A warm welcome (from the people and the weather)!

Halungu, Unyiha. The landscape is very different from Umalila (see my previous blog). Instead of layers of hills covered with a patchwork of small fields, it’s flat and covered with large open fields. It’s a coffee growing region – some fields are filled with mature coffee bushes, while in others neat rows of young coffee plants, interspersed with banana trees, are starting to grow. Other fields are completely bare, ready for planting maize. The bigger fields allow for the use of cows to plough the earth, so those who can afford it will hire cows to do the work.

Morning mist

When we arrived in Halungu not long after 10am on Friday morning it was already very warm. The church where we held the seminar is currently just a shell, with a tarpaulin strung up between poles to give shelter. Thankfully it clouded over in the afternoon and got cooler, otherwise I think everyone would have fallen asleep from the heat. What surprised me, though, was how cold it got at night. We were staying in the pastor’s home, where I had a room to myself, with a mattress on the floor for my bed. They’d provided a blanket, but in the night I found I had to put on my cardigan and wrap myself in a couple of kangas* to try and keep warm. However, when morning came and the sun rose in the sky it quickly warmed up and the dawn mist over the fields started to evaporate.

The church

(*A kanga is a piece of patterned cloth with a proverb or saying of some kind printed near the bottom. They are wonderfully versatile – they can be wrapped around as a skirt, worn as a shawl, provide a sheet at night, twisted into a ring to go on the head for you to then carry a bucket of water or a pile of firewood, used as a towel etc. They are common gifts, especially at weddings and funerals, with the kanga being chosen carefully according to the words printed on it.)

I was there to teach another two day Bible overview seminar (Friday to Saturday), working through the Old Testament and how it points to Jesus. The two pastors who were there really appreciated the teaching, commenting on how there is very little good teaching like this and how much it is needed. Over lunch I was saddened to hear of more examples of wrong teaching in churches – one said how some people pray in the name of their pastor rather than in the name of Jesus and another said he heard someone preach that pastors are like angels and we should listen to and treat them as such, as direct messengers from God. They also talked a lot about the issue of denominationalism, and how often the particular perspective of a denomination is proclaimed more than the Word of God itself. Questions asked during the seminar revealed other areas of misunderstanding – like people talking about churches as being ‘God’s tent’ because they haven’t understood the role of the tabernacle in the Old Testament and how Christ opened the way for us to enter into God’s presence, or people thinking they still have to pay some kind of price for their sins and to gain their salvation, without understanding that Christ’s sacrifice paid the full price for sin.

My car parked in the shade by the pastor's
home (the edge of which you can see on the
left) and the bathroom is the little brick hut to
the left of the car.

 The host pastor and his wife kept apologising for their poor hospitality because of the village environment they live in. Poor hospitality?! They provided us with everything we needed! They cooked me food without onions, prepared hot water for bathing, gave us a place to sleep and were good company. I think they felt they needed to apologise because we always had ugali to eat (rather than rice, which is what is usually served to guests) and we didn’t always have meat, but the food was tasty and there was fresh avocado with each meal and lots of greens, which I much prefer to lots of tough, greasy meat! Every day we would break at 1pm for a two hour lunch break so that people could go home and cook and eat before we carried on. We got lunch about 2.40pm each day – it takes a long time to cook over wood stoves.

Drawing water from
their well

I returned home exhausted but thankful for another opportunity to teach. Exhausted because I’d been teaching all day in the heat (and not drunk enough) and then had to drive home (about 2.5 hours), calling in quickly at the office to unload boxes of books together with the projector and speakers we’d used for showing the Jesus Film in the Nyiha language on Friday evening. Thankful because it feels like a huge responsibility and great privilege to explore the Scriptures with people, and I was encouraged by comments from the pastors, such as that they wished people from other churches had come and had the chance to learn and that I should open a Bible college! May God continue to open doors for his Word to be taught and may he help me to teach – I’m definitely a clay pot, but I pray he may yet be able to use me to help people know him better through his Word.

With the seminar participants: the pastor is on the far left and
his wife is on the far right

Back in Umalila

It’s Friday evening and I am sitting in the home of the pastor at whose church I am teaching. I’m wearing my coat as the Malila people live in the hills where mornings and evenings are distinctly chilly. (Note: In Swahili the area where any people live is written as the name of the people group preceded by a ‘U’, so I was in ‘Umalila’.) Before it got dark I went for a short stroll along the road, enjoying the soft sunset sky. On the way back I bumped into the pastor’s wife and had a wee chat by the side of the road. Today was day two of teaching an overview of the Old Testament and how it points us to Christ. The teaching has felt like hard work for a number of reasons. There’s the fact that most of the group were very quiet – it was hard to tell if they were too shy to answer questions or were afraid of saying the wrong thing or simply didn’t know the answers. Then there was the way people kept coming who hadn’t been there for earlier teaching so they’d missed a lot of foundational stuff. Also very few had Bibles and only two or three people ever volunteered to read and even they read slowly and with some difficulty. And then this afternoon both my former colleague, Mwangwale (who had made the arrangements for the seminar to take place), and the pastor himself couldn’t be there, and they are the best two readers of the Malila language, which meant I wasn’t able to use the Malila Scriptures in the afternoon as I’d hoped to as we got into the New Testament. I feel very alone when I have no-one with me who I know in a seminar. Even though that person may not need to do much, their very presence encourages me; I know I can call on them if I need support such as to explain something in the local language or to do a Bible reading fluently.

Mwangwale teaches how to read Malila

So it felt like hard work, as if I was swimming against the current, and not sure if I was making any progress! However, there were moments of encouragement. Near the end, as we looked at how Christ is the final and complete sacrifice for sin, one lady was smiling broadly and spoke up – from what she said (unfortunately I don’t remember her words well enough to quote her) she had obviously understood in a fresh way just what it means that Christ has done all that is necessary for our redemption. And a particular illustration I used obviously hit home with some. I showed a picture of an elephant’s tail and then their trunk and asked what they were. People either didn’t know or thought the trunk was a snake. Then I showed the picture of the whole elephant, and used this to make the point that when we read a section of the Bible without understanding the big picture of the Bible, we can fail to understand what we read or we can misinterpret it. 

