28 January 2010

To Think On.

I share with you a poem I recently read, from the book, "Sharing Boundaries: Learning the Wisdom of Africa," by Annetta Miller.


Peace.


Every year
my husband and I
plant several trees
on a Kikuyu friend's farm
outside Nairobi


The first trees
we planted are now
over thirty feet tall


This year
I looked over into the farm
adjoining our friend's
land


A neat row of young trees
was spreading its branches


"Yes," he said,
"your tree planting
is contagious


But I gave my neighbor
the first trees to plant


If I hadn't done that
he would be very jealous of my trees


This way
there is
no jealousy
and there is
peace"

Change in Plans.

This is a hard blog to write about a hard decision to make. Titling it was difficult too: I don't mean to seem trite. So perhaps the best thing is simply to say it.


Within the next few weeks, I will be returning to the US. For reasons I won't try to explain here, I have decided not to fulfill my contract with MCC. This decision in no way reflects any negative experience with MCC, St. Monica's, or anyone I've met here. I have many wonderful friends here, but my heart is calling me elsewhere and to focus on other relationships at this point. It will be difficult to once again bid farewell to Uganda, but I believe this is the right choice for me right now.


I still highly value the work that St. Monica's does, as well as the role that MCC plays in partnering with organisations in this country. I have been told that MCC will look for another volunteer to take on this assignment, and I strongly hope that person is able to give their whole heart to this work.


And where am I headed? For now, north and west, towards a much colder climate, an uncertain future, and hopefully, a peaceful heart.



Travel Adventures.

Four of the last six days I've spent at least partly on the road: a weekend in Kampala to celebrate the graduation party of a friend of mine who grew up in the care of the Sisters, and the last couple days with my host family in Atiak. Half the journeys have been straightforward and uneventful; the other two, a bit more interesting. So, for your entertainment, I present a (long-ish) travelougue:


Saturday, 23rd January, Gulu - Kampala.


Along with a few of the Sisters and Father Luigi (a Camboni priest from Italy who has called Uganda home for the past decades), I was headed to Kampala to celebrate my friend Rosemary's graduation. Her party was the next afternoon, so we wanted to reach in time and spend the night at a convent located in Ggaba, on the southern side of the city. We planned to leave at 9 am, as we informed Father Luigi at breakfast (he came by to make sure we were still on schedule).


So, at nine, we packed everything we needed into the car (including the cake we had made the day before for Rosemary), climbed in ourselves, along with a nun from another order who was visiting us and had asked for a ride back south. Walter, one of our drivers, started up the vehicle, and we set out to pick up Father. Before we got to his place, Sister Christine remembered that we were supposed to bring along a canister to refill with cooking gas in the capital. We turned around, got teased for having come back so soon, and set out again with the canister. This time, we picked up Father and started driving south, out of town, on our way to Kampala.


I dozed off and on as we drove, packed in the car and holding a box with a beautiful cake in our laps, but I woke up when the vehicle came to a stop. We were in Bobi, about an hour south of Gulu, and the vehicle was overheating. When Walter pulled the vehicle over, smoke poured from under the hood, and we climbed out. We spent the next thirty minutes baking in the heat as Walter and Father Luigi alternated between pouring water into the empty radiator, watching the water spurt back out in a boiling geyser, calling Geoffrey, the other driver, and just contemplating our options.


Eventually, Father decided that the vehicle wasn't going to make it all the way to Kampala, but the engine seemed to have cooled enough for us to make it back to Gulu. So, he instructed Walter to drive us back to Gulu and drop us off at the bus park, where we would catch a bus to Kampala instead.


Reached the park, we climbed into a bus - I can't even remember which one - and settled ourselves into seats. The three Sisters I knew chose to sit together, and I helped them settled the cake onto their laps. Father sat behind them, and I took the seat in front, accompanied by the visiting Sister. After about an hour, which isn't actually a very long wait, the bus set off. Somehow, Sister and I ended up with an empty space between us, even though the conductors usually seem to like the buses completely full for this route.


Shortly after we crossed the Nile, pouring with all its glory, a new passenger came and sat between us (on Ugandan public transportation, it's all too common for people to enter and exit the bus at random sports all along the way). A small woman, she nevertheless made her presence known, sitting as close to me as physically possible and fiddling with her dress the rest of the way south. She also had quite an argument with the conductor about the price, which would have made more sense to me if he was overcharging her (I've had the conversation many a time myself). Eventually, she handed over her money - but never stopped playing with her dress, keeping her elbow dangerously close to my face. I spent the next few hours fending off her roaming arms (seriously, this woman was as still as most three year old would be in such a situation) and pretending to sleep as I listened to my ipod. We bumped over countless speed humps; my back and tailbone were quite sore by the time we reached... All in all, it was not an atypical bus ride, and we were reaching Kampala after five or six hours.


