Funny Things

Tonight I noticed three funny things about Djibouti.

First, at a new ice cream shop music piped in through some speakers. The music was in English and was "O Little Town of Bethlehem." Just as the verse came to say "Jesus Christ was born..." another customer's phone rang. The ring tone was the Islamic call to prayer. Seconds later, Tom's phone rang and the air filled with the sound of the Indiana Jones theme song.

Second, at the same ice cream shop, the Djiboutian woman serving us asked me, in perfect English, "Do you speak Somali?" I answered, "Oui. Haa." Yes, first in French, then in Somali. We laughed together at our strange, blending mixture of languages.

Third, at the grocery store I let the kids pick out a box of cereal based upon some limitations. No chocolate cereal, so over 2/3 were eliminated. That left us with Corn Flakes, granola and some honey-covered balls. We ended up squishing the cereal boxes, one by one, until we could find a honey-covered cereal that wasn't melted into a solid chunk and finally came upon one surprise box in which the cereal was merely in small chunks. I figured we could break it up in their bowls. How many of you go around squashing cereal boxes in the store? And how many clerks in Cub Foods would think that was a perfectly normal thing to do?

I had some good laughs tonight. Goodbye 2009, it was a good one.

Whale Sharks

We did it again this year, swam with wild beasts in the open ocean.

We camped out at Arta Plage (beach) and on Tuesday, hired a local boat to take us a few hundred yards from shore. Brown fins pierced the waves and the instant the whale shark seemed to be still, we dove over the side of the boat, flippers flapping, and shoved snorkel gear into our mouths to see the magnificent creatures face to face. Literally.

I went out with Henry, Tom went with Maggie. Henry was a little nervous and wanted to wait until the sharks were far from the boat but the waves were too strong and by the time I could swim (while holding his hand) closer, they had disappeared. I was becoming exhausted from climbing in and out of the boat and my upper thighs were sliced and bleeding. There are no ladders, only the unceremonious grappling of hands and grunting and rolling over the side, to flop to the bottom of the wooden boat, much like a beached whale, trying not to put flippers in someone else's face or get flapped by theirs in my own face.

Finally a whale shark came right next to the boat, calmly. I jumped in and looked...we were eye to eye. I could have stroked his face. I do, in fact, know that it was a 'he' because all the whale sharks in the Gulf of Tadjourah at this time of year are male. No one knows why. Henry slipped into the water beside me and put his face under water just in time to watch the creature amble by us, waving his pointed tail side to side. Henry then climbed back into the boat, with me launching him from the water, and declared that was sufficient for him.

Apparently Maggie wouldn't get back into the boat with Tom until Tom said he was exhausted from battling the waves, dodging jelly fish and trying to keep Maggie up with the moving fish. She just couldn't get enough and swam with them for maybe thirty minutes, trying to get as close as possible.

I continued swimming for another hour. At one point a whale shark rolled onto his back. I've never seen this before (this is our fourth year swimming with them) and was in awe of his pristine, brilliant white underbelly. An American teenage boy was swimming with us. He had been swimming beneath the shark and wasn't aware the whale shark had rolled. When he moved to come up for air, the two of them had a small collision. I could hear his joyful, slightly terrified cry under the water and we all surfaced laughing, exhilerated, awed.

After getting over the initial fear and adrenaline, swimming with whale sharks is remarkably calm and soothing. They are at ease in the water, a massive, gentle, gorgeous fish with beady little eyes and a wide, frightening though toothless mouth. They seem weightless though they weigh 13-15 tons. Swimming beside them, as they sway from side to side, blue and yellow fish dancing along their gills and fins, I remind myself that there are even larger creatures in the ocean, there are stranger ones, hidden ones, colorful, bizarre, dangerous, gentle.