After teaching all day, I was then asked to preach in their evening service! I didn’t find out I’d be doing that until I got here. You’d think that by now I would be used to the unexpected, but somehow it doesn’t seem to get any easier. Indeed, last night was particularly stressful when I found out that I wouldn’t be staying with Mwangwale, who I am used to staying with, but instead would be staying here at the pastor’s home. I think it was a case of the pastor extending hospitality that it would be rude to turn down, so Mwangwale accepted their hospitality on my behalf. When I found out I felt my body tense in anxiety over this unexpected change and I began to worry about food and about doing or saying the wrong things and about whether they’d lock the door overnight and I wouldn’t be able to go out to the toilet. Of course, they are very gracious, and even if I am doing or saying the wrong things, they don’t let on! It feels awkward for me – I’m sitting in the lounge with other guests (men), but they sit silently much of the time. It would be nice to sit with the ladies, but they’re at work in the kitchen and I find the smoke of the wood fire (for cooking) hard to tolerate.

But at least now, on my second evening here, I feel more relaxed, that initial anxiety gone. I have a better idea of what to expect. I know they won’t lock the door overnight, that I’ll be free to go for a walk in the morning, that I can get warm water for a wash after my walk, that they understand I need to eat my own breakfast snacks because of my tummy problems, that dinner probably won’t be ready until 10pm and that my bed is warm and comfortable. My room feels a bit exposed, as all that separates it from the living room is a curtain that is rippling gently in the breeze that creeps through poorly fitted windows and doors, so I don’t feel I can get ready for bed until I know people are vacating the living room, and it always feels like I want to go to bed earlier than people here (even though they also get up earlier in the morning than me)!

Tomorrow we begin another seminar – this one will focus on Ephesians. I am thankful that Mwangwale has rearranged a meeting he had so that he can be there, as I can now see that I will need to rely heavily on him for reading the Malila Scriptures.

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It’s now Saturday night. I’m sitting in my room with the company of my solar light. The battery for the solar powered house lights has gone to church where it is being used to power the projector for showing the Jesus Film. The whole household has gone to watch the film, which started very late after various issues and an early (at 9pm) dinner, so all is quiet, except for the wind and insects outside.

I was encouraged this morning when the pastor told me he’d asked people what they’d learnt yesterday afternoon while he was away, and the things they told him were the very things I was hoping to communicate! Today we had a different topic – the book of Ephesians. (The previous seminar was intended more for church leaders with Bible teaching responsibilities, though I didn’t exactly end up with that kind of group, while today’s seminar was for everyone.) We worked our way through the book, using the Malila translation of Ephesians. We explored key themes: We are saved by grace (Eph. 1-3), therefore we can live in unity as the body of Christ (4:1-16), loving one another as we imitate Christ (4:17-6:9) and standing firm in all of this by reading the Word of God and praying (6:10-20). When we asked people at the end what they liked about the book of Ephesians, what it taught us about God’s character and how it impacts their life, they had clearly grasped at least some of the key truths that I was hoping they’d get. One lady’s comment was that through it all “…we have seen the greatness of God” and later the pastor commented on how the teaching was helpful because it worked steadily through one book of the Bible instead of their normal practice of jumping around from text to text.

I’m wondering what will happen when they come back from watching the film, because that battery lives in the room I’m staying in. Will they sneak in while I’m asleep to put it back, so that there can be light in the house? But I don’t want to wait up for them as it’s already 10.30pm and the dim solar light makes me feel sleepy! I think I’ll just go to bed and hope for the best. I’d better head outside to the long drop toilet first, with my head torch so I can see where I’m going; the good thing about needing to go outside for the toilet is that as there is no electricity in the village the stars are amazing!

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I’m now back home in Mbeya, sipping on a coffee as I type and nibbling some Lindt dark chocolate with sea salt – lush! (No, I can’t buy that here, I always stock up on good chocolate when I’m in the UK!) Let me carry on where I finished off… They did not sneak in to put the battery back, but I still heard them come in well after midnight! Apparently many had gathered and had been moved to tears by the film.

Sunday morning. I had been asked to teach in the morning service – although I didn’t know this before I went, I had a hunch it would happen, so I’d picked up notes from a couple of previous sermons to take with me just in case. I decided to talk about the importance of teaching our children about God and reading the Word with them, looking first at the example of Timothy and his mother and grandmother as well as sharing from my own life. I also taught the children the song ‘Read your Bible, pray every day’ (which I have translated into Swahili), which they enjoyed. I lost count of how many choirs sang and then I had been given an hour to teach so it was quite a long service!

Back at the pastor’s house, lunch wasn’t too long in coming, more rice, greens and meat. Feeling like I had already been very blessed by their hospitality, as they prepared food especially for me (no onions etc), I was then overwhelmed to receive a gift of a big basket from a member of the church plus a sack of maize, a bag of dried beans and a rooster from the pastor’s family! (I got my househelp to prepare the rooster for me on Monday – it turned out to be the toughest chicken meat I have ever eaten; it must have been the grandfather of the flock!)

On the way home, with the rooster lying calmly in the basket, on top of the sack of maize, I picked up a couple of young ladies who flagged me down, needing a ride to town after having been in the village working in their potato fields. It was nice to have a bit of company as we bumped our way over the rough, dusty road back to town and tarmac. I thank God once again for his care of me on the whole trip – so much potential for things going wrong, but despite changes in plans, God watched over me and I pray that those who I had the privilege of teaching may know the width, length, height and depth of God’s love for them.

“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge…” Ephesians 3:17b-19a

Lupingu travel journal

Day 1

It was dark and quiet when I got up at 5am. Fifteen minutes later I was leaving the house to walk to the bus stand, accompanied by one of the night guards on our compound. My colleague, Stanslaus, was already there waiting for me. Our journey would require two buses, as the bus that goes all the way to our destination doesn’t run every day, and today was one of those days when it wouldn’t, so we had tickets for a bus that would take us to Njombe, a regional town about a 4.5 hour ride away, where we would then change to continue the journey to Ludewa, which takes about another 4.5 hours.

Things did not bode well when I found myself sitting next to a man who’s breath seemed to smell slightly of alcohol, who exclaimed over sitting next to a ‘white’ (as he described me) and who had a very loud voice. Thankfully he slept for some of the journey and later he disappeared (when I was dozing) and was replaced by a young lady with a cute one-year-old. In contrast to the situation inside the bus (which also included very unwholesome music videos), the environment outside the bus was beautiful, with the morning mist lying low over the fields like a soft fleecy blanket. As the sun rose everything took on a warm golden edge. Despite the early hour, children were already walking to school (this would be from about 6.30am onwards). When I was visiting friends over the weekend, the husband said that he leaves as early as 5.30am each day with his daughter, accompanying her along the road until she meets other students and they can continue the rest of the 1.5 hour walk to secondary school together.

