Five Minutes with Emily

Near Year, New Adventure

2011-01-01T16:36:00.001+02:00

Wow...2010 was a good year. Difficult? Yes. Frustrating at times? No doubt. Challenging situations (like living in Africa) humble us and help us grow. But my heart is so full when I look back at the people I spent it with and the experiences I had. And I'm thankful to say I was stretched and blessed in 2010 like never before.

Here are a few highlights from the year:

Read my Bible every morning while overlooking the Indian Ocean.
March -- Visited Asia for the first time.
May -- Saw hundreds of Tanzanian villagers gain access to clean water for the first time.
June -- Led my parents around East Africa (while managing to avoid any unwanted encounters with lions and baboons).
July - November -- Viewed the entire series of "24" with my roommate, often while simultaneously eating something delicious and fattening.
July - Present -- Studied the Word in another language with a Tanzanian girl a few times every week

And that's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg!
What do I think 2011 will hold? Who can know? I can guarantee it won't be easy or without obstacles. I may have tough decisions to make. There will be moments of uncertainty. But I know the One who directs my path. So I'm welcoming 2011 with excitement and anticipation, knowing that the best is yet to come.

I didn't really mean to make any resolutions this year, but somehow it just happened. Feel free to take a look.

To be consistently disciplined in all areas of my life--physical, spiritual, emotional, and mental
To spend more time in the Word and talking to God, and less being distracted by the internet
To read 24 new books
To hike at least half of the Appalachian Trail
To run in another half-marathon and begin planning/training for a full marathon in 2012
To disciple a young woman or lead a small group of girls
To take the Sabbath more seriously and truly rest
To spend as much time outdoors as possible
To find Swahili speakers and/or Tanzanian refugees in my area and befriend one family
To mobilize others for international missions
To be less self-conscious and more Christ-conscious
To laugh. A lot. Everyday.
To talk less and listen more
To eat less but enjoy food more
To play the piano more
To give people sincere, unsolicited compliments more often and be an encourager
To say fewer negative, unnecessary or unhelpful things -- or how about not say them at all!
To be satisfied with less -- less money, less entertainment, less talking, less eating out, less attention, less stuff
To have an eternal perspective on earthly situations
To experience the love of God though it's too great to understand fully

What do you want in 2011?

"The land you are ... to take possession of is a land of mountains and valleys that drinks rain from heaven. It is a land the LORD you God cares for; the eyes of the LORD your God are continually on it from the beginning of the year to its end." (Deuteronomy 11:11-12)

Dreams at Christmas

2010-12-16T17:56:00.002+02:00

When is the last time you remembered one of your dreams? If you know me very well, I've probably told you at least one of my vivid and often crazy dreams. (If not, I would be glad to share. Just ask! They're highly entertaining.)

Throughout history, especially during Bible times, God used dreams to guide, direct, and warn people. As we read the Christmas story, we remember the dream that led Joseph to take Mary and the baby to Egypt to protect them from King Herod and his plan to kill Jesus.

Dreams can be powerful and life-changing. One thing I've learned during my time here is that God often speaks to Muslims through dreams and visions. Many of them recall seeing a man dressed in white, glowing like the son, who spoke to them in a dream.

Yesterday I talked to a Tanzanian man whose dream about his own death changed the course of his life.

This man--we'll call him John--grew up in a devout Muslim home. His father was a leader at the mosque. Both his parents prayed five times daily, memorized verses and whole chapters from the Koran, and did everything good Muslims are required to do.

But when he was in his 20s, John became disillusioned with his family's religion. He found a Bible and secretly began reading at night in his room.

One night, after drifting off to sleep, John had a dream. In this dream, he was dead, and he could see his lifeless body lying on a table at the hospital. Four creatures came and carried his corpse to the grave. But when they arrived, John could see that the grave was consumed with fire. Then, he heard a voice say, "John, if you don't accept the truth of the Bible, you will be destroyed."

John awoke suddenly from his sleep, restless and terrified. That night, in his bedroom, he decided to accept Christ, no matter what the cost.

Although the road has been rocky, and his parents rejected him for a time, John's life has never been the same. Today he is married with two teenage children. He pastors a church, and his wife serves faithfully by his side. God is using John even now to bring other Muslims from darkness into the kingdom of light.

This Christmas season, as you celebrate the birth of Emmanuel, please ask God to give Muslims here in Tanzania dreams and visions so that they too can know the truth.

* Special thanks to Dan Lawlis for the use of his artwork (above). If you would like to use this image, feel free to contact him at dlawlis@ameritech.net.

Water!

2010-11-10T13:25:00.001+02:00

Can you remember the last time you were truly thirsty? For me it was this morning about halfway through my run. The African sun was beating down on me as sweat poured from my forehead. Lucky for me, I knew that if I pressed on just a little further I would soon reach my house, where an ice cold bottle of water would be waiting.

For countless people in Tanzania, gaining access to clean water is not as simple as turning on the faucet. Many families struggle to live on one bucket a day. And often that water--which they probably walked a good distance to get--is dirty and filled with bacteria.

As of last weekend, for people living in three villages near my town, clean water is now abundant. Yesterday, Jill and I visited the newly operating wells that our team helped bring to these places. Women carried colorful buckets of water effortlessly on their heads. Children laughed and chased each other around the field. Old men rested in the shade of trees nearby. There was life and laughter.

My prayer for each person who drinks the water from these new wells would thirst for the Living Water. As Jesus said to the Samaritan woman in John 4: "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

2010-09-25T11:34:00.000+02:00

"I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who makes things grow." -2 Corinthians 3:6-7

When it comes to the Kingdom, often we don't see the fruits of our labor.

But occasionally, the Father blesses us with a glimpse of how He's moving. We hear a story of a transformed life and are reminded once again of Jesus' promise from John 10:16 -- "I have other sheep which are not of this fold; I must bring them also and they will hear my voice..."

Thank God that his promises are true. His name will be glorified. His sheep will respond to his voice. His Spirit is moving and convicting and changing lives.

Let's rejoice together in a recent story of two changed identities:

In a village in northern Tanzania, there are a brother and sister--both in their 20s or 30s--born into a Muslim family. We'll call them "Rehema" and "Salim." For years, Rehema suffered from cloudy vision and a lame hand, which made it difficult for her to work. A few years ago, her sister experienced a sharp headache and then died soon after reaching the village dispensary.

Not long ago, Rehema had been sharing her problem with another villager who was also a non-believer. This man, however, had begun meeting weekly with a pastor from town learn more about God's word. So he suggested to Rehema that she visit this pastor. Maybe he would have some answers.

Rehema agreed, and the pastor came to her house. Laying out the gospel message for her, he explained that Jesus had the power to heal her spiritually--but that he also might bring physical healing. If she would only believe in his name, she would be saved.

In that moment, Rehema prayed to receive Christ, and her eternity was sealed. Then she and the pastor entered into a prayer battle that lasted for hours. Rehema pleaded that her sight might be fully restored. The pastor burned her trinkets and other symbols of idolatry in her house.

By the time the prayers subsided, Rehema's vision was clear. She had been healed--God's power over nature displayed in a glorious way.

Her younger brother Salim witnessed this miracle and immediately surrendered his life to Christ as well.

Her mother, a devout Muslim for over 50 years, tried to resist the obvious display of God's power in her home. But she was visibly moved as well and made this comment: "If God heals my daughter's hand as well, I will have no choice but to believe in this Jesus."

Rehema and Salim are some of the first believers among an unreached people group in their area. We are meeting with them weekly to go through Bible stories and help them get a clear understanding of the faith. Will things be easy for these two? Probably not. Will they face opposition and difficulties because of their decision? Most definitely.

But I'm trusting and praying that God has called them unto himself to raise them up as leaders and to bring many others into the fold.

Zanzibar

2010-09-23T23:34:00.001+02:00

As a reward for successfully surviving "Kid Extravaganza 2010" (during which my roommate Jill and I hosted seven kids in our home for 10 days), we decided to make a trip to the exotic island of Zanzibar, which just happens to be a hop, skip, and a boat ride away from where we live.

Ever since I arrived in Tanzania, people have been raving about Zanzibar. Beautiful beaches with white sand, fascinating history, world class resorts--who wouldn't want to go on holiday at a place like that?

Here are some highlights of the trip:

From Dar es Salaam, we took a 2-hour ferry ride to Zanzibar, which is semi-autonomous but still a part of Tanzania. Here's our first glimpse of the island.

The view from the restaurant where we ate lunch upon arrival. I think I could get used to this...

We spent the first day in Stone Town--the island's historical center. It is characterized by narrow alleyways, distinctive architecture, and ornate doors.

A night out at Forodhani Park. There was more food than we knew what to do with. Fresh fish, Zanzibar pizza, hundreds of people--tourists as well as locals, ocean-side dining. It was fantastic.

Jill and me--Excited about an excuse to dress up!

On day two, we headed an hour north to Kendwa Beach for a couple days of R & R.

Contrary to popular belief, I did not surf on this board. I did, however, lie in a hammock for many hours.

Hammocks on the beach = Sheer joy

Zanzibar is THE place for amazing sunsets.

The ferry ride back to Dar after a relaxing 3 day holiday on Zanzibar. I give it two thumbs up.

It's Not About Me

2010-08-08T20:10:00.003+03:00

As some of you may remember, I made my big screen debut back in 2003 in the film "Seabiscuit." Yes, that's right. I'm a movie star.

It was November, my senior year at Asbury. Word spread that film producers were shooting at Keenland, a famous race track only 20 minutes away from campus. This was it--my shot at fame! So a couple of my friends and I signed up as extras.

We quickly found out that fame comes with a price tag. For starters, our day for shooting was unseasonably cold and windy. At any given point, at least one of my extremities was throbbing with pain from the cold. And then there were the long work hours. From 8AM until 6PM, we were basically herded around like cattle, almost completely in the dark about what was going on.

