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."

Jessica

Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Sinkukwe Elementary School (Sinkukwe, Zimbabwe)
Afternoon

"I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness,
and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly,
and bow often."

Then there is Jessica: a young woman, but eighteen or twenty, who was
close to death in 2007. I remember her vividly. There are some whose
feeble attempt at a smile I will never forget. This is Jessica. I know
the answer to my question, but I can't help myself from wishing for a
miracle. Obert rocks softly on the chair in the Newcomer's living
room. We are waiting to leave, to enter the community and visit the
patients in the homesteads. The room is suddenly quiet, and it is just
he and I. I grab the courage to ask him. "Obert, let me ask you, I
know it sounds silly, but do you remember a young girl named Jessica.
She was eighteen or maybe twenty, and her mother and gogo were taking
care of her? She was quite sick." He continues to rock, looking down,
almost ominously. He thinks. "Jessica," he murmurs her name to
himself. "Jessica," he repeats. He continues to rock, thinking. "Yes,"
he chimes in, "I remember, yes." He thinks again. "She has passed,"
matter-of-factly. He and I sit there across from one another, and it
is hard to fight tears in this situation. They come slowly and quietly
as if I'm not allowed. Looking at Obert, my voice cracks so slightly;
and it's hard not to feel silly. I spent two days, an hour a day, with
Jessica a year and a half ago. Granted I've thought of her often.
Nevertheless silly.

The Boy Shelton

Wednesday, March 18, 2009
In Obert's Office (Mtshabezi, Zimbabwe)
Morning

"…we don't see light; we see what it touches."

There is the boy Shelton who in a way has come to represent Zimbabwe
to me. When I think of this place, back at home, I think of his face.

I've tried to get updates on how he was fairing from Obert and Richard
– the Mtshabezi hospital administrator. But email is the butt of a
joke here, and I never heard from them on Shelton's condition.

Obert formally greets us, talking to Dad about Mtshabezi and how it
operates. I've heard this before, and Shelton weighs on my mind and
I'm unfocused.

There is a customary code here that I don't want to disengage. I want
to know about the boy, I don't want to know about the office
hierarchy. In a way, I'm here, on my first full day in country,
because of the boy Shelton. And I want to know how he is. I want to
know if he is alive.

As a quiet moment approaches in Obert's introduction, I want to
interject. But in truth, I'm scared of the response.

I finally ask. He says, "Yes, I remember seeing your emails."

"Okay," I said, pushing the point.

"The boy is okay." A relief.

"Does he have HIV?"

"We don't think so."

"Does he still live on his own?" I question, as Shelton is not yet
walked ten years on this earth.

"Very recently he is living in a different place with his extended
family. We are trying that out for now."

We plan to see Shelton tomorrow.

Mtshabezi

Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Newcomer's Dinner Table (Mtshabezi, Zimbabwe)
Morning

"…life is more than clothes and cars and a new flavor of toothpaste,
that it is community and creation and beauty and humanity."

Dad and I leave Bulawayo Tuesday afternoon to drive the 100 kilometers
south into the bush towards the Mtshabezi AiIDS Mission. The Mission
is a small organization that is run by the Brethren In Christ Church
and supported by Forgotten Voices. There are two projects, the AIDS
community work and the local Mtshabezi hospital. They are not always
necessarily related in all activities, but they work together in
support of many functions. The AIDS project essentially teaches the
community about AIDS prevention, provides service kits to those
infected, trains local leaders as homecare givers, counsels, guides,
and generally looks after the alarmingly high number of HIV infected
community members. After a formal meeting with Obert – one of the AIDS
project administrators – we are introduced to new friends in Steve and
Chris Newcomer. We are to stay with them, and they have dinner
prepared for us. Along with lively conversation, I 'm surprised to
learn that both Steve and Chris attended Messiah, as well as their
daughters who are about my age. (So if anyone reading this from
Messiah knows Joy or Hope tell them that their parents rock!).

