Till this point I feel I have only shared with you the highlights of my time in Africa. Big events, like my trip up here overland or seeing Mugabe, add sweetness to life but they are not the substance. It’s the everyday routines, pressures and encounters that are the ‘space-time’ of life (sorry reading The Fabric of the Cosmos by Brian Greene just now. Love it. Such a nerd).
The other day a friend asked me “so what do you get paid to do?” Other similar questions come up frequently, and in all honesty I never have a straight answer. I call myself a missionary, but what does that mean? In this part of Africa, the traditional role of a missionary is a thing of the past. Churches are everywhere. One of the two channels I get on TV is broadcasting preachers and the like constantly. And yet I feel I have ‘accomplished’ a lot since I’ve been here.
Most broadly, I am opening an office here for Overland Missions. Previously, our presence here was not permanent and tied into strictly humanitarian aid projects. Since, my arrival this has shifted. My role ,as I see, is to lay the foundation for the long term presence and effectiveness of Overland Missions (OM). On a practical level this means I am meeting anyone and everyone I can while learning as much as possible about the local ‘scene’ to see where I (OM at this point in time) can be most useful. Recently, I spoke to an American missionary that advised me to spend at least a year ‘shaking hands’ and getting to know people! Luckily, Bujumbura is a small town and everyone knows everyone so after a few months at this I feel my time ‘networking’ has been potent. I have started some small projects but these only in the early stages of planning.
Everyday I try to plan as many meetings as possible with different NGOs or ministries or whoever. I usually spend the lunch break (from 11:30-2:30) working with a group of street kids at a bible study. My job is not hard per se but it’s the conditions in which I work that usually send the average westerner packing their bags after a year or so (and I have not reached that threshold yet…). In Tom Petty’s words, it’s the waiting that’s the hardest part. The saying here in Africa is ‘hurry up and wait’. If you approach anything with the rushed attitude so common in the west you get no where, and will most likely stop dead in your tracks.
Often, working as an international organization requires working with bureaucracy. Bureaucracy only works when pushed from the top. That is, you have to find the right person who knows the right someone who sits above the a-hole holding your application, waiting for a bribe. Logically its not that hard to figure out. So, patience, a good attitude, a smile, and the ability to make conversation go a long way. Navigating the social paradigms of Africa takes a savvy that comes with time. Always time.
I leave Burundi in mid November and will return mid January. I will take the time away to evaluate the opportunities that have presented themselves and commit to more full time work when I return. I have to say that I am very optimistic about the positive impact that my time in Burundi will yield. Praise God!
The food alone is worth the trip!
The title of this section is taken from a line in Chris Farley’s last movie, “Almost Heroes”. You need to see it.
Do words like “organic”, “all natural”, and “local” make you want to pay double for a product at the supermarket? Well if they do you should come to Burundi!! Everything is organic, natural, and local! Indeed, the food here is quite wholesome. There are no crazy artificial chemical sweeteners or additives that we find on the packaging of food in the west. Now you ask, “ Dave, how do you know if it’s local or organic?” Because often times the place you eat is next to the garden or field where the food on your plate comes from. Most commonly Burundians eat beans and rice or rice and beans or any combination of the two. There are also green bananas, regular bananas, pineapples, mangoes, and, thank God, they love French fries. Every meal is pretty much the same but it’s satisfying. You also get viande, or a cube of marinated meat, on your rice for a little extra. One negative aspect of the cooking is the amount of palm oil used, but on the whole the diet here will more than sustain if you get enough of it (a major problem here). And it’s eons better than the food in Zambia and most of the surrounding countries whose staple is a corn meal porridge cruelly resembling, but not tasting anything like, mashed potatoes (ugali, n’shema, pup, or, as westerners call it “oh this sucks”).
Even the Coke here is made with real sugar, supposedly, instead of high fructose corn syrup. For some reason I have developed this thing against high fructose corn syrup. To me it’s symbolic of the negative characteristics of life in America- quick satisfaction but unfulfilling and damaging in the long run.
Fact: high fructose corn syrup is the leading cause of HIV/Aids and H1N1 flu in the world today*.
*Not a fact.
Ain’t it funny how time slips away..
It’s silly how fast my time has gone in Burundi. Even though I have a long road ahead of me I can see myself saying that at the end of my two years here. I am so looking forward to going back and seeing friends and family, looking forward to cold weather and not putting on SPF 50 sun block everyday. I plan on getting a camera while back in the States so as not to deprive you of the beautiful scenery here for too much longer (and to make blogs more interesting to read). Burundi has provided me with great stories and has some amazing people. I look forward to sharing more of my time here with you and appreciate you all taking the time to read this.
Please don’t be a stranger. Send me an update, attach a photo if you can.
Peace!
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Passing by New Jerusalem Big Big Shoe Shine, Part Deux
**A reminder that the first half of the story is located one entry below**
The main struggle with living abroad is in the clash of cultures. The more you are around one the more it seeps into your unconscious mind and all the way down your spine until its in your bones. Your body reacts to it, initially with curious awe. Then upon realizing it’s not stopping, that it wants to get deep inside you, your body fights back. You get angry and upset. You demand your ‘rights’ that are no rights at all, only empty words that get you blank stares. Time is on its side. Your body only fights for so long before it passes your defenses and settles. This, as I see it, is the “travel cycle” (the emotions you go through whilst away from your home environment).
One part that most westerners fight with is the lack of control. We ask; when? How? Why? How much? For how long? Frequently, I find none of those issues resolved. As I sat on the bus I realized a few months ago I would have been put off by the mayhem we had just gone through, but at some point my mind accepted it as inevitable, almost normal (almost), and so I sat back. I let the bus toss me around while my mine wandered. Our helper/guardian angel, Molita, figured out a route for us to take as we hustled our way over to the bus. She wrote it down on a piece of paper, names of cities I’d never heard of, and told us the bus was heading to a city called Mpanda. So Mpanda it was!
I had no idea how long it would take or which stop along the way it was. I figured we would ride it as long as we were headed in the right direction.
About 10 hours later the bus pulled to a stop in a small, dirt station. It was, in fact, not Mpanda but a city called Sumbawanga. And once again we were met by someone who spoke enough English to tell us where we were and how to get to the next place we wanted to go (you’ll notice a pattern). The bus to Mpanda headed out the next morning we were told.
The look of a lost tourist to a taxi driver is like a shark smelling blood in the water. Drivers came up and motioned for our bags. The young man who helped us sorted out the nonsense and connected us with a guy that offered a fair price. Soon enough we communicated via hand motions and broken Swahili we needed a place to stay the night. The driver rattled off names of places to stay and I just said “the first one”. What a great choice!
We spent the night in a Catholic mission. Them Catholics know how to live it up! Well not really but it was very quaint. Well kept, clean rooms. Great food that didn’t give us hepatitis.
We spent the afternoon and the night exploring the town. I do love the east African culture. You can meander down the narrow walks in the colorful markets or just find a shady tree to sit and watch people watch you. And do they watch you! Outsiders rarely make it to such towns as Sumbawanga, little transit towns in between bigger towns with more important things going on. Such places remind me of the town my dad grew up in rural America: Life moves a bit slower and they cater to the needs of the passerby as best they know how. This means lots of small snack stands, lots of bars, street food, and a decent restaurant or two.
The people stare at you with an unabashed interest. They continue to stare at you, unblinking, even as you meet their gaze. It seems you could stare back forever without a word shared. When you walk on the street they look you up and down, not trying to hide it like we do in the West. You see them eye your fancy shoes or any interesting items you might have in your pockets. When their eyes finally rise back up they meet you again with that stare. The African stare I call it.
We indulged in our first beer in months. Taking in the afternoon sun, making casual conversation with the regulars at the small shack we stopped in. We killed time until dusk when we strolled easily back to the mission, helping push start a battered old pick up along the way.
After having nothing but an apple and orange for the previous few days we feasted like kings on the nuns home cooking. They do fried chicken right.
We started out early the next morning for our bus. We decided to stop at the ATM along the way just in case we needed extra cash. Little did we know that it was the last ATM we would access until Bujumbura.
The road to Mapanda wound through the mountains of a national park. Giraffe and elephant stared at the bus rumbling by. Northern Tanzania is gorgeous country, Lion King country, and the trip flew by. It helped me appreciate Tanzania. At the sacrifice of personal comfort we found ourselves swept up in a current of beautiful landscapes and memorable experiences. Not so long after that we rolled into Mapanda.
Mpanda continued the pattern of small transit towns in Tanzania: dusty roads winding between markets, houses, and guest houses. At the center of town a half finished Lutheran Cathedral interrupted the amoebic conglomerate of sagging shack-shops, massed together that was the city skyline.
Another one of our guardian angels met us just as we stepped off the bus; another lone English speaker able to guide us towards a guest house and relay the inevitable news that our travel plans would yet again change drastically. For three days this time. No buses or trains left for at least that long.
We checked into, what I was convinced at the time was, a quasi brothel. Long dark, concrete hall ways led us to our single bed room with a bucket shower that doubled as a toilet. At least the roaches were kind enough to scurry out of sight when we stepped in. The first night we barricaded the door with our luggage against the drunks outside.
The next day we took to the task of finding a way out of town. Walking by the so-African shacks with names like ‘New Jerusalem Big Big Shoe Shine’, ‘G Unit Haircutz’, and ‘Kalifornia’ we asked about trains and buses and anything else we could think of that would get us farther North. Each new possibility led to a dead end, but seek and ye shall find. And find we did.
We were able to connect with a young black market Chinese medicine dealer who spoke excellent English. Dr. Samuel Mpanda I called him, although he was not a doctor. We had heard that the UN made daily trips up to Kigoma, our intended destination, and took passengers for a small transit fee. On our way to the office Samuel intercepted us and struck up a conversation. We spent the day with him and treated him to dinner.
I found that Tanzanians will bend over backwards to help you out. For a fee (it’s a quirky, almost endearing trait, that puts a smile on your face. Then I realized: on the local level this is somewhat cute but on a national level probably rots the country from within with corruption. This further cemented in my head that bad governance is one of the greatest factors hindering development the world round). Working through Samuel and other friends we met on the street we found that the owner of our guest house heard of our plight and offered to take us all the way into Burundi for a fraction of what others offered us.
Thus began our Saga with Moussa. Moussa was the owner of our guest house (which after one day there, I realized it was no brothel and the staff endeared us). Moussa showed up in a small Suzuki SUV with his wife and child along for the ride. Problem: Our bags weighed more than his wife and child combined and took up three times the space. It was then I was reminded of the old joke “how many people can you fit in an African bus? One more!” And so we did. Moussa’s wife and child sat up front in the passenger seat while JJ and I worked our way amongst the bags stacked to the ceiling in the back.
Within two minutes JJ and I were praying as Moussa put the pedal to the floor and tried to make up time for starting out late. The little Suzuki bounced off ruts and bottomed out on rocks. But the car wouldn’t die. No matter how much Moussa pounded that thing and broke every rule in the book on how to drive off road, it would not die or puncture or fade. It was beyond natural—supernatural. No other way to explain how or why that little early 90s 4x4 didn’t leave us on the side of those lonesome roads.
Day turned to night; hills turned to mountains; and Swahili turned to Kirundi as we meandered our way towards the border. We stopped at one point along a ridge line. The air was surprising cool. We looked out over the horizon and the mountains disappeared into mist. Just beyond the haze lay Burundi. Quite a poetic beginning to my time in Burundi, I thought: I couldn’t see what lie ahead, it was a haze, unclear, but I knew that there were mountains to climb.
We pulled up to the border as they were closing the doors. Great we made it! Oh what’s that Moussa? You didn’t tell us you didn’t have a passport? And oh what else are you worried about? That they’ll find your pistol? For real.
Our driver had headed towards the border in full knowledge that he had no passport, and headed into a newly established post conflict zone with a concealed weapon. Somehow we passed through the gates with both issues being resolved. I was relieved that we wouldn’t have to spend the night in the shady border town on the Tanzanian side.
