After lunch, 10 of us piled into the 8 passenger van brought by the relative and headed out. We went to the museum first. We entered through an arch above which was inscribed, “Museum tells the story since the dawn of history”. The museum was a dimly lit building with rows of displays of decaying animals, dusty cloth, woven beads, and colonial era guns which Lily insisted dated back to 3,000 BC. I most enjoyed the exhibit displaying a series of manikins dressed set up to demonstrate Pakistani professions such as weaver, black smith, and potter. Though it was modest by western standards, it was a fair attempt at exhibiting Pakistani history and heritage; I could tell Lily’s family was proud to show it off.
On the way out, when the museum closed at 5:30, Lily’s relative offered to buy me anything I chose from the gift-shop. I chose, from the piles of hand embroidered clothing and purses, a small bag just large enough for my camera. Though in Mirpurkhas it would have cost 100 rupees, the man behind the counter asked for 1100 rupees. I was appalled by the overpricing but the relative proudly handed over the money and accepted my thanks. Another humbling display of lavish Pakistani generosity. Though I don’t even know his name, I now think of this man whenever I pull out my camera.
From the gift shop we drove over to Ranibad where we met up with Paul and Padri Shamu. Amanat paid my admission and kept me and the rest of the party supplied with water, soda, spicy chickpea mix and pellets to feed the animals in the zoo. In response to Lily’s comment that there is no fun without desert, Paul bought us all twine made of finely spun, mouth watering, sugar. While I shared a soda with Lily, the little boys climbed on the restored remains of an old plane crash. Several beggars had gotten past the admission fee and approached us for handouts. One memorable beggar was a man, flamboyantly attired in a hot pink sari, high heels, jeweled handbag and feminine make-up. Paul explained to me that cross-dressers are not uncommon here and often are professional beggars. My favorite part of Ranibad, however, was the zoo, which allowed patrons to get much closer to the animals than any western zoo I’ve been to. I enjoyed handing food to monkeys, parrots, mountain goats, and ostriches. The crocodiles, zebras, peacocks, and foxes didn’t come close enough to the fence for me to hand feed them but they were still very fun to see.
We all crammed back into the van, with the addition of Paul and Padri, and went back to Lily’s house to pick up my backpack. It was soon time to leave and I went down the row of them, saying goodbye, giving hugs, shaking hands, and patting heads. When I came to Lily’s mother, I saw that she was holding a bag. Proudly she held it out to me, another gift. It was a gift of cloth, enough for at least two three-piece shalwar chamise suits. This gift would cost half of my friend Sunila’s monthly salary. Again I found myself bowing and blushing, trying to thank them enough for their endless generosity. “You thank too much,” said Amanat. “Once a day is enough.” Thus, with thank-yous still on my lips, Padri Shamu steered the van out of the courtyard of the apartment complex and the kind family receded out of view.
As the van bumped and thumped through Hyderabad once more, I enjoyed the space of having the whole back seat to myself. I was hot and tired and just wanted to be still. But they day was not over yet; the sun hadn’t even gone down! We were off to Miti’s village to have dinner and lead a worship service before bringing the whole family home to Mirpurkhas. We arrived at dusk and were met again by a crowd of women and children, Mitis’ sisters and families. Paul went off to socialize and I found myself seated against a mud wall facing a ring of large-eyed children. With absolutely no one to translate, I tried out the little Urdu that I’d learned. “Obka nahm?” (Your name?) I asked the little girl on my far right. “Jilahlee” she answered. “Jiluhlee?” I repeated. She and the others giggled at my mispronunciation but repeated it for me until I got it right. In this manner I went down the row of kids, butchering and confusing their names in turn to uproarious laughter.
Once we were more or less introduced, and I could no longer tell them apart at all because of the deepening darkness, I tried some more Urdu on them. “Kushi hui” (I’m happy) I said. “Hui” they all chanted back. No matter what I said, they repeated it back. So naturally I started a “repeat after me” song that I’d learned from Camp Hebron. “There was a great big moose!” I sang, holding my hands up to my head like antlers. “Moose!” They sang back, laughing and holding up their hands. Delighted, I continued. One little one named Canoe was particularly bright and carried the song to the end while the others giggled. Soon the original 10 or 12 kids had grown to a crowd of 27, all roaring with laughter.
At the end of the moose song I tried “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”. Then I asked them to supply their words for the body parts. That was when I discovered that they did not speak Urdu! I knew that nose in Urdu is “nack”, eye is “onk”, ear is “kawn” etc. Their words didn’t match up. This is how I began my official study of Kujratthi, their tribal language. Soon I had them teaching me animal names as identified by the sound the creature made. They enjoyed my animal impressions even more than my attempts at their language. I was making quite good progress in my Kujratthi education when I was called for dinner and had to leave my raucous young tutors. Over chicken curry and spicy lentils, Paul reported that the children had asked him if I could stay and be their teacher. Sadly I smiled; it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
After dinner, we laid out large rugs and set up a microphone, harmonium, and tabla drums for the worship service. As the music got started, I sat near the back in the midst of the adult women. For the first few songs, I hummed along, trying to pick up the words. It was after 10:00 at this point and I was fading fast. Without any understanding of the content of the songs, it was hard to stay focused so I leaned my head back against the wall and tried to pray. Pretty soon, someone poked me. It was the regal woman with wispy white hair squatting next to me. When I opened my eyes, she asked me something in Kujratthi. Now it was my turn to repeat senselessly what she had said. She nodded yes and waited for an answer. I stared dumbly. Soon the other women were chiming in, rephrasing, laughing at my empty yet anxious expression. So I said the only word in Kujratthi that came to mind. “Kutthero” (dog). The woman who had originally poked me burst into laughter. Then, incredulous, she made some dog barks to confirm that I knew what I had said. I nodded solemnly. At that point, Paul called over the loud speaker, “Michelle, we are trying to have a worship service.” Blushing and squirming, I motioned the tribal women to turn their attention to the front and from then on I tried to keep my head pointing forward.
The songs and little teachings went on and on. At one point chai and water were served to everyone. Bleary with sleepiness, I watched the young man serving water to the women. He was wearing a long, gray, western scarf wrapped once around his neck and dangling down over his light blue chamise. My attention must have been noticed because later, before we drove away, this young man came to me and, in halting English, asked me about marriage. At the end of the service, incense was lit and a blessing was said over a large tin bowl covered with a cloth. Then handfuls of white wafers were passed around to everyone. Communion, I thought, but when some were dropped into my hands, I found that they were made of solid sugar. I didn’t feel like blasting my system with sugar but the women around me insisted, even pushing their own candies up to my mouth until I started to nibble my own.
This feast marked the end of the service and I laid down on the rug to join the many already sleeping children. But the hen-like women next to me would have none of it. “Chello!” (Let’s go!) she commanded and hoisted me to my feet. The women crowded around me, poking, pinching, and asking unintelligible questions to which the woman leading me would sarcastically answer “Kutthero!” (dog). The woman led me to a charpai bed a little ways off from where Paul was chatting. Here the women stood around me chattering overwhelmingly. Not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes and stared to sing. The crowd was instantly hushed and I continued singing to myself praise songs until I had the courage to open my eyes. Once I did so, the women started clamoring again only this time I understood, "English geet! Ghauna!" (English song! Sing!) I continued singing until I started falling asleep where I sat. Then they let me lay down and here it was that the man who had been serving water came and tried to strike up a conversation. Here it was that Paul came to collect me. “They say they want you to stay the night,” he informed me. “It is up to you.” That got me up and into the car quick enough, after bowing to be blessed by all my adoring fans, that is. I sat squeezed between Miti and the mercifully open window. It was 1:00am as we pulled away from the village.
We drove and drove. I tried to doze off but the lack of a headrest and the unpredictable bumps in the road made it difficult. Miti seemed concerned by my half conscious state and so leaned herself uncomfortably away from me so that I could lean on her and not be completely upright. She was blissfully soft and steady. Then I found myself being offered tea. We had stopped at a roadside “hotel” (restaurant with charpais out front for sleepy truckers). The car accompanying us with the instruments and equipment had broken down and we were waiting for it to be fixed. I declined the offer of tea none too gracefully and Miti motioned for me to rest my head on her lap. I dozed fitfully as she fanned me until we started moving again. We arrived home at 3:00am. I clasped Miti’s hand in grateful farewell and staggered in to the house. I was slimy from sweat and dust so I ducked into the shower, which had, thank God, enough water pressure for a quick rinse, before collapsing into bed and sleeping till 1:00pm the next day.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Day in Hyderabad: Part I
I had only met Lily when I was leaving the Bishop’s party. All I knew about her was that she was the 19 year old daughter of one of Paul’s childhood friends. We clasped hands and smiled at each other. She begged me to come to her house instead of going home and promised to show me her city, Hyderabad. I said I would come back to visit her if I could and we eagerly exchanged phone numbers. Perhaps it was the deep rapport Paul has with her father, which gave me an instant sense of connection to Lily, as though we were family; it was a feeling that this relationship was worth investing in even if it wasn’t always comfortable. Because of this, I perked up my ears when I heard, last Friday night (June 25), that Paul would be going to Hyderabad the next morning.
When I questioned him about his plans, Paul explained to me that he would be leaving at 8:00 the next morning to drive the hour and a half to Hyderabad city for a meeting. The meeting would go until noon, they would have lunch, and then he would go to a village on the outskirts of the city to lead a worship service. If I wanted, I could call Lily before he left in the morning to see if she was free to host me for the day. I was hesitant. It was already past midnight and I didn’t relish getting up at 7:00. Also, I was uneasy with the prospect of being stranded in Hyderabad without anyone I knew for a whole day. I was afraid of becoming exhausted and miserable. Still, it seemed as good a time as any to follow up on my promise to visit and to take the adventure given to me. What is the point of being here if I insist on staying comfortable, right?
That night I prayed that, if it would be a net blessing for me to go, I would be able to get in touch with Lily and that she would be free. I prayed that, if I went, God would sustain me and bless the time. Then I texted Lily and went to bed. Five minutes later, I received a text back, “Means you tomorrow come to my house and call in morning? Yes dear, of course dear!” So it was settled. Tomorrow would be an adventure! Little did I know then just how much of an adventure it would be.
Things started well when Paul woke me at 7:00. I had slept well and felt alert. I dressed up as I’d seen girls here do when going visiting with earrings, a little make up, and Pakistani high heeled sandals. I questioned Paul as to whether I should bring clean water and toilet paper. He said to bring water just in case, but not to worry about the toilet paper. After I made myself two fried eggs and a thermos of tea I felt ready for anything. At 8:00 sharp, Padri Shamu arrived to pick us up. When I opened the side door, I was surprised to find the 8-seat van already full of Padri Shamu’s wife, four children, water-cooler, and bags. I squeezed in next to his wife Miti, a large dark woman dressed in flaming pink tribal clothes. My backpack had to stay on my lap as the engine caused the floor bulge under my feet, leaving no extra room. In this cramped, cozy fashion, we bumped along the highway.
It was exciting to watch the road. In true Pakistani fashion, Padri Shamu weaved through traffic, never missing a chance to go around a truck or donkey-cart, avoiding head-on collisions by speeding up and blaring his horn. At one point, we accidentally got on the wrong side of a divided highway. Padri dealt with it by turning on his lights and staying close to the divider until there was a break in the wall and we were able to accelerate into the appropriate stream of traffic. I spent the time taking note of the country side so as to be able to tell you about the fields, roadside snack stands, and peculiar vehicles. At one point a motorbike passed us driven by a man with two toddlers sitting in front of him and a woman in high heels riding sidesaddle behind him! I will have to write you a description of the highway ethos in another post; this one already has too much for me to tell!
To my surprise, we didn’t stop when we reached the chaos of Hyderabad city. We navigated the construction and crowds and continued back out into the countryside. We turned off the road onto a narrow dirt path made for a cart. Surely the fashionable Lily and didn’t live out here! The path turned into a strip of mud bordering a stagnant strip of shallow water. Once we got past the water, we arrived at a village of mud huts with thatched roofs and lounging farm animals reminiscent of a nativity scene. We had come to Miti’s village where we would drop off the family to spend the day with Grandma and all the aunts, uncles and cousins.
I gingerly climbed out of the van, suddenly feeling very silly in my fancy sandals. I was greeted by a wave of short women with tribal tattoos on their weathered brown faces. They put their rough hands on my head when I bowed and then they pulled me forward to kiss my cheeks. Thus I was welcomed by Miti’s family. As Paul greeted the villagers, I wandered around. I took pictures of water-buffalo lounging in a neighboring river, some with only their noses poking out of the water. I watched two children redoing the floor of their hut by efficiently spreading a layer of buffalo dung mud over the floor, corners, and the base of the walls. Nothing about the village buildings gave away the fact that they were made of dung mud. The air smelled fresh and the buildings looked like they could have been made of khaki-painted plaster. There were no square corners, every edge was rounded and the dry mud was solid but crumbled to powder if punctured.
After waving goodbye to Miti and the kids, Padri Shamu, Paul, and I climbed back in the van and drove back to Hyderabad. We arrived at St. Thomas Cathedral where I was met by Lily’s father, Amanat, a quiet man with a gentle face. Paul and Padri Shamu said goodbye and went inside to have their meeting. Lily’s father, beckoned me over to his means of transportation, a motor bike! I swallowed hard. I knew that I would have to ride sidesaddle, like all women in this country, but I didn’t know if I was allowed to hold on to Amanat. In the end, I decided that I would hang on even if it wasn’t culturally acceptable. No use avoiding local disapproval by falling off the bike in traffic. Sitting sideways on the back of the bike, no helmet or any kind of protective clothing, both besandled feet sticking out on one side of the bike and my backpack protruding from the other side, I was glad I had at least some rudimentary experience with how to lean with the bike and not resist the momentum. I focused all my energy on not upsetting Amanat’s balance as we bounced over fissures in the road, squeezed between lanes of carts, and crunched over a sandal that suddenly flew into the road from somewhere to the left. I was glad to arrive 15 minutes later, my front leg on fire from the strain of the one position.
Amanat and his family live on the third floor of a ramshackle apartment building, very modern and luxurious compared to Miti’s village. Amanat has seven children ranging from Paris, Joy, and Lily who are in specialty schools for Civil Engineering and Pharmacology respectively, to Harry who is in high school, down to John, Johnson-John, and Joseph-John, who are in elementary and middle school. Amanat works as an art teacher since he has not found much market for his oil paintings of colorful village scenes. His wife, a large cheery woman, works in the hospital next-door to the apartment complex.
From the moment I arrived in the home, the family treated me like royalty. They ushered me into their sitting room, pushed the coffee table up to my knees and placed on it in front of me plates of cookies, chips, two kinds of trail mix, and glasses of water and coke. While I sat surveying the junk food feast, Lily rushed off to make me chai tea. The others watched me anxiously to see if I would like what they had offered me. I sat awkwardly for a few minutes, picking at the trail mix and nibbling at a cookie. When Lily came back with a cup of chai, she tittered about how I must not like the food since I had barely touched it and would I like a different kind of cookie? At that I piled a plate high with a hearty portion of each offering and the room relaxed into comfortable conversation about differing cultural values and definitions of “rude”.
After I admired a picture hanging on the wall that Amanat had painted, a blazing sun setting behind thatched huts, Amanat motioned for one of his sons to get something from another room. He returned with another painting, this one done on a long strip of black cloth. The painting was of a moon shining over a river and illuminating sleeping village not unlike Miti’s. “I make for you a gift.” said Amanat, motioning with his hand for the boy to offer it to me. “I can not sell it and you can easily take it with you.” I looked at it with eyes shining. I hated to let him give me something with such personal and professional value, but unlike the sugary snacks, this was a gift I would truly treasure. After some polite protestation, I accepted whole heartedly. “I will show it to my friends in America and tell them about you!” I promised. “You will show it to your sister and father. Show them my art.” was his simple response.
As we sat and I ate, Amanat asked me what I would like to do for the day. Bashfully, I lifted my palms, I didn’t know what the possibilities were but would be happy with anything. Amanat nodded solemnly. He told me that there was a museum of Pakistani culture situated right behind it was a place called “Ranibad” which included gardens, a zoo, and “fun land”. I smiled vigorously. That sounded perfect! Again he nodded and then stood and left the room.
Since I was no longer occupied talking to their father, the young people crowded around me. Lily, my special friend, put jewelry on my wrists, ankles and head while I looked at pictures of her family. Then she pulled out tubes of mandi (hena) and started to apply it to my hands. The little boys took from me my camera and had great fun with it. The oldest brother plugged a DVD player into the TV and started playing for me Indian music videos. After we were done with the mandi, Lilly pulled me to my feet and dragged me to the center of the room to dance with her to the Bollywood tunes. Blushing with awareness of all the brothers watching me, I clumsily mimicked her movements and was soon laughing along with the rest of them. Eventually Amanat came back and informed me that he had arranged transportation for us all to Ranibad for after lunch. And so the morning went on. I played little language games with the children, exchanging English and Urdu words, was served a snack of mangos on their tiny terrace overlooking a dusty courtyard, and discussed the American perception of Pakistan with Amanat.
Eventually, at 3:00pm, lunch was served. I was very concerned that the entire family of nine and the relative who had brought a van for us to use would formally sit and watch me eat lunch alone, but I shouldn’t have feared. Since charpai beds, on which meals are often eaten, didn’t seem to be a part of their apartment furniture, we all sat picnic-like on a sheet spread on the floor of the sitting room. When I served myself a timid portion of chicken in rice, Amanat’s wife reached over me and dumped an additional three portions onto my plate. She was also very concerned that platters of bindi (okra) and chicken curry were always well within my reach. Though at first I was wary of excessive spices, I was quite hungry for lunch at this point, and I was happy to find that the food was deliciously edible. Amanat’s wife smiled and promised to give me the recipe. After lunch, around 4:00, we were ready to set out on the day’s activities around town. I felt as though I had already had plenty of excitement for one day, but much more was to follow!
When I questioned him about his plans, Paul explained to me that he would be leaving at 8:00 the next morning to drive the hour and a half to Hyderabad city for a meeting. The meeting would go until noon, they would have lunch, and then he would go to a village on the outskirts of the city to lead a worship service. If I wanted, I could call Lily before he left in the morning to see if she was free to host me for the day. I was hesitant. It was already past midnight and I didn’t relish getting up at 7:00. Also, I was uneasy with the prospect of being stranded in Hyderabad without anyone I knew for a whole day. I was afraid of becoming exhausted and miserable. Still, it seemed as good a time as any to follow up on my promise to visit and to take the adventure given to me. What is the point of being here if I insist on staying comfortable, right?
