Or I Always Said Convents Were a Great Place to Meet Single Women
Or Get Your Hand Out of Maputi!
Or Don't Cry for Me, Bulawayo
Or Zebra: the Other, Other, OTHER White Meat
Or When in Doubt, Get LOST
Hello again, all. It's been too long - though it may not feel that way to
some of you, as I understand a few are still getting through that last
novella, written in mid-June from Johannesburg. I recently arrived in
Namibia, and believe it or not it's my fourth country within a week. You'll
soon learn about my trials and tribulations through Zimbabwe (in
particular), Botswana, and another brief taste of South Africa. But first,
two quick public service announcements. When I tried to send out that last
15-page booklet, there were some problems as you might imagine, Hotmail
didn't take too kindly to sending out so much junk to so many good people.
So for those of you who didn't receive it, and still want to spend a couple
days reading it (as well as those of you who are completely new to my email
distribution list), please go to the Eric Apgar web site:
http://apgar.net/chillye/ -- you'll find all three of my previous bulletins,
as well as this one in short order not to mention a small flattering
caricature (which will probably be the only things short and small about
it). [As an added incentive, for all those who are fans of fab folk music
star Dar Williams and/or fun outdoor activities in the Napa Valley area, I
encourage you to check out some of the other funky aspects of Gar's site.]
Secondly, as I am getting prepared to head north toward Angola, and do not
expect to be online for a couple weeks, please make SURE that if you send me
an email that you do NOT enclose the original text of this long message to
you. I do want to read your correspondence, so I don't want my Hotmail
account to crash! Thanks. Now settle in for a few hours of reading.
As you may recall, I was preparing to head north to Zimbabwe for the latter
half of June, against the advice of anyone who was reading the media reports
about the violence that had been taking place prior to their national
elections on June 24-25. Nevertheless, I'd been invited to a gathering of
Episcopal missionaries from around Africa, and if they were all able to
brave the turmoil, I was not going to back out. The challenge was getting
there. The bus was dicey, the plane was expensive (I expected a better
rate, but with all the international observers coming in for the elections,
apparently the air tickets were just as costly as ever), and I'm a bit old
to start hitching rides. But as it turned out, I basically ended up doing
the latter. My buddy Dylan put me in touch with a travel agent friend of
his to find out about visa requirements, and as it turned out, his boy Peter
was planning to head (home) to Zim' for the weekend on the same day that I
was going! Bonus. So I was picked up at about 4:45am by Peter, a Charles
Dutton (TV's Roc) look-alike, and his pal Zino (?), the third founder of
the previously highlighted African hip-hop site http://www.rage.co.za, an
ugly hour when you stay up until close to 2am the previous night (but whose
fault was that?).
The drive through the northeastern part of South Africa was
unremarkable, although the 3 hours of sleep that night might have discolored
my view. Or maybe I was just feeling a bit down that I was leaving on
'Youth Day,' the anniversary of the Soweto uprising. In retrospect, it was
most likely due to the way that Zim tried to entrance me shortly after our
arrival. As we made our way northward toward Masvingo, the main city in the
center of the country, we passed large ant hills, high red grasses that
reminded me of rose-colored pussywillows, massive baobab trees that looked
like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, and incredible rock formations.
Monstrous stones, the size of hills, were accompanied by rock pilings that
just HAD to be put there by some prehistoric Giants. It was incredible:
multi-ton boulders were perched precariously on top of one another, a
blown-up version of the small columns one often finds around Stinson Beach
in Marin County.
Those small piles back in the S.F. Bay Area always moved me, for some
reason. I think it was because they represented some minor appreciation of
humankind for Creation reshaping a bit of what God had offered to us,
without destroying it (a rarity, in terms of our species' modification of
what's around us). A couple years ago, I went to Las Vegas for the first
time. And no, I didn't gamble. I went to attend a small gathering of
peacenik-types for an anti-nuclear vigil and protest at the Nevada Test
Site. About thirty of us took the protest onto the grounds of the test site,
a rather easy feat, since the barbed-wire fence that we crossed onto the
government land was still about 20 miles from the nearest building. Before
the state trooper came to escort me to the outdoors cattle-style holding pen
(in which we sat in the burning August sun for about an hour, as a minor
penance for our sins), I sat in the Nevada desert and created a couple of
those rock pilings. It seemed to me an appropriate tribute to the true
ownership of that patch of earth, for some reason. I've often wondered if
they are still standing.
As we made our way further north toward Harare, I felt an increasing
difference between this rural landscape from the urban environment of the
northern Gauteng Province of South Africa, in which I'd spent the previous
week. Oxen and goats grazed freely along the roadside. Low-hanging clouds
cast dark shadows over the bumpy landscape, adding to its dream-like
sensibility. The people standing in the small villages we drove through
were taller and darker than their southern neighbors. And the traffic- yes,
I soon learned that in Zim a traffic jam can be defined as three cars on
your side of the road and two on the other (preventing you from passing the
slowpoke in front of you). Actually, this happened more than I might have
predicted, for a few reasons. For one, the omnipresent old Datsun cars
(circa 1975) are barely able to drive more than 50mph, keeping those of us
in more modern transport in perpetual frustration. More seriously, the
trucks and busses moving slowly along the highway spewed filthy dark smoke
into the air, inciting a game of close-the-window, open-the-window every
time a large vehicle came into view. Add to this the ugly road conditions
in some of the areas, and our arrival was going to be a later one than we'd
hoped.
But it was the last hour that was the nail-biter. Due to the political
situation, petrol (gas) has become a rare commodity, and we learned that the
hard way. About 90 minutes outside our destination of Harare our gas gauge
approached empty, and we looked in vain for the final 100km for a petrol
station that actually had petrol! Somehow we managed to make it to the
outskirts of the capital city, despite running on red/E for the last hour of
the trip: apparently three combined sets of prayers worked. As we entered
the central city, I felt we'd been transported Star Trek-style to another
H-lettered capital city, Havana. Street lights were out all around the
downtown again due to the power shortages, no doubt lending an eery
quality to our careful crawl past corporate headquarters, foreign embassy
gates, and quiet shops. That night I stayed with a wonderful family - of
course, to me anyone who's lived in Poughkeepsie gets automatic bonus points
- Masimba and Joy Kambarambi. Joy (thanks to her brother, the Rev. Petero
Sabune) lived with my close family friends, the Bunnells, whose daughter
Becky is internationally-acclaimed as being my favorite babysitter when I
was a kid (and now holds the decidedly less-prestigious title of being a
CDC-affiliated medical doctor in Uganda).
Unfortunately, I was only able to stay with the Kambarambis for a few hours,
because early in the morning I was off to the Bernard Mizeki Christian
Festival, which is the largest annual gathering of Anglicans on the
continent of Africa. This year was to be an extra-special affair, as people
from four countries - Zim, Botswana, Malawi, and Zambia - were to convene to
elect a new archbishop (or 'primate,' in Anglican terminology) for the
church in Central Africa. In a large open space next to a local farm, that
I felt was vaguely reminiscent of a Woodstock festival, about 10,000 of us
gathered for a worship service, with a bevy of bishops (a gaggle? herd?
pride?) at the rear of the procession (you just TRY to get a bishop to move
to the less-important start of the line).
Admittedly, I've attended several bigger services than that, so I wasn't
overawed. Instead, my mind wandered as I sang along in Shona and Ndebele,
and mused about the number of languages in which I've participated in the
Eucharist besides English - hmmn, let's see: Spanish, French, Arabic,
Chinese, Japanese, Tagalog, Portuguese, Xhosa, Afrikaans, Zulu, and several
American Indian dialects are all immediately memorable. One nice thing
about being an Anglican (Episcopalian) is that, by and large, the service is
the same pretty much anywhere you go, so even a linguistical dum-dum like
yours truly has a basic understanding of what he's saying in whatever the
tongue-o'-the-day is.
