Since arriving in Jordan, I have been unable to move past one blaring cultural difference between myself and most of the female population here: the hijab.

Walking from the Global Hope office to my home stay may only take 20 minutes, but along the way I pass the full spectrum of female fashion. Nearly every woman I see wears some form of hijab, or head scarf, and covers her arms and legs completely in accordance with the religion of Islam.

Some women wear long black robes or floor length jackets to further conceal their bodies. Others wear face veils in addition to the hijab (this is called niqab). Other girls wear tight jeans, heels and fitted long sleeve shirts paired with a brightly pattered scarf around their hair.

Frustrated

Whatever the take on the fashion, it differs starkly with my uncovered brown hair as I walk through the streets. In my new context, my typical outfit of tennis shoes, jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt has gone from frumpy to, well…the verge of scandalous.

This scarf is a hijab. Some women choose to wear colors and patterns instead of black scarves.

Boys notice. I’ve never felt unsafe in Amman, but I’ve certainly felt harassed. My look doesn’t necessarily stand out—in fact, some people ask if I’m Jordanian—but my hair does. In some areas, it’s enough to attract stares, honks and the occasional, “yela habibi,” or, “come here babe.”

Like I said, I feel safe in Amman, but these encounters infuriate me. I often wonder…is the hijab the answer?

The Minority

Sometimes, I find myself fixating on this difference between me and the women I’m around. For many of us living outside of the Muslim world, the thought of a woman covering her hair, or her hair and face, or her entire body seems like a violation of women’s rights. In fact, some countries in Europe have banned the hijab (hair covering) or veil (face covering) in government offices and schools.

But what does it mean to the women who wear it? What’s it like living in a place where covering your hair is the norm as opposed to the exception?

Some women in Amman wear the niqab, but the regular hijab is much more common.

In the U.S., I’ve never asked a Muslim woman about her hijab. I try as hard as I can to ignore it, thinking they probably attract enough extra stares and comments without my nosy inquisitions. But here in Jordan—where I’m suddenly the minority—I’m free to ask more about the practice.

Possible Solution

So why hijab? First of all, the Koran (the holy book of Islam) requires women to cover themselves because—quite frankly—women are beautiful. Essentially, covering yourself as a woman is supposed to prevent drawing sexual attention to yourself.

The women I’ve asked about the hijab find my curiosity funny. They laugh at my questions about something that’s such a normal part of their lives.

“Of course I like wearing it,” one woman told me, “I’m much more comfortable around men this way.”

The streets of Amman are not a dangerous place for women, but that doesn’t mean they’re free from being hassled.

I heard similar responses from many women. I started thinking, maybe this was the answer to the unwanted street comments…

Test Run

On Saturday, I took a walk downtown. I wandered from shop to shop in my jeans and long-sleeved shirt, shaking my head at the occasional comment or leering passerby.

Then I went home, put on a floor length jacket, Googled, “how to wrap hijab,” and secured a scarf around my hair. I headed out on the town in my new garb for a test run.

I hesitantly took my first steps down the street, pulling awkwardly at my hijab. Surely somebody would notice that I wasn’t a local. But as I walked block after block through crowds of people—crowds of men—I realized that no one noticed.

Not only did no one notice, but no one said anything. Not a single comment.

Whose Problem?

In a way, I felt liberated. In this situation, my hijab freed me from unwanted, disrespectful advances. I could relax a little. Personal opinions aside about the symbol of the hijab, it definitely had an effect on how men perceived me.

But should that be my responsibility? If men behave inappropriately towards women, why should we cover the women? Are women solely responsible for maintaining respectful relations between the sexes?

Maybe somebody should have a little powwow with the men.

Me trying out the local dress for a walk through downtown.

The dilemma looks different in different cultures, and it never applies to 100% of the population, but any woman—covered or not—should feel comfortable around men. There’s a way to pursue a woman respectfully, and it usually doesn’t start with shouting, “yela habibi,” at her on the street.

Regretfully, I won’t be able to sit down and chat with every guy who makes an inappropriate pass at me. But I, as well as Jordanian women I’ve met, refuse to avoid walking, shopping and commuting alone in this town just because of some disrespectful men.

So guys and gals, teach your friends and sons how to respect women…and their fellow humans in general. It will make life a lot easier for all.

“Ahlan. AH-LAN. Somebody say, ‘Marhaba,’ you say, ‘Ahlan,’” said Julie, struggling to find the right English words to communicate her point. She decided to intervene after listening to me butcher the Arabic ‘hello’ ritual with two guests of the Global Hope Network office here in Jordan.

“Allan. Ahalan. AHlan…good, right?” I said optimistically.

“Ok,” she conceded.

Moments later, another guest arrived and offered the expected, “Marhaba!”

“Ahlan,” I replied, trying to mask my enthusiasm for nailing this critical Jordanian greeting.

“Keef eck?” he shot back. I just smiled blankly, wishing I knew the next part of the ritual.

Julie rushed around the corner and ushered the guest into another room for his meeting. She walked back to me, leaned over and annunciated, “Temam. Te-mam. Keef eck? Temam.”

None of these things are in my pocket-sized Arabic phrase book. In fact, everything I say from that darn book— complete with world’s best-selling phrase books boasted across the cover—is met with blank stares, a combination of my horrible accent and the evolving, slang-laden language itself.

