Only in Indonesia. (May 2010)

Only in Indonesia… does your landlord decide he is going to seize nearly half of your (already rented and paid for) house so that he and his family can live there. Perhaps he promises that it will only be used once a month by him and his immediate family. However, this is Indonesia. The notion of family extends to brothers, sisters, parents, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, second-cousins, third-cousins, close friends, neighbors, work colleagues, the local religious leaders, friends-of-a-friend, a favorite ojek driver, random people you meet on the bus, the woman who sells you vegetables, etc. etc. etc. Thus Brenda and I were a bit apprehensive. The landlord didn’t even inform us. He just inserted a ply-wall divider. We could have pushed it over with one hand. Safety issues aside…. Will these people want to use our kamar kecil? What if they need water? What if we want to use the veranda? Will they be suspicious if we have visitors? Will they cook smelly foods? What about utility bills? Hey I’m all for sharing. But sometimes I want to be selfish… is that so wrong? We triumphantly stood our ground.

Only in Indonesia… does the pilot invite a passenger in the cockpit of a commercial flight. Isn’t there somekind of international rule about those doors being locked? Flores, Sumbawa, Lombok, Penida, Lembongan, Bali. The dashboard GPS guided the plane as the pilots joked and posed for photos. Don’t you guys need to be like holding a wheel or something?? They assured me it was easy. So easy they even let me do a bit of steering. Food for thought on your next trip to Bali… who is flying the plane today??

Only in Indonesia… will a police officer willing hand you his gun for a photo opt. During our recent visit to Bajawa to register with the police, Morris and I stopped to chat with a group of police. They all wanted photos with Morris. Jokingly (ok, only partially) I asked to hold the gun. No problemo!! They even opened it up into the ready-to-use position. Have these guys ever heard of crazy, trigger-happy gunmen/women?

Only in Indonesia… can an organization implement a program called ‘cuci otak’. Brenda proposed a much more optimistic translation… mind cleansing. I, however, couldn’t get past the idea that my partners where going to be undertaking a bit of brainwashing with the farmers. Maybe YMTM has thrown in the towel with participation… they’ll just ‘cuci otak’ the farmers instead. Will it all finish with a ‘magic serum’? A spaceship invasion? A major conspiracy by ‘the man’?

Only in Indonesia… do I help the ferry captain light his cigarette as he relinquishes the ‘controls’ of the boat (which looks barely able to stay afloat) to my steady hand. Hopefully this is not a three-hour tour Gilligan-style.

Only in Indonesia…

There's a scorpion on my wall. (25 April 2010)

Sunday morning. My only day off during the week. After 3 days of waking before dawn for various and very unnecessary reasons, I was sooo looking forward to sleeping in. But this is Indonesia.

Contrary to popular belief chickens crow way before the sun peeps above the horizon… And seemingly louder before daylight.

The motorcycles on the street loudly revved their engines starting sometime before six.

The first text message vibrates my cellphone at 6:50. The next one at 6:53. Then at 7:00.

At somepoint in the last hour a group of boys identified our street corner for a game of ‘rock-throwing’ (apparently a favorite in the absence of balls).

And now it’s 8:11. I’m staring down a scorpion that has taken up residency on the wall beside my bed. Somehow the thin mosquito net creates (perhaps false) sense of security from the curly tailed creature. What does one do with a scorpion on the wall?? Times like this I feel so ill-equipped to deal with the ‘real world’. Funny to think that most people outside of North America and Europe probably would know exactly what to do when they wake-up with a scorpion on their wall. But I’ll have to give it some thought. Nevertheless, I will soon need to leave my mozzy-free sanctuary soon… a bladder can only hold so much for so long.

But more importantly… coffee. Sunday’s are my days to forgo the familiar instant Nestcafe in lieu of a brewed filtered coffee. Apparently some of the world’s best coffee (according to an Indonesian source) is grown in the mountains on Flores. The “coffee cherries” are harvested, dried, and the skin removed. Inside each red cherry is one bean (two halves). Have you noticed the vast bins of beans at Starbucks? And have you by chance noticed the superfluity of coffee shops. That’s a hell of a lot of coffee cherries. Here it is an absurdity to buy coffee. People simply harvest from their garden, their trees… or their neighbors. The beans are dried in the sun on excess corrugated tin roofing. Then fried (often with bits of ginger) in a wok over a wood fire until they turn black. The smell is incredible. The women then pound the coffee with a stone until powdery. A heaping tablespoon of coffee powder is spooned into a juice glass… a coffee mug would be pretentious (if you could find one). Then as local custom two heaping tablespoons of unrefined sugar (it would be bad form to not have sugar as this is a sign of ‘wealth’). Boiling hot water is slung across the row of glasses, creating a sloppy mess of black ooze. Wait a few minute for the coffee to settle so as not have a mouthful of black grit and stop before you reach the black sludge in the bottom of your glass. So it might be good stuff... but seriously I still would give a kidney to be able to pop down to the corner coffee shop for a latte. Starbucks, where are you when I need you???

