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.)

Totally the internet's fault

(Not.)


Alright, the internet's been up and running for weeks now. I can even get it in my room, and I have an adapter stolen from the effervescent SA, who kindly ignores my kleptomania (or is morbidly frightened of the troll she currently shares a house with).


I accept full responsibility for my inability to share information with people who like to know I'm alive. 


(And then I take the full burden of responsibility, set it on one of the many garbage-hauling donkeys in this fair city, and shoo it away by flapping my arms violently. Metaphorically speaking.)


I am horrific at keeping in touch. Most of you know this. Many of you have tried to kill me for it. 

Ok, so before you beat me with a stick...

...please note that the internet has been down.

There has been some sort of problem with Orange (our internet/phone provider, not the detestable fruit), after which there was some sort of problem with the... hardware...ish... things... of the... technical persuasion.

But I am here now, so console yourselves. (Or weep because you'd previously thought you'd escaped my horribly long posts because I'd expired somewhere on the school trip. Either one.)

Note form again, because I like to think that makes me focused and to-the-point. (It doesn't.)

Roughing it. Again.

Man, I am spoiled. When I was coming to Africa, I thought I'd be happy with a one-room shack and a bathroom that contained porcelain. Now we have to go to a missionary house in a village where there are all the necessary amenities, and I'm... I just donwanna!

But... but... there's only electricity for, like, three hours a night, and.... and... there's not going to be a lot of water for showers, and... and... it's cooooold...

Did I mention I was going with about sixteen high school children? For the next two days?!

(And five other adults, but lets not dwell on that.)

What?

Don't look at me like that.

Like I'm whining.

Whatever.

What the apostle Paul really needed...

...was a mic, and stereo speakers. And possibly the well-known Jesus film.

(I have no idea what the Jesus film is - I've asked repeatedly whether it's Mel Gibson's extravaganza, received a negative response and an alternate explanation. Which I promptly forget. Except that it a retelling of the gospel of Luke.)

Too bad Paul did not have these necessary implements. Instead, he wrote letters from prisons. And proclaimed Jesus' life, death, and resurrection.

The streets were alive… with the sound of baa-ing… - Part 2

First, a little explanation of Tabaski. It is a big, big festival commemorating Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Ishmael, as well as Ishmael’s willingness to be a sacrifice. Each and every family must buy a sheep to sacrifice, even at the risk of going into debt, and it’s considered a time to make amends, to ask for forgiveness, and to atone for sins committed in the past year. In essence, people recognize the need for a sacrifice, and they find it important enough to celebrate (for two-three days!), out of many other events in the Quran, the occasion when the Lord provided a sacrifice so that Ishmael (and thus Abraham’s line) would not die out.

‘S all very symbolic, y’know. 

Becky loaned me a beautiful Malian dress so that I could be part of a Tabaski celebration. We were invited by a Malian guy who comes to English Club.

(He is a single and I was a little bit wigged out to go to his house, but he seemed like a pretty nice guy. I hadn’t heard his poetry then.)

The streets were alive… with the sound of baa-ing…

...of bajillions of sheep waiting to be slaughtered on Tabaski (which was on Sunday). For the past week (at least), you could not move without bumping into a dirty little beast, hearing its anemic bleat, or being thrust aside by a person doing some last-minute Tabaski shopping for that ‘must-have’ sacrifice.

(On my way to school one morning, trying to avoid the bleating hordes, I was actually thrust aside by a person in a sotrama as it drove by me. Of course, I was first bumped by its side mirror. I kid you not.)

Since a lot has happened (for a change), I shall once again present small vignettes of A Saturday in the Life of Kermit.

Good Thing I Learned the Hallelujah Chorus

• I'm so lucky that I get to be a part of ESL classes and English Club (hang-out/discussion time with Malians interested in practicing English). I wouldn't know half the things I do about Malians if I weren't. (This is a nice way of saying that the concept of multiple wives was recently explained to me, and I still thought - as Asterix and Obelix would say - that these Malians are crazy!) 

Prayer time again!

Huge, huge prayer requests!

