Botswana Diary 5

        I think I have let someone down today.  One day I promise to go with a church warden to see an outstation called Mmopane, on the other side of the airport, then this morning I say “next week instead.”

            But I have my reasons.  She calls from Molepolole, saying I should “just drive out the Molepolole Road past the BDF….”  I pause, then remember that BDF stands for Botswana Defence Force.  There must be a base out there somewhere.  After I pass it, she continues, she’ll be waiting for me by the side of the road.

            I have driven to Molepolole once in my life, and then with someone to direct me.  The road is very congested, lots of road work, and the notion I will spot her just “somewhere by the side of the road” seems unlikely in the extreme.  No.

Instead I pick up a few things at the shops, then pack for the four day trip to Tsabong. 

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A bit after eight the Archdeacon, Fr. Andrew Mudereri, and I find ourselves on the way.  The trip from Gaborone to Tsabong is a long one, perhaps 300 miles.  In an hour or so we reach Kanye, then head west, leaving the dramatic hills for flat.  The trees seem smaller, the scrub further apart, as we go along; the soil becomes distinctly sandier.  We are skirting the southern edge of the Kalahari Desert.

There are few towns along the way.  My map marks them with an all-black circle (“garage only”), half-black half-white (“petrol only”), or all white (“no known facilities”).  Tsabong will have gasoline.

Some thirty miles from Tsabong we turn off the main road.  “There is the church,” Fr. Andrew says, “with the blue door.”  Up a short dirt track and we are there: St. Anna’s, Kisa.

The congregation had expected us at noon, and they are still there, some 30-40 of them, at 2:30.  I’m introduced, we say dumela rra, dumela mma, over and over again in greeting, and we go in.

A woman is at a blackboard, propped up on a bench in a corner near the altar.  She writes Difela, hymns, on one side, Dipalo, readings, on the other.

The readings are dispensed with quickly: One from 1 Timotheo, the gospel from Mareko.  Fr. Andrew looks up the appointed psalm, Peselema.

The hymns take longer.  The Archdeacon chooses one from the Setswana hymnal, sings a verse.  The

congregation joins in, as they are able; a poor response shows it’s not known well enough.  Eventually we have five.  The woman dutifully puts their numbers on the board.

At the end of the service the women come dancing out of the building, singing a chorus.  Last are two ancient ladies, taking full part, large smiles.  I try to capture them with my camera.  Their faces have no place left to put another wrinkle.

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            I am sitting in the early morning sun, keeping warm, next to the church in the desert village of Kolonkwaneng.  The old church building, of clay and thatch, sits empty now, some 50 feet away across reddish sand.  There are signs that goats take up residence in the old building from time to time, probably trying, like me, to stay warm.

            Fr. Andrew is hearing confessions in the vestry in the new building.  It’s Saturday morning.  Soon we will celebrate the Eucharist.

            The drive here from Tsabong is about 60 miles, along a newly paved road that clings to the South African border.  Only a few months ago it was gravel.  Fr. Andrew entertains me as we travel along, pointing out places where he has been stuck in the sand.

            The lay minister, Simon Moseki, comes over as I write.  “It is awkward here,” he says, looking around the village.  “No work.”

            That’s difficult to respond to, as his English is poor, and my Setswana extends only from greetings, thank you, and that’s fine to being able to say “the body of Christ” at the altar.

            A herd of goats comes wandering over, interrupting our congenial silence.

            We wait.  More people gradually arrive.  The goats move on.

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            At the offertory a ceramic bowl is placed in a plastic chair and positioned in front of the altar.  The congregation comes forward, dropping coins into the bowl.  I can hear them clang.  I add a bill.

            The reading is from Mark, the widow’s mite.  I wonder if I will miss the bill, as the widow may surely miss her thebe – the Botswana equivalent to a mite – which I think is Jesus’ point.

            After the Eucharist we drive away, leaving behind another spot that Fr. Andrew can point to, where he became stuck in the sand.

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            Middelputs is maybe 20 miles further along.  We promise to be there by 2:00, and we are remarkably close, given that our Kolonkwaneng saga starts before nine, we do not leave the church before one, and even then there is communion to the sick, and a meal in Mr. Moseki’s home.

