Orange

How Great Thou Art played in the matatu as Mt. Longonot came into view. The setting sun streamed in orange beams around the peak, illuminating the dust saturated sky. We climbed the escarpment, and intervening speed bumps, with the sun shining directly through the bus. My seat mate seemed amused when, in a moment of self forgetfulness, I waved to my shadow. A young couple, dancing/walking along the footpath, apparently thought it was directed at them, or maybe their enthusiastic greeting was simply due to my race. As we crawled upwards behind a struggling lorry I thought of highway robbers who take advantage of lorries' lack of power and unload the trucks as they 'drive'. We crested the top of the ridge and the valley was lost from view, but the sun still flashed in orange bursts between the trunks of the evergreen screen. The heat of the valley floor dropped with the sun, and gave way to the thin, cool air of the high plateau. Above the sunset Venus gleamed, its orange tint subtly carrying the torch of the faded day.

Seeking the Wild

I dipped out of work early on a Friday afternoon, threw my stuff in the car and headed north and east to the Kerio valley. I didn't really know where I would spend the night so I figured I would drive until it started getting dark and stop somewhere. Unfortunately Wilderness is harder to find in the bush of Africa then the outskirts of LA. I turned right up a 'rough road' (the term for the mostly unimproved strips of washboard that provide the only access to many parts of the country)  that led back toward the escarpment in hopes of finding somewhere to pull off. I noticed a sign saying there is a safari Lodge that direction so I figured that could be my last resort. They were very confused when I asked for a flat place to camp, but for a price were willing to provide it.

I woke up at 4:30 struck camp under the stars and headed on my way in the pre-dawn dark. I ate breakfast at a gorge where the Kerio River sliced through a basaltic dike. I was very tempted to scope out the depth of the river and jump in - it looked like a fun 50 foot drop - but it was still a bit cold and I lacked the motivation. So I headed back up the other side of the escarpment to Kabernet.

The difference in ecology and climate between the bottom of the Valley and the top was remarkable.

 At the top everything was green and lush with a winding road twisting through hills and then dropping back down into the sun-scorched valley. 

Here in the flat acacia scrub and the sun was so hot it was unpleasant to get out of the car.

I drove first to Lake Baringo, pulled off and biked up to an overlook. I got a thorn in my tire and had to push my bike back to the car. A crowd of children gathered to watch me patch the hole. The Lake Baringo area turned out to consist mostly of resorts and tourist traps, so I left as quickly as was feasible. I headed for Lake Bogoria despairing of ever getting beyond the reach of my constant spectators. When I arrived I found that the entrance fee was $50 for non-residents but after explaining hermetic technology to the attendants they let me in for the resident fee of $10. I was elated to finally find wild-ness.

A very aggressive ostrich.
These birds are huge and scary!

Flooding has destroyed most of the park's infrastructure and I drove the roughest road I have ever tried to traverse in the little Nissan (protip: long wheelbase and low clearance is not a trail-worthy combination). I crossed boulder fields, tried not to get high-centered, and climbed slopes so steep the car barely made it up. I eventually arrived at the hot springs about twenty kilometers in.

I looked around a bit and then went on a hunt for a campsite on my mountain bike. As I went back the way I came much of the road was even challenging as a mountain bike route. When I nearly tumbled over the handlebars on several occasions, I was amazed I'd made it that far in the car. And I did not look forward to the return trip. I found several decent campsite options before stumbling across an incredible spot overlooking the lake on the escarpment. It looked to have once been an established site, but the shelters had collapsed and it clearly hadn't been used in years. The scrub encroached on the area as well as the road, and I had to clear boulders to drive in. But sitting on a ledge, drinking tea, and listening to the two-thousand flamingos bedding down a kilometer away, it was clear the happiest I can possibly be is in the wilderness.

There was Evening...

...And there was Morning

I cooked breakfast in a steam vent.

Homeward bound

Bike-venture Episode 1

I was on the road by 0900, having slathered my exposed skin with sunscreen hoping to combat the equatorial sun. I hadn’t a route or destinations planned, but I figured with water, mixed nuts, and TP I should be good for the day. I still don’t have sunglasses, so my eyes filled with the dust of lorries on the packed dirt road. On downhills the speedbumps slowed traffic, but provided jumps for me. My bike tolerated the road surface better than many four wheel vehicles and I often managed to pass them, though it required biking hard through their dust. I left the main road as soon as I could and followed side roads to approach the coordinates which were my only guidance to the waterfall I hoped to find. As I rounded a curve steep hills appeared, cooperating with my music to inspire a fit of ecstasy. Riding with my arms out works well on US roads, but the washboard and potholes rudely interrupted my celebration. I crossed a river near the coordinates and asked directions from the youth washing his bike in the river. He sent me up a hill whose road surface was tortured by erosion. Even on a mountain bike it was technical.

