Saturday, October 26, 2013

A Month in Manila: Week TWO – Birthing Clinic and Around the Town

Monday, September 30 – Sunday, October 6


Monday:   Instead of going to school with Jacque, I went with Daisy to the Birthing Clinic.  Daisy is also a volunteer/missionary, and she’s been in the Philippines for 6 years now, working most the time at the Birthing Clinic.  The clinic provides prenatal check-ups, vitamins, well-baby check-ups, and immunizations --- all for FREE.  It is located in the middle of a poor neighborhood, and most of its patients are women who otherwise would not have health care during and after their pregnancies.  The clinic is not yet licensed to actually deliver babies, but two of its nurses are midwives and they go to patients’ houses whenever they get a phone call or text saying that a woman is in labor.  The majority of babies are born in the home, as hospitals are too expensive.  It was cool to see this clinic and how it operates.  It receives so much free stuff – like boxes of baby clothes and vitamins – that they almost don’t even know what to do with it all!  Prenatal and baby care occurs in the morning, and dental care is offered in the afternoon.  And, all day long is school.  Preschool-grade 8 is happening in the upstairs rooms, Monday-Friday.  The kids wear the cutest blue bottom, yellow top, plaid tie uniforms; receive books and supplies; and eat lunch – all for FREE. 

Daisy explained that if they would charge tuition, most of these kids wouldn’t be going to school at all.   I have no doubt that this is probably true.  In fact, this is very similar to the education system in Burkina; however, most schools in Burkina did charge tuition, and most kids still went to school.  Of course there were children who didn’t get to attend school for various reasons (too expensive, girls needed to stay home and take care of the house, etc.), and this was always sad.  But at the same time, there isn’t room for everyone to go to school anyways.  Maybe in a few years, but right now, Burkinabe schools are already bursting at the seams.  Plus, if everything is free, how are you going to pay the teachers and provide for the most basic of materials, like chalk for the chalkboard?   This is both the beauty and the downfall of mission work.  In short, everything is free and wonderful while it lasts, but it’s possibly not very maintainable in the long run. 

Beauties:  Everything is generally provided at no cost (schooling, food, health care, clothes, medicine), allowing anyone in need to be helped.  And all of this is being made possible by outside support.  Like by Americans who want to make a difference and do God’s work by helping the poor have a better quality of life, and can afford to give 20, 50, maybe even a couple hundred dollars a month to a church and/or mission, and by giving financially, they now feel pretty dang good about themselves (increased self-esteem, happiness levels, philanthropic outlook towards life).  Thus the missions have the resources to pay for everything, including the local nurses and teachers who are working at the missions --- the nurses/teachers are very rarely volunteers:  they need to be qualified (duh), locals (so they can speak the language), and paid a salary (they gotta feed their own families somehow).   So, the beauty of it all is that anyone in need can receive, because no fees are charged for anything.

Downfalls:  However, while all this (see above) is wonderful, it also has drawbacks:  
1) It’s probably not sustainable:  if the mission leaves, who’s going to continue providing everything?  No one.   That’s who.  Not the government.  Not the local community who used its resources.  Not the people who worked and/or volunteered there.  Personne.   It’s finished.  Au revoir, mission care.
2) People aren’t required to take responsibility for their own lives.  For example:  a family might think, “Well, we have 8 kids, can hardly afford to feed them as is, husband doesn’t have a job and just wastes the few coins the kids get from begging each day by betting on cock fights each afternoon; but hey, there’s this mission here and they’ll give us food and clothes, so we’ll be alright.  No worries.  We’ll be okay.  In fact, kid number 9 is on the way.  Good thing the mission offers free check-ups and the midwife will come help deliver the baby since we can’t afford to go to the hospital….”  Of course I realize that very few people in this world, even those who are struggling to put food on the table, just sit back, relax, and completely rely on a mission or handouts for their basic needs.  Nor is it entirely fair to say that a woman (along with her man, of course) has complete control over the number of kids she (they) bring(s) into this world, whether or not they can provide for them.  (Although I’m betting that if food wasn’t so readily available, they’d figure out ways to not have so many kids: food = population growth.  In any living species.  Humans included.  Fact.)  But at the same time, if your basic needs are being met, what else is there to search for, to provide for the family?  If you know food will be coming at least once a day and you already have clothes on your back, why not spend your day socializing, watching cock fights, napping, making more children…  I hate to say it like this, but if there’s anything I’ve learned from my time in third-world countries, it’s that people know how to work the system.  (Hey, I think Americans are pretty good at working the system, too.  Right?)
3) It forces western culture and thinking onto the people (whether intentional or not) instead of working from within their culture, traditions, and beliefs.  “Come to my bible study, and after I’ll give you a bowl of food to eat.”  “Uh, my family is Muslim….but we are hungry….alright, I suppose we’ll become Christians if being Christian means we get a free meal every Sunday.”    Also, sometimes this whole Point Number Three of mine can be related to capitalism and money-making matters (again, whether intentional or not).  Consider this.  Throughout the thousands of centuries of human existence, I’m betting people in Burkina Faso never used to use Johnson’s baby shampoo and lotion on their infants.  But then one day in somewhat recent history, a big box of it came as a handout for a local CRS (Catholic Relief Services) Mission and all the nurses told the women that this soap was better for babies than the soaps and oils they had been using for thousands of years (which is maybe true, but probably not.  And even if it is “better,” there didn’t seem to be anything harmful with their traditional baby lotions and soaps…).  It became a status symbol to use “western baby products” because they are (of course) “better” and before you knew it (after give or take a few decades), no one in the village even remembered what “traditional” soaps and oils they used to make for babies, how they were made, what they symbolized, etc.   A loss of culture.  All because “our” western ways were forced onto and on top of theirs, with us not stopping for a moment to consider their own traditions and way of life.  Not everyone needs to use the same soap, guys.  There is an abundance of unique ways to achieve similar results.  If using the oils from the leaves of a certain local tree has worked well for babies for thousands of years, and it’s FREE to make because the tree grows in your courtyard, why not use that?  Johnson’s baby oil has to be imported and costs money.  I’ll take the free and local, thank you.  We should let others do that too.  Western ideas and products are (more often than not) not the best in existence, and we westerners don’t always have all the answers.  Even if we think we do.

Anywho, like I said, mission ministries, as well as all humanitarian and development work throughout the world, have both their drawbacks and their blessings, and I’ll leave it at that for now.  This is a topic I could discuss in much further detail, maybe even write a thesis or something on it, but I’ll not get into it here.  Maybe in another post…

So back to Monday’s events.  Went to the birthing clinic with Daisy, mainly just sat there and observed; also held some cute babies.  Later that afternoon I made a pasta salad in Jacque’s apartment for the International potluck being held that evening, and then walked to Faith Academy (it’s about half a mile away) with the salad as well as a change of clothes in case I got really gross and sweaty during the uphill walk ( ½ mile uphill + muggy = really sweaty).  For some reason, I couldn’t seem to figure out how to get to Faith, though it’s a pretty simple route and you can see the buildings on the hill – I just couldn’t find the correct road to turn on.  I walked and walked, until I realized that, yup, I had definitely gone way too far and should have turned on one of those paths that I had passed.  To complicate matters further, the sky was getting dark and thunder was rumbling.  I turned on one path, but after a few minutes I discovered that it only led to a shack and a bunch of banana trees.  Down I went to the main road again, and continued back until the next path.  Fortunately, this one seemed correct – the houses sparked my memory.  I reached a fork in the path where I had to decide whether to go left or right.  Right it was.  It was all good, until I realized I was now going downhill.  No, no, no.  I’m supposed to be going uphill.  Why did this path stop being paved and change directions?  This isn’t right.  A few Filipinos working in the banana tree grove near me just stared.  I’m sure it was puzzling to see a white person walk by, headed to literally nowhere, and then turn around and retrace my steps a few minutes later.  Also, at that moment a huge bolt of lightning flashed and the thunder cracked.  It was as if the cloud and bolt were right above me.  I’m surprised I wasn’t struck by lightning; it seemed so close and was deafeningly loud.  And of course, that’s just my luck that I would be lost in a downpour, carrying a pasta salad to a potluck, with a cellphone that didn’t have any credit so I couldn’t have made a call, even if I would’ve needed to….   I went back to the fork and went left this time.  Ah yes, this looks familiar.  I thought that if I’d walk a lil faster, maybe even run, I just might beat the rain, so I started doing a weird walk/skip sorta thing, all with the big tubberware of pasta salad.  Well, it might have taken me about an hour (instead of 10 minutes) but I eventually found myself in Jacque’s classroom.  Jacque: “Where were ya?  I was startin’ to think that maybe you’d gotten lost.”  “No, I was fine.  No problems at all,” I lied. 

I went to change my clothes, but realized I was still carrying the stupid container of pasta salad, so I disposed of it in the band room office, next to my clarinet and flute that had been claiming a spot on the counter the whole past week, as if I was actually a real teacher at Faith.  Changed my clothes to look more “professional” (ha, black skinny jeans and a striped t-shirt, yeah, totally professional indeed), and went back to Jacque to find out the details of the event:  Where on campus?  What time?  What should I do with the pasta until then?  About 45 minutes later we went back down to the band room to get my clarinet and the salad, only to discover that the office was now locked.  Shoot, the 6th grade band was probably already starting, and the event was on the other side of campus, so even if we went and asked the teacher to open the office back up, it’d take a while – how were we going to rescue my clarinet and the tubberware of food in time?  “Well, sometimes, when I worked down here last year, I would see kids climbing through the window to get into the office….”  Jacque suggested.   (The office was set up so that the instrument storage area was behind it, with a sliding window about 12 inches tall and 4 feet off the ground, running along most the back wall of the office/storage area.)  So we slid open the window, I hoisted myself up, swung my legs inside, and placed my feet on the counter (I couldn’t simply jump straight down due to a drum set being right under the window).  Voila!  I was in!  I got my clarinet and the salad, and then started to pass it through the window to Jacque, while asking, “Ok, now will getting back out of the window go as smoothly as getting in?”  “Well, since you are inside the office now, I would think you could just use to door and skip the climbing through the window.”  Oh.  Good point.

We hustled back to the elementary gym and put the pasta salad on one of the huge lines of tables for the potluck.  There were 4 separate lines, each being probably 5 tables long.  There were almost certainly over 500 dishes of food present, representing delicious cuisines from around the world, hence the name “International Potluck.”  Needless to say, I ate a lot and it was all wonderful.  Curry chicken, sushi, Korean rice noodles, sweet rice cakes, Swedish meatballs, cheesy potatoes, Tex-Mex chili, cupcakes.  Yes, it truly was an international feast.

