Flea market shopping

 Two days ago I had a bad day. I’ve reached the final week of holidays. I’m fairly prepped for my classes that begin next week. I’ve run out of interesting save-money-and-food home projects (tomato paste, pureed garlic and ginger, blanched spinach all packed and labeled in the freezer). I don’t have a wide social life (to put it mildly) and I was feeling extra sorry for myself. To top it all off, I went for a haircut which I do only every 3 months or so, and so especially look forward to. Not this time.

First, the hair dresser told me I had a very dry scalp.

“Your scalp is very dry. Do you know that?”

Now I do, thanks.

“It’s actually coming off. If I do this--- it just comes off.”

Thanks, I got it. I’ll use better shampoo.

“It’s really not good for it to be sitting there.”

I really do get it.

“I mean, I don’t mean to be rude but…”

Hm.

Good thing we weren’t anywhere public like a hair salon or anything.

Then she didn’t listen to how I wanted my hair.

“So you want it in a bob?”

Uh, no.

The result is quite depressingly bob-like.

So I tied my hair up and decided to go flea market shopping, also something I do infrequently but always enjoy. Our main suburb flea market (as opposed to the huge city ones) sells everything from elephant statues to five inch heels. My favourite stalls though are the second hand clothes. People, women usually, buy huge bundles of clothes that have been collected in developed countries (donated usually, sometimes you can even find the Salvation Army price tag on them) and then resell them individually. In the city markets you can get tops for $1. At our suburb one they’re $5. I’m happy to pay that because I know that’s about what I’d pay in the States for a second hand top and because I know that I’m helping someone make a living. In this economy if I get a little jipped in the process, I’m okay with that.

Anyway, Ange and I headed off. First stop, the shorts man (one of the only men I’ve seen in the second hand clothing business) who has branched out into tops as well. Ange found a cut off jackety thing and I found a top I thought would look good on Mum.

Stop number two was my favourite stall. Set in the corner of the market it had everything: all kinds of tops, trousers, dresses, skirts and a huge pile of extras (usually the plus size clothing that wouldn’t fit on the hanger but sometimes an unusual skirt) and, two extra special feature: a changing room made of a sheet draped over a wire (but open to the world on the other side which down below opened onto the street and a parking area so you need to change with caution) and a mirror. The mirror was also a challenge to use because it was tied to the corner (so that no one walked off with it perhaps) and you had to crouch in between the wooden slacks and try to imagine what your dress looked like with you standing up straight.

Ange and I sifted through all the racks, piling potentials on our arms as we waited for the change room to become vacant (they don’t give you numbers, once you’re in, you’re in and the next in line just have to wait). As soon as the lady looking for black tops left we jumped in to secure our spot and spent a pleasant 20 minutes trying on and sorting into piles: no, maybe, yes.

Having narrowed down our finds we went to find the seller. The other reason I like this stall is that the women manning it don’t seem particularly interested in selling their clothes. This might seem a strange attribute to enjoy in flea market stall sellers unless you’ve been to an African or South American flea market in which case you’ll understand completely. The generally observed techniques of flea market selling involve manipulation, coercion, guilt-tripping or a combination of all three. I do admire flea market sellers – it’s a hard way to make a living, especially in a country where people do not have a lot of excess cash to spend, and they do it well. That said, I avoid the extra pushy stalls if I can. Having paid for our tops (and got a discount on a shirt that had been repaired by its previous owner) we headed to try find Ange a dress that she was looking for.

One stall over we found dresses! Oh dear. Nice dresses that tempted me as well! And it turned out to be manned by the same uninterested seller. Perfect: no pushy seller and we could use her change room and mirror. Feeling guilty because we had already bought several tops but really wanting the dresses we had found, I prepared myself to bargain. I enjoy bargaining and I think I do okay at it but not great. I think it’s in part because I’m not as ruthless as you need to be to get an amazing bargain. I can’t bring myself to go too low knowing that I do have money and they do need it. I do know, however, that flea market prices are always inflated I try to get a little off if I can.

Anyway, I figured out my starting price and went to find our uninterested selling friend. Fortunately I had two advantages on my side: a small stain I had found on one of the dresses and the fact that we were buying more than one (and had already bought from her that day). All points in my favour. Unfortunately, she had more: experience, amazing delivery and the actual control of the price. The dresses all cost $15 originally.

“So can I buy this one for ten because of the stain [Scramble to find the stain, look a little awkward. Mistake] and the others for twelve each, since I’m buying three?”