Jordanian life is mix of modernity and Middle Eastern tradition, like this red and white “kufia”—the male headscarf of Jordan and the gulf countries.

Obviously, words will not serve me well here in Jordan.

A Different World

Much of the Jordanian life is new to me. For starters, it’s not just a country—it’s the ‘Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.’ The capital city, Amman, carries itself with as much poise as being a ‘kingdom’ suggests. The streets are clean, pedestrians saunter on smooth sidewalks, occasionally interrupted by a carefully placed tree, and beautiful Arabic script accentuates the arches of stone buildings. There’s still bustling traffic and open markets, but they bristle with life instead of chaos.

The rituals enthrall me—the two or three or more kisses for hello, the right word for thank you when someone feeds you (as opposed to other expressions of gratitude) and how people can enjoy hours of conversation around a cup of tea with cardamom.

I’m also enthralled by the omnipresent politics. Politics are big here in Jordan. Even the 11 year-old son of my host family loves watching the news (a close second to Turkish soap operas).

Beautiful shapes and colors accent the buildings of Amman.

Good Reputation

Jordan is the Switzerland of the Middle East, sitting precariously between Israel, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Egypt. The nation enjoys amiable relations with all of them, aided by the fact that it’s accommodated millions of refugees over the years. The situation makes for an interesting political, cultural and religious dynamic.

Before arriving in Jordan, I knew it had a good reputation for freedom of religion. The country is over 90% Sunni Muslim, but it respects the rights of people who practice minority religions.

That tolerance opens the door for organizations like my host ministry, Global Hope Network International (GHNI). GHNI is working outside of Amman to support development in rural Jordan, to bring hope to the hidden and hurting—and they’re doing it because of Jesus.

The village life in Jordan is not as luxurious as the nice sections of Amman and other Jordanian cities.

Without Words

But what does religious freedom look like in a place where you must register your religious status with the government? Where “proselytizing” to Muslims— but not to any other group—is against the law? How does an organization like Global Hope Network pursue relief and development with Gospel-based principles without mentioning…well, the Gospel?

I asked Rami, Global Hope employee, that very question.

“We just show love,” Rami told me. “I don’t say a thing. We just love them.”

For me, that’s easier said than done. Being in a foreign land reminds me how much I rely on words. The Global Hope philosophy causes me to reflect on my own spiritual life. Are my words doing the talking when it comes to my faith? Do my actions alone reveal what I believe?

Global Hope employees, Julie and Rami, work to bring help to people and villages throughout Jordan.

Actions that Speak

If I follow a doctrine that calls me to be among the afflicted, then I want to be there. It’s so easy to get hung up on intellectualizing our faith, but in the grand scheme of things, arguing about the proper distribution of the sacraments might hinder the broader, more important messages we have to share.

Christians in Jordan may be limited by the powers that be, but the problem calls them to step up. Their actions must speak. Not only must their actions speak, but Christians here must be in communion with all people—of all faiths—to end poverty and injustice, to focus less on the title of “Christian” and more on the universally accepted teachings of Jesus.

And the teachings of Jesus call for action. We have much to learn from Global Hope and others working for social justice here in Jordan. I’m excited to follow in the wake of people who speak daily with more deeds than words.

The other day I had a brilliant idea.

“I have so many potential connections scattered around East Africa,” I thought. “What if I were to visit all of them in some huge whirlwind tour?  Northern Kenya, Uganda, South Sudan, Rwanda, Tanzania… It could be really cool. And what if I did the whole trip… by motorcycle???”

The more I thought about it, the more it got me excited.  It wouldn’t happen until spring of 2012 at the earliest, but the idea wouldn’t leave my head.

There was only one problem with this brilliant plan.  I had no idea how to ride a motorcycle.  That is, until last week.

Our sweet ride.

On a trip to rural Kenya with Pastor Fred, I had the chance to learn.  While visiting his childhood home, his elementary school and his in-laws, Fred suggested that we hire a motorcycle to make transportation a bit easier.

And he let me drive…

—

Needless to say, we survived.  It wasn’t pretty, but we both lived to see another day.

Through my inaugural experience as a hard-core biker, I learned several important lessons which I now want to pass on to you.

The next time you find yourself learning to ride a motorcycle in rural Kenya, you can refer to this culture guide for some invaluable advice. 

So here it is… 5 tips on learning to ride a motorcycle in rural Kenya.

Tip #1 – Get a state-of-the-art hog to ride

If you want to really learn, you’ve got to start with a powerful machine to learn on.

Oh yeah… four stroke engine, shiny old-fashioned kick-starter, broken speedometer, classically rusted exhaust pipe and balding tires.  I think I gained honorary membership to Hell’s Angels just for getting the thing to start!

The first “road” I drove on.

Cruising past crowds of onlookers at our top speed of 40mph, I could easily interpret the bewildered looks on everyone’s faces.  It was envy.

Tip #2 – Smooth roads are for sissies

My first half an hour of riding was down a treacherous dirt road that looked more like a dried up riverbed than an actual street.  Boulders the size of cows were scattered across our path.  Actual cows were scattered across our path.

