Taxi-bumper philosophy

Taxis here have personality. Not only are they all dilapidated
in very distinctive and individual ways, they almost all have
slogans painted on the back bumper. I have seen everything from
"The Truth shall set you Free" to "Don't blame the man" to
"Paternoster" to "Smokey" (the latter being quite obviously
appropriate).

Yesterday I found a new gem: "Life is Expensive. Don't
Complicate."

Is this a deep philosophical statement about the value of human
life and the wisdom of guarding it? Or does it mean that the
driver charges more for his services and expects his passengers
not to complain?

I guess I'll never know.

Burned

I have an alkaline burn on my chin.

No, Rachel and I have not been performing dangerous chemistry
experiments. Nor have I been attempting medical procedures far
beyond my skill. Nor am I moonlighting in a chemical plant.

No, I was merely (and innocently) sleeping. I didn't even wake
up when (presumably) the red-and-black striped insect wandered
from my blanket onto my chin, although the evidence suggests that
I brushed him off (and perhaps smeared him in the process).

However, I did notice the raw, red trail and the small blister
the next morning. I didn't even know creechie bugs existed. Now
I do.

I want my mosquito net back.

How to eat water fufu

This post is in the great moose nose tradition, in honour of
Steve and Betsy.

Most of the time, I love Cameroonian food. Occasionally the pepe
makes my eyes water and my nose run and my mouth burn, but it
almost always tastes great. Water fufu is just about the only
Cameroonian food I find difficult to stomach.

It is made from fermented cassava (manioc), pounded into a
rubbery, sticky, stretchy sort of playdough-like substance. The
fermentation gives it a bitter-vinegary taste which Americans
tend to find unpalatable, especially when cold. Stuck to the
inside of your teeth, it's even worse.

But there is a secret to eating it. It's called okra soup. The
slippery texture of okra, cooked with various other ingredients
but mainly oil, makes it quite easy to slide small balls of the
water fufu down your throat without ever tasting it or letting it
stick to your teeth. It is even possible to look pleasant while
doing so.

Now I feel like I have something to say if someone ever asks me
to give facetious advice to graduating Intercultural Studies
majors.

More on stories

Where do we first learn that hard work pays off and you should
plan ahead? From "how-to" books? No! From the Three Little
Pigs! Where do we learn that property is private? From
political philosophers? Try the Three Bears. How about the fact
that virtue is worth more than money and social status? The
Brothers Grimm and their (fur, glass, or gold) slipper, long
before Aristotle or Boethius.

And we remember these things, not in our heads, but in that
visceral place where we often can't even put it into words.

Furthermore, you tell me. Is it preferable to hear someone read
these folktales, or to hear someone tell them?

I grew up with an expert in Chronological Bible Storying, though
I didn't know it. The fact that Bible stories ought to be told,
not merely read, is almost pre-logical for me... my father told
us Bible stories, from Genesis onward, every night until I was
about eleven. We must have gone through the Bible three or four
times. I remember my mother once asking me what was different
when my dad taught Sunday School rather than other adults. I
looked up at her. "He spends the whole time telling stories!"
We loved it. I still remember the bitter taste of the day when
my older sister and I were told that "Bible story" would
primarily be for the younger kids now, and that (due to schedule
constraints) it wouldn't necessarily be a priority for us to hear
it every night.

Despite my tears that day, however-- by that time, the stories
were part of us. And they have remained part of us. This is why
I am convinced that storytelling will never be a completely lost
art, even in a "superliterate" culture. There is something in
orality that cannot be entirely replaced.

Someday, I hope, my kids will reap the "oral" harvest that my
parents sowed. May my great-great-grandchildren reap it, too.

Dragonflies and toads

Having internet access in Bamenda for two weeks is wonderful. So
wonderful, in fact, that last night I was still up when the
dragonflies attacked.

There had been one or two fluttering around the fluorescent light
ever since it had gotten dark. It started raining, but since I
was under a sheltered porch area, I didn't pay much attention.

All of a sudden, there were about forty dragonflies. They
dive-bombed my keyboard, inspected my hair thoroughly, fluttered
around the hem of my skirt, and invaded my personal space in no
uncertain terms. This was THEIR lighted area away from the rain,
and they were there to stay. Any and all furniture (including
me) was now fair game.

That's when I saw the small, dark, businesslike figure hopping
leisurely toward the light. And another. They proceeded slowly
but surely to begin what looked like an inexhaustible feast.

However, I can't say the toads demolished the steadily-growing
mob of dragonflies. I can't even say they curtailed its growth.
Even my scientific curiosity about how many dragonflies two toads
can eat was eclipsed by the convenient recollection that I really
ought to be going to bed.

