My family attends Eglise #8 in Moundou. It is a congregation of about 1000 people and it is conducted in French. There are other churches in the city that operate in Ngumbai, but according to Mama Kiri, there are no congregations that are much smaller than our church. You would have to travel to a neighboring village to see a congregation with only a few hundred people.
The service technically begins, I believe, at 8:15 but we usually arrive shortly thereafter, and we are usually among the first 10% to sit down. The majority arrives sometime before 9:00 or maybe 9:30. I can understand why there's no rush to fill in, because in my experience the service has lasted a minimum of 3 hours and upwards of 5, in the case of Communion Sunday.
The worship space is large, but even so we squeeze tightly into rows on the long wooden benches. Overhead fans and open windows have helped to keep us from overheating, but I've also noticed a number of women with large plastic fans. People look wonderful. I sit in a sea of men and women in their Sunday bests, which are colorful, sparkly, chic fabrics and, for the women, matching head scarves fashioned in dozens of different ways.
In the past weeks I have spent the service not understanding much of anything that was happening, but this past Sunday I had the benefit of being seated next to Ruth, my SALTer friend from Canada who speaks French quite well. She very helpfully informed me what was being said from time to time, which was especially beneficial when we were called up front to be formally introduced to the congregation. Pastor Sem, who is also the director of the English school at which Ruth works, let the congregation know what we are doing this year and invited us to share a few words. Ruth did the talking, and I peaked out from behind her and smiled.
The sermon on Sunday was about one hour long. The scripture verses that it centered around were Ephesians 5: 22-24. "Wives, submit to your husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church, his body, and is himself its Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands." With the aid of Ruth, I understood that the message was that indeed, the man is the head of the household, but the head needs not weigh down the body. Furthermore, men and women are not unequal, but rather they simply have different roles. The man's role is to make good decisions for the household and to love his wife, and the woman's job is to respect and obey him. Of course I only got snippets of this sermon (through means of Ruth's translations) but the congregation seemed to be loving it. There were ripples of laughter and head nodding, especially noticeably from Mama Kiri. The sharp contrasts between the parts of the Bible emphasized in my familiar Mennonite circles with those I've been exposed to here has been a reminder to me that culture tends to shape religion just as much as religion shapes culture. We believe in the things that give us comfort and strength, and we reject or disregard the things that are incompatible with our deeply held values and ways of life. It has been fascinating and jolting to participate in family life and worship with people whose deeply-held beliefs about God and humanity are different than mine and sometimes totally foreign to me.
Following the message we had about another hour of songs, offerings, and prayer. Prayer is very frequent in our church. After the first Sunday, I asked Ruth if she thought we'd prayed more than half a dozen times and she said that surely it was closer to 20. I had to agree she was probably right. Of course, I'm not a great person to ask because sometimes I'm not sure if we are praying or not, so I just half bow my head and look out of the corners of my eyes to see what others are doing. One time I had my eyes closed for a particularly long prayer, and eventually looked up only to realize we had never been praying at all, and I just appeared to be asleep.
The offering time is a joyous occasion, and probably my favorite part of the service. All 1000 of us stand up row by row and walk or dance to the front of the space to deposit our money into offering boxes as the choir leads us in singing. Eglise 8 has two choirs: one French and one Ngumbai. The French choir sings a lot of classic hymns and worship songs that I already know, which is wonderfully familiar for me, especially because we don't have hymnals with written notes so it's not as easy for me to join along singing. On one occasion, during the worship song "You are Alpha and Omega," the leader began belting it out in English, and the whole congregation joined in, soulfully forming syllables that vaguely resembled the words, "You are Alpha and Omega. We worship you, oh Lord. You are worthy to be praised." I'll admit that I'm usually one of the last people in a room to join in when this song, or any other contemporary worship song, is played. But on this particular occasion I could hardly stop smiling as I sang!
It is my hope to be standing with the French choir before too long. In fact, Ruth and I were dropped off by our families last Saturday for rehearsal only to find out that instead of the usual 4:00-6:00 meeting time, they had arranged a slightly longer meeting from 6:00 pm until 5:00 the following morning. We were told this by a few members of the choir who were there early to prepare a meal for everyone else. We did not stick around for this particular rehearsal, but from what I understand it's not all that rare, and is considered a bit of a spiritual practice, or proof of one's devotion. I will not neglect to mention if I ever make it through an 11-hour choir all-nighter.
Then there is the Ngumbai choir. I think they tend to be the show-stoppers. Whereas the French choir sits to the left of the podium and performs with the accompaniment of some guitars and a keyboard, the Ngumbai choir sits to the right and their preferred means of accompaniment are drums, hands, whistles, shakers, and high-pitched vocal theatrics. The harmonies are very distinct, and different from anything I've ever heard before. The music is very repetitive and somewhat chant-like, but anything but sleepy! Sometimes during the singing, people up front will do these incredible dances that involve moving their shoulders forwards and backwards at impossible speeds that make them look like chickens! I joined a dance party in the courtyard after church the other week and they made me try, and it is absolutely harder than it looks. Anyway, it is all great fun, and does wonders for waking up a sleepy congregation after an hour long sermon. Following the offering this past Sunday, as the choir finished a rousing piece, Mama Kiri and a woman on the other side of the sanctuary had a contest to see who could make the loudest, most enthusiastic "Ayayayayayayay!!!!" sound, to the laughter of the whole congregation.