The concert went well, with Jacque and I being “guest performers” for the middle school’s performance of “Just a Closer Walk With Thee” and afterwards I chatted with a bunch of people I didn’t know.  Some had lived in Africa before, and so they wanted to know where, exactly, was Burkina Faso?  Naturally, they had never heard of it.  No one ever has heard of Burkina Faso.  Fact.  ***Tangent story:  So in the Peace Corps transit house in Ouaga, there’s a bulletin board and people put up stupid stuff all the time.  “Missing: my left black flip-flop, sometime after we went out dancing last night. Please return if found.”  “Check out this guy.  Sexy defined.” – a cartoon picture of a specific volunteer doing something stupid.  Also included on this magical board is a google map of West Africa, printed out from the internet.  All of the countries are labeled, including their capitals and sometimes another big city or two.  Except for Burkina Faso.  Sure, the country itself is there.  But no name or capital is included.   It’s just a blank chunk of land.  On this print out, someone had written,“Burkina Faso: not yet important enough to be included on the map.  Not even the internet knows it exists.  But maybe someday, Burkina, maybe someday.”  So yeah, poor Burkina.  It can hardly even get itself on the map. 

One missionary family at Faith had actually lived in Ouagadougou for a year, and so I spoke with them for quite a while.  Although, my highlight was speaking to the kids of this family – we spoke in French!  (The parents had never really learned French or local languages that well, but the kids had picked up on the French.)  It was nice to use my French again.  It’d only been about a week or so since leaving Burkina, but I already felt like my French was leaving my head.  All the other kids that passed us by were like, “Whoa!!!!  You two are speaking a different language!”  Although the kids are pretty accustomed to being (or knowing people who are) multi-lingual, it is more often than not the Asian kids who are speaking strange tongues.  Not the American kids.  And especially not a language that’s not Tagalog or maybe Chinese.  To hear two white people speaking French was probably pretty weird for everyone. 



Tuesday:    I was a bum and stayed in Jacque’s apartment all day.   Typing this stuff.  I’ve written a lot so far.  Too much, probably.  In Microsoft Word, I’m currently at 18 pages, single-spaced, size 11 font.  That’s a lot of writing.  And I have so much left yet.  Not to mention my final months of Burkina-life stories.  Must type faster.  Ouch, hand cramp.  Must be time for a dip in the pool!


Wednesday:    Today I went to the birthing clinic with Daisy again.  Since I was now somewhat familiar with what was going on, they asked me to help.  “Sure.  What can I do?”   And so that’s how I found myself at a table, taking the blood-pressures of expecting women before they moved on to weight, temperature, and then the actual prenatal exam.   Since I had worked at a nursing home for, gosh, over 7 years!, up until I left for Peace Corps, I had no problem doing blood pressures all morning.  I may be an expert.   Well, up until the one lady whose pressure I couldn’t read.  I tried 3 times, but couldn’t find it or hear it or visually see it on the gage.  So I asked her to let me try her other arm, and her friend who spoke English asked me, “Why?  What’s wrong.”  “No, everything’s fine.  I just can’t seem to hear it very well, so I want to try and see if this arm is louder.”  I don’t know what was wrong, but even the other arm proved to be near impossible.  I adjusted the cuff, checked the gage, turned the stethoscope on and off, and tried a couple times.  I was beginning to panic.  How could this woman not have a blood pressure reading?  What am I doing wrong?  I finally was able to trace it, just slightly, and it was like 85/75.  And really faint.  So weird.  I asked one of the real nurses to check it out, and everything ended up being fine.  But it was still strange.

As I took the blood pressures, I had to record the measure in the women’s flies.  This also gave me the chance to look at their names, current ages, and past history: how many kids they’ve had, how many have died, number of “husbands,” etc.  A lot of the women were teenagers, 18 or 19 years-old.  But also far too many were only 15 or 16.  And I even came across one fragile looking woman whose chart said she was 44-years-old!  44!  And this was her 12th pregnancy.  Wow.  I don’t know how they do it.

At noon, the prenatal exams were done for the day, and so Daisy took me to a nearby street restaurant lady so I could try some traditional and local food.  Rice with various sauces.  Deep fried, sugar-coated banana-plantain things on a stick.  Kwek-kwek (said like “quick-quick”), which is a hard-boiled egg inside a fried donut/bread coatingAnd various fish and squid balls, also deep-fried, served with a spicy-sweet vinegar dipping sauce.  SO good.  All of it.  And the total cost for both me and Daisy to have a smorgasbord was like 120 pesos, or 3 measly US dollars.  We were walking back to the clinic to eat, when Daisy called out to a teenage boy wandering on the street.  “Noel!  What are you doing here?  Don’t you have school?”  Daisy brought 15-year-old Noel into the clinic, sat him down, gave him some of our food, and tried to get him to tell her why he was wandering the street, why he wasn’t at school or, at the very least, in his home (orphanage) if he wasn’t feeling well.  Basically, he had run away…. or something.  He had some money in his pocket, and his school ID, but that was it.  After we ate, Daisy drove Noel back to his children’s home.  When we walked through the door, the staff (social workers) were completely surprised to see Noel.  They didn’t know that he wasn’t in school that day, and had no idea he had spent the morning just wandering around and entertaining himself doing who knows what.  “Thanks for find him!” they said.  I then got a tour of the home, a place for 0-16 year-olds.  The baby room had 4 different babies under 12 months in it, including one little angel who was only 6 days old.  He had been given up by his mom immediately upon birth.  There was a tree house and swing set outside, and a big dining area with over 10 small tables (and a few normal sized ones), so all the kids could eat meals together as a big family with the staff.  Like Josie’s Angels’ Zone, the children’s home had a nice environment and provided kids from abusive families (or no families) to have a safe place to live.

I got dropped off at Faith Academy, and as soon as school was out around 2:30pm, Jacque and I headed down to one of the girls’ dorms on campus.  It was Jacque’s night to dorm sit.  Each dorm has a set of dorm parents, literally a married couple who lives in the huge house and is there every day, acting as parents for the 16 residents of the dorm.  But naturally, dorm parents need a night out of the house once a week, so they can do errands and have some private time with their spouse and/or children.  So one night a week, another Faith teacher “babysits” the dorm from 3-9pm.  And tonight was Jacque’s night.  It was pretty chill.  After all, these are teenage girls, usually at least 16-years-old, who are all very independent.  They have sports and other after school activities, homework, and countless other things to do.  It’s not like we had to entertain them, or really do anything.  Just be there.  In case there was a problem or someone wanted advice or homework help.  So I took a nap in the afternoon, and read my book.  Then we ate supper with the girls --- delicious Korean food: kimbap, along with rice and various vegetables and other toppings, like spicy meat and fried egg.  I spent the evening playing the piano in the family room, and one girl even gave me her sheet music to play, since she heard me fuddling around with Canon in D and Fur Elise by heart, but with lots of mistakes and places where I got stuck and couldn’t remember what came next. 

Jacque and I went straight to bed when the dorm’s “dad” dropped us off at Jacque’s apartment around 9:30pm.  It had been such a tough night, eating Korean food and playing piano and chatting with teenagers.  Rough life.



Thursday:    Again, I found myself at the birthing clinic for the morning.  However, because one of the two main nurses was sick, I was promoted to prenatal-exam giver.   (Disclaimer:  I am not a medical professional.   I have no training in anything whatsoever related to pregnancy. I'm not even sure I actually know how babies come about.... But apparently that didn’t stop the clinic from deeming me “qualified” to examine women with very big bellies….  I repeat:  I am NOT a medical professional.)

Nurse:  You want to help?
Me:  Sure, what can I do today?
Nurse:  Do you know how to determine the baby’s position in the mother’s womb?
Me:  Uh….?
Nurse:  Come here.  Put your hands here.  Push, like this.  This baby hasn’t turned yet.  Its head is here.  Now you do it.
Me:  Uhhhh…  (I get up from my chair and, hesitatingly, inch closer to the exam table.)
Nurse:  Yes.  You try.  ***She grabs my hands and puts them on the expectant mother’s belly.***
Me:  ……uh?.....um….
Nurse:  You feel it?  Yes, push harder.  You won’t hurt her or the baby.  Feel that?  This is the baby’s butt.  Up there is the head.  All to the left side.  We write that down.   Now we’re going to find the baby’s heart rate.  Use this.  Put some lubricant on the belly first.
Me:  …ok….like this?.....this is ok?  ***a few seconds pass, but I still don’t hear anything in the monitor, so then the nurse takes over***
Nurse:  Yes, sometimes it’s difficult.  Oh, there!  You hear it!?!
***Thud-thud.  Thud-thud.  Thud-thud.***
Nurse:  Good, call in the next woman.  You’ll do her by yourself.

Within a few minute crash course, I had learned how to feel for a baby’s position, measure the mother’s belly growth, determine the anticipated date of birth and the approximate date of conception, find the baby’s heartbeat, and more.  Well, okay, I hadn’t really learned.  I literally had just observed and simultaneously sorta helped with one woman.  ONE.   Oh man, I am so not qualified to do this.  From starting a library and “coffee shop” and preschool in Burkina, to giving prenatal check-ups in Manila, wow, I don’t know why people trust me as much as they do.  They really shouldn’t.  I am not a professional!!!????

Before I could even argue no, or that maybe it’d be better if my job was just to measure the belly’s circumference (I couldn’t screw that up too badly, right?), or maybe, better yet, I go do blood pressures and the rest of the vitals, and the other volunteer lady who is there EVERY day and actually speaks Tagalog comes in and does this feeling-for-the-baby thing.  But nope, too late.  The next lady was already plopped down on the other exam table, waiting for me.  So I proceeded to act like I knew what I was doing and wasn’t scared to death…and imitated the nurse’s questions and steps.

Me:  Good morning, ma’am.  How are you?
Lady:  I am fine.  Thank you ma’am.
Me:  Any pain?  Problems?
Lady:  No.  I am fine.
Me:  Everything is okay?
Lady:  Yes.
Me:  You’ve been eating well every day and taking your vitamin?
Lady:  Yes.

The first few women’s exams were a little rough, but I managed…. I think.  (I hope I didn’t do too inaccurate off a job on those first couple of patients…. My apologies, ladies.)   I soon figured out how to actually press hard enough to find the baby and could recognize the difference between the head and butt.  Being able to locate the baby’s position led to being able to find the heart beat right away, and it was so rewarding to put the monitor up to the mother’s ear so she, too, could hear her baby’s heart beat!    One of the mothers I examined was deaf, which made it extremely hard to communicate, and also I felt sad that she could hear her own baby’s heart.  I smiled and nodded to help reassure her that, yes, we could definitely hear the little thud-thuds, while simultaneously tapping her wrist to the beat of her baby’s heart, so she could at least “feel” it. 