You think keeping the clutch, gear shifter, accelerometer, hand brake and foot brake straight is tough, try doing that while careening down a narrow dirt path, dodging old ladies and car-sized potholes while tree branches slap you in the face.

I know what was going through the minds of the farmers we passed as they saw the look of genuine horror and panic on my face… “That guy is scared to death about how cool he looks right now.”

Tip #3 – Find a faithful riding companion

When Pastor Fred agreed to be my first passenger, I don’t think he knew quite what he was in for.

Pastor Fred, contemplating the meaning of life after a day fraught with near-death experiences.

The first time we came to a speed bump, I forgot how to slow down while downshifting.  The result was an epic launch in which we both hurled into the air, only to have the motorcycle die the moment we hit the ground.

Most passengers would have been frightened by such a skillfully done motocross move, but Pastor Fred just laughed and encouraged me to keep going.

Nevertheless, at the end of the day I could see that my phenomenal skills had taken their toll on Fred.  After getting off the motorcycle, he had a twinkle in his eye that spoke of a fresh lease on life.  While praying for dinner that night, I could tell that his faith in God’s protection had increased ten-fold over the course of the day.

Tip #4 – Don’t be afraid to stick it to the man

At one point during our journey, we were stopped by a police officer standing in the middle of the road.

“Excuse me. Do you have a license to drive that motorcycle here?” he asked me.

“Um, not really. I’m just learning.  My host thought it would be ok,” I said, bravely pointing back to Pastor Fred and placing all of the blame on him.

The policeman shook his head. “This is dangerous to you. This is dangerous to him.  This is dangerous to everyone!” he said in a stern voice.

Visiting Pastor Fred’s in-laws. At least they weren’t too frightened of my helmet hair.

“Um… I’m sorry?” I said.

All of a sudden, the policeman smiled. “No, it’s ok,” he said with a chuckle. “Fred called me earlier to say you’d be coming by.   You can keep going.  Have a good day!”

I laughed nervously and said “Ok. See you later…”

I struggled to start the motorcycle again, using the kick starter over and over while a giant bus crept past us on the right.  Despite the fact that all was well again, it was a painfully awkward situation.

Once we finally got rolling again I smiled, confident that I was above the law.  Yeah! You got nothin’ on me, coppers! (Is that something we outlaws are supposed to say? Not sure…)

Tip #5 – Don’t forget to take in the view!

Driving between towns was amazing.  While on the nicely paved roads (meaning that I only had to swerve into the other lane to dodge gaping holes occasionally), I got to take a look around.

Rural Kenya is beautiful!

Rolling hills, beautiful farmland, a swiftly flowing river… Rural Kenya is gorgeous!

Of course, when giant oncoming semi trucks swerve into your lane to miss potholes on their side, belching exhaust and kicking up dust like furious death beasts hell-bent on your destruction, it’s best to keep your eyes on the road.

But despite these regular heart-stopping moments of life-flashing-before-my-eyes panic, the view was really quite nice!

—

In the end, despite being sore from head to toe at the end of the day and despite having a pretty severe case of “helmet hair,” my first motorcycle “lesson” went off without a hitch.  Not a single crash. Not a single dead cow.

I’d call that a pretty successful first day, wouldn’t you?

Ride on!!!

From the moment I learned Tanari owned a camp just 85 km north of Nairobi, I waited for the perfect opportunity to finagle my way into going.

Luckily, Timo, who coordinates Camp Malta, and I became quick friends. In addition to both cultivating a love of the outdoors throughout the years, we also developed a special fondness for lunch—over which we daily share stories of our wilderness adventures.

The view from my boda boda

Every couple of weeks, businesses, churches and schools rent Camp Malta for a weekend getaway along the Tana River.

This particular weekend, a group from a local university decided to make the trek.

Adventure Awaits

Once in Town, Timo led us down River Street to where we boarded the matatu taking us to Sagana. After we finally ventured outside the city, the lush, rolling landscape mesmerized me for the next several hours.

Tanari derives its name from the Tana River

Thinking things couldn’t possibly get any better, I literally shrieked with joy when I saw Timo negotiating fare with a boda boda—motorcycle—driver for the last leg of our journey. Since the ride up the hill was a mere 15 minutes, I adamantly refused the head kerchief my driver insisted I wear as I released my auburn tresses to the wind.

We cruised up the rocky dirt terrain to the camp’s locked gate.

“Lemme call Kimoja,” Timo said, reaching for his cell phone from his jeans pocket.

A few minutes later, a young man in a red t-shirt and black windbreaker pants arrived with the key.

“Karibu sana,” he said shaking my hand.

Welcome.

Sam’s Story

Kimoja (Swahili for “that one”)—or Sam—first came to Camp Malta in 2009. He worked as a housekeeper for the owner of the nearby energy plant, who recommended him to Timo when the camp needed a last minute caterer for an upcoming event.

After receiving a more than favorable report regarding the cuisine that weekend, Timo inquired about Sam’s other skills. Sam shared that in addition to cooking and cleaning, he also had experience as a gardener and as a construction worker. A seemingly tangible answer to Timo’s prayer for a groundskeeper, Sam was hired immediately. The only unforeseen difficulty was the matter of his salvation.

