Meanderings

Photos From Kilimanjaro

2006-07-25T10:03:00.000+01:00

Well, after months of planning and anticipation, the deed has been done! I will write more about the trek later, but for know enjoy some of the pictures from the mountain!

First a few notes: Kilimanjaro used to have three sister volcanoes: Mawenzi, Shira and Kibo. Shira and Mawenzi both erupted years ago and are no longer active, in fact Shira was leveled when it blew and doesn't really exist anymore. Kibo, now the tallest and most famous volcano, is still active. We climbed up to Mawenzi then across the saddle to Kibo, which we summited.

Shots of Kibo, Kilimanjaro
Notice the one from the plane window...we flew from Nairobi to Kilimanjaro in a large prop plane that flew at 19,000 ft...340 ft below the top of Kili! So we got some shots of the peak as we flew past

Shots of Mawenzi

Sisters!
Though we were part of an excellent team of 12, I couldn't ask for a better hiking partner than Sarah!

Hiking
Though the photos portray mostly rocks and desert, our trail took us through plains, moorland, rain forest, and high desert. The summit was mostly scree until we hit rock and ice.

Above the Clouds
I never got used to the wonder of unzipping the tent to a sea of clouds. They rolled and furled, swallowed the plains, lapped the mountainside and at times enveloped us in icy mist.

Gilman's Point: 5,681 Meters ASL

Yes, believe it or not, that really is me in the big ski goggles. Perhaps it's unfortunate that I'm barely recognizeable, but I was grateful for the block against the wind and the blinding sun reflecting off the snow! With me are Rodney, my fellow trekker and Straton, our fearless guide.

Uhuru Peak: 5,895 Meters ASL.

There are those goggles again! You'll notice that Sarah isn't with me, which was a huge disppointment! She made it to 5,000m before the guides made her descend to camp because of serious altitude sickness. I think she puked more than 20 times!

The Snows of Kilimanjaro
Fantastic glaciers, jagged plains of wind-swept snow...though the snowcaps of Kili are rapidly diminshing due to global warming, what still reamains is spectacular!

Views From the Top
Photos will never do justice to the panorama of a mountaintop. The clear sky, lakes of clouds, glistening snow, jagged peaks, glimpses of the plains beneath...Beautiful!

Into Thin Air

2006-06-28T11:36:00.000+01:00

19,336 feet (5,895 m)....

The tallest free-standing mountain in the world...

Third-highest peak in the world...

6 days of rugged wilderness and raw elements...

The least-traveled route on the mountain...

The trek of a lifetime...

That's right folks, the countdown has begun! In T-minus 10 days, my awesome sister, Sarah, and I commence our journey up Mount Kilimanjaro - Tanzania, Africa - "that which cannot be conquered" in the local Chagga tongue.

We will traverse the northeastern side of the mountain following the Rongai Route which is described as one of the quietest routes on the mountain and heralds a real sense of "wilderness" yet unspoilt by the high traffic of other routes. We'll take a short diversion to the slightly shorter peak Mawenzi before traversing back up to Mount Kibo and the Uhuru Peak, which is the highest point in Africa.

Sarah and I will fly to Tanzania on July 7, meet the team and attend briefing for the trek on the 8th and start climbing the 9th. Here's the outline of the climb:

Sun 09-Jul-06: After briefing we’ll head to the National Park for registration then drive a long, rough road to the Rongai trailhead. Our day’s trek will take us through farmland and forest to the Moorland camp.
Mon 10-Jul-06: We’ll start the morning early and trek across the rising moorland to Kikelewa Caves, where we’ll camp for the night
Tue 11-Jul-06: From Kikelewa Caves we will take a diversion to Mawenzi Tarn and ascend Mawenzi, camping for the night at the Mawenzi Tarn Flycamp
Wed 12-Jul-06: This day’s trek includes an alpine desert traverse across The Saddle from Mawenzi to Kibo and the School Flycamp
Thu 13-Jul-06: Today’s trek will be the most grueling. At midnight, we'll begin a night time ascent up all the way to Gillmans’ Point, which sits at 18,635 ft. Technically one can say they have mastered the mountain at this point. But, we will continue on and climb up around the crater rim to the Uhuru Peak. After watching the sin rise over the African plains, we will commence a grueling 5-7 hour descent to Horombo Flycamp.
Fri 14-Jul-06: We will finish the gentle but painful descent via the Marangu route and back out to the Kibo Hotel, where we’ll shower and SLEEP!

"Too often ... would men boast only of the miles covered that day, rarely of what they had seen."--Anonymous

May we finish the trek boasting of the magnificent creativity of the great Artist in the land and people around us and not of our own accompliments...

-rjo

A time for everything...

2006-06-27T14:06:00.000+01:00

It has been raining today, the kind of rain peculiar to Africa that stops as suddenly as it starts as if a woman were intermittently tossing out her wash-water after loads of laundry. It is cold, too, like a late October day that whispers warnings of winter with its frosty breath. But I sit on my veranda--cocooned in a blanket, laptop perched on my knees, computer cord snaking through the window behind me--and drink in the day. From here I can feel the dampness of the air and smell the wet earth and see the colorful blurs of passersby and hear the shouts from the nearby soccer field that commence and abate to the cadence of the rain. Someone is pounding nails into what I can only guess is his house, the neighbor kids are running around squealing and somewhere a little girl is singing an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday in Portuguese “parabens para você…” I prefer to consider my world from here than from the insulation of the concrete walls and glass windows of my house. I feel more a part of it, though I am still just an observer. It’s like I’m in uniform even though I am still on the bench.

Yesterday was Sunday the 25th of June. Independence Day. The day passed rather innocuously here in Chokwe for the birthday of a nation only seven years older than myself. Today, however, is a national holiday in observation of the event, which gives me some time to reflect and write.