“Ahhh.. ten! I will lose my job!”

Another advantage she has over me: this is not her stall; she is able to go down only so much and only she knows how much that is. Whether this is true or not is irrelevant.

“Okay, how about twelve for each?”

This was a mistake. I raised too high too fast. I know I’m beat.

“Eeeeiii!”

Advantage number 5: excellent emotional exclamations that seem to suggest I’m asking her to throw her third son into the deal as well.

“Give me thirteen for the two and twelve for the one with the stain.”

“Okay.”

I know when to admit defeat.

I got a $2 discount for the top with the repair job, and saved myself $7 on the dresses. I also got a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon with Ange trying on and experimenting, finding deals and negotiating prices. My spirit was lifted. A bargain.

The flowers are smiling

I’ve been sitting in the garden for the last couple hours reading poetry.

That sounds so noble and admirable but I must admit why I am sitting in the garden reading poetry. The power is off, so I can’t work on my school prep which I should be doing inside. And, as much as I love the idea of randomly reading poetry in the garden, and as much as I would love to be a random poetry reader, I’m not one, anywhere. I am reading my AS Literature class’s set poetry. I told them to read all the poems we haven’t covered yet, annotate and think about them this holiday. So I’m making sure my students aren’t ahead of me.

But I am glad to be in the garden reading poetry. It is warm – hot if you sit in the sun. There is a breeze at the back of my neck that is cool, despite the warm sun. Some very noisy birds are arguing in the trees above me – arguing, definitely not singing which would sound so much more poetical but not nearly so real. The breeze is making the banana leaves above my head dance their shadows over my book and computer. And the flowers are smiling.

About 10 minutes ago I got tired of trying to figure out what the heck R.S. Thomas was talking about in Here, so I put my poetry down and just sat, enjoying the argument above my head, the dance at my feet and the smiling flowers. For some reason, this year the garden seems to be exploding in flowers. Our garden used to be Dad’s domain but recently Mum has stepped out and claimed space in it as well. The result? More flowers than I’ve seen in our one acre garden. It’s like they’re trying to outdo each other in who can plant the most flowers. Mum has her special section that is just crammed with flowers. The other day she said to me,

“Look, my Barbertons are so happy”.

And they were. Flowers are amazing. They just grow and look beautiful. Most of them serve no practical, useful function in the world at all. But they grow. And they smile and they make me smile. I’m so grateful that God cares enough about the earth and me to give us such useless, beautiful plants just because they make us--and Him, I think--smile.

Social Justice: a long, hard road

We’ve just completed a Week of Transformation: an annual youth week that a group of us from several churches put on. It involves a lot of serious teaching, about 4 hours a day. This year’s topics were Worldview (including a biblical worldview of sexuality), The Bible, Leadership and Social Justice.

Last year we had Social Justice as a large theme. A couple of us did some teaching on it and then we organized a service learning afternoon where groups got to see organizations in Harare that are addressing the various issues of social justice. It was a successful day and I think many of the youth were challenged by what they learnt and saw.

We decided Social Justice was important enough to repeat again this year. I spent two days giving some intense teaching about Social Justice to the 60+ 15-25 year-olds we had in attendance. I tried to give a biblical basis for justice first and then to illustrate where they fit in the scheme of things, kicking this second lesson off with an unfair but reality-based, class-divided lunch. We served 10 of them a beautiful lunch, 20 beans and rice and the rest just rice. They were not impressed but it led to some excellent discussion and thinking that provided the perfect intro to my talk on how we should possibly deal with the differences that are built into our lives. And finally, before we went out to visit sites that are doing justice, we talked about the difference between deep justice and not-so-deep service.

But although the afternoon was mostly a success again (barring the usual mishaps and confusions that happen when trying to organize the movement of 75 people to different places all at the same time) I left that night discouraged. The group I went with had gone to a disability daycare centre in a low-income, high density suburb of the city. A centre where mothers of children with disabilities come each day with their children. They cannot work because caring for their children is full time job and they use the centre as a place to support each other and try to start small businesses together. Our guide was a member of our church who works for the micro-finance trust that is also connected to our church and he tried to get our group to respond after we had left, asking them what we could do for this place or similar places that would be sustainable and would work with them rather than at them. With each response my heart sank.

“We could fundraise.”

“We can collect toys and things and go and visit them.”

“We could hold a charity concert!”

