Oh My Darling Clementine!

Oh My Darling Clementine!
Saturday, our cook Clementine, got married! A few weeks ago, at lunch we got our invitations and were filled with happiness. I had never been to an African wedding, and even American weddings can vary from couple to couple. So, there was much anticipation. We spent the week trying to figure out what would be an appropriate gift. Miriam, Katie, and I decided to buy a Rwandan handmade basket, and fill it with a card and a few things to help start up their house-hold. These baskets are perfectly made, very much like the baskets on the side of the road in Charleston. The Charleston baskets are outrageously priced. (This isn’t to say they aren’t worth the cost, but they will leave you with no money to fill them!) The basket that we bought was about 1 ½ ft high, shaped like a vase, and only 8,000 francs!

When we woke Saturday morning, we could hear distant drums and singing and celebrations across the valley from a mountain facing us. The wedding day began by visitations at Clementine’s house at 8:00 a.m.! We went about our morning tasks, and prepared to go to the church wedding, which was to be held at 11:00 a.m. The night before a German couple arrived on the hill, and we told them we would come by about five minutes before, so that we could all walk together. So, around 11:00, we all arrived at the church...to find it empty. Things in Shyira seem to have a way of delaying themselves. We sat down and waited. About thirty minutes later the pastor arrived. Then, the musicians began setting up and practicing. The music sounded almost Caribbean, and although it was in Kinyarwanda, we could hear the words “Clementine nwa Jeremie” and we knew that it had been written just for them.

Finally at 12:00, without a sign of anyone in the church, Katie and I walked back to the house to get water. Lydia was the flower girl and she was waiting for her cue to head to the church. Louise told us we could wait with them, that it could take a while. Right about that time, Louise said, “Look across to the mountain! See that row of white? It’s the bridal procession!” As I looked across the valley, I saw what looked like a small river of white winding down the hill. I was stunned. I can’t say I have a memory that took my breath away more. One bit of white, amidst all that green. The train was so far I could barely see them, but singing so fervently I could hear them. It struck me that the same people were singing that had been singing since 8:00 a.m. I ended up borrowing Caleb Jr.’s binoculars for a closer look.

We headed back to the church about twenty minutes later to wait on them. The singing was louder now, but they were hidden behind banana trees and there was no hope of seeing them until they were right in front of the church. Finally, around 12:30, the bride and her groom came into sight! We ran outside to watch them. There were dancers and singers out in front preparing the way, and there was a bridal party around and behind them. They curved around the road in front of the church, where Lydia joined them, in her flower girl garb. We watched in amazement. A kind lady named Dina that I’ve gotten to know well, stopped in front of Clementine spraying her with a powdery smelling body deodorant, and straightened the front of her dress. They continued up to the church with singing and dancing. We went inside and took our seats.

A few things to note about Rwandan weddings:
1. The bridesmaids wear white, also. So, the whole procession looks extremely striking. Of course, they wear hints of other colors, so they are easily distinguished from the bride.
2. The bride and bridegroom are to be as absolutely solemn as possible. There should not even be a hint of happiness on their face. They are leaving and cleaving, and so this is a day of mourning as well.
3. They are extensively long.
It was incredible to see a bride and a groom with faces full of dread about to marry! I have seen Clementine’s excitement about her wedding, her wide grin in extending the invitations to us, and her pleasure every time we mention Jeremie. However, if someone walking off an American street somehow arrived here, they would probably stand up to object! In the meantime, everyone else is giddy with gladness. It’s really quite funny. They proceed to the front of the church, where there are four wooden chairs that serve as the first row. The maid-of-honor and best man sit on the outside chairs, while Jeremie and Clementine sit in the middle. There are three pastors presiding over the service. The eldest begins first. Then, the younger pastor starts preaching. In the middle of preaching, he begins singing without music. Then, the sweat soaked group that has attended the couple down the mountain stands up and they begin singing with him, then dancing. Then, the pastor passes the mike off to a girl, who begins singing, while he begins a beautiful and wild and extravagant dance to celebrate!

The rest of the service consisted in:
1. Clementine’s brother giving her away.
2. A regular church service complete with a sermon.
3. The raising of the veil, as repeatedly commanded by the pastor, “slowly, slowly!”
4. Marriage vows.
5. Exchange of Rings.
6. Holy communion…for everyone in the church.
7. A ferocious rainstorm for the last two hours of the service, that began leaking water on my head. (I kept trying to tilt my body ever so slightly, so that there wouldn’t be one very wet spot, but hopefully it could serve as my hair’s daily wash….let’s just say we’ve had a water shortage on and off for almost a week, and you learn to take what you can get.)

