on the way to zambia...

check back in a week or so.

Or, go to www.hhi.org to read about the Fight Famine Workshop.

Peace, Kevin

One more note about the village…

(a reflection on mental illness in African society)

Sunday, while in the Sukuma village, under the mango tree with the crowd listening to a new story, provided the opportunity to observe a curious, yet beautiful thing.

There was a woman there, perhaps in her forties, with a bizarre facial expression, a face dominated by buckteeth that hung over her bottom lip and eyes that bulged out of their sockets. She walked around erratically, spitting incessantly, repeatedly adjusting her clothes in a way that exposed herself to everyone around her.

In a society where the government can’t afford to provide anything but the most basic services, there are no homes for the mentally ill and delayed, no medication, no special education options. So, the mentally disabled continue to live in the general society with everyone else.

I first noticed this woman immediately after we arrived, while a youth choir from a nearby church was singing. She was standing with them, barking out words out of sequence, attempting the choreography, spitting over and over again. During the teaching, she would parrot the teacher, and once even corrected a teacher in a way that everyone found hilarious, and as the crowd laughed, she beamed and laughed with them.

Anyways, I was completely distracted by this woman, but the Tanzanians didn’t seem to mind her being around. They did not tell her to be quiet, to go away, to stop talking during the teaching, to yield her whims to the important discussions at hand. I have been in situations where everyone wanted someone to leave or be quiet, but there was no acceptable way to do this, so instead they shun, shame, and inwardly despise a person. None of this was the case in the village.

As I considered this woman, I wondered how she made it through the famine. I mean, I have a cousin in California who worked with the mentally ill, and once the American economy slowed, their funding got cut. But this woman must have enjoyed the compassion of her neighbors even in the hardest times.

There is a terrible irony present. This is a society that traditionally views woman as second in nature to men, and acts as though they are property. As Americans (or as Christians, the first to challenge this notion), this traditional view is not acceptable. We assert that all are equal image-bearers of our creator. But we treat the useless as a nuisance, distraction, a cancer that we must programmatically remove from our midst. I think I was the only person of the scores present made uncomfortable by this woman, yet I can cite numerous theological principles and a handful of excellent books about how God is made manifest in such as these.

We focus so much on how much we know. Perhaps we have forgotten too much in the process.

Discoveries...

I discovered army ants yesterday… or shall I say they discovered me. They also discovered the fastest route to my boxer shorts.

We all discovered how fast I could remove my clothing.


There are many reasons they call them army ants. Though I normally sympathize with pacifist theology, in this case, I refused to turn the other cheek.

Sunday in the village...

The day began under a young tree next to a small cluster of mud-brick houses. The ground was unexpectedly moist, refreshed by some unexpected thunderstorms in the middle of the dry season. About twenty people were gathered to hear the Jewish creation myth as read by my teammate and a couple teachers that he is mentoring.

People here have a better understanding of what creation stories are about; not about establishing scientific principles for debate and analysis, but rather about describing an ontological reality about who the players in our existence are, what their relationship to one another is, and how we got into the situation that we are in.

Traditionally amongst the Sukuma (and this is over-simplified), people view the creation of the world to have been the afterthought of an unconcerned god, one who is displeased with the world and wanted little interaction with the creation, so he allowed various spirits, spirits of ancestors, spirits of animals, spirits of geological features like rivers, lakes, and large rocks, to control the events of the world. Thus, people’s situation are largely assigned to fate, except for the influence of ancestral spirits which may provide some protection if they are remembered through sacrifices, or who may cause misfortune if forgotten or implored through witches to inflict harm on others.

The worldview of the audience Sunday morning was made obvious by the numerous shrines constructed around the houses, and by the shrine posted away from the houses near the main path, designed to ward off malevolent forces before they come near the living quarters. This worldview leads to fatalism, jealousy, and hopelessness, a wicked triangle of forces that leads to horrifying results.

