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…
