I will confess to laughing at the Munimiji (ruling warrior guys) just now.
Yes, I know, that’s probably really bad, but I can’t help it.
They’re flowing by our fence, asking us if we’re going to the rainmaker’s garden. Well, why aren’t we going? Do we think it’s bad? (Clearly trying to start a fight.) Give them chai. Give them chai now. We have to give them things because we didn’t go to the garden. We’re so bad. If we don’t go, the rain won’t come and we’ll be in so much trouble.
But the thing is, the thunder is rumbling and the storm clouds are swirling and—duh—the rain is coming, NOW.
How can I not laugh?
The problem is, little Francis and Franco and Paula are outside, also laughing.
Even the little kids are making fun of them.
That’s so bad.
Oh, Lord, forgive my laughter…
Monday, May 14, 2007
Hungry Kids
I doubt there is a missionary or even NGO worker out there who has ever adjusted to the situation of people going hungry around them, while there is food on their own table.
That’s kind of what I’m dealing with now. Or have been dealing with, I guess.
The rain came and everything, so people were able to put their crops in the ground, but now it’s just back to being hot, hot, hot and dry. And the same empty food stores are there as before the rain.
I was up at Lodina’s today, hanging out, and she was telling me about how everyone is hungry because there is no jiaji—that is, vegetables. So she’s telling me everyone is hungry. And Mundari comes and says the same thing.
I hate knowing people are hungry.
But.
Then you see the balu (beer). Mary’s brother came back from Kh. yesterday—the first time he’s been back in 20 years. So they threw an all-night party. You could smell the balu, two compounds down, where we live. (OK, you can always smell balu in these villages, but it was even more potent than normal.) The goods were a’flowing.
The night before, Lodina and her husband slaughtered a goat and had similar brew for all the people who worked in their garden. (Groups of people join together and spend a day in each individual’s garden; the individual treats everyone to beer. They go to the next garden the next day and it continues on like that, until everyone’s field has been planted.)
So you see how they have all this beer, but they say they have no food. But they make the balu from the same thing they could make regular food from. On her compound, Lodina has a really long bamboo pole with a plastic bottle on top. That means she’s selling balu. And so you ask her about it. And they all know we think balu is bad. But what can you say when she says, I sell the balu for money, so I can buy food in Torit.
It’s a Catch 22. I hate to see them waste good food on balu and not feel the repercussion for it, but I hate even more knowing that Icholpi or Thomaso or Odwari (Francis) or Franco or Paula or Ellen—the kids—would even be a little bit hungry while I’m sitting here, fat as a cow.
I guess there really is no answer.
That’s kind of what I’m dealing with now. Or have been dealing with, I guess.
The rain came and everything, so people were able to put their crops in the ground, but now it’s just back to being hot, hot, hot and dry. And the same empty food stores are there as before the rain.
I was up at Lodina’s today, hanging out, and she was telling me about how everyone is hungry because there is no jiaji—that is, vegetables. So she’s telling me everyone is hungry. And Mundari comes and says the same thing.
I hate knowing people are hungry.
But.
Then you see the balu (beer). Mary’s brother came back from Kh. yesterday—the first time he’s been back in 20 years. So they threw an all-night party. You could smell the balu, two compounds down, where we live. (OK, you can always smell balu in these villages, but it was even more potent than normal.) The goods were a’flowing.
The night before, Lodina and her husband slaughtered a goat and had similar brew for all the people who worked in their garden. (Groups of people join together and spend a day in each individual’s garden; the individual treats everyone to beer. They go to the next garden the next day and it continues on like that, until everyone’s field has been planted.)
So you see how they have all this beer, but they say they have no food. But they make the balu from the same thing they could make regular food from. On her compound, Lodina has a really long bamboo pole with a plastic bottle on top. That means she’s selling balu. And so you ask her about it. And they all know we think balu is bad. But what can you say when she says, I sell the balu for money, so I can buy food in Torit.
It’s a Catch 22. I hate to see them waste good food on balu and not feel the repercussion for it, but I hate even more knowing that Icholpi or Thomaso or Odwari (Francis) or Franco or Paula or Ellen—the kids—would even be a little bit hungry while I’m sitting here, fat as a cow.
I guess there really is no answer.
Friday, May 04, 2007
(Way past) Easter play
Cath worked up a little more drama magic and has a handful of the village children and a couple church folk putting on a neat little drama in each of the villages—one each day this week.
Martin—an amazing drama guy—is Satan. And Kim plays Mary, mother of Craig (aka: Jesus).
Then there’s baby Jesus.
Cath bought a little baby doll on our last trip out. It’s suspiciously small and almost glowingly white, but it does the job, I guess. Kim straps it to her back just like the locals here to do their babies.
Kim did the Lopit mourning with the best of them (waling “lulululululululululu”) and Craig was convincing enough on the cross (though it’s rumored that he at first simply said “oww” as they pounded in the nails), but plastic baby Jesus really stole the show.
They can’t get enough of him.
On the other hand, I’m quite sick of him.
Now, hold off on the blasphemy charges for a second.
You see, baby Jesus has a built in annoyance feature. If you “tickle” its foot, it giggles and says, “That tickles, Mommy!” over and over again.
And I do mean over and over. The people can’t get enough of him. Davitica came by this morning for the sole purpose of tickling baby Jesus’ foot. I’m trying to work through Hebrews and all I can hear is, “More, Mommy, more! Hehehehe.”
I pray my view of baby Jesus isn’t forever ruined. ;)
Anyway, last night we had the play in Husa, our village. It was great. A ton of our women friends came, and a whole swarm of kids. Martin said to me that he can tell we live and work there because so many people came. That was a big encouragement for our sometimes-weary household.
The men on the mangot clapped for the kids’ songs and when Kimmie presented baby Jesus. Kim was a little worried they wouldn’t get it when she came back in a scene later with Craig (grown up Jesus), but her fears were calmed when this guy, upon seeing Craig and Mary/Kim, shouted with glee, “Ibolo Jesus!” (Jesus is BIG!) They laughed at Satan and his attempts to tempt Jesus. They clapped and cheered when he was shooed away.
Unfortunately, lots of people also laughed at the crucifixion. The problem is, this happens a lot—whether you’re doing a play or the Jesus Film or what—because that’s what the Lopit do, it seems, when they’re uncomfortable or don’t know how to handle a situation. Rarely do they shed tears. So, yes, that takes a lot to get over.
(And, yes, they might have been laughing a bit at Kimmie’s lulululu-ing. They always get a kick out of it when we pick up on their habits.)
Anyway, despite all that, I think the message of the play did get through. The Gospel was presented; God was glorified.
And it’s the talk of the villages, that’s for sure. This morning, I kept hearing the boys talking about Jesus and Satan and quoting Craig, “Ibeti Satani!” (Get the heck out of here, Satan!)
Martin—an amazing drama guy—is Satan. And Kim plays Mary, mother of Craig (aka: Jesus).
Then there’s baby Jesus.
Cath bought a little baby doll on our last trip out. It’s suspiciously small and almost glowingly white, but it does the job, I guess. Kim straps it to her back just like the locals here to do their babies.
Kim did the Lopit mourning with the best of them (waling “lulululululululululu”) and Craig was convincing enough on the cross (though it’s rumored that he at first simply said “oww” as they pounded in the nails), but plastic baby Jesus really stole the show.
They can’t get enough of him.
On the other hand, I’m quite sick of him.