I'll admit that at the time, I was of the opinion that the Festival had been
'oversold,' to borrow a word used by another U.S. visitor there. We'd been
told to expect 30,000 people, and an energy that couldn't be matched
elsewhere. Seeing only about 30% of that figure around us was a bit of a
letdown; so it was only much later, in reassessing the weekend, that we
realized that the political tensions surrounding the impending elections
kept a great many people away. Likewise, my reaction to the big choir
competition, one of the main features of the afternoon, was
less-than-overwhelming- in this case, because I was expecting 'African'
music, and instead got what I perceived to be locals offering a version of
the Christian music which I don't even listen to back in the States.
Basically, this naive outsider's stereotype of kente-cloth-influenced,
dance-spurring, African drum-driven (or any musical instruments, for that
matter) musicology was crushed by the suit & tie, vocal-only harmonizing we
were privileged to hear. Break out of the box, Flad.
My lack of enthusiasm about the day was soon changed by two events. First,
I saw an old friend, the Rev. Dr. Lynn Collins (no, Lynn, I don't mean an
OLD friend!), and met a group of folks she was accompanying on a 3-week
mission exposure program- more about that momentarily. Speaking of old and
Lynn (stay with me here, sister!), she quickly acknowledged my advancing age
with the warm greeting, 'Ethan! When did you get so gray?!' Ah, with
friends like these- Anyway, the second event was when I joined four very
special folks -- two of Lynn's equally striking travel partners, Jewel Jones
and Tacara Soones, and two local hosts, the Rev. Gift and Pamela Makwasha -
on a trip up the adjoining mountainside. Now before I get to the hike, I
want to note that as many of you know, I often have a feeble memory for
names. I prefer to blame it on my dad, which is unfair (not to mention
displacement, or some other psychological syndrome) - but hey, he's a
professor (read absent-mindedness) who willfully acknowledges his own lack
of memory skills when it comes to names. So I prefer to take the easy way
out, and blame my problem on bad genes. I'm pleased to say that I had no
problem remembering the names of Gift and Pamela. Gift, because of his
wonderful name, which reminded me of Peacemaker, the great youth minister
who I met earlier that month in Soweto. And Pamela, because it rhymes with
camera (no joke!), two of which she carried up the mountain!
As I was saying, Gift led us all up a path on this mountain. It really did
not need a guide at all because there were dozens, nay, hundreds of pilgrims
going in either direction. All around us were kids in street clothes, young
adults clad in choir outfits, middle-age mothers in their Anglican Mother's
Union attire, seniors using canes and tree branches for balance, all
walking, clambering, grabbing, supporting, moving up and down that winding,
rocky, occasionally steep trail. Two-thirds of the way up the mountain we
arrived at the shrine. It was a tiny cave - a pair of large rocks crushed
together, to the naked eye - surrounded by trees. The tall one closest to
it bore the easily visible mark of having been split in twain many decades
ago; then, years later, the two separate shafts reunited once again to form
a solid, single tree with a huge eye-like feature. Even more striking was
seeing how that tree -- and several others around the cave -- was wrapped
with what appeared to be hundreds of pieces of a natural ribbon substance.
I'd heard a bit about the story of Bernard Mizeki, and seen a couple short
pieces of the lengthy drama of his life being enacted in the drama down in
the open field below us. Two young fellows befriended me up by the cave,
and gave me their own rendition of the story, as we sat and listened to
people all around us testifying to God their prayers, sins, hopes, and
deepest concerns. I'll do my best to summarize the story.
Bernard Mizeki was an African missionary who was the first person to bring
the Christian gospel to the Shona people. He lived among the Shona, and
married a Shona woman, and for a period of time was quite successful in
converting members of that ethnic group to Christianity. However, the son
of a tribal chieftain who Mizeki had gained the trust of split from his
father and rallied a group of dissident Shona warriors against this outsider
and his foreign religion. Late one night they came to Mizeki's home, where
the son and his Shona compatriots speared Mizeki and left him for dead.
Mizeki dragged himself up the side of the mountain, sought shelter in this
cave, and told his wife to go seek help. When she was returning to the
mountain with others, a terrifying lightning bolt struck near the cave - and
the mountainside burst into flames. When they finally were able to make
their way up to the cave, they discovered that the tree next to the cave had
been cut in half by the lightning, and there was no sign of Mizeki in the
cave. Nothing. And he was nowhere to be found, no trace of him anywhere
providing a clue to his whereabouts.
As I stood and listened to these two youth relate the Mizeki legend to me, I
found it impossible for even my skeptical ear to be unaffected. Perhaps it
was because this martyr and his grave site had not yet been commercialized,
unlike the overwhelmingly touristy feeling I've had at other sacred shrines:
Jerusalem, for example. Maybe it was the fact that we were out in the open,
on a mountain, surrounded by trees, rocks, clean air, and other elements of
God's astounding creation. Probably the element of the people around me
speaking directly to God in their own languages had an influence. At any
rate, I was moved to join my two new friends, and those around us, in
tearing a piece of fresh sapling from a branch and tying it around one of
the cave's neighboring trees, while saying a (silent, in my case) prayer.
Tangentially, this special moment brought to mind another spiritual mountain
experience, again from the Southwest U.S. Back in 1994, I think, I had the
honor to join a group in Safford, Arizona, east of Phoenix about three hours
on Interstate-70. At the time I was working at the Episcopal Church Center,
and one of my key responsibilities was supporting various efforts in the
areas of anti-racism and racial justice ministries. In that capacity, I was
a member of the Racial Justice Working Group of the National Council of
Churches of Christ, which brought together religious representatives with
regional grassroots activists to develop common initiatives to combat racism
in our nation. The main reason we were meeting in Safford was that it was
located right next to the San Carlos Indian Reservation (the town was
practically surrounded by it, in fact), as well as a mountain that they
considered sacred. Unfortunately, the University of Arizona and the U.S.
government also considered Mt. Graham 'sacred' - atop this natural
skyscraper the U. of A. had erected two huge telescopes, with the support of
our government and some other major international financial backers.
This might not have been a big deal to those of us who supported
astronomical science - of course, they had done so without any support of
the San Carlos Apache- but no surprise there. My wishy-washy feelings
immediately changed, when I learned that for the previous twenty years the
local Apache had been denied any opportunity to visit the top of the
mountain and perform their sacred ceremonies. To make a long story short,
our group's ability to push a few key political buttons made it possible for
them to finally do so that weekend. I still have my photo of the sacred
circle of rocks they built honoring the four directions, and the one of
their kids cavorting on the adjacent snowbank, while sacred incense smoked
nearby. Despite the two huge human-constructed edifices in that location, I
had felt the similar confluence of the natural elements: a sacred site,
outdoors, and that rare feeling of being at a place that was, to a certain
extent, untouched.
That night I stayed at the home of a local parish priest, and roomed with
two Zimbabweans who, bless their hearts, didn't permit my exhausted self to
get any sleep. Baba Tembo Pearson, our group's beloved van driver, proved
to be one of those rare gems whose snore was full-throated and unstoppable.
Our third, an unnamed fellow, had apparently been up and down the mountain
several times without the benefit of anti-perspirant, much less deodorant.
It was an extraordinary combination. I tried to make do for the night by
sitting in a hard-backed chair with my head resting on a kitchen table- uh,
not a good idea. I found myself reflecting back to January 1998, and the
Grace Cathedral pilgrimage I joined to Nicaragua. There, in the friendly
barrio confines of Casa Ave Maria, I similarly had two roomies, but Bill and
Bear and I probably rivaled one another for stankiness and noise (well, OK,
no doubt I snored the most). And as so often happens, that led to me
thinking of how much I miss 'Oso.' I think the day's Mizeki story provided
me a context for thinking about how much death influences life, and how I've
been profoundly touched by some people that are no longer alive. And so, as
a minor form of tribute, in this short sentence I'm going to offer a brief
roll call of a few of my own saints, each of whom several of you knew and
would testify to their commitment to faith and social justice: Bear
Sebastian, Dr. Jean Sindab, Dr. Gloria Brown, Rev. Peter Holroyd, Bishop Bob
Longid, Jamie Boyll, and Chuck Beattie.
