Dah-dah, I Don't Think We're in Malawi Anymore...

Well, I haven't pre-written this one, and as it is late-late-late at night, I will probably post it as soon as I'm done without even proofreading it.  (Sorry, Momma.) 


On the 23rd of December, Jen and I were standing in a parking lot, minding our own business, when a bus suddenly pulled up from nowhere and a mob of seemingly crazed Malawians rushed the doors, pushing us into the bus with them.  We were smashed into a couple of seats along with probably eighteen other passengers--probably--and then were pinned their by a giant mattress that hung by bungee cords right on top of our heads.  Almost immediately, blaring African pop-rock began booming through the sub-woofers over our heads.  I could feel it reaching its decibels past my earlobes, through my earwax, and into the inner ear, where it caused all my poor little nerve endings to cry out in anguish (it sounds like a dog yelping, only smaller and higher, and more pity-able), and disintegrate.  All I can say is that it's a good thing I took American Sign Language for two years at CCC.

The rest of this portion of our trip I only remember in a haze and in the context of poor lyrics and the rumbling bass reverberations that crawled into my spine and [I think] turned my spinal cord to jelly until I felt like I had been belched out of poor speakers just like those bass drones.  Be this as it may, we were shuttled on and off of buses until we came to a big bunch of buildings in the middle of the road.  Here we were herded off and forced by a big burly woman in a uniform to turn over our passports for inspection.  Once we had them back, we bolted out of the other side of the building.  Outside, about fifteen guys attacked us and demanded that we change out money into shillings.  I handing one of them one thousand  Malawi kwatcha, and he promptly walked off while the rest of them knitted themselves into a tent around me like ants do in the rain forest, and yelled at me for not using one of them. 

Soon after this, a squad car pulled up and another burly woman forced us to surrender our passports again.  While passing them back, she managed to fish US $200 out of our pockets.

Then it was back into another endless succession of mind-numbing buses.  I'd really rather not try to chronicle any of this second journey to you except for two experiences.  Once, a bus actually stopped to let its prisoners get food, and ACTUALLY shut off its music.  Outside, a beautiful playlist of peaceful country music was playing.  I love country music.  It's just so, so beautiful, you know?  Without it, I think I would have died.  This was getting late into the night of the 24th.  We had been at the mercy of the music for over 36 hours.  And soon, the bus began its pounding assault on our brains again.  I think I actually felt my eyeballs begin to be pushed from their sockets by my brain as it tried to escape just before I lost consciousness. 

Some time later, I don't know how much longer, a fellow passenger who had a greater command of himself than I shook me out of my stupor and hissed a plan of escape to me.  I woke Jen, and the next time the bus stopped in traffic, we stormed the door and rushed out into the clean night air.

We ran up a dark street and hid in a market by some guys that were unloading pineapples.  After about an hour we managed to catch another vehicle and were again shoved on and off of buses (but without quite as much earsplitting music) until we reached a place where I am apparently Jen's Kah-kah [brother], and she is my Dah-dah [sister]. 

As soon as our heads and become somewhat clear again, Jen called a number which she vaguely thought she should call, and about thirty minutes later a Mazoungu [white person] popped out of a packed Dala-dala [mini bus] (it was very polae-polae [slow]), and came hurrying over to us.  She then led us gently into a cool room and let us lie there, sweating, on her comfy couches until much, much later.  This was in the neighborhood of noon on the 25th.  Merry Christmas to you all!

