Dedication

For Betty Maponde
My Boss, My Buddy, My Vamwene, My Friend
Without whom, most of these adventures would not have
occurred.

Week One

I am working at Simukai Street Youth Program. The program’s mission is to get kids off the street. The Center houses young boys who will soon be going home, runs an afternoon activity program for boys currently living on the street, and runs a support program for former street children. I’ve working most with the Sakubva Support program. It takes place in SakubvaTownship -a high density suburb just outside Mutare. We work with 25-30 children aged 7-16 who were street children and are now back in school. We are based at a primary school in the township and meet the children everyday when they are finished school. We provide school remediation, activities and games, Bible Study (it’s a Christian organization) and HIV/AIDS Prevention Education.

In Sakubva, families live very close together. Some live in concrete or concrete block houses with tin roofing. These houses are approximately 10 by 20feet. Most families have created “houses” from wood from pallets and metal from containers-these are approximately 8 by 10 feet. I would estimate that 4-6 families are living in the space of an average U.S. or Canadian yard. Approximately people 20,000 live in Sakubva with the population of that area having doubled due to migration from rural areas. The streets of Sakubva are dirt with many potholes due to rain. Soon the rainy season will begin and the roads will become very muddy. I am living in another high density area called Chikanga. Conditions there are not quite as crowded as in Sakubva.

I’m choosing to walk each morning to work, about 50minutes, rather than catch a “combi”- a commuter van into town. Riding the combi is something akin to the game of seeing how many people will fit inside a phone booth or VW beetle. Except that it is now a small mini van. I take combis home from Sakubva since we frequently finish as darkness is falling. If we finish early, Mrs. Maponde (the education worker) and I can walk home from Sakubva to Chikanga via the river valley-a route that I am not allowed walking by me.

One of the main reasons children end up on the streets here is that their family is not able to provide enough or any food. Each day during the program, the children are provided with a nutritious drink and a meal. Last week, I experienced many traditional Zimbabwe meals with the children such as vegetables and sadza, ground maize and ground nuts, sausage and sadza. I really like sadza, which is good, because it is the staple food of Zimbabwe. It can be prepared in a number of consistencies ranging from porridge to mashed potato like. Some of the children help prepare the meal that is cooked over an open fire in the school’s yard. The organization is hoping to construct a cooking shelter soon. Last week we met with some of the children’s parents and asked them to assist with the preparation of the meal.

It was a delight to be greeted by the children each day as we arrived. They seem to really enjoy the program. I did a session of cooperative games each day. The children were patient as I tried to explain the games. My six words of Shona do not go nearly far enough. Near the end of the week some of the older children took pity on me and were willing to translate and as well, more of the children became comfortable enough to speak English with me. I now know the words for sun, rain, clouds, you, stop, elephant, lion, and giraffe. Not a very large vocabulary for describing the game red light, green light. We have one volleyball and one basketball. I’m hoping to find a ball needle so I can blow up the soccer ball that was recently donated. I have had to be creative in designing activities for 30 children using one ball. The Memorial University basketball coach would have been proud of me last week-I ran an excellent basketball practice for a group of boys who want to form a team. I haven’t played much basketball since high school but I just adapted some ice hockey drills. I wish we had some more sports equipment. The other day, some children were playing netball with a ball made out of plastic bags. I’d had a soccer ball ready to bring but I ran out of room in my bag. Creativity is the order of the day as I change activities to fit a mixed age group from 7-16.

I’m hoping to develop an adventure program called ABLE (adventure based leadership experience) (love those acronyms) for the older children to build self-confidence and self-leadership. I think I’ll keep coaching the boy’s basketball team (those in the know please send drills) and try to develop a girl’s volleyball team. Simukai has also asked me to train their staff in adventure based counseling. They take street kids to camps and do some rappelling and camping but would like the children to get more out of these kids of activities. I’ve been doing some informal recreation programming with the boys who live at the center as well.

We “take tea” at the center each morning. We usually have a snack of tea, bread and margarine, sometimes peanut butter. I got some jam so I can introduce everyone to PB and J (peanut butter and jelly) sandwiches. As much as I have been learning from being here, people have also taken an interest in some of my “strange” habits. Sunscreen is not commonly seen here so it has sparked many conversations when I have put it on-as my skin. Tanning and having my skin change colour is also garnering lots of attention. Since it is quite warm here, I carry a water bottle everywhere (hydration is the key to life). Zimbabweans don’t tend to drink plain water so this behaviour is quite unusual-though a few people at the center are experimenting with the “skill” of drinking water.

The other day I looked into the fruit bowl at home and saw what I thought was an orange and decided to have it with my breakfast. I quartered it and looked forward to the first bite. It was very sour and I thought “must be a new kind of orange.” I dipped it in sugar and choked it down since I didn’t want it to go to waste and left it at that. Then last night, Molly (my host mother) said she would like lemon in her tea and got one out of the fruit bowl. It suddenly hit me that I’d eaten a lemon the other morning and a good laugh was had by all when I explained what had transpired and how lemons look different in Canada. It was a good reminder of how things aren’t always as they appear and that assumptions can be wrong.
I have had many conversations with many Zimbabweans about how the media portrays their country abroad. They are happy that I have come and are saddened by the image of Zimbabwe in the rest of the world. They explain that the incidences of violence are infrequent and limited but are what the media focuses on. I am feeling quite secure here and I suspect it would be much more likely for me to be injured by a car (by looking the wrong way before crossing the street as they drive on the left side) than by political violence. It has been enlightening to watch how the Zimbabwean news reports on events in the rest of the world.

I attended a church service at St. John United Methodist church yesterday. It is the church that Molly is the pastor for and she was preaching yesterday. They found a young man to translate for me who was greatly appreciated since the entire 3 hour service was in Shona. There was much singing with many voices combining into a melodious tapestry of sound and rhythm. I declined the opportunity to attend a wedding after the service because my brain and ears were quite full. Evening life is quite quiet since it’s hard to go out at night without car transport. Lots of writing letters, journaling, reading, and the ZBC evening newsat 8. I usually get home from work around 6:30 or7:00 pm. For those of you following the electronics debate, I’m currently very sad that I left the laptop and video camera behind. I’ve asked a friend to look into the shipping costs since I could do much good work with them here.

This week we took some of the boys from Simukai over to the General Hospital to clean the grounds. Armed with brooms, shovels, and wheelbarrows, we swept leaves and other debris away. It was an enlightening visit. The men’s ward had about 20 beds in one room and another 15 beds outside on the porch. Medical resources here are stretched to the limit because of the HIV/AIDS pandemic. Seeing the hospital gives even greater incentive for staying healthy.

On Wednesday, September 26, I went with my host to Africa University. It is private university affiliated with the United Methodist Church. It is located in Old Mutare about 10 kilometers and one mountain passes away. Originally, Mutare was supposed to be situated there but when they were bringing the railway to connect with the Mozambique coast, they would have had to build a tunnel through the mountains so they just moved the town to the other side of Christmas Pass. Christmas Pass was given that name because Rhodes first passed that way on Christmas Day.

We traveled to Africa University to attend a Memorial Service for the victims of the U.S. terrorism attacks. The service was held in the University’s new chapel-a beautifully designed place of worship filled with lots of sunlight. The service was attended by students, faculty, staff, and pastors of many churches in the Mutare area. The service focused on a theme of peace, turning the other cheek and the necessity of listening. It was very moving to attend, and to imagine that such services were being held around the world.

After the service, Reverend Molly (my host) introduced me to the Vice Chancellor (the President) of the University. 15 minutes later I found myself in the University’s Board Room meeting with the Vice-Chancellor and all of his Deans. After something liken academic interview, it was decided that I would split my placement between Africa University and Simukai. The details haven’t quite been worked out yet but I’ll be assisting Africa University with the development of their sports and recreation program, with HIV/AIDS education, and guest lecturing in many classes. They tried to offer me a lecturer positioning psychology or sociology but I told them I was currently spoken for. When I met the Dean of Education I handed him my card, he got a very surprised look on his face and then told me his twin daughters are currently in their last year at Memorial University of Newfoundland-it is indeed a small world. In fact, he studied at the University of Alberta during the time I lived in Edmonton as well. He and his family are eager to have me over to dinner.

One of the boys in the afternoon program, his name is Never, has asked me to help him with an English composition. I think it’s a great sign that most of the kids are opening up and are becoming willing to speak English with me. My Shona is coming along-I’m trying to add a few new words a day-though I find, once again that the language centers in my brain are connected so as I try to speak Shona, I’m also speaking the best Spanish I’ve spoken in years. This morning we purchased a giant avocado to share so I taught Mrs. Maponde to say “Yo quiero guacamole.” (I want guacamole).

I think this is how cultural change takes place. We’re going to make guacamole tomorrow. Earlier this week, I taught everyone to make peanut butter sandwiches, now everyone is having them for tea. I’ve wondered if it was an ethical move since before I opened up my big Western mouth, everyone was happy with peanut butter sandwiches-now everyone wants PB and J. I’ve even taught the PB and J song to the kids in the afternoon program. Try to imagine 35 Zimbabwe youths singing “Peanut, peanut butter and jelly, peanut, peanut butter and jelly. First you take the peanuts and you smush ‘em, you smush ‘em, first you take the peanuts and you smush ‘em, you smush ‘em. Peanut, peanut butter and jelly, peanut, peanut butter and jelly.” You get the idea. I may bake chocolate chip cookies tomorrow and teach them all about the Cookie Monster.

Of course, I’m being influenced just as much. Yesterday, we had sadza and matemba fish. These are small, smoked minnow type fish cooked in a tomato sauce. Earlier in the week, I had balked at home when I tried to eat them but yesterday they wouldn’t let me off the hook so I tried them again-surviving “the dinner that stared back at me with many eyes.” Today, Mrs. Maponde wanted to have some big fish but I said “I couldn’t eat dinner that stared at me two days in a row.” I’ve also gotten to the point that a day without sadza is like a day without sunshine. Though I haven’t yet developed asbestos fingers like my compatriots so I frequently I burn my fingers on the sadza.

