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A Visit to Shadi & Tumaini

The events described in this post occured last week.  I will post at least one more story regarding a specific event on the trip and then a couple of summary posts on personal reflections, lessons learned, etc.  It is good to be home.  Rob, I'm only eating rice and beans as a symbolic gesture of empathy regarding your upcoming trip to Nyakaliro...not. 

On my final morning in Tanzania, Rob and I drive out to Shadi to check the progress on Tumaini (the orphanage) and visit a number of the prospective church families. Put every thought of normal church visiting out of your mind.

First, we are heading out just a little after 8am. Not many Americans would be happy to have a pastor knocking on their door at that hour of the morning, but the men in the village are just back from a night of fishing, and the timing is good for them. Second, don’t expect anything that resembles a typical western house or living arrangements. We are not entering a middle class suburb, or even a slum, we are riding up and down dirt paths and pulling up in front of widely spaced mud and concrete huts with thatched and tin roofs, all in various stages of disrepair.

The ride to Shadi is accomplished on the motorcycle. By now, sitting on the back is second nature and we take the dips and bumps with ease. The only way to travel to the village is across a series of dirt trails covering the rocky terrain. We pass numerous dwellings of every shape and size imaginable, a group of cows, chickens, many pedestrians, and the normal children shouting, “White men!” and waving.

We arrive at the orphanage gate in about fifteen minutes and are pleased to see the progress on the building. About twenty workers are scrambling around the property like ants, engaged in various building tasks. Some are beating rocks with hammers in order to break them into smaller pieces for a foundation. Others are offloading a dump truck full of sand with shovels. Women are carrying water on their heads in five gallon buckets so that concrete can be made. A skilled laborer or two nails together wooden trusses on the orphanage roof. A man stands under a tree and sharpens his saw with a file. The construction site is noteworthy for what is not seen. There are no power tools, no safety precautions, few hand tools, no workman type clothes, no tool belts, no blue prints, etc. The buildings are constructed from wood, rock, sand, fire, and water, with a few nails, metal bars, and iron details thrown in for good measure.

I scramble off the bike to take a few pictures, while Rob rides off to make a visit or two without me. A white man is strange enough, but put a camera in the guy’s hand, and he becomes a downright anomaly. It is hard to capture “normal” work happening, as everyone wants to be a star. Ferdinand’s family lives in one of the houses on the property and his wife allows me to take her picture. I have been fighting dust in the camera for the duration and I think the Canon finally succumbs. I can’t get a number of tiny spots off the mirror. Packing the whole thing up, I wait for Rob to return. Numerous groups of people are watching the work from the perimeter of the property. It’s hard to imagine what a change the orphanage is bringing to this rural community.

It is not hard to hear the sound of the bike approaching from quite a distance. It is the only motor vehicle in the neighborhood right now, save for the truck making sand runs. Rob putters up, shows me a latrine pit I’d missed—10 feet straight down by hand, inspects the work, and then we head for a neighbor’s place. This neighbor just happens to live adjacent to the new orphanage property. A large hill is on his property and after a climb, it offers a spectacular view of Tumaini. We spot some monkeys keeping an eye on the work as well.

The family we are visiting is just a short distance away. We motor to the bottom of a steep hill, where I climb off, while Rob rides the bike up. The husband comes out to greet us as we enter a small dirt courtyard between two mud huts. Neither of the huts is in good repair, cracks and lizards share space on the walls. The grass roof is caving in and needs to be replaced. A small boy, about five or six years old offers each of us a small stool and we sit down with the man, two women, and three small children. Rob introduces me and quickly lets them know I do not speak the language. From here on out, I am strictly an observer.

The three children, two boys and one girl all under the age of seven or eight, are in rags. The girl’s nose is draining mucus all over her face. Several flies land under her nose and in the corner of her eyes during the length of our visit. She never swats at them and doesn’t even seem to know they exist. Playing in the dirt at the feet of her father’s chair, she is perfectly content and even smiling. The oldest boy quickly wanders off to play, while the younger boy waddles about with only a shirt to cover his body. At least two of the kids have a bad cough. Trash, chickens, rags, dirty cooking utensils, old shoes, and other pieces of junk are scattered around outside.

After some time, I cautiously take in the two women. One seems quite a bit older than the man, and I assume it to be his mother. The second is younger and must be the wife and mother of the young children. In both cases I am wrong. The older woman is actually the man’s wife, well one of his wives, while the second woman is his sister. All three children are his, plus two others that are older. Now the older woman seems beyond childbearing years and the seeming mystery is eventually solved. Wife number two, a girl in her early twenties, arrives toward the end of our visit. Of course, Rob and I don’t ask directly about these relationships, and only put the whole picture together after we leave. Polygamy is not abnormal and explains the age gaps and the existence of two huts in this family. Som men have primary wives and secondary wives. We guess in this case, that the primary wife wasn’t bearing the desired number of children

The women themselves are dressed poorly in their daily work clothes. Though the younger women are not old, the skin on their legs and hands is already dry and cracked. It reminds me of the leathery skin of older people I visit at the rest homes in the States. Their feet look ancient and dirt is permanently caked under their toenails. Their teeth are in poor shape and marred with brown stains. Since we are outside, we are spared the pleasures of body odor, but all are sweating in the sun, and it can readily be imagined. To be brutally honest, these are not people you naturally want to make your friends, let alone be their shepherd, and of course, that’s the point.

Rob’s purpose in these visits is to seek some level of understanding regarding the spiritual condition of this new congregation. There are other churches in the area, and some even have a Catholic upbringing, but a working knowledge of the Bible is another story. The man listens with full attention while Rob explains the Gospel and asks probing questions. He gives halting, but decent answers. The older wife is antagonistic, while the sister says, “I don’t understand.” The man asks Rob if having two wives is a problem if he wants to be baptized. Rob wisely keeps his focus on the Gospel and lets the subject pass. There will be another day to cross that bridge.

Several minutes later, our conversation reaches an end, and we get up to leave. The normal round of greetings ensues and we get back on the bike and make our way carefully down the hill. Rob expresses an appreciation for the authenticity practiced directly and indirectly in the home. No one pretended to be something other than what they were. It is a good visit and time will tell where it leads with this man, his two wives, and their five children.

Serengeti Safari

On Monday morning our guide, "Frankie," arrives to pick us up at Rob's place. He's driving a nice Toyota Land Cruiser designed for off-road safari traveling, not the typical Land Cruiser you see tooling around Columbus. Rob could have driven his vehicle, but the wear and tear is substantial. In addition to this, the guides use radios to communicate the location of game sightings to one another. By the end of the trip, we know we made the right decision. We are only staying for one night, so we don't throw in the kitchen sink, but we are camping and that requires a bit more than a carry on. We pack a couple tents--one for us and one for the guide. We also bring our own food (mostly munchies), a change of clothes, bedding, charcoal, minimal cooking gear, binoculars, and camera equipment. With a wave and a good-bye to Kara and the kids, we begin the two hour drive to the Serengeti.

