Cross-cultural considerations: Underwear

 

“Heading west from Voi town

along the road to Taveta on the Tanzanian border,

east of Mount Kilimanjaro, you'd be forgiven for thinking

that the entirety of Taita-Taveta District . . .  

is merely flat and featureless scrubland,

dominated by dusty orange sand,

a few clumps of thorn trees, and not much else.

Yet if you turn right at Mwaktau, 25km west of Voi,

a switchback tarmac road to the district capital of Wundanyi

begins a rapid ascent into [the Taita Hills,]

a surprisingly fertile, . . . beautiful land, replete with

vertiginous cliffs, rushing rivulets and waterfalls.

Beautiful in its own right,

the contrast with the dreary semi-desertic plains below

is astonishing.” (Jens Finke)

 

The beautiful Taita Hills are more than hills—they’re mountains, some of which are close to 7,000 feet. During the final stage of our orientation course, Dave and I lived in a sparsely populated area high in those lush mountains.

 

And the day came when we needed to wash our laundry.

 

Bwana Mwakodi said he’d show us the nearest water source. We followed him down a steep, meandering path through the forest, descending about five hundred feet.

 

At the bottom, he led us through dense undergrowth to a spring. Clear, fresh water! What a treat after that stream in Maasai-land.

 

Bwana hiked back up the hill while we scrubbed, rinsed, and wrung out our laundry. My husband Dave’s participation no doubt caused gossip to echo back and forth among the hills. I could imagine the voices, “A man doing women’s work!”

 

Afterward, we began the hike back up the very steep hill with our heavy wet laundry and a couple of water jugs. Dave held one side of the basin and I held the other but, to our surprise, we really struggled. That basin was heavy and that hill seemed almost vertical. I suppose the elevation had something to do with our difficulty.

 

An elderly man and a couple of women hiked up behind us. They greeted us in Swahili and visited like Africans always do, and then they reached for our laundry basin and water jugs.

 

We objected, but they kindly insisted.

 

One of them, a petite woman, lifted the basin to the top of her head, balanced it perfectly, and, without effort, scurried up the hill. We were stunned at her strength.

 

Dave and I huffed and puffed up the path behind them.

 

When we arrived back at the Mwakodis’ place, sweaty and breathless, we gave our new friends a few shillings to thank them for their labor.

 

They would have carried our water and basin even without getting paid, but no doubt appreciated the money and we were grateful for their help—but even more, in them I glimpsed God Himself. In Psalm 68:19, David said that God bears our burdens, and those dear people came alongside us that day and, like God, helped us bear our heavy loads.

 

Once again, I was overwhelmed by people’s kindness—

over and over again, and

recalling how Bwana and Mama Mwakodi bought—for us—

groceries they couldn’t afford. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the Taita people’s generosity.

 

We strung a clothesline between The Pearl and a tree and soon we had clean, dry clothes. Sweet!

 

Only later did we learn

that hanging one’s underwear where everyone can see it

is a no-no in Kenyan culture.

 

Aaargh!

 

Charity Upside Down

 

I was only beginning to grasp Africans’ great generosity, even during their own desperate times. It seemed so different from everything I had known and experienced.

 

Let me tell you about a time when Ugandan kids, living in extreme poverty, donated funds to an American charity.

 

That’s right. Desperately needy Ugandan kids donated to Americans.

 

A pretty amazing guy, Bob Goff, founder of Restore International (now Love Does), started a school in Uganda for kids in destitution. Boys at Restore International received an education and also grew and sold crops.

 

About that time, Bob’s friend, Donald Miller, founded The Mentoring Project, which worked with fatherless kids in Portland, Oregon.

 

When the Ugandan boys heard about The Mentoring Project, they wanted to send money to help those fatherless kids.

 

Justin Zoradi, Marketing Director for The Mentoring Project, writes:

 

“When we heard this news we were shocked, and a little unnerved.

 

“What were these young men thinking?

