Friday, November 29, 2013

If Ever You Need Perspective, Two

Last year during Thanksgiving I posted a blog entitled, “If Ever You Need Perspective.”  The post quickly took on a life of its own. It has come back to me oodles of times through friends and associates that have received it from people I do not know. It has been re-posted and hit so often that I have followed it up, one year later, with a post on the same subject: 

If ever you need to feel humbled, move to Africa.  It was the day we finally got our car. Finally.  After a year of walking, renting, borrowing, and hitching.  Nothing was as sweet as finally -finally- getting a car to navigate a spread-out city full of thousands of struggling pedestrians and no sidewalks.  I was still walking on air and wondering how I would ever manage driving on the left when I walked into the kitchen.  Our housekeeper, Ziwone, stopped me with a pan of burnt oil used the night before for attempted French fries.  I looked in the pot, full of bits of old burnt fry, and said, “That’s trash.  You can compost it.” Ziwone, serious Ziwone who has never dared ask outright for anything, looked at me and moved toward the compost bucket with hesitation.  “It is terribly burnt…” I trailed off.  Silence.  “I could use this oil if you cannot,” she blurted out suddenly.  Her voice surprised both of us. I gladly told Ziwone she could keep the oil, and then walked toward the living room. My mind returned to our new car.  Out of the corner of my eye I suddenly saw Ziwone do a giddy jump before hurrying outside, pot in hand.  As I looked out the window Ziwone hurried to her gardening husband in the back yard with a huge smile, speaking fast Shona and gesturing like one of those women in shock over winning the lottery. Ziwone had changed from stoic, tired mother to starry-eyed child. I set my new keys on the counter.  And as I am reminded at least once a day in Africa, I was brought back to a place of humbleness and gratitude.  The pot of used oil, not the car, won on that particular day.

 

If ever you need to feel joy for the simple things, move to Africa.  After switching our car battery, a dead one sat on the cement next to our house for weeks before I caught the gardener looking at it one morning. When we later offered it to Shoman, I expected him to sell it for parts, or to a mechanic who could put it to some sort of recycled use.  As he happily carried it off he told me over his shoulder, “This will power my whole village with a radio!  I would be the hero of the people!”

Though joys like this swim across my eyes every day, none have been as good as the day I walked into the house and asked the housekeeper if her two children could go with Jonas and me to his school’s playground. Serious Ziwone got wide eyed and practically ran out the door, saying, “Just five minutes!  I have to get ready!” I laughed because I had meant the children, but the suggestion had apparently turned Ziwone into a child, too.  I could not tell who was more excited.  Jonas and I tossed a ball and waited. Ten minutes later Ziwone and her boys returned to our house wearing their best clothes. Jonas’ school has unique, “real” playground equipment. No sharp metal. No 1950s designs.  Pure, imported, US-designed plastic and wood Big Toys.  You have never witnessed joy until you have seen a child experience his first playground ever.   No words.   I took the boys back four more times that week, always dressed in their best.


If ever you need to be reminded of your fears, move to Africa.  A few weeks ago, I watched as our gardener’s three year old, Lilly, sank slowly to the bottom of the deep end of our pool. It was fitting, as Lilly‘s nickname, Libo, translates from Shona to mean, “caution!”  I dove in, clothes on, to retrieve the wide-eyed child from his close call.  We remained silent as I carried him to our house, my brain stuck in an acute awareness of the danger that feels multiplied in a place without good health care or emergency response. In the last six months we have tensely hunkered down for an election, stared down wild elephants, dealt with startling security alarms, floated down one of the world’s most dangerous rivers, possibly rid ourselves of an immense black-widow infestation on our porch and in our child’s bedroom, and cleaned up after the terrors of typhoid went through our household.  I have fought issues of fear my whole life.  But never have they followed me, confronted me, and shaken me as they have in Africa.


If ever you need to feel brave, move to Africa.   Though I do not hunt for my food, have only seen my computer-less doctor look up something in a thirty-some year old text book once, and rarely spend my afternoons wrestling lions, we are brave for moving to Africa.  Unfortunately this has little to do with the intimidations of moving to an unknown land and more to do with our daily situations.  I commiserated with a local friend of mine recently who, like me a month ago, had a gun pointed at her head during a tense moment in an intersection.  She was shaken, but her husband had comforted her later with a laugh.  “Don’t worry about it.  They probably didn’t even have enough money to put bullets in the gun!” Perhaps it’s the calm that comes from logic and factoring probability. Perhaps it’s a delusional comfort.  Or perhaps it’s intense naivety.  But always, usually closely after the what-ifs have all been discussed at length, there is a replay and a laughing off of the situation later, ending in a sigh about Africa. Overcoming our fears amid the rumors whispered daily among locals and forging ahead becomes daily ritual. Indeed, in the last six months we have tensely hunkered down for that election thing, had staring matches with wild elephants, heard the shrill sounds of our security alarms, spent time on one of the world’s most dangerous rivers, dealt with lil' ol' deadly spiders, and learned the nitty gritty details of typhoid epidemics. And we have conquered them all.  I have been told over and over, if you can survive the first year in Africa, you are African for life.  I hope so.


