The Life of a Missionary Algoa Bay Port Elizabeth

I’ve had a lot of plans in life for what I’d like to be
but cannot help but feel averse to being a missionary;
I don’t know why I have this view, but it’s my greatest dread
I’ll end up being a missionary if I’m not shortly wed.

It always seems that spinsters end up following this line,
It may be their life’s greatest goal, but certainly not mine,
And, clad with thick, black stockings, hair screwed up in a bun
they catch a ‘plane and start a life devoid of any fun.

They work out in the bundu, with ticks, and fleas, and lice,
They sleep in old tin shanties, with frogs, and rats, and mice,
And if they’re lucky, they can bath (in rusty tubs that leak),
though never very often – perhaps just once a week.

They cannot shop at Checkers when they run short of shampoo,
And when the toothpaste’s finished, there’s nothing they can do
but smile, and act quite cheerful, ‘though itchy, hot and tired,
Oh, the calling of a missionary leaves much to be desired.

They don’t have all the comforts like the folk in Civvie Street,
And often there is nothing else but samp and beans to eat,
They cannot go to movies or Putt-Putt every day,
And when their beat-up Kombi stops, can’t call for the A.A.

They don’t have “larney” churches where, with organs, hymns are sung,
They sit out in the pasture, amidst the cattle dung,
They don’t get vibrant preaches to enlighten and expound
They preach, themselves, each Sunday, to folk for miles around.

So often they must handle filth, sickness and disease,
With limited facilities – where people don’t say, “Please”,
Sometimes they see such gory sights, it makes them want to retch,
But still they cannot pack their bags and go off to the beach.

They face the roughest weather, enough to cause chilblains,
And have to share their beds with pigs when there are heavy rains,
They cannot merely flick a switch and flood the room with light,
Or use electric blankets when they go to sleep at night.

I wonder how they dry their hair when it gets sopping wet,
They can’t just pop along to “Dot’s” and have it nicely set;
Their lives must seem so very dull with music something rare
and what is done each evening, without a T.V. there?

When back at home folks spring-clean, they feel they’ve done their bit
By making up a parcel of clothes that do not fit;
And many battered, flowery hats are sent, along with shoes
and second-hand, dried, tea-bags, for missionaries to use.

Quite often these same people, from China or Peru
Arrive at church with pictures, and slides of what they do,
And while at home on furlough, drink endless cups of tea,
No wonder I don’t fancy being a full-time Missionary!

Reproduced with permission
SJA
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