After church this past Sunday, before taking my exit on Mama Kiri's motorcycle, I bought my own copy of the hymnbook. Perusing it this week, I have discovered lyrics that are clearly translations of some deeply loved sings from my life. I have enjoyed sharing them and learning new songs with members if my community since then, and I'm excited to add more to my repertoire. While so much about these worship experiences are certainly going to be very insightful cultural experiences, it's nice to know that there will also be snippets of the familiar in it all!
Friday, September 26, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
All in the Family
Religious worship and practice has been a hugely prevalent and visible part of life here in Moundou. I've read that about 70-80% of the population is Christian, and it seems to me that the vast majority of those people can be categorized as Evangelical. I don't want to give away too much yet, because I have a post pending about attending our my family's church, Eglise 8. However, I will let you in on a little fun fact that relates!
When I meet a new person and ask their name, they will either give me the long version or the short version, as people might do anywhere. Usually, when it's the long version, I have trouble catching it or being able to repeat it back to them, which is typically what I try to do just to confirm that I've heard someone. However, when I get the short version it is often a familiar Christian name that I can identify if I allow for the pronunciation to be a bit different.
As I've mentioned previously, my host mother and father are named Christine and Samuel. It didn't go unnoticed that my brother is also named Samuel. Since then, my host mother has had a lot of fun putting together some additional connections. From the beginning, she has talked a lot about her younger sister, who has passed away, named Madeleine. Furthermore, my host father has a brother or cousin named Philip and an older brother, deceased, who was named Isaac. In addition, my host sister is named Mary Rose but she actually has four names, one of which is Elizabeth. Therefore, Mama Kiri says, my family is the States is right here in my Chaddian family. Unfortunately, I haven't stumbled across any Sages, Roberts, Annas, Delaneys, Emmas, or Romas, but I have 9 more months here and I'm pretty sure if I dig deep enough into the the layers of everyone's names I will be able to find them somewhere!
When I meet a new person and ask their name, they will either give me the long version or the short version, as people might do anywhere. Usually, when it's the long version, I have trouble catching it or being able to repeat it back to them, which is typically what I try to do just to confirm that I've heard someone. However, when I get the short version it is often a familiar Christian name that I can identify if I allow for the pronunciation to be a bit different.
As I've mentioned previously, my host mother and father are named Christine and Samuel. It didn't go unnoticed that my brother is also named Samuel. Since then, my host mother has had a lot of fun putting together some additional connections. From the beginning, she has talked a lot about her younger sister, who has passed away, named Madeleine. Furthermore, my host father has a brother or cousin named Philip and an older brother, deceased, who was named Isaac. In addition, my host sister is named Mary Rose but she actually has four names, one of which is Elizabeth. Therefore, Mama Kiri says, my family is the States is right here in my Chaddian family. Unfortunately, I haven't stumbled across any Sages, Roberts, Annas, Delaneys, Emmas, or Romas, but I have 9 more months here and I'm pretty sure if I dig deep enough into the the layers of everyone's names I will be able to find them somewhere!
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
A Tale of Two Chicken Dinners
I've had the request to write about food. Rest assured, a post is coming that will shed light on all the Chaddien cuisine I have consumed. But first, I have a story. I suppose they are actually two stories, but they both happen to be about the same thing. A chicken dinner. It's amusing to me that my two greatest food (mis)adventures to date have involved chickens, which I've always considered the least offensive meat in the animal kingdom. I'm not here talking about camel meat, or fried scorpion, or even something as commonplace as goat, which I still have trouble stomaching. No, I kind of wish I was writing about something so exotic, but here I am talking about chickens. I'll begin.
The first event occurred a week ago at the home of Mama Christine's coworker. I was sitting in a plastic chair among 10 colorfully dressed women, half of whom were wearing the same dress as Mama Christine. Munching on my own personal bowl of shrimp crackers and popcorn, and watched as they discussed matters in Ngumbai that may or may not have been related to work. Eventually, huge platters of covered food were carried out by the host and her helpers. When it was time to eat, a girl came around to us one by one with soap and a kettle with which to wash our hands. When mine were washed, I followed the lead of the woman to my left and got up to eat. It looked great! Fried chicken, some kind of salad, and bread to soak up the juices. Someone served me the salad, and then plopped two big pieces of chicken on top. I sat down to enjoy, watching the people around me for cues. Most of them attacked the food with their hands, so I mostly let my fork fall by the wayside. I also noticed almost immediately that many of the women placed their chicken in little black plastic bags, like they were going to take them home. It made sense sort of, because this didn't happen to be a meal time. However, I had no such bag and I'm so totally aware that the one most basic cultural rules is that you must eat well in someone's home, and seeing as I had nothing else to offer to the group, I was happy to oblige. I finished my first bottle of Coke and they brought me another. I ate all the salad, all the juices, and what seemed to me like all the edible parts of the chicken that I'd been given. Content, I lay my plate in the table in front of me and went back to observing. A girl took my plate away and came back to open my second bottle of Coke. I put up a hand to say, "no, thank you, I don't need any more."