 Of course, our Christmas could hardly be called such.  How could it be merry without the Merrymaker?  You may not have noticed, but our bus ride covered two major "God days": Sabbath, and Christmas.  I could hardly think of God on either of them (until the afternoon of the 25th), because of all of the distractions.  We had crowded seating, worries about baggage being lost or stolen, tickets to purchase (no one we could find went straight from Blantyre to Arusha, so we couldn't do it ahead of time), buses to find, loud music to listen to (or to try not to), weird music videos to watch (or to try not to), sore knees to stretch, and about a million and a half other legitimate or unavoidable duties.  And so it ended up that two days that ought to be spent in God's presence were decidedly not.  It makes me think about (and cringe in the doing) how often we let God slip out of the picture.  It's easily done.  He's generally thought of (though we would never say so) as the Killjoy, the Party Crasher, the Guy Who Demands We Be Miserable for Twenty-four Hours Out of Every Week.  And so, unconsciously (or not, but usually so, I think), we let the God who created life and goodness and fun and feeling and entertainment and laughter slip out the back door while we either sit around with sour faces between napping in the recliner because we can't do anything better or decide to play a little Scattergories, or catch up on a little news.  And either way, what a loss!!  Why do we insist that the God Who inspired the passionate Song of Songs, Who throws stars across the sky, Who fills hearts with joy and love, Who smiled when David danced before Him, Who took time from His preaching to make children happy (I dunno; did he make little animals out of twigs for them?  Or romp in the water with them?  On the Sabbath?  At any rate, I know he didn't give them a mini-lecture to them while they fidgeted and looked around.), why do we insist that He, of all people, be the one that wants us miserable?  He knew how hard it would be for us to remember Him.  All He ever wanted when He set days apart was for us to have time.  Time to rest.  Time to think.  Time to pray.  Time to be still.  Time to look back on the week and laugh.  Time to look up at Him and just smile.  Not time for moping, or anger, or feeling locked in, or going through the same old routine in the same old places yet again.  I mean, if it makes you feel rested and recharged to watch the same stupid TV show Friday night that you watch every day of the week, go for it.  But I think that God's got something cool for us behind the Sabbath blessing.  It's nothing mystical or supernatural.  At least not any more than any other miracle on earth we take for granted, like consciousness, or growing children, or why the Allies ended up defeating the Nazis in WWII.  The Sabbath blessing that we all pray for comes from just making time.  It's not that we have to pray or read our Bibles all day.  Find other books that point to God.  Find places that let you be at peace.  Maybe you really need a jog to clear the stress and worry.  Maybe you need to find a group of godly people whose conversation naturally gravitates to Him, so that you can just feel that He's there smiling as someone tells a joke about how he got lost on the way to his mailbox.  Maybe you need to just lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling.  Silence is prayer, too.  I only know what I need; I have no clue what you need, except that I know that you need to keep God from slipping out of your day because you don't get what He wanted for you when He said, "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy; six days shalt though labor and do ALL thy work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath; in it thou shalt do no work..."  He just wanted to give us time.  But even that seems to be too hard for me, anyway, to get most of the time. 


Oh, and I did do a quick re-read.  (Your welcome, Mommy.)


P.S. Of course, we did know that we were leaving, and are now safely and happily in Tanzania with our Rafiki's [friends] Bethany and Beau Gerber.  All of the details are true, though, except for the coercion by people shoving us onto buses, the security officials snatching passports, and the extend of my hearing loss.  At least I think that's it.  But anyway, the descriptions of the music are exactly how it felt.  Oh, and I tried to write the Swahili words phonetically, rather than correctly, because 1., it's more important that you pronounce them right, and 2., I have no idea how to spell them right.

Things I May Have Done

Man! now I know how my mom felt teaching me. As I said before, I'm not sure how kosher it is to talk about my kids' bad behavior, so I'll talk about mine. 

Mom just about always had trouble getting my attention. Though the reason was always different, the sequence was always the same. “Jonathan,” she'd say. I would remain blissfully unaware, looking out the window. “Jonathan!” I'd now be intently studying a fly on the wall. “JONATHAN!” I would be leaning over the back of my chair feeling how the blood rushed to my head. “JONATHAN!!!”

“Huh? Oh, did you call me, Mom?” I'd say, smiling.

“I need you to come over here.”

“Okay.” And I would.

“Thank you. Now look at this problem. See, you started with twelve and were supposed to add twenty-two, but you put zero as your answer. How can you add and come up with less than you started with?” *long pause* “Jonathan.”

“Huh? Yeah? What?”

“Did you just hear what I said?” She's feeling tired right now.

“Oh, uh, yeah! Yeah I did.”

“What did I say.” She's feeling even more tired; a smothering heaviness begins to descend upon her.

“Um, you said that I needed to come over here.” (She couldn't argue with that!)

“After that.” The weight is pulling each and every one of her limbs down into the floor by now.

“Oh yes, well, you interrupted me. Then you said that when I'm adding, my answer should be less than what I started with.” Hopeful-triumphant smile.

“You weren't listening. I said even though it shouldn't, yours is. See, when you add, you put things together, you combine. If—”

“Hey! Hey Mom! Do ya think maybe if I get done fast we might be able to go to the park today?”

“No. No, I don't think you'll be getting done early today.” Headache.

“But Mom, you're not listening to me. I said if I get done early. You never listen to me!” Frowny face.

