December travels

It's the last day of the year, and high time I catch up with some of our adventures this past month.

Travels near and far

Joel has already posted about both of these trips, so I’m late to the party, but I do come bearing pictures.

This family was really so lovely. Their four little girls drew us pictures, made us little sewing crafts, and were enthralled with William (perhaps they don't get to play with very many little white boys). I am still in awe that they spent 10 years in a village, living like everyone else around them. There are lots of whites living in Africa, but most live like kings, and even those who live rather simply think certain comforts are non-negotiable, like a car. We're certainly in this category (I'm going without a dryer and dishwasher here, but not a washing machine or car!) I think I can count on one hand the number of whites I know in Africa who are living on local salaries, like locals. It's an extraordinary commitment. 

We walked down to their favorite river, which was beautiful. 

Here's some of the countryside.

A group picture, along with some neighbor kids who seemed to have carte blanche to come by the house and make peanut butter sandwiches. We had brought a watermelon, which was a huge treat (thus the watermelon eating going on in the picture).

On the way home we visited this Swazi family, who many years ago adopted an American friend of ours into their clan. We hope to have more chances to visit them. 

A couple weeks later we had quite a different experience, staying in a gorgeous guesthouse in the posh suburbs of Pretoria, while visiting some good friends that were making a work trip from the States. 

We all enjoyed the lavish breakfasts. 

We had a nice low-key weekend (well, until the breakdown on the way home), doing things like visiting a petting zoo. 

On the way back from South Africa we stopped at a little town just over the border which produces hand-blown glass. The couple whose house we have been staying in has an impressive collection of these glasses, including about 40 wine glasses (they’re French). We used the water glasses for our first week and promptly broke one, before learning our lesson and buying some cheap non-handmade glasses. So we had to stop at Ngwenya to get a replacement glass. While there we visited the glass factory. I love watching glass-blowing. Watching a couple dozen people operate in the same space is like watching a complicated ballet, except it’s a ballet involving people wielding long poles topped with dangerous balls of red-hot glass. Everyone has to know their part and the exact timing, choreography, and teamwork needed to avoid disaster and safely make glass. 

Ngwenya Glass produces jobs not just for people working at the factory, but for people all over the country who collect used glass to be melted down and recycled.

I got a kick out of the resident peacocks. Let me tell you, those birds can strut.

Last, a picture taken just down the road. We've been attending a Bible study at the home of a wonderful white Swazi couple who threw a Christmas time pizza party (using their outdoor pizza oven!) This sweet mom and daughter made William his first ever pizza, baby-sized. He was a fan. 

A Swazi Christmas 

I’d be lying if I said the holidays haven’t been kind of tough. I love so many things about Christmas in the US, things which simply don’t exist here, and of course I missed family. But if your Christmas is going to be completely different and weird, you may as well do something completely different (and try to enjoy the difference), so we went to a game park. We had fun, but I think I’ve learned that I don’t want to repeat the experience at the height of summer. We were staying in lovely cottage-style accomodations that nevertheless had no electricity, fans, or air conditioning. The first night (the 23rd) William was up from 2 to 6 a.m., kept from sleep by the heat and also by the fact that we were all in one room so he could see us and knew we could definitely hear him and register his displeasure when he held on to the side of his Pack-n-Play and wailed. Actually, he alternated wailing and playing, but just not sleeping. My hero of a husband did most of the William handling during those endless wee hours, but still, none of us really slept. I get rather despondent when I’ve gone without sleep so Christmas Eve was not a very happy day.

Thankfully William did sleep the next night, and Christmas was a much better day. We went on a game drive early that morning and had some great animal sightings. Great considering that we were driving a little Civic that gave us virtually no visibility over the grass and brush that lined the tracks. What we hadn’t realized before we got there was that children under 6 weren’t allowed on game drives, and neither one of us really wanted to go on a game drive by ourselves, so we skipped the game drives. (Once in my early 20s I went on a safari by myself in Kenya and was cooped up in a safari van for days with several honeymooning couples, all of whom spent more time gazing at each other and canoodling than watching animals, and I vowed I would never go on a safari solo again, it’s just no fun.)

The advantage of a real game drive is that you have a guide, and they put you in a big vehicle that gets you far enough off the ground that you can actually see things. In our Civic we basically couldn’t see anything unless it was right next to the road or crossed the road and turned to look at us, and there were some roads we didn’t even attempt because we surely would have gotten stuck. As it was we got “stuck” quite often as our car has a mysterious ailment that causes it to break down as if it’s run out of gas, then re-start a few minutes later. On our Pretoria trip it didn’t re-start for some time, leading to that adventure, but since then we can count on it to re-start within a few minutes, the only inconvenience being that it stopped dozens of times over those two days at the park.

But in spite of our afflicted car, we saw some beautiful animals.

Lots of kudu and impala:

Those are all impala (male with the horns), and I sadly didn't get any picture of kudu, which are really big and awesome looking. Taking pictures out the window before the animals run away is a trick. 