Sam and his daughter, Wendy

As he prepared a dinner feast of ugali and sukuma wiki, Sam eagerly shared his beliefs with me. Every day he reads his Bible and prays to God. Yet, he doesn’t consider himself a “born again” Christian. He has his reasons.

For 14 years, Sam lived with his mother and his sisters—he never knew his father. When his mother remarried his stepfather, Sam was instantaneously disliked by his new extended family that feared he would inherit their wealth as the only son.

After completing his third year of high school, financial hardship forced Sam to dropout to help provide for the family of “saved” Christians who continued to abhor him. Eventually, the living situation became so unbearable, he moved in with an aunt along the coast in Mombasa—where he learned the art of accommodating international travelers.

Around this time, Sam met his wife and began saving up to marry her when she finished school. During their several year courtship, Sam enjoyed simply being her friend while encouraging her to embrace the opportunity to complete her studies—one that had been taken away from him.

Yet, tragedy struck a few years after their marriage. Sam had been working as a boda boda driver until an accident caused him to lose his job. Injured and unemployed with a wife and a new baby girl, Sam asked God to heal him and also to provide him with a way to take care of his family.

Shortly after, he received the call from Timo regarding the catering gig.

Sam’s temporary home

A Welcome Reflection

As Sam finished slicing the tomatoes for the sukuma, I told him that he is a lucky man to have such a beautiful wife and such a beautiful daughter and to live in such a beautiful place.

He blushingly smiled and told me he knew and he thanked God every day.

I blushingly smiled wishing I could say the same.

Reveling in my unexpected encounter with a man unaware how he reflects God’s own heart, I thanked Sam for the delicious food, for his kind hospitality and for the refreshing conversation.

“Karibu.”

I couldn’t have thought of a more appropriate Kingdom greeting myself.

Modesty isn’t exactly my thing.

Don’t get me wrong! I generally like to keep it classy when it comes to fashion, but 12 years of adhering to private school dress codes has left me a little rebellious.

When I got to college, I pierced my nose and tattooed a butterfly on my right foot. I also bought every colorfully patterned sundress at Forever 21 and decided—at least for myself—that leggings are indeed pants.

Freedom! Individuality! Self-expression!

I could finally just be Jocelyn, and I loved it.

Some Things Never Change

Needless to say, I was a little shocked and disappointed when I read through Tanari’s “smart, casual” dress code the first morning of my summer internship. I left my nonexistent power suit at home.

Setting a new personal record, I managed to break the dress code within 48 hours.

Blazers serve as a sleek addition to any wardrobe.

However, this time I wasn’t issued a detention. Rather, I wasn’t allowed to eat lunch.

In my defense, my dress wasn’t really that short. Let’s just say I would feel comfortable going to church and then eating lunch with my Grandpa afterwards while wearing it. But it does fall a bit above the knee which I embarrassingly learned is a strict Nairobi “no-no!”

After a three hour-long afternoon meeting, I walked with my coworkers next door to Daystar University where we typically eat lunch in the cafeteria. As I approached the metal gate, several guards stepped out to secure the perimeter. The head guard moved towards me and held up his hand.

Not entirely understanding what was going on, I tried to walk past him.

“No.” He stopped me.

“Ummm…”

“You know why,” he said.

I looked down at my bare knees and slowly turned to take the “Walk of Shame” back to the office. Luckily, the rest of the Tanari staff—realizing what had happened—quickly consoled me by suggesting we find a different place to eat.

For the first time in my life, a dress code breach elicited genuine guilt. Something deeper was happening.

An Unexpected Entanglement

The day before I left for World Next Door summer internship training in Indianapolis, a dear friend gave me God’s Missionary by Amy Carmichael. My friend disclaimed the gift with, “You’re probably not going to like it.” And she was right.

Scarves are definitely in during this “chilly” season.

Alright. It’s not that I don’t like the book—I’m definitely reading it. But it is that it’s convictingly conservative in the way I’m being challenged to admit that everything Miss Carmichael writes is true—even though I don’t necessarily agree with it.

For example, I wasn’t exactly overjoyed a few days after my fashion faux-pa to read in the section on “Entanglements” the quote,

“Dead to the world and its applause

To all the customs, fashions, laws,

Of those who hate the humbling Cross.”

But I experienced an unanticipated change of heart a few sentences later when I read, “And if He asks us to change our ways even in this, for His sake and for the sake of those whom we might help if we cared more for Him…shall we not do it?”

Modern Modesty

I never expected Kenyans to be so conservative. Word on the street is that on Friday nights fashion becomes a little more liberal, but as a whole, both Christians and non-Christians alike take pride in maintaining a modest appearance. In fact, I’ve only seen three other pairs of knees since I’ve been here—not that I’m counting…

But it isn’t just appearances that are modest in Kenya—it’s conversations and actions as well. Mostly everybody I’ve had the pleasure to meet minds their own business. They quietly do their work. They calmly eat their food. They patiently wait for the next available bus or matatu.

Pretty in pink!

I suppose that’s the thing about living in a collectivist culture. While each individual is still unique—contributing what only they can for the benefit of not only themselves but also everyone around them—the point is not standing alone as individuals but standing together as each other.

