This Is As Close As I've Been to Sweden and Italy

In Africa I have seen enormous public explosions of hope and joy on exactly two occasions. In both cases, the Republic of Moçambique has been involved. The first outpouring occurred in 1993. Living that (Southern) spring in Mutare City, I had occasion to inflict horrendously Italianized Portuguese on the “Blue Helmets” from Italy who comprised the UN peacekeeping force in Moçambique. These soldiers, seeking occasional R&R across the border in Zimbabwe, seemed hugely appreciative when I tried to thank them for their difficult service. They also indicated that, as ’93 ran toward its close, I should watch for something very special, and in the December of my departure, I saw it! Dozens of busses came east from the direction of Harare. All were overflowing with refugees: screaming, singing, waving, they hung out the windows and shouted their joy to the people of Zimbabwe. “War finished! We go home! Guerra acabou! Voltamos a Moçambique!” Each bus was bedecked with flags—taped across the front (scarcely allowing air-flow through the radiator), hanging down the sides, waved from the widows—beautiful blue and white flags, the flags of the United Nations, the flags of Jubilee. And at the head of the procession was the military escort for these thousands of returning refugees: one little jeep, three Italian “Blue Helmets,” two rifles, and a gigantic UN flag.[1]

In 1993 the worldly cynics doubted that peace would last or that Moçambique would even survive as a political entity. But, over 14 years, hope and joy have trumped pessimism yet again. Today Moçambique is still at peace, and the country enjoys perhaps the fastest-growing economy in the world. (Yes, I admit that percentage increases are particularly dramatic when one starts at near-zero; still, “Moçambique’s economic miracle” is an admirable achievement.)

On 24SEP07, the joy of 1993 was re-expressed in our university chapel (built, incidentally, by donations from South Korea, a nation saved by a UN expeditionary force). In September, Africa University celebrates Dag Hammarskjőld Day. Indeed, in today’s Zimbabwe, probably no white person (uh, granting Jesus “colored” status) is more revered than the second Secretary General of the United Nations. He is admired because of his shrewd military-political decisions; he is respected because of his unquestioned integrity, and he is loved because, on 12SEP61, he gave his life on a peacemaking mission in Africa.

And so, in today’s chapel, we stood to sing three national anthems: of Zimbabwe, of Moçambique, and of Sweden. The Swedish ambassador said a word of thanks. And then we were addressed by Joaquim Chissano, former President of Moçambique. The words of this famous man were predictable—“peace and development are two sides of the same coin”; no Dunlapian eloquence here—but their very predictability testified to their truth. And, more than his words, the presence of Chissano, a man who led his country along the path of reconciliation, honored the memory of Dag Hammarskjőld, and of his spiritual children—including three Italian soldiers, sharing a jeep and two rifles, who led a triumphal procession of joyful refugees back into the Moçambique whose anthem we sang today. “…[N]ossa terra gloriosa,” indeed!

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[1] I need to be very careful how I write this. Those of you who k now me well realize that I’ve had a lifetime love affair with the United Nations. And in the spirit of this celebratory week, I wish to recognize the positive role that the UN has played in Africa. On the other hand, I must not undervalue the enormous sacrifices offered by the people of Moçambique during their long, complex struggle for independence.

. “Give Us this Day our Daily Fuel.”

Overheard on the A.U. campus: “They say that, in the USA, farmers are fermenting their wheat into ethanol to use as petrol.”

In Zimbabwe every mother’s child is aware that southern Africa has suffered from a decade of near-continuous drought. Therefore, when the first heat of spring initiates convective activity along the afromontane highland, many anxious eyes turn toward the clouds that build over Moçambique. By late September, all of Zimbabwe’s farmers are thinking about early rains—and most of us on this campus are hoping that they will not come.

Here at Africa University, we raise winter wheat. Because of our troubles with electrical power, we could not pump enough water to irrigate at optimal levels, but the wheat crop still looks pretty darn good, and we should be able to harvest it before too long. In the meanwhile, however, we are holding our collective breaths. Our wheat, of course, is a short-stemmed “miracle” variety, and only a deluge of Noah-ian proportions would cause it to lodge (= fall over). Even a modest rain, however, could initiate some germination, on the stalk. If this should occur, our only likely buyer would be the national grain board, which pays a standard price of abot $41,000,000Z/tonne.

This would not be good for us, because this year we are greedy for wheat-money. Indeed, throughout the Southern Hemisphere, farmers with winter wheat are dreaming of riches—because the mega-producers in Australia have suffered a general failure. This catastrophe is of such magnitude that shockwaves are already being felt around the world. In the USA, for example, futures for December wheat are being quoted at over $9/bu. That is almost 250% of what Zimbabwe’s grain board would pay; therefore we’re hoping that our wheat stays dry so that it can be traded at a more, uh, international rate.[1]

Of course, given the national food-crisis, it is conceivable that Zimbabwe’s government could appropriate 2007’s best wheat and turn it into flour. But I consider this unlikely. If modern universities run on electricity, then modern nations run on diesel fuel, and this country’s access to diesel depends upon her balance of trade. Therefore, I suspect that, one way or another, much of Zimbabwe’s wheat will be exported into a richer world, where people who pray for daily bread actually expect to get it.

Folks, I have tried to think through this, uh, bid-ness, and to write it up so that the intertwined issues of rain, wheat, and dollars make some sense. But I know I’ve failed—and to tell the truth, I’m not too sorry about the failure. Who wants to understand a world in which a breadless country contemplates the export of her wheat? And for heaven’s sake don’t let me get started on the wheat à gasohol foolishness. If that rumor has any basis in fact, then I reckon this mysterious world has de-facto amended the Lord’s Prayer.

[1] Purchase of A.U.’s wheat by the grain board would probably not result in more bread for Zimbabwe. Grain with any appreciable percentage of germination is unsuitable for flour. It would make excellent animal fodder, and Zimbabwe is very short of meat. But currently the slaughter of cattle for local consumption is severely regulated—and any increase in beef production would almost certainly be used to address Zimbabwe’s adverse balance of trade.

Africa gives Ab the bird(s).