Driving through the gates we wound down a steep mountain side with pine forests, more resembling Switzerland than central Africa. The trees held a reassuring quiet and an eternal lightness that I wished would not end.
From the fairy tale forest we emerged and quickly parked at the concrete block of a checkpoint. I saw the gateman headed to lower the bar for the night as we walked into the office. In that office Moussa earned every penny we paid him. He sat and softened up the young man behind the desk, sitting there with a sly grin on his face, who knew he had us in a desperate situation. Moussa spoke no less than 3 languages in the twenty minute conversation he had with the border guard, and soon enough he had them all laughing easy.
When it seemed like we were in the clear, and all we had to do was pay, the TIA factor kicked in and our last remaining currency, that old hundred dollar bill, was laughably out of date. Moussa just looked at us. He dropped his hands to his sides and said we came all that way and you don’t even have money? I wanted to yell at him, yell at the border guard ‘of course we have money! You don’t even know why you don’t take ‘old’ bills! You frickin’ idiots!’ But that would have done me no good. After twelve hours in the hot car with little food I decided to keep my mouth shut. Thankfully, JJ found the situation more humorous than I and engaged the border guard enough through Moussa that they allowed us to pass through on the promise that we would find the nearest immigration office and try to work out the details there.
As it turned out the nearest town inland, about 30 kms, had no working ATM. Again, Moussa earned his weight in gold by finding us a room and negotiating with the manager that we could catch a ride into Bujumbura, find an ATM, and pay them the following day. At the guest house I borrowed a guys phone to call my boss in the country to see if he could help us out. I finally reached him after several desperate attempts. I quickly explained that we had no money and asked if he could drive up to get us the following or somehow get us money. Instantly, I heard him start laughing on the other end of the line. And then the phone went dead. Great, I thought.
After an awkward encounter with the town psycho posing as a police officer, trying to get in our room, we inhaled our remaining food, a pineapple, and slept through the night. Waking the next morning we found that no one had come to knock on our door as they said they would and the mini bus arranged for us to take into town had gone. But shortly after leaving the front door of the guest house to try and find another ride the van randomly showed up, unscrewed one of the bench seats inside and loaded our massive luggage on board.
I’m sure our mini bus ride into Bujumbura is on some video game. The speeds we reached going into the steep mountain curves defied physics (did you know that you don’t have to slow down going into curves, you can actually accelerate into them as a way of gaining speed? Fun things you learn in Africa). The minibus creaked and groaned against the centrifugal forces pulling against it, but somehow held together as we weaved around potholes and bikes loaded with goods bound for the market (side note: youtube “Burundi bikers” and you can find an amazing documentary on these guys that go up to 60mph without brakes getting their products to Bujumbura from the mountains).
The bus stopped at a number of police/military check points. Nervously, JJ and I either played ‘dumb tourist’ by giving the officers big smiles and thumbs up or just avoided eye contact all together. Anything to get around the fact that we had nearly made it to the capital city of the country without any visas in our passports. Our silent prayers worked a miracle as we never were asked for any ID or never had our large tempting bags searched.
We rolled out of the mountains and followed the coast into Bujumbura. The driver graciously helped me find a SIM card and dropped us off at a respectable looking hotel. I contacted my boss and shortly thereafter we sat waiting for our colleagues to pick us up.
JJ and I sat at a table in the hotel restaurant tired, wired, and slightly at a loss for words after a solid week of travel to get to Bujumbura. We had endured and survived countless hours on bumpy African busses. We made it with all our luggage, no money, and technically as illegal aliens in Burundi (crossing the border without visas). Along the way we met some strange, curious, and altogether helpful people, without whom, our journey would have taken much longer or had a much less cheery outcome. I will never forget it, and I will never take the convenience of modern transportation for granted again.
And that’s the story about how JJ and I saved Spring Break.
The End. Rakoze chana (thank you very much).
The main struggle with living abroad is in the clash of cultures. The more you are around one the more it seeps into your unconscious mind and all the way down your spine until its in your bones. Your body reacts to it, initially with curious awe. Then upon realizing it’s not stopping, that it wants to get deep inside you, your body fights back. You get angry and upset. You demand your ‘rights’ that are no rights at all, only empty words that get you blank stares. Time is on its side. Your body only fights for so long before it passes your defenses and settles. This, as I see it, is the “travel cycle” (the emotions you go through whilst away from your home environment).
One part that most westerners fight with is the lack of control. We ask; when? How? Why? How much? For how long? Frequently, I find none of those issues resolved. As I sat on the bus I realized a few months ago I would have been put off by the mayhem we had just gone through, but at some point my mind accepted it as inevitable, almost normal (almost), and so I sat back. I let the bus toss me around while my mine wandered. Our helper/guardian angel, Molita, figured out a route for us to take as we hustled our way over to the bus. She wrote it down on a piece of paper, names of cities I’d never heard of, and told us the bus was heading to a city called Mpanda. So Mpanda it was!
I had no idea how long it would take or which stop along the way it was. I figured we would ride it as long as we were headed in the right direction.
About 10 hours later the bus pulled to a stop in a small, dirt station. It was, in fact, not Mpanda but a city called Sumbawanga. And once again we were met by someone who spoke enough English to tell us where we were and how to get to the next place we wanted to go (you’ll notice a pattern). The bus to Mpanda headed out the next morning we were told.
The look of a lost tourist to a taxi driver is like a shark smelling blood in the water. Drivers came up and motioned for our bags. The young man who helped us sorted out the nonsense and connected us with a guy that offered a fair price. Soon enough we communicated via hand motions and broken Swahili we needed a place to stay the night. The driver rattled off names of places to stay and I just said “the first one”. What a great choice!
We spent the night in a Catholic mission. Them Catholics know how to live it up! Well not really but it was very quaint. Well kept, clean rooms. Great food that didn’t give us hepatitis.
We spent the afternoon and the night exploring the town. I do love the east African culture. You can meander down the narrow walks in the colorful markets or just find a shady tree to sit and watch people watch you. And do they watch you! Outsiders rarely make it to such towns as Sumbawanga, little transit towns in between bigger towns with more important things going on. Such places remind me of the town my dad grew up in rural America: Life moves a bit slower and they cater to the needs of the passerby as best they know how. This means lots of small snack stands, lots of bars, street food, and a decent restaurant or two.
The people stare at you with an unabashed interest. They continue to stare at you, unblinking, even as you meet their gaze. It seems you could stare back forever without a word shared. When you walk on the street they look you up and down, not trying to hide it like we do in the West. You see them eye your fancy shoes or any interesting items you might have in your pockets. When their eyes finally rise back up they meet you again with that stare. The African stare I call it.
We indulged in our first beer in months. Taking in the afternoon sun, making casual conversation with the regulars at the small shack we stopped in. We killed time until dusk when we strolled easily back to the mission, helping push start a battered old pick up along the way.
After having nothing but an apple and orange for the previous few days we feasted like kings on the nuns home cooking. They do fried chicken right.
We started out early the next morning for our bus. We decided to stop at the ATM along the way just in case we needed extra cash. Little did we know that it was the last ATM we would access until Bujumbura.
The road to Mapanda wound through the mountains of a national park. Giraffe and elephant stared at the bus rumbling by. Northern Tanzania is gorgeous country, Lion King country, and the trip flew by. It helped me appreciate Tanzania. At the sacrifice of personal comfort we found ourselves swept up in a current of beautiful landscapes and memorable experiences. Not so long after that we rolled into Mapanda.
Mpanda continued the pattern of small transit towns in Tanzania: dusty roads winding between markets, houses, and guest houses. At the center of town a half finished Lutheran Cathedral interrupted the amoebic conglomerate of sagging shack-shops, massed together that was the city skyline.
Another one of our guardian angels met us just as we stepped off the bus; another lone English speaker able to guide us towards a guest house and relay the inevitable news that our travel plans would yet again change drastically. For three days this time. No buses or trains left for at least that long.
We checked into, what I was convinced at the time was, a quasi brothel. Long dark, concrete hall ways led us to our single bed room with a bucket shower that doubled as a toilet. At least the roaches were kind enough to scurry out of sight when we stepped in. The first night we barricaded the door with our luggage against the drunks outside.
The next day we took to the task of finding a way out of town. Walking by the so-African shacks with names like ‘New Jerusalem Big Big Shoe Shine’, ‘G Unit Haircutz’, and ‘Kalifornia’ we asked about trains and buses and anything else we could think of that would get us farther North. Each new possibility led to a dead end, but seek and ye shall find. And find we did.
We were able to connect with a young black market Chinese medicine dealer who spoke excellent English. Dr. Samuel Mpanda I called him, although he was not a doctor. We had heard that the UN made daily trips up to Kigoma, our intended destination, and took passengers for a small transit fee. On our way to the office Samuel intercepted us and struck up a conversation. We spent the day with him and treated him to dinner.
I found that Tanzanians will bend over backwards to help you out. For a fee (it’s a quirky, almost endearing trait, that puts a smile on your face. Then I realized: on the local level this is somewhat cute but on a national level probably rots the country from within with corruption. This further cemented in my head that bad governance is one of the greatest factors hindering development the world round). Working through Samuel and other friends we met on the street we found that the owner of our guest house heard of our plight and offered to take us all the way into Burundi for a fraction of what others offered us.
Thus began our Saga with Moussa. Moussa was the owner of our guest house (which after one day there, I realized it was no brothel and the staff endeared us). Moussa showed up in a small Suzuki SUV with his wife and child along for the ride. Problem: Our bags weighed more than his wife and child combined and took up three times the space. It was then I was reminded of the old joke “how many people can you fit in an African bus? One more!” And so we did. Moussa’s wife and child sat up front in the passenger seat while JJ and I worked our way amongst the bags stacked to the ceiling in the back.
Within two minutes JJ and I were praying as Moussa put the pedal to the floor and tried to make up time for starting out late. The little Suzuki bounced off ruts and bottomed out on rocks. But the car wouldn’t die. No matter how much Moussa pounded that thing and broke every rule in the book on how to drive off road, it would not die or puncture or fade. It was beyond natural—supernatural. No other way to explain how or why that little early 90s 4x4 didn’t leave us on the side of those lonesome roads.
Day turned to night; hills turned to mountains; and Swahili turned to Kirundi as we meandered our way towards the border. We stopped at one point along a ridge line. The air was surprising cool. We looked out over the horizon and the mountains disappeared into mist. Just beyond the haze lay Burundi. Quite a poetic beginning to my time in Burundi, I thought: I couldn’t see what lie ahead, it was a haze, unclear, but I knew that there were mountains to climb.
We pulled up to the border as they were closing the doors. Great we made it! Oh what’s that Moussa? You didn’t tell us you didn’t have a passport? And oh what else are you worried about? That they’ll find your pistol? For real.
Our driver had headed towards the border in full knowledge that he had no passport, and headed into a newly established post conflict zone with a concealed weapon. Somehow we passed through the gates with both issues being resolved. I was relieved that we wouldn’t have to spend the night in the shady border town on the Tanzanian side.
Driving through the gates we wound down a steep mountain side with pine forests, more resembling Switzerland than central Africa. The trees held a reassuring quiet and an eternal lightness that I wished would not end.
From the fairy tale forest we emerged and quickly parked at the concrete block of a checkpoint. I saw the gateman headed to lower the bar for the night as we walked into the office. In that office Moussa earned every penny we paid him. He sat and softened up the young man behind the desk, sitting there with a sly grin on his face, who knew he had us in a desperate situation. Moussa spoke no less than 3 languages in the twenty minute conversation he had with the border guard, and soon enough he had them all laughing easy.
When it seemed like we were in the clear, and all we had to do was pay, the TIA factor kicked in and our last remaining currency, that old hundred dollar bill, was laughably out of date. Moussa just looked at us. He dropped his hands to his sides and said we came all that way and you don’t even have money? I wanted to yell at him, yell at the border guard ‘of course we have money! You don’t even know why you don’t take ‘old’ bills! You frickin’ idiots!’ But that would have done me no good. After twelve hours in the hot car with little food I decided to keep my mouth shut. Thankfully, JJ found the situation more humorous than I and engaged the border guard enough through Moussa that they allowed us to pass through on the promise that we would find the nearest immigration office and try to work out the details there.
