October 2001

Dear Family and Friends,

On September 15th we arrived in Tete, said to be the hottest, most malaria-ridden town in Mozambique, and aptly nicknamed "hell." (We heard of a black Zimbabwean missionary who lasted only six months there because he couldn’t take the heat.) Tete is on the banks of the Rio Zambeze, but it is low elevation, 130 kilometers downstream from Cahora Basa, where white-water rapids cut a gorge through the mountains, a spectacular conclusion to the river’s inland route. Today the Cahora Basa Dam and hydroelectric
power plant are among the 10 largest in the world. Eighty-two percent of the shares of the power plant are held by the government of Portugal, 18 percent by the government of Mozambique, and Tete province has a stagnant coal industry.

While a church building is under construction, made possible in large part through the work of missionary Bill Warlick and the support of PC(USA) congregations in America, Sunday worship is held in the side yard of Pastor Ngoveni’s home. Wooden benches are lined up in the sandy soil, under a canopy of branches and torn plastic. Wafts of smoke drift lazily through the air from a smouldering log in back of the house, either a remnant from
Saturday night’s cookout or make-your-own charcoal, the most common source of heating and cooking fuel. During the service a church elder welcomes us and comments on our good fortune with the sky being overcast. He speaks of the typical climate of Tete, and while we are able to translate a good two thirds of his Portuguese, the word "inferno" particularly stands out. Diane taught Sunday School and preached during worship, and Charles spoke to the congregation about the recent tragedy in America. We look
forward to a return trip when we will be able to hold training seminars in the new building.

We then drove north for our first visit to Malawi. We met there with the Reverend Nedson Zulu, whose work in evangelism extends throughout Malawi, Zambia, and Mozambique. Two of his friends from our sister denomination in Malawi were also present. We listened with interest as he shared his experiences, we discussed strategies for renewal and outreach, and we prayed together.

We crossed Malawi to the Mozambiquan border on the east and headed straight to Quelimane on the coast. There we listened to the pastor’s concerns: about the difficulty of visiting his three other rural IPM (Presbyterian Church of Mozambique) congregations (he doesn’t even own a bicycle—but we are going to bring him one on a return visit), the possibility of increased Muslim-Christian conflict in the area, and the need to train evangelists. We are planning a week-long return visit in November, training sessions for
evangelists, teaching and preaching to encourage the church in that area.

As it was mid-afternoon by the time our meeting concluded, we decided it would be best to spend another night before heading home to Chimoio, to avoid driving in the dark. In our now laughable naivete, we had estimated a five or six hour return trip. Boy, were we in for a surprise! We left Quelimane at 9am and, following the map in our guidebook, traveled over a fairly good highway for 140 km. We arrived at this lower portion of the Rio Zambeze at noon. We had remembered to inquire about the quality of the road to the
river, but had neglected to ask if there was a bridge across it. Here the actual river is about 500 meters wide, with another 1000 meters of swampy wetland, but there is no bridge. Apparently a bridge project had begun, some decades ago, attested to by weed-spotted, concrete pilings. We were told a ferry was due to cross at about 5:00 p.m., maybe.

So the next five hours were spent in Chimuwra, 24 bamboo shacks selling used clothes heaped on the ground or draped on homemade stick-and-string hangers. Small fish were tossed on the roof to dry. We shared three large bowls of french fries in the makeshift restaurant/ bar/ fellowship hall/ whatever, keeping out of the sun and keeping each other in humor. Anna Lena produced a deck of cards and each of us in turn were the Old Maid. For awhile Isaiah and a couple of local kids kicked around an ad hoc soccer ball of rags stuffed in a tee-shirt. Anna Lena and Diane heard nature’s call and summoned Charles to stand guard along a path to the bush only to discover that many people before had answered even greater calls in the same general area.

At 5:30 Charles backed our Land Rover, the third in line, aboard the old ferry. The rest of the family had been ordered out of the vehicle, presumably for our safety, until the nine other vehicles, including two big trucks, had boarded. We then made what seemed to us an even more hazardous passage, joining the crush of pedestrians who had gathered over the afternoon. News clips of desperate refugees on beat-up boats came to mind. But as the sun set, we motored past tall green reeds, and hand-hewn bark boats bearing
fishermen home, Moseses in baskets, and we marveled at the beauty of the Zambeze.

A bit after 6:00 p.m. and already getting dark, we left the Zambeze. We’re still not certain how, but we ended up on the road that the guide book had warned was "one of the country’s worst roads on the verge of despair," the road to Dondo (deep organ chords: da-da-dum). Although a major north-south commercial trucking route, eight hours on this road knocks six months off anybody’s stay in purgatory. Actual driving time: 175 miles in eight hours. We’re talking 15 to 30 mph over the bumpiest, cratered, hellish, come-upon-huge-trucks-mired-hip-deep-in-the-mud, swallowed three Omnis and a Peugeot last week and never saw them again road you dare think about. Unknown country that our pastor in Chimoio calls jungle and where he says there are elephants and lions and the guidebook warns of possible land mines and no place to stay for the night except Hotel Rover. That’s where we booked accommodations at 12:30 a.m., at which hour in the ridges along the road unrelieved eyes begin to hallucinate crocodiles and the tarred road ahead is what Bugs Bunny called a mi-rah-jee. We backed into a clearing off one of the semicircle "detours" necessitated by a minor chasm in the road.

Charles woke up in the front seat at 6:15 to the groans of a passing truck, the sixth during the night according to Diane, who had shifted around in the back amidst suitcases and Anna Lena and Isaiah. And a few thousand more ruts awaiting. We crawled along for another two hours until we came to Dondo and the paved highway that led us home two hours later. We are still vibrating, and swerving around the house to avoid ruts and deep holes.

We had talked to a missionary pilot who suggested we might want to consider flying to places like Quelimane or Cuamba and points north.

So, we covet your prayers, and could you pray about our ministry in Quelimane—and that we be able to fly there?

God bless you. We love you.

Charles and Diane & family

The 2001 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 44