The Season of Change

Christmas has come and gone for another year, and now it's time to make New Year's resolutions. Time for change.

In Mozambique, this really is a season of change, but not for the reasons you might expect. No, there's a different sort of change afoot...

Here, there's an important game of hot potato under way, stemming from the government's decision to strip three zeros from its currency.

The 1,000,000 meticais bill has been replaced by its successor, the 1,000. Each dollar is now equivalent to 25 meticais "new family," not 25,000.

And Mozambicans have until December 31 to get rid of their old bills. After today, they face the hassle of exchanging them at the government's central bank. Possible, but a hassle.

And the game is heating up. The new bills were introduced several months ago, but I've received more of the old ones in the past couple of weeks than over the past months combined.

They're withered, tattered, filthy bills. Especially the small ones.

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There's another interesting phenomenon about change: apparently, in Africa, it's the responsibility of the person making the purchase to have the necessary change. Stores, particularly small ones, do not have much.

Here, the equivalent of a $20 is too large for all but the biggest stores. The cashier's glare frequently burns a hole through even my bills worth $8. In Africa, such "large" bills are argentum non gratae.

Because of this phenomenon, I recently paid $2 too much for a $15 refill on a propane tank. It was either that, or no gas.

And I'm routinely asked by merchants for change so that they can settle up with customers ahead of me in line.

I guess in this way, it's the season of "no change," unless the merchant happens to have a hot potato that needs to be passed along. Happy New Year!

A Nation's Own Sons and Daughters

They have put it off, postponed it, re-scheduled it various times, but late last week I was finally scheduled to meet once again with the church leaders. Over six weeks have passed since I first encountered their spirited opposition.

Then, as I was springing open the padlocks securing our front door, balancing an armload of bananas to bring with me to the meeting (since the oranges were such a hit last time), I received an SMS on my cell phone. The meeting was canceled yet again.

Now, with Christmas upon us, it won't happen until mid-January, at the earliest. With Christmas also comes summer holidays, and I hear that little happens in Maputo for three or four weeks.

My heart sank.

Since my last meeting with these leaders, I have taken their concerns and shaped them into a strategy that I feel works for everyone. I've sold it to our organization, to our board of directors, to supporters who will finance the project. I even had a conversation with a Mozambican elder who advises these church leaders. Wonderful, he said. Just what Mozambique needs.

Only I keep hitting my knees on this final hurdle. My attempts to sell the strategy to the leaders of the local churches has given me nothing but bruises layered on top of figurative bruises. Some on my knees, some on my ego.

I haven't successfully separated this project from the broader politics of development work swirling around me. The leaders of the church, it seems, are holding this project hostage until we bring money to the table. There's no point teaching us about business if you don't give us money at the same time, they argue.

It is painful for those people who are used to receiving charity to suddenly be asked to provide their own resources. They doubt themselves and their own abilities. And some even think that we're bluffing: that eventually we'll "cave in" and bring a truckload of money (your money -- donor money -- I might add). But that money would soon run out, leaving everyone in the same position as they are in today, and having dug the dependency rut a little deeper.

They see us as being selfish and greedy for having money and not providing it. The perception prevails in Africa that money grows on trees in the West. (Comparatively speaking, that may even be true.)

Our micro-enterprise development strategy is based upon the principle that Mozambicans have within themselves and within their communities the resources to be successful on their own, without being dependent upon foreigners. The strategy is also built upon the principle that Mozambicans are best equipped to convince Mozambicans about the reality of this.

Yes, it can be harmful to give money. Jesus taught that money is poisonous. That's not to say that everyone who indulges succumbs. It's just a well-reasoned caution. And this particular group of church leaders is intoxicated.

Their intoxication is not representative of the whole of Africa. Right under my nose, I spoke with my good friend Mario, who is sobered to the reality of Africa.

Sobered to the reality that Africans have all the resources that they need to survive and thrive. God has ensured this. He wouldn't have made it any other way. "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?", Jesus asks his disciples (in Matthew 10:29, 31), "Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. ...So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows."