There is nothing quite like the joy of learning a new language and the inevitable embarrassing mistakes that will occur. As I’ve told you before, I am professing that “hydration is the key to life” and teaching people to stay well hydrated. Yesterday, I was telling Mrs. Maponde that she needed to drink more water and I attempted this in Shona. All of a sudden, she got a very surprised look on her face and she look embarrassed and started to laugh. I asked what I had said and she could only reply “something vulgar.” She continued to laugh for the next five minutes and wasn’t able to tell me what I had said. She told me to ask Pastor Molly. So later that evening, I asked Molly and a similar reaction was had. After about ten minutes of laughter she was finally able to reply “the male sex organ.” So essentially what I said to Mrs.Maponde was “drink your penis.” I’m not sure she will ever stop teasing me about it-especially since the word for Hello in Shona is quite similar to the vulgarity I offered up yesterday. Humility is good.

Thursday, the Headmaster at Dangare Primary School (where the Sumikai Support Program is based) allowed me to touch his I-MAC. It turns out that it is a DVD model so my movie career may get off the ground yet. I’d only have to have my camera shipped. Mavis Higgshas volunteered to be the courier to bring it over-anyone else with lots of frequent flyer points want to volunteer? I’ve been having computer withdrawal so it has been fun to get my hands on a keyboard.

Yesterday afternoon, I taught a lesson about Canada and how Canadian seasons are opposite those in Zimbabwe. The students were quite fascinated by the idea of snow and cold and having such a long winter. I’ve been teaching the class simple songs in English (let’s hear it for those camp counselor days) and so decided to adapt “This Land is your Land.” I taught both the Canadian version and the new Zimbabwe version to the students and we sang it in a round. It was a poignant moment for me to hear Zimbabwe children singing “This land is your land, this land is my land, from Bulawayo to the Eastern Highlands, from Lake Kariba to the Great Zimbabwe, this land was made for you and me” in the midst of the current land reform agreement and the Abuja agreement. Perhaps, one day, the song will come true for them.

My favorite time of day here is late afternoon. As we are finishing up dinner with kids at in the support program, the sun seems to dive from the sky, falling behind the horizon and bringing darkness much faster than at home. We get the kids on their way home and begin the journey home as well. If we’ve finished early, we walk home through the bush. More often than not, we get a combi from Sakubva to town and another combi from town to Chikanja. As we careen around the darkening streets, the light of many small cooking fires is reflected in the van windows. We swerve around many potholes and people who are also making their way home. It seems a miracle each night that I get home safety and that the combi didn’t make mincemeat out of any of the many pedestrians.

The past week seems rather like a tapestry of experiences and conversations woven on an African loom. The warp appears full of paradoxes, and theweft, multicolored and multi-textured. The cloth that is created seems to magnify both my strengths and my weaknesses as I weave my way through each day.

I have felt touches of culture shock and I end each day exhausted, sleeping hard each night, waking still tired. I remind myself that this and all the other feelings of frustration, anxiety, and sadness are normal and will pass soon. It has been a challenge this week to navigate between my home culture and my new one, to experience both fame and infamy, to feel like both a criminal and beauty queen. At times, I feel like I walk down the street wearing a sash that says “Miss Canadian Crossroads International2001”-though I seem to be missing the tiara. Other times, when people won’t sit beside me on the combi until the conductor forces them to, I feel like I wear a sash that says “Miss Colonizer 2001.”

I was also a magnet for drunken youth this week. One walked up attempting to wrap me in a bear hug, (I slipped adeptly under his arms), one grabbed my arm (I went into lifeguard mode and quickly extricated myself-Betty said one of the guys friends told him to back off because I knew karate) and a last one on whom I had to use verbal karate to get him to back off. In all cases, I was accompanied by my bodyguard, Betty, and never felt physically threatened but now, Betty won’t walk with me in Sakubva anymore-I think she was more traumatized than I was.

On the flip side, I met many young girls who brave saying hello-when I answer back, then run squealing away to their friends. I have such an influence on people. The two boys who live next door to me, Philmont and Phillip, are eager to greet me each morning. They call out “Hello Tracey,” I answer back “Hello.” They run quickly into their home to get the next line. They run back out and shout, “How are you?” I answer “I’m fine, how are you?” Once again they run back in for the next line “I’m fine.” We repeat this ritual at least twice a day. I got them a soccer ball and hope to play with them over the weekend and maybe we’ll move our conversation onto “How was your day?”- A very important question here in Zimbabwe.

The week had some moving conversations. Talking with a young man about the horrors of war and how both of our grandfathers refused to speak of what they saw and experienced during their time at war. Sitting around the breakfast table as the family discussed the upcoming election and their frank belief that if the MDC wins, there will be a civil war and the subsequent discussion of whether or not they would fight in it. Talking with my host about her role as an election monitor during the last election and the harassment and intimidation she experienced during that time and how she fears for her safety with the upcoming Presidential elections since two other Pastors, who were also election monitors, were killed during the last elections. Molly is hoping to start studying in Canada soon. I’ve been helping her look into sources of funding. I thought of the Rotary Foundation Ambassadorial Scholars program. Do any of you know of any other sources? Please e-mail them to me, if you do.

Much of conversation around here revolves around the rampant inflation and the high cost of goods and food. My host earns approximately $200 CAD a month. She says that rent, electric, water, etc. eats up about half of that each month, leaving about $100 for food and clothing and other living expenses. I’ll give you some idea of the costs of food and goods so you can grasp the situation. Imported goods cost the most because of the scarcity of foreign currency. Toothpaste costs $12.00 CAD for a tube, deodorant$22.00, shampoo is $20.00. When Liz goes to the grocery to get supplies for the week, she frequently spends $45-50 CAD. The ingredients for chocolate chip cookies were $21.00 CAD. I find people are constantly asking each other what price they paid for cooking oil or onions or mealie meal. They will hear of a bulk deal and jump to get in on it. Last week, I was at the store with Betty. She bought a small vanilla loaf-it was 51 Zim dollars. The next day, the same loaf was 60 Zim dollars. Prices change daily. We get a quotation for something today, by the time we get a cheque; the prices will have changed three times over. It makes it a challenge to get anything done.

I got the netball and the soccer ball filled with air last Friday so all the kids have wanted to do is play netball and soccer. Sometimes, it’s hard to get them to come to eat dinner because they want to keep playing (sounds familiar doesn’t it). I got my first netball lessons (a game somewhat like basketball with no backboard and no dribbling). We had some girls at the center this week and I was teaching them trampoline-I came to understand the great challenges of trying to do a seat drop while maintaining proper skirt etiquette. No wonder I wear pants to work each day. I consider the trampoline a godsend because it is an activity that easily transcends language barriers and leads to lots of laughter. I’ve got my forward somersault to standing and my back somersault from a backdrop back after a 22-year trampoline absence. I guess it’s like riding a bicycle. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that I would be instructing trampoline in Zimbabwe. I’ve been inventing games. Any jumping routine suggestions?

This week, I had the chance to visit two areas under the care of the Zimbabwe National Parks and Wildlife Service. First, I traveled to Osborne Dam Recreation Area. It is a massive reservoir that was created in1994 when Osborne Dam was built for irrigation purposes. Osborne Dam is a huge earthen dam about69.9 meters high and over a kilometer long at the crest. The mountains surrounding the lake are shaped like chocolate chips crossed with ice cream sundaes resulting is a shape somewhat like volcano plugs. No one I was with knew which geologic process created such interesting shapes but their tapestry-like covering of light green foliage gave them quite stunning look.

I got my first exposure to rural areas as we drove to the dam. I found myself contemplating the question, how is it that I was born into the life I was born into and not into one in rural Zimbabwe? I’m often in my head these days pondering what have I gained and what have I lost in my Canadian existence. I’m entertaining almost continuous musings on power and privilege and I think I’m moodier than usual. As the outer landscape around me has changed, so too, has my inner landscape. Things that would normally slide off me like Teflon stick and burn or rattle around inside me like a rickety old four-wheel drive on an African bush road. I am more attached to privacy than usual and long for time alone to think, reflect and process this amazing experience I’m having.

I rode in the back of a truck all the way there and got excited about my New Year’s 10,000-kilometerodyssey in the back of a truck. We enjoyed exploring the dam and then drove to a picnic area where we had braai. Braai is to southern Africa as Asado is to Argentina: delicious giant barbequed beef orgies. I was a little amazed as the hosts pulled out two T-bone steaks per person and put them over the fire. By the end of the afternoon, all was eaten and I was once again, amazed at what this “recovering vegetarian” can put away when visiting other cultures.

Later in the week, I traveled with Molly, my host, north to Nyanga. Nyanga is a National Park about 100km’s north of Mutare. It is one of the jewels in the crown of Zimbabwe’s Eastern Highlands. The Eastern Highlands have been compared to the Lake District in the UK but I have a different way of describing them. Take the shape of the Green Mountains, stir in the Ponderosa Pines of Northern Arizona, and sprinkle in some shades of the Sonoran Desert and you’ve got the Nyanga landscape. There were some dramatic granite slab faces on the some of the mountains but not as numerous as around Mutare.

We toured some of the beautiful sites of Nyanga. We visited the Pungwe Drift and Gorge. The Pungwe River is famous in Mutare because all of our drinking water comes from the Pungwe River. It is drawn from the river just above the Gorge and flows in a pipeline 100kilometers downhill to Mutare. The Pungwe River gets its start on the North side of Mount Inyangani, the highest peak in Zimbabwe. Mount Inyangani is well known in Zimbabwe because it is thought that several important Spirits live there. Many people have disappeared while hiking or working on the mountain. Supposedly, the Spirits create aberrations and if one notices and comments on them, the Spirits secret you away to a hidden place on the mountain, never to be seen again. Only village elders may go to the North side of Inyangani-they climb the peak to ask the Spirits for rain.

