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.

Pops

Saturday, March, 28, 2009
King's Front Yard (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Afternoon

And as I look over at Dad on the adjacent chair, eyes closed, breath
in take beginning to rise to an eventual snore, hands laid over his
head swirling, book on his chest, all cute and aging, just a moment
after he repeatedly proclaimed that "I'm just not tried. I'm in
trouble, I'm never going to fall asleep tonight."

This is a brief love letter to my dad, to you, about my dad.

He's been gone for a day now, and I can feel the difference. I didn't
anticipate that it would be that noticeable. I didn't realize that I
got so used to him being by my side. But I did.

I think that Dad learned a lot from being here. I already had past
knowledge, but still I cannot help but learn with new experiences. And
it was great to experience it all with Dad. Some old things, many new
ones.

Spending two weeks straight with someone, in a foreign land
especially, you learn a lot about someone. I knew these things, but
they were just reaffirmed. Dad is so thoughtful, caring, and giving.
He just cares about everyone around him. Especially the guy in the
wheelchair on the streets of Bulawayo, as he kneels down and speaks to
him, eye to eye. He gives what he has of his money, ready to buy
whatever he can for someone else. And he smiles, this big round smile,
eyes wide, welcoming and goofy, but welcoming. I'm proud to be his
son, and I miss him, and I hope that I'm at least partly like him.

Silent On the Page

Thursday, March 26, 2009
King's Front Yard (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Late Morning

Exiting the gate of the Free Methodist Church in the high-density
suburbs (poorest section) of Magwege North is essentially walking into
the reality of the world. For the first time in Zimbabwe it feels as
we think it should, all the sun, all the heat, a sense of humidity
present. We walk like a gang exiting the church gates into the
community: Andrew, myself, Fibion, Horace, and four other regular
church assistants, Desire, Magabongwe, Brighton, and Shepherd.

The streets: filled with playing children rolling and chasing tires
with sticks, drunken men sitting behind store fronts listening to
music on the radio, women selling everything from candy to toilet
paper at make-shift lemonade like stands that nobody buys from. Small
crops of maize misalign the front yards of the local houses, already
harvested, already consumed.

We receive an innumerable amount of looks, and laughter, and we take
it graciously and jokingly as a bolder local mocks us and asks us to
do something ridiculous. We stand out like two white dots on a black
piece of appear. It seems, and we are also told, there are not many
white people who come into this area.

Horace leads us through some community maize fields, past the sidings
of decrepit storefronts, and into the home of Masegwo, a single mother
sick with HIV. (We learn that they essentially are all single mothers,
either the husbands have died, or they have left to find work in South
Africa, or Botswana and invariably found another mate and married over
there, leaving their original family behind.) She looks healthier then
most other HIV patients I have encountered, but her home is
nonetheless filled with sadness.

We walk around for five hours knocking on doors and visiting HIV and
TB patients. We just spend time with them, touch them, pray with them,
listen to Fibion and Horace preach to them and encourage them in
Ndeble. The homes are not the huts of Mtshabezi, but instead small
miniature one level houses. The rooms are smaller, the aesthetics are
minimal, the space is limited, and the homes are broken into sections
– living rooms, kitchen, bedroom, etc. Tiny yard with meager crops, no
backyard, we enter through the front door into the living room
complete with broken and dirty couches and chairs. Maybe there is a
small black and white TV with the picture vacillating in and out.
Everyone who lives in the home is there, all 12 people, and the sick
patient, a woman, sits on the ground, the Ndebele custom. Andrew and I
wait to sit and try to offer the seats to the family members but they
turn us down and insist that we sit comfortably.

After discussion with the patient, Magabongwe or Desire starts to
sing. Everyone in the house knows the song, and sings along. Most
songs are in Ndebele, so I just close my eyes and listen to the
harmonies, or say a prayer for the woman suffering on the floor. At
the home of the blind grandmother Madabongwe starts singing in
English.

There is joy peace and happiness in my soul. There is joy peace and
happiness in my soul. There is joy joy there is joy joy there is joy
peace and happiness in my soul.

