One Story

bad water

March 23, 2012

Today is World Water Day and I just read a news article on the topic written by actor Matt Damon. He invites us to use our imagination…

Just imagine walking a mile to collect water, and then toting as many buckets as you can carry back to your home. Imagine that this your only water for all the day’s needs – bathing, cooking, drinking, washing. He writes,”It’s not exactly safe and one of these days, it could kill you. But if you and your family don’t drink it, you’ll certainly die.”

Tears well up in my eyes and I can’t read on.

Let’s be honest: for those of us living with water flowing out of multiple kitchen and bathroom faucets, it’s impossible to imagine. We can imagine being thirsty, but we’re never far from relief. Perhaps we can imagine carrying heavy water containers for a mile, but we can’t feel the physical strain or the burning sand under our bare feet. And we can’t begin to imagine having to drink bad water on a daily basis – because it’s all we have.

Our friends in the Mikea Forest of Madagascar need no imagination. There is still no water in the village of Anjabetrongo – even after digging four different wells using various companies. The closest water source is 10 km away and must be purchased. The villagers collect rainwater in large barrels but it’s not enough. They dig moist roots out of the arid ground to eat in place of water. This root, called babo, is delicious but becoming more and more difficult to find. And again, it’s not enough.

So mostly they rely on the polluted water that collects in puddles and low-lying areas during the rains. Mr Damon is telling the truth when he says bad water like this can kill you. We have recently lost a beautiful second-grader in our Anjabetrongo school in just this way.

Nino died some weeks ago from schistosomiasis – an infection caused by contaminated water. Also known as bilharzia, this condition causes fever, chills, bloody diarrhea, liver and spleen enlargement and severe abdominal pain. As the parasite grows into an adult worm, it targets other organs and body parts causing further complications such as heart failure and seizures. If caught early enough, bilharzia is treatable with an inexpensive drug called praziquantal.

Unfortunately for Nino, her parents would not transport her for the medical treatment that could have saved her life. Convinced that the problem was witchcraft, they took Nino to witchdoctors, spending their precious little money for various charms and potions. Our schoolteachers and village leaders did their best to convince the frightened parents that medical care could cure her. But it wasn’t until Nino was dying that they finally gave in. They carried their gravely ill child onto a taxibrousse headed for the city of Toliare. It’s a long, difficult trip on badly rutted roads in the best of weather. During the rainy season the roads become all but impassable. On this last day of Nino’s young life the bus broke down on that road for 8 hours.

Nino died in that place. From drinking bad water.

Her parents are inconsolable, the village has lost a much-loved child and the schoolchildren have lost a dear friend. Our partners, Pastor Jonoro and Hanitra, are looking into treating all the schoolchildren with praziquantal as a cautionary measure. It must be prescribed and administered by medical professionals there.

But it’s too late for Nino.

I turn back to Mr. Damon’s article and read statistics I am familiar with:

one in eight people on the planet won’t find a safe glass of water today
twice as many people have no access to a toilet
diarrhea causes more deaths for children under the age of five than malaria, AIDS, and measles combined

I’m grateful that Matt Damon has joined forces with WaterDay.org. I’m grateful that over the next few days thousands of Twitter and Facebook messages will raise awareness on this devastating global issue. I’m grateful that progress is being made around the world.

I just wish someone could successfully dig a well in the remote forest village of Anjabetrongo, Madagascar.

I pray for that. I pray for God to comfort Nino’s family and friends. I pray that today our Mikea friends will find food and babo. I pray that the children will stay away from the polluted pools no matter how thirsty they are.

For children like Nino it’s a matter of life and death.

Posted in: Africa, in the news, Madagascar, poverty, Thin Places, tribe – No Comments

the road less travelled

November 28, 2011

Today we face the daunting task of loading all supplies + 9 bodies into our not-so-big vehicle for the drive to Anjabetrongo at the edge of the Mikea Forest. The trick is to go vertical, tie it well and hope you don’t topple into one of countless elephant-sized potholes along the way.

I have no idea how the guys will hoist that huge blanket bag on top of our rented car (Jo’s vehicle is broken again) – but they will. Our driver, Pasteur, is responsible for getting the car back to the owner in decent shape and looks slightly concerned. Nevertheless, he jumps right in to help Noely – our friend of many years and young pastor-in-training.

