The Eight Foot Ladder

When we first moved into our beautiful house the Lord so wonderfully provided for our work here in Malawi, it didn’t take very long for me to realize we needed an eight foot ladder, because  some of the ceilings at this end of the house are ten and twelve feet high. Even being able to simply change a light bulb was not otherwise going to be an option. There are many “hardware stores” in Zomba; I would just put it on my long list of items to acquire, and get one in town as soon as possible.

Not so fast! As I began my search for the ladder, along with many other items we needed, I learned there is something uniquely different about all the shops here, not only the hardware stores. Everyone has a niche in what they offer for sale, and they don’t always follow a specific pattern. There’s one shop that will sell mattresses, pillows, metal roofing sheets, and nails. Another will stock plastic buckets and fertilizer. Still a third will have  screws and other fasteners, along with house paint.

A few weeks back, Phyllis and I were making our very first run to Blantyre, some 65 kilometers away, and although we had a good spare tire, I knew we didn’t have a jack. There are no service stations along the way, and I knew I needed to get a jack before leaving Zomba. We drove into Zomba and saw what appeared to be a large well stocked auto parts store, but upon inquiring, the man behind the counter said he was sorry, but he didn’t have one. We left, and walked across the street to a little music shop we had never noticed before, where Phyllis was able to purchase a children’s Gospel CD she had been hoping to find.

As we were walking back to our car, the auto parts man called out to inform us that the store next to his has a jack for sale, so relieved, we went over to his shop, and after he showed us a brand new scissor jack, still in the box, told us the price in kwacha. After some quick calculating I realized he wanted to sell me a fifteen dollar jack for the equivalent of seventy six dollars! Although we’re surely not, we were being pegged as rich Americans, and he was trying to make a week’s income on one sale. As we said no thanks, and were high tailing it out the door, he told us he could come up with a little better deal. “Double no thanks,” I thought.

Alas! I knew the answer. Although I would probably be required to pay a little premium for his service, we walked into the bustling Zomba Market, and up to the little hardware booth owned and run by energetic young Yusuf. Whenever he sees us coming he lets out a big perfect toothed smile and says “Hello George,” which he always spells Jogie on his sales receipt. I said, “Yusuf, one day I will teach you how to properly spell my name,” then I told him what we were looking for. He was off like a bolt of lightning, and back with a shiny new jack within a couple minutes. We paid twenty seven dollars and he even carried it to the car for us. I asked him if he just wanted to look at my beautiful Mercedes. He laughed, and off we went.

A few weeks later, as we were rounding up everything Phyllis and I needed to bring to immigration in order to get our visa extensions, we spied a tiny shop bordering on the bus terminal, which offers passport photos within “two minutes.” We parked the car, and walked over, but as we passed through the front door, there stood a woman making French fries, and some sort of deep fried pastries. Once we inquired, we were ushered into a little back room, and one at a time, using a small digital camera, the proprietor proceeded to take both of our pictures. He had them cropped, printed and cut down to size on his truly world class paper cutter quicker than you could turn around.

Oh, back to the eight foot ladder! After several inquiries over a week’s time, I was finally convinced that indeed, Zomba, the fourth largest city in all of Malawi just did not have one for sale in any of its myriad shops.  Fortunately, Blantyre, which is impressively dubbed the “commercial capital of Malawi” because of its vast industrial and commercial base is within relative striking distance, I would get one there at my first opportunity. One friendly hardware store owner, Mosh, whom we had dealt on a number of issues, would gladly have one delivered to his shop with one of his regular orders from Blantyre, and I would just pay a small premium for the convenience. Being that our little Mazda wouldn’t be able to haul it that seemed a plus for both of us.

After another ten days and three or four reminders and patiently waiting for him to come through, I decided it was time to inquire of another shop owner or two. Furcan and Aziz, the mattress and roofing materials store owners, (the only connection I have come up with regarding the two product lines, is that you lie on one, and under the other), said they couldn’t get us one. Our landlord’s agent was heading down to Blantyre in his pickup truck, and would be most happy to purchase one while there, and carry it back for us. No problem. Well, almost no problem.  The Game Store, a division of WalMart; yes you read right, WalMart, didn’t have them either. Oh boy!

I was beginning to learn that some things simply aren’t available in Malawi, and people routinely find their way around this dilemma. But exactly how was I to do that? Then came our big breakthrough! The fabric shop owner, Imran, a man of Indian descent, born in Mozambique, and raised in Malawi, knows everything about everything regarding commerce here. His brother owns a shop in Blantyre, and he’ll find us a ladder, and then have it delivered to Imran’s, shop and he’ll even drive it up the hill to our house once it arrives in Zomba. For free! You can’t beat an offer like that.

A couple days later, as I entered Imran’s shop anticipating the good news, he looked me in the eye, and informed me that there isn’t a single eight foot ladder in all of Blantyre. I needed one, and knew in my heart of hearts, that somehow, and relatively soon, my ladder would be at the house doing that which I needed it to. But a paraphrase of a Yogi Berraism came to mind, “It ain’t an eight foot ladder until it’s an eight foot ladder”. Then he said the magic words: he could have his welder make me one using the same design pattern of his six footer, and he would still deliver it up the hill to us. It would have to be made of steel, which would be about ten times heavier than the aluminum one I had hoped for, but did it really matter at this point? When in Malawi, do…………….

Several days later, and through the gate came Imran with our freshly painted battle ship gray steel ladder. One slight modification needed for OSHA approval, not to mention our health and safety, and we’re in business. It takes both of us to maneuver it from room to room; but, some otherwise impossible jobs are getting done, and other items on our to do list will be getting knocked off one at a time. That’s progress!

The story wouldn’t be complete without mentioning that on our very next trip to Blantyre, there in one of the aisles at the Game Store stood an eight foot aluminum step ladder with the words stenciled on both sides, “Property of Game Store”. I can only assume they had it shipped in from South Africa.

Funeral in Kainga

We were driving into Kainga Village on Saturday on our way to Pahuwa, when from the back seat Helen said, “Slow down. There’s a funeral nearby.” I had no idea how she knew, then she explained that the green leafy branches spread across the road ahead of us meant a person in the village had recently died.  I learned that unlike Christians, Muslims bury their dead on the very day of their death. 

As we inched along, people stood almost motionless on their porches and yards and watched us as we passed. One man slowly pushed his bicycle through the village. Then at one small house men were standing on the edge of the porch and many women seated on the neatly swept front yard.  Most certainly, these were family and friends of the deceased.  I wondered who in the community had died. 

