At least once a week in our English classes at the university, we devote the latter half of the class to discussion groups with the students. These times are meant to help the students speak the language with more precision and clarity, all the while engaging the intellect and critical thinking skills. As I stated before, to me—a journalism aficionado–these conversations become a focus group. It’s steady work getting straight answers from some of the students, but when they do show their true colors it is always illuminating.
Sheena gave me a choice of two topics our group could talk about, each with a corresponding list of questions. The discussion topics available were social problems and politics. Me being infinitely curious, and perhaps a tad overzealous, I opted to talk about politics with the class. We split the class up as we usually do; the women go with Sheena, while the men go with me.
A couple ground rules apply to each of our discussions. First, it is never personal. In other words, if you don’t want to answer a particular question, you do not have to. Another important guideline is that, while you are allowed to question your classmates’ views, you cannot attack them. In other words, when you participate you are encouraged share as much (or little) as you would like and you are to be respectful of others beliefs. In the groups that I have lead, there have been some close calls but in general abiding by these rules of conduct have not been much or a problem. After all, the point of the exercise is not to solve all the world’s problems—it’s simply to know how to articulate them.
And so our group—six of us in total—began our discussion on politics. I said that this is an ambitious topic for me bring up because, as an American I am sure to become a lightning rod for questions myself.
As we began I reiterated that were not to focus on partisan beliefs. Instead I asked some probing questions in order to acquire information about how the government functions in this region of East Africa. What type of government do you have, how many political parties are there, what are voter’s rights, etc.—I asked these questions and others in order to get a foundation for the next line of questioning, or as I’ll refer to it, the good stuff.
Right off the bat we addressed democracy, the form of government that our homelands share. They all agreed that democracy was a decent form of government as long as it has the appropriate checks and balances. I took the liberty to paraphrase the famous line from Winston Churchill “…democracy is the worst form of government except all those other forms that have been tried…” They responded with the same subtle, pondering laughter that I did the first time I was told that quote.
I posed the question “what qualities do you look for in a person who is running for office?” After each of them had a chance to answer, one man turned the question on me. From that point all of the questions skewered away from them and towards me. All of a sudden I was in front of a firing squad, and all of their curiosities and presumptions were aimed squarely at me.
“So who did you vote for in the last election?” one man asked. So I guess we just left that whole discretion thing by the wayside? I am fairly transparent when it comes to my deeply-held beliefs, be it political, social or spiritual, so I was not really taken off guard, nor was I offended. I told them that I voted for Barack Obama, even though I had don’t agree with him on various issues. Invoking Obama’s name was actually a good way of currying favor with them, seeing as he is quite popular around here; in fact, there are several shops in the downtown area that are named after him. All the same, don’t think for a second that that was enough to quell their curiosity.
“What do you think about the war in Afghanistan?” the same gentleman said.
My knee-jerk reaction was likely a wise retort in retrospect: “I don’t.” I went on to elaborate that I really do not know what to think about the war in Afghanistan. For starters, I was a senior in high school when it started and I, like most Americans, have little knowledge of how the war was and is being conducted. Secondly, the U.S. was attacked, and while I think that vengeance is wrong, defense is in another category. The gentleman followed up by asking about the Iraq war. In that case I could give him a more concrete answer in that I was never in support of the war in Iraq, specifically because of the faulty justification that was made by the Bush Administration, and implicitly because war is hell.
As the call for prayer rang out and the class began to dismiss, the group seemed grateful to me for sharing some of my views. I’m not sure what kind of impact, if any, I had on the discussion, but if nothing else I’m pleased that at the very least I was honest with them.
—–
After class let out I walked down to the end of the hallway to debrief while Sheena and Matt conducted interviews after class. As I sat outside gazing upon the sunset, F., one of the female students from Sheena’s class approached me to say hello. F. had talked in her class previously because she works at a local newspaper, and I have a schooling background in journalism. F, and I talked for awhile before eventually Sheena and Matt finished their discussions. I met up with them and walked back to taxi.
As we walked back Sheena reminded me that it was probably not a good idea that I was talking to her by myself (even though she was the one who came to talk to me). A man and woman sharing even the most casual tête-à-tête is a no-no in this culture. I sort of knew that, but I didn’t think much of it considering I am a teacher and she is a student.
—–
Tomorrow Scotty and I have some serious work to do the big project. I hope that G_d would bless our toil and let it not be in vain. More news to come, but for now: sleep.