The ocean, like the country of Djibouti, is wild and untamed, filled with stark beauty in unusual places. Sometimes I have to look into the eyes of a young woman, rather than avoid them, as she presses a sweaty palm on the window of our car, begging for coins. Sometimes I have to get up before the streets are filled with exhaust and honks and see the sun rise over the ocean on a solitary run. Sometimes I have to focus beyond the black crows and look for wild green parrots in our front yard. Sometimes I have to don a snorkel mask and fins and jump into the wild unknown. But there is beauty here. Gentle, dangerous, wild beauty.

Merry Christmas

Well, amazing though it may seem, we had a wonderful Christmas even without our families. I shouldn't even write that because we do have family in Djibouti. Maybe not blood relatives, but people we love like brothers and sisters, people who love my kids like aunts and uncles, kids my kids fight and play with like siblings. And we had the chance to talk with our Jones/Pieh families as well, so hearing their voices was wonderful.

Our celebration started Christmas Eve with the Nativity performance at the US military base. We were treated to dinner in the chow hall, which included a 15-flavor chicken wing bar, Root Beer, fresh cherries, bacon and cold, hard ice cream that didn't melt before we could sit down. The kids were the highlight of the Christmas Eve service and received a standing ovation when they finished. They began with a few songs, which Lucy joined in on. She got right in front of a microphone so we all heard the scattered words that she knew of the songs. She beamed and jumped the entire time. Then they did the play. I had written it based on a book I read which presented a more culturally accurate version, still entirely based on the Book, of the Christmas story. They had to memorize their lines and do a bit of acting. Maggie was Mary, alongside a sixteen-year old boy who is 6'4" so we called them Giant Joseph and Mini Mary. Henry was both a shepherd and a wise man.

Afterward, the chaplain thanked us profusely and said they were the hit of the night. There were maybe 150 people in attendance. Broadway, here we come!

Christmas Day we had our co-workers over for lunch and hanging out. Gave them hot pink and black tank-tops that say "Djibouti-licious!" which I'm sure they can't wait to wear around town.

Finished off the night with about 25 other expats coming over for games and cookies, what a blast! What is a holiday without some good rip-roaring, shouting, card-flying games? Henry, Maggie and two other kids played Christmas carols on the piano for us (entirely their idea and initiative). Maggie played two, one of them by heart and Henry played four. Then, near the end of the night, Santa Claus made an appearance for the five under-10 kids. Lucy was exhausted by that point but was intrigued by the jolly elf who happened to have a square belly since we were in a rush to find a pillow for stuffing.

She stared from a distance, then walked up and yanked on Santa's beard, laughing. I think she thought it was Tom (who it was). Santa said, "Ouch! That hurts poor Santa!" and of course, Lucy burst into tears and ran screaming away from Santa. She couldn't even be lured back by a fistful of candy canes and not even when Santa put them in the middle of the floor and backed away slowly. Henry was laughing so hard he was literally rolling around the floor. It isn't Christmas unless one of the children is terrified of Santa, right?

Oh, and for anyone who cares, Henry, Maggie and I won the wrestling belt this year! Tom changed the rules to make it a bit easier on us (and I still think he let us win). Lucy was in tears about three minutes into the match and so she decided not to help claim the belt.

Merry Christmas!

If You Give a Jones a Cookie...

...they will eat it and ask for more.

I can NOT believe how many batches of Christmas cookies I made this year. Waaaaay too many for our health. Good thing I had to train for and run a 15K this December! The thing is, here, there aren't that many people to share cookies with. I think we had a total of three Christmas parties this season, counting school stuff. And three seems like a lot to me. But that means my refrigerator is full of cookies. Yet I can't seem to stop making them. It almost feels like a compulsion, like an invisible force is drawing me into the kitchen and forcing me to mix sugar and butter and more sugar until I can't even lick my fingers I'm so sick of sweetness.

I was wondering about this, why can't I stop making them even though the urge to consume them is long gone (for me, anyway, not for the kids)? Why can't I stop making them even as I worry about passing on my sweet tooth and addiction to sugar to them?

Then I remembered the posts I wrote a few weeks back about food and how familiar foods help me be here.

