Baby Stepping to the Elevator

I'm not adjusting well. Mostly, I wish there were more sunshine and warmth here. I'm not doing terribly, but it's turning out to be a rougher transition than I anticipated. So I think I'll try a little blog therapy and tell you about where on earth I was all month. With pictures (hurray! I love pictures!).

Mtsiliza:

Every day, the lovely Mel or Amy carted us off to Faith Christian Academy in a village called Mtsiliza. It was only about a 15 minute trek, but it was packed full of sensory delights. People sold mangos, roasted maize, coal, wood, fried mice on a stick, tomatoes and other items on the side of the road - even the side of the highway. A pile of garbage or plantlife usually burned somewhere by the road. The rainy season infused broad-leafed green life over everything that wasn't the packed red dirt or tarmac, and maize or tobacco fields stretched out to the horizon. We turned into the bumpy dirt road leading to the village sometimes at our peril; if it had been raining for an entire day the mud was as slippery as Spokane slush, and the van could easily get stuck in a ditch filled with miscellaneous trash and sewage.

People walked and biked down the road, usually carrying something impossibly heavy or awkward with grace. While the men usually sold produce or other goods on the sides of the roads, the women were usually engaged in some kind of manual labor. They either carried large buckets of water on their head and a bag of produce in their hands with a baby strapped to their backs, or were in their yards scrubbing pots with dirt and water, washing clothes, or stirring nsima in their outdoor kitchen. The children who couldn't afford school ran out at the van and yelled, "Foreigners! Foreigners!" waving wildly.

No electricity. They pumped water to bring it home in buckets. Flies jumping from children's faces to open sores on the mangy dogs to the corn drying on mats. Holes in the ground for toilets.

Roughly 40% of the people in Mtsiliza are HIV positive. Roughly 1 in 4 children die before the age of five. So many babies are stillborn that it is culturally taboo to talk about a woman being pregnant until she gives birth.



This was the village in which I worked, attended church, ate meals, and developed relationships.


Here we met the group of widows I posted about earlier, who are learning how to knit, crochet, sew, and embroider so they can support their families (some have as many as 10 children). These widows took us in and embraced us with a joy I have never seen before.


Here 400 children lined up for lunch provided by Children of the Nations. For some of them it was their only meal.

Here a group of young boys tried to give us a drum lesson. They were very enthusiastic, but their rhythms were a little too quick and complicated for me.

Here we met the girls in the Girls' Home. I'll have to talk about them more later. They deserve their own post.



That's all I've got for tonight.