I’d hit a bit of a wall in the preschool area.
Daniel was in and out so much last unit—with bringing in the families or doing other errands—that he didn’t help me much with the building aspect of things. And on the curriculum side, I got completely overwhelmed, wondering how in the world I’m going to use what I have here (read: nothing) and plant a nursery school that the Lopit can take ownership of and continue.
But while we were in Kenya, Cath talked with me about coming alongside me on it. She broaden my narrow vision of just a school building to include a place for Sunday school as well, or a place we could do other kid (or even adult) functions. Duh, Andi.
So, I’m excited again, and I’m feeling like it is more manageable now, certainly since Cath has committed to working with me two days a week on the building part of things, and I’m sure she’ll kick ideas around with me about curriculum and things.
Also, something to pray for. One of her friends might come in December. She’s an artist, and we’d love to have her paint on the walls and things. And, even better, Cath wants to ask her other friend to consider coming. She worked with Cath at a school in South Africa and basically started the preschool program there, in a place with similar situations to this one, from what I understand. So, that would be a HUGE help to me and, ultimately, to the kids here. So, please pray that God would make a way for these ladies to come serve here with us, if even just for a short time!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
The rat strikes again…
While we were gone, the rat ate my Camelbak—the waterpack I use when riding my bike to different villages.
I was pretty sad, but not altogether devastated, as my little brother just sent with my dad a new day-pack one. I think it’s army issue—the booklet tells me how it can hook straight up to my gasmask. I hope I never use this feature! Oh, and it’s camouflage, which naturally means its invisible, so the Lopit people won’t be asking me if I’m sick anymore. Excellent.
On that same note, Jen says camo is a good color on me, which I take to mean she likes it when I’m invisible. Jerk.
I was pretty sad, but not altogether devastated, as my little brother just sent with my dad a new day-pack one. I think it’s army issue—the booklet tells me how it can hook straight up to my gasmask. I hope I never use this feature! Oh, and it’s camouflage, which naturally means its invisible, so the Lopit people won’t be asking me if I’m sick anymore. Excellent.
On that same note, Jen says camo is a good color on me, which I take to mean she likes it when I’m invisible. Jerk.
Language is a pain in the rear…
Subtleties in language can be everything.
Take, for example, that there is a sort of soft ‘t’ in our language, as well as a harder ‘t.’ An untrained ear probably won’t hear the difference.
Which is why we’ve been mistakenly calling children, anuses for more than a year now. “Hito,” with the soft, lispy ‘t’—child. “Hitto,” with the hard ‘t’—anus.
Imagine. “Hitto, come here.” “Mama, how is your hitto?” “You have a beautiful hitto.” Ugh.
Take, for example, that there is a sort of soft ‘t’ in our language, as well as a harder ‘t.’ An untrained ear probably won’t hear the difference.
Which is why we’ve been mistakenly calling children, anuses for more than a year now. “Hito,” with the soft, lispy ‘t’—child. “Hitto,” with the hard ‘t’—anus.
Imagine. “Hitto, come here.” “Mama, how is your hitto?” “You have a beautiful hitto.” Ugh.
The things which are wrong…
Most of the men in Lopit have these whistle things and their own signature call. When they are coming and going, they blow it, so everyone knows what they’re up to. They’ll also use the whistle to announce themselves at a gathering, and everyone will respond by saying the person’s name.
One day, Craig shows up at a party and blows his whistle, to which most of the men cry out “Obeja!” (his Lopit name) or “Cor-EG!” (the way the Lopit say his given name).
But one guy yells, “Correction!”
Craig whistles again. The guy says, “The things which are wrong!”
Craig whistles again. The guy yells, “The things which need to be changed!”
Craig looks at the guy quizzically, and asks him what in the world he’s talking about.
The guy explains that “Coreg” is short for “correction,” the things which are wrong and need to be changed. Ooooooooooh.
Definitely one of my favorite Lopitland stories.
One day, Craig shows up at a party and blows his whistle, to which most of the men cry out “Obeja!” (his Lopit name) or “Cor-EG!” (the way the Lopit say his given name).