**The only thing that was left out was the kiss! Instead, there was a very sweet hug.
All of this was in Kinyarwanda, and all of this lasted until almost 4:00! It was the longest service that I have attended. One of the most amusing parts was in the midst of this celebration, Clementine only ever cracked a slight smile when they were pronounced man and wife, which was immediately followed by a cheek-bite of self-denial. It tickled me. She was intent on doing this the right way.

After the wedding, we walked back home, grabbed our rain jackets, umbrellas, and a piece of honey bread and began walking back to the church to join Peace, the pastor’s wife, and then continue down the hill to the reception. The rain did not stop. As we walked down the hill, we were accompanied by an orange river over the rocks we treaded. It should be noted, Peace did all of this in white high heels, while Miriam, Katie, and I slid all over the place in our sandals. We had to cross three “bridges” that are nothing more than logs laid out across a gap in the mountain. Finally, we arrived at the reception. This was a well thought out place. There were tarps overhead, and when they began sinking low men would come with sticks and shift the water, with the help of gravity, from one tarp to the other until it ran off behind everyone. There were couches outside for the bridal party and chairs for the guests. Louise brought the new couple and the wedding party down the hill in her car, and the revelry began. There was singing, feeding each other cake, Fanta, and food. There was a line of food going out to the guests that would have made Henry Ford proud. We actually got orange and lemon Fanta and Cokes! This is a huge treat here.

One of the neatest things about the wedding was that the newlyweds presented gifts to the people that really helped them. I didn’t know this until post-wedding, but Clementine and Jeremie are both orphans. I didn’t ask details, but can guess. So, it is very dear that there was a whole community coming around them- keeping the rain away, dancing for them, perfuming them, feeding them, singing over them, affirming them, rejoicing with them. Clementine, then came to all the guests, and served us cake! The bottom of her white dress was now orange! There was something invaluable about it. Then, a line formed to present them with gifts. The three of us brought up the basket and Clementine smiled! She knows we are her silly “muzungu” girls that love her dearly!

Just before 7:00, we headed home, delighted… and exhausted!

A Shyira Valentine

Since Valentine’s morning fell on a Sunday this year, we spent the beginnings of it at the Shyira church. Caleb preached a sermon on love- what it is and what it isn’t. Since the crowd is a mixture of English speaking Africans and a few Americans, he began telling about some of the customs of this celebration in the States. He began to describe the Valentine being given in anonymity to one you’ve liked for a long time. Then, he went on to contrast the sort of love associated with Valentine’s Day with love. It is patient, kind, keeps no records of wrongs. The message was an honest love is a difficult and beautiful one. It is not cheap and there is loveliness in the investment that towers above passions that are fleeting. 1 Corinthians 13 is a light that illuminates the holes of my heart.

Miriam, Katie, and I spent the rest of the day lunching, writing, resting, visiting with the pastor’s wife, walking the dog, and reading. We tend to ebb and flow from each other throughout the day. From six o’clock to eight o’clock each evening, we have electricity and –hopefully- internet. So, around six, we meet together on the King’s porch to check e-mail. Last night, Katie and I headed up to the house around 6:15 to see if the internet was working. It was! However, it only lasted for about fifteen minutes. So, we headed back to the apartment that she and Miriam live in, to make supper. We fixed a delicious meal of scrambled eggs with herbs, a side of tomato and avocado salsa, complete with basil, vinegar, and pepper.

Throughout this week, we have acquired the habit of watching an episode a night of a D.V.D. that Louise let us borrow. It is a T.V. series called “The # 1 Ladies Detective Agency,” and is set in Botswana. It is about a regular woman with good instincts that sets up an agency in Gaborone, and each episode she solves about three mysteries. We’re unashamedly addicted. There is something about being in Africa and watching a show set in Africa that we love. Although, we are living in a different country, the show picks up aspects of the African culture that are hard to name but fun to see captured. I told the girls last night, I will miss these evenings with them so much when I return.

