The Next Chapter

I’m not in Central Africa anymore. In a way I feel quite removed from it actually. I’m on the other side of the world in a country where you don’t have to think about orphans and poverty and AIDS and violence if you don’t want to. I’ve moved on and started a new chapter in my life. Despite this fact, my heart still holds on tight to little bits and pieces of Africa. (Or maybe it’s the other way around and it’s Africa that has a grip on my heart and won’t easily let go.)

In the past couple months since coming back to the USA it’s been difficult trying to share about my time in Africa. There is so much on my heart and so much I could tell—so many joys and difficulties, so many African orphans I grew to love, and so many lessons God taught me. What do I tell people first? I’ve discovered people (in general) are more interested in hearing about how cute the orphans are, how close I got to wild elephants and gorillas, or about how poor the county of CAR is and how difficult is was living with so few comforts.

I want to thank all of you who read my blog while I was gone for taking a sincere interest in Central Africa and my ministry because there is so SO much more to being a missionary intern in Africa than playing with cute kids, seeing wildlife, and surviving on less than American status quo. I learned a lot more than I’ll ever be able to share, experienced a lot, worked a lot, was frustrated a lot and blessed a lot. I hope my blog has helped give a realistic snap shot of life in CAR.

13-year-old Fiacre

I’m not the only one not in Central Africa anymore. Last Sunday a precious 13-year-old PHC orphan named Fiacre moved on from his struggle with AIDS, his pain, and his failing earthly body and to a better place.He is probably dancing in heaven with God right now full of energy and life and joy. Fiacre was a beautiful and happy young Central African but the next chapter that he’s moved into is incomparably more beautiful than the last. It’s full of victory and joy. I had the privilege of spending time with this quiet little guy during his last year of life on earth and it broke my heart to hear that his life ended at such a young age.

You can watch the video tribute PHC put together for Fiacre here: http://youtu.be/0K9opFDUiDQ.

There are some things about life in Africa I will never be able to explain or understand and I think I will always have a difficult time answering the question 'How was Africa?' What do I say?

Central Africa does have a lot of cute orphans. AIDS and poverty and cool wild animals are all there. And yes, living in CAR was difficult and frustrating and an adventure and heart-breaking. It's all true. I could talk about it for days. But if I could only tell you one thing right now I wouldn't start talking about any of that. It doesn't seem that important compared to the truth that God LOVES orphans. No matter how cute or sick or hungry or poor they are, they are loved. So much. I'm glad I was able to spend time loving and serving and being friends with the PHC orphans in Central Africa. I will always love them. The experience I call my "African Adventure" was all worthwhile because I got to help God love his precious orphans and loving like Christ is always an adventure worth pursuing.

Out-of-practice American

It’s a beautiful breezy 75-degree day with no humidity and I’m all bundled up in blankets and a sweatshirt. I guess I’m not used to Michigan weather yet. After 13 days back in the United States there are still a lot of things I’m re-adjusting to. The smells of the USA are different than I’m used to (sugar, cleaning supplies, fresh cut chemical-saturated grass), I’m not used to wearing shorts, blending in with the people around me is a change, and I’ve been having to remind myself that I don’t have to shake everyone’s hand anymore. I’m a bit out of practice when it comes to being an American but I’m relearning quickly. Pets and kitchen mixing machines, however, have proven to be the most difficult adjustments so far.

Last Saturday my family’s curious little sheltie dog, Kaia, got into my backpack and ate a sample medicine packet—the medicine and the tin foil lined package both. I’m not used to having a curious little pet poking around my room and the mistake of leaving my backpack on the floor proved to be a big one. As soon as we realized Kaia had eaten medicine my mom hopped on her computer to google “what do you do for a dog that has eaten way more medicine than they should?” (or something along those lines). Thank goodness for 24/7 wireless internet! Needless to say, Kaia got really sick, the event turned into a class five life-threatening crisis, and I felt terrible!

Around midnight I found myself driving to CVS pharmacy in search of Pedialyte for my dog. I walked through the automatic opening doors into the store filled with bright tungsten light and rows and rows of medicine and was immediately overwhelmed. My dog doesn’t know how fortunate she is! There are kids in Central Africa dying right now for lack of medicine. The Pedialyte, unfortunately, wasn’t enough and a few hours later Kaia was rushed off to the pet hospital for emergency care. It was a rough few days but after lots of tests and iv’s, Kaia is now home and recovering. I’m so glad America has pet hospitals.

