A little girl in pigtails waits behind the door, crown on and new puppy in hand, for her mom to come in and see her.

A boy’s lips curl into a smile as he proudly presents the turtle he made to his teacher.

A young child laughs as he watches a balloon transformed into exactly what he wanted. He claps and hold out his hands – too excited for words.

In a child’s hands, balloons come alive.

Nothing says “happy” like a kid with balloon animals.

Inflatable Blessings

I’ve always loved balloon animals. Whether it’s at carnivals, fairs, or birthday parties they bring that little extra touch of magic and joy. The first memory I have of getting a balloon animal was when I was five years old: I was at a church carnival and I chose a dog.

I help adjust one Romaniv boy’s “kapelyukh” or hat

I was fascinated by the way the clown folded and shaped the balloon, transforming it. When I got older, I took some classes and later spent several years practicing and expanding my repertoire.

It wasn’t until later I discovered most of the population is terrified of clowns. But as long as you don’t wear a crazy costume, it seems everyone loves balloons.

Now I’ve had a chance I never would have expected, to make balloon animals for special needs children here in Ukraine. It has been amazing to see their expressions of surprise and delight when an ordinary day at class is transformed by inflatable wonder.

I’ve learned a few new tips as well. So next time you find yourself in a foreign country with a hand pump and about a hundred balloons, here are a few things to keep in mind…

Tip #1: Learn the Language

Very quickly I learned the deadly pitfall of “meeshka, mooshka, myshka”. Meeshka is a bear. Mooshka is a fly. Myshka is a mouse.

I had the misfortune of not knowing how similar these words are. I thought they were all the same word, the word for “mouse”. My conversations with children quickly reached Abbot-and-Costello proportions.

This little critter caught himself a pair of Myshka – mice.

“would you like a meeshka?”

“myshka?”

“yes, a meeshka.”

“I want a moosha.”

“myshka it is!”

“no, mooshka!”

“yes, a myshka.”

Conversations like these not only frustrate children, but render your interpreter useless as well – they’ll be laughing way too hard.

Tip #2: Leave Your Helmet at Home

I’ll never forget the party of ’09. It started like any other day of balloons, children cheerfully picking out their inflatable treats, gleefully running about with flowers and swords and hats.

Suddenly, they where everywhere. Crazed children with a taste for more than balloons, they were out for blood. Pulling, pushing, grabbing, demanding. The orderly line was gone, chaos reigned, and every child wanted THEIR balloon and they wanted it NOW. I was lucky to escape unscathed. Many inflatable puppies were lost that day.

I wish I could say that was the only time, but as veteran of many a birthday-party-gone-sour, I know how quickly American kids can go from pushing and shoving in line into all-out war.

Forget saying “thank you” without coaching. In my many tours of duty I’ve seen  balloon events resemble more war-zone than wonderland, and I have ruefully wished for a helmet and padding under my colorful costume.

A hat at Romaniv meets with approval

But here all the children I worked with were incredibly polite. They quietly waited their turn. They said “thank you” unprompted. There seemed to be almost as much wonder and joy in watching someone else’s balloon be made as in receiving their own.

These kids are great.

Tip #3: When they pop, the fun don’t stop

Balloons do sometimes pop. But contrary to my expectations, the most common reaction I saw was laughter, not crying.

When a new pet mouse or friendly dog disappeared with a bang, the children here looked around to try and see where it went. Instead of tears the kids clapped their hands and said “again, again”.

You may encounter a big deer-in-headlights look as if they might have done something wrong. But when they see you smile, they’ll realize it’s all part of the show!

Tip #4: You will never have enough pictures. Never.

There is no way to convey how cute and joyful children are when they receive an unexpected gift. You will find yourself taking picture after picture in rapid succession until your camera memory resembles more of a flip-book than portrait collection.

The end of a long day

You can try to fight this urge. You can tell yourself “they won’t be that cute”. But it is a lie. They will be that cute and there is no hope for you or your camera’s memory card.