The next morning was a Sunday, thankfully. Going to service that morning
gave me the opportunity to ask forgiveness for all the evil words I had
muttered about the two bunkmates I'd abandoned unsuccessfully. But it also
provided me with an unique experience: hearing my friend Lynn preach. Have
you ever known someone for several years, but never actually seen them 'in
their element' - do what they do best? I have, many times. I remember
coming back up the Peninsula late one night from a San Jose Clash (now
Earthquakes) game (doubtlessly a loss) with Brian Raimundo and a couple
other Wes friends. 'Homeboy' decided to show us his office - the laboratory
where, chemist that he is, he mixed sinister cocktails of scientific
elements and compounds on a daily basis. It was enthralling! [Really, Bri,
it was!] As long as I'd known the brother - one of my closest friends out
in the Bay Area - I'd never really seen what he did best. How often do we
visit our friends who are fantastic teachers, in their classrooms? Never.
We've all got our own jobs to do, so it's rare that we get to see one
another's gifts shine. Well, this Sunday morning was one such opportunity.
I loved Lynn's preaching. She jokes, talks about her family, makes
connections between where she's from and the place that we're gathered - for
me, it worked.
Moreover, I realized that it was a very special occasion in the life of that
church to have Lynn give the sermon there. You see, the Anglican churches
in the Central African province have not yet decided to allow woman priests
in their region of the world. Fortunately, Reverend Doma didn't have any
such hang-ups, and he welcomed this outspoken, African-American, WOMAN
priest into his pulpit. And I was there to witness it. Cool.
I was actually privileged to be in the company of not one, but two women
Episcopal priests. The Rev. Jane Butterfield, a colleague of Lynn's in New
York, was the reason I had come to Zim in the first place. Jane is the
Episcopal Church's staff officer for Mission Personnel - for y'all
non-churchy folks, she's responsible for recruiting, deploying, and
supporting Episcopal missionaries around the world. She had generously
invited me to come meet her and this group of 'potential missionaries' at
the Mizeki festival, and to travel with them for a few days leading up to a
big gathering of missionaries from all around sub-Saharan Africa the
following weekend. And the reason that all of this was taking place in
Zimbabwe (all advice to the contrary) was that Jane and her family had
served there as missionaries back in the 1980s, and had maintained close
ties to that region ever since. So, later that day, we all headed eastward
into the country's famed eastern highlands for a more intensive rural
immersion experience. Five of our group were dropped off at one location,
St. Augustine's near Penhalonga, and then the rest of us drove about an hour
southward to another mission, known as Bonda.
About halfway to our destination, we came upon a frightful sight -- a crowd
appeared in the road, with a tractor-trailer off in the ditch on the right,
and a car on the left right in front of an overturned truck. It being
completely dark, save the artificial light of our van and some smaller
on-site lamps, my poor vision was unable to make out what else was along the
road as we drove slowly past the scene. Others were not as fortunate. A
local police officer who we picked up and transported about 20km confirmed
the nightmare that some of my fellow passengers had painfully witnessed in
greater detail than I had - a truck had overturned, only about 20 minutes
before we came by, and at least 25 people had died. Bodies had been strewn
about the roadside, a macabre scene taken straight out of a horror movie.
I'm deeply grateful to my colleagues in that trying moment for their witness
and strength as we struggled together to deal with the reality of that
moment. In one destructive action as many people had died as in all the
recorded pre-election violence. More deaths than the combined figures in
Cape Town from the terrorist bombings and the bus-taxi warfare. And this
tragedy had been wrought only moments before our own vehicle had arrived.
Perhaps the saddest aspect about it is that it could not be separated from
the political situation, after all. Two issues intricately tied it into
what was happening with the impending election. It turned out that the
truck, overflowing with people, was returning from a Zanu-PF political
rally. [Zanu-PF is the ruling party in Zimbabwe, President Mugabe's party
which at that time held 117 out of 120 seats in their parliament.] Most of
them were farmworkers. And everyone to whom we spoke about the incident was
convinced that many of these workers had been 'encouraged' (forcibly) to
attend this rally, and that was the reason they had been stuffed into an
ill-prepared transport vehicle to get them to and from the event. Strike
one.
Strike two came forth in the state-owned media over the next couple days.
As several people predicted would happen, the television and print media
reported the accident had caused anywhere between 5-8 deaths. I had been
told that Zanu-PF party would not want people to hear about the actual
number of deaths because people would automatically know by the large figure
that people had been transported in unsafe conditions. And this would
implicate Zanu-PF, since apparently they had been guilty of similar
'encouragement' elsewhere around the country. It was a sad, sad testimonial
to the level of hostility and dishonesty that had evidently pervaded the
country.
The theme of potential violence, albeit of a different flavor, continued at
our destination, Bonda Mission -- a place that seemed to me the most
unlikely of spots to have that worry. Bonda is a very rural, small
community whose corporate life is centered around three significant
institutions: a hospital, a girls' high school, and a convent. I was
depressed to learn that out in this remote location -- miles from the
nearest major town (Bonda doesn't even show up on either of the two Zim maps
I have), with a convent at its epicenter - crime was a serious concern. So
much so, that not only was the entire complex surrounded by a barbed-wire
fence, but they had recently hired a security patrol with guard dogs and
guns at the ready. You can leave the city, but-
Our time in Bonda was, fortunately, crime and violence-free - with the
exception of the ways in which I criminally destroyed the Shona language in
my rare attempts to use it with our forgiving nun hostesses. [Spinal
Tap-based pun time: I ask you, how much more black could that habit be? And
the answer is nun. Nun more black.] The Community of the Holy
Transfiguration is an eminently welcoming place, one of those places whose
poverty is belied (?) by its generosity of spirit. My lodging for those
three nights was in a rondavel (the round, thatch-roofed homes that are
normally only one room) occupied by Amos Presler, son of the
previously-mentioned Jane Butterfield. Amos had spent the previous six
months in Bonda as a teacher at the local primary (elementary) school, and
is in my mind well-advanced beyond his supposed teenage status.
A few memories of Bonda still come readily to mind, two weeks later. The
first was my introduction to 'sadza,' the staple diet of most Zimbabweans.
Sadza is usually served in the morning as a grits-like porridge (think Cream
of Wheat), and at lunch and/or dinner as a harder cakey substance. Its
taste is therefore dictated by what (if anything) you are given to eat with
it, and I was fortunate to eat some delicious stews in partnership with my
sadza over my time in Zim. The funnest part about the post-noon sadza is
that, when eaten the local way, you do so with your hands - tearing off
pieces of it and grabbing your other foods with them, as if you were eating
Ethiopian food, for instance.
On the more serious side, our visits to the hospital, the orphanage, and the
primary school were all sobering, for different reasons. Thanks to
financial support in recent years from a range of international donors, the
hospital has become one of the best medical facilities in the eastern part
of Zimbabwe, and a training center for nurses that adjoins the campus spoke
to the respect it holds in the region. But the excellent facilities and
staff have come with a price: a severe increase in costs for patients. In
the past couple years the number of visitors to it has dropped precipitously
as the costs for care have risen, and the wards which were apparently full
at one time now sit with many open beds. As the Zimbabwe currency gets
increasingly inflated during this bad economic climate, and unemployment
continues to rise, this problem will not soon go away. Nevertheless, it was
impressive to see the equipment and human resources ready and available for
those who needed it. The orphanage, which is run by the sisters on the
grounds of the convent less than a kilometer away from the hospital, is an
entirely different story. It has literally no money, and we were shocked to
see that only two toys were visible in the 'playroom' for the 20+ kids that
stayed there: an old teddy bear, and (go figure) a plastic pistol, which a
couple of the kids kept holding to my head (GREAT). The time that we spent
with these kids seemed to me the most temporary of diversions to their
fairly directionless lives, and I left there with a heavy heart. It's sad
to say that the depressing scenario depicted in 'The Cider House Rules'
would have been a huge step forward for these kids, who had basically
nothing (including adult supervision, for much of the day).
