“Upon the just and the unjust.”
Friday Afternoon Meditations. Over this most recent week, Zimbabwe has become as dry as I have ever seen it. Last Tuesday morning, at the foot of the outside stairway to my office, a young farm worker whom I did not recognize stopped me to ask a question. “Sir,” he began; he hesitated for a moment and then resumed, “Sir, do you think the rains will begin soon?” Later that same day, as I walked back to our farmhouse, an older man fell into step alongside of me and asked, “Do you think the rains will begin soon?”For about a month I have been asking folks about rain, and I was startled to have the question turned back toward me, twice, on the same day. As most of y’all realize, my own interests in local precipitation are largely selfish. I want to see frogs. I want to show frogs to visiting friends and colleagues. I want to photograph incredibly beautiful frogs and maybe identify a couple of species that I have never seen before. In less than two weeks Chrissy and I will head back to the USA, and without a major change in the weather, my frog-lust will remain unslaked. On the other hand, rain or no rain, Chris and I are very unlikely to starve.
When I first started asking about rain, back in mid-October, my respondents were uniformly optimistic. “Yes. Perhaps very soon. I believe that we will have good, good rains this year.” Now the tone of answers has shifted. Last Sunday night, in conversation with the chicken-house security guard, I pointed to clouds in the northeast and expressed my hopes for rain. The guard shook his head and aimed his arm 20 degrees more toward the north. “No, he said, “we need clouds there.” As well as I can recall, back in October, the rains of late November were expected as a matter of natural course. Now, however, rural Zimbabweans increasingly mention the words rain and God in the same breath. On Monday, for example, old Mr. Ziwah made one of his visits to my office. Rain was on his mind. “I believe that God is good,” he affirmed, “so I believe that we will have good rains this year. Last year we had no rains at all.” Mr. Ziwah stared directly into my eyes. “Nothing,” he said. In literal fact, a small amount of rain did fall during the summer of 2009-10, and in these parts, irrigation-supplemented agriculture scraped by with marginally acceptable yields. But across the Communal Areas of eastern Zimbabwe, where villagers cultivate dusty, rock-strewn plots by means of rented ox-power or their own ATP, the rain-promise of summer was not fulfilled. In other words, children went hungry. And two drought years in a row—well, I’ll be back in America.
Not all Africans attribute the presence or absence of rainfall to direct acts of God. For instance Aubrey, my anglophile student from Malawi, prefers to blame droughts on global warming. “I like conspiracy theories,” he continues, “so I believe that, some years ago, a cabal of men in three-piece suits, smoking expensive cigars in the New England Club, made decisions that will dry out this part of Africa and warm their newly-purchased wheat-lands in southern Siberia….”
And me? I don’t know. When I was in high school, I would have structured the issue of Zimbabwean rain as a theodicy question: “How can an all-powerful, all-loving God allow the droughts to come and the children to starve?” But in adulthood I’ve managed to shed some intellectual pretense. Thus I realize that The Theodicy Question cannot be handled any better than it was in the book of Job (see below), so I admit that recapitulations of The Question are either painful or boring or both. The issue popularly called “global warming” is not quite so easy to dismiss. I am entirely convinced that anthropogenic climate change is a reality. (I believe this largely because I am a disciple of Douglas A. Rayner and would believe anything He says. But I have also looked at some little data, which would appear to substantiate empirically the revelations of the Master.) However, I do not find in Aubrey’s conspiracy theory any useful clues about how I should conduct my life during these last ten days in Zimbabwe. (Uh, expensive cigars in “the New England Club?” Is that Aubrey’s polite way of talking aboutbig-pecker Yalies controlling the world from Skull & Bones? How much does this kid know about Power in America?)
Last Thursday, when the sky screamed a searing, cloudless, horrifying blue, I had an office visit by the quietest, nicest, kindest of all my AU students. On that day he had received his formal notice: he won’t be allowed to take final exams unless he can come up with thirty-five hundred Yankee dollars. Now let me be clear about two things. (1) For this student, $3500 might as well be $35 million. (2) Theconsequences of this student’s impending ejection from AU are difficult to understand outside of an African context. He will return to the Democratic Republic of Congo as a complete failure. No excuses will be offered because no excuses would be accepted. His family and friends will say, “This arrogant boy took our life savings to attempt something too grand for him. How can he now have the nerve to show his face among us?” Heck. I wish thatJohnny Lane were writing this letter, for John has the talent & the heart to explicate the dimensions of this tragedy. Back during October, at the instructions of Professor Lane, this young Congolese drew his Home Circle, complete with houses, trees, and the local bad dog. But now all the details of that Circle are irrelevant. They should be erased, or painted over with black ink, because the place our student once called Home is now the sho-nuf Heart of Darkness.
