Salvation: An Abstraction, or The Power of the Re:

Friday, April 17, 2009
At Starbucks (Setauket, NY)
Morning


This black mustang blows through the shopping center stop sign and makes a quick right turn into the adjacent parking lot. In profile it passes me as I 'm watching it out the large glass window in my corner seat, here, at Starbucks. An older woman is exiting the Starbucks and walking back towards her car across the parking lot right in the line of the mustang, and the mustang comes to a screeching dramatic stop. I can see the driver clearly now. She is seven feet from me, an attractive girl noticeably, and I immediately recognize the look on her face of disgust and contempt for this older woman. The older woman passes and the girl in the black mustang immediately drives past her and pulls haphazardly into a parking spot. It's a story of everyday impatience.

I chuckle to myself internally. But my laugh is not of mock or judgment for the attractive girl. Instead, I'm judging myself. I laugh because I realize that this silly absurd interaction between the attractive girl and the older woman – unless the attractive girl was on some mysterious mission to save another with a healing cup of Starbucks coffee – is something that I could very easily relate to. I think that I could place myself in that black mustang. Maybe it's not this mustang scenario specifically, maybe it is not an incident that involves impatience as a factor, it could be something else entirely; yet, I'm confident that there is some comparable scenario, different, that is equally as degrading and destructive in my own life. I'm confident that there was a time that all that existed on my face was ill will and contempt, or just a useless frustration misdirected.

I think that somehow, in some abstract way, in Africa, in Zimbabwe specifically, I'm less prone to a scenario such as this. I think it's probably less likely for Andrew also, and certainly Dad, and also for Patrick. I think that it's harder to align myself with insignificance there. At first this may be for practical purposes. As an American in Zimbabwe you realize that when all the people surrounding you do not have cars, or the normative structures that we take for granted like institutions, enforcement, and control are non-existent, or if time is something less invented and important, you tend to let the wind breeze of frustration brush past you easier, instead of attempting to ineffectively challenge it. And later maybe it is not necessarily such a practical reason but an inevitable one, such as when you watch someone die in the morning time it just becomes so much harder to get angry at an impracticality or an insignificance in the evening. I think that Zimbabwe is interesting because it suppresses these certain present trivialities of (American, my) existence. A friend has told me that the same thing happens to them when in Uganda, or Burkina Faso, or India, et al.

I wonder if these lessons, mainly: patience, perspective, understanding, selflessness, and grace, which we learn in the third world can be applied to the first? I tend to think so. I tend to think the answer remains yes when viewed through different lenses and perspectives. I think that the Christian can come to this conclusion because she asks God "why?" She asks God "why are you causing all of this suffering? Why is this person dying from AIDS in Africa and why is this person on my corner in America sleeping over an air vent to stave off freezing, why did I read about this person on 33rd street dying from starvation?" God invariably retorts, "you." God answers, "you are the reason, because you are able to help facilitate the appropriate things in motion to alleviate the sufferings of the AIDS disease, you are able to provide the air vent person with a shelter for the night, you are able to feed the starving person because you live on 32nd street. You. You are my hands and feet in this world, today, tomorrow, and yesterday." I think the atheist may ask the same question of why (granted not directed at God) and come away with a similar answer for varying reasons such as seeking a social justice, concluding that for the betterment of mankind war is more destructive then peace, defending the theory that I'm my brother's keeper, and realizing that alleviating these destructive things in life is beneficial, for me, for everyone, etc. Incidentally, the other side of the coin is that the Christian and the atheist can come to differing conclusions themselves. The Christian can have a certain mindset where he writes off this world to some sin or some evil and in turn is neglectful assuming some expectant view of another world, the atheist, in turn, can conclude that this world is just a hodgepodge accident and all that matters is natural selection and dominion of the species. Both views, from my humble perspective are without merit, desolate viewpoints, and weightless.

Like I said, I tend to answer yes. And the reason is because of a Jewish word and predominantly Jewish idea of shalom. We know this word today in our modern vernacular to mean "peace" or "blessedness." It means this of course, but I think it also means so much more, because it also refers to the fabric of our life. The Jewish thought is that God made the world describing it like a garment, and the way that a garment is made is by interweaving fabrics, over and under one another, creating a wholeness. This wholeness is shalom.  It's now easy to make the transition. If this world is all interwoven strings of fabric, then you, me, the president, the people in Indonesia, the tribes of Brazil, the mentally deficient guy at the stop sign, are all apart of this fabric. Any break in this fabric is disappointing the wholeness of the shalom. The way to break the fabric is physical, internal and social deterioration. There is this beautiful 11-year-old Zimbabwean girl named Princess. She suffers everyday with HIV, improper treatment, and truthfully she is daily seeing diminishing results. Her suffering is destroying the physical fabric of her life, and the social fabric of ours. Her suffering is pealing away the strands of the garment of the world as she is slowly decaying. I have a friend who lives on the corner of Cloverfield in Santa Monica and who eats on the occasional basis – she is a piece of the fabric gone socially awry. And I think the conclusion from this is that we are all part of the one fabric, and we are to act as tiny little crotchetiers – replenishing, replacing, redoing, and remaking this garment. I think that one of the greatest ideas of this life is this idea of shalom. It's all things healing, and all things life, and all things salvation; or at least it's a means to those ends.