The last several months have been full, and I haven’t spent more than four consecutive days at home since late March. My travels have taken me to Malawi, Maputo, Beira, Xai Xai, Chibuto, Chinhangane, and a host of other places whose names are hardly recognized by anyone other than their residents and neighbors. It is good to be home. But bittersweet as well, because the last three months have also brought with them the decision to return to the U.S. at the end of my two-year contract rather than renewing it. I leave “home” September 1st. I arrive “home” September 2nd.

It’s raining again, as though the clouds have decided to join in the waves of sorrow I feel.

There are many reasons for my decision to leave—the most accurate perhaps is simply that “it is time”—and many options to look forward to for the future. Though I feel an abiding peace in my choice, I still mourn the loss of this land, the friends it holds, and the “what ifs” I’ll leave unanswered.

Though September is still two months away, my time in Chokwe is dwindling—I leave again July 5th to meet my family in Kenya and to climb Kilimanjaro with my sister (yeah!). When I return the last week of July, it will only be to pack up my house and say my final goodbyes before moving back to Maputo for the month of August so I can train in my substitute. I guess it is for this reason that I am particularly anxious to be fully a part of life here, to the point of typing letters from a damp porch! I think, too, that when one’s life in a given place turns to days, the senses are heightened and you notice and hear and smell and feel with a different intensity. I think that’s a gift God allows us, like giving us a concentrated “fragrance” that we can encapsulate in our hearts like a little vial of rich perfume.

With Mary I am learning to pour even these treasures back on the feet of my Lord, and as they mingle with my tears I give him praise for all has done and is yet to do.

The New 'Do

2006-03-20T16:31:00.000+02:00

Ok, so this is a totally frivolous, vain post, but a couple of you have asked for pics of the new haircut, so here they are. It's nothing dramatic (though I did toy with the idea of chopping it all off!) Mostly just some layers...

Drama, Hairstylists, and God

2006-03-15T17:09:00.000+02:00

I have come to the rather amusing conclusion that I have a tendency toward the dramatic. (A brief pause to allow my family the opportunity to roll their eyes at my “epiphany.”) I mostly blame it on my mom, who has been known to tear around the house with cartoon-print underwear plastered to her head with little tufts of hair poking out of the leg-holes like floppy ears while she charges after squealing youngsters as her alter-ego, “Mad Muscles Mamma,” wrestling any unlucky captive to the ground with fits of laughter in true WWF-worthy fashion. I’d say it’s hereditary. And you just can’t fight the genes. So I’m dramatic.

While my dramatic flare never got me too far on the stage, it helped me live up to the stereotypical “angst” of my teenage years and made high school a never-ending soap opera, with new problems the size of mountains lurking in each daily episode.

Now, several years older, and (hopefully) more mature and self-aware, I still find that drama adds a little spice to my life—like a quick twist of the pepper-grinder. You know, the exaggerated pause in the middle of a story, or the unnecessary (but oh-so-satisfying) scream at the crunch of a cockroach under your feet. So when I walked into the swanky hair salon in Nelspruit this weekend to have my hair cut for the first time in (apparently) far too long, I rather enjoyed Honor, the over-the-top stylist who led me to my swivel chair. She struck me as someone who could be related to the Osbournes, with her burgundy-spiked hair and wild hand gestures. And as I yanked my hair out of its ponytail, she gasped.

“My girl, what have you done to your hair?!”

One hand to the mouth. Head Shake. Tongue click.

“Well, I live in Mozambique, and—“

(another gasp) “The water is horrible there! How ever do you manage?!”

Now I shake my head and click my tongue.

“I know…sometimes we don’t even HAVE water!” I figure a little drama can only be made better by more drama.

Sympathetic sigh. “And do you have to spend time, like, out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Girl, I LIVE out in the middle of nowhere” Now I am playing along like I was written into the script.

Another Gasp. More sighs. A slow head shake. (This is getting good).

She puts her hand on my shoulder, “this must really be a labor of love.”

(Well it’s certainly not for the money!) I sigh a long, theatrical, “yeah…”

We exchange a knowing nod.

“Well,” she says, suddenly brightening up, “Now I get why your hair looks like a dog chewed on it, living out in the sticks and all.”

She’s apparently been placated that I hadn’t intentionally allowed my locks to reach the state they had, and I didn’t intend on telling her that it was more out of pure neglect than any formidable outside force that had rendered my hair so shamefully noxious.

“Now don’t you worry, my girl, on my Honor (she laughed at her own cute play on her name) I’m going to take care of this hair of yours. You’ll see, everything is going to be just fine!”

A half-hour of washing, snipping, primping, drying, styling, gelling and oohing and ahhing later, I walked out with a great new head of hair and a few less dollars in my pocket. And she was right, everything was indeed “just fine.”

But in the days since, Honor has gotten me thinking about drama and hairstylists and God.

Sometimes I think that God sees my life’s dramas—the relationships and decisions and lessons and whatever that I agonize over—in the same humored way that I took Honor and her drama. In the end, we both know that the state of my hair is of such little importance, that dramatizing it is just pure amusement. I think sometimes He plays along, gasping and clicking and sighing, not out of mockery, but out of the pure delight in the fact that my drama is as “fixable” as damaged hair. I think if you were to compare Him with me and my self-righteous, “My life and problems are soooo important” drama, or Honor’s “My God, what have you done to your hair?!” drama, He would be more like Honor. Not because He is petty or condescending or flippant, but because I like to imagine that sometimes when I walk into His “salon” with my life in total disarray, he likes to gasp with a knowing gleam in his eye and say “Becca, my girl, what have you done with yourself?!” And then likes to lay his loving hand on my shoulder and say “Now don’t you worry, my girl, on my Honor, I am going to take care of this mess of yours! You’ll see, everything is going to be just fine.”

And when I yield to his comb and scissors and deft hands, he turns me around to the mirror and I see what a great job he has done and he gleams with pride, not just at his handiwork, but at me. Because, like Honor, He simply enjoys the opportunity to take an absolute mess and make it beautiful—make me beautiful. Yep, God is like the ultimate hairstylist for your weather-wearied soul!

Brain Squeeze!