I spent too much of last weekend thinking about trail cameras. I know that they are only tools, but I’ve been treating the blasted things as if they were encrusted with diamonds. Whenever I set a camera this year, I remember how much it cost and how much trouble it was to pack and how in Zimbabwe trail cameras are as scarce as hamburgers. I did not feel that way in the Year 2000, when I considered myself a wild & crazy, free-wheeling impresario of trail-camera deployment.The basic problem is that on the A.U. campus, human extractive activities have increased by an order of magnitude since I was last here. Nowadays every game-trail has also become a people-trail, frequented by desperate locals seeking firewood, medicinal plants, or animal protein. None of these folks would know what a trail camera was, but most would scarf up an expensive-looking apparatus of plastic & glass: maybe they could swap it for a scoop of sadza or a plate of beans. Therefore, rather than deploying my cameras on trails as intended, I’ve been forced to hide them in the middle of nowhere. Worse, I’ve had to monitor them almost daily, thereby leaving human scent that scares varmints already harassed to near extinction. Consequently, as you would expect, my success in getting T.C. pictures has been minimal. And despite all my precautions, Friday night I lost a camera.

This theft irritated me beyond reason. Back in the States I deal with comparable irritations by ingesting a few dozen Whopper Malted-Milk Balls. Here, however, lacking such a certain remedy, I needed to achieve perspective—and Africa sure-enough provided that! The day after my hidden camera was stolen, I was walking trails in a thick section of bush just to the north of the A.U. dairy farm. Shortly before dusk I heard a rattle of dry leaves and the distress call of a bird in pain. Of course I hoped to discover a snake or genet in the act of depredation, but I found instead a fine Swainson’s Francolin caught in a leg-snare. Without even thinking I caught up the bird and cut the monofilament line from around its leg. The francolin did not tarry to thank me, but as it escaped into the bush, I felt very good about myself—for about ten seconds. Then reality hit me: the bird would have been somebody’s dinner, here, in a world where animal protein is as scarce as, well, as scarce as trail cameras.

When we ignorant white boys try to apprehend a different world, we don’t always think as clearly as we should. We are surprised when desperate folks see a university’s wild campus as an exploitable resource rather than as a study-area. We don’t recognize the value of illegal cook-wood for a mother trying to stretch meager rations across children whose stomachs always hurt. We refuse to understand that a meal’s meat costs a Zimbabwean more labor-time than a digital trail-camera costs a Wofford teacher.

I am nowhere near the Ginocchioan level of Zen-Enlightenment , so my achievement of perspective did not entirely alleviate my white boy pissed-off-ness. Still, Africa often provides rewards commensurate with the irritations she inflicts. And, on the Sunday after the trail-camera’s loss, I discovered an eagle-owl’s nest, complete with an enormous pair of big-eyed owlets.

Spring Mammalogy Pre-Registration Quiz

Quote of the week (at faculty meeting): “I tell you, he could not do it. And a university graduate. Can you imagine a university graduate who could not assemble a boom-sprayer for a tractor?” [Reply was a general chorus of “Shame. Shame.”]

Campus scene of the week (in dining hall): I’m in line behind some Angolan cutie, who’s dressed as if she thinks this is Brazil. She addresses an ancient Shona serving-woman, who frowns as if she thinks this is Rhodesia.

Angolan student: “I want more cheeeken theees day. You must giiive me at leeeast three pieeeces.”

Shona server, dumping three chicken feet onto student’s plate: “Next.”

Pre-requisite quiz for potential mammalogy students: Identify this:

For a person clever with historical connections, the back side of A.U.’s campus might be reminiscent of the San Francisco Valley circa 1849. In each case, one could observe a sufficiency of gold-panners. By and large, our panners today are the destitute of the destitute, gaunt skeletons who live in scrapes under the river-bank and sluice-clear tons of hand-dug gravels for maybe a buck’s worth of “color” each week. The panners are said to be desperados, who would commit murder for shoe-leather. But I have walked among these barefoot men, and the panners who do not run away speak pleasantly enough. (Thus, retaining two pair of boots and lots of money, I can write piously about feelings of guilt—which we Americans in Africa substitute for actions of justice).

One must pass through the valley of the panners if one is to reach A.U.’s most distant mountains, and that is the region I had chosen to explore. The most direct path leads beyond the soccer field through a burned savanna and past the round, thatched huts of folks whose affiliation with the University is somewhat tenuous. Then one descends steeply toward the Mutare River. The crossing-point is a two-log bridge hidden among palms and perennial broad-leaved trees. This lush oasis, within a winter landscape otherwise resembling Arizona (minus the cacti), reminds one that A.U. lies between the Tropics—and suggests the greenness that will return if the rains come. Ascending the far bank of the Mutare, one must negotiate the deep, concrete sluice-canal where machine-dug gravels were cleared, back when yellow gold and white money were more available. After the canal, one crosses a two-rut track that once led toward Moçambique. Entrance to this road from the Nyanga Highway is now blocked by barbed wire and security guards, and the road is little more than a path. But it is the clandestine supply route for the panners, and I presume that it’s also the route by which “color” begins its journey toward a world where gold signifies more and less than a barefoot man’s survival.

Across the old road, one enters a different world. Certainly a bit of firewood is occasionally collected, and one sees a few wind-blurred shoeprints along the game-trails; still, this is a place from which people are largely absent. Such was not always the case. Prior to Independence, A.U.’s far mountains were mined for gold by First World hard-rock techniques. Therefore, tunnels penetrate the mountains horizontally, and on the westernmost summit I found a ventilation-shaft that might, for all I know, emerge in Canada. (I tossed a rock—and listened in vain for the sound of its impact.) I like the current state of this distant world because I am not a “people person.” I prefer books to blabber, snakes to sermons, equations to Convocations—and turtles to pretty much anything else in the universe.

My objective in this back-campus wilderness was a particular mine. I’d saved the GPS coordinates from the Year 2000, so I found the place without difficulty. I knew from unmistakable spoor what lived in the shaft, and I wanted a picture, no matter what. So, with my Olympus 770 in one hand and a torch (= flashlight) in the other, I wiggled my way into the black tunnel. Beyond the collapsed entrance I could stand almost upright. The floor was sandy and dry, but the air carried a musky smell that raised goose-bumps on my neck. At about 30m in, I encountered a few bats. I’m reasonably sure they were Tadarida aegyptiaca, and a competent photographer (= Wayne VanDevender) would have managed pictures of their short faces and convoluted ears. A bit short of 50m, the entrance-shaft came to a “T” intersection: the left turn was blocked by a cave-in, but the right-hand tunnel was more or less open—and there were footprints on the floor!