*groan...*

I never stayed in my seat, either. No sooner had she told me to sit down with my feet on the floor than I was crawling up on my desk to talk to Jo, or get an eraser, or “because I can see my work better from up here.” When she had finally had enough, she would talk in “the voice.” Not an angry, shouting voice, by any means, but that voice which anyone anywhere (even Malawi, one would think) would know meant business. As soon as I heard that voice, I sat down flat in my seat and worked very, very diligently...for about two minutes, after which I would totally forget and be back on my desk, or out of it, or writing on it, or maybe watching a hornbill outside the window. I honestly don't think that I meant to be disobeying; I just completely forgot that I had ever been told not to do just about everything I'd been told not to do.

Another thing I did was always ask for help with everything. If my handwriting book had ever asked me (as little J's [seven years & third grade] does him) to “Look in the glossary at the back of your book and answer the following question: How fast can a Canada goose fly?” I would surely have immediately stuck my little hand in the air and waved it around violently. If that failed, I would surely have gotten out of my seat, taken my book, tottered over to the front of the class, sat down on my teacher's lap, looked up adorably (if I had actually been adorable as, say, a certain little Asian living in Malawi is), and plunked my book down on the desk, saying, “How do I do it?” My teacher would then have asked me to read my instructions out loud, and I would have, after which I would have no better an idea of what I was supposed to do than before, so I would ask again. And my teacher would patiently explain that it did, in fact, mean that I was supposed to find out how fast a Canada goose flew. I would have lit right up and said, “Oh! I get it!...where do I find that?” And my teacher would have patiently (never anything but—oh, no—never!) explained that, like it said in the instructions, it was in the back of the book. I would then go back to my desk and seem to be fine, but soon my hand soon have been back in the air, or I would have been back at my teacher's desk asking where in the back of the book it was. And then I would have asked which of the four sentences about Canada geese contained the answer. (All of this assuming that my book had asked me that, which it never did.) Then the process would be repeated for the entire first week. Then, the second week, I'm sure my teacher would have been busy the first day, so I would have asked the other teacher. This would have brought great joy to the first until the first realized that the second had helped me and that no progress had actually been made. That's the way I'm sure it would have gone, anyway, had I been assigned to do it.

All this, of course, left the residing teacher feeling totally drained. “Why, oh, why doesn't he just listen to me?” he—I mean “she” moaned loudly after the first day of class. So the teacher tried enforcing further penalties for misbehavior, and taking out swift vengeance upon all who disobeyed by fining them large sums of their fake money reward that they got for good grades with which they bought cheaply made Malawian toys and school supplies, especially when the student in question responded to attempted correction in poorly done work by interrupting with, “But do I still get money for it?” ...Except that Mom didn't reward us with fake money. I just, um, meant to illustrate the extreme measures she must surely have gone to—but I now no longer remember—to help us learn. Yeah. Anyway, I know exactly how she felt.

---

After pulling my hair out, laughing hysterically with Jen when the stress became too much to bear, and finally writing this post, something happened that pretty much changed everything. It's not that they all behave now, or that it doesn't bother us anymore, or really anything at all external. It's one of those things in life that falls under the category of “something else.” One of those things that can't be explained unless the person being talked to has had one of the same category of things happen in them.

I was at the board explaining some English to D and C. They were not listening to—and subsequently not comprehending—anything I was saying. Though they had asked for my help they were refusing to focus, talking [loudly], and purposely being dense. At least that's how it felt; I really don't know how much was them and how much was me being tired and fed up from, well, a bunch of things. But anyhow, I had finally had enough and chewed them out, and especially D for not listening and not trying. I told them that if they asked for help, they had to listen and actually try to understand. D, as he went back to his seat, said meekly, “I wish you could see Jenny's letter.” “Jenny didn't send you a letter,” I snapped, and he sat down. Jen motioned to me and said, “He sent me a letter,” and handed me this [sic]:

 Dear, Teachers

I need you to help me. I

have some problems on having

to get good grades in my

studies. I have some excuses

on having to get bad grades.

It's time I get good grades.

I want to pass.

                      thank you.

        Love,

          D

I wanted to bawl myself out.

It's not that he shouldn't actually be paying attention. And it's not that it's bad to get frustrated (inside). Nor is it bad to make light of bad days in a blog post. It's that, sometimes, I miss what's really going on. I so often miss that characters aren't one-dimensional. I miss that I'm dealing with real, developing human beings. My students are children of God. Somehow, I am supposed to be their teacher. I am teaching the literal children of GOD, YAHWEH; the CREATOR, who is also my FATHER!

I once told a friend that “a teacher can make or break a kid.” How easy it is to speak in ignorance! But, somehow, those words were true, and one way or another prophetic. I will make D, or break him. I do, as an older, more mature Christian, have tremendous power over the little ones around me, especially those here in my school. Jesus warned us of the great influence we have over children when He said, “If one of you causes one of these little ones to turn away from me, it would be better for him to have a millstone tied around his neck and be thrown into the sea.” The Father has entrusted me with a whole lot more than I had bargained for when I signed up to come over here.

