I fought the law and the law won

On my way back into the country, I'm standing outside a trailer home in ghastly temperatures. (I thought MY country was hot! It had to be near 120, and the wind was blowing so hard it pulled my hair out of the clip. I mention the wind, because my colleague later equated the wind there to trying to blow dry your hair in Africa. Blowing hot air in the heat is horrid. HORRID.)

All around me are these rocky mountains that look like the kind of place that Osama could be hiding...or Yoda. Heat, creepy mountains, guards with guns, and lil ole me. To my right is a Pakistani family dressed in typical Pakistani fashion (long, flowing, dark colors). To my left is an Afghan man dressed in typical Afghan fashion (long, flowing, cream colors). Behind me were some other Muslim men in their typical wherever-they're-from fashion (long, flowing, white colors). In front of me, and American man in jean shorts, bright red shirt, and a BYU baseball cap. Typical American fashion, I guess... but standing out as a sore thumb to be sure.

I'm waiting patiently for him to finish his business when I realize he's having trouble. He states that he didn't realize that when he left the country, he would have to acquire a visa to enter the country on the other side of the border (which would cost about $100+ for his whole family, behind me in a van). He just wanted to exit the country, get his exit stamp, and come back in to get a new entry tourist visa (which, in this country, is free). The passport control police man nicely explained that in order to exit, one must enter somewhere else, which in this case means the country on the other side of the border, which requires visas. The American explained that he didn't know that when he left this country, he doesn't want to buy visas, and he simply wants to come back in. The passport control police man nicely asked the man to step aside. Uh-oh.

I step forward, sweating a bit that I, an American, am having to now follow that American's prelude. (I don't know how familiar this passport control is with Americans, but seeing how I'm surrounded by Central Asians, and nobody speaking English, it's just a little odd that this man had to go right before me...) I smile and hand the passport control police man two passports: mine and my colleague's (who is in the air conditioned car, lucky girl). He works on hers, scans it, stamps it, and sets it aside. He begins to work on mine when the guard dealing with the rowdy American asks for the family's passports.

The passport control police man picks up the six, and my colleague's, and moves to hand them over. I, in a quick panic, reach my hand through the window (mistake number one) and say, "Wait! That's my passport!" (mistake number two). He holds up my passport, looks at the picture, and reads my name. "Is this you?"

"Yes. But I have two passports." (Mistake number three).

Can I interject here while all of you are reading and wondering WHY I was so stupid to say "I have two passports" to the passport control police man? This all happened within a very short, quick time span in which all I was concerned with was getting my colleague's passport back. And I was standing in 120 degree heat, with a migrane headache, and an obnoxious American causing a scene right beside me. I was trying to act cool and non-descript. And in doing so, made a very bad grammatical slip.

The passport control police man sits down, leans over towards the window, raises his eyebrows, and says, "You have two passports?"

"No. I have one passport. That one. (I point). I gave you two passports. The other is my friend's. (I point to the car.)" He takes the top passport off the pile, opens it, looks at the picture, leans over to look towards the car, and proceeds to give me a look that says, "you're lucky, lil girl..."

I scurry back over the car as quickly as possible to drive back to our city away from passport control. Something I didn't write about last week is that I almost did something last week that could have landed me in jail. So in the span of one week, I've danced on the outskirts of the law twice. I might be singing a different tune if I don't start paying attention.

Leaving town again

I ventured out of my apartment tonight for the first time since the virus hit me last Wednesday. I only went to a friend's house for a party, and only ate soup and bread.

And the virus is still with me, cause I lost it all in their bathroom a little while later.

I'd go to the doctor tomorrow, but I have some business to take care of IN ANOTHER STINKING COUNTRY. So I'll be spreading my virus woes across international borders. Do they scan for that? Can you imagine?

"Can I see your passport, Miss? Walk through this metal detector, Miss. Breathe into this ventilation machine, Miss." BEEP BEEP BEEP The deafening alarm sounds as they realize that while not carrying any sort of metal weapon, I am lethal with the bug in my stomach.

"Sorry, we'll have to detain you until further notice."

And that's why you never hear from me again...

These events occur in real time...

I'm sick.