But one guy yells, “Correction!”
Craig whistles again. The guy says, “The things which are wrong!”
Craig whistles again. The guy yells, “The things which need to be changed!”
Craig looks at the guy quizzically, and asks him what in the world he’s talking about.
The guy explains that “Coreg” is short for “correction,” the things which are wrong and need to be changed. Ooooooooooh.
Definitely one of my favorite Lopitland stories.
Missing pieces…
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Well, we girls are all already pretty fond of Daniel, but judging by Kim and my quivering chins and sinking stomachs as we pulled away from him at DIGUNA, distance—if only a few feet—can accentuate even the best of friendships.
Dan’s staying back in Nairobi for a while, on account of being sick. He had to make the call the night before we left, so it was even sadder, since we didn’t have time to prepare for it.
On a team like this—living where we live, going through what we’ve gone through—having someone missing is like missing an arm or a leg or your nose or something. (Granted, Steve & Co. were gone for three weeks and no one’s heart was aching, but I guess there’s a difference between team-to-team and team-to-leader.)
It just wasn’t the same, traveling without Daniel. He’s us girls’ self-proclaimed protector and source of inexhaustible energy. Not to mention the team’s truck-loading perfectionist—his absence was sorely felt when they nearly loaded half a ton on top of my bike’s gears, or when eggs cracked all over our travel bags, or when one of my boxes, with clothes and precious things my dad brought me, was soaked in diesel that leaked out of the drums. I realized on this vacation that even when I absolutely cannot stand Daniel, I still trust him, so it’s weird to be without him.
Anyway, we’re anxious for him to come back, and it’s only been a few days. Pray that they’d figure out the root of the problem, and that he’d be able to join us again as soon as possible.
Well, we girls are all already pretty fond of Daniel, but judging by Kim and my quivering chins and sinking stomachs as we pulled away from him at DIGUNA, distance—if only a few feet—can accentuate even the best of friendships.
Dan’s staying back in Nairobi for a while, on account of being sick. He had to make the call the night before we left, so it was even sadder, since we didn’t have time to prepare for it.
On a team like this—living where we live, going through what we’ve gone through—having someone missing is like missing an arm or a leg or your nose or something. (Granted, Steve & Co. were gone for three weeks and no one’s heart was aching, but I guess there’s a difference between team-to-team and team-to-leader.)
It just wasn’t the same, traveling without Daniel. He’s us girls’ self-proclaimed protector and source of inexhaustible energy. Not to mention the team’s truck-loading perfectionist—his absence was sorely felt when they nearly loaded half a ton on top of my bike’s gears, or when eggs cracked all over our travel bags, or when one of my boxes, with clothes and precious things my dad brought me, was soaked in diesel that leaked out of the drums. I realized on this vacation that even when I absolutely cannot stand Daniel, I still trust him, so it’s weird to be without him.
Anyway, we’re anxious for him to come back, and it’s only been a few days. Pray that they’d figure out the root of the problem, and that he’d be able to join us again as soon as possible.
Coming Home…
The whole ride home, I was trying to prepare myself for Francis dying. I figured that was the worst-case scenario, and not entirely unrealistic.
I’m happy to report that, so far as I know, none of our friends’ kids died while we were away this time. What a relief. What a joy. I think the worst thing that happened was little Jessica fell out of a tree and now has a bit of a kink in her arm. (Oh, and one of the Pastor’s wives—not a Christian—crunched up glass in the Bible students’ food in a fit of rage. But that’s a whole other story…)
We were dreading cleaning our house when we got home—recall the pictures from last time, with the kids with brooms and clouds of dust—but when we got here, we found it spick and span, compliments of our neighbor Laudina. It really was amazing. This time, we decided it was good to leave our house in the hands of one of our neighbors. I think it did a lot in the area of trust.
