abroad

Prairie Post (this time from Johannesburg)

by

Prairie Post

7-25-10

(this time from Johannesburg)

It is pleasant here, in this peculiar city of the very south. It is not too cold, not too warm, even though the residents prefer it a bit warmer. They want shorts and t-shirts, they want the temperature as close as possible to their body heat. Those coming from the northern prairies are not used to blasting heat in the car when the temperature is a comfortable 70 degrees outside. “Yeeees,” they say with their Desmond Tutu accent, “it will get warmer soon, then the winds will come up and it will start raining.”

It’s Jo’burg, the city of struggle and reconciliation, the city of violence and peace, the city of hope and desperation. Jo’burg greets visitors with vuvuzelas at the airport, the recent soccer event is not forgotten. Everybody talks soccer! “Too bad,” they say, “that Argentina did not make it further” – who do they think they are talking to?  There was disappointment about the home team, there was disappointment about Ghana, there was disappointment about the final – but there was excitement about the opening ceremony, there was excitement about the international attention, and there was good business.  The white Afrikaans may prefer their rugby and cricket, the rest of the country is in football fever.

Apartheid – no other word seems to be more connected to Jo’burg. The colonialists had settled here needing help in their newly established gold mines. Apartheid should keep the Blacks separated living on the other side of the mines. Let them come and work, but let them not live in this city of “ours.” The policy of apartheid was tolerated for a long time by the West because of the fear of spreading communism. The end of the cold war changed everything – in Europe and in South Africa! Today, Blacks have moved to Jo’burg because the Whites moved out, in fear of retaliation. In due time the government took over, and the downtown apartments quickly became housing assistance to the poor with nobody caring for the property.

Jo’burg’s streets are dark and dirty, people here move about guardedly, not a single White person is in sight. No reason for visitors to walk in this city, no reasonable reason. No sights, no culture, no inspiration. Jo’burg is a deserted and over-occupied city, Jo-burg is left to its own devices. Jo’burg is a lonely place amidst too many people, all with the same unfulfilled needs.

Illovo, Sandton, Hyde Park: The Whites have moved north of town, into new neighborhoods, disconnected from the city and from each other. Here are pockets of wealth that once ruled the gold mines and now they build hotels and shopping malls in secure and protected environments. Here is the middle- and upper class keeping in safe distance to the rest of town. They hide behind fences, walls, and barbed wires. Security systems included, of course. Guards at every neighborhood corner, of course. Blacks clean their streets, Whites live in the comfort of their mansions, here, north of downtown.

Soweto: The other side of Jo’burg. No White person as of late would have dared to drive through this section of town, the place of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu. However, the famous township has become attractive to visitors, and it is now somewhat easy to get there, a quick tour, and a hurried drive back north all within a short period of time. Some of Soweto’s residents live in small cottages, some in subsidized housing, some merely under tin roofs. Soweto, a political town of struggle throughout the 20th century – reinventing itself in the 21st!

It seems like not much is normal about Jo’burg, but people coming from rural areas plan to go back “home” sometime in the near future. They long for the grasslands – anyone born on the land remembers the deep roots of prairie grass. They have left their cows behind, the cattle is attended to by their aging mothers. Life is more complicated in Jo’burg.

From the savanna they receive the food they eat. Meat, meat, and meat, particularly game, any form of game: impala, ostrich, and springbok are on the menu. As a side, mieliepap, always mieliepap! “I can’t live a day without mieliepap,” they say, “wouldn’t be a good start to the day.”  Of course, they also like their fish ‘n chips, they prepare spiced chicken, and for breakfast they eat baked beans – of course baked beans on toast! Don’t expect to get what you ordered in this part of the world. You may receive chips instead of couscous, or mieliepap instead of potatoes.

