After the car accident where I broke my right leg, I had to wear a cast down my entire leg for a long time (I can’t really remember how long it was, but it was during summer and fall, and since I couldn’t run around like the other kids, it seemed like a very long time). When the cast came off (12 years old), my right leg was covered with long, dark hair. This was especially humorous because my left leg had barely any hair!
But no worries, my left leg quickly caught up. Ever since then, I have always had a lot of leg hair. For a while, it was something I tried to hide, because I was embarrassed by it. Later on, I didn’t really care as much, but it was always something I was conscious of.
Here at the Shalom center, the kids don’t have very much hair. All of their haircuts are very short, girls also, probably because it’s not easy to bathe (There are no showers. We, including myself, fill buckets of water from the nearby steam and then slowly pour it on our bodies with a cup. It would probably take several buckets and a lot of time to clean long hair this way).
The last time I cut my hair was in Mozambique. I told the barber to cut it shorter, but not very short. Unfortunately for me there is only one hair cut for African males (a generalization, but largely true), and he cut my hair extremely short, probably the shortest it’s ever been. At least I won’t need another haircut for a while!
But even with this shorter hair, the kids here love to touch my hair. And not only my head hair, but my arms and legs, too! They are fascinated by it. Any time I sit down, they come in around me and one will run their hands through my head hair, another will rub my arm, and if I’m wearing shorts, they will play with my leg hair, too. And not just the smallest kids do this- even the 15 year-old children do!
I know you are probably freaked out by this. At first, I was, too. It seemed really weird. But now I think it’s pretty funny. Here is something basic, that people really can’t control (maybe we can shave or wax, but hair still grows back! And when we lose it, it’s hard to get it back). And yet it was used as a way to connect with the kids. God knows I need ways to connect with these kids, as almost all of them don’t speak English, and I only speak a few words of Swahili!
The other day, an 11 year-old girl (who lived in Kenya, and therefore speaks English and often acts as a translator) told me she wants long leg hair like mine one day. I just laughed.
Friday, April 13, 2007
I Wanna Hold Your Hand
In Africa, there’s a lot of holding hands that goes on. It happens between siblings, friends, and parents and kids. But it even happens between grown-up males!
This really freaked me out. I mean, it’s fine if other men want to do it, but it was really weird when another man would hold my hand. It felt like a Seinfeld episode- the one with the close talker. I felt like Jerry, when the “close talker” would come and stand right in his face, and he would stumble backwards, trying to escape.
I knew that African men hold hands sometimes, and that this was natural and meant only that you are good friends. But this didn’t make it less weird.
It first happened in Zambia, with my friend Friday. I had said something funny, and Friday wanted to give me five- but after he did, he didn’t let go of my hand. I remember feeling awkward and looking for someway of getting my hand out of there! Eventually, a nose scratch was what saved me.
At the Shalom center, the kids would always hold my hand- whether they were young or old, male or female. One of the young adults who lives nearby and often helps out even held my hand sometimes.
At this point, I began to start feeling more comfortable with this phenomenon. Why should I discriminate between male and female, young and old in this way? All those kids were looking for a friend, someone to love. Should I pull my hand back from one only because he was 17?
It reminded me of my time in Argentina, where strangers greet each other with a kiss on the cheek- even men to other men. At first it seemed weird, but then I got used to it, and now I really like this way of greeting. It gave a new meaning for me when I read in the Bible in Paul’s letters about greeting people with a holy kiss.
Here in Africa, I’m not going to go looking for guys' hands to hold. But if it happens, it happens. It’s just one way to show your friendship.
This really freaked me out. I mean, it’s fine if other men want to do it, but it was really weird when another man would hold my hand. It felt like a Seinfeld episode- the one with the close talker. I felt like Jerry, when the “close talker” would come and stand right in his face, and he would stumble backwards, trying to escape.
I knew that African men hold hands sometimes, and that this was natural and meant only that you are good friends. But this didn’t make it less weird.
It first happened in Zambia, with my friend Friday. I had said something funny, and Friday wanted to give me five- but after he did, he didn’t let go of my hand. I remember feeling awkward and looking for someway of getting my hand out of there! Eventually, a nose scratch was what saved me.
At the Shalom center, the kids would always hold my hand- whether they were young or old, male or female. One of the young adults who lives nearby and often helps out even held my hand sometimes.
At this point, I began to start feeling more comfortable with this phenomenon. Why should I discriminate between male and female, young and old in this way? All those kids were looking for a friend, someone to love. Should I pull my hand back from one only because he was 17?
It reminded me of my time in Argentina, where strangers greet each other with a kiss on the cheek- even men to other men. At first it seemed weird, but then I got used to it, and now I really like this way of greeting. It gave a new meaning for me when I read in the Bible in Paul’s letters about greeting people with a holy kiss.
Here in Africa, I’m not going to go looking for guys' hands to hold. But if it happens, it happens. It’s just one way to show your friendship.
A New Record
I now have a new record. I was in a minibus with 35 people! Almost all of them were the young kids at the Shalom center, but hey, I’m counting it. 35 people, and of course not a single seatbelt…
Let's Play Doctor
I am very far from being considered a medical expert. My brother studied kinesiology in college, so he knows a lot about the body and how it works, but I know practically nothing. Almost everything I know about medicine and first aid comes from my time as a boy scout.