Continuing my jet lagged insomnia trend, I hear the Newcomer's pack
up and leave around 5 in the morning. They are heading to South Africa
on a two-day food stock journey. This is a customary process in
Zimbabwe, a monthly trip to South Africa or Botswana to stock up on
necessities that are unavailable for purchase in country – water,
milk, sugar, salt, food, etc. They Newcomer's are graciously leaving
their home for us to stay during our time in Mtshabezi.

But it's 5 in the morning and I question the true reason for why I'm
unable to sleep. I suppose it is the time change. It is too radical to
not be a factor. But I think an ancillary reason is just fear of
tomorrow. Obert has made a plan of two full days of homestead visits
in the community. I've done this before. I'm obviously aware of what
to expect. I'll do this again. Still, I hold trepidation in my steps.
I believe this is what I am referring to when I vacillate between
anxiety and nervousness, excitement and fear.

Last night, as Dad and I lay in bed, we are talking by the light of
the mosquito repellant candle. I say, "I'm not sure how I feel about
tomorrow."

He is unaware, not having done this before, and he questions why.

"Well, I really want to do this, I need to do this, but I'm just
nervous about doing this. It's pretty jarring and horrific out there."

I remember in 2007 traveling from homestead patient to homestead
patient, each one more horrific then the previous. Essentially the
Mtshabezi hospital releases the indisposed patient to the family so
that they can "pass in peace and dignity." It was scary, convicting,
troubling, challenging, frustrating, and it sat with me. I would be in
my room that evening preparing to journal my trip to someone. Every
evening on my trip I would tell her everything about the day, what I
learned, what I saw, what I thought; but on the days of the homestead
visits I was weak to write. I couldn't explain what I just
experienced. There weren't words sufficent.

Mukiwa Mukiwa

Monday, March 16, 2009

Outside Porch, King’s House (Worringham, Zimbabwe)

Night

“More forgotten, ruined, beautiful people than we ever imagined existed, and more reason to hope in their redemption.”

I remember the first hint of a silent African wind peruse my face as lungs expand and contract, reach deep, the close of the eyes, the moisture suffusion, something of importance felt in the late evening air.

But as I make the same movements and exit the exact same Johannesburg terminal it is something alien that is felt instead. It is something entirely different. It moves from something surreal to real without telling me, the magician of expectations having played out all of his tricks. It’s something about justification, about telling myself that “you have returned.”

Andrew says goodbye and moves directly to Cape Town. Dad and I are forced to stay in Joburg for the evening, which ultimately turns into the blessing of blessings as we are only being forced to spend time with the lovely Lockwood family.

The night passes with little sleep, and the day arrives slowly with the calls from four kids playing and preparing for their school day. We move back to the airport and within two hours I’m back in Zimbabwe. It’s wonderfully familiar and incredibly preserved. It is just a different process that I must experience. Sophomore year is always different then freshman I suppose, as everything is exactly how I picture it in my head. Surprises now hide, and if they are alive at all they are shy. But we do still pull into a shoebox of an airplane hanger – Bulawayo International Airport – and we still must go through the absurdly rigorous custom process, as every piece of our underwear is questioned, and we are still met by a friendly face as we conclude the check in process.

There is a subtle beauty in the same, the way that I imagine there is a beauty in coming home to the same woman you love each day. The key is to find the soft difference in her smile, finding something new and beautiful with the latest crease of her cheeks. I think that I do that with Dad. I watch his excitement and curiosity. It increases exponentially with each new interesting fact that Denis reveals in the car ride to Bulawayo. It arrives when I tell Dad some new interesting bit of information about this place, the discussion of fascinating Zimbabwean conundrum’s that we cannot comprehend in the states, as they only exist here.

We debrief with Denis, trade the proper goods – hard drives, far x, cell phone etc. – we make a plan, and off Dad and I go.

I purchased for Fibion a printer as a surprise – Forgotten Voices recently bought him a computer – and as we drive towards him I laugh because this printer is for a man who lives in the church he works at, works out of the room he sleeps in, and who necessitates nothing more than a Bible and half of a pencil. “Fibion, have you eaten today?” I ask.

“Yes,” he responds, humbly, with a customary smile. Maybe he is embarrassed.

I persist, I want food in his belly not prideful social process. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you.”