Someone else is joining us on this trip – Tesoa King, a 20-something missionary who has been in Madagascar for some years and speaks fluent Malagasy. Jonoro tells me she is a wonderful storyteller who is helping him train the leaders from Anjabetrongo. Tess lives in Toliare with other missionaries, but regularly travels to villages alone and works and stays with the people there. She’s never been to Anjabetrongo and wants to come with us to see for herself. I like this woman the moment I meet her. I sense a kindred spirit….

I’m running back and forth from my room, grabbing bags of this and sacks of that. On one of my trips, I take scant notice of a large puddle next to the car. It wasn’t there earlier, but someone had been watering the plants so I just assume it’s run-off and rush right through the middle of it. This is where it all goes wrong.

Tess later describes it as only a storyteller can. She says I hung horizontally in mid-air, suspended in time, before crashing to the ground in a slow-but-painful-motion. All I know is that I don’t even have time to think. As soon as my crocs hit the puddle of what turns out to be gasoline, I’m airborne. I land hard on my right arm and hip, slamming my head into the pavement in the process. I have a fleeting thought: I spend 99% of my time in the south slogging through dirt and burning sand. But when I fall it has to be on cement?

Immediately my arm starts to turn blue and swell. I don’t know if I’ve broken anything and I’m dizzy with a pounding headache – but I figure, the AIM medical team who will be providing medical care in Anjabetrongo this week has already left for the village. If I have a problem, I’m in the right place. I do know that the long, bouncy trip ahead will be a bit more uncomfortable than usual.

I remember every trip I’ve taken up this treacherous road. It’s actually improved quite a bit since 2003 – the first time Jonoro and I made our first trek into the forest. At that time it took us 10 1/2 hours to travel 62km. We left at 4:00 in the morning, taking loaves of french bread to eat along the way. My most vivid memory is that I couldn’t hit my mouth with the bread. Every time I’d try, we’d plunge down a ravine or lurch up a steep ridge and the bread would inevitably hit my forehead or my ear. I finally gave up. Another time we piled so many bodies into the car that we were literally sitting on top of each other, on top of plastic-wrapped blankets for the Mikea, holding baskets of supplies while straddling the huge three-legged iron pot that Fandahara had requested.

Then there are the inevitable breakdowns – usually in pitch darkness. The timing belt broke once and our driver fashioned a new one out of a stray piece of plastic. Another time our headlights died, forcing us to pull into a fishing village while we hunted for a new car battery. It was here on this dark night that I first saw the child prostitutes with European men – something I had read about that now became a sick reality. Yet another time we ran over a log while trying to avoid a deep ditch, getting ourselves badly stuck. I think the log was jammed up in the engine. I remember it was close to midnight and very cold -my jacket was buried in the tower of goods lashed to the top so I could only shiver. I wondered how in the world we were going to manage when suddenly a dozen men wrapped in blankets emerged from the dark bush. They debated for an hour, discussed the best course of action and then worked together until the car was free.

But I don’t know of any road trip as memorable as the one when we rented a truck to transport various building materials and huge holding tanks to Anjabetrongo. There were three of us from the USA, plus Jo and family, and a large team from the new church in Andakoro. The bumps feel different when seated on metal roofing sheets but swerving to miss the holes that cause the bumps only sent us all flying into the truck wall. Not necessarily a better option.

As we passed each village along the way, the truck stopped to pick up travelers with chickens and baskets and crates of soft drinks. A few km out of Anjabetrongo, we filled the back of the truck with grass for thatching and there was no longer any room to even sit. All we could do is laugh and sing.

Almost nine years of great memories and we’re about to make another one. Except for my ballooning arm and the fact that I’m having trouble staying awake from whacking my head, this trip is fairly uneventful. We stop along the way in Ankililoaka for sweet potatoes and a cold drink. You can actually get a phone signal here, so I text my husband to update him on my recent bumps and bruises and ask for prayer.

It’s dark when we finally roll into Anjabetrongo – it usually is – but our friends are all waiting and within minutes the music begins.

Mazikiny is still strumming the same handmade guitar he played the first time I met him those many years ago.

