Tribals--Part 2

Soura Tribeswomen at Market

We reluctantly packed to leave Orissa on Saturday morning.  But before we left, we made one more stop—the Saturday Market in Paralakhemundi, where tribals come to buy supplies and trade livestock.

People stared at me and I tried not to stare back, but it was an amazing experience and I wanted to make the most of my half hour.  Some of the Soura women were buying fabric and supplies.  They were very shy about photographs, but a few finally relented.  Women were selling turmeric roots, dried fish from the coast, and bundles of twigs which are the local toothbrushes.  I bought two pottery vessels from a lady of the Kunbhar people group (technically a caste since they are Hindu); some baskets from three Medni tribals;  and wandered into the cattle fair. 

85% of the men there were tribals.  Cattle were being bought and sold for milk cows, oxen teams and beef.  (Apparently local tribes eat cattle, unlike Hindus.)  I saw a man standing, storklike, with one foot on the opposite knee, like the Masai of Africa—while sucking on a 

Waiting for a Buyer

cool ice popsicle. Some cattle were decorated with headpieces; others had prospective buyers feeling their ribs, then handing over cash.  Business swirled around me and cattle trotted by.  I truly felt in a different world.

Indian society is extremely complex to an outsider.  Four main castes with thousands of subdivisions make up the mainstream kaleidoscope.  Priests (Brahmin) and rulers/military (Khashtriya) are the top two levels.   

Fishermen, for instance, belong to a caste of their own, as do laundrywomen. They are usually born, live and die in their family trade or social position. Marriage between castes is abhorrent to most Indians, although we occasionally see “Caste No Bar” in the “Matrimonial Classifieds” of major newspapers.

At the bottom are the Untouchables or Dalit (Crushed Ones).  They are considered

Tribal Cattle Market--Paralakhemundi, Orissa

subhuman and traditionally do the nasty jobs, such as sweeping streets at night, or gathering up human waste.  Crime such as rape or murder against a Dalit is seldom prosecuted. The government ostensibly favors the legally recognized “Scheduled and Backward Castes” with quota entries into government jobs and schools; however, this benefit is seldom enforced.

Then there are the tribals, or Adavasi.  Although there is much academic debate about all I have learned, the tribes are regarded as descended from the aboriginal peoples of India.  Their genetics vary from Negrito to Austral-Asian to Dravidian.

The following criteria are often used to determine tribal status of a people group:

Stone Walls and Dirt Roads--Soura Country

1-Geographical isolation – they live in remote and inhospitable areas such as mountains and forests.

Plowing with a Wooden Plow--Before Dawn

2-Backwardness – their livelihood is based on primitive agriculture or a hunter/gatherer tradition, with a low-value closed economy and rudimentary technology that results in poverty. They have low levels of literacy and health.

3-Distinctive culture, language and religion -- often animism or spiritism.  Anthropologists feel the worship of trees, rocks and snakes derived from the early tribes and were added to folk Hinduism.

4-Shyness of contact – they have a marginal degree of contact with other cultures and people.

Strangely, tribals are not deemed unclean by Hindus, while the Dalit are.  In fact, many flatlanders regard tribals as guardians of wild places, forests and streams; “Dongria Khond”, the tribe we were trying to contact, means

Russ and Soura Tribesman--Puttasingh

“hill dwelling protectors.” 

Most of the tribals considered land as belonging to everyone (like Native Americans) and were fairly egalitarian.  This was disrupted by the Muslim Mogul conquerors in the 1500’s and further upset by the British in the 1700’s when much of India was portioned out to landlords.  Tribals and lower castes became virtual serfs, which continue to this day.  Tribal lands were opened to settlement in the 1970’s; by the time the tribals realized they had to file claims, the window of opportunity was gone.  Many wild peoples have been dispossessed but have little political power. 

