Understanding Our Brother's Culture

Culture has always been a word I have used, formally, to describe the current state of my own. Whether it was a newsworthy story seen on TV as I watched NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams as a precocious 13 year old, or a concerning issue in conflict with one's moral framework they felt they just had to share in sabbath school, culture is the basic fabric we stitch together as we seek to define ourselves in the cosmos. In less eloquent terms, it exists as a nametag we attach on our upper left breast to accurately identify ourselves to others. In an age where life seems to be dictated by the endless cry for belonging, culture has manifested itself as the defining element in our human existence. As perfect as we were once created to be before "The Fall", culture as a consequence of human history has transformed how we seek to interact with those around us.

It’s no doubt that our American culture has transformed over the years since its inauguration in 1776. What our founding fathers wrestled with in seeking to construct a nation held together on the premise of religious freedom and free speech, is far from the focus of our present-day leaders when faced with the threat of an tyrannical middle east on their quest for jihad and a financial economy supported by our great grandchildren to come. All politics aside, our generation is nearing a fundamental break point in the value placed on relationships, for I have yet to discover what 18^th century university student struggled with social networking and interpersonal communication, and so I hypothesize that even within this nation's short tenure, our culture has evolved through time. 

In the days of posted telegrams and horse drawn carts, culture was defined more specifically by the excellence of man and the enlightenment of good, rather than the specificities of difference. In every aspect of dress, etiquette, and religious adherence, the nature of one's culture was connected through the mutual understanding of united brotherhood-a mere universal code of honor and respect. Unique as our decedents may have been with one another in belief or aptitude, one could argue they sought to define cultural differences through outright superiority and desirable intelligence as a means for discriminating those who lacked the aforementioned characteristics. It is true that society did have its social classes defined by monetary worth and familial inheritance, but culture did not divide the privileged from the impoverished in matters of understanding like we see today.

As I have come to ascertain the current situation at hand for missions in the field, specifically Africa, I have arrived at one problematic observation noteworthy for allowing effective long lasting work to be accomplished for The Kingdom. As a student missionary this year, the times the other missionaries and I have socialized together between the busyness of the weeks expired have often been spent around Sabbath feasting. It is apparent to me that our sophisticated American, highly technological, business-minded, and litigiously leading culture has played to our disadvantage when striving to build upon our relations with many African people who thirst for strong unwavering bonds. Our expected impact when we arrive on the ground is slightly off the mark. As an example, it has often been said, “the people of Africa are so kind hearted and easy to please and it is just so rejuvenating to see their smiling faces even when they are poor and have nothing.” But what I stand to clarify here is not that they share free smiles and kind regards because of a ‘lack of nothing’ but rather because they belong to a culture so invested in relationships with others. Relationships cannot be purchased and they have long discovered the key to happiness. 

I often visit the local sports club in town where I hold a membership to play golf with my good friend Trent, compete in football friendlies with the other members, and pretend to lift weights. When entering the grounds, one must walk past the front desk and through a corridor which leads to an outdoor restaurant situated on the veranda overlooking the football pitch. Seated behind the glass of the concierge desk usually sits a reserved and gracious young woman who answers questions and resolves member's concerns. Our relationship for a long time consisted merely of short greetings in passing as I would briskly enter the club. Our relationship changed one day, however, when I went to pay for a round of golf. I noticed that she was protruding outwards in a rather natural discourse, through the mid-lower abdominal region. I took the bold leap and asked if she was pregnant to which she very fondly responded with a slightly embarrassed nod and smile. Congratulating her, I asked when she was due and where she would deliver in town. After a short discussion she asked if I would come visit her in the hospital and see her new baby. Puzzled by her exotic request, my mind raced to understand why she would ask me, a stranger, to visit her in the hospital.  I hastily took a mental step backward in my mind as I choked over my next few sentences, earnestly searching for some rational understanding for her request and then it hit me: Blue prints for relationships and culture are not universally alike and who am I to judge?

