acclimatization

(At a roadside restaurant in Burma.)

(HEIDI returns from the bathroom and joins MARCI at the table.)



HEIDI: This place has a great bathroom. It's got everything you need!

MARCI: It's got toilet paper?

HEIDI: Well, no.

MARCI: Soap?

HEIDI: No.

MARCI: A sink?

HEIDI: No... But it's relatively clean, there's water and a bucket to flush the toilet, and if you bring your own tissue and hand sanitizer, it's got everything you need!

MARCI: I think your idea of adequate toilet facilities has acclimatized.

(All those present laugh uncontrollably.)

cows

Sometimes when I'm driving, especially in the hills, I turn a corner and have to slow way down and honk the horn to get the cows to move out of the way. Up until last week, this had been my only direct interaction with cows. I confess I did not hold them in high esteem.

As I was preparing for my trip to Bago Yoma, I was also in the throes of pneumonia recovery. I anticipated needing to hike about 4 hours to reach one of the villages we planned to visit. This was about 3.5 hours farther than my realistic lung capacity at the time. My parents suggested that I request a donkey or an elephant or some other creature to transport me instead of using my legs. It was a good idea in theory, but I doubted that it was a realistic possibility. I suppose that didn't stop them praying for something of the kind.

A few days later, our team arrived at the trail head. Our van dropped us off by a little roadside hut, and we started pulling on hiking boots and slathering on sunblock. I hardly noticed the cows nearby, munching contentedly on their weeds.

"Would you like to ride on the ox-cart, Heidi?"

Would I like to what?! Could I really? Yes!

And so it transpired that I arranged my limbs amid the load of backpacks on the cart and was subsequently transported 4 hours to our destination - and eventually 4 hours back, that time accompanied by some of my teammates.

What a ride.

Our cart frame was made of tamarind wood, our seat of 6 bamboo halves lashed together with tough palm fronds (and large gaps between them). The wheels were 4 feet in diameter, the size of which served as the cart's only suspension system. Two cows were harnessed to a yoke at the front, and the driver directed them using varied vocalizations, a rope attached to their nostrils, and a skinny little stick for poking and swatting their backsides.

As we jostled along, I found ways to occupy myself. I sang. I chatted with the driver in Karen. I planned escape routes in case the cart should tip over (which it never considered), and formulated ways to murder snakes using the machete next to me in the event that one should fall from a tree (which it didn't). I studied ox-cart driving technique, thinking it might come in handy someday. In case you're curious, you click your tongue to get the cows moving and make kissing noises to stop them. But mostly, I spent my time simply marveling at the cows.

Those animals completely blew me away. They squelched through sticky mud 2 ft deep. They climbed up and down incredibly steep slopes. They took on boulders and rivers and fallen trees with steady, patient strength - and all that with a heavy, loaded cart in tow, and in impressive tandem with each other. Watching them gave me a completely new appreciation for the necessity of being "equally yoked." It definitely matters. I am now a firm believer in the merits of ox-cart travel, my friends. They go places no other vehicle I know of could possibly go. And they're environmentally friendly - all repair materials are available for free along the road, and the animals eat and drink (and distribute fertilizer) as they go!

I will admit that this method of travel does not rank high on the comfort scale. The experience was equal parts settler wagon, slow motion roller coaster, and bucking bronco. My skeletal muscles got a handsome workout, I accumulated bruises in all sorts of unexpected places, and I was rather sore in the days following. But my lungs? Ah, they were not the least bit overtaxed. God must have been listening to my parents.

And as for my opinion of cows - well, they have certainly earned my respect. Now when I see them along the roadside (or in the middle of it) I cannot think of them as a nuisance. Instead, I announce to anyone who will listen that they are amazing animals, and that ox-cart is the way to go.

default

I walked into the hotel room with my leftover chicken and rice container in one hand. My first words? "There's no fridge." About 5 seconds later, I discovered that the room did have a fridge after all. I hadn't really looked before I made my declamation. In went the styrofoam box.

One morning, our team decided to spend some time at an archeological site being excavated for information about the ancient Burman kingdom of Pyu. We parked in front of the museum and looked at their sign. "Open Tuesday through Saturday." It was a Monday. I allowed myself to feel disappointed. No museum for us. We got out of the van to examine a large map of the excavation sites. In about 5 minutes, one of the museum employees approached us and asked if we would like to have a look around the museum. So we did. And because it wasn't officially open, we didn't even have to pay a fee! Fascinating place.

