Before I begin… It’s OK for kids to read this post. (My mom told me I need to tell everyone these things.) Oh, and sorry for the length.
Last night, Kim, Heinrich, Daniel and I went to the funeral celebration of a woman who died while we were gone. I say funeral celebration because it was after the three days of mourning that they do. After that, everyone comes from all over the villages to dance in the mangott—the village center.
We’d seen people the night before heading over to the village. In fact, Husa was darn-near empty because they were all over dancing. People were just flowing by in their crazy dancing get-ups. This is where I wish I had pictures. It’s so hilarious to see how the more developed world’s influence has seeped into Lopit.
The people, especially the men, get decked out in any and every colorful thing they have. The munyimigi (mun-you-me-gee)—generally the 20-somethings of the men—are the best. They were these goofy straw hats that look like upside-down buckets. The stick feathers in the hats—the more the better—and if they’re really special, they’ll have something they’ve picked up from Nairobi or the trash. The best? This guy had a pink feather duster—one of the really long ones you use for fans—tied onto his hat. I wanted to die laughing. Then you’ll see pom-poms. Or these weird tassel things in such manly colors as pink and teal and bright purple tied onto their arms. Ace bandages strung around their upper arms. Argyle dress socks pulled all the way up to their knees, with another pair of socks—the brighter the better—puddled around their ankles. Neckties tied around their foreheads or necks, with the body of the tie going down their backs. I even saw a few cell phones clipped to their belts—a sign of prestige. This especially tickled me, since there’s absolutely no cell coverage out here. Many of them had ash or mud smeared all over their upperbodies, and during the dancing the women would smear more on them. Sometimes they’d shove it over their mouths and stuff.
The ladies wore more traditional dresses with no tops and beaded belts. The best was they never wear bras during the day, but they bring them out for dancing. They weren’t quite as decked out as the men, but you’d see the occasional colorful baseball hat from the 80s. They had bells around their ankles and one really awesome lady was wearing just a cowbell on her butt. The lady who has the strongest husband in the village wore just a small blanket but carried a stick with a red flag on it. They honored her by covering her in ash.
It was funny to see how their “bling” was all these normal, every-day things from the States.
They started the thing with the men acting out something in the middle. There were at first just a few, dancing/running around with spears, acting like they were killing or hunting something (I think). Slowly, more and more came and eventually they signaled to the women, who flowed from the “audience” on the rocks and into the dancing place.
They had the drums going in the middle, with the women circling around them, then the men circling everything. The munyimigi led the dancing, which sometimes turned into an all-out sprint in this circle. It was scary, seeing these pregnant women and small children in the mix of things, especially because all the men had spears. If the little kids tripped, they stood the chance of getting trampled, but it was amazing to see the old women just reach into the throw and yank them out. We were wise to go early, because I’ve heard that these things get really out of control as the night goes on. They dance and dance and drink and drink and seriously whip themselves into a frenzy, possessed. We see them the next morning, dragging themselves home. The men and women kept asking us to dance, pulling on us to come off the rocks and into the center.
It’s hard to see this all from the Western perspective because I don’t understand—and can’t comprehend—what’s going on. I wish someone could explain to me why they do what they do and what all this means. (And maybe someone else could explain to me where they got that big feather duster.)
But it was harder to see it from the Christian perspective. The woman who died wasn’t a Christian, and all these people dancing around in her honor also aren’t Christians. And so they’re just dancing their way to eternity in hell. So, once again, I’m reminded of why I’m here and am forced to rely on the sovereignty of God and the power of the gospel.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Tragedy next door
Late last night, the one-year-old child of our neighbors fell into a fire and burned to death.
It’s days like this that make me wonder if my heart can take Africa.
Sure, kids die all the time here. But this particular case really has me paralyzed with emotion, because in it, I’m forced to recognize certain realities of this place.
The child fell into a cooking fire inside the hut—they keep their fires in holes about a foot or so deep. The parents didn’t wake up to the child’s screams. But we’re not talking a typical two-story suburban home here, where the parents could have legitimately (or at least more believably) been far enough away not to hear the kid screaming. We’re talking a grass hut, perhaps 12 feet in diameter, where they’re all sleeping. So how can a parent not wake up? Most likely because they were passed out from drinking balu (beer) and dancing to the rainmaker all night. That’s how it goes around here—all day in the fields, all night drinking beer, often as your children wonder around with their agemates, the youngest of the children strapped to their backs. (You see a lot, too, the results of the drunk mothers dropping their babies off their backs and into fires—horrible burns and disfigurations.)
They say it’s Jok. I guess you could call him the bad god. When something bad happens, it’s Jok and he takes when he wants, they say. If he’s hungry and he wants meat, he takes. So they have no control, you see. It’s a very fatalist way of thinking—if he wants you dead, you died. And so there’s no concern for safety or prevention. Why put a fence or stones around the fireplace? If Jok wants to take the baby with fire, he’ll take it anyway.
As I sit here, filled with emotion, Im’ made to wonder what or if these people are feeling. This may sound strange, but it’s easy to see the Lopit (or many Africans) as devoid of all feelings. And, surely, this is because we experience and handle feelings differently. But you can’t help but wonder. Late night, the village was going nuts, wailing and screaming, mourning the baby’s death. And this morning, Husa and all the surrounding villages are somber. That’s nice to see, because I know they’re feeling. Part of me wonders, too, if it’s not a more genuine, human kind of mourning—this wailing and screaming—than our custom of quietly sniffing as we pass by a coffin and family members, somberly delivering our condolences with measured emotion. But it’s in other things that I want to know what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling.
We went to the funeral and as I sat there, I looked inside the hut.
And I saw the firepit—the same firepit the baby had burned in not 14 hours earlier.
And they were cooking over it.
My whole body felt sick. My senses revolted against me—I swore I could smell the burning flesh—and it was so hard to keep it together.
And then I wondered—how can they not feel this, think this?
Someday I hope to be able to ask them that, to talk with the women in Lopit.
For now, I’ll pray for the gospel to renew this place.
I guess the whole thing—as much as it makes me think perhaps my heart is not strong enough—reminds me why I’m here. These people need the gospel. They need a hope that can be for more than for rain or against the whim of some meat-hungry god. And they need renewed minds. Not Western minds, but minds transformed by the gospel of Jesus Christ. And, really, that’s where it has to start.
