Abdul, our guard, takes a break from cutting down bamboo.

When it rains, it pours. And cuts gullies in the sandy roads! Riding one's bicycle takes expertise.

More rain damage.

Fatima makes fabulous bread!

She cooks the bread in this oven, and then sells it in the market.

Cute neighbor kids

So perhaps it isn’t unreasonable that it irritates me when I sit in my house at 9pm and hear a movie playing down the street.  Hear, as in hear every word loud and clear.  Half the time they are in English, but even when they are not the tones of voices generally convince me that the movies are definitely not Sound of Music style!

But the other night it was 6pm and the only sound in my neighborhood was crickets.  I sat at my kitchen table, fairly drinking in the silence, trying to explain to Ana the revitalizing effect that natural quietness has on me.  Perhaps my face was enough explanation.

Most days I enjoy the fact that my next door neighbors are literally right next door.  That I can easily stick my head out the door to see if they are home.  I love looking down my street at the mud houses, glancing over to see which neighbor is out front and ready to be visited.

But as darkness descends I want to withdraw.  And withdrawing from the noise is simply impossible in this town where to play a movie or sports game is to turn it up so the whole neighborhood can hear it.  And then I wish for my acres of Oregon countryside.  For a walk in the trees, where the only sounds come from the cows or frogs or perhaps my brother’s tractor.  I don’t exactly wish for silence, just for a lack of artificial noise!

But on a day when silence covers this neighborhood at 6pm I’m sure I have the best of both worlds.  And then I wonder if it is ok if I pray that their TV breaks.

Walk away.  And wonder forever afterwards where that rat went.

It was Sunday morning.  I was in the backyard, puttering around for a few minutes before leaving for church.  Ana hollered at me, “Jennifer, get your camera and come quick!”

I expected a large spider.  Not a rat splashing around in our toilet.  Apparently he had climbed up through the pipe system into the toilet.  And found that he couldn’t jump out of the toilet.  I looked at Ana in shock.  “What are we supposed to do?”

Ana didn’t have a good answer, so I took some pictures.  During this time our rat friend was violently splashing around, desperately trying to get out of his strange prison.

Then we walked away.  I personally, as resident farm girl and generally designated animal killer, was hoping he would just disappear.  I didn’t have a gun, and actually, perhaps a gun wouldn’t have worked in this situation.

I came back five minutes later.  Still without a plan.  But fortunately, I didn’t need a plan.  Because our rat friend had disappeared.  I think he went back down the pipe.

I’m working on a plan for next time.  Actually, I’m hoping there will not be a next time.  But if there is, I intend to be ready!

Katie, Aby, and Josiah practice writing sounds.

Micah enjoys reading "Redwall."

Krista works on grammar.

Of course the problems that Christy (of Catherine Marshall) faced are far different than the challenges that tend to pop up in my schoolroom.   But there are certain similarities between her experiences in the Smoky Mountains and my adventures in Mocimboa.  Like Christy, I am learning many lessons during my time here, some of them related to teaching school and others that have nothing to do with school.

One major lesson for me has been on how much work to assign students on a daily basis.   When Micah and Krista started flying through their daily assignments back in early January, I decided they needed more daily assignments.  When the day’s chapter in By The Great Horn Spoon was short, I assigned two chapters.   Unbeknownst to me, one chapter is quickly and easily accomplished, but two chapters are simply impossible to read in one day.

The first time that this feeling was imparted to me I figured that it was just a bad day for my lovely young student.  The second time it happened I rolled my eyes (not in front of my students!), but learned my lesson.  Now, instead of assigning two chapters in one day, I send home a second chapter to be read in the evening.  And that is apparently perfectly reasonable to the young people.

Another lesson I learned recently had to do with scorpions.  One day I turned away from the table, came back two minutes later, and found a dead scorpion right where I had been working.  Micah begged for possession, so I turned it over to him.  When I commented to Sharon about our day’s find, she explained to me that what we had found was actually the exoskeleton.   I had no idea that scorpions are like snakes, in that they shed their skins as they grow.

Today I found the scorpion to which that exoskeleton belonged.  It caught my eye when I glanced in Micah’s bookbox.  I thought it was dead, because it did not move when I headed toward the trash.   As I dumped it in the trash I decided to play it safe, though, and so I sent a bit of deadly bug spray its way.  When I checked the trash a few moments later some paper was mysteriously waving in the air.  I sent another wave of bug spray into that receptacle.  And the scorpion was pronounced dead at the scene.

Though I don’t remember any class sessions at Corban College on killing scorpians or even assigning chapters to read there are plenty of things from my Corban training that I am putting into practice.  And as I look toward my second year of teaching (yes, I know it is a few months off, but I’ve already started my “next year” list) there are a number of things upon which I will improve…not my scorpian killing skills, though.  I’m content with those!

Singing.  Preaching.  Fellowshipping with believers.  I would imagine that church services the world over include these aspects.  But beyond these broad categories there are a thousand differences between a church service in Scio, Oregon and a church service in Mocimboa, Mozambique.

Animals on the rafters would be one major difference.  If it is not a rat then it might be a gigantic spider.  (I wonder what would happen if a rat was running around during a church service in Scio…or if a spider larger than my hand came crawling along the rafters.)