That night I prayed that, if it would be a net blessing for me to go, I would be able to get in touch with Lily and that she would be free. I prayed that, if I went, God would sustain me and bless the time. Then I texted Lily and went to bed. Five minutes later, I received a text back, “Means you tomorrow come to my house and call in morning? Yes dear, of course dear!” So it was settled. Tomorrow would be an adventure! Little did I know then just how much of an adventure it would be.
Things started well when Paul woke me at 7:00. I had slept well and felt alert. I dressed up as I’d seen girls here do when going visiting with earrings, a little make up, and Pakistani high heeled sandals. I questioned Paul as to whether I should bring clean water and toilet paper. He said to bring water just in case, but not to worry about the toilet paper. After I made myself two fried eggs and a thermos of tea I felt ready for anything. At 8:00 sharp, Padri Shamu arrived to pick us up. When I opened the side door, I was surprised to find the 8-seat van already full of Padri Shamu’s wife, four children, water-cooler, and bags. I squeezed in next to his wife Miti, a large dark woman dressed in flaming pink tribal clothes. My backpack had to stay on my lap as the engine caused the floor bulge under my feet, leaving no extra room. In this cramped, cozy fashion, we bumped along the highway.
It was exciting to watch the road. In true Pakistani fashion, Padri Shamu weaved through traffic, never missing a chance to go around a truck or donkey-cart, avoiding head-on collisions by speeding up and blaring his horn. At one point, we accidentally got on the wrong side of a divided highway. Padri dealt with it by turning on his lights and staying close to the divider until there was a break in the wall and we were able to accelerate into the appropriate stream of traffic. I spent the time taking note of the country side so as to be able to tell you about the fields, roadside snack stands, and peculiar vehicles. At one point a motorbike passed us driven by a man with two toddlers sitting in front of him and a woman in high heels riding sidesaddle behind him! I will have to write you a description of the highway ethos in another post; this one already has too much for me to tell!
To my surprise, we didn’t stop when we reached the chaos of Hyderabad city. We navigated the construction and crowds and continued back out into the countryside. We turned off the road onto a narrow dirt path made for a cart. Surely the fashionable Lily and didn’t live out here! The path turned into a strip of mud bordering a stagnant strip of shallow water. Once we got past the water, we arrived at a village of mud huts with thatched roofs and lounging farm animals reminiscent of a nativity scene. We had come to Miti’s village where we would drop off the family to spend the day with Grandma and all the aunts, uncles and cousins.
I gingerly climbed out of the van, suddenly feeling very silly in my fancy sandals. I was greeted by a wave of short women with tribal tattoos on their weathered brown faces. They put their rough hands on my head when I bowed and then they pulled me forward to kiss my cheeks. Thus I was welcomed by Miti’s family. As Paul greeted the villagers, I wandered around. I took pictures of water-buffalo lounging in a neighboring river, some with only their noses poking out of the water. I watched two children redoing the floor of their hut by efficiently spreading a layer of buffalo dung mud over the floor, corners, and the base of the walls. Nothing about the village buildings gave away the fact that they were made of dung mud. The air smelled fresh and the buildings looked like they could have been made of khaki-painted plaster. There were no square corners, every edge was rounded and the dry mud was solid but crumbled to powder if punctured.
After waving goodbye to Miti and the kids, Padri Shamu, Paul, and I climbed back in the van and drove back to Hyderabad. We arrived at St. Thomas Cathedral where I was met by Lily’s father, Amanat, a quiet man with a gentle face. Paul and Padri Shamu said goodbye and went inside to have their meeting. Lily’s father, beckoned me over to his means of transportation, a motor bike! I swallowed hard. I knew that I would have to ride sidesaddle, like all women in this country, but I didn’t know if I was allowed to hold on to Amanat. In the end, I decided that I would hang on even if it wasn’t culturally acceptable. No use avoiding local disapproval by falling off the bike in traffic. Sitting sideways on the back of the bike, no helmet or any kind of protective clothing, both besandled feet sticking out on one side of the bike and my backpack protruding from the other side, I was glad I had at least some rudimentary experience with how to lean with the bike and not resist the momentum. I focused all my energy on not upsetting Amanat’s balance as we bounced over fissures in the road, squeezed between lanes of carts, and crunched over a sandal that suddenly flew into the road from somewhere to the left. I was glad to arrive 15 minutes later, my front leg on fire from the strain of the one position.
Amanat and his family live on the third floor of a ramshackle apartment building, very modern and luxurious compared to Miti’s village. Amanat has seven children ranging from Paris, Joy, and Lily who are in specialty schools for Civil Engineering and Pharmacology respectively, to Harry who is in high school, down to John, Johnson-John, and Joseph-John, who are in elementary and middle school. Amanat works as an art teacher since he has not found much market for his oil paintings of colorful village scenes. His wife, a large cheery woman, works in the hospital next-door to the apartment complex.
From the moment I arrived in the home, the family treated me like royalty. They ushered me into their sitting room, pushed the coffee table up to my knees and placed on it in front of me plates of cookies, chips, two kinds of trail mix, and glasses of water and coke. While I sat surveying the junk food feast, Lily rushed off to make me chai tea. The others watched me anxiously to see if I would like what they had offered me. I sat awkwardly for a few minutes, picking at the trail mix and nibbling at a cookie. When Lily came back with a cup of chai, she tittered about how I must not like the food since I had barely touched it and would I like a different kind of cookie? At that I piled a plate high with a hearty portion of each offering and the room relaxed into comfortable conversation about differing cultural values and definitions of “rude”.
After I admired a picture hanging on the wall that Amanat had painted, a blazing sun setting behind thatched huts, Amanat motioned for one of his sons to get something from another room. He returned with another painting, this one done on a long strip of black cloth. The painting was of a moon shining over a river and illuminating sleeping village not unlike Miti’s. “I make for you a gift.” said Amanat, motioning with his hand for the boy to offer it to me. “I can not sell it and you can easily take it with you.” I looked at it with eyes shining. I hated to let him give me something with such personal and professional value, but unlike the sugary snacks, this was a gift I would truly treasure. After some polite protestation, I accepted whole heartedly. “I will show it to my friends in America and tell them about you!” I promised. “You will show it to your sister and father. Show them my art.” was his simple response.
As we sat and I ate, Amanat asked me what I would like to do for the day. Bashfully, I lifted my palms, I didn’t know what the possibilities were but would be happy with anything. Amanat nodded solemnly. He told me that there was a museum of Pakistani culture situated right behind it was a place called “Ranibad” which included gardens, a zoo, and “fun land”. I smiled vigorously. That sounded perfect! Again he nodded and then stood and left the room.
Since I was no longer occupied talking to their father, the young people crowded around me. Lily, my special friend, put jewelry on my wrists, ankles and head while I looked at pictures of her family. Then she pulled out tubes of mandi (hena) and started to apply it to my hands. The little boys took from me my camera and had great fun with it. The oldest brother plugged a DVD player into the TV and started playing for me Indian music videos. After we were done with the mandi, Lilly pulled me to my feet and dragged me to the center of the room to dance with her to the Bollywood tunes. Blushing with awareness of all the brothers watching me, I clumsily mimicked her movements and was soon laughing along with the rest of them. Eventually Amanat came back and informed me that he had arranged transportation for us all to Ranibad for after lunch. And so the morning went on. I played little language games with the children, exchanging English and Urdu words, was served a snack of mangos on their tiny terrace overlooking a dusty courtyard, and discussed the American perception of Pakistan with Amanat.
Eventually, at 3:00pm, lunch was served. I was very concerned that the entire family of nine and the relative who had brought a van for us to use would formally sit and watch me eat lunch alone, but I shouldn’t have feared. Since charpai beds, on which meals are often eaten, didn’t seem to be a part of their apartment furniture, we all sat picnic-like on a sheet spread on the floor of the sitting room. When I served myself a timid portion of chicken in rice, Amanat’s wife reached over me and dumped an additional three portions onto my plate. She was also very concerned that platters of bindi (okra) and chicken curry were always well within my reach. Though at first I was wary of excessive spices, I was quite hungry for lunch at this point, and I was happy to find that the food was deliciously edible. Amanat’s wife smiled and promised to give me the recipe. After lunch, around 4:00, we were ready to set out on the day’s activities around town. I felt as though I had already had plenty of excitement for one day, but much more was to follow!
Friday, June 25, 2010
Lunch with Golden, the tailor
Today, June 24, was a bigger day than I expected. Golden, the tailor to whom Pat is so loyal, invited us all over for lunch as a way of saying goodbye to Mark, the missionary kid/college student from Canada who has been staying with us. At 2:15 sharp, we piled in the car to drive to our 2:00 lunch date. I expected lunch would be like the others I have experienced, a proud family showing us their best hospitality with food and fellowship. In a way, it was as I expected though with very different flare. Lunch with Golden was like a combination of the entertainment I have received at respectable, though poor homes, and being treated like royalty by an entire village.
We drove 15 minutes outside of town along the main road. We passed a field full of people squatting in tents made of bamboo polls and ragged but colorful cloths. We also passed an extensive graveyard, the mounds of dirt and white marble markers coming right up to the road and sprawling along for quite a while. At a gas station, we met one of Golden’s sons on a motor bike and he led us along the unfamiliar dirt allies that led to his house. We parked our car between a mud wall and a lean-to of sticks to which were tied-up two cows and a baby water buffalo. We were met by a knot of timidly staring children who disappeared as Golden came out to greet us. The six of us followed Golden and his son through door ways and across courtyards, past animals, mud pits, and squatting village women, until we reached the walled-in expanse that belonged to Golden. While being recorded on an enormous video camera held on the shoulders of another one of Golden’s sons, we filed into the cool and dark of a finished building at the back of the courtyard. We started to arrange ourselves on the rug-covered ground as people commonly do here, but Golden and the others pulled us up onto the chairs lining the back wall. They would not have their guests be so dishonored as to sit on the floor.
After we were sitting, Golden introduced us to the various members of his family, his grown sons, their wives, their children, his wife, his father etc. Every time someone entered the room to be introduced, we would all stand again, greet the new person, clasp their hands or bow our heads to be blessed or bless their heads as was appropriate to our individual ages. Halfway through the procession, Golden’s mother, wife, and some other relatives brought lays of fragrant pink and white flowers and placed them around our necks. I blushed and bowed and muttered “thank you” in every local language I could think of. I was glad to sit down again and let the conversation as equal begin again.
I was seated on the far end of the row of chairs with Pat on one side and a woman with a baby on my other side. The woman was very slight of frame, looking little more than a child herself, from what I could see of her, which wasn’t much, as she had a pink veil draped over her head and face. But I could see that her hands were soft and small, like a child’s, and that her nails were carefully painted and that she wore red bracelets on her slim wrists. She soon placed her little hand on my arm and, holding her veil out to the side to reveal her face to me but to keep it hidden from the rest of the room, (women here never let their faces be seen by their father-in-laws,) she struck up a conversation with me. I was only able to talk with her unaided as far as “Kay say hah?” (How are you?), “Teek-kay” (I’m fine), and “Obka nahm kya hah?” (What is your name?) After that, I had to call on Pat to interpret.
The girl’s name was Gourgut and the baby she held was her first child. She was the young wife of the son of Golden who was doing the videotaping. She told us proudly that she was the only one of the women of the family who could speak Urdu in addition to the tribal language of their cast; she had picked it up by listening. When we asked about her level in school, she told us that her parents had forbidden her to go to school, but that she had taught herself to write her own name and that of her husband. Now her family had said that, as a mother with a baby, there was no reason for her to study. She, however, wanted to learn so that she could better help her children to receive an education. Right now, there is no school close enough for the children of their compound to attend, so, though there is much willingness to learn among the many children, none of them are receiving any education.
I felt very sorry for this pretty young girl who was so bright in countenance, so gentle and earnest in her wistful talk of learning. I felt an instant warmth for her and wished we could be better friends. For the first time during my time abroad, I felt a tug at my heart, urging me to do something. I wished I could bring education to this compound. I wished I could tutor this woman and help her see her children educated. It wouldn’t take much, just someone who knew the language, had a few workbooks, and was able to spend some time here. This thought is, of course, accompanied by the knowledge that neighborhoods just like this are the norm rather than the exception across the poor provinces of Pakistan. How can compassion in one heart hope to turn the tide of poverty and ignorance for the people just like Gourgut all over the country?
My ruminations were disturbed by the announcement that lunch was served. I was impressed by how many resources it took to host a party of our size. Golden went above and beyond. Hand sewn quilts were spread over three bed-frames upon which were scattered an array of dishes reminding me of the mad-hatter’s tea party. Bowls of spiced yogurt, plates of stir-fired “sour-gourd”, platters of rice, containers of chicken curry in red sauce, plates of fresh tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers, and even little dishes of doughy “bhurfee” cookies waited for us on a long mat laid out lengthwise across the beds. As is customary for hosting company, we sat on pillows at the edges of the beds and ate while members of Golden’s family swished away the flies and served us drinks. Golden presided over the proceedings, a smile beaming from his gentle, kind face. Golden and his family would not eat lunch that day, the occasion was devoted to showing us honor and hospitality. After the meal, the men of the family cleared away the dishes and children gave us glass bottles of soda pop. Then four regal women came out of one of the mud buildings and presented Paul and Mark with hand printed Sindhi ajarak cloths and Pat and me with sequined wool shawls. Gifts of cloth from our favorite tailor.
I didn’t understand it fully then, but it was really quite remarkable that we were able to have such a lunch with Golden and his family. Golden belongs to the Meghwar tribe, one that is considered part of the lowest caste of the all outcast castes. No one other than other Meghwars is likely to be willing to eat with Golden and his family, which clarifies why Golden was so eager to show us honor with his best hospitality as we visited in his home. Secondly, Meghwars usually are relegated to professions that no one else will stoop to, such as making shoes, which involve handling cow leather, a Hindu taboo. Because of this, Meghwars are usually very poor and, though they would kill their last chicken to serve you, they would not usually be able to afford such extravagant hospitality. Golden, however, has worked hard, in spite of his social handicap. Golden works as a tailor, making a tidy living. His children have pursued education, one working as a medical technician and another as a wedding camera man (thus the video camera.) Because of their industriousness and our willingness to eat with them, they were able to host us to a feast.
After the meal, some of the children tried to coax Jodie to come play with them. Jodie shyly clung to her mother until I offered to go with her. I was eager for an excuse to walk around the compound and take pictures. I dragged Jodie along with me to translate and was soon engulfed in a wave of children. They were absolutely delighted by my camera and literally fell over each other to throw themselves in front of the camera and into the picture. They made a game of seeing who could rush into the frame, wherever I pointed the camera. In this way, most of the pictures of clay fire pits, mud holes, reed fences, and piles of bricks are completely obscured by clamoring children. It was great fun. I especially enjoyed photographing the children posing with the many animals, (cows, goats, water buffalo, donkeys, great green, orange, and blue grass hoppers etc.)
Pretty soon some of the mothers of the children joined in the fun, beckoning me from house to house, showing me their rooms with painted neon flowers and posters of movie stars on the walls, the outdoor corners where they cooked, the piles of buffalo-dung mud which would be made into cement for building and chips for burning. I saw their embroidery hanging above their doors and on their pillows. I saw a large boil protruding from the forehead of one of their toddlers. They proudly posed in their colorful tribal outfits, their white plastic bracelets reaching from their wrists to their shoulders. They showed me their shrines where they nightly play sitar and burn incense to their gods. They took me to one room and proudly pointed out an enormous loom on which was the beginning of a heavy, ornate rug being woven of red, gold, and blue wool in detailed designs. I had trouble photographing even this wall-sized loom because of the children crowding in front.
One golden child stood out particularly. He, Savwayi, is a cherubic sunbeam of boyhood, a prince among the others, looking to be about five years old but already capturing my heart with his smile. We all noticed him from the very beginning when he entered the sitting room, before lunch, and went down the row of us, shaking our hands. I noticed his neatly combed black hair and bashful glances. I was impressed with his gentlemanly handshake, just like a little host. It was really exceptional how all of us commented to each other about this boy, marking him out of all the children. I thought to myself, “We have found Jodie a husband.” As I was taking pictures around the neighborhood, Savwayi made it into many of them. He was rascally assertive in jumping in front of the camera and flashing his irresistible, roguish grin. But even when he didn’t run to the front, my camera was again and again drawn to him of its own accord. For myself, I wished I could catch him up in my arms and keep him forever.
Eventually, it was time to go. As the whole village crowded around, Paul prayed for them in Sindhi. Pat and I sat across from Paul and Mark, praying under our breath in tongues. Savwayi stood at Paul’s knee, watching with his big eyes wide and attentive. Gourgut stood at the fringes of the crowd, her veil over her face, still holding her child. Golden stood holding a grandchild, his father next to him, many of his 10 children crowded around. When Paul finished his prayer, it was time for goodbyes, smiles, hugs, and blessings. The whole crowd accompanied us to the car and waved until we bumped and bounced away down the unfinished path toward the main road.
This has been a long story and I congratulate you for reaching the end. I hope, however, that this is only the beginning of the relationship between Golden, his family, and those who are willing and able to bless them. As we drove away, there was talk among us of getting a Village Outreach Worker to offer, health, literacy and Bible training at this compound. I hope that Gourgut will get the chance to have the learning she craves and that Savwayi will grow up into his shining potential. I hope that these honest, hospitable, hardworking, hopeful people will have a chance to hear what I believe is true: that a living God cares about them enough to do whatever it takes, even to send his son to die, in order for them to know him and receive his blessing. I hope that God’s love and compassion may be imparted to these precious ones by the faithful ones who are his body here in Pakistan.
We drove 15 minutes outside of town along the main road. We passed a field full of people squatting in tents made of bamboo polls and ragged but colorful cloths. We also passed an extensive graveyard, the mounds of dirt and white marble markers coming right up to the road and sprawling along for quite a while. At a gas station, we met one of Golden’s sons on a motor bike and he led us along the unfamiliar dirt allies that led to his house. We parked our car between a mud wall and a lean-to of sticks to which were tied-up two cows and a baby water buffalo. We were met by a knot of timidly staring children who disappeared as Golden came out to greet us. The six of us followed Golden and his son through door ways and across courtyards, past animals, mud pits, and squatting village women, until we reached the walled-in expanse that belonged to Golden. While being recorded on an enormous video camera held on the shoulders of another one of Golden’s sons, we filed into the cool and dark of a finished building at the back of the courtyard. We started to arrange ourselves on the rug-covered ground as people commonly do here, but Golden and the others pulled us up onto the chairs lining the back wall. They would not have their guests be so dishonored as to sit on the floor.