I had taught the women at the Kainga mosque only the week before, and as we parted ways that afternoon, the women were happy, singing and dancing.  Today, there were no smiles or waves or children running alongside our car to greet us.  Their loss was marked by the grief stricken faces of the villagers and the children who followed us only with their eyes.

We passed another marker, tree branches  spread across the road, and moved on. A few km down the road, and we were in Pahuwa where we taught a group of 16 women.  We scheduled our next visit and said our goodbyes and drove toward Kainga.

As we entered Kainga,  a woman who had been in our class in the mosque the week before walked out to meet our car. Helen lowered her window to hear what she had to say. She said, “Remember the young woman last week who was expecting? She died two days after giving birth.” “Did the baby live?” I asked.   Yes. The baby lived.  I remember the mother, bright eyed, smiling, eager to learn, and very young, in her mid teens.  I thought of her and was grieved.  One has to wonder, how does one measure that loss, and could it have been prevented?

Before we came to live in Malawi we learned of all the things that push a young girl into early marriage and the spiral into deep poverty for her and her children. We also learned that many of these young girls die in childbirth. I will tell you a typical scenario which mades it nearly impossible for the young woman in Kahinga to get an education. From an early age, she had to help with the household chores like fetching firewood and water for her family which caused her to lag behind in primary school. She never got an opportunity to go to school beyond primary grades because the family could not afford the school fees.  If there was money to send only one child to school, it was for her brother.  Disillusioned and discouraged, she dropped out of school.

Then in her early teen years, her parents were approached and a marriage arranged. The time for making choices about her future was over for her. The “bride price,” which is a gift of food or money from the groom to the bride’s family, looked very attractive to the poor girl’s family.  So she was married and became pregnant before her body was fully formed. This led to complications during childbirth, which resulted in her death.

I am certain that we do not know all of the answers to encouraging girls to stay in school and  marry later, but I wonder if a few of the interventions we offer could have saved this young girl’s life.  It is a tragic loss for this girl and her community, but may God help us to be instrumental in saving other girls just like her.

Having a clean source of water in this community will help the girls stay in school. We repaired this well on Christmas Day.  We will soon offer the Changu, Changu Moto clean burning, fuel-efficient cook stoves, which will ease the burden for fetching firewood. This will also help girls stay in school.

Pray for our success as we seek out opportunities to go into nearby schools and teach young girls their worth to God. I want to tell them that the God who made them loves them and has a good plan for their lives, that they are fearfully and wonderfully made and their bodies are to be cared for and respected.  I want to encourage them to work hard, make good grades, and stay in school.  (For girls in the top of the class, there are scholarships to secondary school.)

 I want to give each adolescent girl a Dignity Kit that will enable her to attend classes during her menstrual cycle.  Why does this matter? Statistically, when a girl remains in school two years longer, she will marry four years later, have fewer children, healthier children, and those children will be better provided for.  It changes everything for the next generation.

And the fragile newborn?  What will be her future? 

Welcoming the Women to our Home

All of the women, rich and poor, were invited to come to our house on Sunday afternoon. Talk about a diverse group!  Some families on this hill are wealthy, and some are very poor.  Would the rich women sit with the poor women? Would they have the same health needs?  I wasn’t sure, but they were all invited. So, Sunday at 1:00 PM they all began to arrive. 

George and I have always waved and smiled as we passed them along the way here on the mountain. We have seen them carrying firewood down from the mountain and washing their clothes on the rocky slopes of their back yards. The back door of each little house opens to an enormous flight of steps down to the back yard, and many times I watched their little ones standing in those open doorways.  I have seen them, but I didn't know them. This would be my first opportunity to meet the women, and hopefully, start building relationship with them for the sake of the Gospel.

George and I thought about this meeting and prayed about it all week, but I didn’t really know what to expect. I knew we would start with introductions and attempt to assess their health concerns, but beyond that, I didn’t know. The meeting began with my telling the women who we are, where we came from, and what we are doing here in Malawi. They learned that God called us to Malawi with a mission to provide clean water and to offer sanitation and hygiene training in the rural villages.

I told the story of how God used my friend, Marie, who went to Kenya on a medical mission to help me learn about the need for clean water in rural Africa. Four years ago, she had told of women walking many km to see the doctor, thirsty and needing water. She described how the women lay on their faces and drank water out of a puddle.  Although I never witnessed it with my own eyes, God used that mental image to move me to action on behalf of the women in Africa. I told how we sold everything and moved here in November, and although we are not rich people, God has provided the means for us to repair 30 water wells and to teach the women out in the villages, ways to keep their families healthy. They thought this was good. 

As I was speaking, more and more women trickled in by ones and twos, and by 2:00, it was Helen, my interpreter, and I and eleven of the poorest women from the mountain.  Now, it was time for them to introduce themselves.  I learned their names and the names of their children. I called each one’s name and asked where on the mountain they live.

Then it was time to know their greatest health concerns. They told me that their children suffer much from malaria, diarrhea, and respiratory disease. I told them that I would be happy to teach them how to make their families healthier. I asked about other concerns, and some shared that they work in the big houses on the mountain, cooking and cleaning, but they struggle to provide for their own families.

One said she had been abandoned by her husband for another woman, whom he married. She asked him to provide for his child, but he refused to do so if she would not sleep with him. She said she resisted him and is working hard to provide for her child. I told her how much I respect her resolve to do that. Another said her husband abandoned her, and she does not have enough income to provide for her children, and now they are living in the village with relatives. She said, “Of course, I want my children with me, but I cannot. “

My heart was so moved with compassion.  It was obvious that better health is not the only concern in this community.  Their needs are also spiritual and physical.  I shared with the women some of the struggles of my life and the pain of divorce. I also told them that when I felt crushed by disappointment, God is the one who lifted me, caused me to stand on my feet, and healed me. He gave me the grace to forgive and bless people who had disappointed me.  I encouraged the women to not focus on finding a man who will meet their needs, but to surrender their lives to God and to trust Him for provision.  “It is the God who made all of heaven and earth who has all of the resources and all of the answers, and He knows each one of you by name,” I said. I asked that they not look to me but to put their hope in God. I quoted Psalm 25:3, “None who wait for you shall be disappointed.” I told them that men may disappoint them, but those who put their trust and hope in God, He will never abandon.  Helen and I prayed for the women and blessed them.

I told them that I would like very much to have them meet again in my home and that it be a place where the women in the community can regularly meet to discuss issues and concerns and pray for one another. I learned that Sunday afternoon is a good time to meet, but some asked if we could meet at 3:00 PM because they are away at church earlier. All agreed. We will meet next Sunday. Over time as we build trust, there will be more opportunities to share God’s love and to bless these beautiful women.

