The Hive

Ever since last year’s East African Men’s Retreat (2011), when Bobby Garner gave his “You should have a bee hive, it’s so fun and easy” presentation during our Swap-Shop, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to build a hive at our house. But with a list of to-do’s longer than our calendar, the thought of building, waxing, hanging, and taking care of a bee hive wasn’t one we felt like we could entertain. However, thanks to a recent confluence of events, we got a bee hive put up this past week.

It started at this year’s East African Men’s Retreat when Aaron Bailey from Mwanza showed me his Kenyan Top Bar Bee Hive and gave me a little tutorial on how it worked. He didn’t have it up and running yet, but just seeing the hive in it’s simplicity made me wonder why we didn’t have one of our own. But building a bee-hive was still a far-off project.

When we got home from the retreat, however, it wasn’t but 5 days before Jerrod, who helps me with our agricultural projects, pointed out that we had a large hive thriving in one of our Mango trees. It was about the size of a large watermelon and was full of bees.

The opportunity was too good to pass up. I gathered all of my scrap wood from around the house, downloaded a Kenyan beekeeping guide, and set to building my first hive.

The plans for a Kenya Top Bar Hive look something like this:

The scrap wood I had around was from our old window valences and was all the right thickness (1.9 cm or 3/4 in.) but was cut into thin strips. The first step was to join it all together and then cut-out the side, bottom, and end pieces.Then I used the table saw to cut 3.2 inch strips from the longest pieces of wood for the top bars. I also used the table saw to cut the small ridges needed on each of the top bars:

We needed about 26 bars to span the length of the hive.

Once everything was cut, I started putting the hive together using a combination of glue and wood screws, starting with the base and ends, then adding the sides.

Once the frame was constructed, we added 2 small wood pieces to each end for stringing the hive up to its supporting poles.

With all of the hive construction done, I got Jonathan Simms to help me with the installation. In order to attract the bees and guide them on where to build the honeycombs, we coated each of the ridges of the top bars with melted bees wax (that we bought in raw form in the local market) using a small paintbrush.

Then we picked a good shady spot in our front field, right next to the already inhabited Mango Tree and a good distance from passing people, cut down the tall grass around it, and set-in our two supporting poles.

 

Finally, using a strong metal wire and a few nails, we rigged the hive up on the supporting poles. The only thing to keep in mind here is to put the hive at a comfortable working height so that when harvesting time comes (Lord willing) you won’t get a sore back in the process.

We then set it’s cover in place, admired our work, and left it– ready and waiting for its new inhabitants.

It’s been about 3 days now since the hive was erected and we’ve yet to have any bees in the hive. There have been a few buzzing around it every time I’ve gone out to look (about 4 times a day), but it seems they’ve yet to make the decision to make it their home.

From what I’ve read, this can be a long waiting process. We’re hoping to expedite that process by planting a number of flower varieties right around the hive, making it too good of an environment for the bees to pass up. (recommendations for good bee forage can be found in the “Beginners Guide” at bottom)

We’ll be sure to keep everyone up on the progress of the hive, announcing its first inhabitants, showing our attempts at a home-made bee suit, and looking forward to a post about its first honey harvest.

For more information about the Kenya Top Bar Hive, see:

A Beginner’s Guide to Beekeeping in Kenya by Thomas Carrol

Turning Two

I had read several blogs about first birthdays last year to get some ideas when planning Reed’s party.  The thing that every blog author agreed on was that parents tend to make too big a deal of that first party or at least, forget that a one year old doesn’t really care or notice our efforts aside from that sugary tower alight with dripping candles.  I took all this in and set out to make a party that celebrated her but not necessarily amused her.  This year was more exciting to me, as her personality is more developed and we know very well what amuses her.  I decided to keep it simpler this year, at least with the food (though really, that’s never simple in Africa).  I made a big pot of chili and then a few treats to take with us to the Old Boma, an old German fort now turned boutique hotel  with a beautiful swimming pool and consequently, Reed’s favorite place.  Any time her beloved Boma is mentioned, she becomes excited to the point of laughter and dancing, saying, “Odd Bona!  Simming!  Babingsuiten!”  (Old Boma!  Swimming!  Bathing suit!).  So that was the obvious choice.  We would head there for a few hours of swimming and snacking then back to our place for chili and birthday cake.

That was the plan.