Despite the pain, we pressed on, the soon-to-be finished movie at the forefront of our thoughts. Would it be any good? Would it break box office records? Would we get to meet Toby Maguire???

But most importantly, how would I look on the big screen? Would my heart-wrenching performance as Cheering Crowd Member #738 spur the creation of a new Academy Award: Best Performance by an Extra?

Well guess what? The following summer, when I went to see the movie in the theater on opening weekend, something was dreadfully wrong--My face was nowhere to be found on the big screen. And even when I bought the DVD and slowed down my scene 1000X, you still wouldn't have known that I was in the movie. So much for fame and fortune.

I would have given anything to see myself on screen for even half a second. But as I watched the movie and saw the story unfold, I realized something I should have figured out the day I signed up for my role as an extra: the movie wasn't about me at all.

And neither is my life. How many times to do catch myself praying for what I want or what will make me most comfortable or happiest?

Am I concerned about people remembering my name after I leave Tanzania? Or am I working hard to make sure they understand the truth of Jesus Christ?

Read these convicting words from Oswald Chambers' My Utmost For His Highest:

"We have no right in Christian service to be guided by our own interests and desires. In fact, this is one of the greatest tests of our relationship with Jesus Christ. The delight of sacrifice is that I lay down my life for my Friend, Jesus. I don't throw my life away, but I willingly and deliberately lay it down for Him and His interests in other people. ... Paul spent his life for only one purpose--that he might win people to Jesus Christ. Paul always attracted people to his Lord, but never to himself."

Matthew 16:24-25: "Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it."

With God's help, I'm losing my life one day at a time. And I couldn't be more excited.

Mad Libs

2010-06-26T20:02:00.004+03:00

While my parents were visiting, my dad celebrated his 73rd birthday. For his party, I decided to create a Mad Lib about him--a story where you leave out some of the key words and let people fill them in before they've heard the plot. Here is the result:

Thurmon and Peggy – Love at First Sight

A long time ago in the faraway land of Kentucky, there lived a young, (adjective) romantic man named Thurmon Harris. Thurmon loved life. Every day, Thurmon would (verb) stroll with his friends and then (verb) squat when he came home in the evenings. He served God and was very happy. But many times, Thurmon thought of God’s words in Genesis when he created Eve for Adam: “It is not good for man to be alone.” He wanted an (adjective) orange helpmate of his own, someone to (verb) hunt boar with and to share his (noun) air ship with.

Well, lucky for Thurmon, God heard his (adjective) slimy prayers. One day, as he was out (verb) rolling, he saw her. Peggy Jean Martin. She was the most (adjective) beautiful woman he had ever seen. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She had (adj) exciting, silky hair and big, (color) purple eyes. She reminded him of a (animal) dolphin and carried herself with the grace of a (animal) kangaroo. She was standing in a group of (nouns) nets, talking with her friends, and eating some (noun) UFOs. She was certainly (adj) shiny, but he wondered if she loved God too.

This was his opportunity to find out. But he knew he must act fast. He had to know if maybe, just maybe, this was the (adj) misty woman he had been praying for. So, he took a deep breath, (verb-ed) swam, and (adverb) horribly walked toward her. With butterflies in his stomach, he opened his mouth and said, “My name is Thurmon. Would you like to (verb) drown with me?”

Surprised but (adj) gloomy, Peggy smiled and said, “I would love to. Let me just get my (noun) nose ring.” With butterflies in his stomach, Thurmon said a quick prayer and led her toward the (noun) row boat so they could talk and get to know each other better.

Quickly, Peggy and Thurmon found out that they had a lot in common. They both enjoyed (activity) skydiving and they loved (verb) skipping. But most of all, they both followed Jesus Christ and wanted to serve him. It was a match made in (place) Siberia. Soon thereafter, they were married in a (adj) blooming church and continue to live happily ever after to this day.

THE END

2010-06-16T18:59:00.010+03:00

My parents' trip to Tanzania wouldn't be complete without a visit to my old village in the Uluguru Mountains. They had heard the stories and seen countless pictures from my life there. Now it was time to experience it first-hand.

On Monday, we headed southwest to the town of Morogoro and braved the treacherous road through the mountains to my old stomping grounds.

The road was treacherous and my mom wanted to turn back a few times, but the view from the top made it all worthwhile.

Standing in front of the bridge my teammates and I jumped off of for swimming. My dad conveniently forgot his swimming trunks so he missed his opportunity for a quick dip.

Visiting my old landlord and his family, who live in what used to be our house.

Some kids from the village. They had grown since I last saw them two years ago.

For all you farmers in KY and TN, take a look at the Tanzanian way of farming. Much of the hillsides are cultivated by hand in the mountains. No tractor could survive this!

And so our adventure continues. Check back next week to follow the journey.

The Journey Continues...

2010-06-13T17:26:00.007+03:00

After a week in their new surroundings, Peggy and Thurman hardly even look like tourists anymore. They are learning lots about life in Tanzania and blending in like chameleons. Well, almost...

To take a break from their strenuous schedule of visiting villages, chasing monkeys, and navigating bumpy roads, they decided to visit the local beach resort and enjoy some fresh-squeezed pineapple juice.

Saturday morning, we spent some time relaxing at the Yacht Club and watching local students race sailboats. My mom got to step in the Indian Ocean for the first time and add some sea shells to her collection.

Later that afternoon, we joined some of my friends for a birthday party at a local conference center, the same place where I took Swahili language classes. Eager to get a photo with one of the Masaai guards, my mom chased this guy down just in time to snap a shot or two. His spear might frighten thieves and wild beasts, but it didn't phase my mom in her pursuit. Anything for a good Facebook profile pic...

Stay tuned for more updates as the adventure continues...

Halfway Around the World

2010-06-11T12:19:00.011+03:00

On Thursday, June 3, Thurman and Peggy Harris left their comfortable, suburban, middle class lives in the small town of Madisonville, KY, to explore uncharted lands--well, uncharted for THEM, at least. Their destination? Tanzania, East Africa. In the tradition of David Livingstone and Jane Goodall, they left their homeland for a cause greater than themselves--to visit their youngest daughter, Emily, and bring to her goodies from home, of course.

Follow their journey as they experience life in East Africa.

Thurmon and Peggy take in the sights of the Indian Ocean from Emily's backyard

Peggy enjoys authentic Indian food while visiting friends in town

Getting around town is easier said than done with less than favorable road conditions

Choosing fresh fruits and vegetables at the market

Thurmon shares a Bible story through an interpreter in the village

Adventures in SE Asia

2010-04-07T14:14:00.016+03:00

Last month, I took my first trip to Asia--to visit friends in Cambodia and Thailand (and of course to see the sights) with my teammate Jill. Here are some highlights of our trip:

Upon arriving in the Bangkok airport, we were immediately singled out as "Africans." I guess we've been in Africa so long that we forgot living there automatically makes you more disease-prone. And as it turns out, the Thai people don't welcome disease. Unfortunately, neither of us had thought to bring our Yellow Fever immunization cards, proving we've had our shots. So, after waiting 45 minutes in the line for Immigration, we were informed that we needed to make a quick stop by Health Control to get another Yellow Fever shot. Thankfully this was the first and last hitch on our vacation. (Unless you count the bus breakdown on the way to Dar the day before to catch our plane.) The rest was smooth sailing.

Arriving in Bangkok, a city of 16 million people, brought on a minor case of culture shock. Huge shopping malls, movie theaters, a SkyTrain, clean streets. We were clearly NOT in Tanzania anymore...

After a day and a half in Bangkok, we took another plane to Phnom Penh, the capital city of Cambodia. Our first stop was the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. About 2.2 million Cambodians were killed by the Khmer Rouge regime, during its rule of the country from 1975 to 1979. This school was converted to a prison during that time.

A six hour bus ride northwest landed us in the beautiful town of Siem Reap. There we visited a floating village...

Ate Cambodian cuisine while watching a live show featuring traditional Apsara dancers...

Visited Angkor Wat, a compound of 11th and 12th century Buddhist temples, one of the seven man-made wonders of the world...

Shopped at the Night Market in town...

Had our feet "massaged" by hundreds of little fish at Dr. Fish...(actually they eat the dead skin from your feet and legs)

After five jam-packed days of taking in Cambodia culture, we headed back to Thailand to visit my friends and do some traveling. In 2007, I met a few Thai girls while working at Zion National Park in Utah. I never dreamed I would have the chance to visit them in their country.

We also visited Erawen National Park and went swimming in some spectacular waterfall pools.

Finally, to end the trip on a domestic note, Jill and I took a Thai cooking class at the Blue Elephant Hotel and Restaurant in Bangkok.

Lazy Girl's Guide to Cooking in Africa

2010-02-26T17:37:00.011+02:00

No one has ever mistaken me for Betty Crocker.

Yes, I do possess the ability to cook. And by that I mean I can follow a recipe and safely assume that the finished product won't taste like tires.

I've just never particularly loved cooking, at least not so much that I actually wanted to make the effort to do it. All you single people out there feel me, right? What's the point of cooking unless you've got someone to cook for besides yourself?

Why anyone would think that moving to a third-world country might encourage me in my cooking endeavors is beyond me. Suddenly I find myself transported from the "Land of Convenience and Microwaves" to "Everything Must Be Grown, Killed or Made from Scratch Land."

Not long after arriving in my new town, my supervisor's husband asked me what my specialty was. (i.e. "What are you gonna cook for us?) I thought about it for a while and replied with chicken enchilladas, a favorite dish of mine. He asked when I would like to cook it for their family. But it dawned on me that I had never actually cooked it myself. I had just eaten my mom or sister's version of it. He was disappointed, to say the least.

What's a cooking-challenged girl to do?