I’m questioning if he has eaten today while handing him a printer, which is amusing.

But before we can enjoy time spent with Fibion we must find him. I foolishly exclaim, “I know how to get there, I got it, I got it.” Well, I don’t got it. We are lost in some of the poorest high-density suburbs in the country. I drive, trying to re-familiarize myself with the left side of auto movement, and every left turn off appears to be mimicking the one before it. Some kind people try to offer directions, “what church is it?” they ask. Dad looks at me. “It’s blue…I think,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Do you know Fibion Ndlovu?” I sheepishly ask, as if every Zimbabwean knows one another. I play the part of the ignorant American well.

Dad and I continue to drive. We graze across a building that could be a church. We know it’s not Fibion’s but we get out anyway. Local residents peruse and enjoy the dirt roads crowding them with playful malnourished children and men and women who walk the sun slowly down. Dad moves through the gates and I park the Nissan sedan. I follow dad as I see him talking to a Gentleman outside the church doors. I smile and wave at the kids who covertly follow along studying me. I hear them whisper to one another, bashful, “mukiwa, mukiwa. (white man).” I smile harder upon hearing this, the word providing me with a strange and bizarre comfort.

I’m unable to get through the gate, unable to find the entrance. I don’t know how dad did it, some wizard like abilities that he has been keeping from me, but I can’t figure it out and the kids laugh harder. One of them points and I make a funny embarrassed face.

I tell the helpful Gentleman that the church is in Magwegwe North, and he immediately hops in his car and has us follow him right to the brick façade of the Free Methodist Church with sky blue siding.

Seeing Fibion, all five feet of him, is so refreshing. I think of this man so very often. He lives with such lack of want or need. He lives with such selfless ambitions as he supports his district, constantly and consistently taking in the local youth. He smiles, a sincere genuine smile, often, that is incongruous with the situation surrounding him. And it is beautiful.

Seeing Fibion’s assistant of sorts, Horace, is equally enlivening. Horace has managed to stay in Magwegwe when many of the other youth in the church have departed for places of greater hope, South Africa, Botswana, maybe Mozambique even. Horace seems to be the eldest of Fibion’s young supporters, currently – Desire, Brighton, Makabongwe, and Dumasani – and they all sit on a bench as Dad helps Fibion set up the new printer with the computer. I sit across from the five young Zimbabwean’s, handing them each a coke, and they smile.

“So,” I say, “how are you keeping?”

Horace answers, “We are okay.”

“How is your father,” I direct at Horace.

“He is okay. Yes.”

“You remember? Last time?” In 2007 I picked Horace up rushing he and his father to the hospital in Bulawayo.

“He is better now.”

I nod a surprising acceptance. I ask about the rest of their families. Desire says his father is well. “And your mother?” I foolishly question, knowing the answer before I even hear it.

“She has passed,” he says confidently.

I go down the line and ask the same question of the rest of the boys, like Pandora opening her box. The three of them respond with the affirmative, as one parent has invariably passed for each.

Hardened these boys/men are, but somehow smiling. We turn to soccer as a replacement for the reality. They are better then me. I say out loud to them, “we are basically playing mukiwa in the middle.” They all laugh.

After about two hours, Dad has set up Fibion’s new printer, and we make plans to meet again later in the week.

We drive away, now in darkness, the streets ever so slightly having quieted down. We wave at everyone we pass, with some reciprocity, others instead staring with deep tentative white eyes. We hear some mukiwas, and some customary responses as I shout out the Ndebele customary greeting. Some people stand off the side of the road outside there homes. The houses are thatch, or some form of hardened earth, maybe ten or twelve feet in diameter. A gogo (grandmother) stands outside, all thin and frail and disheveled, holding her grandchild, her daughter, the boy’s mother, having passed. This is a sight all too ordinary.

We drive the twenty kilometers to our evening dinner away from the starving locals.

