All in a day's work

To give you an idea of a typical day here I'll just take you through the events of yesterday. OK, it wasn't exactly a typical day, but it will give you an idea of some of our challenges.

I awoke at 5:30, before sunup. Living at 1 degree south latitude, the sun comes up unbelievably fast because it basically crosses the horizon at a right angle. At 5:50 it's pitch black. At 6:00 you can read a book outside. At 6:10 it's daylight. I tried to make coffee, eat something, read my Bible, and exercise before my planned departure for Musoma at 7:00. Both the kids got up at 6:00, so I only succeeded at the coffee and ten minutes with the Bible. When “Baba” ('Father' to all the orphans, a pastor, and quickly becoming a close friend) knocked on my door at 7:10, I lamented, “Is it 7:00 already?!” I'm not sure how exactly how I passed that hour and a half, but the kids certainly had something to do with it. So I grabbed a plastic cup of coffee and hunk of coffee cake (a rare treat somehow fortuitously left over from the day before), and jumped in the van, remembering to take some plumbing parts, some money, a shopping list, and some documents I had prepared for the government.

Realizing that our badly rutted road is no place for a lidless cup of coffee, I chugged it as the van warmed up. The van more or less refused to go into gear. As we hurried out the gate, Baba grabbed our mechanic and said, “You're coming with us. I don't trust this van.” Shortly thereafter Baba gave up fighting with the surly clutch, and pulled over. “Zacharia, you drive this thing,” he muttered. Along the way I began making phone calls to arrange a second opinion on our clutch situation from a trusted mechanic in Musoma, and trying to do it in a way that Zacharia didn't feel insulted. At least if I was watching him actually choosing to climb steep hills in fourth gear because downshifting was likely to be such a struggle, then he couldn't reasonably insist that there was no serious problem.

After 30 minutes of dust, ruts, bumps, and gears grinding, we reached the pavement. I didn't realize that I had forgotten my passport until we passed through perhaps the fourth police checkpoint of the morning about an hour later. Here's a little backstory: Musoma is the regional capital. We were going there to discuss opening the hospital with the authorities. The truth is that though we had expected to, we hadn't heard from them in a week, so we decided to conveniently be “in the area,” so that we could “just stop in to greet them.” Just two weeks ago we were there on the same errand. That day I had not brought my passport because I honestly didn't think it was necessary—we were not crossing any borders. But that day I learned that immigration officers stop all foreigners (and I'm very obviously a foreigner), and ask to see their papers. Apparently you can be arrested for not having them. I wasn't arrested that day partly because I pled ignorance, but more because I was with our director, who simply called his compatriots at the immigration office who told the enthusiastic young officers to back off Dr. C's friend.

But yesterday, as we pulled up to the checkpoint, I wished our director were there, because I realized that though now I was no longer ignorant, I had forgotten my passport in my rush to get out the door. I slunk down in my seat. Worse yet, it was the same enthusiastic servicemen who had stopped me in town before. They were very insulted that I had not heeded their week-old warning. What followed was about an hour of animated pleading and negotiating on the part of Baba, which I understood little of. My Swahili is about at the point that if someone gauges my ability correctly and then chooses to make themselves understood, then I can generally follow them. But if they don't want to be understood, they can very easily talk over my head. I tried very hard not to be, or to appear, indignant. After all, I'm here to help, I'm not getting anything material in return, and I'm not doing anything illegal or unethical. I simply forgot my papers. What is more, they knew that I actually have the proper papers because their supervisor had told them that on the phone just one week before—He actually issued them himself. Perhaps I could have reasoned with them, but both my cultural acumen as well as my language skills are sorely wanting. So I left that to Baba. Also, I realized that my being indignant was nothing more than pride, and really their modus operandi was simply feigned indignancy. It would have been easy for this to turned into a contest of wills. They really just wanted a little money to buy breakfast. The truth is that is how they make their living. I decided not to allow my pride to enter the arena, giving their pride no combatant to wrangle with.

