I need my jeans.  I need my rubber boots.  I need to go tromping out to the barn, through six inch deep mud.

The feeling was almost overwhelming when it hit on Monday.   Up until this point I have enjoyed putting on a dress or skirt every day.  Not minded at all that I don’t even own a pair of jeans on this continent.  But I suppose after seven months one is allowed to miss such a silly thing as jeans.

A few weeks back I was sitting with the neighbors when I spotted a black rubber boot.  It was lying in their yard, probably a treasure that one of the kids had found by the side of the road, discarded by someone who no longer needed it.

“Nisaka etchi.”  I pointed to the boot, instructing four year old Pi, “I want that.”  He brought me the boot, and I slipped my foot into it.  It was my size.  If there had been two of them I would have begged to keep them.

The neighbors know that I’m a farm girl.  Such things as extreme happiness when a load of cow manure is delivered and walking around barefoot in the mud (while Ana and Fatima shake their heads at me!) proclaim that I’m wired slightly differently than some.  And I’ve explained that I have cows, chickens, and a garden in America.  But I don’t think they had a clue the memories things such as that rubber boot evoked.

I returned the boot to Pi.  He promptly put both feet into it and began hopping around.

Being far away from days of rubber boots, stained jeans, and sweatshirts make me realize the beauty of such things.  And remind me of all that I have here for which I need to be thankful.

Someday I will be sitting on a haybale in Oregon with boots covered with cow manure.  Missing neighbors who expect me to sit and visit every day, missing lovely hot weather that means I don’t need a blanket at night, missing holey roads that stretch my abilities on the bicycle, missing neighbor kids who always have a greeting for me and are happy to share with treasures with me.

But for now I will have pleasant dreams of jeans and rubber boot days.

Basi earns the blue ribbon for the best all-round Kimwani word.  Sevegeumway wins top prize in the coolest sounding word category.

I love the Kimwani language.   It often does not make sense to my English grammar brain.  My tongue struggles to pronounce so many of the words.  And different forms of some verbs sound completely the same (osaka and asaka mean “he does have” and “he doesn’t have,” but when one of them is in the middle of a sentence I have no idea if that person has or doesn’t have).  The words just sound too similar!

But despite all that, I love it.  I love being able to string words together, knowing I sound like a three year old just learning to talk, but being able to get my meaning across.  Whether it is telling Fatima that I’m going to a meeting with my teammates, or asking Abdul to please water my garden I am able to communicate!

By far, though, the biggest two reasons I love the Kimwani language are basi and sevegeumway.   Basi can be used for many things.  It gives a sense of finality that can’t be argued with.  “The food is good, but I’ve had enough.  Basi.” or “Today I’m tired from work and am going to go read instead of visiting.  Basi.” or “You’ve given me too many new Kimwani words today!  Basi.” or even “My chicken is dead.  Basi.”

Ana and I use basi in normal conversation every day.  A few weeks back I taught basi to my brother, encouraging him that it is a good word to be used when something needs to be finished for good.   (Pronounce the a as a short a, and the i as a long e.  It has two syllables: ba-si.)

Then there is sevegeumway.  Which I’m sure I’m spelling wrong.   It took me weeks of hearing this word before I dared to try it out myself.  When you know how to pronounce it, it just rolls off the tongue.  (Every e is pronounced as a long e sound, and it has five syllables: se-ve-ge-um-way.) 

Sevegeumway means, “I’m fine, but I don’t know how you are doing.”   It is one of six or seven different phrases you may use when you are greeting someone.  If you are doing well you reply with nacomu.  If you are sick then you reply with a string of words that I cannot remember right now.  Likely because they don’t sound as cool as sevegeumway or communicate so succinctly as basi.

So if you ever need to convince someone that you really and truly are totally finished with a job or that you are so full of apple pie you could burst, just use basi.  And try using sevegeumway next time you greet your best friend.  Just let the words roll off your tongue!

It was with much trepidation I climbed into the driver’s seat.  Memories of painfulness while learning to drive stick-shift flooded through me.  Memories of Kevin in the backseat, sternly told not to say anything, as I took ten minutes to get out of the driveway.   Since then I’ve spent hours driving stick-shift, and am a firm believer that driving an automatic is boring.

But it had been over seven months since I last drove.  And seven months is almost ten percent of the time I have had my license.  So as I put the pickup into gear and pulled onto the road I wondered how this would work.