Some people might say that I have resorted to drastic measures in the food department, like eating oatmeal for two out of three meals a day for five months.

Well, what else do you suggest when you live in a simple, African house with no electricity or running water, and nothing but a tiny kerosene stove for cooking?

That was the plight of my teammates and me a couple years ago when we taught English in a remote village. So we voted to make oatmeal our staple food. It was simple, satisfying, full of fiber, and it worked wonders for our cholesterol. Call us crazy, but we loved it.

To this day, the story of the three girls in the village who ate oatmeal circulates among our coworkers all over Kenya and Tanzania. We're basically legends.

Oat Mountain--Our collection of oatmeal containers.
We started collecting them half way through our term, so we could have built a fort had we started at the beginning.

Thanks to my good friend Tabitha, I can list omlette making as one of my cooking skills. A few years ago at a girls' weekend at her house, she showed us the secret to the perfect omlette: a small Ziploc bag. It sounds far-fetched, but I dare you to try it. Simply crack two eggs into a Ziploc and pour in the ingredients of your choosing. (Once I even added leftover meat sauce from the previous night's spaghetti dinner. The result was surprisingly pleasant.) Carefully seal the bag and place it in boiling water.

Twelve minutes later, pull it out of the water, remove it from the bag, and voila! You have a delicious omlette log. (Mmmm...everything just sounds tastier when you put the word log at the end, doesn't it?)

*WARNING* Take it from me to exercise caution when removing the bags from the scalding water. Last weekend, I witnessed an unfortunate incident--an omlette casualty. I had invited a friend over for lunch--omlettes in a bag. The process was going smoothly and the omlettes were just about finished cooking. So I grabbed a hot pad and carefully extracted Omlette #1 from the pot. I shook the bag gently to get rid of the excess hot water on the outside.

Suddenly the plastic bag gave out and the delicious omlette went sliding into the pot of boiling water. Ewwww. Soggy omlette. So much for that...

Thankfully the other omlette was still intact and very edible. So my friend and I split Omlette #2, added some fruit salad, and enjoyed our meal.

I would also like to proudly announce that I recently made spaghetti sauce from scratch. One small step for your average cook. One giant leap for me.

Maybe some day in the not-too-distant future, I will have a reason to cook, or someone to cook for. But until then, I plan on keeping the oatmeal companies in business.

What's your favorite, easy dish to cook?

The Day I Almost Got Thrown into a Tanzanian Prison

2010-02-20T12:56:00.013+02:00

What's your biggest fear? Getting bitten by a snake? Having your home ravaged by a tornado? Being audited by the IRS? Forgetting to put on your deoderant in the morning?

Living in Tanzania, I'm probably exposing myself to more danger--or at least danger of a different sort--than people not living here. Let's explore the options.

(1) Getting killed by wayward fruit. Statistics show that I have a one in 987,290* chance of being hit in the head and killed by a falling coconut. (You may recall this if you read my post "Death By Coconut.") And let's add "falling mangoes" to that list after I barely missed a blow to the head by one last week while teaching under a mango tree.

(2) Becoming dinner for the local wildlife. There's always the chance I could encounter a hungry crocodile or a deranged cape buffalo out in the wild and not be able to negotiate my release. Haven't you ever seen "The Ghost and the Darkness"? If not, Google it.

(3) Or there's that irrational (or maybe not so irrational) fear that a mammoth, killer jellyfish will emerge from the depths of the Indian Ocean and swallow my body in one monstrous gulp. Hey...it happened to Jonah...

There's plenty of danger on this continent to go along with all the adventure. So yeah, I guess if I let myself, I could spend my time worrying about the imminent threats lurking around every corner.

Getting thrown into a Tanzanian prison was never of my primary concerns. It didn't even make the Top Ten list.

That is, until last Thursday...

So here's the real story. It was a typical Thursday morning for yours truly. After my jog, I celebrated with a bowl of Jungle Oats and jumped in the shower, like always. I finished bathing, and just as I started to towel-dry my hair, the doorbell rang.

Slightly annoyed by the unexpected interruption, I opened the door to discover our head yard man/compound overseer, Maomba. He told me there were some guests at the gate to see me. I stretched my neck out the door to try and catch a glimpse of the visitors, but they were hidden.

Curious, I slipped on my flip-flops and headed out to investigate. Were they beggars? Did they want to sell me fish or a turtle to make stew with?

Waiting at the gate were two nicely dressed, official-looking Tanzanian men and one equally poised woman. Their outfits and demeanor gave them away. Clearly they were not here for pleasure. Today it was all business.

Immigration. That word rings terror in the hearts of illegal immigrants everywhere. But I was in the country under an up-to-date, fully legal work permit. So why did I suddenly begin to feel like a criminal when they introduced themselves?

The immigration officers explained that they were dropping by for a "routine check" and needed to see my passport and residence permit. Sounds feasible enough, I thought to myself. Hold it together. Don't let them know you're nervous. And don't even think about crying...

But something just didn't seem right about it all. Why hadn't I ever heard of these "random visits" from any of my expat friends? And even stranger, why did they just happen to drop by the day after my teammate and I had started teaching English at one of the secondary schools in town? Did someone turn us in at the school? Who didn't want us there and why? Were we going to jail???

Taking deep, calming breaths, I went back inside to get my teammate and to bring out the required documents.

"Immigration?! Are we getting kicked out of the country?" she asked, just as surprised as I was to hear of our unexpected guests.

We took the papers out to the officers, thinking our new friends would be appeased and then leave. But the fun had only started.

It's too complicated to explain all the details of my work permit. All you need to know is that before beginning our new volunteer position at this school in town, we had carefully gone through all the required channels to get permission. We had changed our work location, since we were originally to be working in another part of the country. We had dotted all the "i"s and crossed the "t"s. But for whatever reason, the officer was not satisfied with what he saw.

"I'm going to need you both to come to the regional office with me investigate this matter," he informed us, with the charm of a cockroach.

That's code for "You're going to jail, suckers!"

Not long ago, we had heard a story of another expat who was thrown in jail after relocating with the country but not changing his location on his work permit. Would we be the next victims of the Tanzanian immigration system?

I suddenly had a vision of a more mangy, less-sane version of myself with dirty fingernails squatting in the corner of a dark jail cell, gnawing on a piece of moldy bread crust, rocking myself back and forth.

The lump in my throat that had been under control suddenly swelled to the size of an orange.

By God's grace, our supervisors popped into my head. Of course! We should insist to be taken to their house first. It was only right, especially for two single females in this culture, to have a male authority figure present before incarceration.

The officers agreed to my request. So I grabbed a few personal items--including a book to read since jail is kind of boring, I hear--and headed out, wondering if it would be the last time we ever set foot in our little home.

We weren't to be trusted alone in our car, so the female officer rode along with us for the two-minute drive. (Come on! The old Rav 4 only gets up to 150 km/hr. Where are we gonna go? Seriously.)

Our supervisors greeted us at their door with somber but concerned looks, like we had just arrived at someone's funeral--most likely mine.

After what felt like hours of standing in the heat of the sun, trying to understand the officers and make them understand us, two things were determined:

(1) My teammate and I weren't going to jail--at least not today.

(2) And my supervisor was going to be hauled downtown to Immigration because he had an alleged problem with his work permit as well!

Just when I thought my life couldn't get any crazier...

So here I am a couple days later, and my fear of being incarcerated has decreased by about 89 percent. I mean, I'm just not really the "getting thrown in jail type," so I don't see it happening.

I'm not sure that the case is closed yet. Our charming officer friends warned that they could be back any day. So we're just waiting for them to find another issue in need of resolving.

But if things take a turn for the worse and I end up doing time here, care packages and/or cake with files or other tools of escape would be greatly appreciated. Send them to:

Emily--The White Girl
Cell Number 3
The Big House
Tanga, Tanzania
EAST AFRICA

The Climb of a Lifetime

2010-01-20T18:55:00.019+02:00

I had the amazing opportunity in December to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, the highest point on the continent of Africa. Here is a look inside my 6 day, 5 night trip.

Waiting to start our climb at the Machame Route gate

Our guide Goodluck--he was amazing. Told us stories, sang songs to us, and helped us make it all the way to the summit.

A typical campsite. Our porters would reach the site before us and have our tents set up so we could rest as soon as we arrived. It was definitely camping in style.

We woke up on the second morning of our climb to this view of the summit. It looked so close but we still had three days before reaching it.

Putting one foot in front of the other on some of the technical climbs. A lot of the scenery reminded me of something from Lord Of the Rings.

Sunset on Night Two at our camp. We had some spectacular views along the way.

The porters were absolutely amazing. They carried something like 70lbs of gear and supplies and zipped right past us, even on the most treacherous trails.

After climbing almost 7 hours toward the summit in fierce wind and piercing cold, the sun finally began to rise. That was just what I needed to give me the energy to reach the summit.

The glacier. This is the snowy part you see at the very top as you look from Moshi. There was no actual snow on the ground, just the ice.

Taking a break on the way toward the summit. Once we hit 5,000 meters, everything started freezing, even the tubes on our Camelbacks. We needed short breaks every now and then, but I didn't want to stop because moving generated body heat. The wind was terrible as we ascended.

A sight for sore eyes! The sign marker at the summit. We only stayed at the top long enough to take our pictures in front of the sign. Prolonged exposure at this altitude can cause severe sickness.

Posing next to the glacier on the way down. Going down actually hurt more than going up in some ways because of the impact on your toes. A lot of people lose toenails. Thankfully mine are all still in tact.

Getting close to the gate. Going back down was exhausting and painful on my feet.

Our crew. They were amazing and lots of fun to be around. I highly recommend Tanzanian Journeys, a company in Moshi, if you're planning a Kili climb.

My certificate--proof that I made it to the summit. Allegedly, only 1 out of 3 climbers reach the top. All three of our group made it. Yeah, we're definitely hardcore.

