This is a repost of our trip to Zimbabwe in 2007. I am reposting it for archival purposes, but some may find it an interesting read. It is about our trip through the Recycled AIDS Medicine Program to deliver medicines to the clinics we support there.
Africa Journal
This morning we arrived in Harare. I can’t believe the smell of the fresh air after stepping out of the airport. We’ve been on planes and in airports for nearly 27 hours.
Africa looks remarkably like I always imagined. Grasslands, mountains, lush vegetation and green hills. It’s so lovely. I immediately notice that the street signs are different. “Give way,” says one of them. Remnants of British colonial rule are still everywhere.
We arrive at 7AM. Check through customs and immigration. We give brenda $100 US to change for us. There’s a bus waiting outside to take us to the hotel and the B&B that some of us are staying at. There’s some question about the bed and breakfast being out of power. Seems this is a frequent occurrence in much of the country. Rolling blackouts.
We pack our luggage on two pickup trucks after narrowly missing getting stopped by customs. What happens if we get searched with several suitcases filled with HIV medications? A suitcase full of new shoes and socks? So much gets confiscated every day by guards who can sell things on the black market for a good deal of money. The bus is a welcome sight. We have only a short amount of time to get to the hotel, clean up and go. We have an open clinic today in Harare.
Anthony, Howard and I are staying at a place called the Baobab. It is an absolutely lovely little place across the highway from the hotel where most of us are staying. We were adventurous, most choosing not to stay here since hearing there was likely no electricity. Upon arrival, the gate slides open and the beautiful grounds come into view. We meet Katherine, Flora and Lois, the staff; Lamech, the watchman; and Michael, the gardener. They are all lovely to us and show us around the grounds and to our house in the back of the main building. I notice immediately how physically beautiful the Shona are.
Harare is a strange place. The infrastructure is terrible. We pass by so many run down government buildings on the way to clinic. Ministry of Health, Ministry of Science. I look for the Ministry of Curious Things. There is the giant imposing wall guarded by men with machine guns… Mugabe’s palace. We hear he no longer lives there. He’s built a better place in the suburbs. Armed guards to keep angry mobs from reclaiming the property. Everything is shabby and dilapidated.
We arrive at the clinic. Down a dirt road, into a gated building. There are a couple hundred people gathered on the lawn in front of the one story complex. It’s smaller than I imagined. I am surprised… several dozen people jump to their feet and come over to greet the bus. When we step off there are people waiting to hug me that I’ve never met. The people of Zimbabwe, I come to discover, are not shy or reserved about expressing their affection. I will come to be hugged many hundreds of times over the next several days. It will teach me so much. I am generally a deeply affectionate person with those I know and love. But the hugs and indeed the many kisses that will be generously bestowed upon me by the Shona people will teach me much more about love and kindness than anything I’ve ever experienced.
At the clinic, everyone knows who we are. The first patient today has been waiting since 4 in the morning this morning. Some of the clients have walked many hours to get here. They know why we are there and what we bring and they will express their gratitude many times throughout the day. It gives me a deeper understanding of the work we do and why we do it. We set up three rooms in the clinic for the doctors. Outside in a gated patio, we set up the dispensary. We pack the suitcases off the bus and open them to retrieve several hundred plastic bags of pre-sorted medications. Each bag holds enough for one person for three months. These medications are all collected through our organization from individuals who can no longer use them. We collect them to keep them from being thrown away. This medication is cast off… our waste. Here it saves lives.
Penny, a minister who is with us on this journey, reminds me of the scripture “the stone which the builders rejected, has become the cornerstone.” These medications are like that. In our abundance we see no use for them. Here, they become the lynch pin of a treatment regimen for someone who has no other options. Better than 80% of the meds brought here this week have come through our organization, the Recycled AIDS Medicine Program.
The dispensary is set up. We have several ARV’s (anti- retroviral medications), protease inhibitors, anti-virals, antibiotics, creams, ibuprofen and pain relievers and several hundred bags of multi-vitamins to help the overall health of the clients who are here. There are many hundred bags and boxes of medications. Some of these are bought from Africa, India or Brazil as generics. We hear that one of the drivers who was supposed to deliver a supply of meds has disappeared. We are not sure if he was detained at the border of Botswana bringing our meds here, or whether something else has happened. Perhaps he decided to sell them on the black market himself. Generics are a good option when you can get them. One thousand US dollars will buy nearly enough medication to supply five people with ARV’s for a year.