            The village of Middelputs is on the Molopo River, which marks the boundary with South Africa.  A border post is actually in the town.

            The church is tiny, maybe 25 by 25 feet.  A cement foundation for a new building is nearby, but it looks as if it were laid some time ago, and no sooner have we arrived than the lay minister, Jackson Ditlhatibi, takes me aside and says they need money to build.

            As we follow the same pattern again – confessions, Eucharist, teaching, inviting anyone in the congregation to raise concerns or questions, taking communion to homes – I gather a better impression of what it means in this Diocese to have outstations at considerable distance and to have so few priests to serve them.  This is the first opportunity to visit that Fr. Andrew has had since Ash Wednesday.

            Lay ministers may be well-trained, or frankly, may not, but it’s clear that priests are missed, and sorely needed.  There has been no priest in the parish of Tsabong since 2005.

            I think about this as I drive back to Tsabong.  Well, about this, and about whether there are any cows in the road.  Dusk changes to darkness, and it’s hard to see.  Fr. Andrew is resting.

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Botswana Diary 4

           Moroka is a small rather nondescript village northeast of Francistown, just off the main road to Bulawayo, and only a few miles from the Zimbabwean border.  Most houses are modest, small rectangular buildings with metal or tile roofs, with dirt yards swept clean.  Some are the traditional round dwellings, thatched, with smooth painted walls.  Mrs. Lydia Maleho, the lay leader of the small congregation here, has both.

            She isn’t home, but her grandson, named Witness, is.  “I will take you to her,” he offers.  “May I let the cattle out first?”  Polite.  Rev. Callender, of course, assents.  Witness frees them from their overnight pen, and they wander on off.

            The congregation meets in Mrs. Maleho’s small living room, but a church building is on its way up.  Witness takes us there first, where we see the cinderblock walls of what will be St. Alban’s Church standing on a large plot, awaiting a roof, among other things.  The Diocese of Newcastle, which has a companion link with Botswana, has offered to help complete the work.

            We return to our van, head back to the narrow tarmac, then turn left onto a dirt track next to a small shop named “Why Not Fresh Vegetables.”  It’s closed.  No doubt that’s why not.

            Mrs. Maleho is at her farm, several miles along the twisting track.  Finally we come to a gate, consisting of huge thorny branches.  Witness hops out and pulls them aside.  We drive a short way, then park and walk.  We can see her in the distance.

            She brightens up when she sees us.  No doubt part of that is genuine hospitality, but I can also imagine she happily envisions a ride back to her home as well. 

She’s been gleaning the remnants of her harvest, sorghum mainly, but some rather sad-looking sweet potatoes too.  “Like Ruth,” Rev. Callender says.

            We lug the bags back to the van and climb in.  Her dog, who has accompanied her, looks up.  “He’ll find his way back,” she tells me, but the dog has already gauged that in me he has a potential ally.  He has big eyes.  “Surely we can make room for him,” I say.  I hear a sigh.  Witness lifts him up into the van, and he settles nicely between the seats.

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            Saturday is our day for the lay leaders’ workshop in the north of the diocese, similar to what we have already done in Gaborone.  Actually there are two parallel workshops, one for church wardens, the other for lay leaders.  We all gather together at St. Patrick’s, in the town center, and I do a meditation on 1 Corinthians 12.  Then it’s tea time.

Afterwards we split up, and the lay leaders and Fr. Amanze and I head to the rectory, where I have been staying, to meet in the living room.  We have been expecting, at the most, about 20, but 38 of us crowd inside.  No one complains.

We hear many of the same things about what kind of training they need, but not all are the same.  Two women say that they want someone to “teach us how to pray.”

Unfortunately I never find the chance to learn what in particular they have in mind, but several of us talk about it later.  One thought is that ingrained in them is a deep respect for liturgy in the Anglo-Catholic tradition, so they can read prayers from the prayer book but have a hard time spontaneously getting wound up the way they surely have heard their pentecostal neighbors do.  “Teach us how to pray.”

I hope someday someone will value their appeal and come, holding up for them and others the richness and diversity of prayer, in our tradition and in the church universal.

