So, I thought I’d post a blog about the things on the race that any normal person would raise an eyebrow to, but I have simply come to accept as normal life. You never really know what sort of beautiful landscape or odd commodity you will run into while traveling on this crazy adventure, and on month five, I am starting to accept these occurrences as part of my normal life. I’ll start by describing a normal November weekend for me back in the states, and then I’ll describe what a ‘normal’ November weekend looks like for me on the race. This should be fun.
America Jessica
On Friday afternoon at 5:00 p.m., I would promptly get off work at Operation Christmas Child. Bundling up with my heavy coat and stylish scarf, my heels would click down the hall at the office at I waved goodbye to my co-workers. I would hurry the few steps to my car to try to miss as much of the cold November air as I could. Jumping in my Nissan Maxima, I would start the engine and turn up the heater. Singing Christmas carols, listening to a book on tape, or talking on my cell phone to a friend are some of the tasks I would use to occupy my time while I waited in rush hour traffic. Don’t miss that!
Getting home around 6:15 p.m., I would open the front door to my parent’s house (I lived with them for a few months after I graduated) and normally be greeted by the sweet smell of something my mom was cooking. Blake (my brother) would be bopping around the house planning something for the evening with his friends and my dogs would be greeting me at the door. Around this particular weekend in November, my mom and I would be going to a Christmas open house on Marietta Square. Now, this is one of my favorite holiday traditions that I do with my mom. Each shop at the little square in my hometown would be decked out with Christmas décor, adorned with yummy treats, drinks, and a Christmas jazz band or two. It’s literally one of my favorite nights of the year.
On Saturday morning I would sleep in a little bit, but since it is football season, I would probably be driving up to Athens to tailgate and go to the UGA football game with my friends. Dressed in UGA colors and formal attire, we would freeze our buns off as we cheered for the Dawgs in the outdoor Sanford stadium. GOOOOO DAWGS! SIC ‘EM!
The night would end at my best friend Ashley’s apartment with a nice bubble bath, enjoying something sweet she prepared in the kitchen, and probably watching a few episodes of Friends.
Sunday morning would come and my friends and I would all meet at International House of Pancakes (IHOP) for the best breakfast ever: a big steak omelet and chocolate-chip pancakes. After tearful goodbyes, I would travel back to Marietta just in time to have a little alone time reading at Barnes and Noble and drinking a tall white chocolate mocha. The night would end with me helping with the youth group at my church and getting my Sunday dose of Jesus, capped off with a movie at home and some homemade popcorn with the family. This is a typical America Jessica weekend.
World Race Jessica
Friday afternoon we would normally all pile into the bed of a truck or what is called a minibus (its literally exactly what it sounds like) to travel to some remote village in the mountains. We pack a sleeping pad, pillow, tent, one change of clothes, and toiletries (toilet paper a MUST!)
Friday evening we would arrive at the village, pitch our tents, and begin to cook rice, sima (see last blog), and sardines over an African village stove. After hours of preparation, we would eat at about 9:00 p.m.; have an exciting time of prayer and worship as only Africans can, and head to bed in my tent.
The sun rises precisely at 5 a.m. and the whole rest of Africa follows suite and gets up with it. Children are playing, mothers are cooking, and people are up and ready for the day. If you have a good pair of ear plugs and a well-fitted eye mask, you can sleep until at least seven, but that’s as good as it gets.
Running my fingers through my tangled hair as a make shift brush, I unzip my tent and stumble to my neighbor’s tent to find someone to walk me to the bathroom (we can’t go anywhere by ourselves). As I walk to the bathroom, a string of baby chicks follow in step behind me, as if they know what I’m about to do and want a good show. Did I say bathroom? I’m sorry, I meant stonewalled squatty potty, which is basically a deep rectangle hole in the cement floor for you to squat over and do your business. Toilet paper in hand, I gasp for air and try not to breathe in the stench of squatters past. Exercising my thigh muscles, I close my eyes and wait for the horrible experience to be over, and pray that the bees swarming around don’t sting me in certain places!
Enjoying a breakfast of sweet potatoes (not the orange kind you’re thinking of) and freshly made black tea over the open fire, Zachariah gives us the rundown of the day. After several hours of waiting, we get the crusade going with some singing and jumping around in the hot sun. Hair a mess, make-up a joke, missionary-length skirt on, and Bible in hand, people just look at you for who you are on the inside, because anything you have on the outside has now effectively been sweated off.
The sun continues to beat down as I sweat through the only outfit I brought. The day continues with another round of rice, sima, and chicken, then a combination of Africans and Americans preaching the gospel and singing praise worship. Healing prayers, casting out demons, and restoration take place after the service. We end the day watching the sunset and eating rice with our hands. Sunday I repeat the chick/squatty potty scenario, try to comb out my even more tangled mess of hair, and attempt to smooth out my dirty clothes.
Next, I would pack up my tent, and sleeping supplies, and head to our temporary home to rest, wash clothes, and prepare for the week ahead. This is a typical World Race Jessica weekend.
I hope you have enjoyed this chronicle of daily life for me this month. When walking to a squatty potty with a group of baby chicks at 5:30 in the morning becomes normal, you know something is different, and I can’t wait to tell these stories to my children when I am old and gray. I wonder which stories they will believe…