But, Zimbabwe is far away. And I often question, how do I touch the hands of someone so far away and help to re-knit this garment? That's a discussion, not a one off answer/question. Before answering the how to that question it is probably more important to answer the if. However that is all for another time, and since there is no succinct material concrete answer to that question I think it is, for me, more pertinent to deal with it in the abstract. I was talking with this friend the other day and we were talking about how to best do good for a place like Zimbabwe when one lives so far away and is naturally caught up in one's life. He concluded that maybe it is not about giving some material monetary thing; maybe instead it is just about loving. I thought this profound. It reads hippie-esque, but it just seems to make a lot of sense in my brain now. One of the things that Andrew and I couldn't get over was this idea that these Zimbabwean people, specifically the Africans who are suffering from tuberculosis or AIDS laying in their huts all day long, in some way benefited from our arrival and visitations with them. This was how we chose to manifest our love to them, and we did it genuinely, but we were forced to question the appropriateness throughout. It just didn't make any sense to us that we were doing anything, because often from our perspective all we were doing was sitting with them. However, time after time we would hear to the great extent of how much the suffering person in question and the family appreciated our visit. It baffled us then, and it still kind of does to this day. And if something as simple as sitting with someone can do such good then I have to believe that I can do another version of good even if I am not present in Zimbabwe. Each manifestation of love is different for each individual person and certainly different for people when they are not in Zimbabwe or India or anywhere where it may be needed. For me I've concluded that it has to do with forms of thoughtfulness, and prayerfulness, and time I think. And while this is heavily abstract, I think the abstraction can actually be taken further. I can't always be in Zimbabwe. I can't always physically be in the hut with the AIDS patient; and if sending some monetary gift is not plausible, or even possible, I have to find another way to love them. For me, the way to do that is to figure that I can't be in Zimbabwe every day but I can be on my corner. I think I often overlook the suffering on my corner thinking that it only occurs in Africa. The homeless person without food or shelter or clothes is my Zimbabwe, because the homeless person decrepit and hopeless is peeling away the same fabric, but in this case I can be more immediate and hands on. The homeless have become a very important thing in my life and I tend to emphasize along those lines, but I also must realize that today it may not be a homeless person but my friend who needs my patience, or a neighbor who practices an obscure religion to me and needs my understanding, or a family member who is different from me and needs my respect. So, the fabric has all sorts of ways to be mended and remade, and they are not always monetary things, there are seemingly simple ways like the practice of patience. And so far this is a two fold abstraction: that love can sometimes be just as effective as money, and that if I touch the hand of the one closest to me I can help touch the hand of the one furthest from me in Zimbabwe. It's this beautifully abstract cycle that is not definite but faith based and hopeful and good. And I have this weird feeling that it would ultimately be empirical.

I guess I have to question that if it is not for shalom then what is the point? I think a lot of interesting things happen when shalom becomes the focus. I think that shalom is the reward but also the gateway to various other beautiful things about life. It levels the playing field for me. It helps me realize that I am no more important than anyone else. It is this understanding that I am just as easily infected with AIDS at birth as Princess, or just as easily born into a horrendous situation that leaves me mentally deficient and unable to properly operate in society like someone on my corner. It makes me think that I was/am a second away, an instance, a short straw, a turn around the corner, a blink from being the suffering, the cold, the lonely, the starving, the dying. I'm not just my brother's keeper, I'm my brother. I think this helps decrease my self-importance, which in turn helps me become more others centered and enables me to start moving out from the center of the circle to the margins where everyone else is seemingly residing. It's the realization that I'm in fact owed nothing, and this is contrary to my natural belief. This being something that defies my skin and what I tell myself that I am made out of. And I think that this belief begets stories of grace. I think this is why the Bishop in Les Miserables can ransom Jean Val Jean's life so effortlessly, because he understands that he could be Val Jean so easily, and that he himself has been saved, and he can now easily offer this grace to Val Jean. He's compelled to offer this grace, but it's not a guilt thing, or something that he feels he has to do, it's instead something that he loves to do. Like grace, I think that shalom precipitates life changing humility. Andrew and I spent one day doing visits in rural homes and our leader advised us to take a break at lunchtime. Another family had prepared lunch for just Andrew and I as we were the guests in town, and our leader planned to meet up with us after lunch to continue the visitations. After a filling lunch, we again met with our leader and the conversation somehow drifted to what he ate for lunch? He said that he had tea. We said, okay, but what else did you have? And he said that tea was all that he had. I believe that this man practices shalom, and his humility was inspiring. Of course, Andrew and I made sure that on our next visit he would not just have tea for a significant portion of time, and we realized that he did not expect anything from us just because he told us the truth of his situation. He was so humble throughout. And the interesting question that shalom helps highlight is who is saving who? Granted, we got him some food for a while, but I think that the humility we experienced, the sacrifice, the lack of need or want was more affecting for us then any amount of food we could have brought him. I guess I am learning that shalom just seems to lead to this relational way of being that just seems so much better then some ancillary isolationist way.

Zimbabwe has for so long been pounded on and pounded on.  It has this dictator who is so destructive to his own people, and has been for almost thirty years. They run "democratic" elections, he loses the vote, but yet he still remains in power hurting his people. There are just innumerable amounts of starving, workless, often hopeless people. There are societal structures that just seem insurmountable when I try to think how to refurbish them. And when I am there, and when I think of this place – a place and people incidentally that I have fallen deeply in love with – all I want to do is fix it. I want to say passionately do this! I want to say okay here is how we fix this, we do this and that and then this. I continually want to bring salvation to Zimbabwe and it's people. But my imperialistic response is often unsuccessful and fruitless. So I've learned to start thinking of other ways to reach Zimbabwe's salvation. My conclusion today is this abstract life of shalom. And I'm not sure if shalom necessarily engenders belief and hope but I find myself believing in change. I believe in Zimbabwe's change (and I think I have started to see some improvements already during the month I was there, possibly thanks to a new "unity" government.) I believe in change on the social level, I think it is possible, and I believe in change on the personal level, in my own life, in the lives of others, and I think socially and personally they inform one another like an interdependent relationship. There is something fascinating about change and how powerful it can be. It's often a beautiful concept, when things are remade, or they are refurbished, or they are regained, or they are recreated, or they are represented. It's a powerful thing when something is done with a new attitude, one that is not destructive but developmental and formative and rebuilding.

