Rude Awakenings

Sometimes life does not hand you exactly what you'd expected when you woke up that morning. And often the little surprises that present themselves are fun to share. So here, I present you with some "rude awakenings" from this week in Chad: On Tuesday, I had the responsibility of surveying final exams for an English class. Now, one of the benefits of living on campus is, of course, that I can leave my house a minute before class and still be one of the first teachers to arrive. So that's what I did. I stepped out onto my porch and while I wasn't feeling the need to rush, I definitely was planning to move with purpose across campus to the classroom. Instead, what I quickly discovered was that the screen door separating my porch from the rest of the world was padlocked shut from the outside! 

Typicalll, I thought. You see, this wasn't the first time I'd been locked in. Among other things, my house has become a hub for everyone who's anyone to charge their phones and electronics, as most of the time it is the only location with a working outlet. Too often I think people, especially the guards, forget it is also my house, so I arrive or exit to find them guarding their phones with a padlock. Twice before a guard has come by my house while I've been inside and locked me in with his phone.

 In the past I hadn't been in a particular hurry, but this situation very quickly became a desperate one because not only had the children mostly all passed on their way to class, but as I stepped out I heard the familiar ping of rain on my roof. Have I mentioned that the rains have returned to Moundou? It has been one of the joys of my year to listen to the showers and thunder from the comforts of my house or porch. However, with the rains today I saw some of the last students make a sprint to class, leaving me totally alone! I called to some boys in the distance to get the guard, and they stopped and looked at me, so I thought the message had been received, but five minutes later when he was nowhere in sight I called the only faculty in my contacts, the coordinator of campus events, and explained to him that the guard had locked me in. It was now raining very hard and I could hardly hear him, but he said ok. Ten minutes later I called him back. "Did you reach the guard? I'm very late to survey exams!" He laughed and said yes yes, the guard was coming. Finally the guard approached and I tried to figure out how I was going to be polite and forgiving, yet firm that three times of this was really enough, but when he arrived he called angrily, "who did this??" Turns out, it wasn't him, and he didn't have a key. So he spent the next several minutes looking for something to break open the lock. This wooden stake? Nope. This metal construction thing? Perfect. The lock broken, I ran to class and was able to do my job, but with a story that amused my colleagues, prompting them to believe that some student just really didn't want to take his English final!

 The next day, Wednesday, I got out of my house pretty successfully. I had spent the night with my host family in town, so the first thing on my to-do list for the morning was to bike back to school at Altonodji. I attached my bag of things and some clean clothes for the week to my bike rack and started down the street. Immediately I was greeted by little children on their way to school screaming, “Nassara! Bonjour!” I passed a house where a young woman and her family stood. She called out to me in a sing-songy voice, “Sister! Pedal pedal! Carefully!” I waved, laughed, and continued down my street, where I had to navigate around some small puddles. It was just such a beautiful morning. The weather was cool, the air was dry, and people were out and about.

It was when I turned off of our small little street that I saw what huge puddles had been deposited on the road by the last big rain. Many roads in Moundou are made of dirt and full of bumps and crevices that warmly invite water to gather and stay awhile. The particular puddle that I was faced with as I turned the corner was something more accurately described as a pool, extending across practically the entire width of the road and maybe fifteen feet before me. I started doing some problem-solving in my head. In the middle of the pool, if I swerved left, there was a path a few centimeters wide that seemed to be the way other people decided to approach this from the look of the tire tracks. However, I could hear a motorcyclist quickly approaching behind me and I had a feeling that he had the same thing in mind. Wanting to avoid a collision, I turned my attention to the right of the road, where there was actually a good foot of dry area lining the side. The problem with this was that there was a very steep hump over which I would have to navigate my bike. Forgetting that I had the option of breaks to give me a little extra time to go over the pros and cons, I gave myself the old “move with purpose,” talk and took the path less travelled. Within three seconds I was already at the top of the hump, regretting my decision as the earth tilted, my bike tottered, and I tumbled theatrically into the pond.

When I emerged from the depths, of course my first thought was how to make it look to the surrounding audience that I had NOT just launched my bike into the water, but upon deciding that was impossible I instead took inventory of my soaking clothes and electronics. Once everything was arranged as best as possible, I walked in as dignified a manner as possible to the end of the puddle, smiled at a group of men sitting outside a boutique, and said, “It’s a beautiful day, no?” Then I mounted and made my way to school. The remainder of my free morning was spent washing clothes, putting things in rice in the sun to dry them out, and explaining to people, “I had a little accident.”

I also thought these two would be notable enough for a blog, but ever since I first thought, “That was an amusing way to start a day,” I’ve been realizing a pattern. The next morning, while I thought I still had nearly an hour until I had to survey final exams, I was alerted by a frantic boy at my door that the whole class was waiting for me and they were going to leave if I didn’t come soon and no there was no time to get ready I needed to come now now now! Turns out I was not in the wrong, but simply no teachers had come to school and I was the only one available. Then today, while I was writing this and sipping my Nescafe at 7:30, the coordinator of events knocked on my door and told me that they needed all of my couches and chairs for the nursery school’s end of the year ceremony, so I allowed several male students to come clear out my living room, then ended up attending the ceremony and even offering the closing prayer.

