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.