It's on the side of the road

Death is. And it looks like this: A crowd of people, pieces of a brushed helmet, a mangled piece of metal, and a pool of blood under it. We’ve heard of stories and have been luchy to witness only the simplest of accidents. But this one’s not so simple.

As we drove by, the crowed was slowing down the cars. The motor bike hadn’t been touched yet.

“They’re getting the remains of his body,” Baba says, “Amekufa.” He has died.

I guess I was fortunate to see only the large blood pool, and not the man himself. But I know, that night, someone had the job of telling his wife, children, brother, mother, that he was no longer with them. Someone is his wife, his child, his sister, his father. And he is no longer with them.

“Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it. If we did, we would do things differently. Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.”

That’s an interesting quote from Morrie Schwartz, a man who was dying. I’m reading a book about him, called Tuesdays with Morrie, by one of his former college students, Mitch Albom. Morrie was dying of ALS but his attitude was positive. His life had been full of people, love and relationship and rather than pitying himself he filled his life with more of this as much as he could in the last months of his life. The book is all the things he taught Mitch in the last months of his life, when they met every Tuesday to talk.

Later the author asks the old decaying man, “Why do people always say, ‘Oh, if I were young again.’?”

Morrie replied, “You know what that reflects? Unsatisfied lives. Unfulfilled lives. Lives that haven’t found meaning because if you've found meaning in your life you don’t want to go back. You want to go forward. You want to see more, do more.”

That, to me, is another form of death. What death looks like. Unfulfilled life. It looks like this: the kid who feels empty for lack of love from their parents; the athlete punished for failure; a kid who can’t find the means to success, according to others; a child stripped of her identity and security through sex slavery; a widow; a lost child; that girl called a bitch or skank but all she really needs is hope. Living forms of death. And it’s not on the side of the road but next door, in the next room, in  the next seat. Maybe in front of this screen. 

I praise God for the life he’s given me. That I’ve been graced to know it, that it found me, that I’ve learned to search for it. That I’ve been physically protected, but that my emotions and heart are also in strong hands. 

And it’s not like they’ve just always been there. Oh no, no, they too were on the side of the road. I picked them up, broken and bleeding, and let them go to God’s hands, which, to my surprise then, pieced them back together gently, over time, and completely. I escaped death. Maybe even physically, had it lasted long enough.

Life in Jesus. That’s what I’ve found. What it’s given me is what Morrie talked about. Fulfillment. Excitement to go on in life, thankful for every day I have. Especially after seeing the bike accident. I pray for the drivers family and friends. Again, I thank God for my life and health. Physically- because I take that for granted way too much- and emotionally and spiritually- because I don’t deserve what I’ve been given. God can't help but pour out though. Morrie understood how important people are. How important finding peace is and how available it is.

On the bus to school in the morning, instead of feeling tired and dreaming about what I’m going to do when I get back home, I’m working on acknowledging the things I love about this place. This place where I live and where I’m at personally in my life. And I find the potential benefits in my challenges, and I thank God for all of it. 

“Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is your victory?

O death, where is your sting?

For sin is the sting that results in death, and the law gives sin it’s power. But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

1 Corinthians 15:54b-56

Watch Your Language. And other things.

They call it a language barrier. It makes me think of a wall. But I’m noticing holes in the wall that I can look through. Not only am I learning Swahili itself, but ways to get around that barrier as well, i.e. humor, gestures, openness, love. I’m learning how I can use their use of English to help my Swahili, too.

For example: whenever someone is leaving me quickly they say to me, “I am coming!” this bugs the heck out of me because, in my semi-practical mind, I think, “What the heck no you’re not!” as they run away. From it, though, I know that if I am leaving and coming right back to someone, instead of saying Nitarudi which is like saying “I’m coming back” in English, I should say Ninakuja, “I am coming.” I can’t just translate language, I have to translate culture too. So, even though it drives me crazy, I understand that to them it actually makes perfect sense. And instead of saying “I’m going to get my bag,” in Swahili, I will say “I’m going to take my bag” because they use the word chukuwa not pata. Being the outside culture, we of course have many moments when we mess things up. Culturally: not using the respectful form of “what” when we’re called. Language…ly (is that a word?): the other day I told our house guard that my dad had 20 children. I was meaning to clarify that his dad had 20 children. But, I finally got someone else to say something we could all laugh at. My sister, Lucy, was joking about Krista and I having our house brothers as boyfriends (she’s 16). But, when she pointed to Liza, our guard, I said, "Yours??" She nodded her head and happily said yes. We burst up laughing. She was pretty defensive and embarrassed when someone explained it to her.

