A Night in the Life…

After we clean up the dishes from supper together, I go get our pajamas out of the tent and spray it for mosquitoes while Bryan fills up our water filter with a bucket from the tank under our rain gutters. I then take the big kettle of hot water off the stove and carry it to the shower while Bryan fills up our bath buckets with water. In a few months (weeks?) when the rains finally stop and our tanks our full of brackish water from the hafira I will miss this cold clean rain every night. But tonight I just enjoy being able to see all the way to the bottom of my bucket. We top off our buckets with steaming water from the kettle and lather up under what we pour over ourselves from metal cups. We talk while we bathe - about our day, the new word we learned, our families, or lately, what our baby will be like. I sometimes forget that there was a time when bathing together out of buckets was not a part of ordinary life. And I think I will miss it when the time comes that it no longer is. When we finish we shake out our towels left hanging up from last night. More than once we have found small black scorpions hiding out under the damp cloth, but there are none tonight. Once Bryan didn't shake out his towel first and a startled six-inch skink made a panicked dash across his wet body. My hysterical laughter (and helpful attempt to stay as far away as possible) didn't help the matter much that night and we now keep a big stick in the corner of the shower – ready for use on the day those seeking sanctuary in our towels are a little more menacing than lizards.

Clean and clothed, we brush our teeth outside, spitting white foam into the dark bushes off the path and rinsing out of a big bottle of filtered water. Glancing up while I brush I see high clouds pressed thin against the swollen darkness of the sky, like cotton pulled apart by inexpert fingers; but the stars that do push through the bare spaces are pale and timid tonight. We close up all the windows in the house in case of rain, pat the head of the white shadow in the dark with the wagging tail and zip ourselves up in the tent for the night. After we flip off the inverter everything on our compound is dark except for the door-shaped glow of a lantern coming from the hut near the gate where our guard stays. I think I can catch fragments of voices still coming from his radio but other than this, the only sound is the low drone of the generator next door and the far off squabble of wild dogs. The night is cool enough still to snuggle under my grandmother's sun-faded quilt and fall asleep close to my husband.

When I wake up I can tell I have been asleep several hours by the silence of the generator and the pressure in my bladder. I lie still for a moment wondering what woke me. I hear a low growl from our tent porch and then a snort and rustle in the grass behind our fence line. Asad barks a few times and the nosey donkeys huff in an irritated manner and continue their midnight grazing somewhere further down the path. Fully awake now I swing my legs out of bed and reach for my headlamp. Bryan stirs and I ask if he needs to go too. He mumbles incoherently then groggily slips on his crocs and grabs his own flashlight. As I stoop to unzip our door I hear the creak of tiny footsteps on our canvas roof overhead followed by a curious mew. When we are both outside, Nimir springs lightly from his comfortable perch on top of our tent and follows us down the path to the bathroom. In the dark, he is completely invisible unless our lights hit his green eyes.

When I am finished and waiting for Bryan I glance back up at the night sky. The clouds have disappeared by now and the stars gleam like they were embedded in newly polished glass. The Milky Way stretches boldly across the sky, arching her spine like a diver springing backwards across a dark pool of water. I am almost amazed to have been sleeping through such beauty. As we walk back to bed Nimir pads silently along beside us. When we reach the tent he springs back up to his canvas hammock over our heads and we step inside and collapse back into bed. Often I fall back asleep in moments, but tonight the cool air and bright stars have roused my mind and I lie awake for a while. I hear Bryan sniff and think he is probably awake too but we both lie silent. A tinker bird chirps from a tree on the hill behind our house. I listen for the bush baby we have only occasionally hear chirping from the hill too, but she is quiet tonight.

I eventually resort to mere counting, my brain too interested to be lulled by anything less dull and I eventually loose count around 350. The next thing I am aware of is Mama Hen squawking to be let loose from her hen house and the pleasant twangs from our guard's radio. The bulge in the canvas above my head stretches lazily and I roll over. Outside my window the morning is grey and still damp in its newness.