The Eid holiday (unofficially) commenced today and not a minute too soon. We didn’t exactly stay true to the line in completely keeping Sabbath, but one more day of even perceived idleness would surely be the death of us.

Scotty and I locked ourselves in his room for much of the day to continue work on his project. For that it was a hugely productive day, both in planning and production. Almost all of the content now at least has a draft, if not ready to print. (Details will file out soon enough, I promise.)

The two of us went to lunch and dinner at the ambassador hotel. The food is not great but it serves to vital purposes: (1) it is plenty and (2) it gives us an excuse to get out of the house. At lunch a man in a soldier uniform approached me asked—I presume, since he was not speaking English—about my cane. (I still the use the cane every so often just out of precaution in case I step on a stone and contort my knee.) The man looked as if he wanted to look at the wooden staff so I showed it to him. Once he got it in his hands he made an oddly affirming nod and attempted to walk away with it. “Maya,” I said. “That’s mine—I need it for my knee” (pointing at my leg and feigning a limp). Eventually he gave it back to me after I showed him and walked away. I assume he thought since I am both young and a quadruped that the cane wasn’t mine. Still, I never thought I would see someone, much less a soldier, try to bogart a walking stick!

A similar, albeit minor incident happened later in the evening when we returned to the hotel to lounge in the lobby and eat cake and ice cream. We both got out our books and got comfortable on the couches while we waited for our server to arrive. There were two older gentlemen sitting across from us drinking tea and eating cake. I can’t very well cross my legs, so I put my feet on the coffee table as I paged through my book (Mark Noll’s Turning Points, if you must know). A few minutes went by when one of the gentlemen from the table across from us walked toward me. Before he walked by me he took a long stare at me for at least five seconds. When I finally sensed his lurking I looked up at him. As soon as we made eye contact, in an instant he walked away. Enough with the passive aggressive shit—if I’m being an arsehole, tell me. I need to know. On the walk home Scotty reminded me that this is a very indirect culture. I agree. We saw two instances of it today courtesy of a couple mzungus and the ambassador hotel.

At long last, I retired to my room with the guitar to wail and chicken pick through a few hymns, read, write this and then go to bed.

The latter begins now.

Sabbath Part II: Dave arranged a gathering with his language teacher, A. and some of his friends to meet for lunch at the Maansoor Hotel. The hotel was located on the other side of the town and since we had more of us than that would fit in a taxi, we opted to take the bus.

Alongside the road I saw a billboard for a human rights organization that had the slogan (verbatim) “Human Rights are Rights For People who are blind.” While I failed to fully understand what the sign meant with its bleak, nearly non- sequitur statement (unless it is meant to be taken literally), interestingly enough I noticed that the H.R. organization was funded by Comic Relief. Instantly I was reminded of something I read online over the summer when I began doing research on the region. I remembered seeing a Comic Relief-sponsored event with Scottish actor/comedian Billy Connolly in the city’s largest hospital. The same hospital, oh by the way, we just passed by. Yet another degree of separation comes by virtue of the fact that a few years ago, Bill Hybels, the leader of the congregation I attend, conducted an interview with the founder of Comic Relief, Richard Curtis, who illuminated us on the levels of poverty the organization is fighting, particularly in Ethiopia. Who knew then I would witness remnants of that struggle with my own eyes and be fortunate enough to help bring hope into those people’s future. Quite humbling.

After about an hour in transit we arrived at the hotel for lunch. We met up with another one of A.’s friends who was waiting for us in the lobby and quickly got a table, splitting up once again the men and the women. Sheena, her language teacher and another friend ate a few tables over from us.  Meanwhile, it was now well past 1:00 p.m. and the six of us we’re getting antsy for sustenance. The meal was our treat to A. and his friends so we encouraged them to get whatever they wanted. After we sifted through the menus all of us except Scotty had settled on the spaghetti bolognese; Scotty eventually had to settle for the spaghetti because they were out of what he ordered.