After we were sitting, Golden introduced us to the various members of his family, his grown sons, their wives, their children, his wife, his father etc. Every time someone entered the room to be introduced, we would all stand again, greet the new person, clasp their hands or bow our heads to be blessed or bless their heads as was appropriate to our individual ages. Halfway through the procession, Golden’s mother, wife, and some other relatives brought lays of fragrant pink and white flowers and placed them around our necks. I blushed and bowed and muttered “thank you” in every local language I could think of. I was glad to sit down again and let the conversation as equal begin again.
I was seated on the far end of the row of chairs with Pat on one side and a woman with a baby on my other side. The woman was very slight of frame, looking little more than a child herself, from what I could see of her, which wasn’t much, as she had a pink veil draped over her head and face. But I could see that her hands were soft and small, like a child’s, and that her nails were carefully painted and that she wore red bracelets on her slim wrists. She soon placed her little hand on my arm and, holding her veil out to the side to reveal her face to me but to keep it hidden from the rest of the room, (women here never let their faces be seen by their father-in-laws,) she struck up a conversation with me. I was only able to talk with her unaided as far as “Kay say hah?” (How are you?), “Teek-kay” (I’m fine), and “Obka nahm kya hah?” (What is your name?) After that, I had to call on Pat to interpret.
The girl’s name was Gourgut and the baby she held was her first child. She was the young wife of the son of Golden who was doing the videotaping. She told us proudly that she was the only one of the women of the family who could speak Urdu in addition to the tribal language of their cast; she had picked it up by listening. When we asked about her level in school, she told us that her parents had forbidden her to go to school, but that she had taught herself to write her own name and that of her husband. Now her family had said that, as a mother with a baby, there was no reason for her to study. She, however, wanted to learn so that she could better help her children to receive an education. Right now, there is no school close enough for the children of their compound to attend, so, though there is much willingness to learn among the many children, none of them are receiving any education.
I felt very sorry for this pretty young girl who was so bright in countenance, so gentle and earnest in her wistful talk of learning. I felt an instant warmth for her and wished we could be better friends. For the first time during my time abroad, I felt a tug at my heart, urging me to do something. I wished I could bring education to this compound. I wished I could tutor this woman and help her see her children educated. It wouldn’t take much, just someone who knew the language, had a few workbooks, and was able to spend some time here. This thought is, of course, accompanied by the knowledge that neighborhoods just like this are the norm rather than the exception across the poor provinces of Pakistan. How can compassion in one heart hope to turn the tide of poverty and ignorance for the people just like Gourgut all over the country?
My ruminations were disturbed by the announcement that lunch was served. I was impressed by how many resources it took to host a party of our size. Golden went above and beyond. Hand sewn quilts were spread over three bed-frames upon which were scattered an array of dishes reminding me of the mad-hatter’s tea party. Bowls of spiced yogurt, plates of stir-fired “sour-gourd”, platters of rice, containers of chicken curry in red sauce, plates of fresh tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers, and even little dishes of doughy “bhurfee” cookies waited for us on a long mat laid out lengthwise across the beds. As is customary for hosting company, we sat on pillows at the edges of the beds and ate while members of Golden’s family swished away the flies and served us drinks. Golden presided over the proceedings, a smile beaming from his gentle, kind face. Golden and his family would not eat lunch that day, the occasion was devoted to showing us honor and hospitality. After the meal, the men of the family cleared away the dishes and children gave us glass bottles of soda pop. Then four regal women came out of one of the mud buildings and presented Paul and Mark with hand printed Sindhi ajarak cloths and Pat and me with sequined wool shawls. Gifts of cloth from our favorite tailor.
I didn’t understand it fully then, but it was really quite remarkable that we were able to have such a lunch with Golden and his family. Golden belongs to the Meghwar tribe, one that is considered part of the lowest caste of the all outcast castes. No one other than other Meghwars is likely to be willing to eat with Golden and his family, which clarifies why Golden was so eager to show us honor with his best hospitality as we visited in his home. Secondly, Meghwars usually are relegated to professions that no one else will stoop to, such as making shoes, which involve handling cow leather, a Hindu taboo. Because of this, Meghwars are usually very poor and, though they would kill their last chicken to serve you, they would not usually be able to afford such extravagant hospitality. Golden, however, has worked hard, in spite of his social handicap. Golden works as a tailor, making a tidy living. His children have pursued education, one working as a medical technician and another as a wedding camera man (thus the video camera.) Because of their industriousness and our willingness to eat with them, they were able to host us to a feast.
After the meal, some of the children tried to coax Jodie to come play with them. Jodie shyly clung to her mother until I offered to go with her. I was eager for an excuse to walk around the compound and take pictures. I dragged Jodie along with me to translate and was soon engulfed in a wave of children. They were absolutely delighted by my camera and literally fell over each other to throw themselves in front of the camera and into the picture. They made a game of seeing who could rush into the frame, wherever I pointed the camera. In this way, most of the pictures of clay fire pits, mud holes, reed fences, and piles of bricks are completely obscured by clamoring children. It was great fun. I especially enjoyed photographing the children posing with the many animals, (cows, goats, water buffalo, donkeys, great green, orange, and blue grass hoppers etc.)
Pretty soon some of the mothers of the children joined in the fun, beckoning me from house to house, showing me their rooms with painted neon flowers and posters of movie stars on the walls, the outdoor corners where they cooked, the piles of buffalo-dung mud which would be made into cement for building and chips for burning. I saw their embroidery hanging above their doors and on their pillows. I saw a large boil protruding from the forehead of one of their toddlers. They proudly posed in their colorful tribal outfits, their white plastic bracelets reaching from their wrists to their shoulders. They showed me their shrines where they nightly play sitar and burn incense to their gods. They took me to one room and proudly pointed out an enormous loom on which was the beginning of a heavy, ornate rug being woven of red, gold, and blue wool in detailed designs. I had trouble photographing even this wall-sized loom because of the children crowding in front.
One golden child stood out particularly. He, Savwayi, is a cherubic sunbeam of boyhood, a prince among the others, looking to be about five years old but already capturing my heart with his smile. We all noticed him from the very beginning when he entered the sitting room, before lunch, and went down the row of us, shaking our hands. I noticed his neatly combed black hair and bashful glances. I was impressed with his gentlemanly handshake, just like a little host. It was really exceptional how all of us commented to each other about this boy, marking him out of all the children. I thought to myself, “We have found Jodie a husband.” As I was taking pictures around the neighborhood, Savwayi made it into many of them. He was rascally assertive in jumping in front of the camera and flashing his irresistible, roguish grin. But even when he didn’t run to the front, my camera was again and again drawn to him of its own accord. For myself, I wished I could catch him up in my arms and keep him forever.
Eventually, it was time to go. As the whole village crowded around, Paul prayed for them in Sindhi. Pat and I sat across from Paul and Mark, praying under our breath in tongues. Savwayi stood at Paul’s knee, watching with his big eyes wide and attentive. Gourgut stood at the fringes of the crowd, her veil over her face, still holding her child. Golden stood holding a grandchild, his father next to him, many of his 10 children crowded around. When Paul finished his prayer, it was time for goodbyes, smiles, hugs, and blessings. The whole crowd accompanied us to the car and waved until we bumped and bounced away down the unfinished path toward the main road.
This has been a long story and I congratulate you for reaching the end. I hope, however, that this is only the beginning of the relationship between Golden, his family, and those who are willing and able to bless them. As we drove away, there was talk among us of getting a Village Outreach Worker to offer, health, literacy and Bible training at this compound. I hope that Gourgut will get the chance to have the learning she craves and that Savwayi will grow up into his shining potential. I hope that these honest, hospitable, hardworking, hopeful people will have a chance to hear what I believe is true: that a living God cares about them enough to do whatever it takes, even to send his son to die, in order for them to know him and receive his blessing. I hope that God’s love and compassion may be imparted to these precious ones by the faithful ones who are his body here in Pakistan.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Quiet Days and New Friends
As I exclaimed during school this morning, this past week has been so exceedingly pleasant. Since nothing extraordinary has been going on, life has been fairly quiet. Pat, Joel, Jodie, and I spend long hours sitting on the bed in the one air-conditioned room in the house reading aloud from a book of Bible stories, a biography of David Livingstone, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and The Hobbit. I greatly enjoy reading aloud, supplying voices, sound effects, and accents where needed. When I don’t feel like reading, Pat takes a turn. While listening, we all work on our own cross-stitch projects, Jodie on one I brought for her as a present, Joel and Pat on ancient projects that have been dug out of piles of handy crafts. Whenever we feel like it, Jodie or Joel runs over to the kitchen to fetch soda or cookies or chips for us to snack on. It is supremely luxurious and edifying.
One day at a time, life here is good. We are always doing something worthwhile, for others or for personal enrichment. We have meals as a family, sometimes while watching a movie, sometimes while having conversation. We have family devotions every night in which we read from a devotion book and pray together. We go to Body and Soul Exercise led by Pat. Pat uses Theophostic Prayer techniques to minister to women who come to her and leads a weekly class on the principles of Theophostic Prayer Ministry. Once a month, Paul leads “English Worship”, a worship service for families who want to learn worship songs in English. And I am only scratching the surface of what goes on here by recounting what I’ve personally witnessed in the past week and a half!
When I’m not following Pat around, shadowing her in her errands and meetings, I am spending time with the families that live right around the Stock’s house. I have met one family that I care about particularly. There are many people in the household but two are my special friends, Razia, 19 years old, and Sunila, 22 years old. They are both gentle, gracious, and dignified. Both have a winning quality of brightness about them; they bring peace and light into a room with them. They are proficient at the chores necessary to running the house and they are leaders in the community of young people. They have shown me their skills with hena painting, hair doing, clothes sewing, etc. We have accepted each other like sisters. The few times I have been able to visit in their hut, I have enjoyed sitting with them, exchanging Urdu and English words, and just being together. Right now, I’m working with Sunila and Pat to write a Vacation Bible School program to be put on at a nearby church in two weeks. Razia came with me to the bazaar today and held my hand faithfully as we traversed the labyrinth of tunnel-streets.
Razia has told me of how she wishes she could visit America. I raked my brains for reasonable possibilities of how she could arrange such a trip but none came to mind. It was very clear to me that I, a rich American, had only been able to visit Pakistan because of the faithful generosity of those who love me and believe in my potential. How can Razia, a 19 year old who lives in a three room hut hope to finance a trip abroad? Razia patted my hand as I looked at her helplessly. The only way I could think of was if someone would want to bring Razia with them on their trip to the United States to watch their children or attend some sort of important event. Razia nodded her head graciously; she appreciated my concern, but to her, visiting America was just a dream.
Yesterday I went to work on English with Sunila. Sunila was busy helping her older sister Nasreen get ready to attend a fancy party in honor of the bishop’s birthday. Sunila sewed some fashionable bodice seams into Nasreen’s chamese (shirt) and then plucked her eyebrows with a circlet of thread. When Nasreen was done, Sunila motioned for me to lie down so she could thread my eyebrows too! I was a little ambivalent since I wasn’t keen on the discomfort of the process and I didn’t think my eyebrows needed any attention. Still, I eventually succumbed and lay down. If I had known how much it would hurt, I would not have been so obliging. Sunila would select a hair, latch onto it with the thread, then every so slowly drag it out of my head. Before long, my eyes were watering with distress and it was all I could do to keep from sitting up and leaving with the job half done. Sunila laughed and said that my hair was very strong. Then she called Razia to come and hold my hand. The process went on and on; I started to wonder if they were reducing my eyebrows to pencil thinness. When I inspected the work afterward, however, I had to admit that the end product looked good, even if the skin over my eyes was red and raw.
Today I will go to Razia and Sunila’s house again. They have invited me to come so that they can dress me up in tribal clothes, do my make-up, and take pictures. Nasreen has promised that she will put on music and the three sisters will teach me to dance! This pleased me greatly since learning to dance in the Pakistani way was one of my hopes for this trip.
One day at a time, life here is good. We are always doing something worthwhile, for others or for personal enrichment. We have meals as a family, sometimes while watching a movie, sometimes while having conversation. We have family devotions every night in which we read from a devotion book and pray together. We go to Body and Soul Exercise led by Pat. Pat uses Theophostic Prayer techniques to minister to women who come to her and leads a weekly class on the principles of Theophostic Prayer Ministry. Once a month, Paul leads “English Worship”, a worship service for families who want to learn worship songs in English. And I am only scratching the surface of what goes on here by recounting what I’ve personally witnessed in the past week and a half!
When I’m not following Pat around, shadowing her in her errands and meetings, I am spending time with the families that live right around the Stock’s house. I have met one family that I care about particularly. There are many people in the household but two are my special friends, Razia, 19 years old, and Sunila, 22 years old. They are both gentle, gracious, and dignified. Both have a winning quality of brightness about them; they bring peace and light into a room with them. They are proficient at the chores necessary to running the house and they are leaders in the community of young people. They have shown me their skills with hena painting, hair doing, clothes sewing, etc. We have accepted each other like sisters. The few times I have been able to visit in their hut, I have enjoyed sitting with them, exchanging Urdu and English words, and just being together. Right now, I’m working with Sunila and Pat to write a Vacation Bible School program to be put on at a nearby church in two weeks. Razia came with me to the bazaar today and held my hand faithfully as we traversed the labyrinth of tunnel-streets.
Razia has told me of how she wishes she could visit America. I raked my brains for reasonable possibilities of how she could arrange such a trip but none came to mind. It was very clear to me that I, a rich American, had only been able to visit Pakistan because of the faithful generosity of those who love me and believe in my potential. How can Razia, a 19 year old who lives in a three room hut hope to finance a trip abroad? Razia patted my hand as I looked at her helplessly. The only way I could think of was if someone would want to bring Razia with them on their trip to the United States to watch their children or attend some sort of important event. Razia nodded her head graciously; she appreciated my concern, but to her, visiting America was just a dream.
Yesterday I went to work on English with Sunila. Sunila was busy helping her older sister Nasreen get ready to attend a fancy party in honor of the bishop’s birthday. Sunila sewed some fashionable bodice seams into Nasreen’s chamese (shirt) and then plucked her eyebrows with a circlet of thread. When Nasreen was done, Sunila motioned for me to lie down so she could thread my eyebrows too! I was a little ambivalent since I wasn’t keen on the discomfort of the process and I didn’t think my eyebrows needed any attention. Still, I eventually succumbed and lay down. If I had known how much it would hurt, I would not have been so obliging. Sunila would select a hair, latch onto it with the thread, then every so slowly drag it out of my head. Before long, my eyes were watering with distress and it was all I could do to keep from sitting up and leaving with the job half done. Sunila laughed and said that my hair was very strong. Then she called Razia to come and hold my hand. The process went on and on; I started to wonder if they were reducing my eyebrows to pencil thinness. When I inspected the work afterward, however, I had to admit that the end product looked good, even if the skin over my eyes was red and raw.
Today I will go to Razia and Sunila’s house again. They have invited me to come so that they can dress me up in tribal clothes, do my make-up, and take pictures. Nasreen has promised that she will put on music and the three sisters will teach me to dance! This pleased me greatly since learning to dance in the Pakistani way was one of my hopes for this trip.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Taking Stock
I am beginning to turn my thoughts toward the flight home and my return from Pakistan. It is hard to believe that I’m over half way through my trip and that soon my seven weeks will be over. Pat and Jodie have also expressed surprise that I will so soon be leaving. Jodie said that she thought I was staying until mid August, long enough to go with them on their family vacation in Hunza. I find myself quite sincere in assuring them that I wish I was staying. Though I well remember the intense homesickness and physical struggle of my first three weeks in Pakistan, now that I have adjusted into a level of comfort with the culture, lifestyle, and local people, I can truly appreciate being here. I fear that I will not be able, in the three weeks remaining before I fly away, to fully gain a sense of the Pakistan and the roles of missionaries here.
Most of the traveling and village visiting that I have experienced happened early in my trip while I was ill from jetlag and cocksacki. For the past week and a half that I have been feeling healthy and enthusiastic, my time has been spent helping out with the daily activities of the Stock home (home-school, cooking, going to the aerobics class Pat teaches, visiting the families who live nearby, going to the bazaar, etc.) It has been very comfortable and pleasant but I am eager to go to more rural villages, meet non-Christians, learn more of the local language, experience a celebration, and explore the various roles of missionaries in this location. I feel that this is a tall order for three weeks. I’m afraid that I will end up flying home with a sense of having leaving half undone the work I’d set out to do.
I wonder if I have accomplished my goals. I came to serve the Stock family and the people of the Sindh to the best of my currently limited abilities. I came to learn about mission work, the state of countries such as Pakistan, and my compatibility with overseas conditions. I came to explore previously unimagined (by me) applications of psychology so as to clarify my graduate school and ministry hopes. I came to quiet my fears about the future and to establish a precedent of placing God’s will and way as my priority.
Have these goals been met? I brought with me three text books to read. I’ve read one chapter of each. I brought with me one novel to read; I’ve read the whole thing. Have I used my time well? Have I learned enough while over here to be ready to make the decisions that will be facing me when I get home? Am I ready to choose an interim job, to choose a graduate program, to specify my desired specialty? Am I ready to trust God in the United States where life moves so much faster and where excess options confuse discernment? I don’t know. I will just have to spend these last few weeks in Pakistan as industriously and effectively as I can and trust God for the rest.
I feel now as though I could possibly bear to live far away from my family, if the perfect school or perfect program or perfect profession happened to be located across the country or in another country. I would only ever be a plane’s trip away from my family and modern communication is so good, I would never be out of touch. But I wonder how much of this confidence comes from the fact that I feel so at home with the Stock family? Perhaps this is not a representative situation since I already knew this family, they have welcomed me into their home, and they happen to be so compatible with me.
I have become very fond of the Stock family. Pat is amazing to me. She is so consistently cheerful, laughing when others would cry with frustration. She takes so much in stride, patiently pushing through until whatever needs to happen is accomplished. She has a happy way of staying peaceful no matter how off schedule her life becomes through unexpected demands upon her time. I am always amazed at how she can find strength and motivation to start cooking a dinner from scratch at 7:00pm after spending several hours at the bazaar or after spending all afternoon leading exercise class. She blesses me by how patiently she accommodates the requests of her children and treats me with the same earnest consideration. It is as though she cares about my hopes and preferences as much as I do. She is always up for talking and laughing together, watching a movie, helping me put into action my plans, or to pray with me.