 

“Are we seriously going to accept donations from kids in Uganda? Many of these students were former child soldiers, their lives upended by poverty, conflict, and civil unrest, and now they want to give to The Mentoring Project?”

 

If you’re like me,

when you hear such stories your heart races

and you want to cry out, “No! That’s not right!

They need to keep their money for their own needs!"

 

Bob Goff, however, turns the idea of charity upside down.

 

Justin writes:

  

“It’s easy to . . . assume it’s not in the best interest of The Mentoring Project to accept donations from young people who are, for the most part, in a much harder situation than the fatherless boys in Portland.

 

“But in talking to Bob . . .  we realized that accepting the contributions and allowing Ugandan youth the opportunity to give generously is the most empowering thing we can do.”

 

“Bob described these students as the future leaders of Uganda and how this donation is a powerful incentive for the development of their country. The gift is a boost for us, but also an act of nation-building for them. . . .

 

“We’ve learned that there is something meaningful and deeply enriching in the act of giving itself, regardless of the amount.

 

“Remember the parable Jesus told

about the widow who gave her last coin

to the poor in Mark 12?

In the same vein, let’s not take away

the opportunity for the boys from Uganda

to be blessed by God and experience the joy of giving. . . .”

 

Yes, indeed, Bob Goff turns the idea of charity upside down!

 

“Exactly in line with the Beatitudes,

he [Jesus] was describing and inviting his followers

to enter an upside-down world, an inside-out world,

a world where all the things people normally assume

about human flourishing, including human virtue,

are set aside and a new order is established.”

(Virtue Reborn, by Tom Wright)

 

Nothing had prepared me for such extreme generosity

Nothing in my past had prepared me for the extreme generosity I received from the people of Taita Hills, close to lovely Mt. Kilimanjaro.

 

I might not have experienced that generosity except that, for the “village living” phase of our three-month orientation, our fellow orientees had chosen Dave to serve as the samaki kubwa, the big fish, someone to carry out three responsibilities: (1) to be in charge of our group in case of an emergency, (2) to relate to the local District Commissioner, the Bishop, and police, and (3) to check up on other members of our orientation group living with Kenyan host families throughout the mountainous villages.

 

When we visited trainee families in their Kenyan hosts’ homes, we had to make an effort to set aside American customs and, instead, to do things the Kenyan way. In ways Americans can’t easily understand, Kenyans consider it a high honor to entertain guests, serve them chai (tea, milk, and sugar boiled together), and have a long visit.

 

By comparison, in America, if we stop at a friend’s house, usually we say, “I can stay for only a minute,” but since that would offend Kenyans, we accepted their chai and stayed to visit.

 

Each Kenyan family welcomed us and, without realizing it, they taught us a new way to relate to others. Dave and I suspected that their way pleased God more than our usual American way.

 

We had such interesting experiences as we drove throughout the Taita Hills. On our way to visit a trainee one day, the narrow track turned into a dry riverbed full of boulders. The Pearl, our Toyota Land Cruiser, lunged over and around them, and Dave wondered aloud how much longer he should keep driving. When we spotted the home in the distance, up on a high spot, we stopped and hiked the rest of the way.

 

That host family had electricity! And, even more amazing, they owned a little television. When we arrived, the man of the house plugged it in and left it on for the duration of our stay. They had no reception, though, so we sat and watched the black and white speckles on the screen and listened to its scratchy hiss.

 

Another day we stopped in a more remote place to visit trainees. That house didn’t have electricity, but the owners had tied a light bulb to the end of a shoestring and suspended it from a rafter in the middle of the room.

 

And then one day, something happened I’ll never forget.

 

A host family killed a chicken and cooked it for us even though they could rarely afford to eat meat themselves.

 

In a year of crop failure, the people owned next to nothing, but they shared with us.

 

They wore tattered shoes,

had no electricity or running water,

couldn’t afford medicine or vitamins or dental appointments.

