My repertoire of Cameroonian dishes is slowly expanding, most recently to zocalo, which is also called pile. I ate it for the first time in September, and just yesterday got around to trying it for myself. This simple, filling dish consists of mashed ripe plantain with beans. When I mentioned to some Cameroonian friends that I would be making it, they all wanted to come try some! The pot I made fed three children, me, the woman who sold me the palm oil to make it, and had some left for a couple other friends that were delighted to get a little. One commented that I'd done a good job, but could mash it a little more the next time--there were still a few chunks of plantain in it this time.
Some of the ingredients might be hard to find in the U.S. Jennie, one of the girls who tried some, told me that her mom has made it with potatoes. I could see that working, but I think yellow potatoes would be best. I used dried beans that I had already cooked, but canned beans should work just as well if you're in a hurry. Unrefined palm oil gives the dish a lovely orange color (unsurprisingly, it's high in Vitamin A, but also in cholesterol). I doubt you can find it, so some vegetable or olive oil and a bit of achiote (annato) or paprika might do the trick.
Zocalo
8-10 very ripe plantains
2 cups cooked red beans
1-2 onions, chopped roughly
3 tablespoons unrefined palm oil
salt, to taste
Peel the plantains and boil them until very soft. Meanwhile, cook the onion until translucent. When the plantains are easy to pierce with a fork, drain the water. Add the beans, onions, palm oil, and salt and use a potato masher to mash the plantains.
I served this with green beans and carrots that I simply diced and simmered a bit--the combination is fairly Cameroonian.
Bon appetit!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
A Chance Encounter by Godfrey Kain
In October, I had the privilege to visit the Kom Multilingual Education Project, where I was amazed at the level of engagement from students and teachers. A few scenes from the school are featured in a video that I posted several weeks ago; please let me know if you are interested in the link to it. Today I received this short story from a friend. It was written by Godfrey Kain, a Cameroonian who designed many of the materials that the school is using to teach students to read in Kom and then in English.
A Chance Encounter
This past July I went to Fundong (a market town) to take care of some project business. While there I visited some shops looking for items I needed for the house. Standing next to a book store, I was suddenly surprised by a young child who came up to greet me. I didn’t recognize the boy so asked, “Are you going to school?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sederick. "I am attending the government school in Mboh (which teaches the kids using the Kom language)."
“What grade are you in?” I asked.
“I just finished grade 3,” said Sederick.
“Can you read?” I asked.
“Yes, I can,” said Sederick.
I then asked, “In which language can you read?”
“I can read in both English and in Kom,” said Sederick.
“Do you also know how to write as well as read?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Sederick.
At that point I decided to test the kid. I bought a piece of chalk from the bookstore and wrote four sentences on the sidewalk, two in English and two in Kom. Sederick read all four sentences without hesitation. People walking by began to gather in a small crowd to see what was going on.
Then I gave the chalk to Sederick and asked him to write anything he wanted to on the sidewalk. Sederick proceeded to write two long sentences in Kom and two shorter sentences in English. The small crowd now watching stared in amazement and then began to clap.
Among those in the crowd was Sederick’s mother. As the crowd began to disperse, she came up and greeted me amazed that this simple demonstration had produced such applause for her young son. Her eyes brimmed with tears of joy at this public acknowledgment.
A Chance Encounter
This past July I went to Fundong (a market town) to take care of some project business. While there I visited some shops looking for items I needed for the house. Standing next to a book store, I was suddenly surprised by a young child who came up to greet me. I didn’t recognize the boy so asked, “Are you going to school?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sederick. "I am attending the government school in Mboh (which teaches the kids using the Kom language)."
“What grade are you in?” I asked.
“I just finished grade 3,” said Sederick.
“Can you read?” I asked.
“Yes, I can,” said Sederick.
I then asked, “In which language can you read?”
“I can read in both English and in Kom,” said Sederick.
“Do you also know how to write as well as read?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Sederick.
At that point I decided to test the kid. I bought a piece of chalk from the bookstore and wrote four sentences on the sidewalk, two in English and two in Kom. Sederick read all four sentences without hesitation. People walking by began to gather in a small crowd to see what was going on.
Then I gave the chalk to Sederick and asked him to write anything he wanted to on the sidewalk. Sederick proceeded to write two long sentences in Kom and two shorter sentences in English. The small crowd now watching stared in amazement and then began to clap.