1) A couple here has been waiting over a month for their container to arrive from the States. The wait, itself, isn't that bizarre, but the sheer amount of hassle it has been to just get this thing through customs and into our fair city has become legendary in these parts. Also, they have put a lot of money into this and are being asked to pay even more. They are a young missionary couple here to work with unreached people groups and this is a real set back in terms of getting started on their ministry. Please pray that they can get hold of their container ASAP without having to pay too much!

2) My ticket is booked for this Friday. If I have to leave this Friday, I think I may actually throw a screaming tantrum in the middle of the nearest road. All problems of leaving Mali would end very quickly. My travel agent told me to try getting the ticket in person at the Ethiopian Air office in town. That's when I first got the Ethiopian Air blues. Now I've gone in person, had them tell me its impossible to do it from Mali, gone back to my travel agent, who is trying to do... something... [long, weepy story] ...and now I might have to leave on Friday. Did I already mention that I am just about ready to pitch a fit? So if everyone could just pray that I get a really, really cheap return ticket for the end of December or the beginning of January, that would be great!

Imagine that!

Imagine that...

...you are slightly obsessive-compulsive about the cleanliness of your feet...

...you look forward to washing your feet all. day. long. because they are just sweaty enough to turn the red dust of Mali into a protective coating of grime that wraps itself grittily (and lovingly) around your toes from the minute you step out of your house at 7am...

...you brave hordes of slavering crickets which guard an ATM that is utterly convinced that its sole duty in this world is to thwart attempts to get cash...

...you pray...

Women’s Retreat

(Stop asking me about the 4-day village trip and the horrible, roof-less structure wherein I had to bathe and… do other things. I have repressed that memory. I will write about it when my days are so boring that I have nothing else to write about. In other words, I’ll probably tell you in person when I get back to Canada. That way you can weep with me.)

This weekend involved a retreat put on by some women in California (and of course, some fantastically talented, energetic women right here in our city), and it was a lot of fun.

I honestly didn’t belong, as all of the women were either long-termers or planning to be long-termers. Plus, they are amazing, strong, amazing, caring, amazing, godly women – among whom I had no place. Seriously. They are so strong in the faith and so full of trust in God and in the call He has placed on their hearts and on their lives.

Whereas I use Adobe InDesign and know how to speak English.

Prayer Request

I have many of these. But this one is extra important-er.

There is to be a women's retreat starting Friday and continuing over the weekend. I believe it is to be run by a church in the U.S.A., and I know some people in Mali have gone through a lot of trouble to make this happen, not to mention the effort put forth by the six women from California who will be physically here and running this show.

There is also national mourning for Gaddafi's death. Tomorrow, after Friday prayers at the Grand Mosque in town, there was supposed to be a funeral march to honor the former leader. We (everyone on a group mailing list used to share general info around Mali) were also warned not to publicly share any opinions about Gaddafi.

Blanketed in dust. (And crickets.)

Alright, so I know I am repeatedly putting off writing about my adventures (and there were many) dans la brousse, but I must tell you about dust and the way it coats every atom of my being. Dust to dust, I know; but I'M STILL ALIVE!


The Harmattan is a very dusty, very dry wind that... blows. (I'm allowed to say that. It's perfectly legitimate. The wind blows. It really... blows.)  The day was streaked with sepia and gray, and while I'd hoped for a good rain (yes, you read that right), 'twas not to be.


Instead, I am covered in a fine grit that feels like it's coated everything from my esophagus to my very soul. I feel like I'm on Mars. One of Dante's circles of hell had to be here. Maybe for the petty criminals. (Like those who steal more ketchup packages than they're going to need. On a related note: I'm in line for a lot of hells.)

So, um, what were we talking about again?

It’s been roughly a week since I got back from La Brousse (not to be confused with Bruce), and… I’ve pretty much forgotten everything that happened. I’m serious. If I didn’t have pictures, I’d be sure this was some sort of Inception-esque dream-within-a dream thing. So here are just a few of the events I do remember. (I think.)

Ticket Trouble

- We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a brief message from our sponsor -


Now, before there is a bit of a stressful situation involving many stories about my visa, my tickets, etc., I thought I'd better clear everything up on the blog so that single story circulates.