In my time here I have interacted with only a handful of Malawians as a teacher in this small school, and each encounter with them has further solidified a deepened interest in seeking to better understand their culture. When I first arrived in the country, I was in need of assistance in straightening out my visa situation with a Temporary Employment Permit (TEP). To expedite the matter, it was recommended that I kindly ask the secretary to the Education Director for the Union for her assistance as she had experience with this process many times over with previous expat missionaries. The first several times we conversed, progress in submitting the appropriate paperwork seemed slow and enduring. Little was accomplished and by means of seeking value in her beyond her professional help, we had no relationship. As days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, several encounters in the cafeteria of the Adventist Lodge and running into her around town eventually manifested in her remembering my face and eventually my name and before I knew it, I had a brand new minted TEP stamp adorning my passport authorized in full. The process was unrealistically long and arduous but as inconsequential as it seemed, my relationship with her meant the difference in receiving what I needed in order to stay inside the country.

You see, the approach we make coming from a culture influenced by the confines of business mindfulness leaves no room for a meaningful relationship in the midst of accomplishing our intended tasks. I learned that in needing to pay for a round of golf, my potentially ill-advised questions led to the destruction of a superficial barrier that divided common ground and the birth of a simple but cherishable relationship. I learned that in my need for a TEP, going out of my way to acknowledge the secretary and inquiring about her as a person beyond her job, changed her mindset about fulfilling my TEP application. The end result was accomplished and a relationship instilled. I had won them over. 

If we are to be called to missions in other cultures, we must be willing to meet the people where they are, currently, and make a conscious effort to be relationship builders. As for the people of Malawi, it is developing a relationship alongside conducting business that reassures longevity and begins the process of ensuring success in the work we set out to achieve. Coming from a culture in the States where it is not abnormal to work an entire career without caring for a relationship in seemingly inconsequently daily matters, i.e. the receptionist at the doctor’s office, the person on the other end of the 1 800 line for credit card support, or the cashier at your local grocery store, we often lack the need to possess or nurture these simple relationships all while living our selfish lives. In Africa, relationships with people override the demands of work. Money holds attention but relationships lead to successful completion. 

On this here evening within the confines of my mosquito net, this has been a revelation from my experience so far. In this Malawian society that I am immersed in working to further the work of the gospel, it is vital for my small classroom, the expats working in Blantyre Adventist Hospital, and the expats at Malamulo Adventist Hospital, to understand the appropriate approach when making contact with the people of Malawi if we want to excel the work of the church and leave a long lasting vibrant image of who Jesus is through medical ministry. As relationship builders, the fruits of our labor will bear success for years to come.  

Finding Love Through Teaching

The school here in Blantyre rests in the hands of those who have invested time and effort to keep it afloat. Receiving little support from the Union or local church, I’m left with the large task of depositing school fees, maintaining school equipment, and stocking school supplies when needed. And all without a mode of transportation. The attitude I choose to display when I walk out the front door of my little two-room studio in the morning has direct implications on how the school will function and succeed. If I’m organized and prepared, the students receive a somewhat decent education. If I’m disorganized and scatterbrained the students are left sitting at their desks trying to decide how they should interpret my actions. I strive to have lesson plans prepared ahead of time, schedules set in stone, and rules enforced. When the students can arrive knowing their teacher is prudent about their education, holding them accountable with what is expected of them, the time that school is in session can be spent constructively learning. And believe me, students know when you are passing the buck, let me tell ya. 

I never thought I would enjoy the atmosphere of schooling eight and ten year olds. Hearing them posit question after question after question until your head spins and falls off your shoulders from headache and frustration never registered possible. Listening to fighting, arguing, and tattletales all morning long is not what one originally intends to sign up for. But as time has lengthened itself into days, weeks, and months, I have found love amongst the youngsters. I awake in the morning under the protection of my mosquito net atop an uncomfortable three-inch foam mattress, not discouraged or upset that it couldn’t be an hour earlier so I could sleep a little longer, but enthused to get to school to be with my family away from home. It is being in the classroom that gives me a sense of inner joy and happiness. In class, I hold a high level of expectation not to frustrate or discourage, but because I love these kids,  I love my students. I claim to a love the runs deeper than passing out A's on a test or a sticker on a chart.  I claim a love that understands potential and praises growth, and a love that works to foster a successful future. This is the love that Jesus has for me, and it is a love that knows no bounds.