CBS

As Westerners and North Americans, we live in an
ultra-super-literate culture. Those intensifiers may not mean
much to you, unless you've lived in a culture where literacy is
just not a skill needed for everyday functioning... but take my
word for it.

So in the absence of the printed word, how do cultural values and
important truths get transmitted?

Through oral storytelling.

This is one reason that some printed translations have been less
than effective-- despite the years of dedicated work that went
into them. In a predominantly "oral" culture-- even one where
people have been taught how to read their language-- it may be a
completely foreign concept to simply read a story to yourself.
(Even St. Augustine of Hippo struggled to understand why his
teacher would want to read silently-- and Augustine was VERY
educated in reading and writing, in more than one language!)

This is why I am so excited about the two-week conference that
the Friesens are attending. Chronological Bible Storying (or
CBS) is an approach to Scripture through oral culture-- using
"storytellers" who memorise the key points of Bible stories,
understand the links that hold them together chronologically, and
retell them in a culturally appropriate forum in their own
language, teaching others who can then also pass the stories on.

This isn't a replacement for translation. But it is a way to
introduce the stories of the Bible-- and thus a Biblical
worldview-- in a fashion that actually communicates. And it
reproduces itself within the structure of the culture.

Five songs

What can you do when you've been tagged by, not one, but TWO good
friends? :-)

Instructions: List five songs that you are currently enjoying. It
doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words,
or even if they're any good, but they must be songs you're really
enjoying right now.

Post these instructions, the artist and the song in your blog
along with your five songs. Then tag five other people to see
what they're listening to.

1) "Song of Beren and Luthien" - the Tolkien Ensemble, from the
album "An Evening in Rivendell"

A wistful, lyrical setting of Tolkien's lay. This whole album is
one of my all-time favourite CDs-- a group of top-notch Danish
musicians setting Tolkien's poetry to music. The music on their
four albums ranges from rustic, rousing hobbit-tunes to ethereal
elven music to layered choral settings of the Rohirrim's
alliterative verse.

2) "Worthy Is the Lamb" - George Frederick Handel

Actually, I'm enjoying the whole Messiah. But the finale-- and
especially the fugal "amens" at the end-- are sublime. I
remember Sandy telling us in choir that the fugue is the musical
form best suited to represent eternity...

3) "So Many Books..." - Michael Card, from his "best of" album
"Joy in the Journey"

I'm discovering that I really like Michael Card's music. He
combines earnest, thoughtful lyrics-- sometimes even poetry, as
opposed to just rhyming lines-- with varied and often haunting
melodies. This song is one that often reminds me why it is that
I'm really here, even if I'm 'only' entering ANOTHER twenty words
into the dictionary.

4) "Goober Peas" - folk song of the Civil War

This is for Rachel's history curriculum, and it's a fun song. I
like a history curriculum that includes learning popular songs of
the era. (And "goober peas" is just plain fun to say.)

5) "Yesu Ijo Bo Besusu"

Does it count if the song you're listening to is not recorded?
:-) I think this is my favourite Mbonge translated hymn so far:
"Jesus Knows It All." (I just discovered that when I tried
earlier to post it on my site, the font was less than
satisfactory, but maybe I'll find a way to remedy that.)

I'm going to tag gypsy_child and loriella_of_lonteiriel, because
I'm sure they need a break about now. I'm also going to tag
assylem_reject_2, theres_a_raven_above_my_door, and zandrabeano,
because I haven't heard from them in a while. (They'll have to
copy and paste their posts to me, though, because Xanga doesn't
send nice text-messages like blogspot.) :-)

A rare parrot-teacher

When you copy a language you are only partially familiar with,
over and over, there are bound to be copying errors. Consider
the following fragments from hymns:

"It pays to serve Jesus, I speak from my heart
He'll always be with us if we do our parks
There is nothing this wide world can pleasure afar
There's peace and contentment in serving the Lord.
I love him far better than in days of woe,
I'll serve him more truly than ever before..."

"Sometimes the shadows gather, admit obscure the way..."

"Sometimes the way is dreamy, we seem to walk alone,
Forgetting that the Father keeps watch above His own,
How many needless souls the faithless have to bear,
That he still loves His children and will answer prayer."

It's only natural to replace unknown words with words you know,
even if the resulting line is nonsensical. And because singing
without understanding is normal here, and learning by rote is
general practice, the mistakes just get passed on and increased
from person to person as each one copies the song from his
neighbour and teaches it to someone else.

