tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42218487732134514982024-03-05T22:55:26.781-05:00African AdventureAmy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-66254869687946121992012-02-18T13:54:00.005-05:002012-02-23T15:16:17.408-05:00Far from Africa but close to my heart: Tijuana, Mexico<div class="MsoNormal">“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” –Frederick Buechner</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGqFPT690pWHFrhwenHHjNxogzikgqorS8tcOAHm6UNB7B13MrK221WcLJo4OOU4JgsRs__OcC3aIgMkp8f3O88L1qKVTLwrYDlqbVcGXy3NlxruAoPappTrldDimaaSCuHwxH5r6DPJn/s1600/me-julio1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRGqFPT690pWHFrhwenHHjNxogzikgqorS8tcOAHm6UNB7B13MrK221WcLJo4OOU4JgsRs__OcC3aIgMkp8f3O88L1qKVTLwrYDlqbVcGXy3NlxruAoPappTrldDimaaSCuHwxH5r6DPJn/s320/me-julio1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me on a trip to Mexico in 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I miss Africa a lot sometimes. The memories of the months I spent in Africa give me such a mixture of deep joy but also sadness at the awareness of the extreme human need present in the world. Through my internship in Africa I learned a lot about poverty and experienced the joy that comes from living life serving others. This post isn’t about Africa, though. Not specifically. One week from today I’m going to Tijuana, Mexico for a week and I am so excited I had to blog about it! (Maybe I should change the name of my blog?) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlly5ATwGuL45oUBr3FzusrJfGYJddDuHh3kJEtQpRlm1GWVR_KMpFUbFb3WTkFaNqmnq-TcICQLRItmsuL8DAz3pg9hU0mJAvk8k2105gIYoETjkcoz99LlS9ieovE1wkE_O4lQG7eOvs/s1600/tjhouses2010-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlly5ATwGuL45oUBr3FzusrJfGYJddDuHh3kJEtQpRlm1GWVR_KMpFUbFb3WTkFaNqmnq-TcICQLRItmsuL8DAz3pg9hU0mJAvk8k2105gIYoETjkcoz99LlS9ieovE1wkE_O4lQG7eOvs/s200/tjhouses2010-1.jpg" width="200" /></a>For those of you who don’t know, a few weeks after returning from Africa I started working on staff at Huron Hills Church with their Youth and College Ministry. It’s been awesome! I get to work with a lot of great students leading small groups, mentoring students one-on-one, speaking at youth retreats, teaching, worshipping, etc. Next week, on Friday, February 24th, a dozen college students, my boss, two experienced team leaders, and I have the opportunity to go to Tijuana, MX where we’ll spend spring break serving. We will be doing work alongside local World Vision staff in squatter communities near the Mexico/US boarder. The partnership between the communities in Tijuana and our church community is a long and mutually encouraging and joy-filled one. I helped to lead a trip of high school students to Tijuana in 2010 (that’s what the photos are from) and I am looking forward to returning to see the people who blessed me so much then! </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5X59IvAeXXpNJvhiB_JDMm61Lkuto7AHNEBMtbgwyE1gGdg3vGFyohuqrXmRiD3AQn2O-oa-YY686y_fsv5emt5sZ3V6OXlyKcF3kg_B8XjtpsXh1iAOIxByzD6Udx2kPhr57uGmYXeh/s1600/tjworksite2012-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5X59IvAeXXpNJvhiB_JDMm61Lkuto7AHNEBMtbgwyE1gGdg3vGFyohuqrXmRiD3AQn2O-oa-YY686y_fsv5emt5sZ3V6OXlyKcF3kg_B8XjtpsXh1iAOIxByzD6Udx2kPhr57uGmYXeh/s320/tjworksite2012-1.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A worksite in one of the communities</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why am I so excited about going to Mexico? Multiple reasons. This trip combines several of my passions: traveling and learning about new places, helping and getting to know people in poverty and situations of extreme vulnerability, working with students, and raising awareness of global issues. </div><div class="MsoNormal">According to globalissues.org, “Almost half the world—over 3 billion people—live on less than $2.50 a day” and in 2003 10.6 million children died before they turned 5. Facts like that are awful but once you’ve <i>seen</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> the facts first hand, experienced what it’s like to have friends barely surviving because they don’t have enough food or access to medicine, and known the pain of watching a child die of AIDS, the simple facts about poverty and global needs become more than facts. It becomes personal. Living in Africa showed me this. It is no longer just random people somewhere suffering… the people have faces and emotions, family and friends, hopes and dreams. This is why I am so excited to spend spring break loving my Mexican friends in need and hopefully playing a part, however small it may be, in helping them “reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty and injustice” (as World Vision would put it). In my life of material abundance, I feel a responsibility to not ignore the physical needs of others. I am not ok with living a self-centered, comfortable life at the expense of someone else. This is why I am so excited that there will be 12 college students along with me joining in the vision of living a life serving others. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00-tZm72LXenIHuP8okMSTOd7jYd__VAjuaz2-D7b6I0Ksy7FEjrfG8NdaCH8cHe7CBE82bPCjFRkS47doBoUazGwOiPdUCYky00JaKBTMj0KFxuNIPI08rCb4kJZ7nL-maPw5hW0Lon-/s1600/julio2010-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00-tZm72LXenIHuP8okMSTOd7jYd__VAjuaz2-D7b6I0Ksy7FEjrfG8NdaCH8cHe7CBE82bPCjFRkS47doBoUazGwOiPdUCYky00JaKBTMj0KFxuNIPI08rCb4kJZ7nL-maPw5hW0Lon-/s320/julio2010-1.jpg" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ceasar... one of my favorite Mexican buddies</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">There is one more reason I love spending time with people who materially have much less than me. Christians living in places like Bangui, Central Africa or Tijuana, Mexico have a strong faith. Their physical need has helped them know the necessity of trust and faith. They have experienced God’s provision, God’s closeness in desperate situations, God’s unfaltering love, and the strong hope and knowledge that God will one day make things right again. I’ve never personally known what it’s like to have barely any material possessions and I’ve never had to wonder where my next meal was coming from but I do have needs. Emotional. Spiritual. Less physically obvious, but no less important. When I spend time with the joy-filled Mexicans I am always reminded of my need for God, my own helplessness and the need for faith and complete reliance on God that we share. The Mexicans living in shambled squatter villages in Tijuana may appear more needy than I am, but in reality I am just as needy. In need of Christ and his never-ending love. My Mexican friends encourage me and fill me with a fresh hope, joy, and faith. They remind me there’s more to life than the material. They show me the joy that comes from sharing Christ’s sacrificial love with others. I can’t wait to get to Mexico! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I will have limited access to internet while I am in Tijuana but I will do my best to share pictures and update you all on the work being done in Tijuana. To read updates and stories about our trip while we're gone you can go to the Tijuana North Borders blog. You can find it here: http://hhctj2012.wordpress.com. </div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-49210399524958280802011-08-27T01:20:00.004-04:002011-08-29T22:59:23.076-04:00The Next Chapter<div class="MsoNormal">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.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZVEq6FhIS5GVfFU5n3ZPwM_nnkr6ZWCIHIzQLkgPYgQdzjPN_hERi2RWU3NgGS6gfjWP52oJ0jerpRbv-nLYlJcGw0JpbZaLOndyMOYDAVWKcXr9j9fGmQDEy36t9V45qNaM28qLMk80/s1600/fiacre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZVEq6FhIS5GVfFU5n3ZPwM_nnkr6ZWCIHIzQLkgPYgQdzjPN_hERi2RWU3NgGS6gfjWP52oJ0jerpRbv-nLYlJcGw0JpbZaLOndyMOYDAVWKcXr9j9fGmQDEy36t9V45qNaM28qLMk80/s320/fiacre.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">13-year-old Fiacre</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can watch the video tribute PHC put together for Fiacre here: <a href="http://youtu.be/0K9opFDUiDQ">http://youtu.be/0K9opFDUiDQ</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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?</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-34906497276882472432011-07-13T22:37:00.000-04:002011-07-13T22:37:42.758-04:00Out-of-practice American<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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! </div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><!--EndFragment-->Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-23270005371986445842011-06-24T16:29:00.000-04:002011-06-24T16:29:42.498-04:00The beginning of the post-African adventureI 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.<div>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! <div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzETt2sBP5IyyL6-9JRXx52566aNN4OkdipOU0dgsVW4in2JhxU6m6GGvzw1v5itMWoEJUgfYZLi1syOix4gNZVS5W7YEo0mQY7TV-0ko-YpBcmbjJbuU1fNTOeurWVlNtAgZmxJCS_cJD/s1600/0624paris-me-cait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzETt2sBP5IyyL6-9JRXx52566aNN4OkdipOU0dgsVW4in2JhxU6m6GGvzw1v5itMWoEJUgfYZLi1syOix4gNZVS5W7YEo0mQY7TV-0ko-YpBcmbjJbuU1fNTOeurWVlNtAgZmxJCS_cJD/s320/0624paris-me-cait.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">we're not in Africa anymore!</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-24123865453331760062011-06-18T17:20:00.005-04:002011-06-18T17:42:31.017-04:00My Last Saturday in Central Africa<i>Sannu sannu! As-Salaam-Alaikum. Bala-o! Bonjour.</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHprd_s9PfsyzcYZrQ6pDe6xArfeNHYCc-kD6wKJ5WrCLHe9zKYLeQ6QT524p39SWTNtUWtys_WUbt6UwcCICBictFLrg5x0xFRHf7koUSZe0XYGNSAxcOOtgEBOtrSPnhTetpvgXaAY3z/s1600/0618me-alima.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHprd_s9PfsyzcYZrQ6pDe6xArfeNHYCc-kD6wKJ5WrCLHe9zKYLeQ6QT524p39SWTNtUWtys_WUbt6UwcCICBictFLrg5x0xFRHf7koUSZe0XYGNSAxcOOtgEBOtrSPnhTetpvgXaAY3z/s200/0618me-alima.jpg" width="157" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alima, me, and ananas seedlings</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13pt;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here are a few pictures from my observings:<o:p></o:p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-csATnu1FTIqWtFWvTLc2NM3JCFi0Qik_eE6dzc-kLt6HW5c9m7UYzKF57keMvpxrU39q235H-st8cdx2Jb-GlDC6I84C3XMMA4_PDB0PDOLfAKKSQmLwVLXMhmA16rY1AXZnEcXcnGaQ/s1600/0618men-working2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-csATnu1FTIqWtFWvTLc2NM3JCFi0Qik_eE6dzc-kLt6HW5c9m7UYzKF57keMvpxrU39q235H-st8cdx2Jb-GlDC6I84C3XMMA4_PDB0PDOLfAKKSQmLwVLXMhmA16rY1AXZnEcXcnGaQ/s400/0618men-working2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ibrahim, his younger brother, and Wilfried working in the rice garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdeN3bJypif-ZBDdtjZ3cqgWhHR_oVpcQ6tcuve80EwUbRnFf-c7MNSMTTObwI3YEvdDgXfRo-mDUQT7IfbSLOWA8aAzcjir8QXPiUH4CQ9ZyKetjslBVcsSFL2WFXhdA1DdhFTvDLlRl/s1600/0618fulani-woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdeN3bJypif-ZBDdtjZ3cqgWhHR_oVpcQ6tcuve80EwUbRnFf-c7MNSMTTObwI3YEvdDgXfRo-mDUQT7IfbSLOWA8aAzcjir8QXPiUH4CQ9ZyKetjslBVcsSFL2WFXhdA1DdhFTvDLlRl/s1600/0618fulani-woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdeN3bJypif-ZBDdtjZ3cqgWhHR_oVpcQ6tcuve80EwUbRnFf-c7MNSMTTObwI3YEvdDgXfRo-mDUQT7IfbSLOWA8aAzcjir8QXPiUH4CQ9ZyKetjslBVcsSFL2WFXhdA1DdhFTvDLlRl/s320/0618fulani-woman.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFRq8xChZUuO-CTWWVg4ARrfKTxrSGaQHKETvTJvRYU_6byLa8E9XVBwgWEL3rcMdza6Df85AnVlK8V1NVoSbSpkFcIvSM4SIuUSRnKh_sDCzQoGFQS3l0epw-3BOaGSaOMH6wO80hGGM/s1600/0618washing-dishes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFRq8xChZUuO-CTWWVg4ARrfKTxrSGaQHKETvTJvRYU_6byLa8E9XVBwgWEL3rcMdza6Df85AnVlK8V1NVoSbSpkFcIvSM4SIuUSRnKh_sDCzQoGFQS3l0epw-3BOaGSaOMH6wO80hGGM/s320/0618washing-dishes.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">washing dishes</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAC1XGInBUktCsjhvQnnIDzpccNsIjDwf3BUA94hDXc4zGh30Fgw7w9h5YIqSZRdTSpmJaIi6ptfBoR6HWWdsmPUNpU0nGpIB4tZpZOPrTTZezPYb6N-TcCFyFN-MAdgh6d7YSMjD4Agq9/s1600/0618two-girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAC1XGInBUktCsjhvQnnIDzpccNsIjDwf3BUA94hDXc4zGh30Fgw7w9h5YIqSZRdTSpmJaIi6ptfBoR6HWWdsmPUNpU0nGpIB4tZpZOPrTTZezPYb6N-TcCFyFN-MAdgh6d7YSMjD4Agq9/s320/0618two-girls.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">doing laundry</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr0aVsY86482ERPMxQFJxU6YvOqNTGycijNz6kcOrir6I1SNgRjM9FwD1_9VflQF1pfgRQjsBH881C5mg1nxHA7Y2AJa6Dapm7FrNkl7ygOEQHwP-4owGAyJZMgcLvuvpdNbFPxc0Qn_GJ/s1600/0618little-fulani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr0aVsY86482ERPMxQFJxU6YvOqNTGycijNz6kcOrir6I1SNgRjM9FwD1_9VflQF1pfgRQjsBH881C5mg1nxHA7Y2AJa6Dapm7FrNkl7ygOEQHwP-4owGAyJZMgcLvuvpdNbFPxc0Qn_GJ/s320/0618little-fulani.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wasn't the only one doing observing</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4B56dTSNUCnSFPqv1FYUtcocy1hVL9N1TRS0xDREZoaZc5OlDxlsguzYN-BcnR2X64jljTuacLqEKhAyt8eXLfiFW5J99AwjDbtFb1-jQ0kfc9CZDstMjhBXOYqwJ1QYT1ACzmOSOubD8/s1600/0618shy-boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4B56dTSNUCnSFPqv1FYUtcocy1hVL9N1TRS0xDREZoaZc5OlDxlsguzYN-BcnR2X64jljTuacLqEKhAyt8eXLfiFW5J99AwjDbtFb1-jQ0kfc9CZDstMjhBXOYqwJ1QYT1ACzmOSOubD8/s200/0618shy-boy.