Just a little perspective on cost. The US dollar is worth, on the official market, $258 Zims or Zimbabwean Dollars. On the parallel market, however, dollars go for $5000 Zims. Actually, that was the case two days before we got here. Later we will be surprised when Brenda gives us $800,000 Zims in bundles we can barely wrap our hands around. When we arrived the exchange was $8000 per one US dollar. We hear on some markets they are even going for $12000. Here are some facts that make things clear:
* The average salary for an entry level doctor in Zimbabwe is $85,000 Zims per month. This is about $11 US.
* A tube of tooth paste here costs $15,000 zims.
* At approximately $250 US per year for ARV’s, you are talking two years salary if you are a doctor.
* Zimbabwe has an unemployment rate of 80%
* Best statistics indicate that about 30% of the adult population here is HIV positive.
Over the course of the first day, we see nearly two hundred patients. The first patient was relieved to get her medications. Her record indicates that her health is vastly improved since she was first seen at this clinic by Dr. Scott last year. Because we have three doctors with us instead of the one that customarily comes every three months, we are able to see everyone who showed up this morning. This is good news. one by one, all of the folks waiting in the yard get their medications for the next three months. In some cases, we are able to treat fungal infections, eczema, pink eye, neuropathy, and provide pain relief for a variety of people. We have a lot of help here, with some of our friends from Harare, Stanley and Admire and Elizabeth, spending the day with us to translate, explain medications to clients, and make us smile.
Many of the clients are here in families, each with their own record. Mother, father and children. In some cases relatives with children who they care for since their parents died. I am amazed at how willing people are to talk about themselves and their conditions. The expressions of gratitude throughout the day are humbling to say the least. I am in my habit and many people stop me to ask whether I am catholic. When I tell them that I am Anglican (more understandable in this context than Episcopalian) they immediately respond: “ah yes… catholic!” I laugh and agree. Everyone wants to touch my rosary. Many kiss it. This will prove to be a much more faith filled journey than I initially thought and it will make all the difference.
The staff at the clinic prepares a lovely lunch for us. We are all short on water since we didn’t have time to buy any before we left this morning. We are all quite dehydrated after the flight this morning and, of course, only bottled water is an option for us here. We take turns sitting down when the chance comes. We are exhausted by midday. Lunch is a welcome rest. The kitchen staff here provides us with a menu we will come to know intimately during our stay. Chicken, kale, rice, peanut butter sauce… all delicious and gratefully enjoyed after a busy morning.
The day will be exhausting beyond measure, spiritually, physically and emotionally. We return to the hotel and have enough time to clean up before dinner. It will be the first time may of us will get to know each other and find out what part each of us plays in the time we’re here. Here is a bit about our group:
We have three doctors, one specializing in infectious diseases, one in emergency room care, another general medicine. There is David, who will be our coordinator and nurse and Brenda who among other things helps corral all of us and provides logistical support for our trip. We enjoy the company of a catholic priest and a pastor for MCC, the only other clergy types besides me, a religious in the Episcopal Church. I am here with my partner and the ID doctor as representatives of the Recycled AIDS Medicine Program. We provide medications to Zimbabwe AIDS Relief, the primary group behind this trip coordinated by Dr. Robert Scott, one of the doctors mentioned above.
One young woman in our party is pursuing her graduate work in the psycho-social component of HIV in the developing world. We have a photo journalist among us as well as several individuals who fundraise for the Mother of Peace and for Chinzanga Primary School in Mutoko - our destination tomorrow. There is even a sales rep from a pharmaceutical firm with us who comes because he wants to and because he loves the kids.
We enjoy a strangely sumptuous dinner while we talk. The hotel is one of the only places in Harare guaranteed to have electricity most of the time. The Baobab managed a generator so we at least have electricity for a couple of hours a day. It will count more, I suppose, once we return to stay there in a couple of days. Tonight, electricity won’t matter. We’re so tired that I imagine we’ll be asleep before 8PM.
Dinner is much needed. It’s the first time I taste sodza, a rather peculiar dish here. More about it later. It’s easy to see that everyone is tired and truly looking forward to our journey tomorrow. We must be up and out by 7AM. The bus will take us to Mother of Peace first thing in the morning. We are encouraged to pack lightly as we will need to transport medications as well as articles to be distributed to the kids. We hit the ground running here. it will be a couple of days before it slows down.