One of the things that first endeared me to the mission of Tanari—creating connected communities—was the following quote featured on the right-hand sidebar of their homepage:

“I am because we are.” –John Mbiti

Maybe that’s what Amy was getting at.

Caring for Jesus

The past few weeks, I’ve spent some time in serious thought reconsidering my “knee”d (Haha! Get it?) for unique rebellion.

My conclusion: I like Jesus more than I like my knees—and I happen to have great ones!

So as I add the upper half of my legs to the list of body parts I won’t be seeing again until August (along with my belly button and shoulders), I take comfort knowing that even in something as silly as this, I’m—in a ridiculously strange way—caring for my neighbor but also caring for my Jesus.

Only 31 days left…

The other day I found myself in an intense staring contest with a quail.

It was dead, of course.  And fried.  And part of my lunch.  But that didn’t change the fact that its vacant eyes were staring up at me, unblinking; a steady reminder that even in death the bird had a deep and abiding contempt for my species.

If dead quails could speak, this one would be saying, “How dare you?”

While I was contemplating my own role in the demise of this majestic creature, someone suggested I take a bite. Because I always say yes, I picked up a piece with the head still attached, ripped off a bit of meat from the neck and chewed.

It tasted like chicken.  It felt like murder.

When I was offered some dried fruit in a random village shack, of course I couldn’t refuse!

A Picky Eater

So here’s the real question: how in the world was I able to eat deep fried quail neck in Cambodia without barfing all over the wall?  Or for that matter, how did I even work up the courage to take a bite?

I mean, I used to be a super-picky eater.  Six years ago I couldn’t eat anything with a bone still on it, much less a face!  Brussels sprouts made me nauseous.  Seafood made me gag.

Let’s just say I didn’t have a very discerning palate.  If a restaurant served Italian food, I ordered pizza.  If it served American food, I ordered a hamburger.  End of story.

So how did I get from that point to last week, where I swallowed a spicy Mekong river snail (one of the most vile-tasting things I’ve ever eaten) with a smile?

Culinary empathy helped me take at least a few bites of tarantula. Yes, the ones on my shirt are alive. But no, the one I ate was dead.

Embracing Culinary Empathy

Well I didn’t know the answer until a few days ago…

Because I am not naturally adventurous or iron-stomached, I’ve had to draw on a different skill to get me through these culinary challenges.  Something that isn’t usually associated with cuisine…

And no, I’m not referring to my ravishingly handsome physique.   I’m talking about empathy.

You see, I’m usually a pretty empathetic person.  I am aware of the feelings of others, able to put myself in their shoes and see the world from their perspective.  Frankly, it’s one of the reasons I’m doing World Next Door in the first place.

The other day, as I was debriefing my most recent culinary exploits with my parents, I put two and two together and realized how empathy plays a role in my eating.

“Whenever I have to eat something weird,” I told them, “I just remind myself that people here eat this.  That this is normal to them.”  Looking at the weird food from their perspective, suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so revolting.

This, for example, is how I was able to take my first few bites of tarantula…

Voluntarily

The coolest thing about all of this, however, is that it has begun to expand.  Now it is more than simply saying “yes” when weird foods are put in front of me.  To my own surprise, I’ve begun to try new things voluntarily...

After spending the night on the floor of a one-room house (more on that in a future article), I was served a breakfast of porridge with chunks of liver in it. Although my culinary empathy was going full-blast at the time, I still thought as I took my first bite, “Oh please let this be chocolate, oh please let this be chocolate…”

I recently took a five hour bus ride from Phnom Penh to Battambang.  At about 10am, the bus stopped at a rest area for a few minutes.  Being the only white guy around, and not knowing what bus-stop etiquette is in these parts, I had to watch what everyone else was doing and simply follow along.

“Ok, looks like everyone is walking over to the toilets… Yep, I can handle that.  Flushing the urinal with a ladle from a nearby basin?  Ok… And now everybody is walking over and buying noodles and some sort of soup.  Hmm, well I am hungry…”

As I walked up to buy some noodles, my older, more practical self began to protest.  “Uh oh.  Those veggies were washed with unclean water… She just touched those noodles with her bare hands!  What exactly are those round, stringy things floating in the soup?”

I was about to walk away when my culinary empathy kicked in.  I looked around, saw a ton of other people eating noodles and realized, “If they are all eating them, how bad can they be?”

I paid for the noodles, took my bowl to a nearby table and started chowin’ down with a pair of chopsticks.

I am finally able to show my food who’s boss. I’m looking at you, rice…

It turns out, they were delicious.

More Interesting

Between my India and Cambodia trips, I spent a day hanging out in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.  Having absolutely no idea where to eat lunch, I let my culinary empathy be my guide.  I wandered through crowds of people in KL’s Chinatown, eventually winding back through a dark, crowded alleyway market.

In the back of the alley was a tiny stall selling something called curry laska.  There were a ton of people eating there, so I just went for it and ordered a bowl, laughing about how far I have come over the last few years.

As I ate, I realized that pointing to the first thing on the menu in a back alley restaurant in a city far from home may not be quite as safe as ordering a hamburger at McDonald’s…

…but it sure makes life more interesting!

Okay, so maybe the title is a little misleading.

Coming from the girl who still gets turned around in the city where she’s lived for twenty years, I suppose “expert” is a little strong.

