Bucula Sunday Trip

Bucula Sunday Trip

Today we went to Hluleka to one of our smallest yet vibrant congregations. Its a four hour road  trip  on a rural and gut-shaking road which would even lead a n experienced sailor to seasickness. I had to sit in the back of our Isuzu bakkie with my black outfit and stockings with a hole on my big toe and a gap in my  gums where a beloved tooth used to reside.When the other ten mamas  (also in their black outfits and missing teeth-I do not yet know about the stockings) got in, the Mamkhulu (granny) siting next to me gave her friend a clap and said she was fat (Mkhulu) and was sitting on her legs.

All was forgiven when we entered the tiny and simple church building with greetings and singing . The woman was so glad to see each other and as we got back in the Isuzu bakkie two hours later, I counted eleven woman and two little boys. The boys' very elderly grandfather was sitting in front and when we stopped, he was so happy about the mornings' service and the lift home that he forgot his grandchildren with us. The women nearly fell out the back from laughter and merrily started singing spiritual Xhosa songs.

That was  until we stopped again and one of the women who were holding on to the bakkie's canopy got her hand caught and pinched between two rigid steel springs when the canopy was opened to let  some of the women out. When I heard the howling I thought a snake slithered through the gaps  between the canopy and bakkie. The pastor (my husband) heard the commotion at the back and he rescued the damsel in distress. She recovered after a prayer and some of the red juice that was left from communion. The Mamkhulu  (the same one sitting next to me before) also wanted a sip from the juice as she said she was combusting from the heat, but she was too late as the patient felt she could only recover from drinking the last sip as well.

When the last woman got out I fell down in a heap and slept until we gave a small group of people who were helping with elections a lift. I counted one Mama in her  black church outfit and four ANC supporters in their yellow T-shirts and two fat green pumpkins.

Oliver

Two years ago a puppy from the “lalies” found his way to our yard and hearts like the swallows which return each spring to build their nests on our windows. We were hosting our annual Ladies Conference. When the dogs in our community hear the rustle of breaking branches and smell swirls of smoke from the Mission’s kitchen their noses point involuntary east and their feet and droopy tails follow.  I saw the puppy happily slurping rice water from the drain next to the kitchen.  At dusk he was still there and whatever I did to help him out, did not work. He just sat sleepily, stomach bulging from a whole weekend’s food outside the gate and the moment I turned, he crawled back through the gap in the fence.  It was misty and cold and I took him inside.  Fleas were doing summersaults and triple flips on him.  I washed him and as I rubbed him with a towel, he fell asleep on my lap, a breathing little teddy bear posing as a dog.

We took him to the SPCA (his first drive on a very bumpy dirt road) and he threw up on us when we parked. They did not have space for him and we adopted him straight away.  His original name was “Jet” as he would leap in the air with spurts of energy.   In the afternoons he and Sparkles (our goofy Weimeraner) would run in circles with Oliver flopping unexpectedly against her after his Jet-moves. You could almost see laughter in his amber eyes.  I call him Oliver the Traveler as he loves to sneak out and visit the local people-especially our pre-school cook. Recently he has decided to stay with her on a more permanent base as he is allowed to sleep next to her bed at night.  She tried to coax him back home but he is quite a stubborn fellow and loves his dog-friends and adopted family.

Last night I dreamt of him running around and my heart ached when I woke up. This afternoon I heard a yelp in front of the kitchen.  It was Oliver sitting in front of his bowl. I smothered him with a hug till he drooled. He gobbled his food so I missed the tell-tale signs.  His energy was renewed and he disappeared around the corner back to his new mama who was still working in the kitchen at the end of the yard. I did not mind—as long as he comes back to say hello. When the mama brought me the keys she asked “Ubetyile?-Did he eat?” I just nodded happily and did not suspect anything. He trotted happily next to her and then I noticed—his ears were hanging. Mama Zile did not allow him to go back with her and then I realized that Oliver is ill.
As he was lying on his mat, I prayed for him because the vet is far and I won’t be able to take him to town till Monday… 

Creativity

Yesterday I received a letter by e-mail from a friend in the Netherlands. It was more than a letter-it was poetic.  I wrote back and saw my own script- just lines. Her script and style reminded me that a simple friendly letter to a friend could be written in poetic form and could refresh ones' heart as the first rain in spring. 

• Letters, patterns and rain---all close to my heart. 

Childhood

Last night, when it was already dark, two children from the area appeared at the Mission. It seemed that their uncle who had come to with their family since another uncle's funeral, had chased all the children from their home. The children -- 7 of them -- just ran with fright into all directions. One boy and a girl (both about 12) ran to the Mission, the boy still in his school uniform and the girl having only a thin dress and tattered jersey on. Sadly we don't know where the other kids went, and we found out that two of them, a 7 year old  and a toddler with him, disappeared into the indigeneous forest nearby their home--a very dangerous place at night.

This is just a small glimpse of what many of the children in this area face during the festive season and throughout the year) as family members become drunk, use drugs, and make life at home miserable for the children.

Mind Fog

I don't know whether it is because I am over 45 or whether it is all the zillion things that I have to deal with each day, but it seems like mind fog has come to stay for a while. Mind fog is my unwanted companion and it sticks to me like a big, fat, grey tick on one of my dogs. It  clutters all the space available in the drawers of my mind and makes me feel as if I am boxed in with no space for clarity of vision and creativity.

