Pondering in Pondy

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

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?

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

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

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!