St. David's Primary School (where, of course, several of those orphans went
to school) offers a middle ground. With few financial resources, the
dedicated staff at that place have managed to create one of the better
primary schools in that part of the country - consistently scoring in the
top five schools in regional academic competitions. A few of us sat down
with the teachers from St. David's over tea and popcorn (known in Shona, to
my great amusement, as Maputi - leading to the suggestive 'Get your hand out
of Maputi') and compared our educational systems. Several members of our
U.S. group noted with appreciation the sense of discipline in the classrooms
here, and the respect with which the teacher is held by the students. At a
time when in our own country students defy, and occasionally even attack
their teachers (the news about the latest shooting in Florida was fresh in
our minds), there was a strong feeling that some discipline back in the
States was definitely 'in order.' At the same time, I spoke to my
increasing awareness of the ways in which the U.S. educational system
encourages independence, for better or worse, as a reflection of (the
mythology of) the individual's ability to go his/her 'own way.'
It brought to mind what my dad had reported 3 years back upon the exciting
news that he had been awarded a Fulbright fellowship to teach American
Historical Geography at a university in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan -- a country
that practically none of the members of our cartographically-inclined family
had heard of, much less knew how to spell. For those who are still in the
dark when it comes to the world map, it's one of the former Soviet states in
Central Asia, and sits in the midst of a bunch of other republics ending in
-stan: look for prefixes like Uzbeki-, Kazak-, Turkmeni-, etc. Anyway, the
occasionally-feared but usually-admired Professor Flad (according to a
sample poll I've done of his former Vassar students) indicated that the
topic of his course was to be the least important of three aspects of his
teaching: in other words, if the Kyrgyz kids actually learned anything about
American Historical Geography, it would be a big bonus. The second, more
important aspect was that he would be teaching in English (a good thing,
based on my parents' frustrated communiques regarding their attempts to
learn Russian). As in many overseas countries - like Zimbabwe, for instance
-- the young people wanted to gain command of the main language of
international commerce at this point in world history. But the most
important factor - and the reason I brought up this long, tangential story -
was that he would be teaching in the STYLE of U.S. liberal arts education.
That is, he was not going to be the sole authority in the classroom. Each
student also had a piece of 'the truth,' and the course was to be
interactive, a dialogue rather than a lecture. This was apparently going to
be a radical departure for students who had normally been directed that the
'teacher is always right,' and who were told to memorize what the authority
figure said and to not speak out of turn. Now I realize that it may seem a
stretch to compare the education of young children to that of young adults
in university - and I also realize that many countries need more vocational
and career-oriented learning then what the liberal arts system offers -- but
my main point is that I perceive there to be an essential difference in
educational theory: the prioritization of respect for authority (which
equals memorization principles) versus the view that critiquing authority is
good (which equals a creative, think-outside-the-box mentality). My
Westernized opinion, anyway.
Our next stop was Nyanga, a place whose name brought an 'Oooh' from any
Zimbabwean to whom I mentioned it. Cecil John Rhodes, ol' bugger that he
was, had claimed Nyanga as one of his favorite spots. It was pretty easy to
see why. Set in the midst of the beautiful eastern highlands, the
surrounding forest contained various types of trees (including what I
perceived to be pines, which I hadn't previously noticed in southern
Africa), a multicolored paint-by-numbers range of flowering plants (in
wintertime, no less), a cacophony of birdcalls, and even monkeys of a couple
different flavors. The sage-beyond-his-years Amos (well, with a name like
that, what did one expect?) wryly observed that the former colonialist must
be turning in his grave now that the proceeds from the former Rhodes Hotel
(now the Rainbow Nyanga), set in this idyllic location, are funneled into
the political coffers of President Mugabe's political party. Ya gotta love
it.
For the next five days I sat as a guest of the aforementioned meeting of
Episcopal missionaries from around Africa. In addition to the natural
beauty of the setting, and the amenities of the 'Rhodes Carlton' (it cracked
me up that Amos and I shared rondavels in two places only 50 kilometers
apart, one of which had no bathroom, one bad mattress, and a roof slowly
disintegrating due to insects, and the other was basically a 3-star hotel
room, with a television to boot), such as full-course meals, there was also
some food for thought. One central theme of the retreat was 'Home,' which
mirrored a subject that I myself have pontificated upon in prior emails.
The context for the meditations offered by the Rev. Titus Presler (husband
of Jane, and one of the foremost Episcopal advocates of missionary
initiatives) was centered around how, when and why missionaries have many
different understandings of home. Over two months into my trip, this topic
struck a special chord with me, as I was struggling to find my sense of
'purpose.' Now, as then, I've wondered where I'm 'going' - not so much
geographically in the next few weeks, but life-wise in the coming months.
I'll admit that I had a view that by this point, I would have developed some
clarity around what was next. Titus' reflections, unfortunately, served to
muddle the picture- but in a good way. I think I'm more open to even
crazier, zanier possibilities than before: while I am not focused on
spending more time abroad, I'm no longer ruling out the idea of spending an
extended tour of duty at a single international destination. We'll have to
see how things shake down over the next year.
Another significant focus, which emerged independently out of the group
discussions, was HIV/Aids. As you might imagine, it's fairly impossible at
this time to work in Africa and avoid the topic. Again, I've looked at this
issue in my prior musings, so hopefully I won't repeat below what I've
previously written. However, as the 13th International AIDS conference is
taking place this week in Durban, South Africa, a couple things are worth
mentioning. The first is the current worldwide focus on attacking South
African President Thabo Mbeki, who recently made the unusual call to
reassess whether HIV is the sole cause of AIDS. On the one hand, I resonate
with those who've expressed their disbelief at his insistence of defying the
common wisdom. But on the other, I've sensed that his posturing might be a
clever political ploy. Many southern Africa Aids activists have been deeply
frustrated by the unwillingness of a large majority of the population to
accept that HIV is affecting their communities (the stigmatization of the
disease has led to a virtual silence in many areas). Similarly, less than
six months ago the issue of Aids in Africa was a ho-hum one to the rest of
the world community. So I've wondered if Mbeki's stance has been, in
essence, a publicity effort - by taking this outsider's opinion, he's put
Aids at the fore of the media debate here, as well as worldwide, for much of
the past three months - enabling a new focus on the disparity between the
developed and developing countries of affected populations and resources to
combat the pandemic. And as many of you may know, the sad reality is that
there is, indeed, a rapidly growing gap. A new report that emerged this
week outlined the horrific status of Aids in South Africa: people between
the ages of 15-50 are dying at unprecedented levels compared to just ten
years ago.
One more sensitive issue, which came forward in smaller dialogues, was
racism. Certainly missionaries have a pretty poor record, historically, of
addressing the 'race question,' and some of the folks there were acutely
aware as to the ways in which their presence reflected that dynamic. The
majority of the missionaries present were white Americans (like yours
truly), although several of the other guests from the Mission Exposure
Program were African-American. Obviously, being in Africa was a
cross-cultural experience for almost all of us, but I felt two primary
separate interpretations of that situation. On the one hand, there were
those of us for whom the racial/ethnic conflict in the United States forms a
(fairly) central focus of our understanding of our lives. Many of us
struggled, as we strove to view African issues through the lens of our own
racial experiences. There are similarities, to be certain (you can't just
wish away the common bond of a few hundred years of colonial legacy), but
there are also very different tensions that it is hard for some of us to
acknowledge. For instance, to those of us who define racism as racial
prejudice plus power, how do we understand power in an African context,
where basically every sub-Saharan country has a black-led government? How
different is political power from economic power? And how do we compare the
ethnic (or so-called tribal) tensions within countries as a manifestation of
racism --- for example, the genocide that took place of tens of thousands
of Ndebele people in the 1980s by the Shona-led Zimbabwe government, which
parallels the internal warfare taking place in a number of nations around
the continent? Conversely, there were those at the retreat for whom a
racial/ethnic vision of the U.S. is secondary, which of course informs their
African experience. While on the one hand that might lead to a better sense
of openness, uninhibited by cultural baggage, I admittedly take an opposing
perspective. Based on my limited time here, I've developed the opinion that
sending missionaries overseas who don't have a strong understanding of the
ongoing concerns about racism in the U.S. does a disservice to both
countries.