Mount Inyangani is approximately 8500 feet. Our guide gave us good instructions on how to behave on the Mountain with regard to the Spirits so we were able to climb Zimbabwe’s highest peak and get back down safely; it was an interesting and new aspect to a pre-activity safety briefing. We climbed the south side of the mountain-about an 1800-foot elevation gain from the parking area in 4 kilometers and didn’t go near the enchanted side. It was great to watch Molly have a huge success in climbing Mount Inyangani-a true peak experience for her. She sent cell phone text messages to all of her friends and family from the summit. I got more grist for the mill of my anti-cell phone in the wilderness stance as Molly’s phone rang all the way up and down the mountain. It’s been an unanticipated growth edge for me here in Zimbabwe-I’ve used a cell phone much more here than I ever had in North America. From what I’ve seen, cell phones are the cutting edge of communications technology here since many households do not have landlines (i.e. phones that use wires).

In Nyanga, I went horse riding as they call it here and did some fly fishing for the famous Nyanga trout. The horse riding was much more successful than the fishing-we were fishing at high noon, in a pond that wasn’t stocked, in a big wind, with flies that sunk-I hope you are getting the picture of a very low likelihood of success. In philosophizing about fishing, based on my Nyanga experience, I think there has to be some anticipation of catching something in order to be fun-operant conditioning at its best. Molly ordered her trout from the kitchen that night since she’d been unsuccessful in her first fishing endeavor.

As for the ride, also a first for Molly, she was given a docile mare named “Blessing.” I, on the other hand, had a young stud named “Knight” who probably should have been more aptly named “Nightmare.” I think, perhaps, that the Spirits of Mount Inyangani possessed him. Never have I seen a horse throw its head and feet around so much. Knight and I almost went for a wild ride down the side of a mountain when a Water Buck (a rather large ungulate) got up suddenly and spooked Knight but fortunately, my sense of calm and order prevailed (read: I pulled very hard on the reins). On horseback, we visited the ruins of Nyangwe Fort, build in a similar style to that of the Great Zimbabwe in Masvingo.

I was able to get a Shona Language Instruction book that I put to good use this past week. It’s being very helpful to see Shona words written out because my ears don’t always perceive the subtle differences between words (and we all know what kinds of disasters that can cause). So, I can now speak in the present tense and recent past tense. I’ve learned about 10key verbs (come, go, walk, buy, play, sit, sleep, wake, teach, spend the day, and leave). The accompanying nouns are coming along as well and I continue to make people smile every time I open my mouth (in either Shona or English). In order to celebrate my new linguistic prowess and to invite you into your own language adventure, I offer a challenge. The first person to e-mail me the translation of the first paragraph I wrote in Shona will win a prize (to be announced at a later date, call or write before midnight tonight, cash or C.O.D. only, MasterCard and Visa accepted, yes-I’ll throw in a few Ginzu steak knives, offered void where prohibited)

Ndinonzi T.A. Ndinogara kuChikanga. Ndinosevenza paSimukai. Ndinoda kufamba netsoka kubasa. Ndinobvakubva na-7. Ndinotora bhazi reku Chikanga na-7. Ndinorara na-9.

I spent a large part of last week planning the daylong workshop that I’ll be giving on October 17. It will be an introduction to Adventure Based Counseling and Leadership Development for youth workers here at Simukai, its sister organization in Bulawayo Thuthuka, and other affiliated organization, Scripture Union. It has been interesting to think about incorporating Christian metaphors into adventure activities-I know it has been done before but it is a new line of thinking and planning for me. I hope the youth workers will leave the workshop with the skills to plan and organize such activities for the youth they work with and I’m very excited to be doing adventure activities within the context of another culture-it could make for some humorous moments. I’ll let you know how the workshop goes-I sure miss my bag of tricks from home (especially my supply of rubber chickens-I can only get live ones here). Which reminds me, I had my first ride on a “chicken” bus this week on the way back from Nyanga. I’m sorry to report that I didn’t have the true experience because I had a seat and there were no live chickens (nor any dead ones, either).

So, another week has passed by. I’ve been seeing some reports on the war in Afghanistan on television. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be experiencing such a world event while away from home. It is fascinating to be seeing the coverage of the events on CNN, the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation, and the South African Broadcasting Corporation and to compare the angles taken by the various networks. Most of the time I feel blissfully away from the fray except when I see the news, then I feel worried and scared for the world. I’ve enjoyed many remarkable conversations about religion, beliefs, morality, war, Christianity, terrorism, and the like as a result of the current events.

As I’ve mentioned before, some of the cross-cultural dialogues that I have been having have centered on war, politics, poverty and other “heavy” topics. Other moments the conversations have been much lighter and of more ordinary things. I was asked the other day if I have to put chemicals on my hair to make it grow. The man who asked me was amazed when I told him that my hair grows about ½ inch a month continuously without assistance. Molly has found a woman who may be willing to put extensions in my hair-I could grow it 12 inches in an afternoon. It may be the only way I ever end up with long hair. Goose bumps, body hair, and blushing are also frequent topics. The other day, we concluded that people are funny since many white people want to become darker(by tanning) and many black people want to become lighter-all in search of the ideal shade.
I’m also frequently asked about Canadian culture and whether or not some behaviour would be acceptable in Canada. I find myself offering a continuum of answers and describing the concept of a cultural mosaic and the challenges of being a young country of immigrants in search of itself and its culture. An oft-asked question, “what is the staple food of Canada?” is a good jumping off spot for a discussion of food, customs, and the fact that, we in Canada, grow the kind of corn that they feed to pigs here rather than maize.

Speaking of food, I’ve made some wild swings in my eating habits since arriving here. When I first arrived, I steered clear of white bread and didn’t put sugar in my tea. Now each morning at tea time, I lineup for a chance to make my bread and margarine sandwich and stir some sugar in my tea. I’ve even been known to sprinkle a little sugar on my margarine sandwich reminiscent of when I was three. I woke up one morning with the notion that I had to run away. I packed myself some sugar and butter sandwiches and took to the road. A kindly German family returned me to my family a few hours later. I guess I was blessed with the urge to travel very early in life.

On the environmental front, littering is very prevalent here. Last week, while riding in a truck, we were all eating bananas. Three banana peels went out the truck windows onto the street and mine got carried around for 3 hours until I could find a refuse bin. Paper and other non-biodegradable trash is thrown around as well. At times, it’s been tempting to “go local” and drop things as well but I can’t do it. I’m too Canadian. I remember when the anti-litter campaigns started in Canada about 25 years ago. There are some anti-litter signs around, especially in parks, but it is a very young message here. I was also surprised that folks aren’t composting here. Almost every family has some sort of garden plot but I haven’t seen any evidence of compost piles. There is a large deposit on glass bottles so you don’t see much broken glass around. People bring bottles from home to the store when they want to purchase a soft drink to avoid having to put down another bottle deposit ($20 ZIM on a $50 ZIM drink).

Many of the cars and trucks pump black smoke into the air and a haze hangs over Mutare most days. It was great being in Nyanga last week breathing cool, crisp, clean air-air that reminded me of home. Given the current economic situation, there is little wastage besides packaging and much of that gets reused. Building materials, tires, and plastic bags also get reused several times. Paper has become very precious to me and I fill up every square centimeter of it with writing before it goes in the recycling bin. Simukai is assisting with a fledgling paper-recycling program in the city. People eat much less processed food here than in Canada because it is so expensive. Most meals are prepared from scratch from locally available food. Zimbabwe produces a huge variety of fruits and vegetables. They think it is very sad that most of our produce in Canada has to come from California and Mexico. Tomatoes here taste like tomatoes rather than the pale, watery cardboard imitations we so often see in St. John’s.

Liz and I celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving with our host families last weekend. It was a bit of a challenge to pull off Thanksgiving dinner because we had to find substitutes for many of the traditional ingredients. I was responsible for the pumpkin pie, a traditional role for me as family baker. So, off I went in search of a pumpkin. I believe the finest pumpkin pie must begin from the finest pumpkin (no canned pumpkin allowed-as if I could get canned pumpkin in Zimbabwe and if I could get it, I could never afford it, as I imagine it would be in the fifty dollar range). Off I marched to TM-one of the larger grocery stores in town.

“Do you have pumpkins?” I asked.

“Yes,” the store clerk replied, “in the produce section.” I, of course, had already looked there. Back, I went. I saw no pumpkins.

I asked another clerk, “Do you have pumpkins?”

“Yes,” the second clerk replied, “in the produce section.” I still saw no pumpkins.
 
A kindhearted third clerk finally pointed out the flattened Blue Hubbard Squash looking thing saying “here’s the pumpkin.”
“Oh, a pumpkin” I replied feeling like I’d just emerged from a large game of “this is a what” (for those of you that know the game). Zimbabwean pumpkins look the same as our pumpkins on the inside, beautiful orange flesh, but look very different on the outside. Rather than a bright orange orb calling out to be a Jack O’ Lantern, the Zimbabwean pumpkin is a grayish blue cheese round calling out to be a curling rock.

The curling rock was carted home and steamed. Different that Canadian pumpkins, Zimbabwean pumpkins have a fairly soft skin making me wish I had removed it prior to steaming because it was a challenge to remove it once it was extra soft. Once cooked, the Zim pumpkin flesh tasted more like squash than pumpkin.