I have also grown fond of Paul, Joel, and Jodie. Paul is full of fun, his laughter and smiles and dancing around fill a room. He has an exuberant and contagious love that overflows into kissing and hugging (to Jodie), thumping on the back, pats on the head, kind words, and warm smiles as appropriate. His music inspires joy and tears according to their content. He is full of light and love as he touches the hearts and lives of those around him. His sermons are stirring and I love to discus with him the questions of the faith that most trouble me.
Joel has a soft, sweet spirit. He has a tender love for animals. You should see him cradling the family’s cats in his arms like infants as he croons cutesy baby-talk to them. He is often quiet, reading a book or working on his school, but whenever he can get his hands on a musical instrument, he pours forth recognizable strains. He painstakingly works out complicated pieces of music by copying the electric piano’s performance. His parents gave him a plastic toy saxophone that has a piano keyboard on the side and makes sounds like a harmonica. They gave it to him as a joke but Joel plays it like a pro, even accompanying the family worship services! But what I like most about Joel is his gentle, compassionate humility. While playing a cranium-like game, he lost a challenge by being the first person playing to run out of complements for himself! He may not remember tons of nice things about himself, but he never forgets to say goodnight to me by name.
Jodie is the queen of the roost. She is under four feet tall but has the rest of the family wrapped around her tiny fingers. She can spell “ostentatious” along with other equally impressive Spelling Power words, but she speaks with the childish pronunciation of the “r” sound as “awr”. She has a sharp mind for figuring out which arrangements of seats or schedule would be best to her advantage, but has not yet matured into considering what would be best for the other people in the situation. Of all the family members, it took me the longest to come to terms with Jodie. I think she reminded me a little too much of myself at her age; potent personality, articulate but immature, strong-willed until convinced otherwise. I was irked by how her parents catered to her preferences and allowed her to, at times, monopolize their attention. I was especially intolerant since Jodie seemed to ignore me entirely. Over the past week or so that I have been more involved with Jodie’s home school, I have come to interact with her more as a person and to appreciate her fire-cracker sparkle. I enjoy how she sings to herself and gets so excited about little things like how many times a tea bag can be used before it loses its flavor.
One thing is sure, I will miss this family when I leave. They hold such a sense of home for me. I hope that I have contributed something of value to them and that they will keep me in their hearts and welcome me back when we meet again. I hope that I can serve them well for the next few weeks and that I can repay to them some of the debt of love I hold for them in my heart. I pray that my time here will leave a small, positive mark on this place and this family as it has made a large, wonderful mark on me and my life.
Most of the traveling and village visiting that I have experienced happened early in my trip while I was ill from jetlag and cocksacki. For the past week and a half that I have been feeling healthy and enthusiastic, my time has been spent helping out with the daily activities of the Stock home (home-school, cooking, going to the aerobics class Pat teaches, visiting the families who live nearby, going to the bazaar, etc.) It has been very comfortable and pleasant but I am eager to go to more rural villages, meet non-Christians, learn more of the local language, experience a celebration, and explore the various roles of missionaries in this location. I feel that this is a tall order for three weeks. I’m afraid that I will end up flying home with a sense of having leaving half undone the work I’d set out to do.
I wonder if I have accomplished my goals. I came to serve the Stock family and the people of the Sindh to the best of my currently limited abilities. I came to learn about mission work, the state of countries such as Pakistan, and my compatibility with overseas conditions. I came to explore previously unimagined (by me) applications of psychology so as to clarify my graduate school and ministry hopes. I came to quiet my fears about the future and to establish a precedent of placing God’s will and way as my priority.
Have these goals been met? I brought with me three text books to read. I’ve read one chapter of each. I brought with me one novel to read; I’ve read the whole thing. Have I used my time well? Have I learned enough while over here to be ready to make the decisions that will be facing me when I get home? Am I ready to choose an interim job, to choose a graduate program, to specify my desired specialty? Am I ready to trust God in the United States where life moves so much faster and where excess options confuse discernment? I don’t know. I will just have to spend these last few weeks in Pakistan as industriously and effectively as I can and trust God for the rest.
I feel now as though I could possibly bear to live far away from my family, if the perfect school or perfect program or perfect profession happened to be located across the country or in another country. I would only ever be a plane’s trip away from my family and modern communication is so good, I would never be out of touch. But I wonder how much of this confidence comes from the fact that I feel so at home with the Stock family? Perhaps this is not a representative situation since I already knew this family, they have welcomed me into their home, and they happen to be so compatible with me.
I have become very fond of the Stock family. Pat is amazing to me. She is so consistently cheerful, laughing when others would cry with frustration. She takes so much in stride, patiently pushing through until whatever needs to happen is accomplished. She has a happy way of staying peaceful no matter how off schedule her life becomes through unexpected demands upon her time. I am always amazed at how she can find strength and motivation to start cooking a dinner from scratch at 7:00pm after spending several hours at the bazaar or after spending all afternoon leading exercise class. She blesses me by how patiently she accommodates the requests of her children and treats me with the same earnest consideration. It is as though she cares about my hopes and preferences as much as I do. She is always up for talking and laughing together, watching a movie, helping me put into action my plans, or to pray with me.
I have also grown fond of Paul, Joel, and Jodie. Paul is full of fun, his laughter and smiles and dancing around fill a room. He has an exuberant and contagious love that overflows into kissing and hugging (to Jodie), thumping on the back, pats on the head, kind words, and warm smiles as appropriate. His music inspires joy and tears according to their content. He is full of light and love as he touches the hearts and lives of those around him. His sermons are stirring and I love to discus with him the questions of the faith that most trouble me.
Joel has a soft, sweet spirit. He has a tender love for animals. You should see him cradling the family’s cats in his arms like infants as he croons cutesy baby-talk to them. He is often quiet, reading a book or working on his school, but whenever he can get his hands on a musical instrument, he pours forth recognizable strains. He painstakingly works out complicated pieces of music by copying the electric piano’s performance. His parents gave him a plastic toy saxophone that has a piano keyboard on the side and makes sounds like a harmonica. They gave it to him as a joke but Joel plays it like a pro, even accompanying the family worship services! But what I like most about Joel is his gentle, compassionate humility. While playing a cranium-like game, he lost a challenge by being the first person playing to run out of complements for himself! He may not remember tons of nice things about himself, but he never forgets to say goodnight to me by name.
Jodie is the queen of the roost. She is under four feet tall but has the rest of the family wrapped around her tiny fingers. She can spell “ostentatious” along with other equally impressive Spelling Power words, but she speaks with the childish pronunciation of the “r” sound as “awr”. She has a sharp mind for figuring out which arrangements of seats or schedule would be best to her advantage, but has not yet matured into considering what would be best for the other people in the situation. Of all the family members, it took me the longest to come to terms with Jodie. I think she reminded me a little too much of myself at her age; potent personality, articulate but immature, strong-willed until convinced otherwise. I was irked by how her parents catered to her preferences and allowed her to, at times, monopolize their attention. I was especially intolerant since Jodie seemed to ignore me entirely. Over the past week or so that I have been more involved with Jodie’s home school, I have come to interact with her more as a person and to appreciate her fire-cracker sparkle. I enjoy how she sings to herself and gets so excited about little things like how many times a tea bag can be used before it loses its flavor.
One thing is sure, I will miss this family when I leave. They hold such a sense of home for me. I hope that I have contributed something of value to them and that they will keep me in their hearts and welcome me back when we meet again. I hope that I can serve them well for the next few weeks and that I can repay to them some of the debt of love I hold for them in my heart. I pray that my time here will leave a small, positive mark on this place and this family as it has made a large, wonderful mark on me and my life.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Cake Catastrophe a la Martha
Martha is quite a character. She is very pretty and very persistent, so she usually gets her way once she sets her mind to it. Though half the time she is poking fun at me in Urdu and leading the other girls in falling over themselves laughing, Martha has been my most consistent companion while I am at Pat and Paul’s house. Martha is about 14 and has a full yet slim figure and facial features similar to Catherine Zeta Jones. However, because of her relatively dark skin tone, she is not considered beautiful by local standards. For myself, I can’t see how anyone can resist the charm of her twinkling smile and doe-eyed pouting. Still, despite her feminine whiles, she was the main cause of the trouble we had when we tried to bake a cake.
It all started when Pat asked me and Jodie to bake a cake to bring with us to the English Worship potluck. Pat was busy with other things and so wasn’t able to supervise much. Pat gave us a recipe for chocolate cake that involved combining butter, water, and cocoa powder until it boiled on the stove, then mixing it in with flower, sugar, eggs, vanilla etc. It seemed simple enough.
Jodie and I both assured Pat that we would be fine. Neither of us realized that we were both counting on the OTHER one to know what to do! I knew that I was no wis in the kitchen but I didn’t think this would be a problem. Even if competent Jodie was a little young or small to know everything, the four other girls who were helping us, Martha included, would surely know what to do; they had been helping their mothers with cooking for years! This assumption seemed validated when Jodie was able to direct me in the way that is best to measure butter. Jodie showed me that by floating the solid butter in a measuring cup of water, one can compensate for air-pockets by measuring density, or something like that.
First, I told Martha to put “doh” (two) cups of water on to boil over the gas stove. Then, while Jodie was rummaging in the fridge to find the butter, I sent Martha to fetch two more cups for measuring the butter. That is when the first problems began. When Jodie was all ready to start scooping butter into a measuring cup of water, I turned around to see where Martha had gotten to. She was standing smilingly right behind me, her hands empty of the requested water. “Caw pani hey? (where is the water)” I asked. Her smile was replaced with a look of confusion. She pointed to the stove. Looking in the pot, I saw she had added the second two cups to the simmering pot. Hastily, I poured the two cups back into the measuring cup and handed it to Jodie.
While Jodie was dumping butter into the water, little by little the waterline rising to the four cup mark, I cast about for something for Martha and the other girls to do. I set them to scooping cocoa powder into the boiling water. “We need cheh (six) tablespoons” I said, indicating the number with my fingers. Eagerly, Martha took the bag from me, loaded up a heaping spoon full, and advanced on the pot. “No!” I stopped her, pulling her back. “Like this,” I said, showing her how to level off the powder in the spoon to make exactly a tablespoon. “Ahh,” she responded, with a knowing look. I kept careful watch and careful count as she and the other girls took turns measuring out the powder, occasionally missing the pot and dumping half the spoon full on the stove. Exasperated, I left them to stir in the cocoa to the water and turned back to Jodie who had finished measuring butter.
This is when the first real hurdle became evident. “This never happened before,” Jodie said, indicating the measuring cup. The butter had melted into the hot water used for measuring. Now we were stuck. We had used most of the cocoa powder getting six tablespoons into the two cups of water on the stove. We had used ALL of the butter, melting it into two cups of water in the measuring cup. But how were we to combine the butter and cocoa without having FOUR coups of water? It was like a brain teaser and made me wish Carlos was there to find a brilliant solution. We ended up calling in Pat. When she heard the story and saw the situation she laughed. “Pour out as much water as you can through a sieve and put the rest in the pot. You’ll get most of it that way.”
So we continued to work. The butter, water, and cocoa mixture had to be continually stirred to keep it from burning. Martha insisted that she would take care of this job while I saw to the preparation of the dry ingredients. With misgiving, I left her to it and turned to the other girls who were sifting flour into a big pan on the floor. After sifting the flour, we discovered that the sugar jar was alive with 10-15 tiny ants. I considered this a problem, but the other girls cheerfully waved away my fears saying that this sort of thing was not unusual. I ruefully watched them measured out cups of bespeckled sugar into the bowl with the flour and other ingredients.
That was when Martha made a squeaking noise that drew my attention back to her and to the simmering pot. She tipped the pot to the side to show me that white things were floating in the dark brown goop. Then she held up the spatula she had been stirring with. The white rubber tip had melted into the pot! Again Pat was called, again we were instructed to run the thick conglomeration through the sieve. Again I watched sheepishly while Pat laughed and threw her hands up, wondering what we would do next.
Pat stayed with us, supervising the remaining steps of the cake catastrophe, until we had the two pans safely in the oven. All went fairly well after that, except for a slight incident when one pan fell off the rack and to the back of the oven while I was trying to switch the front pan to the back. Despite this set back, the cakes both came out of the oven 30 minutes later in pristine condition. I was glad that the trial was successfully over. The girls had gone home and all was relatively quiet.
20 minutes before we had to leave for the pot-luck Pat was hurriedly cooking roties (tortillas) one by one in a frying pan. Pat asked me to make frosting for the cake. “Are we sure it needs it,” I asked anxiously. “My family never frosts our cakes.”
She looked at me skeptically. “We could leave the frosting off one of them, if you’re worried about the sugar.”
“Oh no, I’m just thinking of what would be a best use of our time…” I spluttered.
“Well, I think that the people at the meeting would enjoy icing, and it shouldn’t take too long. It just takes butter, sugar, and cocoa, right?” She said, checking the recipe.
Warily, I assented. “I’m willing to give it a try.”
I promise you, I followed that recipe to a tea. I combined butter and cocoa powder in a saucepan over low heat. I stirred with a wooden spoon to avoid another meltdown. I stirred and stirred as the butter boiled, at which point I turned off the flame. Stirring anxiously, I found that the cocoa powder simply would not combine with the butter. As the foaming bubbles died down, cocoa mud swam resolutely in yellow oil, all that was left of the ill-fated butter. I found myself making a squeaking sound very similar to the one Martha had made as she bent over the same sauce pan earlier that day. Helplessly, I called Pat to examine the concoction.
Pat shook her head and laughed. “Well, we don’t have enough butter or cocoa to start over. Maybe we will have cake without icing after all!”
“There must be a way,” I wheedled, prodding with my spoon at the thick brown muck in the pan, “it has such good ingredients, it seems a shame to throw it away. Maybe if we add just a little sugar or, or something, then maybe it would make a pudding or, or something else that might be tasty?”
“We could try,” she said, “but let’s just take a little bit out of the pan to play with so that we don’t waste all our sugar.”
I scooped a tablespoon’s worth of brown muck into a bowl. Pat stirred in a quarter of a cup of powdered sugar. I watched anxiously as Pat popped a finger-full into her mouth. “Not bad!” She finally reported. Smiling at last, I tried it myself. Not bad indeed.
I poured the oil that had refused to bond with the cocoa into a jar while Pat stirred several cups of sugar into the rest of the cocoa goop in the pan. “This oil must have come out of the butter when it boiled,” I surmised.
“The butter boiled?” Pat asked, surprised. Then she laughed again. “It was only supposed to simmer. Well, tonight we will have low-fat icing.”
Considering all the near disasters, the ants, the rubber, the removed oil etc. all things considered, the cake was a smash hit. Though it was a little chewy, it tasted very good. When Paul heard about the two uncalled for ingredients, ants and the rubber spatula, he was much more concerned about the rubber which might still be in the cake. The ants didn’t bother him at all; as the girls had said, bugs in the food is par for the course here. “Well,” I told him cheerfully, “if you feel any lumps in your cake, you can just tell yourself it is an ant.”
It all started when Pat asked me and Jodie to bake a cake to bring with us to the English Worship potluck. Pat was busy with other things and so wasn’t able to supervise much. Pat gave us a recipe for chocolate cake that involved combining butter, water, and cocoa powder until it boiled on the stove, then mixing it in with flower, sugar, eggs, vanilla etc. It seemed simple enough.
Jodie and I both assured Pat that we would be fine. Neither of us realized that we were both counting on the OTHER one to know what to do! I knew that I was no wis in the kitchen but I didn’t think this would be a problem. Even if competent Jodie was a little young or small to know everything, the four other girls who were helping us, Martha included, would surely know what to do; they had been helping their mothers with cooking for years! This assumption seemed validated when Jodie was able to direct me in the way that is best to measure butter. Jodie showed me that by floating the solid butter in a measuring cup of water, one can compensate for air-pockets by measuring density, or something like that.
First, I told Martha to put “doh” (two) cups of water on to boil over the gas stove. Then, while Jodie was rummaging in the fridge to find the butter, I sent Martha to fetch two more cups for measuring the butter. That is when the first problems began. When Jodie was all ready to start scooping butter into a measuring cup of water, I turned around to see where Martha had gotten to. She was standing smilingly right behind me, her hands empty of the requested water. “Caw pani hey? (where is the water)” I asked. Her smile was replaced with a look of confusion. She pointed to the stove. Looking in the pot, I saw she had added the second two cups to the simmering pot. Hastily, I poured the two cups back into the measuring cup and handed it to Jodie.
While Jodie was dumping butter into the water, little by little the waterline rising to the four cup mark, I cast about for something for Martha and the other girls to do. I set them to scooping cocoa powder into the boiling water. “We need cheh (six) tablespoons” I said, indicating the number with my fingers. Eagerly, Martha took the bag from me, loaded up a heaping spoon full, and advanced on the pot. “No!” I stopped her, pulling her back. “Like this,” I said, showing her how to level off the powder in the spoon to make exactly a tablespoon. “Ahh,” she responded, with a knowing look. I kept careful watch and careful count as she and the other girls took turns measuring out the powder, occasionally missing the pot and dumping half the spoon full on the stove. Exasperated, I left them to stir in the cocoa to the water and turned back to Jodie who had finished measuring butter.
This is when the first real hurdle became evident. “This never happened before,” Jodie said, indicating the measuring cup. The butter had melted into the hot water used for measuring. Now we were stuck. We had used most of the cocoa powder getting six tablespoons into the two cups of water on the stove. We had used ALL of the butter, melting it into two cups of water in the measuring cup. But how were we to combine the butter and cocoa without having FOUR coups of water? It was like a brain teaser and made me wish Carlos was there to find a brilliant solution. We ended up calling in Pat. When she heard the story and saw the situation she laughed. “Pour out as much water as you can through a sieve and put the rest in the pot. You’ll get most of it that way.”
So we continued to work. The butter, water, and cocoa mixture had to be continually stirred to keep it from burning. Martha insisted that she would take care of this job while I saw to the preparation of the dry ingredients. With misgiving, I left her to it and turned to the other girls who were sifting flour into a big pan on the floor. After sifting the flour, we discovered that the sugar jar was alive with 10-15 tiny ants. I considered this a problem, but the other girls cheerfully waved away my fears saying that this sort of thing was not unusual. I ruefully watched them measured out cups of bespeckled sugar into the bowl with the flour and other ingredients.