As it turned out the nearest town inland, about 30 kms, had no working ATM. Again, Moussa earned his weight in gold by finding us a room and negotiating with the manager that we could catch a ride into Bujumbura, find an ATM, and pay them the following day. At the guest house I borrowed a guys phone to call my boss in the country to see if he could help us out. I finally reached him after several desperate attempts. I quickly explained that we had no money and asked if he could drive up to get us the following or somehow get us money. Instantly, I heard him start laughing on the other end of the line. And then the phone went dead. Great, I thought.
After an awkward encounter with the town psycho posing as a police officer, trying to get in our room, we inhaled our remaining food, a pineapple, and slept through the night. Waking the next morning we found that no one had come to knock on our door as they said they would and the mini bus arranged for us to take into town had gone. But shortly after leaving the front door of the guest house to try and find another ride the van randomly showed up, unscrewed one of the bench seats inside and loaded our massive luggage on board.
I’m sure our mini bus ride into Bujumbura is on some video game. The speeds we reached going into the steep mountain curves defied physics (did you know that you don’t have to slow down going into curves, you can actually accelerate into them as a way of gaining speed? Fun things you learn in Africa). The minibus creaked and groaned against the centrifugal forces pulling against it, but somehow held together as we weaved around potholes and bikes loaded with goods bound for the market (side note: youtube “Burundi bikers” and you can find an amazing documentary on these guys that go up to 60mph without brakes getting their products to Bujumbura from the mountains).
The bus stopped at a number of police/military check points. Nervously, JJ and I either played ‘dumb tourist’ by giving the officers big smiles and thumbs up or just avoided eye contact all together. Anything to get around the fact that we had nearly made it to the capital city of the country without any visas in our passports. Our silent prayers worked a miracle as we never were asked for any ID or never had our large tempting bags searched.
We rolled out of the mountains and followed the coast into Bujumbura. The driver graciously helped me find a SIM card and dropped us off at a respectable looking hotel. I contacted my boss and shortly thereafter we sat waiting for our colleagues to pick us up.
JJ and I sat at a table in the hotel restaurant tired, wired, and slightly at a loss for words after a solid week of travel to get to Bujumbura. We had endured and survived countless hours on bumpy African busses. We made it with all our luggage, no money, and technically as illegal aliens in Burundi (crossing the border without visas). Along the way we met some strange, curious, and altogether helpful people, without whom, our journey would have taken much longer or had a much less cheery outcome. I will never forget it, and I will never take the convenience of modern transportation for granted again.
And that’s the story about how JJ and I saved Spring Break.
The End. Rakoze chana (thank you very much).
Monday, August 17, 2009
Passing New Jerusalem Big Big Shoe Shine, Part 1: Dave and JJ's Excellent Adventure
It has been over a month since my last blog. I apologize for the lack of communication. Life has moved at lightning speed these past few weeks and I am still catching my breath and collecting my thoughts. Each experience could take pages in a book, like spending an afternoon with Robert Mugabe or exploring Chobe National Park in Botswana or our last two weeks of class, saying goodbye to the class, the wild ride up to Burundi, and the radical change of direction in our efforts here in Burundi. I will attempt to do justice to a dynamic four weeks in this short space. You ready?
Uncle Bob
As I ended my last blog we were heading to a festival put on by the local chief of the region, chief Mukuni. By coincidence, chief Mukuni is the one of the most popular and influential chiefs in all of Africa because of his proximity to Victoria Falls. Annually, he hosts a celebration of culture and history. We heard rumors that the presidents of Zambia, Zimbabwe, Tanzania, and the DR Congo were supposed to show up. As it turned out Presidents Mbanda (Zambia) and Robert Mugabe (Zimbabwe) were the guests of honor. It was quite the unique experience.
It was like a county fair in rural America only with more reviled dictators. Thousands of people showed up. Each tribe exhibited their own dancing styles and dresses. We made our way to the main tents and were able to maneuver our way not twenty yards from the podium. The ceremonies started by introducing Chief Mukuni, and gave him no less than six titles along the lines of “ the chiefest of chiefs, his honor, his excellency…”
One thing I’ve noticed is that Africans place such importance on titles and have, what I would describe as, a reverence for authority. It’s almost the opposite of life in the west. Leadership puts a target on your back for criticism in America. We have the right to criticize our leaders but frequently (and this is coming from someone who lived in Madison, WI- the “Berkley” of the Midwest) we overstep the line between constructive and destructive dialogue. Its easy to be the critic, much harder to build up. Africans view of authority is a breath of fresh air, if only for its contrast to America’s. Clearly there is a balance between blindly following and blindly criticizing. Where has the balance gone? I digress.
Mugabe finally rose to speak. Introducing him the speaker called him an African of Africans, a true survivor, and a role model. He spoke slowly and deliberately carefully choosing his words. He is an adept politician. He is viewed favorably by some in Zambia but even through his praise of the people I heard some in the crowd snicker under their breath as he spoke.
So that was my afternoon with one of the world’s most hated leaders. I was amazed at the lack of security, or maybe I shouldn’t have been because this is Africa.
The Last weeks of class and Chobe
We finished up our last weeks of class with a wilderness EMT course and studied basic ‘missionary’ medicine and tropical diseases. It was a world class course and made me want to go to medical school again. We learned how to set broken bones, diagnose the usual worms and parasites encountered in the tropics, and what medicines to prescribe in certain situations. As our instructor told us, medicine isn’t challenging because of the material but because of the volume of material you need to know and the very similar symptoms that present for such a wide range of problems. Nearly every disease has some sort of stomach ache or fever. I have decided that if I am ever back in the States living around mountains I will look into joining a mountain rescue squad or emergency medical team.
One of the last weekends of class we packed up the truck and headed into Botswana to tour around the world famous Chobe National Park. I have been in different game parks in Zambia and Tanzania, but the amount of game that we saw in Chobe was like nothing I have experienced before. Giraffes, zebras, hippos, impalas, kudus, baboons, and elephants were so numerous that after a few hours people got bored of them (not really but you get the point). We camped on the river that separates Chobe from the Caprivi strip in Namibia. Only 50 yards away hundreds of elephants and buffalo grazed. At dusk they all started heading in to the shore and came right around our campsite! We stood watching these huge beasts lumber surprisingly silently past our tents. At one point a mom turned who had her calf, flared her ears and stomped at us. Apparently I was the only one perturbed by this as I attempted to get the rest of our team to back away silently, while most of them kept on watching.
That night I stayed up late around the fire and obsessed over the bright haze of stars. Every now and again an elephant would snap a tree or a buffalo would stomp on the hard dirt. Through my tent window I half expected to see lion walk through our camp site during the night. No such luck.
We passed back into Zambia the following day.
Our team made one last excursion into the bush. This is what you would call our final exam as it was up to us, the students, to coordinate all aspects of travel and ministry. I won’t forget our last time in the bush. We forgot all plates, silverware, and cups and our first aid kit. But relying on our most important strength, we improvised.
At one meeting in the Sumwatachela kingdom we had over 600 people attend, including 80 headmen. I was able to speak to a group of them and enjoyed the experience. I appreciate public speaking, but even more so when I can offer a life changing message.
This trip differed in others because many villagers had come from miles around to spend the weekend for the event. So we camped with the villagers and had a greater opportunity to connect with them over the camp fires at night.
We spent hours dancing around the fire with a group of old women. I had an opportunity to hop in the middle of the circle and participate while they sang a song one of our team members taught them. When all was said and done I grinded with a toothless eighty year old woman. At the end everyone shouted ‘hallelujah!’ Had we done this in a church in America the police would have been called.
A great life lesson I learned here: how to be content in the dirt and in a suit. Paul says he learned the secret to be content in any situation, whether in want or in plenty. More plainly put, contentment is not dictated by your circumstances if it comes from within. Praise the Lord I am picking up on this!
An image I will never forget are the kids that herd the cattle. They can’t be older than seven, not half the height of a cow’s leg, but they run behind the massive animals with sticks and throw stones and screaming at them without fear. They move the cattle as deftly as any adult, only cuter.
Frequently, we ended our days by making the short walk down to the dam near our campsite. Watching the sun burn out below the horizon we discussed the day, discussed where we were headed after AMT, and generally made light of the cultural differences we encountered that day. I really enjoyed the time with guys. It’s the simple things that impact you the most in life.
It was a memorable time as the chief of the region gave us goats for dinner and even stayed to hear us speak, a considerable honor. We were able to fill out a number of village assessment forms and laid the groundwork for future projects to be carried out long term. I was also rather proud that our driver asked me to help him out with the truck maintenance, which amounted to me refilling fluids and making sure the tires were still attached, but still I feel more like a man. At the end of the trip my Leatherman was covered in motor oil and goats blood. I’m almost positive I grew more chest hair.
Au revoir…
As in everything, time slipped by faster than what seemed possible. I remember talking about AMT with my friends in Madison and Chicago like it was some mythical event, not actually going to take place. Then we arrived and settled into the rhythm of class and killing down time with ridiculous banter. As soon as we began to feel numbed by the repetition we had our return tickets in our hands.
I remember distinctly a rush of emotions hitting me the day prior to departure. The sum of leaving good friends, leaving the comfort of familiarity, and heading into the unknown left a solid lump in my throat I managed to choke down. I will miss the community AMT provided, but I am grateful for the new beginnings. I know we were all brought to Zambia for a specific purpose at that specific time in each of our lives, the fruit of which will be born years down the road. Perhaps not to be seen, but positive fruit none the less.
And so began our push for Burundi and a new chapter in my life.
7 days, 4 busses, 1 packed car, and a billion miles of dirt roads
The events on this trip are nearly unbelievable. Nearly. I will begin with a quick outline of our route to give you a perspective: Livingstone, Zambia to Lusaka, Zambia (6 hours); Lusaka, Zambia to Nakonde/Tulunda, Tanzania (15 hours); Tulunda to Sumbawanga, Tanzania (10 hours); Sumbawanga to Mpanda, Tanzania (5 hours); Mpanda to Mabanda, Burundi (12 hours); Mabanda to Bujumbura (3 hours).
Our route followed a red ribbon of dirt road diagonally across Zambia, North through Tanzania along the coast of Lake Tanganyika, and then following the lake in Burundi to Bujumbura.
My friend JJ and I said goodbye to my brother Dan and his wife Rachel in Lusaka. The bus traveled through the night and arrived in Lusaka early in the morning. I was not enthusiastic about waiting around the bus station early in the morning but we managed without much of a hassle from the lurking characters that generally frequent bus stations.
Lusaka was a haven. After months in the bush the modern conveniences of the city took us back. We saw a movie, ate multiple different types of cuisine, sampled coffee and tea, and bought books. A wonderful travel tip: if you are looking for cheap, clean, and inviting places to stay look up churches or missions in African cities. They are usually plentiful and hospitable.
We found “Senor Africa” bus lines when looking for a ride to the border. Imagine if Lil’Wayne and the Wu Tang Clan started a bus company and you can picture the special bunch of individuals that ran Senor Africa. When we pulled up the “manager” greeted our cab with a brandy snifter filled with some sort of piss colored malt liquor and had beads around his neck. I asked him if he was the driver and he told me ‘no way! Drivers aren’t allowed to drink!’ Oh, stupid me for asking! I was impressed at how legible his handwriting was on our ticket and luggage claims despite an inability to form a coherent sentence or stand straight up without wavering back and forth. But it ended up well. The drivers were indeed sober, and I am convinced that African bus drivers are some of the most skilled in the world. We rode on a bus the same size and shape as a greyhound (only with 40 more people than is legally allowed) at fantastic speeds. I’m positive you could find better roads on the cratered surface of the moon but that didn’t slow down our drivers from weaving around semis and other busses. With only one tire blow out we made the drive to Nakonde, on the border of Tanzania and Zambia in 15 hours.