Most of the missionaries offered brief summaries of their work, which helped
us all to get to know one another and the various issues affecting people's
ministry. A few excerpts: John and Judy Gay, a couple who have spent the
past four decades in Africa (Liberia and Lesotho), spoke about the need to
really shut up and listen to people - said John, once you listen, you learn
that what people are doing 'makes sense,' even though it might seem
ridiculous at first. Stewart Lane, who has spent an almost equal amount of
time in Malawi, developed this analysis further: 'the solutions that work
ëover there' do NOT work here, and are often ësolutions' to issues that
people here don't even perceive to be problems! The ëAid virus'
(development monies funded by the World Bank/IMF) is at least as destructive
as the Aids virus.'
Barbara Lutton, serving in Kenya, offered a more humorous anecdote. She
noted that for a long time she would create a 'plan' of what she was going
to do each day - but that after long enough in Africa, she realized that it
never goes according to 'the plan.' So she's changed her vision of ministry
to a fairly succinct, 'OK God, what are we going to do today?' It made me
think about the concept of time, which is always interesting in the African
context. I've been reading a wonderful collection of short stories by famed
South African author Nadine Gordimer called 'No Place Like:' (published in
1975). One of the stories talked about a young woman who always needed to
be moving, thinking, doing, and her struggle out in a jungle setting to
realize there was an endless supply of time to do, live, be. I contrasted
this with one of the few quotes I ever remember from a teacher. It was back
in Poughkeepsie Middle School, and my science class (I think it was Mrs.
Bunnell's class) had a substitute teacher for the day - always a recipe for
disaster, as most of you know. After about 10 minutes of being utterly
frustrated by our group's inability to pay attention, the sub blew up. 'You
are wasting my time, and your own!' he thundered. 'I am going to teach you
a lesson, which I hope will stay with you for the rest of your lives!'
[Clearly it did, so he was apparently a very good teacher.] He continued,
'Time is MONEY. And money is TIME. If you lose a minute now, you'll NEVER
get it back. Now stop wasting money!' Woof. I guess that's what happens
when you're always worried about money.
Barbara wasn't the only one to offer some humor. Our Boston linguistic
expert, Carole Simon (R's appear and disappear at will), was good for at
least two hilarious quotes a day. In the hotel pub - always the site of the
best stories - one night Carole dropped back-to-back scorchers. 'Who ah
you, my muthah?' she demanded of a member of our group (who was the age of
one of her daughters, and had the temerity to ask if that was Carole's
second drink). Smiling and pointing at the festive cocktail in that
person's hand, she followed that with the zinger, 'And what ah you doing
with one of them hoochie drinks??!' Patricia McGrecor offered comedy of a
different flavor, recounting their family story of trying to get to
Mozambique nine years ago. Her ability to share the seemingly endless tale
of illnesses and plane troubles was touching in light of the fact that their
family had been robbed at gunpoint the first day of the retreat, at a
tourist spot close to Nyanga, a sober reminder of the potential for violence
in the countryside.
Fortunately, that personal criminal assault was the only real violence we
heard reported during the week of the national parliamentary elections. It
seemed that the prayers and calls for safety throughout the country during
that tense time period had their effect. The elections took place, observed
by several hundred international monitors, and for the most part were deemed
to be free and fair. Out of 120 seats in the parliament that were being
contested, 62 were won by the ruling party, Zanu-PF, which has held power
since independence in 1980. 57 were won by a new opposition party, MDC
(Movement for Democratic Change). MDC - which is contesting in court the
results of 20 of the seats that were won by Zanu-PF, alleging electoral
fraud in those districts - is amazingly only 9 months old. It was formed
last year as a fairly last-minute protest movement against President
Mugabe's ruling party, which has never faced any strong opposition.
Basically, what it boils down to is that people are fed up with Mugabe, who
has ruled (often with an iron fist) for the past two decades since
independence. I tell you in all honesty that of the several dozen
Zimbabweans that I spoke to in the month around the election, not ONE was
supportive of Zanu-PF. Literally. Everyone who had the ability to vote was
going to support one of the opposition candidates. Now this didn't mean
they necessarilly supported MDC; in fact, some of the folks who shared their
decision with me (occasionally in hushed tones) admitted they had no idea
what MDC stood for, but they were fed up with Mugabe and Zanu. While Mugabe
was not himself up for re-election (the presidential election will be held
in 2002), there is now widespread speculation that his own party may call
for his resignation, so that they won't run as much of a risk of getting
entirely swept out of power in two years time.
Many of you will know that the primary issue of the campaign, as articulated
by President Mugabe, was the question of land reform. Mugabe's had assumed
a hard-line stance early this year in support of a group of Zimbabwe war
veterans who had occupied predominantly white-owned farms in protest of the
lack of land redistribution over the past twenty years. This is widely
acknowledged to be a very valid issue - something in the range of 80% of the
arable land in the country is owned by less than 5% of the population, the
majority of whom are white (sound familiar to many other developing
countries?). However, the populace rebelled against Mugabe's decision to
seize this issue in recent months, determining that he had simply done so as
a type of political grandstanding to the poverty-stricken people in advance
of the planned elections. Most people argued that Mugabe's government
should have dealt with this issue long ago, and that it was disingenuous for
him to highlight the problem now. [And some insinuated that he himself has
become one of the largest land owners in recent years.] To me, one of the
intriguing aspects of this debate was the insistence by the majority of the
people I spoke to (most of whom were black) that the issue not be cast in a
racial context. There was, as I said, widespread agreement that most of the
large, absentee farmowners are white, and that some of them are a continuing
source of the problem. But several people also noted that those economic
powerholders form a small percentage of the white population, so to demonize
all whites for the land problem was exacerbating the conflict.
This issue at the center of the election debate brought into focus a problem
several central and southern African states are currently grappling with
(and from what I read, other parts of Africa too) - corruption. In the
years following independence and transition to majority rule (1994 in South
Africa; 1990 in Namibia; 1980 in Zimbabwe), the former revolutionary parties
have obviously struggled to establish stable nations. There are many
factors that prevent them from doing so successfully (the aforementioned
AIDS, lack of economic power & racism, international debt, etc.), but a
growing concern is corruption (and power-consolidation) at the highest
levels of government. As unemployment grows and many communities face
economic collapse, they have become increasingly disaffected by the images
of well-paid government ministers and political officials that often appear
to be 'on the take.' This is certainly not indigenous to this part of the
world (that's for sure), but it is a primary concern to the countries here
that are trying to re-build trust in government.
--------------------------
Then began the Journey - capital J - my own exhausting version of the comedy
film 'Planes, Trains, and Automobiles,' which I'll call 'Kombis, Trains, and
Busses.' Two of the missionaries that attended the retreat, Minita Finger
and Mike Johnson, joined me in an effort to go to Victoria Falls. All three
of us recognized this might be our only opportunity to see one of the seven
wonders of the world, so we were determined to take advantage of it. At
5:30am we squeezed into a van that was transporting most of the missionaries
back to the Harare airport, and we commenced our pilgrimage to Vic Falls.
Five hours later we arrived in Harare (despite a flat tire that held us up
for a half-hour), and we then spent the next hour driving around the capital
city in search of a way to move us along the road. [Mom and Cristin, sorry
that I did not have the time to connect with the people in Harare you'd
recommended I contact.] At 11:30 our beloved Baba Tembo pulled alongside a
bus just as it was leaving for Bulawayo. We clambered on to this 'local'
bus, and settled down for a six-hour ride on a three-hour road (that's what
happens when the bus makes every stop). Minita located a seat in front next
to a couple chickens; Mike grabbed an aisle seat two-thirds of the way back
by a deaf & dumb fellow who handed out cards asking for donations; and I got
a seat in the last row in between one guy that smelled of alcohol and
another who proceeded to down 4 beers in the first hour of the trip. Hmmn.
I decided that better the guy in the back of the bus doing so than the one
in the front - I'd been warned by people (and my guide book) that drivers in
Zim start drinking early (and often, like they vote in Chicago).
It was lucky that we caught that bus, because it got us to Bulawayo at about
6pm, shortly before the overnight train to Vic Falls - the next scheduled
bus would have arrived way too late. We got tickets for a first-class
compartment (it's a relative term, I assure you - but hey, we were sleeping,
so who cares what it looks like?), and arrived on-time the next day at 7am.
