Our quest for transportation for our ministry began at budgeting time about 18 months ago. We had been assured by Malawian missionaries that churches could import vehicles free of duty, so we counted on that, budgeting $55,000 for a Toyota Hi-lux or Land Cruiser allowing for addition of an extra fuel tank, bull bar, luggage rack, etc. A number of good folk shared with us generously (see below), but we always seemed a little behind on our budget, not quite getting there. Then we moved to
Very early on here we learned that some Malawian churches had been passing out duty free vehicles to their senior members as benefits, not exactly what the law had envisioned when it gave churches duty-free status. So, seemingly overnight (was it by presidential decree?) churches were allowed only to import single cabin pickups, trucks or buses, none of which fit our needs for village visits in Malawi and travel to other countries in the region.
Our partner, Napoleon Dzombe, who is very well-known in central Malawi, and is also the imagination, brains and probably the biggest single contributor to the hard work behind the six different projects here on our campus, was sought out by the new Land Rover dealership to help them launch their sales campaign, trying to put Land Rover back on the road here. Napoleon encouraged us to try to get the same sweetheart deal he’d been given, but the problem was we didn’t have quite that much cash. Then when we got it, the Land Rover had gone up $10,000, and the next month it went up $10,000 more. We visited the Toyota dealership regularly and wrote letters seeking funds. Another foundation offered us a challenge grant which would get us close to the purchase price. But we just couldn’t seem to get over the edge. Then Napoleon went to
He had to get a visa via a European embassy here which, in Malawi, covers for its neighbor which Napoleon was visiting. The Malawian who was screening Napoleon asked him, “Would you like to buy a good car?” Napoleon learned that one of their diplomats was finishing his two year tour, and that he wanted to sell his personal vehicle which had only 30,000 kilometers (about 19,000 miles) on it. Napoleon looked at the car, a beautiful 2008 Nissan Patrol and knew it was a very good deal, even if not inexpensive.
He called us to a meeting before he left. “If you don’t buy this car, I’m going to sell you!” We made an appointment to see it and were given a ride by the same embassy worker. It was a very nice car. Not the luxury model, but very nice. It was not a steal, but the price was reasonable for what it was. And it would go to any village in rainy season as well as cover the mileage of southeastern Africa we'd be traveling. The price would more than double, however, with the import duty, and we didn’t have that much money. Some modifications would also have to be made to bring it up to the standards we were seeking (bull bar, etc.). A series of meetings with the diplomat began. He wanted to be paid in his home currency which would protect him against vacillations of the dollar. For the same reason, we would have rather paid in dollars. Others wanted the car, but had trouble coming up with that much of the diplomat’s currency. We could get the currency, as our money was in a U.S. bank, but we wanted a guarantee that we would not go above a certain dollar figure. We dickered over this point, the diplomat refusing to sign a contract we drew up until the currency exchange rate was no longer an issue.
The diplomat wanted to keep the car until the day he left and all the money had to be in his bank account before he would hand it over. We wanted the deal to be called off if an accident occurred on his watch. Eventually it became apparent that trust was necessary to make a deal, a trust greater than our brief friendship with this announced agnostic would support, even though he was also a gentle and wise senior statesman who cared deeply for the impoverished villagers and workers of Malawi. We could only trust him in spite of the many circumstance which could intervene to sour this deal by first trusting the Lord.
As the diplomat’s departure date moved back and forth we were rattled and frustrated. The dollar rose and fell against his currency, but never so far that the deal would have to be off. Finally we had to say to the good brothers and sisters at church and the bank in Montgomery, “Just do it. Buy the currency at the best possible moment and wire it to his account." The best possible moment became “anytime now”; then it was done, at least in America.
The currency was purchased and wired on a Tuesday. The diplomat had promised that his assistant would help us with the paperwork for the two remaining steps, importation and change of title, but the assistant wanted the week of his boss’ departure for vacation. We had to finish all the paperwork before the end of the previous week. To change the title we would also have to demonstrate that we had insurance. We priced insurance on Wednesday and sealed a deal with the best offer. On Thursday morning we changed money at the ForEx (foreign exchange bureau), and purchased the insurance, receiving the certificate and sticker we needed. We visited the embassy and got the diplomat’s signature on the importation papers verifying that he was selling the car to us, at what cost, and his original cost of the car. The assistant brought the car for inspection to Customs who verified the VIN and motor number and certified that the price was reasonable for that car. It was then discovered that a mistake had been made on the documents by Customs and new paperwork had to be signed by the diplomat. This would be done Friday morning.
