Hands

Several weeks ago, I fell and broke my left wrist. I’m right handed so I didn’t think it would cause too many issues for me until I realized that I used both hands to put my hair up (essential in the hot humid weather we’re currently having here in Chad) and to get dressed and type blog posts faster than a caveman learning about technology. It gave me a newfound appreciation for that surfer girl whose arm got bit off by a shark and started me on a campaign to convince the doctor to let me get the cast off early. (I won! Never underestimate the power of cookies.)

The people around me said, "It's fine. Give it a few minutes and you'll feel better."
I said, "I don't think it's supposed to look like this."

The incredibly patient Dr Kalbassou

The saw thing makes me nervous

You can see pen marks and the henna at the top that looks like a bruise.

I got the cast off and my arm is shrunken and smelly with pen marks from where I scratched it with an open pen so I didn’t lose the top down there. It also had the remains of the henna designs my friend Samira did for me in Niger. They’d long washed off my other hand, but the cast had protected them longer than necessary. 

I admired Samira's henna and she offered to do it for me.

She said she's not really good at it.
I think she's wrong.

I can’t remember the first time I had henna drawn on my hands. Probably it was in the Middle East. I know I did it in India and my refugee friends in the US did it for me once. I’ve had it done for weddings in Sudan several times. I always admired how the women had these patterns and designs in their minds and could squeeze the mud out of a little plastic bag so perfectly. I asked some Somali and Yemeni guys once if they thought it made women more beautiful to have henna on their hands. They looked at me blankly for a minute and then said, “Uh, yeah…sure,” which led me to conclude that most of them don’t notice it much. But women do. 

India 2013?

Yemen 2011? I also don't know why my face is like that.

Women in the US and other “western” countries don’t have the culture of doing henna designs on their hands, but I’ve occasionally been a part of the pre-wedding mani-pedi. Having pretty nails is something mostly we women appreciate probably more than men for whatever reason, but I do think most people, regardless of gender, often do appreciate nice hands—whether from a Christmas-themed manicure done by your artistic sister who used a toothpick to draw reindeer and stockings on your nails (Happy birthday, Joanna!) or from a friend who is handy with the henna. An old Chadian adage says, “Don’t eat with someone with dirty nails,” which makes a lot of sense considering we eat from a communal plate here. So clearly people notice your nails.

I’ve been thinking about these things a lot, especially after I showed up with with beautiful henna designs on my hands (thanks to my friend Samira) in a remote village in Niger where we are doing water projects. I like to talk to the ladies about water and just hang out with them whenever I’m in the field. They are amazing and have really interesting stories. They’re stronger than I could ever hope to be, and they’re funny and kind and resilient. We laugh together often, and I usually have to be dragged away by whatever man is with me keeping track of the time. (This is not a comment on gender stereotypes, this is just reality that usually it’s me traveling with a bunch of men.) I almost always find out interesting things I hadn’t known that I should be looking for. And that is exactly what happened this time.

Fun ladies

We have the same Arabic name so that was a good connection.

Instant bond

See? Always with men. This is my military escort.

We were talking about how the new water point would change their lives and the women started showing me their hands—everyone had gnarled and bumpy fingers with thick callouses making their thumbs and joints extra knobby. They called out women who had the largest callouses to come and show me. Some of them were embarrassed, but others came up and showed me and told me to take photos. One woman explained, “These hands look bad because we throw buckets down into the open wells to get water. Then we pull the heavy water buckets back up by the ropes. We do this so much that our hands develop these callouses.” As Claire said to me when talking about how my broken wrist is healing, “The human body really is amazing.” And this is a way that their bodies adapted to be stronger. But women everywhere usually do want to be beautiful. And these ladies hadn’t decorated their hands with henna. They didn’t want to show them off. Most of them were twisting them in their robes and kind of shy-laughing as we chatted. 

I felt a bit embarrassed by my henna-hands, which I’d done to have a reason to hang out with Samira, who was fun and sweet, and also because I do love how it looks. I talk with my hands, which you’ll know if you’ve ever seen me in any of neverthirst’s videos. I wave them around even when not on camera, using them to describe things more dramatically, a trait I probably picked up from living in a multi-cultural and multi-lingual environment most of my life—it really helps get the point across if you don’t know (or don’t remember) a word in the language you’re trying to speak. But while I’d been very proud of my hands before, and shown them off to many people and my 20 friends on Instagram, I felt like twisting mine in my own long dress, ashamed of my dainty princess fingers and the easy, comparatively rich life I lucked into when I was born to educated middle class white American parents.

Talking with my hands to some local leaders

But as these ladies showed me their hands, I thought of the time they spend every day pulling up water for their families, serving their children and husbands and relatives living with them and animals providing them with their livelihood, and I know that they have nothing to be ashamed of, and much to be proud of. So after Aisha (name changed) showed me her hands so I could take a photo of them because she wanted me to show people outside what they suffer for water in Niger, I held her hands in mine and told her that her hands were beautiful. Her hands show her love for her family. Her hands show her strength and perseverance in hardship. Her sacrifice for people she loves. And I told her that God sees that and loves her. She smiled at me, still embarrassed, but I wanted to say it, for the record. For her, in case she ever thinks about it someday. For me, to remember that in spite of hard things I’m facing in my life right now, I don’t really have it so bad. For God, because I know He would say that to her, but He wants the Body to go out and be His Hands and Feet to serve others (or His mouth to speak His words to them).