When the food arrived Dave asked A. if we should pray and thank Allah for the food. A.’s friend, a very devout Muslim who he referred to as “the sheikh,” asked if he could pray in Arabic. We agreed and he muttered a cacophonous prayer. Because Dave and A. have had extensive discussions about G_d and differing beliefs, Dave was keen to ask him and the sheikh about their specific beliefs. Not in a threatening way, but just to get their opinion on some of what he had read in the Qu’ran.

Since Muslim simply means “one who submits to G_d,” by definition, we would qualify as candidates for paradise. “We are trying to know Allah more,” Dave said. A. and the sheikh were respectful but obviously had some doctrinal reservations. I interjected with one thought which had the gospel dripping all over it: “I try to follow Allah but I am not very good at,” I said. “That is why I love Allah all the more.”

Our religious conversation ended their, which was probably a good thing. Dave and A. will have plenty of time to talk over the deeper issues of faith and devotion at a later time. We finished with the meal and walked outside to enjoy the cooling weather and see some antelopes running in a nearby field. We caught the bus just before the darkening clouds at long last turned to rain.

The raindrops came down, but only for a few brief moments. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen clouds as striking and vast as the billows that covered us today in our tiny neck of the hemisphere.

—–

In the afternoon I was on a Skype call with my family when I heard Rooble come into the front door of our house. For some reason, the neighbor kids are usually not supposed to come into the house. Anyway, it was too late, he saw me peek my head out of my door and ran into my room to see me. I sat him on my lap as we looked at each other on the screen and said hello to my folks back home. I let him go back into the other room and continued with the call. A half hour later I found out why he was in the house. Matt had brought out a large duffle bag filled with shoes and the five kids were outside on our porch trying them on. It was a small gesture on our part, but I could tell it meant a lot to them. The timing was right for it too since it is the Eid holiday.

Good day.

I woke up this morning and saw something I haven’t seen in seemingly over a month: clouds. Day after day we see the clearest blue skies if for no other reason than that there is virtually no pollution in the region. Not so on this morning, as the slightly orange tinted cloud cover casted a shadow on us. I’m no meteorologist, but when you’re see clouds with a certain orange hue—particularly when as near to the equator as we are—it means rain is coming. The precipitation has not come yet, but I have on good account that thunderstorms are on the way. My mind’s eye can only imagine how glorious that will look.

Today we had on our schedule a feast with the dean of the university. I know I am being vague in leaving out the dean’s name. Allow me to explain why. I am refraining from using people’s names for a couple reasons. First, and most pragmatic, I don’t know how to spell them. Secondly, I omit names as a way of protecting anonymity (both theirs and mines). Unless they are part of our house or recurring character—like A.Q., Mohammed Ali, etc.—it’s probably wisest to give them a pseudonym. For this entry and subsequent entries I will use the initial of first name of persons in question. Lastly, the names are not important: the stories are.

Before we were to leave the house at 12:30 p.m., our old friend Mohammed Ali came over to the house unannounced (as he tends to do quite often). Myself and Scotty greeted him in the living room as the clock just hit high noon. After we exchanged pleasantries, I excused myself from the room to get cleaned up in anticipation for the feast. Unknowingly, I just threw Scotty under the bus. Apparently, Mohammed Ali was coming over to receive an Eid offering (money) as it were. Scotty said he just sat there for forty minutes waiting for money  In a gift-giving culture, on a gift-giving holiday, it’s not strange to expect a gift per say, but I do find it strange that he came over to our house and simply waited for it.

Onward to the main event. The dean, O., and his friend, A., showed up to our house in a station wagon a little before 1:00 p.m. to take the five of us to his home on the other side of the town. A., a gentleman in his early seventies, drove us out of our neighborhood, through the town and up a steep hill to O.’s house. The view from the top of the hill was exquisite. We could oversee almost the entire city and catch a glimpse the beautiful hills in the distance.

We walked into the house gate and met the O.’s family. The men that is. Sheena, was made to go inside to eat with the women while all of the men ate on outside on his porch. Before the food came out, the six of us—Scotty, Dave, O., A., Matt and myself—took some time to enjoy the nice weather and each other’s company. Midway through the discussion O. disappeared into the house. Moments later he came out wearing only a white tank top and a man-skirt. His beer gut (though presumably not produced from lager) was in full splendor. It just goes to show you that the man, yes the almighty MAN, transcends all cultures, ages, races and religions.