Unfortunately, loving hasn’t always meant smiles and laughs. There have been heart to hearts about cheating on exams in which tears of guilt and humiliation have aptly followed. There have been tears shed when the little one learns he needs to do a few more problems in Math before I say he can go to recess. Watching self desires collide with teacher's instructions as I attempt to navigate their learning has instigated periods of frustration and I’m sure my kids have rolled their eyes, clinched their pencil between their precious little fingers a little bit tighter, dug their feet into the floor beneath their desks, and asked themselves "why, why, why" so many times. In the future, I hope they will reflect upon this year and understand my intentions.

In the beginning, it was incredibly difficult to make seemingly ridiculous instructions or uphold seemingly impossible expectations. I remember when the majority of the school day felt disconnected and useless and there seemed to be a lack of mutual trust between the students and I. In that moment, it was difficult to decide which avenue to follow. To fall forwards against the uphill battle of creating a positive learning environment or to fall backwards, onto the easy road through time which would inevitably be plagued by personal guilt and remorse to come from neglecting the student’s education. As you may have guessed, the grunt work with no end in sight was the ticket to winning over the trust I always had hoped to accomplish.

Through the scrupulous work of answering head spinning questions to the promise of recreation with the completion of schoolwork, I have been able to overcome hardship and distrust at times, opening doors I would have not imagined accomplishing with no formal education in teaching. Nowadays, my students arrive at school in the morning understanding what the day will hold. They recognize what is expected of them and live out a confidence in surpassing the bar I hold them to. They have seen their capabilities displayed through success on cumulative academic exams, attention to detail in artwork, and demanding physical activity. We have grown to share a common trust and a mutual love. 

We must not neglect the minds of those under our care; Instead, we must cultivate and direct their footsteps into a world of unlimited possibility. Showing them the love Jesus actively shows us provides them with a vision of the proper stepping stones on a path towards spending eternity with our loving Creator, the greatest teacher of all time!

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day has long been a cherished day in our culture. We buy chocolate, exchange letters of self-proclaimed love and affection for those we adore, but most importantly it is the significance of remembering those who have made us feel this way that makes the day so special. In an elementary school setting, the concept of Valentine's Day is yet to be fully understood. The boys expel grunts and groans when girls present them with hand-decorated cards affirming their pre-adolescent love. Girls of all ages love pinks, reds, and using hearts to create masterpieces for that special someone even if the outcome isn’t what one intended. In my experience, it has been the younger boys- 3rd grade and below- who are still okay to cut hearts out of card stock of the infamous pink colored paper. It appears that once one has graduated out of the 3rd grade and into the realm of 4th grade,  ideas most commonly associated with females become “hazardous” to the touch and in extreme cases, “blinding” to the eyes. Yes, we have all in one way or another distinguished boy things from girl things and feared the dreaded opposite gender. Child and adolescent development just doesn't disappoint.

Today in school we played a game I learned back in high school that epitomizes the very claim made it the latter paragraph. For half of the school day, girls wore red cardstock hearts with their names written on it around their neck and were forbidden to engage in any conversation with the boys, let alone make and attempt to communicate with their eyes. For the time period I gave them, it was all the boys could muster up to try to make the girls give up their hearts. The amusing game worked to reward those who could silence themselves long enough to escape capture, while also rewarding those who could succeed in stealing away hearts. From a teacher's perspective, it made for the world's quietest classroom and a meaningful period of learning. That in itself is so much to be thankful for.

I started the girls off shortly after worship ended, handing out their personal hearts to place around their necks. Warning them of the danger lurking in the row in front of them, the game began. While the game was still fresh in their minds and the schoolwork had yet overwhelm their thoughts, the classroom stayed quiet but impressively alert. At one point, the girls even hesitated to answer me.

