We called BaPeter today. My
heart leapt when I heard his voice. “Ah! BaPeter!” David said. “Um… Ea mukwai?”
he answered. “This is David! In America!” Then Peter let loose a string of
Bemblish very difficult to follow that I think basically meant, “It’s nice to
hear from you.” We listened in joy and breathed deep, for the air in the room
was suddenly a little bit Narnian.
The next intelligible words out of his mouth were, “He is fine! Miracle, he is doing fine!” And again my soul rejoiced, because every once in a while, it’s nice to win one. “Wonderful, great!” David exclaimed. “And how are the other boys?!” He meant Peter’s other kids, but Peter thought he was referring to “our” boys—the kids who lined the streets to play with us every night, who showed up at the gate at dawn the day we were to leave to make sure they wouldn't miss us. “Oh! They are missing you. They have still not received the balls!” I winced a little. We had promised them a soccer ball when we left, because the one we played with all summer belongs to the orphanage. We could not find one in the village or in the capitol. Zeger’s dad looked for one too, to no avail. We had intended to send one earlier, but it took a surprisingly long amount of time to find a soccer ball, figure out how to ship it the cheapest, then find other light-weight items to stuff the corner of the box with. Unfortunately, the nature of poverty culture anywhere in the world is such that one must be careful of the value of such items. The more prized the contents of the box, the less likely that said box will make it to its intended recipient. That situation is a bajillion times more complicated since the recipients are children. All excuses aside, I am frustrated that we have not yet kept that promise.
By the time we left Zambia, I was relatively certain I had phone numbers for half of the country. Apparently they are mostly for the half that I really don’t care if I contact or not. It finally dawned on us that we could just ask someone for Peter’s number, since he works at the orphanage. I’m glad we did, even if the phone calls do cost a fortune. There’s just no cheap reliable way to keep in contact with them all. The three we normally communicate to the crowd through are all apparently phoneless at the moment. Two of our little partners in crime took that title a bit too literally and got themselves in some serious trouble after we left. We've been worried sick about them, and updates have been limited for a variety of reasons.
We talked with BaPeter for just a few moments then had to bid him farewell. David and I both laughed light-heartedly and kept hugging each other, just for something to hug. His eyes danced with memories of friends as I darted around the room gathering my things so I wouldn’t be late to lab.
The next intelligible words out of his mouth were, “He is fine! Miracle, he is doing fine!” And again my soul rejoiced, because every once in a while, it’s nice to win one. “Wonderful, great!” David exclaimed. “And how are the other boys?!” He meant Peter’s other kids, but Peter thought he was referring to “our” boys—the kids who lined the streets to play with us every night, who showed up at the gate at dawn the day we were to leave to make sure they wouldn't miss us. “Oh! They are missing you. They have still not received the balls!” I winced a little. We had promised them a soccer ball when we left, because the one we played with all summer belongs to the orphanage. We could not find one in the village or in the capitol. Zeger’s dad looked for one too, to no avail. We had intended to send one earlier, but it took a surprisingly long amount of time to find a soccer ball, figure out how to ship it the cheapest, then find other light-weight items to stuff the corner of the box with. Unfortunately, the nature of poverty culture anywhere in the world is such that one must be careful of the value of such items. The more prized the contents of the box, the less likely that said box will make it to its intended recipient. That situation is a bajillion times more complicated since the recipients are children. All excuses aside, I am frustrated that we have not yet kept that promise.
By the time we left Zambia, I was relatively certain I had phone numbers for half of the country. Apparently they are mostly for the half that I really don’t care if I contact or not. It finally dawned on us that we could just ask someone for Peter’s number, since he works at the orphanage. I’m glad we did, even if the phone calls do cost a fortune. There’s just no cheap reliable way to keep in contact with them all. The three we normally communicate to the crowd through are all apparently phoneless at the moment. Two of our little partners in crime took that title a bit too literally and got themselves in some serious trouble after we left. We've been worried sick about them, and updates have been limited for a variety of reasons.
We talked with BaPeter for just a few moments then had to bid him farewell. David and I both laughed light-heartedly and kept hugging each other, just for something to hug. His eyes danced with memories of friends as I darted around the room gathering my things so I wouldn’t be late to lab.
It was a
less-than-two-minute phone conversation, but when we are here, so far away both
in terms of distance and in length of time before we can return, those two
minutes were more precious than the purest gold.
Enjoy your writings immensely. What can I do to help you with the soccerball promise?
ReplyDeleteWe're all ready to send it! At this point, we're looking for an address to send it to and waiting on a phone call from our boys. It's here though, just sitting in my room, all ready to go!
ReplyDelete