This is a city of daylight.  Nobody is out in the dark in this town, it is quiet in the evenings. Fear still rules after sunset. “We need more time to grow together,” they say, “it just takes more time.” The big battles appear to be fought, and much of everyday life seems normal enough. For now, the success of a major sports event enlightens everybody from manager to taxi driver. “We did it,” they say, “now we are hoping for the Olympics.” A country in transition, no doubt, here, where apartheid is current history, where vuvuzelas rule, and where everybody is waiting for the weather to warm up.

Prairie Post (this time from Lusaka)

by

Prairie Post

7-23-10

(this time from Lusaka)

The weather is glorious here, in this African city, the sun beams graciously from the dark blue sky. It is winter, a winter without frost, a winter without snow, a winter without icy roads. Seventy-some degrees and local people sit outside wearing their “winter” coats. The weather is kind at this time of the year, just like the people of this poorest of poor countries. No meeting without handshake, no conversation without handshake, no greeting without handshake – often with the left arm supporting the right elbow and the fingers locking up on your right thumb. No passing of young people without a friendly wave, no meeting of the eyes without a friendly smile, and no meeting with elderly people without kneeling in front of them. Their welcome is expressed with the traditional Makishi dance performed in brightly colored skirts, leg tassels and face masks covered by feathers or grass. This is a place of regard for others, of help, and friendly interaction.

This is not a place of time, punctual time.  People “find each other” here, they don’t set a time.  A challenge for those who come from the Northern hemisphere! Where should I go to meet up?  When should I be at the meeting? Will I be the first, the last, or do I know?  Time does not matter in this part of the world; time is simply a rule to be broken.

Animals don’t have a sense of time, animals roam, sleep, eat, as they please. How different can humans be? The drive to the resort takes many out of their comfort zone, dirt roads attacking the spine every second and at every turn. The guide simply refers to it as the “Zambian massage.” As the group of scientists arrives at the Lodge, they are given choices of activities, none really organized. “Would you like to go on a horse-back ride?” “How about taking a boat across the lake?” “Interested in a bush walk?” The scientists decline all – possibly because none of these activities involve books or journals. Oh – except one, a lone scholar who volunteers for a horse-back ride – flashbacks from childhood books must have helped make such an unreasonably quick decision. Soon enough, or should one say, sometime later, the guide comes back with “Champion.”  “You are an experienced rider, are you not?”  he wants to know – an adventurous pioneer never negates such a question. Off they ride into the wilderness, full steam ahead.  Francis, the guide, hears noises coming from the West. “Here we orient ourselves around noises,” he explains. “Elephants,” he surmises, “those must be elephants.” The sound of cracking tree limbs is now discernable even to the naïve. “Mind if we ride off the trail?”  Why would the stranger mind, he believes to be in good hands or on a good back, as it were. So they trot through the thicket following the unmistaken footprints until they see a family of elephants enjoying their lunch. After returning to the trail, they spot a few humans, “the most dangerous species of all,” explains Francis. In the distance they see children walking through the grasslands to school – three hours to school and three hours back home again. No time to stop, the two on horseback keep hasting overland, next to zebras, impalas, and toward the waterhole following the African eagle back to the lodge. Just before their return, the group of timid scientists comes across their way, shouting, “We could have done that!”  They had better first watch some Westerns instead of reading Piaget and Erikson.

More wildlife is to be seen during the “game drive.”  Majestic giraffes, lazy lions, active antelopes of all kinds, impalas, pukus, lechwes, more zebras and vultures, hooded vultures everywhere. But not only the animals amaze in this part of the world, it is the vast savanna with a seemingly endless supply of food and hiding ground for the weaker of the animal world. There is much to be in awe of; there is much to be respected.  Every good Lutheran knows that this land is not our land; this land is God’s land indeed.