MOTHER OF PEACE
We gather at 7AM for our departure. I am surprised that, even with recommendations that we pare down our personal luggage to a bare minimum, we still need an extra truck to transport everything to Mother of Peace. We are quick to pack and start on our way. It’s two hours to Mutoko in the north eastern highlands. Malaria precautions will now be much more important.
Once outside of Harare, it becomes much more obvious that we are arguably in the most beautiful country in Africa. The landscape begins to unravel in a spiral of granite hilltops and lush green valleys. There is little between Harare and Mutoko save for beautiful vistas occasionally dotted by traditional Shona houses. These consist of round buildings topped with pointed thatched roofs surrounded by two or more square buildings with flat roofs. The pointed buildings, we are informed, are kitchens. The others are meant for sleeping. Courtyards in the center of these compounds are generally for socializing. Some compounds we notice have farm buildings for chickens and other livestock. We occasionally see oxen drawn carts slowly making their ways down dirt paths and, less frequently, actual paved roads.
Mutoko is a smallish town. There are several shops in a town square. In an adjacent lot there is a large outdoor market. Stalls jammed together are filled with various things that residents may wish to buy or trade. Many more ox-drawn carts seem to jam the roadways and there is a great bustle of people in the market. At one point, we come across a group of cattle trying to cross the road. The pace is slow and, strangely, none of us seem bothered by it. Why can’t we exercise this kind of patience at home, I wonder.
Mother of Peace orphanage is just another ten minutes or so down a dirt road from down town Mutoko. On the way, we must drive by Chinzanga Primary School. It is another project partly funded by some of our traveling party. The schools here are a major expense for parents. Fees, uniforms (which are required), textbooks and supplies all conspire to cost enough to jeopardize the education of many children in Zimbabwe. Some parents or relatives simply cannot afford to send their children to school. We will visit here some day this week.
Arrival at Mother of Peace is one of the most powerful and visceral experiences of my life to date. We pass a dairy farm populated with cattle from the Heifer International Project. Several buildings come into view. There is a bakery, the clinic, the guesthouse. Several nursery buildings and sleeping quarters for the children dot the complex as well as trailers that house some of the staff. I understand that the whole complex covers about 250-300 acres. 
Looming in the background is Mutemwa, a giant rock hill that towers above Mother of Peace. Mutemwa means “separated” and the name hails from the days when this location housed a leper colony. The colony is still just a stones throw from here and still populated although not with folks with active leprosy any more. Given then collapsed infrastructure in Zimbabwe, this could change any day.
We pull past the gate in the bus and it becomes immediately apparent that our arrival has been noticed. Streams of women and little children start to descend on the bus from all directions. You can see them running and the air suddenly becomes alive. My excitement builds. I can’t believe that their singing. It’s a welcome song. They gather around the bus on both sides, their hands clapping and their song getting louder. They gather around and guide the bus slowly to the guesthouse. I try to video tape it before I realize that in trying to capture the experience I’m going to end up missing it. I stop and listen and watch as I see the faces of countless children outside the bus smiling and waving because Dr. Scott has arrived and brought his friends.
The door to the bus opens and in two seconds I have the first of many children a few inches from my face begging to have his picture taken with a smile as big as Mars. His name is James and he will become my good friend over the next three days. Outside, they jumped as high as they could to see inside the bus. Once we stepped off, we entered what Penny called the “swirling vortex of unconditional love.” I know why.
Within minutes, I had as many kids hanging on to my hands as I had fingers. They grabbed and kissed my cross, kissed me and leaped into my arms. Within minutes, several of them had already learned to call me “brother” with that characteristic East African accent that was part British and part Shona. I would come to be known as “Brudah Cake” as the days went on, “cake” being pronounced like “cakie” and after a time my name was followed by “yo yo yo,” a playful call they picked up from Anthony when he couldn’t get my attention one afternoon.
Mama Stella, one of the matriarchs of the community, greets us with several of the kitchen staff and escorts us to our rooms at the guesthouse. After some brief moments to settle in and wash the dirt from our faces, we are off to the clinic. There are already people waiting outside, some of whom walked many miles to be here for their appointments. We schedule the next clinic at this one, already looking three months ahead to ensure folks have their medications in time. Even a couple of days lag time can have bad effects on treatment.