I know the basics, and could do CPR or the Heimlich on someone if necessary. By chance, here in Arusha, I had bought and just finished a book about Dr. Ben Carson, at Johns Hopkins, so I felt like I had new knowledge on the subject (The book is called “Gifted Hands”, and is a great story about his life and faith).
But then, my little knowledge had to be put into practice. We were up at the school, playing soccer and other games, when suddenly we heard a loud scream. “AHHHH!!! TEACHER, TEACHER! NJOOOO (come, in Swahili, one of the few words I knew)!”
The social worked and I ran over, and Maggie, an 11-year-old girl, had cut the bottom of her foot very badly. We were there in just a second, but there was already blood everywhere. The cut was about 3 inches long, and deep. She had been playing barefoot (like most of us, myself included), and stepped on some glass.
The social worker didn’t know what to do. Luckily he spoke English, so I gave out instructions. I got out my handkerchief, wrapped it around her foot, and pulled it tight. I told him to tell her to put pressure on it, using her hand or whatever else she could, and to keep the foot raised if possible (I don’t know if this was the right thing to do or not, but that’s what my instinct told me would help slow the bleeding). Then I ran down the hill to the center (about a 15 minute walk away) to get my first aid kit.
I ran back, putting on rubber gloves as I cradled the bag around my arm. I didn’t really know how serious it could be- it seemed like she was bleeding a lot, so I didn’t want to waste any time. When I got back to her, I saw that the handkerchief had been tossed aside, completely red and soaked in blood. They had put something else on her foot, and when I got there with the supplies, she took it off when I asked her to. Blood came pouring out.
Now, I really don’t like thinking about blood. Even since the car accident over 12 years ago where my father died and I was badly injured, I cringe at the thought or talk of blood. I no longer like needles, and it’s really difficult for anyone to take blood from me, and it’s impossible for me to give blood (which is a shame, because it is very important to give blood!). I even close my eyes during movies when there is even a threat of seeing blood.
This is even more ironic because as middle school student, I was one of the lucky ones who got to go and see Dr. Ben Carson speak at Johns Hopkins. And, after that I knew I wanted to be a doctor. The accident shortly after changed that dream.
Back at the school with Maggie, I felt like the guy in one of our commercials: He performs brain surgery, and then one of the nurses asks, “Doctor, when did you start working here?” He replies, “Oh, I’m not a doctor, I’m just with the tour. But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night”.
Of course this wasn’t brain surgery. I didn’t hesitate- I got out an alcohol wipe, and quickly ran it over her cut. I got out the gauze, put iodine on it, and taped it tightly over the cut. Then we carried her back to the center. I talked with the social workers, and told them that, in my not so expert medical opinion, she needed stitches.
So, we carried her down to the bus stop, and waited for a minibus. We had to squeeze into a crowded bus, and then get off at the hospital stop. But it was the Saturday before Easter, and this hospital was closed. So we hopped back on another crowded minibus and went to the closest clinic. It was a long walk, and it seemed like an obstacle course just to get her help. Since I was the one carrying her this whole time it seemed like a very long obstacle course!
The verdict: five stitches, and a tetanus shot. I think it was good that I was around, because the social workers had no idea what to do in that situation. It’s funny how God will use you even in those ways you never thought possible. But, that was enough blood and playing doctor in for me!
I know the basics, and could do CPR or the Heimlich on someone if necessary. By chance, here in Arusha, I had bought and just finished a book about Dr. Ben Carson, at Johns Hopkins, so I felt like I had new knowledge on the subject (The book is called “Gifted Hands”, and is a great story about his life and faith).
But then, my little knowledge had to be put into practice. We were up at the school, playing soccer and other games, when suddenly we heard a loud scream. “AHHHH!!! TEACHER, TEACHER! NJOOOO (come, in Swahili, one of the few words I knew)!”
The social worked and I ran over, and Maggie, an 11-year-old girl, had cut the bottom of her foot very badly. We were there in just a second, but there was already blood everywhere. The cut was about 3 inches long, and deep. She had been playing barefoot (like most of us, myself included), and stepped on some glass.
The social worker didn’t know what to do. Luckily he spoke English, so I gave out instructions. I got out my handkerchief, wrapped it around her foot, and pulled it tight. I told him to tell her to put pressure on it, using her hand or whatever else she could, and to keep the foot raised if possible (I don’t know if this was the right thing to do or not, but that’s what my instinct told me would help slow the bleeding). Then I ran down the hill to the center (about a 15 minute walk away) to get my first aid kit.
I ran back, putting on rubber gloves as I cradled the bag around my arm. I didn’t really know how serious it could be- it seemed like she was bleeding a lot, so I didn’t want to waste any time. When I got back to her, I saw that the handkerchief had been tossed aside, completely red and soaked in blood. They had put something else on her foot, and when I got there with the supplies, she took it off when I asked her to. Blood came pouring out.
Now, I really don’t like thinking about blood. Even since the car accident over 12 years ago where my father died and I was badly injured, I cringe at the thought or talk of blood. I no longer like needles, and it’s really difficult for anyone to take blood from me, and it’s impossible for me to give blood (which is a shame, because it is very important to give blood!). I even close my eyes during movies when there is even a threat of seeing blood.
This is even more ironic because as middle school student, I was one of the lucky ones who got to go and see Dr. Ben Carson speak at Johns Hopkins. And, after that I knew I wanted to be a doctor. The accident shortly after changed that dream.