The view of the mountain from Moshi. I'll never look at Kilimanjaro the same again.

An Island Christmas Story

2009-12-30T21:04:00.021+02:00

A few months ago, my teammate Jill and I started a Bible study for a group of about 12 expat kids in our town. We meet weekly to hang out, play games, and encourage each other. Not long ago, we decided it would be fun to script, plan, and put on our own Christmas play. What we envisioned to be a simple Christmas skit quickly turned into a theatrical production of seismic proportions. Here's a glimpse of what we did.

Here I am before the show, peeking out from behind the curtain (in our living room which was transformed into a theater) to see if all the parents have arrived. I was the narrator.

The parents wait to see what their kids have been doing for the past two months.

This is the opening set. Scene 1. A group of strangers from different countries board a plane and prepare to take flight. (The propeller on the plane actually worked. Our kids are pretty amazing!)

Our passengers and crew included the following:

Captain Wilhelm Klink from the German Aeronautical Institute
Co-Pilot George Jackson from the US, a distant cousin to the late pop star Michael Jackson
Flight Attendant Rojenka Skylung from Moscow, Russia
German Hunter Hans Schmidt
An elderly, chain-smoking British lady named Mrs. Doubtfire
Indian Quickie Mart Owner Mituu Raja
Frenchman Pierre Gusteaux
A pint-sized Chinese Gangster named Chi Yung Chang
An alcoholic Mexican, Rosetta Maria Encarnacion
A fun-loving, 20-something from Down Under named Debbie Miller
Indian beauty pageant winner Kushbu Fazal

About five hours into the flight, things go south quickly and the plane crashes. Miraculously the passengers survive. (Ever seen LOST? Our play was a lot like the TV show--plus the message of Jesus and minus the black smoke monster and Ben Linus.)

Dazed and in shock from their sudden crash, the passengers and crew begin to grasp what has happened. They have survived a tragedy too great for words--a fiery crash. Their plane has crashed on a small island in the south Pacific. Left to die a slow, miserable death, these strangers are all alone on Christmas Eve.

Or so they think...

Turns out, this island is home to the last three remaining savages from an indigenous, cannabalistic tribe. For generations, the Ding Dong tribe enjoyed a relatively peaceful existence on the island, living off its natural resources. But soon they went savage and started eating each other. This led to a drastic decrease in the island's population. And before they knew it, only three members of the Ding Dong tribe remained--Sleeping Bison, Squatting Dog, and Howling Wolf.

One morning, the savages see something like a huge, shiny bird fall from the sky. They run toward the smoke to search for its body, only to find the survivors from the crash. Immediately their stomachs begin to growl...

They wait until the group splits up to ambush them and take captives.

Half of the group is captured. However, the sassy old British lady manages to beat the savages off with her cane and handbag. She waits at the wreckage until the other half of the group returns from trying to gather food. Relaying the story about the "hooligans from the jungle," the group makes a plan to rescue their friends from the savages' clutches.

In the meantime, the savages have carried the hostages back to their camp. Soon they size them up and plan to roast the plump pilot over an open flame.

Just in the nick of time, the passengers discover the savage's lair and fight to free their friends.

In the midst of the chaos, one of the passengers--who just so happens to be a Christian--breaks in on the fighting and begins to share the story of Christ. Everyone calms down and people actually start listening. Many choose to believe and there is peace on the island.

In the end, the passengers in our story did make it off the island. It was nothing short of a miracle when Captain Klink fixed the radio and was able to signal a ship to come rescue everyone. Even Sleeping Bison, Squatting Dog, and Howling Wolf were persuaded to board the big metal fish.

Even though no one made it to their final destination on time, it was a Christmas they would never forget.

The cast takes a bow as the play finishes.

Conquering Kilimanjaro

2009-12-30T12:39:00.002+02:00

So I did it...I made it to the highest point on the continent of Africa--Uhuru Peak, the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro. 5,895 meters of fierce wind, piercing cold, and aching bones. But it was worth every minute and every penny spent.

More pictures to come soon...

Photo of the Week

2009-10-27T21:52:00.003+02:00

Can't wait to schedule a cut and color at this place...conveniently located a block away from the main market in my town.

Countdown to Kili--55Days

2009-10-23T11:30:00.006+02:00

Fifty-five days from now, I will be ascending the highest point on the continent of Africa. Yes, that's right. I'm climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro.

Most of you know about my adventure seeking tendencies. Some of you are thinking I am crazy to subject myself to such an excruciating challenge. But I think I'd be crazy not to. When will another opportunity like this come around? Maybe never...

So what's the big deal anyway? It's only 19,331 ft. That's like a walk in the park, right? Everyone who knows much about climbing Kili says its not a technical climb. Anyone can do it. The danger is in the altitude. In this case, slow and steady wins the race.

My friend Kathryn is flying over from Georgia to join me, along with another friend, Zach, who's living in South Africa. Not that any of the three of us are in danger of wimping out. But we have made a pact: Anyone who wimps out before reaching the summit is wimping out alone.

Training for Kili (other than running and my usual exercises) officially began last Sunday with a hike in the Usumbaa Mountains, just south of where I live. My biggest disadvantage in training is that I live at sea level. But thankfully there are mountains nearby

Training Day One: Enjoying the view from the summit. I hiked in a skirt. You gotta give me some points for that!

Check back over the next few weeks for continued Kili updates.

Give It Up

2009-10-09T06:21:00.006+02:00

It's not easy for me to admit that I am spoiled. "Blessed" seems like a more acceptable, more spiritual description for someone who enjoys excess to the "nth" degree.

But this week in Tanzania, it hit me that there are no two ways about it: I am spoiled.

Nine AM, Wednesday morning. Another sultry day on the coast begins. I was hiding from the heat, nestled away in my air-conditioned living room with a couple friends. We were enjoying the tail end of the previous night's slumber party.

Suddenly, the fans stopped and the lights went out. Another power outage. Just a normal part of life in Tanzania...nothing to get worked up about. Surely the electricity would be restored in a matter of minutes, and the whirring sound of the ceiling fan would lull us once again.

Unfortunately, this time was different. My friend Abigail had read in the newspaper that the recent drought had caused a country-wide power shortage. Starting today--and only ending when the rains came--there would be scheduled power outages. Two dirty words: electricity rationing. We would be forced to live without electricity from 9AM until 11PM--basically all the waking hours.

I was outraged. Only in Africa would something this ridiculous be allowed. It was one thing to live in a village where I knew I would never have electricity (like last year). I was in bush mode, and I loved the rugged life. But put me in a house with an AC, ceiling fans, lights, and unlimited internet access, and then tell me I can't use it? That's like dangling a steak over a salivating dog but never letting him indulge. It's just not right.

How would life as I knew it in Tanzania continue without power? How would businesses operate? Could I make it through a Tanzanian summer with no AC? How would I find my way around the house at night? Would all the ice cream in town melt???

Through all the clatter and chaos, something hit me like a ton of bricks. My attitude stunk like the dead fish on the shore just down the road from my house. Conviction. The Holy Spirit strikes again.

Why had I come to Tanzania?, I was forced to ask myself. So I could be cool and comfortable, soaking up the AC 12 hours out of the day? Was I here so I could check my Facebook page anytime I wanted? Had I crossed the seas, leaving friends and family for two years for me, for my pleasure, for what I wanted?

"No, Father," I answered in response to the Spirit's nudge. What he was getting at was obvious. "I didn't come here for me."

I will admit there are a few things I miss about life in the States.

(1) Immediate gratification. Essentially this means getting whatever you want whenever you want it. If the craving for Moose Tracks ice cream strikes at 11:06PM, I jump in my car, drive to a 24-hour grocery store, and buy the first carton I see.

(2) Variety. Just walk down the cereal aisle at the grocery store and your head is likely to spin with all the choices. We like to have options, and we like them with a cheap price tag.

(3) Dependable electricity. Need I say more?

So maybe I can't eat ice cream here anytime I want it. And maybe I will have to sweat through more than a few hot, humid December days. But when I reexamine my circumstances and ask the Father to give me a heavenly perspective, I see the situation through a different light.

Clearly, my sacrifice pales in comparison to the privilege of shining Light in the dark corners of the world.

And let's think of another person who gave up something for the kingdom's sake. Here's what Philippians 2:5-8 has to say:

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:
Who being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death--
even death on a cross!

Thank you, Lord, for choosing to use me to accomplish your purposes here in Tanzania. On days when I'm tired, hot, or uncomfortable, give me endurance and patience to accomplish my tasks with joy. Remind me that the things I'm giving up are insignificant compared to what you gave up to redeem me.

Monkey Business

2009-10-02T18:38:00.007+02:00

I used to like monkeys. Before I moved to Africa, that is.

Let's take a look at a few famous monkeys in history. Who can resist the charm and mischief of Curious George, the curious little monkey? And then there was Albert--that monkey they launched into outer space in the 40s. He's braver than I am, so I have to admire him. One of my personal favorites was always Pippi Longstockings' pet monkey, Mr. Nilsson. What 8-year old hasn't wished for a monkey to ride on her shoulder? So much cooler than a hamster.

I say all this to assure you that I've never had any qualms with our primate friends. Generally I've thought of them as cute, cuddly, little playthings with endless wit and dazzling personalities.

However, after the shocking events of last weekend, I fear that my relationship with monkeys is forever tainted.

Last Thursday, my supervisor, teammate and I slipped out of town for a long weekend getaway with some friends in Mombasa, a breathtaking resort town on Kenya's southern coast. A few days of basking in the sun by the Indian Ocean, getting pedicures, and spending time with good friends was exactly what the doctor ordered.

We stayed in a fantastic cottage, just a stone's throw from our own private beach. Hammocks hung from coconut trees, an ocean breeze swept through the back porch, delicious food filled the table--what more could a girl want? This is as close to paradise as it gets.