As I’ve mentioned before, bus stations in any part of the world attract colorful characters, most of them just looking for anyway to make/extract cash from you. And also border towns are just magnets for seedier elements of society. Combine them and then add in the Africa factor and you get Nakonde, the border town of Zambia and Tanzania. Nakonde is much how I imagine the outer circles of hell to be like.
I was half dozing and saw out the window as we passed ‘Bureau du Exchange’ after exchange place with little snack huts in between. “Crap”, I thought. As the bus slowed to a stop a crowd of ‘baggage handlers’ (those young go getters who will do anything to carry your bag for a small fortune) ran after the bus.
When it stopped, the crowd encircled the bus, yelling and shoving each other. There was a guy swinging an axe handle to clear a space near the door so passengers could depart. He was also tossing water on the crowd to push them back. It was early in the morning but most in the crowd was already drunk. Not many things make me nervous, but I admit I was feeling uneasy knowing that we had so many heavy bags to look after in the midst of such a volatile atmosphere. When you mix desperate poverty with a chance to make money with alcohol and drugs things get scary quick.
So there we were, getting ready to step off into the middle of the crowd, not knowing where to go or who to talk to about catching another bus, and not speaking the local language. I mentally checked all the places I had money hidden on my body and the amounts. I felt like a martyr in ancient Rome walking into the Coliseum as the crowd screamed and pushed each other. And then our guardian angel stepped on the bus.
Even before we could get out this young woman managed to walk on and sit quietly in front of us. She smiled pleasantly and asked if we needed help. Oh heck yes we needed help! We told her where we needed to go and she said she could help us. She led us off the bus and we waded into the midst of the vultures below. She secured our bags as JJ and I pushed our way through the crowd. I picked up the largest bag I had and five different pairs of hands grabbed onto the handle wanting to help. I said as politely as I could that I did not need help and thanked them. I made a break for an opening to follow this lady and one drunk teenager decided he was going to see the contents of my bag. I ripped it out of his hands as I felt another hand reach into my back pocket for my wallet. I spun around and managed to free the bag and knock away the hand. For a split second I thought I made a mistake and angered the drunk kid too much. Adrenaline coursed through my body as I turned to meet whatever was coming at me, but the crowd just laughed at the spastic white guy in their midst. “Fine, laugh at me” I thought. At least I have my bags and am in one piece.
Our guardian angel, Molita, brought us through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. She yelled at the hordes clawing our bags and guided us to the border to get our visas to enter Tanzania. Another quirk of Africa is that they don’t take US bills older than a certain date, and that date differs wherever you go. And wouldn’t you know it the one $100 bill we had of our own was out of date. Our saving grace came when we realized that a generous friend had slipped us a hundred before we left. It turned out that was the only thing that got us across the border, there being no ATM for fifty miles.
Entering Tanzania, I noticed a distinct shift in culture. East Africa is colorful, it’s dirty, reggae music blares from most small shops that sell Coke. I loved it.
Molita figured out a route for us to take north, up the coast, rather than heading all the way to Dar es Salaam on a bus that was scheduled to leave in five minutes. We exchanged money as we walked to the bus, loaded our luggage on board, and rushed onto a colorful and fully packed bus playing Bob Marley music. We got the last two seats in the back. I collapsed into the seat trying to comprehend all that happened. All told we got off the other bus, crossed the border, and changed money in under a half hour. I mentally prepared myself for another marathon bus ride.
We were tired, dirty, hungry, and not sure where we were going, but we were no our way somewhere, bouncing around on a wooden bench in the back of some bus in the middle of Africa. Little did we know the greatest obstacles remained ahead of us…..
Keep checking in for Part II of this little African adventure!
Uncle Bob
As I ended my last blog we were heading to a festival put on by the local chief of the region, chief Mukuni. By coincidence, chief Mukuni is the one of the most popular and influential chiefs in all of Africa because of his proximity to Victoria Falls. Annually, he hosts a celebration of culture and history. We heard rumors that the presidents of Zambia, Zimbabwe, Tanzania, and the DR Congo were supposed to show up. As it turned out Presidents Mbanda (Zambia) and Robert Mugabe (Zimbabwe) were the guests of honor. It was quite the unique experience.
It was like a county fair in rural America only with more reviled dictators. Thousands of people showed up. Each tribe exhibited their own dancing styles and dresses. We made our way to the main tents and were able to maneuver our way not twenty yards from the podium. The ceremonies started by introducing Chief Mukuni, and gave him no less than six titles along the lines of “ the chiefest of chiefs, his honor, his excellency…”
One thing I’ve noticed is that Africans place such importance on titles and have, what I would describe as, a reverence for authority. It’s almost the opposite of life in the west. Leadership puts a target on your back for criticism in America. We have the right to criticize our leaders but frequently (and this is coming from someone who lived in Madison, WI- the “Berkley” of the Midwest) we overstep the line between constructive and destructive dialogue. Its easy to be the critic, much harder to build up. Africans view of authority is a breath of fresh air, if only for its contrast to America’s. Clearly there is a balance between blindly following and blindly criticizing. Where has the balance gone? I digress.
Mugabe finally rose to speak. Introducing him the speaker called him an African of Africans, a true survivor, and a role model. He spoke slowly and deliberately carefully choosing his words. He is an adept politician. He is viewed favorably by some in Zambia but even through his praise of the people I heard some in the crowd snicker under their breath as he spoke.
So that was my afternoon with one of the world’s most hated leaders. I was amazed at the lack of security, or maybe I shouldn’t have been because this is Africa.
The Last weeks of class and Chobe
We finished up our last weeks of class with a wilderness EMT course and studied basic ‘missionary’ medicine and tropical diseases. It was a world class course and made me want to go to medical school again. We learned how to set broken bones, diagnose the usual worms and parasites encountered in the tropics, and what medicines to prescribe in certain situations. As our instructor told us, medicine isn’t challenging because of the material but because of the volume of material you need to know and the very similar symptoms that present for such a wide range of problems. Nearly every disease has some sort of stomach ache or fever. I have decided that if I am ever back in the States living around mountains I will look into joining a mountain rescue squad or emergency medical team.
One of the last weekends of class we packed up the truck and headed into Botswana to tour around the world famous Chobe National Park. I have been in different game parks in Zambia and Tanzania, but the amount of game that we saw in Chobe was like nothing I have experienced before. Giraffes, zebras, hippos, impalas, kudus, baboons, and elephants were so numerous that after a few hours people got bored of them (not really but you get the point). We camped on the river that separates Chobe from the Caprivi strip in Namibia. Only 50 yards away hundreds of elephants and buffalo grazed. At dusk they all started heading in to the shore and came right around our campsite! We stood watching these huge beasts lumber surprisingly silently past our tents. At one point a mom turned who had her calf, flared her ears and stomped at us. Apparently I was the only one perturbed by this as I attempted to get the rest of our team to back away silently, while most of them kept on watching.
That night I stayed up late around the fire and obsessed over the bright haze of stars. Every now and again an elephant would snap a tree or a buffalo would stomp on the hard dirt. Through my tent window I half expected to see lion walk through our camp site during the night. No such luck.
We passed back into Zambia the following day.
Our team made one last excursion into the bush. This is what you would call our final exam as it was up to us, the students, to coordinate all aspects of travel and ministry. I won’t forget our last time in the bush. We forgot all plates, silverware, and cups and our first aid kit. But relying on our most important strength, we improvised.
At one meeting in the Sumwatachela kingdom we had over 600 people attend, including 80 headmen. I was able to speak to a group of them and enjoyed the experience. I appreciate public speaking, but even more so when I can offer a life changing message.
This trip differed in others because many villagers had come from miles around to spend the weekend for the event. So we camped with the villagers and had a greater opportunity to connect with them over the camp fires at night.
We spent hours dancing around the fire with a group of old women. I had an opportunity to hop in the middle of the circle and participate while they sang a song one of our team members taught them. When all was said and done I grinded with a toothless eighty year old woman. At the end everyone shouted ‘hallelujah!’ Had we done this in a church in America the police would have been called.
A great life lesson I learned here: how to be content in the dirt and in a suit. Paul says he learned the secret to be content in any situation, whether in want or in plenty. More plainly put, contentment is not dictated by your circumstances if it comes from within. Praise the Lord I am picking up on this!
An image I will never forget are the kids that herd the cattle. They can’t be older than seven, not half the height of a cow’s leg, but they run behind the massive animals with sticks and throw stones and screaming at them without fear. They move the cattle as deftly as any adult, only cuter.
Frequently, we ended our days by making the short walk down to the dam near our campsite. Watching the sun burn out below the horizon we discussed the day, discussed where we were headed after AMT, and generally made light of the cultural differences we encountered that day. I really enjoyed the time with guys. It’s the simple things that impact you the most in life.
It was a memorable time as the chief of the region gave us goats for dinner and even stayed to hear us speak, a considerable honor. We were able to fill out a number of village assessment forms and laid the groundwork for future projects to be carried out long term. I was also rather proud that our driver asked me to help him out with the truck maintenance, which amounted to me refilling fluids and making sure the tires were still attached, but still I feel more like a man. At the end of the trip my Leatherman was covered in motor oil and goats blood. I’m almost positive I grew more chest hair.
Au revoir…
As in everything, time slipped by faster than what seemed possible. I remember talking about AMT with my friends in Madison and Chicago like it was some mythical event, not actually going to take place. Then we arrived and settled into the rhythm of class and killing down time with ridiculous banter. As soon as we began to feel numbed by the repetition we had our return tickets in our hands.
I remember distinctly a rush of emotions hitting me the day prior to departure. The sum of leaving good friends, leaving the comfort of familiarity, and heading into the unknown left a solid lump in my throat I managed to choke down. I will miss the community AMT provided, but I am grateful for the new beginnings. I know we were all brought to Zambia for a specific purpose at that specific time in each of our lives, the fruit of which will be born years down the road. Perhaps not to be seen, but positive fruit none the less.
And so began our push for Burundi and a new chapter in my life.
7 days, 4 busses, 1 packed car, and a billion miles of dirt roads
The events on this trip are nearly unbelievable. Nearly. I will begin with a quick outline of our route to give you a perspective: Livingstone, Zambia to Lusaka, Zambia (6 hours); Lusaka, Zambia to Nakonde/Tulunda, Tanzania (15 hours); Tulunda to Sumbawanga, Tanzania (10 hours); Sumbawanga to Mpanda, Tanzania (5 hours); Mpanda to Mabanda, Burundi (12 hours); Mabanda to Bujumbura (3 hours).
Our route followed a red ribbon of dirt road diagonally across Zambia, North through Tanzania along the coast of Lake Tanganyika, and then following the lake in Burundi to Bujumbura.
My friend JJ and I said goodbye to my brother Dan and his wife Rachel in Lusaka. The bus traveled through the night and arrived in Lusaka early in the morning. I was not enthusiastic about waiting around the bus station early in the morning but we managed without much of a hassle from the lurking characters that generally frequent bus stations.
Lusaka was a haven. After months in the bush the modern conveniences of the city took us back. We saw a movie, ate multiple different types of cuisine, sampled coffee and tea, and bought books. A wonderful travel tip: if you are looking for cheap, clean, and inviting places to stay look up churches or missions in African cities. They are usually plentiful and hospitable.
We found “Senor Africa” bus lines when looking for a ride to the border. Imagine if Lil’Wayne and the Wu Tang Clan started a bus company and you can picture the special bunch of individuals that ran Senor Africa. When we pulled up the “manager” greeted our cab with a brandy snifter filled with some sort of piss colored malt liquor and had beads around his neck. I asked him if he was the driver and he told me ‘no way! Drivers aren’t allowed to drink!’ Oh, stupid me for asking! I was impressed at how legible his handwriting was on our ticket and luggage claims despite an inability to form a coherent sentence or stand straight up without wavering back and forth. But it ended up well. The drivers were indeed sober, and I am convinced that African bus drivers are some of the most skilled in the world. We rode on a bus the same size and shape as a greyhound (only with 40 more people than is legally allowed) at fantastic speeds. I’m positive you could find better roads on the cratered surface of the moon but that didn’t slow down our drivers from weaving around semis and other busses. With only one tire blow out we made the drive to Nakonde, on the border of Tanzania and Zambia in 15 hours.