These events have all brought me back to what I said in my last entry, about how sometimes the “bad” unexpected things that happen to us can be better than whatever we had planned. Somehow, I think this is true for all of my “rude awakenings” this week. If I had the option to go back and have everything go perfectly smoothly and comfortably, would I? I certainly would not. It’s the rude awakenings that add spice to my life, and I think it would be a sad day to wake up and be assured I’ll have no surprises!

The Choir is Powerless!

Three days ago, I performed with my church choir- “Chorale Revelation de Christ”- as an opening act for a visiting church choir from a nearby village. I believe I first knew about Sunday’s concert on Saturday evening at our regular choir practice. This is such a typical experience for me that I hardly considered that it would be of interest to mention, but that is just the nature of my participation in this choir. I simply never know what is in store, and it is difficult to gage how much others are equally flexible or if I’m just constantly missing messages. However, even at the end of practice on Saturday night I heard our director say he didn’t know what time the concert was going to start, but that was ok.

On Sunday, I heard the concert would be at 3:00 so we should arrive at 2:30. Obediently, we got to church sometime shortly after 2:40 and hung around outside, as hardly anybody had yet entered the sanctuary. At 3:00ish we donned our brown graduation robes and caps- typical concert attire- and made our way to the side pews. I believe our intention was to sing two opening songs for the visiting choir, and also maybe the offertory. I can’t say for sure because was we buttoned up our robes and adjusted our tassels, we were still deliberating among ourselves which songs to perform, and whatever was planned was so far from what actually transpired that it hardly seems important now.

We sang our opening numbers for a tiny audience. After all, it was only about 3:30 and who comes to a concert within the first half-hour of its announced starting time? I’ll tell you, about 30 misinformed people. So we sang our opening numbers and then returned to our places to watch the visiting choir.

In Chad, attending a concert, even a church concert, does not mean sitting placidly in your seat and letting the music wash over you. It doesn’t even mean tapping your foot with a smile on your face. Attending a concert in Chad means being on your feet, singing along whenever possible, ululating if able (or, in my case, unable but willing), and being visual evidence that it is a positive experience. As a result, as the visiting choir launched in to their program and the crowd began to grow, I hardly even noticed the people performing at the front. From my vantage point looking out at the audience, I was having too much fun watching the party unfolding before me. I filmed the crowd. I filmed some of the more flashy dancers in my own choir who were cracking me up with their colorful moves. It was as if the choir was providing background music for the audience’s show.

This next event was, in a less than ideal way, a perfect demonstration of just how true this observation could be. Three young women from the choir, wearing matching t-shirts and wrap skirts, made their way to the front of the church and positioned themselves on one knee in a prayer stance. This looked familiar. It reminded me of the way the choreography started when I danced in a Christmas program with one of my students. Sure enough, the familiar music began to spill out of the speakers: “Louez l’Eternellll. Car… Il est bonnnn.” Excitement stirred the crowd. This was a definite favorite, a sure crowd pleaser. Our own choir had performed this song not long before and it is a truly epic one. It starts off slow with this sort of 70s ballad feel, then abruptly switches into an upbeat dance piece, followed by a section of dialogue that people love to rattle off along with the recording, Finally there’s a part where a leader belts, “I will not die!” and everyone screams “NO!” “I will not die!” “NO!” “I will live!” “YES!” “I will live!” “YES!” “He saved me!” “YES!” “I WILL NOT DIE!” “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” etc. We were in for a treat.

Well, the 70s ballad started. The dancers rose from their knees and did some synchronized swaying.  A hundred voices had already joined in to at least match if not practically drown out the canned music. Then the mood switched. We’d reached the second part of the song. People threw their heads back and sang louder and with more energy. Everyone was out of their seats dancing along, most of them more animated and bouncy than the performers. Smiles abounded.

Then, the music cut out.

No power.

…Well, whoever let that rattle anyone in Moundou, Chad? We just kept singing! We didn’t miss a beat. Except for one thing. The dancers had stopped. They were looking anxiously at one another. (For those of you who are Mean Girls fans, it was the moment when the CD started skipping at the school winter pageant, before Lindsay Lohan saved the day by singing and rallying the whole high school to join in performing “Jingle Bell Rock” to carry the dancers through.) Except that this time everyone was already singing! And harmonizing! And percussing! And doing a better rendition of the song than could be found on a recording. But dejected, the dancers sank back down to their knees, staring gloomily at the ground and waiting for the “music” to start back up. The crowd did not give up. They sang louder and louder, more and more joyfully, carrying themselves confidently through the many complicated transitions, and willing the dancers to get back up and give us a show! It went on and on, with the audience performing earnestly and the performers sitting silently and self-consciously. A textbook picture of angst. After at least a full minute, someone circled around shushing the crowd into submission.