Something Simple

After seeing how the children and staff are able to face unexpected hardships unflinchingly, it was a wonderful change to offer some unexpected delights.

And with several of the teachers learning to make balloons themselves, perhaps a single day of silliness will have the chance to become a regular expression of the fun and delight here at MTU.

It just goes to show you that every talent has a place in God’s kingdom. And when you dive in, you might just learn something yourself.

“Meeshka! Mooshka! Myshka! Bear! Fly! Mouse!”

They asked me to drive.  The job title of “chauffeur” wasn’t written in my intern description packet. Right? The only way I would be able to drive this car was if Jesus truly did come down and take the wheel!

I went through my personal checklist of all the ways driving in South Africa could go wrong.

• South Africans drive on the right side of the car and on the left side of the road.
• This car is a manual.  (No more description is needed.)
• Cows, goats and all other farm animals are a threat on the road at all times.
• Taxi vans drive on whatever side of the road they feel comfortable.  When in South Africa, you best get out of their way!

I could only think about the fate that lay before me.  I knew my time here on planet Earth could be drawing to a close.  This was how I was going to go…by a little red car.

The Beginning of the End

I exited the library and laid eyes on my noble steed: the beautiful, 90’s Volkswagen that rivaled the size of a golf cart.  Every step of my 6’4” body toward the car felt like a death march. This beaut was at the top of its game because it only took five minutes to start the engine.

Siyanda drove to the soccer field where the journey truly began.  I placed my sweaty hands on the steering wheel, moved my seat back as far back as it could go and, with my knees still in the dashboard, we set off. Well, almost…

It took me five minutes to get the car started and into first gear.  By my standards, I am thrilled it only took me that long.

Talk about a great senior picture! If only I would of have this beaut during my senior year.

Driving 15 kilometers per hour through a dirt soccer field, it took me another 15 minutes to work the car through the first four gears without killing it.  I was finally gaining confidence in making laps around the goal post and dodging the occasional child.

Then it was time to hit the road.

With as much composure as I could muster, I left the safety of the soccer field and headed to the wild unknown of the road.

I sputtered along at a speed that would make most grandmas look like NASCAR drivers.  Somehow this vehicle was making it up and down the steep hills of kwaNyuswa.  I was completely convinced this vehicle ran on one-fourth gas and three-fourths the grace of God.

Stuck & Stared At

Then it happened.  The car died. It died on one of the steepest hills in kwaNyuswa.

The pressure was on.  People were standing around and staring.  I knew what they were thinking, Look at that umulungu (white person), with his head jammed in the roof of the car, attempting to drive.  That is embarrassing.

Twenty minutes went by, and we were still stuck on the hill.  Despite Siyanda’s efforts to teach me how to balance the clutch and the gas while releasing the parking break, it wasn’t happening.

This is the 1995 Volkswagen in all her glory! Isn’t she beautiful?

We waved around at least 20 cars and one chicken to pass us.  People would come and go finding some quality entertainment as they watched my distress.  Never had the “Learner Car” sign on the back been so true.

I Came, I Stalled, I Conquered

Siyanda kept his patience with me allowing me to learn how to get up this hill.  Then, finally, I did it! I balanced the clutch and the gas.  The car began to shake as if the engine was about to blow.

I reached the top of the hill and looked out over kwaNyuswa as the sun was going down over one of the many hills. I felt a sense of accomplishment.

Not a small sense of accomplishment but one that rivaled the way I felt after completing my first Spartan Race.  I didn’t have to climb under 200 yards of barbwire in the mud, but looking back I think that was easier than driving the red death trap.  Sitting on top of that hill I felt as if I was on top of the world.

We pulled in safely to Light Providers and set foot back on solid ground.  I had done it. After conquering the car I felt ready to go and tackle any challenge that lay before me.  Nothing in South Africa could even compare to the challenge of driving that car.

