Rain, a Motorcycle, and the Inauguration of Barack Obama

The weather has been treacherous the past week or two. It has been ambushing me on my motorcycle. And it has spent a lot of ammunition too. I called its bluff when it looked clear this morning and then it wasted several inches of rain while I sat smugly in my house. (If the roof over my kitchen didn’t leak I would have been more smug.)

Then it cleared off, the sun came out, I looked at the withered rain clouds, and knew I had my chance. I put on the shoes that didn’t get soaked in yesterday’s ambush and merrily rode to the store enjoying the rush of rain-freshened air. An hour at the store then I went and checked the last two of my six motorcycle repairs off the list. I grabbed some lunch at the Baptist center nearby.

But then I saw the problem. The rain had been creeping up behind the store and the Baptist building. And the pavement was already wet when I finished lunch. But it was only light rain and my house was away from the storm. So I put on my rain suit, mounted the bike, and smirked to think that the rain had not managed to block my retreat.

But I had not judged well and, as I raced home, it closed in from the side. I was exposed with nowhere to go and it came with wind too. I was hurrying but it came in torrents. The wind currents swirled the water on the pavement in front of me and it made me think new thoughts. Can enough wind blow a motorcycle over? What would happen if a motorcycle hydroplaned? Why did that bus have to drive through that mud puddle just now and splash it’s contents all over me? At least there’s plenty of clean rain to wash the mud off my visor. I should have gotten gloves because raindrops hurt when they hit your knuckles. This elastic doesn’t really seal around my wrists and there are pools of water in my sleeves. How do you close the “air” vents on this helmet? How was I supposed to see that pothole underwater? I hope it doesn’t rain again tomorrow because now I have to choose between wearing wet shoes and nice shoes and I don’t want to get my nice shoes wet.

In case you are wondering, I didn’t hydroplane or get blown off the road. But this time the ammunition wasn’t wasted. I got wet. And about the time I got home, the rain settled down to a placid little sprinkle. Its work was done for the day.

Malawians actually label and number their potholes, presumably for repair. I wonder if I should get a copy of their pothole map and memorize it before next time it rains.

You see, the motorcycle-rain complex is a significant part of my life, and it was also part of Barack Obama’s inauguration. I watched the inauguration at the U.S. embassy watch party which was probably considerably more comfortable than actually being there. You stood there at a reception while people kept walking past trying to give beer, wine, soft drinks, and dainty finger food. Some TV screens were playing CNN. And, of course, there was the upper that the new president is black and the downer that he has really bad policies.

I almost didn't go because of the rain. But I knew it could be my best opportunity to meet the ambassador. Besides, I’m always afraid history won’t quite work if I’m not there. So, while all these dignitaries were arriving in chauffeured cars, I drove up dripping with grocery bags tied over my shoes to keep them dry. Then I walked up to the porch area where all the formal, starched people were filing in and proceeded to pull off my (rain) pants and take the muddy, dripping bags off my shoes. For some reason I've always kind of enjoyed being an ordinary fellow in uppity crowds. It was my favorite part.

You see, in Washington, DC the U.S. Ambassador to Malawi hardly ranks in the hierarchy of things. But in Lilongwe, he’s one of the most important dignitaries. (Same size fish, different size pond.) The Chinese ambassador was also there working the crowd. So just in case all those starched people were offended by this muddy Texan, I walked up to the ambassador, introduced myself and chatted about a mutual acquaintance.

I’m not much of a socialite and neither am I a party-crasher, but I am a bit of a contrarian and I rather enjoyed the evening.

But I still wish the rain would cut me some slack.

Here's the bike. My boss's son is modeling the helmet.

From Motorcycle

Malawi, the Bible, and the West

It struck me some time back that the Bible doesn’t take as much translation to make sense in Malawian culture. In my experience, people who read and explain the Bible need to spend a good bit of time trying to get inside the ancient audiences’ heads to recapture the original impact of a particular set of words. And the more your culture is different from the ancient culture, the more you have to study and use your imagination to get it.

This leads to my point. The culture here in modern-day Malawi seems to be more similar to the Palestine of Joshua, David, Nehemiah, and Jesus than is modern-day America. It first struck me when I was listening to someone use examples from Kings and Chronicles to illustrate good leadership. He was speaking to an audience of chiefs and somehow I think all those stories of good and bad rulers made a lot of sense to them. And it wasn’t because they went through the intellectual gymnastics to put themselves in an ancient culture’s shoes. It is because they are a lot like the guys in that ancient culture.