Vic proved to be a mixed experience. The community depends on the tourist
industry, and the political situation meant that virtually no tourists were
there. It was a buyer's market, so for anyone who enjoy taking advantage of
local people with no resources, it was a good time to be there. However, if
that's not your bag, baby, and you don't like being approached by every
local denizen desperate to have you help them make a living, it was a
bummer.
It reminded me of going to Cairo back in late January, 1996. My homegirl
Meredith and I soon discovered that we were among the only foreigners doing
the tourist thing in that tourist-dependent metropolis - it was outside the
normal holiday season, and toward the end of Ramadan. We therefore had such
wonderful scenarios as the Gaza pyramids and the Sphinx all to ourselves
late one afternoon, and bargain rates on gorgeous carpets. But it was
depressing, as we turned away person after person who wanted to guide, help,
or beg. I know that is the normal context in some of these cities, but I
can say honestly that it was an exacerbated problem in both of these
instances.
I am extremely glad to say that going there was well worth the hassles we
incurred. The Falls were- how should I describe them? Outstanding.
Spectacular. Magnificent. Overwhelming, resplendent, riveting, excellent,
incomparable, tremendous, incredible- [add your superlative here]. Along
with Banff Glacier Park in British Columbia, Canada, they are the most
extraordinary natural settings I have visited. I am not normally one for
scriptural references, but as I sat staring open-mouthed at the seemingly
endless flow of water (and mused, as I have at the ocean, when does it get
turned off?), I surprisingly found myself searching for one of the Psalms.
There are several, but Psalm 93 seemed especially relevant (my apologies in
advance for the patriarchal language of this interpretation):
The Lord reigns and has put on robes of glory; the Lord has put on his glory
and he has girded himself with strength.
He has made the world so firm that it cannot be moved.
Your throne is established from of old; you are from everlasting.
The floods have lifted up O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the
floods lift up their pounding.
But mightier than the sound of many waters, than the mighty waters or the
breakers of the sea; the Lord on high is mighty.
Your decrees are very sure, and holiness O Lord adorns your house for ever.
I returned on our second day for a last look at the Falls before our train
departure that evening, this time standing atop the free Zambezi Bridge (as
I decided I couldn't afford a second $20 admission ticket to the national
park). While staring at the mighty waters, just a few feet from the place
where crazy bungee-jumping pilgrims take their leap of faith, I wrote the
following diary entry (excerpt), which draws on my comments above:
'It isn't often that I want a Bible, and I'm guessing that if and when it
happened previously it was out of fear, not glory. But yesterday and today,
as I've stood and gaped at the Falls, I've yearned for that historic book
which might offer appropriate tribute to this seemingly indescribable
wonder. My sense is that only one of those ancient prophets might be able
to capture the majesty of this amazing example of God's creation. It
reminds me so strongly of the lesson Gordon Aeschliman and his 'Spirit, Soil
& Voice' co-leaders tried to teach our study team: using all of our senses.
Basically, it's impossible not to do so here. The thundering of the Falls -
constantly raining down in front of us, at close to 5 million cubic meters
per minute (!) - is an extraordinary sound to these ears normally attuned to
human-made noises of the city. Its touch, and even taste, were overwhelming
yesterday as Mike and I walked further and further northeast toward Danger
Point, finally getting completely soaked by the storm of mist that
incessantly rained down upon us. I had a rainjacket in my backpack, but
what would have been the purpose of putting it on? Only to deny the
wonderful drenching of my pores by this endless litany of aquatic praise to
God's glory. Better to stand, arms wide, letting it soak through my heavy
t-shirt, watching the mesmerizing shower that emerged from three channels of
a seemingly modest river - and to delight in my inability to stop it. My
nose was aroused, not merely by getting wet in the 150-meter high mist cloud
that covered the entire middle section (or Main Falls), but by the SMELL of
wetness - a weird mixture of flora, dirt, rock, and the brief moments of
thick humidity, I suppose. I can't quite figure it out, which perhaps is
its allure - but you can smell it when you get near a small waterfall in a
modest river, perhaps even a large stream, and you can sense it when you get
near an open bathroom shower. And it's practically unnecessary to say how
my sense of sight has been influenced by this magnificent beauty. The first
glimpse of it yesterday morning, in between Cataract Falls and the
Livingstone statue, left me at a loss for truly descriptive words. We came
upon the famous staircase of 73 steps, set in stone at the western end of
the Falls, and unfairly boastful introduction to the spectacle. Our
movie-like view along that rim provided both a close look at the crashing
deluge, as well as a right-below-your-feet view of the swirling gorge at its
base-'
I guess you could say that I liked it... The most fun that I had was on the
bridge, when a couple young Zambian kids came up to me to chat. After
getting over my initial reactive response of 'No, I don't have anything to
give you,' I realized they were willing to just talk - a refreshing change.
So for the next couple hours I traded stories with John, Noah, Joel and
Steven, students at the Palm Grove Basic School - who owe me ten Zim
dollars, as I've now confirmed they lost the bet we made (over who South
Africa's opponents are in the World Cup group qualifying stage).
The fun ended once I had to return to Bulawayo with my travel partners. We
had booked another overnight train ride, which would get us to the capital
city of Matebeleland on Wednesday morning at 7am. As we sat in the Victoria
Falls railway station, the departure time of 6:30pm arrived and there was no
train. No big deal - it's Africa, it will come in good time. Well, it
depends how you define good time. A little while later an announcement was
made that the train engine was not working, and they had to order another
one from elsewhere in the country - the closest was three hours away. So,
amidst a certain amount of grumbling, everyone on the platform sat down to
wait. Shortly after 8pm our hopes were falsely raised. A freight train
pulled in, and the engine was disengaged to pull our train into the station.
But that was just a temporary reprieve, an attempt to mollify us all and
get us onto the train - a new waiting position. 9 o'clock came, and no
engine. 10pm, nope. 11, the same story. At about 11:45 Minita and Mike
decided to go to be, having beaten up on me in gin rummy for long enough
(watch out when you take on a missionary in a game of cards, that's all I
have to say). Less than 20 minutes later, without any sort of warning, our
train began to pull out of the station.
Well, we were about 6 hours late, but no big deal. We'd still get into town
by noon, right? Wrong. At 4am our friendly conductor rapped on our
compartment door to share some bad news. There had been a derailment
somewhere near Bulawayo (which we later found out the train company knew
about all along, yet chose to send us into the mess anyway). We would all
have to get off in about 90 minutes at a tiny place called Dete - the only
real stop between Vic Falls and Bulawayo - and take busses that would be
waiting for us there. True to their word, at 5:30am we pulled into Dete,
and one of the busses was sitting there, unloading passengers who'd come
from Bulawayo and would take our train back north to VF. All seemed to be
working fine. A bunch of the passengers from our train bum-rushed the bus,
and then proceeded to sit on it for an hour while people fiddled with some
mechanical problem. Finally, when another bus showed up, they were unloaded
and stuffed onto the new one. Hours later, around 9:30, two more busses
finally arrived. The rest of us crammed into those disreputable vehicles,
and then suffered the same process - wait, without any announcement. Yours
truly was one of four people standing, as all seats had been taken, and
since I was too tall I stood for the next hour with my head cocked sideways
underneath the roof. Finally, I sat on the floor - and once again, without
warning we soon departed (about 5 hours after arriving in Dete). Less than
an hour later, we pulled off the road - one of our tires was smoking! A
half-hour later, when a 'regular' pay-as-you-go bus pulled up to the scene
of our distressed caravan of travelers, my missionary comrades decided
they'd had enough and loaded our stuff onto the new bus (thanks Minita). We
arrived in Bulawayo at 3-something in the afternoon- having turned what is
actually less than a 6-hour journey into a 21-hour maddening process.
