The Package

Getting the package was not easy. I went to the post office and asked for it and was instructed to go to the outside window and ring the bell. Of course the bell didn't work, so after 10 minutes in the heat I went back in and asked again. I had to go back out and then someone came. She said a package should arrive in 2 weeks and I told her it had been 5, so she went and looked. She said I was "really lucky" because it was here, but I couldn't have it. It needed to be "inspected" by a govt. agent. Not opened, just inspected. I guess they want to confirm that it really is a package. Well, the government agent is a few blocks away so she suggested going to get him. Harrison (who was with me) was not put off at all by this so we went down to the office. The agent was there, killing time in the back room-we had to sit and wait for him to appear. He wanted to know the postal number for the package. Mercifully, we had it. When I told him I wanted to take it home, and we would give him a ride to the post office, he said he would come with us. Off we went. He carried a big hand rubber stamp with him.

At the post office, he took us in the back door and to the room with arrived packages. There were 47 (I had time to count). He didn't know where mine was so Harrison and I had to find it. I found it and brought it to him. He then made a big deal of looking at it and stamping the quadruplicate form attached to it. But I still couldn't take it. I had to go back around to the front of the post office and get in another line to receive the package and sign for it. FINALLY I got it. This whole process took about an hour. The "official" declined a ride back to his office because he had to inspect the other 46 packages which he should have already done that day (it was 2:30 pm.) TIA

PS
We have been receiving packages and mail regularly since this happened. If you want to send something, don’t hesitate! (our address is: PO Box 395, Mzuzu, Malawi AFRICA)

They Call Me Bwana

They call me Bwana! How cool is that? I have wanted to be a bwana ever since I watched Ramah of the Jungle on Saturday morning T.V. I pictured myself crashing through thick jungle vegetation with dozens of porters transporting supplies so I could live in the manner to which I was accustomed. Well now I am bwana. We have a cook, housekeeper, gardener, and watchmen, all doing their best to keep me fat and happy.

But it’s not just the house staff that calls me bwana. It’s my friends from the Widows’ Fund, as well as the ordinary, every day man on the street. Sometimes they anglicize it and call me “boss” but it’s all the same. Still others call me mister (meester), or pastor/muliska/abusa, or muzungu, or gogo, or director, or, once in a great while, Paul.

But frankly I prefer bwana. It has a nice ring to it don’t you think?

Of course all you have to do to earn this esteemed title is to be white, male, and over 18. The reality is, I’m a babe in the dangerous jungle of Malawian cultural norms. What’s more, bwana is close to the Tumbuka word mwana which means child. Maybe that’s why I like it. Some days I feel more like a mwana than a bwana. But, thank goodness, so far nobody calls me Mwana.

The Widow's Might

A warm embrace.
A proud smile for the camera.
Words of gratitude
spoken in a language my ears cannot comprehend
but my heart understands.
For now,
instead of curling up on a wet cement floor,
She
and her four young charges
are actually sleeping on a bed…
with a mattress…
under a roof…
that no longer leaks!
Windows?
Well, no.
A table?
No room.
Electricity and plumbing?
Are you kidding?
But hey,
not everybody has a good roof over their head and a dry bed!

(Note: Last Sunday afternoon we visited the “Widow’s Fund” project supported by several congregations in our Presbytery of Northern New York. The widow pictured above lives in one of 7 houses we visited. She is thrilled with her new roof, her bed, her mattress and her blankets. Maybe next year she will have a window.)

Lunch

How does a blue eyed American integrate into a Tumbuka speaking nursery staff? I am around the nannies all the time, but really don’t have many conversations other than “How are you” and “How is the baby”. Most of my interaction is with the nurse and supervisor, who speak good English.

Thursday I was invited to lunch. Lunch and dinner is served every day at the nursery. It consists of nsima (thick maize or cassava porridge the consistency of play dough), greens and fish or beef.

Today we are having cassava nsima (a treat from the supervisor’s garden) rape leaf greens, and beef cubes. Cassava nsima has a distinctive taste – different from maize nsima which has barely any taste at all.

We all sit around the big table and I am served first. I have a glob of cassava nsima, a small pile of greens, and what appears to be 2 lumps of gristle. There is no silverware. A baby is howling, so I pick her up on the way to my seat and start her on a bottle.

I eat with my free hand, breaking off a small piece of nsima and dipping it in the greens before popping it into my mouth. I am hungry and it tastes good. The gristle is a challenge. The nannies are delighted that I am actually eating. We exchange small talk and have a few laughs. When a male staff member joins us the usual curtailing of female gossip is squelched by his presence.

Except for the setting and the food we could be anywhere in the world, a group of women sharing lunch together. We are one world. We all have problems and worries, many universal. Illness, depression, menopause, unfaithfulness, the mother in law – it’s all there. When we share food and fellowship together we let each other know we are not forgotten or alone in our struggles. Thanks be to God!


P.S. This morning, as we listened to BBC’s live coverage of President elect Barak Obama’s acceptance speech, he spoke directly to us when he addressed people “huddled around a radio in a forgotten part of the world.” We are grateful that neither BBC, nor you, nor the Lord has forgotten us or the people of Malawi