a matter of perspective

This snippet ought to illustrate rather well the nature of my beloved new workplace. It may also demonstrate my reasons for being so smitten with the people and stories I am getting to encounter 5 days a week . . .

One of our residents [a former resident, I should add, for reasons that will soon be self-evident] found a young man who was willing to, er . . . run some errands for her. She provided him with the funds to make the purchases, instructed him as to where to go, and waited for his return. Once she had waited longer than she deemed fit, she wandered the neighborhood to ask if anyone had seen this gentleman and had insight as to why he had not returned. Sure enough, she found someone who recognized her description and who informed her that he seemed to have been delinquent in the work he had been hired to do.
Indignant, she promptly returned to her apartment and called the police to report the transgression. Though there was nothing they were able to do about the man in question, the police dutifully came . . . to arrest the woman who had made the call. You see, she had called to report to them that this young thief had run off with her money, leaving her without the drugs she had sent for. As she was arrested, she reiterated her disgust at the state of youngsters these days: you just can't count on youth to be reliable these days

smoking elders

The majority of my afternoon was spent with a chain-smoking elderly women who had me held happily hostage to her Medicare tales of woe. As a result, I am left chuckling at this quote, though I know nothing about its background. Please feel free to enlighten me if I have any readers out there who know more than I do about his reasoning for writing such an intriguing little smippet:

"Everybody welcome-especially elders who smoke."
Jacob de Jager (1923 - )

so i'm told

"Anna: Your Photo, 'Dropped One,' Will Be Published. Congratulations for your publication"

hmmm . . . don't know if I believe it, but I must say I'm flattered by the idea. Perhaps it does some good to post photos on a photography website after all.

the clan

A conversation with my little brother just now has made me photo-hungry for family. So just for fun I am posting this one: Mom and I were playing around with my Mac while out running errands. Returning home, I showed our photo booth shots to the boy, at which point Alex teased us for looking like a "girl band." The boys and I then decided to play off on that theme and make our best "boy/girl band" faces. This is the end result of the combination of the the two . . . the J**jan Clan Band? :-)

the daily grind

It is a strange pleasure, an exquisite ordinary-ness, to have a “normal” day job. The simple routine of going into the office each day, of earning a small but consistent paycheck, of having an office . . . it is all so much more than just a simple joy. I am finding the greatest of pleasures in the most unexpected places, in activities I used to regard as utterly, undesirably humdrum: organizing my rolodex, filing paperwork in its proper alphabetical order, signing and dating paperwork.
But the greatest pleasure is that of listening to the residents. I get to have the “job” of letting them tell me their stories. “How did you get the first name “Lloyd?” I asked Miss Marguerite. Once I had shouted loudly enough into her ear for my voice to be audible [to her 92-year-old ears that don't work quite so well anymore], her face lit up with a wide grin, Well, my Daddy named me. See his first sweetheart was named Marguerite Lloyd. So when my Mama had me, he decided to name me after her—I guess he figured if he switched the name around my Mama wouldn’t get a bee in her bonnet about it. So here I am now: Lloyd Marguerite!

sikisa hapa

I was struck today by the difficulties of working with the Burundi refugees . . . the newness is wearing off a bit—the “honeymoon” period, if you will. So now I am getting more concerned about the hugeness of the task of teaching them—and the hugeness of the problems they will face in general as they try to acclimate to life here. There is so much that needs to be done before they can live independently and I worry about the logistics of it all. How will the children get registered in school in a couple of weeks now? Who will help them with all the practical matters entailed in moving into their temporary government housing? How will the children get used to school life here when they don’t even understand English yet? . . .
My head starts to spin just trying to figure out what needs to be done, never mind figuring out how to do it! But of course it is not up to me. And Lord knows we would be in a sorry state if it were! Thankfully there are people much more suited to figuring out logistics and, well, just “taking care of business,” than I will ever be!
Anyhow, telling of the past few days of lessons are the phrases that have become my most useful Swahili words of late: Wacha hio, Sikisa hapa, and Hapana. Loosely translated, that would be “Don’t touch that,” [for when they get overly zealous about starting the tape player again that we use for ngoma, or “drum and dance”], “Listen to me!” [this one needs no explanation, I expect], and “No” [i.e. no, don’t climb in my car and lay on the horn today—that was a rather noisy ordeal yesterday!].
So we stumble along each day. We figure things out as we go, making plenty of mistakes, laughing at mistaken translations, getting frustrated when we can’t understand each other . . . and, by grace, perhaps we make some learning progress along the way.