All the Filipina women probably thought I knew what I was doing.  And, to my surprise, everything went fine and I sorta felt like I knew what I was doing.  Well, except for the few times my measurements were a few centimeters smaller than the belly had been the previous week.  Whoops, better recheck that.  Oh, and that one lady when I couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat.  I searched and searched.  I wasn’t even really sure where the baby was.  I couldn’t seem to feel it anywhere, but I didn’t want to tell her that, and, in my defense, she wasn’t that far along yet, like 20 weeks or so.  I kept applying more lubricant, and covered the entire surface area of her slightly bulging belly.  Still no trace of a beat.  Uhhh……oh no, please don’t tell me I’ve discovered a miscarriage.   I should not be doing this.  I wasn’t sure what to tell the mother, but obviously she knew as well as I did that we weren’t hearing a heartbeat.  Finally I heard something.  Sorta.  It picked up a rating on the monitor, but it was much much much lower than all the other womens’ babies’ rates had been.  I wrote it down anyways, and then went to find the real nurse.  (It was just my luck that she had disappeared for about 20 minutes, right when I actually needed a real professional.)  The nurse came back, and tried to find the heart rate as well.  But same story.  No sound.  We tried for about 10 minutes.  The nurse pushed the mother’s belly in all directions, trying to feel for a little bump, or maybe to shift the baby out of hiding.  More lubricant.  More hand-pushing.  More lubricant!  All of a sudden we heard it!  Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud.  Oh thank God.  Yes, that’s definitely a heart beat.  Not very loud.  But it is one, and in a healthy range.  It turned out that the baby was positioned extremely high up and on the side, or at least, that’s where we could find the heart rate.    Or maybe the little tyke had just been swimming around and changing locations the entire time.  Who knows.  But at least it was there.

My morning at the clinic was such a great experience, and I learned so much!  It was awesome to have the privilege of working with pregnant women, especially in a manner that I would NEVER be allowed to do in America, unless I was a trained medical professional, of course.

Thursday evening found me at Kids’ Street Ministry again, and because it was my second time, several of the children ran up to me right away and even remembered my name.  (I also still had my braids in my hair, so I supposed that helped them to easily identify me.)  The previous week I had sang a few songs with some of the kids, and I was shocked that some of the kids STILL remembered the songs.  They were humming them and doing the actions and trying to show me that they wanted me to sing the song for them so they could do the actions.  I couldn’t believe they had remembered so well from last week!   Yet another cool moment.




During the night, while crashed on Jacque’s couch, I had the craziest dreams.  I was running to the top of a hill, but I had to run faster, and faster, because the lightning was trying to get me.  One of the bolts was just inches from striking me. 

In the morning, I noticed the floor next to the window was wet (it leaks) and so I asked Jacque if it had rained. 

Jacque:  Uh yeah.  Obviously.   Did you not hear the storm last night?
Me:  Storm?  No, I guess not.
Jacque:  HOW DID YOU SLEEP THROUGH THAT?
Me:  I dunno, I kinda thought it must’ve rained, but sometimes I can be a heavy sleeper ---
Jacque:  I don’t think there’s anyone in all of Manila who slept through that storm besides you!  Even the heavy sleepers.  That thunder and lightning was ridiculous.  I mean, one of those bolts must’ve struck down right on top of our apartment building.  It was seriously right on top of us.  How did you miss that?

Me:  Well, I mean, in my dream there was lighting….and it almost struck me….?

Sunday, October 13, 2013

A Month in Manila: Week ONE - FAITH & Outreach Ministries

A Month in Manila: Week ONE - FAITH & Outreach Ministries

 Tuesday, September 24 – Sunday, September 29

So while Jacque was teaching at school every day, what was I doing?  Well, I usually went with her to Faith, but I didn’t just sit in the back of her Bible classes all day every day.  Oh no.  I definitely found things to do.  And even if I didn’t have anything to do, there was really fast Internet, which allowed for efficient YouTube video watching and facebook stalking.  All in all, basically, I spent the week living the expat missionary life.

Tuesday:  Went to school, wandered around a bit to get better acquainted with the school layout, found the music practice rooms and played piano for the first time since I left America.   I was surprised at how fast my piano fingers came back (as well as just my general memory of how to play several different songs).  Fur Elise came out almost perfectly, and even Maple Leaf Rag started coming back.  I was in that practice room most the morning….  The afternoon found me chatting with some of the music teachers and watching the high school band rehearsal.  Once school was over, Jacque and I went back to her apartment and chatted all evening, getting caught up on hometown happenings and rumors, who’s married, who has kids, etc.  -- good ole Springfield, Minnesota!

Wednesday:  I spent the morning in the practice room again, playing my clarinet and flute, and a bunch of piano.  Wednesdays are “Chapel” so for about 30 minutes of the morning, everyone meets in the large Chapel, sings, and listens to a guest speaker reflect on the Bible.  The music was partially led by the middle school music team themselves.  It was cool to see 13-year-olds playing guitars and drums, leading the vocals, and more.  Once normal classes resumed, I helped the 6th grade band with their “small ensemble performances” and sat in on the 7-8th grade band’s rehearsal.  Wouldn’t you know it, they happened to be playing “Just a Closer Walk Thee” – like the exact same arrangement that Springfield’s band always performed every year at the Pops Concert!  I told Todd, the band teacher, that Jacque and I played this piece each spring during high school, and right away he said, “We have a concert next week.  You and Jacque should join us during this piece!!!”   So it then seemed that I was signed up for performing with the middle school band…  It was only noon, but I was requested in the elementary music room by Mark, the elementary music teacher, to help give clarinet lessons to 5th graders.  “Thank goodness you’re here.  I do not know how to play this instrument – I’m a vocalist!  The kids will really love having someone who actually can play the clarinet today!”  The little 5th graders were SO cute.  “Listen to me play Jingle Bells!”  “Miss Hauth, I can’t do it.  I just can’t.  I HAVE to puff my cheeks.”  After school, I went to Jacque’s bible study with her.  They had Pizza Hut pizza!!!  Like thick crust, extra cheesy, 4-meat with mushrooms and olives pizza.  Sure, there’s pizza in Burkina, but it’s Italian style (which is delicious) but not at all comparable to greasy American pizza.  We also drank Pepsi.   Pepsi!!!   I hadn’t had anything except Coke and Fanta (and the occasional Sprite) in Burkina….

Thursday:  This was a big day.  So again I was at school, but I spent the morning helping in the Middle School Learning Room (i.e. Special Education).  Since it was almost the end of the quarter, the kids had a lot of tests, and some of the students needed help test-taking.  For example:  reading the problems aloud to them, and sometimes helping them think through an answer if they got stuck.  I also got to accompany a 6th grade boy to his Science and Reading classes.  “Alright let’s focus.  Question number 2, name the 3 fossil fuels.  What do you think?”  “Whoa!  I think I figured it out!  I worked it out!  I know why they call black gold “black gold” – it’s simple, really!  You see, it’s made up of…..”  “Great….but what are you going to write for question number 2?”  Also in the Learning Room for the day was another volunteer, Philip Farris.  He’s my age, and he just got done teaching English in Korea this past year, and has now spent the last month traveling around the Philippines.  He’ll be going to Hawaii in a couple weeks to start a new job, but until then, he’s just killing time by volunteering at Faith.  He said that after traveling around so much and staying in hostels, he wanted to “rejoin” the real world, have his own bed/space, and do some volunteering, though he didn’t know where.  So he ends up randomly meeting someone at the airport who was also from Idaho like Phillip, etc. and this guy mentions Faith Academy, and he finds a place stay, and everything falls into place….    Since Philip has finished his tour of the Philippines, he had some good advice for me, as to what to do and where to go (or not).  He was very helpful, and he even gave me his Philippines Guidebook. 

Thursday evening, Jacque and I went with a group of people (including Philip and Mark who I now knew…sorta) to “Kids’ Street Ministry.”  We met early so we could grab supper at the mall together and socialize.  We had the equivalent of Filipino fast food – all you can eat rice and soup and iced tea, with a one-time serving of your choice of meat.  And for dessert, we went to DAIRY QUEEN.  Yes, DQ!!!  I got a banana split blizzard and it was amazing.   It was my first time being in a mall in 2.5 years, so I was a little overwhelmed and wasn’t exactly sure how to handle the insane number of people and bright lights and stores with items to buy EVERYWHERE I looked.  Coming from Burkina, where I would get excited over a lady selling beans on the street, really, a mall was too much.   Maybe next time I won’t walk around with a “deer-in-the-headlights” look on my face.   Anyways, so Kids’ Street Ministry.    Basically, every Thursday evening, people (including Faith volunteers and the young Filipino adults who run the program) go to inner-city Manila by one of the malls, and play with the neighborhood’s little kids for about an hour.  Then a bible story is read or acted out, some songs are sung, and every child receives a cup of beans to eat.  Many of the Filipinos involved in this ministry were on the streets, in this same neighborhood, themselves when they were growing up.  They were “rescued” and given a home in a boys’ shelter, and so now they’re giving back to their community.  The little kids just wanted to be held and given piggy-back rides.  At one point, I had a girl on my back, a boy in each arm, and yet another child pulling on my leg to get lifted up also.  There’s a good chance these kids’ parents are MIA, or at the very least, the dad is non-existent, and the mom works on the street or at an upstairs brothel…..

Besides the Filipino leaders and our van-full of people of Faith, there was a third party present: the World Race Team.  I’d never heard of this before, but it sounds pretty cool.  Young adults, ages 21-35 raise money (about $16,000 I think?) and get sponsors so that they can participate on a World Race team.  Teams are made up of about 40 individuals, which are then divided into small groups of 5-8 people.  The teams have training in the U.S. and then travel to 11 different countries in 11 months, volunteering at different Christian missions, orphanages, schools, etc.  Thus, at Kids’ Street Ministry that night, we had one of the small groups with us (not all 40 people on the team).  One of the World Race group members was even from Minnesota (St. Paul)!   It’s a small world….

Friday:  Another long day.  Yet again, I went to school with Jacque and we started out the morning with a mug of coffee from the teacher’s lounge, of course.  I checked my email – it’s so weird being able to check email every day; in fact, I’m almost “expected” to look at my email every day now, if not a few times throughout the day.  Gosh, is this how the real world operates?  Glued to computers and expecting responses the same day?  I don’t think I wanna return to that aspect of America.  I liked not having electricity or internet access, being able to use the excuse “I don’t have internet” on a regular basis, whether it was the truth or sorta a lie, just because I was lazy and didn’t want to deal with it at the moment, and so I’d reply a month later, and say “Sorry, I didn’t have internet until now….”  Hehehe.   Anyways, so I checked my email and I had a request from the high school office at Faith, asking me to sub for the Home Ec teacher that morning.  Sure.  Why not?  I got the keys to the Home Ec room, looked to see what the lesson plan was, and made copies of the worksheet that I was supposed to hand out.  The kids came in, with that all-too-expected look of shock and “Who are you?!” written on their faces, and we started class.  I let them ask me questions about Burkina and Peace Corps, since they knew I was the weird one from Africa with “dreads” in my hair who wears brightly patterned African clothes, and that was fun.  They had good questions and were amazed to hear that I lived without electricity and running water in my village.  Really guys, it’s not that hard.  If anything, that was the easiest thing to get used to…   Being able to actually sub that morning (as opposed to simply assisting teachers in their classrooms) was great, and once again, this was something that made me really excited to re-enter the American school system, even if “only” as a substitute teacher. 