On a lighter note, yesterday was my birthday! I decided that despite the fact that American processed sugar has been making me sick ever since getting home I couldn’t have a birthday without a cake. It’s been a while since I’ve used a mixer, though, so when I went to mix up the cake ingredients instead of flipping the switch to lock the mixer in place I turned the mixer on full blast causing a volcano to erupt all over me and across the whole kitchen. This little set-back didn’t stop me, though, and I managed to make a lovely little cake with chocolate frosting, raspberries, strawberries, and a mixture of short and tall yellow candles. Definitely fit for a birthday party! The problem was that the short candles melted the middles of the tall candles and before I could get all the candles lit my cake had gone up in flames. Literally. Who thought up the Western tradition of putting birthday candles on cakes anyway? It seems a bit strange if you stop to think about it. Between birthdays and the fourth of July I’m beginning to think Americans are a bit pyromaniac.

In spite of accidentally causing my dog to overdose on medicine and ruining birthday cakes, I’ve enjoyed my first 13 days back in the United States and I’m hopeful that sometime in the near future I’ll be back to being a somewhat normal American again. I don’t know, maybe I’ll never stop comparing the prices of things with the cost of providing clean water for an African community or sending a kid to school for a year. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. I wish I could end this blog post with a really great conclusion about being back in the US and how my time in Africa has changed me and how I will forever be a better person because of it but I am incapable of that right now. I know that Africa has left its mark on me but I’m still in the middle of processing and readjusting.

The beginning of the post-African adventure

I made it through all the goodbyes in Africa and in a matter of six hours I went from living in the second most undeveloped city in the world to the number-one visited city in the world. I would say it feels like two separate worlds but it doesn't. Not really. People all over the world are more or less the same at their core. The culture shock will probably come later.

My general impression after one full day of seeing Paris is that it is really beautiful, busy, cold, and there's no end of the stuff to see! Oh yeah... and the internet is crazy fast! 

we're not in Africa anymore!

My Last Saturday in Central Africa

Sannu sannu! As-Salaam-Alaikum. Bala-o! Bonjour.

I heard all these greetings this morning. And I understood them all although it’s not difficult to pick up on greetings. Reading body language and paying attention to non-verbal communication is something you learn when you’re surrounded by people you can’t speak to.

Alima, me, and ananas seedlings

My first Saturday in Central Africa was spent in the rice fields at the Project Hope and Charité widow gardens. It was harvest time. I only knew a couple words in Sango then—greetings mainly. It seems fitting that my last Saturday was also spent in a rice field. This morning I went along with Wilfried to help one of his Fulani friends prepare his rice garden and to spend time with the women in the Fulani community near there. I have been to this community several times and have been building relationships with the women but I still only know a few words in the Fulfulde language—greetings. It proves a very humbling point that even after living in Central Africa for eight months my knowledge of the country is still miniscule.

So this morning I found myself back in a similar situation as I found myself in eight months ago: observing an African lifestyle I know very little about.

Here are a few pictures from my observings:

Ibrahim, his younger brother, and Wilfried working in the rice garden

washing dishes

doing laundry

I wasn't the only one doing observing

My first Saturday I spent harvesting rice that had been planted long before I arrived. I observed the Christian widows as they did what they do on Saturdays. Today I helped prepare a rice field that has yet to be planted and I observed Muslim women doing what they do on Saturdays. I am an observer and a learner taking part in only a small period of work. Many people have labored here before me and there is much work to be done after me. This is what I have learned from my first and last Saturdays of my internship in the Central African Republic.

nôrməl

I think I’ve forgotten what is supposed to be normal. Normal? You ask. Yeah, you know… normal. That adjective that means “usual, typical, or expected.” nôrməl. Those things you do and see that seem so natural you don’t think twice about them. After 7 ½ months of living in Africa I think my standards of normal have shifted. Maybe. But who am I to say what is "usual, typical, or expected."