In case anyone is still reading, thanks so much for your support. It was an awesome trip, probably the best five weeks of my life. I was really encouraged to learn of how many people kept up with this blog. I'm kind of only learning that now but that is really cool, I don't necessarily know why so many people were reading it but I appreciate it nonetheless. Thanks for putting up with my digressions and my weird philosophies or whatever. I write journals everyday, so I was going to be writing all of this to myself anyway, and it was cool to try the blog thing out a bit and hear people's feedback. Zimbabwe is a fascinating place, and life is an interesting thing. If anyone ever wants to talk about Zimbabwe or wants to know anything or a way to help support you can email me or call me anytime, stephenbozzo@gmail.com, (631) 371-9412. I was really encouraged by you, and I hope you were encouraged with the stories you heard, not for my sake, but for the sake of these other people, these people in Zimbabwe, the guy who only has tea for lunch and is quite beautifully content, or the boy who just has never met the love of a father or mother, or the mother whose has lost all of her children. In a way we can help these people, not for us, but for them, maybe if not with money or a toy or a shirt, but just with a thought, a kindness that results from being others centered, them centered…maybe when you are on your next Starbucks run ☺

Thanks,
Stephen

Andy

Thursday, April 16, 2009
Over the Atlantic Ocean Somewhere Between Dakar, Senegal and New York City
Middle of the Night

The flight attendant walks by and brings over some orange juice. Andrew sits next to me and he grabs some. I do the same. Fifteen seconds go by. I look over at Andrew who has returned to watching "Blood Diamond" and he is holding an empty glass. He returns my stare with a sly knowing smile. He knows exactly why I am looking at him and why we are now laughing. And that is the thing about great friends: inside jokes and inside honesty.

It was so awesome experiencing all this with Andrew. I had been planning the trip for months, and it was only a few weeks before I left when I found out Andrew was coming. I'm realizing how lucky I was that he was able to come, because I can't imagine coming to Zimbabwe without him. And I can't imagine making this movie without him. He is mostly definitely the producer, and he earned every bit of that credit. This movie doesn't exist without his help and work and energy.

Inside jokes. In the midst of the madness, who else can I laugh with. Who else can I relieve the tension with because he knows me outside of the madness, and instead of focusing forever on the suffering we can laugh together about something that we did three years earlier.

Inside honesty. In the midst of the madness, who else knows when to stop laughing and be real with me. Who else knows when it is time to talk about something serious, and to focus forever on the suffering, and more importantly, who else knows me enough to dialogue, and allows things to process, who realizes that every word is not surface.

Strangers, or people who don't know you that well are unable to do that. And that is part of the power of great friends.

I'm really happy that Andrew and I went on this trip. He is incredibly intelligent, really funny, easy to be around, and up for anything. He often describes us as having different personalities. The ball goes up in the tree, and he starts to climb it and I'm on the ground preparing to catch him, scared out of my mind that he is going to fall. But I think we are more the same then different. Like we are both the color red, but just different hues.

Instances

Saturday, April 11, 2009
By the Fire, At Campsite (Mtshabezi Dam, Zimbabwe)
Day

There are a handful of very unique instances in my life when I
simultaneously feel infinitely small and helpless while also feeling
infinitely comfortable and content. It's one of those life paradoxes.
I ponder its imponderability. I often find these paradoxes in faith,
and if they feel like truth, they are often pretty amazing to
experience.

Well, now, it's night. The sun is down. The lights are out. The water
is dark. The mountains are narrowly outlined. We push out into the dam
in the hopes to catch a moonrise. I don't think I have ever watched a
moon rise. Maybe I have, but never with deliberate intent. And
tonight, the moon has been whispering rumors to his cousins of
yesterdays that tonight promises to be full with glorious light.

On this small fishing boat we squeeze seven of us in. Warren jumps
into the water to take a late night bath in the lightless dam
darkness. I lay on my back on the front of the boat and look up at the
lights. I listen to the laughter and play of Warren and the guys, but
I don't really hear them. Sometimes I take a moment like this to talk
silently upwards, into the blue blackness, or the rushing windstorm on
a beach, or the mist of a raging waterfall. I remember instances like
this with precise exactitude.

The moon has not yet risen over the mountain ridge, but we are able to
see the powerful light on the boulders brim. So, we idle in the water,
all of gazing east, all of us quiet, all expectant.

Look Beyond

Friday, April 10, 2009
On A Rock, On Some Beach (Mtshabezi Dam, Zimbabwe)
Day

"The intricate complexity of the natural landscape was remarkable in
its perfection: the colors in the sky melding with the horizon, those
south Texas sunsets burning distant clouds like flares, like
fireworks, like angel wings starting flight."

Apart from one single shot, we have completed principal photography of
my film. It's been a fun process, a tiring process, but still a fun
one. Photography only last seven days, we were however up at 4am or
5am on at least four of those days in an attempt to catch like a
butterfly in a net the earliest of light. We achieved what I think
(granted some major bias here) some great photography.

We finished filming with Shelton yesterday, the orphan boy, and now we
are staying with the Newcomer's at Mtshabezi. I wanted in some way to
thank the guys for the film, and I originally wanted to spend a day or
two at Shumba Shaba, but timing and budget didn't work out that way.
Warren had been asking us to go camping and fishing with him, so that
became our reward for the completion of filming. So, we are now on a
two day camping excursion with Warren and Davin on the banks of the
Mtshabezi Dam.

The Mtshabezi Dam is in the area of the Mtopos, and I think when I
come back to Zimbabwe I may want to separate a full week out of my
trip to hike these hills, these boulders, this really interesting
tumultuous terrain. It's fascinating to sit under these righteous rock
faces, these tremendous boulders that hang by a floss string, awaiting
a tumble down from the mountain's zenith.

It's fascinating to put things into perspective. What I mean is, it's
a form of a provision of meaning and or a truth. I watch Patrick wade
on down the beach, keeping him in focus while looking beyond him as he
is dwarfed by life.

