Zigzagging Zam . . . and Beyond

Making Sense of It All: Wow!

2009-12-08T15:02:00.001-08:00

Wonderful welcome, water, weather, wealth, waste, waist (as in “wide”), wild world, Why? No friends, this post is not sponsored by the letter “w”. As contrived as it may seem though, after fourteen months in the global South, many of the first words that come to mind begin with that letter. Here are my first impressions of being back in the States.

How wonderful it is to be welcomed by and reunited with family and friends, and to see familiar surroundings. How much more I appreciate certain things about which I hadn’t previously given much thought. Simple things. Mmmm, water—what a pleasure to drink my first glass of tap water—not boiled or filtered—and with ice cubes to boot. Ah, a hot shower, and so much more than a trickle of water. How fantastic to see the autumn foliage—and yeah, a change of seasons—as winter pays its annual visit.

It's impossible not to notice our vast material wealth. It didn’t take the cornucopia of food served around the table at Thanksgiving for this to register. In Zambia I was used to watching barefoot Zambian children in tattered clothes on dirt fields darting after soccer balls—balls consisting of two or three clear plastic bread bags scrunched together and wrapped with a few rubber bands. Watching a niece's soccer game in north Jersey recently, I realized what a privilege it is to have a leather or vinyl ball. Did I mention the girls’ smart blue and white soccer uniforms and black leather cleats, or the snappy athletic bags each player had slung over her shoulder? While overseas I became conscious of how competitive we Americans are. Based on my unscientific anecdotal observations since returning, we seem to have a comfortable lead in the race to see who has the world’s widest waistlines. I was shocked the other day, to see an NFL-sponsored TV commercial encouraging parents to get their children to spend an hour a day playing outdoors. With something like 40% of our kids purportedly clinically obese, it’s come to public service parenting lessons from the National Football League?

My zigzags have made me more aware of how much waste we generate individually and as a society, as well as how wasteful we are. We waste a tremendous amount of food. We dispose of reusable things too. In Zambia, valued perhaps because of their scarcity, re-sealable Ziploc plastic bags get washed and re-used. We pitch them, maybe because of our enslavement to the clock and efficiency, or a haughty attitude that causes us to perceive such re-use as either cheap or unduly frugal. Do we not talk a better game about our concern for the environment than we walk?

This one may surprise you: NYC. Morning rush. Subway. I was floored by the spontaneous, orderly manner in which people shuffled through the crowded underground and cars, and their civility toward each other. Would you believe that we seem friendlier than when I left. Or maybe it's me! Perhaps in all my zigzagging, some Zambian and other global-South-friendliness rubbed off on me! I hope so. It's also been refreshing to see the ethnic and racial diversity of humanity with which we Americans are so richly blessed. Few countries have this the way we do. What a gift. Also welcome was American efficiency. I realized this buying a subway ticket and being served lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant. I was pleasantly surprised that a shrimp soup I’d had in Cambodia last month tasted pretty much the same in NYC, though it didn’t come as a surprise that it cost more than four times more here!

In many ways my homecoming has been, well, weird and surreal. I think the questions I have about our world—cultural, theological, historical, political, and personal—are changing, and multiplying. It seems as if I've stepped into several different worlds. The funny thing is, lately I've become conscious of reminding myself that all these disparate worlds are real, comprising a single reality. At the same time, the people and places I've gone each has its own culture, values, hopes, dreams, struggles, defeats, victories, history, present, and future.

What a wild and wonderful world we live in. I wish Brent and Erin Raska, my successors as Global Ministry Fellow, well. They're off to a fantastic start. Now that the Ws have run their course, so has this blog. Thank you for reading and for the prayers, encouragement, and support you’ve given me as I’ve zigzagged the global South. Though I will no doubt be unraveling these fourteen months for years to come, I think I’m beginning to see what T.S. Eliot meant when he said that, “The end of all exploring will be to arrive where we started and to know the place for the first time.” God's grace, peace, and joy!

Zigzagging Cambodia

2009-11-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

The temples at Angkor Wat are magnificent in their massive scale and symmetry, a testament to God’s gifts to humanity of creative artistry and engineering skill. One needs to remind oneself that these structures were carved and erected over eight hundred years ago using thousands of human (probably slave) laborers sans modern construction tools or equipment and know-how. I wondered though, if today, anyone so committed to her/his faith and god(s) or God to undertake such an act of religious devotion as the Khmer kings Suryavaryam II and Suryavaryam VII were to theirs, would be ridiculed as a religious fanatic and shunned as a pariah. On the other hand, I’m reasonably sure a jubilant “live for the Yankees fan(atic)” (note how the term fanatic, used here, is not packed with the same condescending, pejorative ring as “religious fanatic”) celebrating after the franchise’s 27th World Series title, would be accepted as amusing. Why would that be? How are these not both a form of religious devotion? But I digress.

To avoid the possibility of being let down by seeing the smaller idols and temples after the piece de resistance, I saved the main attraction until last. To my amazement, this strategy backfired! I found the smaller, outlying relics far more interesting than the featured showpiece, which was, dare I say it, relatively disappointing. The stone carvings of the less prominent works displayed far greater intricacy of detail. Nevertheless, how incredible that any of these chiseled sandstone edifices are still standing after all this time, let alone that they’re recognizable. That said, Mother Nature is conspicuously and persistently clawing back to reclaim center stage. In some cases, even apart from this, the works are not, as it were, their old selves. Ancient Khmer Hindus had a penchant for decapitating the statues of Buddha, who was initially Hindu. Hence the head-chopping?

While these sights showcased the best of humanity’s gifts in shall we say, a constructive fashion, a visit to Cambodia also promises a glimpse of the dark, destructive side of humanity. I visited Tuol Sleng, better known as Security Prison 21 or “S-21”, the prison where Pol Pot tortured over 17,000 people he perceived to threaten him. From S-21 he transported prisoners to an extermination camp, a “Killing Field”, at Choeung Ek, just outside of Phnom Penh. In less than four years between 1975 and 1979, he constructed over three hundred of these death camps at which have been found over 19,000 mass graves containing the remains of as many as three million people (that "19,000" is no typo). How hard it is for me to grasp that this happened in my lifetime, let alone within thirty years of World War II. How was Pol Pot able to concentrate power so effectively? How could he evacuate millions from Phnom Penh to the countryside for extermination, with (seemingly) so little resistance? Choeung Ek is on a sleepy clump of swampy ground that is today, a very peaceful place. How ironic. Jarring though, is the memorial stupa (Buddhist shrine dedicated to the deceased) in which are encased for all to see, thousands of the human skulls unearthed here. This brought two things to mind: 1) what John Calvin had to say about humanity’s “total depravity”, and 2) an interview I saw of the actor John Malkovich (who, though very talented, gives me the creeps) in which he said he believed every human is capable of killing another—an inadvertent echo of Calvin? A visit to S-21 and Choeung Ek makes those guys hard to refute.

There is plenty of natural beauty in Cambodia, the swells of green- and yellow-hued rice paddies rolling beneath blue skies studded with puffy clouds backed by verdant mountains and thinner, wispy clouds. Gotta' be careful though. If, like me, your perpetual curiosity beckons you to investigate that less traveled way, don’t do it here. Land mines could be lurking anywhere in the shadows off the beaten track. Cambodians with stumpy or missing limbs bear silent testimony to this harsh reality.

In spite of all the contrasts, in the short time I’ve been in the Cambodia, what I’ve seen in the people evokes a sense of forward motion. As in India and Ghana, people have a sense of urgency about them. They seem to be hustlers, in the best (former professional baseball player Pete “Charlie Hustle” Rose) sense of the term. But they know how to laugh too. Tired of saying no to taxi or tuk tuk drivers whose services I don’t need or want, I’ve begun making these interactions a little more interesting by turning the tables on these transport hawkers. I respond by asking them if they want to take a walk with me—I tell them I’ll walk with them wherever they want to go. At first, many are puzzled. I continue, telling them I’ll give them a special price, just for them. Then I quote an outrageous amount. When they hesitate, I ask them why they don’t want to walk with me. Then they get it—and we both burst out laughing! I suppose that’s a constructive way of dealing with the wearying of taxi and tuk tuk driver querying.

Monkey Business!

2009-10-27T01:01:00.000-07:00

Sunny People, Majestic Mountains, and the Dignity of Humanity and its Labor

2009-10-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

The other day, as I glanced down into my guide book to get my bearings, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the cutest Nepali lady, perhaps in her eighties, with her eyes riveted to my book, as if she needed to get oriented too. The wrinkles lining her face looked like some of the craggy mountains I'd been scaling lately, to get a glimpse of other higher mountains. At first I assumed she was a beggar--but she was so focused on that book that I momentarily dabbled with the remote possibility that she could read English. A bystander would never have known that for her, the book was upside down! Then she looked up at me and gave me the most impish, toothy grin imaginable. As far as I could tell, she didn't want anything from me, only to coax a laugh from this much younger stranger. How cool for her to be so playful, and to bring a ray of sunshine into my life. Speaking of sunshine, I twice seized the opportunity to watch the sun rise over the Himalayas. This required getting up at 5 a.m. to get to a mile-high lookout post. Overall, it was worth the investment. How majestic those mountains are. They make a person feel small, the same way standing in St. Patrick's or some European Cathedral imparts the awe of God's presence. Looking at the Himalayas up close one can gain some understanding how Native Americans, Japanese, Nepalis, and even ancient Israelites revered mountains as holy places, places where the Presence of God dwelt. A friend recently described the Himalayas as "awe-inspiring". That's exactly what they were; I don't think mere words can do better than that.
In a recent e-mail update or blog post, writing of whether in India I'd seen Dalit people, "Untouchables", I used the term "menial labor". That I did has bothered me ever since. I think that term aroused such dissonance in me at least in part because of a book I read a couple years ago by a seventeenth-century Carmelite lay brother who came to be known as Brother Lawrence. In his book, "The Practice of the Presence of God," Brother Lawrence talks about work, and how there is inherent dignity in work done by humans, all of whom have inherent worth (because that work is to be done to reflect favor on our Creator). That Dalits and others are human beings tasked with work that many of us consider unpleasant, does not reduce their dignity, which the use of term "menial labor" may imply. John D. Rockefeller is famously quoted as saying of labor: "I believe in the dignity of labor, whether with head or hand; that the world owes no man a living but that it owes every man an opportunity to make a living." Rockefeller's words underscore the injustice to the Dalit people, that they don't have the opportunity to choose the work they do, but are forced to work, essentially as slaves, at what any objective observer would consider the worst, most undesirable jobs possible. When witnessing a man overseeing the cremation of a body they other day, I again wondered whether he was a Dalit, for this is one of the tasks "reserved" for Dalits. Nepal, unfortunately, like India, has a caste system that is very much alive, with throngs of Untouchables. These people, whether the man cremating the body, the Tibetan women refugees I saw weaving carpets, the man assuming traditional garb to entice tourists to take his picture for a few rupees, or the Buddhist artist sitting for eight to ten hours a day to painstakingly create traditional thangka paintings--all are made in the image of God and have inherent worth and dignity. And if each of them chooses to do that work, there is dignity then, in their completing those tasks to the best of their ability. Forgive me then, for using the term "menial labor".