Ironically, the story that causes so much discord in America (evidenced in the creationism/intelligent design/evolution debate for school curriculum) is a story of peace here; you can be at peace with a creator God who actually loves you, you can live in harmony with the natural world, and in community with other people, without fear or manipulation, and you can find hope in a greater purpose for existence.

So we merely shared our story, and were invited to share more. There was a man, himself a convert to this story, who lived nearby these families, who volunteered to return to share more, for which these families were grateful.

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We drove to another place, somewhere my teammate and some Tanzanians have been sharing for weeks. This is a larger community, so we sat under a larger mango tree. This week, those who had gathered to hear the story were given the opportunity to choose a new allegiance, a new faith, a new hope. The change is so radical, so meaningful, as people accept a new worldview, that it is as thought they begin life anew.

We utilize the same imagery that the Jewish people used over 2,000 years ago, an immersion that both symbolizes a washing away of the old, and also the rebirth into a new life. Over 100 people chose to participate together in this rebirth, from young to old, men and women alike. We walked together to a small pond, passing the others that had already gone dry. Josiah sat by my side, watching people enter into the “baptism hole”, as he called it. We watched the rebirth, not of individuals, but of a community, with different values (men and women both equally carrying the image of God, for example), different hopes, different dreams, a different future.

Of course, worldview shift is no easier for people here than it is for people anywhere else. People will not immediately give up beating their wives, they will continue to fear the spirits and ancestors, it will be many months—even years—before people start believe that there are ways in which they can better their situation (that is, their food production is not merely a product of fate, but that things like irrigation, composting, and partnering crops can make a real difference). But this community, those assembled under the tree, have chosen a new trajectory. They are a new outpost of God’s kingdom, representing his values, expressing his love, embodying his hope. My own excitement pales in comparison with the old men emerging from the water, people who have lived through colonial rule, independence, socialist policies, and countless government schemes, and for the first time have found hope.

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Storm clouds were forming all day long. Early in the day, Josiah commented that God was going to water the plants. Later, on the long, bumpy drive home, after hours under trees, much walking, and overwhelming hospitality (Josiah ate up the beans and rice!), he looked out his window, saw rain falling over the plain, and said, “God is filling up the baptism holes”. For me, at least, it puts some things in perspective.

Team news, hero complex, and Zambia conference...

our teammates have experienced the following things this week:

One teammate, driving numerous church members from one village meeting to the next, had half a dozen people vomit inside his Toyota.

Another teammate allowed some friends to help him eradicate a swarm of bees from his attic, before his family returned from an extended absence. What they didn't realize was just how flamable honey can be.

One teammate had a tire boot placed on his vehicle for parking in an unmarked no parking zone, placed there by a police officer who remained at the car until our teammate returned. The police are vigilant right now, as it it a "hungry month"; school fees are due this month, and the police typically receive "chai kidogo" (literally: a little tea, AKA small bribe) in leiu of actual fines, if you don't mind foregoing a receipt. Our teammate asked for a receipt, so he paid double. You are better off running over some onions than parking near a police officer who can't afford school fees.

Another teammate, exhausted from a grueling first few months in Tanzania, escaped all of this for a few days in the mountains at a beautiful lodge.

And this week, we stumbled through some Kiswahili, stumbled through culture, stumbled through town, and stumbled along.


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Currently, I am a little depressed. I am happiest when I am accomplishing something, when I feel like I am making a meaningful contribution. Our teammates have assured us not to hold our breath, as it took them a couple years before they were making any progress, seeing any results, feeling accomplished at all.

The irony is that when I have gone on short mission trips, I didn't have this problem. The only thing depressing was going home.

Maybe it is like dating. The first date is magical. Ecstasy continues for weeks, until you discover that the person you like is a flawed human being, and you start sensing that they have figured out the same about you. The smells become less attractive, sometimes repulsive (I have switched from the dating analogy to present experience, by the way). The apparent victims, that I so pitied, have taken advantage of my pity.