I nearly cried when I saw Abuba and all her children (very much alive!). Abuba and I must have shook hands for ages, and she kept saying, “Iruhu! My friend, my friend!” Iruhu (or something like that) is sort of her special name for me. Our other friends use it sometimes, but she always greets me “Iruhu!” It means a person who is always busy. I’d take it as my second name (one Lopit person can have a whole list of names), but I can’t roll my R’s, so I can’t pronounce it. I can’t pronounce my own name. I’m such a tool.
Anyway, a few of the women even gave us awkward hugs, which isn’t at all part of their culture—that made it extra special. I’m so happy to be home.
I’m happy to report that, so far as I know, none of our friends’ kids died while we were away this time. What a relief. What a joy. I think the worst thing that happened was little Jessica fell out of a tree and now has a bit of a kink in her arm. (Oh, and one of the Pastor’s wives—not a Christian—crunched up glass in the Bible students’ food in a fit of rage. But that’s a whole other story…)
We were dreading cleaning our house when we got home—recall the pictures from last time, with the kids with brooms and clouds of dust—but when we got here, we found it spick and span, compliments of our neighbor Laudina. It really was amazing. This time, we decided it was good to leave our house in the hands of one of our neighbors. I think it did a lot in the area of trust.
I nearly cried when I saw Abuba and all her children (very much alive!). Abuba and I must have shook hands for ages, and she kept saying, “Iruhu! My friend, my friend!” Iruhu (or something like that) is sort of her special name for me. Our other friends use it sometimes, but she always greets me “Iruhu!” It means a person who is always busy. I’d take it as my second name (one Lopit person can have a whole list of names), but I can’t roll my R’s, so I can’t pronounce it. I can’t pronounce my own name. I’m such a tool.
Anyway, a few of the women even gave us awkward hugs, which isn’t at all part of their culture—that made it extra special. I’m so happy to be home.
Patent Pending…
(If you get squeamish about feminine products, this post probably isn’t for you. ;) )
We’ve been traveling in the back of the UNIMOG or bumping around in the Cruiser for more than a year now, which has given us plenty of time to think about ways to prevent clanging our heads together or against the sides of the automobile.
What we have here are the fruits of these many long car rides of meditation—Paddie Helmets. Many ideas have come and gone—including a rather solid one for a super-sized toe separator like you use for a pedicure, to thread between our necks—but this is the one that Kim and I finally moved on, in a moment of desperation, at a Nakumatt in Eldoret.
Paddie Helmets. Paddie, which rings of “Pattie,” our housemate and driver. Or Paddie, to suggest that wonderful product which makes up the larger part of said invention. Yes, maxi-pads.
Imagine the confusion of the supermarket staff when Kim and I burst in, in a giggle of a rush, and began taking up the packages of maxis and squeezing them against our heads or wedging them between our foreheads and the shelves, trying to find our best option. Or when we found, in a moment of glory, “tie pants”—which appear to be decorated slips of plastic folks tie around a baby’s cloth-swathed bottom—and tied them over our heads like shower caps. (Only KSH49!!!)
I can’t even begin to imagine what they were thinking, but we had a goal in mind, and it was these helmets. And later that night, Kim’s yearlong dream was realized. Jen even hit us over the heads with a book—quite hard, actually—so we could demonstrate how we didn’t notice one bit.
And as we bounced along through the desert, you can bet that Kim and I would have been quite smug, were we not conked out with our heads banging painlessly off the windows.
The finest moment in the Paddie Helmet’s short history? While we were still in Kenya, we pulled up to a police check. I was only half awake, but I’ve heard the story enough times to know it well. An officer greeted Pattie, then looked back at Kim and me and exclaimed, “What is THAT?” As we pulled away, he was showing his fellow officers a picture of us he’d taken on his phone.
Paddie Helmets. Patent pending. 
We’ve been traveling in the back of the UNIMOG or bumping around in the Cruiser for more than a year now, which has given us plenty of time to think about ways to prevent clanging our heads together or against the sides of the automobile.