That was when Martha made a squeaking noise that drew my attention back to her and to the simmering pot. She tipped the pot to the side to show me that white things were floating in the dark brown goop. Then she held up the spatula she had been stirring with. The white rubber tip had melted into the pot! Again Pat was called, again we were instructed to run the thick conglomeration through the sieve. Again I watched sheepishly while Pat laughed and threw her hands up, wondering what we would do next.
Pat stayed with us, supervising the remaining steps of the cake catastrophe, until we had the two pans safely in the oven. All went fairly well after that, except for a slight incident when one pan fell off the rack and to the back of the oven while I was trying to switch the front pan to the back. Despite this set back, the cakes both came out of the oven 30 minutes later in pristine condition. I was glad that the trial was successfully over. The girls had gone home and all was relatively quiet.
20 minutes before we had to leave for the pot-luck Pat was hurriedly cooking roties (tortillas) one by one in a frying pan. Pat asked me to make frosting for the cake. “Are we sure it needs it,” I asked anxiously. “My family never frosts our cakes.”
She looked at me skeptically. “We could leave the frosting off one of them, if you’re worried about the sugar.”
“Oh no, I’m just thinking of what would be a best use of our time…” I spluttered.
“Well, I think that the people at the meeting would enjoy icing, and it shouldn’t take too long. It just takes butter, sugar, and cocoa, right?” She said, checking the recipe.
Warily, I assented. “I’m willing to give it a try.”
I promise you, I followed that recipe to a tea. I combined butter and cocoa powder in a saucepan over low heat. I stirred with a wooden spoon to avoid another meltdown. I stirred and stirred as the butter boiled, at which point I turned off the flame. Stirring anxiously, I found that the cocoa powder simply would not combine with the butter. As the foaming bubbles died down, cocoa mud swam resolutely in yellow oil, all that was left of the ill-fated butter. I found myself making a squeaking sound very similar to the one Martha had made as she bent over the same sauce pan earlier that day. Helplessly, I called Pat to examine the concoction.
Pat shook her head and laughed. “Well, we don’t have enough butter or cocoa to start over. Maybe we will have cake without icing after all!”
“There must be a way,” I wheedled, prodding with my spoon at the thick brown muck in the pan, “it has such good ingredients, it seems a shame to throw it away. Maybe if we add just a little sugar or, or something, then maybe it would make a pudding or, or something else that might be tasty?”
“We could try,” she said, “but let’s just take a little bit out of the pan to play with so that we don’t waste all our sugar.”
I scooped a tablespoon’s worth of brown muck into a bowl. Pat stirred in a quarter of a cup of powdered sugar. I watched anxiously as Pat popped a finger-full into her mouth. “Not bad!” She finally reported. Smiling at last, I tried it myself. Not bad indeed.
I poured the oil that had refused to bond with the cocoa into a jar while Pat stirred several cups of sugar into the rest of the cocoa goop in the pan. “This oil must have come out of the butter when it boiled,” I surmised.
“The butter boiled?” Pat asked, surprised. Then she laughed again. “It was only supposed to simmer. Well, tonight we will have low-fat icing.”
Considering all the near disasters, the ants, the rubber, the removed oil etc. all things considered, the cake was a smash hit. Though it was a little chewy, it tasted very good. When Paul heard about the two uncalled for ingredients, ants and the rubber spatula, he was much more concerned about the rubber which might still be in the cake. The ants didn’t bother him at all; as the girls had said, bugs in the food is par for the course here. “Well,” I told him cheerfully, “if you feel any lumps in your cake, you can just tell yourself it is an ant.”
Saturday, June 19, 2010
He who is faithful in small things...
As written in my journal June 19 2010:
I am trying to hear and follow God’s prompting but it is very difficult. I have identified two feelings which usually accompany and indicate that a leading is from God.
The first is a feeling of my heart lighting up with joy. When I feel honest delight at a prospect, feeling that this is the desire of my heart, my passion, something that makes me come alive, I understand that this is what God would desire me to do. He has placed talents and interests in me and leads me in ways that I can use these inclinations to serve him and the kingdom. When the inclination to follow the desire of my heart comes from him, then I feel no hesitation or suspicion of my motives; I simply feel blessed to walk in the way set before me.
There is a second feeling which just as reliably indicates that a possible action is willed of God. Alternatively to a thrill of delight, my heart seems to groan with inner resistance. If the option ahead of me seems abhorrent to my preferences, the exact and only thing I do NOT want to do, this option often seems to be the one that the voice in my head insists is from God.
For example, this morning Martha asked me to come and play dolls with her and the other children. I told her, no; I was about to have my quiet time. Yet, as I retreated to a back room to hide from their pleading, I felt an annoying reproof in my mind.
“Whatever you do unto the least of these, you have done unto me.”
Sitting on my bed with my Bible unopened next to me, I felt that familiar groan in my spirit. “Surely you aren’t saying I should give up spending time with you to sit and watch children play dolls in a foreign language when I spend 80% of my time with them anyway?” I responded, sure that I had the rational high ground and that the voice in my head was not from God but from my own moral neuroticism.
“If you are spending time ministering to the least of these, then you are spending time with me.” was the calm and obvious response.
“But don’t you also want me to take time to meet you one-on-one and worship you?” I wheedled.
“There is an English worship service tonight. You will sing praises then.”
I thought about it. The main reason I was holding out against playing with the girls was not because I had a burning desire to read the Bible. It was because I didn’t feel like extending myself emotionally so early in the day. This selfish motive did not take moral precedence over the demands of Godly character to be service oriented.
I thought to myself, I must comply because I absolutely need to learn to rightly discern and FOLLOW God’s voice. Knowing the scripture and knowing God’s character are helpful for discerning what God is likely to desire. But once I have an idea of God’s will, even in small things, willingness to follow through, is critical. If I don’t have an idea of what would be in God’s character, then it isn’t so culpable to make a decision based on my own judgment. But if I feel that it would be better to extend myself to the children and then don’t do it, it has a feeling of blatant disobedience. I so much want to be able to not only discern God’s prompting but to also be obedient.
I know there is a difference between taking initiative to live life in a way acceptable to God, and so within his will, and hearing an individual direction from God for a specific action. I want to be faithful in both, but I especially long to be able to receive and respond to the second kind of command.
I want to be someone God can rely on to obey. I want to be faithful and consistent in paying attention to God’s cues and to performing the indicated action. I want to be like a well trained dog that the master can rely on to follow commands with good grace. I want to be like an attentive and graceful dancer who understands the slightest leading movement in her partner and thus is able to dance with him, following his moves as though with one mind. I want to be obedient.
I want to be this kind of Christian for three main reasons.
Firstly, I know that this kind of obedience leads to a life of blessing. God’s way of life is generally the most blessed way. His wisdom leads in right ways that are worthy, righteous, virtuous, loving, and blessed.
Secondly, being trustworthy to obey opens up a world of possibilities for partnering with God. A well trained dog can be let off the leash, taken in public, and asked to perform important tasks like sniffing out bombs or competing in competitions. In the same way, a well trained Christian can be led into situations which are dangerous and/or important because God can trust them to obey without arguing or excuses even if they don’t understand the reasons behind his directions or don’t relish the prospect of what he is asking them to do.
Thirdly, to rely so completely upon the wisdom and benevolence of God’s guidance must forge a deep, personal connection to God. To trust him so wholly that you are willing to change your behavior, become vulnerable to disappointment, and experience personal sacrifice requires you to exercise your faith. It requires you to live in the reality of God’s existence, power, trust-worthiness, and personal involvement in your life. I bet this kind of obedience would take “the joy of salvation” to a whole new level.
I feel that this trip to Pakistan is an exercise in obedience. I was terrified by the prospect of traveling alone, going so far away (both geographically and culturally), and not having plans set up for what to do when I get home etc. And yet I felt that to NOT go for these reasons would be a step into a future ruled by fear, outside the providence and blessing of following God’s will. If I could not obey such a blunt and temporary direction as to spend two months abroad on a short term mission, how could I expect to put God’s will above my own in more subtle decisions? How an I hope to find his best will for my life if I rule-out actions that are outside of my comfort zone (like international travel) or that require trusting God to provide? For these reasons, among others, I have come here. I hope that this choice, this slice of eternity, is representative of my lifestyle. I hope that this action will set a precedent for how I will continue to live my life.
By the way, just so you know, I did pack up my quiet-time things in accordance to the nagging feeling of God’s leading. I moved back into the main part of the house, resolved to serve Christ in the little children by playing dolls.
I am trying to hear and follow God’s prompting but it is very difficult. I have identified two feelings which usually accompany and indicate that a leading is from God.
The first is a feeling of my heart lighting up with joy. When I feel honest delight at a prospect, feeling that this is the desire of my heart, my passion, something that makes me come alive, I understand that this is what God would desire me to do. He has placed talents and interests in me and leads me in ways that I can use these inclinations to serve him and the kingdom. When the inclination to follow the desire of my heart comes from him, then I feel no hesitation or suspicion of my motives; I simply feel blessed to walk in the way set before me.
There is a second feeling which just as reliably indicates that a possible action is willed of God. Alternatively to a thrill of delight, my heart seems to groan with inner resistance. If the option ahead of me seems abhorrent to my preferences, the exact and only thing I do NOT want to do, this option often seems to be the one that the voice in my head insists is from God.
For example, this morning Martha asked me to come and play dolls with her and the other children. I told her, no; I was about to have my quiet time. Yet, as I retreated to a back room to hide from their pleading, I felt an annoying reproof in my mind.
“Whatever you do unto the least of these, you have done unto me.”
Sitting on my bed with my Bible unopened next to me, I felt that familiar groan in my spirit. “Surely you aren’t saying I should give up spending time with you to sit and watch children play dolls in a foreign language when I spend 80% of my time with them anyway?” I responded, sure that I had the rational high ground and that the voice in my head was not from God but from my own moral neuroticism.
“If you are spending time ministering to the least of these, then you are spending time with me.” was the calm and obvious response.
“But don’t you also want me to take time to meet you one-on-one and worship you?” I wheedled.
“There is an English worship service tonight. You will sing praises then.”
I thought about it. The main reason I was holding out against playing with the girls was not because I had a burning desire to read the Bible. It was because I didn’t feel like extending myself emotionally so early in the day. This selfish motive did not take moral precedence over the demands of Godly character to be service oriented.
I thought to myself, I must comply because I absolutely need to learn to rightly discern and FOLLOW God’s voice. Knowing the scripture and knowing God’s character are helpful for discerning what God is likely to desire. But once I have an idea of God’s will, even in small things, willingness to follow through, is critical. If I don’t have an idea of what would be in God’s character, then it isn’t so culpable to make a decision based on my own judgment. But if I feel that it would be better to extend myself to the children and then don’t do it, it has a feeling of blatant disobedience. I so much want to be able to not only discern God’s prompting but to also be obedient.
I know there is a difference between taking initiative to live life in a way acceptable to God, and so within his will, and hearing an individual direction from God for a specific action. I want to be faithful in both, but I especially long to be able to receive and respond to the second kind of command.
I want to be someone God can rely on to obey. I want to be faithful and consistent in paying attention to God’s cues and to performing the indicated action. I want to be like a well trained dog that the master can rely on to follow commands with good grace. I want to be like an attentive and graceful dancer who understands the slightest leading movement in her partner and thus is able to dance with him, following his moves as though with one mind. I want to be obedient.
I want to be this kind of Christian for three main reasons.
Firstly, I know that this kind of obedience leads to a life of blessing. God’s way of life is generally the most blessed way. His wisdom leads in right ways that are worthy, righteous, virtuous, loving, and blessed.
Secondly, being trustworthy to obey opens up a world of possibilities for partnering with God. A well trained dog can be let off the leash, taken in public, and asked to perform important tasks like sniffing out bombs or competing in competitions. In the same way, a well trained Christian can be led into situations which are dangerous and/or important because God can trust them to obey without arguing or excuses even if they don’t understand the reasons behind his directions or don’t relish the prospect of what he is asking them to do.
Thirdly, to rely so completely upon the wisdom and benevolence of God’s guidance must forge a deep, personal connection to God. To trust him so wholly that you are willing to change your behavior, become vulnerable to disappointment, and experience personal sacrifice requires you to exercise your faith. It requires you to live in the reality of God’s existence, power, trust-worthiness, and personal involvement in your life. I bet this kind of obedience would take “the joy of salvation” to a whole new level.
I feel that this trip to Pakistan is an exercise in obedience. I was terrified by the prospect of traveling alone, going so far away (both geographically and culturally), and not having plans set up for what to do when I get home etc. And yet I felt that to NOT go for these reasons would be a step into a future ruled by fear, outside the providence and blessing of following God’s will. If I could not obey such a blunt and temporary direction as to spend two months abroad on a short term mission, how could I expect to put God’s will above my own in more subtle decisions? How an I hope to find his best will for my life if I rule-out actions that are outside of my comfort zone (like international travel) or that require trusting God to provide? For these reasons, among others, I have come here. I hope that this choice, this slice of eternity, is representative of my lifestyle. I hope that this action will set a precedent for how I will continue to live my life.
By the way, just so you know, I did pack up my quiet-time things in accordance to the nagging feeling of God’s leading. I moved back into the main part of the house, resolved to serve Christ in the little children by playing dolls.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
At the Audio Visual Center
I am currently sitting in Paul’s work place, the Christian Audio Visual Center a few minutes drive from the hostel where the Stocks live. I sit in a room with bamboo walls surrounded by five or six flat, official-looking computer screens. With me sit Paul, several techies running the computers, a couple singers, and a woman who seems to have come as the chaperone of the one woman singer present. All day singers have been coming to record their solos, the finishing tracks for a new CD of village dance songs.
Right now, Paul is leading the young woman singer in a practice run through of the part she is about to record. She is beautiful, her long black hair contrasting grandly with her fair skin and shimmering gold outfit. She carries herself in a refined, almost disdainful, manner. Still, she looks nervous, stumbling through a few words since the song is written in a village language of which she is unfamiliar.
Paul has just waved her into the adjoining room where she stands alone at the microphone, visible from where the rest of us sit through a window. She looks small now, with enormous headphones clamped over her ears. But now her voice is coming through the sound-system larger than life. She blends well with the under-tracks of drums, village flutes, and children echoing her lines. One can close their eyes and almost see the girl dancing through a village, trailed by children scattering flowers.
And so the process starts. This singer is the fifth to sing today. Every time so far, the singer has had to sing problem area over and over, fine tuning pronunciation, tune, or rhythm. Only Paul seems able to pronounce every kind of sound. He is also always on pitch and beat. Paul patiently gives instructions and models the correct pronunciation to the singer in the other room through a microphone which occasionally shocks him. His voice fed through the sound-system is so musical and accurate that I wonder why he isn’t singing all the parts! One singer could not seem pronounce a “k” sound correctly in the context of the song no matter how many times he tried. Paul explained that this isn’t a problem, though, because the tech guys can take the recorded “k” out of isolation and stick it into the context of the rest of the song over top of what he really sang.
The computer technology being used here is amazing to me. You can see all the different sounds streaming across the screen, all able to be manipulated by the man at the keyboard. Other men work on editing videos; one a Pakistani music video depicting a Bible scene, on a video recording of one of Paul’s concerts. Each video is spread across two screens each. Chords, speakers, and knobs are scattered all over the room.
Uh oh! The main computer, the one mixing the sound, just died. People are bustling around, trying to figure out how to conserve enough power to run the computer without losing the lights or fan. The singer has come back into the room to wait under the fan. She is wiping sweat from her lovely face and meets my eye. “Very good!” I say. “Two days, very hard.” She responds wearily. Ah, they have gotten the computer running again; the lights are dim and keep flickering threateningly. Now the girl is back in the recording room, back at it, gruelingly working through each phrase until it is right.
A girl who sang earlier is back. I like her but don’t know her yet. She has an open, accessible expression, often smiling at me. Her name is Sabah. She is also very pretty, dark hair pulled up in a bun but still curling in wisps on her fair neck. Her suit is pale turquoise with highlights of violet and white which go well with her costume pearls. Though she looks little older than me, Paul tells me that this girl is studying to be a doctor. I hope she stays for exercise tonight. I would like to know her better; she has a kind face. Oh, she is going away now. I hope to see her again soon. Sabah…
The other woman, the chaperone, sits next to me now reading a book. She is not fair like the other two girls. She is darker skinned and dressed in the tribal colors of heavy kelly green and magenta with bright orange trim. Her face and features are round, her eyes so dark they look black, and her lips are colored dark pink. Her ivory teeth shine when she smiles. Her finger and toe nails are painted pale metallic pink. All in all, she has a simpler beauty than the other women who came to sing. But she is still beautiful in the prim of her youth and sweetness. Eventually she, I, and the other women that the world considers lovely, we will all be weathered and wrinkled with age. What matters more is the kindness and wisdom that we might have inside. It is through actions prompted from gentle and compassionate motives that we might achieve lasting beauty.
The men here are also nice to look upon. I stray into dangerous territory to even mention it, but I have been sitting here listening to snatches of Urdu tunes repeated ad infinitum for several hours and my mind naturally wanders. One piece of advice I was given most often before arriving in Pakistan was to never look a Muslim man in the eyes. As part of my orientation to Pakistan, Pat explained that I could never sit next to a man that was not “family” (or at least a member of our party). I should also take care not to accidentally touch men in passing or while handing them a cup of tea. It was these warnings that kept my eyes glued to the floor for the first couple weeks just in case a man might walk by. When men were in the room, I ignored them bashfully.
But as time has gone by, I’ve found that I am the only one exercising such complete discretion. Pat interacts face to face with shop keepers, village men, male church members etc. She treats these men as equals and as friends, when she knows them. Ashley, the Stock’s daughter who is roughly my age, seemed perfectly comfortable around her male peers around the compound etc. Also, some interaction with men is culture mandated. I incline my head to older men as well as older women to let them place their hands on my head in blessing. In other circles it is expected to shake hands and Paul greets everyone, females included, with a light hug. While I was sitting here, politely ignoring all the men in the room, one of the men offered me his camera to look at his pictures while meeting my eye with a friendly smile. A young woman who is working with us here is sitting between two men!
I don’t get it. Why are the strict social rules relaxed here in the Audio Visual Center? Are the rules more relaxed here because we are among friends or because we are in a Christian context? Is it ok to make I contact with someone who is not a stranger, or when you have business with them? When I visit my friend Rajia in her home, is it ok to interact with her brother? What about the Canadian boy who is staying with us now? Is it ok to interact with him in front of Pakistanis? I just don’t know. I have so much to learn about this conglomeration of cultures before I can be entirely confident.
