New Textbooks, Happy Students

Because of the contributions of friends and family, especially our Jacksonville church family at New Life Community Church, Annette and I had a sizable sum of money to be used to support quilting classes and other projects we thought important. It was soon apparent that in the maths classes I taught at Hartzell High School, many students did not have textbooks. Our goal became to buy textbooks for those students. We did not achieve that goal while at Old Mutare, but during the following school term, the books arrived. The picture shows pleased students with brand new maths textbooks in hand, with Mr. Newton Magureyi, head of the Hartzell High school maths department, in the back.

Recently, a friend, who has just returned from Old Mutare, sent us several letters from students with whom I worked. Here are a few comments from those letters:

“Thank you for the math text books they have contributed a lot in our lives.” - Masimba

“Students were very greatful for your hard work of donating maths text books. . . Nyasha, Shamiso and Vukile were very happy because they don’t have to share text books anymore.” - Shingirai

“I also got a new maths textbook and I want to thank you in the behalf of the form I and II students for your hard work you have done to us.” – Farai

I pass on the thanks of these students and the 70 or more others who received new textbooks to those good folks whose donations made possible the happiness of the students.

Quilting Multiplied

One of my more thrilling experiences at Old Mutare was seeing quilting skills that Annette taught expanding to a larger circle. Annette had passed on to Cecilia Mabvumbe of Fairfield Children’s Home some more advanced quilting skills, hoping Cecilia would also pass on her knowledge. Sure enough, within a few weeks, Cecilia had organized Fairfield housemothers for a regular Wednesday quilting class. Soon, they all were carrying quilted bags, and before long, some aunties had bags, too. (Click pictures for a larger view.)

Nyasha Mawayo, housemother in 8A where Annette and I are adopted grandparents, expanded the circle even further. Soon Nomatter and Justice, two of her older children, and their big sister, were sewing, too, and now, each had a bag in which to carry exercise books to Hartzell Central Primary School when the term begins September 5.

Cleopatra

For weeks, I had sought an opportunity to accompany Janine Roberts on one of her visits to farms near Old Mutare. At last, within a day of my leaving, that intention came true.

Janine directs a small, highly effective program called Hope of Zimbabwe from her home at Fairfield Children’s Home. Her mission is a simple one: reach out to people in need of care in the rural bush near Old Mutare. There is a medical component, caring for people suffering and dying of HIV/AIDS. There is also a childcare component, providing clothing and school fees to terribly needy children, many of them orphans. Janine came to Old Mutare two years ago to expand an informal effort by MaiChimba, one of the real heroes whom I was thrilled to meet and know. MaiChimba continues to work with Janine, and at present, an American volunteer, Melissa Maher, a student at Asbury Seminary, is working with Janine and MaiChimba as well.

On Thursday at 1:00 p.m., we began a short trip by car to Miekles’ Farm, perhaps five kilometers from Fairfield Children’s Home, much of the trip on narrow, bumpy tracks through fields. Our destination was a cluster of thatch-roofed, clay-sided huts, 50 or more, scattered among fields but connected by well-worn paths. We began a trek among those houses, stopping at most of them to greet people. Children were everywhere. As we moved about, I quickly realized that although a mere stone’s throw from Old Mutare, the level of abject poverty I was seeing was unlike anything I had seen during my 13-week stay. I was amazed and shocked by what I saw—and puzzled that I had heard nothing about such intensity of need so close by.

Then I reminded myself, I had heard but had no experience by which to comprehend what I was hearing. MaiZvingo, the third-grade teacher in whose classroom I taught, had told me about the sorry living conditions of many of her students, and the headmaster, Shadreck Mufute, had shown me homes as we drove along roads far more distant, from which Primary School students come, walking many kilometers each way to school. Still, until I walked those pathways of Miekles’ Farm, I had no idea of the reality of their words. Now I knew, and it was distressing. How in the world can children learn when they must live with such utter deprivation?