The charity concert was the final blow. After two days of teaching, they didn’t get it. They couldn’t distinguish service from deep justice. Now, later, after some sleep and logical thinking, I realise that these are new ideas for many of them. That many are young (I had several of the 15 year olds) and struggle to think outside the box. That the concept of justice verses service is very difficult to practically apply. That the fact that they are even aware of these places and people is a good outcome. But most importantly, perhaps, that social justice is a long, hard road. Changing unjust systems and working towards sustained mercy takes years and years. And perhaps so does people’s understanding of what social justice actually is. And while that is discouraging—both the time justice takes and the time people take to realise what justice is!—I think that it is worth it. And maybe next year, they’ll get it a little bit more.

Change

I hate change. A lot. I'm totally miserable in every new place I go for about the first, hm, two years. Okay, not totally miserable but pretty close. It takes me a long time to adjust to new things. I like to think of myself as flexible and adaptable. And I do adapt. But only eventually.

My brother has just got engaged. (I'm not sure its okay to say that on here but given that he is the least faithful family reader of this blog, I think I'm safe for a little while - no telling, Rach and Jed). Of course, we were, and are, all thrilled. He proposed here in Zim, on a mountain at a game park during sunset. We went on a family holiday right after with him and his fiancee (who we all love and are so excited to have in the family). But... I hate change. The week after they both arrived and I saw my little brother with this girl, cosying up on the couch, whispering sweetly and exchanging loving glances, I freaked out a little.

"Josh is gone!" I wailed to my mother, "We've lost him!"

A bit dramatic but, remember, I hate change. My best friend is about to get married as well (they have both timed their weddings in overseas places remarkably conveniently). She's gone and lost, too.

However, the fact that I am able to blog about this means that I have got through the dramatic, oh-woe-is-me stage. It's hard to lose people whether it's to college, to new lives in other countries, to different stages of life, or to other people. But the difficulty of losing them and saying goodbye is rich. So say my wise parents.

I texted my Mum after saying goodbye to Jed on Wednesday: "Why didn't you just stop having kids after me? Imagine how happy we'd be."
"Haha," she replied, "Read CS Lewis, no joy without pain"

Around the same time I proposed a new family rule: no praying out loud before people get on planes.
We have this horrible tradition of sending off the Leaver with a prayer. We all huddle around in a circle (bags in the middle so no one steals them while our eyes are closed). Those who can, pray. The rest of us cry. Then Dad says the blessing and we're all a mess. And of course, someone has a camera and wants to remember this awful moment, eyes and noses red and streaming, miserable and pathetic. Great memories. My proposition was denied. Dad said that the moments of deep sadness are what makes life rich and meaningful.

And I'm sorely tempted to choose to have a slightly less rich life. It's tempting to want to protect my poor heart from all this horribly insensitive change around me. To resent people. To deny sadness. To live detached. But, unfortunately, I think my parents are right. Those moments of sadness and sorrow are rich because of what is behind them, because of what they represent. Friendship, love, joy, companionship, memories, moments, life.

And so, while I hate it, I'll accept it. And ask for lots of help and tissue to get through the adapting part.

What could be worse than leaving?

Remember when I said that the people who make me truly me where gathering in the place that makes me truly me? Well, those people, the ones I love most, are leaving and it’s awful.

For four years I was a Leaver. Every year I would return home in June, like a confused migratory bird moving from the finally-warming North American continent to the cooling-for-winter African one (fortunately much easier to stomach than its Northern counterparts) and every August I would pack up, cry on and off for the last week, drive to the airport with my family, have a tearful farewell that included the Bell family traditional send off where you wave to the Leaver as they go through customs and security every minute or so when they look back with raised arm until they step around the last corner you can see in the distance. Then I would sit at the boarding gate, maybe journal about leaving home and Zimbabwe, board my flight, cry a bit as I watched the Zimbabwean landscape disappear below me, turn on my in-flight entertainment and order a drink. In the following weeks (and months!), I would be homesick, call home frequently, write when I could, enjoy every phone call but feel sometimes feel even worse after them when I couldn’t be there for the sounds of home I could hear in the background or when the conversation could only go so far because they didn’t really know the world I was in. Leaving was painful. The most painful thing I’d experienced in my privileged life. And then, last year, for the first time, I was left.