Tea has been served. Tea is served every few hours or so. It would be an ideal situation for me if it weren’t for two things. First, the tea is saturated with sugar. Second, one is already sweating from the heat before being handed the steaming cup. So close and yet so far. : ) Oh well, I’d better get off the computer and go be sociable! ;)
Right now, Paul is leading the young woman singer in a practice run through of the part she is about to record. She is beautiful, her long black hair contrasting grandly with her fair skin and shimmering gold outfit. She carries herself in a refined, almost disdainful, manner. Still, she looks nervous, stumbling through a few words since the song is written in a village language of which she is unfamiliar.
Paul has just waved her into the adjoining room where she stands alone at the microphone, visible from where the rest of us sit through a window. She looks small now, with enormous headphones clamped over her ears. But now her voice is coming through the sound-system larger than life. She blends well with the under-tracks of drums, village flutes, and children echoing her lines. One can close their eyes and almost see the girl dancing through a village, trailed by children scattering flowers.
And so the process starts. This singer is the fifth to sing today. Every time so far, the singer has had to sing problem area over and over, fine tuning pronunciation, tune, or rhythm. Only Paul seems able to pronounce every kind of sound. He is also always on pitch and beat. Paul patiently gives instructions and models the correct pronunciation to the singer in the other room through a microphone which occasionally shocks him. His voice fed through the sound-system is so musical and accurate that I wonder why he isn’t singing all the parts! One singer could not seem pronounce a “k” sound correctly in the context of the song no matter how many times he tried. Paul explained that this isn’t a problem, though, because the tech guys can take the recorded “k” out of isolation and stick it into the context of the rest of the song over top of what he really sang.
The computer technology being used here is amazing to me. You can see all the different sounds streaming across the screen, all able to be manipulated by the man at the keyboard. Other men work on editing videos; one a Pakistani music video depicting a Bible scene, on a video recording of one of Paul’s concerts. Each video is spread across two screens each. Chords, speakers, and knobs are scattered all over the room.
Uh oh! The main computer, the one mixing the sound, just died. People are bustling around, trying to figure out how to conserve enough power to run the computer without losing the lights or fan. The singer has come back into the room to wait under the fan. She is wiping sweat from her lovely face and meets my eye. “Very good!” I say. “Two days, very hard.” She responds wearily. Ah, they have gotten the computer running again; the lights are dim and keep flickering threateningly. Now the girl is back in the recording room, back at it, gruelingly working through each phrase until it is right.
A girl who sang earlier is back. I like her but don’t know her yet. She has an open, accessible expression, often smiling at me. Her name is Sabah. She is also very pretty, dark hair pulled up in a bun but still curling in wisps on her fair neck. Her suit is pale turquoise with highlights of violet and white which go well with her costume pearls. Though she looks little older than me, Paul tells me that this girl is studying to be a doctor. I hope she stays for exercise tonight. I would like to know her better; she has a kind face. Oh, she is going away now. I hope to see her again soon. Sabah…
The other woman, the chaperone, sits next to me now reading a book. She is not fair like the other two girls. She is darker skinned and dressed in the tribal colors of heavy kelly green and magenta with bright orange trim. Her face and features are round, her eyes so dark they look black, and her lips are colored dark pink. Her ivory teeth shine when she smiles. Her finger and toe nails are painted pale metallic pink. All in all, she has a simpler beauty than the other women who came to sing. But she is still beautiful in the prim of her youth and sweetness. Eventually she, I, and the other women that the world considers lovely, we will all be weathered and wrinkled with age. What matters more is the kindness and wisdom that we might have inside. It is through actions prompted from gentle and compassionate motives that we might achieve lasting beauty.
The men here are also nice to look upon. I stray into dangerous territory to even mention it, but I have been sitting here listening to snatches of Urdu tunes repeated ad infinitum for several hours and my mind naturally wanders. One piece of advice I was given most often before arriving in Pakistan was to never look a Muslim man in the eyes. As part of my orientation to Pakistan, Pat explained that I could never sit next to a man that was not “family” (or at least a member of our party). I should also take care not to accidentally touch men in passing or while handing them a cup of tea. It was these warnings that kept my eyes glued to the floor for the first couple weeks just in case a man might walk by. When men were in the room, I ignored them bashfully.
But as time has gone by, I’ve found that I am the only one exercising such complete discretion. Pat interacts face to face with shop keepers, village men, male church members etc. She treats these men as equals and as friends, when she knows them. Ashley, the Stock’s daughter who is roughly my age, seemed perfectly comfortable around her male peers around the compound etc. Also, some interaction with men is culture mandated. I incline my head to older men as well as older women to let them place their hands on my head in blessing. In other circles it is expected to shake hands and Paul greets everyone, females included, with a light hug. While I was sitting here, politely ignoring all the men in the room, one of the men offered me his camera to look at his pictures while meeting my eye with a friendly smile. A young woman who is working with us here is sitting between two men!
I don’t get it. Why are the strict social rules relaxed here in the Audio Visual Center? Are the rules more relaxed here because we are among friends or because we are in a Christian context? Is it ok to make I contact with someone who is not a stranger, or when you have business with them? When I visit my friend Rajia in her home, is it ok to interact with her brother? What about the Canadian boy who is staying with us now? Is it ok to interact with him in front of Pakistanis? I just don’t know. I have so much to learn about this conglomeration of cultures before I can be entirely confident.
Tea has been served. Tea is served every few hours or so. It would be an ideal situation for me if it weren’t for two things. First, the tea is saturated with sugar. Second, one is already sweating from the heat before being handed the steaming cup. So close and yet so far. : ) Oh well, I’d better get off the computer and go be sociable! ;)
Once Upon a Time in this Land Far Far Away...
Paul calls her “the movie star” because of her striking beauty. This woman who hosted us for dinner this evening of June 16 has thick, lustrous hair that rises and falls in dark brown and auburn cascades down her back. Her frame is tiny or opulent in all the right places, like a Barbie only shorter and softer. Her face is made of straight, elegant lines. But you hardly notice any of this compared to her eyes. Her eyes are unbelievably large and they alternately smolder when she sings and then light up when she smiles. Her smile reveals gleaming white, straight teeth which go perfectly with her silky complexion. Ask to see a picture when I get home, I have taken several so that you all will believe me when I praise her. On top of it all, she has a perky, bubbly personality, sings like an angel, and cooks like a gourmet chef.
Unfortunately for the friends who have asked me to bring them home a few Pakistani wives, this woman, 23 year old Abana, is already taken. When Abana was 16, she declared that she wanted to marry Khurram, a distant cousin of hers. There were a few problems, though. Khurram was 8 years older than she and had never shown any particular interest in her before. Incredibly, when Khurram heard of Abana’s announcement, he admitted to feeling the same way about her. Thus started an 8 year tug of war in which they struggled to gain their families’ permission for them to marry.
His family was so stubbornly against his union with Abana that Khurram even offered to defy his family and run away with her, but Abana never gave up that her future mother in law would eventually concede. Khurram’s mother was dead set on him marrying his cousin, insisting that she would be a more suitable choice and that Abana was too high spirited, not suitably respectful to her elders etc. Eventually, Khurram broke down and, just to keep the peace, agreed to become engaged to the other girl. But as the years went slowly by, Abana never let go of her insistence that Khurram would be her husband. Eventually, because he was so miserable, Khurram’s mother allowed him to break off his engagement and to pursue Abana.
Three months later, in December 2010, Khurram and Abana were finally married. As I saw in the two albums of wedding pictures, Abana was a fairy princess in a white western wedding dress and a gypsy temptress in her red and gold tribal outfit, hena curling from her finger tips up her arms. Khurram was every inch the man, uncharacteristically tall and broad, like a great bear next to her. It was quite a spectacle, a true “love marriage” as a non-arranged marriage is called.
Now they live like characters in an Indian soap opera. Unlike most newly married couples, they have not moved in with the husband’s family. They have their own home in a former missionary’s house which is several rooms large and is made of finished walls and roof. The interior is furnished in a tastefully modern style with wicker furniture, glass coffee table, and seashell-themed decorations. The have a large backyard of green grass, a vegetable garden, and a large aviary full of parakeets and love birds. The far corner of their yard is fenced off to contain goats and three baby deer. As I gaped at the elegant luxury of their home, Pat explained that they belong to an upper class family and that 30 year old Khurram has recently taken over as the head of a None Governmental Organization (NGO) called SSEWA-Pak which does development work in rural areas. Their marriage sure seems to have a happily-ever-after ending. One thing is for sure, when a romantic-comedy/bollywood movie comes out based on their life, I want to see it!
By the way, I should point out that their experience is as uncommon here as the plot of Sweet Home Alabama is unusual in the states. Usually girls are married when they are 13-16 years old and the boy isn’t much older than that. Most people here cooperate with marriages arranged by their parents to people they’ve never met. In fact, one tradition at weddings is to weep and wail as the car takes the poor newly wed couple away. Usually the new wife moves in with her new husband who is still living with his parents (and the rest of the rest of his extended family who share the house.) Usually the girl is so homesick that she travels back to her family’s home every week or so for the first year while she tries to adjust to a new place, new family, and a new man. Khurram and Abana are a happy exception to the general rule. Hopefully they will stay happy and not follow in the footsteps of the domestic unrest and divorce that is so rampant in the US.
Unfortunately for the friends who have asked me to bring them home a few Pakistani wives, this woman, 23 year old Abana, is already taken. When Abana was 16, she declared that she wanted to marry Khurram, a distant cousin of hers. There were a few problems, though. Khurram was 8 years older than she and had never shown any particular interest in her before. Incredibly, when Khurram heard of Abana’s announcement, he admitted to feeling the same way about her. Thus started an 8 year tug of war in which they struggled to gain their families’ permission for them to marry.
His family was so stubbornly against his union with Abana that Khurram even offered to defy his family and run away with her, but Abana never gave up that her future mother in law would eventually concede. Khurram’s mother was dead set on him marrying his cousin, insisting that she would be a more suitable choice and that Abana was too high spirited, not suitably respectful to her elders etc. Eventually, Khurram broke down and, just to keep the peace, agreed to become engaged to the other girl. But as the years went slowly by, Abana never let go of her insistence that Khurram would be her husband. Eventually, because he was so miserable, Khurram’s mother allowed him to break off his engagement and to pursue Abana.
Three months later, in December 2010, Khurram and Abana were finally married. As I saw in the two albums of wedding pictures, Abana was a fairy princess in a white western wedding dress and a gypsy temptress in her red and gold tribal outfit, hena curling from her finger tips up her arms. Khurram was every inch the man, uncharacteristically tall and broad, like a great bear next to her. It was quite a spectacle, a true “love marriage” as a non-arranged marriage is called.
Now they live like characters in an Indian soap opera. Unlike most newly married couples, they have not moved in with the husband’s family. They have their own home in a former missionary’s house which is several rooms large and is made of finished walls and roof. The interior is furnished in a tastefully modern style with wicker furniture, glass coffee table, and seashell-themed decorations. The have a large backyard of green grass, a vegetable garden, and a large aviary full of parakeets and love birds. The far corner of their yard is fenced off to contain goats and three baby deer. As I gaped at the elegant luxury of their home, Pat explained that they belong to an upper class family and that 30 year old Khurram has recently taken over as the head of a None Governmental Organization (NGO) called SSEWA-Pak which does development work in rural areas. Their marriage sure seems to have a happily-ever-after ending. One thing is for sure, when a romantic-comedy/bollywood movie comes out based on their life, I want to see it!
By the way, I should point out that their experience is as uncommon here as the plot of Sweet Home Alabama is unusual in the states. Usually girls are married when they are 13-16 years old and the boy isn’t much older than that. Most people here cooperate with marriages arranged by their parents to people they’ve never met. In fact, one tradition at weddings is to weep and wail as the car takes the poor newly wed couple away. Usually the new wife moves in with her new husband who is still living with his parents (and the rest of the rest of his extended family who share the house.) Usually the girl is so homesick that she travels back to her family’s home every week or so for the first year while she tries to adjust to a new place, new family, and a new man. Khurram and Abana are a happy exception to the general rule. Hopefully they will stay happy and not follow in the footsteps of the domestic unrest and divorce that is so rampant in the US.
How to stay clean in a dusty country: Have help
There is an interesting dichotomy here between squalor and cleanliness. The streets are full of trash (mainly plastic bags), discarded parts of fruits, and splatters of tobacco spit. Also, dust is everywhere. The streets are made of dirt, which is disturbed by tires and hooves, and the wind is continually depositing a layer of dust over everything! Inside a given shop, however, the shopkeepers maintain immaculate cleanliness. They slap at the floor, benches and counters with their version of a duster made of a rag attached to the end of a stick. They constantly polish and wipe their wares free of dust. The homes are also kept very clean in spite of often having dirt floors, thatched roofs, and wood-fire cook pits. They carefully maintain their work and living environments with more success than many westerners. Despite living in a situation which necessarily contains dirt, trash, and smoke (from burning trash and cook fires), these people are not dirty.
The Stock family mops their concrete floors every day in addition to daily dusting of all surfaces with a wet cloth. Electronics and bookshelves are covered with plastic when not in use to keep out the dust. They wash clothes every other day and would never wear something without ironing it first.
Pat is able to keep up with all this housework by employing a local woman to help. Every day a woman named Zivi (meaning “life”) comes to help wash dishes, clean, prepare lunch, iron clothes on the floor etc. The Stocks also help to support a man, Padri Emmanuel, who comes on Fridays to receive guests who call on the Stocks asking for medical help and advice. Another man, Babu, is employed to help with buying groceries and transporting villagers who come to the Stocks for rides. One other man, Unice, helps out by running the water pump and fixing things around the house.
Pat explained to me that in the west it seems strange to have a maid and that only the rich employ “servants” but this is because the “servants are included in the products”. Western families don’t have to boil water to wash dishes, boil their buffalo milk and scrape off the cream every morning, make most all of their meals from raw veggies and spices, make their own cat food from rice, chicken liver, and chicken feet, and bake their own tortillas one by one everyday to go with each meal. In the west, milk and pet food etc. come ready to use, already prepared by other hands. The Stock also must work around unexpected power-outages and empty water tanks. With a little help from the local people who need employment and are eager to help, Pat is able to keep up with daily cleaning and cooking while still having time to home school two children, lead Bible studies, attend village events, and receive village visitors etc.
It is currently after lunch. I am tired. Meals here spaced out in time (breakfast at 8:00am, lunch at 2:00, dinner at 8:oo or 9:00.) When meals do come, they are often relatively starch heavy. Veggie and chicken curries are served as garnishes to the tortillas used to scoop them up. Sweet snacks are available between meals in the form of mangos and sweet tea. All these factors combine to make me feel fairly light headed throughout the day. Thankfully, I am usually in a position to rest a little after lunch.
I don’t know how Pat does it. She works conscientiously from when she wakes at 7:00 until she allows herself to go to bed at midnight. She serves the family often without thanks, making people individualized breakfasts, cleaning up, reading aloud the children’s lessons to them etc. Pat’s way demonstrates impressive endurance and sacrifice but it is not likely to be my way when I have kids. If it were me, I would let the children toast their own toast for breakfast or make one meal for everyone. I would also have the children take turns reading the lesson aloud to each other while I cleaned or vice versa. And I would definitely institute a household siesta after starchy meals!
I am not likely to get to rest this afternoon, however. I am with Paul at his place of work, the Christian Audio Visual Center. Soon Pat will be coming here to lead aerobics class and then the whole family is going over for dinner to the house of "the movie star". More details on that in the next blog!
The Stock family mops their concrete floors every day in addition to daily dusting of all surfaces with a wet cloth. Electronics and bookshelves are covered with plastic when not in use to keep out the dust. They wash clothes every other day and would never wear something without ironing it first.
Pat is able to keep up with all this housework by employing a local woman to help. Every day a woman named Zivi (meaning “life”) comes to help wash dishes, clean, prepare lunch, iron clothes on the floor etc. The Stocks also help to support a man, Padri Emmanuel, who comes on Fridays to receive guests who call on the Stocks asking for medical help and advice. Another man, Babu, is employed to help with buying groceries and transporting villagers who come to the Stocks for rides. One other man, Unice, helps out by running the water pump and fixing things around the house.
Pat explained to me that in the west it seems strange to have a maid and that only the rich employ “servants” but this is because the “servants are included in the products”. Western families don’t have to boil water to wash dishes, boil their buffalo milk and scrape off the cream every morning, make most all of their meals from raw veggies and spices, make their own cat food from rice, chicken liver, and chicken feet, and bake their own tortillas one by one everyday to go with each meal. In the west, milk and pet food etc. come ready to use, already prepared by other hands. The Stock also must work around unexpected power-outages and empty water tanks. With a little help from the local people who need employment and are eager to help, Pat is able to keep up with daily cleaning and cooking while still having time to home school two children, lead Bible studies, attend village events, and receive village visitors etc.
It is currently after lunch. I am tired. Meals here spaced out in time (breakfast at 8:00am, lunch at 2:00, dinner at 8:oo or 9:00.) When meals do come, they are often relatively starch heavy. Veggie and chicken curries are served as garnishes to the tortillas used to scoop them up. Sweet snacks are available between meals in the form of mangos and sweet tea. All these factors combine to make me feel fairly light headed throughout the day. Thankfully, I am usually in a position to rest a little after lunch.
I don’t know how Pat does it. She works conscientiously from when she wakes at 7:00 until she allows herself to go to bed at midnight. She serves the family often without thanks, making people individualized breakfasts, cleaning up, reading aloud the children’s lessons to them etc. Pat’s way demonstrates impressive endurance and sacrifice but it is not likely to be my way when I have kids. If it were me, I would let the children toast their own toast for breakfast or make one meal for everyone. I would also have the children take turns reading the lesson aloud to each other while I cleaned or vice versa. And I would definitely institute a household siesta after starchy meals!
I am not likely to get to rest this afternoon, however. I am with Paul at his place of work, the Christian Audio Visual Center. Soon Pat will be coming here to lead aerobics class and then the whole family is going over for dinner to the house of "the movie star". More details on that in the next blog!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Notes on the Bazaar
Yesterday, June 10th, I went with Pat and Jodie to the bazaar again. Though this was my third time “into town”, I felt as though it was my first. The previous times, both before the cross-country trip to Murree, I was blinded by jetlag and terror of making a wrong step which would unwittingly start a riot or provoke someone to shoot me. Initially I kept my eyes on the ground or on Pat’s back, which was immediately in front of me at all times, and clutched my headscarf as though it was my only protection from martyrdom. I marveled at Pat’s fearless navigation the labyrinth of tunnel-like streets and ruthless haggling with the universally male shopkeepers. I marveled, but I kept my eyes down.