Easter in Riung (6 April 2010)

10:30 on a Tuesday.

I suspected the office staff would be sparse during the Easter holiday. However, not quite this sparse. I didn’t work a lick for the entire last week and this is the second day with no signs of life. There is a rumor that we are having a meeting tonight. So I’ve come home… to wait for the workday to begin (maybe). After a brief moral struggle, I am savoring my icy margarita-esque drink. I assure you that drinking at 10:30 on a workday with intentions of going to the office in a bit is not a normal course of action. However, somehow I felt deserving as I sit, dripping sweat, under the corrugated tin roof with no electric and no work to be done. And indeed it is delish… cheers to tequila, salt, and limes.

******

Easter weekend.

Last Easter a VSO group converged upon the beach in Maumere for a lobster feast and copious bottles of cold Bintang. This year lacked a definite plan for passing the long weekend. So I sent out an SOS, inviting all volunteers with in a 10 hour radius to join me in neighboring Riung. Two takers. My co-volunteer in Mbay and an Irishman who braved a bus literally overflowing with passengers (Mark at least managed a seat inside on a coil of rope arranged in the aisle… other brave souls clung to the roof or sat in the windows as the bus no doubt haphazardly cruised the desolate north road en-route to Mbay).

Riung is praised for boasting the ‘Seventeen Islands National Park’. The park comprises of not 17 but rather more than 20 islands… some of which are located under the water (???). Mark and I agreed that we are pretty sure that part of the requirements to be an island is to be a body of land that is surrounded by water… not covered by it. Nevertheless, it was lovely. A sleepy palm –tree-lined town completely void of tourist except for our small posse.

The hotel manager arranged our entire island hoping excursion (as well as accompanying us... not sure if this was out of necessity or rather boredom). With a breakfast of banana pancakes in our stomachs and bags loaded with bottles of water, we boarded the whitewashed boat.

First stop was the bat island. A herd? flock? pride? pod? … a lot of flying foxes (big fruit bats) have colonized an island near the coast of Flores. The tree tops no longer green are shrouded in a screeching, grey flutter of nocturnal life.

On the way to our lunching local, we stopped to take in the underwater coral gardens. Crystal clear, we gazed in to the depths of the sea as the boat anchored onto a floating water bottle that marked the snorkeling spot. Throughout the day, we stopped at 3 different snorkeling locals. Each spectacularly rewarding.

Vividly colored fish in a vast array of sizes and levels of inquisitiveness.

Shy sea turtles.

Massive starfish.

Black spiky urchins.

An array of coral in various rainbowed hues.

But lunch. Astonishingly exhausted after merely floating around on the still waters, we were welcomed to our very own white sand rimmed, deserted island. Our guide and boat captain set to work… cleaning fish, building a fire from deteriorating coconut husks (shells), mixing up a special fish marinade. Besides sand and coconut trees, the island oddly had 3 shaded, tiled tables (albeit fairly rundown, obviously from better days) and just enough wooden chairs (although one was missing a leg and two more had lost their backs) for our party. Rice, grilled fish, green vegetables, and a sweet-lemon-chili accompaniment were scooped into woven baskets. Toes in the sand and a picture perfect turquoise sea painted before our eyes. The still green mountains of Flores hovering not far away, fluffy white clouds tickling their peaks.

Indeed, we might not have celebrated the holiest day on the island in a church bursting with parishioners, but we did celebrate. We soaked it in…

The big VSO event. (30 March 2010)

I fail to be able to translate dengue fever into Bahasa Indonesia. So I continue to let everyone believe that I have malaria. They both are the result of mosquitos. And the empathy necessitated is surely in equal measure. I was determined not to lavish on the woes-me. I was determined to carry-on functioning. I wasn’t dying after all. However, it was when I heard that we were going to Bajawa for a (maybe) a week that I suddenly felt decapacitateingly ill. Life could not go on as normal. So I bailed at the crossroads and continued my journey to Mbay. Informing every listening ear of my illness. That’s right Sir, I’m facing a near death from ‘malaria’.