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-46845970845886752742011-06-11T12:59:00.003-04:002011-06-13T14:34:49.739-04:00nôrməlI think I’ve forgotten what is supposed to be normal. <i>Normal? </i><span style="font-style: normal;">You ask. Yeah, you know… normal. That adjective that means “usual, typical, or expected.” </span><span style="font-family: HiraMinPro-W3;">n</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">ô</span><span style="font-family: HiraMinPro-W3;">rm</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">ə</span><span style="font-family: HiraMinPro-W3;">l. </span>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."<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I say normal I mean this:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpujAcqxaOjEiafyODJhC3iJlu7q41CaWazcm6ekBavkR3V2OqqOe4aryz6EyiO7UrIIy8B_KXINfb7KkzC-Kx1K8z-KBeRcqe3RsMSGIIpIEzAzD2BVcaBSIRR7mVkSVD1oqjJAFyC7Bg/s1600/0506hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpujAcqxaOjEiafyODJhC3iJlu7q41CaWazcm6ekBavkR3V2OqqOe4aryz6EyiO7UrIIy8B_KXINfb7KkzC-Kx1K8z-KBeRcqe3RsMSGIIpIEzAzD2BVcaBSIRR7mVkSVD1oqjJAFyC7Bg/s200/0506hair.jpg" width="133" /></a>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Living at a mission station with a high fence around it and a guard at the gate. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Sleeping under a mosquito net.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Greeting everyone with a handshake and the subsequent questions of how they slept and how they and their family are doing.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Skirts. Everyday.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Sweatshirts and winter coats when the temperature drops below 80 degrees Fahrenheit.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Ants. Everywhere. <o:p></o:p></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Sifting flour before cooking to get the bugs out.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Having fresh fruit and vegetables brought to the door every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Hairdos that stick out all over.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Blaming upset stomachs on worms and parasites.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Squishing seven people (sometimes more) into a taxicab to get home from work.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Bartering.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Mangoes that cost 5 cents each.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Powdered milk in a can.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">House help that does all the cleaning, laundry, and dishes three times a week.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">No electricity between 5am and 9am, 3pm and 6pm, and sometimes between Wednesday and Friday… give or take a few hours.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Generator noise.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Soldiers standing around with machine guns slung over their shoulders.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Getting stared at for being white and staring at other people for the same reason.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Using filtered water from a bottle for teeth brushing.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">No air-conditioning or TV.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Eating peanuts out of a whiskey bottle.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Palm trees, a mango tree, and a flowering plumeria tree outside my bedroom window. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Daily trips to the swimming pool at the US Ambassador’s house.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Potholes. Little boys standing beside potholes holding shovels and tin cups begging for money. And more potholes.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Words that begin with <i>mb, ng, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and </span><i>nz.</i></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Missionary parties that you have to bring your own food to and leave before 9pm.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Kids with ripped clothes and 17-year-old mothers with naked babies.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Ditches full of green slime.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Grapefruit soda in glass bottles.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Belgian Google.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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.</li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal">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. <i>Normal</i><span style="font-style: normal;">? The more I think about it, the less I know what normal is. </span></div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-37683621533221765182011-06-08T13:54:00.001-04:002011-06-08T16:37:08.447-04:00Soccer, Soldiers, and I Shook the hand of the PresidentSunday. 5 June. A day for being proud to be a Central African.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Job9PmN6qc4Bnp7QWfADLtGislTbgWIl2J4BjJ1PKOyc2HqSnCtXI5NVcfNv_S8vzVQJacONZ_1hzUFiKDUBs1PxamulqgkYXFpA-iOK9Xb7luIQ6BrBpVSyJm5jc08IunyKxuc5TMpj/s1600/0605line-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Job9PmN6qc4Bnp7QWfADLtGislTbgWIl2J4BjJ1PKOyc2HqSnCtXI5NVcfNv_S8vzVQJacONZ_1hzUFiKDUBs1PxamulqgkYXFpA-iOK9Xb7luIQ6BrBpVSyJm5jc08IunyKxuc5TMpj/s320/0605line-up.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-game: Tanzania in white, CAR in blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Central Africa, currently 113<sup>th</sup> 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.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIO2OelprTV3jDMjloavExUB7zPW59Zs9UMWEAHghj5mMMfU-by7d0-8hjUk7tv24kOSnOwvtbinS2LFbyJ1fPB4o5CnUYRUeoKFC0i_CDzm4HLCr4NXtqkNVlrOIDGxasDHIKxofyXBcj/s1600/0605post-game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIO2OelprTV3jDMjloavExUB7zPW59Zs9UMWEAHghj5mMMfU-by7d0-8hjUk7tv24kOSnOwvtbinS2LFbyJ1fPB4o5CnUYRUeoKFC0i_CDzm4HLCr4NXtqkNVlrOIDGxasDHIKxofyXBcj/s320/0605post-game.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post game: Central African military lining the perimeter of the field</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-40339712642376361802011-05-31T17:21:00.001-04:002011-05-31T17:25:58.885-04:00Where's the pineapple?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUXqLUXnVmu4QnPx8rdfENWAvpS6ZClj3ZhMqCgkzxx6UTP0fZ7ZAZxk54v7yqI23BB2p8ljo2SUo4A2gfyaN8T91K8SJHPz3jzn-FGJl-Jb2vTc8QlarJz9bs6RoVCt6QIXs7MYbBSsi/s1600/0506pineapple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUXqLUXnVmu4QnPx8rdfENWAvpS6ZClj3ZhMqCgkzxx6UTP0fZ7ZAZxk54v7yqI23BB2p8ljo2SUo4A2gfyaN8T91K8SJHPz3jzn-FGJl-Jb2vTc8QlarJz9bs6RoVCt6QIXs7MYbBSsi/s200/0506pineapple.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ananas in my front yard</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i>Ananas</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. 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 </span><i>pineapple</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> anyway? Maybe you don’t care to know but sometime in the 17<sup>th</sup> century someone decided the </span><i>ananas </i><span style="font-style: normal;">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 </span><i>the apple of one’s eye</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I personally like to call the tropical goodness </span><i>ananas</i><span style="font-style: normal;">—that name brings better results when I go to the market searching for the funny looking pinecone fruit. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p-TDIT0YQBOS1Mk416O2xvzglRwxW1WyUXXECuI-uyTvyAFmS1j9DyQf9WRAi-AaLyj-AJtHpBpkFOJbNOjWsPym-ZhgQOqLe-wf8lWqWSdQoP0u3LgTG9jSP1YfBtUHB2U7cRQbSP_N/s1600/0504pineapple-taxi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p-TDIT0YQBOS1Mk416O2xvzglRwxW1WyUXXECuI-uyTvyAFmS1j9DyQf9WRAi-AaLyj-AJtHpBpkFOJbNOjWsPym-ZhgQOqLe-wf8lWqWSdQoP0u3LgTG9jSP1YfBtUHB2U7cRQbSP_N/s200/0504pineapple-taxi.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ananas on a taxi</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">One of the great things about living in the tropics is that I get to eat <i>ananas</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> all the time… some days I eat </span><i>ananas</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> for every single meal and snacks too. I love </span><i>ananas. Ta tene</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. That’s the truth.</span><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">So does Shawn Spencer. I’m not alone in my </span><i>ananas </i><span style="font-style: normal;">love. Here in Central Africa </span><i>ananas</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkrW5NjGXMTv3Ie-p1I1IKHUVTA70Ruagw592tul8RBAHSsHIJufv8ASUTb7F7TtL5FemolUiXR6_ZHeFIsB25Hhd05R8jkLaYTkzWsYN42OC1YwKTjRkBmBejB8vk6ko9um2JPENr1Ho/s1600/0428pineapple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkrW5NjGXMTv3Ie-p1I1IKHUVTA70Ruagw592tul8RBAHSsHIJufv8ASUTb7F7TtL5FemolUiXR6_ZHeFIsB25Hhd05R8jkLaYTkzWsYN42OC1YwKTjRkBmBejB8vk6ko9um2JPENr1Ho/s200/0428pineapple.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pineapple upsidedown cake</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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 <i>ananas</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. That’s a lot of pictures with </span><i>ananas—</i><span style="font-style: normal;">too many to be simply coincidence. It could be all the kids think </span><i>ananas </i><span style="font-style: normal;">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 </span><i>ananas </i><span style="font-style: normal;">so I did what anyone would do when they are curious and need answers: I turned to </span><i>google</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>wiki answers</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It turns out that the </span><i>ananas</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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 </span><i>ananas.</i></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpT6o8-iEy-sA84KrS5bi5ILqMaAylUcBEL359t5apFox6eEGCXAB0duDIJ580bKJPZR8vdQJn32DWdDZJTFD8T-Y_9snHBj94zXLa-jjbktVJXDpDCzKj2Lpc2mBSNlRkSHZVCJkevZEm/s200/ananas-drawing1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="141" /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33US9IlvyvAQVr1n-msEBfvRbhsKSSt1rvvRn8WpvmXEXuYGYdEyLfbu7qc31Ibi0PQBmhJHdAfWM6knw9S35HL9nWb5jC5mrAxUaUsABs_KNQAOTD7kmPhXjZk13bFtbuB0OfpDGBmZl/s1600/roadside-ananas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33US9IlvyvAQVr1n-msEBfvRbhsKSSt1rvvRn8WpvmXEXuYGYdEyLfbu7qc31Ibi0PQBmhJHdAfWM6knw9S35HL9nWb5jC5mrAxUaUsABs_KNQAOTD7kmPhXjZk13bFtbuB0OfpDGBmZl/s400/roadside-ananas.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ananas in a village hung on the edge of the road being sold for 40 cents each</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-84125105125262834752011-05-26T14:06:00.001-04:002011-05-26T16:47:29.579-04:00Celebrations and CollectivismAfricans 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVGil5SPBV4_jqdUPNUTcUMtTaINlbpHlg3vRcywyD4C8XfUzZMrMmHD2aLZZNRvHqtVYjM9EOhjmKY85kvYQSn3tysTNXe1mDeBRvXtUhnd-_dBS6EaOuTo9iLQgBGk9hVU35j5FJXgq/s1600/0524ba-aka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVGil5SPBV4_jqdUPNUTcUMtTaINlbpHlg3vRcywyD4C8XfUzZMrMmHD2aLZZNRvHqtVYjM9EOhjmKY85kvYQSn3tysTNXe1mDeBRvXtUhnd-_dBS6EaOuTo9iLQgBGk9hVU35j5FJXgq/s200/0524ba-aka.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a Ba'Aka pygmy graduate</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJttyPcgf4a9YdAVlqjlMUpKfa2cK-wnIxa6iJ1-LhboKLUxGvaRzfv2p8L8tg_NCYvbXGF0Yiot-TrJVGCK6k0j5TdE3rXcxb-4qP1BBOGehcvsXAJVcU_-HlT3i2FiBjquEE_jeTllQx/s1600/0523group-shot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJttyPcgf4a9YdAVlqjlMUpKfa2cK-wnIxa6iJ1-LhboKLUxGvaRzfv2p8L8tg_NCYvbXGF0Yiot-TrJVGCK6k0j5TdE3rXcxb-4qP1BBOGehcvsXAJVcU_-HlT3i2FiBjquEE_jeTllQx/s320/0523group-shot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the dedication stone at the site of the new building</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgipMACYpjUfCPQZ93t-Vu92oXm7ibwckjqY4y36w71cy7EKBSjKMgzesq9wT2kjFT0h725TPGEHhZTEmm17UIke3CxkXQkycZsNyoar65EiabAu7bdA_rodyv0W_d91vV1prOCchlJv7J0/s1600/0524barb-pygmies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgipMACYpjUfCPQZ93t-Vu92oXm7ibwckjqY4y36w71cy7EKBSjKMgzesq9wT2kjFT0h725TPGEHhZTEmm17UIke3CxkXQkycZsNyoar65EiabAu7bdA_rodyv0W_d91vV1prOCchlJv7J0/s320/0524barb-pygmies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barb with the pygmy graduates</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOT2k9mG6z3WzS1RyBpX56MN5DQ3A79nWZlLkiK_uxnqu52uyjNMOpzE92ouGHKEYXtRF8nSSp6eJPLCKeeCP9gSEvI0Z3Dd71KBRZpQkYeb8j9Bo1Arzel956gSoRuia-yYAfhgB5WRM/s1600/0524mbaiki-church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOT2k9mG6z3WzS1RyBpX56MN5DQ3A79nWZlLkiK_uxnqu52uyjNMOpzE92ouGHKEYXtRF8nSSp6eJPLCKeeCP9gSEvI0Z3Dd71KBRZpQkYeb8j9Bo1Arzel956gSoRuia-yYAfhgB5WRM/s320/0524mbaiki-church.