Working Hard at Hard Work

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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…

…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

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.