Election Day

It's election day today - the first Presidential (and Parliamentary) elections since Zimbabwe's coalition government was formed in 2009, the first elections since the violence and devastation of 2008.

I arrived back home a week ago to a country that seems normal, that seems peaceful and happy. But there's a strange undercurrent of below-the-surface-fear.

Mom and I were driving through town the other day and had stopped in the middle of a typical intersection, one with the usual crowded cacophony of cars and people; combis wedged into every possible space in between cars, Buddie (phone card) sellers, newspaper sellers and guys selling car phone chargers, elections stickers, flags and belts all standing in the middle of the road, in the midst of the cars. Women walking with bundles on their heads or wearing heels and a business suit, out on lunch break.
We heard the sound of sirens approaching from somewhere in front of us and a motorcycle zipped past on our right, followed by four more, all with their sirens screaming. The President was coming. The light ahead turned green but nobody moved; all cars and people were still and waiting, faces carefully neutral.
After the motorbikes came the police-cars and in the middle of the entourage was the black car with flags, protected by an army truck behind and an army truck in front, both filled with soldiers, their guns trained out at the rest of us. Then came more motorbikes and lastly, an ambulance.
The street breathed again.
People moved, kept walking, avoided eye contact and didn't joke or smile. Cars drove onwards and the strange silence was covered up with growing talk.

That's the feeling on the streets; people are quiet and worried. Though campaigning has been "mostly peaceful, with few reports of intimidation" (according to the BBC), the fear is of a different kind. 

I was chatting with a friend who said that a couple weeks ago, in a suburb just outside the city, government men came in and rounded up the people. Every person had their picture taken. Then the men left. No one was told what the pictures were for, when they would be used or who had ordered them.

"At least when they're beating you , you know exactly what it's about. But this...you don't know what they could do," my friend said.

People are afraid because we don't know what to fear. We don't know what will happen

At the moment, there's nothing we can do but wait. We're going on about our lives as usual - I have a kitchen tea to prepare for and (eventually) a job to find. But at the back of our minds are questions: Do we hope for a "New Zimbabwe"? Do we fear for our safety? Will anything change at all?

As a friend said this morning, heading to the polling station in town to vote, "we'll know in five days". We hope. 

Bucket-loads of treasure

I hope I'm as cool as my grandparents when I get to their age.

I'm staying with Granny and Grampa Dietsch, in New Jersey for a week and this morning, Grampa was writing an email to a man called Charles in Papua New Guinea.

"I wish he'd write in English," he said, "my Pidgin is a little rusty."

It's been a few decades since Grampa's had to use it.

I asked Grampa about how he and Granny got to Papua New Guinea.

"Well, let's see, this must have been 1950 or 51. I was about twenty three and I was heading to Manus (a small Island in Papau New Guinea) with Liebenzel. But before I left, I made sure to propose - Hilda was only nineteen so we had to wait another year until she could marry me. And Liebenzel wanted you to be in the mission field for two years before you got married but there was no place for her to stay on the island by herself. So I left and a year later, Hilda came over and we got married. She took a plane to Australia, then a ship out to the island. We had to delay the wedding by a two weeks, though, because there was this sailor that died in a car accident and I had to do the funeral.
I remember a team of Australian cricketers stood at the door of the church building, more like a hut, and watched. They wouldn't come inside because they were Catholic.
And then (he chuckles here) I got malaria that night and your Granny spent the first week of marriage nursing me!"

Granny called us in for breakfast and after we'd eaten our toast and boiled eggs, Granny and Grampa Dietsch read the Moravian Devotional and prayed together. It's a part of their morning routine - Grampa reads the German and Granny reads the English. Yesterday, they got into a discussion about the finicky German articles -di -da -das and so forth. Apparently Granny is better at knowing which one to use.

"You just grown up hearing what the right one is," she said.

Then it was the roots of German names. Dietsch comes from Deutsche (as in Deutschland) and Faustel (my great-grandmother's name) comes from the word "faust" meaning "fist".

"So, Faustel mean's 'little fist'", Grampa said, "oh but my grandmother had a big fist."
He chuckled.
"She loved the comic book, The Phantom, and read it to us kids there, but she couldn't read English so she just made the story up from the pictures. And, if the phone rang she'd pick it up and shout, 'Hello!? Nobody home!' and hang up."