When I say normal I mean this:

• Living at a mission station with a high fence around it and a guard at the gate.
• Sleeping under a mosquito net.
• Morning runs past the president’s palace, along the river where the sun is rising and over a crowded mountain trail full of goats and Africans headed to work.
• Greeting everyone with a handshake and the subsequent questions of how they slept and how they and their family are doing.
• Skirts. Everyday.
• Sweatshirts and winter coats when the temperature drops below 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
• Ants. Everywhere.
• Sifting flour before cooking to get the bugs out.
• Having fresh fruit and vegetables brought to the door every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
• Hairdos that stick out all over.
• Blaming upset stomachs on worms and parasites.
• Squishing seven people (sometimes more) into a taxicab to get home from work.
• Bartering.
• Mangoes that cost 5 cents each.
• Powdered milk in a can.
• House help that does all the cleaning, laundry, and dishes three times a week.
• No electricity between 5am and 9am, 3pm and 6pm, and sometimes between Wednesday and Friday… give or take a few hours.
• Generator noise.
• Soldiers standing around with machine guns slung over their shoulders.
• Getting stared at for being white and staring at other people for the same reason.
• Using filtered water from a bottle for teeth brushing.
• No air-conditioning or TV.
• Eating peanuts out of a whiskey bottle.
• Palm trees, a mango tree, and a flowering plumeria tree outside my bedroom window.
• Daily trips to the swimming pool at the US Ambassador’s house.
• Potholes. Little boys standing beside potholes holding shovels and tin cups begging for money. And more potholes.
• Words that begin with mb, ng, and nz.
• Missionary parties that you have to bring your own food to and leave before 9pm.
• Kids with ripped clothes and 17-year-old mothers with naked babies.
• Ditches full of green slime.
• Grapefruit soda in glass bottles.
• Belgian Google.
• Stories about pets accidentally getting killed for food and stories about annoying flights with extra long layovers at sketch hotels in Cameroon all because an African tried to catch a free ride in the wheel well of the plane and got crushed to death by retracting landing tires wrecking the chance of the plane's smooth landing.

This is Africa. This is my normal… at least for a dozen more days. I’m forgetting what United States normal is. Sometimes I go into my empty kitchen pantry and flip on the light to remind myself what used to be my normal. The light is the only light in my house that comes on the second you flip the switch. Sometimes I turn it on and off several times really fast for the pure novelty of it. It’s hard to believe that in a couple weeks I’ll be back in the land of instant light, clean kids, dogs with leashes, and boneless-skinless chickens with price tags on them. Normal? The more I think about it, the less I know what normal is. 

Soccer, Soldiers, and I Shook the hand of the President

Sunday. 5 June. A day for being proud to be a Central African.

Starting early in the morning I could hear vuvuzelas and see Central African flags parading down the street towards the crowded Barthélémy Boganda Stadium. Why? Sunday was the third round qualifying soccer match between the Central African Republic and Tanzania for the African Nations Cup. It was a pretty big deal because Central Africa has previously competed in this tournament, well… um… never.

Pre-game: Tanzania in white, CAR in blue

Central Africa, currently 113^th in the FIFA world rankings, pulled off a 2-1 win over Tanzania. They deserved it because they played well (even if it wasn’t all completely fair... not counting Tanzania's second goal was payback for getting unfairly beat by Tanzania in March I guess. Apparently playing on your home field with your own refs makes all the difference when it comes to winning matches between these two countries.)

Being at the game with thousands of Central African fans watching soccer was exciting enough but my serendipity of the day was sitting in the same row as President Bozize and getting to shake his hand. I can now check that off the list of things I need to do before heading home.

With high profile people attending the packed out game and recent unrest in Bangui, the military presence was anything but inconspicuous. The minute the final whistle blew, a crowd of camouflage-clad military men and women carrying big guns stormed onto the field.

Post game: Central African military lining the perimeter of the field

Victorious, proud, and well behaved. That’s how I’d describe Central Africa on the evening of June 5. I’m pretty sure that regardless of the various facial expressions (jubilant faces of fans, angry face of man getting shoved in a crowd, stern faces of soldiers, emotionless face of the president) every Central African in the Barthélémy Boganda Stadium was proud to be Central African.

Where's the pineapple?

ananas in my front yard

Ananas. Better known to English speakers as pineapple: an exotic, tropical, and sweet fruit with a strange name. Seriously though, what kind of a name is pineapple anyway? Maybe you don’t care to know but sometime in the 17^th century someone decided the ananas fruit looked like a pinecone. Except it's better than a pinecone, of course, because of the fact that its insides are full of yellow sugary edible goodness. That is probably where the apple part of the name comes into play. That strange yellow fruit looks like a pinecone but, if you’re into comparing things, tastes more like an apple than a pinecone. Or maybe the apple part was attached because the big edible pinecone became so treasured as a scrumptious fruit that it was called the apple of one’s eye. I personally like to call the tropical goodness ananas—that name brings better results when I go to the market searching for the funny looking pinecone fruit.