I followed enough of the tete-a-tete to understand that Baba played the following cards: “I'm a pastor,” “You know me,” “Your boss knows me,” “Your boss knows Dr. C,” “I'm a good Christian,” “We are just trying to help the children,” “You know he has the papers because you checked with your boss last week,” and “He is just here to help.” But the officers would not relent. They insisted that the letter of the law is that you must carry your papers wherever you go. The truth is it's all about who you know, but yesterday dropping Dr. C's name was not enough. Often relationships supersede the letter of the law, but when it's to an officials advantage to insist upon the letter of the law, they certainly will do so.

In the end Baba took me aside and explained with an ironic and placating smile, “They say, 'All those things you said are true, but what about us? We haven't had breakfast. Give us something for chai and chapatis.'” It was in fact tea time (10:00AM), and conveniently they had picked the only tea shop on miles of uninhabited road as the appointed position for their stake out. It turns out Baba had already offered them 10,000 Tanzanian shillings but they refused. They wanted 20,000 (twelve dollars).

Here came my pride again. Indignancy rose in my gorge like bile. Luckily Baba had been wise enough to hide me behind the van for this discussion. I thought, “I don't care about the twelve dollars! That's nothing to me. That's less than coffee and a sandwich in the airport!  Who do these guys think they are insisting on the letter of the law? What about the law that says that bribes are illegal!?” I didn't say all this. I think I said a little of it. Clearly Baba read it in my eyes. I think I used the word bribe very quietly, which made Baba wince a little. I retreated to relying on Baba's wisdom and character. I asked, “Do you think it's OK for us to pay them?” He knows enough about Americans to know that I don't care about twelve dollars compared to standing in the blazing sun arguing over trifles. He understood exactly what I was really asking: “Is it morally OK to give these jokers bribe money?”

This is a fairly common debate amongst missionaries. Do you pay the bribe? Usually to the cops. To pay is to invite-no encourage-recurrence. And certainly there is a moral dilemma. To not pay is to face untold hassles. In my opinion, there is no clear answer to this dilemma, and you must always consider both how much time you have and what the foreseen hassles may be. In the end, it usually comes down to this: the person who wants the bribe probably has more time on his hands than you do. Are you going to wait him out over twelve dollars. Time has value—a lot of value. Would you rather he took two hours of your time or twelve of your dollars, because he's going to get one of them.

As I mulled this over, asking the Lord for a little guidance, I was reminded of a close friend and seasoned missionary laughing as he told a story about being hassled by a traffic cop in Ecuador. He guffawed, “You just pay it!”

This recollection was comforting, and I had to admit that I had in fact made a mistake in forgetting my passport.  Baba's answer was a palliative, “I think it's OK. I don't mind to pay them.” So I sheepishly forked over the two bills to the head officer, whose demeanor significantly improved as soon as I reached for my wallet.

As the men sauntered over the to chai house en masse, to allow who knows how many genuine felons to pass the roadblock unmolested for the next hour and half, Baba had the mettle to petition them: “What about me? I haven't had my chai yet either. We've been on the road for three hours. Buy me a chapati!” He was serious. This goes to show how much I do not yet understand about this culture. He did walk away with a chapati. He even offered me half of it. I was too flabbergasted to ask who had paid for it.

We stopped at a demonstration farm outside Musoma because I was interested. We have six acres of land to plant and landscape at the hospital and I want it to be a demonstration farm as well as a healthful and beautiful environment. Whenever I explain this to people here they agree, but that still doesn't keep the orphans from totally mauling what flowerbeds there are at every opportunity. Everything grows vibrantly here. We enjoy copious wildflowers. But the kids seem to be utilitarians when it comes to plant life. If they can't eat it, then they don't see any value in cultivating it. Often a horde of kids will pass by the flowers in front of our house thoughtlessly stripping the blooms and leaving them strewn on the ground in a trail of rubbish. My strategy for this is as follows: Through their caretakers, I intend to enlist their labor in planting and pruning flowers at the hospital. Perhaps through some sweat and blisters they will learn to let the flowerbeds be. We will see.

Zacharia and I share an enthusiasm for growing things. We collected both seeds and ideas for the planting program at the hospital. We would have liked to spend the whole day there, but more pressing business intervened.