At this point in the story, Grampa's giggling so hard he has to take his glasses off and wipe his eyes.

Grandparents hold a bucket-load of treasures. 

Peace, Salem

It’s funny how you only start to truly appreciate something (someone, a place) when you are about to leave it. You manage to overlook all its faults, the things you found infuriating just a few months ago. (Like the fact that nine months out of the year this place is so cold your extremities are in constant pain and you miss the sun so much you forget what it’s like to be hot. But that’s beside the point, for now.)

One thing I’m going to miss about Northeast America is its oozing-character towns where anything goes. God bless America, land of free (as long as it doesn’t interfere with anyone else’s) self-expression.

Each time I’ve come into the city of Salem – and I regret it hasn't been too often – I’ve wished I lived here. If I was going to settle in this this part of the country, it would be in Salem. The place has so much character; it’s overcrowded with delicious unexpectedness.  

I rode my bike in through Beverly this morning and what a contrast! You go from neat, family-filled Beverly, all kids in prams and dogs walked on beaches and in parks, to Salem; a place with ship shops and advertised "tarot readings by Shirley upstairs" and people with Eastern-European accents listening to pink ipods in hipster cafes. The bubbled redbrick sidewalk starts just as you leave Beverly and you ride over a giant-bellied bridge over the harbor. Driving in a car, you miss the beauty, it’s over too quickly; you don’t see the gold sparkles on dull green water, the shirtless Asian men catching fish off the edge of the pier, the sea going far on the other side. And when you reach Salem there are girls in carpet-patterned skirts and tights, a group of children in tie-dyed shirts climbing over the Pickering Wharf rocks, a bright-costumed troupe of people standing in the gazebo in the park, dressed like characters out of a pirate animation movie. Everyone has an iced-something attached to their arm – this is America, after all, and a hand is incomplete without a paper-or-plastic-cupped drink in it.

I think some of what I like about Salem is that it doesn’t apologize for its differences. Here, you can be different, you can be imperfect – wearing thrift-store clothes, or talking to yourself, or old and listening to music on an ipod as you shuffle along, or young and a little on the pudgy side but in bright, tight clothes – and still be normal. Beautiful.

Part of that might have something to do with Salem’s history. Its first white settlers named it Salem from “Shalom” (peace in Hebrew), a lovely name for the fishing, farming village. Now, however, it is most famous for the terrible Salem witch trials of the 17^th century. Tourists that visit can see a dramatic reenactment of the first of those trials, the trial of Becky Bishop, in a play called Cry Innocent. I am ashamed to say I’ve never seen it, doubly ashamed because it was written by one of my all-time favourite professors, Mark Stevick, once described by an unnamed source as a cross between Dr. House and Jack Black.

Salem was also a key maritime trade point (hurrah for ship-building and codfish), is apparently the birthplace of the U.S. coastguard and (definitely) the birthplace of novelist, Nathaniel Hawthorne (Scarlet Letter, anyone?). The city was also devastated by a terrible fire in 1914 which destroyed 400 buildings. There's your brief history lesson.

And here I sit in Salem. 
I'm drinking my green tea bubble smoothie from Jaho's Coffee, all this history beneath my bum, the largest wooden, Coast Guard-certified, New England sailing vehicle (in about a century) just outside the door. 

God bless America.  

An elephant's funeral

What do you wear to an American funeral, at a high Anglican church, in cold New England? I thought black was a safe bet: black dress, black tights black boots. And a grey-blue scarf. I briefly wondered if the scarf was too much. Then I rolled my eyes - oh please! This was for Dr. Lumsdaine.  His trademarks were untucked shirts and skewed ties, chalk-handprints on his trousers, messy hair and mis-matched socks. I don't think he'd care about my scarf.

I'm going to miss him.

Dr. Lumsdaine (Dr. D), was my old politics professor and he passed away after a sudden heart attack last week. He was 64 and his unexpected death left our college community shaken. Dr. D was an intellectual giant, a genius, I think and an extremely humble man who devoted his life to his students. He'd give out his phone number and say, "call me anytime of day or night", and he constantly prayed with students. He'd start his sentences with a nasal "eerrr....yyeeeaaaah" and his sentences with, "now the answer to this question may very well be no, or it may be yes, or it may be, 'You're crazy, Dr. D, to even think this' - which are all  ok...but..."

