Thomas Moore knew well how to express pathos in poetic terms back there in the late 1700-1800s. Disconsolate: cast down in spirit, utterly dejected. Certainly, there are days here in modern Zimbabwe when we’re more closely akin to the 18th than 21st century!
The hymn Come, Ye Disconsolate popped into my mind this week on the fourth day of ZESA (Zimbabwe Electricity Supply Authority) cuts, 12 hours or more per day. We sleep with a fan above our bed. Monday it eases into a full stop at 6 a.m.; Tuesday and Wednesday at 5:17 a.m.; and Thursday at 5:21 a.m. Twelve to fourteen hours later ZESA switches on again. And we are charged for this disruptive service a monthly fee usually exceeding $80 U.S.
Thursday morning hit me hard. [ZESA off at 9 a.m. and on again at 3 p.m. on Friday. On all day Saturday until 5 to 7 p.m., and now it’s Sunday morning and who knows what’s in store, except over 20 people over after church for a braai (barbeque)]. The monotony of four days in a row with at least 12 hours without ZESA.
So, I am feeling a bit down but we broke our fourth day routine with a morning at church looking at the tasks needed doing to spruce up the church. It is fun and a parade of ideas flow through our conversation. Friday we take it all in stride, and Saturday we are in the kitchen, both of us busy; me with pork chops and chili, and Jim with coleslaw and lickey stickey, the poor man’s cake made without eggs. I am happy with pork chops for supper and two more double servings in the freezer, and at least three and maybe four meals with chili, also in the freezer. ZESA goes off just as Jim finishes his kitchen work for the braai.
After four years of an erratic schedule with ZESA we are quite relaxed with taking it as it comes and goes. In the early months we would get quite worked up and irritable. It’s the not knowing that’s the most problematic. If you’re caught with half-done bread in the breadmaker, for example. We do have a propane stove and Jim has successfully transferred cakes in midstream.
Most of our ZESA cuts are daytime, which I find easier to live with than the evening hours. At first they were mostly at night, and we invested in those portable fluorescent lights that had to be charged up. We didn’t have much success with these after the first month or so. They went downhill from several hours of light to less than a half hour and less. Chinese made, you know.
So, then we graduated to invertors, now part of our lounge décor. A little table with an invertor, battery charger and battery. For a couple of years several of us in church would haul our invertors and batteries back and forth, because when ZESA is off we can’t use all our musical instruments and the sound desk. Now, thanks to some good friends, we do have a small generator.
The lengthy times of no ZESA cuts into communication with folks overseas. No ZESA means no computer. No computer means no email, even writing email notes. So, we don’t keep up with our correspondence like we should.
Why no ZESA? The cuts began as loadshedding; everyone does with less so the wheat farmers can irrigate their fields. But it’s much more than that. Other culprits include maintenance and the necessary expansion to keep up with population growth. During our hyperinflation years money wasn’t available to purchase and replace parts. And planning ahead or anticipating growth is more of a Western concept than Third World. The natural resources are here, including abundant coal and the Zambezi River. One of these days we’ll be on track again, but it may take some years. Meanwhile, Zimbabwe imports up to half its electricity.
Sorry about the melodramatic disconsolate; it was just a brief twinge. Really, it’s something I can live with. Some will ask why we stay and put up with such nonsense. The answer is so simple and brings with it contentment. God is here, and this is where He wants us to be. We all live with irregularities of some kind and an unstable ZESA may be a lot more tolerable than what other people face. But don’t you like the way Thomas Moore ended the first verse of his hymn: Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
A FUNERAL IN PRETORIA
In early August almost two weeks after I was back in Zimbabwe, Jim took a sad call from South Africa. A dear friend of his had died at age 51 and the family asked Jim to do the funeral. Jim agreed.
We couldn't leave right away. Driving across borders requires car clearance papers, and the call came on a weekend and the first two days following were holidays. We did get away on Wednesday afternoon and took the drive in easy stages. To Francistown, Botswana, the first night and on to Polokwane, South Africa, the second day and night, and finally arriving Friday night in Pretoria, one of South Africa's three capital cities.
In the Africa I know today (Zimbabwe and South Africa) death brings family together at the home of the deceased. And they stay until after the burial. With the Black African the women will sit in the house and the men outside drinking beer. Everyone has to be fed and accommodated until it's all over.
With the Coloureds, it's much the same, although accommodation is spread out among the family. (For example, one of the cousin's took us to his home.)
They were awaiting our arrival. Every room seemed filled with people. Most of the men sitting on the back verandah but a few scattered throughout with the women and children. There's a somberness as we greet one another. Many know Jim from years ago, and some had seen him just about two years ago.
Now that we've arrived, they begin a time of singing. A sister from Ireland has asked two young ladies to lead, and their voices are sweet and melodious. After close to an hour of singing, Jim is asked to say a few words. And then food is served. It's just the beginning of two days of what seems like a continual feast. A little box is set on a coffee table where people are invited to contribute Rand dollars to help pay for costs.