And so I pray that you’ll believe God for that with me, that He’ll transform this community with the gospel. Because, truly, truly, He is able.
It’s days like this that make me wonder if my heart can take Africa.
Sure, kids die all the time here. But this particular case really has me paralyzed with emotion, because in it, I’m forced to recognize certain realities of this place.
The child fell into a cooking fire inside the hut—they keep their fires in holes about a foot or so deep. The parents didn’t wake up to the child’s screams. But we’re not talking a typical two-story suburban home here, where the parents could have legitimately (or at least more believably) been far enough away not to hear the kid screaming. We’re talking a grass hut, perhaps 12 feet in diameter, where they’re all sleeping. So how can a parent not wake up? Most likely because they were passed out from drinking balu (beer) and dancing to the rainmaker all night. That’s how it goes around here—all day in the fields, all night drinking beer, often as your children wonder around with their agemates, the youngest of the children strapped to their backs. (You see a lot, too, the results of the drunk mothers dropping their babies off their backs and into fires—horrible burns and disfigurations.)
They say it’s Jok. I guess you could call him the bad god. When something bad happens, it’s Jok and he takes when he wants, they say. If he’s hungry and he wants meat, he takes. So they have no control, you see. It’s a very fatalist way of thinking—if he wants you dead, you died. And so there’s no concern for safety or prevention. Why put a fence or stones around the fireplace? If Jok wants to take the baby with fire, he’ll take it anyway.
As I sit here, filled with emotion, Im’ made to wonder what or if these people are feeling. This may sound strange, but it’s easy to see the Lopit (or many Africans) as devoid of all feelings. And, surely, this is because we experience and handle feelings differently. But you can’t help but wonder. Late night, the village was going nuts, wailing and screaming, mourning the baby’s death. And this morning, Husa and all the surrounding villages are somber. That’s nice to see, because I know they’re feeling. Part of me wonders, too, if it’s not a more genuine, human kind of mourning—this wailing and screaming—than our custom of quietly sniffing as we pass by a coffin and family members, somberly delivering our condolences with measured emotion. But it’s in other things that I want to know what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling.
We went to the funeral and as I sat there, I looked inside the hut.
And I saw the firepit—the same firepit the baby had burned in not 14 hours earlier.
And they were cooking over it.
My whole body felt sick. My senses revolted against me—I swore I could smell the burning flesh—and it was so hard to keep it together.
And then I wondered—how can they not feel this, think this?
Someday I hope to be able to ask them that, to talk with the women in Lopit.
For now, I’ll pray for the gospel to renew this place.
I guess the whole thing—as much as it makes me think perhaps my heart is not strong enough—reminds me why I’m here. These people need the gospel. They need a hope that can be for more than for rain or against the whim of some meat-hungry god. And they need renewed minds. Not Western minds, but minds transformed by the gospel of Jesus Christ. And, really, that’s where it has to start.
And so I pray that you’ll believe God for that with me, that He’ll transform this community with the gospel. Because, truly, truly, He is able.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
This is the Uni-Mog, this hardcore truck that is the singles’ vehicle. Steve took this picture on our way back from Torit. I love the Uni-Mog. I think I’m going to name my first child after it. Around here, people name their kids in the craziest ways. If it’s raining, they name it rain. If it’s harvest time, they name it weeding. I even met a child named UN because it was born when the UN was dropping food. (That was really sad to me in some way.) So I’m going to name mine Uni-Mog because I love the Uni-Mog.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Kim & Asunta
This is my roomie Kim and our little friend Asunta, sleeping on the rocks in our front yard. Asunta is an adorable neighbor girl, but she always makes us laugh because she never fails to smell her hand after she shakes hands with us. This is a mystery we may never unravel. Whatever the case, I just really liked this quite moment in our life in Lopit…
Play ball! And other fun in Lopit
In case anyone was wondering, my side job of spreading the good news of baseball is progressing quite nicely. I rarely can get anyone to play catch with me here—Daniel the German doesn’t know the slightest thing about baseball and I think Craig fears my catcher’s arm—but the other day I took up a game of toss with Steve's house help.
She was doing really well all things considered (ie: the fact that she grew up in the bush of Sudan ), and we soon attracted an audience.
Eventually a guy asked if they could too play this game, so I figured, why not teach them about the whole of baseball? Next thing I know, we’ve got a few trees and the corner of the church building as bases and a rather paltry, flimsy stick as a bat.
And suddenly we’re playing baseball.
In Lopit.
And my heart rejoiced.
Sure, it wasn’t baseball in its purest form, but it was baseball nonetheless, and I went away joyful in the way the Lord chose to encourage me.
On other happenings in Lopit…
- I’m still enjoying my new home and new neighbors. I can’t go anywhere in any of the villages without children (or adults) running down from their houses, yelling “Ibedja! Ibedja!” (Ibedja—“ee-bed-JA”—is my Lopit name; it means “runner.”) It makes me feel really special and encouraged, and it shows me all the opportunities for relationships out there.
- My ankle is healing quite well, though it’s definitely been frustrating not being able to get around quickly and easily. Perhaps it was God’s way of slowing me down. The whole of the hills has had me under close watch since it happened. Every where I go, it’s “Ibedja, Ibedja—kai, kai!” (“Go slowly, go slowly!”) It’s a humorous thing, being the runner that everyone always tells to slow down. They were all just so concerned—everywhere I went, “Ibedja, how’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. The river, I hear you fell down it. You went to Loki. Was Loki OK? You’re back. Oh but you fell! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. But you’re back from Loki now. You’re back? You’re back. The river is bad, the river is bad!” (This is how they talk. No joke.)
- This whole thing with them knowing our every move isn’t so uncommon. I swear, all they talk about all day long is what the white people are doing. I’m afraid that’s hardly an exaggeration. I can’t leave the house without a full barrage of questions about where I’m going and where I’m coming from and an update on the whereabouts of my roommates (Kim is here and here and she went here and here and visited this place and that place) and my other teammates, as well as a briefing on my own actions from the previous day, just in case I was wondering. Yesterday I went to the river for the first time since The Great Biff and everyone in the village called to me as I went by with my laundry on my head, and as I came back. Again with the “kai, kai!” Hilarious.