Now, hold off on the blasphemy charges for a second.
You see, baby Jesus has a built in annoyance feature. If you “tickle” its foot, it giggles and says, “That tickles, Mommy!” over and over again.
And I do mean over and over. The people can’t get enough of him. Davitica came by this morning for the sole purpose of tickling baby Jesus’ foot. I’m trying to work through Hebrews and all I can hear is, “More, Mommy, more! Hehehehe.”
I pray my view of baby Jesus isn’t forever ruined. ;)
Anyway, last night we had the play in Husa, our village. It was great. A ton of our women friends came, and a whole swarm of kids. Martin said to me that he can tell we live and work there because so many people came. That was a big encouragement for our sometimes-weary household.
The men on the mangot clapped for the kids’ songs and when Kimmie presented baby Jesus. Kim was a little worried they wouldn’t get it when she came back in a scene later with Craig (grown up Jesus), but her fears were calmed when this guy, upon seeing Craig and Mary/Kim, shouted with glee, “Ibolo Jesus!” (Jesus is BIG!) They laughed at Satan and his attempts to tempt Jesus. They clapped and cheered when he was shooed away.
Unfortunately, lots of people also laughed at the crucifixion. The problem is, this happens a lot—whether you’re doing a play or the Jesus Film or what—because that’s what the Lopit do, it seems, when they’re uncomfortable or don’t know how to handle a situation. Rarely do they shed tears. So, yes, that takes a lot to get over.
(And, yes, they might have been laughing a bit at Kimmie’s lulululu-ing. They always get a kick out of it when we pick up on their habits.)
Anyway, despite all that, I think the message of the play did get through. The Gospel was presented; God was glorified.
And it’s the talk of the villages, that’s for sure. This morning, I kept hearing the boys talking about Jesus and Satan and quoting Craig, “Ibeti Satani!” (Get the heck out of here, Satan!)
marshmallows
Here’s Lodina, trying her first ever marshmallow. I do believe that look says it all.
I spared you all the “Look at this rat I killed” and “Wow, that hole IS big” pictures; I really want you to appreciate the preciousness of Smores amidst such turmoil. To Lodina’s horror, I did that bit a couple times where your hand gets lazy and you accidently light the marshmallow on fire. She didn’t think it was nearly as cool as I did. But, then again, she also had no category in which to place marshmallows to begin with.
Husa’s Horrible Day
(I actually wrote this a while ago; so we’re well over our bad day now.)
Today was a really terrible day in Husa.
Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you why.
Got up for my morning bike ride this morning—a special one, Annika’s last here in Lopitland. When we got back from Nairobi, we’d gotten in the habit of beating the sun up and catching its stunning rise over the distant mountain ranges—this wonderful morning tradition was cut ended a couple weeks back by a fickle bike. But we’d fixed it up special for this mornings’ occasion, this one last sunrise.
Well, we hadn’t got 100 meters when the back tire went flat again and spoiled our plans.
I came home to my room to realize another thing had gone spoiled, somewhere in my room. Point one: rat population. A dirty thing had found its way into one of my big Rubbermaid action packers (full of precious supplies) and died there, apparently trying to crack the code on my extra-special jar of Jiff, now thrown down in disgust to the bottom of our longdrop. A couple of the village children actually threw themselves to the ground or removed themselves from our compound voluntarily (un-be-LIEVE-able) in reaction to the terrible smell. They then took it upon themselves to remind me of the wretched stench (“Ibeja, it smells very bad.”) at least hundred times in the next hour, as if I could forget that which so assaulted my nostrils. Praise God, he brought an onslaught of rain that sent them all scattering for shelter and officially relieved them of the post of relaying obvious and latent information.
Well, as I had the kitchen in disarray, bleaching and salvaging what I could from said precious action packer, Pattie notices there’s a little water coming into her room. This is a normal thing, but something was fishy about this, as it was seeming to flow directly from her wardrobe (already so riddled by termites) and quickly had the whole floor flooded. We added her stuff to the disarray of the kitchen and soon found the source of said water blessing.
Turns out the gutter pipe to our water tank had a little something-something go wrong, which sent the water gushing out on to the side of our house. This is an important point at which to remember I live in a MUD house.
Yes, as emphatic as the village children were about reminding me of the rat smell, they failed to even casually or singly mention, as they were catching the overflow from our tank, the fact that a HUGE HOLE was being water-blasted into Pattie’s wall.
Yes, a hole. Might has well have been a secret passage, bursting forth with water.
So I found myself slipping and slidding—in a sopping wet dress—across the plastic lid of the water tank, trying to fix the pipe problem, as Kim ran down to America—in an equally sopping wet dress—to see about getting a tarp.
The fellas sent their well-meaning condolences via the radio. And I’m sure they felt bad then. But I imagine they felt much worse about an hour later when the foundation their 3000L water tank cracked down the middle and sent the thing crashing to the ground and the water rushing down the village path. Now, that, my friends, would’ve been something to see. I can just imagine some poor, naked, wide-eyed Lopit child, standing in that rocky pathway as the water came a’gushing. (No one was hurt in the Great Longija Water Tank Disaster of 2007.)
Anyway, back in Husa, we were patching things up and laughing it off. We had neighbors come over to grab water and alternatively warm their wet selves by our coal stove, actually lit for the purpose of making ol’ Craiger a birthday cake. (No flour was to be found in Husa, however. See title about horrible day.) We ended up using it for an even greater purpose, as this bleak afternoon struck me as the perfect time to break out the Smores supplies I’d got in the mail Wednesday, sent from the States on October 10th, 2006. The chocolate was melted, the ‘mallows likewise gooely unified and the graham crackers, a bit on the soggy side, but it was amazing, roasting the marshmallows, skewed on my potato peeler. Maybe even better was watching as our neighbor Lodina tried a marshmallow. She really had no idea what to think of that.
Anyway, all seemed well when I was dry and cosy in my bed, trying to finish up that great classic, Great Expectations. But next thing I know who’s a peeping up over the side of my mattress but Mr. Rat himself, another one of those highly unwelcome fellow. Point two: rat population. It was then that I realized I was being quite ill used as the hapless landlord for that disgusting tenet and his entourage. And to think he thought us so chummy as to snuggle into my bed with me.
Quite enraged, I stalked him until my broom and I had our way.
Game, set, match (superior genes): human race.
If not for the Smores, that would’ve been the highlight of the day, for sure.
Let’s just pray that Sunday has as much goodness as it does potential—what, with that name and the Sabbath distinction…
Today was a really terrible day in Husa.
Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you why.
Got up for my morning bike ride this morning—a special one, Annika’s last here in Lopitland. When we got back from Nairobi, we’d gotten in the habit of beating the sun up and catching its stunning rise over the distant mountain ranges—this wonderful morning tradition was cut ended a couple weeks back by a fickle bike. But we’d fixed it up special for this mornings’ occasion, this one last sunrise.
Well, we hadn’t got 100 meters when the back tire went flat again and spoiled our plans.
I came home to my room to realize another thing had gone spoiled, somewhere in my room. Point one: rat population. A dirty thing had found its way into one of my big Rubbermaid action packers (full of precious supplies) and died there, apparently trying to crack the code on my extra-special jar of Jiff, now thrown down in disgust to the bottom of our longdrop. A couple of the village children actually threw themselves to the ground or removed themselves from our compound voluntarily (un-be-LIEVE-able) in reaction to the terrible smell. They then took it upon themselves to remind me of the wretched stench (“Ibeja, it smells very bad.”) at least hundred times in the next hour, as if I could forget that which so assaulted my nostrils. Praise God, he brought an onslaught of rain that sent them all scattering for shelter and officially relieved them of the post of relaying obvious and latent information.
