Missionary Positions
Sunday meditations. (31 October) Sometimes I’m afraid that we’ve come to Africa too often or stayed in Africa too long. For instance, this morning Chris Hope started talking like a missionary. We were awakened about dawn to the marvelous sound of gurgling pipes, which meant that, for the first time in > 48 hours, we’d have water. And Chris said, “It’s going to be a wonderful day: we’ll be able to flush the toilet!”
In a previous note I alluded to the fact that missionaries are the world’s best complainers. But that ungenerous characterization presents only a very partial picture, for real missionaries complain only when they can inflict guilt and thereby generate contributions to some worthy cause. Otherwise they are expected to express their thankfulness for even the smallest blessings and to praise God for even the most modest successes. Here’s what I mean. Once upon a time an anthropologist and a missionary were being cooked by cannibals in an enormous iron pot. Terrified by the rising water-temperature, the anthropologist cried aloud, “I’m being prepped for dinner, and I failed even to discover where these primitive people obtain their iron pots.” In reply the smiling missionary turned up her sun-freckled nose and said, “Well, I was successful because these parishioners will certainly say grace before they eat us.”
[Uh, that’s the early twentieth-century version of the story. In this Millennium’s update, the anthropologist is bemoaning his failure to elucidate the hegemonic meta-narrative that disempowered Local Peoples and led them to replace indigenous appropriate technology with the alienating Objects of Global Consumerism. The missionary brags that she’s taught people the importance of cooking animal-flesh particularly well to defeat parasites, slow viruses, and prions. Then the cannibals flip the switch on their Chinese-made microwave….]
Yes, today I’m going to write about missionaries. This wasn’t my choice, but last week I was able to read a long, insightful, challenging email from Johnny Lane. You know, the boy is really, really smart, and in recent weeks he has thought deeply about ambiguities in the relationship of the West to Africa. And Johnny asked me to write about missionaries, so I’m going to do it. After all, John has been awfully helpful to me of late, and besides, last Friday (29 October) was his birthday, so what choice do I have?
Probably I should be more precise about what John really asked. He wanted me to consider moral ambiguities associated with conversion and missionaries. Unfortunately I can’t fulfill Professor Lane’s exact request, for I’ve promised to base these notes upon my African experiences, and in Zimbabwe the only missionaries I’ve known have been United Methodists. Here’s another story, possibly Apocryphal, that illustrates my point. A young man walked into the headquarters of the General Board of Global Missions and asked for an interview, explaining that he’d been called to be a missionary. Taking a break amid 1000 committee meetings, the General Secretary Himself asked the young man, “Can you explain the nature of your calling, my brother?” The young man waxed eloquent, talking about “fields white with harvest” and about his burning desire to lead the Unconverted to his Lord & Savior. The General Secretary replied, “You must have the wrong address. This is 475 Riverside Drive, the Methodist missionary headquarters. But if you have a burning desire to fix tractors, teach calculus, or measure blood-sugar levels, perhaps we can talk.”
Here in Zimbabwe I’ve actually known four officially commissioned missionaries rather well. One was a young woman who’d been an aircraft mechanic for the Navy. She had a Masters in biology, so she taught every bio and health course atHartzellHigh School. She also fixed broken-down vehicles when she could get the parts. Another was a surgeon in late middle age. He’d come to Mutambara because he wanted to have fun in life, and “…having real fun was no longer possible for me in American medicine.” His hospital received electrical power, on average, four hours per week, so this doctor installed mirrors to catch the sun and serve as operating-room lights. Sounds like real fun, huh? A third missionary, whose Mission has been ably assisted by Professor Lane himself, teaches intensive English to Congolese, Mozambican, and Angolan students at AfricaUniversity. She also plays Supermom to her kids—and often to other children as well. The fourth missionary (about whom I’ll write more later) is Agriculture Instructor Larry Kies. Larry really believes in heaven (which may make him a minority among contemporary U.Meths.), but he often gets it confused with Iowa. Anyhow, I think that these four missionaries would be appalled if somebody told ‘em they should be bringing the Heathen to Christ. No, I don’t have that quite right. They’d say that the people with whom they live & work bring them to Jesus—and that they hope on good days to reflect some of that abundant love.
