Painting
On Wednesday, I continued working around the mission base. After Herivaldo and I painted the entryways to the classrooms, Wessel was pleased with how the red paint looked and decided to paint the entire floor with it. It was a dream of his to make each schoolroom inviting and cheerful, along with providing a first-rate education. The thought resonated with me as well, and I was eager to make that dream a reality.
He had also acquired some green paint that was like a chalkboard surface when it dried. He wanted that painted on the walls low enough so the little children could write and draw on it comfortably. His idea was to draw the border of the green paint with little arcs, invoking a sense of bubbles or clouds, something whimsical that would make the space cheerful and unique. And the red floor would transform the dull, grey concrete into something reminiscent of the beautiful red dirt of the area. That would be my task for the next few days.
We scrounged up a bucket and paint brush, a scrawny little thing but well-suited to the careful task of outlining the bubbles. My experience painting with brushes had taught me the correct technique for applying the circles to the border of the chalkboard areas. I had used only brushes to paint the exterior of my own house. My lack of insight (or stubbornness) prevented me from using a roller or sprayer, so it took me several years to complete the job. The experience would come in handy. Wessel and I snapped a chalk line 10 centimeters up from the floor. The red floor paint would end there, and the green chalkboard paint would continue up to the bottom of the windowsills.
I recalled the story of Booker T. Washington, founder of the Tuskegee University, who arrived at Hampton Institute in 1872, a young man with “a little satchel of clothes, fifty cents in his pocket, a happy heart, and a determination to succeed.” He wanted to study but was not immediately allowed admittance to Hampton. He was given the job of sweeping a recitation room at the school. Instead of thinking the job was beneath him, he gladly took on the responsibility. Washington recalled, “I knew that I could sweep, for Mrs. Ruffner had thoroughly taught me how to do that when I lived with her.” That job was like his entrance exam, a test to see if he was willing to put in the hard work to succeed, and he was later admitted for study. As for me, I knew that I could paint, for Providence had taught me how to do that over many summers. With care, I planned the outlines and scribed the arcs with a slow back-and-forth freehand technique that I knew would result in clean lines.
Portuguese study
I went inside for the afternoon to study Portuguese, and as I walked past Ericleidy, he asked what I had been doing. “Muito trabalho” I replied. (“Much work.”) He smiled and said that my pronunciation was better than even Papa Wessel. I expressed my doubt at that, though it was nice to hear. I hoped to learn the language and mimic the accent the best that I could. I spent part of the afternoon looking over the travel dictionary and workbooks that I had brought with me, and I found a large Portuguese dictionary in the OM library that helped me understand the etymology. While I studied at the long dinner table, Herivaldo walked back and forth on top of it helping Wessel install the LED rope lights from the hardware store. We would be eating under some stylish lighting that evening.
Barianne asked if Americans have the tradition of calling someone Aunt or Uncle as a term of familiarity with non-family members. I answered that we did, so she said I could be Tio Miguel to Yakeem, and I agreed with that idea. They kept a picture of me when I left, and I kept in touch with the team. A year after I left, Yakeem could still remember my name when he would see my picture.
Satphone calls
I spent part of the day trying to call airlines to see if flights out might be available. The lack of information was starting to make me feel very isolated. I was on the phone regularly with my wife. I was in the habit of walking to the soccer field and calling from there, where I had an unobstructed view of the sky for the satellite phone to work best. It was usually in the evening after dusk when I would call her, so as we talked, I walked briskly around the perimeter of the field to keep the mosquitoes off me. Carmen and my mother had been diligently contacting senators and airlines doing what she could to get me home.
I talked to my boss, Jamie, on several occasions to keep my employer informed. He assured me that my job would be waiting for me when I got back but encouraged me to get to Luanda, so I could catch a flight if one materialized. The recorded messages at the embassy echoed his: get to the big city. But it wasn’t as easy as that. I had access to embassy websites and phone recordings, and I was getting notifications through the US State Department’s STEP (Smart Traveler Enrollment Program) system. But what I needed was a real person to talk to who could give me actual solutions and authoritative information. I had no sure way to get to Luanda and nowhere to stay even if I could, and I would much rather be stuck in Menongue with Wessel and company than be waiting an indeterminate length of time in Luanda. I chose to wait.
Welcome to Angola 