It was 5am in the village, and I was desperate to find the toilet, a situation exacerbated by my unwillingness to visit the facilities the evening before while it was pouring rain. When one of our hosts noticed me wandering around the mountainside in the morning, he perceived my need and offered to escort me to the prescribed location. Down the hill, around the fence, up the hill, across the field, and there they were: 4 beautiful outhouses. Necessity can make anything beautiful. Three of the outhouses had padlocks. I would have been quite happy to avail myself of the one that did not. My host, however, considered it his duty to determine which was the highest quality toilet and recommend it to me. He approached the first stall for inspection. "It's locked," said I, for so it appeared. "Are you sure?," asked my host, and with that, he reached up and flipped the padlock open and lifted it out of the latch. Without a key. The padlock had been situated so that it appeared impenetrable, but it wasn't completely clamped shut. So really, the door wasn't locked at all. While I was impressed with my host's obviously superior skills of observation, I was equally eager to have the area to myself, so I thanked him and informed him that I could take it from there. He was free to leave, and did.

On this trip to Bago Yoma, I began to notice something disturbing about my perspective: I default to impossible. Rather than imagining what could be, I tend to see what can't. My mind works more like a branch that gets caught on the rocks and less like the water that flows around them.

The 3 villages we visited and the 10 more we heard about are all full of problems. For much of the year, they don't have enough water. They scrape it out of holes they dig in the riverbank and haul it up to their houses. Then they suffer from skin sores when they bathe in it, and from stomach ailments when they drink it. Their only health care comes from teenaged medics with 6 months of basic training. They don't have money for hospitals, for travel, for food, for medicine, for soap. Few of them have any education beyond the 4th grade. Most of the villages have only one toilet, total, and a lot of the people don't see the point in using it. The government aid that is supposed to provide vaccines and deworming medication only reaches the few villages located on the road. The leaders are tired and overworked.

Like rocks in a riverbed, the obstacles loom large. And it would be easy to default to impossible. There is no fridge. We can't get into the museum. The toilet door is padlocked. These 13 villages are way beyond help.

I am reminded of Mary and Martha, whose brother, Lazarus, was dead. They expected him to stay that way. Then Jesus came.

“Take away the stone,” he said. “But, Lord,” said Martha, the sister of the dead man, “by this time there is a bad odor, for he has been there four days.” Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face. Jesus said to them, “Take off the grave clothes and let him go.” (John 11:39-43)

So much for that rock. If death didn't deter him, why should anything else? I belong to the One for whom even resurrection is not impossible. My default ought to be him.

loverly

For 16 days now, I have been working my way through various stages of what turned out to be severe pneumonia.

When I got a chest x-ray a week ago, the Thai doctor showed me what my lungs looked like on the computer screen. There was a big white cloud on the lower left side, and diffuse spider web looking things with white dots throughout the rest of my lungs. He looked at me and said, quite simply, "You are pneumonia." Apparently rather a serious case of it, too. He kept tilting his head at me and asking if I was short of breath, which I confirmed that I was. I asked if I should take Amoxicillin. He pointed at the screen and told me that Amoxicillin was not strong enough to fight that big white blob. He doubted that regular Augmentin would be either. In the end, I was put on high dose Augmentin along with Doxycycline, and sent home to rest.

So that's what I've been doing. Sleeping, watching movies, reading books, praying, showering, and trying to breathe. My dear coworkers have kept me supplied with soup and fruit and regular lung assessments. One afternoon, 3-year-old Nenana came over to visit and curled up in my lap for a few minutes. And my sweet friends and family have been praying and writing messages from afar. My brother and sister-in-law even sent me a hilarious recording of "Wouldn't it be Loverly?" from the musical My Fair Lady... sung in a chipmunk voice.

I was inspired by their little creative venture. So I've re-written the words to the same song, to commemorate and make light of my pulmonary affliction.

"Wouldn't it be Lovely?" (the pneumonia version)

by Heidi Friesen

All I want is a bit of air

Sing this song and have breath to spare

The strength to leave my chair

Oh wouldn't it be loverly?

No more cough robbing me of sleep

No more sweat soaking all my sheets

The proper urge to eat

Oh wouldn't it be loverly?

Oh so loverly feeling every alveolus fill!

I would write and dance and sing operettas with all the frills.

Breathing easy and breathing deep

Fever gone, steady on my feet

To be pneumonia-free -

Oh wouldn't it be loverly

Loverly, loverly, loverly, loverly!