As one might expect from a group of students in this age group, the practicality of the game was jeopardized by repetitious questions about the rules of the game. Why is it that children must ask every possible question about policy as if to burden themselves with the "do's" and "dont's"? It’s as if the game is a hypothetical soccer field insufficient for play until the entire team has walked its perimeter ensuring a first hand exposure of the boundary lines.

The girls lasted through the first hour working diligently on their work while shutting out all possible avenues for outside communication. It was not until one of my 6^th graders engaged me with her completed assignment that my 4^th grader asked her an innocent question to which she smiled back an “I’m smarter than that” glare. Having communicated, albeit nonverbally, she sorrowfully handed over her heart and returned to her seat in defeat, displeased with her trifling mistake. It wasn’t long before my second 6^th grader forked over her heart unwillingly too because she had asked my 4^th grader to leave her desk area in annoyance.  Only one heart among the girls remained and it was kept with sheer concentration and determination down to the last second of the time given,  with which she locked in a successful victory. The boys placed their hearts around their necks boldly and began casting competitive and intimidating statements towards each other and the girls. One can only explain this act of foolishness as a beneficiary of the glorious Y chromosome. Configured at the onset of fetal development, the Y chromosome represents a symbolic trophy of competitiveness and aggressiveness understood, only, by those that can't escape its wrath. 

The two youngest boys lost their hearts within the first fifteen minutes. I can only assume they lost interest or lacked the endurance to refrain from talking. Let me be brutally honest, it probably had something to do with the Y chromosome.  But it was the two 7^th graders that kept strong and focused. In the end, one would lose his heart during recess to an innocent question posed and the other more sure-of-himself boy would lose his to a snarling comment exclaiming, “You girls will never take my heart away.” Hmm.. the irony was enough to send the entire classroom into tears of laughter. Perhaps a lesson in humility was also achieved today.

You might be thinking the game focused more on what was right and wrong to do in an attempt to take a heart instead of the actual humor in stealing away a heart but it was the thought that mattered. Unable to send my own valentine this year, I enjoyed the gift of cherishing my student’s immaturity as a sufficient substitute. And I couldn't help but think, maybe this is how God thinks of us from time to time. 

Social Volleyball

Every Wednesday I have the opportunity to play social volleyball at the local international high school in town. This school, which receives students that can pay top dollar fees, has been able to construct a large expansive campus with multiple buildings to aid in giving students an education similar to one they could receive in the UK. Among the buildings is a gymnasium built next to their outdoor soccer pitch and tennis courts where we play volleyball. Perhaps the only indoor gym I have ever set foot in here in Africa, it certainly feels foreign. With wooden floors and a full size basketball court, this high prized facility stands erected by walls constructed of two thirds of the way up with brick and the top third with metal bars, allowing sunlight and ventilated air into the mostly indoor room. Lights hang from the ceiling sufficiently lighting the space and the rafters expand across the ceiling just high enough to avoid any interference with balls… most of the time :).

I have played volleyball inside here before when the rain has bucketed. Inside the aluminum roofed shelter the sound of pounding rain is deafening. You can forget trying to hear anyone yelling or even screaming -It’s that loud! You watch the ball bumped, set, and spiked but you never hear it's normal sound. Only the rain crashing above as loud as a thousand gunshots hitting the metal roof all at once can be discerned, it is truly remarkable.

The group that seems to return every week to play on a regular basis consists of expatriate foreigners who have come to Malawi for various reasons. Teachers from the international school, volunteers from various local NGO’s, international businessmen, and even a private guitar craftsman comprise our Wednesday evening social volleyball club. Among the regular attendees are those from the U.K., Germany, Denmark, Chile, France, and the U.S. Connected by our mutual love for the sport whether it be competitive or social, we are sure to have an experience that is exciting, amusing, and rewarding.  

This last week, however, we transformed our Wednesday evening social game into a legitimate competition against a team of medical professionals from the local prestigious College of Medicine in town. Their team arrived early, still dressed from work, but took this particular match seriously. Bragging rights were up for grabs! Comprised fully of Malawian born and raised medical professionals, their team took the fun meaningless competition to the next level. Volleyball etiquette was a fundamental part of their game. They even held mid-match team huddles during timeouts. Their actions showed a sense of seriousness, much to the lack of what we were used to. Their self appointed coach provided further mentorship from the sidelines. 

