Nature vs. Creation

Oddly enough, life in Africa triggers thoughts of . . . Texas, and Texas playing second fiddle no less! This would be unthinkable for Charlie, a college classmate who was a Texas evangelist of sorts. Every chance he got Charlie spouted the good news of the state that stands alone; everything in the Lone Star State: bigger and better.

Move over Texas. Zambia will give you a run for your money, at least in terms of the natural world. Everything wild here seems bigger (bees) or more threatening (mosquitos and thunderstorms) or more determined to survive (termites), if not conquer (ants). Here for barely a week, I had the thrill to see a lion in the wild. The beast was scarcely visible as it hunkered down at dusk in the wispy, straw-colored bush grass, calculating taking an unwitting other’s life. “How violent!” I said to my colleague. He pointed out that if the other animal didn’t die, the lion would. How violent. What came to mind was the difference between the world as it was created, “good,” and as it became after the Fall. Good Creation became violent Nature.


The rainy season in Zam spawned chameleons. They really do change colors. Fascinating. They also eat unsuspecting grasshoppers, live, headfirst. How violent.

Lion ants, or "doodlebugs " carve conical traps in sandy soil. Then they burrow beneath the sand and wait for insects to stray into the crater.

When these panic-stricken insects struggle to crawl up and out of the hole to evade the lion ant’s clutches from below, the sides of the pit collapse. The hapless victim becomes a protein shake. How violent.

I have never before experienced thunder and lightning storms as violent as in Zam. I have a newfound appreciation for the "I hear the rolling thunder" lyric of the hymn “How Great Thou Art.” The other day my eight-year old neighbor admitted to his dad that even though he knew there was no reason to be frightened, he was afraid of the thunder. I’m not sure his premise is valid. A shiver ran up my spine when that thunder cracked right above me. What power.

Now I can’t get Psalm 29 out of my head. Google it and note how it ends.

Even the slightest of insects are associated with danger, insects I’ve only known as pests. Here they can kill you. Zam’s mosquitos look smaller than ours, but they dart around much faster, and are better at dodging my attempts at violence. Of course, they transmit malaria, which I know too well. I’m among the fortunate. One million African children die from malaria every year. How violent.




What if someone could come and reverse this violence and death, bring hope, new life, break into space and time and usher in peace, renew and restore Nature to Creation? If only there was One to come free us from this violence. O come, O come, Immanuel. Peace and Joy! Merry Christmas!

“Our Forefathers Weren’t Stupid!”

As we made our way through Zambia’s Central Province, my colleague Richard extolled the virtues of a Bemba tribal farming technique in use for centuries, the Chitemene system. Around October, villagers gather brush and cut trees to a height of about three feet. They surround the perimeter of this rectangular plot and set it ablaze, sentinels poised with their leafy tree branches in hand to deny the tongues of fire ingress to their village. The villagers plant millet and ground nuts (peanuts) in the powdery ash now fortified with carbon and nitrogen. For two years these crops will thrive and the stumps regenerate and bear fruit.

Richard mentioned that a rival tribe employing a different agricultural method used to ridicule the Chitemene system. He defiantly replied, “Our forefathers weren’t stupid!” That exclamation seared my consciousness: “Our forefathers weren’t stupid!”

Being immersed in a foreign society triggers an involuntary reflex to make sense of the plethora of cultural gaps. Strangeness smacks me in the face at every turn. I find myself incessantly musing, “Why do they do this that way?” In a culture I just don’t understand (and still won’t even after being here a year), it seems prudent, though it’s not always easy, to resist the temptation to suggest some alternative way of doing things. As opportunities present themselves I respectfully inquire about Zambian ways. Nevertheless, it’s a huge blessing to have a great bunch of ex-pat friends with whom to hash out these experiences.

Occasionally I can sort out the rationale for Zambian ways. For example, local minivan-sized buses here do not operate on a schedule. They depart when they’re full (and don’t idle while they’re waiting). This is fantastic when I arrive to occupy the last seat. It’s somewhat less exhilarating when I’m the first to arrive for the next bus! Wouldn’t you agree that considering that one gallon of fuel here ranges from nearly $8 to $12, this system makes perfect sense? There are good reasons other “tribes” do things “their way.” That’s not to say we can’t help each other develop new and different, and yes, even better ways of doing things.
I’m discovering that Zambians can teach us a great deal about things that really matter – like the importance of relationships, community, and faith, and freedom from enslavement to the clock. Richard ended his lesson by proudly informing me that the rival tribe ended up adopting the Chitemene system! No Richard, of course your forefathers weren’t stupid.

In Synch with the Skink in My Sink

I recently happened upon a small lizard, a skink I'm told, slinking about my kitchen sink. Frustrated and frazzled, he struggled mightily to escape, his little feet scratching but unable to get a grip on the shiny metal surface. These reptiles are fixtures here. They dart across walls – in my flat, in stores, churches, anywhere they might satisfy their appetite for small insects. They're equipped with feet that enable them to zip up ninety-degree inclines in search of food, which I hope and assume includes mosquitos. Hence, my complete willingness to share space with skinks!