That was a mistake.
The woman next to me turned and addressed me. It took me a while to figure out what she was saying. I thought she was just affirming that I'd eaten a lot and that the food was good. But then, as she kept going, her face growing more and more stern, I realized with chagrin that she was scolding me for NOT eating! Everyone's attention turned to us as she reiterated how important it is to eat what your host provides, and that it is rude not to. I offered, "I did eat a lot," but she kept going. I got more desperate, "I ate it all," I said, and she scoffed. Apparently that was my mistake. I had not, in fact, eaten all of my chicken and they had all definitely noticed. Look at the hostess, she said. She is not happy because you didn't like her food. She directed my attention to the woman standing by the food table, shaking her head at me in disappointment. "I'm sorry," I pitifully choked in English, and many of them snickered in a way that suggested that they did not find my apology acceptable. Finally, after what felt like several minutes of discussion about my rudeness, the girl said, "you don't want your Coke?" and I just shook my head, having accepted that I was the bad guy.
On the way home, I tried once more to say to Mama Christine that I had thought that I'd eaten all of the chicken, and she said no I hadn't. So at this point all I could do was hope that out of all of this I had at least learned a lesson that would come into play someday. Never again would I not eat all of my chicken.
Fast forward one week.
I was sitting on a mat outside with Bene, who is kind of a little sister to me. We like reading French together out of her school textbook, as activity I cherish! Anyway, as we sat, enjoying the afternoon, our little rooster, so unassuming I thought it was a hen, wandered around clucking plaintively. It struck me as a rather sad chicken, and I remarked on its state. Bene laughed and regarded it, saying that it wanted a wife. Together, we made some more commentary, personifying this lonely guy and trying out different languages to engage him in conversation (ok, maybe that was just me) and went back to our reading.
A little while later, Mama Kiri, as I now call her, honked at the gate and Bene ran to let her in. When she dismounted from her motorcycle, she pulled a hanging chicken from off the handle and threw him onto the porch. From the way she handled it, I assumed it was dead, but once it hit the ground it jumped up into ready position as well as it could, though its legs were bound together. Its sides expanded and contracted dramatically as it took in its surroundings, wide eyed. I considered what its past 15 minutes had been like; he was sold, flung upside-down on a strange, loud machine, and carried this way at 20-30 miles per hour in the open air, to be dropped on its head in this new place. Mama Kiri told me, no big surprise, that we were going to eat him tomorrow.
I watched the bird. He was on high alert. His entire body kept leaning ever so slowly to the left until he would fall over and in a flash be up straight again. (It reminded me very much of watching someone who is trying not to fall asleep in public, but their head keeps dropping.) I wondered if he would be able to sleep tonight like this. If anything was broken. If he absolutely knew he was going to die. The other rooster, my new friend, wandered over, still clucking curiously, and I think he was disappointed to find that the humans had not, in fact, brought him a wife.
I continued to stare, aware that Mama Kiri's watchful eyes were on me, thinking what a strange girl she had taken in. Then, there was a sudden commotion! Bene was chasing the other rooster all over and across the compound! She chased it past the new arrival on the porch and into the living room. As I waited for them to emerge, I couldn't help but notice that the other rooster was audibly gasping in horror from his corner of the porch. Soon, Bene exited the living room with the rooster in hand, grabbed a knife, and carried him to a side of the compound. Is it foolish to admit that only now did I realize this little guy was also going to be dinner?
I insisted upon watching while Bene held the little guy down with her foot on his wing, took it by the neck, and began sawing away, rather slowly I felt, at his throat. I assumed she would behead the thing, but she only cut it enough for it to bleed out, then twisted its head around while it flailed about. The twitching bird was then tossed into big bowl while she did the same to the second rooster. I'm not at all convinced that they were officially dead when Mama Kiri poured steaming water on their bodies and began ripping out their feathers. Of course, I've always known this is where our chicken comes from, but I think what caught me off guard was that these poor guys never had time to be regular corpses. Before my eyes, they went swiftly from living, scared-pantsless creatures to poultry in a matter of about 10 minutes.
I helped pluck the chickens, of course. What else could I do? Then Mama Kiri sawed them into a million pieces, cleaning them and throwing them into a pot. And yes, the head, the claws, and all innards except for the intestines were considered edible.
We waited until the next day to fry everything. The two chickens were served with French fries, plantains, green beans, and bread. As I sat with Mama Kiri to eat, I ripped into my previously-feathered friends in a manner that was as unladylike as I could muster. After seeing the process, I decided that chicken is not any more or less offensive than any other animal. Nor is any one part more or less edible, more or less part of a once living creature. I tore off anything my teeth could extract from the bone, and this time there was absolutely no one who could complain that I'd left too much on my plate.