The children have all gathered, the church leaders and school teachers are here and Hanitra has started a fire to cook some food. Later we’ll unload the car, figure out where we’re sleeping and get a plan together for tomorrow. But for now, we’ll just enjoy the party!

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thanksgiving thoughts

November 24, 2011

I awake a bit disoriented, thinking I’m at my father’s house. He was a great cook and his kitchen a place where the family gathered to test this and that, sneaking bits of turkey or sage stuffing when his back was turned. On dad’s final holiday before his death last year, my husband watched, learned and wrote it down. He knew his vegetarian wife was never going to stick her hand inside a big dead bird – so it was a matter of necessity. The aroma filling our little home tells me he got it right. This afternoon when our kids and grandgirls and great-grandma join us our kitchen will be filled to bursting. I’m eagerly looking forward to it – though it is bittersweet for many reasons.

This morning I’m thinking about Baba Reposa and a very special morning in Anjabetrongo last month when this gentleman came calling to welcome me back to his village. We sit in the dirt outside Jonoro’s house and catch up with each other’s lives. I ask Baba how he is doing in his faith journey and he replies:

I admit I am struggling. Every morning I pray to God to ask him to help me find food for my family. Every day, I search for roots, for anything my children can eat and usually find nothing. I can lose faith.

He is not complaining – he’s sharing his heart and reaching out for encouragement. I tell him about my father’s battle with cancer. About how his body wasted away until he could no longer eat, or even speak. But the weaker his body grew, the stronger his faith became. He was starving, but his eyes shone with the joy and love of God to the very end.

Baba listens intently, nodding his head, offering his own thoughts on the subject. I see hope returning as we remind each other of the love of God, no matter how harsh our circumstances. In this world you will have trouble Jesus says, but take heart – I have overcome the world.

A crowd gathers in the dirt next to us. We have a few sweet potatoes in the house for breakfast. We take our breakfast outside to share. I sit next to Baba, break a small potato and offer him a piece. At first he declines, but then takes it, immediately breaking it into three smaller pieces to share with those around him. Even this morning, as I remember this act, my heart aches. A group of Mikea arrive with a large babo root to share. Sliced and broken into small pieces, it provides moisture for everyone seated in our circle. I will never forget this communion in the dirt of Anjabetrongo.

This Thanksgiving morning, from the other side of the world, I pray that our friends will find food. I am grateful to be part of their lives and to have a place in their hearts as they have in mine. I am grateful to carry their story like a treasure to share. I am also grateful for my own story and all the people who are main characters in it – my beautiful family and friends here and across the world.

But what I am most grateful for today is the unfailing love of God – for those who are hungry and those who are fed, for those are grieving and those who are happy, for those who are wandering and those who are safe at home. I love Him back and believe with all my heart that He is making everything new.

Posted in: Africa, christianity, family, just life, Madagascar, orphans, poverty – No Comments

Mbeloke

November 23, 2011

We arrive at the ER of Toliare’s main hospital. Three men involved in the incident occupy the only beds in the room. The thief lies closest to the door. Covered in blood and writhing in pain, I am told he was beaten half-to death with a hammer by friends of the victim. In the center bed lies another man, bleeding and unconscious. And in the third, our brother Mbeloke.

His eyes wide with fear, his hand forms a claw-like shield over the bandage covering his stomach wounds. The room is in utter chaos with friends and family crowding round the beds. Several rifle-carrying policemen and soldiers listen as everyone talks at once, rehearsing the crime. The thief is surrounded, though I doubt he has family here. I hear he’s from a village up Anjabetrongo way and was just passing through with a friend when they spied their oppoprtunity. Mbeloke, who just stumbled onto the crime scene, rushed in when he recognized the victim as a personal friend – and got stabbed in the gut for his efforts.

The noise level in this small narrow room increases by the minute. There is little room to move, no fresh air to breathe and tensions run high. I am concerned for Mbeloke for many reasons. We’re told that the second thief has died already. My western eyes scan the room looking for something to assure me that my young friend is in a safe place. Let’s just say there aren’t exactly free hand sanitizer dispensers on the wall.