Suddenly, Father came up beside me and tapped me on the shoulder, "Christine, we're getting out soon." I was surprised; I thought we were going to Ggaba, but we were only at the northern edge of Kampala; I didn't really know what was going on. He was intently looking out the windows, trying to pinpoint the exact location where we wanted to get off. Before long, he moved forward to tell the conductor to "stage," i.e. to stop the bus and let us off. And, in typical Ugandan fashion, the bus pulled to the side of the road, creating a traffic jam behind us, and our party climbed out.


It was only when our driver reached out to take the cake from my hands that I started to realise what was going on. Walter had driven the car to the garage, got it checked, let the engine cool down, and added water. It would still need to go to the garage this week, but he had managed to drive it down to Kampala, passing us somewhere along the way. He had stopped here to wait for us.


Eight hours after we had first set out, we once again piled into the vehicle. We spent the next couple hours driving around and doing errands in Kampala: first taking the cake to the house of one of Rosemary's adopted mothers, a member of Parliament from West Nile; dropping Father off at Our Lady of Africa; and finally reaching our place, after a few wrong turns, right as night fell.


We ate supper, laughing with the Sisters about our unprogrammed journey, and settled into the beds they had prepared for us, all glad to have finally reached.


Monday, 25th January, Kampala - Gulu.


After a late night at Rosemary's beautiful graduation party, we had planned to head back to Gulu on Monday. I woke up that morning, showered, and took my tea as the Sisters were finishing their daily prayers. When the Sisters from Gulu came to the dining room, we exchanged morning pleasantries, and I asked what plans had been made for our departure. It was then I learned that Walter had taken the car to the shop, to get the radiator fixed and to check the gears. They were waiting for the vehicle to be repaired before heading back to Gulu, probably on Tuesday or Wednesday.


I had already made plans to travel to Atiak the next morning, so I insisted on travelling that day, even though I knew the Sisters might (possibly, in the best of circumstances) head north to Gulu that very day. So, I set out: backpack strapped on, I walked to the main road and caught a boda (motorcycle taxi) to the bus park. I climbed on a bus to Gulu, paid my twenty thousand shillings (the standard fare), and set myself down with my ipod and book. Five and a half hours later, finished with my book and having marveled once again at the grand power of the Nile, we reached Gulu. Just a normal bus ride.


Tuesday, 26th January, Gulu - Atiak.


It takes about two hours to reach Atiak on a road heavily travelled by buses and lorries; I had only ever moved with the vehicles of the school before. This day, however, those vehicles and our drivers were not around, so I was going to move to Atiak by bus.


The Sisters told me I should head to the bus stage around 10 am to catch one of the buses from Kampala on its way to Moyo or Adjumani. There were no bodas near our gate, so I walked to the petrol station where the Zawadi buses stage. When I asked for a ticket up to Atiak, expecting to hand over seven thousand shillings, the man informed me that the buses were full.


I was in luck, though, he told me: another northbound bus was loading just up the road. He pointed out the tree where the bus had staged, warned me that it was just about to pull out, and told me that this boda right here would take me to the bus for "only five hundred shillings." 500/= to travel less than a city block: I laughed in his face and started walking, accompanied by a woman and her two children. We reached the bus, climbed on, paid our fares (she was riding all the way to Adjumani), and waited a bit. So much for the bus leaving so fast that I'd need to take a boda!


The only empty seats were in the back, and I covered mine with my lesu (cotton wrap) because there was so much dust. Two hours later, covered in dust and totally parched, I told the conductor to stop at the Atiak stage, and I climbed down. I walked down the road to my brother's shop, accompanied by a young cousin who was walking home with his bicycle. Stepping through the back door of my brother's lodge, I was sighted by my sisters, who ran to hug me.


I was home, in Atiak. Another normal bus ride.


Thursday, 28th January, Atiak-Gulu.


This morning, wanting to return to Gulu, I packed up my things and took tea with my host family. The buses from Adjumani and Moyo normally come through around 9, so after tea, we grabbed my things and went out to the road. Quite a little parade we made: siblings and cousins carrying the bucket, backpack, and box I needed to bring back to Gulu. Reaching the road, they set my things down and we waited for a bus to come by. Despite our nearness to the bus stage, we stayed where we were, knowing that any bus had to pass us too.