Back at the school with Maggie, I felt like the guy in one of our commercials: He performs brain surgery, and then one of the nurses asks, “Doctor, when did you start working here?” He replies, “Oh, I’m not a doctor, I’m just with the tour. But I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night”.
Of course this wasn’t brain surgery. I didn’t hesitate- I got out an alcohol wipe, and quickly ran it over her cut. I got out the gauze, put iodine on it, and taped it tightly over the cut. Then we carried her back to the center. I talked with the social workers, and told them that, in my not so expert medical opinion, she needed stitches.
So, we carried her down to the bus stop, and waited for a minibus. We had to squeeze into a crowded bus, and then get off at the hospital stop. But it was the Saturday before Easter, and this hospital was closed. So we hopped back on another crowded minibus and went to the closest clinic. It was a long walk, and it seemed like an obstacle course just to get her help. Since I was the one carrying her this whole time it seemed like a very long obstacle course!
The verdict: five stitches, and a tetanus shot. I think it was good that I was around, because the social workers had no idea what to do in that situation. It’s funny how God will use you even in those ways you never thought possible. But, that was enough blood and playing doctor in for me!
East York High School Volleyball
Walking around Africa, it’s always really interesting observing the different kinds of clothes you see. The more traditional clothing that many older women wear is very colorful and pretty. Many of us have seen pictures of the Masai tribe, and the colorful clothing and sandals made from old tires that they wear. Here, in Arusha, there are many Masai people, and several of the kids at the center are Masai.
I especially enjoy reading the t-shirts that I see. Here in Africa you see all sorts of random shirts that are obviously from the states. Like ones that mention specific middle schools and then have a map of Wisconsin on the back, with a star showing the location of that school. Or ones from different sports teams, including indoor soccer, minor league baseball, or even the professional sports teams.
I always get excited when I see shirts from my favorite sports teams. I saw an Orioles shirt the other day, and I have seen many old Steelers jerseys (ones of Kordell Stewart and Levon Kirkland). Just a couple of days ago I saw a Maryland shirt, and that got me so excited that I greeted the person wearing it. He was probably startled, but he didn’t speak English, though.
The obscure shirts especially got me thinking. At first, it seemed kind of ridiculous that someone here in Africa would be wearing an East York High School Volleyball t-shirt. I mean, they had no idea where East York was, and they certainly had never been there, and possibly they didn’t even know what volleyball was (these are my assumptions). Imagine seeing kids walk around the states with shirts in Swahili saying something like “Kwamref Cricket”.
Another natural thing to assume is that people in the states donated these clothing items, and the people here, as the level of poverty is higher, are in greater need for donated clothing. For the most part, I think that this is true.
But as I continued thinking, I started to wonder, maybe the people like wearing these shirts, even though they don’t know what they say. Or maybe, they could care less about what their shirt says, as long as they have a shirt to wear. I also wondered that, if by wearing one of the shirts, their peers would know that they are poor and had accepted donated clothing. Would this even matter to them?
I also thought about us, in the states. If we do give away clothing, we (including myself) only give away old clothing that we don’t want to wear anymore. I would never give away my favorite t-shirts. I would wait until that shirt is worn, or rips, and then when I do a spring cleaning of my dresser, I would throw it with the other shirts I hadn’t worn for over a year in a pile for Goodwill. What does this say about us and our culture, if we only give away the stuff that we don’t want, that we would just as well throw away? Why do I have so many t-shirts anyway?
I especially enjoy reading the t-shirts that I see. Here in Africa you see all sorts of random shirts that are obviously from the states. Like ones that mention specific middle schools and then have a map of Wisconsin on the back, with a star showing the location of that school. Or ones from different sports teams, including indoor soccer, minor league baseball, or even the professional sports teams.
I always get excited when I see shirts from my favorite sports teams. I saw an Orioles shirt the other day, and I have seen many old Steelers jerseys (ones of Kordell Stewart and Levon Kirkland). Just a couple of days ago I saw a Maryland shirt, and that got me so excited that I greeted the person wearing it. He was probably startled, but he didn’t speak English, though.
The obscure shirts especially got me thinking. At first, it seemed kind of ridiculous that someone here in Africa would be wearing an East York High School Volleyball t-shirt. I mean, they had no idea where East York was, and they certainly had never been there, and possibly they didn’t even know what volleyball was (these are my assumptions). Imagine seeing kids walk around the states with shirts in Swahili saying something like “Kwamref Cricket”.
Another natural thing to assume is that people in the states donated these clothing items, and the people here, as the level of poverty is higher, are in greater need for donated clothing. For the most part, I think that this is true.
But as I continued thinking, I started to wonder, maybe the people like wearing these shirts, even though they don’t know what they say. Or maybe, they could care less about what their shirt says, as long as they have a shirt to wear. I also wondered that, if by wearing one of the shirts, their peers would know that they are poor and had accepted donated clothing. Would this even matter to them?
I also thought about us, in the states. If we do give away clothing, we (including myself) only give away old clothing that we don’t want to wear anymore. I would never give away my favorite t-shirts. I would wait until that shirt is worn, or rips, and then when I do a spring cleaning of my dresser, I would throw it with the other shirts I hadn’t worn for over a year in a pile for Goodwill. What does this say about us and our culture, if we only give away the stuff that we don’t want, that we would just as well throw away? Why do I have so many t-shirts anyway?
