Stories of Msanzi: Part 3

The following post is the third of three stories I’d like to pass on about people I’ve walked alongside in Umphumulo.  None of the posts are specifically related to each other-one is about dancing, another about family, and the third about being alone.  The one thing that each has in common is the impact the experience made on me.  Please enjoy!

What do you think of when someone mentions being alone?  Hiking in the backcountry?  Reading in an empty library?  Soaking up the sun on a deserted beach?  Driving on I-70 through Kansas in the middle of the night?  What about sleeping in an open room with 15 other men?  If you’re like me, the last one probably wouldn’t be at the top of your list.

One of my best friends in Umphumulo disagrees with us all.  He has spent the last six weeks living in the male TB ward in Umphumulo Hospital, and has two more weeks to go before he will be discharged.   The TB ward is about 25m long and 10 m wide, with 12 beds on each side.  Depending on the week, anywhere between 10-20 patients are in the ward, all with different types of TB. 

The road that ended with my friend’s stay in the hospital began in January of this year.  The new year started off in a good way—he was able to move out of the room he had been staying in and into a granny-flat just up the hill from his family’s house.  He was pretty excited about his move to “the castle,” and we spent a weekend cleaning the place out for him to move in.  There’s can be a lot of friction between my friend and some of his sisters at times, so the chance to have his own space was a big deal. 

A few weeks later, my friend got a bad case of the flu (South Africans call use the word “flu” to describe almost any minor illness.)  He wasn’t eating well, and started spending more and more time sleeping, napping, and watching TV.  After a few weeks of this, we convinced him to go to the hospital and get checked out. 

My friend is the kind of person who is always joking about something.  Knowing this about him, nobody really believed him when he came back from the hospital with news that the doctors thought he had TB.  I had jokingly told him he might have TB while trying to convince him to go get checked out in the first place, so I didn’t take him seriously until the results of his sputum culture came back a week later and were positive for TB.  Even though this was a shock to me, TB is common in this part of South Africa and my friend started a standard 6 month treatment course at the end of January. 

According to the doctors I know at the hospital, within a month of starting treatment the patient’s sputum should no longer be positive for TB.  Most symptoms—coughing, weakness, night sweats, loss of weight—should disappear within that time period as well.  Needless to say, I was shocked when I returned to Umphumulo in mid March after spending two weeks away from home to find that my friend had gotten drastically worse.  He had almost no energy, was freezing during the day and sweating buckets at night, and had lost an incredible amount of weight.  His face looked wasted and his body more or less emaciated.  I was amazed.

When he went to the hospital for his two month checkup, the hospital staff was also surprised.  They took another sputum sample, and when it still contained TB they sent it to King George’s Hospital in Durban to be cultured and tested for drug sensitivity.  Meanwhile, my neighbors, co-workers, and I made an extra effort to bring my friend extra food and drinks in the hopes of bringing his weight up.   Here’s why: at his March checkup, he weighed 51kg, or about 112 pounds.

Weeks dragged by before the culture and sensitivity results came back from Durban.  During that time, I did my best to visit and spent time with my friend, but I couldn’t change the fact that he was still contagious.  Active pulmonary TB is highly communicable and is spread by breathing in bacteria that an infected person coughs into the air, and my doctor friends constantly warned me about spending time with my friend.  Those weeks were lonely for Sbo—waiting for results that never seemed to come, being kept apart from friends and family, and taking treatment that didn’t seem to be having an effect on his sickness.

When the sensitivity results came back, no one was surprised to learn that my friend had been officially diagnosed with MDR TB.  He was admitted to the TB ward at Umphumulo Hospital and began a series of 40 daily injections, in addition to his other treatment.  Since he was admitted, the male TB ward has been his new home.  Despite the routine (injection and tablets in the morning, followed by breakfast, tea, lunch, supper, tablets and tea), it’s been easy for me to see how a hospital can be a lonely place.  More importantly, I’ve also learned how visits from friends and family members can brighten someone’s day, particularly when one isn’t allowed to leave the hospital compound.

