Coming Home

Well, this is the final week. I have been thinking, sometimes dreading and sometimes dreaming, about this moment since before I left the States. And now the final days, final hours, are passing by. It is a very strange feeling. It has taken me 3 days to try to scribble this out and its time just to post it now and risk sounding like a crazy person.

I spent the first two weeks of July in Moundou drinking in the last moments of my Chadian life. I said a variety of goodbyes (more on that later) and caught the early bus up to N’djamena on Sunday. Now I am staying with other MCC peoples, finishing up last minute projects, and trying to process this transition.

I think every SALTer blogging about leaving their countries is probably using the word “bittersweet.” I’d use it too, but it only describes two of the flavors.

From the beginning of my term, I used the lyrics of My Shepherd Will Supply My Need to get through rough days. I hung the words on my wall and hummed them almost constantly the first week in Moundou. My Shepherd will supply my need…He leads me…in paths of truth and grace. I honestly repeated these lyrics over and over to keep myself from panicking. And then life got little easier and the words changed. It became all my works be praise and my cup with blessings overflows, and I worked really hard to keep this mentality. I tried not to think about the things I missed about home and focus on the mountain of blessings I was experiencing here.

Even up to last week, I made the decision to be intentional about being in the moment – be happy about going home, yes, but don’t throw away opportunities or experiences even if they are emotionally hard at this point. I bounced around Moundou seeing friends, playing VB, singing and playing guitar, eating avocados, and dominating at UNO. There was so much to do that I didn’t let myself get depressed about goodbyes (with a few exceptions – but I’m human). They were wonderful last weeks.

Then my last evening at home suddenly appeared, my bags were packed, and my walls were bare. I said au revoir to my closest friends even though it did not seem real and set my alarm for 4am feeling numb. And then the next morning I left before most of my Chadian home was awake.

It’s a little hard to explain how I feel now. There seems to be a constant emotional weight on my body that I sometimes forget is there. Like wearing a heavy backpack for six hours and every once in a while realizing the straps are cutting into your neck and shoulders. As long as your keep busy it doesn’t matter, but when you have a moment to just stand, weight takes its toll. But I love what is in my backpack and I am not ready to set it down quite yet, so I will take the moments of “remembering ache” for a little longer.

What makes this goodbye hard is its finality. It has been hard for me to communicate with loved ones in the US this year and I have money. For my family and friends in Chad, the people that physically, emotionally, and spiritually took care of me for an entire year, calling the States is not financially feasible. Skype is impossible and internet is slow and expensive. It takes 3 months for a letter to reach the states if it doesn’t get lost (which they do half of the time). I’ve had moments of complete panic when I realize I really might never contact some of these people again. I’ve fallen in love with this hot, rustic place and I fallen harder for the people. Goodbyes are difficult.

But let’s look at the glass half full. I have had a good year. I made it through a year in Chad, and once you have lived here for a while that becomes a big accomplishment. I learned to love the good parts and learn from, or ignore, the bad parts. I’ve built relationships that stretched my already full heart like a Glad Bag, and with those people I have built memories that will stay nestled in my heart forever. I have been pushed past my limits and surprised myself with my accomplishments. I learned humility and gratitude on a whole new level, and discovered the courage it takes to let others take care of you. I have grown on a diet of blessings and I am determined not to lose that growth after I go home.

I am going to mourn this departure for a while, because this really is my other home, and it is going to be rough, but I am also the kind of person that lives in the present and prepares for the near future. I am at the point where I can allow myself to miss home home. And I do miss it.

I miss my parents. I miss my brother and sister and people who understand my jokes. I miss English. I miss driving. I miss my wonderful friends. I miss singing really loudly in my car. I miss trash cans. I miss faucets. I miss jeans and tank tops. I miss being inconspicuous. I miss the farm. I miss electricity. I miss drinking out of a cup instead of a water bottle. I miss normal cuts of meat. I miss drinking fountains. I miss my grandparents, my supportive aunts and uncles and cousins. I miss playing piano. I miss grass. I miss unlimited texting and phone calls that work. I miss cheese. I miss sandwich meat. I miss ice cream. I miss baking. I miss the prairie – a world without brick walls or compounds. I miss harmless mosquitoes and days that don’t start with malaria medication. I miss my church. I miss being clean. I miss Freeman and the people that make it home. I miss the blonde boy who works at Jamboree. I miss being comfortable, not just physically, but on every level.