Seeing rhinos and hippos was easy as there was a watering hole right next to the camp (separated by a fence, all the big game were fenced in), and the rhinos wandered around as if we weren't even there. I don't have any hippo pics as they mostly just looked like big gray rocks in the water, unless they were doing huge hippo yawns to show their fearsome teeth (which I did not catch on film).  

Here we are on Christmas morning, watching rhinos, who were apparently sleeping in.

On Christmas morning, we also got lucky enough to see a group of 6 elephants. This sighting was a bit of an adventure. Initially we only saw 3 elephants, and they were crossing the road, so we sat and waited from a safe distance, as did a vehicle on the other side. 

After quite a lot of tree trashing and munching, the elephants finally moved on, but one left a big branch in the road. We drove up the branch and Joel got out of the car to move it aside, and only then realized that there was another elephant ten feet away, munching on a tree. Joel quickly jumped back into the car and we reversed to a safe distance. It took some time for the last of the group to cross the road, and there were actually three more, this baby, and two adults (you can barely see the second behind the first in the second picture).

We ate Christmas lunch at the game park, and while waiting for it to start William made friends, and we watched many Swazi families show up and unpack their picnics and braai supplies. Celebrating Christmas at a game park seems to be quite popular.

It was a rather British meal, with (impala) game pie, Christmas pudding, and Christmas crackers.

Our exhausted son didn't make it through lunch-- the first time in ages I can remember him falling asleep in the middle of a crowd of interesting people! 

Incwala, and skirts

Incwala is an annual weeks-long ceremony in which Swazis pledge allegiance to the king, and is the most important traditional ceremony in Swaziland. (There’s a lot more to it, but if you Google it don’t necessarily believe everything you read, there’s some weird stuff on the web.) Thousands of Swazis who wear perfectly modern clothes at other times put on elaborate traditional costumes and go to the royal residence to dance and take part in the ceremony. We went out today just to see it.

As we were entering the royal compound we passed a police checkpoint, where I was stopped because I wasn’t wearing a skirt. I think the policeman’s exact words were that I needed to “wrap something around my waist,” as if I didn’t already have pants wrapped around my waist. (I’m getting better at understanding Swazi English; when another policemen stopped me recently and asked, “Why do you try to enter when the robot is red?” I knew what he was talking about. Robot = traffic light, and although I think he meant the question rhetorically, the answer was that every other driver on the road here seems to think you can turn left on red, so I did too.)

Anyway, I had to go back out to a group of makeshift shops and buy a cloth to wrap around my waist. Then the rest of the day deal with a number of disapproving looks at my pant legs peeking out from beneath my skirt. Actually everyone wears skirts to Incwala, men and women, the men tying a piece of fabric around their waists so that there’s a slit open to the hip over one thigh. I could digress here on the peculiar politics of skirt-wearing in Swaziland and the recent mini-skirt ban (the government seems to be concerned that mini skirts are leading to rape, Google it if you want the whole story). This in a country where large amounts of bosom are often displayed even in professional contexts and no one seems to think about it twice, where girls dance with exposed breasts and bottoms at the annual Reed Dance (the other major traditional ceremony), where men seem to think as little of showing their thighs (at least at Incwala) as do European men in Speedos, but yet mini-skirts are drawing the ire. I have no point here, other than that modesty and appropriateness are so culturally-specific (if you find yourself feeling shocked at the Swazi sense of modesty, well, I think many Swazis would be shocked that American women wear shorts in public), and to an outsider, ironies abound. (And of course, rape cannot in any way be blamed on women’s clothing choices, full stop.)

I have no pictures from today, as I’d been told that pictures weren’t allowed so left my camera in the car. I think that I actually would have been able to take pictures just about everywhere we went. We certainly had our picture taken a lot, by Swazi girls with their cell phones and even by a Swazi Times reporter. (We’ll have to watch to see if it appears in the paper.) There we were to watch the exotic Other, and being watched ourselves! We certainly weren’t the only white people there, but as far as I could tell we had the only compulsively smiling and waving white baby. William loves nothing more than exposure to the adoring public, and he had a blast with all the attention. The picture I would have loved to get was of William and an elderly warrior waving at each other. William started it, and doesn’t easily tire of his waving game, and the elderly gentleman kept playing along, so that they must have waved and smiled for 5 or 10 minutes in wordless camaraderie. It was adorable.

Here’s a picture of some warriors like we saw today, courtesy of the Swaziland tourism board:

Women also participate, and were dressed somewhat less elaborately. I was amused by all the fancy high heels and designer sunglasses I saw women wearing along with their Incwala dress. Urban women are very fashion-conscious here. 

I’ve been watching night fall on our valley as I've been writing, and thinking it’s almost the last time—we move to a place with decidedly less spectacular views in a couple days. After 5 months as nomads, I’ll be so glad to finally be in our own place. But I’ll miss these views.

And a final bonus wildlife picture, taken right outside our bedroom window, of one of the vervet monkeys that likes to play on our property.  Too bad I couldn't get its cute little face in the picture. There are some babies in the tribe and it's a riot to watch them swinging from tree branches (sometimes missing) and tumbling over rocks. I'll miss these monkeys too. 

Happy New Year to all!