Lombadi Gypsy Lady

Today, many tribals are still unreached.  Some, like the Lambadi gypsies we met in Tenali, are nomadic and difficult to pinpoint.  Others, like the Dongria Khond, are hostile and remote making it complicated to reach them with the Gospel.  Plus the government limits access to many groups, especially by missionaries.  We might gain admittance with a medical team…

India has over one thousand languages; Orissa alone has 150.  One village often cannot understand the next village.  There are over 2600 people groups in India; three-quarters of these are listed as Unreached (less than 2% evangelical Christian) and over 300 are still totally Unengaged.  

These are some of the many challenges facing the missionaries God has raised up under Bihit Parichha’s leadership.  Yet they are willing to risk, to learn, and to go—usually without any means of livelihood.  Please pray for these men who are committed to the Kingdom of our Lord Jesus Christ.  We are considering offering sponsorships; if you or your church would love to send an indigenous missionary into the mountains, please contact us at aimission@hotmail.com   India has more unreached people groups than any other country.  Let’s change these statistics!

--Alice Sharrock

 

Two Soura Girls Asked for Prayer Before Their Exams

Part 1: Tribals and Troubles…Almost!

Orissa is infamous for “disturbances…”  There have been several very recent clashes in the Orissa/Chhattisgarh area between government special forces and Naxalites (Maoist rebels) with casualties on both sides.  In 2008, the state was in international news due to violent persecution of thousands of Christians—churches, homes and schools burned down; women raped; men beaten and killed; forced ‘reconversions’.  Believers fled into the jungles and refugee camps; some are still there, unwilling to risk their lives by returning to a home that is probably no longer standing.  Even though it has been 5 years, the scars are still fresh and bleeding.

The Eastern Ghats Beckon

Another fascinating aspect of Orissa is its 62 mountain tribes, more than any other state.  Total tribal population is estimated at 7 million.  After our time in the coastal fishing villages, we were hoping to contact the Dongria Khond, a wild unreached tribe, but found we required police permits and escort—something which will have to grind slowly through the bureaucratic channels of India.  They are considered a protected cultural resource plus they “cut off hand and foot, maybe cut neck, carry knife behind ear, two knife in belt here and here, no clothing, no proper food…”  Russ is already forming his strategy for next year.  If you dare to hike 10km beyond the last bike trail, and are willing to risk both the tribals and the government, come with us!

In Rayagada District, where Russ held a Leadership Conference for 22 of Bihit’s missionaries, over 50% of the people are tribal.  On our way there, Bihit received a cell

Russ and Missionaries

phone call that we might face trouble—a large group of Hindus were holding a “disturbance” in front of the little tumbledown Oriya Baptist Church in Gunupur village, trying to prevent the Conference.  They had dissipated before our arrival, probably due to the intense midday heat.  Bihit went to meet with their leader and defuse the situation while Russ began to teach.   Apparently he convinced them that we were not actually going to evangelize the area that day, the Conference would be limited to church grounds, and would not last more than a few hours.  We had no further problems and were blessed by the men who had dedicated their lives to reaching the unreached in these wild places.  Many had walked for a day or more to attend.   

Bihit and Villagers

Bihit is a diplomat, and I personally make a point of smiling and waving to the neighbors in known hostile areas, who usually melt in front of my camera.  This is especially true if I take photos of their children or show interest in their jewelry (women) or tools (men).  When they realize I am a human like themselves —or maybe just a harmless old lady—we have never had an actual problem...yet.  In fact, an older woman and some young men with her gave me a gift of green mangoes from those she was selling.  I was supposed to make pickles from them, which I regret will not happen this trip.

We did meet several Soura tribal people, some of whom came to hear Russ’ testimony in the remote mountain village of Puttasingh.  On Friday, Russ and I sleepily rolled out of bed at 3AM because there was to be a big political strike in Paralakhemundi.  The participants were determined that no one would enter or leave the city, and shops should be closed, so we had to be out and gone by 5AM or risk violence and riots.