2006-03-06T17:04:00.000+02:00

Last week I reached Friday evening so exhausted and worn out that I could barely think straight, or think at all, for that matter.

Example:
Karyn: “Hey Becs, want some raisins?”
Becca: “ummm…”
The question is seriously too difficult to answer…so I finally just give up.
“No.” (Always default to “no” when you can’t think straight)

So I get to pondering (later, after a good night’s sleep) what it is about my week that sucks every drop of energy out of me like a kid drinking from a juice-box till it crumples up on itself.

Heat? In an average week, that could certainly be a factor, but this week it’s been cool and rainy
Being out in the field? Only went for one day this week—and that is usually more energizing than draining
Sitting in an office, typing? Generally, yes—extremely draining! But I have been at this routine for a year and a half now, why the sudden inexplicable drop in energy?
I am diabetic and have low blood sugar? Nope. My roommate’s an RN. She’s sure I’m not.
I am still adjusting to my new environment? Likely, but I have been here for over a month now.
My frenetic lifestyle? Ha! No, that would be all of you in the West. My lifestyle is pretty languid!

Then a cockroach (the big, crunchy kind) scuttles by and I wonder if maybe I got bit by some weird insect-like creature (there are enough of them in our house) and its poisonous venom is slowly killing me one brain-cell at a time and someday I will be reduced to a drooling vegetable.

Then, my crumpled juice-box mind wanders to trying to remember the Portuguese words for “bug” and “dying” (maybe so I can tell them at the hospital in my final coherent moments so they can warn the others in case its some ultra-weird virus like Andromeda Strain or something). And then I jump to Shangaan (the language of southern Mozambique, which I am currently trying to learn) and try to find suitable translations for my final plea when suddenly a light-bulb goes on in my mind!

For the last three weeks I have been having daily Shangaan lessons…in Portuguese. My poor little brain (no wonder it feels squeezed) is daily translating and processing in two languages and trying to learn a third through the second! Now a three-language day for my African brothers and sisters is nothing out of the ordinary, but perhaps my mono-lingual American friends who’ve tried their hand at a foreign language (or two) can sympathize with the juice-box analogy.

Or maybe it feels more accurately like when the little kid sucks his juice-box dry then proceeds to blow so much air through the little straw that the whole thing pops out of shape. I hope my head doesn’t pop out of shape. I rather like my head the way it is. At least I live with a nurse!

--rjo

Life in Gaza

2006-02-24T15:31:00.000+02:00

After a long and silly hiatus from sharing anything about my life with all of you, I am back! A lot has changed in the last several months. Most notably, I spent a wonderful Christmas at home--much to the surprise of my parents--and I have moved to Gaza...

Gaza, Mozambique, that is. About three hours North-West of Maputo nestled along the great Limpopo River in the province of Gaza lies Chokwe, a quiet, unassuming town that I now call home. I moved here the first week of February with my new roommate Karyn, a delightful gal who's the new Technical Advisor for our Child Survival Program.

Life in Chokwe is like being a celebrity in the ol' wild west. We're celebrities because our fame as the sole white women in town, precedes us and anything that happens to us or our house is hot news. For instance, the dodgy young man who decided to pay us a house-call ended up recieving a house-call of his own from the local police who made him apologize to them and his mother for "harassing" us! I am definately not in Maputo anymore!

Undoubtedly, there will be more stories to tell over the next year as I settle into life here, but for now, enjoy some of the pictures I have posted from the last several weeks...

-rjo

And nature sings

2006-02-24T12:05:00.000+02:00

Allow me to share just a few glimpses of the beauty that surrounds me here. The pace of life in Chokwe has given me the chance to slow down a bit and notice all the little miracles around me, like dancing butterflies or spectacular clouds or the ribbon of a faint rainbow.

Then sings my soul, my savior God, to Thee

How great Thou art

How great Thou art!

Eden

2006-02-24T11:41:00.001+02:00

We call our house Eden because we are blessed with a yard that has mango, avocado, coconut, orange, grapefruit (the size of your head!), papaya, banana and mohagany trees, as well as lemongrass, squash, and grape vines!

Here is a little taste of our yard, house and some of our more unwelcome houseguests!

Roommates!

2006-02-24T10:59:00.000+02:00

Here are some shots of my wonderful roommates, Alex and Karyn. Alex was just here for a month writing some stories for WR, and Karyn is here until May. They have been an absolute blast to get to know!

Our closet-kitchen; Karyn with our super-grapefruit; Grillin'; Fun with baking

The Girls

Coke in the back of the land rover; more grapefruit; hair-cuts in the yard; Alex.

Messing around with our home-grown avocado; more of the three of us.

Antonietta's Wedding

2006-02-23T13:59:00.000+02:00

As an update (very belated!) to Gloria's sister's wedding, for which I baked too many cakes, it was wonderful! The two-day affair was filled with good friends, laughter, food, dancing, singing and great memories. Gloria, Rebecca and little Nelia were beautiful and it was a gift to be able to share in the celebration!

Concerning Subsciptions

2005-12-16T14:29:00.000+02:00

For those of you who have tried to subscribe to my site but found there were some problems, it was because I mis-typed my URL (so much for trying to be techno-savvy!).

I do believe I have fixed the problem thanks to a tip from a friend, and subscriptions should be working properly now!

Thanks
-RJO

Betty Crocker?

2005-12-02T11:39:00.000+02:00

(That’s a load of crock!)

I spent my entire (read: entire) day in the kitchen yesterday because I magnanimously agreed to bake the ten layer-cakes for Gloria’s sister’s wedding. The wedding is not until next Saturday and Sunday, but when I committed myself to kitchen-arrest I didn’t realize I’d be in Malawi until 9:00 the night before the wedding. So I took the day off yesterday to bake up a storm and clean out my freezer so that I could keep the fruits of my labor “fresh” until next week.