O.’s youngest son proceeded to bring out plate after plate filled with massive portions of food. First ram, then fried cabbage and vegetables, then rice, then lasagna. We were all rather surprised to see lasagna turn up on the menu. Sheena in particular had been craving it for weeks, so in a way it was an Eid ul-Adha miracle.

O. originally told us that we were only going to be able to use our hands to eat. That was one of the many jokes that O. told that went right over my head. (That wisecrack is right up there with the one he told us in response to the question of how he met his wife. He said that his parents arranged their marriage, and then he exclaimed with a smile, “We don’t love each other!”) We used utensils and sat at the table, whilst O. stood and grabbed handfuls of rice and meat. Occasionally he would try to scoop more food on to my plate, but, when I was able to, I politely declined.

All in all the meal was wonderful. We all agreed that we were all blessed by Allah to have this food and such good company. Before we left I personally let O. know that it was an honor for us to come to his home and break bread with him and his family.

O. and A. dropped us off at the ambassador hotel. From there we walked back to our house as about a dozen kids followed us. I ended up playing outside with them for a hour before retreating back into the house. After all, today was a day of rest.

“What are you thankful for?” I shot the question around the dinner table jokingly, starting with A.Q. It was quip for the three Americans in the room, and a poor one at that. The usual routine when the calendar hits this date is to sequester myself in a room with my loved ones and fill my face with so much food that all of it doesn’t even pass through my colon until Christmas. Then watch football, eat leftovers, watch football, watch a movie and fall sleep happy. Today, I had a large mound of rice and lentils to quell my cravings (of which I was indeed thankful) but precious nil on everything else. All of that is to say, you can get lonely around here when you really stop and think about it.

So, dear readers—family, friends, friends of family and family of friends—allow me to pause and say I’m thankful for all of you. I feel ashamed that it took a slightly hackneyed holiday for me to finally realize it.

Scotty and I had nothing to do today except to work on his on his erstwhile stated “on the QT” project. It’s been my experience that having an unlimited amount of time to work on one thing can be either the blessing of all blessings or the death of creativity as we know it. I can’t say definitively what it meant for us, nevertheless we trudged though, rather unhurriedly, more of the writing and researching for the project.  There will be plenty of wordsmithing to do in the future, but I think we’re pleased with the results thus far.

We took a break in the afternoon to play outside with the neighborhood kids. I brought out the usual frisbee, football (soccer ball), and baseball gloves, but the latest attraction has been the slackline that Matt set up outside the house a couple weeks ago. A slackline, for those of you who don’t know, is an elastic cord that stretches from one pole to another that is used to perform a number of walking and sitting exercises. It is said to build your core strength and help your overall balance and posture. I, having just broken my tibia a few months ago, will not even try it for fear of demolishing my knee. The kids have a lot of fun on it, though. One of the kids would hold my hand/shoulders/entire body as he attempted to walk from one end to the other. Meanwhile I would gradually move away from him to make him do most of the balancing for himself—and hear the subsequent scream “Mattch!”

I’m going to call it an early night and go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a hard day’s Sabbathing, and I do mean that literally. I’ll explain later.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I’m getting ready for Thanksgiving lunch here in East Africa that will unfortunately not include a bounty of turkey and stuffing. It’s likely to be rice and lentils. Tomorrow, however, is the feast for Eid–which makes today Eid Eve, by the way–and I hear tell we will be eating ram. I’m weighing the two meals on an imaginary scale in my brain and Thanksgiving resting safely on the surface, hoisting Eid up into the heavens. But I am thankful no less.

My apologies, dear reader, for the lack of an update yesterday. I was feeling a wee bit sick to my stomach for most of the evening so I opted to lie in bed and get some rest. A full chronicling is coming.

Today began in song. After my morning routine of devotions and toast, I took the guitar into the office and shut the door. All but one of the housemates went into town, so I virtually had the place to myself. It’s hard to strum and wail whilst people are in the next room, if for nothing else than that the walls are paper thin. As I grow older I find it increasingly crucial to keep tuned my sacred harp—i.e. singing voice. Or at least in my case, keep it functioning. My pitch will probably never rise above awful, but I can live with being atonal as long as the words carry. The melodies can be messy, the arrangements simple, but if I utter one pandering line, there is still work that needs to be done. There is always work that needs to be done.