It is undecorated and simple. Andrew, Horace, and I sing the
harmonies, repeating joy peace and happiness, joy peace and happiness.
Yet, somehow it is reverential. The impromptu accapela singing brings
poignancy to the proceeding. It is in the way that the local community
sings together. A moment of remembrance and reverence.

We walk between visits. I'm curious. I ask, "Fibion, for me, and I
know for Andrew also, this is pretty shocking stuff, pretty poignant
stuff, but you see this everyday and you live in this all the time, do
you find that you have become numb to it?"

He pauses for a moment. "I'm sorry, I don't understand the expression, numb."

"Oh, okay, sorry, well, do you think you are so used to it all now
that it doesn't affect you any more? Are you so familiar with all
these people and these families suffering that you don't care as
much?"

"Ah, I see, numb," he says. "Okay, yes…no, it still touches me each time."

I turn to my left as I walk and ask Desire the same questions. "No,"
he says, "you cannot become numb to this ever."

Our final stop is a wake procession. A local boy, who had recently
traveled to South Africa to find work, was recently killed. It is
tragic. The local custom is to hold wake service for a week –
sometimes more – until the body arrives and the proper burial can be
held. We walk into the yard of the wake a few minutes late. The yard
is filled to capacity with attendees. Many sit on the ground, the
interior of the house overflowing. (It reminds me of a favorite few
verses of mine in Mark and Luke about the overflow of attendees who
watch Jesus heal.) Andrew and I, already feeling uncomfortable
arriving at a wake for someone we have never met, in a land that we
don't know, with a people who have minimal relations with, try to sit
in the back by the fence. But as soon we arrive, we are waved towards
the front, we mime a protest, but an insistence is only returned. The
rest of the wake is somber and subdued. A local fiery pastor preaches
in Ndebele. He finishes and everyone starts singing mournful
harmonies.

Later, Andrew and I leave Magwegwe North heading towards the airport
to pick up Dad – he went to Harare for the day to visit with friends –
and we silently talk about our day. We try to make jokes to suppress
the suffusion of all that occurred. We are momentarily distracted
driving through the black-lit Bulawayo city streets on Robert Mugabe
Way, laughing as we unsuccessful avoid the potholes.

But that is the point. That is what I take away from the day, this
knowledge. I can drive away. 1. I have a car, 2. I have somewhere else
to go. The dying women have nowhere else to go. Their children have
nowhere to go. Fibion and his assistants have nowhere to go. This is
where they are. I am able to drive away, walk away, ride away, and
eventually fly away. I am able to be "away". They cannot drive, fly,
walk, swim, jump, nothing "away" from this place, this extremism, this
reality. When they retire for the night they retire here with the pain
and suffering of their neighbors and tomorrows food concerns on their
mind. When they wake up they wake up to the same issues. I go to bed
at night and I wake up in a new world, new possibilities, everything
can start over again. I can just turn the ignition on and drive away.

Two weeks earlier Dad and I travel around through the rural villages
in Mtshabezi with Obert. We come upon the home of Mtulesi. He is 33,
male, a local, who traveled to South Africa a few years earlier and
was infected with HIV. He now lives with his parents. He sits alone,
next to his bed, frail and wilting like a flower. His eyes, back deep
in his head, watch me, hardly moving. I sit next to him, Dad, near the
door. After 45 minutes of conversation Obert asks Dad to pray. Mtulesi
takes off his winter hat revealing a rapid recession of hair. He is so
obviously scared. His parents try to put on brave faces, they smile,
and laugh occasionally throughout the time we spend, but Mtulesi
virtually stays silent. Dad beings to pray, and I rub Mtulesi shoulder
and hands, trying to be encouraging. I don't close my eyes but instead
watch his. They are closed tightly, and then the first sight of
moisture. And then faster his tears start to come. I don't think I
have ever seen a more frightening sight. I haven't stopped thinking
about him, that moment, two weeks later. Maybe I never will. Maybe I
should. Maybe I shouldn't. Dad concludes, and he starts to cry more
openly. It is time for us to leave.

None of these words are sufficient. They can't tell the story, the
truth of the moment and the place. Watching him cry, watching him die,
is something Dad and I will never forget. I'm not a good enough writer
to explain what it means, the futility in my being at that moment.
Nobody is, I don't think. The words, ultimately, just fall silent on
the page.