All I found at the bottom of the hill was a doubly locked gate, so I asked a family carrying their luggage up the hill about the falls. They sent me back the way I came. Ravines, rocks, and four-inch-deep washboard is even more challenging to traverse downhill. Crashing was a very convenient option, but I refrained. I asked a guard at gate of a hydroelectric plant about the falls, and he said I could access it through there. Thirty minutes in the sun later a guy showed up and took me down to the plant. I oohed and ahhed at the equipment and finally was handed off to another guy who took me to the falls. Guides rob so much of the experience I tried to convince them I could go alone, but they insisted. We picked our way down the slippery mud slope, dodging the nettles that lined the path. The falls has eroded quite an overhang, curtained by the falls. Here I was able to release my guide (with 50 shillings for his pains) and enjoy the falls on my own. I sat for some time, drowning my thoughts in the roar of the falls. The river, swollen by the rains, drops a sheer 70 feet, creating a rainbow in the spray. With some regret I left the shelter cave and scrambled up some boulders back into the sun.

I decided to continue following the road though I wasn’t sure where it would take me, hoping perhaps to reach a tall hill which looked tantalizingly close. The road less travelled dwindled to a track with head-high bushes encroaching the borders. I persisted until some mamas standing outside their hut stopped me to chat, surprised to see a mzungu, especially alone. With what little Swahili I have access to I asked if the road would lead anywhere. They counselled me to turn back though but I didn’t catch whether it was for my safety or because the road was a dead end. I climbed out of the river valley and followed the ridge on a more established road until it too vanished into a steep boulder field strewn with head sized rocks. I navigated the slope far more effectively than a similar one at Mill Creek trails in Missouri, not even wrecking once. At the bottom my persistence was rewarded with a smooth singletrack, used by cattle and piki-pikis.

I followed ‘roads’ like this one for several hours: crossing rivers, through ridge-top pastures and shambas, and rolling through villages with every eye trained on me. The road turned back towards home, so I left the mountain for another day. It was still probably 15 km away and my legs were already cramping with 20 km or so between me home. I eventually came out on the main road, 10 km south of my house. 

The map showed a back way home, and I was happy for an option other than forty minutes of dodging matatus, pikis and lorries. The ‘back road’ turned out to be a track that led through a field (with cows and an abandoned bus), mud holes, a swamp, horrendous washboard...

...and back to the main road. 

At this point I was tired enough that riding on pavement was an attractive option so I followed the road back to town. The adventure had left my bike in a sorry state so I stopped at a car wash and cleaned it with a pressure washer. Before I reached home I passed a bike shop, and a fundi was more than happy to lubricate my chain for 20 shillings. His chain lube turned out to be used motor oil, so I wiped off what I could to keep it from accumulating dirt and causing more wear than it would prevent.

The Somali family on whose compound I live had a lot of people over for lunch. I greeted the men on the front porch sweaty, bleeding, and coated in mud. I must have made an impression because I was invited to join just after I finished showering. The food was delicious, and I got to meet the father, and uncle (from Toronto), two brothers, several friends (turned out to be farmers, fascinated by the bags we sell at Elite), and all their children. I ate my fill of goat, chicken, and chapatti, drank tea, and chatted with the brother who just finished med school. It was lovely, but by the time I took my leave I was quite ready for the coffee and relaxing that awaited.

At church the next morning I met Patrick and Whitney, who are here with Samaritans Purse. The invited me for supper, and I had a wonderful time playing ping-pong and chatting about the path to becoming a missions pilot. Their stories and pictures awakened my childhood obsessions with flight and ambitions to do just this. Patrick said the best way to get started is to find a couple guys to go in on a plane, and hire a good instructor.

Any takers?

...For Kenya

On the way to Eldoret we stayed at a camp on Lake Naivasha.
This grove of green-bark acacia was quite picturesque at sunrise.

On the flight to Nairobi I chatted with an Indian guy from Dubai who works in hydraulic repairs for a shipping company. He is from Gao, a city in India whose residents are eligible for Portuguese residency, grandfathered in by colonial occupation. On the drive home from the airport I was amazed at the poly-story buildings which have since I was there six years ago. The roads were smoother, I was told a bypass was under construction to alleviate traffic, and I saw far less scattered trash than I remembered. The jam passing through Nairobi was all too familiar however, as was the ungainly ornamentation of Marabou storks along Mombasa Road.

