You're all chickens?

Some writing "sketches" of a couple of scenes from today:

“This may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done!”  I shouted to Courtney in the water below me.  

The tree was at least 20 feet above the water, and I balanced on the farthest reaching branch, my toes gripping the bark for dear life, one arm holding the limb in a death grip and the other reaching for the rope swing.  I had scrambled up like Tarzan, no shoes, wearing just my bathing suit.  The wooden handle of the rope swing was smooth, and I was having second thoughts about being able to hold onto it well.  I was also having second thoughts about scurrying up a huge tree with no other way to get down than to swing off into the river below on a homemade rope swing.  

I’m not gonna die.  All the local boys do this easy, right?  But this is a giant Tarzan tree.  I’ve never swung off a giant Tarzan tree into a river before.  But when’s the next time I’ll get to do this?  You never know, but you shouldn’t waste golden opportunities.  

                   1 Peter 3.  You are daughters of holy women, who put their hope in God, if you do not fear anything that is frightening.  Hope in God produces courage.  When we hope in God, we do not need to fear.  Anything.  Submission, the future, the present, a rope swing.  As a little girl, watching Carmen Sandiego on TV, I often wondered whether I might grow up to be some daring woman who could travel the world and try anything, unafraid in the face of danger.  I don't know that I've reached that point; I don't know that I ever will, at least on earth.  But over the years of my short life, I can see myself changing.  Or maybe I'm not necessarily changing.  Maybe God's just freeing me to be more how I'm supposed to be, more like He made me to be, more like that fearless woman a little girl dreams she'll be.  Crouching up in this Tarzan tree, perched high above the water, the Fiji sun lighting up everything around me with a brilliant evening glow, all this hits me.  I want my life to be an adventure, and I don't want my best stories to be about how my pump didn't work at the gas station once.        

                   But I can only think about it for a second.  All the local boys do this easy.  3,2,1...go. 

[It's really a Tarzan tree, isn't it?  Can you spot the rope swing dangling?]

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“Can you please take it!” 

It’s more a frantic plea than a question from Elias, a little Indian boy, squatting in a tiny tin chicken shed in his backyard, wrestling with a brown ball of feathers.  I’ve never carried a chicken before, at least not a full grown one.  

“Yeah!”  

I grab the bird by its legs and quickly carry it, squawking and thrashing about, across the yard.  We lift up the side of the new chicken coop, and I set the bird down as gently as possible, given the circumstances.  That’s the last one, and now the coop is full - five brand new laying hens.  

We’ve visited my friend again, and today is a celebratory day.  The new team that just arrived this morning has come, and we just finished building her new chicken coop - a half sphere of PVC pipe and chicken wire that is both affordable and moveable.  The land that gets fertilized by the chickens can be used to plant a garden as the coop moves around the yard.  

I sit down with my friend in her tiny house and we go over how to use her new ledger.  The money she spends, the money she earns, how to balance things out, save her profits and reinvest.  She’s starting with five chickens today, but she’ll sell them and soon five chickens will turn into seven, then nine, then twelve.  The plan we made on Wednesday is turning into a reality.    

“Today has been a busy day, but it has been a wonderful day!  I got to share with two people about Christ, and I bought my chickens.”  Her eyes glow.  She works so hard and wants to provide for her baby son.  He just learned to walk two days ago, she tells me.  

“What should it be called?” she asks, pointing to the ledger.  

“You should name it, whatever you want.”  

She smiles and names it for her son.  Zac’s Chicken Camp Book.  

[The Edge team became expert chicken transporters on their first day. :)]

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I don’t have much energy left for creative writing anymore, but I want to share with you all in more concrete terms what I’ve been up to lately.  On Wednesday, I visited my friend again, the one I’ve written about here.  She’s a single mom, my age, who lives in a large, very poor family.  I spent the morning with her family, and we ate another wonderful lunch together.  We talked about some business plans she’d been thinking over, ways to provide for her baby son.  We settled on a plan of selling chickens and their eggs on credit to the sugar cane cutters in the area.  I had the privilege of going through all the math with her, teaching her how to manage a ledger and considering together some of the possible issues that might arise in going forward with this.  She was super excited by the time I left, and so was I.  

This morning, then, a new team arrived.  (These three people are the Edge team, and I was in their position one year ago in India.  I'm so excited for everything they're about to experience!)  Shortly after they arrived, we went through a trial run, doing a test build, all of us learning how to build a chicken coop for the first time.  Then we disassembled it, loaded it in the truck and headed to the market to pick up my friend.  We picked her up, along with her five chickens, and headed to her house, the chickens riding on our laps in paper sacks with their heads sticking out.  We put them in a tiny tin coop, originally for the family’s one laying hen, until we could build their proper one.  