 

 

It's All Top Down

 In my last blog, entitled “Top Down or Bottom Up”, I focused on showing the different philosophies and methods for reaching the African Continent with meaningful assistance and why we believe very strongly that the bottom up, or hands on at the local level approach  is the only way to be effective here. If you haven’t read that post, I recommend you do so first, or at least read it in conjunction with this one.

Besides our previous trips to Africa over the past five years, Phyllis and I have immersed ourselves in a host of books, articles, and innumerable full length documentaries along with much online research. They dealt with how the West contributed to the various crises which dog Africa to this day. They speak of corrupt and inefficient governments, all the horrible diseases which still run rampant here, wars and revolutions, all the wonderful opportunities, the utter lack of opportunity, and on and on. Unfortunately all were from a Western perspective.

From not too long after our plane touched down in Blantyre nearly twelve weeks ago, we were beginning to see the local African part of the equation. Phyllis touched on one aspect of it several weeks ago, in her post, “George, Jail, and the Rich Uncle”, where even the most casual, and fleeting associations can and often do bring a perspective of duty and obligation. You may also want to read a blog I did around the same time entitled “Pastors”, which also gives some insight into the problem.  Church leaders, school principals, government bureaucrats, and village chiefs, along with the man on the street somehow arrive at the conclusion their ship has just come in, and it’s got your name emblazoned across the bow.

Most people here have no frame of reference to distinguish a five digit annual budget, from a seven, or even a nine digit one. There are also the opportunists here, eager to play on your guilt and their need, real or imagined. All Westerners with a four wheel drive, especially if they have a logo on the side, will be targeted pretty much the same.  If a newly arrived individual or team doesn’t come to terms with this early on, they can easily become totally sidetracked from their original mission, quickly worn out, or worse, disillusioned or embittered.

Malawi, as well as the rest of sub-Saharan Africa has been the recipient of top down aid for the more than half century since the beginning of the end of colonialism. Anyone with a desire to be truly objective will come away with the conclusion that the results have been dismal; the effects have been downright toxic. While nations such as Singapore, Indonesia, South Korea, and the great majority of those in Latin America have escaped the pangs of “thirdworldism”,  Africa has sunken deeper and deeper into the mire.

We’ve had some real time, firsthand experience even on the rural village level where on one recent Saturday Phyllis was teaching hygiene and sanitation to a large group of women. They were not only very receptive to all the life saving instruction, but enthusiastically invited her back to teach them more, and told her they would each show her their very own household hand washing stations she had taught them to make. This was the model of how bottom up assistance can and should work. The session could only be described as fruitful and enjoyable, and encouraged us greatly.

Fast forward one week to a village less than a mile from the first, and the attitudes were polar opposites. As Phyllis and Helen were working with the group of about sixteen women, I was playing with a group of about twice that number of children. My interpreter wasn’t able to show up, so all I was able to do was play little games with them, and for the most part everyone was having lots of fun. I was taken aback when one girl, about ten years of age stuck her hand out, palm up, and demanded in perfectly clear English, “give me my money”. 

 

A moment later another girl, who appeared to be a couple years older than the first, also began insisting that I give her money as well. I made it clear that I wouldn’t, and from the way all the others were still being quite friendly, and playful, I deduced that they were the only two who could speak English. I was kind of saved by the bell when Helen signaled that the workshop was over, and that I needed to help them pack up.  When I got over to the circle of women, it became apparent that things hadn’t flowed very well with the workshop  and that some demands had been made on Phyllis also.

I worked to salvage the situation by reminding them that I had explained when we opened that the wealth we brought was one of knowledge which would empower them to keep their families healthy. I borrowed a bar of soap one of the women had won in a little guessing game Phyllis had played with them. I held it up, and explained that as they used it, it would keep getting smaller, and soon would be no more. I told them that knowledge doesn’t work that way, and once learned and retained, it would benefit them and their families for as long as they used it, and couldn’t wear out. As they pass it on to others, it will grow rather than shrink.

I became hopeful that some of what I shared was sinking in, as one woman, quite a bit older than the others, and hopefully a bit wiser, addressed the rest in Chichewa, and was continually tapping the side of her head as she spoke. I believe she was explaining to them the great worth of knowledge and that we had indeed brought something of value.  I closed with prayer, and assured them we would return for another workshop on the date we had promised. On the long drive back to town, Phyllis told me how they had insisted that on our next visit she bring a bar of soap for every woman, and that she make, and bring a household hand washing station for each one as well, a far cry from the attitudes at the first village.

Somehow, and I’m not exactly sure how, the top down expectation toward Western relief had infiltrated, and intoxicated the people of this village. We plan to return, and to work with them as long as they want us back, and as long as we believe we are helping them make progress with their families’ health and sanitation needs. I believe the work will be quite a bit harder there, but if we can break through the wrong mindset it will be well worth it. I’m also reminded that it is our greater goal to bring the redemptive message of the Gospel, and of God’s wonderful patience toward me.

 Now wherever we go, we have simply begun to explain to everyone who has an ear to listen, that we have a very low budget, and that when we made the decision to move to Malawi well over a year ago, what we most desired to bring was in the form of knowledge, knowledge to the impoverished women of these rural villages, and their children. It would be life saving, and life changing knowledge on health, nutrition, and the lifting of overwhelming burdens. Before and after repairing the thirty wells we’ve restored to date, we have assured people that with a bit of planning, they will be able to take charge, and never need to wait for or depend on outsiders again. It is their well. The same also applies to health issues, efficient cook ovens, as well as education, farming, and finances. They own it; it is indeed theirs. Top down had its day, and showed itself to be ineffective at best. It’s now time for a totally bottom up approach to Africa, where the true welfare of the people matter more than programs, power brokering, and payoffs,  and results are able to be measured in real human terms.

How to Get a Driver's License

First of all, you must go by the traffic office and ask for one. The officer will tell you not to worry because you can drive with a US license for a year. That’s good to know, so, with confidence, you start driving. Eventually, you will be stopped by a traffic officer who will tell you to apply for a license within three months of your arrival. You will be glad that you still have time to work on it.

When you are stopped again (This shouldn’t take long because you can be stopped several times a day), this officer will tell you that you have been misinformed.  He will tell you to enroll in driving school and at the completion of the course you must take a driving test.  If you satisfactorily complete that test, a license will be issued. And, by the way, the driving test must be in a straight shift vehicle.