We, however, neglected to plan for the unpredictable mood swings that have thus far characterized this age.  Not that we could truly plan around them, they are, like I said, unpredictable.

I will include in this blog, the few pictures from that evening when she wasn’t crying.

The first little hiccup was that she fell asleep on the way to the Boma.  She has given up naps, which could inspire another blog all its own, but still manages to fall asleep in the car occasionally.  Usually if our destination is the Old Boma, this means I will carry her to a table by the pool, lay her down and then whisper in her ear, “Reeeeeeed, we’re at the Old Boooooma!” and immediately, as if my whispering where accompanied by a defibrillator, she sit up instantly and asks to put on her babingsuiten.  Really, that’s what happens.

Our other party guests arrived around the same time we did and showed their concern that she was asleep.  We confidently diffused their concerns saying, “Oh, this happens all the time.  She’ll wake up and be really glad we’re here, no worries.”

Ten minutes later, when we were dipping her legs and arms in the swimming pool to try to wake her up, we began to lose confidence that once awake, she would exhibit her usual thrill at the chance to swim.  Once she did wake up, she was pretty grumpy but we managed to excite her over some potato chips, a few macaroons and the fact that Aleithia would soon arrive.  Once we got her in the pool, it was all downhill.  She cried uncontrollably when Lauren disappeared underwater, saying, “I’m gunna get you!” when typically the sight of Lauren evokes the same reaction as the mention of the Old Boma.  She was obsessed with Aleithia’s floating duck and cried and screamed if made to give Aleithia a turn in it.  For about half the time we were there, Andrew was holding Reed off to the side while she cried.  It really was unfortunate.

Once back at the house, her mood brightened a little.  She was, of course, very excited to be eating something with beans in it and especially happy to eat sugar far beyond the normal limits.

It’s a difficult thing for me to deal with the embarrassment I often feel these days.  She has been so different lately, not all the time, just much of the time.  I remind myself that this is a phase, every kid eventually goes through this, that it probably serves some kind of developmental purpose, and that it’s not our fault.  But of course, those things are hard to keep in mind in the middle of a fit where this child doesn’t resemble the one you have come to know.  It’s especially challenging to know what I can reasonably expect from such an unreasonable person.  These challenges have especially highlighted the distance between our struggle and the wealth of support on the other side of the world or the ability to simply take a  little break and drop her off at Grammy and Papa’s or GranElaine and Grandpa’s.  This whole stage certainly humbles me in my former judgement of other people’s children.  It’s also, I think, a good time to practice loyalty, to not allow my embarrassment to take over my behavior towards her since, in fact, that embarrassment is in some way linked to my own selfishness because I’m worried about me  and not her.

I must say, I am so glad to be doing this with Andrew.  He often has patience or clear headedness that I lack.  I can’t believe there are some people who do this alone.  I’m extremely thankful i’m not one of them.

A Working Day

 

I woke up this morning determined to make it out to the sea-side village of Sinde. It’s a 15 minute bike ride to the ocean ferry, a 30 min. wait for the small wooden boat to fill with children, mothers, grandmas, and fish traders, a 15 min. boat ride across the bay, and a 40 min. bike ride to the village leaders house.

I woke up determined, but I knew I wouldn’t make it. In fact, as often as I try, I’ve only made it out to Sinde twice. The problem isn’t some logistical difficulty or issue with the journey to the village. The problem is that I have to pass the local fish market to get the ferry, and for some reason, I can never just pass the fish market. I always get sucked-in.

The Mtwara fish market just feels like a different world. It has it’s own huts, it’s own little cooking stands, its own dukas (shops), and really, it’s own population. Entering the fishing community– of fishermen, boat captains, traders, and cooks–feels like you’re leaving the urban world and walking into the rural, even though it sits only 5 minutes from the center of town. The old men crowd around in low-hung huts, trading stories about politics, commodity prices, and sales from the day before. The young men kick-up dirt outside, reliving the incredible soccer plays from the past night’s televised games. The women fill the sea-shore, sitting squarely in the sand, buckets in tow, scanning the horizon for the next boat to arrive with it’s much-anticipated catch.

And then there’s children: the wandering progeny of all of the fish-trading women, scouring the market for something to occupy their time, playing with the cartoon-like skeletons of discarded fish, clinging to the leg of whatever fisherman, business man, homeless man, or mzungu happens to pass-by.