Prayers for Advent IV

"Purify our conscience, Almighty God, by your daily visitation, that your Son Jesus Christ, at his coming, may find in us a mansion prepared for himself; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen."
-Collect for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

I'm writing this on Christmas Day; so Advent is officially over, and Christmastide is here.  It's been quite an unusual Christmas thus far, especially since being in the southern hemisphere now, we are in the heat of summer rather than the dead of winter.  It was a scorching 95 degrees today; and rather than turkey, we ate impala game pie (well, William and I did; Allison couldn't because she is gluten-free) -- just to mention a couple differences from the normal Christmas routine.

But there was another difference, too, of a different kind.  On Sunday, at the Anglican cathedral in Mbabane, we heard a sermon by a priest (a white man, probably British, who married a Swazi woman has lived here in Swaziland for nearly fifty years) who questioned the Virgin Birth of Christ.  He didn't deny it outright.  But he said that he didn't think that the Incarnation demanded that the birth of Jesus from a virgin mother was necessary for it.  It's not good to say things like this to theologians; it gets us thinking.  I will spare you the diatribe and simply say that I think the priest is wrong.  After the service he wanted to meet us, and he offered us a standing invitation to his farm out in the country for tea.  Perhaps one of these days I'll drive out there and have tea, and a chat.  But the main point here is that I had never before heard, in any church, a priest openly question the doctrine of the Virgin Birth from the pulpit.  Why did he do that?

In other news, I think I have discovered the key to the mystery car problem of a couple weeks ago.  It turns out that the engine is shutting down at odd times when the radiator fan turns off.  Obviously, the problem was new that weekend in Pretoria.  But we don't normally drive the car long enough distances for the radiator fan to come on, so it simply hadn't happened very many times.  But this weekend we drove long enough that I began to find the pattern.  What's interesting to me is that, looking back, our breakdown outside Pretoria still did not follow the pattern.  Since then, every time the car has stalled out, it has started again less than 10 minutes later -- except that one time at the exit ramp where we met Elizabeth a little while after the car stalled.  I can't draw any scientific conclusions from that whole scenario: but I conclude, in faith, that God is good and that He cares about all our needs -- as big as an ill husband, and as small as a beige bookbag.

Another difference from before ... well, two actually ... is that I'm a father now, and I have a son.  These are different things themselves, and they make an astounding difference.  Not in any particular sense, I don't think, or at least I haven't figured it out yet.  I'm still too new at it.  But as I write this, it strikes me that God is a Father, and God has a Son ... although I'm certainly NOT trying to say that I am God, nor am I suggesting that divine relationships are the same as human relationships in general.  Here's all I'm saying: I have these things in common with God now, and I didn't before.  But I don't know exactly what it means.

I'm trying to think if there are any other loose threads to tie up from this Advent season.  I've been thinking a lot -- the working of the Holy Spirit, the goodness and providence of God, the painful reality of suffering.  No matter how you cut the cake, we are born to die.  Hmmm, sounds like someone else I know...

Merry Christmas, world.  Happy Birthday, Jesus.  Gloria In Excelsis!

"Almighty God, you have given your only-begotten Son to take our nature upon him, and to be born this day of a pure virgin: Grant that we, who have been born again and made your children by adoption and grace, may daily be renewed by your Holy Spirit; through our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom with you and the same Spirit be honor and glory, now and for ever.  Amen."
-Collect for the Nativity of Our Lord [Christmas Day]

Prayers for Advent III

"Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us; and, because we are sorely hindered by our sins, let your bountiful grace and mercy speedily help and deliver us; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be honor and glory, now and forever.  Amen."
-Collect for the Third Sunday in Advent

It's strange, being halfway around the world when something horrible has happened in America.  It's not the distance that's strange, it's the location.  I, or should I say we, have grown accustomed to horrible things happening in Africa.  Now, the shoe is on the other foot.

Today, in every church in America most likely, something was either said or prayed concerning the shooting in Connecticut.  Not a word here in Swaziland, naturally (it's not a big enough event here to make the daily news).  It didn't surprise me, nor did it bother me; but I noticed.  I suppose this is part of the experience of being an American on the African continent, or of any expatriate living in a foreign country.

I can't help but wonder what it's like for a Swazi living in America.  Does a Swazi notice when someone in his/her village does of AIDS, and no one in an American church says anything about it?  Is the feeling the same, or is it different?  Truth be told, I don't really know what my own feeling is.  Sad?  Of course.  But something more as well.  The tragedy feels different when it's American tragedy.  I can't explain it. 

Indeed, we are sorely hindered by our sins.

"O merciful Father, you have taught us in your Holy Word that you do not willingly afflict or grieve the children of men: Look with pity upon the sorrows of them for whom our prayers are offered.  Remember them, O Lord, in mercy, nourish their souls with patience, comfort them with a sense of your goodness, lift up your countenance upon them, and give them peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen."
-Collect for Persons in Trouble or Bereavement

Prayers for Advent II

"Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen."
-Collect for the Second Sunday of Advent, The Book of Common Prayer, p.211.

