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The Return

It had been a long seven hours on the plane. Two of them were spent on the runway at Charles de Gaulle waiting for the snow storm to pass and the plane to be de-iced. We spent a not-so-silent duration of the flight listening to rowdy French soldiers in front of us and a Nigerian business man and American evangelist and pilot behind us. The plane was brand new and had I been on a flight from LA to New York, I would have been pleasantly surprised at the up-to-date movie selection and fancy new LED overhead reading lights. But in fact, the French in front, the accented English behind me, and the now black as night Sahara whizzing by below us, reminded me that I was on a journey back to the middle of nowhere. When the fancy new cabin lights dimmed to dark it kind of freaked me out, and I thought that the LED lights actually cast a rather creepy glow over the foreign faces. The French Camembert didn’t taste quite so pleasant this time, and in our haste to make it to the airport in time, I had neglected to pack something in my purse to occupy my time. So, instead, I had plenty of time to sit and ponder our decision to return. As the pilot announced our imminent landing, my heart started to pound and thoughts of “you idiot, what were you thinking?” started to race through my head. Small lights, signs of some sort of civilization in this vast wilderness, started to appear on the horizon, and all around, you could hear the conversations fade, and all eyes were glued to the windows. It’s always a sobering experience landing in that place. At that moment, the majority of the passengers who are there, having committed to a several month term in Chad, are beginning to let their fear seep out. As the wheels touched the ground, I began to cry. I don’t really know why…partly out of fear of the thing that had just begun, and partly the feeling of utter isolation and loneliness that can only be understood by those who have made this trip. The only thing you can see as you look out the windows is blackness…But I realized also that a part of me was crying because I realized that we had finally made it. Come what may after this moment, but God had finished that battle. We had actually landed in Chad.
The next three hours were a whirlwind of feelings and experiences and recollections. After riding the 300 feet from the plane to the “airport”, we waited in line to have our passports checked and our yellow fever card stamped by a tall man in a dirty white lab coat. I’ve heard that if you can’t find your certificate of vaccination that you will be given one at that time, and a shuddered at the thought that it would be given by this man. We collected our bags and were waved through customs on account of our speaking Arabic instead of French. We were then met by the throngs of people waiting outside the metal gates -- for whom, I don’t know, since we were the last flight in of the evening and the last people off the plane. It seems, as we passed through the revolving doors into Chad that we passed through a time machine – not to a different year, but to a previous era of our lives. Instead of feeling like returning, it felt like rejoining our life where in left off. Writing now, six days after arriving in country, I still have this sense, that when we left Chad last year, time stopped, we carried out our travels and business in America and when we went through those doors, it started moving again. And it’s not because everything is the same. Quite the contrary. The two paved roads in the capital have multiplied to be innumerable. There are street lights on every paved road – so many that one gets the sense that you are at some sort of theme park where there must be enough light for business to carry on like normal. There are new statues in all the round points (roundabouts), the dry fountains now have water flowing out of them (even when there is none in the wells), and there are even things like, well, Christmas lights. That is using the term loosely. They look neither like Christmas, nor do they come in shapes or forms commonly found during this season. But they are indeed colored lights on strands that are up during Christmas, so we will call them Christmas lights. There are also multiple multi-story buildings being erected throughout the city, a new stadium being built and the biggest surprise: ”Tchad Nadif” which means “Clean Chad” and is the name of the city’s new municipal sanitation department. There are actual trash trucks that make rounds every week to pick up trash cans from various locations, mainly the wealthy houses, since the other are still burning theirs. There are also Chadian women in traditional dress with fluorescent orange vests with “Tchad Nadif” embroidered on their backs that are sent out to sweep the streets. It is an interesting juxtaposition of old and new and the great ideas and the ridiculous. I’m not sure sweeping the streets of dust is going to actually make anything sanitary. Dust is the least of their problems…but I suppose you have to start somewhere.

Going Back

So I guess we might be going back to Chad soon. It doesn't really seem real yet, and I guess that's because so many times in the last year and a half our efforts for so many things have been thwarted. I guess the only time you really know that something is really going to happen is when it has happened. There is probably some very wise philosopher that discovered this truth before me, but you can cite me for now!