The first event occurred a week ago at the home of Mama Christine's coworker. I was sitting in a plastic chair among 10 colorfully dressed women, half of whom were wearing the same dress as Mama Christine. Munching on my own personal bowl of shrimp crackers and popcorn, and watched as they discussed matters in Ngumbai that may or may not have been related to work. Eventually, huge platters of covered food were carried out by the host and her helpers. When it was time to eat, a girl came around to us one by one with soap and a kettle with which to wash our hands. When mine were washed, I followed the lead of the woman to my left and got up to eat. It looked great! Fried chicken, some kind of salad, and bread to soak up the juices. Someone served me the salad, and then plopped two big pieces of chicken on top. I sat down to enjoy, watching the people around me for cues. Most of them attacked the food with their hands, so I mostly let my fork fall by the wayside. I also noticed almost immediately that many of the women placed their chicken in little black plastic bags, like they were going to take them home. It made sense sort of, because this didn't happen to be a meal time. However, I had no such bag and I'm so totally aware that the one most basic cultural rules is that you must eat well in someone's home, and seeing as I had nothing else to offer to the group, I was happy to oblige. I finished my first bottle of Coke and they brought me another. I ate all the salad, all the juices, and what seemed to me like all the edible parts of the chicken that I'd been given. Content, I lay my plate in the table in front of me and went back to observing. A girl took my plate away and came back to open my second bottle of Coke. I put up a hand to say, "no, thank you, I don't need any more."
That was a mistake.
The woman next to me turned and addressed me. It took me a while to figure out what she was saying. I thought she was just affirming that I'd eaten a lot and that the food was good. But then, as she kept going, her face growing more and more stern, I realized with chagrin that she was scolding me for NOT eating! Everyone's attention turned to us as she reiterated how important it is to eat what your host provides, and that it is rude not to. I offered, "I did eat a lot," but she kept going. I got more desperate, "I ate it all," I said, and she scoffed. Apparently that was my mistake. I had not, in fact, eaten all of my chicken and they had all definitely noticed. Look at the hostess, she said. She is not happy because you didn't like her food. She directed my attention to the woman standing by the food table, shaking her head at me in disappointment. "I'm sorry," I pitifully choked in English, and many of them snickered in a way that suggested that they did not find my apology acceptable. Finally, after what felt like several minutes of discussion about my rudeness, the girl said, "you don't want your Coke?" and I just shook my head, having accepted that I was the bad guy.
On the way home, I tried once more to say to Mama Christine that I had thought that I'd eaten all of the chicken, and she said no I hadn't. So at this point all I could do was hope that out of all of this I had at least learned a lesson that would come into play someday. Never again would I not eat all of my chicken.
Fast forward one week.
I was sitting on a mat outside with Bene, who is kind of a little sister to me. We like reading French together out of her school textbook, as activity I cherish! Anyway, as we sat, enjoying the afternoon, our little rooster, so unassuming I thought it was a hen, wandered around clucking plaintively. It struck me as a rather sad chicken, and I remarked on its state. Bene laughed and regarded it, saying that it wanted a wife. Together, we made some more commentary, personifying this lonely guy and trying out different languages to engage him in conversation (ok, maybe that was just me) and went back to our reading.
A little while later, Mama Kiri, as I now call her, honked at the gate and Bene ran to let her in. When she dismounted from her motorcycle, she pulled a hanging chicken from off the handle and threw him onto the porch. From the way she handled it, I assumed it was dead, but once it hit the ground it jumped up into ready position as well as it could, though its legs were bound together. Its sides expanded and contracted dramatically as it took in its surroundings, wide eyed. I considered what its past 15 minutes had been like; he was sold, flung upside-down on a strange, loud machine, and carried this way at 20-30 miles per hour in the open air, to be dropped on its head in this new place. Mama Kiri told me, no big surprise, that we were going to eat him tomorrow.
I watched the bird. He was on high alert. His entire body kept leaning ever so slowly to the left until he would fall over and in a flash be up straight again. (It reminded me very much of watching someone who is trying not to fall asleep in public, but their head keeps dropping.) I wondered if he would be able to sleep tonight like this. If anything was broken. If he absolutely knew he was going to die. The other rooster, my new friend, wandered over, still clucking curiously, and I think he was disappointed to find that the humans had not, in fact, brought him a wife.
I continued to stare, aware that Mama Kiri's watchful eyes were on me, thinking what a strange girl she had taken in. Then, there was a sudden commotion! Bene was chasing the other rooster all over and across the compound! She chased it past the new arrival on the porch and into the living room. As I waited for them to emerge, I couldn't help but notice that the other rooster was audibly gasping in horror from his corner of the porch. Soon, Bene exited the living room with the rooster in hand, grabbed a knife, and carried him to a side of the compound. Is it foolish to admit that only now did I realize this little guy was also going to be dinner?
I insisted upon watching while Bene held the little guy down with her foot on his wing, took it by the neck, and began sawing away, rather slowly I felt, at his throat. I assumed she would behead the thing, but she only cut it enough for it to bleed out, then twisted its head around while it flailed about. The twitching bird was then tossed into big bowl while she did the same to the second rooster. I'm not at all convinced that they were officially dead when Mama Kiri poured steaming water on their bodies and began ripping out their feathers. Of course, I've always known this is where our chicken comes from, but I think what caught me off guard was that these poor guys never had time to be regular corpses. Before my eyes, they went swiftly from living, scared-pantsless creatures to poultry in a matter of about 10 minutes.