Just Living and Breathing

Tuesday, March 24, 2009
In Back of Chris/Norma's Pick-Up Truck While Everyone Looks At Bushmen
Painting on Old Gwanda Road (Mtopos Hills, Zimbawe)
Noon

re: yesterday (Monday the 23rd)

The plan is to head back out to the Mtopos Hills and stay with Chris
and Norma Ferguson who have invited us to visit their farm. First, we
stop and see Fibion to plan to visit with him on Wednesday. Phone
service is often interrupted, or most of the time just doesn't work at
all, so it is best to stop by personally. However it is hard to have
an agenda in Zimbabwe. We stop at the church, I introduce Andrew to
Fibion, we settle on the plans with Fibion, and we try to do the
American thing and rush out to our next stop. Fibion, however, insists
that we do the Zimbabwean thing and stay to have some tea. Out of fear
of being rude and insulting, we agree to stay, hoping that Chris and
Norma won't be upset at our eventual tardiness.

I'm glad that we stay. Tea with Fibion enables me to learn about
giving, sharing, kindness, and most importantly humility. He has
little, but what he has he gives. (That concept alone is wonderful.
I'm most fond of the stories when we give a poor child something to
eat, and they immediately break it off and give it to their friend or
neighbor. That kind of sacrifice, that kind of humility is something
that I think we as westerner's do not yet understand.) We squeeze into
his tiny apartment as he puts out a few pieces of white bread, along
with some broken handled coffee cups for tea. He sets them down, gives
thanks, and smiles. I really do find him to be a special person in
this world, and I'm thankful that I know him.

We quickly stop at Denis' office for a quick email/blog update, we
sort out some future business for him, and then we hit the pothole,
large rock infested dirt Old Gwanda Road, and make the hour drive out
to the Ferguson farm. The roads are absolutely treacherous here in
Matabele land. I say to Andrew, "I won't be able to describe these
roads to people, they just won't understand. Calling them potholes
just won't do it."

He quips, "Just tell them that I can lie down in them and put a
covering over the top of me, and that should do it."

The Zimbabwean government has purposely neglected the people, the
facilities, and the institutions in the Matabeland region of the
country. It's their way of exercising their power to influence
elections. It's a horrible process, and the people suffer here because
of it, which we are told are also the government's intentions.

We are met friendly by Chris and Norma Ferguson, smiling and
welcoming. They operate the 3,000 plus acre Morning Star Farm. They
purchased the land in 1997 to be used for groups and teams to camp and
spend time with nature. Andrew was interested to learn that they are
very involved with Young Life, as that organization works with them at
Morning Star often. However, as the economy began to plummet into the
toilet in the early 2000s, the groups and camps naturally stopped.
Partner with the fact around that same time they ran into trouble with
government sent land squatters, and they were forced to find
employment in Malawi and then eventually Zambia. They returned to
Morning Star just last year, all the while keeping the farm in their
name under the guidance of their faithful manager Diamond, hoping that
one-day they would return.

I don't know Chris and Norma very well. I met them through Denis, and
they seemed anxious for us to visit the farm. I was hesitant at first,
not wanting to turn this trip into some luxurious vacation, and I
eventually told them this. I was interested to learn that Chris and
Norma are heavily involved with the people in their community, and the
prepared the way with the local town counselor so that we can visit
some schools and make some home visits.

It turns out that they are just simply wonderful people. They set us
up at their home, which is just groupings of different huts – some
have beds, one if for the kitchen, one for the bathroom, one for the
dining, etc. We get situated, and sit and get to know them a bit,
learning of their friendliness and kindness and welcoming attitude.
Soon after we arrive we jump into the back of their pick-up truck and
we drive 10 to 15 kilometers to the local rural homesteads. Here in
this village, a group of local men and women volunteer to make sudza
(the staple food, essentially corn meal formed into a mashed potato
like serving that you eat with your hands) for the local orphaned
children. The kids walk kilometer upon kilometer to get this food
after school each day.