We are joined at the clinic by several HIV workers in Zimbabwe, four medical students from Harare and our friend Elizabeth who joined us in Harare and who runs another clinic in Zimbabwe. She will record much information in patient records for us this week. We are also joined by Dr. Reed who runds an infectious diseases clinic in Harare. Our other new friends are here as well, Isiah, Admire, and Osmond who would also come to be my friend and who says he wants to be a Gregorian. For now, he is content to live according to Benedict’s Rule.
Throughout the day we would hear stories and see firsthand the improvements in the health of the patients. We meet Charity, Patient One in Mutoko, who now works for the clinic here and whose health is wonderfully robust. We manage to see everyone who showed up today and even take on several new patients, assigning their intake to the medical students to give them firsthand experience in clinical diagnosis and treatment.
Anthony and I work the first half of the day and, near exhaustion, take the second half of the day to meet and play with the kids and to decompress among the Mother of Peace Community. Tomorrow, the children will be seen in the clinic and their health monitored for changes and, hopefully, improvements.
THE CHILDREN
Who knew that in those first few moments that I would meet so many of the children whose faces would bring me so much joy and pain in the next several days. Is it possible to fall in love with so many children so quickly? Perhaps. These are the children, with the exception of one very particular child I will talk about later, who would fill my heart with joy that I suspect will last the rest of my life:
James was the first, the one on the bus, who wanted his picture taken and who wanted to see the results on the digital camera with as much enthusiasm. We would become very attached over the next few days culminating with the day he put my hand on his chest and said “Cake… my friend” and made me cry. He, as many of the others, constantly sought one on one attention and the affection that was necessarily unavailable when so many children are cared for by so few people. James’ smile and unsolicited affection startled me at every turn.
In those first moments of frenetic grabbing hands and hugs, little people jockeying for attention, we met Abigail and Prince, John, Ivan, Joachim, Lucy, Mercy, Ruthie, Stephen and Leonard; we met Cephas, Shalom, Cecilia, Gerald and many others. In one way or another, each of these names for us will now be endowed with particular characteristics, each associated with a particular smile and story and a particular and individual affection reserved just for them.
There are about 135 children at Mother of Peace, up slightly from last year. Not all of them are technically orphans. Some are abandoned by families that can no longer afford them, some left here by relatives who trust that the community will be better able to care for them than they can themselves. many of them are orphaned by AIDS or other circumstances particular to the underdeveloped world.
The community here strives to reintegrate these children with their families when possible, committing to provide financially to their families for their support and education. This approach, while optimal for the children, places tremendous financial burden upon the Mother of Peace Community. They are constantly striving to keep up with the increasing financial demands.
Over two days, our clinics see over 400 people, providing clinical monitoring and medications which nearly exhaust the supply we brought with us. It was a good work, well done, and now we get to spend some time seeing and experiencing what brought us here.
We spend the afternoon playing with the children and talking with the staff, learning much about how Mother of Peace functions. We have dinner and collapse exhausted into bed by 8:30PM.
SUNDAY MORNING
My internal clock is very weird. I notice it when I wake up at 4AM, wide awake and ready to go. We’ve crossed so many time zones since we left San Francisco and that, combined with the physical and emotional exhaustion of the clinics, has conspired to make time seem surreal.
After Morning Prayer, I try to capture an African sunrise with the camera. It’s not so easy, but I get to experience for the first time in my life a full moon clearly visible on one side of the horizon with a sunrise on the other, two giant orbs filling the sky with two kinds of light simultaneously. This is a magical place and I’m sure my internal clock only adds to the magic.
Sister Ruvacliki, which means “Little Flower” in Shona, makes us coffee — quite an unexpected and extravagant delight given our circumstances. Sister is a member of a Carmelite offshoot called the Sisters of the Divine Child. She is a beautiful is somewhat severe African woman of about 24 years of age. She wears a gray habit with a skirt of modest length and a white whimple and veil reminiscent of a nurses cap. She doesn’t smile much unless provoked and then breaks into a full and lovely smile which she then tries to cover with her hand, embarrassed for having let go.
She finds me very curious for saying my daily office in the oddest places instead of away from the bustling kitchen or in the chapel down the road. She asks me many questions over the next days, and is particularly moved when I tell her that silence is found in the heart and that this is the reason I can say my office wherever I wish. She makes sure to take my contact information so that we can stay in touch.