“Nothing a few eggs, sugar, milk, and lots of cinnamon couldn’t fix” I reassured myself. Liz was kind enough to make the crust; of course, finding a pie tin provided the next obstacle. The roasting pan provided the closest substitute and the 9 by 13 pie made it into the oven in the nick of time. Such a large pie took a long time to bake and so it spent time in the oven both before and after the chickens (i.e. the turkey substitute). Our every cooking move was watched intensely by our family members.

“You’re not boiling the chicken first?” asked one sister in a slightly suspicious tone.
“You’re putting that bread mixture where?” asked the other just as worried.

“Are you sure you don’t need more salt?” asked the first again.

“No, we’re just roasting the chicken. Yes, we are putting the stuffing in the birds, that’s why it’s called stuffing, and yes, there is plenty of salt and we’ll put salt on the table,” we answered in unison. The only ingredient that we could find and couldn’t find a substitute for was the cranberry sauce. I missed it dearly as I would happily eat only stuffing and cranberry sauce for my Thanksgiving Dinner.

It was our turn to offer a cross-cultural eating experience to our host families. They were a bit hesitant at first, but eventually began to enjoy the meal and a few members of the family even engaged in our Thanksgiving tradition of stuffing oneself. We all agreed that the pumpkin pie tasted better the next day, when we introduced the custom of eating the Thanksgiving leftovers and making turkey noodle soup(oops, I mean chicken noodle soup). As the main Zimbabwean harvest is in May-June, they celebrate Thanksgiving in June.

It’s Friday night. It feels as though a storm is brewing. The wind has been gathering itself around all the trees and has just begun to pick up dust and deposit it all over my sticky body. If I were in Alberta, I would be expecting a large thunderstorm, the kind that rocks the house and booms the heat of night away. Here, I’m not sure what to expect of the weather. The days are getting hotter and most folks take refuge in the shade often. The Jacarandas trees have been in cahoots with the wind to deliver pollen to my hypersensitive immune system so I’m having hay fever for the second time in 2001. It doesn’t seem fair but I guess it’s the price I am paying for joining the Southern Hemisphere and the resulting double spring and summer. It is hard to complain of days and days of sunshine with temperatures in the high twenties. No rain, drizzle and fog for the entire six weeks I have been here!

Three of us are at Simukai trying to finish up September’s SAT report. I’m tired. It’s been a busy week. I’m thrilled. It’s been a meaningful week. I’m thoughtful. It’s been a cacophonous week. My colleagues are bursting with slaphappy giggles. I’m not sure what’s been said as the Shona is rapid fire but I recognize the overwhelming laughter that comes when you are exhausted but can’t quite stop yet. I think Zimbabweans are a lot like Newfoundlanders. Both are a very friendly, social, and gregarious people. Both place high value on welcoming and caring for others. Both love to sing and dance, and from what I hear; both have a fondness for beer.

I have been thinking about sharing. I witness it hereon a daily basis. All who pass through the doors of home or work are offered food and drink. At Sakubva, we make room in the pot for all who show up. Many days it feels like loaves and fishes revisited. There is a Shona folktale about a magical frog that, when placed in the pot, makes the sadza and relish feed all who are present. I think we’ve cornered the market on those frogs. Yesterday, we fed the 46 children in the program, 22 student teachers, 6 volunteers and us 2staff, all in three pots cooked over the fire. I was asked to carry one of the pots of sadza over to where we eating using a cabbage leaf as a hot pad. I got three steps and had to quickly put the pot down. All around people were in stitches when I said “this is too hot for Canadian fingers.” I swear Zimbabweans have asbestos in their fingers. They can eat sadza fresh from the fire. I, on the other hand, need to pick at the edges for to the middle of the pile, feels like placing my fingers into the heart of a boiling volcano.

I’m thrilled to be walking so much. I appreciate that the universe has supported my walking habit by placing me in a household without a car, by instilling in me a distaste for cramming into combis, and by having me inherit both my grandmother’s passion for sweets and for walking. I’ve come to think of my morning walk as a migration. I feel strongly connected to all those around me who are also migrating. I often feel like a tiny corpuscle, in a sea of humanity, being pushed along through an artery into the heart of the city. I often think of all the people around the world who migrate by foot. It is, at the same time, a quiet meditative walk spent mulling and musing and a noisy, chaotic walk spent dodging whizzing traffic and wayward dogs.

Amidst the hooting horns, frolicking friends, and lumbering lorries, I pan for gold. As the only white person I have seen in Chikanga, I am a magnet for interaction. Children call out “hello” and then dash away giggling when I answer back. Adolescents call out insults and taunts and huddle together poking fun at who they think I am. Adults look away or say a quiet “good morning.” These interactions are like river sand in my prospector’s pan, I swirl them around for a bit and then allow them to be washed away by the current. Other connections are like gold, they sparkle, catch the awakening morning light, and I hold them near to my heart; walking hand in hand with a small boy, discussing life and love with a young woman, and the look of surprise on someone’s face when they ask where I’m walking and I answer “home,” and they put two and two together than I live in Chikanga.

It’s Monday afternoon. It’s been an intense afternoon. I went along on some repatriatization visits deep in Sakubva. I wanted so badly to take pictures of what I was seeing. The images I see there are so hauntingly beautiful. I’m not sure my words can convey the heartbreak I feel when I see the living conditions in Sakubva, or when we have to take a six year old back to a mother who is drunk or when a mentally ill man, dressed in rags, rambles on in gibberish Shona while staring deeply through me. The afternoon light was beautiful. I easily saw 20 images that I wanted to capture so I wouldn’t be the only witness to what I was seeing. Corridors of wooden shacks, families living in 8 by 8 huts, five families living in two-room concrete “houses,” babies on the backs of most women, and those who didn’t have babies were pregnant.

I worry and wonder about both my “gaze” and my “photographic gaze.” “Why do I want to document what I see?” I ask myself. I want others to see, to know, to feel along with me. Yet, I struggle to point the camera-it feels like a weapon-and I’m not sure how to overcome that feeling. I know it helps when I have a relationship with those whom I photograph or when I have permission to photograph. I wonder if I should seek such permission from those who live in Sakubva. I think of myself as an ally but still question…should the images come from within the community-rather than as I see it. The late African light streaks through a dirt corridor between a row of shacks, a woman sits on a low stool, another woman is braiding her hair, a child plays with a piece of broken glass catching and reflecting the light, another child rolls a rusty bike rim along the rut-strewn alleyway, and I cast my gaze wanting desperately to drink in all that I am seeing until I am so full I could burst. I clutch and grab at the sights before me because I hate to lose one small detail but I don’t take out my camera; for fear of oppressing with it, for fear of wielding it as a weapon, for fear of having to reach out beyond its lens and make a connection, for fear that my heart will break from the pain of what I am witnessing. |So I sit looking and wishing and using the Kodak of my mind. I also want to preserve the laughter and joy that I see and the ordinary moments of people going about the business of their lives.

I long to be able to capture photographically the images that move me so deeply but so far, I err on the side of extreme caution, wanting to avoid being “an ugly tourist.” Perhaps, I can reframe my camera from being a weapon to being a tool that will allow me to share my artistry in seeing. The title of my first slide show I ever gave was “Would you understand me better if you could see the things I see?” I think I’m eager for such understanding, perhaps I can gain it through my words and perhaps through the photographic images I bring home. It’s Thursday morning. I’ve got cinnamon rolls in the oven for the morning tea. It sure is easier to bake them in an oven that over a camp stove. We’re heading out on a few more repatriation visits this am, then over to Sakubva for the afternoon. Liz is going to join me for a day at Simukai, combi lessons and to see more of Chikanga. I’m going camping with boys from our traditional apprenticeship program (TA) this weekend up in the Vuomba Mountains.

Molly, my host, has just been accepted at Memorial University of Newfoundland to start studies in January. I’m counting on all of you St. John’s folks to help her get settled in. Do any of you Newfoundlanders know of any low-cost or no-cost housing options for Molly? She’s open to all options such as work exchange, etc. She’s 31, a Methodist Pastor, a wonderful person and is eager for more cross-cultural exchange. I’ll also been seeking some winter clothing for her as she will be transitioning from the Zimbabwe summer to the Canadian winter. Let me know if you have any ideas for me to follow-up.

I spent two mornings this week out at Africa University. They are having a campus open house on Saturday so the place was all abuzz with planning, cleaning and sprucing up (can you spruce up when there are no spruce trees?). They’ve begun to refer to me as the “Sports Director” which makes me a bit nervous. My office will be ready Monday when I next will go out to AU and I hope they will have set up a full slate of meetings for me. At the moment it seems less like the Ivory Tower and more like the Ivory Cuccoon. It felt very familiar and easy to be back on a university campus. As it is a Pan-African institution, everyone speaks English on campus. There will be a computer on my desk and it seems very seductive to slip into my academic persona. I’ll keep you posted.

It is Wednesday, October 31st. Happy Halloween! It’s midday and I’m grabbing a bit of quiet computer time after a morning of frenetic activity. We are celebrating Halloween this afternoon in Sakubva and I’ve been busy with preparations. Since this morning, I’ve baked 100 pinwheel cookies, popped six quarts of popcorn, and made chili for 60 people. Whew! I had cooked the beans for the chili yesterday but today, I got to tackle the beef. And so, another chapter in the post vegetarian state has begun. Remember that I am the one who always requests veggie burgers at staff barbeques, that I have frequent debates about the slaughter of innocent carrots with my boss (who teases me mercilessly about my preference for veggie burgers), and that I am the who gets faint at the sight of meat defrosting on the counter.

Our beef for the program comes in eight-kilogram packages. I needed about two kilograms for the chili so I first had to wrestle several slabs of sirloin from the slightly defrosted package. My next task was to cut in into bite size chunks (I couldn’t figure out how to grind it) and I took up my knife. Wow-I hadn’t cut flesh like this since I took Comparative Anatomy in university and we had to dissect a cat and shark (I named my specimens Frank and Stein). Suddenly I was transported back 15 years into long forgotten layers of muscle, ligaments and bone. Given my lack of skill in such carving endeavors, it became very clear to me that I should give up all hope for a career in surgery. Five pounds of beef chunks later, I was ready to begin the chili.

