We haven’t updated the blog in a few days. We’ve been very busy lately, and it’s been very windy, so we have extra power outages. We had dinner at the Baptist Clinic up the road Thursday evening. Margaret, who is a very good friend of Samantha, runs the clinic, which is a small hospital type setting. It seems that most of the work there revolves around birthing children and dealing with HIV and AIDS. Our friends Jeffrey and Jess, who have since made their way back to Texas, had been volunteering there for the last month. Well, Margaret’s computer is all buggered up, and Jess, having caught wind that I am kind of a techno-geek, volunteered me to take a look at it. I spent about an hour trying to get it to work, but with no anti-virus program installed, it was (and still is) very sick. I told Margaret that she would have to get an anti-virus, and then I’d be able to do more. After that, Jeffrey, Jess, Kate, and I were invited to choir practice for some of the local kids. They hold practice right in the clinic. There were about 15 kids, all from different churches, who sang for us for about an hour. In the middle of that, they did a short devotional in Chichewa and English, so the 4 of us Americans would know what was going on. It was a really wonderful time. From there, we went to Margaret’s house (on the grounds of the clinic) and had a wonderful meal and some time of fellowship and getting to know each other. The kids, who’s numbers had now reached about 25, were right outside waiting for us to come and play with them the whole time we were eating. Jeffrey and Jess had balloons and glow sticks for the kids, which they just loved. We all played for a while, but before long, the kids started singing again. So we sang and danced and showed them picture of themselves on our digital cameras for another hour or so. It was wonderful. By then it was getting late, so we said our goodbyes to the kids, and to Jeffrey and Jess, who were flying back to the States in the morning, and headed back to Cool Runnings for some sleep.
Friday we drove into Lilongwe with Sam to pick up supplies and look for a car and a guitar. We spent the entire day there, and it would be ok with me if we never went back. Lilongwe is one of the most poorly laid out cities you can imagine. It is congested with people and cars and trucks. There are no sidewalks at all…sometimes there will be a small dirt path next to the road where you can walk, but usually, there is just a big, open drainage ditch. Around every corner is another group of taxi drivers or minibus drivers trying to corral you into their cars. The smog, pollution, and noise are nearly unbearable. The difference between here and there is just incredible.
Saturday morning I woke early to help Sam get her friend Guido’s truck started. Guido is a lonely old German man who lives on the other side of the bay. He has incredible stories. For many years, his job was to capture live game and bring it to people around the world. If you’ve been to a Six Flags or Disneyworld and been through the safari, chances are the animals you saw were captured, trained, and brought there by Guido. He was once a very wealthy man, but has since lost everything. He now lives on a few acres on the lake, trying to eke out a living catching campagno (catfish) and selling wind powered water pumps which he invented…but the fish are few these days, and no one seems interested in the windmills. He has lived in harmony with a local tribe in his area for years, but recently it seems that even that relationship is dying. All the same, he was most interested to hear about what Kate and I are doing and has offered to help our projects any way he can.
Sam and I left Guido and his now running truck after a couple of hours to pick up Kate and get to the afternoon’s soccer match. Kate had previously volunteered me to be the “judge” of an under 15 league that Sam has put together. I was a little apprehensive at first, not having played or watched soccer in over 10 years, but I found out I don’t really have to know the rules. My job, as “judge,” is not to referee the game, but to try to ensure that all of the players are registered and that they’re all 15 or younger. This is a difficult task in a place where no one has a birth certificate, but a few questions will usually get the truth out. “Excuse me, what’s your name?” “Ihala.”“OK Ihala, your name is on the list, so that’s good. You look a bit too old for this league. How old are you?”“Uuuhhhh…15.”“Right…what year were you born?”Ihala looks around and tries to generate the right answer. “1998.”“That would make you 11. Have you been lying to me?”“Yes, I’m Sorry. I’m 17.”“OK, well if I see you on the field, your whole team will be disqualified, OK?”“Yes Judge. I won’t play.”“Zicomo Kwambili, Ihala.”“Zicomo Kwambili, judge.”Cheating is a problem, because Sam has gotten some sponsors together and offered a small cash prize to the first and second place teams at the end of the tournament. This was the first week of the tourney though, and now that teams know we’re looking for ages, they will be less inclined to bring in older players to stack their teams.
These kids absolutely adore soccer. We judged a game Saturday afternoon, and another on Sunday afternoon. At both games, both sidelines were full of people cheering their respective team on. Before the games, and at half time, little ones will practice with soccer balls made from plastic bag pieces and string. They’re very good. I played a bit Saturday with some kids who were about 6 or 8 years old, and I couldn’t keep the ball, cause they kept stealing it and running circles around me. It was a lot of fun. Kate took wonderful pictures and we’ll have them up just as soon as we can.