When the first whistle blew and the first serve was set the intensity swirled into the arena out of nowhere. Cries for help and shouts of assistance went back and forth as the ball ping ponged back and forth. Quick thinking was vital if it meant throwing off the other teams’ expectations. Balls hurled from spiked hands while bodies dove to recover and back and forth it went. It seemed the side with the advantage would be the team to overpower the other or make the play that proved impossible to return. Both teams fought consistently for four stressful matches but it in the end, it was our team that came away victorious having won the best of five.

Wednesday volleyball may not always result in rewarding gratification but the exercise and friendships make it worth it in the middle of a week riddled with monotony. I love my Wednesday evening social volleyball.

Soccer on Tuesdays

Every Tuesday evening a group of guys in their 20's-30's show up to play social football for a couple hours under the dim lights at the Blantyre Sports Club. Men who can afford to pay membership fees appear dressed in expensive cleats expecting to have a good time… and a good time they have.

The few European and American men that dare accept the challenge often times appear defeated in agility, speed, and overall performance. With strong legs and chiseled upper bodies these Malawian are no force to be reckoned with. The ‘regular attendees’ have all learned to wear their country’s national team jersey and this adds to a sense of internal pride felt on the pitch. Faced against a sea of red, the primary color of the national football team,  it’s no easy challenge for the little white boy from Idaho that decides to remove himself from his comfort zone of basketball, baseball, and golf, to appear in the presence of Malawian super stars.

What has become commonplace during our games are repetitive efforts to win possession of the ball over any and all miniscule argument about the game's rules. Guys call for yellow cards in one corner of the pitch while another group of guys are fighting over a proposed handball. At least one player is sure to be complaining about the fairness of either of the teams while another is pleading with his mates to share the ball more.  There is no universal conversational paradigm that dictates what is appropriate to say and do in every situation of the game. Adults fighting over a handball or children arguing over who get’s to be the first in line appear to sit next together in my book under the subheading "Nonsensical Encounters". While the game plays on with or without attention to everyone’s displeasure, laughter and fun times are certainly had in the end. After all, it’s Tuesday night Social Soccer!

The Mulanje Masterpiece

Opportunities present themselves in any and all moments and it is the desire and willingness to accept these moments turning them into realities that transforms one’s day and even one’s life. This was the story of my life this last weekend as I was asked if I wanted to climb the highest peak in southern Africa. Quickly and excitedly, I jumped on the offer hoping to make the climb a success story to retell starting on Monday morning.  

With the weekend now booked and the execution of the trek in place, all that seemed left to worry about was the psychological process of prepping myself for the long haul. In past experiences where I’ve accepted the challenge to backpack or hike up the face of a mountain, I’ve often become disinterested, exhausted, and emotionally distraught. Something about exerting excessive amounts of energy and muscle into climbing from point A to point B has never appealed to my senses. Even for whatever value the view possessed or the bragging rights declared. Would this climb end in abnormal fashion for me?

Friday afternoon arrived and I escorted the children out the school door and off for their weekend. In a hurry to pack, I began exchanging thoughts with my adventurous side contemplating what to bring and what not to bring. The real clincher was deciding how warm I wanted to pack. After all, it had been over 10 years since I stepped foot on an African mountain. I threw in a pair of sweats, a sweatshirt, and my handy dandy Camp MiVoden rain shell amongst the essential shirts and shorts just in case. Observing my nearly full pack, I surprised myself by how fast it filled up.

The Mulanje Mountains

The Mulanje Mountains located roughly 100km east of Blantyre rise majestically up into the sky. What makes them so eye catching are the massive granite faces that stretch outwards in all directions extending to great heights. Even more thrilling are the faces that shoot straight up without the support or existence of foothills. The peaks grow from normal ground level to gigantic mountains in the sky immediately. This would prove unfortunate for us, as we would have to hike up from a lower elevation than desired.