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            At lunch on St. Patrick’s grounds I spot a young man sporting a Carolina sweatshirt.  Oteng Montwedi is his name.  A part of the youth delegation that visited North Carolina some months ago, he wears it proudly.  We take pictures.

Two days later he comes to my house to see me off as I return to Gaborone.

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            As the sun is setting, a bunch of us are standing outside a small office at a very imposing gate, waiting for our passes to be issued so we can enter Orapa.  A large sign gives the company name, Debswana, a combination of the historic diamond conglomerate DeBeers and Botswana.  Underneath it says, “You are entering a Precious Stones Protected Area,” and it goes on to warn that we must have a pass and are subject to search.

            I fantasize that Orapa’s diamonds may be the solution to the Diocese of Botswana’s stewardship problems.

            We have driven the 125 miles or so from Francistown to be present at the consecration of land given for the building of a church, suitably planned for Pentecost tomorrow.  Bishop Mwamba has flown up from “Gabs,” as folk here shorten Gaborone, on the company plane.

            Soon I am seated beside him in the living room of a Debswana guest house.  He leans over and says, “I wonder if you might preach tomorrow?”  That’s not quite as bad as when I visited one of my former seminary students in his Nairobi parish, and as we were walking down the aisle in the processional, he suggested that I should preach.  But close.  It’s been a long day.

            We are enjoying a glass of wine at the time, and I am looking forward to another.  Instead I say “yes,” and I take my leave to make some sermon notes.

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            The Pentecost service, held in a schoolroom, is over, and some 30 or 40 of us - many from Francistown have come in solidarity - head over to the new plot, in Letlhakane, a nearby town where mahy who work in the mines live. 
            The property is already fenced, and Bishop Mwamba moves from one corner of the plot to another, marking the sign of the cross in the ground, and censing the area, and offering prayers – from the American Book of Common Prayer that Bishop Curry gave him on his first visit.  We sing “The Church’s One Foundation” as we go along.

            The Orapa congregation has three trees to plant, and Bishop Mwamba does the first two.  Then they turn to me.  “The third should be a ‘North Carolina’ tree,” someone says.

            I begin digging and strike rocks but no diamonds.  It’s an orange tree.  The task done, a young man comes over and waters it.

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Part 3: Botswana Diary Update

We gather again in the “Upper Room” at the Cathedral.  There are about 60 of us: Lay leaders, leaders of the Mothers Union, the Anglican Women’s Fellowship, the Anglican Men’s Fellowship, and the Guilds. 

I ask someone about the Guilds.  “What are they?” I want to know.  Uncertainty constitutes the reply.  As best as I can figure, they are folk beyond the extended dates used to define youth, and not yet of the Mothers Union variety.  Maybe adults in their 30s and 40s, I’m guessing.

       Fr. Amanze organizes them all into groups to discuss particular questions we have posed. Things like: What do you consider that you and other lay leaders in the Diocese need most to increase your effectiveness? On what subjects do you as lay leaders especially need further training?  What training do you who are church group leaders need to increase your effectiveness?  What form should this training take?

Having small groups report back is usually a nightmare for me.  There seems always to be someone who talks far beyond her allotted time, or someone who yields to the temptation to say what he thinks rather than what the group said.  And the rest of us often seem bored except when our group is reporting.

And so I am pleasantly surprised at the efficiency with which Batswana report.  One, two, three; here are our key points.  They hand me well-organized sheets of newsprint to post.  “Does anyone in our group have anything to add?” their presenter asks.  “Are there additions anyone wishes to make?”

Done.

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            After the workshop we are having lunch in the parish hall.  A man next to me suddenly declares, “A hung parliament.  Hmmph.”  I draw a blank.  I have been reading Botswana newspapers, and there is much about a faction breaking away from the ruling party, but I recall nothing about an election.

            “Britain,” he finally says, as if I am a small school child.  “I’ve read there is a chance,” I remark.  “Is the vote today?”  “No,” he laughs.  “It’s done.  A hung parliament.”

            I return to the house determined to get a grip on what is happening in the world.  I pull out my old short-wave band radio, which has served me well over my years of travel in Africa. 

Finally I find the BBC World Service, lost somewhere in the 16 meter band.  It is as static-y as ever, reminding me of childhood nights seated next to my grandparents’ old radio in their bedroom, warmed by the coal stove behind me, searching for a world far beyond the confines of their farm near Seaboard.