Musings on Diwali, Hinduism, Christianity, Auroville, and “Religionless Christianity"

2009-10-19T16:39:00.000-07:00

Over the last five days Hindus have been celebrating Diwali, which is said to be a festival of light. Numerous Hindus I've met likened it to Christians’ Christmas. Diwali has been variously described as the victory of light over darkness, good over evil, knowledge over ignorance, a harvest festival, and a new year’s celebration. Hindus celebrate by lighting wicks fueled by oil or butter and by igniting fireworks, as Americans do on July 4th. People also string electric lights around their homes and businesses just as Christians do for Christmas. This is supposed to bring them good luck (when a certain god visits and finds the lights illuminated). Diwali was associated with quite a bit of commercialism and shopping. People exchange gifts. There was much talk about “the happy Diwali season,” especially in print and broadcast advertising. Indian merchants are as opportunistic using Diwali for commercial gain as Western ones are with Christmas. If the reports I heard were true, it seemed no less opportunistic to me, though in a politically savvy way, that Obama would be "celebrating" Diwali in the White House. I affirm the aspiration to overcome darkness with light in a great variety of interpretations, though the news I heard of celebrating Diwali in the White House smacked of contrivance.

In addition to visiting a multitude of churches and cathedrals on my swing through southern India, I’ve found my way to numerous ancient Hindu sites. These include temples and idols of various gods and goddesses that date to the fifth or sixth centuries—chiseled in stone by human hands. I’ve engaged in a number of conversations with Hindus (and Muslims) about their faith. One Hindu man told me that Hinduism really isn’t a religion (I admit that I can’t yet explain that; I’ve heard the same said about Buddhism). On one of many train rides, I sat next to a Hindu who explained that, “In Hinduism we worship idols.” Later, I wondered what exactly that meant. Could one say that Hinduism is on a par with the Canaanite religions the Israelites of the Hebrew Bible were warned to avoid? Do Hindus believe that the idols they worship possess some inherent power themselves, or that they are representations or symbols of particular deities that are themselves manifestations of a single Divine Being. Either way, those experiences, coupled with witnessing devoted Hindus offering pujas (prayers) to the god or goddesses of their choosing and rotating in place 360 degrees or walking clockwise around stone columns any number of times, has got me thinking about a particular New Testament text—Paul in Athens addressing the Jews and Greeks at the Areopagus. The words that wouldn’t, no won’t, stop echoing in my head: “Now what you worship as something unknown I am going to proclaim to you…The God who made the world and everything in it…. does not live in temples built by hands. And He is not served by human hands, as if He needed anything, because He Himself gives all men life and breath and everything else” (vv. 23-25). What a powerful speech.

I visited many of these Hindu sites after taking a short excursion from Puducherry to the village of Auroville. It was established in 1968 as a place belonging to no nation or people in particular, the residents of which must renounce any creed, religion, politics, or nationality. The purpose of Auroville is “to realize human unity.” “To live in Auroville, one must be a willing servitor of the Divine Consciousness” (www.Auroville.org). Auroville is a community of 2,000, populated by people from thirty-five nations. In its center is what is called “the Matrimindar,” a massive sphere that bears some resemblance to the one at Disney’s Epcot, only it is gold, with what appear to be suction cups like those on the underside of an octopus’ tentacles. I think Aurovillians assemble in the Matrimindar to meditate. The place struck me as very “New Age. I got the impression that it’s designers and residents were sincere and quite well intentioned. I can hear people describing Auroville as “a very spiritual place,” though the meaning of such a generic description never fails to elude me. That residents must renounce all creeds and religions seems to imply that Aurovillians believe these are the causes or at least contributors to the disunity and the lack of the “unity through diversity” that they seek, (and which, by the way, followers of Jesus Christ also seek). I’m not sure that the source of such disunity should be laid at the foot of “religion” as such. Is it not sinful human beings who, in their various understandings, misunderstandings, zeal for and ignorance of the deity or deities they worship and or follow in their respective faiths—that it is humans and not “religion” that deepen the fissures in our already broken human relationships and our relationship with God? That said, it is undeniable that actions taken in the name of religion or God can and do obstruct healing and wholeness in our human relationships, and that surely separates us from God. All this got me thinking about the Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s concept of “religionless Christianity” and how I’d like to dig deeper to understand what he meant by that, and how one would enflesh this idea. Did Bonhoeffer mean by this a pure way of loving and serving God in obedience to God’s commands and in response to God’s grace—without the human trappings and baggage (whatever they might be and in all their forms) that we in the Church in particular attach to worshiping God? In all candor, I’m sure I can’t articulate what these are, but this is what’s rumbling around in my head. I have an intuition that Bonhoeffer was on to something, but I’ve already said more than enough to further confuse myself, let alone anyone who might happen to read these disjointed musings. If you’ve any idea how to interpret Bonhoeffer on this I’d love to hear it.

Pondering in Pondy

2009-10-13T07:38:00.000-07:00

At present I’m in Puducherry (formerly Pondicherry), India, still affectionately referred to by the French and locals as Pondy. Gorgeous. For a city of about a quarter of a million souls this former French coastal community has a small-town feel. Perhaps a population of only 250,000 is small-town India! Given the masses of humanity that inhabit India’s largest cities (for example, Mumbai at 16,000,000), one might think most Indians are city mice. As it happens, 75-80% of Indians are village mice, and they all, more than three for every American, spend their days together in a space about one-third the size of the U.S. The place where I’ll lay my head tonight is an ashram, a place for religious retreat and meditation. I have a room on the water and can hear the waves breaking from my balcony. It’s like living on a postcard. The only problem is that there are no screens on the windows, so I can’t (or won’t) leave the windows open at night to fall asleep to the rhythm of the pounding surf. Not in the mood to invite another round of malaria.

The Indian students I’ve met have displayed an amiable and enthusiastic curiosity toward me. Most I’ve encountered are studying “b-commerce,” what we would just call business. Speaking English well apparently is valued highly here, especially for young people. One’s command of English influences their selection of a mate (or said another way, their being selected by a mate!) as well as their prospects for employment. Although I have encountered more business-minded young people, there seems to be a certain reverence held for people studying science and engineering. I have seen more school buses carting labeled with the names of engineering schools than any other discipline. Often I see students moving together in clusters of three to ten, and often there’s a brave one who shoots me a glance, smile, or greeting, which I take as an their invitation for me to engage them in conversation. They’re giddy and insatiably hungry to know more about the enigma that the U.S. is to them. They seem to have a great respect for our country, as they do as well for their former British overlords. A couple days ago in Chennai (formerly Madras), I met a Christian Indian family on St. Thomas Mount, which overlooks the city. This is where the apostle Thomas is supposed to have been killed for his faith. There were two brothers and two sisters and their mom and they were very jazzed to bump into someone from so far away.

Indians are a colorful people, personally and in their dress. I shared a backwater boat ride from Alleppey to Kollam, with a group of “middle class” Indians ranging from their twenties to forties. I mentioned class because one woman gave me the impression she thinks all Americans are independently wealthy. She had the hardest time understanding why, as she put it, “you would be on this boat with others when you can hire out a boat for yourself?” Despite my protestations to the contrary, I guess the images she has of Americans have been cemented by Hollywood, what she’s read, and no doubt, myths she’s heard from other Indians. Speaking of class, every time I see a woman sweeping the street of picking up trash, or a man doing some distasteful menial labor, I wonder if I’m seeing Dalits (meaning crushed or oppressed ones—like the Indian dish dah/dahl consisting of crushed lentils) or “Untouchables,” out-castes in India’s social system. I asked a man I was sitting next to on a train about this when I was in Kerala and he denied it, saying that they don’t adhere to that in Kerala. Yesterday I went to have a look at the Notre Dame de Anges church in Pondy. It was built in 1858. There are now pews per se. They used what we might call deacons benches, ten- or twelve-foot long wooden benches that are caned. Caning involves interweaving a yellowish cord of fiber at horizontal, vertical and both forty-five degree angles. It doesn’t take too much imagination to envision that at one time this cord was gotten from sugar cane. What they were using looked synthetic, but what do I know about such things?! I couldn’t resist chatting it up with five adults sitting in the shade re-caning two benches. I told them I thought they must have strong fingers. The youngest of them replied, “Sometimes this work causes paining in our fingers.” I’ll bet it does. I’d imagine it’s not great on the eyes either. It takes three people two full days to can one bench, and this lasts about seven years.

Throughout southern India I’ve noticed many chalk or painted images on the ground, especially outside the entry way to one’s home or business. Many of them are masterfully done. I’ll have to find out if they have some meaning or symbolism, or are a seasonal display.

Lasting Impressions: "Doubting Thomas," the Portuguese, and Others

2009-10-08T03:19:00.000-07:00

Who hasn't heard of dear old "doubting Thomas," Didymus in Greek, the twin? He was the first one of Jesus' twelve disciples it seems, who when he recognized the risen Jesus boldly declared Jesus' deity by saying, "My Lord and my God." Thomas may have been the most travelled, bringing the Gospel to southern India a couple millenia ago. He, along with the Portuguese who followed him fifteen hundred years later, and a certain amount of divine intervention, did a remarkable job. In India's two southernmost states, Kerala and Tamil Nadu, I have seen a plethora of Christian churches taking their places alongside Hindu, Jain, Islamic, and Jewish houses of worship. It seems almost every church has spawned a school. I've heard many people rave about he quality of the Catholic schools in India, and how Hindu and other parents have no qualms whatsoever about sending their children to these schools, which are considered by many to be of the highest quality. Most of that Christian presence is Roman Catholic, but I have seen Syrian Orthodox churches, the ones Thomas is credited with planting, as well as Methodist, Assembly of God and non-denominational churches. I've yet to eye a Presbyterian church, but I'm looking!

Language and symbols possess a power that can, at times, jar us. While in Cochi, on the west coast, I paid a visit to a neighborhood called "Jew Town," the center of Cochi's historic spice trade, where there's a synagogue that dates to the 1500s. Although I have many Jewish friends who refer to themselves as "Jews," in our culture the word, depending on the context in which it is used, can take on a pejorative sense. Thus my surprise to wend my way toward Jew Town. A weird connection didn't occur to me until just now. En route to Jew Town, I happened upon a Jain temple, and as has happened on previous travels to India, I found myself jolted by the swastika symbols emblazoned on the temple. The swastika is an ancient symbol of hope that Hitler attempted to co-opted to symbolize his thousand year reign (of terror) that lasted for less than a decade (which was plenty). How odd that I should see these swastikas on my way to Jew Town. Ambling around Pondicherry, where I am now, I noticed a very welcoming sign at "Surya Swastika," a guesthouse. I suppose it is a good thing that this powerful symbol of hope hasn't been tainted as it has in the West.