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">lots of people at the Mbaiki church</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-26418642885506790162011-05-18T08:57:00.002-04:002011-05-18T09:06:00.645-04:00MBETIMANGUE Elisabeth<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw1ml18Kvy9mRi4Ypm6nahVeghiIRFv35mdWekicGvzhSCxGkE0PBygzGn6IGOIzYsa8-taKRUxVKnUtWZ2MK6h0Q5aTMGm19u95QzplJfAjslqF_LiQMDIe7vOVgqwX2vy024GyFxiSY/s1600/0517mbetimangue_elisabeth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw1ml18Kvy9mRi4Ypm6nahVeghiIRFv35mdWekicGvzhSCxGkE0PBygzGn6IGOIzYsa8-taKRUxVKnUtWZ2MK6h0Q5aTMGm19u95QzplJfAjslqF_LiQMDIe7vOVgqwX2vy024GyFxiSY/s200/0517mbetimangue_elisabeth.jpg" width="133" /></a>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEtIDmIADChBQNz7SikfuBSAfWdNUR8b6iLq6zPkvuMSJGm5u2ZYkECMAGHxmkg5ov0UVaPuyQJEr1PW2ncyE1MsWUwIDUSHcGF2U1ZlX8fYxEfkziBoLTJzOdozM4c_hn7IFwJubrToV/s1600/0517elisabeth-teaching1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEtIDmIADChBQNz7SikfuBSAfWdNUR8b6iLq6zPkvuMSJGm5u2ZYkECMAGHxmkg5ov0UVaPuyQJEr1PW2ncyE1MsWUwIDUSHcGF2U1ZlX8fYxEfkziBoLTJzOdozM4c_hn7IFwJubrToV/s320/0517elisabeth-teaching1.jpg" width="320" /></a>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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxAq81bWRWD6NAV2ZcSk_vBXYivhBYwvNf_JMqB4WMtfBnjwDQBcGw5CgsjdN_pzef-p3hGMvaqip2lSK3WMaREBGbN8Yn3i1aZT8yJtVZ78ZvWcx28WtrKuDSB9hSR-InP7nclhY-lI4/s1600/0517kids-math.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxAq81bWRWD6NAV2ZcSk_vBXYivhBYwvNf_JMqB4WMtfBnjwDQBcGw5CgsjdN_pzef-p3hGMvaqip2lSK3WMaREBGbN8Yn3i1aZT8yJtVZ78ZvWcx28WtrKuDSB9hSR-InP7nclhY-lI4/s200/0517kids-math.jpg" width="135" /></a>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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YwBNJlp4CE1tAdEmWS6nLc1nQolZRydHDgqy_04odWSAc7HTJ8vH6e9-2e7fW_gjmR0Rov0Sr2Bzfm-I1N-oofITXsiqOezh_p-VQZ36ShvcHwhYL598c8cdaUjS4eWohFm-FvKdBaru/s1600/elisabeths-class.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YwBNJlp4CE1tAdEmWS6nLc1nQolZRydHDgqy_04odWSAc7HTJ8vH6e9-2e7fW_gjmR0Rov0Sr2Bzfm-I1N-oofITXsiqOezh_p-VQZ36ShvcHwhYL598c8cdaUjS4eWohFm-FvKdBaru/s400/elisabeths-class.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elisabeth with her 1st grade class</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-61811120817677231712011-05-06T17:10:00.001-04:002011-05-06T17:17:29.157-04:00Central African People: LAOUKOURA Jeremie<div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So without further to-do, meet LAOUKOURA Jeremie. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYbuAzcXMvK6rh3leeVpKBDkJ9SGjzV6FtVDam1UBQHiA9rnX_bB1h9cjUIiWzWjaiqpFF_5dHM_0WsatUQkrEMGCYZNx3V7x6ruvkXNRa2Tpmz6Qa3wzZhJpHXPbQrVV-I4I_nQD4kh8/s1600/laoukoura_jeremie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYbuAzcXMvK6rh3leeVpKBDkJ9SGjzV6FtVDam1UBQHiA9rnX_bB1h9cjUIiWzWjaiqpFF_5dHM_0WsatUQkrEMGCYZNx3V7x6ruvkXNRa2Tpmz6Qa3wzZhJpHXPbQrVV-I4I_nQD4kh8/s200/laoukoura_jeremie.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQ70Usr5DTs18mmTNtQpcCR5ofzcMIyKqzgnvT9EvgdHxh15bnIf9fichnDJHQhGQWfhe0lJWeuFg-mRdZDBzvPwh-IuVtitB1Fj0F6umVtYFclHViVaSdszvHeLPKkvIOhIczfijDrHC/s1600/0422seminary-students.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQ70Usr5DTs18mmTNtQpcCR5ofzcMIyKqzgnvT9EvgdHxh15bnIf9fichnDJHQhGQWfhe0lJWeuFg-mRdZDBzvPwh-IuVtitB1Fj0F6umVtYFclHViVaSdszvHeLPKkvIOhIczfijDrHC/s320/0422seminary-students.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremie with fellow seminary students</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-35857841291076285962011-04-30T17:46:00.001-04:002011-04-30T17:52:35.777-04:00Red Tables + Jewelry Making + African Orphans<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">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, “<span style="font-family: Times-Roman;">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.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyuSvxZA0L4HshTqwIwi59T7EP3eFul6UU_yPc3cWkAfi8b0zW_XMX0gpRQp1B36wnWkH0zIbiMTt7WM58VjjVfJM7v90eQGIYuN8c3zfReEjK-TExZ5LmSIcCRJFIlIB9okUybRHkCSk/s1600/0311beads2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyuSvxZA0L4HshTqwIwi59T7EP3eFul6UU_yPc3cWkAfi8b0zW_XMX0gpRQp1B36wnWkH0zIbiMTt7WM58VjjVfJM7v90eQGIYuN8c3zfReEjK-TExZ5LmSIcCRJFIlIB9okUybRHkCSk/s200/0311beads2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikOFgjRwGtzBlaqyCAYWU5eZOxOrPh9K5ssE4fWDh5MsfcUCPaZuVlJACauP8MhdRnQk5gave15AlrSQEWIeQfogYb4dcZ2YJkzNbAQOHvBa046BuPMj9icovbcV2USwNQngZBz-Vx86k2/s1600/0430beading3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikOFgjRwGtzBlaqyCAYWU5eZOxOrPh9K5ssE4fWDh5MsfcUCPaZuVlJACauP8MhdRnQk5gave15AlrSQEWIeQfogYb4dcZ2YJkzNbAQOHvBa046BuPMj9icovbcV2USwNQngZBz-Vx86k2/s400/0430beading3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRjB4BXMqZmLggIwrQ8VoOpeqjh0DHwgVDAyoM02rdYXs9hI4NQc7-hoQJPbCdQz8IxBb4LIoPXq_LA2iItnFq_stE8ABgWd2Dz8KxGIP6cscFkj5BYow5p50fGETqe7BuzON6kervphG/s1600/0430-cutting-bananas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRjB4BXMqZmLggIwrQ8VoOpeqjh0DHwgVDAyoM02rdYXs9hI4NQc7-hoQJPbCdQz8IxBb4LIoPXq_LA2iItnFq_stE8ABgWd2Dz8KxGIP6cscFkj5BYow5p50fGETqe7BuzON6kervphG/s320/0430-cutting-bananas.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stephane doing some demonstrating</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWZthbEPgEZPMigcUEqI7LRI_xSmTiCUxIXzXDGu-Ordqm1SH5rG8YfrZW-Y0y6tqT7-CA5kcYtO1I668kPeUqTydKe1oa1vRur3eZ2kdcC_9k8caJjXmC1NM6CDkYSUGbuEm5jsPvOm8y/s1600/0430cherubin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWZthbEPgEZPMigcUEqI7LRI_xSmTiCUxIXzXDGu-Ordqm1SH5rG8YfrZW-Y0y6tqT7-CA5kcYtO1I668kPeUqTydKe1oa1vRur3eZ2kdcC_9k8caJjXmC1NM6CDkYSUGbuEm5jsPvOm8y/s320/0430cherubin.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cutting the banana leaf into strips</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqffzjwZKiyo9rdiH4GRu0wxPHZEONYu6qd4j0kTlDDvX7F7phus_3C0hE2Ecs4eoAh51o0cQGl7qbRDP-FHK-n2sbHyVVaMPMw1OwE0rPV1Dm6uXif1RNEAf1KBpEyAB5-oqZHDbmDbxk/s1600/0430beading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqffzjwZKiyo9rdiH4GRu0wxPHZEONYu6qd4j0kTlDDvX7F7phus_3C0hE2Ecs4eoAh51o0cQGl7qbRDP-FHK-n2sbHyVVaMPMw1OwE0rPV1Dm6uXif1RNEAf1KBpEyAB5-oqZHDbmDbxk/s320/0430beading.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">rolling up a banana leaf to make a bead</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZJsfgtjw9SUIuspL4eVaUH5U3Vemx2IFWfbOu_-cr3_BNxDAdegWVqyMfR354w1RpwqpkDJhyA2atOpskaABfzwzS_MgaI3QgI46jNkYkA50OOQF7uz-EKuY12Zxp7_3_1FbgROX_Vin/s1600/0430beading1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZJsfgtjw9SUIuspL4eVaUH5U3Vemx2IFWfbOu_-cr3_BNxDAdegWVqyMfR354w1RpwqpkDJhyA2atOpskaABfzwzS_MgaI3QgI46jNkYkA50OOQF7uz-EKuY12Zxp7_3_1FbgROX_Vin/s320/0430beading1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">applying the glue and gloss</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOBQJSr3GCr_zehAU_lIMfwfHTlYhfVbDH1sYEYgdKyKmJeoWP2Us2YPlXMWcrlcpnN9L6sx1IluDuhOMSe2Y9CCuCeRAf1oAGoqzC7XxW0avhbKHUSoTvEiMS-Ug3wBuC0TwVg7kcUq1/s1600/0430_stringing_beads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfOBQJSr3GCr_zehAU_lIMfwfHTlYhfVbDH1sYEYgdKyKmJeoWP2Us2YPlXMWcrlcpnN9L6sx1IluDuhOMSe2Y9CCuCeRAf1oAGoqzC7XxW0avhbKHUSoTvEiMS-Ug3wBuC0TwVg7kcUq1/s320/0430_stringing_beads.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">stringing the beads</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfEffCRcniWZauLfi1QGzxmF15tGlzyv-7zeftcEMmKXcLjMBP2v25-jTVypRYjDfosQpj_vBT1ItS4PTqCMMGDb_lunQSgY2rNBHMyVJBUlElDiu2o07B2TUYmB_IfXkFjhbVgEQW0Fe/s1600/0430final-product.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfEffCRcniWZauLfi1QGzxmF15tGlzyv-7zeftcEMmKXcLjMBP2v25-jTVypRYjDfosQpj_vBT1ItS4PTqCMMGDb_lunQSgY2rNBHMyVJBUlElDiu2o07B2TUYmB_IfXkFjhbVgEQW0Fe/s320/0430final-product.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">coming soon to a fair trade store near you!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-7152665699529112502011-04-20T11:07:00.001-04:002011-04-20T19:05:54.318-04:00How to evaluate a Taxi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cgWIzU3D2ripyIQRfIBhmTsC1GUuMKUFF9iNp0lbFdxNYB2tYwJvaSR0IUMCaBHXNpJ_3_BvPzhI3QbDp2GHqrISA4xTVxZFRuonhyphenhyphenDVzRs5kG__AV-WCGwGijIj6hWjHunx7pKhp62S/s1600/0420road1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cgWIzU3D2ripyIQRfIBhmTsC1GUuMKUFF9iNp0lbFdxNYB2tYwJvaSR0IUMCaBHXNpJ_3_BvPzhI3QbDp2GHqrISA4xTVxZFRuonhyphenhyphenDVzRs5kG__AV-WCGwGijIj6hWjHunx7pKhp62S/s400/0420road1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Inspecting the vehicle: </div><ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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!</li>
</ol><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Interviewing the driver:</div><ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsl6Nl9ZsCzs3eq_SUAcZPGCGZWg5AR2KYVZFOIkwX119niCgaZdcCa2Y9FFpBi1ttchFk-r0gYKa-xivHNzTy_BV7VkInGd5TBGk3HBGWI4F7fG9O5uzoRWaeO5FVHCAG1LDPXTYAGzW/s1600/0420taxis2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsl6Nl9ZsCzs3eq_SUAcZPGCGZWg5AR2KYVZFOIkwX119niCgaZdcCa2Y9FFpBi1ttchFk-r0gYKa-xivHNzTy_BV7VkInGd5TBGk3HBGWI4F7fG9O5uzoRWaeO5FVHCAG1LDPXTYAGzW/s320/0420taxis2.jpg" width="216" /></a>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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.)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">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.</li>
</ol><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">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.</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-32999983615106111792011-04-06T08:03:00.005-04:002011-04-06T08:19:00.035-04:00a long blog post without any pictures of cute African kids7:00am—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.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
7:45am—Oops! I jolt awake realizing there are probably already at least two people waiting at my door for me to wake up.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. <i>Did you sleep well?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Yep and I’m still half asleep. Thanks for asking.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">9:30am—Isaac, our day guard, comes into the office to inform Caitlin and me that we have visitors. <i>Visitors? Who? </i><span style="font-style: normal;">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). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">9:45am— Despite being slightly annoyed at the interruption in the middle of my work by this persistent little 6<sup>th</sup> 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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. <i>How did you get here?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">12:27—Gabin is leaving the office (with money). Persistent. That’s what these Central Africans are.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-2446136786952442142011-03-31T15:11:00.002-04:002011-03-31T15:28:04.734-04:00love?A teenage orphan girl recently asked me why my parents love me. My first thought was, “<i>why would she ask that</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?” 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.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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, “<i>Oh, my mom made me this skirt- she’s pretty great.”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Or </span><i>“My friend made this friendship bracelet and gave it to me before I left for Africa so I wouldn’t forget him.” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Or </span><i>“My little sister gave me this for my birthday.”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Their typical response: </span><i>“They must really love you.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” If love equals someone giving you stuff then yes, I am very loved. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HpqSOXDVAbcRcpbTBy-v4C3Z2ySLZ22x-SQhwXhHRhB-6y5lDlge8N9R7eUUj3uERjq1hBjdAvzDuqJEuf1Yx_rxCmvuap0__cYYQZ4qKOKHXMBwSuTvc57fodINWz8sNBDJkTWXehFV/s1600/0323sophie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HpqSOXDVAbcRcpbTBy-v4C3Z2ySLZ22x-SQhwXhHRhB-6y5lDlge8N9R7eUUj3uERjq1hBjdAvzDuqJEuf1Yx_rxCmvuap0__cYYQZ4qKOKHXMBwSuTvc57fodINWz8sNBDJkTWXehFV/s320/0323sophie.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophie wearing a heart necklace she bought herself</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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 <i>have</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtYFlKODxhwW6cGCGWalzdrK9877MVh_HReWznlUQwlF6MBtSFhVjkF4DnejOO7kFE8r5dGJNkHxwGwYwCyPCvKR_DLlLdgTaJH5ZA8YyRSKk37I2_ZzZzTamElTWcz5xqDCrNlYsvmNq/s1600/merveille-me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtYFlKODxhwW6cGCGWalzdrK9877MVh_HReWznlUQwlF6MBtSFhVjkF4DnejOO7kFE8r5dGJNkHxwGwYwCyPCvKR_DLlLdgTaJH5ZA8YyRSKk37I2_ZzZzTamElTWcz5xqDCrNlYsvmNq/s200/merveille-me.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merveille wants me to be her mother</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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 <i>we love because he first loved us</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> (1 John 4:19). The desire to love and be loved is part of who we are. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Love is a choice. Love is an action. Love gives without expecting anything in return and true love does not go unnoticed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. <o:p></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">These kids love you back more than you could imagine!</span></div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-20837973849738288962011-03-23T15:39:00.008-04:002011-04-01T03:58:53.907-04:00Learning the ways of African women: Cooking Edition<div class="MsoNormal">So a yeke legue ni ti awali ti Beafrika. <i>This is the way of the women of Central Africa. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.)</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5p5f-Y0N9_hLVJL5znyTeYK5Ry03ZMr9vjc9wyQCjPShqGqBkZRa9ALtcRIeb7ZuasSJWgRxPqzgVw1Gii-rr8suLEHrL8IJ-zz-3uVq1-iyocfiKwqn27OzqFb4e6B-UHiZLfOPeUi8B/s1600/0322meat1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5p5f-Y0N9_hLVJL5znyTeYK5Ry03ZMr9vjc9wyQCjPShqGqBkZRa9ALtcRIeb7ZuasSJWgRxPqzgVw1Gii-rr8suLEHrL8IJ-zz-3uVq1-iyocfiKwqn27OzqFb4e6B-UHiZLfOPeUi8B/s320/0322meat1.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">step 2: prepare the <i>nyama</i> (meat)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2AoOMLUT5JcuaFY-dhFentdpxqaSyjlKMoa6BT0OaCnlzUozCKQcpVPNp4PsyrNV3YSkiUhBPLwVjXzm1CAMLPFBjBLdmq15iRGQaO_sIXMLr6F-Iz4FXYfuqFuKyXYn9FLKScVLLvZft/s1600/0322meat-washing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2AoOMLUT5JcuaFY-dhFentdpxqaSyjlKMoa6BT0OaCnlzUozCKQcpVPNp4PsyrNV3YSkiUhBPLwVjXzm1CAMLPFBjBLdmq15iRGQaO_sIXMLr6F-Iz4FXYfuqFuKyXYn9FLKScVLLvZft/s400/0322meat-washing.jpg" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">cleaning the <i>bagara </i>(beef)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOP0cOfcn0GDr1kdJUHn_FmAh3dICDP92UHmZALER0PWOodB-SaSsp9WKocuszG57AcKOI9nSMbkRPCfNBmN4oLVWzE6MDn6PIxtKMblKKmsP5nO1N6bdwcHN8aEt_8gLGW__JO1_64rlT/s1600/0322onion-cutting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOP0cOfcn0GDr1kdJUHn_FmAh3dICDP92UHmZALER0PWOodB-SaSsp9WKocuszG57AcKOI9nSMbkRPCfNBmN4oLVWzE6MDn6PIxtKMblKKmsP5nO1N6bdwcHN8aEt_8gLGW__JO1_64rlT/s320/0322onion-cutting.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">step 3: cut up the onions</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyEJJb5AsKT8na6lgy6v7OBZum2r3ayxIP28DuzGW77TMlafbCBd0CQCzJ1s-0eYArG2aJhYjYkJf3Z0cxDcqTbFdnjkBgyMpAF463YmdyU0tvc3YNSBLZRUOBCAv0jlvQhsOPP-R4jVS/s1600/0322me-cait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyEJJb5AsKT8na6lgy6v7OBZum2r3ayxIP28DuzGW77TMlafbCBd0CQCzJ1s-0eYArG2aJhYjYkJf3Z0cxDcqTbFdnjkBgyMpAF463YmdyU0tvc3YNSBLZRUOBCAv0jlvQhsOPP-R4jVS/s400/0322me-cait.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">our pot full of meat and onions! (yes I did use a big knife and no I didn't cut myself!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Step 4: add a little oil and water and put the pot on the fire.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7z2T9sitXzjKwoRqSjWqPScLoFFAtT5M7vK75Gn7SDRq3sKiuNsEuNdRRTlQ7NWOWkjDuK6w-pFoFsPGUqFjA4eX8R8hy4DuEC2q483nMHw47kYlxUk1ESjlPO1GLGNQSb0BHTtIgLUO_/s1600/0322pot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7z2T9sitXzjKwoRqSjWqPScLoFFAtT5M7vK75Gn7SDRq3sKiuNsEuNdRRTlQ7NWOWkjDuK6w-pFoFsPGUqFjA4eX8R8hy4DuEC2q483nMHw47kYlxUk1ESjlPO1GLGNQSb0BHTtIgLUO_/s200/0322pot.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwIQM0AkZ3eT-vbsSe_aMx5z3VRJgksNO8ho9bTtKndXd1UJDBRxTVY4R7XKasOw1G8uZu0oOU9Gm39rnl3BXykBFyP9LtBBoG1LH6q2_p7zgR2eS0fh9JIg2xZhcC8E3qDcwIr1XaiOYZ/s1600/0322kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwIQM0AkZ3eT-vbsSe_aMx5z3VRJgksNO8ho9bTtKndXd1UJDBRxTVY4R7XKasOw1G8uZu0oOU9Gm39rnl3BXykBFyP9LtBBoG1LH6q2_p7zgR2eS0fh9JIg2xZhcC8E3qDcwIr1XaiOYZ/s320/0322kitchen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the outdoor kitchen</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGK3UsMOiJMQ21UIXFP8AWnK06G1KgyYnqc3Hu0ezoWbFM6A2hqT1APvxrMxXov4onsLX7WNXmw3H2ctUTHyRgfkKDIy8AHq8r-FZYA5l7mJ8msrxJOSXuONFS36NqBl-VXJ56ki9MDPzp/s1600/0322veke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGK3UsMOiJMQ21UIXFP8AWnK06G1KgyYnqc3Hu0ezoWbFM6A2hqT1APvxrMxXov4onsLX7WNXmw3H2ctUTHyRgfkKDIy8AHq8r-FZYA5l7mJ8msrxJOSXuONFS36NqBl-VXJ56ki9MDPzp/s200/0322veke.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>veke (</i>okra<i>)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Step 5: cut up the <i>veke</i> 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) </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFFDnK9jJFD_RUKrdV7FHp-7Jftu9rHZoRYrgo0cd4Hwvf-7iSQQNZVyeegUw28hADn5kuV7keP1VyPWM_CZn-Hq5Zha8u-lOC_B6dajemGudG-V8bL2wM0G1VqzDj-mizekUJRp4Wg-J/s1600/0322onlooker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFFDnK9jJFD_RUKrdV7FHp-7Jftu9rHZoRYrgo0cd4Hwvf-7iSQQNZVyeegUw28hADn5kuV7keP1VyPWM_CZn-Hq5Zha8u-lOC_B6dajemGudG-V8bL2wM0G1VqzDj-mizekUJRp4Wg-J/s320/0322onlooker.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">an enthralled onlooker</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmm-vfIP6Y3FubtUfu0_b-vQ-DtDl8Q4gGVJbDJIvGA9BAp1M7UrT3JAl0HR4BwnQVyWPzmsQdZmr8iC3sASkKo_sJw530WIEJOpVC_lH1Arh9vVTOJoMZPX2oZWNFPBcMjmmTI9LzEzH5/s1600/0322onlooker2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmm-vfIP6Y3FubtUfu0_b-vQ-DtDl8Q4gGVJbDJIvGA9BAp1M7UrT3JAl0HR4BwnQVyWPzmsQdZmr8iC3sASkKo_sJw530WIEJOpVC_lH1Arh9vVTOJoMZPX2oZWNFPBcMjmmTI9LzEzH5/s200/0322onlooker2.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumgnal0uhAQFDghqf9xp1YCX00uOzS3yvbVtkSC1bDpib7b7m9MQxtZkDE39vt8jRyNowQIeUXYyn4cUVj-sRpPKGXmxVcv5FUr1qWK8OZjLSHZ5SgiMzTyLfhFMRnD9ZANCS97v9e64d/s1600/0322pika-gozo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumgnal0uhAQFDghqf9xp1YCX00uOzS3yvbVtkSC1bDpib7b7m9MQxtZkDE39vt8jRyNowQIeUXYyn4cUVj-sRpPKGXmxVcv5FUr1qWK8OZjLSHZ5SgiMzTyLfhFMRnD9ZANCS97v9e64d/s400/0322pika-gozo.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">step 6: pound the <i>gozo</i> (manioc root) into flour</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-Y5QDXwxSrg7JJlKDrnTUPcsrEOkCa4MvvntJEcV7O_a6W5RFhQfyWsnu30fz4YGjMrPxyXLYYz1DCGsKffHLKQDtX-uxkcr8Rhsaa5UrUJWaH1ceCG6vzjYAbDCVlnpT31Qr7yN1uLl/s1600/0322pika-gozo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-Y5QDXwxSrg7JJlKDrnTUPcsrEOkCa4MvvntJEcV7O_a6W5RFhQfyWsnu30fz4YGjMrPxyXLYYz1DCGsKffHLKQDtX-uxkcr8Rhsaa5UrUJWaH1ceCG6vzjYAbDCVlnpT31Qr7yN1uLl/s320/0322pika-gozo2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv3TKstODaMrYyVky_f28lX2yHdcW2J-4zAISUrnBYjMk18oMarLHq2roioW2S9hxHnDSYS69QT0LX7_gLEjVcRCjj92mrIk5AFm5XfmpnKet2tWJ26w6TcmhI2Vt4nnwp2CDk0M1A0Aq/s1600/0322cooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv3TKstODaMrYyVky_f28lX2yHdcW2J-4zAISUrnBYjMk18oMarLHq2roioW2S9hxHnDSYS69QT0LX7_gLEjVcRCjj92mrIk5AFm5XfmpnKet2tWJ26w6TcmhI2Vt4nnwp2CDk0M1A0Aq/s400/0322cooks.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the cooks checking on the meat sauce</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUj8wSAZvThUxK7vXJyuDhlotez-7z2SlEmN_kWkLn1Gh9KCa-ZhBIoSQn2o-5coMnfy3uCCyoFPsFoINYJwBxLw-yEPvJy7D1227ZYdqeKnHHCbxceP7Gbp2P726m9Hb3P6QZFqdWUX1/s1600/0322cait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUj8wSAZvThUxK7vXJyuDhlotez-7z2SlEmN_kWkLn1Gh9KCa-ZhBIoSQn2o-5coMnfy3uCCyoFPsFoINYJwBxLw-yEPvJy7D1227ZYdqeKnHHCbxceP7Gbp2P726m9Hb3P6QZFqdWUX1/s320/0322cait.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">step 7: mix the <i>gozo </i>with boiling water</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUA22SNUQkwE4agr5os4U5dHfOsafcQ0FBG6Onf1wmxCZpsZabYVWLG2xXJsq3BMbHpjuKKw-qHOLE6gkxM6u9y1KFmbve5vDg_SdS05uEEUG8lBf9sLKxfm9Yza2lR0mU-6yyGr23rez7/s1600/0322marie-claire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUA22SNUQkwE4agr5os4U5dHfOsafcQ0FBG6Onf1wmxCZpsZabYVWLG2xXJsq3BMbHpjuKKw-qHOLE6gkxM6u9y1KFmbve5vDg_SdS05uEEUG8lBf9sLKxfm9Yza2lR0mU-6yyGr23rez7/s320/0322marie-claire.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marie Claire makes this look easy. It's not.</td></tr>
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</div><i>Gozo </i>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!!!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZNnQ2i7sD-E3bMUtxrSHuuHNiLF1VpKv9w_GIx_fqVKlBzf1G90NgZh-AqJvZ5pK4lMMHQQzuFpxjonIhVPO99ZmApdLdSspB93lqRV0LpDDWiN2whCcMPOb2H0KuzAS2pr5pZi6i7sKC/s1600/0322gozo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZNnQ2i7sD-E3bMUtxrSHuuHNiLF1VpKv9w_GIx_fqVKlBzf1G90NgZh-AqJvZ5pK4lMMHQQzuFpxjonIhVPO99ZmApdLdSspB93lqRV0LpDDWiN2whCcMPOb2H0KuzAS2pr5pZi6i7sKC/s200/0322gozo.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our fresh cooked <i>gozo</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJlY4702MN-ABn1FqIDmwbsp6IZxpZdk3e_EL3BK662tefUBfVW6DicLhYos9oYjmcdFpw0qBhuoMUW2-0MpcBXCigZv-ooLM-K-z2dTubXztwCJ5Tkfs9HDYNMeu_xKxr3WO1DYmeWa2D/s1600/0322kobe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJlY4702MN-ABn1FqIDmwbsp6IZxpZdk3e_EL3BK662tefUBfVW6DicLhYos9oYjmcdFpw0qBhuoMUW2-0MpcBXCigZv-ooLM-K-z2dTubXztwCJ5Tkfs9HDYNMeu_xKxr3WO1DYmeWa2D/s400/0322kobe.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">the final product ready to be eaten!</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
There you have it! Seven simple steps to a tasty African meal. </div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-53767647016228389782011-03-21T15:41:00.002-04:002011-03-21T16:29:25.304-04:00Living it up in Bangui: my random weekendBus ride from the orphan center to the market at <i>Kilometer</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Cinq:</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 125 cfa</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Knock-off Haviana sandals: 800 cfa</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lunch for 5 from a roadside African restaurant: 2,600 cfa</div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple dozen mangoes: 600 cfa</div><div class="MsoNormal">An hour of tennis lessons at the Bangui tennis club: 3,000 cfa</div><div class="MsoNormal">Orange sodas and fresh rolls at Café Phoenicia: 1,700 cfa</div><div class="MsoNormal">Boat ride on the Oubangui River: 2,000 cfa<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Dinner at the restaurant on the rocks: 5,000 cfa<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hot chocolate from the Grand Café: 1,250 cfa<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The experience of it all: priceless</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe I splurged a bit this past weekend but it was worth it. There are some things you just can’t put a price on. More than once I just couldn't help but laugh at my African life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here are a few snapshots of my random African weekend:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvS8zB7eYXSRgZt95F8he1Q_y8-Fb71C1WygZB-8RZtyB03z3E2JiXNThwqV_DFKRus03R2DtTk0jeaF4IYTR7DxM9l3l4RRFwKBmTVELE_GxTa0gFR92wgOdZqobaFgZRzD_BIdp-o03U/s1600/0318phc-girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvS8zB7eYXSRgZt95F8he1Q_y8-Fb71C1WygZB-8RZtyB03z3E2JiXNThwqV_DFKRus03R2DtTk0jeaF4IYTR7DxM9l3l4RRFwKBmTVELE_GxTa0gFR92wgOdZqobaFgZRzD_BIdp-o03U/s200/0318phc-girls.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christelle, Lisa, and Mylene</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">1) Me crammed in the back of a little bus with three high school PHC girls, a goat, a dead monkey, and a whole bunch of Africans all chatting it up in Sango as we head to the market to go shoe shopping. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2) Getting my hair braided by Lisa, Christelle, and Mylene. The process was a bit painful and I looked a little ghetto when they were done but whatever.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKo8uwjUvjXaM2ZPIWRvvKjCgFKuEqFyGzk2iFnocvenex19MtYk3urKM-tdXH76IVLLxrkwXhMAX0_q0sV5lYC2fw8ZvffYmH8xgVpnP2xAzNKcLUVXZFIsxR03FiDfdhpcGa-SBQ3aG/s1600/0318girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKo8uwjUvjXaM2ZPIWRvvKjCgFKuEqFyGzk2iFnocvenex19MtYk3urKM-tdXH76IVLLxrkwXhMAX0_q0sV5lYC2fw8ZvffYmH8xgVpnP2xAzNKcLUVXZFIsxR03FiDfdhpcGa-SBQ3aG/s320/0318girls.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3) Overheating in the humid 100-degree weather. I was comfortably settled on my porch reading a book on Saturday when all of a sudden my phone started making strange ringing noises. I flipped open my phone and read the warning message: <i>Calls or applications should be shut down to cool the phone. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">You know it’s really hot when even your phone starts freaking out about the heat!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAURMW1rCJ1DtwhdjEYPiRPelgP2oI2dkmfZkpTDPrPPf-j1kg8h0noAZYvGws7hPHUJEuKv0Z88MHyl5MsXeYhMU_PXAaHw_J8-o2sjcVJtUAkyEquxkPKOm04lWYP71-Oxkru49QCaUg/s1600/0319blanche.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAURMW1rCJ1DtwhdjEYPiRPelgP2oI2dkmfZkpTDPrPPf-j1kg8h0noAZYvGws7hPHUJEuKv0Z88MHyl5MsXeYhMU_PXAaHw_J8-o2sjcVJtUAkyEquxkPKOm04lWYP71-Oxkru49QCaUg/s320/0319blanche.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blanche in front of a random memorial</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">4) Playing tennis with Blanche. We should probably stick with soccer because it was painfully obvious we’re not tennis players. The workers at the tennis club laughed at us a lot but Blanche and I had fun and, thanks to all the coaching, by the end of our hour of tennis we could actually keep the ball in the court.