Tanzania: Service, healings and auction in Nguni 7/5/2009

Today the team will split up into much smaller groups to visit many local churches. The day starts early --each bus went to a different district. Our bus left at 5:45 in the morning to drop a bunch of us at 3 different churches in Massama.

First we stopped at Uhuru to pick up a few more people, then had to double back to pick up a aman who had been left behind, only to find that he wasn't going with us after all. (...This is Africa...). Then we went on to church #1 to drop off the first pair, only to find that there wasn't a 7am service after all. So on to the 2nd church to dropp off 4 more people, plus the original 2, who would worhsip at church #2 for the early service, and then get a ride from the pastor back to church #1.

Then we find that church #3 also doesn't have a 7am service (repeat after me:...This is Africa...), so we all stay at church #2 and hear Paul preach.

Then Brittany and I finally go to church #3, in N'guni, where we are welcomed by the pastor, and treated to breakfast of a hardboiled egg, roasted peanuts and tea. I'm especially grateful for the tea, because it is really cold here. I didn't realize that this church is almost in a different climate, due to being at a higher elevation. We are dressed in skirts and blouses, and the people around us are wrapped in shawls and jackets. You could see your breath.

In the few minutes before church, we visit the children, who form a big circle around us and sing. Then we each speak a few words to them, and go in to the service.

As honored guests, we are expected to sit up on the platform. I try to not shiver visibly. The service is an intriguing comnbination of formal mixed with rustic, of traditional Lutheran mixed with African. The pastor wears a white robe over his black suit with priestly collar, whle the congregation wears colorful African garb. Some of the service is in Swahili, and some is in Chagga (the local tribal language). None of it is in English. We hear the doxology in Swahili.

Our guide/interpreter is working so thoughtfully to show me where we are in the prayer book that I try to join in on the responses and songs. Gregorian chant in Swahili (or Chagga?) is a Kafka-esque experience. And it is performed slooooooowly, which does make it easier to follow along, but gives one time to wonder why they do this.

A translator helps out as Brittany preaches about the kingdom of God, and the ability of all Christians to pray for the sick and to do signs and wonders. She tells them that they do not need to wait for a white person to visit. (They giggle nervously). She adds that they do not need to wait for someone who sits up on the platform. (They giggle nervously). I suspect that this wouldn't go over too well in most Lutheran churches at home, but I sneak a look at the pastor, and he is nodding. I'm really impressed with him -- he has trusted us enough to turn over his pulpit to a 20 year old female stranger, who is saying strange things, and he is hanging in there.

After she spoke, Brittany told the pastor we wanted to pray for the sick, and asked if we should do that now, or at the end. He was clearly puzzled, but told her to go ahead. She had the interpreter tell the congregation to come up front if they were sick or needed healing of some sort, and that she and I would pray for them. I experienced a moment of panic. What if everyone on her line got healed, and no one on my line did?

The pastor translated for me, which was great, because he really pressed them about whether they felt improved after the prayer. If so, he made them say 'bwana asifiwe' (Praise the Lord). If they felt all better, he made them say it multiple times. I prayed for people with the following conditions:

Demons(2); leg problems (2); chest pain (2); back pain (2); diabetes (2); headaches (4+); eyes (1); ears (1); multiple problems (1). Most of the people claimed some level of healing. One of the ladies with the leg problem was bending and straightening it with glee. It was kind of funny, because this is a culture where women do not display her legs, but she didn't care, she was kicking it out and pulling it back, with a big smile on her face.

An interesting but confusing part of the service was the offering. There were 3 offerings in fact, and we never figured out why there were 3, or what they were for. there were 8 wooden boxes up front, and the congregation placed their offerings in different boxes according to some mysterious choice. I randomly chose a box to contribute to. Non-monetary offerings were carried behind the altar -- a huge bunch of bananas, an armload of greens, and some small black plastic bags with hidden contents.

After the closing announcements, the pastor publicly thanked us for coming, and complimented us on how well we sing in Chagga. Pride goeth before a fall. Just as I was mentally congratulating myself I realized that the recessional had started, and I was expected to march out while singing without anyone standing next to me carrying the tune. My pride dropped faster than a leaking balloon.

Out in the yard we stood with the pastor while the congregation filed out and formed a circle around us. This was the auction -- they sold off the produce that had been donated, as well as a live chicken. A woman carefully marked each amount on the church ledger. The pastor asked if we did this at home. I said no. He looked at me for a moment and then said: "It works very well."

Then it was time for lunch. I was grateful that they let us serve ourselves -- the food was not too bad (rice with a bony and gritty meat stew) but there was no way I was going to manage a huge plate. After lunch, I gave some of the Swahili bookmarks I had brought to the ladies who cooked the lunch.

Before we left, we wanted to go to the bathroom, and were directed to the hole-in-the-floor facilities.

Then back on the bus, to church #2, where they had not yet eaten lunch. It would have been rude for them to leave, so we then went back to church #1, and then back again to #2, and finally back to the hotel. Brittany was the bus captain, and was phenomenal, giving instructions to the local who was guiding us, and then making sure that he explained/translated the itinerary to the driver.

Tanzania: Orientation - Moshi 7/4/2009

Today is the first official day of the trip. I'm eager for the good stuff to start.

After breakfast we take the team bus over to Uhuru (the other hotel) for orientation. Addie greets me with a big hug again. This is comforting, because I am coming to realize that almost everyone on the trip is part of a group, and I'm feeling a little alone.

At orientation, Leif introduces all the leaders, including the local bishop. We will come to realize that this is part of the culture of alignment and honor, which is one of Leif's themes. During the week as we visit numerous churches, I also come to understand the favor that came to us as a result -- once the local bishop blessed our coming, all the local churches were happy to have us visit.

After the introductions, we worship and take communion together. Leif preaches on kingdom alignment and honor. This means that we need to make sure that Jesus is honored in everything. He assures us that we will also receive and have fun -- it is not contradictory.

It is all about worship. Everything else is temporary. Worship is the only thing we'll do for eternity.

There are actually four additional leaders on the trip, as we will be covering four ministry locations, in order to make it easier for the local people to attend. Each of the leaders speaks briefly.

Leif: "I know who Iam, and whose I am. My papa is well pleased with me."

Paul: "As long as we act as orphans we can't function in the Kingdom. It is in the pattern of a son that the Holy Spirit is patterning us into. We are being conformed to the image of the son".

Jack: "God's grace IS enough. He is strong when we are weak, i.e. the opposite of strength."

Tom: "relationship leads to greater anointing. "

We take a 15 minute break, and I run over to the internet cafe, since my own hotel doesn't have one. The internet is incredibly slow, and the keyboard doesn't work very well, but I manage to send out a quick email to let everyone at home know that I got here safely.

The break ends up lasting an hour (this is Africa...) and I'm frustrated, because I don't want to get gypped out of the prayer and impartation time at the end. We have only 45 minutes left before the bus is supposed to leave to take us back to our hotel, and there are 2 more speakers before the prayer time starts. I didn't really need to worry -- I expressed my concern to one of the trip administrators and she reassured me: The bus will wait until everyone gets prayed for. In retrospect, that was an example of an event driven culture rather than a time driven culture.

Then we heard from Tom: "If you are praying deliverance over someone, make sure they are treated with dignity. Before praying to cast out the demons, first make sure they are born again and that they want to get free. " [Many of my friends at home were offended when I told them this advice. The problem here is that if the person chooses to remain under the control of a witch doctor, you can cast out the demons as often as you want, and they will return. You have not accomplished anything until the person chooses to switch allegiance]

Then we had the prayer and impartation time. What a great way to begin our trip! And it makes sense -- fill us up, and then send us out.

Tanzania: Amsterdam to Moshi, 7/2/2009

Although I was grateful for my nice big first class airplane seat (that I did not pay for, Yay God!), 2-1/2 hours was a shorter doze than I hoped for, but the gentle clink of breakfast china rouses me. Soon we land in Amsterdam, with another 3 hours to wait before the next plane.

At the gate, I'm excited to see some purple wristbands -- these are the people I'll be spending the next two weeks with. I introduce myself, and Addy gives me a big hug -- what a welcoming heart.

The next flight is uneventful, the best kind, and we arrive safely at the Kilimanjaro airport, where the GMA team is waiting for us.