Unfortunately, none of us realized that we had been awarded a free bonus with our vacation package--unlimited monkey invasions.

Because of the cottage's setup, we kept the back door open throughout the day. Being conniving little creatures, the hordes of monkeys in our yard quickly saw this as an opportunity to advance themselves.

As every hour passed, their fear of us decreased and their boldness soared to unprecedented heights.

Before we knew what had hit us, the monkeys were inside the cottage, helping themselves to whatever they could find! They ate our food. They ravaged our belongings. They tried to steal our computers. Even when we closed off the main door, they discovered an alternate entryway through a hole in the screen window upstairs. They were a relentless army.

For whatever reason, the monkeys in Mombasa are not afraid of women. So a house-full of ladies didn't phase them one bit. We screamed. We shouted. We made ourselves look as large and intimidating as possible. All to no avail.

Bananas and hair flew across the living room. Mass hysteria had broken out at the ladies retreat. The monkeys had taken over.

Gathering my wits, I took a deep breath and joined the front lines of battle--the inside of the cottage. I couldn't leave my friends for dead. I put my fears aside and crawled in the trenches.

Little did I know the monkeys had already pulled out the big guns.

Two seconds after I set foot inside, a glob from above pelted my shoulder. This is exactly what I imagined war to be like. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I had been hit! But by what? Was this the end? Afraid to look, I slowly turned my head to my shoulder to evaluate the wound.

The damage was worse than I had anticipated.

I had been pooped on by the enemy! What happened to the rules of engagement? How was this fighting fair? They were dropping bombs from the rafters!

One of the enemy crouches upstairs. This may or may not be the monkey who pooped on me.

In my shock, my self-preservation instincts kicked in, and I stepped out of the way just in time to avoid the waterfall of monkey pee that followed.

Severely weakened, I dragged my injured body to the shower, cursing the enemy under my breath. They had broken my body and my spirit. Yes, they had won the battle, but they would not win the war.

Eventually, some of the more fearsome ladies in the group--You know who you are--managed to fight off the intruders, with the help of a Kenyan guard. In the end, the monkeys did not get the best of us. The weekend was still a great success, despite our invaders.

I tried to like monkeys. I really did. But I may just have to hold this against them for as long as I live.

Emily's Top 10 List

2009-09-10T19:16:00.020+03:00

Sign reads: "Exercise Extreme Caution with the Elephants"

What's life like in Africa? I get that question a lot. Hmmmmmm. How to describe the exciting life of a Tanzanian...Well, have you seen that amazing video on YouTube from Kruger National Park where the water buffalo survives a lion attack? That sums it up pretty well.

(If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM. It's crazy!)

Hopefully by now you've caught my sarcasm. Everyday life in East Africa isn't quite so "National Geographic." But it's certainly a far cry from my middle-class, suburban life in the States. Here are some of the most unusual parts of my new, African-ized existence:

10. Seeing monkeys on my morning runs.

I coaxed this little guy to pose for a picture with the promise of a banana, which I never delivered.

The little vervet monkeys that inhabit our town are funny and cute. Until one tries to steal your IPod...

One lazy Sunday afternoon, I was relaxing by the pool at a local hotel. I dozed off, basking in the heat of the African sun. Suddenly, I awoke to that feeling of being watched. I opened my eyes and a furry face was studying me carefully. It was a monkey--watching me sleep. And waiting for the right time to nab my IPod. Thankfully I caught him before he had time to act. Thievery is not treated lightly in Africa...

9. Buying fresh fish from a man on his bike.

Mmmmm...fresh fish, straight from the Indian Ocean. Delicious! When I learned there was a man who sells fish right from the back of his bike everyday, it sounded like a great idea. Visions of Red Lobster's All You Can Eat Shrimp Fest danced in my head. Until I met him on the road and realized the fish had literally come straight from the ocean--and were the size of Ohio. What would I do with a whole fish--eyeballs, fins, gills, scales, bones and all? Sadly I lack the gutting and fileting skills necessary to enjoy the fresh catch of the day. So I guess I'll just keep eating oatmeal.

8. Living in a gated compound with a guard and housekeeper.

Undoubtedly, this is one of the few times--if not the only time--in my life where I will be able to afford this luxury. Plus I'm helping nationals have a steady income. Not cleaning my own bathroom so someone else can have a job? Now that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.

7. Hearing the echo of the Muslim Call to Prayer everyday.

A man's voice rings out the Arabic words, which are broadcast over a loudspeaker at the nearby mosque. Reminding Muslims to pray to Allah five times each day, it's a constant reminder for me to pray that God would heal the spiritual blindness in my town.

6. Free season pass to the petting zoo right outside my door.

I'm almost certain I would appreciate this aspect of African life more had I come here at age 7, not 27. Whether I like it or not, everyday when I walk out my gate, a menagerie of wild animals greet me. Goats, cows, chickens, dogs, monkeys, lizards, the occasional pig, all within my reach. My main goal, however, is to avoid stepping in any little "gifts" they've left on the road for me.

5. Sporadic electricity.

As a kid, losing power during the occasional thunderstorm was exciting, a welcome break from the mundane. Our family would grab the flashlights and run down to the basement, waiting for the storm to pass.

Sadly power outages have lost their allure for me in Tanzania. They typically occur 3 or so times a week and have lasted as little as 10 minutes or as long as 10 hours. Not so much fun when it means my fan doesn't work and it's a stifling 90 degrees with 90% humidity outside...

4. Yielding to bicycles and oxcarts at roundabouts.

As you may remember from post "Bicycle Story," driving in my town is not one of my favorite pass-times. The bicycles have literally taken over! The worst part is that bicyclists here believe they are on the same level as cars and buses. Even if everyone in the town has agreed on it, that still doesn't make it true.

Nonetheless, "Hit a bike rider with my car" is not on my Tanzanian to-do list. So everyday at the main roundabout in town, I wait as the bicyclists pedal around the circle at a leisurely pace, trying to remember when I last prayed for patience.

3. Cases of malaria as frequent as the common cold.

Disclaimer: This is not my hairy arm.

Malaria is the 2nd biggest killer in East Africa, right behind HIV/AIDS. If treated in a timely manner, it is not life threatening. I was unlucky enough to contract a case of Level 3 malaria during my visit to Tanzania last year. (Level 7 is the strongest.) I was miserable, to say the least, but was back on my feet in 4 or 5 days.

Sleeping under mosquito nets can help prevent malaria. But sadly many people here lack the funds to purchase the medicine needed once they do contract the disease.

2. Male hand-holding.

Male hand-holding is an accepted expression of friendship here. I know in my head that this is true. But I can't help but look twice when I see two men strolling down the street, hand-in-hand. It's especially amusing when one of my white friends is sucked into the hand-holding ritual (as shown in the photo above). I always get a kick out of watching them squirm.

If you read my post entitled "Pomp and Circumstance," you will also recall that men enjoy feeding each other cake at celebrations, such as birthday parties and high school graduations.

1. Being called by name everywhere I go.

Or at least by the name I've been given. It's "Mzungu," which is the East African term for "European/white person." Kids know me. Adults know me. Little old grandmas know me. I even get an occasional, "Mzungu! I love you!" from a random man while I'm on a run. (The compliment is never wanted and most always ignored. Thankfully I learned how to appropriately respond last week in language school. "Usikonde, Mshikaji!" is Swahili for, "Don't waste yourself waiting for me because it ain't gonna happen in a million years"--or something to that effect.)

*The word Mzungu literally means "one who goes around in circles," and actually describes quite well the rushed, task-oriented pace of life in the west versus Africa's slow, relaxed pace.

Snapshots of August

2009-09-02T18:33:00.021+03:00

When I wasn't looking, August came and went. Here are a few highlights from my month:

WEEK ONE: Mwenge wa Uhuru (Freedom Torch)

Attended a celebration of Tanzania's independence--gained in 1961. A torch travels all over the country, representing unity, progress, and peace. No fireworks on this Independence Day, but there was plenty of dancing, decorations, and excitement.

To decorate, women from the village took scraps of material and tied them to ropes. Simple and so pretty.

After almost 2 hours of waiting, the torch finally arrives and reaches the platform.

Unfortunately you had to be a certain height to actually see the torch.

WEEK TWO: Maasai Jumping

Maasai friends at language school performed their tribal jumping dance for me. One of the most well-known ethnic groups in East Africa, the Maasai herd cows and are renowned as fierce warriors. This adumu, or "jumping dance," is often performed as part of a coming-of-age ceremony for a young warrior. The warriors form a circle and one or two at a time will enter the center and begin jumping, never letting their heels touch the ground. During the jumping, group members chant, raising the pitch of their voices based on the height of the jump.

Jumping is underrated by everyone but the Maasai. So fun!

No one warned me that there would be audience participation. Here I am trying to dance like a Maasai warrior. Note the laughter.

WEEK THREE: Road Block

Trip to the village was delayed by a herd of cattle taking their time on the road. Typical part of life in Tanzania, and it happens even in town.

WEEK FOUR: Village Health Focus Groups

Sat in on focus groups in villages. Interviewed women who had given birth over the last year to find out about the condition of the local clinics. Learned the Swahili term for pregnant woman. It's "mja mzito," which literally means, "A heavy person." It's culturally unacceptable to ask a woman if she is pregnant. Instead, you should ask if she is a heavy person.

I made a couple friends along the way during the focus groups.

Pomp and Circumstance

2009-09-02T17:38:00.016+03:00

When it comes to throwing a party, nobody does it quite like Tanzania.

Life for the average Tanzanian is hard work. Crops to harvest. Heavy loads to carry. Hungry mouths to feed. Meager wages. So celebrations with friends and families are a cherished escape from reality.