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrN2GycsA93DTFK6h91I-cO3T-uoiDt_9d3-qdLx0LUslAbZKbcxhBqkKGdXSreU4C010cXdK9aVRdX1stdazdRNowsdyBRSshJbp6_vhD6U6XX78AqyNvubdJJ281W2jbJO1iAgArozo/s1600/0319tennis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrN2GycsA93DTFK6h91I-cO3T-uoiDt_9d3-qdLx0LUslAbZKbcxhBqkKGdXSreU4C010cXdK9aVRdX1stdazdRNowsdyBRSshJbp6_vhD6U6XX78AqyNvubdJJ281W2jbJO1iAgArozo/s320/0319tennis.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me and Blanche: Tennis experts!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">5) Waking up freezing to a thunderstorm Sunday morning. It’s supposedly dry season but it rained for hours straight and I had to pull out my sweatshirt. I was supposed to play in a sports ministry soccer game at the university for True Love Waits but that didn’t happen and Heidi said it was raining too hard to go to church so I read, watched Psych, and ate pancakes instead.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">6) Bartering for mangoes. It’s mango season and there are people darting all around town with long sticks picking mangoes off the trees and then selling them. There’s a row of mango vendors a couple blocks from my house. Why they all decided to sell mangoes at the exact same place I’m not sure but it made bartering a whole lot more fun!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">7) Going for a walk with Matt and Caitlin that turned into a trip down the river. We met a random guy by the river who told us he had a dugout canoe and could take us for a ride at the great price of 2,500 cfa each. I had nothing better to do so I bartered him into taking all three of us out on the river for a total of 2,000 cfa. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLaPUG3EWuSNsEO9cri2mvN5da-pIZeCGbN1NgdLrR-D-jFK9ii6gDuKeO5YRcaPyeuJ78Al0hjkeEMWMwk5klriOnz2bIIK3bBzwu0vglUQmaaV9Z1oC03jBHnJyFC2Q5QoxGUc9ESir2/s1600/0320boat-me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLaPUG3EWuSNsEO9cri2mvN5da-pIZeCGbN1NgdLrR-D-jFK9ii6gDuKeO5YRcaPyeuJ78Al0hjkeEMWMwk5klriOnz2bIIK3bBzwu0vglUQmaaV9Z1oC03jBHnJyFC2Q5QoxGUc9ESir2/s320/0320boat-me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">out on the river!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJ-OCPgtJs_4U8SvzQADrWqCrPaU7GENKntGpPKVDA_BVEybJ7t4W3CzbU3STgSTVN2CcyG4aLKDND_v4W5jqZaBj_4ZRTWyxWjek250dmMutDn-sHF2x8gW1-WWCrvquhHm4rnBFhs_Y/s1600/0320matt-cait-me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJ-OCPgtJs_4U8SvzQADrWqCrPaU7GENKntGpPKVDA_BVEybJ7t4W3CzbU3STgSTVN2CcyG4aLKDND_v4W5jqZaBj_4ZRTWyxWjek250dmMutDn-sHF2x8gW1-WWCrvquhHm4rnBFhs_Y/s320/0320matt-cait-me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt, Caitlin, and me</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">8) Eating out at the Ubangui Hotel restaurant on the rocks. Shortly after ordering we watched an African head out to the market and then come back after a while with the ingredients for the food we’d ordered. Nothing like fresh! Good thing there was live music and a beautiful view of the river to keep us entertained while we waited. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYZsoJwIv3ZlSij6wxQFc-djqj8Nj3kybmRtoh8pCkV_HwSPqhCsrN5lRfwZ8v71fw9LgyboVQx91gtEbKsQmg-OQPkDtB0UpLONSdsOhj0rFrXaQaexBElYKYF1LMb7ZpjOhwsJpcI4v/s1600/0320ubangui2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYZsoJwIv3ZlSij6wxQFc-djqj8Nj3kybmRtoh8pCkV_HwSPqhCsrN5lRfwZ8v71fw9LgyboVQx91gtEbKsQmg-OQPkDtB0UpLONSdsOhj0rFrXaQaexBElYKYF1LMb7ZpjOhwsJpcI4v/s400/0320ubangui2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ubangui River</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">This is Africa. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing happens fast and things rarely happen as planned. It’s random. One day you think you might die from overheating, the next day you’re wearing sweatshirts and making campfires in your driveway to keep warm. You barter for a pile of mangoes from a bunch of goofy young boys and then turn around and spend twice that amount on one cup of hot chocolate at the café down the road. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve decided it’s best not to overanalyze life in Africa… </div><div class="MsoNormal">Love it. Hate it. It’s easiest just to embrace it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
(p.s. 460 cfa = $1.00 us)</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-17900543005899319642011-03-15T16:45:00.003-04:002011-03-15T16:50:55.884-04:00Bonne Fete de President!<div class="MsoNormal">Today François Bozizé was re-inaugurated into the Central African presidency… a great excuse for a national holiday (which was declared yesterday) and much celebrating. There wasn’t school today and around noon when I wandered down the normally lively streets to a café for lunch I could hear the inauguration speech blasting out of radios and televisions. Our guard, along with half the city, was decked out in the <i>don’t-shoot-me </i>orange<span style="font-style: normal;"> Bozize campaign garb for the special occasion. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9CcmKvsWqUpTeaaWOnVFGSSftkTngMb0nTcrROagldKP7gIIXTcfCHpxHzQGwj3uKkaMxSjUuiLVN9Pb-BJnY9J8w6fOowRorGg7w45EtgUOwBR534FXEMCcG0oiP6-oWdX5iLHrt4rj/s1600/francois-bozize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9CcmKvsWqUpTeaaWOnVFGSSftkTngMb0nTcrROagldKP7gIIXTcfCHpxHzQGwj3uKkaMxSjUuiLVN9Pb-BJnY9J8w6fOowRorGg7w45EtgUOwBR534FXEMCcG0oiP6-oWdX5iLHrt4rj/s320/francois-bozize.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">our guard listening to Bozize on his radio</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There really has been a lot of hype and orange lately. I don’t actually know why people get so excited about Bozize. It’s probably his good looks and charisma. Or maybe the people were just excited the elections are officially over and they don’t have to worry about them anymore. The elections were originally set for April 25, 2010 and they only just got around to it last month. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I realized today I know pretty much nothing about President Bozizé… except that he lead a rebellion in 2003 against the last president and starting a civil war, which ended with him seizing power and becoming president and I’ve also been told that he doesn’t pay his government workers. Great guy. In an attempt to fix my ignorance and figure out why everybody loves Bozize I hopped onto the internet to do some research. I was not disappointed by Wikipedia’s long article outlining his life. It’s basically a list of military attacks, fleeing, him seeking refuge in France after a prison sentence, taking over Central Africa and ultimately becoming president. I still don’t know what he’s done as president. Not much I guess.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYRmW3J23dyR_8wOmrsB8THI-gf0aLuPtVcwC_rFY8Ec1Xf7nQm2wz-JH-C1B4UkGYLBJa6KksFpkXt_AC4K1mE3FX5fD-lEnQu37AoRoERqIjTYaukqXdgjbTuFXp3U9c3QyD39Tc4Mf/s1600/1239975604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYRmW3J23dyR_8wOmrsB8THI-gf0aLuPtVcwC_rFY8Ec1Xf7nQm2wz-JH-C1B4UkGYLBJa6KksFpkXt_AC4K1mE3FX5fD-lEnQu37AoRoERqIjTYaukqXdgjbTuFXp3U9c3QyD39Tc4Mf/s200/1239975604.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bozize. photo credits to google images</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But good news! He’s got plans for his next five-year term. In one of his quotes from the swearing-in ceremony today that I found online Bozize said, "For my second five-year term [or maybe it'll be a six or seven-year term if I can successfully postpone the elections again], my most absolute wish is to consolidate tirelessly the work of national reconstruction undertaken since the leap ahead of 2003." I have no idea what that is supposed to mean but it sounds positive. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What I do know is that after Bozize came to power his rule established a form of peace. After experiencing the terrible events of the civil war (I guess that’s what you’d call it) not very long ago, peace is something the Central Africans do not want to part with. I am praying, for the sake of these people, that this country will truly continue to experience peace and I, along with most everyone else in this country, am praising God that these elections were so peaceful (there’s a reason to celebrate). Happy François Bozizé day!<o:p></o:p></div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-56910650914281443642011-03-12T18:07:00.001-05:002011-03-12T18:10:34.463-05:00At last… a day full of football!<div class="MsoNormal">The black Adidas Sambas I brought with me to Africa are covered in red dirt and mango juice. My muscles are a bit sore and I am slightly dehydrated. I think I might’ve sweat more today under the hot African sun than in all my time in Africa combined (which is saying a lot). And… I don’t mind one bit because today I finally got to play me some African soccer!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">True to the nature of living in Africa, even playing soccer comes in extremes. It’s all or nothing. Up until now, I haven’t been successful in finding people to play soccer with. I have been experiencing serious soccer withdrawal! Well today, like a rainfall after months of dry season, soccer finally returned to my life. I met a few Project Hope and Charité girls this past week that like to play soccer so we decided we were going to have a match at the center this morning. I showed up at 7am with a soccer ball and spent the next two hours slipping around the gravelly field with PHC kids playing a match of girls verse boys. I’m not sure who won but we all had a good time.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplpGFWES2Qh0KHzSSxwZneqU2J3Dh8qHi8_7FRgraAK4zCmi_T3HmYdT3lF14uQKLsx-aQajh6UgL6z0zO_PqHzuSsNJGfidAr0CcLrJ5ywIt7hRwZPk10BLt6BbLd93A3u2eaMkib8wv/s1600/0312phc-soccer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiplpGFWES2Qh0KHzSSxwZneqU2J3Dh8qHi8_7FRgraAK4zCmi_T3HmYdT3lF14uQKLsx-aQajh6UgL6z0zO_PqHzuSsNJGfidAr0CcLrJ5ywIt7hRwZPk10BLt6BbLd93A3u2eaMkib8wv/s320/0312phc-soccer.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">soccer at PHC</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">There’s more... In my search for girls (or anyone) to play soccer with I’ve been in contact with some soccer players at the university in Bangui. They keep saying there will be games and I keep trying to show up for them but they haven’t happened yet. What has happened is that I’ve made a new friend who loves soccer as much as me, a girl my age named Blanche. Today Blanche called me up and told me I should come play soccer with her this afternoon. YES! More soccer! So, after recovering from the morning soccer match, off I went to play a pick-up game in Blache’s neighborhood (we were the only two girls so it definitely wasn’t girls verse boys this time). It was great!<br />
<br />
To top off the day of playing African soccer Blanche and I played around with some of her nephews in her front yard dribbling a partially deflated soccer ball around mangoes, chickens, and women carrying buckets on their heads and shooting on goals marked with rocks. If only every day could be like this!</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-35240565706877869022011-03-06T16:41:00.001-05:002011-03-06T16:44:21.127-05:00Call me multicultural… call me a cultural misfit<div class="MsoNormal">Call it what you like: I’m a young, white, American girl living in the middle of Africa attempting to speak a tribal language and trying to learn French too all the while living with German and American missionaries, working with a bunch of really cool Africans who don’t speak any English, and hanging out with expat Europeans and Americans. I am so multicultural!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are three main people groups I spend time with here in Bangui: Africans, expats, and full-time missionaries. It’s an interesting mix of cultures and, to put it bluntly, I don’t fit in with any of them. Maybe that's part of being multicultural but sometimes I feel like I’m a total cultural misfit missing my niche. It’s not all bad, just a little lonely and exhausting at times.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwgcZ5qyepNNYwszEb_sK6XkyoZ3pqyLsA2hh2GK0RGvk25tuLI8ScPMfOmi4E6DgETmAijwc5XOGxrIrN261YAI-0PhVMJd1H_6tUaA4qVpkV8FZzKuWAQi6aghj-E1yCS6kldAJ6oRE/s1600/0217me-girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTwgcZ5qyepNNYwszEb_sK6XkyoZ3pqyLsA2hh2GK0RGvk25tuLI8ScPMfOmi4E6DgETmAijwc5XOGxrIrN261YAI-0PhVMJd1H_6tUaA4qVpkV8FZzKuWAQi6aghj-E1yCS6kldAJ6oRE/s320/0217me-girls.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with two of my African friends: Matilde and Williame</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I definitely don’t blend in with Africans because… well… I look different for one. I stick out like a French-fry stuck in the middle of bowl of cocoa puff cereal. I also don’t understand how African culture works and every time I think I’ve got things figured out I realize that I really have no clue. I guess there are just some things about African culture I will never understand. It also doesn't help that I’m not fluent in their language making it hard to have many significant conversations. Bottom line: being a white American girl, no matter how hard I try to blend in with this culture, I will always be treated as different.