I helped pluck the chickens, of course. What else could I do? Then Mama Kiri sawed them into a million pieces, cleaning them and throwing them into a pot. And yes, the head, the claws, and all innards except for the intestines were considered edible.
We waited until the next day to fry everything. The two chickens were served with French fries, plantains, green beans, and bread. As I sat with Mama Kiri to eat, I ripped into my previously-feathered friends in a manner that was as unladylike as I could muster. After seeing the process, I decided that chicken is not any more or less offensive than any other animal. Nor is any one part more or less edible, more or less part of a once living creature. I tore off anything my teeth could extract from the bone, and this time there was absolutely no one who could complain that I'd left too much on my plate.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
No School: Rain Day
This morning I awoke to my phone alarm, which was going crazy for a second time. I hadn't heard it 10 minutes earlier, apparently because it had been completely drowned out by the heavy rains pounding on the tin roof of my room. That's right! If you were picturing me sweating in unrelating, dry heat, you've got the wrong picture, because I've arrived smack dab in the middle of the rainy season. And when it rains, it pours! The tin roof accentuates the clatter impressively. To give you an idea, when I had my friend Ruth over the other day it began to rain so heavily that I was honestly screaming at the top of my lungs and she still could hardly make out my words!
So today, against this soundtrack, I groggily got ready with the aid of my solar lamp. The morning sky was still fairly dark, especially with the rain, and the power was out. It felt earlier than 6:30, and the rain made the thought of heading to Village Altonodji for my first day of one-on-one training feel a little more daunting than it had been the previous night. I took breakfast in my room before Mama Christine called me to come greet some of her friends in the living room. Packed and ready for school, I did so. I sat in the living room for quite a while as people passed in and out. Eventually I must have dozed off in the chair, because I heard my host mother tell me to go take a nap while it continued to rain. I was surprised that it was an option to simply not go to work while it was pouring, but I had been really dubious about how most people, who don't have cars like my family, were expected to get anywhere with only a few paved roads in our vicinity.
I awoke an hour later and decided, as the rains finally subsided, that it was not in the cards for me to go to school at all today because nobody was mentioning it. I asked, and my host father, Samuel, assured me that no one else had gone in due to the rain. However, it certainly didn't seem like anyone else's lives had stopped on account of it. Mama Christine came into the house in her beautiful yellow dress, totally soaked from head to foot from her motorcycle ride to the market, which she told me was as packed as ever.
No matter, I had a free day as I have had almost every day since my arrival. Today felt special, I think because there were enough little moments that just clicked, meaning they felt comfortable, nice, routine. Not a total guessing game!
For the remainder of the morning I hung out at home. My host sister, Mary Rose, is my age and home for about a week more before going to West Africa for the year. She currently has malaria and wanted to sit with me and learn English, so we spent some time going over the alphabet, colors, and important common phrases including such classics as, "I am sick" and "I am a strong, independent woman."
Following that, I sat outside with Bené, a girl who I understand is of some relation, but has been taken in by my host parents to help around the house. We officially broke the ice last night when I taught her how to make those cute string friendship bracelets, and we spent hours working on them together. Today, we sat on a mat on the covered porch and peeled dozens and dozens of little root vegetables that are called yam-somethingorother. There was a lot of giggling involved when we would loose grip of the vegetables and either drop them in the water or fling them into one another's laps.
Somewhere during the process, my host sister brought me an outfit of hers: a long sleeved shirt with a wrap skirt and headscarf. I tried it on and modeled it, much to my family's pleasure. They had me wear it all day.
As the day went on, it involved eating a lot of good, hot food, a few rides on the back of Mama Christine's motorcycle on errands and visits, and a lot of peaceful lounging. Even when there is nothing to say, it's amazing to me how much my hosts and I can find to laugh about and connect on. As Mama Christine and I were sitting on the porch in the evening, waiting for our chicken to cook, I started humming to myself the tune "We Are Marching in the Light of a God," which I knew from childhood. To my surprise, she casually began humming along. It turns out she recognized the song from a church choir! As we sat, singing a familiar song and laughing as the night set in, I definitely had one of my first feelings of being at home in this new place.
So today, against this soundtrack, I groggily got ready with the aid of my solar lamp. The morning sky was still fairly dark, especially with the rain, and the power was out. It felt earlier than 6:30, and the rain made the thought of heading to Village Altonodji for my first day of one-on-one training feel a little more daunting than it had been the previous night. I took breakfast in my room before Mama Christine called me to come greet some of her friends in the living room. Packed and ready for school, I did so. I sat in the living room for quite a while as people passed in and out. Eventually I must have dozed off in the chair, because I heard my host mother tell me to go take a nap while it continued to rain. I was surprised that it was an option to simply not go to work while it was pouring, but I had been really dubious about how most people, who don't have cars like my family, were expected to get anywhere with only a few paved roads in our vicinity.