Another feature of bus travel is sales merchants. So it was no surprise when someone got on the bus, stood in the aisle and gave his sales pitch, touting his wares of soap, toothpaste and various other items that are apparently able to cure all kinds of ailments, as we continued to motor along.

Our second bus set off at an alarming rate, slowing down fractionally when passengers complained. It turned out that the lights on the bus didn’t work and he wanted to make sure he arrived at the bus’s final destination before dark. We were thankful to arrive safely in Ludewa, stretch our legs with a short walk to the market (I wanted some bananas), buy 12 six-packs of bottled water ready for the three-day workshop ahead of us, and get into the car that was waiting for us for the last stage of the journey. This is a 32km (20 mile) drive down a steep mountain road, which takes about 1¼ hours – the slow pace being not so much due to the quality of the road (which has been widened and improved since my last trip, though it’s still a dirt road) but due to the steep descent and tight corners.

My room at the guest house

At some point the lake suddenly came into view, shimmering in the late-afternoon light. The mountains all around us reminded me of a big bath towel dropped on the floor, with peaks and dips and wrinkles. They look pretty inhabitable, but every now and then I’d spot a house or we’d pass through a village or you’d see a section that had been cultivated (probably with cassava). And finally we reached the lake itself. We are staying in the same guesthouse we stayed in last time we came to do a seminar – maybe it’s the only guest house here. I’m in the same room and there is the same problem of little ants crawling around on the floor and an en-suite bathroom that doesn’t have a light. Bathroom is really too grand a word for the little room with a long drop toilet and a bucket of water with a jug to flush it. And there is the obligatory pair of flip-flops at the door to wear when you enter, as this ‘bathroom’ also serves as a place to have a bucket bath, leaving the floor wet, so you need flip-flops to go in and out if you want to keep your feet clean and dry!

From my room I can hear the sound of the TV in the little shop next door, run by the guest house owner, the voices of people talking outside and children playing (despite being 9.30pm), the sound of a motorbike (the main form of transport here), the classic African night-sound of the cicadas and occasionally I can also hear the sound of a wave breaking on the beach beyond some of the village buildings. I’ve had a quiet evening in my room, after going for a short swim. I had been directed to the section of beach where the women bathe and as I swam I watched the red ball of sun drop below the horizon, behind the blue mountains of Malawi, leaving the sky a picture of pink-orange and turquoise and all shades in between that I can’t begin to describe, with a thin sliver of silver moon hanging above it all. How awesome are the works of God’s hands, how incredible this world that he spoke into being.

Day 2

I slept pretty well, protected from the mosquitos by a capacious net. We headed up to the Catholic church buildings that we would use for the workshop, arriving to find a lady we had met the previous evening in Ludewa already busy sweeping. She had been at a meeting until 1am in Ludewa the night before! Due to the nature of travel here, with people travelling by a passenger boat from the lakeside villages, I learned that the church arrange their leadership meetings to take place in the evening, after the boat will have arrived and people can get up the mountain to the town, and go on into the night so that they can finish in time for people to catch the next morning’s boat to return home, all helping to keep costs down.

Planning pictures of key biblical events

An hour and a half after people had been told the workshop would start, only five people (mostly catechists in the Catholic church) were there. Each was served a plate of boiled potatoes accompanied by a steaming mug of sweet tea for their breakfast. They patiently waited, attempting to read the book of Ruth in their Kisi language in the meantime until I led them in a Bible challenge. I gave them a set of pictures of key biblical events, which they had to put in order. I was sad to discover how low their level of biblical literacy was – I’ve done that same exercise in many places but their attempt was one of the poorest I have seen.  I then used the pictures to talk them through the big story of the Bible, trying to show how it is one story of God’s relationship with man and how the Old Testament points us to Jesus. Spending an hour or so on this can do nothing more than hopefully give them a desire to learn more. As we continue through the workshop, teaching them how to prepare and lead simple Bible studies, I’ll be referring back to what we did in order to emphasise how knowing the whole Bible’s story can help us in understanding any one part of the Bible.

When it looked like no-one else would be coming, we officially started the workshop. After introductions, we did a Bible study on Luke 24:13-27, talked about the benefits of a Bible study and then got stuck into learning to read the Kisi language. Tomorrow we’ll continue with how to prepare and lead simple Bible studies, using both the Kisi and Swahili Scriptures. At one o’clock the church bell began to ring, and I was startled as nearly the whole group stood and began to pray! They were obviously praying a set prayer for the time of day – it felt like being in a monastery, with set times of prayer. In fact, this place has something of the feel of an old European monastery – I believe it was founded by a padre from Europe and most of the buildings are red brick with tiled roofs.

By lunchtime there were nine participants, all bar one from the same denomination, and only two had arrived with Bibles. Disappointing. I’m sure there are many reasons, but I think one of them may be a lack of unity and acceptance between denominations and another may be communication. The latter isn’t easy here! As far as phone calls are concerned, networks don’t work until the sun has risen high enough to reach into the shadow of the mountains and charge up the solar-powered phone towers. And even then, only certain networks work and in certain places.

Lupingu beach

After the workshop was over we tried to visit the pastors of the churches that hadn’t sent anyone. We succeeded to meet one but failed to find the others. There was still time for a swim when we got back, so off I went again, waiting until the sun had dropped below the horizon before getting out of the water, despite the fact that I was getting cold, because the sunset was just too beautiful to miss. On my walk back to the guest house I was greeted from afar by a lady I’d met the previous day when I went swimming, so I went over to chat with her and the lady braiding her hair (well, ‘twisting’ would be a better description) – it will take her some time to do the whole head.

While eating my tea in my room, I heard a scuttling around the water bottles. A large cockroach emerged. It did not live long – flip-flops are a great weapon against all unwanted crawling bugs! I hardly ever see such large cockroaches in Mbeya – it seems that the warmer the environment the bigger the bugs, and Mbeya is generally not very hot, unlike this area by Lake Nyasa, though at this time of year it’s cool even here. A sharp headache has just started – did I breathe in too much of the bug spray I used to try and conquer the ant invasion?!