Well, as I had the kitchen in disarray, bleaching and salvaging what I could from said precious action packer, Pattie notices there’s a little water coming into her room. This is a normal thing, but something was fishy about this, as it was seeming to flow directly from her wardrobe (already so riddled by termites) and quickly had the whole floor flooded. We added her stuff to the disarray of the kitchen and soon found the source of said water blessing.
Turns out the gutter pipe to our water tank had a little something-something go wrong, which sent the water gushing out on to the side of our house. This is an important point at which to remember I live in a MUD house.
Yes, as emphatic as the village children were about reminding me of the rat smell, they failed to even casually or singly mention, as they were catching the overflow from our tank, the fact that a HUGE HOLE was being water-blasted into Pattie’s wall.
Yes, a hole. Might has well have been a secret passage, bursting forth with water.
So I found myself slipping and slidding—in a sopping wet dress—across the plastic lid of the water tank, trying to fix the pipe problem, as Kim ran down to America—in an equally sopping wet dress—to see about getting a tarp.
The fellas sent their well-meaning condolences via the radio. And I’m sure they felt bad then. But I imagine they felt much worse about an hour later when the foundation their 3000L water tank cracked down the middle and sent the thing crashing to the ground and the water rushing down the village path. Now, that, my friends, would’ve been something to see. I can just imagine some poor, naked, wide-eyed Lopit child, standing in that rocky pathway as the water came a’gushing. (No one was hurt in the Great Longija Water Tank Disaster of 2007.)
Anyway, back in Husa, we were patching things up and laughing it off. We had neighbors come over to grab water and alternatively warm their wet selves by our coal stove, actually lit for the purpose of making ol’ Craiger a birthday cake. (No flour was to be found in Husa, however. See title about horrible day.) We ended up using it for an even greater purpose, as this bleak afternoon struck me as the perfect time to break out the Smores supplies I’d got in the mail Wednesday, sent from the States on October 10th, 2006. The chocolate was melted, the ‘mallows likewise gooely unified and the graham crackers, a bit on the soggy side, but it was amazing, roasting the marshmallows, skewed on my potato peeler. Maybe even better was watching as our neighbor Lodina tried a marshmallow. She really had no idea what to think of that.
Anyway, all seemed well when I was dry and cosy in my bed, trying to finish up that great classic, Great Expectations. But next thing I know who’s a peeping up over the side of my mattress but Mr. Rat himself, another one of those highly unwelcome fellow. Point two: rat population. It was then that I realized I was being quite ill used as the hapless landlord for that disgusting tenet and his entourage. And to think he thought us so chummy as to snuggle into my bed with me.
Quite enraged, I stalked him until my broom and I had our way.
Game, set, match (superior genes): human race.
If not for the Smores, that would’ve been the highlight of the day, for sure.
Let’s just pray that Sunday has as much goodness as it does potential—what, with that name and the Sabbath distinction…
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Unexpected church-goer…
Had a strange visitor to the church yesterday.
The rainmaker.
Yeah, Mama Justina showed up at church.
The surprises keep coming!
It was a little awkward, as it was pretty obvious the entire sermon was preached directly at her. (She was sitting right behind me, so I can say with a lot of confidence that if not the message was pointedly addressed, then at least Pastor’s gaze, haha.) They definitely made a big deal about her being there. Not sure yet how exactly I feel about that.
Then, stranger yet, we had tea and lunch with the rainmaker. She was an honored guest at Steve’s place after church.
Lots of the team was there, and a handful of churchfolk, and we were just chilling most of the time. Then Steve and Pastor gave an appropriate speech, thanking her for coming, telling her we appreciate the welcome we’ve received here (she’s pretty much the Mama of the whole of Lopitland) and telling her about the message we came to share. She was attentive and gave her own little speech back, recalling the days when the missionaries first came here, what they and the government brought to the Lopit people—a clinic, a school, a church and clothes. (She focused a lot on the clothes—once, we were naked, then you gave us clothes.) She even talked about fellowshipping with the missionaries at the church.
It’s all very strange. Just strange.
But it was nice for her to come, nice to hear from her, nice to be completely bewildered at what could possibly be going through her head.
Teamfolk have been greeting her now and then, and she’s told them she doesn’t tell the people to bring her things, doesn’t tell them to work for her, etc. I dunno, the whole thing is nuts and I haven’t figured it out, though I hope we can get a glimpse into it someday.
But at least for this day, I can say we had lunch with the rainmaker. After church.
Weird.
The rainmaker.
Yeah, Mama Justina showed up at church.
The surprises keep coming!
It was a little awkward, as it was pretty obvious the entire sermon was preached directly at her. (She was sitting right behind me, so I can say with a lot of confidence that if not the message was pointedly addressed, then at least Pastor’s gaze, haha.) They definitely made a big deal about her being there. Not sure yet how exactly I feel about that.
Then, stranger yet, we had tea and lunch with the rainmaker. She was an honored guest at Steve’s place after church.
Lots of the team was there, and a handful of churchfolk, and we were just chilling most of the time. Then Steve and Pastor gave an appropriate speech, thanking her for coming, telling her we appreciate the welcome we’ve received here (she’s pretty much the Mama of the whole of Lopitland) and telling her about the message we came to share. She was attentive and gave her own little speech back, recalling the days when the missionaries first came here, what they and the government brought to the Lopit people—a clinic, a school, a church and clothes. (She focused a lot on the clothes—once, we were naked, then you gave us clothes.) She even talked about fellowshipping with the missionaries at the church.
It’s all very strange. Just strange.
But it was nice for her to come, nice to hear from her, nice to be completely bewildered at what could possibly be going through her head.
Teamfolk have been greeting her now and then, and she’s told them she doesn’t tell the people to bring her things, doesn’t tell them to work for her, etc. I dunno, the whole thing is nuts and I haven’t figured it out, though I hope we can get a glimpse into it someday.
But at least for this day, I can say we had lunch with the rainmaker. After church.
Weird.
All that for a silly bird…
So we were pretty jazzed this weekend. There was an excited buzz going around the villages about all this stuff they were going to do.
Saturday morning, the women called us out of our house to stand in the drizzle and watch with them as the men ran down the mountain and into the valley. They were all dressed up, fully loaded down with ammo and guns and running full speed, all joining in the valley like little ants and spreading off into two directions around the ends of the U of the mountain range.
It was the great hunting day, and they were off to kill all sorts of delicious animals—some to give to the rainmaker, some to keep for them to enjoy. The kids in Cath and Jen’s village were giddy as they explained the Munu Miji were going to go kill an elephant (!!!) and carry it back to the village. Other, more realistic (or perhaps just pessimistic) folk spoke less of giant elephants and more of gazelles and antelope. But whoever was talking about it was talking big and with wide, excited (yay even hungry) eyes.
So, they went and we waited all day, anxious for the footrace that was supposed to take place later. The Obejas (runners) from our cluster of villages and three or four other clusters were all coming to race one another. Craiger was invited to join them, the lone white representative. (I was also invited to join, by virtue of my white skin, I imagine, and name, Ibeja—the female form of runner. I declined on the virtue of my gender—I would have been the only woman running!) Then there was all the rumblings about the big wrestling match that would take place in the dancing place of the main village later.