We arrive early, and the young kids who are there are excited.
Whenever they see a mukiwa they get so excited and nervous. I kneel
down at eye level and teach all fifteen of them the high-five and the
fist pound. It's amusing to encounter someone so incredibly unfamiliar
with our simple form of social physical communication. The truth is
that culturally this is a very bizarre action. I put my hand out for a
high-five and the kids scrutinize me skeptical. They don't know what
to do. They smile nervously and touch my hand lightly. Palm to palm,
finger tip to finger tip. It's kind of cute actually, as the kids
laugh when I teach them this new trick. Dad and Andrew take tons of
pictures, each time showing the photo to the kids. The orphans cannot
get enough of it. They climb around and then on top of Andrew to see
the small LCD image on his camera.

The rest of the older children arrive. The food is ready. And then
Chris and Norma say a goodbye and we follow them out the gates. "I
thought we were going to stay for the feeding part," I whisper to
Andrew.

"Me too," he says, surprised, agreeing.

We conclude that it is probably best if we don't stay. It might be
presumptuous. We are not apart of this community, we don't know these
people, and I suppose it would be inappropriate if we helped feed the
kids. All we really did was arrive.

Norma takes the truck back to the farm. Dad, Andrew, and myself are
led by Chris on a hike home over the hills. The hike is visually
stunning. Over stream, over boulders, through thick brush and
interesting plants, over a very large hill, overlooking the amazing
Mtopos Hills nearing sunset. The Mtopos is an area of Zimbabwe that is
made out of these intensely large hills and valleys, and is littered
across with enormous boulders. These boulders are miraculous to look
at because they often hold onto the edge of a cliff, or lay on top of
other boulders at impossible angles, seemingly a big huff from my
lungs away from tumbling down causing an avalanche. Andrew – the
ever-present climber – is salivating at each new boulder, posturing
the ways that he can surmount it.

Hours later we find out way back to camp. After dinner we all sit
around by candlelight and converse. Chris tells some history stories.
He is very engaged and into them. Andrew leans over to me and
whispers, smiling, "I love this guy."

I whisper back, "I was just thinking the same thing."

re: today (Tuesday the 24th)

Once again we are on the back of the pick up truck driving into the
Mtopos bush. The wind in your face is so refreshing (minus the
occasional 100 mile hour buy that hits you on the forehead) and the
scenery is awesome. Huge rocks, huge valleys, the mystery that comes
with watching small people in enormous open spaces.

We pick up Mr. Gumba who is the local elected counselor for the two
schools that we are visiting. Dad, Andrew, and I have purchased school
books and textbooks and other essentially for the students – books for
reading, math books, encyclopedia's – who simply do not have any. The
kids have been coming to school and sharing workbooks between multiple
people, or the teacher has been forced to use the chalkboard as a
substitute textbook, however the problem is that the chalk boards are
falling apart quickly.

The kids, however, are more interested in the soccer ball. The schools
are situated around a main yard, the classrooms hugging the yard like
three sides of a square. Andrew and I start kicking the ball around
the middle of the yard and soon all the children are at the windows
watching intently. Eventually the principal who is outside with us
allows all the children to come outside and they all sit and watch,
like an assembly. The four oldest boys in the school come out and
challenge us in a game of keep away. We have shoes. They don't. They
destroy us. It's not even close. Then we invite the oldest girls out
to play netball, a popular game with them, and they just have a blast.
It's so noticeable and nice.

Later we go on another hike up to some high rocks, and watch the
sunset down with the monkeys.

Wade In the Water

Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Porch of Dining Hall at Morning Star Farm (Mtopos Hills, Zimbabwe)
Morning

re: this morning

The Redeyed Dove is the one that wakes you up. The other ancillary
morning noises are that of dreams. But it is the beautiful whooping of
the Redeye that is the alarm, saying the day is gorgeous, come out and
see.

He is not lying. The sun rests on us. It's not aggressive, or
intrusive, or uncomfortable, it's instead just restful, like a
blanket.

In the background I can hear the soft songs of some local children.
It's serenity hearing their voices as they walk towards school,
singing something of contentment in Zimbabwe.