All of my siblings are going to be in Minnesota for Christmas. They will be coming from Portland and South Carolina and Roseville (a suburb of Minneapolis) with spouses and all three of my nephews. This is the first Christmas they have all come to MN since the Christmas before we left for Africa, 2002.

And I'm feeling sad. I want to be there. I think I feel sadder this Christmas than I have at any other away from family, even our first one. The only other Christmas that comes close was the one right after my Grandfather died. Or maybe the one during which our teammates of four years had to leave on Christmas Eve due to a medical emergency and weren't able to return. Okay, so maybe there have been sad Christmases, but for some reason, it feels unusually poignant this year. Maybe it is because not only do I have nephews being born and growing up without me but also because I have three more nieces and/or nephews on the way, one due any day.

Anyway, I think I am smothering my emotions with sugar, busying myself with baking so I don't have to think about it, recreating the cookie goodness of my childhood in an effort to convince myself that my children aren't missing anything in their childhoods.

And other than family, they aren't. They love Christmas in Djibouti. They get to do unusual things, like perform at the US military base and eat in the Chow Hall, where they are like celebrities among the thousands of soldiers who are also away from their families. They get to sleep out at the beach. They get excited about the gigantic blow-up Santa at the five-star hotel and about getting notebooks from the emaciated, African Santa Claus with a glued-on beard at the grocery store who sings Jingle Bells off-key and with a French accent.

And they certainly aren't missing out on any Christmas cookies.

Christmas Shopping

We go to two stores with the kids to look for Christmas gifts for each other. The stores are both department stores, meaning they carry everything from food to underwear to appliances, but added together, they would be smaller than a regular Target. The sections that interest Maggie, Henry and Lucy have fewer aisles than a mini gas station. A third of the products on the racks are so poorly made they will break when the package is torn into. Another third are brand names like Dora, Hello Kitty and Legos and cost more than six times what they cost in the US. Sorry, I won't be paying $50.00 for a palm-sized Lego fire truck. The other third is fun, affordable and drooled over all year long by the kids.

They don't even notice prices, sizes or quality. The day that we spend Christmas shopping (or rather, the two hours we spend, as that is all it takes in such small stores even including a bit of grocery shopping) is one of their favorite days of the year. They love thinking about their siblings and Tom and I, love wandering up and down the aisles imaging what to spend their hard-earned coins on, love the juggling act of trying to find each other, pay for things and get bags into the house without the wrong person peeking into the wrong bag. And they adore wrapping the gifts and putting them under the tree, jabbering the entire time about how much the others will like what they purchased for them.

I love watching their joy in giving, their eagerness to use their francs on a beach toy set for Lucy, their giggles at imagining Daddy trying to figure out the Rubix Cube (while I am secretly wondering how many turns it will take before the cube simply falls apart or the stickers come off in the humidity). I also love the simplicity of Christmas in Djibouti. We can leave the store with our bank account still in tact and without headaches from overload. There isn't anything I can think of that we are lacking at this time of year other than our families. From a material perspective, we are abundantly blessed.

And we only have to wait in line for about sixty seconds, get to park right in front of the store and don't have to scrape icy white stuff from our windows when we finish.

Why Not Me?

Yesterday a homeless woman with HIV came to my house. I've known Deeqa for years. Knew her when she got pregnant, when she found out she was carrying twins and when she delivered. Helped her with food during the pregnancy but still expected that the babies wouldn't survive. Helped her with milk when she gave up nursing in the first few days but still expected the babies wouldn't survive. They did survive, and for two years, she has been raising boy/girl twins on her own.

Yesterday she handed me a piece of paper from the hospital. The boy had died that morning from cholera and the girl was still hospitalized. Deeqa looked terrible. Skinny, filthy, distraught.

There is a different word in Somali for when children under the age of 12 die. "Wuu shifaacay," she said. It isn't a real death because he wasn't a real person, accountable for sins yet. There is no reason to make a big funeral party and pray for his soul or do good deeds on his behalf because he isn't accountable yet. If she could afford it, she would make popcorn and coffee and leave it out for the spirits. But all she can afford is a burial and that only with help.