And when we took them out, just a short while later, we found the first egg - still warm and covered with a little poop from being laid.  We put the chickens in their new coop, and my friend’s little brothers and sisters rushed in with them, laughing and celebrating their family’s new prospects.  

“Ap log murgi hai?” I asked.  (You’re all chickens?)  

“Yes!”  was the delighted reply, the kids laughing partly at the question and partly at my funny Hindi.  

I’m so excited for my friend and really hope that this little business will give her great new opportunities and generate some very much-needed income.  And I feel so honored to be a part of the process of encouraging her to start all this.  Praise God!  

Tomorrow, I’ll leave with the new team to stay and work on the farm for a while.  Then we’ll be going to Homes of Hope in Fiji’s capital city, Suva, for a few days.  (Homes of Hope is a home where women coming out of sex trafficking can find healing and a new life.  My friend was there for a while.  You can check out their website.)  During these upcoming times, I won’t have internet access, so you might not hear from me until just before I return. 

 

If you’ve been reading these, I hope you’ve been blessed by these updates.  It means a lot to me to know that I have people thinking about me and praying for me at home.  Thank you!  God has allowed me some amazing experiences and lessons here, and I’m excited for more in the next two weeks.      

I love you all, and I look forward to seeing you (whether it be sooner or later), 

Brittany 

Thank You, Nishrun

A part of my adventure today:  

     The windowless bus rumbles off again after its brief stop, and I take a quick survey of the situation.  Now I’m the only girl on board.  I’m also the only white person on board and half a foot taller than all the other passengers.  I guess that makes me the sore thumb.   

     That quick glance over my shoulder didn’t go unnoticed.  “Bula!” travels up the bus from somewhere behind me.  I turn around again.

     A young Fijian guy in a rugby jersey greets me with a huge smile, eager to make contact.  I stare blankly at him for a moment.  Sometimes I interact strangely with men.  

“Bula,” he makes another attempt, as cheerful as the first.

“Good morning.”  

Suddenly he’s in the seat behind me.  

“So, what are you doing on the bus today?”

“Visiting my friend.”  

“Ah.  Where does your friend live?”

“Near the primary school.”

“Ah.  So you’ve been on this bus before?”  

“Yes.”

“Ah.  Well...where are you from?”  

“America.”

“Ah.  Well...do you like Fiji?” 

“Yes, I like Fiji very much.”  

     We continue on like this, a little painfully (probably because I can be so painfully awkward), for a few more minutes when the bus halts at the primary school.  

     “Well...goodbye.”  I give the bus driver my dollar and jump out onto the road as the bus rattles onward, kicking clouds of brown dust up to the blue June sky.  

     All around are rolling sugar cane fields.  The silvery white tufts on top of the cane show that it’s harvest time and sway in the hot morning breeze, covering the land like feathers on a hen’s back.  The cane frames the entrance to my friend’s little road, what one might call a driveway.  

     As I’m walking up her hill, she comes rushing down.  Her long black braid flips back and forth as she hurries toward me, looking concerned and apologetic.  

     “Brittany - I’m so sorry I’m late!  I was just washing the dishes from breakfast and suddenly I saw the bus passing by!  Are you alright?  Ohhh, I’m so glad to see you!”  We finally reach each other and she gives me a huge hug.  

     I sit my backpack down on her living room floor and pull out a plastic grocery bag with several pairs of little shoes, pink and white velcro sandals, light-up sandals, blue and green flip-flops, all for a little girl.  Three little babies are crawling around, fussing, while a chicken pecks through to the kitchen then out the back door on the other side of the little tin house.  “Oh, these are perfect!  Aunty Laura is always such a blessing to us.  I thank God for her.”

     She pulls the tiny blue and green flip flops from the bag and then stows the rest neatly beside her family’s one bed.  “I’ll just quickly go wash these and then we can take them to the school for Nishrun, if you like.” 

     Mulomulo Muslim Primary School is a neat white building with a forest green tin roof, about the size of half a football field.  Each room has an open doorway with the title painted overhead in green.  Class 1, Class 2, Class 3, Urdu-Arabic, Kindergarten, Office.  Students peek out at us excitedly - boys in dark green collared shirts, girls in clean white headscarves - all smiling shyly through the slatted open windows.  We’re headed for the kindergarten.  The children inside perk up when they see us, and my friend quietly places the flip-flops outside the door.  The teacher inside takes notice, which isn’t hard with all her kids acting up, and invites us inside to sit.  

