Learning to Say Yes

Beginning in April, a central theme of my YAGM experience has involved understanding the principle of accompaniment.  Accompaniment, I was told, is the foundation for intercultural relationships, particularly through the Lutheran Church.  Instead of establishing relationships based on “us” and “them,” accompaniment calls on YAGM to walk with his or her host community, forming relationships built on solidarity, respect, and mutuality.  To me, that sounded like a lot of buzzwords that really only said to walk humbly, love much, and go with the flow.

In August, I began to add specifics to my fuzzy definition of accompaniment.  Many Global Missions staff and YAGM alumni mentioned that one of the most important facets of accompaniment was simply saying yes as often as you can-especially when entering a new culture.  Say yes to everything-invitations to dinner, encouragement to join a church choir, requests to proofread documents, opportunities to visit someone’s home, chances to play soccer.  This all seemed well and good, and even began to make the relationships I would start to establish in the coming weeks seem tangible.  Despite all this, I didn’t truly begin to grasp what saying yes meant until I arrived in Maphumulo.

I was somewhat surprised that my first conversations with my hosts and co-workers at the church center in Maphumulo all contained a similar theme: how to accept their welcome.  In addition to being reassured countless times that I would learn a great deal of isiZulu by the next July, I was also told the basic rules of Maphumulo hospitality.  Zulu people, my new friends told me, will always offer you something to eat or drink when you visit their homes.  This wasn’t exactly new information; many cultures express hospitality by sharing food with guests.  My new friends invariably went on to say something I thought obvious: don’t decline when offered food or drink.  I mentally filed this bit of advice away, thinking confidently to myself that duh, of course I would be cognizant enough to accept hospitality when offered to me in the form of food and drink. 

I soon realized, however, that mentally acknowledging something and putting it into practice are two very different things.  The first time I entered someone’s home and was offered my choice of beverage, I immediately thought, “I don’t want to be a burden, so I’ll just say a polite no-thank you.”  Twenty seconds later I caught my mistake and started kicking myself.  I had never realized how ingrained in my psyche the need to be independent and to not cause extra work for anyone else was.  The more I thought about it, I realized that at home I declined hospitality more often than I accepted it.  How very strange that it took a flight to South Africa to realize something so simple.

My internal struggle against accepting what I always assume is extra work for someone else has continued over the last few weeks.  Similarly, I have caught myself hesitating before accepting other invitations or opportunities because I don’t want to interfere with what surely is a well-oiled machine.  Over-rationalizing, while an excellent virtue in chess, is not always as beneficial in real life.  Fortunately, my blunders in matters concerning hospitality are easily mended by conversations.  The best of these conversations seem to have risen from noted differences between my culture and that of my hosts.  Conversations, just like flying to South Africa, have an incredible way of exposing notions and preconceptions of mine that I have never before realized.  Similarly, I have already experienced how my language barrier and the level at which my friends (often secondary school students) translate for me affects what I think about certain situations.  As a result, having a conversation with a different person about the same event provides an entirely new perspective.  The importance of observing, thinking, and asking questions is essential, but I would never have a chance to do any of these things without first consciously saying yes as opportunities and experiences present themselves. 

Funeral for a Pastor...

I was somewhat surprised when I read the packing suggestions for Southern Africa YAGM this summer.  I had heard from several sources that Africans generally dress up more than North Americans, whether in church, academia, or the workplace.  The fact that our country coordinators specifically mentioned that most YAGM wished they brought a set of formal clothes (i.e. black pants, white shirt, etc.) in addition to a good supply of business casual attire didn’t seem out of place.  What did was the reason for this suggestion:  funerals.  At first, I thought this seemed a little presumptuous.  How many people could we reasonably expect to pass away during 11 months?  I had only been to one or two funerals in my life; I couldn’t imagine attending so many that I needed t use valuable suitcase space for an extra set of formal attire.  Nevertheless, I dutifully packed my black slacks, shoes, and white shirt in the bottom of my bag and hoped I wouldn’t need them.