They might not eat meat for weeks or months at a time . . .

yet they killed a chicken and cooked it—for us!

And they gave us the biggest pieces!

Their generosity nearly broke my heart—

we didn’t need the nutrition! They did!

 

It seemed so wrong, so unnecessary for them to make such a radical sacrifice for us, in the same way Bwana and Mama had been so sacrificially generous to us.

 

I thought back . . .

 

. . . back to our first Sunday in the Taita Hills. The Anglican Church gave four eggs and two bunches of chard to my husband and me—items donated to the church by people who had no money to put in the offering plate. People who had too little to eat day after day, week after week, month after month.

 

I had wanted to hand back their eggs and chard.

 

But God prompted us to notice their delight in giving—their enormous grins and nervous giggles—and He prompted us to accept their gifts.

 

We did so with profound thanks

and with wrenching humility.

Overwhelmed by their kindness, I wanted to weep.

The Taita people owned next to nothing,

but they shared it with us.

They were living, walking, talking,

joy-filled examples of God’s sacrificial heart.

And how true it is that

God loves a cheerful giver!

 

Mama forgot the spoons!

 

The members of our orientation group lived in villages scattered throughout the Taita Hills. Dave and I lived at the highest and remote location of all.

 

Our host family, Bwana and Mama Mwakodi, didn’t live in a village. Their house seemed to be the only one around and it measured about twenty feet wide and twelve feet deep.

 

Inside, they had painted their mud-plaster walls aqua blue. Over time, patches of mildew had stained the walls. And their cement floor crumbled in places. Ah, but their home was full of love and grace!

 

The main room had one small window opening—no glass—with a shutter of unpainted planks. The Mwakodis kept it closed so the house remained dark except for sunlight that came in the wood-plank front door.

 

That room reminded me of the Dorobo church we visited in an earlier segment of our orientation: The Mwakodis had strung wires from corner to corner under a corrugated tin roof, where a ceiling might have been, and from the wires they had hung papers and greeting cards.

 

Mama (Mrs. Mwakodi) always served tasty soup for the evening meal—cabbage, tomatoes, onions, kidney beans, a lot of water, and sometimes a few chunks of tough meat. She spent several hours each afternoon simmering this soup over the fire.

 

Mama also spent a long time making chapatis—round, flat, bread-like, and fried in lard. Unleavened, and with a dense, rubbery consistency, chapatis are a staple throughout Kenya.

 

One day I watched Mama make them and learned there’s an art to it. She mixed the flour dough and rolled it out like a round piecrust, layering lard into it.

 

Next, she cut slits around the dough so that it resembled a flower with petals. Mama folded each petal-like piece at an angle over the one beside it and toward the middle of the circle, and then rolled out the dough again.

 

She did this several times before frying them in lard over the fire. It took a long time to make them properly.

When we sat down to eat on our first evening in their home, I noticed Mama forgot to put spoons on the dinner table, but I decided to say nothing. Surely, in a few seconds Mama would realize her oversight.

 

While I waited and watched, Bwana and Mama tore their chapatis into pieces, dropped them into their soup, and then used their fingers to pick up one bite after another.

 

I could hardly believe my eyes.

 

I had no choice but to do likewise.

 

Apparently, white people need a lot of practice to perfect that skill.

 

On the third evening, I asked Bwana and Mama if I could use a spoon. They didn’t seem offended, so Dave asked for one, too.

 

From then on, both of us took great pleasure in the luxury of eating with a spoon. (From Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 3)

 

We had a problem: We didn’t even know where we were

We woke up Monday morning, our second day of living with Bwana and Mama Mwakodi high in the Taita Hills, and Dave and I took turns walking across the yard to use the choo (outhouse). By then Mama and Bwana were ready for breakfast: black tea boiled with milk and sugar.

 

They were thoroughly gracious. They hadn’t known we were coming, due to a communication snafu, yet they smiled and made pleasant conversation with us around their small table. Bwana spoke a little bit of English but Mama didn’t understand us, so Bwana interpreted for her.

