The Thanksgiving Post

Is it really November? Did Thanksgiving, possibly my favorite holiday, really occur yesterday? You would never know it in Chad. It is hot, sunny, and devoid of the plethora of decorations that litter US streets by now. Nevertheless, I celebrated Thanksgiving this year, even if it was without my family, autumn colors, or apple pie. It is not difficult to find things to be thankful for, and I made a short list to share with you all.

Kelsey’s Thankful List

Children

      I love kids. The most uplifting moments of my SALT experience have involved a child. Teaching here is tough, but I’m pretty sure my students enjoy me as much as I enjoy them. My favorite part of the day is in-between classes when my students can find me and spit out a few English phrases. The other day I found myself surrounded by about 20 or 30 children under the age of 9 (younger than my students) who all wanted to shake my hand and know my name. We giggled at each other for a good 5 minutes before I headed off to a friend’s office. I was followed by a gaggle of children – a white duck with 10 little, black, delighted, ducklings.

I also have a fan club of children in my neighborhood. As soon as one spies me coming home they all gather together and chant “Nasara! Nasara! Nasara!” – white girl. I get to shake everyone’s hand before I close the gate to my yard. Then they peek through the crack in the door and laugh and laugh. What a blessing!

Electricity

      Every hour that we have power is a good hour. Besides being able to use my computer and charge my little phone, it also runs the ceiling fan in my room and the light in my bathroom. I dislike using the bathroom in the dark (who doesn’t?) and my room gets pretty hot by the end of the day. In addition, our family has a mini-fridge where we store filtered water. If the current is strong enough and we have had enough hours of power, we can fight the heat with a cool drink. It is amazing how much the temperature of water matters when you spend your entire day sweating buckets.

Mosquito nets

      I have grown to cherish my mosquito net. I got malaria a few weeks ago and it was not fun. Anyone can get bit just walking outside, but there is comfort in knowing that once I crawl into my bed at night I don’t need to worry about the little devils hovering next to my ear. Another perk of having a mosquito net is the protective barrier it forms against other critters that wander around my room at night. Moths, cockroaches, and spiders stay out of my bed (other than that one exception that I’m ready to talk about). My net also protects me from the little geckos that like to scurry over my walls. They are actually very cute when they are little, but I’ve learned that they grow up and try to live in my closets. After finding three in my *ahem* undergarments, I finally cracked and brought in outside help. There was a lizard massacre as my host father and brother, armed with cockroach spray and a squeegee, rid my room of geckos. The tails really do fall of and wiggle around on their own. I digress – I am thankful for my protective mosquito net.

Music

      This one does not need a whole lot of explanation. The Chadians love their music. You can tell by the way they throw their bodies and voices into a song. The church dances with the choir, singing words they memorized as children. This is no Swiss Choral singing. It is music almost shouted than sung with no thought to blending or pitch, but it somehow manages to give me goose bumps every time. I am slowly learning some of my host family’s favorite songs because we gather to pray and sing every night at 9 o’clock sharp. By now I’ve got some of the melodies down, but the French words give me some problems. It is a great way to learn a language, and everyone is delighted when they catch me humming a familiar tune during the day.

People

      A huge topic, I know, but when it comes down to it, this is what is most important, right? I miss my family and my friends and my community. Even sitting in the middle of Africa, I am incredibly thankful for the people at home who have shaped me into a person strong enough to take on this experience. It is incredibly hard to be this far away, with inconsistent communication, from the people I love. But I am thankful for every letter, every email, every rare and poorly connected phone call, every package (!), and every prayer that I know is being said. And I am thankful that all the things I miss about home will be there when I get home.

      Lastly, I am thankful for the people God has placed here with me. My host family could not be more hospitable and gracious. I have learned an incredibly amount from them in the short time I’ve been here, and I am already dreading saying goodbye at the end of the year. My fellow MCCers have also been a Godsend. I think all the SALTers in Chad can agree that Angela and Jon Austin are amazing and supportive Reps. The teachers at CENTRUM and Altonodji are quickly becoming my” in” into Chadian life and I treasure every cup of tea with them. And then there are the people whose names I don’t know, who cannot even pronounce my name, that greet me every time they see me at church or wave from a passing moto.