Huge trees overwhelm his 6 foot 6 inch frame, these trees shaded by a
thick outcrop of granite boulders, these boulders cut by the diving
and gliding eagle who when on land may just be the size of Pat
himself, these eagles shaded by the sun inundated mountains, and these
mountains triumphed by the color blue: the water, the sky.

Eight Stories

Thursday, April 9, 2009
Newcomer's Living Room (Mtshabezi, Zimbabwe)
Late Morning

The Story of the 5 South African Orphans…

Bruce and Ingrid are Afrikaner. White South Africans who live their
entire lives in South Africa. They have six children and then they
raise six children. All of them to be successful, all now married.
They are committed to their faith and their country. They are farmers.
After their last child is married they adopt a black South African
orphan. And then they adopt 4 more. They adopt 5 orphans. They treat
them all like their children. The orphans know Ingrid as Mom, Bruce as
Dad.

It's really quite wonderful. After raising, not 1, or 2, but 6
children, they beautifully adopt 5 more. They have eleven kids,
virtually starting a brand new family. To watch them interact is to
watch shalom, all healing and peace and wonder. It takes courage, it
takes selflessness, and it coalesces into a profusion of love.

The Story of When Stephen Rode the Clutch…

Dad is the only one who knows how to drive the stick shift (or "gear
box" here in Zimbabwe). Andrew and I are clueless idiots when it comes
down to it. We have a five-speed jeep with us visiting Chris and Norma
in the Mtopos Hills. Dad has to get to his flight towards Harare in
Bulawayo, at least an hour and a half drive. It's 4 am, Dad is driving
over the rocks and gully's of Old Gwanda Road on the way to the
airport. We make it to the airport on time, we say goodbye to Dad, and
now Andrew and I are stuck.

I hop into the driver's seat. Here we go. We don't have a choice.
Even though I don't know how to drive this thing properly, we have to
get it back to Denis' office so that we can switch to a proper car,
one that works automatically! It is about a half hour drive.

Andrew and I are smart enough to know the basic functions of the
gears, and when to technically use them. However, we don't necessarily
know how to actually enact the gear switching.

So far, so good. The highway road is fine, keep it in 3 baby, keep it
in 3. We are cruising. The problems really arise when we get to the
city. There are "lights" (or "robots" as they are called here in
Zimbabwe), and they are quoted as "lights" because they are never
actually operational. The power is either out, or they are just busted
altogether and nobody fixes them or maintains them. But of course, for
some crazy reason, they are all working today. We are driving on good
ol' Robert Mugabe way (or as Andrew and I call him, Bobby Mugab's), we
head over to Fife Street, 14 blocks away from Denis' office on Fife.
We hit every single robot. This has never happened in Bulawayo before
to anyone, where all the robots are working and we catch every single
one.

The first robot. Andrew groans, "oh man." I slowly pull to a stop. It
turns green, I go into first gear…dead. The car dies. I start it up
again, try to go into first gear…dead. The car dies. I proceed to do
this again and again, trying to get this darn thing into first gear.
The light turns red. Andrew and I are just dying laughing. We proceed
to do this for the other 7 lights on the way to Denis' office. We get
held up at the light, it turns green, we try to get into first, and
then nothing. People are watching us, laughing, walking by pointing,
the cars behind us are honking and people are screaming as we just sit
in the intersection. Nobody is laughing harder then Andrew and I.

"I think you gotta take your foot off the clutch," Andrew says.

"I'm not gonna lie bro, I'm just riding this thing."

We are laughing. It was a great time, one of the funniest moments of
my life. I can just still see Andrew next to me, with his two hands
out, trying to persuade my feet to move at the appropriate time and
distance on the clutch and the gas pedal to get us into first gear.
After five tries we would eventually get it, hit the next robot, and
start the process all over again.

"You need to get from first to second, you call me, nobody goes from
first to second better then me," I say.

It was fun.

The Story of Diamond…

Chris and Norma Ferguson, white Zimbabweans, had to leave Zimbabwe.
They moved off to Malawi, and then Zambia at one time. However, they
wanted to keep their farm in the Mtopos Hills. They left the farm in
the hands of their faithful employee Diamond to watch over the estate,
Morning Star Farm.

The reason I find this to be so cool is that, well, to be honest,
there is still racism here in Zimbabwe. There is still real racism in
the United States of course. It's maybe not as overt, but these sad
subtleties lie down at night. But for Chris and Norma, Diamond is
apart of the family. He is family – skin color, cultural background,
be damned. I was struck by this story. The Ferguson's farm is also a
business, a corporation I believe, and they have made Diamond one of
their partners.

The Story of Richard Ndlovu's Detour…

"Border Runs" are a popular activity here in Zimbabwe. Essentially,
goods and necessities are unable to be purchased here, in country, or
they are just too expensive. So, what people do, is they spend a few
days each month, sometimes each week, to travel down to South Africa,
or Botswana, to go shopping. Depending on your perspective, this may
or may not sound like a big deal.

It's a pretty big deal. Crossing the border is a major inconvenience.
I always assumed the borders were like Mexico. (Not that I have done
this but) You drive up, they check your car, they check your passport,
maybe you pay something (I don't know?) and then you cross the border
to Tijuana or some place.

This is not the case here. You drive down to Beitbridge on the
Zimbabwe/South Africa border. You wait in a car queue for hours, you
pull up, park, you walk in and go through long lines of Immigration
and then Customs. You are eventually allowed access, you cross through
the No Man's Land area between the countries, and then you do the same
thing on the South African side. It's a major hassle. There are horror
stories. Two weeks ago Denis made a trip to the border and was held up
in the queue for over 24 hours. During the major gas shortage a few
years ago, Warren would make weekly trips to Botswana and often be
held up on the queue for over 24 hours. Weekly.