When the first bus came by, I said my goodbyes quickly and my brothers flagged it down. It was full, and I declined the conductor's offer to stand all the way to Gulu. The second bus didn't even bother to stop, the driver knocking his hands together in the signal that indicates a full vehicle. The third one stopped, but there were already people standing, and I once again declined to reach Gulu in such a fashion. "It's because school is starting Monday," my brother informed me, "all the children are going back. The buses will be too full for this week."


And so, still unsure how I was going to reach Gulu, I continued to wait by the road. At this point, most of the family had gone back to our compound, but one brother continued to wait with me. A lorry came through, hurtling down the road from Sudan. We didn't even try to flag it down: the back was closed, and he already had a passenger in the front seat. But suddenly, we saw it stop just up the road, and the passenger climbed down. Before he could drive away, the men sitting in front of their shops called to me, "You come, this is a good vehicle too."


So, I came, handing up my things and climbing to the seat located above my head. I was a bit wary of the arrangement, not entirely sure I wanted to spend two hours on a bad road with a man I didn't know. But, it seemed the best option I had to reach Gulu today, so I went with it.


I waved goodbye to my brother and the helpful shopkeepers, then exchanged greetings with the driver in broken English. Before long, I had confirmed that I'm from America and had learnt that he was a native Ugandan from the south. "Oli muganda?" I queried. "Yee. Omanyi Luganda?" We both started laughing as we realised that despite his limited English, and my almost nonexistent Acoli, we shared in common his native language.


We spent the next half hour discussing our ages (he guessed me at 25, maybe the closest blind guess ever in this country), politics (he loves Obama but speaks far less highly of his own president), the terrible status of the road (oh yes, I'm acculturated: contemplating how "good" a portion of road is, I glance down and see bare rock protruding between the sandy dust), and the climate (he told me Sudan is TOO HOT, and I tried to explain why bananas don't grow in my part of the US). After a bit, we stopped talking, occasionally sipped from our water bottles, and mostly just bumped our way down the road. We stopped in Pabo for him to buy rice: for some reason, it's cheaper there than Juba, Kampala, or anywhere in between, and I've become accustomed to this stop.


Reaching the edge of Gulu, I pointed out the compound of St. Monica's, and he pulled his huge truck to the side of the road. I disembarked, and he helped me carry my things from the cab to the gate. We shook hands: I wished him a safe journey, and he told me to have a good day. Walking through the gate, I smiled at the gatekeeper and waved to the lorry pulling off around the corner. This journey was far from what I expected, but it turned out far better than I could have imagined: I made a new friend and arrived safely.



Power.

"Kinds of Power"


Knowing other people is intelligence,
knowing yourself is wisdom.
Overcoming others takes strength,
overcoming yourself takes greatness.
Contentment is wealth.


Boldly pushing forward takes resolution.
Staying put keeps you in position.


To live till you die
is to live long enough.


-Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, translation by Ursula K. Le Guin

22 January 2010

radical hospitality.

as i write, i'm hanging out in the sitting room of the convent, waiting for printer drivers to download (painfully slowly) on one of the sister's laptops, and listening to a room full of guests converse in acoli and madi. it's more than an hour later than we normally eat supper, but the food is not yet ready. well, that's not exactly true. some of the food is ready. the portion of food which would serve the eight or ten of us who were expected for supper (myself and the sisters who are around today) - that food is ready. but the portion which will serve all of us plus the two carloads of unexpected guests who showed up right before supper - that food is not yet finished cooking.

the nuns i live with, who belong to the order of the sacred heart of jesus (based in sudan), practise radical hospitality. i've rarely seen them turn down a request, and there's always space for another person at the table (even if it sometimes means that we eat in shifts, or an hour later). in the last hour and a half, we've expanded the menu and made up beds in multiple guest rooms. we've served sodas and cooked rice. we will eat soon, and there will be room at the table for everyone who is here, even those who weren't expected.

may i challenge you, the next time you think about hospitality, to consider moments such as this as the normal form of it?

15 January 2010

Keeping my hands busy...

First sewing project of the year:
mending a tear in one of my favourite skirts which resulted from a loose nail in a chair last month. We pounded the nail back in with a heavy rock, and I spent a few hours this week working on my skirt with needle and thread. The satisfactory result: a beautiful skirt which I can once again wear for dancing and twirling and all of life's other necessary activities!



