The Jewish Mother Gauntlet

I woke up this morning the way I wake up most mornings: someone opening my outdoor gate and yelling, “Hodi!” at the top of their lungs (“Hodi” is what you say when you want to be allowed in). My alarm was set to go off exactly one minute later. It was 6:29am. The sun had just come up, and apparently I was already late.

It was my good friend Fute, rousing me to help him with some brisk morning exercise: moving a bull. You see, good ol’ Uncle Louie (the bull we acquired with the dairy cows), had spent his first month in a cowshed with a cow who had already been bred. So he was just cooling his jets and chewing his cud. But no more! Our local veterinary officer had come the day before my rude awakening to check if our last two cows had bred back yet (that’s technical cow-speak for “gotten knocked up”. I’m trying to impress all of you. Has it worked?). How did he check for an impending bundle of joy? By reaching his right arm into each cow (go ahead and guess which end), up to the shoulder, and feeling around. Without a glove. He said he was out of gloves. Make of that what you will.

Anyway, the vet was not certain that either of the two remaining cows had bred back yet, and he told us to bring in the bull. Bring in Uncle Louie, to do his job as a male and make us some baby cows. We tried that very afternoon to transfer the beast, with a rope and a couple of sticks, but it got messy, and he was testy, and he charged me, so we postponed it until we could find some other cow buddies for him to run with. 6:30am, other cows had been found, of the local breeds, with the funky humps. We got him out of his shed, leaving his forlorn, and pregnant, female companion behind. And we started running, herding them towards Fute’s house, keeping them out of the road, and setting a pretty good pace. We managed to avoid having any of them hit by a car, and we made it to Fute’s house, where we picked up his cow (who is a vicious, monstrous female (as if there are any other kind (I regret that comment))), and proceeded to the last cowshed, where the bull will live quite happily for the next month with two new female companions. Of course, along the way the cows kept trying to skirt off into farms and chew on maize stalks, so me or my compatriots had to go running in, ducking sunflowers as big as your head, raising a ruckus, and get them back on track. But at the end of it we successfully introduced both Uncle Louie and his lady friend to their new home, and attempted to placate the female who had already been living there by feeding her some grass. I suppose we could have tried chocolates...but they are so very far away.

So to start my blog where it normally ends, I was walking back home, having worked up a good sweat, task completed. The sun had risen, though not far, and it looked like the beginning of a beautiful day (which it was). The dew was on the grass, the golden haze on the meadow was bright, and an elephant walked by, eye level with the corn. People looked at me and wondered why I was singing. I explained to them that I had a beautiful feeling that everything was going my way. They nodded in understanding. Everybody loves Oklahoma. It was just a wonderful way to start a day. That may be what I’ll miss most: unexpected adventures. I’m not sure I’m ready for things to go according to plan. Which they probably won’t. So good!

Plans are funny things here. I start most days with one, fully expecting it to be in tatters by about 11am. If it is absolutely crucial that something happens, I leave the entire day free for that one thing. There is no other way in a land where a meeting that starts two hours late is on time. Yet because I’m forced to budget so much time for things that shouldn’t need them (because you never know what random day every person will suddenly decide to be early, and then glare at me for being 15 minutes late), I end up with a lot of free time. And there is the temptation, which I sometimes give into, to curl up in my house with books or letters. But it is so unbelievably important that I get out of the house, for a few hours, at the end of the day. I call it “showing the flag”. I just walk around the village, maybe visit some people, maybe just camp out in a spot and beckon passerby over for a word. It is how I get everything done. And there seems to be some weird benevolent karma that comes to my aid when I leave the house. More often than I can ever believe, I turn a corner and find myself face-to-face with the exact person that I needed to see. I’m out of the house, and they are out of the house, because that is what you do in the jioni (evening): you walk around and say hi to people. Every evening here is strange, happy magic, and though it’s often hard to make myself get out of my house, I never regret it, and I have gained more from chance meetings at the end of the day then from the plans I scheme up at the start of it.