View from a Switchback--Note the Paddy Terraces Below

We headed west into the Eastern Ghat Mountains—higher and higher as the road got smaller and smaller.   Ears popped as we took in breathtaking views from multiple switchbacks.  Rock formations and hardwood trees became more prominent.  Thick morning mists slowly gave way to sunshine.  Rice paddies were terraced up steep slopes, and men with teams of oxen and wooden plows worked to prepare for the next crop. 

Bihit told us that his father fasted for forty days on a local mountaintop prior to starting his ministry 30 years ago; there were tigers back then, which have since disappeared along with the thick jungles.  Today we

Soura Homes and Stone Paddy Walls

passed many small huts and homes where the Soura people live.  They were first reached as wild tribals by Canadian Baptist missionaries years ago, and the legacy lives on.  Now, they are slowly integrating into Indian society.  Some anthropologists regret the changes, but I feel medical care and education should be available to everyone.  Keeping a people group on display as you would keep an exotic zoo animal is neither compassionate nor fair to them.

Our purpose for today’s journey was twofold:  I was to lead a “Women of God Conference” for three hours, based on my material for pastors’ wives back in Pithapuram.  For the evening service, Russ would give his testimony to the large congregation and many expected visitors.  Word spread through Puttasingh village and the surrounding area. 

Puttasingh Village Baptist Church

Curious Boys

We arrived a few hours early due to our escape from Paralakhemundi, so we were shown to a guest room attached to the impressive Baptist Church.  Russ removed his legs (after we closed the shutters and blocked the stares of curious boys) and we rested on a coir mattress.  Local pigs and dogs rooted in the drainage ditch below our window.  And of course the power went out…so we had no fan.

At 9:50 we went into the sanctuary to begin the Conference at 10AM.  The concrete floor was spread with mats, and thick smoke blew in from the side doors where the men were cooking lunch for the Conference.  Two older women came and sat, then others trickled in over the next hour or so.  About 11:10 we decided to begin. 

Alice Teaching "Women of God", Pani Translating

One hour was already gone, so I further reduced my material to the life of Ruth (“a love story better than a Bollywood movie”) and Proverbs 31.  Bihit’s boyhood friend,

Hazael Pani—who speaks at least 6 languages and reads 10— translated for me.  By the time I was done, there were over a hundred women listening intently—mountain women who probably had never seen a “foreigner” before, nor traveled further than the marketplace in Paralakhemundi in their lives. As I taught them about agape love, faithfulness, and the principle of kinsman-redeemer, I looked into their faces and could feel God moving in their hearts.

Her Village Home

After lunch, the leftovers were taken outside and thrown off the porch to the pigs, dogs, chickens and eventually a wayward cow.  We rested in the guesthouse during the heat of the day. But, I can never stay still for very long, so I took the camera and headed out  to explore the next few streets.  The living conditions were distressing:  Narrow dark alleys crowded with tiny row houses;  murky drain gutters festering with garbage and mosquitoes; a deep open well with trash in the water; pigs, dogs, chickens, goats—and of course children—spilling out everywhere.  The contrast between the beautiful mountain vistas and the immediate reality was huge.

Soura Tribesman at Church

Bihit’s father, Upendra Parichha, and a large contingent of notables arrived.  This was his first place of ministry those long years ago, and the church has grown large for rural India—over 200 crowded into the sanctuary to hear him and Russ, including over a dozen Soura tribesmen.

God continues to touch souls with Russ’ powerful testimony. We see it over and over again:  Curiosity over his legs, amazement that he would risk coming to remote places, questions that lead to the Gospel, encouragement to those who are now experiencing suffering.  Who knew that the anguish of the past two years would be bearing so much fruit across India?

Upendra spoke afterward, mesmerizing his audience with laughter and the love of God.  We can understand his popularity as an evangelist and conference speaker throughout Orissa.  Bihit’s passionate vision for missionary ministry has definitely been passed down in the genes.  Yes, some of Orissa’s mountain villages and tribals have been touched by the Gospel, but so many in the more remote areas have never heard of Jesus Christ.  We are catching the vision too.  