I can’t understand why I haven’t been asked to drive since that heroic day. After all, I think I do a pretty good job of selling it…

The first plate of meat circulated some time before 10 a.m. Susannah, a Makaphutu volunteer from Scotland, and I were busy helping prepare a salad when the plate reached us.

“Have some—it’s nice!” said the hostess.

We looked at the borderline raw beef in front of us, reached for the more cooked pieces and thanked her. The party had officially started.

———————————————————

Our fellow Makaphutu staff member, Zandile, had invited us for a weekend in her home community to celebrate an “unveiling,” or ceremony to commemorate her mother two years after her death.

When we asked what kind of a celebration it would be, Zandile assured us it would be great.

“They’re slaughtering a cow and 50 chickens!”

Nothing screams celebration quite like that.

And even better, it turns out the initial numbers were grossly underestimated. There were two cows and more than 150 chickens, all to feed somewhere between 500 and 1,000 guests.

Needless to say, we were about to become well-versed in what it means to party like a Zulu.

Susannah, Nomti and friends pitching in with meal preparation.

A Feast

Food in general is key.

To start, we ate whatever meat came our way. No matter where we went, there was always meat—meat on plates, meat waiting to be cooked, meat being given as a gift, etc.

In addition, an army of extended family and friends worked to prepare an elaborate meal of rice, beef stew, beet root, baked beans, something else with beans and salad for all attendees.

Susannah and I tried our hand at various chores but never seemed to master the techniques required to prepare the dishes just right. In the end, the other women relegated us to carrot grating (although, we did botch that one a little too).

During this food hullabaloo, the guests began arriving…fashionably late.

Speeches, Songs and Sermons

About two hours or so after the intended start time, members of the family’s church choir broke into casual harmonies of familiar hymns, sending the gathering crowd into song and clapping.

Zandile and others singing a song during the ceremony.

Susannah and I snuck into a row toward the back, but the master of ceremonies quickly spotted us, assessed our blatant lack of Zulu, relocated us to the front of the tent and brought us a translator.

We enjoyed hours of speeches, songs and sermons right under the noses of the presenters (who sometimes used a megaphone).

Just when it looked like things were reaching a close, we were instructed it was time to move to the gravesite.

We gathered at the back of the property around Zandile’s mother’s tombstone, prayed and then shuffled back into the tent for more of the ceremony.

Gifts

At this point, the family members sat up front and the guests began parading toward them with gifts—oranges, cash, sacks of rice, aprons, shirts and dozens of blankets. Blankets seemed to be the gift of choice.

Zandile’s mother’s grave on her family’s property.

Susannah and I looked on with some confusion as the blankets continued to pile up. But being as all the gifts were geared for utility, and it is winter here, the family seemed pleased with the generous offering.

Each guest wrapped his or her gift around a family member until they were piled with blankets, at which point someone would hastily rescue them and make room for the piling of more gifts.

Periodically, someone would run in with a slab of raw meat (why not?) and place it in front of the group. Eventually they collected it, cooked it and then put it back on display before passing it around on plates.

The gift giving eventually moved outside of the tent, where women were already serving plates of food to the many onlookers. We broke away from the chaos and managed to secure a couple of plates for ourselves (several hours had already passed since a meat plate made it to us).

We sat down on the concrete floor of a hut, meals in hand, wondering why there wasn’t any chicken on our plates. If we weren’t eating the touted 150 chickens, who was?

Our question was quickly answered when a few men sitting across from us were offered whole roasted chickens next to their meal. A woman explained the men were some of the in-laws, and all in-laws get chicken.

The cooking of the two cows.

Rest at Last

We weren’t sure how many other such traditions transpired that we didn’t catch, but after a day of translating, meat-eating and clapping, we were ready for bed.

By the time we curled up in our room for the night with Zandile (and an abundance of new blankets), we were spent. Then she asked if we’d need a bucket to use for the bathroom during the night.

“No…I think we’ll walk out to the outhouse,” I assured her.

“In the night?” Zandile exclaimed, eyebrows raised. “What will you do about baboons?”