And when Tanzanians celebrate, they really celebrate. Gatherings here are marathons, not sprints. Even halfway through Hour Five, no one complains or looks at their watches wondering if they'll make it home in time to see the football game. They are exactly where they want to be.

I've learned first-hand the importance of pacing oneself for such an event. I've sat through 6-hour long church services (all in Swahili--and this was pre-language school), hospital recognition ceremonies, celebrations from sun up to sundown commemorating the union of Tanzania and Zanzibar. Strangely enough, when my back starts to ache from sitting too long on a rickety wooden bench, and I feel the early signs of suffocation creeping in, I realize that no one else is bothered. Everyone around me still has a good five hours of partying left in them.

A couple weeks ago, I added "High School Graduation" to my list of Tanzanian celebrations.

Some friends in town invited my teammate and me to accompany them to the village for their brother's graduation from Form 4. Excited to be included in this family function, we made the 40-minute drive to the village.

When I arrived, I made the mistake of looking at the schedule. If I thought high school graduations back in the States were long, they quickly paled in comparison to what I was about to experience.

Here's a glimpse of how the day's events unfolded:

11:00AM Set up sound equipment; Unfortunately my seat was in the second row and the hearing loss began early.

11:20AM Guests arrive, sign the guest book, and take their seats.

12:00PM Students march in. (Actually it was more of a dance than a march.)

12:20 PM Sing the School Song

12:30 PM Introduction of guests

12:50 PM Sing another song

1:00PM Form 1 Students sing a song and perform a skit that I couldn't understand

2:00PM More talking, more singing, more skits which everyone thought were hilarious but I couldn't understand

3:00PM Keynote speaker delivers a riveting address that I couldn't understand. Something about working hard and going far in life...

4:00PM Gifts and diplomas are presented to students (Home stretch! Food is in sight...)

4:45PM Families gather outside for food and celebration. (The ultimate goal of the day!)

The highlight for me--hands down--happened after the ceremony. In the school yard, families gathered to honor their students and share a meal. In our group of twenty, each guest was welcomed individually with a short song of introduction (which required you to dance in front of everyone as you were being introduced). And the only two white people at the graduation--my teammate Jill and me--were not exempt from this fun activity. (As if we didn't stand out enough already!)

Just when I thought it couldn't get any more exciting, cake was served. Now at most celebrations I've attended, when cake time comes, each guest selects a piece, goes back to his or her chair, and indulges alone. That was not the case on this day. The two honored graduates, our friend's brother and his best friend, called each guest up to the table to feed them a piece of graduation cake.

And it got even better! After the two young men had fed each guest, they fed each other cake wedding style!

We concluded the time together by sharing a meal of beef, roasted peanuts, and something like hush puppies.

I was touched to be included in this celebration--although I had only known my friends for a short time--and made to feel like a member of the family.

On the way back to the car, I even had a celebrity moment when one of the female graduates asked if she could have her picture with "the mzungu." I guess being the only white person in a crowd of Tanzanians does have its perks--instant popularity.

What's next on my list of events to attend? Maybe a wedding? An anniversary party? An all-day concert? Only time will tell.

Tanzanian Lawn Mower

2009-08-21T13:01:00.007+03:00

For those of you who hate mowing your lawn every summer (which is almost everyone), take a look at this photo.

This is what I like to call a Tanzanian lawn mower. (In case you can't tell, he's cutting the grass with a machete.) It's a common sight all over the country. This lawn mower is economical and environmentally friendly. It produces no fumes. You don't have to pay exorbitant prices for gas. And one "mower" will likely last a lifetime. All you need is a little manpower and a few hours in the great outdoors.

This man had been "mowing" his lawn for who knows how long when I approached him on the street; yet he still mustered up a hearty smile for the photo.

I appreciate all the hard work you men (and some ladies) to do keep your yards looking pristine. But if you're feeling sorry for yourself next time you're pushing (or riding) your mower around the yard, be thankful you don't have to use a Tanzanian lawn mower.

A Stolen Glance

2009-08-17T22:52:00.007+03:00

Even when we think no one is watching, God sees us.

Last week, a simple glance from a little boy in a remote African village reminded me of this truth.

On our day off from language school, my teammate and I visited a village about 45 minutes outside of our town where we'll be working regularly.

Upon arrival, we were welcomed warmly by villagers young and old, offering smiles and gifts of oranges. We greeted the elders respectfully and delivered news from the town.

Soon a group of women and children gathered. Under the canopy of an immense Baobab tree, my supervisor shared the story of Abraham and Isaac on Mt. Moriah.

Every woman and child listened intently, many hearing the age-old story for the first time. Their eyes shimmered in admiration for Abraham, his obedience, and his faith that God would keep his promises.

After some discussion, we challenged each person to pass the story along throughout the week. Then we closed in prayer.

Just so you know, when I'm praying with a group of people, I typically close my eyes at, "Dear Heavenly Father," and keep them closed tight all the way through, "In Jesus' name...Amen."

I learned a young age that only naughty little boys and girls looked around during prayer. If the pastor said, "Every head bowed and every eye closed," I obeyed. I could never summon the courage to take a peek, no matter how badly I wanted to see the raised hands, revealing the sinners and backsliders on that particular Sunday. I guess I was afraid of being reprimanded in front of the entire congregation, especially since the man behind the pulpit was usually my dad.

But on this particular day in the village, for whatever reason, I decided to open my eyes and have a look around. When I did, I could scarcely believe what I saw. Every single child in the circle had his head bowed and eyes closed. And they never even went to my church!

Smiling to myself, I bowed my head again and continued in prayer. A minute later, that same nagging urge to look struck me.

Once again, I gave in.

This time, not everyone had his eyes closed. I immediately noticed a pair of big, brown eyes zeroed in on me. They belonged to the little boy in the green baseball cap whom I had been admiring during the story.

Caught! Mid-stare.

For a moment, he hesitated, a look of uncertainty in his brow. I could almost read his thoughts. Was I angry for the intrusion? Would he be dismissed from the circle?

But my eyes quickly assured him that no harm had been done.

United by a glance alone, we both smiled big, wonderful smiles, laughing silently across the circle. What a sweet, shared moment. No one but he and I had seen. No one else would know.

This simple gift reminded me that God's eyes are on me day and night. I am so glad to serve the God who sees me, as Hagar described him in Genesis 16.

Our Father is delighted when we finally step away from ourselves, look up, and our eyes meet His. How long it takes us to notice that He has been admiring us all this time! Oh the love and compassion He has for His children. Oh how He watches us and knows our every thought, move, every breath.

Thank you Jesus that, even in Africa, you see me.

"Oh LORD, you have searched me and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.

Before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely, O LORD.

You hem me in--behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea...

Even there, your hand will guide me; your right hand will hold me fast."

(Psalm 139: 1-10)

Photo of the Week

2009-08-15T00:07:00.003+03:00

This man wins the award for Biggest Load on the Back of a Bicycle. And that's quite an accomplishment in our town. Not having a Land Rover with ample storage space doesn't stop these industrious guys from getting their load from Point A to Point B. I've seen everything from a live goat to a month's supply of charcoal to 6 20-liter plastic jugs on the back of bicycles here. This bike rider was concentrating intently on not falling over, but he was kind enough to let me take a photo.

Death by Coconut

2009-08-11T20:27:00.021+03:00

Of all the ways to meet your Maker, being hit in the head by a falling coconut tops the list as "Most Lame" and "Biggest Waste" in my book.

The above warning is posted at my language school, where coconut trees tower above students and visitors, reaching colossal heights of 80 feet or more.

I noticed the sign a few weeks ago, upon arrival to my first class. Naturally, I found it amusing. But little did I know there was genuine cause for concern.

Until last week...

While I was in class cramming my head full of Swahili knowledge, the workers at the conference center/language school were hurriedly preparing for a wedding reception that would take place on campus the following Saturday.

*Side note: "Harusi" is Swahili for "wedding."

One unexpected item on the "Harusi To Do List" was "Call coconut man from the village to climb the trees and knock down loose coconuts so no guests are killed."

What happened to "Order flower arrangements for bridesmaids," "Book the church," "Have groomsmen fitted for tuxes"? You know...the typical pre-wedding obligations?

Then again, this IS Africa.

This curious item on the list sparked my interest so much that I decided to research the topic. How many lives are ended by falling coconuts annually? Is this the problem that no one talks about? Could I be the next victim? Should I check my insurance policy?

These questions haunted me as I frantically scoured the web for the answer that would determine my fate--or at least predict my odds of survival. Would it be me versus the coconut tree? Girl vs. Wild?

Only Wikipedia would tell.

Much to my dismay, Wiki left me still searching for answers. However, I soon began to unravel the mystery.

Apparently, a widely reported press release from a British travel-insurance firm is to blame for inflated statistics on deaths by falling coconuts.

"Coconuts kill around 150 people worldwide each year, which makes them about ten times more dangerous than sharks," says Brent Escott, managing director of Club Direct.

Sounds terrifying enough. That means I have a 1 in 2,389,057 chance of being killed by a coconut. Or something like that.

But how did Mr. Escott produce this fear-inducing number? No one seems to know.

(Check out this article for the full story. Very entertaining. http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/2405/are-150-people-killed-each-year-by-falling-coconuts)

Thanks to God's divine intervention, no wedding guests or party members were killed by falling coconuts last Saturday. Who wants to start a marriage with that on their record?

To this day, I can't bring myself to walk directly under the coconuts while taking a stroll during break from class. I'll take the long way to class in order to avoid it, in fact.

If the Lord sees fit to take me home tomorrow, so be it. But I would rather not go down in history as another victim of Death By Coconut.

Men in the village are hired to climb coconut trees and knock down the loose fruit to keep the death count low.

Drama!