Rain is another difference.  Not that Oregon doesn’t have rain.  But here it is deafening rain pounding on the tin roof so that you cannot hear the song leader.  Rain that makes everyone smile and try to sing louder.  Rain that is still noisier than you, no matter how strongly you are singing.  Rain that drips through nail holes in the roof.  Rain that drifts through the window (no glass on these windows!).  Rain that leaves puddles inside the building.

Then there is the singing.  You really cannot compare singing from Scio and singing from Mocimboa.  They are both beautiful in their own right.  I miss singing songs with my church family in Scio.  But I absolutely love singing with my church family here in Mocimboa!  The beat of the drum, the animated song leader, the clapping of hands, and the moving of bodies…it may not sound that amazing to you.  But as I join my brothers and sisters singing songs in another language I am filled with a deep sense of the glory of God.   I think it is just one of those things you have to witness to understand.

I could list many other differences.  The backless wooden benches and reed mats.  The mud walls.  The flowers that hang from the string running along the rafters.  The translators.  The young people who present songs on a weekly basis.  The prayer time when everyone prays their personal prayers out loud at the same moment.

The church here is mainly Makonde brothers and sisters. The Makonde are the rival tribe to the Mwani (the “target people” of my team), but as there are no Mwani churches we have chosen to attend the Makonde church.  Because it is a Makonde church all singing and preaching is done in either Makonde or Portuguese and then translated into the other language.  Not extremely helpful to someone who is trying to learn Kimwani…but at least some words are the same in these languages!  Often either Ana or Sharon will translate bits of the sermon for me, so I am able to catch the gist of it.  And I can normally figure out what book, chapter, and verse we are reading from because the books sound familiar (“Luke” is “Lucas”) and Makonde numbers are similar to Kimwani numbers.

I’m afraid my definition of a church service has vastly changed.  Actually, I’m not sure how I would define church service anymore.  Praising God, certainly.  Enjoying fellowship of brothers and sisters, definitely.  But air conditioning? Or rats?  Or rain coming through the glassless windows?  Or a language you can understand?  Some things just aren’t essential.

The heaviness of the pillow struck me again as I walked away with my purchase.  I was used to African pillows being extremely fat, as whatever they stuff them with seems to flatten down very quickly.  But I don’t think I had ever seen a pillow this heavy before.

That night I switched out my pillow to test the new one.   Just to ensure that it was not incredibly uncomfortable.   As I closed my eyes I became aware of a strange noise.  At first I thought my fan was doing something weird, but when I turned it off the noise still continued.  It was a combination humming, chewing, moving noise.   Besides the strange noise this pillow was also uncommonly lumpy.  I quickly decided that whatever insects happened to be inside that pillow did not need to share my bed.

I retrieved my old pillow, and placed the new one against the wall to await a decision.  Perhaps I would open it up tomorrow and see what was actually inside it.

Apparently the rats liked my new pillow better than I did.  The next morning a finger sized hole in the pillow and a pile of fluff on the ground greeted my eyes.  Hmmm, perhaps this pillow was not destined to be used by my dad.

I did not have time to investigate the insides of the pillow that day.  So I left it another night, sitting against the wall. Once again the rats came to keep it company.

This afternoon I ripped open the pillow.  I wasn’t surprised it was so heavy and awkward when I saw that there was a large number of seeds mixed in with the fluffy cotton-type stuffing.   And yes, there were an abundance of bugs enjoying the insides of that pillow.

Today our trash heap proudly displays a pink pillow.   And I’ve added “one pillow” to the Pemba shopping list.  I think this might be the last time I buy a pillow off a chair in front of a mud hut.

~Recipes that call for yogurt or sour cream invite extreme creativity.  Two spoonfuls of milk powder and a bit of water is one possible substitute.

~Extra protein from bugs in the flour is not a joke.  Feeling energetic?  Sift them out.  If not…

~No need for molassas.  Just add a bit of water, sugar, and some extra spices.

~Oven temperatures in recipes are to be ignored.  High flame, medium flame, and low flame are the temperatures available in our propane stove.

~Recipes calling for chocolate chips should read: “open bar of Cadbury chocolate.  Cut into small pieces.  Eat some of the pieces.  Place leftovers in mixture.”

~Parsley.  Ham.  Sunflower seeds.  Apples.  Cheese.  Carrots.  Cottage cheese.  Bacon.  Olives.  Such things may only be dreamed about.  And perhaps handled in Pemba, then reluctantly put back on the shelf after gagging at the price (and realizing that they wouldn’t taste as expected, anyway!).

~Differing amounts of paprika, turmeric, and hot pepper spice can make completely new dishes, even if you don’t change any other ingredients.

~Beans in a sauce served over rice cannot be beaten in the adaptability category.  Change the seasonings.  Add green pepper.  Use more beans and less rice.  But you can’t top beans and rice!

~A mango pie is a good substitute for an apple pie.  Cinnamon and nutmeg cover a multitude of sins.

~And my favorite meal…(Mom, you might want to sit down)…is a green sauce called matapa served over a rice-like substance called shima.  Matapa is made from crushing and then boiling spinach-like leaves in a peanut sauce.

No, the recipe book does not need to be thrown out the window. It does provide good ideas. And occasionally there is even a recipe for which we have all the ingredients. But no matter what, we always eat scrumptious and one of a kind meals!

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 their treasures with me.

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

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!