I am a mid-western American.  That's my home culture.  I value hard work, good earth, stout beer, and quiet strength.  Sometimes these are good, but sometimes they aren't.  I also value self-provision, self-actualization, and self-containment.  Today, I was reminded again in a powerful way that I am not in America any longer, but in Africa.  It's been a difficult day, and an emotional day, but a very good day.  And I know, once again, that God is good.

This weekend, Allison and William and I have been in Pretoria, South Africa staying with some dear American friends who are here for a two-week work junket.  They have a son almost exactly the same age as William, and it's been very fun to have a break for a couple days from the cultural adjustments and just be Americans again -- enjoying Christian fellowship, watching our children play, and learning together how to be the parents God calls us to be.  We attended morning Eucharist at a wonderful Anglican church near downtown Pretoria, basking in the old stone building, the soaring voices of the choir, and the powerful preaching of a African priest (a Zulu man, I believe) on repentance and the need for self-examination.  When we returned, we resolutely packed our bags into our car, ate a hurried lunch of leftovers from the night before, and shared a short prayer together before we departed to go back to Swaziland.

We got on the N4 heading east and were cruising at about 120 km/hr when the engine simply, suddenly lost power and stalled out.  We hadn't been traveling even 30 minutes.  I pulled over and tried to start the car.  Nothing.  I got out and checked under the hood to see any signs of malfunction.  Everything looked perfectly normal.  The engine hadn't made any unusual noise, the car hadn't shown any sign of running abnormally, and we'd had absolutely no trouble with the engine at all since we bought the car two weeks ago.  For no reasonable explanation whatsoever, our car had simply died -- and it was not starting up again.  This was particularly scary because it was quite hot in the afternoon sun, and neither of our cell phones work in South Africa (because we have our cell phones through a company that only services Swaziland).  We were fairly helpless, so we prayed that the car would start again.

My thought was that the fuel gauge had malfunctioned and we had simply run the car out of fuel (although the gauge still showed a solid 1/4 tank left).  After about 10 minutes, the car did start again, and we drove it a few kilometers down the road to Exit 27, got off the exit ramp, and paid the toll.  We hadn't pulled away from the toll booth 100 meters when the car died again, and this time, there was no resuscitating it.  But thankfully, we were off the main highway, and as I looked to my left, I saw a Total station no more than half a kilometer from where the car was stalled.  Having no fuel can, I grabbed my Nalgene water bottle and headed out to get some fuel, dumping out the water on the way to make room for gasoline.

I walked in to the convenience store and briefly described my situation to the somewhat gruff-looking (though in actuality very kind) Afrikaner man behind the counter.  He explained to me that the fuel station only sold diesel fuel.  I asked him if there was a pay phone around.  He said, "no," then pulled out his cell phone from his pocket and asked where I needed to call.  I replied that I just needed to call my friend in Pretoria, but that I didn't have the number written down and would need to get it from the car.  He nodded, and I thanked him heartily as I went back to the car to get the phone number.  When I returned, he handed me his phone from his pocket, and I called our American friends, who were willing to help.  I returned the phone to the Afrikaner man along with 10 bucks (South African Rand), which he adamantly refused.  Grateful and relieved, although a little flustered that he would not let me pay him, I walked back to the still-dead car to wait for my friend to arrive with some gasoline.

 William was eating some of the food we had brought for him, but still hot and fussy, so I got him out and put him in his backpack.  We both put on some sunscreen, and the two of us just walked around for a while, watching the clouds and the countryside.  After 15 minutes or so, I saw a gray car with a white woman driver exit the toll booth, then wave and slow down as she passed us and immediately pulled over.  I wish I could recall the exact conversation and relate the emotion in her voice; she was urgent yet restrained.  I explained our situation and that our friends were coming from Pretoria to help us, but thanked her for stopping and being willing to help.  She gestured to William and offered to take us to the fuel station to get out of the heat, and I politely said that that we were OK, and that we could very well walk if we needed to.  She asked if I was sure, if she could bring us a Coke or something; and again, as profusely and deferentially as I could, I thanked her and told her that we really were OK.  At this point, Allison (who had been waiting in the car) had seen what was going on and got out to also thank the woman for her kindness.  The woman said, "Well, this is how we do it in South Africa."  And then, a conversation ensued -- and none of us had even exchanged names at this point.

We said that we were living in Swaziland, that Allison was a student work on a research project, that we were from America (to which she responded more warmly than anyone I have ever met overseas, I wonder if there's a back-story there); and she told us that she was a part-time lecturer -- not a full professor, she declared -- at a university in Pretoria.  And then she said, with tears welling in her eyes and her voice breaking, "But now my job is with my husband."  She didn't describe anything in detail; but that her husband had a stroke a while back, had been getting better, but then recently relapsed and was now in the hospital again.  She said that she has been praying Psalms from the Bible, including Psalm 23 and the part about having a table spread ... her voice trailed off.

There are moments when you instantly understand that the person you are talking to knows Jesus and has an intimate relationship with God.  This was one of them.  Right there, half-inside the yellow line and half-outside, the three of us joined hands between our two parked vehicles and held a small prayer meeting for Jack Murray, and for his wife, Elizabeth.  We all cried.  And Elizabeth went on her way.