Beth got in line at the bank Friday at 7:30 to get a certified check for the duty while I went to the embassy nearby to pick up the re-signed papers. With those in hand we headed back to Customs. At the proper office no one was in. They were all in a meeting. We took the check downstairs and paid the tax (greater than the selling price of the car!). On return, no one was there yet. An attentive ear at each door discovered the meeting, the door was cracked, the supervisor’s eye caught, and he came to help us. In five more minutes we were off.
At the regional road traffic office we were told that a diplomat’s car had to be handled at the national office, thankfully only two blocks up the street. We raced up the way, arriving at 10:30. The staff was very pleasant with the bad news: “Your papers are all in order, but the network is down. Please come back after lunch.” At that point the diplomat’s assistant left us to try to finish up some things at the office before his vacation. We were on our own.
We returned at 1:30. The staff arrived at 1:45. The network was back up, and we got in line near the front. Our turn came quickly, and the re-review of our papers was met with, “Where’s the letter saying the car is being sold to you?”
“We have this sales agreement, signed by both parties.”
“No, that won’t do. Here, use this one for an example,” and from the stack someone else’s letter appeared. Beth quickly took notes while I called the diplomat.
“We need you to sign another letter, sir. May we come over right now?”
“Another letter? My assistant said that would be all.”
“Yes sir, we thought so, but they say we need another letter.”
“Of course. I’m here packing. Come right over. I live in Area . . . Do you know the way?” I took careful notes on the directions.
And, “yes,” the clerk responded to our query, “you will have to have the car inspected to complete your paperwork, but if you get back before 3:30 we’ll be able to finish everything.”
Mtendere Children’s Village uses its truck on Fridays to shop for the next week’s operating supplies, so we had rented a car with driver for what we knew was going to be a harrowing and possibly feverish race against the clock. We were glad he was driving as Beth dictated based on the letter we’d seen, in the back seat I wrote by hand in a steno pad, trying to compensate for the bumps and curves. The assistant called me regarding why another letter was needed. His reply to my answer: “Oh, yes. That letter.”
We arrived at the diplomat’s home just as I finished writing, finding the house on the fourth leg we tried from the appointed intersection. The maid ushered us to the patio and offered much-needed water. The gentleman appeared, inquired about the rationale again, then signed the letter handwritten on both sides of a steno page. Then we told him we had to have the car inspected. This had not been contemplated by his assistant either, but the diplomat drove with us, I riding with him, Beth carrying the letter on ahead with our driver. The diplomat could not let someone else drive a car with his embassy’s plates on it.
The diplomat’s presence provided a little grease to the wheels of bureaucracy. As I mentioned his presence to the clerks, and that he hoped this process could be completed today, the information was relayed to supervisors, papers were placed on top of the stack and returned in a few short minutes. A first payment was made downstairs, a computerized form generated, back to clerk, back to supervisor, back across the hall to the clerk, a second payment was made downstairs, and then the “last step”. “Where do we find the inspector?”
“Oh, for that you have to go back to the regional office of the Road Traffic Department.”
Back in the two cars we hit the busy main street and pulled into the front lot of the appropriate office. A quick inquiry revealed that we needed to pull around back to the inspection lane. Having done so, I sought an inspector. One was engaged, took our paperwork, and eventually came out to inspect.
The inspection lane is a narrow alley between two buildings with a dangerously deep center pit for underside inspections (absolutely unused for any of several cars I’ve seen inspected there). With the diplomat in the car, the balding inspector, walking around the car to observe, shouted for him to turn on various lights and turn indicators. We could not figure out how to turn on the fog lights and the inspector gave up. They aren’t mandatory, just interesting. But it’s nearing 4:00 on Friday.
The diplomat was asked to wait on the side, the inspector slid behind the wheel, shut the door, sounded the horn several times, revved the 6 cylinder diesel, and popped the clutch. Smoking rubber was left on the slick cement both on takeoff and on slamming the all-round ABS brakes two seconds later. The triad was repeated with braking after a run of about 20 feet onto gravel approaching a curve with a steep upward bank guarding the far side of the curve. Our car joined the previous cars that had “Passed”, sliding into the curve with ABS complaining, coming to a halt before it hit the bank. “He’s no inspector, just a cowboy!” the diplomat expressed his disgust at the treatment of the vehicles. I was thinking about how much a tire balancing would cost and where I’d get it done well. But forms were checked off: “Pass”. This was verified, as required, by a second official. “What next?” I asked, as one man reviewed my papers.
