as possible with my hand and tried to seem normal. The evening ended with our first ride on a rickshaw (I hope you all can come and ride one with me one day soon, it’ll change your life). Four grown women stuffed in the backseat of an African rickshaw. A great way to end a day

oooooohhhhhh the first post

First of all,

the pressure here is to begin and begin well [in reference to posting, of course], while seeking the approval of only One yet writing for the benefit of many.

thereby, i want to write with elegance timely reflections on my story; and at the same time, by Grace, allow the Story to be written in me.

now with the Firstfruits of the New already come, the First has guaranteed the Fullness [though the earth still groans]. so then, i too am compelled to tell of the New in me to the earth that groans for Good to be revealed [in us].

the pressure here is, now, to finish and finish well, because the One who calls us [and this] good was [and is] the Beginning [on our behalf]. all that remains, then, is to be faithful unto Fullness [in reference to posting, of course].

your thoughts are encouraged. your participation is Desired.