Heart Well

Community Building in Zanzibar

2010-04-10T19:26:00.001+06:00

Monday-Friday:This week I spent expanding my community out into Zanzibar island, which is a 2 hour ferry ride from Dar es Salaam. Most of the time it was rainy and slightly windy with the Indian Ocean a mass of waves-perfect weather for Marie and I as we are tired of the pounding sun day in and day out in Dar. We immensely enjoyed our holiday in Stone Town with our wanderings through the maze of stone alleyways filled with engraved wooden doors and curio shops. We ate in tiny cafes and at night in Forodhani Gardens, which is filled with row after row of vendors grilling all kinds of fresh seafood (shark, octopus, calamari, barracuda, tuna, king fish, etc), Indian naan bread, chepatti bread, and Zanzibar pizzas. We met new people each day-locals, Tanzanians, Indians, tourists, and a Canadian from McGill University studying abroad. Our conversations together are interesting as these people have unique stories to tell. Overall it was a unique island to visit, very eclectic as it is a trade port and people visit and work there from all around Africa, the Middle East, and East Asia.

Community Building Continued

2010-04-02T18:37:00.003+06:00

Monday-Friday: This week I have built community by celebrating each day leading up until Easter Sunday-resurrection day. Palm Sunday we celebrated Jesus' triumphal arrival into Jerusalem on, surprisingly enough, a donkey. Jesus entered gently like a lamb to recapture his people rather than a battle horse to recapture the conquered city. A friend and I discussed how Jesus will return again, but this time as a roaring lion ready to fight!

Each day since Sunday we've been tracing Jesus last week on earth and what he did. In case you aren't familiar with his Easter week doings:

Sunday: Jesus' triumphal entry.
Monday: Jesus drove the money changers out of the temple.
Tuesday & Wednesday: Jesus preaching in the temple.
Thursday: Jesus instituted the Passover.
Friday: Jesus' crucifixion.

Thursday evening Marie and shared Passover together by taking communion. Friday morning we went to a Good Friday service and took communion again. Remembrance of not only what Jesus did, but continues to do over and over again for me is sweet! We need to remember so we can be thankful for the present.

2010-03-30T14:57:00.001+06:00

Wednesday: Today we taught more lower primary students in the morning, dropped off the posters we designed for the classroom teachers and librarian, then headed to our nearby housing for lunch and debriefing. I encouraged my girls to continue doing hard things beyond Service Emphasis Week by raising the bar in their own lives. This will build a stronger community.

Thursday: Today was reflection day and our entire school spent a good deal of time listening to other groups talk about their various service projects around Tanzania. Together our school had built walls at a center for disabilities, worked in a hospital, ran a soccer camp, and led kids clubs for orphans. My group also presented on our time teaching English at the Muslim school.

Friday: The last day of school! I helped make it a memorable time for our school community by timing swimmers during the swimming gala and swimming on the teachers’ relay team. The teachers lost, but we put up a good fight and students and teachers alike enjoyed the competition.

Saturday and Sunday: My housemate, Marie, and I relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company. We had several meaningful conversations and were able to start to unwind after a long school term.

Upanga-Asian are of Dar

2010-03-25T18:28:00.003+06:00

Monday: Today was our first full Service Emphasis Week (SEW) day. Our careful late night planning Sunday prepared us for a morning of teaching English to primary students. The little girls with their head coverings, the boys with their embroidered prayer caps, they were so easy to love in their childish innocence. While I worked with my small biddu groups of 2-3 students I enjoyed watching my Haven of Peace Academy students carefully working with their little guys. In the afternoon we designed poster displays for the classroom teachers.

It was a time of building links with the Indian community in Dar.

Tuesday: The lessons we taught this morning were smooth as my students and I knew what to expect. Just like scaredy squirrel in the book we read our little Asian pupils, we were into a comfortable routine. For me it was a joy to be in a position to encourage my students while they blossomed and grew as teachers. Their interactions with their buddy groups were lively and engaged. Great job my team!

2010-03-21T19:39:00.002+06:00

Day 41-Sunday: Prepared today for my trip to Upanga by packing and prayer. In just twenty minutes my students and I leave for our time teaching in Al Madrasa Muslim school this week. Please pray we bond well as a team and effectively minister to each other and the Madrasa students. It is an interesting combination as my team of students are a mixture of Christian and Hindu. I can feel God preparing good things for our trip.

Teaching in Al Madrasa Muslim School

2010-03-20T17:02:00.001+06:00

Day 36-Tuesday: Today I stopped by the Boys Under 18 basketball game after school to watch my students play a team that last week beat them by only one point. They whooped butt, beating the other team by over 10 points. Go HOPAC!

What a perfect representation this is of a need for teamwork amongst my all students. They need to be pulling together, working together as team to win so much more than basketball games. They need to work to win each other. My students come from different countries, races, and religions; we need to unite as one Christ like community.

Day 37-Wednesday: In the evening I had dinner with the family of two of my high schoolers. It was like escaping to the Western world with their cheesy spaghetti, garlic bread, and house salad along and their country America decorating. The highlight was the casual conversation, creating that sense of a family community. Before leaving I recruited their 12 grade daughter to help make a struggling new student at school feel welcomed.

Day 38-Thursday: A Tanzanian boarding school student came to visit. Her boarding home situation is difficult as she’s often rejected for her bold faith, so it was a joy for her to share her praise and worship with us as she strummed along on Crystal’s guitar. She said, “they won’t let me sing praises in the shower, although others blare R&B in the dorm room.” This 16 year old is one of the strongest women of faith I know.

Day 39-Friday: Today I spent preparing with my team of seven girls for our service learning trip next week. We did some getting to know each other, team building activities, and gathering of supplies for our work in a conservative Al Madrasa Muslim school, where will be teaching English to lower primary school students. Our team shirts are brilliant pink, symbolizing our femininity yet strength in Christ.

Day 40- Saturday: Spent today in prayer about our trip this week. We leave tomorrow. Praying that my students bond together to teach these young Muslims effectively and that the two hindus on my team learn more about Jesus through my interactions with them. I am especially praying that my girls will see past the conservative clothing they will have to wear-long skirts and tops-to focus on their work. Modest clothing should not be their focus.

Ps. 18:30- “He is a shield to all who look to Him for protection.”

2010-03-16T10:43:00.000+06:00

Day 34- Sunday. My housemates and I had the Bible teacher over for coffee in the afternoon and had a powerful discussion on dealing with the spiritual darkness in our students. We have muslim, hindu, wiccans, and more amongst our eleventh graders and want to show them the more loving, stronger way in Jesus. As a community of women we will take a stand together for our students.

Day 35- Monday. A day of battle. A day where we women of God took a stand. My school, the Haven of Peace Academy, has a thief on the loose and large sums of money, electronics, and other things have been stolen over the past couple of months. During lunch break I led my small group Bible study on a prayer walk around campus, proactively praying for protection for students and staff and a heart change in the thief. We boldly stood together against the enemy and claimed that the Lord would “hold us up with his glorious right hand” (Isaiah 41:10).

Ps. 18:30- “He is a shield to all who look to Him for protection.”

The Weekend

2010-03-15T14:57:00.000+06:00

Day 33: Friday. Had African style lasagna and watched “What’s Up Doc?” with my neighbors. Cheery conversation. A pleasant time.

Day 33-Saturday. Solid community building accomplished today. Two of my 12th graders organized a huge charity fundraiser for violence against African women. It was a real community building project, bringing together students, teachers, families, and community members for games, face painting, a garage sale, a coke guzzling contest, raffles, hamburgers, and so much more. For a while I ran a bean bag toss, but then was recruited to be the teacher in “throw sponges at the teacher’s face” booth. Quite a few students had good aim and hit me. At one point I even did some arm wrestling, but here I triumphed against some high school girls! That rebuilt my self esteem after the earlier sponges in my face. Overall the event was a success-fun and beneficial to all involved. I’m proud of those girls for organizing it.

Halfway there!

2010-03-11T15:28:00.001+06:00

Day 30: Wednesday- Swim coaching. My community building today was encouraging my secondary swim team to swim hard, but to do it with a good sense of camaradrie. To build a strong sense of teamwork I had them do team relays and cheer each other other. It was a solidarity building practice.

This marks the halfway point of my 60 day challenge!

Day 31: Thursday- During our 12 Grade Lit class this morning we were discussing feminist literature. After a discussion on feminism and its relevance today I encouraged my girls to not fight for equality with men, but to know they are powerful women created differently by God then men- but not weaker or less valuable. My response from them were wide, empowered smiles.

Weekend rest comes to an end...

2010-03-10T10:24:00.003+06:00

BUT continues into the work week!

Day 27: Sunday-Sympathetically listened to a man from church vent about job frustrations. Massaged my housemate. Got a massage in return. Talked with housemates. It was good company; good community.

Day 28-Monday: Got sweaty. Picked up trash around campus during an after school teacher clean up initiative for our upcoming 15 year Haven of Peace Academy (HOPAC) birthday celebration. The Tanzanian cleaners appreciated the help, bridging some of the gap between national staff and foreign staff.

Day 29-Tuesday: Talked to my Grade 8 homeroom about Ephesians 4:17-32 and exhorted them to only speak-or type on Facebook-what is true, necessary, and kind.

Spent some time swimming in the Indian Ocean; then wandering along the beach with Ursula, the Kiswahili and German teacher at HOPAC. More relaxed conversation about everything from students we’re concerned about to why people don’t visit us in Tanzania. Some of the most satisfying community building comes from taking the time to visit with others.

A Lazy Saturday

2010-03-07T11:57:00.002+06:00

Day 26: Saturday finally arrived! I took a dala dala bus down to the local market to buy a more secure backpack-the zippers are broken on my old one-that I will protect me more from pickpocketing. At the market I had an interesting conversation with a Tanzanian at a backpack stall.

Later I went to visit my neighbors over tea and had some lazy Saturday afternoon conversation. Mainly my community building was through friendship and conversation: all just what they and I needed!

Attacks!

2010-03-06T17:06:00.004+06:00

Day 23-Wednesday:

While Crystal, my housemate from Michigan, was cooking dinner I sat on the floor and we did a part of a Bible study on Hebrews chapters 1-2 together. Good discussion and a good time learning together.

Day 24-Thursday:
Led a Homeroom Bible study on an issue I felt was destroying community and oppressing our Upper School-bullying and ranting on Facebook. The general trend at HOPAC is similar to what's happening in schools around the world, students bash eachother and teachers on the internet and don't think of it as wrong. In the words of my homeroom students, "What happens on Facebook, stays on Facebook." After much prayer I spoke about what was on my heart. Thursday I showed them a specific instance of Facebook bullying in Canada and the horrible result. I read them the Proverb warning to "guard your mouth." An interesting discussion ensued amongst my students and I.

Thursday evening I went to a dinner and cell group gathering a local pastor's house. I teach his son and daughter and enjoyed seeing them lead cell.

Day 25: Friday morning I arrived to find an anonymous e-mail written to me entitled "get out." It was filled with horrible insults to me personally and was obviously from a disgruntled Grade 11 or 12 student unhappy with his or her grade on a Literature Mock Exam test he or she sat this week. What struck me was how they hurt me where I'm most sensitive, and the student couldn't possibly have known that. Is this because of my Thursday homeroom?

Spent sometime in the evening with Crystal praying about this and other spiritual attacks.

Silver Sands Beach

2010-03-03T11:52:00.001+06:00

Day 21: First day back to school after break. This meant reconnecting with teachers by talking about their long weekend and catching up with my Grade 9 students. It was nice to get away from Dar for four days, but it’s nice to be back to teaching my teens, too.

Day 22: After school Ursula- a German lady who’s been teaching in Tanzania for 15 years- and I meandered down to Silver Sands Beach. With the hotel escari (guard) watching for thieves we swam in the choppy waves and luxuriated in the sun and the miles of clear sky. Afterwards we sat on the sand and talked about, “cabbages and kings.”

This was community building. This was pleasurable. So why are there so few harmonious communities? People are missing out by isolating themselves from relationships for their electronics, work, or sports, or whatever occupies their time.

Community Building On Safari

2010-02-28T21:03:00.002+06:00

Day 20: It's mid-term break and Marie and I are taking a break from Dar heat to go on safari [journey in Kiswahili] in Mikumi National Park. We took a local dalla-dalla bus to Ubongo, Dar's central bus terminal. We were promptly verbally and physically harrassed by pushy men-one wouldn't stop grabbing my arm so I turned, looked him in the eys, and slapped him hard. No reaction. This annoyance of a human being continued harrasing me till I entered my bus terminal. Side note: on our trip bac to Dar one of these men pickpocketed by wallet and Marie's borrowed camera. Zilch community building.

Later.

Upon arrival at our motel, I found the Tanzanian staff accomodating. How easy it is to be a part of a friendly community! After a tour of their snake park-cobras, green and black mombas, boom slangs, and more- with their fearless guide we ate a leisurely four course dinner (I had grilled goat) with excellent service. The manager was especially pleasant. But...what merit is there in being a part of an already well built community?

Day 21: Left our hotel at 6:30am for a game viewing safari. Little social interaction beyond Marie and I peacefully enjoying each other's company while gazing at herds of elephants, wildebeest, giraffes, and gazelle. Oh, I should probably mention the many jackals, hippos, baboons, antelope, and zebra we met along the way! Let's say today I watched animal communities at work and observed how quiet a content herd is. Better peaceful quiet then noisy discord.

Prov. 21:23 "The one who guards his mouth and tongue keeps himself out of trouble."
Prov. 19:13 "A wife's nagging is an endless dripping."
Prov. 21:9-10 "Better to live on the corner of the rood than to share a house with a nagging wife."

Day 22: I'm pooped. Considering I spent my day hiking up mountains in the Udzungwa range to a spectacular waterfall, it's understandable. The climb through the rainforest was strenous as the first two hours were steep, to distract Marie and I from our aching legs our guide pointed out red colubus monkeys, blue monkeys, elephant shrews, and other rainforest wildlife. Particularly distracting were his stories about the problems the villagers face with pythons. At one point I shrieked and yelled, "snake!" as I gestured towards a puff adder curled up under a baobab.

"What?" my guide inquired, looked at the spot.

"That!" I squealed again. After five minutes of me pointing he finally spotted the snake. Looking at it with interest, he proceeded to tell us the effects of its venom when a human is bitten.

"You must cut off your hand. Venom spreads up your arm and decays your flesh." When he whistled experimentally at the puff adder I bolted up the trail.

"Where are you going?" he called, "Why are you afraid?"

But wait, our Tanzanian guide continues in my story. Once we arriced at the falls a spiritual conversation ensued. Our Tanzanian rafiki [friend] was curious about more than snakes, he was curious about our faith; so we happily shared the gospel message to him, explaining what it means to be truly, "born again." He thoughtfully asked us to pray for him.

Today my community building was entirely with our inquisitive, but slightly foolish guide.

Righted Failure

2010-02-24T21:55:00.002+06:00

Day 19: A sticky, sweaty day. This afternoon after work I laid down to nap when my neighbor came by to borrow an egg. I chatted with her for twenty minutes as she seemed in a chatty mood, but the selfish part of me wanted to get back to my nap. After she left I felt guilty for encouraging her to leave when she obviously wanted another human being to talk to. It can be lonely on the mission field, so why wasn't I willing to give her more of my time?

Later. Redemption in another opportunity to let her talk when I was more awake after a swim in the Indian Ocean. Goal: to be a more willing listening ear.

Warm Memories

2010-02-24T10:43:00.001+06:00

Day 18: Often people say, “don’t live in the past, seize the day.” While I’m all for carpe diem, memories are equally important to me as they kindle the spark I need to frequently need to keep my flame burning, particularly when it comes to community building. Memories I have of friends building those walls of community with me through warm gestures motivate me to pass on the torch.

Today I passed that torch by score keeping in the teachers versus all star students basketball game. Time: lunch break. Place: Haven of Peace Academy basketball court. Who: All of the secondary school. While it was intense and competitive, the competition was healthy and at the end the students good-naturedly admitted defeat-especially to their superstar Principal, Mr. Martin. All in all, it was a unifying match that will stick in students’ memories.

Community Needed: Middle School Girls.

2010-02-23T17:57:00.001+06:00

Day 17: Led assembly this morning for 6-8 Grade girls at school. My topic was “challenging wrong culture” and I discussed women in Bangladesh stepping outside acceptable Muslim conventions to take a job with the NGO Symbiosis, which includes all kinds of cultural “no, no’s,” including riding bikes. Also I talked about the Biblical model of a woman stepping out to protect her people in Queen Esther. Next I filtered it down to their level, asking them to think about ungodly culture around them. Should they be challenging gossiping or cliques at school? We watched a clip from Mean Girls and did some role playing of scenarios facing teen girls, then had a productive discussion. From the expression on some of their faces I could tell the idea of challenging wrong culture gave them something to think about and, Lord willing, to act on.

The Building Goes On

2010-02-21T19:14:00.003+06:00

Day 15: Invited our next door neighbor girl, who also happens to be in one of my Literature classes, to join my housemate and I on our mid-term break safari this week. Still awaiting a yes or no. Am praying for a "yes" since the girl could use some quality woman-to-woman time away from Dar.

Day 16: Attended church and worshiped God with other believers. Praying together, singing praises together, searching the Word together. That was a living, thriving community experience.

Cookie Baking Tanzanian Style

2010-02-19T17:46:00.003+06:00

Day 14: Today was distribution of cookie day. Last night I made a Tanzanian version of sugar cookies for folks at school who've been hospitable to me in the past few months. It was fun being the cookie lady bringing goodies to my many kind-hearted co-workers.