We have a friend here, a teenage girl whose parents have both died, and she lives with her grandmother in our part of town. She met one of our teammates several weeks ago, and stops by the house daily. She eventually brought up the fact that she needed money for school fees. Our teammate agreed to pay the school fees, and provided her with the needed money. Except school has now started, and she is not in school. She came by yesterday, early in the morning. Our teammate, escaped to the mountains, was unable to translate for me, but I tried my best to communicate with her. She eventually grew tired of my Swahili, so she broke out her english. Sticking her hand at me, she said, "Give me money!"

What happened to the other money? I don't know. But what began as a beautiful story, helping an orphan with school fees, is not so beautiful anymore.

Typically, though, I have experienced the first part, the simple victory, but not the discouraging part that comes a few weeks later (I've never been around for that part). The story, of course, is still unfolding, the ending not yet written. The story may end up much more beautiful than the beginning might suggest, and as is the case with the best stories, it will not be about a heroic act, but steadfast love over time.

But I desperately want to be a hero. When I was young I dreamed of a holiday being named after me, a museum opened in my honor. And my temptation here is to be a hero on the cheap. In America you have to rescue someone from a burning building, or donate millions to a charitable cause. Here, you can buy life-saving medicine for somebody, send someone to school, buy someone new clothes, and still have enough left over for dinner and dessert, which you earned with your heroic deeds.

I say this only as a personal confession, relating some of the mixed motives I have held, and continue to hold.

So, why am I blogging this?

Two reasons: First, I thought I understood Africa, but I don't. Unknowingly, I have succumbed to "development pornography" (google for more information), a reductionist understanding that perceived all Africans as people needing heroes. I feel like I understand this place less and less each passing day.

Second, I am daily frustrated by the street children that ask me for money. I have been told by a friend here, the director of the largest street children center in town, that giving money to street children is the worst possible thing to do, as it encourages small children to run away from home, avoid work and responsibility, and leads to the formation of street gangs, amongst other problems.

I would love to take several of these kids off the street, especially the ones that must be 5 or 6 years old., and give them nice clothes, good food, some toys, and send them to school, treating them like my own children. But while this would certainly meet my needs, it wouldn't solve the problems these children are facing. Even though I am convinced I am doing the right thing, it's not very fulfilling.

So I have nothing to write, except for how I have helped people by refusing to help them, until I understand what the problem really is, and until I have a way to really help.

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Something I am excited about is my trip next week to Zambia for a week-long conference on agricultural methods and innovations to increase food security. The region we are in is emerging from a famine, so the conference should provide some wonderful insights. Interestingly enough, to get to the country next door, we have to fly to Kenya and South Africa first. Why can't my friends convince Southwest to enter the African market?

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About the boys...

Elijah, now seven months old, is pulling up and cruising along tables. Josiah is throwing out Swahili words like crazy now, which we are excited about. Also, he is happy that his friend, Trey, has returned from the states. They played all afternoon.

Also, for those who are wondering: 200 shillings is about 15 cents.

I ran over something today...

driving here is hard.

space is limited. a road is also a sidewalk. And a place for merchandising everything you can imagine.

Imagine trying to drive a SUV through the aisles of a walmart supercenter on a weekend, then throw a few more vehicles in the mix, then add massive potholes and road hazards, and some livestock. Then switch the steering wheel and gearstick to the other side of the car.

It got a little tight today. I was okay on the right, as I was just squeezing past the dala-dala (minibus) so that it could move forward, so the cab behind it could inch forward, to open up a route for me (I always liked Tetris, by the way).

Then everything changed.

I squashed some man's onions.



If I was in America, I could have rested secure by responding, "yeah, but you left them in the road." This isn't America.

I was pretty excited that I ran over something that I knew the Swahili word for (against all odds). When they held up the evidence, I responded "vitanguu!", hoping that my superior language skills would absolve me of guilt. No luck.