14 January 2010

recovering life.


"The recovery of the now enables us to celebrate life where it is and encounter the mystery of each present moment. The recovery of our body enables us to live it as the sacrament of divine presence in the world. The recovery of nature is linked also with this awareness of sacramentality and comes to encompass the mountains and rivers, the great wide Earth. We are enabled to hear the cries of Earth, wounded and in pain, as our very own woundedness and pain. The recovery of our shadow allows us to face the evil in the world with courage and equanimity and take responsibility for it. And the recovery of the feminine is realized as we let go of that part of us that wants to control and dominate and exploit and, instead, allow cosmic compassion to work in our being. Unleashing this cosmic compassion is what effects our own healing and is likewise what empowers us to participate in tasks of healing Earth."
-Healing Breath, Ruben L.F. Habito.

13 January 2010

Joy.

Today after lunch, I came to my room to rest a bit. The sun was hot, and I've not been drinking enough water because of the massive fluctuations in temperature between night and mid-day, so I was nursing a slight headache. I intended to read, write a few postcards, and maybe take a short nap before meeting Sister Christine to trade computer lessons for Acoli lessons.

Four year old Joy had other plans for my afternoon.

Shortly after I came back from lunch at the convent, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find Joy smiling up at me. "I'm bring baby," she told me, disappearing back to the mango tree where her mother and another woman were stringing bead rosaries. Within a few minutes, she was back, baby sister (or friend, I'm not sure) attached to her hip.

playtime.

I sighed, clearing away my writing supplies and watching my nap slip out of grasp. Instead, I pulled out the mat and toys that I keep handy to encourage children like Joy to visit my room. A plethora of balls, cups, small animals, shiny papers, and other odds and ends soon covered the floor. As I busied myself with a few tasks around my room, Joy would periodically interrupt me, "Look! Beautiful!" She has quite an extensive vocabulary for a preschooler, which I'll let St. Monica's Nursery School take most all the credit for, but one of her favourite words has thus far proven to be "beautiful." She uses it to describe, among other things: me, mardi gras beads and colourful bracelets, a matchbox car, and her favourite ball. Whenever Joy is playing in my room, I can count on hearing many exclamations of "Beautiful!"

Before long, Joy abandoned the toys and headed toward my bathroom, which she likes to use. "I go pufu," she told me, not a request, but a statement. I gave her toilet paper and left her to her business, returning after a bit to help her pull the handle and remind her to wash her hands with soap. Joy is certainly not shy.

After some more playing (and my recording and playing back a video of the two girls, much to Joy's amusement), the baby became fussy, so Joy took her back to Mama. Meanwhile, I gathered my dirty clothes, basins, and soap, and set out to do laundry on my front stoop. When Joy came back, she insisted on helping me. I let her, but made sure to start with small items (socks and handkerchiefs) that her small hands would manage easier. Joy turned out to be a decent washer, though once I moved on to shirts and skirts, I distracted her by convincing her that the colourful stacking cups should also be washed. So, while I continued washing clothes, she washed cups (and then used my camera to photograph the women beading).

water for washing.

As we washed, Joy decided to take the opportunity for a little learning. Periodically, she would point to an object, "what is this?". I would tell her the name in English, leb muno, and if she knew it, she would teach me the word in leb Acoli. We went through articles of clothing, colours (which she didn't know in Acoli), and the things we were using for washing: basin, soap, water, nomi (detergent). She already knew many of the words, but of course, it's always good to revise, particularly during the holiday.

Suddenly, our linguistics game was cut short by the appearance of a young boy. Slightly older than Joy, he was too shy to speak to me (in either language), but quickly made for the toys inside. Before too long, his younger brother showed up to play as well. I watched through the open window as they discovered the animals and balls that Joy had scattered across my floor earlier.

Continuing with my washing, I was surprised when one of the boys came to the door. Holding a ball in his hand, he made a request. I can't reproduce the words here, but it felt like a bit of a lingual breakthrough to realise that I understood him: he wanted to go with it at home. My refusal didn't stop him - or his younger brother - from making the same request about almost every other toy in the basket. Later, when they were leaving, I made them empty their pockets, thus regaining a matchbox car, a bouncy ball, and two shiny marbles as they grinned guiltily.

When more children arrived to play, Joy led the gang to the swingset in the preschool compound, within sight and throwing distance of my front door. I finished washing, went to hang my clothes on the line, then came back and started some writing. Before long, there was another knock on my door. Joy again, naked this time. "I want the bath," she informed me. Although she's used my toilet on multiple occasions, this was the first time she's asked to bathe in my bathroom.

washing my socks.