Zhytomyr is the perfect size city for walking, a convenient and healthy (not to mention free!) mode of transportation.

But I’m turning over a new leaf. After years of obliviously following people and expecting them to get me to my destination, I’m taking a new step. And what better place to learn than a foreign country?

Here are the three things I’ve learned to keep myself from taking a forty-five minute shortcut home from the mall ever again.

Buy a map.

Let’s be honest, when was the last time you used a map? And no, GPS doesn’t count. Other than the map to get me around Disney World or to find the food court in the mall, I don’t believe I’ve ever used one.

Recognizing letters in the street names (my attempt at reading) can come in handy. That is, if you can find a street sign.

Try to find a map that isn’t too crowded and busy, making it hard to read and very distracting. Mark where you are staying and other key locations that you’ll be travelling to and from and write down their addresses. Also make sure you know the size of the city compared to the scale of the map, otherwise “turn left in two blocks” will turn into your daily workout and a nice tour of the side of the city you’ve never seen before.

Mark out the important places on the map so that if all else fails, you can stare blankly and point.

The most important things to figure out are where you are on the map and what direction you are heading. Unless you’re one of those mystical non-humans who can instantly know that they’re facing north northwest and walking to a house on the east side of the road and that the wind is blowing in with a southwestern current (hint: not me), then orienting yourself is your number one priority. Otherwise, you’ll learn very quickly that…

It’s okay to wander.

Whether it’s a wrong turn or just a half-mile detour to find one of the three street signs in the city, it’s completely acceptable to do a bit of harmless wandering. Yes, it’s slightly embarrassing to walk past a group of people four times with your map out, smiling sheepishly each time. But it is better than convincing yourself that you remember seeing that statue somewhere, right?

Generally, it isn’t more than 15 or 20 hryvnia ($2 or $3) to take a taxi anywhere around the city.

And while it may sound like a scene right out of Taken, asking for directions is usually okay. Just try not to walk up to the smarmy man standing in the shadows of the alley while loudly pronouncing to the world that you’re a lost American. Usually, nice looking people on the street can be trusted to at least point you in the right direction, if you’ll believe them.

Memorize the public transportation system.

You know people are going to ask why you’re an hour late when you live twenty minutes away, so you might as well blame it on traffic or something other than your lack of directional capabilities.

Public transportation is great for two things: a little rest from walking and people watching.

Learn the routes of the different transportation throughout the city. Buses, trams, and trolleys all have numbers and run various courses from one end to the other. They aren’t very expensive and they provide a great opportunity for people watching and expanding your vocabulary (in ways that Rosetta Stone could never do). Not only do you learn the hip street slang, but you actually get a real life look at the culture and the way the people and society work.

And if you don’t want to get yelled at by a babushka on the trolley, make sure you give up your seat for any mother and child that need one. Oops.

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Now that you’ve taken a lesson from this modern day Magellan, there’s just one more thing to remember: never admit that you’re lost.

Before coming to Ukraine people often asked me, “Where will you live?” When I explained that I would live with a host family the next question was always, “Will they speak English?” I confidently assured them that yes, at least one person in my home would speak English.

Good thing Barry told us to be flexible.  As it turns out, my host family does not speak English. Not even a little.

At first the idea of living with strangers who don’t speak English intimidated me. Then I met Pastor Peter and Vera. Now I am an expert in the art of communicating sans speech. In fact, living with my hosts is one of the highlights of my trip. So enjoy a few tips on me.

My host, Pastor Peter, sharing God's love with village children.

1. Relax. After getting over the initial shock of my situation, I reminded myself to relax. Not being able to communicate via words really isn’t as big of a deal as you might think. It probably won’t result in an untimely death or an earth shattering catastrophe (though I have wondered if perhaps I should learn the words for fire, run, and help).

2. Shut up. Next remember that speaking louder and more slowly will not increase the odds of being understood. If they don’t speak English and you don’t speak Ukrainian, no amount of slowing down your speech will change this. It’s better to revert to a silent stare down than to a screaming match.

Even if I can't speak a word, I am always fed delicious food.

3. Point. Pointing is an art form I have begun to master. Often what needs to be said can be demonstrated through pointing at objects in the vicinity. However, sometimes pointing results in confusion. I have accidentally asked for salt not sugar, and indicated I would be home at 7 not 8.

4. Just agree! This has become my new motto. Once I mastered the simple words for no, yes, please, and thank you I realized it’s really just best to say yes. If you agree with whatever is going on, things tend to go much more smoothly. Disagreeing requires an explanation and a revision of plans. This is virtually impossible and proves more frustrating than just saying yes. Use caution though. I once unintentionally agreed that I was dating the guy next to me.

5. Laugh often! I frequently laugh at myself. There are so many moments I have no idea what is going on. Sometimes I even look incredibly foolish because I misunderstand the situation. One time I stayed overnight at a home without a translator. I think I was told to remove my clothes, put on a robe, and wash my feet. Honestly though, I had no idea what was going on. I did my best and laughed at myself as I stood in a tub of water wearing a stranger’s robe.

Hearing God's Word in two languages is a powerful testimony of His universal love.