While in Murree, however, I went into town with Paul and Esther, Paul’s niece who is roughly my age. Esther, instead of cowering as I did, walked straight and tall, her shrewd eyes spotting roving bands of young men in time for her to steer me clear of them. “You are as good as a brother!” I laughingly remarked, grateful that she always positioned herself between me and danger and that she even lent me a steady arm as we walked down steep inclines or patches of slippery gravel.
“If someone touches you, make a fuss,” she told me. “Yell at them or something; otherwise they will think you like it.” I was dubious. The last thing I wanted was to make a scene. Wasn’t it safer just to slink away quietly? But watching Esther I realized that women in this culture are expected to be strong. Men who might behave inappropriately, staring or trying to touch you, are considered weak to temptation. Women compensate for the predominant weakness of the men by practicing extreme modesty etc. In the same spirit, if a man transgresses the bounds of polite society, a woman is expected to stand up for herself by upbraiding or physically lashing out at the man; passers by on the street would be expected to take up the woman’s case yelling at the man until he is sufficiently ashamed. Pat told me that once, when she had felt hands on her behind, she had turned around and socked the first thing she found. It turned out to be a rotund woman who had accidentally brushed past her. The woman was surprised, and slightly winded, but congenially understood Pat’s actions. So, watching Esther and remembering Pat, I slowly began to stand tall and go about my business with more confidence.
Because of this, when I went to the bazaar yesterday it was like going for the first time. I looked around, eager and curious. I breathed in the air, smelling the spices and smoke and animals. Beyond the appearance of a village market with only home grown vegetables and plastic trinkets, the bazaar offers a vast variety of wares. During the three hours we were bustling around the various shops, stands, and booths, we were able to buy pharmaceuticals, a bicycle, a washing machine, knitting needles, and a cell phone. On previous visits I had bought shoes, bracelets, cloth, and taken that cloth to a tailor who took my measurements to sew me “tailor made” clothes. One can also buy hena, celebration banners with money sewn in, guns, perfume, or an infinite variety of fruits, veggies, spices, sweets, and meats.
Each shop has one kind of thing, for example, bracelets. No outfit, unless exclusively used around the house, is complete without matching plastic or glass bracelets. You need maybe twenty on each arm but don’t worry, the whole set costs less than a dollar. The bracelet shop will be comprised of three walls of floor to ceiling shelves of boxes of bracelets in every color; the fourth wall, of course is open to the street. One only needs to say a color or present a cloth sample and the shopkeeper will pull out several boxes of possibilities mixing various combinations (ex. red, gold, black). Once you choose a variety that suits you, the shopkeeper finds the right size by squeezing your thumb into the palm and gently easing the bracelets across. I don’t know how they do this so effectively. Every time I try myself to get these same bracelets on or off, I end up with bloody cuts from the bracelets which snap in the process. When the shopkeeper finds the right size, he (it is always a he) wraps up the whole stack of 40 glass rings in newspaper.
One of my favorite kinds of shops is cloth shops. Again, the walls of the store are full of floor to ceiling shelves all containing of bolts of cloth. Customers come in and point out cloth that interests them and a shopkeeper pulls it out, slaps it down on the counter, unrolling several yards to be inspected. All cloth comes in sets of three (to be made into pants, shirt, and scarf). All three are brought down and unrolled together so pretty soon the counters are covered in cloths of all colors, fabrics, and prints. If Pat is the one shopping, she very well may not find any combination to suit her exact inclination or may be not be satisfied with the price. In that case, she will raise her hand and politely say, “Nay shookria, teek!” (no thank you, ok!) Then she will walk on to another of the endless rows of seemingly identical cloth shops, leaving the luckless shopkeeps to re-roll their wares and turn their attention to other customers.
Pat likes to find the best quality item for the lowest price and is willing to spend time, effort, and wheedling to get the best deal. This often means checking several (3-7) shops, meticulously examining their offerings and testing their prices. We had to go to every electronics dealer in Mirpurkhas checking washing machine prices before going back to the first store we'd visited to make a purchase! But when she finds a reliable merchant, she is very faithful. There is one tailor to whom Pat brings all her business. His shop is across from a nick-knack store in a dingy but quiet corner of the bazaar. His shop appears bare compared to other shops since it contains no wares, just five or six ancient sewing machines (the kind that is hand powered by spinning a metal wheel) and a lone manikin hanging from the roof to indicate the talent of the tailor. When we visited to drop off cloth to be turned into suits, the tailor sent one of the young men lounging in the shop off to fetch us glass bottles of Mountain Dew to sip while we perused magazine of clothes options. Pat explained to me that the sodas were this shop keeper’s way of thanking us for being such faithful customers. Two days later, when we picked up the new clothes, I saw why Pat favors this tailor. The three suits were tastefully and expertly made with creative necklines that complemented the fabric and matching sleeves all for only $10 each.
The shoe shops were my particular favorites. A shoe store window will be filled with an infinite variety of sandals. They come in all colors, all kinds of straps, beaded, jeweled, all kinds of heels, and all unbelievably pretty. I don’t usually put much thought or care into my shoes but the price of $2-$5 for a pair caught my attention. All one has to do is to point at an example shoe in a glass display case or give a color and the shopkeepers will pull out five or six boxes of shoe-variations on what you liked. The only difficulty is that people in this country are proportionately two thirds my size. Though the shopkeepers estimated by looking at my feet, few of the pretty little sandals fit me. Still, over the various visits to the bazaar I have found several pairs that suit me. I’m now at the point where I’ve forbidden myself to even look at the shoes because I can’t afford any more space in my suitcase!
The bazaar is an exciting place full of color and sound. It is full of life. People are making their livelihoods and buying the things they need to go on living. It has a very different feel from western shopping malls. There seems to be more variety and more of an emphasis on “goodness of fit”. There is an expectation of finding exactly what you are looking for. I found it alternately intimidating and energizing. I’m glad that I will never have to traverse it alone, but with Pat’s guidance, it is fun place to visit.
While in Murree, however, I went into town with Paul and Esther, Paul’s niece who is roughly my age. Esther, instead of cowering as I did, walked straight and tall, her shrewd eyes spotting roving bands of young men in time for her to steer me clear of them. “You are as good as a brother!” I laughingly remarked, grateful that she always positioned herself between me and danger and that she even lent me a steady arm as we walked down steep inclines or patches of slippery gravel.
“If someone touches you, make a fuss,” she told me. “Yell at them or something; otherwise they will think you like it.” I was dubious. The last thing I wanted was to make a scene. Wasn’t it safer just to slink away quietly? But watching Esther I realized that women in this culture are expected to be strong. Men who might behave inappropriately, staring or trying to touch you, are considered weak to temptation. Women compensate for the predominant weakness of the men by practicing extreme modesty etc. In the same spirit, if a man transgresses the bounds of polite society, a woman is expected to stand up for herself by upbraiding or physically lashing out at the man; passers by on the street would be expected to take up the woman’s case yelling at the man until he is sufficiently ashamed. Pat told me that once, when she had felt hands on her behind, she had turned around and socked the first thing she found. It turned out to be a rotund woman who had accidentally brushed past her. The woman was surprised, and slightly winded, but congenially understood Pat’s actions. So, watching Esther and remembering Pat, I slowly began to stand tall and go about my business with more confidence.
Because of this, when I went to the bazaar yesterday it was like going for the first time. I looked around, eager and curious. I breathed in the air, smelling the spices and smoke and animals. Beyond the appearance of a village market with only home grown vegetables and plastic trinkets, the bazaar offers a vast variety of wares. During the three hours we were bustling around the various shops, stands, and booths, we were able to buy pharmaceuticals, a bicycle, a washing machine, knitting needles, and a cell phone. On previous visits I had bought shoes, bracelets, cloth, and taken that cloth to a tailor who took my measurements to sew me “tailor made” clothes. One can also buy hena, celebration banners with money sewn in, guns, perfume, or an infinite variety of fruits, veggies, spices, sweets, and meats.
Each shop has one kind of thing, for example, bracelets. No outfit, unless exclusively used around the house, is complete without matching plastic or glass bracelets. You need maybe twenty on each arm but don’t worry, the whole set costs less than a dollar. The bracelet shop will be comprised of three walls of floor to ceiling shelves of boxes of bracelets in every color; the fourth wall, of course is open to the street. One only needs to say a color or present a cloth sample and the shopkeeper will pull out several boxes of possibilities mixing various combinations (ex. red, gold, black). Once you choose a variety that suits you, the shopkeeper finds the right size by squeezing your thumb into the palm and gently easing the bracelets across. I don’t know how they do this so effectively. Every time I try myself to get these same bracelets on or off, I end up with bloody cuts from the bracelets which snap in the process. When the shopkeeper finds the right size, he (it is always a he) wraps up the whole stack of 40 glass rings in newspaper.
One of my favorite kinds of shops is cloth shops. Again, the walls of the store are full of floor to ceiling shelves all containing of bolts of cloth. Customers come in and point out cloth that interests them and a shopkeeper pulls it out, slaps it down on the counter, unrolling several yards to be inspected. All cloth comes in sets of three (to be made into pants, shirt, and scarf). All three are brought down and unrolled together so pretty soon the counters are covered in cloths of all colors, fabrics, and prints. If Pat is the one shopping, she very well may not find any combination to suit her exact inclination or may be not be satisfied with the price. In that case, she will raise her hand and politely say, “Nay shookria, teek!” (no thank you, ok!) Then she will walk on to another of the endless rows of seemingly identical cloth shops, leaving the luckless shopkeeps to re-roll their wares and turn their attention to other customers.
Pat likes to find the best quality item for the lowest price and is willing to spend time, effort, and wheedling to get the best deal. This often means checking several (3-7) shops, meticulously examining their offerings and testing their prices. We had to go to every electronics dealer in Mirpurkhas checking washing machine prices before going back to the first store we'd visited to make a purchase! But when she finds a reliable merchant, she is very faithful. There is one tailor to whom Pat brings all her business. His shop is across from a nick-knack store in a dingy but quiet corner of the bazaar. His shop appears bare compared to other shops since it contains no wares, just five or six ancient sewing machines (the kind that is hand powered by spinning a metal wheel) and a lone manikin hanging from the roof to indicate the talent of the tailor. When we visited to drop off cloth to be turned into suits, the tailor sent one of the young men lounging in the shop off to fetch us glass bottles of Mountain Dew to sip while we perused magazine of clothes options. Pat explained to me that the sodas were this shop keeper’s way of thanking us for being such faithful customers. Two days later, when we picked up the new clothes, I saw why Pat favors this tailor. The three suits were tastefully and expertly made with creative necklines that complemented the fabric and matching sleeves all for only $10 each.
The shoe shops were my particular favorites. A shoe store window will be filled with an infinite variety of sandals. They come in all colors, all kinds of straps, beaded, jeweled, all kinds of heels, and all unbelievably pretty. I don’t usually put much thought or care into my shoes but the price of $2-$5 for a pair caught my attention. All one has to do is to point at an example shoe in a glass display case or give a color and the shopkeepers will pull out five or six boxes of shoe-variations on what you liked. The only difficulty is that people in this country are proportionately two thirds my size. Though the shopkeepers estimated by looking at my feet, few of the pretty little sandals fit me. Still, over the various visits to the bazaar I have found several pairs that suit me. I’m now at the point where I’ve forbidden myself to even look at the shoes because I can’t afford any more space in my suitcase!
The bazaar is an exciting place full of color and sound. It is full of life. People are making their livelihoods and buying the things they need to go on living. It has a very different feel from western shopping malls. There seems to be more variety and more of an emphasis on “goodness of fit”. There is an expectation of finding exactly what you are looking for. I found it alternately intimidating and energizing. I’m glad that I will never have to traverse it alone, but with Pat’s guidance, it is fun place to visit.
Friday, June 11, 2010
A Cheerful Heart Makes Good Medicine
Around 5:00 June 9th Pat and Jodie left to go to the exercise class that Pat leads three times a week. I stayed home because I felt very sick, but I promised Pat I would work with Joel on his math for half an hour. After waving goodbye to them, I roused Joel from his Harry Potter book and we settled down on the couch. I cannot say how rewarding it is to work with Joel on math. I don’t know if it is Joel, the math, or some magic combination, but after each of the two or three times I have worked with him I have felt satisfied and energized, very well pleased. I finally empathize with how Mom comes home in raptures after teaching math classes. Joel is patiently cooperative and there is a conspiratorial feeling to how we puzzle through the problems together. I am pleased when he takes my studying advice, keeping notes on what kinds of problems he got wrong the first time, and so gratified when he gets similar problems right when we come to them later. By the time we came to the end of one worksheet we both felt tired but accomplished, and no wonder, a full hour had gone by, twice as long as had been required.
The rest of the time before Pat returned, Joel and I sat together in the living room reading our respective novels, comfortably together in an amicable silence. When Pat and Jodie did arrive back at 8:00 I greeted them with almost giddy enthusiasm, feeling emotionally warm and accessible. I robustly joined in helping Pat and Grandma Margie with the dinner preparations while babbling best I could past my inflamed mouth about how a cheerful heart is the best medicine and how I couldn’t wait to be well again because it was sure to feel something like this!
It is amazing the difference that a lightness of spirit makes in one’s experience of external circumstances. I felt that evening, the day you received my most dejected email, that with a buoyancy of hope and cheerfulness, physical impediments can be endured with grace. It is like how if one only has a friend with them, an otherwise intimidating and foreign experience is transformed into an adventure. Truly, a cheerful heart is good medicine! The problem, as I explained to Pat and Margie while combining oil, egg, and mustard powder to whip up some mayonnaise, is that a cheerful heart can’t be bought from a pharmacy. Once weariness and doubt wear down your faithful hope and bitter thoughts are able to creep into you heart, once pain or fear or disappointment trip up your steadiness of spirit, even though you know in your mind that God has not changed and that you are not alone, how do you find again the cheerful heart that the Bible prescribes? That is the dilemma and once solved, the answer would serve well any health worker, be he or she promoting physical, psychological, or spiritual health.
Today, June 11th, I really do feel much better, physically and emotionally. The sores on my face are beginning to peel away and red skin underneath is not nearly as sensitive as before. The whole family was treated for lice last night, so hopefully that trial is behind us as well. Still, I know that health is always transitory. Perhaps I will have some time of health, letting me focus my attention and blogging on other areas of interest. Or perhaps some new affliction will arise within the hour, forcing my eyes only onto God and healing. In any case, please please please, continue to pray for God to sustain in me a cheerful heart. This variable of peaceful hope is the element which makes all the difference.
I would also greatly appreciate your continued prayer for the physical well-being of those who are here in this home, in this compound. As I start to recover, three of the children of various hostel staffers who live in the compound with us are suffering from various illnesses. The most alarming of these illnesses is a two and a half week fever which does not respond to malaria medication though the girl tested positive for malaria. Even closer to home, Mrs. Margie Stock has returned to her bed with a fever and other symptoms much like those that sent her to the hospital in Karachi a few weeks ago. This resurgence of dangerous symptoms is particularly inconvenient because Mr.Fred, Mrs. Margie, and Ashley are supposed to fly out of the country Monday! Please pray for God, the Great Physician, to be with us here in this compound, for the healing of the staff children, for the full and swift recovery of Margie, and for my own recovery to continue unabated. But again, most of all, pray for strength of spirit. Trials always come and go and replace each other in different forms. May God give us all the grace to prevail and grow through all kinds of circumstances.
The rest of the time before Pat returned, Joel and I sat together in the living room reading our respective novels, comfortably together in an amicable silence. When Pat and Jodie did arrive back at 8:00 I greeted them with almost giddy enthusiasm, feeling emotionally warm and accessible. I robustly joined in helping Pat and Grandma Margie with the dinner preparations while babbling best I could past my inflamed mouth about how a cheerful heart is the best medicine and how I couldn’t wait to be well again because it was sure to feel something like this!
It is amazing the difference that a lightness of spirit makes in one’s experience of external circumstances. I felt that evening, the day you received my most dejected email, that with a buoyancy of hope and cheerfulness, physical impediments can be endured with grace. It is like how if one only has a friend with them, an otherwise intimidating and foreign experience is transformed into an adventure. Truly, a cheerful heart is good medicine! The problem, as I explained to Pat and Margie while combining oil, egg, and mustard powder to whip up some mayonnaise, is that a cheerful heart can’t be bought from a pharmacy. Once weariness and doubt wear down your faithful hope and bitter thoughts are able to creep into you heart, once pain or fear or disappointment trip up your steadiness of spirit, even though you know in your mind that God has not changed and that you are not alone, how do you find again the cheerful heart that the Bible prescribes? That is the dilemma and once solved, the answer would serve well any health worker, be he or she promoting physical, psychological, or spiritual health.
Today, June 11th, I really do feel much better, physically and emotionally. The sores on my face are beginning to peel away and red skin underneath is not nearly as sensitive as before. The whole family was treated for lice last night, so hopefully that trial is behind us as well. Still, I know that health is always transitory. Perhaps I will have some time of health, letting me focus my attention and blogging on other areas of interest. Or perhaps some new affliction will arise within the hour, forcing my eyes only onto God and healing. In any case, please please please, continue to pray for God to sustain in me a cheerful heart. This variable of peaceful hope is the element which makes all the difference.
I would also greatly appreciate your continued prayer for the physical well-being of those who are here in this home, in this compound. As I start to recover, three of the children of various hostel staffers who live in the compound with us are suffering from various illnesses. The most alarming of these illnesses is a two and a half week fever which does not respond to malaria medication though the girl tested positive for malaria. Even closer to home, Mrs. Margie Stock has returned to her bed with a fever and other symptoms much like those that sent her to the hospital in Karachi a few weeks ago. This resurgence of dangerous symptoms is particularly inconvenient because Mr.Fred, Mrs. Margie, and Ashley are supposed to fly out of the country Monday! Please pray for God, the Great Physician, to be with us here in this compound, for the healing of the staff children, for the full and swift recovery of Margie, and for my own recovery to continue unabated. But again, most of all, pray for strength of spirit. Trials always come and go and replace each other in different forms. May God give us all the grace to prevail and grow through all kinds of circumstances.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Sorrow and Suffering: the traveling companions chosen by the Shepherd
My cocksacki is back as of last night, full force. The burning pain, itch, exhaustion, and embarrassment are really putting a damper on my spirit. Discouraged thoughts like, “I’m just not cut out for this life” or “if only I could be home…” keep running through my mind. I have to make a concerted effort to remind myself that no matter where I am, if I have cocksacki, I will be miserable, even at home. Things could be much worse, I think to myself. Then a grim voice in my head points out, things could easily get worse. In the end, I must continually remember that I am certain that God led me here and that it is for a purpose. I have only this time, these 500 days, to learn the lessons taught here and to make the difference I am supposed to. Other challenges await me when I return to the US (finding a job, a place to live, making graduate school research and applications etc.) Now all I have to do is endure and pray. It is sort of like being in a refining fire; very uncomfortable but not too demanding.
