African Journal (3)

Instead of proceeding chronologically through the rest of the trip, I will post around various topics, events, or observations.  If there is an aspect of life here that on which you would like me to comment, just drop a line.

A Walk Through the Village of Sweya

The Howells live in a fishing village along the banks of Lake Victoria just south of Mwanza, Tanzania.  The village is roughly a square kilometer inhabited by six to eight thousand people.  This morning we walked through a large part of the village on roads and paths made only of dirt.  Dogs, chickens, ducks, goats, and cows roam freely or are tied here and there between the homes.  The kids roam too, and one wonders if anyone knows exactly where their children are at any given moment.  Women attend to small stalls and cooking fires, while many of the men recover from a night of fishing.  Some of the men keep gardens, livestock, or have employment in other towns, including Mwanza. 

The houses and huts are quite close together, as the people prefer a communal existence.  This is especially disconcerting when one considers that windows and insulation do not exist; therefore, sound travels. If you are having a spat at home, or one of the kids is crying, the neighborhood knows.  At night I can hear voices, birds, the local mill, cows mooing, and dogs barking well into the evening, and some of those things into and through the night.  And don't forget the roosters in the morning.  In the village center there are several small shops--all really just little hovels by western standards.  There is a barber shop with just enough room for one chair in which a little boy is watching cartoons on an old television while he gets a buzz.  There is a bar with a pool table out back under an open awning.  Other vendors sell fruits and vegetables, pharmaceuticals, clothing, and other essentials.  The path through the middle of the village is wide enough for one car, but many of the "roads" are really footpaths.

Along uneven ruts of worn pathway we stroll through town accumulating stares.  Occasionally, Rob will exchange greetings with someone or they with him.  The children are not self-conscious and yell, "Wazunga" (white men), telling their friends they see white men and hoping for us to acknowledge their presence and wave.  Some of the adults ignore us, but many exchange words while they pass.  About fifty percent of the population is less than fourteen years old.  I see only two older people in the village; the life expectancy is not high (42.5 male/44.1 female).  No wonder people keep calling me an old man.  I've already passed the life expectancy.  But I'll tell you, the forty year olds here look like they are pushing late fifties or more.  It is a hard life and it takes its toll.

We come upon a mud hut where Rob knows the occupant, Mwanzalima, who attends the church.  He is not home but his son (pictured here) will go to look for him.  He brings out two rickety chairs for us to sit on and wait.  This little two room structure was built in the seventies.  The ground outside the hut is swept dirt, as well as the interior floor.  There are no windows and only a metal door.  One room is a living room/dining room, while another is the bedroom.  If there are children, there may be an additional bedroom.  We sit for several minutes waiting for the son to return.  This is typical African life and it drives some Americans up the wall. 

We watch a woman tend to her two children while cooking over a small portable charcoal burner.  There is trash around the outside of the home, a mattress and other odds and ends scattered about.  They don't seem to notice trash and place no value in picking it up.  She exchanges a few words with us, but remains fairly quiet.  A portable radio blares African music from her doorway.  She picks up her baby and feeds him a thin broth with a spoon.  A man across the courtyard is dumping shells onto the ground from a large burlap sack he carries across his shoulders.  The shells will be beaten for chicken feed.  He makes several trips to the lake and back while we wait.  The man runs his business from Mwanzalima's yard and pays a fee for doing so.  This is how cash is generated and the economy sustained in this environment.

After waiting for several minutes, the son returns to tell us Mwanzalima cannot be found; we press on.  We pass a hut where a lady is ironing on the porch.  The iron, living up to its name, is made of iron and kept hot by burning charcoal in its base.  We exchange greetings and walk to the home of Marko.  Having been disciplined out of the church, Marko is prohibiting his common law wife from attending as well.  She greets us at the door to their hut and invites us inside.  The front room is roughly 10' by 10'.  There is one window with bars and a screen.  The floor is concrete and she busily sweeps it with a small hand-made whisk broom after we enter.  The room is furnished with a couch and two chairs.  A small table, where meals are eaten, is between them.  There is also a hutch holding all of the family's dinner wear and many of their possessions.  There is a doorway to a bedroom over our left shoulder.  The entire home must be about 200-250 square feet.  There is no need of a kitchen since most of the cooking occurs outside; the same with toilet facilities.  Our eyes adjust to the darkness inside while we listen to the radio blare the typical African music. 