Among those in the crowd was Sederick’s mother. As the crowd began to disperse, she came up and greeted me amazed that this simple demonstration had produced such applause for her young son. Her eyes brimmed with tears of joy at this public acknowledgment.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
An Action of Thanks
Thanksgiving is an American holiday.
The impact of those words hit home for me this week, as I'm celebrating it outside of the U.S. for the first time. I'll be dining tonight with my American roommate, a Canadian neighbor, several other American friends, and several Cameroonian friends and colleagues. It's exciting to be able to share this holiday with people here, just as I'm sure it was exciting for my Asian university friends to tell us about their holidays. But it's so different.
To give you a taste of the differences, let me share the last 24 hours with you.
School yesterday was normal. No tropical rains, a pleasant temperature in the afternoon. I went to a meeting about middle school final exams until about 4:15, and then Heidi, a missionary friend, gave me an informal haircut. As she chatted, I sat on a folding chair under a tree, watching brown tufts lift in the breeze and drift onto the green grass. A Cameroonian friend walked by with a grin, possibly thinking that we were starting to fit right in. Here, it's normal for friends to braid each others' hair, often sitting on their porches for hours, depending on the intricacy of the design. Soon after she finished and I checked the finished product, we headed home. Dinner was reheated avocado pasta (recipe coming soon), eaten comfortably in a comfy green disc chair while watching Seinfield episodes with my roommate.
After dinner, Thanksgiving preparations started. Well, really, they started several weeks ago, when I asked my househelp to get a squash that I baked and pureed to use in pie. Last night I thawed a 15-oz bag of it that I'd been keeping in my freezer. Also from the freezer came a pie crust that I had leftover from a dry run a few weeks ago. No matter how many times I've made something before, making it here is like making it for the first time, using new equipment and sometimes different ingredients. A practice pie had banished any worry that my star dessert wouldn't come out. I pressed the crust into the pan, as my test pie had revealed the difficulty of rolling out a crust made with our margarine here. At the same time, I mixed up a chocolate cake. Cameroonians don't usually eat pumpkin pie. Really, nobody but Americans and maybe Canadians eats pumpkin pie, to my knowledge. It's kind of a strange idea, making squash into dessert, so I decided to add a chocolate cake to the menu. Friends that have been here longer have assured me that my Cameroonian friends will enjoy it. So the cake and the pie were finished last night, my only contributions to our potluck meal today.
My alarm went off in the dark this morning. Waited for my shower to heat, knowing without testing by the buttery clay smell dissolved in the warm liquid that it was. I washed, paying special attention to my feet as they're always dirty from being bare, or at most covered in sandals. Dressed in short sleeves and a skirt, washed my hair and put on a favorite pair of elephant earrings, so African that nobody wears them here. Realized that I didn't have bread for breakfast, so I mashed half an avocado with lime and trotted over to the corner store, where the owner, Silas, sold me a baguette for 150 cfa (less than 50 cents). I met the other teachers at our van and chewed my bread with guacamole as we drove to school. A hectic morning ensued. I had two classes to teach, an independent Spanish student to meet with, and needed to finish preparing materials for a professional development session about English language learners that I'll be helping with tomorrow.
But one moment morning stands out. In my Spanish class, in lieu of writing the date as usual, I wrote "El Día de Acción de Gracias.¨ I paused to consider the phrase. Spanish-speakers don't say "Thanksgiving." They call our holiday "The Day of Action of Thanks." And fittingly, "Acciones de Gracias" are commonplace in Latin America. Many churches ask for them every Sunday. ¿Alquien tiene una acción de gracias?¨ And people walk up front, sharing what God has done in their lives. Safe trips. Healing from disease. Beautiful families.
So this is my action of thanks. I thank God for those of you that are reading this. For my family, who may have a harder time than me, celebrating while I am millions of miles away. For my churches, the brothers and sisters there who sent me here, who are praying for me, who encouraged me and keep my spirits high. For all the missionaries who have gone before, the people who invented airplanes, the doctors that developed antibiotics for when I got skin infections and antimalarials to keep the chills away. For my ex-pat friends here, the other teachers, my Yaounde brothers. For my Cameroonian friends, those that put up with my poor French, my constant questions about how to act, that have braved my cooking. And most of all, I thank God for himself. That he lives here, too. That Jesus ensured that no matter how far I travel, no matter what I do, no matter how hard things seem, I can always walk into God's presence.