Another 1-1/2 hour delay while everyone clears customs -- apparently some of the people who are carrying donations are stopped-- and finally we get on the bus and get to the hotel.

We drop off our luggage and go for a late dinner. The food is better than I expect, with a nice cream of carrot soup, spiced with ginger.

I go back to my room where I finally meet my roommate. My room is lovely, also better than I expected, but after being exhausted all day during the travel, I'm suddenly wakeful even though it has been about 45 hours since I've been in a bed, I try taking a melantonin tab to reset my body clock, and finally I drop off.

I came a day early to allow for jetlag, so the first day is just preparation and down time. I enjoy breakfast -- scrambled eggs and fruit. Once again I am pleasantly surprised, although by the end of the trip this identical breakfast is seeming a bit less interesting. I ask the advance team if the fruit is safe to eat (since the rule in 3rd world countries is to eat only food that is hot, or that you washed and peeled yourself). They confidently reassure me that it is fine. Later on I find that Lee already had amoeba and parasites, and Leila had parasites, and my roommate is sick with something diagnosed. The reassurances sound a little hollow with that news.

After breakfast we take the bus to the other hotel, where we get a pre-orientation and hear an overview of deliverance by Tom. This is really helpful, since deliverance is a big part of the ministry here, and he is very experienced, and is able to give us some good tips which came in very handy! The demons I've encountered in the U.S. are more subtle -- still destructive, but it's simply not that common to see people convulsing under demonic activity, which was rampant in Tanzania.

Then back to the hotel, and off to town to exchange money and go to lunch. We go to Deli chez, an Indian, Chinese, Japanese restaurant, where I order the chicken in a ginger sauce. It takes a peculiarly long time for the food to come, but we remind ourselves to be patient -- This is Africa.

The water dispensary is closed, so we go back to the hotel. I hang out in Laurie's room, because my roommate is sick, and I want to leave her in peace and quiet.

At dinner, I'm pleased to find that they have passion-fruit soda. Yum. Too bad we can't get that at home, although I don't know why -- I'm exasperated to find that it is bottled by Coca Cola.

Tanzania! Travel day - 7/1/2009 (belated news of my Tanzania trip)

Sitting in my airplane seat, I can't help but chuckle. It has been a day of incongruities. The biggest incongruity, of course, is the fact that I'm on my way to Africa. I remember lying in bed in college, and praying. "Oh God, I'll do anything...just don't send me to Africa." And now, I'm on my way. The fear of years gone by has been replaced by excitement and anticipation. I'll be joining a team from Global Mission Awareness, led by Leif Hetland, and I'm eager to see the Kingdom of God at work.

The second incongruity is that my trip has just started, and I'm already sweaty and dirty. In an unfortunate coincidence, the water system in my coop was turned off today, so I couldn't take a shower before I left.

The third incongruity is more fun, and reminds me that I have a whole team of people praying for my trip [thank you! You know who you are]. Traveling to Africa is physically difficult. The sheer length of the trip, compounded by the jetlag, is strenuous. I'll be flying overnight from JFK to Amsterdam, then have about a 3 hour layover, and then another flight from Amsterdam to Kilimanjaro. If you add the trips to and from the airport, it ends up being over 24 hours. A couple of days ago, I got a tantalizing email from the airline, promising that you could upgrade to business class for 1 frequent-flyer mile, by using the online check-in, or the airport kiosk. Needless to say I try both, and can't find any way of doing this free upgrade.

When I got to the gate, I suddenly had a 'feeling' that I should ask at the gate (even though the email had specified that the upgrade must be requested online). While the gentleman at the gate was perfectly courteous, he reasonably explained that no such promotion existed, because every customer would want it, and there are not enough business class seats on the plane. I pleasantly agreed, and walked away, but I suddenly sensed God telling me to not sit down, but rather to stand in sight of the desk. A few minutes later, the gate agent came over to where I was standing and asked my name and seat number, and a few minutes after that a woman came out and said "here is your boarding pass". Seat 1E. Busines class. There in JFK I literally praised God for the travel present he had just given me.

And I also thanked God for all the wonderful people who are praying for me. Your prayers are already working, and I'm not even there yet.

Re-entry

At home, I carry my suitcase through my apartment and out onto the terrace, then pull my clothes out and carry them directly into the washing machine. Anything that's not washable (such as my passport) I put in a ziplock baggie and put in the freezer -- I'm not suddenly getting eccentric, I just figure that if there are any bugs the cold will kill them. And then I put myself in the shower. YAAAAYYYYYYY!!!!!

The next day is weird. By 9 o'clock in the morning I realize I'm in a different world.

• Hot shower!
• Clean clothes
• Sleeping in a room by myself
• Taking the train, and traveling in a seat rather than sitting on the floor
• Stopping for a smoothie on the way to work, and being almost paralyzed at having to choose between 31 varieties
• Opening the bag with my smoothie and finding that they gave me 6 napkins. 6!
• Throwing the trash in a trash basket
• I'm in public wearing pants instead of a long skirt.
• Walking by thousands of people, but no one greets me. So one says 'Bon dia', or 'Salama Mama'. No one smiles. No one runs up and holds my hand.
• I get to work, and enjoy the amenities of the ladies room -- hot and cold running water, and flush toilets, and abundant toilet paper.

I'm experiencing culture shock, and I still have to make it through the rest of the day.

Leaving Day

Today we are supposed to finish cleaning the visitors' area, and then it is time to give our last minute donations to the orphanage. I've decided to donate the little suitcase that had the bug repellent spilled in it, and so I need to also donate enough of my clothes and stuff to get everything else in my remaining suitcase. We are encouraged to leave anything we don't need, and to not feel embarrassed to give something that is old or dirty. They can make use of almost anything. For example, they said that they like to give each child a suitcase, so they can use it instead of a dresser drawer. Thus, it doesn't matter if the wheels don't turn nicely anymore, ore if it has a bit of a rip.

Since we cleaned the gazebo last night, I actually have some free time. I go to the prayer gazebo where Joseph is playing some worship songs. It is a good time to jsut sit and listen.

A girl comes to sit by me -- maybe 11 years old. She is eager to be loved and tries different ways of draping herself on me. She is fascinated by my fanny pack, and really wants to open the zippers. I watch to make sure she isn't taking anything, and try teaching her the words 'close' and 'open', then ask her to close it. Then she tries to open my camera case, and even says the word 'open?' back to me. So I try saying the word 'close', and she closes it. I'm happy she learned the words, but I'm even happier that the zips are now closed!

She asks my name, then borrows my pen to write it on her hand. No one walks around with paper here, so you either draw with a stick in the dirt, or draw on yourself. I ask her what her own name is, and she is touched almost to tears when I reciprocate by writing it on my hand. Later on, in the airplane I can still see it faintly. A connection across the miles that will fade by tomorrow.

Some little boys come pestering -- they want to chase her off so they can have my attention, but the girls are always outnumbered by the boys, and I've hardly had a conversation with one, so I don't want her to be pushed out. I try placating one of the boys by pouring some of my drink into his bottle when he asks, but it backfires, as all his friends start fighting over the bottle, and want more and more.

Meanwhile, Aysha is happy to just sit by me, as close as she possibly can, leaning over into my lap. Our quiet time together is interrupted by a mischievous little boy who quietly sneaks close, and then paradoxically makes a little noise to get my attention. He is grinning with enjoyment, and I simply smile back, not getting the joke, so then he makes makes exaggerated gestures with his eyes, and succeeds in getting me to look down at his hands, which are busy trying to put a huge bug in my pocket. I jump and scream, and now his joy is complete -- exactly the effect he was looking for!

I go back to help sort the donations. I had brought a brand new sweatshirt that I only wore one evening on the last outreach, but I figure that I don't really need it, so I put it in the pile, not realizing that it was smelling pretty funky from a combination of the cooking fire and my bug repellent. The other people sorting the donations are handing it around sniffing it and trying to figure out the smell. I'm too embarrassed to tell them it's mine, or explain why it is so stinky. After sorting through the clothes, some people go over to the washing sinks to wash the clothes (including the infamous sweatshirt). I go help at the donation closet. I reach in with some rolls of tissue paper, and the missionary exclaims "are those American toilet paper? that is like gold here!"

