Hucksters and Angels, Part II

The Milk of Human Kindness and the Presence of God

Part I of this entry featured the shenanigans of hucksters, taxi drivers I encountered at the Zambian-Malawian border in December. Part II stars characters of another type, strangers who poured out for me the milk of human kindness as I traveled to and through Malawi and Tanzania last December. Once on Malawian soil it was about a 3½-hour minibus ride to Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital. Waiting for the minibus to take off I greeted a Malawian in her forties. At a change in vehicles we ended up in adjacent seats. We began chatting and she expressed an interest in corresponding with me. Africans often do this. I scratched my e-mail address on a crumbled piece of paper. She explained that the Lilongwe bus station isn’t safe after dark and seemed genuinely concerned for me, asking where I was staying. I told her I didn’t know yet (I really didn’t) and asked about her lodging. In Lilongwe, immediately upon emerging from the minibus and into the darkness, a bevy of cabbies descended upon me, eager to take me for a ride, so to speak. I felt like a piece of chum dumped into shark-infested waters; beware of the feeding frenzy. I began waving the salivating cabbies off. The woman and minibus driver joined me, only they were also barking at them in a vernacular tongue! The woman and minibus driver huddled. I watched as they spoke in hushed tones, after which she advised me against taking a taxi. I soon realized that the woman and minibus driver would not move on until they were satisfied that I was settled in safe lodging. They appeared to have my best interest at heart. I remembered that I had the phone number of a guesthouse recommended by friends but couldn’t get a signal on my phone. I mentioned this to the woman. She was out of “talk time” but spotted an open kiosk and bought a dollar’s worth. She dialed the guesthouse for me and handed me the phone. On this night before Christmas Eve there was room for me at the inn. The place only accommodates mission workers, so only I could stay there. I asked the woman where she would stay and she insisted, convincingly, that she’d find a place. The minibus driver then morphed into a cabbie. The woman rode along to ensure that I got where I was going. I thanked them and (over)paid her for using her talk time and him for the minibus ride, as well as for their time and kindness.

Traveling from Mzuzu to the bus station near the Malawian-Tanzanian border, I was plopped in the front seat of the mid-sized bus, where we muzungus often find ourselves placed. (I hate it, but it’s supposed to be good for business.) William drove, a reserved chap. He had piles of audiocassettes strewn along the dash. During our seven-hour journey we’d stop periodically to load or discharge passengers. William would jump out to get something to eat. Each time he came back, he’d cheerfully hand Paul—who shared the front seat with us—and me something, a hard-boiled egg with salt, hard candy, a bottle of water. It is likely William did this because it would be an unthinkable faux pas for him to eat in front of us. Nevertheless, he apparently did it willingly and cheerfully. So we ate together—typical African community and hospitality. When we got to the minibus station, William took it upon himself to arrange a taxi ride for me to get to the Malawian-Tanzanian border. He even negotiated a fair fare. How kind.

On the way to the border post, a twenty-seven-year-old Malawian glazier and entrepreneur named Eric squeezed into the back seat of the taxi. He used to live in Kitwe, Zambia—a connection! Two girls sat between us. Eric immediately lunged forward and with great enthusiasm greeted me and launched into a litany of questions. Hmmm. I tried to weigh whether he was a slick huckster, or an angel. He exuded a certain authenticity and the balance at this point tilted toward “harmless.” After the small talk he advised me that at the border I should trail him through Tanzanian immigration. He was pretty serious about this, saying that Tanzanian immigration authorities are notorious for corruption. (I already knew this from an eye-opening experience I’d had in October, trying to get a three-hour pass at the Zam/TZ border in Tunduma, TZ.) The immigration officer didn’t disappoint. My eye caught him deftly cupping Tanzanian shillings in his hand as he spoke Swahili with Eric. Later, Eric said the officer was asking him who I was and was looking for a bribe from me. Eric explained that I was his pastor. The guy was shamed into submission.

Once through immigration, we both strutted toward the minibus station to head for Mbeya. While waiting for a bus he bought me a bottle of water, and paid for me to use the rest room. I’d have paid for myself, but was shocked and embarrassed to discover that the shillings I’d brought were Kenyan (I was also hoping to visit Mombasa), not Tanzanian! Eric happily paid my minibus fare. In Mbeya Eric helped me find an ATM and accommodations. I paid for our dinner. Eric asked if we brothers (in Christ), could have a time of prayer together. We did, first reading and discussing the Christmas story. Eric insisted on meeting me at 4:30 a.m. (which he did) to accompany me to the bus stop to catch my Dar es Salaam ride. Before hopping on the bus I reimbursed Eric and gave him a generous token of my appreciation for his kindness. He clearly didn’t have to extend any kindness to this stranger, but chose to out of the goodness of his heart. He said he just wanted to take responsibility for the safe passage of a brother in Christ.
I don’t profess to know much about angels, but as I thought about these people I must admit that angel, messenger of God, was came to mind. I thought of the account of the warm hospitality Abraham offered to three unknown travelers that is recorded in Genesis 18 of the Hebrew Bible. The Christian New Testament alludes to this story in Hebrews 13:2. “Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.” In my case however, it was the ones offering refuge as it were, who were the angels. The woman in Lilongwe, William the minibus driver, and Eric brought me a sense of peace and comfort that I can only describe as the Presence , the Spirit. . . of God, of Christ in them. How I can imagine smug Westerners sneering at this condescendingly. Southern Africans would simply affirm it.

Lastly, this experience reminded me of one Ernest Shackleton described in his book South: The Endurance Expedition (Penguin Classics), about his “failed” journey to the South Pole. After having sailed hundreds of miles on frigid Antarctic waters in a small whale boat, and slogging over treacherous mountains on some frozen island, Shackleton and two colleagues stumbled into a camp where they were warmly welcomed with shelter, food, and a ship with which to fetch their shipmates, who were eagerly awaiting their promised (but unlikely) return. Once thawed out, one of Shackleton’s mates mentioned that as they battled the elements, he’d sensed a fourth person in their midst. Shackleton and the third man echoed the same feeling. Together, they concluded this was the Spirit of God in Jesus Christ. I must confess that more than once on my journey I have sensed the same Presence accompanying me with and in the messengers of God, angels, who poured out for me the milk of human kindness.