Suddenly, Samedi jumps to his feet. He has just finished translating my story of the Samaritan woman who meets Jesus by the well. We are in front of a packed house. Daniel, a school teacher, has just gotten up to sing in his tribal language, Kera. The rhythm is catchy and many heads are bobbing. The drums are pounding and Samedi can't hold back any longer. His overweight, yet strong, body has lost it's flexibility as he stomps to the small group surrounding Daniel and raises his fist pumping into the air. He circles around with the inner foot pounding out the beat as his body weaves back and forth. Bruno jumps up. The smallest of Pierre's boys, he has stayed to same size since he was 13 and despite being almost 18, he still has that pre-teen look. His energetic body bounces up alongside Samedi his knees bobbing up and down and both arms raised. Doulgue slides in smoothly stepping fluidly in and out of the dancing circle. The beat intensifies. Lam is whipping the drum as if it was a delinquent child while Allah lifts up his chin staring to the sky as his little hands flap in a furious blur all over the surface of the goat skin drum head. Koumakoy sets his drum down and hauls his lanky, athletic body across the aisle to join the fray, his shoulders bobbing up and down as his bent arms are held in closed fists against his chest.
It started with me telling stories of a woman caught in adultery and brought before Jesus and that same woman washing Jesus' feet with her tears at a dinner party. The young people around me seemed shocked at a God that would love that much. I finally went around and reluctantly got all of them to admit that God loved them just as much. Then the festivities began. Pierre's second oldest daughter and three friends got things off to a slow start as the younger girls were embarrassed to dance and the older girl was embarrassed to be dancing by herself. Amos then kicked things off in Nangjere with a furious rendition of "Kukusebur ne Jesu Christi" as Tabitha rounded it up with a raised, twirling fist and a high pitched "Ayyyee yi yi yi yiiiiiiiiiii." A flat song in English with the guitar and several Chadians singing in bad Nigerina English was soon forgotten as the same group kicked up their heels and clapped their hands to a up beat French song accompanied by a tight, but simple guitar stacatto.
Doulgue jumps up and looks directly at me. "It's not only Nangjere that can sing Nangere songs. James, come here." Grinning from ear to ear and throughly loving the first truly spontaneous church service I've ever been a part of I stand up and walk over to him, my brightly colored matching pants and shirt swishing as I walk. It's a song about Peter walking on water and we belt it out at the top of our lungs as Amos and a couple others join us. I'm not much of a dancer but I find my head, shoulders, and legs unable to resist the pull of the rhythm. We finish strong to many hearty amens. Degaulle's daughter stands up in the back, her baby hanging from her breast and lets out a high pitched wail. Antoinette echos from the back row of the choir, keeping herself hidden shyly behind the kids in front, but she can't hide her smile as Tabitha finishes off the response with a piercing cry that can only be appreciated by those who have lived in an African village.
We go into the early afternoon, much later than usual as group after group gets up to sing. We have sung in English, French, Nangjere, Ngambai, and Kera. No one has understood everything, but everyone has been moved.
That afternoon finds me on the new bridge staring down into the muddy, swirling water below. A crowd has gathered and I can't back down. I step up on the railing and launch myself out. My outstretched arms smack the water hard 30 feet below as the current quickly sweeps me under the bridge. I swim over to the support posts and find an eddy in the center. I rest briefly before striking out for the shore and clambering up the stony bank. Back on the bridge, someone shouts out "Lapia." I turn and see Marty smiling in the midst of the crowd along the rail.
Marty has survived a hippo attack and tuberculosis and looks in perfect health.
I rush over and grab his hand with both of mine shaking it vigorously as I greet him in Nangjere.
I call Jamie and Tammy over.
"Hey, this is the guy in the documentary that was bitten by the hippo!"
Carson and Michelle come over. Tim and Melody join us as well. All the foreigners want to shake his hand. I tell the crowd that Marty is famous in the United States, that's why all the white folk want to greet him. Everyone laughs as a local man translates my French into Nangjere. As everyone gets there picture taken with Marty I think how ironic this is. Usually it's the foreigners who are the center of attention that everyone wants to stare at or greet. Now, it's a poor fisherman who just happens to have been bitten my a hippo right before a film student came to make a documentary of our hospital. The film won some awards and was shown all over in the Adventist Church in the US and Denmark. Because of that film, many people gave money to support the hospital allowing it to become one of the best in the country.
