Where's the glue?

Due to some trips, visitors, and other breaks from the normal, this last week was the first time that I have had Daniella and Micah in school for 5 full, consecutive days of school. It has been so good. From now until Christmas the schedule should be much more regular and I am glad that all of us can get into a regular routine. Once again, I’m learning how different the way I have done school in the past is from the way I do school now. 

At Walla Walla, in my dorm room I had a desk full of odds and ends, papers, notebooks, binders, gobs of books, internet access. There was a bookstore down the street, friends living in the village, a cafeteria, Safeway, Taco Bell. If I forgot something it wasn’t far back to the dorm, easy to call a friend or look it up, fine to climb in my car and go get whatever it was I needed. There were layers that cushioned me. I could rely, and did rely, on these layers. That usually worked just fine there. Here it is just a little different. Working with kids is just a little different. With those layers gone I am realizing how much I just launched into things just assuming they would work out.

Assuming it would work out, I started Micah into an assignment the other day. I got out the page for him to do in reading. It requires him to read a short sentence, cut it out, and glue it next to the picture that illustrates what the sentence says. We began. He read the sentences through and we pointed to the pictures. Then it was time to cut them out. 

“Where are the scissors?”

“Check the basket.”

“No, I can’t find them.”

 Hmmm...I get up to check. Here they are, under the Egypt book. 

“Are we going to learn about Egypt?” 

“Yep!”

“Today?”

“No, not today.”

“Are we going to make the that thing the boy is playing with?”

“Maybe, we’ll see.”

“Okay, because I would really like hmmm...to do that.” 

We make it back to the desk. Razz the kitten walks by. Micah scoops her up and deposits her into his desk. 

“Look at Razz Miss Annika! I think she likes it there.”

“Yes, I think so Micah. Okay, let’s cut out the sentences now and glue them.”

Sentences cut out. Now where is the glue? “Oh bother...should have got that when we got the scissors”,  I think. “I’ll get it Micah! You just stay there.”

I look for the glue. Where did I leave it? I had it yesterday when we were making the bean ten stick...there it is. Back to Micah’s desk. 

“Look Miss Annika! Razz is playing with my pencil! Where did the sentences go?” 

The sliding glass door is open, offering a clue. “Oh shoot...should have had that closed,” I chide myself. 

“Okay, well, let’s pick them up!”

One is under the sofa. 

“Look at this Miss Annika! Razz's marble! I’ll put it by her other toys.” 

He scurries off before I have time to protest. Finally, scissors, glue, sentences and Micah all collected he matches his sentences with the pictures and glues them down.

Micah is a first grader. He is learning how to do this whole school thing. No matter how good I am he will still get distracted and that is ok. Both kids are getting used to this year’s routine. And while they are learning, I am learning to help them. I am learning to think through ALL the steps slowly and carefully, to have the glue set out, the door shut, and the activity tested. I am learning to make sure things are charged when the power is on so they can be used when the power is off. I am learning to shop for the week’s fresh produce on Tuesdays and to think through what I’m planning to make before trying to make it. To remember to start laundry while there are still enough clothes for a little while because it sometimes takes things a few days to dry. I think this is all very good for me. Even with thinking through everything life isn't fool proof, but I am learning that thinking through where the glue is instead of assuming it is there is a good way to go.

Folic Acid.

Two Thursdays ago Shundel and I stumbled upon a boy in diapers. He was probably 8 or 9, had two crooked feet, two shriveled legs, and a grapefruit sized lump at the base of his spine. Leaving the house I could taste the tears in my throat. What future does a boy like that have in a place like this? How could God let a child like that be born in a place like this? 

People here are money poor but relatively resource rich. There are trees loaded with breadfruit, papaya, and bananas. Just climb them. Fences are covered with passion fruit. Pick them. Water coconut is an excellent electrolyte replacing drink if anyone gets dehydrated. Chop a hole and drink up. A piece of basil put in the ground will grow roots within days. But is it a place for a boy who can not walk? No. How is he to survive? He will just be a burden and probably be thrown out or died young, never to marry, never to go to school, never to run, or even voluntarily relieve himself. Worse, my guess is that a timely dose of folic acid would have circumnavigated the whole situation. I thought, “That child and his mother need Jesus, but what she really needed was some folic acid.” Standing there I wished that I had the power to heal, but more than that I wished I had the power to prevent.