After coffee and conversation with those of us who are awake, it’s time for Mass at the Chapel. One of our party is Father Jay, a Roman Catholic priest in the East Bay. His arrival was perhaps most looked forward to by Mama Stella and the staff. His parish is one of the benefactors of the community here and as a priest in this largely Catholic community his visit was long expected. He has been accorded great respect and his own room here.
Mass, although something I could prepare for intellectually, takes me emotionally by great surprise. Fr. Jay asks me to participate by reading the Gospel and helping with the distribution of communion. As a Anglican, I am mindful of the generosity of this request and am eager to participate. But nothing can prepare me for what I am about to experience of the Mass in an African context.
The chapel here is very simple. The altar is properly adorned with a purple and gold cloth for Lent. The perimeter of the worship space is lined with chairs and benches with cushions. There is a seat properly reserved for Mama Jean and another kneeling bench for Mama Stella, Jean’s sister. As the de facto worship leader responsible for the children’s spiritual formation, Stella needs to be within arms reach of the children on the floor so she can wrangle them if they get unruly.
In the corner are two drums and a couple of sets of maracas. Statues of Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Family all hold their respective places in the chapel. When the bell rings, all the children descend upon the space, discarding what shoes they may have outside and filing in to kneel in their places, girls on one side, boys on the other.
There are not many men in Mother of Peace. Unlike the country surrounding it, the community here is a matriarchal society and women rule here. Most of the staff here are “mothers” responsible for nurturing the children here in the absence of their birth mothers. It is not uncommon for a woman here to be responsible for the love and nurture of as many as fifteen children of a particular age group.
Two young boys of about 6 years old or so (it is often hard to tell. Malnutrition and HIV often conspire to cause children to appear underdeveloped) dress in white albs with little purple capelets and cinctures. They are to be acolytes during the mass. We process out to the chapel from behind a screen and my bliss begins in earnest.
Nothing helps me to enter into an experience more than music. The sounds of the drums are enough to make me sway with joy and rapture, but the sounds of dozens and dozens of children singing an entrance procession in Shona puts me over the edge. I look around to see them on their feet dancing, all the faces from the bus yesterday smiling and clapping, arms extended outwards moving up and down to the rhythm as they sing. I can’t believe I’m here.
The music of the Shona is beautiful. The language itself is lyrical and lovely. The style seems to have a call and response, or perhaps the call acts as a prompt for the next verse of the song. The harmonies are unexpectedly beautiful. I hear Mama Jean singing in deep bass tones bringing a distinct African harmony to the music. Occasionally I hear a reference to Jesus or Mary, but mostly the Shona words are difficult to discern. There are hints of English and some latinate words that become obvious after a while. The first and second lessons are read in Shona. I read the Gospel in English.
The joy of little faces makes the Mass a joyful experience even given the Lenten Observance. The children are remarkably well behaved, with only one or two occasionally having to be wrangled by Mama Stella. Mostly, they are simply fixated on Fr. Jay and me while we distributed communion, with dozens of upturned mouths coming forward for the host, and tiny eyes gaze up to look at the strange new people celebrating in their chapel.
After Mass, I can’t believe several of the children come up and in single file kiss me on my lips, once on each cheek, once on the forehead and then place their hands on the top of my head as if blessing me. It is a strange and beautiful ritual that plays out each time we worship together. We will celebrate Mass every day while we’re here as well as the Benediction and Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament each evening. Only the Mass is not part of their daily routine, dependent upon an available priest to celebrate. The faith of this community heightens my experience of the ministry of this trip. After the strange ritual is over, everything devolves into a frenzy of hugs and giggles and tiny clutching hands. I walk back to the house surrounded by a dozen children all wanting to take me to the dam and show me the sights. We decide to have breakfast first.
MEALS TOGETHER
I can’t believe the abundance of food prepared for us here. It is rather embarrassing. The staff prepares poached eggs, polish sausage, fried potatoes with butternut squash, fresh baked bread from the bakery and homemade peanut butter. Peanut butter is a staple of the diet here because of the high protein. The eggs had nearly no yolks, I suspect because the chickens may be as undernourished as the people. The food offered has been so abundant and absolutely delightful. They’ve even made coffee and I suspect someone from our party may even have brought it with them because it can’t be cheap and we drink pot after pot of it.
Before each meal, grace is offered. Sometimes by a member of our party, sometimes by a member of the kitchen staff. Juliet, the kitchen manager, even sang amazing grace as the blessing before the meal once and we all heartily joined in. It has been very moving.