2009-08-09T18:20:00.015+03:00

Since I was a little tot, I've always enjoyed acting. I've graced the stage of more than a couple Christmas plays in my day. I'd like to think I'm a very versatile actress. One year, I volunteered to play a Wise Man when there was a shortage of guys in our youth group. Now that's what I call talent. I guess I'm just not afraid to look slightly less than dignified as long as other people are laughing...or reliving the Nativity story.

As much as I love acting, I don't remember reading anything about it on my job description for Tanzania. Nonetheless, this past Saturday night, I found myself playing a major role in a Swahili drama.

After language school yesterday, Jill and I paid a visit to the local youth center, where young people record music, do traditional dances, and confront issues like drug abuse AIDS through drama. It's an outstanding program--started by the director of our language school, a Norweigan lady.

The level of talent in the group is truly astounding. Three of the guys record and produce their own music in a studio there at the center. One of their songs hit the top of the charts in Tanzania: "Napenda Ice Cream." (That's "I Love Ice Cream" for you non-Swahili speakers.) It's catchy--the kind of song that makes us white folks wish we knew how to dance.

These students are above-average young people. They spend their time developing their talents and tackling tough issues that many Tanzanians shy away from, like AIDS and pre-marital sex.

One way they address problems is through drama. When we arrived, we new they were going to show us some of their acts. Little did we know we would be the main act.

Before I could say no, I was yanked out of my seat and directed "backstage" (i.e. the hallway) in preparation for my Tanzanian theatrical debut. The slightly disorienting part was that all my instructions--as well as the plot of the skit--were relayed to me solely in Swahili.

Eventually, with the help of some hand motions and broken English, I discovered the skit was about a guy who was cheating on his girlfriend with a mzungu. That's me! "White person."

This was clearly not the role I would have chosen. But I was the guest of honor and backing out was not an option. So I rose to the occasion and played the part of the lovestruck mzungu. There was batting of eyelashes. There was hand-holding. There were googly eyes. There was whispering of sweet nothings.

Then suddenly there was a peck on the cheek from my Tanzanian acting partner. What!? That wasn't in the script! I was a bit shocked but somehow managed to pull myself back together and finish the show.

I'm still not exactly sure of the outcome of the drama. I can safely say that I did not get the man in the end. What I did take from the skit is that infidelity is bad and encourages the spread of HIV/AIDS. Like the Swahili proverb says, "Mchezea wembe humkata mwenyewe." (He who plays with a razor cuts himself.) Seems basic enough, but it is actually a giant step for young people here to talk about these issues.

I guess if subjecting myself to mild humiliation once or twice contributes to the solution rather than the problem, bring it on.

My Week in Review

2009-08-02T22:42:00.009+03:00

SUNDAY NIGHT: Pizza Party
Tested the new wood-fired pizza oven at our language school with our friends Linda (from Norway) and Rachel (from New Zealand).

TUESDAY: Wilderness Survival
Learned how to cut a coconut from the tree and drink its juice. Apparently coconut juice has medicinal powers and is great for your stomach. It also helps treat yellow fever. At least I think that's what they said...it was all in Swahili so you can't be 100% sure.

WEDNESDAY: A trip to the circus
Went to see Mama Africa, "The Greatest Show in Africa." It was actually a high-quality show; would've been worth seeing in the States. It reminded me of a Tanzanian Cirque de Soleil. Lots of acrobats, some traditional dance, jugglers, etc. Best of all, my supervisor was chosen to go on stage and forced to embarrass himself in front of the entire crowd. Priceless.

FRIDAY: Language School Field Trip
Taught a class of second graders as part of a practical language learning experience. Impressed myself with the amount of Swahili I could actually speak and understand. Still convinced elementary ed is not my calling however.

SATURDAY: Car troubles continue
Second tire puncture in two weeks. Thankfully a worker at my language school discovered this one before I left school. Time to buy yet another spare. Can't wait.

A New Name

2009-08-02T12:41:00.000+03:00

Over the last couple weeks, God has been reminding me that He has the power to change peoples' identities. Living in a place where so many have been bound to a stringent set of rules and regulations for generations, this is a reassuring truth.

I've always been fascinated by the account in the Gospels where Jesus meets Peter for the first time. In John 1, Andrew hears about Jesus from John the Baptist and begins to follow him. Soon he goes to find his brother, Simon, to tell him the good news. "We have found the Messiah!"

So Andrew brings Simon to meet Jesus, the Christ. Jesus sees Simon and says, "Your name is Simon, son of John--but you will be called Cephas, which means Peter."

In John's account, Jesus gives no explanation and doesn't apologize for his actions. He just changes Simon's name to Peter. He could do this because of his raw sovereign authority. He is God. Period.

I'm so thankful that God is still changing peoples' names today, even here in Tanzania. Recently I've made friends with a godly old man in our town who taught me English for a while before a bout with malaria and pneumonia. We'll just called him "Mr. V."

Mr. V is a follower of Christ, which is very rare for people in his tribe. We've shared our faith openly with one another and have practiced talking about faith issues in Swahili.

One day, I asked him how to came to know Christ. He began his story with some family history.

A couple generations ago, his family was practicing the predominant religion in their village. One day, some German missionaries moved to town. They asked the villagers to find a young child that could help them learn the local language.

Mr. V's great-grandfather was about 7 at the time. So his father volunteered him. As he helped the Germans with their language, Mr. V's grandfather learned the Truth about Jesus Christ. Before long, decided to follow Him, even though this was in strict opposition to his family's set of beliefs.

When his devoutly religious father learned of the boy's decision, he was enraged and the boy was estranged for some time. Eventually, the father saw that his son's commitment was genuine, and his heart softened toward him. They were able to reconcile the relationship, although the father never accepted Christ.

But the boy continued to fervently seek Christ, and his faith blossomed. When he married and had a family, they too chose to follow Christ. Eventually, one of his sons had a son, and that was Mr. V.

Mr. V gave his life to Christ as a young man and has been following whole-heartedly for the majority of his 68 years on this Earth. He serves with the Gideons and has traveled to multiple countries, including the US for various Gideon functions.

The Lord has used this faithful servant in a mighty way. The story of his great-grandfather's encounter with Christ is a testimony to God's power to change an identity.

Thank you, Jesus, for changing my identity.

I was guilty. Now I am innocent.
I was a slave to sin. Now I am free.
I walked in darkness. Now I live in the light.
I was dead. Now I am alive.
I was blind. Now I see.

Bicycle Story

2009-07-26T14:24:00.000+03:00

Some days, living in a third-world country gives me a headache. No, I'm not just having a culture-shock Whine Day; it's just a fact of life.

Survival here requires every bit of energy and concentration you can muster. Day-to-day life can be stressful, to say the least. In order to communicate, my brain has to kick into overdrive and construct messages in Swahili. When we need groceries, Jill and I jump in the car and head to the market, where we carefully maneuver our way around an array of stands and try to avoid paying the mzungu (white person) price for our fresh produce. Even during my jogs around town, I greet probably 50 people on my 60-minute route.

I love it, and it's an exciting life. But it is exhausting. Most days by the time I get home, I am ready to assume a comatose position on my couch.

A prime example is the bicycle situation in our town. I'm not sure how or when it started, but at some point, someone here must have said, "Hey, we should all get bicycles and swarm the roads so drivers will live in fear of hitting us every time they get behind the wheel."

Whatever the chain of events, the result is clear: the bicycles have taken over our town.

Every morning on the way to language school, Jill and I run the gauntlet as we face an obstacle course of Land Rovers, dala dalas (public transport mini busses), taxis, cows, pedestrians young and old, oxcarts, daredevil chickens, and worst of all--bicycles by the droves.

To be fair, let me first list the benefits of bicycles in our town:
(1) Car and bus traffic are greatly reduced.
(2) Pollution is not an issue as it is in bigger cities like Dar es Salaam.
(3) Riders reap extensive physical health benefits.
(4) Economy is stimulated through bike rentals and purchases.
(5) Riders who would normally walk get from Point A to Point B much faster.

Unfortunately, in this case, I have to say the bad outweighs the good.

The biggest problem with every man and his brother riding hoofing it across town on a bike is the omission of a crucial part of bike riding: looking out for cars. This must be one of those "cultural differences" I've been warned about that I will never understand.

But it seems more like good old common sense to me. I'm just saying that if I'm riding a bike on the road and there are 4 feet between me and the curb, I am going to scoot over to reduce the risk of being hit by a car.

A very light traffic day on the way to language school

Common Myths among bicycle riders in our town:
(1) Looking before pulling out onto a major road is optional and unnecessary.
(2) The middle of the lane is the safest place to ride my bike.
(3) If I collide head-on with an automobile, I will walk away from the accident unscathed.
(4) Weaving around the road while riding is a fun, harmless activity.

Jill and I face the bicycle challenge everyday as we drive to and from language school. So naturally we've taken extra precautions to drive carefully.

Unfortunately, there is only so much we as drivers can do when bicycles have taken over the road, except pray and keep our eyes on the road.

My favorite bicycle rider in town. His bike doesn't move. Instead he stays put and uses the power his bike generates to sharpen knives. Great idea!

Yesterday, Jill and I both had close calls with two-wheeled riders. On the way to school, a bike rider somehow managed to hit the side of our car, completely annihilating our tire. Neither of us even saw him. We just heard a loud THUD and immediately assumed the worst. By the grace of God alone, the rider had managed to stay on his bike. He was completely unharmed and just needed 1000 shillings to repair his bike spoke.

We pulled over, and a crowd of friendly Tanzanians quickly came to our rescue. An hour later, we were safely at language school with our spare tire intact.

Whew. Enough excitement for one day. Or so we thought...

Later that afternoon, as we headed home, I was making a right turn--the equivalent of a left turn in the states. I took extra care to look both ways, multiple times, after this morning's incident. Everything was clear. So I turned.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a motorcycle whips in front of me. In shock, I slam on my brakes and he skids to the side just in time to avoid a collision. Another close call!