If ever you need to feel conflicted, move to Africa.  There is a well known story here in Zim.  You can tell how long a person has lived here by how they deal with finding a fly in their drink.  Newly arrived foreigners will see the fly and refuse to drink any further.  After a while in Zim, one will take the fly out and then drink the beverage. But the tell tale sign that someone has lived in Zim for a long time? The person sees the fly, shrugs his/her shoulders and drinks the beverage fly and all.  By these standards, I still fall under the classification as “new foreigner.” So how could I possibly be ready to leave?

We had a heart breaking decision to make on Wednesday.  So heartbreaking, in fact, that we waited until the very last second before it had to be made.  We may as well have tossed a coin.  Because how is it possible to say no to giraffes? How can one argue with tropical weather in January? And the awe of the grasslands?  And that word I have never before used so often…. “lifestyle”?  But our 50-50 draw fell on the other side.  We have decided to leave Africa at the end of the school year in June.  And pieces of us- the little ones left after being so torn for so long –may never believe that we actually made the choice.


If ever you need to feel certain, move to Africa.  It’s true.  We have no idea what is ahead, so we are absolutely leading with a leap of faith as we choose not to renew our contract with the school for further time.  I could talk about safety and health and a number of other factors.  But to delve into even one reason would require a hundred more.  Sometimes things come down to a logical list.  And sometimes, like our choice to leave such a beloved continent in seven speeding months, things can’t really be reasoned but instead come down to feeling the next step on the path with eyes closed.  After two years, we are certain.  It is time to leave Africa.

Until we go, we will breathe in our last days on this continent as we have up until now. With sighs. With wonder.  And with the fullest of hearts.  And then the day will come, and we will go.  Will we ever regret living here, challenges and beauty and dangers and blessings and all?

Never.  Look at how much we’ve learned.


PS, For those of you wondering from my first perspective blog-post, the man from the gate- named Peter- has returned once a week ever since…

Monday, November 18, 2013

The Apartheid Museum: Johannesburg, South Africa

Apartheid: Afrikaans “the state of being apart”, a systematic racial segregation once enforced by the legislation of ruling white parties in South Africa.  


I could gush.

I could cringe.

I could try to relay the forty emotions that churned my brain and heart during my recent afternoon at the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg.

But I will try my best to push those aside for the sake of simply introducing you to a monumental place that stands as a celebration and a mourning for the souls affected by apartheid.



Though much of the museum is inside, visitors start their journey through art installations outside.




The museum walks visitors through the progression of evolving rock art (also called cave paintings) done in South Africa before and after white settlers moved in.  Here images of men with guns start to be seen, then years later images of their horses and carnage takes the place of images of wild animals.  Later images evolved to depictions of massacres.



Videos, pictures, and relics present a thorough history of South Africa's struggle with apartheid.






Here we post a stick in honor of the inspiration we have received from Nelson Mandela, whose life and work are currently featured in the special exhibition hall. 




With empty rooms of space to grow, the museum itself seemed to say, "The story's not over.  More progress expected."  I hope so, South Africa. I hope so.

To read a more personal account of my time in South Africa's most significant museum, please click here:

 

 


Thursday, November 14, 2013

The Italian Chapel of Masvingo, Zim

I’d like to make this location sound romantic… tucked away in a little hamlet just outside of Masvingo… but really, the A-K 47 staring down at us from the watchtower made this anything but comfortable.  

When we asked for directions to the Italian Chapel, the woman at our hotel desk said, “Oh!  I know just where that is.  I gave someone directions to this last year, and they never said they didn’t find it.”

They probably never said they didn’t find it because they weren’t speaking to her anymore.  Our search for the World War II prisoner of war camp’s little-known chapel lead us to three -gulp- military bases we surely did not belong anywhere near.  Note to self: when trespassing on a foreign military base, having a kid in a car seat and putting away your camera helps a lot.

“The Italian Chapel,” as it is simply referred to, is a small church built by WWII prisoners of war.  It sits below a still-waving red, green, and white flag as a reminder of the Italian ground it sits upon.  When we arrived, a caretaker named Jennifer walked over to unlock the building for us.  As we signed into a dusty book requesting nationality information, we realized we were just a handful of people whose eyes had viewed the church in the past year.  