As I’ve mentioned before, bus stations in any part of the world attract colorful characters, most of them just looking for anyway to make/extract cash from you. And also border towns are just magnets for seedier elements of society. Combine them and then add in the Africa factor and you get Nakonde, the border town of Zambia and Tanzania. Nakonde is much how I imagine the outer circles of hell to be like.
I was half dozing and saw out the window as we passed ‘Bureau du Exchange’ after exchange place with little snack huts in between. “Crap”, I thought. As the bus slowed to a stop a crowd of ‘baggage handlers’ (those young go getters who will do anything to carry your bag for a small fortune) ran after the bus.
When it stopped, the crowd encircled the bus, yelling and shoving each other. There was a guy swinging an axe handle to clear a space near the door so passengers could depart. He was also tossing water on the crowd to push them back. It was early in the morning but most in the crowd was already drunk. Not many things make me nervous, but I admit I was feeling uneasy knowing that we had so many heavy bags to look after in the midst of such a volatile atmosphere. When you mix desperate poverty with a chance to make money with alcohol and drugs things get scary quick.
So there we were, getting ready to step off into the middle of the crowd, not knowing where to go or who to talk to about catching another bus, and not speaking the local language. I mentally checked all the places I had money hidden on my body and the amounts. I felt like a martyr in ancient Rome walking into the Coliseum as the crowd screamed and pushed each other. And then our guardian angel stepped on the bus.
Even before we could get out this young woman managed to walk on and sit quietly in front of us. She smiled pleasantly and asked if we needed help. Oh heck yes we needed help! We told her where we needed to go and she said she could help us. She led us off the bus and we waded into the midst of the vultures below. She secured our bags as JJ and I pushed our way through the crowd. I picked up the largest bag I had and five different pairs of hands grabbed onto the handle wanting to help. I said as politely as I could that I did not need help and thanked them. I made a break for an opening to follow this lady and one drunk teenager decided he was going to see the contents of my bag. I ripped it out of his hands as I felt another hand reach into my back pocket for my wallet. I spun around and managed to free the bag and knock away the hand. For a split second I thought I made a mistake and angered the drunk kid too much. Adrenaline coursed through my body as I turned to meet whatever was coming at me, but the crowd just laughed at the spastic white guy in their midst. “Fine, laugh at me” I thought. At least I have my bags and am in one piece.
Our guardian angel, Molita, brought us through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. She yelled at the hordes clawing our bags and guided us to the border to get our visas to enter Tanzania. Another quirk of Africa is that they don’t take US bills older than a certain date, and that date differs wherever you go. And wouldn’t you know it the one $100 bill we had of our own was out of date. Our saving grace came when we realized that a generous friend had slipped us a hundred before we left. It turned out that was the only thing that got us across the border, there being no ATM for fifty miles.
Entering Tanzania, I noticed a distinct shift in culture. East Africa is colorful, it’s dirty, reggae music blares from most small shops that sell Coke. I loved it.
Molita figured out a route for us to take north, up the coast, rather than heading all the way to Dar es Salaam on a bus that was scheduled to leave in five minutes. We exchanged money as we walked to the bus, loaded our luggage on board, and rushed onto a colorful and fully packed bus playing Bob Marley music. We got the last two seats in the back. I collapsed into the seat trying to comprehend all that happened. All told we got off the other bus, crossed the border, and changed money in under a half hour. I mentally prepared myself for another marathon bus ride.
We were tired, dirty, hungry, and not sure where we were going, but we were no our way somewhere, bouncing around on a wooden bench in the back of some bus in the middle of Africa. Little did we know the greatest obstacles remained ahead of us…..
Keep checking in for Part II of this little African adventure!
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Misconceptions About Roosters
Cartoons lie. Remember how in cartoons roosters crow once at dawn ever so quaintly to awake the country side? Turns out real roosters didn’t get that memo. Sleeping in the villages has taught me that roosters crow whenever they feel like, and that is usually around 1 a.m., 1:15 a.m., 2 a.m., 2:02 a.m., 2:30 a.m., and so on until you feel like having an early chicken breakfast.
In short, roosters suck at life.
Another week in the villages. More lessons learned.
This afternoon our class had our ‘final exam’ in 4x4 off road vehicle recovery. We traveled to a dry river bed and purposefully got our 5 ton vehicle stuck in the sand. We dug out the tires, uncovered the differentials, and placed logs under the tires. Eventually, we recovered the vehicle. Off road driving in Africa is less exciting than it sounds. It is all about going slow and taking necessary precautions not to get stuck. Boring on all accounts, but necessary. Is that life in a nutshell? That is a personal question I believe.
On the way back from the river bed I was laying in the back of our open bed truck on a pile of sand. I reclined in the strong African sun and let the wind rush over me as we hit the tar road at high speed. I looked about me, surrounded by people that I have grown to know and love over the last month and a half and I realized I was content. I was completely happy sitting in a pile of dirt on the back of the truck in the middle of Africa. I love traveling on the road. My mind is free to wander and consider the pleasurable aspects of life, and I came to this conclusion: I am blessed to have this opportunity. That pretty much sums it up, just blessed.
My mind wandered back to the previous week we spent in Nyawa kingdom. We returned to the area we were a month ago, but this time Overland Missions put on a leadership conference for the 100 or so village headmen in Nyawa. Never before had such a gathering taken place, and that we were a part of it, in however small a way, was truly a unique opportunity.
We were invited to stay at the Chief’s palace. On first hearing this one might think of the Taj Mahal with servants and wild game roasted over fires at all hours of the day. Now, imagine the small huts in the weeds next to the Taj Mahal and you will have a more accurate picture of our conditions. We literally had to hack our campsite out of the tall grass. The chief’s compound, as all African villages, was a gathering of mud huts, very well kept, and always hospitable.
The conference itself focused on unity among the men and training in leadership principles (some taken from John Maxwell’s 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership). We were tasked with going through a questionnaire relating to living conditions in their village in attempt to gather some basic information for the SAM and LIFE projects (see overland missions website, these are our social programs). Looking into the faces of these headmen, their weathered and lined faces told about ten thousand smoky fires and endless miles of sandy trails in the bush. The look in their eyes told of hard lives lived without complaint. Of all the men I interviewed the top two complaints, far and away, were about lack of clean water and lack of quality education. I’ve read statistics that said 75% of the world’s hospital beds are filled with people in there because of unsanitary water (that statistic assumes complications of malaria and other health risks compounding the negative effect of the dirty water). And studying the bit of international development in undergrad that I did experts say there are a few “silver bullet” type solutions that improve numerous other aspects relating to standard of living. They are childhood education and women’s education. It is interesting to see how accurate the opinions of the authors I’ve read over the years are.
The conference ended well. We worked in the chief’s fields picking maize and played soccer with the village kids. Both of which are great ways to connect with people. Living life with people is the best way to see how they live and connect with them in a real and meaningful way.
Hiking with Judas the Chicken
Who would have guessed that the final exam for our “Come Back Alive” class would actually involve coming back alive? Our instructors gathered us last Friday afternoon and informed us that we were going to spend Friday down in the gorge (next to the Zambezi river) without sleeping bags and only five matches. We had ten minutes to come up with ten items we could bring with us and then ten minutes to put on as much clothing as we could.
Before we could begin our trek down the gorge we were given GPS coordinates to the location of our food. After darting through the trails in the grass we came upon our cache for the night: a bag of rice, a bag of salt, a matchbox with 5 matches in it, and a curious cardboard box with holes punched in it. “It’s a flippin’ cat”, said my friend. And lo and behold we found the 8th member of our group: a live chicken. We debated its fate. Should we make it a leash and run it around to keep our moral up when its super cold at 3 a.m.? What about a name? We decided on two names. I proposed ‘Judas’. My friend Ross wanted ‘Lucky’.
In any event, he died a horrible death because we didn’t have time to sharpen our machete before we went down and more or less scraped its head off against the rocks. He lived a good life that Judas. And he tasted delightful as well.
Cooking over the fire (that took two matches to start. I fumbled the first one) was the highlight for the long and cold night. We had to choose a place for camp, make a useable shelter, start a cooking fire, and boil our own water for drinking. I was able to sleep a few hours before the cold caught up with me. The majority of the night was a waiting game for dawn. We passed the time by building the fire and scaring the bejesus out of ourselves thinking we heard black mambas and baboons just outside our campsite.
Our team made it through the night with relatively positive moral, but most importantly we made it out alive.
Epic Opportunity
So this week the kingdom where our base is located is having a large harvest festival. It is a big deal in this part of Africa. So much so that the presidents of Zambia, Tanzania, and Zimbabwe will attend. It is amazing to think that this little spot in the middle of the bush, in the middle of no where Africa is going to gather such (in)famous figures. I want to get Robert Mugabe, the bat shit crazy president of Zimbabwe, to autograph one of the 50 trillion dollar notes that was once the currency of Zim and now are souvenirs for tourists. Crazy! I will post how that goes. Hopefully there won’t be an international incident when Mugabe finds out that there are Brits and Americans in his near vicinity.
As always, send an update if you have the chance.
In short, roosters suck at life.
Another week in the villages. More lessons learned.
This afternoon our class had our ‘final exam’ in 4x4 off road vehicle recovery. We traveled to a dry river bed and purposefully got our 5 ton vehicle stuck in the sand. We dug out the tires, uncovered the differentials, and placed logs under the tires. Eventually, we recovered the vehicle. Off road driving in Africa is less exciting than it sounds. It is all about going slow and taking necessary precautions not to get stuck. Boring on all accounts, but necessary. Is that life in a nutshell? That is a personal question I believe.
On the way back from the river bed I was laying in the back of our open bed truck on a pile of sand. I reclined in the strong African sun and let the wind rush over me as we hit the tar road at high speed. I looked about me, surrounded by people that I have grown to know and love over the last month and a half and I realized I was content. I was completely happy sitting in a pile of dirt on the back of the truck in the middle of Africa. I love traveling on the road. My mind is free to wander and consider the pleasurable aspects of life, and I came to this conclusion: I am blessed to have this opportunity. That pretty much sums it up, just blessed.
My mind wandered back to the previous week we spent in Nyawa kingdom. We returned to the area we were a month ago, but this time Overland Missions put on a leadership conference for the 100 or so village headmen in Nyawa. Never before had such a gathering taken place, and that we were a part of it, in however small a way, was truly a unique opportunity.
We were invited to stay at the Chief’s palace. On first hearing this one might think of the Taj Mahal with servants and wild game roasted over fires at all hours of the day. Now, imagine the small huts in the weeds next to the Taj Mahal and you will have a more accurate picture of our conditions. We literally had to hack our campsite out of the tall grass. The chief’s compound, as all African villages, was a gathering of mud huts, very well kept, and always hospitable.
The conference itself focused on unity among the men and training in leadership principles (some taken from John Maxwell’s 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership). We were tasked with going through a questionnaire relating to living conditions in their village in attempt to gather some basic information for the SAM and LIFE projects (see overland missions website, these are our social programs). Looking into the faces of these headmen, their weathered and lined faces told about ten thousand smoky fires and endless miles of sandy trails in the bush. The look in their eyes told of hard lives lived without complaint. Of all the men I interviewed the top two complaints, far and away, were about lack of clean water and lack of quality education. I’ve read statistics that said 75% of the world’s hospital beds are filled with people in there because of unsanitary water (that statistic assumes complications of malaria and other health risks compounding the negative effect of the dirty water). And studying the bit of international development in undergrad that I did experts say there are a few “silver bullet” type solutions that improve numerous other aspects relating to standard of living. They are childhood education and women’s education. It is interesting to see how accurate the opinions of the authors I’ve read over the years are.
The conference ended well. We worked in the chief’s fields picking maize and played soccer with the village kids. Both of which are great ways to connect with people. Living life with people is the best way to see how they live and connect with them in a real and meaningful way.