     

My cup, with blessings, overflows.

So Happy Thanksgiving! Eat an extra slice of leftover pie for me and know that I am thanking God for all of you.

Puppies at Altonodji!

The Bug that Bit Me

I had an interesting and educational experience at the hospital this last week. Forgive me if this is long and detailed, but this is one of those moments I want to remember for a while.

You know the phrase, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite?” Well, technically it wasn’t a bed bug, but it definitely bit me. On the arm, to be specific.

I don’t have any proof that the little culprit attacked at night, but last Monday morning I noticed the crease in my arm looked a little red. By that afternoon there was a bright red crescent on the inside of my arm. It looked like I had been neatly bit by a Chadian vampire. I smeared some aloe vera on it and figured it would go away.

The next day it was worse. It looked a little bumpy and it burned. My host parents took a look and decided right away it was an insect bite. They picked some aloe vera and applied it to my now nasty-looking arm. It didn’t help. Although I was in pretty good spirits, I couldn’t use my right arm. The little bugger picked the right spot to keep me from bending and extending my arm comfortably. So I ate, hauled water, and brushed my teeth with my left hand (anyone who thinks that is easy should try brushing their teeth with their other arm. not as effective).

Wednesday morning my arm began to bubble. It was doctor time. Sem (our go-to guy and my new best friend) took me to a clinic near his house. By now I was pretty self conscious about how gross my arm looked. Most Chadians looked at it and made that noise that seems to indicate that situations that aren’t good (“iiiiee” – phonetically). I followed Sem onto the tidy hospital grounds and to a tiny house area that turned out to be the office/pharmacy. They filled out a little paper book with my name and age and, after eyeing up my little wound,  sent me to the next building (no paperwork necessary).

This next building had cement benches around the door that seated about 30 people; an outdoor waiting room. I was the hot thing to watch as a nurse weighed me and stuck a thermometer in my armpit. Then she pointed me into the hospital, gesturing that I should remove my shoes before I entered the curtained doorway. The room I walked into housed 4 beds separated by curtains, and one of those blood pressure machines. I got my blood pressure checked, then sat on the edge of a hospital bed and tried not to touch anything or get freaked out. The place was very clean and neat considering where it was located, but it was also very basic and smelled like…a hospital.

A blessing walked around the corner when a blonde girl, a little older than me, appeared to ask me some questions in beautiful English. She and another girl, both Danish, were spending a month in Moundou working at the hospital. Like most others, she didn’t know what exactly was happening on my arm. Unfortunately, the American doctor who ran the clinic was in N’djamena so I met with another Chadian doctor. He was young with a round face and slightly spastic manner. I must have made him a little bit nervous because he giggled a lot (or maybe that was his personality). He introduced himself (giggle) and then took my hand and physically led me to a curtained doorway (giggle). Then changed his mind (giggle) and yanked me the other direction. Now, I am not a huge fan of strangers touching me especially in a foreign hospital, but the big problem was that he happened to be pulling on my tender arm. I hate to admit that I made some quick and unfair judgments right then about this man’s credentials.

The young doctor must have decided that his office was the best place to go because I was led into a small room with a desk. Thankfully, Tine, one of the Danish girls, followed along with a Chadian woman who I think was a trainee. Tine told him that I might have been bitten by an insect and he agreed without really looking at my arm. He decided I was having an allergic reaction to a bug bite and prescribed some pills (similar to benodryl I think) and an ointment. By the time I left the trainee was asleep in the chair next to me and I was not feeling particularly confident that I would recover quickly.

Sem and I ended up searching Moundou’s pharmacies (all which were run by Muslims, interestingly) and only finding the pills. Sem sent for the cream in N’djamena, although I never got it. The pills made me drowsy and that was about it. The next day the little bubbles on my arm were turning colors, although it didn’t hurt quite as bad. This meant another trip to the doctor on Friday!