Now I shall conclude these Friday Meditations with three comments. (1) If Vivian Fisher is reading this note, she’s probably thinking that I’ve forgotten everything she taught me about how to write transitions. Furthermore, given opportunity, the worthy Dr. Fisher would remind me that I should “build a little bridge” from the rains-paragraphs to the broke-Congolese-paragraph. Well, I honestly do believe that inter-paragraph connections exist; I’m just not skillful enough to explain those connections. (2) Of course I’ve made an appointment to see the Dean Monday morning, and of course I’ll come across with the money my student needs in order to take his final exams. (3) My resolution to pay has absolutely nothing to do with being a decent person, and it isn’t exactly related to the fact that I like the kid. Rather, my “generosity” is motivated by fear. If I didn’t come across with the $$, Chrissy would probably leave me, and my daddy would rise from his ashes to kick my ass until my nose bled. Anyhow, if we can all hold off the vengeance of the Registrar & Bursar for another couple of days, things should be all right for John’s and Chris’ and my student. Others, unfortunately, have already hit the road.
Tuesday, 16 November. Today Hoang seized the opportunity to do some real missionary work. During the hottest part of the afternoon we were all sitting in our farmhouse, looking out the picture window and talking about small, comfortable things when, in our neighbors’ Chinaberry tree, a gang of flycatchers and bulbuls started making a terrible racket. I guessed that the birds might be mobbing a snake, so Hoang and I grabbed our binoculars and ran outside. There was indeed a boomslang, but the Chinaberry was very tall and fully leafed out, so before Hoang and I could spot the snake, we had tramped for a quarter of an hour through the neighbors’ yard—with our heads thrown back, with our binoculars to our eyes, entirely oblivious to terrestrial events around us. Meanwhile the homeowner had emerged, and, reasonably enough, he wanted to know what we were doing. In my usual, deceptive way, I claimed that we were looking at birds, but Hoang told the whole truth and admitted that we were watching a snake. The homeowner was not happy with this news and said that he would surely have the tree felled ASAP. I was about to berate the homeowner for his stupid idea, but Hoang made a much better speech. “That is exactly what we would do in Vietnam,” Hoang said, “and then we would complain about how hot our house would be without the tree.” Hoang also laughed a lot and threw in a few Shona expressions, and by the time he had completed his sermon, the homeowner was agreeing that he would not cut the tree and that he would even tolerate the snake. At least for now.
Wednesday, 17 November. Deno and Hoang spentthe afternoon’s two-hour lab period with my students, working as hard as Ellen Goldey wants her biology colleagues to work. I’m not sure that the Pope will hire any of these kids to repaint the Sistine Chapel, but Hoang got some good drawings out of them; if I had decent Internet connections, I’d attach a picture or two. Meanwhile Deno was having equal success extracting poetry from a bunch of African ag students, and I’ll show you some of his results right here:
In my country, in Katanga Province, we have Kundelungu National Park, where wildflowers and migrating birds abound; where fast white rivers, Lofoi and Dikulushi, cascade over brown rocks; and where the mountains arch above the deciduous forests like the backs of elephants.
–Raoul
I would rather be an acacia, to stand in the sweating heat and drop no sorrow.
An acacia does not feel guilty from feeding off the death below.
An acacia will rest, even as the mercenary rests his rifle against it.
–Aubrey
Hibiscus and trust,
both flowering in summer,
must always smell good.
--Prisca
Thursday, 18 November. In the late afternoon, after my pre-exam tutoring of biometry students, Chrissy, Hoang, Deno, and I walked over to Fairfield Orphanage, which is in the Old Mutare Mission Station. The pre-school kids treated us to a chorus of “Jesus Loves Me,” in English, and then they fell upon us like hungry hounds on table scraps. Deno immediately lost his pen, glasses, and watch; my own watch and hat were gone as well. Much dancing and singing occurred. A little girl repeatedly ran her fingers through Chris’ silvering hair, and a boy apparently derived some satisfaction from rubbing my bald head. As I have previously stated, Hoang is one of the kindest people I know, but he did not appreciate being defined as “a Japanee’ man,” and before we departed, the kids of Fairfield Orphanage had added Vietnam to their lexicon of place names. Oh, I should tell you that the kids brought back absolutely every possession they’d temporarily stolen.
Late in the evening we had supper with the Kies. Hoang and Chris joined forces to create a rice-dish, flavored with ingredients that Hue had sent to us. Dr. Ed Dodge ate most of the concoction, but I did get a taste and will testify that it was quite delicious. Larry Kies set up tentative tennis dates with Deno and Hoang.
Friday, 19 November. Hoang and Deno went to Nyanga. Douglas did not drive them, so they didn’t get the heart-of-traditional-Zimbabwe tour enjoyed by Johnny Lane. (On the other hand, they have not yet had to pay any money for transport.) I spent most of the day tutoring biometry students; I spent the rest of the day complaining to Chris about how little I enjoy pre-exam tutoring.