OK, OK, let me illustrate some real missionary positions by two last-week anecdotes about Larry Kies. First anecdote. On Tuesday, 26 October, amid gathering storm-clouds, the recently resurrected Big Green Combine successfully harvested AfricaUniversity’s wheat. [Oh, in my last letter I committed a serious error. I wrote that Sunday’s broke-down combine was a John Deere. Such was not the case. It was a Chinese copy of a John Deere, presumably licensed, perhaps not, but painted in the fabled green & yellow scheme.] As I tried to take pictures of this major event, Larry shouted over the combine’s rumble, “Come help me gather data.” Now all y’all know that if I have a choice between taking pictures and taking data, I’ll drop my camera in a heartbeat. So Larry had measured a square meter of wheat, and with our pocket knives we cut all the stems at ground level. “We can diagnose problems with irrigation,” Larry said. “If the ratio of seed-mass to total mass is too low, then late-season irrigation was insufficient. If the density of stems per unit area is too low, then early-season irrigation was insufficient.” A few farm workers soon gathered to watch and help us count. “Our lower field was a total disaster,” the Crop-Supervisor said. “Yes,” Larry agreed, “but this field is looking much better. See? Three hundred and fifty-three stems per square meter. Much better!” Then Larry turned to me and said, “I love teaching Practical Agriculture. I just love it.” And his eyes really did seem to reflect something very special.
Second anecdote. Earlier that same Tuesday, Larry Kies had managed to check his email and receive a request from his bosses at 475 Riverside Drive. Visitors from the USA were coming to AU. These visitors had no connection with the General Board; still, if it weren’t too much trouble, Larry should host them and show them the University. Because the Kies house was already full of people, Larry hoped that Chrissy and I might provide bed and breakfast at our farmhouse; he and Jane would otherwise be responsible for feeding and transporting and entertaining the visitors. Of course we agreed—and managed to wash some very dirty biologists’ sheets on the one day we had abundant water; thus we’d be set for Thursday night.
On Thursday afternoon, as I was leaving work, Larry caught me, confirmed the evening’s plans, and announced, “The woman is a hygiene freak.” As you might suspect, on a Real Missionary’s list of sinners,hygiene freaks rate somewhere betweenchild molesters andaxmurderers. With some trepidation, I relayed Larry’s report to Chris, who wished her mother could help with our own cleanup. Fortunately, we had previously set aside two full buckets of water….
Knowing Larry’s sense of humor, Chris and I figured that we’d be in for some sho’nuf entertainment at supper. And we were not disappointed. As usual, Jane had prepared a sumptuous meal; as usual the Kies teenage daughter was intellectually entertaining while Chris and I stuffed our faces. Supper progressed apace, with the Visitor repeatedly expressing her concern about the lack of hygiene in Zimbabwe. Then, with perfect timing, Larry Kies moved over next to the Visitor and began to relate a joke about a missionary who is initially appalled about finding a fly in his water—but who eventually learns actively to recruit flies to spice up anything that he drinks. As Larry’s narration of this long (& normally tedious) joke continued, his eyes began to shine with, uh, missionary zeal, and his fly-imitating fingers would pass within a centimeter of the Visitor’s lips. Chris and I pretended that we were laughing at the joke.
Oh, the visitors wereall interesting & polite, and only one out of the three was a hygiene freak. Their narration of their project (somehow connected with Rotary International) included words like micro-loans and empowerment and gender-balance, all concepts of which I strongly approve—though for dinner-table conversation, I much prefer jokes about missionaries and flies. After supper, to protect everyone from Germs and other Evils of the African Night, Larry loaded us all into his Toyota and drove us back to the Hope-Abercrombie farmstead.
After a night in our farmhouse (there were no electric lights, soour potentially terrifying geckos and flat-spiders were not observed) and after the best breakfast that Chris & I could provide, our hygiene-conscious Visitor yawned and said, “If the power comes on, I want to take a long, hot shower.” Chrissy stifled laughter, and I wanted to say, “First, the power won’t come on before nightfall. Second, we have no water, and we haven’t had hot water for ten days. Third, old Manicaland farmhouses never have showers. And fourth, even if this local world changes to fit your desires, you ain’t woman enough to keep both me and Chris out of any available cleansing-water.”
OK, John, I’m sorry. I did not treat your important question with the seriousness it deserves. My failure really was due in part to the fact that I’ve never met any conversion-missionaries. Also, I don’t think that the U.Meth. General Board recruits such folks anymore. In places like southern Africa, most folks already consider themselves Christians, so conversion in the usual sense would be superfluous. And in other places, proselytizing would interfere with the mission of service. (Remember the Anglo-American eye-surgery team that got whacked in the ‘Stan earlier this year? One member was a General Board commissionee who, for about a dozen years, had not even mentioned his connection with the church.) Finally, John, I just don’t like to admit the truth—that, historically, conversion was indeed the engine that pulled the entire missionary train. Finally, John, I almost forgot that you spent time in China—where conversion-missionaries attracted Western gunboats like cow-sh—uh, like cow-dung—attracts flies. (Who can forget Steve McQueen going to rescue Shirley McClain—or was it Candace Bergen—with a BAR? Holly and Vivian, please excuse name-misspellings and the misplaced prepositional phrase; I doubt that Shirley or Candace could even lift a BAR.)
Other occurrences. I suppose that, for completeness, I should list sundry non-missionary-related events that occurred over the past week.