Back in town, reality returns.  This is not only the land of the wild; this is also the land of AIDS, AIDS and AIDS again. And it is the land of malaria and cholera – a life not for the faint-hearted.  At least thirty percent of all people here are infected with AIDS, street children manage without parents, grandparents supposedly are in charge, their meager Social Security helps the rest of the family. And the spirits help, perhaps. “We don’t just have one spirit, we have many spirits,” explains a local psychologist, “and the Western world wants to take them away from us.” His advice is to combine psychological and medical therapy with spiritual healing, a new form of therapy for everybody to benefit from. “We need to leave the spirits with the people, ”otherwise they will never seek medical help. Our ancestral spirits influence us before we are born, shelter us during the life-span and continue into the afterlife.  Don’t take the spirits away from us.”

It is time to go to the market. The driver locks up the car and rolls up the windows as the tour group approaches downtown. Here it is, the famous city market: A place of sound, smell, and sight.  Music blasting from every corner, rap, folk, African drums. And shoes, all these shoes! The penetrating smell of fish, of fresh-cut meat, of spices, a strange olfactory mix permeates the air, and people, people, everywhere people. Shouting and screaming, “over here, come over here,”  “the best shirts,” “stop – I give you a good price,” and shoes, all these shoes. Simba guides his flock skillfully through this huge compound, through narrow alleys, some covered, others not. He buys some wonder wax, to clean his floors at home, he reminds the group to keep their belongings to themselves and to stay alert – this is not a place to linger. And shoes, so many shoes! There are eggplants, potatoes, and there are more fish. Young mothers with their babies wrapped in multicolored chitenge cloth, merchants who hope this will be a good sales day, and young men who just hang out at this most public place. Before leaving the market, there are more shoes; and then the tour ends in a dense atmosphere of buying and selling.

What a contrast the Kabwata cultural village is! A quiet, serene village of white clay and brown straw huts. Here they carve wood into masks, they weave straw into baskets, and they paint colorful portraits on canvas. It is time to bargain and to discuss and debate possible purchases. The merchants meet their masters in this group of lecturing scholars. These academics deal with kind, peaceful people so the negotiation does not take long at all.

There is more to see in Lusaka: the freedom statue, the government buildings, the museum, but Simba reminds his patrons that Zambia is not about all of this. Zambia is about its people.  They learn English, know English, speak English, even though there are 72 other languages and dialects – in this town the language is Nyanja. A peaceful nation, friendly, warm and hospitable, people with trust and faith and hope, here in this capital city where the weather is mostly mild and dry, where animals run wild over golden grassland, and where you will leave with a firm handshake, always.

Prairie Post (this time from Havana)

by

Prairie Post

5-20-10

(this time from Havana)

It’s been hot here, in this illustrious city, the humidity is high, very high just like on any typical August day in the prairie.  Nobody cares much about the temperature here, it is a fact of daily life, nobody walks slower here, and nobody hides under trees or seeks shelter in the few air-conditioned restaurants and bars.  But at night they congregate on the Malecon to catch the evening breeze right at the Straight of Florida. Young people, mostly, sitting in pairs or standing in groups enjoying a sense of oblivion in a safe environment.  They are protected by the state visible through clusters of police who know there is no attention required this evening or any other.

The arrival here for strangers who come from the Northern prairie begins with cheers.  Cheers not for the outsiders who made the short flight from the other side of the water, cheers by the scores of Cuban Americans returning to their homeland for the first time in many years.  Excitement on their faces, excitement in the rejoinder – it is hard to stay seated and to wait one’s turn.  Finally, the plane lands and applause roars through the large metallic bird.  They are eager to move through passport control, they are eager to collect their luggage, in blue protective cover wrapped huge packages from the North, and they are eager to walk through customs and look for familiar faces in the impatiently awaiting crowd.

Welcome to Cuba – the land of cigars and mojitos, black beans and rice with choice of chicken, beef, or fish.  And music – everywhere music!  Guitars, flutes, and rhythmic instruments, pleasant-sounding music entertaining visitors at dinner tables.  The guests from near and afar are sheltered in the showcase hotel, the hotel with history: the Mafia hotel of yesteryear, where gambling and prostitution was commonplace – but no more.