In the evening, Jacque and I went to JAZ Home (Josie’s Angels’ Zone).  What is JAZ?  This is a home/shelter for 11-19 year-old girls (36 of them currently!) who have been abused, typically sexual abuse, and often from a family member.  JAZ left me speechless.  It’s one of those things you have to see – words will not do it justice.   I got to speak with Josie for a few minutes.  She’s 27-years-old, lives at the home 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, basically serving as the girls’ mom.   She started JAZ Home on her own a few years ago, after conducting weekly bible studies with the kids in this particular neighborhood, and having many of them confide in her about their home lives and the sexual abuse they suffered.  Before she knew it, there were donors and sponsors, and she was able to buy an ex-mission guest house to function as the JAZ Home.  Thus, the set-up was beyond perfect for her and the girls.  She has her own space, with a little kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom; but, the rest of the house (houses?) consists of at least 10 different decent-sized rooms (or “dorms”) for 4-6 girls in bunk beds, with closet space, and a bathroom/shower for each dorm.  There are a couple different kitchens, a huge family room, a study room and computer lab, pianos and guitars to play, an entertainment room with a large flatscreen TV (they can only watch TV on weekends), a large screened-in porch, and outside, a swimming pool and a basketball court.  Wow.  What a beautiful house.  The night view from the porch is awesome, as you can see the Manila skyscrapers, all lit up, and there are tons of trees and flowers in the backyard.  All the walls are covered with bright colors and an inspirational phrase or bible verse is painted onto one wall in each room.  There are 36 8x10 framed photos lining the main hallway (one photo for each girl who currently resides at the home), with the girl’s name posted under the photo.  All the girls go to school during the day (most of them on scholarships), but they don’t all go to the same school, and most of the girls participate in sports and other afterschool activities.  In fact, there’s a whole shelf full of basketball trophies that the girls have won when they compete in summer leagues as Team JAZ.  These girls are tough!  No wonder they win all the time… 

As if the environment itself wasn’t cool enough, my initial impression and observing their evening reflection was emotional enough to make anyone shed a tear.  When Jacque and I arrived, the girls were all seated in the family room, practically sitting on top of each other; girls crammed into every inch of couch space, girls all over the floor.  You couldn’t have walked through the room if you tried.  Everyone was singing at the top of their lungs, a couple girls were playing guitar, and another was holding up a large poster of the lyrics.  There are these cute fluffy little dogs being held in girls’ arms, and you’d swear they’re just stuffed animals or toys, until you actually see them move (or get thrown through the air across the room, to another girl who wants her turn at cuddling with a puppy).   As Jacque put it, “These puppies are probably the most loved and spoiled dogs in the world.  They have 36 girls who all want to play with them and give them table scraps.  No wonder they’re perfectly content getting tossed through the air….”  On the wall is hanging a huge hand-drawn poster that says “Happy 18th Birthday!” and balloons and streamers are strung from the ceiling.  We find out it’s one girl’s birthday (well that was sorta obvious), and the girl is sitting on the center couch, with a couple boys on either side of her, an older lady, and several kids under age 5 running around.  “Who’s that?”  I asked.  “Family,” Jacque said. 

After Happy Birthday was sung, my favorite part of the night happened.  I had no idea what to expect, and maybe that’s what made me even more sensitive and teary-eyed.  16 girls were called into the kitchen, and one by one they came out holding a real rose.  They handed the rose to the birthday girl, said something nice, and kissed her on the cheek.  This was all fine and dandy until Josie herself came out with her rose.  Her speech to the birthday girl was beautiful and everyone started tearing up.  But it wasn’t over yet.  Next was the birthday girl’s little sister, also a resident at JAZ.  I don’t know what was said, since it was in Tagalog, but both sisters were crying and hugging, and so everyone else cried too.   All the girls sang a blessing song.  Then the birthday girl presented her 18 red roses (one for each year of her life) to her mom, who’d been sitting on the couch with her the whole time, to say thank you for giving her the gift of life 18 years ago.  About 10 minutes of quiet dialogue, hugging, and hand-holding passed between the mom and daughter, with everyone else in the room being absolutely silent and simultaneously crying and smiling as they watched the love (and what I can only imagine was at least partially a forgiveness scene).   I just can’t even describe it.  So many emotions!  The mom, appearing old and worn-down, probably wearing her best outfit, missing a few teeth, looking so proud of her daughter, yet on her face you could tell she felt inadequate for not being able to protect and provide for her own child.  However, all the while, you can see how content she is to know that her daughter is in a much better place now, with the love of 36+ sisters and a couple “moms” who take care of them all, and with many more opportunities than she ever would have had, had she remained in their abusive home.  Even the teenage brothers were crying.  Everyone was crying.  It was a moment. 

Following the moment was more singing, cake and ice cream distribution, socializing, girls touching my hair (“Nice hair, mam!”), and a family photo of the birthday girl with her mom, the roses, and her 7 (or 8?) younger siblings.  No dad in the picture (both literally and metaphorically, ha), but that’s not surprising…

Yeah.  So JAZ Home was cool, to say the least.  It’s amazing what people can realize when they work together, pray, and give to those in need.  JAZ is almost entirely funded by donors, from paying the electricity to providing food for the girls to eat every day.  Wow.


Saturday:  Jacque and I slept in, then headed up to school.  Some high school students were sponsoring a 24-hour prayer vigil, and Jacque was the adult “chaperone” from 11am-2pm.  The short uphill walk to Faith was good…until I fell.  (I slipped on some mud on the road.)  And then I slipped (aka almost fell) a few minutes after that….and then I completely wiped out the third time and scraped up my right knee and my right foot.  “Jeez, why is this water so slippery?!?” I asked.  “Well, you see there’s a lot of bacteria and smog and who knows what else mixed in with that water, plus a layer of dust on the road….so in other words, you need to watch where you’re going,” Jacque informed me.  Urgh, now my knee was all bloody and my toe cut-up right where my flip-flop rubbed.  Falling three times?  Really?   Is this a sign?  God’s way of telling me something?

I spent most the day on the computer in her classroom, doing some research about sights to see in the Philippines and sending emails to people.  After Jacque was done with her portion of the prayer vigil, we took a trip to downtown Manila: the MegaMall.  We needed some groceries, not to mention I was still wearing crazy African clothes….it was time for me to acquire a more normal wardrobe.  Taking public transport in the Philippines is very different from the transport in Burkina, but it was adventure, nonetheless.   First we had to get on a trike, which is like a motorcycle with extra seating attached on the side.  Often 4-6 people, plus the driver, can fit onto one trike.  It’s not comfortable, but it’s cheap and gets you where you need to go.  After the trike, we waited for a white van to come by labeled “MegaMall.”  Simple enough.  A more common form of transport is the jeepneys, and they are really fun looking!  So many colors and pictures.  We even saw one jeepneys decorated in Minnesota Timberwolves posters.  But we weren’t taking the jeepneys today; we were taking a white van.  It only took a few minutes and a van pulled over.  It was clean and air-conditioned inside, and exactly opposite in every way of a Burkinabe bush taxi.  We passed our money up to the driver, and in between steering and swerving in and out of lanes, he got us our change.  It took over an hour, but eventually we arrived at the MegaMall.  Jacque said that the distance we covered was only about 3-4 miles…..so basically we could have walked there in that amount of time.  Maybe even faster.  However this was air-conditioned, it was raining outside, and it was an easy way to gawk at the people and buildings we passed by without anyone realizing that I was staring. 

The MegaMall was definitely huge.  There was even a security checkpoint, where my bag had to be searched and my body patted down, in order to enter the building.  First we went to a clothing store so I could pick up a pair of shorts and a couple shirts that were more appropriate and didn’t make me stand-out so much.  Unfortunately, this is also when my camera and Philippine guidebook got stolen….or rather, pickpocketed (?) from my little backpack.  I know, I know.  I should have known better.  But at the same time, I don’t know how they did it!  Well that’s not true.  I do know how they did, and when, too.  So I had my little bag on the front of me, and Jacque, who’s in front of me, walks over to a rack in the corner of the store, and motions for me to cover over and check out the good finds.  I start walking towards her – there’s literally only about 5 feet between us – and two youngish Filipina girls cut me off.  They somehow came from behind me to right in front of me, and start picking up shirts from the pile.  There’s not enough room to go around them, so I say “Excuse me,” and wait for them to move apart a few inches so I can squeeze through.  They don’t even look at me.  So I say “Excuse me,” again, louder, and tap one of them on the shoulder.  She still doesn’t acknowledge me.  Seriously?  What are they doing?  How rude.  Jacque’s looking at me like, “Why are you waiting behind them?  Push them outta the way!”  And so I quite literally try to push/squeeze my way between the two girls, but to no success.  It’s like they don’t even know I’m there, despite me physically touching them.   I take a step back, thinking maybe I’d just backtrack a few steps and go around the table.  But there’s someone right behind me.  And that’s when I knew that I was probably being pickpocketed. 

All of a sudden everyone is gone (the two who were cutting me off and the one behind me) and a store employee is trying to get my attention: “Mam, your bag!”  I look down, and sure enough EVERY SINGLE ZIPPER was opened up.   Dannnnnggggg.  Nooooooooo.  How do they move so fast!??!  How did I not notice?!??!   I was slightly paranoid that they had gotten my credit card, but it was still there, as was my passport and ipod.  I didn’t have much cash on me, but it was all there too.  So what’d they get then?  I was beginning to think nothing, or at least nothing that mattered.  Even my phone was still there.  Then hit it me.  I had had my Philippine guidebook, “gift” from Philip and full of good notes that he had hand-written in, and now it was gone.  Oh well, that’s not the end of the world.  Better that than my credit card.  In fact, I can’t believe they got the book, but not my money.  What luck!   I zip up all my pockets and try to regain my composure.  And then I remember:  my camera.  I check all the pockets again, but there’s no camera.  NOOOO!!!  Anything but my camera!!!  Come back!  I’ll give you my ipod, my money, I don’t care.  Even the camera.  I just want the memory card.  Please!!!!  They had gotten away with my camera, containing an almost full 8gb memory card that had pictures and videos from my last week in village.  I wanted to cry.  These were my LAST pictures of my life in Burkina.  With the kids and neighbors that were my family.  With videotaped goodbye messages from my best friends.  With scenes of Molly and me riding our bikes through the dirt paths and buying things at the marché.  With pictures of each individual letter family and friends had written to me, since I couldn’t fit them into my luggage and had to throw them away.   Seriously, of all things to take, this was probably the worst one.  I can do without my phone or $50 less cash.   I can cancel my credit card, my ipod is like 6-years-old anyways, and heck, I actually have a second passport in my suitcase.  But my memories?  URGHHH.   I can never get those back or recreate them.  Ever.  RAGE. 