 

As we finished our tea, Dave said to Bwana, “This morning I need to meet with the District Commissioner, the Bishop, and the police.”

 

Someone—we didn’t know who—had scheduled those appointments for Dave, as our group’s leader. Brian, our orientation director, had explained that relating with those officials would assure them our group had no suspicious motives. Brian impressed upon us that establishing a good relationship with them was of great importance.

 

We had a problem, though. We didn’t know how to find their villages or offices.

 

We didn’t even know where we were. We had arrived at the Mwakodis’ home after dark and, along the way, we lost our sense of direction.

 

No electricity or streetlights lit our surroundings over twisting one-lane dirt tracks—with no street signs—cloaked in tropical forests, uphill and downhill and around corners.

 

We had seen very little evidence of other human beings.

 

We had no map of the area. Before Brian left us, he told us all we knew—that the closest of our fellow orientees lived more than nine kilometers away.

 

The nearest phone was many kilometers away, too. And even if we’d had access to a phone, we wouldn’t know who to call.

 

We had no idea what to do.

 

Just when we felt ourselves slipping into a panic,

God provided a helper with a willing heart.

Bwana offered to come along

and direct us to the various villages.

I find it hard to explain the enormity of our relief.

           

The three of us grabbed our canteens and climbed into The Pearl of Africa. Dave turned the key, but The Pearl did not start. He tried several times but—nothing.

           

“We’ll have to push The Pearl to start it by compression,” Dave said.

 

And, looking around, we were keenly aware that only thirty feet away we would come to a drop-off of nearly five hundred feet. It was going to be tricky. Mighty tricky.

 

Bwana and I pushed while Dave steered The Pearl and worked the clutch, but she wouldn’t start. We pushed again. That Toyota Land Cruiser was a sturdy, heavy vehicle!

 

Winded, we strained and shoved, but The Pearl still wouldn’t start. The nearest mechanic was probably dozens of kilometers away.

 

I looked at Dave. He looked as sick as I felt.

 

We had only one option: turn The Pearl around and face it downhill. However, whether we turned to the right or to the left, we had to push The Pearl uphill to turn it around.

 

If and when we got the back wheels up on the hill, we had to avoid yet another drop-off. Bwana and I tried, and tried, but didn’t have enough muscle to push The Pearl uphill.

           

Then, as if by a miracle, a man stepped out of the forest. And then another, and another, all of them Bwana’s friends and neighbors. For an hour, we struggled and groaned and sweated and eventually managed to turn The Pearl around, facing downhill.

 

We pushed once again 

and that time it chugged and sputtered—

and it came to life! Oh, what a sublime sound!

 

Our new friends cheered and laughed along with us.

           

How could we ever thank them enough?

 

I wanted to hug and kiss each one, but I suspected a public display of affection wasn’t appropriate in their culture.

 

Then Bwana Mwakodi told us the men were on their way to another village for market day, so, to thank them, we loaded them into The Pearl and gave them a ride.

 

God had worked on our behalf,

confirming His promise

for those He sends to do His work:

 

“Do not be afraid or discouraged

for the Lord will personally go ahead of you.

He will be with you.

He will neither fail you nor abandon you.”

(Deuteronomy 31:8)

 

That morning we experienced God’s love and provision for us through dear Kenyan people. All these years later, their kindness still brings tears to my eyes—happy, thankful tears.

 

After that, we always parked The Pearl facing downhill because we never knew when we’d have to push to get her started.  (From Chapter 3, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

 

Clinging to hope, fighting to be courageous and tenacious

There I stood in the lovely, yet profoundly foreign, Taita Hills in southeastern Kenya. Dave and I had just completed our first day of the most demanding segment of our three-month orientation course. All we had learned during the first two months had been in preparation for this phase.