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hanging out with the expat community I at least look like them. However, being here as an American missionary intern, I can’t say I fit in with the lifestyle of the affluent, well dressing, French speaking Europeans and Americans who go about their diplomatic work and hang out in their large air conditioned homes, eating at French restaurants, and going to cocktail parties with important people. They’re cool people and I like them and like hanging out in their air conditioned homes with them but they live a different lifestyle than I do here.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The third category is the full-time missionaries and this is the closest I get to fitting in. Most of the full time missionaries here are over 40, speak Sango fluently, go to bed early and wake up early to do lots of work. That doesn’t quite describe me so I can’t say I fit in with this way of life either. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfz_XDsAa0yYkXfBFcJYyNUTXMuGX-0QhQ-SV17nqAweH4MBTAN7mnKZij5coPGUXlFdWv2ZyePxFPxGExi8cvVcNmrUpqN45rVXjjzPm5UTXqt59LrY7jZCm1KzaI1SxUjYAUaZmBZoBZ/s1600/0306me-ellen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfz_XDsAa0yYkXfBFcJYyNUTXMuGX-0QhQ-SV17nqAweH4MBTAN7mnKZij5coPGUXlFdWv2ZyePxFPxGExi8cvVcNmrUpqN45rVXjjzPm5UTXqt59LrY7jZCm1KzaI1SxUjYAUaZmBZoBZ/s320/0306me-ellen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ellen and me hanging out at the sweet new park in town</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I am very glad for the fact that there are other Americans about my age living in Bangui at the moment: Caitlin and Matt with GBIM, Ellen working at an international school down the road, and Sophie, the US ambassador’s daughter. We’re all very different but we have a good time exploring the city together and planning fun adventures. Maybe I do have my own little niche. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t write this blog post with the intentions of making you feel sorry for me… just to help you understand the unique situation I’m living in right now. I say I’m living a multicultural lifestyle and it’s true on so many levels. I’m learning the importance of being a person who appreciates many ways of life and loves many different types of people and also stays true to the life God has called me to live.</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-78946036864135182132011-02-25T16:29:00.002-05:002011-02-25T16:37:05.360-05:00makala making, museums, mocaf, and my mom<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 11pt;">tourist</span><span style="font-family: HiraMinPro-W3; font-size: 11pt;"> |</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman Italic'; font-size: 11pt;">ˈ</span><span style="font-family: HiraMinPro-W3; font-size: 11pt;">to</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 11pt;">ŏ</span><span style="font-family: HiraMinPro-W3; font-size: 11pt;">rist|</span><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 11pt;"> noun<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman; font-size: 11pt;"><i>A person who is traveling or visiting a place for pleasure</i></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m pretty sure there’s no word for “tourist” in the Sango language. If by chance there is a word, I’m quite sure it rarely gets used. Bangui may be the capital city of the Central African Republic but if you’re on the search for entertainment this city is probably bottom on the list of places to visit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">This is why I feel quite triumphant at the fact that in the past week my mom and I have successfully pulled off being Bangui tourists! Leave it to my mom and me to accomplish the impossible. I played the role of tour guide, activities coordinator, and translator while my mom was the sightseer. (Hopefully we weren’t too stereotypical but then again, who’s to say what a typical Bangui tourist looks like?!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Like all good tourists, we did our fair share of shopping. We hit up all the markets from <i>centre ville marche </i><span style="font-style: normal;">where we bought fresh pineapple and watermelon to </span><i>Kilometre cinq</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Pk 12, </span><i>Be’Afrique Art, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and of course the tourist catch all: the local artisan market where you can buy dead butterflies, colorful African dresses, elephant hair bracelets, carved wood statues of hippos wearing hats and all sorts of other great things all for a beautiful price if you’re any good at bargaining. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchZXamMpK9-XcSkXvsxcLdkiGPPcs_9mzvd-FOKzx5h4TNQYM3KrIIWSVPhOvmQki_yXL_nS6tFplE-wZq9A8cr62Pi02yM8f6jNLCnQ0CnqK1l9a6Elr0QBlshkpcfyJhb1vp2xaNFT9/s1600/0223african-dresses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchZXamMpK9-XcSkXvsxcLdkiGPPcs_9mzvd-FOKzx5h4TNQYM3KrIIWSVPhOvmQki_yXL_nS6tFplE-wZq9A8cr62Pi02yM8f6jNLCnQ0CnqK1l9a6Elr0QBlshkpcfyJhb1vp2xaNFT9/s320/0223african-dresses.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had African clothes special made for us. Now we blend right in!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznGVm4NwGN6MHI8IzbMlSrUjyTmwbJCme3RNyaCMsSPyBC7FTm3-N_Sh5642uom3nXviwnDt02iysPzOC8DHopsaYV_hFFYS8RES-yUaXfzdF0d0u8nEbR4AsTgY1V9U1f4O9vWOhZS19/s1600/0220raymond-flambou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznGVm4NwGN6MHI8IzbMlSrUjyTmwbJCme3RNyaCMsSPyBC7FTm3-N_Sh5642uom3nXviwnDt02iysPzOC8DHopsaYV_hFFYS8RES-yUaXfzdF0d0u8nEbR4AsTgY1V9U1f4O9vWOhZS19/s320/0220raymond-flambou.jpg" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raymond receiving his "kamba"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Sunday morning was our cultural experience full of music and dance. Raymond, my best friend from PHC, invited us to go to his Flambeau ceremony. In the Central African Grace Brethren churches there are groups for the young people that are along the lines of scout clubs or awana (the group for boys is called Flambeau and the girls group is Lumiere). At this ceremony the kids are awarded a <i>kamba,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> or scarf, and become official members. It’s a big deal and involves a whole lot of marching, singing, dancing, photographing, perfume, and joy. Being white people, we were treated as honored guests with front row seats in a church crammed with proud Central African relatives. It really was an honor to experience this special ceremony.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGM03nTD1l21xcEM39J8sS_LFhzc7Ye-NL0zEpg2HRj-9BdLvItqPWo-FbeGyGlRF9vNJl-3tHF_izf6QjMnFl5VG0KDzSn0-mbX4VJDXG6uu5wGgaD6VYfH9ZXWDTc4PH25_YiOg_U4m/s1600/0221rocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfGM03nTD1l21xcEM39J8sS_LFhzc7Ye-NL0zEpg2HRj-9BdLvItqPWo-FbeGyGlRF9vNJl-3tHF_izf6QjMnFl5VG0KDzSn0-mbX4VJDXG6uu5wGgaD6VYfH9ZXWDTc4PH25_YiOg_U4m/s320/0221rocks.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise over Congo and the Ubangui</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">To satisfy our adventurous outdoor spirit, my mom and I went on an early morning hiking expedition down to the Ubangui River to catch the sunrise over Congo and to watch the fishermen at work. It was beautiful! (However, if I were handing out a survey after this hike I probably would have received a very low tour guide rating. I’m sorry to say that in the excitement of my “tourist leading” I forgot to keep in mind that my sightseer is in the over-50 age range and not acclimated to the heat. Sorry Mom!) By the time we pulled ourselves away from our perch out on the rocks and made our way around the mountain trail, the sun was already scorching hot!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfk41DHUWDvp74qEJ2SbaUv90RJ3VbA2Vt_4B0VqPuasEgwYsaGg9yBJKOmUzE15NeTTJWYdHjHVqQ16b1ffhJbPevVmY_RHzc7v_RQb7a3J3SNed9jPF8dBvuTCiI6wuxvIsiRTkCQDz4/s1600/0222makala-making.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfk41DHUWDvp74qEJ2SbaUv90RJ3VbA2Vt_4B0VqPuasEgwYsaGg9yBJKOmUzE15NeTTJWYdHjHVqQ16b1ffhJbPevVmY_RHzc7v_RQb7a3J3SNed9jPF8dBvuTCiI6wuxvIsiRTkCQDz4/s320/0222makala-making.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mixing the dough</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Tuesday we focused on the culinary scene with a private cooking demonstration at Marie Claire’s house. We learned how to make makala, sweet dough rolled into small balls and fried in peanut oil. The final product is the African version of a donut hole and very yummy. The process involved first hopping on a crowded green bus and going to the open-air market to buy flour, baking soda, yeast, sugar, and salt (which happened to be right next to the stalls selling all sorts of animal parts covered in flies). We bought a whole lot of flour and as Marie Claire bartered the price down and the vender added more and more flour to the sack and I just stood there wondering how exactly we were supposed to get all our goods home. I shouldn’t have worried. When Marie Claire was finally satisfied with the price and the amount of flour she scooped up the huge sack of flour and balanced it gracefully on her head and weaving her way back through the crowded market like there was nothing to it. Well of course… why hadn’t I thought of that?! At Marie Claire’s house we not only learned how to make makala, we also learned the art of making a cooking fire. Marie Claire’s daughters couldn’t stop laughing when they realized how uneducated we all were on African cooking and fire making!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIi5ymw6I68yRGChNr_BE1NwhIzxhxDvwlqtZsTiiSlctoT51v0muVrgX7-pYKw88ZSPt54Rv0LEFjhFR35m_MqTXjWHOlehv5LVWj78hwIlDzFGS3ykKh6ORohIl8XgnWua7LPvbCdDpW/s1600/0222mk-cait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIi5ymw6I68yRGChNr_BE1NwhIzxhxDvwlqtZsTiiSlctoT51v0muVrgX7-pYKw88ZSPt54Rv0LEFjhFR35m_MqTXjWHOlehv5LVWj78hwIlDzFGS3ykKh6ORohIl8XgnWua7LPvbCdDpW/s320/0222mk-cait.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caitlin ready to make some makala</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqt7L_6SPsIe43XQVPbDorzsJGCOiIjRTo8XoLR-3A_449djv2qUg9DosOmUYMLzDV3bLBdsJ0v9cp42d33wWfk9ILqON2L666MCEE_lW5Gx6VgSuauO5KDipxErxiWSr_WKhcQrTVt6S/s1600/0222-me-mom-mk.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqt7L_6SPsIe43XQVPbDorzsJGCOiIjRTo8XoLR-3A_449djv2qUg9DosOmUYMLzDV3bLBdsJ0v9cp42d33wWfk9ILqON2L666MCEE_lW5Gx6VgSuauO5KDipxErxiWSr_WKhcQrTVt6S/s320/0222-me-mom-mk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Wednesday morning we went to the Central African Republic Museum to learn all about the country’s history and culture. Yes, believe it or not, Bangui does have a museum. If anyone who knew anything at all about proper museum preservation and maintenance wandered into this place they’d probably have a huge heart attack but my mom and I overlooked all this and enjoyed our personal guided tour. It’s not a very large museum but it was interesting none the less and our tour was the extended version due to the fact that the information had to be translated from French into Sango for me and then I had to translate into English for my mom. We were just trying to get our money’s worth. It was pretty easy translating: “And this over here is a document the first president signed… and here is a gorilla someone shot and stuffed 50 years ago… and these are musical instruments Africans use for ceremonies…” Going through the museum reminded me of how culturally rich Central Africa is and still is. The things in the museum are things like you’d see in an American museum covering ancient civilizations or National Geographic like aboriginal cultures but here in Africa it seems strange that these things are in a museum because all you have to do is walk outside and go a little out of town and these things are a part of modern every day life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4XadYJuLalJo5JL_2lw42X3f_Frc-bV4LzFvgzOqMN8MnEhvEDUDeD3hyI8B3SOh1sgZY9IHXass-MTTm_P5ke5JOayiiRcLR0holEIhBVibLWY_LPPR9e1o8faUssVgFXRfPF4WFl7p/s1600/mocaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4XadYJuLalJo5JL_2lw42X3f_Frc-bV4LzFvgzOqMN8MnEhvEDUDeD3hyI8B3SOh1sgZY9IHXass-MTTm_P5ke5JOayiiRcLR0holEIhBVibLWY_LPPR9e1o8faUssVgFXRfPF4WFl7p/s200/mocaf.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our last activity was a tour of the Mocaf factory. Mocaf is the company that produces all Central African beverages including Castel beer and an array of sodas. Factory tours are not a norm here but my friend Sophie (the US ambassador’s daughter) knows one of the French managers so we pulled some strings and got a private tour (too bad the tour was all in French). The factory happens to be the only factory in the whole country and it’s not large, only around 150 workers total. That should tell you something about the shape of this country’s economy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Between all these activities, our trips to the pool, meals in the air conditioned Grand Café and fancy French restaurants with live music, I feel like we pretty much nailed the whole Bangui tourist thing. Mission accomplished.