Oh, all the excitement! It seemed a bit to me like a town preparing for the summer’s county fair… sans, of course, the funnel cakes, other delicious fair food, carnival rides and—this might be the worst part—the rodeo. But, still, good times were afoot!
Or so we thought.
The Munu Miji (I spell this differently each post) came back with much fanfare, hooting and yelling and dancing and all that as they paraded into the rainmakers compound, still in their garb. They kept coming and coming, but Cath noticed a little something missing—all the bamboo poles with dead animals tied on them. She didn’t see a thing.
So she asked one of the Muni Miji where everything was.
Awkward pause.
He held up a pint-sized carcass.
“All we got was this bird.”
Cath did her best to keep a straight face.
“There was just so much rain, Toriana.”
Sympathetic nodding. I’m not sure how she didn’t die laughing. I guess her and Jen were in fits when they got back home, though.
Imagine, all those Munu Miji, armed to the teeth, trying to stalk all sorts of wild game and finally having to resort to a silly little bird. Can you imagine dozens of AK-47’s pointed at the poor, unlucky thing? I’m surprised there was anything left of it, with all the bullets that must’ve flown in its direction. Oh, I mean, WOW, that’s funny.
And, yes, of course I do feel sort of bad for them—all of them standing there, shivering something terrible from the rain, and presenting a single silly bird to their beloved rainmaker.
And I do feel bad for the guy I met on the path today. His foot was badly swollen and bandaged above his ankle. What happened?! I asked. He was shot in the foot on the hunt.
So, a bird and this poor fella’s leg.
Maybe not quite the carnival it was supposed to be.
Saturday morning, the women called us out of our house to stand in the drizzle and watch with them as the men ran down the mountain and into the valley. They were all dressed up, fully loaded down with ammo and guns and running full speed, all joining in the valley like little ants and spreading off into two directions around the ends of the U of the mountain range.
It was the great hunting day, and they were off to kill all sorts of delicious animals—some to give to the rainmaker, some to keep for them to enjoy. The kids in Cath and Jen’s village were giddy as they explained the Munu Miji were going to go kill an elephant (!!!) and carry it back to the village. Other, more realistic (or perhaps just pessimistic) folk spoke less of giant elephants and more of gazelles and antelope. But whoever was talking about it was talking big and with wide, excited (yay even hungry) eyes.
So, they went and we waited all day, anxious for the footrace that was supposed to take place later. The Obejas (runners) from our cluster of villages and three or four other clusters were all coming to race one another. Craiger was invited to join them, the lone white representative. (I was also invited to join, by virtue of my white skin, I imagine, and name, Ibeja—the female form of runner. I declined on the virtue of my gender—I would have been the only woman running!) Then there was all the rumblings about the big wrestling match that would take place in the dancing place of the main village later.
Oh, all the excitement! It seemed a bit to me like a town preparing for the summer’s county fair… sans, of course, the funnel cakes, other delicious fair food, carnival rides and—this might be the worst part—the rodeo. But, still, good times were afoot!
Or so we thought.
The Munu Miji (I spell this differently each post) came back with much fanfare, hooting and yelling and dancing and all that as they paraded into the rainmakers compound, still in their garb. They kept coming and coming, but Cath noticed a little something missing—all the bamboo poles with dead animals tied on them. She didn’t see a thing.
So she asked one of the Muni Miji where everything was.
Awkward pause.
He held up a pint-sized carcass.
“All we got was this bird.”
Cath did her best to keep a straight face.
“There was just so much rain, Toriana.”
Sympathetic nodding. I’m not sure how she didn’t die laughing. I guess her and Jen were in fits when they got back home, though.
Imagine, all those Munu Miji, armed to the teeth, trying to stalk all sorts of wild game and finally having to resort to a silly little bird. Can you imagine dozens of AK-47’s pointed at the poor, unlucky thing? I’m surprised there was anything left of it, with all the bullets that must’ve flown in its direction. Oh, I mean, WOW, that’s funny.
And, yes, of course I do feel sort of bad for them—all of them standing there, shivering something terrible from the rain, and presenting a single silly bird to their beloved rainmaker.
And I do feel bad for the guy I met on the path today. His foot was badly swollen and bandaged above his ankle. What happened?! I asked. He was shot in the foot on the hunt.
So, a bird and this poor fella’s leg.
Maybe not quite the carnival it was supposed to be.
Keep a’prayin’….
Well, Steve hopped a plane for Nairobi today, on account of him being sicker than a dog.
In fact, he must be sick something fierce, because never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought he would be on a plane out of here. But he’s been hammered by a fever—it comes and goes, and comes back hotter each time—and body pain, looks pretty much half dead most of the time these last few days. And all the malaria tests say no. You wouldn’t know it if you saw him—he can’t seem to get a moment’s rest—but I guess he’s been a little delirious and would have his legs suddenly stop working. Weird. Like I said, though, the idea of Mr. Hardcore being airlifted… pretty wild.
Anyway, pray for him—safety in travel, a calm mind/heart about his family and team back here and, of course, a quick diagnosis and healing. And pray for Iris and the kiddos and our team, here without our fearless leader (yet, rest assured, completely capable and fine).
In fact, he must be sick something fierce, because never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought he would be on a plane out of here. But he’s been hammered by a fever—it comes and goes, and comes back hotter each time—and body pain, looks pretty much half dead most of the time these last few days. And all the malaria tests say no. You wouldn’t know it if you saw him—he can’t seem to get a moment’s rest—but I guess he’s been a little delirious and would have his legs suddenly stop working. Weird. Like I said, though, the idea of Mr. Hardcore being airlifted… pretty wild.
Anyway, pray for him—safety in travel, a calm mind/heart about his family and team back here and, of course, a quick diagnosis and healing. And pray for Iris and the kiddos and our team, here without our fearless leader (yet, rest assured, completely capable and fine).
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Prayer Request
Please pray for my motivation and discipline in language and culture learning, and in building relationships here. It’s just so hard for me to be intentional about being with the ladies, and to be intentional about studying the language. I can get by with what I have, but I certainly need more to be an effective witness here. So please be lifting that up! I have been sufficiently humbled in this whole language thing. I’m really not good at it.
School HolYdays
One of our students and friends, Cecelia, brought us a crinkled note yesterday.
From Teacher Taudesio Odwa.
“We had just been informed by the Education Administration Office (we have an administration office?) to close the School for first-term holydays [sic] with effect from 15th April – 15th May. This is for your information, forgive me for not doing so before.”
Riiiiight. First-term holYdays? They haven’t even gotten things up and going yet. And for a MONTH? Ugh.Oh well, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. I can focus on the preschool now. I’m working on scraping paint and cleaning things up so I can paint. And, Lord and finances willing, I’ll be buying curriculum and class materials when we head to Kampala for supplies in a few weeks. So get excited about that. :)
From Teacher Taudesio Odwa.
“We had just been informed by the Education Administration Office (we have an administration office?) to close the School for first-term holydays [sic] with effect from 15th April – 15th May. This is for your information, forgive me for not doing so before.”
Riiiiight. First-term holYdays? They haven’t even gotten things up and going yet. And for a MONTH? Ugh.Oh well, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. I can focus on the preschool now. I’m working on scraping paint and cleaning things up so I can paint. And, Lord and finances willing, I’ll be buying curriculum and class materials when we head to Kampala for supplies in a few weeks. So get excited about that. :)
And then it rained…
God let loose on this place Wednesday night. It was… amazing.