Animal Crackers

Recently a box of goodies arrived on the bush plane that flies in every two weeks with my name on it, sent from a dear friend far away. It was full of goodies from the States, mostly snacks that helped her get through morning sickness a few months prior and that she thought I too might enjoy. Needless to say, they were worth their weight in gold, and I have carried out a delicate dance between hoarding them Gollum-like (my precious) and savoring them with all the restraint of a kid going through her stocking on Christmas morning. And yet, as amazingly crunchy as the honey mini-wheats were for breakfast and the little goldfish crackers were for mid-morning, mid-afternoon and mid-evening snacks, I may have derived the most pleasure from this whole experience by simply inhaling the fragrance of the contents of the cardboard box right after I opened it. It smelled like America. Mmmm....

Last week I took a little baggy of the treasured animal crackers that came in the box with me to our language lesson and munched on a few while conjugating active participles. (I know, only a pregnant lady could have kept her appetite through that.) I absently mindedly shared a few with our language helper and the old man who tends the grounds at the school where we meet. Fairly soon our lesson had digressed from Arabic grammar to a lengthy discussion about the animal crackers.

"What are these?" the older man asked. Proud to know the words for both "animal" and "biscuit" I informed them that they were "animal biscuits" from America.
"These are animals?"
"Yeah. Animals."
He picked up a cookie, held it up to the light and squinted for closer inspection. "Well, what is this one?"
"That one? Let's see...that one is a...um....well, that's a bison."
"A what?"
"It's like a hairy American cow. Nevermind. Let's look at another one."
"Okay, what is this one?"
"This one is....uh...crud. This one is a bear. "
"A what?"
"A bear. It walks on four legs, but can stand up on two. It's really mean."
"Oh, you mean a lion."
"No, no, not a lion. I don't think you have bears here."
"Does it climb trees?"
"Uh, sometimes."
"It's a lion."
"No....not a lion..."
"Does it eat people?"
"Yeeeah...
"It's called a lion. Li-on."
"Well, maybe sorta like an American lion. Let's look at another one."

The subsequent zoological research into the cookies resulted in several bison, a family of bears, a herd of deer, a couple horses, a potential llama and one very North American looking sheep. It was with great excitment that we eventually identified a camel. Eventually the name-that-animal game just turned into some serious snacking. At one point our language helper said with his mouth full of bison, "These are delicious. They don't make biscuits like these here. They make good animal biscuits in America." So at the end of the day I guess it was decided that ethnocentric cookies are pretty good after all.

The mystery animal. Any guesses?

Real

Sometimes this blog is hard to write. The words I most often find myself wanting to put down are descriptions of this beautiful world as I discover it day by day. I want to write about people and places and experiences that are completely new and exciting or charming. But even to me my thoughts sometimes read like romanticized daydreams right from the pages of an Isak Dinesen short story or the delusional monologues of a cross-cultural junkie in the throes of honeymoon stage culture shock. I don't mean for everything here to sound beautiful. It isn't. (But maybe you are laughing as you read this because to you my words most often describe a place you would like to visit right after your summer holiday in Mogadishu, and stories of soldiers, monitor lizards and simply dreadful heat are all just really, really depressing. If that's the case, than this particular blog entry is not meant for you. Just skip it and come back next week.) Whatever the case may be, sometimes I worry that I will do my current home a disservice by most often writing about its good aspects – all those things that are legitimately beautiful or gracious or interesting. But places that are only beautiful are not usually real. And more than anything, I want my blog to make this place feel real.

On our trip to the state capital last week I got manhandled. I was perusing a scarf shop alone when the very friendly owner helped himself to a handful of the one up-side to pregnancy so far (and no, I don't mean a glowing complexion) and though I initially (naively) attributed the incident to an unfortunate close-proximity folding accident, when it happened again I lay the overpriced item down and walked out in a huff. The incident bothered me and for a little while I couldn't stop thinking about it. Was I overacting? Was I under-reacting? I don't know how I would handle the situation in my own culture much less someone else's. All I knew is that I hated being taken advantage of because of the idea that all women by themselves are just inviting trouble. And I really hated being taken advantage of because of the assumption that all Western women are incredibly loose anyway so why should she really mind?