I spent Wednesday purging my insides of whatever wretched virus was reeking havoc in there and then on my sofa wondering at what point I should go to the hospital. Thursday and Friday were spent in bed. I moved today to the sofa, but am still remaining pretty much horizontal, living off of bananas, 7-up and saltines (none of which I enjoy even when well).

I am very thankful, though, that my DVD drive, after two months, was replaced anew and returned to me on Wednesday. My ailment has given me excuse to lie around and become addicted to Season 3 of 24, bought at a nice Central Asian price of $3.

I am also thankful for the people who so sweetly provided me with bananas, 7-up, soup, chips, and drugs. I hope I didn't breathe my deadly virus on you. If so, you have 14 hours of incubation period before...oh wait. That's the TV show plot.

I think it's time for me to lie down again...

A neighbor I refuse to love

The rat is back.

Several people have asked me how I know it is a rat, since I have only heard (and not seen) it. I suppose I watched the Secrets of Nihm and Charlotte's Web too many times. The sound of little rat claws scurrying across the ground seem familiar to me. It's not a cat or a bird or a snake, I know that much. Add to that my logic of what type of animal could get into my ceiling ducts, and I've pretty much narrowed it down.

Well, I guess it could be a ferrett. And I guess he brought a friend, cause I think they're singing to each other and playing tag. No, actually...now it sounds like they found a child's toy and are playing with it while playing tag.

I am NOT in a good mood.

Abide

Doors creak slowly open, giving me the chance to curiously peek around the edge to catch a small glimpse of what lies waiting on the other side. Inhaling deeply to muster the courage to walk through one, I begin to take that step of faith, only for a zephyr to shut the door that in the moment before had just been open before me. Not sure that I have the valor to look around to see if any other doors are open, I remain.

Hopes lie dormant on the shelf of my heart like the unread classics on my windowsill that I can't find it in me to dive into. What if disappointment results in place of what ought to be joy? Am I holding my breath on a hope that may be unrealistic while reality begs attention before my eyes? Not sure that I have the valor to exhale and release, I remain.

I am certain that I am told to remain in one thing. In it I remain, making certain by doing so, to also remain in uncertainty.

Remaining means waiting to exhale. Perhaps when it is finally time and in me to breathe deep, the air I breathe will be the air of home.

Where doors are open.

Where hope is awakened.

Home.

Another great nomad quote

There is a saying that one should "Trumpet among the elephants, crow among the cocks, bleat among the goats." For a man traveling in a strange land it is good advice...

The people were strange to me, and I to them, and in many languages the words for stranger and enemy are identical.

My armor was battered, my clothes nondescript, but my horses were of the finest, although disguised somewhat by their winter coats. My sword was of the best, and in my pocket there was gold.

Yet a man is often betrayed by his heart, and lout that I am, I am often taken in by those who plead, by those who suffer. It is a wise man who tends to his own affairs, but who is wise always? One is betrayed by his own memories of hardship.

--Louis L'Amour, The Walking Drum, pg.229. Good stuff.

Arrows and the Buckler

There is an arrow on the floor of the hospital room where baby Blake was born.

In hotel drawers where Gideon Bibles would be if you were in America, are arrows.

On the side of the road today were five men, lined up shoulder to shoulder facing a corner wall, hands palms up, with one man in front of them leading them through prayers. Even they resembled an arrow.

All arrows pointing toward one city.

Lest anyone forget which way to turn. Lest I forget where I am.

I've read of arrows, flaming ones. I always perceived them in relation to me and those around me. Today, with those men on the side of the road, I am perceiving the arrows differently. All those in this place seem to be pointing in the same direction, drawn from the same quiver, and that, simultaneously, pierces my heart with the flaming arrow.

The Buckler is the only safe and comforting place I know in the midst of all these arrows. Oh, that all arrows would direct to Him!

"The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower."

Abide

Doors creak slowly open, giving me the chance to curiously peek around the edge to catch a small glimpse of what lies waiting on the other side. Inhaling deeply to muster the courage to walk through one, I begin to take that step of faith, only for a zephyr to shut the door that in the moment before had just been open before me. Not sure that I have the valor to look around to see if any other doors are open, I remain.