I wonder how many times we haven’t realized that we were better off when things WEREN’T going as planned… that whatever we had planned was not as special as the things that actually happened…

The dance number was followed by several minutes of unstructured downtime for everyone in the church. Eventually, someone beckoned our choir to stand up and announced that the choir CRC would do something now (..anything!). What followed was a real testament to how much of the Evangelical Church of Tchad repertoire I have integrated into my own this year, as we stood and sang a medley of about ten different songs. We would sing one song for a minute or two¸ and then the leader would point to someone in the choir and mouth a few words, and they would belt out the solo part of a new song that we would then launch into. As unplanned as it was, this was fine by me. Being a product of the Mennonite singing school means I have zero qualms with singing unaccompanied, and really enjoyed the break from electric keyboard and guitars. For once I could hear myself and all the harmonies. And, as always, the crowd provided moral support by singing along and dancing like pros.

We never did get power back. The concert ended with all of us, members from both the home and visiting choirs, standing together and singing a song we had learned the previous day that says, “We are one in a line of love.” We held hands and raised them high. It did not go unappreciated by me that I was singing this song amidst hundreds of people whom I so easily could have gone through life never knowing. We prayed, handed in our graduation outfits, and went out into the evening.

Until the next concert. As far as I know, we could have one tomorrow.

Day of Excellence

Saturday, March 20 was no typical school day at Village Altonodji. Students exited their classrooms and business-as-usual was postponed a few hours while the students, faculty, and administration took time to recognize some of their hardest workers.

This “Day of Excellence,” sponsored by MCC, occurred in the wake of International Women’s Day, a day to celebrate the contributions of women in society. In Chad, women have a valued role in the home and in commerce, but women’s education remains an uphill battle considering that 1 out of 3 girls are married before they turn 15. I recently read that women are more likely to die in childbirth than graduate from high school, or something horrendous like that!  It was then timely that this Day of Excellence was designed to promote and celebrate the academic achievements of female students in all levels at Village Altonodji. Not only this, but the school chose to recognize the work of the orphaned children who live on campus. Out of the 323 students studying at Altonodji, 120 are “internal” students, meaning that one or both of their parents have died and thus they spend their weeks on campus. Due to the additional challenges that these children face, the organizers of the event wanted to recognize those who have excelled in their studies.

Students crammed into the benches and around the windows of the school chapel, in all of the places that were not reserved for the numerous special guests, including parents of the winners, the city mayor, and a radio reporter. Awards were given on the basis of grades from the first trimester. First, for the primary school, the two internal students from each grade level with the highest marks were presented with their prizes: brand new colorful backpacks! For those of you who are following my year more closely, you may remember my mention of two little boys who insisted on fetching me water even when I didn’t need it and it meant getting soaked by the buckets on their heads. These are the same boys that I recently posted a video of on Facebook, doing a silly, wordless dance in the middle of the gardens. The littlest one, Semplice, is the one into whose hand I had to force a marker back in the days he was still too shy to talk to me, while now he will run after me on campus begging me to color or performing “summersaults” or putting things over his head and growling at me like a wild animal. Considering how tenderly I now feel for my little friends Semplice and Calis, imagine just how proud I was when the first two names were read, the two strongest internal students at the level of CP1: Semplice and Calis!!! I could hardly stay in my seat watching them march up to stage, a mixture of pride and shyness in their steps, to the cheers and tender smiles of their peers to receive their congratulations. It occurred to me shortly thereafter that they might have been the only eligible students, being the youngest at the orphanage, but that did not lessen my excitement! Then this happened several times over as each following name belonged to a child that I know and appreciate for their smiles and curiosity and generosity.

Semplice receiving his backpack to the smiles of onlookers

For the older students at the lycee and college level, the three top internal students from each class level were awarded a French dictionary, a bilingual French-English dictionary, and a stack of new pens. For the older students, prizes were also awarded to the female students with the highest marks. The parents in attendance took turns meeting their daughters at the front of the stage to cheer and give them a hug. A secondary goal of the project according to its coordinator Fitikissou Daissou Emile was “bring parents to understand the importance of education for girls.” This opportunity to see their daughters recognized for their efforts was one step towards achieving that aim.

Then came the moment for the grand prizes. Two new bicycles were poised at the front of the chapel, awaiting the students who received the highest honor. The first bicycle went to the female student with the highest grade-point average in all of the college and lycee, my student from 4e, Mekoulnodji Djerambete. Lastly came the award for the internal student with the highest grade-point average. The winner was 6e’s Djimboundade Caleb. The coordinator of activities for the internal students announced that not only did Caleb earn the highest marks out of all of the orphaned students, but he surpassed all students studying at Village Altonodji. For this, he received a handshake and speech of congratulations from the city of Moundou’s mayor. To the appreciation of all, he also received a big, mama-like hug from the very Mama-y French teacher, Agathe.

Dounia Samuel, the school’s director and my host father, implored all students to take this day as encouragement to work even harder in the future and watch their own averages increase so that this event next year might be an even greater cause for celebration. The day was a hit, and I was pleased to see that brand new bike being ridden around all morning by dozens of students who were not the owner. It was really neat to see the attention and recognition going to kids who were not necessarily the usual suspects, that is, the ones with resources.