The rain finally came. And came. And came. And came, and came, and came.
It rained all night, and not without fanfare. The lightning would snap and you could see the silhouette of the mountains and far out across the plains. The thunder shook said mountains and rattled everything in our house, including me. My heart actually felt as it if were hiding, for fear, behind my ribs, trembling. My body was quivering. I sat on my bed, writing letters home, and started at every new blast and then giggled with my housemates in awe of the great Conductor of this noisy orchestra. It was beyond my comprehension that these Lopeeps did not tremble with fear, could not recognize the long thunderblasts as the voice of a God wanting to be known, wanting to be glorified. I wonder what they were thinking.
Anyway, that great rain seems to have opened the skies for rainy season, as it’s been wet, wet, wet since. They nearly cancelled school on Thursday. Imagine, a rain day. Ha! Iron sheet roofs make quite a racket under even the tiniest bit of rain, making teaching impossible. I took the chance to celebrate the rain with a muddy, muddy workout bike ride, leaving no puddle untouched. I was soaked through, covered in ick from head to toe… but so, so, so happy to finally have relief from the dry season. And it’s actually raining now—making it a perfect, cool Saturday morning for journaling, studying the Word and writing letters home.
Praise God for the rain!
The rain finally came. And came. And came. And came, and came, and came.
It rained all night, and not without fanfare. The lightning would snap and you could see the silhouette of the mountains and far out across the plains. The thunder shook said mountains and rattled everything in our house, including me. My heart actually felt as it if were hiding, for fear, behind my ribs, trembling. My body was quivering. I sat on my bed, writing letters home, and started at every new blast and then giggled with my housemates in awe of the great Conductor of this noisy orchestra. It was beyond my comprehension that these Lopeeps did not tremble with fear, could not recognize the long thunderblasts as the voice of a God wanting to be known, wanting to be glorified. I wonder what they were thinking.
Anyway, that great rain seems to have opened the skies for rainy season, as it’s been wet, wet, wet since. They nearly cancelled school on Thursday. Imagine, a rain day. Ha! Iron sheet roofs make quite a racket under even the tiniest bit of rain, making teaching impossible. I took the chance to celebrate the rain with a muddy, muddy workout bike ride, leaving no puddle untouched. I was soaked through, covered in ick from head to toe… but so, so, so happy to finally have relief from the dry season. And it’s actually raining now—making it a perfect, cool Saturday morning for journaling, studying the Word and writing letters home.
Praise God for the rain!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
And still no rain…
The clouds haven’t opened yet for us here in Lopit, and I’m not exactly sure what that means.
I’m becoming more convinced that maybe God is just holding it back. Every other place in Sudan has got rain, but not us.
It drizzled just a bit the other day and it set the people dancing like wild. It hasn’t dripped a drop since.
The rainmaker grows more and more nervous, I hear. The Munimiji are wondering what the heck is going on. The rainmaker now claims she put a spell on to make it not rain because people haven’t done enough for her or brought her enough gifts.
Some of the team went on a mini-outreach the other day, to check out a baptism in a village a couple hours away. They said a situation like this happened there, where it didn’t rain and didn’t rain and the rainmaker kept going ‘round and ‘round. Well, they eventually buried said rainmaker alive… and then it poured. I guess that’s not an isolated thing, burying the rainmaker alive. (Eeek.)
It’s starting to effect more than just the water now. Iris says there’s starting to be starvation in the villages. They get people daily coming to beg for food. We had our first such visitors yesterday, as well. I think this is a cultural struggle I’m not at all prepared for.
The hardest thing is, these people get food from the UN or World Food Program. And they tell the UN and WFP that there are about a gazillion more people here than actually are, so they really cash in. And they take the food they get and make beer out of it. So is this not just reaping what they sow? (But what exactly are the children sowing?)
It’s not so bad, yet. And I’m not sure it will get so bad. I wouldn’t have known about it, had Iris not told me and I noticed a few people have left to go for food elsewhere.
Anyway, just pray that God is glorified—in the famine, in the heat, in the dryness and in the rain, if He wills it come.
I’m becoming more convinced that maybe God is just holding it back. Every other place in Sudan has got rain, but not us.
It drizzled just a bit the other day and it set the people dancing like wild. It hasn’t dripped a drop since.
The rainmaker grows more and more nervous, I hear. The Munimiji are wondering what the heck is going on. The rainmaker now claims she put a spell on to make it not rain because people haven’t done enough for her or brought her enough gifts.
Some of the team went on a mini-outreach the other day, to check out a baptism in a village a couple hours away. They said a situation like this happened there, where it didn’t rain and didn’t rain and the rainmaker kept going ‘round and ‘round. Well, they eventually buried said rainmaker alive… and then it poured. I guess that’s not an isolated thing, burying the rainmaker alive. (Eeek.)
It’s starting to effect more than just the water now. Iris says there’s starting to be starvation in the villages. They get people daily coming to beg for food. We had our first such visitors yesterday, as well. I think this is a cultural struggle I’m not at all prepared for.
The hardest thing is, these people get food from the UN or World Food Program. And they tell the UN and WFP that there are about a gazillion more people here than actually are, so they really cash in. And they take the food they get and make beer out of it. So is this not just reaping what they sow? (But what exactly are the children sowing?)
It’s not so bad, yet. And I’m not sure it will get so bad. I wouldn’t have known about it, had Iris not told me and I noticed a few people have left to go for food elsewhere.
Anyway, just pray that God is glorified—in the famine, in the heat, in the dryness and in the rain, if He wills it come.
Epal Iyohoi
(“Whoops. We screwed up.”)
Lately we’ve had a lot of fun playing with the women, sitting with them on their compounds at night.
They’re actually quite hilarious and find great pleasure in making fun of us—what we say, what we do. And I love the times when we get off a good joke—one that cuts across the cultural barrier and is in clear enough Lopit. You know it’s good because they’ll keep repeating it to one another. We’re sitting in a chaotic cluster and you make some precious comment or screw up the language so badly, someone finds it funny. They go on to repeat it to the next person. (“Ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”/”Andi said…”)
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Cecelia hijo, ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
And it just keeps on like that.
You know you’ve made a really good one (or said something really stupid) when it circles around for a second time. Or comes back to haunt you the next day, from someone who wasn’t even in the cluster at that time.
On one blessed night, we discovered the Lopit word for when you’re really tired and your head starts to bob up and down, emongita. (I love when complex ideas are caught in one word. I heard there is a word for “I know you know I know you know” in one Kenyan language. That’s so sweet.) Well Kim couldn’t resist and ran with it, telling them the story of how I was emongita-ing in the car on the way back from Torit and she couldn’t even look at me, lest she die of laughter. Well, the ladies thought it was equally funny, and now have taken on Kim’s cry—Emongita Ibeja sahian DANG! (Andi nods off ALL THE TIME.)—and bring it up whenever possible.
(Don’t worry, I have since tokened a phrase they find equally funny: Kim has gas ALL THE TIME. Language learning is so much fun.)
Anyway, all that to say, we have a lot of fun with them. And finally being able to laugh with them has been a huge deal.
