Not China

Probably you folks know that Google (host of this blog) and Yahoo released user-files to Chinese security agents—with devastating results for dissidents who had been using those Internet services. For that reason somebody (yes, I mean you, Vivian) may be concerned that I could get into trouble for expressing my opinions about the state of “things” in Zimbabwe. But, for three reasons, I’m not worried. First, I’m not going to write much about politics. Second, this material is actually posted in the USA—and not by me—from a South Carolina state institution, where freedom of expression is flat-out guaranteed. And third, however tight things may be here, Zimbabwe is not China. This country was founded upon the premise that freedom and law actually matter. Although it may be a bit tarnished, that tradition definitely survives.

Here’s why I shan’t write much about politics. First of all, I’m an ex-pat Ag-school teacher whose main interests are snakes and frogs. Second—well, most of you know how I feel about George W. Bush. I mean, I resent a President who caroused his way through my alma mater and who shows no apparent sympathy for the environmental stewardship policies of the United Methodist Church (of which Mr. Bush and I are both members). Still, I would not want some ignorant foreigner, with less than two years on American soil, to trash our only President without doing even ten minutes of serious study. As an ignorant foreigner myself, enjoying Zimbabwe’s hospitality, I feel no inclination to insult my hosts by criticizing their country or its politics. The leadership of the current president has been hurtful to many individuals and has probably damaged this nation’s welfare, but the man clearly loves his country, and to blame all of Zimbabwe’s woes on him is pure foolishness. I have already admitted that I’m not very good at praying, but Mr. Mugabe has been in my prayers for quite some time. I would take no pleasure in his distress.

During my c. 15 months in Zimbabwe, I have not put in my “ten minutes of serious study” about national politics. Therefore, I have learned little about the country’s socio-political realities. Nevertheless, I have observed that news media in the Northern Hemisphere sometimes overstate Zimbabwe’s troubles. For example, I once read that HIV infects > 30% of Zimbabwe’s population. As a biologist who had glimpsed the age structure of Zimbabwe’s people, I fretted over this figure and wondered whether such an infection-rate was even possible. Eventually I was fortunate enough to meet the physician-scientist upon whose careful research this ridiculous number was supposedly based. He said that the actual data indicated that about 25% of women who had recently borne children were positive for HIV. Perhaps, my researcher-friend said, the overall infection rate was between 10% and 20%. That’s still horribly high, but it does not approach the one-in-three holocaust so publicly presented by the media. In my opinion, Zimbabwe’s level of social unrest may also be exaggerated by the news people. When I was here in 2000, the New York Times ran a brief note that reported bread riots in Mutare. As a result, I received frantic emails inquiring about my survival. I had actually witnessed the Mutare “riots”; I would have termed them “a moderately loud argument.” Indeed, I considered them about as life-threatening (and about as interesting) as a Wofford faculty meeting.

I do not suggest that Zimbabwe is a prefect country (back in 1993 I had naively believed that she might be headed in that direction): if the Army has to monitor a bread-line, then something is seriously wrong. And I don’t think I’d want to swap Presidents with this place—though I would give the offer some consideration. But I would like to suggest that Zimbabwe’s critics (many of whom are far wiser and more knowledgeable than I) should meditate upon the roles that drought and history and international policies have played in creating her current plight.

T.I.A.

Last night, through no merit of my own, I was given temporary access to vast quantities of very hot water and a bathtub built to accommodate the full length of an adult Victorian white girl. (I had to scrunch a bit to get my own self fully under the water, but I managed.) I am aware that drought could return to Southern Africa, and I do not know by what precious energy the water was heated. (Was it through the burning of scarce wood and the ATP cycled during its collection? Was it through the combustion of scarcer petrochemical resources?) I tried to feel guilty for my extravagance, but I could not. I was fairly tired, very cold, and extremely dirty; I also hurt a pretty good bit. So I lay in the water and thought about the phylogeny of the Reptilia (today’s Wildlife Management subject). If somebody had demanded at gunpoint that I exit the bathtub, I would have said, “Shoot me, you son of a bitch. If I’m headed for hell, at least I’ll stay warm. And if I’m going to heaven, I feel as if I’m already there.” This is Africa.