Two men maneuver army-style canvas stretchers through the large open windows at the head of the beds. Stretcher bearers carry injured patients across a dusty yard and up concrete stairs to the surgery. I notice that one of the men carrying the stretcher is barefoot. In the corner of the courtyard, light shines through the open window of the pharmacy. Here family members must buy all medications and various equipment necessary for surgery. We stand at the window as Mbeloke’s eldest brother, Ratky, hands the first list of the night to the pharmacist. The barefoot medic dashes across the yard toward the pharmacy, quickly turns around and dashes back toward the surgery, catheter tubing dangling from his hand.

Mbeloke is still in the ER and the doctor on duty has thrown us all out. He is a serious man, doing the very best he can in a difficult situation. It’s pitch dark out here, but I look around trying to take it all in. The impoverished relatives and friends squat in a circle on the ER steps wrapped in faded,torn lamboany and blankets held tight against the night chill. Mothers breastfeed their babies as the men talk. The soldiers wander here and there, eavesdropping on conversations, trying to piece information together. Someone nudges me to move and I realize I am standing in a pool of blood, I wonder who it belongs to. Mbeloke isn’t going anywhere anytime soon so the brothers ask us to take their sister home and gently update their mother.

A new friend who arrived this afternoon from Tana with the AIM mobile medical team has volunteered to drive us around this evening. As it turns out, Rado stays with us all night even though he’s driving the med team to Anjabetrongo tomorrow. He is with us when the door of the family home opens to its one tiny room and we are all shocked at the sight.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I count heads. One, two, three older children in a small bed, more children scattered on the floor with grandma curled up on a floor mat. The sister finds a small space on the floor and stretches out to feed her baby. We can’t enter the house, there is no place to stand. A tiny paraffin flame flickers on a small table as we talk. The grandmother is weary, worn and worried, but we have no news yet. We can only pray and offer words of faith.

We quickly return to the hospital, but hours pass before the medics carry Mbeloke out on a stretcher bound for surgery. We follow them and finally settle on the metal bench at the base of the stairs, leaning against a cold concrete wall under a flickering fluorescent light. Worry is evident on the faces of Mbeloke’s brothers and wife – and for good reason. The last time I was here in Toliare another brother was shot and killed in an attempted robbery. Miha tells me he is afraid the same will happen tonight.

We pray. Ratky stays upstairs and every so often, the surgeon sends him down with a list of needed medications. We walk to the pharmacy to purchase the items and Ratky takes them back to surgery. But the word is out – there is a vazaha connected to this family and there is money to be made. So things get…how to say it?

Corrupt.

Suddenly there is a special medicine that Mbeloke needs to live, but we are assured it is only available in the surgeon’s personal supply stashed in his car – for 50,000 ariary. I agree but insist on a receipt while the surgeon assures me (through the terrified brother who is his messenger) that there will be no receipt given. If I do not pay the medicine will not be administered. It is my choice.

And this is how it goes – all night. 20,000 ariary for this, 30,000 ariary for that – all under the table. At the very end, we are charged an exorbitant sum to buy the very suture kits to close our friend’s wounds. Two, we are told….he needs two or we can’t close him.

I grow angrier by the minute. Not about the money, but the fact that this man is playing with Mbeloke’s life. Others tell me this happens all the time to everyone, regardless of income. This is confirmed the following day when the surgeon tells Ratky he needs yet another 50,000 ariary for miscellaneous expenses. Ratky tells him there is no more money because his friends have gone to the forest. The surgeon replies that he had better sell his rickshaw, then or Mbeloke may not get the care he needs to survive.

Jonoro and Rado convince me to say nothing until Mbeloke is out of the woods and home from the hospital. It could compromise his treatment. Later, when I travel to Antananarivo I ask well-connected friends who I should report this to. Their answer saddens us all:

No one. This is the way it is now.

I ask – What would they have done if I had refused to pay?

They would have let him die. It happens all the time.

I have to build a fence here and say that I have met many wonderful health care professionals in Madagascar. Unfortunately, on this night, I witnessed something terribly amiss.

But tonight I can’t obsess over a corrupt system that endangers the poor. Tonight all we care about is that Mbeloke survives and that his family doesn’t lose hope. The medics carry him, still unconscious, through the dusty courtyard at dawn, sprawled on the blue Masikoro blanket we brought for him in the dead of night.

Note: Mbeloke remained in the hospital for over a week and Ancient Path paid all expenses, including monies to help his wife and child until he can pull his rickshaw again. At the time of this writing, Mbeloke has experienced complications and is awaiting yet another surgery.