Fighting off baboons at the outhouse just seemed like an experience we were better off without, so we declined another glass of water and went to sleep.

Farewell to All

Although most of the guests had cleared by sundown, plenty of out-of-towners stayed the night. So when everyone woke up the next morning, food preparation once again became priority.

As we collected our things for a semi-early departure, Zandile entered the room carrying a bowl of freshly killed chickens.

A couple of kids with the right idea—when it’s time to eat, grab a seat anywhere!

“We’re just going to make a curry, and then we can go,” she said, motioning to the bowl.

Susannah and I once again answered the call, and we were once again fed beef at far too early an hour as we prepared salad. But since the crowd had thinned, the hosts started breaking out the good stuff, like cow stomach and intestines.

When the hour of departure arrived, we gathered together for one last round of singing and praying and clapping.

“Would you like to say anything?” Zandile said in English as the crowd fell silent.

We smiled at the group, took a deep breath and thanked them for welcoming us into their community, their home and their family. We may have felt a lot of things throughout the weekend, but never—not for one second—did we feel unwelcomed.

Then we hit the road.

Well, we packed our trunk full of blankets and meat and then hit the road.

Staying at Lily of the Valley, I quickly discovered that all staff members perform multiple jobs. A science teacher may double as a bus driver, the receptionist may help with violin lessons and the soccer coach may also be… a firefighter?

During the dry season in South Africa, the wide grassy plains are prone to burning. Many of these fires are set intentionally to keep out snakes, make hunting easier or clear land for green grass.

Backburning, or intentionally setting specific areas on fire, can help re-direct the main fire from critical areas

But when these get out of hand, they can become very large, and potentially dangerous, bushfires.

Why is the sky glowing?

I discovered this on my way to dinner. After sundown, the children are normally inside. But I noticed kids dashing back and forth from building to building and adults talking quickly, making calls and scrambling to find cars.

One young boy ran by me, and I heard him shout, “Fire!”

That’s when I noticed the red glow over the field next to Lily. A pickup truck swung by, loaded with teenage boys and several male staff. I grabbed my camera, hopped in and set off to fight my first bushfire.

The Lily soccer coach doubles as firefighting supervisor for the night

To the Fire!

The ride was bumpy and full of teen boys chattering excitedly in Zulu. Everyone leapt off when the truck stopped, and with the cry of teens going to save the world, they went tearing off into the high grass. The only light was the fire we were trying to put out.

I had thought there might be equipment. Perhaps water. I was wrong. I ran with the group and discovered the four key steps to fighting a South African bushfire:

Step 1: Find a tree

This is harder than it sounds. We are in a grassland, not a forest. It is also pitch dark.

Once you find a tree (sometimes by running into it or tripping over it), start pulling off branches to make yourself a big, leafy club.

I quickly learned you don’t want it to be a thorn tree.

Step 2: Find an edge

These fires burn in lines. You want to fight it at the edge of the line so you’re not surrounded.

And if breathing is important to you, it’s also a good idea to stay upwind of the fire.

Step 3: Beat the fire with your club

That’s right! After I collected my bundle of branches, I proceeded to beat at the fire until it went out. It may sound ridiculous, but I found it surprisingly effective, and more than a little satisfying.

A lone warrior faces down his fiery adversary

There’s something especially rewarding about beating a fire with a club, and judging by the hoots and hollers of the boys around me, everyone else agreed.

Step 4: Repeat

Eventually the bundles of branches burn, and you have to find more. Besides that, it’s just a matter of working through the grasses line by line until it’s all gone.

Not a big deal…

As I returned home that night, covered in soot and reeking of smoke, I could only marvel at the casual nature of the entire event.

It was exciting, yes, but not unusual. I talked to staff and students, and they said this happens every once in a while. They didn’t consider it a hardship or terrible chore.

I thought back on some of the occasional chores I’ve faced – cleaning the house, raking the leaves, mowing the lawn or even the sporadic “hardships” in my community: bad traffic, snowstorms or closed roads.