Now, while I can hold my own in the kitchen, I am not the talented, creative, state-fair-entering baker of the family…that title would have to go to my beautiful sister Sarah. So with my rudimentary knowledge of sugar-to-butter ratios, I set to work with visions of elegant white tiers of perfectly moist cakes dancing in my head. I’ll say I learned a thing or two about the lesser-known Newton’s Laws of the Kitchen. For those of you unfamiliar with these oh-so-important precepts to baking allow me to enlighten you:

When baking for an important event, everything that can go wrong, will. Twice.
When making large quantities of baked goods on someone else’s tight budget, every grain of sugar and smudge of butter counts!
When needing to separate numerous egg whites, statistically 2 out of 5 yolks will break when cracking the shells.
If your hand mixer breaks because a spoon “somehow” got stuck in the prongs of the wisk, you CANNOT use a juice blender to beat the eggs.
When needing to make an emergency run to buy more sugar, the dependable corner store WILL be closed. Don’t ask why, it just one of those laws…
It doesn’t matter how accurately you convert Fahrenheit to Celsius, your oven will ALWAYS be either too hot or too cool.
No matter how good your cakes look in the pan, 1 in 2 will fall apart when you try to remove them from the pan.
And the most important law of baking: Frosting is like the duct tape of the kitchen. Regardless of how many crumbly pieces your cake is in, enough of this sugary sweet magic will fix just about anything!

If any of my unmarried friends out there were thinking of contracting me to bake for your future wedding, let me forward you my sister’s number. You couldn’t pay me enough to do this again and I couldn’t pay you enough to accept my “modified” creations! At least Gloria and I had a few exhausted laughs in the process!

2005-12-01T11:39:00.000+02:00

For those of you who would like to keep up with my thoughts without having to check my site multiple times a month only to be disappointed by my silence...you can now subscribe to recieve an email notification whenever the site is updated. Just scroll down on the right menu, enter your email address* and click "subscribe."

However, if you prefer wasting a few extra office minutes to see if there is anything new worth reading...well, you go right ahead!

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On Giving

2005-11-01T13:48:00.000+02:00

I have been reading The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, which is a little jewel of literature that speaks quite profoundly on the things of life. It is the wisdom of the Proverbs to the cadence of Ecclesiastes. I think I would like to take some time to reflect on a few of the chapters in this book over the next few weeks. Today’s topic: On Giving

Then, said a rich man, speak to us of Giving. And he answered:
You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. For what are your possessions but things that you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? …And what is fear of need but need itself?...

How often to I toss food or coins or half-hearted prayers toward those in need in the sorry attempt to refrain from giving of my greatest treasure: myself? And how often do I entrap myself in need with the fear of need instead of living abundantly in free generosity?

There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and bounty of life and their coffer is never empty. There are those that give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving; nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; they give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Through the hands of such as these God speaks and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

When I give, I give in many seasons…I give for praise. I give for virtue. I give in faith that my coffer will indeed be ever full. I give in joy as though my heart could dance to no greater rhythm than that of generosity. I give in pain as though the roots of my gift were pulling free from the depths of my heart. And yes in those rare times, I give without mindfulness of giving but with the natural ease of a flower sharing her sweet aroma. Though I am refined in the bashful recognition of my “unwholesome gifts;” though the virtue of giving is indeed engraved in my character through practice; though my faith is strengthened and my Lord’s heart made glad when I give in the assurance of provision; though my joy is a sweet reward for the cheerful gift and my pain a cleansing “baptism” for the sacrificial; I think it is this latter season of giving in which God truly whispers the truth that we were all created to live and share freely. May giving grow to be not a virtue, joy, or trial, but a part of who I am.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give when unasked, through understanding...You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.” The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you. And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream…And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed? See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving. For in truth it is life that gives unto life—while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

Wow this is a hard one to shallow. I live and work steeped in the development mentality of giving to the deserving: to give to the lazy, the addict, the street kid, the hoar, is to continue wrongful patterns. And while there is wisdom in prudent giving, I mustn’t hide behind development mantras as an excuse to withhold generosity. For who am I, Kahlil’s question haunts, to ask a man to prove his worth before I allow him my charity? Who am I to elevate my benevolence above God’s, which found him worthy of life and love and the cross? Can I give indiscriminately, as the Lord rains on both the righteous and the evil? Perhaps the answer is yes: not in handing bills and coins to every passerby, or emptying my wallet into the palm of every outstretched hand, nor to fulfill every petition, but as Kahlil said, “to give when [what is] unasked, through understanding.” To give of my greater treasure (myself) and to pour that trove indiscriminately into the arms and hearts of all in need. What if, by giving of myself, I can restore dignity rather than strip it and confirm worth rather than question it? For what is most lacking in this world, if it is not love and acceptance and community?

And you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives. Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as wings; for to be overmindful of your dept is to doubt his generosity who has the free-handed earth for mother and God for father.

This receiver so often bows her head in real or mock humility, especially in the wake of the gifts of the Great Giver. But I have been learning from my brothers and sisters in Africa that often the greatest give you can give to another is that of free and cheerful reception. To receive gracefully, with neither undo pride for your merit or undo modesty for your lack of merit, is “to rise together with the giver on his gifts as wings.”

--Kahlil Gibran. The Prophet. Alfred A. Knopf Inc. 1971. 20-23.

Saki

2005-10-19T14:35:00.000+02:00

Well, Sarah has officially moved out (though she's still in limbo in Cairo) and I am single-handedly trying to fill the empty spaces of the house with random clutter to make it feel less empty. I'm sure if you popped in tonight you'd agree that I am doing a pretty good job.

In lieu of my solitary status, I thought I’d give a new housemate a whirl. He's not much of a rent-payer, and doesn't do much to fill the empty rooms as I have relegated him to the veranda, but he's certainly, shall we say, adding his "mark" to the place. He's also a decent listener--when he's not sleeping, and his tumbling antics provide hours of amusement...

Ok, so he's no Sarah, but he's great at cuddling and is terribly cute.