I have been struck by the friendliness of the Indian people, their honesty dealing with this foreigner (cabbies aside), and their purposefulness and overt enthusiasm and optimism. Students from grade school to university have a disarming curiosity when they see me. Yesterday in Chennai, I spotted a sign apparently marking the business activity of my one of my former employers. It said "CIBA," a company I knew had a strong presence in India. Several police officers standing nearby saw me gawking at this sign and we began chatting (not chit-chatting Jim!). I told them I was going next to the San. Thome Cathedral, where Thomas is said to be buried. Moments later the most jovial of the coppers told me to jump on the back of his motorcycle, which I did, and he took me there straight away. How cool is that!?

On mornings in Cochi, you can't help smile when you see the little tuck-tucks (auto-rickshaws) and little minivans (really, mini-minivans) toting youngsters to school with all their little backpacks stuffed into the rack on top of their vehicles.
A few mornings ago I ate some kind of curry in a locals-only breakfast joint, with coffee that tasted like hot Breyer's ice cream. For lunch I had a mutton biriyani in another locals-only greasy spoon.

The southwest coast of India in particular, is known for its seafood. In Cochi, locals still fish using cantilevered nets introduced through the influence of trade with Chinese merchants centuries ago. The produce markets are as colorul as ever, as are their purveyors. This morning I saw some goats lounging on some steps as if they'd already put in a hard day's work. Doubtful!

Puducherry, formerly Pondicherry, is a place the French occupied as recently as about fifty years ago. The French influence as that of the Portuguese in Kerala and Goa, is clearly evident in the archtecture, street names, and food. All of this is making a lasting impression on me as St. Thomas, the Portuguese, Dutch, British, and French have on this place as well.

Which Mumbai?

2009-10-02T06:36:00.000-07:00

Is there more than one Mumbai, in India, I mean? I expected mass chaos and was not the least bit disappointed when I didn’t see or experience it. I arrived here in the early afternoon. My checked luggage arrived when I did, almost the caboose on the conveyor, but I’ll take laggard luggage over a no show any day. The airport’s only ATM worked like a charm. Got rupees! The pre-paid taxi line was short and efficient. I was assigned cab 5991, small and black with yellow trim like many of Mumbai’s 40,000 taxis. As I lowered myself into the back seat I noticed a six-inch grayish pipe disappearing beneath the front and back seats where “the hump” would be in an American car. I touched it to see if it would melt the bottom of my hiking boots—slightly warm, but that could’ve been from the hot, muggy ambient air. My driver wasn’t sure where the YWCA was and had the good sense to ask for directions before we left the airport. Things were going far more smoothly than I’d expected.

I assumed our trip to they Y was unfolding at peak driving time, so I planned on it taking about an hour and a half. There was traffic but it was not the logjam of humanity, animals, and vehicles of every size and shape and the cacophony that I’d imagined. In their little black and yellow boxes, the cabbies assert themselves by using their high-pitched horns liberally, a lot like barking Chihuahuas. At one point, when we hit Marine Drive, I had a hunch the driver was lost, and realized he might be very green. I asked if he knew where the YWCA was. After he responded affirmatively, I remembered that it would’ve been better for me to have asked an open-ended question—because culturally-speaking he may not have wanted to disappoint me with the truth. My suspicion was confirmed when he began asking other cabbies for directions. I pulled out my Lonely Planet to point out our destination on its small map. I ended up having a nice tour of Mumbai for only an extra thirty minutes’ drive. To top it all off, there was room for me at the inn, so to speak, and it included dinner, breakfast, a morning paper, water and electricity that worked, cable TV (that worked), and it was immaculate. What a pleasant surprise. The other Mumbai?

Late yesterday afternoon, and again this morning, I took a walk around town. By now I realized how steamy it was. Soon I looked like Michael Jordan at halftime, soaked. As I peered at a red-lipped sun on the façade of a Parsee temple, a man who could have passed for a Persian stopped and asked what I was looking at. I told him the temple. His face radiated pride as he followed my eyes across the street. I knew that Mumbai had a small and shrinking population of Farsis, but suddenly I couldn’t remember what religion they practiced, so I swallowed my pride and asked him. “Zoroastrianism,” he said. “Yes, of course,” I said.

Street scenes: a couple sitting, making garlands out of marigolds, roses, and other flowers. What a shock of color! For a dime street vendors will squeeze the liquid from raw sugar cane and mix it with water. If only they’d used bottled water! Hmmm, how sweet must the milk be from those two dairy cows champing on the spent cane stalks? I was pleased to run into about a half dozen games of cricket underway on a grassy field that reminded me of Washington’s mall. I don’t understand a thing about the game but it really intrigues me.

Around another corner there was an Anglican church dating from the sixteen century, St. Thomas’. Many of those buried there were barristers or military types. I took a seat on a blue eight-inch square cushion perched atop the caned chair, under a whirling ceiling fan. Ah, how good that felt, how quiet and peaceful—in the midst of a city of sixteen million souls. I read the days’ passages, 1 John 2:1-11 and Psalm 90. I’ll be here tomorrow morning.

I was having the hardest time finding a synagogue I’d read about. As the hotel doorman I'd asked about this began gesturing his ignorance, just over his shoulder a sign emblazoned with the word “SYNAGOGUE” written vertically in bold block letters caught my eye. It was an electric blue and white building. Inside, workers were fashioning palm branches to the walls and stringing up the kind of white lights we’re used to seeing at Christmas. They were preparing for Succoth, the Jewish Feast of Booths (see Exodus 23 and Leviticus 23). This is one of the three annual Jewish festivals God commanded. It commemorates God’s provision for the Jewish people as they wandered in the desert for forty years after being freed from Egyptian slavery. I was disappointed that the only Hebrew I could decipher in the place, “YHWH,” the Tetragrammaton, really isn’t even a word. For me, the scramble of Hebrew letters I tried to make sense of was far more chaotic than the Mumbai I was experiencing. India’s first prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, characterized his country thus, “a bundle of contradictions held together by strong but invisible threads;” yeah, maybe.

Heaviness and Mirth: Cape Coast Castle and Akropong, Ghana

2009-09-21T08:25:00.000-07:00

The hours I spent in the hot, thick, seacoast humidity were "heavy," not so much because of the weather, but because of the unsavory events that took place at the Cape Coast Castle. This is where African slaves were "housed" until being shipped, those that lived that is, to the Americas and the Caribbean. The dungeons were below ground and built of brick and stone. Each room was practically pitch black, and looked to be about twenty-five feet by twenty. Each room held up to one hundred slaves. There were five rooms for the men and two separately located ones for women. Carved into the floor were small channels a few inches deep and wide--for conveying human urine, excrement, and rain water. Sand also found its way there, and with so many people in one space, the result was four to five inches deep of filthy muck spread wall to wall across the entire floor. Imagine how horrible the stench must have been? Many died here. Many of those who didn't, died aboard the ships that took them west. The "lucky" ones ended up enslaved to Europeans and Americans.

I experienced the same physical feeling here as I did touring the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D. C. I felt sick to my stomach and shameful of my forebears' complicity in this inhuman treatment of others made in in the image of God. Upon reflecting on what took place here and in the transatlantic slave trade in general, I shuddered to think what I would have done had I lived in those times. The physical condition of the castle is excellent. It is nearly 350 years old, and constantly exposed to corrosive salt air and sea. Nevertheless the limestone they used from crushed oyster shells as well as other materials seems to have preserved it well. I came to Cape Coast from Akropong, a day trip. It took at least five hours of driving time, each way. It turned out to be a long, heavy day. The trip was made longer because of congested roads, road construction and resultant detours, and also because in Ghana Saturday is "funeral day." (Ghanaians dress in their best black, dark brown, and red outfits to pay their respects to deceased friends or family members. They look fabulous! This is a hugely important aspect of Ghanaian culture.) Nevertheless, I saw and experienced that for which I'd come to Cape Coast Castle, and more. In Cape Coast I also saw Ghanaians repairing their fishing nets as they probably have done for hundreds of years.

I've been staying at the Akrofi-Christaller Institute of Theology, Mission, and Culture (ACI) in Akropong. This degree-granting theological institution was founded by the late Dr. Kwame Bediako, the world-famous Ghanaian Presbyterian scholar. Being here has further motivated me to read his books. ACI is in the mountains about thirty miles outside of Accra, so it is significantly cooler than the city. Walking around town, I happened upon some "friends" who were partying to celebrate a family members' being a chief for four years, or something like that. My friends had been drinking the potent milky substance known as palm wine. Their varied states of inebriation and my difficulty deciphering their English (if only I spoke their language, Twi (pronounced "chwee") made it almost impossible to understand what it was they were really celebrating. I did understand that they said that the seven guys were all brothers and the one women their sister, all, they assured me, had the same parents. Trumpets blared and drums pulsed. They offered me a cup of palm wine but I declined as my stomach has been a bit "irregular" of late, shall we say. A gaggle of kids found me ambling about town and before I knew it they were holding my hands and we were all running down the street together laughing and taking pictures. What fun!

Arrival/Departure #2, Douala, Cameroon

2009-09-21T08:23:00.000-07:00

Just in case you didn’t believe that I ever made it to and out of Cameroon somewhat as planned, here are a few pics. They include my good Cameroonian friend Aboseh Ngwana, my sis Karen, bro Bill, and mom. There's also a shot of Mt. Cameroon from the cabin of a Virgin Nigeria flight from Douala to Lagos.
I also stumbled upon a Presbyterian church in Lome, Togo, where I am now, after passing through Nigeria and Benin. Next stop, Ghana.

From Familiar to Foreign: DEPORTED BABY!

2009-09-08T07:05:00.000-07:00

I recently read an interesting little book entitled, From Foreign to Familiar. Yesterday I experienced precisely the opposite. The day started out so well. On the flight from Lusaka I met a Zambian I'd come to know through my work here. It was a very pleasant surprise to find the Rev. Teddy Sakopapa sitting behind me. He said I looked familiar, which I almost immediately dismissed as a Zambian's typically friendly attempt to strike up a conversation. (I've heard that greeting more than a few times here.) As we talked we both realized he was right. Meeting this cheerful acquaintance made me feel like I had really become a part of Zambia.

It shaped up to be a relatively smooth day of flying. I was treated to a kind of aerial tour of African capital cities: Lusaka, Zambia, Lilongwe, Malawi, Nairobi, Kenya, and Yaoundé, Cameroon, all very nice. At the end of the day, literally, I ended up in Douala, kind of. Then just like that--bam--I was leaving. I could not believe it.