Thanksgiving may be an American holiday, but all of God's children have cause for an Action of Thanks.
The impact of those words hit home for me this week, as I'm celebrating it outside of the U.S. for the first time. I'll be dining tonight with my American roommate, a Canadian neighbor, several other American friends, and several Cameroonian friends and colleagues. It's exciting to be able to share this holiday with people here, just as I'm sure it was exciting for my Asian university friends to tell us about their holidays. But it's so different.
To give you a taste of the differences, let me share the last 24 hours with you.
School yesterday was normal. No tropical rains, a pleasant temperature in the afternoon. I went to a meeting about middle school final exams until about 4:15, and then Heidi, a missionary friend, gave me an informal haircut. As she chatted, I sat on a folding chair under a tree, watching brown tufts lift in the breeze and drift onto the green grass. A Cameroonian friend walked by with a grin, possibly thinking that we were starting to fit right in. Here, it's normal for friends to braid each others' hair, often sitting on their porches for hours, depending on the intricacy of the design. Soon after she finished and I checked the finished product, we headed home. Dinner was reheated avocado pasta (recipe coming soon), eaten comfortably in a comfy green disc chair while watching Seinfield episodes with my roommate.
After dinner, Thanksgiving preparations started. Well, really, they started several weeks ago, when I asked my househelp to get a squash that I baked and pureed to use in pie. Last night I thawed a 15-oz bag of it that I'd been keeping in my freezer. Also from the freezer came a pie crust that I had leftover from a dry run a few weeks ago. No matter how many times I've made something before, making it here is like making it for the first time, using new equipment and sometimes different ingredients. A practice pie had banished any worry that my star dessert wouldn't come out. I pressed the crust into the pan, as my test pie had revealed the difficulty of rolling out a crust made with our margarine here. At the same time, I mixed up a chocolate cake. Cameroonians don't usually eat pumpkin pie. Really, nobody but Americans and maybe Canadians eats pumpkin pie, to my knowledge. It's kind of a strange idea, making squash into dessert, so I decided to add a chocolate cake to the menu. Friends that have been here longer have assured me that my Cameroonian friends will enjoy it. So the cake and the pie were finished last night, my only contributions to our potluck meal today.
My alarm went off in the dark this morning. Waited for my shower to heat, knowing without testing by the buttery clay smell dissolved in the warm liquid that it was. I washed, paying special attention to my feet as they're always dirty from being bare, or at most covered in sandals. Dressed in short sleeves and a skirt, washed my hair and put on a favorite pair of elephant earrings, so African that nobody wears them here. Realized that I didn't have bread for breakfast, so I mashed half an avocado with lime and trotted over to the corner store, where the owner, Silas, sold me a baguette for 150 cfa (less than 50 cents). I met the other teachers at our van and chewed my bread with guacamole as we drove to school. A hectic morning ensued. I had two classes to teach, an independent Spanish student to meet with, and needed to finish preparing materials for a professional development session about English language learners that I'll be helping with tomorrow.
But one moment morning stands out. In my Spanish class, in lieu of writing the date as usual, I wrote "El Día de Acción de Gracias.¨ I paused to consider the phrase. Spanish-speakers don't say "Thanksgiving." They call our holiday "The Day of Action of Thanks." And fittingly, "Acciones de Gracias" are commonplace in Latin America. Many churches ask for them every Sunday. ¿Alquien tiene una acción de gracias?¨ And people walk up front, sharing what God has done in their lives. Safe trips. Healing from disease. Beautiful families.
So this is my action of thanks. I thank God for those of you that are reading this. For my family, who may have a harder time than me, celebrating while I am millions of miles away. For my churches, the brothers and sisters there who sent me here, who are praying for me, who encouraged me and keep my spirits high. For all the missionaries who have gone before, the people who invented airplanes, the doctors that developed antibiotics for when I got skin infections and antimalarials to keep the chills away. For my ex-pat friends here, the other teachers, my Yaounde brothers. For my Cameroonian friends, those that put up with my poor French, my constant questions about how to act, that have braved my cooking. And most of all, I thank God for himself. That he lives here, too. That Jesus ensured that no matter how far I travel, no matter what I do, no matter how hard things seem, I can always walk into God's presence.