We arrived Friday evening just in time to set up camp at the base of the mountains and begin making supper before the sun laid to rest for the night. We feasted on a braai (Africaans for cooking meat over a fire similar to a barbeque) and passed around humorous stories for undemanding enjoyment. The night would not last long for we needed an early wake up to set us on track on making it to the hut located at the base of the peak that reaches the summit.

The plateau and the remains of the deforestation.

Sabbath morning we set out up the hill at 6:31. Two hired porters carried out packs while we barely managed to carry ourselves. The first couple of kilometers of the hike wrapped around one face of the mountain leading us across a stream several times that had multiple 20ft+ waterfalls and small pools to cool off in. The path eventually led us up onto a plateau where everything looked liked it had recently been burned to the ground. Indeed that was the case. In an effort to eradicate the Mexican Pine, an invasive species to the area, every grass, shrub, and bush had been exterminated. The plateau appeared as a valley in comparison with the many peaks that surrounded it. In one corner nestled away from high winds and heavy hiker traffic was a Chinese establishment housed with minors and mineral enthusiasts. A recent discovery of “rare earth” as it is called has beckoned the Chinese to reap, steal, and profit from every ounce of precious mineral they find and you can believe that not one penny is ever going to further the people and economy of Malawi. A likely story indicates one or two Malawian government officials are getting paid off to keep their mouths quiet while the china men are running away with Malawi’s wealth.

Tropical ferns and bushes.

The jungle in the ravine.

The leg of our two-day journey took us across the plateau and down a ravine filled with immense tree cover and jungle ferns. Swinging from branch to branch came irritated monkeys as they screamed amongst one another. Subsequently, the path led us up the opposing side of the ravine and up over a saddle between two higher peaks. The view from the saddle was incredible! What was even more astonishing was the hut that now came into sight way down in the distance and across the next plateau.

The mid-camp hut from atop the saddle.

We arrived at mid-camp around 12 noon. After an exhausting but visually rewarding hike we were done hiking-for the day. The cabin rested against the base of the highest peak. The view from the deck ironically resembled the view Hitler was given when the German military surprised him with a beautiful mountain top mansion in the secluded mountains of Austria for Christmas for which it was named the Eagle’s Nest. I pulled out a mattress and basked in the sun for what seemed like eternity. Oh how it felt soothing to soak in the rays and have my feet off the ground. Time passed in a hurry and soon the sun had set over one of the westward peaks. The small cabin began to howl as the wind picked up speed. Now, it was cold enough for a sweater and sweats.

Sunday morning arrived before I would have desired it to begin and we were up, once again at 6:30, starting the final leg of the hike-to the summit. The beginning stage of the hike was rather enjoyable and fairly straightforward. In no time had our clearly marked path turned into a jumbled game of follow the red painted arrows atop the many boulders that now covered the face. Past the tree line and ascending above the cloud line, we marched up over, under, and around small, large, and gargantuan granite boulders. The temperature dropped with every breath and the vegetation dwindled with every step.

The view in one direction from the summit.

We climbed up and around the last part of the peak and behold, finally, there before our very eyes, laid the summit in all its glory. Blowing furiously in the wind flew a small Malawian flag attached to the summit marker. All that existed atop the peak were a few small crevices in the rock filled with rainwater and primitive lichen deposits that covered the nooks and crannies. Way above the cloud line, this ‘island in the sky’ stood erect with a clear representation of God’s architectural ability. The wind blew uncontrollably creating a rather high wind chill factor but that didn’t impede my thoughts as a gazed down and around at the vast countryside hand crafted by ‘The Great Designer’. Atop the Sepitwa Peak sitting over 9,000 ft stood a boy who at times feels he has much of life figured out to the very core. Taken back by the sheer size, beauty, and impressive nature of the landscape I realized just how small and insignificant I am to a world full of people just like me. In a moment of deep devotion, I felt surrounded by His grace and cradled by the soft comforting arms of Christ.

The group on a successful summit of Mount Mulanje.