I’ve always thought I have a little more connection to the agricultural illustrations in the Bible since I grew up in a family that lived by farming. This has actually been a minor point of pride with me because I think most people only have an intellectual understanding of a great harvest with few laborers to harvest it. And they don’t quite grasp the significance of a seed that must die before it can become a new life. I think it is legitimate for me to claim a deeper understanding of these things since I have measured the price of a good crop in sweat, lost sleep, bruised knuckles, and patience.

But if I can make this claim, most of the people here can make it ten times over. And there is also much more they have in common with the Ancient Culture. Here are a few things I have seen:

Irregular or Insufficient Rain Bringing Famine. This is a problem now because last years’ rains were not good.

Salt is a treasure. We read about Christians being like salt in the world and we have to realize that this was not said in our context where the cost of salt is about the same as sand. It was in a place where people knew that salt is a treasure that gives life to an otherwise bleak diet. Here, I have seen people and even Chiefs clinging, begging, and cheating to get salt. Try eating unsalted bread or pancakes sometime and you will see why.

Witchcraft and even Child Sacrifice. There are the sections of town where you get car parts or food and there is the place you go for witches. You can go through the capital city and see all the witch-doctors’ booths with their strange concoctions on display. I have even heard people tell us their children cannot walk to school because they will be caught by the witches and killed so their parts can be used in certain rituals. I do not know how pervasive this is.

Beggars – the Blind and the Lame. Perhaps half the beggars here keep a stark physical deformity on display -- blindness, a leg that is three times the normal size, a foot that is doubled around backwards or missing altogether . . . You start to recognize them after a while. Even in a large city the same people turn up over and over again in different places, always asking for money. They don’t have many prostheses. The beggars remind me of the stories in the gospels and Acts.

Corrupt Tax Collectors. The way to make money here is to go into government. Enough said.

Polygamy – Especially with Rulers. Chiefs often have many women and even many wives. They are expected to. There is a dark and horrible belief that, if a man sleeps with a virgin, he will be cured of AIDS. And, as a point of hospitality, a man may offer his young wife to an overnight guest. It is only considered rape if the man did not offer her. This is reminiscent of some of the darker stories in the Old Testament.

Masters and Servants. Malawi generally does not have slavery in the sense of one person owning another. But it does have big households with many people hired to do everything – cleaning, cooking, gardening, laundry, ironing, shoe-polishing, driving, guarding . . . Nice houses are built with servants’ quarters. Servants are often paid less than $50 per month and they treat their employers like masters. They’re expected to.

“Possessed” People. I have heard it said that the main difference between rich people and poor people is that the poor people do not have the luxury of hiding their problems. I think there is some truth to this. In our society people’s mental troubles are generally hidden from view. They are medicated and counseled, and for the people and times where this is not enough, they are kept in a place out of sight until it is resolved.

Here, people with mental troubles here are presumed to be bewitched. They live untreated and in full view. Those close to them will have to choose between fear and retaliation toward the one who is thought to have bewitched them.

Again, I don’t mean this as a critical analysis of either system but as an observation of how this one might be closer to what we find in Biblical times.

Outside Oppression. Malawi was dominated by the British for nearly 100 years. The British knew how to make things run in some ways, but they were still an occupier. And the people resented it. It deprived them of the dignity of being equals. I think this is something in common with first-century Jews in the Roman Empire.

I had been thinking of all these things, then a couple of mornings ago, I sat down to read the Old Testament book of Ezra. Ezra was angry about how the people were living so he gave three days notice for all the men to assemble in one place. He said that anyone who did not come would have his property seized. I don’t know for sure how these Malawian Chiefs call a council and get such good attendance but I’m guessing they use some of the same tactics. When they had all gathered, Ezra told the people in very definite terms to mend their ways. And they responded, “You are right! We must do as you say. But there are many people here and it is the rainy season; so we cannot stand outside. Besides, this matter cannot be taken care of in a day or two, because we have sinned greatly in this thing. Let our officials act for the whole assembly” (Ezra 10:12-14, NIV). Somehow I could almost see this very scene – albeit with different details – being played out in a Malawian village.