ananas on a taxi

One of the great things about living in the tropics is that I get to eat ananas all the time… some days I eat ananas for every single meal and snacks too. I love ananas. Ta tene. That’s the truth. So does Shawn Spencer. I’m not alone in my ananas love. Here in Central Africa ananas are everywhere you turn. They are hanging up along the side of the road, stacked in piles on street corners, on top of women’s heads, painted on taxis, incorporated into logos, printed on cloth, cross-stiched on bags and tablecloths, carved into beds, fashioned out of wood and sold at the artisan market… you get the point.

pineapple upsidedown cake

A couple weeks ago I had some different groups of the PHC kids make welcome signs to hang in our office for when Barb, the state-side director of PHC and my boss, arrived back in Africa for her three week visit. As I hung all the lovely welcome-back pictures for Barb on the wall I was delighted to discover that every single picture included an ananas. That’s a lot of pictures with ananas—too many to be simply coincidence. It could be all the kids think ananas are Barb’s favorite fruit. I don’t know the answer to this but I was curious as to why everyone around here is so obsessed with ananas so I did what anyone would do when they are curious and need answers: I turned to google and wiki answers. It turns out that the ananas is an international symbol of hospitality and associated with welcoming guests, safe travels, warmth, and friendliness (you can do your own google search and read the history on your own). Apparently these orphans are much more educated in the language of international symbols than I am and apparently the city of Bangui is trying to be really welcoming, warm, and friendly because there sure is an abundance of ananas.

ananas in a village hung on the edge of the road being sold for 40 cents each

Celebrations and Collectivism

Africans live for celebrations: national holidays, weddings, baptisms, inaugurations, graduations and even funerals. They are something to look forward to, something to mark accomplishments or hopes, a reason to gather. In a collective society celebrations bring meaning to life. Life is lived together, plans are made together, dreams are dreamed together and life, from beginning to end, is celebrated together.

a Ba'Aka pygmy graduate

Celebrations aren’t taken lightly. People travel long distances, give long speeches, sing, dance, and eat a lot of food. The men wear suits, the women put on wigs, and the children wear shoes. When it comes to celebrating there seems to be an unspoken rule that if a little is good, a lot is better. Lots of people, lots of food, lots of talking, lots of singing, lots of celebrating… which logically equals lots of meaning to life. (This might explain why there seems to be an overabundance of national holidays.)

This week I have had the honor of taking part in two celebrations. The first was a groundbreaking ceremony for a new learning center at the Grace Brethren Seminary and the other was a graduation ceremony at the Mbaiki Bible Institute. Both events held a lot of significance for those involved.

the dedication stone at the site of the new building

Grace Brethren pastors from all parts of Central Africa and from the United States gathered together to celebrate the dedication of the new building project at the James Gribble Leadership Training Center (the Grace Brethren seminary). The leaders of the seminary and missionaries have been dreaming and planning together and this celebration marked an important step forward in reaching their goal of equipping Central African leaders for ministry. It was a somewhat serious sort of celebration including prayer and talks to remind those gathered of the vision and perseverance it takes to accomplish the work God has called them to but a celebration none-the-less. 

Barb with the pygmy graduates

The Mbaiki Bible Institute graduation was a more light-hearted celebration. It was particularly significant because there were seven pygmy couples who graduated this year meaning that when combined with the pygmy graduates from the other Bible institutes, the number of Bible Institute trained pygmy pastors is nearly tripled. For these pygmy couples and the other couples graduating it was a celebration of the end of three years of study and the beginning of a life of leading, teaching, and ministering among their tribes. The graduation involved much more dancing and music than any of my graduations ever did! One of the most fascinating parts of the graduation was when, after walking (or dancing) up to receive their diploma, the graduates would walk over to their spiritual mentor and hand over their diploma and awards. It was a way of saying, “Thank you for dreaming dreams with me and for helping me accomplish what I have today. I want to honor you because you have helped me become who I am.”

lots of people at the Mbaiki church

In Central Africa life is lived as a group and life is celebrated as a group from beginning to end. People pray together, dream together, and learn together. Like anything involving people, this way of life has its flaws but this past week I saw the beauty of what it means to be part of a collective society. 

MBETIMANGUE Elisabeth

Classroom number one, bottom floor, first on the left. Five days a week this classroom is filled with 63 tiny first grade orphans and one courageous teachers. Currently finishing up her first year of teaching at Project Hope and Charité, Elisabeth is by no means new to being a teacher. Elisabeth has wanted to be a teacher since she was the age of her first grade students and she has been living out her dream for the past 29 years teaching in many different schools around Bangui. Her mother was illiterate but Elisabeth said her father was a teacher by occupation and he did a good job of making sure his children were educated, most importantly in the Word of God.