All Highs

2010-02-18T18:24:00.003+06:00

Day 12: “For as the body is one and has many parts, and all the parts of that body, though many are one body-so also is Christ…so the body is not one part, but many.” 1 Cor. 12:12, 14

It’s nice to have those reminders that I am a part of a community of believers forming the body of Christ. Today I was reminded anew that I am not isolated, but one of many, when I had dessert with my neighbors, a fellow teacher, plus her veteran missionary father visiting from Kenya. The laid back atmosphere was mellow, almost family-like in its comfortableness. The dessert was delicious. After Mrs. Taylor let me lick the serving spoon in the chocolate pudding I was happy I’d ventured out of my quiet home to share some of my evening with believers.

Afterwards I arrived at this community building moral: Community is built through sharing life together, not apart. This means less evenings alone in my bedroom.

Day 13: Mission of the day, striking up genuine conversations with national staff and teachers. Just on my walk to and from the staff room for a cup of strong joe I managed 4 conversations. While this cut into my plan time, it was worth it. One was serious a conversation about the sketchy situational ethics of my Homeroom students, another about a bad/emotional day the teacher I was talking to was having, and the last two mainly joking around with national staff. As I was scooping powdered milk into my coffee Victor encouraged me to stir in more. More milk, more fish, he said. I was then informed that African men like their fishes [women] big. Apparently I am too small for this country. In America, I returned, men like their women small. Laughter followed.

4 Conversations, four comradeship experiences.

Ups and Downs

2010-02-16T17:31:00.002+06:00

Day 9: “But I will sing of your strength and joyfully proclaim your faithful love in the morning.” Ps. 59:16

Valentines Day. The day of love. Today community seemed to be flourishing wherever I looked. It began with a delicious Greek breakfast of dates, sausage, homemade bread and cake, cheese, and rich Kenyan coffee at a neighbor’s home. The food was not only delicious, but the company, too. The rest of the day passed with good tempered people at Church, friends giving a group of us teachers a lift to the grocery store in town, an invitation to the beach with other friends in the late afternoon, then a rotic dinner (a romantic dinner without the “man”) cooked by my housemate, Marie. Even at my local gas station the attendants were giving out roses to people who filled up their gas tanks.

Yet, shouldn’t this type of day be the rule, not the exception? We should be loving each other through sharing our lives with each other every day. So many days are spent in isolation, where we work side-by-side in our separate spheres. Very little of our social contact is meaningful; taking Valentine’s Day to remind us of each others’ existence.

Day 10:

“If I had been aware of malice in my heart, the Lord would not have listened, however, God has listened.” Ps. 66:18

Today I felt like a community breaker. As this is the antithesis of my goal to build community wherever I am, it was disheartening until I read the above Bible verse.

This is one thing that happened: A gang of teen boys harassed me when I was walking through the market after work. Even though they were verbally yelling at me, calling me a mzungo [foreigner], grabbing my arm and yanking my backpack, no one stopped to help me. I didn’t get so much as a sympathy glance. I did not feel a part of a supportive community.

Second incident: I walked a student down to the Principal’s office for disrespectful behavior towards me and at first felt hard and unforgiving. I felt like I was tearing down the walls of love between this 15 year-old girl and I until I realized I was disciplining her out of love. My prayer is that God will listen and soften her heart, changing her behavior. If my heart is filled with concern rather than malice, God will listen.

Day 11: My prayer was answered! Today my student came to me a sincere verbal apology and this note in part saying, “I am so sorry that you felt disrespected by me.” Having resolved the issue we parted on a friendly note.

Can He Do It? Yes, He Can!

2010-02-14T18:10:00.001+06:00

Day 8:
“Can you fasten the chains of the Pleiades or loosen the belt of Orion? Can you bring out the constellation in their season and lead the Bear and her Cubs?” (Job 28:11-12)

God can do all this; in fact He has done more for me, He’s built me a community right here in Dar es Salaam.

Rather than building community today, my experience was unexpectedly, yet pleasantly, the opposite. I was a part of a community. Sick with the flu I, ached all over in the heat of the East African summer. My housemate, Crystal, gave me a big hug and ordered me to relax in her room with Numbers Season One episodes. Soon Crystal with her cold, Marie with her migraine, and I were all curled up, commiserating with each other and enjoying an escape from the heat. Beyond sickness we each had other personal issues we were struggling with, so our threesome commiserating with each other was just the community we needed.

Isn’t that the way community should be? Today we were a solid front sharing each others downs. Tomorrow, Lord willing, we can share each others’ ups.

Community Building Continues

2010-02-13T14:43:00.000+06:00

Day 6:
Today was my turn to lead our weekly staff prayer meeting, so I gave a short devotional on God’s eternal encouragement to us and our encouragement to each other. As a part of it we wrote little notes of encouragement to hearten other staff members and teachers, and then finished with a time of lifting up our school in prayer. At the end I sensed our staff room was filled with a sense of caring for each other, precisely the atmosphere I would love to see extend to every room and every corner of the Haven of Peace Academy!

Day 7: Today was the last day of school before the upcoming day of love. That’s right, the famous-or possibly infamous-Valentines Day. Now I absolutely adore everything to do with Valentines Day, consequently my community building project was to give chocolates to several dear girl students struggling with personal issues; and of course, chocolates and fudge for two of my sweet fellow teachers. My Grade 12 Literature class loved on me with a surprise of scarlet roses. Pretty much love pervaded the halls of our school. That is until my homeroom students ruined it by accusing each other of sending themselves chocolates. Perfect love is still a work in progress for my students, but by God’s grace we will get there!

Days 3-5

2010-02-09T19:31:00.001+06:00

Day 3:

My community building today was giving a thank you note and loaf of fresh sun dried tomato Italian bread to our neighbors. They’re an energetic couple on our compound proudly from Tucson, Arizona but serving with Young Life Africa. Last week they had my housemates and me over for ratatouille; it was our first sampling of the dish and our curiosity had been piqued after the famous Rat movie. Surprisingly it was yummy, minus the rodent after taste.

Day 4:

As Valentines Day, the day of love sharing is fast approaching I planned multiple valentine making parties. I gathered supplies for my homeroom, the small group Bible study I lead for teen girls, and our weekly teacher prayer meeting to design cards. Love notes will be flying around our campus this week!

Day 5: As we munched cookies and crafted valentines, I told my small group girls I love them. This launched a discussion on love in friendship.

Day 2 Community Challenge: Listening

2010-02-07T20:04:00.003+06:00

Colossians 3:14
"Put on love, which binds..together in perfect unity."

Today my community building was listening. I listened to two friends, one venting about a terrible "Jonah" day where everything seemed to go wrong, another share about what's on her heart and what God has been teaching her.

Another seemingly small sacrifice for me to make, but to those two it meant someone cared enough to take time to listen to them.

60 DAY COMMUNITY CHALLENGE

2010-02-06T15:01:00.004+06:00

So, yesterday began a challenge the Lord has lain on my heart. The 60 day community building challenge. In my search for community I’ve decided to ignore the advice in John Mayer’s lyrics to be merely “waiting on the world to change,” but to actively foster change. Rather than to go in search of the ideal community I will grow the one I am already in right here in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Or at least my little bit o’ Dar here on the outskirts of the city center. If I want to live in a group of people dedicated to growing and nurturing each other then I need to take responsibility.

“Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves had been born of God and knows God...because God is love.” 1 John 4:7, 8

Day 1: Today I am sick with swine flu and I feel my contributions were minimal. Smiled at and chatted in limited Swahili with the mango lady at the bus corner as I bought mini mangos. Offered a mango to the snaggle-toothed 7 year old next door to me. Drank a mug of steamy hot chocolate-on an already steamy afternoon- with a student after school. Gave my housemate a big hug.

Little things, I know, but isn't it the many little interactions that make up a community?

Faith Discussions over IndoItalian Food

2010-01-04T21:50:00.000+06:00

Over Christmas break a few friends and I spent some time trekking in the Usambara Mountains, where we met a well-traveled backpacking Swiss couple. Seriously, on their vacations they’ve traveled to South America, Central America, North America, Asia, Europe, and now finally Africa. They make Americans who rarely venture out of their state look unadventurous.

After several days my housemate, Marie, and I continued on with the twosome to Moshi to view East Africa’s largest free standing mountain, Mount Kilimanjaro. It was worth the hot, tedious trip. After our jam-packed bus ride on a chicken bus (“there’s always room for one more!”) from Lushoto we were relieved to find an “IndoItalian Restaurant” where we were able to relax and chill over pasta and cold drinks. Yet our conversation soon turned to deeper topics as it turned out the couple were spiritually searching and very interested in our missionary work in Tanzania. They professed to be unimpressed with the traditions and rigidity of the two Christian sects in Switzerland, Protestants and Catholics. Yet, they claimed everyone needed something to believe in, something to have faith in. I agreed wholeheartedly that if I did not have my faith I would commit suicide because my life would lack meaning. This shook them up, and they were deeply interested in hearing our views. One thing I emphasized was that I don’t judge people of other religions, just love like the Bible encourages.

At the end of the long discussion we’d shared our faith with them and encouraged them over and over not to take anyone’s word on religion, but to seek out the truth for themselves. The man admitted to owning a Swiss German Bible, but not to ever reading it for lack of time or interest. At the end of the meal they readily gave us their e-mails and I promised them a follow up on “bite sized” scripture to read.

Obviously God had a dual purpose in bringing me to Moshi: Mt. Kili and two seekers. Pray for the two Swiss seekers!

The Gauva Tree Barber

2009-12-21T13:38:00.000+07:00

Snip, snip, snip. The gentle clipping of my next door neighbor's scissors nip across hair, trimming the dead ends. Wielding her silver shears, Lydia cuts away more than hair. Her smile easily spreads across her face during her hilarious reminiscences and tales, disappearing just quickly as her clients sigh and complains about their workdays.

As a mother of four and wife of a missionary, this American is so much more than a housewife in Africa. Sitting under that guava tree, her missionary customers unwind from their stressful missions work for a few moments. Tension and trauma blow away with the gentle sea breeze as Lydia runs her fingers through their tresses, empathizing with everything they say. No judgment is offered, merely sympathy and light-hearted anecdotes for distraction.

She finishes, shaking their hair off a sheet. Sighing, they stand up from the wooden stool with lighter heads and hearts.

Big Time Theft

2009-11-26T19:44:00.001+07:00

Tuesday our school hosted an interschool Tanzanian soccer tournament. During the long afternoon of games a theft took place. Luckily, the dangerous thief was apprehended.

The theft? A Grade 11's backpack filled with items stolen from the boys' bathroom and a classroom. The comprehensive list includes a calculator, toilet paper, toilet cleaner, and-you guessed it-a condom. While this list may seem absurd considering the many valuable computers and electronics our school holds, it is correct.

The thief? A no-good-dirty-rotton-toilet-paper-stealing-soccer-player-from-another-school.

The Haven of Peace Academy took a collective sigh when she was successfully kicked out of the tournament.

Good Omens

2009-11-09T16:23:00.000+07:00

This is a good start to Monday morning. So far the mangy dogs that normally jump all over me on my run around the German Boarding home hills were called off by their Massai owner. Next I actually had water in the locker room to shower after my morning workout-the gardener rembered to turn on the water, as he rarely does. When I went into the staffroom for my morning coffee my favorite large sized mug was sitting, ready and waiting for MOI. Worship at assembly was amazing, thanks to the vocals of a sweet Grade 12 girl. I hope this great Monday continues... This bodes well for the rest of the week.

Ethnic Stereotypes

2009-10-24T18:59:00.001+07:00

In my Grade 12 class we were talking about ethnic stereotypes. I know they are technically wrong to perpetuate as they aren't politely correct-but so darn often they are true that it’s hard to get away from them! I mean, my Korean students generally are amazing at drawing and sketching and gifted in Maths. My British students generally have a dry, formal way of speaking. And my Aussie students, well, they are so Australian in their hearty and energetic personalities. Actually, I teach many Australian students this year and they are such bright teenagers! They stand out as some of the brightest in my English classes. My students this year are a good mix as I also have students from Tanzania, Rwanda, Germany, Holland, Guatemala, Ireland, America, Greece, and more! It is a highly international school flair each ethnic group brings to the mix.

To Buy...in Dubai

2009-10-17T19:33:00.003+07:00

So this last weekend I was in the Middle East-Dubai to be exact-for a teacher training course for the British exam board I teach (Cambridge International Examinations). The course was useful. The time in Dubai was excellent; that was surprising because previously I was skeptical about the idea of building a megatourist destination in the middle of a desert. Absolute arrogance, I thought, mentally comparing it to the notorious Biblical Tower of Babel.

Instead I was impressed with the absolute ease of the city. The people were mainly not Arabs. Instead they were a mishmash of Indians, Pakistanis, Bangalis, Asians, all laboring together in various blue collar jobs. Hopping into taxis and conversing with the chatty Asian drivers was simple. Shopping at their megamalls with every type of designer store you can dream of was equally simple.

Even better were the souks. Visiting an old covered soul near the "Creek" (the Dubai name for their huge river) brought me back a taste of Bangladesh and I felt like Princess Jasmine stepping into an Arabian Nights tale. Men in punjabis held up beaded skirts and pashminas against me, telling my how lovely I looked. One Indian succeeded in selling me a chiffon belly dancing belt covered in jangling coins. Since coming back to Tanzania I've put it to good use with my "Learn to Belly Dance" dvd.

Another souk shop owner from Kerala, South India, befriended me and presented me with a designer Fendi wallet because he wanted "a friend in the United States." Afterwards he tried to kiss me, so I suspect he wanted more than friendship.

Overall, Dubai impressed me as the best planned and maintained city not in the West that I've ever visited. Would I go back to that Arabian fairy tale of a city? In a heartbeat!

Chronicles of a Cycler Part III

2009-10-13T19:52:00.000+07:00

Knackered. After a day spent cycling at least 25 kilometers around the city of Dar es Salaam knackered is the only word for me. Hmm…or perhaps sunburned, sandy, or dirt-streaked? All of the above apply.

But what word can I use to describe the Dar experience? The experience of seeing all different aspects of the city-include the huge variety of housing types, ranging from ultra poor stone huts to huge stone mansions? Or the variety of people, ranging from well-dressed women to scraggly kids playing with tires?

It was a long, hot, and hugely informative day. One that culminated in my squished into the back of a tuk-tuk with our two mountain bikes while another guy I biked with sat up front with the driver.

DO HARD THINGS

2009-09-22T16:24:00.001+07:00

My school's theme for this year is “Do Hard Things” and us teachers are alternatively cajoling and encouraging our students during assemblies and homeroom to choose a goal, a hard thing to do for the glory of God. This theme is based on the book by the teenage twins Bret and Alex Harris encouraging teens to start a “rebelution” against the low expectations placed on them.

My students are rising to meet our challenge. One student has decided to build a Tanzanian orphanage for his senior service learning project. Another to mentor children out in a village. Some are choosing to heal broken friendships, learn to play the guitar, or earn an “A” in a challenging class.

In my 8th grade homeroom I’ve been inspiring my students by researching together Biblical heroes who did hard things for the glory of God. Sometimes I share stories of kids who have surpassed expectations, like a 17 year old who sailed around the world. Or a five year old who raised 30 thousand dollars for orphans. Then sometimes I have my students encourage each other through writing notes or prayer.

Pushing my students to persevere, to press on to achieve their hard things is exhilarating. This school year promises to see great things accomplished by the kids at HOPAC.

Chronicle One of a Cycler

2009-09-03T10:57:00.005+07:00

...Fingers crossed I’ll live to write many more

Now I can meet Dar es Salaam on its own terms. Now I have a bike. Last weekend I bought a UK mountain bike off young Mcfarlane, a Northern Irish student of mine. After taking it out on a main road this afternoon I am so thankful it’s a mountain bike and built for rough riding. The streets are deeply rutted and covered in sandy dirt and frequently I had to veer off the cement to avoid being hit by a rogue dalla dalla [local bus] or construction truck.

This danger added to the charm of my quest to find a Luku station [prepaid electricity for my house]. Like in all cities, I only feel engaged and truly a part of my surroundings if I’m out there on my bike, vulnerable, sweating, but very much in the city. My city experiences are typically rougher than the average American’s as they are mainly in packed third world countries.

Riding through Dar I battled a terrific sea breeze, school children loitering in my path and calling out at me, and the quick stream of traffic zipping past. With the dust blowing in my face and the uncertainty of knowing where I’m headed, I enjoyed my adventure.

I can see why some people are driven to bike across countries or even continents. Usually I have the desire to swim around places, but the lure of cycling is growing on me. My housemates were overjoyed when I acquired my bike, and now they send me off on expeditions to buy electricity or pick up bread at a duku [market stall]. However, they’ve informed me that they’ll be kind when it comes to needing juice, only asking for one or two gallons (ha ha ha).

The pictures here are sites I encountered on my foray into the city. The picture at the top is me with my new housemates.

A note on theft

Theft is more common in Dar and even East Africa as a whole than in Bangladesh. Petty theft, muggings, car jacking, smash and grabs-everyone I meet has a story about it. Tonight my next neighbor, Lydia, can over with her two of her teenagers for a game of Bananagrams (our compound addiction). While were playing she informed me they had been robbed Monday night and our guard was consequently dismissed.

Was he associated with the robbery? Don’t know. We do know he’s the only guard our compound head has a bad feeling about. We also know his buddies tend to hang out with him while he’s on duty-did one of them steal? But no matter who is the thief our guard is responsible since he’s employed to be sure no one on the compound is robbed. Tough for the guard.