The funny thing is, that very morning, I had taken my memory card out of my camera and thought, “Maybe I could upload everything to Jacque’s school computer, and from there to Facebook or something, just so it’s backed-up somewhere.”  (My laptop is full and nothing more can be deleted, plus my external hard drive seems to have been destroyed and is digitally inaccessible.  So.  I have no space anywhere for pictures stored on my memory card.)  But unfortunately, Jacque’s computer didn’t have a memory card slot and I didn’t have my camera cord with me.  If only.  If only…..

On a positive note, though I’d only had this camera for a year (my mom gave it to me when we met in Italy last September), recently something went haywire, and so now the flash doesn’t work and the shutter often doesn’t open and/or close and it makes this awkward beeping and clicking sound like it’s in pain.  Really annoying.  I was already planning on asking for a new one for Christmas (dear parents: hint, hint!).   The camera is probably worthless.  So ha.  Take that pickpocketers.  You got a Philippine guidebook and a broken camera.  (And a memory card full of some of my most cherished events and people…. I will never forgive you whoever you are!!!)

Well, so I picked out a few “normal” clothes (pink shorts are normal, right?) and then Jacque and I got supper at this fancy sandwich place.  It was weird to eat “real” bread (sliced rye!?!) as opposed to simply white flavorless French baguettes – it was SO good!  Also, I had a salad with more than just lettuce in it, and it had dressing on the side that wasn’t made with just oil and vinegar.  SO good!  After supper, we went grocery shopping and I picked out one of every kind of fruit to try.  Some of them I’d heard of, like dragon fruit, and others I didn’t even know existed.  Since this was the MegaMall grocery store, it was significantly bigger than Ouaga’s Marina Market (I dunno, maybe about 30 times bigger!?!?!) and so there was a lot for my eyes to look at.  Just so many choices.  How does one choose, when there are 50 different kinds of crackers alone?  I also got some veggies so that I could make a curry stir-fry (typical Peace Corps Burkina food when we cook on our own) for Jacque to taste, along with a few containers of yogurt.  All in all, it wasn’t that much.  Yet when I checked-out, the total was the equivalent of about $15.  WHAT??!?!  Are you kidding me?  Some veggies and fruit, and a couple small yogurts?  If this was Burkina, my total would have been like $3.  Seriously.  Jacque warned me that if I thought this was expensive, I better prepare myself for American prices.  I’m not looking forward to it.  I think I really will just grow all my own food.  Seriously.  (No really, don’t laugh.  I have this crazy idea that I think I’m actually gonna try to make a reality once I’m back on Minnesota soil.  I’m not joking.  I could talk for hours about it, but I’ll save it for a different post.  Also, I should probably talk to my parents first before informing the whole world about my future schemes, especially since it would definitely require my parents’ help – aka support, words of encouragement, large sums of money, a decent chunk of their farmland (or all of it), maybe even the cattle barn(s)…..  yeah.)

As we left the grocery store, I stopped and got a “Mango Pearl” smoothie, you know, like with the big balls (“pearls”) of tapioca or whatever the substance is, and then mango slushy.  It was pretty good. I like things with interesting textures now, especially after eating far too much tô and sauce and other no-texture foods in Burkina.   We exited the store and went out into the taxi waiting area.  The line was ridiculous.  We waited about an hour I think.  Finally we were at the front of the line and it was our turn to get into a taxi to take us back to Jacque’s apartment.  We finished out the night by watching a couple episodes of Boy Meets World, Season 1.  Corey Matthews, Mr. Feeny, Shawn, Tapanga……those were the days.

Sunday:  Of course Sunday morning equated to church.  We went with two Faith teachers who are our age (well, younger actually, and married, and pregnant with their second kid…..if that doesn’t make me feel “old” or what….) to some church held in the auditorium of a college in Eastwood, Manila.   Sorta like the “rich” suburb of Manila where everything looks like you should be in America.  Decorative sidewalks, fountains, artificial ponds with bridges over them, shrubs cut into fancy shapes, coffee shops on every corner…  Church was interesting.   Very different from village church in Burkina, and also about as different as could be from a Catholic Mass.  The music and speakers were really good, and the youth group did a theater performance and dance sort of thing, but overall, I didn’t really like going to the church.  It was just too much like a pep rally – not “churchy” enough for me.  Where was the quiet?  The hymns that have been sung for decades?  Heck, where were the old people who’ve been living for decades?  Everyone at this church was either a teenager or an adult under 40.  It was cool to experience, but when it was over, I didn’t feel as if I had even gone to church at all.  Also, maybe I just never noticed this in the USA, but at least here in the Philippines, protestant churches really focus on “Saving your soul” and “The day you accepted your salvation, Christ Jesus as your Savior.”  In my opinion, the Catholic Church isn’t so verbal about these concepts, which are, for better or worse, perhaps more implied (or assumed?), and so sermons during Mass focus on a variety of topics.  But in the Philippines (thus far), at various Christian churches and gatherings, I feel that “saving your soul” is the only message I hear anyone share.   So maybe it’s just emphasized a lot (maybe too much?)…. Or maybe it’s a sign that my soul needs to be saved.....which, come to think of it, it probably does. 

After church, I hit up the pool outside of Jacque’s apartment complex.  For once it was sunny and not raining, and we were actually “home” in the afternoon, so I was definitely going to take advantage of this pool.  I swam for about an hour, and napped in the sun a bit, too.  Surprisingly, I didn’t get burnt.  Besides for my face and arms and lower legs, the rest of my body is pasty white and not at all used to sun exposure.  In Burkina, I was almost always in the shade and wearing t-shirts with long skirts.  So not getting burnt, despite being outside for a couple hours and only wearing a thin layer of sunscreen, was a miracle.  I also noticed that, post-pool, my scrapes from falling the day before looked MUCH better.
“Hey Jacque!  Look at my scrapes!  They’ve healed so much since this morning….and they don’t hurt so much anymore!”
 “Well did you clean ‘em with soap and water after you fell yesterday?”  Jacque questioned. 
“Nope, I didn’t do anything except wipe away the clear liquid that kept oozing out.”
 “Well that was probably you’re first mistake.  So of course the pool’s chlorine performed a miracle on those scrapes.  You’re lucky they didn’t actually get infected.  Just cuz you lived in Africa doesn’t mean you’re immune to everything now, ya know…”

 After swimming, I passed out in front of Jacque’s fan and napped some more until suppertime, when Daisy and Mark were invited to eat with us.  I got right to work on making hummus and cutting up veggies, and also made a coconut-curry stir-fry.  All was delicious and everyone was like, “Is this a normal Burkinabe dish?”  No.  No, it is definitely not.  Boiled flour paste and leaves – that’s your only normal Burkinabe dish.  But I myself, and many other volunteers, prepared dishes like curry when/if we could find the ingredients, so it is a dish that partially captures my Peace Corps experience.  We had a nice evening of conversation, ate way too much food, and for dessert we had s’mores!  (Which were made in the microwave!  Microwaves!?!?  Ah, the technology!)

A Month in Manila: Day 1 - FAITH

Monday, September 23, 2013: FAITH Academy

The next morning, Jacque and I were up before 6am to get ready for school. 

**I realize some of you may be wondering, "Who is this Jacque girl that I'm staying with in the Philippines?"   Long story short, we grew up together in good ole' Springfield, Minnesota.  She was the section leader of the flutes; I was the leader of the clarinets.  She graduated a year after me, and we went to different colleges, but now we both find ourselves on the other side of the world, doing very similar (but also very different) work.  So I thought, hey, I wanna do a COS trip, but floating around all by myself in a foreign country, probably isn't the best idea.  I then realized Jacque was in Manila, that catching up with her would also allow me to check out a bit of the missionary life happening in the Philippines, and let me experience a bit of southern Asia, all while having someone to hold my hand and guide me, so that I didn't have to be wandering the streets by myself resulting in me being kidnapped and never heard from again....  Thus, I am visiting my friend Jacque.


I planned to follow Jacque around at Faith throughout the day and get an idea of what Faith was all about.   Jacque is the 8th grade Bible teacher and high school creative worship instructor at Faith Academy.  All the teachers at Faith are missionaries.  That is, they are all volunteering.  They do not get paid by Faith to teach; they are not provided housing; they do not receive living stipends.  All of their living expenses must come from their own money (sometimes retired couples use their retirement fund to serve at Faith for a year or two), or from sponsors (people who give money to the missionary, often in automatic monthly payments from their bank accounts).  On average, a missionary needs about $1000 a month to live comfortably in Manila.  That means paying rent for a safe and secure apartment (or house if the missionary has a family); paying for electricity, water, and possibly internet; buying food; and having some money available for transport, like taking taxis or jeepneys downtown to go to church or for shopping.  But since missionaries at Faith aren’t receiving a single penny from Faith itself, all of this money needs to come from outside resources (sponsors).

I was really amazed to learn that this was how Faith operated.  There are over 100 staff at this preschool-12 school, serving over 550 students, and all of them have found sufficient financial support to be able to live in Manila, teach, and volunteer their lives to their students, many of whom are children of missionary parents.  Some of the teachers have been here for just a year or two, like Jacque, and others have been here most their adult lives – 10 years, 18 years, one couple has even reached 25 years at Faith.  Wow.  That’s dedication.

Faith is a very beautiful school, located on a hill overlooking “the valley.”  There are banana and papaya trees everywhere, along with lots of lush green plants and flowers.  In the distance, you can see the Manila skyline full of skyscrapers, and this is especially true at night, when all the buildings are lit up and decorated with pretty, colorful lights.  The only negative is that, during the daytime, you can also see the cloud of gray smog (pollution) surrounding these skyscrapers. 

Upon entering the school grounds, I felt like I was in America.  Landscaping, benches, sidewalks, clearly labeled buildings, a gymnasium, lockers, playgrounds…. Even in the capital of Ouaga, schools in Burkina don’t look like this.  There was even an ATM machine near the office, which was super convenient for me, since I needed to get some Filipino money (pisos).   Class sizes are small – Jacque’s bible classes have about 10 students each, and all the rooms are well equipped with materials and technology.  Jacque explained that the reason the school is able to provide so much to its students is because of all the missionaries who want to teach here, as well as the outside donor support.  Students do pay tuition to attend, but that money only pays for basic expenses (like electricity and the Filipino support staff who work as janitors and cafeteria workers).   Everything else, such as the new “music wing” of the school and the swimming pool, was provided by outside support.  Wow.  Just think if this kind of support went to your typical schools in America…every school would not only be beautiful, but teachers would actually WANT to work in this sort of learning environment.  Heck, they might even consider volunteering, just like everyone at Faith.  Your living expenses are met (and in no way affiliated with the school itself), you’re doing meaningful work that you are passionate about, you are in a beautiful, supportive, professional atmosphere, and you have air-conditioning and Wi-Fi, too.  I mean, can you really ask for more?   I totally understand why some of the missionaries at Faith have made serving in this manner their entire life, as opposed to just a 1 or 2-year commitment.