Saturday, 20 November. In the morning we went grocery shopping in Mutare. Deno treated us all to a great lunch that included a purported “Greek salad” from the Stax Restaurant menu. Deno explained that there was very little Greek about this particular salad, but we all liked it anyway.
In the afternoon Hoang did a lot of drawing while Deno brought the wrath of the Tennis Gods down upon Larry Kies. At nightfall Chris and I went out to find more critters for Hoang to draw. We stayed out pretty late, and I’d proclaim it one of our all-time least successful night walks. I mean, we just got to have more rain. The few calling frogs were clustered around one waterhole that is rimmed with the thickest fringe of sticker-reeds I’ve ever seen. I finally managed to spot one lovely, green Hyperolius nasutus. I made a desperate grab for the frog, missed it, and landed in water over my head. When I’m totally immersed in Manicaland waters, I always think of disease. But, as Terry Ferguson would pun, if I actually catch anything, it will just be a fluke of nature.
Sunday, 21 November. While Hoang continued his artistic endeavors, Deno, Chris, and I went out to deploy my trail camera again. When we got back to the farmhouse, Chrissy and Deno started baking while Hoang drew and I re-checked my bird-list. At about noon Mr. Ziwah showed up with his current wife and four children. The wife sat quietly while the children ate cookies and Mr. Ziwah discoursed on the problems of Zimbabwe and explained how “my [= Ziwah’s] friend Dr. Ferguson” could send him princely sums of money. To change the subject I asked Mr. Ziwah how many children he had. He answered that he had eleven, at which point the hitherto silent wife displayed her command of the English language by saying, “Actually, he has twelve.” Hoang took pictures of us all, and we tentatively promised to attend his SalvationChurch next Sunday. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be mamba-bit between now and then.
After the Ziwahs departed, Chrissy and Deno served the corn pudding they had baked earlier. The recipe was Deno’s, and even with multiple ingredient-substitutions, it was pretty darn good. Chrissy, Hoang, and I are hoping that we can replicate the dish for the American Thanksgiving we’ll probably attend next Thursday. (If we could find a silver tray, I’d suggest that Hoang march in toting a roast dog with a butternut squash in its mouth. Hoang, however, expresses a distaste for dog & believes that Deno’s Corn Pudding Delight will be more appropriate.)
Now Hoang is doing something artistic, Deno is thinking intellectual thoughts (or maybe he’s just asleep) Chrissy is reading a thick trash-novel she got from the Mutare Library, and I’m wishing that I had something more interesting to say, especially since this will be my last communication to y’all from the Zimbabwe of 2010.
Monday, 22 November. This morning Chrissy and I waved goodbye to Young Doctor Trakas as he rode away towards Harare and Spartanburg, South Carolina. Hoang, who is riding with Deno, will confirm his flight reservations at the airport. I cannot easily express to y’all how much Deno’s visit meant to me personally. Butplease re-read the excerpts of student writing that I’ve copied above; they demonstrate the closeness that Deno developed with our students. And we are very glad that Hoang is coming back!
Chrissy and I haven’t had much opportunity to mourn the departure of Dr. Trakas because all morning we’ve been forced to deal with questions of tuition and immigration. Such issues make me nervous, so between visits to Deans and other Powers, I tried to read my way through an inspirational book by Janine Roberts. Janine is a blonde, thirty-ish woman from West Virginia who works with HIV-AIDS adults—and with their children, who often end up [sometimes literally] at Fairfield Orphanage. Before he left, Deno also read a bit of Janine’s book. He said that the writing was good and that the story was interesting—but that the book contained “too much Jesus” for his taste. I’ll confirm that Deno’s criticism is right on the mark: Dare to Love Completely contains way, way, way too much Jesus. On the other hand, Janine’s life may contain exactly the right amount. Despite—or because of; I’ll let you decide—her vocal Jesus-centeredness, Janine may have succeeded in a quest that our Conversation has mentioned many times. In my opinion, the woman has caught a particularly important glimpse of, uh, The Real Africa. Let me illustrate by means of a passage from Dare…:
Since no relatives were located to pay for a funeral, Judith’s mother [AIDS victim] had a pauper’s burial. This meant a truck came and picked up her body, stapled a piece of plastic around her, and drove her to a mass grave, where she was dumped with five or six others who had reached the same fate. There was no marker to locate her. I couldn’t imagine the pain Judith[one of Janine’s girls at Fairfield] must have gone through without a proper way to say goodbye to her mom.
On the day the truck came to take her mother away, Judith showed up at my house with half a loaf of bread and a Freeze-it [a sort cheap popsicle in a plastic tube]. With a big smile, she handed them to me before walking back to the hospital in her new school uniform. I was still standing in my doorway watching her go when Nyarai popped around the corner. She explained that one of the hospital nurses had given Judith money to buy a treat on this difficult day. Judith had gone straight to the little tuck shop by the school and spent all the money to buy the items I now held in my hand.