I walk back over to Marty and the man who translated before.
"Tell Marty that while getting bit by a hippo was a tragedy, that God used that experience to help the hospital to become what it is today thanks to the film that he was in. Despite all he suffered, God turned it around to help many more people who are suffering."
As the man translates, Marty looks at me with a warm smile out of his small, bearded face. He nods and shakes my hand before walking off down the bridge.
James
Monday, October 5, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Moundou
I think my hand is stuck. I've been sticking it up the pipe trying to clear out 30 years of junk in the drain but I couldn't get it up far enough. Now, I'd managed to twist and angle my arm just right but now I can't get it out. I almost panic, but I twist turn and finally, scraping the skin off my knuckles on the rough cement, my dirty hand pops out.
Jamie and I are in Moundou putting the plumbing in the new surgery center. Everything has had to be redone.
We go to the local Quincaillerie or hardware store. Everything that you thought you could never find in Chad is stacked from floor to ceiling in a dusty, brick warehouse. We spend hours hunting down all we need. A large Arab in a simple white Jallibiya and a well trimmed gray beard walks in. He is the owner, Mahamat.
"As-salaam alekum. Wa alekum as-salaam. Inta afe? Afe, taybin? Al hamdullilah. Mashallah." And the greetings are over. He walks behind the counter. We continue shopping. After early afternoon prayers, Mahamat returns.
"You...eat..." he starts in broken French and then switches over to Arabic. "We want to you to eat with us. What do you think?" He almost seems sure we'll refuse. He is pleasantly surprised by my profuse response.
"Shukran, shukran, it would be an honor, thank you."
He calls outside to the others and ushers us into a tiny side room under the overhead office built high in the corner of the warehouse. We are seated and a huge platter is slung on the table before us. Piles of fluffy rice fill one huge bowl. A cast iron pot from Nigeria holds the steaming goat meat sauce while a shallow bowl to the side is bursting with a fresh tomato and onion salad. Surprisingly, we are given spoons to eat with as generous portions are heaped into our bowls. Jamie, the vegetarian, digs right in ripping the goat meat off the bones. Our host comes in last and there are no more chairs. We try to rise and give him ours, but he insists. A special bowl of cumin flavored yogurt sauce is placed in front of him along with a plastic bag filled with fluffy flat bread the size of large crepes.
Mahamat wishes us "bon appetit" and grabs a pancake. He bunches the whole thing into his hand leaving the ragged edges pointing out with which he mops up some yogurt sauce and shoves the whole mess into his hand. When we are all finally able to resist his efforts to get us to eat more he reaches outside the door and pulls a plastic bottle of wild honey off the shelf. He dumps some more rice in a bowl and covers it with honey. He tells me to dip in and try. When I say I like it and go for more he shakes his head and pulls the bowl over to him. Then he motions to one of his workers to pour me some of my own. I can't figure out if he just really wants to eat it all himself or doesn't want to have too much direct contact with an infidel.
Mahamat rises and thanks us again. "The French are always too busy. The Chinese sometimes take a snack or something, but this is the first time I've eaten a meal with a client here in my shop. Vraiment, merci beaucoup. Merci, merci, merci." He continues to thank us. He is quite pleased and so are we to be so honored.
We return to the job site.
I'm in the new operating room. I grab the jackhammer with the drill attachment. I lean into it and as it engages a puff of cement dust bursts out of the floor until it turns red when it hits the compacted earth beneath the slab. I slip out the drill bit, put in the small chisel bit and feel the vibrations up my arm and shoulder as the chirping and cracking of cement fills the room.
That night I find myself sitting on a hard stool under the stars in front of Antoine's house. The moon is 3/4 and provides enough light to eat the tiny, twisted potato like tubers covered with cabbage and peanut sauce. Antoine seems discouraged. The junior high that he runs has a drop in enrollment. I try to encourage him. We have brought some building materials that are still piled in the shipping container. Once we finish with the clinic, we can maybe help him with a couple of new buildings. Also, I hope to get a volunteer to help teach English to give his school an edge over the competition. I tell him that God has a plan and won't abandon something He has started.