He was also disorganized and came late to class. He'd pull of quirky maneuvers in the classroom, (pretending to get livid and walking out just to make a point, or, when he slipped a disc in his back, he would teach from a kneeling position, or lying across the window sill) and conducted his office hours in the cafeteria (better access to students, he said). He was a little socially inappropriate. It was hard to have a conversation with him and sometimes he made loud, offensive comments in the wrong places.
Students loved him for it.

Dr. D was a man of simple touch (a hand on your shoulder) and moments of (often awkward) silence. I imagine him in heaven now, sitting with Jesus, staring with his big, watery eyes at the Lord's face. This time, there's a hand on Dr. D's shoulder and they're both smiling and silent. No awkwardness. No words necessary.

His death and funeral (we spent two hours bouncing up and down - sitting, standing, kneeling - through the hymns, prayers, communion, dedications, blessings, a homily, and a benediction. We all spoke in hushed tones when making the rounds at the after-service reception, not very Dr. D-like at all) reminded me of a funeral I saw six months ago in Zim.

We were camping in Hwange National Park and on one particular game drive we saw 100 elephants (so several herds) standing still and quiet at a watering hole. Strange. There was no splashing, no angry grunts, no playing young, no dust-throwing. Just the occasional flap of ears, or shifting of feet.They stood gathered in gray, silent groups around or in the water. Every now and then a herd would leave silently and slowly, soon replaced by a new, silent herd that lumbered forward from the dusty distance or the line of trees.
Very strange.

Then we noticed a small lump behind an anthill a short distance from the water. A small elephant body on the ground. That was why the elephants were silent - they were respecting the loss of someone's baby.
But the elephants didn't look or move in its direction, didn't acknowledge it as they walked by (not unlike my silent walk passed Dr. D's coffin on my way to the front of the church for communion). I wondered what secret communication was taking place - how was news of the death being sent through the bush? What low mourning was being rumbled at a frequency indistinguishable to my human ears?

After some time, a female moved towards the body. She approached slowly, stopping near it and swaying. She began stroking it with her trunk, nudging its ears with her feet. Four and then seven more elephants joined her, caressing, nudging, lifting it's ears and forming a wall around the body. Then in ones and twos, this farewell committee turned around and and continued on their way, slowly and steadily trudging off.

The herds around the water began to stir. Someone splashed. A few started blowing and grunting. More herds arrived, others left. Noise and movement returned.
The funeral was over.

Lessons from an Oxford bridesmaid

Oxford is a fascinating place, especially over Christmas. Mulled wine and mince pies are everywhere; homes, churches, street corners, cafes and pubs. Glorious! Less glorious, and just as common, is the rain. Locals stroll through it like it's a warm, sunny day, while us foreigners dash hunched and bent from doorway to doorway, nipping into the first pound-store we see to buy umbrellas. We consistently managed to forget our umbrellas when we left the house in the morning; it wasn't raining then. Silly us.
Oxford's homeless people have pet dogs, Oxford's buildings manage to look both ancient and intellectual, and Oxford's giant buses patiently compete with pedestrians for space on the tiny roads. Oh, and people of all ages ride bicycles in all weather through streets, cobbled alleys and fields at all times of the day and night.
Splendid!
Anyone want to give me a job in Oxford?

As fascinating as these things were however, the strangest and most delightful thing I saw in Oxford was not the mulled wine or the giant buses or even the rain-impervious, bike-wielding locals. It was the silver ring on my brother's finger.

Twin brother, married. Weird.

Josh's wedding is one of the few British weddings that included ululating and lobola (bride price). The bride's family is probably grateful there were only about 15 of us Africans present, who knows what mischief we could have gotten up to if our numbers had been higher!

As a bridesmaid in the wedding I had important, behind-the-scenes access to what went on and I came away with a host of highly useful tips. I thought I'd share a few of the things I learnt:

1. Smiling all day gives you a headache at night. Pace yourself.
2. Doing your own "button-holes" (corsages) and bouquets cheaper and can be conveniently learnt from your local library flower-arranging book. Or from online printouts.
3. The secret to a professional-looking French manicure is cotton ear-buds and a little nail-polish remover.
4. You should always check if a bride's dress covers her shoes before scrubbing the bottom of them (so that the congregation can't see the scuff marks when she kneels).
5. White fluff (the kind that comes from a bridesmaid's cardigan) can be removed from a black suit (the kind that the groom wears) using rolled up cello-tape. Or a lint roller if you're lucky enough to bump into a well-organized and kind hotel guest.