Thanksgiving may be an American holiday, but all of God's children have cause for an Action of Thanks.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
How to cook manioc
I had started a cooking blog, then realized that my ISP is blocking it, then also realized that I've been remiss in posting on my regular blog, so I decided to combine the two a bit. I'll try to share a bit of my daily life through the food that I've been cooking and the people that I share it with. Enjoy!
I've been experimenting with various starches here, trying to learn to cook with ingredients from the market. After cooking with plantain, I fell in love and began mashing, frying, and boiling them in everything I could think of. This week I finally decided it was time to move on, so I asked my house help, Camilla, to get some manioc from the market. I've seen and cooked with manioc before; it comes from the Andes and is also called yucca. Here, the root is also known as cassava, and as a Cameroonian told me, it is all starch.
I asked for $1 worth of manioc from the market, and wasn't quite expecting what I found when I came home from school. Camilla had returned with what must have been at least five pounds of large brown roots. My roommate asked me if I knew how to prepare the manioc properly, mentioning that it had cyanide on it. ¡Whoa! I didn't realize that could be a problem. Previously, I had cooked with waxed manioc, so perhaps it had already been processed somehow. Concerned, I left a note for Camilla asking if she could explain how to cook this delicious root. What follows is her response:
How to cook manioc: you first take off the skin, then you grate the backs of the manioc a little with a knife before you boil it. (She left me an example in a bowl). You don't have to leave manioc for many days because they can go bad. When you buy it, cook the very day or the next day. Well Megan, I hope when you read this you will understand.
I did understand and followed her instructions, and my bicep is a bit sore from cutting off the tough outer peel--Cameroonian women must be very strong! After peeling, I cut it into big chunks, washed them in a bowl of water, and then boiled them in a large pot. Once they were falling apart, I drained them and let them cool. I tried to pull out the tough fibers in the center (although I missed a couple and had to pick them out as I ate). The next day (for no particular reason other than that was when I had time) I added a cup of water to the pot, brought it to a simmer and used a potato masher to turn it into a piecy paste. When it was stirrable, I threw it 1/2 cup milk powder, dissolved in two minced cloves of garlic and 1/2 of water (those of you in the States might want to try a combination of butter and cream--really, any fattening dairy product should work). I let it simmer until the milk seemed to be absorbed and served it warm. Although the dish isn't typical of Cameroon, my Cameroonian friends seemed to enjoy eating this Ecuadorian side dish, and I'm excited to have lots of leftovers! This is a great dish for anytime when you want to make sure that no one will leave hungry--it's cheap, but very heavy.
In shorter recipe form:
Mashed Manioc/Yucca/Cassava
2-3 manioc roots
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup whole milk
Peel the manioc, getting rid of all of the purplish exterior pieces, then cut it in chunks. Wash the chunks in water. Add them to a pot and bring to a boil. Let simmer until the manioc is tender and falling apart. Drain and let cool. (One traditional Cameroonian dish would stop at this step and serve the root still warm.)
When cold enough to handle, pull the chunks apart into large pieces, removing any tough fibers that you find. Return to the pot and place over low heat. If the chunks are still fairly warm and soft, add the garlic and milk directly. Mash until it forms a soft paste. Serve warm.
I've been experimenting with various starches here, trying to learn to cook with ingredients from the market. After cooking with plantain, I fell in love and began mashing, frying, and boiling them in everything I could think of. This week I finally decided it was time to move on, so I asked my house help, Camilla, to get some manioc from the market. I've seen and cooked with manioc before; it comes from the Andes and is also called yucca. Here, the root is also known as cassava, and as a Cameroonian told me, it is all starch.
I asked for $1 worth of manioc from the market, and wasn't quite expecting what I found when I came home from school. Camilla had returned with what must have been at least five pounds of large brown roots. My roommate asked me if I knew how to prepare the manioc properly, mentioning that it had cyanide on it. ¡Whoa! I didn't realize that could be a problem. Previously, I had cooked with waxed manioc, so perhaps it had already been processed somehow. Concerned, I left a note for Camilla asking if she could explain how to cook this delicious root. What follows is her response:
How to cook manioc: you first take off the skin, then you grate the backs of the manioc a little with a knife before you boil it. (She left me an example in a bowl). You don't have to leave manioc for many days because they can go bad. When you buy it, cook the very day or the next day. Well Megan, I hope when you read this you will understand.
