It's been almost a week...

...and my body's holding me hostage.


I suppose it's because I battled my way through six airports on minimal sleep. On one of the long flights, I sat beside a... slightly large woman whose arm pressed against me no matter how I tried to shrink away.


I don't like to be touched. I really don't like to be touched by a stranger. I really, really don't like to be touched by a stranger for seven hours running whilst on a two-day tour of half the airports in the world.


I realize the woman didn't have a choice in this either, but it was hard to be magnanimous when I felt like her conjoined twin.


At one point during the long, cold night, I threw my upper body diagonally across the aisle until a stewardess crept up behind me and told me to behave myself.


I think it was as I remora'd my cheek to the woman's arm again that my body began to rebel. Sometime during pinballing through Africa and Europe, my left eye decided to turn a virulent shade of red. I had no idea until I was about an hour away from my final destination (although it did explain all the screaming children in my flights).  


What's more, since arriving in Canada, my face has decided its calling is to be a 'Before' picture for Proactiv. It is even now working diligently to achieve this goal.


Finally, although the weather is unseasonably warm for January in the prairies, my extremities have utterly given up even pretending to be useful members of society. The temperature is a balmy -5°C, and yet I shuffle around the house in three layers, socks, and slippers because my body is convinced I should just curl up and die of hypothermia. Especially since my fingers and toes no longer respond to stimulation and my brain likely thinks they've fallen off. 


However, this last post is not entirely about my various complaints (for a change). It is also meant to answer some questions that keep cropping up:

• I did explain what happened to my fiance. Recently. I forget exactly where it was, and I refuse to go looking into that embarrassing chapter of my life. Suffice to say that he maturely understood (thanks to Steve) that I had no intention of showing him Canada on a world map, much less becoming his wife. 
• No, I didn't say Malawi, Bali, or Maui. I said Mali. It is a No Man's Land in West Africa. It is landlocked and surrounded (clockwise) by Algeria, Niger, Burkina Faso, Cote d'Ivoire, Guinea, Senegal, and Mauritania. You know when people say, "I'll knock you straight to Timbuktu," or "She could be in Timbuktu for all I know!" Timbuktu is in Mali. 
• No, there aren't many animals in Mali. Except for goats, sheep, cows, and chickens. (I won't mention the rats.) The scenery is pretty, just not in the way that I am used to in, say, Banff or Kerala.  Imagine... the savanna, like you'd see on the Discovery channel - only without the lions. Without any signs of life whatsoever, really, because most of the people are in the capital city (where the party's at), and all the wild animals have escaped to countries with conditions more conducive to life. 
• The name of this blog has caused much wailing and gnashing of teeth because no one has any idea what I'm on. (Don't worry, I get that a lot.) It comes from Sarah, Plain and Tall. But it's Sharon (being my name), Plains (being the landscape of Mali), and Sol (being the hot sun in Mali). I thought it was highly self-explanatory and clever because I am also plain and (sort of) tall. Aha. Ha. Ha. (I know; I need to get out more.)  

Now back home, I am amazed by how fast and easy the Western world is. Though I'm totally sure I remember Youtube being horrifically slow to load before I left for Africa, now I barely have to blink before an entire video loads. 


Also, Superstore is close. 


(Wait, there's more.) 


It has cheese. 


(It gets better.)


The cheese is cheap. 


In addition, I no longer have to dread the day that the gas canister thing for the stove finishes. For me, changing that canister was akin to building a rocket to take me to Saturn and back. It involved a wrench.

(Stop me if this is getting too technical.)

Each time we (yes, I needed someone to hold my hand each time) changed that beastly thing, there was something wrong with its replacement. Either it leaked, or it hissed, or it looked at us funny... One way to test whether it was working or not involved giving it a warm, soapy bath. Apparently it would blow bubbles if... I dunno... the moon was aligned with Venus or something. 


It never blew bubbles. 


But somehow Muso Koroba, Lori, and SA were all Gas-Canister Whisperers and knew, after tenderly bathing the thing, that it was gonna blow. 


Another way to test it was seeing if it went up in flames. 


(If it did, that was a bad sign.) 


Note: Whilst using this method to test the safety of a metal canister of compressed gas, it is helpful to have a quick thinker by your side. Preferably a quick thinker who enjoys life. In case you're wondering, I lose on both counts. 


But aside from all this... I'm settling right back into the groove of life in North America.


