Snapshots of the Lakeshore, 24 Nov-3 Dec 2003

Mark and Helen with their children Jake, Matthew and Kylie, Andrew Griffiths (the son of friends), Padre Cacongue and various other padres and catechists, Sylvia and Clara and various other women who joined as the week went along, travelled up the shore of Lake Malawi, in an open boat made for 15, visiting settlements there – the first time in five years that the Bishop had been seen. These are some of Helen’s diary entries.

Tuesday: set off at 6am with minimum of luggage and the debate of whether to take extra food or would we be fed to overflowing by the churches. Because we needed to transport two barrels of fuel for the boats, we went in the other diocesan car, which was a mistake. We ended up spending 6 hours parked outside the Maniamba church, waiting for help from Kuchijinji, with nothing to do but sit, with half the village watching us like some kind of theatre production - something we were to get used to (or suffer) for the next 12 days.

Finally got down to Metangula, but we stayed at Katawala’s place on the beach rather than the Bishop’s house - so sweaty hot, and after a day of sitting around, we had a little relief in the lake before a wonderful chambo dinner. The next morning, Senor Katawala generously allowed us a free stay, saying he could not benefit from another’s bad fortune - how lovely.

Wednesday - Chiuanga: the first place for confirmations. Oh so hot! 100 or so people have become full members of the church - by the end of our journey, more than 1000 would be added! I know Chiuanga, I know Padre Massano well, so I felt comfortable, and could notice new things - such as the tattiness of the catechists and acolytes’ vestments. One girl was wearing her ‘cloth’ (that’s all that you could call her robe) hanging off one shoulder. This is the church of the poor.

Lunch, and straight on to Chiia, through Mbamba, the home of Bishop Litumbe, first bishop of Niassa, to Padre Ncunga’s parish. The reception was almost a mobbing. The kids felt scared, and I had that (becoming familiar) feeling of violation. To escape the closeness of the church service (and about 300 candidates!), I went with the children to visit the grave of Charles Jansen, buried there in 1882, and felt the wonder of the history in this place. These missionaries live on in the folklore of the people, but it gets intimidating when expectations become clearly linked to us and our coming. I had an illuminating conversation with a man on Chiia beach. It seems that many are only just returning from being refugees in Malawi and elsewhere - 12 years of peace seems to have built enough confidence for churches to ask for zinc roofing, houses to be brick-built, dreams of development to be voiced. This man could see tourism bringing these beaches alive (never mind the reality that most of the lake side hotels of Malawi are practically empty), but I heard again that painful statement of joy in a white bishop.

My mind says that, with our election, Niassa has taken a backward step to the golden age of the missionaries and the ‘provided-for’ church, but a something which passes all my understanding nudges me to remind me that perhaps I do not have the mind of God. Several times, we have been impressed at the willingness of the congregations to see the diocese as themselves, not apart from their new bishop; several times, we have felt relief to see that perhaps this is the total change and new life that the diocese recognises is actually needed, at this time and in this place: several times, we have been encouraged by the enthusiasm to move on, the hope of the poor. But it is exhausting and it is overwhelming - and it is very humbling. We slept on a hot beach in our stifling tents tonight at Ngoo.

Friday- Wikihi: The approach to this isolated community takes about three hours, and we arrive at 7.30 am. We pass miles of rocky, uninhabited, dramatic coastline, and get drawn towards the mango trees and outcrop, which is Wikihi in the distance. Sylvia and Clara, the MU worker and district President of MU, begin singing a good half mile away from the village -deafening Andrew, our visitor - but it can be heard and the people begin to run to meet the boat. The waves are fast, and the people are sprinting to catch up, to begin singing and ululating as we are washed ashore.