Storks and traffic in 2009...
 (look closely at the tree farthest from you and closest to the road)

...And in 2016

The sunset I found wandering dirt paths on Aram's bike.

The view from the esccarpment.

 I spent a few days in Nairobi hanging out with Aram and Debbi (brother and sister-in-law) and the kids. It was lovely to have a yard with trees, and be able to bike out into cattle fields and green. I played some ultimate, met cool people (Nairobi Ultimate draws a disproportionately large concentration intelligent, accomplished, and mindful people), and generally enjoyed myself. I braved Nairobi roads and got familiar with the city via piki-piki (motorcycle). I actually became fairly comfortable on the bike, learning to exploit the flexibility of traffic laws. As has become the usual pattern, as soon as I was becoming at home in Nairobi, it was time to move to Eldoret to the new challenge of acclimating to a foreign city on my own.

Aram and the family accompanied me for the move up there and helped shop for the apartment. With a spare afternoon we visited Kerio Valley, an escarpment which is apparently one of the worlds premier paragliding destinations. I sadly didn’t get a chance to pursue that, but I did sit on some rocks watch the acrobatics of sparrows while a dust devil, storm, and rainbow crossed the valley below. Aram and I also threw a disc around among the hotel’s terraced gardens. The slope and wind off the escarpment made for quite a challenge and we amazingly left without any dislocations.

Priska joined from atop a honeysuckle encrusted retaining wall.
She missed plenty of  bid-able throws.

Shadrach had his own dragons to fight.

Then they went back to Nairobi, and I jumped into the work here. In the last two weeks I have been attempting to learn everything, from the language to sales to accounting and operations. I worked ten to twelve hours a day my first week, and didn’t have time until the weekend to finish setting up my apartment. It was all made up for by a lovely, rainy Sunday afternoon with tea and a book. Everyday tasks are more interesting here than in the US. The bike ride to and from work is remarkably challenging in the chaos of traffic. Matatus, the minibus public transport, completely ignore traffic laws creating an ever shifting gauntlet to test the cyclist. I have realized that it's much like mountain biking: you pick a line, stick with it, and hope you don't die. Buying vegetables is a battle of wits with the sellers since there are few set prices (and even those are a mystery to me). After my first trip I was happy to learn from my coworkers that I had not been ripped off too badly.

     So now I live in Eldoret. I work, eat, sleep, and bike, and look up as often as I can to see how cool this opportunity is. Simply my skin tone is enough to excite shouts from kids I pass and stares from the adults. The neighbor kids come stand in my yard and watch me sweep, and two of them wandered into my apartment while I was writing this paragraph to see what I am up to. It is draining to be the center of attention everywhere I go, but I’m working on not being frustrated about it. My saturdays have consisted of bike adventures, (stay tuned for a post about that, it was amazing: Waterfalls, swamps, and disappearing roads) and I think I was probably the event of the week for many of the villages I passed through. This is my life for now and I’ve no doubt that as soon as it becomes normal I’ll be off to the next challenge.

From Mozambique...

I climbed up the disintegrating concrete bleachers to take this photo of the Peniel international conference. 

Soon afterward the guards asked me to get down, for my own safety.

I left Mozambique nearly a month ago, but it’s been such a whirlwind of a month that I haven’t gotten a chance to post. And I still start conversations in Portuguese.

Hamburgers with Dino and James

 I ended up working more in everything else than the jam making. Most of my time was used fixing the phones and computers of missionaries and church leaders. I replaced screens, diagnosed problems, and installed Windows 10 six times. I also worked with the Peniel media team, providing tech support and shooting photos during the conference. I was amazed by how hard the media team worked, even when their only recognition was expressed as frustration with unavoidable technical difficulties. (This continent is not kind to electronics.) They truly serve God not Man, and I am thankful to call them friends. The media team organized a surprise send off the day before I left. I was humbled by their appreciation. They were encouraging in my next steps, but many said they’d pray God tells me to come back to Moz. And Mozambicans know how to pray!

Saudades!

 I made a few batches with Flavia, who works with Equip Mozambique, before I left. She was very excited to make jam and quickly learned everything I had to teach. We had some difficulties with uncooperative pectin, but she has persevered even in my absence and is working to perfect the process.
Even amidst all the other activities I put as much time and research into the jam project as I could. After research to teach myself the process, I managed to extract pectin from orange peels and made several batches of pineapple jam and marmalade. Most people I talked to were skeptical about jam with the orange peel in it, but those that tested it enjoyed it.

