Africa Update: Into the Bush

Today marks the end of my second week here in Africa. A week ago today, things took an interesting turn of events that I didn't foresee at all. I had been looking forward to going into Mozambique on Monday for the whole previous week- excitement, adventure, purpose! However, a week ago today, I went alone to the Savannah mall (about a kilo and a half away from where I stay), and decided to jog there- hadn't done any since I had arrived. I was having a lovely jog- beautiful day, perfect temp..., just lovely. When all of a sudden, it happened. I tripped over myself in a pothole. My foot practically when perpendicular to my leg, and a unbearable stinging, sharp pain filled my ankle for a few seconds, as I started to hobble, stumble, and trip along the road. Eish. I thought for a second. "This is NOT good". I made my way back to CBC (for "Burger Bash") and stumbled in to tune up my mandolin for the music practice. "This ISN'T good" I kept thinking. My biggest fear was not going into Mozambique on monday. The music and youth group went by, and I jammed with some others after it, and then Phil (a student) drove me back to the Plodinecs. I was trying to remain positive as I drifted off to sleep, hopeing and praying that everything would work out and I could still go. Then the morning came.
     Slowly I lifted myself out of bed and put my feet on the ground. I gradually rose to put weight on my left foot, praying that it would be better. Nope. The pain made me lose balance and fall back onto the bed. Eish. Mr. Plodinec drove me to a sports store to get a brace for my foot. That day we were supposed to clean up the yard area, but I sat in bed... and tried not to mope.
    The pain was rather fierce that day, but Sunday I saw Doctor Mark-a doctor for the missionaries. He asked me: "Do you want to be a football (soccer) player?
"No, not really", I returned;
"OK, then go to Mozambique."

I got various warnings from others, but Monday morning, I was riding in a buggy to the Mozambique border (loaded up on pain meds). I talked most of the way with William Vaughn, the director of Samaria Mission. We arrived in Xicambane (after dropping off another team in Umbuzi). Xicambane is 90 kilos into Mozambique- a three hour drive with the condition of the roads. About 40 kilos from Xicambane, we made a quick stop in Matselali- the village I spent two weeks in back in 2009. I wondered if anyone would remecocnice member me.
We pulled up and saw chief Robert, a kindly middle aged man who was also the pastor of Matselali Baptist Church. Then we saw Daniel- and Uncle William said: "EY!!" (sorry, inside joke for those who there there in 2009)
Then I saw them. The NINOS. There were a group of about four or five who followed me around everywhere back in '09. They didn't remember me- but I sure remembered them. I had a Tsonga/English dictionary in my hands, and I was trying out different phrases and words on them- then I "guitarra"; Portaguesee for: guitar. Then I thought it, and the the word came out of my mouth: "banjo". I made a strumming motion with my hands. Suddenly, one of the kids (Ave, I remembered his name because it was easy, and he's the one on the left in the picture) rose to his feet; his eyes became large, and he shouted out: "DaVEED!" then several more chimed in, they remembered. I was beaming.
We arrived at Chicambane at a quarter of six- the electric well pump was broken, so we'd have to pump it ourselves manually- my job. We (myself and an Afrikaaner boy named Joel) about half full when it happend again. I was carrying a bucket of water to the drum, and I tripped yet again on my bad ankle. Pain shot through my foot and I grimaced, but kept on working. I wasn't too happy that night. The day had been good, but my thoughts were on the increasing pain in my ankle, and the possibility of malaria. Nevertheless, I slept well, and awoke the next morning to the sound of Afrikaans and Tsonga. It came upon me that for the first time in my life, I was among people of another continent- and I was the ONLY American. It was frustrating at times over the next few days because at certain points, all the whites would be speaking Afrikaans, and the blacks speaking Tsonga- and me... well, I know Spanish, and that's similar to Portaguesee- which the speak in Mozambique... so lost basically. Tuesday was an interesting day. I spent most all the day as an observer- studying and taking note of how everything worked. There were 7 of us; two translators, Joseph and Kenneth, Uncle William, and three Afrikaners who were along for the ride (oh, and me). Our purpose for being in Mozambique was to train pastors- specifically from the book of Acts. I sat in on the teaching; it was very hot in the church, and it was in Tsonga- so I didn't pickup much. We shared a traditional Mozambican meal with the deacons and pastors (pop with a curry sauce, eaten by hand), then there was more teaching, but I spent the next segment getting to know my Afrikaner companions (we discussed South Africa, America, theology, and Mandela mostly). My ankle was feeling surprisingly better that evening- so I decided to accompany some of the men on a 10 kilo walk (remember, 1 kilo is 2.2 miles). I was thinking as I walked away from camp: "eish, this probably isn't such a good idea". It was very nice. Mozambique is beautiful in the summertime, especially during sunset. We walked to the flooded Limpopo river, and then returned for some chow, took some very quick showers, and went off to bed.
Wednesday came. And an awkward situation with it. It turned out during the night, a man in the village had died... and now was being buried. The deacons/pastors said that they could no longer commit to the training session, and needed to to take the day off, which meant we could go home if we wanted to- but there was a problem: we were already outsiders coming in to "put" our own beliefs on them. How would it look if we simply took off and left after a death? Kenneth traveled to the burial sight to see if we could help with anything- he had already been buried. We packed up and left at about 1, hoping to make the border before 4 (when it closes down). We made it to Umbuzi where the other team was, but they hadn't packed up, so we had to make camp there and wait until morning to get back to SA. We had a great evening though- we braied (that's barbecue to my American friends) and swapped jokes and theological thoughts.
Thursday morning we all packed up and headed out back to SA. We experienced some minor car trouble, but it appeared to be only some mud caked around the tire that was causing undo friction upon the vehicle. We arrived back in Pietersburg at 2:30, and my ankle (as it is as I write this) was feeling miraculously better.

Several things I've learned:
1. I already knew this, but: "Man plans his way, God directs his steps"
2. If you ever need to kill time waiting for a burial, collecting over one hundred 4 inch crickets (or, demon bugs, because they bite) is a great way to do it.
3. Humanitarian work without the Gospel is in vain and useless.
4. Someone outside the culture of a particular group will always be an outsider- which is why godly men from WITHIN the culture are so important to have in this type of ministry.

5. You can overcome language barriers- you have to.


We head in again in 6 weeks, and I am excited to see what unforeseen plans God will have for us. I was bit by mosquitoes 7 or 8 times- I was taking some medication, but it only reduces the chances of getting malaria; I really hope I don't, one of the guys on our team has gotten it 4 times, and apparently it's not too nice.