The drive to the park takes us back through the heart of Mwanza and returns us to the Nairobi road--the same highway Rob and I traveled on a couple weeks ago to get to Sweya from Nairobi (it seems like ages now). I enjoy taking in all the sights of Mwanza again. Today is actually a national holiday, so the government businesses are closed. This doesn't seem to cut down on the usual foot traffic, however. Soon out of town, we are on the open road and it goes right by the park entrance. It doesn't take us long to get there.

Frankie pops the top of the vehicle open so that we can stand up through the roof and enjoy an unobstructed field of vision. It is still a two hour plus drive to the camping area, but we stand up as soon as we drive through the gate, not wanting to miss a thing. I am surprised to begin viewing animals almost immediately. Over the course of the next view minutes we see ostrich, Thomson's gazelle, zebra, wildebeest, and warthogs. I catch a view pics of the ostrich because Rob doubts we'll see many as close as these initial birds (a correct prediction). Over the course of the next two hours we'll see hundreds of zebra and gazelle, a few groups of wildebeest, and impala, baboons, monkeys, hyenas, vultures, and more.

The terrain is spectacular. At times, the road narrows to a one lane bridge over a dried up creek, with thorn bushes encroaching on the road. But just when one becomes accustomed to the underbrush, the road breaks onto a vast open plain with dry brown grass stretching to the horizon. After driving several miles across flat terrain, the grass slowly becomes dotted with more and more trees until you sense you are in an open woods with rolling hills. Even larger hills loom on the horizon and incrementally surround the vehicle as we pass through in a valley. The hills are several hundred feet high, covered with brown grass, dotted with green trees, and sometimes crowned with rocky crags. Once again, I feel like I am driving across the western United States.

We scarcely drive for many miles without seeing some kind of wildlife within eyesight the road. Even though this is the dry season, and the wildebeest migration is past, the plain is full of game animals, especially zebra, gazelle, impala, and straggling wildebeest which all tend to gather in groups of varying sizes. Less frequently we see warthog, waterbuck, topi, baboon, monkeys, vultures, and once a pack of hyenas dragging off a carcass.

Frankie gets a call on the radio about a group of lions eating a kill and eventually we turn off the main dirt road and drive a couple miles across rougher terrain on a dirt trail. Soon we are circling the area where the lions are located and spot them under a tree. As we drive up we see two females and a cub lounging in the shade, but when we get even closer we can make out a male under overhanging limbs munching on a zebra kill. Soon we see a second cub playing in the tree. The females have already eaten and their stomachs look gorged. They hardly flinch as we drive to within ten yards or less of the tree. The mangy male, however, is a bit perturbed and soon saunters off into a near streambed and disappears from sight. I don't realize until later what a rare experience this is.

We make a couple more stops before we hit the campground and see hippos, giraffes, a croc, hartebeest, and buffalo. Once at the campground, we quickly unpack and set up our tents. We are a bit disappointed at the number of people in camp. This is peak season and it is downright crowded. It is already too late to go back out for more game spotting, so we decide to have supper at the Seronera Lodge. Frankie gladly drives us to the lodge; he can eat ugali while we enjoy the buffet. Dinner is not until seven o'clock, so we enjoy the sights and sounds of the lodge. It is another African attempt at western standards that usually falls short. The lodge really amounts to a Motel Six with a mediocre buffet. It beats cooking hot dogs, however, and the view is worth the price of admission. The entire place is naturally built into a large rock outcropping called a kopje. From a viewing area, the Serengeti plain stretches before us with hills in the distance. We can hear hippos in the Seronera River below and make out the dark shapes of buffalo moving between the trees in the dying sunlight.

Darkness envelopes the Serengeti by the time we begin the return trip to camp. We shine a flashlight out of the vehicle as we drive and catch eyes in the night staring back. Our tents are set up on the outer perimeter of "tent city." There are at least thirty tents pitched and the place is a hubbub of activity. Groups of people are clustered around fires eating, talking, and in some cases singing. Rob has brought along some charcoal and soon we have a pot of water heating for a cup of coffee. We set our chairs up facing outward toward the underbrush and enjoy the night sky. Frankie wanders off to mingle with the other drivers while we listen to the groups of people around us. We hear several different languages being spoken: Italian, French, Spanish, Swahili, but no English. It seems as if each group of people lives up to their national stereotype, with the Spanish staying up and singing way past everyone else's bedtime. Frankie comes back to join us and soon entertains us with imitations of various nationalities he has taken on safari, adding Indians and Orientals to our list. Though he is Tanzanian, he speaks very good English, and his accent in each of the cases is near perfect. When he takes a potshot at Americans, he performs an imitation of a southerner on safari that is near perfect; we are in tears by the time he is through. It is pushing eleven when we finally hit the hay.

I already mentioned that sleep was scarce for me, though Rob was his usual dead-to-the-world self. The night is actually fairly cold, plus we had forgotten bedding for Frankie, forcing us to make do with a sheet and sleep in our clothes. I actually want to stay awake for as long as I can to hear the sounds of an African night and soon the stars woo me back outside. I take a seat behind the tent, tilt my head skyward, and listen. The insect noise resembles any night in the states, but the bird calls and occasional mammal sounds are quite different. A hyena barks and other noises I can't identify roll over the camp. After just a few minutes, I hear the padding of animal paws not far from my seat. Frankie shines his flashlight into the brush, but we don't see anything. Since by this time, just about everyone else is inside their tent, I decide that might be best for me as well. At some point during the night, I hear a distinct series of grunts and growls. At first they are far off, then answered by other similar animals, and then quite near. I am certain this is a lion. At one point, the sounds seem to resonate from just beyond the perimeter of the tents. In the morning, Frankie confirms this is indeed the case.

We got up at 5:15 AM or so. It was still dark outside by the time we loaded the vehicle and began the day, the first ones out of camp. Frankie began driving the circuit around the area of the Seronera. This consists of an open plain split by the Seronera River, dotted with kopjes, and surrounded by hills. Most of the wildlife is sustained during the dry season by life around the river, and this is where we start the day. Within the first couple hours, we have seen lion, hippo, giraffes, elephants, zebra, gazelle, buffalo, dikdik, jackal, topi, impala, waterbucks, hyena, and more. By the middle of the morning, the only animals we really haven't seen are cheetah and leopard. Fortunately, before we leave, a leopard is spotted by another group in a tree and soon we join a host of other safari vehicles flocking to catch a glimpse. Rob counts at least 25 other trucks crowding the trail. In ten safaris Rob has only seen a leopard three times, so this is a rare treat, and I get a few pics as the cat moves through the tall grass.

I cannot put into words how thrilling it is to see these animals in their natural habitat doing what they do best. Whether it is giraffes walking gracefully across the open plain like tall ships on the sea, an ungainly hippo plodding across a road like an Abrams tank, or zebra arrayed in a defensive posture against attack, it is all simply breathtaking to behold. Notables: the soft skin of a baby elephant contrasted with the wrinkles and folds of his mother, the confusing splinter camouflage of the Thomson gazelle when grouped in herds, a lions' yawn, a hippo's scarred skin, a mangy male lion, the torn ears of an elephant, the ugly looks of a hyena, a croc smashed down in the mud, troops of baboons with "scouts" on the perimeter, eyes glowing at night, parrots, two elephants locking tusks, and more. The hand of the Creator inspires worship.