As mentioned, many of the students at Faith are children of missionary parents, but another majority of the school population is comprised of Korean students (40%), with many of these students living in the on-campus dorms.  Because of the unique inter-multi-cultural experiences all students at Faith are exposed to (Faith is an accredited international school), they are typically referred to as “third-culture kids.”  They might be American, but have lived in 5 different countries and can speak several languages; they might be Korean, but have attended an English-speaking school in the Philippines since they were in Kindergarten.  These kids are growing up in a neat, worldly environment full of cultures and languages and traditions, and this is very, very different from your typical kid growing up in small-town, USA, where everyone has white skin and probably is related to each other as well…. Third culture kids.  They’re pretty cool.  

While at Faith, I met many of the other teachers, and it didn’t take long to uncover the fact that I was a qualified band teacher….and wouldn’t you know it, Faith was in need of a band teacher starting in January.  It sparked my interest, but I don’t think this is the place for me.  But who knows.  Maybe something could change my mind.

 Everyone, including the students, knew I was a visitor “from AFRICA” because I wore my crazy bright African outfits and my hair was still in braids, of course.  I figured that as long as I’m strange and no one knows me anyhow, why not go all out and wear pagne clothes and head wraps.  Besides, it’s not like I had very many normal “American” clothes with me anyways – most of those got left behind, with only my swimming suit, a pair of athletic shorts, black yoga pants, my sweatshirt jacket, and a pair of jeans making it into my suitcase. 

I enjoyed being at Faith and watching Jacque teach.  It made me excited to be back in an American classroom, with real books and desks and materials and technology.  Having 120 kids in my math class was great fun and a real experience, but I think I’m ready to move on now.  Give me 20-30 kids, even 40 or 50, yes please!  And what?  They will each have a textbook and I might even learn their names before the end of the year?  Sign me up!  Also:  teachers’ lounges are amazing.  A fridge to store your lunch, free coffee and tea, copy machines, maybe even a comfy couch to nap on.  Wow.   It’s just too good to be true.

After school Monday, Jacque and I were invited to supper by an older couple (Roseanne and Jerry Brisco) who teach at Faith and live in the same apartment complex as Jacque.  They asked me all about Burkina, and I was talking so much, I hardly had eaten a bite of my salad, garlic bread, and cheesy lasagna, before everyone else was done and ready for dessert: cream puffs!  It was SO good.  Also, I got to drink two glasses of real milk!  It was so SO good!  (I know even the littlest things make me excited now, but still, it truly was really good and delicious!)

I hate to jinx myself, but my month in the Philippines seems to be off to a great start…..








Au Revoir Burkina, Hello Philippines! (Airport Adventures)

**Disclaimer:  Obviously a few major events in my life as a Peace Corps volunteer have not been documented in my blog posts.  For example, I am now in Manila.  I am no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer.  I said goodbye to Burkina.  etc. etc.   All of those stories will come at some point in time, but they are not ready yet, and I feel it is important to wait until everything I want to write about (and remember) is complete and recorded in chronological order, before I post it.  Especially since everything in my life from June-mid September needs to be said.  Whether you care or not.  My blog is more for me, than for anyone else.  So for now, for your reading pleasure, here is a bit of my adventures post Peace Corps.  And someday, perhaps when I'm back in the USA, I'll post about my last months in village.....someday.



(The Events of) September 21, 2013: Airport Adventures

It took a while, but eventually my bags were packed.  I had stuffed as much as possible into my 2 suitcases, my backpack, and my laptop case, and I was well aware that every single one of my items was over the weight limit by at least 5 pounds.  Whoops.  But it’d be fine, right?  I didn’t know what else to do to make my baggage situation better – I had already eliminated everything I could part with (and some items I couldn’t).  The framed metal-carved lion from Niger given as a gift from Salimata Sanago?  I guess it’s got to stay in the Transit House… letters people wrote me?  Sadly, in the garbage….my guitar music binder I’ve had since 9th grade?  I crumbled up a few sheets of music and was just about to throw the whole binder into the garbage, when a friend who had been watching me told me to stop:  “Just shove it into your laptop pocket.   You’re already over the limit, so who cares if you add another half a pound.   You’re done; go to bed.” 

He was right.  I was tired and sad.  I wanted to be done packing and get a few hours of shuteye on my mattress on the Transit House porch for the last time.  I zipped up my suitcases, threw away my garbage, placed my box of giveaway items on the table (stuff like half-full bottles of shampoo and lotion, a hairbrush, sunscreen, etc.), and showered  so I’d be ready for my taxi that would be coming to take me to the airport in a few short hours.

Ishmael, my taxi driver, was right on time at 7am.  We loaded up my things (2 suitcases, my backpack, and my laptop case) and away we drove.  When I got to the airport I was surprised to see that nothing was open yet – no ticket windows, no luggage check-in counters, no one exchanging money.   Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure why I was surprised.  In fact, past experiences with the Ouaga airport have taught me to greatly lower my expectations about the airport’s organization and its responsibilities to its passengers….

I was the second passenger who had arrived for the morning’s flights (the first of which was to Cote d’Ivoire at 10:30am, followed by my flight to Ethiopia at 11:15am), and I ended up waiting for almost 2 hours until the airport decided that it was ready to start for the day.  Finally I was at the Ethiopian Air check-in counter.  Bag one: 4 kg over.  Bag two: 4.5 kg over.  Dang.  “That’ll be 9 kg of extra baggage charge, madame.  63 mille CFA.  And it’s good only until Hong Kong, not all the way to Manila.”  There was no way I was paying an additional $126 (plus a fee again in Hong Kong) for my luggage, especially when I knew I had things I could rearrange and by doing so, would reduce weight by at least a few kilos.  My flute got clipped to the outside of my backpack, along with my tennis shoes.  I took out my traditional pagnes and wrapped them around me like skirts, one by one until all three were attached.   All the Burkinabe around me just grinned and nodded in approval, and I acted all casual about it and jokingly justified my wardrobe by saying, “It gets really cold on airplanes!”  Additionally, all the foulards became a big scarf around my neck, and I put on a bunch of my jewelry, and some more of it was shoved into my sweatshirt pockets.   Better, right?  Yup, now each bag was only 2 kg over….but that still wasn’t good enough.   So I threw out my bag of cosmetics, everything except for my malaria medication and contact solution.  Besides, I didn’t really need toothpaste, or deodorant, or shampoo throughout the next 5 weeks, right?

Check-in Counter Guy:  Madame, you need to put this back in your suitcase, please.
Me:  I can’t, it’s too heavy.  I’m leaving it here.
Guy:  Uhh….no, you can’t.  You must take it.
Me:  No, my bags are too heavy and I don’t have any money to pay for overweight fees, so I need to leave it.
Guy:  Uhh…..you’re abandoning it?
Me: Yes. Yes I am.
Guy:  Uhh….. ***turns to his boss who was watching me this whole time, and holds up my bag of cosmetics*** ….Sir, she wants to abandon this?  What do we do?  ***boss shrugs***
Me: Just keep it.  Take it home and give it to your wife.
Guy:  Uhh….?....No, I can’t…..What is it?
Me:  It’s toothpaste and soap.  Your family will like it.  It’s a gift!
Guy:  Uhh…. I will hold onto it, and if we find anyone with the same ticket as you to Manila and some extra space in their luggage, we will ask them to put it in their suitcase and you can get it when you arrive in Manila.  Ok?
Me:  Sure, whatever.    ***We both knew that there’d be absolutely NO ONE besides me going from Burkina to Manila.***

My two suitcases were now as good as they were going to get without leaving further things behind (each 1.5 kg over), and I was kinda holding up the line for everyone behind me.  So the boss came over, “okayed” my suitcases and told the check-in counter worker to just label my bags as heavy on the ticket (but no fee) and move along.  The boss eyed my carry-on’s, as well as my ridiculous “outfit,” asked to weigh my backpack, saw it was 12.5 kilos instead of the allotted 7kg (not including the flute that I left next to my twenty-plus-pound laptop), and simply said, “Your bags are all very heavy.   Too heavy.  You might have problems with your connecting flights.  Good luck.”

And to the visa counter I went.

Police Officer:  Madame, you listed your Burkinabe address as “Lanfiera.”  Lanfiera?
Me:  Yes, it’s the name of my village.
PO:  Never heard of it.
Me:  Lanfiera.  It’s a small village by Tougan.
PO:  Maybe.   But I don’t know it.  Why didn’t you live in Ouaga?  We could have been friends and you could’ve taught me how to have conversations in English. 
Me:  I don’t like Ouaga, I like my village.  And I don’t speak English.
PO:  Hahaha, c’est faux.  Your passport says you are American, so I know you can speak English.
Me:  ***Silent glare and look of disapproval***
PO:   So, Lanfiera.  You need to write a real address.  Where did you live in Lanfiera?
Me:  Um, in a house? 
PO:  What street?
Me:  There are no street names.  I lived by the mosquée and the water pump.
PO:  Well you need to write something specific, like a mailbox number.
Me:  So you want me to make something up?
PO:  Hahaha, well….. sure.  It’s not’s a problem.  No one looks at these.  Also we need your cell phone number.
Me:  I don’t have one.
PO:  You didn’t have a phone?
Me:  I did, but now that I’m leaving definitively, I no longer have a working phone number.  **that was a lie; my phone was actually in pocket…***
PO:  So you won’t give me your number so I can call you from time to time and practice speaking English?
Me:  ***silent glare and an even bigger look of disapproval***
PO:  Okay, well you need to put your thumb on this scanner.
***And the electricity goes out***
PO:  Ohhhhhh, hahaha no electricity!  My computer screen is black, you see?   You’ll have to wait; we didn’t finish loading your fingerprint onto the computer.   ……so do you have facebook?
***After an awkward 3-4 minutes, the electricity comes back, thank god.  My thumb was scanned and I advanced to the security check point.***

Surprisingly, I didn’t experience too many problems here.  They asked me if I was Burkinabe, since my hair was braided, my feet and hands were hennaed, and I was wearing traditional pagne.  They questioned the flute, and so I had to demonstrate that it was indeed an instrument of music by putting it together and producing a few notes.  They also remarked that my computer and backpack were too heavy, but since I tried to apologize in Jula and Moore and say that I was leaving Burkina for good and needed to take back gifts for my family, they were amused by this and they let me slide on through.  At last, I had made it.  I plopped myself down on a chair and took off my layers of scarves and skirts.   But not even ten minutes later, my name was announced over the intercom to report to the original baggage check-in counter.  NOOOOOO!!!  What did I do????