I’ve told you that on Tuesday, 26 October, AU’s wheat was finally harvested. As I wrote above, the yield from our lower field was disastrous; at only 10,000kg for seven hectares, the farm didn’t even make expenses on that part of the crop. The problem, as you may have surmised, was insufficient electricity to run irrigation pumps. Fortunately, our upper fields did much better, with an average of about 3.5 (long) tons per hectare. As the harvest progressed, farm women off-loaded the grain-trailer, shoveling wheat into 50kg bags, weighing the bags, and sewing them shut. This work continued all day. The women had dressed in their finest, brightest clothes and were in a celebratory mood. Men stacked the bags ceiling-high in the old-campus dining hall.
On Wednesday, 27 October, three small farm-boys intercepted me on my way home from work. “Where is Randy?” they asked. I informed the kids that young Dr. Babb had returned to America. This information elicited groans of disappointment. “Is he NEVER coming back?” the boys continued. I expressed the possibility that Randy might return someday. “He was a good friend,” the eldest of my interrogators opined, “a very good friend. And he could tell the best stories.” In 2011,Zimbabwe may hold elections. On a nationwide vote, perhaps Robert Mugabe will retain the Presidency. But on AU’s farm, among the boys, Randy Babb could be elected King of All Africa.
On Thursday, Thursday night, and Friday morning, we had visitors. I’ve already written too much about that. We survived, and so did they.
On Friday afternoon Chrissy and I went out to retrieve our trail-cameras. One had been stolen. I had anticipated that possibility when I risked deployment near a well-used trail, so I was not greatly disappointed. The other camera had been set at the mine where we’d previously gotten night-photos of a side-striped jackal. When I examined this week’s pictures, I saw that the jackal had returned—with her three puppies. The photos are not particularly good, but the puppies are particularly cute.
On Saturday, 30October, the AU bus filled up very early, so Chrissy decided to hitch-hike to town. We were lucky, catching a ride with an AU employee whom we’d not previously met. We shopped, and we ate pig-meat at Stacks Restaurant. After we finished our errands, we had to take another “combie” back to campus. This time I heard no overtly racist comments.
Halloween Sunday was somewhat more eventful than most post-Randy days have been. In the early morning Chris and I explored the extreme southeastern corner of the campus. Finding a new mine, we went back home to eat lunch and to gather more equipment.
While we were at the farmhouse, John Mark Zihwa (sp???) came to visit yet again, this time accompanied by a daughter who was even younger than the son we’d previously met. (Increasingly I understand why Terry Ferguson likes JMZ so much. Terry attributes most world problems to Demographic Stress. And during an age when Zimbabwe’s population would otherwise be in decline, JMZ continues to keep the national birthrate at a stressfully high level.) Goodness, friends & colleagues, how’d you like to be in your seventies with a kid just starting second grade? South Carolinians want to know, can JMZ break Strom Thurmond’s record? Only time will tell. Sadly, JMZ broughtAfrica’s usual news of local tragedies. In his small village, a child had been badly burned by an overturning pot of sadza. A middle-aged woman had died of some undiagnosed cause. An older woman with headaches and fever had managed to reach HartzellHospital—just hours before she died of cerebral malaria. (Uh, since JMZ’s visit I’ve tried to identify every mosquito I’ve seen. Thus far I’ve not observed Anopheles on campus but I definitely shall not quit my malaria medicine!) Oh, JMZ also offered Chrissy and me our choice of two teenaged daughters whom we could export to America. I think we were able to decline the honor. Terry, would you be interested?
After JMZ’s departure (“very good, very good, thank you very much”), Chrissy and I went back to our newly-discovered mine. The entrance-shaft is located on a beautiful promontory, overlooking an especially green curve in the MutareRiver. Substantial boulders outline an exploratory trench leading into the shaft; Chris and I sat on those rocks for a time, considering John Mark, malaria, old age, missionaries, and the healing power of African sunshine. Finally I unpacked a light and a reserve light. Chris powered up my camera in case I chased something photogenic out of the mine, and I crawled in. The main shaft was very long, and at the limit of my light-beam, I could see that it turned left. This looked like a good mine for sure! Then I noticed, in the shadows to my right, a side-cut. Remembering the Mine-Snake that Randy had so boldly photographed, I decided that I should examine thisside-cut carefully before I ventured deeper. When I turned to do so, well, sure enough, on a partially hidden ledge, about a meter from my face, up popped a snake head. And, yes, it was another black mamba. The snake did not look vicious. It didn’t look mean, it didn’t look afraid, it didn’t even look irritated or surprised. It looked (excuse the bad anthropomorphism) curious. And (excuse the worse anthropomorphism) it looked intelligent. Well, if Randy Dreadnaught Babb won’t mess with black mambas in a dark mine, then there’s no way in hell that I will. So I backed out, with whispered apologies; then Chrissy and I sat in the sun a while longer, talking about the wonders of Zimbabwe.