By noonish, it is time to head for the gate. The drive will take a couple hours and we need to be out by our twenty-four hour time limit, or we will be charged for the additional day. For just a day in the Serengeti, Rob thinks we've chalked up quite a successful trip. I couldn't agree more, and like so many other times, just feel privileged to partake in the experience. The text of Job 38-41, as well as Psalm 139, come to mind more than once through the trip. On the way in we saw safari vehicles heading out with the passengers seated inside. I had said to Rob, "Don't let me sit down on the way out. I want to enjoy the whole experience." Though my legs are tired from standing all day, I pop my head out for most of the return trip, soaking in the scenery and wildlife like a thirsty man who knows he won't get another drink for a long while.

More pics here.

Safe from the Serengeti

Despite the fact the lions were prowling and roaring around our tent last night (Rob never woke up, but the guide did), we made it back safe and sound from a spectacular safari to the Serengeti.  I am working on a long post regarding the trip, but the eyes are getting heavy tonight, as tenting in the middle of a wildlife refuge (where the wildlife can have you for dinner) is not conducive to sleep.  I'll tell the tale tomorrow after a final trip out to the orphanage to view the progress, and a photo session in Mwanza--attempting to capture city life in a third world setting.  Blog you later!

From Sweya & Shadi to the Serengeti

The services in both Sweya and Shadi went quite well yesterday, despite the preaching.  Rob had to do the hard work--translating, while I had time to gather thoughts between sentences.  We were on the go all day again.  We had another one of those "cultural experiences" that Rob ranked on the top-ten-of-all-time list.  I don't have time to write about it now, and it will take some work to capture it adequately in words, but I'll try to record it before the end of the week.  Today we rose early, packed our camping gear, and we are off to the Serengeti for thirty hours or so.  Be back tomorrow evening--blog you later.

Road Trip to Nyakaliro

The Ride

We plan on an early start for Nyakaliro, but "this is Africa" (an oft repeated phrase around here).  The "fundis" (skilled workers) who are supposed to fix the bike by 9:30am are still working on it at 12:30pm.  Initially, we want to catch the 11:30 ferry, but that turns into the 12:30, then the 1:30, and finally the 2:30 by the time we actually start out of the driveway at 1:30.  Our hope is to arrive in time for prayer meeting, but we doubt we're going to make it.  The ride to the ferry is thirty minutes, the ride across Lake Victoria is thirty minutes, and the ride across country to Nyakaliro about two hours if all goes well. 

We strap our pack on the back of the bike and I situate myself behind Rob.  This is going to be a long, bumpy trek, so we try to get as comfortable as possible while we head out the driveway, into Sweya, and then down the main road leading to Mwanza.  We learn quickly that the bike rides well with two passengers on the rough roads.  The bumps and holes are even fun, but the sand and the traffic (vehicles, bikes, and pedestrians) are another matter.  Africans are in no hurry, especially to get out of your way.  If a guy is walking down the road in your path, he is not going to break his stride to clear the road, even if he flirts a bit with disaster; it is a matter of pride.  In addition to this, when Rob beeps his horn well in advance of our pass, people scatter in all kinds of different directions--to include right in front of you.  By the end of the trip, I am wishing I knew a few choice words to deliver in Swahili, but Rob fills in well for both of us. 

We arrive at the ferry to see busses, trucks, and people waiting en-masse for its arrival.  After purchasing a ticket we sit back to people watch.  The busses are something to behold.  They resemble an old greyhound bus on huge truck tires with very high passenger seating; the frame is built to take a serious beating on the merciless roads.  The busses are packed to the gills with people; in addition, there is luggage (a gentle word for mattresses, produce, furniture, poultry, and any thing else that can be carried) often strapped to the top and back.  I can't imagine how they must smell inside, having experienced just a small sampling on the local dala dalas (public mini-van transportation).  The drivers of these often gaudily painted behemoths think they own the road. 

At one point it appears a vehicle hits a pedestrian just outside of the ferry station and we immediately hear whistles and yelling.  In seconds, a large crowd gathers causing traffic to come to a halt.  I walk toward the fence trying to get a glimpse of what is happening, but the wall of people is too deep.  The crowd never clears while we wait for the ferry.  There is a sort of mob mentality that takes over whenever something out of the ordinary occurs.  A driver that hits a pedestrian does well to stay in his vehicle and keep moving; it may save a beating.

Eventually the ferry arrives and Rob rides the bike on board while I walk behind him.  I'm looking for life jackets and asking Rob about safety issues while busses and trucks fill the little vessel from stem to stern.  All I see are a couple life preserver's attached to the ship's rail--oh well.  We're cramped into our own little corner and use the bike as a shield to give us some space in a crowd of people.  Once again, we're the only white guys around (in fact, I won't see another white person until we arrive back in Mwanza) and that alone draws plenty of looks, let alone the bikes, helmets, and other motorcycle gear.  Everywhere we go for the next 48 hours we are the center of attention.  Kids follow us with big smiles and yells, while adults exchange greetings or just stare.  As Rob says, "You are either a hero or a zero."  We pull out our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, turn our backs to the crowd, and enjoy a beautiful view of the lake and a safe transit. 

On the other side a great many of the passengers break out into a sprint when the front ramp opens.  There are land rovers waiting in lines just beyond the ferry to provide transportation to all points inland.  We wait for the crowd to clear and then offload.  We ask to take a picture of the ferry, get permission, and do so.  We'd really like to give all the vehicles a chance to get well in front of us so we are in no hurry.  The roads from this point forward are not paved and great clouds of dust rise up behind any traffic.  We have about a forty minute ride to our first turn-off, where we will lose most vehicle traffic.  It is a bit difficult to get the bike started back up again, and it doesn't help matters when hundreds of eyes are watching.  Rob cranks it several times before it finally sparks to life, and pulls the bike up to a small rock where I can clamber on board.  The pack is strapped high enough on the back that it makes it just a bit difficult to swing my leg up enough over the seat without a height advantage.  The pack works well as a back support, however, as I don't feel like I am going to fall off the rear of the bike when we hit bumps or it pops into gear.

The road between the ferry and Nyakaliro must be experienced to be believed.  I am no dirt biker, but this is a dirt biker's heaven.  The first several miles are well worn roadway because vehicle traffic is fairly constant.  "Well worn" does not mean even, smooth, wide, or safe.  The road usually consists of several ruts or grooves in which a driver or rider attempts to keep the wheels.  This is generally where the ground is compacted and hard.  Toward the sides of the road, or in the middle are deep grooves where there is sand or soft ground; it is absolutely hazardous on the bike.  Wherever there is a swale--a place in the road where the ground is naturally low, or where fields may drain, the road is washed out during rainy season.  This results in gullies, or for a biker--moguls, that range from one to three feet deep (or sometimes more), during the dry season.  One either rides through the mogul, or circumvents it on newly made paths just off the road.  After a turn off the main road, the last several miles are nothing more than a country path that looks like it has been bombed--there are craters and potholes everywhere, and several places where the road is completely washed away.