Hiking with Judas the Chicken
Who would have guessed that the final exam for our “Come Back Alive” class would actually involve coming back alive? Our instructors gathered us last Friday afternoon and informed us that we were going to spend Friday down in the gorge (next to the Zambezi river) without sleeping bags and only five matches. We had ten minutes to come up with ten items we could bring with us and then ten minutes to put on as much clothing as we could.
Before we could begin our trek down the gorge we were given GPS coordinates to the location of our food. After darting through the trails in the grass we came upon our cache for the night: a bag of rice, a bag of salt, a matchbox with 5 matches in it, and a curious cardboard box with holes punched in it. “It’s a flippin’ cat”, said my friend. And lo and behold we found the 8th member of our group: a live chicken. We debated its fate. Should we make it a leash and run it around to keep our moral up when its super cold at 3 a.m.? What about a name? We decided on two names. I proposed ‘Judas’. My friend Ross wanted ‘Lucky’.
In any event, he died a horrible death because we didn’t have time to sharpen our machete before we went down and more or less scraped its head off against the rocks. He lived a good life that Judas. And he tasted delightful as well.
Cooking over the fire (that took two matches to start. I fumbled the first one) was the highlight for the long and cold night. We had to choose a place for camp, make a useable shelter, start a cooking fire, and boil our own water for drinking. I was able to sleep a few hours before the cold caught up with me. The majority of the night was a waiting game for dawn. We passed the time by building the fire and scaring the bejesus out of ourselves thinking we heard black mambas and baboons just outside our campsite.
Our team made it through the night with relatively positive moral, but most importantly we made it out alive.
Epic Opportunity
So this week the kingdom where our base is located is having a large harvest festival. It is a big deal in this part of Africa. So much so that the presidents of Zambia, Tanzania, and Zimbabwe will attend. It is amazing to think that this little spot in the middle of the bush, in the middle of no where Africa is going to gather such (in)famous figures. I want to get Robert Mugabe, the bat shit crazy president of Zimbabwe, to autograph one of the 50 trillion dollar notes that was once the currency of Zim and now are souvenirs for tourists. Crazy! I will post how that goes. Hopefully there won’t be an international incident when Mugabe finds out that there are Brits and Americans in his near vicinity.
As always, send an update if you have the chance.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
African Utility
In our last week of classes we reviewed African culture as a whole and the Tonga culture specifically. Nearly all aspects of African culture revolve around survival. Technology bridges the gap between survival and convenience in developed nations, eliminating the fixation on such basic needs. Here in Africa anything that is not fitting for some purpose is quickly fazed out. An illustration of this is in the bodies of the Zambians I’ve seen. They are cut and muscular but not bulky and have no excess fat. Villagers walk kilometers every day just to do more manual labor in their fields. The large muscles found in our workout crazy culture could not find the calories needed to be sustained in the villages. I once read a book about the US Marine Corps and the author said that Marines aren’t tough, they’re ‘hard’. I finally understand what he means. Tough means you can withstand discomfort for a certain period of time. Hard means that prolonged exposure to such harsh conditions makes your body and mind accept them as normal and they adapt accordingly. Many of our team members are these big guys but a wiry Zambian woman could carry a load of water or maize farther than all of us without complaining. It makes them able to withstand living apart from conveniences we deem necessary. My uncle once told me that the human race has starved its way into existence, and that is more or less the case I’ve seen in the villages. This knack for survival, for utility, is seen in many aspects of the culture.
A large part of this is the concept of power. Power is important above all else. Without power you are nothing, say our Zambian friends. Power is good, which leads to survival. Whatever means one takes to obtain power is more or less overlooked. At the risk of making a gross generalization about the continent, this is true in the political history of most African countries since the era of independence.
This pursuit of power and survival is reflected not just in the political history but in the spiritual climate as well. Everything in life is connected to the spiritual fabric that is unseen. When someone dies or gets sick or an object breaks the questions isn’t ‘how did it break?’ but ‘who did this? And why?’ Witch doctors aren’t just things from folk lore, they exist. In fact they are a registered part of the Zambian government. Witch craft is a common practice in the village. The predominant spiritual climate is one of fear: if you don’t appease the ancestors or if you fall on the bad side of a witch doctor bad things will happen to you. Rituals and legalism structures daily life. Control, and therefore power, is obtained through fear. Power comes when a person knows how to manipulate the spiritual powers around them. Again, these concepts are foreign to those of us who grew up in the West but they are everything in much of the developing world. They are definitely foreign to me, but the more time I spend here and as I begin to see the world in this spiritual context the more that the actions of Zambians and greater Africa make sense to me.
Early Observations and Unfinished Thoughts
Most of us in the West think we can come in and make a difference in the developing world, but the majority of people take little time to understand the local culture; how you’re message, whatever that may be, is internalized by the receiving culture depends entirely on their world view, not on the world view we want them to have or think they should have. Does that make sense?
The history of the West and the developing world is one of miscommunication. NGOs, governments, and missionaries have stumbled about Africa for a significant amount of time at this point in history and the fruits of their actions are telling. Just look at a news paper or take a two week trip to any country on the African continent. And I am not saying the end goal of every country should be to be as rich as the U.S., the earth couldn’t sustain it (nor am I saying that we are the saviors riding in on a white horse, Africa’s problems are going to be solved by Africans). I’m talking about attaining a certain level of sustainable independence; in governance; in health care, in education, as well as economic prosperity. Why have we messed up for so long?
Well, much brighter minds than mine have pondered that question for years and no clear answer has emerged. As stated, I think the underlying problem has been one of miscommunication. Plans are made oceans apart from realities on the ground by people who have never lived the experience they are trying to solve. This is compounded by the ineffectiveness in which the well intentioned plan or message is communicated to the recipient culture. Words and phrases mean drastically different things when translated into another language. I am no expert, and I mean that with all sincerity, but the underlying motivations and cultural paradigms for why people act the way they do need to be measured up against the potential plan and evaluated. Is this actually going to work? Do the people need this? Do they want it? I digress.
And with that said, there are many people and organizations who have gotten it right over the years and have made a positive difference in the world around them.
Less Serious Things
We started our diesel mechanics course this week and I flippin’ love it. I never really had an outlet to learn about such things while growing up but I am taking advantage of it while I can. Coming here I really only knew how to change a tire and check the oil on a car. Now I am learning the basic workings of an engine and how to trouble shoot when something goes wrong. In the past I would have used the terms “crank shaft” and “overhead cam” in some sort of crude joke. Now I can use them semi-intelligently. You learn the most just messing around and asking questions. People here on the base are more than happy to help you learn which has been a real blessing.
Also, our PT sessions in the morning have been great. One day we learned how to play rugby from Mark who played semi-pro in England. Another day we wrestled and were taught by Derek who had an open door to wrestle at Purdue. Needless to say he wasted all of us. It was great!
We took a short trip to Victoria Falls. I have seen the falls four times now and this was the most impressive. The water was the highest its been in twenty years. The spray from the falls is like being under a high volume shower head. You literally can’t see 10 feet in front of you because the water pouring over you is so dense. We hiked across this narrow foot bridge and noticed that it was covered in a thin layer of algae. So we turned it into a massive slip and slide. We were running and sliding along the bridge, suspended over one of the seven wonders of the world. Of course the loud and boisterous Americans drew a crowd. And of course everyone else wanted to do it. It was sweet until we wore away the layer of algae and were sliding on straight metal. By the grace of God I still have nipples.
One of the more impressive experiences of my life came last September when I visited the falls in dry season. At that point there is little to no water flowing over the falls and you can hike your way across the rocks, just at the point where the water goes over the edge. The rocks form natural pools of water and we jumped in one that still have a mini water fall feeding the pool but did not reach over the walls of the rocks to go over the edge. So there we were, just climbing and swimming around the rocks and then peaking over the side and looking down the 400ft. drop. Unreal.
This next week we are finishing up our diesel mechanics course and starting our welding course. Also something that will be highly useful in Africa and fun to learn.
My current life goals: learn French, learn to ride a dirt bike (and possibly buy one for Burundi).
Send me your love!
A large part of this is the concept of power. Power is important above all else. Without power you are nothing, say our Zambian friends. Power is good, which leads to survival. Whatever means one takes to obtain power is more or less overlooked. At the risk of making a gross generalization about the continent, this is true in the political history of most African countries since the era of independence.
This pursuit of power and survival is reflected not just in the political history but in the spiritual climate as well. Everything in life is connected to the spiritual fabric that is unseen. When someone dies or gets sick or an object breaks the questions isn’t ‘how did it break?’ but ‘who did this? And why?’ Witch doctors aren’t just things from folk lore, they exist. In fact they are a registered part of the Zambian government. Witch craft is a common practice in the village. The predominant spiritual climate is one of fear: if you don’t appease the ancestors or if you fall on the bad side of a witch doctor bad things will happen to you. Rituals and legalism structures daily life. Control, and therefore power, is obtained through fear. Power comes when a person knows how to manipulate the spiritual powers around them. Again, these concepts are foreign to those of us who grew up in the West but they are everything in much of the developing world. They are definitely foreign to me, but the more time I spend here and as I begin to see the world in this spiritual context the more that the actions of Zambians and greater Africa make sense to me.
Early Observations and Unfinished Thoughts
Most of us in the West think we can come in and make a difference in the developing world, but the majority of people take little time to understand the local culture; how you’re message, whatever that may be, is internalized by the receiving culture depends entirely on their world view, not on the world view we want them to have or think they should have. Does that make sense?
The history of the West and the developing world is one of miscommunication. NGOs, governments, and missionaries have stumbled about Africa for a significant amount of time at this point in history and the fruits of their actions are telling. Just look at a news paper or take a two week trip to any country on the African continent. And I am not saying the end goal of every country should be to be as rich as the U.S., the earth couldn’t sustain it (nor am I saying that we are the saviors riding in on a white horse, Africa’s problems are going to be solved by Africans). I’m talking about attaining a certain level of sustainable independence; in governance; in health care, in education, as well as economic prosperity. Why have we messed up for so long?
Well, much brighter minds than mine have pondered that question for years and no clear answer has emerged. As stated, I think the underlying problem has been one of miscommunication. Plans are made oceans apart from realities on the ground by people who have never lived the experience they are trying to solve. This is compounded by the ineffectiveness in which the well intentioned plan or message is communicated to the recipient culture. Words and phrases mean drastically different things when translated into another language. I am no expert, and I mean that with all sincerity, but the underlying motivations and cultural paradigms for why people act the way they do need to be measured up against the potential plan and evaluated. Is this actually going to work? Do the people need this? Do they want it? I digress.
And with that said, there are many people and organizations who have gotten it right over the years and have made a positive difference in the world around them.
Less Serious Things
We started our diesel mechanics course this week and I flippin’ love it. I never really had an outlet to learn about such things while growing up but I am taking advantage of it while I can. Coming here I really only knew how to change a tire and check the oil on a car. Now I am learning the basic workings of an engine and how to trouble shoot when something goes wrong. In the past I would have used the terms “crank shaft” and “overhead cam” in some sort of crude joke. Now I can use them semi-intelligently. You learn the most just messing around and asking questions. People here on the base are more than happy to help you learn which has been a real blessing.
Also, our PT sessions in the morning have been great. One day we learned how to play rugby from Mark who played semi-pro in England. Another day we wrestled and were taught by Derek who had an open door to wrestle at Purdue. Needless to say he wasted all of us. It was great!
We took a short trip to Victoria Falls. I have seen the falls four times now and this was the most impressive. The water was the highest its been in twenty years. The spray from the falls is like being under a high volume shower head. You literally can’t see 10 feet in front of you because the water pouring over you is so dense. We hiked across this narrow foot bridge and noticed that it was covered in a thin layer of algae. So we turned it into a massive slip and slide. We were running and sliding along the bridge, suspended over one of the seven wonders of the world. Of course the loud and boisterous Americans drew a crowd. And of course everyone else wanted to do it. It was sweet until we wore away the layer of algae and were sliding on straight metal. By the grace of God I still have nipples.