Talking to my friend outside his ward (while standing a “safe” six feet apart) has opened my eyes to a whole new side of hospital life in Umphumulo.  Imagine living on hospital food for two months.  Not fun, right? Now imagine having to share the same two showers with 40 men, several of whom suffer from mental disorders and regularly defecate in the bathing area.  Imagine not wanting to give up your pair of hospital issued pants because you weren’t sure when another clean pair would be brought around.  Imagine watching patients with whom you shared the ward for a couple weeks die in the same room you sleep in, and the only thing you can do is roll over look the other way.  Pondering those questions has certainly broadened my definition of what it means to be alone. 

I probably don’t need to say it, but bringing food, having conversations, and being present to listen to my friend in the hospital has been one of the most rewarding ministries in my time in Umphumulo. 

Stories of Msanzi: Part 2

The following post is the second of three stories I’d like to pass on about people I’ve walked alongside in Umphumulo.  None of the posts are specifically related to each other-one is about dancing, another about family, and the third about being alone.  The one thing that each has in common is the impact the experience made on me.  Please enjoy!

“You know Steve, I grew up with whites.”

Mrs. Makhaye is the head of the science department at Amaphuphesizwe (ma-poo-pay-seez-way) Secondary School in Umphumulo.  She teaches “pure” mathematics and mathematical literacy to about two thirds of the 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th grade students at the school.  She is the teacher who I’ve worked with the most during my time at Amaphuphesizwe—I’ve taught her classes when she had to moderate exams, helped mark her students’ papers, calculated grades and averages for her classes, and helped fix her computer.  In return, she always insists on buying me food, which I can never complain about.

On my last day at Amaphuphesizwe, Mrs. Makhaye had put together a take away feast from the Spar in Maphumulo.  The spread included curry and rice, fish and chips, frito-type corn chips, coleslaw, beet salad, tea, and cakes.  As we ate, Mrs. Makhaye began to tell me about her life as a young adult in the seventies.

During apartheid, education was one of the many services that was segregated by race.  As a Zulu woman, Mrs. Makhaye had grown up in the inferior “bantu education” system that was the standard for black children at the time.  How inferior was her education?  During apartheid, the government spent approximately 8 times more on the education of a white child than a black one.  As a girl, she dreamed of being a doctor despite having no resources to pay for post-secondary education.  When she completed Standard 10 (the equivalent of grade 12 today), it seemed that her education had reached a dead end.

While she was in school, Mrs. Makhaye’s mother started working as a domestic worker for an English speaking family in south western KwaZulu-Natal.  Although she could hear and understand basic English, her mother couldn’t speak it or respond to questions her employers asked.  Nevertheless, she and her employers managed for a few weeks until the end of the school year, when Mrs. Makhaye (who spoke fluent English as a result of 12 years of school) came for a visit. 

A small aside:  As Mrs. Makhaye told me the story, I couldn’t help but notice her eyes light up when she remembered meeting the family her mother worked for. 

From the moment they met, this family loved her.  They were completely understanding of the language barrier between themselves and Mrs. Makhaye’s mother, and were happy to make an extra effort to communicate with her.  They also offered to hire Mrs. Makhaye as well, which she promptly accepted.  As a result, at the age of 18 my friend traded her dreams of medical school for a job as a domestic worker.  She quickly became part of her new family-she took care of their children, got to swim in their pool, traveled to visit extended family members, and went on holiday with her employers. 

As they got to know each other, her new family took things a step further.  Besides simply taking Mrs. Makhaye with them when they went on holidays, they took her to whites only parks, beaches, and restaurants.  This flew in the face of everything apartheid stood for, and one can only imagine the pressure she and they received from their peers and the authorities alike.  Mrs Makhaye, as usual, understated the drama of these situations.  As she described her new family’s response to criticism for treating her as a daughter, she told how people would ask a few hostile questions (“You know she’s not allowed to be here, right?”) and quickly realize that they were powerless to change how her family thought of and treated her. 

