This Above All...

If you studied Hamlet in high school (or wherever) you can finish the quote: "to thine own self be true."

Sounds like great advice, doesn't it? What is ironic, however, is that the character who speaks these lines is Polonius, who is--to put it rather bluntly--a big windbag. He is constantly interfering with affairs that he should leave alone.

So, how does this connect to the writing challenge of the week--what advice would I give my younger self? Well, I suppose just this: advice is not always helpful.

As I get older, I find myself doing the reminiscing bit. You know, going over events from the past, wondering what would have happened had I...fill in the blank with a "this" or "that."

But I always come back to one conclusion: while I am well aware that things in my life aren't perfect, and I certainly am not perfect, in the main--I like the way my life has turned out and I like myself.

So for fear of altering the course of my life in some unforeseen way, if given the chance, I would most certainly decline to tell my younger self anything.

Except...

There are a few dumb things I did. Perhaps if I had been forewarned, I might have done better.  Such as:

--remember the time I stopped going to movies? Well, that was dumb. Plain and simple. I love movies and I made no great moral point by avoiding them.

--then there was the time that because I had a migraine, I decided not to go to a concert. My husband had gotten tickets for us to go to an Eagles concert--I am a big fan of that group. Turned out the concert was superb--part of their comeback tour.  To this day, my husband has the tickets tucked away. And every so often he mentions it. Wish I had told myself--go to the concert. The headache won't last; the experience of a great concert will.

--swimming. Yup, just that. I wish I had learned to swim properly when I was a child. I had lessons, and regularly went to the public pool (in Bulawayo) where we had instructions. But I just couldn't get the hang of it. I loathed diving--putting my head underwater. I never mastered breathing. I can't float. Seriously--I just sink. So I wish...

--And one thing I most certainly would have told my younger self--take advantage of the places where you live and absorb as much as you can. For example. having grown up in southern Africa, I never even tried to learn any of the languages. I missed out on the experience of a lifetime simply because I couldn't be bothered.

That's it, folks.

Perhaps, as Polonius advised, I was being true to myself. Too impatient, too distracted, too young and immature. But, isn't that what it means to be young? Even if I had been able to advise my younger self, I doubt if I would have paid attention.

“African flowers”

Almost a decade ago, I visited Ghana where my daughter was working in an internship.  Everywhere we went the Ghanaians we encountered were welcoming enthusiastic people. They constantly asked—so, do you like Ghana? Well, yes.

I was struck with a booming trade economy…street side. As we rode in the unusual taxis in Accra, we saw street side markets. We witnessed sellers going door to door…except that the doors were the car doors. Everything imaginable thing being sold by vendors walking up and down the median strip in highways. And to give the customer whatever purchase, a plastic bag is produced.

Ah, the ubiquity of plastic bags.  Hence, the title—African flowers. When the plastic bags drift away, having been carelessly cast aside, they float about. And then they catch in the branches of trees—there they stay and earn the name of “African flowers.”

Clearly, while the invention of plastic has produced many helpful products, plastic has also become a curse. And it is threatening the future of our planet…as well as threatening the present of our planet.

A recent story caught my eye, and left me gob-smacked. Sperm whales have been washing up on beaches in the North Sea. The article that appeared in National Geographic  revealed the cause of their deaths of some of these animals. “After a necropsy of the whales in Germany, researchers found that four of the giant marine animals had large amounts of plastic waste in their stomachs.”   As the story notes, among those items were plastic fishing nets, plastic parts of auto engines, bits of broken plastic items.

So, this is the “fouling the nest” issue that makes me crazy. PLASTIC.

So, what do I do? Eschewing plastic altogether is not possible, and maybe not desirable.  Of course, like many people we use reusable bags for grocery shopping.

Another way to do something is recycle. My husband and I have been recycling plastics, glass bottles, cans AND newspapers since 1970! We began recycling before our first child, our son, was born—and, yes, we began with an eye to the future this child might inherit. In those days, recycling meant collecting the items and once a month trudging them to some nearby location where volunteers from civic-minded organizations collected all the items.

Eventually local government based programs became the norm, which also meant everyone had to do what we had been doing for years. Only difference now was that the recycle truck came through the neighborhood to pick things up.

And there’s one other way I try to do a small bit to help. I pick up trash in most public spaces. On my daily walks with the dog through our nearby cemetery, occasionally I spot discarded bottles, cans and other trash. I usually pick up an item or two and dispose them in the big trash bins provided. Why can’t everyone do that?

I have even been known to pick up trash in women’s bathrooms in public spaces. I work on a corollary assumption to the “broken window” theory. I reason that if people see trash on the floor they are more likely to drop trash. So, I pick up the paper towels and discarded unused toilet paper. Then, of course, I wash my hands.

Just today, I spotted a plastic bag floating along, so I picked it up, tucked it in my pocket and brought it home to our plastic bag collection for recycling. As I did that small task, I thought—one less African flower.