Here's what happened. The letter I'd received from the Moderator of the Presbyterian Church of Cameroon requesting that I be granted an airport visa (despite that Cameroon doesn't issue them), suddenly wasn't satisfying the Cameroonian immigration officials. Just after midnight I was told that my airport visa had to come from Yaoundé, Cam's capital--of all places, the last stop we'd made before Douala! I was hastily escorted back to the plane I'd just debarked and told I'd have to go back to Nairobi. The passengers on that plane couldn't have been too pleased. Their flight to Nairobi was delayed by at least three-quarters of an hour as immigration sorted though what to do with me, now perspiring profusely in the stifling Cameroonian humidity. It turned out that a woman at the jet way gate knew my Cam friend, but that didn't seem to bear me any fruit.
At one point, an immigration official took off down the wide corridor looking very purposeful--with my passport and the letter in question. When the airline ground crew tried to prod me on board the bird, I seized the opportunity to resist, asserting that I was going nowhere without my passport and letter, and especially not stepping foot inside that 737. I had a glimmer of hope that the airline would have to keep its schedule and leave in the interim, but this didn't pan out. Then there was that faint ray of hope that because I didn't have a return ticket to leave Cameroon, (since I'll be traveling overland through Nigeria), the airline wouldn't be permitted to let me go back to Nairobi. That hope also turned out to be short-lived. Suffice it to say that I ended up on a red-eye and found myself in Nairobi at sunrise, not feeling too fresh, and shall we say, more than a little disappointed and annoyed.

When I hit the tarmac in Nairobi I was abruptly met by a red-jacketed young man eager to keep tabs on my whereabouts and escort me, well, somwhere. It turned out that the Kenya Airways transit lounge has two things that are huge blessings that can never be taken for granted in Africa, or anywhere I suppose: a fantastic wireless internet signal and a table and chair next to a FUNCTIONAL electrical outlet INTO WHICH FIT MY PLUG ADAPTER! This enabled me to correspond with my Cameroonian friend as well as my bro Bill, twin sister Karen (who's celebrating a birthday today!) and my mom, who met me in Douala. After not seeing them for over a year, I was fortunate and thrilled to be reunited with them for about five minutes--before being whisked away like a criminal. The five-minute reunion itself felt a little like being a prisoner. From feeling familiar I now felt very foreign.

All I can do now is be a prisoner of hope. The visa is supposed to come through tomorrow, and now I just have to hope that the airline will let me travel to Douala with a visa. If all goes well, I'll be on tomorrow night's flight, once again touching down in Douala just before midnight. As Yogi says, "Déjà vu, all over again," right?-- only to a point, I hope. I figure there's a sermon or sermon illustration somewhere in this mess. And here I was thinking I had "the patience, flexibility, and humor thing" for travel down. Maybe this is another reminder that God isn't done with me yet. Stay tuned friends.

Shalenipo Mukwai Zam

2009-09-06T06:03:00.001-07:00

Can you believe it? I'm in Lusaka preparing to depart Zam. I didn't expect saying shalenipo mukwai (Bemba for "goodbye") to the many people who've been so warm, kind, gracious, and generous to me-I never expected this to be easy, but I didn't think it would as difficult as it has been. In fact, many of these people have become friends. Gasp! These people, this place, has captured a piece of my heart, and, come to think of it, my mind. Zambia is a place of colorful people. The muzungus I've met and befriended here are among the most colorful people I've been privileged to meet. Here's yet another story of a friendly encounter with a Zambian. On the way to the internet cafe to write this entry, a Zambian army sergeant pulled his vehicle over to the side of the road along which I was walking. He asked how I was doing and, I think, if I was safe. I was walking to Kabulonga, from Ibex Hill, both very nice sections of the capital city. It was about 1 p.m. on this hot, sunny Sunday afternoon. I told him I was fine. He asked me where I was going and the told me to jump in, that he'd give me a lift. Once at the internet cafe the service was down. I asked a man at the counter where I could find another nearby internet cafe. Then I asked how long to get there by foot. About twenty minutes he said, but I'll take you there. Complete stranger, Panjani was his name, which means "Search."
Last night at about dusk, en route to a farewell/welcome reception with my friends Cheryl and Adrian, I made one last stop by Chisokone market in town. We were in search of a particular memento. An eager, studdering Zambian man seized the opportunity to escort us to find this item. After about ten minutes or more of walking ever more deeply into the dirt path maze of the market as it was shutting down for the day, we heard the man talking to the marketers about chitenges--the single two-meter swatches of material women wrap aroound their waists! I said, "No!, not chitenges, we're looking for "xyz"! The onlookers roared with laughter. It occurred to me that what I thought was a natural studder may have been induced by chibuku, the millet-based beer Zam men drink for a cheap buzz!

I'll surely miss the people. The smiles, the perfect white teeth, the friendly greetings as I run in the mornings. Some people, usually men, would greet me with apparently hard stares-- until hearing my greeting in their tongue-- at which time the scowl would morph into an ear-to-ear grin. The giggles and bursts of laughter at the shock of being greeted in Bemba or Lozi or Nyanja by some clueless muzungu. I'll miss the laughter, the joking and seeing the love my colleagues in the office have for each other. The impromptu Bemba lessons. The deep discussions about the culture, and about how to make sense of it all theologically. I'll miss the spontaneity of Zam life. I'll pray for the hard-working women. I'll miss the curious children. I remember the people who give me hope for Zambia, their faith, hope, and love. Their drive to do better, serving God and others. I'll miss the zigzagging with my friends Richard and Kangwa. I hope to return to a Zambia that achieves its dreams. Shalenipo mukwai Zam. Time to zigzag to points beyond. West Africa and Asia, here I come!

Applying CoG Theory: How Do They Do That?

2009-08-25T10:23:00.000-07:00

In grammar school we used to play a game called eraser tag. It took place in the classroom. One pupil would write another’s name on the blackboard- do they still use them? - then balance a chalk eraser on their head and dart to a far corner of the room. The pupil who saw their name on the board would zip forward, erase their name, place the eraser on their head, and attempt to tag their antagonist. I can still remember the name of one of those flat-headed pupils, or should I say skilled and talented pupils. Where’s he going with all this, you may be wondering.

I’ve extolled the virtues of Zambian women in this space numerous times before. One thing they do that never ceases to amaze me is carry everything but the kitchen sink on their heads. Actually, I shouldn’t rule out those sinks. On my morning run yesterday I saw a fiftyish woman walking along the road carrying a TABLE on her head! It was about four feet long and half as wide, with legs about a foot and a half high. Where was my camera then? I thought it would have been slightly more interesting if the table’s legs were facing down. Then I could tell you I saw a six-legged table walking down the street!

I would be quite satisfied with the ability to carry anything on my head, including hair! Zambian women though, you name it; they carry it. Very resourceful, don’t you think? Even more astonishing is that, as often as not, they’re carrying a baby in a chitenge on their back, and something in one or both hands. What’s more, I’ve never seen them drop anything. I saw one woman carrying a pot on her head that was so askew I was sure it would end up on the ground. No chance!

Zambian women who occupy the ranks of the middle class and above generally don’t carry assorted stuff on their heads. That may be because they've never had to do that. It may also be because they don’t have to or don’t want to do that anymore. I’d guess that most of the women seen carrying everything under the sun on their heads have not completed a high school education. I doubt they could explain the physical concept of center of gravity (CoG). Nevertheless, they know, intuitively it seems, that successfully balancing an object on one’s head does not necessarily mean placing its physical center over theirs.

It’s fun to watch the process these women go through to get themselves under the stuff they carry. First they place a pie-shaped cloth or chitenge on their head to cushion the load. They then stoop and effortlessly pick up, say, a sack of sweet potatoes weighing maybe fifty or more pounds, adjust it on their head like someone trying on a hat, and take off. And unlike most of us who were no good at eraser tag, they can turn their head smoothly to give themselves a full range of vision. I suppose this shows the value of practical experience.

Walking long distances to fetch firewood and water makes one rather resourceful. How many of us would even consider attempting to carry something on our head to save ourselves a trip? Last summer, in Chicago, about three blocks from our president's home, I and a gaggle of others helped a student move her belongings from one apartment to another one a block away. None of us used our heads for anything but blabbering! Can you imagine someone moving into or out of their house or apartment with their arms full and anything other than a hat on their head?! I never tire of watching these women do what we have to go to the circus to see. Last October after taking a seat subsequent to preaching at an outdoor retreat, a small six-year-old or so girl caught my eye. She was trying valiantly to balance a two-liter plastic soda bottle, containing water, on her head. Necessity begins at a young age here.

A week ago, during one of my two jaunts to Lusaka (about 230 miles from Kitwe), I asked a woman carrying a basin full of oranges on her head if I could take a snap of her. She was thrilled, and obliged. As she was walking away, I called her so she could see me feebly attempting to balance my daypack on my head while slowly and unsteadily walking toward her. She laughed so hard and so long she must have been precariously close to incontinence. By the way, men here also carry things on their heads, only it’s rare to see one who could say, “Look, no hands!”

What’s in a Name, or Should I Say, Thanks for the Memolies

2009-08-19T12:02:00.001-07:00

One of my favorite places to stop in Zambia is a gas station and fast food joint run by the Continental Oil Company. It stands at a crossroads, where the Great North Road spurs a branch to the Copperbelt. It’s nothing much really. I guess what I like about it is that it’s always buzzing with activity, regardless of when you’re there. Women prance around hawking bananas and apples from the large straw-woven saucer-like trays they balance on their heads. Smooth-talking young men try enticing motorists with bootleg CDs, the first track of which is usually the only good one. One young women toting a typically cute baby in a chitenge approached me with her boiled peanuts. I wasn’t won over by the boiled peanuts I once had at a Charleston, SC minor league baseball game, and I find the soggy legumes no more appealing here in Zam. Besides I’d just bought some raw peanuts, which I love. I greeted the boiled peanut vendor through the open truck window, then drew two shrink-wrapped packs of raw nuts from my pocket and flashed them at her. She burst into laughter. I asked the age and name of her beautiful baby. Three months she said, and her baby’s name was “Memoly”. I was stumped. Had she said Emily, or was it some adaptation thereof? I asked her to repeat it, and again. Then I remembered. There is no “R” in the Bemba alphabet, and for whatever reason Bembas frequently interchange the letters “R” and “L”. Oh, I get it, this is “Memory”! (And you thought you caught a very public I misspelling in my headline, didn’t you? Gotcha’!) Yes, Memory’s mom said as she concentrated to pronounce the “R”. I can’t remember if I asked Memory’s mom her name, but do remember telling her I wouldn’t forget to remember Memory! In former days as a marketer I remember discussing communication strategies that were “aspirational.” Isn’t that exactly what so many Zambian forenames are, aspirational? I work with a Zambian man named Knowledge and have met others named Progress, Happy, Funny, Smart, Beauty, Precious, Purity, Lazarus, and of course, Memory! Perhaps we are a bit more familiar with another one of these aspirational names: Hope. And perhaps that is what these names give the Zambians who give and receive such names. This brings to mind the name Charles Revson, founder of the Revlon cosmetics company. Revson was quoted as saying something like, “I’m not in the beauty business; I’m in the business of selling hope.” I suspect the hope wrapped up in these Zambian names is a bit less superficial than what Revson offered.