One of the more impressive experiences of my life came last September when I visited the falls in dry season. At that point there is little to no water flowing over the falls and you can hike your way across the rocks, just at the point where the water goes over the edge. The rocks form natural pools of water and we jumped in one that still have a mini water fall feeding the pool but did not reach over the walls of the rocks to go over the edge. So there we were, just climbing and swimming around the rocks and then peaking over the side and looking down the 400ft. drop. Unreal.
This next week we are finishing up our diesel mechanics course and starting our welding course. Also something that will be highly useful in Africa and fun to learn.
My current life goals: learn French, learn to ride a dirt bike (and possibly buy one for Burundi).
Send me your love!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Smoke that Thunders
Word for word, the name for Victoria Falls in Tonga is ‘Smoke that Thunders’. During the wet season you can see the mist from the falls shoot into the air for miles around. The famous missionary and explorer David Livingstone (also one of my heros) discovered the falls by navigating a canoe towards the large rumbling sound that grew and grew. He landed on an island right above the falls, now named after him, and was the first European to see what is now one of the seven wonders of the natural world. This is where we call home. Our base is 8km down the Zambezi river from the falls. The sound of the river and distant rush of the falls hums quietly in the background.
Dirty Feet
We spent the last six days working with and living amongst the people of the Nyawa kingdom in Siachombo village. We pitched and yawed in the back of the large 4x4 for 6 hours into the bush. The women of the village greeted us with songs as we pulled in. This was the first time many of them had received any attention from the outside world and many of the children had never seen white people before and went running away screaming when we approached them.
Our efforts in Siachombo were meant to supplement the long term presence Overland Missions has in the Nyawa kingdom. An American couple, Jake and Jesse, have committed five years to start sustainable development projects and help train local pastors in Nyawa. One of the more interesting parts of the week for me was seeing how a Mukua, a white person such as myself, goes about establishing a positive presence in Africa. I am fortunate that I can spend three months learning from people with years of experience. Upon first observation: nothing is done without the consent of the village headman, rank and age frame all social interaction; never make a promise you can’t keep; everything starts with relationship, not need based but genuine relationship; of all the people I asked the two most important things they need are fertilizer and education.
Most people are genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say because they have never received positive attention from outside their village before. Many times the only attention they receive from outsiders is for some business venture that does not have their best interest in mind. So when we told them we were there to help them out for no cost they responded with unimaginable gratitude.
It is harvest season and we accompanied the villagers into their maize and ground nut fields. Nearly all the farms, even commercial farms, harvest corn by hand. There are some bigger farms that use machinery but more often than not villagers will harvest some of their maize for consumption and some for sale. Depending on the size of the field a farmer can live quite well. But the size of your field depends on where you rank in the village hierarchy, at least that is what I observed.
We were shepherded around by the deputy village headman who wore a neon green shirt that read “No money, No honey”. Amen brother. Myself and four others walked with a farmer named Richard to his field. As we walked the few kilometers to the field I heard a rattling sound. I looked up and a woman with a child on her back yelled “No brakes!” and swerved by us on one of the wrought iron, single gear bikes that are so common in Africa. Richard showed us an open wound on the bottom of his feet that hindered him from working in the fields. Even though we were not as fast as experienced farmers we still helped him out quite a bit harvesting the maize. His injured foot did not stop him from joining in as we taught the villagers how to toss a Frisbee and American Football.
Richard took us back to his house and we sat under a tree and exchanged questions about life in Zambia and in America. Later on in the day he pulled me aside and showed me where he grew his marijuana patch. I politely declined, but realized the reason he had done so: I was wearing a floppy, full brimmed, tan hat and aviator sunglasses, and upon my own admition, I bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Hunter S. Thomson in ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’. Nice try Richard! He must be a huge Johnny Depp fan.
Our days were spent helping farmers in the morning and then having meetings or soccer games in the afternoon. The villagers are incredible soccer players. I played around with some of the younger kids and saw that they learn how to dribble with string balls that refine their foot skills acutely. Surprisingly, we held our own considering half our team never played soccer before. Our rag tag bunch of well fed former American football players, former rugby players, and former high school all star soccer players lumbered around the field. Occasionally a sinewy Zambian villager would go flying after a collision. We played two games and lost both 1-0. I consider my soccer skills one of the most valuable things that I learned in the States. You instantly have friends of any age if you start kicking around a ball. Of course everyone wants to see what the curious white man is made of, but they are quick to smile back if you smile at them and “You like Manchester United?”, “Christiano Ronaldo? Messi?” cross all language barriers.
Plus we got to slaughter six chickens and a goat before we ate them! Villagers have goat maybe once a year. We had two and a half during the course of the week and the headman tried to hand us a live one as we drove off. This just goes to show how insanely generous the villagers are.
Laying hands on the sick and casting out demons: crazy spiritual stuff most Westerners won’t believe.
The main reason Overland Missions operates in such remote locations is because we believe that Jesus Christ is the answer to the questions of life; why? For what purpose? I believe there is a spiritual realm and it manifests itself much more visibly in the developing world than in the first world. In the villages, churches exist but most of the time knowledge of the word of God is minimal and convoluted with false teachings. This past week was the first time that I prayed for a person to be released from demonic oppression. It was the first time I saw with my own eyes human bodies convulsing violently, heard with my own ears deep guttural languages not native to Africa come from the mouths of people claiming to have a demon inside of them. It breaks my heart. Even more than the physical poverty that exists is the oppression that dwells inside some of the people. I sat next to a woman on the ground. She had a look of sadness I cannot begin to describe. I placed my hand on her shoulder and began to ask God that he would release her, truly free her into His grace and love and peace. As she started to shake and scream and the people around us got into a frenzy I just whispered in her ear that Jesus has such love for her. That God gives peace beyond comprehension. One thing I learned that God’s voice does not scream. He is gentle and loving, he draws you near as your heart breaks inside of you; breaks the pretense that He is some distant force relegated to the pulpit or a mystery locked away in some thick book. No, He is a relationship that will never fail you. A voice that quiets all others that preach inadequacy or legalism or anxiety. I have met people here that know about God. That know they have nothing of their own merit to offer and give themselves totally to the Way Jesus preached, and they are the richest people I have ever met. In the midst of their physical lack they have a smile that will never dim. That is worth more than any pay check can deliver: Blessed are those who are poor in Spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of God (Matthew 5).
Dirty Feet
We spent the last six days working with and living amongst the people of the Nyawa kingdom in Siachombo village. We pitched and yawed in the back of the large 4x4 for 6 hours into the bush. The women of the village greeted us with songs as we pulled in. This was the first time many of them had received any attention from the outside world and many of the children had never seen white people before and went running away screaming when we approached them.
Our efforts in Siachombo were meant to supplement the long term presence Overland Missions has in the Nyawa kingdom. An American couple, Jake and Jesse, have committed five years to start sustainable development projects and help train local pastors in Nyawa. One of the more interesting parts of the week for me was seeing how a Mukua, a white person such as myself, goes about establishing a positive presence in Africa. I am fortunate that I can spend three months learning from people with years of experience. Upon first observation: nothing is done without the consent of the village headman, rank and age frame all social interaction; never make a promise you can’t keep; everything starts with relationship, not need based but genuine relationship; of all the people I asked the two most important things they need are fertilizer and education.
Most people are genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say because they have never received positive attention from outside their village before. Many times the only attention they receive from outsiders is for some business venture that does not have their best interest in mind. So when we told them we were there to help them out for no cost they responded with unimaginable gratitude.
It is harvest season and we accompanied the villagers into their maize and ground nut fields. Nearly all the farms, even commercial farms, harvest corn by hand. There are some bigger farms that use machinery but more often than not villagers will harvest some of their maize for consumption and some for sale. Depending on the size of the field a farmer can live quite well. But the size of your field depends on where you rank in the village hierarchy, at least that is what I observed.
We were shepherded around by the deputy village headman who wore a neon green shirt that read “No money, No honey”. Amen brother. Myself and four others walked with a farmer named Richard to his field. As we walked the few kilometers to the field I heard a rattling sound. I looked up and a woman with a child on her back yelled “No brakes!” and swerved by us on one of the wrought iron, single gear bikes that are so common in Africa. Richard showed us an open wound on the bottom of his feet that hindered him from working in the fields. Even though we were not as fast as experienced farmers we still helped him out quite a bit harvesting the maize. His injured foot did not stop him from joining in as we taught the villagers how to toss a Frisbee and American Football.
Richard took us back to his house and we sat under a tree and exchanged questions about life in Zambia and in America. Later on in the day he pulled me aside and showed me where he grew his marijuana patch. I politely declined, but realized the reason he had done so: I was wearing a floppy, full brimmed, tan hat and aviator sunglasses, and upon my own admition, I bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Hunter S. Thomson in ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’. Nice try Richard! He must be a huge Johnny Depp fan.
Our days were spent helping farmers in the morning and then having meetings or soccer games in the afternoon. The villagers are incredible soccer players. I played around with some of the younger kids and saw that they learn how to dribble with string balls that refine their foot skills acutely. Surprisingly, we held our own considering half our team never played soccer before. Our rag tag bunch of well fed former American football players, former rugby players, and former high school all star soccer players lumbered around the field. Occasionally a sinewy Zambian villager would go flying after a collision. We played two games and lost both 1-0. I consider my soccer skills one of the most valuable things that I learned in the States. You instantly have friends of any age if you start kicking around a ball. Of course everyone wants to see what the curious white man is made of, but they are quick to smile back if you smile at them and “You like Manchester United?”, “Christiano Ronaldo? Messi?” cross all language barriers.
Plus we got to slaughter six chickens and a goat before we ate them! Villagers have goat maybe once a year. We had two and a half during the course of the week and the headman tried to hand us a live one as we drove off. This just goes to show how insanely generous the villagers are.
Laying hands on the sick and casting out demons: crazy spiritual stuff most Westerners won’t believe.
The main reason Overland Missions operates in such remote locations is because we believe that Jesus Christ is the answer to the questions of life; why? For what purpose? I believe there is a spiritual realm and it manifests itself much more visibly in the developing world than in the first world. In the villages, churches exist but most of the time knowledge of the word of God is minimal and convoluted with false teachings. This past week was the first time that I prayed for a person to be released from demonic oppression. It was the first time I saw with my own eyes human bodies convulsing violently, heard with my own ears deep guttural languages not native to Africa come from the mouths of people claiming to have a demon inside of them. It breaks my heart. Even more than the physical poverty that exists is the oppression that dwells inside some of the people. I sat next to a woman on the ground. She had a look of sadness I cannot begin to describe. I placed my hand on her shoulder and began to ask God that he would release her, truly free her into His grace and love and peace. As she started to shake and scream and the people around us got into a frenzy I just whispered in her ear that Jesus has such love for her. That God gives peace beyond comprehension. One thing I learned that God’s voice does not scream. He is gentle and loving, he draws you near as your heart breaks inside of you; breaks the pretense that He is some distant force relegated to the pulpit or a mystery locked away in some thick book. No, He is a relationship that will never fail you. A voice that quiets all others that preach inadequacy or legalism or anxiety. I have met people here that know about God. That know they have nothing of their own merit to offer and give themselves totally to the Way Jesus preached, and they are the richest people I have ever met. In the midst of their physical lack they have a smile that will never dim. That is worth more than any pay check can deliver: Blessed are those who are poor in Spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of God (Matthew 5).
Smoke that Thunders
Word for word, the name for Victoria Falls in Tonga is ‘Smoke that Thunders’. During the wet season you can see the mist from the falls shoot into the air for miles around. The famous missionary and explorer David Livingstone (also one of my heros) discovered the falls by navigating a canoe towards the large rumbling sound that grew and grew. He landed on an island right above the falls, now named after him, and was the first European to see what is now one of the seven wonders of the natural world. This is where we call home. Our base is 8km down the Zambezi river from the falls. The sound of the river and distant rush of the falls hums quietly in the background.