As we walked about, we came to the home of a grandmother raising her grandchildren (one of many in that hodgepodge of huts), both of their parents, her children, dead from AIDS. That grandmother, obviously quite old, leaned on a cane as she walked. English was not her forte, and she struggled to tell us what was on her mind. Soon, we figured out that she wanted us to meet her granddaughter and see her report card. She called Cleopatra from inside their hut, and she soon came out, clutching a familiar booklet with the logo of Hartzell Primary School on its cover, the report card she had received that morning when school closed.

Shyly, Cleopatra handed the booklet to Janine, then to me. I turned to the last completed page (report cards at Hartzell Primary follow the child through every grade, marks added at the end of each three-month term). It was obvious that she had done very well; her teacher’s comments were highly complimentary. I looked at the top of the page where her class standing was listed—number ONE in her class! Next to it, her standing in the entire third-grade—number TWO of at least 100 students. My eyes and mind turned to the pitiful surroundings in which I stood, in which Cleopatra was growing up. I looked at that little girl, now not in a neat school uniform but in tattered clothes she wore at home. I realized I was looking at a unique child for whom learning was a joy despite the misery of her environment. I saw a halo around that little girl’s head, although you will not spot it in her picture.

Of course, I realized that for everyone like Cleopatra, there were dozens who were not doing well, held back by the deprivation of daily life, the children MaiZvingo and Mr. Mufute care so much about. At the end of our trek among the houses, we returned to the car where Janine, MaiChimba and Melissa began to distribute clothing to a long line of orphans. Many more children, and a few grannies and other adults, stood by, watching as each child received two garments and a pair of shoes. Were they thinking that it was lucky to be an orphan? Every one of them could have used new garments, and all were shoeless, but there were not enough clothes for all. I was watching a prototype of what regularly happens in rural Africa, needs eclipsing remedies by far. Drops in a bucket? Or mustard seeds? The answer eludes me—but I will side with mustard seeds!

On the Ground in Portland

After sleeping through most of the last leg of my flight from Africa, I awakened Monday afternoon to look out the window and see a massive mountain just off the wingtip. Still drowsy, I wondered what had happened to cause the airplane to be so low and suddenly realized I was looking at Mt. Hood. Within minutes, we were on the ground and rolling to a stop. More than 36 hours earlier, I had boarded the flight from Harare to Jo'burg. Within a few hours, I was on a crowded airplane headed for Dulles airport where we landed 18 1/2 hours later, then a short hop to Atlanta before the final flight to Portland. Annette arrived Tuesday afternoon, so we are now at home in Portland, sorting out the many experiences and impressions of more than three months away.

I have left many good friends behind in a country that continues to experience incredible economc problems, making life difficult for everyone. Adding insult to injury, the Minister of Finance has announced revaluation of the currency, creating enormous confusion and resentment, and making exchange of foreign currency problematical. Inflation is now at about 100%/month. When I left Zimbabwe, money I changed early in my stay was worth about 1/4 as much. Petrol supplies are almost non-existent. Food costs are exorbitant, combining inflation and price gouging. For even the average Zimbabwean, living is tough.

Several projects will occupy me as I consider how I can continue to be involved in the lives and work of these good people. At the top of that list is a ten-year-old girl, whose name is Wayne Nyanungo, the daughter of a pastor. Wayne is more severely handicapped than anyone I have ever met. What can be done to reduce her suffering is way beyond me, but there must be some way to make a difference for her and her faithful family. I will try, working along with Rev. Kennedy Mukwindidza, a Zimbabwean pastor from Kansas, who initiated my visit with Wayne. I will soon post more information about Wayne, with pictures. Another project will assist a rural church, Marara, to complete the parsonage that has been half done for years, beyond the ability of that poor, small congregation to raise adequate funds. Follow this blog, and you will learn more soon.