Day 3

Breakfast supplies - the yellow bucket
is full of potatoes and the flasks full
of tea.

Today was much the same. I found it hard to read the faces of the workshop participants to get a sense of what they were thinking, but they seemed to be taking in what we were saying and responding well when asked questions. A lady who had been helping with organising the workshop (communicating with people, organising the food etc) invited us to her home after we had finished. I assumed this was just to be a little visit, but it turned out she wanted to serve us food, so we sat out in the shade for some time waiting for the food to be ready. I would like to say I enjoyed just sitting and being, but I didn’t, I was restless. I talked a little with my colleague and the lady (who came and went as she supervised the meal preparation), but otherwise tried to battle impatience. I wanted to be moving, doing something, swimming or going somewhere. My legs were itching to be exercised and my mind wanted stimulation. I felt very un-Tanzanian! And I felt guilty for not accepting the situation and appreciating her hospitality. My tummy still felt full from lunch, despite being around 6pm by the time we ate, but I was able to eat a respectable amount of the chicken and rice set before us. Our host had to disappear before she’d eaten more than a couple of mouthfuls, as a guest had arrived, a fellow ‘diwani’. Diwani seem to be representatives of the people, taking local issues to a higher level in the government, and our host was a diwani voted in by the local women to be their voice.

Signposts have recently popped up all over
Tanzania, such that even in this rural village
the road now has it's own signpost.

There didn’t seem to be any point in sitting around, so once we’d eaten our fill we said our goodbyes and headed off. We climbed up the church (where we were holding the workshop), before dropping down the other side, accompanied by a crowd of children all vying to walk as close to the ‘mzungu’ (white foreigner) as possible. I know I should be used to this by now and able to accept that it’s exciting for them because they hardly ever see any non-Tanzanians, but much as I try to shake off the stress it causes me, I can’t. I just want to run away and hide or scream at them to leave me alone, but instead I try to smile as my colleague laughs at how the children are enjoying themselves.

Thankfully there was still time to go for a swim and by the time I had changed the children had gone. The sun had already set, and the remaining golden light in the sky reflected off the water such that I felt as if I was swimming in a sea of liquid gold. I stayed until the sky had changed colour and started to fade and the shore was becoming harder to see, before slowly walking back along the shore and returning to the guesthouse.

Day 4

Stanslaus demonstrates teaching 
someone to read their language.

Last day of the workshop. Nothing special to report. There was some positive feedback at the end, with participants saying that they had learned more about the Bible that will help them in turn to teach others. They are obviously looking forward to having the Jesus Film in their language. Translation of the script has already taken place and it is hoped the recording will happen in early October. Two guys wanted me to put the Kisi audio Scriptures on their phones (so far Jonah, Ruth and Luke are available), so they patiently waited as I transferred the files via Bluetooth, and then another participant ran off to find his flash drive so that I could give him the Kisi audio plus the Swahili audio New Testament and some Swahili film resources.

As I said goodbye to the guesthouse owner, he was asking how I had trained for the job I was doing. I told him about my Masters in Bible and Mission, and he said his son had a Masters in Education but no employment is available so he lives there in the village and drives a motorbike (for carrying passengers). How sad that this young man should have achieved that level of education, probably at great cost to his father, but not be able to use his training. I have heard this kind of story before. Education is highly valued, parents will do their utmost to get their children through school and even university, but professional jobs are few and far between and many of these students end up doing something like that young man.

The same car that drove us down the mountain was ready and waiting to take us back up the mountain, and I could feel the air getting cooler the higher we got. We went first to the bus station to get our tickets for the next day and then to a guesthouse, which was deserted. A piece of paper stuck on the door gave the phone number of the receptionist, so we called and a few minutes later she turned up and we got our rooms – spacious and pleasant with a shower and, I discovered, a light that at night was blue (but white during the daytime), presumably so as not to wake one up too much!

Day 5

The bus set off promptly at 6am. The bumpy dirt road shook us around like lottery balls and every bit of the bus rattled, which coupled with the occasional person talking very loudly on their phones, did not make for a quiet ride! There was occasional reprieve from the rattles though, as the road is being worked on and some sections already have a concrete surface. At one point we passed them putting digger loads of cement into a shallow iron framework that covered the road and being smoothed down by people with shovels.

It was cold, and didn’t get any warmer as the skies were heavy with clouds and it rained lightly until we arrived in Njombe. I got a bag of hot chips at the Njombe bus stand, delivered through the bus window, before we set off again. With various other stops and slow traffic on a hill due to an accident, we arrived late in Mbeya. I was glad to stretch my legs on the short walk home after fourteen hours on the bus. Much as I enjoy these teaching trips, it’s always good to get home. And this time was especially exciting, as in my absence a new toilet had been put into my bathroom and the big cracks in my wall had been filled in. I thank God for his protection, for the privilege of serving here and for the blessing of a comfy home to return to and a fab housemate to share it with.

I'm home

I step off the plane at Mbeya’s airport and immediately I know I’m home. The air feels different, Mbeya’s beautiful mountains welcome me and there are those
things that would just never happen in England that leave me in no doubt that I have returned. Like from the window of the plane I could see a class of primary school children standing excitedly in front of the terminal, obviously on a school outing to see the plane and staring at the passengers as we alighted. And there’s the warm greeting from an airport shuttle driver who I regularly use and the long wait until there are no more potential customers left before the shuttle will leave, but then finding a couple more people waiting at the end of the airport’s entrance road and haggling over the price (even though it is supposed to be fixed) until eventually they come to an agreement and they get in.

As we make the journey to Mbeya town (for the airport is on the outskirts, about a 30-40 minute drive from home), the senses are assaulted by the vibrant life all around. People are everywhere, on foot, working, shopping, waiting for transport – so different from the quiet roads of my parents’ village or even the roads of an English town. It’s a bit more like an English town on a sunny public holiday, when everyone is out. And there’s the colours – people wearing brightly patterned fabrics, ice-cream sellers with their orange cool bags and shirts, houses and shops painted in white or bright green or pale pink or any other colour you may not expect, with corrugated iron roofing that can now be bought in blue or red or green; and something about the light makes the colours seem warmer.