Andrew comes out of our hut and we walk down towards the river dam.
We are at the catchment, and this unnamed local river flows through
the natural flay, which serves as a filter, presenting absolutely
fresh dam water. And cold. Andrew and I slowly make our way into the
dam for a morning bath. It's invigorating. We dry off on the rock and
talk about camping, Glacier National Park, black and white relations,
the difference between Islam on different continents, and how great
yesterday was.

On Almost Any Sunday Afternoon

Sunday, March 22, 2009
King's Den (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Night

"Andrew finds my incessant need for a quote ridiculous," said Andrew.

Andrew arrives today. It is surprisingly refreshing to see him. Not
because Andrew surprises me, but I'm surprised because I didn't
realize that I wanted to see him so much. There is something about
being in this place with your friends that is special. It has been
really special to be here with Dad also. It is cool to introduce him
to people that I already have relationships with, and to people who I
have told him about already during previous conversations. He fits in
seamlessly and the King's really like him.

Typical Africa, we are late in picking him up – we got stopped by the
police for an unwarranted search, etc. – and untypical Zimbabwe his
flight arrived on time without delay. He says he was waiting for maybe
20 minutes. (Stephanie: he is rocking this beard thing…oh man…dude
looks delicious)

Warren insisted that he take Dad and I to pick Andrew up so we end up
back at Warren's house for the afternoon. The kids are all excited,
and almost immediately the King's pack the truck and we head out on a
local safari tour. Not fifteen minutes into the drive the guns come
out. Everyone is obsessed with guns? Warren takes out this 306 blah
blah blah rifle and I'm the first one to go. It's got a pretty big
kick, but somehow I manage to hit the target a couple hundred yards
away on just one try. "Alright, that's it, I'm going out on a high
note." I hand the gun over to Andrew and Dad, and everyone takes a
turn, or a few turns. The Zimbabweans just love this.
We drive through Ralph's 1,500 hectare farm – the King's next door
neighbor – and it is amazing. It is just about sundown and we drive up
to what is deemed "Heaven's Gate" that feels as if it looks out at all
of Zimbabwe. It is really a sight. We plan to come back up there at a
later point in the trip to watch a sunset proper.

When we get back to the King's house we have fun conversation about
anything and everything. Then Warren shows us his gun safe. Andrew and
Dad are into it. It's impossible for me to be less interested. Ha.

As Dad and I stand on the back of Warren's Land Cruiser, wind and bugs
hitting our faces, we shout to one another that we are having similar
misgivings. Andrew hasn't had the chance to experience this but he may
soon. It is nothing against the King's at all, because the King's are
so wonderful, but it is a weird feeling for us to go from extreme
impoverishment – Mtshabezi, The Rock Church and the community – to
then something very comfortable. It's relative of course, but in
reality it is pretty comfortable here. Yes, people live differently,
but still, if we want food we can usually eat it, if we want to sleep
we can usually find a bed, heck, if we even wanted to watch TV (not
sure why we would here?) as long as the government didn't turn off the
power we can do that I imagine. It's probably a quandary to be
pondered more tomorrow. Today was just a nice day.

Tomorrow we head back out to visit some schools and orphanages for two
days in the Mtopos area of Zimbabwe, a very rural part of Zimbabwe –
no power, no internet, no cell phone, etc. Promises to be fun and
enlightening.

The Rock

Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Rock Church, While Dad Preaches (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Day

"The songs are in our eyes, gonna wear them like a crown. Walk out
into the sunburned street, sing your heart out, sing my heart out. I
found grace inside a sound."

Dad speaks as Pastor James translates into Ndebele. And I study the
church. The delightfully innocent children sit in the front on the
cement floor. Half have and half do not have shoes. A boy sits in a
broken wheel chair with a generic Old Navy imprinted jacket, without
legs. A baby boy is in an orange Halloween jacket and jeans, he
wanders around the floor aimlessly. He keeps eyeing me. In fact, all
the kids in their colorful array of hand-me-down clothing eye me
hesitantly. They peer through their fingers at me, or over and between
their friends. I keep smiling and waving, distracting them from the
speakers, and they just smile back bashfully embarrassed.

Earlier, the service begins with a six-person choir – three women and
three men stand behind them – singing harmonious songs to God, moving
and dancing to their own organic rhythm. I cannot understand a word
that they are singing in Ndebele but the rhythm is nonetheless
galvanizing. We clap, we dance, we smile, and they sing glorious.