Hopes lie dormant on the shelf of my heart like the unread classics on my windowsill that I can't find it in me to dive into. What if disappointment results in place of what ought to be joy? Am I holding my breath on a hope that may be unrealistic while reality begs attention before my eyes? Not sure that I have the valor to exhale and release, I remain.

I am certain that I am told to remain in one thing. In it I remain, making certain by doing so, to also remain in uncertainty.

Remaining means waiting to exhale. Perhaps when it is finally time and in me to breathe deep, the air I breathe will be the air of home.

Where doors are open.

Where hope is awakened.

Home.

Congratulations Mom and Dad!!!

Living overseas means missing very special happenings back home. Just during this term (a little over six months so far and we won't even TALK about the two years in Portugal), I have missed out on so much!

• My grandfather got remarried
• My great grandfather passed away
• My sweet brother turned 18, graduated high school, and got baptized
• My dad finished grad school
• Babies galore have been born (and several more to come in the next few months)
• Many of my friends graduated grad school
• Weddings! (So far I've only missed one, but there's another to come next month)

And now, today, another big event...

My parent's 25th wedding anniversary. 25 years! They survived all the bumps in the road (coughcoughcrazydaughtercoughcough) and are still hanging in there. 25 years seems like such a long time...I can hardly think past 1 or 2.

Congratulations Mom and Dad! I'm proud of yall, love yall, and miss you terribly today. Wish I could be there to celebrate with you.

Another Taxi Episode

We have two kinds of taxis here: metered and unmetered. The metered ones are brand new cars, with stripes down the hood, so they're easily spotted at a distance. I like the metered taxis, because I know that the car will not break down, and that I'm getting a fair price. And the metered taxi drivers tend not to yell at me as much as the unmetered taxis.

I hailed a metered taxi today and hopped in, asking him to take me to the hospital to see the baby. :) He was on his cell phone and just nodded at me (the driver, not the baby). No big deal, except that talking on the cell phone without a hands-free set is illegal here. And with their insane style of driving, I appreciate that law. I guess it's not that big of a deal that he was talking on his phone, except that, well, I guess I expect the metered taxis to be a bit more professional (ie, legal).

He was also driving with his left foot up on the dashboard. Call me a hypocrite, because when driving long distance in the US, I tend to do this as well. But never in heavy traffic with round a bouts, and never while on the phone! (And again, unmet expectations of professionalism).

Even more disconcerting was the fact that he was using the word "Mafia" quite a lot in his conversation. I didn't recognize his language (it wasn't Arabic or Hindi or Urdu), and granted: the word "Mafia" could be a word in their language and not have been adopted from the English... but it was freaking me out.

He hangs up his phone and immediately looks up at me in the rear view mirror with a big smile. Not a friendly neighbor smile, but a garbage truck man smile (see previous post).

"What country you, miss?"

Do I have to answer? Can I pretend I don't speak English? Can I pretend to be deaf? I guess my having said "the hospital" earlier would throw all that out the window.

*inward spirit sigh*

"America."

"OOOOHHHH!!! Verrrrryyyy goooddd!!!" Very good, as in, "you'll do very nicely. I'll kidnap you and sell you off for a good dollar price."

How badly would one get hurt from rolling out of a moving taxi?

He is trying very hard to talk with me and make eye contact (by turning around and looking at me directly instead of say, WATCHING THE ROAD). I really can't remember anything he said, because I was concentrating very hard on not looking at him, looking very disinterested in the conversation, and figuring out how to escape the taxi if the need should rise.

He soon pulled up to the hospital and I jumped out as quickly as possible, not even waiting for change. He gave me the heebee jeebees.

I think a car might be a good investment.

Cat-Callers

Being cat-called at is a normal part of the life of a female, I think. While we may not like it, it's bound to happen on occasion. Having not owned a car for 7 years, I've gotten pretty used to being whistled at when I'm out walking to here and there. And I'm pretty good at ignoring it.

But today, I just had to shake my head in wonder. I was crossing the street to avoid walking directly by these men, who watched my modest move...and I guess it motivated them to whistle and hollar even louder. Whenever this happens, I've always wondered what they think my response will be? Do they think I will be flattered, or that I will turn around, give them a big smile and say "hey baby?" Yeah, right.

