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.

Faith comes by hearing

Wednesday, November 10^th

Photo taken through bedroom window

It’s early morning, and I am writing this in the bedroom of a guest house in the village of Ikuwo, in the Vwanji language area. As I look out of the window, the morning light makes the red brick houses glow and the mountains look so inviting – my legs long to climb them! While that’s not possible right now, I have at least enjoyed a couple of lovely walks along the red dirt paths and roads since I arrived yesterday. Less than a stone’s throw from my room, a lady is wielding a hoe and planting potatoes in the freshly turned earth, in faith that the expected rains will come soon, and I can hear the sound of hens clucking and the occasional twittering of birds. I am here to do a three day workshop to train Sunday school teachers, at the request of the Lutheran church.

Project Land Cruiser parked in front of some shops, the 
guest house is right behind them.

I met my former colleague, Casto Nyambo, just before we needed to turn off the main road and onto a dirt road. He had come by motorbike from his home on the other side of the Vwanji area (there are mountains and steep valleys between his home and Ikuwo). He left his motorbike at a café run by people he knows and joined me in our project Land Cruiser for the rest of the journey. After a while the road deteriorated, with some very rough and steep patches – I spent most of the time in first or second gear and was glad to arrive safely at our destination about an hour and a quarter after leaving the tarmac.

So you may be wondering why I was travelling with a ‘former’ colleague. If you have been able to keep up with my newsletters, you’ll have read in the last one that we had to retrench all of our literacy/Scripture engagement workers who worked in areas where they now have a New Testament in their language. He was one of them. But thank God, he still has a heart to reach his people with the Word of God in the Vwanji language, so when he has time he continues to distribute Vwanji books, show the Jesus Film and facilitate the spread of the audio Scriptures, and he also helped with the arrangements of the workshop and willingly gave his time to accompany me.

As I have walked around the village and spoken to people and listened to children at play, I have realised that the Vwanji language is not being used much by the younger generation. During the workshop I hear the participants switching backwards and forwards between Vwanji and Swahili, depending on who they are talking to and what they are talking about. At least one of the pastors isn’t Vwanji, and this is a common reason for finding that Vwanji is not being used much in churches, because the church leaders are not Vwanji speakers. In some ways I find all this discouraging and  start to question whether Bible translation is really worth it.

But then yesterday evening, I listened to Casto tell me story after story of how the audio Scriptures in Vwanji have changed people’s lives. While it is true that people are not so interested in reading the Vwanji Scriptures (it just doesn’t feel natural to them to read Vwanji, as Swahili is the language they learned to read in at school), many people love to listen to them, especially the elderly. I wish I had been able to record all he said, but here are some of the things I remember (I may have mixed up one or two accounts, but the sum total is still true)…

There was an old man who listened to the audio Bible and said how the words he had heard hurt, they pierced his heart. After listening he wanted to be baptised. His family were overjoyed. There was another who can’t get to church because he is old but a youngster in his family got a memory card for him so he could have the audio Scriptures on his phone or radio. And there are others who, after listening, started attending their local church. There was also a lady who had a MegaVoice player (a solar powered audio player – we have distributed 40 of these across the region), but her husband wanted one too, because he couldn’t get hold of it when he wanted to listen as it was always in use! His wife listens to the MegaVoice players with groups of other women.

And I love this one: One day Casto was getting his motorbike fixed. While the mechanic was at work, Casto got out his MegaVoice player and the people hanging around there listened to the Vwanji Scriptures. They listened and listened until eventually he said that he had to go. He gave one of them a lift somewhere and he continued to listen and talk with Casto as they went. He wanted the MegaVoice player so he could carry on listening! That wasn’t possible, as we try to distribute them among people who we know and trust, but Casto told him who had a MegaVoice player near where he lived and then phoned that person and told them to expect an elderly gentleman to visit them and that they should lend him the player. He did visit and I think the outcome was that he started going to church.

Truly faith comes by hearing (Romans 10:17)! As well as relating the impact of the audio Scriptures, Casto also shared how he is invited to speak at funerals, because people know he will use the Vwanji language and Scriptures, and he has shown the Vwanji Jesus Film at these funerals as well as in many churches. In fact, this evening he will show the Jesus Film in the open-sided market hall, using a special projection pack provided by the Jesus Film Project.

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Learning to use skits to teach

It is now Wednesday night and all is quiet. Tomorrow is the last day of the workshop. Today was hard work – the teachers really struggled to understand how to teach and apply Bible stories. Many teachers are used to just telling the Bible story and maybe giving a one-liner teaching point, but not really explaining what the story means and how it can be applied. After giving them lots of examples and time to prepare, some were given the chance to stand and teach. One just spoke without engaging us at all (despite my continual emphasis on engaging the children), another went off the topic and another basically read straight from the curriculum booklet with little real understanding. I will try again tomorrow to help them understand a little better about how to explain the meaning of the story, but when good teaching hasn’t been modelled in church or even in schools, it’s hard for them to get a handle on how to go about doing it themselves.

