Having travelled to 14 different countries on 18 mission trips over the last 9 years, I was excited at the opportunity to serve for 2 weeks in Burundi, a little known country separated from Uganda by tiny Rwanda, which it shares its tragic genocidal history with. After suffering innumerable unexpected delays with our work permits in Uganda for months, we were grateful for this timely open door for us to be sponsored to teach at a bible school in Burundi, as it would renew our visas to extend our stay in Uganda too. Our anticipation in seeing yet another part of Africa overshadowed the wry smiles of disbelief we gave each other when, just a few days before finalizing our plans, we learnt that my work visa had finally been approved.
Having just left a very rainy and chilly Uganda, the heat wave that welcomed us in Burundi hit us like a ton of bricks. Little did we expect it would be the first of many blows to come.
We had heard about the challenges of staying in Burundi, given it remains to be the third poorest country in the world, but remained good-spirited, encouraging ourselves that we had learnt a thing or two about staying flexible and adaptable in the mission field. We read up on this impoverished country and mentally prepared ourselves for the brutally warm weather. We even learnt a bit of French and Kirundi language in advance, and spoke to a few well-travelled Ugandan friends about their prior experience in Burundi. Having been on several mission trips before, I was ready to “rough things out”, as Cliff put it. But nothing prepared us for the cross-cultural shocks ahead.
Homesickness magnified itself dreadfully. Days passed with our main host absent, busy with ministry travels in the countryside. Drowning like a lost sock tumbling its way through the turbulent waves of a washing machine, it was not long before our sense of lost-ness, disorientation and loneliness caused us to be disenchanted with a country we had heard to be famous for its hospitality.
A broken toilet that refused to be fixed, clogged drains and colonies of mosquitoes right where we stayed, a discovered nest of cockroaches at our front door, not being able to communicate to anybody in English without some dramatic form of charades (and still failing miserably), and being cooped up in an oven-like house in the heat of the day as we waited for the evening classes to start without anyone else to talk to dampened our spirits, leaving us irritable and vexed with each other. We learnt, that sweltering heat can turn the best of friends into their worst, most irritable companions.
It did not take long for us to miss home, which was now our home in Uganda, a home away from our homes in either Canada for Cliff or Singapore for me, which were both homes away from our heavenly Home.
It was then that we encouraged each other, that what we were experiencing was “normal”- it was just cross-cultural shock atop of the baseline cross-cultural shocks our systems were still adjusting to. We also remembered, that we were not here to have a vacation or to be served, but to serve with our hearts, spirits and minds, wholeheartedly and humbly.
When we both shivered at the frightfully, unbearably cold showers late at night after arriving home after a hot, sweaty day, we remembered most people here shower with a bucket and scoop and that many areas have regular water cuts or no running water at all; when the toilet broke down repeatedly despite determined fixes by the plumber, I remembered the hole-in-the-ground pit latrines that are so common here in Africa; when Cliff very nimbly and animatedly crushed nearly a dozen giant cockroaches congregating right outside the door to our guestroom under a concrete slab, I remembered the home we had visited that evening amidst a slum town, likely filled with colonies of underground critters; when I was sullen about having to eat yet another meal drenched in the same homogenous-looking salty brown sauce, I remembered learning from a local that people here would rather “die with honor” from starvation than ask for food, and that we did not have diarrhea during the entire length of our stay; when I was depressed by the perpetual stifling heat and gloominess of the house we were asked to stay in, I remembered that most homes are shrouded in darkness, especially when night falls because electricity is unaffordable; when I was disappointed by how hospitable people claimed they were but failed to commit to appointments, I remembered that transport breaks down ever so often and most people have no stable employment so every meal or time spent on us costs them something; when I felt offended by the umpteenth time someone asked incredulously why on earth we had no children since every married woman has at least six to seven children here, I remembered that they would never understand the challenges of travelling with and settling with a young baby in the initial phases of missionary life, since they have never owned a passport; when I got irritated by rude stares at our foreign-ness as we walked along the roads, I remembered how few missionaries there are in this country compared to Uganda, and how a local had told us, “My wife counsels missionary kids as part of her job- this country is not easy to live in for mzungus (foreigners) like you”; when we lay awake on yet another night listening to howling dogs and roosters which had lost their circadian rhythm crying out from 2am to 5am continuously with unabandoned enthusiasm, I remembered that rearing small livestock were the most common ways people could sustain themselves, given most of the people don’t even earn minimum wage; when I was frustrated and lonely by how little English people here speak, I remembered that years of genocidal bloodshed had robbed the people of their own voices.
As I mulled over these things, the days became easier, and though I still counted down the 14 days before we would return to our home in Uganda, I did so less ruefully, and with greater gratitude.
As our main host remained absent due to prior commitments and we continued to grope our way through broken conversations, swarms of persistent houseflies and mosquitoes, the omniscient presence of cockroaches and clogged toilets, I struggled with bitterness. Why did we have to stay here? Why isn’t anyone fixing the toilet? Why aren’t we hosted better?
It was then I remembered the commitment we had made to God at the beginning of our missionary journey: to serve others and be a blessing. With my angry, self-centred thoughts swirling within my perspiring head, I remembered how we had a choice, to allow trials to make us hardened with bitterness, or softened with the sweet meekness of Jesus.
Over the weekend, we were surprised by the unexpected invitation of another pastor who invited us to his home in the far country, giving us not only more opportunity to teach and minister and visit the 2 children’s homes he started for street kids and orphans, but also restoring our tired spirits through the breathtaking scenery of rolling mountains, and cool, fresh country air. We started to genuinely enjoy the tastes of the different textures of food, and the good company.
the beautiful mountains with us and the pastor’s kids
Cliff preaching at the village town church,
which was the only building left standing when a tragic forest fire burnt the whole village market down.
the street children staying at the children’s home.
Funds are needed for their continual food and education, and we are exploring ways we can help.
When we returned to the main city again, the bible school students who got to know us better started inviting us to their homes for meals. Seeing how much I loved their traditional ethnic wear, a trio got hold of a car and organized an outing to the market to buy us two bales of cloth, one each for Cliff and I, and took us to a tailor to have African outfits done for each of us, at their own expense.
I am learning, that in times like these, a missionary can sit back and complain resentfully about the country, its people and the standard of living. Or, he can choose to thank God for the opportunity to even have the chance to visit a new country, to be immersed in a new culture, and to bond with one’s spouse through uncomfortable, humourous and eye-opening times, such as treading through a wet market butchery with acrobatic precision: jumping over potholes, inching past blood-stained butchers, ducking knives flailing in the air with blood and hair and bits of meat swiveling through the air like confetti from an exploding piñata.
By the time we were about to leave, we had just enough time to bond with our main host, and the bible school students had grown deeply fond of us, as we did of them. On the last day of class, we surprised them by dressing up in the African attires they had so lovingly tailored for us, and they surprised us in turn with beautiful gifts of Burundian coffee, a set of bed covers and a new bible to replace my tattered, broken one.
Most importantly, our vexed, irritable spirits had soothed to become gentle, meek and quiet and we could sincerely thank God for yet another series of trials which moulded and refined us further, helping us learn to be abased and abound, to be content and grateful for all things.
Burundi, with all its beauties and warmth of its people, left us with fond memories. We are counting down again- this time, to when we will return.
“Not that I speak in regard to need,
for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content:
I know how to be abased and I know how to abound.
Everywhere and in all things I have learned both to be full and to be hungry,
both to abound and to suffer need.
I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
– Philippians 4:11-13