I just finished this book about these two guys who chose to live homeless for five months in the cities of the United States. And as I walk around the decrepitude that is Magwegwe North I question what is worse: homeless life in an American city or to be a citizen of Zimbabwe? Bad is certainly bad. There is no questioning that. But the interesting thing that I conclude is that living in the indigence of Zimbabwe is much harder because hope is so often located across borders in South Africa, Australia, or England. Hope has gone away. It was sucked out like a vacuum in the mid-eighties and has yet to represent itself. On the streets of America there is hope, little hopes, yes, but hope nonetheless. There is the hope that you can panhandle and maybe if you are lucky get enough money for dinner. You can certainly panhandle in Zimbabwe, but what would be the point? You can make 100 billion dollars in an instant here, a number that correlates to less then a penny in US Dollars. You can panhandle in Zimbabwe, but ultimately you would receive laughable looks. You can panhandle in Zimbabwe but your desired supporter would be just as likely to stop her walking by and squat down next to you, reaching out her hand.

Tangible and Now

Monday, March 16, 2009
Lockwood's Dinner Table (Johannesburg, South Africa)
Just After Midnight

"More than 3,300 people have died from the worst outbreak of cholera
in Zimbabwe's history, which has infected nearly 66,000 people,"
BBC.com.

I can only process so much by the light of the lap top monitor,
sitting isolated in a coffee shop, or at my office desk, or in my room
before I retire into my bed, another day to tally off. This limitation
is something that I have been pondering these last three weeks or so
as the metallic light would reflect in my eyes, reading BBC.com –
daily ritual – watching all the numbers compile.

Over 60,000 Zimbabweans diagnosed with cholera. 50% of the country on
international food aid. 11% of the population has the HIV virus (more
accurate number would be 25%), a big loud reminder of a country in
tumult. For a moment I would be astonished, reading these numbers, as
they would proliferate upward into the absurd sky. And I would let
that moment astound me for a beat or two, and then it would subside in
that artful way these moments tend to do, as someone calls out my
name, or the cell phone rings with Brian on the other line to make me
laugh, or I click the back button on the webpage to return to see what
is new with the Mets.

As the moment of astonishment inevitably subsides, the rest of my day
could begin, the moment left to evolve into simple numbers. These
numbers to be forgotten, or inaccurately manipulated, or recited to a
curious acquaintance when they ask "so why are you going?"

Yet, these last two weeks these numbers have served to become less and
less sufficient of a response. Even though this trip has been planned
for months, I think I have concluded two things these past two weeks.

I'm not here to save the lives of the 60,000 of cholera dispossessed,
or get the countless people dying from AIDS some elusive sustainable
medication, or fix the debilitating astronomically inflated economy,
or remove the insane dictator from his high omnipotent chair where he
passes down judgment, tormenting his own people. So instead of these
unattainable numbers, and these unrealistic ideas, it should be about
the smaller numbers.

I'm unable to heal the cholera patient, but maybe I can drive him
somewhere as he hugs the endless road walking hundreds of kilometers.
Or I can sit with an AIDS patient, sit next to her, with her, holding
her hand, laying next to her all day, a white stranger with hope in
his eyes. Or sit with my friend Fibion, the sun descending on another
day where three of his friends or townsfolk have passed, walk with him
to his next funeral service, tell him how much I think about him, show
him how much I care about him. A hug maybe, or a ride, or maybe a
topping off of a beleaguered petrol tank, a smile even, or a surprise
delivery of cookies.

I don't really know. But maybe the number should be smaller and no
longer get overwhelmed with the inane immensity.

And I'm not sure if I am anxious or nervous, excited or scared. My
moment of astonishment will instead not be by the light of monitor but
a quick reality dressed in front of me. Both tangible and now, unable
to fade away into the disorder of the day, instead, it will be the
day. These past two weeks I have vacillated, wanting to see it, scared
to see it, the it being the tremendous amount of poverty, the extreme
displacement, the utter decrepitude, the impoverishment that the big
numbers do not share, the dirt and bug infested bodies, the holes in
the skin, the terrified eyes infiltrated with black dust turning gray.

To make sense of these numbers that I read about everyday as my moment
of astonishment turns into another moment of astonishment and then
another and then maybe I will understand just a little bit more. It
won't subside with a phone call it will play over and over on my
inside eye lids when I close my eyes that night. Drifting away, trying
to sleep with the signs and smells of that pain still in my face.
Hoping that during that day when I lay next to her I was some abstract
manifestation of hope. Their moment of astonishment, for a beat or
two, until reality wins shuffling this astonishment off, the moment
then gone.