I’ll admit something. When I heard some of my students who were being rewarded for their work in the “top 3 internal students from each grade” category, I was quite surprised. These were not all my cream-of-the-crop students.  But it made me think differently about how it might be different being a student in school without parents, and what kinds of extra challenges that might present. Also, in a setting of 50 students per class, it’s been a big question for me of how to provide POSITIVE reinforcement when kids do something good, rather than focusing merely on stomping out problem behavior. It was a breath of fresh air to see kids patted on the back and being given something special for what they have done, with the message that they are capable of doing great work and they can do it even BETTER! All in all, this Day of Excellence was indeed an excellent opportunity to celebrate education, family, hard work, and one another in a way that was far from typical. I am so pleased with MCC’s willingness to play a huge role in bringing it to fruition.

Grand prize winners Caleb and Djerambete

The First Rule of Peace Club

At 7:00 sharp on Wednesday nights, fellow SALTer Ruth and I lead about 18 Altonodji students in animated song while sitting in a circle in my living room. This is how we call the members of Peace Club to order. Peace Club is an initiative that has been slowly taking shape ever since we first introduced it on campus about four months ago. It is a time to discuss how to address our daily conflicts, play games that promote cooperation, and learn about some of the ways people are working for peace on a large scale in the greater world. Early on, by accident, Ruth and I learned that my living room was a much more convenient and reliable place to hold the club than the large chapel, so it was here that the club formally came to be.

One thing that was important to us was that the group be reasonably small and committed to the goals of the club. We decided to draw up a Peace Club contract, for which students brainstormed rules, agreed on them, and finally signed their names, affirming that they planned to be regular members. The rules included: arrive on time, do not mock one another, participate in activities and discussion, and my personal favorite -a tricky one to enforce even in Peace Club- do not hit other people.

I have enjoyed Peace Club because it has given me an opportunity to get to know some different students and because I have enjoyed the task of lighting a spark of peacemaking in the members. Sometimes it feels a little like the students will come away saying, “Today I played this game where we couldn’t talk, and I did a skit about this really mean kid that was pretty funny,” and they don’t realize the messages we are trying to teach. However, as the weeks unfold Ruth and I have been noticing a more respectful and serious group of young peace advocates in my living room, and this gives us great encouragement. I’ve also noticed positive things happening with our “peace wall,” a wall of my living room reserved for activities that we have done in the club. Most recently, we have posted the pictures and quotes of “Peace Heroes,” famous peacemakers in history that we have studied. For each Peace Hero, Ruth printed a biography and a page with their picture and a short quote. Ever since mounting our contract and adding other posters, I have been pleased by the number of visitors to my house who go right up to the wall and begin to read the texts and ask me questions about the contract, the club, and the Peace Heroes. I feel that this wall alone is perhaps helping to contribute to a needed conversation about peace.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” –Martin Luther King Jr.

“Let us always meet one another with a smile, for a smile is the beginning of love.”  –Mother Theresa

“ If you want to make peace with your enemy, you must work with him. Then you become partners.”  -Nelson Mandela

The biggest thumbs up that I have received since the launching of Peace Club came last Monday morning in a place I did not expect it. On the way to school, I rather begrudgingly remembered that I needed to make a detour to stop at the photocopy shop to make some copies of our Peace Hero profiles. Ever since posting the photos and quotes on my wall, I had numerous requests for copies of the stories and pictures, so I had taken down the pages to purchase a few.

At the shop I found my trusty photocopy guy, and gave him instructions to make three copies of each page. As he copied, he admired the pictures and quotes. “Mandelaaa,” he breathed admiringly. I prompted him about the other two, Mother Theresa and Martin Luther King Jr. but he did not know about them, but he silently read their quotes and asked me questions about Peace Club as he handed me copy after copy. Finally, I was pretty sure I had all of the new copies in my hands when I saw him putting Mother Theresa face-down on the screen again. I fished out my copies and waved them under his nose, saying “no, no, you already made copies of her.” He just smiled and nodded, as it occurred to me that these copies were not for me at all! I just stood there smiling stupidly as he copied each quote, collected them in a neat pile in his own hands, and then handed me my originals. On the rest of my bike ride to Altonodji, I was filled with the hope that maybe the messages we share in our short hour with Peace Club don’t end with the students in that room. Maybe from time to time they hit a cord and they will be shared with others.

Now, I don’t necessarily think that a poster on a wall is going to change the world, or even a community. But what struck me about that little exchange was that this man wanted those words, and wanted those faces, close to him… somewhere he could see and read them again. I consider what these role models have done for me and my community, and it occurs to me that it took a lot to bring their stories, contexts, video footage, and lessons to me. I never before would have considered that amazing role models, especially people hailing from halfway around the world and or dead before my time, are a privilege to know. And this privilege is something people anywhere would be hungry for.