We had some leftover cake from earlier in the week, and I decided to run next door to get some Refresh tea to go with it. By, this time, it was about 7:15, and my mind was winding down, in preparation for a quiet hour of good humored TV. It was dark and I didn’t bring my lantern because the lights were still on in my apartment. I got to the front door and began unlocking it, and realized there was paper scattered on my porch. My light is out on my porch, and so I thought maybe Caleb Jr. left papers out from homeschooling. I grabbed them and set them on my table, heading off to get the tea. Then, it hit me. Caleb hadn’t been out there since Thursday morning. I would have seen the papers before then. Then, I thought maybe someone left me a note, but the only people I know aside from the girls are out of town. By this time, I was in my kitchen grabbing the tea and scrambling back towards my open door, grabbing the papers. I looked down at them. There were three. The first read, “Kate;” then, “Elis’ teacher;” the third read, “And You.” I was getting very nervous. I locked the door and hurried back to the girls with tea and notes in hand.

I handed the “Kate” note to Katie, and the “Elis’ Teacher” note to Mir, since she home-schools a girl named Ellie. That left me with, “And You.” Miriam read her note first:
“Still have faith
In Jesus one day
You will se the answer
read: Philips 2:1
as you smile
on the problems being solve,
never become angry
From: X-man”
It was strange but kind and sweet, encouraging.

Katie read hers next. It went as follows:
“Hi evry morning when I see the sun shine your beautifull
Face better than. Angel come closer,
Your lips is sweet than candies
Your eyes white black and make my heart come down,
If I dont see you my heart heavy as vehicles engines
And my face become troubling.
It was X-MAN”

Then, I read mine:
“For so long without happy
But you can find it in Allymighty
As peace with us
You will see what you want.”
Mr. X-MA

We were all a little touched in different ways. I think katie was a little concerned as to who is infatuated with her. Miriam was left wondering what it all means. What problems? And I was left wondering who thought I looked like I’d been struggling with sadness. There is something truthful, dear, and hilarious about these letters. There is also something sort of amusing about seriousness being lost (and perhaps found) in translation.

We have spent the last week watching a show on African women detectives. Surely, that couldn’t be in vain. Let’s just say, we found ourselves motivated to figure out who these Valentines were sent by. We have deduced that it is someone Katie sees frequently, that has met Miriam, and has probably only seen or perhaps briefly met me. Katie teaches an English class of ten guys, and she also works at the hospital with many men. It could be any of these men she sees daily. We began to take out attendance papers from the English class, and look over them, trying to figure out who X-man is. This is what we do know:
-The writer has a very sharp cursive “y” and “j”
-The writer has a very delicate “p”
-The writer is assumed to have been at the church service and prompted by Caleb’s sermon

At this point, we have a pretty good lead. We know, but we’re not telling. Why?
Detectives are smug. Everyone knows it. Nobody says it… because we’re detectives.

Her House by the Water

Last Saturday morning Louise, Katie, and I began my second hike downhill to the market. However, the market was only to be our stop to “hail” our taxi out to a very small village, to visit a patient of Louise’s. I knew the patient had been sick and the Kings helped to build a house for her by the water. We were going to see the construction and how the patient was doing. Now, there are VERY few vehicles in Shyira and this market. There aren’t paved roads here, mostly bumpy dirt and rock roads. So, when I say “taxi,” extract any definition that word has held for you and understand a Shyira taxi.

Picture it: three women walking through the market in search of bike taxis. Louise spots a boy on a bike and he recognizes her interest. The next thing I know I am swarmed by probably ten teenage boys wanting to be our bike driver. For further clarification- and this is an important detail- these bikes are not moto-bikes. They are much like a cruiser that might be found in Pawleys Island. The slight distinction is a 6x12 inch, rectangular seat on the back, apparently for a bottom, mine. I looked at Louise and Katie. To those of you who are familiar with my nervous laugh, let your minds run wild. These teenage boys were all reaching their hands out to me to take them on as my driver. Apart from my good instincts, I took the more aggressive boy, or he took me. I don’t like roller coasters or fast driving. Yet, all of a sudden I have picked the most aggressive boy to drive me up the mountain road.

Luckily, I didn’t have to ride side saddle. So, I sat down right behind this boy. There was nothing I could see to hold onto accept for him or the tightly coiled springs under his seat. I curled my fingers around the coils in front of me, and we took off. Initially I thought we were going to tip over. I had Amanda’s great, big green bag on my right arm, filled with two water bottles. I couldn’t see anything but the red shirt on my driver’s back, and I was afraid to lean over to look around. Finally, curiosity became a substitution for bravery, and I peeked around. It was wonderful and terrifying. There were holes all over the road, people walking with sugar cane and baskets on their heads, small bridges made out of logs, and ditches on either side. We were going so quickly. We hardly ever slowed for something or someone obstructing our path. We might swerve, but we yielded to no one. All of a sudden, I was glad for his audacity. I feared and respected my teenage driver. There was a bell on the front of our bike, and I knew to hold on tightly when I heard it sounding in quick reverberation. A couple of times, he heard an irrepressible gasp and turned around to me, but he also heard uncontainable laughs.