When we first had a glimmer of hope of us going back in the beginning of September, my reaction was real excitement. As we learned more and more that it might become a reality, I continued to be excited, yet cautious. Now, possibly a month to six weeks out from a departure date back to Chad, I find myself in an odd state of confusion. I think it is the reality setting in, and the fear of the unknown. Despite our desire to return and serve in Chad, in the midst of all of our trials while we've been home, there is something comforting in the stability of living in the US. Of course, not knowing what the future holds is always unsettling, there is still something about waking up to the same sunrise everymorning (okay, 2 hours after sunrise), the same people on the Today Show, the same grocery store, knowing what to say when the waiter asks for your order, knowing what to wear to each social event, that is very safe and reassuring. But over the last few weeks, when I'm waiting on hold, or waiting for my name to be called at the doctor, my mind drifts off to memories of Chad...of the things that are unfamiliar, of deciding that it's okay to find bugs in your food, and to sitting in the dark from six o'clock on, to being hot almost all of the time, to not being understood and not understanding, to feeling alone and feeling forgotten, to feeling a longing for the familiar. And I wonder to myself...can I still do that? I think about the first night we arrive in Chad, and I think how we won't have any food in the house we stay in that night...it's okay, I think, we'll just eat out until we get our feet on the ground...No. Can't do that. Okay, well, I'll just grab something from the store that we can eat...No. Can't do that. Oh geesh! I forgot, just eating is a major task!

They're relatively small fears right now that stay in my mind. The ones about us dying or needing a doctor are the ones that are more dramatic and scary, but they are also the ones that are less likely and could really happen wherever we were. It's the day to day living, the struggle to provide for my family as I go through each day, and to find purpose in my life as a live in a society that is not my own, that really makes me stop and think: Can I still do this? It was only four and a half years ago that we first left for the field, but I have aged a lot since then, and I think, that was something for my youth, but now, I don't know if I'm really cut out for that sort of living! I know that I will adapt, and the beginning is always the hardest. I feel like we've jumped out of the plane and can see the ground approaching, but I'm quite scared of the landing.

I had great aspirations for this life of "mine", and sometimes, when I think of returning to Chad, I feel like it is throwing those aspirations out the window. The dream of a family, the dream of the "American dream", a house, a yard, a social life, a "real" job. I guess it's what we're supposed to do, lay down our life to serve God. But I didn't really think it would look like this. I don't know what I thought it would look like. The more that I realize that life here on earth isn't the main point, the more lost I feel. I believe that Heaven will be wonderful and that we'll all be infinitely happier living there than here (that wouldn't be hard), but the unknown is never that enticing. So instead I hold on to little bits of hopes and aspirations for my earthly life, and feel quite sad when they slip from my fingers. Since I've been living in America, I've been able to hold on to those strings a little tighter (a restaurant in my future, a baby, a normal life), but I think now, going back, is when I've realized that those things aren't what my life is about, and am grieving a little bit.

I didn't expect to feel this way about returning. I'm so glad to have my best friend and partner in ministry leading us back. I couldn't do it without him. And I rejoice in the fact that although probably no other person, no matter how close to us, will ever really know what our life is like, we can understand and empathize with each other. So unless God redirects our tiny little sails, we'll hop back into our little boat, just the two of us, and get back to rowing. The journey is long, but I beg our Maker to make it all worth it.

Making "Esh" and Chadian Christmas

My house help, Hadidje, has been such a blessing. Not only does she help me around the house with cleaning and washing clothes, but we also spend at least an hour a day "chatting" away in Arabic. Although tiring, it is so good for me. She's much easier to talk to than the ladies at the market, because we're sitting just one on one in a quiet house instead of a noisy market, and she is willing to be patient and wait until I understand what she's saying. She also speaks no French whatsoever, so she's never tempted to switch with me. We have a great time together, sometimes almost rolling on the floor laughing, she cracks me up. So at least once a week I try to do something with her that will be different than our normal "tea time" (that's when we sit on a mat on the ground, sipping very sweet tea and eating peanuts...I have been able to skip the tea the last week, I don't know how they do that much caffeine and sugar every day!).

So this past week, I asked Hadidje if she would teach me how to make "Esh" as it's called in Arabic, or "Boule" as it is called in French. It's basically a big bowl full of millet flour and water, that is cooked over high heat until congealed to the consistency of wet dough and then left to set in a round bowl until ready to eat, when it is flipped over onto a plate, a nice little dome for you to grab pieces off of and plunge them into the burning hot sauce. I took some pictures of the process for you to enjoy! In the first (above) she is smashing up the garlic for the sauce (which consisted of beef, bouillion, tomato paste, peanut paste oil, garlic and onions...and a little dried okra...I resisted, but she insisted!) I offered her a garlic press, but she said she preferred the giant mortar and pestle! The second picture is when she is very rapidly beating the flour and water mixture, as it attempts to stick to the pot (this is normally done over a fire, but we chose to use the stove that day). And finally, the fruits of the 2 hour long labor, a nice lunch.