jambo sana

There was no place I would have rather been than singing and dancing around a vacant church building this afternoon with a small crowd of African children and grown-ups. It was an odd transition to make from the morning job interview; but it was with gusto that I shed my professional attire, gathered my Swahili books and tapes, and headed to the church to bid my friends “Jambo!”
This made the 4th day I have spent as an informal English teacher for one family group out of the Burundi refugees recently placed in this city. The "lessons" are quite impromptu, considering the language barrier, but I'm happy to see that Swahili comes more easily to me than I expected--and, no doubt due to their extreme immersion, the family is learning quickly. So far I'm relying on picture books and cassettes I found at the library, so our days are consisting of attempts at conversation, repeated phrases, words, & numbers, and, of course, singing and dancing.
It was perhaps presumptuous of me to find out where they were staying, show up, and simply start spending each day with them . . . but I could not help myself ☺ The discovery that African refugees had just arrived when I was returning brought to the surface all my emotions and culture shock from the return; it made me realize that even though I was ready to return, and am glad to be home, I did leave a piece of my heart in Africa. And that has left me with a heart for the African people.
I would like to think I have something great to offer, some grand way to help. The truth is, however, that I have been in a rather needy place in life lately, left with no choice but to rely on my dear friends and family for practical support.
But I want to trust that God can use the little I have in the way of time, and a heart, to make some sort of a difference in the lives of those with whom my own life circle intersects.

chicken little

I had what I deemed to be a highly ironic return to the country. For those of you who have followed my blog at all over the past little while, you will know that I spent the last 6 months getting used to cold showers. So in the back of my mind, as I flew, bussed, and drove back to the U.S., was the happy thought that I was returning to the ease of warm showers . . .
Well, arriving late at night, I did a bit of perfunctory unpacking and then promptly went to bed, sleeping soundly. The next morning I awoke to discover that my water heater had burst, flooding the attic [yes, unfortunately, the water heater is unwisely located in the attic], and causing the ceiling to collapse under the weight of the soggy floods.
Needless to say, I did not have a hot shower that morning. Or the next. Or the next.
But now, after a week of calls to roof repairmen, electricians, plumbers, and insurance adjusters—and of course, my ever-available superman and superwoman grandparents—all is well.
I have purchased a fine new water heater that sits proudly in its new home in the basement, the ceiling is looking more lovely than it has in 20 years, and we all are enjoying wonderfully hot showers!

annie

god be with you

I never knew I was capable of such great emotion in a simple goodbye. In the past, goodbyes have been rather cold affairs, dreaded because of what I thought I should feel instead of what I actually did. But this time the dam broke. What I expected to be a routine round of kusse [dutch for "kisses"] and hugs became an unstoppable flow of tears springing up from some hidden geyser of grief. Every time I looked into Annie’s eyes and tried to tell her how lovely, how precious she was, I ended up instead blubbering incoherently through my mess of tears and sniffles.
Annie was my dear friend, my lifeline of a caring friend, for the past six months. She and I spent our days caring for the children together, then I ritually walked her back to the compound each afternoon, recapping the day and laughing about the girls' antics or bemoaning their naughtinesses.. On weekends I clung to her, following her around like a homeless puppy dog on the days when she was on duty and I was off. And on the rare days when we both had free time, we sat in her little hut chatting, walked through the compound visiting, and sometimes took the bus to nearby towns for a change of scenery and the chance for her to buy maize, kapente, and other staples. Annie was my dear friend.
And what hurts so intensely is the knowledge that she most likely will never have the chance to pursue her dreams, to explore the world. as she so longs to do. She has never been given the privilege of enough schooling to learn how to read. She has never been able to travel outside the borders of her home country.
I cannot help but ask that almost cliché question of why some in the world have opportunities that others never do. Yet I suspect that this question cannot be answered—not this side of heaven, at least. What I do know is that Annie is every bit as talented, as capable, as charming, as the most accomplished of modern young women. And what I must trust is that she is where she is, with the opportunities she has and does not have for a greater purpose than what we mortals can see in the here and now.