We rode through two villages, one tightly packed with people. That village heard a recital from our bell. Then, we crossed a bridge. The water was orange from the soil, except for the tips of the rapids. They were white. The bridge was made up of rusted metal and slats of wood set so far apart that I could see the river rushing under me. The noise from the river, the different bikes passing on this bridge with yellow tubs filled with water, and our own bell filled me to the heights and I was so glad. There are few times where my entire mind is in one place and I don’t have to call back wandering thoughts. On this ride, my thoughts were holding on as securely as my fingers. I like that, and I was simply happy.
We rode the bike for 20 minutes, ending in an uphill stretch, and we reached the patient’s house. It was in a depression from the road, with the river running behind her backyard. We walked down and into her house. We were greeted by her three boys, and then met her. Louise speaks Kinyarwanda and I speak no more than greetings. So, she was conversing, while I was watching. The boys were beautiful. They were ranging from probably twelve to a baby. The twelve year old had a calm smile that made me want to know what he had seen. The baby must have been two. He reached his hand out to greet me. I could tell these were children who knew what it was to be loved by their mom, and her disposition showed she enjoyed every minute of it. Louise turned back to us as the little one was holding my hand. “He and his mom have AIDS. The older one seizes.” She continued visiting with this woman in a kind and comforting manner that is distinctly and honestly Louise. I wondered what this woman knew about each minute she had with her children and the weight of health, poor or fine, of which I have little concept. How much more costly are the grins of that household. She showed us her backyard, while she and Louise continued in conversation and I took pictures of the boys with my camera and then enjoyed watching them enjoy looking at themselves. We took pictures of the thankful family in front of their new house before we left.

The ride back was not like the ride there. I loosened my grasp on the coils. My mind was filled with joy and gladness and ache. I hate that the mother and her family were sick as much as much as I can hate. Yet, I love her joy more than I hate her pain, and I do believe her joy is increased by her perseverance through this. I have to believe this is how life works. I do believe it’s how the Lord works, and I love him for this. I’ve never seen beauty more severe and set apart than the beauty he creates out of suffering. We cannot muster it. I’ve tried to generate it in my own life, and broken and exhausted my own heart worse than anyone or anything could. I more wearied than before. But, when He heals our broken spirits in the midst of suffering, there is something full of glory in us that allows us to hope for more glory than we could have believed possible prior to suffering.

This woman is terminally sick. So is her baby. Saturday, she was a blessing to me. I had the joy of seeing someone grateful for a life that is also a struggle.

a rainy season.

This week, the rainy season in Shyira is making itself known. I am currently trapped inside the Shyira Chalet. It is positioned with a hill at the front door and a cliff under the back porch. During storms, the hill becomes a waterfall and a river flows over the kitchen’s stone floor, to the back porch, escaping through the cracks in its wood.
The roof of my apartment is tin. When it rains, it sounds like the Atlantic found its way to Shyira and is being poured over my head. Sometimes, it wakes me from my sleep, and hymns me into a deeper sleep. It’s hard to hear anything else, and during the day it keeps people still.
Shyira is in the clouds. So, almost every morning, there is a cloud over the valley in front of my apartment. When the rain comes, the huge mountains disappear into a white backdrop. The trees by the chalet porch are under the command of the wind and they are especially noticeable because of the disappearance of the world behind them. The chickens ebb to find their shelter. I’m not sure what happened to Tuki, the cat. She doesn’t seem to have made it inside, and she’s a bit of needy cat when she wants to be.
The rain in Shyira makes me want to continue inhaling until the storm ceases. One of my favorite smells in the U.S. is the rain. It picks up the smallest amounts of earth from the pavement, and carries them right into your nostrils. They feel full of something honest. Here, there is no pavement, and there is plenty of earth, and it seems that the storm finds that, and brings all of it to your nose. The small, musty smell grows and brims up to your chin, your mouth, your nose.
The rainy season demands your attention by conquering one sense, then another, then another.