Darkness deepened and we headed on the long journey back.  Bihit casually announced we would be taking another route back to Paralakhemundi through Gunupur:  “The roads are wider and we can make better time.”  A little later the true reason came to light:  The mountain road we originally came on has Naxalite bandits roaming about at night.  He didn’t want us to meet the same fate as two Italian tourists who were kidnapped for three months. 

Bihit is charming and fun, but he has a serious strategy for reaching remote villages—by multiplying missionaries through a “Person of Peace” similar to what is taught in “Perspectives”.   His quiet, studious friend Pani is a great resource; he left his job as teacher in a Kerala Bible College a few weeks early, specifically to translate for us and help Bihit’s ministry.  The mountains are wild and beautiful; the lost souls scattered in them are precious to God.  Help us, Lord, to help these men reach the unreached for You.

More about tribals in our next blog…

--Alice Sharrock

Fishermen--Part 2

Heading Out to Sea at Sunset

In our last blog, we had been exploring the fishing villages along the Bay of Bengal, and saw few or no churches.  As Russ and I continued north across the border to Orissa, we were burdened with the plight of these people.   But God is always at work and we soon experienced His power.

Ever since Vizag, mountains had been visible, but fishing continued to be a primary occupation on the seacoast. 

We arrived in Paralakhemundi with Bihit Parichha, a young man with a huge vision for God’s work from the mountains to the sea.  He and his family of four live in a tiny row house—about eight feet wide—stair-stepped up the side of a steep hill.  The roof leaks seriously during the frequent thunderstorms. 

Bihit's Home--Eight Feet Wide

We were planning to stay with him before we found that there are three abrupt steps up to the narrow rear courtyard, and the Asian toilet is at the far end.  Russ would have a problem.  Plus they would all be sleeping on the floor next to our bed—soaking wet when it rains.  We opted for a lodging room.  More about the room later… (Or maybe not.  It’s probably better forgotten.)

Baptism Service at the Bay of Bengal

On Sunday, Bihit invited Russ to speak at a little thatch church in Ganguwada village near the Bay.  There we learned that three new believers would be baptized the next day.  So, on Monday we crossed the dunes alongside an old wooden fishing boat, past more boats and mounds of nets down to the sea.  Russ remained on the last ledge above the water and prayed with the new believers. 

Bihit’s father Upendra, a noted evangelist, waded into the waves and performed the
baptisms. The surf had a powerful undertow which suctioned the sand from under my feet and made standing difficult.  The spiritual experience was even more powerful.  One man and two women publicly declared their faith in Jesu Kristu—with ancient-style fishing boats just offshore and waves crashing around them.  Through men like Bihit and the twenty five missionaries he has trained, God is definitely at work in the fishing villages. 

That day, so was Satan.  Russ was struggling uphill across the dunes, and someone decided to drive the SUV closer.  But for every downhill, there is an uphill, and it was almost

impossible to go backward in soft sand.  The wheels spun deeper and deeper as several strong men tried to push, but failed.  Coconut leaves were shoved under the tires.  No go.  Someone borrowed a rope from the fishnets, but it broke.  The sun got hotter as the day wore on, and nothing seemed to work.

Finally Bihit’s mother trudged through the sand with a rock in her hands.  Others joined her in carrying some rocks and driftwood boards.  Another piece of rope was found and the second small vehicle gingerly backed downhill—just a little.  Everyone prayed and pushed, engines gunned, the rope slack was taken up slowly—and we were free!  Bihit danced and praised God.  We all praised Him!

Russ and Upendra preached again, and we were refreshed by drinking coconut water

directly from the nuts of nearby trees—then to a festive lunch.  While the men talked afterward, the ladies asked me to go and bless a home with prayer.  Then I wandered the village, taking photos of goats, children, and elderly ladies.