My visa is fine. I'm not sure how I insinuated that I had a problem with the visa, but I even had it renewed it a day after the 1 month expiry, and I still didn't have to pay them off or get booted from the country.


HOWEVER. (And you're gonna love this one, Mom. Ha ha. Ho ho. Funny story. You should start laughing now. Stop glaring at the computer screen.) My original ticket (only valid for three months) had been set for a return date of November 4th. I figured I could easily extend it if I wanted and come back in the beginning of December. Well, when I tried to do that, my travel agent told me that there weren't any flights for the beginning of December, and that I'd have to come back on November 26th or buy a new ticket.

There's a Frog in My Toilet and Other Short Stories

Where do I even begin? The trip took four and a half days; both too short and too long all at once. I’ve decided to split it into a couple of posts - hopefully retelling events in chronological order. However, even going over daily events with the erstwhile Sharon G today made me realize that I may have been unconscious and dribbling for most of it.

We were supposed to leave early Friday morning.

(Please note that I strongly believe that waking up early is an unfortunate occurrence that happens to other people.)  

Sharon G marched about (taking care of important things like food, first aid, food, bed sheets, food, pillows, food, fans, and did I mention I really hoped she’d taken enough food?), while Becky, Agent 21, and I sat around blinking bemusedly and fighting the urge to fall face-first into a bowl of food, eat as much as possible, and then go to sleep in the same position. 

Alright, maybe that was just me.

Because I love roughing it...

...like I love lizards.  


I'll be going travelling about for the next few days with a few wonderful women from my mission. 


(Well, I say they're wonderful now. I have never been in close quarters with them for days. Hopefully we come back without having had a cat fight over who snores and who looks uglier. 


Jokes! I am the ugliest - besides which, these women are mature grown-ups.)


We will be travelling to a few villages/towns in which SG (a long-term missionary) has lived. She is the only one who speaks Bambara. Agent 21, the other woman, is the newest visitor to Mali (even newer than me!), but speaks French well and has approximately 101% more travelling/mission experience than I do. She is here from Head Office in an effort to see what needs are most relevant in Mali, what sort of teams they need to send out, where they need to be placed, what ministries they should be devoting their time to... All very important things.

(I am going because I like long drives on bumpy roads. In case you're wondering.) 

I think this is hell

I'm listening to Avril Lavigne's Sk8ter Boi, the power's off, and I'm trying to finish cooking.

I retreated to my laptop because I almost grabbed the bottle of oil to drink in the pitch dark. Thank God bottles of oil and bottles of water have tops that thwart me in different, but easily distinguishable, ways.

I'm blowing on my arms to keep cool.

I'm scared to step into my bathroom.

My iTunes refuses to skip to the next song.

It's hot.

Saying I'm hungry is equivalent to saying that the Titanic has a little water damage.

Lizards are likely taking this opportunity to prance around the roof like Willy Wonka on speed.

My arms are very brown and mosquito-eaten. And fat.

I'm feeling a little sorry for myself whilst sitting and blowing on my arms and typing and noticing how fat my arms are. This is a sad night in the life of Kermit.

...okay, the power just came back on. But for how long? And dare I take a shower now? Will I be caught in the pitch dark, shampoo encroaching into my eyeballs, crickets chirping the Jaws theme music as the lizards march?

TBC...

Long time, no write!

And this is why I hate blogs. Lots of things happen, I’m learning thirty new facts… and I don’t have a photojournalist to take over all forms of media for me. This is, indeed, a tragedy.

The first, most important update is about S. She is undergoing treatment, and I haven’t heard anything new about her condition. However, she does look really tired, and it makes my heart ache to see her like this because she seemed fine when I saw her last (in August!). One of her daughters is keeping a blog: http://amandathiessen.blogspot.com/ which is all I have to go on prayer-wise. Another one of her daughters is, like, this Super Nurse and she’s taken a leave of absence from her job and is sticking around in BC to translate medical lingo and be with her parents during this difficult time. However, Super Nurse normally lives in Alberta (next province over), and is the sole breadwinner for her family of six (one of whom is her husband, who is PhD Extraordinaire, but is currently attending university). If y’all have any airmiles you’d like to donate so Super Nurse can go back and visit her kids sometime, that would most excellent. Please click on the website above and help out if you can! Thanks for your prayers and keep on keeping on.