I shall not burden you, dear readers, with details concerning my elevated pulse-rate or about other physiological indicators of my excitement. I’ll just say that—oh, my God, I’m too close; they’re charging! Aaaagggghhhh!

No, wait. I’m writing this whole story as if I were a hybrid of David Livingstone and Johnny Lane. Basically, I crossed the Mutare River. Although I tried to be polite, I scared some very poor gold-panners off their digs. I climbed a small, fine mountain and crawled into an old mine. As I tried to focus my camera with too little light, the mine’s two non-volant residents ran past me. And all I got was one quick snap of the defensive end of a retreating—well, if you can’t guess the varmint’s identity, please don’t sign up for Wofford mammalogy in the Northern spring of ‘Ought-Eight.

The Electricity of Sweet Surrender

I think that these blog entries have become way too serious of late, for I have given insufficient emphasis to the good news. And we certainly have good news: electrical power has once more become a reality at A.U.—both in the Ag building and in my house. This is due, in part, to a sweet surrender. [Note: As always I admit to being an ignorant white boy, never fully “in the loop.” I think I have the following details right, but I could be in error.

A modern university runs on electricity. So long as AC power flows properly, batteries will recharge; computers will run; lab equipment will function; telephones and photocopiers will work; study-lights will burn; British tea will be brewed & served without excess inconvenience. Therefore, let teaching staff come or go; let students attend class or not; let food supplies abound or be depleted to the last plate of sadza: the infrastructure of a modern university will grind onward to the very edge of personnel-starvation if electricity is available.


Africa University strives to be modern in all things, so its founders took steps to ensure the uninterrupted supply of electricity. The most important of these steps was the construction of an on-campus substation that would be linked directly into the national power-grid and thereby free A.U. from all but the most catastrophic interruptions in service. The heart of the substation, of course, is an enormous transformer. According to rumor, the cost of this monster would embarrass a U.S. defense contractor, so the University prudently secured performance warrantees from both the transformer’s manufacturer and its installer. However, when the transformer died this winter, our warranties did us no good—because the manufacturer blamed installation problems while the installer blamed manufacturing defects. With Methodist zeal the University “lawyered up,” and we beat the manufacturer, who agreed to repair or replace the transformer. But there was a catch: we had to deliver the great beast, in its fully assembled state, to Harare. This was unaffordable by an order of magnitude, so the power crisis continued.

During the height of the legal wrangling, ZESA (the governmental electrical supply agency) sent a representative to examine the transformer. He declared, “We can fix it right where it stands, in one day.” When informed of this news, the manufacturer and the installer united: “The instant ZESA lays one finger on the transformer, both our warranties will be void, and the next time your substation crashes, you will really be screwed.” Well, ZESA had a ready answer for that threat. “We will maintain the transformer in perpetuity, but you will have to sell it to us—and thereafter we reserve the right to charge you rent on it, as we would on any of our other transformers.” At this point A.U. could not afford to worry about losing the chimera of electrical independence. However, few cognoscenti on this campus believed that a mere ZESA technician could resurrect the Sacred Transformer when engineers trained in America feared it was dead forever. Therefore, A.U. refused ZESA’s offer, again and again. Last Friday, however, driven by both desperation and hope, the Powers that Be finally surrendered. On Saturday a ZESA man showed up with a pocket full of tools, and by Sunday we had power. Indeed, the power has been so constant and so stable that even the VIM-installed stove and refrigerator in my house are working great.

I have told you folks the long Transmitter Saga for a reason. I want you to understand why I believe in this country, why, the international news media not withstanding, I am absolutely certain that Zimbabwe will prevail. I admit that things are complicated here these days. There’s too little food, too much inflation, too little diesel, too much confusion. Nobody yet knows exactly what to do about 2007’s problems, and the optimism so visible in 1993 is now more difficult to detect. But if you look hard, you will see a thousand small proofs that the spirit of hope and triumph is still very much alive—because, long-term, these people just can’t be beat. A fire may threaten the house, but a barefoot girl will run for water until the blaze is extinguished. Birds or mice may get into the wheat, but somebody will come to chase ‘em away—and be there, 24-7. Cooking oil may be “finished,” but Momma will raise extra peanuts and invent new recipes.

So this is the truth. As the Bible promises, lights will continue to shine in Zimbabwe’s darkness. And if some lights are overcome for a little while, and if the American PhD engineers say they cannot be rekindled, a ZESA man will eventually show up with a couple of hand-tools, and your freaking transformer will get fixed. Dum spiro spero; surrender to the hope that is in your heart.

House That Love Built

House that Love Built

I like my house very much, but it takes some getting used to. That’s to be expected because the place was constructed by a succession of VIM teams, none of which was over-burdened with professional building contractors. I’d watched the floor-plan staked out in 1993, and I’d seen the edifice standing almost complete in 1995. In 2000, it was temporarily occupied (by a choirmaster, I think), and in 2007, I have moved in. The place has 3 bedrooms, two baths, a carport, a kitchen, a patio, a sitting room, and a dining room complete with fireplace and a cathedral ceiling. The beds are modest, but the furniture is not. Massive, ornate, and covered with green velvet, the chairs and sofa look somehow familiar—though I’ve never actually been in a New Orleans whorehouse. The house has running water more than 60% of the time. The cold water is pure and delightfully cool; the hot water does get hot, apparently through some gas-powered apparatus that I have not figured out. The VIM teams installed a decent stove and an extremely nice refrigerator. Unfortunately, both of these ultra-modern appliances are electrical, and, even during those hours when electricity has been available (less than 25% during the 10 days I’ve been in residence), the current has not been sufficient for either appliance to function. I also had ants, but I poisoned them. I estimate the casualty figures at 15-25 thousand, and I still feel slightly guilty about this holocaust. The house temperature is perfect during the day; nights are a bit chilly, but blankets have been provided in abundance. I have candles, but, Abe Lincoln stories not withstanding, I have not found study by candlelight to be effective. Therefore, because the sun sets early in late-winter Zimbabwe, I’ve had some early-to-bed nights.