D came to our house that evening, and I sat with him as he alternately asked me questions about his history and got distracted talking about Saladin and soccer. What a good kid; he sees me for what I should be, not for who I am. O God, help me match him.

Pray for me, guys.  :)

When Surprises Pile Up

     We hadn't had any packages for about a month and a half.  We felt dry and parched inside--like there was no excitement left in the world. Mom was worried; we were sad.  What was going on?  No packages had never taken this long to arrive before! 
     Then, just when our hopes were dimmest, the Guarino's gave us a slip telling us that we had a package at the post office.  We were excited, but super busy and tired so we didn't make it down there until about two weeks later.  Just the thought of another package waiting for us was enough to get us through.  By that time, Jonathan had a gash in his foot from hopping over the Guarino's spiked gate.  He could barely walk so it would have taken us forever to get to the post office even if every other person hadn't stopped whatever they were doing to ask him about it.
     We finally arrived at our destination hot and sweaty from the baking African sun, and walked up to the counter.  The lady took our slip and flipped open her record book.  "You have more than one," she told us.  "Oh! No one told us--we just got the one slip." 
     We were expecting maybe one or two extra, but this is what we got. . .

Plus. . .

     Wow!  We were excited!!  There was also a problem, though.  Jonathan could hardly walk.  At first we thought we could make it, but the lady just kept bringing out more and more.  She brought out our last one as we were about to walk out the door!  Jonathan and I just looked at each other.  Who would have thought?  We finally decided to call Mr. Priester--one of our very nice neighbors--and ask him if he could come pick us up in his car.  Being the kind person that he is, he told us he's be there in about 10 minutes.  We sat ourselves outside (our packages in everyone's way) to wait.
     This was a beautiful fire tree right next to the parking lot and our hero is driving in right underneath it. :)
 

     Mr. Priester drove us home and helped us unload, and then we dove in!  Here is Jonathan sitting amongst the spoils. . . we wish that we had taken a video of us opening all of these--it would have been quite entertaining!

My present from Jo. :)

More presents from Jo and an excited Jonathan!

Myself.  Also excited. :)

Thank you, family!!  It was so fun and exciting to open these and see what you had sent to us!  Thanks also to everyone else who has sent us surprises, it means a lot to us. :)

First Safari

And being a first safari, and us being new to the business of safari-ing and still looking on it with wonder and as a novelty, we will of course post every single photo that we took, believing that because they are of African animals, they must be of general interest.  Prepare for a deluge of inferior shots of less than rare (okay, super common) African wildlife. 

The Woods know the manager of this game park, and he took us for a short foot safari.

Then we ran into some elephants by a water hole (hence the "short" in front of "foot" above.)

These are a species of African deer which I do not know the name of.

We found a fresh chewed leg on the ground.

...and were suddenly very happy to have this guy around.   

(I think I tried to take more shots of him than any single animal we saw...)

 This is another African deer which I do not know the name of.

 We ate lunch in a cool little raised hut (which I neglected to take a photo of) by this water hole, and this elephant showed up.  He then proceeded to slop water on his stomach for fifteen minutes while we tried not to breathe so as not to scare him away.

 After the elephant left, some more deer (name unknown) arrived.

 I love how they are all standing around like they're waiting for a crocodile to erupt from the pond.

Probably my favorite pic of the lot.

Jenny got bored watching the elephant & had a two photo photo shoot with one of the Woods girls.

Apparently there are crocs in here, too.

Didn't see any while swimming, though, but of course the water's murky...

(I didn't actually swim--just stood on the bank and wished.)

Pretty bird.

 Still another African deer with no name logged in my head.

We managed to drive right into the middle of a herd of elephants.  About fifteen of them had us completely surrounded--it was really, really cool. 

Here's the only shot I got of this little newborn elephant.  

I had to hang way out of the car and stretch my arm out to get around the car's front.

No, I did NOT do it "just because I wanted to get out of the car"; the windshield had a bug on it.

Here's another one of the vicious elephants that had us surrounded.

(Yes, I do know that they are actually dangerous.)

We tried to work our way forward through the elephants, but came around a corner and found this guy standing right in the middle of the path.  We decided to retreat, and reversed back through the rest of the elephant herd and escaped.

Yet another African deer that I cannot name.

Yes, those are power lines in the background. 

I actually hadn't seen any since arriving until I came out of the city and into the game park.