Heifers, Sows, and Purses

2009-08-02T12:45:00.000-07:00

Saturday, on our way back to Kitwe after teaching in Luanshya, at the largest United Church of Zambia congregation in the Copperbelt (~2,500 members), we gave a couple of course participants a lift. One, a middle-aged lady, elderly by Zambian standards, invited us into her living room. As we sat chatting, a younger woman entered the room, presumably our host’s daughter. Slung on her back was a ski-capped baby cradled in a chitenge. The mother carried a plastic bag containing a gallon-sized plastic jug—the kind anti-freeze comes in. Though the “cold season” in Zambia is discernibly cooler than the hot and rainy seasons, there’s no need for anti-freeze. The jug didn’t contain anti-freeze, just cold, fresh cow’s milk.

Our host explained that she is part of a widow’s cooperative that participates in a program called “Heifers International.” This organization supplies people in developing countries with animals that are, as she said, “gifts that keep on giving.” Through Heifer International this widow had a mature dairy cow, and a calf. She had fifteen pigs besides. I asked if she minded my taking a snap of her with “Mumolo,” her cow. She graciously obliged, unpacking an armful of fresh green cabbage leaves from a white plastic sack and throwing it on the ground at the far end of the pen—to lure the beast away from the gate so we could enter. I guess you could say that she was a farmer. This widow-farmer was giving my colleague Richard and I this gallon of milk as a token of appreciation for the course we had facilitated for her over the previous three days. This gives me even more reason to celebrate the Zambian national holiday “Farmer’s Day” on Monday, August 3.

This woman did not live in squalor, but materially speaking had very little. In addition to the young woman and the baby wrapped in the chitenge there were five others, two adolescent girls and three youngsters aged five to seven, all probably the woman’s “dependents.” I don’t think the youngest were wearing shoes. That notwithstanding, our host cheerfully gave us a gallon of milk she could have sold or given to her family. I was once again moved by Zambian hospitality.

I was also uplifted to witness firsthand that contributions to Heifers International are helping this widow and others like her. Perhaps I was vicariously encouraged on behalf of people I know who contribute to Heifers International. I had a similar experience at a Sunday worship service earlier this year. The pastor held up a Christmas-wrapped shoebox and admonished the parents present that what their children were about to receive was intended for them, and not their parents. He joked that he would hunt them down if he got wind of any parental pilferage! The shoeboxes had been collected and distributed by an organization called “Samaritan’s Purse.” I am familiar with the organization and may have packed a shoebox or two myself. In all candor, I don’t know how efficiently these organizations spend the monies they receive. Nevertheless, I was grateful and perhaps even a little relieved that various gifts given in love thousand of miles away were delivered to their intended recipients, bringing them joy and making a difference, ranging from small to tremendous, in their lives.

Full Hands and Hearts

2009-07-19T13:17:00.000-07:00

Harvest Sunday. That’s what the St. Andrew’s congregation in Nchelenge, Zambia celebrated recently. They expressed their gratitude to God for the material blessings they had received in the past year. This festival is patterned after God’s command to the ancient Israelite community to keep three annual festivals to God: the Passover, the Feast of the Harvest (or Weeks), and the Feast of Ingathering (or Booths). (See Exodus 23 and 34, Leviticus 23, and Deuteronomy 16) The Feast of the Harvest entails people presenting God the best of the first crops they harvested.

On Harvest Sunday at St. Andrew’s, row by row, congregants sprang from their backless, wooden benches and began flailing arms, twirling, whooping, and singing with unbridled joy as they filed forward to physically present God the best of what they’d harvested. This was not a half-hearted “bring a can or two of something for the poor” deal. It was a whole-hearted big deal. Everyone contributed. Feeble old mamas hobbled, and lean young bucks shuffled along the bare concrete floor with hearts full of thanksgiving and hands full of their harvest best: pumpkins, whole sacks bulging with sweet potatoes or maize, bundles of ten-foot-long sugar cane stalks, cooking and palm oil, live chickens and geese, wood planks, and envelopes stuffed with Zambian kwacha.

Then it happened, again, more than once, during Sunday worship. I was blind-sided. No, not the usual, “You are welcome Rev. Bobe (Zambian for Bob!); we hope you will bless us with a word of encouragement today.” Translation: “We expect you to preach.” No, that’s not what blind-sided me. (I’ve actually gotten used to and expect that!) What snuck up on me was a tidal wave of emotion; I was suddenly choking back tears. I doubt it was just the spine-tingling harmonies of exuberant choir members swaying and clapping in unison while singing their hearts out in a GENUINE CELEBRATION of thanksgiving——and not just the adolescent young men accompanying them by extracting syncopated rhythms from hollowed out tree trunks clothed in taut animal skins. It couldn’t have been just the indescribable joy emanating from all those faces and bodies. No, it wasn’t just those things, but all of them——all of them infused with the fact of how little these people have materially, and how joyfully and willingly they were giving away the best of what God had blessed them with. It occurred to me that God might be quite pleased with their trust and obedience and the love they showed for neighbors in greater need than they——for that’s how these gifts would be used.

Are not these St. Andrew’s folks however, as spiritually rich as they are materially poor? They are not shackled by material wealth. What do they know that we don’t that enables them to radiate an inner joy and peace and freedom so few of us Westerners know——even as they give from what little they have?

As I made room for my bags in the back of our pick-up for the trip back to Kitwe, I noticed the heads of a couple live chickens peering out of a small cardboard box. I asked my colleague Richard what they were doing there. “There’s one for each of us,” he said, a gift of gratitude from the St. Andrew’s congregation——from the firstfruits they’d just collected. We were the beneficiaries of the congregation’s best gifts! Whew! I am grateful now, and certainly will give thanks again in November for having learned from sisters and brothers at St. Andrew’s in Nchelenge what it truly means to CELEBRATE thanksgiving.

Part II of St. Andrews’ Harvest Sunday will take place in September, at the completion of the harvest. Would you believe it will be an even greater celebration?

Harvest Time in Zam

2009-06-13T03:13:00.000-07:00

The rain has passed and the nights are becoming increasingly cooler. I’ve even broken out my wool sweater a couple times. Early on damp, misty mornings brown leaves crunch under foot as I carefully choose my steps, running along the hard-packed dirt roads and footpaths embedded with rocks that snake behind the compounds that line my running route. It’s harvest time in Zambia, and except for some of the places where late heavy rains spoiled the maize on the stalks, it is shaping up to be a good one. The maize has been taken in and has, in places, already been replanted. Rolled hay bales stand watch over flat, straw-hued fields like giant pastries guarding a cookie sheet. The sun more or less rises and sets at six. Believe it or not, it’s looking and feeling a bit like autumn at home, very Indian Summerish.

On our travels we pass many roadside fruit and vegetable stands, where Zambian women compete vigorously to replace their produce with a few kwacha. They have perfected the art of arranging the healthy stuff into little fruit and veggie cairns that constitute what you get for the going price. The cabbage, okra, carrots, sweet potatoes, groundnuts (peanuts), watermelons, pumpkin leaves, and many varieties of pumpkins and squash they sell, they usually don’t grow, though it is likely that they toil at subsistence farming.

(WARNING: Digression. I have become quite a fan of okra, which tastes great boiled, then mixed with diced tomatoes and onions. It’s got great texture—but what is that goo that oozes from it, and where does it come from?!)

You could say that these are “middlewomen,” buying from local farmers and reselling. I’m told that one of the former Zambian presidents, a Mr. Chiluba, encouraged Zambians to adopt this buy and (re)sell approach to free enterprise. It was purported to be the path out of poverty for Zambians. Things seem not to have materialized as envisioned. Without no economies of scale, and no value added, Zambians compete against each other with undifferentiated commodities. Service (transport/delivery time) isn’t even a potential point of differentiation for these women since the only transportation that have is by foot. Thus they either collude on price or end up cutting each other’s throats. This almost surely locks one inside the house of poverty.

Just as the Egyptian pyramids remind me of God’s faithfulness in delivering the Israelites from their oppresors, the small pyramids of fresh produce and man-sized mounds of it remind me of God’s faithfulness in providing for us. Is it a matter of conscious trust in God’s providential promise or an assumption we take for granted, that harvests will be abundant, and that we’ll be able to enjoy them. In Genesis 8 God promised Noah,
As long as the earth endures,
seedtime and harvest,
cold and heat,
summer and winter,
day and night will never cease.

May it be out of trust in God’s goodness that we look forward to plentiful harvests, with thanksgiving in our hearts. Amen.

Dirty Jobs: Zambia

2009-06-12T09:43:00.000-07:00

On a break from teaching in Mongu, in Zam’s Western Province, I decided to stretch my legs by trudging through the heavy, resistant sand outside the Lilelelo congregation’s church building. Although Mongu is about 120 miles west of Angola and its Kalahari Desert sands, I could easily have been convinced that I was smack dab in the middle of that desert, or on the beach at the Jersey shore. The previous week, a good hour’s drive south of Mongu, in Senanga, I’d snapped some youngsters who were looking my way. When I saw the pic - which I could've taken virtually anywhere in Senanga with the same result - I asked myself, "Does this not look like they're lounging on a beach?"

At Lilelelo though, as we were teaching I’d become aware of a grating, whirring sound buzzing from beyond the church—like an electric circular saw. As I passed by the opening in the church’s flimsy, straw-colored reed fence, I saw some folks hunched over a waist-high rectangular box. My curiosity aroused, I walked over to investigate.

A young woman and what might have been her daughter smoothed their fingers back and forth over the box, filled with maize. Soon I could see gaps in the maize that revealed shiny gray metal. Beneath the maize, the aluminum box bottom was dotted unsystematically with hundreds of holes that looked like they’d been randomly punched out with a Philip’s head screwdriver. Pebbles, twigs, and too-small maize kernels dropped down onto the camel-colored sand.

After sifting the maize, they poured what remained into a tightly woven white plastic sack and handed it over to the miller. He emptied the sack into his milling machine until the hopper was full, then hit an electric switch. Ah, that grating whir, the one I’d heard all day. The machine churned the hard, yellowy kernels into a fine powdery dust, spitting it into a white plastic sack. The whitish residue clung to everything in the miller’s outdoor shop. The workspace reminded me of the workshop my father used to have in our basement—after he’d been cutting wood with his radial-arm saw. I used to vacuum the sawdust that the jagged blades of that powerful saw spewed out. In the miller’s shop however, the maize and cassava dust looked, as a Zambian might say, “a bit” permanent! It also clung to the gap-toothed miller himself! In a funny way, this pleasant Zambian looked like the dirty job yang to the dirty job yin of a West Virginia coal miner—brown-skinned and covered from head to toe, with white dust. I shuddered to think how much of that fine dust was caked in the poor chap’s lungs. OSHA would have a field day.

In Senanga I spoke with a man who also milled rice. He dried the husks in the sun and sold them as chicken feed. The usable output for our maize miller is mealie-meal, the staple of the Zambian diet. The chalky miller processed others’ maize so he could buy or mill his own. The church, whose operation this was, employed him. Many Zambian churches engage in commercial enterprises to support their ministries. In addition to milling maize and cassava, these include making bricks, and cooking up a homemade liquid refreshment called munkoyo.