I was reminded of something a visitor to our house had said only days before. “People say that we Chadians love war; we are never at peace; there is never stability. Now they are surprised because it is all of the surrounding countries that are at war, and here we have some stability. Chad, who everyone thinks loves war...” True, in the little I heard about Chad before receiving this position, which was very little, it was mostly in reference to intense poverty and crippling violence. Now, during this time of relative stability but with the looming threat of Boko Haram in our midst, I am sensing a real terror of losing this comfortable sense of peace. I would never say that any country “loves war,” especially of countries that are ravaged by it frequently, on their own terrain. I believe that the large majority of people want to escape war at all costs, and I wonder if, in some small way, by providing my students with stories of people who combatted violence with love and with creative, non-violent action, we can help bring up a generation of people who not only fear war, but have the knowledge and tools to find alternative outcomes. And maybe, in some small way, being part of a club where they are given the novel instruction to “not hit one another,” our students already on their way. 

Inch by Inch, Row by Row

When I first rode onto the Village Altonodji campus in September, it was an obstacle course for my host father’s vehicle. The rainy season deposited enormous puddles on the roads and side streets that were a fixture for the first month of my stay. In our drive from the front gate to the chapel in the middle of campus, Samuel navigated effortfully, making sharp angles, though it was a relatively straight driveway, to avoid the deep pools of rainwater. I remember looking out at the campus, which was half hidden by tall green grasses. To walk from building to building, I was almost lost. I would search for an opening in the grass and follow the carved paths to see if they would deposit me where I needed to be, or if they would just lead me to water blockades.

I thought campus was beautiful. It was an adventure to navigate, and I remember it even smelled fresh and exciting! I eventually learned to walk slightly to the sides of the path, which were grassy and protected my feet from mud. I got used to rinsing my feet off before stepping inside. And I loved sitting around and watching the showers.

Then, rainy season ended. As a fellow MCC-ers described it, it was as if someone above us had just turned off the tap. The puddles dried up once and for all, and things slowly became less and less green. One Saturday in December I stepped out of my guesthouse, prepared to teach classes, when I was informed that it was “cleaning day” and there would be no classes. Following the groups of students to the academic side of campus, I found everyone taking turns with machetes and shovels, clearing the grasses from the yard and carrying them to be burned elsewhere. By the end of the day, the ground practically bare, though matted with a carpet of fallen grass.

In the months after that, the majority of the large campus became brown and mostly lifeless. The only stuff flying through the air were heavy clouds of dust… no more sweet droplets of refreshing water. As this happened little by little, I hardly noticed the transition. I became accustomed to this new landscape, and for most of my relationship with Village Altonodji, this is what I saw and what I grew to love.

Then, things started changing. I first saw it on my way back from the pump, bucket in hand. Two little boys, 6 and 8, were splashing a small plot of dirt with water from their buckets. I wandered over and asked what they were doing. They said it was a garden. Charming! I thought. I splashed some water with them and was on my way again.

A couple of days later, out my window, I saw boys and girls, some in their teens but many yet in primary school, scattered about with shovels, doing something with the land. They were digging furiously, lugging bucket after bucket of water to dump over the churned-up land, and shaping beautiful, rectangular mounds of earth. Within days, these mounds of earth were fertile beds, sowed with the seeds of beans and greens. I would stand there, practically with my mouth hanging open watching these tiny children creating life in the corners of campus. There were zero adults supervising, beckoning orders, helping with the shoveling, anything. The ten Mamans who live on campus were simply going about their business over yonder. This was entirely kid-initiated and kid-executed. I loved the combination of determined work-ethic and a child’s gift for having fun in all situations as I watched them at work, digging, screaming, and laughing. I would go out and watch, feeling awed and embarrassed that they were so self-sufficient and had no need for my presence.

However, being sweet and inviting little kids, they saw my interest and quickly prompted, “Why don’t you make a garden?” They pointed me to an empty plot right next to my house that they had arranged, they brought me seeds that they had acquired, and half a dozen hands helped me to sow the seeds. I was thrilled to have my own opportunity to cultivate life on campus, and also to have a reason to be out with the children in the gardens. I had just revisited the story of The Secret Garden in an audiobook version, and had been thinking about the magic that comes with tending to a project. Along with the kids, I lugged my bucket to the pump, but was always intercepted by a child or two who would pump for me and carry it back with me and splash my garden. Each morning when I woke up, I saw them already at work, my garden sitting there shiny with water.

Despite all their help, I have had the pleasure of tending to my garden from time to time. I water it each evening, I’ve set up beds of dried grasses to protect it from the harsh sun. And I admire it while I am out marveling even more at the other workers. There is so much to admire. Now, the gardens are rich with green leaves. They expand all over campus. The children are so innovative. The cans of MCC canned chicken that have been sent to feed the children at the orphanage have been put to great use. They poke holes in the bottoms and use them as watering cans. The older boys, in a single day, dug three great wells on campus for more easy access to water. They give consistent attention to the gardens and use them as an enterprise. I’ve learned that when they yield food, the Mamans actually purchase the goods in order to make the school’s meals.

There is nothing about the garden project that I don’t love. They have made the campus an oasis of life nearly half a year after the last rains have fallen in Moundou. The magnificent bright green colors, standing out against the dry sand and the dusty air is a beauty so poignant I can’t help but stare. And then, there’s this feeling of being part of a project that will yield results even after my departure. It reminds me to consider the seeds that I’m planting elsewhere on campus, in the minds and the lives of my students and my hundreds of little friends/helpers on campus. As the end of the school year looms oh-so-close, I am hopeful that any impact I have been able to make here does not stop when I leave, but will continue to grow and produce fruits long after.