Go figure.

 

This is a photo of something of which I can think of nothing to say, but didn't want to delete because it took such a stinkin' long time to upload.

My favorite if the deer and pond one isn't.

So there you have it.  The fact that you probably wish that you did not have it makes no difference, for you do.  My sincere apologies.  I will put up photos for the next safari we go on with no more ability to edit whatsoever than I showed myself to have this time .  My apologies for this as well.

A Small Showcase of the Adventurer's Adventuring Skillage

Though hopelessly small and inadequate, I believe that this little collection of three of my feats of skillage shows quite well how I am faring while over here on my own*.

* ”My own” being a relative term that is not intended to discount the fact that I am over here with a sister who does essentially everything for me, with no assistance from me. It is simply used for effect and does is not meant to deceive and/or take credit away from said sister. 

First,

I took out my own stitches (or what was left of them after I bashed my head against the bedpost attempting to sit up in bed, which, I guess, made them a stitch—see above).

I'm sure you've all been dying to see a picture of the back of my prickly head.

Then,

 

I found out why mom made me take sewing for so many years. Or rather, I would if I remembered anythings from those miserable three-hour sessions, which I don't, as I'm sure you can see from these pictures.

 

After completing the shorts, my first thought was, “My! What a marvelous little sewing kit!” Not, of course, because I thought it was so great, but rather because I was thinking how accomplished and self-sufficient I was to be able to sew up my very own pair of pants [almost] all by my very self.

Since I am incapable of taking photographically pleasing shots, I placed the Puddies by the kit to add interest. I'm sure you won't deny that it was well thought.

(Please note the thimble on top of Wuds's head.)

 In the day between my job on the bag and the shorts, this happened to the bag.

I decided to waste no more time sewing (the thread is obviously far too weak) and do it the right  way. 

(Observe the shining brilliance of the glorious hardware!!)

AND FINALLY...

These are the zucchinis which I told the shop lady were cucumbers.

Three times in a row.

Want to know why I feel like. . .

. . .this?

Let me tell you.

• As I'm helping a student with his work he tells me, "You freak me out!"
• When we got here: Our supervisor said, "I will take the rules that you have put together and get them approved by the board and signed by the parents--you just have to give them to the Director of Education so that he has them."  About a month ago: Our supervisor exclaims, "You are enforcing the rules!?!  I told you that you had to get them approved by the board and signed by the parents before they would be school policy!  You aren't able to enforce any rules yet."
• As I'm trying to explain in every possible way how to figure out a story problem to the same student, he asks me, "Can you explain this the easy way?"  (And I ask you, what way is that?)
• One Friday we had cleaned our whole house and were about to do the laundry when we decided we were just too tired.  But no problem, we realized we could get it started soaking and then finish it on Sunday.  Sunday came and went, and so did Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  Thursday morning, while brushing our teeth, we began to smell something. . .shall we say. . .not quite right?  This soon turned into the category of "vile."  By keeping the bathroom door shut at all times and not showering we managed to keep it like that for another week before making it to town to buy Water Guard which did not solve our problem.  Of course, being this bad already, the smell could not get much worse if we waited another week to go and buy bleach--which we did. 
• Telling the same student what he was supposed to be doing that day, I say, "You need to read section 2.5 in science and do comprehension check 2.5."  With a puzzled look on his face he asks, "What are you trying to say?"
• Not only am I worried about my students (see above), but now I'm afraid these things have started to affect Jonathan's mental capacity.  He went and shaved his head.  Without even telling me he was going to do it!  He just came back from shopping one day and it was gone.  Then he had the nerve to go and cut it open on the bottom of someone's pool.  The stitches have just come out.
• While walking on the sidewalk up to the grocery store, we nearly bowled several people over before our friend said, "Hey dumb Americans--you're walking on the wrong side of the path!" (Slightly exaggerated.)
• When the first book reports of the year were turned in (not including the student who permanently "forgot" hers), we found out that all but one had not actually read their books--even the 6th grade student who had picked a 3rd grade book.
• Meanwhile, back to home, we just found out that lentils apparently mold here after only one day.
• After the first book reports, most of the students seemed to be doing well, except for the two who decided that one chapter would be sufficient.  Apparently our explanations were somehow inadequate because not only did they not understand why this was necessary but they also were unable to grasp how it could be done at all.  After all, how is it possible to write a summary of a whole book?
• A short while after the laundry incident, we each looked into the shower and wondered if the other one had thrown up.  It turned out that neither of us had. . .but the drain sure did!  There was rotting food and decaying leaves all over the bottom.  Since it keeps coming back, we think there may be a clog in some pipe or other.  But that's just a guess.
• For Bible class, the students memorize a verse every week.  Once they thought it was too long and promptly reminded me that, "We aren't in high school!"
• Getting ready to leave for some friends' birthday party, we were standing around the car of a kind neighbor who was letting us hitch a ride.  "Are you ready to go?" she asked.  "Yep!" I answered as I opened the door and started to get in right hand side.  She just stood there staring at me with a funny look on her face.  I looked back at her.  "Ummmm. . ." she started awkwardly, "are you driving?"