So last night we wanted to have Lodina and Abuba and their kids over here for dinner. We’ve had some of our other neighbors before and decided it was time to serve up a special meal for them. Well, they were a little strange about it. They tried to get out of it, wouldn’t answer us directly when we called over the fence. Then they didn’t come and didn’t come until it was really late (they kept saying we’ll come when it’s darker), then left the kids at home because the path was “too dangerous.” (They are our direct neighbors and would have to walk maybe 30 feet.) They were really quite and looked terribly nervous. We hardly laughed! We even made food we knew they would like—none of our European garbage. We just chalked it up to our house being strange.But then we figured it out. They walked outside to leave, my flashlight in hand, and went into a bit of a panic when they heard women on the path. They shut off the torch really fast, then huddled together with their backs to the gate and shushed us. We were like… What the heck are you doing? They sort of giggled and handed back the torch, saying they’d just go slowly, slowly. Abuba’s stifled laughter and joked, “Pray for us.” Finally they had the all-clear and snuck back home.
Lodina came back later to explain it to us. She said everyone would be very, very angry at them if they knew they were eating here. So they tried to keep it a secret—coming in the dark, leaving the kids at home, being relatively quiet. Suddenly it all made sense. And here we were, yelling at them across the village (normal Lopit practice) to “Get on over here and EAT already!” We invited Lodina’s husband in front of other men. We kicked all the kids off the compound because we had special guests coming. And the list goes on.
Whoops.
We feel like heels, but at least we’re learning….
Lately we’ve had a lot of fun playing with the women, sitting with them on their compounds at night.
They’re actually quite hilarious and find great pleasure in making fun of us—what we say, what we do. And I love the times when we get off a good joke—one that cuts across the cultural barrier and is in clear enough Lopit. You know it’s good because they’ll keep repeating it to one another. We’re sitting in a chaotic cluster and you make some precious comment or screw up the language so badly, someone finds it funny. They go on to repeat it to the next person. (“Ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”/”Andi said…”)
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Cecelia hijo, ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
And it just keeps on like that.
You know you’ve made a really good one (or said something really stupid) when it circles around for a second time. Or comes back to haunt you the next day, from someone who wasn’t even in the cluster at that time.
On one blessed night, we discovered the Lopit word for when you’re really tired and your head starts to bob up and down, emongita. (I love when complex ideas are caught in one word. I heard there is a word for “I know you know I know you know” in one Kenyan language. That’s so sweet.) Well Kim couldn’t resist and ran with it, telling them the story of how I was emongita-ing in the car on the way back from Torit and she couldn’t even look at me, lest she die of laughter. Well, the ladies thought it was equally funny, and now have taken on Kim’s cry—Emongita Ibeja sahian DANG! (Andi nods off ALL THE TIME.)—and bring it up whenever possible.
(Don’t worry, I have since tokened a phrase they find equally funny: Kim has gas ALL THE TIME. Language learning is so much fun.)
Anyway, all that to say, we have a lot of fun with them. And finally being able to laugh with them has been a huge deal.
So last night we wanted to have Lodina and Abuba and their kids over here for dinner. We’ve had some of our other neighbors before and decided it was time to serve up a special meal for them. Well, they were a little strange about it. They tried to get out of it, wouldn’t answer us directly when we called over the fence. Then they didn’t come and didn’t come until it was really late (they kept saying we’ll come when it’s darker), then left the kids at home because the path was “too dangerous.” (They are our direct neighbors and would have to walk maybe 30 feet.) They were really quite and looked terribly nervous. We hardly laughed! We even made food we knew they would like—none of our European garbage. We just chalked it up to our house being strange.But then we figured it out. They walked outside to leave, my flashlight in hand, and went into a bit of a panic when they heard women on the path. They shut off the torch really fast, then huddled together with their backs to the gate and shushed us. We were like… What the heck are you doing? They sort of giggled and handed back the torch, saying they’d just go slowly, slowly. Abuba’s stifled laughter and joked, “Pray for us.” Finally they had the all-clear and snuck back home.
Lodina came back later to explain it to us. She said everyone would be very, very angry at them if they knew they were eating here. So they tried to keep it a secret—coming in the dark, leaving the kids at home, being relatively quiet. Suddenly it all made sense. And here we were, yelling at them across the village (normal Lopit practice) to “Get on over here and EAT already!” We invited Lodina’s husband in front of other men. We kicked all the kids off the compound because we had special guests coming. And the list goes on.
Whoops.
We feel like heels, but at least we’re learning….
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Pray for Cecelia and baby Andrea
Our good friend Cecelia—mother to new little Andrea Ibeja—got really sick yesterday. We thought for a while she might be our first case of cholera in the hills.
They may have ruled that out—the symptoms aren’t quite right—but please pray for her quick and full recovery. We’re worried about the baby, as well.
In the bigger picture, she’s also a niece to the rainmaker; her family could be a huge key to this culture’s change.
They may have ruled that out—the symptoms aren’t quite right—but please pray for her quick and full recovery. We’re worried about the baby, as well.
In the bigger picture, she’s also a niece to the rainmaker; her family could be a huge key to this culture’s change.
Change of seasons…
It’s still hot, hot, hot dry season here, but we may be witnessing a little change in the spiritual season here in Lopitland.
Like I told you before, the rainmaker has come back. She’s the big deal—the mother of the guy who was here before. She came in from Uganda and has been the focus of much worship, much to-do in these last two or three weeks. People have been flooding in from the other Lopit villages to greet her, pay homage, bring gifts and work on her compound and in her field. It’s been the buzz of this place.
But there hasn’t been rain. Not a drop.
It’s actually been hotter and drier since she came.
And it’s left some of the Munimiji wondering.
Yesterday the men beat the drums in all the villages, a call to all the surrounding villages—miles and miles away—for the people to bring their grain to the rainmaker and for the men to ready for the big day of hunting. All the Munimiji take the long, long foot journey to the valley to hunt (their wives, however, carry all of the equipment) for one day and bring back meat offerings for the rainmaker and witchdoctor. But even as the drums throbbed, some of the men were talking to Cath and Jen about the extreme weather and their confusion.
Pastor the other day said that some of the people (probably the ones who would call themselves Christians) would even say God brings the rain, but they think of the rainmaker rather as a go-between for them—that is to say, sort of like a priest representing their pleas before God, not the one who actually brings the rain.
In their conversation with the warrior guys, Cath and Jen told them about the true go-between, our liaison to the throne, the High Priest, the only one by whom we can approach the Father. Cath asked how it was that the rainmaker could even approach the Father, without believing and trusting in the Son, and explained that we must ask God, in Jesus’ name, for the rain to come.
They said, yes, you’re right—you go ahead and pray to Jesus for rain then. But eventually Cath explained that they could pray themselves, and encouraged them to do just that.
The girls relayed the story to us over the radio, when they’d got back from praying with the Munimiji.
It could be this is a huge step—huge.
I’ve wondered lately if the lack of rain—it should be coming by now—is God showing himself, showing his judgment on a people bent on worshipping the creation, not the Creator. I’ve hoped that maybe this is the time He’s chosen to make them see HE is the one who brings the rain, not this lady or any human. And as terrible as this heat is for us as well, I think we’d all gladly taken months and months more of it, if they would only see and turn away from their ways and to Jesus.
We certainly don’t always understand why God does bring rain when He does, as if He is encouraging the people to continue on with the rainmaker. But we know God makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. And His purposes—sovereign and incapable of being kept from coming to pass—and character—good, holy, immutable, just—are perfect in timing and end.
And I—we—will wait on Him.
Like I told you before, the rainmaker has come back. She’s the big deal—the mother of the guy who was here before. She came in from Uganda and has been the focus of much worship, much to-do in these last two or three weeks. People have been flooding in from the other Lopit villages to greet her, pay homage, bring gifts and work on her compound and in her field. It’s been the buzz of this place.