            But now, only two days later, the election news receives merely a sentence or two.  Instead they devote their time to Greece.  Boring.  I have already talked about the Greeks, in a reflection I did today on Paul.

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            I spot George Callender’s gray beard as I walk across the tarmac at the tiny Francistown airport early on a Friday morning.  I am carrying my new backpack, with University of Botswana blazoned across it, my only “souvenir” – a functional one – thus far.

Rev. Callender is a deacon in Francistown, the only clergy in fact, as there is no priest.  He takes me to his home for breakfast.  Soon he, his wife and I are eating boiled eggs, bacon, toast, baked beans, and hot dogs.

They are from Guyana.  They came over as a young couple, first to Zambia, then to Botswana.  They have been here ever since.  Their children, now grown, were born here.

Mrs. Callender is growing herbs in pots on their concrete front porch.  She and I stand next to them as Rev. Callender speaks on the ever-present cell phone.  “I have spent over half my life here,” she says.  She smiles.  Then she adds: “I am told that it does not matter; I will always be an outsider.”

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            Today is St. Carantoc’s feast day, and the church by that name is celebrating. 

If you have not heard of Carantoc, there is a reason: He’s quite obscure.  But there are some fascinating (well, odd) stories about this sixth century Welshman.  He apparently traveled around with a portable altar, and once he propelled it out onto the Bristol Channel (on a raft, presumably, since it reportedly was made of marble, which limits the meaning of the word “portable” somewhat), with the notion that where it came to rest, there he would build his church.

            As I prepare my sermon, I set aside the thought that his church would likely have been under water.  I turn instead to his encounter with a dragon, at King Arthur’s behest, no less.  And sigh.  This will not play well for a congregation proud of their saint.

            No one can explain to me how a church in Francistown, Botswana, is named for St. Carantoc.  It’s hard enough to find any in England, Wales, or Ireland.  My uneducated guess is that St. Carantoc’s Church was created by the slightly older congregation (they’re both over a century old) of St. Patrick’s Church, also here in town, and they liked the somewhat dubious tradition that Carantoc was trained by Patrick.

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            As there is no priest in Francistown, they are delighted to have one to celebrate the Eucharist on St. Carantoc’s feast day.  Even me, though their tradition is not mine.  Their history is Anglo-Catholic, and while I respect that tradition, I am a bit in the dark as to whether I must kiss the altar (they say yes), and when and how I am to deal with the incense.  I live in fear that I will accidentally set fire to the altar, or worse (at least for me), my alb.  I grew up Baptist, after all.  This seems very foreign.

            Over the years I have been immensely impressed with how well-trained young people (including the quite young) are as acolytes in Anglican African parishes.  It is with some dismay, then, as we walk through the service on Saturday, that the young man who manages the thurible (where the incense burns happily) has never done it before.  I have been counting on his experience.

            But we manage.  The acolyte master diplomatically remarks afterward: “We do things somewhat differently here than you are used to, don’t we?”

            The service over, the church warden instructs me to follow her.  I naively think she is leading me to the head of the line for the food now being laid out on tables outdoors.  Instead we return to the church, where “the celebration is to continue.”

            Various groups within the congregation come forward, singing all sorts of choruses, and presenting gifts for the food to come.  Eventually I am to come forward and offer my gift, which I do, and even sing a solo, which I do not wish to talk about.  Even though they cheer.

            Finally we eat.  After six hours, I am home.

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Part 2: Botswana Diary Update

I have received multiple invitations to the 80^th birthday celebrations of Mr. and Mrs. Mabuse, who were born within a week of one another.  Dean Mongezi Guma, who visited the Diocese of North Carolina with a youth group from Botswana awhile back, and I drive over.

            A large tent has been raised in the back yard, and a hundred or so people, many of them Anglicans, are seated around tables underneath.  A large number of helium-filled balloons dangle, trapped, within the tent.

            Dean Guma begins a talk about their lives well lived.  (Mrs. Mabuse has just earned a masters degree, so there are still new things for them to celebrate.)