Last week all of the house parents of us Whitworth students planned a surprise lunch. Took us two hours away to the base of Mt. Killimanjaro. We all thought we were going to town. But, while there, a baby went to the bathroom on a lady, later I found out it wasn’t even her baby. But, back home, my nine-year-old sister says, “Madam Ashley, do you remember when that baby polluted on that lady??” and laughed her head off. I guess if I want to say the “urinated” I should look up the word for “polluted.” Jamba, which means to fart, she described as, “when you pollute the air.” We explained the many ways to say it in America. Pass gas, cut the cheese, farting, of course. Yes, we’re a close family, even despite language barriers, thanks to language helpers.

Because we are so close to these people, this family, this week is more bitter than sweet. Yes, I’m excited about our Spring Break trip to the game parks and the new adventure coming in Dar-es-Salaam. But I’m not excited to leave this family. I’ve reached the point where I can tell them if I don’t like something and not feel uncomfortable about it. Where I can get the coffee and sugar out myself. Where I can wash my clothes without their help. I’ve reached the point where I’m comfortably at home. For goodness sakes, we’ve talked about farting. There’s no going back after that. (So I guess you’re all my best friends now.) My experience with the home-stay is incomparable.  It’s helped my language, my understanding. It’s given Africans and name and face, from Zanzibar it’s given Muslims a name and face. Faces and names close to my heart. I know that in Dar there will again be awkwardness and uncertainty, but I feel like I will be able to handle it better.

It’s helped me be able to think of all people around the world in a personal way. Instead of just being beings in other places, they are personalities, stories, likes and dislikes. They have senses of humor. Boy, do they have senses of humor. Before coming here I wondered if their humor would be anything like mine. And, if you know me, it’s pretty strange. But guess what I found, more of me! My house sister, Lucy, and I greet each other in as low of voices as possible. Leticia walks around repeating words in strange voices. We taught Liza the word puppy and now at night we hear him saying, “puppy, puppy, puppy” in a high pitch voice to the new mbwa mdogo, little dog. I, of course, am obsessed with the puppy, but I cant show it too much affection because, in reality, it’s only a dot. The only one with a name out of the three now. Its name is Puppy.

I could tell you so much about each person. My four brothers, four sisters and Mama and Baba. A 2 year-old, 9 year-old, 16 year-old, three 21 year-olds and a 24 year-old. Fredi, who is 21, surprises us with his humor. The power went out the other night again so Krista and I took our flashlights out of our rooms to help. We decided to wait in the dark in the living room rather than our bedroom. To entertain ourselves, we began “singing,” true singing requires talent. After the lights came back on, Fredi came in and looked at us like we were freaks. Standing in front of us he raised his hands up, palms facing us, and said, “Start.”

Start what?

“Singing. I am the conductor.” And he continued to mimic the movements of a person who actually has control of their choir. It reminded me of the time he came into the house, Krista and I were reading on the couch. He stood in front of us, poised to do, something.

“Today,” he began, “I am the preacher.”

Okay…

Then he rambled on about something that truly only God knows. Then he looked at me, looked at Krista, looked back at me. His hands were out as if a large ball was going to be thrown to him and he smiled like he knew he was going to catch it.

Umm.. “Ndio!” (yes) I said.

He closed his book and happily strutted to his room. We have no idea what happened. Sometimes Fredi is just, Fredi.

Judy’s always helping us translate things. Alfonzi is always getting in trouble then running to another adult in the house to cherish him. That baby is always so wronged. Esta is our favorite to talk to, even though she knows close to no English. She teachers us to cook, clean, and she just likes to be with us. Fortu works and asks what gifts we’re going to give him. He is a kind man. Mama works long days as a journalist. She comes and checks on us if we’re not feeling well. And when Baba is going on a rant before prayer and its late, she’ll kneel down to pray in the middle of his talking as if to say “I’m tired, stop talking now.” Baba’s nightly talks vary from being funny to serious to simple, like who is going to cook the next day. But, because he is so animated, the family normally ends up laughing at him, even when his face is completely straight and serious. Him and his swimming trunks, not a man to be reckoned with. Even though the traffic is crazy here, and our Baba is a speeder and weaver (I’m sure my mom is happy to hear that) I feel safe in his car. His ambition in life shows in his driving, and I appreciate that. And I think it’s fun.