What we have here are the fruits of these many long car rides of meditation—Paddie Helmets. Many ideas have come and gone—including a rather solid one for a super-sized toe separator like you use for a pedicure, to thread between our necks—but this is the one that Kim and I finally moved on, in a moment of desperation, at a Nakumatt in Eldoret.
Paddie Helmets. Paddie, which rings of “Pattie,” our housemate and driver. Or Paddie, to suggest that wonderful product which makes up the larger part of said invention. Yes, maxi-pads.
Imagine the confusion of the supermarket staff when Kim and I burst in, in a giggle of a rush, and began taking up the packages of maxis and squeezing them against our heads or wedging them between our foreheads and the shelves, trying to find our best option. Or when we found, in a moment of glory, “tie pants”—which appear to be decorated slips of plastic folks tie around a baby’s cloth-swathed bottom—and tied them over our heads like shower caps. (Only KSH49!!!)
I can’t even begin to imagine what they were thinking, but we had a goal in mind, and it was these helmets. And later that night, Kim’s yearlong dream was realized. Jen even hit us over the heads with a book—quite hard, actually—so we could demonstrate how we didn’t notice one bit.
And as we bounced along through the desert, you can bet that Kim and I would have been quite smug, were we not conked out with our heads banging painlessly off the windows.
The finest moment in the Paddie Helmet’s short history? While we were still in Kenya, we pulled up to a police check. I was only half awake, but I’ve heard the story enough times to know it well. An officer greeted Pattie, then looked back at Kim and me and exclaimed, “What is THAT?” As we pulled away, he was showing his fellow officers a picture of us he’d taken on his phone.
Paddie Helmets. Patent pending.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
On the road again...
Crazy Landcruiser pictures always mean we’re traveling. Where are we exactly? If I told you, I’d be forced to kill you.
Would you believe we found Pringles (or a generic equivalent) in Nairobi? Talk about wonderful. I’m pretty sure Kim invented this “looks like a beak” move. At least… she thinks she did. (And would probably prefer if you didn’t tell her anything to the contrary.) We look so good.
Camel crossing sign. Jen’s been wanting this picture for a year now. Also pictured—our Cruiser. Said evil machine only died eight times on our first day of travel. Woohoo. :)
Would you believe we found Pringles (or a generic equivalent) in Nairobi? Talk about wonderful. I’m pretty sure Kim invented this “looks like a beak” move. At least… she thinks she did. (And would probably prefer if you didn’t tell her anything to the contrary.) We look so good.
Camel crossing sign. Jen’s been wanting this picture for a year now. Also pictured—our Cruiser. Said evil machine only died eight times on our first day of travel. Woohoo. :)
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Rain, rain... go away...
Rain delay. How absolutely cruel.
The Cubs will find a way to break your heart, even if it takes nature intervening.
A lazy rain delay wouldn’t normally be so traumatic, ‘cept that every minute they delay is another minute of sleep that I lose. Whimper. How cruel. They’re even talking about calling it. I think you’re witnessing a complete flip-flop of emotions. Sigh.
Anyway, my daddy promised to message me if they go back on the field. Until then, it’s back to sleep.
Either way, I got to watch some baseball—even if it was only a few innings and certainly no web gem moments.
Go Cubs, go! :)
The Cubs will find a way to break your heart, even if it takes nature intervening.
A lazy rain delay wouldn’t normally be so traumatic, ‘cept that every minute they delay is another minute of sleep that I lose. Whimper. How cruel. They’re even talking about calling it. I think you’re witnessing a complete flip-flop of emotions. Sigh.
Anyway, my daddy promised to message me if they go back on the field. Until then, it’s back to sleep.
Either way, I got to watch some baseball—even if it was only a few innings and certainly no web gem moments.
Go Cubs, go! :)
Take me out to the ballgame...
It’s 3 a.m. in Africa. I’m probably the only one awake here at Mayfield Guesthouse, but I can guarantee you I’m the happiest woman here. Or in all of Africa. Or… just a live. Yeah, that sounds about right—the happiest woman alive.