"Please, can you give me money to bury my son?" she asked.

We rarely give money, usually giving food or buying medicine instead of simple cash handouts. I walked back to the house with the doctors paper in my hand and my heart in my throat. I filled a bag to overflowing with food and tried to keep tears from spilling over. I slipped some cash into the bottom of the bag so our landlord wouldn't see me giving out money (he has asked us not to) and looked at Maggie and Henry eating Christmas cookies after a full lunch.

Why not me?

But for grace and mercy, my own twins wouldn't be thriving. If I had given birth to Maggie and Henry in Djibouti, it is highly possible that Henry would have died or had brain damage from the complications that arose. I know I have no comprehension of other ways their lives have been spared over the years. From my perspective, it doesn't seem 'fair' and of course I'm relieved to be on the side of 'fair' that I am on. And yet relieved seems like such a trivial, selfish word to use.

Instead I will focus on being humble and grateful and try not to take for granted that I have been given far, far more than I deserve.

Gift Wrap

I had a present gift-wrapped at the Nougaprix last week. It was a regular shaped rectangular box. It took sixteen minutes to wrap it. The paper was red and white and shiny with hearts. It said "White Animal" in repeating patterns and beneath every heart was one of these two quotes in English (spelled as is):

"You are my goodfriend, I want forever with you."

"The little friend is my best gift the angel I love."

It was a wedding gift for a girl I'd never met before.

Party Time

Thursday night Hannah, Kristie and I went to a diiqo. There three parts of weddings.

First is the meher, which is the legal ceremony. Only men attend and the marriage certificate is signed. The party is in the afternoon and takes no more than two hours and includes loads of qat.

Second is the aroos, which is the women's party and is usually within a month of the meher. It begins at 11:00 p.m. or later and goes until 3 or 4 in the morning. It is mostly women, plus the videographer, the musician and about a dozen oglers. They come to ogle because the women who normally wear head scarves put on sheer dresses that show off just about everything they cover on a normal day. There is blasting music, so loud you can't talk. There is dancing, which is pretty low-key and I've gotten down the moves over the years. There isn't a lot of movement, just a certain way of waving your hands, twirling your sheer scarf and stepping side to side with some snapping, clapping and ululating thrown in. There is Coke and fried food and cake. You kiss the bride and sit by her for about three minutes while the video camera zooms in on your face. You don't smile and try to look as disinterested as possible.

Third is the diiqo, which is supposed to be within a few weeks of the aroos and celebrates when the couple moves in together. The diiqo is exactly like the aroos, even down to the bride wearing a wedding dress, except there are gifts, like a wedding shower. The gifts can be anything but are mostly food. The traditional food gift is placed inside a metal bowl which is placed inside a woven basket the shape of an hourglass which is wrapped in fake red leather which is wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with ribbon. The food is a combination of a beef jerky sort of minced meat that has been left out to dry and then soaked in ghee - a rancid butter. It is called muuqmaad and I can not eat it to save my life. On top of the muuqmaad is a mound of dates and ground black pepper. The dates and pepper have been smeared with the rancid butter until they resemble a black, greasy beehive. The dates are mounded up as high as possible, left out to dry and if it falls into the muuqmaad, the family is shamed. Wish I had a picture of this.

The diiqo we went to was actually held three years after the husband and wife moved in together and the bride already had two children. The family just hadn't gotten around to having the party yet. Her dress, if you can tell in the photo, is sheer across her stomach so it looked like she was only wearing a bra. She had more eye makeup on than I have probably used all year long, including eye liner tails and large white cirlces under the inner corner of her eyes with black dots in the middle.

We went, we drove the bride, we danced, we ate, we wore sheer dresses (more careful to keep our scarves on than Djiboutians), we were ogled. A successful diiqo.