Ten minutes later we dropped Zacharia and the van at the mechanic's shop and took a taxi to the government offices. They greeted us heartily, said they intended to provide us with some workers and supplies, and sent us on our way to see other officials. The short version of that long story of official discussions is this: Eventually it came out that there are certain forms that must be filled out in order to register a hospital with the government, and these forms must be sent to the Ministry of Health in Dar es Salaam. This was perhaps the seventh long meeting I have had with government officials over one month—all with the goal of obtaining registration for the hospital. Now why hadn't someone told me about these forms before? We wasted way too much time going to and fro, waiting outside one government office then another.

It was three o'clock before we had threaded our way through the catacombs of government meetings in Musoma. Along the way, we met a missionary friend who had just that morning taken a bus to Musoma. But the one hour ride had taken three and a half hours because the bus kept breaking down. She was in no mood for a repeat performance. We agreed to give her a ride home. We returned to pick up the van to find that the mechanic had fixed it for free. “I've just bought some tomatoes, and onions, and bananas for the children,” he said. We were all shocked but thanked him warmly and headed out.

About an hour later we were stopped at another roadblock. This time the police insisted on seeing Zacharia's driver's license. He has one, but it's Kenyan. And when they saw that is was Kenyan he knew that they would start hassling him about why he didn't have his passport. There's no need to repeat all the details of the above story again. Suffice it to say that Baba spent another half an hour in similar negotiations, resulting in a smaller bribe but no chapati.

It was already five by the time we started our shopping errands in several locations just before the pavement ends on the way home. At one point we parked right in front of the immigration office at the border while Baba walked through the gates to buy some Kenyan specialty on the other side. As we pulled up, the place swarming with uniformed immigration police looking like they had nothing better to do than try to squeeze shillings out of some unsuspecting white boy, I told Baba, “You know I don't have my passport, right?”

He laughed, “Oh these are our friends,” as he got out of the car and disappeared. I wasn't so sure. I hunkered down in my seat and tried to look inconspicuous for the next half an hour. After that we squandered more time waiting for a merchant from whom we had recently purchased fruit down the road. He kept calling on the phone insisting that he was “only five minutes away,” for half an hour. The sun was setting. I insisted we just head out. We endured a little more dust and ruts and finally arrived home, trail-worn but safe, into the arms of our expectant families. Everyone wanted to know what had delayed us. I answered flatly, “Government officials,” and this was a sufficient answer for all who heard.

Dr. Plumber

Some funny things that have happened lately.
We have been without a working sink or flushing toilets for a month. The well pump was fixed last week, but when we turned on the water to the house, many of the sinks and toilets still didn't work. Pretty disappointing. Between diapering, and attending to boils on kids, and welding, and working in the garden, I want to wash my hands pretty often. To be without a sink is a hassle. It's hard to feel like you really got the germs off.

An interesting cultural phenomenon here: Ntagatchans will talk to each other from ridiculously far apart—and at normal volume levels. It seems they have superhuman hearing. I've seen people talk to each other from 100 yards apart without raising their voices. Partly this is possible because it's so quiet here (very very few motors). And partly, I think, it's because in this hierarchical society, it's assumed that a lower person will always greet a higher person, and this it's the lower person's responsibility to make themselves heard. And, the lower person will intentionally stand quite far away—even twenty feet—on purpose. This is considered polite and submissive. The higher person can be as soft spoken as they choose. Also it's important that the lower person not be too loud, lest they be perceived as asserting themselves too much. The resultant effect for me is that in general people speak to me in a tone which is much to quiet for me to discern the nuances of a foreign language. I am constantly asking people to repeat themselves.

Believe me, when one is learning a language, not being able to hear your interlocutor (or read their lips) is an extreme disadvantage. When they talk to me from twenty yards away I just walk over to them. Or I just repeat “nzuri,” (fine) and “sawa” (OK) asseems appopriate until they stop. I don't know what else to do.

Yesterday I witnessed a funny example of this distance-talking. We let the manager know about the sink problem. At the time he was sitting nearby a water cistern, a 50,000 gallon underground concrete tank. The cistern is undergoing repairs so there were two men down inside it—way down inside it. Without getting up to walk to the access hatch of the tank (he was sitting about twenty feet away), the manager began having a conversation with one of the guys at the bottom of the tank. They simply began shouting back and forth to each other, the voice of the man in the bottom echoing sonorously. The conversation being held in a pigeon of English, Swahili, and Kuria, it was all the more incomprehensible to me. It was ridiculous! “Nanyo, who do you know who is a plumber?” Reply: “There's one working up at the hospital right now.” “Perfect!” And so it went. How they could understand each other I have no idea. Eventually someone took it upon himself to act as an interpreter, squatting at the top of the hole and shouting each sentence back and forth.