More importantly though, I learnt that a marriage involves the joining of two old families and the creation of one new family; it's not just the joining of two people. This family-joining and family-creation takes hard work, a bit of pain and a lot of love.

My West Beach

Yesterday was Thanksgiving - an American tradition that takes place on the fourth Thursday of November each year. Apparently it's also a Canadian holiday (in October) and an English one (?) but don't quote me on that.

My first Thanksgiving in America (four years ago) was the first time I saw snow; my brothers went running outside in their pajamas and bare feet while I watched from the window and sipped my tea. At 40 degrees Fahrenheit, however, the weather of yesterday's Thanksgiving permitted a morning run on the beach.
And I'm taking advantage of every non-freezing day to enjoy that beach before the temperature plunges to hideous depths.

I've always loved the ocean - maybe because I'm from a landlocked country and associate the sea with childhood holidays in South Africa and Mozambique, or because it's feels like an enormous, unpredictable and beautiful monster. And even though my little beach has smelly brown seaweed, a 6.30am dog called Max that isn't my favourite being in the world, a sad lack of shells, and seagulls that try to end my life by dropping oysters on my head (ok, slight exaggeration...it was just one gull), I'm still becoming fondly possessive of it. And of the early mornings we share. It's my beach.

Each morning on West Beach is different. Sometimes the sun takes-over the sky and smears it with colour. Last month there was a sunrise so shocking I didn't bother watching where I was going and stared sideways across the water as I ran. That day the sun elicited more than the regular "'morning" from me and my walking buddies as we passed each other;
"Isn't it beautiful!?"
"It's gorgeous!"

Another day, the beach was foggy and eerie, the seagulls standing in silence on the sand, watching me. I saw a single headlight zigzagging across the beach in front of me. When it finally passed me the middle-aged man on the bicycle gave me a sheepish grin.

Yesterday was another special morning, with large waves that seemed particularly antsy and restless. It was a high tide, forcing me to run higher up on the small width of the beach than I usually do. My track was a narrow band of hard-ish sand (I avoid the soft sand) between the water, the brown weeds of yesterday's waves and the forbidden territory beyond the beach's edge - territory of those who possess a beachfront home. I felt like I was racing those loud waves, like they were throwing themselves onto the beach and reaching for my feet grey, wet hands.

Mornings like that always make me feel obliged, pushed, left with no choice but to thank God for His beauty.  Sometimes I think, "gosh, thank goodness I'm here to see this! Otherwise no one would appreciate this beauty". But then I realize, the waves, the sunrise, the seagulls, the fog - they're already praising Him, just by being. If I wasn't there, His beauty would still be there. It's always there. It's huge.

So, thanks Lord, for the sea and the beach. For giving me a glimpse of your huge beauty. 

Texting Girls

I love working at an American Christian College – it’s amazing the conversations you overhear. Take this morning for example:

Two friends, both male, sitting just inside my office, waiting for an appointment. Both have their phones out.

Eli: So, there’s this girl and –

Mike: wait, stop. Did you just say girl?

Eli: yeah. Girl.

Mike: oh. Thought so.

(pause)

Eli: So there’s this girl and she’s been texting me.

(pause)

                She’s been texting me -

Mike: You should reply.

Eli:  - but it’s, like, really weird. I think someone’s using my phone to text her and then deleting the messages and then she’s replying. (reads from his phone) “OMG. You hungry? Come get my ID card from MacDonald.”

(pause)

Mike: you know her?

Eli: yeah but…

(pause)

Mike: Maybe she’s just into tall, gangly, hickville kinda guys.

Eli: Maybe.

(pause)

ok, I said, “which Macdonald, the auditorium or the building?”

Mike: You texted her?

Eli: Yeah.

Mike: that’s like...weird.

Eli: What?

Mike: Yeah man, that’s like, mean.

Eli: Well you told me to.

Mike: I feel like there’s so many times where I’ve told you to do stupid things and you’ve done them.

Eli: Really?

Mike: Nah.