Shalom My Friend
After a grueling two days straight on the road, I finally made it to Arusha, Tanzania. I have a friend here that I met at the World Council of Churches in Brazil, and I was looking forward to seeing her. I was exhausted and just feeling a bit down (probably from lack of sleep and food!).
I had been in contact with Joan (pronounced Joanne), and she helped look up places where I could do service work. When I got in, I grabbed a cheap hotel room, and called her. She was away, in the nearby town of Moshi (at the foot of Mt. Kilimanjaro), at a funeral. I didn’t know then, but funerals here in Africa are much longer affairs. Sometimes even three to four days! I was disappointed, because I knew that seeing a familiar face would help my spirits, but of course I knew it was important for her to be with her grieving friend.
But she did tell me that I should go to the ELCT (Evangelical Lutheran Church in Tanzania) to ask them about service opportunities. The next day, after searching around the city, I found the ELCT offices. I went in and talked with them, but they had no idea what to do with me. At this point I was feeling really low. What was I going to do?
I called Joan back, and she said she had talked to someone at Compassion International about me volunteering there. So I headed on over. I talked with the volunteer director, but he said they wouldn’t have anything for over a week. And, the work would be stuffing envelopes to send to the different donors.
I know that those kinds of things are important, but I didn’t want to spend my time in Africa doing that. I wanted to be with people. So, I quickly told him thanks, but I was looking to get started right away- I didn’t have a lot of time here in Arusha due to the change in plans.
The volunteer coordinator then offered a suggestion. He is on the board of a local home for street kids, and he could call up the director and ask if I could volunteer there. Without hesitation, I agreed.
The coordinator was happy to have a volunteer. He was close by and would meet me and take me to the center. I was really excited because this is the kind of work I wanted to do. For some strange reason, I have always (since middle school at least) had a dream to volunteer at a home for street kids and orphans in Tanzania. Why Tanzania, I’m not sure. But that’s been a dream of mine.
When we got to the place and I met the kids, I knew that this is where I should be for my time in Arusha. It wasn’t the original plan, but somehow I was directed here, to the Shalom Center for Street Kids.
I had been in contact with Joan (pronounced Joanne), and she helped look up places where I could do service work. When I got in, I grabbed a cheap hotel room, and called her. She was away, in the nearby town of Moshi (at the foot of Mt. Kilimanjaro), at a funeral. I didn’t know then, but funerals here in Africa are much longer affairs. Sometimes even three to four days! I was disappointed, because I knew that seeing a familiar face would help my spirits, but of course I knew it was important for her to be with her grieving friend.
But she did tell me that I should go to the ELCT (Evangelical Lutheran Church in Tanzania) to ask them about service opportunities. The next day, after searching around the city, I found the ELCT offices. I went in and talked with them, but they had no idea what to do with me. At this point I was feeling really low. What was I going to do?
I called Joan back, and she said she had talked to someone at Compassion International about me volunteering there. So I headed on over. I talked with the volunteer director, but he said they wouldn’t have anything for over a week. And, the work would be stuffing envelopes to send to the different donors.
I know that those kinds of things are important, but I didn’t want to spend my time in Africa doing that. I wanted to be with people. So, I quickly told him thanks, but I was looking to get started right away- I didn’t have a lot of time here in Arusha due to the change in plans.
The volunteer coordinator then offered a suggestion. He is on the board of a local home for street kids, and he could call up the director and ask if I could volunteer there. Without hesitation, I agreed.
The coordinator was happy to have a volunteer. He was close by and would meet me and take me to the center. I was really excited because this is the kind of work I wanted to do. For some strange reason, I have always (since middle school at least) had a dream to volunteer at a home for street kids and orphans in Tanzania. Why Tanzania, I’m not sure. But that’s been a dream of mine.
When we got to the place and I met the kids, I knew that this is where I should be for my time in Arusha. It wasn’t the original plan, but somehow I was directed here, to the Shalom Center for Street Kids.
No, You Can't Get There
One of the things I often hear in my travels is “no, you can’t get there”. Either the last bus for the day has left, or there are no buses, or there is no road anymore.
To me, “no, you can’t get there” sounds a little more like “I double-dog dare you to try and get there”, or “I’ll bet you can’t make it”.
And, through all my travels, every time someone tells me I can’t, I take it personally, and I always find a way to do it.
In Peru, they told us the mountain had collapsed onto the road, and so it was impossible to get to Cuzco. Maybe we’d have to wait a day or two, or maybe as long as several weeks. Of course this was entirely too long. So, I took a bus to the avalanche, and then hiked over it and onto the other side of the road. An hour later a bus coming the other way, who apparently hadn’t heard the news, came to the no longer existing road, and as he couldn’t continue, turned around and headed back towards Cuzco. I hopped on, and was on my way.
In Montevideo, Uruguay I went early in the morning to the bus station to catch a bus to Porto Alegre, Brazil, where our conference was starting the next day. But, they told me, I couldn’t get there- the only buses for Southern Brazil leave at night, and take over fourteen hours. If I waited in Montevideo for the next direct bus, I would be late.
So, I just took any bus that would get me a little closer to Porto Alegre. Every time we got to our destination, when I asked about getting to PA people told me it wasn’t possible. Little by little I got closer, and after four or five buses, and 16 hours, I arrived in Porto Alegre at midnight.
In Mbeya, Tanzania, I got to the bus station at about 3 pm and asked about the next bus to Arusha or Dar es Salaam. Many people told me it was impossible- I’d have to wait till the next morning. One man was very insistent on this point- but that’s probably because he had a bus going to Dar the next day.