Update on S:

First item on the agenda: Praise! 

What would you even title a post like this? How about something dramatic that hooks you in, like Death? 


What about Despair? Pain? Anguish?  


No, too harsh. Also, might send my mother into paroxysms. Which I try to avoid. (Usually.) 

Random Thoughts

Notes to Clear Up Some Loose Ends That Have Clearly Stuck in Peoples’ Minds:

• No, I didn’t actually cry after the taxi thing last time! I mean, really! What kind of a wuss do you take me for? It was stressful… but hilarious! I did appreciate y’all comforting me, though. ‘Twas nice while it lasted. 
• It’s ABIDJAN, not AZKABAN, friends; and no, I did not jump on the bus. Abidjan is a city in Cote d’Ivoire, you cretins. (Would I have taken a bus to Azkaban if given the chance? Indubitably.)  
• Yes, the lights really do take a long time to come on. Yes, I really do believe they are evil and indulge in bouts of Dr. Evil’s brand of laughter therapy. I have not yet peed my pants, Sam. (Nor my skirt, Sam.)
• Yes, my microwave really is obsessive-compulsive.
• Yes, my fridge really does… You know what? Just read that whole post again and stop asking silly questions.  
• Yes, the frog still comes back. In fact, I almost stepped on Prince Charming again tonight. No, I have not tried to kiss him. (I said NO, Tish.)
• No, there aren’t many spiders. But many, many  lizards make up for this distressing deficiency. Large lizards that skitter up walls, across floors… everywhere.  I actually haven’t seen any more in the bathroom. While the ‘Psycho’ scene probably appealed to them, I don’t exactly have Janet Leigh’s body and I think the sight of me a few times was enough to scare them off. If only I could use this same procedure on the frog without also traumatizing our guard…  
• Yes, he really did ask me for my email. Not a big deal. I have cleverly fobbed him off until I leave, at which point I do not see any harm in truly giving him my email. This way he will be less likely to assume that I have somehow, against all reason, fallen madly in love with him just because he knows of Noam Chomsky’s linguistic theories. Yes, he really does resemble Ichabod Crane. Look, people, when I make these metaphors, it is in an effort to make you understand, not just because I like the look and feel of the name Ichabod. (Although that, too, was a critical factor.)

Taxi!

I have to do another taxi post because these situations are kind of unbelievable and I have a feeling that after a few days of ‘re-Canadianization’ I’ll block it all out . It’ll come out during therapy in my forties and then I’ll have to be hypnotized, sedated, restrained…

So I have to have them blogged now.

I’ve been sick for the past couple of days with a sort of viral flu that’s been going around and today (Saturday) was the first morning I woke up without feeling like my head was buried under six feet of sand (all thanks to L and her forced administration of drugs). Order of business for the day: get to an ESL class about fifteen minutes away from home.

Being the obsessive-compulsive person that I am, I left a half-hour early. I walked close to the main road and flagged down a taxi… which already had two women in it. The smoking driver invited me in with a happy smile and a terrible need for good dentistry.

Selected musings from my household appliances and other dysfunctional objects

Fluorescent lights: Kermit is an innocent lamb. There she is, racing to the bathroom, flicking my switch, hopping anxiously from one foot to the other, waiting for me to come on, looking blindly into the darkness above, expecting a ferocious lizard to leap for her throat, waiting for the lights... Waiting... Waiting... I wonder at what point she begins to lose hope. The moment she realizes that she is no longer in Kansas and that I alone hold the reins over her full bladder. MWAHAHA-- ahem. Excuse me. Back to Sharon in the bathroom. I begin to buzz lovingly, knowing that her hopes will rise again... After three weeks, she still believes that I will turn on in any reasonable amount of time. MWAHAHAHA-- *cough* Sorry. Back to Sharon in the bathroom. I begin to flicker tantalizingly, and she hops a little faster... I reflect that if a lizard were to Carpe Diem, she would no longer need my lights... MWAHAHA--HA--VE--to--control--evil--laughter... 