And finally it is time to jump into the back of the trucks one more time. It is easier this time, as we can finally do away with the capulanas, the long wraparound skirts. Wearing pants makes it much easier to climb over the high tailgate. I hear people around me saying that they are glad to be going home, but I'm surprised to find that I feel different. I'm actually not ready to go. I'm finally acclimated. I still have things I'd like to do here.

As the truck starts up, I suddenly remember my Makhua lesson, and realize that if I substitute 'New York' for 'Tutubue' I can say "goodbye, I'm now leaving to go home to New York". I shout it out, and some of the local Bible students clap at my effort, then wave as we pull out of the gate.

Our last day in Mozambique

[Thanks to Ray who encouraged me to finish the story!]
It's amazing how quickly one's perspective changes. At first the orphanage seemed primitive and uncomfortable, but after returning from an outreach to bush village, the orphanage is a bastion of amenities. Sleeping in a bunk bed is positively luxurious after sleeping on the ground. Being able get dressed while standing up is way easier than the contortions inside my tent. And the fact that the water is out is disappointing, but not shocking.

We are suddenly faced with a contrast so abrupt it is almost ludicrous -- our whole group ventures down the road for a luxurious breakfast at a nearby hotel. We were impressed by everything: not just the abundant buffet, but the green lawn, the white tablecloths, and of course ... the bathrooms! Hot and cold running water! toilets that flush! Toilets you are allowed to throw toilet paper into! This is great! We wash our hands over and over, just because we can.

The breakfast is beautiful, but I can't eat much, as my stomach is upset. How ironic, that I can't really take advantage of the one fine meal on the entire trip. But I can't complain too much, as I've been generally healthy. After breakfast, I joined a couple of women to walk back to the orphanage, but then I get a little bit antsy at the amount of shopping they want to do first. I'm just not a normal tourist, I guess.

And finally I'm back in the orphanage, in the worship center, on a dirty mat on the floor, wearing a wraparound skirt on top of my capris. I haven't had a shower since Tuesday (it's now Friday), and my skin has layers of dirt, glued together with sunscreen and bug repellent. And yet even in this we are not living a totally authentic 3rd world experience -- the sunscreen and bug repellent are luxuries, as are the baby wipes that have been substituting for the shower.

This morning, Barbara is speaking. She ministers inner healing and deliverance. Today she preaches on 2 Peter 1. The message is that negative emotions are a signal that one needs more time with Jesus.

I spend the rest of the day not doing too much. My stomach cramps get severe, and I'm worried about how I will manage the flight home, so I finally give in and take the Cipro. Usually I would wait a couple of days to see if it gets better on it's own, but I'm doubled over in pain, and can't imagine flying from Mozambique to South Africa, to Amsterdam, to New York. Between the pills and the prayer, I'm ok by the time I need to travel.

I skip lunch and dinner, and try to help with the final cleanup. We sweep the bedrooms, again and again. I'm not sure if the problem is that the brooms are such poor quality or what, but we keep sweeping out piles of dirt, literally. Again and again. My team is supposed to clean the visitor's gazebo. I'm at a loss for how to deal with the kitchen. The light has been burned out for days, so we're cleaning by flashlight, and the plumbing is still not working, so we have a limited number of buckets of rather slimy dirty water that Scott hauled from the cistern. The refrigerator is truly disgusting. I decide to sacrifice our carefully hoarded paper towels to try to sop up the inch of smelly goo in the bottom, but there is too much goo, so we use a dirty dish towel. I'm realizing how hard it is to clean when you don't have the right cleaning supplies. I never knew that cleanliness was a luxury.

While I'm busy in the kitchen with another helper, the rest of the team is trying to mop the gazebo floor. The finally develop a method where they dump a bucket of muddy water, and then scrub with the push broom, and then squeegee it with big squeegees. I never knew that you could use mud as a cleaning fluid, as long as you squeegee it!

A Makua lesson in Nanua

I forgot to tell you the best part of the trip to Nanua (accent on the 'u'). In the afternoon, when we first arrived, I wandered around the village and found Deena sitting next to a Makua woman. they invited me to join them. The seat was an odd contraption -- a low bamboo frame criss-crossed with ropes. The whole thing was about 6 inches off the ground, and sagged in the middle, so that once I sat down, I couldn't get up by myself.

I asked the woman to teach me the names of things in Makua. We interacted in Portuguese, which didn't work very well, since neither of us knew how to speak it. But we both understood a few words. She seemed to enjoy trying to teach me something, but once I took out my little notebook to write it down, a young man came to help. He clearly wanted me to write down HIS words too!! If he said anything and I neglected to write, he made a stern face and pointed at my book, and waited until I wrote something.

He kept trying to say something to Deena, but we couldn't figure out what it was. I heard a word that sounded like carne, and commented to Deena that maybe it meant meat, but we couldn't figure out why he was talking about meat. But eventually we realized he was trying to sell something, and it was indeed some kind of meat. It was like playing charades. How big? sounds like? He made sounds that I thought was a dog, so I tried barking to check if I was right, and he barked back, but then said in Portuguese that it was not a dog, and made a snuffling sound that I thought was maybe a pig, so I tried grunting and he grunted back, and finally he was satisfied that we understood, but alas, we still did not want to purchase pork of dubious origin that had been sitting in the sun on the back of his bicycle.

Finally he said tchao, (goodbye), and I asked him how to say it in Makua. His response was suspiciously long.
Ki auroar owanuach oon oontu tootubue.
I kept trying to repeat it, but he was not satisfied. He got closer and closer and louder and louder, insisting that I speak with t he right emphasis, and drilling me on the word tutoobue until we were nose to nose, shouting in each others' face. Finally I got it right and he was satisfied, showing his pleasure by doing a complex elbow shake with Deena. But the happier he got, the more the woman laughed. I wondered why she had not laughed when I was practicing, but was laughing now that I got it right. I wondered what I was actually saying. I tried saying it again and got the same results: proud elbow bumping by the young man, and laughter by the woman, and by the circle of kids who had gathered.

Eventually he let on that Tutubue was actually the name of his village, and I had been loudly and proudly announcing:
Goodbye! I am now going home to Tutubue!
The laughter was simply because they knew perfectly well that I did not come from Tutubue. It was a great crowd pleaser. I'm sure that no white person had ever said that sentence.

After the Kahua lesson they brought out food. Yikes! I was so torn between the adventure and experience of trying it, and the concern about the germs that I didn't know what to do, but I followed Deena's lead. After all, she's a real missionary (in China). She was clearly planning to eat so I did too. The woman held out a gourd with water, and showed us how to dip our fingers in it, presumably to 'wash' our hands. I could see the dirt flowing off into the water, leaving our hands only slightly less dirty, but soiling the water for everyone else. At times like this it would really be better to never have heard of the germ theory of disease. I tried to sneak my hand sanitizer out of my fanny pack, and pour some into my hands behind my back, but I realize it is hopeless -- we are all reaching our fingers into the same dish.

The first dish was made of ground corn (nakoowoo-oh), patted into a round mound on the plate, sort of like an African version of stiff grits (seema). That was served with a vegetable dish made of some sort of chopped greens similar to collards (matapa). It was pretty tasty, actually. That was followed by a third dish, this one flat beans with chopped tomatoes. That was my favorite, although maybe I was just appreciating the fact that it was hot enough to kill the germs.

Lift me down!

After the welcome service we set up our tents. By now I'm getting used to the audience, and am foolishly pleased at how quickly I get my tent up, before I realize that I cannot possibly get the tent pegs into the rock hard ground. I press as hard as I can, and barely make a little dent. Fortunately, one of the guys comes over and asks if I can help out the pair who had borrowed the tent that Amy and I used on the previous outreach. They clearly don't know how funny that is -- that was the first tent I ever put up in my life -- but I remember how to do it, so I'm relieved to hand over my tent pegs and suggest that he finish my tent while I put up the other one.

I watch out of the corner of my eye. First they try pushing the peg into the ground, then they get a wooden club and try to use it like a battering ram, and finally they find a big stone. In the meanwhile I pop up the other tent. It has an unusual design which is really easy when you know how, but is not intuitive. In the meanwhile, the villagers stand around sympathetically watching us crawl into our little tents, while they look with satisfaction at their mud huts.