Little Saki (friend in Juba Arabic) is a mutt from a litter of 12 who captured my heart on a recent walk. His owners were looking for homes for the pups so I decided to adopt him and three weeks later he was finally ready to come home. His mother is a black Lab, so he may one day be my warrior guard-dog, but for now he is a tiny little thing who looks more like a toy than a puppy. He has only been home for two days, but he promptly christened the house in true doggie fashion then proceeded to cry through the night in true baby fashion. What have I signed up for?!

So I've never really been a pet owner before…well, let me restate that: my family has nearly always had pets—from a Dalmatian, to parakeets, to procreating hamsters, to cockatiels, to a half-blind dog—but despite all the “I promise I’ll take care of him mom” lines I threw out as a kid, I have never been entirely responsible for a little creature before. O hope he makes it. I hope I make it.

(Photo: Saki with his sleepy brother Simba)

A Lament

2005-10-17T09:58:00.000+02:00

My country is dying.

It is my country not by birth, nor by nationality, nor by choice, but it is a country that has chosen me and despite my best efforts to remain somewhat aloof, has entwined itself in my heart. Today I weep for my Mozambique.

I weep for the sorrow that salts the air in the throes of a deadly acronym. I weep for the daily funerals. I weep for the broken homes, destitute widows, orphaned children. I weep for the still-breathing skeletons with hollow eyes that sit in a lonely wait for death. I weep for the hunger pangs, the bloated tummies, the oozing sores that eat at flesh which hangs like oversized clothing. I weep for the helplessness, the despair, the loneliness. I weep for myself because to me AIDS has names and faces. To me, these are my friends.

I have become quite adept at identifying those who have “the virus.” I am literate in the tell-tale signs; I know the pattern well--“I have sores that won’t heal, legs that won’t walk, a cough that won’t subside. My husband has abandoned me, my children are hungry; I have nowhere to turn.” I touch and comfort and give and pray…and leave.

But today it was Gloria who showed me that I am inextricably bound to the sorrows of this land, and whether by choice or by chance, I am here now with the opportunity to either live and love with abandon or shrug a helpless shoulder.

Gloria is a waif of a woman with the heart of a lion who came into my life by chance, as it were. The woman, Isabel, who was employed to clean the World Relief office (and subsequently my house) fell sick and Gloria was brought in as a temporary replacement. Her spirit, integrity and work ethic won my admiration and her kindness and faith won my heart. So when Isabel came back to work, leaving Gloria unemployed, we hired her full-time to clean our apartment. She is becoming a dear friend as we sit over tea and bread and chat about life and family and correctly-spoken Portuguese. She cares for me as carefully as she cares for my house—staying late into the evening to look after me when I get sick and calling me when I travel to make sure I have arrived safely. She, like countless other African women, is single-handedly raising four children and two grandchildren on $75 a month and has known more sorrows than one woman need bear.

This morning I got a call from Gloria, which was strange for a Sunday. Her cousin, who has been sick for quite some time, is dead. She died this morning.
--I have no money for transport. I knew I needed to visit her last night, but I had no money for transport. Her cousin lives outside of the city, but despite the distance and expense, Gloria visited her to care for her at least twice a week.

--Mana Rebecca, she died because there was no one there to care for her well enough. She died because I couldn’t come. She died alone. She has a daughter with no father…and now no mother. What does one say, in a language not her own, to the grief of a friend?

--Are you at home? Can I come see you? I don’t know what to do. The doorbell rang some twenty minutes later and I held my friend as her head hung in defeat.

--I had hoped. I had hoped and prayed that God would heal her. But now the hope is finished. But the tears did not come…We talked briefly, prayed, and sat in silence as so many thoughts swirled. Then she went on her way with her Bible and an envelope of money I gave her for transport and funeral costs. A small offering in the face of such need.

I don’t know if Gloria cried, or will cry, or if her tears have been spent on her mother and father and brother and husband and daughters. But I cried. I shut the door and leaned my head against the frame and wept. Not because this story is anything out of the ordinary--her cousin is just one of the hundreds who die each day--but because this story is ordinary. Because when we prayed for Gloria’s cousin two weeks ago, I knew it wouldn’t be long. Because the “sick” and the “orphaned” and the “widowed” cannot be confined to a program at a church—their story is told by every family. I wept because the need of this land has shifted in my life from facts and statistics to names, to faces, to people, to friends. I wept because one’s heart cannot hold and one’s mind cannot comprehend the magnitude of suffering that is a daily reality. I wept because sometimes one must just weep.

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach Good News to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners…to comfort all who mourn and to provide for those who grieve in Zion.” –Isaiah 61:1-3

How Many...?

2005-08-30T10:45:00.001+01:00

The owl wants to know how many licks to the center of the tootsie-pop, the joker asks how many blondes to change a light-bulb. I would like to know how many pictures it takes to get one good shot of three beautiful women:

Apparently a couple more?

These photos were made possible courtesy of Bodo's party, the laughter of good friends, my lovely companions Sarah and Jessica and the stellar photographic technique of Hugh Sinclair.

Cheers.

Regarding Trees

2005-08-15T08:56:00.000+01:00

I think if I were Hindu, I'd be convinced I was a tree in a previous life. There is something about these majestic figures that just stirs something in me. I love the smell of wood and the shape of leaves, I love the branches that seem to be frozen in the midst of a dance. I love the wealth of diversity in the trees that dot my memories throughout life--the climbing trees and the hammock trees; the mango trees that entice with their tender fruit and cool shade and the jacaranda that lace the streets with purple flowers and sweet frangrance; the acacias whose silouhets complete the African sunset and the fever trees with their naked green trunks; the delicate birch with their shivering leaves and the proud tents of the evergreens; the palms with their waving arms and the papaya with fruit like sagging breasts. The stately oak, the classic maple, the wise old baobas--Yes, there is something about the essence of trees that is simply glorious.

I especially like the gnarled trees with their leafless, groping arms and twisted fingers. They seem "knowing" for some reason -- weathered by life with all her trials. To me, they have such character, such stories, such life and fluididty to their brittle bones. There is an understated, regal granduer in their knobby limbs.