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Want to know more about plastic bags and what some countries are going? Check out this website: http://www.earth-policy.org/press_room/C68/plastic_bags_fact_sheet .

The photo of plastic bags above comes from this website.

Keep Calm ... and Carry On!

During World War II, the British government prepared a motivational poster designed to help the beleaguered population "keep its stiff upper lip."  The slogan it championed was--KEEP CALM and CARRY ON.  Millions of posters were printed, but they were never distributed.  The posters were rediscovered in the year 2000--and a whole new icon was born.

I humbly suggest we get some of those posters and distributed them NOW--to members of Congress, to newscasters, to local politicians, to everyone who is now freaking out about Ebola.

I am not suggesting that we take this emerging epidemic lightly.  But we really need to get a grip.  There were Congressional hearings held today, and legislators took their turns when it was their time to query--and took whacks at the head of the CDC as if he were a piñata hanging from the ceiling and they each had a brand new stick to flail away at him.  

I couldn't help but recall the beginnings of the AIDS epidemic.  And how little concern there was among politicians then.  Medical personnel knew they had a mystery disease on their hands.  Perhaps the fact the earliest people suffering, and then dying from this disease, were gay was part of the reason for the studied ignoring of the emerging epidemic.  

When AIDS first emerged as a true epidemic, I was working for the state medical society.  Part of my job was to work with scientific areas--so I helped staff committees of physicians who were trying to address the disease that was eventually called Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome--AIDS.  One day, I got a call from a public health doctor working at the state Health Department.  The Health Department had prepared an informative brochure with tips on how to prevent the spread of AIDS.  One of the precautions listed was to "wash."  When the pamphlet was sent to the governor's office for vetting, the question came back--wash what?   When they were told, they insisted that precaution be removed!  The level of ignorance--or lack of caring--was such that the governor's office then did not want to acknowledge that part of the means whereby AIDS was spread was unprotected sex.  And that knowledge, not ignorance, was one way to  help reduce transmission.

Fast forward 30 some years--and now we have legislative hysteria ruling the day.  Frankly, ignoring an emerging epidemic is NOT the way to control the disease.  But then, hysterical misguided politically-driven suggestions are ALSO NOT the way to control the disease.

In today's hearing, one of the suggestions was--REFUSE TO ALLOW ANYONE TO ENTER THE U.S. who is traveling from a west African location.  Really?  Well, people can travel from countries in west Africa to many other countries and then enter to U.S.  Only, now, public health professionals wouldn't KNOW the person had been in west Africa.  One of the biggest enemies of controlling an epidemic is ignorance.  Another enemy is fear.

We have both in abundance right now.  To hear the newscasters tell it, it's just a matter of time until everyone touches something that someone who heard about someone who had Ebola touched, and so because of that, we will all die.

Well, true--we will.  But not from Ebola.  There will be some other reason.  Many things are so much more threatening--smoking.  Handguns. Drunk drivers. Texting drivers. Lack of immunization.  Polluted drinking water. And on and on it goes.

It seems like a good time to break out the posters--KEEP CALM and CARRY ON.

On The Rocks

I am inspired--or at the very least nudged--by the resolve of a childhood friend of mine who has vowed to resuscitate her blog by writing a blog a day for a month.  Now, it must be noted that she posted this intent on April 1--but I do think she is serious.  You can read her entries here.

At any rate, she has posted two blogs about her experiences growing up as a missionary child in southern Africa.  As I indicated, she is a childhood friend, so we share some common memories.  Reading her posts got me to thinking--it's been a long time since I posted anything about childhood.  As any long time reader of this blog knows, I have explored that topic.  All you need to do is conduct a search on my blog using CHILDHOOD and you will get quite a few entries.

But one topic I have not explored:  climbing rocks.  Now almost every child has had the opportunity to climb.  It is one of the true joys of childhood.  It can also be one of the precipitants of a serious childhood injury due to falls.  Most of us climb trees.  Some of us with access to farms climb in haylofts.  But, I would venture that not that many of us have climbed rocks. 

I most certainly did.  The mission station where my parents were when I was last living in southern Africa was situated among the Matopo Hills (the current spelling is now MatoBo, and you can Google it to learn a bit more about this fascinating geologic place).

The Matopo Hills featured large boulders that rose like hills.  These are not small rocks--these are truly magnificent and somewhat mysterious looking rocks.  Many of them have caves, and in these caves where early humans lived they painted.  The uniqueness of the paintings and their importance in the development of art earned them a designation as a World Heritage site.

 

Painting of some Matopo Rocks by South African artist Olive Hind

Now, I didn't go climbing into caves.  What I did was climb the rocks around the mission station.  The Matopo Mission was situated among some of these rocks--it made for a fascinating playground.