I've no idea why, but for whatever reason – maybe the interminable U. S. presidential election campaigning (coupled with Zambia’s), my bout with malaria, or perhaps being deprived of seeing the explosion of northeastern fall foliage – this skink in my sink inspired me to compose a few (not so dirty) limericks. Consider this feeble attempt at creativity my contribution to ameliorating the effects of the faltering global economy. At least those who get paid to write (limericks?) can rest assured that I am no threat to their jobs! I hope that I have at least succeeded in communicating how we resolved the situation in my sink. Kids of all ages and my nine nieces and nephews especially, I invite your comments.

A skink I'll call Linc found himself in my sink
Did he think he could just help himself to a drink?
Slipping and sliding, he took finally to hiding
Til riding fly swatter seemed a much better tiding
Guiding Linc to send bugs to the brink

If only my sink had been zinc
Skink Linc might have climbed from my sink
No fraction of traction for all Linc’s great action
Required was a fly swatter extraction
Skink Linc now makes bugs blink in synch


I heard this weird clink in my slick metal sink
Could it be the skink Linc taking a drink?
The siding caused panicky slipping and sliding
But riding the swatter beat dipping and hiding
Skink Linc now slurps skeeters, plink plink

Termites, Trees, Tech

There are so many magnificent trees here, but given the ubiquity of termites, it's amazing anything made of wood remains standing. The evidence is seemingly everywhere, from young three-inch bumps on the ground to century-old mounds jutting two stories into the sky. Some mounds have steps carved into them that people scale to peek across the landscape. All over you find beams and benches, viable tree trunks, logs, branches, and even seedpods on the ground encrusted with light brown mud tunnels. These hard-working critters really give nature and humanity a run for their money.

Notwithstanding the little buggers many trees survive, like those in Chitambo. This village in the Northern Province is near the burial site of Dr. David Livingstone, the famous medical missionary-explorer. Scottish missionaries established Chitambo village. The local hospital, school, and church they built suggest they envisioned strengthening their fellow humanity in body, mind, and spirit. According to Chitambo's local pastor, in 1906, missionary Malcolm Moffat planted trees to initiate the settlement. There are three of these huge trees still standing; I was told they're called “bob” trees! They have tremendous girth, and bark exploding in a rich mosaic of color. Chitambo children don't climb these trees - out of respect for Moffat’s memory.









Work in Zam demands respect too. Joblessness is at seventy percent. Work is not only hard to come by but just plain hard. I met two pit sawyers in Chitambo. One alone is useless. In blazing 90-plus-degree heat one man stood atop a huge log pushing at one end of jagged steel while another sat below, pulling. The lower man dangled his legs in a pit, dug out (by hand no doubt) to allow the toothy blade clearance to slice the log perfectly in half. I’ve handled a saw only enough (and under much better conditions) to know how difficult it is to cut as precisely in half and as straight as these men did – without the saw binding.











Ironically, trees and simple means are also being used to bring technology here. All over the country barebacked men swing wooden-handled axes and picks to drop trees and excavate earth for the long, thin trench in which will be laid fiber optic cable. None of the felled trees will be wasted. They will be a blessing to many local village people who will drag them away to build huts, bed frames, or stalls for selling goods, or for making charcoal. Termites will take care of the rest.

Trees in Zam are also used to mark endings, or more hopefully, new beginnings. While in Mpika, late on a Saturday afternoon men worked feverishly to complete a coffin in time for a burial to take place the next day. What a simple unfinished wooden box that fully meets its need, don't you think?

Rural Zambian Hospitality

Some people go to amusement parks and pay hard-earned money for rides like this. Strapped securely into our pickup, we jarred and jostled along the cratered clay-dirt road. Literally miles before, we’d turned off the main (and only paved) road, at the sign for the two small schools.

No street signs or postings of any kind marked the way to the home of my colleague Richard’s sister, Miss Mumba, just occasional forks in the dusty path. (Even Richard has trouble with her first name!) At these decisive branches he’d query clusters of school children seen ambling along in the heat of the day. They chattered among themselves before deciding which way to point us. After stopping several times and veering to other bumpier and narrower, less traveled strips of scraped earth, we finally came to the place. People immediately sprung up to greet us. It was easier to imagine I was gripping the strong, sandpapery palm of a salty bosun than that of this slight woman in her sixties. Miss Mumba subsists by farming a small plot and keeping a couple pigs and a handful of chickens. The chickens bed in a laddered, elevated pen to keep them safe from hungry dogs and foxes.

Richard informed me later that he hadn’t seen Miss Mumba in five years, and that she wasn’t really his sister, but his cousin. That Richard would refer to and visit a cousin as one would a sister sheds some light on the place accorded relationships in Zambia.