Posted in: Africa, christianity, family, Madagascar, poverty – 1 Comment

andakoro and a stabbing

November 20, 2011

Once when we were in town looking for teaching materials, Jonoro ran into a pastor that he knew from Tana. In the course of our conversation, Jo mentioned that we were starting a work in the remote Mikea Forest – but first, to create a Toliare base, he had planted a church in the village of Andakoro. The pastor’s response took us off guard: Why would you start a church there? That village is all illiterate thieves, prostitutes, alcoholics and drug addicts! It almost rendered me speechless, I tell you. Almost.

Many of the houses in Andakoro are constructed of straw or scavenged bits of this and that, but the small church they have built has wood for walls and metal sheeting for cover. I remember the day we trudged through town to buy the corrugated sheets and the joyous celebration the following Sunday when the people were able to worship without the noon sun beating down on them. I also remember looking into their earnest faces as I told them my story – which is really a story about how far God will reach for a human being. At that moment, choking on dust and dripping with sweat, the reality of the power of the gospel, the beauty of the good news and the unfailing love and mercy of God simply overwhelmed me. Bring in the thieves, prostitutes and addicts, I thought.Have a seat at the table.

Jo and Hanitra have built a wooden house behind the church. Today we stop there to rest and pray together. This church has been through a very difficult time lately and as Jo and Hanitra describe the situation, the hurt and disappointment is palpable . But we will ask God to begin the healing.

I step outside to see a tiny boy climb down a steep bank into a muddy hole to collect water. I hope it’s only for the garden, but it could be for anything. As the sun sinks lower in the sky, several people douse themselves with water in front of their homes – a relief after the day’s hot labors.

Inside the church the children prepare to perform songs they’ve been working on for weeks. Several of them wear special hats from the south and dress in their very best clothes. It’s always chaos at the start, but eventually they fall into rows and the music and dance begins. They sing complex rhythms naturally, moving their shoulders and arms in ways that are distinctly Malagasy – and they can’t stop smiling.

When they finish, we talk awhile – speaking truth to their young hearts – and send them out the door with our recently purchased stash of lollipops. I am not aware that the stick end of the lollipop is a whistle until 50+ kids start blowing them all at once. Great for the children, not so great for the rest of the village.

It isn’t easy to teach with all that racket going on, but the leaders form a close circle and we manage. God’s presence is here and the evening ends with many tears and prayers as the church lovingly surrounds Jonoro and Hanitra. It is now dark, but there are many more conversations to be had before we can make the long sandy walk out to the road. Finally we stop to visit Miha and his family who live a stone’s throw from the church in a tiny straw house.

Miha is a main church leader and makes his living as a rickshaw driver, as do his brothers. A few years back we invested in them by buying another rickshaw and today Miha is showing us how our investment has paid off. Inside his tiny straw house, which is beautifully constructed and maintained, we see a bed, a table covered in colorful cloth and two chairs. He sits with his wife and children on the bed, both of them smiling widely. He has not had an easy road and has made many mistakes over the years, but he is growing. I ask about his brothers – specifically about young Mbeloke who is no longer attending the church. We pray together and there is a sudden urgency to our prayers for Mbeloke. I ask Miha to tell his brother that I am here and have come looking for him.

Now we’re ready to trudge through the pitch dark village and hunt for a taxi. I mention to Hanitra that if she smells something a bit off, it’s me. Aside from the dirt and the perspiration, my shirt is soaked in baby urine. Earlier I had offered to hold a little one during prayer time for Jo and Hanitra, but I didn’t notice that the baby was diaperless. At least not until it was too late. We’re tired and it doesn’t take much to get us giggling. I make up a song about baby pee and Hanitra can barely breathe she is laughing so hard. It makes the walk shorter and the loads lighter.

Little did we know how much we would need those few minutes of silliness. Within a couple of hours, Jo’s phone rings with frightening news: Mbeloke has been stabbed and is in the hospital emergency room.

It will be a long night.

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Masikoro blankets

November 19, 2011

The market is crowded and we’re on the hunt for 150 blankets for the school children and team in Anjabetrongo. We move from street to street, stall to stall, rubbing various fabrics between our fingers. Again, Jonoro shakes his head – not just any blanket will do. We need a very particular blanket for the Masikoro of Anjabetrongo.