I planned to buy flights to Nairobi online, but decided to go to the airline office instead as Linhas Aereas de Mozambique is notoriously unreliable. (Apparently they used to fly to some airports in Europe, but are now banned due to their terrible service.) It was a good thing I did, because the flight I was going to take turned out to not exist. Instead I ended up with an itinerary that gave me an overnight in Pemba. None of our Pemba contacts were available, so I arrived at the airport with no idea where I would sleep that night. My first choice would have been a free airport bench, but LAM airports close at night. I did some quick research, found a place a couple klicks away, but the taxi driver told me it has been closed for two years. He knew a hostel on the other side of the peninsula which had cheap lodging (and expensive taxi fare) and delivered me there.

Russell’s Place is one row from the beach, with friendly staff and bougainvillea towering over the gate. I got a tent along the side of the compound, left my belongings (except for valuables because reviews mentioned security concerns) and set off to explore. I walked up the beach, scrambled around the point on coral and sat and watched the breakers as the sun set. I caught the sunrise from the point as well, arriving just in time to see the second half of the orange sphere rise from the waves. I would have arrived with more time but running in sand and over weathered coral in flip-flops wearing a backpack with everything of value that I own is just as awkward as it sounds. The guard of the fancy hotel I passed seemed amused.

Jam-istry

My Jam Lab

Last week I made the first test of jam making with a batch of marmalade. I wasn't sure it was going to set so I threw in some pectin I'd extracted from orange peels. It ended up setting so well it's a bit difficult to spread, but people still liked it, and there is isn't much of the three jars left.

...And the view of the sunset

Using a second batch of orange peel pectin, I made pineapple preserves last night as well as a batch of jelly from the skins. (Don't throw those away. Scrub your pineapple before cutting it and then chop and simmer the skins for 45 minutes with a bit of sugar. Pour over ice and enjoy bonus pineapple juice. Or make jelly) I ended up with nine 150 mL jars, which sealed nicely. The pectin didn't set as well as I hoped this time, and its almost runny. But it tastes delicious. Flavia, one of the Mozambicans who works with Equip Moz, has expressed interest in learning to make the jams, so now that I have learned some things, I am going to involve her as well. Communication will be a challenge as she speaks almost no English, and Janie recommended the utility of the phrase 'faz assim' - do it like this.

Marmalade 1.0

Pineapple jam and jelly 1.5

Does anyone know any good online resources to learn more about pectin intuition? Or any concise information that could be scanned and sent? It would be very useful to my learning, and we could translate it and use it for teaching others as well.

A Seven Minute Walk

Our office is on the ground floor.

    I live in the spare bedroom at the Equip Moz office, which is a few blocks from Jon and Carla's house. I make the walk several times a day to fetch things, go eat supper, then fight my way through the dogs on the way home after tea. Walking here is very different from the US, and it requires some gymnastics to dodge careening trucks, pothole puddles, and street soccer. I thought I'd share some observations from the last few days.
   I lock the deadbolt and two padlocked bars on the grate and thread my way through the soccer game on the hard-packed dirt outside our apartment. Next door two young men are hauling sand, hand-over-hand, one bucket at a time onto the second floor of the building under construction. That is also the area from which some aggressive dogs accost me when I return home late. One of the first things I noticed upon arriving on the African continent six and a half years ago was the people everywhere. There are a lot of people here, but they also just spend most of their time outside. The Portuguese equivalent of 'hang out' is passear, which means to go wander around.

Laundry

 So I pass many people, walking arm in arm down the middle of the street, kicking a round object, sitting on walls. Today I saw a guy pushing a $1500 Giant road bike, with narrow wheels that wouldn't survive the length of my commute. Many make their livelyhood in resale, and I pass people selling fruit, phone credit, drinks from a cooler. Or at night, their bodies. Beira, a city of 300,000 people, has around 7000 prostitutes and a few of them ply their tragic trade along my route home. On Sunday morning I pass church-goers, many of the men in suits, the women in colorful capulana skirts. For several mornings there was a woman hoeing out the grass in the plot next door, with a baby wrapped in a capulana on her back.
It's makes my brain hurt when I remind myself that all these people are people. I wish that I could catalouge their faces, match them to the stories. But I can't. And I probably couldn't bear to hear them even if I could.

    I walk along the curb to dodge the area where the road is always wet from someone's car-wash. Across the street a disemboweled car has found its final resting place. There's a dumpster there today, but in its absence the trash is piled in the street.
    Two lots down a house is receiving a new paint job, and with it appearance of new life. You never realize how much a difference a coat of paint makes until you live in a city that last had time for such frivolities in the 70's before the Portuguese left. A group of kids usually frolics around there, I don't know if its a daycare on just a hangout. They don't point and laugh as much as they used to. On many evenings a game of soccer is played in the street in front of the house with an electric fence and automated gate. They take time-outs for traffic.
The other house with an electric fence that I pass is owned by a Muslim baker. He has a well and shares his water with the community through this hose. Right now the city water is on, but when it was out for two weeks, there was always a queue of people with buckets outside his fence.
    I pass another dumpster location where a three legged dog is snacking before reaching Jon and Carla's apartment building. They live on the fourth floor, and this completely open window looks out from the second floor landing.
Kyran and Jariel have not fallen from it as far as I know.