Sunday morning we went to the local Baptist Church, where Margaret from the clinic goes. We were a little lost with what was going on sometimes, as the service is in Chichewa, but it was definitely worship. (the man sitting next to Kate tried to translate for her, but was having a hard time keeping up.) There was singing and dancing, and spontaneous prayer. The preacher’s wife is apparently ill, so he wasn’t there, but a couple of guys preached and it was all very powerful. We are excited to go back next week, hopefully with a songbook, if Kate can find one at the market today.
Well, I think that’s probably more information that you could have wanted all at one sitting. Things are well here, and God is using us to make a difference in the lives of these people. For that, we are eternally grateful.
Zicomo Kwambili,
Jarrod and Kate
Monday, June 29, 2009
6/29/09
The days are short here. The sun comes up a little after 6 in the morning. By 6:30 in the evening, it has completely given way to the stars of the night. The stars are incredible. When we arrived here it was cloudy at night for days. The clouds have since been peeled back, the wrapping paper for a gift of beauty not often seen by those of us in metropolitan areas. The stars fill the night sky, billions of them each trying to outshine the others. White stars, stars in red shift, stars in blue shift are all visible to the naked eye. I attempted some photographs of the night sky, and while they do look nice, they cannot even remotely capture the nature of God’s creation in the sky.
The sun rises over Lake Malawi shortly after 6 in the morning, as do the local fishing villages. At quarter till 6, the sky is dimly lit in hues of orange and purple, as if to let you know that something wonderful is just over the horizon. And it is. The villages are quiet. There are one or two boats on the lake, making their way to shore to bring the night’s catch. In the next 20 minutes, everything changes. By the time the sun’s first rays peek over the distant mountains to reflect off the lake’s surface, the local villages are bustling with activity. The smell of small fires cooking breakfast defies the wind coming off of the lake. The beach is littered with fishermen getting their rowboats ready for the rough waters they will battle for the next 10 hours. In the distance, you can hear hammers pounding out another day’s wages.
Though the days are short, they seem to be hours longer than they are. Life is slower here. If there is a sense of urgency about anything, it is invisible to the western eye. Time here is measured more by sunup to sundown than by the minute hand. Except for lunch. It is as though everyone knows exactly when noon hits. It would seem that the entire country shuts down from 12-2 for lunch. Trips into town must be planned around this anomaly, as nothing can be accomplished then. Life then resumes for the remainder of the afternoon, until night calls to the weary to go home and take rest.
Children can be heard singing traditional songs of faith through the evening. Every note has been passed from one generation to the next. The rhythms and harmonies are as organic and beautiful as the surf of the lake breaking on the beach. Chichewa lends itself to being sung, as if the language was built around the music, and not the other way around. All too soon, however, the songs of the children are drown out by the obnoxious music of one of the local bars, an unfortunate pickup of western culture into this beautiful place. But as sleep comes over you, you can’t help but to thank God for this place and these people and their smiling faces, and pray that tomorrow will be as beautiful as today.
The sun rises over Lake Malawi shortly after 6 in the morning, as do the local fishing villages. At quarter till 6, the sky is dimly lit in hues of orange and purple, as if to let you know that something wonderful is just over the horizon. And it is. The villages are quiet. There are one or two boats on the lake, making their way to shore to bring the night’s catch. In the next 20 minutes, everything changes. By the time the sun’s first rays peek over the distant mountains to reflect off the lake’s surface, the local villages are bustling with activity. The smell of small fires cooking breakfast defies the wind coming off of the lake. The beach is littered with fishermen getting their rowboats ready for the rough waters they will battle for the next 10 hours. In the distance, you can hear hammers pounding out another day’s wages.
Though the days are short, they seem to be hours longer than they are. Life is slower here. If there is a sense of urgency about anything, it is invisible to the western eye. Time here is measured more by sunup to sundown than by the minute hand. Except for lunch. It is as though everyone knows exactly when noon hits. It would seem that the entire country shuts down from 12-2 for lunch. Trips into town must be planned around this anomaly, as nothing can be accomplished then. Life then resumes for the remainder of the afternoon, until night calls to the weary to go home and take rest.
Children can be heard singing traditional songs of faith through the evening. Every note has been passed from one generation to the next. The rhythms and harmonies are as organic and beautiful as the surf of the lake breaking on the beach. Chichewa lends itself to being sung, as if the language was built around the music, and not the other way around. All too soon, however, the songs of the children are drown out by the obnoxious music of one of the local bars, an unfortunate pickup of western culture into this beautiful place. But as sleep comes over you, you can’t help but to thank God for this place and these people and their smiling faces, and pray that tomorrow will be as beautiful as today.
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