After introducing us, Pastor James says that they are going to sing
two more songs before Dad is going to give the sermon. He stops
speaking and there is a few moments of pause. Then a woman from the
congregation begins to shout. Soon someone is clapping and then off
everyone goes. Everyone seems to know the song by heart, and they know
the beats and the repetitions and the appropriate harmonies. I
continue to clap and dance along. The song is fun. I can make out a
"Jesu" here and there, but that is all. At one point I recognize that
it is not just the percussion of the human hand clapping rhythm that
is supporting us, there is some unseen drum as well. I start to look
around for it but cannot find it anywhere. It shouldn't be hard to
find, this church building is sparse. Calling it a building is in fact
being generous. It is four peeling cement walls, a ceiling of
aluminum, tall grass with cows and goats grazing right outside the
window, a few plastic chairs for some of the congregants, a tall
lecturer that comes up to James' shoulders, and the rest people. So
far it's my favorite church that I have been in, but I digress. I then
realize that in the corner, behind a group of people against the wall
is a very old woman. She is eighty years old (I later find out from
her son), and she is the one banging the drum that she is sitting on.
I start to laugh to myself at this new sight as she is perfectly
keeping the beat with her aging hands for the entire congregation.
It's pretty cool.

There is a little girl who watches Dad with intensity. She won't let
go of her stare. She is at his feet, listening to every word he says
as if he language is nectar. And I realize that they all give Dad and
I such awesome respect. In fact most of the amazing Ndebele people do;
and I just start to wonder why? It feels unequaled and incongruous.
Maybe it is more of an unjustified feeling, or something? I don't know
to be honest. Dad and I have been talking about it, and we can't come
up with the equation. But Dad opens up his sermon and says how much he
loves everyone's smile. And I could not agree more.

Sweet Darkness

Saturday, March 21, 2009
Visiting Dining Room, By Light of Fire w/ Dad (Mtopos, Zimbabwe)
Night

"Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift."

Moments ago I found myself alone on the great big rock between my hut
and the dining room hut.

It was for all of five minutes but alone I was.

The great grey clouds from the daytime clearly have not yet
dissipated, as the night sky is complete blackness.

I don't think I have ever been in such unadulterated absolute.

It's freeing.

Gorgeously Grey

Saturday, March 21, 2009
On Dad's Hut Porch w/ Dad (Mtopos, Zimbabwe)
Very Early Morning

"Read the short story "Pigeon Feathers" by John Updike."

Dad walks to my hut and wakes me up at five-thirty, fifteen minutes
prior to the scheduled first light of this Saturday. We walk back down
to what is known as the Honeymoon Hut where Dad is staying.
Five-thirty turns to six. A tiny light begins to break over the
mountain horizon and under the massive grey cloud covering, it is not
strong enough to fight the power hungry grey. It appears that we will
not be seeing our special sunrise today. Oh well, it is gorgeously
grey though. The wind starts to move past us and through us with more
violence and it seems as if a storm is coming up from South Africa.
It's cold today here in Africa. And still the birds and the bugs begin
to talk and play the morning.

That

Friday, March 20, 2009
At Desk In Room, Shumba Shaba Lodge (Matopos, Zimdabawe)
Night

"If there is a God, you are, in a sense, alone with Him."

I don't think I know what darkness was until I arrived here. Or a
silence for that matter – the way that the cicada's and crickets sing
electric, incessantly talking until they become the silence, like the
indubitable repetition of the ocean waves. It's all quite extreme. All
of it quite wonderful I suppose.

Romance, for me, is right here and right now, sitting in a rock formed
makeshift all glass windowed lodge, on the edge of a tumultuously
rocky cliff, at a wooded desk, by the very literal light of a
flickering candle. All darkness and her dominion and all serenity and
his tranquility win.