The next pictures here are of our attempt at Christmas cheer here in Abeche, Chad. Since our container, though in Cameroon, has still not made it up here, carrying our Target Christmas tree, we decided it was high time to make one! So, Rob bought some sticks, normally used to build the straw roofs on houses here. I found some dark green fabric with a subtle holly pattern on it in the market, and also some cream colored fabric with glittering gold dots on it (don't ask me why they had this at the men's clothing market!!). So we built our little "Charlie Brown" and I think it's quite cute! Thanks to some shiny red bows I had brought from France, and a two Christmasy headscarves, I managed to make the coffee table look festive, and I am very thankful to report that our Nativity set has made it with us all the way from North Carolina in 2006 to Abeche, Chad for this 2008 Christmas, as well as our stockings! Hadidje thinks the Nativity set is amazing. She asked me if I bought it in Abeche, because she'd never seen anything like it. Nope, from America, I informed her!

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Thanksgiving Festivities

Holidays are an interesting thing overseas. Of all the times that you want to be home, these are the strongest. So, in an attempt to recreate the jollity of yore, we Americans gather together to bring our home to Chad. This particular holiday, is of course, Thanksgiving. Of all the holidays, besides maybe the 4th of July, this is the most obscure for non-Americans. It has nothing to do with them; it is a purely national celebration. The Canadians may come close with their version a month earlier, but in general, we were already alone on this day, and it’s no different here. I’ll let you in on how the preparations went this year…

It began back in early October when a thoughtful mom sent a package of Thanksgiving napkins. A little gesture, but very helpful to get the table looking the part. These napkins were safely stored away through three different moves. The next was a search for a table cloth. When I first arrived in Africa, I realized that my house needed some color, so I purchased some brightly colored yellow fabric with all sorts of designs on it. Took it to a tailor to cut and finish the edges, and cut 8 matching napkins. We have been using this since April, giving some sort of continuity to our various living locations. But in October I finally decided that despite the still “summery” weather in our neck of the woods, it was time for a more “seasonally-appropriate” cloth (hey, even when it’s 90 in California you don’t leave the summer stripes on the table, do you?). So I went to the huge outdoor N’Djamena market, it mid-90 degree weather. I went to vendor after vendor in search of the perfect thanksgiving table cloth (what exactly does that look like again)? No, didn’t find any turkey ones, but after hearing some outrageous prices for some of the beautiful embroidered cloths (I mean, come on, I can maybe see paying $100 for a hand-embroidered table cloth from Pottery Barn or something, but I’m in Chad!), I finally landed upon a beautiful brown cloth with burnt orange flowers and cream-colored leaves, all embroidered and small little clear crystals sewn on throughout. After getting an original price of $50, I eventually bargained him down to $16…Okay, napkins, tablecloth, check.

Next was to begin thinking about the food. We would be moving to Abeche soon, and who knows what they would have there. I purchased some sort of large squash. It looked like one of those fancy whitish-greenish pumpkins in the states, you know, the kind Martha Stewart would do her jack-o-lanterns out of. It had an orange-yellow flesh, and I figured it could pass for pumpkin. It sat on our counter for a week or so, and then was the last item in the car when we got all packed up for our move. It was 6am on Monday morning, and Rob said, “Anything else need to go in here?” I presented him with the beloved squash and watched as he found space inside a small trashcan at the back of the car. The poor squash stayed in that little black trashcan in the depths of the car, for two hot days on the way to Abeche, but made it safely there, after one small tumble in the desert. For lack of a kitchen table in our current house, the pseudo-pumpkin and tablecloth graced our coffee table for the last two weeks.

Two days ago the little squash fulfilled it’s purpose in life. My house helper, Hadidje, hacked, sawed and chopped up the little guy until he was just large chunks of orange vegetable. The next day, I boiled all the squash until it was completely tender, then mashed it and drained it through a colander…getting closer to that pumpkin pie…But this was not the end. That afternoon, after reading up on homemade pumpkin puree, I realized that the mixture needed to be thoroughly drained. So I placed the puree into a dish towel (for lack of cheesecloth), into a colander, and then placed a bowl and two giant cans on top of the mixture. After leaving it for about an hour, I was pleased to find what looked almost exactly like canned pumpkin puree! I broke out the spices, a few different recipes, read up on “patee brisee” (flaky pie crust), and re-wrote the recipes for the only pie plate that I have in my possession, and 11-inch wide, 1½- inch deep tart pan, and began cooking. I waited with baited breath as people sliced into the creation and took their first bites. I tried to look uninterested, but was relieved with the first sounds of “who made this pumpkin pie” and “this is delicious, it tastes like real pumpkin pie!” Yeah!