This would all be great fun if it were not for busses, trucks, bikes, cows, goats, chickens, dogs, and endless people that constantly threaten to cause collisions.  We find ourselves rolling down the road shouting, "Bus!" "Car!" "Bike!" to warn of oncoming traffic.  Passing is not for the faint of heart because it is accomplished in a cloud of dust with very little room to spare on either side.  More than once, when we are attempting to pass a truck on the right, he moves all the way over to the far right hand side of the road, cutting us off, because he is avoiding potholes on his side of the road, doesn't see us, or just likes to be rude.  Oncoming traffic is the worst, because you just hope the guy coming toward the bike sees you, will manage to get off your side of the road, and will not force you out of your groove and into the sand or soft shoulder. 

The images in my mind are vivid:  more than one person totally loses it when they hear the horn sound and pulls right out in front of the bike (fortunately, Rob is aware of this tendency and sounds the horn well in advance); a girl falls off her bike just as we pass, scared to death; I reach out and pound a cow with my fist to get it to move; Rob gives a biker a little love tap on the shoulder when he won't move over; we dive so deep into potholes that the back fender scrapes; we have to stop so I can get dust out of my eyes; kids waving and shouting; blowing through little villages horn blaring; Rob waving at men and machine to get to one side or the other; and giving the thumbs up to those who are polite.  I wish I had a handheld video camera to capture the action.  We both imagine what it would like look from a helicopter cam; we are imaginary stars in an action movie of our own creation. 

The scenery we pass is remarkable.  Sometimes we are on a narrow path with high brush growth on either side, at other times, large vistas break out before us and remind me of driving in the western United States again.  The terrain tends to be rocky, with rough foilage and protruding hills.  The colors are greens, browns, and greys, with occasional flowering trees.  There are no cities to speak of after we leave Mwanza...just large towns, small villages, or clusters of huts.  The houses are made of mud or concrete, topped by tin, wood, or grass.  Children play everywhere and stop to stare or wave when we pass.  Adults are huddled around cooking fires, manning small produce stalls, working in the fields, walking, or riding bikes.  Every now and then a view of Lake Victoria breaks out on our right hand side.  We generally can see a couple hundred yards of dirt path in front of us, but turns often obscure the view.  A couple of times the road opens before us for a half mile or so.  I try to take in as much of the view as I can, but I tend to stay focused on the road to prepare for the next bump. 

Finally, we arrive at Nyakoliro battered, dirty, and sore, but safe.  I think it may have been Churchill who said there is nothing so thrilling as getting shot at and surviving.  Maybe that's why people love to do things like this.  It's fun to talk about afterward, just don't ponder all the things that could go wrong during.  At the end of the day, Rob does an excellent job of staying focused on the ride, and I do an excellent job of holding on. 

Village Life

I am sitting by a fire in Nyakaliro to write this.  We are in a village with no running water and no electricity.  It is night and a single kerosene lantern illuminates the home of Elias and Leah, where we are staying.  Rob pays an old woman half-a-day's wage (one dollar) to bring us sticks for a fire outside.  She gathers dry grass to act as kindling and adds a couple small stumps to keep it going.  We soak ourselves in bug spray and watch hens and roosters scratch in a scattered pile of grain.  Darkness settles in around us as the stars begin to appear, and then to fill the sky in numbers like I have never seen; the Milky Way is plain as day.  Elias, the pastor of the church in Nyakaliro, gets on his bike to go and buy us supper in the pitch blackness.  Since Leah is close to the birth of her second child, Rob offers to pay for the typically late evening meal so she doesn't have to cook for us.  Women in town cook food and sell it to bring in cash.  After about twenty minutes Elias returns with fish and rice; the chai (very sweet tea) is already brewing on a tin pail grill filled with charcoal.  Before we eat, Elias holds a bowl under our hands and pours water from a small pitcher over them so that we can clean our hands.  Rob pulls out sanitizer and we make sure to rewash our hands and thoroughly dry them before we touch anything we might eat.  We enjoy our meal around the fire and chat about life in the village. 

Nyakaliro is a fishing town on the banks of Lake Victoria.  It is really just a large collection of odd huts and shacks numbering in the hundreds, if not thousands, spread over a couple square miles.  The city center is a large market full of rickety shacks, huts, and buildings made of mud, concrete block, tin, and wood.  Right after we arrive, we ride into town to purchase mosquito nets, water purifier, blankets, and flip-flops.  The shops are so small that you can only take one step inside them, if that.  Most of the goods can be seen stacked on a single bank of shelves or piled outside.  A "restaurant" consists of four walls made out of wood sheets with tin piled on top.  A charcoal grill is the stove.  The town square is the hub of village life.  Men sit on small tools playing cards and sipping chai or some other beverage.  At night the square fills with people and we can hear music blaring (generator power) through our windows several hundred yards away.

The church in Nyakaliro was born a few months prior to our arrival.  Rob and a couple other guys performed a survey trip by stopping in several villages along Lake Victoria and conducting interviews.  Based on their findings, Rob preached a series of weeks on the town square (literally pitched a tent there) and invited interested persons to begin a church.  The result is a congregation of 40-50 adults, a piece of land, a church "building," and a pastor's home.  Elias and Leah have been here for four months. 

Life in Nyakaliro is about living. Much of your energy is spent in the day-to-day effort to put food on the table, clothes on the back, and a roof over the head. Growing food and keeping some kind of livestock are staples. Goats, chickens, ducks, and cows are everywhere. Water must be obtained in five gallon buckets (or whatever other kind of container you may own) at the local well (purchased for about $1000 by the residents in the neighborhood). If you are dirty (you can’t help but be dirty because everything is dirty), baths consist of pouring water over you, lathering up, then rinsing. There is a small room in the house for this purpose. Elias and Leah are fortunate to have a relatively nice house compared to many in the immediate vicinity. It consists of a large living room area, two bedrooms, the wash room, and a storage room. Furniture is minimal and crude. Total square footage is about 600 feet and is a step up from their mud hut in Sweya. The toilet facilities in most homes are a five foot deep hole out back surrounded by a screen made of cornstalks or canestalks. Elias has a two-holer in a small concrete building attached to a much deeper pit about 50 feet from the house.

There are no appliances, so clothes are washed by hand. There is no phone (you can climb a local hill about a half mile away for cell service to work--maybe), though you may run a battery or generator powered radio. There is no newspaper. If you are cold, build a fire. If you are hot, sit in the shade. There is no sink to wash dishes, or brush teeth, or get a quick drink. There is very little health care, though Leah will go to a local clinic when her baby is ready to be born. All of the little things we use to keep us occupied are gone. Bricks are fired in outdoor kilns.  Wheat and corn are ground at a local mill (a shack) or by hand.  There are no shortcuts here.  Life is hard.