And speaking of serving others, I’m so thankful for those who donated to this and other neverthirst projects. Because honestly, pretty words are often only as effective as henna on an arm in an old school plaster of Paris cast that weighs two kilos according to the bathroom scale Naomi gave me. You know what says “God values you and cares about your suffering” more clearly than French translated into the local language? A new water system with tap stands and a water tank that provides a jerry can full of water in less than a minute with no wear and tear on the hands, no dead animals and bugs having to be fished out at the top, no danger of children falling in. Again, we are the Body of Christ. His hands and His feet. We serve those in need in His name. We can’t multiply loaves and fishes, but we can use our resources to provide for those who don’t have them in the name of Jesus, and it’s such a blessing to us when we get to be a part of the answer to prayer. 

Also sometimes you get to climb water towers and that is always fun
though hard to do in a dress.

IDPs and Rock Climbing and Consequences

This week I learned that it is possible to make unwise decisions even if one is almost 30 years old.  (Who knew, right?) What started as an innocent trip to an IDP camp to see if we would dig some wells there, ended with me hobbling around for a day—only a day though. I was back out running the day after that. Blistered feet can’t slow me down. Well maybe a little. Temporarily.

Bushrat for dinner anyone? We met this intrepid hunter in the camp.

So we were supposed to go to this IDP camp outside of Juba, where apparently 2000+ internally displaced people (IDPs—for my slower readers) were supposed to be living. We were supposed to go there with the commissioner for Mundri East County and his armed guard (probably the only reason the Boss agreed to go that close to Juba anyway), but at the last minute the Commissioner bailed, meaning his armed guard did too. We were on the road already, though, so we went on to the next town where we were supposed to meet one of the Commish’s deputies who also bailed. Then we went on to yet another town, meeting with the local administrator of that area who had not been informed of our coming and also could not accompany us, but he sent a pastor with us, so it was OK. God was on our side that way, I guess. He also (the administrator, not God) updated us on the situation in the camp, which is currently housing approximately 500 people since the other 1500 had gone on to stay with friends, relatives, or returned to Juba.

I drank this water, and I'm still OK.

We began to seriously re-think our plans to work in the area, but we did hang out with some Dinka SPLA guys and let them show us the river where the current IDPs and soldiers are getting their water. They bathe and wash clothes directly in the river, but they dig small holes beside the water and drink from those holes. I’m not sure of their reasoning on that one, but I took a swig, and I didn’t die or get sick, so I think they’re fine. But they are worried that the river will dry up soon (it’s dry season now and very possible), so we are still looking into helping out.  The thing about South Sudan is that often you can put a pump in what seems to be the middle of no-where, but when you go back a while later, a small town has grown up around the well. That’s the power of water.

The Gunfire Bridge

Anyway, we made it back to Mundri with only one scare, which was when a truck went over a nearby metal bridge and the Boss thought it was gunfire, but other that that, no issues.  Still, since we were traveling with a camera man, it took a while, as he kept wanting to stop and get this or that shot. He was talking about wanting a landscape shot, and I knew just the rock I had been wanting to climb up for a while. Since it’s dry season, most of the elephant grass has burned off and you can see up to the base of the rock and not worry about accidentally stepping on a black mamba and dying a horrible painful death. I find snakes and all reptiles fascinating, but there are other ways I’d prefer to go. But now would be the perfect time to climb up, so I suggested we go. And we did—well, the camera man and I did.  He followed me to the rock (he is definitely more afraid of black mambas than me, and probably willing to sacrifice my life, hoping to get my death scene on film for his Pulitzer. I know it’s not personal—he’s a camera man…) and started up behind me, but since he was wearing shoes and I was wearing some chunky flipflops, he went faster. I decided to ditch the shoes and go up barefoot. I got up really quickly, and didn’t notice any problems until all of a sudden I felt the skin separate from my feet—not because I cut it, but because large blisters had bubbled up under the front of my feet where I’d been climbing. Then I realized that getting down was going to be very painful.  It was.

I backwards-spider-man crawled down the mountain, using my heels and the palms of my hands—there’s really not a modest way to do that in a skirt. The Boss was concerned, and he even came out of the car to ask if I was OK. I think he thought I didn’t know how to get down the mountain. I did, but I was already testing the limits of my pain tolerance, and speeding down wasn’t an option for me. Anyway, I made it down and to the car, and spent the rest of the day and the next hobbling around. Before I doctored it up, I took photos. I’m warning you now because I’m nice, and I know some of you (my sisters) are a bit squeamish. But if your curiosity is stronger than your stomach, scroll down and down for the gruesome photos.  I’ll also include the photos of my doctor skills because the medical profession is seriously missing my bandaging creativity.  Scroll down if you dare.

Keep going.

A bit more.

You know you’re curious.

It’s not too late to go back up now.

Last chance.

NOW it’s too late to back.

Congratulations, Brave Reader. You have arrived.

 

This was the first attempt. I had to stick a bandage on because I was planning to go make some brownies in our oven which already had coals ready, and so I was in a hurry. Later I cut off all the extra skin and put on medicines and stuff. And now it's totally fine because I am a genius doctor.

Lesson learned:

Barefoot rock climbing after a day of 100+ degree weather is not a good idea. Even if the rock feels ok to your feet, there are certain temperatures that the sole of the foot is not designed to withstand. Yes, I could have let Camera Man go it alone, but he did seem to need my expert advice on where to go because he decided to climb up a big jutting rock with trees around it and couldn’t get a shot. I showed him a better place and he handed his camera down to me while he jumped down to get the view he needed. Also -- like I was going to let Camera Man get up the rock without me… It was MY rock in the first place! Anyway, I climbed my rock even if I paid for it all by myself with a little bit of pain and backwards-spider-man crawling humiliation, and next time I go up, I’ll bring my camera (phone not fancy video one) and I’ll wear flip-flops with better grip. Climbing in shoes is for sissy foreigners.

One more bonus photo from near where I work where someone just put up mine warning signs while I was gone. Who knew?  Good thing I didn't see a monkey or a shiny rock or something else irresistible over there before those signs went up.