I woke up to watch the Cubs/Cards game on ESPN. I haven’t seen a baseball game in more than 14 months. Chicago Cubs. St. Louis Cardinals. Wrigley Field. A night game in late August. The wildly emotional Carlos Zambrano vs. Cardinals’ stupid-head Kip Wells. Oh, America!
All day, I invited people to join me. Problem was, most of them were Australians or people like Kimmie, whose main concern in the matter was that I would still be ready to go do some last-minute supply shopping with her at 9.
So, yeah, I’m here alone. Which isn’t quite the same as watching the game at Murphy’s with Lauren or over steaks at Kirk’s or with my equally fanatic friends or even in the newsroom, for that matter. And then I messaged Daniel, who I know to be on a night bus back from Lamu with Jen. His lackluster reply: “I’m glad for you. I’m very tired.” He grew up behind the Iron Curtain in Germany and hadn’t touched a baseball until I met him, so I guess he’s forgiven. I guess.
Go Cubs, go!
Little prayer request...
Oh, and a small prayer request. I've had some stomach thing for about three weeks.
The tropical medicine doc says it's bacteria or something and gave me antibiotics. But I'm on day three of five days of meds and it only seems to be getting worse.
Soooo, pray that I can get this figured out before we leave back for home. I've been sick while traveling before and it was absolutely miserable!
The tropical medicine doc says it's bacteria or something and gave me antibiotics. But I'm on day three of five days of meds and it only seems to be getting worse.
Soooo, pray that I can get this figured out before we leave back for home. I've been sick while traveling before and it was absolutely miserable!
The Mayfield...
So I'm an introvert.
Yes, yes, some people have a hard time believing this, but it's true: In my heart of hearts, I defintely get my energy from spending time alone. Now, consider that I live in Africa and serve on a team of 24-26 people. Now, imagine that I haven't had more than a six-hour span of time of being absolutely alone for the last 14 months or so. It's a wonder--to me--that I've survived.
So I came to Mayfield--AIM's guesthouse in Nairobi--to be alone and relax. Bad idea. A good idea would just be to finally realize there is no possible way to be absolutely alone in Africa, serving in Missions, haha. Anyway, Mayfield is a great place. It's full of missionaries and you eat all your meals family-style, so you spend nearly every meal answering the same questions from different people--Where are you from? Where do you work? And, wow, what do you think of working THERE?! It's actually nice to get to know new people and hear about what God is doing and make connections, but--like I said--I'm an introvert gasping for breath, so it's a bit of a challenge. :)
It can be sort of funny, though. Sometimes, especially with young missionaries or people going through culture shock, there starts a competition--real or imagined, conscious or unconscious--to discover whose situation is actually worse. Haha. It makes me laugh, to sit back and listen. Yes, missionaries are people, too. Pride can sneak in the weirdest places. I'm certainly not immune!
Now, talking with our friends J and E from the Horn team is a completely different animal. We're both on TIMO teams in very different but *perhaps* similarly challenging places. They love the Horn. We love Sudan. So normally it turns into more of a "Wow, YOUve got it so bad!" conversation--quite antithetical of the aforementioned race to the bottom. Since they can make no answer to my blog, I will simply say it now and you'll have to take my word for it: They have it much worse! :)
Anyway, despite my introvertedness, it's been good to talk to folks here at Mayfield. We've come across folks from different TIMO teams at varying stages of the two-year term (which has been really good for our perspective), a couple who plans to lead another team in the So Sud who we've heard about a lot but never met, and a whole bunch of folks from all over. I even traded blogs with a missionary/photojournalist. (Hi Adel!)
Only a few more days until we get to go home!!!
Yes, yes, some people have a hard time believing this, but it's true: In my heart of hearts, I defintely get my energy from spending time alone. Now, consider that I live in Africa and serve on a team of 24-26 people. Now, imagine that I haven't had more than a six-hour span of time of being absolutely alone for the last 14 months or so. It's a wonder--to me--that I've survived.