This may be the seashore, but it is also a transitional area between the traditions of Andhra and the mountain tribes of Orissa.  Older women, and a few younger ones, do not wear a blouse under their sari.  For modesty, they rely on the scarf end which—in all of India—is slung across the chest and over the left shoulder.  I suppose it’s cooler and less restrictive, but…  Also, they have the most intriguing nose ornaments!  Some resemble a gold bee or butterfly hanging from the septum.  One lady was combing her gorgeous long grey hair and let me take her picture—a perfect blend of age and beauty.   

On Thursday we headed for another fishing village, Gunpalli.  The church was a tiny brick-

 walled, thatch-roofed building surrounded by heaps of fishnets. In a nearby shrine, a 

Church in Gunpalli Fishing Village

cement idol stared at me, and so did a sleepy dog whose cool nap I had momentarily disturbed.  Both of these villages usually have John Kumar, one of Bihit’s missionaries, as circuit preacher.  Today, Russ gave his powerful testimony to a full congregation.  

We were invited to lunch in a Hindu fishermen’s home a few doors down the sandy street.  Food was cooked by their neighbor Simeon, also a fisherman—and a member of the church congregation—who had just netted his first shark.  He and his wife fried it into the most delectable seafood dish we’ve had since the prawns at Chirala.  And all the neighbors, young and old, came to take photos of us with their cell phones.

Simeon the Fisherman and His Wife

Russ’ reputation as “The Man with No Legs” continues to make us a bit of a celebrity.  Hindus, Muslims and tribals are eager to meet us out of sheer curiosity—even asking for prayer.  Their questions open many doors for local missionaries such as Bihit and John Kumar to present the Gospel of Jesus Christ.   We concluded our time among the lonely little fishing villages with joyful celebration, knowing that the Lord is continually working in the hearts of men everywhere on His earth.

Stay with us as we explore the Eastern Ghat Mountains…   

--Alice Sharrock

Fishermen--Part 1

You can't minister to people you know nothing about, so we are getting involved with Indian life at the grassroots level; today, more at the tidal level.  Come and explore with us:

The names are intriguing:  Vodarevu, Yanam Ferry, Kakinada, and Visakhapatnam.  From a distance, fishing villages look colorful and quaint.  Antique boats, simple homes, beaches and waterfront—what more could you want?

But close-up, the rank odor of dead fish is overpowering.  Fish in baskets, fish split and spread on the ground, fish hanging in rows to dry.  Fish bones and scales permeate the sand: Fish being sorted, salted, and sold. 

And being caught.  We’ve seen three or four kinds of fishing boats, from the local handmade wooden craft to old-style/new technology fiberglass hulls. These have the traditional high-prow profile, but an outboard motor pushing it to sea—unless they run out of gas and need to row it back in... 

Fishing Boats and Drying Fish--Vizag Harbor

The next level is more what we saw in the Chesapeake Bay—squarish, with a cabin and inboard motor and winch poles for the nets.  Third, the biggest commercial boats are all steel, all business, and sometimes hail from distant ports.

We watched open boats being launched after sunset at Vodarevu near Chirala, and see them every day off Andhra's coast.  But this week began a moratorium on fishing for 45 days, to let the levels of sea life rejuvenate.  (45 days???  Maybe a few years would accomplish something. Plus, many ignore the ban--there are still some boats out there.  But this is India, and very little is enforced.) 

Poverty and Sand

Down at the docks in Kakinada, we saw long piers where hundreds of people processed fish in open-windowed plants.  Much of the fish, however, is just spread on the ground where it bakes in the sun.  There and in Vodarevu, the decrepit thatched huts spoke of poverty and hopelessness. One hit me hard—with a hairless, mangy dog poking around in the barren sand for food, and a scrawny rooster in the shadows.  Faded, worn saris hung to dry.  Washed in what?  There were certainly no wells or pumps visible…

At Yanam, the most ancient of boats were still in use, with stern grooves for sculling oars, and lateen sails—the staple design of Asia and Africa—furled alongside.  I delighted in the patina of aged wood and hand craftsmanship.  Yet many lay abandoned, presumably casualties to the modernization of commercial fishing.