Just back from a week in Bali for an Annual VSO mtg. I spent a great deal of the time catching up on sleep and cable television… and daily blood tests at the hospital. However, I thought the highlight of the week was probably the rap written and performed by John and I about each volunteer. Showcasing our not-so-secret ghetto fabulousness. Or perhaps it was the cultural night where each country performs something special, something cultural. Typically involving costume, dance, song, etc, etc. This is always a stumper for us North Americans (USA and Canada Unite!). Nevertheless, we pulled out a stellar performance this year as we showcased our talent (or lack of) at setting up a tent, building a (pretend) campfire, and roasting (pretend) marshmallows. Unfortunately, we did not receive a thunderous applause. More like a perplexed silence.

Ok, perhaps not the most impressive cultural performance.

The community day was definitely the highlight. Teaming up with a local community environmental group, we started an insanely hot morning off with a community and beach clean-up. Our brilliant red VSO t-shirts turning a dark blood color from the buckets of sweat that seemed not humanly possible. Next came lunch. Assorted types of seaweed and fishballs… and rice. Despite the nose wrinkling it was incredibly tasty. Then on to the main event. Coral planting.

The local group, Kelompok Nelayan Pesisir, began transplanting coral in 2002 using methods of grafting. They use cement bases to glue on bits of harvested ‘seed coral’ in order to encourage coral re-growth and thus increasing a nearly depleted fish population (who live amongst the coral). The leader of the group, Pak Wayan Patut, has shared his experience locally as well as internationally. Several years ago he traveled to Johannesburg, South Africa for the UN Earth Summit to promote this project and lobby for environmental awareness. Pretttty cool.

We loaded a giant cement ‘VSO’ and 50ish people into three boats and set off for the coral gardens. Several of the group dived into retrieve seed coral and as the rest waited on the boats… groaning with increasingly seasickness and nausea from the motion of the ocean. Opting for more stable land, we headed for the beach to the cutting and gluing of coral. Although, mostly the volunteers just frolicked in the clear water. Then back to sea, where we donned snorkels and watched as the coral was transplanted into the VSO letters now resting at the bottom of the ocean. Soooo… if you ever happen along a coral encrusted large ‘VSO’ off of the Bali shore, this my friends is how it got there…

Vibrations. (13 February 2010)

Last night there was an earthquake while Bali slept (except for the still-raging drunken Aussie wonderland of nightlife in Kuta). I thought my phone was vibrating. Perhaps I shall reduce the cellular vibrations.

3 dogs and a monkey. (2 February 2010)

VSO is renting me a kost (a private room in a family’s home) for the next couple of weeks while I catch up on language and wait for the visa to clear. They are an inquisitive lot, but always friendly. Unlike their pets. A rather large grey monkey kept in a rather small grey cage. A lazy turtle and his fishy friends in a cement ‘puddle’. Several noisy birds. And three angry dogs. The dogs seem to have an acute sense of smell as I walk towards the metal gate each afternoon or evening they go crazy. Barking. Growling. Gnashing. Pouncing. To open the gate I just have to slip my hand through a small hole at the bottom and lift the stop. The family assure me to coo to the dogs and sing their names. Right. These dogs are hungry for human (aka my) flesh. Plus, with major rabies problem in Bali… nooooo thank you. Therefore I shall patiently wait each day for someone to come rushing out to see who might be the intruder and open the gate. It’s me…

**********

Ibu brings brown sticky goo. Remember gak? Sweet and slightly salty with small lumps that remind me of fish eyes. Typically a huge fan of Indonesian food… but this goes on the never to eat again list. The toilet wasn’t even a fan.

A brief encounter in South Africa. (December 2009)

I flew back to the states via Johannesburg. After our rafting adventure in Vic Falls, we celebrated our survival at the local hostel. (With about 100 Swedish over-landers… yikes!) A poster advertised their ‘sister’ hostel in Jo’burg. Easy and convenient, I booked. On the first night the only other occupant in the dorm was a Peace Corps guy finishing his duties in Lesotho. Awaking to a massive down pour, with no sign of stopping, the hostel owner (who lived there with his family… it was more like his house with a bunch of bunk beds in one of the rooms) offered to drop us off at the mall to catch a movie. Very cultural, indeed! But I love going to the movies. The Peace Corps dude was a ‘Master’ in African history and since in South Africa it seemed only appropriate to watch Invictus. Good choice for a rainy day in SA.