As the Dean proceeds, a breeze comes wafting through the tent, and the blue and pink balloons see a means to escape.  Folk seem determined to give the Dean their attention, but our eyes nevertheless wander as the balloons move, as a group, toward the edge of the tent.  This phenomenon energizes the kids, who rush to the edge, waiting for balloon strings to come close enough for them to grab before the balloons find their freedom and drift upward into the blue sky. 

Dean Guma carries on.

            During a lull in the speech-giving, I find myself in their living room.  There are photos of the Mabuses as a young couple, just married, in Johannesburg in 1952.  They look so hopeful, as newly-weds are inclined to do.  I wonder what they were thinking then, as the apartheid regime, which came to power four years before, was tightening its grip over black South Africans.

            How do we sustain hope, as the Mabuses seem to have done for these many years since?

            Maybe by remembering. 

Mr. Mabuse answers a teasing question.  “I first kissed her,” he says definitively, “on April 22^nd, 1952.  Around 8:00 p.m.  We were near the Coronation Hospital,” where she was training as a nurse.

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            I am sitting on the porch after a busy day when a Gaborone radio station leaves its music and begins an interview with someone from Alliance Francaise – a French program found throughout the Global South, sort of like the British Council, the German’s Goethe Institute, and the old U.S. Information Agency libraries.

            She begins by saying, “As you know, the Alliance Francaise is the hub of Botswana’s culture.”  She has a charming accent.

            Still, I sigh.  I wonder what the San (who used to be known as the Bushmen of the Kalahari) have to say about where lies Botswana’s culture.

-

            We travel the short distance to Kgolagano College, an ecumenical program that focuses primarily upon distance learning, what is often known in Africa as theological education by extension (TEE).  Rupert Hambira is the principal, and we sit down in his office.  Tea and sweet muffins soon appear.

            I first visited Kgolagano in 1988.  I was a seminarian with a small grant to visit grassroots theological education initiatives in southern and central Africa.  Kgolagano was seen as being cutting edge back then, a strong testimony to the emerging world of contextual theology.

            The place looks very much the same, but now there are fewer Anglican students and more from African-initiated churches.  Their tutors travel across the country, holding intensive classes before moving on to the next place, leaving behind resources and assignments, until next time.  The College still struggles with what recognition they are allowed to offer – certificate is all at the moment.  We talk about ways Kgolagano may assist the Diocese in ministerial formation.

            Toward the end I mention that back in 1988 Kgolagano arranged for me to spend a weekend with one of their students from what were then called African independent churches, historic breakaways from missionary control.  He was an older man, I say, in a rural area northwest of Francistown.  “Oh yes,” Rev. Hambira quickly responds.  “Moses Holonga.”  “Is he still alive?” I ask.  “Yes,” he answers.  “But old.  Very.”

            My mind takes me back to Mr. Holonga’s place, not even in a village, reached by following a track through scrub.  I remember deciding that I couldn’t make it through the night, so I took my flashlight, climbed out of my bed, left the small thatched house, and wandered out to a kraal where a herd of goats were penned.  It seemed the most appropriate spot.  I stood there, contributing to the goats’ own collection of waste.  Most were tolerant, although a couple bleated a small protest.  What I remember is looking up at an endless array of stars, stunningly pressing down upon me.  It made the night-time outing memorably worthwhile.

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            I buy a South African newspaper, and I spot a Sudoku puzzle inside.  But as I pick up my pen to give it a try, I notice that they use different terminology in their ratings of the degree of difficulty.  Today’s is rated “cruel.”  I put my pen back down.

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            We host our first workshop, Fr. Amanze and I, listening to clergy about their hopes and needs for theological education and ministerial formation in the Diocese of Botswana.

            We are located in the “Upper Room,” upstairs in the Cathedral, seated around tables, fifteen or so of us.  I begin with a meditation on 2 Timothy 2:15, the passage that led to my great Sword Drill victory at Hayes Barton Baptist Church in Raleigh in 1955.  “Study to show thyself,” the passage used to read.

            I draw out a chart as clergy introduce themselves, hoping to learn names as they speak.  If only they don’t sit at different places after lunch.

            For lunch we walk down the street to the YWCA, which operates a lunch room for whoever appears.  Today they have seswaa, boiled beef that is then pounded to a stringy consistency, served next to a pile of rice with a nice dab of gravy.  A bit on the fatty side, but I’m taking my cholesterol meds.