After my heart slows down and I compose myself, I roll down the window and offer a profuse apology. (I really think it was his fault though. There was no reason for him to be driving that fast in such a heavily populated area.)

I guess forcing people to look death in the face by nearly hitting them with your car could be an evangelism tactic, but not the one I prefer. I've never really been an advocate for the "Turn or Burn" philosophy.

I'd rather build relationships with people and share the Truth of Christ that way.

So next time you get behind the wheel of your car, offer up a prayer for me. Ask the Father to use me in a powerful way to draw the people of Tanzania to himself. Pray that my team and I would make disciples and that our driving records would stay clean!

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Swahili Made Easy

2009-07-17T19:49:00.000+03:00

Half the fun of living in Tanzania is learning Swahili and actually having endless opportunities every day to use the language (unlike high school and college where I crammed my brain full of French, regurgitated it for the tests, and then forgot it all). Today marks the completion of my third week of Swahili language school, and--although I'm far from fluent--I think I've made some major strides.

My language school. Who wouldn't want to have class under a palm tree?

Learning a new language is humbling to say the least. I've been speaking English for 27ish years now and averaging about 35,000 words a day. (Isn't that what they estimate for a woman? On some days I'm definitely above average.) But suddenly, I find myself living in a third-world country where I can't just open my mouth and say what I want to say. In this case, patience is definitely a virtue.

These 3 simple rules have made my language study a little less stressful and a little more fun.

Language Learning Rule #1: Don't be afraid to look stupid.

CHECK. Already been there multiple times. I can't help but laugh at myself when I repeat a sentence like, "I combined all the ingredients in a pot," in Swahili 7 times, and I say it with the enthusiasm of someone who just won a million dollars. Or "Those chairs are blue. Those chairs are blue. Those chairs are blue." I can only imagine what the native Swahili speakers around me are thinking. It's been a long time since preschool, but learning Swahili has reminded me of the joy of small victories, like acquiring communication skills. When it comes to language learning, throwing caution to the wind at the risk of looking foolish is the quickest road to success.

Language Learning Rule #2: Learn to laugh at yourself.

I've quickly come to accept the fact that people may laugh at my feeble attempts to express myself in Swahili. But more often than not, I've found that Tanzanians are excited and grateful that I'm making an effort to speak to them in their native tongue--no matter how pathetic it may be. And if I'm willing to laugh at myself too, then learning to speak Swahili will be a lot more fun.

Language Learning Rule #3: In the early stages of your language learning, what you think you're saying and what you're actually saying probably aren't the same.

EXAMPLE: A couple days ago at language school, we traded our regular classroom for the kitchen, where we learned to cook maharage na wali (beans and rice), chapatis (similar to tortillas or naan), mueseli (Basically granola. Not a Tanzanian specialty...we just love it!), and kashata (cross between peanut butter fudge and peanut brittle). Part of the deal was that we were required to speak Swahili the entire time so we could practice using cooking vocabulary.

The Tanzanian Rachel Ray?
Nope, it's just me, concentrating deeply on the dough.

So here we are cooking like real Africans AND speaking Swahili. What a great day! I'm so excited to expand my cooking repertoire (which is pretty small) and build my Swahili vocab (also smaller than I'd like it to be). I'm at the stove, stirring a giant vat of goo while trying to use my new words in sentences. I'm semi-chatting with the cook, our teacher for the day, who speaks very very little English. Well, the word for cook/chef is "mpishi", and I know I've got that one down. But I want to make this cook feel really good about himself. So I refer to him as the head cook. At least I think that's what I've just said. In reality, I actually called him the leg cook. (Head, as in head hauncho, is "mkuu" and leg is "mguu". So close yet so far away...)

Here I am mixing the granola as the leg cook supervises.

Frying the chapatis

Trying to separate the peanut husks from the nuts without dropping all the peanuts on the ground. The cook made it look so easy...

And then there was the time in classroom conversation when I said I wanted to make a stew with ulcers/sores instead of onions. Mmmmmm...nothing hits the spot like a warm bowl of ulcer stew on a cold winter day. I'm surprised this comment didn't get me banned from the kitchen.

Here are couple other words I am trying my best avoid in conversation:

Taco - Sure, it sounds mouthwatering to the average Mexican food lover. But when used in Swahili, it refers to the buttocks.

Jamba - Forget Jamba Juice, the deliciously refreshing smoothie. Here "jamba" means to pass gas.

Kunwya "to drink" and Kunya "to go #2" are only separated by one little "w." Watch out!

So feel free to say a few prayers for me over the next few weeks as I press on with my language study. Pray that I won't make anymore ulcer stews and that Swahili will come quickly so I can communicate the Truth to those around me in their own language.

Change is Good

2009-07-15T21:03:00.000+03:00

I've been back in Tanzania for three months now and I'm just now getting settled in to a semi-normal routine. Why should I be surprised for the slow pace? This IS Africa, after all.

Before leaving the States, I received some wise counsel about life overseas: Expect the unexpected. So true! My situation has changed drastically since I stepped off the plane back in April. Only one month ago, I couldn't have guessed where I would be today.

But in the midst of last-minute changes and uncertain times, God continues to prove Himself faithful, showing that his ways are above ours. He is SO good.

So here's the big news: My teammate Jill and I have moved to a city on the northern coast of Tanzania to teach health classes in nearby villages. We now work under an NGO called Peoples International, doing community development through health, education, and other venues. It's an exciting change in a city with limitless need and potential.

I'm a little hesitant to post pictures of my new home for fear that you might lose all your sympathy for me as I "suffer" in Africa. But before you stop preparing that much-needed care package, you should know that I will pay the price for my beautiful locale in sweat. Being on the coast, the humidity is off the charts. It's winter now, so I've yet to experience the joy of true heat here. Oh but it's coming...

This view is only about a 5-minute walk from my house. Did I mention I live just off Ocean Drive not far from the Yacht Club?

Some shops downtown on the street

Driving to language school every morning is a challenge. I have to carefully avoid bicycles on both sides, other cars, daladalas (buses), pikipikis (motorcyles), cows, goats, pedestrians, and any number of other obstacles.

One of our many tiny, bug eating tenants hides behind the curtain in my bedroom

When in Africa, Do As the Africans Do

2009-07-14T14:41:00.000+03:00

Life in Africa is a lot different than life in the States, to say the least. No Kroger. No Target. No Panera Bread. No microwave...at least not in our house. Convenience is not a priority, and there's no such thing as instant anything here. You have to learn to adjust to a slower pace of life. But you also reap the benefits of rich relationships, a loving community, and lots of learning.

To figure out how to "do life" in Africa, I spent about 3.5 weeks in April and May with some friends learning first-hand about African culture and living in Zambia. Here are some highlights of my time:

All the single ladies at training in Lusaka

DAY ONE: Caught a spectacular view of Kilimanjaro on the flight from Dar to Nairobi. (I'm hoping/planning to climb it with some friends this December.) Arrived in Lusaka, Zambia, and moved into dorms for first 12 days of training in the city.

DAY 6: Completed one of many Daily Field Assignments. Explored compounds (neighborhoods) in Lusaka with a Zambian helper and interviewed residents about health issues in Zambia. Prayed with a man who had AIDS.

DAY 11: Attended church in town with my Zambian helper. Ate lunch at pastor's house afterward. Tasted stewed caterpillars for the first--and hopefully last--time. Scrumpcious.

DAY 12: Rode a bus 6 hours or so to Petuake to set up bush camp and learn about life in the village. (Our camp reminded me of The Others' camp on LOST. So I pretended to be an Other for the first 4 days.)

DAY 14: Met government officials. Hosted ladies tea for wife of village headman and wife of District Commissioner.

DAY 17: Visited the home of a traditional healer (i.e. witchdoctor). Learned about his healing methods and shared the story of Christ with him.

DAYS 23 - 26: Lived in the village with a Zambian family. Ate what they ate. Did what they did. Harvested sweet potatoes and groundnuts from the field. Drew water from a well and attempted to carry the bucket on my head. Cowered in fear from roaches. Beat the seeds out of sunflowers to press for oil. Made peanut butter. Hugged lots of children.

DAY 25: Attended church. Sang and danced with ladies' vocal group despite not knowing the dance moves OR the language--Chinyanga.

DAY 26: Drove back to Lusaka then north a bit to spend last few days debriefing and talking about language learning. (No, I didn't make the trip in an oxcart. Just thought this was interesting...)

DAY 29: Became a host for anonymous parasite. Participated in vommitting, nausea, other less than fun parasite-associated activities.

DAY 31: Flew back to Tanzania to use everything I learned and to start living like an African.

Some Photos

2009-04-18T21:15:00.000+03:00

Jill and me inside one of the bathrooms in our new house. It's a little overwhelming--Pepto Pink and mirrors on all four walls. Just what I always wanted--1000 different views of myself in the bathroom.

Eating chicken on the street in Morogoro (the city closest to where I lived last year) with friends Esther and Andrew.

Karibu Tanzania

2009-04-18T20:56:00.000+03:00

Karibu means "Welcome to" or "You're welcome" in Swahili. I arrived safely last Friday night in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania's capital city. It's great but kind of surreal to finally be here after a year of planning, applying, praying, etc.

I'm thankful to be living in southern highlands of Iringa, with cooler weather and mountains. Dar is HOT (probably high 80s w/ high humidity during the day) and very mosquito infested. I stayed in Dar for about 5 days until my supervisor and partner came to pick me up and take me back to Iringa. The city has 3 million people--and terrible traffic! I drove for the first time a few days ago on the left side of the road, with the wheel on the right side of the car. Plus I had to shift gears. Talk about confusing! But I passed my driving test, so I guess I'm getting the hang of it.

Dar does have some beautiful beach scenery, since it's located right on the Indian Ocean.