This makes me wonder several things. Firstly, Bengalis as a whole are poorer than Tanzanians, so why more theft in Tanzania? Secondly, how safe am I anywhere in Dar, including in my own home with a gated compound?

Africa. East Africa. Tanzania. Dar es Salaam

2009-08-29T20:42:00.001+07:00

Looking at the Indian Ocean from one of the many wide windows of my sandstone home I have to remind myself that just across that ocean is my old Bangladeshi home. This panorama strongly contrasts with the blaring music from the bar across the street behind me. Pondering my new home, I sit here on a Friday night after my first full week of teaching in Dar. From my shaded veranda I can glimpse dusty brown feet slip by under the wall surrounding my compound as they pad along the deeply-rutted road.

Dar is as unlike Dhaka in as many ways as it’s similar. Similarities? It has poverty. It has riches. Differences? The two are unseparated to the extreme. Gated mansions are juxtaposed by neighboring shacks. Limousines cruise down streets next to beat up clunkers. Yet how can this be a poor country? People are fat here! In Bangladesh I felt huge, a towering, well-padded giant around the malnourished Bengalis. Here next to beefy African mamas and muscular men I feel like a petite enfant.

While school consumes my life figuring out the apparent contradictions of Dar is secondary. Working from the crack of dawn until late into the day makes swinging in my neighbors’-a friendly family from Tennessee-hammock more appealing then gallivanting around a strange city by myself at night. Especially a city with as many car jackings, muggings, and theft as Dar.

But, the adventurous part of me is reasserting itself and I long to explore. Tomorrow morning-Saturday-I plan on venturing out to find a local bicycle shop an Irish teacher called Mcfarlane tipped me on. I just love living the expat life where random oddities like this happen. Take how yesterday I was informed a great resource on Swahili language and culture is from a co-worker who is Greek but married to a German. Random.*

This brings to a close my first blog from the African continent. Hopefully many more follow…unless one of the many possibilities (or should I say probabilities) of a car accident, tropical disease, or worse happens to me.

Kwa heri [good bye]!

*Another bit of random African trivia. Asante sana, squashed banana” is a direct quote from Rafiki in the “Lion King”. Asante sana means “thank you very much.” Squashed banana must have a deeper meaning, but I’m still searching for it.

Merely Existing in the USA

2009-07-16T08:29:00.002+07:00

Well, I've been bouncing around the USA since the end of June, visiting family and churches as I fund raise for my transition to teaching in Tanzania.

It's been a good chunk of time since I've been in a first world country, so why am I not enjoying it as much as people tell me I should be? One teacher I worked with in Bdesh called it "the country where dreams come true." After all, coffee shops are easily accessible, allowing me to choice selections of hot lattes and iced coffees with fancy flavorings. Also, stores have options! It's not about going to buy a soda, it's what flavor? Caffeine free or caffeinated? Choices abound.

Life is too easy in America. My time feels wasted on trivial decisions like, "what should I watch tv tonight" when I spent the past two years without a tv. My time in Bangladesh was more meaningfully spent with all the time wasting activities stripped away. In Bangladesh I volunteered during my free time rather than going to the mall.

On the other hand, catching up with my family and the friends I've been able to see so far has been wonderful. So good. I loved making dirt cups with my little sister, watching my little brother open his birthday presents, and learning how to quilt from my Grandma. That time was not wasted!

Now the count down till I leave for Africa is ticking mentally away in my head. August 11th and I'll finally be in my new home-the land of the "chocolate people".

Amanda's perspective-I Am NOT a Jungle Girl

2009-07-04T02:16:00.001+07:00

*Again, this is a guest blog, so these are the views of Amanda and not Elaine.

We started out the morning with a relaxing boat ride over to Taman Negara. We were filled with excitement. Little did I know what would be in store for me that day. We went up steps to the canopy walkway. I was extremely nervous since it involved walking across narrow bridges suspended in the air. Heights are not my thing. The bridges swayed as you walked across. I clung to the ropes that acted as handrails, which was considerably more difficult since I was shaking with fear. I was especially disturbed when I found out that we would do this without a harness. I was proud that despite the Czech man who constantly told me how scared and petrified I looked that I made it through the entire canopy walk and this time, I have pictures to prove it. What I later found out, was that the canopy walk was actually the easy part.

Right after the canopy walk, we stopped at a vine and everyone took a turn trying to climb it. Elaine climbed up the highest. Afterwards she confessed that she just wanted to show up those ballet dancers. I got a turn too, but with my twig arms I didn’t make it very far. I much prefer things that do not involve exercise.

We began trekking up the trail in the rainforest. At first I thought about what a great experience this was going to be. I was walking around in a beautiful, noisy rainforest teeming with life in Asia. After several more sets of stairs, I began to become annoyed. The stairs were so tall, even for me. It became so much work. Later, we had to use the roots of trees as our stairs. When we finally stopped at a scenic viewpoint I felt such relief to know that I was done. Unfortunately, this was not the case, I was informed that actually there was more walking to get to the top, but it was easy and flat and would only take about 10 minutes.

So, we continued on. At the sight of the first set of steps that I was told wouldn’t exist on this part of the trail, I was beside myself. It was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into tears. I was tired and hot. I was so sweaty that I was actually leaning over and ringing my hair out to stop the sweat from dripping down my back. I decided that crying would make me feel better, but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to lose any more water than necessary since I had already drank my two water bottles and I was in the process of sweating them all out. Elaine kept telling me it would be worth it when we saw the view at the top. As we arrived at the top, I found a bench and plopped down. I was so relieved. I refused to get up and go to the edge to look at the view. I was disappointed, exhausted and unhappy. I have to say that treacherous hike was so NOT worth it to see that view. I was miserable. All I wanted to do was crawl up in a ball after a hot shower and cry myself to sleep in a nice bed. However, that was not meant to be. I still had to hike back. I took a cold shower under a small trickle of water and passed out for a 3 hour nap on a small, uncomfortable bed with an A/C that was, at best, inefficient. It was not an exciting adventure, nor was it fun. I am glad I did it, but I am sure I will probably never do it again. I was couldn’t wait to head back to KL the next morning. I am NOT jungle girl.

Trekking in Malaysia-Elaine's Perspective

2009-07-04T02:15:00.001+07:00

After a couple of days in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Amanda and I headed to Taman Negara National Park, which is the world’s oldest rainforest and a lush, green jungle teeming with life. Our first morning there we left our quaint wooden chalet to breakfast on a floating restaurant. After Amanda watched me drink my morning cuppa joe and she had her morning Coke, we joined our guide in crossing the river on
a long, wooden ferry boat. Once on the other side of the river we trekked up to a canopy walk-ten bridges and 9 tree stands-that Amanda guesstimates was 200 meters long. But with her white face and frequent reminders to me that she was afraid of heights, I guesstimate it felt like 20,000 meters long for my fearful friend.

Afterward our group stopped to a have vine climbing contest. I climbed the highest and showed u the French ballet dancers on our trek.

Next we began the steep descent up a mountain. Up, up, we went, using the tangled root system as stairs. The jungle was so alive! Around us called the tropical birds (mainly hornbills), insects, and silver leaf monkeys. Pouring with sweat from the dense humidity, we made it to the top after only an hour’s climb. The view was priceless. Layer upon layer of vine and tree covered mountains stretched in front of us. The view also encompassed rocky formations before the steep drop into the murky river winding below. I took in the view with satisfaction at completing the difficult climb. Amanda sank on a rock and refused to budge or smile.

Amanda's trip to Dhaka-Bongo Bazar

2009-06-30T18:44:00.002+07:00

*This is the trip to Bongo Bazar with Amanda from my perspective!

I took Amanda to one of my most favourite places to shop in Dhaka-Bongo Bazar! Crowded, close, cheap,-and best of all, boiling in premonsoon season heat. We plunged into the tiny stall-lined market to hunt for the few priceless bargains hidden in the piles of clothing. When I found a gem-say and H&M or a Mango top-I'd hold it up with glee and begin haggling. Bargaining is a procedure with rules and customs, it's a lot like Monopoly. The think to remember is the shop keeper will never sell something it's his loss-so bargain away! I excel at bargaining and walked away with cute shirts for less than two USD a piece.

We left early, though, as the heat of the afternoon and hawkers were bothering Amanda. Her normally cute face was grimly set in a tense mold.

Amanda's trip to Dhaka-Bongo Bazar

2009-06-30T18:38:00.001+07:00

*This is a guest blog from my friend Amanda, who recently visited me in Bangladesh. Her views are not necessarily my views.

A firetrap. That was my first thought as I entered Bongo Bazaar. If that place were to catch on fire, everyone would be a goner and done for.

Elaine had raved about Bongo Bazaar and told me it was one of her favorite places. She talked about the great deals on name brand clothing and how you have to haggle the prices. She did however, leave out a few things.. Like the fact that Bongo Bazaar is a maze or that the vendors are aggressive and constantly call out to you saying, “Madam, Madam!” to get you to look in their stall. You have to dig through piles and piles of clothing. It was nothing like I had imagined from the description that Elaine gave.

When we arrived, a teenage Bengali decided he would be our guide. He was very short and I am sure he was and is constantly ridiculed. He led us through the labyrinth of the bazaar and kept picking up things to say, “You like this?” He picked the most hideous items. When we did find an item we were interested in, he took it upon himself to haggle the price for us. He would try to discreetly tell us to walk away when the vendor refused to give us the price we wanted. Let’s just say that his idea of discretion was about as inconspicuous and Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky’s tryst or as subtle as Elaine in a crowd of Bengalis.

I felt uncomfortable the entire time. It was like being at a low-end flea market, minus other people shopping. I do not like aggressive salesmen and I was sweating profusely. Elaine seemed to be in her element. She was thoroughly enjoying every moment. She enjoys the challenge of finding something she wants and bargaining a price. I did find one shirt to purchase. It was a boat-neck pink shirt with buttons down the front. Absolutely adorable.

After Bongo Bazaar, I decided that department stores were still my shopping paradise. I love the organization, set prices (especially when they are sale prices), cleanliness, private dressing rooms, nonagressive salespeople and of course, the wonderful air conditioning. Unlike Elaine, who thinks shopping should be a challenge, I am a believer in using shopping as retail therapy to relax. I was relieved to leave that fire trap and I look forward to my next therapy session when I return home.

Perfect Love

2009-06-08T09:12:00.001+06:00

My spiritual mother descended
On the wings of the Spirit
Into my deeds-driven life.

Casting aside the superficiality of
Popular Christianity,
She lived and breathed His
Glowing love, pulsing, radiating
From her heart out.

Through His strident love she
Wove tiny threads of patience, truth,
Faith, and hope to fashion an
unbreakable, undying bond with me as
her daughter.

With All Your Heart

2009-05-25T19:43:00.004+06:00

"...Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment." Matthew 22:37-

This is a verse I shared with my 6 of my 14 year old girls after school today. We went out to a coffee cafe for iced coffees and strawberry milkshakes so we could have some time together before school breaks up for the summer.

After our fun drinks-my iced latte was so artsy looking one girlie took a picture of it with her camera phone-I shared some thoughts on how we girls need to give our whole hearts to the Lord, as that is the most precious gift we can give Him. I encouraged them not to think of themselves as untalented or not pretty, but to know Jesus wants them just the way He created them because to Him they are perfect gems. Then each girl shared a little about what she was worried or stressed about in the coming summer and school year. These girls face so many deeper, bigger problems than the average western girl as they live as foreigners in unique, often difficult circumstances in a third world country. We finished with sincere prayer.

It was beautiful to catch a glimpse of their hearts, though, as they opened up in ways they never have at school around their guy classmates.

Spending this afternoon with my sweet girls was truly a blessing.

Four bus accidents in one day

2009-05-19T15:50:00.001+06:00

Frankly, as I write this I can barely keep my eyes open. School today was too adventurous for my taste, which is a shame because my day started out so nicely with an early morning run and a yummy bowl of hot oatmeal.

What actually happened was pieced together after it all happened, and I am still shocked by it. Pretty much, one of our school bus drivers went crazy.

On the drive to school as he picked up students he crashed into a parked car, making him late to pick up me and my students to take us to swimming. On the way to taking us to the pool he got into another “incident.” While we were at the pool he picked up the next swim group and took them to the pool, getting into another accident on the way. After I was done teaching the first group their swim lesson he collected us again to take us back to school. His driving was erratic and he was talking nonsense to the student closest to him, so already I was nervous and keeping a wary eye on his driving.

When we got close to school he sped up through an intersection and broadsided a brand new fifteen day old Nissan. He actually accelerated into it. No emotion on his face, no shock or apologies. He kept driving, but Phil, a teacher on the bus with me, jumped up and ordered him to stop. We quickly evacuated the students from the bus and I walked them back to school while Phil stayed behind because now the driver of the Nissan had pulled his car in front of our bus. He was angry. We were afraid a riot would start amongst the crowd, so I got the students out of there as quickly as possible.

This man actually turned the bus around and tried to go pick up the last swimming group still at the pool, but the Principal called and ordered them not to get on the bus with the crazy driver.

I am in shock that the driver would put the lives of so many students in danger in order to save his face and his job. Where is his value for human life?

Chameleon Girl

2009-05-17T19:40:00.002+06:00

I left my living bubble and ventured to the other side of town-Mohamedpur-yesterday afternoon after a woman's conference. My destination, the home of a couple, one from the Philippines and one from Germany, who have worked with Pakistani refugees at a camp for the past eleven years. Since I arrived at my friends' house a few hours too early for dinner, I went out on a shopping adventure with their daughter, who is one of my students. This eleven year old girl I'll just call by the oh-so-creative pseudonym "Girl." She took me first to Source, a handicrafts project run by the Eastern Mennonite Committee. We had fun digging through the fun homeade paper gifts, like cards and paper lanterns, and fingering the bright fabrics. Girl bought a little box covered in random images of dinosaurs, dancing ballerinas, and fire trucks. She also took a strong disliking to a paper mache bowl decorated with fruit that I wanted. She convinced me not to buy it.

After Source she led me to a bazar so we could look at beads, Girl's obsession. She's my new decorator, since she just made me an anklet and then last week made me a cheerful pair of dangly blue earrings that I adore. Next Girl mentioned she knew where to find fresh mint leaves in the fruit market, so we walked past the symmetrical piles of oranges and apples and the baskets brimming with mangos and litychees. On the way I explained to her how to cut up a star fruit and how they are perfect for neat looking fruit salads.

On the way through the fruit market Girl remarked on how it is so boring for her to shop in Germany (where her Mom is from) because people shop in boring supermarkets.

"That's true," I agreed wholeheartedly, "people push their little carts around and pull boringly packaged products off the shelves. Bazaars here are open air and so colorful!"

"Yeah," she said seriously, "here people are always doing things and so much is going on."

Her attitude was so fresh compared with some foreigners, who tend to view their home countries as superior to underdeveloped Bangladesh.

Next we went into a funky shop filled with oddities that you'd never go looking for, but once you see them you have to have them. Like coconut shell totem heads or huge peacock feather earrings.

By that time it was late and we had to catch a rickshaw back to Girl's in time for dinner. But I couldn't help but love watching Girl morph into yet another person once we stepped back into her home. She does a wonderful job of doing that, of adapting to whatever situation she's in, be it on the street with local kids, at school, or at home. She's like a chameleon, easily slipping between speaking German, Bengali, or English.

"Where one or two are gathered in my name."

2009-05-08T13:00:00.002+06:00

On Wednesday evening I gathered in an apartment with 12 or so expatriates for a night of worship. The power was off in one of Dhaka's many rolling blackouts, making the air heavy and still in the room. Sweat dripped tiny paths down our foreheads and I could feel my jeans sticking to my legs in the humidity. As we reeled through the songs, belting out praise and worship above the deafening generators in surrounding buildings-we were not lucky enough to have a generator in our building-we came to this Matt Redmond song:

When the music fades
And all is stripped away
And I simply come
Longing just to bring
Something that's of worth
That will bless your heart

I'll bring You more than a song
For a song in itself
Is not what You have required
You search much deeper within
Through the ways things appear
You're looking into my heart

I'm coming back to the heart of worship
And it's all about You
All about You, Jesus
I'm sorry Lord for the thing I've made it
When it's all about You
It's all about You Jesus

King of endless worth
No one could express
How much You deserve
Though I'm weak and poor
All I have is Yours
Every single breath

I'll bring You more than just a song
For a song in itself
Is not what You have required
You search much deeper within
Through the way things appear
You're looking into my heart

I'm coming back to the heart of worship
And it's all about You
All about You, Jesus
I'm sorry Lord for the thing I've made it
When it's all about You
It's all about You Jesus

Its all about you
Jesus

In the States I'd adored this song and it's lyrics were beautifully meaningful to me, especially this part:

"Though I'm weak and poor
All I have is Yours
Every single breath"

I gazed around the room at each person in turn. They really were bringing more than a song to their Savior. We all were bringing our hearts, our lives to Jesus, even though we had to traverse half the world to get here to Bangladesh. We'd given up our old lives in favor of Him.

The Finish girls my age had left their beautiful homeland, Finland, where I've heard "their language is that of the gods."
The Australian had left her well-paid job to labor in a literacy and Bible translation office on a scruffy Dhaka street.
Another woman had left her family and friends in Vienna to sweat in this third world country with her missionary husband.
A Brit had left her London home to minister to prostitutes from South Asian brothels, although she'd kept her posh British manners and accent.
I'd left my old life and loving family in Florida in favor of dirty, loud Dhaka.

Our skills, our serving, truly what we few diverse individuals have to bring to God is worthless, but it is so much "more than a song," it us our very essences, our lives.