Winding Down

Tuesday morning at devotions, it was announced that the winter term at Hartzell High School will end with early-morning devotions next Tuesday (August 1), one day early because of difficulty making arrangements for buses to Harare, where many Hartzell students live. Suddenly, I was confronted with the reality of the end of my stay at Old Mutare, not a surprise, of course, but always in somewhat distant future, and now I must sort out mixed feelings about that closure. The next few days will include fond good-byes to students who have become friends, listening to those who urgently wish for “pencil friends” (pen pals) in the U. S., collecting letters to be mailed to U. S. addresses, answering the common question, “When will you return?” (usually saying, “At my age, I have no idea.”), and making other necessary end-of-term arrangements. Not least is to fret about whether there will indeed be transport and sufficient petrol for the return trip to Harare on (or before) August 6 when my first flight begins at 1:15 p.m.

These last days will be full of activity as I try to squeeze in as many experiences as possible, like my trip yesterday with Shadreck Mufuti, headmaster of Hartzell Central Primary School. I had the wrong impression that Hartzell Primary, like the high school, is a school that students choose to attend. I learned that it is the only primary school for a large area surrounding Old Mutare and the only choice for children who live as far as 15 km distant. He drove me along roads that children walk daily each way to school and showed me the simple huts and houses where they live, explaining that the poverty of the families living in those homes creates many problems for the children that the school cannot begin to solve. He told me of his great concern for the welfare of those children, many of whom he considers especially vulnerable, and of several dreams he has for improving their condition, hoping I might join him in fulfilling some of those dreams for them. I was touched, hoping too that I might keep alive those concerns once I am far away. Educational tasks are too often thwarted by students' lacks of basic physical needs—food, warm clothing, shoes, medical care—which cannot be ignored but neither can they be easily remedied.

I will leave here next week with a variety of emotions and perceiving that come from the multitude of experiences during more than 13 weeks of living at Old Mutare. It will take a long time, if ever, to sort all of that into reasonable understandings and guidance for my future commitments to this place and these people. I will leave both reluctantly and happily, the latter emotion largely the result of being away from family and often feeling very much alone. The reluctance will come from needing to say good-bye to people whom I have come to respect and appreciate deeply for their dedication and sacrifice to make life better for others. My memories of those heroic people will energize me for a long time. Immediately, I will need to sort through hundreds of pictures and find ways to tell their stories and report my work and impressions. Please, don’t make the mistake of asking me about Old Mutare unless you are willing to hear me out. It will take a big slice of your time.

My first flight leaves Harare for Jo’burg at 1:15 p.m. Sunday, August 6. Early that evening, I will board a plane bound for Washington Dulles, then a hop to Atlanta for my flight to Portland. I will arrive in late afternoon on August 7. Annette will come a day later from Boston. Then, our American life will resume—but never again the same after those months in Old Mutare.

Jack of All Trades . . .?

Many of you can add the remaining three words: “master of none.” I feel that way more often than I would like here at Old Mutare as I find myself doing what I would never have expected. Monday’s experience is a good example.

Because this is the two-week mid-year test period for all students at Hartzell High School, I have no teaching obligations there (other than to provide “revising” to a few anxious Form II students whose math test is later this week). So, early yesterday I fired up the 9N Ford, intending to plow a small maize plot at the Children’s Home. I noticed that a slight radiator leak had increased substantially and knew, to my dismay, that the radiator must be repaired. I drove to the Children’s Home (about a kilometer) and informed the director, Peter Mafuti, of our problem. He insisted we get at repairs immediately. It took some figuring out, but within an hour we had dismantled the tractor and removed the radiator, which was soon in the back of his battered station wagon, rattling with us down the road to Mutare. It took some asking and searching, but at last we found a radiator repairman, working at a table in an open yard, who at once located the leak and almost as quickly, repaired it with solder. (I was awed by the speed at which the job had been done; usually, it seems here, such jobs take days of planning and then many more for someone to get around to doing the job.) After a quick lunch--the best french fries I’ve eaten in years--we were on our way back to Old Mutare. Putting the tractor back together took far less time, and it was a great prize when the engine was running with no sign of a leak. By then, however, it was too late to begin plowing, which was postponed until Tuesday, when we first hitched up the mowing machine and chopped maize stalks, and I taught Peter and another workman something about operating the tractor and its machinery. By the time the job was finished, that workman was doing very well on his own, as was the 9N. When we returned to the Children’s Home at the end of the day’s work, we soon had half a dozen boys of various sizes clinging to a perch on the tractor, giggling and chattering in Shona, obviously having a great time, while I kept on warning them about holding on tightly and not falling off as we jolted along the bumpy road.