- I spit on an old lady the other day. Really, flat-out spit on her. And it was culturally appropriate. We were joking around with greetings—they shake hands here for a really long time, so sometimes I just keep shaking until it gets awkward for them, too, or I pretend my arm is going to fall off—and so she unleashed another typical Lopit greeting. She took my head in her hands, blew on one ear, then the other, then spat on my head. I figured two could play at that game. So, yeah, I spit on her. I think I’m fully African now.
- I spent about five hours making a loaf of bread the other day. The joys of bush cooking. I’m glad to report, however, that the bread was quite delicious. It’s weird that cooking can consume so much of my day, but I’m really coming to enjoy it. Maybe bush cooking isn’t so hard after all; it’s the lack of variety that might take some getting used to. (It’d be nice to eat something other than carbs, haha.)
Alright, there you go. I’m really, really loving it here. Thanks again for all the prayers. Please continue them, especially for language learning and relationships! God bless!
She was doing really well all things considered (ie: the fact that she grew up in the bush of Sudan ), and we soon attracted an audience.
Eventually a guy asked if they could too play this game, so I figured, why not teach them about the whole of baseball? Next thing I know, we’ve got a few trees and the corner of the church building as bases and a rather paltry, flimsy stick as a bat.
And suddenly we’re playing baseball.
In Lopit.
And my heart rejoiced.
Sure, it wasn’t baseball in its purest form, but it was baseball nonetheless, and I went away joyful in the way the Lord chose to encourage me.
On other happenings in Lopit…
- I’m still enjoying my new home and new neighbors. I can’t go anywhere in any of the villages without children (or adults) running down from their houses, yelling “Ibedja! Ibedja!” (Ibedja—“ee-bed-JA”—is my Lopit name; it means “runner.”) It makes me feel really special and encouraged, and it shows me all the opportunities for relationships out there.
- My ankle is healing quite well, though it’s definitely been frustrating not being able to get around quickly and easily. Perhaps it was God’s way of slowing me down. The whole of the hills has had me under close watch since it happened. Every where I go, it’s “Ibedja, Ibedja—kai, kai!” (“Go slowly, go slowly!”) It’s a humorous thing, being the runner that everyone always tells to slow down. They were all just so concerned—everywhere I went, “Ibedja, how’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. The river, I hear you fell down it. You went to Loki. Was Loki OK? You’re back. Oh but you fell! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How’s your leg? How’s your arm? You fell down the river. But you’re back from Loki now. You’re back? You’re back. The river is bad, the river is bad!” (This is how they talk. No joke.)
- This whole thing with them knowing our every move isn’t so uncommon. I swear, all they talk about all day long is what the white people are doing. I’m afraid that’s hardly an exaggeration. I can’t leave the house without a full barrage of questions about where I’m going and where I’m coming from and an update on the whereabouts of my roommates (Kim is here and here and she went here and here and visited this place and that place) and my other teammates, as well as a briefing on my own actions from the previous day, just in case I was wondering. Yesterday I went to the river for the first time since The Great Biff and everyone in the village called to me as I went by with my laundry on my head, and as I came back. Again with the “kai, kai!” Hilarious.
- I spit on an old lady the other day. Really, flat-out spit on her. And it was culturally appropriate. We were joking around with greetings—they shake hands here for a really long time, so sometimes I just keep shaking until it gets awkward for them, too, or I pretend my arm is going to fall off—and so she unleashed another typical Lopit greeting. She took my head in her hands, blew on one ear, then the other, then spat on my head. I figured two could play at that game. So, yeah, I spit on her. I think I’m fully African now.
- I spent about five hours making a loaf of bread the other day. The joys of bush cooking. I’m glad to report, however, that the bread was quite delicious. It’s weird that cooking can consume so much of my day, but I’m really coming to enjoy it. Maybe bush cooking isn’t so hard after all; it’s the lack of variety that might take some getting used to. (It’d be nice to eat something other than carbs, haha.)
Alright, there you go. I’m really, really loving it here. Thanks again for all the prayers. Please continue them, especially for language learning and relationships! God bless!
“Wung, wung, dure dung ahang anang!”
(Come, come, all you children, to our house!)
The most amazing thing happened two nights ago, and I’ve been anxious to tell you about it. First, some background.
About a week ago, we had kids come running on to the compound around 8 at night with torches, all excited. We couldn’t figure out what they wanted at first—I could hear my roommate Pattie praying up a storm in her confusion—but we eventually figured out they wanted to sing. You see, the day before I put my iPod outside with some speakers while I was cooking, and all the kids came around and I eventually taught them such wonderful dance moves as the airplane, lawnmower and push-cart.
So here they were, wanting to sing. It started with four. Then it doubled. And more and more came until we eventually had 23 children crowded around our lanterns and Pattie’s guitar. Wow, huh? We sang some Lopit church songs the kids knew then also did some in English. (I think Rachel’s group must have taught them “God is so good,” because they sing it all the time. Unfortunately, they also sing the tune to the chicken dance, also taught to them by Rachel & Co. Haha.) Anyway, we went to bed that night amazed at our impromptu worship session with the kids—these kids don’t go to church, you see—and praying that God would continue to use us in the village despite the fact that we’re not yet doing any formal ministry.
For the next two days, all the kids came to our house at dark, wanting to sing again. Once we were gone and once we were just way too tired, but we promised them we’d do it Tuesday night. And so Tuesday came, and all the children were a-buzz with the news that they were singing and dancing at the Husa house that night. All day, children came by, chattering about it.
But 8 o’clock came around and we were sitting outside in our compound, alone with empty stools. We just looked at each other, shocked and confused.
But then we heard it—the pattering of little feet and shrill laughter—and next thing we knew, the place was jumping. The kids just kept coming and coming. Pattie played the guitar, Kim sang with the kids and I was managing the crowd and searching for anything and everything in our house that could be used as a noisemaker. The kids went absolutely nuts over tin cans with beans. A big hit.
After about half an hour, the three of us stepped back and looked with awe over all the children. I took my flashlight and shined it over them for the first time—they were literally on top of one another, singing and smiling and beating our buckets and bowls. There were more than 40 kids there, all worshiping the Lord—not the witchdoctor, not the rainmaker, not any false gods. But the King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
It was, in a word, awesome.