Now I'm trying to explain how it feels to share a bowl of water to wash up before and after a meal. How it feels to share a bowl of food with a women whom I cannot name, but who dance with joy in the presence of the Lord because of His saving grace. How I can miss Mali despite its many shortcomings. How I was readily welcomed into a community though I looked, acted, and thought differently. How people are turning to the Lord by the mere presence and witness of those who are called by His name to a strange country, never mind the missionaries and local Christians who are actively working to 'preach the gospel to all creation.'


I thank God that He has kept my going out and my coming in, and I pray that I will have a chance to work (and play!) again in Mali. Thank you to everyone who has taken part in this mission.


Signing off for the last time (I hope), 
Kermit

...Surely God is my salvation; 
I will trust and not be afraid. 
The Lord, the Lord himself, is my strength and my defense; 
he has become my salvation.” 

With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.

In that day you will say: 
“Give praise to the Lord, proclaim his name; 
make known among the nations what he has done, 
and proclaim that his name is exalted. 

Sing to the Lord, for he has done glorious things; 
let this be known to all the world...
- Isaiah 12: 2-5

A Very Mali Christmas to You!

So we went caroling to various neighborhoods that loved us (singing English, French, and Bambara carols), had a gift exchange, went to la brousse (sort of) for Christmas, and visited some Malian families (some new, some we'd visited on our last trip to la brousse - the trip I... er... never really got around to blogging about). It was all very sweet and thinking about it makes me ever so slightly sad, so I shall, as per usual, focus upon a few, less important things because I have very few blog posts left in me:

- Salad: I don't think this is actually a Malian version of salad. It's more as though this family (a pastor, his wife, and three kids who've all lived in the States for a while) decided that this was what a salad should look like. The more athletic, wholesome, healthier of you may want to avert your eyes - Rated Yummy for the Unhealthy and Wan. Basically, it was a load of fries thrown on top of lettuce, onions, and tomatoes. Now this was a salad I could really get behind. The lettuce was oily with the grease of the fried potatoes and plantains. The only thing that would have made this salad any better (read: unhealthier), would be if there'd been some ranch dressing or mayo and a squirt of lime. Bon appetit!

- Sad things: I hate flies. And I hate sickness. And both of them are rampant in this country. Babies are usually tied onto their mothers' backs--

Note: I've never blogged about this, but now is the perfect time. How mothers get the babies on and off is a fascinating process. First, the mom bends forward at an angle slightly greater than 90 degrees and slings the baby on her back like she's about to give him a piggyback ride. The baby just sort of straddles his mom's back, regardless of whether he's restive, enraged, or comatose, until Mommy throws a scarf over him and ties two knots until he's in a sort of sling on her back. In the meantime, Mommy will have gotten a great deal on 2 kilos of eggplants and joked with her friend about the size of the nose on the brown girl staring at them. By this time, an Indian baby would have caused grievous bodily harm to himself, his mother, his grandmother, and all other unfortunate bystanders within a 5-foot radius. To get Baby down off Mommy's back, she simply unties the knots, reaches an arm behind her, drags the baby across her back, into her armpit, and out into the front. It's a great system. (Aside from bow-legged babies and the sheer, agonizing stress of throwing your baby on your back and tying him on with some cloth. But maybe it's just me.)

--with their arms trapped, so sitting through some unintelligible church services or sotrama rides has been an exercise in counting how many seconds I can wait between windmilling my arms frantically, scaring everyone around me, and getting thirty flies off a baby's face. (Don't worry, the fear would slowly turn to amusement. Which turned to annoyance. Which turns to 'Don't mind the crazy tubab - she's a prissy twit.') Sickness is also fairly common, which doesn't surprise anyone, I'm sure. Tuberculosis, typhoid, malaria... things that should be treatable and/or avoidable. Not to mention problems like sores and ulcers. People like MK, who've known these families since the moms went to grade school, makes a trip into the bush every so often to hand out medication, dispense donations, and visit with these people so that they know they haven't been forgotten. One of the churches we went to was a round hut literally the size of a kitchen.

Wow. that went from flies to babies, to sicknesses, to small churches. I think I should pat myself on the back for being a good writer who comes up with excellent, subtle segues. Speaking of which,

- Christmas: This involved a lot of singing and dancing. It was very joyful, but I was slightly disappointed because I'm not sure how much was really about Christ's birth. The church was absolutely packed, since non-Christians are invited to the event (just like many Christians were a part of Tabaski celebrations and customs - such as being asked for forgiveness for any real or imagined wrongs before sharing in the feast with their Muslim neighbors). The children went up and sang, the women sang, there were individual performances, we sang hymns as a congregation, the message was great - very evangelistic, or so I hear... but towards the end, tribal groups were asked to come up and do a traditional song and dance. It was superb! The way they sang and boogeyed up there? Fantastic! I got to a real glimpse of the huge variety of tribal groups in Mali and their unique cultures. Did it put me in mind of Christmas at all? Was I seeing the hosts of angels praising God, the lowly shepherds approaching in fear, the great kings bowing down before a baby in a feeding trough? No. None of the above. It could have just been because I didn't understand the language, though. And since the normally linguistically gifted MK didn't either, we just sat back and enjoyed the performances.