My sewing machine repair business has been booming, begun as an sideline to Annette’s quilting classes when she saw how poorly some machines sewed. I have found there are many impaired and comatose sewing machines in the houses of Old Mutare Mission, and I have been engaged with close to two dozen of them, including seven at the Children’s Home now working well. Early on, I discovered that the usual need is for minor adjustment, of tension or whatever, but the owners imagine I have accomplished great miracles that allow them to sew again. Last Saturday’s experience was exceptionally rewarding. When I saw the machine, I quickly recognized it had been used so long and hard that the hand drive had worn out and become useless. Clearly, this was a machine that meant a great deal to the owner, who must have spent countless hours with it through many years to wear out the drive mechanism. I announced the unhappy verdict that repairs would not be simple, and then she showed me a kit she had bought to electrify the machine. I saw it could be installed easily, and within half an hour, had her sitting at her machine with the new motor making it sew perfectly. I could sense her delight with the results, which was unusually satisfying to me as well.

This morning I led a demonstration class with third graders for teachers at Hartzell Central Primary School. I have taught that third-grade class several times. It seems that the teacher, MaiZvingowanisei, thought so highly of my efforts last week that she reported to the headmaster, who then requested a demonstration for other teachers. Although I felt like dismissing the request as so much foolishness, I accepted and later questioned what prompted me to make such a rash decision. I have little difficulty teaching third-grade children, who delight me, but I have no confidence that I can teach teachers, who scare me. Nevertheless, at 10:30 a.m. today I was teaching little kids to multiply sixes and perhaps giving teachers some ideas they can use as well.

Jack of all trades, master of none. As a visiting American, I must exude unusual abilities that may only be fictitious. Those supposed abilities are being tested day by day with, I can only hope, some smidgen of competence.

New Experiences at Old Mutare

PURSUING OPPORTUNITIES
Please allow me introduce Tanyaradzwa Magadaire (pronounced mah-gah-dah-EAR-ee). Tanya is 19 years old and a Form VI boarding student at Hartzell High School. Early in our stay at Old Mutare, Tanya introduced himself and let me in on his ambition to study information technology in America and his desire to begin university education in the fall term, 2007. Since then, we have become friends.

Tanya’s home is in Mutare, 15 km from Old Mutare, where his father manages a manufacturing firm and his mother is employed by a company that specializes in school uniforms. He has an older sister and a younger sister who is a Form V student at Hartzell. His family is active in St. Peter’s United Methodist Church, and Tanya is a full member. He attended primary school in Mutare and did his O level (Forms I-IV) as a boarding student at Mutambara High School, also a United Methodist mission school, coming to Hartzell in January 2005 for A-level study. In November, he will take A-level examinations in Maths, Management of Business, and Accounting and has set challenging goals for his achievement. He often sleeps three or four hours early in the night, then studies in his classroom during the remainder of the night.

After he inquired about what is necessary for international students seeking to enrol in a U. S. college or university, I did a search on the Internet and passed on to him information about admission policies and visa requirements. What shook him most was that he must show he has at least $25,000.00 available for his school costs and personal support during one year of study. That much money is far beyond his or his family’s resources. Although he is nowhere near forsaking his dream, he is realizing that the fulfilment may be further into the future than he has hoped.

I tell you Tanya’s story, because his dream is like that of many students who have spoken to me here, yet it will become reality for few. Many face the possibility that after they complete A-level studies, which are intensely demanding, and have passed the gruelling A-level examinations, university study anywhere may be out of the question, costs being well beyond the means of their families. Still, they strive for excellence, knowing that without superior knowledge and high scores, their chances will surely wither. I have been deeply impressed by the determination and dedication of these superior young people.