In time our friend came with a few liters of fuel in a small jerrican, which he dumped in the tank and for which he refused to let me pay him.  Again, grateful and relieved and flustered, I turned the key and the engine immediately purred to life.  My suspicions seemed confirmed.  My friend followed us the 5 km down the road to the nearest station that sold unleaded fuel.  The attendant took my credit card and proceeded to pump 33 liters of fuel into the tank (about 3/4 of a tank of fuel).  My heart sank a little as I turned the car on, which again sparked immediately to life, and the fuel gauge promptly went all the way to "F."  The fuel gauge had not malfunctioned after all.  Now I was concerned that something else was wrong, and I had no idea what it might be.  But by this time it was mid-afternoon, and we weren't going to be able to make it back to Mbabane before dark.  Our friends graciously agreed to let us spend one more night with them and leave in the morning.

We drove back to Pretoria with not a hint of trouble with the car.  I took out all our bags and dug out the car jack.  It was rusty, so I lubricated it with some olive oil (the only thing we had around) and jacked up the car a little to check the fuel pump under the car.  It turns out that particular model of Honda Civic doesn't have an external fuel pump, and all the fuel lines looked in perfect condition from the fuel tank all the way to the injectors.  I checked the fuses, which were all fine.  I checked the condition of as much of the ignition system as I could see; it was fine.  There was absolutely no indication of anything that would cause the engine to suddenly die and not start again.  [The only explanation that I can think of, but which still doesn't make sense, is that there is an object inside the fuel tank that got stuck in the pick-up screen and temporarily blocked the fuel to the pump, which then came unlodged when we dumped more fuel in the tank.  But I've been working on cars for almost twenty years and have NEVER seen that happen.]

Having convinced myself that I had done everything I could do to ensure the car was OK, I lowered the car down off the jack and got cleaned up.  I then asked our friends if there was anything we needed to do about staying an extra night at the guest house, and they said everything was taken care of.  So I was more direct, and asked if we needed to give them any money (they had already paid for two nights for us to stay as well as breakfast for us both mornings).  They refused.  And yet again, I felt grateful and relieved and flustered.

I heard a preacher say once that sometimes, when God chooses to bless us, it is more than we can take -- and we can't help but say, "OK!  It's enough! I can't take any more!"  It's like our human wiring is unable to comprehend how good God is.  And the preacher's words came rushing back.

Then I looked up from where I stood, and saw my beige bookbag (not a backpack, but a small single-strap bag that I carry things in when I walk around town) sitting on their sofa.  In it were my Bible and prayer book; and I had forgotten it before.  If we had not turned around and stayed another night, I would have had to drive 5 hours all the way back to Pretoria at some point in the future to get it back.

And I wept; because God is good.

"Almighty God, by your Holy Spirit you have made us one with your saints in heaven and on earth [and in America and Africa]: Grant that in our earthly pilgrimage we may always be supported by this fellowship of love and prayer, and know ourselves to be surrounded by their witness to your power and mercy.  We ask this for the sake of Jesus Christ, in whom all our intercessions are acceptable through the Spirit, and who lives and reigns for ever and ever.  Amen."
-Collect for Saints, The Book of Common Prayer, p.250.

Prayers for Advent

"Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.  Amen."
 -Collect for the First Sunday of Advent, The Book of Common Prayer, p.211.

I've been eagerly looking forward to Advent this year, more so than other years.  I don't know exactly why it's been that way: maybe it's because we have moved halfway around the world and many things in life seem new at the moment.  Maybe it's because there's a third person in our family this time, and it seems different on that account.  Maybe it's because we as a family have felt God giving us new direction for life in 2012.  Maybe it's just ... because.  I don't know.  But this prayer really struck me today, as it touches upon many thoughts that have been running through my head since moving here to Swaziland.

On Friday we drove outside Mbabane about an hour toward the west to spend time with an American family who has lived here for 10 years.  Sadly for us, they are leaving Swaziland next week to go back to the States for the next chapter in their lives.  It was a precious day, and refreshing, especially for me.  Rudy and Ruth and their four daughters are Catholic and radically committed to following Jesus.  They have spent the last ten years living in a small concrete house, earning a meager Swazi salary with no car, trying their best to show by their lives what it means to live out the Gospel here in Africa.  As a family, they walk two hours each way to attend church every Sunday.

We spent the better portion of the day just sitting and talking; then we took a stroll down to the river, and sat on the rocks and talked while the girls played in the water and William crawled around on the rocks.  [The highveld of Swaziland is rocky territory; there are rocks everywhere, literally.]  It was a day of joy mixed with sadness, though, as they talked about some of their experiences, the tremendous difficulty they faced here, and the feelings of failure and doubt with which they are now struggling as they leave.  Like Christ, they have demonstrated great humility for ten years; and still, it is difficult for them to feel like they succeeded here.