The moment was soon erased by the chattering of my teeth and the little dance I was now performing in an effort to remain warm. We snapped a few pictures, each chugged a coke, and made the trek back down the steep path to the hut and back down the rest of the mountain to the base camp. Left was a small blister on the inside of my right pinkie toe, a few pictures, and an absolutely exhausted body, I returned home safely in one piece. To answer the question posed at the beginning of this entry, yes, indeed the journey had concluded in abnormal fashion. It was a first for several accomplishments for me but remarkably a first for the amount of joy I experienced over a short weekend that cost $11.

Experiencing Lake Malawi

This past week I found myself putting my organizational skills to good use as I began planning a trip to the lake for our extended weekend getaway. Transportation was the limiting factor to our weekend fun and it would take the most time to align as well. I walked to a nearby bus station with Kondwani a Malawian friend of mine so that he could spare me the pain of having to interpret Chichewa. Despite being classified as an English speaking country, Malawi communicates nationally with Chichewa- a branch off of what the Bantu’s spoke way back. Kondwani and I made the trek across town to the bus station for what turned out to be a catastrophe. As we walked into the vendor filled, heavily littered, and jam-packed bus yard with every kind of minibus imaginable as well as true buses peaking through above the roofs of the minibus’ here and there, we came upon a group of ill-minded men. Dazed and bloodshot they were completely wasted. All of a sudden one of them hastily walked up to me and reached his hand into my pocket where my wallet was safely nestled-or so I thought. With my reflexes and what have you I swung my arm down and clenched his hand in my pocket with the strength of my own hand. Our eyes made contact for what seemed like eternity as I gave him the death glare while internally feeling shocked and mildly violated. He peacefully surrendered and let go reeling his arm back out of my pocket and into his own mumbling  “sorry boss…sorry boss…sorry sorry sorry”.

We eventually found the bus office that services the most reliable system in terms of on-time departures according to a printed schedule. There was mixed confusion between the employees about what time the bus was supposed to leave when we inquired though and they also told us that the bus left from a different station in a neighboring city. Knowing that I probably wouldn’t be able to find the depot on the departure day, I kindly asked Kondwani to take me to Limbe so I could see where to go. We hopped aboard an overcrowded minibus or as I like to call them ‘traveling time bombs’ and took the ride with frequent stops to the depot. Kondwani graciously showed me where we would meet the bus and how to pay etc. After I was confident I knew what to do and where to meet the bus we hopped back in another ‘traveling time bomb’ and began the slow but steady trip back to Blantyre.

We hadn’t quite made it halfway when our minibus was pulled over by a road block staffed with four police officers and asked to get out. Stopped and fined for over crowdedness, the driver and his conductor reimbursed us the petty 200 kwacha and we began trekking back towards Blantyre looking for another minibus to take us the rest of the way. I am glad to say we made it back safely after only a few minor hiccups.

The next step was to reserve lodging. I googled and found a really neat lodge nine feet from the water’s shore that had great rates and awesome activities, so I made a couple calls for a reservation. At last, our enjoyable weekend would seem to work out and all the question marks in the itinerary began to transform into exclamation points of excitement. However, the next day we told our American friends about our weekend plans and they showed great interest in the lake too. They decided to join us but only after recommending a different lodge and taking their own vehicle instead of the bus. I am glad to say that both worked out well in the end, but it was my hard work and trip planning that was stripped of its purpose and discarded without even an ounce of thought. It was discouraging and a shame for me.

Friday came and we pulled into the village/tourist center in Cape Maclear mid-afternoon discovering what was in store for us. All checked in to our hostel dorm room, I walked up and down the beach to the left and to the right in search of a dive shop. It felt great to hear the unusually large lake waves crashing into the shore and splashing up my leg. The shore was composed of rather large sand particles that were painful to walk barefoot on-at least until I was able to get comfortable. Beyond where the waves reached laid more and more sand. Built upon the sand for as far as the eye could see both ways along the bay were guest lodges of all different shapes and sizes interspersed among a rural fishing village. In the midst of all of the tourism lived a bustling village that thrived off of fishing and what little farming they can do. As a side note, I would say that the locals were the first inhabitants of the land before the money came in and built up a tourist's weekend getaway. At any rate, it was quite a scene to soak in! You could be lying in a hammock on the beach reading a book and happen to look up to see the great view only to see six or seven little boys jumping up and down in the waves naked.