I spent the next Tuesday morning at Mabaruma Hospital helping with the weekly maturity clinic. About 30 pregnant women came for a check up. I took their blood pressure, weighed them, gave and read a simple urine test (protein, pH, glucose). Then they were off to Nurse Jesse. After I was done admitting everyone I went back to Nurse Jesse too and watched as she measured the height of the uterine fundus, found the fetal heartbeat in appropriate cases, and sometimes checked their iron levels. The women are also tested twice for HIV during the course of their pregnancies. Nurse Jesse then gave them the a supply of iron and folic acid supplements to last until their next clinic day. I helped where I could; tried measuring the fundul height, heard the hearts beat, and folded pill envelopes. Jesse asked me to pour 14 pills into an envelope and I grabbed the bottle of folic acid by its unsecured top sending the whole bottle open onto the floor. Pills skittered away. 

Nurse Jesse laughed at me, the pregnant mother laughed at me, I laughed at myself. But as I swept up the pills I saw the boy in his diaper sitting in the dirt. 

The women who come to maternity clinic come mostly from the areas around Mabaruma. That could mean walking a few miles, riding on the back of a motorcycle, or catching a bus-or a mix of any of those. Some make the trip in from the river, paddling a dugout canoe from their homes to the town of Kumaka and then walking or taking a bus up the hill to Mabaruma. I don’t know how long the trips are to retrieve their iron and folic acid. But they come in on their assigned day, cushioning their unborn children as best they can. But what about the boy’s mother? I don’t know where she was when she was carrying him. He is living in Mabaruma Settlement now-under five miles from the hospital and shorter then that to a place where busses go. Did she come and get unlucky? Were they out of folic acid because someone spilled? Was she unable to come? Ignorant? Or was she just lazy? In order to know how to prevent I think it necessary to know the perpetrator. Why was a child like that born in a place like this? 

But God. But God, as he so often does, takes the thing we are so focused on in our attempts to help and shifts the focus. Takes our perspective and injects it with something that defies human logic. In John 9, when the boy was born blind, Jesus answered those seeking the perpetrator as such, “His blindness has nothing to do with his sins or his parents’ sins. He is blind so that God’s power might be seen at work in him.” [John 9:3] Who “caused” this is irrelevant. That child was born to show God’s power working. Just as I was. He is not broken beyond repair. He is still as fit for the purpose for which he was created as I am. Can I, believing in a all powerful God, believe too that a boy who can not walk or control his bladder has been forgotten by God? That his birth was an accident or oversight? That he has no future? That God has no use for him? I cannot. I don't know what plans God has for that child and I am not really sure what this all means yet. But somehow God is still present.

Incomparable

Monday I decided it was taking too much energy to compare things here to life in the States. People live full, happy lives here without experiencing the joys of a crisp apple and so I can too. I can’t have a peach, but I can have sumatoo (built like a passion fruit, tastes like a pomegranate. Fantastic.). There isn’t hot water, but honestly, who needs hot water? Cool feels better here anyway. On Wednesday, walking down to Van Fossen’s to help Chrystal tutor 3 neighbor boys, I decided I loved it here. I love setting my own schedule. I like this relaxed pace-no one is ever too busy or to return a smile and say “Good morning!” or “Good afternoon!”. I feel like a tight spring inside of me is slowly releasing as I sleep off my sleep debt, walk everywhere and challenge my brain in new ways. Dani and Micah have been on vacation with their parents so I have been doing this by going with Shundel as she checks up on sick people and gives hydrotherapy treatments, reading Bible stories to Mrs. Smith and Sister Iris; who are mostly blind and totally blind, volunteering at the hospital, and helping Chrystal tutor Elden, Alex and Ronny.  

My garden plot. Complete with drainage ditch.

