Hiking Ngomakurira

About fifteen kilometers north of Domboshawa mountain, lies Ngomakurira.  As a friend told us while giving directions, "just go through a few kilometers of really bad potholes and then turn to your right."  We surprised even ourselves, finding it right away just a few roads off the beaten path. Ngomakurira, meaning Drums Sounding in Shona, proved to be a gorgeous, steep trek of well marked trails leading to incredibly unique rock art and views of subsistence farming valleys below.  Climbing granite faces in mid-day African sun was a HOT challenge resulting in our share of blisters and sore calves.  But the skies could not have been bluer, and as every African adventure of ours turns out, the challenge was totally worth it.  Meet Ngomakurira:

 

 

 

On top of the mountain?  

Friendly barefooted children tending their cattle- HOW did they get up there?!?

"You'll have to excuse our employees. They're not so competent."

At a recent petrol stop in Masvingo, Zim.

Normal

Most trucks in Africa are incredibly over-burdened, and most over-burdened trucks have "abnormal" signs on the back where American trucks may have "wide load" sign.  

Here's a truck, carrying what appears to be the world's largest sewing machine, that declares the opposite.

South African Waterway

No Vuvuzelas, Please

South African Plumbing Ad

A few fun photos from recent travels while we recover and unpack!

O Come, O Come Emmanuel

I have made some pretty funny promises in my life.  But my recent one to an orphan named Emmanuel really came back to bite me… and I am not in the business of breaking promises to orphans.

Meet Emmanuel.  Emmanuel is a perfectly perfect twelve year old boy.  I love him dearly.  Emmanuel and six other boys became too old to stay at their home orphanage in the city last year. The orphanage houses all children below ten and only teenage girls.  When the boys get too old at this particular home, they are sent to other orphanages.  This is an attempt to keep poorly supervised teen boys separate from poorly supervised teen girls. While these policies seem very appropriate, it often separates siblings.  In Emmanuel’s case, no home could be found for them.  They waited for months until suddenly one morning in February they were told, “You’re leaving within the hour. Pack yourselves and get ready.”

In an atypical move, the boys were shipped out of the city to a village an hour away.  Each boy lost at least one sibling, and in one case, two twins were separated for the first time in their lives. Heartbroken is a placid word here for orphans whose only concept of family centered around a brother or sister.  Most of these boys had lived their whole life in the city and went through a great deal of change in schooling, language, and lifestyle as a result of their new surroundings.  The transition was not easy, but the hardest part for many seemed to be their split with siblings.

In March we took a bus of orphans from the city orphanage out to the village to reunite everyone.  Though not all of the children were allowed to come, it was an amazing magical day for those involved.  We had a picnic, played together and toured the boys’ new home.  But the day was short and the boys have not seen their siblings since.  This is where Emmanuel comes in…

Emmanuel is not a drama queen; he is not loud.  Whenever I visit his orphanage, he clings to me and bawls. Quiet, streaming tears, from the time I come to the time I leave. And always, always, he asks about his sister.  In November, with happy gracious permission of the head nun, I promised a crying Emmanuel that I would pick him up two weeks later to take him back to the city to visit his old orphanage.  Before I had even left the property, all six other boys had surrounded us, wanting to come, too.  How were their brothers? How were there sisters? Oh they had to go! More promises were made.

When I returned to the city and spoke to a number of individuals to orchestrate another magical day, I hit a brick wall.  Not only was it clear I could not bring my 7 kids in to visit, but it was clear I could not get their siblings out.  I’m going to save the discussion on spite for another time, but let me just say that I have never seen it so greatly as in the hands of a few powerful orphanage “mothers” who have little skill at mothering.  We could not disappoint these kids.  I had to keep my word.

“Make plan,” we call it in Zim.  Go another route, find another way.

We headed back to the orphanage an hour away.  We refused to not keep our promise and have seven boys waiting for our non-arriving car.  We spoke to Emmanuel again, this time promising a day full of surprises if he could only wait an extra week.  We returned to the city. Then we scrambled.

Putting together a large Christmas party at the school was not hard, but it was rushed.  We transported every child we could from the city orphanage in the name of a Christmas party… but little did any orphan know that some of their brothers and sisters would be waiting at the party to spend the afternoon with them! 

A tiny promise snowballed into an exhausting party for one hundred hungry, excited children.  But I can’t think of a better reason to have a Christmas party.   

Biggest thanks to our friend Laura, who helped with every item, to the Mullen family for four extra hours of driving and a donation of one hundred ice cream cups, to the many people who donated a fantastic spread of food and supplies, and to those who shared their time and open arms.  Here are some pictures of one special day:

 

Emmanuel, Jonas, and Lovemore

We had a little time to spare before the party, so we took our seven to a special play-place called Tamba-Tamba.  Though the boys should be on the cusp of being too old, they had a blast experiencing something so new and foreign to them. 

 The boys had been doing gardening chores all morning at the orphanage until our arrival.  We filled their stomachs as soon as possible. 


What a great time. Our seven: Tawanda, Munashe, Lovemore, Emmanuel, Tristen, Kudakwashe, and Reason


Reuniting at the school in the name of a Christmas party.


Friend Gil and her favorites spend some quality time together. 
Want to hear a horrible story?  The little boy pictured above in the striped blue shirt, Samuel, became an orphan as an infant when his mother died. But he was not at the orphanage last year at this time because the lucky guy had been adopted! His adopted mother then died a few months ago. Uggh. And now here he is.  Back again. Orphaned twice.

The kids ate and ate and ate.  No matter now much we brought, I knew there would be no leftovers!

Full tummies on the menu!

We set up a cookie-decorating station for the kids.  This is probably the one and only time in their lives they guys will have this opportunity.  It was a fun way for us Americans to share a Christmas tradition... and the sprinkles could not have been a bigger hit!

Julie, Luke, and Amy shelter under the cafeteria roof during our 15 minutes of rain.

Emmanuel and his sister

Mourning Madiba

I have never let so much time go by without a post on this blog.  And not commenting on the death of my favorite great African hero over the last week?  Insane!  The last two weeks have been a rough rough time both internet and power-wise in my city, but now we are back on track... at least, internet-wise...

It would be sacrilege to have an African blog and not mention the passing of beloved Nelson Mandela.  But I have asked myself over and over again what I could possibly add to the conversation so very thoroughly covered by networks and his loving fans.

Sigh. Such a great man was Nelson Mandela. 

So please don't take my lack of commentary as anything but an impossibility to put into words who this man was and what he represented. What I will say is that if you have not read Nelson Mandela's autobiography, you should.  Written in 1994, this hefty work of over 700 pages must be a terribly dry history lesson, right?  Not at all.  I have read the book twice and can surely say, if you want the details, go to the source.  Mandela is a wonderful story teller and will help you see twenty new shades to the apartheid struggle.

I consider it a gift to have been living in Africa when this event took place.  It has been fascinating to see how news spreads, even in a country known to have taken a very different path than South Africa. Our staff was buzzing just minutes after word broke about Mandela's passing.  Word on the streets moved like fire, scattering through an entire continent in just a few short hours I have no doubt. 

Even the African version of MTV took a strange moment to comment during Jersey Shore:

 

So who do we have now? I asked myself that when Mother Theresa died, and now that Mandela is gone, I find myself pondering the same thing again.  Who do we have now?  Who is our world leader of peace and reconciliation?  Bono? Arch Bishop Desmond Tutu?  My list should be getting bigger as we learn from those who have gone before us, but moments like Mandela's death make it feel smaller than ever.  My only answer is that we all must step up to the challenge. May Mandela rest in peace, but may his legacy stay active in the hearts of generations to come.