Mrs. Makhaye’s new family didn’t stop there.  They went on to send her to college in Port Shepstone to study teaching, which became her career.  As a result, thousands of students have benefitted from this dedicated, talented, and compassionate woman’s skills over the years.  Including me, for that matter.  I pray that I can find my place in this story, make the most of the gifts people have given me, and share those gifts with others.

Stories of Msanzi: Part 1

The following post is the first of three stories I’d like to pass on about people I’ve walked alongside in Umphumulo.  None of the posts are specifically related to each other-one is about dancing, another about family, and the third about being alone.  The one thing that each has in common is the impact the experience made on me.  Please enjoy!

A few weeks ago I had two “I love this place!” moments.   I think everyone who lives in a culture that’s very distinct from their own experiences feelings like this at some point or another.  Moments like this happen to me when I least expect them, and always leave me with a sense of euphoria, inspiration, and peace. 

I had been invited to attend the first ever Diocese-wide conference for the Young Adults League (YAL), which was being held at a retreat center in the middle of the woods just across the border between KwaZulu-Natal and Mpumalanga.  I made the 4.5 hour drive to the conference on Saturday with Baba and Mama Bishop, who were returning for the last day of the conference.  We arrived late, but soon found that the conference was running about 2 hours behind schedule.  That meant that the music competition, which is a pretty standard part of the programme for ELCSA conferences, hadn’t even started yet.  Despite the inevitability of a late night, I was excited—I’ve rarely heard a Zulu choir I didn’t like. 

After each choir had sung the competition’s prescribed piece, they were invited to take the stage again to sing something of their own choice.  From the start, it was obvious that only about half of the choirs knew that there was an “Own Choice” category in the competition.  The half that did prepare something came dressed to the nines in traditional Zulu attire—the guys wore leopard print tank tops, pants decorated with colored patches, and furry headbands while the ladies wore beaded skirts, brightly colored shirts, and bright beaded jewelry.   These groups performed an elaborate mix of traditional songs and dances, which is always a lot of fun to watch.  Not to be shown up, the choirs who didn’t bring their traditional dress just got just as into it.  Most untucked their white YAL uniform shirts, put their ties around their heads, and gave just as good of a demo of Zulu culture as the brightly dressed groups. 

The best part was how much the audience and the choirs got into each performance.  I’ve rarely been in an environment where everyone is having such a good time.  People were clapping, laughing, taking pictures, shooting videos, and encouraging dancers to do more and more.  Each time a choir member would take center stage to show off her stuff, the crowd loved it.  Since traditional Zulu dancing involves kicking one’s foot as high as possible and stomping it back down, it’s pretty common for overzealous dancers (especially those with y chromosomes) to fall over backward when they’re trying to impress the crowd.  There’s no embarrassment in this; everybody just laughs and applauds, and then it’s time for the next person to show off. 

The unforgettable moment came during one of the “unprepared” choirs’ performance.  They had recruited some of the pastors from their circuit to join them on stage, so the lineup was a mix of young adults with ties around their heads and pastors in suits and clerical collars.  As the performance got going, the Dean of the circuit took center stage.  He slowly worked his way into the rhythm of the song, starting with slow, small kicks that quickly got bigger.  Before long, this 40 something pastor in a nice grey suit was giving the best of the young adults a run for their money.  The audience loved it.  Sure enough, the Dean tried to do a little bit too much and fell over backwards.  I couldn’t even hear myself think as he got up, grinned sheepishly, and dusted off his slacks.  There’s something about the head about a tenth of the South Eastern Diocese being happy to sing, dance, and fall over in front of a couple hundred people that makes you feel alive.

