Happy

I feel like I have fallen off the face of the planet and woken up to find myself back in the middle of busy civilization.
Our computer had an unnexpected coronary and died without warning about a week before we left North Africa leaving me feeling completely disconncted from so many of you. So now, after two guiltily delightful weeks away from email, Facebook, news and blogs, I am sitting overwhelmed again by digital information in a tiny internet cafe in Nairobi. It is always a little odd to be reminded of how endlessly the riotous worlds of coffee shops and supermarkets go on whether or not I am in them. Overnight the sound of hornbills and little boys playing soccer outside my bamboo fence have been replaced with traffic horns and the click of high heels of pavement. The parched 100+ degrees has been soaked up by a perfect 75 degrees of cool greeness and the miles of dramatically vast grassland dotted only by mud huts and distant mountains has been swallowed up by skyscrapers and neon lights.
 It's not a bad change. I slurped the dregs of my milkshake from lunch shamelessly and blissfully curled up under chilly blankets last night. At eight and a half months pregnant running water and an endless supply of green vegetables makes me very, very happy. It just always feels a little odd at first. 
So we are settling in to life in the big city for a while. This morning the doctor told us that Annabelle is lying exactly like she should be as she gets ready to make her grand debut in a few weeks. We couldn't have asked for a smoother pregnancy and are so very thankful.
At the hospital this morning I saw two new mothers in long robes pushing babies only hours old in wheeled baissonettes down the hallway. The babies were pink and wrinkled and squinty eyed. The mothers were exhausted and proud and happy. And as we passed I said congratulations and then started to cry. Because really, what else can you do when you are terrified, elated, overwhelmed, impatient and excited beyond your ability to express it. You cry a little (at least I do) and then you laugh and thank God from the bottom of your heart and ask for a little help.
I am so happy.

Anna Bell

While we were home over Christmas a few months ago my mom pulled out an old trunk of childhood memorabilia that she wanted us to sort through. She had been cleaning out the store room and needed help deciding what could be thrown or given away and what needed to be kept for sentimental value so we sat down on the floor, popped open the latches on the trunk and began rummaging through a moldy treasure chest of memories.

The first few things to come out of the mildewy box made us laugh and roll our eyes in embarrassment. There was the brown dog whose tail is stubby and bare from years of being rubbed up against my thumb-sucking sister’s nose, the black pupils of his wide eyes worn off so that he only stares through white cataracts now. There was a purple diary full of half-finished stories and elaborate plays each with fantastical titles like “The Naladite Ring” or “The Black Pearl” complete with scratched out stage directions and dramatic ellipses at chapter breaks. There was a plush button box whose pink floral pattern belied the contents of its inner compartments: rows and rows of rocks, some polished smooth from a store-bought collection, others rough and still clinging to the dirt they were discovered in, all lying side by side like the crown jewels. Each thing that came out of the trunk seemed more precious than the last and each pulled behind it a string of stories about the day it was lost, found, imagined, discovered, fought over, broken or rescued. But of all the things we rediscovered that afternoon, none was as precious to me as Anna Bell.

Anna Bell was a Christmas present to me when I was probably six or seven years old. I had seen her first in a stationers shop in Mombasa which had a basement full of plastic toys lay underneath the ground floor of notebooks and pencil sharpeners. She was sitting on a shelf in a pink knit onesie and hat between her identical twins in blue and yellow. I didn’t know at the time that she was a Prince William doll, her blinking blue eyes and plastic swirls of reddish-blond hair meant to depict royal British offspring. To me she was just the most beautiful girl doll I had ever seen. Someone must have been paying attention that day because a few weeks later, there she was wrapped up in garish paper under the tree with my name on her. I was in love.

My mother may not even remember sitting down next to me and helping me straighten the doll’s socks after all the presents had been opened, but I remember her words like she was passing on some sacred family secret that I was responsible for guarding with my life. “This is your baby now, and you need to take good care of her. And the first thing a mother does is think up with a good name for her baby.” I took her words to heart and spent what literally must have been the next three days thinking of the most beautiful name in the whole world. I thumbed through the worn baby name book we had lying around the house and made lists of all the lovely princess names I could think of. I reread my favorite Bible stories and mulled over all the friend’s names I had ever envied. In the end, I still don’t know where the name came from. It was neither a friend nor a princess that I had ever heard of. But at the end of three days I made a pronouncement: “Her name is Anna Bell.” It was the most beautiful name I had ever heard.

When I pulled a twenty-year old Anna Bell out of the trunk and squeezed her to my chest with a cry of delight in December, Bryan was understandably a little creeped out. Though she obviously hadn’t aged much, the years had still not been kind to Anna Bell. Her marble eyes were cocked a little oddly now so that they didn’t quite close when she went to sleep and grey mold was permanently encrusted in the pink whorls or her ears. But even so, as an adult woman, I had a hard time not wanting to cradle her in my arms and carry her around again, and an even harder time putting her back to bed in the dusty trunk. Just looking at her brought back a wave of memories in tree houses and mango trees. Even after all these years, she was still so precious.