My attempt to make whipped-cream without cream, was not as successful. The first attempt turned into sugary butter, and the second attempt, though having the appearance of whipped-cream, tasted bad and was a liquid mess by the time it was lined up on the dessert table. (note: butter and milk will never become one…no matter how long you beat it, it will still be whipped butter in a bowl full of milk…) There are some things that just have no substitute.

So did we have a successfully reproduced American thanksgiving? We had roast beef instead of turkey, but who likes turkey anyway? We ate mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing and green bean casserole. We were with friends, many of whom are like family. The guys threw the football around in the yard; the girls spent the morning cooking. Everyone ate too much and was stuffed before desserts came out. We thanked God for our blessings, and we ate pretty-close-to-real pumpkin pie. Pretty similar. I’d say the only differences would be that after putting on our “Sunday best”, we covered our heads, got in a huge truck and rumbled down the unpaved road, past donkeys, horse-drawn carts, soldiers with guns, and various displays of livestock. We arrived at an orphanage, where an African guard opened a large gate for us to enter. We sat in a dimly-lit, hot room, because there was no electricity available. Around dusk, we had to think about getting home, as most car-jackings take place after dark. We arrived home, killed a few crickets, watched a movie on our computer and got ready for bed. However, we have no sink in our bathroom, so I came to the kitchen to brush my teeth and found there to be no water in the pipes, as normal, so we went to some large reserve barrels outside and got enough to last us the night. We locked the doors, and crawled underneath the mosquito net...just like thanksgiving when I was little…

I think today I’ll head to the market to take advantage of the day-after-thanksgiving sales!

Adventures in Henna

We met some women in the market the other day that wanted me to get “henna’ed”, because that’s what married women do here, mostly on their hands/arms and bottoms of their feet. So we went back on Thursday, and had a crazy experience. Upon arrival at the market, each of the ladies, Zenaba and Hawa, spoke in very rapid Arabic to us, that we did really catch and then called a rickshaw (these three-wheeled, little moto carts that look a bit like ford model-t’s and go about 10 miles an hour, like something from Thailand, that somehow found it’s way into a desert, non-paved road community.), and shoved us into the back seat. We were then driven down little tiny roads, through little alleyways (where’s the video camera when you need it!) and taken into someone’s house. The “house” consisted of mud brick walls, a dirt floor covered by plastic mats, and a few stools. Our original “market lady friends” left and we were left there with the henna lady in her house and were pleased to find the room also filled with about 6 or 7 other girls/women that were also getting henna’ed. One of them was getting married that day and the others were her sisters.
Despite the oddity of the experience, it was really fun. It reminded me of getting a mani-pedi in the middle of the summer in LA; tons of girls sitting around giggling and getting their hands and feet worked on. Once everyone got their henna done, we all had to sit there with our hands and/or feet up in the air so as not to get the wet henna to touch anything. Friends standing by would help get money out to pay so that we wouldn’t mess up the new “do”. Margit even had to help one girl get her laffay back on because she was still wet and it had fallen off. No UV lights to speed up the process, but people waved hand held fans over us. At the end, the girls stood up, and while bargaining the price, mentioned that they were going to the hair dresser next! We had a fun time for about three hours just sitting and chatting with these girls. They actually had a Chadian father, and French mother. They were very beautifully colored, and a lot calmer/timid than normal Chadians. The henna lady, Zara, actually made us laugh a lot. She was very Chadian! So, yes, as I type, I have beautiful (jet black) henna (actually black hair dye) all over my arms and hands (which you can see above)…I chickened out on the feet, so now everyone thinks I’m not married, oh well!

On the way back EVERYONE commented on it, and the ladies in the market went WILD. I doubt they’d ever seen it on a white person before, and of course it stands out a lot. The lady did a beautiful job. It was very intricate, and I love it, although I have to admit that now, four days later, I often look down at my hands and thing, hmmm, not wearing off yet, eh? I guess I’m not a good candidate for a permanent tattoo!

I've attached a few other pictures just for fun (sorry they're small this time, the connection isn't so fast today...The one of me and Rob is from our Halloween party, still in N'Djamena, then then henna room, then me and Kirsten in N'Djamena at her 31st birthday brunch!),
More next time…my adventures in Chad!

Back in the Saddle

Just a quick note to say that I'm able to get on blogger again, so I'll try to update this spot regularly again. Here's a picture as a teaser. I'll write a longer blog later.

karen gets henna'ed

Be writing soon!