As a native English speaker, and one conversant with the style
and vocabulary of 19th century hymns, I can often make a fairly
good guess at the original words. But even these corrections do
very little good, except to make the result easier on my own
native-language sensibilities. The word was unfamiliar in the
first place, which was why it got mistaken for something else.
And you can only explain so many unfamiliar words before people
get impatient. After all, the goal of singing English hymns is
to be civilised, not to understand the words. Even the national
anthem of Cameroon is written in archaic English.

Add to that the fact that apparently someone has been telling the
youth here that if you only sing church songs in "country talk,"
you're uncivilised. Great. So understanding is uncouth and
backwards, while rote parroting is prestigious and "developed."

As a side note, I have heard homeschoolers in the 'States decry
the lack of memorisation in American schools today. But
memorisation can be used as an impediment to understanding as
well as an aid.

Universals

I watched as one of the young men casually leaped up to slap his
palms against the rafters of the church on his way out.

It looked oddly familiar. I've seen exactly the same careless
gesture in various youth groups from Kentucky to California.
Door frames, rafters, stairwell ceilings, anything solid enough
to be whacked and low enough to be within jumping distance.

It's somehow comforting to think that high-school- and
college-age guys all over the world jump up to slap their palms
against things.

Snapshots

Distinct flavours of places... impressions... the keepers of
memory...

the scent of orange blossoms
endless geometrical patterns in the grapevines
glimpses of snow-capped Sierras, rare enough to be treasured
sunrises and sunsets, with the whole horizon visible
jacaranda trees, ornamental cherry trees, and oleanders
Christmas lights through a tule fog
oranges, peaches, plums, nectarines, apricots, strawberries

the extravagance of everything green
intensity of the sunlight and an entire spectrum of rich colours
the pungent smell of drying cocoa
moonlight that turns the whole world silver
trees with that peculiar inside-out umbrella shape
the clockbird's melody
thunderous rain on a tin roof
fresh mangoes

On youths, bored

No, that just wasn't a course they even thought about offering at
Biola. "How To Refuse Marriage Proposals Politely But Firmly."

I stopped counting a while back, at about thirteen or fourteen.
I can't say I've ever received one in church before, though...
not to mention by proxy.

The business meeting was several hours long and felt longer on
the hard, backless wooden benches. The youth were apparently a
little restless. Eugene leaned over to me, grinning with
suppressed merriment, and half-whispered, "My brother wants to
marry with you. You like it?" The guy on the other side of him
leaned forward eagerly to see if the mokala would do something
interesting in response.

I briefly considered my options. There is the "my father
requires seven hundred cows" option. There is the "you can come
and talk with Brother Dan about this later" option. There is the
"my boyfriend in America wouldn't be happy" option.

However, since this was church, I felt perfectly justified in
saying simply "You are disturbing. Stop disturbing!" [that's
the Cameroon English equivalent of "Stop making noise in
church!"]

I only hope I said it with a straight face.

et HMMMM ology

"Dictionaries are arbitrary classifications of a living organism." -Dan

Just when you think something's related...

There is a verb "�it���." One dialect says it means "to pound." Another dialect says it means "to be little." We could come up with all sorts of possible semantic connections for this one, especially if it happens to be after 10pm. Do you get any littler if I pound you?

There is another verb "�iny�ng�." One of the definitions for it is "to disappear." Some other verbs we have, however, appear to be derivatives of a mysterious verb of the same form that would mean "to slip." The mud around here is certainly rather slippery... and occasionally it does get deep enough to cover the headlights of the truck...

Folk etymologies are at least as fun as the real thing. :-)

...and all places are alike to me

Someone knocked on the door today. While I was trying to figure
out who he was and whether I could help him in Dan and Lisa's
absence, the cats demolished my lunch-in-process.

According to Kipling, cats are scheming opportunists: but they
can't help it; it's hereditary.

Wow. That sounded a lot like my dad. :-)

Zebra rain

It's raining in stripes. Burst. Stop. Burst. Stop. Burst.
Stop.

It's raining in stripes. Our tin roof is crimped into the shape
of a sine wave, and the rain rolls off in very evenly spaced
drips.

It's raining in stripes. The paths are large muddy rivers
between drenched green banks.

--But thankfully, this time none of the stripes are inside the
house. I prefer my striped rain outside.

Restless until...

Our God, to whom we turn
When weary with illusion,
Whose stars serenely burn
Above this earth's confusion,
Thine is the mighty plan,
The steadfast order sure
In which the world began,
Endures, and shall endure.

Thou art thyself the truth;
Though we who fain would find thee,
Have tried, with thoughts uncouth,
In feeble words to bind thee,
It is because thou art
We're driven to the quest;
Till truth from falsehood part,
Our souls can find no rest.