The next day we're back at the house and the deceased is on display in one of the front rooms. Many, many come to pay their last respects. It's a solemn, quiet time but occasionally someone collapses, weeping loudly, and is escorted from the room. I'll say it, even though it sounds cynical, but the person most visible and verbal with a show of grief is often the one on the worst terms with the deceased. Those in loving accord keep their grief inside and not to be shared with all and sundry.
The drive to the church for the service was a bit wild, trying to keep up with the car ahead that screeched through too many red lights! We were last in the small church parking lot. It was a nice-looking church with a sign advertising at least four services on a Sunday - in English, Afrikaans, Portuguese, and an African language.
The local pastor was not happy to share the service with Jim and did so reluctantly. He also objected to some of the items on the beautifully printed program but the family spokesperson was adamant about anything perceived to be a favorite of the deceased. And it was a lovely, warm farewell to a dear man - husband, father, grandfather and friend. Very personal with many people taking part.
A tea followed in the church hall, and any remaining somberness was broken as people caught up on one another's lives. Lots of laughter and a buz of chatter while both sweets and savories were devoured.
And that wasn't the end of eating. When we returned to the house a big lunch was served under a canopy at the back. Time to sit and talk and remember. Also to see what a cross section of people had been touched by the life of this one man.
The body was cremated on Tuesday and the ashes collected on Wednesday. In a little over a month a few will drive to Bulawayo in Zimbabwe to bury the ashes as requested by the deceased. Zimbabwe was his home, he had said to his son. Not South Africa.
Thank goodness for funerals and weddings. Time and circumstances separate us from people we were once close to, and if it weren't for these two events we might never see one another again. We say we'll keep in touch, see one another more often, and our intent is true, but it might take another funeral or wedding to make it happen!
We couldn't leave right away. Driving across borders requires car clearance papers, and the call came on a weekend and the first two days following were holidays. We did get away on Wednesday afternoon and took the drive in easy stages. To Francistown, Botswana, the first night and on to Polokwane, South Africa, the second day and night, and finally arriving Friday night in Pretoria, one of South Africa's three capital cities.
In the Africa I know today (Zimbabwe and South Africa) death brings family together at the home of the deceased. And they stay until after the burial. With the Black African the women will sit in the house and the men outside drinking beer. Everyone has to be fed and accommodated until it's all over.
With the Coloureds, it's much the same, although accommodation is spread out among the family. (For example, one of the cousin's took us to his home.)
They were awaiting our arrival. Every room seemed filled with people. Most of the men sitting on the back verandah but a few scattered throughout with the women and children. There's a somberness as we greet one another. Many know Jim from years ago, and some had seen him just about two years ago.
Now that we've arrived, they begin a time of singing. A sister from Ireland has asked two young ladies to lead, and their voices are sweet and melodious. After close to an hour of singing, Jim is asked to say a few words. And then food is served. It's just the beginning of two days of what seems like a continual feast. A little box is set on a coffee table where people are invited to contribute Rand dollars to help pay for costs.
The next day we're back at the house and the deceased is on display in one of the front rooms. Many, many come to pay their last respects. It's a solemn, quiet time but occasionally someone collapses, weeping loudly, and is escorted from the room. I'll say it, even though it sounds cynical, but the person most visible and verbal with a show of grief is often the one on the worst terms with the deceased. Those in loving accord keep their grief inside and not to be shared with all and sundry.
The drive to the church for the service was a bit wild, trying to keep up with the car ahead that screeched through too many red lights! We were last in the small church parking lot. It was a nice-looking church with a sign advertising at least four services on a Sunday - in English, Afrikaans, Portuguese, and an African language.
The local pastor was not happy to share the service with Jim and did so reluctantly. He also objected to some of the items on the beautifully printed program but the family spokesperson was adamant about anything perceived to be a favorite of the deceased. And it was a lovely, warm farewell to a dear man - husband, father, grandfather and friend. Very personal with many people taking part.
A tea followed in the church hall, and any remaining somberness was broken as people caught up on one another's lives. Lots of laughter and a buz of chatter while both sweets and savories were devoured.
And that wasn't the end of eating. When we returned to the house a big lunch was served under a canopy at the back. Time to sit and talk and remember. Also to see what a cross section of people had been touched by the life of this one man.
The body was cremated on Tuesday and the ashes collected on Wednesday. In a little over a month a few will drive to Bulawayo in Zimbabwe to bury the ashes as requested by the deceased. Zimbabwe was his home, he had said to his son. Not South Africa.
Thank goodness for funerals and weddings. Time and circumstances separate us from people we were once close to, and if it weren't for these two events we might never see one another again. We say we'll keep in touch, see one another more often, and our intent is true, but it might take another funeral or wedding to make it happen!
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