I could only marvel at how often I find myself complaining about these things, when here at Lily of the Valley, no one gripes about putting out a fire in the night.

[Jocelyn is an intern with the Center for Global Impact—World Next Door’s partner organization in Cambodia. In addition to writing and taking pictures for CGI’s blogs, newsletters and promotional materials, Jocelyn is a freelance photojournalist for WND.]

A young family gathers to play a card game

While the rest of the world brought in the New Year at midnight on January 1^st, the Khmer New Year 2012 officially began four months later. The “Year of the Dragon” kicked off at 7:11 p.m. on Friday, April 13^th, with family, food and fireworks.  It’s not often you get to experience two New Years in one calendar year, so I decided to live it up and connect with some locals to figure out what this peculiar holiday is really all about. I give you my official Khmer New Year Expat Survival Guide—straight from the single, Western female who experienced the craziness herself.

My new cultural gurus and friends

Khmer New Year Expat Survival Guide

#1. Find the Homeland

Mischievous kids fill water balloons at a nearby swamp

An integral part of Khmer New Year is returning to your roots. A few days before the three-day national holiday begins, men, women and children begin to leave Phnom Penh for the villages of their ancestors. They journey by bike, boat or bus to dance, sing and play cards with their extended family. Since America is technically my “homeland”, I decided to claim Battambang—home of Green Mango Café & Bakery—as my own. I couldn’t resist the rumors of boxing matches, ox cart races and even a fake wedding!

#2. Befriend a monk

Technically, Khmer New Year is a cultural holiday—not necessarily a religious one. But many celebrations take place at local pagodas. In my experience, Buddhist monks are super friendly and eager to share their knowledge. For example, what better source could you find to learn the story of the battle of wits between the “intelligent son of a tycoon” and the king of the gods that explains the history of the holiday? They also make delicious iced coffee. Just be sure not to touch them—especially if you’re a lady!

So suave and charming…

#3. Wear a rain jacket

Another unique aspect of the holiday is Sraung Preah—a Buddhist water purification ceremony. Traditionally, the ceremony involves children pouring water on the Buddha and their parents with hopes of receiving happiness, wisdom and a long life in return. However, today a lot of kids—and a few grown men—take great pleasure in standing on the side of the road with water balloons, water guns and buckets full of water to “purify” [A.K.A. totally soak!] passersby.

By the time I finished my several kilometer journey to Ek Phnom—where I got a feel for traditional Khmer games—even my underwear was dripping. Everyone laughed.

#4. Bring your sweetheart

In addition to celebrating fortune, Khmer New Year is also a holiday of love. At least that’s how it appeared according to my tuk tuk driver. As we spent the day together at a local carnival, he took every opportunity to not so subtly suggest he was looking for a sweetheart. I was introduced to several of his friends, who were girls but NOT his girlfriend. He elicited random children to take pictures of us in popular lovers’ alcoves of an ancient temple. And he even invited me to a village house party later that night through a serenade by one of his “superstar” friends—creative yet ineffective.

Can you figure out which meat this is?

#5. Go along for the ride!

The best piece of advice I can give when navigating an unfamiliar holiday in a foreign culture is simply to “go with it!” When random teenage boys rub powder on your face and call you beautiful, say “Thank you.” When you are handed unidentifiable meat-on-a-stick from a street vendor, eat it. And when you find yourself in that rare, privileged moment of being the only foreigner around, revel in it. Because even when you’re wet and covered from the neck up in baby powder, you discover you are also unbelievably happy to be considered one of their own.

What trip would be complete without a little local cuisine? In fact, I love the Guatemalan diet so much, I enrolled in a Potter’s House cooking class with some of the women from the community.

Basically, I now know what I’m doing (sort of).

Chopping onions for the Kakik

As a part of their holistic mission to empower the Treasures, Potter’s House offers important life and careers skill courses. For this course, students from a local culinary institute volunteered to teach safe, sanitary food preparation techniques to anyone interested in learning.