Thursday night, however, I stayed up a bit later than usual. Some persons of highly questionable parentage set fire to the residential part of campus in three areas. The houses of academic staff were never in serious danger, but the tiny, thatch-roofed shacks of some maintenance and service workers were definitely under threat. So, I spent a few hours holding a fire-line that paralleled the western margin of the athletic fields and then ran down a narrow path towards the settling-pond reservoir. The intrepid defenders on this blaze numbered from four to eight, depending largely on fatigue. We had one shovel and some broken branches.

Carrying a green plastic bucket, a little girl of about eleven ran back and forth between the fire and the nearest waterpoint. We’d dip a shirt into the bucket and then beat at the fire with it. Mostly, of course, we back-fired, igniting numerous small, controllable blazes along our defense-line and letting them burn toward the big fire. It was hot work: sweaty black faces reflect firelight in rich tones of orange and red. Before we whipped our fire, my own face was plenty black too, and I was spitting soot for more than a day. One of the two other fires was defeated by a somewhat larger team. The third fire, set among eucalyptus (and ask me if I care whether all those darn exotics burn to cinders!) died on its own accord. Anyhow, soon-come-morning, and I had to drag my white posterior to my 0800 statistics class—thereby discovering that firefighting is not the optimal vocation for somebody with a bad back.

But let me return to my more typical daily routine. And, since I’ve already written too much about my classes, I’ll describe meals. Once a day, weekdays, I can eat in the A.U. cafeteria. This is a neat experience. Two serving lines exist; they are segregated by gender, and a sign explains that segregation: “Because of excess pushing and shoving, ladies will be in one queue and men in the other. We hope this will make the shoving more fair.” I have not noticed any shoving at all, but students do sneak into the lines, and this is sometimes greeted with disapprobation. Great mounds of food are available; it is mostly very cheap sadza or less cheap rice; expensive meat can often be had as well. (Meat servings are not enormous. For example, if “fried chicken” is on the menu, you’ll get a humorous piece if you’re lucky, a radius-ulna piece if you’re not.) For meals when I don’t hit the cafeteria, I’m on the local economy—and it’s a health-nut’s paradise! Tomatoes, bananas, onions, and greens are available ad lib., at bargain prices. I am extremely fond of sun-ripened tomatoes, so I fix a sort of gazpacho: tomatoes and onions, diced with a touch of peanut butter, a cc of fresh ginger, a teaspoon of honey, and a generous shaking of hotsauce. It’s great, for an adult American. On the other hand, for the locals, the “food issue” is more than an entertaining inconvenience. Old folks pray in vain for daily bread, and one sees far too many children with silent faces and hollow eyes.

Zimbabwe’s food shortage was on my mind when I met the most recent VIM team. This fresh-faced corps consisted of half a dozen women plus one man. All were dressed in what I’ll call “church safari,” which is probably sold by Banana Republic & allows one to meet, with equal aplomb, either pastors or pachyderms. For anybody who’d talk to them, these VIM-ers were as friendly as puppies, so I grinned, thickened my South Carolina accent, and asked why they’d come to Zimbabwe. Smiling radiantly, the leader replied, “We hope that we will be able to paint a pastor’s house.” Now Zimbabwe may lack bread and meat, but it has a couple of million unemployed citizens ready, willing, and able to paint pastors’ houses. Since the median Zimbabwean income has dropped below $1US per day, some of these local folks might paint at least part of a house for the price (about $2-$3 thousand U.S.) of an air ticket from the States.

But whom am I kidding? Let’s say that I’d set aside the money I’m spending on lab equipment this semester, and let’s say that I’d stayed in Spartanburg, drawing my Wofford salary, but willing to give it away. That kind of money, donated to UMCOR, could have fed a regiment of hungry kids—or painted half the pastors’ houses in all of Manicaland!

In other words, few of us are really smart about how to address big problems, and I know that even my more generous impulses are inextricably tied to considerations of vanity & self. (I mean, I might work a semester or two in Zimbabwe, but Richard Nixon would need ice-skates before I’d serve one volunteer-day in a biome that lacked turtles and frogs.) So, is there any good at all in my being here?

I was contemplating exactly that question during a five-hour-and-fifteen-minutes ag faculty meeting last Friday. Absorbed in considerations of self, I didn’t realize until almost too late that I was being introduced, again. Dean Tagwira, a leader of almost Maultsbian saintliness, was calling my name. “We all want to greet Professor Abercrombie and thank him….”

For what, I wondered: for computer equipment, for half-ass teaching a semi-needed class, for books about wildlife management? For what?

“…to greet Professor Abercrombie and thank him—for coming home. So, our friend, we welcome you home.”

And what is home but a house that love built? So, I do like my house very much, and I shall always be grateful to those crazy VIM-ers who built it.

Silence

Quote of the week: “You are from South Carolina? That is where all American bishops are from.” [Well, lots of ‘em, and some sons of bishops too….]

I’m writing this not because I am your responsible, adult, thoughtful Voice-out-of-Africa but because I am upset. Please read with thoughts of charity towards the writer. That is:

RANT MODE ON.

Some days ago, in a white Dodge minivan traveling from York County to Spartanburg, a very young girl asked her mother to explain about death. The mother, of course, could not immediately formulate a perfect response and said something about the dead being with God. To this the daughter replied, “I don’t want them to be with God; I want them to be with me.” Give the mother points for trying & the kid points for honesty.

Within Shona culture, questions about death may be even more difficult to address because the very word is seldom spoken. During a wedding that I attended here, the ceremony was delayed for almost half an hour because the minister was committed to the U.Meth liturgy and the bride-to-be was a decent Shona girl.

Preacher: “But my Sister, you must say ‘Til death do us part.’”

Miss X: “That I will not do; to say it is to bring it.”

The impasse was finally by-passed by mumbling, and the couple are currently living—dare I say it?—happily ever after. Anyhow, I think I might have some Shona blood in me; death is a topic about which I prefer not to speak. Nevertheless….