Lunch consists of rice, kale, potatoes (sweet or plain), fried farm chicken, peanut butter sauce, and vegetables. We always have Fanta (orange), Coke, and bottled water. Variably we have okra, cabbage salad, and meat when available.
Juliet takes our comfort very seriously. She was actually raised here as an orphan. When she was old enough, she left to marry and start a family. Sadly, the man she married was an abuser who raped her. She left him because women in Zimbabwe have very little recourse against their husbands. By the time she left she had a baby. He is now nearly three years old. She returned to Mother of Peace and now she works here. She has told us many stories about her life and much about Zimbabwean culture during our stay.
TRUST
After Mass, I meet the most remarkable child. Over the next several days, I become convinced he will break my heart. His name is Trust. He is four, nearly five years old and has the most remarkable smile and a deep and hearty laugh. His health seems pretty good considering and he appears to be very bright.
It is his love that touches me more deeply than anything else. And his joy appears to be un-containable … especially when we walk together. He clings to me at every turn, wanting me to carry him. Once in my arms, he is unwilling to be put down under any circumstances. He wraps his little legs around my waist as if to squeeze me in half if I try to put him down for even a second. He likes to play with my ears and when he lays his head down on my shoulder, I think I’ll die from joy.
After the children’s clinic is over, most of our party decides to return to Harare. Several of us will stay until Tuesday to explore the community further and to enjoy our time with the children. Anthony and I will stay. There is still much to see and the children are an endless source of inspiration and entertainment. The simplest thing make them laugh and I have a suspicion I have much to learn from them.
Later in the day, some of us distribute shoes to the kids. Marc, the pharmaceutical rep with our group, held a drive before we came here at a sales convention. He collected 300 pairs of new shoes and 400 pairs of socks for the kids. One of the suitcases went missing on our arrival. It was found early this morning and will be here on Tuesday. The saddest thing is finding kids whose size does not match what we have here today. They don’t understand Tuesday… two days away is an eternity for a child under any circumstances, let alone under these conditions. The ones who can’t get shoes are inconsolable.
CHINZANGA PRIMARY SCHOOL
On Monday, we go to visit Chinzanga Primary School. Its down the road about a ten minute drive. Many of the kids from Mother of Peace go there. We saw them off in their uniforms this morning. We make the drive after breakfast and as the bus pulls into the school, hundreds of kids pour forth to see us. Ours recognize us immediately and try to sneak in hugs before their teachers see them.
About 700 students attend here. The girls wear black gingham dresses, the boys military gray shirts and shorts. Most of the classrooms are outside under the shade of trees. There are only three buildings here. Many in our party are raising funds to build more. One is partially completed, they are simply waiting for materials.
We wander through trying not to disrupt the classes. It’s virtually impossible. As soon as we walk by the kids rush up to have their picture taken with us and to say hello.
We meet with the headmistress who gives us an update on how the MOP children are performing here. Our commitment is to see all of the kids through school. She explains some of the challenges, particularly that the MOP preschool teachers are not yet fully qualified to get the kids ready for Chinzanga.
She also raises the issue of kids treating each other badly. We know that our kids are traumatized by their situation. They bring with them some bad behaviors that infiltrate the school, particularly bullying nicknames. One of our kids, Emmanuel, was abandoned by his mother in a sewer. The kids have nicknamed him “sewage” and it has unfortunately been picked up by other kids at the school. The story makes me cry. Emmanuel or “Manu” is such a sweet little one. His eyes are a problem. He had surgery on them recently and one of them appears to be infected. His eyes have been filled with ointment the whole time we’ve been here and the infection just gets worse daily. I pray he doesn’t lose his eye.
We bring boxes of supplies that Brenda has collected. Erasers (which cause quite a stir for the headmistress, she hasn’t seen them in quite a while), spiral notebooks, chalk, colored paper, pencils, stencils and many other things for the school. Talk of fundraising goals begins and many commitments are made.
Our departure is quiet. We’ll see many of the kids back at the community. We are all subdued by the overwhelming need and by the faces of those most vulnerable who need the most.
DEPARTURE
Tuesday, it’s time to leave. None of us seem prepared much. Trust has been glued to my side much of the last couple of days. Penny has spent a great deal of time visiting with Mercy and trying to gain more information about the medical visa she needs to get treatment in the United States. We are spending a great deal of time talking about the children.