Changes

Djibouti is getting a Carrefour. Supposedly. Carrefour is the "Target" of Europe and elsewhere and is where we do a lot of our shopping when we travel to Dubai. I'll believe it when I see it, there aren't too many brand names here, other than the fake Planet Hollywood. I did hear this from the wife of the man with the contract and I have seen the plot of land the building is going up on. But I remain skeptical.

In 2007, I heard from the director of the Kempinski, our five-star hotel, that by 2008 there would be a movie theater and a shopping mall on the hotel grounds. Construction hasn't even begun for either.

Djibouti is developing and changing.

Now if only the power would stay on for 24 hours in a row...

Hear Me Roar P.S.

To any of Hannah's family and friends: I do believe she will be safe during her home stay in Balbala! We wouldn't let her stay there if I was worried. The family she will be with are very conscientious and careful. They'll walk with her at night and make sure she isn't bothered.

Just felt like I should add that!

Hear Me Roar

Last night I drove Hannah to Balbala. She is going to live with my friend and her family there for a couple of weeks and it was time to show her around. She got quite the introduction.

Balbala is less than one kilometer outside of Djiboutiville but it is like an entirely different country. More like Somalia. It is poorer and more conservative than town. I know of only four foreigners who have lived there and they have lived in the better neighborhoods, pretty close to the main road. My friend's house is deep, deep inside Balbala and I would venture to say that I'm one of the only white people ever seen there.

It has been a while since I visited and I was having a hard time finding the road. Most of my route markers are goats, khat stands, mud puddles, etc and those are difficult to see at night (no street lights) and have moved or closed down for the evening. We turned down the wrong road one block over from where I wanted to be and found ourselves in a dead end. As I turned around, six 6-10 year old boys surrounded the car.

They began opening and slamming the doors and it takes me forever to find the lock button. Finally I shouted at them to go away and locked the doors. They got in the way so I couldn't drive, jumped on the bumper, held on to the sides of the car and started insulting us.

I jumped down again and grabbed a stone. I threw it in their direction, not even close enough to strike anyone, but just to show that I know what people in Balbala do to get rid of nuisances. As I turned to get back in the car, a half-chewed-on lime flew through the door and landed on the dash. A rock hit the inside of my door and dirt sprayed around my ankles.

I lost it. That rock could have hit me, could have broken a window, could have hit Hannah...I seriously lost it.

People say that they can't imagine me losing my temper or yelling, but last night I lost my voice from screaming so loud. My throat is still sore this morning.

I hollered at them (in Somali) that Allah is watching them, that they should be ashamed, that they were the worst behaved kids...the words don't translate well into English, but in Somali they are great yelling words, with hand gestures and all.

What made me madder than anything though, was that all around were adults, just watching. In town they would never stand for that. Every single time I've had trouble in town, people step up and defend me, even to the point of beating whoever it is who is bothering me. That's another whole story - about the women who beat up a man on my behalf...This also isn't the first time I've screamed at kids in the streets. But it was the first time they wouldn't back down.

I wasn't afraid for our safety or anything, I was simply furious. And a little afraid that things were going to escalate and I would end up in a stone throwing match against a group of boys. Or that one of them would fall under the tires of the car as I inched forward, for which I would be held legally responsible even if he was hanging on to the bumper or clinging to the mirrors.

I climbed back in the car and, with shaking hands, drove on to my friend's house. She was concerned for us and rode with me on our way home, to make sure nothing else happened. She wanted to know the area and I'm pretty sure those boys got an earful from her later in the evening.

My first words to Hannah were, "Welcome to Balbala."

For Real?

I already posted this link on my facebook page, but I have more to say about it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsYMFQ7QT7c

The location is on the way out of town, heading toward Coran Bato beach. For those who have been here, it will be on the plateau area just before you go down that steep hill into the beach. For those who haven't been here, this is a photo of what the area looks like now. Actually, that will be the view from Oubahville, but you get the general idea. Brown, rocks, thorny brush, dust...

It is hard to imagine a completely solar-powered city when so far it has been illegal to set up solar and wind. And 24-hour power? There are electricity problems even now during the cool time in the city and the more development that happens, it gets worse, not better. I love the idea of this and look forward to the eco-friendly advances, it is just hard to imagine right now.