These were no ordinary men, though. They were not construction workers. They were not some young yuppie in a car their daddy bought them. These men, were GARBAGE TRUCK MEN. While I am sure that garbage truck men are your normal average joe equal to, say, the local grocier, or watchman, or whatever... but let's face it. I just have a hard time imagining that any woman would respond positively to the cat-call of a garbage truck man.

I thought very hard, and came up with a more repulsive type of cat-caller: A man in prison.

Thanks, but no thanks. I'm simply NOT flattered by it.

Deliveries

I almost became an agoraphobe this week. But that's not the right word. It wasn't that I was afraid to go outside of my apartment, it was that I simply didn't want to. I have all I need in the 1307--a comfy bed (two, actually), a hot shower (again, two), Bible, books, journals, computer, phone. What else does one need?

Oh yeah...food.

Not a problem in this country! I can call a phone number and have groceries delivered to my door! (I have a gazillion sheets of paper shoved under my door a week letting me know which grocer is the best to call...) I can call Subway, Pizza Hut, KFC--they all deliver! Everyone delivers! No need to ever leave the apartment again! (Okay, I know I need to leave. Things like work, pay bills, be sociable. I know. I KNOW. I'll be better this week, I promise).

So something I can't quite figure out, is how they know where to deliver. While there are streets, and they are named...nobody knows the street names. The first time I called to have something delivered, they asked me where I lived. I told them the address. They asked me which grocery store was closest to me as a landmark.

"There isn't one. I live above the post office."

That didn't help.

I tried saying the name of the building, which I've seen embroirded on the watchman's uniform. Now, I must clarify. The name of the building is NOWHERE on the building. NOWHERE. I was making a lucky guess that the name on the shirt is my building's name, and not HIS name. But as soon as I said it, the guy at the pizza delivery place says, "Oh, great. I know where that is." (Actually, he mumbled something that was supposed to be English, and I interpreted to be a positive response.)

HOW? How can they not understand my perfectly spoken English, but understand my butchering of an Arabic name? How can he know the name of the building with no name on it? Not only that, but I've noticed that many buildings have the same name. I figured I'd wait an hour, and if my food didn't come I'd eat popcorn for dinner. But 15 minutes later, my doorbell rang. How do they do that?

I'm mystified.

I'm an Aunt!

Okay, before my family freaks OUT, no not a real one. Master Yoda is still the well behaved yungin that he's always been.

But on my side of the world, the kids of expatriates will take aunts and uncles wherever they can find them. So I'm actually an aunt a gazillion times over round these parts. :)

I just got a phone call, though, and Baby Blake has entered the world! It's been a stressful day. Mama found out this morning that she would have to do a C section instead of going the normal route, and they scheduled it for tomorrow. Me, Mama and Papa made plans to go out for their last dinner as parents without children. They called about an hour before I was supposed to meet them and said Mama'd gone into labor. Emergency C section. Stress!

Papa just called to say that Mama and Baby Blake are fine. Yippee! My first time to be an auntie to a newborn. :)

I'm sort of bummed that I can't call her PL anymore (pregnant lady). Oh well.

Happy Birth Day Baby Blake!

Words

I read last week that while God's words are omni-potent, because we are made in the image of God, our words have potency. His are omni (all) powerful, ours are not. But ours are still potent/powerful.

True.

Words have always plagued me. I love the way they can be woven to make something beautiful from my hand, and I hate the way they can be twisted to create such hurt from my mouth.

I was once dead in my sins, and my heart and mouth were a whitewashed tomb. As I am trying to figure out how to walk this earth as one whose new life is hidden in Christ Jesus, the grave clothes I must shed are the pride of my heart and filth of my mouth. This week has been one of seeing that I have not come very far in either area. Someone helped me to see how my words on this blog had been hurtful. Someone else left a comment about how self-centered I am.

Guilty on both accounts.

How grateful I am for grace. It lets me know that I have not been smote dead again in my sins. It gives me a hiding place where the Balm brings healing to my own wounds, even if I don't know how to give it back out for the wounds that I have caused. The omnipotent Word of grace speaks the truth that my self-centeredness WILL pass away and my tongue WILL be bridled into submission.