All this preamble to explain the story of what sometimes happens on
the way back from South Africa. Richard is driving in his truck, he
crosses the South African side, he crosses the Zimbabwean side and on
the road back towards home, just over the border, there is a detour.
Apparently the detour has been in the process of being fixed for
something like 10 years. Typical. Well, this detour is not a paved
road and it goes for about 6 miles. So, to avoid the bumps and erosion
to the road you have to usually drive about 30 mph.

Richard likes to drive at night. Less road blocks, less people on the
road. He is traveling back one evening; and he is on the dirt detour
road. Suddenly, from the heavy bush to his right and left, men jump
out at the moving car. What they do is they grab onto the rope that
ties all of the goods down on the back of the pick up. They grab on to
the moving car and whoever catches on jumps on the truck and starts to
toss out the items. There is a man in the back of Richard's truck just
reaching down and tossing things out as fast as he can. The other men
stand behind on the road and pick up the debris. Before Richard knows
it half of his goods that he purchased on the trip are gone. He
notices the man behind him on the pick and he starts to swerve to try
and get him off. If he stops his car, he surely will be violently
attacked. He eventually succeeds, but has lost most of his goods.

This isn't an isolated event. Bruce told us the story of a similar
trip. Bruce was traveling with a huge 30-ton tractor-trailer flat bed
truck. He didn't believe the stories of the detour road. He packed the
trailer tight, and then on top of the trailer he tied down bags of
mealie meal. He didn't believe the stories of the detour road that he
had heard, but for caution purposes, he sent one of his guys up on top
of the 30 ton truck with a bar and bright light as protection. He
starts to drive on the dirt detour road. Before he knows it, in his
rear view mirror he is watching men climb up the ropes to the top of
the truck. But thanks to the precaution the bright light in the eye of
the intruder, the men started to fall off.

The Story of the Newcomer's…

Other then the fact that they put us up and fed us and fed us with
Chris Newcomer's awesome cooking, the Newcomer's are two wonderful
people. We were struck by how welcoming and accepting they were of
everyone. They really are integrated into their black rural village
community at Mtshabezi. One afternoon, after a day of homestead visits
to AIDS patients that Andrew and I made, we were sitting on the
evening porch reading. A local African woman approached the front
door. I was outside so I said the normal greetings and if we could
help. She wanted to speak to Mrs. Newcomer. I said, you can come
inside if you would like and wait. She said, no, I never go inside
unless I am invited, (an anecdote). Eventually Chris came outside and
the first thing she said was, "hello, how can I help you?" But she
didn't say it in a customary social familiarity type of way, she said
it with each word meaning the genuine. She wanted to know how can I
now help you. Andrew and I were struck by this. Later, after over an
hour of conversation with the stranger on the porch, the local African
woman sang a song to Chris of thanks. Chris was going to help the
woman, and the only way the woman could thank Chris – unable to do so
monetarily – was to sing a song. Kind of poetic. Kind of nice. We saw
a bit of this with the Newcomer's. It was refreshing.

The Story of Filming Warren At the Border…

Our second day of filming was an early day. We arose at 4am, hit the
road at 4:30 and drove for an hour towards the Botswana border. We had
to accomplish a few different shots, but the main goal was to film
Warren crossing the border. It is an essential part of a Zimbabwean
life, these "border runs", and we sought out to capture this. Warren
felt it best if we go into the border and be totally forthright with
the guards and superiors. After about an hour of trying to convince
them, going up through the chain of command, waiting while they talked
to the heads in Harare. The ultimate decision was a "no way." We were
warned, you will be arrested and then prosecuted if caught filming
anything. We tried to bribe them, we tried to plead with the, but
nothing. There was a great deal of fear in their voices. Now that we
were in the no man's land portion, we had to some how get out without
having to declare anything or go through the normative customs,
immigration process. This took us a while, but eventually we were let
out. We drove about 2 k's down the road and pulled over to the side.
What are we going to do? We need to get a shot, we need to get
something here, otherwise this point of the story is useless. We
devised a tent on the back of Warren's pick and stuck Pat under it
with camera. Andrew and I held it down and we drove back to the border
with one take. We didn't get all the way in, but we got some good
footage and then quickly drove away as the guards started to realize
what was going on. We drove away fast.

The Story of When We Battled the Cows…

Andrew and I were sitting in the Newcomer's living room when we heard
a call from Chris, "Guys, come out quick." We ran outside expecting
the worst. What we got instead was the comical. The local cow heard
had infiltrated the property gates and were already making their way
for the crop. It was a lot of fun trying to get this cattle herd
outside. A quick story, but a fun memory. We walk inside and Andrew
says, "I didn't even use shoes…I felt like an African."

The Story of When I Prayed Into the Falls…

Andrew and I had to go up to Victoria Falls to pick up Patrick. He
was flying into Livingstone, Zambia, only 10 k's away from the falls.
So we thought to go up a day early to see the falls in all their
glory. It was noted that the water tumbling over the falls was the
greatest it has been since 1956 (or something like that. We also heard
the greatest ever, but we were skeptical on that front, we'll take
1956) because it was immense. Walking through the park Andrew and I
couldn't even see the falls. All we saw was white mist. And I have
only been to Niagara Falls where they give you a blue poncho and stuff
and they protect you. We didn't know what to expect so we just went in
with our clothes and shoes. It was wet. It was more then wet. It was
the most drenched I have ever been. I don't know if you can be extra
drenched, but I somehow accomplished this. After a while we just gave
up and accepted it. It ended up being really awesome. Standing on the
edge of the rocks – seriously, the edge, there are absolutely no
protection from the roaring nature, staring out into the absolute
white, getting soaked by cold then hot water from the ground pushing
up, just an awesome experience. I stood out on the edge and just
accepted it and felt life, awesome life in my body, and I was
thankful.