While your head is still reeling from learning you must go to driver’s school, you will be stopped again, and this officer will tell you your US license will be good until you return to the US and get an international license, and this international license will be legal indefinitely.

By this time you will be thoroughly confused, so you will seek out the advice of an American missionary friend. Maybe he can help clear things up for you. He will tell you that he was driving with a US license, but when he was stopped after only three months, he got a ticket and had to pay a fine.

Because you have found his advice helpful in the past and because he has lived here all his life, you decide to talk to another friend, Abdul. Abdul will tell you that he has a friend, William, who knows how to expedite your getting a license.

Abdul will take you to William’s office in the transportation department. Although there will be several people ahead of you, you will be brought to the front of the line. None of the conversations will be in English, so you won’t know what is going on. Abdul and William will laugh and chat a bit, and slap each other on the back, and then William will stamp his approval on your license application.  

Out in the parking lot, Abdul will inform you that William will mail your application to the capital, and in a month a license will be mailed, not to you, but to William. Then in hushed tones, Abdul will turn and tell you how much William thinks his services are worth. You will think to yourself, “Hmmm. Is this the way things work for everyone?”

When the license arrives, William will call you to his office to pick it up, and if you owe anything more, William will let you know before releasing the license.

Simple enough, right?

Meeting the Mennonites

A few weeks ago at a little restaurant in Zomba called Tasty Bites, we met a Mennonite Church of God in Christ missionary couple, Joe and Ruth, who pastor two rural churches in the Zomba district. They invited us to attend one of their churches in a distant village. Because our little Mazda couldn’t possibly navigate the rural roads we would be traveling, we decided to park in Zomba and they would take us in their big 4 wheel drive.  We traveled south toward Blantyre on the paved road, a minefield of deep potholes and steep, crumbling shoulders, which is known as the Kamuzu Highway, the namesake of a former President.  

After about 15 km Joe slowed to carefully avoid hitting swarms of pedestrians and bicycle traffic as he pulled into a roadside market.  There we picked up Samuel, their interpreter.  After a brief greeting, he hopped in the back of the truck.  Along the way at clusters of houses near the main road and at junctures with windy dirt trails leading off to villages were little stands, most no more than a rough board laid across two short stacks of bricks, with neatly arranged tomatoes, mangoes, bananas, and avocados.  Some of these were attended by two or three chatting women while others by children as young as 6 or 7.

One market boasted three shelves of enormous oblong fruit, some bigger than watermelons. We were curious to know what these were. Ruth said they grow right out of the sides of a tree and are called jack fruit.  She said it is broken open and the sticky insides, similar in taste and texture to Starburst candy, is shared communally, each one reaching in to grab a handful.  

 Later we passed several men sitting under the shade of a tree just where a smudgy, yellow jerry can sat near the road. Joe said these were men who siphon gas and sell it.  There are no petrol stations along the road to Blantyre, and of course, black market fuel is very expensive. While we were watching, a minibus loaded with passengers parked across the road and the driver ran, 2 liter bottle in hand, to make a purchase.

After another 7 km or so, Joe signaled a turn onto a dirt road.  Before long we were in a forest, with trees planted in straight as an arrow rows, apparently part of a forestry project some years back.   The air cooled and picked up a little breeze as sunlight and shadows danced through the canopy above us.

 As we emerged and the horizon opened, pointing Joe said, “See that mountain range there?  Those mountains are just north of Blantyre.”  There were blue mountains, some whose height was hidden in the clouds, row upon row, shading into a hazy, blue gray in the distance as far as the eyes can see. So very beautiful.

The landscape rolled along in what would on another continent be prime real estate.  Alternately, there were enormous tobacco, tea, and coffee estates with many small villages sprinkled among them.  Every few km we passed huge houses which were secured, gated and surrounded by tall walls. Some had glass shards imbedded in the tops of the walls. Joe pointed to one of the estates and said it belonged to a German man.  

 

Many of these large homes had rows and rows of small houses nearby in what appeared to be houses built for the estate workers and their families. Mentally, I was comparing what I was seeing to the very poor villages outside of Zomba.  Although there was certainly poverty in the villages and estates we were passing, it wasn’t the grinding poverty of makeshift houses, rags, poor and contaminated soil, and weak crops we have seen in some of the villages where we have worked.   

Ahead of us, we saw a river threading its way through a very steep valley and were amazed to see that the road and bridge had been paved. We learned from Ruth that some years ago this was a project of an aid agency concerned about the terrible erosion that was taking place.

A few minutes later, we pulled alongside a small church with stuccoed brick walls, sapling trusses and beams, and a grass roof. As George and I got out of the vehicle, we were instructed to part ways. I was to follow the women in the front door and George was to enter with the men on the side door. Everyone was to take their shoes off as they entered.   Everyone sat on the large grass mats, already in place on the cement floor, the men on the left and the women and children on the right.

Both doors were left open, so a little breeze occasionally fluttered through. We were instructed from II Corinthians 4:16, “So we do not lose heart. Thought our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.” Isaiah 40:29, “He gives power to the faint.” When you work your maize crop, your body may feel weary.  Your body needs energy to keep going. When you stop to take food, your strength is renewed. In the same way, you need spiritual nourishment from God’s word.

We were handed little paperback Chichewa hymnals. Wonderful!  George and I knew all of the old hymns, like How Great Thou Art and Amazing Grace, so we could sing along. There were no instruments, but the singing heartfelt and beautiful.

Afterward, I was handed several babies to love on, and Ruth introduced me to all the women. They smiled warmly and were curious about us, so I told them about our work teaching women out in the villages.  I asked about their source of water and whether the community has a problem with cholera and malaria. I did not ask about typhoid fever, but I learned that several months ago, a typhoid epidemic hit the village. Ruth asked me if I would train her so that she can in turn train the women in the Mennonite churches. I thought that was a wonderful idea.

Before we came to Malawi, we wanted to train and equip trainers who would take the instruction we give and train others. We are thankful that it is beginning to happen. Very soon, I will spend an afternoon with Ruth to prepare her to be one of those trainers who can multiply the work we are doing to keep families healthy and to reach out to the villages with the Gospel.

Top Down or Bottom Up

We read and hear of many initiatives to wipe out poverty throughout the world in our generation. On any given day, we will see shiny 4 wheel drive vehicles with dark tinted windows, representing nearly every aid agency under the sun driving up and down the narrow, deteriorating highways of southern Malawi, where we work. Their occupants will all be quite familiar with the better restaurants, as these are the places they will always stop for lunch or dinner. They will either be well dressed, well fed Europeans, Americans or Asians, or perhaps a native Malawian who happened to win the relief agency jackpot, and landed a job which will put him in an economic stratum much higher than his fellow countrymen.