I know enough about cross-cultural work to understand that this story is a common one, even for Christians.  It has been a frightening reminder that these tasks to which Jesus calls us are super-human ones: it is not human to love our enemies (or even our spouses); it is not human to sacrifice oneself for the sake of others; it is not human to cross cultural barriers and become like the people to whom God has called us.  These things are divine, and require divine power; and even with divine power, sometimes the results are not what we as humans expect.  The Gospel is not proclaimed by courage, or intelligence, or theological correctness, or mighty preaching, or harmonious singing, or anything else of human origin.  God the Holy Spirit proclaims the Gospel, and for Him to proclaim the Gospel through us requires that we must die.  The process requires humility, more than what I possess.

Here's the hopeful thought in all of this: that what I have just described as being humanly impossible is the very thing that God the Holy Spirit specializes in.  Scripture describes the two primary jobs of God the Holy Spirit: 1) to make those who believe and confess Jesus more like Him; and 2) to empower those same people to preach the Gospel (in word and deed) to all nations.  He does other things as well, of course, but I believe these two tasks are primarily what He is doing in the world today.  The Spirit must do the work, both in us and through us; but even then, the results may not be what we plan or expect.  In fact, they probably won't be.  We are utterly, completely, non-compromising-ly dependent on Him.  "So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth" [1 Cor. 3:7].

Almighty and everlasting God, we thank you for your servants Rudy and Ruth and their four daughters, whom you called to preach the Gospel to the people of Swaziland.  Raise up in this and every land evangelists and heralds of your kingdom, that your Church may proclaim the unsearchable riches of our Savior Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Almighty God, whose will it is to be glorified in your saints, and who has raised us up to be a light in the world: Shine, we pray, in our hearts, that we also in our generation may show forth your praise, who called us out of darkness into your marvelous light; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.  Amen.
 
-Collects for Missionaries, The Book of Common Prayer, p.247-248

Swazi snapshots

Tomorrow marks 1 month since we arrived in Swaziland, and I wish I had lots of pictures to share of our great adventures so far. Unfortunately we've spent most of the last 2 weeks being quite ill (Joel and I, taking turns, thankfully William escaped this round), which is not the type of adventure that makes for good pictures or stories. We're still dying to get outside and explore this beautiful country, but besides being ill, the weather has conspired against us. It's been quite chilly, rainy, and foggy much of the past month, which is weather better suited for sitting inside in front of a fire (what I'm doing now) than hiking or roadtrips. But we're coming into summer, so hopefully we'll get to some warm weather and outdoor adventures soon.

In the meantime, here are some random snapshots of life here.

How green is our valley

We are staying in a house perched high in the hills, with spectacular views of a lush green valley known as Pine Valley. These pictures don't begin to do it justice. But they perhaps suggest a little of the stunning beauty of this place. (By the way, I have never been known for leaping out of bed at the crack of dawn, but here in Swaziland I'm actually enjoying getting up when the sun gets up. It helps when it's a glorious day.)

Our first Swazi braai

A couple weeks ago we were invited to a braai at the home of some new Afrikaans friends who live quite nearby. "Braai" is the Afrikaans word for barbecue, so I was expecting meat on a grill. Wrong. Lunch was cooked over a fire in the two round, three-legged cast iron pots that you can see in the picture below. One pot had kernels of maize (hard corn) and beans cooked together, a staple that is eaten in various parts of Africa. The other pot had an Afrikaans stew called potjiekos, which was cooked in layers, with the meat and slower-cooking ingredients added first, and the quicker-cooking ingredients added later to the top of the pot. It was delicious, and our leisurely outdoor lunch was truly memorable. Even better, the three darling munchkins below were such wonderful William keepers that we almost forgot we had a baby to look after. At one point they all disappeared for half an hour, during which time the girls were apparently locking the older boy in a shed or something like that, and they were showing William the property and trying to teach him to walk. William thought having three big kids to play with was pretty fantastic.

 

Christmas in Africa

For anyone who complains that Christmas starts too early in the US (and I'm with you on that), guess what, it starts even earlier here! I started to notice Christmas stuff right after we got here in late October, and now a month later, the "festive season" is in full swing. Of course Christmas is in the summer here, so we get displays like this (right outside the grocery store I shop at in the local mall):

More cross-cultural experiences at the grocery store

Shopping at the grocery store here isn't really that different than shopping in the US, except that there are some things we can't get (I miss Mexican food!!), other things that are more expensive (I am not sure I will ever be able to bring myself to buy ice cream in this country), and some things that are much less expensive than I am used to (loving all the cheap avocados). And there are things that you would never see in the US (impala steaks!), and other things that just go by odd names. The one that makes me giggle every time I pass the meat case is the "lazy aged rump," which I am pretty sure is just aged rump steak, but still sounds to me more like a body part that middle-aged women would complain about over coffee.

It also took me a long time to find bacon. I brought home some pork several weeks ago that looked like bacon and was labeled "rashers", but turned out to have bones in it, and not be cured. Hmmm. Finally yesterday I stumbled across this product hiding way in the corner of the pork case. I'm pretty sure it's bacon, although what is a gammon??