Perhaps among my friends may be some who will choose to sponsor Tanyaradzwa, or another of these promising students, for a small, or large, part of the first year of American study. Possibly someone has information about scholarships or work/study programs that would trim the cost. I’ll be overjoyed to make the necessary connections and will assure you in advance that you will have the lasting admiration of an exceedingly grateful young person and, truly possible, a rewarding and lasting friendship as well.


PASSING ON SKILLS AND INSPIRATION
Last week, I spent several hours with sewing machines that reside in the houses at Fairfield Children’s Home. Some worked reasonably well, needing only minor adjustments. Three needed significant repairs; one awaits repair parts. This effort was prompted by the request of Cecilia Mabvumbe, an administrator at Fairfield, who was one of the star pupils in Annette’s quilting class and to whom Annette gave added personal instructions that took her further into the quilting process. With the help of Ruth Chimbwanda, our host, MaiMabvumbe wishes to soon begin a quilting class with the mothers of the Children’s Home houses, who are keen to get the class started. Of course, having sewing machines that sew well is essential, and now there are five.

I knew how thrilled Annette would be when she heard that bit of news in our telephone conversation Wednesday. I could detect her delight when she told me to pass on her thanks to Cecilia and Ruth for going on with the project she had begun. Her early intentions are about to come true, and her satisfaction is surely justified.

Another satisfying occurrence last week came about when Joab, one of my Form II students, asked for personal help with math. As we were ending an hour of work, he told me his dream to go into medical work, and then he said, “I want to be like your daughter (pronouncing the word as usual here, daw-TAIR).” Again, I was reminded how valuable one’s presence and influence is here, beyond what we could possibly expect. I am also confident that such influence is hardly possible until we place ourselves where we are closely in touch and open to friendship. I get many reminders of how valuable was Elizabeth and Abby’s visit and their willingness to join freely in the life of this community, and I am hugely grateful for those twelve special days.


BOUNCING ON THE 9N
The 9N Ford tractor is up and going, and what fun we are having with it. Not that the purpose of its donors is our fun, but perhaps they will not deny us our little pleasures. For three weeks, that little tractor has stood silently, because we had assumed the battery was dead. Finally, last Monday, I decided I would go to work on it myself, and I quickly discovered the battery was very much alive. A problem seemed to be that the battery connectors had not been cleaned of corrosion in a great many years. A small amount of cleaning, then tightening the connections securely, quickly showed me that the battery could turn over the engine easily.

However, there was another problem: the ignition key was not available. A little research developed the fact that the headmaster had the key in his possession, and he readily passed it on to me. Then came the defining moment: would the engine actually start running? I turn on the ignition, press the starter, and—Voila!—the engine immediately roars (well, that small engine does not exactly roar) to life. I then jump into the seat—not quite with the alacrity that I probably jumped into the seat 60 years ago—shift into second gear, and I am soon underway, but only for about 10 meters, when the engine dies, most likely, I guess, because its petrol tank is empty. With some help, the tractor is rolled back to its parking place to await the next step.

Petrol is a precious commodity here, usually unavailable, but Peter Mafuto, administrator of Fairfield Children’s Home, has enough us to make another attempt to energize the 9N. He appoints two Fairfield boys to accompany me back a kilometre or so to where the tractor is parked, each carrying one of the small containers with about three liters in each. We quickly pour the fuel into the tractor, and again it starts immediately. The two boys climb on and stand beside me, and we are off on our return trip to Fairfield Children’s Home. At about the half way point, we are met by a dozen of the older children from Fairfield, most wanting to jump on the tractor with us but finally content to run alongside. The tractor is the star as we arrive at the Children’s Home, with a crowd about us to admire it. Peter Mafuto takes his turn driving the tractor around the area before it is returned once again to its secure parking place.

The next development will be to attach some of the machinery that accompanied the tractor across the ocean from America, but that is for another day. Soon, too, I will see to it that all the children at Fairfield who wish to do so will get to ride in a wagon behind the tractor. Then, there will be pictures, and my 9N experiences will be complete.