I brought Dad here to Denis' home – a former lodge called Shumba Shaba
out in the Mataopos area bush south of Bulawayo – because I had
visited here on a prior trip and the majesty of it has yet to escape
my conscious grasp. I'll bring Andrew and Patrick here as well when
they arrive. And when I am honest, while this place is wonderfully
peaceful and relaxing, the reason I brought Dad here is purely for the
sunrise. Granted, it is a bit of a trip to see one sunrise; but when
Dad sees these morning colors in a few hours time every pot hole bump
on the dirt road, the tedious 25 mph trip, will all be paid in full.

Soon, the light will break over the mountains and we will see the
first sign of color through our private glass huts which point due
east, with each moment the sun blasting fuller and fuller. I cannot
wait.

In the meantime, there are other wonders to fulfill our attention. We
arrive at the lodge and Denis' wife Sandy and daughter Kayla are here
to greet us. Quickly they move us to the top of the rocky hill to
watch the sunset in the west over trees and mountains. And here we get
to know Kayla.

At 3, she has the personality of what I would imagine a talking
butterfly would have – flapping its wings, moving through air
seamlessly and quite softly, harming no one, just creating beauty. She
is playful and light and funny, and she loves her mommy and daddy.

We all sit down on the rock and focus west. I sit behind Kayla, and
she turns around, having just met me, and asks me what my favorite
color is. I think for a second, and I turn her head back west and say,
"that." She quickly turns her head back and says that hers is pink.

We have a nice dinner with Denis conversing in mostly about Zimbabwean
history and then later walk outside into the blackness. I've never
known so many stars in the sky. I'm fascinated to see these
alternative southern hemisphere celestial bodies. I'm in reverence to
the dozens of new lights in Orion's frame, or the Milky Way to thick
and full for the first time, or Venus pure and white hugging the
horizon line. Denis says that it is actually a cloudy night and that
this is nothing to marvel at. I beg to differ.

It's hard to stand with head cocked back glancing upwards towards the
sparkling blanket and not see someone like God looking back. There
have been days in my life when I have tried. There has been a year in
fact when I attempted this. To no avail of course. He twinkles with
the pointers of the Southern Cross, and he shows off with Ursa Major,
and the soft night wind blows and he breathes on my shoulders.
A shooting star rushes past. I think to myself, I've seen a countless
number of shooting stars in my life. That's pretty cool. I'm
surprised, because I often here a fellow onlooker say that they have
never seen but one. Maybe I'm just lucky. Or maybe there is just too
much light pollution. Or maybe we just need to look up more.

Today

Thursday, March 20, 2009
In Bed, King's House (Worringham, Zimbabwe)
Late Night

"Too much tomorrow, I think I'll take all..."

Dad takes a tour of the Mtshabezi hospital and I hang back and view
old photos with Obert from my 2007 trip. Obert is a good man, and I
enjoy spending time with him. He is giving and kind. He is formal,
yes, but his formality ultimately becomes endearing. He and I seem to
be getting along well and we engage in pleasant conversation.

I'm excited today. Today we are set to see Shelton. And even though my
excitement rushes internal as we arrive at the office to plan the day,
I'm simultaneously concerned that he will not remember me.

We arrive at Shelton's school and everyone at the school knows it.
Hundreds of kids lean out windows and doors with diffidence, shying
away whenever I look in their direction. As Dad, Obert, and the
headmaster speak to one another, I move away and play games with the
kids. I sneak under the windows, pop my head up, and scare them,
acting goofy. They laugh at the white clown and run away, only to run
back when I turn my back, repeating the process.

The headmaster calls for Shelton. After a few minutes the boy
tentatively approaches. I notice that he looks very much the same as
when I saw him last. He is quiet, cute, with watchful dynamic eyes
that take in all information. He tries to process everything with his
eyes. He stands apprehensive under the shadow of the circle of men.
Obert speaks introductions to him in Ndebele.

The reason this boy is such a wonder is that for the past few years he
has been living on his own. He is 9 years old. Along with his sister
Margaret (10) and his cousin Concillia (11), they have managed to
survive as three orphan children living in the Zimbabwean bush. It's
fascinating, inspiring, saddening, and a bit abhorrent.