When it came time to name you, Annabelle, I wracked my brains once again to think of the most beautiful name in the world. I went through books and websites, Bible stories and poetry, relatives and friends. Your Papa and I played with different names over our coffee at breakfast and in the dark at night before we fell asleep. It took us a couple months this time, but in the end we decided that Annabelle was the most beautiful name in the world for you. Our hope and prayer is that grace and inner beauty will always mark your life.  

You are not named after a doll I had as a little girl, though I feel like in some ways maybe she was named after you. From the time I was seven years old I think I have been dreaming about you and preparing to meet you. I think I have always loved you with all my heart, though I know I still have so much to learn about what that means. I can’t wait to see the incredible gift you will be and get to know who you are and who you will become. I’ve never been a Mama before, so you may have to be a little patient with me at first. But I promise that you will always be my baby and that I will always take care of you. I love you so much already and can’t wait to meet you in just a few weeks. With God’s grace, we have lots of stories ahead together. We have so many memories to make, sweet girl.      

These Days...

It seems repetitive and perhaps a little pointless to continue mentioning how hot it has been here lately but somehow it makes me feel a little better.

It has been so hot here lately.

Though to be fair some of that is just me. When the winds pick up at three a.m. Bryan is finally pulling the sheet over his shoulders while I am soaking my kanga in the bucket of water by my bed and plastering it carefully over the now-generous swells of my naked body, willing myself to fall back asleep before the inverter runs out of power and the fan dies a painfully quiet death in front of me. It is hot, but someone I am already growing to love is making it even hotter for me.

Even so, life is far more manageable than I expected it to be at this point. I have taken up making yogurt these days, and the cold creaminess with a little honey makes for a delicious pick-me-up in the afternoons. Meat has been oddly hard to come by in the market lately, but green peppers, carrots and jir-jir (some mysterious green leaf that is wonderful) have been surprisingly abundant and so fresh cool salads have become a delightful new feature in my life too. Afternoons feel suffocating with their sluggish weight, but by sunset, the world has settled into a quiet sigh of relief and feels wide and open again. I have taken to carrying a chair outside to the part of our yard where the ground slopes and I can see far over the bamboo fence to the very distant horizon where a purple mountain sticks its head up in perpetual curiosity. The sun sets there every night, looking almost like an inflamed moon, swollen and faintly flushed in the dusty sky. It never fails to amaze me that an atmosphere full of wind-blown grime makes such a stunning canvas at sunset. The most depressing browns and greys flair into brilliance as day draws to a close. The same dirt that fills my nose and sheets with grit fills the sky with a shock of life for breathless moments every evening. And in those moments it feels like a fair tradeoff.

Eventually the sun impales itself on my bamboo fence and slips under the earth. I go back to finishing dinner but do so feeling revived. These days seven in the evening is my favorite time of day.  

My New Kilimanjaro

A year and a half ago Bryan started trying to talk me into climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro with him. At first I was somewhat resistant to this idea. A childhood in a household of competitive women has made me reluctant to start into any physical challenges without a reasonable assurance of success and the idea of summiting the tallest mountain in Africa did not conjure up my greatest moment of self-confidence. My first reaction was more or less – no thank you. “But just think…” he said. “If we don’t do this now we may start having kids soon and never get another chance like this for years to come.” His manipulative argument was highly persuasive to one already symptomatic of a mild case of baby lust. Long story short, I caved and we started training for the climb. But somewhere along the way, during those long early morning jogs down dirt roads, the Kilimanjaro/baby connection shifted a little bit. Instead of being about climbing a mountain before we have babies, it became about climbing a mountain in order to have babies. In my mind, the stamina and endurance required of mountain climbing was similar to that required of bearing a child. Somehow Kili became a personal test. If I could make it to the top of Kilimanjaro, I was ready to get pregnant. (Bryan didn’t know what he was signing up for.)

I know that probably sounds weird. Mountain climbing and childbearing are two completely different things and it probably wasn’t healthy for me to link them so closely. How would I have felt if I didn’t make it all the way to Uhuru Peak? Or what if I did make it but didn't end up pregnant at all? But at the end of the day, I did make it to the top (probably helped in part by the presence of my extremely capable little sister), and now, fourteen months later, I am mere weeks away from holding my daughter for the first time.