I always stood out a little in Chad. My accent, my skin color, my behavior was different, and although I became part of a family here, I wasn’t often completely at ease. Do I shake hands when I say goodbye? Do I walk them to the door, or to the gate, or to the road? Should I do the little bow thing that women do, or does that promote gender inequality? How much do I change to fit in and how much is acceptable as is? As I was always the guest, I washed my hands first, sat in the only chair while my elders sat on mats, and ate the chicken gizzard until I told my host mother that Papa Joe could have the honor. I was mentally exhausted at the end of the day just from trying not to accidentally do something culturally insensitive or embarrassing. And if I did slip up, everyone would know because I was always on display.

But now I am going back to a world where I understand my place a little bit, and I am looking forward to that comfort. Chad has changed me and will continue to shape my perceptions of pretty much everything, and I wouldn’t trade this experience. I am extremely grateful for every accomplishment and challenge, but I looking forward to a respite. A settled rest, you might say. No more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home. Moundou has found a permanent place in my heart, and I will desperately miss my students, my Chadian family, my friends, the music, the mangoes, the motos, and those Chadian laughs that always made me laugh along. I am happy (and sad) to miss those thing, but I am also happy to be going the other direction. I am coming home.

 In case you want to be reminded of the words...

My Shepherd will supply my need:
Jehovah is His Name;
In pastures fresh He makes me feed,
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wandering spirit back
When I forsake His ways,
And leads me, for His mercy’s sake,
In paths of truth and grace.

When I walk through the shades of death
Thy presence is my stay;
One word of Thy supporting breath
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows,
Thine oil anoints my head.

The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be my abode,
And all my work be praise.
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come;
No more a stranger, nor a guest,
But like a child at home.

A Church Close-up

In my defense, this was written over a week ago but the internet decided to fight me a bit. So it is even later than I intended. But my intentions were good!

Part 1

It’s been a little while since I wrote, and each day that I didn’t blog made it a little bit harder to actually sit down and document some more of my crazy life. As soon as I would finish a blog-worthy experience there was another right behind it. So I will give you my last month in a short paragraph and some pictures (scratch that - the internet said "No."), and then focus on one aspect of my life in Moundou.

April started out with a week of school and then spring break. All of the orphans went home and the school yard was abandoned. If I recall correctly, I did absolutely nothing that week and it was great. We all returned for the last short trimester, and I skipped out early to take the bus up to N’djamena before flying to Ethiopia for a week retreat with other MCCers near Addis Ababa. It was nice to get rejuvenated in the cool, green, loveliness of Ethiopia before flying home and taking the bus back to Moundou. I taught for 2 days and then took the bus to N’djamena to pick up my American visitors, Brett and Caley. We took the bus down to Moundou for a super fast week of “this is Kelsey’s life” and then hopped back on the bus to N’djamena where I sadly watched them leave. Then I took that dang bus back to Moundou for the last weeks of school. And now school is out and I have less than two months left in Chad. What a whirlwind. Obviously, there are more emotions and stories in these last two months then I have room to write, so I’ll stay in the present instead of looking back.

Part 2

I have mentioned before that things that may have seemed strange to me in the beginning of my term now don’t faze me in the least. However, last Sunday I attended a service that made me reflect on the differences and similarities of Church cultures.

My host family was visiting a small church across town that was getting a new pastor. We were seated in a place of honor at the front where everyone could get a good look at the white girl (I hate sticking out like this). After the normal service the new pastor was invited to say a few words. My host father reached over my host mother and told me that I should take a picture. I wasn’t too interested in the idea for a few reasons. First, I didn’t know this man and although I am sure he was really nice I didn’t think his photo would hold emotional value for me once I got back to the States. Secondly, and most importantly, I knew that taking a picture in a Chadian church meant standing up in front of everyone and making a scene. I already cause enough of a distraction by simply being that I did not want to add a camera and movement to the spectacle. I’ve run into this problem before so I happily handed my camera over to my father so he could take the picture. He stood up, walked to the front of the church, stepped on the stage in front of the podium and held the camera in front of the pastor’s face. Having someone close enough to thoroughly clean his glasses did not throw this pastor off at all. Without pausing, he delivered a few lines of his speech to my camera lens before my host father moved over for a side shot. At that moment I was thinking, “I could not see Jeremy Waltner doing that in our church and getting absolutely no reaction from anyone.”

This happens quite often, actually. A person will stand in front of the congregation and shoot panoramic video that captures both the speaker and (to my horror) the audience. My friends and host family have encouraged me to get close and personal while taking photos in church, but I cannot shrug off the years of church etiquette instilled in me in my Mennonite church.