As is customary, Miss Mumba asked Richard what I would like to eat. Earlier, when we were rocking and rolling along the pockmarked Italian- and Chinese-made macadam, I happened to casually mention to Richard how much I enjoy Zambian “ground nuts” (essentially peanuts). He divulged that a “sister” of his cultivates them; we would visit her and she would give me some. Back at Miss Mumba's, a few yards away a woman hovered over a smoky fire roasting ground nuts for me, stirring them with a naked corn cob.

As I sat with others in the shade of a thatch gazebo-like dome, Richard handed me a white bowl of the raw legumes. A cat and dog dozed lazily beside each other, not exactly a lion and a lamb, but that image crossed my mind. Less peaceful was the squawking “village chicken” I noticed struggling to escape the steely grip holding it by the neck and bottom; Miss Mumba’s.

Someone asked if I ate nshima, the porridge-like maize-based Zambian staple. It suddenly dawned on me that Miss Mumba was about to kill one of her few chickens to offer us some Zambian hospitality. Richard prevailed in his protest that we needed to get back on the road to arrive at our destination before dark. It is difficult to describe how humbling it is to receive such a genuine and selfless offer of hospitality. She and her small group of friends giggled giddily when the saw the digital image of themselves.

Compassion in Community

It was our last day in Senanga and my colleague Richard was teaching. Into the classroom burst Rev. Lydia Mwale with an unmistakable sense of urgency. Rev. Mwale is the pastor of the local congregation of the United Church of Zambia. Facing the class and peering out of her oval, black-rimmed glasses, she somberly announced, “We have a problem and I need your help. A man whom we don’t know died yesterday (most Zambians don’t embalm their dead; hence, some of the urgency), and his only living relatives are two women from out of town. They have no money, not even for a coffin, and they have come to us hoping for help providing a proper burial. What should we do?”

The class participants began peppering Rev. Mwale with questions and exchanging ideas. What would a new coffin cost? 190,000 kwacha. (~$55 [U.S.] – consider that ~70% of Zambians are unemployed and many of those employed earn < $1/day). Rev. Mwale suggested a more economical option, making a coffin from planks of wood they’d buy. (One elderly woman offered two planks she had at home. Moments later she was called away and informed that she herself had need of the planks. Her mother-in-law had just died. The good news is that the woman had celebrated 105 birthdays, about 2.75 times the thirty-eight of the average Zambian.)

Rev. Mwale led the class to consensus. A collection would be taken and the course of action determined by the amount received. Richard offered a brief prayer and the first contribution (a substantial one, I think). A man named Happy (Zambians have the coolest names), who had walked forty miles over two days to attend these classes, made his way to the front of the class. A female student handed him a white lace handkerchief in which to place the collection. The class began singing in Lozi. Happy cradled the handkerchief in his hands as one by one, randomly like corn popping, students rose and strode forward to release a cupped, kwacha-filled palm into the cloth. Later, I learned that enough had been collected to honor this man with a dignified burial. Is there not a profound contrast between this community-oriented society – sharing, giving, and yes, even asking and receiving when in need – and the one many of us know, a society oriented to being fiercely independent?

The Mighty Zambezi: Source of Life

Greetings friends, from beautiful Zambia! Believe it or not, for nearly half of the time since arriving in Zambia on Sept. 1, I have been on the road. Last week I just got back from two weeks and a journey of about 1,200 rugged miles to Zambia’s Western Province, to Mongu and Senanga. This is the region of the Barotse flood plain, where the mighty Zambezi River often overflows its banks from heavy rains in late February and March. This river, whose source is in the hills of northwestern Zambia, helps sustain life over a vast expanse of Zambia and Mozambique, on its way to the Indian Ocean. Seeing the Zambezi and its people took me back to grammar school studies of Zambia’s African cousins – the ancient Egyptians peopling the shores of the Nile. I recalled how central the river was and still is a source of life for the Egyptians. The same goes for the Zambezi, for Zambians.

In Senanga I saw cattle grazing on grass fed by streams diverting from the Zambezi’s western banks. A fishermen, sitting in his boat, tucked snuggly against the shore, dropped two thin bamboo poles into the shallows of the Zambezi, hopeful to feed his family tonight. Men and boys faintly resembling Venetian gondoliers stood in long, thin boats. In the blazing sun astride stilt-like wooden oars, they poled their way along the slack water at the river’s edge, transporting sagging sacks of mealie meal downriver.

Boys headed to market toting a stick from which they’d tethered a fresh catch of bottlefish and bream. A thirsty metal pipe sucked water from the river to quench the parched throats of Senangans, and to enable them to prepare their nshima, their porridge-like maize-based staple.



On the (one and only) road back to Mongu from Senanga, women crowded around our truck hawking the dried fish they’d encased in round straw bundles. The waters of the Zambezi surely are a source of life. I couldn’t help but think about what Jesus said about “Living Water” in John 4.