And while the idea of having a baby helped me get to the top of Kili, and the image of climbing a mountain has so far helped me carry this baby, I find that these “metaphors” are more aptly coupled than I may have once thought. For instance, those first few months of elated daydreaming while puking my face out were much like the terrifying thrill of those first long hikes through rainforest. And feeling those first kicks and regaining my appetite was a lot like getting used to thinner air and enjoying the view above the clouds. But now…now we are on that last long straight-up hike to crater’s rim. Waking up five times a night to empty my bladder, maneuver a foot out of my ribs or try and squirm an ache out of my back only to greet the morning prospect of twelve hours of blazing sunshine with a sense of dread feels strangely similar to hiking through scree at midnight, too tired to put one boot in front of the other, too cold to stop moving. Nine weeks out and Uhuru peak is within sight, but still eight long hours away.

A friend stopped by the other day and brought the mountain climbing/baby bearing connection home even further. As I put my bottle of filtered water back in the refrigerator and stepped outside to greet her, she was unloading at least fifty pounds of firewood off of her head and slumping her eight-month pregnant frame into a chair in the hot shade for a short break before her last mile home. I manage the heat and backaches with an electric fan and foot-rubbing husband; she does it with a sweltering cooking fire and rickety rope bed. Immediately, the image of the porter in holey tennis shoes with a massive tent and cooking pots strapped to his back hiking resolutely beside me (or more often ahead of me) sprung to mind. Yes, he’d been up the mountain dozens of times before and yes, this is my friend’s seventh baby, but still. Something tells me the blisters in the cold and contractions in the heat still feel just about the same.

So the hike goes on, right now feeling rather long and slow (and they tell me I don't know anything yet). But with each step and each week that gets me closer to that incredible goal, I find myself encouraged by the miles behind me and so inspired by those on the trail with me. And when I take the time to sit down for a quick water break, I am filled with a humbling sense of thankfulness to have been given the gift of this journey.

At the end of the day mountain climbing and having a baby are still in fact very different. But if that hike a year ago is anything to go by, something tells me that the view from the top of this mountain is going to be absolutely spectacular.

Green Words

Last month while we were with my parents in East Africa, we attended a small church in the village where they live. A handful of Christians met under a thatch shelter without walls next to a field of harvested stalks of maize. We sat on roughly hewn benches in the sultry heat, men on one side, women on the other. When it came time for guests to greet the group and introduce themselves, I stood up shyly and self-consciously dusted off the limited Swahili I only occasionally use these days. But in that moment of acute language stage-fright, something weird happened. Something about my surroundings unlocked a very rusty box in my mind that hadn’t been opened in a very long time. Whether it was the pattern of palm-tree shadows on sandy paths and the lingering scent of smoke from cooking fires or simply being with my parents again in a rural environment, something flipped a switch in my mind. When I opened my mouth the first few words to come creaking out were in Kigiriyama, a language of my childhood that I haven’t spoken and have hardly even heard in over fifteen years, (and which was of no practical value in that setting.) Even now I am amazed to think of the things buried in my own mind. Things that resonate somewhere deep inside of me when the strings of my senses are plucked.

A couple of days ago Bryan and I first dipped our toes into learning Rotana, the mother tongue of a people group of about 50,000. Their language has never been written down. They have no alphabet. No books. You can’t read a Rotana story anywhere in the world, though they have some good ones. Little kids can’t start learning to read Rotana in school before transitioning to Arabic or English because there are no primers. We are here to try and help those in this community who want to change that. It’s a long process. And for us, it starts with learning the language too.

So for about 45 minutes the other day, we sat with our friend Abdul and tried to learn something. We listened to the flavor of his words, sampling a few ourselves as we rolled sounds curiously around on our tongues. I was blown away by how different Rotana is than any other language I have ever studied. Word breaks elude me completely and vowels are swallowed up in the bristly hedges of their neighboring consonants. My lips and tongue and throat feel lethargic and out of shape as they try to transition out of Arabic and into something completely new. It’s too early for my mind to comprehend anything I am saying or hearing. For the time being meaning is modestly hidden behind the taste and smell and color of this new language. So even as I transcribe new words, ponder syllable structure and marvel over the advanced tongue root phenomenon that my grad school professors swore would only show up in a handful of languages any of us would ever work in (!), I am mostly just savoring this short-lived season of initial sensations.

Where Arabic tasted warm and grainy on my throat when I first started learning it, like fresh baked bread full of nuts and kernels, Rotana has a sour tang to it – more like the sorghum mush of the villages than the round loaves they sell in town. It is dry, but full of texture, like the baobab fruit that coats your tongue with soft white tanginess, while its oddly shaped seeds roll around in your mouth like marbles. Where Arabic had a Semitic gruffness to it sanded down with smooth rolling laterals, Rotana has a Nilotic nasal-ness that I feel hum pleasantly somewhere between my nose and the roof of my mouth. Arabic tasted golden-yellow to me. Rotana tastes green, like baby leaves.