I awoke an hour later and decided, as the rains finally subsided, that it was not in the cards for me to go to school at all today because nobody was mentioning it. I asked, and my host father, Samuel, assured me that no one else had gone in due to the rain. However, it certainly didn't seem like anyone else's lives had stopped on account of it. Mama Christine came into the house in her beautiful yellow dress, totally soaked from head to foot from her motorcycle ride to the market, which she told me was as packed as ever.
No matter, I had a free day as I have had almost every day since my arrival. Today felt special, I think because there were enough little moments that just clicked, meaning they felt comfortable, nice, routine. Not a total guessing game!
For the remainder of the morning I hung out at home. My host sister, Mary Rose, is my age and home for about a week more before going to West Africa for the year. She currently has malaria and wanted to sit with me and learn English, so we spent some time going over the alphabet, colors, and important common phrases including such classics as, "I am sick" and "I am a strong, independent woman."
Following that, I sat outside with Bené, a girl who I understand is of some relation, but has been taken in by my host parents to help around the house. We officially broke the ice last night when I taught her how to make those cute string friendship bracelets, and we spent hours working on them together. Today, we sat on a mat on the covered porch and peeled dozens and dozens of little root vegetables that are called yam-somethingorother. There was a lot of giggling involved when we would loose grip of the vegetables and either drop them in the water or fling them into one another's laps.
Somewhere during the process, my host sister brought me an outfit of hers: a long sleeved shirt with a wrap skirt and headscarf. I tried it on and modeled it, much to my family's pleasure. They had me wear it all day.
As the day went on, it involved eating a lot of good, hot food, a few rides on the back of Mama Christine's motorcycle on errands and visits, and a lot of peaceful lounging. Even when there is nothing to say, it's amazing to me how much my hosts and I can find to laugh about and connect on. As Mama Christine and I were sitting on the porch in the evening, waiting for our chicken to cook, I started humming to myself the tune "We Are Marching in the Light of a God," which I knew from childhood. To my surprise, she casually began humming along. It turns out she recognized the song from a church choir! As we sat, singing a familiar song and laughing as the night set in, I definitely had one of my first feelings of being at home in this new place.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Welcome to your new life- Part 2
Wednesday morning, the very first in my new home, I awoke bright and early to take my breakfast in my room. I'd been pleased to learn upon my arrival that I was going to get to visit Village Altonodji for training straight away, even though classes don't begin for another month. Once I'd enjoyed my baguette and hot insta-milk, my host father, Samuel, and I got in the car and made the quick trip to the school.
It was a big moment driving through the gates of the campus that will largely be my home this year. It is lush beyond belief, with tall wild grasses growing between all of the concrete yellow buildings. Because of the recent rains, my host father navigated us past huge, deep puddles that positively glistened in the morning sun!
I figured I was first going to receive a tour or something, but as Samuel led me into the first building, the chapel, I found myself facing about 20 people who's attention was on a male speaker standing next to me. I was introduced to the speaker, and led to a folding chair to the right of the pews. As my host father left, I heard him introduce me to the group, adding that I spoke little French. Then he departed, and I was officially in training!
For the next 8 1/2 hours, except for a quick trip home for lunch, I sat in the chapel and began to have those warm fuzzy WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO feelings as the two speakers instructed us in French on a number of pedagogical concepts. If I kidded myself before that I understand enough French to at least know what general topic is being discussed at any given time, I certainly am not laughing now. I was totally lost. At first, I was somewhat on edge, thinking that at any moment they would ask me a question, or the session would end and I'd have to figure out what was happening next, but as time went on, I realized that this was likely going to last the whole day, and furthermore, nobody seemed to assume that I understood anything. Fortunately, before too long, a man sat beside me and said, "Hello, how are you?" adding that he was another English teacher who was going to help me. I was very appreciative to have a fellow English speaker there to assist, but throughout the day, his input was minimal, and was eventually limited to explaining why everyone in the room would suddenly be roaring with laughter, and even so, I never really understood the jokes.
That evening, I felt ready to drop at any moment, but I forced myself to sit with the short reading assignment we'd been given and write a thorough translation, making about a million references to my French-English dictionary. Only when that was completed did I let myself pass out and rest up for the next round. Come morning, I was the first one to arrive at the chapel, and soon my English speaking friend and the others were there to join me. And guess what! I was much less bewildered. The group spent the first hour or so reviewing the day's reading, so I actually knew what the topic of discussion was this time around, and I found that a lot of the vocabulary from the previous night's reading was coming into play today, This time, instead of hoping that the language might just sink into me as I sat, I wrote down anything I could pick out, and shamelessly poured over my poor, overworked dictionary the whole time. I asked questions of my new mentor, and felt a small sense of victory every time I understood, or recognized, a new word. So basically, I don't know if my understanding was any better, or if my expectations were just different (much lower), but I found the second day much more energizing. I'm fact, I was sorry to realize that I might not have more opportunities like this, to spend all day in a safe place where I can hear a ton of French without the obligation to respond or even understand it all! Furthermore, to be armed with a dictionary and a friend who was constantly happy to answer my questions, it was a pretty sweet deal!