Walk the beach

    While we ate breakfast Sunday morning the worship leader for the English service called to urgently request help setting up sound equipment. So I finished my eggs and took a chappa (shop'pa - the public transport) to the house where we meet. By the time I got there it was mostly done, so I arranged a few things and walked on on the adjacent beach. It was about seven kilometers home via the beach, so I strolled. A group of Mozambican boys in underwear rolled in the sand and leapt in the waves. A middle-aged South African couple with their daughter walked their dog. They wore the uniforms of leisure: the man a loose button-up shirt, and and the women sundresses and sun-hats. Two young Europeans sat facing each other, deep in conversation, with posture a of friends not a couple. The the two empty beers stuck in the sand and her ukulele next to them gave carefree ambiance to faces showing intense consideration of the topic at hand. Under the pines at the top of the beach Zionists in white robes held their service, singing in a Bantu language.

   The beach is broken into segments by groynes, built perpendicular to the water to decrease erosion, and each beach has its own function, demographics, and smells. 

The next I crossed was a fishing beach, shown by a sheen of silvery scales mixed with the sand. Collateral damage of minnows and dead jellyfish lined the water, where they had been drug out by shore nets. I climbed another barrier and was greeted by more fish breeze, but this was home to small dugouts which lined the top of the beach. These are rolled like the logs they were into the surf, paddled out beyond the waves, and then sails are set. 

    Women squatted just above the waves sorting the 4-6 inch catch-of-the-day. Clothes were spread to dry on the boulders of the barrier, and a driftwood fire cooked crabs. The next beach was mostly deserted, except for some potential apostles mending their nets and chatting in a tribal language. They quieted as I passed, but at least they didn't stare like many others.

    

The ravaged sand on the next beach showed definite signs of a struggle; the slope just out of reach of the rising tide was furrowed and pitted from some violent conflict. Some craters bore tell-tale signs of bare toes, as though a frenzied army had rushed the shore. The truth was much more pleasant, and the pair of upright sticks on either end made it easy to recreate the rousing football match that had so ravaged the sand.

The next barrier I climbed revealed a dichotomy characteristic of African economics. The pristine beach on the other side was edged by the patio of a restaurant/beach-club, instead of flotsam and trash.

South Africans and Portuguese families dined under umbrellas, some youth played sand volleyball, and Mozambicans waited tables. A Caucasian man loaded his yacht onto a trailer (assisted by Mozambicans) pulled by a new pickup. On the far side a Chinese couple, dressed for the occasion, fished from the Groyne with 15 foot saltwater poles. 

    I finally found a relatively uninhabited beach, with shade and a wall to lean against and stopped to read and write for a while.

My reverie was disturbed by a yell, followed by the body of a boy in a running front tuck off the low wall. His younger companion attempted to replicate the stunt, but his body rebelled and he just jumped into the sand. I watched them for a bit, then joined and did a couple of front and back flips. I gave some pointers in meagre Portuguese accompanied by demonstrations, and the older of the two flung his body into the air with abandon. He was used to doing back handsprings, and it is hard to overcome that instinct once it is ingrained. We parted ways with a handshake and I wandered on down the beach. 

    A freighter left the Beira port, passing the two dredgers that keep the channel open. Well, one is now responsible for the work since the other ran aground and has been slowly sinking over the past three weeks.I crossed another fishing beach with small fish scattered in the sand. I thought perhaps this was waste until I noticed they were separated into squares, spread one layer thick, drying in the sun. Their odor could be tasted. 

    Upwind, and over the next barrier, a group of young men sprawled in a circle around a handle of gin and a bag of sugarcane. One demonstrated his English prowess with the oft heard phrase: "How are you my friend?!" "Estou bem, e você?" His English was apparently exhausted with this exchange and my Portuguese was tiring, so I waved and moseyed on. I passed two more congregations of Zionists, one apparently in a heated debate between the sexes. I also passed two football games, with upright sticks confirming my earlier deduction. One pitch was in danger of being claimed by the rising tide. The goals were at the brink of the waves, and all the action was further up the beach.