 

Everything around me was alien (except for my husband, of course). And I was dreadfully worn out. And I worried, wondering if I’d make a complete mess of the coming weeks. A lot was at stake. (Click on Tears turning to joy: Could I believe it? Would I believe it?)

 

I had wandered outside, leaned against The Pearl, and cried—just soft little tears trickling silently down my cheeks. I’m pretty sure the Mwakodis didn’t know I was crying, and I suspect Dave didn’t know, either.  

 

At such times, it’s important for us to cling to hope, no matter how bleak our situation looks.

 

“Hope is a decision we make, a choice to believe that God can take the adversity, the disappointment, the heartache, and the pain of our journeys and use these to accomplish God’s purposes,” writes Adam Hamilton.

 

“Sometimes God asks us to be with people we don’t want to be with,” Hamilton says, “to go to places we don’t want to go to, and to do things we don’t want to do.”

 

Hamilton nailed it.

 

I just wanted to be finished with the orientation course.

I wanted to get back to “civilization,”

back to working among people

who understood English,

who ate the kind of food I liked to eat.

I wanted to live in a house with running water

and a flush toilet.

And electricity.

 

But then Hamilton also offers this wise, helpful, and hopeful perspective: “. . . God is often most profoundly at work in those times when we’re confused, broken, or wounded.” (The Journey: Walking the Road to Bethlehem)

 

We need to embrace that truth.

 

Henri Nouwen writes, “The ups and downs of our spiritual lives depend on our . . . attentive listening—to the movements of the Spirit of God within us. Without this listening our spiritual life . . . becomes subject to the windswept waves of our emotions” (Bread for the Journey).

 

We need to embrace that truth, too.

 

And that brings me back to my good old role model Habakkuk, who told God he was troubled over several things.

 

God replied,

 

“Look . . . and watch—and be utterly amazed.

For I am going to do something

that you would not believe, even if you were told.”

(Habakkuk 1:5)

 

And that dear Habakkuk chose to practice—was willing to practice—attentive listening, willing to wait and watch to see what God would do. He said:

 

“I’ll . . . keep watch . . .

I’ll wait to see what the Lord will say

and how He will answer me.”

(Habakkuk 2:1)

 

Okay, then, I had told myself

on that dusky Taita Hills evening.

I will do what Habakkuk did.

I will watch to see what God will do.

(from Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 3)

 

I reminded myself I needed to follow Habakkuk’s example of “attentive listening” because God had work to do within my mind and heart and attitude. What an example, what an encourager, that beloved Habakkuk has been to me for decades now!

 

Now, looking back on that evening, I’m comforted when I read Chuck Swindoll’s words about endurance during trying times.

 

Chuck prays, “Lord, we all remember times of passing through the waters and going through the fire—overwhelming tests and furnace-like trials.

 

“And,” Swindoll continues, “we have the scars to prove it.”

 

He was referring to Isaiah 43:1-2 in which God said to the Israelites, “Don’t be afraid. . . . I have called you by name, and you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. When you cross rivers, you will not drown. When you walk through fire, you will not be burned, nor will the flames hurt you.” (NCV)

 

Swindoll continues, “How faithful You are, Lord, to meet us at every one of life’s contingencies. . . how caring and accepting, how full of grace and mercy. It is because of Your mercies that we are not consumed.”

 

“Now, Lord, do a work deep within our hearts.

Provide us with fortitude for the trials of life—

those we’re enduring and those on the horizon.

 

Help us come to terms with negative attitudes. . . .

 

Give us eyes of faith to see beyond the predictable,

beyond the facts and figures.

Open us to a whole world of possibilities

because You are the God of the impossible.

 

“Encourage us, Father, with thoughts

that send us into our future with hope and joy.”

(from The Prayers of Charles R. Swindoll)

 

“Our hope is in the Lord. He is our help, our shield to protect us. We rejoice in him because we trust his holy name. Lord, show your love to us as we put our hope in you” (Psalm 30:20-22, NCV).