After the conference ended on Sunday afternoon, I was talking with the Bishop on the long drive back to Umphumulo.  Apparently the Bishop and his wife hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before due the combination of a lack of accommodation at the retreat center, elections not stopping until 2 am, and the obligatory 5am wakeup call to bathe and get ready for the next day.  A couple hours of sleep didn’t affect his talkativeness though…  We talked about everything—thatching roofs, herding cows, polygamy, the battle at Bhambela between the Zulu nation and the British, government development projects in rural areas, how to drive on washed out dirt roads, same sex marriage, the division between ELCSA and ELCSA-NT, masturbation, ordination, traveling to the US, the African expat community in Chicago, and pumpkin porridge.  As we spoke, I was amazed by how much he works.  This is a 60 something year old man who spent 18 hours in the car driving to and from the Young Adults League conference during one weekend.  He conducted two elections, slept for a couple hours in his car, and was up again to hold a communion service on Sunday morning.  The next week he mentored the pastors who are about to be ordained in the SED for five days.  Amazing. 

What’s even more amazing is how much he cares for his church and the people it’s made of.  Twice on the drive back from the YAL conference we saw groups of ladies in black and white Lutheran uniforms walking home from church on the side of the road.  As the car screeched to a stop by the surprised women, I think the bishop’s words to me were, “When I see my people walking, I can never pass them by.”  When we rolled down the window, the women went from being scared to surprised to ecstatic in about 20 seconds.  After chatting for a couple minutes, we continued on our way.  Stopping to say hi, offer a lift if he has room, and shake hands is an incredible ministry that the bishop does everywhere he goes.  The love, energy, and humility this servant of God showed me in just two days was truly amazing. 

On Kumbis...

Millions of South Africans rely on public transportation to get from place to place.  In cities, public transportation can take forms similar to what is present all around the world—city and long distance buses, light rail, and meter taxis, to name a few examples.  As in the United States, these forms of transportation are somewhat underdeveloped, even in big cities like Johannesburg and Durban.  In addition, they don’t even come close to meeting the transportation needs of South Africans who don’t live in big cities.  Townships, rural areas, small towns, and all the places in between have very few connections to this type of transportation infrastructure.  Since many South Africans don’t own cars, a significant proportion of the population needs an alternative mode of transportation.  Enter the kumbi.

Kumbis, or minibus taxis, operate virtually everywhere in South Africa.  Each village, town, city, township, and neighborhood has its own set of taxi ranks, stops, and routes that thoroughly penetrate the rainbow nation.  Kumbi drivers and owners’ associations form a network of organized chaos that provides daily service to millions of South Africans traveling to and from work, school, shopping centers, and sports matches.  A network of long distance kumbis runs between cities and towns that can be hundreds of kilometers apart.  Kumbis are hands down the cheapest, the most accessible, and the most common form of public transportation. 

Kumbis waiting in the Kranskop taxi rank

Most kumbi routes originate from taxi ranks. Taxi ranks can range from massive, buzzing masses of humanity with taxis traveling to hundreds of destinations to small dirt pullouts on the side of the road that connect two neighborhoods within a city.   Bigger ranks also serve as hubs for informal traders and vendors.  While waiting in a taxi rank, you can buy anything from soda, chips, super glue, fried chicken, sunglasses, fresh fruit, dish towels, airtime (pre-paid cell phone minutes), fingernail clippers, candy, grilled mielies (ears of corn), electric filaments to boil water, mini Christmas trees, CD’s and DVD’s, shoes, crafts, and frozen bags of juice.  The frozen juices are delicious, by the way.

Most taxi routes at a given rank are unlabeled, making it difficult to figure out which taxi goes to a certain destination.  In addition, the fares for routes are rarely posted, adding to the confusion when traveling somewhere for the first time.  Many, rural areas don’t have official ranks at all.  Instead, people stand by the side of the nearest road and flag taxis down as they drive by.  Soon after arriving in Umphumulo, I learned that each of these seemingly innocuous places by the side of the road has its own name and corresponding fare.  For example, the place I wait to catch kumbis is called Magengqezeni.  I always seem to have to repeat myself several times as I try to tell the driver where I need to get off, which is probably mostly for the entertainment value of listening to a white guy trying to pronounce Zulu words and clicks.

