Amy Medina

except the Traffic

On December 22, 2012

I recently saw this t-shirt:

Oh yes. That is my life as a resident of Dar, but even more so as an adoptive mama.

A bit of relief has been felt in this household in the past few weeks, as we have acquired two new passports:

If you could only understand what goes into procuring these precious little books of paper. Bringing home Lily’s Tanzanian passport turned into a much bigger undertaking than expected, or necessary. But such is life.

Last week I realized that in order to track down this passport, I would need to go to the immigration headquarters building in downtown Dar es Salaam. I had only been there once, and my perception of it was that it was far, far away. Never never land. Like, the kind of errand that would take me the better part of an entire day to complete. Needless to say, I was not looking forward to it.

I also did not remember how to get there. Gil told me to look it up on Google Maps.

“You can do that here?” I said. I was incredulous. I didn’t believe him. But he was right.

I didn’t know a lot of those streets even had names. But my main shock in seeing these directions is that it told me that it is only 25 kilometers (15 miles) from our house to Kurasini.

15 miles? 15 miles! Like, if I was in America, I could jump on the freeway and be there in 20 minutes? Like I said, my perception was that this place was in Never Never Land.

My second shock came from Google Map’s estimation of how long it would take to get there: 34 minutes.

At this, I had myself a good long laugh. Obviously, that little satellite up there, looking down on good ol’ Dar es Salaam, has no idea that 5 million people live in this city. 5 million people on roads that could handle about 250,000, give or take a few.

34 minutes. Ha ha HA.

So when I left for the trip, I set my clock. 90 minutes later, I arrived. 90 minutes for 15 miles. No wonder I thought it was so far away. And it took at least that long to get back home.

But at least, we are now a 7-passport family. Can’t wait until we are an 8-passport family, when Lily has her U.S. passport. The day that I am done acquiring passports will be a Day of Celebration. You will be invited. But it will take you at least two hours to get to our house from the airport. (Google Maps: 17 miles, 46 minutes)

Faces

By Amy Medina

On December 16, 2012

In Poverty

Whenever you drive into downtown Dar and stop at a major intersection, little boys run up to your car. They are about 10 or 12 years old, and hold a jug full of soapy water and a piece of a broken windshield wiper. As soon as your car stops, they splash water on your windshield, “wash” the window in about 10 seconds, and then hold out their hands to be paid.

I used to get annoyed at these boys. I really didn’t need my window washed two or three times in a half hour (once at each intersection), and I didn’t like that they assumed I even wanted my window washed. I also didn’t like that I am always targeted because I am white.

These boys are most likely all street boys. Runaways from abusive homes, orphans, or cast out for one reason or another, and now literally living on the street. Which is the life that very likely my Josiah could have been living, had circumstances turned out differently for him. And so, a couple of years ago, when one of these boys tried to wash my windshield, all of a sudden, I saw Josiah’s face there instead.

And I started to cry. And instead of shrugging him away, I paid him. Now I do every time.

Like every other American (and much of the world), I have been thinking and praying and mourning over the terrible tragedy of 20 lost little lives in Connecticut. But what has struck me about the situation and how it is being presented is that this tragedy is somehow unusual for our world.

Did you know that in the past couple of weeks, 700,000 refugees have fled Congo? That they are fleeing a militia that has been bombing and burning down their villages, raping and shooting indiscriminately? Ironically, they are fleeing into Rwanda, country where only 10 years ago, the majority tribe massacred one million of their fellow countrymen/women/children, neighbor against neighbor, and usually with machetes?

Did you know that often in some African countries, children suffer a fate far worse than being gunned down by a crazy person; instead they are handed a gun, forced to murder their own parents, and then conscripted into an army to kill their own neighbors and friends?

The United States will corporately mourn those 20 little lives lost on Friday, and rightly so. But I can’t help but ask, why are those little lives so much more valuable than the ones over here? Why do people care so much about this tragedy, and barely cast a glance at Congo? Why is anyone surprised that such an event would occur, when it has been happening in the rest of the world since Cain and Abel?

And I’m guessing it’s because that people see their own children, or themselves, in the faces of those children from Connecticut. They can imagine what it would be like to send their own little ones off to school, only to never see them again. But they can’t imagine a crazed, drug-induced militia entering their neighborhood, raping, burning, and shooting their small children, ripping open their pregnant women before handing their 10-year-old a gun and telling him to shoot his mother or die himself.

The American children have names and faces. The African children don’t.

Adopting three Tanzanian children has broken my heart for other African children in ways that I never imagined, even after growing up here. I see children here suffering and I see my children’s faces instead. I think about my children starving, alone, frightened, separated from their families by tragedy, fighting in wars. Or even just living on the street, trying to make enough money for a meal by washing car windows.

So yes, mourn this tragedy, America. See your children’s faces in the newscasts and hug your own children tighter today. But don’t forget the millions of children and families who endure even worse things every day. Adopt a child. Sponsor a child. Send money to churches in Rwanda who are helping the Congolese.

And remember that we’re not celebrating Christmas because of the warm fuzzies and fun and sugar plums. We celebrate Christmas because our world is desperately, horrifically, tragically broken and our only hope is in Jesus Christ.

A thrill of hope; a weary world rejoices. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

English Lesson

By Amy Medina

On December 12, 2012

In Other

I remember the first time I heard the term gobsmacked. I was in a HOPAC staff meeting a number of years ago, with a British principal, and when he said it, all the Americans just stared at him. What did you say?

It’s rather amusing, working in an enviroment with Brits and Scots and Irish. We all speak English, but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. The Revolutionary War did more than just make two separate countries; it also created two separate vocabularies. And even in a school environment, sometimes we have difficulty communicating. Until you get used to it, there are a lot of blank stares.

Some examples:

Invigilate = proctor

Rubber = eraser

Full stop = period

Penultimate week = week before the last

Fortnight = two weeks

Squared paper = graph paper

Mark exams = grade tests

Dust bin = trash can

Maths = math

File = binder

And so on.

Then there’s food:

Aubergine = eggplant

Biscuit = cookie

Sweets = candy

Pudding = dessert

Crisps = chips

Chips = French Fries (which they also like to stick between two pieces of bread with mayo and call a sandwich)

I could go on. There’s more….oh, there’s so much more.

This leads to some rather hilarious conversations. For example, last week I was with some friends and we were discussing how the British say bum pack when the Americans would say fanny pack. The reason for this is because the British find the word fanny to be extraordinarily crude. (Very sorry to the Brits reading this post and forced to see this word in print.) The laughter that ensued from this conversation (which included both Americans and Brits) was jolly, indeed.

Another example:

When Americans hear the word pantomime, they think of this:

But when Brits hear the word pantomime, they think of this:

A British pantomime is always a humorous twist on a fairy tale, the lead characters are always played by the opposite gender, and it is always performed at Christmastime. There is most definitely talking (and singing) involved, and the audience always participates by booing and hissing and cheering at appropriate times. It is a important British tradition and the local theatre in Dar always puts on one, every December.

And yes, that is Doug B., for those of you who know him.