Whenever I take up a position in the kitchen, my every move is closely watched and scrutinized. The chili construction was no exception. People wondered in and by through the morning waiting impatiently for the final product which turned out to be a reasonable facsimile of the real thing. The chili was a good addition to our Halloween festivities.

Halloween was a big success complete with the requisite high emotions and excitement. Changing from bovine surgeon to budding facial artist, I transformed the children into somewhat abstract tigers, monkeys, baboons, elephants, zebras, and Bat Men. I received a good lesson in how fashion trends get started and carried on. After receiving my first request from a child wanting to be an elephant for Halloween, I adorned her with a blue trunk, yellow tusks, and blue eyebrows.

“Something was missing,” I thought, then suddenly it hit me-an elephant needs big ears!!! So, I promptly painted her ears blue (much to the astonishment of the girl and all the other children). Over the next while, I received several more requests for elephant transformations-all of whom got the ear treatment.

Then a most curious thing happened, the baboons wanted colored ears as well. Then the tigers, and the zebras, the monkeys and even the Bat Men wanted their ears painted. When I looked around later in the afternoon, I realized that every child had revisited my face-painting salon for the latest in ear fashion. Watch out North America-your children will soon be running around with orange, blue, yellow and green ears-never mind the multiple piercing and multicolored hair. By the end of the day, most of the children had washed the paint off their faces but, as children always do, they forgot to wash their ears. It was amusing to imagine the faces of the parents as their children walked in with green or blue ears. I would also have loved to hear the children’s description of the day; I imagine it went something like this:

Child: Today, in Canada, it is Halloween.

Parent: What’s Halloween?

Child: It’s an occasion where you dress-up in costumer have your face painted. It’s a day where the Canadian teacher makes you say “Halloween Apples” or” Trick or Treat” as you run around the schoolyard collecting cookies, sweets, and pencils from various classrooms and offices.

Parent: What else?

Child: Well, we also had lots of fun batting weird shaped balloons around the classroom.

Parent: How were they shaped?

Child: Like a cow’s udder. (They were latex examination gloves).

Parent: Anything else about your day?

Child: We did some strange activities-we raced carrying eggs on a spoon, then raced with our legs tied together and then tried to run in a straight line after spinning five times with a broom. We had a strange stew for dinner-it mixed beans and beef and it had a curious flavor-it is the traditional Halloween dinner in Canada.

Parent: You have been doing a lot of strange things since that Canadian teacher arrived-let’s get that blue off your ears.

As I took the combi home, I kept an eye out for ghosts, goblins and witches but I didn’t see a one. Like most parents on Halloween, I fell exhausted into bed. Thanks to Leslie Gratton for the pumpkin decorations (you try and explain a Jack O’ Lantern to someone who has never seen one) and to John and Norma Smith for the pencils-both were wonderful additions tour Halloween celebration.

It is hard to describe the look of absolute joy that crossed the children’s faces when I walked into the classroom with the blown-up latex gloves. There were shrieks of excitement and spontaneous laughter that erupted throughout the entire group. It was amazing to watch as all of the kids jumped up and clamored for a chance to bat the balloon. The frivolity lasted until all three balloons gave up their lives in the service of fun. Balloons are very rare here as they are very expensive ($15.00 CAD for a small package). If you happen to be mailing me a letter and you have balloons at home, please slip a few in between the pages.

The previous and the following are not shameless attempts at getting mail but if it works-that’s gravy!(or soup as we call it here). Mail has begun to arrive from North America-it has always brought me great joy to receive mail but here it is double joy with hot fudge sauce and whipped cream. Thanks to Karen, Bobbie, Beth, and my Mom for the first helpings. It’s taking about three weeks for mail to arrive from North America and the same to North America so the following is a friendly ZIM POST reminder. If you’re going to mail me anything, I will only have a stable address for the next six weeks or so (which means if it’s going to get here before I leave, it should probably be mailed in the next two weeks). After that, mail should probably go to my next stable address in Katmandu, Nepal. I’ll give you that address real soon. In case you’ve lost it, my current address is: (hint, hint)

C/O Rev. Molly Chitokwindo Chikanga Mutare, ZIMBABWE.

I was reflecting on my weekly e-mails the other day and I realized that I have managed to slip a comment about combis into most of them. Riding the commuter vans is one of the most challenging aspects of my life here. I know I’ve given some idea about this before but I think I need to be a little more descriptive. The combis form the backbone of the local public transportation system here. Combis go to the three major suburbs as well as a few other routes. Each route has a main loading area where the bulk of passengers are loaded (i.e. packed) and then if any room remains, the combi will pick up passengers anywhere along its route.

The first challenge in boarding a combi to Chikanga is making sure you get on the right one. Imagine a street filled with eight different mini-vans. In the sliding door, stands the combi conductor who is yelling at the top of his lungs the code words “cheekonga win, do, meethodeest” while another is bellowing “chiikunga barrrr--rrricks” while yet another is doing his best to draw your business by screaming “chekongacheekomostjosephs.” I swear forthe first three weeks I couldn’t tell the difference in what they are saying but now I feel quite adept at translating “Chikanga 1, 2, Methodist,” “Chikanga Army Barracks,” and “ Chikanga, Chikomo-St. Joseph’s.” Once the proper combi is ascertained, it’s time to subject oneself to horizontal sardine hood, as four passengers, regardless of their width, must fit in each bench seat. The other day I counted 22 people in my combi-it had a rating of 14 passengers (remember, this is a mini-van which in North America would berated for seven passengers).

Once secured into place, not by seatbelts, but by the pelvic girdles of your fellow passengers, it helps to begin your meditation mantra, “I am a pinball, I like being a pinball, please let me hit the 1000 point bonus bumper, I am a pinball.” This mantra helps console the anxious, somewhat terrified mind as one careers around corners, narrowly misses pedestrians, and launches over road humps. Speed bumps here are called “humps.” There are street signs that warn,” beware of humps in the road.” Picture a North American speed bump pumped up on illegal steroids and you might get the idea. You can ask a combi to stop anywhere by yelling out the name of a road feature or shop name. The conductor then re-yells your request to the driver (he has to yell because the radio is blaring either gospel or rock or gospel rock at full volume). The comb screeches to a halt. Murphy’s Law has it that it’s always the person in the last row by the window who has to get off so every one in a aisle folding seat piles out to give the person room to disembark. Then they pile back in. Fifteen feet later, someone else may request a stop and the piling in, piling out-process is repeated. Repeat the process about fifteen times and you have the average combi ride home.

Cars here have no regard for pedestrians. Actually, they regard them as targets. Children are assigned five points; adults 20 points and Canadians fetch 100points for the drivers. It is said much of horse behavior can be attributed to their evolution as prey animals. I can see thousands of years of human evolution regressing here as humans have fallen from the top of the food chain to near the bottom as prey animals for car drivers. When walking on the road (no sidewalks) one always has to face traffic (to have a fighting chance) and be ready to leap sidewalks as if you were an Olympic moguls skier (gold medal performance needed) when a driver hoots (honks) to indicate that your life is in danger (a frequently heard alarm).

Today I made the change from hunted to hunter when I took the wheel of the center’s Mazda four-wheel drive truck. (Yes, I was in heaven-I’ve lusted after such a vehicle for 15 years.) For the first drive, I told Mrs. Maponde that she wasn’t allow to talk, laugh, or make any comments that weren’t a matter of life or death (such as “TA-THIS ISN”T CANADA, GET OVER ON THEOTHER SIDE OF THE ROAD!!!!!!!). It was a challenge for her but she gladly complied since her life depended on it. Other than on insisting that I use the windshield wiper to signal turns, I did pretty well. It’s quite a feat to totally ignore one’s driving instincts that you’ve developed over 22 years of driving. Getting into the driver’s seat on the right side, shifting gears with my left hand, signaling turns with my right, and remembering to terrorize pedestrians-it’s a lot to do at once. A shooting is an almost constant activity here for drivers, I swear I honked my horn more times today than I have in my entire prior driving put together.

My second drive included picking up the Simukai boy’s soccer team on the far side of Sakubva. I had to add navigating to the driving multi-tasking list. The return drive was quite exciting with the back of the truck filled with 15 rowdy boys and the cab of the truck filled with the two youth workers and me. Suddenly my nimble truck was wallowing like a hippopotamus in a mud pool on a sunny day. The youth workers turned up the radio, the boys sang loudly while pounding on the truck cap and hanging their soccer jerseys out the windows-suddenly Mrs. Mapondeseemed like the ideal passenger. The maraschino cherry on the driving sundae came when I drove home from Sakubva in the dark (kwadoka in Shona). Now, the proverbial shoe was on the other foot, and I was the one facilitating the careening, dodging and launching and my mantra changed to “I am a pinball wizard.”

I think combi gods have struck back for the passage I wrote last week or perhaps, I’m being reminded not to become overconfident. Sunday evening, after bidding good-bye to Liz, I made my way to the famed combispot. As I approached the waiting, shouting chaos, I immediately heard “Chikanga Phase 3” and thought to myself “this is too good to be true.” At some point, I may learn to listen to such inner voices. It is often a challenge on Sunday evenings to find a combi going all the way out to my place and so I frequently have to walk the last bit home. But, here was a dream answered (or so I thought).
I confirmed with the combi conductor that we were going to Chikanga Phase Three and boarded. My first hint of the impending combi trauma was when I thought I heard the word “Sakubva.” My second hint was when a man shouted, “stop,” get off the combi and run back to the combi stop. The final bit of info that leads me to believe that I was about to live a good story line was when the combi bypassed the turn to Chikanga and headed for Sakubva. I instantly began to self-talk “what should I do now?” “Maybe it will take the back route to Chikanga.” “I hope this goes to Phase Two as well as Phase Three.” Being an ultimate Canadian problem-solver, I sat quietly on the combi silently collecting data (yes, we do appear to be taking the back route) and evaluating my options (I could walk home the back way but Mrs. Maponde would kill me if someone else didn’t).