But there hasn’t been rain. Not a drop.
It’s actually been hotter and drier since she came.
And it’s left some of the Munimiji wondering.
Yesterday the men beat the drums in all the villages, a call to all the surrounding villages—miles and miles away—for the people to bring their grain to the rainmaker and for the men to ready for the big day of hunting. All the Munimiji take the long, long foot journey to the valley to hunt (their wives, however, carry all of the equipment) for one day and bring back meat offerings for the rainmaker and witchdoctor. But even as the drums throbbed, some of the men were talking to Cath and Jen about the extreme weather and their confusion.
Pastor the other day said that some of the people (probably the ones who would call themselves Christians) would even say God brings the rain, but they think of the rainmaker rather as a go-between for them—that is to say, sort of like a priest representing their pleas before God, not the one who actually brings the rain.
In their conversation with the warrior guys, Cath and Jen told them about the true go-between, our liaison to the throne, the High Priest, the only one by whom we can approach the Father. Cath asked how it was that the rainmaker could even approach the Father, without believing and trusting in the Son, and explained that we must ask God, in Jesus’ name, for the rain to come.
They said, yes, you’re right—you go ahead and pray to Jesus for rain then. But eventually Cath explained that they could pray themselves, and encouraged them to do just that.
The girls relayed the story to us over the radio, when they’d got back from praying with the Munimiji.
It could be this is a huge step—huge.
I’ve wondered lately if the lack of rain—it should be coming by now—is God showing himself, showing his judgment on a people bent on worshipping the creation, not the Creator. I’ve hoped that maybe this is the time He’s chosen to make them see HE is the one who brings the rain, not this lady or any human. And as terrible as this heat is for us as well, I think we’d all gladly taken months and months more of it, if they would only see and turn away from their ways and to Jesus.
We certainly don’t always understand why God does bring rain when He does, as if He is encouraging the people to continue on with the rainmaker. But we know God makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. And His purposes—sovereign and incapable of being kept from coming to pass—and character—good, holy, immutable, just—are perfect in timing and end.
And I—we—will wait on Him.
“God has died.”
Do you remember those blessed off days in grade school in high school?
I didn’t even mind school so much, but I fondly remember vacation days. It was like enjoying some forbidden fruit—sleeping in on a weekday. What delicious scandal! Absolutely thrilling.
And, though I was still up before the rosters this morning, I’m feeling a bit of that same excitement now, as it’s nearly seven, I’ve been in the Word for three hours and have no compelling, pressing reason to close the Good Book now.
Good Friday, you know. No school.
Or, as the kids told us last night—some of our students had the good mind to come let us know there was no school; we would never have heard that from the “administration” (ie: drunk Willy B.)—we have no class because… “God has died.”
Huh?
Yeah, apparently the message went a little awry somewhere.
Don’t worry, we good missionaries assured them that God (the Father) never died. In fact, he is very much alive; but today is the day Jesus (also God, the Son) went to the cross to die for our sins.
Either way (I rather prefer the latter), we’re off school today. And I know it’s Good Friday and there could be an argument that this isn’t such a joyful day, since it’s when Jesus was tortured on that tree. But, first, there’s no school, and I will admit—that makes this teacher very happy. And, second (and more… spiritually), I feel like I can be happy because I know the end of the story, you know? I can see this day as another in a God’s wonderful work of redemption, when the veil in the Temple—not everything—came tumbling down.
Ah, that blessed Man who went to the cross!
Unfortunately, just as Jesus was resurrected, so will be school.
But, thankfully, while Christ did his good work in just three days, school will take a bit longer—we’ve got four until Monday.
Happy Easter, everyone. He is RISEN!
I didn’t even mind school so much, but I fondly remember vacation days. It was like enjoying some forbidden fruit—sleeping in on a weekday. What delicious scandal! Absolutely thrilling.
And, though I was still up before the rosters this morning, I’m feeling a bit of that same excitement now, as it’s nearly seven, I’ve been in the Word for three hours and have no compelling, pressing reason to close the Good Book now.
Good Friday, you know. No school.
Or, as the kids told us last night—some of our students had the good mind to come let us know there was no school; we would never have heard that from the “administration” (ie: drunk Willy B.)—we have no class because… “God has died.”
Huh?
Yeah, apparently the message went a little awry somewhere.
Don’t worry, we good missionaries assured them that God (the Father) never died. In fact, he is very much alive; but today is the day Jesus (also God, the Son) went to the cross to die for our sins.
Either way (I rather prefer the latter), we’re off school today. And I know it’s Good Friday and there could be an argument that this isn’t such a joyful day, since it’s when Jesus was tortured on that tree. But, first, there’s no school, and I will admit—that makes this teacher very happy. And, second (and more… spiritually), I feel like I can be happy because I know the end of the story, you know? I can see this day as another in a God’s wonderful work of redemption, when the veil in the Temple—not everything—came tumbling down.
Ah, that blessed Man who went to the cross!
Unfortunately, just as Jesus was resurrected, so will be school.
But, thankfully, while Christ did his good work in just three days, school will take a bit longer—we’ve got four until Monday.
Happy Easter, everyone. He is RISEN!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Rainmaker, rainmaker, go away…
I don’t think it will ever cease to be discouraging when our entire village empties as everyone goes to serve the witchdoctor or rainmaker.
I guess that’s the one nice thing about dry season—the rainmaker issue isn’t quite so in-your-face. But now that rainy season is coming, the battle is picking up again.
Yesterday it was recoating the rainmaker’s house in dung that called all of Husa to the well (to get water to make mud) or to the rainmaker’s compound, not too far from here.
This, of course, meant a whole day of being hassled to come get water to bring to the rainmaker. And I do mean the whole day—they woke me up in my yard in the morning and were still haggling me about it as I laid down outside to go to bed.
“Come, awohini water for the rainmaker!”
“Ibeja, why aren’t you going to the well?”
“You’re bad and will be cursed. You’re all bad!”
Meh.
It was especially sad to see the women who came to church on Sunday and heard Steve preach—and Pastor translate into Lopit—about how these are mere men. To see them going just as mindlessly and willingly as anyone else. To try to talk with them, recall with them what Steve said and see how the two things were at odds. All to no avail.
Someday, someday…
In other, more encouraging news, I stopped by the future preschool compound yesterday and saw that Akili and Phillip had indeed arranged for poles to be brought for the bamboo fence—and they’d actually been brought. Things like that don’t normally happen here. So praise God for that.
Yes, everything isn’t so doom and gloom here, haha.
And Easter is coming! Jesus is risen, ruling King!
That ought to be enough to bouy our spirits—it should always be enough…
I guess that’s the one nice thing about dry season—the rainmaker issue isn’t quite so in-your-face. But now that rainy season is coming, the battle is picking up again.
Yesterday it was recoating the rainmaker’s house in dung that called all of Husa to the well (to get water to make mud) or to the rainmaker’s compound, not too far from here.
This, of course, meant a whole day of being hassled to come get water to bring to the rainmaker. And I do mean the whole day—they woke me up in my yard in the morning and were still haggling me about it as I laid down outside to go to bed.
“Come, awohini water for the rainmaker!”
“Ibeja, why aren’t you going to the well?”
“You’re bad and will be cursed. You’re all bad!”
Meh.
