Mosi-oa-Tunya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.