One time, I was playing tag with a missionary friend, a boy named Eugene.  He was a bit older than me, and far more daring.  As we chased over these rocks, with him in the lead, we came to a place where one rock was over-hanging another.  Eugene jumped, landing safely below.  I came up to the precipice and looked over.  A moment of terror seized me, but--ever competitive and spurred on by "anything he can do, I can do better" I jumped.  Miracle of miracles, I too landed safely below.

Hiking out away from the mission station a bit, Eugene and I found places where the rocks had been cleft by eons of rain water, wearing away and finally splitting a rock.  If you stood at the bottom, you could look up and see that the cleft went all the way to the top of the rock.  So, how to get up there?  Well, you chimney-stacked.  And Eugene taught me to chimney stack.

Since I have returned to the United States, I have not seen the Matopo Hills again.  But, years ago, when I first visited the Gettysburg Battlefield with my husband, I was thrilled to see Devil's Den there.  This place also had large rocks--a very small outcropping compared to the Matopo Hills, but nevertheless rocks worthy of climbing.

I do think my climbing days are long over--there's my age, there's my bad knee, and there's my slowly developing fear of heights.  Now, when I am some place aloft (such as a Ferris wheel), my toes curl under and my feet sweat!

Whatever happened to that daring girl who jumped off one rock onto another, or chimney stacked?  Ah, well, no matter.  I will let others be "on the rocks"--I will keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.

Cry, the Beloved Country

Lovely mountains around Cape Town

It had been more than 50 years since I was last in South Africa, and--to tell the truth--I had very little memory of the country.  But, having grown up in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, I always maintained a keen interest in southern African developments.  I read much about Zimbabwe and South Africa.  Among these books, I recall reading Nadine Gordimer's novel July's People, written before the change of government from minority apartheid rule to majority rule.  In that work, she postulates the end of apartheid, in a civil war which turns the power structure upside down.  


That vision was entirely credible, and what I anticipated would be the most likely ending of apartheid. 


But, then, the world witnessed the miracle of Nelson Mandela.  Imprisoned for 27 years for his anti-apartheid activities, upon his release he continued working for majority government.  Seemingly, miraculously, he succeeded.  In 1994, he was elected President of South Africa.  A civil war was averted--South Africa managed to make the transition from a minority government to a majority government, escaping the fate of its neighbor to the north, Zimbabwe.


True, many people died on the struggle to reach majority government.  There were multiple massacres of citizens on both sides of the color bar.  Leaders of the African National Congress (ANC) spent years in prison, along side Mandela.  Many of those years of imprisonment were on Robben Island, within easy view of Cape Town's harbor--it must have been maddeningly tantalizing for both sides being so close.   But Mandela seemed to accomplish the impossible--he not only survived; he thrived and honed his deeply moral presence.

Cape Town Harbor with Robben Island in the distance

Under the surface, simmering problems linger that threaten to undo all the creative work to bring the new South Africa into existence.  While the power structure has been realigned, the economics of the country have been largely unchanged.  Unemployment hovers around 25%, with the rate of unemployed youth at 50%.  However, the unemployment rate for whites is around 4%.  Average annual income for blacks in South Africa are around $1,800; for whites around $8,200.


Nowhere is the disparity more evident than in housing.  The three main racial divides in South Africa are white, colored, and black.  Whites are those who descended from the original Dutch and British settlers.  Coloreds (a term I had difficulty with given my U.S. thinking) are those who descend from Khoisan (the original inhabitants of southern Africa), mixed race and immigrants from various Asian countries such as Malaysia.  Blacks are those descended from earlier migration of Bantu peoples from further north on the African continent.  With a population of about 60 million, 80% of South Africans are black, whites around 9%, and colored including Asians around 11%.

A township

Housing is like a pyramid--at the top the lovely houses in urban areas, many in gated communities, are largely owned by whites; in the middle, cinder-block houses in organized communities are owned by coloreds; at the bottom, in a huge swath of housing, are the townships.  The houses in these areas are quickly constructed lean-tos, pieces of corrugated iron thrown up with a roof across.  Township housing lacks internal plumbing; instead townships have communal bath houses where families have to do all their toileting and washing.  Electricity is provided by central poles with wiring from which people string up electrical wires to connect.  Frequently people get electrocuted trying to tap into the power supply.  And these townships just keep growing--one of the largest in Cape Town, Khayelitsha, has over one and a half MILLION people living in it.


80% of farm land continues to be held by whites.  The ANC had promised land reform which intended to restore land ownership to blacks, but over time progress toward that goal has stalled.  Now, newer leaders in the ANC--those who have moved away from the harmonious legacy of Nelson Mandela--promise, or threaten, massive redistribution of land and wealth.  One particular leader--Julius Malema--threatens nationalizing South African gold and diamond mines.