that's all she wrote

enough said . . . :-(

fred's finicky dining

Fred paid one of his regular visits to the lodge, and I spent about 30 minutes mesmerized by his munchings. It is amazing to watch the way elephants know to pick the grass and then sweep the bunch back and forth against the ground to clean off the dirt before he enjoys his meal.

It seemed to me that I should somehow commemorate the moment when I had the strange realization that it did not faze me to be showering with a warthog. This morning as I walked to the bathhouse, Herco warned me that Poomba was in there and showed no signs of leaving. I replied that I was used to it and proceeded to turn on the shower. At the moment, Poomba had actually followed Herco out, so I latched the door as I entered [a door that was actually raised to prevent the warthogs from coming in] and explained to Herco that I was going to pretend that she actually was prevented by the latch on the door. A few minutes later, I heard the familiar sounds of her grunts as she shoved against the door and then backed up to jump over it. She then shoved her nose through my shower curtain to presumably reassure herself that I was within sight. Seeing that I was, she proceeded to gnaw on the loo door, promptly chewing a hole in yet another door. Destroying on, she proceeded to the second. By this point I was finished with my shower so, as I toweled off, she peered once more into the stall and then, as I walked out of the bathhouse, she followed me. Her shower company gone, she went off to find another companion for the remainder of the morning.
What I mused over after finishing my morning routine was that the fact that it included the company of a warthog has become so commonplace that it does not even delay me anymore. No doubt I will miss her company once I am once more left with lone showers.

setting the baobab

Walking home late from the schoolhouse one night last week, I was stunned by the beauty of the sun setting behind my favorite Baobab. But alas, I was camera-less. So this weekend I snagged the time to chase the sunset to the same spot, this time armed with my camera.

pampered in prague

Who would have thought that a “Congratulations—you have won!” email, flagged as questionable, would actually have a valid reason to be in my inbox? I most certainly did not. It was only out of amusement that I decided to read this one as I went through my daily deletions of inbox clean-up. Amusement turned to incredulous curiosity when I realized that I was oddly familiar with the contest this email was referring to. And so it happened that two months later I was bound for Prague, straight out of the African Bush.
For someone accustomed to mosquito nets and Tsetse flies, candlelight and cold showers, giant centipedes in my schoolhouse and warthogs in my bathhouse . . . I was in for a bit of culture shock, to say the least. It was with wide eyes and a gaping mouth that I settled into our Five-Star hotel—one of “The Leading Small Hotels of the World”—with its bed piled high with feather pillows and its table laden with fresh fruits and chocolates.
Once I had made a valiant effort at scrubbing the dirt from my body and smoothing the wrinkles out of my chitenge [Zambian dress], we headed to the set. Oddly enough, here on the set of the film, I felt strangely at home. You see, the brilliantly created magical world of Narnia was sort of like just another beautiful dream world for my safari-accustomed eyes. It is an amazing thing to enter this set and be instantly whisked away into a land of talking trees and centaurs—but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you? ☺
So began my four-day adventure in Prague: a whirlwind of soaking in the sights of this stunning city, hobnobbing with hobbits, prattling with Princes, and returning each evening to be catered to, and spoiled rotten, in the lap of luxury.
It was, like I said, a whirlwind of experiences packed into too short of a time frame. Consequently, there was no way I could have gotten any sort of full sense of the place. I did, however, feel like my experience was complete, thanks to my last day of sightseeing.
On this day, I had a moment of absolute awe, in which I said to myself, Now I feel like I can leave this place in peace. In a sense, my traveler’s sensibilities were soaked to saturation point thanks to my visit to the cathedral of the Prague castle.
This visit came at the end of a day in which I had seen enough sights to start to be tired of sight-seeing; granted, I should admit that I have a rather low tolerance for tourist attractions, so my sense of “enough” is decidedly lower than most people’s, I believe. At any rate, it was in this state of mind that I entered the cathedral. And then I stopped, stunned, gazing up and around me with an instant teary-eyed reaction to the beauty. I can no more describe it to you than I suspect an angel could describe Heaven to a mortal. Suffice it to say, it is a magnificently glorious construction.
The next day I departed from Prague, saddened to leave and not quite ready to return to “real life.” But I was satisfied, filled up by the experience, and inwardly richer thanks to the time.