Really, I think modern-day Malawi (outside the cities) is probably more like the Ancient Culture than it is modern-day America. Which leads me to another impression I have had: going to Malawi is a lot like time-traveling. It is going from a post-industrial to a pre-industrial world. I know a lot of people who have wistfully wondered what it would be like to go back in time to medieval Europe. Well, you can’t do that. But you can go to another place in the world where people are just as different and just as intriguing. It’s not medieval Europe by any stretch but it is probably more like that than your suburban neighborhood.

And yes, I am arguing that you should come see me. When you think about it, this modern world allows you to walk into a pressurized metal tube then walk out haggard and bleary-eyed two days later into a strange and wonderful iron-age world. Imagine putting the Bibles’ cultures and medieval Europe into a blender, pouring Africa sauce over it, and placing it in one of the world’s most beautiful climates. Visiting is an incredible experience – the sort of thing we’d give our firstborn to do if it wasn’t so accessible.

Now, in writing this, I have committed a few crimes. The greatest of these is to have conflated all the Biblical cultures into one. There are many different cultures over time in the Bible and, at any given time, the Bible tells of several different cultures interacting with each other. And of course Malawi is not uniform either; any given place in Malawi is not really like any given place in the Bible. But there are striking parallels that could very well make understanding the Bible more natural for Malawians than it is for most Western Christians. In this, I think they have an intuitive insight that we never will.

These are the witch doctors' booths in Lilongwe.


These are the children who, we are told, cannot go to school for fear of being killed by witches.

Athiest -- Africa Needs God

This blog is generally not for posting outside material, but this is too insightful and spot-on not to post. Hope you have time to read it.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/matthew_parris/article5400568.ece

Blessed

Some people asked me if I had “reverse culture shock” on my trip back to the U.S. for Christmas. I didn’t. But I did have “season shock.” The weather is very cheery here in the summer, as long as you have a little rain-tolerance. But I spent three days in DC, two in Ohio and the only sunshine I saw was out the window of an airplane and from my friends who overwhelmed me by being very happy to see me.

I don’t know if it is because I’m secure or insecure, but I spend very little time thinking about whether other people actually, really, truly love me. I just don’t spend much time assuming either that they do or they don’t. So when it was abundantly obvious that several people really missed me and were happy to see me back, I was overwhelmed and very humbled. Even my “professional colleagues” let on like it was great to see me.

And then, of course, there’s the family. I have a new nephew names Sebastian so I had to get home and make up for lost time in establishing myself as a presence in his life. And my sister is recently engaged so I had to put my retroactive brother’s-seal-of-approval on that. Matt is cool and smart. He’s so cool and smart that my only fear is that I will have to forever give up my aspiration to be the coolest, smartest brother in the family (a heretofore undeclared hope that I have secretly harbored).

You may have gathered that I wasn’t exactly the center of attention at my family’s Christmas celebration. But then, with my family, it’s not that important. All jesting aside, my family is big and it’s crowded when we’re all home, but somehow they still have time for everyone. I had special time with my grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and especially my parents, brothers, and sisters. (The nephew category contains insufficient data for reliable evaluation.)

My family and friends love me, they push me toward what is good and they support my decision to go to Malawi, but they don’t try to control me.

If you’ve read this far, you may be reaching the conclusion that has been dawning on me over the past few months – I am the most blessed person I know. And I can’t take any credit for it. If anyone wants to dispute that title, be my guest; I would be thrilled to share it. I have been afraid to say so in so many words for fear that something would happen and it would no longer be true.

So what’s my secret? I try to follow God and His ways but that effort is probably more often pathetic than heroic. I try to love my friends and family but without some serious doses of grace and forgiveness they would all have written me off a long time ago.

My secret is actually a troubling one – life isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that I am the most blessed person I know. I haven’t earned it and better people than me can’t say it. It is a strange thing, but when I struggle with the fact that life isn’t fair, it is usually because I have it so much better than I should. And when I think of my blessings I know that since I have not earned them it is beyond my control to keep them.

It may not always be that I am the most blessed person I know. But for now it is. And I’m trying to be thankful.

The Trip

One of the great things about travel is that things happen and then you have time to think. Most times in life there is nothing happening and too much time to think or there is too much happening and no time to think about it. Travel interrupts our emotional and mental habits through unusual states of exhaustion, rest, loneliness, new acquaintances, and new experiences. And it enforces periods of thought between events as we move from one place to another.