Other observations:  Many of the children, and some of the adults, wear only rags for clothes.  Shirts, shorts, and dresses are in tatters and hang from their limbs.  I see swollen stomachs--the telltale sign of malnutrition.  This is not an indication the kids don't eat enough (Elias' two year old son puts away more rice, ugali, and fish than Rob and I can); it is a sign their diets are not balanced.  Everything is dirty.  Nothing is cared for well.  The smells are interesting...sometimes wonderful...the smell of frying fish, but sometimes less so...the stench of anything decaying.  There is no trash removal service here; in fact, trash is everywhere and ignored.  Is your toothpaste tube empty?  Just toss it out the window and forget about it.

The Ministry

When we arrive in Nyakaliro the church is gathered in front of Elias’ home for prayer meeting. We join them for a short time before the service ends.  The congregation is seated on four wooden benches in the dirt.  We exchange greetings while I take in the surroundings.  The new church building is just a few feet away.  It is really just canestalks arranged vertically in a rectangle with a small portion of the roof covered by bamboo mats.  The purpose of our trip is to challenge the congregation to support Elias as their full time pastor.  We are planning on a meeting Thursday night to have this discussion. 

When the service concludes, Rob asks Elias (pictured here) about the schedule on Thursday, expecting a congregational meeting.  Instead, Elias says his plans have changed and throws Rob for a loop--he is thinking about leaving Nyakaliro.  Rob is not sure why.  The rest of our first evening we spend guessing about the ensuing conversations and what they will unfold.  Here is where cultural issues come into play.  Africans are far less direct than Americans.  It is possible we will spend our whole time here and never really learn the reason why Elias and Leah are considering a move.

It is during our first evening around the fire that Leah (pictured here) does something unusual for an African woman.  She opens up to Rob about some of the difficulties she is experiencing here.  Their son was quite ill just a week or so before and the health care available is of far less quality than in Sweya.  They are far enough away from their home village that news is scarce; she feels isolated in Nyakaliro.  Though they have made friends, and the Lord is obviously blessing their ministry, the concerns of a young wife are the same here as they would be anywhere else.  Another note here, during the course of our conversation this first night, I asked Elias and Leah how they met.  Four years ago Elias saw Leah in her village and sent a man to see if she was available and let her know of his intentions.  She expressed interest, and one month later a nineteen year old woman married a thirty-five year old man, a common age span in African marriages.

Rob and I chat before we hit the hay about the conversation around the fire.  If Elias and Leah do leave, that will make the future of the church doubtful.  The Howells are planning to live in Nyakaliro for a couple weeks in late August, but Rob is certainly not prepared to pastor the church.  Alternating short stays between the Sanders and Howells is a possibility, but certainly not optimal and questionably practical.  It seems a shame to shut the doors after such a promising start.  Tomorrow's conversations will be crucial; Rob needs to do some creative thinking.   

Throughout the course of the next day, Rob and Elias make preparations for the Howell's to arrive in three weeks.  The house needs to be painted, a ceiling installed, furniture purchased, and a privacy fence built.  A fundi arrives to give an estimate.  Rob engages Elias and Leah in further conversation.  There is nothing for me to do but read and write; welcome to life without electricity.  Rob learns that Elias and Leah may also be concerned about their empty home in Sweya.  Someone may sell it in their absence.  In order to prevent this, they need to obtain the deed from the title office in Mwanza, a process requiring up to several weeks.  By this time, Rob has thought of some potential solutions.  Elias could return to Mwanza three times a year to attend a two-week institute course.  Leah could extend her stay each time to one month.  This would provide her with time at home and alleviate some of the separation anxiety she is experiencing  We enjoy a lunch together in the afternoon and I get to taste ugali (a corn based food much like cream of wheat) and tilapia for the first time, both quite edible.  The fundi refuses to eat at the same table with us because we are seated together with Leah.  He also will not put food on his own plate; he is a guest and should be served.  It takes the fundi the entire day to produce an estimate for a relatively small job, and even then it is inaccurate.  Welcome to Africa.

That evening we have our final serious conversation with Elias and Leah.  Well, I shouldn't say we, because I sit and listen.  They have thought about things all day and Elias launches into a long monologue.  He tells Leah that they should make a decision now about whether they will stay or go.  It is not fair to leave the "servant of God" hanging.  Elias reminds Leah of Rob and Kara's hard times and their refusal to quit.  If the Howells have left home to come to Tanzania, surely they could stay in Nyakoliro?  Rob reminds Elias the decision does not need to be made tonight.  Nothing is going to change between now and when the Howells come to visit.  Let's just wait and see where everyone is then.  Nevertheless, we are encouraged by the tone of the conversation and Elias' resolution.  The timing for our trip has been perfect and the moments spent with Elias and Leah rewarding.

Rob and I go out after the final chat to enjoy the night sky.  We see several shooting stars over a period of about forty-five minutes and then a brilliant flash lights the sky and ground around us.  A shooting star, with a fantastic explosion, streaks across our field of vision and falls apart.  It is the brightest shooting star either of us has ever seen and makes the trip complete.  On Friday morning we get up early to head back for Sweya.  The trip is not uneventful, but it is safe and flies by.  The first thing we do when we get home is eat French toast, make a pot of coffee, and take a hot shower.  In retrospect this was a "pansy trip" to Nyakaliro...anybody can hack a couple days.  Rob and Kara will be packing up the whole family for a couple weeks there later in August.  Pray they will be an encouragement to this young church and new pastor.

More photos here.

Off to Nyakaliro

The guys are just finishing up work on the motocross, so we should be out of here soon.  We just stuffed a backpack for our two night stay.  We're sharing just about everything but a toothbrush so that we can travel light.  We'll ride to the ferry in Mwanza, cross Lake Victoria, and then have about a two hour ride to Nyakaliro. 

The goal of this trip is to discuss with the church family their responsibility in supporting Elias as their pastor.  Elias is prepared to take a leap of faith and leave Grace Baptist Mission's employ to become the fulltime pastor, but this means the believers in Nyakaliro need to step up to the plate.  It is a big move.  In order to understand how different the scenario is compared to the States, consider this--the church may consider buying a rice field to help cover compensation.  The harvested rice would feed Elias' family, while the surplus could be sold to provide cash (hopefully the deacons at NHBC will not get any bright ideas).  We're not talking about dickering over 401k's and professional continuing education.  We'll also be building up new believers in the faith.  God willing, we'll be back on Friday evening.  Blog you then.

Monday Off

Since today is not primarily a ministry day, I think it is appropriate to focus on the ministry going on behind the scenes of ministry--life in the Howell home (I've asked Rob to read through this before I post it for appropriateness and accuracy).

It's Monday morning and the weather is almost exactly the same today as it has been very other day. The skies are partly cloudy, a gentle wind blows through the trees, and the temperature reaches a high of 77 degrees during the day, with a low of 68 at night. Frankly, the weather is about as close to perfect as can be imagined. There are no glass windows in the house, only screens. At night a fan keeps the air circulating and mutes some of the noise outside. We have experienced a couple overcast days, and on Sunday the sky spat rain onto the tin roof at church for about 45 seconds, but it is dry season and moisture is virtually non-existent this time of year.