Check-in Counter Guy:  Madame, the police would like to see you.
Me:  …..?
Check-in Counter Guy:  Please follow me.  ***He leads me to a backroom where two young officers are staring at my two suitcases.***
Me:  Bonjour….?
Officer 1: Ah, c’est une jolie femme Burkinabé.  Comment ça va ?
Officer 2:  You are married?
Me:  Is there a problem with my luggage?
Officer 1:  You do not answer his question?  Why?
Officer 2:  You are not married?
Me:  It doesn’t matter if I’m married or not.  Why are my suitcases not on the plane?
Officer 2:  We need to look inside them.  
Me:  Ok.
Officer 1: You have questionable items inside; we need to search for weapons.
Me:  Alright.  I bet I know what the problem is.  ***I unzip the first suitcase, pull out my clarinet case, and open it up.***
Officer 1:  Whyyy !!!    What is that?
Officer 2:  It’s for playing music, you idiot.  Are you stupid?
Officer 1:  A flute?
Officer 2:  Yes.
Me:  No.
Officer 2:  No!?!  Not a flute?  Then what is it?
Me:  A clarinet.
Officer 2:  A clarinet?  I do not know this instrument.  Is it like the trumpet?  Play it.
***I put together the clarinet, glide through a chromatic scale and screech out some high notes, and then smile sweetly at the young officers, who have been whispering to each other and giggling.***
Officer 1:  ***now speaking in English***   It is good.  Very good.  Thank you .
Officer 2:   ***also in English***  He wishes to say that you are very ….very, how do you say it…bea-u-tiii-fulll.
***Officer 1 punches Officer 2 in the arm.***
Officer 1:  No, it is him who say that.  He want that he can make you his wife.
***Officer 2 punches Officer 1 in the arm.***
Me:  I only marry men who have lots of money.
Officer 1:  Yah.  He not rich.  This one, he have no money.  But I have much money!
Officer 2:  No, he lie.  He only say ‘deese lies cuz he want to marry you.  He is a faux-type.  He not good.
Me:  Okay, well I can’t marry either of you – my plane is leaving soon.  Can I close my suitcase now?
Officer 2:  First, we must finish searching.  What is this?
***The officer points to my contact solution; I say it’s for my eyes.  Then they point to another “weird” item, and another…and then the calabash (drinking gourd) that I have wrapped up.  ***
Me:  That’s a calabash…?  Don’t you know what it is…?  ***I understand them being curious about my contact solution and my pink razor….but the calabash?  That’s a traditional Burkinabe item!  EVERYONE in Burkina knows what a calabash is.  I was confused as to why they were confused…***
Officer 2:  Ah yes.  Calabash.  I know it, I know it.  I just ask to see if YOU know what is it.  To see if you are real Burkinabe or no.
Me:  Ok, well can I close my suitcase now?
Officer 1:  Yah.  We finish.  So when you come back?
Me:  I’m not.  I’m leaving forever and going back to America.
Officer 1:  So you won’t like to marry my friend?
Me:  No, not really.  But if you work hard and make a lot of money, maybe someday, if I come back to Burkina, I’ll marry you.  But you’d have to be my third or fourth husband – I already have two and I might find another in America.  Is that okay with you?
Officer 2:  Hahaha, yes.  Very good. 
Officer 1:  Here, put this in your bag.  ***He hands me my bag of cosmetics that I had “abandoned” earlier.***
Me:  What?
Officer 1:  It’s no problem.  ***returns to speaking French***   The boss out there by the counter told us to give it back to you so you didn’t have to leave your soap here.  They already marked your bag, so you can put this in now and they won’t re-weigh your bags.  Il n’y a pas de problème.  Ça va.
Me:  OH!  Thank you!   Thank you so much!

I had my cosmetics back, and all I had to do was flirt with the young officers a bit.  (And perhaps, looking really sad and pathetic in front of the check-in counter boss had helped too.)  I was feeling good – a little sweaty from wearing so many layers, but oh well.  Got through security and all, and not a single thing was left behind.  Success!

I returned to the boarding gate waiting area, and a police woman approached me, asked where I was going, and then ushered me to the “Ethiopian Air” waiting area.  But not after first searching my carry-ons (again) and patting me down.  I’m not sure why Ethiopian Air searched everyone before allowing us to enter the roped off waiting area, when we had just come through security.  The people going to Cote d’Ivoire weren’t being searched a second time….  the lady seemed annoyed with me at first (fair enough) but I told her my sob story about finishing Peace Corps and having gifts from my village, and right away she perked up.  She asked me questions about my village, if I spoke any local languages, how I enjoyed my time in Burkina, etc.  She turned out to be really nice and concerned for me (and my carry-ons).  She helped me firmly reattach my “skirts” and stuff my book and travel pillow into my already too full backpack, so that I literally would only carry on my backpack and laptop case, without extra things in my hands and items dangling from my backpack (besides my tennis shoes and flute, which she helped better attach to the backpack with a piece of string).   We chatted until it was time for me board the bus that would take me to the plane, only stopping whenever another female came through the line and thus she was needed to pat the female down --- though females traveling were limited; men outnumbered women by at least 10:1.   We exchanged emails and even took a picture together on her iPhone. 

Finally I was climbing up the steps of the plane, my carry-on straps digging into my neck.  My seat was near the front, 15C, but when I got to the 15’s I was confused to find all the seats taken already.  People were standing behind me, anxious to find their own seats, muttering rude things about the girl (me) just standing in the aisle with her bags, but I wasn’t sure what to do.  I tried to let people pass, but, as we all know, plane aisles are small to begin with.  There’s hardly room for one person to walk, let alone a person wearing a backpack and holding a laptop case while a second person tries to squeeze by, also holding luggage.  Not gonna happen.  “Madame, please find your seat,” said the flight attendant.  Urgh, I just wanted to get rid of my bags, to throw them into the luggage compartment, and maybe take off the excess clothing so I could move more freely.  And then I could deal with this lack of a seat problem.  I looked from left to right; however, it seemed as if all the overhead spaces were full.   In fact, most the plane seats were already filled with impatient people awaiting take-off (my bus had been the last trip between the waiting area and the plane --- there’s no ramp that connects the waiting area directly to the plane entry; you have to ride a bus about 100 meters to the plane and then climb up about 30 steps to board) and so my original thought of “just grab an empty seat” wasn’t gonna work, more than likely every single seat on this plane was assigned to someone. 

The flight attendant directed me to an overhead space ahead, and with a bit or rearranging; I was able to shove my computer into the compartment.  We found another place a few compartments away for my backpack….and all the while people were still waiting behind me.   “Madame, please take your seat now,” said the flight attendant.   I explained that my seat was 15C while simultaneously showing my ticket, and pointing to indicate that all the 15’s were already filled with people……aka someone wasn’t in the right seat.  I heard the large older man waiting directly behind me tell the person behind him in line that this was ridiculous and I was causing problems for everyone.  Not true.  If there just would’ve been some space for me to put my stuff, not to mention a seat to sit in, everything would’ve been just fine.   The flight attendant pushed her way through the line to the 15’s and asked to see all their tickets.  Turns out that TWO of the six people weren’t even 15’s and a third person was in 15A instead of 15D.  Urgh people…..learn to read.  Finally I was in my seat next to the window, a young-ish Burkinabe man was sitting next to me, and a crabby middle-aged white guy was by the aisle.  I took off my skirts and scarves and sweatshirt and relaxed for a few minutes.  Until I realized that I had forgotten my ipod, book, travel pillow, gum, and contact solution in my backpack.  This was a 7-hour flight.  I was definitely going to want these items, and better to get them right away, than to wait til after take-off and then have to wake-up my neighbors so I could get out, in turn causing them to hate me even more. 

The large crabby guy who’d been behind me in line happened to be sitting nearby, and so when I got my backpack down and started to pull out items, such as my book and ipod, he glared at me.  What?  Jeesh, I’m not even bothering you….

The flight itself was fine and the seven hours went by really fast.  I even chatted with my Burkinabe neighbor – turns out he was on his way to China to buy merchandise that he would bring back to Ouagadougou and sell in his store.  He makes this trip twice a year, staying with his friend/acquaintance in China for 3 weeks before flying back to Burkina.  Soon it was time for lunch, but for some reason, I couldn’t understand what the flight attendants were saying...even though they were speaking English.

Lady:  Fish or Chicken?
Me:  Quoi?
Lady:  FISH or CHICK-EN….
Me:  Uh…
Lady:  Do you speak English or français?
Me:  Oui, français.
Lady:  Voulez-vouz le poisson ou le poulet?
Me:  Oh, ok.  Je vais prendre le poulet, s’il vous plait.
***a few minutes later, a different lady comes by***
Lady:  To drink?
Me:  Quoi?
Lady:  Beverage?
Me:  Quoi?  Je n’ai pas compris, pardon.
Lady:  Uh…Water or Coke?  ***she holds up the bottle of water and can of coke***
My Burkinabe neighbor:  Yes.
Lady:  Which one sir?
Neighbor:   Yes.  Uh…l’eau….uh, wah-ter.
Lady:  Here’s your water, sir.  Miss?  What will you have to drink?
Me:  OHHHH!!!!  ***I realize she’s been speaking English the whole time, as was the lady with the food before her….it all makes sense now!****  I’ll have water, please.  And orange juice.  With ice.  Thanks.
Me:  (to my neighbor, in French)  So you can speak English?
Neighbor:   Ha, no no.  I speak English small small.  Just a few words, like water and thank you, that I’ve learned from these airplane rides.  I didn’t finish school so I don’t know much English.
Me:  Yeah, I don’t speak English either anymore…

Naturally, having grown accustomed to eating such delicacies as tô and slimy leaf sauce, I found the plane food to be AMAZING.  I ate every last crumb, and had both tea and coffee with lots of sugar packets during my dessert of packaged coconut cookie.  However, unlike my flight to Italy last year, I did not stoop so low as to ask my neighbors if I could eat their unfinished food.  I wanted to, but, I did realize that I need to start adjusting to normal society again and eating strangers’ half-eaten food is seen as weird by most people…so I refrained. 