Next we pile into the camions for a short trip to the location where we'll show the Jesus film. I naively ask if anyone will be watching the tents with out knapsacks in them, and the leader nods, then pauses and points to the sky. Oh. I guess that's why they said not to bring anything we can't afford to lose.

The truck sets up in a big field. The pre-movie DVD plays, with songs in the local language. The mood is festive as the people dance. Once it is fully dark and the crowd has gathered, we start showing the Jesus film. As soon as the movie starts, we slip out to the other truck, to go back and eat dinner. As usual, we get the bush dinner of spaghetti with tuna. Then it's back to the outreach location for the end of the film.

Tom preaches. It is so much easier on us when we know what is going on. In the previous villages everything was just in Portuguese and Makua. However it is a little harder on the crowd this way, since everything has to be translated twice. A preacher really needs to learn to speak in short sentences. Tom has clearly done this before, and knows how to get a rhythm going so that the translators know when to jump in. He also knows how to get the crowd involved, basically by preaching with such intensity that he ends up with laryngitis for two days. This time we understand when the people are coming up for healing, and we are ready. Tom has also instructed them to point to the area of their body that they need prayer for, and after the prayer to give a thumbs up or a thumbs down depending on whether they feel better or not. This is a great technique! With a few gestures we can communicate.

I stand right in front of the truck (not wanting to get swept away in the crowd) and lay hands on everyone I can reach. I'm actually disappointed to not have anyone who is blind or deaf. Most people have headaches (probably malaria) or stomachaches (maybe parasites). One boy who had pointed to his head turned to go after I finished praying, then did a double take and turned back to me, flashing a huge grin and a thumbs up.

We don't fully understand the timing, but suddenly the word comes through the team that it is time to go. We walk down the hill to the 2nd camion (since there is not enough rooom on the one with the sound equipment), but are disconcerted to see that it is crammed full of villagers. We aren't clear on whether they are playing, or have hijacked it, or what, but eventually we watch it roll away, without us. We go back to the other truck and somehow squeeze on. It is dangerously crowded, but the ride is short.

Everybody jumps off, and I'm about to go find my tent, when I notice that Justin is trying to rearrange the sound equipment in the dark, so I try to shine my tiny keychain flashlight to help him. He asks me if I can guard the equipment while he gets something to eat (since he was running the film while the rest of us snuck out to have dinner). I say yes and climb in the truck, but quickly realize maybe it wasn't too smart. All the other team members are in the tent area -- within yelling distance perhaps, but not within sight, and I'm sitting in the dark in the open back of a truck with thousands of dollars of sound equipment.

Soon little heads start appearing around the edge of the truck bed, and then the kids start to climb up the sides. I really don't want them climbing into the truck, because I can't physically protect all the equipment if they swarm the truck, so I try warning them off in Portuguese:

Nao, Nao, Nao (no, no, no!). Inevitably, they respond with contradictory glee: Sim, Sim Sim! (yes, yes, yes!). I realize that I'm starring in a badly written sitcom, but feel helpless to change the script:
Nao, nao, no!
sim, sim sim!
I have to laugh at the choreography. With each "sim" the heads bob up a few inches higher, until the kids are in the truck.

Luckily, Justin returns before I'm entirely invaded, and ferries the equipment to some other more secure location. finally I climb down, and hear a plaintive child's voice, in English, pleading:
Lift me down!
It would take a heart of stone to ignore this plea, so I reach out an lift him down, where upon the next child reaches out his arms, and the next, and the next... It takes me a while to realize that it is actually a game. The children get bigger and bigger, and are actually too heavy for me to lift, so my 'helping' them down is sort of a controlled fall. They think it is hysterical, and I suddenly realize that these kids can all jump down by themselves without a problem, but they are simply having fun. I also realize that I have lifted more kids than there were in the truck -- they are running around the other side and climbing back in for me to lift them again. I'm exhausted, but can't help laughing.

Finally it is bedtime. This time I had a thin sleeping pad, but the earth still felt rock hard. Luckily no one had yet told us that on an outreach the previous year banditos had come during the night and cut upen the tents with knives, to steal stuff. That story would definitely have made sleep more difficult, as would the fact that they had killed a cobra just as we arrived in the village. Sometimes ignorance is indeed bliss.

Mozambique: second bush outreach - trip to Nanua

I was excited to suddenly hear that I could go, since we were previously told it would be limited to those who had not yet gone. My biggest concern is the actual travel -- I'm still sore from the prior trip. My lower back and hip are out, and my butt is actually bruised. First I hear that the trip is 6 hours (too much for me to physically cope with, in the back of the flatbed truck, without a seat), but then I hear 4 hours, then 2, then 3...

After some confusion about the meeting place, we make our way with our knapsacks and water to the trucks, only to stand and wait. Apparently, the man that was supposed to visit the village ahead of time to tell them we were coming left too late yesterday to come home (by bike) before dark, so we need to wait for him to return before we are allowed to leave, to make sure the villag will be expecting us.

As we are waiting to leave, I ask the Bible students (native Mozambicans) to help me with some Makua. The guy I ask first tries to explain the difficulty to me: he only speaks English and Portugese (and probably a tribal language he doesn't bother mentioning), while the ones who speak Makua don't speak English. As he explains who speaks what, he gestures to one fellow who speaks Portuguese and Swahili, so I politely say Jambo to him. They all act as if I have done something brilliant. I guess they are so used to Americans who don't bother to even try learning anything besides English, that one word of Swahili puts me ahead of the crowd. Given that I'm speaking to people who average at least 3 languages, I feel a little silly, but at least it somehow serves to communicate to them that I'm serious about trying to learn something.

I had written a few English words or phrases in my little notebook and they hand it around trying to translate them for me. It takes two or three (one to translate the English to Portuguese, one to translate Portuguese to Makua, and one to figure out how to write it down).

When we finally pile into the truck, I make a point of sitting next to one of the Makuans, to try to pick his brain on the way. Since we don't share a language, I have to resort to asking in Portuguese, which of course I don't know. I hope I'm not inadvertently saying anything rude! But he takes pride in the fact that I write down everything he says. He seems content for me to write phonetically. Even among the Bible students whom I originally asked back at the base, there seemed to be some confusion about spelling. I suspect it is because most people simply have no need to write, and may not even be familiar with the official spelling, which adds letters that I don't hear when they speak. Using the truck for a language lesson also adds the sound of the wind whistling by, but at least my new friend is a captive audience and patiently keeps trying to answer my questions. He's the one shown in the photo at the beginning of this paragraph, and he's also seen about 30 seconds into this little video. The video also gives a little bit of the flavor of travelling in the camion.

I finally end up with the following list of words and phrases. This language is so obscure that even when I return home and try researching it on the internet, I cannot find a dictionary or a phrase book.
Thank you. KoshuKUroo
Where is the pain? eNOWereeani VaEE?
Do you feel better? ohhoVOna?
Yes. AyEE
No. MENa
Hello. SaLAMa (used throughout the orphanage)
Excuse me. KIlehvehLEHleh (used when the truck goes over a bump and your body crashes into the person next to you).
What is your name? un CHEEna natepani? (some people seem to pronounce this more like SEEna and some like CHEEna)
Glory to God. Mi weh MOHlooma amooLOOkoo. (I got several versions of this phrase -- I have no idea why they are different).
Jesus, savior -- Yesu maw POLi.
Jesus loves you. Yesu maw FENda. or: Yesu unu nu fena a tu oh teh. (again, no idea why they insisted on two different variations).
Where are you going? Un RHAvai?
Demon be gone. Jacera oo kumnay piaro.
Do you want to receive Jesus as savior? Ki non pela yesu Chriso moh poli?
Very good. KeeOHsukOOru. (this sounds suspiciously like the word for 'thank you', so I don't know if the pronunciation difference I'm hearing is truly a different word, or if I'm just not understanding)
Come Holy Spirit. abooeeheeeh nehpa daketeefo.
Jesus is with us. Yesu Chriso rhinehevano.
Jesus heals. Yesu Chriso navONia.
Jesus will wash you with the blood. yesu honerapEEha nee pomeh yoaria. (I'm not sure what this one really means, but my Mozambican friend really wanted to teach it to me and insisted that I write it down. He tried to explain to me in Portuguese and I think he was saying the word for wash, and when I mimed washing clothes he seemed satisfied...)
How are you? Muharoo?