     Nishrun spots us immediately, and her face breaks into a smile.  She wears a dark green kurta and pants, her dark hair tied into two neat little pigtails.  A small white bandage is wrapped tightly around her tiny left foot, covering a wound from walking to school without shoes.      

     My friend talks with the teacher, a stately looking woman dressed from head to toe in black, about her little sister’s school progress.  So far, she’s behind by ten letters of the alphabet and all the other kids have stolen all her school supplies.  I can tell from the teacher’s posture and voice that she cares about her students, though I can’t understand her Hindi.  Later, on our walk back to the house, my friend will tell me that my suspicions are confirmed; the teacher really is very nice and wants Nishrun to learn.  “I need to work with her every day now,” my friend will say.  

     Now, though, 6-year-old Nishrun waits patiently, trying to stand straight and still while her progress is discussed.  When they finish, she hugs and kisses me.  “Thank you, aunty,” she whispers in my ear, then hugs and kisses her sister and hurries back to her seat on the mat. 

    No, thank you, Nishrun.  Thank you, Jesus, for this honor.    

[I wish I had a picture of Nishrun to share with you all, but I don't.  Instead I'll share this picture of Fiji's "Sleeping Giant."  Can you see him?]

Bathroom Rhymes::Toilet Paper Poetry

So...today I've not been feeling so great.  You'll probably be able to guess what's ailing me from the content below.  Maybe it was delirious fever, but it seemed like a good time for poetry.  I hope you enjoy it, particularly the Apex kids.  ;)

Vinegar tea, vinegar tea
Oh, how I'd love some vinegar tea
You may find it slightly smelly,
but when your bowels have turned to jelly
and your toilet's growing tired,
you'll see why I'm inspired - vinegar tea!

If, deep in India's jungle,
your intestines are a-jumble,
If on the coast of Fiji
and you're feeling fairly queasy,
I've got a fine solution
for your excrement dilution - vinegar tea!

Yes, gastroenteritis,
it really tries to fight us,
sends us to the bathroom more than we
have time for, are prepared for,
that's why I thank the Lord for
that sublime little cocktail - vinegar tea!

A Very Special Love

     Today, I visited my first village in Fiji.  Sitara (another "intern") and I climbed onto a bus and headed out into the countryside.  The bus rattled along progressively deteriorating roads and crossed a precarious bridge, finally stopping beside a tiny primary school, the beginning of the community that was our destination.  We got off the bus and started walking up the dirt road where we were greeted by a smiling 20-year-old girl.  She hugged us warmly and walked us up another dirt road to her home. 

   

      She and her whole family live in small house around the size of my living room and dining room combined.  The walls are made of clay/plaster and the roof is sheets of tin that leak like crazy when it rains.  Her mother, stepfather, five siblings, herself, and her baby son are all stuffed in this little abode. Her stepfather is a sugarcane cutter, and she and her mother have their hands full with a household of kids.  Sometimes they go hungry.  And yet, her hospitality to us today was overwhelming.

     We sat on a little mat outside while she told me her story.  A number of very painful and destructive things have happened to her, which I shouldn't share for her security.  She tells me all this calmly, twirling a blade of grass in her fingers.  She smiles at the end of her story, and I can see her joy.  After such profound pain and abuse, she came to know Christ and returned home, with her baby.

     Now they both live with her mother and abusive stepfather.  Those in her community condemn her for her past and consider her crazy for her new bold faith.  She tries every day, she said, to serve her family and show them the love of Christ, how her life has changed.  "Yesterday, my horoscope came across the radio," she told us.  "It said, 'You will receive very special love from your life partner today.'  I looked around me:  no life partner, only screaming babies.  And later, my mom yelled at me and went to bed angry.  I thought, 'Oh, this must be the very special love my horoscope was talking about,'" she joked with a little laugh.  "But I know that God loves me, and that is all I need."  

     She shines so brightly.  I want them to see that I have changed, she said.  "Christ came to us, and though people hated Him, He still showed them love and their lives were changed.  How am I any different if I only hate those who hate me?," she explained as we walked by a house where a girl gave her a strange, patronizing glance.  "If I love them instead, maybe their hearts will be changed."         

         

[The countryside near the village.]

[A delicious lunch.]

And, for your viewing pleasure, the video below was taken while I was working on this blog.  :)

I thank God for all I'm learning here each day. 
Love you all, 
Brittany