I always think I’m just going to enter the market area to greet my friends and move-on, but without fail I meet someone interesting; a naval officer studying KiSwahili literature at the local university, an old, blind fish-trader telling stories of how his wife can’t “get enough of him”, a fish-auctioneer with an encyclopedic knowledge of the marine-life in the Mtwara Bay, an octopus-hunter who sells his catch to an American company in Dar es Salaam. Every time I’m down there I realize I’m not the only strange-er  attracted to this strange place– it’s a vortex of interesting people with interesting stories. And I think I’m starting, if ever so slowly, to become part of the community.

Today, for the first time since I’ve been here in Mtwara, I participated in a fish auction, going head-to-head with 20 fierce-faced Tanzanian women, all of us determined to buy the same catch of fish. I didn’t win of course (it could be years before that happens), but I think I made a good showing. Shortly after I was given a lesson on the auctioning rules (unwritten as you can imagine), including a tutorial on exactly how to raise my eyebrows to show that I’ll pay the going price.

I spent almost 5 hours in the fish market today– skipping around to different sitting huts and cooking huts, getting KiMakonde lessons, getting biology lessons, drinking chai, eating fish, and making friends. I’m not sure a trip to Sinde–as beautiful of a village as it is– could have topped that.

I’m not one to be constantly making biblical parallels to my life here in Tanzania, but today I couldn’t help thinking that Jesus must have felt some kind of the same attraction to these fishing communities:  percentage wise, they made-up the greatest majority of his posse. As crude, and cut-throat, and (usually) un-educated as many of these people are, they are some of the most fun, friendly, and, certainly, the most intriguing to be around.

It’s my intention to become part of the crowd there– to know the boats, know the fishermen, know the traders… to know the fish, their prices, and their flavours… to know the cooks, the fish cleaners, and the Mamas who serve the best coconut tomato fish curry in the area. I want to hear their stories and tell some of my own (though they are doomed to pale in comparison).

I’ll continue that journey on Monday morning, when I join a local fishing crew on their fishing dhow and help them with their daily catch. We’ll launch at 6:00 am from a small fishing village on the coast, spend 6 hours swimming and fishing in the Indian Ocean, and arrive back at the fish market, hopefully, with a boat full of the days catch.

 

36 Hours in Mihambwe

Ross and I just returned from a short, yet full and exhausting, visit to the village Mihambwe. It’s a small village that sits just North of the Ruvuma River– the long and patchy river that acts as the border between Tanzania and Mozambique. We went to Mihambwe by invitation of Mzee Chimeta, a local governmental leader that I had met on a recent trip investigating the water situation in the district. Mzee Chimeta, the Diwani (councilor/mayor) of the villages surrounding Mihambwe calls himself the “president of the kataa”… and walks and talks like he believes it. He acted as our guide for the two days we spent in the village, answering our off-puting abundance of questions, showing us the main vijiwe (hang-outs) of Mihambwe, and introducing us to the village elders. Thursday night we ate at his table and camped outside of his hut, perched on a hill just above the Ruvuma river valley– offering us a cool, breezy night’s sleep and some spectacular views of the sunrise over the river’s waters. Friday morning we awoke for chai, a light breakfast in town, and some more time in conversation with the old men of the village.

Ross and Mzee Chimeta

This trip was a relationship building one for us, returning to a place that Ross and I had passed through on our dirt-bike adventure last summer, this time with the hope of making some contacts who could keep us connected to the village. We left with a few such contacts: a young man who called himself “Together”– a smart, ambitious kijana (youth) who definitely represents the younger generation of the Mihambwe population– and a village elder named Fundi Faume Dadi. Although one of the older men in town, he was spirited and informative, offering us a fervent welcome to return to the village and an invitation to stay at his home when we do.

With Chimeta's family at their home

 

Com- Posting

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This project has been a long time in coming for our family (especially since we’ve allowed ourselves to be called “gardeners” for the past few years)– building our first compost pile. We’ve been hearing the praises for this stuff far too long without getting up the gumption to go and make it ourselves.

We’ve started a few half-hearted piles in the past: when we were keeping a garden at Monte and Beth’s house I would pile all of the yard trash up in a little opening behind their tool shed. Over the course of 2 years it grew into quite a heap. The problem was I literally threw all of the yard trash in there: broken tool handles, busted buckets, plastic bags (from the bags of store-bought compost I used since I couldn’t wait to make my own). The pile was basically a trash pit that I jokingly referred to as compost. It ended up being an eye-sore to Monte and Beth’s backyard… and I’m sure Monte has recently had to clean it out.