The day had been a hard one, at least from my soft-American perspective. Another instructor had come by to show me my classroom. When we got there, my students were present. I said, “So this is where we shall meet tomorrow.” One of the students replied, “The Timetable [= syllabus] was changed last night, and we are here for class now.” So I babbled about Wildlife Management for a while, trying without success to learn names that make “Abercrombie” sound as short as “Smith.” After an hour of embarrassment I escaped to my office and crashed down into the single chair—which crashed down itself, all the way to the floor. That hard landing jammed up my back quite painfully, and I spent 10-15 minutes cursing Africa University for its infrastructure and the United Methodist Church for its lack of support. Then I struggled into action and tested the PowerPoint projector that I’d brought from South Carolina. The power-load blew my 220à110 transformer, which had faithfully served three tours in Africa and one in Vietnam. This is a semi-tragedy since I brought only rechargeable batteries for my field equipment and since all my battery-chargers are 110-Volt only. So I reset my laptop and PPT projector for 220, and they worked OK; I’ll worry about the batteries later. After all, TIA.

While I was still in the throes of electrical tragedy, the Acting Dean swept into my office with the warmest of hugs and absolutely effusive praise for my teaching ability and my selfless dedication to Jesus and agricultural education. Well, folks, I thought it was affection, but it was, uh, foreplay: I was about to get screwed! It seems that one foreign lecturer believed what he heard about Zimbabwe—and on what would have been his first day of class, he backed out of his teaching contract (by e-mail; if he’d been here and resigned in person, he might have been killed, perhaps by me). Of course the Ag faculty will have to split up his courses amongst available staff, and I had been officially defined as “available staff.” In other words, I’d run from Sparkle City to avoid a semester of statistics—and am teaching statistics in Old Mutare. So what if the students don’t have textbooks or calculators; so what if I don’t have my notes or even a table for the normal curve. I just hope my Second Years know some calculus. And who knows; after all, TIA.

After I’d become a statistics teacher, I attempted to replicate, with Dry Erase Markers, Jesus’ loaves-and-fishes miracle. For some reason I failed and consequently had to give away one of the four markers I’d brought with me—uh, to a darn botanist. I celebrated my generosity (or stupidity) by trying to send some e-mail; this was another attempted miracle, which may or may not have failed. In the nasty world of local economics, I attempted to set up the exchange of dollars (in a market that is at best dark gray); we’ll see how that works. As quitting time approached, I saw an open storage-room door, so I entered and stole a T-square and a Keson land-measuring wheel from Engineering. As I headed back to my temporary lodging, I tried to say a few prayers (mostly that I wouldn’t get caught with the measuring wheel before Monday), but for me prayers are about as easy as A.U. e-mail.

Speaking of things religious, I should tell you that an old boy came into my office today trying to sell carved soapstone figures. I’d never had that happen on campus before, so I asked the would-be seller what the heck was going on. He said that he’d had a business in town that did OK, but that in recent years he’d made a lot more money VIM teams (VIM us U.Meth acronym for Volunteers in Mission; these folks are briefly deployed into sundry areas to accomplish sundry good deeds; at A.U. they would captive buyer-audiences for soapstone carvers). So he’d sold house & business in town to move next to the A.U. campus. “But this winter there have been noVIM teams, and I am having difficulty feeding my family.” I told the man good luck—no, of course I didn’t buy anything. (On campus? I’m not that crazy.) I did tell him that if no VIM teams came at all, we could talk in October. Perhaps I should not have been surprised soon to discover that this no-VIM-poormouthing was a scam, but at the time I felt fairly wretched about saying No.

Despite my (uh, in this case unnecessary) guilt, and perhaps as a special grace, I received the bath described in Paragraph One, and it was wonderful. Afterwards, I tried to sleep, but I soon woke up and began thinking about small-sample statistics—uh, in a very personal context. You see, late last night the darn mosquitoes came out in squadrons. (How they manage to sustain flight-metabolism at 10^oC is a mystery to me; they sounded as if they were cruising in on snowmobiles.) Since I haven’t been able to get to the Mutare chemists (= drugstores, who are probably out of Deltaprin anyhow), my thoughts turned to malaria. (Yep, I’ve already given out of my U.S. emergency stock of pills.) Since I couldn’t sleep anyhow, I pulled out a flashlight and tried to observe a mosquito in the process of Ab-exsanguination (sp?). But the little winged devils were very light-shy. (So why didn’t I sleep with the lights on? Power outage.) I finally did catch a bloodsucker in the act, and it was not Anopholes (sp?). So I had a very favorable result from a sample of one; that’s way too small to suit me; can’t get me no variance term; can’t work me no probability. Therefore, folks, if I start writing about lime-green clouds and the Three-Horned Nature of God, you’ll be able to guess what happened. And again, TIA.