When I asked the small spunky women what her favorite subject to teach was she promptly told me it was teaching about God. “I have been teaching kids and adults of all ages the word of God at church and in schools, private and government alike,” Elisabeth told me, “I like to teach little kids better than grown-ups, though. Grown-ups are not so excited to learn but little kids’ hearts want to learn and believe. I get so much joy when I see that my students are understanding what I’m teaching them and growing in the Lord.” Elisabeth was teaching addition the day I sat in on her class. As Elisabeth taught, the little kids were busy chalking numbers onto their small slates and adding them up. I’m not sure how she kept the attention of that many little kids.

Elisabeth’s motivation for teaching is a desire to be a role model. She loves to learn, read, and study the Bible and she wants to inspire kids to be excited about learning too.

She is very proud of her class of 63 PHC first graders. They have been doing excellent this year, I’ve been informed, and are receiving very good grades. Elisabeth, who is quick to smile and not afraid to be stern, has done a great job teaching her overflowing class of first graders! Project Hope and Charité is fortunate to have a teacher as good as Elisabeth.

Elisabeth with her 1st grade class

Central African People: LAOUKOURA Jeremie

Oh the places you go, the people you meet, the dreams you encounter… here in Central Africa I am surrounded by people with fascinating life stories and dreams. I have decided I need to practice my interviewing/journalism skills and start introducing you to some of the cool people you might encounter if you’re ever in Central Africa.

So without further to-do, meet LAOUKOURA Jeremie. 

I met Jeremie a couple weeks ago while I was at the James Gribble Leadership Center (the Grace Brethren seminary here in Bangui) doing some research and interviews. He is a first year student who comes from a family of pastors: both his grandfather and father were preachers in Powa and his younger brother, Jean Paul, is a pastor now too.

Even though neither his grandfather nor father received seminary degrees, Jeremie accredits them with teaching him the ways of ministry and he says they were the ones who encouraged him to pursue seminary. Jeremie, however, is not going to seminary in hopes of one day becoming a pastor. His dreams are a little different from his forefathers although the goal is very similar. Jeremie’s dream is to translate the Bible into Kaba, the language of his home village of Powa.

Powa, sometimes spelled Paoua, is located in northern Central Africa in an area that is currently war-torn and unstable due to rebel activity. Many people have been driven out of the village or have fled for safety, Jeremie and his family included. In the capital city of Bangui Jeremie has been employed by SIL, better known as Wycliffe Bible Translators. He has helped with various translation projects but at this point the project of translating the Bible into Kaba is still only a dream as far as I could gather. It is an important dream to Jeremie because, as he explained, not everyone in his hometown knows the trade language of Sango, especially not the women. “I want the people of my village to understand the Bible in their own language and understand it well. If they can hear the Bible in their native language it will speak to their hearts in a way a non-native language can’t,” Jeremie commented.

Jeremie with fellow seminary students

Jeremie has put his translating work on hold while he receives seminary training at the James Gribble Leadership Training Center. He is taking courses in Greek and Hebrew, both languages he needs to know in order to accurately translate the Bible. He is on the right track for reaching his goals but it’s already been a long journey. He began his undergraduate level Bible training in 1982, fell sick, had to go to Cameroon for treatment, and wasn’t able to finish until 1999. (His wife, however, was able to finish a Bible degree during this time, which I think is pretty cool). Since 1999 he has worked with his father in the church he was leading in Powa, he has done translating work, and served in other churches doing his best to support his wife, three sons, and three daughters.

Almost one year of seminary done and two to go. You can pray that Jeremie continues to have the dedication, strength, and health to accomplish his dream of translating the Bible into Kaba. He still has a long road ahead of him.

Red Tables + Jewelry Making + African Orphans

It’s an interesting combination. Here’s another interesting combination: fair + trade. The motivation behind the jewelry making + African orphans is to begin a micro enterprise sort of thing with a few of the students at Project Hope and Charité so that they can learn a skill and generate some income. The words fair + trade have a couple definitions, “trade carried on legally” or “trade in which fair prices are paid to producers in developing countries.” I can’t vouch for the first one being true but the second definition is the goal of this whole operation.