All beauty speaks of thee:
The mountains and the rivers,
The line of lifted sea,
Where spreading moonlight quivers,
The deep-toned organ blast
That rolls through arches dim
Hints of the music vast
Of thy eternal hymn.

Wherever goodness lurks
We catch thy tones appealing;
Where man for justice works
Thou art thyself revealing;
The blood of man, for man
On friendship's altar spilt,
Betrays the mystic plan
On which thy house is built.

Thou hidden fount of love,
Of peace, and truth, and beauty,
Inspire us from above
With joy and strength for duty.
May thy fresh light arise
Within each clouded heart,
And give us open eyes
To see thee as thou art.

~Edward Grubb, 1925

the 'mokala' speaks

I love watching how people respond when they see us speaking
Oroko for the first time.

Some laugh like it's the best joke they've ever heard.

Some persist in speaking pidgin or English, assuming they must
have heard wrong.

Some repeat our words incredulously to anyone else they can find
in the room, three or four times, to validate the evidence of
their own ears.

And some get this huge grin and shake our hands right off (or, in
the case of a grandma, give us a big hug!).

Email again!

Ahhhh... email again after five days without...

What can I say? It's an addictive substance.

Frustration

I could be a good ICS major and say that being a person who grew
up in a status-achieved culture and is living in a status-ascribed culture causes internal tension.

Or I could be a good American and say that it's absolutely
ridiculous that the colour of my skin alone makes me one of the
ten most important people in the room.

I guess what I'm struggling with is that I am a perpetual
outsider, with no hope of ever being an insider that I can see.
I am always conspicuous. I get overt respect and covert
contempt. But there's no way for me to blend in, no way for me
to belong. I am a 'mokala.'

Things I learned from Bikoki

Well, I'm back. I hiked roughly twenty miles through rainforest
this weekend, mostly through slippery mud, in sun and rain,
fording eight streams and a waist-deep river, climbing up and
then back down a volcanic cone, stepping over trails of army
ants, and generally feeling rather exotic and uncomfortable.

It was rather a surprise when, after making my weary way back to
the haven of the Friesens' house, I dumped out the "water" that
had been sloshing around in my boot-- and stood staring at a lake
of my own blood on the cement. (Lesson no. 41: Socks are quite
effective at preventing blisters, until they get holes.) --Reassuring note, because my mother is reading this: However dramatic that may have been, the raw places were neither deep nor large, and hardly stung the next day. I suspect that what looked like a lake of blood was actually mostly water from our frequent stream crossings.

All in all, as a weak 'mokala,' I felt that I had reason to be
pleased with my accomplishment, or at least with the fact that I
kept going and didn't complain when it hurt. Unfortunately, most
of my companions didn't agree.

I think I learned on this trip how utterly helpless I am in this
culture. I can't eat, drink, talk, or sometimes even walk
without some kind of help. My mouth burns when I eat the food...
I slip and fall in the mud... I can't drink the water and have to
filter it... I have to ask people to repeat themselves-- slowly--
almost every time they say something to me... I get tired and
have to rest when hiking uphill... I don't get the jokes everyone
else is laughing at (and often I'm convinced, whether it's
actually true or not, that the joke is somehow on me).

I also learned that it's very easy to tell the difference between
someone who feels like they are "on duty" to take care of a
clumsy, slow, stupid 'mokala' and someone who really looks at me
as a person.

I wish I knew how to communicate that I really do want to get to
know these people; I'm not just out to cause them inconvenience
and slow them down. I thought that hiking twenty miles with them
would communicate that. But I don't think it did. I feel like
I'm missing something important here...

Nigh

"I love thee, Lord Jesus; look down from the sky,
And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh."

A little girl with red curls snuggled deeper under the covers.
"What does 'nigh' mean, Daddy?" she asked for perhaps the
fifteenth time.

" 'Nigh' means 'near.' "

"Okay." She reached out sleepily for a good-night hug.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Don't stop praying; the Lord is nigh;
Don't stop praying; He'll hear your cry."

"That word, 'nigh.' What is that one?" Hans leaned forward on
the rough wooden benches. Nadesh, in front of him, didn't know.

The only native English speaker in the room, a red-headed
missionary intern, smiled. "It means 'near.' "

"Okay. We'll say 'Obase abedi o fesi' [lit. 'God is at side']."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

We have an amazing God. He can be by my side when I am safe and
secure after singing a bedtime Christmas carol at my home in my
own language with my daddy...

or he can be by my side when I am in a new culture, communicating
in a new language, sticking out like a sore thumb, with my family
thousands of miles away.

Truly he is Imma-nu-El... With-us-God.