This was the same church wherein Esayi and Neema had been married, so all the performances were accompanied by the weird man who thought it his solemn duty to dance at the front of the church. His dance was hilarious, but when he was dancing in front of singing children, I wanted to grab his ear, pull him to a corner of the room, and give him a DUNCE cap. He was in a suit this time, still sweating profusely, and still dancing as through his very life depended on it. Apparently some members of the church had told him to kindly stop making a fool of himself, but he said that if they wanted him to come to church, they'd better give him a dance floor, because his boots were made for walkin'! Seems like an easy choice to me, but then, I'm more cruel than most. I'm not sure if this is a 'David dancing before the ark of the Lord,' thing, but... for the guy's sake, I hope so. Of course, this also makes me a forever barren Michel...

The decor of the church also left something to be desired. The podium was wrapped in Christmas cloth (churches gets bolts of a certain pattern of cloth - with a verse and a picture on it - for the congregation to buy; thus you may have a whole churchfull of people with the same Christmas cloth, but various styles of dresses/shirts/pants), which was quite lamentably hideous, and Christmas lights set to 'epilepsy' curled around the face of a slightly demonic, very salmon-skinned Santa. And what with MK and I trying to sing English and Bambara carols and having the girls sitting beside us egging us on as the power sputtered in and out... the whole effect was a bit surreal. 

Although the night started off a little rocky with a few power outages, there was eventually a two- or three-hour service, and then an all-night song and dance fest outside the church! If I had just an ounce of rhythm in me, I would not have slept that night. As it was, I stood on the edge of the dancing circle, clapping my hands, stealthily creeping on some of the guys who were superb dancers, avoiding the awkward ones, and staring in awe at the mothers shakin' their thangs with babies slung on their hips.

I committed a minor faux pas by wearing my Christmas cloth (which I'd had made into a skirt) on Christmas eve, when it was truly only supposed to be worn during or after Christmas. However, that was the least of my worries that night. First of all, children found my long hair quite the novelty, and dared each other to go up, touch it, and run away. Possibly they thought that if I caught them at it, I would eat them. (Actually, under normal circumstances, I wish to bite people at the very least for touching my hair, but since they were kids, I thought it was very sweet.) I'm surprised they didn't just assume it was a weave. When the pre-teen girls did it, I was okay; when the boys started to do it, I felt a little dubious about the image I might be projecting. But Muso Koroba (MK - my delightful chaperone) quickly put a stop to that (no young man can bear up under the weight of a professional finger wag) and we scuttled to the opposite side of the dancing circle.

Next, I was propositioned. A young boy sidled up beside me. I smiled at him. This was my first mistake.

Boy: Freak!
Me: Uh... Well, yes. But I thought I'd been hiding it pretty well--
Boy: Freeeeeak! *points off into the darkness*
Me: Now this is just hurtful.
I prod my chaperone - Muso Koroba. 
Me: MK, this child is getting agitated. I fear he may soon tie me to a wheel and throw fruits at me like they did to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Please tell him that Jesus came to earth for freaks and ugly people, too.
Muso: Bleep bleepley bloop! (Kermit's mental translation: It's not her fault she's ugly. Leave her alone.)
Boy: Bloop freeeeeeak bleepely freeeak bleep! (Kermit's mental translation: Nice try, lady. But she's a freak. Multiplied by two. And I want her to leave. Forever.) *more pointing into the dark*
MK suddenly bursts into giggles. I stare at her forbiddingly. 
Me: Kindly cease and desist.
Muso: *to the boy, through giggles* No! Nonono!
Boy: Freeeeeeak?
MK finally gains control over herself and projects enough 'finger wag' to send the kid packing. 
Muso: He said that "Rick" wants to "take you."
Me: ...Take me where?
Muso: *through giggles* I'm not sure what he meant. The translation is "Take you!" *more giggles*
Me: ...Well, does he have a motorcycle? I'm not entirely sure what's so--
The possible meaning of that phrase sinks in and I enter a fugue state in shock. Muso Koroba tries to stop giggling long enough to reassure me. 
Muso: I'm sure he wasn't Christian.
Great, now it sounds like no good Christian would touch me with a barge pole. I stare at her in deeper, more wounded shock, but she ignores me and keeps giggling. I want to make her stop. 
Me: You could've at least let me have a look at Rick before you turned him down.
I win. 