When we first got into our house here in Mtwara we made another failed attempt. We would collect all of our kitchen scraps– both pre-meal and after meal– and throw them into one big pile in the backyard. Not a well balanced pile. The nitrogen content of that little pile must have been through the roof and after a few months, all we really had was  a slimy, stinky mess that attracted some of the most unsavory of visitors to our backyard. Had to stop making that “compost”.

So, inspired by our training in Lesotho and convinced that compost is the indeed the most beneficial fertilizer for rural farmers, we decided to give it an honest effort and build a legitimate, well-rounded, proportionally correct compost pile. We started collecting the necessary materials for the pile in mid October and by early December, finally had enough of the 3 main ingredients to start: greens, browns, and manure.

Our biggest obstacle by far were the greens. This component includes almost anything that was cut when green. The dry season is just coming to an end and you can imagine the scarcity of green grasses after 4 months of little to no rain at all. What the cows couldn’t eat, the sun withered away, leaving nothing for us to collect. Every morning Johnny, a friend from town, would come to our house, grab a “slasher” and two gunny sacs and go out in search of greens. It took him almost a month to find all that we needed.

The brown components were easily available– crop residues from last season, fallen leaves, pruned bushes, and wood shavings from our local carpenters shop.

And the manure came from a friend down the street who keeps a few cows. We got (15) 50 kilo bags of manure from her which were carried from her cow pens to our backyard (about 1/2 mile walk).

Having collected all of our components, we decided to start early one Friday morning to get this pile built. Our aim was a 2m x 2m x 2m compost pile using the following layering: 20cm brown/woody, 20 cm greens, 100 kilos cow manure. We would repeat these layers, constantly dousing the pile in water, until we reached 2 meters in height.

The building of the pile was quite a spectacle to behold. Anytime you mix 700 kilos of cow manure, nearly 400 liters of water, and 5 men in  98 degree weather, you’re bound to end up with a mess. And a mess it was.

We started at 8:00 in the morning and put our last few buckets of water on the pile at 6:00 pm. We never quite made it to 2 meters in height– with the compression of the water and manure it ended being closer to 1.5. But when it was done, it was (to us) a thing of beauty.

Since we built the pile along the fence that runs parallel to the main road, it attracted a lot of attention from the passing traffic. People on bikes would stop and stare, children would point and laugh, and vehicles would stop and get the low down on why we were building this grass and manure fort. But very few of those who stopped knew anything about fertilizer made from decomposing materials. And for us, that was exciting. If this pile turns out well, getting to share with people who have never been exposed to composting is an exciting prospect– especially when it can make such dramatic differences in their annual yields.

From here the pile will be turned every three days (the first turn took me 5 hours) for the first 3 turns, then every 10 days for the next 5 turns. Turning allows the pile to mix it’s layers, cool down, and incorporates oxygen back into the system. It will then sit  and cure for another 4 months, ready for use in early May. It’s definitely an experiment in delayed gratification. But living in a culture where planning for the future is nearly taboo, I think it will be healthy practice for us all.

We were pretty excited to finish building the pile at the end of the day. But for me, the most rewarding moment of the day came about 3/4 of the way through our work when a mother and her daughter passed by hand in hand. Seeing us all there working, soaked in sweat, covered in mud, and reeking of manure, she bent over and told her daughter in Swahili,

“This is how our relationship with Wazungu should be. We should work together. And no one should be better than anyone else.”

While our life here isn’t yet a perfect example of that kind of reciprocal relationship… I couldn’t agree more.

And if 10 hours of hard labor with our Tanzanian friends can get that message across, you can bet there will be many more compost piles to come.

Artemesia Tea

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I’ve been thinking of a day like today ever since I sat in Kyle and Ginger Holton’s living room and sipped a bitter, foul drink made from the leaves of the artemesia plant. While the taste of the “tea” that night wasn’t enjoyable in the least, the idea of it captured my attention. Kyle explained to us that a concoction of this tea, drank in specific quantities over the course of a few days, could cure Malaria. And the best thing about it: it could be grown in your backyard.  I knew that night that growing artemesia was bound to be part of our work in Tanzania.