6. Be creative! I discovered that if you really feel starved for conversation, you can always find someone –or something– to talk to. For example, I named a spider in my bathroom Bob. Whenever I got lonely I found Bob and had a good old chat. Of course eventually I had to kill him, but you get the idea.

7. Witness God’s love. The biggest lesson I have learned living here is that God’s love surpasses all language barriers. Pastor Peter and Vera (my hosts) are quite possibly the sweetest, most hospitable couple I have ever met. Although we don’t speak the same language, every day they communicate God’s love to me. When Vera gives me a big hug goodbye every morning and prays over me, and when Pastor Peter sings me songs on the way to MTU, I feel God’s love.

I hope one day you too find yourself in a situation where no one speaks your language. Remember to relax, be creative, and enjoy a few laughs on yourself.

The other day, my 3 and a half year old niece Isabella was talking with her mommy about the earthquake in Haiti.  All of a sudden she started counting the chairs around her dinner table.  When her mother asked why she was counting, Isabella said, “to see how many people we can feed at our table!”

Now, Isabella is not even four yet.  She barely understands what is going on in Haiti.  But she does know this… People need help.  People need food.  And her house has a nice big dinner table with room to spare.

When Amy, one of our readers, found out about the chance to take in one of the Haitian orphans expected to be flying into Indianapolis this past week, her family began talking seriously about the possibility.  And even though it turned out that the orphans may not be coming after all, her three sons, Tucker, Charlie and Isaac have thrown themselves into the preparations.

Isaac (8) talks about “his Haiti friend” all the time.  He wants to get  him or her a card for his church’s children’s ministry so that he/she can come as soon as he/she gets here.  Tucker (12)  is conscientious and tender-hearted, watching and talking about the news with his father, while his brother Charlie (11) insists on getting  their potential new brother or sister signed up for soccer…

My point in telling you about these kids is this… I think that children have a much higher capacity to understand the basic issues of social justice than we give them credit for.

Hard-wired into us is the understanding that everyone deserves to eat, to drink and to have a home.  Children understand concepts of equality and freedom and health, if only at their most basic levels.

Sheltered

And yet, our suburban culture has taught us to shield them from the world, hasn’t it?  We try our hardest to shelter them from the harsh realities of a broken humanity, and our children grow up oblivious to the truths of injustices that are out there.

Will kids in our culture ever know or care about the poor?

The other day I had the chance to speak to the 2nd-5th graders at my church.  I talked a bit about what I do, a bit about the people I meet on my travels and a bit about the Haiti earthquake.  But there was one moment that stood out as both hilarious and a bit sad.

To explain how my job works, I brought my suitcase with a few pieces of “gear” that I take with me when I travel.  I held up each item and explained why I needed it.  I take my water filter because many people in the world don’t have clean water, I take cans of tuna because many people in the world don’t have enough food to eat, etc.

At one point I took out my headlamp to explain how a lot of people in the world don’t have electricity.  I asked the kids to imagine what it would be like without electricity in their own homes.  “At night, there would be no lights on.  No TV.  No Xbox or Wii…”

At that, the children audibly gasped.  Immediately they all began to chatter with wide eyes.  No Xboxes?  No Wiis?

Even though I had talked about kids who don’t have food, water, clothing or shelter, it was the lack of gaming consoles that really hit home.

Many of these kids have been completely sheltered from the world, and they have no idea how much they have.  It got me thinking… Is it really for the best to keep children oblivious to the real world until they’re “old enough?”  Or is there some value in teaching them the truth from an early age?

Will your kids know about what's happening in Haiti?

Setting an Example

Now, obviously there are many details that children just can’t handle.  I’ve talked to some parents who don’t go into detail about the devastation in Haiti simply because they know it will give their kids nightmares.  But they still attempt to get their children engaged at a level they can deal with.  As one father told me, “they can get their mind around people needing to be healed.”

These parents know that their children can and should be aware of the fact that many people in the world don’t have food, water, shelter, clothing or medicine.  They know that their kids will grow up as more compassionate people because of what they are taught at an early age.

But I think there is one aspect of getting children involved that shouldn’t be overlooked.  When parents teach their children about the injustices in the world, they can teach them how to respond.  In a culture characterized by indifference and ignorance as ours so often is, parents here have the unique opportunity to show their kids what it means to care for the poor and marginalized.

I know that my own parents have always been generous with their time and money when it comes to the less fortunate, and they taught my sister and I from an early age to always treat people with respect and equality.  What probably seemed like a natural way of life for my parents has had deep repercussions in my life and has undoubtedly led, in part, to what I am doing today.

Your Thoughts

How do you teach your children?

But all that said, the fact is that I’m not a parent.  I don’t have any kids to teach and raise.  So I need your input on this one…

Do you agree that children should be taught about social injustice from an early age?  Or should they be protected until they are more mature?  How has your family treated this issue?

For those of you who do have kids, do you have any advice for new or expecting parents?  How do they even begin to raise their children in a world so dark and broken?

Please leave your thoughts in the comments section below.  I would love to hear your perspective!

Hope for the Future

As we continue to watch the situation in Haiti unfold, I am in awe of the way my friends and acquaintances are responding.  Whole families are stepping up to help.  Our church is going absolutely crazy with volunteers and donations.