It was a piece of cake.  Yes, my left hand had to get into the rhythm of shifting.   And I know I was hugging the edge of the road too much.  But I successfully dodged all pedestrians, sheep, goats, bicyclists, large buses, chickens, and motorcyclists that thronged the road.

The test drive was lovely.  And as I drove back to Steve’s house I let out a whoop of delight.  I was driving again!

The following day Ana, Margaret, and I headed for Mueda for a weekend of relaxation (hours spent reading in the hammock, enjoying the cool breeze, and playing the keyboard were amazing!).  I was driving.

As we passed mud houses, fields of corn (local crunchy corn, not Oregon sweet corn), small children, and the always present goats there was a marvelous feeling of being on the road again.  A feeling of freedom that just hadn’t been there as I rode my bicycle around Mocimboa.

A feeling of freedom that might also have had to do with the fact that I had no idea of the conversion from kilometers to miles.  No idea if I was speeding along at 45 miles an hour or 70 miles an hour.  (Yes, I did find the conversion later.  Apparently I drove most of the trip between 50 and 65 miles an hour.)

But no matter what that feeling of freedom was due to, it was simply fantastic to have the steering wheel in my hand again!

The first doubts crept in when I popped the brownie in my mouth and it was spicy.  Then when my fingers started burning I got more worried.  The residue on my hands from cutting up the tiny peppers must be the culprit.  But surely it would be ok.

And it was.  Ana and I stubbornly assured each other it was ok, as we sat at the table, our eyes watering, our mouths on fire, and our faces burning.

I was hungry for pizza.  No, we don’t have cheese.  Or pepperoni.  Or even hamburger.  But I had just bought a beautiful pineapple form the little old man who comes by our house once a week.  And we had tomato paste.  So I made pizza.

And put in three of the tiny red peri-peri peppers I’d bought from the pineapple man.

It smelled like pizza.  Looked a little funny without cheese.  But anticipation was high as we took the first bites.

Unfortunately the overwhelming taste had nothing to do with pizza.  It had everything to do with spicy.  Hot.  Fiery furnace hot.  So we ate two bites of fresh bread for every bite of pizza.

It was good.  I’m excited for the next time I make pizza.  But maybe I should cut the peri-peri up with gloves.  My hand is still burning, hours later.

Oh, and next time I shall only put in one peri-peri.

~smashing gigantic snails because they eat your garden

~getting a dead chicken thrown at you by your neighbor kids (they thought it was funny, I didn’t)

~composing stories for kindergartners to read (“Josiah said, ‘I want to go to the market.’ so he went and got a pot for eggs.”)

~cracking open a coconut with a machete

~having a monkey climb all over you as you try to write “over in the meadow in the sand in the sun…”

~syringe feeding said monkey

~cheering when your solar battery light becomes green

~enjoying coasting down a hill on your bike, until discovering the brakes have stopped working

~stopping the bike by pulling manually on the bike’s brake lines

~catching rabbits

~playing Go Fish with Josiah, Krista, and Mark

~smashing a gigantic centipede that happened to be climbing down the kitchen wall

“Miss Jennifer, can I do another page of math?”

A question like that never fails to brighten my day.  Especially when it occurs at 9:30, at which time we’ve only been in school for an hour and a half.  Because then it is a sign that this will not be a morning when I have to prompt Micah or Krista on every math or science question.  (Yes, even my amazing students have those days when it becomes “please do the next subtraction problem.”)

Monday was such a day.  But Monday was such a day in a double-blessing way, because both Micah and Krista were asking me the “can I do another page?” question by 9:30!

I sat at the kindergarteners’ table, my finger tracing the words as Aby read, “The dog and the cat and the goat are in a fog.”  Some words are already sight words for her, other words still must be sounded out slowly and deliberately.  Next Josiah read, “The dog and the cat and the goat came to a log.”

Behind me I knew that Micah and Krista were plunging ahead in their math books; Micah in the midst of division, Krista working on multiplication.  After weeks spent on addition and subtraction both of them were excited to be on to new horizons.

“Micah and Krista, please come to a good stopping place and join us on the mat.”  The kindergarteners and I began singing, “This Little Light of Mine.”  Then I taught the kids, “Deep and Wide,” before moving on to our Bible lesson.  I am using the children’s version of the Chronological Bible Stories (by New Tribes Mission), and we are currently learning about Joseph and his brothers.