Things not talked about

2009-04-28T21:32:00.002+06:00

A woman, Bengali but married to a Dutch missionary, popped into my apartment this evening so we could sweat together in the humidity, sip iced tea, and talk about what many missionaries don’t talk about.

Earlier today an American missionary man who’s worked in Bangladesh most of his life and grew up here ambushed me to rant about the same subject.

Last night I had dinner with an American doctor and a New Zealander and I blurted out that I was overwhelmed with this.

It is such a relief to talk about a taboo subject that rarely is discussed among missionaries, yet really should be.

Both the missionaries I talked to struggle with the same issues I do. But, here’s the important bit, I’d never have guessed it if they hadn’t come out and told me.

A beggar covered from head to toe in boils, chanting and wailing on a filthy street.

Children with distended tummies running half naked between racing buses and cars.

Disease, garbage, poverty.

We pour out hearts into working in this country, working to help these people and the issues that are very much a part of their lives. I’m exhausted from laboring in this country for two years and I’m only 24. These missionaries are twice my age and are still struggling with how sometimes it’s just too, too much. All of it-all the problems, all the hurt- it’s too much.

We need to talk about it, to express our feelings to each other and to God, as that’s the first step to letting God handle the multitude of sorrow we feel when we look at the country around us.

Firsts

2009-04-27T12:37:00.002+06:00

Things I've had happen for the first time this week:

1. Wash my hands with water running brown from a tap.

2. Tell my students not to use the classroom bathroom sink as it is spouting sewage.

3. Tell my students not to flush the toilet after they pee as the school building doesn't have water.

4. Have the most popular conversational topic in the staff room be whether or not our apartments and school have water.

5. Plan my evening around guessing when the electricity will be on and off.

A few pictures from my slum

2009-04-24T18:42:00.003+06:00

Here are some pictures taken last Wednesday at the slum I work at. I had to photograph the beautiful children I see every week.

My Heart is Your Heart

2009-04-20T18:13:00.001+06:00

Only after fully, truly
Giving myself
Over to God and surrendering my
Heart to the
Baptism of His Spirit was a raw, new
World of emotion
Revealed in all its splendor-filled
Beauty and pain.
My words flounder and fail to
Describe
The absolute fulfillment, yet heart-wrenching
Pain
Of this joining of my heart with
God’s heart
for the Bengali people. A world where a
Legless-beggar
Seated at a street corner causes my chest to
Swell
Full and let loose a flood of tears and prayers
for this desperate
Piece of humanity. My prayers never ceasing,
Aching
Never easing for a corrupt country tearing
Apart
The heart-strings of its Creator.

The Ballad of an Unfortunate Knight

2009-04-18T17:31:00.000+06:00

This ballad tells of the epic quest
Of one man’s journey to Bangladesh.

In Dhaka is his tale’s beginning
For here with Bangla language he began equipping.

Alas mayhem and mishaps did begin a deadly sequence
As poor Sir Josh did face Dengue’s pestilence.

Recovering, He forged on to Kumarkhali
Avowing from his ministry “nothing can keep me.”

Though beset by a multitude more of trials
This brave lad evaded the Devil’s wiles.

Viruses, diseases, even an injured knee,
Sir Josh labored on for the sake of CDP.

Now his year’s long quest is coming to a close
As from his challenges victorious he rose.

Assuredly Bangladesh thanks ye for thy labor and pain
And a so long, fare thee well from Lady Elaine.

Retreat of Silence

2009-04-13T19:09:00.002+06:00

My weekend retreat of silence was perfect. Friday I arrived in Srimongol on the train at 3:30am and bargained with punk CNG taxi driver to take me to the Tea Resort, which is outside of town and surrounded by tea plantations. My room was on the crest of a hill and looked out on a swimming pool, so I began and finished my days with a dip in its warm waters.

The first morning I wandered amongst the tea bushes and waded up a stream banked with burnt orange clay. I wasn’t entirely alone, as I talked with the half-naked little boys washing their brown skin clean and women in petticoats washing their sarees in the creek.

The second morning I hiked in to the rainforest and found a secluded hill to sit on and listen to the many different rainforest noises. Even the rainforest of Bangladesh is filled with life! Not the endless human bodies crowding other parts of the tiny country, but insects, flies, bugs, birds, monkeys, and even snakes crawling, flying, and calling out to each other through the dense foliage. Not all were pleasant, as flies landed on my arms, bugs bit my ankles, and an at least five foot long and four inch wide snake sent me running.

This morning at work I asked Becky if she knew what type of snake it was.

“Hmm, it could have been a python. Did it have any markings?” she enquired thoughtfully.

“Uh, I don’t know. I didn’t look for markings since I was too busy running in the opposite direction.” I admitted sheepishly.

I also saw five or six white-spotted dear at the Tea Resort, and they were surprisingly unafraid of humans. But the highlight for me was the tropical plants and flowers popping up in random nooks and crannies. They reminded me so much of Florida, especially where I lived in the Keys. I saw bougainvillea in salmon, watermelon, and white shades; brilliant red and pink hibiscus; gardenia bushes; elephant ears, many, many amaryllis blossoms, mahagony; different types of palms (sago even!); and jack fruit trees.

Oh, and I tried jack fruit for the first time on Saturday and loved it! Some people claim it’s disgusting, but Bengalis adore it and have made it their national fruit. One of my students told me it tastes like banana flavored bubble gum, which is pretty darn accurate, although I’d add it’s slimier than bubble gum. Jack fruit is kind of slug slimy and even resembles a slug, so probably I wouldn’t have tried it on my own, but a woman from Hong Kong staying at the guest house took a liking to me and brought me a huge plate of it.

My afternoons in Srimongol ended with me heading out to a suitable hill to watch the sunset over the tea gardens. I made friends with a local dog, so I usually had company in my sunset watching.

Last weekend was the perfect escape from life as a teacher in this crazy Dhaka city.

An Afternoon in a Slum

2009-04-09T13:29:00.002+06:00

Yesterday as I was cycling through Badda Bazaar slum to my Assemblies of God church, I noticed that they were finally redoing the terrible road. They were only halfway finished smoothing down the dirt and rocks, but already it made a difference and I didn't feel like I was off-roading, even though the narrow street was still filled with onek [a lot] foot traffic and rickshaws.

When I got to the slum compound, which are a few small homes around a central two roomed building for church and school use, I squatted down to chat with a friend, Sheila, who was washing her clothes at the water pump, while I waited for my adult students to show up. As they suffer from chronic late syndrome, a diease genetic to most Bengalis, this turned into quite a long wait.

One woman was cooking rhoti [it's like a moist flour tortill] while trying to quiet her screaming son. I picked up the little boy and he stopped crying, so I took him for a walk and we bought a chocolate bar. The woman thanked me and I asked her if she would teach me to roll rhoti properly. Currently I adore rhoti-it's my staple food- but I've been struggling to master the art of rolling each piece into a perfect circle.

The perfectionist in me wants to be able to roll each piece with the finesse of Bengali women, who flip and roll the dough with easy flicks of their wrists. Watching their hand motions is like watching a dance, a dance I'm determined to master someday.

Finally a student of mine showed up and my cooking lesson ended, but not before the local ladies told me to come back next week for another rhoti rolling lesson.

Still, my English class never took place as my students wanted me to help one man (he's about my age) write a message for the Good Friday service.

While part of me feels so sorry for the conditions these Bengali believers live in, I don't sense that they are unhappy. They have a strong, sincere church and spiritually they are well grounded. Their homes may only be one cramped room, with no running water and undependable electricity, but their families are close-knit and their neighbors friendly. Yesterday I envied the simplicity of their lives and faith.

By the way, two days ago I finished my 90 day Bible reading in 89 days. Two of my students showed me up by reading the whole Bible in jus a month and a half-way to go them!

An oh-so-real life chapter

2009-04-06T18:58:00.004+06:00

Amazing events need to do be marked, so I'm recording last night. Right now I'm seeing my life like each new happening is a chapter in my life story. The past couple of weeks have been leading up to last night, the pinnacle of my current chapter.

The morning was the first day back to school, and I was peppy enough welcoming my students back to the last term of the year. But by evening I was tired, exhausted spiritually. My spirit was so heavy, it almost felt a like a physical weight was pressing down on me. Finally I was crying and couldn't stop the tears from pouring out of me. It so unnatural for strong me, two tear storms in the space of a couple of weeks (I lost it one day in Nepal), so I knew I had to finish with it once and for all.

I ran to my prayer protector, the Kiwi woman who has been guarding me with her continual prayers. She held me and began to pray, to pray bold, strong prayers that I would be too timid to pray. Her prayers held real power as she asked God to win the battle in me spiritually, to let her faith be strong for me. My body gradually relaxed and calm took over. I slumped against her.

"You are strong," she reminded me, "look at what you have done in the past two years. You ride your bike in a Muslim country, you started the charity sale from scratch months after arriving in Bangladesh, and you are still so young."

Her words of wisdom continued to pour out.

The past few weeks I've withdrawn from people and placed myself into the presence of the King through constant Bible reading, prayer, and reading stories about heroes of the Faith. It is becoming more intense and I know that after last night God has won the battle going on inside me. Now He is drawing me exclusively to Him to build up my strength, to give me the power I'll need in future years.

Alone. I desperately need to be alone with the King. This weekend I'm going away for three days to the rainforest of Eastern Bangladesh. I'll trek into the rainforest and have the complete solicitude with my God that I crave.

This season of drawing near to God is exciting me, filling me with incredible hope for things to come in future life chapters.

Just Me

2009-04-03T00:32:00.006+06:00

Me, the core of who I am-my identity- is not where my body is. My body may physically be back in Dhaka, but mentally I am still in the cool waters of Nepal's Phewa Tal lake.
My heart is sheltered in the cupped palm of my gentle God.

My spirit is roaming, soaring unrestrained to country or city.

I can just be.

I am me.

2009-04-01T21:27:00.007+06:00

Yesterday morning we drove from Pokhara back to Kathmandu for our final afternoon in Kathmandu and today we flew back into Dhaka.

We spent our final afternoon yesterday exploring Durbar Square, which is located in the old, traditional area of the city. We wandered around the three squares that make up Durbar and are filled with temples and pavilions. The cobbled streets were crowded with Nepalese going about their business, a surprising amount of foreigners on holiday, and cows wandering aimlessly about. Little Hindu shrines were decorated with crushed red powder and garlands of fresh and dried marigolds garnished low-hanging stone doorways. As we breathed in the heavy incense and the hustle and bustle of life surrounding us-laborers hauling burdens, hippies wandering, and children scampering about- two priest suddenly appeared in front of us.

We were ambushed.

Not bothering to ask if we particularly wanted red-spotted heads, they grinned wizened smiles at us and stamped our foreheads with red dye. Ah, but nothing is free in Asia, so they demanded boksheesh for their blessing. Hmm, now where have I heard that word before? Boksheesh! Of course, beggars only pester me for boksheesh every day in Gulshan, Dhaka. But these priests requested money gently and their blessing was genuine, so the generous Est gave them some rupees.

A crack of thunder filled the square and a heavy downpour began. Laughing, we backed into a silver and brass metal craft shop to avoid the downpour, where the friendly shopkeeper announced this is the first rain since August. We spent a pleasant twenty minutes with the man, mainly discussing the interesting Hindu and Buddhist mix of religions in Kathmandu.

The rain lessened to a trickle and Est and I began the trek through the maze of streets back to our hotel, arm and arm under an umbrella. Our blessed foreheads brought us no luck, as the rain soon picked up again. Soon the icy drops drenched us and by the time we negotiated the twisting, narrow streets to our hotel, I resembled a wet kitty. The doorman started laughing uproariously at my mud-covered legs and Est, a few feet behind me, began laughing, too.

“What?” I demanded, still feeling like a disgruntled kitty.

“Sweetie,” she gasped, the dye of your headscarf ran and you have blue-streaked hair!”

Three washings later, I still have periwinkle-colored curls.

Now that our trip-or maybe I should call it an adventure- is over, I have several recommendations for when visiting Nepal. One thing I recommend doing in Kathmandu is getting yourself caught in the rain with a good friend. One thing I recommend avoiding is Nepali quality fabric dye!

Not a City Girl

2009-03-29T19:42:00.003+06:00

Today I remembered that I am a strong woman, today I got my water fix and was me.

BFF and I breakfasted outside our simple cabin, breathing in the view of the Annapurnas from our mountain perch. BFF was still not feeling a hundred percent, so we opted for a row boat instead of a kayak and I rowed her across the fairly large lake. We found a secluded outcropping of rock and BFF seated herself in the temperate sunshine, while I dove into the cold water and swam along the lake banks. I swam for an hour or two, stopping occasionally to climb the bank paths before diving in again and taking off through the water. The fresh water was so cleansing, so energizing compared to the chlorinated water I've been using in Dhaka to quench my water obsession.

I cut through the easy current back to BFF and stretched out on the rocks to dry, letting the sun ease the cold from my bones and the wind blow my hair dry. Lying there I realized how loud the "silence" of nature could really be. In the distance the birds quietly called to each other, the waves gently lapped against the shore, and the wind swished by. But these were soothing sounds, so different from the cacophony of noises ever present in Dhaka.

A couple of men in a kayak ruined our peace, making kissing noises at us and pestering us with questions. To put them off I pulled some clothes over my swimsuit, then rowed us off further along the lake. We came to the base of an 1100 meter mountain, with the World Peace Pagoda at the top. The next couple of hours we trekked to the tippy-top and soaked in the awe-inspiring view of the Annapurnas from the stupa.

On the way back BFF helped me row and we reached the shore tired, but exhilarated.

Now I am content. I've gotten my water fix and have had an amazing day enjoying life in it's simplest form, sans buildings, cars, and the city.

Rest and Reflection

2009-03-28T20:13:00.002+06:00

It's twilight, too light for candles but dim enough to mute the bright red gingham of the tablecloth under my journal. I'm sitting in Pokhara, waiting for my hot thukpa and momos to arrive while sipping my, ahhh, coffee. Est laughed when i informed her that she is very lucky indeed that I haven't been in a black mood all day, as I only had one small cup of coffee before dawn.

We arrived late this afternoon-late in more than one sense as our bus was two hours late due to traffic standstills. But almost two years in Bangladesh has taught me patience in traffic, plus I actually really needed that restful bus ride to sort things out in my head.

Our 9 hour ride was fairly peaceful-except for the young boy in front of me who threw up everywhere while I dozed unaware behind him. Peaceful seems to be a theme amongst both the tourists and locals, as they are friendly and their genuine smiles come easily. I love that when the shopkeepers and kids on the street smile at me their grins reach their eyes. They're very real people, the Nepalese are.

Real is what I need at the moment.

I spent the bus ride wondering-among other things- at the variety in town and rural scapes. Bangladesh lacks variety in it's endless paddy fields and identical towns, but each of Nepal's towns are as unique as their countryside is. Around each bend of the twisty road I found myself wondering what would be revealed-a paddy field or barren steppe? Cabbages or banana trees? Green-blue mountains or a rushing set of river rapids?

My Bible stayed open on my lap and I read through bits of the Gospels. My stream of consciousness was confused, a jumbled stew of emotions and thoughts flitting through my head after yesterday. Verses jumped out at me as I read, and I wonder if they're God speaking to me.

"My body also will live in hope." Hope. Hmm. What should I be hoping for now?

"You have made known to me the paths of life." Paths of life. Hmm. I'm walking the path God has for me now, but I can't rush Him into revealing the road ahead to me. Step, step. One step at a time is all He's showing me. Right now that's comforting to the raw inner me.

Well, I do know what tomorrow's path is for me. Definitely water! Tomorrow I'll spend the day kayaking and swimming around the lake, Phewa Tal for some quality water time. Just me, my God, and the water, sun, and enormous sky.

Brokeness from Beauty

2009-03-27T20:11:00.002+06:00

Today Est and I flew into mellow Kathmandu from Dhaka for Spring Break. Our arrival was on time, our visa application a breeze, and customs effortless. Our driver promptly picked us up and drove us through the rolling, narrow streets to Hotel Manang.

Once we checked in, sick Est ran for the toilet and I pulled open the curtains, screen window, and glass window of our room to sit on the narrow ledge of our fourth floor room. I gazed at the mountains creating a smokey backdrop to the staggered, many layered city buildings. My feet dangled above a rooftop garden and a Nepali woman gathering laundry stared at me curiously.

The beauty of the vague bulky shapes of the mountains overwhelmed me and for a moment my chest ached. Two tear drops wound slow paths down my cheeks, then I was sobbing, shaking. My auburn haired friend emerged from the bathroom and squeaked, shocked probably at the sight of me crying on the edge of a steep drop. She climbed gingerly through the window and perched next to me.

"Isn't it amazing to think that God can move those mountains if He wants to?" She gently squeezed my shoulder.

"I know He can," I whispered through my tears, "but why doesn't He seem to move mountains for me?"

My heart felt-still feels- like someone pulled it from the deep proetective layers I've carefully buried it in and dropped it unprotected off the ledge of our hotel.

My Mustard Seed Faith

2009-03-20T14:48:00.002+06:00

I’ve been carrying around heavy heart this week and finally allowed Someone else to take it from me. Reading the Matthew 11 words, “come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me…and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Money. Money, money, money. I’ve been praying, albeit praying half-heartedly that my money to move to Tanzania in August will come. But gosh darn it, my prayers haven’t felt sincere, haven’t felt real to me. Yeah, I know God can provide that money with a twitch of His little finger, but for some reason I’ve been feeling that He might not choose to. Maybe that’s because I’ve secretly been wishing something else would happen in my life, something that probably won’t. It further saddened me to remember that verse stating whoever has faith like a mustard seed can command a mountain to move, and move it will.