I did understand and followed her instructions, and my bicep is a bit sore from cutting off the tough outer peel--Cameroonian women must be very strong! After peeling, I cut it into big chunks, washed them in a bowl of water, and then boiled them in a large pot. Once they were falling apart, I drained them and let them cool. I tried to pull out the tough fibers in the center (although I missed a couple and had to pick them out as I ate). The next day (for no particular reason other than that was when I had time) I added a cup of water to the pot, brought it to a simmer and used a potato masher to turn it into a piecy paste. When it was stirrable, I threw it 1/2 cup milk powder, dissolved in two minced cloves of garlic and 1/2 of water (those of you in the States might want to try a combination of butter and cream--really, any fattening dairy product should work). I let it simmer until the milk seemed to be absorbed and served it warm. Although the dish isn't typical of Cameroon, my Cameroonian friends seemed to enjoy eating this Ecuadorian side dish, and I'm excited to have lots of leftovers! This is a great dish for anytime when you want to make sure that no one will leave hungry--it's cheap, but very heavy.
In shorter recipe form:
Mashed Manioc/Yucca/Cassava
2-3 manioc roots
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup whole milk
Peel the manioc, getting rid of all of the purplish exterior pieces, then cut it in chunks. Wash the chunks in water. Add them to a pot and bring to a boil. Let simmer until the manioc is tender and falling apart. Drain and let cool. (One traditional Cameroonian dish would stop at this step and serve the root still warm.)
When cold enough to handle, pull the chunks apart into large pieces, removing any tough fibers that you find. Return to the pot and place over low heat. If the chunks are still fairly warm and soft, add the garlic and milk directly. Mash until it forms a soft paste. Serve warm.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Eating with unwashed hands
On my 22nd day in Cameroon, I happened to open a file with “Most helpful health tips for newcomers to Cameroon.” I had heard most of them before—the branch doesn’t wait three weeks before giving us this information, for obvious reasons, but the pdf concluded with a short poem that I thought would help my readers understand one element of living in Africa.
Wash your hands well
Filter your drinking water
Wash your raw veggies with Javel,
Wash your dishes with hot water
But
If you’re invited, or out somewhere
and
The raw veggies aren’t Javeled
The water isn’t filtered
You forgot your Purell
And the dishes are merely rinsed in cold water
Pray and thank God for your food (as you always do)
Eat or drink with appetite and thanksgiving
And trust God with your health
For there are worse things than the filth that may go into your stomach and pass out of your body
And an attitude of rejection which comes from the heart
Can do more harm to your relationships than the food to your body
Relationships are paramount in Africa and Latin America, in a way that they are not in my middle-class U.S. background. I spent a couple weeks in Mexico last summer, and very happily ate everything that was offered to me, as I was usually hungry and almost all of it was delicious. A thousand thanks go to my parents, who trained me from a young age to eat everything that was set before me! One evening, a Mexican colleague turned to me and said in Spanish “I like Megan. She is a very open person.” Pleased, but a little puzzled, since she had known me for less than a week, I asked her why she thought so. She replied that I ate everything that was given to me.
I have had a similar experience here. After a couple weeks of eating Cameroonian lunches at the school (we have the option to get Cameroonian food, cafeteria food, or bring food from home), a Cameroonian colleague commented “I can tell you are just loving our Cameroonian food!” Another colleague commented later that he was confident that I would eventually try carrying things on my head, a skill many Cameroonians learn from the time they are small. When I asked why he thought so, he said something about how I seemed open to the culture and trying new things. As the only examples of that are my poor attempts at using French in greetings and eating the food, I think it may be the simple act of eating that shows a willingness to experience and join the culture here.
Even in college, I had started to realize the importance of food in relationships. Food is community, and in a sense, food is love. People usually eat with their closest social network, and offering a cookie or some fruit can be a way to solidify a friendship. When we share our food with others, we show love and hospitality to them. By accepting others’ food, we show that we accept their love. In this way, what we eat reflects our obedience to the second greatest commandment “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
I have not yet been offered food of questionable cleanliness, or had occasion to eat with unwashed hands. I pray that when I do, I remember that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body, but the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and these make a man ‘unclean.’ Please pray with me that our eating and drinking may be acceptable to God and our brothers and sisters around the world.