“Take this and hurry, hurry to the front of the building and pay 1000 Kwacha. Hurry!!!” It was straight up 4:00. I ran.
The office was closed at 4:02 but two or three others bargained through an open window. As I joined them the diplomat pulled the car around in front of us. “Good afternoon. Please, this car is being sold by a European Diplomat, and he wants to finish today so he can leave the country shortly.”
“You live in Lumbadzi; you’re no diplomat.”
“Noooo. I’m the buyer. See that car out there? That’s the diplomat. See those plates? ‘10 CD
“Well, all right. That’ll be 6000 kwatcha.”
“I was told 1000.”
“No, it’s 6000.”
I handed over six thousand. “But I need a receipt.”
“That paper you have is your receipt.” There it was: 1000
We left and hurried back up the road to the national office, all our papers in hand. “Is there anything else we need to do?”
“Just make your plates.”
“And where do we do that?”
“Just down the street here, at the bakery, just before the regional office.” The driver knew the place.
It made no sense, but we headed for the bakery as the diplomat headed home to finish packing. I had been told that one of several [Asian] Indian shops could make the plates.
We saw the bakery, surrounded by several auto parts stores and pulled in. As we hopped out, appropriate documents in hand, an employee on his way out the door of one of the parts stores turned around and ushered us in. Over the protests of the manager he asked for our number, the size of our plates (which we quickly confirmed on their samples), if ours was to be a private vehicle (yellow plates), grabbed the blanks, went aside to a machine, and quickly stamped out both front and rear plates. “Four thousand nine hundred kwacha.”
“I understood they were twenty-five hundred.”
“A decade ago.”
More express service. We paid up and walked out, paint still wet, carefully propping our new plates on the floorboard and in the back seat. One thing was left: the money for the sale had not yet arrived in the diplomat’s bank account. He had remarked that it was interesting that we were navigating the Malawian bureaucracy faster than we could that of U.S. capitalism. Sometimes that’s the way it is.
The diplomat called on Saturday afternoon to say that the money had been posted to his account. Would we like to come get the car? We declined, noting that we’d spent three days in town and were just “hanging low” at the house today with no desire to get out. We’d pick the car up on Sunday afternoon after 4:00 when we finished doing some internet work in town. A call from the diplomat Sunday afternoon noting an urgent matter at the embassy moved us to 10:00 Monday. We were able to get there in time with the help of Mtendere’s driver, change the plates out, and then drive off in the car which many of you have made possible.
We are thankful to God for this very unusual opportunity. We would not have bought so nice a car, but it was the only one we could afford. A new car never came within reach of our bank balance, and most used imports are 6-8 years old or older, too worn to take on international trips regularly. We are thankful to all those who contributed specifically to this effort (including some of you of whom I probably haven’t heard of yet), and those who are considering a contribution based on our recent appeal. Though I know we’re close, I don’t think the car is paid for yet. (I’m not sure where our current balance stands, and the final cost of the car was more than we had planned due to exchange rates and higher-than-expected taxes). To enable the deal, Landmark (www.landmark.org) has covered the difference to the end of the year. And, we still need some money for the add-ons I’ve mentioned and driving the car around the region next year for the seminars we will teach. Our working fund is supplying current, “without-a-car” needs, so one-time or regular contributions would still be of help.
Those whom I know have contributed toward our “one-time” expenditures, the largest of which is this car, include:
The Church of Christ Foundation (of southern California)
Christopher Matthews
Henriette Baker
Sunny Hills Church of Christ, Fullerton, California
Mr. and Mrs. Russell Presley
Otter Creek Church of Christ, Nashville, Tennessee
David and Rebecca Matthews
Peter and Pamela Bogdanovic Charitable Trust
Body and Soul Ministries (BandS)
Pleasant Valley Church of Christ, Little Rock
Warren and Phyllis Skaug
Boyd Pate
Ezell Foundation
Christian Service Committee, Searcy, Arkansas
Margaret Peters
Julie Commander
Summer Darnell
Kelley Maltby
An Anonymous Foundation Supporting Mission Efforts in Churches of Christ
Chandler Street Church of Christ, Kilgore, Texas
Redlands (California) Church of Christ
Linda Taylor
George and Kris Conner
Henriette Baker
Robert and Allison Berger
Paul and Judy Teeter
Great things he has done,"
And continues to do.
praise God for answered prayers!!! peace. Kevin
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