After what seemed an infinity, we finally got to Chikanga Phase Three. I’ve only been to Phase Three once and from the other direction. We did a quick loop and headed back towards Sakubva. Now, I knew I my options had slimmed: to get off the combi in a strange area in quickly approaching darkness or to stay on the combi, face embarrassment and ride back into town. Since many of my lessons this fall seem to focus on humility and being laughed at (and laughed with), I couldn’t pass up another opportunity to appear the fool. At some point the conductor looked back at me with a very puzzled look as if to say, “What are you still doing on my van?” What could I say? I shrugged my shoulders, took a deep breathe and said, “Sorry, wrong route-I was hoping to go to Phase Two” and tried to pay him for the ride back to the town. He refused the payment and turned away chuckling at the murungu (white person) who didn’t appear to know her way around.

After a second infinity, and much hip squishing later, I was back to where I started this exercise in humility. As I got off the combi, I thanked the conductor for the grand tour and was relieved to quickly hear that familiar call “chekongacheekomostjosephs” and proceeded to have a relatively uneventful ride home on the direct route. Needless to say, this episode was happily told and retold and embellished by all the staff members at Simukai. Eight weekly messages and eight combis stories-I’m beginning to wonder if I have some karmic thing to work out with overcrowded transporters (maybe I got on the wrong covered wagon or Nile boat in a former life).

I had company for my morning walk three times this week. Mrs. Maponde joined me one morning. Another morning I was joined by a young tailor on her way to work and this morning I walked with another young woman going to collect her birth certificate. The conversations with the two women started in the usual fashion by them asking “Hello, where are you going?” The conversation then goes through the usual “Are you married?” “Have kids?” What church do you go to?” These two conversations went further than most, however, when the first woman told me how her husband went to South Africa in February to work and she hasn’t heard from him since. She is left to care for their three year old alone. She hopes one day to be able to buy some sewing machines so she can go to work for herself. The second told of how difficult it was for her to get work because most employers required either a monetary bribe or to sleep with them, in order to be hired. She has no money to pay such a bribe, is committed to marriage fidelity and terrified of getting AIDS. She had been forced to stop her schooling in grade eight when her parents could not longer afford to pay her school fees. She has a two year old and both she and her husband can’t find work. I guess I provide a listening caring ear and then wish them the best as they leave me at the Simukaigate to go on living the challenge of this time in Zimbabwe.

“Life begets life. Energy creates energy. It is by spending ourselves that we become rich.”

This is a quote that I wrote in my journal before leaving Canada. Sorry, at the moment, I can’t recall the author. I have been reflecting on those words a lot as I think about what I am doing here. Indeed, this quote seems true to me. I feel like whatever I am giving here is being returned to me, threefold. Most days I feel very content, centered, and happy and I am reveling in the simplicity of my life. I get up, eat, walk to work, work, go home, and write some letters and go to sleep. Repeat five times per week. I am resting in this time away from complexity. I am able to breathe deeply in the slower pace. I frequently lie on my bed staring at the ceiling because I can and nothing is calling me away from my meditation of the ceiling patterns. I am able to give myself fully because I am not pulled in ten directions at once and I feel very rich.

I finished the Needs Assessment of Recreation and Sport at Africa University this week and I submitted my written report to them. I decided to return to Simukai full-time for the rest of my placement now that my AU project is complete. Whenever I was at AU,I missed Simukai tremendously and I didn’t like going days without seeing the kids. Having two placements, having to use twice the amount of transportation, and feeling pulled in two directions was also daunting to my budding sense of simplistic joy. I also had the feeling that my calling here was with the street kids rather than relatively privileged college students.

Greetings here are very important and they involve both verbal greetings and handshakes and handclapping. There are two styles on handshakes, a one and a three. The other day I had Mrs. Maponde in stitches when I asked how I could know when to expect a one handshake and when I could expect a three handshake. A one handshake is similar to a North American handshake. A three handshake starts like a one, then has a second part, then goes back to the one handshake. My problem has been that I usually expect a one but sometimes I’ve given a three and end up doing a one and a half. I’ve gotten better at quickly shifting gears and getting to all three parts. Unfortunately, Betty couldn’t give me any hints as to when to expect a one or a three so I try to go with the flow so I’m not like a limp fish when a three is offered and I’m only ready with a one. Did you follow all that?

All of the Crossroaders who are in Zimbabwe are gathering this weekend in Mutare. It will be great to share stories and adventures and experiences. I think we’ll also be celebrating Liz’s birthday, which is on next Wednesday. It will be fun to have a big pasta feed.

I saw my first twiza in Africa. Actually I saw my first four twizas. For those of you less familiar with Shona, a twiza is a giraffe. After almost giving up hope, we rounded a bend, and there they were standing majestically in the road. They seemed nonplused by the truck and appeared to enjoy the attention or at least that’s my anthropomorphic interpretation of the events. What else can one conclude when a giraffe bats its eyelashes at you? The late afternoon light was stunning as usual and turned the mountainside into a carpet of velveteen green foliage that leapt off the trees into your eyes. Not long after the twizas, a herd of wildebeests charged across the road in front of the truck. I think of a wildebeest as a cross between a cow, along haired Persian cat, and a javelin a having a bad hair day-it certainly lives up to its name. Throw in some rhinoceros, antelopes, elands, crocodiles, springboks, and herons and you have a good day at the nature reserve.

I’ve spent a lot of time behind the wheel this past week. It’s being really fun. I feel like the king of the road these days and I’m a bit worried that driving on the left side of the road feels normal. Monday I drove one of the youth workers to Chipinge, a 200kilometre journey south. On our return, I had my audition as an African bush driver. Initial performance was weak to poor because I got the truck stuck twice in some river sand. I said to Ivor, “give me snow any day-at least I know how to drive in it.” I used all of my whitewater experience in the three river crossings I did that day in the truck; I just haven’t mastered the eddy turn. At one point, I made Ivor scout a crossing-he stripped down to his boxers and waded across a raging torrent. Why was it a raging torrent you might ask? I’ll have to back up in the story a bit.

You see, we were stuck in the sand, in a flood plain of the Tanganda River. The sky was reaching for that dark shade of thundercloud and the lightning was punctuating the urgency I was feeling about getting unstuck. We were on the flood plain because the river had previously washed away the concrete bridge and we were taking the creative route to Gideon Mhlanga Secondary School. We drew quite a crowd of locals who were very curious about the white “Madame” driving the truck in the bush. They all seemed to be wearing that grin that accompanies a headshake when you can’t believe the predicament someone has gotten himself or herself into. They worked together to dig, move stones, lift and push the truck until I was free of my sandy prison. After some nifty bush driving, we finally got to the road we should have taken in the first place. No sooner than we pulled into the schoolyard, the skies began to hurl hail and rain and wind and tree branches. It was the most severe storm I’ve ever driven in. Even with the wipers crossing at full speed, the windshield couldn’t be cleared and I felt as though I was driving using Braille. The hail bounced off the truck like popcorn popping at the movie theatre multiplied by 10 decibels. I pulled the truck into the “shelter” of a giant baobab tree but found the tree had joined the sky in throwing thing sat the truck.

Needless to say, it was a challenge to meet with our student there-he was in the back of the truck, and we were in the cab. Whenever we opened the back window to chat, hail lashed into the cab. We soon gave up the meeting and made our way out of the schoolyard. At the end of the driveway, we encountered a raging torrent where moments before, was an innocent road. In the middle of the “river” was a three- foot haystack wave with a nasty hole behind it. I was worried that the truck might be swept away or flipped and I didn’t want to have to explain that to the boss so Ivor made his mad dash amongst the hail, wind and rain. Let’s just say that the idea that Ivor had his clothes off in front of me has caused quite the stir in the office and I’m not sure they believe the raging torrent angle. As we drove the hardened dirt road, the storm eased back into dormancy having spent its energy for now and I looked to the east and saw a radiant rainbow over a monstrous baobab tree.

Having driven 100 kilometers south of Mutare, I saw my first baobab. Liz had told me of them but I didn’t truly understand their grandeur until I witnessed them with my own eyes. The largest ones had trunks 20 feet in diameter reaching 50-60 feet in the air. The branches split from the massive stalk about three-quarters of the way up fanning wildly like the tendrils of an octopus doing a headstand. The bark was a sea of travertine lava flowing down over the tree looking somewhat like the wrinkled knees of an elephant. They reminded me of the Saguaro cactus of the Sonoran desert with combination of age and wisdom. They are the “Yodas” of Southern Africa.

I spent yesterday morning driving Mrs. Maponde around to some of the schools our Sakubva Support Program children attend. We try to make school visits twice per term. It is very interesting to visit the different schools and see many different classrooms. I have been struck by the uniformity in notebooks and content from school to school. Zimbabwe uses a national curriculum with set textbooks and standardized examinations. Students attend primary school from Grade One to Seven. Then they transfer to a secondary school for Forms One through Six. Many students stop attending school after Form Four when they have achieved five “O” levels (Ordinary level),meaning they received a grade of C or above on a standardized test in a subject (Math, English, Accounts, etc.). Students interested in going onto university will often do their “A” levels (Advanced level) in three subjects during Form Five and Six. We are always warmly welcomed at the schools and appreciated for the work we do. One of the students had to introduce Mrs. Maponde and me to his class. He thought for a few minutes and said, “This is Mrs. Maponde and Sister Tracey… from Canada.” I got a good chuckle about it.