After our Bible lesson we read a bit about the planet Mars, discussing how many years old we would be in Martian years compared to Earth years.  If you lived on Mars would you say you are 10 Martian years old or 20 Earth years old?

Then I read some of Winnie the Pooh to the kindergarteners, and they spent time putting together some puzzles.

Before the “noon bell” (or rather, “noon voice” that says, “Ok, kids, school is over!”) rang Micah and Krista had each done two extra pages in their math books and we read an entire chapter about the Louisiana Purchase (I was only going to read half the chapter, but the kids were so excited about more land for the USA that I finished the chapter).

It is days like this that make me love my job.  Days like this make memories that may be pulled out on hard days.  Days like this that make me wonder how I could ever do anything else.  Thank you, Lord, for blessings.

It was an encouragement.  It was a culmination.  It was a blessing.  It was beyond incredible.  And I got to be there!

It was the dunking of two local brothers.  (You translate that into your “spiritual” language: for security purposes I am not using the actual word!)  It had been talked about for weeks beforehand.  The night before the incredible event I was asked to go as the “lady representative” from our team.  I gladly accepted.   I don’t mind getting up at 4:15 am…or at least I don’t mind when there is a good reason.

By 5:30 our group of 13 people (including some from the churches, four missionaries, the two men needing dunking, and the wife of one of the men) had arrived at our destination, a small creek in a beautiful wooded area.  If I hadn’t known better I would have thought we had been whisked away to Oregon, so green and bushy was this area!

Prayers were said.   Songs were sung.  A deep feeling of amazement and joy permeated the group.  Timothy spoke briefly on dunking and what it means.  More songs were sung.

It was about this time that I noticed some strange movement in the creek.  And remembered the stories Steve had told about crocodiles seen in rivers.   The story of a crocodile that damaged a human. My heart started pounding.

As we stood in a half-circle, I was one of the only people facing the creek.  Likely no one else would notice any strange movement in the creek.   Thus it was up to me, in the few minutes left before the dunking, to decide if that movement was a crocodile.  If it was, and I didn’t say anything, then I would be blogging about a brother being dunked and then eaten by a crocodile.  If it was not a crocodile, and I did say something, then I would be overly anxious.

I am not too knowledge about crocodiles.  Though I may have seen one at some point in captivity, I don’t remember it.  I used to enjoy watching the “Crocodile Hunter.” But that is the extent of my knowledge.

So I continued watching the spot.  Still feeling the amazement and joy of this group of people preparing for such an event, but keeping one eye on the creek.  As we prayed one final time before the dunking I added a special request, “God, if that is a crocodile, You please stop him!”

Isaac (the dunker) took Kevin by the hand, and led him into the creek.   (The strange movement stayed repetitive.)  I snapped pictures as Kevin was dunked.  The creek was the perfect depth for a swim; as Kevin came up, Isaac went under.  Both fellows finally climbed out on the the bank, huge smiles covering their faces.

The process was repeated with Matthias.  Except this time Isaac kept his footing.

As Steve, Patrick, and Tim prayed for Kevin and Matthias I silently thanked God for keeping the crocodile (or perhaps just a branch in the current) under control.

Dunkings have never had so much significance to me.  These men are risking so much by this bold proclamation.  Amazement and awe at what God has done here flooded through me.  But I knew I couldn’t understand even half of what He has done and is doing in this situation.  May He continue to work His will in this place!

It was a day I could only dream about.  But it arrived…yesterday!  I caught an inkling of it at morning snack time, when Steve asked me if I wanted some cow manure to spread on my garden.  Yes, sir!

In the afternoon I hopped in the pickup with Steve and Micah, headed for a local cow corral.  The cows were out to pasture, but the corral was full of rich earth.  I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.   There was that “I’m home” feeling as  I grabbed a shovel and began filling the pickup.

We piled the pickup high.  Just as we finished loading the pickup the cows returned home.  I stood and discussed their various attributes with Micah and Steve, sticking my hand through the fence, wishing one of the animals would come close enough for me to touch it.   Their long horns stopped any thoughts I might have had about climbing in with them.