Even better was that three of our adult friends came, as well. We watched, amazed, as one of them took up a drum (errr… wash bucket) and the other started to lead songs from the Otuka songbook we had.
We hardly speak Lopit. We hardly spoke any that night. But surely God is working. Surely he is communicating to the hearts of these people. They know we’re different. They see our joy.
Oh, that they may see our God.
(Come, come, all you children, to our house!)
The most amazing thing happened two nights ago, and I’ve been anxious to tell you about it. First, some background.
About a week ago, we had kids come running on to the compound around 8 at night with torches, all excited. We couldn’t figure out what they wanted at first—I could hear my roommate Pattie praying up a storm in her confusion—but we eventually figured out they wanted to sing. You see, the day before I put my iPod outside with some speakers while I was cooking, and all the kids came around and I eventually taught them such wonderful dance moves as the airplane, lawnmower and push-cart.
So here they were, wanting to sing. It started with four. Then it doubled. And more and more came until we eventually had 23 children crowded around our lanterns and Pattie’s guitar. Wow, huh? We sang some Lopit church songs the kids knew then also did some in English. (I think Rachel’s group must have taught them “God is so good,” because they sing it all the time. Unfortunately, they also sing the tune to the chicken dance, also taught to them by Rachel & Co. Haha.) Anyway, we went to bed that night amazed at our impromptu worship session with the kids—these kids don’t go to church, you see—and praying that God would continue to use us in the village despite the fact that we’re not yet doing any formal ministry.
For the next two days, all the kids came to our house at dark, wanting to sing again. Once we were gone and once we were just way too tired, but we promised them we’d do it Tuesday night. And so Tuesday came, and all the children were a-buzz with the news that they were singing and dancing at the Husa house that night. All day, children came by, chattering about it.
But 8 o’clock came around and we were sitting outside in our compound, alone with empty stools. We just looked at each other, shocked and confused.
But then we heard it—the pattering of little feet and shrill laughter—and next thing we knew, the place was jumping. The kids just kept coming and coming. Pattie played the guitar, Kim sang with the kids and I was managing the crowd and searching for anything and everything in our house that could be used as a noisemaker. The kids went absolutely nuts over tin cans with beans. A big hit.
After about half an hour, the three of us stepped back and looked with awe over all the children. I took my flashlight and shined it over them for the first time—they were literally on top of one another, singing and smiling and beating our buckets and bowls. There were more than 40 kids there, all worshiping the Lord—not the witchdoctor, not the rainmaker, not any false gods. But the King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
It was, in a word, awesome.
Even better was that three of our adult friends came, as well. We watched, amazed, as one of them took up a drum (errr… wash bucket) and the other started to lead songs from the Otuka songbook we had.
We hardly speak Lopit. We hardly spoke any that night. But surely God is working. Surely he is communicating to the hearts of these people. They know we’re different. They see our joy.
Oh, that they may see our God.
September, already?!
Another week gone by in the bush! I’ll try to spare you the long, boring posts this time. My apologies for the droning on—that’s what happens when you’re laid up for a week with a swollen ankle and then a fever. I promise I’ll keep far too busy to do that ever again.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Cooking in the bush
How many missionaries does it take to start a chico? Cooking in the bush has been special, especially with the coal chico. The first time we got it out and were struggling to get it going, we had probably a dozen village children at the fence, hollering and trying to tell us what to do. At one point, they all had their cheeks buffed out, blowing through the gate, trying to get us to do the same on the coals. Finally, we just gave in and let them do it.
Sunday Sunrise
Annika and I climbed Oliri (the nearby mountain) last Sunday to watch the sunrise. It’s about an hour and 45 minute hike from my village, so I was out of the house by 4:30. (My parents are probably in shock.) Having thought about it more, I’m not sure how we didn’t get bit by a snake, stung by a scorpion or attacked by a leopard or hyena or crocodile, hiking a bad trail in pitch dark. But it was totally worth it to see the sun come over that horizon. Wow.
Long letters
Alright, gang, these posts are getting pretty long. Sorry, I just type them up hurriedly when I can and don’t really have the chance to cut and prune them like a good journalist should. And there’s so much I want to share with you, so much we need prayer for. Here’s a quick list of prayer requests.
Language learning. I’m getting better, but my homestay and “holiday” in Loki set me back some. And it’s hard!
Relationships. Sometimes I’d like nothing more than to just sit in my house, read the Word and try to shake this tired feeling. So pray that I’ll continue to get out of the house and be super intentional about building relationships, even though it’s really hard with the language barrier.
Focus. I’m fighting distraction. Pray I’ll keep my eyes fixed on Jesus and take every thought captive.
Ministry. We don’t have a formal ministry yet, but keep praying for guidance there and for the ministry our language learning is.
Believers. There aren’t many born-again folks here, but being a believer in Lopit isn’t easy, especially during harvest season when everyone is in the fields by day and drunk by night. Pray for them!
Your prayers are coveted!
Our incredible team and teamleader
19 Aug 06
One of my biggest blessings here is my team. Wow, these people are great. I’m sure part of my thinking they’re so wonderful is due to the proverbial “honeymoon period,” but I’m prepared to cast caution to the wind and say they’re stinkin’ wonderful. We haven’t been without our disagreements and we’ve had to give each other quite a bit of grace because of culture shock, but I’m encouraged by how we’ve pulled together and served one another, especially in prayer. Goodness, does this team pray.
And the general consensus around the Husa house is that our team leader Stephan and his wife Iris are as good as it gets. They’re a great pair. Iris loves us women and I can’t wait to get to know her more. (It’s been a little hard because she’s got four little ones at home, and between them and her, they’ve been in a rotation of sickness.) And Stephan blows me away. His vision for this place and his love for the Lord spur me on. And his character cracks me up. He used to be in the South African army and he’s so hardcore. Yet he’s really compassionate, constantly doting on us women especially.