Upon our return from South Africa, my daughter and I set about reading (actually re-reading) Alan Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country.  While many aspects of the novel seem very dated, and also quite simplistic, there is a prophetic sense about the work.  Paton writes:

Have no doubt it is fear in the land.  For what can men do when so many have grown lawless?  ... There are voices crying what must be done, a hundred, a thousand voices...one cries this, and one cries that, and another cries something that is neither this nor that.

Paton envisioned a time when the social fabric, which was already tearing in the reality of which he wrote, would dissolve completely.  


As we waited in the Cape Town airport to board our flight back to the U.S., I perused books in the bookstore.  One was titled After Mandela: The Battle for the Soul of South Africa.  Out of curiosity, I thumbed through the book, and read the chapter titles.  The last chapter title brought me up short:  "The Shadow of Zimbabwe."


I can think of no greater tragedy for Mandela's legacy than to see South Africa go the way of Zimbabwe.  So, indeed--cry, the beloved country.

Photo taken by Kristen, my daughter, of Franschhoek, S.A.

Photo taken by my husband, of Klein Karoo

Sunset over Camps Bay Beach

Glimpses of A Childhood Home

One of the pleasures for me in our recent trip to South Africa was to experience some scenes that reminded me very much of my childhood.  Long time readers will know that I did not grow up in South Africa, but in the country just to the north--now Zimbabwe, Rhodesia in the years I was there.


I had been ages since I saw a lovely avenue of trees bordering a well-tended dirt road.  The one shown below is the avenue leading up to Boschendal The Estate, now a wine estate.  It was originally established in 1685 as a farm including vineyards.  In 1897, Cecil Rhodes acquired the estate, established fruit orchards and eventually turned the whole estate over to De Beers.

In Bulawayo, the town where I went to school, the avenues were lined with jacaranda trees.  Below is a photo of jacaranda blossoms close up.  It was wonderful to see them again.  Also, bougainvillea, another flower from childhood memory.

During my parents' time as missionaries, they occasionally had vacation time--it was during these times that we visited Cape Town.  Of course, Table Mountain is the iconic landmark in Cape Town.  You see it everywhere you travel around Cape Town.  


My prior time going to the top of Table Mountain was when I was a child.  Then, the cable car was a less sturdy looking device.  Based on a website recounting the history of the cable car, I assume when my dad and I visited it, we rode the car identified as the First Cable Car.  The newest iteration of cable car is much sleeker and sound.  Despite my fear of heights, I rode the cable car with no apprehension at all.  The small nob you see at the top is the cable car station.

And, here I sit with my husband on rocks at the top of Table Mountain.

Not the same rock, to be sure, but here's proof that I sat on the rocks atop Table Mountain once before--with my dad, some time in the early 1950s.

Most people identify almost any part of Africa as a place with animals.  Growing up, I did see lots of animals--more, actually, than we saw on our recent trip.  One animal that is still seemingly present everywhere is the baboon.  Oh, yes, I recall baboons from my childhood.


As we drove various places, baboons could be seen along side or even on the roads.  One baboon had found a beer bottle, which he cradled jealously, and kept from the other baboons in the troop.  The photo below is one our son-in-law took.  He was seated on the side of the car with the best view.  Travelers are sternly warned: 1) not to open car doors as the baboons know no fear; 2) not to feed the baboons; and 3) not to harm the baboons which are a protected species.  We saw people whose job was to mind the baboons, and warn cars to slow down.  I wondered if the people told their friends they were in "monkey business." 
  

Finally, many of my childhood memories involve lovely flowers and interesting birds.  The flowers shown were in Kirstenbosch Gardens, a lovely large park adjacent to Cecil Rhodes' Cape Town estate of Kirstenbosch. 


The bird is the blue crane which is the South African national bird.  Kind of an odd looking bird, if you ask me.

But the most scene reminiscent of my childhood were the African skies.  I kept thinking of Paul Simon's song "Under African Skies" as I looked at the endless sky unfurling around me.

Not all the scenes in South Africa are as lovely--I will share some of my sadness in another post.

Lovely Cape Town

It is time to begin reflecting on our most recent trip.  We returned, on New Year's Eve day, from a visit to South Africa.  

We spent a week in South Africa, with our daughter and son-in-law: our Christmas gift to each other, no need for any other presents.

The scenes below begin to tell the story of our trip--Camps Bay Beach at sunset, with the ocean spray.

Turn around and we can see part of the mountains around Table Mountain lit by the setting sun.

Part of Cape Town, the Malay area, with brightly painted buildings.  After years of mandatory whitewash exteriors, when the rules were changed, the residents in this area opted for splashes of color.

The mandatory trip up Table Mountain, the cable for the cable car firmly in view.  I had been to Table Mountain as a child, traveling up a more primitive cable car with my dad.  Now, a corporate sponsored sleek car takes us up, all the while revolving for a view all around.