So does that mean I don’t have faith? But I do, I know I do! So why isn’t God providing?

He could have any number of reasons that He’s choosing not to tell me. So right now I’m quitting my doubting, quitting my worrying about money, and letting God carry my worries. Kiwi suggested I pray specifically, to put names to my prayers for money. While I’m going to keep up her suggestion, I’m also going to broaden my prayer.

I’m going to concentrate on furthering God’s kingdom. I’m going to pray that His will be done in my life this year.

Last November BFF and I frequently discussed this idea of God’s will for our lives (not a very original topic, I know, but it felt like an original discussion at the time). We both agreed that we may have varying states of contentment, but overall we are more happy teaching in Bangladesh than we ever have been in our lives. It’s obviously not because Bangladesh is the ideal country to live in-far, far from it-but because teaching at Grace is God’s will for our lives.

Allowing, accepting, enjoying God’s will in our lives truly made us happy. So my prayer for the next few weeks is simply, “God, let your will be done in my life, whether that be living in Tanzania, or anywhere other country in the world you decide to stick me.”

Insh’Allah [Lord willing]

2009-03-17T19:08:00.002+06:00

Consider the rickshaw waller.

When crossing a crazy, crowded Dhaka street with unpredictable local buses and beeping cars whizzing by, you’d expect him to stop-or at the very least pause-look both ways, then carefully pedal across the street while dodging traffic. But no, looking neither to the left or the right, the typically response is to drop his head and slowly cycle across. Usually this causes cars to swerve, buses to honk, and blood to boil. But the waller doesn’t appear to consider changing his street crossing methods. After all, it’s Allah’s will that controls his life, so if Allah wants a rogue bus to hit him and his passenger, then looking both ways before crossing won’t save him.

The rickshaw waller could in fact be one of the best illustrations of Muslim Bengali fatalism.

Maybe this explains the mindset that frustrates me endlessly, the Bengali lack of initiative in improving the situations surrounding them. Why bother fixing things-say pot-holed roads-when it’s Allah’s will that controls their final state.

This lack of accepting responsible for what happens around them bothers me, a confirmed believer in free will, but at the same time teaches me a key lesson. My last blog was a rant about my decline of punctuality, but perhaps it was actually me coming to the realization that since I cannot control everything around me, it’s best to plan as well as I can and accept it when things go wrong. Especially considering that I live in Bangladesh, where things inevitably do go wrong.

Cassius says in Julius Caesar, “men at some time are masters of their fate.” In the of ill-fated country of Bangladesh the words I’ve learned to note are “some time,” as my best laid plans frequently do go awry.

Plans Going Awry Make for Nasty Impressions

2009-03-15T14:02:00.002+06:00

The oft quoted Burns said, “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” Really, this overly used cliché was overly true of my life this past week.

I’ve prided myself in the past on my conscientious timeliness and organisation. I’m the queen of planning out my days down to the hour and sticking to schedule with what some friends find annoying precision. Late for a meeting or a dinner? Nope, never me.

I’m losing my exactitude.

Wednesday:
JMPH’s folks’ first day in Bangladesh and I invite them to the Club for swimming and dinner. JMPH’s neglects to reply to my invite and I assume they’re not coming. Later that night I’m goofily dancing to Britney Spear’s newest single in BFF’s livingroom.

Ring, ring.

I answer my phone to discover they are at the Club, ready and waiting for me to sign them in.

Whoops.

30 minutes later we make it through horrendous traffic and I splutter excuses and apologies.

Friday:

I’m lying on my sofa reading, too tired from illness the day before to move.

Ring, ring.

It’s Phil at the park with Micah and Nathan, waiting for me to show for our scheduled run together.

Whoops. Again I splutter excuses and apologies, thinking this was getting familiar.

Saturday:

My chance at redemption! I’m supposed to pick up JMPH’s Mum at 10am. I meticulously tell BFF to be awake, groomed, and beautiful by 9:30am. 9:15 rolls around.

Ring, ring.

“Gimme an extra five minutes to get ready.”

By 9:40 I’m tapping my foot outside her door as she wanders about vaguely looking for her shoes. 9:45 and we’re finally out the door. Unfortunately my directional abilities aren’t as finely tuned as some, like say a geography specialist, so I get us lost enroute to the guesthouse. Finally we give up looking and ring JMPH, who gallantly guides us to his waiting Mum.

But wait, there’s more. Last week I was late to a baby shower, an English tutoring session, BFF’s, not to mention that I didn’t even make it to K2.
My carefully made plans are going awry, leaving nasty impressions with my friends.

Nourishing Soil

2009-03-13T07:28:00.007+06:00

It’s 6:30 in the morning. I sit under my open window where a gentle breeze creeps in and surprises me with its coolness and soothes me with the familiar noises it carries. The chattering of a multitude of birds (where do they nest in this treeless city?), the brisk sweeping of the street cleaners’ brooms, the occasional deep calling of a train’s horn: all these noises are familiar, are comfortable.

Time for me. My me time relaxes my spirit and fills me up so I can share my peace with others. Not just peace I share with my sensitive teen-aged students, but recently a friend has been having difficulties and needs my support.

I’ve just read Isaiah 61 and phrases pop out at me, arresting me with their promise.

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me...”
Many times I feel anointed, like God specially pointed at me and commanded, “You, Elaine, go to Bangladesh!” Why else would I randomly work in this hurting, frustrating country?

“He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted...” My discussions with hurting friends and class devotionals with students spring to mind.

“To comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve…to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair...” Am I allowing God to work through me, to truly help those surrounding me? Could it be as simple as the chats I have with hurting friends over coffee?

“For as the soil makes the sprout come up and a garden causes seeds to grow, so the Sovereign Lord will make righteousness and praise spring up.” My me time is over now and hectic life awaits, but this tiny slice of the morning with just me, God, and my old Bible feel like the soil nourishing the sprout. Now if I can just share this with my friend.

A Past Field Trip Journal Entry

2009-03-09T21:05:00.002+06:00

February 24, 2009
Srimongol

Trekked in the rainforest this morning and then visited a bird sanctuary hidden amongst lakes and rice paddies this afternoon. But the highlight of today was playing sardines in the dark with my students. This is because one character took creative liberties with his “it” status.

Sometimes I’m unsure whether or not I should laugh or chide him and his tendency to push the envelope, but this was definitely a time to laugh-and laugh hysterically.

This boy swiped a lungi [a cloth men wear wrapped around their lower half] and a woman’s chadr [shaw] from the kitchen, bent over a walking cane, then hung out with the guards near the buses whilst chattering away in Bangla. He put on a terrific show, even slapping the bus drivers on the back and hacking raucously like an old man.

Unwittingly we ignored him, shining our flashlights around the tree covered hills and peering around bushes and buildings.

Angela did remark at one point, “Why does that old man have running shoes on? That’s kind of odd.”

Jason also wondered aloud, “Is that a man or a woman?” as he gestured at the lungi and chadr.

It wasn’t until we gave up looking for him and trooped indoors for hot chocolate that he through off his cross-dressing disguise and revealed his true identity. We couldn't help throwing back our heads and laughing when we found out where he'd been hiding!

Frustrating Mindsets

2009-03-05T20:07:00.008+06:00

Granted I haven't made a thorough scientific or researched study of it, but last week I realized one of the most valuable lessons I've learned in Bangladesh about development in third world countries is that NGOs and governments need to effect change that's self-sustaining. It can't be created with the western mentality and organizational structures, but should be formed taking the culture of the countries is into account. After seeing what is happening to Rishilpi in Jessore, along with my own observations of other things in Bangladesh, it's my opinion that projects will decay once the organization pulls out.

Sad, I know, but true nonetheless.

Examples of Bangladeshi thinking that frustrates my western mindset:

Giving up when the set formula doesn't work. Proof of this is my old Aussie housemate who worked in the ICDD-RB research hospital. She complained that doctors would give up when the prescribed set of meds and treatment wouldn't work on a patient, whereas Australian doctors would experiment with alternative methods until the ailment was cured.

Ayas, cooks, and house help. They rarely bother to go the extra mile to do something when not told to do it. not necessarily out of laziness, but a lack of initiative. This means that at another time it has to be done at your specific instructions or by someone else, which is inefficient and just a little silly if you take a step back and look at the whole situation.

Maintenance. Buildings throughout Bangladesh are generally moldy, peeling in paint and filled with cockroaches, rat poo, and other unpleasantness when a little maintenance, could keep the nastiness in check. Take the bungalows we stayed in last week. Easily they could be quaint getaways nestled in the paddy fields and tea gardened hills of Srimongol. Instead, they're border line sanitary cement buildings. It told my girls that our cabin could be adorable with a coat of bright-not-tacky-Bangla-paint, gingham curtains at the windows and a couple of cheerful throw rugs scattered on the floors.

I don't have a perfect solution, just a suggestion. Perhaps change should be either through education or changing of mindset, or through innovative organizational structures that take the mindset of the culture into account.

More of Scenic Srimongol

2009-03-04T08:48:00.003+06:00

Yes, this is what it looks like-my feet.

Stacks and stack of Syhletti fabric and yep, I did buy lots!

One of our little bungalows in the hills. Us students and teachers took up three total.

Field Trip Pictures- to give you a pictorial "taste" of the trip!

2009-03-02T13:07:00.002+06:00

MUTINY NEWS: Thursday, just after we left the compound we were staying on in Syhlet shooting between the BDR began just outside. Thank you, God, for getting us away from there before it began.

Tea Plantation Visit

2009-02-28T18:16:00.005+06:00

Last Monday afternoon my students and I visited one of the many tea plantations surrounding Srimongol. The stepped-hills were layered with neat rows of tea bushes; dotted here-and-there were stick-thin Bengali workers harvesting tea with sickles. Their withered skin was dark-almost black- from lives spent bending bending over tea bushes in the tropical sun.

My students and I wandered among the leaves of varying shades of green while a guide told us about the gardens. The tea was harvested then sorted by quality. The leaves were packaged and exported far beyond Asia to westernized parts of the world. The workers labored 12-16 hours for 30 taka a day.

30-THIRTY-taka a day. Forty-five cents. Twenty-five pence.

The journey back to our lodging was sober as my girls pondered this startling information.

"Ms. Baker," reflected one twelve year-old, "they said the workers are told their wages were fair and that if they leave they can't find other jobs. Their whole family has to work to survive."

"Also, those tea laborers don't get an education," I pointed out (I had to since I'm an English teacher).

"Ms. Baker," said my girl earnestly, "I'm going to make people around the world aware of inequalities like this someday. I'm going to write about them someday. Someday, I'm going to change the world by writing."

That, my friends, is an earnest heart who I believe will go out and change the world by writing.

Traveling in the Hills of Syhlet

2009-02-27T08:33:00.004+06:00

Mutiny drama update: apparently the mutiny is over. For now that is.

Now I can gab away about random stories from our school field trip this week. One random mini tale from our oh-so-exciting-trip:

Sunday evening five of my girls trekked down to the dining hall a couple of minutes ahead of me. I followed, passing a cluster of punk men.

"Hello m'am, how are you?" they queried politely.

"Fine, how are you?" I replied, a little suspicious of their overly polite manner.

Reaching the dining hall five of my girls approached me nervously.

"Ms. Baker, those men outside were calling out at us and calling us "sexy" and "baby." They looked scared, so I slammed down the bag I was carrying, marched out side, and chewed the men out.

Apparently the men knew I was a teacher, so I was moved from "sexy" to "m'am" status. Another chaperone told me I should beat those men up, yelling, "you think I'm not sexy!"

Mutiny

2009-02-26T21:41:00.002+06:00

After 5 days in the Syhlet Division of Bangladesh on a field trip with twenty -five students, I’ve returned to an uncertain Dhaka. On the long bus ride back this morning I kidded with my students that we should have spent our field trip training for hostile resistance situations rather than traipsing around Lawacharra Rainforest observing its ecosystems. Once we got into Dhaka I warned them to cover their heads with urnas so we wouldn't be targeted as foreigners. Superficially I was yanking their chains, but a little part of me was serious.

Here's the juicy story: The Bangladesh Rifles (India border patrol) were negotiating contracts yesterday and mutinied after the meeting didn't result in their getting higher pay benefits. Shooting broke out in Dhanmondi, which scarily enough, is only 5 or 6 miles from where I teach. The BBC reckons 50 were shot, while a parent of one of my students- who filled me in on the situation as she gave me a lift back home- alleged newer reports estimate closer to a hundred were killed, among them two higher up officials.

Consequently us Dhaka residents are facing possible curfews, cell phone connection cutting, and who knows what else as the government struggles to control the situation. Apparently Sheikh Hasina offered amnesty to the BDR and was refused, so she is threatening to bring in the army.

We shall see what happens.

What I was planning on blogging about today was my spectacular field trip out in the scenic tea garden and paddy covered hills on Srimongol, complete with rainforest trekking (we saw Gibbon monkeys!) and wadding in a waterfall with my middle schoolers. Instead I’m relating sensational news from a developing Bengali drama-unfortunately it’s reality; not an afternoon soap opera.

Stay tuned for further updates from the Never Dull Country of Bangladesh.

Sunrise

2009-02-17T23:34:00.002+06:00

The weather has been gentle and breezy these past few days, so early this morning I woke up before dawn slipped downstairs for a jog around the pond.

Hidden from my sight in the bushes and trees, the birds called and chattered to each other as I enjoyed the early morning peace. Rounding a bend I passed the mosque, filled with men in Islamic hats and punjabis at early morning prayers.

The precise moment when night slips away and the sun pokes its head up over the edge of the earth is a moment I usually miss; this morning was different. A small gasp escaped me as the fiery sun broke over the tops of the towering block houses, across the tree tops, and illuminated the path ahead of me.

This morning scene was worth the few minutes of missed sleep.

Africa Angst

2009-02-14T13:29:00.006+06:00

Half the time I'm euphorically excited to move to Africa, the rest of the time I'm terrified.

Logically I realize Tanzania is a relatively secure, stable country, so sure, I'll be safe there. Right? Then I look at maps and see that Uganda- where the Lord's Resistance Army mutilated women and kidnapped children- borders Tanzania in the north. Then there's Rwanda, with it's recent Tutsi genocide, close by the other side of Tanzania. Then there's the Sudan. Yeah, I don't even want to think about Sudan.

Yet I can't go back to the States to teach. I can't go to a sheltered life where the scariest thing that happens is walking by myself at night in a dark parking garage.

Perhaps God is building me up gradually to, I don't know, hmm, something that requires bravery. I've spent the past 20 months in Bangladesh and other parts of Asia in semi-safe areas. Now I'm moving to Dar es Salaam, which I'm told by my new school is more dangerous. What's God planning for me after two years in Dar?

I don't want to know. Not yet anyways.

2009-02-12T20:33:00.000+06:00

On first reflection my past week has sadly been lacking in quality blog material, mainly because I've had zero creative energy for writing since my days have been crammed with meetings, writing student attainment targets, teaching English to my slum school students out in Badda Bazaar, orientation to the SIL/Wycliffe offices out in Uttara, and other such unblog worthy material. My time is scheduled down to the minute, meaning I leave my house before seven each morning and don't get home until bed time, when I collapse tiredly on to my bed.

My original excuse for neglecting my blog was lack of interesting writing material as no one wants to hear about staff meetings and the like, but this is untrue. As Joel pointed out a few weeks back, it's not about having something to write about, it's about putting an interesting spin on everyday occurrences.

Granted, my everyday Bangladeshi occurrences are far from mundane for most of my western readers.

Let me prove his point by giving a taste of random happenings from my work-filled week.

Tuesday: As usual I cycled to school, passing one of those bicycle pulled caged-in-carts that take neatly uniformed Bengali girls to school. I make it a habit to stick my tongue out at the girls when I pass by, but this morning one girlie beat me to it, peeking at me between the bars and sticking her tongue out at me.

Wednesday: During a heated game of soccer with my Grace International School students, I was up against the other team's striker, attempting to steal the ball. His method of distracting me was to invite me for a hot cup of tea later that day. The next morning he asked why I never showed up for the tea.

Thursday: Mary Poppins blew into Dhaka today with her huge black umbrella. Despite it being the dry season, Dhaka citizens awoke to breezes and small rain showers. When it first started raining my Y7s shouted "let's go outside and play in the rain!" and were genuinely surprised that I didn't halt English class to let them.

Uniquely Y9

2009-02-04T12:50:00.000+06:00

My head ached.

Walking into my homeroom at this morning for class assembly, I saw my students crowded around one 14 year-old and his electric guitar.

“The school bell rang; that amp and guitar should be put away!” I felt like a broken record, yelling this every week. But by now the musically inclined boys in my class knew the rules and quickly stuck the instruments in the storage room.

If only my head would stop aching.

My students shuffled to their seats and I pulled out my Bible to begin class assembly.

A. suddenly blurted out, “ask H.S. to play the song he wrote!”

The opportunity to snap, “Nope, it’s time for our devotional, so sit down and be quiet” flashed through my throbbing brain, but luckily I squashed the cranky part of me.

"What ever crushes individuality is despotism, no matter what name it is called."
-John Stuart Mill

The next 15 minutes were spent with two boys singing and strumming songs they’d written on the guitar. One was a group effort, with C. singing a heartfelt “goodbye” he’d written for a girl who’d moved back to Canada last summer, accompanied by H.S. on the electric guitar and O. beating time with drum sticks. The students and I all loved this impromptu concert.

Each of my Y9s is unique, with varying talents, be they musical, athletic, interpersonal, etc.

Ouch. How am I going to say goodbye to them and head off to Tanzania in June?