—–

Once everyone returned to the house Scotty and I resumed work on the undisclosed project I mentioned in the previous post. We finalized our mission and vision statements and shared them with Dave and Sheena. They seemed to be enthused and Scotty seemed to be pleased. As for me, the automaton that I am, I am also enthused and happy with the plans thus far.

We endured another uncomfortably bumpy ride to the university today via the dean and his microscopic jeep. He was late, so in attempts to make up the time, he drove at a steadier pace than usual. As such, the car ostensibly vibrated on the rough roads throughout the 25-minute ride, punctuated by an occasional thud when we hit a speed. We finally arrived at university already 10 minutes behind schedule. Before exiting the vehicle I needed to check to make certain my internal organs were still intact.

I joined Matt’s English class today. To get the students to think critically, Matt started his lesson as he does every day with a famous quote. Today’s quote was Robert Frost’s infamous “Two roads diverged in the wood… I took the one less traveled” motif. It’s a short, but poignant quote, as we all know, so it should be fairly self-explanatory. Wrong. The class, comprised of all adults, went on to completely over-analyze the analogy of the roads to the point where every other word was parsed out into its own entity, thereby demolishing the cleverness of the quote. Gradually, Matt and I realized that this upper to intermediate level class is likely comprised with lower to intermediate level students.

At the end of class today a student handed Matt and I a 17-page printout entitled Islam – The Religion of Mercy. The document is a Qu’ran-dictated bill of rights, as it were, that represents a litany of people in society including parents, daughters, wives, orphans, widows, etc. I found nothing in it that was really all that surprising, though it is still an interesting read. Particularly the portion that addresses orphans and widows hit home with me, because this week we learned of some women in our neighborhood—likely immigrants from the south—who are wandering the streets without food and shelter. In fact, Dave has a meeting with the Imam of the local mosque tomorrow morning to see how we can perhaps partner with them to help these women.

The power just went out in the house and my laptop battery is slowly dwindling. I suppose my song has been sung.

Ah, I shouldn’t presume. Yesterday I insinuated that it might be a lonely Eid holiday for us white Western folk. Au contraire. In the last 24 hours we had at least three invitations extended to us from our friends in the neighborhood and at the university. The standing offers include an afternoon meal and, get this, an invitation to go to the local mosque.

Today the dean of the university picked us—Matt, Dave, Sheena and I—up at our house in his jeep to take us to classes. The dean is a sweet man, I would estimate in his early sixties, who does a bit of the everything at the university. Including picking us up 25 minutes away when the university’s taxi driver calls in sick. As we bounced along our rocky streets in his seemingly strut-less jeep, the five of shared a tremoloed discussion about, among other things, our classes at the university, plans for the holiday weekend, et al.  I was pleased to finally get an answer from him on our CV Writing Course, which looks like it will be starting next week.

Dave asked the dean what his plans are for Eid this Friday. The dean almost leapt out his seat: “Oh, we are slaughtering a RAM!”

“A ram?”

“A ram, yes! Will you come?” he smiled. “It would be my honor.”

Before giving him a yes or no, we queried him for the details. The skinny is that he asked—no, INSISTED—that we come to his home on Friday to share a long feast with his family. The men will eat with the men, while the women will eat with the women he said. As a house unit, we have yet to give him an answer but my hunch is that we will go.

I must say, I was dually humbled by the dean’s request. Do I know what an Eid feast is like? No. But, of course we should go take him up on his offer—what a nice gesture! It reminds me of how my family, at this exact time of the year, would have my father’s Indian friends from work over to our house for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. You think of how lonely the year’s latter holidays—Thanksgiving, Christmas, et al.—can get in the States for lifelong citizens, let alone people from other countries. It’s interesting to now find myself on the other side of that paradigm and why I am all the more grateful for the invitation.

I’m still a little squeamish about the ram, though.