We had a good weekend with our colleagues from Canada. Saturday we headed up into the Bvumba Mountains and spent sometime at Leopard Rock Golf Course and Casino and the Bvumba Botanical Gardens.

Supposedly the North American media has reported that Leopard Rock is being occupied by war veterans but all I saw was a bunch of white old men running around chasing little white balls. It is a world-class golf course and a stop on European Professional Golfer’s Association Tour. Some consider it the world’s finest course. As you stroll around the golf course, you are treated to views of neighboring Mozambique and the terraced coffee plantations in the foothills. Sunday, we teamed up with Mrs. Maponde to take some of the Simukai boys to the Cecil Kop Nature Reserve. We had a braai and I took the next steps in my post-vegetarian “recovery.”

My boss, Colin, will be very proud. I’m beginning to act like a true carnivore. Sunday morning, I ventured to the grocery store to select the steaks for braai. At the nature reserve, I got the fire going and then turned my attention to the meat-yes-red meat, very red meat. In the Zimbabwe tradition of braai, I first massaged the steaks with oil and then rubbed salt into the flesh (another in the close encounters with meat series-just wait until I start sculpting Devil’s Tower from strips of beef). I lowered the grill and placed the meat over the glowing coals. I excited since this was my first test as head braai chef-I’d been an underling to two braai masters, but now was my time to shine. We’d cooked the sadza at the Simukai Center so I only had to watch the beef and the beans. The meal was delicious and afterwards, we discovered the fishing the pond had a huge appetite for sadza. We hoped the crocodile didn’t share the same appetite. So, since I shopped for, prepared, and cooked my own steak, I know have to admit to myself that my vegetarian days are over (at least for now). Mrs. Maponde has promised to cook me caterpillars next week(watch out insects-you’re next!).

I can’t believe how quickly time is passing. There are only four weeks left in my placement and I want to savor every moment. Thanks to a donation from my Mom, I shot portraits for all the kids in the Sakubva Support program. I’ve been mounting them on mat board and will present them to the kids tomorrow. Photography is very expensive in Zimbabwe so most of the kids will not have had a picture of themselves until now. I’m eager to watch them react to their photos. I put all that posing and head tilting practice from last fall’s photography study to good work. Another project I’ve got on the go with the kids is called the “Twiza Project.” My friend Carolyn Emerson sponsors this one. I’ve purchased ten wooden3-D models of African animals (twiza, wildebeest, sable, elephant, monkey, baboon, warthog, ostrich, antelope, and lion) from a local woodworking cooperative. Next week, the Sakubva kids will paint, decorate and assemble the models and we will then use them to decorate the classroom. I’m going to decorate the twiza in Canadian red and white to leave a bit of legacy. Thanks to Carolyn for making this activity possible.

I’m hearing thunder in the distance again and the sky is growing grayer by the minute. The rainy season has begun and I’ll sign off this letter before we lose the power (and this letter). Happy Birthday to Liz. Happy Birthday to my friend Brenda Jackson and Happy37th Wedding Anniversary to my Mom and Dad. For those of you following the lovenox saga, I stopped the lovenox on Nov. 13 and have switched to aspirin. Yahoo and keep your fingers crossed for me.

Greetings from the Rainy Season,

Yes, the rainy season has finally reached Mutare with a vengeance. It has rained everyday since last Monday and everything feels different much like when the autumn crispness comes into the air or the spring warmth finally succeeds in getting through. Here it is like there is a refreshing coolness that penetrates deeply into the body sending the Zimbabweans scurrying for gloves and coats. You can watch the plants change as they soak up all the new found moisture and you can feel the roads change as they lose dirt and pavement to the daily deluges. Accompanying the rains are hard rock thunder bands with the most up-to-date electric light shows. Lightning flies every which way and I’m often relieved that mountains ring Mutare.

Today, Saturday, we took to Sakubva kids to Cecil Kop Nature Reserve. We knew we were courting the rain gods but hoped for the best. The day broke sunny and clear and I transported 44 people in two loads of the truck. We checked out the crocodile, wildebeests, antelopes, and zebras that were hanging out near the viewing shelter. After discussing whether the zebras a white animal with black stripes (the generally held North American view) or a black animal with white stripes (the generally held African view), we played a few rousing rounds of duck, duck, goose and red-light/green light. At some point I was moved to lookup at the mountains and saw the most awesome storm brewing-actually it wasn’t brewing, it was percolating. The dark gray clouds were racing up through the lighter ones while crashing through the dark black ones. It was as if a giant sky witch was stirring her caldron. We quickly served lunch hoping to beat the storm. Almost. We took shelter under at hatched roof but quickly the wind blew the rain horizontal and the hail snuck in and pelted us silly. The kid loved it and sang loudly throughout, protesting even louder when we decided to go back.

I can’t believe another week has passed so quickly. I’ve been driving a bunch and thoroughly enjoying it. As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder, my six-week hiatus from driving has given me new pleasure in the activity. It is also an area of real contribution I can give to the organization. The pressure on the remaining two drivers has been greatly reduced since I took to the road.

Someone asked me about the more mundane aspects of life so I’ll share some of them here. At my house, we have no running hot water so we heat water for bathing on the hot plate. I take a bath/shower by putting hot water into a bucket, kneeling in the bathtub, and using a cup to pour the water over my head. I’ve gotten so I can take a thorough bath with about two litres of water. We have a western style throne toilet that flushes-though the bowl has a much steeper angle making it next to impossible to see what one has produced. We do dishes and laundry by hand in coldwater. It’s trickier now that the rains have come because drying conditions are “poor” most of the time now (just like Newfoundland). I tend to go to bed around 9 or 10 pm and am often up by 4:30 or 5 am. These days it gets dark around 6:30 pm and light around 5:00 am.

There isn’t much dawn or dusk here since the sun travels at such a steep angle to the earth. In the back of the house, we have a small garden where we grow maize, vegetable (rape), pumpkins, and onions. This week the pumpkin leaves were ready for harvest-I thought my taste buds had gone to heaven-they were a very delicious counterpart to sadza. Gasoline costs about $3.00 Canadian per litre and it costs around$150.00 Canadian to fill the truck’s tank. People work very hard here-they are often up gardening or cleaning or washing for several hours before heading off to work or school.

I gave the Sakubva kids their portraits yesterday. It was quite a delight to watch their faces as they received their “cards” as they are called here. I asked Charity and Faustina (our cooking volunteers) to present the portraits so I could just sit back and enjoy the moment. I also succeeded this week in securing a ball pump and needles for the center so now we have a soccer ball, netball, volleyball and basketball ready for action. Thanks again for the support to make these projects possible.

There has been a group of street kids we’ve been meeting each night on our way home. The other night there was a six-year old sniffing glue. It was very hard to see and comprehend. We stopped him and invited him to the center. I’ve wondered how the Innu kids from Labrador were doing in giving up their sniffing addiction. From what I’ve gathered, glue is the major substance abused here by the street kids-they haven’t yet been using drugs, alcohol or gasoline because of expense and access.

Combi Report: all quiet on the combi front-I’ve surrendered to the combi experience and all is well in the mass transportation realm. I’ve been enjoying that most of the combi drivers know me now and just say “this is your combi.” ?

I’m off to the Bvumba Mountains again this weekend for another camp with 20 of the Sakubva kids. The camp is being sponsored by Scripture Union and there will be80 kids in total. We’ll be sleeping in tents and hoping that the weather gods shine upon us.

Greetings to All,

It’s been a busy week. The weather god shone upon us during the Bvumba camp. The bus arrived three hours late so the children arrived after dark. The firewood hadn’t been delivered as promised and the famous Bvumba mist was enveloping us. Bvumba means mist. We started cooking dinner for 90 people around 7:00 pm with very soggy wood and finally served it around10:00 pm. It seemed that everything that could go wrong, went, except for the promised afternoon thundershowers. My accommodation was a yurt-like army tent that smelled of rotting meat because it was also the food storage depot. Mrs. Maponde has begun to call me “muroora” or daughter-in-law and she took the opportunity of the weekend to begin my intensive muroora training.

There are very specific skills and knowledge that a muroora must possess before she can be married. We’ve been working hard on some of these skills. Friday night, I was finally allowed to stir the big sadzapot. We were cooking it in a large three-legged cast iron pot called a bodho. It held about 20 KG’s ofmealie meal. Using a wooden paddle called mugoti, the mealie meal is stirred into hot water. The mugoti is like a small canoe paddle without a t-grip and with a fairly small blade. After the initial addition of mealie meal cooks for about 15 minutes, the true upper body workout begins. More mealie meal is gradually added until you get the perfect sadza consistency which is somewhere between super thick cream o’ wheat and setting concrete.
 
Using a stroke somewhat resembling a “j” stroke, the sadza is stirred constantly to mix it thoroughly and to develop elasticity. If the sadza is not cooked enough or is stirred incorrectly, you get the dreaded “mbodza” (translated as “sadza that causes great distress to the gastrointestinal tract”). So, I was finally allowed to take a turn at stirring having completed my ten-week observational apprenticeship. Taking a deep breath, I visualized the Terra Nova River from back home and began to draw, pry and stroke the sadza with all the finesse of toddler learning to walk. The women were kind and didn’t laugh to hard and I think they were actually a little surprised that I could do a decent job.