And what a shore! The water is brown, the colour of the earth, for a good few hundred feet from the beach. The Tanzanians are digging illegally for gold up the river, they say, and the dirt is being dumped - Wikihi has not had clean water for nine years. They go out in boats to fetch water. It is an ecological disaster. I didn’t realise what a gift I gave Julieta, the MU president, with a cup of our clean water, all the way from Lichinga. And Wikihi seemed to be brown, colourless, reminding me of the surroundings of the refugees I knew in the war years here. We had one meal - rice and goat stew - the kids have to adjust quickly to the lack, but not quick enough. We all went to bed hungry tonight. Andrew and I had the rope beds in the vacant priest’s house, a house they called ‘reasonable’ in the Mozambican understated way, but which no UK priest would dream of keeping his animals in. It is brick and thatch, with no windows or doors, three rope beds, a table and four chairs. We shared spoons to eat. Mangoes are in abundance, and we enjoy eating them, knowing what a luxury they are in UK, but amazed at the number left to rot on the ground here.

Judite was thrilled to see me, flung herself around me as I came ashore, and danced in front of me all the way to the church. She is elderly, with a wonderfully creased and warm face, but we cannot speak. She is the only one in the MU that can write in Nyanja - no one can speak nor write Portuguese. I am struck at the pointlessness and difficulty of what I had prepared to encourage the women in their visiting. I spoke on Matthew 25, about visiting the sick, the imprisoned, the hungry, the naked – Sylvia’s translation seemed so much longer. ‘What did you say?’ I asked ‘Oh, I was saying that we have to live good lives and be like the sheep, otherwise we will be condemned as the goats’. But I didn’t say that. I had thought perhaps that we might be able to decide on some worthy projects if I could help the women reflect on what they knew from their visits, so key to the work of the MU here. But they can’t visit when they are free (i.e. in the evening), because they don’t have lights. No electricity, certainly, but also no oil for the lamps. Sylvia has a quick idea of a project for providing oil - but the logistics of sending oil from Lichinga, of helping (mostly illiterate) women from such a distance, is just miles behind the idea for establishing small base communities of Bible-studying, fellowship-creating, people-helping people. To be honest, I was shocked. This has to be the poorest place on earth.

Our kids are experiencing something quite unique, something they might never be able to share with another. Jake spent the day drawing his big image of Africa: the bad treatment of dogs, the thatch and dereliction, the fields, the dust, the dancing and noise. Matthew takes to building wherever we are, using what has been put aside to build real houses here. Kylie attracts all the little ones, and is drawn herself to all the babies: “Mama, what’s that?” It’s another child with a hernia. “Mama, what’s wrong with her?” Another malnourished child whose hair has turned brown. Another little face hidden behind a capalana to hide from our strange looking kids. But then I look at our children - we all look scruffy after several rough nights, and they could pass for street kids! And I smile at myself, and the way I am dressed for church!

But, from my front seat in this roofless brick building, the choir sounds tremendous - the drums, the singing, the movement. All the women dance. This has to be the best, the most uplifting, choir along the lakeshore. Quite amazing.

I learn later that the best choirs seem to be where Padre Cacongue has had an influence - he spent ten years in Wikihi, two in Chigoma, and six years in Metangula. Those are places of liturgical celebration, of choirs that lead worship. We have just arranged for Padre Cacongue to have an intensive English course. I would love for him to visit UK to speak for the diocese at some point. This priest is different on his home patch; he’s passionate about his work and these places. He knows how his people live and have suffered (he was a refugee in Tanzania, as many have been along the lakeshore). He is popular and he is an attentive host, always actively planning the next step, looking to make it the best experience he can for us. I am glad we are able to give him a better home too - the Bishop’s house in Metangula will be his new residence in a few weeks, after CODACO have fixed it up. At present, it has no ceiling, poor roofing, a collapsed outside toilet, but space for offices and hospitality outside too. Padre Cacongue has many to look after - his own family of six children has recently been expanded by the orphan of his wife’s sister. But he is the priest who calls children ‘angels’, and the gifts of the church for visitors ‘prayers’. He is a good priest, a good archdeacon, a good man.