Everyone sleeps in an extra thirty minutes or so on Monday. We awake around sevenish to the sound of Momma Stella watering the yard. Joyce, as she is also called, lives just a short walk from the Howell home and attends the church. She is a widow of forty with seven children in her house, which is only a small mud hut. Momma Stella's smile, which lights up her face, is absolutely contagious and the first sight that welcomed me to the Howell home when we arrived. She is responsible for taking care of the outside of both the homes on the property.

A word here is probably appropriate concerning hired help. Any westerner living in Tanzania is automatically wealthy, very wealthy. We drop a typical Tanzanian's monthly wage on a single nice meal in the States. It is considered rude for an American living in Tanzania not to contribute to the local economy. Providing employment is one of the best ways to do so, as well as hiring day laborers for skilled and unskilled jobs around the premises.

Peter, is a second Tanzanian who is a big help to Kara around the home. While Momma Stella minds the outside, he takes care of many of the inside tasks, including: dishes, sweeping, mopping, general cleaning, and some cooking. He has worked for western families in Tanzania since the early eighties and is a very pleasant man to be around. Just before I arrived, one of his former employers from many years ago dropped by to see him. The fact that she looked him up, and hired a taxi to come out to Mwanza and visit him, speaks well of his character.

One of the beautiful benefits of life here is the routine. Since there are no outside distractions, to include sports, shopping, entertainment, neighbors, etc, life is very simple and neatly packaged. There are three family meals a day, every day. Rob is home for just about every one; he makes breakfast everyday except Sunday. Though Rob's schedule may vary on a normal workday, the family gets up, has breakfast, does school, has lunch, does school some more or plays, has supper, plays, reads together, and heads to bed. There are little variations here and there: the kids may run over to a missionaries friend's home and play, another missionary may bring her children over for music lessons, on Monday evenings they share pizza with a neighboring family, Saturdays tend to be an all day play day, mom and dad may watch a little television after the kids are in bed, or Sundays are of course different, but these are the exceptions. Life is slow-paced and quiet. I have only heard the house phone ring once or twice (though Rob's cell is more frequently used).

Kara's time is spent managing the home and kids. She is a school administrator for the three girls as they work their way through home school curriculum. The kids actually start school today because they are eager to get going and beg to do so. This is Kaylee's first year and she is already humming along. Today she made a brilliant leap forward in kindergarten science, as she captured a butterfly with some new equipment sent from their home church. Kelsey and Kristen are self-motivated and sit in their own space of the house and study away. Each of the girls has her own TV and DVD player, so they can study separately. Kara also has to keep Robbie pre-occupied while the girls study. Today Rob and I took him to town in order to relieve some of the load.

Every Monday is market day. Kara makes a list of things for Rob to pick up at the central market in Mwanza. A typical list may be: pineapple, watermelon, mango, passion fruit, cucumbers, carrots, onions, potatoes, lettuce, and green peppers. In addition to this, Rob may stop at a small super market and purchase: salt, flour, sugar, juice, coffee, a cake mix, pringles, or some other more western need they may have. This store tends to be fairly pricey. A Nestle's Crunch bar ran me $1.20. There are really no decent restaurants in town, so home cooking is it. I must say that I have eaten like a king the last week. The fresh fruit and vegetables three times a day is especially enjoyable, and is much better than the typical fare we get in the States. We did stop at a small outside restuarant for coffee and a donut today. The coffee was instant and bad, the donut was plain and greasy. The attempts at western cuisine here leave much to be desired, though there is a new fast food place under construction for which they have high hopes.

Other random observations: We don't leave the house after about 6pm; nobody want's to be bitten by a mosquito. We sleep at night under mosquito nets. There is an ample supply of a bug spray named "Doom" in the house. The other night Rob and I are watching a soccer game on TV sipping coffee when he yells, "Cover!" We put our hands over our coffee cups to protect the contents and he shoots a cloud of Doom across the room at some pesky mosquito. The whole family takes a dose of malaria meds daily. Welcome to life in Malariaville.

Something has been eating away at my mouse cord at night. I mean biting right through to the wire. I sprayed my closets with Doom and haven't had a problem since. There are lizards around to help with the bugs as well. I notice one crawling across the living room wall for the first time the other night and point it out to Rob thinking he'll "get it." "They help eat the bugs," he says, and ignores it. Lizards are your friends.

Don't drink the water. Don't make ice cubes out of the water. Don't brush your teeth in the water. Don't wash your food in the water. Don't mess with the water. They have a filtration system and distiller to make drinkable water.

One can get just about anything in Mwanza, if you can find it and if you can pay for it. Mail is important. E-mail is read. Packages are gold. Things break and things run out. You learn to live with less or without because you can’t find it in Mwanza, and even if you do, you may not be able to afford it.

We enjoyed homemade pizza tonight at the home of Steve and Robin Sanders. They are a couple in their early forties who arrived in Mwanza within the last year to help with the work. Their primary focus right now is learning Swahili. They have two older sons at home in the States gearing up for college, and two younger daughters (10 & 15) here. Though both families live adjacent to another, and see each other almost every day, they do a very good job of respecting one another's privacy and allowing "space."

That's it for now. Let me know if all of this has raised any other questions. I tend to be a bit myopic at times and may miss something entirely that you, dear reader, consider important.  I also posted an album of local flora.

Chickens in Church

Sunday is filled with ten straight hours of ministry; it is not a day of rest.  Rob begins at the Sweya church by teaching the Bible Institute for a couple hours before the majority of the congregation arrives for services.  The church is just a short ten-minute walk from the Howell's home, so the family doesn't tag along until it is time for church to begin.  Beyond the front gate we follow a dirt path to the right through a small cluster of trees.  It is not unusual for cows or goats to be grazing here.  The footpath soon joins a larger dirt track (pictured), wide enough for a car, that leads close by the church.  Small groups of cows and goats trek up and down this path everyday.  We walk uphill, dodging the cow paddies, then cut to the right again by a small house under construction.  A large outcropping of rock looms before us with the church built at its feet.

The church structure is located toward the back of a large fenced-in rectangle. The ground is sandy and rough, spotted here and there with hearty vegetation. Cows graze on this acreage as well, so we're careful where we walk. The church members have constructed an outhouse facility toward the front end of the rectangle. The building itself is roughly 30'x40', made of concrete, topped off by a tin roof, and accented with blue paint. Inside the one room structure, there are several wooden benches with backs, a wipe board, and a pulpit. In a small corner closet are supplies for taking the offering and communion. Small paperback hymn books are dispersed throughout the benches. The night before, a woman had come to clean the church. She filled up a bucket full of water and proceeded to "mop" the entire floor by bending over at the waste and scrubbing the floor by hand. Needless to say, the building is fairly clean despite the fact there are no windows and dust can easily come in the decorative holes in the concrete. In the rocks above the church, there is built a small, open pavilion for an additional meeting space. Currently, the children gather there during the second half of the worship hour. From this perch, there is a spectacular view of Lake Victoria and the valley where Sweya is located.