The revolution changed everything on this island, corruption was replaced with dictatorship.  “The common good is more important here than individual rights,” explains Larry who knows because he is Cuban born and American raised.  The new policies accomplished one of the highest literacy rates in the world, high life expectancy and very low infant mortality. The basics are covered: food, shelter, clothing.  Don’t expect upkeep in housing, don’t expect pluming or convenience. But do notice the immediate help given to other needy countries.  When Haiti found itself in disaster, Cubans were the first on site – and the food ration for Cubans went from five to four packages of rice.

“The people are proud of their outstanding health care, particularly preventive care,” explains Larry who knows because he is Cuban born and American raised.  There are three layers of health care here:  A physician-nurse team has responsibility for 600 families. They check on their people and don’t wait for them to come.  They immunize, they watch out for health problems, they treat when necessary.  The second layer includes neighborhood clinics – with focus on infant and pediatric care. The third layer includes specialty care and research center s – often lacking up-to-date equipment.  “But they will come to your home and check whether any mosquitoes breed in standing water, and if so, they will test for disease,” explains Larry.

“Education is not freedom,” says Andreas, the conference assistant.  His father was the political opposition leader of the Batistas; he was a critic of the revolution who had to live in exile for most of his life.  Andreas cannot leave – even though he wants to study in the United States, leaving via a third country , the United States will not allow him to come – immigration restrictions.  Andreas will not have a job, although he has to work, because Cuba does not tolerate unemployment – so he volunteers his talents and consults for research projects, without pay, and he relies on his friends’ support – the alternative is imprisonment. Everybody is in waiting position – how long until political leadership will change? Tough lives, tough conversations!  Andreas smiles in reaction to a compliment referring to the beauty of this place.  “It is my island,” Andreas remarks with a friendly beam.

Time for a mojito! Then off to the University de Havana.  A beautiful campus, palm trees, court yards, classic buildings, lectures, discussion groups, library studies.  A student leading the way through campus showing departments and offices in his best Spanish.  His tour finishes at the Psychology department, he invites for coffee.  The student explains that there is no money for paper and pencils, could we help?  His tour became a mission

A joke about Fidel and Raul: Fidel and Raul visit a group of children at breakfast time.  Fidel checks out their breakfast: rolls, fruit, fried eggs, juices, potatoes.  “I am so glad,” remarks Fidel, “I am so glad that the children of Cuba eat such a good breakfast.”  Answered Raul, “Did you not recognize that these children are your nieces and nephews?”

They survived the “special years,” when Russia would stop subsidizing Cuba, when the old Soviet Union ceased to exist and nobody wanted sugarcane any more.  The special years had many people starving; it was also the birth of tourism to Cuba.  Now they come from all corners (almost all corners, that is) of the world.  They hope for a ride in a 1954 Chevy, they hope to drink a daiquiri at the Floridita; they hope to find a quiet place on the beach.  Slowly, Cuba overcame the special years, grew its own food and thrived on foreign currency.

Time for a mojito! Then departing for a tour of the city: crumbling houses next to restored old mansions, open windows, music, loud tunes coming from above, people, people, people walking on the street, sitting, gathering, talking, graffiti art, the shoreline, the citadel, palm trees.   Signs of the Revolution, Castro’s face, Che Guevara’s face on walls painted, sculptured, and Martin Luther King, his words about dreams.  And cars, everywhere old American cars.

Time for a mojito!  Then in search of Hemingway again, his house out in the prairie.  A reclusive place, books in every corner, his sailboat and the pet cemetery.  With smiles on their faces, the tour guides invite their visitors to take pictures – and as the visitors leave guides will share their stories about daughters and sons in need of a few Cuban pesos.

People smile easily in Cuba; they live their lives, walk their older parents down the street, sit with grandchildren in the doorway, lean out of windows, or watch television in the living room which is close to the street level.  People smile easily in Cuba, where the diesel smoke from old cars continuously permeates the air, where the humidity is always high, and where people live outside their homes most of the day and most of the night.