Some days ago, in a rusty Nissan pickup traveling from Mutare City to A.U., the unspeakable occurred. The antecedents of this event are complex, but let me begin with the basic story. Daniel Nzengy’a, my wildlife colleague, sent three students into town to buy equipment for upcoming fieldwork. (It was equipment that I should have brought to Africa with me, but I didn’t think I had the room in my luggage.) I have hinted at the difficulties we’re having in transport, but you should inflate my modest descriptions by an order of magnitude. Anyhow, the three wildlife students grabbed a friend, and the four kids somehow got a ride to Mutare. That went fine. After diligent search, they found some of the equipment; so that was good too. Then they caught a ride back toward campus—as I had done the previous day, in the back of a pickup. On a curve about 3km south of A.U., the pickup met a log-truck transporting salvage saw-timber from Nyanga. The log truck was cheating the curve, fast, and when it swerved to adjust, it threw a log against the pickup. Two of the wildlife students were uninjured. The friend was killed, his head smashed sort of like an overripe pumpkin. The other wildlife student took a glancing blow against the side of his head. He was rushed to Mutare General. He didn’t hurt so very much at first, but he was confused and had trouble focusing his eyes. The radiologist couldn’t get good shots, and, under the usual triage pressures, he decided to dismiss the boy (named Elvis; I should at least call his Christian name). Monday morning Elvis was unable to stay awake, even when people were talking to him. So he was taken to Harare; more I do not currently know. Those are the facts, on the surface.

Now it is Tuesday, and I’m currently blessed with two rare luxuries: (1) I have time for contemplation, and (2) I am able to run my laptop on AC-power. In this state of, uh, bliss, I am wondering about truths that might underlie the surface facts of the weekend’s tragedy. Eventually I’ll be sad about all this, but for now, I’m mad, and I’d like to blame somebody! My first inclination is to blame God: I usually do, and thus far He or She has shown remarkable patience at the abuse I’ve hurled so often in Her/His direction. My Wofford colleague, A.K. Anderson, can lecture learnedly about the problem of evil. But my own feelings are best expressed by a close paraphrase of Saint Dan Maultsby’s theodicy: “I know that if I were God, I’d screw up a lot, but I tell you one thing: instead of making more and more people, I’d try to take better care of the ones I already had.” But, alas, Dan Maultsby is not God, so the best we U.Meths and South Carolinians can do is to recommit ourselves to hope. Therefore I declare it. I hope there is a God, and I hope God is not exactly with us (a God-with-us should have saved those boys; you can bet your soul that Dan Maultsby would have) but is way in front of us, hastening us toward some kingdom where African kids do not get killed in the backs of Nagasaki nut-bucket pickup trucks. Anyhow, a decent God would be sadder than all the rest of us, and so, on this spring day of perfect beauty, let’s graciously let Him/Her off the hook.

But if I can’t blame God, where, then, should I focus my anger? Well, let me review some data. There’s too much saw-timber in Nyanga; there’s too little transport from Mutare; there’s one very wrong place on the road between them. Two vehicles leave the two distant towns and meet in exactly that wrong place. Therefore, maybe I could blame coincidence. And so, was the tragedy coincidence? You bet! It was coincidence in the exact, literal sense, like one of those co-incidence word-problems in high school math.

My father was a serious student of coincidence. “Big Ab” (Class of 1936) was steeped in the Old Wofford tradition of excessive modesty: he usually presented himself as not quite smart enough, not quite brave enough, not quite good enough…. However, my father was not overly modest about his skill at his vocation, and he would privately admit to being one of the best airplane pilots who ever lived. “Good flying,” he said, “is about the management of coincidence, because coincidence is what kills people—and because coincidence is usually just another word for bad flying. So if you’re going to fly responsibly, you minimize coincidence by P⁷: proper prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance.” Thus I ask: in the case at hand, who performed poorly.

First of all, I did. I could have prioritized my packing differently and brought the needed field equipment with me. More important, I trusted marginally interested third parties to determine whether VIM teams would be coming my way. (Thus far I’ve met with two, and either could have toted some of my equipment.) Making the proper enquiries was my job, and I should have done it for myself. And if students were to be tasked with an extra Mutare-journey during a time of “transport blues,” then I could have lectured them about safety, and I could have set a better example myself. Or I could have traveled to town and used my own money to buy the equipment. I forgot P⁷; I promise to try harder, but I think I’m going to feel pretty bad for a while.

Second, an isolated town the size of Charleston (Mutare only appears to be the size of Cowpens) should have modern medical-imaging equipment and radiologists available to run it. I have no idea how this problem could be addressed. But I tell you this: if such equipment and personnel were needed in Iraq, a C-17 would be wheels-up out of Charleston within a dozen hours. That is as it should be, and I do not regret the taxes rendered so that Caesar can work such miracles for his people at war. But I do wonder what we might render unto UMCOR to support God’s people at peace.

Third, the U.Meths have decided (wisely, I think) to support a university located > 20km from Mutare. And Mutare is a city to which, for a thousand reasons, the university must be closely linked. Perhaps, then, the church should think creatively about how that link is to be maintained. Because of “transport blues,” students miss labs, teachers miss classes, food-service personnel are stranded off-campus, numerous folks have to hitchhike, and one person was killed. And that’s in just the past week. Look here: several big NGO’s and many individual U.Meth congregations (some of them by no means wealthy) have generously donated cars and trucks to Africa University. But little thought was given to the maintenance of these vehicles, so time and constant use have taken their toll. The University has recently employed a highly competent mechanic, but he has almost no spare parts, and my daddy would not have deigned to change a sparkplug with the tools at his disposal. So, how about this wild-hair solution? A technically skilled diagnostic mechanic comes from the USA for one month. He or she evaluates the A.U. motor-fleet, its usage, and its maintenance requirements. Upon return to the States, this scout-mechanic organizes the ultimate VIM team. A pit crew of a dozen rednecks, preferably from South Carolina, descends upon Old Mutare. They arrive wearing NASCAR windbreakers and “Jacks for Jesus” ball-caps; in their luggage each VIM-er brings a toothbrush and a change of underwear—plus the tools, parts, and manuals suggested by the scout-mechanic. Are you worried about the response of Customs in Harare? I have ideas about how to address this issue; they may even be legal. Are you worried about the money for this project? I’d pay cheapest-airfare for the scout-mechanic, and, if Dale Jr. won’t put an A.U. sponsor-sticker on his race-car (Lord, how the money would roll in), the VIM team could be self-financing. Are you worried about project-sustainability over the years? Start with South Carolina. Let other NASCAR-Rebel States send teams, at six-month intervals, and after five years South Carolina will be ready again. Are you worried about insulting the local auto-fixers? I have discussed this VIM-project with A.U.’s new chief mechanic, and he said it would be the answer to his prayers. Yes, I admit that my idea is a bit silly, and I’d like to hear a better one.