BFF

2009-02-03T11:04:00.000+06:00

Her laugh bounced off the walls
With the volume of a megaphone
As her red-gold mane shook,
Reflecting the sunshine pouring
Through the open window.

Her speckled, milk-white arms enveloped
Me in a hug of love. A free,
Unconditional gesture-no strings attached.

Hey Girlies- Here's Some Girl Empowerment!

2009-02-01T19:38:00.000+06:00

The results from a fundraising swim I swam in last Friday morning just came out, and after a month of hard training I feel the need to brag a bit about the results.

It was a 60 minute swim where 40ish people swam as many laps (25 meters a lap) as they could to raise money for an AUSAID affiliated program working to prevent drownings in Bangladesh; the number one killer of young kids here.

Most swimmers couldn't handle swimming the whole hour, so they were in teams; but 10 others-including me- swam the whole thing. Here's were my shameless bragging starts.

I came in third and was the fastest female, swimming 124 laps, or 3,100 meters.

My next post will be ultra humble and uber spiritual to make up for this prideful boasting.

A Uniquely Bangla Church Experience

2009-01-30T15:41:00.000+06:00

Yesterday morning I attended the Assemblies of God Church down in Moghbazar, which is open to nationals and expats alike, but conducted in English.

The worship was fulfilling as the band lead songs that spoke right into my open heart. My eyes were moist after "As the Deer" and "God of Wonders," either because I was exhausted from an intense swimming competition earlier that morning or because the people surrounding me and the band were so sincere in their heart-felt singing. I'll let you decide which it was.

After the worship, I headed towards the bathrooms, which are located near the main room that functions as a sanctuary, and passed the kiddos headed to their Sunday school in another room. The hallway had an open area where 5 or six goats were being slaughtered then hacked into chunks. Each little child was walking across the blood covered floor and staring wide eyed at the butchering.

Hmm. An animal slaughtering is definitely not something I've seen in any western church.

Moving on.

After the service, I walked over to the water fountain to get a cup of water. As I sipped my water two Bengali men approached me. Here's our bizarre conversation:

Man 1: Excuse me, may we speak to you?
Elaine: About what?
Man 1: Where are you from?
Elaine: America. Where are you from?
Man 1: [Laughs uncertainly] Bangladesh, of course. Er, are you studying?
Elaine: No.
Man 2: I am his brother. Do you have any hobbies, like collecting bottles or stamps?
Elaine: No.
Man 1: What about reading?
Elaine: Nope.
Man 1: Do you have any friends?
Elaine: [Pretends to stop and think] I think I have one friend. Do you have any friends?
Man 1: [Stares at Elaine] Yes, of course.

Again, conversations like this have never happened to me in America, this was a uniquely Bangla church experience!

*Yeah, I do realize I was harsh on those two men, but it was all in good fun.

This Skin of Mine

2009-01-26T19:18:00.000+06:00

Beep! Honk! Beep, beep!

Engulfing me in their ceaseless cacophony, the traffic noises of Dhaka where in full force last Friday morning. My rickshaw waller halted at a busy intersection, where a Bengali traffic cop was struggling to control the chaos. Two women beggars limped barefoot up to my rickshaw and I noticed three or four raggedy children peeping out of the brightly patterned saris wrapped around their thin bodies.

“Madam, baksheesh,” they implored of me, holding out their wrinkled hands for money. “Money for our babies.” The deep brown eyes of one lady searched my eyes pathetically.

Suddenly, her hand sprang out and she grabbed my arm, stroking my skin with her brown thumb. She began to speak intently to me, gazing all the while into my eyes. I struggled to translate her Bengali words into English, and when I did, shock hit me.

“Madam, your white skin is beautiful, very pale and beautiful,” basically she was saying. She rubbed her own chocolate colored skin and continued, “my skin is not good, it is dark.”

“No, no!” I vigorously shook my head. “Your skin is beautiful, your skin is lovely!” I said in Bangla.

She refused to listen to me and repeated herself over and over.

“I am not pretty, I am not pretty.”

Memories from my teenage years filled my mind, and mentally I flashed backwards in time and place to when I was in high school in Florida. Saturday afternoons my girlfriends and I would pile into my little green car and head for Cocoa Beach. Once at the beach I would head for the waves while my friends would slather themselves in tanning oil and position themselves directly under the burning sun. At the end of the day we’d head for the showers, where we’d peel off our swimsuits and exam our sun-baked bodies.

“Check out my tan!” my friends would yell exuberantly to each other. My fair skin, however, stubbornly refused to brown, preferring instead to turn a crispy shade of lobster red. My girlies would recommend different types of tanning oil- “try coconut” one would say, while another would advise “nah, try Banana Boat brand.” When none of those oils worked they gave me sunless tanning creams.

Still no luck.

Eventually I gave up, content to body surf and splash around in the ocean with my ghostly white arms and legs.

Now, here I was in Asia where pale is beautiful and brown is ugly. What a complete reverse of viewpoints. I’ve traveled through Bangladesh, India, China, and Thailand, all places where women spend gobs of money on bleaching and fairness cosmetics. I’ve also traveled around America and the United Kingdom, where girls spend loads of cash on tanning products.

“How heartbreaking,” I thought as I looked at the beggar, beautiful with her skin the color of brown sugar, “that girls can’t be satisfied with the looks they were born with. God created us to look just the way He wants us to look.”

Today I Had an Everest Moment

2009-01-24T17:54:00.000+06:00

While jogging laps around a semi-picturesque park in DOHS Baridhara, I noticed a new addition to the play area. A thick thirty foot rope dangled temptingly towards the ground.

“Snap!”

Without stopping to think, I jogged over to the rope and pulled off my trainers. Quickly I grabbed the rope and shimmied to the top.

“Gotcha,” I tagged the top.

As I slid down to the ground I noticed half the people in the park had froze and were staring at me. Oh shoot, I forgot, girls aren’t supposed to do things like that in Bangladesh.

I grabbed my shoes and sat on a bench to lace them back on. Looking up, I saw a man grab the rope and attempt to climb it like I just did.

He fell.

Why did I climb that rope? Because it was there.

The Romance of Dhaka

2009-01-20T16:18:00.000+06:00

After living in Dhaka for a year and a half, I can finally look past the pollution and poverty to the more romantic aspects of the city. Riding my bike from Upper School to the First School for a staff meeting after school today, I was struck by the unique South Asian feel of the city.

Keeping well out of the way of dilapidated local buses barrelling past, I cycled past towering building blocks, all so similar in blunt design, yet individual in their intricate metalwork on their gates and barred windows.

Coming down Gulshan Avenue I passed the crowded market, filled with stalls of fruit and spices. The hundreds of oranges stacked in pristine pyramids caught my eye and my mouth watered.

A boy chased me, waving bunches of fresh roses the colors of the sunset.

"Madam, madam! Only a hundred taka!" He called as he ran after me.

At the traffic light I halted with the other cars, buses, rickshaws, and CNGs, not because we actually ever pay obey the red light, but because a uniformed guard was directing traffic. A legless beggar dragged himself over.

"Baksheesh," he intoned over and over, proffering his wrinkled hand.

The traffic cop waved his baton imperiously and I continued on my journey, passing men with lungis wrapped around their bony waists balancing baskets on their heads and children playing in the streets. I passed a few women, most fully covered in elaborately patterned and sequined shalwar kameezes, but a few neatly wrapped up in burqhas. Their dark eyes followed me as pedalled past, and I wondered what they were thinking.

Dhaka does offer an Asian mystique, although it is polluted by western influences and Bollywood. So far the city I've found most like in Asia is Siliguri, in North India. It is ironic that I'm beginning to love this impoverished city now that I am preparing to leave for Africa.

The Priestly Blessing

2009-01-19T19:42:00.000+06:00

"The Lord bless you
and keep you;
the Lord make his face shine upon you
and be gracious to you;
the Lord turn his face toward you
and give you peace." -Numbers 6:24-27

For sure someone prayed that blessing on me this morning! Why else would my day have been so uplifting? Even now I can't stop grinning.

Let me count today's blessings, name them one by one:

1. My dedicated group of prayer partners is forming, all committed to praying for my transition into teaching in Tanzania this August.

2. I glimpsed a brilliant purple dahlia the size of a softball growing next to a brick building.

3. I just stuck a chocolate cake in the oven. Those of you who know I gave up refined sugar(whoa, hold up, just for a year!) as my New Year's resolution may be tsk tsking and shaking your heads, but hear the rest of my story.
My students and I are enthusiastically planning a weekly bakesale to raise money for local street children. We are taking them on a trip to Dhaka Zoo-what a treat for those little Dhaka ruffians! What is even more exciting for me-if that's possible- is how involved my Homeroom students are in the fundraising, as I've been pushing them to get more involved in community service.

4. My Mom's birthday present to me survived the hazards of Bangladeshi mail and reached me this morning. Quite possibly it's the best present ever. A Michael Phelps Beijing 2008 t-shirt. Let's have a moment of silence in respect of the one-of-a-kind Michael. May I be like him.

5. David Robinson, another teacher, laughed and chatted gaily all day at work. Probably because he is going back to his own parish in Australia this summer.

Yep. All those things happened to yours truly today.

News, News, News

2009-01-18T14:50:00.000+06:00

A good friend of mine, who already has a jam-packed schedule out in the Kustia District studying Bangla and working on community development projects, decided he didn’t have enough on his plate.

"Look! I still have seven free minutes between 4am and 5am," he noted. So he challenged me to read the Bible with him in 90 days. Never one to turn down a challenge, I readily agreed.

A few days into this intense venture I was leading a class assembly for my 14 year-old homeroom students.

“How would you guys like to read the entire Bible in 90 days?” I was expecting a less than enthusiastic response, but surprisingly 4 of my students were excited about the challenge.

“Yeah, we’ll do it!”

“Maybe they’ll realize how time consuming it is, or get bogged down in the boring parts, and quit,” I worried. To keep them on track, I got their moms on board with the idea and I daily harassed my lil' kids to keep at it. I also asked friends in Dhaka and back in the States to pray that they perseveare.

Now it is almost a week into the challenge, and they are still going strong.

No, more than that.

They are coming excitedly into homeroom to tell me things they’ve discovered in their reading.

This morning Charles eyes grew wide and he waved his arm enthusiastically after I asked my typical, “Sooo, how’s the reading going?”

"Ooh! Ooh! Listen!" he proceeded to tell me the significance he’d found in numbers in the Old Testament so far, like how the numbers seven and forty are special because they’re repeated over and over.

Neat, I can actually see the prayers of my friends at work in my students' diligence and excitment.
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Other exciting news is that I'm moving to Tanzania this summer to begin teaching at another Christian international school, called, are you ready, Haven of Peace Academy. Now who wouldn't want to teach at a school with that lovely name? To top it off, it's located directly on the Indian Ocean, so I can swim in real water everyday. Mmm. It'll be wonderful.

Asia to Africa is a big move, so I'm feeling the need for more prayers from friends and family, but this time for me and not my students. If four or five friends would volunteer to be my prayer partners, that would be amazing. Hint, hint to all you blog readers.

Really, I covet all your prayers at this particular transition time in my life, so let me know if you are interested in becoming my prayer partner.

Syhlet Trip Part II- H.'s Toilet

2009-01-13T14:25:00.001+06:00

Thursday night we arrived at what H. termed her "village," but what we objected was too grandiose a term for four houses grouped into a compound. They were more propserous country homes with tin roofs, as H.'s Mum in London sends money back to her family in Syhlet. We were taken inside and given a cup of milky cha [tea], then taken on a tour of the dark compound. Lanterns illuminated the shadowy figures of cows and chickens occupying prominent parts of the huts. Cows seemed to be valued more highly than the many children running around, who H. gestureted at vaguely and called her cousins. It was pitch black as the electricity was off because the family hadn't paid their power bill, but in typically Bengali fashion they assured us it was "coming." I wish I had a taka for every time a Bengali has ressured me something is "coming."

"Does that mean coming in five minutes or five days?" I was half serious.

Eventually the electricity did power on, allowing H. to takes us to a small room off the side of the kitchen to see her famous toilet.

This famous, or maybe I should say infamous, toilet also happened to be a thorn in H.'s existence.

It was a modern western commode that flushed with remarkably good water pressure. It was nice. In fact, it even had a brand new rool of neon pink toilet paper perched next to it.

"Purchased specially for the visiting bideshis?" I ventured, as Bengalis don't typically use toilet paper.

The story of this porcelein novelty was a source of great amusement for Chelsea, Joel, and I, but of great embarrassment to H.

The Tale of H.'s Toilet

H. and her Mum visited their Syhletti when she was seventeen, where their family promptly introduced her to a cousin she was told to marry her so he could take her passport and work in London, sending his wages back to Bangladesh. Yes, she was told this directly- no beating around the bush with her family. Yet this honesty is natural in Bengali culture, as marriages are arranged and frequently kept within the family. To seal the deal, her family took her to the back of the house and threw open the latrine door.

"See!" They cried exuberantly, "we built you a toilet, now you have to marry Kalique!"

Horrified at the thought of living in Syhlet, H and her Mother had refused. Technically Delwar, her older brother, was her guardian, but he was a modern thinking Cambridge student and wanted her to choose her own husband. Consequently, H.'s family was upset with her and persisted in telling her to marry her cousin, Kalique.

Soon after we arrived, they produced an old photo of a teenaged H. and Kalique standing solemnly side by side on a dusty road. The photo had been magnified to poster size, then laminated. Her family proudly passed the photo around before propping it obviously up on the mantlepiece.

Their innuendo was anything but subtle.

Kalique smiled shyly at H. and sat down close to her, his shoulder brushing her's.

The rest of the evening ticked by slowly, with H.'s aunts, uncles, and cousins grinning at us and claiming, "we like you, even though you are so quiet!"

It didn't seem to occur to them that we were quiet because they spoke only Syhletti, which is different from Bangla.

I did manage to get sari wearing lessons, with H.'s aunt to teaching me to put on a sari all by my lonesome. Now I don't have to ask my ayah to dress me.

At bed time H., Chelsea and I climbed into one bed together, while her family, continued to stare at us. My last sight before the lights were turned off was her elderly uncle smoking a cigaratte and peering at us through the mossie net.

The next morning I was greeted by the same sight, and had to resign myself to three little cousins watching me change my shalwar kameez and brush my teeth.

"Why not?" I thought when they refused to let me dress in private. "It's not everyday these kids get to see so much white skin."

"The Friendship Divorce"

2009-01-12T13:09:00.000+06:00

by E.G.B.

I sit on a miniature chair, the
Wooden back digging into my spine.
Fingerpaintings and bright posters
Cover the classroom walls.

I see two serious faces,
one molded into hard lines.
Coulors of the classroom fade
And suddenly I am in a courtroom.
Her lips crack their mold and the
Trial begins.

Grievances are listed-accusations
Against the core of who I am-
All uttered in Her flat voice.

It's over. I'm expected
To speak, to defend myself.
My mouth is dry, my tongue
Unable to form words. The words
To express my value of a friendship
She ruined.

My faces closes, a mask drops to
Hide my pain. A hard lump fills my
Throat and I am gasping for breath.
No words come.

She is the judge, the jury. I am
The unrepresented defense. Satisfied,
She delivers the verdict. I escape
The courtroom, where my tears erupt
Over a treasure lost.

East Bangladesh Trip Part I

2009-01-11T14:49:00.000+06:00

Purpose: Three friends and I travelled around Syhlet and Sri Mongol for a few days this week to visit H.'s Syhletti family, see the "sites" (although it's doubtful they're nice enough to warrant that term) and ultimately plan out the Year 8 and 9 five day school field trip in February.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Missionaries abroad are some of the most interesting people I've met. They've travelled a good deal and have endless fascinating stories about their travels. In Bangladesh, missionaries are also some of the most patient people I've met. This blog is about one such missionary.

Chelsea, a companion on this Syhleti adventure, works for Food For the Hungry (FH) and hails from Wisconsin (Yes! Finally! a fellow American for company). Yet this girl has abandoned her rural mid-western habits-except for wearing long underwear under her shalwar in winter- in favour of Bangla living. She lives on Bangla food. She speaks Bangla fluently. She is, in fact, the whitest Bangali I've met.

At the start of our trip we picked her up in Banani an hour late, and all she calmly asked was "who's fault is it?"

H. ducked her head guiltily, as she'd rolled over and went back to sleep after I'd knocked on her door to wake her up that morning.

After picking up Chelsea, our van set off for Syhlet and I thumbed through the Bangladesh Lonely Planet, looking at vague maps and planning our trip timetable. A pain throbs in my forehead as I unsuccessfully attempt to ring tea gardens and guesthouses, all places I need to check out for the upcoming field trip. Predictably, all the numbers are out of service.

"The Bangladesh Lonely Planet is rubbish," Joel mutters several times.

We stop and use a toilet in a family's home alongside the road, as public toilets are virtually non-existent in this country. Joel comes out of the toilet mumbling about Hepatitis, but the muddy-floored toilet winds a 5 out of 10 on my rating scale, as the smell is bearable and there are working electric lights. I step out to find Chelsea easily squatting next to the lady of the house, who's sitting on her haunches plucking a chicken. Predictably, Chelsea has already befriended her.

"Obviously my planning has to be done in person, not over the phone," I note as she straightens up to her full tall height. "we'll have to just show up and hope we find these places."

Chelsea shrugs nonchalantly, "No worries. People in the villages will direct us once we get there."

Deciding to follow her laid back attitude, I follow her back to the van, where I curl up on the seat and sleep for an hour. Sleeps mellows my worries further, and I spend the rest of the trip gazing at the endless honey-coloured fields dotted with cows and brown Bengalis sliding past my van window.