And at the center of all of this are the kids.  Because of things like the internet and globalization, they are growing up in a small, flat world.  For just a couple of thousand dollars, they’ll be able to some day fly anywhere and see the world for themselves.

Now is the time to set them on a path of compassion.  Now is the time to teach them what the Kingdom of God looks like in the real world.  And now is the time to show our children what it means to care for the “least of these…”

Over the last few years, I have seen a surprising number of Mexican Soap Operas. They have aired in obvious places like Villahermosa, Mexico and here in downtown Indianapolis, but also in some rather curious locations like Kenya and India…

Apparently these soaps are in such plentiful supply that they are shipped around the world as an inexpensive way to fill airtime.

But with my host family from Shepherd (and the millions of other Latin American immigrants in our country), these shows aren’t airtime fillers… They’re prime time!

Just the other night we sat up late watching the series finale of Mañana es para Siempre, and it was a family event…

Unfortunately, it’s not always easy to understand what is going on in these rather ubiquitous television shows (especially when they are entirely in Spanish!).  That’s why I created this guide, to help you understand the Mexican soap operas in your next port of call!

Different Than American Soaps

I’ve called them Mexican Soap Operas, but that is a bit of a misnomer.  They are actually called “telenovelas.”

You see, American soap operas run continuously.  They go and go until their funding runs out or until the world erupts into the apocalyptic destruction of an alien takeover, whichever comes first.  For example, Guiding Light has been on since 1952 and has aired more than 15,000 episodes!  (Thanks, Google…)

Mexican telenovelas, on the other hand, are not endless.  In fact, even though they may run 90 or 100 episodes, everyone knows that, just like a novel, they will eventually come to an end.

Plotlines

A few frames from "Un Gancho al Corazon" or "A Punch in the Heart"

While each telenovela is different, there are a couple of basic rules that can help you figure out what is going on if you start in the middle of a series.

First of all, with a little creative thinking, you can figure out the overall tone of a telenovela just by interpreting the title.

For example, Torment in Paradise is a bit heavier, balancing issues of loss and desire with questions of the meaning of love.  Friends and Rivals is about… friends and rivals.  I think.  A Punch in the Heart is about… um, love-boxing?

Ok, so maybe interpreting the title doesn’t help, but don’t worry.  There are a few major plot lines that show up in just about every show:

• Simple man falls in love with a girl who in turn falls in love with a sinister stranger.
• Jealous woman tries to break apart her ex-boyfriend and sister.
• Manipulative mom tries to marry her daughter into money.
• Woman is bribed to run away from her comatose lover whose baby she has in her pregnant belly, but it’s actually not his baby at all but the baby of his brother who recently died trying to protect her aunt from the evil schemes of her rich step-father, who is unaware that his company is being secretly sabotaged by the pregnant woman’s brother.

Those easy-to-remember plot lines should come in handy if you get lost.

Characters

Another thing to keep in mind about telenovelas: almost everyone is absurdly attractive.

From the dashing and chivalrous protagonist with the flowing auburn hair to the sublimely gorgeous heroine with perfect teeth, just about every character looks like they were meticulously handcrafted by some benevolent Greek deity intent on perfecting the human form.

Even the simple farmhands in a show manage to work every day without shirts on so that their chiseled bodies can glint in the sun and their thick black chest hair can sway majestically in the wind…

The only time this rule doesn’t hold is if a character is a bad guy.  In that case, they are either hideous, homely or downright evil looking.

Makes it a little easier to know what’s going on.

The television at my host home. As far as I can tell, other than Disney, it only has Spanish channels!

Quick quiz

Ok, let’s see if you can match up the characters with their personalities.

A. Good guy

B.  Bad guy

1. The General: A dark, scary-looking man with a gravelly voice who drinks copious amounts of expensive liquors in his leather-trimmed office.

2.  Anabella: The well dressed, happy daughter of a super model with golden hair who walks into every room in slow motion.

Did you figure it out?

The Culture Behind the Shows

Even though they are often very cheesy, and even though they struggle with low production values and the inevitable descent into cliché from time to time, telenovelas, for me at least, reflect some of the coolest values in Mexican culture.

For one, everyone in telenovelas is extremely passionate about… well, everything!  Obviously, this is a major exaggeration of the culture of which they are supposedly representing, but at times, I can easily see where they get the idea.

My host family often approaches a whole range of issues with a surprising level of fiery conviction.  From my host parents insisting that I take another serving of frijoles, to the girls pleading to finish watching their favorite show, there is no lack of passion in this house.

Another cultural value reflected in telenovelas is that of loyal devotion to friends and family.  Sure, every show has inevitable betrayals here and there, but it is the steadfast boyfriend or undeterred father who shines as the hero in the end.

Finally, there is the value of love.  If we in America tend to be rather logical in our approaches to love, those in telenovelas throw themselves in head first!  Of course, this results in a whole lot more broken hearts, but a whole lot less of wondering “what if?”

It makes me ask myself.  Do I love those around me with reckless abandon?  Do I have unending dedication to the people in my life?  Do I approach life with conviction?  Hmmm…

Ok, weird… I think I just learned something from a soap opera.

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Well, there you have it.  A few simple guidelines to help you understand what’s going on the next time you see a Mexican telenovela in Mexico… or the U.S… Or India… Or Kenya…