I agreed. Supplying her with a basin, washcloth, and bar of soap, I showed her the tap and left her to her bath. I returned to my writing as Joy splashed - and washed, of course - in my bathroom. Later, I toweled her down and sent her back to her mother, who was waiting with clean clothes and a desire to head home. Nevertheless, Joy appeared again a few minutes later to ask for oil (lotion) to make herself smart. When I told her I don't have any, "oil pe," she waved and ran back to the mango tree.

Now, as I sit in my quiet room, listening to the insects chirp outside and watching night fall quickly over the dusty landscape, Joy's sweet presence still pervades my room. Such a sweet child - and so aptly named!

12 January 2010

11 January 2010

Success, defined.

thanks to lissa for sharing this quote with me...

To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest citizens and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of oneself; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived - this is to have succeeded.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

05 January 2010

Night Reflections.

from my journal... written by candlelight on the stoop outside my room...

The stars are brilliant tonight with the power off. The night is cool and soft, banana plants rustling in the same wind which threatens to extinguish my candle. The buzz of insects fills my ears, and the rumble of vehicles heading north toward Sudan. I am surprised by the quiet; perhaps it is early yet for the music from town, but surely it will come later.

I know that some people feel overwhelmed by such a full sky of stars. Truly, it is not something we see often in the US. Some would say such an expanse makes them feel small, inconsequential. I am not one of those people. The night sky comforts me, somehow reminding me that I am not alone in this gigantic universe. These days, darkness often brings loneliness, and I fear the onslaught of my dreams. But stars, or the moon, when it shines - they provide solace and comfort, even as I long for the presence of those that I love most dearly.

Sometimes, I contemplate bringing a matt out here and sleeping under the stars. I wonder if I could rig my mosquito net among the bananas?

04 January 2010

Ant Dance.

Tonight, when we reached home after supper, the electricity was still off, so our compound was quite dark. Not a huge problem: Sister shown the headlights for me to open the gates to the garage, then I used my torch (flashlight) to lock them.


Seeing that I had to enter the house from outside anyway, I decided to first head around back and pick my clothes from the line in the garden. I did laundry late this afternoon: bedsheets, handkerchiefs, citengi (the cloth that serves for towel, apron, picnic blanket, and a host of other purposes), a few shirts, and one especially mud-stained skirt. We sometimes leave clothes on the line at night, but theft seems more common when the electricity is off, so I decided it would be better to bring my things in. Besides, I figured they'd be dry by now.


When I shone my torch on the line, I was a bit surprised that the girls had not brought in the things they had washed earlier in the day. The habits and bedsheets for the house were dry before I even hung my clothes up, but I supposed they must have just decided to pick them in the morning. I had hardly unpinned two handkerchiefs of mine before I felt something crawling on my legs. Crawling, then, so quickly, biting my ankles, my calves, the back of my knee.


I ran toward the house, swatting at my legs, and making surprised sounds, “Oh! Eh!”


Someone called out, “what is it?”


“Sister, I don't know. I was picking my clothes from the line, but something is biting me now.” The bites continued, sharp little pricks pilgrimaging up and down my legs.


“Red ants,” they informed me, “you enter here and remove your trousers, or they will keep biting you.”


Dancing into the house, in the darkness of a powerless night and glad that the watchman was far out of sight, I pulled off my jeans and examined my legs to make sure no insects remained. Tying a citengi around my waist, I agreed to Sister's suggestion that I leave my trousers there until morning: I have absolutely no desire to infest my room with biting ants!


Reaching my room, I again checked myself for ants, then removed the slug which was hanging out in my toilet and took a cold shower. Some of the bites continue to itch, the worst being the ones clustered around the braided cord I wear tied on my right ankle: for the first time in months, I have removed it, at least until the welts go down. Mostly, though, I seem to have escaped without any serious damage.


I know now, of course, why the girls left the clothes on the line earlier: in the light, they could see that the area had been taken over by ants, and they weren't too interested in doing the “ant dance” themselves.

Supper with the Sisters.

What an interesting evening this turned out to be!


Earlier, when I went up to the house to ask Sister Rosemary if I might use her modem, as I often do in the evenings before supper, she told me to “Get ready,” that we are soon going out for supper. It came as a bit of a surprise to me: every other night that I have stayed here (admittedly, not many), we have taken our supper here at home. Tonight was apparently going to be different.