The church charged the equivalent of about 60 cents to mill a 25 kg. (60 lbs.) or so sack of maize. My miller friend said business was pretty slow. With revenue of 60 cents/bag—including his wage—he can’t be making much doing this dirty job.

Freedom!

2009-06-03T01:21:00.000-07:00

Recently, as Americans observed a national holiday, Memorial Day, so did citizens of dozens of other countries observe a national holiday. Americans remembered those who died to secure their freedom, while Africans, continent-wide, celebrated their freedom from colonial masters.

Three weeks into our month-long swing through Zam’s Western, Central, and Lusaka Provinces, we found ourselves in the capital, Lusaka—on Africa Freedom Day. The city was relatively sleepy that morning, Lusakans apparently taking the liberty of sacking in. As my colleagues and I ran some errands, it occurred to me that this might be an opportunity to get a closer look at the “Freedom Statue” we’d driven by so many times when passing through Lusaka.

By the time we arrived at the statue, the Zambian president, Rupiah Banda, had already come for a wreath-laying ceremony, and gone. The first time I’d seen the statue, an image of a big, muscular, bare-chested man breaking free from the chains that bound him (Zambians call him "Ma Cheni, Ma Cheni," one breaking free from his chains) it was obvious that it was somehow tied up with the concept of freedom. Now, up close, any doubt about this was quickly resolved by the block letters—F R E E D O M—emblazoned on its base. The monument had a satiny, black sheen, and appeared to be supported by the strings of triangular flags strewn from it, the kind you see flapping in the breeze at car dealerships. The colors—green, copper, black, and red—borrowed from the Zambian flag, signify Zambia’s rich land, copper, people, and the blood the people shed for their freedom.

The monument stands in the midst of a green, close cut lawn, fenced in at the foot a Chinese-built Zambian government building. Hundreds of children laughed, screamed, and frolicked on the grass around the statue. When I began taking some “snaps” (as Zambians say) of the statue, it was as if a magnet lured those kids in front of my camera—jumping, smiling, shouting, and waving. When I stood before the statue for my colleague to snap me however, those children closed in on me like a rugby scrum, grabbing my arms and legs, jumping on my back. It was like a family get-together with my nieces and nephews, or a mugging! My Zambian colleague-photographer would have none of this, either concerned for my safety or about getting a more dignified snap! He sternly reprimanded the children, commanding them to stand back; he appointed one young boy as “captain,” to restrain the others. After one such “appeasement snap,” I told him it was okay for the kids to gather round.

What freedom children have in their innocence. I noticed this while in the Western Province. Visiting a headmistress at an elementary school, I was introduced to a first and second grade class—and snapped them. Free as birds even in their crisp blue school uniforms, they jostled and jockeyed for position in front of my lens—fresh faces, all bright eyes and beautiful white teeth.
Their raucous laughter crescendoed to cheers and screams at the burst of the camera’s flash. My colleague urged me to stop, saying I was causing “pandemonium.” Pandemonium. For some reason that word made me laugh, maybe because it was true, but nevertheless this was a pandemonium borne of childish innocence. Rich or poor, everywhere I’ve been in the world children are innocently free, at least they look and sound that way.

Back at the Freedom Statue, as we were leaving, scads of children followed me, clinging to my shirt and pants, holding my hands, grabbing my legs, and patting my back. In that moment I felt joy, and sadness—joy for the obvious reasons, and sadness, at first, because I wondered how many of them were so eager to touch me because they’d been conned into believing that it’s good luck to touch a muzungu. Moments later though, I was told that many of these were homeless, “street kids” possibly high from sniffing glue. How free then, were they, really?
I thought more about freedom. Am I free? What I am free from? What am I free for? What am I doing with my freedom? I thought about what Paul meant when he said “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery” (Galatians 5:1). Got freedom? Real freedom?

Working Hard at Hard Work

2009-05-02T04:45:00.000-07:00

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Most Zambians survive however they can. Many scrape out a living with some sort of “business.” This often involves staking out some piece of property that no one else seems to have claimed—to grow something or produce something resourceful on or from the land. Over the last month or two a Zambian I met named Emmanuel (meaning “God with us”) has done just that. He makes bricks out of dirt from anthills. He chose a large unclaimed anthill just outside the gate that surrounds the campus where I live.

Emmanuel labors thirteen hours a day, from 5 a.m. to 6 p.m., seven days a week. Each day he makes three hundred bricks. Anthill soil is supposed to be the best for making strong, durable bricks because it is so fine. Emmanuel begins making a brick by first coating the inside of a rectangular metal box with some black oil, so that he’ll be able to remove the brick later. Then he shovels a heap of anthill dirt into the box. Next, he packs the dirt hard by pounding it with his shovelhead; he repeats the process piles more on and smacks it again. Finally, he activates a lever to release the brick from the box.
He ascends from the dirt pit to stage the bricks for drying. He covers his newly formed bricks with hay and lets them bake in the sun for three days. I forgot to ask Emmanuel what he charges for each brick. It can’t be much because the people who will buy them can’t afford to pay very much. Fortunately for Emmanuel he’s got almost no costs, though I don’t know how he markets his bricks.

There's not an ounce of fat on Emmanuel. For lunch he eats nshima, the porridge-like corn meal staple of most Zambians. He has no vegetable or meat to accompany this virtually nutritionless lump. Hooray for Emmanuel for taking the initiative to eke out an honest though very tough living.

(November to) April Showers Bring…

2009-05-02T02:40:00.000-07:00

…explosions of color to Zambia, May flowers for sure. Lush green hills and grass color the landscape. Bright red wild poinsettias have been in full bloom since at least Palm Sunday (the week before Easter). The traffic circles and town center in Kitwe are bursting with color. The campus where I live is resplendent with color too.

The seasons are changing though. Most of the gauva have fallen from the tree in my yard. I've been enjoying walking out to pluck a lemon off my other tree when I'm preparing dinner,or looking to freshen up a gin and tonic! Some of the trees are losing their leaves as the “cold season” advances. When I run in the mornings, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I see Zambians bundled up with plaid wool or acrylic blankets, and puffy quilted coats. For them, this is cold; most mornings it’s probably been in the high fifties or low sixties! While riding the minibus to and from town I've been choking on the staleness of the air in the vehicle. Zambians are quick to clamp those minibus windows shut to stay comfortable. Now I try to stake out one of the window seats. At night it has been cool enough for me to cover myself with a blanket as I slide into my linen mitten (the latter a favorite expression of my friend Russell).

Mosi-oa-Tunya

2009-04-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

We snaked our way to the outskirts of Livingstone, along the reasonably good paved road carved through tall, wispy grass, brush, and trees. The town is named for the Scot Dr. David Livingstone, the great medical doctor, explorer, and Christian missionary, for whom Zambians seem to have great respect and affection. There was a steady rumbling sound in the distance. Finally, through a clearing at an elbow in the road, one could glimpse the sparkling, royal blue waters of the Zambezi River that we had been shadowing. The sun was shining brightly overhead, tucked into a crystal clear blue sky. Another blue-sky day in Zambia, sort of. “Sort of”—because several hundred yards down river we could see some apparently very low-lying clouds hovering like smoke over the water. Courtesy of five months of persistent rain – virtually daily, intermittent but often seemingly of Noahic proportions –the water volume and rush of the Zambezi are greatest at this time of year. The fluid border between Zim and Zam is exactly that—fluid—indiscriminately encroaching onto (and later receding from) Zim and Zam soil.

This is where the bottom falls out of the mile wide Zambezi, for 350 feet. Thus, the rumbling sound we’d heard. Dr. Livingstone proclaimed in 1855 that his were the first European eyes to witness what the local Makololo inhabitants called Mosi-oa-Tunya, “the smoke that thunders.” Victoria Falls, the good doctor’s name for the place, doesn’t seem as respectful of this sight, one of the seven wonders of the natural world, or as imaginative. The clouds we’d seen were actually mist rising from below, generated by the indescribable force of the massive volume of water cascading over the boulders and crashing on rocks below. It is beyond my ken to convey the sheer power of this sight with words or pictures.

I’d been warned that I’d get wet viewing the falls—that it was useless to bring an umbrella or raincoat. Besides, on this cloudless blue-sky day, wearing a tee shirt, running shorts, and flip flops, I’d be dry in ten minutes anyway. So out I stepped, onto the footbridge connecting Zam and Zim. Because of the heavy mist, I could not see the falls to my right. At that moment, for all I knew, I had become part of them. I’ve had only a handful of showers since I’ve been in Zambia. The one I had on that misty footbridge was c-o-l-d, but with the most phenomenal water pressure! Once on the Zim side I glanced back at the biggest and most vivid rainbow I’d ever seen.

If the rainbow is a symbol of hope for humanity, of God’s covenant of faithfulness with us, so too perhaps, may this rainbow over the Zambezi be a symbol of hope for Zambia (Gen 9:12-17). With issues related to food production, clean sources of power generation, and water availability and distribution increasingly becoming problems in many parts of the world (South Africa and elsewhere in Africa, Middle East, western U.S., etc.), does not Zambia have an opportunity to use its abundant and water resources to diversify its copper-dependent economy? Let’s hope so, and pray that Zam’s government, business leaders, and neighbors will handle these resources as respectfully as their Makololo ancestors treated the smoke that thunders.

Artist's Inspiration

2009-04-01T07:55:00.000-07:00

Friday. 8:15 a.m. Front door. Knock, knock, knock. I’d completely forgotten that I’d asked a young Zambian man who’d stopped by selling something late the previous afternoon to return at 8:30 a.m. Thus far those hawking goods door-to-door haven’t had anything that I’ve needed or wanted. Of course, always hovering in the back of my mind is the thought that anything I take out of Zam I’ll have to carry — for two months. Besides that, when traveling by air I’ll have to keep my checked baggage within the airlines’ baggage weight limits, which are slimming faster than the participants in a Zambian hot season sumo-wrestling match. The thought of schlepping stuff around for two months only to be forced to deep six it at the airline check-in counter holds no appeal for me. I don’t need the workout that badly.

I didn’t know what this man, Andrew, was selling, and I wasn’t expecting much. Was I ever shocked when I swung open my front door! Andrew had turned my front porch into an art gallery. He’d leaned framed oils on the porch wall. Unframed oils flooded the brick drainage gutter and spilled onto the grass. He had piles of watercolor greeting cards. Twice, my neighbor Jenny’s cat delighted in scooting over the canvasses displayed in the gutter.

What beautiful work. I’m no art connoisseur but I immediately sensed something special about this humble man and his artwork. To begin with, it is remarkable for a Zambian to show up on time, let alone early. Andrew is self-trained. His subjects are Zambian women engaged in the activities of daily living — holding babies, dancing, sitting at or walking to market, doing village chores. This choice certainly resonated with me. I come to have the utmost respect for Zambian women, who are to a large extent the glue that holds this country together.

Andrew is also a good businessman. He confidently offered to give me a deal once I’d decided what to buy. That time came, and rather than reduce his price, he offered to throw in extra work. Don’t discount; hold on to the cash. Smart.