A Few Random Things

Just a few things that have made me smile while here:

1. The way God's hand has been so evident throughout, and that He's letting us be here to see it.
(I'll have to tell you about it all sometime soon!)


2. Skyping these guys (and other guys, too)

3. Filling out the "wish list" from the Student Missions office 

(this is the decal on the form, and my, oh my, is it spot-on in my case)

They're going to send me raisins!! (I hope!)

4. Julian: the youngest, cutest, most entertaining student we've got

Just before this clip, I had told Julian that he needed to go pick out a book for his book report.  He went over to our book shelves, found one, and brought it over.  I told him that this book would not work because it was for second grade.  He told me that I would have to help him, then, because "all of the third grade books are used up."  I told him to go over and try to find one by himself (we are trying to encourage independence in the little guys) and that I would be over in a little bit if he couldn't find one.  I then decided that the second-grade book looked too interesting not to read, and as the other students were all doing well, I settled down to read about The Man Who Sold the Shade (yes, I know; bad teacher).  But anyway, Julian was soon back at my side saying, "It's been a little bit...it's been a little bit now," which is where this clip starts.  It's a little hard to hear, so turn the volume WAY up.  Jules and I are just off camera to the left (that's our two desks that you see in the foreground).  I put a narration to explain the visuals that go with each line below the video in case you have trouble following the clip.

Julian: "Jonathan...you said you would come to me in a little bit..." (He's tottering up.)

"You're busy reading!..." (He's peering over my arm.)

Me: "Yeah!..." (I'm very distracted.)

'Julian: "Don't read this! uh, you, you said 'in a little bit,' so it's time to come..." (He's tugging at my arm.)

Me: "I will come very soon-"                                                                             

Julian: "It's soon already!" (He's pulling more concertedly.)

Me: "I'm almost done; I have one page left." (I'm still looking at the book.)

Julian: "Okay....ooha, see look; what's this?" (He turns to look at the pictures)

"They're a pineapple, a pineapple style." (He's looking intently.) [No idea what this means, btw.]

"Eesh.  All of them are fat.  Also you." (With the last phrase he turns to look at my stomach.)

"See look!" (He pokes my stomach with vigor.)

"Oh, so nice."

"something about how squishy/soft it is that I didn't quite pick up on"

*sigh of contentment* (As he lies his head down on my belly.)

You know, this would be a whole lot funnier if it were a little less true.

Oh, My Head!

Well, some people asked for pictures. There's been nothing really picture-worthy here lately, so I'll give ya'all what I've got.

Here is my hair as of a few days ago. Not so bad, I guess, if I keep it like this. (Sorry for the blank look. It's not my fault, really. Being on a perpetual vacation in the sun depresses me.)

Here it is if I pull it down.

Here it is if I pull it up.

 Here it is after I let go.

Altogether pretty nasty, yes? Don't worry; you can tell me. The Malawians didn't like it either.

...which is why I did this:

It was pretty great. I went shopping, and decided I would come home with my hair cut to surprise Jen. There is a row of four or five barber shops in front of the market, and as soon as I got near, they spotted my mane and started arguing over who got to cut my hair. I played them against each other for a while and got a guy to do it for 200 kwacha—about $1.25. (It's not as impressive an accomplishment as it sounds; the first bid I wrung out of anybody was 300 kwacha. I asked another guy if he would do it for 200, and he said yes, so that was that.) When I got home, the kids started yelling, “Jonathan cut his hair! Jonathan cut his hair!” Jen came out and said, “What? You did?!” It was pretty fun. D told me that “If anybody could kill with looks, it'd be you.” (He was unaware that this is generally a complimentary phrase.)

And then the next evening I did this:

Which was directly before this (mirror images):

See? Picture worthy. (Sorry—it's taking me a while to learn how to smile again.) D told me that now, I could really kill with my looks. I told him I was flattered.

Want some more? Here's one of the other side of my head. Do ya see the big nasty mole?

Everyone here does.