            Happily, the priests return to their same seats.

            Fr. Amanze asks what they do to continue to grow in the faith.  What do they study, do they read?  There is an awkward silence.  As with us – clergy and lay – some have more substantive answers than others.

            We want something to come from this, several remark at the end.  It should not stop here, they say.

            We’ll see.  We meet with lay leaders next week.  

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First few days in Botswana

Fr. James Amanze, who heads the Diocese of Botswana’s companion link committee, has given some good thought to my coming, and to my work while here.  I arrive on Friday, and Saturday morning finds the two of us already sitting down, note pads at the ready, to sketch out what my schedule might look like.

            I am here because folk here have a vision for an Anglican House of Studies, one that might train ordinands, help prepare lay ministers, and offer continuing education for clergy.  At least I think that’s what they want.  The plan is to meet with clergy and lay leaders to hear from them what they think this thing might look like, and a House of Studies may be quite a different animal before we finish.  Anyway, they have asked me to help them think through their hopes for theological education.

            It doesn’t take long before Fr. James and I are anticipating three workshops; even the dates are set.  We are to have one with clergy, another with lay leaders in the south, around Gaborone, and another in the north, around Francistown.  Sounding vaguely familiar to me from School of Ministry days, I am even to attend two wardens’ retreats, one north, one south, as well.

            The plans are energizing.  Well, sort of.  Memories of my recent flight come back to me, and I begin to fade.  The workshops can wait.

-

I have a place to stay, and a kitchen, and I am provided a car, so as soon as possible I make my trip to the grocery, carefully driving on the left.  Food “independence” is a reassuring sign of becoming settled, removing reliance upon restaurants and the generosity of others.

Grocery stores in other countries provide a glimpse of their cultures.  I browse around.  In the “butchery” section there are nicely-packaged slices of “cow hoof,” and some kind of entrails that I don’t want to even think about.  Many of the staples are from South Africa, and I’m drawn to their juices made from exotic fruits.  I find some Coke Light, though unlike multi-can packaging of Coke and other sodas on the shelves, they are only sold individually, and the prices seem higher.  The very fine African beers – Windhoek lager, from Namibia, comes to mind – barely cost more.

As I leave a woman sidles up to me in the parking lot, as if she has something illicit to offer.  “I have some potatoes to sell,” she tells me.

-

I am looking forward to being in the congregation at the English-language service at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, and I slip quietly into a pew.  I’m barely settled when I am extricated from my spot, vested in an alb, and placed into the procession to the altar.  All this, before 7:30 a.m., and I’m still jet-lagged.  I sigh.  Not a good beginning.

A good service, though, and after the distribution of the elements at the Eucharist, I watch children come to the altar rail for a blessing.  I’m asked to assist.  Three young girls are the first at the rail, and I place my hands upon their heads and pronounce a blessing.  I’m building up steam to move down the rail when the third girl tugs on my alb.  “Please pray for her,” she says, motioning to the second girl.  “She cannot see.”

I do so.  And I pause to watch the three girls leave together, the two helping the sightless one back to their pew.

-

The second service at the Cathedral is the Setswana-language service, with a dash of English tossed in from time to time. 

The retired bishop, Bishop Naledi, is the celebrant, and he has Fr. James sit to his left, and me to his right.  During the offertory, he leans over to me and says, “I don’t know if you were a Scout, but priests are also always supposed to be prepared.”  He looks at me.  I respond noncommittally.

“Do you have your English prayer book?” he asks.  “I want you to say…,” and here he repeats a few phrases from the Eucharistic Prayer that seem familiar.

I do not know that Bishop Naledi has steadily lost his sight during recent years, and he can no longer read.  (He has committed the liturgy for Holy Communion to memory.)  Thus, unaware, I hold out the prayer book, asking him to point out what, exactly, he wants me to do.  He does not look at it.

The good Bishop leans over once more.  “Just start right after the Acclamation,” he instructs, “and just fire away.”

I smile.  I’ve rarely seen “fire away” in my study of liturgy.

Then he concludes:  “When you come to ‘Jesus Christ,’ stop.”

- end -