Truly, it’s a vibrant scene, bustling with life, a far cry from a street in England, where people avert their gaze to avoid catching your eye as they walk past, everyone busy about their own business. But as always, there is more to life than meets the eye. Talking later to my neighbour I hear how people are stealing maize from the fields, because there isn’t enough food. The rains were late this year and crops have struggled. And in Mbeya we are fortunate; in other parts of the country there was hardly any rain at all. Prices are rising, both due to the poor harvest and due to global issues that we all know about. My neighbour also shared how hard it is for graduates to get work, and how her husband’s hope, before he was tragically killed in a road accident this year, was for his children to gain degrees in England, as this would give them a much better chance of getting a job back in Tanzania.

So I’m home. There is much that I love about England, not least precious times with family, seeing friends and the lush green countryside with so many opportunities to walk, run and cycle. But somehow this time, more than any time before, arriving back in Mbeya really felt like I was coming home. I went to visit my neighbours on one side, who warmly welcomed me, shooing the children watching TV out of the living room, so that they could chat properly with me. They were delighted by the tea towel I gave them with a picture of a deer on (as I’d just been on holiday to Scotland) and the kids loved the balloon with a Union Jack on. Then I visited the neighbours on the other side (the ones who were recently bereaved). To be honest, I have never really spent much time talking to these neighbours, but this time I went inside and ended up eating with them! Their typical Tanzanian hospitality meant that as they were about to eat, so must I, and so I joined them for ugali and fried meat, which I have to say was very tasty.

It would’ve been easy for the warm glow I felt on being home to be stifled as I walked to the market and my white skin made me an obvious target for stares and comments. I can’t go anywhere without hearing at least a few people talking about me (not in an unfriendly way, perhaps commenting on the way I walk fast so they think I am always busy), probably not realising that I can understand what they are saying. And there’s bound to be some children greeting me, often trying out their English. Sometimes I hear them discussing together what they should say, what the right greeting is, and even crossing over the road so they can speak to me, but then walking by silently, presumably losing confidence at the last minute, until they are back with their friends where they suddenly start calling out loud greetings now that I am already well past them! Unfortunately, there’s likely to also be some youths calling out greetings too, in a silly voice and saying stupid things. Thankfully, on this particular walk to the market, these things didn’t bother me. It always depends what mood I am in as to how well I can handle sticking out like a sore thumb everywhere I go!

So it’s good to be home. Even if there was a nearly two hour power cut on Sunday evening, so that I had to cook and eat by solar light and candle light. And even if my trainers have been stolen from the porch (having left them out to dry after getting wet on a run through dew-covered grasses on the mountain). And even if I keep waking up in the night, probably due to the cockerel and hens next door. And even if the music was so loud at church that I had to put my fingers in my ears during the songs. And even if the Sunday school teacher who was supposed to be teaching didn’t turn up because of a funeral, so I had to spontaneously teach with no book or preparation.

I may not feel the same way in a few days, when the ‘coming home’ feeling wears off and it’s just life as normal, when I’m hit with the usual challenges in work, when the daily niggles of life wear me down and when if I hear ‘mzungu’* just one more time I want to scream. But for now I am thankful that this place does feel like home, and that my new permit means that, God willing, this place can continue to be my home for nearly two more years (and maybe longer, who knows). Best of all, God is with me, He has brought me here, He will sustain me, provide for me, enable me and love me through all the ups and downs. And when there are those days when this place feels far from home, when I feel like a fish out of water, culturally clumsy and unable to communicate my thoughts clearly in Swahili, I remember that my true home is yet to come and that Jesus has gone ahead and is preparing a place there for me.

*Mzungu: This term generally refers to white foreigners. It is not a derogatory term, but nevertheless it’s a regular stark reminder that we’re different. Coming from a culture where any kind of label like that is offensive and considered discriminatory, it is hard for me not to hear it in that way, even when the speaker did not intend to offend.

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Postscript – It’s Tuesday

Less than a week has passed since I arrived back in Mbeya and already the rougher edges of life here have started to get under my skin – there’s the
problems with my new email system due to the slower internet speed here, shops not stocking what you’d hoped to find, friends who had borrowed my 4WD car return it and I find a long crack on the windscreen (not their fault) and the car is covered in dust (inevitable in dry season, but still annoying) and, compared to the nice little car I borrowed in England, it’s just harder work to drive around (it’s big, old, noisy and guzzles diesel, but is just what I need to get me along the rough roads) and once again the clucking hens woke me early and prevented me from getting back to sleep. But this is still home. Colleagues at the office came to greet me, my housemate returned and it was wonderful to be reunited and I was able to cook us a tasty dinner followed by some coconut and lime drizzle cake I’d also made, and most importantly that truth remains that my true home, which will be wonderfully niggle-free and so much better than even the best of Tanzania and England combined, is yet there to look forward to.

(Photos: Old photos I've taken around Mbeya in previous years)

A funeral

It was Monday midnight when I was startled into wakefulness by anguished crying. The next morning I found out what had happened. Our next door neighbour, Mwasile, together with a girl that they looked after, had been killed in a tragic road accident involving an oil tanker. One of their children, Ago, was severely burned, as was the driver. It was hard to take in. Although I’m not close to the family, I have lived next-door to them for about seven years, we exchange pleasantries and their children have played in our home. I didn’t know what to do. I was upset, but I didn’t know what the culturally appropriate way to respond was. Should I go and offer my condolences straight away? Was it okay to keep on working or should I be sitting there with the family and acquaintances who I knew would soon start to gather?

A photo from a happier day. Our house is the
one on the left, with my car in front, and
Mwasile's house is the one on the right.

I should briefly explain my living situation, so that the rest of my account makes sense. I live on the compound of a Moravian church – the compound contains not just the church, but also offices, a guest house and several houses. My house is behind the church, between two other houses, both occupied by pastors with important positions within the Moravian church for the Mbeya region. It is one of these pastors who was killed. It is the other who told me the shocking news. I normally live with another British lady, Hazel, but she had had to leave the country a few weeks earlier as her work permit had expired.