Then there are the times when I give into my laziness. For example: the selfsame Fute who woke me up this morning a few months ago lost his uncle, or some more distant male relative. I’d never met the departed, he lived in Dar Es Salaam. But as is custom, he was to be buried in the village from whence he came. So they shipped the body overnight, and a bunch of his friends from the city came along. It is village custom for the men to dig the grave and the women to prepare the food: I’ve been through the routine well over a dozen times. This particular day, I knew that this man had passed away, and knew that he was a relative of one of my best friends. But I didn’t know him, and I was in the middle of a good book, and if I dropped everything I was doing to go to every funeral of someone I had never met, I would get precious little accomplished. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Around noon my guilt started pricking. By one o’clock in the afternoon it was nudging. By two o’clock it was pushing me out the door, and so I went. I figured I would get to see my friend, and maybe they hadn’t buried the deceased yet. Sometimes the coffin has to be made the day of the funeral and the carpenters are late, so we just sit and stare at each other. Today was not one of those days. I started walking down the path towards my friend’s house, and I saw them coming: every single villager I’ve ever met, leaving the funeral, walking straight at me. There are few moments where the punishment perfectly fits the crime. This was one of them. Stretched out in twos and threes, I stopped and said g’day to each and all of my village friends. Some asked me where I’d been. Some just looked at me. It was excruciating. I kept walking. It was like running a gauntlet of Jewish mothers (may none take offense). Eventually I reached my friend, and he was happy to see me, and I paid my respects (that’s literal here: you’re expected to contribute to funeral costs), and they were received. Sometimes I’m a little thick in the skull; some lessons I need to be bludgeoned over the head with. Lesson learned.

I got a very special package in the mail last week. It was letters from home, but from new homeys! Mrs. Simons’ 7th grade students had written 34 letters to my 7th grade students here. They were wonderful to read; I was incredibly proud of them. They are curious, and empathetic, and thinking critically, and it made the heart glad. But it also broke it a little. I forget, almost all the time, how little my students have here. Not cars or electricity or velcro; those things you really can live without pretty damn easily. But having teachers who teach their periods. Having teachers who are trained in the subjects they are teaching. Having lunch at school, nutritious and varied food, available every day, for an affordable price. Not having to run 4 miles and back to school. And I don’t know if Mrs. Simons’ kids take that for granted. But I know I did. I was listening to a radio interview with Bill Courtney, who is the coach at the center of the Oscar-winning documentary “Undefeated”, which I have not seen. And he was asked whether or not kids like his (largely black and poor) have a chance without the presence of extraordinary coaches and educators. His answer was well-reasoned, apolitical, and too long for me to put here. But his last line stuck with me: “the playing field is not level”.

Which brings me to the interactive portion of the blog. I have an Environmental Club at my school, called “Kijani Milele” (“Evergreen”). They have done a bunch of projects with me: composting, permagardening, soil erosion, and helping to paint Mom’s mural. They live less than a 100 miles from some of the most amazing animals ever soon on the face of the earth: lions, elephants, giraffe, cheetahs, leopards, zebras, and more. And they’ve never seen them. The cost is too prohibitive, the expense is seen as too frivolous. They’ve never seen their own nation’s treasures, nor will they get a chance to see them in the foreseeable future...without your help.

I want to take 30 kids, and 5 adults, on a safari to Ruaha National Park in July. We will leave on a Saturday morning in a rented coaster (a small bus), arrive at Ruaha around 4pm, go for a quick evening safari, sleep over, then go for a morning safari before departing. These kids will get to see animals that they’ve only ever heard of, that live in their country, just out of reach. I have every confidence that it will be an unforgettable experience. Why do I need your help? I am nearing the end of my Peace Corps service, and can no longer apply for Peace Corps moneys. So if this is going to happen, it can only happen with private funds. I am in the process of finalizing the budget, but I need to raise at least $1,000, and probably closer to $1,500 (once I have the final numbers, I will post them). That covers the coaster rental, the lodging, the food, any possible clothing rental (gets cold here in July), and the park entry fees. I’m asking you, loyal blog readers, for donations. They can be sent to 1006 Towpath Road, Hawley, PA 18428. They will be deposited into my account here and I will withdraw them, and then document the whole crazy expedition. It isn’t curing cancer and there will be no lasting monument. But there will be a whole lot of joy. And I will take many pictures. I hope that’s reason enough...

...but if it’s not, there’s more!!! I’m having an auction! For something completely made-up and utterly without value! But it will be fun! Here’s the deal: as my last post detailed, we have recently brought a number of large, grass-chewing, milk-producing, fuzzy-headed mammals into the village. There is one bull, named Uncle Louie (take a bow sir), and four cows...who are as yet unnamed! Which is where you come in! I am auctioning off the naming rights to each of these cows. We are going to do it on facebook, in the album I created entitled “The Unnamed”. I will label photos “Cow #1”, “Cow #2”, and so on. You can post your bids in the comment thread of the photos, and I will close the bidding on April 22nd at 12:01am Eastern Standard Time, at which point the winners will get to submit their names, and I will personally install a plaque bearing said name on the outside of each cowshed. This is your chance to name a sacred cow in the middle of Africa. And for the losers, donations will still be incredibly welcome, in any and every denomination. All joking aside, this is one of those opportunities. This is a chance to make someone whom you’ve never met, who lives somewhere that you’ve never been, happy.