Mamans of Altonodji

Meet: Deoulemgoto Marie
Marie is one of the ten "Mamans" who live here and take care of the 120 orphans at Altonodji. She was born here in Moundou and was raised in a family of 8 children, though one sibling died while she was still young. Marie attended school for a full ten years in Moundou and in another town called Bangor. I'm amazed by the amount of English Marie has retained since she studied back in the 70s.. She often tells me she wants to learn and the first time that I tried to teach her some basic phrases such as, "I am preparing the boule for dinner," I was impressed that she could do it with little instruction. Marie was married in 1976 and the couple had one daughter, but today both her husband and her daughter have died. In 2007, when Marie heard that there was a school being designed for orphans and widows, she applied to come live with the orphans. She likes living here. "At our homes," she says, "we have many difficulties. But here, it is calm. Despite all the work that we have to do, there are not the same difficulties." Marie values her role here at the school. Her responsibilities include preparing food, giving advice, and educating the children on subjects of how to be obedient, to work hard, and to be respectful to others. I asked Marie if she had a message she would like to send to America and she said,"A number of years ago Americans came here to the school with gifts for the orphans and the widows, but they haven't come for a while..." I asked if she was saying they should come bring gifts again and she just nodded!

Meet: Mandebeye Marthe
What a sweet woman! The first thing I want to say about Marthe is that I love her smile, and it feels like such a shame to me that when I pull out the camera she quickly wipes it off her face. (I feel bad but I'm  using a picture where she turned away to laugh.) I will remember Marthe as one of the Mamans that came into my living room my first night here at Altonodji and immediately hugged me and started dancing with me.
Growing up, Marthe had 8 brothers and sisters. Unlike Marie, she stopped school after only a few years. Instead, she decided to take up a trade. According to Marthe, she ordered a dress to be made, and upon seeing the quality she lamented that the
tailor had done such an awful job, saying, "You know what, I can do this myself!" She began apprenticing at the tailor's shop and by the age of 18 she was working herself. Marthe has been working here at Altonodji since 2012, but she has a full life off campus as well. She has 8 children in school, 2 of which attend here, she continues to sew dresses, and she teaches Sunday school at her church.i also just learned that Marthe is the official "chief" of the Mamans. I love that title. Marthe loves children and has a particular love for orphans and feels called to help take care of them.

Meet: Toualeyo Debora
Debora is a maman I was happy to get to know a little better because, like many of them, she doesn't share a language with me unless you count a handful of Ngambaye phrases. However, after my first two interviews, I was told that she was excited to participate too.
Debora was born in the town of Koutoutou (my spelling) in 1953. This means that she spent her first decade living under the French colonists, but she was too young to remember how things were different due to that. Debora had a very large family, with 10 brothers and sisters. Her parents were farmers, and instead of attending school she learned from a young age how to help them in the fields. The fields were far from their village, but each day she walked with her family and worked cultivating sorghum, millet, and other grains. She loved working in the fields, and during our interview she spotted a gardening tool and promptly grabbed it to start demonstrating. When it was time to get a picture of her, she marched straight out of the kitchen and into the garden where she bent down and started breaking apart the soil.
Eventually Debora stopped working in the fields to get married and move here to Moundou. She had 11 children of her own and worked to raise them. Now, she is here at Altonodji where she is very happy. When asked why, she listed the things that make her happy in the same way someone might rave about their recent Caribbean cruise. With a big smile she said she is at peace here... She eats BOULE, she drinks BOUILLE (water, sugar, flour, rice) she SLEEPS, she has a good HOUSE... she is happy. She made grand gestures as she listed each of these things and had everyone around us smiling and laughing with her.
When Debora found out the meeting was over, she seemed like she wasn't finished. I asked what else she would like to say and she said she didn't go to school, but she went to church and there she learned to read and write in Ngambaye. She is thankful to God for her education through the church. I'm thankful for Debora!

Selected Snapshots

For a preface to these January snapshots, check out my previous post.. The one that was GOING to be called "Christmas: the Musical."

January 4- I see dozens of people wearing masks to protect them from the dust, which today made the world a dream as I could not see clearly 50 feet in front of me. People have asked me to tell them the word in English for dust that floats so heavily in the air that it creates a fog. I can't say that I had an answer for them. Also, it's creepy to see people walking around with medical masks like doctors, miners, or nuclear bomb survivors, but I think I'm mostly envious as I take in the thick, chalky air.