Before I knew it, we were in Addis Ababa.  We got off and were herded into the “transfers” area, where we of course had to go through security yet again.  While waiting in line, I conversed with the guys around me.  They were from Ouaga and on their way to Seoul (South Korea) for a business conference, and so we’d be on the same connecting flight to Hong Kong.  All three men were about 40-years-old and didn’t have any carry-ons besides a briefcase/laptop each.  So one man took my computer case, and another took my backpack, and I was left with only my skirts/blankets in my arms.  How convenient!  Plus, this allowed me to board the next plane without a problem, as it looked as if I only had one small carry-on (i.e. my blankets).  It couldn’t have gone any smoother.  We boarded the plane to Hong Kong on time, the flight was only half-full so everyone had plenty of space for storing carry-ons in the overhead compartments, as well as for sitting.  In fact, I had a window seat, plus the two other seats in my row, all to myself.  Since this flight was 11 hours long and “overnight,” I was able to stretch out and sleep soundly a good portion of the 11 hours.  AND, we got fed two delicious meals, plus a snack!  OH YEAH, and we got socks!  Fuzzy yellow socks.  At first I was like, “No way am I wearing handout socks.  Weird.”  But then my feet did start to feel cold and all the Asians on the plane were already wearing their pairs, plus I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I had even worn socks myself – I wore flip flips EVERY DAY in Burkina – so wearing  fuzzy yellow socks seemed like an appealing idea.  It turned out to be a wonderful idea.  I had forgotten how nice it is to be cold, wear layers, and snuggle up under a blanket(s).

Once in Hong Kong, I had to go the Cathay Pacific ticket counter and get my connecting flight ticket to Manila.  I’m not exactly sure why they couldn’t give me it in Ouaga, but whatever.  I finally find the counter and am grateful the line is only a few people long.  With my flight to Manila boarding in less than an hour, I was worried about finding my gate, arriving late, etc.  So I’m waiting in line.  And waiting .  And waiting.  It’s been about 15 minutes.  By now there’s like 10 people behind me, plus the 2 in front of me who haven’t moved yet either.  The original 3 people are still standing at the 3 counters, and all employees are on the phone and tapping away at the computer.  What is going on?  Why isn’t this line moving?  What are they doing?  Seriously, hurry up.  I start paying attention to what is happening at the counters and eavesdropping.   Well, I mean, it wasn’t hard to eavesdrop.  These people (all of which I assume to be American, based on their smooth English and appearances) were yelling very loudly at the employees, who were doing their best to remain calm and speak clear English.

Lady 1:  I want to talk to your manager!  Now!  Is that him on the line?  Who are you talking to?  Is it him?  Please give me the phone, I need to talk to him, and he needs to explain to me what the problem is and how you’re going to fix it, since you don’t seem to know.
Female Employee 1:   Sorry, mam.  No, not him.  He not available.  Please wait.
Lady 1:  NO!  I will not wait.  I’ve been waiting over hour already.  ONE HOUR.  Right here, in this spot, talking to you.  FOR ONE HOUR.  I’m done!  This is ridiculous.  Give me your manager’s name.  I’m going to report him.  ***lady takes out her iPhone and starts filming the employee***
FE 1:   I very sorry, mam.  Please, you need to put your phone down.  You cannot record ---
Lady 1:  I can’t record you!?!?  But why not?  This is what’s happening…it’s not your fault.  I know that.  But, we need proof that you did everything possible so they don’t blame you.  That’s what’s gonna happen.  They’ll blame you!  So this is proof.  I need you to make a statement; tell me what you said your manager had said on the phone.
FE 1:   No, very sorry, but no.  Not possible.  I not comfortable….
Lady 1:  But it’s the truth isn’t it?  The truth!  You and I, we need proof!
FE 1:   No, I cannot.  Please, you must ask your questions to the manager.  If you can wait here until the manager is free, please, and I will help the other people in line.
Lady 1:  NO.  You listen to me.  I am a customer.  I have paid good money for my ticket, and now you tell me to wait and talk to the manager!?!  I am never taking your airline again!  You are going to fix this situation immediately and ….
Guy 1:   Excuse me.  EXCUSE ME.  Can you please be quiet?  I’m over here, on the phone, trying to get ahold of this same manager, and I’m waiting patiently.  I was here before you were, I have the same problem as you, but yet I’m not screaming at the employees.  It’s not their fault they don’t know anything.  
Lady 1:  You see?  Another problem!  This rude guy is trying to get through to the manager too, and he’s probably the reason our call isn’t going through!  ***points finger at female employee 1***
Guy 1:   Pllleeeeeaaaasssssseeeee.  Stop.  You’re not the only one whose flight got screwed up.
FE 1:   Mam, I found opening to New York on flight in one hour, economy class ---
Lady 1:  NO NO NO!!!  I paid for a business class ticket, direct flight from here to New York.  I will not be sitting in economy.  No way.  You’ll find me a flight that leaves before midnight, that’s direct to New York with no layovers, and with me in a business class seat.  I will not accept economy.  Who do you think I am, treating me like this?  I’m a paying customer, and this is what I get?  Economy class?  You’ve got to be kidding me!
Guy Behind Me in Line:   Oh my god….seriously?  What is her problem?
Different Guy in Line:  Either take economy or get out of the way.  You’re gonna make the rest of us miss our flights!
***security officer ushers an Asian man over to ticket counter***
Male Employee 1:  Hello, sir.  What’s the problem?
Security Officer:  You need to look at his boarding pass…
Asian man:  I don’t know….what to do?  My flight, it leaves in 20 minutes.  I with group.  We go to Israel.  They all on plane, but me, they not let me on plane.  Why?
ME 1:  ***looks at boarding pass and types info into his computer***   Uh, ok.  Um, I’m sorry sir.  Please wait.  There seems to be a problem with your registration code.  ***makes a phone call, probably to the manager, who seems to be MIA***
Asian man:  But what do I do?  I going to miss plane.  My friends are waiting for me.
Security Officer:  You’ll be fine.  Just wait here.
ME 1:  ***with phone on his shoulder, motions to the couple in front of me in line***  Yes, okay, here you are, everything looks good on my computer.  So here are your boarding passes, go upstairs, gate 34 is in Terminal 2.  Hurry, it is boarding now. Thank you.
***Guy 1 is still “waiting” on the phone for the manager with an employee standing next to him, the Asian man is looking at his watch every 30 seconds after which he turns to me to smile and say, “This not good.  They not help.  That lady, she distract them,” referring to the crazy Lady 1 who won’t accept the economy replacement ticket and is pacing in front of the counter while her counter’s employee is frantically trying to figure something out.  The male employee goes over to help the coworker at the third counter, who has question.  The third counter has been occupied this entire time by yet another lady, but at least she’s not yelling….I’m starting to get really nervous about whether or not I’m even going to make my flight, because I’ve been standing in a non-moving line for almost 30 minutes now.***

Asian man:  Now my flight leave.  I miss it.  So now what?  You tell me to wait, and tell me everything will be fine, but you not help.  Now I have no plane.  I paid $1500 to go to Israel with my friends.  But I not get to go.  I wait here.  I do not know why.
ME 1: I’m sorry sir.  Very sorry.  We’ll be with you in a minute.  Let me help some of these passengers who’ve been waiting in line first, so they don’t miss their flights also.
Lady 1:  You know what, sir?  Now you know better.  Never take this airline again.  Tell all your friends.  All this airline does is cause problems and then try to “fix” them by ripping you off and giving you economy instead of business like you paid big bucks for.
Guy 1:   Hellooooo, could you keep it down.  I’m trying to hear if someone picks up the phone or not.
***ME 1 motions to me; I give him my passport and online itinerary.***
ME 1: Alright.  No problems.  Here you go.  Next, please.
Me:  Wait, excuse me.  What gate is my flight boarding at?  It doesn’t say….and at what time?.....
ME 1:  Uhhh….. ***fiddles with is computer***  I do not know.  It’s not listed yet.  It’s possible it will be canceled.  Lots of flights are being canceled.  Just go to Gate 21, that’s the main Cathay Pacific Gate, and ask someone there.

I had my boarding pass, a good start.  As I went through security, and then into the airport terminals, I tried to walk as fast as I could, all while carrying my 50-pound carry-ons, of course.  Within 10 minutes of speed walking, I was tired and sweaty, and my shoulder ached.  But I was only at Gate 12. The airport clocks said 4:15pm, which meant that my flight, originally scheduled for takeoff at 5:05pm, was just starting to board – maybe.  It still wasn’t listed on any of the big arrival and departure screens.  Actually, it was listed, it just didn’t have a time or gate by it.  All the other flights had times/gates listed, and if not, a big red CANCELED was listed.  (There were a lot of canceled flights.  I was beginning to suspect that something was going on….)  I finally plopped myself down into a chair in front of Gate 21, which was now listing my flight with an “anticipated” boarding time of 5:30pm.  Hmm, interesting.   As I thought about it and noticed the more-than-normal chaos around the airport, in addition to the numerous cancelations, I recalled that upon landing on my flight from Addis Ababa, we had flown over a whole bunch of boats and ships in the harbors.  They were all lined up neatly (not docked, but rather positioned out in the water), and had yellow and red lights blinking.  It also was rather dreary and rainy out.  A flight attendant came over and asked to see our boarding passes, and she would respond with “Okay” to some people (like me) and “Please go to ticket counter” to other people.  Something was definitely up.

Later, upon arriving in Manila, I was informed that a typhoon was approaching (or had already hit?) Hong Kong, and that all flights had been cancelled for the night.  My flight to the Philippines was one of the last flights that got out.  Whew!  Lucky me!   I don’t think I would have enjoyed camping out overnight in the Hong Kong airport during a typhoon, especially after already having endured over 24 hours of travel.

Once my flight took off to Manila, only about 2 hours behind schedule, it was smooth sailing.  It was the nicest (and biggest) plane I had ever been on, probably holding over 350 people.  We each had our own screen on the seat in front of us and could watch movies and TV show series; listen to music; play Chess, Sudoku, hangman; and more.  So many options!  If this would have been a 10-hour flight instead of the 1.5 that it was, I don’t think I would have slept a wink.  I’d have stayed up the entire time, being mesmerized by all the TV shows and movies I have yet to see, as well as by playing chess, a game that I only recently learned to play (A big merci to Gregory K!  Someday I’ll beat ya!).

Going through customs was easy; they hardly even looked at my passport and they definitely didn’t look at my bags.  As I left the airport and crossed the street to where I was expecting to meet Jacque Olson, all the Filipinos shouted, “Nice hair!” and “I like your hair, mam!”  I guess seeing someone with tons of little braids with beads attached at the ends, wearing African jewelry and clothing was pretty weird and attention-drawing. 

At last, I spotted Jacque and before I knew it, my luggage was loaded up into her friend’s car and we were driving away, into the Philippine night.  It had rained a lot (blame the “nearby” typhoon?) and so some of the roads were flooded.  We finally got to Jacque’s apartment, did some initial chatting, ate some supper, and then went to bed.  With my long flights, plus time zone changes, it was currently around 9pm, Sunday, September 22.  (It would have been around 2pm in Burkina, so I was actually “ahead” on sleep, but since it was nighttime in Manila and travel is exhausting, I had no objections to going to bed!)