Thursday, November 11^th

It’s 9pm, I arrived home a couple of hours ago. The drive took longer coming back and was pretty tiring – I worked out that my average speed on the dirt road section (which took about 1.5 hours) was 12.5mph! I have returned with a sack of maize and a sack of potatoes – as always, I am so touched by people’s generosity.

With more explanation and examples, the Sunday school teachers did a better job of teaching today, so I hope that the workshop will have helped them engage children with God’s Word more effectively. It’s great that the Lutheran church there has recognised the importance of teaching their children and that even the pastors joined the workshop!

Children play together on their way home from school

A little aside… On Wednesday we invited the children from the local school to come for a Sunday school lesson, so that the Sunday school teachers could see a real example of how I teach. Before they entered the church, they lined up their hoes along the side of a building. Yes, their hoes! They have to take their own tools to school for working on the school farm. What would children in England think if they had to start tilling the soil so that they have food to eat at school?! But these are valuable lessons to learn in these farming communities.

*Note: ‘Faith Comes By Hearing’ is also the name of an organisation who’s main focus is making audio Scriptures available in all the languages that have New Testaments. We have sometimes partnered with them to record the audio Scriptures in our project.

Another trip to the Kisi and Manda language areas

The long journey to the Kisi language area always requires an early start, so once again I was at the bus station for about 5.30am for a day on the bus. This was my second trip to visit the Kisi people, so I had some idea of what to expect, but this time I was travelling alone and meeting my colleagues on arrival at the lake. All went smoothly, although there was a last minute change in plans about the time that I should leave the town of Ludewa, where I had slept overnight, as apparently the lake had become quite rough so the earlier I left and caught the boat the better because the lake can be calmer early in the morning. So not long after 6am I was driven down the steep road to the lakeside at Lupingu and at 8am the small motor boat arrived, with one of my colleagues (Claudia) in, to take us to the village of Makonde. Any roughness had passed, the lake was calm (and remained so all day) and it was a beautiful boat ride – this boat was smaller and faster than the one I’d ridden in last time, and the wind in my face felt good and the scenery was beautiful in the early morning light.

We attended the Anglican church service – it’s high church, so there was a lot of sung liturgy and ritual. The best aspect of the service is that there are multiple readings of Scripture, but as those readings aren’t necessarily the ones preached on, I don’t know how much people really take in. The worst part was the choir singing because they played a backing track to give them a rhythm for their dance steps and singing, but they didn’t sing in tune with it! They were in tune with each other, but they clashed horribly with the backing track. I also struggled to stay awake – it was very hot and the travel sickness tablet I had taken for the boat ride also made me drowsy!

Afterwards we popped into the pastor’s home to greet him and his wife, especially as we would be holding the seminar in his church the next day. With wonderful Tanzanian hospitality they quickly put food on the table, which they had obviously prepared the day before or first thing this morning and kept in hotpots as it was lukewarm, and I got my first taste of fresh dagaa served with plantain. I have eaten dagaa (tiny fish that you eat whole) many times, but I’ve never had them fresh, they’ve always been bought dried or fried. But apparently it is now dagaa season and the fish are plentiful and I found that simply boiled in salt water they are really tasty. All day I felt hot and tired, until we went for a swim in the lake in the evening. Oh it was wonderful, the cool water on my body, so refreshing, and the lake was calm and the evening sky soft.

The seminar the following day was with about fifteen church leaders from several different denominations, though mostly Catholic and Anglican as these are the predominant denominations in the area. Despite the heat (though thankfully there was a bit of breeze and a little cloud cover) and the fact that some of them had endured walking down steep hills and a boat ride (probably in a dugout canoe) to get there, they engaged well. We did a little Bible overview exercise while we waited for everyone to arrive, and then moved on to talking about what keeps people from reading God’s Word and applying it in their daily lives. One of these barriers to Scripture engagement is language issues, so we then focused on this, talking about what our project is doing, spending some time practising reading Kisi books and discussing how to use Kisi more in church ministry. It was encouraging to hear a report from one person in the group who had attended the workshop I helped teach in July – he shared how he has since used the book of Jonah in church when preaching (this was the book we used for all our Bible studies during the workshop as it is currently the only Bible book printed in Kisi), reading first from the Swahili Scriptures and then from the Kisi Scriptures. Others also testified to how other Kisi books that they have bought in the past get shared around, and how the audio devices with Kisi Scripture on (Ruth, Jonah and the Easter story) are also in popular demand.

Passing a passenger boat on our way to Lupingu

The evening boat ride back to Lupingu was a very different experience to Sunday’s ride! The lake was far from calm and I held tightly to the side of the boat. Sometimes it was just a matter of getting a good spray, but other times riding up a wave and then dropping down into the dip behind it, sometimes with quite a slap of boat against water, was alarming and the odd squeal escaped my lips! I wouldn’t say I was frightened exactly, as I can swim well enough (though swimming in a long dress wouldn’t be easy), but I was certainly uneasy and worried about my luggage staying dry. Even the crew and my colleagues acknowledged that it was pretty bad in places and were worried for one passenger who couldn’t swim (we were seven in the boat altogether). The ride took longer than before because of the waves and I was soaked through (firstly from getting into the boat, as they couldn’t get very close to shore due to the waves, and then from the spray). We arrived after sunset, but before it had got really dark, and surprisingly my rucksacks had remained dry, except for one pocket where my soap bag was. We alighted with our luggage, including a somewhat traumatised hen that I had been given as a gift by my colleague’s father. This hen, together with some dagaa and fruit, had been brought out to our boat by someone in a dugout canoe as we went past their village!