Admittedly, I was sort of a wallflower my first day of class, but my fellow students were eager to teach me the ways of Guatemalan cooking. The teachers even gave me my very own apron (which interestingly gained me quite a few compliments).

Keep an eye on the soup to make sure it doesn’t boil over!

Having learned a little from my gracious Guatemalan classmates and teachers, it’s only right to pass on a recipe! So if you’re interested in making a traditional Guatemalan dish, you might want to start with this delicious traditional soup—Kakik!

To Start

First, get a really big pot—you’ll need it. Cut up a turkey (or a couple of chickens, if you prefer) and boil it in the pot with a chopped head of garlic and a chopped onion until the meat is cooked.

To speed up the process of cooking the meat, you can add the skin of a papaya. I was somewhat skeptical of this, but the teachers assured me it’s one of the properties of the papaya and explained this concept further in Spanish…not sure I understood any of the explanation.

The teachers of the cooking class are volunteers from a local culinary school.

But the turkey cooked fast!

Once cooked, add a bunch of mint and a bunch of coriander—you don’t have to chop them up, just let them hang out for a while in the mixture to give it a little sabor, or flavor.

On the Side

In a different pan, grill about 25 small tomatoes, two pounds of green tomatoes, three onions and three heads of garlic. Take all of these things and throw them in a blender.

Liquefy it all with a well-sealed blender lid. If you have any achiote lying around, add the seeds to the mix. I highly doubt you’ll find any in the United States—it’s a fruit that resembles a sea urchin.

Once the mixture is made, strain out all of the seeds and pulp so you’re left with just the good stuff. Add this to the simmering soup broth.

El Fin!

To finish, add salt, pepper and chili to taste and remove the bunches of herbs. Some of the leaves will stay behind, which is alright. If you want, add cooked rice to the soup.

Any of the Potter’s House Treasures are welcomed at this class and others.

And most importantly, before inviting anyone over to share in your creation, practice saying the name: kah-KEEK.

Unfortunately, I strutted around after the class, apron still on, telling people I was truly chapina (or Guatemalan) because I had made kee-kock in class. One of my classmates finally had the heart to tell me I was butchering the pronunciation.

Semi-complicated name aside, this soup is good, and good for you. Give it a try!

Standing on a street corner in downtown Guatemala City is refreshingly foreign—the language, the clothing, the open air markets, the fast-moving, brightly colored…

…U.S. school buses?

I must be mistaken, I thought, watching one of these beasts barrel down the road for the first time. They look like any old fashioned yellow school bus from the United States, but with a serious makeover.

The streets of Antigua, Guatemala—one of my chicken bus destinations!

They’re painted with bright colors and route names, and some are further adorned with decals of the driver’s choosing. They fly around the streets of Guatemala with a conductor hanging out the door yelling the name of a destination.

Goodness knows I do love public transport.

I’ve become acquainted with these buses—or “chicken buses,” as they’re known around here—through a few different experiences and would like to pass on my findings to any other travelers in need of a ride. Here’s what you need to know:

Ok, so this isn’t my photo…but here’s what the chicken buses look like! (and here’s where the photo is from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Antigua0818.JPG)

1. Some Retired School Buses Head South

Yes, my suspicions were confirmed. When I boarded my first chicken bus, I noted the brown pleather seats, the stubborn double-paned sliding windows and the sign (in English) next to a broken security camera that reads, “Your Child’s Safety is Our Business!”

Guatemala is in fact crawling with born-again school buses.

When a school bus retires in the U.S., it may be exported. If it’s lucky, it comes here to Guatemala for a new, exciting life as a chicken bus.

2. Don’t Underestimate the Carrying Capacity and Racing Potential of School Buses

During their second life, school buses really get a chance strut their stuff. A chicken bus on a popular route carries three adults to a seat, adults standing in the aisle way and a roof full of cargo.