They keep a hen of chickens on their "property" – two huts and a
perimeter fence – and they would sell the chickens in the local
village for food and necessities. They would operate normally as if
their parents were near. Get up in the morning, no breakfast, don't
put on any shoes, walk to school, about 10 kilometers, go to school,
eat at school, walk back to their home, go to bed, and do it over
again. Still, Shelton, his sister, and cousin are playful and
enthusiastic.

We stand over Shelton putting him in the spotlight. Obert asks him if
he remembers me. He takes a moment, covers his mouth with his hands,
and whispers, "Steve." It was pretty cool. I introduce Shelton to Dad.

Another reason that I find the boy to be so profound is that he has
all the right in the world to ask for anything and everything yet he
asks for absolutely nothing. I watch him closely. We are in his
classroom and the teacher is introducing the class to Dad and I. Dad
takes a picture of the class and he moves over to show them. The kids
are excited and they hop on the tables and push past one another.
Shelton just sits there in his chair as children hit and kick him in
the head, pushing him out of the way. He doesn't push back, he doesn't
say "hey!" indignantly. He is so passive. So content.

Later, Dad and I drive the two hours back towards Bulawayo. Earlier in
the day I was learning how to drive the stick shift, but we conclude
that the hilly terrain is not conducive to my necessary learning
pains. And we essentially become a taxi service. Hundreds of people
hug the side of the road walking to and from the city. Some stick
their hands out, hoping for a ride. We pull over. We see someone else,
we pull over again. And then yet again. We drop someone off at a town
halfway between Mtshabezi and Bulawayo, and take some kids on their
way home from school. I think the people in between the towns have
less opportunity to speak English because it is challenging for Dad
and I to understand what they are saying when we ask them where they
are going. I have no idea of the town names nor do I know where they
are located. Thankfully I am able to convey to our passengers that it
is best if you just knock on the glass when you would like us to stop.
The truck has a separation glass between the front bench and the back
truck part. I periodically turn around to make sure that everything is
okay behind me. I give the thumbs up sign, smiling, 'everything
good?'. The old man returns my smile with a smile. We are okay.

There is an infinitesimal beauty when the first instant of surprise
arrives on someone's face. I help an old man and a middle aged
heavyset woman into the truck. They give fulsome thank-you's and
gracious comments. I reach into our bag of candy and hand them each a
Twizzler packet, or a chocolate bar, or some trail mix. All
expectations supplanted.

Yesterday

Thursday, March 19, 2009
In Obert's Office (Mtshabezi, Zimbabwe)
Morning

"When you enter a house, first say, 'Peace to this house.'"

As expected I don't have much to discuss about yesterday's visit to
see the AIDE's patients in the homesteads. Going into specific details
seems challenging right now and to be perfectly honest, pointless. I
could never do the smells justice. But essentially the patients live
in tiny cyclical huts, lying down in bed, as their family circulates
them trying to offer comfort and suffering relief.

Obert brings us back to the office to talk about the day of visiting.
"Do you have any questions about today?" he asks.

I don't necessarily, but I opt to share with him some of the concerns
that I have been thinking throughout the day as we spent time with the
patients. "I'm a bit hesitant to show up, like today, in these
homesteads, to visit the hospital here at Mtshabezi, and to come into
the community as this white powerful imperialist American, thinking
that we can fix all of the local problems. I know that Dad agrees, and
that is simply not our intentions."

Obert speaks in tentative, deliberate, robot-sounding English. "I
know, I know," he says under his breath, as he tends to do. "You
touched me today. You go and sit next to the patient, you hold the
patient's hand, you touch me."

"Uh, yes, of course. I don't want them to think that I'm scared of
them or something…I just…it's just really important to me that it is
understood that I don't think I am some savior. All I think I can do
is show love and care and that is all that I can do. That is all we
can offer," indicating Dad also.

Obert takes a moment, as he tends to do, gathering his thoughts.

"Here, Zimbabweans, we value relationships, closeness. 'Ah, someone
has visited me,' we think. Moreover, we think, to be visited by a
mukiwa means to us that we are recognized, not forgotten, someone from
far away is thinking about me."

He takes a moment and I feel heard and encouraged. He continues,
speaking of a patient we just returned from visiting named Sifundele,
"She thinks, she is still a person, she is still a human being."
Another pause, again, deliberate, again emotional. "It is good what
you do."