We piled into the car: four nuns and me, the youngest and lightest skinned by far. Before heading to the hotel, we first drove around town looking for a place to exchange our crate of empty bottles for a full one. Electricity was off, however, and it was just dark, so we couldn't find any open shop. Oh well, we would just have to buy our drinks at a higher price.


The Golden Peace Hotel seems to be a fairly new establishment to Gulu, but it is not far from our school and employs a few former students. We were greeted upon our arrival and given, at our request, a table in the grass beyond the parking lot. We weren't there very long, though. Shortly after we ordered our drinks – coke for me, and Sister Rosemary told the waiter to bring two – the conversation took a turn toward caterpillars, don't ask me why. Sister Rosemary shares my deep dislike for these fuzzy creatures; possibly, she is more fearful of them than I. The others were curious about our shuddering, so we told similar stories of terrible encounters. Before long, it was decided that we had better move to a table on the veranda, for who knew what might creep out of the night while we sat there in the grass. Of course, it was also proposed that we tell the waitstaff that it was mosquitoes disturbing us.


We found our place inside, received our drinks, and ordered our food. When the hotel's generator went off, it was remarked that it was good we had moved to this spot: wouldn't we have feared sitting way out in the grass with only a candle? Of course, the candle was mostly only good for attracting small flying insects, but at least no creepy crawlies.


As we waited for our food, first by candlelight, and later in the glow of the electric lights – the generator came back, though not UMEME – the conversation continued its winding way. After one particularly hilarious story or comment, I remarked to the Sisters, all of whom took their vows before I was even born, that I think most people unfamiliar with nuns would expect them to be a serious, solemn bunch. I have yet to encounter one who would fit this description [any similar stereotypes I may have once held about priests have also long been shattered, but that's another story thread], and I told them that. They laughed: I amuse them as much as they amuse me, I often think. They assured me, however, that this might be an eccentric trait of their order, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. If I met nuns from certain other orders, I would find them just the opposite: mean and sullen, even. But my comment sparked multiple stories of people they had encountered here or there who were surprised at the humour and good-naturedness of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. After spending a week with more nuns than I'd ever met before in my life, I can certainly attest to the presence of those traits.


Another shift, and I suddenly found myself the centre of attention. Sister Ritah, Sister Sophie, and Mother Gina, all of whom stay in Sudan, were asking why I did not declare myself an aspirant, that is, one who desires to join the order. I was not entirely surprised; this was not the first time the topic has been raised. However, this was the first time it was pressed so hard. Sister Rosemary dismissed their queries: “she doesn't want, she has a boyfriend there.” They were not to be put off the scent so easily, though: “Christine, why don't you leave your boyfriend there? He's probably found another girl there anyway. You know, men can be so unfaithful.” “Eh,” I defended him, “You don't even know him. Me, I think he's faithful. And, he's too busy with his books to be playing around with some other girl.”


It was around this point that Sister Ritah decided to let me go, acknowledging that I didn't seem interested in becoming a nun right now. “We'll always pray for you, you know. And when we pray for you, we'll pray for that boy also.”


Mother Gina was thrilled to find out that my boyfriend is studying for a PhD in Biology. “You will be our associates, both of you,” she informed me, already extending him an offer to come and teach at her secondary school in Sudan.


A bit disappointed that they would not get to have me as a fellow nun, they decided instead that I would have to bring this guy to meet them after I married him. Or, better yet, I'd better just come and wed him from here. And they'll make my cake for me: all settled.


Sister Sophie, on the other hand, remains, to this moment, unconvinced. She also promised to pray for me, that I wake up one morning and realise my vocation, and for my boyfriend, that he decide to leave me to the religious path. She extended an invitation for me to visit her in Khartoum whenever he should come and visit, but I told her I wasn't sure if I trusted her intentions: I wouldn't put it past her to tease him mercilessly in an attempt to pull me into the convent. My refusals, that “ah, I don't want” and “I'm not even Catholic” were easily thrust aside.


Eventually the conversation shifted again, leaving me with three nuns planning my wedding and a fourth still contemplating how to prevent its happening, the general atmosphere reminding me of any gathering of my own aunts.

02 January 2010

Numeric Fun.

How cool this morning to see my phone putting this:


10:20.

02.01.2010.


Three numbers to make all of the date and time – imagine! Even better will come next month: 01.02.2010. Actually, I guess if you write the American date, it has already reached that palindrome. But for the rest of us, it'll come around next month!


So exciting life can be for those who notice the patterns made by numbers.