Kimba's romantic side

Kimba got to go to Prague. He of course could not travel to such a romantic city alone, so he took his girlfriend . . . yes, Kimba has met someone while here in Zambia. Her name is Reginia and she is, as you can see, quite a lovely companion for Kimba. At any rate, in order to celebrate their arrival, the two decided to take a ride on the luggage carousel--perhaps not the most exciting of rides, but it turned out to be a fine way to inaugerate the trip.

home

A week of traveling days has given me a humbling awareness of my reliance upon the people and things that fill my basic human needs. The first portion of my travels was a time of great luxury, excitement, and good companionship--more updates on that will come soon, I promise!
But at the moment it is the second portion of my travels that is prominent in my mind . . . A few days of loneliness, extreme cold, inadequate funds, and missing baggage have given me a renewed gratitude for simple comforts, even those here at the safari lodge that I never would have thought of as "comforts" till now.
I'm growing weary of life being so difficult--and I think I'm ready to come home. When traveling here in Zambia, I am just floored by how hard it is to get by, from transport to supplies to funds. And winter right now is brutal, especially in Lusaka--so lodging in a little cottage with my hot water bottle in my missing bag was quite brutal. It is so humbling to be alone, without means, and without even a way to simply get warm.
But I made it, and a trip to the airport this morning left me giddily relieved with a successful retrieval of my bag. So here I am, "home" again for now--and for perhaps the first time in months truly looking forward to being home.

if i had a hammer

Lately I have taken to loitering around the workshop in my free time, after discovering that one shop artist allows me to "help" occasionally. After watching him at work one day, I asked if I could staple one of the stool cushions together as well. He entrusted me with his tools, and a few minutes later I proudly displayed the finished product. Then I asked if I could mark it on the underside so that I could find "my" stool later on--he again obliged and, sure enough, the next day I went around peering underneath bar stools until I found my initials.
So for my most recent loitering, the project in progress was chairs instead of stools. This time my work involved hammer and nail more than the staple gun but, once again, I was able to proudly claim a finished product. Here is a shot of the underside of "my" chair, not yet out in public view. Note the faint "AGJ" in the bottom right corner.
I must say, I did enjoy surprising various workmen and safari guides as they came to look for Harrison and found me instead [he actually trusted me enough to leave me with the work!], happily hammering away . . .

sentry of the day

So this is no award-winning photo, admittedly--but I believe my choice of safety over photographic brilliance was probably a wise one. This fellow decided to camp out at my place for the afternoon, preventing me from getting back inside for some time, after my work day was done. I figured I was not about to try to battle or berate this guy, and opted instead to capture his rear end for, er, posterity? ;-)

dreaming practically

Having been intrigued by dream psychology for some time now, I have read various dream books over the years. For the most part, they seem to agree on rather complicated explanations. Or, if not complicated, you can at any rate assume that what happens in a dream is not supposed to relate too closely to the real-life correlation.
I think, however, that my dream the other night pretty much means exactly what it seems: I dreamt that I was able to wash my hair, and in my dream I reveled in the extravagance of such a luxury. For several weeks now, I have grown increasingly aggravated by my itchy scalp. Not so aggravatted, mind you, that I was willing to extend my icy shower for the amount of time necessary for more than a quick hopping-in-and-out-while-distracting-myself-by-making-odd-noises. So my hair has persisted in its unwashed state. My dream convinced me, however. So this morning, upon the occasion of:
1. enough firewood for relatively hot water
2. a Saturday morning with extra time
. . . I washed my hair.
And it was glorious!