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.