Original Donation Letter

Please feel free to disregard this email.
This is an if you can, then that is great, if you can't that is great also, situation.
To some I may have sent a hard copy already, if so, I apologize for the redundancy. I cast a wide net here in this email.
Maybe you know a friend who is interested, if so, I do not discriminate!!
And if you are debating whether to give to me or someone else, debate no longer, give it to someone else.
Thanks,
Stephen

-------

Dear

I'm writing to inform you about my return trip to the country of Zimbabwe. I will be there for one month, from March 14 until April 15. Accompanying me on this trip will be my dad (Stephen Bozzo Sr.) from March 14 to March 31; and then my friend Patrick Jones will meet up with me on the second leg of my trip, from March 31 to April 15.

It's a very deliberate decision to pack up and head off to southern Africa. It's obviously not some nonchalant, thoughtless trip, especially when considering the current political climate of Zimbabwe. But it is something that is so tremendously important to me, and I'm very excited that it is all finally coming together again.

I mentioned the current climate. Zimbabwe has been experiencing extra-ordinary government mismanagement and interference. President Robert Mugabe was voted out of office in March '07 only to refuse to leave his seat to the democratically elected Morgan Tsvangari. This is a seat that Mugabe has held since 1980, as dictator, and he has run the once prosperous land into absolute decrepitude. A run-off election was reluctantly agreed upon but only saw Tsvangari drop out, as Mugabe led rampant killings of innocent civilians to try and sway the vote in his favor. It is a sad state of affairs, and Zimbabwe specifically has a sordid national history that is filled with such affairs. This is only a fraction of Zimbabwe'a struggles. The tumultuous government only leads to a crippled infrastructure, which in turn spills into tributaries of pain spreading to the Zimbabwean people.

You may know that I visited Zimbabwe in May and June of 2006. Since then, I have been very anxious to return, because when I was there I felt as if I stumbled upon this amazing truth: this beautiful way of living at the center of complete madness. This beauty was so evidently expressed in the wonderful people that I befriended. And it all left me astounded, as I contrasted their beauty amidst the tumult with my own selfishness amidst prosperity.

My first two weeks with Dad will be focused on assisting and encouraging. We are going to travel around the country in a rented car and give aid however and whenever we can. Our goal is to very literally be like Christ to these people. Specifically we will be visiting AIDS orphanages, rural homesteads, hospitals, and throughout helping to fix wells, build houses, and very generally – but no less important – be there to support the people of Zimbabwe during this trying time. I was struck by how touched many of the Zimbabwean people were by the mere fact that I would take time out of my life to come and just be with them. So, if nothing else, my dad and I plan on just being there, to be loving, to be supportive, and to show them that they are not alone.

My second two weeks with Pat will be focused on all the aforementioned, but more specifically our days will be spent shooting a short film. I'm very excited about getting behind the camera and telling some of these stories.

Personally, it is hard for me to send this to you and ask for money. Though I recognize that my trip is altruistic in motivation, the struggle is to justify asking for money for something when so many people in Zimbabwe are without, when so many Americans are without (specifically now with this economy), and when the person on the corner of my street is without. With that in mind, I hope to use my resources with maturity and respect.

Therefore, any donations and support you can give is greatly appreciated. Purchasing a ticket to Zimbabwe is not like flying to another state, or even London for that matter, so it is quite pricey. Furthermore, once we are on the ground we will need to rent cars, and hopefully survive on as little as possible. And the other ancillary expense is trying to offset the cost of film equipment.
The best and easiest way to donate would be by check. My home address is:

Stephen Bozzo Jr.
1338 18th Street, Apt. 3
Santa Monica, CA 90404

If you would like, you can also utilize my paypal account if that is convenient: sjbozzo@gmail.com.
Whether you are to give $1 or $1,000 it is much appreciated. If this is not a good time, I fully understand.

Thank you very much,
Stephen