Less than three weeks after arriving in Mapumulo, I attended my first funeral.  Rev. Ngcobo, the deceased, was a retired ELCSA pastor and the father-in-law of one of my co-workers at the church center.  Maybe I’m just speaking from a perspective of very little experience with funerals in my own life, but the service and traditions I witnessed Saturday morning opened up a new window into how to treat and view death. 

The experience began on Friday night, the evening before memorial service.  On this night, the family and friends of the deceased hold a vigil.  The vigil, which can last all night, is usually a combination of singing, praying, sharing stories about the loved one, and encouraging each other.  Before I arrived, I expected the mood to be somber and reflective.  As soon as I climbed out of the back of Baba Mabaso’s bakkie, however, I realized how far off my expectations were.  As we walked towards the door, various Hallelujahs! and echoes of Amen! were easily distinguishable through the walls of the house.  The main room was packed; all the furniture had been cleared away to make room for as many chairs and benches as possible.  I managed to squeeze onto the end of a bench, where I proceeded to attempt to make sense of the story telling and preaching that was going on in Zulu at the front of the room.  The evening was clearly an emotional one, but I saw very little crying.  People seemed happy to reflect on memories of their loved one, and even happier to be uplifted by each other’s presence.

The funeral service was held Saturday morning at 9am.  The church center, which was being used as the venue, was buzzing with activity as soon as it was light.  The meeting halls had been set up for the event on Friday, and somewhere around 500 people were expected to attend.   Sure enough, by half past nine the hall was completely full.  Rev. Ngcobo had worked in the Central Diocese before retiring to Mapumulo, so many friends and colleagues from the Johannesburg/Pretoria area had driven down for the service.  The service was led by two bishops and about 40 pastors, all of whom wore white robes with purple stoles and sat on the stage in front of the attendees.  The service lasted 3.5 hours and included communion, an offering, lots of singing, a sermon, and several speeches by friends of Rev. Ngcobo. 

Rev. Ngcobo's funeral service at the church center.

After the service, everyone walked or drove to the cemetery, which was about 1.5 km away.  After the burial, we walked up the road to a crèche next to Umphumulo Church where some “refreshments” had been prepared.  The refreshments turned out to be a full meal with a dozen or so different dishes: beef, chicken, cow intestines, rice, samp and beans, beets, coleslaw, green salad, and butternut squash.  The atmosphere reminded me of a celebration, not a memorial.

Perhaps my impressions of this South African funeral are shaped by my own inexperience.  Perhaps this service and ceremony was different from most because the deceased was a well known retired pastor.  Either way, it seems to me that in a region where 30-40% of the population is HIV positive, death is much more of an everyday part of life than it is in the U.S.  As the people in my community have shown me, death (for a Christian) is truly a matter to be celebrated.  We celebrate both because our loved one has been called home and because we remember who he or she was during life.  Death still hurts, especially here in rural KwaZulu-Natal where family is the central structure for life.  However, the same community that has been welcoming me to this place proved today that it is equally capable of helping to wipe away the tears of some of its members by celebrating the life of one who passed on. 

90 Minutes

On my first full day in Umphumulo (Sept. 6, 2011), I walked 10 minutes down the hill to the hospital hoping to meet a couple doctors and learn about how I could get involved there.  I didn’t have to spend much time wandering around; the security guard pointed out Dr. Pukana as he was walking across the hospital compound, and I introduced myself a minute after arriving.  Dr. Pukana is a short, thin man of about 30 with a little scruff of a beard on the bottom of his chin.  He was very excited to meet the volunteer who had replaced Val, and showed me his home, his family, and a half dozen other doctors.  We spoke with Dr. Parasztak, the medical administrator for the hospital.  She did her best to dissuade me from pursuing medicine when I return from the states.  This seems to be a theme among doctors I talk to…

A quick digression: South Africa has the highest number of residents infected with HIV in the world. KwaZulu-Natal has the highest percentage of persons infected with HIV in the country, and the percentage approaches 40 % in some places.  According to Dr. Parasztak, upwards of 90% of the patients that check into Umphumulo Hospital are HIV positive.  Now back to my tour. 