The ladder is a little unsteady as I get to the top rung. There was no attic hole left in the new ceiling but one angle at the corner of the roof has been left open. I think I can squeeze through. I reach my hands up and grab the truss. I pull up as my feet kick out in mid air. I get to my waist and my tiny butt almost gets stuck but I slither through. I hop from truss to truss dragging the loops of plumbing pipe that I punch through the holes down to the sterilization room and consulting rooms below. The sweat makes the cobwebs stick easier as I try not to fall through the fragile ceiling below.
We pull up the van outside a brightly painted wooden shelter. Their are cartoon images of fish, chicken and millet painted garishly on the corners. Inside a crowd is loosely seated around a selection of differently sized rickety tables and wobbly benches. There is a tiny one open right in the middle. Someone, maybe a waiter, quickly wipes off the plastic mat covering the wood with his bare hand leaving a mixture of spilled beer and salad juice on the surface. Jamie and I sit down and nod hello to those sitting at other tables just a few inches from ours. Most seem to have liter bottles of Gala beer in various stages of consumption. The two men dressed in suits next to us are dipping their hands into a common bowl of lettuce and tomatoes covering some kind of meat.
"What's good to eat here?" I ask one of the men.
"Mutton ribs and salad's what we're having, c'est tres bon!"
"Merci."
We order two servings from the overweight Tchadian woman in charge of the kitchen carved out of one corner of the room. The sounds of popping oil and the smells of wood fire smoke waft out from the clatter of cast iron pots and cooking utensils.
A man approaches selling watches and cheap sunglasses. In the far corner, a man is stretching a piece of cloth between his hands to show a woman how strong it is. Several other woman are looking on eagerly as they sip their beers. A large man who looks more Nigerian than Tchadian comes up behind me and holds out a package of medication over my shoulder and in front of my face. There is a picture of a smiling black man on a yellow and red backdrop with "Super King" emblazoned boldly across the front. In small letters underneath I see the generic name for what is known in other circles as Viagra. I turn to look at the man who raises his eyebrows and winks.
"Super King?"
"Non, merci, I'm deja un Super King," I joke with him as I shake my head.
Disappointed he moves on to greener pastures.
Our meal has arrived. The cook holds out the traditional plastic basin with a plastic pitcher and brown soap for hand washing. I rip off pieces of tender, savory flesh off the sheep ribs, topping it off with lettuce, tomato and onion drenched in a vinaigrette. A small pile of grilled yellow chilies adds some spice to the mix. I was it all down with some Top pineapple soda and then help Jamie finish off the last of his meat.
Jamie and I are in Moundou putting the plumbing in the new surgery center. Everything has had to be redone.
We go to the local Quincaillerie or hardware store. Everything that you thought you could never find in Chad is stacked from floor to ceiling in a dusty, brick warehouse. We spend hours hunting down all we need. A large Arab in a simple white Jallibiya and a well trimmed gray beard walks in. He is the owner, Mahamat.
"As-salaam alekum. Wa alekum as-salaam. Inta afe? Afe, taybin? Al hamdullilah. Mashallah." And the greetings are over. He walks behind the counter. We continue shopping. After early afternoon prayers, Mahamat returns.
"You...eat..." he starts in broken French and then switches over to Arabic. "We want to you to eat with us. What do you think?" He almost seems sure we'll refuse. He is pleasantly surprised by my profuse response.
"Shukran, shukran, it would be an honor, thank you."
He calls outside to the others and ushers us into a tiny side room under the overhead office built high in the corner of the warehouse. We are seated and a huge platter is slung on the table before us. Piles of fluffy rice fill one huge bowl. A cast iron pot from Nigeria holds the steaming goat meat sauce while a shallow bowl to the side is bursting with a fresh tomato and onion salad. Surprisingly, we are given spoons to eat with as generous portions are heaped into our bowls. Jamie, the vegetarian, digs right in ripping the goat meat off the bones. Our host comes in last and there are no more chairs. We try to rise and give him ours, but he insists. A special bowl of cumin flavored yogurt sauce is placed in front of him along with a plastic bag filled with fluffy flat bread the size of large crepes.