The Funeral

Friday, April 3, 2009

Our first day of shooting. Patrick and I arrive at Fibion's church
around 7am. Andrew hitches a ride with Warren to Denis' office to pick
up a Combi bus that we will be using in our scene. The plan is to meet
with Fibion so that we can judge how he is feeling, make him feel
comfortable, and not to rush straight into the business of shooting.

He is more then ready to go, and everything seems to be moving along
smoothly. As we sit with tea, he asks us if we could stop during our
day to attend a local funeral and film the funeral. Patrick and I look
at one another perplexed. "Film the funeral?" I ask.

"Yes."

Patrick says, "I feel a little uncomfortable about that."

"Yeah," I agree, "that is really not common in our country. In fact,
that would be borderline inappropriate."

Fibion responds, "No, here it is not a problem," and he continues on
to assure us.

Naturally we would like to help him and anyone out, so we reluctantly
agree. We shoot our scene in the morning, and then at one in the
afternoon we pile into the Combi and our rented Prado and drive to the
funeral. We arrive late. Patrick and I look at Fibion, what should we
do? Fibion indicates that we can commence. So we start filming. It was
really awkward. I felt right in the middle of a place that I was not
supposed to be.

The funeral is for a young man who only two months earlier traveled to
Swaziland to be a teacher. He was killed in a car accident. The mother
of the man crosses the casket and just falls to the floor, her body
flaccid. It was a horrible sight. Family members pick her up off the
ground and drag her away, her cries screaming out. Patrick, Andrew,
and I standing close with our cameras.

The Border, Zambia

Thursday, April 2, 2009
Zimbabwe/Zambia Border Control (Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe)
Day

The country of Zimbabwe has been in different stages of turmoil for
decades now. It's hard to judge what stage at what time when you are
trying to assess and make plans. There is no consistency, no regulated
law, no structure or an infrastructure that is not corrupt.

During my previous trip in 2007 I had a significantly hard time making
my way through the customs officials. I had a tremendously challenging
time making my way on the roads through the police road blocks, often
getting threatened with arrest and being forced to bribe. So naturally
when we made plans to bring a very expensive camera into the country
we tried to find the least confrontational means to do this. The
options were presented to us, and we chose to have Patrick (with
camera) fly into Livingstone, Zambia, and then cross the border at the
touristy Victoria Falls.

Andrew and I quickly realize that we are unable to cross the border to
Zambia to pick Patrick up unless we pay an $80 Visa for Zambia, and
then another $35 Visa when we re-enter Zimbabwe. Seeing that we have
to save our money for car rental and food and books and other support
for the Zimbabweans, we had to figure out another plan. Through a
friend of Denis we were able to have a Zambian man pick up Patrick and
then drive him the 10 k's to the border post.

Andrew and I wait on the Zimbabwean side of the border. The border
just feels like a place of corrupt and surreptitious activity. It
feels as if people are not what they say they are. The sun is hot
today, adding to the uneasy feeling at the border. People are "moving
and shaking" at the border. Trying to cut deals and trade money for
opportunities. Trying to find a way to get through faster. All of the
officials feel untrustworthy, as many officials are here in Zimbabwe.
Men try to sell fake Zimbabwean dollars to me. Men try to sell copper
bracelets on their wrists. Men continue to follow us talking to us,
trying to convince us of something. The border is a fast moving place.
And Andrew and I are right in the middle of it, equally as furtive,
trying to find a way to cross in the "no man's land" section so that
we can try and see Patrick, trying to find a way to do this without
having to declare anything or give up our passports.

Through various ways, through pure luck, we find Patrick in the tumult
and we make it across the border with all of our equipment and zero
jail time. The border is an interesting place.

Andrew & Stephen's Whimsical Drive To Victoria Falls

Thursday, April 2, 2009
Pumusha Lodge Hotel Room (Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe)
Morning

Tuesday. We say goodnight to Obert after a day of homestead visits in
the rural area around Mtshabezi. Obert asks if we can drive him to
Gwanda, 29 k's away from Mtshabezi. We say sure, of course, but we are
leaving promptly at 5am to drive up to Victoria Falls, so it is going
to be dark and early. Obert says it is not a problem.

Wednesday. Andrew's eyes open. He looks at the makeshift alarm clock
we borrowed.
Andrew: Crap…Botz!
Stephen: (mumbling) Yeah?
Andrew: It's a quarter to 6!
My head, off the pillow.
Stephen: It's a quarter to 6?
Andrew is already in the bathroom brushing, I'm putting on pants and
we are soon out the door.

An hour late Obert the Humble is waiting in the dewy morning grass on
the side of the main dirt road. We drive past him. I see him out of
the corner of my eye and we reverse to pick him up.
Obert: (smiling, playful) You are turning into Zimbabweans.
Andrew and I feel horrible. He tells us not to worry about it but we
nevertheless feel horrible.

It's 7am,we arrive in Gwanda, drop off Obert, and plan to see him next
week. We turn around, in the direction we just came and start making
the 500 k drive up to Victoria Falls, on the border of Zambia and the
Zambesi River.

Wednesday.1 In a rented jeep-like Prado (for terrain purposes) we are
cruising the vacant highways at 120-140 kph. Not overwhelmed by cars –
as they would be in the states – the wild life have not learned to
avoid the roads. Every 5 minutes or so we are slowing down to avoid
the slumbering sluggish cattle, or the goats, or the donkeys. But our
real enemies are the morning birds. For some reason they think it best
to perch themselves in the middle of the road and they fly away at the
last moment in a game of chicken. Why? Why birds, why? Well, you can
guess what happened next.

