African Radio

BBC Radio is a world-wide institution. Here in Mozambique, for some amazing reason, we get BBC Africa radio in English and the absolute lowest point on the radio dial. Sometimes I have to hold the knob on the radio down past where it's supposed to go to get it to tune in. I think we get the English version because BBC Africa broadcast only in English and French, and on account of being surrounded on three sides by English speaking countries (and on the fourth side by water, which is Indian) we get lumped in with the English, which is fine by me.

What makes it BBC “Africa” is that for an hour in the morning and afternoon we get African-centric news. Due to political instability, most of the last two years has revolved around the Arab states (lumped in with Africa). Oh, there was also a hostile takeover in Mali and something about Somalia but I, along with most the world, stopped paying attention to them after 1995.

But on the weekends, the often have more opinion laden, opinion pieces from originating from South Africa or Ghana or Kenya, some of the continent's more progressive (read: not so superstitious and witchcrafty) locales. Often, they are about how well Africa is advancing and about the unsavory elements that hold it back. For example, in Ghana when an old lady is accused of witchcraft she is sent to a witch internment camp until it can be determined by the head witchdoctor there is no more witchcraft in her and she poses no threat to society.

There is also an insane level of candidness that would make even a klan member blush at the bluntness and offensiveness of some things people say.The things people say pass for about as un-politically correct as you can get. The kind of things that if you say in America count as hate crimes. Such as seeing people on the sidewalk shout at women driving cars saying, "Get out of the road. Who let you have a drivers license. You're going to kill someone."

Now that the olympics are over, the BBC is heavily promoting the para-olympics (because they're contractually obligated, I'm guessing). Despite the fact that there is an enormous disparity between first and thirld world athletes in terms of funding and training, BBC Africa seems determined to marshal as much support as they can for the games.

One such interviewer was in Kenya, doing a man-on-the-street type interview just getting whatever info he could about the public perceptions and excitement for the para-olympics. He usually started by asking if the interviewee was excited about the upcoming para-olympics. The typical responses were, “Am I excited for the what? What is the para-olympics? So it is like the olympics but for people with disabilities, or amputees? That's preposterous. I've never heard of that before? And they take it seriously? Why, that's an affront to the real olympics. It's an insult. How degrading that these people should be doing that? It is an insult to all the real athletes that train their entire lives for a sport and now they'll just let anybody do it. I'm offended by the very thought of that? Who would watch a bunch of people hobble around in front of everybody.”

Full disclosure, this is one of these issues where most people reading this are going to be saddened and offended by it, but I on the other find their views hilarious just for the sheer absurdity. I even asked the kids here what they thought about it. They, like the people on the radio, had never heard of the para-olympics and didn't take me seriously. Then they wondered why even bother.

Most of the reluctance to accept an idea such as the para-olympics comes from the stigma of what is means to be disabled. And I'm not talking about the whole “it's an ability and not a disability” cup half-full/half-empty debate. I'm saying that when you say disability most will imagine a person who has lost a leg to a landmine, a polio victim, or a lame person, many of whom either stay in their home or can be seen begging in the city's streets. So they imagine a bunch of invalids running the 100m dash and just shake their head.

What they don't know about is the sheer coolness of spinal cord injury victims playing the sport of murderball (which unfortunately now referred to as indoor rugby—a name that is simultaneously not as cool nor as accurate a description as the old one).

In which TJ gets to play dentist

Well, after having made it back safely, I can say that I'm super happy I've found nothing burned down. But as I've found out, they usually wait for me to be alone till things burn down (true story). Needless to say, I'm overjoyed to be back with my kids. Any body that bumped in to me the last couple weeks of my time in the states knew I was having a thrill but was getting pretty anxious to get back. I found them in good health, but on short supply of soccer balls. That got fixed right away (thanks to you, donors).

But seriously, as much I expected them to be asking all about how I was and how my family was, all they had to say was that I missed maybe the most exciting two months in the history of everything, ever. There was the visit of a businessman who has dealing in Nampula and who prominently supports the orphanage, accompanied by a giant feast in his honor (which I new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was also a visit by the Peace Corps as “half of America came and visit us and played games and brought snacks and treats (which I also new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was also a big party and feast for Mozambican independence day (which I also also new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was a visit from Regina during the school break. She is one of the girls from here and was on break during her first year of teaching out near the coast. She came back for the first time to see everybody and to throw a giant feast for the kids, replete with giant chickens, french fries, pop, salad, and cake for desert (which I also also also new about and just feigned my shock and disappointment hearing I missed out).