Forgotten is the Lonely Planet.

Chelsea, ever serene, does the same.

“I am come that you might have life, and that you might have it more abundantly.” John 10:10b

2009-01-07T09:43:00.000+06:00

Dashed off this poem about John 10:10 quickly last night, then woke up at 4am and thought of the ending four lines. After that my fingers finally stopped itching to write.

Abundant Life
by E.G.B
Is it possible I will stop living
my life so intensely?
Will sensations cease to
seem so very real to me?

The tangy smell of chrysanthemums
on my dining room table; the nutty
flavour of peanut butter on my rhoti;
the melody of Est’s thick Irish brogue?

Will my craving, yearning to read,
no, to absorb scripture die away?
Gazing into my students’ eyes; relating to
their ideas; empathising with their feelings?

I wonder if my heart-to-heart discussions with
intimate friends will ever feel less fulfilling;
if a certain girl’s eyes filling with tears
will cease to tear a corner of my heart?

That sense of completion when
finishing a novel; that remorse
when a song ends that seems to
be written for me alone?

“No!” Christ’s assurance, His Holy Word,
crashes across more than two thousand
years. He gives abundance to living,
life that overflows into Eternity.

Journey into the deepest, darkest...er...Bangladesh?

2009-01-06T08:47:00.000+06:00

My past two days were spent travelling in remote villages near the Jamuna River [Blue River] helping Steve and Jeannette, who work with the non-government organisation Symbiosis, with what Steve cleverly termed, “a bell curve, as it was a uniform distribution.” Translated from Australian into American this means formally presenting navy and white schools uniforms at Bengali schools near the Jamuna sandbar.

These schools are tucked away in out of the way villages surrounded by farms growing a variety of rice; mustard seed; vegetables like chili peppers and squash; and what Bengalis grow best, people. We may be as remote as you can get in Bangladesh, but Bengalis are liberally sprinkled everywhere.

This country is insanely populated.

As we walked amongst the paddies I nibbled on green chilli peppers and stared back at the villagers who dropped their plowing to gawk at the bideshis [foreigners]. Jeannette responded by stopping abruptly in her tracks to snap pictures at whatever local striked her fancy. Quickly I noted her unpredictable walking and learned not to walk behind her, so I walked next to Steve and laughed at his stories.

Steve responded to the curious stares by ignoring them. He was fascinated by the tropical Bengali plants, like the tall, spare barinda trees, which grow seeds that can be dried and squeezed for oil. He gathered a few to see if the oil is usable as a petrol alternative. I stopped to admire the barinda trees with him, but only because their leaves are beautifully shaped.
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We took an ancient looking wooden boat along the cloudy river for an hour before landing and hiking up the grey shore, which was rough and uneven because of flooding during the monsoon season, to the first school. It was the dry season and the sand stretched long and dry up the banks. When we reached the JRDP (Jamuna River Development Project) school the sun was glaring on a hundred or so children lined up painstakingly in rows. I wondered if they’d been waiting in the heat for hours, and their orderly rows reminded me of a Nazis concentration camp. The headmaster greeted us and blew on his whistle, initiating a complicated series of half exercising and half dancing movements from the students. They didn’t stir from their positions, but saluted, stomped, and waved their arms in uniform movements. A young boy beat a drum, repeating the same thump, thump, thumping rhythm over and over till the beat ingrained itself in my head. Obviously the students enjoyed this homogeneous production, although it bothered me that their individuality was stifled. Again my western perceptions interfered with my appreciation of their collectivistic culture.

After the rhythmic performance, Jeannette spoke to the children, empowering them to stay in school as long as possible. She realised what a struggle it is for the boys and especially girls have to continue their educations. For the next couple of hours Jeannette presented each student with a crisp new uniform her catholic school in Australia donated.

I stand on the outskirts with an urna covering my yellow hair, which earlier that day I braided tightly out of sight. The evening before Jeannette requested I not wear any of my “gorgeous sarees, as it will steal all the attention like it did in Kumarkhali village at Christmas.”

My plan to be invisible works for the first hour, until I started chatting with a local villager wearing a brightly woven saree. Her strong, handsome face fascinates me and I struggled to find the right words in Bangla to find out more about her. I gazed at her two nose piercings and she examined the gold and silver bangles on my pale wrist. Quickly a crowd circled around me as men, women, and children gazed at the ghost-like foreigner. Steve sauntered up and laughed at my entourage.

“I wish I knew some tricks to entertain them,” I lamented, “like how to juggle.”

“Oh no,” chuckled Steve, “you just have to stand there.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
After a long day of travelling we headed back to the Symbiosis Jamuna River Branch Office for a “cultural evening,” (yes, the Bengalis actually termed it that) where the national staff sang Christian songs and a midget with an amazing sense of rhythm danced for us. In return we taught them the old western Sunday school song “Father Abraham.”

That night they dragged a wooden bed into the dining room for me to sleep on, and I sat in bed reading a New York Times bestseller while Jeannette uploaded her two million pictures from the day. Okay, maybe it was more like 400 pictures. Men wandered in and out the room on various errands and we laughed that this is the only time I’ve worn an urna [a scarf worn over clothes out of modesty that covers a woman’s breasts and head] to bed out of necessity.
___________________________________________________________________________________
We went to sleep exhausted and I awoke the next morning at 7:15. I looked at the dining room table in front of me and immediately noticed my backpack is gone.

Odd.

Startled, I clambered out from under the mosquito net and examined the floor. My tee shirt and books are scattered on the cement, but my backpack is definitely missing.

I headed for the door to the Noolans' room, before remember Steve’s command that I not wake him before 7:30- he needs his beauty sleep. I balanced on the edge of my bed to wait till 7:30.

Five seconds flick by.

“Wait a minute,” I decided, “this is an emergency!” I skipped into the other room and quietly announced. “I’ve been robbed.”

Steve was alert in an instant and stirred the national staff into action. Soon my bag was discovered outside of the bars of my window and I searched my possessions to see what is missing. Predictably, my money, phone, and camera are missing. In the back of my mind I am pleased that my second favourite kameez and second favourite knickers weren’t stolen. Hmm. At least that’s something.

I noticed that weirdly the only non-valuable item stolen is a pack of tissues and I create a mental profile of the thief: an impoverished Bengali man with a bad cold. That narrows it down to how many million people.

Apparently the thief pulled the tablecloth to the window with my bag on it, than slipped the bag through the bars. Shivering, I imagined a burglar watching me sleep.

“Maybe it’s the man who followed me last night when I went walking. He grabbed me. He was muttering things to me and stalked me until I made it back into the lighted area of town and several Symbiosis staff found me.” I pictured the shuffling man in his lungi.

The staff were upset by the theft and one of them formally apologized to me. The others had drawn faces and refused to look me in the eye. I made a point of smiling at them.

“It is my fault,” our translator blamed himself, “I should have told you to put your bag on the floor.”

“It’s okay,” I assured him, “it was nobody’s fault.”

It definitely wasn’t the fault of the staff, and I don’t like to blame the thief, who maybe was a poor man driven to robbery for survival.

But dang it!

This trip was supposed to be all about Jeannette and her seeing the final product of her fund and awareness raising in Adelaide for the ultra poor schools. This was supposed to be her two days. I’m exhausted by my burden on Jeannette and Steve. I’m only too aware that I’m a single female who in the past week has had a scary experience on a rickshaw, been felt up on the street, and now been robbed.

They don’t complain.

Romans 8:28 says, “We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God,” and I am glad this experience has happened, as it gave me the opportunity to prove I trust God to care for me, not just think it. Here God has protected me with the Noolans and the Symbiosis staff.

Oswald Chamber reckons, “It is only the faithful person who truly believes that God sovereignly controls his circumstances.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
Jeannette, Steve, and I smiled-the national staff looked like they were about to burst into tears- and our trip went on.

The rest of the day continued on as normal, with us journeying to a preschool and a primary school. The children stared at us grimly, refusing to smile for the 300 pictures I was commissioned to take of them by Jeannette, but I understood that was merely cultural and they were actually pleased to own such sharp new uniforms. Their old clothes are brilliantly coloured, patterned fabrics, yet worn and hole-filled.

At the end of the two day journey we arrived back into Dhaka covered in dirt, sweat, probably a sprinkling of goat and cow dung, and smelling of the aromatic fragrance of rural Bangladesh.

“Are you happy with how the trip went?” I queried.

“I am,” Mrs. Noolan states with a satisfied smile.

Chepati of Life

2009-01-01T20:47:00.000+06:00

My scripture reading has been straightforward for the past 8 or so years. While deeper Christians choose to do fancy topical Bible studies or use a Bible study manual, I merely open the Bible at Genesis and proceed to read straight through till Revelation. When I hit the end of the O.T., I flip my old Bible over and begin again. Consequently I've read completely my Bible through many times, which may seem boring to some people, but I like to read what's in the Word for myself.

Sometimes I do vary off my straightforward path to chase little rabbit trails. For four days now I've been reading John chapter 6 during my quiet times. I read it once, think about, then read it again. Each day I read the chapter a different aspect to Jesus' words pop out at me, and sometimes the same words hit different chords in me based on my mood.
Hmm. A curious effect.

I've been so eagerly looking forward to my study times, wondering what the next re-reading will bring, that finally I decided to memorize the verses that haunt my thoughts the most, verses 26-40. Now that I'm too afraid to leave my apartment alone at night, I have plenty of leisure time for memorization.

In John 6, Jesus repeatedly asserts that He is the bread of life. This is a simple analogy to me, but His discussion on the topic seemed too much for some of His disciples and some deserted Him. Was it the content that was too hard for them to accept, or did they truly not understand His message?

I've heard tales of the Bible being translated into tribal languages with the word "bread" changed to whatever the staple food of that tribe is. Like the sweet potato of Papua New Guinea. Roti [bread] is common in Bangladesh, but their staple food is bhat [rice]. Jesus is the rice of life.

For the past month my staple food has been chepati, a round, flat food akin to a tortilla. Claiming Jesus is the chepati of life is proclaiming Him to be all I need to be filled.

Knowing that Jesus is the most satisfying, the most fulfilling should be comforting, as it surely is for me. So why did it scare off the disciples? After my re-readings, it hits me that often it's the simplest ideas that confound people.

In the western world the simplest answer isn't the right answer. To be happy, you need as many entertainment possessions as possible: flat screen TVs, entertainment systems, Blackberries, laptops, these are the essentials. Maybe that's why I'm not content to live in America. Probably I'm the most happy after I hop out of a hot shower and can smell the creamy scent of coconut conditioner in my hair. Or when I hear a workman in my building singing a melancholy opera tune.

Simple things for simple minds, you may say. But I'll readily admit, it's the simple scripture verses, like "Jesus is the bread of life," that intrigue me the most.

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer." -Thoreau

2009-01-01T10:15:00.000+06:00

Halima, Joel, the Jennings along with their crowd and I step onto the 14th floor at the Dhaka Regency Hotel. It appears to be the world’s worst party and for the first couple of hours, it actually is. As music pulses through the room, men with apathetic expressions stare at the empty dance floor, brilliant with whirling lights.

“Rich Bengali men,” fumes Joel. “Can’t stand them. On the way in I saw one making a fist to beat a rickshaw waller.”

In reality maybe it’s the 5:1 male to cute single female ratio that actually annoys Joel.

A nasty man with a cigarette poking out of a corner of his mouth offers to buy me a drink, and I decide smiling and pretending to be interested in his job is worth a free tequila shot.

Later the party warms up as the dance floor fills up with gyrating Banglas- each boogieing to the beat of his own mental drummer. My group dances in a circle and I bounce along energetically to the Asian pop. Unaccountably I’m proud of myself for recognizing the popular songs that regularly blare from shops and cars on the street.

Dancing’s the only reason I come to these things.

“Want to learn how to Hindi dance?” Asks a man in our group whose name I’m 50% sure starts with an “M”. After a slight nod from me he takes me aside and shows me a slow, rhythmic set of foot steps-the tension is all in the hand movements.

A tipsy man next to us suddenly drops to the floor and break dances.

Joel's dancing is endearing, limited to fist bobbing until Halima lectures him on proper dance rules. There must be feet movement or weight shifting.

Fast forward hours. In the elevator away from the clouds of cigarette smoke Beth complains that the drinks were expensive and you even had to pay for the water.

“Not uh, I didn’t pay for the water,” I counter.

“It was 200 taka, so obviously they like you.” She gazes at me steadily.

“Didn’t you have men buying you drinks, too?” wonders Joel.

“You just have to smile at them,” I say to Beth helpfully, then realize I sound like a flirt and shut my mouth.

“You wear glasses. You wear your hair in a bun. You are the Upper School librarian. You are a secondary English teacher,” mentally I remind myself.

Two Theories

2008-12-31T09:07:00.000+06:00

Slowly I’m developing a new theory, one I’m sure will win me international acclaim and a multitude of awards after I perfect it. My theory began to evolve after I re-watched a certain movie today. The movie produced exactly the same effect as the first time I watched it with my lil’ sis a couple of years back; that is, floods of tears in all the same places. Probably I should scientifically test my theory out by watching the film again tomorrow, but I predict the same result.

My idea coincides with the fact that the human body is complexly made up of atoms that are polygomus, meaning they can create as many bonds as they choose. Each human body is unique, meaning different amalgamations occur in different individuals. If the right combination of bonds is intertwined, bam, a particular physical reaction is produced.

My friend Christina is exceptionally skillful at twisting my bonds just so. I suppose she creates covalent bonds in me, as these are the bonds that “share.” One gaze from her chocolate brown eyes and I find myself pouring out thoughts I’d kept from some of my closest friends. Of course, inevitably she’ll smile knowingly and say,

“Yeah, I figured that out, you’re too transparent.” The crazy thing is she probably did already guess it.

Another lady is also adept at getting things from me. Her fixed, probing stare earlier this evening had me discussing things I’d never mentioned aloud before. She created another type of covalent bond in me.

Maybe the movie crying response is due to the bonds of “fatal attraction,” or ionic bonds. Who can deny that there is something irresistible about a tragic movie that unleashes a downpour of tears?

I’m sure you’re dying to hear more about my highly scientific bond theory (should I consider teaching science instead of English?), but instead I need to mention a currently pressing topic: The December 29th Bangladesh Election 2008.

Awami League is in with over 200 votes. Woo hoo. Cheering and celebration in certain parts of Dhaka.

Perhaps rioting and protesting in other parts?

Last night I talked with an interesting character. The girl is currently writing a dissertation on political participation in Bangladesh. When she first told me this I was instantly interested as I knew almost 20 million Bengalis are registered to vote, a staggering sum.

“Tell me more.” She could not ask for a more attentive audience.

“Well, political participation tends to be higher in third world and developing countries,” she ventured carefully in her dainty British accent.

“Why do you reckon?” I asked in my blunt American accent.

“My theory is that because unemployment is high and Bengalis are unemployed or under-occupied-TVs are scarce- they are, frankly, bored.”

“Sounds about right,” My head nods comprehendingly.

This is a theory I can get behind. Wonder if her theory will win her as much universal commendation as my above one will earn me.

Coffee To Go

2008-12-29T19:02:00.000+06:00

My life in Dhaka operates on hyper speed. My alarm beeps at 5:30am each morning and I hop out of bed and pull on my clothes. A new day awaits! My days are packed with as much as is humanly possible. Teaching my energetic Grace students English-or at least doing my darndest best to- till 2:30 each afternoon, then leading after school activities (currently gymnastics), tutoring Mongolian adults, volunteering at my slum school, or working at Kingdom Kids Club fills my afternoons. Most evenings I chock full of action, too. Swimming club three days a week, Ultimate Frisbee on Tuesdays, and the long run squeezed into any other free time slots. If by chance I do find a spare hour, I quickly fill it by curling up with a good book or a chat with a friend.

Yet it is only since coming to Dhaka that I’ve added that last bit, the relational bit. In America taking time to have a heartfelt chat with a bondhu [friend] was something I slotted into the odd Friday night.

WHOA. HOLD ON A MINUTE.

You’re probably feeling sorry for me, thinking “aw, poor dear, she’s socially awkward and doesn’t know how to have a proper friendship.”

Not exactly. I did have several close friends, but we were all so busy and spread out geographically that our conversations were mainly limited to whenever we were able to long talks on the phone.

Making time for relationships- this is a new high priority for me. Making time to talk about any random topic that happens to pop into my curly head. Making time to have deep conversations about feelings or err, work (of course, my close girlies and I would never dream of gossiping. Honestly, never. It has been said of me that I only speak the truth.).

Last week on a long bus ride my oh-so-witty Aussie friends and I were passing time by discussing the timeless topic of poetry. Of course, as an English teacher they automatically expected me to have an abundant knowledge on the topic and even asked me to quote America poetry. To be precise, they asked me to recite a patriotic American poem. They also assumed that naturally I was familiar with every American poet and could quote their poems from heart. Naturally.

“I wish that I’ve read more poetry,” rued one.

Flippantly I replied, “That’s okay, it’s not practical to your line of work [He’s a geography specialist].” As usual I wasn’t serious, but he looked at me with a serious expression on his face.

“Life’s not always about work, Elaine, what’s important in life isn’t always practical.”

Bam. He hit the nail on the head, as he frequently does.

My activity driven life is focused on a flurry of how much can be done in as short a time as possible. Efficiency. Positive change.

Isn’t that why I came to Dhaka, to make a difference?

Instead, the many other cultures I’ve been exposed to in this close-knit expatriate community have taught me something new; The Art of Chilling.