Wash your hands well
Filter your drinking water
Wash your raw veggies with Javel,
Wash your dishes with hot water
But
If you’re invited, or out somewhere
and
The raw veggies aren’t Javeled
The water isn’t filtered
You forgot your Purell
And the dishes are merely rinsed in cold water
Pray and thank God for your food (as you always do)
Eat or drink with appetite and thanksgiving
And trust God with your health
For there are worse things than the filth that may go into your stomach and pass out of your body
And an attitude of rejection which comes from the heart
Can do more harm to your relationships than the food to your body
Relationships are paramount in Africa and Latin America, in a way that they are not in my middle-class U.S. background. I spent a couple weeks in Mexico last summer, and very happily ate everything that was offered to me, as I was usually hungry and almost all of it was delicious. A thousand thanks go to my parents, who trained me from a young age to eat everything that was set before me! One evening, a Mexican colleague turned to me and said in Spanish “I like Megan. She is a very open person.” Pleased, but a little puzzled, since she had known me for less than a week, I asked her why she thought so. She replied that I ate everything that was given to me.
I have had a similar experience here. After a couple weeks of eating Cameroonian lunches at the school (we have the option to get Cameroonian food, cafeteria food, or bring food from home), a Cameroonian colleague commented “I can tell you are just loving our Cameroonian food!” Another colleague commented later that he was confident that I would eventually try carrying things on my head, a skill many Cameroonians learn from the time they are small. When I asked why he thought so, he said something about how I seemed open to the culture and trying new things. As the only examples of that are my poor attempts at using French in greetings and eating the food, I think it may be the simple act of eating that shows a willingness to experience and join the culture here.
Even in college, I had started to realize the importance of food in relationships. Food is community, and in a sense, food is love. People usually eat with their closest social network, and offering a cookie or some fruit can be a way to solidify a friendship. When we share our food with others, we show love and hospitality to them. By accepting others’ food, we show that we accept their love. In this way, what we eat reflects our obedience to the second greatest commandment “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
I have not yet been offered food of questionable cleanliness, or had occasion to eat with unwashed hands. I pray that when I do, I remember that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body, but the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and these make a man ‘unclean.’ Please pray with me that our eating and drinking may be acceptable to God and our brothers and sisters around the world.
Monday, August 23, 2010
¡Esto es África!
The world cup song “Esto es África” keeps running through my head, as if to remind me that I’m actually here!My head is so full of new experiences and sights that I found myself wanting to delay writing—as though that would help! I don’t know what exactly to tell you about, so please bear with me if this post is long and meandering.
I left Michigan on Thursday afternoon, flying to Chicago, then Brussels. Everything went as planned, although there were a few sleep-deprived moments in the Brussels airport when I had to remind myself that God had worked out everything so far, so he would be watching to see that I made my connecting flight. I managed to get a little sleep on the six-hour flight from Belgium, so I was feeling more refreshed by the time we started our descent to Yaoundé. Red clay roads and emerald vegetation rose to meet us. Upon touchdown, the Africans on the flight applauded our safe arrival. As I left the plane and showed my passport and immunization card, I did my best to blend in by using my minimal French (physically blending in isn’t really possible for me anymore) and made it through to the baggage claim. I had been warned that my luggage might not make it right away, so I had everything I needed in my carry-on, and was almost hoping that my checked luggage wouldn’t arrive so that I didn’t have to unpack it right away. After checking a multitude of bags that were not mine, I had almost concluded that God had granted my secret wish when I noticed my bags on the belt. I wrangled them through customs and found a group of people from the school waiting to take me to the SIL complex.
We drove past houses, small and large, stores, restaurants, and saw people of every age, talking, eating, walking. I’m not sure exactly what I expected. Perhaps working in Detroit led me to expect something a little more urban while seeing so many beautifully dark-skinned people, or perhaps I was expecting the mountains and historic atmosphere of Quito, but my impression was of color, motion, and vibrancy that was both the same and different from the picture in my head. So far I don’t have many pictures, and it may be a while before I have a lot. As my packet on Cameroonian culture says, people are not machinery, nor are they scenery. People are people, and snapping random photos of them in the market or on the street doesn’t help to establish the types of relationships I hope to have. As I get to know individuals, I hope to introduce them to you as I also share my family with them.
I was shocked when I arrived at my apartment. It’s huge! I had prayed for at least one window, and I have eight in various places. Secretly, I also hoped for my own room, however tiny, just to be able to retreat somewhere when I’m particularly tired or culture-shocked. Not only do I have my own room, it’s fairly large, and I have my own bathroom! The kitchen is adequate, and I’m working on getting comfortable with the gas stove. I’ll be drinking filtered water and “javeling” (bleaching) all my fresh fruits and vegetables to prevent sickness.