 

Monkey God

Fishermen's deities abounded everywhere, mute clusters of them facing the sea, a testimony to the risks of life on the waves in this storm-prone Bay of Bengal.  Some were crude, such as the monkey god (Hannuman) figurehead sidelined by a wall; others were ornate and glorious idols.  One corporation in Yanam had set up both idols and a statue of Christ along the waterfront promenade—equal opportunity in this land of many gods.  But we did see a small boat with “Jesus” scrawled on its side...

This afternoon we ventured to the beaches and docks of Vizag (Visakhapatnam) for a look.  This is the fishing hub of the area, and we began at a beach cove where fish were being sorted in a makeshift shelter.  When I approached, they demanded money for photos, so I left.

I'd already taken a distant shot anyway.  The sand was littered with fish scales and trash, the waterline with human waste.  A squatting boy was adding to the debris.  It seemed that this was just a normal part of their pitiful existence.

Across the busy shore road, we saw the

shanties where these fisher folk live out their lives.  Crowded together, barely habitable, made of reclaimed trash, row upon row of tiny hovels lined the street.  Families and their cooking and laundry—even their sleeping cots—spilled out along the curb.  India is sometimes overwhelming.

Further down, we turned onto the docks where the fishing industry was taken seriously.  The slips and pier teemed with activity.  A seafood auction was in full swing in a walled compound; crowds spilled over onto the gritty
sand; endless groups of men and women sorted fish into baskets and/or salted them down; some unloaded fish from tanks of brine.  An elderly man was wearily scraping up leftovers from the ground.  One woman threatened to throw a fish at me if I took a photo of her--most just kept about their business—and the usual retinue of boys began to follow me about, “Just one photo, Just one photo!”

During the fishing ban, the harbor was tightly packed with hundreds of boats, some with old tires as bumpers, wedged up against the next one.  Men were busily repairing and refurbishing the vessels.  Some struggled with crude hand tools; others had entire decks ripped out, exposing the engine works underneath (and delighted that I stopped to photograph their labors); the larger boats had welders and work crews refitting them for the task ahead.  Lumber and nails littered the dock. 

The busy men were polite and curious about this strange old lady dashing in and out among the fishwives and workmen, taking photos.  Even our taxi driver questioned my sanity…”Madam, Madam?”  Russ had to assure him that I was probably OK, just keep moving slowly down the docks, she’ll catch up eventually.

So what did we discover about these people?  We certainly don’t understand all the nuances of Indian society, nor the struggling castes that make up the fishing villages.  What did we NOT see?  First, we didn’t see any young girls among all the busy crowds at the Vizag pier.  Second, no water wells—Vizag had a tank truck for drinking water parked back among the fish stalls.  No wonder everything seems dry, hot and dirty. 

Worse, we saw no churches in any of these villages.  What we saw was an ornate temple of the goddess Kali, whose necklace is made of human skulls.  We saw other crude shrines and idols along the beaches.   But who is bringing the gospel of Christ to the souls who live in the sun and sea and sand? 

Stay with us for the next exciting episode of Russ and Alice in India…

--Alice Sharrock


 

Water of Life

It’s Thursday morning in America.  A man stumbles into the bathroom half asleep, turns on the sink tap, brushes his teeth without a second thought, then, into the shower, nice and hot and clean.  A great way to start the day—so normal, so taken for granted.

Green Water

On the other side of the world, in Kondevaram Village, darkness is falling.  A woman wearily walks to the village water tap to get yet another pot of water.  Raghava’s day began before dawn, carrying water on her shoulder, two gallons at a time.  Water for laundry, for her family’s bucket showers, for cooking and for washing dishes and cooking pots. Sometimes the government tap dispenses her critical need—usually not.  Water is available about once every three days. 

Between times, things stay dirty and people stay thirsty.  Babies cry in the suffocating heat and dust rises from earthen floors.  Parasites and infections spread from green scummy canals which are the only alternative sources for life’s essential liquid, since rain seldom falls here in the months preceding monsoon.  Women spend almost half of their

difficult lives carrying water.