Saturday morning the sun rose quickly over Mozambique and the next step of my muroora trained began. On her wedding day, the muroora has many traditional tasks to perform. After the wedding, she must prepare a meal of chicken and sadza for her husband’s family. She will be watched throughout the entire cooking process from cutting the chicken to serving it and she must do it just right. So, Saturday I learned how to cut a whole chicken into the requisite ten pieces and took yet another step closer to my recovery from vegetarianism. I followed Betty’s lead, step by step, but I always seemed to get behind because my chickens had been doing yoga and were in the lotus position and I had to fight to free their drumsticks before beginning. My first few attempts brought much laughter as the women asked whether I was cutting the chickens into pieces or de-boning them. I replied that “drumsticks were over-rated” and that “I had provided quite a nice handle for someone to use when dining.” By my fifth chicken, I was gaining confidence and had shed the nickname “slasher.” We rubbed curry powder and salt into the meat and deep-fried it for lunch. The other wedding day tasks have yet to be revealed to me. After earning my B.Sc. in Poultry Anatomy, I wished me for access to my flock of rubber chickens from home because I was leading games for the 75 children. After a rousing triple game of “Duck, Duck, Goose”(Dhadha, dhadha, goose) (there is no Shona name for goose), we moved onto the silly game of “Esto es unlapis rojo” (Iyi ipenzura dzvuku…this is a red pen). Imagine 75 young Zimbabweans shouting “this is a red pen” at each other at the top of their lungs in Spanish with a Shonan accent. With the fresh crisp air, the games, and the in-depth muroora training, I had to take a big nap for the afternoon. I awoke just in time for the sunset to reveal the large reservoir behind the huge Cabora Bassa Dam in Mozambique. The water glowed warmly reflecting shades of pumpkin and saffron.

At the Sakubva Support Program, I always serve the cabbage during dinner. Saturday night I put my newly developed competency in cabbage distribution to the test by serving cabbage from a new vessel, with a new implement, to a new crowd and I’m happy to report that I passed the exam and have been awarded an “O” leveling Cabbage Allocation by ZIMSEC (the Board that administers all public examinations in Zimbabwe). The rain was kind enough to wait until everyone was tucked into their tents before knocking gently at our doors for the night. Sunday, I learned to prepare the “soup” to accompany the canned beans for breakfast and grated 15 onions and 25 tomatoes for lunch’s relish. My Zimbabwean cooking skills are coming along well.

Monday, Molly and I took a day off together. The day began with a multi-leveled cross-cultural encounter of the third kind. I went with Molly to a hair salon to have my hair done. The previous week at work, everyone had showed up with new ‘doos and I felt left out so Molly offered to help. After the most vigorous hair wash I’d ever had (no dead cells were left anywhere on my scalp), Raymond, my stylist, put curlers in my hair. Now, at this point, I have to admit that it has been 18 years since I have had my hair done (my high school graduation in case you are curious) and 30 years since I have had curlers in my hair. With rollers in place and foam circles pinned over my ears making me look like Baa Baa White Sheep, I sat under the hair dryer contemplating the pursuit of physical attractiveness. As with most anything I do in Mutare, I was under close scrutiny in the salon because everyone is quite curious about my “soft” hair. After my time in the hair kiln, Raymond teased my hair into large flowing curls and off I went to meet Liz for lunch.

Tuesday night I offered to be the driver for the night’s street visits. We have a researcher from Australia collecting information about the situation of street girls and she was going out with one of the youth workers to collect some stories. We headed out about 7:00 pm and the streets were still bustling with people heading home from work. After 8:30 pm, the streets were both quiet and busy. All of the young women we met with last night are involved in prostitution as a means for survival. All are orphans. All came to Mutare from smaller centers. All would like to get off the streets. Simukai will use the research to develop programs to help these another young women.

One of my favorite movies lines of all time is from the movie Sister Act when the nuns travel to Las Vegas to save Whoopi Goldberg. The Mother Superior says to her Sisters “Try to blend in.” I knew last night there was no way I could blend in. In fact, I received two date proposals and an invitation to go to Mozambique without my passport. We saw lots of the Simukai boys out and about the streets as well. Many were sniffing Z-68. They use the small bags that milk is packaged in by putting some glue in the bag and then inhaling from the cut corner of the bag. One young man came over to me, he was high on glue. I was listening to Don Williams on the truck cassette player. I invited him to sing along in his best country twang and with each word he sang, I was greeted by the noxious smell of model cement on his every exhalation. He taught me a Zimbabwean song then wondered off to find some more glue. The night was an eye-opening experience as I’ve mostly been home by7:00 pm each evening.

Wednesday was the day we finally did the Twizaproject. With the assistance of my friend Carolyn Emerson, I obtained 14 locally made, environmentally friendly, fairly traded wooden model kits of African animals. Each table of children had their own critter to assemble, disassemble, paint, decorate and then reassemble with glue. I had been worried that the entire activity would spiral down into a mass of chaos with a wildebeest head over here, and a elephant tusk over there, and a twiza neck over yonder. But with careful framing and leadership and a whole lot of running around, the afternoon was wonderful. The children’s eyes were big as they unpacked the parts and a quiet hush of concentration came over the classroom. Some sought to give their animals a realistic look while others used more of a Picasso approach. In true Roots and Canadian Olympic Team tradition, I decorated my Twiza in red and white. Some animals changed their coats three or four times over the afternoon from red to black to stripped to spot. One of my favorites is the warthog that is painted like a zebra (black with white stripes if you’re curious). Above the classroom windows are small shelves and now the fourteen animals adorn themselves in a migration North towards Zambia. Thanks Carolyn for the wonderful afternoon.

Thanks to all who have sent balloons to me. I’ve been using them to spread joy and playfulness all over town from Molly’s sister’s 45th birthday party to small children at beauty salons. I’ve enjoyed watching adult women play with balloons for the first time erupting into laughter as we try to keep six balloons in the air at the same time. I’ve also discovered that African hair tends to pop balloons rather than create static electricity to enable one to stick a balloon to the wall. Who knew? A new balloon supply just arrived today so I think I may have to introduce the kids to water balloons-if their mothers wondered about me when the kids came home with blue ears, they are really going to love when me the kids come home soaking wet. Fortunately, when it’s not raining, things dry quickly here.

The last adventure of the week was a culinary one. I had my first meal of black madora. Madora are rather large caterpillars. They come dried and are soaked in water overnight. They are then washed and boiled for about an hour. After boiling, they are back to normal size-about five centimeters long and one centimeter in diameter. Their body has black rings and yellow spots. The next step is deep fat frying and then spicing. Often, they will be cooked with curry. Yesterday, one pot had tomatoes and onions and the other pot had a peanut butter sauce. It was one of those situations where it didn’t make sense to think too much about what I was eating so I grabbed the first one and plunged my teeth into it. Madora require a great deal of chewing-you can’t just give them a quick swish around the mouth and send them down. Oh no, you must chew and chew and chew. I was greeted first by a fishy flavor, followed quickly by a smoky flavor that then mixed with a bit of a “dirt” flavor. I liked the peanut butter coated caterpillars the best because the above flavors were joined by a spicy satay-like addition. I ate about 15 of them and then hit the wall. People hear are quite pleased that the muroora is willing to eat so many traditional Zimbabwean foods. My motto is “I’ll try anything twice.” Bring on the termites!!!

This will be my last update from Mutare. My Crossroads experience is quickly coming to a close and I am torn between looking forward and looking back. Last week was quite busy at Simukai. We were holding our first Annual Participatory Review (APR)-a formalized evaluation that is conducted once yearly as a condition of receiving SAT funding. SAT is Southern Africa AIDS Training, which is funded by the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA) and the Canadian Public Health Association. I think it is very cool that as a Crossroader funded by CIDA I working for an agency that received funding from CIDA. The APR gathered 15 stakeholders of the Sakubva Support Program together for two days of discussion. I was one of the two co-facilitators of the workshop and I was pleased that I could get the drift of what people were saying when they forgot and lapsed into Shona. The most prominent part of the workshop was the SWOT analysis (Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats). Did you ever get the idea that the development world is full of acronyms? It was interesting to see how different stakeholders perceived the program and how philosophy can dictate programmatic decisions and planning.

At the close of the APR, the FACT (Family Aids Caring Trust) combi came to pick us up at the hotel. I recognized my opportunity immediately. This was my chance to be a combi conductor and I leapt at the prospect. I had been practicing for weeks…”1, 2,meethodeest”, “matickets, matickets.” I was ready. I took up my seat beside the door and said with gusto “ante” (go). I got to bang on the roof to tell the combi driver to stop, I got to open the door, I got to fold the aisle seats up and down, and I got to run beside the combi and jump in as it was pulling off. I’d gone to combi heaven and I later realized that I had come full circle in my combi karma. Having ridden the combis so much, I realized the other day that I had made peace with the transportation gods and had surrendered to sardine life. I’d even come to look forward to riding them. Getting to be a combi conductor was icing on the cake (chocolate mocha) or more aptly icing at the rink (puck crosses from behind the center red line over the opposite goal line).

Transition has never been my strong point. Saying good-bye and leaving people and places I’m attached to be quite wrenching. Yesterday I woke up with a rash all over my neck, chest and belly. I’ve decided that I am allergic to transition. It’s easy to get caught up in the busyness of packing and final report writing and not take time to reflect and grieve the passing of an experience. I have had a fabulous Crossroads experience. It’s been a tapestry of challenge, frustration, growth, connection, joy, laughter, and tears. My body and soul are full of memories and images of the past three months flee past my eyes as is it at the keyboard. I’ve asked myself the question…what have I learned as a Crossroader?

I’m sure my answers will change over time but here is how I would answer that question today:

The opposite of efficiency isn’t always inefficiency.

When your heart is close to breaking, it’s also closest to mending.

Balloons are a gift from God.

Humility and the ability to laugh at oneself are key components in the cross-cultural toolbox.

When in doubt, say sorry.

Express gratitude at least three times per day.

Peanut butter is a very versatile food.

Peanut butter is key to caterpillar consumption.

Peanut butter and banana can be a scary combination if it is outside your cultural norm.

So, putting it all together, when your heart is close to breaking, spread peanut butter on a balloon, stick some caterpillars and bananas to it, say sorry and laugh loudly as you humbly say thank-you for being in a situation that implores you to grow from the outside in and the inside out.