We laugh about him being a father/big brother to us. The whole falling down the mountain thing gave us plenty evidence of that. The next morning, the village talk was littered with “Oliri” (Stephan’s Lopit name, the mountain near Amirikan) and “Ibedja” (“ee-bed-JA, my Lopit name, runner). I guess he went up and scolded Tito, whose wife I was with, for not taking good care of me and sending me for water just before dark and a huge storm. It got to everyone in the village, because they kept repeating it—wagging their fingers in the air and saying, “Oliri says, ‘You people know better!’ “ Haha. The village put my roommates on house arrest while I was gone, not letting them do anything because “Oliri says, ‘You people should know better!’ “ Oh man I just died when I heard that. What Oliri says is gold. Don’t mess with the crazy Swiss guy.
It got better yesterday. First, some background. During our homestay, there was always this weird guy hanging around the compound I was on. He was actually the one who sent us for water that day and he would just say weird things and even yelled at me one day for not knowing Swahili. But one day he did something exceptionally weird. We were leaving the compound to go to the river and he said, “Ibedja, you must climb the fence.” He said something about when you leave your mother-in-law’s compound and they are still working, you have to climb the fence. I wasn’t buying this, but I had shorts on under my skirt, so I went for it anyway to appease him. At tea after church the next day, I was telling Stephan and the team about this and asking the Lopit guys there what the significance was or if the guy was just being a punk. Stephan got a little ticked and was like, “This guy just wanted to look up your skirt.” That’s what I was thinking, too. Haha.
So he’s been asking to meet this guy and to talk to him for a while. And finally yesterday he had the chance because Mr. Weird come down with us to Amirika. So Steve takes off from his compound on a total mission and finds this guy and just starts drilling him with questions. Pattie and I were with him and our jaws seriously dropped. So he’s asking why he made me climb the fence, why he followed us here, why he made me go get water. And the guys just denying it. The best part was Weird Guy had this notebook thing he was sort of reading through while they talked and eventually Steve grabbed it out of his hand and was like, “You just wanted to look up her skirt, yes?” I almost died. Haha. It went on like that a little and the guy finally admitted it was a “mistake” but never explained why he did it. Steve even got him to apologize. (This is a big deal because Weird is from the rainmaker’s clan, which makes him a lot like royalty.) And then in a last bit of greatness, said “This woman, she has brothers. And you know how brothers are.” Apparently, this idea translates across many cultures. Hehehe.
Anyway, Steve’s hardcore. I can’t wait to learn from him—he’s passionate about theology and glorifying the Lord by learning more about him. So praise God for a great team and a great team leader—both definitely answers to prayer.
One of my biggest blessings here is my team. Wow, these people are great. I’m sure part of my thinking they’re so wonderful is due to the proverbial “honeymoon period,” but I’m prepared to cast caution to the wind and say they’re stinkin’ wonderful. We haven’t been without our disagreements and we’ve had to give each other quite a bit of grace because of culture shock, but I’m encouraged by how we’ve pulled together and served one another, especially in prayer. Goodness, does this team pray.
And the general consensus around the Husa house is that our team leader Stephan and his wife Iris are as good as it gets. They’re a great pair. Iris loves us women and I can’t wait to get to know her more. (It’s been a little hard because she’s got four little ones at home, and between them and her, they’ve been in a rotation of sickness.) And Stephan blows me away. His vision for this place and his love for the Lord spur me on. And his character cracks me up. He used to be in the South African army and he’s so hardcore. Yet he’s really compassionate, constantly doting on us women especially.
We laugh about him being a father/big brother to us. The whole falling down the mountain thing gave us plenty evidence of that. The next morning, the village talk was littered with “Oliri” (Stephan’s Lopit name, the mountain near Amirikan) and “Ibedja” (“ee-bed-JA, my Lopit name, runner). I guess he went up and scolded Tito, whose wife I was with, for not taking good care of me and sending me for water just before dark and a huge storm. It got to everyone in the village, because they kept repeating it—wagging their fingers in the air and saying, “Oliri says, ‘You people know better!’ “ Haha. The village put my roommates on house arrest while I was gone, not letting them do anything because “Oliri says, ‘You people should know better!’ “ Oh man I just died when I heard that. What Oliri says is gold. Don’t mess with the crazy Swiss guy.
It got better yesterday. First, some background. During our homestay, there was always this weird guy hanging around the compound I was on. He was actually the one who sent us for water that day and he would just say weird things and even yelled at me one day for not knowing Swahili. But one day he did something exceptionally weird. We were leaving the compound to go to the river and he said, “Ibedja, you must climb the fence.” He said something about when you leave your mother-in-law’s compound and they are still working, you have to climb the fence. I wasn’t buying this, but I had shorts on under my skirt, so I went for it anyway to appease him. At tea after church the next day, I was telling Stephan and the team about this and asking the Lopit guys there what the significance was or if the guy was just being a punk. Stephan got a little ticked and was like, “This guy just wanted to look up your skirt.” That’s what I was thinking, too. Haha.
So he’s been asking to meet this guy and to talk to him for a while. And finally yesterday he had the chance because Mr. Weird come down with us to Amirika. So Steve takes off from his compound on a total mission and finds this guy and just starts drilling him with questions. Pattie and I were with him and our jaws seriously dropped. So he’s asking why he made me climb the fence, why he followed us here, why he made me go get water. And the guys just denying it. The best part was Weird Guy had this notebook thing he was sort of reading through while they talked and eventually Steve grabbed it out of his hand and was like, “You just wanted to look up her skirt, yes?” I almost died. Haha. It went on like that a little and the guy finally admitted it was a “mistake” but never explained why he did it. Steve even got him to apologize. (This is a big deal because Weird is from the rainmaker’s clan, which makes him a lot like royalty.) And then in a last bit of greatness, said “This woman, she has brothers. And you know how brothers are.” Apparently, this idea translates across many cultures. Hehehe.
Anyway, Steve’s hardcore. I can’t wait to learn from him—he’s passionate about theology and glorifying the Lord by learning more about him. So praise God for a great team and a great team leader—both definitely answers to prayer.
Mountain Mornings
19 Aug 06
Mong, mong, mong to mo tia! (Hello, hello, good morning!)
Good morning, good morning. Greetings from the rocks high above the valley of “Amirikan” in South Sudan.
Mornings here in Lopit might be my favorite time. I do my best to get up and have our bamboo gate unlocked by 6:30. You see, it’s a cultural thing to make yourself visible and greeting everyone in the morning. We weren’t doing this at first and William—our neighbor and self-proclaimed watchdog—told us the women in the village were very unhappy with us.