Table Mountain dominates Cape Town, visible from almost all angles.  The winds sweep clouds over the mountain, which give the impression of a table cloth.  Our guide told us Table Mountain is a guide's nightmare.  The cable car up can be closed down on a moment's notice, due to high winds.  Frankly, I'd rather not ride up in high winds.  We were fortunate--up and back with no hitches.  Our guide told us of one group he had who were determined to go up.  When informed that the cable car wasn't running, they wanted to know if there were another way up.  HIKE--was the answer.  So, they all informed the guide they would, and they did--two hours up.  

I wanted a reprise photo of me on the top of the mountain, this time with my husband.  I have a photo from childhood of me with my dad--not necessarily sitting on the same rock, but certainly on the same mountain.

Lion's Head to the one side of Table Mountain.

The view below--Cape Town.  In truth, Cape Town is all around Table Mountain.

Well, there's a start.  More photos, more reports and observations--to come.

On The Road Again

Disclaimer: I absolutely cannot take any credit for these three stories. They all came from my dad. But they were simply too rich not to share. All three were included in the biographical article.
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ROAD STORY # 1
From time to time, dignitaries from the United States would travel to visit the mission work in Africa. During one such time, there were two men, each going to a different mission. The one man visited my parents' work, and my father wanted to take him to an out-station. My father picked a school, which was south of Sikalongo Mission, down the escarpment towards the Zambezi Valley, where road conditions were very poor and the road quite steep. The vehicle they had was an older one, and the brakes were in bad shape.

Even with my father using the foot brake and the hand brake, it was all he could do hold the car on the steep decline. My father instructed the African helper who was along to find a big rock, and then get on the running board of the car. He then instructed the helper that if the car would start going too fast, my father would call out, the helper should jump off and quickly put the rock under the front of the rear wheel to help stop the car. The visiting dignitary was duly impressed with the conditions under which the missionaries worked.
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ROAD STORY # 2
My mother also had car difficulties. On one trip that she and another woman missionary were on, the car got stuck in mud a few miles from the mission. Unable to extricate themselves, they saw a African riding by on his bicycle. My mother gave him a note to take to “Mufundisi” (meaning my father). Off he rode. Rather than wait, the two missionary women kept trying to get unstuck, and by perseverance succeeded. As they neared the mission, they encountered another African who flagged them down, and handed them a note to take to “Mufundisi.” It was THEIR original note!
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ROAD STORY # 3
A more reliable means of transportation was a bicycle. Most of the missionaries had a personal bike. My father used his bicycle at times to visit out-stations. He would take a folded camp cot and a changing of clothing along. His African helper carried along minimum cooking equipment. On one visit to out-stations, my father along with another missionary man and an African helper, all on their bicycles, encountered a river swollen due to seasonal rains. Faced with this situation, the two missionary men (and presumably the African helper)decided to strip naked, hold their bicycles over their heads, and ford the river. Once safely on the other side, and reclothed, the other missionary man turned to my father and wryly remarked “That was a rich experience."
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I hope you enjoyed these road stories.
Next time, maybe I will pull out some of the animal stories.
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Please note: the woman pictured in the photo above is NOT my mother, but another missionary woman standing with her bicycle.

Hug a Hippo

Apropos of nothing I have blogged about recently, I am writing about hippos today.

Recently, my daughter sent me a link of a hippo story that ran on Sky News. It was one of the most unusual animal stories I have ever seen. As a child, I did see hippos in the wild, but I didn't have the same fear of them that I did of lions. I should have. An article that ran in the Smithsonian magazine two years ago noted the following: "But many Africans regard hippos as the continent’s most dangerous animal. Although accurate numbers are hard to come by, lore has it that hippos kill more people each year than lions, elephants, leopards, buffaloes and rhinos combined."

The video story tells another tale altogether. Herewith:





Who wouldn't love an animal such as Jessica. But in the house?

This story reminded me of another hippo story I saw not long after the December 2004 tsunami. In this case, the bond was not between hippo and human, but between hippo and a giant Aldabran tortoise. A baby hippo was washed out to sea off the coast of Kenya because of the tsunami. His entire hippo family was lost, so when human rescuers managed to get him back to shore, he was taken to a wildlife center. Now named Owen, the baby hippo encountered the tortoise Mzee--and you can read what happened next here.

I don't know about you, but after hearing/reading these two hippo stories, I have the strongest urge to hug a hippo!

Dent de Lion

SUBTITLE: Mouth of the Lion (read on)

As I was leaving campus yesterday, I spotted one of the earliest and most tenacious spring flowers, though not necessarily anyone's favorite: the dandelion.

These perennials (isn't that ironic) are among the hardiest of plants, as any gardener knows who has tried to groom a dandelion-free yard. They are also much loved by children who love to grab the puff balls and blow them to the winds. Skilled photographers have captured dandelion seeds mid-scatter.