My life as an agony aunt. A comparatively filthy rich one.

People like to talk to me. All sorts of people.

The guy with the dreads you see sometimes at the bus stop, but you never talk to because he reeks of weed?

The old woman who is a little lonely because her children never visit, and who she likes to keep fit by taking a walk (alone) everyday at precisely 8am?

The guy who picks his nose incessantly and who once wanted to be a pharmacist?

The… person in a floral print dress and stubble?

The woman who survived breast cancer and is helping her sister do the same?

The teenager who has all sorts of dreams about the future but can’t quite seem to make it through high school?

That’s right: I’ve talked to ‘em all. I feel they sense the jagged edges of a life dropped, broken, and clumsily glued back together.

Or I look like a quiet schmuck in jeans who spends way too much time at bus stands.

Sotrama days are here again

So Friday night was spent playing Bang and Beans. Beans is the best game invented by human kind. Find out about it – buy it – love it.

Saturday was a little bit more iffy, and I’ve decided to give you an in-depth view of my mind in an effort to explain how things went down.

8:00am – Wake up

Me: Nonono! Go back to sleep, you silly twit – it’s too early.

Bed: *sloshes comfortingly*

8:01am – Still up

Me: You cannot ride a sotrama in this condition! You will be sleepy and you will wake up in a gutter in Indonesia. Go. To. Sleep.

Bed: *sloshes threateningly*

8:02am – Up like Jack’s Beanstalk

Me: Fine, if you will not sleep, I will punish you by staying in bed. No, you may not read. No, you may not eat breakfast. Bad Kermit. Bad!

Bed: *sloshes in confusion*

8:03am – UpUpUpUpUp

Me: I dreamed that I bathed in hair remover. I think my brain is telling me that if I don’t cut my hair, it will spontaneously combust. I wonder what time it is.

Bed: *sloshes admonishingly*  

8:04am – You guessed it

Me: I think I will dye my hair pink and then shave it for breast cancer and then I will have banana bread for breakfast and I don’t know if I’m hallucinating but time is moving backwards and I don’t think this is going to be a good day.

Bed: *sloshes in commiseration*  

Lizards are taking over my world

You know that little kids' song about the day the teddy bears have a picnic?

There must be a Malian song about the night the lizards have a convention.

You know where they have a convention?

In my roof. (And other associated places over my head.)

You know what they discuss?

How to kill me.

My first view of Mali

Malibya

A monument which I cannot currently recall the name of

The 50th anniversary (of Mali's independence in 1960) monument

A monument to the people who died during the coup in 1991. I couldn't get a picture of the front so you can only the see a bit of it here, but there is a statue of a mother wailing (hands raised) over the body of her child. 

The beautiful city of Bamako. (This is after a nice, cooling rain. I have yet to get a good picture of when it becomes all sepia with dust before the storm hits.)

Steve and Becky C have a self-mutilating parrot, many speedy turtles, and a totally cool son. They also have two other cool sons, a cat, two dogs, a couple of bunnies, and myriad roosters and chickens, but we're going to have to make do with what we have.

A dead lizard that was waiting for me when I got home one night. (In case you're wondering: yes, that is its tail. Yes, it was flipping around as though demon-possessed - the tail, not the dead lizard.)

The view of a storm from my front porch. Again missed the yellowy-brown dust storm that preceded it.

Sabre, our guard dog, ran up to keep me company as I chased a frog that landed on my doorstep to escape the storm.

THERE HE ISSSSSSS! I called him Squishy and he was mine. And he was my squishy. And then he hopped out of my life.

Sabre being clearly unimpressed that I was following the frog and not petting her hideously smelly (but very sweet) head. 

A Promise

I'm about to go into one of my rants again, so all you non-believers close your eyes, hum a song and chillax for a while. (Or read it - you never know what you'll learn.)