After asking around at the bus station, I found out they were right. The next bus left in 17 hours! But I wanted to be in Arusha by the next day.
With some help, I went to the nearby junction, and by 4 pm I had found a truck driver going to Dar who agreed to take me with him- for less than a bus ticket would cost. It was even more comfy than the bus, as there was lots of space, and I got a good amount of sleep. Early in the morning we came to the road to Arusha, and in 15 minutes I was on the next bus.
Its funny how, in life, so many people tell us “no, you can’t”. They could help us or point us in the right direction, but instead they tell us no. Even our best friends do this, too! But sometimes when you feel called to do something (and, I’m not talking about buses anymore), you just won’t take no for an answer. In my experience, there are always obstacles to doing what you feel called to do. Some are bigger than others, and sometimes we let them block us from God’s Will. As for me, I always like the challenge. It wouldn’t be as fun without a couple of obstacles.
To me, “no, you can’t get there” sounds a little more like “I double-dog dare you to try and get there”, or “I’ll bet you can’t make it”.
And, through all my travels, every time someone tells me I can’t, I take it personally, and I always find a way to do it.
In Peru, they told us the mountain had collapsed onto the road, and so it was impossible to get to Cuzco. Maybe we’d have to wait a day or two, or maybe as long as several weeks. Of course this was entirely too long. So, I took a bus to the avalanche, and then hiked over it and onto the other side of the road. An hour later a bus coming the other way, who apparently hadn’t heard the news, came to the no longer existing road, and as he couldn’t continue, turned around and headed back towards Cuzco. I hopped on, and was on my way.
In Montevideo, Uruguay I went early in the morning to the bus station to catch a bus to Porto Alegre, Brazil, where our conference was starting the next day. But, they told me, I couldn’t get there- the only buses for Southern Brazil leave at night, and take over fourteen hours. If I waited in Montevideo for the next direct bus, I would be late.
So, I just took any bus that would get me a little closer to Porto Alegre. Every time we got to our destination, when I asked about getting to PA people told me it wasn’t possible. Little by little I got closer, and after four or five buses, and 16 hours, I arrived in Porto Alegre at midnight.
In Mbeya, Tanzania, I got to the bus station at about 3 pm and asked about the next bus to Arusha or Dar es Salaam. Many people told me it was impossible- I’d have to wait till the next morning. One man was very insistent on this point- but that’s probably because he had a bus going to Dar the next day.
After asking around at the bus station, I found out they were right. The next bus left in 17 hours! But I wanted to be in Arusha by the next day.
With some help, I went to the nearby junction, and by 4 pm I had found a truck driver going to Dar who agreed to take me with him- for less than a bus ticket would cost. It was even more comfy than the bus, as there was lots of space, and I got a good amount of sleep. Early in the morning we came to the road to Arusha, and in 15 minutes I was on the next bus.
Its funny how, in life, so many people tell us “no, you can’t”. They could help us or point us in the right direction, but instead they tell us no. Even our best friends do this, too! But sometimes when you feel called to do something (and, I’m not talking about buses anymore), you just won’t take no for an answer. In my experience, there are always obstacles to doing what you feel called to do. Some are bigger than others, and sometimes we let them block us from God’s Will. As for me, I always like the challenge. It wouldn’t be as fun without a couple of obstacles.
A Big Change in Plans
When I travel, I like to make outlines of where I’ll be, and when. For a long trip, I start by thinking of my route, and then writing down how much time I would ideally like to spend in each place. Then when I figure out how much time I actually have, I start cutting out time from different places, until the number of days are roughly the same.
Of course I never follow the schedule. It’s more of a suggestion, or a guess. I think of that line in Pirates of the Caribbean- “They aren’t rules, they're more guidelines”. Sometimes things don’t work out somewhere, so I quickly move on. Sometimes they work out great, so I stay a little longer. The schedule is important, though, to give to my mother, so she has at least some idea of where I’ll be.
Near the end of my time in Mozambique, I got an invitation to be a part of the World Council of Churches newly formed youth body (youth, in WCC terms, means 18-30 years old). I was really excited! At the end of the email, I saw the dates- May 4th, 2007.
That was only a couple months away! And, that was the day I was supposed to get into Kenya! I have several good friends in Kenya that I was excited about seeing, and I had scheduled three weeks in Kenya to do service work- and I had some great places I was considering to volunteer (but no formal commitments yet).
After praying and thinking about the situation, I decided to accept the invitation. It meant rearranging my schedule- but hey, that’s why it’s only a guideline. I felt that, although God was calling me to do service work, I was also being called to be a part of this body. So, I left Tete, Mozambique a couple of days early, to start saving up a couple of days to be in Nairobi.
In a way, I think that this is what my life after college has been like. I make my schedule, but something always pops up. It has helped to teach me to be flexible- I hear God telling me “you never know when I will call you somewhere, and so you better be ready!” It has also taught me to trust God. “You may think you know what’s best and where you’re going, but I have something better in store for you. Just trust me.”
So, the new plan is to go to Geneva, and then go early to Israel/Palestine. But who knows if this new schedule won’t change again…
Of course I never follow the schedule. It’s more of a suggestion, or a guess. I think of that line in Pirates of the Caribbean- “They aren’t rules, they're more guidelines”. Sometimes things don’t work out somewhere, so I quickly move on. Sometimes they work out great, so I stay a little longer. The schedule is important, though, to give to my mother, so she has at least some idea of where I’ll be.