—–

The last two days I have been privileged to help Scotty with a brainchild of his that has been haunting him for the last few months. I cannot disclose any details of this very exciting project yet because it is still in its infancy stage. All I can divulge right now is that we have spent a considerable about of time, and a lot of mental sweat, building mission and vision statements. We’ve been productive thus far, but we still need to devote several more hours in the office brainstorming, bingewriting, pencilpushing, headslamming, balltossing, dickjoketelling, etc. to get the rest of work done. O, that we would be fruitful.

Every day as we drive away from the university I look out of the passenger window to see a confluence of men face down in the dusty soil. They are engaged in the evening call to prayer, the fourth of five that take place daily. The soundtrack surrounding their prayers is impenetrable sound coming from loudspeakers, a sheikh reciting chants to Allah. The first time you see it you’re rather awe-inspired by the magnitude of their public devotion, even if it is a practice that is customary among nearly everyone in the region. The regularity does little to change the sentiment and sincerity behind it. I’m almost* envious, in a way. Because when I pray–if I may bare my soul to you, dear reader–my knees scarcely hit the ground and I rarely ever pray in public (except perhaps at a coffee shop or restaurant whilst in the company of good friends). After some consideration, I think I probably should spend more of my waking moments genuflect before G_d. Though not out of obligation, but desperation.

Be that as it may, I would relish the opportunity to attend a mosque. Unfortunately, a mzungu like myself would likely not be warmly welcomed. Instead, I am at the mercy of my devout religious friends and neighbors and Islamic texts to teach me more about their faith. Friday I will observe my first Muslim holiday, Eid ul-Adha, the annual pilgrimage for believers’ to Mecca. I would be lying if I told you I knew anything more about the holiday than that; any other facts would just be regurgitated from Wikipedia. Hopefully someone will clue me in on more the details sometime during the three-day observance.

___________

*Almost. If prayer is solely a means to curry favor with an omnipresent being, even if that motivation is entirely genuine, I find it disconcerting. If a deity is in some way needing the feeble, fumbling prayers of an imbecile like me, then I would rather tab myself an atheist. At least to that god.

For some reason every bit of effort I have exerted today has been marred with distraction and fatigue.  My only hypothesis as to why this is, is that I am still hung over from yesterday’s well-needed day of rest. I got drunk on Sabbath. Which is a wonderful thing, but not when all that there is occupying your headspace is new records, podcasts, YouTube clips, and—the worst—Facebook messages. It’s enough to make your sugared-up cerebellum cut off lifeblood to the rest of your body.

I’m OK with frustration. Frustration that leads to creation is glorious. However, frustration that leaves you stagnant is death.  In the midst of aggravation many ineffable questions float into my consciousness such as “what are you doing here?” or “why aren’t you doing this?” That doesn’t help. In that moment the responses to all of those hypothetical accusations are always ugly. (Not so remarkably, as I am writing this I seem to be getting a new head of steam, proving my theory that sitting around waiting for inspiration is among the dumbest things one can do.)

The stem of some of my aggravation specifically has to do with the incompetence of the university, who, for the third straight week, has been unable to get students to attend a free CV writing workshop that every student will need if they want to get a job with an English-speaking organization. My suspicion is that the dean has not done anything to market this idea to the students. Not that he does not want us to teach the class—he loves the idea!—rather that his mind is ever forgetful. What was supposed to be a four-week course has now been cut to at least two, if indeed it will happen at.

Instead of preparing a lesson plan, I had a few other projects to attend to. First, I began editing and writing copy for a Tourism website where a friend of ours, Khalid, works. The site is packed to the brim with bad English— and lots of it—so it has been no small task. My hope is to present him with some edited copy by the end of next week.

As usual, I lead a discussion group in our English class at the university. It was one of the minority bright spots of the day, even though my head was clearly not into it.

On the homefront, this afternoon I created an online portfolio and sent a couple résumés to employers. It’s difficult to tell if applying is doing any good. Since there is virtually no way I can talk with employers over the phone, I’m relying heavily on e-mail. Employers could be unadvisedly calling my cell phone left and right, but I would never know it. Plus, it’s likely that no one in the States will pay mind to a résumé wandering in on the abridged week due to the Thanksgiving holiday.

I think that’s enough venom-spewing and bellyaching for one evening. My apologies to you, dear reader.