OK, friends back home, I’ve ranted long enough. I don’t understand things here as well as I pretend to. I’m probably misinterpreting the facts and overstating the problems in this neck of the woods. And I realize that my “solutions” are mostly pipe-dreams (speaking of which, A.U.’s irrigation-infrastructure could use some donations too…). I don’t intend to criticize others; everybody else is working & trying much harder & smarter than I am. Attribute this essay to sadness—and to the fact that I’m as irritable as a black racer that spent a long winter under wet plywood. (Perhaps you would be irritable too if you belatedly discovered that hundreds of tiny ants had invaded your last stock of clean underwear.) If conditions permit, next time I’ll write about my house: that’s not a serious subject, and I think you may find it entertaining.

RANT MODE OFF.

Shaken, Not Stirred

I come from the branch of Methodists who believe that Jesus turned water into Welch’s Grape Juice for the marriage at Cana. Our ignorance about spirituous liquors is profound, and on Jeopardy, even the rednecks amongst us select the “Opera” category ahead of “Potent Potables.” Nevertheless, we do watch movies, and we are all aware that James Bond prefers his martinis to be “shaken, not stirred.” Now, dearly belovéd, I want to offer two over-generalizations about Americans in Africa. (1) The typical visitor to this Continent is a self-styled Eco-Tourist, who has come to see charismatic megavertebrates [= elephants and lions, oh my!]. (2) On a more local scale, the typical visitor to Africa University is an Evango-Tourist, who has come to talk (and talk…) about Jesus and to have her or his heart gently stirred by the warmth of multi-cultural godliness. In my own conceits I defy both stereotypes: I have come to chase frogs. And in Africa, inevitably, my heart is shaken, not stirred. Of this I offer an example.

Miracle in Nyanga. Daniel Nzengy’a, my closest colleague in the Faculty of Agriculture, had arranged for the two of us to visit Nyanga National Park last Thursday. This was kind of a last minute deal, but some weekend transport had become available, so Daniel and I went to preview a Saturday fieldtrip for our Natural Resources students. For reasons that should become obvious, the Saturday fieldtrip could not take place. Still, the Thursday venture was, shall I say, interesting.

I was excited from the moment we hit the road—not because Nyanga is my favorite Park (too high and too cold) but because the Chief Warden and Park Ecologist was one of my Year 2000 wildlife students. Nyanga is only about 100km north of A.U., and our journey was entirely routine until we crossed the Park boundary—to discover that everything had been burned from the border-fence to the horizon. At the entrance gate we inquired about Chief Ranger Zara (my former student) and were told by a less than communicative guard that he was not in his office. Undeterred, we thanked the sullen gate-guard and drove to the Zaras’ residence. A Park employee, red-eyed from smoke and lack of sleep, explained that the Chief Warden had been injured and should not be disturbed. Daniel and I apologized and were about to leave when Mr. Zara, assisted by his wife, made his way to the kitchen door and slumped into a chair that his daughter had brought for him. His legs were newly scarred, his head was bandaged in bloody gauze, and his eyes had the “thousand-yard stare” of man who had seen too much in recent days.

I guess the story should have been predictable. The previous week, on the night when I’d watched the flames at Old Mutare, men from Nyanga Village had set fire to the Park. The reasons for this destructive act are unclear: perhaps the perpetrators were striking at the nearest symbol of Government, or maybe they were simply overloaded by the Disaster that their lives had become. Whatever their motives, the arsonists were clever enough to select a secluded area with an enormous fuel load, so by the time the fire was discovered, it had become a monster. (Those of you who have fought serious wildfires will understand this at a visceral level.)

On Wednesday, Chief Ranger Zara and his crew had chain-sawed and backfired a sector of pines, and by Wednesday night they were trying to defend a line extending eastward from Old Circular Drive. The crisis came around midnight: it seemed that the line might hold, so Zara took the big lorry [= truck] and went after his last reinforcements back at Park HQ. He was driving at breakneck speed when the steering-linkage failed. (That’s what happens when you try too hard for too long with too few repair-parts.) The crash was in a low defile, so Zara’s radio had no reach, and he lay in the wreckage for hours. Finally discovered, he was rushed to the nearest emergency room, Nyanga Station, where he was examined and received about three dozen stitches before he was bandaged up and discharged. I did not need to ask why Zara was sent home so quickly; in these days of shortages, you may be treated at a hospital or clinic, but if you recover, it will be at home, where someone might have time to care for you.

I looked at Zara’s face. Clearly he was hurting: sweat had beaded on the exposed line of his forehead, though the day was cool. “Pain,” I asked, “what did they give you for pain?” Zara touched a bandage on his face and examined his fingers for blood. “Fortunately,” he said, “the doctor was a competent radiologist. He determined that I had no internal injuries, so I could have painkillers both before and after the stitches.” Because almost-doctor Elizabeth Norman has trained me to ask specific questions, I pressed on. “What exactly did they give you for pain?” Zara sighed at the white-boy question. “They gave me the only thing they had,” he said. “They gave me aspirin.”

At this juncture Daniel suggested that we should leave, but Zara would not hear of it. “I have to tell Prof [= Ab] about the error that he made. Do you remember lecturing to us about ungulates that should not be released in Parks like this one?”

I admitted that I remembered. Back in 2000, I had expressed to Zara and his classmates my American-wildlifer’s prejudice against introducing non-native species into protected areas. And Daniel had already informed me that the Park had been stocked with zebra and wildebeest, two species not definitively known to have occurred naturally in the Nyanga area.

“Well,” Zara said, “an ecosystem may be like a broken lorry. If we cannot acquire the correct parts, maybe we repair with what we can get. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it does not.” Zara touched his bandages again, perhaps for emphasis. Then he continued. “In this case, your unwanted beasts have worked a miracle at Nyanga. What is the biggest, ecologically most significant mammal that has been absent from this region for more than a hundred years?”

I shook my head. Elephants had never lived as high as Nyanga, and people were not absent, had not been absent for five hundred years. Therefore, the question could have only one answer. But that answer, though it would shake my heart with joy, made no sense; it had been rendered impossible by a century of wanton killing and by the destruction of the highlands ecosystem.