Some endeavors require a top down approach. Engineering an expansion bridge over a three mile wide river, designing a new jet fighter plane,  or building a hundred story skyscraper come to mind.  Fixing Africa doesn’t fall into that category. Much greater minds than mine have taken that course for at least two generations now, and things keep getting worse, not better. In 1960, 10% of the world’s poor lived in Africa; today it is a full 50%. Fifty years ago, Africa fed itself, yet today there is a constant influx of food relief, billions in dollars and euro’s, and more aid programs, both governmental and private, than anyone could possibly count.
 

 Whichever daily newspaper you happen to pick up will have several major articles on this or that ambassador handing over a seven figure check to a government minister, which is geared toward fixing a particular problem. Also featured will be an equal number of pieces opining as to why those solutions never work. Were you to believe the myriad billboards proclaiming the successes of the various programs already being funded and In place you would have to conclude that everything was just fine.
 

Once every few months, a high official from a Western government, the World Bank or the International Monetary Fund will make front page news by criticizing the lack of progress by the government in dealing with their particular project, or for having gone way over budget. Stories of misappropriation of funds abound. All of this occurs in an environment of food, fuel, and fertilizer shortages, constant power outages, and malaria and cholera outbreaks. Hospitals and clinics are constantly reporting short supplies of essential medications. Africa is so vast; its systems so corrupted and inefficient right down to the local level that no amount of large scale aid will ever truly hit the mark.   
 

Contrast all this with the work of an all-too-small army of boots on the ground compassion workers from various denominations of churches, and idealists of all ages and stripes from around the world. Some will stay weeks or months, while others live here for two or more years. Some come on their own; most will have a sending organization. Their common thread is a desire to work within the broken framework to make some healthy impact on a small scale, and inspire and encourage others to perhaps work in a like manner, either here or elsewhere.
 

 From the very beginning of our call to Malawi, the Lord made it very clear to Phyllis and me that our work was to be done at the local level, and we were to work at building solid relationships, and address root issues, and indeed they are many. Whether in the villages where we have restored broken wells, or in the community where we live, the vision is to bring first of all the Gospel message, but also relief from the hardship, toil, disease and early death, which are all so prevalent here.
 

In the eleven weeks since we relocated here, along with buying our first vehicle, purchasing furniture, appliances, and curtains for our home, and learning our way around, we have been able to establish four teaching points; three in remote villages, (two of which we were able to bless with well repairs on Christmas Day), and the fourth right here in our own community. Phyllis has been working on adding nutrition training to her already effective hygiene and sanitation workshops, and we’ll soon be launching hands-on training in two complementary Third World relevant cooking technologies.
 

Our most fervent prayer has been for the Lord to surround us with people with pure motives, and who share our bottom-up vision of being used to restore one person at a time, one village at a time. Most recently, answers to those prayers have been coming with the arrival of Hellen, Phyllis’ new interpreter, and Daniel, the former YWAM worker, who has blessed us with his delivery business, and now wants to accompany us to the villages to work alongside me with the children as Phyllis and Hellen work with the women.
 

We love our work here, and believe with all our hearts that we are making a difference in the lives of these beautiful women, and children. We’re also confident that the things we are able to teach will sweetly filter down into and through the communities we work in. At the end of the day, however, I am reminded of Jesus’ instructive words to the disciples over two thousand years ago, which apply possibly more so today.  “Then He said to His disciples, “The harvest truly is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Therefore pray the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest.’” Matt 9:37-38

Ministry on the Mountain

There are many grand and beautiful estates in our neighborhood, and most have tiny two room houses nearby. As we drive through the neighborhood, we see women washing their clothes, pounding them on rocks in their back yards. We see women walking to the bottom of the mountain to collect water from the river and from the top of the mountain to gather bundles of firewood.

I have thought many times that this neighborhood was built at a time when powerful and "important" people lived in those grand houses in the midst of the tiny homes of the people who served them -the servant class.

We learned a few days ago that when the house we are renting was built, Harry, our groundskeeper, was brought here from a distant village in far northern Malawi. to serve the owner and his family. Harry was just a young man.

After retirement the owner, a retired general, moved to Dubai, but Harry remained with the property. He had faithfully served the owner for 19 years.

Even so, when we first rented this house, we were told, "If the 'garden boy' doesn't please you, just send him away." Harry was called our "garden boy." That is a sad commentary on the value that is placed on the lowest strata in Malawian society, the servant class.

We have asked Miriam, Harry's wife, to invite our neighbors on the mountain to come to our house next Sunday for lessons on how to prevent and treat cholera, water purification and storage, and other ways they can make their families healthier.

We see this as an opportunity meet the women in our neighborhood and to share the love of Jesus. Pray for our success.

Making Friends in Kainga

Kainga is one of the wells we repaired on Christmas Day. At that time, I encouraged them to create a soak pit to collect the runoff from the wells because that, I explained, is a place where mosquitoes breed and spread malaria. We went by for a visit two weeks ago and arranged our next visit, which would be a time when I would teach ways to keep their families healthy.

As we drove into the village on Saturday, I was happy to see that the women had been collecting rocks and gravel and had started digging a soak pit. Wow! These women are amazing.We were invited into the mosque to start setting up our visuals and to greet everyone as they arrived. Down trails, roads, and pathways they came.

As the gathered, I told the women that I had been thinking of them when I was away and that I want to learn their names. To make that happen, I had planned to pass out index cards and ask each woman to write her name, but Hellen, my interpreter, told me that none of the women can read or write. So, as the women entered, Hellen carefully wrote each woman’s name and the names of her children. Some looked so young to have five children. In about 15 minutes, thirty nine women were assembled. We sat barefoot on the burlap bags spread across the floor. Many women had nursing babies on their laps.

When everyone arrived, George opened the session with a quote form the book of Hosea, “For lack of knowledge, my people perish.” He explained, “You may have something special and lose it. Something you enjoy having may wear out, be used up or destroyed, but when you gain knowledge, that cannot be taken away from you.” He told them that the knowledge they would gain would help their families live longer and healthier lives. Then George went outside to play with the children as the lesson began.

I used lots of pictures of rural village life to teach what germs are and the pathways germs use to get into our bodies. Then I taught ways we can block these germ paths, keeping them out of our bodies. The women enjoyed sharing and discussing these ideas among themselves.

After a lesson on good hand washing practices, I demonstrated how to make and use a tippy tap, a simple hand washing station that they can build near their homes. It really encouraged me to know they had been absorbing what I had been teaching when they said, “We can make these. When you come back, we will show you our tippy taps.”