At this point all the birds have been clearing in time. And then
suddenly we watch a sluggish bird rise, start to fly and then
"whoomp." Andrew turns and looks at me. I, in the driver's seat, look
at him.
Andrew: Why won't they get out of the way?!
Stephen: (kind of smiling) Man, I don't want to kill life!
Andrew (taunting) Well…

Later, we drive and the window is now littered with bug debris as they
crash into the windshield.
Stephen: This windshield won't clean.
Andrew: What were you saying about taking life?
Stephen: I care a little less about the bugs.
Andrew: (more taunting) Yeah, well, the bird feather and some blood
just flew off a few minutes ago.
Stephen: (quickly defensive) No, no, no. I don't think so. That bird
flew away my friend, and he went on to live a happy life. And he went
on to heal other birds in fact!

Wednesday.2 As we get closer to the national parks in the north west
portion of the country, we start to see more interesting wild life. No
group more prevalent than the baboons. They indifferently stare at us
as we slow down to look at them and take pictures. They nonchalantly
walk across the road, four hands, saying to us, "oh, you only got
two?"

We slow down to wait for a group of baboons to pass. Andrew takes out
his camera. He and I, cynical to the baboons. One walks with food,
slowly, watching us, the food falling away from his mouth as he walks
away.
Andrew: Baboons (pause) What a bunch of ridiculous slobs. (pause) This
ain't no monkey in a tuxedo.

Wednesday.3 We drive further and see a few people on the side of the
road under a big tree. They reach out there hand, and we pull over.
Two women ask if they can have a ride, we say, of course hop in. A
younger man runs up behind him, he asks the same, he is going to the
Falls, can he have a ride, sure, we say. He has a bunch of packages so
we help him in. We pile them in the back. I am about to hit the gas
pedal to drive away and the young man starts saying, "ok ok ok ok,"
indicating we should stop. He doesn't speak much English, but he opens
the door and runs back to the tree. He has forgotten something.
Andrew: (watching the young man) Is he going for that chicken?
Stephen: (I turn to watch) What? Chicken?
The young man starts to round up a chicken.
Andrew: (amazed, this has never happened before) Yup, he is getting
that chicken.
The young man starts to come back to the car with the chicken in his hands.
Stephen: This…is…happening.
He hops in the car, we are ready to go. Andrew and I are looking at
the chicken. Andrew turns to me.
Andrew: Well, this is a new experience.

Wednesday.4 We are closer to Victoria Falls. We pass a town called
Hwange and two men are reaching their hands out. We pull over and pick
them up. One is in a hat, and nicer clothes then normal. We drive
further, 100 k's approaching Victoria Falls. The man is asking us a
lot of questions, more so than normal, "where are you from…what are
you doing here…what do you think about Zimbabwe…how much money can you
make in America…where do you live in America…" the entire time Andrew
and I engage him but the questioning seems slightly askew.
I slow the car down for a roadblock. The man rolls down his window and
just starts talking. I want to hush him because I don't know what he
is saying and technically the cops could nab you for picking up
hitchhikers. But the police officer at the roadblock waves us through
after smiling and laughing with the man.
Stephen: (to the man) You know him.
The Man: Yes, he is a friend. I am a CIO officer. We are the secret
police, we don't wear uniforms.
We soon drop him off.

Wednesday.5 We no sooner pull up to the town of Victoria Falls. It
very touristy and in a word, sleazy. We park our car and we are
attacked by people. One guy leans in Andrew's side window.
Guy: I need USD, I will give you 5 billion Zim dollars for 5 USD dollars.
He is trying to convince ignorant tourists of a sweet deal, expecting
us not to know that the Zim dollar is non-existent and worth nothing.
Andrew is waving him off. We don't want to be rude so we try to amuse
him further. He tries a few other ploys. He then leans in further and
whispers. We can't understand him through his accent and his whisper
but we have an idea.
Stephen: Excuse me?
He whispers again, we can't hear.
Andrew: Say that again.
Guy: You want some marijuana?
Andrew/Stephen: No, no, sorry, alright man, have a nice day.
He is persistent. He calls over his friend, a woman.
He looks at us, expectantly. He looks at her, he looks at us. It
quickly becomes clear to us what is exactly occurring here.
Guy: This is (lady, whatever her name is).
Lady: So what are you boys doing here in the Falls? Do you need any
help finding things?
Andrew/Stephen: No, no, thanks.
Lady: You sure, we can show you fun.
Andrew/Stephen: No, no, thanks. (to the guy and the girl) Alright, thanks guys.
Lady: So why are you here? What are you going to do? Why are you in
Zimbabwe? What are you doing here?
Andrew/Stephen: We just got here guys we are going to go, thanks.
Andrew is trying to close the window.
The Lady calls to her friend (some name) on the side.
Andrew: Alright, that's it.
Ha. We walk away laughing.

Siyaphila

Tuesday, March 31, 2009
In Room at Newcomer's House (Mtshabezi, Zimbabwe)
Morning

"We have life."

I was born in St. John's Hospital in Smithtown, New York. I lived on
Suffolk Avenue and Robert Crescent on Long Island, High Street in
Grantham, 115th Street in New York City, and 18th Street in Santa
Monica. I have lived all of these days and I don't think I have ever
gone a day hungry. Or, in truth, ever experienced a day of any real
need or want. I've never had a day with the basic necessities of life
out of the reach of my arms.

So, it is now Faith who crumbles in these arms. Big brown eyes stare
unassuming, unknowing, history-less. She knows not of the why's or the
when's. She is just big brown unassuming and unknowing eyes. She looks
up at the world that she see and she sees no periphery, no front or
back. She is unaware that she was a half-inch, or half moment away
from not being apart of this life. An orphan girl, found, left at some
front door in the bush, or on the side of the road, in a ditch,
buried, with rocks around her neck, meant to not be, meant to stop
from being. But now, amazingly, she crumbles in my arms, the most
peaceful child in the entire orphanage. She doesn't complain, she is
without cry, or giggle, but just pure contentment to stare. I tend to
fall in love with big brown eyes, and Faith doesn't disappoint.