What fascinates me is the origin of the name dandelion. It comes from old French dent de lion (literally lion's tooth) derived from the shape of the leaves. Imagine--deep within human experience is this association between the shape of a plant leaf and the tooth of a feared animal, the lion.

The image of the lion's mouth figures in various ways in Biblical literature, particularly in the Psalms. Portions of the traditional Requiem Mass use a phrase from Psalm 21 which, in Latin, says--Salva me ex ore leonis (Translation: Save me from the mouth of the lion). In the mass it becomes Libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum. (Translation: Deliver them from the mouth of the lion, lest the abyss swallow them up, lest they fall into the darkness).

I always loved singing that particular portion, whether Mozart's Requiem, or Fauré's or Durufle's Requiems. Each composer has a different musical interpretation of the section, and for the singer it is great fun to see how text translates to music.

photo of lion from http://www.conservationafrica.net/gallery/index.php?pid=60

I suspect one of the reasons the mouth of the lion has such power for me, if not people in general, is the terrifying prospect of being swallowed up by a lion. That may seem fanciful to you, and perhaps you even think me prone to exaggeration. But it is an image with which I grew up. One of the earliest stories I recall hearing was of a missionary who was, in fact, mauled to death by a lion. In brief, he had gone out to track a lion that had been preying on villages in what was then Northern Rhodesia. All this happened in 1931 (more than a decade before I was born), but my grandfather, who had been a missionary, and two co-authors wrote about this event:

"The lion charged. Myron Taylor (the missionary) shot but the bullet missed. The rifle jammed and the beast was upon him, mauling his right ankle and right hand and biting his left forearm. All the people who had accompanied him fled up trees for safety. The missionary was left helpless. The beast sat quietly by him for possibly fifteen minutes. . .then it ambled off into the bush."

Myron Taylor was carried to the mission station, and even though he received medical help, he died after two days. An interesting additional detail is that he was then buried at Sikalongo Mission, and when my sister died 17 years after his death, she was buried next to him.

I have no recollection of ever seeing a lion in the bush during my childhood, but such a vivid story imprinted itself full well on my brain. Oh, I am not at all fearful of dandelions (please!) but I find most fascinating the degree to which lion imagery rouses something deep within the human psyche.

To remove the image of the mouth of the lion, here's a smattering of spring flowers much more loved than dandelions.

Africa Reprise

When I made my trip to Ghana in November 2006, I was filled with anticipation--returning to Africa after a 45+ year absence, seeing our daughter, experiencing another culture.

Upon my return, I wrote a number of blogs on my observations. I was looking back over these blogs recently, and was struck with the dearth of comments. Now, truthfully, I don't write for the comments, but there is a sense that the number of comments is an indication of readership. Since a fair number of comments on my Back to Africa blog indicated an interest in reading my observations on my Ghana trip, I will have to be clever and reprise the information.

So, here goes.

First, as my brother has pointed out in several of his comments, West Africa is NOT south central Africa. I grew up in what was then Northern and Southern Rhodesia (now Zambia and Zimbabwe). These countries are definitely sub-tropical and have distinct southern hemisphere climates. Then too the people in Zambia and Zimbabwe have different tribal origins than the people in West Africa. West Africa probably is the source for most of the slaves who were forcibly brought to the New World. Southern Africa, while it had its tribal wars (I am thinking of someone like Shaka Zulu who re-wrote the rules of warfare in his day), it did not see the level of slave trade West Africa experienced.

When I went to Accra, Ghana, November a year ago, I had immediate first impressions. I had never seen a city with such an incredible level of street vendors, for example. They were everywhere.

The state of transportation left much to be desired in Accra. While there were many taxis, few of them seemed road-worthy. My daughter, who had gone to Ghana in September, 2006, rode some of the tro-tros (see my linked blog) but before she left in December, she decided NO MORE tro-tros. In fact, there had been some fatal accidents involving tro-tros. Of course, transporation in some countries around the world does require a spirit of adventure.

My daughter and I had a couple of priceless experiences during my visit. She had her own priceless experiences that helped demonstrate what the two of us experienced was by no means unique.

As we traveled around Accra, I was struck with the contrasts everywhere. Development side by side with ramshackle structures. Elements that reminded me of my youth in the Rhodesias--dirt roads, for example--side by side with superhighways.

Of course, I came home with an armful of purchases, many of them coming from the Accra Cultural Center.

So, now that I have had a year to contemplate the trip to Ghana--what do I think. Perhaps an obvious result is that I tend to pay close attention news from Ghana. I have encountered Africans from time to time, and try to elicit from them from which country they have come.

The first question many Ghanaians asked me was--how do you like Ghana? And that was always followed quickly by the second question--so when will you come back to Ghana?

The truth is I was much taken with Ghanaians--in general, all the people I met were warm, engaging and friendly. I was much less struck by the country itself--located very near the equator, the country does not have the breaktaking beauty of Zimbabwe.