Mahamat wishes us "bon appetit" and grabs a pancake. He bunches the whole thing into his hand leaving the ragged edges pointing out with which he mops up some yogurt sauce and shoves the whole mess into his hand. When we are all finally able to resist his efforts to get us to eat more he reaches outside the door and pulls a plastic bottle of wild honey off the shelf. He dumps some more rice in a bowl and covers it with honey. He tells me to dip in and try. When I say I like it and go for more he shakes his head and pulls the bowl over to him. Then he motions to one of his workers to pour me some of my own. I can't figure out if he just really wants to eat it all himself or doesn't want to have too much direct contact with an infidel.
Mahamat rises and thanks us again. "The French are always too busy. The Chinese sometimes take a snack or something, but this is the first time I've eaten a meal with a client here in my shop. Vraiment, merci beaucoup. Merci, merci, merci." He continues to thank us. He is quite pleased and so are we to be so honored.
We return to the job site.
I'm in the new operating room. I grab the jackhammer with the drill attachment. I lean into it and as it engages a puff of cement dust bursts out of the floor until it turns red when it hits the compacted earth beneath the slab. I slip out the drill bit, put in the small chisel bit and feel the vibrations up my arm and shoulder as the chirping and cracking of cement fills the room.
That night I find myself sitting on a hard stool under the stars in front of Antoine's house. The moon is 3/4 and provides enough light to eat the tiny, twisted potato like tubers covered with cabbage and peanut sauce. Antoine seems discouraged. The junior high that he runs has a drop in enrollment. I try to encourage him. We have brought some building materials that are still piled in the shipping container. Once we finish with the clinic, we can maybe help him with a couple of new buildings. Also, I hope to get a volunteer to help teach English to give his school an edge over the competition. I tell him that God has a plan and won't abandon something He has started.
The ladder is a little unsteady as I get to the top rung. There was no attic hole left in the new ceiling but one angle at the corner of the roof has been left open. I think I can squeeze through. I reach my hands up and grab the truss. I pull up as my feet kick out in mid air. I get to my waist and my tiny butt almost gets stuck but I slither through. I hop from truss to truss dragging the loops of plumbing pipe that I punch through the holes down to the sterilization room and consulting rooms below. The sweat makes the cobwebs stick easier as I try not to fall through the fragile ceiling below.
We pull up the van outside a brightly painted wooden shelter. Their are cartoon images of fish, chicken and millet painted garishly on the corners. Inside a crowd is loosely seated around a selection of differently sized rickety tables and wobbly benches. There is a tiny one open right in the middle. Someone, maybe a waiter, quickly wipes off the plastic mat covering the wood with his bare hand leaving a mixture of spilled beer and salad juice on the surface. Jamie and I sit down and nod hello to those sitting at other tables just a few inches from ours. Most seem to have liter bottles of Gala beer in various stages of consumption. The two men dressed in suits next to us are dipping their hands into a common bowl of lettuce and tomatoes covering some kind of meat.
"What's good to eat here?" I ask one of the men.
"Mutton ribs and salad's what we're having, c'est tres bon!"
"Merci."
We order two servings from the overweight Tchadian woman in charge of the kitchen carved out of one corner of the room. The sounds of popping oil and the smells of wood fire smoke waft out from the clatter of cast iron pots and cooking utensils.
A man approaches selling watches and cheap sunglasses. In the far corner, a man is stretching a piece of cloth between his hands to show a woman how strong it is. Several other woman are looking on eagerly as they sip their beers. A large man who looks more Nigerian than Tchadian comes up behind me and holds out a package of medication over my shoulder and in front of my face. There is a picture of a smiling black man on a yellow and red backdrop with "Super King" emblazoned boldly across the front. In small letters underneath I see the generic name for what is known in other circles as Viagra. I turn to look at the man who raises his eyebrows and winks.
"Super King?"
"Non, merci, I'm deja un Super King," I joke with him as I shake my head.
Disappointed he moves on to greener pastures.
Our meal has arrived. The cook holds out the traditional plastic basin with a plastic pitcher and brown soap for hand washing. I rip off pieces of tender, savory flesh off the sheep ribs, topping it off with lettuce, tomato and onion drenched in a vinaigrette. A small pile of grilled yellow chilies adds some spice to the mix. I was it all down with some Top pineapple soda and then help Jamie finish off the last of his meat.
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