There was also a week-long, National culture and music festival at the soccer field half a click from the orphanage that resulting in school being shut down for a week and the bairro teeming with people and noise and distractions till all hours of the night (which I new about and was actually thrilled that I was not here for any of the madness).

They were assuming I'd be jealous about hearing about all the awesomeness, and I kinda was. Especially because I had talked to the Peace Corps people so many times about coming out to see the orphanage, and because I missed Regina coming back.

And I knew telling them about all the times I ate at Red Robin just wouldn't translate, and if I told them about my trip to Disneyland they just wouldn't understand. Nor to they comprehend us celebreating my grandparent's fiftieth anniversary. “You mean they're both turning fifty at the same time? Oh, you say they've been married fifty years? The whole time? To each other? I don't believe you.”

There is much more to tell, but in the meantime, here's some of those lovely faces I was so anxious to see.

Dorca finally found a productive way to help me with my laundry. Recall that previously, she would take all my freshly washed clothes and then dump them in the dirty water and pretend to wash them for me. Now, when I bring my clothes in off the line I found a way for her to carry the pins.

Ofeita found a way to help also. I just slipped about seven t-shirts over her head to carry them back to my house. Afterwards she asked if she could keep one of them to use a dress, it almost made it down to her toes.

Some people fashion me as the dad that plays cruel tricks on his kids. I like to think of myself as that crazy uncle that keep kids on their toes. Mena, 8, came home from school yesterday walking gingerly and refusing to talk to anyone. The others said she had a loose tooth ready to come out. I, like any generous person, offered to buy here sugar cane (which would have about the same effect as taffy, ripping that tooth right out of there). After refusing me offer, I made another. I told here if she left me see her tooth, I could tell her exactly how long until it would come out.

After about five minutes of getting her to go along with it, she finally relented. I took a look and she was a little apprehensive when I stuck my hand near her mouth. She asked how long it would be. I replied, "Right... about... now." And held her tooth in my hand.

The shocked look on her face was a mix between, "Oh no you didn't?!" and "I can't believe it was that easy."

That was the easy part. Getting the money from the tooth fairy under he pillow  was the hard part...

To Travels and Trunks

“To Travels and Trunks” is the name of the song that was playing on the PA when I disembarked at Seatac Airport on my way home. I thought is was nice subtle touch rather than playing generic elevator music. The song is a product of the Seattle band Hey Marseille and is, you guessed it, about traveling and trunks (of luggage—not elephants, because that would be weird).

Then when I left Seatac, I heard the song twice coming over the PA, so I came to the conclusion that there's just a looped tape that plays it over and over. The only thing fitting about the song was that it talks about luggage, and I lost my luggage. Twice

I'll start from the beginning, which is where many stories start. I will not, like David Copperfield, tell you how I was born, we're not going back that far. Lets go back to when I left to come to Seattle. I boarded an airplane to Maputo, to then go Maputo to Johannesburg, then eventually to Seattle. Thankfully, I have learned well from the misfortunes of others and was sure to pack absolutely nothing in my bag that, if lost or stolen, would really put me in a bind. That was good foresight on my part because I hadn't even made it to Johannesburg before my luggage was lost.

As it happened, I got off the plane in Maputo, the main int'l airport in Mozambique, making a connection to Joberg. It was a small plane and only about thirty of us on board—a full flight. As they started pulling checked baggage out of the plane, a group of about a dozen or so people that were not on the plane were checking luggage tags, grabbing bags, and leaving. I watched the workers pull all the bags off the plane, and did not see mine.

I found myself standing with about ten or so other passengers looking around wondering where our bags were also. As it was explained to us, the flight yesterday had about ten people whose bags were not put on the plane, and thus were sent today. That was the group of people that were waiting to receive the plane, to get their lost luggage from the day before.

For us, we were told, our luggage would be put on the next flight in a couple of days and we could come get it then. The shocked look on all their faces was only surpassed by the vitriol anger with spewed forth upon the lone representative of the airline. For myself, I was consumed by a singular thought: Just how long was Mozambique Airlines so over-stuffed with luggage that they just set aside certain bags to go on the next flight, thus taking the place of another ten or so people who will no doubt have their bags not boarded the next day, and each successive day? Just how long? Two days? A week? Years???