Before I know it, we have arrived at the village, where we receive a friendly welcome. There is a short church service where the local church leaders are introduced, as well as the village leader. The mayor tells us through an interpreter that we are welcome visitors, and that we should feel free to return any time, even every day. I suddenly am unaccountably teary, at the generosity of these people. It is great to feel that we are welcomed by the village, not just by the church, and indeed the whole mood here is easier than in the last village. Of course, we need to bring the Gospel to the dark places too, but for now I'm just grateful at the welcome.

Can your Bible prevent Malaria?

My suitcase still smells of bug repellent, and the front cover of my Bible is not just stained, but exudes a noxious reek. I amuse myself by wondering if I have inadvertently invented a Bible that protects the user from Malaria.

One evening, we are all sitting in the gazebo, and one of the team members suddenly shrieks and starts flailing about. A bug had flown into her shirt. She swatted ineffectively, and we finally decide it must have flown away. But then I suddenly have a brainstorm and hand her my Bible. Sure enough, she suddenly shrieks again as the bug desparately exits from her blouse, as if it is fleeing a burning building. Yup, I think that anti-malaria thing might work!

In a 3rd world country, it is we, the visitors, who are incompetent

I keep thinking about what the villagers must think of us. They were pleasant and patient with us, but I can't help wondering if they think we are amazingly ignorant and incompetent. Away from our own environment and resources, we lack even the rudimentary skills of survival. We rely on our own bottled water, and the food (not to mention the cook) that we brought with us. We bring tents and sleeping bags, and hand sanitizer and bug repellent. Without our own supplies, and the help of the staff that has brought us here, we would literally not survive.

Different memories from our village outreach keep popping up in my mind. When 'N' gave us our briefing the day before the trip, he asked us to not complain about the food, and to not make a face if we didn't like something. He said "I have noticed with you Americans that if you do not like something, I see it in your face. Me, if I do not like something my face stays the same. You will never know."

Inadvertently, I had a chance to refute that general assumption. I had brought some children's gummy vitamins, and chewable anti-oxidants to Mozambique, figuring that I would use them on my trip, and donate the surplus to the orphanage when I left. I decided to bring the antioxidants on the outreach, figuring that they would be a tasty snack to share - I actually think they taste better than gummy bear candy, since they are a little more flavorful. Anyway, I started handing them out while we were riding on the truck. We had been asked to always remember to share with the local Mozambican pastors and Bible students who were accompanying us, so I passed the bottle first to the front-end of the truck, asking 'T' (the American group leader) to translate to the Mozambicans. I hear him trying to explain in Portuguese: "would you like some children's vitamins?" Anyway, I'm not sure if one of the guys didn't hear him, or didn't speak Portuguese, but when it came to his turn, his face looked like he was being poisoned. My tent-mate couldn't stop laughing -- so much for the impassive African face!

Then again, I probably had a distressed look on my own face when we stopped on the road and some of my fellow travelers bought fried-egg sandwiches from men in the street, holding up trays of food for us to purchase. The idea of eggs sitting in the sun possibly for hours didn't sound like a good idea to me.

While I don't think anyone got sick from the eggs, a couple of people were suffering from motion sickness, so I shared my pills with them (having brought a lovely assortment of first aide in my fanny pack.) That didn't help the guy who ended up with some kind of stomach bug, and huddled miserably in his tent for the next day. We tried to pray for him and were disappointed that the only result was a mad dash into the corn field to throw up. He kept insisting that he felt a little better, but I wasn't quite convinced.

The truck stops again and we are surrounded by guys trying to sell us soda. There is no diet soda. In a country where people die of starvation, there is no market for diet foods. High class hotels and restaurants offer diet coke in order to placate the tourists, but they charge a premium for it -- literally 2 or 3 times the price of regular soda.

I'm not the only one who was taken by surprise in the church service when they took the collection. I'm not sure why I was surprised. After all, we have a collection at home, so why wouldn't a village church also do so? I felt awkward trying to make my way through the packed congregation to the donation basket, but even more awkward at the idea of sitting passively, so I dug into the famous fanny pack to get some local currency to place in the basket, and tried to manuever my way through the crowd without stepping on anyone. I'm wearing hiking shoes and the locals all have bare feet, so it is even more important not to step on anyone!

When we woke up in the morning, and I started getting dressed in the tent, I managed to put on my shirt and capris, but couldn't figure out how to put on my kapulana -- there is something about a long wrap-around skirt and a short tent that just don't work together. I snuck out of the tent and tried to quickly wrap it around as soon as possible. We are guests here, and women are supposed to wear long skirts, but I really needed a 20 second grace period!

We start making jokes about our own incompetency, and we fantasize that the villagers are making mental notes about these peculiar light colored visitors who were grownups but didn't know how to do anything. Although they are unfailingly gracious to us, we imagine them making up songs in Makua that will be handed down for generations:

They did not know how wear a skirt
Sometimes it trailed in the dirt.
Their skin was funny, almost white
It really was an odd, odd sight.
Instead of proper huts of mud
Their homes were tiny, quit a dud.
Some of them were very tall,
And yet they are not strong at all.
They were not even able to talk
Instead they made a funny squawk.
But it was nice they came such a long way
To worship with us, and to pray

While waiting for the water to boil for the morning tea in the village, I heard a guitar, and wandered around the other side of our camp. 'J' was there worshipping. I believe that she actually was raised in the orphanage, and was on our trip as a helper. I listened and it took a few seconds to realize why it sounded familiar. She was singing 'How great is our God' in Portuguese. We tried to join in, but could only catch the key words. Here was our version:
Bla grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla
Grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla bla
Grand bla grand, bla bla Senhor.
Pretty soon she had mercy on us, and switched to English. But now that I'm home, I find myself crying when I hear the song, because it carries me back to that remote village. And I sing along in broken Portuguese once again.

There is always enough in the Father's heart

I have so much to learn here. In the middle of the dirt and the confusion and the poverty, the staff stride around with smiles on their faces, expressing love to the children in their words and actions, and seemingly undeterred by the practical difficulties. I watch them and wonder whether they are some special kind of person, or whether God's call to come here somehow changed and equipped them.

I want to make sure I don't miss whatever God is trying to teach me, so after breakfast I spend some time in the prayer gazebo. 'T' asked for volunteer to go on a prayer walk in the village right outside the compound, where [the ministry] is building some homes for local widows. The walk was another example of the spirit of confusion that seems to be the only discordant note here. The children are always dressed and fed, but the other activities seem unnecessarily chaotic.

We don't know whether there will be a hospital outreach, much less when it would be, what it would entail or how many people could go. We don't know whether there is a horse ministry. We don't know if the garbage we collect should go into the garbage drum, or be locked into the visitors' center. We don't know if there is a prison ministry (and if there is, is it for men or women). We don't know when the next bush outreach is, or how many days it would be if, or whether 'H' will go with us, or how far the trip will be. We don't know if there is an evening meeting to go to. We don't know if we have to re-confirm our flights individually or if someone will do it for us. We don't know if we are invited to the morning meeting with the guest speaker.We don't know if they will supply us with more drinking water as a group, or if we have to individually go into town. We don't know how we are supposed to flush the toilets when the water supply runs out (don't ask). We don't know if there is a widow's ministry. We don't know what hours the sewing shop is open. We don't know what time the outreach is, or where to carry our backpacks and tents to. We don't know that if we miss lunch due to helping at the village feeding, that we can go in the kitchen behind the dining room and get a plate. We don't know how to tell which kids actually belong to the orphanage, or which young men are the Bible students.

However, while the staff may be without answers, they are never without a smile. Some of the confusion is due to the legitimate goal of empowering the local Mozambican leadership, so projects outside the walls of the orphanage need to be arranged and approved in 'Africa time' rather than according to a Western schedule. Some of the confusion was on the part of the team I was with, rather than the orphanage. And sometimes it seemed as if confusion was a contagious virus that spread to everything it touched. The amazing thing was the unceasing love and patience that the staff consistently showed amidst the confusion.

In any event, the confusion finding the building site seems like deja vue, bizarrely colored by the fact that as we wander around trying to find the house, 'T' acts as tour guide, mentioning that the village we are walking through is considered especially dangerous, and that the police have to visit there frequently, to handle the violence. I wonder if it is really a good location for a widow's house, but have to simply write off the question as one of the many cultural things that I cannot control. The area is also filled with witch doctors -- I wonder if they are the ones who have been treating us to the 3am 'concerts'.