On my second day in Cameroon, I got a kitchen lesson and explanation of some key Cameroonian foods. They eat a lot of greens, nuts, seeds, and beans here, and they love spicy food. I did snag a couple habanero peppers after the demonstration and I’m planning to de-seed one and use it in soup sometime later this week. Making dinner at home has been good experience for being here—I’m already used to cooking from scratch with a lot of fresh ingredients (those of you that know my family know what I mean). The produce here looks gorgeous and very flavorful, and I think I’m going to have a lot of fun learning to prepare it.
My adventure this morning was going to a bilingual French/English church. Out of about 100 people there, only about a dozen were other missionaries, so if I stay there it will be a great way to make Cameroonian friends. The people there were very friendly and the message was good (although the regular pastor is out of town), but it's still going to take a lot of getting used to. As most of you know, I don't speak French, and there was no powerpoint or hymnal, so I couldn't follow some of the singing. At a couple points while they were praying in French, I just had to say "God, I don't know what he's saying, but I believe you do, so I'll just be still and know it's okay." I keep reminding myself that this is a period for “acostumbrándome,” as they say in Spanish, or “getting accustomed.” Getting used to my new life is going to take a while, but I think I’m going to like it here.
I left Michigan on Thursday afternoon, flying to Chicago, then Brussels. Everything went as planned, although there were a few sleep-deprived moments in the Brussels airport when I had to remind myself that God had worked out everything so far, so he would be watching to see that I made my connecting flight. I managed to get a little sleep on the six-hour flight from Belgium, so I was feeling more refreshed by the time we started our descent to Yaoundé. Red clay roads and emerald vegetation rose to meet us. Upon touchdown, the Africans on the flight applauded our safe arrival. As I left the plane and showed my passport and immunization card, I did my best to blend in by using my minimal French (physically blending in isn’t really possible for me anymore) and made it through to the baggage claim. I had been warned that my luggage might not make it right away, so I had everything I needed in my carry-on, and was almost hoping that my checked luggage wouldn’t arrive so that I didn’t have to unpack it right away. After checking a multitude of bags that were not mine, I had almost concluded that God had granted my secret wish when I noticed my bags on the belt. I wrangled them through customs and found a group of people from the school waiting to take me to the SIL complex.
We drove past houses, small and large, stores, restaurants, and saw people of every age, talking, eating, walking. I’m not sure exactly what I expected. Perhaps working in Detroit led me to expect something a little more urban while seeing so many beautifully dark-skinned people, or perhaps I was expecting the mountains and historic atmosphere of Quito, but my impression was of color, motion, and vibrancy that was both the same and different from the picture in my head. So far I don’t have many pictures, and it may be a while before I have a lot. As my packet on Cameroonian culture says, people are not machinery, nor are they scenery. People are people, and snapping random photos of them in the market or on the street doesn’t help to establish the types of relationships I hope to have. As I get to know individuals, I hope to introduce them to you as I also share my family with them.
I was shocked when I arrived at my apartment. It’s huge! I had prayed for at least one window, and I have eight in various places. Secretly, I also hoped for my own room, however tiny, just to be able to retreat somewhere when I’m particularly tired or culture-shocked. Not only do I have my own room, it’s fairly large, and I have my own bathroom! The kitchen is adequate, and I’m working on getting comfortable with the gas stove. I’ll be drinking filtered water and “javeling” (bleaching) all my fresh fruits and vegetables to prevent sickness.
On my second day in Cameroon, I got a kitchen lesson and explanation of some key Cameroonian foods. They eat a lot of greens, nuts, seeds, and beans here, and they love spicy food. I did snag a couple habanero peppers after the demonstration and I’m planning to de-seed one and use it in soup sometime later this week. Making dinner at home has been good experience for being here—I’m already used to cooking from scratch with a lot of fresh ingredients (those of you that know my family know what I mean). The produce here looks gorgeous and very flavorful, and I think I’m going to have a lot of fun learning to prepare it.