So I came to Mayfield--AIM's guesthouse in Nairobi--to be alone and relax. Bad idea. A good idea would just be to finally realize there is no possible way to be absolutely alone in Africa, serving in Missions, haha. Anyway, Mayfield is a great place. It's full of missionaries and you eat all your meals family-style, so you spend nearly every meal answering the same questions from different people--Where are you from? Where do you work? And, wow, what do you think of working THERE?! It's actually nice to get to know new people and hear about what God is doing and make connections, but--like I said--I'm an introvert gasping for breath, so it's a bit of a challenge. :)
It can be sort of funny, though. Sometimes, especially with young missionaries or people going through culture shock, there starts a competition--real or imagined, conscious or unconscious--to discover whose situation is actually worse. Haha. It makes me laugh, to sit back and listen. Yes, missionaries are people, too. Pride can sneak in the weirdest places. I'm certainly not immune!
Now, talking with our friends J and E from the Horn team is a completely different animal. We're both on TIMO teams in very different but *perhaps* similarly challenging places. They love the Horn. We love Sudan. So normally it turns into more of a "Wow, YOUve got it so bad!" conversation--quite antithetical of the aforementioned race to the bottom. Since they can make no answer to my blog, I will simply say it now and you'll have to take my word for it: They have it much worse! :)
Anyway, despite my introvertedness, it's been good to talk to folks here at Mayfield. We've come across folks from different TIMO teams at varying stages of the two-year term (which has been really good for our perspective), a couple who plans to lead another team in the So Sud who we've heard about a lot but never met, and a whole bunch of folks from all over. I even traded blogs with a missionary/photojournalist. (Hi Adel!)
Only a few more days until we get to go home!!!
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Monday, Monday...
This is Monday.Monday is all business, all the time. She's an efficient hand shaker, and she rarely smiles. Here, I think she was a bit miffed that I dared to stand in her way on the path. Alllllll business.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Baby Kimmie...
How adorable is she? She used to look a bit more like an alien. We actually called her the alien baby. I'm not sure if she's actually grown cuter in reality, or just in our minds.
She really didn't know what to think of the baby powder action...
Happy Birthday, Cath!
Craigers, Kimmers and I(ers), at the Italian place for Cath's birthday. (Cath, regrettably, isn't pictured.)Those are napkins on our head.
I really have no explanation.
Old Glory...
I told you about the Fourth of July, but here’s a picture, to really bring it home. Unfortunately, this is the second-best picture of the event. The best one—where Laudina is giving this hilarious, quizzical look at me—is too blurry. So you get No. 2. By this point, she’d grown weary of the national anthem and was quite ready to be done, I do believe. But, being the real friend she is, she stuck it out, for our sake.These boots are made for...
We’ve always joked with Mark that he gets a bit sassy when he puts his gumboots on. Well, he came over the other day—while we were preparing the cars to leave—and he was more sassy than ever. And a bit drunk. But, that’s not the story. The story is, Kimmie donned the sassy boots. And she was more sassy than ever. Hilarious.
In a related story, Mark is in general a huge ham. You should have seen him posing this day as we were working the Rebel to its max. Click, click, click. This is just one of many great Mark shots.
Maritime Merry-time
So, we’re back from Malindi.
Some highlights?
Craig, Kim and I went out into the Indian Ocean in these canoe/kayak things one day—Craig in his own boat, us in a double. The waves were a little rough. Daniel quite enjoyed the show from the shore, of Kimmie and I trying to pull that stupid kayak past the breaker so we could get in it and paddle. The problem was, we were just laughing too hard. The hotel water sports guy eventually informed us that we shouldn’t laugh, that this wasn’t a joke, and that the waves certainly weren’t laughing. Duly noted. (No one died in said seafaring adventure.)
Otherwise, the majority of our time we spent eating ice cream and drinking Diet Coke (curious combination) and basking in the sun’s rays. Daniel ridiculed me when I told him I always feel healthier when I have a tan (this pale body hadn’t seen the sun in 14 months!). I suppose he reacted this way because I was actually sick the whole time, writhing after every meal. But, still, it stands: I feel healthier when I have a tan.