I have been the middleman between my African co-worker Stephane and the Fair Trade Consultant Team (that’s what I’m calling them) in the States. It’s been an interesting process. After weeks of international skype meetings + emails + trips to the market, today was the day that things finally got rolling. The red tables are where it's all happening.

Here are some pictures from the first training day with the kids and one last interesting combination for you: banana leaves + glue + gloss + fishing line.

Stephane doing some demonstrating

cutting the banana leaf into strips

rolling up a banana leaf to make a bead

applying the glue and gloss

stringing the beads

coming soon to a fair trade store near you!

How to evaluate a Taxi

I don’t have a car in Bangui. I don’t mind. The process of getting from one place to another is more interesting when you don’t have a car. I ride around in taxis a lot since it’s a 10-kilometer distance to get to the orphan center.

The past few weeks I’ve gone “under cover” interviewing taxi drivers and critiquing their taxis trying to find a good reliable ride to work.

What are the criteria for a “good” taxi? This can be tricky. My taxi evaluation checklist changes depending on the day and the type of experience I want. However, there are a few basic things you should know to look for when evaluating a taxi.

Inspecting the vehicle:

1. Does the Taxi have four wheels? If a taxi has four wheels it’s in business. For a lot of people the evaluation ends here… I’m a bit more demanding.
2. Can you get in and out of the car? It’s usually a bad sign when you have to reach through the window to open up the taxi door from the inside. However, it’s even worse when you can’t get out and have to reach out the window to open the door. To avoid potentially getting trapped in a taxi with a taxi driver you don’t know (and to avoid the embarrassment of pulling of the handle to a door that won’t open from the outside) I recommend always reaching through the window and opening the door from the inside upon entering a taxi.
3. Can you see out the windshield? Ideally the windshield should be free of cracks but that is very idealistic. I’m ok with settling for a taxi with a windshield you can see out of and doesn’t look like it will break in a million pieces the next time the wind blows.
4. Does the taxi function properly? Meaning, does the car sound “healthy” or are there lots of crazy noises coming from all over the car making it seem like the car may break in half or the engine blow up at any moment? Pay attention, some taxi drivers are quite clever and try to cover up the “unhealthy” car noises with loud music. Don’t let yourself be fooled!

Interviewing the driver:

1. You can tell a lot about a taxi driver by what’s painted on his car and pasted to the windows. Paying attention to these things will give you a good preliminary assessment of the driver. For example, if there’s a Bible verse on the bumper you know he is at least a little bit religious; enough to think that a Bible verse could protect his car. If, however, there are words like sexy, hott baby, or cutie sprawled across the back window you can assume the diver will tend to be a bit egocentric. Other things you might see once inside the car include, but are not limited to: McDonalds happy meal toys, images of Miley Cyrus and Chris Brown, and Chinese good luck charms… interpret accordingly.
2. Ask questions about anything and everything. If you are going to be putting your life in the hands of a chauffeur, you have the right to know everything about him. These questions may lead to in-depth conversations about family, politics, or culture and may even lead to photo albums. If, during this stage of the interview process, the driver appears particularly distracted from the task at hand (getting you safely from point A to point B) they have failed.
3. If the taxi driver asks you to marry him at any point during the trip cross him off your list immediately. (Unless of course you are looking for a Central African husband in which case you will need to move on to a more focused evaluation. I’m sure there are a lot of perks to marrying a taxi driver including having a personal chauffeur and a husband who earns money.)
4. Quiet taxi drivers who don’t like to talk much can be good. However, before filing his phone number with your list of reliable taxi drivers be sure you can understand him when he does talk. Calling a taxi driver you can’t communicate effectively with is more frustration than it’s worth and rarely works out.
5. The last part of the interview is testing the taxi driver’s integrity. This happens when you pay them. I’ve found it is best just to give them the going rate. If they demand more do as you please but cross them off the list. No one likes a taxi driver who tries to overcharge.

Two taxi drivers so far have successfully made it through my evaluations. One, a spunky driver named Africain, made it past the interview and vehicle inspection (there were no cracks at all on his windshield!) but failed in the follow-up after he tried calling me Monday at 6:30am. Taxi drivers who interfere with your sleep are not acceptable. That leaves one. He seems quite promising.

a long blog post without any pictures of cute African kids

7:00am—It’s one of those rare overcast mornings. Ellen is out of town so I’m not going for my typical early morning run (I’m not allowed to go running in Bangui by myself) and PHC is on vacation so I don’t have to go out to the center to work. I turn off my alarm and fall back to sleep.

7:45am—Oops! I jolt awake realizing there are probably already at least two people waiting at my door for me to wake up.