I suppose this development will mean more jobs, clearly more desire for English, which is great for our NGO, maybe more tourism...Don't know if we will become the next Dubai or not. I guess even Dubai had to start somewhere. I also don't know if this type of thing will be good or bad overall. The next few years will tell.

Even since we arrived six years ago, Djibouti has changed, so it isn't impossible. We live on one of the main roads and it used to be a dirt road. Now almost every single road in town is paved. (That doesn't mean that they are smooth, just paved.) There are new hotels, even a 5-star Kempinski, a new American embassy going up, the bridge to Yemen project, housing developments shooting up all over the place, more cars and more traffic than ever...and I can imagine the city will be bursting at its' seams in a few short years. Right now we live on the edge of town but I would bet that in a few years our neighborhood will be in the middle.

I just hope that all this development and investment will improve not only the lives of expatriates living here or touring here, but the lives of the people living in slums and dying of malnutrition and begging or prostituting out their 8-year old daughters. The average income, as far as I know, is still under $2.00/day.

In conclusion, all I have to say for now is: "I hope they are telling the truth about the grass."

Harlem Globetrotters

Yesterday we heard at 4:30 that the Harlem Globetrotters were at the US military base that evening. We spoke with one of the naval commanders and he had less than an hour to get us access to attend the game. We were hoping, hoping, hoping and finally got the call that YES! they could go.

When they came home, they couldn't stop talking about how great the game was. There weren't many kids there, so Henry and Maggie were chosen for some goofy gigs. Maggie did a dance on the court with the players (she said she barely reached their hips) and Henry shot hoops. In order to make one, they had to lift him up to the rim and he got a t-shirt signed by all the players.

They both got signed basketballs, Maggie got a photo and had all the players sign it and that red and white band on Maggie's wrist is the used, sweaty wristband of the player she danced with.

What a great, unique experience. I'm so glad they got to go.

Smells Like...

There are so many smells here. I put them in categories.

Burning Thing Smell
Cooking Thing Smell
Dead Thing Smell
Bodily Function Smell
Earth/Nature Smell
Party Smell

Here are some of the things in each category:

Burning Thing Smell
Garbage, which comes with a gray smoke and a gagging, acrid odor
Tires, which looks black and smells like politics and a warning to stay away
Shacks, which smells like poverty and loss
Incense, which is a combination of frankincense and perfume burned over coals
Exhaust, which I count in this category because it is smoky and choking and makes me think that either something inside the truck is burning or something inside my body is burning from inhaling the chemicals.

Cooking Thing Smell
These are smells I enjoy!
Frying onions, boiling goat meat, samboosa, shaah (tea)...

Dead Thing Smell
I get a lot of this on my runs and can almost tell how long an animal has been dead and what animal it is before seeing it, just by smelling it. I won't tell you any more, it is gag-worthy.

Bodily Function Smell
Urine, feces, sweat...Our coworkers have counted nine men urinating at one time on the wall across the street from their front door. I can tell the difference between workout sweat, it is July and I walked across the room sweat, it is July and I have been out all day and haven't had a chance to shower yet sweat and I have never had a shower in my life sweat.

Earth/Nature Smell
Did you know dust has a smell? It smells different depending on if it has been hanging in the air for weeks, if it has just been kicked up by a passing car or if the guard has spent the night watering it.
The delicious smell of the sea, reminding me every day that we live minutes from the ocean.
The sea smell also comes with rotting fish and seaweed but I'll take it.

Party Smells
Perfume
Incense
Perfume
Rings of Jasmine
Perfume
Sweat (the I did shower today, but it is still July and since I tried to cover it up with perfume it is sweet and not rancid)
Perfume

Smell is such a powerful sensory tool and carries so many emotions in one short sniff. When the smells from Djibouti, good and bad, are all added together and then I add a little homemade bread and some chocolate chunk cookies, it smells like home.