Unfortunately, the plumber is less skilled than I am at plumbing. So he didn't make much progress on the sink. His first suggestion was that we completely replace the entire plumbing system. Using this tack he wouldn't have to search out the problem and he would have plenty of income from a big job; this building has at least six bathrooms. Irritated with his advice, I decided to find the problem myself. That only took about ten minutes—it was a stuck valve on one of the pipes outside. When I fixed it, one whole bathroom and the kitchen began working. Rarely have I received such a hero's welcome as when I strutted into the kitchen to the sound of water gushing from the tap (pipe wrench in hand, so they would know it was me). Restoration of running water is a big victory around here.

As it turns out, the plumber isn't so bad as long as you tell him exactly what you want done. He is replacing the faucet on our bathroom sink right now. Hopefully we are just minutes from being able to wash our hands easily!

HAPPY 4th BIRTHDAY LITTLE T!!!

Happy Birthday, t. We are so happy to be able to celebrate another year of your life with you. You are a treasure. You are smart, funny, creative, mischevious, delightful, sensitive, expressive and a true delight. We love you more than we ever dared hope or dream. We thank God for you every day and we are so greateful that you have been given to us to love and cherish. Happy Birthday!!!

Like his father, t's “love language”is primarily food. We started the day with his favorite breakfast of oatmeal. Later we invited some of his friends over to watch “Cars” the movie. I'm not sure how well it translated but all the kids laughed and smiled throughout. Dinner was another favorite of macaroni and cheese (a huge splurge here-cheese is very expensive and not easy to find.) He LOVED it. He said the food here is better than the food at home. After dinner we had more friends over and shared a chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting...sounds simple but everything was made from scratch-even the frosting, which began as milk powder and was turned into yogurt, then strained into greek yogurt, then super-strained/squeezed into neufchatel. Which I then made into frosting. Needless to say, it was delicious, and t. was very pleased. He even sang “Happy Birthday” to himself, very quickly, before diving in, not unlike his “turbo grace” that he is known for saying before meals. (“DearGodthankyouforthisnicefoodamen!”)

t's only complaint was heard after celebrating. “Mommy, I still can't read!” Much disappointment came upon realizing that despite his advanced age, he is still yet unable to read.

The Futility of Man

I've been feeling overwhelmed this week. Getting the hospital open is no small task. Important governmental officials are coming to see the progress next week (the regional commissioner, analogous to a state governor in the States, and his formidable entourage). Meanwhile my time is taken up with such mundane tasks as building 3 tables and 6 chairs (because we don't have any), moving a huge pile of bricks out of the patient waiting area, and writing employee contracts.

I knew from the beginning that I'm not really up to the task—that if it is to get done then God will have to do it. But now I'm really experiencing the futility of man. There is so much more to do than I can do myself. Even with a large team (which I do not have at this point) I would still be overwhelmed with the enormity of the task. Even just making my to do list is a big job.

I am encouraged this morning by one of those psalms that can seem so depressing at times. (Don't worry, I'm not depressed—just daunted). In Psalm 89: 47-48 the psalmist addresses the Father:

     "Remember how short my life is; remember that you created all of us mortal!

     Who can live and never die? How can human beings keep themselves from the grave?"

I identify with that this morning. I don't have enough days in my life (not to mention energy or freedom from distraction) to get done what needs to be done. One of my main tasks is to recruit and train workers for hospital, but so far I have only found one and we haven't really done any training yet. But the slow progress in that department brings me to an important point:

Ministry is about people, not progress or projects. People embody eternal souls. In a hundred or so years, both this hospital and this children's home will mostly likely be rubble. But these staff, these patients, and these children will still exist (albeit in different material circumstances). My task here is much bigger than just the practical nuts and bolts of getting a hospital up and running. I'm actively trying to be people-focused instead of institution-focused. I am especially focused on mentoring the hospital staff. This is about investing in the destiny of eternal souls—children of God created in His own image! Has he entrusted me with such tremendous responsibility? Indeed he has. When I think of that: talk about coming up hard against the futility of man!