So when my neighbour told me the news, I asked him what I should do. He said I could go to the office as normal that day, but that I should be around for the funeral service which would take place on Wednesday or Thursday. Unfortunately, I wasn’t supposed to be going to the office as my work permit had expired, but I quickly realised I would not be able to get anything done if I stayed at home. Firstly, of course, I was upset by what had happened, but also wailing kept coming from my neighbour’s house as each new visitor brought on a fresh wave of grief, and that made it even worse. So I headed to the office for the day, staying in my friend’s flat on the office compound. While there, I sought the advice of a colleague about what I should do. She said it was important that I went to offer my condolences – in fact, she said I should have gone straight away. So then I was not only upset about what had happened but also worried that I had done the wrong thing and would have offended my neighbour. This feeling of being culturally very out of place and not sure how to behave stayed with me throughout the week as events unfolded. Funerals here are so very different from funerals in England. While we Brits want to give people space to grieve in private, here it’s a public affair with everyone coming together to sit with the bereaved. While we cry quietly, here they express their grief loudly. While our funerals take place some time after the death, but are then over in a few hours, here the funeral service and burial will take place within a day or two (as soon as family members can be there) and the gathering of the bereaved can last for days or even weeks. I knew all of this, but I still didn’t know how I personally was expected to react in the midst of it, and was constantly worried that I would do or say the wrong thing. Thankfully, Tanzanians are very gracious, recognising that ‘visitors’ like myself don’t always know the right way to behave.

When I returned home that Tuesday evening, I went straight to Mwasile’s home. I was relieved to find my other neighbours there, including Bahati, the mother, who is a lovely lady that I feel very comfortable with. I was briefly introduced to the gathering and carefully stepped across the room to embrace Mwasile’s wife. The room had been emptied of furniture and mats laid on the floor where about 40 ladies sat, legs stretched out in front of them in the usual way here, sitting shoulder to shoulder, with barely space to get across the room. After offering my condolences, I returned to a spot near the door where Bahati was sitting, to cry and chat and be silent. As we sat I asked Bahati about funeral customs, including when I should give my financial contribution (very important here), and apologised for not visiting in the morning. Thankfully she reassured me that it was fine that I didn’t go as everyone was in shock; it wouldn’t have been expected. More crying followed the appearance of Mwasile’s two oldest children, who had just arrived from Dar es Salaam, where they are both studying to become doctors. How will Mwasile’s wife fund their education now without Mwasile’s income, for she is just a farmer? After about an hour I asked Bahati if it was okay to take my leave, and she assured me it was, so I stepped out and returned to my house.

I was downcast but also stressed by being located in the middle of all that was going on. On one side of my house, in Bahati’s yard, they were cooking. Several iron frames had been set up, with big saucepans on top and wood burning underneath, to cook food for the hundreds of guests that would come over the coming days. An efficient team of women were at work, chopping cabbages, cooking rice, and doing everything else that was needed to keep everyone well fed. Unfortunately all this cooking was taking place right outside my bedroom window and the smoke seeped into my room, leaving it slightly hazy, and there was the constant sound of chatter as the ladies worked. I realised I wouldn’t be able to sleep well there, so removed myself to my housemate’s bedroom, which was smoke free.

View from our lounge window, with ladies sitting
on our porch. Gazebos hadn't been set up
at this point.

On the other side of the house people were constantly milling around as they came to just ‘be’ with Mwasile’s family. I kept my curtains shut, but I couldn’t really escape things, as people made themselves comfortable around my house, perched on the cement step that runs around one side and also relaxing on my porch, such that I couldn’t even open the door without first asking them to move! It was like this all day on Wednesday, with the addition of music. Sometimes a funeral feels barely distinguishable from a party, as people who haven’t seen each other for a long time enjoy meeting again and as what to me seems very upbeat music is broadcast loudly for all to hear. People continued to come and go, relaxing on the sofas outside (the ones that had been removed from the house to make space for all the ladies to sit on the floor) or on the many plastic chairs that had been hired. Gazebo-like shelters had been set up in the space in front of our houses to keep people dry (as it’s rainy season). In the evening, there were live choirs – they sang beautifully, but the drum kit was being played with gusto and the constant thudding went right through me as our houses offer little protection from outdoor sounds.

With Raheli

I slept once again in Hazel’s room, the quietest one in the house as it’s at the back. The next day was the funeral service. I stayed at home, waiting for a sign that the service was about to begin. Apparently there were so many people and cars that the funeral procession from the hospital mortuary was very delayed, and traffic police had to be called on to help. Mwasile was a well known man. My househelp, Raheli, came for the funeral, so I eventually braved the crowds and stepped out of my house to join her. My porch had turned into a feeding station (one of several), with students serving people rice, beans and meat from two massive saucepans. Rice and beans were spilt all over my porch and the flies were having a hay-day. Raheli encouraged me to have some food – eating at a funeral is an important part of attending, it shows you have really participated. So I got a plate from my house (as they’d run out) and ate a pile of rice with my hands.

In front of the church - as the service continued
inside, many stood around outside. You can just
make out  a poster with Mwasile on. It's not
uncommon for people to wear white at a
funeral as you can see many ladies are doing.

Eventually the body arrived – church officials, in their clerical robes, carried the coffin. So sad. Words aren’t enough. His wife and children were supported by others as they struggled to walk in their grief. The church was packed. I stood outside with Raheli and a lady from my office, who had come as a representative of our office. You don’t need to personally know the deceased to attend funerals here. As he was an important church figure, many were there as representatives of their churches or organisations because they relate to the Moravian church in one way or another, without having any personal acquaintance with Mwasile or his family. In front of the church was a table with a photo of Mwasile in a frame of flowers, and some people were wearing T-shirts with his face on and a Scripture verse.

Sheltering from the rain.
Big pots of sliced 
cabbage in the foreground.

It rained. It poured down. People sheltered under the gazebos as the service continued, as there wasn’t enough space for everyone inside the church. Someone who used to work with us as a translator for the Ndali language is now a bishop in the Moravian church, and he gave the sermon. There was a long period of people coming to publicly give their contributions, sharing words of remembrance or comfort to those gathered. As my name was called I also went up to give my contribution (I had no idea what amount was appropriate); thankfully I wasn’t expected to say anything! I left before the end of the service, but it finished not too much later.

On Friday they transported the body to his home village where he would be buried. I didn’t see the funeral procession depart as they left quite early. Over the following days things gradually quietened down. Eventually they moved their cooking station to the other side of our house, just outside my kitchen, so I was able to return to my own bedroom to sleep. Two weeks later there are still a few more people around than usual, but I think they are probably close family, and the sofas are still outside! Ago is still in hospital, but sadly the driver of their car, who was also severely burned, passed away over the weekend. I pray daily and hope with all my heart that there won’t be another funeral – may God spare the family grief upon grief by restoring Ago.