Second seminar – same subject matter just a different place. The seminar itself was held at the Catholic church, which turned out to be a lovely old building set on a rise, built at the initiative of missionaries. Well, it is old for here, having been built in 1932. I wonder what the people who lived here thought of this missionary building a big church, probably at a point when very few people knew about Jesus. I wish I could be a fly on the walls of those who lived at that time and hear what they said about this missionary. I hear he was also the one to first get a road built from Ludewa down to the lake, paying people for their work by giving them clothes as they didn’t use money in those days. I hear he also tried to pipe water to the villages, but that didn’t go so well, as people didn’t see the point of piped water when they had a lake on their doorstep! Instead, the pipes were stolen and used for smoking!

Lunch was much the same as the day before – rice, greens (with too much salt
for my taste) and dagaa, though this time there was also beef, which was an interesting combination with the fish! I chuckled over some string found in my fish; I think it was part of a fishing net and part of a fish was still trapped between its strands. I was thankful for a cloudy day and a good breeze which, together with the tiled roof, meant the seminar room didn’t get too hot. (Corrugated iron roofs, which are the norm for most buildings, make rooms super hot when the sun beats down.) Even so I was glad to drive up from the lake back to the cooler air of Ludewa and feel my energy levels returning.

On the bus

After a ride on a rickety bus, the aisle filled with sacks of produce and with crates of beer tucked under seats, I arrived in Luilo and joined my Manda colleagues, Erasto and Faraja, at the church where they were just finishing up a three-day workshop. They had started early that morning in order to finish early, as the Catholic church (the main denomination in the area) were having a special celebration and there would be traditional dancing in the afternoon in which some of the workshop participants were involved. I introduced myself as a Scripture engagement specialist and teacher, and was encouraged by the response of one of the older participants who essentially said that I had done a good job of teaching my colleagues because they had taught the workshop very well. Feedback like that gives me a thrill, as over many years I have felt that God’s direction for my life is to “go and teach” and my heart’s desire has been to train people such that they can teach others. So when I see the fruit of that, I rejoice and thank God for the gift he has given me and pray that I may continue to use it to build his kingdom.

The traditional dancing was a fun experience. I managed to find a spot to sit on the sand where I had a good view and where, when the big drum was being beaten, I could feel it vibrating through my body. Some dances were only done by women, while the men played the drums, while other dances were done by men. I couldn’t make out many of the words being sung, but I was told that these dances are used at celebrations and the words are usually in praise of whatever that celebration is about. There was a fascinating blend of old and new props for the dances, with cows’ tails being swung around and gourd-horns blown in one dance while torches were swung around and whistles blown in another!

Seminar participant's home

The village doesn’t have a respectable guest house, so I was staying in the room of someone’s home – like Airbnb! I was very thankful I had my collapsible solar lantern with me, as there was a power cut all day and all night. Although my computer had run out of battery, I was able to recharge my phone using my power bank and read by the light of my lantern. The next morning I enjoyed a short walk in the cool air, and passed the home of one of the workshop participants who recognised me and called out greetings. I noticed how many houses were mud huts with grass roofs, indicating a lower economic level than many other places I visit where most houses have corrugated iron roofing. I also nosed around the Catholic mission compound to see if I could see when it had been built – it had a similar air to the one in Lupingu and I found out that it had indeed been built by the same group of missionaries just a few years after the one at Lupingu.

So, a third seminar, same subject matter. The participants were the same people who had been in the workshop and included pastors and leaders of different church groups (such as women’s groups) from different denominations. They participated well and they had made good progress during the workshop in learning to read their language as several of them were able to stand in front of the group and read a few verses of Manda Scripture almost fluently, even though they would have only seen the Manda Scriptures for the first time at the workshop. I hope we can continue to develop good relationships with the local churches in these areas and partner together as the work moves forward.

We sat by the road as we waited for the bus to come that would take us back to Ludewa. We had to stop for some repair work on the outskirts of Ludewa, but arrived safely as it got dark. The guest houses were all full, because the next day would be market day so stall holders had arrived early, but we managed to find two basic but clean rooms. Next morning we were up before dawn to once again head to the bus stand and make the thirteen hour bus trip back to Mbeya. The trip had been tiring, with a different bed every night, lots of travel and hot weather all contributing to the tiredness, but I had really enjoyed the opportunities to teach and serve alongside my colleagues and to experience new places and meet new people. I pray that God may establish the work of our hands and that some people will have become more passionate about God’s Word as a result of what we sought to share.