It was especially sad to see the women who came to church on Sunday and heard Steve preach—and Pastor translate into Lopit—about how these are mere men. To see them going just as mindlessly and willingly as anyone else. To try to talk with them, recall with them what Steve said and see how the two things were at odds. All to no avail.
Someday, someday…
In other, more encouraging news, I stopped by the future preschool compound yesterday and saw that Akili and Phillip had indeed arranged for poles to be brought for the bamboo fence—and they’d actually been brought. Things like that don’t normally happen here. So praise God for that.
Yes, everything isn’t so doom and gloom here, haha.
And Easter is coming! Jesus is risen, ruling King!
That ought to be enough to bouy our spirits—it should always be enough…
Sweating bullets…
It’s really hot here—about 104 in the shade (I don’t know what with the heat index)—and I’m about two more drops of sweat from going nuts.
I guess this makes me a whiny missionary, but please pray for our sanity!
And pray for rain—we have no water!!!
I guess this makes me a whiny missionary, but please pray for our sanity!
And pray for rain—we have no water!!!
HOM WORK
Sometimes I make the mistake of saying “Good morning!” when I walk into the classroom before class technically starts.
This spurs my students immediately and queerly into action, as they shoot to their feet and robotically respond, “Good morning, teacher!”
The routine continues with equal robotic flare.
“How are you, students?”
“We are fine, thank you. How are yewwwww?”
“I’m fine, students. You may be seated.”
Then they all fall to their makeshift seats, as if someone cut their legs out from under them.
I accidently stumbled on to said well-rehearsed routine the second day I taught. I think I’m still botching it some, but I do my best to remember it. I’m sure they were lost without it that first day.
Teaching has been hard so far this week, and we Husa girls have spent two nights dreading the next day’s class, I’m sad to say. We do our best to stay positive, but there’s still no timetable, still no direction, still no help from anyone. And each of our classes derailed so badly Monday that it’s a miracle we all didn’t crumble right then and there.
Another teacher came into Kim’s class and scolded her kids for half an hour.
The drunk headmaster, William (who clearly had a hangover this particular morning), paid my classroom the same visit and demanded to know why they wouldn’t participate, why they refused to learn. His big fuss might not have been so bad, had he not tried to explain the assignment I’d written on the board. He explained it entirely wrong, undid any teaching I’d done and ended with a bang by writing “HOM WORK” really big over it all.
Someday, my students will learn something. I am so hopeful.
This spurs my students immediately and queerly into action, as they shoot to their feet and robotically respond, “Good morning, teacher!”
The routine continues with equal robotic flare.
“How are you, students?”
“We are fine, thank you. How are yewwwww?”
“I’m fine, students. You may be seated.”
Then they all fall to their makeshift seats, as if someone cut their legs out from under them.
I accidently stumbled on to said well-rehearsed routine the second day I taught. I think I’m still botching it some, but I do my best to remember it. I’m sure they were lost without it that first day.
Teaching has been hard so far this week, and we Husa girls have spent two nights dreading the next day’s class, I’m sad to say. We do our best to stay positive, but there’s still no timetable, still no direction, still no help from anyone. And each of our classes derailed so badly Monday that it’s a miracle we all didn’t crumble right then and there.
Another teacher came into Kim’s class and scolded her kids for half an hour.
The drunk headmaster, William (who clearly had a hangover this particular morning), paid my classroom the same visit and demanded to know why they wouldn’t participate, why they refused to learn. His big fuss might not have been so bad, had he not tried to explain the assignment I’d written on the board. He explained it entirely wrong, undid any teaching I’d done and ended with a bang by writing “HOM WORK” really big over it all.
Someday, my students will learn something. I am so hopeful.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Storytelling
This is about my thousandth post today. It’s been a big week, sorry.
I wanted to clue you in on another ministry my team, as a whole, is doing.
New Tribes Mission put together this Creation to Christ series—a great storytelling kit that begins with God creating the world and goes all the way through the Bible to Christ. The idea is to use storytelling—a popular way of communicating information in cultures like ours—to set up a good, well-grounded foundation for a decision for Christ.
They’ve broke it up into a 40-week program, complete with a picture and story each week, which you can take to different levels of depth, depending on your audience.
Our plan is this. We will all do the same story each week, slowly making our way through the program. We want to saturate the community with one story a week.
We will all work to translate it and look for a way to incorporate it into our formal ministries or present it to a targeted group of people each week. So I’ll use it all week with my preschool kids and maybe work it into my English curriculum at the school. I’ll likely also use on one night to show the kids that come to play at our house. Cath will do that story at her kids’ Sunday school and with the young men and women she plans to work with during the rest of the week. Pastor will use it in his English/Lopit language classes. Joshua will probably use it at the Bible School. Jen and Craig will present it in their youth group. Heinrich will sit on the mongot with the Munimiji and tell them the same story. Doris will tell it to patients at the clinic, or the clinic workers. If I end up type-setting a newspaper after all, we’ll print the story in there. Everyone will be using it somehow.
And around here, stories like that don’t stop with the reader. We’ll be hitting the community from all different directions with one story, and they’ll be talking to one another about it. In that way, people will be talking about it, thinking about it and even spreading it. It will be the buzz each week.
And that’s the gameplan.Pray that we’ll get the materials from Nairobi quickly so we can start the weeks.
Pray for good translation and perseverance in that work, especially.
Pray that the church would join in the story-of-the-week push, too, and use it during the actual church service.
Pray for open ears and open hearts as we go through.
Pray that the continuity would lead to better understanding, better foundation for people who do end up choosing Christ.
We’re all really stoked about this. I hope you are, as well!
I wanted to clue you in on another ministry my team, as a whole, is doing.
New Tribes Mission put together this Creation to Christ series—a great storytelling kit that begins with God creating the world and goes all the way through the Bible to Christ. The idea is to use storytelling—a popular way of communicating information in cultures like ours—to set up a good, well-grounded foundation for a decision for Christ.
They’ve broke it up into a 40-week program, complete with a picture and story each week, which you can take to different levels of depth, depending on your audience.
Our plan is this. We will all do the same story each week, slowly making our way through the program. We want to saturate the community with one story a week.
We will all work to translate it and look for a way to incorporate it into our formal ministries or present it to a targeted group of people each week. So I’ll use it all week with my preschool kids and maybe work it into my English curriculum at the school. I’ll likely also use on one night to show the kids that come to play at our house. Cath will do that story at her kids’ Sunday school and with the young men and women she plans to work with during the rest of the week. Pastor will use it in his English/Lopit language classes. Joshua will probably use it at the Bible School. Jen and Craig will present it in their youth group. Heinrich will sit on the mongot with the Munimiji and tell them the same story. Doris will tell it to patients at the clinic, or the clinic workers. If I end up type-setting a newspaper after all, we’ll print the story in there. Everyone will be using it somehow.
And around here, stories like that don’t stop with the reader. We’ll be hitting the community from all different directions with one story, and they’ll be talking to one another about it. In that way, people will be talking about it, thinking about it and even spreading it. It will be the buzz each week.
And that’s the gameplan.Pray that we’ll get the materials from Nairobi quickly so we can start the weeks.
Pray for good translation and perseverance in that work, especially.
Pray that the church would join in the story-of-the-week push, too, and use it during the actual church service.
Pray for open ears and open hearts as we go through.
Pray that the continuity would lead to better understanding, better foundation for people who do end up choosing Christ.
We’re all really stoked about this. I hope you are, as well!
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