Wait…who are the Masikoro?

According to the Joshua Project, the Masikoro are an ethnic group that live in southwestern Madagascar – a “region of difficult access, often experiencing drought”. This includes the Mikea Forest.

The Masikoro are described as hard-working, proud and characteristically rural. Ancestral traditions are important, as is using proper language to show respect. Their Joshua profile page states: “It is a dishonor for them to be dirty and they can be recognized by the way they dress. The influence of the big towns is resented for its corruption and schooling is not consistently a priority to them. They don’t like to see their children go far away. Their strongest bond is with their tradition and although they easily show interest in the Christian faith, even professing it, only a few Masikoro are truly committed to the faith.”

Illiteracy is the norm, but there is no scripture translation in their language as of yet, except for the gospel of Matthew. The believers in Anjabetrongo listen to a chapter on a hand-cranked machine every time they meet together. And it is in this hard place that we have started both a school and a church.

The Masikoro have many cultural rules and traditions that must be followed to avoid serious offense. For instance, if someone is seated on the ground and you inadvertently raise your foot over their head, you will need to buy them two cows to make amends. Ask me how I know this…

Very often Jo will quickly whisper to me – don’t do that, I’ll explain later! Although he speaks the same dialect as the Masikoro, Jonoro himself came to this region as an outsider, learning their ways, immersing himself in the culture. As a westerner I might as well be from Mars – so I watch and listen carefully, tread lightly and respectfully, and always discuss any plan or idea with Jo and Hanitra first.

And in case you’re wondering about the Mikea tribe – they are a small “sub-group” of the Masikoro who speak the same language but live very different lifestyles in the deep forest.

While the Masikoro are very open and welcoming to outsiders, the Mikea are known as “the ones who hide behind trees.” To a vazaha (foreigner) who doesn’t know the background of the peoples, the Masikoro and related Mikea may seem like one and the same, but they certainly do not see themselves that way. The Mikea are akin to the untouchables of India – the very bottom of an unspoken caste system. But more about that later. Right now we’re still in Toliare shopping for blankets and we’ve finally found them.

As our blanket seller sorts through his piles of colorful, soft fleece a young boy approaches. He is the third person in this market to warn me to hold my bag close. There are many thieves here, madam. Please be careful. I’m moved by this child who is obviously hungry yet still cares enough to warn a comparatively wealthy stranger about robbers. I am also grateful for the reminder because I am admittedly distracted by the sights and sounds of the market – the good-natured banter of the rickshaw drivers, the women navigating narrow passages while effortlessly balancing huge loads on their heads, the solitary boy searching for food beneath a dumpster.

As life swirls around us, the blankets are examined, counted, re-counted and finally paid for. Now we have to figure out how to stuff such a large sack into the back of a tiny taxi. The rickshaw guys and vendors jump in to help, of course. I don’t know how they manage it, but somehow they do.

More shopping follows – for items like baskets and school supplies. Nearby an ancient boombox blares the Foreigner song, I Wanna Know What Love Is. It’s obviously a crowd favorite because people who don’t speak English are belting out the words: In my life there’s been heartache and pain/I don’t know if I can face it again/I can’t stop now, I’ve traveled so far/To change this lonely life/ I wanna know what love is

It’s a bit surreal, but even as we’re counting through scores of school slates and boxes of chalk, the moment isn’t lost on me. The long reach and powerful influence of the arts – especially western music and film – never ceases to amaze me.

One of my favorite moments this afternoon is when we surprise a little girl selling sundry goods on the street corner. We decided to buy candy from her rather than one of the larger stalls. Alot of candy. She takes her job so seriously, counts and calculates so carefully. It is obviously the most money she has made in a day – or ever – but she tries to control the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

It’s about 3 in the afternoon and I just have no words to describe this heat so I won’t even try. But shopping is done for today anyway. It’s time to drop off our purchases and head to the village of Andakoro to spend time with the children and encourage the church leaders there.

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early morning musings and money exchange

November 17, 2011

I slept well last night except for the lone mosquito that squeezed through a hole in my net and kept buzzing my ear. I am half-awakened by the call to prayer blaring from a local mosque. Moments later the sound of the night guard urinating on the wall under my window completes the job and I am up.