Eventually Marko arrives at the house, and Rob launches into a detailed conversation with them about a number of issues.  He is not sure if they are both converted, Marko must make some restitution to the church, they need to be legally married, and in addition, come to a better understanding of the gospel.  The conversation lasts for about 30 minutes with little resolution.  I just sit and take it all in, not being able to fully comprehend the difficulties of learning to do ministry in this place.  The barriers to communication, understanding, knowledge, and practice seem almost insurmountable.  But God is able and he uses human instruments to accomplish his will.  We leave Marko's home and head for our own.

A Trip to the Mwanza Jail

Several years ago Rob purchased hunting guns to bring to Africa. Over the course of the last eighteen months he has endured countless hours and spent several dollars to make them legal in Tanzania. Throughout this process they have been stored at the local police station. My trip just happens to coincide with the time the process is complete. It is time to go and get the guns.

Rob, Ferdinand (a trusted employee and church member pictured here), and myself hop into the Land Cruiser and head for town. The streets are full as usual and we struggle to find a parking place. Eventually, Rob parks right in front of the police station and tells Ferdinand to hop out and make sure the right person is there to accomplish the transaction. He emphasizes to Ferdinand that he has just a few minutes to make it back out to the car or we are out of there. We are parked in the dirt right beside the front door of a decrepit two-story building. The windows are blocked by rusted and bent bars. Policemen walk in and out in a variety of uniforms (Rob says they look like Mickey Mouse uniforms), some carrying clubs, others toting AK-47s. Some of them are in plain, ragged clothes. Wrecked vehicles are scattered around the front of the building. Just imagine the epitome of any police station in a third-world country, and this is it.

Suddenly, there is a commotion behind our vehicle. Rob says, "They're beating that guy," and I hear a thwaaaak, as a club comes down on exposed skin. Other policemen run out of the building. Thwaaaak. Thwaaaak. I turn around in my seat to look and Rob warns, "Don't stare." A crowd begins to gather, and what is obviously a prisoner is yanked to his feet and hauled into the police station while officers land a few more choice blows. Rob decides Ferdinand's time is up and pulls out to find another parking space. I'm trying to absorb what I just saw.

We park the Land Cruiser, triple check the doors are locked, and head back to the police station. Everything inside of me is saying, "I don't want to go in there," but my feet follow Rob through the front door and toward the steps to the second floor. We pass within feet of the beaten man, who is now lying on the floor being stripped and bound. There is a cell just down the hall from him with several prisoners taking it all in from behind bars. We go up the stairs and find Ferdinand waiting in an office for paperwork to be completed. Rob and I stand in the narrow hallway for several minutes while he finishes the business. The walls are covered with cracking paint. Cobwebs fill the corners where ceiling and wall meet. Metal doors with crude locks and barred windows guard each room. The halls echo with the commotion downstairs and the sound of a typewriter. I must be in a movie.

After the paperwork is complete upstairs we traipse back downstairs to get the guns. A man has to find the key to a locked room. The three of us position ourselves so that we can look down the hall and watch the police deal with their prisoner. Nobody reads him any Miranda rights that's for sure. They get him down to his boxers, then redress him and tie him up. Two men dressed in street clothes with AK-47's strapped across their chests enter our hallway and appear to be waiting for something. I glance into the room across the hall and see stacks of ancient paperwork and old bar graphs posted on the wall with records of crimes from the previous years. The most recent dates are a couple years old.