Finally 'T' finds the building site. It will be a cluster of 3 houses. So far they are mainly bamboo frames. We walk in and around the houses and pray, blessing the workers as well as the widows who will be moving in. In the middle of the dirt and the confusion, I find myself absurdly happy to be part of something where prayer is considered an essential part of anything that goes on, rather than an option that is tacked on the top. We ask what the criteria is for a widow to receive a house. T. has to think for a minute, and then she explains that they start with Biblical criteria, in other words, young widows are expected to re-marry, so they concentrate their attention on the ones that are too old to marry or to support themselves. But what is the procedure for choosing among the ones that are eligible? T's response was classic:
We don't have a procedure. We pray and ask God and do what He says.

On our way back into the orphanage, we go directly to the worship center, because we have been invited to the 11am service, and 'H' is speaking. She told us of the crises going on -- 130 construction workers out on strike. 41 children homeless because their children's center was taken away, (probably the government was paid off). She doesn't even bring up the fact that her husband is in the hospital. And to top it off, the sound system is still not grounded, she she keeps being shocked by the mike. People keep suggesting thing like wearing rubber shoes, and holding the mike with a kerchief, but every time she tries to sit down she gets zapped. And yet in the middle of these problems the focus is still on the presence of God, stirring us to love. Nothing distracts from the core values. She is not naive, and she is not in denial, but she knows that her Father in heaven is capable of supplying all things.

She says "when I talk about missions, I'm not talking about you finishing a project, I'm talking about your becoming incarnational lovers. All the results you see have flowed from the secret place."

We are listening eagerly, and suddenly there is a huge crash. I think the roof has fallen in, but then we realize it is just the metal gate to the worship center that has fallen off the tracks and crashed to the ground. 'H.' doesn't miss a beat.

"If you see something broken here, go fix it! Don't wait for permission! " Then she continues with her sermon. "I have plenty of victory stories, but today I'm sharing from emptiness, preaching from the beatitudes:"
Blessed are the poor in spirit
And blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.

For 18 years, her life was about making friends with the poor. It's not about projects, it's about relationship. Jesus had friends, and demonstratedby spending time with them.

H tells a story about finding a child in the street, in a mound of garbage in Maputo. she had been raped so many times she had 4 STDs. Her hair was faded brown from malnutrition. She was angry, and demonized, with a bloated belly from malnutrition. This is a picture of mourning. But Jesus said blessed are those who mourn.

"Jesus understood what it was like to be hungry, thirsty, lonely, misunderstood, and abused. He gave his life away for love' sake. This is the kind of missionary life I'm talking about. Look at this book as a picture of Jesus. Follow in his victory and follow in his suffering. Walk in his bloody footsteps."

"What does it look like to comfort one who is mourning? What does missions look like? It looks like:

"You being needy for the Father, for shelter, for each other. Because we need to stay poor (not necessarily physically). Poor in spirit is an attitude of heart. Will you die if He does not show up? Are you desparate for the presence? If you know what it is to be poor in spirit, you can embrace a starving child as if it is Jesus hugging them.

"Jesus is searching not only for the bride, but for the brother and sister too.
Jesus is looking for those he can possess, for those he can put on like a glove, so he can touch others through you.
For they shall be comforted... through you, as the hands and mouth of Jesus.
"Focus on the treasures, not on the holes in the net. Keep your eyes on the prize. Be poor in spirit as a little child, but remember that there is always enough in my father's heart.

Mozambique: back at the orphanage

Being back at the orphanage is a new exercise in perspective. The orphanage seems like an oasis of civilization after the bush. I treat myself to a shower, and luxuriate in the little trickle of cold water -- how my standards have changed! I even keep it running for a few minutes rather than scrupulously turning it off while I soap up. I decide to really live it up by putting on clean clothes -- not just the semi-clean ones I washed here, but the last clean ones I brought from home. I find myself walking with a peculiar gait, sort of like a chicken, trying to not scuff up the dirt and wreck my nice clean feet.

Some of the outreach team had made plans to go to dinner at 4:30, but we didn't realize that most of them were going at 6:30 instead. We walk left to Club Navale, only to find that they don't serve until 7, so we walk back. We take a cab to the other restaurant, since it will be dark by the time we get there, and we are supposed to be in a larger group if we want to walk outside at night.

I ordered squid. I never see the point of ordering American food in foreign countries. I think the quality is liable to be better if you order something authentic, so I high hopes for the squid, and I was not disappointed. It was excellent. With a soda, it came to around $8. It seemed like a feast. This was my first 'off-campus' meal other than the bush food, and it was a real treat.

And it was another treat to go to bed, on a mattress, evn though it was just a little mattress on a bunk bed.

The next morning, I really need to do laundry. I had a few days clothes backed up before the outreach, and now I have almost nothing clean left, other htan the long pants and shirts I haven't needed to wear. I could definitely have packed fewer pants and long sleeves, but if the mosquitos were bad I would have needed them after all, so I'm not complaining.

I used the new laundry area -- cement tubs with running water. I was ecstatic to find that the sun heated water was almost room temperature. But the clothes were sooooo dirty. I soaked them in soapy water, then washed them and rinsed them, but the rinse water was still murky. Other people were waiting, however, and I didn't feel like I could take a longer turn, so I settled for semi-clean. My goal from the beginning was simply to not smell worse than anybody else.

Clothes pins are at a premium. I borrow some, but still don't have enough. Some people's clothes fall off the line, land in the red powdery dirt, and end up dirtier than before. I literally tie my clothes onto the lines, figuring that they'll come out wrinkled, but at least they won't fall. And I try to finish early enough in the day that they have time to dry before dark, since we can't leave them out overnight -- people climb over the fence and steal them, in spite of the fact that the compound is guarded.

At the 11am meeting, the mission students, the Mozambican Bible students, and the children prayed for us. Most prayed silently, or gave words that didn't really connect with me:
-dancing before the Lord waving a kapulana (I'm NOT a dancer)
-working with orphans (I'm not especially good with kids)
-serving the poor (I work for multi-millionaires)

I'm so hungry for impartation of gifts of healing, for signs and wonders and miracles, and I seem to be just as far away as ever. I'm more and more aware that I cannot do anything without the power of God flowing through me. This may actually be what God wanted me to learn from this trip, but I feel broken and empty. On my way out of the worship center, some of the guys are trying to sell me jewelry. I just can't deal with this now. They finally give up, but I feel harassed and at the end of my rope.

I stayed so late in prayer that I missed lunch again, but that's ok, I've got plenty of nutrition bars with me. After having done my research on the optimal bars, and filling out my excell spreadsheet with the results, it would be a waste if I weren't eating some of them. So it is time for a Zone blueberry bar.

By the time I finish eating my bar and washing my face the afternoon is half gone. I go down to the babies' dorm and play with a little girl who says she is six. her hands are covered with scabs and open sores, and her arms have odd little bumps. I hope it is not scabies. She also insists on trying on my hat, and I instantly start getting a psychosomatic itchy scalp.

We invent a little game together. She sits on my lap facing me and I lower her backwards until she is arched with her head down by my feet. I say 'down, down, down' in English, and then lift her saying 'up, up, up'. She catches on to the English and wants to say it herself, pitching her voice down and then up the way I did.

Then we practice making faces together. She isn't quite satisfied with my fish face, so I challenge her to raise ONE eyebrow. She can't do it, but she loves calling out 'one' or 'two' in Portuguese to see what I'll do. A little boy comes over to join our play and she pushes him away, then runs off and sulks when I try to include him. She is so eager for attention that it is hard for her to share, but eventually she relents and I take them both over to the climbing giraffes. They both want to climb high, but I'm nervous about this. They seem so little, and the giraffe is so tall, and the ground is so hard.

Then the two of them challenge me to a muscle contest. I flex my arms and they point to my little bicept and laugh. Shown up by a 5 and 6 year old! I think they are used to women with arms of steel.

Dinner is rice and beans again. It is fine, but I decide to add some of the seasoning I brought with me, for a little variety.

