Making a House a Home -- in Africa

We are settling into yet another new home, on our fourth continent. During our 25 years of marriage I’ve had ample opportunity to discover that men and women process setting up house in a new country quite differently. 

Male perspective: Is there a bed and food? We’re all set!

Female perspective: Read on (and on and on…!)

First, let it be known that I am by nature a quick settler.  We have moved so much that I know what I need to do to make a house a home, and do it quickly. Usually that involves a few days on my sewing machine, multiple shopping trips, a few weeks of chaos, and then a settled house in less than a month. But this time I didn't bring my sewing machine. And this is Africa. It took us three months to find paint that wasn’t blue or red or pink. I apparently had my eye on a very strange color for walls: beige.

Things like hooks and paper towel holders are nonexistent here. But there’s a guy down an impassable road in a part of Kisumu where a woman would never choose to go who does beautiful ironwork.  So, we ordered some things made for the kitchen.  A month later we picked them up: the hooks were too narrow to hang up my utensils. We took another trip down the impassable road and tried to explain the changes that were needed. Another couple weeks they came back, and the hooks were the same. Oh well, I’ll hang different things on them. At least the ironwork is pretty.

We ordered a table and chairs for our porch from the same guy. Now,  I was not keen on experiencing the grimy welding district of Kisumu again, so I didn’t go with Rod to pick up the table. Big mistake letting a six-foot guy who doesn’t notice details do the final quality check on a table and chairs.  When I sat down at the table the table top came up to my chest. Oops. We never thought to specify a table height. Rod will be going back down the impassable road for another re-do on the table. Who knows when we’ll have it back again.

...to new!

My kitchen, from old...

Back to paint…. Getting the paint was only half the problem. The other half was the painter.  He asked for more money to “be careful”.  Hmmm. Do African painters have a pay scale according to how messy their painting will look at the end? Just wondering. We paid him more for the first job and then were told by someone that we had paid too much, so we negotiated less for the second job.  Now I can attest to the fact that he really meant it: he did indeed need more money to be careful. We still have lots of places to try to clean up after the second job.  I guess it turns out that even in Africa you get what you pay for.

Curtains. I just wanted to walk into a store, find fabric to match my bedspread, and have curtains made. Not so easy in Africa. Turns out there’s no such thing as plain brown fabric in Kisumu (or plain anything, for that matter).  I finally found some off-white that I thought could work. I had a piece of fabric like my bedspread that I wanted attached as a valance. After ten minutes trying to explain what I wanted and being met with uncomprehending looks by the professional curtain making guy, I came home and borrowed a sewing machine. At least that worked well. And my resulting valance is actually quite nice.

Cushions and pillows. I ordered these made before discovering that I could borrow a sewing machine. They came back with the zippers in the wrong places, strange colors of thread used, and none of my specifications heeded. A foot of un-used zipper explained the strange lump I felt inside one of the cushions. (Do zippers only come in one length here? Do they ever think to cut off the extra?) 

Ceiling fans. The other night I dreamt I smelled a horrible smell. Then I woke up and knew I was smelling a horrible smell, but assumed it was from outside. Then our ceiling fan lights literally exploded, and I discovered where the horrible smell was coming from. Our ceiling fan motor had burnt out. The next day we got a new ceiling fan and enlisted our electrician at KIST to assemble and install it. Later we turned on the new fan, and the screeching and swaying that ensued was almost scarier than the explosion  the night before.  Turns out one of the fan blades had not come with the requisite metal holder to attach it to the fan. So this guy, ever resourceful, had the idea of just bolting it in himself. The importance of the slant and spacing of the blades was lost on him. I hope he knows electrical wiring a little better!

Cooking in a new place is always an adventure. Ingredients are different, and supplies are not constant. When was the last time you couldn’t find cream cheese at your local supermarket? We take stocked shelves for granted in the States. Not so here. Cream cheese, for instance, is elusive. So, I learned how to make my own substitute out of yogurt. I used it in my Grandma’s cheesecake recipe the other day, and it tasted pretty good. At least Rod liked it. (Then again, he’s the guy who didn’t notice that the table was four inches too high…)

Probably the hardest thing for me adjust to, yet again in a new country, is having house help. I know many of you ladies are probably thinking, “If only I had someone to dust, do the wash, and cook.” But cleaning is not an art form in a country where many live in mud houses. Laundry is done one way, and one way only, no matter what care labels may say. And cooking… well, sometimes too many cooks really DO spoil the pot. Most days I am able to appreciate my helper and practice my Swahili with her, rather than lamenting not being the queen of my castle. But occasionally I just have to give her some extra time off, for my own peace of mind. 

Now if you’re still reading along with me at this point, I guess you’re really interested, so I’ll share a closing story. This story is proof to me that God cares about our nesting instincts, ladies. It’s  about Tupperware. In Indonesia I had great Tupperware canisters, and I prayed  to have something similar in Africa. “And please God, I want red ones, to match my kitchen things.”  Okay, so there are really huge problems in Africa, needing tons of prayer, and I'm praying for red canisters. I wasn't sure if that was allowed or not, but I took my chances.

Then I was invited to go into the Linen Closet and pick out (free) household things to take to Africa. This is sponsored by the Church of God women, and is one of the best ideas ever. It’s almost worth becoming a missionary just to be able to pick out things in the Linen Closet (but not quite). When I got to the Tupperware section (which I had no idea they even had), there was a brand new set of canisters – with red lids! I was ecstatic! 

But the story doesn’t end there. In our move to Africa, one of our trunks was lost. You guessed it – it was the trunk with my Tupperware canisters. The trunk lid had arrived, minus the trunk. All the flight info was on the lid, and everyone we talked to thought there was no way we would ever recover that trunk.I thought that perhaps, after all, one does not pray for red canisters. In my defense I will say that I got over the loss quickly, bought local plastic containers, and prepared to have a happy life without Tupperware canisters.

My finished kitchen-- notice the canisters!

Imagine our surprise when, about a month later, we received a call saying our trunk had been found. I personally think it was those canisters. God was determined that I have them! 

So, if you’re ever tempted to think that God doesn’t care about the little things, remember my canisters. He does.