I think that’s a snippet of everyone. See, they’re real people. The way they’ve taken Krista and I in is beyond me. It makes me want to open my house and life up to students of the world when I am older and able to. Nice thing, I’d have the understanding of what they’re going through.

They keep asking when we’re going to come back, why we have to go. I’m with a group, I tell them. My family is in America. I wish I could tell them I will be back in a few months. But only God knows. That’s a huge question. When will I be back?  A year? Five? Ten? That’s a depressing thought.

I’m at peace though. The future is exciting. Today I live and interact with the people I meet on the streets. I live with my family. Next week I’ll get a whole lot of pictures of elephants, lions and the like (and finish my policy paper, sometimes I forget I’m actually in school). Next month, I’ll have a new environment to get used to. I’ll finish school, I’ll take my final tests. In two months, I’ll be seeing you all.

I was thinking how I’m going to go from summer to summer, sun to sun. But then reality hit me; it’s Spokane. Who wants to be my plane will be delayed by snow?

Good Morning Teacher

Every time I leave the classroom of 6^th grade Africans I’m teaching, I still can’t believe it. Walking from their tall 4 story concrete building across the gravel courtyard to the “teachers lounge,” my spirit is flying high  and again there is confirmation for my life. The comfort of confirmation and authority as a teacher only lasts that long though, until I enter the teachers’ office, which is just an over taken classroom, on in the long “L” shaped building where the younger kids have class. In this place is where I’ve been having my biggest struggle of the month. I characterize it with these words: trapped, purposeless and humbled. I wrote about it best in my journal the other day.

“…I’d been feeling trapped. As far as I know, it’s a privilege that I have the ability and maybe even the concept of getting away. Desiring a nice walk alone, wanting to drive somewhere alone or find a roof with a light breeze. None of these really available. None something reasonable to these people. And I’ve felt a lack of purpose. On the bus I am the teacher who just sits with the kids. In the class they listen and I speak and am valid, but still don’t have connections with the students. With the teachers I am, there. Where ever I am I don’t understand what’s going on. I sit unknowing almost at all times, unimportant on the outside and confused on the inside. Trapped, purposeless, and humbled. Humbled to lack the feeling of having a place… [But I feel welcomed] by my confidence that I belong here. Here as in this spot on earth at this moment in my life. Not appointed by my educators, internship organizer or the head master, but by the maker of this world and former of the plans for my life. And that’s exactly it; where my purpose and freedom and comfort come from. Where I forget, and leave it. But He doesn’t forget and he stays near me, and reminds me.”

So, this has been the growing experience of the last two weeks. Challenged not just by being in a new culture, but also by lacking my own. Normally I am around fellow students from Whitworth, but we’re split up this month at internships that fit our life goals. Because I’m working in only one class- 6^th grade history- I have a lot of time in the teachers’ lounge/office to either grade or do my own work. The other teachers are kind but a bit hard to connect with. It’s not until tea break or lunch that I meet up with the three other Americans on the campus. But like any good challenge, it leads to growth. Clearly, its reminding me that my purpose and comfort comes first and foremost from the Lord. And, like I said, I cannot believe the situation I am in right now. I guess it never actually clicked that I’d be teaching in Africa. So it still feels unreal, like I need to be pinched. It happened so fast. The plan was to sit in and observe the teacher for the first week. Instead, at the end of the first day I was given the small state issued text book and his own notes to plan the lesson for the next day. And I did. I taught for the first time ever on the face of the earth. I like to say if like that because I am literally across the face of the earth. So, hardly any experience, but plenty of years of observation. Still, I was surprised at how naturally its came and how naturally I began to think of ways to improve. Right now the students are learning about Tanzanian colonization and independence, so so am I, because I’m the one teaching it.