It’s neat to hear the mountains wake up.
The roosters start the whole chorus with their obnoxious cock-a-doodle-do-ing. Have you ever noticed that when roosters crow in movies, it’s always like once, just as a beautiful sunrise is coming over some Midwestern farmland? Yeah, well, that’s Hollywood for you. The dumb birds go on for hours and hours. And you can hear them from every village, echoing across the mountains. Let me tell you, many of those first days down in Amirikan, I longed to drop-kick one of those roosters… especially the one who camped outside my tent.
But I digress. Back to the village waking up.
You’ve got the roosters. Then the flutes start. Men with flutes each have their own signature cadence, and it’s often meant to tell everyone where they are coming or going. They take their cattle to the fields early, so I often lay in bed, listening to the little mini parades march by, their flute songs accented by the clamor of goat and cow bells and the occasional whine or moo.
Then you hear the bees and flies kick in. Seriously. I know it’s hard to believe, but all of a sudden, it’s like God turns on a switch and hummmmmmmm there they go. It’s like an insect generator kicking in, I kid you not.
And finally, slowly but surely, the voices of the people start. First it’s a low hum, not much different than the bugs and flies. But then it gets louder and louder. Regular voices on the compounds, then yells cutting across the air as one man yells to another in a compound farther up the mountain. (The other day I was thinking how nice it’d be to be able to understand—if only for a minute or two—all the things these people were talking/yelling about in the morning. I’m so curious.)
The children start to yell and play and sing little songs. Oh, and the babies. Oh gracious the babies. They’re crying their heads off. And you can hear the tiny sound of the bells tied around the babies’ ankles as their older siblings bounce them up and down on their backs, trying to comfort them. Before you know it, it’s a full-blown roar and the day has begun.
I love to just sit on my rocks and listen in the mornings. Its sort of an amazing thing, how night turns into day here. I hope when God brings light to the darkness of peoples’ hearts here, it’s just as beautiful and complete.
And it’s a wonderful backdrop for my quiet times in the morning. I grab my Bible and journal and just sit out here, taking it all in and spending time with the Lord. I take my two cups of chi and begin my day in the best way I know how.
And so here I sit this morning, mixing it up a bit with my laptop. It probably won’t be long before I’ve got a crowd of village children swarming around this glowing plastic thing. Oh, wait, I was wrong. I just looked back and saw about 15 little faces pressed to our bamboo fence, staring over my shoulder. I’m sure they have no where to even begin to place this thing.
Hehe, reminds me of a little story. I had a woman over the other day, sitting inside and drinking chi. And when it came time to leave, she went toward the door and just stood there for a second, confused. She grabbed at it. Pushed on it. I think she was darn near close to clawing at it when I realized what was going on and quickly turned the handle. Since I’m constantly being laughed at and forced to laugh at my own silliness and confusion in this culture, it was nice to have a moment where I could laugh inside about someone else being such a fish out of their cultural and experiential water.
Alright, I’ve got some people to greet. Mong, mong! (Goodbye, goodbye!)
Mong, mong, mong to mo tia! (Hello, hello, good morning!)
Good morning, good morning. Greetings from the rocks high above the valley of “Amirikan” in South Sudan.
Mornings here in Lopit might be my favorite time. I do my best to get up and have our bamboo gate unlocked by 6:30. You see, it’s a cultural thing to make yourself visible and greeting everyone in the morning. We weren’t doing this at first and William—our neighbor and self-proclaimed watchdog—told us the women in the village were very unhappy with us.
It’s neat to hear the mountains wake up.
The roosters start the whole chorus with their obnoxious cock-a-doodle-do-ing. Have you ever noticed that when roosters crow in movies, it’s always like once, just as a beautiful sunrise is coming over some Midwestern farmland? Yeah, well, that’s Hollywood for you. The dumb birds go on for hours and hours. And you can hear them from every village, echoing across the mountains. Let me tell you, many of those first days down in Amirikan, I longed to drop-kick one of those roosters… especially the one who camped outside my tent.
But I digress. Back to the village waking up.
You’ve got the roosters. Then the flutes start. Men with flutes each have their own signature cadence, and it’s often meant to tell everyone where they are coming or going. They take their cattle to the fields early, so I often lay in bed, listening to the little mini parades march by, their flute songs accented by the clamor of goat and cow bells and the occasional whine or moo.
Then you hear the bees and flies kick in. Seriously. I know it’s hard to believe, but all of a sudden, it’s like God turns on a switch and hummmmmmmm there they go. It’s like an insect generator kicking in, I kid you not.
And finally, slowly but surely, the voices of the people start. First it’s a low hum, not much different than the bugs and flies. But then it gets louder and louder. Regular voices on the compounds, then yells cutting across the air as one man yells to another in a compound farther up the mountain. (The other day I was thinking how nice it’d be to be able to understand—if only for a minute or two—all the things these people were talking/yelling about in the morning. I’m so curious.)
The children start to yell and play and sing little songs. Oh, and the babies. Oh gracious the babies. They’re crying their heads off. And you can hear the tiny sound of the bells tied around the babies’ ankles as their older siblings bounce them up and down on their backs, trying to comfort them. Before you know it, it’s a full-blown roar and the day has begun.
I love to just sit on my rocks and listen in the mornings. Its sort of an amazing thing, how night turns into day here. I hope when God brings light to the darkness of peoples’ hearts here, it’s just as beautiful and complete.
And it’s a wonderful backdrop for my quiet times in the morning. I grab my Bible and journal and just sit out here, taking it all in and spending time with the Lord. I take my two cups of chi and begin my day in the best way I know how.
And so here I sit this morning, mixing it up a bit with my laptop. It probably won’t be long before I’ve got a crowd of village children swarming around this glowing plastic thing. Oh, wait, I was wrong. I just looked back and saw about 15 little faces pressed to our bamboo fence, staring over my shoulder. I’m sure they have no where to even begin to place this thing.
Hehe, reminds me of a little story. I had a woman over the other day, sitting inside and drinking chi. And when it came time to leave, she went toward the door and just stood there for a second, confused. She grabbed at it. Pushed on it. I think she was darn near close to clawing at it when I realized what was going on and quickly turned the handle. Since I’m constantly being laughed at and forced to laugh at my own silliness and confusion in this culture, it was nice to have a moment where I could laugh inside about someone else being such a fish out of their cultural and experiential water.