A few words about my church. I go to Church number 8. I think there more than 20 Evangelical churches in Moundou, but ours might be the largest with over a 1000 people each Sunday. The service is held in French, although there is a ngumbaye choir that sings in addition to the French choir. The church building is a 5 minute moto ride from my house and a 10 minute bike ride if I want to play volleyball there some evenings. I usually arrive and sit with my host father on wooden benches that, thankfully, have a back rest. The service is usually around three hours; four hours if there is communion.

There are actually quite a few similarities between our home churches and the church I attend here. The services contain the same structures as the US. - the choir sings, scripture is read, a long message is given, then we have offering, introductions, and announcements. I was surprised to discover that many of the hymns the congregation sings are familiar, despite being in another language.

One of the biggest differences, that I was expecting a little bit, was the energy once the music starts. In the states, I feel that often (with some exceptions!) the younger generations tend to be more exuberant in their worship. Here, the older women of the church are the literal movers and shakers. Women in their sixties come dancing up the isles in their matching Chadian outfits to give their offering, then catch the eye of a friend in the choir and hop up onto the stage to bust a move that reminds me of “pop and lock it.” The traditional Chadian dance is a shoulder twitch that reminds me of a chicken, but is actually really difficult to pull off. The dance is usually accompanied by a little shrill whistle/scream that I also cannot master. By the time offering is over everyone is laughing and sweaty.

I believe each church has its strength and weaknesses. Some of the traits of Church 8 that I haven’t appreciated are cultural, organizational, or have been the result of sheer numbers. I have struggled with gender roles and racial stereotypes that sometimes pop up in a sermon. The power of the pastors makes me uncomfortable, and the ever-present threat of corruption in the church. There is too much money and influence that goes hand in hand with being higher up in the church, and matters get complicated quickly. From the little that I have seen (and I am no expert), this is a problem in many churches here.

Often, I miss the simplicity and quiet strength of my church at home. I miss the comfort of English, four-part harmony, and knowing the names of the people next to me. I can leave my purse on bench and know that the only person who will touch it is a toddler looking for gum. There is an expectation of honesty and straightforwardness. I find this to be a strength of my church that I had not realized of before.

For its faults, I have discovered countless aspects of Church 8 that I have admired and benefited from. The strength that stands out most to me in the Chadian churches is uninhibited, unashamed, pure joy. When these people are happy, they do not hide it. And church makes them happy. My congregation delights in the joy of others in praising God. They will clap, dance, laugh, whistle, and encourage each other. Even better, this joy is not contained to church. My host family is a living example of joyful faith. I have woken up in the middle of the night and heard my host mother or sister singing a hymn just because they felt like praising God. Every good thing is attributed to the goodness of God, from rain to arriving at a destination safely. Yesterday I was putting together a puzzle with a 15 year old boy at Altonodji when he heard me humming a French hymn. He laughed and charged straight into the song with complete abandon and we finished it together with big smiles.

Worship styles are different for everyone, and I don’t believe that one is better than the other. I don’t raise my hands in church because that isn’t how I praise, but the underlying joy that is the foundation of the Chadian service is something I want to take away from this year. So maybe I will keep this close up picture on my camera to remind me less of a stranger and more of the importance of being uninhibited.

Mango Heat

I am at the point in my service term where life is normal. My first months in Chad were filled with strange sights, smells, and tastes. Now, sharing the road with goats and pigs is normal, the B.O. of 1000 people crammed in church doesn’t faze me, and I actually enjoyed my boule with slimy okra sauce today (shocking, I know). I know my students’ names and where to buy credit for my telephone. I get my mango smoothie at Sumara and my Arabic shampoo at Azala. I know it should cost me 250 cfa to get to Rebecca’s house, although the clando driver will try to make me pay 300 cfa. While I am still learning loads every day, I no longer feel like I’m floundering in Chadian culture.

I haven’t written home in a while because nothing seems incredibly exciting – no one has tried to steal anything from Mama Routour recently (a smart choice). However, there are two things that have been constantly on my mind since mid-March. Heat and mangoes.