One might say that Andrew pedals to peddle. With a bag stuffed with cards and rolled up canvases slung over his shoulder, he gets around on a bicycle, strapping his wood-framed oils to its rack.

Andrew’s skill, reliability, ambition, business savvy, and humility lifted my spirits. When was the last time you felt good about a person from whom you bought something, and hopeful for that person’s future and that of their country...and even felt like you’d had a mutually beneficial experience? For me, it was two Fridays ago.

Hucksters and Angels, Part II

2009-03-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Chingola Road(side) Kill

2009-03-23T12:43:00.000-07:00

You never know what you’ll find while traversing the roads of Zambia. A couple Sundays ago, while heading back from the copper mining town of Chingola (where I had preached twice, beginning at 7:00 a.m.!), my colleague Richard and I spotted a small throng of exuberant males clustered on the side of the road. An air of victory surrounded them—the victory of capturing a six- or eight-foot-long snake. This city slicker had never seen such a large snake outside of a zoo or mobile reptile exhibit. It looked alive. “Do you think it’s poisonous,” I asked Richard. Without hesitating he said, “Shuah” (his Zambian English version of “Sure!”) Richard inquired as to whether I had my camera on me, and if I wanted to stop for a photo op. “Yes!” I replied, on both counts, as I yanked the camera from my pocket.

A man who looked to be in his fifties seemed to be in charge of the critter. I asked him what kind of snake it was. “A viper,” he said. “How did you kill it?” I asked, realizing by now that it was dead (and somewhat stinky!). A few in the group spoke excitedly and gestured to convey that they had beat it to death, with sticks. Some of the snake’s innards were spewing forth from its belly, hence the odor, I suppose. They wanted to sell it to me. I declined, opting for the pic. The elder statesman strung the dead serpent around his neck like—well—like a boa!

Hyperinflation Next Door in Zim

2009-03-06T11:11:00.001-08:00

Even before the current economic crisis was reverberating around the world, the people of neighboring Zimbabwe were suffering terribly. One consequence of their national political and economic crisis is a tragic healthcare crisis. Zim’s cholera epidemic has taken between four and five thousand lives, and afflicted over 85,000 people. Today, heading out for the weekend, Zim’s newly installed Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai (prounounced “chang-ur-eye”) and his wife were in involved in a car accident. Mrs. Tsvangirai perished. Now, grieving, how will Mr. Tsvangirai be able to challenge eighty-five-year-old President Robert Mugabe, who has been in power for over three decades, and shows no signs of letting go?

Zim has been experiencing what economists calI hyperinflation. A recent BBC report crystallized the situation well. The good news: In the beginning of February Zimbabwean teachers got paid—for their work in January. They were each paid $30, 000,000,000,000 Zimbabwean, that's 30 trillion Zim bucks. Sounds like a nice windfall, right? End of good news – it was more like well, just wind. The teachers’ thirty trillion Zim bucks monthly pay was worth . . . $3 U.S.! There’s more. I say was worth because three days later, it dropped to $ 1 U.S.. Zim has since revalued its currency Many if not most Zimbabweans have switched to using more stable currencies, South African rand, U.S. $, and Euros. If they don't convert or spend Zim bucks, the little value it has evaporates, (like the German mark in WWII) almost in the time it takes them to make a decision while shopping. While visiting with friends Ted and Sue Wright in Lusaka recently Ted pulled out a banded wad of Zim bucks, like the stacks of cash you see in a bank. The denominations were twenty-fives and fifties—so to speak—billions that is, $25,000,000,000 and $50,000,000,000 Zim bills. How’s that for a financial meltdown? In the picture above my colleague Richard Chimfwembe is holding a $50,000,000,000 Zim bill. Zim bills have expiration dates printed on them. This one expired on Dec. 31, ’08, but according to Ted, they’re still accepted. Might make some interesting wallpaper; it’s probably cheaper than the real thing. I trust you would agree that the people of Zimbabwe need our prayers.

New Years' Malipenga

2009-02-28T07:33:00.001-08:00

While touring the nooks and crannies of St. Peter’s cathedral, I ran into Vincent, a short, smallish, gray-haired man. He had the kind of cheerful spunk I find so refreshing and winsome, especially in someone who’s logged seven or eight decades. Vincent spoke English well and shared the congregation’s history with me. I asked him whether the 6,000 people who call Likoma home do anything special to celebrate the New Year. “Yes, of course,” he replied. There would be church at 0800 hours tomorrow morning. The lives of many if not most Malawians, like Zambians, are rooted in Christian faith. The spiritual realm is part of the fabric of everyday life. The spiritual is not compartmentalized as “personal and private” or even non-existent, as in the West. Life revolves around faith and religious conviction. Faith is not peripheral but central to peoples’ lives. It disappointed me to hear that there would only be one New Year’s Day service at St. Peter’s, in Chichewa. Vincent also told me that tomorrow I could see crowds of Likomans at the Malipenga, a traditional African dancing event at Chiponde Beach. He said he would be there, and dancing! I decided that tomorrow, I would be there too; but my eyes and not my feet and body would be dancing, looking for Vincent.

Having found my way into Chipyela made getting back to Mango Drift easier. Lauren, the South African manager (and seemingly part-guest) offered us the opportunity to spend New Year’s Eve at Mango Drift’s sister establishment, Kaya Mawa. Kaya Mawa is an exclusive resort for the well-heeled. (I heard that it’s listed by Conde Nast magazine as one of the ten most romantic resort destinations in the world; it’s a honeymooners paradise.) Room rates start at about 17 times more per person per night than at Mango Drift. As it happened, Kaya Mawa had only seven guests, four of whom were newlyweds. Our offer to spend New Year’s Eve there then, was presumably motivated by the party atmosphere ten or twelve more of us would bring to the place. Made sense. I am not generally a fan of the contrivance of New Year’s Eve but I did enjoy chatting it up with South Africans and Brits, from a teacher, to a contemporary furniture designer and entrepreneur, to a London-based fashion designer and her husband, who grew up in Malawi’s capital, Blantyre; he was a dentist and the son of a prominent researcher of anti-malarials. It was great fun, though I couldn’t help wondering what difference the money spent there would make in the lives of the Likomans who staffed the place.

New Year’s Day. On to the Malipenga. I had a difficult time finding Chiponde Beach because none of the dirt roads on Likoma is marked. The Likoma map in my Lonely Planet was useless. Villagers pointed me in the right direction and I eventually appended myself to the clusters of Likomans making their way to the Malipenga. The dancing had already begun when I arrived. I could have been there at the beginning, but expected that the 1 p.m. starting time really meant 3-4 p.m. The “dance floor” was an area of dirt bounded by twine strung around a series of gigantic baobab trees. Malipenga is a dance competition of sorts. Only men perform, representing their respective villages in a group called a boma. Onlookers from Likoma’s twelve villages stood behind the string barrier to cheer their favorite boma. The competition takes place one boma at a time. I saw American Boma and Nyanja Boma perform.
A spirited older man led American Boma. The men stood in ranks and files like a marching band, each one grasping his musical instrument, which for all but the bass drummer was a hollow gourd. I was slightly disappointed not to see the elaborate headdresses, colorful facepaint, and grass skirts that I had imagined. Instead one group wore street clothes, and another olive shorts and white shirts, some with neck ties. A few donned a feather or two on their head. They shuffled forward to the beat of the bass drum, leaned over and blew into their gourds, straightened up, bellowed something in unison like a Big 10 marching band, and turned ninety degrees like they were dancing the “Electric Slide.” At times the leader seemed to be screaming at his troupe to encourage or motivate them. Every now and then the crowd erupted with laughter or applause. Young boys darted into the block to join the men. What I presume were judges watched from their seats in the shade. American Boma won that day. There would be another Malipenga tomorrow, and next year. Ring in 2010 on Likoma Island, Malawi and see who wins the next Malipenga!

On Likoma Island

2009-02-28T01:33:00.000-08:00

The published schedule said the ferry trip from Nkhata Bay to Likoma would take five hours. That would put me ashore at some unnamed point at one o’clock Tuesday morning. Mango Drift, where I’d be staying for the next four and a half days, was about a forty-five minute trek somewhere across the island from here. It didn’t seem prudent to be stumbling clueless around this strange place at 0100 hours. Hence my relief to have arrived on African time, as I’d hoped we would. It was 5 a.m.! Though we’d arrived late, we landed just in time for the change of command ceremony. The dark blues of night surrendered to pastel mauves, yellows, and pinks. In the distance across a twenty-five mile stretch of calm lake, the sun inched its way from behind the hills of Mozambique. The new day was warming quickly.
A trio of South African brothers, a couple of Brits, and I were all relieved to hear that Mango Drift had sent a launch to taxi us around the bottom half of the island to our west side digs.

At Mango Drift I was pointed to a bamboo hut with three wood-shuttered windows sans screens or panes, a bed with a mosquito net and single bare light bulb dangling overhead, and a wooden door with no lock or key. I soon found myself curiously peering down into the knee-high tower of the eighteen-inch square cement security box intended for storing valuables (for which one had to supply one’s own lock). I was bewildered to see either an enormous spider or the spindliest crab ever. It turned out to be a “spider crab!” Likoma is purported to have a crime rate of zero, so there’s little need for either the lock the box or the spider crab to guard its contents.

Likoma is a great place to unwind. I alternated between days chilling on the beach reading and cooling off in the clear blue water and exploring the island. On New Year’s Eve day, young men beached their dhow at Mango Drift and unloaded firewood they’d brought over from Mozambique. It would fuel the bonfire we’d build at Mango Drift that night. Seven miles east one can see Chizimulu, Likoma’s sister island, rising proudly from the lake.

I set out to explore Likoma, hiking past humungous baobab trees, up and over rocky hills, and along a dirt path into and through local villages. By now, I’m accustomed to the scads of curious children who try outrunning each other to greet a fair-skinned muzungu. I greet them and shake hands with some brave ones. We all exchange smiles. My footpath cuts right through villagers’ “yards” and I find myself ducking beneath clotheslines to avoid getting tangled in laundry dancing in the breeze. As the hills sloped downward I finally came to a stand of tall shade trees and oddly enough, eyed what looked like a gothic window. “Could this be some pious Malawian’s home?” I wondered. It turned out to be my destination, St. Peter’s Cathedral, aptly named for the apostle who fished. Completed in 1905, European Anglicans built this massive structure using only local labor and materials, including Likoma red mud-clay bricks. Those Anglicans are said to have been the driving force behind the 100% literacy rate Likoma once enjoyed. After touring St. Peter’s, which is still active today, I made my way through the small town of Chipyela. Like many roads on Likoma, the road through Chipyela leads to the waters of Lake Malawi, across which Mozambique looms in the distance. Here too, piled on the beach, are mounds of firewood. Likomans would cherish the luxury of using it to usher in a new year with a bonfire.