Jo has asked me to encourage the church in Andakoro village this afternoon so I need time to prepare before the busy day begins. Again I sit under the mango trees facing the gate and wait for my coffee with milk and sugar – which comes in stages. First the sugar is placed on the table. 15 minutes later the coffee appears. 20 minutes after that the warm milk appears, but the coffee is now cold. The waiter takes the coffee to re-heat while the milk forms a skin and cools. The coffee comes back warm but turns cold when I add the milk. Of course, this is trivial when you’re headed to a place that has no water but it’s good for a laugh every morning. And I mean every morning.

Soon Jo and Hanitra and the kids join me for breakfast. Joyce, Johanna and Jonathan are bright, delightful, affectionate children. I’ve brought them packets of art supplies which they’ve already cracked open and enjoyed. But children here are careful not to use up their resources quickly, making special things last as long as possible. They also have an endless capacity to amuse themselves with simple things like rocks and sticks, playing games that require nothing more than lines drawn in the dirt.

Watching them sparks an early memory of something that happened some years back when Jonoro and I first met. Jonoro was a pastor with a heart for remote tribes unreached by the gospel in southern Madagascar, but with no means. Our mutual friend Ibrahim introduced us and the work began from there. After our first explorational foray into the Mikea region, we sat down in Toliare to pray together with friend and Cleveland pastor Gary Craun. While brainstorming ways to fund the work, an innocent offhand remark provided an unforgettable learning moment. An American family can spend $30 for pizza on a Friday night, we said, pointing out that perhaps people would be willing to make different choices and donate the money to the Mikea work instead. The look on Jonoro’s face brought the conversation to full stop.

American Christians can spend $30 on pizza? I am a pastor called to preach the gospel like Paul but I can’t even buy clothes for my children. As he covered his face with his hands and wept, we wept too. For him, for us, for the global church. Together we placed our hands on a large map of the Mikea Forest and prayed earnestly for God’s guidance.

Eight years have passed and here we are. The funds for the Mikea work have dwindled to nothing in the last two years, but somehow the work continues, purely by the grace of God.

I thank God for those who have given sacrificially through the years, but plead with Him not to forget us now. I remember to thank Him for my cold coffee and bless the befuddled waiter who struggles to survive on next to nothing. He speaks two languages fluently – Malagasy and French and is only befuddled because I can’t communicate clearly. French intimidates me and my Malagasy is rudimentary and wretched.

Enough musing. It’s time to walk into town to change money. With an exchange rate of 2000 ariary to one dollar, several thousand dollars (which makes a fairly slim stack of $100 bills) becomes a pile of paper that can fill a wheelbarrow. Thieves are even thicker than in past years, and more desperate. (Did I mention that thieves broke into Cathy and Ibrahim’s house two days before my arrival by cutting a hole in their wall?)

The money exchange bureaus are generally one room affairs with a clerk, an old computer and a calculator. Everyone is offering the same rate of 1800 so we choose one and take the plunge. The woman doesn’t have enough ariary on hand so she sends someone up the street who returns minutes later toting a huge wad of cash. I feel like the world is watching – because they are.

There is no receipt given – the computer is broken, she says with a smile. I step back into the blinding sunlight with my bulging bag clutched tightly to my chest and we are off to the market.

Posted in: Africa, christianity, family, global church, poverty – No Comments

Toliare

November 16, 2011

The flight from the central highlands of Tana to the coastal city of Toliare is always turbulent and today doesn’t disappoint. I wonder…are wings supposed to bend upward like that? Nevertheless, we make it to ground and as the plane door opens, the heat rushes in. Welcome to southern Madagascar.

As I wait for my luggage, I watch beach-bound tourists clad in skimpy cotton clothing with not a little envy. I’ve already wilted under my flowing skirt and linen shirt – and it’s only 8 am. To cool myself I imagine the British missionaries of the 1800′s who landed in places like this wearing heavy hoop skirts with long sleeves, high collars and bustles. It could be worse.

I forget the heat when I see the faces of my friends, Jo and Hanitra with their three children – Joyce, Johanna and Jonathan. It’s been a long time and we’re grateful to see each other again. Our car ride to the hotel takes us through streets swarming with rickshaw drivers. It looks like a different country altogether here.