After dinner we were expecting a group meeting at 8pm, but it turns out there was a missions school evening meeting, so we go to that instead. Pamela taught on how a child simly expects to get what he needs and wants from his parent, he doesn't have to beg, yet we act as if we have to beg our heavenly father. Then there was a powerful time of prayer especially for people with distant or abusive parents.

Some of the more mature men and women prayed on behalf of those parents, and repented for the bad parenting. It was an amazingly rich time. People were being blessed all over the room.

I get back to our dorms and am too confused to realize that the reason I'm having trouble finding my way is that the power is off again. I have my tiny lttle keychain flashlight to guide my feet, but I don't have any landmarks. My stolen headlamp would have helped tonight! Some of the guys explain that the blackout is due to the fact that the circuit box actually caught fire where something had been jury rigged. Fortunately they noticed it before it was out of control, and were able to throw dirt on it to put it out. But in the meanwhile, there is no power.

I decide to give up on my shower, since it is hard enough negotiating that bathroom when there is some light. But we are all warned to be careful if we get up to go to the bathroom at night, since the guards saw some guys lurking around last night, and in the dark it will be harder for the guards to notice anything.

This is another lesson in what it is like to be a missionary. Most of the day is filled with practical concerns. Prayer and ministry are important, but keeping clean and fed and safe takes a lot of energy.

Mozambique: bush outreach day 3

We wake up after our second night in the bush, and get dressed. Amy and I huddle in the doorway of the tent with out legs sticking out, to apply our bug repellent. Apparently, this is the most fascinating I've ever been at 6am, because the feat attracts an audience of about 15 kids. They crowd in a semicircle around our feet, and watch, entranced, as we rub the lotion in. We wonder whether they are suspecting that the white lotion is the cause of our light skin tone.

Next we make our way to the bathroom. It shouldn't be hard to find again, but we are both directionally challenged. We walk through the village and notice two women sweeping in front of their hut. We think the hole is behind it, but we are not sure. Amy and I say hello in Portuguese. The women respond in Makua. We respond and then aren't sure what to do. So far the conversation has gone like this:
Bon dia. Bon dia.
Salama.
Salama.
Salama.
Salama.
Now the conversation has stalled out. The women pause, waiting for us to do something. Finally we walk behind the hut, and there it is, the famous hole. Amy holds up the kapulana for me, and I do the same for her. On the bright side, my knee has mysteriously gotten better. I think God has healed it, maybe just for this moment. Perhaps not something I can stand up in church and testify too, but I'm very grateful nevertheless.

Later in the morning, we are ecstatic to find that the exposed hole in the ground is not our only option. There is another hole with a bamboo wall. I find myself looking at it with a silly grin on my face, and realize that 30 hours has been enough to alter my perspective. Yesterday I thought a hole was a challenge. Today I'm happy if it has a wall around it.

We join the congregation for church, in Portuguese and Makua of course. Testimonies, songs and preaching. This time there are no wicker chairs. We find an empty patch of dirt only to be told we are on the men's side. This is the kind of thing I wish they told us before. We move to the other side, where we see another empty patch of dirt. After 10-15 minutes the woman on the left stands up and squeezes her way out the door. We fill in the empty space, and 10 minutes later the next woman gets up. I figure that it is just too hot and stuffy for them. Eventually we realize they are sitting on an ant hill. Now we REALLY wish they had told us before. I'm feeling more and more that I need to learn some Makua before my next outreach!

Finally we hear a children's choir, and then an adult choir, and suddenly the translator says in English, "and now they would like to hear the visitors sing". We look at each other in a panic -- we don't even know each others' names yet, much less what kind of music we all sing. I whisper to Travis "what about victory chant? It's just an echo so everyone can join in."

The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a Makuan congregation, leading Victory chant. The Americans joined in, but we didn't get much participation by the Makuans. After the eager kids in the first village, I hoped that an echo song would work, but this village is more reserved. Victory chant ends, and Travis is looking for another song. I suggest 'Alleluia', since I've heard them saying this word in both Portuguese and Makua. And it works! Suddenly the entire congregation is singing along. I can't believe I'm standing in a mud hut in an African village, leading congregational worship.

After a few verses of 'Alleluia', Travis jumps in with a verse of 'Obrigado' (thank you in Portuguese)and 'kihoshukuroo' (thank you in Makua). We come from different continents and different languages and different denominations, but we are all worshipping together. This was truly the outreach highlight for me.

Video of church service.

After church we loaded up the trucks and set off for 'home'. In addition to the tents and backpacks we also have a box with some live chickens. I'm not sure what they are for, but I suspect they will not come to a good end. Suddenly we stop by the side of the road, near a row of yellow plastic containers. Apparently, we are almost out of gas, and this is the gas station. First the driver has to do some sort of chemical experiment, to make sure the fuel is not adulterated. Finally they start pouring it in the tank. But then we are informed that the driver has no gas money, and we need to come up with the cash. 43 liters times 700 meticais. Some people take out their calculators, and others take out their wallets. Meanwhile, I'm doing a rough currency conversion in my head, and I stop them.
"Wait a minute you guys, this number is wrong, it is off by at least a factor of 10."
"No, it has to be right, we multiplied it on the calculator."
"Something is still wrong -- this converts to over $1000 dollars!"

Finally I convinced the missionary leader to talk to the Mozambican leader who talked to the driver who talked to the fuel guy, who finally admitted that the real price was 75 mets per litre, rather than 700. And after that announcement, the price went down again. Finally the cost ended up at around $90, rather than the $1200 that he originally quoted. I'm not surprised that he tried to con us, but I am surprised that none of the Mozambicans caught it. Looking on the bright side, this was the one time on the trip that I workplace skill ended up relevant! Who would have known that the ability to do a sanity check on a currency conversion would save us over a thousand dollars?

Mozambique: bush outreach day 2

Morning dawns, and it's time to get up. I feel like a contortionist trying to get dressed inside the tent, and realize there is no way I'm going to be able to put on a wrap-around skirt until I stand-up outside. Let's hope I don't scandalize any of the villagers by appearing briefly in pants.

We joke that our cooks will try another American meal today, maybe bacon and eggs, but it is not really a surprise when we get rolls again. As a special treat, however, there is also margarine and some kind of jelly. I have my doubts about the un-refrigerated margarine, so I skip it.

After breakfast, it is time for church. They load 6 wicker chairs into the truck and we all pile on for a short drive. The church is a hut built with a bamboo skeleton, filled with stones and then covered with mud. When they want a window they simply omit the stone and mud, but leave the horizontal bamboos, so the effect is as if the window has bars on it. We enter the church and are a bit embarrassed to find out that the wicker chairs are for us. It doesn't feel right to set ourselves apart from the people, but then I realize that they are trying to honor our visit, and trying to give us a gift. So I sit.

The service goes on and on, in Makua and Portuguese. First there is singing, then testimonies, then preaching and reading the word, then more singing and more testimonies. As usual when visiting a strange church, we don't know when to stand or sit. It seems that you stand during the singing and sit during the preaching. I think. Video of church service.

Amy and I are disconcerted to find out that we will be moving to another village today. We had thought we would be here until tomorrow, and brought a box of water with that in mind, discarding the box last night as we tucked the bottles into the tent. Now we have no way to carry them. I fit a few into my knapsack, which now weighs a ton, and we prevail on one of the guys to take a few for us.

The kids in this village are so friendly and eager. They rush up to the truck as we are leaving and try to grab our hands. I reach over the side and have multitudes of children all trying to touch me. There is such a friendly innocence to it, although I have to admit that as soon as the truck starts up I pull out my bottle of hand sanitizer.

The next village has a different tone. It's harder to get the kids to engage in play, or even to hold hands, and the adults stand farther off, not unfriendly but definitely reserved. I inadvertently find one thing that absolutely entrances the kids -- taking photos. In fact, they are so eager to get into the picture that it makes it almost impossible to take any decent pictures at all, since as soon as they see a camera they come running and crowd around, blocking your view of whatever you were looking at in the first place. I thought that I could take discreet zoomed pictures of individual faces, but it is impossible.

The real appeal of the cameras is the display screen. The kids are desperate to see themselves. One of our group has a film camera, and the kids simply cant figure it out at all. What is the point of this useless gadget? I'm not sure they even realize that a camera takes pictures, they simply want to view the screen. I soon realize that it is hopeless to try to keep the dirty fingers off. They are getting too much pleasure out of this to worry about the dust on the camera. But eventually their interest gets out of control, and they get rough with the little ones, shoving them out of the way, so I put the camera away before anyone gets hurt.