One thing helped to clear the fog for a while. We were in the middle of the church service when we were sent out into the community two by two. Each pair was sent out with a packet of salt as a gift for the home they would visit.  A bunch of young girls went with me and they giggled at my pronuciation of the one little boy's name (Ntshonthsho) who tagged along with us. I was surprized at the willingness of the people in the community to receive us, as well as the readiness of our congregation's members to go out and follow the example of the disciples of Jesus when we went out two by two.

It seems that following Jesus' commands and having fun while being obedient is a very effective antidote for getting rid of  unwanted companions.

Home Visits

The old tata took my hands carefully in his and told me in a serious voice that his wife was ill and had a high fever. I then just knew I had to visit the mama. I let the other mamas know and we arranged to meet at my house at ten on Thursday morning. We had to walk as my husband and the visiting outreach team had gone out with our car and would only be returning late that evening.

At ten a.m. my mom and I were ready to face the icy breeze (a huge cold front hit our area), but there was not one mama in sight. At eleven we decided to walk ahead, and to my amazement we met four ladies of our congregation who had travelled 9 kilometers on foot to make this visit at the edge of the indigenous forest nearby. I was so relieved to see them because I was scared to go through the forest—a place where criminals and unsavoury characters frequently hide. We entered the forest and as the trail is quite narrow we had to walk in single file.  The mamas were all dressed in their black uniforms with the round white collars. “You all look like penguins!” laughed my mom.  I just smiled grimly, because my black wool cap made my head itch and I have never felt comfortable in the stiff jacket and skirt. “There are vicious dogs at the end of the forest, so keep a stick in hand,” I called out to my mom who was making merry conversation with the ladies ahead of her. 

We left the forest behind and climbed through the barbed wire that fenced of the field of the family we were going to visit. A pack of scrawny dogs growled at us at the entrance with and bared their sharp teeth.  A thin black kitten skirted between them into the entrance of the main house. We were welcomed by other mamas of our congregation sitting outside the rondavel (a traditional Xhosa hut), trying to absorb some of the warmth of the late morning sun. My mom and I entered the rondavel and were showed to sit on two white plastic chairs behind the door. At some point in time the ill mama and her husband arrived. She had her thick green blanket wrapped around her and was peeling an orange with relish. No sign of a recent ailment.

One by one the women slowly filled the rondavel, and by one o’clock we were about twenty people there.  The youngest women had to sit on reed mats and I was amazed at the amount of mamas coming from far to visit.  One of the mamas opened with Scripture and then each one came to the front to give her interpretation of the Scripture as well as encourage the mama on her road to recovery.  Every speech was introduced by a song of worship. It later came out that many of the women thought that the mama was on the verge of death (the grapevine did its work), which explained the full rondavel. The door of the rondavel was then closed and as everyone went on their knees in the dark, the murmur of women’s prayerful voices filled the room.

When the last prayer ended in a soft “Amen,” a plate was put on the small table next to me and each mama made a money offering as form of support to the family. The door was then opened and the mama’s daughter-in-law (with the help of young women in frilly aprons) served us with plates heaped with steamy rice, gravy, braised cabbage, and pieces of broiled chicken. The little kitten dashed inside again and clawed her way to scraps of chicken that were thrown to her.  A primus stove was brought in and as I sat with a sleepy kitten on my lap, we were served with sweet, milky cups of tea and thick chunks of homemade bread baked in big black iron pots.

With the wisps of smoke from the cooking fire trailing around us, we greeted each other at the outside with handshakes on the rhythm of enthusiastic singing. My mom (usually a shy introvert) was caught up in the cheerful atmosphere and she danced with the ladies, shoving her walking stick in the air.

As we parted ways with the mamas later on, I realized that the mamas who walked with us through the forest had to head back home on foot for another two hours. They would only arrive home after dark.  My heart ached for them, yet it did not seem to bother them. They headed home with a light tread… and their faces were lit up from the warmth of conversation, laughter, food, song, and prayer. 

Trails

A tiny red flag guided us through the forest. Our host gave us directions and warned us that many visitors were misguided at one section of the trail and had to turn around at some point. They marked the trail with the red flags and a cross. 

At the cross section we looked for the cross but couldn’t see any. The one trail dwindled down and the other headed in the direction we wanted to go. It also looked more interesting with wispy grey old man’s beard hanging from century old yellowwood trees. We naturally decided to take the more adventurous way. Our host spoke the truth! Although proving to be an adventurous trail, I got stuck in a bramble bush and the trail went past the dull backyards   of cottages on the edge of the forest. We saw a messy spot where people of this quaint village secretly (at the back of their prized “Eco Shrine”) dumped their rubbish. In the end we had to sneeze our way back home on the dusty road leading to the village.

We decided to re-walk the trail and at the cross section we found the cross painted in yellow on one of the trees.  

We entered the cool of an unspoiled forest devoid of brambles and rubbish. Instead we came upon scarce birds flitting shyly through the treetops and crossed shallow brooks where we could sit a bit and quench our thirst.

 It reminded me of our way in life.  Our host did not provide us with enough detail of the cross on the tree and we just assumed that it would be easily visible at the cross section.  Due to our natural inclination towards surprises and adventure we took the trail that seemed to be more adventurous but turned out to be thorny, dull, and dusty and lead us nowhere. 

When we miss our prayer and quiet time in the presence of the Lord we miss the flags and crosses of the Holy Spirit. We then get stuck are mislead and miss our destination. When we closely follow Him with an intimate walk, we are more alert and able to see the not so visible crosses. We are then guided on trails which lead us on unspoiled and unique journeys. Ultimately, we’ll reach our destination while being offered spiritual refreshment on the way.