That evening I was picked up by my main man Kingdom Mugadza, Bulawayo
be-bopper and current University of Cape Town student. Over the next three
nights the Mugadza family set up a full-scale B&B, welcoming not only me but
three of his fellow UCT coeds (as they all were enjoying their mid-winter
break): Roy from Harare, Phyllis from San Diego (who I've praised at length
in previous missives), and my new homeslice Matt from New York - and
Wesleyan! [Just one more year, Matt, you're almost finished with
Middletown.] In Bulawayo I tasted !nara melon (that's right, !nara - the
exclamation point is pronounced as a 'glottal click'), an interesting
cucumber-like food that grows in the Mugadza's backyard, and which we doused
with salt. I also was treated to a 'scud' - a missile of a different sort -
it was the container in which Kingdom purchased the local beer, 'chibuku,'
from a nearby shebeen (illegal tavern). Normally a teetotaler, I figured it
was appropriate for me to take a good swig from the bowl that was offered to
me as an honorary parting gift on my last morning (during breakfast!).
Other highlights of our time included: playing chess (for the first time in
a couple decades) against Kingdom's precocious younger brother; hiking in
the phantasmagorical Matobo Hills National Park (we located the Bambata Cave
-- no known relationship to the Bronx hip-hop legend -- and purviewed its
rock art , paintings which are surmised to be thousands of years old); and
talking late into the night with two of the folks about our different
understandings of Christianity.
Our discussion inevitably turned to sexuality, which was no real surprise,
since women's rights to the ordained ministry and gay and lesbian issues
have divided the religious community in recent years. We achieved a
moderate level of agreement about women among the clergy, but when it came
to the more sensitive topic I'm pretty certain that none of us convinced the
other of the 'errors' of our respective belief patterns. Following the
conversation, in fact, I feel stronger than ever about my convictions that
homosexuality is not a sin. Our soft-spoken debate had focused on the fact
that my two friends considered scripture to be the foremost (if not only)
path to God, while I expressed the Anglican heritage of using tradition and
reason (human experience) to 'balance' (in essence) what's written in the
Bible. There was a lot more to it than that, but that was a central thesis.
Another contrast I thought about afterward was how we experience God. For
many people, a personal relationship with God is the foremost expression of
their religious life - and studying the Bible is often the key aspect of
this relationship. I, on the other hand, tend to have my strongest
connections when I am in community with others. It reminded me of a
presentation that Gift Makwasha had made in Nyanga, during which he equated
faith with fellowship. That concept rang true for me.
Speaking of gifts (sorry)- Kingdom will always have a place close to my
heart after giving me one of the best compliments I've ever heard: 'Chilly,
you've got the coolest walk I've seen.' High praise, indeed, in my book.
As a teenager I was a copious student of the stride - linguistically I was
fascinated by the fact that the dictionary offered some 30 different words
to describe various gaits, and culturally I was an open admirer of the fresh
diddy-bop sported by young folks much cooler than I. But the most important
reason I watched how people walked was a practical one - I had poor
eyesight. It was before I was privy to the magical world of contact lenses,
and I absolutely hated the way I looked in glasses (what kid doesn't?). The
more I examined my fellow humans, the more I realized that I could pick one
out from a distance by their height and their stroll. This was, as you
might imagine, a very helpful skill for someone who otherwise couldn't
figure out what the heck a person's face looks like until she was about 20
yards away.
Kingdom also earns everlasting praise for the way in which he managed to
escort me out of Bulawayo, against some pretty serious odds. I was headed
to Botswana, and despite my prior bad experience with the train, I wanted to
take that route. Unfortunately, train service between Zim and 'Bots' had
been discontinued, so it was back to the bus. We also found out, much to my
dismay, that no luxury busses were traveling directly between the two
countries, so I was going to have to take a regular bus. On Saturday at
11am our posse of six headed off to the bus depot to find out the cost of
the bus we'd been told would leave at 1pm. Kingdom and I walked out
together into the wide-open parking lot to try to get the info - bad move.
We were immediately surrounded by 10 overzealous characters, eager to
'help' us get on a bus, right then and there. I made a hasty retreat to the
getaway car, and Kingdom followed a couple minutes later. Oops. Roy had
headed into the fray to 'save' us, and now he had been encircled. A few
minutes later he managed to get back to the car, and our now-cowed (?) crew
pulled away from the depot and a bunch of men yelling and waving glass
bottles. Ugh. We parked just a couple blocks away, and while the crafty
Kingdom went on a reconnaissance mission with the fearless Phyllis (I like
that), the rest of us made do. A couple hours later, he came running back
and directed us to a new parking position. We were poised right on the
roadside where the Bulawayo bus was to drive away. 20 minutes later it came
by, my protective family flagged it down, and the tall gangly American
jumped on with no angry men to create havoc, but a lot of querying looks
from fellow bus passengers.
This story reminds me of my travel credo: when in doubt, get LOST. It
actually means three things. First, as in the story above, if and when one
senses danger, get the hell out of Dodge. No reason to act like a hero in a
strange situation. The second interpretation relates to my policy of trying
to figure out a new place - as long as I feel comfortable, go ahead and get
'lost' in order that I can familiarize myself with the local layout. Still
a relatively young (less so by the day) and relatively healthy (less so by
the year) tall male, I'm often able to meander at will around a neighborhood
so I can feel at 'home' in the coming days. And third, LOST is an acronym
I've made, based on my need to stock up for these endless bus and train
trips. It means 'Lots Of Snacks & Takeaways' ('takeaways' is the southern
African term for take-out food, and takeaway spots are what we call corner
delis or bodegas).
Fortunately, I'd managed to pull together a few food items before the
unexpected bus scenario, so I was in OK food shape for the first few hours
of the trip. Since you've had to read all my other complaints about the
prior travels, I won't bore you with the unhappy story of this long
excursion to Gaborone. I will, however, outline what happened upon our
tardy arrival at approximately 12:30am. About 30 passengers got off the
bus, with an equal number staying on - leading me to believe that, as in
many of the major towns and cities during my bus travels, there would be a
second stop in Gaborone (the capital city of Botswana, no less). Our bus
driver then went about 5-10 minutes away, and pulled into a vacant lot with
houses around the periphery. He and a couple of his aides left the bus for
what I assumed was a toilet break or other temporary stop. Wrong (you
guessed as much, right?). An hour or so later, with the other passengers
curled up on seats or the bus floor, I gave in and tried to make do for the
night. I was unbelievably frustrated, as I'd heard no announcement, and
there was no way to extricate myself from this situation. I was in an
unknown community (that looked like the abandoned wastelands of Red Hook,
Brooklyn or East St. Louis, Illinois, to my bleary eyes), with no phone
around, at 2am - at a time I knew that local hosts were awaiting my arrival
(not to mention the fact that I desperately needed a restroom). But what
can one do? So I twisted my body as best possible in the small two seats I
had to myself, and managed a couple total hours of naps in between 3 to 4
hours of angry awake time.
In retrospect, I've realized that any trip with Bulawayo in the agenda is
going to be a problem for me! [Did I mention the flat tire our youthful
posse had on the way back to Bulawayo from the Bambata cave? No? Well, no
need.] Perhaps the name itself should have been a warning. You know how
many communities are named after nice things- fields, rivers, or other sites
that brought good memories to the town's founders? Well, Bulawayo means
'the killing place' - a stark reference to its war-torn history.
Anyway, I'd made it to Bots. The next morning I finally managed to make it
to the home of Henry and Mary Mikaya, at the deanery adjacent to Holy Cross
Cathedral. [And was able to relieve myself, a not-unimportant concern -
traveling on this excruciatingly long and uncomfortable bus rides definitely
makes one aware of the limits of one's body.] They are truly an
international pair: Henry is Malawian by birth, and served as the deputy
representative to the United Nations from his home nation for several years
in the late 70s and early 80s. Mary is Tanzanian by birth, and is a perfect
example of the warmth and hospitality I've been told characterizes that East
African country. But they are now both U.S. citizens, having lived in the
States for over 20 years, and having served in several Episcopal parishes
there during that time. Now they are Episcopal missionaries in Botswana,
over a year through their three-year commitment to serve as dean of the
cathedral there. I'd met the two of them just a week beforehand at the
Nyanga retreat, and like many of the wonderful folks there they had invited
me to come visit at any opportunity.
