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.