And I'm doing my darnedest to get some posts up here with some pictures. But the internet situation is sketchy, so I'll do what I can, when I can!
Some highlights?
Craig, Kim and I went out into the Indian Ocean in these canoe/kayak things one day—Craig in his own boat, us in a double. The waves were a little rough. Daniel quite enjoyed the show from the shore, of Kimmie and I trying to pull that stupid kayak past the breaker so we could get in it and paddle. The problem was, we were just laughing too hard. The hotel water sports guy eventually informed us that we shouldn’t laugh, that this wasn’t a joke, and that the waves certainly weren’t laughing. Duly noted. (No one died in said seafaring adventure.)
Otherwise, the majority of our time we spent eating ice cream and drinking Diet Coke (curious combination) and basking in the sun’s rays. Daniel ridiculed me when I told him I always feel healthier when I have a tan (this pale body hadn’t seen the sun in 14 months!). I suppose he reacted this way because I was actually sick the whole time, writhing after every meal. But, still, it stands: I feel healthier when I have a tan.
And I'm doing my darnedest to get some posts up here with some pictures. But the internet situation is sketchy, so I'll do what I can, when I can!
I wear my sunglasses...
More sunglasses pictures. This is probably one of my favorite days in Lopit. I do believe this is Franco’s “I’m wearing sunglasses” dance, because it’s basically all he did the whole time he had them on. He’s really grown up since we came last year. He used to go quietly about and look at us warily all the time. Now, he’s becoming a little firecracker, like his brother, though he still does that bit where he shadows him around and repeats everything Francis says, only with an extra dash of jubilee or sass.
Monica's Throne...
Little Monica, on her equally little stool. This day she teetered up the rocky path to our house with this little chair in tow and made herself comfortable in our doorway. This picture certainly doesn’t do justice to how adorable she looked. (On a side note, I cannot confirm that she hadn’t been drinking.) KP and I are convinced that Monica is a bit in love with her neighbor, Odek. He’s about the same age, and they go everywhere together. And if they’re not together, they always seem to be searching for one another. We sometimes narrate from afar their lovers’ quarrels and lengthy Lopit professions of devotion. (You’ve gotta keep yourself entertained somehow.) We eventually invited Monica and her stool inside, and Odek was quick to follow. Monica would look up at him from her stool with her big brown eyes and scoot over to the side, so he could sit with her. And he would. But I guess he’s a restless little fellow, because he kept getting back up. And that would throw the teeny loveseat’s balance all out of whack and nearly tip her to the floor, save that she would scoot back just in time. But then he’d come back. And she’d scoot over again. And he’d sit down. Pause. Get up. Monica again saves herself from toppling to the floor. (This might be some evidence for her sobriety, come to think of it.) Anyway, it was quite the spectacle.
During rain storms, the Abuba kids joy in coming over stark naked and dancing around our yard and in the overflow of our rainwater tank. They giggle like mad. This is Paula, after one such episode. She’s smirking under that cloth, I can assure you. I guess you have to know her to appreciate this picture like I do. It’s one of my all-time favorites.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Black lung and other ramblings...
Went for a run this morning in Nairobi.
Dumbest idea ever.
My lungs might explode, on account of all the smog. Oh, how I'm missing home in the mountains!
I think there's a certain point in a missionary's career at which the missionary isn't quite sure where "home" is--on the field or back in the States. I won't claim to be at that point yet, but I certainly have mixed emotions.
I wake up in the mornings and miss Francis at my window, or Ebiong on the path, or any one of our friends stopping by to say hello. I want to sit and play with Abuba and Laudina. The noises aren't quite right; the people and places and culture, unfamiliar. I just miss home: Lopit.
Then again, Nairobi culture is closer to Western living, so it almost puts more of an ache for America in me, for the places and activities that are wholy American and familiar. Imagine, baseball and a barbecue... And the longer we're in Nairobi, the more chance I have of being in contact with people from home. And that's good, catching up. But I also have to realize how far away they are, and how life goes on rather swimmingly and rather quickly without me there. My friends are getting new jobs, new lives. They are engaged, married... basically just different. It's hard to hear about how they're all doing this and this together, and having all this fun. And so in that way, I miss my friends and I miss home: Illinois.