But today things were different.  A strange man with metal legs and

Well Construction

his grey-haired wife had come to her little mission church last Sunday, and this morning, something was going on behind the building.  Local men had erected a rusty iron tripod and were twisting pipes deep into the ground until sunset.  Raghava wonders about it all, but is too tired to care.  

In America, Thursday night comes, and a woman pushes a button.  Her dishwasher swishes into action, and she loads the last of her laundry into the washing machine before taking a long hot bath--a great way to end the day.  Water from her washers, tub and toilet goes down the drain--maybe 100 gallons of it.  More than an Indian woman could carry in a whole dusty day.

Raghava, on the other hand, has already been to the useless village water tap, only to find it dry and empty.  Friday morning is dawning and she is at a loss, frustrated, worried.  How can she feed her husband before he goes to the ricefields?  How can she wash their sweat-soaked clothing?  How can she bathe the children to keep them cool and halfway clean?  What about last night’s cooking pots, still crusted with food, crawling with ants and roaches—because she had run out of water?  She prays to the Savior she has recently come to know.  Yesu Kristu, please help me!

Pastor Samuel and Russ, Blessing the Well

Matthew 6:8 says: “….your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.”  God has already answered Raghava’s prayer.  An excited neighbor runs to her.  “Come to Grace Mission Church!  They are dedicating the new well this morning!  It is free to everyone!”  

Women and children run to see the new green hand pump.  The man with no legs is praying blessings on the well.  Pastor Samuel and his wife Prashanthi are there.  Women stand waiting with their water pots, and the grey-haired woman is vigorously pumping water into one of the pots.  A bit muddy yet, but it would settle out in a day or so.  Fresh water!  Pure, clean water!  Water all day, every day, just for the carrying!  How wonderful, how convenient!  What a blessing!  The lives of the whole village have been changed.  Deyvuniki stotrum!  Praise God!

Amen!  Thanks to the Lord of the nations--and thanks to those who have given to AIM for

Prashanti, the Pastor's wife, fills Raghava's Waterpot

fresh water wells.  Clean water is the primary health issue in the whole world.  People are constantly sick, and children die--40,000 per day--due to polluted water.  When we have a well constructed, it not only uplifts the whole community’s health standards, it eases the lives of the women and saves those of the children.  Most important, it elevates the standing of the Christian church in the area (AIM does not claim credit for the wells, but associates it with the local church.)  Water, given freely to everyone, regardless of religion or caste, opens doors into the Hindu, Muslim and Buddhist communities for teaching about the true Water of Life, Jesus Christ.

We rejoiced with Raghava (my “Kondevaram sister”) and all the people gathered there, then left.  We arrived Friday afternoon in Visakhapatnam, the third largest city on India’s East Coast.  Tonight we sleep in a ‘real’ hotel—no chimalu (ants) crawling into our bed, no sharing a tiny bathroom with eight other people, perhaps even electric power for more than two hours a day.  However, even in this very modern Best Western, the WiFi is out for now.  A fact of life, fatalistically accepted in India.

We really need a few nights with AC and privacy.  Russ is struggling with a severe case of laryngitis—the result of pushing himself too hard, plus all the infections surrounding us.  Before we left Pithapuram, Russ was weak, exhausted and bedridden for a couple of days.  Pastor Samuel and his daughter Mary Grace took me to a Christian doctor for help, who graciously waived his consultation fee and prescribed Amoxicillin and several other medications. He said in the US, Russ’ laryngitis would not need treatment, but it is crucial here.  Thank the Lord, he is already improving.  Please continue to pray for our health, energy levels and safety as we re-group before heading onward to Orissa and the Eastern Ghat Mountains. 

By the way, we are about halfway through our trip—the most extensive and intensive yet.  And, Pastor Samuel and his family and orphans held a surprise Tenth Anniversary celebration for us before we left.  Yes, we have been coming to India for ten years.  May the Lord continue to be glorified among the many languages (1200), peoples, tribes and nations in this amazing country!