    I reached the point of Ponta Gea and turned inland. I picked my way home along unfamiliar streets, and became somewhat disoriented. Fortunately the sun and shore steered me true and I began to recognize landmarks again. When I reached home I took a quick cold shower to rinse off the sand and salt, and went to the evening service of Peniel Portuguese. By 2300, after a four hour service and waiting on a leaders' meeting, I was so tired I could hardly see.

Visiting Dondo

Before starting Equip Mozambique, Jon and Carla worked with IRIS ministries at the base in Dondo. The directors there now are friends of ours, and we made the 40 minute drive out last Saturday to visit. The cratered, pitted, two lane road is known as the Beira Corridor. It is the artery of supply from Beira's port to Zimbabwe and other landlocked countries. At the margins of the road are small shops, parked cars (narrowing it to one lane), and many pedestrians and cyclists.

Fortunately Jon is an expert at avoiding such obstacles, and we made the round trip without accident.

I enjoyed these clouds for several kilometers.

  We did, however, have a run in with the local police. They waved us off and showed Jon with a radar gun that he had been going 80 kmph. This (roughly 50mph) is the speed limit on the national highway, but apparently near towns it is subject to change without notice, so we should have been going 60 kmph (37mph). The conversation was interrupted as the officers stopped two more drivers: remarkably both were foreign and both were travelling exactly 80 kmph. The SOP for traffic tickets is for the police to take your license, and you have to come find them later to pay your ticket and retrieve the license. Further, your license is not taken to a station but kept in the officers' possession, so you must hunt them down wherever they are patrolling. Fascinating. This creates obvious problems, especially if you are travelling long distances.
    We arrived at the IRIS base just as Eric and Tanya were returning from a funeral. One of the young men who had lived on the base had just died, probably from cerebral malaria. They said it was made more tragic because he had recently found a job and built a house, which he never got to live in. In talking with people who work here, death is disturbingly commonplace. The pastor of Peniel English said it was surreal at first. "I would leave for two weeks, and when I got back I'd ask 'where's so-and-so?' 'Oh, he got sick and died'. It was harder because one doesn't talk about the deceased, so unless you ask directly, no one tells you."
    Jon gave me a tour of the base, which is beautiful with gigantic mango trees, flower-beds, and well kept buildings. Sadly the facilities are under-utilized due in part to a lack of staff. When Jon and Carla were base directors the orphanage, boys home, bible college, primary school, and widows relief program kept them quite busy. Of these only the last two are currently functioning. It was illuminating to hear of the challenges Eric and Tanya face with there work in the area, especially since funding is not one of them. Identifying actual needs and finding honest people to work with is more difficult. Jon and Carla were able to identify with and encourage them as they worked under similar circumstances when they staffed the base.
    Tanya made amazing tacos for supper, and I remembered why I have decided it is my favorite meal. After supper I chatted with two girls from Zim who work on the base. They left medschool in the fourth of five years because they felt that God was calling them to do something different. They sold their few possessions for bus fare to the IRIS base in Dondo, and are helping with the ministry there. It was encouraging to see that God can guide with such clarity as to inspire that radical of a change in direction.

Review of Interviews

I have been rather busy with all the activities here, as I help Jon prepare the poly-lingual audiobible app for launch, prepare for conferences, fix computers, start on the business project, and build relationships and Portuguese savvy. So I haven't had as much time as I would have liked to record and share the experiences. Instead of a comprehensive update (which is intimidating and takes more time than I have at the moment) I'm hoping to compose some vignettes to share a taste of life here.

    In preparation for a conference at Peniel (the primary church Equip Moz works with), Janie was to interview some of the leaders concerning the development of the church. I tagged along to help arrange the set.
We arrived at the open-air stadium that is the church building a bit early, before the other people involved. After exchanging greetings and news with the guys in the ticket booth/church office, we got keys to the storeroom and started collecting equipment. The first challenge was to find the perpetually-absent video camera batteries. (Earlier in the week I had heard an epic of hastily searching for it as a sermon was beginning.) The desertive battery was nowhere to be found, so we hoped Dino would bring it and went on to look for a computer. We couldn't find the needed computer, but we did find "the computer that never works for recording audio". I resolved to fix it in case another computer didn't materialize. The microphone would not connect at first: apparently it was dropped and the USB ports don't work right. One port constantly connected and disconnected with the associated sound (doo-ding! ... dee-doong! doo-ding!...), so I turned off ports in the device manager until I found the culprit. Once I got the mic connected I had to figure out why Audition wasn't recognizing it, nor recording, nor throwing any errors. After 30 minutes of poking around the settings I finally got the bitrate and sampling rate set in all three necessary places and it worked. Much rejoicing.
   We had most of the set arranged in an outbuilding by the scheduled time for the interviews. I tested the lights, and they didn't turn on, so I checked another outlet which also didn't work. Some investigation revealed that the prepaid electricity had run out, so Dino went to acquire more. In the meantime I did a soundcheck with the laptop, and everything was working properly. Eventually we had the equipment powered and the interviewee in position so I left to decrease background noise and tried fix a guy's phone. A few minutes later Janie ran up asking for me to come fix the computer as it stopped recording. I turned things off and on again, corrected yet another setting, and the mic worked again.
   During the interviews I joined a planning meeting of the Peniel media team in preparation for the conference. Dino, the team leader, assigned tasks, kept things moving, and translated for my benefit. At the end of the meeting, one of the guys went to tell the interviewers of a change in the plan. Apparently in a meeting only he had been privy to, a different direction was selected for the interviews, but no one had informed those actually doing the interviews. So Janie redirected the interview process midstream, and carried on.
    And the interviews were accomplished in (relative to how most things go here) a very smooth and successful process.
In other news, I found this valve in the middle of an intersection. Somebody had a bad time.