Small world-ness case 1:

As the owner’s 7 year old daughter sat on the bed doing my hair, into the dorm walks a guy I had met in Malawi. Small world. We shared our adventures and travels from the past couple of months. We were in the suburbs of Jo’burg (read: this hostel did not have bar), plus I was exhausted from a hard day at the cinema I went to sleep early.

Small world-ness case 2:

I stir from a light sleep as two new people arrived in the dorm room. Malawi acquaintance seems to know them… I open my eyes only to realize, so do I. I had also met them in Malawi… only on a separate occasion. Crazy small world.

J and I both had night flights back to the states. He had hoped to spend his last day in Africa getting a firsthand perspective of HIV/AIDS in SA. But no luck at gaining access to a clinic. So we started chatting about going out to one of the townships. A tour was expensive… and touristy. We can do this on our own… we are Americans after all! But which one isn’t that dangerous? And how to get there? We seek local advice.

Taxi – too dangerous. And expensive. Sure to be mugged and stranded somewhere.

Train – too dangerous. Will be mugged and thrown off the tracks. Will probably die.

Walking – too dangerous. And too far. Muggings are highly likely.

Bus – too dangerous. But chances of muggings and certain death are the most minimal.

Hmmm…

The hostel owner insists on dropping us and picking us up from the mini bus terminal. He directs us to go to a not-super-dangerous township. We asked a woman where she was headed. Sounds ok (but really what do we know?). We asked the mini-bus driver to drop us at the same place and climbed in the front seat with another passenger… 4 in the front is way better than 50 wedged in the back. Score.

Is it better to have nothing if mugged? Or to have something to give them for their efforts? We flipped a coin and went with the former, literally leaving everything in the hostel and only bringing along exact fare for the mini-bus. The township residents etch out an amazing existence… out of nothing and everything. Our rubbish becomes their homes. Their worldly possessions. ‘Houses’ made out of scrapes yet with meticulous flower beds out front. Roses in bloom. A small group of girls follows us for a while. Giggling. And giggling. And giggling. They guided us away from the sections of ‘town’ where death was certain and “people are stabbed”. Thanks girls.

Jason and I survived the adventure and bid adieu at our departure gates. Honestly, it all seemed rather tame. No big encounter. No big trouble. Over exaggerations? Or our under awareness?

Victoria Falls. (December 2009)

Chipata to Victoria Falls… what a trek! One corner of Zambia to the other. We boarded the bus in Chipata before day break. And two days later we arrive in Vic Falls well after dark. Not a continuous trip, we did have a brief reprieve from bus seats, thanks to Albert’s aunt and uncle for hosting us at their farm on our night stopover outside of Lusaka. Admittedly we would have reached the hotel in Vic Falls much earlier if we had been delayed at the border crossing (we were staying on the Zimbabwean side of the falls). Albert (a Zambian) had under-estimated his power of persuasion as he did not actually have a passport… he had applied but not allowing enough time for processing before the trip. Over an hour later and an encounter with mischievous baboon that caused a bit of a ruckus in the immigration office, Albert had papers for a 24 hour stay. Not quite the 7 days we had planned but he was certain to get it worked out.

We stayed on the edge of a national park. The front of our chalet rolled up so we could watch the warthogs root around the grassy lawn with their warthog-let babies. Our kitchen door reminded us to keep it locked… to keep out the naughty baboons. Although no matter how long we sat outside staring into the forest beyond we never sighted any baboons or anything larger… perhaps that is a lucky thing? However, from the main lodge we did sip an occasional Zambezi beer while gazing out at the leggy impala and waterbuck, and the copious varieties of birds that all came to the watering hole. One afternoon Matthias decided he was going to go down to the water for a closer view. Obviously he had missed the electrified heavy duty barbed wire fence. But those people are down there. Those people, Matthias, are birds. Very very large birds.