Josephine the Goat

Thursday afternoon, after a walk to see a house on construction, Lydia and Katie and I decided to visit the newly born goats. The goats are staying in a stable that also houses the donkeys. It is a bit of a hide-out. Along the front and left side of the King’s yard is a huge bush that serves almost like a fence. In the center is a small clearing that Lydia led us through. It’s small enough to need to bend to walk through. Then, after veering left, is the shelter. We passed the donkeys, and in an open stall was a huge basket turned upside down. John, who helps with the animals, lifted up the basket and there were three baby goats. Two of them had just been born the day before. They started to run and hop down onto the ground from the stall, but their little legs were so new that they just fell into splits. They are the dearest things. I could not stop laughing. They love to go into the donkey stalls, and it is the funniest looking pair- these tiny goats and big donkeys!
Most of the time in Rwanda, seeing a goat does not mean petting a goat. It pleases me more than I can say just getting to see them everywhere, and hearing them first thing in the morning. These newborn kids wandered around the stable without any regard to their surroundings, and so had little patches of poop on them. I thought I probably wouldn’t pick one up, but I couldn’t help myself. I picked up a little goat with grey and white and every color in between. It put its little mouth up to my chin and tried to nurse. It was so adorable. That little goat just kept nuzzling my chin with its little goat mouth and goat instinct. Then, it leaned its head against my neck and rested, completely relaxed. I kept staring at it and its head kept falling farther back and its eyes closed and it fell into a deep sleep. I named him Lionel. Then, Lionel was a girl. So, I named her Josephine, and she is quite the Josephine. I could barely leave her. For those of you that know me well, this was one of the kindest days I’ve been given.
(*Suzanne, I wish you could have been there with me. I feel sure the other would be asleep in your arms.)

Shyira Shake.

Last week, Thursday night I believe, I woke to the sound of rattling. Then, I realized my bed was shaking under my body, so steadily that my body began shaking too. About two seconds after I sat up it stopped. Under the comfort of my mosquito net, in my silent room, I sat and waited to see if I heard another rattle, or felt another shake. Nothing. It must have been a dream, I thought.
Much later through the night, I woke again. This time I heard another subtle rattling. I realized my headboard was shaking against the wall. Much more alarmed at this reoccurrence, I jerked my shaking body up in bed and waited for it to stop. However, sitting up didn’t make it stop. Could this be a dream? Absolutely not. I was sitting straight up in my bed. After fifteen seconds or so, it stopped. Now, this may not seem like a long time, but let me assure you, to a woman- in a silent room, alone in an apartment, in an remote village, without electricity, waking to her bed trembling under her in the middle of the night- fifteen seconds is long enough to induce heavy concern.
So, I began wondering. Are Katie and Miriam experiencing this in their apartment? Have I lost my mind? Then, I began to reason and hypothesize what could be happening. As I lay back down, my mind surged from one idea to another. Then, it came to me. What had I felt? A tremor. What makes a room tremor? An earthquake. I began thinking about the three volcanoes we can see from Shyira Hill. There is even one in the Congo, as close as thirty kilometers away. VOLCANIC ACTIVITY! Of course that wasn’t the first thought in my mind! I’m not crazy- I’m just not used to volcanoes waking me from my sleep! With my mind at ease, I fell back into a nice rest.
The next day, I decided to ask Katie and Miriam about their nights. I didn’t feel quite as secure in my reason, sharing my theory of volcanic activity. Turns out, neither of the girls felt the restless earth shaking their beds. Not to worry, they’re heavy sleepers. So, we sat around trying to figure out and debate the possibilities. We came to two conclusions. 1. There was a reoccurring, volcano induced quake last night and I was the only one stirred. OR… 2. The malaria meds I have been taking are causing me to have hallucinations. “No.” I told them. “It couldn’t be hallucinations. I was sitting up in my bed and continued to hear and feel the shaking!”
Katie said, “Well, I think it’s ideal to be at the top of a mountain for one of those.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well because the bottom of the hill has everything sliding down on it.”
“But, what do you think is sliding down onto it?”
No response.
Finally, two days ago, I asked Louise about the volcanoes and the night quakes. She graciously told me that she couldn’t be sure, but highly doubted it was an earthquake. She offered me a different medicine to ward off malaria, and told me that one out of four people have to get off this medicine! It is hard to believe that hallucinations can be so clearly audible, so tactile, and that twenty-five percent of people on these meds know exactly what I mean! However, seeing as there are no news reports to support my theory, and the earth has stopped shaking in Shyira since I started new meds, I concede to the fact that I have had drug-induced hallucinations.