Elden, Alex, and Ronny are in sixth, third, and first standard respectively and they are relearning to read and count. Supposedly the “standards” are equivalent to US grade levels-but not in reality. When the boys first started visiting Chrystal to be taught they knew most of the alphabet but didn't know most of the sounds the letters make. They were trying to sound out words by repeating the names of the letters. Because of this, we are instructing all three at the same basic level. Now they can get the right sound with each letter most of the time. In Math these little guys know how to count to 10 but do not associate the symbols for 7, 8, 9 with the actual quantity. Of course, without a solid understanding of how numbers work addition and subtraction are difficult. When we add one tile to the rest they don’t think of the next number in sequence, they just recount. We are starting at the beginning, trying to help them unlearn old habits and make new building blocks. Working with Elden, Alex, and Ronny is a challenge that I have honestly been enjoying. It is a stretch to explain old things in new ways hoping that they understand.

I have also been trying to learn to cook here. Shundel is a great cook-which is good otherwise we would both be living off passion fruit and potatoes. I managed a passable dry bake (kind of like naan) this morning-with fried potatoes. The beans I tried mid week were a total fail. Breadfruit is good-it tastes like a potato and we have a tree out back that the neighbor says we are welcome to take from. I climbed it this afternoon and picked one. I also tried to plant a garden. As I was starting to dig out my garden plot I was surrounded by 6 boys. They asked what I was doing. When I told them I was planting a garden they laughed my attempts and took the pick ax to show me how gardening is done. Taking turns they dug out a bed, cleaned it, planted my thick leaf callaloo, planted peppers, watered the starts and then Emmanuel (his is the only name I remember) called back me as they walked off “You got to water it each morning Miss!” I continue to be amazed by the kindness of these people.

Today's Best Place

Mabaruma is a small town (pop 1500-2000) built on the ridge line above two valleys. The people here are mostly Amerindian; the native population of Guyana before the English, Dutch, blacks and East Indians arrived. They are short, dark skinned and have dark hair. Mabaruma also has a fair number of blacks but I think fewer East Indians proportionally then Georgetown (a note on race and the discussion of race in Guyana: there is no such thing as political correctness. If someone is black, you call them black (or even “coolies”-British carryover). If someone is East Indian it is okay to say so. It isn’t even considered derogatory to call someone fat or “fine” (skinny). You are what you are. As I was walking the other day a little girl called out to me “White Miss! White Miss! Good afternoon!” and that was just right). Things are just tougher here; laundry, clean water, food. They all require much more work to get then in the states. Even the vegetables are tougher. I went to the market on Tuesday with Shundel and was so excited to find something they called spinach there. As soon as I got it home I rinsed it, bleached it, rinsed it in clean water, and then stuck it into my mouth. Mid-chew Shundel queried, “What’s that you’re eating?” 

“Spinach!” I replied triumphantly. 

“Ohhh...it make your mouth itch!” 

And just about then it started. “Spinach” here has tiny spines on it. I spat out the offensive vegetable and dejectedly garaged salt water to clean my cuts. Lesson learned. 

I feel safe here in Mabaruma-despite the vegetables. There is little crime, I haven’t seen any snakes (I’m guessing they are not terribly common-both Dani and Micah run around barefoot and the worst they get aside from cuts are chiggers, which, while unpleasant, are not dangerous), and the people like both Americans and missionaries. The sun pretty much sets and rises at 6 each day. Bucket showers take a little getting used to but they are quite doable. There are far too many bugs to count or stress about. So I’m trying to stop. 

I am not comfortable here yet but I see how I could be comfortable here and that is encouraging. I miss home. Being away at college or camp and being away in Guyana are much different. Something about knowing that my parents or friends could not be here quickly even if they really wanted to be makes it feel much farther away. I have been having some culture shock-trouble eating new food (beyond when the food tries to eat me), waking up happy, etc etc. The end of last week and beginning of this week were particularly hard but Wednesday, Thursday and today have been much better. I hope and believe that things will continue to get better. One day at a time.

I know I am supposed to be here. To get me here has been a journey, one that I will write about some other time. But through the process I have seen the hand of God and I know that I am supposed to be here. And so here I am. Uncomfortable but adjusting; knowing that I am in the right place. Which, really, is the best place to be.

Photo Link

For some reason Facebook's photo uploader seems to upload pictures faster then Blogspot's. Here is a link to view my photos on Facebook. I will post the majority there but still include the pictures relevant to what I am writing about on this blog. Sorry for the inconvenience!

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150313668504646.342093.561464645&l=ec825e125d&type=1