I found Frogman’s Dive Shop but it was closed so I saved a contact number and called to make a dive appointment for Sabbath morning. The rest of the afternoon and evening I rested under the shade of a willow tree in a hanging woven basket chair suspending from a rope in a tree listening to the songs of Selah and watching the sun slowly turn orange, red, and finally disappearing beneath the horizon. What a way to welcome in the Sabbath! I felt blessed and spoiled.

The night brought forth little wind and enough heat to make it uncomfortable to sleep indoors. So I gathered a few blankets to serve as padding, a pillow, and my Ipod, and found a woven thatched bed on the shore on which to make my bed. Braving the night without a mosquito net I timidly decided to risk the chance of Malaria for a good night’s sleep. I awoke the next morning at 4:50 to the sunrise and the satisfaction of no bug bites. By 4:55 there were fifteen women on the shore with their clothes’ tubs doing laundry. It was a shocking and somewhat embarrassing discovery. By 7 I had been laying in bed long enough and the heat of the early morning had begun making things uncomfortably warm around me.

A school of Cichlids finding algae on the bottom of the dive boat.

A beautiful Cichlid.

I prepared myself for the day, ate breakfast, and headed out for my morning dive. The first of two dives was on one side of the island that faced the shore. At an average depth of 20 to 30 feet I swam with the African Cichlids up, under, and in between the large boulders that rested on the bottom. Native to Lake Malawi, Cichlids are usually found in the United States in dental office fish tanks or tanks in public viewing areas. At least that has been my observational experience with them. Some of the most colorful freshwater fish in the world, these 2-10 inch Cichlids when in a school really fill up the water with color and character. Every which way I turned there were hundreds of these things. Some were blue and black stripped, blue and orange stripped, blue yellow and orange stripped, pure black or white, and others pure orange or yellow. They were very interested in us, which was great for viewing and observational purposes. I took my camera with me and snapped photo after photo.

The glimpse of their world underwater.

The second dive was much the same as the first with the exception of a new location and more fish. It was just as fulfilling and rewarding as the first and the underwater visibility appeared to be slightly better for picture taking. Believe it or not, the dive master reached the low air pressure point in his tank before I did but we both had to ascend together so it made no difference except for an internal personal victory for me. In all, the diving was truly spectacular and being that it was freshwater I didn’t have to look out for all sorts of poisonous fish and invertebrates.

My buddy Mike!

Back on land that afternoon I began to notice a large number of children present. There were so many local children! From infants to toddlers to school-aged children there were kids everywhere. The median age for the village as a whole appeared to be in the upper 30’s sadly and the combination of a lot of happy people with a severe lack of birth control had produced a tremendously bottom heavy age structure pyramid. What looks like a promising graph for a booming economy in the near future that has the resources to care for such a rise in population has been a completely different story for this village and the rest of Malawi for that matter. Already listed as one of the poorest countries in the world and facing colossal amounts of starvation tribulations and malnutrition issues, these children are only going to get older and hungrier, worsening the already devastating situation present. The infant mortality and life expectancy rates are unfortunately off the charts negatively too due to malnutrition, Aids, and other problematic concerns plaguing the people. All three of these graphs present notable concerns that are only adding on to the already overwhelming issues Malawi is currently faced with.

Cape Maclear from the dive site.

I was determined not to let this observation ruin my weekend getaway and ruin it did not. Experiencing the scenery, both above and below the water’s surface was a treat and I highly recommend it for any traveler who chooses to brave a Malawian vacation. After all, the lake is 20% of the country so how could you not? God has provided us with a glimpse of what heaven will look like with the setting he designed and purposely placed on Lake Malawi!

Friday sunset to welcome in the Sabbath!