At the end of the day, members of the administration, including Samuel, came for a bit of a closing ceremony in which we were each presented with an official certificate of completion. I received mine somewhat sheepishly, and to the friendly laughter of the others in attendance, because I didn't exactly participate nor did I take away many of the intended concepts for my mental toolbox. But by golly, I'm going to hold onto that certificate as a reminder that when things are overwhelming during this year of radically new experiences, there is clarity at the end of the tunnel. It will take a lot of effort on my part. It will take a lot of patience and assistance from others. Some things will just take time, or a few good nights' sleep. But I know that with every passing minute, I am learning a great deal here, and that with each small step, I am working my way to a much greater understanding of my surroundings. So for now, I'm pretty happy to be in this place of almost complete mystery, because there's nowhere to go but up!
It was a big moment driving through the gates of the campus that will largely be my home this year. It is lush beyond belief, with tall wild grasses growing between all of the concrete yellow buildings. Because of the recent rains, my host father navigated us past huge, deep puddles that positively glistened in the morning sun!
I figured I was first going to receive a tour or something, but as Samuel led me into the first building, the chapel, I found myself facing about 20 people who's attention was on a male speaker standing next to me. I was introduced to the speaker, and led to a folding chair to the right of the pews. As my host father left, I heard him introduce me to the group, adding that I spoke little French. Then he departed, and I was officially in training!
For the next 8 1/2 hours, except for a quick trip home for lunch, I sat in the chapel and began to have those warm fuzzy WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO feelings as the two speakers instructed us in French on a number of pedagogical concepts. If I kidded myself before that I understand enough French to at least know what general topic is being discussed at any given time, I certainly am not laughing now. I was totally lost. At first, I was somewhat on edge, thinking that at any moment they would ask me a question, or the session would end and I'd have to figure out what was happening next, but as time went on, I realized that this was likely going to last the whole day, and furthermore, nobody seemed to assume that I understood anything. Fortunately, before too long, a man sat beside me and said, "Hello, how are you?" adding that he was another English teacher who was going to help me. I was very appreciative to have a fellow English speaker there to assist, but throughout the day, his input was minimal, and was eventually limited to explaining why everyone in the room would suddenly be roaring with laughter, and even so, I never really understood the jokes.
That evening, I felt ready to drop at any moment, but I forced myself to sit with the short reading assignment we'd been given and write a thorough translation, making about a million references to my French-English dictionary. Only when that was completed did I let myself pass out and rest up for the next round. Come morning, I was the first one to arrive at the chapel, and soon my English speaking friend and the others were there to join me. And guess what! I was much less bewildered. The group spent the first hour or so reviewing the day's reading, so I actually knew what the topic of discussion was this time around, and I found that a lot of the vocabulary from the previous night's reading was coming into play today, This time, instead of hoping that the language might just sink into me as I sat, I wrote down anything I could pick out, and shamelessly poured over my poor, overworked dictionary the whole time. I asked questions of my new mentor, and felt a small sense of victory every time I understood, or recognized, a new word. So basically, I don't know if my understanding was any better, or if my expectations were just different (much lower), but I found the second day much more energizing. I'm fact, I was sorry to realize that I might not have more opportunities like this, to spend all day in a safe place where I can hear a ton of French without the obligation to respond or even understand it all! Furthermore, to be armed with a dictionary and a friend who was constantly happy to answer my questions, it was a pretty sweet deal!
At the end of the day, members of the administration, including Samuel, came for a bit of a closing ceremony in which we were each presented with an official certificate of completion. I received mine somewhat sheepishly, and to the friendly laughter of the others in attendance, because I didn't exactly participate nor did I take away many of the intended concepts for my mental toolbox. But by golly, I'm going to hold onto that certificate as a reminder that when things are overwhelming during this year of radically new experiences, there is clarity at the end of the tunnel. It will take a lot of effort on my part. It will take a lot of patience and assistance from others. Some things will just take time, or a few good nights' sleep. But I know that with every passing minute, I am learning a great deal here, and that with each small step, I am working my way to a much greater understanding of my surroundings. So for now, I'm pretty happy to be in this place of almost complete mystery, because there's nowhere to go but up!
Welcome to your new life- part 1
As of Tuesday, I have become an inhabitant of the city of Moundou! Following an 8 hour bus ride from N'Djamena, which I spent comfortably snoozing and marveling at the increasingly beautiful landscapes out my window, My friend Ruth and I arrived at the bus stop into the capable hands of two men connected with MCC. I'm sure I will introduce you to them later. We had a delicious meal, together with our host families, and then parted ways. I am living, at least for now, with the director of Village Altonodji, the school where I will teach.
When we arrived at home, my host mother showed me to my beautiful room! That is also something that deserves it's own blog post. It is huge and could easily double as a living room, but I have it all reserved for myself! I was then led to the living room, where my host mother, Christine, and I sat and got acquainted for the next couple of hours. Now, it's time to mention that Moundou has very spotty electricity, and for the majority of my first few hours there, we were operating without lights. This hardly posed a problem during daylight hours, but it became very apparent as we sat into the evening. As if it's not hard enough faking your way through a conversation in a different language, try doing it as the sun sets and you can no longer rely on any visual cues to guide you! That's not to say that I didn't have a wonderful time getting to know my host mother. We spent a lot of time drilling Ngambai phrases, as it is my ambition to hit the ground running with my language study.