Computers, Media Training, and Bush Outreach

    The last two weeks have been an intense process of adjustment and learning. I arrived on June 15th a bit early, which is apparently unheard of. As I walked down the stairs onto the tarmac, I was clearly in Africa and the smells and sensations cued memories of my arrival in Kenya. The warm, still air carried the familiar scents of diesel, body odor, wood smoke, and sewage, combined here with that of the nearby ocean. I was once again blessed with a very simple passage through customs and I waited outside for my ride absorbing my new surroundings.
    About the time the taxi driver I was talking to had exhausted his English, Jon and Carla arrived  and took me on a tour of Beira. We drove first to the beach, then from mansions to shacks via open air markets. And then to Wednesday "bible study" at church, which was perhaps the most startling of all. That trip, and the following few days were rather overwhelming as I re-encountered the infrastructure dysfunction, cultural challenges, and myriad other stressors of an unfamiliar, developing country. Poverty is much more severe and pervasive than I observed in Kenya, though apparently the city is rapidly developing. In addition, the language barrier is much greater than anywhere else I have traveled, adding to the disorienting experience as an alien.

The street in front of my house/the Equip Moz office

    My first few days were a return to age 12, attempting to create working computers from broken, aging hardware. Someone donated a bunch of computers and printers in various states of dysfunctionality, and without knowing anything about what worked testing was quite a challenge. Technical knowledge is rare here, and though I have no more experience than that of a tinkerer, I am a relative expert simply by knowing what the inside of a computer looks like. Organization is also a rare skill, so I sorted tubs of electronics and arranged things on shelves. I also followed Jon around on errands, became acquainted with the city, studied Portuguese, met people, and spent a lot of time at church. Two friends of Jon and Carla skilled in media arrived a few days after me, and planned training for the next week. Media teams from several churches in the area came together to learn basic project planning, video shooting, and editing. Once again skills and knowledge taken for granted in the states are invaluable here, and the crowd of students steadily grew during the week.
 
I sat in on a some of the training because Equip Moz helps the local church a lot with media processing, which I know little about. I thoroughly enjoyed learning with the Mozambicans as peers, collaborating the practice projects, and learning a bit of Portuguese in the process. With the rest of my time I continued working on computers slowly isolating the problems. I also learned a lot about the culture, development, corruption, and the opportunities that exist here as I tried to find where I fit in the activities. I still felt completely out of place, and mostly unproductive, but at least I could manage the five minute walk from the office where I stay to Jon and Carla's house without getting lost. I even ran across town at 0415 to run with some South Africans I met in the English service of church. They had cancelled due to impending rain, so I had a lovely morning reading on the beach as the sun rose.

   Over the weekend I joined the people from the English service for an outreach in the bush two hours north. Our bus jolted over familiarly rough dirt roads and I chatted with the other people. Most were from Zimbabwe (and hence spoke english) and it was great to be able to actually converse. I talked about logistics in Africa with guy who works for Cargill in that role, and discussed politics with a missionary from Eldoret Kenya. I was reading Fortune at the Bottom of the Pyramid, which intrigued several people and started a conversation on development. We passed hundreds of pedestrians, and wondered aloud how far they all had walked. We also passed people riding or pushing bicycles comically overloaded with burlap sacks of charcoal. I was saddened by the thought of the ancient trees that had been sacrificed in the interest of the day's income. The paradox is that deforestation is wreaking ecological havoc, but it is also the livelyhood of many in sub-Saharan Africa.