My adventure this morning was going to a bilingual French/English church. Out of about 100 people there, only about a dozen were other missionaries, so if I stay there it will be a great way to make Cameroonian friends. The people there were very friendly and the message was good (although the regular pastor is out of town), but it's still going to take a lot of getting used to. As most of you know, I don't speak French, and there was no powerpoint or hymnal, so I couldn't follow some of the singing. At a couple points while they were praying in French, I just had to say "God, I don't know what he's saying, but I believe you do, so I'll just be still and know it's okay." I keep reminding myself that this is a period for “acostumbrándome,” as they say in Spanish, or “getting accustomed.” Getting used to my new life is going to take a while, but I think I’m going to like it here.
Monday, August 9, 2010
A Gideon Story
When I originally began my application to the Wycliffe Bible Translators, finding enough prayer and financial partners seemed like a long shot, but not impossible. By the time my acceptance to the organization came, it was May 10th, and I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. I was eager to get started on my online training, but due to the newness of my program, had to wait a couple weeks to begin. It was around that time that I started to think about the story of Gideon. During the time of the judges, God called a man named Gideon to rescue the Israelites from their Midianite oppressors, and so Gideon (after confirming his call via a wet sponge) gathered his men at the spring of Harod. When they got there, God had a shocking conversation with his chosen leader.
First he tells Gideon, "You have too many men for me to deliver Midian into their hands. In order that Israel may not boast against me that her own strength has saved her, announce now to the people, 'Anyone who trembles with fear may turn back and leave Mount Gilead.' So twenty-two thousand men left, while ten thousand remained.”
But that is still too many men for God, so he orders Gideon to take the men down to the water, where he would sort them out, so Gideon took his men down to the water. The Lord told him, "Separate those who lap the water with their tongues like a dog from those who kneel down to drink." Only 300 men lapped, and God informed Gideon that "With the three hundred men that lapped I will save you and give the Midianites into your hands. Let all the other men go, each to his own place."
The Lord used those 300 men with some trumpets, torches, and empty jars to defeat an army whose “camels could no more be counted than the sand on the seashore.”
Back to my story, I watched my time dwindle like Gideon's forces. With only 18 days before I hoped to leave for Cameroon, I still lacked nearly one-third of my support. On August 1st, I told my sending church about my financial situation. The following day, I remember feeling drained; I had continued trying to make connections, but finally stopped. I grabbed my dog’s leash and headed for the woods near my house. While walking among the thick Michigan underbrush, I told God “I’m tired, and I know there’s no way I can do this on my own. Maybe I thought that I could before. I know there's no reason I deserve anything, but if it’s your will, please send what I need.”
Over the next few days, I received several phone calls and e-mails from people who wanted to be part of Bible translation by supporting me monthly. On Thursday morning, the last call came. I pulled up my financial worksheet to document my new partnership and realized that God had provided in a way that only he could—through his people. I praise God for what he has done, and I know that there’s even more in store!
First he tells Gideon, "You have too many men for me to deliver Midian into their hands. In order that Israel may not boast against me that her own strength has saved her, announce now to the people, 'Anyone who trembles with fear may turn back and leave Mount Gilead.' So twenty-two thousand men left, while ten thousand remained.”
But that is still too many men for God, so he orders Gideon to take the men down to the water, where he would sort them out, so Gideon took his men down to the water. The Lord told him, "Separate those who lap the water with their tongues like a dog from those who kneel down to drink." Only 300 men lapped, and God informed Gideon that "With the three hundred men that lapped I will save you and give the Midianites into your hands. Let all the other men go, each to his own place."
The Lord used those 300 men with some trumpets, torches, and empty jars to defeat an army whose “camels could no more be counted than the sand on the seashore.”
Back to my story, I watched my time dwindle like Gideon's forces. With only 18 days before I hoped to leave for Cameroon, I still lacked nearly one-third of my support. On August 1st, I told my sending church about my financial situation. The following day, I remember feeling drained; I had continued trying to make connections, but finally stopped. I grabbed my dog’s leash and headed for the woods near my house. While walking among the thick Michigan underbrush, I told God “I’m tired, and I know there’s no way I can do this on my own. Maybe I thought that I could before. I know there's no reason I deserve anything, but if it’s your will, please send what I need.”
Over the next few days, I received several phone calls and e-mails from people who wanted to be part of Bible translation by supporting me monthly. On Thursday morning, the last call came. I pulled up my financial worksheet to document my new partnership and realized that God had provided in a way that only he could—through his people. I praise God for what he has done, and I know that there’s even more in store!
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