Near the end of my time in Mozambique, I got an invitation to be a part of the World Council of Churches newly formed youth body (youth, in WCC terms, means 18-30 years old). I was really excited! At the end of the email, I saw the dates- May 4th, 2007.
That was only a couple months away! And, that was the day I was supposed to get into Kenya! I have several good friends in Kenya that I was excited about seeing, and I had scheduled three weeks in Kenya to do service work- and I had some great places I was considering to volunteer (but no formal commitments yet).
After praying and thinking about the situation, I decided to accept the invitation. It meant rearranging my schedule- but hey, that’s why it’s only a guideline. I felt that, although God was calling me to do service work, I was also being called to be a part of this body. So, I left Tete, Mozambique a couple of days early, to start saving up a couple of days to be in Nairobi.
In a way, I think that this is what my life after college has been like. I make my schedule, but something always pops up. It has helped to teach me to be flexible- I hear God telling me “you never know when I will call you somewhere, and so you better be ready!” It has also taught me to trust God. “You may think you know what’s best and where you’re going, but I have something better in store for you. Just trust me.”
So, the new plan is to go to Geneva, and then go early to Israel/Palestine. But who knows if this new schedule won’t change again…
Take a Ride With Me
As you might imagine, transportation works a bit differently in Africa.
Sometimes there are long distance buses- but I’ve found these only in the ‘richer’ countries (South Africa and Botswana, for example). The other countries usually have at least one bus a day between major cities, but it is impossible to find a schedule and you can’t buy a ticket in advance.
In most cases, the main form of transport for both long and short distances is a minibus- a 15 passenger van. But of course there are never only 15 people- they pack them as tight as they can. The most in a van that I was in was 25. Friends have had 27 and 28.
Being squeezed in isn’t so comfortable for a 6 ft 4 tall guy. (I honestly have not seen or met anyone even 6’2 in all of Africa) Every time we stop for more than a minute I try to jump out and stretch my aching legs. Man do my knees get sore! I try for the front seat, but they are the first seats to go, so I am relegated to the back.
I could wait for the next minibus in order to get in the front, but there’s no telling when it will leave. At the station, the minibuses only leave when they are full. I have waited over two hours in a minibus waiting for it to fill! This was especially painful on my trip from Tete to Arusha, because I had to take 6 different minibuses, each time waiting and waiting. It made the trip over two days long- with no breaks to sleep!
One of the neat things, though, is that you get a type of fast food service any time you pull to the side. Men and women selling all types of food and drinks run to the bus, and you don’t even need to step out to get a snack. Its funny watching money and goods exchange hands, even as the bus starts pulling away. On many occasions I have seen the vendors running to catch up to give a person their change.
But you have to be careful not to drink too much. You never know when you’ll get a toilet break. Five hours was the longest I had to wait. If I really have to go, I just kindly ask the driver if I can go to the bathroom the next time we stop to drop off or pick someone up. Usually he says yes, but I can only imagine how hard it would be for women who can’t just unzip and go quickly on the side of the road!
Sometimes there are long distance buses- but I’ve found these only in the ‘richer’ countries (South Africa and Botswana, for example). The other countries usually have at least one bus a day between major cities, but it is impossible to find a schedule and you can’t buy a ticket in advance.
In most cases, the main form of transport for both long and short distances is a minibus- a 15 passenger van. But of course there are never only 15 people- they pack them as tight as they can. The most in a van that I was in was 25. Friends have had 27 and 28.
Being squeezed in isn’t so comfortable for a 6 ft 4 tall guy. (I honestly have not seen or met anyone even 6’2 in all of Africa) Every time we stop for more than a minute I try to jump out and stretch my aching legs. Man do my knees get sore! I try for the front seat, but they are the first seats to go, so I am relegated to the back.
I could wait for the next minibus in order to get in the front, but there’s no telling when it will leave. At the station, the minibuses only leave when they are full. I have waited over two hours in a minibus waiting for it to fill! This was especially painful on my trip from Tete to Arusha, because I had to take 6 different minibuses, each time waiting and waiting. It made the trip over two days long- with no breaks to sleep!
One of the neat things, though, is that you get a type of fast food service any time you pull to the side. Men and women selling all types of food and drinks run to the bus, and you don’t even need to step out to get a snack. Its funny watching money and goods exchange hands, even as the bus starts pulling away. On many occasions I have seen the vendors running to catch up to give a person their change.
But you have to be careful not to drink too much. You never know when you’ll get a toilet break. Five hours was the longest I had to wait. If I really have to go, I just kindly ask the driver if I can go to the bathroom the next time we stop to drop off or pick someone up. Usually he says yes, but I can only imagine how hard it would be for women who can’t just unzip and go quickly on the side of the road!
The Beauty of South Africa
South Africa is probably a beautiful country. I only got to see Johannesburg, but I have heard so many nice things about Cape Town, Kruger National Park, and other areas.
But to me, it wasn’t a very beautiful place.
Don’t get me wrong- I loved my time there, especially being with the kids at Nkosi’s Haven. They were wonderful.
But I can’t believe that the country had a policy of apartheid until 1994. I can’t believe that we as a country and we as a people largely stood on the sidelines, allowing this to continue, almost until the very end. It is true that many Americans began a divestment campaign, helping to finally end apartheid, but this only happened in force near the very end.