Now it’s Wednesday morning, and shortly I’ll go out to seek an Internet connection for transmitting this missive. Meanwhile, I should offer an update on the VIM business. As has been my A.U. custom, I attended the Wednesday 0800 worship. As the service progressed, I was shocked to observe the entrance of about a dozen white people. It was—you guessed it—a nice, big VIM team, in this case from Fairview UMC in Maryville, Tennessee. You folks at home can have no idea how much I wish I could have discovered previous information about their coming. I’d have given hundreds of green-colored Yankee dollars for such news. It would have made a huge difference to my financial situation, to my personal comfort, to my book-related research, to my classes, to my colleagues here, to my students! If each VIM-er had been willing to carry even 10 extra pounds of stuff for me, I could have had a couple of hundred pounds of material that I really, really need. Before I left the USA, I’d asked about VIM teams but couldn’t get any relevant info. Now, for some reason, this missed opportunity has banged me around more than shortages, more than admin screw-ups, more than my add-on stats class. Indeed, I have been sitting in my office, muttering under my breath, suggesting that the whole U.Meth hierarchy should seek sexual congress with members of the Anatidae. Heck. But I know about common problems back in the States. T.I.A. (That is America.)

I need to recover my equilibrium and give up this selfish concern with missed opportunities. I think I’ll walk outside and try to see a new bird.ecH

Zimbabwe Welcome

GR Davis and I probably did a good thing when I agreed that Wofford’s 2008 Interim to Zimbabwe should be cancelled. The country’s logistical infrastructure is not working very well. I explained in my last installment that transport is difficult and that basic food staples are in short (or zero) supply. I also learned today that electricity is available only intermittently, and Internet access requires both patience and luck. The University’s electrical substation-transformer went down last week, and the Faculty of Agriculture has been operating (for about 4 hours a day) on a big generator that sounds like a two-banger diesel. That means that nobody has yet succeeded in both composing and printing a class syllabus, so I don’t feel too bad about my own lack of preparation.
Despite classroom darkness and computer-deprivation, our Dean, the irrepressible Professor Tagwira, never lost his smile and went ahead with our welcoming convocation for the new ag First Years. This academic extravaganza was largely conducted by Mrs. Ruwo, who has been the ag secretary since 1993. Way back then she looked about 30 years old, and now she looks about 18; perhaps that is because she has lost a little weight and dyed her hair bright red-purple. She introduced me as Professor Abercrombie; that was heavy flattery since officially I’m only a lecturer (in Zimbabwe a genuine Professor is respected slightly more than God, and God is respected a whole lot), but my make-believe promotion did make me feel welcome indeed.
The Dean preached a real sermon to the First Years, begging them to serve molecular genetics with heart & soul—and to avoid the temptations of lethargy, plagiarism, fornication, and transfer into Business or Theology. Then he said something that I thought was rather wonderful: “I tell you this: if you learn to make two blades of grass grow where only one blade grew before, then you will be more important than the entire breed of politicians.” To conclude, Prof. Tagwira offered the first of two benedictions; the second was volunteered by a First Year who was dressed somewhat like a Tri-Delt at Spring Formal. After the speeches and prayers, Mrs. Ruwo (our youthening secretary) announced that First Tea [yes, Zimbabwe was a British colony] would be “served without sugar this year because there is none in this country.” But Mae Ruwo was wrong, perhaps for the first time in her hyper-efficient life; apparently some light-skinned First Year from Moçambique had smuggled in a two-liter jar.
So, Dr. Davis, Preacher Robinson, Dean Wiseman, I don’t really think things in Zimbabwe will be different by January. But I guarantee you this: our Interim students would have been welcomed by fasting and prayer at the Faculty of Agriculture.