As it happened, I was leaving the same day on a flight for Johannesburg, and hours later would be on my way to Europe then Seattle. I did all I could and reasoned and begged the Airline to follow the instructions on my luggage tag and send it back to Nampla at the orphanage. The reason for my labeling by bag to the orphanage is twofold. One, I think it is less likely to get robbed by an airport worker that if it says AMERICA is big, bold letters. Two, I think I have more luck getting a rinky-dink airline to send it back to my little rinky-dink town than flying through three continents just to make it to Seattle.

So, after arriving for a layover in Amsterdam with the same clothes I'd been wearing the the last two-and-a-half days, I bought a new pair of clothes, then eleven long hours later landed in Seatac with my carry-on bag.

Luckily for me, I was staying with my folks the whole time back in Seattle, as were my brothers, who are both as freakishly tall as I am. I quickly instituted wearer's rights which is the same thing as squatter's rights except more wearing and less squatting.

Thus concludes part one of my saga. Part two is much less exciting. It involves the orphanage telling me that my bag was mailed back to the orphanage and waiting for me, which only meant that Value Village lost a very happy customer that would have had to replace most his wardrobe. It also involves me saying that when I got to Johannesburg on my return trip, I waited for me bags to come of the plane once again.

Then (because they are a little more on the ball in Joberg) my name came across the PA system with instructions to go to the customer service line at the baggage claim. I arrived and the informed me that my bags were not on the plane. I replied, “yeah, I figured that much out hearing my name called.” I asked when they would get here. The reply was simply, “when we find out where they are we will have a better understanding of when they will get to Johannesburg.” After some discussion between the customer service guys and much pointing at the computer. I determined with 100% certainty that the location of my bags, while not knows, was also not unknown. They were either in Seattle, in Europe, or at 35,000 feet. That narrowed down the search considerably.

I was assured that when (read: if) they arrived they would be sent directly to Nampula and I could pick them up on the 2:30 flight. If they were not there the first day, check back the next day on the 2:30 flight. And everyday after that until they get there. Well, I landed in Nampula on Friday and on Monday, the first flight of the week, I found my bag waiting for me at the airport, thankfully. Since all my stuff never left (ha) I was bringing back mainly stuff for the kids. And while I secretly hoped that my bag got mixed up somehow with a billionaire with the exact same bag and when he opened his he found my undies and deflated soccer balls I would open up mine and find gold ingots, that was not the case. Inspected my bag at the airport and found undies and soccer balls.

And that was about as exciting as the travels got. Oh, and there was also a HUUUUUUGE misunderstanding with airport security that a few people heard in person but will not be put online otherwise the governments will put me on their no-fly list.

Great News

So, I know it's been too long, and this was supposed to be an update about how I'm back and super thirlled to see the kids and it's hotter than I remembered it (all very true and coming later), but all this is getting preempted by some super important amazing joyful news: GIZELA'S BROTHER GOT BAPTIZED AT CHURCH TODAY!!!

You may remember I snuck in a tidbit a while ago about one of our girls named Gizela. She left in January for Beira with the group doing vocational school. Gizela had been great about trying to reach out to the family she has left and tell them about Jesus. Her brother had been coming to church for the better part of the year after his family had been trying to raise him a muslim. I told Gizela when I was in Beira and she was thrilled to hear that he has kept coming to church and always participates in any programs/events we have outside of Sunday mornings and everybody is really good with reaching out to him and making him feel welcome.

This Sunday at church we had baptisms, and I was surprised and overjoyed to see that he was in the line to get dunked. Even greater was hearing him profess his faith in Jesus and knowing that this was not just some emotionally based better-do-it-know-while-everybody-is-looking kind of decision. He even had to go to the baptism class the last couple Saturdays and meet with the pastors. Basically, I'm just trying to say I'm super excited at his genuine conversion and the change is his life. Praise Jesus.

Painting with broad strokes

Picture, if you will, the Mona Lisa. Yes, the famous painting. Think hard about it. Do you have a good picture of it in your mind? Good. Now time for some questions. What color are her eyes? Is her hair straight or wavy? What color is her blouse? What color are the shades behind her?