I actually felt better on Friday, but we made the trip anyway on the rumor that the American doctor would be in. I went through the whole process again and ended up seated, again, on a hospital bed trying not to watch a sick woman get an IV. One of the Danish girls walked by and said, “You’re back! Is it worse? Oh, yes it is.” The American doctor, and young man in his 30s named James, was there but was pretty busy (saving lives by the sounds coming from down the hall ) so guess who I got to spend some more time with?? Dr. Giggles!!

This time he really did inspect my arm, which was a little scary because he was pretty rough and kept getting really close to it while pointing things out. We actually played tug of war with my arm for a while until he giggled and noted that I was scared. No kidding! He decided I should start taking antibiotics and put the prescription in my little book. I decided to be proactive by now and asked if they could at least clean it and wrap it up. He thought this was a good idea and handed me over to Tine. After going to the little pharmacy to buy the gauze Tine needed, I ended up in a little examining room. Again, the place was clean but so stark. Tine cleaned my arm with a mixture of chlorine and water (which she says actually works) and right before she smeared zinc on it the American doctor peeked in.

He glanced at my arm and said that it was definitely going to be ok with just some cleaning. Before he could disappear I asked if he knew what bug bit me. He said nonchalantly, “Oh yeah, in Chad there’s these bugs that drip acid. It’s a good thing it wasn’t in your eyes.” The said antibiotics weren’t necessary and disappeared. I got wrapped up and sent on my merry way, feeling much better about my health and a little worse about Chadian insects.

In all honesty, I never really felt too bad during this experience. I had faith it would work out and felt lucky that it was only a patch of nasty on my arm. The hospital I visited was a good one, especially compared to the others in Moundou where even mending a break does not often go well. I paid under 20 US  for everything, but I also saw how far behind Chadian healthcare really is. It is incredibly sad. The American and European doctors that decide to give their lives to third-world medicine are selfless and brave.

I guess I need to rescind my previous statement saying that I was bit by a bug. I should say that I was dripped on by a bug. Hopefully now he can keep to himself.

Seriously, my parents were worried that this acidic drip would mar my experience, but I haven’t felt that way at all. I have had wonderful people take care of me (I gorged myself on fried plantains made by Sem’s amazing wife) and have had the opportunity to see what medical treatment might be like if I was not an American. I feel fortunate to have witnessed this, although it was from a distance. Again, this was another week where I discovered what a blessed life I lead. May everyone reading this be happy, and healthy, and aware of your blessings.

and don’t let the bug bugs bite…

The Thief in the Marketplace

In my opinion, in order to really get a feel for the culture of a place, one needs to visit the local market. In the United States our grocery stores are filled with neat lines of packaged food with soft music playing in the background. The shopping experience is a little different in Chad.

There are numerous markets littered across Moundou, but the one my family visits is about a 5 minute moto ride away. Every afternoon, an unorganized mass of people (mostly women) gathers in an open square (or triangle) with their mats, produce, and bargaining skills. The fish vendors tend to stay to one side, with the vegetables, spices, charcoal, and fruit to the other. Little paths in the dirt, and sometimes mud, remain for the buyers to navigate with their plastic bags and pocket change. Some sellers have a large mat fully covered with their particular goods, but others only have a plate with a few items on it; most likely picked from their own trees or gardens. Women sit on their mats and children walk around with platters. Traffic zooms by on either side, adding moto horns to the noise of bargaining, laughing, shouting, and the constant booming of music vendors who crank their poor sound systems in the direction of the market.

I have visited the market a few times with my host mother, and I definitely stood out. The first time I had the opportunity to watch the process was about three weeks ago. I tried to keep my feet out of puddles and my elbows out of other women’s bags, while platters of whole fish stared at me with glazed eyes. Every few seconds the fish ladies would throw some water on them to lift the screen of flies that crawled over everything. In unison, the flies would scatter, only to return again. I was thinking about the sanitation of gutting the fish next to these platters when I noticed that there were at least 4 children with platters following me. I don’t think they actually expected me to buy something, but I was something new to watch. So now I walk through the market like a mother duck with a little following.