Lead Us Not into THAT Much Temptation

I’ve always considered myself to be a law-abiding sort of person, and I’ve been extra careful to stay legit while a guest in somebody else’s country. But events of yesterday made this old dog contemplate the learning of new tricks. The matter in question involved currency exchange. I was seeking transportation from the airport into town, and I had only US dollars. Furthermore, printed governmental instructions informed me (1) that I was obligated to pay in local currency and (2) that unofficial dollar-exchange could land one in dire trouble. So I said to myself, “What the heck; I’ll take some losses, but I’ll hit the airport bank and buy enough $$Zim for taxi fare. However, the official exchange rate is, uh, even less favorable than one might expect, and I was told that a 15-minute taxi ride, with all exchanges official, would cost me about four thousand US dollars! So I fell into the temptation to avoid that kind of high finance and caught a ride with the brother of a bishop.
It seems that the taxi-fare-for-megabucks problem may be symptomatic of other economic ills. The artificially high value for the $Zim is associated with hyper-inflation and shortages of most things that a reasonable person would want to buy (though, as suggested in an earlier essay, the supply of lions and elephants appears sufficient to meet the demand of millionaire Americans). The driver who came from A.U. to pick me up was ecstatic about being in Harare because he assumed that, in the Capital City, he could partake in a big meal that included real beef. To slake the driver’s craving for dead cow, we visited three old-fashion Zimbabwe hamburger shops: two could offer only “chips” (French fries); the third had managed to acquire a few pieces of chicken, which we greedily consumed. The A.U. driver, with characteristic good humor, observed, “This is our beloved leader’s plan to assure that his people do not suffer from excessive cholesterol.” Of course the comment was offered with some irony, but I believe the words also included a note of affection.
Anyhow, for now beef is off the shelves of the grocery stores and butcher shops, nation-wide. I don’t care much about the red meat, but rice is awfully scarce, and I haven’t seen any peanut butter at all. Thanks to careful rationing, bread occasionally becomes available, but in little old Rusape-town hundreds of people were lined up in hopes that today would be a loaf-distribution day. (Very nice music was being played, and none of the babies looked super-hungry.) Cornmeal is said to be scarce as well, but I don’t know that for sure. Soap-powder seems to be non-existent, and I’m wondering how I’ll make 100 days on three undershirts (Army-brown, thank goodness). On the good side, there was little traffic on the Harare-Mutare road; could that be associated with the fact that we saw no gas for sale in any of the dozen or so stations that we passed?
Before I terminate this set of first-day observations, I do want to write two happy things—the first general and the second Ab-selfish. (1) Perhaps, for once, CNN and the BBC are not exaggerating the nation’s shortages, but I simply will not believe that this country is coming apart. Zimbabweans appear to be the same resilient, kind, generous, polite folks I’ve learned to love, and I’ve observed not one hint of collective despair (just Lord please don’t let us have a drought until other things get better). (2) There is a gecko (Hemidactylus) in my room, and I’ve already seen a purple-crested lourie.

Group W Bench

Johannesburg Airport. My departure for Zimbabwe was delayed because of immigration and work-permit problems, but I finally did get off, and I hope to be in Mutare sometime tomorrow. Catching the jet plane out of South Carolina was easy, of course; nobody showed any concern (or even much interest) in any of my equipment or baggage. I arrived in Washington-Dulles on time, but the South African Airlines flight was boarding almost an hour early. That suited me fine, but the subsequent delays on the transit bus were, well, interesting. August is, of course, late winter in southern Africa; most of the trees are leafless, and the temperature is suitable for American tourists. So, this is High Season for mission-trippers and safari-hunters; my flight was beset with both. On the transit bus (which carried us to the aircraft, parked way out in the middle of Dulles-nowhere), I started off sitting with a bunch of would-be slayers of large mammals. They were bound for several countries, and nobody was on his (gender-specific pronoun is used with full intent) first shooting trip. These would-be emulators of Teddy Roosevelt (or was it Hemmingway?) talked their death-in-the-tall-grass stories until one turned to me and said, “You look like a missionary. I bet you don’t even have a gun.” I allowed as to how that was NOT true; therefore I rose immediately in their estimation and was actually included in the macho-affiliation banter for a while. (My favorite tale was, “I’m on safari after a really big lion. It’s a guaranteed thirty days at only a thousand bucks per day.”) Then, after the boys had described the arsenals they had packed, they asked me, “What sort of gun are you carrying?” And I said, “A .22 rifle; I may go after guinea fowl.” And THAT was when the boys moved away to seek their own company. But it turned out all right for me. On the airplane I found myself seated beside one of the Great White Hunters. After telling me (again) about his hunting plans, and after receiving minimal affirmation from me, he said, “I think I’ll go see if I can find a seat with some of my, uh, colleagues.” He did, and I found myself with two seats from Washington-Dulles to Jo-berg!

Pre-Departure Blues

OK, my good budy, Wendy Campbell, has talked me into starting up a blog. I'm not sure I'll continue with this madness-- or even whether I'll have opportunity so to do-- but at least I can add some first-attempt information.

I don't have a ticket yet, but the Church hierarchy in Nashville (the U.Meth. Vatican) has promised to mail me one. This could create problems, but who knows!

I have a huge amount of stuff to pack. This includes computer, live traps, radio-telemetry gear, PowerPoint presenter, and a computer Bible. I hope I can also take my "teaching rifle," but that depends on the BATF, with whom I need to make contact.

My left hand is shaking occasionally because I really am nervous about this trip. Wendy has assured me that, out of desperation, students in Mutare are already eating dogs. I am afraid that, by the time of my arrival, only the oldest, stringiest (and wisest) dogs will remain so that I may starve. (Also, I have firmly resolved that I shall eat NO named dogs, regardless of hunger or social pressures.)

Anyhow, this is just a test post. Maybe I'll write more fascinating stuff, so check in occasionally.

Ab