This alone is impressive for a retired automobile, but chicken buses take it a step further: they bear this load while passing cars, swerving around sharp curves and ascending the impressive mountains of the Guatemalan landscape.

More of Antigua…

I don’t remember my school bus doing any of those things on our class trip to the zoo…but then again, we didn’t have the added grab bars on the ceiling and each bench seat to clutch for dear life.

3. It’s Called a Chicken Bus for a Reason

Yes, I rode the bus with chickens. A bus in Guatemala carries an eclectic mix of commuters, from business professionals to agriculturalists. It’s not uncommon to ride next to an animal or a basket of mangoes.

Chicken’s make amiable seat buddies, actually. I rode 30 minutes before realizing I was sitting in front of one. Eventually, she called attention to herself with a loud squawk, but her owner re-adjusted his grip, put her back on his lap, and she rode along comfy and quiet for the rest of the ride.

All are welcome on the bus. Sales people pass through the aisles during stops with plantain chips, tamales, soda, sweets and more. I also witnessed quite a few sales pitches in which someone rode from one location to another while preaching about a miracle vitamin or treatment for hair loss. Other people boarded just to preach, as in, “bus evangelism.”

4. Don’t Mess with a Bus on the Move

If you’re only acquainted with the docile yellow version of the school bus—the kind that puts out a little stop sign and waits for children to cross the road—you may be in for a rude awakening.

Chicken buses wait for no pedestrian, with the exception of the coveted few looking to board the bus. For a customer, a chicken bus will stop on a dime in whatever traffic condition.

The motorcycle is also a popular transport choice around here.

But if you’re not one of the commuting hopefuls with an outstretched arm, best let the bus pass before you try crossing the road.

Weighing the Options….

Pro: Chicken buses run almost anywhere in this country, and barring any major breakdowns, they get there fast.
Con: There are no seatbelts. Also, there have (unfortunately) been several hold-ups on chicken buses.

Pro: Endless concession options brought right to your seat.
Con: Endless sales pitches and the occasional Hellfire-and-brimstone sermon are also brought right to your seat.

Pro: Minimizing environmental impact of fossil fuel by maximizing carrying capacity of the vehicle, consequently tightens the proximity of you to your fellow passengers, increasing the opportunity for new friendships.
Con: Not the most comfortable ride.

Pro: You get to ride with chickens.
Con: Maybe that’s not your thing.

The choice is yours!

And next time you see that unassuming yellow school bus coasting through your neighborhood, don’t be fooled. It’s not as docile as it lets on.

I stood in Jean’s kitchen at attention—I was invited over for soul food. Not just the eating, but also the cooking.

“There’s an apron over there,” said Jean as she looked me up and down and added matter-of-factly, “you’s about to get all messed up.”

Jean at work in the Mustard Seed office

Jean tells it like it is. She’s worked for Mustard Seed for the past year, helping people as they show up at the office and coordinating events in the community. But before Jean came to Mustard Seed, she was in the military. I don’t doubt that Jean could take me (or three of me) in a fight. Luckily, I won’t ever need to test that theory because Jean is as compassionate as she is fierce, making her a great ally to the residents of the 73114 zip code here in Oklahoma City.

“Jean! How do you cut onions like that without crying?” I asked, wiping my own misty eyes from being four feet away from her as she worked.

“I’ve done this since I was little. You need to be cuttin’ more onions, and this won’t be a problem!” she instructed me with raised eyebrows. Jean’s got a way of keeping you humble.

Make sure you check your bag for holes before shaking up your chicken in four! Better yet…just use two bags.

Origins

So what gives food soul? The simple answer is it was born of the African American culture, but to Jean it’s a labor of love. Her mom taught Jean how to cook before she can remember, and she grew up helping prepare meals for her siblings while her mom worked. Soul food is a subcategory of “southern food” that includes cooking traditions from the time of slavery in the United States. Some elements—like okra—are actually from Africa and used in cooking there

But other things were formed from the conditions of slavery. As slaves, people received the less desirable cuts of meat and vegetables to cook with. They made do with pig’s feet and ham hocks and different greens. African Americans turned these undesirable byproducts into downright delicious meals that are now a part of southern cooking and U.S. culture in general. During the Civil Rights movement of the sixties, the food took on the term “soul” to identify it as part of African American culture.