</div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-33169015481249045522011-02-18T03:56:00.003-05:002011-02-26T07:50:51.227-05:00Visitors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I am sitting in a white cement walled office, the fan whirring over my head, one dim tungsten light making funny shadows on the walls, African material hanging in the windows blocking out “the real Africa,” the heat still close to unbearable even though it’s already pitch black outside. Caitlin’s on facebook, Matt is in the corner probably looking up world news online, and my mom is sitting in a chair next to me journaling. I’m attempting to send photos of cute PHC kids to Barb and Brenda in America via email, which means a lot of sitting and waiting because I think our internet was designed to force you to learn patience. Multitasking and writing a blog while I wait for emails to send seems like a good use of my time but for some reason I’m not feeling super inspired sitting here sweating in a hot office.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you ever feel like you have so much to say that you don’t even know where to start so you just don’t even try? Sometimes I have trouble deciding what to blog about because there’s not a whole lot going on but recently there’s been so much happening I don’t even know where to begin. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-7ldpCFnzkP-VBnIHJwbq-W571rFYYhrgL5Gsyhs804P2iIHnftJvYRgyRbk2KEAswuC45hAwtw9SXAXRRMQGM0jXAxXVylTIMBRBGIvHtwuRGSS1YIhI88O1m2gDH_3-Os7hEhmBQUy/s1600/0212mom-amy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-7ldpCFnzkP-VBnIHJwbq-W571rFYYhrgL5Gsyhs804P2iIHnftJvYRgyRbk2KEAswuC45hAwtw9SXAXRRMQGM0jXAxXVylTIMBRBGIvHtwuRGSS1YIhI88O1m2gDH_3-Os7hEhmBQUy/s320/0212mom-amy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me and my mom at Boali Falls</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Hey wait… did I mention my mom is sitting in the same room as me? …in Africa!!! Yep my mom is pretty cool and came all the way to the middle of Africa by herself just to see me! If that doesn’t make someone feel special I don’t know what would.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 337.5pt;">Actually, this past week has been very full of visitors. A team of awesome church leaders from Lititz, PA and Delaware, OH came to visit their Hand-in-Hand orphan schools. The way the Hand-in-Hand program works is that one church in the States partners with a rural church in the Central Africa Republic making it financially possible for the church here to host a school for the orphans of their community. The school provides orphans with a basic education, food, and also helps meet the kids’ spiritual needs and give them hope for a future.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 337.5pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5sS-Q8AJzumHUU56pjZpdQaas3QMRO6_H2l06UYBdoXymKX5TPtsTC_LO7dm8PlRNjaJwmv2VMr9ZOigYnX8xuMKdzmvJj8t0Jwtlag8a40qeC2uKmFfhengFsXoGeT0YFv770S3MYFW/s1600/billie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5sS-Q8AJzumHUU56pjZpdQaas3QMRO6_H2l06UYBdoXymKX5TPtsTC_LO7dm8PlRNjaJwmv2VMr9ZOigYnX8xuMKdzmvJj8t0Jwtlag8a40qeC2uKmFfhengFsXoGeT0YFv770S3MYFW/s200/billie.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Billie with a teacher</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Africa seems like a long ways to come for one week just to visit a school but it’s worth it because of the huge impact it has on both the people coming and the churches here. Having the supporting church send people to come and encourage their partner church in the Central African Republic makes churches and orphans here feel so honored and gives them a sense of value and worth. It’s one thing to simply send money, it’s a whole different thing to be committed to praying and encouraging and truly partnering with people in Africa to the point where you will travel half way across the world just to meet these people and spend time with them. All the people the team visited here were so encouraged to know that the partnering churches in America truly care enough about them to come all the way to Africa just to see them and the work God is doing among them. There’s a huge difference between words and actions and when it comes to giving people hope and a sense of worth it takes more than simply sending a check. Just like it means a lot to me that my mom would come all this way to see me and encourage me in my work and just like it speaks volumes of how much she loves me, so it is with the Hand-in-Hand partnership.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 337.5pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7hTR1It5w_fYMaICb7FPOke6Thf0s5frX-b2b7aw_4CJmbLSSSIF88gK5kfbzdJzq2SbVBR0oDRNaXsjpbAEM2KsvPtXIECCPutVwUygQK5z40GKLSVHHN1cXmD98vEEQHJuJCc3GmV0/s1600/bodali-me-john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy7hTR1It5w_fYMaICb7FPOke6Thf0s5frX-b2b7aw_4CJmbLSSSIF88gK5kfbzdJzq2SbVBR0oDRNaXsjpbAEM2KsvPtXIECCPutVwUygQK5z40GKLSVHHN1cXmD98vEEQHJuJCc3GmV0/s400/bodali-me-john.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">doing my job at Bodali. I had to make a list of all the kids in class and then take individual photos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg9UyiYoF_cMMnfiLIj9-P4vZdj4d22kkF-UtE26G2XAYKVsAPJQRUWG1ktj3jWUIVjstTIHwlhje2THSDoeczbCzkPkU6vkvcQ46n0MoIfEoRHcR6PF9ZTAnjfn4xZGK52znmtCYwsNho/s1600/0212me-john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg9UyiYoF_cMMnfiLIj9-P4vZdj4d22kkF-UtE26G2XAYKVsAPJQRUWG1ktj3jWUIVjstTIHwlhje2THSDoeczbCzkPkU6vkvcQ46n0MoIfEoRHcR6PF9ZTAnjfn4xZGK52znmtCYwsNho/s200/0212me-john.jpg" width="195" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and John- an Africa coworker</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxLNipvZvfElhaHiMMK5Ntr_6RqS-Zua-DvjwTDzVI3pXMmsn3j2Lc3cLJV6p20Ij6MCuXg7Okk-DY27Ym7iF-JpiDS8makqUuciHc9s-qoEvJVOVdf3_GAJQpvaMiY-LL6YB4oFEua4X/s1600/h-n-hclassroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtxLNipvZvfElhaHiMMK5Ntr_6RqS-Zua-DvjwTDzVI3pXMmsn3j2Lc3cLJV6p20Ij6MCuXg7Okk-DY27Ym7iF-JpiDS8makqUuciHc9s-qoEvJVOVdf3_GAJQpvaMiY-LL6YB4oFEua4X/s320/h-n-hclassroom.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">kids singing for their visitors</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDMigpKIkjlQIcx4qI6s7TQV2DpvaAbvr9PYoHNp-4kfykf_cDX5LjYa4zl079vpPXgh0McVAU1gsPggf3yLfPKyD0NBzYVppu_TZIru6O_1uj4XpFdV92iTf-JQ_7SKM96V9K1Z5sZrQ/s1600/0211jump-rope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDMigpKIkjlQIcx4qI6s7TQV2DpvaAbvr9PYoHNp-4kfykf_cDX5LjYa4zl079vpPXgh0McVAU1gsPggf3yLfPKyD0NBzYVppu_TZIru6O_1uj4XpFdV92iTf-JQ_7SKM96V9K1Z5sZrQ/s320/0211jump-rope.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">recess at a hand-in-hand school</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHfBwZSQkbzQIUA_yphewummUJh_DdEE2eycHMlxN45kwIHP3uzlao90zsxSWZAj2k6s-yOBySjoLBXTiiXmoccDZ4VLIsK404DpYLXoj3aK4esj5Yk5BSJdfk8TaKenxyLh85U11Rb35/s1600/bosongoa-river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHfBwZSQkbzQIUA_yphewummUJh_DdEE2eycHMlxN45kwIHP3uzlao90zsxSWZAj2k6s-yOBySjoLBXTiiXmoccDZ4VLIsK404DpYLXoj3aK4esj5Yk5BSJdfk8TaKenxyLh85U11Rb35/s400/bosongoa-river.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">we went to see hippos but they were on holiday</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-N5zlby8kE0971bGsxrB6i5pPW_eoXc-Ad7HE33CMctp9NS1VNyiypZIYe1A7-hL_QKZU3hTLwaGXbKwSb-8X4bkkqqDu5_bDAtALFsJ3dTMgYC5AsFPZxg1_oT9cm0DbMv8vPZkZn5Sf/s1600/mom-williame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-N5zlby8kE0971bGsxrB6i5pPW_eoXc-Ad7HE33CMctp9NS1VNyiypZIYe1A7-hL_QKZU3hTLwaGXbKwSb-8X4bkkqqDu5_bDAtALFsJ3dTMgYC5AsFPZxg1_oT9cm0DbMv8vPZkZn5Sf/s320/mom-williame.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mom taught sewing at the PHC center this week</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsouwSPEmPyM9D_iVp_hPsem56DHs2H2S4IjjPw04BuM6TeeLuE39qOK35HMh51eeVN1KbSqQX6SQM7h-CzXjGUsfiOt60rlDKZo4tK2HdWuClZn992B2usk9M52Ge2i60USOgSluNUApk/s1600/mom-sewingclass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsouwSPEmPyM9D_iVp_hPsem56DHs2H2S4IjjPw04BuM6TeeLuE39qOK35HMh51eeVN1KbSqQX6SQM7h-CzXjGUsfiOt60rlDKZo4tK2HdWuClZn992B2usk9M52Ge2i60USOgSluNUApk/s320/mom-sewingclass.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom with some sewing class kids. They love her!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So there's a little taste of what's up in the CAR this week. I need to get out of this office and spend time with my mom now!!!Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-54142047355573104342011-02-05T17:05:00.003-05:002011-02-06T14:02:07.724-05:00Sometimes Life isn’t all Beautiful<div class="MsoNormal"><i>Blessed are the orphans? </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Blessed are the people mistreated and misrepresented by oppressive and corrupt governments? Blessed are the poverty stricken people that live in crammed neighborhoods full of tiny mud brick houses along dusty pothole covered roads? Yeah, I guess. According to Matthew 5:2-12 (The Beatitudes) a lot of Africans are top candidates for being blessed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d like to think that the world is pretty much good and beautiful and that everyone gets along and bad things rarely happen. I’d like to think that everyone has the opportunity to live a good full life filled with happiness and joy. I wish I could believe it’s true.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you’ve read anything about Africa in the news lately (or tried living in Africa) you quickly realize the world is full of corrupt governments, poverty, sickness, death, sadness, restlessness, rebels, and generally not good things and that there are a lot of people who live in awful circumstances. I generally like to focus on the positive but I’ve been thinking a lot about the hard realities of life for Central Africans. (I also usually like to keep my blog entries short so I apologize but this blog is going to be breaking more that one of my rules of blogging).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why have I been thinking about this? And why did I mention the Beatitudes? I’ll get back to that but first let me introduce you to a few people in my life right now and I think maybe you’ll understand.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdC065QQGvVCedPiWK8Fc4EPTFyELKZnfQUarsaiRpjWYtd-Ae3Pkxnx8iGxnqXdpHc8Hrbsnn0wDrO93GpPlHBNUXScwD1-VfctnqGHjpYfzEYBhsrjdvHLJ2Mj_KX9n_algNMzQW6LbS/s1600/petula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdC065QQGvVCedPiWK8Fc4EPTFyELKZnfQUarsaiRpjWYtd-Ae3Pkxnx8iGxnqXdpHc8Hrbsnn0wDrO93GpPlHBNUXScwD1-VfctnqGHjpYfzEYBhsrjdvHLJ2Mj_KX9n_algNMzQW6LbS/s200/petula.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Petula</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> is one of my technical training sewing class friends. She’s a beautiful 15-year-old Central African girl who always wears jeans and perfume, is very good at knitting, and who seems to be a little hard around the edges. Petula has been a huge help to me as I’ve attempted to learn how to knit and I’ve made an extra effort to get to know her. Both of Petula’s parents have died so she lives with an older brother. He never went to high school so he earns a living for the family driving taxis. Petula tried high school but for some reason quite so now she’s in the PHC technical training. Petula’s story makes me sad but the saddest part is that it is the story of so many young Central Africans. There are so many kids here that have lost their parents, are being raised by siblings, and who don’t have a whole lot of options for their future. What encourages me about Petula is that she at least has PHC and the people there to provide her with love, role models, and hope for a future. There are so many orphans without this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_WiZLp_GUea59n9qECDnPXDPHIYQrPtjNeKMxoqJdugSMPzHblawHjpnoF78wdhShsFoudzzi4VAVF_bTbamrDm8UDbtLN3M9iYGSCm6soJEPVaYXL-NATqTWhyphenhyphenqYgjy9Fii8QML2JT9/s1600/marie-claire-me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_WiZLp_GUea59n9qECDnPXDPHIYQrPtjNeKMxoqJdugSMPzHblawHjpnoF78wdhShsFoudzzi4VAVF_bTbamrDm8UDbtLN3M9iYGSCm6soJEPVaYXL-NATqTWhyphenhyphenqYgjy9Fii8QML2JT9/s200/marie-claire-me.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Marie Claire</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> is my Sango language instructor and my African mother. I have spent a lot of time with this woman struggling through Sango lessons, exploring the city, laughing, crying, and chatting in Sango. Marie Claire can speak Sango, English, French, her village language, and a little bit of Spanish. She has a degree from Bible school (she was the top of her class but she didn’t receive any awards because she’s a girl) and has a passion for teaching and counseling women. She is very intelligent and wise. I look up to her a lot. I went over to her house for lunch last week. It was strange. The normally bubbly Marie Claire seemed very worn out and rightfully so. Women here work hard. She didn’t eat with us because that’s not the custom in Africa. She prepared our food and served us while we just sat there and ate good African food. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoEzFPP9ypRR0vXrVE8jd6Htu3IyWnULJIACMdRrwdoMjjZkjyMLrlhyfdYxTmkIV3riT459cAgV2TFEpQNNmMATEVyr-zghV5-bTq9CLm5Se2jpkfHYqCzMMea5H143vOoBcw-1cHy3Ig/s1600/little-gigi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoEzFPP9ypRR0vXrVE8jd6Htu3IyWnULJIACMdRrwdoMjjZkjyMLrlhyfdYxTmkIV3riT459cAgV2TFEpQNNmMATEVyr-zghV5-bTq9CLm5Se2jpkfHYqCzMMea5H143vOoBcw-1cHy3Ig/s320/little-gigi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Marie Claire and her family (which includes nieces and nephews that are orphans) recently moved to Bangui to look for work. Her husband doesn’t have a job right now so pretty much their income is the money Marie Claire makes teaching Sango to Caitlin, Matt, and me. Her youngest daughter, little Gigi, is an adorable 5-year-old with downs syndrome and she is quite a handful. Another one of her daughters, Leticia, has severe burns from during the war a few years ago. Marie Claire has seen pain and experienced more heartache than I can imagine. Her mom and dad separated when she was a baby. Her mom married another man who beat her to death (literally) leaving Marie Claire an orphan. Marie Claire told me the other day how much she appreciates having a husband who loves God and treats her well. Everyday Marie Claire takes care of her family preparing food for them over a fire, washing their clothes with water pulled up from a well, and making money for her family by teaching Sango. This is her life and she’s grateful for it but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Again, Marie Claire’s story is not unique. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkdTFrOOwvWQYk8TIiReeOieTS6unyMSE2Beg9hvQmsxj0bkbS2va4-yXp3wuN7rOKsXXOLi1FxTtxnCdnj8PqqGyvd0I24pDShKqN3jP3M5eUPiV5gGdc9wVPBtPWaP5N1F5gECr_bqw/s1600/odette_me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkdTFrOOwvWQYk8TIiReeOieTS6unyMSE2Beg9hvQmsxj0bkbS2va4-yXp3wuN7rOKsXXOLi1FxTtxnCdnj8PqqGyvd0I24pDShKqN3jP3M5eUPiV5gGdc9wVPBtPWaP5N1F5gECr_bqw/s320/odette_me.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Odette</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> comes to my house every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning to sell fruit and vegetables. Her son, Raymond, is one of my all-time favorite PHC kids and the smallest 13-year-old high schooler I have ever met. He watches out for me like a brother, always helps me catch the right bus, makes sure I greet the right people, and teaches me all sorts of useful and random things. Odette told me because Raymond is like a brother to me she is my mother. (I’ve been pretty successful at finding African mothers!) I don’t know much about Odette because our chats are never long. I was shocked when I first found out that she is a widow and a grandmother because she looks so young. I was really sad when Ginger told me she has AIDS and a few of her children have already died from it. I’m praying that Raymond doesn’t have AIDS. You know how some people say that people with AIDS have it because of the choices they’ve made? For many people that couldn’t be farther from the truth!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It fascinates me how some people get to live awesome lives full of happiness, prosperity, and “good luck,” while other peoples’ lives seem just the opposite. My dad always tells me life is what you make it and it’s your choice whether you’re happy or not. That’s true, but there are lots of things we have absolutely no control over and no choice in. Some people have great lives and some people struggle. I wish it weren’t this way. It doesn’t seem fair. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2pE5UZ-ekojIKqSh1gyx-wB5LPxq3GJE_ldKxx2o9dnw2VL-fq5xT-jG2YEn-Kg7V_2-RlL2ao3-4NVS_PIKc_rFhgLCN8uJgV53EYeOPdHZjuIpWz9tSGhCDhokcmuBeJBcqGr8_68i/s1600/1104boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2pE5UZ-ekojIKqSh1gyx-wB5LPxq3GJE_ldKxx2o9dnw2VL-fq5xT-jG2YEn-Kg7V_2-RlL2ao3-4NVS_PIKc_rFhgLCN8uJgV53EYeOPdHZjuIpWz9tSGhCDhokcmuBeJBcqGr8_68i/s320/1104boy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I hate that there’s so much imbalance, tension, sadness, heartache, pain, corruption, and violence. It all leads me to the conclusion that there must be something so wrong with this once perfect world that God created and there just has to be something better out there. And there is. The world is definitely not as it should be and even the best of lives is far from gleaming and perfect. Life could be so much more but this is a fallen world. Fallen but not without hope. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">There will come a day when God will set things right. There is something so much better coming that it’s hard for us to even imagine it! When I see all the sadness here it makes me long for heaven. And I think this is why Jesus says in the Beatitudes that the oppressed and sad are blessed: they live each day with a hope for something better. There’s a longing in their hearts for a day when things will be set right and God will not disappoint that longing. He will bring joy, gladness, justice, peace, and everything that is truly good. In all this I’ve been convicted of the urgent need to live with the knowledge that God is stronger and his goodness is far better than anything that we call “good” in this world. The things of this world will disappoint. God won’t. The oppressed and poor are blessed because their hearts long for what is truly good and satisfying. Their hearts long for heaven. They know better than anyone that all is not right and beautiful and they live with a real hope that God will one day turn things right again. I pray that I learn how to live each day in light of that hope.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYFuSOXINmkNXpEXfLVmSj6rX5txAqgaGri_NjPsRy7zoWk-fK5EZtdwdiRqiqrvtfMH-NViGvjhBEcF5gbUCo8lsxIUc5kLfrlO0USXjYkAHN9UQv5F04qvNbPxGpbarwPkzMRXquPNz/s1600/sewing-class.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYFuSOXINmkNXpEXfLVmSj6rX5txAqgaGri_NjPsRy7zoWk-fK5EZtdwdiRqiqrvtfMH-NViGvjhBEcF5gbUCo8lsxIUc5kLfrlO0USXjYkAHN9UQv5F04qvNbPxGpbarwPkzMRXquPNz/s320/sewing-class.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday the sewing class had a special devotional time. During this time a lot of the students stood up and shared, with tears streaming down their faces, the struggles and problems they were facing. It broke my heart listening to all that these kids have been through and are going through and knowing that there’s very little I can do or say to make a difference in their pain. The sewing class instructor read these verses from Psalm 34 to encourage the orphans and I think it’s a good quote to end on:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all.” <o:p></o:p></div>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-6448922179820858802011-01-27T13:06:00.000-05:002011-01-27T13:06:13.347-05:00Gym class!<!--StartFragment--> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvgS_6MkyFHq5X1ScfChH7foESs_mhJOYUWBv82ctmPJuXiZd9_KuhzK0xiZtwXu8fiFoN-PFyq1dVMjUQ7ZvezluFMZfDeWhf6cvYc418DGx9RFSmdYMy6QRrJZ2_1sHv9U5gmR7FqxP/s1600/0127hokey-pokey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvgS_6MkyFHq5X1ScfChH7foESs_mhJOYUWBv82ctmPJuXiZd9_KuhzK0xiZtwXu8fiFoN-PFyq1dVMjUQ7ZvezluFMZfDeWhf6cvYc418DGx9RFSmdYMy6QRrJZ2_1sHv9U5gmR7FqxP/s320/0127hokey-pokey.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">put your right foot in and shake it all about</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">What does gym class with 50 third grade PHC kids look like? Just picture a room full of energetic smiling African girls and boys doing cartwheels, splits, bridges, playing <i>Simon</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Says</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and dancing the hokey pokey. This morning Caitlin and I started teaching special classes for the PHC kids at the center. The goal is to give each class at the center individual time with us interns and to expose the kids to electives they aren’t taught in their classroom. The first PHC gym class was definitely a success! It was a little hectic but the kids did learn a few things, wore off some pent up energy, and overall had a great time. </span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o75W4EI6MR5jr-07AJHf7ysoCkUJcnKOtE74hm6hu5fsQPuDnjMRLk-OlgJAg49hbZE1R4X98lUhrj48KwfIMu80_1graDA6gQK4-9WKP1nbklmiMWRHJSKZAQTBfdj2fr_1A5L4ISN3/s1600/0127splits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o75W4EI6MR5jr-07AJHf7ysoCkUJcnKOtE74hm6hu5fsQPuDnjMRLk-OlgJAg49hbZE1R4X98lUhrj48KwfIMu80_1graDA6gQK4-9WKP1nbklmiMWRHJSKZAQTBfdj2fr_1A5L4ISN3/s200/0127splits.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">attempting the splits</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was in my element jumping around and doing cartwheels with all the kids. Now that Caitlin and I have taught a whole gym class of 50 kids completely in Sango, I feel like we can take on anything!</div><!--EndFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLQeMjW5gmIQUZgdOWLpDM-ISgOHhT6R7LuMsJyk9wV7c5qnAjyNGbgqBInH61Naz8FzMS15IwiHMRImUOsvtbzpSTcrbHQ59Ih2XcgnkUIWLK32of94hakOfJ0fTGE8BhYv-NfuWfPJ_/s1600/gymclass-ce1b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLQeMjW5gmIQUZgdOWLpDM-ISgOHhT6R7LuMsJyk9wV7c5qnAjyNGbgqBInH61Naz8FzMS15IwiHMRImUOsvtbzpSTcrbHQ59Ih2XcgnkUIWLK32of94hakOfJ0fTGE8BhYv-NfuWfPJ_/s400/gymclass-ce1b.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the third grade class we taught today</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4221848773213451498.post-43050314944530430592011-01-25T15:59:00.006-05:002011-01-26T02:45:34.256-05:00an Afternoon with African teenagers<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you ever invite a group of teenage Central Africa girls over to your house be sure to have plenty of chocolate, hair bands, thread for friendship bracelets, and body wash on hand.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: large;"><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The past couple Monday afternoons Caitlin and I have had a few girls from the sewing class over to our house. Yesterday we had a group of five girls over: Petula, another Petula (it’s a popular name here), Wiliame, Audrey, and Nadia. It was fun and definitely an interesting clash of cultures. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7259vRsFVZzCctII32iGJ6nGe5UrTcMDTrWqe6H-QvgPcVSfA6ZmuecRLcSyIRj0dbWX4KJPh-Roxac9V8B6pukFdszzaLIXWSsz7aRLQx4QFE-HfcubSJowdBvhDQo6DguFYs42pYmk/s1600/0124girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7259vRsFVZzCctII32iGJ6nGe5UrTcMDTrWqe6H-QvgPcVSfA6ZmuecRLcSyIRj0dbWX4KJPh-Roxac9V8B6pukFdszzaLIXWSsz7aRLQx4QFE-HfcubSJowdBvhDQo6DguFYs42pYmk/s400/0124girls.jpg" width="400" /></span></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">First on the list of things to do when the girls arrived was to take a grand tour of our house. Our house isn’t very big but compared to where they all live it’s probably pretty nice and we have indoor plumbing! The bathroom is always an attraction. We’ve had to teach several girls how to flush our toilet. Next we hit up the chocolate: homemade brownies from Heidi! The girls laugh about how Americans love chocolate so much but I’m pretty sure they love it just as much. How can you help it?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTo4I0XkpfmAjbUT83de_HkoLjKf0sXBOuDyiT3QPSV0tmQA33HpWMe8s_DrgZ6Ga9t0OUY9XDqh9HsCwEYtFj5B5pBTdk5qkrAkkXRWsR2XbpDIrb-A-8fPzC_uRMLYzSWTTmNsGBxygO/s1600/0124hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTo4I0XkpfmAjbUT83de_HkoLjKf0sXBOuDyiT3QPSV0tmQA33HpWMe8s_DrgZ6Ga9t0OUY9XDqh9HsCwEYtFj5B5pBTdk5qkrAkkXRWsR2XbpDIrb-A-8fPzC_uRMLYzSWTTmNsGBxygO/s200/0124hair.jpg" width="183" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Williame doing my hair!</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Next they decided it was time to do mine and Caitlin’s hair African style: lots of little braids! Of course, we didn’t have the special rubber bands for our hair so we had to take a trip to the market to buy some. I’m sure we looked funny, five African girls and two white girls, laughing, talking in Sango, skipping and singing all the way to the market. We got what we needed plus some bread because we had to have something to put our nutella on (the brownies weren't enough to satisfy the girls' chocolate cravings).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The rest of the afternoon was spent hair braiding, making friendship bracelets, wandering around the house cleaning, and taking showers. Yeah I said showers. While I was out having my Sango lesson and Caitlin’s head was getting braided, some of the girls decided they wanted to try out our shower. By the time they’d started there wasn’t much we could do about it and by the time they left our whole house smelled like body wash and our bathroom was covered in water. Those girls were very clean and full of chocolate by the time we sent them home and Caitlin and I looked a little bit more Africa with our hair all braided up. It was a good time.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">p.s. David- the friendship bracelet you gave me before I left for Africa has started a new fad among the orphans. They all want to learn how to make bracelets just like mine... especially the boys because I told them you made mine.</span></span></div></span>Amy Kuhlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13776756280464795515noreply@blogger.com0