I tell you this not to make you upset for me or to reinforce some silly stereotype. I do it for quite the opposite reason. I want you to know that this place and the people who live here are real. They are jerks and opportunists and bigots, just like everywhere else. Remember that. But remember that so that when you hear me write about the old, very traditional man who buys our tea after we hardly do more than greet him respectfully, you will know that that too is real. When you read about the road engineer who gives us a truckload of gravel to build our garage for free just because he appreciates that we moved here to try to help in some small way, know that is real. The women who insist on sharing their only meal of the day though it's hardly enough for them and their kids and our friend who runs a local school even though half his students can't pay a dime are real. People here are selfless, forgiving and hospitable beyond belief. They are so achingly real.

I went to town alone today alone and bought some material to make pillowcases for my couch. Beyond the usual greetings and bargaining no one said or did anything really out of the ordinary. No one except maybe the male shopkeeper who came up to me unbidden and insisted that I take a handful of his dates from his breakfast plate. Day after day, for good or bad, I am overwhelmed by the realness of this place.

Skin Deep

On our trip to the State capital last week we got a phone call from a friend who works in the town we live in but whose family still lives in the "big city." Even though he wasn't around, he wanted us to take the opportunity while we were in town to visit his home and meet his wife and kids. We were worn out from running errands and sitting in government offices at this point so we were happy to have an excuse to relax with friends (even friends we had never met before). On Friday morning our absent host's sister, a stern, well-dressed woman in her fifties, showed up at our hotel and escorted us back to her home in the back of a rickshaw (a three wheeled wonder-taxi). The home was a modest two-room building and a spacious mud kitchen in a small courtyard shaded by guava trees. Though we weren't sure what to expect, or what was expected of us really, the many hours that passed that afternoon were once again marked by sheer North African hospitality.

This day also proved to be a curious reverse of our more typical experiences here as Bryan found himself the only man among a household of well educated sisters, wives, daughters and neighbors. In fact, he spent several hours hanging out with boys in the courtyard while I was ushered inside and treated to something incredibly beautiful, quite literally. Apparently, like everywhere else in the world, when women get together here they like to make each other up and as a guest in this culture I was treated to the works. Our host's wife shooed all peeping eyes away from windows pulled up a stool at my feet and sat down with a porcelain dish in hand. She then folded my skirt up carefully around my shins and proceeded to apply cool red henna to the soles of my feet. She worked patiently for the better part of an hour, shaping the mud in swirls across my arches and heels, working it gently between my toes and across my nails. When she was finished an animated conversation began among the women in the room about who should do my hands. A younger girl was voted as the best artist present and after carefully sewing a torn piece of plastic into a long cone, she filled it with more henna and began tediously turning my hands into works of art. At times I couldn't watch her delicate movements forming petals and leaves, afraid I would wince or start sweating and mess up her hard work. When she finished I was propped up like a broken manikin while we waited for my appendages to dry. During this time our absent host's sister returned from the kitchen with a small makeup bag. She told me that it was now time to do my face. Painting up my face seemed somewhat less charming than decorating my hands and feet and I stammered something along the lines of – no thank you, that's so sweet to offer, but really not necessary at all. She would hear none of it though, and still bound by my wet hands and feet, I had no choice but to sit still and soak up the moment. My worst fears were realized when the first thing that came out of her bag was a razor blade that she swiftly ran across my eyebrows and jaw line. I pushed back all the images of the bearded lady at the circus that came rushing to mind and just closed my eyes in resignation as pencils, creams and powders were all applied in turn. When she was done and a mirror was thrust in front of my face I felt like I was looking at a reflection of someone who had just stepped out of a brothel in Cairo. Bryan's smirk made me suspect he was thinking the same thing. However, my beauticians applauded their efforts and assured me I looked gorgeous (though I can't help but think surely, surely there must have been a hint of "Wow, it doesn't look quite the same on her as it does on us, does it…" behind their smiles somewhere. Somehow the purples and blacks just didn't compliment my skin tones quite the same way.) The finishing touches were oil for my hennaed hands and feet and a brown paste rubbed into my neck and arms that smelled like sandalwood. Later, our absent host's sister slipped me a small vial of the stuff and said a two syllable word I had never heard before. I thought she was telling me the name of the spice but when I asked her to repeat the word she smiled and repeated the word(s) that I understood this time. "For sex." I tried to keep the high notes out of my giggle as I nodded and said thank you and she did what I feel like was the North Africa woman's version of a wink and a "Thank me later" look.