Occasionally I try to wander off and discreetly take a zoom picture of one person a distance away, but I need about 40 seconds to take the camera out of the case, turn it on, compose my scene, zome and shoot, and that is about 25 seconds too long.

Fred has brought bubbles, which are a huge hit, the kids go wild to try to catch them (see the video here).

We are a little disconcerted to find out that the bathroom facilities in this village don't have a wall around them. The guys tell us that it's no problem, just hold up a kapulana. It's not a bad suggestion, but I don't notice any of them using it!

Dinner tonight was a fish stew, with skinny whole fish in it. I'm not a big fan of fish guts (or heads or bones, for that matter), so I tried my best to nibble something edible. The broth was actually delicious, but had a lot of grit. It seems a little funny to worry about washing the dishes when the food itself has dirt in it.

Tonight the movie is at a local schoolyard. It is incredibly dark. The women on the team are told to not even go to the bathroom alone (about 20 yards away). We need to go with a group that includes men. The guys are gracious when we ask them to escort us. After all, we don't want to miss the opportunity because the bathroom facilities are outhouses, which seem thrillingly sophisticated after the hole-in-the ground without walls.

The movie is 2 hours long, but seems endless. I'm grateful to find a ledge to sit on. I'm less grateful after I realize that something is crawling on me and biting me.

Finally it is ministry time, but the chaos is overwhelming. We didn't even know what phase of the service it was. Is it salvation? Is it healing? We didn't know why people were coming forward. I tried asking people in Portuguese but they are unresponsive. I started just going ahead and laying hands on people, and they physically recoil and try to escape. I'm feeling ineffective and frustrated. It takes a few days before I realize what was going on. A teammate explained to me that this was actually a power encounter -- the people were probably under the influence of a witch doctor, and were afraid of the power of God. That makes total sense now, but at the time was frustrating and confusing. I was looking for signs and wonders, and people wouldn't even let me pray!

I had better luck with the kids. Between the ones that apparently had malaria and the ones that looked like they had parasites, and the ones that were coughing, you could have filled a hospital. I held them and prayed for them and felt a desperate need for God's power to move. But I felt his compassion flowing and I know that they got touched in some way.

Mozambique: First bush outreach, day 1

When I said I wanted to go on the outreach, I didn't know that I was going to be mugged for my flashlight. But that comes later. (Don't worry Dad, I'm fine!)

Just like everything else in Mozambique, the plans for the outreach were chaotic. First we thought everyone could go. Then we found out that 10 of us could go. Then we found out that 10 actually meant 5 on the medical trip and 5 on the regular outreach. Then we found out that 5 was actually 2. Then it turned into 4. Those of us who wanted to go submitted our names and they drew lots. I was informed that I was not chosen. And then the evening before the trip I was told that someone had cancelled, and I was going after all.

Amy and I decided to share a tent. We used hers, since it was freestanding, and the tent I had borrowed needed stakes. We practiced putting it up in the dirt of the visitors' compound.

Friday morning we had a 7:30 team meeting with Fred to prepare for the trip, but the other guys didn't wander out until 8:30, and it trns outthat the trip itself was moved back to 10, and ended up not leaving until 11:30. I continue to wonder if this much confusion is really necessary.

The ride itself is uncomfortable, because we are squashed like sardines and when we hit a pothole there is no good way to brace yourself. I'm trying to sit on my mini-sleeping bag, to provie some padding for the bumps, but I keep sliding off. The driver is actually doing a great job of avoiding 90% of the potholes, but occasionally we crash into a bone-jarring crater. I'm not surprised to find out that it literally hurts to sit down for days afterwards. The truck makes a few unexplained stops. The driver decides when and where to go. We are never sure whether it's safe to get out or whether he'll suddenly start up without us. Sitting in a crowded heap in the back, its hard to tell if someone is missing. On one occasion we start up without someone. It takes the whole group of us yelling and pounding on the cab roof to finally get the truck to stop.

We finally arrive at the village. We don't know what it is called, or where we are, but we are here. We climb stiffly out of the truck, hobbled in our long skirts, and start settup up our tents in the middle of the village, surrounded by a curious crowd of villagers. It is as if the circus has come to town, and we are it!
I fantasize that they are comparing their mud huts with our state-of-the-art camping gear, and wondering why we have these silly dwellings that are too short to stand up in. I'm so glad I practiced putting the tent up!

Once the tents are up, we play with the kids until it is time for the movie. Some of the women on the team are incredible -- within 5 minutes they have the children playing 'duck duck goose'. Others are teaching the kids an elaborate clapping game. Still others are the center of attention simply for being blond. I can't think of any games to play, but the children seem happy to just come hold my hand. They are fascinated at being able to see the blue veins through my light colored skin. They rub my freckles to see if they are dirt that will come off, and then look at my face to make sure it is ok.

One of the guys is like the pied piper. He has gathered a crowd of kids around him and is shouting out praises to God in Portuguese. "Gloria a Deos!" The kids eagerly shout it back. Then he runs out of Portuguese and switches to English, and the kids echo it back: "God is Good!" "God is Good!" "All the time!" "All the time!". Finally he runs out of things to say in English, and tries to wrap it up by saying 'right on!', but the kids echo this too. He calls out to me "say something" and the kids repeat that too. He is beginning to look desperate, so I suggest victory chant, since it is an echo song anyway. He eagerly gestures me to begin, and I start singing:

"Hail Jesus, you're my king". The kids do an almost perfect echo, so I try the next line: "Your life frees me to sing". They repeat that too, and we're off and running. We did the entire song together, with a boisterous but accurate echo.

Meanwhile, the Mozambican leaders on our team are preparing dinner for us. I'm faked out by the exotic setting, and when I see the beige soupy stuff bubbling in the pot I think it is brains or worms. I'm not sure which is worse, but the truth is more prosaic -- they've attempted an American meal for us, of spaghetti mixed with a tuna sauce. It tastes fine, but I can't get over the brain scare!

One of our team scopes out the 'bathroom', a rectangular hole in the ground, surrounded by a bamboo privacy fence. We won't be back in the land of running water for another two days. Most of the women on the team are wearing kapulanas (long wrap-around skirts) over capris. This combination works well for climbing modestly into the truck, but it does not work as well squatting in a latrine.

Back at the tents, my tentmate provides a moment of quality entertainment for the village women, who try valiantly not to laugh as her wrap-around-skirt tries to unwrap. Finally they cannot help themselves, and they laugh out loud. They aren't being mean about it, but they clearly have trouble with the concept that a grown woman is not competent at dressing herself. The fact that she has pants underneath and is still fully covered is merely a trivial detail. We have images of this moment being passed along in the oral tradition of the village.

When darkness falls, it is time for the movie! We have come with the Jesus film, in the local language, Makua. Before the movie, we play a DVD of African choirs singing. The crowd grows and grows until there are hundreds, but it is hard to tell how many because the spotlight is broken, and the area is pitch black, with the only light being that reflected from the screen. The people stand for hours. We can't tell if they are absorbed in the story of the film, or if they are merely fascinated by encountering what is probably the first movie most of them have ever seen.

When the movie ends the preaching begins, in Portuguese and Makua. We are asked to point our flashlights on the speaker. Finally we pray for people, making sure to not stray too far into the crowd. I've been careful to stand with others from the team, but I'm suddenly startled by a hand that reaches over my head, grabs me, and rips off my headlamp. I couldn't figure out what had happened at first -- my glasses had been knocked askew and my kerchief dislodged, so I couldn't see and was disoriented. But it was only the flashlight after all. Even though he whacked me on the head I don't think he was really trying to hurt me. But it was scary. My teammates see the guy, but he is too fast to try to do anything about it.

Before bed we take turns using the latrine. This is when I really miss that hands-free flashlight. Finally it is time for bed. The tent is much smaller inside than it looked like from the outside! It's not even long enough for me to lie flat once I've tucked my pack into the foot. But that's ok, I usually sleep scrunched up anyway. The biggest problem is that the ground is harder than you can believe. A nearby rooster crows on all the odd hours: 1am, 3am, 5am, and it's time to start the day. I'm surprised he hasn't been turned into soup by now.

Video of the first bush village.