Ah, The Art of Chilling. Kicking back, sipping tea, talking leisurely about what’s on your mind. Once at the beginning of last year my phone beeped and I checked my message, it was Jan:

“Come round for a cuppa.”

“What in tarnation’s a cuppa? A cuppa what?” my poor Americanized mind was bewildered.

This was the first of many similar invitations to a hot beverage and a tête-à-tête. Frequently the Aussies and Europeans I work with will invite me around for no other reason then to enjoy each other’s company.

Coffee as a medium of building relationships it utterly and completely foreign to me. In America we like our coffee hot, strong, and to go. Coffee is merely a means of caffeinating ourselves for the next item on the agenda.

What a shock to find the rest of the world sip their coffee sweet, milky, in china cups, and with the added essential element, of a friend to have a chitchat.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“Behind every successful woman is a substantial amount of caffeine.”- S. Piro

Let’s rephrase that.

“Behind every successful woman is a substantial friendship.”- E.G. Baker*

*I realize this assumes I am a successful woman, which some may say is debatable.

Scratch Me; You'll Get Just a Little Girl

2008-12-28T17:38:00.000+06:00

“An island in the sea may just be the top of a large mountain, and our personality is like that island. We don’t know the great depths of our being, therefore we cannot measure ourselves.” –Oswald Chambers

It was only just three days I ago that I was perched on the edge of a vangaari chatting aimlessly with friends on the way to Rabindranath Tagore’s (the Bengali Nobel Prize winning poet) bari out in the peaceful countryside. But so much has happened in the last day that it seems like it was a different lass (to borrow the Irish term of my dear friend Est)-certainly not the vulnerable girl I am now.

The woman on the vangaari was an adventurer, a determined warrior out to prove the adage that "anything boys can do, girls can do better." Challenges have always been fixed parts in my life; I need the endorphin rush. No, I crave the adrenaline that comes with some new obstacle for me to triumph over.

"What's that you say? I can't swim around the island in a race? Well, I will!"

"Eh, third world living is hard? Betcha I can handle it!"

"Only lunatics run half marathons? Just watch me do it."

My mom says anything I declare I will do, I do; I've inherited the Baker determination. Sometimes this include all the macho bravado of a man. Walking alone at night in shady places is no problem for me, and I comfort fearful female companions by announcing I have a fierce right hook and a knockout jab. I'm sure men view me as a self-sufficient female not in need of their chivalrous protection, and I thought this, too, until last night.

Last night I had a rude awakening, where surprise, surprise, I discovered I am NOT an island.

Scratch my tough facade; you get just a little girl.

So in the past few weeks there has been a huge rise in crime in the area around where I live, and this is all because of the long awaited elections happening, doot doot doo-tomorrow! The military rule has been lifted and consequently there's been marches, parades, celebrations, and a plethora of crime leading up to the supposedly "free and fair election" on the morrow. Three teachers I work with have been robbed at different times, one of them badly injured and her laptop stolen. A close friend of mine’s sister was knocked off a rickshaw and both her feet were broken.

None of this worried me hugely, other than to feel terribly sorry for the victims and offer my condolences. However, last night around midnight I was rickshawing it home from a friend's. In the rickshaw next to me was Josh, headed to a street nearby mine. On the way our shaws were separated as Josh's took a different route. Once I noticed this I asked my waller to wait for him to catch up. I had my urna pulled up around my head so only my face peeked out, but I immediately started to feel nervous when I noticed the place I’d chosen to wait was where two robberies had occurred in the past couple of weeks. Suddenly a white car drove by me, stopped abruptly when the men inside noticed me, and reversed next to my shaw. The Bengali men stared at me. I panicked. Tears poured down my cheeks as I realized I was alone late at night and these men were in exactly the same color car as the one that had robbed my friends.

My lips formed silent words.

“I’m alone. Alone. Alone. God protect me!”

By God’s grace the car unexpectedly sped up and drove away.

Josh was no where to be seen, so I told my equally scared waller to burn rubber getting me home. When I arrived at home Josh rang me and I couldn’t keep the tears from coming as I talked to him. He’d made it to the Noolan’s place, where he was staying, just fine. Worried about me, he insisted he and Steve Noolan walk over and take me back to the Noolan’s to stay the night. When Steve and Josh came to my door and walked with me back to the quiet safety of their house; their big, physical presence calmed me. Just having their comforting height towering over me soothed my shaking nerves. Once in the Noolan’s I crawled into Jeannette’s arms and wept. She let me soak her pillow in tears, and only after I’d stopped and apologized did she give me this gem of insight.

“Don’t ever be ashamed of your emotions. God gave us feelings to guide us, so if you need to cry, go ahead and cry. Your intuition guided you tonight; it told you something was wrong and something was wrong. You are lucky to be safe. You are one prayed for girl.”

Jeannette was right. I am a girl. Just a little girl. All my bravado was stripped away as I realized how much I need protection from others. Not just protection given by big strong men (and yes, I’m considering hiring a mammoth-sized body guard) but defence by my immense God.

After several bouts of sobbing, Jeannette gave me a sleeping pill and let me fall asleep curled up next to her in bed. Big-hearted Steve generously let me stay in his spot all night and snoozed in another room.

When I awoke the next morning the fear was still there, but mellowed enough to allow me to smile and ignore the fact that my stomach had apparently taken up origami and was folding itself up into bits. Throughout today tears have randomly caught me by surprise, but after getting through the unpredictability of the election tomorrow, maybe the feeling of aloneness and uncertainty will disappear.

It’s true what they say, you do learn something new everyday. Yesterday I discovered I’m not the brave adventurer I thought myself to be. Still, I’m glad I’m in Bangladesh and I’m glad to be travelling this particular adventure with the Big Body Guard Upstairs.

My Christmas Eve Journey

2008-12-27T11:27:00.000+06:00

"So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David...He went there with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn." -Luke 2:4-7

Mary and Joseph traveled a famous journey just before the birth of Christ; Christmas Eve, over two thousand years later, I traveled a similar journey to celebrate His birth. While the couple's trip is frequently romanticized, pictured as a big-bellied Mary riding a docile donkey with Joseph desperately searching for a room in an inn, it probably was much more prosaic. Similarly, my trip was an average Bangladesh journey.

Jeannette and Steve Noolan, an Aussie couple in their fifties working for the NGO Symbiosis in Mimensingh, and I arose before dawn on December 24th and headed down to Mirpur to catch a Hanif bus to Kumarkhali. After 15 minutes spent searching for the correct bus stop on a long road filled with identical bus stations, we found the correct ticket counter and settled down to wait for an hour. Before boarding our bus I ventured into the Asian toilet (basically a hole in the ground that you have to flush by dumping water down), as I knew there were no toilets on the bus. I pride myself on being a connoisseur of toilets in Asia, and gave this one a 4 out of 10, with 1 being the worst.

We boarded our rickety bus along with other families carrying mysterious cardboard boxes taped shut and pots of rice wrapped in newspaper. Jeannette and I sat next to eachother in order to be culturally apropriate-in Bangladesh men and women sit separately unless married-and discovered we could have highly private conversations in English without people around us understanding. For the next 6 hours we proceeded to discuss everything under the sun, including our personal interpretations of what the Bible says about sex and marriage. Women in burkhas and shalwar kameez, men in lungis and mismatching plaid dress shirts, and children dressed up in their besplangled best stared at us curiously, but understood not our discussion.

Talking was an ideal distraction from watching the road, as buses in Bangladesh are kings of the road, fearlessly roaring past rickshaws, vangaaris, and other vehicles on broken, narrow roads. Our driver was milder than bus drivers I've had in the past, so I only clutched Jeannette and yelped "oh, dear, God" once or twice.

Another distraction we had on the long trip was crossing the Ganges River on a ferry. Rather than sit on our less than trustworthy bus on the even less than trustworthy ferry (safety regulations have yet to touch Bdesh), we climbed to the top deck and admired the fog covered river. Here I finally gave into the persistent vendors hawking us and bought what looked like a package of twigs covered in cane sugar and sesame seeds and tasted like wood. Jeannette and Steve snacked on mandarins and chepati from the sellers.

In the afternoon we arrived in the Western town of Kumarkhali and were met by Josh, another man from the land of Oz who's working on community development projects in the area. After eating dahl, chicken curry, rice, and rice chepati at the bari of the CDP director we went back to Josh's imposing three storey house sitting peacefully on the edge of several man made ponds and rice paddies.

Here I decided to learn how to cook dahl (spicy cooked lentils) from the cook. In the kitchen she was fiddling with pots and pans when she suddenly commanded me to "asun" [come] and ran downstairs into the courtyard, where a small crowd was gathering. I stood around with the locals, as they gawked at my white skin curiously, wondering what was going on. Finally I asked Mike, the only other foreigner living at the house who is working on an arsenic water project. He laughed and nodded towards two goats on a rope, informing me there was going to be a goat slaughter.

The next few minutes involved the crying of goats, large pools of red blood, and twitching carcasses. After that my anticpation of goat curry for Christmas dinner declined dramatically.
Later that night under my mosquito net, I breathed in the smoky country air and images of legless, furry, bodies hanging from sticks ran through my mind.

The parent of two of my students once told me their family doesn't go on "vacations" in Bangladesh, they go on "adventures." On looking back on my Christmas Eve I see it was a normal Bangla adventure, but for those reading this in westernized countries it probably has all the exotic appeal of Mary and Joseph's trip to Bethlehem.

2008-12-23T08:20:00.000+06:00

Gue Holud

2008-12-22T10:20:00.000+06:00

The aromatic scent of tumeric greeted my nostrils as I woke up this morning.

Ah yes, the yellow wedding party.
Rolling over and sitting up, I examined my face in the mirror. Stairing back at me was a unique sight. My forehead was stained a cheerful yellow, my nose had a thin yellow stripe running across its bridge, yet what made me most comical looking was the single yellow eyebrow.

Memories from the night before came flooding back to me.
"I smell like curry!" moaned Gemma, ineffectively attempting to wipe tumeric paste off her face.

"Hmm," I pondered, "It reminds me of those huge sacks of spices in bazaars."

"It smells like celery," decided the practical Joel.We'd just been "holuded" at a pre-wedding party for a Bengali couple we vaguely knew. Gue holuds are traditional in Bengali marriages, and basically involve everyone dressing up in red, orange and yellow sarees (for the women) and white punjabis (for the men), draping themselves in marigolds, then smearing fragrant tumeric paste on the bride and groom's faces. The bride and groom return the favor by rubbing it on the guests, consequently causing an all out face-smearing-riot amongst guests and the bridal party.

Last year I'd attended a gue holud, but knew few people at the party. I'd been excited to attend this party because I knew many of the Bengali guests. Ironically, it turns out with these kinds of parties the fewer people you know, the better.

At my first yellow soiree the groom had given me a polite dab of goo on my cheek and that had been that, but at this gathering everyone I knew felt it their duty to vigorously apply gooey paste to every inch of my face. Not once, not twice, but three times I figured the fun was over and removed the crushed tumeric from my face. Without fail a friend would see my clean face and gleefully rub more on my face, thinking he was doing me a favor.After an hour of this huge vats of spicy goat curry finally arrived and a Bengali man began stalking around the shamiana shouting "bawsen, bawsen, bawsen [sit]!" Until the oddly colored guests were all safely sitting with their yellow stained hands at their sides. Steaming plates of curry and chepati were passed around and the finger painting ended.

All in all it was a fun experience. Luckily we are on Christmas holidays at school and I did not have to face my students with a brightly painted face this morning. My house mate assured me last night that tumeric has healing astringent qualities for your skin, but this failed to comfort me as I wondered how to get this stuff of my face. Finally I opted for a long swim in the pool in the hopes that the chlorine would at least fade it to a more mellow yellow.

Unpleasant, But Necessary

2008-12-17T13:31:00.001+06:00

Last week was Korbani Eid, hence the nauseating, but obligatory blog entry.

Korbani Eid celebrates the Old Testament story of Abraham's command from God to sacrifice his son on a mountain top, but at the last moment receiving a reprieve from God and sacrificing a lamb instead. Except in the Islamic version of the tale it is Ishmael, not Isaac, is the offering. Consequently, each year around this time-precisely ten days after the sighting of the moon-each family will slaughter some type of livestock, with the more affluent showing off by buying cows and the poorer purchasing goats. The odd other species pokes up occasionally. My passing a camel in Gulshan Two the day before Eid warranted a second look; I briefly considered tapping on the door to the house and inquiring what time they planned on slaughtering their hairy beast, but decided it was too morbid.

If I thought that was morbid, I wasn't prepared for the actual Eid day. Eid dawned bright and sunny with an obvious festive feeling pervading the air. It could have been Halloween, with children in mismatched clothes and decrepit beggars running from house to house to gape at the slaughtering and beg for a dripping chunk of meat for their "goody bags."

Within seconds of stepping out of my apartment building I was assualted by the smell of fresh meat wafting gently down the streets of DOHS Baridhara. However, I bravely continued down the main road.

A glance to the left revealed a a couple of massacred cows being hacked to bits by some ambitious shirtless men.

I swallowed and continued on.

A peek to my right revealed a similar scene, but this poor beast had a small crowd watching the fun, rather like an audience at a movie theater enrapt in a new thriller.

By the time I made it to Gulshan Two, my breakfast was threatening to my a re-entrance. Resolutely I stared ahead, only two see two gleeful men on a motor bike zip past, one proudly wielding a curved knife with a rusty red blade.

Then my tears came.

Eid Mubarak!

Weekend Snapshots Part III

2008-12-14T12:36:00.000+06:00

Christmas Boxes

Saturday afternoon found me trudging down crumbling, twisted alleys laden with shoe boxes in a slum near a local Bengali church. Some other Kingdom Kid's leaders and I were bringing in shoe boxes filled with practical Christmas presnts, like toiletries and warm clothing, to a day care center for five to eleven year old children. The twenty boxes were lovingly put together by our kid's club children over the past few Thursday afternoons, and were a gifts to the impoverished day care children.

The day care has seventeen children crammed into a tiny apartment every day, six days a week. When we arrived the gorgeous, chocolate-colored little kids were neatly seated on a flowered sheet in the center room, eagerly awaiting our arrival. You could tell our visit was a momentous occasion for the children, as they were dressed in their nicest clothes and the girls had their hair done up in baubles and ornaments. Before we gave them their presents, they sang several songs to us, accompanying them with adorable made-up dance moves and hand motions. A couple of the bigger boys were too "grown up" for hand motions, so they kept time with small drums.

After that we sang "Hark the Herald, Angels Sing" to them, then passed out the gifts, which they recieved with shining eyes.

It was a lovely afternoon.

Weekend Snapshots Part II

2008-12-13T11:27:00.000+06:00

SWIM, RUN, SLEEP

This morning was an annual charity duathlon. Last year Munkhzaya, a Mongolian friend of mine, competed and I took first place in our division, so this year I decided to venture out on my own and compete in the run and swim on my own.

I walked into the gym during pre-race registration carrying my gear in a tote bag and surveyed the competition. Hmm. Mostly familiar faces. The runners were the Dhaka Hash House Harriers while the swimmers were mainly from my Master's Swim Club. Nothing new here.

Feeling confident, I checked in and greeted some fellow swimmers before heading to the locker room. It was there my cockiness took a blow. As I put on my suit I listened to a couple of ladies in my division chat about the fifteen-yes, FIFTEEN- mile run they'd done yesterday. This duathlon was their "recovery " run.

Gulp. Fifteen miles? If I run twelves miles I feel proud of myself, while they talked about running fifteen miles like a mundane, daily event. A thought hit me. Maybe fifteen miles was a daily event for them? I peeked over at them, noting their tennis ball calf muscle's and toned legs.

But I didn't have time to worry as the race was starting.

"God, just let me do my best and have a good time," I tried to pray sincerely.

Now the race is over and I took fourth place out of ten women in the women's individual 400 meter swim and 4 kilometer run. Definitely not as good as last year, but last year I wasn't running again marathon running Amazon women.

Now it's time for my version of "recovery" in the form of a good long nap.

Weekend Snapshots Part I

2008-12-13T11:06:00.000+06:00

My weekends are typically eventful, and this weekend was no different. Here's the first random snapshot from my weekend.

The Ill-Fated Man Episode II

Friday, 8:45 am: "BUZZ, BUZZ!" My phone went off as I peacefully sipped a steaming cup of coffee and read my Bible. Putting down my mug with a sigh, I picked it up.

"Hello, Elaine," came a familiar Australian voice over the phone.

"Hey, J.T.," I said, a little surprised at the early morning call, "what's up?"

"Err, " he began cheerfully, "I sort of have this problem and didn't want to wake Isaac or Joel."

I knew he'd stayed the previous night downstairs at their apartment and visions of possible mishaps filled my mind. Three boys in their mid-twenties could do any amount of damage when left alone. Busted windows from playing baseball in the living room? A lamp on fire from a candle left burning all night? J.T. did not let my wild imagination down, proving yet again that reality is crazier than fiction.

"I knocked the faucet out of the wall in the back bathroom and water's gushing out." He announced.

"Right," I said, "let me run down and tell the gate guards to shut the water off in your apartment, then I'll ring D. Rob. [the building superintendent]." I quickly pulled on a kameez and ran downstairs. The next ten minutes involved the water not being shut off, J.T. and myself getting soaked trying to plug the hole, and finally the guard, Suvash, creatively nailing a chunk of round wood into the hole and successfully ending the flow.

A repair man can't come for two days, so I'm praying the pipes don't burst from the back flow before then. But if they do burst, ten bucks says it's when J.T. happens to be in the room. He attracts these kinds of occurrences like a magnet.

Crazy Hair Day at School

2008-12-10T16:56:00.000+06:00