We left that evening with full stomachs and full hearts. I was a little shy to look at people from under my heavily lidded eyes in the rickshaw on the drive home but most people seemed to be more interested in my floral hands and feet than anything else. "Mabruk!" they said and continue to say to me even now as the dark brown swirls are slowly beginning to fade away.

Several people have said - now you are a woman from this country! - and even though we all know that will never be true, I receive those words as a compliment and I think people appreciate that in and of itself. In retrospect, I think my fairy godmothers were very thoughtful in what they gave me last week. They no doubt knew it would make me happy to be treated to something special like henna. But I suspect they also knew that others around me would appreciate it too. In just one very small way, for a while, I look a little more like people's wives or daughters or sisters and I feel people warm to that. In this way, these women's gift was more than just skin deep.

Road Trip

We got in late last night from a five day trip to the State Capital. We left by bus early Tuesday morning, an experience I will add to my New-Year's-Eve-In-Time-Square-List (otherwise known as "The things I am so glad I have done but never want to do again"). Public transport in this area is limited to "buses" that only run in the dry season when the roads are actually passable. Due to a lot of work on the road and light rains this year (previous blog posts notwithstanding) we had heard that "buses" were running daily, though the trip was six hours long and people were sometimes being asked to get out and walk across the river crossings. Nonetheless, government paperwork and low oatmeal supplies beckoned, and owning only a vehicle without doors or a windshield, we decided that "buses" were the way to go. Besides, we are always up for a little locally flavored adventure. I say "bus" of course because somehow I fear that just bus does not conjure up the right image. Think more along the lines of metal seats, metal windowless window frames and a metal roof all welded into or over the cargo bed of a beat up old lorry. Slap on a coat of bright blue paint, peeling campaign posters, ostrich feather hood ornaments, 30 sweaty people inside and five sun scorched guys on the roof-rack outside and you have our "bus". Really once we started lumbering down the mud-contorted dirt road I felt like we were in the belly of a massive blue army tank being slowly beaten to death on our way to war.

Our fellow travelers were varied. They mostly seemed to be men travelling alone – a soldier in uniform, a young man in a t-shirt and sunglasses, an older man in a jalabiya with a cane. But there were a few women too – a pretty one in a bright yellow tobe, a young mother miraculously nursing her baby as we hurtled down the road, an old woman who looked like she was probably travelling with her granddaughter. The most interesting traveler to me was a large dark skinned women dressed in folds of green tie-dye. She had on gold rings and a silky looking shower cap. From the way the bus driver waited without complaint while she held up the bus to buy some bottled water before we left, I guessed she was someone important. Her three sons travelling with her confirmed that they were probably a part of a military commander's family being educated at some English school outside of the country by the way they obliviously sang along with pop music pounding from their ear buds and loudly muttered "Whatever!" every time we had to pile off the bus for soldiers to rummage through bags and travel papers at check-points along the way. We later found out they had lived outside of this country all of their lives and were just coming back for a quick visit. At one point one of the boys sighed wearily, "Man, it sure is hot in this area," which made Bryan and I smile for some reason.