Andrew and I meet Jenny at Isaiah's Umuzi Wothando orphanage in
Bulawayo. I had heard about Jenny from a variety of sources and the
new seeds of good that she has been planting, and the garden of good
that she has been tending. Jenny is an interesting woman. She has
lived in Zimbabwe for four years, coming from England, and she has
helped to facilitate three orphanages in the Bulawayo area. She
focuses on rescuing orphans, raising them properly, to find homes for
them in Zimbabwe. The state has failed at this essential societal task
with heroics. We learn that in some cases there are state raised
children who have spent their life cooped in a single room at a single
hospital, and Jenny has worked long and hard to be able to rescue
these children, to raise them in a proper home like Isaiah's.

Jenny gives us a quick tour, tells us about her projects, and then
quickly has to depart for other business at another orphanage. She
expects us to be on our way, but we say, "we were actually planning on
just being two pairs of extra hands."

"Okay, great," she says, "we can always use the help."

We quickly find out why. The Ndebele women who take care of these 18
babies, infants, and toddlers, running around the house all day,
crying, needing to be changed, needing to be fed, needing to sleep,
are saints.

On another day Andrew and I spend the afternoon driving Gwanda Road
picking people up on the side and driving them to wherever they want
to go. We do this every day actually, but we thought we would be more
intentional today. A free taxi service if you will. And I start
thinking as we drive through the afternoon big sky. We often consider
"this life" as a singular event, a singular thing. We say "my life"
and we lament on my sorrows or my failures. I talk about me, and I
respond by saying I, and when I talk about life, this really big and
important thing, I talk about myself. I disengage the overall story
and replace it with my story. Someone comes up to me and they ask,
'how are you doing?' and I immediately respond by saying 'I'm doing
well, I feel good, I feel bad.' (I'm not necessarily criticizing this
process but just merely discussing it.) And in the few moments when
Andrew and I drive and we stop talking, or stop laughing together, as
the travelers behind us sit patiently quiet, I start thinking of how
different it is here in Zimbabwe. The simple social customary greeting
is:

Salibonani, hello
Salibonani, hello
Lenjani, how are you?
Siyaphila, we have life.

We. Have. Life. There is an incorporation factor, an inclusiveness, a
wholeness to the interaction. In truthfulness, some of the time the
Zimbabweans respond by saying ngiyaphila, which is the singular
translated as "I have life," which when considered is no less romantic
or poetic, saying I have life, I'm living and breathing, seeing and
doing, being. But in the overall majority of interactions the proper
response is the plural, siyaphila. Obert offered his explanation to me
about this one day. He said, "we say siyaphila because we include all,
we believe in community, in an extended family. This is how we respond
in our culture."

It's poetic and romantic, it's collective, and encompassing. It's
connecting stories, your story into my story into our story.

Andrew sits on one side of the porch holding and feeding Blessings
with one hand and playing and simultaneously trying to protect her
from the other children with his other. I sit on the other side and do
the same with Faith in my arms.

One of the women tells me that it would be good if Faith takes a nap.
I say, okay, and then look down at Faith helpless. Other then saying
"take a nap," I'm not sure what else I could offer. I start to rock
and sway her but she keeps starring at me seemingly unaffected. I
think of what best puts me at ease to sleep, soft music. So I start
softly singing to her, me to her, over the noise of the children
playing, my lips to her ears.

Can't you see the sunshine, can't you just feel the moon shining and I
can slowly feel her body relax ever so slightly…there ain't no doubt
in no one's mind that love's the finest thing around and I start to
see her eyes slowly close, still staring, but slowly, very slowly
closing…signs it might be omens say I'm going, going…and she closes
her eyes.

I ask one of the women surprised, "She is asleep I think, what should I do now?"

"You can put her in her crib inside, it says her name on the side."

I walk inside and lay Faith down. The movement from porch to crib, the
constant noise and banging of trucks and blocks and instruments cannot
wake her. She is certainly asleep, on her back, arms over her head,
sleeping contently, her bright future now in front of her. I'm told by
one of the women that a few families have been visiting with her,
wanting to adopt her. I don't blame them, she is beautiful, and there
is something about her peace and contentment in the wake of the other
more rambunctious children that is comforting.

I think that siyaphila is so important to a person like Faith. The
person who rescued Faith entered into her story, and made it now their
story. Life is not about just her, but about them, and about us.

And for a few moments while I hold Faith I started to think about how
amazing adoption is. How it gives life. How it combines stories. Maybe
even more so then natural childbirth (not to diminish that of course.)
But it's the rescuing nature of it that is interesting. Even more so
here in Zimbabwe. It's not so much choosing to raise a child in your
family, but it is better represented as choosing to rescue a child
into your family. It's giving life to someone who may have never had
it. It's a wonderful idea, and more wonderful when enacted. When
someone reaches out their hand to only help, or save, when it's not
expected, or not deserved, or you didn't know.

Yet There Is Room

Sunday, March, 29, 2009
Free Methodist Church (Magwegwe North, Zimbabwe)
Day

The door is open, so come quickly and get in, you are invited

here with the people of Magwegwe North, in this church,
…there is room.
…there is room in these blue washed walls, unforgiving benches,
concrete floors, wooded cross.
…there is room as they sing their harmonious acceplla songs.
…there is room when they stop singing in Ndebele and suddenly start
in English, there is joy peace and happiness in my soul.
Obviously for my benefit, and it is appreciated.
…there is room for the little children.
…there is room for the AIDS patients.
…there is room for the marginalized.
…there is room for the local beggar.
…there is room for the oppressed.
…there is room for Fibion, their pastor, to take a week off from
preaching and to sit with us, translating.
…there is room for two white guys from "the states" to be made to
feel welcomed and invited, as if they were waiting for us all along,
as if this whole thing was for our benefit.

The door is open, so come quickly and get in, you are invited, they sing in Ndebele.