Off to Ubende

My trip to the Bende language area (or Ubende in Swahili) began with an eleven hour bus ride from Mbeya to Mpanda. My colleague, Frank, and I sat next to each other. I took the first aisle shift, getting bumped by people going up and down, and having backsides a little too close and personal when passengers who were only on the bus for a relatively short distance had to stand in the aisle for the duration of their ride. In the afternoon I got my turn by the window, which meant I was in prime position to see animals as we went through Katavi National Park - or at least, I would have been if there'd been any animals to see! Near the end I finally spotted a deer of some kind and a couple of waterbuck.

The most stressful thing about traveling by bus is going to the toilet - I never know when we'll get a chance to go, so I drink as little as possible. We actually had three brief stops, which was pretty good going. Unfortunately one was a rather humiliating experience as I wasn't sure where the toilets were and someone shouted across the car park, "Mzungu panda ngazi kukojoo" (white person, go up the steps to wee) - maybe he thought I wouldn't understand so everyone else could just have a laugh at my ignorance, but of course I did understand.

I'd only been to Mpanda once before, and things had changed in the intervening years, including the building of a new out-of-town bus stand. So from there we got a bajaj (motorised rickshaw) into town. A room had been booked for me at a nice guesthouse, called Good Morning Lodge. Desperate to stretch my legs, I decided to go out despite the rain, to reacquaint myself with the town. I got thoroughly wet, and after hunting for a place to eat, eventually came across a drab little café that had one dish available, ugali dagaa. Thankfully, this is a dish I rather like, of maize stodge (ugali) with little dried fish (dagaa) in a tomato sauce. This kind of food is the equivalent of fast food here, as they prepare large amounts and keep it in the saucepans or put in hotpots, so it's ready to serve as soon as it’s needed (though it can also mean the food may have been sitting for some time and, as was the case this time, may only be lukewarm, but I don't think I've ever been really ill after eating at these cheap and convenient cafés).

That night I slept well until I was shocked into wakefulness at precisely 3am by a loud crack and a rumbling sound and the room began to shake. An earthquake! My heart was going nineteen to the dozen as the rumble disappeared into the distance and the room stopped shaking. Apparently earthquakes are quite common there, but although I have experienced tremors in Mbeya (three, I think), think this was my first time to hear an earthquake and not just feel it.

The next morning, Erick, the team leader of our project office in Mpanda, picked us up and took us to the office, where I worked for the morning while they had a team meeting about the appointment of a new director for SIL Tanzania. In the afternoon we piled into the project Land cruiser for our journey to Mwese, in the Bende language area. Once we’d left the town behind, we turned onto a red dirt road. While the rains meant the road had a few nasty ruts, they also meant we were surrounded on all sides by lush green forest and farmland, the latter being mostly maize, though I also saw fields of sunflowers and occasional other crops. Many of the houses we passed were made from red bricks, formed out of the red soil of the area, and topped with corrugated iron roofing, but we also saw lots of mud houses topped with grass, often with a solar panel resting incongruously on top. While you are unlikely to find a grass roof anywhere in a city like Mbeya, they are not uncommon in more rural areas.

We stopped at a village where we could get a very late lunch. I asked for dona (wholegrain maize stodge) and goat meat. It's quite unusual to find goat meat at a café, it's usually chicken or beef or maybe fish that's available. The dona was rather dry and crumbly and the two pieces of goat meat, floating around in an oily broth, were barely warm. Despite its unappetising appearance, the meat had good flavour, and I determinedly ploughed my way through half the dona, moulding small portions into a ball in my hand to dip in the broth, but after a while it defeated me. There was a bowl of beans too, but much as I enjoy beans, I gave most of them to my colleague as I'm not sure my tummy enjoys them so much.

We continued our journey. For some of the way, poles stood erect just a few metres from the roadside, awaiting wires, promising the coming of electricity. Much of the countryside felt pretty wild, but every now and then you'd see someone walking alongside the road or suddenly there'd be a patch where the bushes or trees had been cleared and the land carefully cultivated or I'd spot a small herd of cows grazing under the watchful eye of their herder (often a young man).

We arrived in Mwese and headed to the guesthouse. I was concerned to discover there was a bar there with loud music. (When I say bar, don't think of a nice counter with lines of bottles behind it, rather a handful of people were sitting outside on plastic chairs drinking bottles of beer or spirits.) I don't cope well with loud noises. After depositing my luggage and discovering there were no sockets in our rooms because there was no mains electricity, just solar, and that the rooms were not en-suite so I'd be sharing a bathroom with three men (all people involved in the workshop I had come to teach), I quickly left to escape the noise and stretch my legs.

The landscape was lovely, with hills in the distance and an undulating red road to stride out on. I wasn't alone for long. I soon felt like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, with a crowd of children following me, carrying their hoes on their way home from school. I spoke to them a little, which helped me feel that we were walking together rather than me just being followed. After a while, we saw a big group of secondary school students ahead, just staring at us. How I sometimes wish that I had Harry Potter's invisibility cloak! Later I retraced my steps back to the village centre and found my colleagues there. I chatted with a few ladies who were surprised at how far I'd been. I bought some bananas and, as the light faded and the air turned chilly, I joined my colleagues in heading back to the guesthouse (I guess this would have been about 7.30pm). 

Thankfully they turned down the volume of the music a little at our request and, after having a bucket bath with lovely warm water, I settled in my basic but clean room for a light tea (I'd brought some simple food with me) and to read by the light of a solar light. I was relieved when they turned off the music earlier than I had expected, and the night went quiet. Very quiet. As a result I slept well, until 6.30am, when the sky started to lighten for another day.

The workshop was held in the Anglican church, a short walk up the hill from the guesthouse. As is my custom, we started by putting pictures of key Bible stories in order and telling the story of the Bible together, while we waited for everyone to arrive. I love this opportunity to, albeit briefly, remind people of God's desire to be in relationship with his people and all that he has done to make that possible. By the time we had finished this activity, everyone had arrived and we could officially open the workshop with greetings and introductions. It was great to see a real mix of denominations coming together. The goal of the workshop was to enable the participants to read the Bende language and to prepare and lead simple Bible studies using the Bende Scriptures (so far, they have Ruth, Jonah and Luke printed in their language). So we started with a Bible study on Luke 4:1-13, to give them a taste of what a group Bible study, with questions and discussion, is like. We did this in Swahili. During days two and three of the workshop we would continue to work through Luke 4, by having simple Bible studies, however the rest of the first day was spent learning to read Kibende, with the help of Frank and the two Bende translators.