It may not be the best diet food…but it’ll certainly fill you up and stay awhile.

Interested in trying it out? Well, here’s what I learned from Jean.

Zucchini Squash

Heat up a pan on the stove and add a big scoop of bacon fat (I warned you—this isn’t diet food) before anything else. Once it’s heated, start adding your veggies and seasoning:

-Zucchini squash (or summer squash, if you want) sliced
-LOTS of sliced onions
-Salt
-Pepper
-Garlic
-A little chili powder—if you’re up for it!

You can use a fryer like this one, or just a pan with oil on the stove to fry chicken.

Stir your mix together on the stove until the squash is soft and you’re happy with the amount of seasoning.

Sautéed Greens

Ever wonder what to do with the greens in the produce section of the grocery store? They’re not very expensive, and they’re good for you. You can either boil them or sauté them on the stove in a pan with a little oil:

-Start with chopped greens—mustard greens, collard greens, Kale…so many options!
-Add chopped cabbage
-Slice onions, and throw those in to the mix
-Flavor the mix with spices: seasoned salt, pepper and chili
-Mix in chopped garlic
-Lastly (of course), add some bacon pieces

Make sure to stir everything a lot as it cooks so you don’t burn anything. Keep it up until the greens are soft (they should look like cooked spinach).

Fried Chicken Wings

This one might get a little messy if you don’t have a fryer, but it’s doable. Start by dusting a whole mess of chicken wings with seasoned salt, pepper, chili (if you want) and any other chicken seasonings you like.

Put all of the wings in a plastic bag with some flour and shake it up! Keep shaking until all of the wings are coated with flour. Now they’re ready for frying.

Heat up oil in a fryer or in a pan on the stove and put some of the wings in it. If you’re using a pan, flip the wings over periodically to get both sides cooked. I’m not sure how you know when they’re done…if you’re Jean who’s helped cook dinner for her family since she could walk, you just know.

Enjoy!

For those of us who aren’t as savvy, I would just cut one open to figure it out.

Enjoy!

All of this should be served alongside corn bread and baked sweet potatoes, ensuring that you won’t be hungry again for at least 48 hours after eating. There’s also dessert, but Jean and I opted not to subject our digestive tracts to any more turmoil.

Once the food’s all prepared, there’s only one thing left to do: find people to share it with.

As Jean and I finished cooking, some of her husband’s family stopped by the house. We grabbed extra plates, made room at the table and—in the true spirit of soul food—broke bread together. I quickly learned that the food itself is great, but the people the food brings to the table really feed your soul.

This is the second part of a two-part culture guide. To read Part I, click here.

The Senegalese village of Ethiolo may only have 500 residents, but the unique lifestyle and customs of the Bassari people here could take years to understand. Continue to learn a little about life in Ethiolo from these images…

Life moves a little slower out in the Senegalese village of Ethiolo. The general pace lulls some visitors into thinking that not a lot goes on in these parts, aside from tea drinking and long conversations. But I’m learning that although life here moves slower, it moves constantly.

All day people work out in their fields, prepare meals, carry water, repair huts, walk to the market, visit sick neighbors and more. ‘Work time’ and ‘personal time’ flow seamlessly together in days full of activity, from sunup to sundown. But these activities aren’t exactly optional—many Bassari families in Ethiolo depend on the food they farm to survive, and their community structure is built on relationships that are nurtured by lingering visits between neighbors.

The village chief and one of his grandsons

I’m not sure if I’d cut it as a Bassari. But luckily, my friend Tatiana and her host family are helping me learn the ropes.

Have a look at some of the day-to-day happenings of village life.

This is the first part of a two-part culture guide. To read Part II, click here.