Anyway, the last time I visited the market with my host mother I got to experience another aspect of the market place. I was standing behind my mother as a vendor gutted, without looking, the pile fish my mother had just purchased. As they dropped the fish straight into our plastic bag, a very scary looking man bumped into my mother. She responded with the typical Chadian, “Ai!” and clutched her purse. They exchanged a few tense words and he slipped away. It took my mother maybe 15 seconds to figure out that he had actually opened a zipper in her purse and snitched her phone. She got angry really quickly, as did the other fish ladies, and pushed our grocery bag into my arms. Then she took off into the throng of people, leaving me standing in the middle of the market with a large bag of fish.

This was a very surreal moment for me. There were enough people in the market that I couldn’t really see where she was going, other than a random glimpse of her purple headscarf that bounced through the crowd. It helped that half of the market place saw a fairly plump woman running through the square, so they jumped up to follow and watch the action. I didn’t know if I should follow, or if I should stay there so my mother could find me after she…whatever she was planning on doing. For a second I floated outside of my body and saw myself; a young, white girl with no French or Ngambi knowledge, holding a bag of fish that was slowly dripping onto her shoe. I was in Africa. How the heck did I get here? This feeling wasn’t fear, but more wonder than anything else. I couldn’t help laughing at the situation.

In a few minutes my mother returned, panting and sweating up a storm. She relayed the story to the questioning ladies across the market (all who shook their heads at that bad man) as we finished up our shopping. She told me that she had actually found the thief in a car on the other side of the square. No one else had stopped him because they were scared of him. I guess he is known as a pretty dangerous criminal in the area (I would like to reiterate how scary this guy looked – yikes). However, my mother must have had a pretty stern talking to him because before we left, to my surprise, she whipped out her phone. Then she did one of her wonderful laughs and said, “God was with us today!”

There are so many things I loved about this experience. I loved watching that woman book it across the market place in her Sunday clothes. I loved the group of women that gathered around her to offer their two cents about thieves. I loved watching a grown man (very scary man) be brought to justice by a woman: gender equality in Africa is not really up to my standards. And I loved that my host mother credited this moment to God. The faith of my family, and the church community in general, is incredible. Even from a thief in the market place.

One Month Down!

I am alive! I am doing good! I’ve heard that some people have been worried about the space between my blogs and that concern warms my heart. I am constantly surprised that people are interested in my African life.

So why haven’t I written? There are a variety of reasons.

1.      My fellow SALTer, Alex, bought a wireless internet thingy that he lets me use when I want to send emails. I mooch the internet 2 to 3 times a week for about half an hour to an hour. The internet here is incredibly slow so I don’t usually get much done. I copy all the emails and messages I receive and paste them onto Microsoft Words to read when I have time. Then I write my replies in a word document and wait until the next time I have internet to finally send them. It is a process.

2.      I need power to run my computer, and in this country power is spotty. This is the first day my house has had power in three days so my computer died a while ago. It doesn’t do me much good if the internet stops by and my computer is dead. Do you see my problem?

3.      When something worth writing about happens to occur, my computer is usually dead. By now, there are so many things I could blog about that writing is a daunting task that I admit I have avoided. sorry mom…

Today, September 22^nd, is my one month anniversary in Africa. It has been over a month since I slept in my bed, hugged my family, ate ice cream, or drove a car. It isn’t until I pause that I realize I miss all of those things. However, in this month I have produced a full French sentence, climbed a guava tree to get a snack, held an African baby, and witnessed an unhappy moto taxi driver attempt to transport three full-grown, bleating goats in his lap. (And just now I successfully reattached the ‘k’ onto my computer keyboard after snapping it off in a moment of frustration. Miss Independent!) Would I trade these experiences for a big bowl of Cherryberry frozen yogurt? Vanilla? With some raspberries? After a short moment of internal struggle I think, “Of course not!”

I have 3-4 French classes every week with a tutor named Jonathan. He only knows basic English so we draw and act out a good deal of our vocabulary (ever seen a chalk drawing of a chicken laying an egg?) Learning another language is difficult, and for as many times as I do a mental victory dance for correctly conjugating a verb, I also want to put my head on the desk and sob. Honestly, not knowing French makes absolutely everything significantly more difficult, and the moments that I have really struggled this month have stemmed from the language barrier.

