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!

The Beginning

It is 9 am at the moment, so it is 4 am at home. I am sitting in Angela Austin’s living room, in N’Djamena, in Chad, in Africa. This feels very surreal.

Before I begin my Africa reflection, I am going to quickly flashback to Wednesday the 14^th.

My plane was scheduled to leave Sioux Falls at 6 something in the morning, so I was up around 3:30, trying to gather all my important things and squish them into my suitcases. By the time Dad had searched the dark farm for his cell phone, and I had run through the house audibly saying goodbye to precious things like my bed, we were a little bit behind. It is an awful feeling watching your home disappear in the dark, so I guess it was good that I was too stressed about time to let more than a few tears trickle out. We met Mr Brett Pidde at the airport (who was on time, I might note), got rid of my bags, and said our goodbyes. To keep it simple, saying goodbye was not fun.

Quick story:

            The airlines were calling my name over the loudspeaker by the time I had finally gotten through security (no one will rush my goodbyes) so I was the last one on the plane. Then God threw some blessings my way. First, they moved my seat so that I could sit alone. This meant I could quietly cry in peace. Then we took off into a sunrise, which would make anyone forget about leaving home for a few moments. Then the nicest airline steward in the world went out of his way to make me comfortable. He probably could tell that I had been crying, and thought that I looked like I was 12, but he gave me his journals to look over, talked about my trip, and gave me an encouraging letter when I left the plane. An angel.

I am going to skim through the next week of orientation in Akron, PA.

All of the SALTers and IVEPers (young adults from other countries who have come to do service in the US) gathered together to eat, pray, attend sessions, sing, and play. I was delighted to play volleyball with some pretty competitive players from all over the world. I also met my fellow Chad SALTers (Alex Hurst and Michelle Metzger) and our MCC representative, Jon Austin, and his 4 wonderful children (we would meet his wife once we arrived in Chad). Overall, it was an incredible week that slowly allowed us to let go of home and set our minds on the upcoming year.

So this past Wednesday we left Akron at 4 in the morning, flew a 13 hour flight to Adis Ababa, Ethiopia (picked up Sheralynn Neff – a student from CMU working in Chad with us for a semester), and then boarded a delayed flight to N’Djamena. Arriving in Chad was an experience in itself. The heat, language, different clothing, and bustle around immigration made it difficult for me to process what was going on. Thankfully, I was in a group of French-speakers  who puzzled through it with me. Getting our bags felt like playing football. Africans are pushy! I was physically moved numerous times. Seeing Angela outside the small airport’s doors was a huge relief.

We are staying at Angela and Jon’s house until Monday when we will head to our host families. This is a wonderful house in the middle of a dirty, dusty city. To be honest, driving across N’Djamena was disheartening. Like many other foreign cities, the streets are littered with trash, dust, and mud stemming from a rainy season. Overall, the city is just dirty. This wasn’t exactly what I wanted my first impression of Africa to be.

I got a real taste of the city at the local market yesterday. The girls in our group put on our skirts and headscarves and followed the Austin’s housekeeper down the road. At the corner we squeezed into a little van/bus/taxi that packed in a few others before driving, a little carelessly, down to the market. The market was packed with people selling vegetables, scarves, flashlights, diapers, meat, beads, clothes, etc. We wound through stalls that were so close together only one person could walk comfortably. This meant at least three people would try to wriggle in together. Some women wore their hair in braids, some in scarves, and some wore burqas (burkas?) that only showed their dark eyes. The noise of countless languages, the heat (again), mud puddles, smells (most not so good), FLIES, and the sheer amount of people and goods that were so different completely overwhelmed me.

Everyone noticed the white people walking through the crowd, and I felt completely distant with this culture. A big part of me wish for home. I was thinking to myself, “I don’t know if I can do this. Other than green peppers, I don’t recognize a single thing in this place. What could I possibly have in common with any of these people staring at me??” At that moment, a little boy who was about 7 or 8 brushed by me. He was singing to himself, oblivious that anyone around him might possibly listen. He had such a sweet voice, and I automatically thought of my cousins, Liam and Solomon, and the music that floated around them as they roamed the farm. I am not sure why, but that calmed my heart in those few seconds. While Chad might be foreign to me, there are some things that are universal.

I can tell that these next few months are going be tough, but to combat the bad smells, trash, humidity, language struggles, different food, bumpy roads, and stares, there will be sweet smelling flowers outside the Austin’s house, orange and blue lizards, laughing children, friendly hosts, and music with those who feel as out of place as I do.

So I leave this safe place on Monday to tough it out by myself. I am nervous and excited and nervous some more. Thank you for all the prayers and messages from home. I can feel them.

NOTE: I am so sorry i can't add pictures! The internet is unbelievable slow!

The Page of Information

Welcome to the hodge-podge page of blog information!

I am going to start this blog with some disclaimers.

1.       I am an English major, however, I will not have perfect punctuation, spelling, or word choice. In fact, I plan on making up my own language as I write. I apologize if this bothers you. 

2.       I probably will not write consistently because I am not sure what my Internet status will be while in Chad.

3.       I have decided to begin blogging partly as an opportunity to journal my experience, and partly to keep my mother updated on my life. For the rest of you, thank you for being interested and I will not be offended if you don’t tune in religiously.

Here are some things you may want to know…

My position is in Moundou, Chad, in the Altonodji Village Orphanage. As of right now, I will be teaching English and Computer, and helping out any other way I can. I will be living with a host family and learning French throughout the year.

My mailing address is in N’Djamena, which is the capital, although I will be living 6 hours away in Moundou. This means I will not be getting my mail promptly, but that should not discourage snail mail! My country representatives said that only about 50 percent of packages actually get to them. If they need something sent from the States they ask for it in a flat rate envelope, which has a better chance of getting through the mail.

If you would like to send me something (hint hint), send it to this address:

Kelsey Ortman

B.P. 2006, N’Djamena

Chad

Pretty easy!

Second order of business. If you did not get a chance to contribute financially to my SALT term, I will have a Personal Drawing Account (PDA) that I can draw from while in Chad. It is from this fund that I can buy personal goods from the local market. This can be a chocolate bar, a new blanket, etc. If you would like to add to this account, mail a check to the MCC office with my name and “PDA” on the memo line.

MCC US

PO Box 500

Akron, PA 17501

So hopefully that is not the most entertaining blog I write, but if you forget an address at some point you can always come back to this page!