Well, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean with my altered emotional/mental state and plenty of time to think, it struck me that I am doing something crazy and only just now realized it. I was trying to remember why I, of all people, was on that plane flying across the Atlantic. And the only reasons I could think of were ridiculous to the point of insanity. I don't know anyone who's done this and I don't know anyone who thought it was a good idea until I sort of sold them on it. And the only ones who think it is a good idea are the people I would describe (affectionately) as those who are crazy enough to trust my judgment and hope for something that has never really happened before – honest, clean, just African government. What we are doing here is probably vaguely akin to going outside at night and flailing in the sky with a ladle trying to scoop up a dipper full of moon dust. It's just not supposed to be possible. And if there is a person who could do it, that person would look very different from me.

These thoughts were tumbling around my head as I drifted past Spain, over France, into Rome, and through various stages of consciousness. I woke up somewhere near Sudan, stared out the window in the dawn twilight and realized a few things. 1) Being crazy is scary but also kind of fun. 2) There is a really big desert in Africa and, even when you are flying fast, it takes a long time to get across. 3) There is a really big river that runs plumb through the really big desert. This is a strange thing – so strange that one guy died arguing about where it came from and many others died trying to find out.

As a matter of fact, the river is so strange and people wanted to know where it came from so badly they sent this Scottish guy to sort it all out. He went over and walked around looking until he died – and he took a long time to die. People went over and walked around trying to find the Scottish guy. A lot of people died trying to find out if the Scottish guy died trying to find out where the big river came from. After the Scottish guy died, they took his heart out and buried it. Then they carried the rest of him 1500 miles to the sea. From there they took him by ship for a few thousand miles and buried what was left under the floor of this really old church in England. (In case you ever want to find it, his grave is in the nave.)

That big river in the big desert has caused a lot of trouble. But when I looked it was perfectly peaceful and just as strange as ever.

More practically though, my plane was late and the connecting flight only leaves once a day. That meant that, at 10:30 Saturday morning I was left alone for the day to roam the streets of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

Ethiopia's queen of Sheba once went to visit King Solomon to see his riches and hear his wisdom. She was really impressed. She gave him gifts and, according to lore, he left her with the makings of a crown-prince that carried his genes, establishing a Solomonic dynasty in Ethiopia. And just to remind me about it, Ethiopian Airlines let me sign up for their "Sheba Miles" program so that I can someday get a free flight if I stay crazy and keep doing stuff like this.

Ethiopia claims to be where the first people lived and to be the only African nation that never fell under European control. It ranks just behind Cambodia for democratic government and is considered to be on a scale somewhere between a "flawed democracy" and an "authoritarian regime".

Ethiopia is poor. They have 78 million people living on a mountainous corner of the Big Desert. But the thing that struck me in my cursory observation is that there are shanty-towns scattered throughout the heart of the capital city. One of the main palaces has an over-crowded section of tiny, odd-shaped, tin-roofed shacks for its next-door neighbor. All the poor nations' capital cities I have seen or heard of are "sanitized" so that you have to go to their outskirts or even leave the area to find people living in dire poverty. Addis Ababa is the opposite and this gave me cause for a good deal of thought.

Okay, it wasn't precisely true when I said I was left "alone" in Addis. I was actually left in the same situation as a lively college student who was bound for Malawi to spend the winter mini-term doing AIDS education. We walked around together heroically staying awake and seeing a city we'd never really thought of seeing and, in my case, never really thought of at all. We sorted out the hotel's quirky elevator, discovered that the fire escape on the 10^th floor makes a great overlook, and sat at the roof-top restaurant listening to the "people noise" on the street and watching the rolling blackouts sweep the city below. We even got "swept" a couple of times.

Someone was supposed to meet me at the Lilongwe airport, but a tire had been slashed on the pickup and people don't repair tires on Sunday. So I sat there until some formerly-Rhodesian mzungus took pity on me and gave me a ride home. They even gave me some free advice on traveling by road through Zambia. When we got home, a new guard took a look at me and my escorts and refused to let us in. Several minutes went by while we got impatient and the guard took his time trying to find someone who could verify that I was safe. There's nothing quite like coming home after a 4-day journey and being faced with a brick wall, an electric fence, a stranger, and a locked gate. They finally let us in.

Who knew so much could happen on a simple trip from DC to Lilongwe?