João and I

    The bus stopped without explanation in the village of Chinamacondo, so we got out to stretch. I talked with João, a second year medical student from Beira about his motivation coming from seeing the need for medical care. After an hour, and buying eating some two-cent oranges from a stand, I asked if anyone knew why we had stopped here. No one did. The bus driver had also disappeared. Our situation was discussed for a minute or two, no conclusions were reached, and it was dropped again.
 
    The bus driver eventually showed up, and we learned that we were waiting to be ferried by the pastor because the road was too bad for the bus. Just before sunset half of us climbed the back of a pick-up for a 40 minute drive to the Nhamasengheri.

    Riding in the back of the pick-up, at golden hour, on a track through the bush is exhilarating, and awakened a desire for adventure and exploration of untamed lands. At the same time I wondered how people survive so far from 'civilization' and thought of the challenges of development work in this remote of an area. The two wheel track dwindled to a footpath, wound through undergrowth and forded several streams before arriving at a partially finished shack. We set up tents, made a fire, and then ate supper while the pastor went back for the rest of the group.

I wandered a little ways away to look at the stars, and as my eyes adjusted I was more and more astounded by what I saw. The stars of the bush are unrivaled by any I have seen elsewhere, even in the high desert of the American Southwest. The milky way was a shimmering cloud with swirling texture and tendrils of stars. The rest of the sky was so populated with stars that it was difficult to make out constellations. I lay on my back in the sand and listened to the night until it was pierced by approaching headlights.

   Our plan was to show the Jesus Film in the tribal language Senna using a generator to power the speaker and projector. The generator did not wish to start. Five or six people were crowded around it so I wandered into the night again and sang hymns with the stars. By the time I returned the generator was running, but only for one minute intervals. I thought I might be able to channel Simeon, so I followed the path of fuel to the carburetor, checking the filter, pump, and lines. After a bit of pondering I thought to remove the air-filter as that had caused similar problems with a lawn mower once. But we didn't have pliers. With true African innovation one of the guys used the jaws of the jumper cables to grip the nut and was able to loosen it. The filter didn't look too dirty, but without it the generator ran. I wrapped the air intake with a t-shirt to keep out the larger bugs, and we drove to the school to set up the equipment. It was 2200 and a chilling 60 degrees Fahrenheit by the time we started the movie, so only 40 ish people showed up. João introduced the movie in Senna, and crowd, mostly children, was glued to the screen for the next two hours as the story of Jesus was reenacted.

    After a night of very little sleep I got up a bit before six and sat around a fire as the sun rose. While corn porridge was prepared for breakfast we kicked a soccer ball around to shake the morning chill. Some of the people joined a Brazilian missionary couple for a kids program at the school and the rest went hut-to-hut evangelizing.














    Many had been talked to on previous outreaches and the people who had come before we excited to meet with them again. I went with a group to the local chief's house and sat down outside with his family, including his daughters, sons, and their wives and children. We exchanged pleasantries for a while and then told the story of creation, fall, and Jesus' life and death.
     Samira was very engaging in her presentation and held the attention of all but the toddlers. The chief said his whole family attended church, and one of his daughters seemed to have absorbed a lot. It was clear she had put some effort into learning about God, and I also observed that she seemed the happiest of all of them. One of the others appeared pretty angry the whole time, and when we offered to pray at the end, it came out that she was bothered by a spirit. She wore a charm from a witch doctor, so Samira talked with her for a bit, and she removed it and allowed us to pray with her. One of the sons had a child they had not yet named, and apparently it was decided that should be done. The father had chosen to name her Azalea, and the mother agreed. In a rather awkward ceremony the name was given, and I told them through double translation it was the name of a flower. The chief showed us around his garden where he grows pineapple. Quite successfully apparently, as it included the largest pineapple I have ever seen. His fruit trees also included mango, lychee, orange, tangerine, papaya, guava, and passionfruit. He sent us with two pineapples and a basket of tangerines, and many thanks for our visit. On the way back to the school we passed a bakery, consisting of a wood-fired, clay oven under a thatched roof. Domingo, the owner, sold us still warm bread for about ten cents for each small loaf. It was delicious.

 

  After distributing some clothes and cleaning up we headed back to Chinamacondo. While they ran the shuttle again I wandered out of town to enjoy the solitude. These two boys were clearly fascinated by this Mzungu, so I took a picture of them with their bikes. After they moved on I was alone with the afternoon sun and the smell of summer evening. I was not at all disappointed that the shuttle took over two hours, and somewhat regretfully got back on the bus. We bounced back to Beira parallel to the sunset to bumping gangster rap, and I listened to Piano Guys in my headphones.


(Thanks to Melissa for many of the photos in this post.)