--Alice Sharrock

Bibles and Bugs

Hallelujah!

We are in a little village not far from the Bay of Bengal, seated on a rickety stage under a colorful Indian-style canopy. It is night, and the outdoor Gospel Meeting has just begun.  Drums are throbbing, metal rattles keeping time, and the music rises to a fever pitch.  Three music leaders begin to dance and the stage trembles.  An elderly pastor leaps to the ground, dancing, and the children in the front row join him.  The Lord is being praised tonight, just as when King David danced before the ark of God and raised some eyebrows.  “Hallelujahs” fill the air.

So do the bugs.  An outdoor Gospel Meeting in India means three things:  Ear-demolishing sound booming into the night (distortion and feedback squeals are ignored);

How can they believe
if they have not heard?

cornea-scorching lights; and the thousands of insects they attract.  Tropical bugs of all descriptions swarm to join our meeting.  Clouds of mosquitoes, moths, giant cockroaches and even larger black beetles are dancing above the people.  Some hit the lights and evaporate into a small hissing cloud. 

The fan, focused on Russ and myself, blows bugs and moist bug parts onto our sweaty skin, where they stick.  One active insect gets thrust into my right ear where it squirms and struggles violently.  I jump off the side of the stage and wash it out with my bottled water…

About 200 plastic lawn chairs fill the village square in front of us.  Workers from the rice fields and housewives from the thatch huts slowly fill them.  Some belong to Pastor Samuel’s Grace Mission Church here in Kondevaram, others are curious to hear Russ’ promised testimony, and still others are merely curious about this God that died for people—so different from the pantheon of idols whose shrines and temples dominate this land.  More line the porches and walls around us, listening.

Russ’ preaching acts like a magnet on the crowd; Mary Grace translates; the Word of God reaches ears who have never heard His Truth before.  That is why we are here—partly to encourage the small congregation, mostly to reach the local Hindu population. 

The first night is based on Paul’s Mars Hill sermon, focusing on the One True God Who created

How can they hear unless
someone preaches to them?

all mankind.  The second night, Russ gave his powerful testimony and the faithfulness of God when we are suffering, based on our life verses, Proverbs 3:5, 6.  On the third night, he spoke of the cost of following Jesus, and how it needs to be our first priority (Luke 9:57-62).  Amazingly, all the people listened intently.  Many ears in front of us have never heard Christ and the Gospel explained before. 

We are in enemy territory, but the Word of God will never return void.  This was made clear Sunday night, when Russ preached his final sermon in the little Kondevaram church.  We arrived just before 9PM, shared communion with the believers, and Russ and I spoke and worshiped until past 11.  A woman who does not belong to the church began to shriek and shout something like “Shut up! Shut up!” while clapping her hands against her ears.  She then made other disruptive claims and speeches, but eventually calmed down after Russ and I each prayed.  I was sitting in the back among the women and strongly felt this was an overt enemy attack, although we have experienced many veiled ones.  Russ later told me he was certain of that, and so were Mary Grace and her father.  Stronger is He that is in us…!

We are being blessed by testimonies about the Gospel Meetings, by the responses at each location, and by sharing two weeks of Pastor Samuel’s ministry, which involves his entire family.  We will head for Vishakhapatnam after a few days, to a ‘real’ hotel to recuperate a bit before heading into the mountains of Orissa. 

Please continue to pray for us.  Especially for me (Alice) at this point--my legs are swollen,

Russ and Alice, India

partly due to the extreme heat (we have not had much electric power here) and partly due to five weeks of constant insect bites and their residual toxins.  Russ is doing well--our hostess at the home where we are staying had two shirts made for him—and dressed me up in a sari!

I’ve been taking photos of the various chili business owners and their workmen, so they know me and my walkabouts—they all had to come out on the loading dock and see me in the sari, walking to church alongside Russ on Sunday.  Quite a stir!  God uses us for “fish bait”…may His Name be glorified in this place also!

--Alice Sharrock