Malaria is still a huge issue here in Tanzania. While the mortality rates caused by Malaria have fallen dramatically in the past 10 years, it still remains a deadly virus for populations living far from proper medicines and proper treatment facilities. A large portion of Mtwara’s population falls into that category, and because of its low altitude, warm weather, and heavy clay soils, the whole region is a “red zone” for Malaria.

As soon as we settled into our house here in Mtwara I started preparing a part of our land for growing the artemesia plants. We bought the seeds (from a small organization in Germany called Anamed), prepared some holes, and started our first seedlings. It’s been a tough process along the way. Starting the seeds was a trick due to their microscopic size. And the plants themselves didn’t seem to do well in the fierce tropical sun– most of them wanted to bolt to seed long before they were big enough for a good harvest. But we continued to mulch, fertilize, and love on these 20 plants for the past few months.

Our toil did pay-off however, and just last week we harvested enough to make our first, small batch of artemesia tea. We pulled the leaves, cut them up and dried them in the sun. It doesn’t look like much– mainly because its not– but to us, that small pile of dark green dried leaves represents our first tangible piece of “work” here in Mtwara. After a year of doing only “preparatory” work in language and culture, having a product that we can hold, smell, and even (unpleasantly) drink is a big step for our family.

We’ve got a long way to go in trying to do good here in Mtwara. Our knowledge of the land, the people, and the language is still only “novice” and our  connections and relationships with people still limited. We’re still far from ready to enter our “work” phase here. But today we celebrate a small victory, raising a glass of pungent artemesia tea,  and toast to whatever good and fruitful things the future may hold for us and our Tanzanian neighbors.

NOTE: To learn more about the Anamed organization, or about the Artemesia (A-3) plant and its uses in tropical countries like Tanzania, visit www.anamed.net. Also note that none of this tea will be distributed to anyone other than ourselves until we can determine its effectiveness. As of today, we still recommend and prefer to use the WHO guidelines for treatment of Malaria.

Confessions of an Amateur Mom

Before I had Reed, I wondered what motherhood would be like. I imagined going on walks, having tea parties, playing dress up, following a stumbling toddler around in the park, baking cookies, and receiving daily hugs from a pudgy armed midget, saying, “I love you, Mommy.” The times when I babysat someone else’s kid, I always had the comfort of knowing it would be different with my own. I would know what I was doing, right?

While I DO occasionally get a pudgy-armed hug, more often I get half eaten eggs and the daily exercise of finding all my things which have so cunningly been misplaced. Occasionally, i’m force fed cold macaroni, even if I have politely and vehemently refused. It turns out motherhood is not the most glamorous thing in the world, much like pregnancy. Once it’s actually you and you’re no longer just staring admiringly at that precious baby or the cute expecting mom, you realize why people start aging the second they become parents.

I distinctly remember talking to a friend when Reed was about three months old. Her son had just started walking and she was describing her typical day to me. “But surely it’s easier than a little baby right? I mean, isn’t he more independent now and don’t you have more time to get things done?” She looked at me with the same polite look you would if you were about to try to convey an abstract concept to an english beginner. Then I talked to parents of teen agers and wondered the same thing. “Doesn’t it get easier when you can talk to your kids and they can actually respond? Isn’t it easier when you can reason with them?” Same polite look. I have learned not to ask. The safest assumption is that there will always be easier and harder trade offs and that it will become generally harder until that dreadful day when Reed’s hero becomes a stupid boy instead of me.

I have to be honest, as we’ve gotten closer and closer to the ubiquitous terrible two’s, I’ve had do remind myself a lot that I only get one shot at this. As she demands more and more of me, it seems we’re farther than ever from some kind of reciprocal relationship in which I do something, like eat a disgusting leftover egg yolk or change a particularly epic diaper or get up before 6 to make breakfast after a sleepless night, and get a kiss and a “thank you”. A few times, unfortunately, I have lost sight of our numbered days with Reed as a toddler. The most recent was on our trip home from South Africa. Our flight left at midnight, arrived at 4am and she didn’t sleep at all on the plane. When we finally got to our hotel in Dar after a sleepless night for us all, it was a little after six. She slept for 45 minutes and then laid in bed, pulling back my bra strap as hard as she could before letting it snap on my back, which she did over and over. I finally sat up, grasped her shoulders, and said, “You BETTER take INCREDIBLY good care of me when i’m old, young lady!” Our first week back in Mtwara was rough. She was adjusting to the heat again and to the fact that we were no longer on vacation and couldn’t both give her 100% attention all the time. She wanted to be held all the time, wouldn’t nap, and slept terribly at night. Looking back, I’m positive much of that was stress she sensed in me. I felt guilty for my feelings towards her, especially because her adjustment was so understandable.