As we dumped the golden dirt in front of my gate, the neighbors began to gather.  Soon five neighbor kids were hauling buckets and basins of manure into my backyard.  Ntoto shoveled it into buckets; Abo carried the basins on his head; and Pi ran back and forth with a small bucket, spilling the stuff all over the ground.  Even Ana got involved with the hauling…was I ever proud of her when she asked if she could help!

Soon my garden and flowerbeds were covered with a light layer of beautiful, dark soil.  The kids tried to teach me the word for “stinky,” and I tried to communicate the fact that there is no smell as beautiful as cow manure.  No smell that speaks quite so much of home.

[But then as I was extolling the virtures of cow manure to my team, I realized that perhaps I should add a disclaimer.   My house in Oregon does not smell like cow manure.   The barn does, but the house doesn't.  My mom is a much better housekeeper than that!]

It began to rain about the time we got my new and lovely-smelling possession moved.  I thought watching rain was wonderful, but watching rain fall upon flowers made happy with cow manure is even better!

Half a flipflop, candy wrappers, tin cans, water bottle tops, smashed pop cans, bricks, and hundreds of broken shells are strewn over our yard.  A gulf in the sand shows where a raging river rushed a few days ago.   The garden looks perky, and in the last few days I’ve planted cilantro, basil, cucumbers, and dill.

Inside the house there are five or six spots of white tape on the floor.  Despite the fact that I told Margaret, “First we pray here, then we pray there, then we pray here, and finally we pray here.” the tape really does not mark places of worship.

These are all signs of the rainy season.  The rainy season that means the incredibly hot season is drawing to a close.  Not finished yet, but getting closer.  I could still horrify you with tales of the incredible amount of sweat that appears on days like today.  But the overcast and rainy days are amazing.  Cool and lovely.

My students were just as excited as I was for the rain.  I may have had to practically shout as I read Homer Price to them.  And the books on the top of my shelf may have gotten a bit wet from mist through the windows. (Windows here often equal screens and bars, but no shutters or glass.)  And half the schoolroom may have started to flood.  But there is something incredibly refreshing about a heavy downpour.   Something refreshing about the sound of rain on a tin roof.    Something even more refreshing about standing in the rain, letting it drench you.

We don’t have rain every day.   And apparently sometimes during rainy season the rain is absent for a week or two. But you always know it will be back.

Of course, because there is not as much sunshine during the rainy season charging one’s computer becomes a bit more complicated.  And a charged computer is looked at as a precious possession.  Consequently, a blog that has not been updated recently is also a sign of the rainy season.

So if you are wondering why I am not updating my blog, you can blame it on the rain.  I may be standing in my garden, mud squishing through my toes, picking cucumbers.  Or bicycling through the rain to school.  Or playing in the rain with Micah and Krista.  Or even just gazing out the window, a huge smile on my face as our backyard turns into a raging river.

There shall be showers of blessings; send them upon us, oh, Lord.

In Mocimboa Christmas Eve means…

~reading in your backyard, thanking God for the lovely breeze

~cleaning your water filter because it only filters a cup of water every two hours

~listening to your Muslm neighbor kids (who don’t know English) sing, “Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you” broken-record style for five minutes (Ana had told them that they should sing Happy Birthday to Jesus, but I have no idea how they knew it in English! They even had the right tune!)

~sweating

~rice with a bean/peanut curry for supper

~card games with the other singles on the team

~being startled when your team leader and his family sneak into your backyard and start singing Christmas carols (that was a true Christmas moment!)

~sweating

~baking seventy bread rolls (for neighbor gifts)

~going to bed on the kitchen floor because two single ladies are staying overnight at your house

~tying a mosquito net from the rafters in your kitchen

~knowing that even if a rat does decide to visit the kitchen tonight you will be safe under your net

In Mocimboa Christmas means…

~church starts at eight am, supposedly

~you arrive at church at nine am

~church actually starts at ten am

~sweating

~hard rain on the church’s tin roof means that you can’t hear the speaker

~even if you could hear the speaker you couldn’t understand him because you don’t understand Portuguese

~sharing a plate of rice and beans with a new sister in Christ (see “Beyond Amazing” post)

~sweating

~napping in the backyard

~realizing that Jesus moved cross-culturally when He came to earth

~tea, snacks, and a game of Scum King with the team

~skyping with your family

~thinking your family looks very silly in their sweatshirts and stocking caps

~dancing around the kitchen singing Christmas carols

~candles on the table

All of which stacked up for a uniquely different, but definitely enjoyable Christmas.