Each morning Matthias treated us to fresh baked bread. God bless Italy. And at night we shared in the dinner responsibilities. One night spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce. One night a barbeque. One night a very random assortment of munchies after returning from a river cruise above the falls on the Zambezi river. We had taken full advantage of the free booze… making great friends with the bartenders and a small child whose mother was notably a bit anxious as Matthias swung her son over the railing to get a better view of the hungry-hungry hippos. The river cruise was a gift to Albert. It took him 2 days back in Zambia to work out his passport situation. Sensing he was a bit bummed we surprised him when he returned with the cruise.

And a day of jumping off cliffs... although strategically not the following day.

My nerves immediately gave way as my legs transformed to rubber, staring down from the cliffs to the river below. The harness cinched tightly around my waist and between my legs, making walking to the first thrill ride a significant challenge. A total of three different types of jumps for the day… three different leaps of death.

Defying death, Jump 1

The ‘flying fox’.

A running leap. Hands out. Superman style. The harness allowed us one by one to glide out across the gorge. A good beginner to the day. Why start with certain death?

Defying death, Jump 2

Zip Line

Sitting in my harness at the edge of a platform, legs dangling over the rocky gorge and river far below. 1-2-3… the cord was released and I zipped down and out. Heart pumping as I swung back and forth, suspend like a ticking pendulum of a clock, waiting for my rescue guy to heave me back to the safety of solid ground.

Defying death, Jump 3

Gorge Swing

In theory it didn’t seem like a big challenge. Freefalling head first into a gorge… how scary is that, right? No problemo. Once again I overestimated myself… and my false sense of fearlessness. I admit it. Bungee-esque. Free fall but instead of springing up and down, we swung out over the gorge. The cords attached around my waist were heavy and pulled me out to the ledge. On the video, I confess to being “really scared”. And then the supervisor pushed me. Holy shit (that’s the PG version). Diving into death, I prayed for angles.

While Albert was away. Verena, Matthias, and I went white water rafting. Climbing down into the steep, rocky gorge with paddle in hand we joined our rafting ‘crew’, a hodgepodge of intrepid backpackers. Evidently in Africa instructions and safety details are not entirely necessary… a quickie 5 minute overview must meet the legal standard. Although I think our Guatemalan comrade could have used a bit more of a briefing. Just the basics… like everyone is supposed to paddle (he did very little) and posing for photo opts when going through the rapids may cause the boat to flip (which it did…three times). The rapids were pretty wild class 5’ers. On the more mild class 3 rapids, our guide allowed us to swim through. Into the white water. I held on to my lifejacket as I am swept into with a dynamic drop into a whirlpool… there is no going back. My body feels like it hit a wall. Thanks to the power of adrenaline I heave myself into the raft. Happy to have survived I test fate again. And again. I swam through more rapids than I actually stayed in the boat for… not by choice.

And at the end, absolutely exhausted from a swim against the current (it was a fun idea in theory), we climb for an hour out of the gorge. Collapsing at the top. Literally.

Victoria Falls. A spectacular natural wonder. Viewing from the Zimbabwean side we took in the thundering cascades. The rising mist so great it soaks our clothes even under the penetrating sun. It keeps the cliffs green and lush. One can walk right to the edge. No railing. No warning sign. Safety first is apparently an absent theme. Rainbows scatter across the rock river base far below. We sit on the warm black rocks, dangling our feet over the edge, attempting to soak in the enormity of the water surging over and through the gorge with such power. It is thrilling. It is beautiful.

Our last dinner together, we don proper African attire. My new chitenge traditional Zambian-style outfit was a surprise gift from Verena, Matthias, and Albert. They had it made in the market… showing a woman my photo and it fit perfectly! Dinner was a feast of African food. Appetizers of impala meat. Goat screwed and roasted above an open fire. Curries of warthog. Chewy worms. And chocolate cake. A fortune teller sat in a tip-pee under dangles of garland. A man with a palate went around the tables to paint faces… not so traditional but rather with things like giraffes and flowers. There were various Zimbabwean dancers dressed in animal skins that moved their legs faster than I ever thought to be humanly possible. The night wrapped up as everyone remaining in the open air venue received a painted African drum for a group drumming session. We followed the rhythm… or at least gave it our best effort. Joining in with the dancing as others kept the beat going strong. Touristy sure. But a fun night to bid farewell to friends.