A lavish spread was provided for our morning tea break. This was people's breakfast. There were chapattis, portions of chicken in broth and a mug of milky tea. (It should be noted that this is not a typical breakfast. Usually people have the previous day's leftover rice or ugali for breakfast and black tea. Occasionally they might have bread or mandazi (fried dough, a little like a doughnut). But it's hard to make generalisations as it depends on what they grow in their area and the season, so you may get potatoes or something else). To be honest, I was surprised, as we normally try to keep things simple, to keep the budget low, to do things in a way that the community can continue with. But this workshop is the first of its kind in the Bende language area and the Erick has a different perspective to me; I wasn't involved in organising the workshop, I was just invited to teach. I did not eat all that food (I had already had my homemade breakfast bar and a banana, as my tummy issues mean I have to avoid certain foods), but I did take a piece of chicken, which felt like a rather odd tea break snack but was tasty! At lunchtime we all headed down the hill to the village centre to find food. I ended up with rice and a plain egg omelette - it was hot and fresh, and the eggs were from the freely ranging chickens all around, so they were very yellow and full of flavour.

Day one of the workshop over, I headed out along the road in the opposite direction to the previous day, in the hope of avoiding a following! I enjoyed beautiful views to the layers of hills in the distance and saw some interesting birds and unusual flowers. I met two men herding a few cows up the road - one of the cows had the biggest horns I have ever seen, they must have been half a metre long! A lady I chatted to asked if I was afraid to walk alone, and when I asked why, she said there are lions! I found that hard to believe. I asked someone else about it later, and it sounds like there definitely used to be, but they have probably been driven further back into the forests as the area has become more populated.

Day two of the workshop was rather wet, making the red clay soil of the area sticky. For a while I had to strain my voice to be heard over the sound of rain on the corrugated iron roof, but most of the time it didn't disrupt the workshop. Later in the evening, although the skies looked black, I set off to stretch my legs. En route I caught up with Frank and together we climbed the hill to the new hospital people had proudly told us about - the buildings looked new and smart and there were great views over the surrounding countryside. Thankfully it also stayed dry for showing the Jesus Film in the Bende language in the village centre that evening, running the equipment off a generator - although I didn't go I heard that a good crowd gathered to watch it.

The next day we packed up our luggage and paid for our rooms (costing the standard village price of 10,000 shillings per night, which is about £3.30) before heading to the church to begin the last day of the workshop. The three people who we had chosen the previous day to lead Bibles studies did a great job. It was encouraging to see them facilitate their groups well and it was clear that they had taken on board what I had taught them.

After discussing how we choose Bible passages for studies and encouraging them to do a series of studies on the last chapters of Luke as we approach Easter, we did an audio Bible study. We listened several times to an audio recording of Jonah chapter one, before retelling the story in our own words and discussing it. As so often seems to be the case, they clearly enjoyed listening (more than reading), laughing over the dramatic narration and sound effects, and responding eagerly to the questions.

There was a chilly wind blowing all morning and I wished I was wearing socks (here I unashamedly wear socks in sandals when the weather requires - closed shoes can become too warm, whereas it's easy to remove socks when the day warms up). By lunchtime it had warmed up a bit, and I enjoyed a plate of boiled potatoes with a bit of tomato mixed in and a bowl of mchicha (a small leafy green vegetable, also cooked with tomatoes). It was yummy, but I couldn't finish the pile of potatoes! (This cost less than 50p.) We finished the workshop by 4pm, and there was some encouraging feedback and promises to start doing Bibles studies with their families and, after gaining experience, with groups at church. At 5pm we started the journey back to Mpanda, with Erick driving the Land Cruiser at terrifying speed along the dirt road. We gave an elderly workshop participant a lift part way - he told how he had walked all the way to Mpanda in his youth and how, in those days, it would take eight hours or more by car while it took us less than two. We went straight to the bus station to pick up our tickets for the next day and found a guest house nearby. It was cheap but pleasant enough, except for the mosquitoes.

The next morning we rose in the darkness and walked to the bus station. It was still pretty dark when we reached Katavi National Park and we only saw one animal, but it was a male lion! It was lying on the road, and as we stopped it lazily got up and moved off - it was only a few feet away as it turned and looked at us unconcernedly. Awesome! Once out of the park we stopped for a brief roadside loo break, and were then joined by about twenty children getting a lift to school. They stood quietly in the aisle in their very worn school clothes, some carrying bags creatively made from old nylon sacking. They alighted nearly 15 minutes later, which means we must have gone three miles or more; I wonder how often they manage to get a free ride and how often they have to walk all that way.

My back and bottom were witnesses to the fact that it was a long bus journey. We were seated directly behind the driver and at one point we had a big cardboard box of eggs packed in rice husks in front of us. The box had ripped slightly and the husks were trickling out, and then an egg fell out, thankfully staying whole (guinea fowl eggs have tough shells)! With difficulty we lifted out the big box without dropping any more eggs and it was put onto alternative transport at the next bus stop. I think I may be finding husks in my laptop bag for a while. The trip was made longer by ridiculously long lines of lorries in both directions at Tunduma, caused by Tanzania-Zambia border checks, as the town of Tunduma is right on the border. Thankfully the line in our direction wasn't too bad, but I felt sorry for anyone going the other way - the line went on for mile after mile for about 12 miles. We also passed through torrential rain, thunder and lightning before eventually arriving in Mbeya under a heavy sky, almost exactly 12 hours after our journey began.

I walked the short distance (¾ mile) from the bus station back to my house, dumped my bags and went for a brisk walk. This walk, followed by a shower, felt wonderful, and when I went also went to the toilet I realised that this was the first time I had sat down on a toilet since Monday morning! Other than at the fancy guest house in Mpanda, all the places I had been to just had long drops, which in some ways I prefer to a sit-down toilet – it feels more hygienic to stand where others have stood than to sit where other bare bottoms have sat! They were nice ones, with a ceramic sink and a bucket of water with a jug for flushing. I also realised, as I poured myself a decaff coffee and sat down to finish writing this blog, that it was the first hot drink I’d had all week. I hadn’t missed these things when I didn’t have them, but I did enjoy them when I came back to them! And so here I am once again, until the next trip, tired but thankful for the opportunity to travel and serve, and I pray that God will cause the little seeds we have tried to sow to grow and bear fruit for the strengthening of his Church in that place.