I quickly pull on my below-the-knee length skirt and go unlock the door for Giselle, our house help. A few minutes later Odette is sitting on my porch announcing her arrival, “Amy! Mbi ga awe!” Odette comes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday selling fresh fruits and vegetables. “Mo lango nzoni?” she asks. Did you sleep well? Yep and I’m still half asleep. Thanks for asking.

I eat my breakfast of mango sauce, the African version of apple sauce, along with my daily dose of malaria medication and by 8:30am I’m in the office taking care of emails and odds and ends for work.

9:30am—Isaac, our day guard, comes into the office to inform Caitlin and me that we have visitors. Visitors? Who? My mind is still not in Sango mode. From his explanation all I gather is someone named Tambe, kids from Project Hope and Charité, and someone died. This doesn’t sound good! I quickly check the PHC student master list on my computer trying to figure out which of the over 1000 PHC kids might be coming to visit or possibly be dead. It is mango season after all and there have been a lot of deaths recently due to people falling out of mango trees (but no PHC kids that I’ve heard of).

I go outside to greet the visitor, praying that nobody has died. It’s a PHC girl who has been asking to come over to my house for weeks. In general I try to avoid letting anyone who asks come hang out at my house. That would get really crazy really quickly! The thing about Africans, though, is that they are persistent and don’t like taking no for an answer. “Mbi ga to sala kwa-ti-li ti mo,” the girl with the last name Tambe told me. She came to do my hair. I’m very relieved that no PHC kid had died. Apparently Isaac was trying to tell us our visitor was the daughter of a Grace Brethren pastor who had died and she’s a PHC orphan. I guess I’m not used to people getting introduced by who their dead father was.

9:45am— Despite being slightly annoyed at the interruption in the middle of my work by this persistent little 6^th grader and the cousin she brought along, I quickly finished up my emails and go to get my hair done. I sit in my living room in front of Oulda Tambe for the next hour getting my hair braided up while Giselle mops floors and dusts around us quietly humming African hymns.

11:45am—Oulda is almost done braiding Caitlin’s head now. Giselle is finishing up our laundry. Oulda’s cousin, Ornella, is eating peanuts out of a Scotch whisky bottle and I am sitting here with them with a head full of braids pretending to do work but actually writing a blog that I will upload later when I have internet.

Noon—They’ve finished Caitlin’s head and have now informed us that they don’t have anything to do this afternoon so they’re just going to sit in our house if that’s ok. Um… no it’s really not ok. A few minutes of awkward silence and peanut munching. Caitlin and I have work. How do you politely tell Africans who invited themselves over that they need to leave?

12:18—They finally got the hint. Well not exactly. We tell them we have to go back to work in our office. “A yeke sengue si i gwe na mo ti douti kete na bureau?” No you can’t come with us to sit in the office. You need to go home. We can’t go home. Our house is far away and we have no money they say. How did you get here? They come without asking and won’t leave until they get money for a bus home. Oh and hey… while they’re at it… “I have a ceremony at church on Saturday and I wanted to ask you if you can buy me new clothes. I don’t have any nice clothes to wear,” Oulda informs me. “Pardon, mbi lingbi ti vo fini bongo ti mo ape.” Seriously? No I am not going to buy you new clothes!!! If I bought clothes for every PHC girl who asked me I'd be broke in no time! We pay for their bus ride home.

12:20—I’m sitting in the corner of the finance office that belongs to Caitlin at the moment. It’s closed today. Isaac is back. He informs Caitlin that Gabin is here to talk to her. NO!!! She rolls her eyes. Be sure to tell him he can’t get money today she tells Isaac before he sends Gabin in to “talk.”

12:27—Gabin is leaving the office (with money). Persistent. That’s what these Central Africans are.

12:45—I think I've worked enough for one morning. Giselle is finished with cleaning our house and washing our clothes and dishes. I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll go back home, lock the door, and eat some mango pie. Hopefully nobody else comes to visit because that would mean I’d have to share my mango pie.

love?

A teenage orphan girl recently asked me why my parents love me. My first thought was, “why would she ask that?” It seems like a question with an obvious answer but as I attempted to answer I honestly couldn’t think of a good reason. I think my response was simply because I was their kid and parents love their kids but for some reason that answer seemed inadequate for a girl who doesn’t have parents and is desperately wanting to be loved.