Dirty Feet
We spent the last six days working with and living amongst the people of the Nyawa kingdom in Siachombo village. We pitched and yawed in the back of the large 4x4 for 6 hours into the bush. The women of the village greeted us with songs as we pulled in. This was the first time many of them had received any attention from the outside world and many of the children had never seen white people before and went running away screaming when we approached them.
Our efforts in Siachombo were meant to supplement the long term presence Overland Missions has in the Nyawa kingdom. An American couple, Jake and Jesse, have committed five years to start sustainable development projects and help train local pastors in Nyawa. One of the more interesting parts of the week for me was seeing how a Mukua, a white person such as myself, goes about establishing a positive presence in Africa. I am fortunate that I can spend three months learning from people with years of experience. Upon first observation: nothing is done without the consent of the village headman, rank and age frame all social interaction; never make a promise you can’t keep; everything starts with relationship, not need based but genuine relationship; of all the people I asked the two most important things they need are fertilizer and education.
Most people are genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say because they have never received positive attention from outside their village before. Many times the only attention they receive from outsiders is for some business venture that does not have their best interest in mind. So when we told them we were there to help them out for no cost they responded with unimaginable gratitude.
It is harvest season and we accompanied the villagers into their maize and ground nut fields. Nearly all the farms, even commercial farms, harvest corn by hand. There are some bigger farms that use machinery but more often than not villagers will harvest some of their maize for consumption and some for sale. Depending on the size of the field a farmer can live quite well. But the size of your field depends on where you rank in the village hierarchy, at least that is what I observed.
We were shepherded around by the deputy village headman who wore a neon green shirt that read “No money, No honey”. Amen brother. Myself and four others walked with a farmer named Richard to his field. As we walked the few kilometers to the field I heard a rattling sound. I looked up and a woman with a child on her back yelled “No brakes!” and swerved by us on one of the wrought iron, single gear bikes that are so common in Africa. Richard showed us an open wound on the bottom of his feet that hindered him from working in the fields. Even though we were not as fast as experienced farmers we still helped him out quite a bit harvesting the maize. His injured foot did not stop him from joining in as we taught the villagers how to toss a Frisbee and American Football.
Richard took us back to his house and we sat under a tree and exchanged questions about life in Zambia and in America. Later on in the day he pulled me aside and showed me where he grew his marijuana patch. I politely declined, but realized the reason he had done so: I was wearing a floppy, full brimmed, tan hat and aviator sunglasses, and upon my own admition, I bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Hunter S. Thomson in ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’. Nice try Richard! He must be a huge Johnny Depp fan.
Our days were spent helping farmers in the morning and then having meetings or soccer games in the afternoon. The villagers are incredible soccer players. I played around with some of the younger kids and saw that they learn how to dribble with string balls that refine their foot skills acutely. Surprisingly, we held our own considering half our team never played soccer before. Our rag tag bunch of well fed former American football players, former rugby players, and former high school all star soccer players lumbered around the field. Occasionally a sinewy Zambian villager would go flying after a collision. We played two games and lost both 1-0. I consider my soccer skills one of the most valuable things that I learned in the States. You instantly have friends of any age if you start kicking around a ball. Of course everyone wants to see what the curious white man is made of, but they are quick to smile back if you smile at them and “You like Manchester United?”, “Christiano Ronaldo? Messi?” cross all language barriers.
Plus we got to slaughter six chickens and a goat before we ate them! Villagers have goat maybe once a year. We had two and a half during the course of the week and the headman tried to hand us a live one as we drove off. This just goes to show how insanely generous the villagers are.
Laying hands on the sick and casting out demons: crazy spiritual stuff most Westerners won’t believe.
The main reason Overland Missions operates in such remote locations is because we believe that Jesus Christ is the answer to the questions of life; why? For what purpose? I believe there is a spiritual realm and it manifests itself much more visibly in the developing world than in the first world. In the villages, churches exist but most of the time knowledge of the word of God is minimal and convoluted with false teachings. This past week was the first time that I prayed for a person to be released from demonic oppression. It was the first time I saw with my own eyes human bodies convulsing violently, heard with my own ears deep guttural languages not native to Africa come from the mouths of people claiming to have a demon inside of them. It breaks my heart. Even more than the physical poverty that exists is the oppression that dwells inside some of the people. I sat next to a woman on the ground. She had a look of sadness I cannot begin to describe. I placed my hand on her shoulder and began to ask God that he would release her, truly free her into His grace and love and peace. As she started to shake and scream and the people around us got into a frenzy I just whispered in her ear that Jesus has such love for her. That God gives peace beyond comprehension. One thing I learned that God’s voice does not scream. He is gentle and loving, he draws you near as your heart breaks inside of you; breaks the pretense that He is some distant force relegated to the pulpit or a mystery locked away in some thick book. No, He is a relationship that will never fail you. A voice that quiets all others that preach inadequacy or legalism or anxiety. I have met people here that know about God. That know they have nothing of their own merit to offer and give themselves totally to the Way Jesus preached, and they are the richest people I have ever met. In the midst of their physical lack they have a smile that will never dim. That is worth more than any pay check can deliver: Blessed are those who are poor in Spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of God (Matthew 5).
Dirty Feet
We spent the last six days working with and living amongst the people of the Nyawa kingdom in Siachombo village. We pitched and yawed in the back of the large 4x4 for 6 hours into the bush. The women of the village greeted us with songs as we pulled in. This was the first time many of them had received any attention from the outside world and many of the children had never seen white people before and went running away screaming when we approached them.
Our efforts in Siachombo were meant to supplement the long term presence Overland Missions has in the Nyawa kingdom. An American couple, Jake and Jesse, have committed five years to start sustainable development projects and help train local pastors in Nyawa. One of the more interesting parts of the week for me was seeing how a Mukua, a white person such as myself, goes about establishing a positive presence in Africa. I am fortunate that I can spend three months learning from people with years of experience. Upon first observation: nothing is done without the consent of the village headman, rank and age frame all social interaction; never make a promise you can’t keep; everything starts with relationship, not need based but genuine relationship; of all the people I asked the two most important things they need are fertilizer and education.
Most people are genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say because they have never received positive attention from outside their village before. Many times the only attention they receive from outsiders is for some business venture that does not have their best interest in mind. So when we told them we were there to help them out for no cost they responded with unimaginable gratitude.
It is harvest season and we accompanied the villagers into their maize and ground nut fields. Nearly all the farms, even commercial farms, harvest corn by hand. There are some bigger farms that use machinery but more often than not villagers will harvest some of their maize for consumption and some for sale. Depending on the size of the field a farmer can live quite well. But the size of your field depends on where you rank in the village hierarchy, at least that is what I observed.
We were shepherded around by the deputy village headman who wore a neon green shirt that read “No money, No honey”. Amen brother. Myself and four others walked with a farmer named Richard to his field. As we walked the few kilometers to the field I heard a rattling sound. I looked up and a woman with a child on her back yelled “No brakes!” and swerved by us on one of the wrought iron, single gear bikes that are so common in Africa. Richard showed us an open wound on the bottom of his feet that hindered him from working in the fields. Even though we were not as fast as experienced farmers we still helped him out quite a bit harvesting the maize. His injured foot did not stop him from joining in as we taught the villagers how to toss a Frisbee and American Football.
Richard took us back to his house and we sat under a tree and exchanged questions about life in Zambia and in America. Later on in the day he pulled me aside and showed me where he grew his marijuana patch. I politely declined, but realized the reason he had done so: I was wearing a floppy, full brimmed, tan hat and aviator sunglasses, and upon my own admition, I bore a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp’s portrayal of Hunter S. Thomson in ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’. Nice try Richard! He must be a huge Johnny Depp fan.
Our days were spent helping farmers in the morning and then having meetings or soccer games in the afternoon. The villagers are incredible soccer players. I played around with some of the younger kids and saw that they learn how to dribble with string balls that refine their foot skills acutely. Surprisingly, we held our own considering half our team never played soccer before. Our rag tag bunch of well fed former American football players, former rugby players, and former high school all star soccer players lumbered around the field. Occasionally a sinewy Zambian villager would go flying after a collision. We played two games and lost both 1-0. I consider my soccer skills one of the most valuable things that I learned in the States. You instantly have friends of any age if you start kicking around a ball. Of course everyone wants to see what the curious white man is made of, but they are quick to smile back if you smile at them and “You like Manchester United?”, “Christiano Ronaldo? Messi?” cross all language barriers.
Plus we got to slaughter six chickens and a goat before we ate them! Villagers have goat maybe once a year. We had two and a half during the course of the week and the headman tried to hand us a live one as we drove off. This just goes to show how insanely generous the villagers are.
Laying hands on the sick and casting out demons: crazy spiritual stuff most Westerners won’t believe.
The main reason Overland Missions operates in such remote locations is because we believe that Jesus Christ is the answer to the questions of life; why? For what purpose? I believe there is a spiritual realm and it manifests itself much more visibly in the developing world than in the first world. In the villages, churches exist but most of the time knowledge of the word of God is minimal and convoluted with false teachings. This past week was the first time that I prayed for a person to be released from demonic oppression. It was the first time I saw with my own eyes human bodies convulsing violently, heard with my own ears deep guttural languages not native to Africa come from the mouths of people claiming to have a demon inside of them. It breaks my heart. Even more than the physical poverty that exists is the oppression that dwells inside some of the people. I sat next to a woman on the ground. She had a look of sadness I cannot begin to describe. I placed my hand on her shoulder and began to ask God that he would release her, truly free her into His grace and love and peace. As she started to shake and scream and the people around us got into a frenzy I just whispered in her ear that Jesus has such love for her. That God gives peace beyond comprehension. One thing I learned that God’s voice does not scream. He is gentle and loving, he draws you near as your heart breaks inside of you; breaks the pretense that He is some distant force relegated to the pulpit or a mystery locked away in some thick book. No, He is a relationship that will never fail you. A voice that quiets all others that preach inadequacy or legalism or anxiety. I have met people here that know about God. That know they have nothing of their own merit to offer and give themselves totally to the Way Jesus preached, and they are the richest people I have ever met. In the midst of their physical lack they have a smile that will never dim. That is worth more than any pay check can deliver: Blessed are those who are poor in Spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of God (Matthew 5).
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Made it!!
After months of planning, support raising, and 20 hours in a planes, I am sitting on the edge of the Victoria Falls gorge. As I type I am watching my first sunset in Africa. The sun sets quicker here but the sun is bigger in the sky near the equator.
I want to thank everyone who helped me get to this point, as my mom put it " the next step in the rest of my life".
We are starting our training in the next few days by heading out into a set of villages about 5 hours drive into the bush. We will help them with sustainable agricultural projects, building living structures. All this in attempts to build relationships with them. These villages are part of the SAM project, which is a long term effort to kickstart education programs, crops, and church planting. Part of our job will be to preach and to pray for the sick in the village. I really don't know what to expect, it will be interesting.
I will spend three months in Livingstone, Zambia training with Overland Missions before I head to Burundi. This will be vital to prepare me for the challenges that await. It makes it easier that I am with my brother Dan, who is teaching the course, and my friend JJ and another friend Pete who will be joining us in a few weeks.
I will do my best to keep everyone updated on happenings in Zambia. Please send me updates on your life as well.
I want to thank everyone who helped me get to this point, as my mom put it " the next step in the rest of my life".
We are starting our training in the next few days by heading out into a set of villages about 5 hours drive into the bush. We will help them with sustainable agricultural projects, building living structures. All this in attempts to build relationships with them. These villages are part of the SAM project, which is a long term effort to kickstart education programs, crops, and church planting. Part of our job will be to preach and to pray for the sick in the village. I really don't know what to expect, it will be interesting.
I will spend three months in Livingstone, Zambia training with Overland Missions before I head to Burundi. This will be vital to prepare me for the challenges that await. It makes it easier that I am with my brother Dan, who is teaching the course, and my friend JJ and another friend Pete who will be joining us in a few weeks.
I will do my best to keep everyone updated on happenings in Zambia. Please send me updates on your life as well.
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