I need to remember right now that for me, acute frustration is usually hot on the heels of initial elation as far as language is concerned. While trying to learn an unwritten language right now is an enticing mystery, when I can’t turn to a dictionary or grammar book for clues later on it may be maddening. While helping people craft an alphabet and choose a script to give shape to their beautiful language right now sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime, it won’t take long before that becomes the most intimidating thing I can imagine. (Ok, I’ll be honest, it already sort of is.) But when those days come, I hope and pray that the enthusiasm of the man leaning over my shoulder, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of my notebook and see what his language just might look like someday will be all the incentive I need to take a deep breath and just keep trying.

Until then, as one who still knows nothing, I am just enjoying the tastes and smells of this incredibly old new language.

Asad

(He's asleep...)

Animals in Africa are a difficult thing, especially for those of us who dare try and make them into something akin to pets. You would think I would have learned that from a childhood of funeral services beside popsicle stick crosses in the backyard, or, even more recently, an unfortunate incident with a dikdik. But even as an adult on this continent, I still find myself trying to squeeze into some non-existent space, seeking balance on a violently swaying playing field.

Not long ago I overheard a friend of ours, a vet from this area, remarking on the cans of pet food he had seen at a neighboring organization. “Dog food!” he spat out with disgust. “They are bringing in food for their animals when there are hungry people all around! These animals aren’t meant to be fed. They are self-sufficient!” And though I cringed at the time and kept my mouth shut, I felt a flicker of guilt. This was coming from a man I have also heard berate donkey owners for beating their work animals. He does not tolerate animal cruelty so his words hit a soft spot on my heart. I suppose when there isn’t enough mercy to go around for all the people who deserve it, showing any to animals does seem a little misplaced.

When my mother in law came to visit us, she fell in love with our cat, Nimir, and dog, Asad. Her cats at home get ice-cubes in their filtered water so I felt my fears at how she would respond to our animals' North African lifestyle were well-founded. But generally, I was relieved. I only caught her trying to slip them the “clean water” once. It wasn’t until her second week here that she proposed we bring them back to the States with us when we go home for a visit. My snort of a response apparently didn’t go over very well and we found ourselves in an intense conversation about the responsibilities of pet owners to their animals. These animals get treated better than any other in this state, maybe this country! I argued. Just because other people treat their animals badly doesn’t mean you can settle for treating them half-way badly. Is what I heard in response.  Round and round we went, getting nowhere.

That afternoon a donkey cart with a barrel of water came by. Against my better judgment, I set out Asad’s bowl of food while the man emptied his buckets into our tanks. As soon as I set the bowl of rice and scrap meat in front of Asad, I regretted my decision to feed him right away. The man’s eyes were wide when he asked, “What is he eating?”

“Just leftover food that people were finished with,” I hedged awkwardly.

“He eats all of that?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Every day?”

“Mostly.”

“Rice and meat?”

“Well, he doesn’t always get meat…” I said stupidly, though of course, at that point it didn’t really matter. The whole time the man filled up our tank with his dirty water, his eyes didn’t leave my dog licking up every last grain of rice from his own personal bowl before lapping up the water this man had just hauled across town so that people could bathe and cook. 

On Friday Asad attacked a goat. He had killed one last month and even though the owner had been compensated and the dog punished, we all knew what it would mean if the incident repeated itself. A dog in America couldn’t get away with robbing banks either.  This time the goat survived with some serious scratches on his backside (thank you Dan for stitching him up) but we all realized what had to be done. Poor Asad looked remorseful tied up under the tree next to his water bowl but the blood all over his muzzle kept him looking anything but innocent.

Maybe I have learned something over the years because my goodbye with Asad wasn’t terribly emotional or well marked. I just holed myself up in the house while the police, whose mandate to maintain public peace apparently extends to eradicating dogs who are a public menace, lent their services. It was over with very quickly and Bryan tells me they were both professional and surprisingly apologetic about the situation. It’s too bad you have to kill your dog. But we understand. Today it’s goats, tomorrow it might be a child.

A neighbor’s offering of homemade cinnamon rolls went a long way towards easing my sadness and a week later, my emotions have already faded a bit. But one thing still lingers faintly, and that is a sense of guilt. Guilt for trying to love a thousand years of wildness out of a North African mutt, expecting him to sit down and roll over like a good dog. Guilt for treating him too well. Guilt for not treating him well enough. Guilt for feeling a little bit relieved that I am no longer the foreigner with an unclean animal. Guilt for missing his wagging tail when we come home.

I say animals in Africa are a difficult thing. But really, if I think about it, I realize that what is so hard is really probably something much bigger than that.

P.S. Thank you Mama Dona for letting me use our conversations to process my own private feelings in this somewhat public space! Your words are such a good catalyst for thought. Love you.

Things that got eaten while we were away...

Termites are responsibel for the first two pictures. The last two...a saber toothed rat perhaps?

The window...

The cookbook...

The ice-tray...

And the tea kettle.