So, rather than return to Africa, my next trip will be with my husband--this time to the place our daughter is living now--London.

Back to Africa

I am going back to Africa. That was the thought buzzing around my brain one year ago—I was anticipating the trip I was going to make over the Thanksgiving holiday. One year ago, on November 20, I boarded a plane to London, then on to Accra, Ghana.

My daughter was doing an internship with a non-governmental organization which had linked her up with a group “dedicated to the promotion of contemporary art within Ghana.” She had gone to Ghana in September, and so in November a year ago, I was getting ready to go spend Thanksgiving with her.

I say Back to Africa—as that is where I spent my childhood. I was born in the USA (sorry, Bruce) but grew up in then Northern and Southern Rhodesia (now Zambia and Zimbabwe). Maybe it is the experience of growing up in a culture other than one’s birth culture that does it, but I have been riveted with Africa all my life. At one time, I would have said Africa insinuates itself into the veins of anyone who has lived there for a while, and that may still be true. But I think other places have that same power—it’s just that I didn’t grow up in some other place.

Anyway, I was going back. Now, truth be told, I had one brief time of being back in Africa. The summer before Thanksgiving, 2006—my husband and I went on our annual vacation trip, visiting Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. If you look at a map of the Mediterranean, you can see how really close Spain and Africa are. While our brief visit in Morocco was most interesting, it didn’t feel like Africa to me. Of course, I should say—it didn’t feel like the Africa I remembered. My perception of Morocco, the little bit that we saw, is that it is very Mediterranean. Especially around Tangier, where we were, there is that sun-washed look of clear blue skies, dry climate, sparse vegetation, flashes of color in hardy native plants. The Moroccans—who are mostly Berbers—enhance the Mediterranean feel with their white-washed houses with bright blue doors. Being in Morocco, I felt like I could have been anywhere around the Mediterranean perimeter.

Back to Africa. To get to Ghana, I had to make a connection somewhere in Europe. Very few planes fly directly from the U.S. to Africa (although I did find one flight that went from the U.S. East Coast to the Gambia!). So, I flew from Philadelphia to Heathrow in London, then on to Accra, Ghana. I had a REALLY long layover in Heathrow (dumb planning on my part); as a result, most of the flight to Ghana was at night. That was a bit disappointing because my daughter had alerted me to anticipate the beauty of flying over the Sahara at sunset. Since my plane took off a bit late, I got to see the Mediterranean at sunset, and the Sahara at night.

When we landed in Accra, it was about 9 p.m. Since Ghana sits very near the equator, daylight hours year round are a constant 12 hours—sunrise around 6 a.m. and sunset around 6 p.m. So it was fully night by the time we landed. I stepped off the plane, full on anticipation. I was going to see our daughter, who I had not seen for about 3 months, and I was BACK in Africa.

First step off the plane, the heat hit me like a steam bath—waves of humidity, heightened by the artificial chill of the airplane. It took a bit of time to clear customs, gather my luggage, and head outside. The airport in Accra is set up in such a way that people coming to meet passengers can’t go into the airport. So my daughter was waiting outside with the throngs of people—a rare white face in a sea of black.

And then the real experience of being back in Africa hit me—I took a deep breath and smelled Africa. Perhaps the most pervasive scent is of wood burning. But mingled in is the smell of soil, of flowers, of decay, of promise and of despair. Ah, Africa. I am back.

Fair and Balanced?

I am not shilling for Fox News by the title of this post—in fact, I can barely bring myself to watch Fox News, but I want to pose the same question that their signature byline statement should urge us to consider. (I say "should" ironically because the last thing Fox News wants to be is “fair and balanced.”)

This past week’s news coverage in the U.S. has shown in stark contrast how little attention our national news sources pay to various countries in the world. For a long time, the “rule of thumb” for local news has been “if it bleeds, it leads.” And it seems the rule of thumb for national news is “if it happened in the U.S., it leads.”

Here’s a quick test—how many people died in a major train crash in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) last week? OK. Now, how many people died when the I-35W bridge collapsed in Minneapolis?

My guess is you know the answer to the second question, and didn’t even know about the first question. Briefly, over 100 people died in DRC, and 5 people died in the bridge collapse, although this number may go a bit higher as bodies are recovered.

So what, you might ask? Well, each of these disasters occurred on the SAME DAY—August 2. Yet, national television news coverage in the U.S. has extensively covered the Minneapolis story, and I have yet to see any television mention of the Congo crash. The only press coverage I came upon in the U.S. was a 1 inch story in the NY Times. And, while looking for coverage of this story, I did come upon an online story on the Congo crash on USA Today.

And what does any of this has to do with your day to day life, you might ask next. Well, maybe nothing. There is no requirement that any of us be attuned to what is happening elsewhere in the world. However, I would suggest that if we want to be good citizens of the U.S., and even of the world, we need to have some sense of what happens. Absent information, how can we determine whether our national leaders are representing us well?