One afternoon, when I was trying to get her to take a nap, it occurred to me that perhaps all this guilt I felt was an over reaction. Love is complicated and fortunately, it is bigger than day to day moods or feelings. This is the case with every other relationship in my life that I would consider a loving one. I think I just never expected it to be the case with my own flesh and blood, that the day(s) would come when I just didn’t like her all that much. Surprisingly, admitting to myself that some days during the toddler months I might not like Reed all that much but believing that it’s ok to feel that way, I was a better mom. The following day I tried to read “Love You Forever” for nap time. It occurred to me then, as it does to all of us at one point i’m sure, the cruel irony that someday Reed would be doing some of these things for me, maybe with my gratitude and maybe not. She will someday take care of me but without the thrill of watching me develop and discover. She’ll be watching me as I un-become me. I held her a little tighter as she fell asleep, thought a little less about the dishes, and extinguished some of the anger I felt about her lack of gratitude. I reminded myself that the day will come when all I want is to rewind and follow her around for a day and clean up her messes and even, perhaps, crave egg yolks.

My own frustrations and journeying as a parent have made me marvel at the lack of consideration we so often give our parents as young adults. They spend our entire lives being completely consumed by us, reeling and losing sleep over every decision they make as they learn how the heck to be parents. Then one day we decide to go to college and somehow, in our infinite twisdom (teen wisdom) get the nerve to be hyper critical of their parenting as we uncover who we really are and all the ways they messed up to make us that way. As if that’s not bad enough, we get married and then they watch as our ultimate loyalty switches to someone we have known for a fragment of the time we have known them.

Mom and Dad, I thank you for the significant time you have poured into me and I apologize for my super twit college days when I was over critical of you. Thank you for eating my egg yolks and changing my disgusting diapers. Thanks for giving me space. Thanks for caring about me enough to spend weeks hunting for modest shorts that could still be cute. Thanks for being patient with me. If I could, I would rewind a bit and be more thankful and aware of how much of you thought of me ahead of yourselves.

And to Reed, my splendidly filthy, adorable rooster, I love you and yours are the only leftover egg yolks I would dream of eating. Forgive me when i’m short and cut me some slack when I crowd you and instruct you too much someday. I’m sorry for the negative things you’re bound to inherit from me but proud of the good things and prouder of the things you will be all on your own. If you ever call me, exasperated by your own child, I will listen patiently, just like my mom has, and remind you that you yourself were once unlikeable, though always lovable.

Annual Update

At the end of every year we’d like to send out an annual update that gives you all a little look into our lives over the past 12 months. This report is our first, documenting the time from October 2010 – October 2011, our first year here in Tanzania. So, click on the picture, download the report, read it, enjoy it, and give us your feedback. We’d love to know what you think, and know how we can improve this report for next year.

Let us give a big thanks to all who have made our work here in Tanzania a possibility: our families, our missions committee at Downtown Church, the Lexington Church, Church in the Falls, KIBO Group, and all of the individuals and families who are supporting us here in Mtwara. We are incredibly grateful and indebted to you all.

NOTE: If you’d like a printed copy of the report, respond with your mailing address and we’ll make sure to get one to you.

South Africa and Lesotho: Our First Family Vacation

We went to South Africa specifically for an agricultural workshop which was to take place in Lesotho.  We decided to take advantage of that by extending our trip one week and venturing to the Cape for our first vacation as a family.  As with other trips we have taken since being married, this one surprised us by the number of lovely people we encountered and it reminded us that the world, as flooded as it may be with shallow jerks, is also full of extremely cool people, exploiting their uniqueness for the sake of the rest of us.