Guess this is just one of those things you've got to go through when you're a missionary. And I've only been out here for a year. Ugh!
Alright, I'm out. There are minutes to be counted until this extended break is over...
Dumbest idea ever.
My lungs might explode, on account of all the smog. Oh, how I'm missing home in the mountains!
I think there's a certain point in a missionary's career at which the missionary isn't quite sure where "home" is--on the field or back in the States. I won't claim to be at that point yet, but I certainly have mixed emotions.
I wake up in the mornings and miss Francis at my window, or Ebiong on the path, or any one of our friends stopping by to say hello. I want to sit and play with Abuba and Laudina. The noises aren't quite right; the people and places and culture, unfamiliar. I just miss home: Lopit.
Then again, Nairobi culture is closer to Western living, so it almost puts more of an ache for America in me, for the places and activities that are wholy American and familiar. Imagine, baseball and a barbecue... And the longer we're in Nairobi, the more chance I have of being in contact with people from home. And that's good, catching up. But I also have to realize how far away they are, and how life goes on rather swimmingly and rather quickly without me there. My friends are getting new jobs, new lives. They are engaged, married... basically just different. It's hard to hear about how they're all doing this and this together, and having all this fun. And so in that way, I miss my friends and I miss home: Illinois.
Guess this is just one of those things you've got to go through when you're a missionary. And I've only been out here for a year. Ugh!
Alright, I'm out. There are minutes to be counted until this extended break is over...
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Goodbye, JImbo...
Here I am!
Just in case anyone was wondering if I had died.
I haven’t. And I don’t plan to.
My father left yesterday morning—his crazy African vacation came to a rather uneventful end, as far as I know. (And, honestly, I don’ t know much; I haven’t heard from him.)
((Calling now, to fulfill my daughterly duties.))
(((No answer. No news is good news. I know the plane landed. We’ll assume everything is fine. Anyway…)))
It was sad to see him go, but I think we were both ready. He missed his wife (and his television?); I was worn out from a week of “hosting,” so to speak. His visit itself was a bit bittersweet—it’s hard for me to swallow that my father was so close to where I actually minister, so close to the people I love and live with, and he didn’t see the place or meet my friends. On a whim, I checked into going in the Sudan, and God worked out all the details. It was all set, but a late-night email derailed the whole glorious thing.
Mom tells people it was “common sense” that prevailed in the situation, that my dad’s smarts outweighed the attempts of his “persuasive—but not always bright—daughter.” I think we all know it was age and rank that triumphed; experience (mine, since I live and work in Sudan) was disregarded. Oh, well… maybe someday. Or never. I suppose I have to be fine with it either way.
Anyway, I think we enjoyed some of the finest that Euro-Africa had to offer, and I think my dad had fun. I did. We spent a week on safari, then a few days down on the coast. Dad was surprisingly positive and patient; I couldn’t believe it. He really prepared himself for things well. He even pulled the “This is Africa” line on me once.
Here’s some pictures. I’m sure he’ll put more up on JamboJimbo when he gets home.
The classic Jimbo-on-Safari look. Well done. 
This lion was ginormous. A male—I suppose we were lucky. He was more interesting when he put his head up, but still very ginormous even when he was chillaxing. 
Here’s us, at the coast. We asked Kim to come along a while back—I foresaw that a week alone with just my dad would be long enough—but she declined. But then I think she took pity on me because of the crushed Sudan dream, so she came along. She and my dad got along really well, sparing all the time. It was fun. 
The beautiful Indian ocean. 
On the last day, we rented two quads and had a guide take us through some of the surrounding village area. The guide’s motorbike pooped out soon after we started our ride, so he had to hop on my dad’s single four-wheeler. Oh, gosh, it was funny, watching Dad get off that thing. He was quite the trooper—he and KP both. They both were quite sore. Good times.
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