January 8- I went out to fill up on water at the pump. It's about a minute walk from the guest house. Before I'd even gotten off my front porch with my two buckets, two little boys intercepted me and insisted on fetching me water. They are allllways together, and I get the sense that the slightly bigger boy, Calis, is the other's protector. He appears to be about 6 but is a natural mentor. Even with me, he always speaks to me slowly and in Ngumbaye, as if he were a kindergarten teacher speaking to a student. The younger boy, Semplice, is half his size and the kind of kid that makes you want to constantly say "awwwwwww." For my first week here he said not a word, but smiled from behind his bigger friend whenever I saw him. I forced him to be my pal the other day by sitting down and coloring with him, putting markers in his hand and guiding his wrist to draw smiley faces and stars until finally he was drawing enthusiastically on every surface he could find. Since then he has been following me around, miming a drawing hand. Anyway, I gave them my buckets and let them go. A minute later, I saw Calis on his way back with the bucket on his head, and tiny Semplice still at the pump, being assisted by an older student who was gently positioning the bucket on the little boy's head. I met Calis and deposited his bucket in my living room. Then I turned to Semplice, who was painstakingly making his way towards us, being positively showered with water from his bucket. His friend went to relieve him, and by the time the bucket had changed hands, the second boy also had a huge dripping wet patch in his belly, the bucket was 1/3 full, and both of them had eyes dancing with laughter! I thought maybe he would be embarrassed, but both seemed nothing but pleased with themselves for helping me out.

January 9- I was just minding my own business outside when the same two boys and a little friend started following me around saying stuff in Ngumbaye. First I thought they were telling me I needed a shower. Then I decided they were trying to teach me how to talk about needing to take a shower. Eventually I realized they were imploring me to give them buckets again, so I sent all three off to get water that I didn't actually need.

January 11-  I've realized that when my host mother talks about food, she rates it based on how filling it is. Whereas at home we might marvel that a meal is delicious and low-calorie, or high fiber, or locally grown, she will brag about how you can eat a little and not be hungry all day, which is not exactly what I want to hear. The main staple, boule, is made by mixing different kinds of flour or ground meal with hot water. As I have been learning to prepare it myself, I'm learning that certain types of flour go better with certain proteins, whether you are eating little fish or big chunks of beef. When trying to discern why we were using sourgum verses corn flour, I though some talk of flavor would ensue, but the explanation that I received was that sourgum makes you soooo full so it's the best option!

January 14- This morning, during a lovely bike ride out of the city into Village Altonodji, I passed several students walking to class. As I passed one little boy, it was clear he was going to be very late- I still had about 10 more minutes of biking- and he asked if he could ride with me. I agreed just to see what would happen. Before I could slow down my bike, I heard his steps quicken behind me and swiftly he swung up on the bike rack. He had clearly done this before. It turns out that with my ever-flattening tire it was doubly difficult for me to bike with a second passenger, even a tiny boy. We went for about five minutes, with me pushing with all my might on the slight incline, before we passed some friends of his and practically without my noticing he slid off and joined them on foot again.

January 16- Women here are so incredibly tough! It's not only that they can carry enormous loads of anything on their heads, or stir massive vats of boule, but they seem to be able to tolerate unbelievable degrees of heat. Rarely do I see women in my house use any kind of pot holder to lift heavy, hot metal pans from red flames. I often marvel at this aloud, and on Sunday Mama Kiri announced to me that it is only a matter of habituation, and it is about time I learn. So as we prepared lunch she would nonchalantly announce to me that I was to go over maybe lift a scalding hot lid to check on the sauce, or take something off the flame, and then she would look at me out of the corner of her eye to see my reaction. Both she and Béné would then laugh as I would try, either playing hot potato or half-throwing/half-dropping whatever hot thing I was supposed to be holding. My goal is to be able to walk on hot coals by the time I return to the States.

January 17-  The boarding students at my school do not turn up their noses at the idea of eating rodents and other wild creatures. Young boys tote slingshots and traps with every intention of eating their kills. I've seen many a rat being carried across campus towards the open kitchen. What was remarkable today was peering into a pot which held the biggest lizard I have ever seen in the wild! I don't know who found it or where, but it had to be shaped into an "o" to fit inside the large pot. I regret that I didn't take a photo.

January 21- There is good news and bad news. The good news is I'm not afraid of mice or rats. The bad news is that mice and rats have been trying to terrorize me, mostly beginning this month, in both of my abodes. The list of things that have been eaten entirely or nibbled significantly in January include: three rolls, a tomato, a banana, an onion, the outside pocket of my backpack holding a fully wrapped granola bar, half of the granola bar, the change pouch in my new handbag that held a few peanuts, the peanuts that were contained, a tablecloth that had been hiding my fruit overnight, and now, most recently, a big patch in the belly area of my nice shirt. I guess I'd spilled a bit of sauce on it or something... (Edit: two weeks later, this list ought to have several more things on it, including two bowls of poisoned tomatoes. Still, it haunts me..)

January 22- I was just biking from town to Altonodji and, amid unrelenting cries of NASSARA!! (white person..) I heard one that made me smile a little extra. A small voice, filled with breathless awe, gasped at me, "Chinoise!" I hope he never finds out the truth that that girl racing by on her bike was not Chinese, because it truly sounded like his life would never be the same.