There are a lot of people in my life, including my parents, who really love me. The orphans I work with have picked up on this. They are incessantly complimenting my things and my usual responses are, “Oh, my mom made me this skirt- she’s pretty great.” Or “My friend made this friendship bracelet and gave it to me before I left for Africa so I wouldn’t forget him.” Or “My little sister gave me this for my birthday.” Their typical response: “They must really love you.” If love equals someone giving you stuff then yes, I am very loved.

Sophie wearing a heart necklace she bought herself

Most of the kids at the orphan center don’t have many good examples of love in their lives and you can tell they crave it. They don’t have the example of their parents’ love because their parents (at least one of them) have died. Most of them live with family (a grandma, an older sibling, an aunt or an uncle… someone who has taken them in by necessity) but they are not all treated with love and orphans in this culture are given very little and are always the last to receive anything. The kids in our program are cared for but that doesn’t mean they understand love. One of the best examples of love these kids have is the love their sponsors show them.

I’ve realized there is a simple element to love that many of the PHC orphans struggle to understand and I struggle to explain. There is something about it that doesn’t add up in our minds. Like, for instance, why my parents love me because even though they’re my parents they don’t have to love me. Or why God loves a whole bunch of dirty African orphans and widows (and commands us to do the same). Or how about why someone in America or Europe would choose to love a kid in Africa they’ve never met and show their love by sending money and letters and gifts. Why does anyone choose to love at all? I think the answer that I am struggling with is the fact that LOVE IS A CHOICE.

Merveille wants me to be her mother

My parents and friends don’t have to love me and there is no great reason for them to love me but they have chosen to and they show their love by giving me nice things and taking an interest in my life. There is no reason anyone has to support and show love to an orphan in Africa they’ve never met but there are hundreds of people who decide that they have been given so much and in return they will love someone who might not receive much love otherwise.

There is also no reason at all God should love any particular person or care about what they do but he does. He chooses to love us and he holds nothing back. He shows us his love in lots of ways but his biggest display of love was giving us his son. God didn’t have to send his only son to earth but he chose to because of his love for us. He set the example of what love is (John 3:16) and now we love because he first loved us (1 John 4:19). The desire to love and be loved is part of who we are.

Love is a choice. Love is an action. Love gives without expecting anything in return and true love does not go unnoticed.

So, my family and friends and everyone who has shown me so much love, I just want to tell you THANKS! The example of love you have been in my life is having an impact on a lot of kids’ lives here in Africa. And for all you sponsors reading this, thanks for choosing to love the orphans of the Central African Republic. These kids love you back more than you could imagine!

Learning the ways of African women: Cooking Edition

So a yeke legue ni ti awali ti Beafrika. This is the way of the women of Central Africa. 

Marie Claire, my Sango teacher, decided that if Caitlin and I are going to become good African women we not only need to speak the language but we need to learn the ways. Life for Central African women involves cooking. A lot of it! So yesterday we got down to business and spent the afternoon learning how to cook African style.

A pet peeve of mine is cookbooks without pictures. I'm a visual learner and if we're dealing with food, I need to be shown. Good news... African women don't use cookbooks without pictures when they cook. They don't use cookbooks at all! They learn how to make the traditional African food by watching their mothers and grandmothers and older sisters and neighbors cooking. Just my style! So I'm sticking with the African way and you're getting the picture book edition of my cooking lesson.

Step 1: Go to the market and barter for your ingredients. (unfortunately I can't get pictures of this. You'll have to use your imagination. Just think along the lines of crowded, dead meat smell, hot, loud, and colorful.)

step 2: prepare the nyama (meat)

cleaning the bagara (beef)

step 3: cut up the onions

our pot full of meat and onions! (yes I did use a big knife and no I didn't cut myself!)

Step 4: add a little oil and water and put the pot on the fire.

the outdoor kitchen

veke (okra)

Step 5: cut up the veke which will eventually get added to the meat and onion sauce along with some garlic, salt, and magic cubes. (yes, that's really they're called... magic cubes... or maybe it's not. It might be Magi. I can't remember. I think they are just bouillon cubes... but with a little extra magic) 

an enthralled onlooker

step 6: pound the gozo (manioc root) into flour

the cooks checking on the meat sauce

step 7: mix the gozo with boiling water

Marie Claire makes this look easy. It's not.

Gozo is made from the dried root of manioc plants and is rather gooey and bland. It's usually eaten with some sort of sauce and is staple food for the Central Africans. They love it!!!

Our fresh cooked gozo

the final product ready to be eaten!

There you have it! Seven simple steps to a tasty African meal.