I found out this last Monday evening that I had missed the first day of school at Altonodji Village and I was expected to start teaching on Thursday. What an awful feeling. No one had thought to tell me exactly when school started. I did not have materials or lessons. I had no idea where my students were at in their English education. I didn’t even know how old they were. No one sat me down and went through how an English class should run. After I completely panicked, a kind fellow teacher told me to introduce myself and test out the students’ English by running through verbs, ABCs, numbers and such. The program I was supposed to follow had never made it to me, and they would get it to me the next week. So I had 6 hours of class time to fill with…something.

My first class on Thursday began at 7:30, which was a problem because the driver who was supposed to pick me up at 7 actually came at 8:15. So I was an hour late for my first class ever. I didn’t know where my classroom was when we finally arrived, so a smiling administrator who didn’t speak a lick of English walked with me into a simple concrete room filled with forty-three 11-14 year-olds squeezed into little benches. Then he said something about “this is your teacher” and “no French,” and then gave me a smile and left. After that the room erupted with basic English phrases shouted my direction. I managed to get through the remaining hour alive and kind of smiling.

The next day I made it to my class on time, so I had two hours to fill. These students were 13-16 years old, and there were only 26 of them (what a relief). I pretty much did the same thing I had the day before, which filled up one hour. A nauseous feeling came over me when I realized I had nothing left to do and 60 more minutes to stand in front of students who did not understand 90 percent of what I said. Thank goodness for my years of Spanish in high school and college (a shout-out to Cindy Graber). We did mini dialogues in front of the class, and they seemed to like that.

The last two paragraphs actually sound a little amusing, but let me tell you, there is not a whole lot of laughing on my part at the moment. Teachers in America, hold your lesson books close. Care for your text books, dry erase markers, posters and bulletin boards. Rejoice that you have the internet, libraries, visual aids, and some sort of educational training. Cherish your post-its and that little cup of pencils and pens that sits on the edge of your desk. These things are precious. Even more important is that your students understand simple words like, “no talking.” I have none of these things and I honestly do not know how I am supposed to teach these kids. As an academic overachiever, this is really difficult for me. I refuse to fail at educating these children, and I will stress about it until I do a good job. If you want to say a few prayers for me, I will take them.

After those complaints, I should tell you that I am pretty sure my students like me. We had a few laughs together and I found my name written all over the chalkboard after the break (Kelsey is a new name for everyone). These kids are excited to have the white teacher even if she seems a little incompetent. Yesterday while I was teaching my class of 40-something, I realized I had about 30 more children peeking through the windows and door. So I guess I was teaching 70-something students. J

I would like to write more about home, church, friends, my family and my most embarrassing moments, but this is already fairly long. I will try to blog more often for those of you that enjoy reading blogs.

One final note – I know that you are on the edge of your seat concerning my cockroach infestation. I will put your mind at ease – there have only been two more sightings and I took care of them with fierceness that is rarely seen in a Mennonite girl. My room (and home in general) is a safe haven where I am now completely comfortable. The little bugs and spiders (and one teeeeny-tiny lizard) that wander my walls just add to the feel of my African home. I am still adjusting, but my heart is starting to soften for this place. There are moments of complete beauty and I feel so blessed to witness them.

Again, thank you to those who write and pray. I am thinking of you all also.

Culture Shock - Part Two

 

Hello Home!

This week has been one of yet more changes. Again, I feel like I have a year’s worth of experiences to cram into a short blog.