Alright, I’ve got some people to greet. Mong, mong! (Goodbye, goodbye!)
Curses and Blessings
To explain a bit of the cultural beast we’re dealing with here, it’s an animistic system—a system of witchdoctors, landlords and rainmakers. It plays out in almost every area of life. They have to get the blessing of the landlord in order to have crops. They have to make the rainmaker new gardens or slaughter cows in order for him to call for the rain. They take their sick to the witchdoctor so he can poke and prod at them, cut them and let their blood and make them do silly things so they can get well. (You often see these scars and things when the people finally come to the clinic to be taken care of with the white man’s medicine.)
I’ve never had to deal with curses and blessings. And, really, I don’t know how to tell which one is going on. We thought they were cursing us when they’d take our heads, blow on both ears and spit in our faces. Turns out that’s a really good greeting. (And… really… really… sick…) We’ve been told we can’t have our curtains open in our house while we’re inside because people will look in from the outside and give us the evil eye to put a curse on us. Some think, I’m sure, that I fell down the mountains because a curse had been put on me. It’s a hard thing to deal with—they think every good thing comes from the god “Holum” (or something like that) and every bad thing comes from “Jok.” They often “send” Jok along to other villages so he takes his bad there. A child dies, it’s Jok. It rains, it’s Holum. Or the rainmaker, depending on who you’re talking to. Not only is this difficult for us Westerners to understand, but it makes a very complex problem for new believers who have grown up in this system. You have people who say they are Christians—normally, they think just because they have a Christian (English) name, they’re a Christian (remnants of an old Catholic ministry gone awry here, I’m told)—who are still working in the rainmaker’s garden or calling on Jok or slaughtering goats for the landlord.
Here’s one neat story for you, though. Cath, one of my teammates, was doing her homestay at a guy’s house and the wind picked up quite a bit. He said he wished the wind would stop and the rain would come, because they needed it for the gardens. So Cath asked, do you believe my God can stop the wind and bring the rain? And he said yes. And so they prayed for it. And sure enough, the wind stopped and it poured. And this guy just danced and danced in the rain. He knew who brought it. I pray he soon knows from whom all good things come!
I’ve never had to deal with curses and blessings. And, really, I don’t know how to tell which one is going on. We thought they were cursing us when they’d take our heads, blow on both ears and spit in our faces. Turns out that’s a really good greeting. (And… really… really… sick…) We’ve been told we can’t have our curtains open in our house while we’re inside because people will look in from the outside and give us the evil eye to put a curse on us. Some think, I’m sure, that I fell down the mountains because a curse had been put on me. It’s a hard thing to deal with—they think every good thing comes from the god “Holum” (or something like that) and every bad thing comes from “Jok.” They often “send” Jok along to other villages so he takes his bad there. A child dies, it’s Jok. It rains, it’s Holum. Or the rainmaker, depending on who you’re talking to. Not only is this difficult for us Westerners to understand, but it makes a very complex problem for new believers who have grown up in this system. You have people who say they are Christians—normally, they think just because they have a Christian (English) name, they’re a Christian (remnants of an old Catholic ministry gone awry here, I’m told)—who are still working in the rainmaker’s garden or calling on Jok or slaughtering goats for the landlord.
Here’s one neat story for you, though. Cath, one of my teammates, was doing her homestay at a guy’s house and the wind picked up quite a bit. He said he wished the wind would stop and the rain would come, because they needed it for the gardens. So Cath asked, do you believe my God can stop the wind and bring the rain? And he said yes. And so they prayed for it. And sure enough, the wind stopped and it poured. And this guy just danced and danced in the rain. He knew who brought it. I pray he soon knows from whom all good things come!
Spiritual Warfare
17 Aug 06
I was thinking last night, and I’m afraid it must appear that all I’m doing up here in Lopit is trouncing around in the mountains, falling down ravines and eating strange food. The problem is it’s a lot easier to tell those stories—the funny ones about cultural oddities—than to really get into the spiritual stuff that’s happening here. First, I guess, because I don’t always understand the spiritual things. Truly, I’m from the West, and these sorts of spiritual warfare aren’t familiar, they don’t into the system by which I unconsciously organize my experiences, my thoughts, my perceptions. And so it’s really hard to process through them in my own journaling, let alone put them to words that people back home can understand.
Last night, I had my first touch of fear since getting into Africa. The girls from Sohot (a village about a half-hour hike away) came over for dinner and as they were leaving right around missionary midnight (9 o’clock), we heard these strange wailing sounds from outside. And for some reason it just struck a fear in us. You know how you can feel your hair stand up on end? It was one of those times. And I’m not even sure why. You hear a lot of strange noises in these mountains—from drunk people yelling to children singing to women screaming to flutes… fluting—and I hadn’t really been alarmed by any before this. But these cries were ultra-foreign and chilled me to the bone. So we just joined together and prayed. And praise God, that his perfect love casts out fear. And the wailing also stopped.
The girls saw the source of the cries on the way home—some old guy just crouched on the path, rocking back and forth. They weren’t really sure what was going on, but they managed to pass him without trouble.
But, really, I was just reminded again of how I don’t really have hooks on which to hang these new experiences. So pray that as we learn the language and culture, we’ll be given the knowledge of how to understand and deal with these situations.
I was thinking last night, and I’m afraid it must appear that all I’m doing up here in Lopit is trouncing around in the mountains, falling down ravines and eating strange food. The problem is it’s a lot easier to tell those stories—the funny ones about cultural oddities—than to really get into the spiritual stuff that’s happening here. First, I guess, because I don’t always understand the spiritual things. Truly, I’m from the West, and these sorts of spiritual warfare aren’t familiar, they don’t into the system by which I unconsciously organize my experiences, my thoughts, my perceptions. And so it’s really hard to process through them in my own journaling, let alone put them to words that people back home can understand.
Last night, I had my first touch of fear since getting into Africa. The girls from Sohot (a village about a half-hour hike away) came over for dinner and as they were leaving right around missionary midnight (9 o’clock), we heard these strange wailing sounds from outside. And for some reason it just struck a fear in us. You know how you can feel your hair stand up on end? It was one of those times. And I’m not even sure why. You hear a lot of strange noises in these mountains—from drunk people yelling to children singing to women screaming to flutes… fluting—and I hadn’t really been alarmed by any before this. But these cries were ultra-foreign and chilled me to the bone. So we just joined together and prayed. And praise God, that his perfect love casts out fear. And the wailing also stopped.