Christianity in Mali

Last Sunday, I was part of a Bambara church service for the first time. The room was packed (as it was the final day of a women's convention), and once again I didn't understand most of it, but the gifted Sharon G translated some of it for me. The highlight was the music. The choir consisted of a large group of women, two of them on drums, who danced (!) and sang the most amazing songs about the ten bridesmaids and being the five who were ready, about Jesus' disciples leaving Him in the garden but the women following behind Him... You can't imagine this level of joy until you've seen it in action: the music is absolutely amazing. Pretty soon the whole room was filled with these bouncing African women and one very confused, rhythm-less, periodically spasming Anglican one. I also managed to butcher a Bambara version of Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus! It was very thrilling!

Week 1 (Officially) - Part 3

As I was saying in the last post, the missionary community that's built up here is a great one. There's a pretty big group of ex-pats out here, but they're really close-knit. Thus, on Saturday I was invited to a reception for a couple who'd gotten married over the summer before returning to Mali to teach at BCA. The flipside to this lovely invitation is that I had to bring finger food.

(This was tricky because to an Indian, everything is finger food...)

So I decided to make aloo tikki.

Week 1 (Officially) - continued

Tuesday was my first ESL class - a Level Four in which about twenty men and two women stared at me from lawn chairs and I wanted to crouch in the bathroom until they'd all gone away. Again, the class was taught with Becky C, so she took most of it (because it was my first time) and I took over for about a half hour at the end. Most people did contribute really, really well, and I felt a lot better about teaching the class by the end.

Highlights of the lesson: being mocked for my adopted last name (which, by the way, is actually 'Diarra,' pronounced 'Jada' – who knew?), and one man who said to me, “As my brother Obama said, 'We can, and we did!'”

Week 1 (Officially)

(Because it was unofficial until now.)

Monday morning started bright and early because I had to be at Bamako Christian Academy to supervise Grade 10 and then Grade 9 math classes from 7:30 – 9:00. This is great because it means I have to get up early and not spend half the day in bed...

Because Mali and Libya go together like peanut butter and nutella. Or not.

The most bizarre piece of news that I've heard here is of Malibya and You Know Who's (a modern day Voldemort, I suppose) reach into Mali. I'd known that northern Mali was dangerous territory, but I'd never imagined that You Know Who would have the freedom to build a government complex in Mali's capital. I'm not too sure on the specifics, and I don't want to botch news as we all know that I'm no unbiased journalist, but here's an interesting article that has provided, truthfully, about the extent of my knowledge on Malibya's claims to Mali: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/dec/29/mali-farmers

Becky C and her wonderful children explained all this to me as we painted the town red... Well, as I was driven around and gently reminded to keep my camera under wraps when we passed the police.

This little piggy went to supermarket...

...where everything was outrageously priced! I mean, really! A bottle of shampoo cost 3 500 XOF! I don't care that it's roughly the Canadian equivalent of $6 - my 'thrifty' Indian soul was offended on general principle. It was the same in India! I understand the concept of great exchange rates, it's just... the thought of paying 1000 anything for anything at a store... I know, I know: straitjacket and padded walls, stat.

Wait, take me back!

So it turns out that the three-day flight to Mali is only half the battle.

After stepping foot into the miniscule airport, there was a long lineup for customs, one separate office for 'Visa,' and another for 'Health.' I had the customs paper that I filled out on the plane, I had a visa, and I had proof of a yellow fever vaccination – so many choices, so few functioning brain cells...

It's all up in the air

I have arrived safely in Bamako and it's nighty-night time, but I had to blog it before I forgot it. I've had more adventures since arriving, but this is just something I wrote during a layover. More to come another day!


Ok, so the flight to Heathrow was bearable - everything after that is a blur. I had a six-hour wait in London, and would like to take this opportunity to inform readers that Heathrow is stuck in a time warp. I slept, I woke up, I checked the time, a minute had passed, I grew old and grey, another minute passed... Rip Van Winkle had it good. 

“I found a dead body, you know,"

is not something you want to overhear at an airport. However, the woman ahead of me in every line was absolutely frothing to share her good news. I'm not sure if it was at the Edmonton International or not, but I did hear something about a wedding... and the a dead body.

My life, in a nutshell. Or, rather, in a suitcase.