The members of the church slowly gather around the ten o'clock hour. Rob winds down his class and we prepare for worship. Fortunately, I just happen to place my Bible on the left hand side of the church (facing the pulpit), and the men all take their seats on that side while the women are on the other. I had read about this on Rob's blog, but had forgotten. We are greeted and the worship hour opens in prayer. At the end of each prayer the congregation responds in unison, "Amen." A young man from the congregation, William, comes to the front and begins to lead a song. He claps his hands in rhythm to set a pace for the congregation and we join in clapping as well; there are no instruments this Sunday and we clap through every song. The only song we sing that I recognize is, "Are You Washed in the Blood." After a few songs there is a time of testimony, followed by prayer and more singing. The wind blows through the church, as I notice cows outside the door and listen to roosters crowing in the distance.

Rob begins to preach after about 20-25 minutes of congregational worship. The text for the day is Judges 6-8, the story of Gideon. A young man beside me helps me along with the Swahili Bible, putting his finger under the words in the text as Rob reads them. He launches into his message spending very little time behind the pulpit. The congregation pays attention, while I have trouble catching even a few words I know...Israel, Gideon, Midian, etc. The boy takes my pen out of my hand and writes, "Mungu," on the palm of his hand. He then writes the English word, "God." I nod my and say quietly, "Asante" (thank you). The congregation is typical...most pay attention, some read the text, others struggle to shake off a late Saturday night. Afterward, Rob expresses satisfaction overall. One wandering sheep was at the service, though several ladies had missed because a local clinic was offering free shots for their children.  A lady told Rob that she was waiting until after church to take her children to the clinic. Little gestures such as this demonstrate right priorities.

After the preaching concludes, the offering is taken. One bag with a narrow opening in the top is passed throughout the congregation. Everyone seems to give something. Kara has given me a coin for just this purpose. The congregation begins to clap one last song and file out of the church while they sing. The first person out stands beside the front door and shakes the next person's hand and then joins the greeting line. Soon the entire congregation exchanges greetings and stretches in a line across the church yard. One final prayer and the service is concluded. I did not take pictures during the worship, but next week I will take a portrait of the entire congregation.

Rob meets me quickly after the service and urges me to get home fast and grab something to eat, we are going to visit a few families. After a sandwich on the run, we jump on board the motocross bike and head into Sweya central in order to visit Mwanzalima (pictured). Actually, the entire church is walking to Mwanzalima's home. His ten year old daughter died last weekend and the church is paying respects. This is a bit of a formality since the daughter did not live at home, but not to attend would be a slight. When Rob and I arrive at the hut most of the church family is already there. Someone offers me their stool, but I try to decline. This is met with disapproval and these words, "It is not good for an old man to be left standing." That's not what I need to hear. Does it help if I tell you that "old man" doesn't necessarily mean age, that it can also refer to experience or wisdom? Probably not.

I prop my stool near the wall of a mud hut and sit down with a few other men. Many are gathered on short chairs or benches in a corner between a hut and a wall made of wire, wood, and cornstalks. A dirty sheet provides some shade. Chickens stroll around our stools while goats graze a few feet away. We find out that we are going to be fed. Soon someone brings me a plate full of rice and beans, in addition to this, there is a cup of chai. Rob tells me not to worry about eating it all. He only takes a plate of rice. I am given a spoon, though the Tanzanians use their right hands without utensils. In some ways, I am happy to be sitting on my own stool since those under the sheet share a community plate--everyone eating from the same pile of rice. This is ok as long as you don't look at fingernails and what might be under them. Rob tells me the key of the community plate is carving out your own niche on which to munch. The rice and beans are actually fairly palatable. I manage to eat about a quarter or so; the chai is incredibly sweet and good. Ferdinand takes my plate and thanks me for being willing to eat strange food. His kind comment allows me to save face while returning a plate with food left.

While we eat, we carry on a conversation with a couple men in the church, Faustine and Safari. I ask them if they have ever heard of Gideon before. They both say, "No." How remarkable to tell Bible stories to ears that have never heard. With the meal concluded, we gather around Mwanzalima and share a word of encouragement and prayer. Rob asks a man in the church to lead this time, hoping for the nationals to demonstrate more proactive leadership. The man, Dani, manages to lead most of the time, but still asks Rob to say a few words. A plate is placed on Mwanzalima's table and we give a small offering. It is considered uncouth to receive or give anything with the left hand. Rob has bet me that I won't manage to make it through the visit without breaking the rule. I reach toward the offering plate with my left hand, but at the last second realize my mistake and switch hands. "Good move," Rob whispers, as I pull my hand back from the dish.

As we leave this gathering of church members, Rob announces we are going to go visit a couple more families. We hop on the bike and head to the area where the Howell's lived originally. I jump off the bike while Rob cruises through a small stream with his legs outstretched.  We pull up to a typical grouping of huts, and Rob calls out a greeting to a man named Charles, who comes down to welcome us. His wife, Rehema, has been attending the church almost since day one. Charles has never come despite many promises to do so. When Rob asks him why, he says, "I am a liar," with a dose of refreshing honesty. He invites us into their home. The front room is roughly 6'x10'. The walls are covered with old newspapers and pictures. A battery-powered clock keeps time. Our chairs are so close that our knees practically touch. The plastic and metal kitchen ware is piled in one corner of the room. We enjoy a pleasant visit and Charles promises again that he will come and hear me preach next Sunday. After a warm exchange of good-byes, we head off to the next stop.

The next family we visit had not been in church for some time until this morning. Their home was burglarized a few weeks ago and they were a little unhappy with what they perceived as a slow response from the church. A couple of the men visited them during the last week and so they were at the service this morning. Once again we exchange greetings and accept an invitation to come into their home. This house is bigger than the others I have visited and is furnished a bit nicer as well. When you become accustomed to dirt, cleanliness stands out and this house is clean. Through the course of our conversation, Rob smooths over any difficulties and renews the relationship. The wife hands Rob a letter requesting employment at the soon-to-be-completed orphanage. Here is one of the difficulties of ministry in Mwanza, balancing wants and needs with opportunities and motives.

We leave this home with very little time to make it to Shadi in time for the evening service. We stop by the house to pick up our Bibles and take off. The six kilometer ride flies by fast on the motocross. At one point in the afternoon, we almost spilled it while going quite slow, but managed to recover our balance without eating dirt. A few of the local women walking nearby got a good laugh at watching our legs go in every direction while we tried to maintain our balance and stay upright.

At Shadi, Ferdinand has arranged ten narrow benches under a tree. Lake Victoria is in the background. A congregation of about 25, that is noticeably poorer than even the people in Sweya, gathers. The clothes are dirty and ragged. There are a number of children who come sans parents. This is a decidedly rural setting. Roosters are perched just a few feet from the pulpit, strutting behind Rob, and letting loose throughout the sermon with piercing cock-a-doodle-doos. A herd of cows and goats walks by and covers the congregation with a cloud of dust. Rob stops preaching to let a lone auto pass. When it does, a dog lying at Rob's feet, begins to bark and chase the car. Rob says to the congregation, "I like that dog. He's guarding our service." They all laugh. Rob teaches for an hour or so about church membership and then there is a short break before a worship service much like the service at Sweya in the morning.