Mario gave me much needed encouragement for insisting that Africans have the resources to help Africans. Africans need to take risks, he said, so that they can value their possessions. "If foreigners keep giving us things, we'll never learn the value of money, or the value of hard work."

Mario's wisdom unleashed for me a compelling insight: if I really believe that Africans are best equipped and most credible to implement any development or evangelism work in Africa, then I ought to also believe that Africans are best equipped and most credible to convince Africans that such work is valuable and desirable in the first place.

Our micro-enterprise development strategy exists in order "to identify and remove any barriers to economic development that exist for church and community members."

I keep banging my knees against this hurdle because I myself am a barrier.

My organizational affiliation, my affluence, my language, my culture, the colour of my skin. All of these factors reinforce one another to form an insurmountable, impenetrable barrier.

I am a barrier to the success of my own program because, as long as I am the "front man," as long as it is me pitching the program, this group of church leaders will expect me to capitulate and bring money to the table. And they'll prevent me from implementing the strategy until I do.

In order to stay true to our strategic vision, I must remove myself from the equation and allow Mozambican to interface directly with Mozambican. In order to achieve success, I must surrender a degree of control over, and credit for, the program.

God has laid down the gauntlet for me. You say you want My will to be done? Are you willing to step aside from this project? Are you willing to withdraw your ego from this project in order for My will to be realized?

In order to stay true to God's calling, I must remove myself from the front lines.

God never promises that His call will be easy, but to step back from my own project is a challenge. Wow.

My work will move up-stream, with me in a less visible, less central role. When I return from holidays, the task will change from trying to get airtime with the committee of leaders directly in order to sell the need for the micro-enterprise strategy, to supporting, encouraging and equipping people like Mario to sell the strategy to his nation's own sons and daughters.

Don't Be Late For Dinner!

Despite our best intentions, we didn't make it to a Christmas church service this year. Instead, we were inescapably snared in the African time trap.

The trap was set a couple of days ago by my friend Mario, who was talking about his church's plans for an evening Christmas service followed by a social time afterwards. We don't have enough time to sit around and get to know one another, he said, and was really looking forward to creating such an opportunity this Christmas.

We offered our kitchen for Mario, his brother Dilson, and their cousin to come prepare some Christmas snacks. It would take two hours, they said, or three, tops. They arrived shortly after noon, and for hours we mixed, rolled and deep-fried samosas (or "xamussas"), spring rolls, chicken, french fries, and hamburgers (yes, deep fried!). Anything not deep-fried was smothered in mayonnaise.

Eight hours later, "some Christmas snacks" were finished, with a feast sufficient to feed the entire church of 40 people.

As we made the preparations, Laura battled to keep anything with meat or mayonnaise in the fridge. It was a cultural battle; a gargantuan battle between the fridge-people and the non-fridge people (the importance of keeping food in the fridge is lost on people who don't have electricity in their homes!). The battle ended in a draw.

My battle was more of an internal fight: an epic struggle to maintain bodily hydration. Our house, lacking air conditioning, strains under the African heat at the best of times; having the oven and several stove elements pumping additional heat into our cramped kitchen for hours made me crave running outside to roll in the Canadian Christmastime snow.

We can dream all we want. The snow isn't coming for Christmas.

Maputo was experiencing a communist-style run on soft drinks, forcing me to wait half an hour in the beating-down sun to exchange a crate of empties before the party. I fared better than Melvin, who was told that stores had run out of Coca-Cola and Pineapple Fanta.

The time trap tightened, with the tick-tick-tick of the clock growing louder and louder as the kitchen became hotter and hotter.

After 8 hours of sweating at the vegetable market, in the lineup for soft drinks, and in the kitchen, we were finished making the feast that would feed an entire church. Just in time, too: now past 8pm, the church had started their evening program two hours earlier. We loaded up the car and drove slowly to the church, weaving around potholes like we were in a battleground minefield, plates and platters of food balanced precariously in the passengers' hands, laps, and any other mostly-flat surface that could be found in the car.

The great virtue of the African time trap is that few people cared that we were so late, and even those few who did had their cares melt away at the sight of the feast. And an hour after we arrived, the evidence of our labour was reduced to crumbs on plates and smiles on faces.

Merry Christmas!