After breakfast, we say good bye to the older children who are off to school before we leave. James walks away slowly and turns to wave a dozen times before finally trotting off. Just before, he gives me a big hug and calls me friend. I can’t think about it without crying.
We say goodbye to John and Ivan, Stephen and Joachim. Lucy and Abigail and Ruthie all say good bye. Lucy gives me what appears to be a love letter. Several of the girls have approached the women here and asked them to be their mothers. This in essence means someone that they can communicate with by mail, receive gifts and help from and build an emotional connection with in the absence of their parents. Carolyn was rattled by the request she received, not entirely understanding the context of it. She was much relieved to hear the young girl was not asking to be adopted, having no idea how to say “no.”
Carolyn is staying here for a month trying to coordinate groundwork on the cemetery where many children are buried. She is doing this because her own son’s ashes are buried here. He died of AIDS some years ago before they could take a planned trip to Africa together. She brought his remains here and was gifted with a traditional Shona funeral by Mama Jean. She laid him to rest here and is connected with the land as a result.
We all get ready to board the bus reluctantly. The preschoolers we put down for a nap early so they could be awake to say goodbye. This is the hardest part. At every turn, children wander by to say goodbye. They’ve all started sucking their thumbs again. Apparently, they do this when adults leave that they’ve grown attached to… a kind of regression. When the bus pulls in, all the kids swarm out of their hiding places, knowing it’s time to for their new friends to leave.
Veronica, one of the staff here, helps us by singing songs. The women gather on the lawn and join her, everyone trying to squeeze some joy out of the departure for us and to keep the children from being too traumatized. Trust will barely look at me and he keeps sucking his fingers. Finally, I get him to come into my arms and let me hold him for a while. He gazes off absently. Mercy comes too. Veronica’s songs help us all to dance a little.
We make our goodbyes. Mama Stella offers us a blessing. Mama Jean says a prayer that God will bless us. I kiss Trust on the cheek, barely able to contain myself. My heart sinks at the thought that I will never see this child again. I hug all of the children I can get my hands on before I board the bus.
The women and children follow the bus and guide us to the gate. There’s no more singing. Once to the gate, the guards make the rounds around the bus to make sure none of the children have made it inside. It’s a sharp reminder. We wave and start the long trek back to Harare. The bus ride home is eerily quiet and subdued.
As we get closer to Harare, the number of police check points on the highway increases in frequency as the distance to the capital decreases. We feel close to being stopped and searched on a couple of occasions. No less than seven stops. Thanks to Kuda, our driver, we narrowly miss being searched.
The moment we cross back over into Harare, we become American tourists and, unfortunately, the whole dynamic of our group changes over the next couple of days. Anthony and I are particular sensitive to the change and will become increasingly dislocated over the next days.
TOURIST TALES
When we arrive back at the Baobab, Dr. Scott, who has been in Harare for a couple of days, has arranged for Bronson, a Shona sculptor, to come and show us his work. The stone carvings of the Shona are remarkable. I saw them everywhere in town when we arrived. They dot the grounds of the Baobab.
Bronson is one of several accomplished and internationally recognized Shona artists in town that we visit over the next days. Anthony and I buy two pieces, “Lovers” and “Giving a Clue” and wonder at how heavy the stone is.
For the Shona, the stone contains spirit that is revealed by deceased ancestors. Carving and polishing give face and manner to the spirit that is already predestined to be revealed by the stone. The names are revealed to the artist. Shona carving is an artisan’s skill that is usually pursued in families and handed down from generations.
I immediately notice that some of us start to haggle over the prices. I am tempted to follow suit and then stop myself. I wonder how we can dare begrudge a few extra dollars to these people when we’ve just seen first hand the devastation of endemic poverty like exists in Zimbabwe. This insensitivity will disturb me with greater intensity as the days go on.
On Wednesday, we are off to Victoria Falls. We take a small plane to Victoria Falls on the other side of the country in the north west. A bus and driver are there to pick us up. We make the short drive and then begin our tour of the falls — only after we, for some reason still unknown to me, try to get out of having to pay the $20 entrance fee. We will lose nearly an hour of our day as a result.
The falls are exquisite. I suspect that if one didn’t believe in God when they got there, they might leave with some room for doubt. If one did believe in God, I trust their suspicions would feel confirmed. It was all I could do to not sing out loud of the mighty works of God. Some in our party sang praises at the top of their lungs. It is an amazing sight and, at every turn, gets more breathtaking than the last.