I watched as siblings--including a youngest brother off to college for the first time--packed and prepared, as they got sad but also excited. I watched and remembered my own times of leaving and saying goodbye to places and people. And on the final day, we all drove to the airport and this time I stood on the other side of the barrier. I watched as the leavers walked away and turned for the traditional farewell, arm raised, again and again, until they stepped around that last corner and were gone. And we got into the car and drove home. And there was no in-flight entertainment to distract, no fancy drink to sip, no exciting new place to move into, no strange new people to meet. There was just home. And us. And a space where there should have been another person, with nothing to distract from the normality and routine that hurt because of that space.

Leaving the place and the people you love is hard and painful. But there is something worse.

A Raw Week

This blog was started on July 7, just so you know.

Today is the last day of a raw food week my sister convinced me to join her on. It didn’t take much convincing: it sounded like a great idea – eat super healthy for a week, just cut out cooking and a few precooked things (bread, chips).Not a big deal. You’ll feel great, said the articles, lose weight, be extra healthy. Basically, your life will change. Well, they got that right. I am never doing something this ridiculous again.

Here’s how it went:

Day one: feeling optimistic and excited; enjoying guacamole with carrot sticks and cucumber. A few unpleasant stomach side effects beginning. A headache (could be unrelated). Started a list on my kitchen cupboard of every item eaten – feel proud of all the healthy things on the list and excited to add to it.

Day two: positive beginning, guacamole still tasty. By afternoon stomach definitely not happy (and firmly letting me know). Lettuce wraps with raw hummous for supper. Afterwards nauseous at the thought of carrots. Don’t finish adding to the list. Go to sleep thinking murderous thoughts towards Rach.

Day three: Feeling good! Anything is better than day two. Enjoyed fruit and yoghurt smoothy for lunch. Rach comes to stay – she is going through my day two symptoms. I express sympathy but feel slightly superior that I am through the rough patch. (God laughs at my superiority: He knows day four to six holds). Eat lettuce wraps for lunch – much better today and my work colleagues look impressed by my wraps.

Day four: Not as good as day three. Broccoli salad for lunch – raw broccoli is not wonderful. Decide to try making a cold carrot ginger soup recipe I found on a raw food website. Waste a perfectly good avocado in carrot ginger soup. Force a bowl of carrot ginger soup down, heavily diluted with yogurt. Save the rest for Rach later who is on the can’t-look-at-vegetables-even-if-they-look-like-baby-food stage and is eating muesli.

Day five: The day is fine (but closer to day two feeling than day three) until around five. Then craving for bread/crackers/chips/fried anything sets in. AND horror of horrors: guacamole beginning to taste… plain and not enjoyable! Things have become serious. Depressed. Want real food. Rach and I decide that six days is basically a week and since I’m leaving for a school trip on day seven we may as well end on day six and enjoy a celebratory supper.

Day six: It’s a Saturday but we are marking entrance exams at school. People have brought muffins and cake and biscuits (and 2 apples for me, how sweet). Rach and I both not feeling so bad, but think it is probably psychological since we are at the end. We are kind of disappointed that we do not feel physically different, i.e. better – the articles lied. What was the point? I buy a spring roll for my celebratory supper… am disappointed – think I had built it up too much in my head all week, no spring roll could live up to that. But am happy. Afterwards I eat chips. Life is good.

Overall: I believe, just like we should wear glasses if we need them, we need to accept the progress humankind has made over the centuries as a gift from God. We may have started eating raw, but my goodness, we have evolved and moved on! If anyone is ever tempted: don’t do it. It’s really not worth day two, four, five and six. Trust me.

The place and people who make me truly me

After weeks of not thinking about it in order not to drag it out or get too excited too soon, all my siblings are here!

It is hard to describe how important they are to me and who I am. I realise that, like when I am in Zimbabwe, I am more truly me when I with them.  It doesn’t hit me until we are together again and I can say something and be understood and replied to in a way that is obvious that my surface and deeper meaning were heard and understood that I am really only truly me in the place I love and with the people I love. And that is a beautiful thing.

I grew to love Calvin college; I grew to love many people there; I even grew to appreciate (love is a little strong) the United States. But, I was never fully me there. I’m not sure I ever could be. We are so mysteriously connected to, formed and given existence by the place and people we are most intimately surrounded by.

For me, that place is Zim. There are many aspects of it that drive me crazy, and many days I grapple with unbelonging doubts but even within those aspects and doubts, I am comfortable here and me here in a way I never have been elsewhere. This place makes me. It allows me to be. And when the people I love most in the world meet me in this place, I am almost whole.