Hello? Is this thing on? ...testing – one, two...

Oh, I think it's on now.

Hopefully you're here because you want to read about the travellings of a brown girl somewhere near Timbuktu.

Really.

If, instead, you are here for recipes, or dating advice, or movie reviews... I may provide these as well, if that's what floats your boat. In short, now that you are here and reading, please do not stop. Ever.

I'm not a diary-keeper (too many secrets, not enough hiding places) or a picture-taker (too many events, usually not enough battery power, even though I charged it last night, I swear I did, %#*&# thing...). I try to remember events, and when I forget them... I don't really notice, to tell you the truth.

(On an unrelated note, I would forget my limbs if they weren't attached quite so well.)

But here I am, alive and (hopefully) well, at a grand old age, so I guess my system isn't so bad. However, after having been in India for five months at the beginning of 2010, I discovered something I disliked even more than rushing off to write my innermost thoughts out where anyone could stumble upon them...

But before the BBQ...

This is the talk I managed to stammer out to my church community while my legs did an Irish jig behind the podium: 

Don said that I should speak after the Offertory because this is my offering to God, and when he put it that way... It just about made me rethink the whole idea!

But I guess it's true. I will be going to Mali, in West Africa, for the next few months through Avant Ministries. I'll be leaving on September 4^th, and coming back in the beginning of November or December, depending on how the Lord leads. I will be teaching ESL, and doing some counselling, as far as I understand it, but I've had a few surprises from God in the past, so I think I'll just leave it in His hands.

I was actually supposed to speak in church a couple of weeks ago, when Mary Charlotte was talking about Joseph the Dreamer. I chickened out because, I've got to confess, I haven't had any dreams about going to Africa, or about anything bowing down to me – not even, like, a turnip...

Mission Letter

Dear friends and family,

One taste of mission is never enough. If I'd have known that to begin with, I'd... probably have devoted my life to it a long time ago! In the beginning of 2010, I went to India, where I learned that makeshift shrines to various gods and goddesses could be erected on every street corner, but Christian organizations face red tape-ism and need government sanction for any buildings or schools. This year, I would like to go to Bamako, Mali in West Africa to share once again in the faith that remains even in the face of poverty and hardship.

Mali is one of the poorest countries in the world and Bamako was estimated in 2006 to be the 6^th fastest-growing city in the world. With other workers of Avant Ministries, I hope to:

• Run at least one ESL class for university-level students and one English club for interested members of the community.
• Continue the design and production of a Bible story book for children with illustrations, etc. in the context of Mali
• Run health classes and counselling for women and university students
• Share God's love in a country that is around 90% Muslim, and encourage (and be encouraged by) local Christians to fight the good fight, finish the race, and keep the faith (2 Tim 4: 7)
• Reach out to women and children in the community in any way possible to share the gospel and ease burdens that arise from social status and cultural ideals

I am very excited about this opportunity that God has set before me, and I hope you understand the value and the need for this outreach. As I'm sure you know, a mission trip requires financial partners. I am looking to raise $6000 to join Bamako's community from the beginning of September to the beginning of November. If you can support me financially, I would be very grateful. If you would like to be a part of this mission by providing financial support, send a cheque to:

Avant Ministries Canada,

2121 Henderson Highway,

Winnipeg, Manitoba

R2G 1P8

Please make the cheque payable to Avant Ministries and include Mali – Sharon Philips on the Memo line. Remember that all contributions are tax deductible!

More importantly, I need constant prayer partners. This is not a small commitment I'm asking for – I need as much time in prayer as you can provide! In India, I struggled at first because I thought I could go and 'do' missions on my own steam. I know now that without fellowship in Christ and in love, I am nothing and I gain nothing. So prayers throughout the time leading up to the trip in preparation, as well as prayers for the items mentioned above, and safety during travels would be much appreciated.

When I go, I go as a part of the body of Christ – this is not a trip that I can make alone. I would like you to share in the success of this trip, so please remember me in your prayers that I may share His Word in thanksgiving and joy, to the glory of His name, with our brothers and sisters in Mali.

Until the whole world hears.

SP