We stopped for lunch at a small village at crossroads nearly half of the way there. We piled off to throw back a cold soda and pita bread stuffed with grilled meat and some lime. The road was lined with mud and thatch shops selling food and drink to hundreds of people passing through. Besides those of us travelling by bus, there were many Fulata, a nomadic people group that stretch all the way from here to West Africa. I have had a week to think of how I could possibly describe how colorful, exotic, beautiful and thoroughly unfamiliar the Fulata look to me, (and honestly even to most other people around here), and I am still at a loss for words. Though I have seen them often now, they never fail to completely amaze me. The men wear tunics and flared pants of black or green with colorful fringe and embroidery. Their hair is usually shaved high off the brow but combed tall and flat, like a pharaoh's crown. They carry long wooden sticks whether they are with their herds or not, and it is not uncommon to see them with swords. The women are dressed in black cloth with brilliant embroidery. Their hair is also long but elaborately braided and clasped with bronze or silver hoops and combs. Their ears and wrists are absolutely drizzled with beads and metal. Sometimes they have dark tattoos on their cheeks. Every time I see a group of Fulata women I feel exactly the same way I do stepping into some upscale department store in an American mall and running into a group of stylish women out shopping together: out of place, out of style, out of my element. Their pride and beauty is intimidating and completely mesmerizing all at once.
Once we were all back in the bus I quickly came to regret not sucking it up and just hiking up my skirt to pee behind a scraggly bush at the edge of the market like everyone else. Thankfully, the road got better the closer we got to the state capital and we eventually hit tarmac. We arrived at the "bus station" in the late afternoon, retrieved our dusty bags and headed off to "The Friendship Hotel" where we usually stay. The bright pink satin bedcover (we forgot that hotels here don't come with actual sheets) and water squirter on a hose by the toilet (we remembered that one and came armed with toilet paper) were easily overlooked in light of the amazing air conditioner that blasted away the dust of the road and the TV that had two English channels. It felt good to be in the big city.

Flood

Yesterday after we came home from church and the market, I laid down on our sisal rope couch and fell into the kind of sleep that, in my experience, is only brought on by heavy (legal) drug use or intensely oppressive heat. The kind that paralyses your body no matter how badly it wants to move but magnifies your simmering dream-thoughts into swollen, completely incoherent dialogues that leave you confused and feeling anything but rested. Since I hadn't taken anything other than a prenatal vitamin that day I managed to pull one eyelid open and focus all my energy on reading the numbers on our digital thermometer. It read one 120. (Granted, it was in sun-lit window but still…) Satisfied that my coma was simply heat induced I drifted off for a good 45 minutes and had nightmares of the rapidly approaching dry season.

When I woke up the sky was a weird shade of yellow-gray, like an old bruise that was just beginning to heal. I stumbled to the kitchen and put two oranges in the freezer, hoping they might revive us a little. When I came back into the living room a breeze suddenly blustered in the front door without warning, sending papers flying and shaking a plastic chair threateningly. Bryan and I exchanged groggily hopeful glances. Just then a sharp slice of light made us wince in the broad daylight giving us a heartbeat of warning before the ensuing crash of thunder shattered the mountain behind us. The storm that hit was one of the biggest ones we have had this year. As the rain started pelted our tin roof Bryan ran outside to zip up all the canvas windows in our tent-bedroom while I started closing our wooden windows in the house. I bolted the door behind Bryan when he came back dripping wet and like good sailors on an only partially sea-worthy vessel, we began battening down the hatches. The wind was blowing the rain horizontally from the South-east meaning water was soon pouring under our front door. I rushed to stop the water with towels but it eagerly made its way around forming a seasonally river flowing through the middle of our house. The river was fed by tributaries from the water falls under our windows and soon we stopped fighting and just resorted to moving furniture and books out of its way. When shouting over the roar of rain and wind around us was no longer helpful for actual communication we were reduced to simply laughing and taking a few pictures of what honestly felt like Poe's maelstrom. Off of the back porch our rain gutters gushed foamy white water into barrels that simply overflowed into the rushing brown water on the ground. Our tent valiantly withstood the wind put looked dejectedly wet in the storm and I dreaded finding out what all was lying ruined on the floor (it turns out, not too much). After about twenty minutes the storm turned and the rain came pouring in from the North-west. Thankfully, our back porch shields that side of the house and not as much water found its way in this time.

This morning when Aisha came to work and saw us laying wet clothes and towels out in the sun she laughed and said that everything in her house got wet too (though I suspect her "everything" really means everything and not just a lot like it means for us). She then shook her head and said, "That was a lot of rain yesterday. It's leaving now though. The dry season is very close." I thought it was interesting that a monster thunder storm seems to mean that the rain is on its way out. Apparently it wants to be remembered. I try to assure it that it will be. As much as I like keeping my rug dry, there is nothing quite like a good storm out here.