Arrival/Departure #2, Douala, Cameroon

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!

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

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?

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

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

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

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?