This is how school is structured: the students write out their lesson, copying it from the board. They take it home and study. They come back and the teacher does review on that lesson and the students reply with exactly what they have written down. Knowing the depth and importance of history, I call this memorizing, not learning. I’m really trying to make the think more critically this month, like by asking them indirect questions and working them to find that they know the answer. Organization is also somewhat flawed at the school. Even though there is a chart with the classes and times, its not always followed and sometimes students can be left for hours without a teacher or lesson. It can be because of a lazy teacher, but also maybe someone is sick and there is no one to sub in. At the end of their 7^th grade year all students take a statewide test. I know that many people are against these kinds of tests in America because they don’t fit all the kids needs. And, sticks are capable items for punishment. I understand that a little whack on the toosh will keep a kid in line, but I’ve seen an excessive uses of hands and sticks on a single child. But, despite these things, these students are learning English and getting an education. Since it’s a private school they are also getting food and transportation, something most state schools don’t provide. So a state school student might walk miles and miles to school, receive nothing to keep their minds and bodies going, then trek back to begin work at home. The things we take for granted. I get a ride with my house sister on the bus every morning and evening, to and from school. But, like I said, it’s still unreal that I’m getting to teach, interact and learn with these kids this month. I also have to think about the lives of these teachers: longer commutes, more work at home maybe. I may wish they’d be better educators, but it’s not as easily done as it is in the states.

Things with my host family are going very well still. It’s my favorite place to be, besides when I actually teach. It’s the same family from January and I’m living with the same roommate, Krista. We really feel at home here. We know this is going to be a life-long family. We’re not just working and living with families this month though. For school we’re working on our Core 350 policy papers (anyone from Whitworth understands) and have two books we’re going through. I’m also taking advantage of the beautiful little library at the school full of donated books. I’ve read books to catch me up on my US history- books more interesting that text books- and one about a woman who survived sex slavery in Cambodia. It’s called The Road of Lost Innocence by Somaly Mam and I highly recommend it.

We also have two main adventures this month before spring break. The first happened the first weekend of March. We visited a Maasai village just outside of Longito, very near the Kenyan border, and were able to spend the night there. Our connection was through our very own Moses Pulei (I'm not sure the correct spelling of his name) a professor from Whitworth. He is a Maasai, so before we leave Arusha, he shows up in his traditional red plad Maasai clothing, belt and his knife and stick you never see a Maasai without. This was quite different from the slacks and button up shirt we are used to him wearing. Even more crazy is the reality that  this is normal for him. He grew up like this! With him and the other educated Maasai woman- whose village we were going- and the few in the village that spoke Kiswahili as well, communication wasn't difficult. We spent most of our time with the children- open and willing to teach us their jumping games which used only lines drawn in the dirt. The liked to braid our hair and loved our cameras too. The women there were beautiful. Mostly bald with beads hanging around their necks and pulling down their earlobes. They are supported by a near by guesthouse to provides beads, then sells them and the money goes back to the women. Besides milking the goats and cows when they come home and caring for the kids, this is their other daily activity.

Speaking of goat. In our honor, the village prepared a goat for us. Moses picked it out- who ever gets to see their professor pickout a goat in the middle of a bush village??- it was sufficated, skinned, gutted, cut up, and cooked on sticks over a fire. We watched it all. The goat is sufficated to keep as much blood as they can. Blood of goats and cows is drank like milk. They didn't understand why we didn't like blood or so much fat on our meat. The rolling thunder and rain coming in from Kenya drove us into our truck to eat the meat. The main leader joined us. This old man was so comical, literally strutting his stuff when he showed us how to make a whip. Afterwards he threw it over his shoulder and strutted off, bursting into a laugh before he returned. He has alot to speak of, healthy cows, healthy village, an educated daughter. Not to mention his three wives. He was very honored to have us there.

We left back to the guest house in Longito for dinner and to prepare for the night. We went back in the rain and dark to sleep with the Maasai. We split into two groups so seven of us laid out on some cowhides on the dirt ground of one of the huts. We woke and were given tea and later went back for lunch after church. Many of the kids now attend school and church is becoming more wide spread too. So many times I've heard of "giving them better lives"- Africans and bush people. Yes, things like health and education are important, but I cant imagine putting my western culture on them. The joy in their eyes speaks too loudly. This was one of the most joyful weekends for most of our group. Sleeping in a Maasai village! Unfortunately we didn't know that if we had woken up at 4am we could have seen the elephants, zebras and giraffs that pass through every morning. No big deal.

My health is still good. Only feeling tired from the heat still sometimes. This weekend we are heading to a mountain lodge for a retreat together. I'm looking forward to that. The first week in April we go on our week long safari trip.

Woot. =]