Tag: Moshi

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Extra Descriptive

Denny tilted sideways in the aircraft seat just enough that I could catch his voice above the engine hum. His message brought sweat to my palms.

The missionary pilot had directed the aircraft westward, above East Africa’s plains. The Cessna was a baby fly at the foreground of the continent’s most stunning monument, Mt. Kilimanjaro. Massive. Majestic.

We had lifted off from Moshi’s small airport and were bound for remote preaching outposts. Five of them. Each outpost was marked by a small gathering of Maasai huddled under one or two trees or beneath a shiny tin roof indicating a village schoolroom.

Denny’s passengers also numbered five, meaning the Cessna 206 was at her half-dozen capacity.

“Every three weeks or so I fly young evangelists to these outposts, leaving them one by one at each preaching point”, Denny had said when inviting me along. “They share with any locals gathered who want to learn about God.  I myself offer a short teaching at the final spot on the circuit. Afterwards I retur home, retracing the earlier route, collecting the young men once again on the way.”

Denny said travelling by air cut the travel time for such a venture by days.

By now, we had touched down and taken off a couple times.

We departed the most recent dirt strip where we had left the third preacher-trainee. It was near this time my French pilot friend began cluing me in on particulars of our next landing site.

“So, now we will be coming, in about fifteen minutes to an unusual landing place. It is among that range of peaks there.” The landscape ahead was varied, featuring moderate elevations merging with steep green slopes revealing spherical volcanic outlines. Nothing of the terrain hinted at flatness.

As we flew, several distinct bumps alerted us to updrafts. We were passing within near range of one of Africa’s towering escarpment cliffs.

The missionary’s accented monologue resumed. “We approach soon the most difficult landing strip I visit in all the region.”

It was here that my palms began moistening. This, despite Denny’s steady, undramatic, near-casual manner.  What does ‘most difficult landing strip’ actually mean? For Denny. For me. Today?

He seemed in a mood to describe something of our coming destination. In more detail than I would prefer.

“First, the terrain near this village has few suitable places for landing a plane, so the length of the strip is quite short.

“Then the landing/take-off space lies slanted a bit – uneven, not quite flat – resting at the edge of a greater slope. . .”

The aircraft brought us nearer the village and, in the distance the ribbon of runway came into view. . .

My instinct here was to wave a friendly hand – further moistened by now – to signal satisfaction with the amount of info he had supplied.  I did not.

“And, finally”, Denny went on, “there is the wind. Up here it is seldom moving the direction best suited for landing and takeoff.”

Our descent was well underway. Apart from the queasy feeling brought on by the data just delivered me, I relished taking in the wonder of the volcanic mountain landscape rising to meet us.

With a talent common to seasoned bush pilots alone, the Frenchman brought the airplane safely in. A smooth, entirely glitch-free landing.

Denny’s performance, in my estimation, confirmed the viewpoint of a person whose opinion should count for something. . .

It is possible to fly without motors, but not without knowledge and skill.   – Wilbur Wright

© 2017 Jerry Lout

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Sweet Expansion

Sunday church service in the shade of a fruit tree brings its perks.

When a high-up branch at our quaint meeting place let go its grip on a ripened mango – thumping a half-sleeping listener on his head – my Bible class came alive. For the moment at least.

***

Mzee Kunda (my Tanzania co-worker) and I had scouted Moshi town in hopes of marking out a preaching point and eventually establishing a church. The spot of land with a mango tree caught our eye.

Kunda, an aging, never-wed Chaga tribesman of Kilimanjaro, had endeared himself to great numbers of people as a travelling evangelist. His one-on-one chats had brought many across the region – town and country dwellers alike – to a vital faith. From Moshi to Arusha and back, village after village had engaged the winsome personality which was Mzee Kunda. He knew his calling and trekked hundreds of miles through the years, facing hard opposition at times, but pressing on, sharing a compelling message of love.

“Mzee Kunda,” I posed one day, “could you check an area over near the Muslim sector – you know, where the city has no church at all. . .”

The property he found was the right size but lacked electricity and water. A small river (all but dry but for the rainy season) snaked nearby.  Visits with the land owner brought a meeting of the minds.  Prayers went up. Funds came in. We were underway.

Fencing the acreage with the aid of our son Scott during his Rift Valley school break, secured the area for construction. Scott and his big sis, Julie, drew water from the river to aid the cement-mixing venture while little sis, Amy, scurried about entertaining neighborhood kids.

It was a special day when Dan and Nancy Larkin came our way. Hailing from New York, the Larkins answered a call to missions. . . and to Moshi. Grandma Nancy promptly endeared herself to 7-year-old Amy.

Excitement stirred in the Kili region when Dan launched a training center project on our two-acre grounds. Decades later we would journey again to Moshi and celebrate Kilimanjaro Christian College opening her doors twenty five years before. Lazaro Kiriama of Maasai-land had nurtured the school into a thriving training center for church leaders, equipping them for service throughout the region.

Meanwhile a familiar old tree like a quiet, loyal friend, moved from thumping Sunday worshippers with mango missiles to seasonally treating a parade of ministry trainees her juicy delights.

©2018 Jerry Lout

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Past the Bougainvillea Vine

Skirting the red and orange and purple array of bougainvillea vine, the visitor stepping to Steve and Anne’s veranda catches the sing-song call of her hostess.

“Kah-reee-bu!” Anne Street’s cheery voice trills the Swahili welcome like a free-spirited vocalist in full operetta form. The scene in some form repeats multiple times each week as a parade of visitors drop in, some randomly, others by arrangement.

They’ve come for a ‘hot cuppa’ or for a listening ear or a compassionate prayer. Or all the above. And – often enough – a personal care presented by an impromptu guest carries a tangible element. . . needed bus fare to Kibosho or Boma Ng’ombe. . . school fees to cover (just this once) a high schooler about to forfeit his education because pounding hail and rain just wrecked the family’s maize harvest, their only viable revenue source.

This Moshi home takes wageni (visitor arrivals) in stride. And the sons, Benji, Peter and Philip, like their father – bright, industrious, mischievous – have exhibited the family ‘hospitality gene’ almost since their early days in nappies.

Anne, born and raised in Africa of British parents, grew up in farming country where her father helped manage estates for Kenya’s pre-independence baron, Lord Delamere. Meeting Steve in his native England during her college years ensured that her future husband’s heart would be captured – not only by her – but by ‘all things Africa’.

Year after year the Street’s mentoring of students (elementary-age and high-schoolers alike) in the knowledge of their faith, never grew wearisome. Steve had accepted a chemistry teaching spot with Moshi’s international academy. His and Anne’s after-school Bible Clubs came to life with spirited discussions. Wisdom was shared. And students cheered at the mention of an outing – “How about a view of Amboseli Game Park from Mount Kili!”

After some years, when the teaching position for Steve ran its course, the couple took a step back, weighed their motives and inner impressions. And drew a conclusion. . .  “Why not!” Launching as full-time missionaries (roles they’d arguably been filling a long while already) came naturally. Laboring alongside their beloved pastor and friend, Wilbard.

Now, decades in, the Street’s dew-drenched lawn boasts a path worn thin  by flip-flops, dress shoes and bare feet alike. Guests of African, Asian, European, American, islander origins, and elsewhere – none kept at arm’s length from Anne’s infectious “Ka-reee-bu!” welcome.

Home-away-from-home travelers have gotten lodged, prayed over, teased, affirmed. And roundly blessed when the visit is ended and they move toward the screened door and out again. Beyond the bougainvillea vine.

©2018 Jerry Lout