The girls saw the source of the cries on the way home—some old guy just crouched on the path, rocking back and forth. They weren’t really sure what was going on, but they managed to pass him without trouble.
But, really, I was just reminded again of how I don’t really have hooks on which to hang these new experiences. So pray that as we learn the language and culture, we’ll be given the knowledge of how to understand and deal with these situations.
Village telegram, Part II
17 Aug 06
So about that village telegram I was talking about. It just got better.
Today I was laid up at the house with this bum ankle, but we were having the team over later for dinner and needed to get messages to all of them.
There are always little kids hanging out outside our house, so I decided it’d be fun to have a little experiment. I wrote notes to the fellas in Longija, the ladies in Sohot and one family in Fuerra. It took a lot of gesturing and looking silly, but I finally got the message across to the kids that I wanted them to take the notes to the other villages. Luckily, us foreign folk—even the Kenyan family—stick out and everyone knows who we are, so I just had to keep repeating their names.
The experiment was a success, as within an hour we had each of the kids back on the compound, out of breath but with reply notes from two of the three huts. Haha. I was pretty giddy. Who needs email? Who needs cell phones?
I love the bush.
So about that village telegram I was talking about. It just got better.
Today I was laid up at the house with this bum ankle, but we were having the team over later for dinner and needed to get messages to all of them.
There are always little kids hanging out outside our house, so I decided it’d be fun to have a little experiment. I wrote notes to the fellas in Longija, the ladies in Sohot and one family in Fuerra. It took a lot of gesturing and looking silly, but I finally got the message across to the kids that I wanted them to take the notes to the other villages. Luckily, us foreign folk—even the Kenyan family—stick out and everyone knows who we are, so I just had to keep repeating their names.
The experiment was a success, as within an hour we had each of the kids back on the compound, out of breath but with reply notes from two of the three huts. Haha. I was pretty giddy. Who needs email? Who needs cell phones?
I love the bush.
Moral Dilemma
16 Aug 06
I felt a little guilty coming home from Loki and hearing more reports of little children dying of malaria. It’s just tearing through this area right now and every day I hear of another little one dying.
And here I was, I just tweaked an ankle and an arm, and I had the resources to be flown out. It’s been a struggle for me, accepting that. I don’t think I have yet.
I hate seeing them sick. There is some kind of cold going around, too. All the kids have runny noses and these deep coughs that just make my body hurt for them. And their parents don’t take them to the clinic. They take them to the witchdoctor. The last resort is the clinic.
It seems so backward to me, the Westerner.
An AIM doc told us the story once of all these African children dying in hospitals of things as simple as dehydration and diarrhea. Handfuls of them would die everyday in the hospital he was working at. And all they needed was rehydration drinks and a little attention. Ugh.
I felt a little guilty coming home from Loki and hearing more reports of little children dying of malaria. It’s just tearing through this area right now and every day I hear of another little one dying.
And here I was, I just tweaked an ankle and an arm, and I had the resources to be flown out. It’s been a struggle for me, accepting that. I don’t think I have yet.
I hate seeing them sick. There is some kind of cold going around, too. All the kids have runny noses and these deep coughs that just make my body hurt for them. And their parents don’t take them to the clinic. They take them to the witchdoctor. The last resort is the clinic.
It seems so backward to me, the Westerner.
An AIM doc told us the story once of all these African children dying in hospitals of things as simple as dehydration and diarrhea. Handfuls of them would die everyday in the hospital he was working at. And all they needed was rehydration drinks and a little attention. Ugh.
Coming Home
16 Aug 06
I got back to Lopit safe and sound this afternoon, but not without some bush missionary troubles.
We flew in a little mosquito of a plane and had to leave half of my stuff in Loki so we could make weight. Then we landed on this absolutely gorgeous mountaintop about halfway between here and Loki. We were dropping off supplies for another missionary. I don’t want you to get the idea we’re landing at full-blown airports here. Heck, these aren’t anywhere near that. They’re just cleared strips of grass and dirt—our one here in Lopit can’t even handle a plane big enough to carry our entire team. Anyway…
Our landing was fine, but as we were taxing down the airstrip, all of a sudden the back of the plane just sunk to the ground. Apparently, we’d hit a soft spot—probably ants had hallowed out the ground underneath—and the entire left wheel of the plane was in the ground. Eek. (I’m sort of convinced it was because of all the weight I’ve gained since I got here.) Praise God, though, AIM AIR pilots are amazing and really good at what they do—they need to be just to land on these kind of airstrips—so they calmly accessed the situation and borrowed some of the locals’ machetes to dig the wheel out.
But it was a funny thing, just knowing we were in the middle of no where and would have probably been stuck there for a while before we could get out. But God is good and got me back to Lopit only an hour late for our team meeting.
I got back to Lopit safe and sound this afternoon, but not without some bush missionary troubles.
We flew in a little mosquito of a plane and had to leave half of my stuff in Loki so we could make weight. Then we landed on this absolutely gorgeous mountaintop about halfway between here and Loki. We were dropping off supplies for another missionary. I don’t want you to get the idea we’re landing at full-blown airports here. Heck, these aren’t anywhere near that. They’re just cleared strips of grass and dirt—our one here in Lopit can’t even handle a plane big enough to carry our entire team. Anyway…
Our landing was fine, but as we were taxing down the airstrip, all of a sudden the back of the plane just sunk to the ground. Apparently, we’d hit a soft spot—probably ants had hallowed out the ground underneath—and the entire left wheel of the plane was in the ground. Eek. (I’m sort of convinced it was because of all the weight I’ve gained since I got here.) Praise God, though, AIM AIR pilots are amazing and really good at what they do—they need to be just to land on these kind of airstrips—so they calmly accessed the situation and borrowed some of the locals’ machetes to dig the wheel out.
But it was a funny thing, just knowing we were in the middle of no where and would have probably been stuck there for a while before we could get out. But God is good and got me back to Lopit only an hour late for our team meeting.
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