Let’s start with heat. It is hot. Really hot. I know my father is laughing at my situation because I constantly complain about the cold South Dakotan weather, but this heat is something else entirely. Ever constant, temperatures are around 110 degrees in Moundou and worse in N’djamena. Some of you may be thinking, “Why Kelsey, that isn’t so bad. Sounds like Kansas.” Yes, I have experienced Kansas heat and it is also bad, but here is the difference…

I cannot escape this heat. I can’t hop into my Honda fit and turn on the AC, or enter a grocery store for relief. As I have mentioned every time I blog (sorry), there usually isn’t electricity. I can’t go inside to cool down. In fact, going inside is sometimes worse. Everything here is made of brick which heats up during the day and retains that temperature for long after the sun sets. This has made sleeping a nightmare (haha, nightmare. Get it?) My body has become accustomed to sweating like a disgusting pig during the day, but sleep is impossible for everyone when it is 100 degrees in your room. I’ve taken to sleeping with damp clothes or a soaking towel, which feels like putting on a wet swimsuit, but keeps my skin from melting off my body into my sheets. The other heat prison is the classroom. It is hard to look like a professional with sweat running down your face. “You do hot, Miss Kels?” Yes, I do hot.

Thankfully, I am not the only one who feels like this. For some reason I came to Africa believing that the Chadians wouldn’t feel heat like I do. They do feel it and sympathize. Most Chadians sleep outside at night, although I’ve had enough malaria to fear the outdoors after dark, and it is normal to take a bucket shower a few times a day. And there is a wonderful invention called a hand fan that one can utilize when death by heat seems imminent. My host mother gave me a fan the size of a small baking pan and every color of the rainbow. It has probably saved my life. I have a new appreciation for sweat after God sends a breeze or I enthusiastically use my hand fan. Sweat really cools down your body when there is any kind of air movement. Ingenious.

As I have been overly dramatic about the Chadian climate, I have to praise an aspect of Moundou that has been as present as the heat. Mangoes. Thousands of them. Millions. I’m in a hot heaven of succulent fruit.

Before I got to Africa, I was told that Moundou was the mango capitol of the world. I thought the title was just a way to get a SALTer into the blistering heat of Chad, but there is truth to it. Mango trees grow tall and thick for miles around Moundou. They offer cool shade and produce mountains of fruit that dangle from long stems like tinsel on a Christmas tree. I hadn’t really thought about how a mango grew until I saw the three mango trees in our yard start to produce little lima bean-shaped buds at the end of a long strings. How neat!

Mangoes are everywhere. It is rare to see a child walk by without a mango pit in their little hands. The kids were eating green mangoes in January already, but now when the petites enfants come to shake my hand at school, I leave with ripe, mango stickiness on my palms. Mango pits litter the ground around school and on the streets of Moundou. Women carry basins piled full of mangoes on their heads and children sell artistically stacked mounds of fruit on little tables next to the roads. My host father disappeared one day to go to the “field” and came back with a cart brimming with mangoes. That night I sat on the side of the road with my host mother and sister, surrounded by mangoes for sale – 3 for 20 US cents. There wasn’t electricity that evening so we had an oil lamp to illuminate our produce, as did the family selling mangoes 20 feet to our left. And there was another mango table and lamp across the street from them. And another a little father on. It felt a little bit like Christmas - a string of warm lights trailing down the road. Orion’s belt was clear in the stars, there was a slight breeze, and I had mango juice trickling down my arms. I felt contentedly at home.

This morning I accompanied my host father to his mango grove. I climbed a mango tree, selected my fruit, and ate it. That sounds simple but it was on my Chadian Bucket list so I was giddy about it for a while. And as we picked and sorted baskets of mangoes, we sweated away. There is always something to complain about (and I really do complain about the heat), but there is always something to be thankful for as well. I may sound like a broken record, but this experience has taught me something about little blessings. They are numerous and unceasing.

My cup overflows…with mangoes.

Artistically shot photo by my fellow teacher, Emile. The baby to my left is Samuel. He also enjoys mangoes.

Altonodji

I haven’t written too much about my actual job here in Chad, and it is time I remedy that. So, how is life at Village Altonodji?

To put it plainly, I have a newfound respect for teachers. I can hear my English-teacher-mother guffaw at that but it is too true to hide. I would like to publically apologize to every teacher for talking during their classes, zoning out in a lecture, or shooting paper balls across the overhead projector to see shadows whiz by on the screen. I did not understand how frustrating it is to speak and not be listened to. Granted, I am teaching a class that literally cannot understand the words coming out of my mouth 80 percent of the time, but still…pretend!

Teaching can be hard for reasons in and out of my control. When my class seems to be headed in a downward spiral I can usually blame the approaching chaos to these things:

1.      Lack of resources – There are no tangible objects such as visual aids to capture the attention of young minds. I have complained about this before so I won’t rant for too long, but without posters, pictures, video clips, powerpoint presentations, or even a simple textbook, it is very hard to keep 11 to 16-year-old children occupied for a full two hours. I made photocopies of a text about a woman cooking lunch that had pictures of the cooking progression. I had to literally rip the copies out of my students’ hands to get them back because they all wanted to keep them. They could color in the woman with their blue pens and draw pictures on the blank back side. The excitement over a piece of paper made me sad.