Before we left, we played a little guessing game which the women really enjoyed. I asked three questions and the women who answered correctly could select one of three prizes – a bar of soap, a tippy tap, or a water pitcher with lid. Finally, we chose a date for our next session, January 26.

Our goals are to build relationships with these precious Muslim women, to care for them in practical ways, and to look or opportunities to share the love of God. I am so thankful that I have been given this privilege.

Her Story

     He has sent us to the lowly, powerless, impoverished women of the countless rural villages of Southern Malawi. When she is still a child, her brother will get priority for both primary and secondary school attendance. When she reaches puberty, the very first time she leaves school with a blood stain on her skirt, because she doesn’t own a pair of underwear, and doesn’t even know what a sanitary napkin is, the boys will taunt her, and she will from that time on stay home from school a week each month.

     Vulnerable, she may find herself married in her early teens, often to someone considerably older than herself, and many times without any say in the matter. If she survives her first pregnancy, she will become a child bearing, child rearing machine, wood gatherer, and water fetcher. These will consume her every waking hour. Sons are prized because they represent the continuity in the family line. Daughters are prized for a far different reason; they represent a potentially very large “bride gift” to her parents, thirteen or fourteen years down the road. Also, when a husband dies prematurely, the land he owned is often restored to his family, and the wife and children are abandoned to a life of even deeper poverty, as his family reclaims, (steals), her land for themselves.

     When her children are sick or injured, she will be the one who walks many miles, and waits hours on end to have her child seen by a clinician, (there are fewer than 300 doctors in the entire country, most of them in the larger cities in a nation with a 70% rural population). She will often be told upon diagnosis that the medication she needs for her child is not available. She’ll be completely ignorant throughout her entire life of what germs are, and how they’re spread, what causes malaria, how cholera is contracted or treated or that having herself and her children simply wash their hands with abundantly available wood ash and a little water can prevent much disease, death, and heartache.

     If as a young girl, she is fortunate enough to somehow get an additional two years of education, she will typically wind up marrying four years later; have fewer children; healthier children, and be better able to nurture them, helping to break the cycle of women being pushed to the bottom. If she finds the means of earning some additional income, about 90% of that will go to support her family. A man in the same position will divert about 30-40% to his family, consuming the rest on his own personal interests or habits.  When a man gains knowledge, he will use it to gain power and status; when a woman gains knowledge, she will freely share it with others.

     She, and countless others like her are the ones we have come to work among and to serve. Most aid flows into Africa in the form of grants and grain, loans, and works projects. Most are well meaning; some produce good fruit. We bring knowledge. I told the women yesterday, before Phyllis began speaking that the things she was going to be teaching, nothing or no one could take away from them.  Although this was a Muslim village, and the only public assembly place was a mosque, I quoted Hosea 4:6, “For a lack of knowledge My people perish”.

     Along with her newfound friend and great interpreter, Helen, she was able to bring much life saving knowledge, and a promise to return in two weeks. They were so excited, and assured Phyllis that they would be applying what they had learned right away. We truly expect that will be the case, as they really do care about their families. We also now have three other groups of women who want us to come teach them, and are certain that more doors will soon open to us. We’re also confident that these compassion ministries, coupled with the true Gospel message will see many people won to Christ, as they experience His love through us.

Anaconda

George and I were praying for wisdom and discernment and set out to find a reliable security service. There are G4S signs on prominent buildings all over town, including banks and government buildings. (I thought it interesting that government buildings are protected by a private agency.)

 A few days ago, we stopped by G4S to check on prices and the services they provide. When we asked the gentleman behind the desk to describe his service, he said he would provide two guards, one from 6 pm till midnight and the other from midnight to 6am. “And how will they be armed?” I asked.  “Each guard  will have a stick, a whistle, and wear a sharp uniform,” he answered.  It actually is a sharp uniform, but we were not impressed. We decided to look elsewhere.

Because in the past we had had some good logistical advice from Imran, an Indian Muslim merchant in town, we decided to drive down to his shop and ask which service he uses for his home’s security. He told us he doesn’t hire a professional service, but uses locals. However, his neighbor is very pleased, he said, with the services of a man named Mervin, who goes by the name Anaconda.

As it turned out, Anaconda’s business was on the way to our house, so we decided to take Imran’s advice and visit one more security service. We had already visited several that day, so tossing one more into the mix couldn’t hurt, we reasoned.

A white painted rock by the road with handpainted black lettering was the only sign, and it said nothing about security, but simply, Anaconda. We pulled in the short driveway and parked in front of an unassuming, small, white brick house with a detached truck cab sitting upside down on the front lawn.

As we got out of the car we could hear dogs barking, lots of them. Several men seated on tree stumps and vehicle wreckage, evidently eating their lunch, all got up, bowls in hand, when they saw our car pull in.  All eyed us carefully, then one walked to the back door of the house, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on us. Out sprang a tall, wiry African man, perhaps in his late 30s, bounding with broad steps toward our car. He wore glasses, and his hair was a heap of curls. His neatly pressed pinstriped dress shirt with sleeves rolled was unbuttoned nearly to his belly button. His shoes were bright pink plastic clogs. (That’s no problem here.) He smiled a tight toothy smile and welcomed us with a handshake. His English was smooth and articulate.

This was my first encounter with an ADD/ADHD Malawian. He began almost at once steering the conversation in 50 directions interspersed with questions of a personal, nosy sort. He wanted to know what brought us to Malawi and how long we have been here. When he learned that we work with women in the rural villages, he impressed on us to tell them they have too many babies. (Maybe he doesn’t know women in the villages don’t have any say in the matter.)   With a countenance that registered his disgust, he also shared his opinion that the manner in which village women nurse their babies is unsanitary.

We learned that he had traveled the world and had lived in France, Japan, and India. He was hungry for details of American history and walked us through America’s involvement in Iraq and Vietnam.  He asked George to describe waterboarding and Richard Nixon and George Bush’s involvement in Vietnam and Iraq. “American leaders expect the world to listen to their opinion about their own conflicts,” he said. Then with no warning he asked, “Did you vote Democrat or Republican? Is President Obama good for America? How many children do you have? Whoa! That’s too much!”

Time spent with Anaconda is almost living in a grown up version of If You Give a Mouse a Muffin. (Primary teachers will understand what I mean.) When he learned that George’s grandfather was an Italian immigrant who came to live in New York in the late 1800s, he wanted to know if he emigrated from Naples. “If your grandfather came from Italy and moved to New York, then he certainly was involved in the mafia. What part of New York? Was he a Mafioso? I know that part of New York has much mafia activity.”