The first part of the hospital Dr. Pukana showed me was the Trauma wing.  We had chatted with a couple doctors and nurses for about 5 minutes when a young man came into the hospital with an acute asthma attack.  The doctors immediately started him on oxygen and nebulizers while Dr. Pukana started a line for IV meds.  The nurse brought him a package of sterile latex gloves, which he immediately tore open and used to make a tourniquet.  He put the IV in bare handed, turning to me afterwards and casually saying “In emergencies like these we don’t have time for gloves.”  I hope my shock didn’t show on my face.

After the patient stabilized, we visited the operating theater, the OB-GYN clinic, the pediatric clinic, the psychiatric ward, the ARV clinic, and several TB wards.  The x-ray and ultrasound were not being used because the power was out and the generator powered essentials only.  Our last stop was the neonatology unit and the birthing room.  Dr. Pukana stuck his head inside, said “Sanbonani” to the people inside, and ushered me into the room.  He as I stepped through the door, he asked if I had ever seen a birth before.  I hadn’t, but saw my first within 10 minutes.   I had my standard “Hi, I’m Steve from the US” conversation with a nurse as Dr. Pukana performed what probably could have passed for CPR on the pregnant woman’s stomach.

I headed back to the church center shortly after, but I have a feeling that I’ll be back. 

My First Day in Mapumulo

My first day in Umphumulo began around six when the sun blasted through the thin blue and white drapes that covered my bedroom window.  Even though I remembered to pull them closed the night before, the brilliance of the sun shining over the beautiful green hills of Mapumulo was more than enough to wake me up.  I dozed until 7, and then climbed out of bed to embrace the day.  After warming up in the sun streaming through my windows for a few minutes, I took my first bath in about 15 years.  Unfortunately, I forgot my towel at the backpackers in Pietermaritzburg, so I had to make do with a small, quick-dry camp towel, which left me colder than when I started. 

Xolani, who picked me up from PMB and showed me around the day before, invited me to come to the chapel at 8 every day for a devotion.  I headed over to the chapel a little before 8, and did my best to follow the 15 minute devotion in isiZulu.  After chapel, I made the first of dozens of introductions to the half a dozen other people in attendance.  Xolani and I had breakfast (the 2^nd of 3 meals that the church ladies prepared for me while I was settling in).  The power went while we were eating, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary here. 

We were planning on driving into Stanger, but Xolani had come down with a nasty cold and wanted to see his doctor first.  I stuck around the kitchen and talked with the church staff while he was gone, and we eventually left for Stanger around 10:30.  After a 30 minute drive, I began grocery and towel shopping while Xolani ran a few errands of his own.  I think that I could have definitely done a better job supplying my empty kitchen, but I covered the basics. 

The power was still out during lunch, but life went on as usual.  Xolani gave me a tour of his house, which he sublets to two other tenants.  He showed me an avocado tree behind his home, and we spent 15 minutes trying to knock some of the fruit out of the tree.  I am now the proud owner of the two biggest avocados I’ve ever seen.  Hopefully they’ll taste great in a few days. 

I headed down to the Umphumulo Hospital in the afternoon and met Dr. Pukana.  He gave me the whirlwind tour of the hospital and introduced me to dozens of people.  I’ll save the story of my first experience with South African medicine for another post, but it was quite an introduction.  When I got back to the church compound, the power was still out.  Just as I was moving a gas canister into my flat to cook dinner with, the power came back on!  My first home-made dinner wasn’t candlelit, but the thrill of having power was somewhat short lived because the water went out right after I finished eating dinner.  I spent the rest of the evening reading, writing, and trying to practice Zulu phrases.  Such is life in Umphumulo… at least so far.