Until then, I must continue on with this potent ability to bless and curse from the same source. (I think someone said, "my friends, this should not be!") There is so much more I wish I could say here, but it might constitute a soapbox, on which I only wish to stand for willing listeners. But I will say this: I apologize for recent tirades about people I am supposed to be loving (mullahs, post office men and more), and I intend to take a bit of a different tone of voice from now on.

"Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones."

Five Senses Apartment

I am allergic to perfume. Always have been. If I get in a closed space (ie, car or elevator) with no fresh air, my eyes swell up with tears, my throat and skin start to burn, the room starts spinning and if I don't get fresh air quick enough, I'm flat on the ground. The spinning warning is a good one, though, and I usually don't end up passed out. I may have to ride like a dog with my head hanging out the window of the car, but at least I'm still conscious, right?

So I'm sitting in the privacy of my own home when I get a whiff of the first smell. I pause and sniff again. Some man in my building must have decided to bathe in his cologne, because the fumes are wafting their way into my living room.

I'm a little grumpy this morning. I'm on night three of not having slept well, and last night--I didn't sleep at all. I finally got up with the call to prayer and figured I'd be productive at least. The call was at 4 this morning AND AGAIN at 4:30, when the guy sang/preached/read from the Quran for 20 minutes. I was on the phone with Sparky at the time and so I carried the computer outside onto the balcony so she could hear the noise she's moving to.

Well, Sparky... this is a five senses apartment. You can hear the call to prayer (and the rat), smell your neighbors, see the sunrise and shine, feel the heat, and taste the chocolate cookies I make on a daily basis to keep me happy in this place.

If yall don't hear from me ever again, it's because I've passed out from the perfume and never regained conscio...

Somebody needs a new watch

I was always taught that the morning call to prayer is at dawn, or just before dawn. I checked on the internet today, and that seems to be the concensus. Sunrise = Call to prayer.

Sunrise today was at 5:28.The call to prayer was at 3:40.

3:40 AM!!!

I want to love my neighbor (as I also always have been taught), and thus I will not say anything else about his waking me up at 3:40am.

And oh my goodness, he's singing again now! I need a vacation in a non-Muslim country.

P.S.

I didn't eat all the cherries. Some very fun teenage girls came over and THEY ate the rest of the cherries, saving me from making myself ill. Thankful I am.

I go, you go, he she it goes

Remember when I asked how hot it needs to be to fry an egg on the pavement? Forget frying an egg, my brain is fried! And not from the heat (although I guess that could be part of the problem).

My language teacher is returning to her home country for the summer. Upon seeing how quickly I learn, she decided to barrell through verb tenses, and leave me to absorb it all once she left. From when I'd started language two months ago until recently, we'd moved at this turle pace...

How to write three letters. How to write three more letters. Oh, you get that? Here's 25 more letters. How to say I, you, he, she, it, we, yall, them. (Okay, so she didn't use the word 'yall.' But really, it is one of the most useful words in English when learning another language for when speaking of you plural. 'Yall' just sounds so much more pleasant and friendly than 'you plural.')

Then, after WEEKS, I finally learned my first verb tense: simple past. I went, you went, he she it went. Why did I learn simple past FIRST? Because it is the most regular form in this language, and everything seems to build from this form. So I have constantly been walking around making simple sentences about what I did yesterday, last week, etc.

For several more weeks I learned how to evolve my simple past tense sentence into a more complex one.

"I went."
"Yesterday I went."
"Yesterday to your house I went."
"Yesterday to your house new I went."
"Yesterday to your house new I didn't go."

I began to wonder if I was ever going to get to live in the present instead of in a memory. WELL! Last week, she hit it to me. I have learned...

"I went."
"I have gone."
"I had gone."
"I will go."

Just when I thought she couldn't move any faster through the verbs, I sat down at the desk today, and learned TWO more verb tenses.

"I go." (HOORAY for the simple present!)
"Go!" (and "don't go," because the negative is different than the positive).