We've got about 20 minutes to make it back to Sweya before a scheduled call to my home church, so we quickly say goodbyes, mount the bike, and speed off. It's been a full, but very rewarding day.

A Relaxing Day

Life in Tanzania went into nuetral for a great part of the day.  Like every other morning, everyone is at the breakfast table early and enjoy eating together.  Rob spends the morning in his study, while the kids play and Kara works around the house.  Rob is visited by a couple men in the church.  The day is slow-paced and relaxing.  Sometime in the afternoon the electricity goes out for the first time since I arrived.  A roast is in the oven (first one they have had in eight months), so Rob goes to work on the generator with some replacement parts I had brought from his home church.  A couple of the key parts are too small, but just when we are ready to ask the Sanders for help, the electricity kicks back on...not too bad at all.  Rob teaches at the Bible Institute for a couple hours in the afternoon and then we visit a family in the church.  This evening we enjoy a wonderful roast beef meal and relax watching a little European soccer (Ajax vs. Arsenal at the Amsterdam Cup for fans.  Arsenal buries one in the net at the 87th minute mark to win).  All-in-all a good day.  I'll just include a couple photo albums with this post.

The first is of the orphanage project at Tumaini.  You can see the construction is moving rapidly along.  Next week trusses will be constructed on the staff house and children's residence (by the way, there were two of us on that bike going out to Tumaini, DMD).

The second is of the Howell's home.  You can see several views of their residence, the guest house, and the huts for visiting teams. 

My Other Day Job: Coroner in Sweya

This afternoon two of the village leaders (every 100 huts is represented by a leader) come to the Howell's home to ask for a favor. Someone has died in the village of Sweya and the family needs the body transported to the village of Shadi, about 6 kilometers away. Since Grace Baptist Mission owns some of the only vehicles in the area, this is not an unusual request. I am just settling down to check my email, when Rob knocks on my door, "Are you ready for another cultural experience?  Do you want to take a dead body to Shadi?" Since the strange is beginning to be normal around here, it doesn't take so long for the question to sink in, "Sure," I respond. I don't get to haul dead bodies around everyday in Ohio. Only he really means, do YOU want to do this. He's staying home. "OK."

Death is a common event here. The first or second evening after I arrived, a church member came over to tell Rob of the death of his ten year old daughter. It was matter of fact--the will of God. When someone dies the body is often taken to the village of birth as is the case today. I will go with Ferdinand and the two village leaders to collect the body. I have no idea what this entails. In addition to this, I will leave Ferdinand out at Shadi and drive back myself. Now this all sounds reasonable enough until you consider the extenuating circumstances: the van is right hand shift and drive, the roads are dirt paths and unmarked, and I will have no one who can speak English coming back with me. Rob hands me a cell phone in case I get in trouble.

The four of us start the van and head down a number of narrow dirt paths to the home pictured here. The two village leaders trek across a field and disappear. I hop out of the van and take a few pictures. I ask Ferdinand if I should take pictures of the transport of the body, and he says he will ask, but I tuck the camera away under the front seat. It seems a bit odd to take pictures of such an event. In about ten minutes a small procession winds its way through the underbrush. About fifteen or so people are accompanying the body. Four men lug an old mattress curled up on the edges. The body is wrapped in a blanket with the feet sticking out. Neither Ferdinand, nor myself, know exactly who has died and neither of us want to ask.

They place the body directly behind my seat across the floor. It takes some effort to get it in the van. There are men, women, and young teens in the procession, all dressed in their one best outfit. The clothes are colorful, no dark mourning attire. I am surprised when they all start clambering into the seats, since I thought we were only transporting a body. The van is packed to the gills and soon smells like a football locker room during halftime. There are three women seated directly behind me with the body touching their feet. Ferdinand turns the van around and we begin the bouncy trek to Shadi.

Almost immediately, an older woman begins to sing/chant a song in Swahili. The rest of the occupants join her, sometimes repeating the same line as a chorus while the older woman sings the verses. It is not a liturgy, but it is not a song of joy either. They sing all the way to Shadi. When we hit bumps, all their voices go up in unison with the chassis of the van. As for me, I am enjoying the moment, but I am also picking out landmarks at turns. I grab a pen out of Ferdinand's pocket and take notes: right at the newly constructed hut, left at the old German building, left at the red and yellow hut, etc. I don't want to get lost out here going back.

After about a twenty-minute drive we arrive at our destination--a small mud hut with a cluster of people outside. Our occupants get out and manage their burden. At this point I reach down and pick up the camera, taking a couple of pictures when they start down the path to the hut with their backs toward the lense. Ferdinand and I are both surprised when one of them suddenly turns and asks when we are leaving to go back. "Now." Word spreads down to the group quickly and several decide they want a ride back to Sweya.  I wonder if these are immediate family members--they seem to be.  If so, life goes on, and rather quickly at that.

In a few minutes the van is reloaded (well, one guy got a door shut on his finger and had to go to a clinic nearby, but that's another story). I ask Ferdinand to ask them if I can take a picture. One girl says, "Money." Ah, they know that English word. I put the camera back down and shake my head "no." This opportunistic American is not going to give in to an opportunistic Tanzanian. The others disagree, however, and Ferdinand tells me I can take the picture. The troop begins to sing, and we head back to Sweya, this time with me driving.

This is the first time I have driven a vehicle with the wheel on the right hand side, plus this has a stick--in my left hand. The travel books say trying this in London is simply suicide, but this is not London. The only other means of locomotion on these paths are bicycles, so I don't fear traffic, only pedestrians. In Mwanza, the vehicles have the right-of-way. We are headed the wrong way down this path so we need to turn around. Ferdinand points to a cow path. Nope, I'm not going to try that right out of the chute. I keep moving along until I come to a gateway that is large enough to get turned around with only a few "ups and backs." I drop Ferdinand off at the orphanage work site in Shadi and turn back toward Sweya.

Now I suppose this is no big deal for some people, but it dawns on me that I have just arrived in Africa, that I am driving through the country with a van full of people that don't speak English, and that I am not altogether sure where I am going. At least my passengers know the way back to Sweya and how to point. The path is full of deep ruts and run-offs. I can only get it into third gear once or twice, puttering along in second most of the way. Sometimes the path is so narrow that branches scrape the side of the vehicle.  At one point, we actually meet a pick-up truck coming from the opposite direction. I naturally begin to move to the right of the path, then catch myself, and move back to the left. They laugh at me when I begin gesturing before turns to make sure I am going the right way. We make it back in one piece and a young man stays in the van to make sure I get back to Rob's house without getting lost--a nice gesture.

When we arrive at the Howell's, I pull the van into their neighbor's driveway and honk. Someone is supposed to come and open the gate. Nobody does. I sit there idling. After a few minutes I pull out the cell phone and call Rob. "Hey, can someone open the gate and let me in?" All the way to Shadi and back and the biggest hurdle was at my own front gate.