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