Early Monday morning, Alex and I boarded a bus in N’Djamena to travel to our home city of Moundou.  It was sad to see Angela go and realize that other than a very short old French woman, we were the only white people on the bus. This meant I was the only person in the vehicle to be French-ignorant. I should really get used to the feeling…

The drive is meant to be about 7 hours. Thankfully, the bus was air-conditioned and the roads were pretty good. We were stopped about 40 minutes into our drive and all the men were told to get off the bus. They were searched for weapons (yikes) and allowed back on. I was in a perfect position to watch Alex get interrogated about his missing passport, which was in N’Djamena paving the way for our extended visas. After showing a letter of explanation, giving a lot of gestures, and getting help from the crowd of African men who had gotten back off the bus to witness the action, Alex was let go. I regret now that I hadn’t taken a picture. We stopped in two cities along the road for some breaks, and once so people could relieve themselves four feet from my window. (There is no shame, and a part of me admires that. Another part is scarred.)

We were met at the bus station by Sem Beasnael, who is not only our caretaker here, but also a fascinating person I hope to write about at some point. The short story - Sem and his wife lived in Texas for many years before returning to do God’s work in Chad. Eunice, his wife, had prepared a plethora of food (fries for the Americans – bless her), and a handful of people we would interact with were gathered. I got a big hug from my host mother, Bernadette, and a soft handshake from Pastor Joseph, my host father. Bernadette is a round-faced, beautiful woman with basic English skills. I was shocked when she hopped on a motorcycle to head home at the end of the night.

I feel like I need to tell you about my first night, because I don’t think I will forget it for the rest of my life.

The Pastor’s family has a small dirt yard with a mango tree (!), a guava tree, some papaya trees, and other foliage. The earth here is sandy and very red, so the contrast with the green is very pretty. I have a little apartment to myself – a bedroom and bathroom with an American toilet. There is a TV in the corner that doesn’t work, and a mini fridge that the whole family uses when they need it. Overall, a pretty nice set up.

I was feeling the second wave of culture shock set in as my host mother helped me put up a musty smelling mosquito net. The electricity had already gone out and come back on and I was realizing how different this room was from my cozy one at home. Then a cockroach crawling across the wall caught my attention. Now, I am pretty good about sucking it up and dealing with being a little uncomfortable, but after my emotional day of changes I had to speak up.  I think I said, “uuuuhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHH!” Mama Bernadette got the message, grabbed my shoe, and wacked the crap out of that cockroach. Turns out the bathroom was covered in them, so she locked herself in there with a spray can and came out smelling like serious chemicals. Then she gave me the can, asked me how to say cockroach in English, and wished me goodnight. That may have been the longest night of my life. I could hear little critters crawling on the walls, my bed and net smelled funny, and there was a bed spring digging into my spine. The next day I swept out my bathroom with a traditional African broom (a bunch of grass). I counted 15 cockroaches. They hadn’t stood a chance.

Like that first night, the last few days have been a rollercoaster. I have had some pretty low lows. I never thought culture shock would affect me like this, but part of this experience is learning how to deal with drastic changes. What a great time to lean on your faith!

Moundou has not had electricity for over half of the time I have been here. Internet is not really an option unless I really go searching for it, which I haven’t. I been served a whole fish (eyes and everything) twice already, and ate the whole thing (including some bones which worry me a little). The boule, or ugali like substance, is not my favorite, but I am managing. Little kids laugh at me when I drive by, and adults stare. What do I use when my sink has no water?  A bucket, dear Liza! A bucket filled from the shower and then used to bucket flush my toilet. Buckets are great. I have three in my room right now that catch the water dripping in from the torrent of rain outside.

I can see myself reading this from the US and thinking, “What a great adventure!” but from this side it has been pretty stressful. However, right when I think I can’t handle it, God gives me blessing. Every day that I have been overwhelmed something has happened that cheered me up. Many of these moments have been rough English-French-Charades conversations with my host family. My favorite moment was coming out of my room to find two naked children covered in soap suds, giggling shyly at the white girl. I had walked in on bath time in the yard.

I could keep going but it is getting late and I have my second French lesson tomorrow. There may be a chance of getting access to the internet tomorrow so I figured I should be prepared. A huge thank you to those of you who have sent me messages in some form. I haven’t replied because of internet connection but your words mean so much to me. Anyone missing me at home should know I am missing them twice as much over here.

 May God send little blessings your way week. He has delivered some to me already.

Bon nuit!