At one point George was staring into the distance with arms folded across his chest answering his myriad of rapid fire questions when Anaconda turned his head nearly upside down to stare at George’s tattoo. Occasionally his tone and subject would suddenly change to discussing who we are and what we are doing in Malawi. He named two aid agencies working in Malawi, a Catholic agency for social justice and the other universalist that, he said, we “really need to be networking with.”

Eventually we were able to steer the conversation to the purpose of our visit, and told him we were considering hiring a professional agency.”You should NEVER hire locals,” he grimaced. “They will be constantly whining, begging, and stealing from you.” He proudly explained to us how far superior his services are to all the rest. We gave him a description of our house and property and the neighborhood. He gave us his personal phone number and promised that if we were to use his service, he will be available to us 24 hours a day. “Call me any time. Any time.  It will be only 3 rings, anytime day or night.”

We scheduled a time the following day for him to come out to assess our property and to hear our specific needs relative to security. When he arrived, he was accompanied by a team of young athletic looking men wearing combat boots. All were well toned and muscular. The chit chat was over. He was all business. They walked over the property, pointing and discussing any strengths and potential weaknesses that needed to be addressed on the property.

Our groundskeeper, Harry, was following us about, watching all the proceedings. We discussed with Anaconda the procedure for “changing of the guard.”  The night guard  would walk the grounds with Harry and discuss with him the day’s events, then secure the gate as evening approaches. Then in the morning Harry would relieve the night guard, and  the reverse procedure would take place. Suddenly, Anaconda turned to Harry and the other men, “If anything, ANYTHING, is missing from this property, I will come and lock you both up until the item is found and returned. You hear me? Do you understand me? I will lock you both up. Harry and the guards stood speechless. Me too.

Miriam's Burden

I went by to see Miriam, Harry's wife, this morning to thank her for doing an excellent job with our laundry. You would not believe how clean she gets George's white socks, and when Harry brings the laundry back, each time everything is ironed and neatly folded.  When I asked Harry to call her to come and see us, he said she was at the top of the mountain cutting trees and would be back in two hours. So, just before we arrived at Harry's house, Miriam had tied her infant son to her back, picked up a machete and a rag for tying the sticks together  and started the journey up the mountain.   We live two km from the top of the mountain, and collecting firewood for cooking takes Miriam two hours. What is it like for women in the villages down in the valley who must travel to the mountain top to collect wood? 

Every day, from our yard, we witness a stream of poor, barefoot, rural women as they make this journey.  This is the life of a woman in Malawi, consumed by labor intensive chores that take many hours of their day. If we can lift this burden, should we? I believe what I feel is the compassion of God.  He cares that their lives are over-burdened, and I long to both tell them and show them that God loves them.

As soon as we can arrange it with our interpreter and a brick mason, we want to launch a burden-lifting ministry to women in the rural villages by providing Miriam with a two burner, fuel efficient, clean burning brick cook stove.  The stove is made from 26 bricks, 5 liters of sand, 5 liters of water, and mud mortar. Although it is not very high tech by American standards, it will seem like a luxury to her.   It is called the Changu Changu Moto meaning Hot, Hot Fire in Chichewa. With this stove, Miriam will go from three big bundles of wood each week to one, saving her time and energy which she can use for more productive activities, like caring for her infant son.

We now have a skilled interpreter who has already caught vision for our work, but pray that we will find a skilled and reliable brick mason and that God will bless our work for the advancement of the Gospel.  George and I are excited about the opportunities to share the love of Jesus this will open to us out in the villages where we are working. 

Malawian Greetings

One of the things I appreciate about Malawian culture is their love for formal greetings. There seem to be unspoken rules, so I will share with you what I have observed.

First of all, greetings vary depending on gender, social/ economic status, and the closeness of the relationship.

Almost everyone in the city of Zomba has some skill in English because English is the language of banking, government, and commerce.  When conversing with Malawians, even those who speak little English, they are delighted to practice their English skills. They will say, “Hello. How are you, Sir/Madam?” You dare not answer simply, “Hello,” because that could easily cause offense.  When you answer, “I am fine, and how are you?”  The response is, “I am fine. Thank you.”  A formal greeting is considered necessary.

There have been times in the market when George has been addressed as “boss” and I have been addressed as “mother.”  “Mother, come see my tomatoes.” I have no explanation for why we were picked out from among the crowd for this greeting.

Typically, the rural poor, both male and female are more likely to use traditional Malawian greetings. Greetings among the rural poor are a traditional handshake with an added feature. Each person grasps his own right arm, palm down, just below the elbow.  This is a beautiful gesture whose cultural meaning is, “I am unarmed and come in peace.” I often use this handshake when we are working out in the rural villages. Rural, poor women bow slightly at the waist, and generally avoid direct eye contact when shaking hands. Sometimes, they also bend their knees in a little curtsy.

Greetings among men usually include handshaking, but it sometimes includes sliding the palms more vertically and linking of thumbs briefly, then back down to a traditional handshake. Among male friends, it sometimes also includes holding hands. Men will greet male friends warmly with a handshake, and then carry on a conversation while standing or walking holding hands or with their little fingers linked until they part ways. This is a very common greeting among male friends.

When a man of greater status greets a woman or a man of much lower status, the one of lower status will stand, head slightly lowered with hands clasped in front of the chest and will wait to be offered a handshake. Sometimes a person of lower status will offer a forearm rather than a hand to shake if their hands are dirty. Neither women nor lower status men initiate handshakes with someone of higher social or economic status.

We have gotten to know many merchants in Zomba and the surrounding areas, and people in the merchant class are, with few exceptions, Muslims, and are always fluent in English. Most merchant shop owners are friendly, smile, and make direct eye contact. Typically, they like to offer a handshake to finalize a business transaction.

Traditionally, a woman will lower her eyes and bow to her husband when she enters a room where he is seated. For example, when a wife comes into a room to offer her husband a pitcher of water to wash before a meal, she will kneel before him and pour water over his hands. Then, when she enters the room to serve him food, she will do so on her knees. As a side note, wives sometimes eat with their children separately from their husbands. This kind of subservience of women is more typical in rural villages.

Sometimes a woman greeting a woman or man of higher status will bow in front of them. We experienced this recently at a church where George was the guest speaker. After we entered the sanctuary and were seated, a well dressed (professional looking) woman walked toward us with a basket in her hands. Her eyes were down, and she was bowing, but just as she reached us, she knelt and pulled out two bottles of water, uncapped them, and placed them on the table in front of us.  At the conclusion to the service, we were invited to the pastor’s study. This same woman opened a container of juice and poured some into glasses for me and George. She bowed in front of us without making eye contact, then knelt on the floor, and handed us the glasses of juice.