A backlog from Africa. (December 2009)

Rosie and I road our bicycles out to Marco’s school. Marco is an Italian guy who started the Magazine Christian Mission School a number of years ago for orphaned children. It was the last day of class and reason for celebration! Who can argue with that!? The recognition of attendance and scholarship had already begun (yes, it seems to be a universal school-thing!) as we arrived dripping sweat and with dirty red feet from the off-road, up-hill biking. The students formed navy blue lines under the shade of a mango tree. The smallest and most squirmy stood nearest the ‘authorities’; the older students in more practiced rows. The awards? Bars of soap. Can you imagine giving 7 or 9 year olds soap for prizes at home? I think it might go down just as well as getting clothes for a birthday or Christmas. But these kids were excited!

As if a wall had been dislodged the children feel from their straight lines into a clump of broad white smiles and scrawny limbs. A few pre-teen girls took turns on the microphone, belting out with ceaseless self-assurance songs in their native tongue. The enthusiasm was viral as the tiny crowd cheered, clapped, and joined in on the chorus. And as quickly as it had all begun, the smiles and limbs dashed off to play the games that Matthias and Verena (volunteers at the school) had prepared.

Sack races,

Jump rope contests,

Stilt walking,

Volleyball (with a rope in lieu of a net),

Obstacle course races.

Laughter and smiles.

And then I cycled downhill watching out for rogue golf balls as I took the short cut through the golf course.

****

Uniting the nations. It very well may have been the most special party I have ever had the good fortune of hosting. I was the lucky one this evening. Friends from around the globe gathered, enjoyed Zambian music, shared in conversation and laughter. It was closure. It was the end of this chapter in life’s adventure. Not a cheerless occasion. On contrary, a joyous party in celebration of new friends, of new experiences, of new perspectives.

I’d been gathering, peeling, and blending mangos from our mango tree in the garden all week. An orange sticky mess that made me reconsider my party plans with each fly that buzzed into through the open door next to the kitchen. A cocktail party… something different! Tomatoes from our garden for the bloody mary’s. Mangos from the shade tree mixed with our prolific basil for sweet twist. Lemons, Spanish apples, and oranges gathered from our yard and neighbors fruit-ified the sangria. Baskets of local spirits glammed up the clear plastic sachets I bought from a man sitting on a wooden bench in the market. Nibbles by the handful from big bowls of freshly popped popcorn. Friends. Friends of friends. New acquaintances. People I’d met earlier at the Magazine School’s (for orphans) last day fun day. North Americans. Europeans. Asians. Africans. I had not invited people under the pretext that this was a leaving do… I was the first performance, the coming-out, for my rasta friends’ reggae band. It just so happened to also be my last weekend in Chipata. Manyon and Dubay had been disappointed a jam session at the Art’s Center when I had said that I wouldn’t be around for their first show. Admittedly, I too was disappointed. So sprung forth the idea of a pre-show party!

The classy wine boxes exhausted and the band packed up… the party rolled down to the street to the night club. Once again we found ourselves dancing away at center stage. Literally. When it is blatantly obvious that you are strange, why try in vain to bend in??? Rock out.

****

I blended the remaining tomatoes that missed their fate in the Bloody Mary mix. Verena and Matthias had invited several of us over for an authentic pizza making event. Matthias, missing his native Italia, built an oven from bricks and scrapes of metal roofing. We sat around a heaving floured table working our little lobes of dough into something resembling a pizza. Except for Albert who fashioned his into a work of art resembling Africa… complete with countries of cheese and ham! Zambia never tasted so good…

****

Giving thanks for my princess-esque lifestyle, I invited Efraim (night security guard), Brenda (housekeeper), and Moses (garden-boy who does very little gardening) for a goodbye lunch in our garden. Zambian cooking to be done by yours truly! Thankfully Brenda and Moses came to the rescue… stirring nshima takes muscle!! Under the purple flowers of the Flamboyant tree, we licked our fingers clean. Two lumps of nshima and a plate full of gooey snot-esque cooked okra.

Over the past several weeks, I have typically always prepared lunch for Brenda, Moses, Rosie and myself as we sit together in the garden. So this lunch didn’t seem so out of the ordinary. However, for Efraim (who eats dinner out in the shelter by the gate door) it was something special. He shared that was happy to be sitting down for a meal for the first time with a ‘muzungu’ (white person). Efraim’s new wife added something in the local language. As she grinned broadly as she put on my sunglasses, Brenda assured me that the woman was impolite and should be ignored. I will miss these friends.