Perhaps I like them because they are stripped bare, unhidden behind garments of leaves or jewels of fruit. They seem the most honest. I feel that perhaps my own soul, stripped to its core, is much like their winding, knotted, interlaced branches--simple, stark, messy...and beautiful.

The evolution of a Dancer

2005-07-20T08:15:00.000+01:00

The refrain I hope you dance comes from one of those heart-warming, gets-stuck-in-your-head, cheesy songs, but I have to agree -- when the choice comes to either sit it out or dance...DANCE!

Africans know where it's at when it comes to dancing, and I absolutely LOVE the reckless abandon with which they rhythmically undulate their bodies and kick up the dust --their dancing is as much a song as their music.

Among many things, this journey of life and self-discovery I have been on has been the evolution of a dancer. As a little girl, I used to love my "twirling skirts" (even if I did climb trees in them). I loved prancing and spinning and imagining myself as a graceful dancer. But as I grew older and self-consciousness crowded my imagination, the very thought of dancing made my palms sweaty...I became a sit-it-out kind of girl.

Slowly, the Lord began to weave imagery of dancing into my most intimate times with him. The symbol of his delight in me--and mine in Him--became a passionately delicate sequence in flowing white gossamer; a graceful, uninhibited dance in His presence alone. I cherished my inner dance and became a self-confessed "dancer at heart," though in public I still preferred the sidelines.

But the heart of a dancer needs to dance --not just in private daydreams, but to come alive while the blood pumps harder and the breath quickens as feet and arms and hips sway irresistibly. I think we were all made to dance, however awkward our movements or crude our training. If you have ever watched a person with Down Syndrome break loose, you know that wild beauty that comes when you care more about expressing what wells up inside than about who is watching. I have the girls at the Souphouse to thank for the opportunity to recover my heart and find my place in the dance...how healing to spend hours barefoot (and bare-souled)dancing with fellow sojourners!

And so, as I gain the courage to let my body step along to the dances in my heart, I find myself at home in Africa -- where dancing is joy and sorrow and worship; where dancing is life.

If you have the choice to sit is out or dance...I hope you dance!

Back to Beira

2005-07-19T13:28:00.000+01:00

I have just returned to Maputo from a trek to Beira and the districts of Sofala. It was good to be back in Beira, the city of my first introduction to Mozambique, and even better to be out in the rural countryside.

Beira, with its dilapidated buildings, torn-up sidewalks and multiplying trash-heaps, is heralded by most as the "dirtiest" city in all of Mozambique. During my time back there this month, I had to agree--Beira is a dump! But it has captured a place in my heart and I love the city with all its quirks. I love that the sidewalks are losing a battle with the weather-worn trees whose roots defiantly claw their fingers up through the concrete. I love the Chipangara route that is lined with jacaranda and people and life. I love the outlying areas and their green feilds that are all misty in the winter's morning. I love the market place that stretches for blocks, assaulting all the senses with a warm array of colors and sounds and aromas. Beira is a unique city; a port city situated at the end of a long trade corridor from Zimbabwe. Yet for all its urban potential, it has a small-town feel that just makes me smile as I walk its sandy roads and cram myself into its lively chapas.

This visit to Beira was graced with the presence of two wonderful women...an old friend Sybil and a new friend Lian. WR Beira's staff is almost exclusively male and though they are good friends, there is just something about having fellow women to talk and laugh and cook and live with! Sybil is the most joy-bringing bear-hug of a woman you could ever meet, and Lian is an intern from Wheaton who is navigating the waters of Beira and WR for 6 months. (Check out the pictures)

Lian, Sybil and me at the beach in Beira.

My dear friend Sybil

Lian and I also traveled out to 4 distircts with some other staff. It was like fresh water to my soul to be surrounded by the red dirt huts that contrast sharply with the green rolling hills, and the gentle people with shy smiles who greet you on your way. This trip was a triumph for my heart in many ways--I spent most of my time communicating in Portuguese, which forced me to practice, but also forced me to realize just how much I do know! It was a blessing to not have to just sit with people and stare awkwardly at eachother, but to be able to talk and laugh and enjoy each other. But the real encouragement was the continual sigh of contentment my heart was breathing as it danced in the reality that I am truly where I am meant to be for now!

Ode to the Hammock

2005-07-15T10:51:00.000+01:00

A shout out to my dear friends Joel, Paul, Matt and Jeff...Thanks for letting me tag along in the great adventure over the Mississinewa!

Wake up, O sleeper

2005-04-18T14:24:00.000+01:00

I was recently provoked by a passage written by Che Guevara:

After an eternity of trekking through deep mud we recognized the stream flowing out into the carrue, and almost immediately the trees disappeared and we reached the flat. The huge figure of a stag dashed like a quick breath across the stream and his body, silver by the light of the rising moon, disappeared into the undergrowth. The tremor of nature cut straight to our hearts. We walked slowly so as not to disturb the peace of the wild sanctuary with which we were now communing.-Ernesto Guevara

Che knew what it was to see, not just with his eyes--light bouncing off the rods and cones and registering in the optic nerve--but to see with his being. It is the difference between knowing facts and knowing the contours of your lover's face. The difference between existing and living.

The "tremor of nature" that cuts straight to the heart, the turbulent peace of the "wild sanctuary," the exhilarating awe of finding yourself no longer observing, but communing. Oh to deeply inhale with the breath of wonder, to be alert to the miraculous, to tremble at the glory of the universe! To be dangerously ALIVE!

How often to we trudge through our days half asleep?