There is no set schedule for kumbi departures or arrivals.  A minibus taxi will leave the rank only when it is full—i.e. when 15+ people and their assorted goods have piled inside.  Sometimes, this can take quite a while.  I have frequently waited for 90 minutes or more for my kumbi to fill up when traveling from Kranskop to Pietermaritzburg.  What’s more, in rural areas people often come to town to do several weeks worth of shopping.  When multiple people are bringing home 50 liter propane cylinders, 25 kg bags of maize meal, sacks of squash, beets, and cabbages, gallons of cooking oil, and bags of other groceries, this can make for very full kumbis. 

Nothing says community like sweating in the back row of an almost-full kumbi for a couple hours...

Kumbi drivers also are notorious for speeding, passing at inappropriate times, screeching to a halt at the side of the road with no notice, overloading their vehicles, and otherwise driving with complete disregard for the rules of the road.  Fortunately, the police are cracking down on reckless drivers, but the number of deaths on South Africa’s roads is still frighteningly high.  Part of the reason that drivers are always in such a rush has to do with the way the kumbi system is regulated.  Drivers have to collect about R6000 a week to pay for gas, pay fees owed to the taxi owners’ association, and make monthly payments on their kumbi.  Whatever money they earn after that is kept as profit.  When you add up the number of R5 – R8 fares a driver has to collect over the course of a day to meet this quota, the constant rush is a little more understandable. 

Kumbis can range from brand new Mercedes Sprinter style buses to 15-passenger Toyota Quantums to 30+ year old models made by companies that went extinct before I was born.  The South African government spent millions of Rands buying new kumbis before the 2010 FIFA World Cup, but many smaller towns and rural areas are still served by minibus taxis that were made in the 1980s.  Taxi drivers are ingenious when it comes to keeping their machines running, but the continuous use takes a heavy toll.  I’ve ridden in taxis that have to be push started because the ignition doesn’t work, a few that have no internal door handles, and many that require months of practice to open and close the sliding door in one try. 

All in all, the kumbi network is a very practical and useful means of transportation, but I have my own list of pet peeves.  Legroom—especially for someone like me who is about foot taller than most South Africans—is virtually nonexistent, especially when I have three bags of groceries to hold on my lap.  In addition, despite being crammed into a kumbi like sardines, South Africans rarely open the windows.  I don’t know whether people dislike the cool (refreshing) air or just don’t want the wind to mess up their weaves, but kumbis can be absolutely stifling on long trips.  Finally, the lack of scheduled services and the fact that most kumbis are off the road by 6 pm makes traveling very time consuming and difficult to plan.  Still, all these challenges have definitely added to the flavor of my South African experience.  For instance, being crammed next to a complete stranger for a couple hours has provided some great conversations.  Once, I spent an hour or so talking to an older man about American westerns—books, movies, actors, etc.  I think he had watched every western ever filmed, including “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” about 30 times.  Another time while waiting at a taxi rank, a friend and I bought some delicious smelling chicken that a lady was grilling on a wooden skewer.  To our surprise, the first bite had the strangest texture of any chicken we’d ever tasted, and after asking around we learned that we had bought a stick of grilled chicken gizzards.  We were more than happy to share these with a little boy sitting next to us. 

My experiences with kumbis have exposed me to a cross section of South African life that would have been impossible to see from any other angle.   Traveling in kumbis has been a great way to join South Africans in the middle of their lives, share some of the same daily frustrations with them, and witness some amazing ubuntu moments.  It takes a lot of trust to get on a kumbi for the first time when you don’t know where it’s heading, how long it will take to get there, how much it will cost, or what anyone around you is saying.  Time and time again, however, my questions have been answered and my doubts waved away.  Who knows… I might even miss kumbis when my time in South Africa is over.