And yet I don’t feel like I am accomplishing anything! I feel like more of a burden on this wonderful family rather than a help. My enthusiasm for the local people and lifestyle has been taxed by my immediate pain and fear, on top of the usual difficulty of language and culture barriers. I thought that this trip was going to set me on fire for mission work and for living by faith. And yet all I feel is burned and tired, disinclined to either persist or return. Still, I know that these are fickle feelings. Only two days ago I was praising God literally on the mountain top, thanking Him for giving me the chance to meet the Murree community. My frustrations might evaporate along with my physical pain. Maybe. Who knows; God knows.
God brought me here. He gave me the opportunity, the motivation, the peace, the funds, the visa etc. He must have a purpose, if only to bless me or to bless others through me. But I feel intuitively that God’s purposes for this trip are more extensive than that. I have lessons to learn, growing to do, people to meet, hearts to touch, love to spread. I wanted to find Christ in the wilderness and part of the wilderness is pain. Christ knows the benefits of suffering. I can trust suffering by His hand. “And though he slay me, still I’ll trust in him!” (Job) Abuelita warned me that suffering would come on this trip and she recommended that I “offer it up” as part of my intercession. Perhaps this great suffering can play a significant part in my ministry here.
Speaking of suffering, today (June 8) was spent in remembrance of the life and death of Paul’s brother, Dale. Dale’s wife, children, and brother-in-law are here visiting. Eight years ago, while on vacation at a lake, Dale Stock drowned while rescuing three children who were struggling with a wicked undertow. This morning all 12 of us (Dale’s wife Nicky and their two children, Nicky’s brother Simon, Paul and his family except for Elisha, Paul’s parents and I,) got up at 4:30am to drive to the place where Dale Stock died. It was the first time that Dale’s wife and children had been back to the place where they lost their husband and father.
At first, we had a lot of trouble finding the right place, as the lake stretched for miles of blue and green water, islands, peninsulas, and shores. It was further difficult to for Nicky, Dale’s wife, to direct the driver, because she hadn’t been to the lake in 8 years, plenty of time for flood waters and construction to change the shoreline. After much driving around, we located a place on the shore that Nicky estimated was close to where the tragedy had occurred. We sat on the shore of the vast blue lake, sang songs and thanked God for Dale’s life.
After some time, we piled back into the van that had driven us there and drove on to the village where Dale and his family had lived and worked. We were greeted there by several families. Smiling reunions soon turned into wailing as it turned out that there had been a recent death in the village and it is customary to weep together the first time friends encounter each other after the death. This mourning together is called “afsocing”. After reunions, condolences, and introductions, the pastor’s family served us chicken curry, rice, and “rotis” (the flat bread used to scoop up the other food instead of cutlery.)
After lunch, while the tea was being brewed, I followed members of our party around as they wandered over the grounds reminiscing. I saw the now abandoned house where Nicky, Dale and their family had lived. I also was shown the structure next door which Nicky had used as a medical clinic. Nicky shook her head at the collapsed roof, dissolved screens, and heaps of rubble lying around. While Dale had been alive, nothing had ever fallen into disrepair.
After drinking tea with the village, we drove to Dale’s grave. The grave was situated in a Christian/Hindu plot set apart from the Muslim grave yard. No barrier separated the graveyard from the road except for a steep slope leading from the road down to the graveyard. The graveyard was not at all “yard”-like as there was no grass or any growing things. The scattered earth mounds above fresher graves and various stone markers rose directly from the expanse of mud and clay. Dale’s grave was unusual in that it had a great concrete coffin-like block where other graves had dirt mounds. Upon this block of stone was laid a white marble cross. Mr.Fred Stock, Paul’s father, explained to me that the cross had intentionally been laid horizontal so that Muslims could not knock it down. After draping deep pink flowers over the grave, we retreated from the withering heat to shade of the van and drove away.
I was honored to be witness to the memories celebrated today. It is amazing that this family has been able to persist in pouring themselves out in this land even in the face of such loss. Over four generations of mission work, 11 members of the Stock family have been buried in Pakistan. Instead of bitterness or discouragement, Dale’s wife and children are quietly and consistently carrying out his legacy. This dedication and love puts my complaints to shame. Please pray for the condition of my heart in addition to that of my body over the next few days. Pray that God would give me His perspective on my struggle and my service here. Pray He would place in me His heart and thus His peace and patience. Pray for me not to avoid any of the precious worth of having Sorrow and Suffering as traveling companions.
And yet I don’t feel like I am accomplishing anything! I feel like more of a burden on this wonderful family rather than a help. My enthusiasm for the local people and lifestyle has been taxed by my immediate pain and fear, on top of the usual difficulty of language and culture barriers. I thought that this trip was going to set me on fire for mission work and for living by faith. And yet all I feel is burned and tired, disinclined to either persist or return. Still, I know that these are fickle feelings. Only two days ago I was praising God literally on the mountain top, thanking Him for giving me the chance to meet the Murree community. My frustrations might evaporate along with my physical pain. Maybe. Who knows; God knows.
God brought me here. He gave me the opportunity, the motivation, the peace, the funds, the visa etc. He must have a purpose, if only to bless me or to bless others through me. But I feel intuitively that God’s purposes for this trip are more extensive than that. I have lessons to learn, growing to do, people to meet, hearts to touch, love to spread. I wanted to find Christ in the wilderness and part of the wilderness is pain. Christ knows the benefits of suffering. I can trust suffering by His hand. “And though he slay me, still I’ll trust in him!” (Job) Abuelita warned me that suffering would come on this trip and she recommended that I “offer it up” as part of my intercession. Perhaps this great suffering can play a significant part in my ministry here.
Speaking of suffering, today (June 8) was spent in remembrance of the life and death of Paul’s brother, Dale. Dale’s wife, children, and brother-in-law are here visiting. Eight years ago, while on vacation at a lake, Dale Stock drowned while rescuing three children who were struggling with a wicked undertow. This morning all 12 of us (Dale’s wife Nicky and their two children, Nicky’s brother Simon, Paul and his family except for Elisha, Paul’s parents and I,) got up at 4:30am to drive to the place where Dale Stock died. It was the first time that Dale’s wife and children had been back to the place where they lost their husband and father.
At first, we had a lot of trouble finding the right place, as the lake stretched for miles of blue and green water, islands, peninsulas, and shores. It was further difficult to for Nicky, Dale’s wife, to direct the driver, because she hadn’t been to the lake in 8 years, plenty of time for flood waters and construction to change the shoreline. After much driving around, we located a place on the shore that Nicky estimated was close to where the tragedy had occurred. We sat on the shore of the vast blue lake, sang songs and thanked God for Dale’s life.
After some time, we piled back into the van that had driven us there and drove on to the village where Dale and his family had lived and worked. We were greeted there by several families. Smiling reunions soon turned into wailing as it turned out that there had been a recent death in the village and it is customary to weep together the first time friends encounter each other after the death. This mourning together is called “afsocing”. After reunions, condolences, and introductions, the pastor’s family served us chicken curry, rice, and “rotis” (the flat bread used to scoop up the other food instead of cutlery.)
After lunch, while the tea was being brewed, I followed members of our party around as they wandered over the grounds reminiscing. I saw the now abandoned house where Nicky, Dale and their family had lived. I also was shown the structure next door which Nicky had used as a medical clinic. Nicky shook her head at the collapsed roof, dissolved screens, and heaps of rubble lying around. While Dale had been alive, nothing had ever fallen into disrepair.
After drinking tea with the village, we drove to Dale’s grave. The grave was situated in a Christian/Hindu plot set apart from the Muslim grave yard. No barrier separated the graveyard from the road except for a steep slope leading from the road down to the graveyard. The graveyard was not at all “yard”-like as there was no grass or any growing things. The scattered earth mounds above fresher graves and various stone markers rose directly from the expanse of mud and clay. Dale’s grave was unusual in that it had a great concrete coffin-like block where other graves had dirt mounds. Upon this block of stone was laid a white marble cross. Mr.Fred Stock, Paul’s father, explained to me that the cross had intentionally been laid horizontal so that Muslims could not knock it down. After draping deep pink flowers over the grave, we retreated from the withering heat to shade of the van and drove away.
I was honored to be witness to the memories celebrated today. It is amazing that this family has been able to persist in pouring themselves out in this land even in the face of such loss. Over four generations of mission work, 11 members of the Stock family have been buried in Pakistan. Instead of bitterness or discouragement, Dale’s wife and children are quietly and consistently carrying out his legacy. This dedication and love puts my complaints to shame. Please pray for the condition of my heart in addition to that of my body over the next few days. Pray that God would give me His perspective on my struggle and my service here. Pray He would place in me His heart and thus His peace and patience. Pray for me not to avoid any of the precious worth of having Sorrow and Suffering as traveling companions.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Train to Murree
The Stocks weren’t kidding when they laughingly told me that the 24 hour train ride from Mirpurkhas on the southern boarder to Murree where the missionary school is nestled in the foothills of the Himalaya mountains would take my initiation into the Pakistani lifestyle to a whole new level. I spent Saturday morning playing with my new hostel children friends and sitting in on a Urdu Bible lesson. At 1:30 Paul bustled in calling, “We have only 2 and a half hours to get ready!” We needed to pack for our week at Ashley’s boarding school in Murree. Paul wanted very much for us all to be on the road to Hyderabad, the city with the train station, by 4:00 so that we could stop to visit a man in the hospital. Unfortunately, the rushing around accumulating sheets, clothes, books, games, and food took until 5:00 and we had just time to be driven two hours to catch our 7:30 train.
As the car took us to Hyderabad, the desert scenery rolling and bouncing by, I tried to doze. I awoke as we were pulling into the city. I stared as Paul pointed out the towering remains of a brick fort build in the age of the Mogal Empire. It was already beginning to get dark by the time we unloaded at the station. Old porters with dark, weathered skin and white hair wrapped cloth around their foreheads and stacked our large, clumsy suitcases two high on top of their heads. I wasn’t feeling well at the time waiting on the station and the time went by in a blur of beggars, chattering passers by, and rushing trains.
Right on time, our train pulled up and I was waved aboard and into a compartment along with the four Stocks, our ten pieces of luggage, and one unfortunate single man who seemed decidedly unimpressed by the noisy bustle of our overwhelming party. The compartment consisted of two six foot long benches facing each other across as two foot wide isle. Two cushioned platforms upon which one could recline formed a roof six feet above the benches. It turned out that the cushions on the walls folded down to create a middle layer of bed space. In this way, the compartment could easily accommodate six passengers sleeping on their own cots in three layers. Between the two bottom benches, a one foot by one foot table stuck out from the far wall underneath a window out into the countryside.
One accommodation that wasn’t quite as delightful, though it didn’t bother the seasoned Stock family, were the toilets. They were located on the ends of the rocking rail cars and came in two varieties. The eastern style toilets are holes in the ground situated between two places to put your feet, ridged for better traction while squatting. Next to the hole is a pipe from which water can be drawn; this water is used instead of paper. Is this too graphic? If it isn’t too graphic to be experienced on an average day in Pakistan, it is not too graphic to be shared. The alternative to the eastern toilets were western style toilets. Surprisingly, the Stocks said that these western toilets are actually less sanitary than the eastern ones. Apparently, some Pakistanis don’t know how the western toilets are meant to be used and sometimes clime on top of the plastic seat to squat in their familiar way.
Once we got settled in, the Stocks nestled down to enjoy the 24 hour vacation. Books, cards, i-pods, and movies appeared from the bursting backpacks. The Stocks also enjoyed buying chai, juice and other snacks from the porters that walked the halls of the train calling out their wares. I felt a little sorry for the one Pakistani passenger who glanced at us disparagingly and sat outside the compartment until retiring to one of the top bunks around 9:00. The rest of us, on the other hand, watched Julie and Julia, before collapsing in bed at 1:30am.
At around 10:00am the following morning, I woke up. Most of the day was spent in relaxation, enjoying games of cards and movies (Push and Extraordinary Measures.) Exhausted and with increasing discomfort in my mouth from extensive cold sores which made it hard to speak, eat, or smile, I spent a fair amount of the time napping and reading from my novel, Duncton Wood.
I awoke from one of my naps to find that the train had stopped and that Paul Stock was anxiously holding out, for his wife’s inspection, his suspiciously empty ipod pouch. After a scrambled searched of our bags, we determined that the item was no longer among our things. The loss of the device was made all the worse by the fact that the ipod contained the only copy of many of Paul’s mother personal stories. I prayed silently that God would return to us the presumably stolen piece of property. The Stocks never gave up. After not too much time, suspicion turned on the placid Pakistani sitting by. After a search of his bag, one of Paul’s ipod wires was found. Paul demanded that the man return to him the ipod or Paul would call the police. Submissively, the man led Paul to the notorious bathroom and produced the ipod from above the light fixture. The man thanked Paul for not calling the police and offered to spend the rest of the trip outside the compartment, an offer Paul grimly accepted.
During the excitement of the missing ipod, I hadn’t noticed that the train had never commenced its journey. It turned out that our train needed a new engine. With the pleasant Pakistani disregard for lateness or lost time, we waited and waited, the Stocks cheerfully enjoying the extra time to relax with each other. Eventually another engine was brought to our train and we felt ourselves begin again to move. This engine, however, was not nearly as strong and the train rumbled along at a fraction of the previous speed. By the time we arrived in Rawalpini at 2:30am, the train was seven hours later than planned but not much later than expected. In a daze, I tagged along, clinging to my luggage, as the Stocks led the way off the platform and to a taxi to finish the last two hours of our trip from the city to the school. We arrived as the sun was rising over the Himalayas. I barely remember dragging our things up the steep path to the “Stock House” inside of which I collapsed on a bed and finally slept. I am now sitting on the same bed, twenty four hours later and must bid you again, goodnight!
As the car took us to Hyderabad, the desert scenery rolling and bouncing by, I tried to doze. I awoke as we were pulling into the city. I stared as Paul pointed out the towering remains of a brick fort build in the age of the Mogal Empire. It was already beginning to get dark by the time we unloaded at the station. Old porters with dark, weathered skin and white hair wrapped cloth around their foreheads and stacked our large, clumsy suitcases two high on top of their heads. I wasn’t feeling well at the time waiting on the station and the time went by in a blur of beggars, chattering passers by, and rushing trains.
Right on time, our train pulled up and I was waved aboard and into a compartment along with the four Stocks, our ten pieces of luggage, and one unfortunate single man who seemed decidedly unimpressed by the noisy bustle of our overwhelming party. The compartment consisted of two six foot long benches facing each other across as two foot wide isle. Two cushioned platforms upon which one could recline formed a roof six feet above the benches. It turned out that the cushions on the walls folded down to create a middle layer of bed space. In this way, the compartment could easily accommodate six passengers sleeping on their own cots in three layers. Between the two bottom benches, a one foot by one foot table stuck out from the far wall underneath a window out into the countryside.
One accommodation that wasn’t quite as delightful, though it didn’t bother the seasoned Stock family, were the toilets. They were located on the ends of the rocking rail cars and came in two varieties. The eastern style toilets are holes in the ground situated between two places to put your feet, ridged for better traction while squatting. Next to the hole is a pipe from which water can be drawn; this water is used instead of paper. Is this too graphic? If it isn’t too graphic to be experienced on an average day in Pakistan, it is not too graphic to be shared. The alternative to the eastern toilets were western style toilets. Surprisingly, the Stocks said that these western toilets are actually less sanitary than the eastern ones. Apparently, some Pakistanis don’t know how the western toilets are meant to be used and sometimes clime on top of the plastic seat to squat in their familiar way.
Once we got settled in, the Stocks nestled down to enjoy the 24 hour vacation. Books, cards, i-pods, and movies appeared from the bursting backpacks. The Stocks also enjoyed buying chai, juice and other snacks from the porters that walked the halls of the train calling out their wares. I felt a little sorry for the one Pakistani passenger who glanced at us disparagingly and sat outside the compartment until retiring to one of the top bunks around 9:00. The rest of us, on the other hand, watched Julie and Julia, before collapsing in bed at 1:30am.
At around 10:00am the following morning, I woke up. Most of the day was spent in relaxation, enjoying games of cards and movies (Push and Extraordinary Measures.) Exhausted and with increasing discomfort in my mouth from extensive cold sores which made it hard to speak, eat, or smile, I spent a fair amount of the time napping and reading from my novel, Duncton Wood.
I awoke from one of my naps to find that the train had stopped and that Paul Stock was anxiously holding out, for his wife’s inspection, his suspiciously empty ipod pouch. After a scrambled searched of our bags, we determined that the item was no longer among our things. The loss of the device was made all the worse by the fact that the ipod contained the only copy of many of Paul’s mother personal stories. I prayed silently that God would return to us the presumably stolen piece of property. The Stocks never gave up. After not too much time, suspicion turned on the placid Pakistani sitting by. After a search of his bag, one of Paul’s ipod wires was found. Paul demanded that the man return to him the ipod or Paul would call the police. Submissively, the man led Paul to the notorious bathroom and produced the ipod from above the light fixture. The man thanked Paul for not calling the police and offered to spend the rest of the trip outside the compartment, an offer Paul grimly accepted.
During the excitement of the missing ipod, I hadn’t noticed that the train had never commenced its journey. It turned out that our train needed a new engine. With the pleasant Pakistani disregard for lateness or lost time, we waited and waited, the Stocks cheerfully enjoying the extra time to relax with each other. Eventually another engine was brought to our train and we felt ourselves begin again to move. This engine, however, was not nearly as strong and the train rumbled along at a fraction of the previous speed. By the time we arrived in Rawalpini at 2:30am, the train was seven hours later than planned but not much later than expected. In a daze, I tagged along, clinging to my luggage, as the Stocks led the way off the platform and to a taxi to finish the last two hours of our trip from the city to the school. We arrived as the sun was rising over the Himalayas. I barely remember dragging our things up the steep path to the “Stock House” inside of which I collapsed on a bed and finally slept. I am now sitting on the same bed, twenty four hours later and must bid you again, goodnight!
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