When you imagined the Mona Lisa what did you see? Chances are, you imagined a portrait of a girl staring back at you and following your eyes everywhere you go. Maybe you pictured something like this:

Yes, you are right. That's not the Mona Lisa, but that's about as much as you can picture. You can't really see the background. But try to picture that now in your mind. Deep burgundy shades half drawn over the window allowing a glimpse out at the quiet meadow as a silent tree dots the landscape as the hills fade into the distance where they meet the sky. Now can you picture it. Have a good image of it in your mind? Good. Keep that image cemented in your mind before going on any more.

One of the main things I like to do with this space is to paint a picture. However, I strongly feel like the picture I paint, much like the snapshot of Mona up there, is incomplete without the rest of the details. I can talk about teaching lessons and tutoring kids, and that's the shiny foreground, the thing that draws your attention in, the big idea. That big idea is incomplete, I believe, without understanding the context behind the picture. In the foreground, for example, can be kids studying in my house.

In the background, the thing you don't see at first, is that the reason I have such a heart for the kids studying and reaching for excellence in academics is because of what their school looks like. They are in a classroom with seventy other kids, sitting on the ground underneath a cashew tree while their teacher lectures on a chalkboard for three hours then they all go home. Suddenly, the picture of the kids sitting and studying feels incomplete, doesn't it, without realizing what is there in the background (or in the case of school, what is not there).

Or take this photo from a while back with the kids moving the new mattresses into their beds. You the boys all buzzing over the mattresses and me making sure that people don't take two (yes, somebody tried to put two mattresses on their bed, it was pretty funny though watching them try to climb up into bed). What you may not notice in the background are the mosquito nets on the beds.

Those simple little blue nets are what help us keep malaria at bay. Whereas the average Mozambican gets malaria about two times a year, our rates are significantly less than that just by the simple practice of sleeping with a net at night. This allows the kids to be healthier, happier, and (during school) not have as many absences due to being sick.

How about this one. Its a little out of focus, so just imagine it is a fancy watercolor by Monet or somebody. If there was a video of this picture it would have about a million views on youtube only because there is nothing funnier than somebody getting drilled in the nuts by a soccer ball.

What isn't obvious in the picture is that the soccer ball only has about another week to go before it pops and bites the dust. That's about the average life of our soccer balls, anywhere from two to four weeks. That's where you folks come in, because folks help out by sending money. Most the time for whatever is needed, groceries, utilities, or to do something special for the kids, and recreation is just as special to the kids as having bibles or clothes or food.

That's why I like to tell stories on here. Stories can help give a fuller picture of what is going on. I've discovered as I visit and talk with people, that they do a pretty good job at the foreground, like with Mona again. You picture the eyes, maybe notice she has wavy hair and pursed lips, you may not note the color of her blouse gut you know the general hue and shape of it.

In the same way, people do a pretty good job of imagining my life and the ministry at the orphanage. They picture the kids, playing games, going to school, doing bible study in the evenings. They see the difficulties of their circumstances and poverty, but that's mostly because, duh, everyone knows that it is hard being an orphan is a poor, third-world country. What you are imagining is not wrong, it's just very incomplete. You're seeing only the foreground.

Remember how I asked you to imagine the Mona Lisa, especially the background, with the fading horizon, the drapes, the trees. Remember all of that. You remember that picture you painted in your mind? I hope so...

...because you remembered it wrong.

Ok, now that wasn't exactly fair on my part. There is no window, no shades, no fading horizon. There is a path, a river, and what I'm going to refer to as forest/blob on the left. The tendency much of the time is to assume how the background is without really looking at it. That's what I try to do here, paint a picture not only of the foreground, but to complete the story to give more depth and meaning and beauty to the story that is unfolding in these kids' lives.

I've discovered many folks understand that poverty exists. They don't understand that many folks where we are live on less than a dollar a day. They understand that corruption exists in all level in the public and private sector, but can't ever imagine that I'm stopped by police on a daily basis asking to see my papers and harassing me for made-up charges. When I say how much our kids are picked on and disparaged for living in an orphanage it is heartbreaking. When I mention the depravity and poverty and abuse from which many of them have been saved it's tremendously and joyfully overwhelming.

Those are the stories I'm trying to tell here, to paint all parts of the picture.