“Yes, Prof—” Zara smiled, though clearly the gesture caused pain “—they came in the night, perhaps from Moçambique, and now we have four groups of them, each with a male and females.”

So this is the miracle in Nyanga. Ecologist Zara, unable to reconstruct the ecosystem with original parts, had rebuilt the critical trophic level with the best available substitutes. And then, to a degree, Africa had healed herself. Lions—freaking lions, by the grace of God—had returned to the Nyanga Highlands.

A.U.’s Southern Scene, or Quintessential Cuisine at 18o 54’ South Latitude[1]

I’ve been looking for silver linings behind the storm-clouds of Zimbabwe’s current economy, and I have found a bright one. First I shall define the typical meal in this country, and then I’ll describe a hard-times improvement that should be in every Sandlapper’s cookbook. When a Zimbabwean thinks of a real meal, she or he wants three things: sadza, meat, and vegetables. Sadza is like grits on Viagra: you know, exactly the same old thing but made a bit stiffer. Meat in southern Africa means beef; here it’s boiled in a tomato sauce and served in portions of 3-5 cubes, maybe a little bigger than gaming dice. Vegetables will be something like mustard greens or collards, stir-fried. For the middle class (= endangered species; see below), the vegetables are fried in maize- (= corn-) oil or maybe sunflower-oil. But sunflowers have always been a minor crop, and repeated droughts have created maize shortages. Without a reliable supply of raw materials, the country’s only cooking-oil mill could not justify its connection to the ailing electrical-power grid, so it was closed. Such a culinary disaster would have defeated a lesser people, but Zimbabwe’s rural poor have risen to the occasion. Nowadays, at 18^o 54’ South Latitude, Momma will grow a few peanuts in her garden—and grind them into butter for stir-cooking her vegetables. So, you may be really southern if you eat your collards fried in home-ground peanut butter. (I’m sure that the good President Mugabe would sanction the substitution grits for sadza, and I’ll request his dispensation to use Peter Pan instead of home-ground. For West Floridians, armadillo may replace beef.)

The collards in peanut butter are really good. Otherwise, however, there’s little to recommend Zimbabwe’s current economic situation. In an earlier note I bemoaned my struggles with inflation. For me it’s a minor and temporary inconvenience. But consider folks who once comprised Zimbabwe’s middle class, the economic backbone of a nation that, back in the ‘90’s, was “going somewhere.” In some ways the essence of a productive middle class is to envision a better future and to save for it. And when I first worked in Zimbabwe, almost everybody tried to squirrel away at least a little money. Over just the past 5 years, however, by some accounting, Zimbabwe’s inflation has devalued savings by 99.99995%.[2] Now, think about the related issues of education and fuel. This week Zimbabwe’s elementary schools re-opened after the long winter vacation. Parents are legally obligated to keep their children in elementary school, and middle-class parents try to do it, no matter what. School-fees are not oppressive (unless one elects to send a kid to what we’d call a private school), but in hard times no expense is welcome in a household without savings. Furthermore, schoolchildren must wear uniforms, and many that fit marginally in June have been outgrown over the long vacation. It’s another expense. To make matters much worse, this year the government has virtually no diesel fuel to run its school busses, so children who could ride last June will be forced to walk—much too far, flirting with darkness mornings or evenings or both. (Or the kids will have to carpool by the dozens in private vehicles that are seldom reliable and often unsafe). Finally, consider the teachers, who are paid the equivalent of one or two $US per day. Many (male) teachers work all night as security guards. (Don’t you bet that makes for a stellar classroom performance?) Others have fled to South Africa, where students are said to be “cheekier,” but the pay is a whole lot better. And, most recently, school districts in the UK (particularly London) have been enticing Zimbabwe’s elementary school teachers into a world where the winters and the currency are both as hard as—well, as hard as cold sadza. So, this week some children have struggled their way to classrooms without instructors. And one wonders how, with no education, these kids will face the future.

These and other frustrations (mostly undetected by this ignorant white boy) have elevated the general level of tension among Zimbabweans. At the national University in Harare, student unrest simmers—and occasionally boils over into acts of destruction (thus far expressed against property rather than people). In the countryside, people burn the grasslands and forests. This burning reflects to some degree long-standing traditions of agricultural and rangeland management. Almost all tree-species native to this area are fire-tolerant, and the long-term ecological effects are similar to those of burning a South Carolina longleaf-pine savanna. But this year, in the darkness of electrical power failure, virtually every mountain within a thousand square kilometers has been torched.[3] I asked one English-speaking man about the fires, and he said, “Mice. We burn to get mice for meat.” Certainly meat-hunger is part of the deal, but I sense that more is involved. Of course I’m way outside of the Zimbabwean culture, and of course I’ll never get really deep into the local frustrations—note that I did not write “despairs”—of spring, 2007. So I could be wrong about all this. Besides, everybody tells me, “If good rains come on time this year, everything will be all right.”

Meanwhile, I’m still having fun. But right now I wouldn’t object to a nice, fat mouse, stir-fried with greens in peanut butter.

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[1] Outsiders will please forgive the Wofford in-jokes. And everybody please excuse three footnotes; I shan’t use them habitually.

[2] This assumes that savings were invested at a rate that would have compensated for inflation in the USA. Interest rates in Zimbabwe were actually somewhat higher, so you might knock a “9” or two out of the devaluation-factor.

[3] Up to now, no human lives have been lost—but far too many houses have been destroyed.

Or, Can Some American-Presidential Candidate Fix This?

I think I could have crunched the numbers OK, but otherwise I’d have made a wretched economist. Money just doesn’t seem real to me, perhaps because its “energies” appear to escape the laws of thermodynamics. Friends have tried to educate me about the nature of money as an information-bearer. For example, late one night in South Texas, a herpetologist explained economics to me this way: “Money is like a frog’s advertisement-call. It says, ‘Hey, come have sex with me.’ If too many other males are calling, and if there aren’t enough females, then you have to call louder, and you still may not get what you want.” But for me this education-by-simile did not take; I just kept on thinking about frogs and sex.