Trip to Nelspruit

Nelspruit, South Africa, is the closest largish city, so a lot of people go there to shop and take care of other business that they can't take care of in Swaziland. We had to leave the country in order to extend the time we're allowed to be in Swaziland (we're working on getting residency but until then we're limited to 30 days in country at a time), and had to get a vaccine for William, and also figured we would check out the Nelspruit mall while we were at it. What we learned is that it's really too long a trip for one day, and we really don't want to drive back after dark in the future. It's less than a hundred miles as the crow flies, but in order to be on better roads you have to take a more round-about route, and crossing the border requires getting out of your car and standing in line in both Swaziland and South Africa, and they were doing road construction in South Africa which further slowed the trip. But besides the fact that we spent 6 1/2 hours on the road, had a very long day, and Joel had to deal with dark roads and crazy drivers on the way back, I really enjoyed the drive. It's beautiful, dramatic land (lots of hills and valleys), and I'll have to try to get better pictures next time. 

This picture was taken at a town called Badplaas, which we assumed was Afrikaans for "bad place", and which we also assumed was a name like Iceland, a deliberately mis-leading name bestowed by the people who lived there in order to discourage other people from coming and discovering what a nice place it was. 

(Well, there goes my theory, I just looked Badplaas up and it actually means "bath farm" in Afrikaans, named because there are thermal springs there. Nice! Although I still think our theory is more fun.)

I am not an idiot

And I now have this form to prove it: 

I mentioned that we have to apply for residency here. This involves a great many forms, including the medical form above. We were told to go to a certain venerable white Swazi doctor, who would take one look at us and sign the forms. He looked to be well into his 80s, and he did sign the forms without hardly glancing at us. I'm not even sure he even asked me to speak, to make sure I wasn't "dump". It's good to know there's such a water-tight system for keeping the wrong kind of people out of the country.

Making friends at church

So far we have visited three great churches and it is going to be hard to make a decision when the time comes. This morning we visited an Anglican church whose building and hymn books both looked to be well over a hundred years old, where the singing was a mixture of surprisingly good (four-part harmony) and surprisingly bad (hymns on which the congregation couldn't manage to find a melody, much less harmony), where we saw only two other white faces (and one was a visitor from Scotland) but where everyone was very warm and welcoming. We liked the church a lot. At some point William got handed off to a man sitting behind us, who kept him for the rest of the service, a good half hour. I would turn around now and then to make sure William wasn't making a nuisance of himself, but he always seemed to be getting on famously with his new friend. During the Eucharist Joel and I momentarily lost track of them, and turned to each other in one of those "Where is our child??" moments, but then quickly spotted William kneeling at the communion rail with his new friend (okay, William was standing, the friend was kneeling). After the service we were finally able to meet this talented baby entertainer, who turned out to be super nice and invited us to his wedding next month. Here's William with Thokozani: 

And finally, more gross bug pictures

This is Africa, and there are bugs. Occasionally we have to kill a good 15 or 20 in our bedroom before going to sleep, gross flying ant-like creatures that can't fly very well but are strangely drawn to our pillows. Then there are the big ants that seem to die horrible deaths in the middle of the tile floors (at least, I can't figure out what makes them die there). I'm getting used to dealing with both of those. Some insects I kind of like, like this guy. I think he may have been dead already when I took the picture, but I thought he was kind of elegant with all that fur. 

 

Now let's talk about really gross bugs. This morning when we went out the front door there were thousands of bug wings, lying in drifts against the side of the building like sand in a sandstorm (or snow in a snowstorm, if you've never seen a sandstorm). The mystery was that there were no bodies, only wings. But when we got down to the driveway there was something stranger still-- two huge seething vortexes of those same winged insects, surrounded by a sea of body-less wings. Here they are: 

Were they mating? Having a convention? Eating each other? I still have no idea. They were stuck all over the car, too, staring in at me on the way to church. Ewww... 

Luckily it rained this afternoon, and washed all signs of those mystery insects away. Til the next overnight invasion.

And with that, I'll say good night. 

Don't read this before dinner ... or bedtime!!

Three weeks in Africa, and already we’ve had some adventures with creepy-crawlies.  I suppose no stint in Africa, regardless of its length, would be complete without them.  Monster centipedes are now old news, and this past week we inadvertently left the bedroom windows open too long past dark and had to kill about 50 big vicious-looking insects flying around the room before we could even think about going to sleep.  But the other night I had a front-row seat to a fascinating and disturbing experience, like the nature channel only less than a foot from my face rather than on a screen. [No, not the amorous kind of nature channel experience … the other kind.]

It gets dark around 7pm here this time of year, so I was doing dishes well after dark.  The wall above the kitchen has a window that faces east, and this window runs the entire width of the room.  An assortment of moths and other bugs congregate on this window after dark, being drawn to it by the light, of course.  It’s all rather ho-hum.  But this particular night I saw a large mantis, about 2” long, sitting on the window at about head height.  It was cool because I’ve never really seen the underbelly of a mantis before.  It was really cool, and I was particularly excited at the possibility of witnessing first hand a little bit of insect cannibalism [it’s twistedly morbid, I know – perhaps there is therapist here who can help].  Actually, I was so excited by this possibility that I was having a hard time getting the dishes done.  But alas, nothing was happening.  The mantis looked more like it was sleeping than hunting.