January 23- this week I KILLED THE CHICKEN! It felt like such a coming of age moment, seeing as how my first exposure to the ordeal elicited it's own epic blog post. I still made a cultural faux pas by naming the chicken (Paul the Poulet) when I first met it, which you don't do to something you're about to murder. But yes, I announced I was going to do the butchering, and since Mama Kiri has decided I'm Chaddian enough to hold scalding metal dishware, she also didn't hesitate to give me the knife, holding down the chicken's wing with her foot. It was only after I'd made the first several sawing motions that I remembered that this particular knife so dull and not serrated so you can hardly even cut carrots. So here I was, utterly inexperienced, barely breaking the skin of poor Paul's neck with the realization this was going to be a really unpleasant death for him, so then I started crying out for someone to take the knife, but I didn't stop my undirected sawing for fear of prolonging its suffering anymore, and nobody was taking the knife, so I just continued to shriek while desperately pushing the knife harder and harder while blood started ever so slightly trickling down its neck. Finally, FINALLY, it was cut enough for someone to snap the neck back, and then Mama Kiri grabbed the knife and slashed its jugular in two. So maybe it wasn't 100% me and maybe doesn't demonstrate that I've come particularly far in 5 months, but there it is.

January 29- Today I walked in on a few teachers having a serious discussion in the break room. One of them turned to me and said, "these girls in the orphanage.. many of them..They are very sick." Later from my house I could see dozens of kids crowded around some bedrooms. I heard wails. Outside, I was met by a group of small students who warned me against going over there. What they told me is that four or five girls are filled with bad spirits, demons. I started asking all kinds of questions and they just kept repeating "spirits! Bad Spirits!" Then a passing student offered to try to translate but I had to insist that I did in fact understand what they were saying but I just wanted to know more. They were completely floored that this was new information for me, and suddenly it felt bad of me to let on that, for me, the belief in demons and possession is a fascinating cultural illustration. It would be akin to telling a child, "Who is this Santa that you're talking about? Hmm, I've never heard of him and he doesn't bring me presents, but that's interesting." Like everyone on campus, I would like to go over and see for myself, but after that initial conversation with the boys in which I just felt like an insensitive spectator, I haven't asked any more questions, but rather avoided that side of campus.

February 1- Rough English translation of part of a song we are learning in church choir, "Driving in your car, you can die. Sitting in the kitchen, you can die. Washing yourself in the bathroom, you can die. Laughing about your exploits, you can die."

February 8- I've been preparing tomorrow's course in my room, but it finally became too dark to continue. I stepped outside to watch the fading light, and noticed that through the space between our house and the trees, I could see a parade of bats heading across the sky in the same direction. Not a flock really, but definitely not by accident that they were passing by at the same time. I sat down in a chair and began to count. 1..........2........345......6..7......................8. It was soothing... like counting sheep. I heard the safe sounds of a radio to my right, water being drawn from the well to my left, crickets beginning to sing all around me. 25.... 26 27 28 29.......... 30. For a few moments I forgot all about myself and my students and thought just about the bats. Where are they all trying to get to all of a sudden? It was like they had a curfew.   101..102. I sat until it was just dark enough that I couldn't see the outlines anymore. 511.

The one that was GOING to be called "Christmas: the Musical"

This blog post is primarily an admission of failure. For the last days of December and a large part of January I had every intention of writing a post entitled, "Christmas: the Musical" and it was going to include all sorts of cute tidbits about my very song-and-dance filled holiday season. It was to start with the paragraph: "Have you ever had that dream where you are on stage, facing a large audience, and you realize that very soon you will be expected to recite the lines of a script that you don't remember having rehearsed? Maybe sing a solo? That dream where everyone else is adequately prepared, and they seem to expect the same of you, but for the life of you you can't remember ever being through this before? Why am I even asking this? Of course you have! And that's why it shouldn't be too difficult for me to convey to you the events of Christmas Day. I think I'll back up a moment."

From there I was going to regale you with tales of a 24-hour church choir rehearsal, a concert planned seemingly by chance for Christmas Day, technical rehearsals held in a bedroom inside of a bank, choreography performed with a group of pre-teen girls donning matching dresses, evenings filled with cramming French and Ngumbaye song lyrics into my head by lamplight... all of this leading up to 4:00 on Christmas Day when I came out on stage with my worship group, "Les Semeurs," nervous as if it were a final exam to evaluate how much I had retained after all the whirlwind weeks of cramming. And the first thing that happened was we started singing a song I had NEVER heard before. And of course I was standing at my own microphone and of course multiple people were standing at the foot of the stage filming me exclusively. After illustrating that, I might have included some positive moments from the concert to redeem myself, and probably some thoughtful "meaning of Christmas" conclusions to tie it all together.

That was what I was GOING to write, but I don't know. Maybe it was too painful to relive for you (probably not, because Christmas was actually quite a good time!) or maybe I was just too busy having new experiences to spend too much time dwelling on old 2014. In fact, while I was adamantly not finishing my blog post, I was already throwing myself into documenting 2015. My New Years resolution was to, "for each day of January, note an observation, thought, or experience that might otherwise go unrecorded." There are so many little quotidian happenings that, for me at least, do a better job of capturing the special parts of my Chaddian life than the big Headlines. For that reason, in the following post I present you with some selected January snapshots. If you are members of my family or close friends, which you probably are, you have already received these in weekly installments, but you'll find a couple February snapshots at the bottom because this habit of daily journaling has been hard to break.