Rob and Ferdinand eventually have to enter another room to complete the transaction and I am left alone with the Kalashnikov boys. They greet me in broken English and I respond. We exchange pleasantries and I eventually ask them what their job is. The look at me, look at one another, and break out laughing. Isn't it obvious that any guy walking around with a gun strapped to his chest is a policeman? I am embarrassed, but explain that I meant what kind of policeman--traffic, thefts, vice, etc. One of them eventually comes up with the word "department," and I nod my head vigorously, "Yes." They say, "Detective."  Oh well, good to give people a few laughs.

The paperwork complete, we get the guns, and head back toward the car. The eighteen month process is finished. In retrospect, the police station is a fairly unsettling place for an outsider, but it operates by its own set of rules. Rob mentions that he has spent hours inside and is totally comfortable. Every officer he dealt with greeted him with a smile and tried to be helpful, even in the midst of seeming chaos to me. Here is just another obstacle in the life of the missionary that must be met and conquered.

Comments

[Doug]

As long as they don't beat on you, I think you're pretty safe!

[Dianna S]

Jon,
It has been truly fascinating to read your posts every day...you have a real gift for writing and making things "come alive". The photography is incredible as well.

Questions...you mention the women cooking over small fires, but you haven't said what exactly they are preparing. What is a typical meal for the people there? Also, are the guns simply to be used for hunting and why were they illegal? Does the legality of gun ownership apply to everyone or just to Rob?

Thanks in advance for answering. We continue to pray for you.

[rob]

Diana: I'll let Jon answer the typical meal question after he has enjoyed one, but I did want to comment on the gun question. The guns (2 of them--30.06 & 12 gauge)are for hunting. Technically, they were never illegal, just in the process of getting proper permits. Before I brought the guns into the country in Jan '04, I spoke with the police regarding proper importation procedures. When I landed in Mwanza with the guns, the police met me at the airport and, together, we transported the guns to the station where we filled out some more paperwork and placed them in the police vault for storage. Over the next couple months, we worked on various paperwork and meetings (one of which was with the entire mayoral staff to question me). The process stalled when I found out a large customs fee would be required. Two weeks ago, I paid the customs fee and the matter was completed very quickly. Now, if I could only remember what I did with the trigger lock keys . . .

[joy]

thanks, jon. i am literally taking notes for my trip.

[Scott M]

As a fisherman, I'm interested to know what kind of fishing goes on in Lake Victoria. Is it mostly individuals with small boats selling their daily catch in the marketplace, or is there a more advanced commercial fishery with larger boats and crews? Is fishing the main source of food in Sweya? What kind of fish are typically caught?

Keep up the great posts. You could moonlight as a travel writer.

[jon]

Dianna,

After the weekend I should be able to fill you in on the food. I have watched several meals beings prepared and seen a variety of foods. I will dedicate a post to that topic. The fare at the Howell's place right now is good 'ole American. Tonight: hamburgers and hot dogs.

Joy,

Happy to be of service.

[jon]

Scott,

Most of the village fisherman are in small boats. I'll try to take some pictures. They sell their catch in the village market--you should see it all laying exposed, but they also sell it to a couple local distributors. These guys sell to villages within a couple hour radius. In addition to that, Russian cargo planes haul Nile Perch out of Mwanza. Three kinds of fish: Nile Perch, Tilapia (large sunfish), and Dagaa (minnow). Fishing is a major source of food.

[Doug]

I am sure you have tried all of those fish. Which do you prefer? They sell Tilapia in the US, and I have yet to try it. Lori says it's very good.

I bet you will want to take your children to the mission field some day. I am sure, growing up in the US, and only visiting Canada now and then, tends to make us forget there are other nations, people, and cultures that are poor, and needy. But, how many in our respective countries are poor, and meedy. The Person they need most is the Person that can meet their needy poor spirit, and that's our Savior!

[Michael C.]

Reading about the African children yelling "Wazunga" as you drove by in the Land Cruiser brought a smile to my face. In the Kenyan bush they did the same thing. It's an endearing memory of the African children.

I hope you get to hear some traditional music while you are there.