Perhaps this bit of information about proper greetings will prove useful if you should ever come to visit Malawi.  

Rural Roads

There are only four passenger cars for for every 1,000 population here in Malawi. As we drove out to Momba Village, we started on a two lane paved road, then turned off onto a dirt road, there we met up with the headmaster of the school whom we followed down pedestrian and bicycle trails. We worked all day in the village, and after we left the paved road, we saw only one car that passed us on the dirt road. There were none along the way or parked at houses.

Although there are very few cars on the road in rural villages, that doesn't mean the road is empty of traffic. Along a 10 km stretch of dirt road, you will encounter  hundreds  and hundreds of pedestrians and bicycles.

Malawian Hospitality

Let me tell you about Malawian hospitality. Some of my neighbors are very, very poor. Harry, who lives next door to us, in fact, in our compound, lives in a two room house with his five children, is a great example. Life is not easy. He gardens and keeps the gate. His wife gathers firewood from the top of the mountain like almost everyone else, and cooks over a three stone cooking fire.

 

A few days ago we invited guests over. Some pastors were meeting in our home to discuss plans for future church growth. When Harry saw that we had guests, his oldest daughter, Rose, brought us a meal to share with our friends.

 

There was a bowl of nsima and a small bowl of dried fish. Malawi is known as the Warm Heart of Africa. Although they are very poor, they are very hospitable and generous. As Harry said smiling, handing me the bowls, "You are most welcome."

Servant Class

In Malawian culture, there are several classes of people including ruling class (political leaders and government workers), merchant class, day laborers, and servant class. In case you tripped over “servant class,” I assure you that the lowest strata of Malawian society are looked upon as servants.

My earliest experience with this occurred when George and I were preparing to move into our house. We arranged to bring an interpreter with us to meet the realtor, Pearson, at the property. He showed us around, handed us the keys, and left.

Before we moved to Malawi, Pearson had informed us there was a groundskeeper whose job it was to cut the grass and keep the gate for us. We learned that this person “goes with the house,” but we didn’t quite understand what that meant. Pearson also said that the owner of the house was paying the groundskeeper while the house sat empty, but we should feel free to “send the garden boy away” if he did not please us. Pearson, of the merchant class, also a black African, had called a man in his 30’s a “garden boy.”

The groundskeeper would live in the tiny house just inside the security gate and across the driveway from us. We weren’t sure what our reaction would be when we met him, but we knew that a person who would be this close to us should be someone we trusted. George and I agreed that if either of us had any sense that he was not the man for the job, we would give him a severance pay that would provide for his family until he could get established in a new job. We most certainly would never just send him away. We prayed for wisdom.

We summonsed him, then stood on our lawn and waited for him to come and meet us. We learned that the groundskeeper’s name is Harry. He approached us with hands clasped parallel to his chest, lowered eyes, and stooping at the shoulders and waist. George reached out to shake his hand, and Harry extended his forearm rather than his hand because he had been working in the garden. He was wearing a tattered shirt, ragged shorts, and a worn out pair of women’s black patent leather shoes with a little white flower on the side of each one.

When we asked about his family, Harry ran to his tiny two room brick house and quietly led his wife and five children out in single file. They sat in a broad circle on the ground at our feet. Harry’s wife, Miriam, was holding their infant son. She smiled and diverted her eyes without saying a word.

The next oldest child was a six year old son who leaned on his mother’s shoulder. We learned that he had been in the hospital and was suffering from malaria. Harry pointed to each of his children and called them by name as they quietly studied our faces.

Around the circle, we reached out to shake each hand, smiled, and told them that we were happy to meet them. The typical handshake of the servant class also includes the left hand grasping the right arm, palm down, just below the elbow. George and I shook their hands in the same manner. Culturally, this handshake means, “I am unarmed and come in peace.”

Through our interpreter, we told Harry and his family about us, where we came from and why we moved to Malawi, to bring clean water, sanitation, hygiene, and nutrition training to the women in the rural villages. After all the introductions and greetings, George and I conferred briefly, then George assured Harry that as long as his work is satisfactory, he has a job with us. He was so grateful and thanked us profusely. Evidently he had been told that we may send him away.

Since that time, we have seen what a diligent, hard-working man he is. Although we have never asked him once to do so, every morning around 6 am he washes our car, and if we should leave the doors unlocked, he will also wipe down the dashboard and clean our mats. Every day. Then he mops our porches. He hedges our walkways with a long panga knife, then he cuts our grass, one section at a time, with a short handled curved bladed thrasher.  He crushed old bricks he found on the property and filled in the potholes in our driveway.

No matter where he is working on the property, when he hears our car doors close, her runs to the front gate to open it and is ready to open the gate when we return. We always smile and wave to him as we go by. Although he didn’t at first, he now returns the smile and lifts his hand in a little salute. We have come to greatly appreciate the work Harry does.

But the beauty of his work is the wonderful gardens in this compound, with blooming flowers, fruit trees, and shrubs in every direction from the house. Soon after we moved in, he began work on a rose garden a little distance from our bedroom window. These roses are now blooming a variety of colors. He came around the corner of the house a few days ago as I was taking pictures in the garden. “Wokongola, Harry!” I said. He smiled when he heard me say how beautiful the gardens are. If he lived in the United States, he would certainly be considered a master gardener.

It has astonished me at times how visitors to our property, even people half his age, think they can order Harry around. “Lift this, move that, Harry.” We settle that matter right away. From the very beginning of our relationship with Harry and his family, we have insisted that he be treated with the dignity and respect every man deserves.

We started his employment by giving him a raise, a substantial one by Malawian standards.  Because washing machines and dryers are not even available here in Zomba, we depend on Harry’s wife, Miriam to do laundry for us twice a week. She is happy to have the work, and this handsomely supplements the family income. A few days ago, we saw Miriam smiling and waving to us at the gate. She was wearing a brand new tailored dress made of beautiful African print. In recent days, Harry has a smile and wave as we drive through the gate. Things are looking up for Harry’s family, and that thought makes me smile.

When we first moved here, we learned that the landlord had been paying him 10,000 Kwacha –that’s $31.75 –per month, plus his little house and utilities. Back in the US, we had read about but never understood how a person could earn  under a dollar a day. Now that kind of poverty had a face and a name. Harry and his family are considered servant class.