We arrived in Johannesburg after midnight on a Tuesday, already delighted by the luxuries the western world has to offer, which included prompt service at the car rental desk and the inviting scent of a new-ish car, the engine of which was barely audible to our land cruiser adapted ears.  Once on the road it was like being in America again, just with really Dutch bill boards.  The next morning we set out to find a few warm things to wear for the workshop and a car seat which the car rental place had run out of.  We pulled in to the first gas station we saw and waited less time than we would have anticipated for a solution to our car seat dilemma.  A woman with a severe face and flaming red hair (who I probably would have described as having a lovely complexion and striking, almost violet hair before this incident) got out of her car next to us and started mouthing something to her husband.  I told Andrew they were talking about us because Reed wasn’t in a car seat.  “You’re over thinking it,” he said.  While he went inside to find an ATM, she walked past the car, shaking her head and glaring at me and then approached the window and tapped.  I rolled down the window and preceded to be chewed out for not having Reed in a car seat.  “I just can’t fathom how you could care so little about your daughter’s safety,” she said.  Stunned, I explained that we were traveling and hadn’t been able to get one, that we had pulled in to this gas station to ask someone about that very thing.  “You should have asked the other car rental companies.  Someone would have had a car seat, even in the middle of the night.”  Stunned further, I asked if she knew where we could buy one.  She suggested a few places and then handed me one of those info-mercial, triangular seat belt guiding thing-ies for kids.  “Oh really, you don’t need to give me that,” I said.  “I just care about your child’s safety,” she said and walked off.  Here’s what I learned from this encounter:

1. I think things like that about people frequently (though I would never have the gumption to confront/insult them about it) and should really remember that one can never know the whole story.

1. The high road is seldom cathartic (unless it’s the kind that involves heaping burning coals on someone’s head) and you will continue to rehearse for days or months what the low road would have sounded like.

After that rough introduction, we found Woolworth’s.  If you have ever been to South Africa, you have no doubt encountered one.  It’s like a department store but with a really pretty grocery store similar to Fresh Market or Whole Foods.  We went a little crazy on our first trip and took home mint chocolate chip ice cream, butter lettuce, a baguette, chocolate milk, and blue cheese among other things.

We made fresh salads every night in Johannesburg

With our supplies in toe, we set out for Lesotho, which we quickly learned is actually pronounced “lesutu”.  We had no idea what to expect for these two weeks, other than that we would be staying at someone’s house because it would be too cold at night to camp with Reed.  The trip was long but beautiful.  The landscape was so similar to the American west that it was easy to believe we were there instead.  Upon entering Lesotho, the landscape changed immediately to mountains and we soon found ourselves driving up windy gravel roads, feeling like the end of the earth was approaching.  All this…a hem…in a Volks Wagon Polo.  We felt ridiculous negotiating tiny, cuticle sized crevices we would normally fly over in our beastly Land Cruiser.  It was not until the very end of our 8hr. trip, as we were pulling into the drive way, that we lost a small piece of the bumper.

Landscape in Lesotho

The area was like an undeveloped Colorado Springs.  It was surrounded by mountains with a little creek just down the hill from the house.  The camp sight was in a clump of poplars.  And the house, oh, the house.  It was made of locally harvested sandstone and logs.  Picture windows were in every room.  There was a large covered porch overlooking the creek, complete with a grill, which South Africans call a braai.  Our hosts, the Bassons, were truly the most hospitable people we have ever met.  Their doors were always open, literally.  Every night we stayed there, they played host to multiple extra dinner guests beyond those of us staying in their home.  August, an extremely energetic pastor/agriculturalist, would serve up a nightly cut of wild game, which he would braai slowly over the coals yielding tender, juicy meat.  One night he grilled a two and a half foot long rack of Reedbuck.  The following night was a leg of lamb.  All this to say, what we had anticipated to be a “roughing it” kind of stay turned into a daily mixing of the best things on earth: good people and food.  We, and the twelve other guests, would feast while August entertained us with stories about their time in Lesotho or about his notorious flatulence.  We laughed harder than we have in a year and thanked God for this colorful family and the wisdom we gathered from our time with them.

The Basson's Sandstone House

After the training, we returned to Johannesburg for one night before heading to Cape Town.  We had planned two days in the city and three in a small wine town about an hour away.  Our first morning we went to the harbor of Cape Town.  We cruised the shops and watched Reed marvel at the shiny floors and mannequins, who she greeted in Swahili, only to discover they were not very talkative.  She LOVED the mall.  We bought her a small dark chocolate truffle and followed her in shifts while she stared at all the potential friends and toys.  She wondered into an actual toy store and stopped, stunned.  She looked up at me as if to say, “You never told me there was a place like this”.  After lunch we went to the Two Oceans Aquarium.  Not to be snobby, but for an aquarium boasting the variety of two oceans, I was a little disappointed.  I was hoping for the Shed Aquarium dolphin show or at least one really huge Great White shark. Nope. Reed enjoyed the fish, but not nearly as much as she enjoyed a completely ordinary ,non-fish pigeon stuck in the penguin exhibit.