Unfortunately I was not able to spend much time in Bots, so I didn't get a
good sense of the issues facing that country. [Nor was I there long enough
for the Mikayas to truly master my name - they had been using Anthony and
Steven as substitutes, which was good enough for me.] Bots is clearly in
better shape than Zim, however, as its currency is one of the most stable in
Africa. It has a small population of less than 2 million people (and
stringent immigration restrictions), a more stable political situation than
some of its neighbors, and a healthy financial base built on numerous
mineral deposits and other natural resources combined with a major tourism
industry. Nevertheless, crime is an increasing problem in its urban areas,
and Dean and Mrs. Mikaya shared with me the news of recent robberies on the
cathedral property.
They also reported that the relative wealth of the populace has not
translated to an increase in giving to the Anglican church there. Only a
couple of the congregations in the diocese are self-sufficient. They drove
me an hour south to the town of Lobatse to show me beautiful St. Mark's
Church, which my Lonely Planet guide book (thanks Amos!) describes as 'a
thatch-roofed stone building that would be more at home in a rural English
village' (tells you who wrote it, doesn't it?). Unfortunately, right behind
the church are two good-sized houses that are falling apart. Although they
are owned by the diocese, there is not the money (or at least the will) to
maintain these homes. Worse, perhaps, was the story of the congregation in
a rural community that has been holding its services under a tree for the
past 8 years - rain or shine. The diocese has not been able to provide the
resources to get them a structure, so they've simply kept on worshipping in
a manner far too stereotypical of a bygone era in Africa.
Speaking of trees, I almost doubled over in laughter at a sign posted on a
city trash can that read 'Keep Gaborone Green.' The city seemed to me
depressingly brown! I was again reminded of my visit to Cairo, a city that
clearly needed a good hosing down. Gabs' most visible aspect was dirt, so I
wondered where the green was supposed to be. Seriously, though, it made me
think about the lack of environmental awareness I'd encountered during the
previous couple months. Recycling is almost non-existent, which surprised
me. Trucks and many busses spew out black smoke - nowhere near as nasty as
Manila, the most polluted place I've ever been (where citizens routinely
walked around with kerchiefs and cloth held over their noses and mouths),
but bad enough to make you turn your head or close your window. But most
glaringly, people constantly throw their refuse (garbage) right out of their
windows. I've sat in these busses, staring aghast at my seatmates as
they've reached out of the bus to drop any- and everything they no longer
need. Where is the love? On the other hand, I reminded myself that those
of us in developed nations consume something like 80 to 100 times the
resources that people in developing nations use, on average. So it's not
like they are chucking out as much trash as I would use back in California.
Still, it was distressing.
Only two days later I was on a bus (again), bound for a brief return to
South Africa. It was July 4th, and my thankfully-short trip (for once) got
me to Johannesburg in time to spend an afternoon checking email again -
thanks to many of you for your good birthday messages - and hanging out with
a couple of my Jo'burg friends. My boys Dylan and Rhameez helped me observe
the big double-three with a complimentary chicken burger for lunch, and my
long-time email friend Khutaza (an awesome storyteller) and I finally met
over dinner, after which she and her friends treated me to a fine piece of
cheesecake. T'was mellow and fun.
The next night I returned for the third time to Pobola, the Central
Methodist Mission's homeless ministry in downtown Jo'burg which I described
in my second report. I've been there once a month, and really enjoy the
sense of community it prioritizes - both within the group of people who
gather and go out together, and 'without' in its focus on partnership with
the homeless people in the city. One comment made the evening quite
special. I joined the same group as 'usual,' and the first stop we made was
to a building with about 10 families and a large group of boys (aged 7-13,
I'd guess). When I jumped out of the food truck, the kids had already run
up to the door to await their soup and bread, of course. One of the kids at
the front of the line pointed to my head and said something to the effect of
'Where's your cool hat?' I'd brought along my Jo'burg (gangster) woolen
cap, but it was in my pocket, so I pulled it out and shoved it down on my
head to their delight. Then a couple of them motioned me to lean over, and
they fixed the brim to a more jaunty, askew position, to our mutual
pleasure. I was not expecting anyone to recognize me, and it made me feel
truly welcomed in their community.
All too soon, it was time for yet another lengthy bus ride. I left on the
morning of the 6th headed for Namibia. It was to be another 22 hours on the
road- but at least this time there were no chickens on the bus, no bags of
grain to be checked at customs, and best of all, a bathroom on the coach!
Ah, the simple pleasures. It turned out to be a sad day, however. As those
of you who are soccer aficionados know, July 6th was the day that FIFA
announced the choice for the host of World Cup 2006. And as almost all of
you know (soccer fans or not), Deutscheland/ Germany/ Allemagne was picked
over South Africa (thanks in large part to a New Zealander by the name of
Charles Dempsey, who has become Public Enemy #1 in this part of the world).
This decision, I must say, was a crushing blow to this region of the world.
Some of you may find this whole issue an inconsequential one, but the
interrelationship between sports, politics, and economics is clearer than
ever, and I would submit to you what took place last week is the best
modern-day example of colonialism. Soccer, as most of you know, is the
world's most popular game, and it has been estimated that at least 70% of
the players around the world are people of color - yet the 24-member
committee that chose the host nation had eight European representatives, and
perhaps a grand total of six people of color on the selection committee.
The end result is that for the tenth time Europe will host this mammoth
event which reaps billions of dollars, while the continent of Africa - which
now supplies European clubs (and even national teams, look at France with
its squad of players plucked from around the French diaspora) with many of
its best and most exciting players - will have to wait until 2010 at the
earliest.
The next morning I arrived in Windhoek, Namibia's capital - a very beautiful
Germanic city (and smart enough to downplay its German roots at this
sensitive time). I was picked up by Kelvin Adams, administrator of the
Anglican Diocese, who brought me to his beautiful home where I am being
graciously hosted by him, his wonderful wife Debbie, their sons Julian and
MichaelWayne, and their lovable, rambunctious dog Sandy.
You'll have to wait for the next edition of the E-report for news about
Namibia (including my growing addiction to watching cricket, I'm pleased to
report to my Caribbean posse). I can't end without highlighting my first
dinner here, however. Mr. & Mrs. Adams took me out to a quiet spot called
Marco Polo, which in line with its Italian fare offered (naturally) zebra
meat! Debbie and I both had the zebra steak - the other, other, OTHER white
meat (thanks, Austin Powers) - which deserved a better sauce than the guava
one that was provided. I do want to say thanks to Brian, Diane, and Bob &
Evie for encouraging me to come here. Please keep me in your prayers this
week, as I head up near the Angolan border.
Finally, I would not dare close without offering my requisite anniversary
and birthday greetings, which I'm going to do for the whole month of July
(as I don't know when I'll next be online). My most special wishes go this
time to two incredible couples whose weddings I'm saddened to miss this
month, Laura & Kenny and Matt & Kate. Blessings to all four of you, and I
can't wait to see you again - we'll celebrate together at a later date. Now
to the birthdays, and a major shout-out to all my fellow Cancers. A very
happy belated to Mike M, the Beast o' Burton, Marcia, Jen B, Vincent J, Jan
A, Colonel Earl (Dave pass it on), Lord Sear (somebody pass it on!),
Super-fresh DJ Beni B, DJ Claude, and Kate W. Happy birthdays to Bill W
(the Notorious B.I.L.), Erik F (via Dave again!), Andrea MC, John F, Sarita,
Alex V, Karen W, Nat P, Gabrielle M, Matt B, Lara Maria, John Michael, Diane
P (thanks for everything!), Kim & Cinco, Anita Applebum, Sarah W, Paul C,
Leila N, Paige, Jason, and Isabel. Happy belated anniversary to Paul & Amy,
and a blessed upcoming one to Dr. & Mrs. Norton.
Peace, love, and courage,
Ethan
PS, I just received a terrible piece of news ass I was preparing to send out
this note. My good friends Phyllis, Kingdom and Matt (who you've read about
at length) were apparently in a car accident last week up in Zimbabwe, just
days after I left them. I'm told that everyone is OK, but Matt sustained
some bad injuries that will require surgery. Please keep him and all of
them in your prayers. Thanks.