The music went on 'till quite late, and I fell asleep to the sound of a woman screeching her way through all the sharps and flats in a musical score created by Helen Keller.

Note: I don't think I've  talked about the singing here before. Malian women sound perfectly fine in conversation. They'll speak and smile like any other women in the world. And then you hand them a mic and put them in front of a crowd. They purposely make their voices go bizarrely screechy! I have honestly thought at certain points that my ears might bleed. The best I could do was force myself to stop flinching at the new pitches they would attain because it's not as though there is a discreet way to plug both your earholes and stare blissfully up at the singer. The handy Steve once told me that the rhythm and blues started here in Mali. (I'm fairly sure that means that the music makes people depressive and suicidal. Although the men sound pretty darn good, I will admit, and their drummers are amazing.)

On Christmas morning, we enjoyed another service - much more reserved this time, and then shared a meal of meaty nsaame with most of the congregation and many street kids. MK eyed the few unfortunates who happened to be holding oranges darkly and muttered, "They're always after me lucky oranges."

I think this is because she never gets to taste the fruits of the orange tree in her backyard. (At least, I hope so.)

In other news. We saw Steve, Becky, and their kids off on furlough a few days ago, I'm contemplating my oddly-sewn outfits and bemoaning the absence of a small pendant in the shape of Africa, I'm writing this as I'm supposed to be packing, I'm supposed to wake up in about 3 hours to head to the airport with MK, and I'm fending off the weirdest texts from this guy whose poems I'm supposed to be translating.

It's been a great ride, people. I will possibly write one more post when I get back home to let you all know I'm still alive, and possibly to add anything I might have forgotten (like the monthly changing of the gas tank - an adventure and a half). Thanks again for all your prayers and support!

To those on the Far Side: See you soon!

To those on this side of the ocean: Hope to see you again someday!

Things that go 'croak' in the night

Me, mostly.


And my cupboard. (But I think there's got to be an animal in there, because everyone knows cupboards can't talk. Except sometimes when I'm lonely.)


I've been staying up to extreme hours in order to do silly things, one of which was make a presentation on Canada and share some maple syrup treats. The presentation turned out okay, but my class consisted of six students and one teacher (most of whom still believe that 'Indian' and 'Native American' are interchangeable terms - yes, Missionary Kids inhabit a strange, strange little bubble that would definitely be popped by a punch in the mouth) who were two days from Christmas break. Besides, they'd already admitted wholeheartedly that they adored my presentation.


This confession occurred before my presentation, and just after I'd brought the treats out. (I was assured this had nothing to do with anything.)


The final performance of the Messiah was on Friday night, the choir enjoyed dinner together on Saturday night, the annual Christmas program (organized by the hospitable SA) was on our yard on Sunday night, our mission had a Christmas party on Monday night... and I've basically been quite the social butterfly for my last two weeks in this country. It's wonderful and a little sad, because I don't think I'll be able to process that I'm really leaving until I'm back home.


At which point I may walk out of the house one night, sit in a heap of snow in my flannel pajamas, and start crying. My mother will find me, frostbitten (or heavily rained upon, judging by the weather reports so far), and sobbing incoherently about my talking cupboard.


I've met the sweetest, most generous missionaries here - in a dry, red polygon of a country that doesn't have much to boast about except the loving hospitality of its people.


Oh, there have been bumps in the road. For example, when I was gently and regretfully identified as having an 'Indonesian' accent during ESL class... Another time when I was helpfully informed that they needed 'native' English speakers for the 'right' accent during English Club... A few occasions where people have been outright rude upon learning that I don't speak Bamanakan... But this country's still got a piece of my heart. And I've got a little sliver of every beautiful person I've met here - even the fantastically weird Missionary Kids who won't remember me, but whom I'll get to creep on Facebook to see what fantastically amazing things they do for the the glory of His name.


I hope I'll get to come back, but I can't say for sure. Besides, it'll be different if I do. It won't be the same people, the same jokes, the same problems - they'll be all brand new, all hard, all impossible without our awesome God. It'll be a bunch of new, weird, different people who might not necessarily want to be around each other or around West Africans all the time, but who love the Lord and know that sharing His love is all that matters.