Or perhaps the important question is not "how often," (we all know it is far too often) but "Why?" That's a question I have been asking myself for some time now. Why is it that I live in a country whose rugged beauty is the stuff that postcards are made of and yet my eyes--or my spirit--is veiled to the splendor? Or that I so rarely see past the skin of a man to glimpse his true glory? I live in a muted world--whose colors jump out at me in my pictures, whose sounds and smells emanate from my words and whose vibrance comes alive in my stories, but whose essence is lost in my living. I often want to shake myself awake, so I will be able to grasp what surrounds me and makes up my days, but I can't. Why it is that I cannot delight in my present environment? Is it that I need to have the courage to make a change in my life so that I can be in a "place" (physical, mental, spiritual, occupational, whatever) where I can see past the busyness into the Real? Or perhaps, is it that I need to learn how to open my eyes, here, now, and see what I have been too distracted (or unengaged) to see?

Wake up, O sleeper
Rise from the dead
and Christ will shine on you

I don't live in the darkness. The light has come and "the light makes everything visible." The light is already there for the sensitive rods and cones of my spirit, if I could just pry open the lids of my soul and see! I'm like a reluctant school-girl begging Daddy for just 5 more minutes of sleep--that kind of sleep that makes you more groggy the longer you drag it out.

"Be careful then, how you live" Paul continues in his letter to the Ephesians, "--not as unwise, but as wise, making the most of every opportunity...." Making the most of every opportunity. That's the key, the simple, daily, intentional key. Wake up, adjust your eyes to the light, and choose to make the most of every opportunity that comes your way.

Good Morning!

South Africa Adventure

2005-04-14T09:57:00.000+01:00

Sarah and I just returned from a rather humorous and memorable trek into the lowveld of South Africa. I will have plenty to write about it later, but for now, enjoy a visual taste of our adventures...

Pictures

2005-04-14T09:47:00.000+01:00

on the road...

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hiking around

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the animals

Xai Xai

2005-04-13T09:28:00.000+01:00

Two weeks ago, needing a break from the city, I scheduled a visit to one of our field offices--a rural town called Chokwe. It was a breath of fresh air to walk the dusty streets passing women and children who heralded the good morning to me in Shangaan: "le xile!" After only a few days of being there, some of the kids would even shyly greet me by name: "mana Rabecca." Sister Rebecca. What a stark contrast from the sterile isolation of the city life. The week reminded me of why I love Africa, and who these beautiful people are that I work for in my 8 to 5 at the office.
In many a backpackers guide book, Mozambique is called the hidden treasure of Southern Africa. Intimidated by its reputation of poverty and war, people tend to overlook this country of raw beauty. As a result there are copious havens of secluded beaches and azure waters that have yet to be crowded by scantily-clad, reddening tourists in wide-brim hats and Hawaiian print. At one such spot, outside the coastal town of Xai Xai, I found myself pleasantly renewed by a spontaneous weekend trip where I met Sarah, Jessica, Hugh and Jose Manuel on their way back from Chokwe and my way up to Chokwe. The weekend consisted of little more than lounging and eating, but the quiet, the open spaces, the lack of concrete, and the violent storm that blew through reminded me of the fervor of being alive! Though I love the diversity and the life of the city, I will never truly be at home in a world of traffic and concrete. I thrive on the crash of the ocean waves, the feel of grass beneath my bare feet, the mossy smell of cob-webbed woods, the babble of brooks, the roughness of rocks, the clouds, the stars, the sun as it sets on another day.
Though it seems to be oxymoronical to share the vast beauty of the ocean through the binary code of the world wide web, I have included a small glimpse of the waters of Xai Xai.

A little Diversion

2005-03-30T14:36:00.000+02:00

I thought I'd side-step a little from my running monologue on life in Mozambique to share some photos I just got from my brief trip to the US in January. This one is of me, Joaquina (a colleague here in Moz.) and my mom in front of my house. And the second one is with Pieter (another colleague), Joaquina and some church partners in the Knoxville airport.

Tale of Two Cities

2005-03-28T10:45:00.000+02:00

Late Saturday morning I sat in a cafe with a good friend of mine, Angela, eating greasy toast and pondering life in Maputo. Ang, a Kenyan who is working in Mozambique with Campus Crusade, arrived three months before I did and was one of my first friends in the city. June marks her one-year anniversary here and the end of her contract and she is debating whether to sign up for another year or go home to Mombasa. She summed up her thoughts and my sentiments on Maputo with the words of a man far more eloquent than either she or I: "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times." Indeed.

Maputo truly is a tale of two cities...a tale of grotesque poverty and breath-taking beauty. It is a city as Portuguese as Lisbon and as African as Nairobi. It is a place filled with mistrust and greed, crime and hatred...tempered with kind-hearted strangers, care-free children, and would-be friends. It is a place of diversity--not a melting pot, but a striking medley of so many cultures: Indian, Portuguese, African, Chinese, Thai, Greek, Italian... It is a place I love and a place I hate. It is the best and the worst of times...

But this weekend I was continually mindful of the better side of Maputo and found myself delighting in the moment; the here and the now. Saturday evening I was struck by the amazing circumstances I found myself in...I sat at the end of a table of friends, eating sushi in one of Maputo's Japanese restaurants. Our dinner table could have been a mini-UN forum, as I looked around me: there was Hugh, a Brit, Jose Manuel a Mexican (The "magic Mexican" as Hugh calls him--they are long time friends and he traveled across the Atlantic to help revive our microfinance program), then across from me were Jessica, her sister and her sister's boyfriend all from Holland, and finally there was Sarah, an American raised in Portugal, and myself, an American born in Kenya. And we were all gathered at an authentic Japanese restaurant in the middle of Mozambique! Only in Maputo...

Here is a shot of the evening:

Marcas e Momentos

2005-03-24T11:29:00.000+02:00

For my fellow appreciators of the arts, you may be interested to know that I recently discovered a little art gallery just a block down from my house (I know--how did I miss that one?!). It's called the Mozambican "Photography Association" but shows paintings and sculptures too. It's all local Mozambican artwork and some of it is fabulous! The next exhibit is by a photographer/painter named Olga Dengo Falcao. Check out his flyer:

Mozambican Flavor

2005-03-23T09:13:00.000+02:00

Here is a little taste of Mozambique...some of the beautiful people, stunning scenery, and adorable children that make this country what it is...