Unique is an understatement for this Catholic relic squatting strangely in the midst of an African landscape and shadowed by a military-base guard tower. The church, which is parish-less but occasionally opened for intimate weddings, is known for its intricate painted murals, which cover every inch of the interior.  Some murals ornately tell biblical stories, and some illustrate fake-stones along the walls, while others hauntingly outline skulls and crossbones as that quaintly unforgettable reminder of the tortured souls that created the space.  "I would ring the bells for you," Jennifer had 
said, "but Italy has not paid the ZESA bill in months.  We have no electricity to open the bell tower."

Now if I haven’t yet successfully made our visit sound wonderfully unromantic, let me add Kurt’s favorite little anecdote for you:

Me, pointing to some abandoned burnt-out-looking cement buildings near the chapel: “Is that where the prisoners of war lived?”

Jennifer, the caretaker: “No… That’s where I live.”

Do check it out if you’re ever near Masvingo. The spirits of these artists would be proud to show you around.  But maybe get directions ahead of time...


 










Sunday, November 10, 2013

Pieces of Learning: Southern Gonarezhou and the Low Veld



-The tribal people who used to live in Gonarezhou before it was taken over for national park land are called the Shangani.  Efforts have been made to get the land back to its previous caretakers.  Arguments against allowing the people back on the land are that tourism and space for wildlife needs to be promoted, as the droughts that occur five out of seven years make the last almost impossible to live upon.  Arguments for allowing people back on include the viewpoint that tribal people like the Shangani know how to live on the land because their ancestors have developed sustainable lifestyles there for thousands of years. The longer they are off the land, the sooner this cultural knowledge dies.

 

 -The land is currently extremely difficult for humans to access, requiring petrol and food to be carried for hundreds of kilometers into the wilderness. Large vehicles are required to fordge rivers and streams during the rainy season.  The debate continues: develop the park more to improve accessibility and, therefore, tourism dollars, or leave the park as pristine as possible?


-The village closest to our entrance to the park is called Chikombedzi.  Known for its poverty, the Shangani people that live there have little economy.  Much of the isolated village consists of living space for people under tarps and blankets.


-Poaching has been a long and uphill battle for the park.  Not all gates are manned, and the vast expanse of wilderness makes it very difficult to supervise.  Anti-poaching teams can be found throughout the park at all times, following herds and monitoring migration numbers.

 

-Though the park does not have one of Africa's most endangered animals, the rhino, it does have another.  Packs of painted dogs roam the land in small numbers. Counting efforts used to monitor these populations have dwindled over the last ten years, though the animals are occasionally found.


-The park at one time had prison locations within it.  This is because the land is so hard to survive upon that no one in their right mind would try to leave the walls in escape.


-Not one road goes all the way through Gonarezhou from the south to the north or from the east to the west.  This meant that if we wanted to see the famous Chilojo Cliffs on the other side of the park, we had to travel about eight hours out of the park before getting a road that would lead back in.  Examples like this mean the park is extremely hard to manage.

 

Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Landscapes of Gonarezhou

 
Despite the sour weather and power issues during our first try, Gonarezhou is definitely on our list of places we'd love to see again.  Next time we'll hit the northern part, including the famous Chilojo cliffs.  Though not all of the animals advertised themselves well, we did enjoy the curious ones we met and the landscapes we took in.  The mostly-dry Mwenezi riverbed proved to be a gorgeous landscape for our enthusiastic eyes.  Meet some of the beauty we found in the Low-Veld of Zimbabwe:

Meet the Mwenezi.  Just two weeks after our visit, this region is sure to look entirely different.  Rain makes all the difference!

Much of the vegetation in Gonarzhou proves that this piece of land holds more elephants per square meter than any other natural habitat in the world. Broken limbs, pulled away bark, and stunted height is a dead giveaway.


Famous nyala and impala litter the landscape, as do tortoises.
 

 
 We arrived at a good time of year- these ditches (they look innocent, but don't be fooled) are now impassable to a car our size.

 
Termite mounds everywhere!

Friend Ryan stretches his arms as we begin walking along the Samelema Gorge.


A ladder made of wire and logs helps us into the riverbed surrounding the gorge.


 Here Ryan gets out of the car in lion territory to move branches from our path... very quickly.

 Next to a baobab, Jonas gets a dose of bug spray.  This is a high malarial area, even in the dry season.

 The national park provides occasional look-out points over the river basin.  Here a cemented stone wall sits on the edge of a cliff under a thatched roof.
 A pair of giraffes- the most curious animals!

 These lion tracks look small, but don't be fooled. They were as big as my hand.

Baboons (above) and impala wake us from behind our cabin.