At the Aquarium

The next day we had planned to pack a picnic and spend the day climbing Table Mountain.  Unfortunately, Reed got some kind of stomach bug and spent the entire night throwing up.  Due to our late start, we abandoned the mountain and hung around the streets at its foot.  We window shopped in and out of antique stores and little boutiques.  We sat in our favorite South African discovery, Melissa’s.  If you have ever seen the movie “It’s Complicated”, this shop reminded us of Meryl Streep’s bakery.  They had delicious coffee and an impressive kids’ menu I secretly wished to order from.  Later that afternoon we went to Kirstenbosch botanical gardens.  We immediately wished we had come sooner.  This huge park rests on the side of Table Mountain making it the backdrop for its manicured lawns, beautiful trees, and flowerbeds.  Mist was falling off the top, spilling into the park.  I kept expecting to see Mighty Joe Young emerge from the mist with his companion Charlize Theron and her alter-boy haircut.  We bought some coffee and strolled around the park, laying in the grass.  It was so fun to be in a spot so perfect for a toddler.  She was thrilled at all the uses for her outdoor lexicon, exclaiming “bird!  moon!  flower!  dog!  cow!  duck!” even when such things were not present.  We stayed until dusk and bought a few flower seed packets on our way out.

Playing at Kirstenbosch

The next morning we went to Franshhoek, known as the gourmet capital of South Africa.  Yes please.  I had researched different restaurants and vineyards, made a few reservations.  Once again, we were sabotaged by stomach bugs but this time it got me and Andrew.  The irony of this is still getting me, that we live in AFRICA but get sick in the western world on our vacation.  Thankfully, we still had a solid day and half to take in the area.  Most thankfully, we didn’t miss our chocolate tasting.  There is a famous chocolate shop in Franshhoek called Huguenots.  They offer a “chocolate experience” that includes a history of chocolate, tasting, and a few truffles to take home.  What most impressed me was that this little building, no bigger than the toy box in Searcy, puts out 40,000 chocolates a day by hand.  Also, while demand is constantly rising, they refuse to switch to machines because so many people need jobs in their town.  That’s why I didn’t feel guilty when I ate all of my take-home truffles.  It was, after all, for a good cause.

Entering the wine-town of Franshhoek

Our trip was an overall success.  We learned a few things about vacationing with kids, a little about this interesting country and it’s racial struggle, past and present.  We rubbed shoulders with people who deeply care for African farmers and are sacrificing a great deal to teach others to do the same.  As always, the highlight of this adventure was the people we met and the things they taught us.  Thinking back on it, I’m embarrassed by my nervousness about where we would stay and what the people would be like.  By now you would think I would only have confidence that whoever they are, they will become our friends.

Snap Shots: Agricultural Training in Lesotho

The past week Sarah and I have been in Lesotho, a little-known country buried in the heart of South Africa. We’ve been part of an in-field mentoring group learning “Farming God’s Way”– a low-tech, conservationist approach to improving rural agriculture. While we don’t love the name and all that it implies, we’ve really enjoyed the people and the ideas we’re learning. We’re working daily with the surrounding community, teaching and learning in community with the poor living in this area.  We still have 3 days left in the training, but here are some pictures from the past few days for a quick look into what we’ve been doing.

Lesotho is known as "The Mountain Kingdom". This is the view from the house we are staying in.

And this is the house we're in. We went prepared for sub-zero camping, but ended up in rural luxury. Wish you could see the inside of this place.

Lectures in the field: a local farmer walks us through the training curriculum.

Technical Lectures with Basutu farmers

Laying out "Terren Ropes" to plot exact planting stations

Grant Dryden walking through the basics of good compost

Our team's compost pile: 2m x 2m x 2m

Digging a model garden with the famers.

Reed making friends with some of the children at training. There was a great group of children interested in learning more about farming.

"Holing-out" the model garden. These same planting holes will be used year after year.

Sarah getting her hands dirty making furrows for a bean crop.

Sarah and Reed lying in the shade during training. Sarah has taken great care of Reed this week so one of us could be fully in on the training.