I am on a national advisory committee for the Presbyterian Church; this committee overseas collecting and distributing money in response to various disasters around the world. Our committee knows that charitable giving tracks almost exactly the amount of news coverage a given disaster receives. So, after Hurricane Katrina, millions of dollars were donated to Presbyterian Disaster Assistance, but when the earthquake in Pakistan occurred the same year, few contributions came in. Of course—people won’t or can’t respond to things they don’t know about.

I will throw one more observation into this mix—for a long time, I have been concerned that U.S. news organizations do not pay enough attention to news stories coming out of Africa. (I remedy that by reading BBC News online.) It would be easy to ignore this large continent that many U.S. citizens will never see. But, there is one country in the world that is not ignoring Africa—China. China is pouring astonishing amounts of money into various African countries. Here’s just one such story.

I suppose along about now, I should be drawing some conclusions. No—I think I will let you draw your own conclusions.

Note about the photos used above--the Minneapolis bridge photo came from CNN. When I went looking for a photo of the Congo train crash, I couldn't find one--but I did find a DRC map. . .on the Al Jazeera website. Folks, the rest of the world is paying attention to Africa!

Happy Birthday, Zimbabwe

Almost two months ago, I wrote a blog celebrating the independence of Ghana. That occasion of saying "Happy Birthday" was joyful as Ghanaians continue to move forward resolutely, mostly unmarred by the vagaries that plague some newly independent African countries.

Today, I say in muted tones "Happy Birthday to Zimbabwe." While Rhodesia (the country's name before it became Zimbabwe) declared its independence from the UK in 1965, that action was taken by the minority white government led by then Prime Minister Ian Smith. He used to say of this unilateral declaration of independence that only two countries had ever broken away from Britain: the United States and Rhodesia. You can read more about the ensuing history. Eventually, Rhodesia fell into a civil war with mult-factions vying for power. When the dust settled, the new country of Zimbabwe came into existence April 18, 1980.

Once seen as a leading light in sub-Saharan Africa, in recent years, Zimbabwe has suffered mightily under the megalomaniacal rule of its president Robert Mugabe. Today's BBC News features some of the present woes of this once lovely country.

Photo of the Matobo Hills in Zimbabwe, taken by my nephew Nevin.

So, rather than shout loud celebrations for the 30th anniversary of Zimbabwe's independence, today say a soft prayer for the long suffering people there.

The Green Green Grass of Home

There is always a day in late March or early April when the grass suddenly greens. Whether the winter has been harsh or mild, the grass goes dormant and browns. Then comes spring and--a little bit of rain, a little bit of sun--poof: green grass.

With a rush of memory, I recall my first conscious impression of America--it was GREEN. When my parents returned to the United States in the mid-1950s, we sailed into New York City harbor, and then rode with my grandparents back to Harrisburg, PA. With no interstates yet, our journey took us through wonderful country side, over rolling hills, past farmland and lots and lots of green green grass. That was my first impression. Greenness everywhere.

I am sure part of why I was so susceptible to all the green was that it stood in stark contrast to the colors of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) in southern Africa. There, the landscape is dominated by browns. There are flashes of brilliance, such as after the heavy rains of the rainy season, when cacti bloom sending up gorgeous poker flowers that are red. Or there are the flame lilies everywhere (I have a necklace that features a flame lily). And there are the grey lichen covered rocks of the Matobo Hills. But there is nowhere then that you would see the ordinary green of a mowed lawn.

Now, I realize there are many places in the U.S. that should NOT have green lawns and do. And I know how water wasteful lawns can be. One of my main summertime gripes is the recalcitrant neighbor who insists on watering during a drought. No, no, NO--I want to scream as I walk past his house.

But in my child's experience, the green was breathtaking. When I returned to Africa, and saw my school mates, they asked--what is America like? My answer--it is green. This remark would get me in trouble later on, when I was being disciplined before the dormitory council, the student leaders mockingly said--so, how is GREEN America?

Perhaps the visual difference between a country I had just left and the one I was seeing now magnified the displacement I felt. But it took some getting used to all the green.

I previously wrote about being a third culture kid (TCK) which essentially describes growing up in a culture other than your birth culture, and then finding yourself in between the two. So you "make" a hybrid or third culture. That way you avoid the displacement that can occur as you go back and forth between two cultures--the third culture is always with you.

The sense of displacement is something other members of my family have examined--partly, trying to answer the question of where is home? My brother has written about returning to see the country of his birth, here and here. My nephew has written about various places he has lived and how it feels to go from place to place.

I have lived in Harrisburg now for almost 40 years. So I feel no displacement at all as an adult. But the green grass of spring did zip me back to that first experience of America, the green.

Photo credits--except for the ones of the green grass and of the flame lily necklace,

the photos come from my brother or my nephew.