I was about ready to give up in disappointment, and was, in fact, dutifully turning back to the dishes when a small moth (about ½” long) swooped down into the “danger zone.”  The mantis grabbed the moth in its front legs, and the motion was slow enough that I could actually see it happening.  [This surprised me, I expected that it would be so lightning fast that I wouldn’t be able to really watch it.]  However, the next bit was fairly horrible.

With the moth clamped in its forelegs, the mantis ripped the moth in half, roughly lengthwise – mercifully, because I think the moth died instantly.  So the mantis has a half-moth in each foreleg, and then starts half-eating, half-sucking the flesh out.  Now I don’t know exactly what a mantis mouth looks like, but from my vantage point it appeared like the mantis had four mandibles – top, bottom, right, and left – which made its devouring of this moth appear especially gruesome, almost gluttonous.  The mantis started with the half-moth in its left leg then moved on to the right.  Within three minutes, there was nothing left except two paperish wings, one of which was still stuck to the mantis’ thorax like crumbs clinging to a napkin or something.

It was both awful and awesome at the same time.  Ah, Africa!

the $6 car accident

It's a wonder to me that I don't get into a car accident every week. It's not that I don't try to be a good driver. I obey the laws of the road and check my blind spot and give pedestrians the right of away even when the wander across the road in totally inappropriate places (ahem, I'm talking to you, Swaziland). But all my trying doesn't really compensate for the fact that the part of my brain that is supposed to coordinate all those complex functions that allow one to pilot a hurtling hunk of metal down a road is... well, that part of my brain is a bit challenged. 

So I have a string of stupid accidents to my name. They've all been minor, no one has ever gotten hurt, and they've all been 100% my fault. The last one was in January, the week my grandma died, and I was studying for this massive 2-day exam and 8+ months pregnant and let's just say that my mind was not fully on my driving one day after a study session when I pulled out of my parking spot and plowed into a perfectly nice taxi driver.

I avoid driving whenever I can. That 5,000+ mile road trip we took this summer? I didn't drive a single mile. And I wouldn't choose to drive a single mile here in Swaziland except that sadly, as small as the country is, it is not all within walking distance. But hands down, driving has been the most stressful part of being here. It's not just that they drive on the wrong side of the road. (And the turn signals and windshield wiper controls are on the wrong sides too!! It's rough. I'm forever turning on my windshield wipers when I mean to signal, and vice-versa.) Although the roads here are quite good, they are insane. They climb up and down mountains at crazy grades, and the main road from Mbabane (where we live) to Manzini (the other major city in the country) is, I am told, actually in the Guinness World Record book as the most dangerous road in the world. It's so steep that they put a policeman at the top of the steepest crest to make the big trucks come to a complete stop before they start the descent, so hopefully they'll make it to the bottom without careening out of control.

So I was driving to Manzini this afternoon, on a perfectly flat part of MR3, which is a 4-lane road. There was a fair amount of traffic, as everyone gets off work early on Friday and takes to the road. Ahead of me a car stopped or seriously slowed down (I can't remember as amnesia always strikes me in these situations), and I made a quick decision to change lanes, which was unfortunate as the other lane was already occupied. I am still sure I checked my blind spot, and I would love to know how fast that other car was going to suddenly appear where I had just looked, but anyway. Crash and scrape of metal, and the next thing I know we're on the narrow shoulder inspecting the damage. 

I always hit men, which I think works to my advantage, because all the men I have ever hit have been extraordinarily nice and gentlemanly about it. This Swazi man was no exception. He spoke perfect English and called my insurance agent on his phone (no small thing, as we pay by the minute here and it's not cheap) and the insurance agent told me he would leave paperwork for me to fill out with his friend at the pharmacy next to the grocery store. I tell you, the degree to which everyone knows everyone in this country really makes it feel like nothing more than a largish village. 

But then the guy I'd hit inspected he side of his car a little more, and really all that had happened was his paint had gotten kind of scraped. So he said, why don't we just try to settle this without insurance. If insurance gets involved we have to report it to the police and then I'm afraid they'll find reasons to charge you. So he recommended that we drive down the road a little further, and he would get a quote on fixing his paint. Sounded great to me. So we drove off, and found ourselves in the kind of peri-urban neighborhood that feels so African to me, dirt roads and little shops and children coming home from school and all the normal every-day life in Africa stuff. He told me I'd better wait a block away so they wouldn't see my white face and charge more, and warned me to roll up my windows and lock my doors, a suggestion which made me want to laugh, but I didn't want to show a lack of respect for his concern, so I complied. 

I gave him 300 Emalangeni (about $35) and he disappeared around the corner and 20 minutes later he was back. Miraculously, his car now looked totally unscathed, except for a scraped place along the very edge of the door that he promised his employer would never notice (it was a company car). Total bill? Less than $6. He returned the remaining money to me, insisted on leading me back to the main road to take me home, and that was that. 

We still have our car to fix (not really "ours", we are renting from the same people we are renting the house from), and it has a big dent as well as some missing paint. So I'm sure the bill will be a bit more than $6. Still, all things considered, I think I got off pretty easy. And I am grateful for super cheap car-fixers, and even more grateful that there are such kind and honest people everywhere in the world.