Money in Zimbabwe is particularly hard to understand these days. Inflation is beyond serious, and stated prices don’t mean a whole lot because different people drop different numbers of zeros in different situations. Therefore, “dis t’ing cost you twenty” can mean $20,000Z or $200,000Z or $2,000,000Z or $20,000,000, or even $200,000,000Z. (Oh, I almost forgot: the government officially dropped three zeros a while back, so if the speaker is talking of the old system—well, he is probably a frog with no hope of progeny anyhow.)

Now the official rate of exchange is $250Z/$1US. (For now let’s forget the old money.) But if you swap your Dead Presidents for that, you might as well hop away from the pond. I changed some money last Tuesday, receiving $200,000Z/$1US. Then, Friday, a gringa fresh from the States got $300,000Z/$1US. Neither she nor I nor the exchanger could say whether she got a better deal or whether it was just inflation. Anyhow, the biggest bill in circulation is $200,000Z, and that denomination is still rare. So if you go to change $100US, you’ll be needing a serious tote-sack to carry your $$Z. (Of course if the CID catches you operating in this “parallel market,” then your money worries are over, because you will become a non-paying guest of the State.)

Anyhow, with zeros dropping like flies, it does not pay to have a savings account; rather, you should spend your cash as rapidly as possible. But what you going to buy? On Friday I tried to purchase 20 AA batteries to run some GPS receivers for a field exercise. I eventually got 16, but I had to find a merchant who (a) had batteries and (b) was willing to violate all sorts of Zimbabwean laws against battery-hoarding. (If I’m not careful, I’m going to be back on the Group W Bench….)

Oh, sixteen AA batteries weight substantially less than the money I paid for them, so I returned to campus with a lighter spring in my step. And it's almost spring here; the birds are already singing. I'm sorry for you folks headed into the dismal seasons!

Hey, Hillary, Fix This!

In my last installment I mentioned one Yalie who is President, so I decided to open this essay by mentioning another Yalie who wants that same job—and who claims to have ideas about how healthcare can be improved. During a previous trip to Zimbabwe, I wrote Ms. Clinton, a Methodist, and invited her to visit Africa University. She did not reply (her loss), but if she had come, she could have observed healthcare problems with both familiar and unfamiliar stripes. Unlike Ms. Clinton, when it comes to healthcare I do not speak as one who has authority. I report only what I am told, and I could easily be very wrong. Furthermore, here in Zimbabwe most of my sources are academics. Clearly that fact should make you take my words with two grains of salt.

In Zimbabwe healthcare is a legal right of citizenry. In theory, you can walk into a hospital and see a doctor for about the price of a Hardee’s Thickburger. (Deno, you can see where my mind is.) In practice, however, there are almost no doctors to be seen. This shortage is not, primarily, a function of the nation’s educational system. The Brits were social snobs and frightful racists, but they did lay the foundations for a decent educational infrastructure. The Rhodesians built upon this foundation (mostly for whites, of course, but that would change) and created a first-class university. Since the Revolution, Zimbabwe has prized education over any other public goal. So, yes, you can become a well-educated doctor in Zimbabwe. But in recent years few locally educated physicians or surgeons have chosen to remain in this country. Some ran because of the money or because they did not want to “waste” their first-rate education in a perceived Third-World backwater. Others left because they could not face soaring patient loads, declining access to First-World drugs, and OR-desperation reminiscent of a MASH at Pork Chop Hill. I do not judge the motivations behind Zimbabwe’s doctor-flight; nor would I suggest any long-term solution. I do know that, for now, a public-service model is crashing. And, for now, neither will a private-enterprise model succeed. The median income in Zimbabwe has dropped to roughly $1US/day; that does not buy a whole lot of modern healthcare.

The current doctor-shortage is an example of the bad news, of things that are going very wrong. But we South Carolinians are officially enjoined to hope so long as we breathe, and therefore I shall list five small reasons for continued optimism.

(1) For reasons of patriotism, conscience, or down-right obstinacy, many doctors and other healthcare professionals do elect to stay in Zimbabwe. Maybe they agree with my grandfather, a Depression-era physician in rural South Carolina: “For a real doctor, the hard times are the good times.”

(2) Under a new national policy, most locally educated doctors will decide to stay for at least a while. When a young woman or man finishes medical school at the University of Zimbabwe, and when she or he completes the Zimbabwe equivalent of board certification, that person will be licensed to practice medicine. However, the University will not award a medical degree until the semi-graduate has served at least two years in-country. (No M.D.? No cushy job in Johannesburg or Houston.)

(3) Africa University has opened its Faculty (= College) of medicine and health sciences. This Faculty is now certified to offer the MSc. in Public Health. Theoretical training emphasizes models of community-delivered care, and aspirants complete their Masters fieldwork in areas where health services are desperately needed. The idea, based in Wesleyan theology, is that the methodical practice of good works will lead to a second blessing of perfected, lifelong commitment. To me, it sounds worth a try. [Note, Wofford pre-meds: If you’ve got some extra time and money, and if you don’t get into your favorite med school on your first try, maybe you should consider doing an MSc. in Public Health at A.U.: how you reckon that’d look on your next application? Later, all doctored up, you might return to this country and offer some real service.]

(4) A few volunteer ex-pat doctors are doing heroic work in Zimbabwe. With my usual naiveté, I initially assumed that these folks were seeking some sort of martyrdom. But maybe I was wrong. Here’s an approximate quote from a surgeon whom I interviewed on an earlier visit to this country. “I admit it. I was getting bored with American medicine. But here I get to be doctor again. Hey, this is fun. In fact, I haven’t had so much fun since I was a senior resident. I just hope I can figure out a way to get some more sleep.”

(5) As Paul Farmer told us last spring at Wofford, economically enforced medical triage can be a heart-breaking exercise. Still, it does seem to me that Zimbabwe is expending some of its public healthcare funds in appropriate manners. Anti-retroviral drugs are in short supply (except, of course, for megabucks in a highly lucrative black market). Government policy differentially shunts this supply toward pregnant women. And I am told that the rate of infant AIDS has dropped appreciably. Scarce healthcare resources are also concentrated for tuberculosis treatment, which is said to be free, available, and epidemiologically effective.

OK, folks, please remember that my commentary above is based on casual conversations, not real evidence. Now I really need to get back to work, and besides, I’m sure you’re tired of reading this long stuff. I wish you health for you—and good healthcare ideas for Hillary.