In related news, a mold epidemic has broken out in our house. Two loaves of bread, a bag of rolls, a tomato, and our precious cheese have been affected, in addition to a bug appearing in our spaghetti and burrowing up into several pieces. The old lady from just down the street tells me that uncovering moles when you shave your head is a portent of doom to your pantry, for if you find disgusting growths hidden on your head, you are sure to find them hidden elsewhere, too. (On a lighter note, Mom and Dad, should I just have it and the one on the back of my head off while I'm bald so that we never have to worry about them again? They both have at least two of the warning signs—irregular shape and color.)

When I went running for the first time after being shorn, everyone just stared at me. I mean, getting stared at's nothing new, but this was different. It was utter disbelief. A tall white guy running around in circles is weird enough, but a tall white bald guy is out of this world. People kept asking me if my alien makeup was uncomfortable to run in and where the filming was going on.

It's actually pretty funny watching people's reactions here. Most of the adults try to be polite, but it's fairly obvious that they're shocked because as they talk to me, their gaze continually drifts up to look at the catastrophe looming above them. It's obvious that they are wondering what sort of nuclear reaction was responsible for the blinding expanse of white. Others don't do quite so well; I've passed several groups of people whose conversations stop suddenly as they sight me, and then the whole group gapes until I'm past, at which point they burst into uncontrollable laughter, switching from English to speak above each other in Chechewa between their gasps for breath.

My kids at school, however, forgo any pretense at politeness at all. They generally either burst into laughter any time they see me (J, D, and A) or stare with bug eyes before launching rapid-fire into questions (H, F, and C) such as, “You shaved your hair?!?,” “Who did it?,” and “But why?!?” My favorite reactions, however, come from K. The first post-shave morning of school when I walked around the corner and he saw me, his face instantly contorted into an expression of extreme torment and suffering, and he screamed, well, like a girl. It was a piercing, blood-curdling scream, followed by the high-pitched, disturbed cry of “It looks like you have cancer!!” And then the next day, when I appeared around a corner where he, J, D, and A were lying in wait to try to scare us, he shrieked again with his hands to his face, stumbling backwards as if shot. When questioned by D he said, “He is too ugly; that is why I scream. He is too ugly!” I laughed my head off, which of course didn't help matters much. (Oh, and I was joking about the people asking if I was in alien makeup, but the day after I wrote the first draft of this post, K accused me of the very thing!!)

Anyway, as I said, some people asked for pictures, and so I was forced to do something which justified the taking of pictures. I hope you're all happy.

Speaking of pictures, I'm going to also do a market post at some point, but don't want to be all touristy with my camera down there yet. I have almost zero bargaining power as it is, being a new white face. They offer a price and when I say, “No, no, that too much; I not have much money (I start talking like them while I'm down there),” they respond with a knowing smile and, “No, no, I know you can,” the implied message (heard louder than any words ever are) of “you white boy; you rich.” They are beginning to respect me due to my regular trips down there and (I like to think) my improving bargaining skills, but if I brought a camera down there at this point (perhaps ever), I would never pay less than three times a fair price again, so you'll have to wait a while.

There is Drama Here After All! Part 2--Jonathan

Yes, truly; there is even more excitement here than my previous blog post would have you believe. Prepare to be amazed, for Malawi is full of surprises.

An example of excitement I had neglected to see before the incident with the dark night and the walking and—well, you know—was the animals. Wow! It's pretty crazy over here. I think Blantyre must have the highest density of African wildlife outside of a National Geographic magazine, because we've seen tons of critters. And because they're in a city, they've gotten used to people and are absolutely fearless, so it's led to some pretty crazy encounters. Let's see...where to start...well, I've already told you about the mongrel dogs that snarl and growl at us every time we leave our house. Oh—and in just three weeks we've seen probably three birds flying in the sky, and one perched in a tree! (It was looking at me with its beady little eyes—I swear!) We've had monster ants of one inch and smaller more ferocious ones wander menacingly around our floor by our feet. Crazy, right? Just wait; it gets better. We've seen three flees, three mosquitoes (I murdered two of them), and a dead cockroach in the school (I didn't do it, but I did leave him there for someone else to pick up). And just today I saw a herd of tini-tiny ants attacking our kitchen sponge. So you can definitely see that things are just hopping around here.