The place reeked of racism. You have plenty of neighborhoods where only whites or only blacks can enter. We were at risk if we went to a black neighborhood without a black guide (Soweto, for example). Even the nearby church that I went to had racist elements in it.
I listened to several stories from black college students about the blatant racism that still exists. Whites get better service in the country. And I heard many people, especially black South Africans, go on racist rants about Zimbabweans that are flooding their country from the economically and politically unstable dictatorship of Mugabe.
On my bus ride to Botswana, there were three white people besides me. They were first in the line and grabbed the front three rows of seats, one to each row. Black after black got on the bus, asking them if the seat next to them was free. No, they responded. The bus continued to fill, and when it was time to go there were only three open seats- all at the front.
There were bus troubles, and we had to stop. The (white) conductor came out, and spoke to us- in Afrikaans. This is one of the official languages in South Africa, and it also happens to be the language spoken by the whites. Kids have to take Afrikaans in school, but generally black people don’t know Afrikaans as well. Many people asked the conductor to explain what was happening in English. He refused. When he left, one black woman who can speak Afrikaans stood up and explained what happened. We would need to switch buses.
We switched buses, and as the three white people were in the front, they were the last ones off the bus and onto the new bus. Two of the white people got a seat together. The other one refused to sit next to a black person, even though there were several open seats, and instead stood in the back by the bathroom the whole time. He and the other whites got off in North South Africa.
My experience was different. I was in the back next to a Nigerian who lives in Botswana (on both buses). He was very nice and friendly, and we talked almost the whole trip. When we got off in Gabarone, he and his friend took me to several guest houses to see which one I liked (even though it was 10 pm). We found a good one, and I went to sleep. The next morning he came by to see how I was. If I had stayed another night, I am sure we would have had dinner.
When the apartheid government still existed, even into the 90’s, South Africa deliberately tried to destabilize neighboring countries that were friendly to the African National Congress (this is the largely black political party of Nelson Mandela that was banned in South Africa for 50 years). I saw firsthand what they did in Mozambique. They funded and trained an army, and set them loose in Mozambique, basically manufacturing a ‘civil war’. Hundreds of thousands of people died, and peace was only established in 1995. South Africa signed a treaty with Mozambique, promising not to fund the army any more in the early 90’s (90 or 91?), but they continued to do so anyway.
The scars remain, as many building in the north are still destroyed. Little by little Mozambique is improving. Thousands of land mines still present a very real danger for everyone. I even read about travelers who stopped on the side of the road, and peed into the buses, setting off a landmine.
I know that all South Africans are not racist. I met many wonderful black people who treated me as an equal. The coordinator and founder of Nkosi’s Haven is white. She has adopted black children and she works her butt off for the mothers and kids at the orphanage- not a single one of whom is white.
I also know that the USA has racism, some of which is very close to me (even in my own Lutheran congregation and multiracial town exists blatant racism).
Racism is stupid. Its unbiblical, inhumane, and hateful. And it makes people ugly.
But to me, it wasn’t a very beautiful place.
Don’t get me wrong- I loved my time there, especially being with the kids at Nkosi’s Haven. They were wonderful.
But I can’t believe that the country had a policy of apartheid until 1994. I can’t believe that we as a country and we as a people largely stood on the sidelines, allowing this to continue, almost until the very end. It is true that many Americans began a divestment campaign, helping to finally end apartheid, but this only happened in force near the very end.
The place reeked of racism. You have plenty of neighborhoods where only whites or only blacks can enter. We were at risk if we went to a black neighborhood without a black guide (Soweto, for example). Even the nearby church that I went to had racist elements in it.
I listened to several stories from black college students about the blatant racism that still exists. Whites get better service in the country. And I heard many people, especially black South Africans, go on racist rants about Zimbabweans that are flooding their country from the economically and politically unstable dictatorship of Mugabe.
On my bus ride to Botswana, there were three white people besides me. They were first in the line and grabbed the front three rows of seats, one to each row. Black after black got on the bus, asking them if the seat next to them was free. No, they responded. The bus continued to fill, and when it was time to go there were only three open seats- all at the front.
There were bus troubles, and we had to stop. The (white) conductor came out, and spoke to us- in Afrikaans. This is one of the official languages in South Africa, and it also happens to be the language spoken by the whites. Kids have to take Afrikaans in school, but generally black people don’t know Afrikaans as well. Many people asked the conductor to explain what was happening in English. He refused. When he left, one black woman who can speak Afrikaans stood up and explained what happened. We would need to switch buses.
We switched buses, and as the three white people were in the front, they were the last ones off the bus and onto the new bus. Two of the white people got a seat together. The other one refused to sit next to a black person, even though there were several open seats, and instead stood in the back by the bathroom the whole time. He and the other whites got off in North South Africa.
My experience was different. I was in the back next to a Nigerian who lives in Botswana (on both buses). He was very nice and friendly, and we talked almost the whole trip. When we got off in Gabarone, he and his friend took me to several guest houses to see which one I liked (even though it was 10 pm). We found a good one, and I went to sleep. The next morning he came by to see how I was. If I had stayed another night, I am sure we would have had dinner.