2.      Lack of experience – This is where I blame myself a little bit. I have had absolutely zero educational training and it sometimes is painfully obvious. The first month of school was pretty rough for me because I had no idea what I was doing. Since then I have learned boatloads about how to prepare for a class and how to control 50+ children, although there is still a long way to go. I have walked out of a classroom and realized fifteen minutes later that the grammar I wrote on the chalkboard was faulty. It is one thing to speak English, but another thing entirely to try to teach it. It’s a working progress.

3.      Outside forces – This is where I blame everything but myself. When there are three kids sharing a desk and a pen (because the second one stepped on his blue pen and the third child left his at home) it is hard to focus. It is even more difficult to learn when there are 20 children standing outside the open windows, chatting and making faces. Then it is lunch time and everyone is hungry, thirsty, and sweating from being trapped in 90 degree heat. By 1:00 pm on Saturday, no one is more ready to escape that classroom than the white teacher.

4.      Culture/education systems – Children in Africa learn by memorization instead of critical thinking. Every new idea takes a long time to sink in, and review is vital. What should take one class period will take weeks. The Chadian school system believes that homework should only be assigned twice a semester (!) and their grading system depends on it. Couple this with only a two classes a week and you can see why the retention level is so low.

     In addition, cultural differences play their own part. Chadian time means that sometimes classes start late and end early. Some students come late and some are absent for a week at a time. I have also noticed that Chadians never whisper. Even in church, there is a low rumble in the back of the building as one person comments to another. This drives me crazy! I have certain voices memorized in my classes by now so I don’t even need to turn around in order to scold someone for talking.

5.      Adolescents – Let’s face it, I am teaching teenagers and that is not an easy job. In the classroom more than anywhere else I have discovered that humans are the same no matter what continent they call home. Some of my students want to learn, listen attentively, and work hard. Then some other students don’t want to learn, don’t listen, and spend the class period taking apart their pens. Emotions are up and down – they laugh, they cry, they get angry for no apparent reason. Insecurity is rampant. Farts are just as funny to Chadian boys as they are to American boys (and some American teachers (although I held back my immature smile as everyone else held their noses)). And even in Africa, boys show that they like girls by stealing their school supplies, and girls show that they like boys by tattling about it. I have to fight through the haze of hormones in order to teach the present progressive tense. It is a wonder high schoolers ever learn anything at all.

I started reading by myself...

     I bet some of you are thinking, “That sounds absolutely miserable,” and some days it can be. As I said, some of these problems are out of my control, some are personal, and some come with teaching in this part of Africa. I have days, like any other teacher (I hope), where I come home feeling like I failed completely as an educator. Lesson plans go awry, time runs out, and two of the boys in the back row have their heads on their desks because they are fighting malaria. These are the days when I silently apologize to MCC, and ask God what exactly I am doing in the middle of Africa.

     Then I have golden days that outshine all the dim ones. Everyone at Altonodji knows me as Miss Kelsey (or the easier “Miss”) and they are all eager to shake my hand in the mornings. Sometimes they will bypass all the other teachers to get to me. Everyone, including my fellow teachers, wants to greet me in English (“Good morning Kes-lee. How?”) Often the clamor that overwhelms me when I enter the classroom is everyone simultaneously trying out their latest English phrase, which frustrates me and makes me proud at the same time. Students are always curious about my life and love it when I try to speak in French or Ngumbaye. Everyone is always eager to assist me, whether it is washing the chalk off my hands, carrying my backpack to class, or helping me spit out a french sentence. I have felt incredibly loved and cared for at Altonodji.

You have already seen a picture from this class, but here is another one!

    The best part is the laughter. It is extremely easy to make my students (all students, really) laugh, and there is not a more beautiful sound. Some are high and giggly, some are low and loud, some crack with voice changes and some hit multiple octaves, but they all come from the soul and make me smile no matter how disobedient someone is being. I wish I could capture all the smiles and laughs in a jar and carry them home with me, because I know I will miss them an incredible amount.

     I feel lucky to be here. I think this is a special place that has so much potential. I think the students here have potential, and I am positive some will go on to do great things. What an opportunity to be part of their growing experience! Each day that goes by is one less that I have to share with them and that thought is a depressing one. So, I am determined to turn my lemons into lemonade on the sour days, and savor all those sweet hours where everything falls into place.

Blessings to all of you back at home. I am ever grateful for you prayers, words of encouragement, and simple interest in my life in Chad.