Want to hear about something even crazier than the wildlife? Huh? You don't? Oh, well, no matter. We don't worry about things like that here. I'll tell you anyway. I had determined beforehand to eat whatever people fed me, so I have been. And let me tell you—that's probably been the most exciting thing of all. Now, as most of you know, I was raised vegetarian and was kept so apart from meat that I didn't even know it existed until I was six (I'll tell you another time) and hadn't seen it until the time I was fourteen (supermarkets are rated PG-13 for meat, and my parents wanted to be on the safe side). The first time I tasted meat before coming here was once when I was probably seventeen when Subway accidentally put some ham in my sandwich. I took one bite and let me tell you!—I loved it! It was amazing, and from that day forward I eagerly anticipated when I might try it again. Then Africa came, and I readily and nobly vowed to eat what was placed before me. I ate all manner of strange vegetarian dishes, fish from lake Malawi, tuna pizza...and then came The Beef. Now, I had been doing quite well up until The Beef; the strange vegetarian food was, if not always delicious, palatable at worst. The Malawi fish was scrumptious. The tuna was not to die for, but quite good, with a spicy tang (or maybe that was the jalapenos, I dunno).

But then came The Beef.

It came to me like this: one of the families that have kids in our school had been making and bringing food for us to school. It had been great: lentils, flatbread, that tuna pizza...and then last week came The Beef. This beef was diced in chunks about the size of fours dice stuck together, or a little bigger. If I knew more about meat I would tell you how it was cooked, but since I'm guessing I'll guess that it was boiled. In any case, it was mixed with chunks of potato of about the same size and a special sauce. The Beef smelled wonderful.

After school, I took The Beef home. I got out some leftover rice and beans, and some bread, and sat down at a desk (we have no table, just two desks) with The Beef. I was slightly apprehensive, as this was by far the most heavy duty meat I had encountered in my short career as a connoisseur, so I placed two potatoes and one chunk of The Beef on my plate before filling up the rest with the other stuff. The Beef looked marvelous, but I did notice a bit of a stringy appearance. Though rather more looking forward to sampling The Beef than anything else, I ate around it for three or four minutes, eying its stringiness while Jennifer looked on between mouthfuls of rice. Soon she said, “Did you try it yet?” I said that no, I hadn't, but had eaten a potato and was just about to, and promptly popped my own personal chunk of The Beef in my mouth. I chewed. It was pretty good! A little chewy, and a little stringy, to be sure, but pretty good! I told her so, and continued chewing. I popped in a little potato to see how it was originally (from the very garden of Eden, I told Jen) meant to be eaten. It was even better! I soon swallowed, and looked up at Jen. She then said that she would have tried it, only she saw tendons and blood vessels. My eyes bugged. “B-b-blood v-vessels? H-how did you kn-know it was a, a tendon?” I stammered. “Because of A & P lab,” she said. My mind said, “Ha! She's just imagining it because she a-assumes it must be there!” But the longer I looked at The Beef, the more I realized that I saw them, too. So I quickly popped another piece of The Beef in my mouth so that I would once and for all get over my slight (though very real) psychological aversion to meat.

This piece was chewier.

It sprawled across my tongue in one long, unified whole. It refused to be chewed. It slid from one position to another as though stretching on a soft gymnastics mat. Suddenly, my mother's whole “that thing used to be alive” mentality broke upon me in full force. I imagined that I had chewed away all of the meat and was now just juggling a long, tough tendon across my tongue. I tried to swallow it, quick, like a pill, and gagged. Jen said, “Did you throw up?” “No, no,” I managed, “I just tried to swallow too big of a piece.” Sure, Jonathan. Visions of moving cow flesh were filling my brain, and I stuffed more rice in my mouth to dilute the tendon. I fought with it for minutes on end. Jen watched me as I tensely clutched the table. Little beads of sweat broke out on my forehead and my breathing quickened, but my jaw moved on. I swallowed.

For days I lived in fear of a day, soon to come, when a slab of meat is placed before me. Would I be able to conquer the steak with grace? Or would I have to choose between offending my hostess by not eating it, and offending her by eating it with pain in my eyes and sweat in my hair? No! I finally decided that I would be strong. I would eat The Steak, not as I ate The Beef, but as a conqueror. I will relish it. Now I do not live my days in fear, but neither do I sleep at night. I toss and turn. I wake suddenly in terror from dreams in which cows stand looking at me from across the road with their big, sad eyes. These same eyes watch me as I ride the minibus past their pastures. They are mournful, haunting eyes. Were they always so sad? I think not. No, they have become so because they see that another is joining the ranks of infamy. They know I am now among those that feast on them, The Beef.

NOTE: Virtually all of the above is, again, exaggerated. (Yes, I know you knew that again, but I again figured I'd let you know just in case I was again wrong about knowing you knew it.) Actually, the stuff about the wildlife is pretty much straight fact, except for the part about the bird staring at me. It actually winked.