It is the rainy season and the falls are particularly powerful right now. The spray fills the air and rains down like a deluge. Everything is soaked and humid and misty. The air is heavy and tastes fresh. The roar reduces everything else to whispers. By the time we leave we are drenched.
The bus is waiting to take us to the Zambezi River for a cruise and lunch. We arrive an hour and a half late. The Zambezi cuts between Zimbabwe and Zambia. 
It is calm and tranquil. We are about 3 kilometers up from the falls. We enjoy a nice lunch of curried potato salad, fish, beef, bread and butter, and fresh fruit salad. We see a hippopotamus on one edge of the river, hiding behind the reeds. For a time we fret that it will be the only animal we see, but luck smiles and an elephant appears on the opposite edge, having his lunch.
After lunch, we head back to shore to catch the bus. We need to get back to the airport in time for our flight to Harare. We are all a bit disappointed that we don’t have enough time to shop. The driver accommodates us and allows us five minutes at a local bazaar on the way to the airport. It is filled with wooden carvings - animals and faces, bowls and walking sticks… all of those things that you would expect to find. Anthony and I race to find a carved monkey for a colleague who jokingly asked him to bring back a monkey before we left the US. We settled on a baboon instead. In addition, we buy a wooden bowl and set of spoons for home and a carved giraffe that I think is cute and, for some reason, satisfies some romantic childhood notions I still harbor of Africa. It breaks when we get it home but by then it doesn’t matter.
We just narrowly catch the plane back to Harare. I spend most of the plane ride thinking of Trust and grow melancholy. I miss him already and try to hide my sadness from Anthony. I write in my journal.
Thursday is a wild ride. Stanley who spent the first clinic day with us comes and acts as shopping guide. Kuda arrives with the bus to take us out to spend our Zim. We all still have stacks of it. I grow uncomfortable that our biggest problem today will be to figure out how to spend the money we have before we leave. It just seems so unfair. Anthony and I set aside a large portion of it to give the staff at the B & B. We also give some dollars to Stanley and Kuda at the end of the day to thank them for their patience with all of us.
First, we’re off to see Jemali. He’s another internationally acclaimed Shona artist. His sculptures are amazing. His wife, brother, and several apprentices also sell work in the complex. Anthony and I leave with five pieces. All small, all heavy. We joke and wonder how we’re going to get them home. We pay for everything in US dollars. After leaving Jemali’s, the group dynamics really fall apart. Tensions between some group members are really high. Anthony and I try to remain uninvolved and quiet. It’s disappointing.
We hit some stores downtown and then off to Chapunga Market. it reminds me of Mill Valley in the Bay Area… mostly white, obviously rich, and very expensive. I won’t spend my money here because I know that none of it will reach the people who live here. Most of it will end up in some rich South African gallery owner’s pocket. I hear one of the gallery matrons refer to a worker as “you, girl” and decide to have lunch instead.
We see a fabric store and hear that the owner is African so we get some fabric. Lunch is delicious - sweet corn cakes, salad, scones and coffee. We all hope we can make it to Avondale today. It’s a flea market on the other side of town. Kuda takes us after dropping some folks off at the hotel. We spend the rest of our money.
Dinner is bittersweet. I pass around the notebook to collect everyone’s contact information. We all spend the evening relaxing after the crazy day. I look around the table. We’ve all just experienced something profound together. I would be dishonest if I failed to admit that it binds you together in some strange way. How can you not grow close after seeing such amazing things together, after engaging in such a good work together? We accomplished something profound this week… we saved lives and offered hope for the future. It didn’t take much time, and only some effort.
In some small way we all leave here changed people. Over 400 people will have a chance at life over the next 3 months that they would not otherwise have had. The ripple effect will, I’m certain, change the lives of many more. How can you count the cost of such a thing?
What is abundance? Do we really know what it is in our country anymore? Do we understand value? I am from a country that throws away more than some countries use in a year’s time. Do we stop to think of the intrinsic worth of what we cast away to someone who has nothing at all? More importantly, do we stop to think about what we’ve lost because we either value nothing, or value the wrong things entirely.
A couple of hours of time a month out of my life and 400 people have a chance at something better. A weeks time a half a world away and I am transformed by so simple a thing as a kiss on the cheek and a pair of tiny hands at the top of my head in blessing. How do you count the cost? Or better still… why do I continue to see value in terms of “cost” at all? I still have much to learn.
Amen.