Nkhata Bay <--> Likoma Island, Aboard Ilala

2009-02-16T23:06:00.000-08:00

During my recent year-end travels I spent a chunk of time in Malawi. After a splendid Christmas with friends in Mzuzu, I proceeded to Nkhata Bay. This place is like a freshwater version of the Caribbean, even in its laid-back attitude. Malawians slice through placid waters in dugout canoes as crystal clear waters in mesmerizing shades of azure, green, and turquoise lap their way onto course sandy beaches. It’s difficult to imagine that Lake Malawi could be home to a nasty parasite called bilharzia. The bugs surreptitiously enter (human) hosts through the skin and take weeks or months to make their presence known, wending their way to reside in and feast on kidney or liver tissue. Fortunately they’re quite susceptible to readily available antibiotics.

Cool offshore breezes betray the presence of kapenta, a small, sardine-like fish. Villagers splay the silvery, pinky-length stuff on long, bamboo mats to dry it in the hot December sun. The same breezes escort billions of tiny midges ashore. These minute insects live for only twenty-four hours. Towers of them rise like smoke over the lake, resembling dark tornado funnels. Nkhata Bay also buzzes with villagers jockeying around the produce market and stalls displaying of carved wood. The ferry Ilala sputters along the Malawian, Tanzanian, and Mozambiquan shores of this massive pool (~ 360 miles long x 50 miles wide), drawing people to the towns where it calls.

Ilala stops in Nkhata Bay twice weekly. I boarded the Monday 8 p.m. ferry bound for Likoma Island. The scene paralleled the description Blaine Harden penned of his trip on an African riverboat in Africa: Dispatches from a Fragile Continent. The vessel reflects mid-twentieth century design, with her superstructure standing just fore of midships. That, along with her rusty hull and dry, worn wooden upper decks, give away her six decades of service like the ringed cross-section of an ancient Giant Sequoia. Still, hordes of us crowded aboard. We squeezed along the decks like shoppers squishing into a store at a day-after-Thanksgiving door-buster sale. Upon reaching the (open-air) upper deck, I scoped out a white fiberglass bin containing lifejackets, against which I propped my backpack. This would be a good place to sleep, more or less (mostly less!), with one eye open. Once underway, debris from the stack drifted aft and down onto my sleeves.

Since only a few shore-side destinations can accommodate Ilala, the boat usually alights passengers into its diesel engine lifeboats. The deck crew launches and recovers these creaky taxis with expert efficiency, far better than the crew on a typical deep-sea U.S.-flag merchant ship. Disembarkation is practically a stampede over the side, down the sole cargo net, and into the lifeboat. Sturdy African women, heads and legs wrapped in colorful chitenges (traditional, two-meter length multi-utility cloths), tote children in the chitenges strung across their backs. Watch out! Heads up! These same women swing huge bunches of green bananas to others waiting below! They shimmy down the net lugging bulging plastic bags and suitcases. Men heave sacks sagging with maize meal and blue barrels and bright yellow rectangular plastic containers into the lifeboat, and more bags and suitcases. Inattentiveness, poor judgment, or loss of balance can land you in the lake or the hospital. The system, if you can call it that, is neither efficient nor safe. Somehow, it works.

It is my prayer that Ilala and those who sail her never join the bloated ranks of two-thirds-world maritime disasters. This rust bucket is a lifeline for the people who live on and around Lake Malawi and the islands in its midst. I shudder to think how many lives will be set adrift on the day Ilala’s stack debris showers her decks no more, but as the sun slowly rises, it dawns on me that these hearty Africans have thrived for millenia before anyone ever thought of laying Ilala's keel.

Hucksters and Angels, Part I

2009-01-28T03:27:00.000-08:00

Integrity and Taxi Fares for Greenhorns

In my recent trek throughout Zambia, Malawi, and Tanzania I was reminded that traveling invariably spawns more frequent and memorable encounters with the nefarious and the noble than we usually experience in the humdrum of everyday life. Guess what? The occasional shameless New York cabbie that has refined the duping of unsuspecting out-of-towners into an art form has distant cousins in Zambia and Malawi.

I rode with one such relative in Chipata, Zambia, on a short taxi trip to the Malawian border. Cabs here are shared, so as to optimize fuel efficiency and maximize revenue. However, in Chipata I sniffed another revenue maximization scheme, charging inflated muzungu (white person) rates. I asked two passengers already sitting in the cab what fare they were paying. They had just spoken with the driver – uh, in Nyanja, not my strong suit. They casually responded with a fare twice what I’d just been quoted ten minutes before by another cabbie whose car I refused to enter because it was grossly overloaded. I took the ride aware that I might be getting hosed. Upon arriving at the border, the driver bounded out of the car and approached me to pay him before and quite a distance from any of the other passengers. After I paid him my mind involuntarily went to work trying to reason why what occurred felt so wrong, in principle. “What just happened?” I said to myself.

While walking across the border I asked a Malawian immigration officer what the fare should be for the next leg, to the bus station. “Three hundred fifty Malawian kwacha,” she said. When I got to the taxi rank a gaggle of cabbies was hanging out between the first two cars in line. “Three hundred fifty kwacha to the bus station,” I confidently said to the apparent driver of the head car. Shaking his head no, he countered with, “Five hundred kwacha.” I said, “No, not the “muzungu fare,” the fare you would pay for this trip.” The crowd smiled, and with all the sincerity they could muster protested on behalf of their buddy that I’d been quoted the correct fare. The “muzungu fare” they said, would be seven hundred or a thousand kwacha! Later I wished I’d come back with, “Ah, so we HAVE established that there IS a ‘muzungu fare,’ and it’s higher!” I laughed with them and decided I’d let them in on my little conversation with the immigration officer, about the legit fare being three fifty. It was as if I’d caught them with their pants down (when they were really on fire!). They were stunned! Addressing the most vocal guy with all the sincerity I could muster, I challenged the whole gang to help me confront the immigration officer for lying to me. Oops, they hadn’t planned on that response! What followed were snickers with sheepish grins and eyes averting my gaze, but no takers. I decided to have some fun with this and take the ride, literally and figuratively. As in the previous cab, I was shown the single bucket seat in front. We departed for the station once the driver found enough riders to give everyone in the car claustrophobia. Along the way a would-be rider waved us down. There was only room for him to squeeze up front with me. I turned to my friends in back and asked what fare they were paying. Deafening silence. I asked whether they were paying five hundred kwacha. Again, the only response I got was smiles and nervous laughter. They were on to the driver’s ruse but remained loyal to their countryman. I leaned over and quipped to the driver that now that I was sharing my seat, the fare should go down to three fifty. At the bus station the driver again zipped over to me first, for payment, again apart from the others riders. This time however, I refused to pay first, telling him I wanted to allow my fellow passengers to pay, so they could be on their way. I would wait patiently until he was done with them. That driver looked more like a “deer-in-the-headlights” than I thought humanly possible! That expression was priceless, well worth the cost of getting taken for a ride previously. If he wasn’t sure before, he now knew I was on to him. What would he do? Surely he suspected I would watch and listen as others paid. He slinked over to collect the fares from the others, knowing full well that there was no way on earth they would pay 143% of the going rate, even if they could afford it, which they probably couldn’t. I couldn’t tell from the hushed tones what was being said or how much they were paying. Finally, the driver came to me, and needing to save face said, “Since I had to put someone in the front seat with you, I’ll only charge you three fifty.”

Pricing for travelers can be more of a game or a dance than it is in everyday life, akin perhaps to buying a car in the States (which clearly is not an everyday purchase). Often enough, the game denies equality among buyers and discounts integrity among sellers. In Zambia and Malawi at least, on the sell side the game is based on the seller’s perception of a buyer’s economic status vis a vis the seller and thus the buyer’s ability to pay (and the seller feeling entitled to a price hike). On the buy side the game hinges on the buyer’s awareness of the fair price, alternative products, services, or sellers, and the perceived value of the good or service purchased. As I discovered, at some point the game may also involve the seller saving face. Ignorance and underestimating the other can cost either player. Caveat emptor yes, but integrity should not be for sale. That spirals into certain bankruptcy.

Christmas in Mzuzu

2009-01-25T22:42:00.000-08:00

Prior to reading Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa, my vision of Africa featured parched deserts, dense jungles, grassy savannahs, and muddy watering holes. Absent were hills, at least not green ones. That perception changed with my recent travels to and through the verdant hills and sprawling mountains of Zambia, Malawi, and Tanzania.

Unlike Hemingway’s dull book, the green hills of Africa bowl you over, shimmering emerald that stands in bold relief to russet-hued clay. Now I at least appreciate his choice of title.

The green hills and mountains of Mzuzu, Malawi – that’s where I spent Christmas. Mzuzu is situated in northern Malawi, thirty miles from the western shores of Lake Malawi. My friends Paul and Darlene Heller hosted me. They oversee the Ministry of Hope's crisis nursery for babies orphaned by the HIV/AIDS epidemic (www.ministryofhope.org; http://suffer-the-little-children.blogspot.com/). They care for about a dozen and a half infants. On a visit to the nursery, before I knew it, Darlene had hoisted a chunky little tike named Frank, into my arms. At Mzuzu’s hospital, babies and children share large open rooms, occupying hospital beds with no rails. Anxious mothers curl up next to their little ones. We had come to see baby Hilda, who on Christmas Eve had been struggling mightily to elude the icy grip of death. Thankfully, Hilda prevailed in her first bout with malaria.

We walked Mzuzu’s hills, farms, and footpaths, and hiked one of its mile-high green mountains. Mzuzu’s crisp, clean air is discernibly thin. Our treks around Mzuzu left me winded, but piqued my curiosity. Never before have I seen insects that resemble origami made from pieces of straw, or waist-high heavy-laden banana trees.

My respect for African women mounts; they may well be the backbone of Malawian (and Zambian, and perhaps even African) society. We pass several of them carrying twelve-foot-long bundles of firewood – on their heads of course! Will this ever cease to amaze me? It saddens me when they seemingly instinctively step aside for us muzungus to squeeze by the narrow path we’re following. As they ascend one of Mzuzu’s lush mountains, three women pilgrims stop, kneel, and pray, aloud.

Atop the mountain, groups of other pilgrims unabashedly raise their voices to sing God’s praises. Children at the local church Christmas pageant recite their lines flawlessly, and confidently belt out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” How had I never realized how fitting those lyrics are for Christmas? For the dramatic rendering of the Christmas story that is to be his Christmas morning sermon – from the vantage point of Mary’s husband-to-be Joseph – (Rev.) Paul Heller dons a long, curly white wig (Paul's sermon was the first of two in that service!). Back at the Hellers, we have devotions around the Christmas wreath, then dive into Darlene’s homemade Christmas cookies. Delish! We sip some South African red wine, watch movies, and indulge in other treats Darlene has hoarded for Christmas. Christmas with the Hellers in the green hills of Africa, sans Western commercialism, is the next best thing to being home.

Nature vs. Creation

2008-12-18T07:22:00.000-08:00

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!”

2008-12-09T22:32:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T02:52:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-21T03:49:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-27T05:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-07T03:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-03T04:56:00.000-07:00

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.