The best part of the evening came when Christine told me she wanted me to listen to a song. She took me by the hand and led me into her daughter's section of the house where a worship song was playing on the television. Almost mischievously, she smiled at me and started dancing a little. I joined in, much to the delight of their niece, who saw and started shouting for her cousin, Christine's daughter, to come watch. We danced around the room while the two laughed at us, and I'll even admit that some air instruments were pulled out. Now, of course I felt pretty silly playing an air keyboard and marching around someone's room basically upon meeting them, but I've got to say, if I had to describe a personal philosophy about how to happily live with a host family, based on my experience in Senegal, and now in Moundou, I think it would be that if someone asks you to dance, even on the first night, you better get your hips moving straight away!
At night, and every night since then, my host mother sat with me in my room and prayed with me. Among other things, I heard her ask God to bless me as I work hard to learn French and Ngambai, which made me feel like this host family was already invested in my well-being, and I found very comforting. I went to bed happy on my first night here!
Monday, September 1, 2014
I Spy (from out my car window)
This morning, as we ran errands with our MCC representative, Angela Austin, we received our most thorough peak at the city of N'Djamena so far. Up until this point, I've only had glimpses of the buildings within walking distance of our home, save for the exciting sights and smells of the Grande Marché (the mostly outdoor market) a taxi ride away. Today, we passed the looming presidential palace, the concrete soccer stadium, and the Place de la Nation, a park built around a huge arch and a statue of a man that I yet need to have explained. As much as I wanted to take in the buildings surrounding us, it was nearly impossible for the first stretch of the drive to tear my attention from the chaos ensuing before us! Angela, with impressive courage and apparent ease, weaved through a mess of people plowing through the streets in their cars, on foot, and especially on motorbikes (it was more likely that someone was carrying an infant than wearing a helmet). It's truly remarkable to see how any space that is large enough to fit one's vehicle is absolutely fair game, and if you're not willing to move with confidence and entitlement, mostly ignoring the white lines, you are likely to be honked at for being in the way. Angela says she only got behind the wheel after nine months of living here, which frankly I find premature!
We stopped by the immigration office to verify our papers, picked up necessities at a number of grocery stores, and collected some cute Austin children from their international school in the city. Afterwards, I discovered that your car can be a one-stop shop here in N'Djamena! When Angela parked on the side of the road to purchase a SIM card and pre-paid minutes for our phones, a man came right up to the car to handle the transaction. He was Angela's regular phone guy. While he stepped away to get our cards, other vendors came by offering produce and other items. Angela patiently and courteously declined some of these offers, but, as we sat there, distributed sticks of gum to some visiting children, made change for an older man, and purchased enough oranges for her whole family to enjoy at dinner. I considered that if your shopping list was short and you knew exactly where to go, doing errands could be as simple as pulling up to a drive-in theater!
Returning home, we passed a beautiful array of merchants lined up beneath umbrellas of every imaginable color. I can't estimate how many people made their livelihoods along that stretch of road, but according to Angela, I was only seeing a fraction of what had been. Only a few months ago, the long dirt expanse behind them had been occupied by vendors, but one day, without warning, it was bulldozed away. Of course, people were dismayed and furious, and now they are picking up the pieces and making due with the limited space now reserved for them.
I'm greatly looking forward to heading out of the city tomorrow, into Moundou, the town where I will be living this year. I imagine that during the 6-7 hour drive, I'll get to see a much bigger slice of the country!
We stopped by the immigration office to verify our papers, picked up necessities at a number of grocery stores, and collected some cute Austin children from their international school in the city. Afterwards, I discovered that your car can be a one-stop shop here in N'Djamena! When Angela parked on the side of the road to purchase a SIM card and pre-paid minutes for our phones, a man came right up to the car to handle the transaction. He was Angela's regular phone guy. While he stepped away to get our cards, other vendors came by offering produce and other items. Angela patiently and courteously declined some of these offers, but, as we sat there, distributed sticks of gum to some visiting children, made change for an older man, and purchased enough oranges for her whole family to enjoy at dinner. I considered that if your shopping list was short and you knew exactly where to go, doing errands could be as simple as pulling up to a drive-in theater!
Returning home, we passed a beautiful array of merchants lined up beneath umbrellas of every imaginable color. I can't estimate how many people made their livelihoods along that stretch of road, but according to Angela, I was only seeing a fraction of what had been. Only a few months ago, the long dirt expanse behind them had been occupied by vendors, but one day, without warning, it was bulldozed away. Of course, people were dismayed and furious, and now they are picking up the pieces and making due with the limited space now reserved for them.
I'm greatly looking forward to heading out of the city tomorrow, into Moundou, the town where I will be living this year. I imagine that during the 6-7 hour drive, I'll get to see a much bigger slice of the country!
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