I am NOT up to that task! But I am reminded that all He requires of me, He provides. The work is not mine but His. Really I'm just along for the ride—for how He will use the journey to shape my life and my family and for other reasons that I cannot hope to see. But He does.

In the remainder of Psalm 89, the psalmist, after lamenting his impotence, in effect reminds God: “Don't forget who you are!” Like Abraham pleading on behalf of a few hypothetical righteous Sodomites, like Habakkuk lamenting the problem of evil in Israel, like Paul assuring the Philippians that Christ will finish what He started (1:6), the psalmist declaims (my paraphrase): “God, You are who You are. The battle belongs to You.”

I say the same this morning. The battle belongs to Jesus. He has called me to come alongside a few of his sheep and encourage them toward Him. That's all I need to do. Hospitals and tables and bricks and government officials are all just details. I need not be anxious over them.

Fast (by our standards) internet=photos today

T and w sorting through the container of donated supplies for the hospital. This is one happy bedpan holding guy!

w insists on taking off her shoes and asking Mr. Ben to help put them back on. He is one of the guards and an excellent kiswahili instructor.

One village mama asked T "Why are you carrying her on your back?" T said "Because she would not lay down." She answered approvingly, "That is what we do. When they don't lay down we just put them on our backs and keep working!"

The kids from the children's home are currently harvesting the maize from their fields. They work before and after school in the fields and live off the maize.

Neighbor children.

Our inaugural surgery. No anesthetic (none available) but one very brave boy! Three stitches in the calf.

View from the mountain.

T has a 5 minute commute. Sure beats the beltway!

 



Amani Hospital-Ntagatcha, Tanzania

Pediatrics and Maternity wards to the left. Inpatient and Outpatient to the right.

Workout of the day-Tuesday

His:
100 jump squats with w. in backpack (30 pounds)
100 push ups (with w.)
1 minute forward plank (with w.) x5
60 cuban presses (12 lbs)
60 burpees
60 pull ups

Hers:
20 jump squats
20 reverse sit-ups
10 double under jump rope
repeat for 5 rounds.
J completed in 26 minutes

Parenting Part 2:

Dawn is so lovely here. In the quiet hours of this morning God has shown me something very important. I see now that my frustration and disappointment over t's behavior and rebellion are evidence that my love for him has in many ways been selfish. My love for him has been for the sake of what I get out of the relationship—for the love I get back from him. This is exactly what Franz Kafka criticized as love that is not really love (and he's right), leading him to dismiss the concept of love altogether.  (He was wrong about that).

For the past year, t's behavior has gradually declined. His will has surfaced and his behavior has become more and more difficult to manage. But parenting is not at its core about managing behavior is it?

Years ago a missionary friend told me: “How I treat my kids and how they treat me, says more to this community than anything I ever say from the pulpit.” Intuitively I recognized this as true. But I've been repeating it for years without really understanding what it means. It does not mean that the people will listen to me because my kids respect me. It means loving my kids even when their behavior is atrocious—even when they are unfaithful to me—even when I am getting nothing back, or worse yet, getting frank rebellion in return. Is this not what Our Father has done for us? Is this not the best way to show people the gospel—what God has done for me? He has taken me back and comforted me and forgiven all that I have done and will do. How can I not do the same for t?

Even as I have been writing this, t has been totally unloveable. I stopped writing to make him a nice breakfast at his request. He promptly spent the next thirty minutes screaming, and wailing, and thrashing about because his scrambled eggs were “too big.” I was fairly patient with him, but he just got worse and worse. I gave him a lot of chances but eventually I had to walk away from him. Is he finding assurance of my love by pushing me away with bad behavior and then asking in effect, “Do you still love me?” More screaming. “Now do you still love me?”

I don't know if I'm over analyzing things (perhaps that's my form of comfort). Perhaps he's just having “normal” temper tantrums. But it has certainly caused me to wonder: “What does this reveal to me about how God handles my rebellion and tantrums?