My guilt offering: 200 Tanzanian Shillings. And I didn't get to keep the onions.

a beautiful day...

it has been a whirlwind since our last post. We have welcomed numerous guests in the past week, including our missions minister and his wife, and took them and our summer interns to the airport, while another visiting team doing survey work south of town departed for Uganda. We have looked at a couple houses, and suffered through respiratory and stomach issues that, after a few weeks, are finally starting to leave our team.

I have had some depressing days. While there are some positive indications of late, like the receding famine that afflicted the region, slightly improving economic trajectory, and increased availability of mosquito netting, I am starting to see why so many people are terrified at what the future holds here.

To put it bluntly in the words of a tanzanian teacher, "Satan is using HIV/AIDS to destroy the youth of Africa." While all our national attention seems to focus on events in the middle east (another development that grieves me deeply), there is a ticking time bomb that we are sitting on here. Africa is a collection of people that have sustained themselves for thousands of years with elaborate social traditions and rules, and a distinctive orientation toward family and tribe.

As the 30-40 yr. old generation is decimated by HIV, and the youth increasingly turn away from traditional values to the individualism and materialism idealized and marketed by the west, the seeds are being planted for a future social crisis.

And there is no tangible solution.

Also, a partnership we have been working to bridge between a university Physician's Assistant program in the States and the churches we serve here doesn't seem to be materializing. We knew it was a long shot, but we still hoped.



So, why the title of the post?

One, there was no vomiting today, no diarrhea. Two, no mosquitoes inside the net. Three, Josiah and Sadie got along without fighting.

More significantly, for the first time ever, our team here got together to hang out and talk, as we are all free of the guests of summer. We shared our dreams, our resolve to find a way to help the people here better face the poverty around us, and set our eyes to the future.

And I found a great new restaurant here, the Kivulini Kitchen (a swahili word, google for translation). The Kivulini is a women's rights project here in town initiated by a man from Switzerland. The place had real yogurt. I have missed yogurt more than you know. Plus, french bread while we waited. I have missed bread in restaurants. Jason and I sat and waited for the dinner that we were taking home to the families, and dreamed about partnering with organizations like the Kivulini.

BUT, the real reason the day was beautiful:

We shared with Matayo, one of the emerging church leaders here, about the lack of news about the partnership we have been hoping for. We wished he hadn't asked, as he speaks for a people of desperate medical needs, and we knew his discouragement would be hundreds of times greater than our own. But his response--insightful, convicting, persevering, genuine--both humbled me and gave me hope:

"someone will come. our churches have been praying for months. someone will come."

Oh, that I might have the faith of this man. A man with nothing, but with so much to share.

Happy fourth of july...

Currently, it is 9 in the morning here, and I am sitting in a computer lab. This computer lab has a sattelite connection to the internet; more reliable than the connection we have been using, which has been out for a week.

The week has been productive; we finished our application for a residence permit, which involved a ton of documents and signatures and stamps... and we welcomed our container into Mwanza on Sunday, unloaded it, surveyed the damage (my filing cabinet was pulverized on the roads here!), and packed it away in a storage garage, until we find a house to move into.

The city is beautiful early in the morning; the tea and coffee vendors busy selling their product to the street merchants restacking all of their food and goods for sale. The pineapples are arriving by wheelbarrow, unloaded from the arriving trucks and busses. And, as always, everyone remembers what you have purchased before, and are quick to offer you another pumpkin, or more peanuts, or they will ask where you children are, and how they are doing.

I picked up the fruit for our fourth of july cookout; some pinapple, watermelon, and bananas, and some food for later in the week. I will catch the dala-dala home shortly, and we will go to our first tanzanian birthday party, then later to the cookout, then to language class this evening. Noone seems aware of our American holiday here.

We will enjoy the watermelon anyway. Light a sparkler for us, okay?