When the apartheid government still existed, even into the 90’s, South Africa deliberately tried to destabilize neighboring countries that were friendly to the African National Congress (this is the largely black political party of Nelson Mandela that was banned in South Africa for 50 years). I saw firsthand what they did in Mozambique. They funded and trained an army, and set them loose in Mozambique, basically manufacturing a ‘civil war’. Hundreds of thousands of people died, and peace was only established in 1995. South Africa signed a treaty with Mozambique, promising not to fund the army any more in the early 90’s (90 or 91?), but they continued to do so anyway.
The scars remain, as many building in the north are still destroyed. Little by little Mozambique is improving. Thousands of land mines still present a very real danger for everyone. I even read about travelers who stopped on the side of the road, and peed into the buses, setting off a landmine.
I know that all South Africans are not racist. I met many wonderful black people who treated me as an equal. The coordinator and founder of Nkosi’s Haven is white. She has adopted black children and she works her butt off for the mothers and kids at the orphanage- not a single one of whom is white.
I also know that the USA has racism, some of which is very close to me (even in my own Lutheran congregation and multiracial town exists blatant racism).
Racism is stupid. Its unbiblical, inhumane, and hateful. And it makes people ugly.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Mozambique
In Mozambique I was in the Northwest province of Tete, not far from Malawi and Zambia. I stayed in the city, along the Zambezi River, at the guest house of the Lutheran World Federation, where I would be working.
This was a great way to practice my Portuguese- Mozambique was a Portuguese colony, and so it is the national language (although of course there are many regional African languages). Most of the funding for the LWF comes from Northern European countries, and so they request reports in English. Unfortunately not many people speak fluent English at the organization, so I lent them a hand at compiling the annual report.
After a couple days, I went with some of the staff to review the local projects that they coordinate out in the field- all in rural areas. It’s not all that far- about 250 km from project to project- but the roads are terrible and so it takes forever to get from place to place. Often you get the feeling that it would be quicker to walk!
In many places, the LWF has built local schools. To construct a school with chalkboards, electricity, desks, etc. costs about $35,000 US in Mozambique. In one area we visited, they were about to start construction. The existing school was branches and mud, with no desks or chairs, or even electricity. Most classes were held outside, which becomes a big problem in the rainy season.
In another village, the LWF constructed a secondary school. The closest secondary school (middle and high school) was over 100 km away. So, after fifth grade most students stopped their studies. This school had dorm rooms for the kids. Many come from far away, and as there is no regular transport, they could not commute in one day. They come for two weeks at a time, and each time they come back they need to bring back enough food to last them until the next time home. The dorms don’t have any beds (or mosquito nets), and the kids sleep on thin mats, on top of the concrete. They don’t have pillows or blankets, either.
There are only three or four teachers at the school, and about 150 students. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the kids have to make the meals themselves, cooking on wood fires outside (there is a kitchen, but it is so small and doesn’t have ovens or stoves). This is another big problem when the rainy season comes. I can only imagine if I needed to cook a meal for myself when I was 11 years old- I definitely would have starved!
As we traveled from town to town, we called a meeting of the townspeople. Sometimes as many as 100 people would come, and sit in a large circle, as we would consult them on various things. We provided equipment and training for beekeeping at one village, bikes for AIDS activists so they could more easily reach rural areas to spread their message at another, and fish ponds and irrigation projects at other villages.
It was a very informative time for me, but it was also difficult to see the standard of living in the towns. Not all is bad, though, as I could see the positive changes that are being made, and local leaders being lifted up.
This was a great way to practice my Portuguese- Mozambique was a Portuguese colony, and so it is the national language (although of course there are many regional African languages). Most of the funding for the LWF comes from Northern European countries, and so they request reports in English. Unfortunately not many people speak fluent English at the organization, so I lent them a hand at compiling the annual report.
After a couple days, I went with some of the staff to review the local projects that they coordinate out in the field- all in rural areas. It’s not all that far- about 250 km from project to project- but the roads are terrible and so it takes forever to get from place to place. Often you get the feeling that it would be quicker to walk!
In many places, the LWF has built local schools. To construct a school with chalkboards, electricity, desks, etc. costs about $35,000 US in Mozambique. In one area we visited, they were about to start construction. The existing school was branches and mud, with no desks or chairs, or even electricity. Most classes were held outside, which becomes a big problem in the rainy season.
In another village, the LWF constructed a secondary school. The closest secondary school (middle and high school) was over 100 km away. So, after fifth grade most students stopped their studies. This school had dorm rooms for the kids. Many come from far away, and as there is no regular transport, they could not commute in one day. They come for two weeks at a time, and each time they come back they need to bring back enough food to last them until the next time home. The dorms don’t have any beds (or mosquito nets), and the kids sleep on thin mats, on top of the concrete. They don’t have pillows or blankets, either.
There are only three or four teachers at the school, and about 150 students. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the kids have to make the meals themselves, cooking on wood fires outside (there is a kitchen, but it is so small and doesn’t have ovens or stoves). This is another big problem when the rainy season comes. I can only imagine if I needed to cook a meal for myself when I was 11 years old- I definitely would have starved!
As we traveled from town to town, we called a meeting of the townspeople. Sometimes as many as 100 people would come, and sit in a large circle, as we would consult them on various things. We provided equipment and training for beekeeping at one village, bikes for AIDS activists so they could more easily reach rural areas to spread their message at another, and fish ponds and irrigation projects at other villages.
It was a very informative time for me, but it was also difficult to see the standard of living in the towns. Not all is bad, though, as I could see the positive changes that are being made, and local leaders being lifted up.
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