Discoveries

2005-03-22T13:21:00.000+02:00

Two and a half years ago I sat overlooking the Gorongosa Mountains as they rose above the scattered huts and dusty paths of rural Mozambique and wept because I thought You had said “no” to me in regards to living in Africa. Now, many memories and decisions later, I find myself in the same country—in the urban wilderness of Maputo—and I wonder why my heart is not at home. Could it be, Lord, that against all expectations, you led me back to this very country with the express purpose of showing me—here, in Africa, where I thought my heart would always be—that this heart in fact beats to the rhythm of a different drum? And so the dangerous question rises unbidden from the depths. Dangerous because asking necessitates listening for an answer and hearing an answer necessitates believing and believing necessitates the scariest thing of all: the courage to let all the other expectations and assumptions and models and frameworks that I have built crash to pieces at my feet and choose to take the answer and live it. The answer to the question my heart whispers into the night: Lord, who am I?

He answers me not with an occupation or a calling but with a simple phrase:

You are Rebecca, Loved by God.

And I am reminded of a night several years ago now, in the darkened woods of the Florida winter when I stared into my own eyes in a mirror as my God spoke softly to my heart…Rebecca, you are beautiful. “Lies!” my heart cried, “these must be lies!” for if there was any being on earth who could not be fooled by my pretty masquerades, I knew oh Lord, it was You. Surely, you would not mock me or lie to me, but surely this could not be true—not coming from You. And after I listed all my faults from my pettiness to my pride in exasperated response to the question you posed to the face in the reflection, "Rebecca, what do you see?" I finally relented in curiosity: “Why Lord, what do YOU see?”

I See Jesus. And That is Beautiful.

Even then, I did not fully understand—or did not fully dare to believe—that because Christ had given me a new heart, a heart of flesh, that I Rebecca Oehrig, was indeed beautiful. Oh, I surrendered to believing that Christ stood in my stead, blocking my ugliness from God in a heroic act of mercy, but I did not dare to believe that I in fact, made in HIS image, am indeed beautiful too! That God created man on the sixth day and declared “It is very good” is to say that above all else that is good in creation—every beauty that has ever taken my breath away—stands man, stands me! How is it that I have lived blind to this glory all of my life? Why is it that fear of believing that I am a magnificent, beloved, valuable, indispensable creature in the Kingdom has sent me hiding behind religiosity and “humility” proclaiming my ragged baseness and labeling “unrighteous” what God has decisively declared RIGHTEOUS? I see now how this fear of believing my acceptedness has left me working desperately for acceptance—from others, from God, from myself. I have busied myself with noble tasks—the noblest I could imagine. I have enamored myself with heroic tales of missionaries and martyrs and have clung to altruistic endeavors of fighting injustice, empowering the impoverished and releasing the oppressed. I have followed bravely in the footsteps of my parents and of my heroes, but I have been afraid to follow the Voice of my Lover who is calling me not to places or peoples or causes, but to Himself.

All of Earth...

2005-03-15T13:31:00.000+02:00

All of earth is crammed with heaven
and every bush afire
Only those who see take off their shoes
everyone else just stands around
and plucks blackberries

I love those moments, those brief lapses in time when you realize you were created for eternity because time itself ceases to exist. It could be when you are lost in wonder at the mystery of the moon capturing the ocean in a silvery glow, or when a gentle breeze kisses your face with such refreshing tenderness you can nearly smell traces of heaven in it. Whatever it is, there are moments of true sight and deep feeling that remind us that we are indeed, daily, on Holy ground...
Today has been filled with such moments as the rainy season is breaking the humidity of Southern Mozambique with terrific storms. There is something quite magical about when the sun shines from behind you casting the world in a manificent warm-yellow glow while the sky above is darkened to a deep blue-grey. The ocean too changes its color, like the eyes of a moody blue-eyed man, to meet the muddy grey of the sky. It seems almost pensive today.

More from Maputo

2005-03-13T12:51:00.000+02:00

This is looking up Julius Nyerere, the street I live on. Maputo certainly looks much greener and cleaner from above! Some of my closest friends live on this strip. First, there's Hugh, the (very) British micro-finance junkie who is a constant source of entertainment. He has a story for everything, and has an impressive repertoire of fascinating hobbies. Among my favorites are sky diving, free diving (that's scuba diving, without the scuba) and his claim to fame--an entry in the Guiness book of World Records for the fastest motorcycle trip from the northern-most part of Alaska to the southern-most tip of Argentina. His girlfriend Jessica, a more kindred spirit, is a Dutch girl with a sweet disposition, great sense of humor and a gentle spirit.

Further up the street lives Melissa, the stunning Chinese-American who has lived nearly everywhere other than China or America (ok, slight exaggeration). Though she is just about as corporate and sophisticated as they come and I, well...am not, we get along well. Being ten years her junior, and significantly less put-together, I sometimes wonder if she is just humoring me with her company...but the more I hang out with her the more I just genuinely enjoy her. Sam and Debbie Grottis live the other way up the street. Sam is my boss, but is more of a mentor and Debbie is my mom-away-from-mom. The only presents under Sarah's and my bedraggled pond-frond-turned-Christmas-tree this year were from Debbie--complete with Santa wrapping and bows.

The Streets of Maputo

2005-03-12T11:53:00.000+02:00

Since I am continually having adventures on the streets of Maputo--from strolls along the coast to buying fresh produce on the corner to getting mugged to being punched in the face by a one-armed man--I thought I would share a bit of Maputo with you. The tall white building (third one in) is the one I live in. It is a constant regret that my first-floor apartment only gives me a view of the next-door neighbors rather than the beautiful ocean a block away...but I really can't complain.

Beginnings...

2005-03-11T16:28:00.000+02:00

It has been said that

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

Though that sounds quite poetic, I don't know that I agree with that exactly. I think there are some beginnings that are simply beginnings...the firsts of life; those births that come not from a death but simply because a thing must begin somewhere...