As I was reminded on Facebook: "Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open." And that's made all the difference I see here. Please pray that it continues. 


(Yes, it's a Harry Potter quote. Just go with the maudlin flow of it all. No, I'm not crying. Very much. Any more.)


Anyway. I still have whole nights of carol singing and church services ahead of me! I can't believe I wrote out a whole sappy goodbye post so early! Now my last post on this sadly neglected blog will be something like, "Goodbye," and that'll be all you remember.


I meant to talk about so many other things today. Like going hiking to a gorgeous natural bridge along a perilous route which wild animals (if this country had any animals that weren't tied up in a front yard glaring balefully at you and yodeling a funeral dirge and an invitation to come over for mutton in a bit - all in one soggy bleat) would fear to tread.


(It is also a route which was undertaken by the stately MK, Broke-Toe Becky, and a real-life, bespectacled Thumbelina. But we don't have to advertise that.)


I also meant to say something suitably witty and amusing about an unidentified animal that sits in my cupboard and croaks at me. It sounds like this: "MUAHA-HA-HA-HA."

I'm dead serious. When I finally asked the wise MK about it, after enduring mental anguish for the past four months, she said confidently that it was a lizard.


I asked what the lizard was doing to make a sound like that.


She looked at me like I'd suggested we start a commune in the Netherlands. 


It had been a long day and neither of us were at our best, so after a few moments of hysterical laughter, I bid a hasty retreat. And now I'm all alone in the house (as SA has scarpered to a Very Lori Christmas a few hours away) and scared to go into my bedroom and face my cupboard.


Go ahead; laugh. It's all fun and games until someone throws open a cupboard and finds a lizard chortling evilly to itself with its fingers steepled under its chin.


Fact: If a Malian is listening to you/understanding what you're trying to convey, he/she will click his/her tongue on the roof of his/her mouth. I have an aunt who does almost the same thing, but she is not Malian, nor does she understand me; she has itchy sinuses. So when I first got here, I wondered at the disproportionately large number of Malians with sinus problems. Later, I figured the clicking was a sign that the speaker could speak faster - sort of like you'd encourage a horse into a canter. Thus, I, like a horse, spoke faster. In French. Which abruptly made all clicking stop. Forever. It was like having a time bomb stop ticking. You're staring at your conversation partner in horror, wondering how you started talking about your aunt's sinus problems in French, wondering if you accidentally clipped the red wire or the yellow wire...
Moral of the Story: The Malian lizard in my cupboard is clicking his tongue in an understanding fashion as I talk to my cupboard. It's the only rational explanation, really. 

Happy Birthday to Me! Continued

On Saturday, we went to a sale put on by some missionaries here who run ‘businesses.’

(Sorry, that is a weird sentence, but I don’t really know how else to explain it. There is certainly no profit involved, but either the missionaries buy and make items themselves, or sell items on behalf of nomadic Africans who don’t exactly have shops of their own. There are also ministries that rehabilitate and give vocational training, such as sewing, dyeing, etc. to former prostitutes, so it was a collective sale of all these missions. I believe it’s a bi-annual sale that the people here seem to wait for with bated breath; for me it was a great opportunity for Christmas and thank-you presents!

After the sale, SG and I went to the National Park, which is... pretty. (For this fair city, at least. For a snotty girl who grew up in Banff National Park? It barely passes muster as an overgrown forest.)

Happy Birthday to Me!

But first, another reappearance of my fiancé, and a village visit – yay!

First of all, the day after my last post commenting on his faithlessness, my fiancé showed up again and talked very frankly and honestly (his words) about when I was leaving, when I would meet his elder brother,  and when he would be able to join me in Canada. He tried to put me in a taxi, despite my protests that I was waiting for a sotrama, and only listened when I refused to step in the taxi. He left me his number and packed me in a sotrama (the wrong one, but by that point, I was in a morbid fear that he would follow me home, so this was fine by me) with a parting volley of “I love you.” 

I guess you had to be there... Part II

***

The sociable SG and I went to church in a village this past Sunday. Since SG knows everyone (from her stints in a girls' school and many other ministries), I get a lot of invites to villages and events that I wouldn't normally.

(Well, alright, she gets invited - I creep. People here are uber-friendly, so it's all good.)

I guess you had to be there...

...and other short stories.

***

One morning, as I woke, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I realized I was ever so slightly late for school.

(Unedited version: I rolled out of bed a screaming ball of bedhead and blankets because I should have been walking out the door by then.)