The simple present is supposed to be a really complicated form, because it's based on root words...so one must know the root and then the formula of how to conjugate it...and then the completely different word they say in pronunciation. (Because it's an oral language, there is a formal way to write everything, and a completely different way to say everything. ARG.) Having memorized all the irregular verbs in Portuguese, and those silly roots in Greek, I'm hoping I can handle memorizing these roots.

But so it goes...

Cherries

My whole life I thought I hated cherries. The reason I thought I hated cherries is that I'd only been exposed to maraschino cherries, which I really do hate.

So for almost my entire duration of two years in Portugal, I never ate their local cherries. About a month before it was time for me to leave, my friend Olga orders a bowl of cherries for dessert. She offered me one, and I politely explained that I don't like cherries. She grinned and said, "But have you ever had a Portuguese cherry?"

(One thing I love about culture is that every culture thinks the things they produce is the best version...)

I reached over and tried one (an etiquette rule I'd learned during my two years there) and discovered that I do NOT hate cherries. I like them very much. Probably too much. During that month or so I had left, I ate approximately a pound of cherries a DAY. I ended up having to go to the doctor, suffering from an allergic reaction to the pesticides on the fruit (a common reaction between Americans and Portuguese fruit I discovered...) He told me I'd have to quit eating the cherries or suffer the rash. With only weeks left to eat Portuguese cherries, I figured I could suffer the rash to enjoy the pleasure.

Why do I tell this story now? Because it's cherry season, and a batch has been imported here recently, and yes...I bought a kilo. I don't even know what kind they are...Bing, Ranier, Lapin, Sam, whatever. I just know they're yummy. Somebody please stop me from eating the entire kilo while sitting here working on my computer.

Viewing in Community

Many of my friends recently have been discussing the idea of living in community. I think for several of us, it stemmed out of our experience of living in the dorms in grad school over the last four years. Share a small kitchen that has two stoves with 30 women, you grow a concept of living in community.

One of my favorite parts of living in community was watching television together. On a Tuesday night, we would sound like a hoard of elephants running down the hall to get a good seat on the couch for American Idol. We had unspoken rules about watching television in community: no discussion during the show! Wait for the commercial, when the tv would be muted and shouting would occur as so many of us began discussing what had just happened (whether it be ER, CSI, AI, or what-have-you). The only sounds allowed while a show was in progress were gasps of exclamation or laughter.

I enjoyed the experience so much I hardly watch anything anymore unless I am with not just someone, but a group of people. We were meant to live in community, and in today's society, I translate that as viewing in community. With this whole philosophy in mind, I had an interesting experience at the movies last night.

I went with three American friends to see the film Sahara. One of the three actually grew up in Mali, on the edges of the Sahara, and had been very excited to see the film (even though it wasn't filmed in Mali, and as she told us later, didn't even have Malian people in it). We laughed hysterically throughout the entire film.

...but oddly enough, we were the only ones laughing.

No one else in the theatre laughed at anything. Was it completely American humor that only we could appreciate? Was it humorous to us because we are foreigners living in a Muslim desert and could relate? Had we had too much caffeine and were simply just giddy? I don't know. But I do know it was an odd thing to be so amused amongst such a crowd who did not find the film as amusing.

They were awake and paying attention, though. How do I know? There is a scene in the movie where the Malian Muslims bury their dead, and while doing so, say some sort of prayer for the dead. The entire audience (us excluded) responded IN UNISON to the prayer that was said! We four looked at each other wide-eyed. Did we really just hear that?

It was as if, a Christian preacher in a film at a memorial service said, "Can I get an Amen?" And the entire theatre audience responded, "AMEN!"

My language teacher explained that when certain things are said from the Quran, they have been taught since childhood how to respond, and it is automatic. The prayer for the dead in the scene from the movie must have been a prayer from the Quran, and they were honoring it by speaking back. It was one of the oddest moments I've ever experienced in a movie theatre.

A deadpan audience whose culture teaches more about living in community than I will ever learn would not enjoy the viewing in community, but responded to one line from the movie in complete unison.

I should add, they clapped and cheered at the end of the film. Does that mean they liked it? Or were they glad it was over? Maybe my friend Fatmah will shed some light on this for me...