Rotary Banners

Rotarians trade and collect banners when formal visits take place between clubs. We visited a number of clubs and also received banners from clubs whose members attended our fromal dinner in Gonubie our last night together.

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I've sat through many Rotary meetings in Westminster not giving much thought to the banners displayed at the Legacy Ridge Golf Course club house. The colorful pennants with their unique logos and designs create an interesting backdrop. Occasionally I would try and imagine where in the world were the clubs with the more exotic names.

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Now as I prepare to carry the flags back to my club I realize what these banners represent. They represent people.

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They represent people who have joined together for various personal reasons. Some of us are looking for fellowship; some for business contacts; some join because their employer pays their dues; some desire to make a "difference" in their community; some want to help the underpriviledged overseas; some join to feel as if they have contibuted to eradicating a disease such as polio; some join to fill a social void; some desire recognition; some look for the satisfaction of a child's smile; some join knowing that what little they do may make even one day a bit better for another - even a complete stranger.

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Rotarians pick up where government and churches leave off. They look for opportunities. They provide money, work, food, recreation equipment, medicine, life saving apparatus, a helping hand where ever they can.

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These banners also represent the clubs. The various groups that through unity provide fellowship, a workforce, a pool of money, a collective for change or to address a need which would go unmet but for group effort.

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The banners represent an ideal of service, of positive energy focused by the vision and expertise of individuals members.

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The banners represent people with families, with jobs, with businesses, all with ideals.

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The banners represent good.

Of Security, Prevailing Mindsets and Rotary

Of Security, Prevailing Mindsets and Rotary
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Emil here: We end our month long tour on the southern shores of the African continent. Gonubie is a seaside town near East London. The small resort city is named after the Gonub, a local nut, which is a Xhosa name pronounced with a “cluck” of the tongue as opposed to a “click.” The town is a sleepy suburb of East London, in the Eastern Cape. The streets are lined with brick homes and upscale neighborhoods have gently rolling hills. The rocky coast of the Indian Ocean invites tourists, especially during the heat of the Christmas season. There are no hotels or motels so the area is dotted with B&Bs.
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John and Lynne Hall, our host Rotarians, live about 100 meters from the rough shore. While we cannot see the ocean from their home, the smells and sounds of the sea are pleasantly ever present.
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Their home is a three bedroom, two bath brick and stucco. An out building houses the two-car garage, laundry and “pub,” as John calls it. The pub is a recreation room with wet bar, SONY wall-mounted flat screen and bathroom. The braai (bar-b-que) area is just outside near the kidney-shaped pool.
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In our month of traveling south, we’ve found progressively less Afrikaans spoken. Here, along the shore, if the locals are bilingual, it’s English and Xhosa. Also, the Hall’s are the first family that we’ve stayed with who do not have a full-time “domestic;” although they do employ a gardener and “Chorer” (helps with the chores, of course) once per week.
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One cannot write of the Halls without mentioning the five, full grown, Labrador Retrievers that occupy the tile floored home. Imagine a pack of overgrown puppies that one must wade among while moving from one room to another. Thank goodness the dogs are each 60 pounds of tail-wagging love each with an over-whelming desire for a belly rub.
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Getting in or out of the house is a major exercise. The dogs always go into pack mode when anyone dares open a door. One never knows if they’ll make a mad dash out the door or include the human in their waddling procession. Lynne controls the mob with spray bottles strategically placed within arm’s reach through the house. John uses a rolled up newspaper, now tattered and torn, to get their attention by slapping his thigh. He never strikes their babies.

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Opening the electric driveway gate is a major logistical event. The house is surrounded by a six foot brick wall – a relatively recent addition, ten years or so ago. The gate is remote controlled. The dogs must be in the house when the gate opens or it’s a free-for-all with the pack loose on the streets of Gonubie. These collarless over-grown pups would run. So John and Lynne coordinate their efforts with pre-departure planning resembling an escape from a detention facility. They use a series of car honks, open window shouts and occasionally cell phones to revise their plans as they discover the gate is chained, the remote is left behind or a dog somehow managed to be in the yard. When the Halls are not home, the dogs freely roam the fenced property. This creates an intimidating presence as they gather at approaching visitors.
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The Halls have added an electric fence to the top of their wall; five strands of 800-volt wire to deter the criminally poor. This barrier added after their wash disappeared from their line while they were home several months back. The voltage doesn’t kill but serves up quite a kick as John learned once when he was trimming the trees and Lynne did him a favor upon noticing the power was off.
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Of course the house has the required alarm system, as does the outbuilding. Keys are used dozens of times a day. As one goes out, the door is unlocked and relocked. The Halls have three televisions, one each in the pub, the bedroom and the main house. The televisions are switched on, to give the impression of occupation – always. Always.
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Between the homes and the beach is a long strip of dense bush. Paths leading into the thick brambles are at once inviting and foreboding. We were warned that “bush dwellers” frequent the area. The story of a neighbor’s daughter being gang-raped on the beach in front of their home, in broad daylight, by three attackers gives us a horrid edge to the otherwise pleasant scene of surf, sun and sand.
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Before the end of Apartheid, law prevented blacks from being in white towns after 6:00 p.m. unless they were working. Now that the laws have been repealed the blacks are settling in town. This means the number of unemployed youths roaming the streets is increasing although this is still rare in white areas. Lionel Cummings, a retiree from the Mercedes Benz assembly plant here, estimates unemployment at least 75% in this area. Again, as we mentioned in earlier posts, cars are too expensive. We see black people walking everywhere. So the crime rate is not as high as it could be if more people had accessibility to cars
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The greater East London, Gonubie and township area of Mdantsani is now known as the Buffalo Municipality. It is home to an estimated 700,000 people. If the official national government affirmative action figures are correct, about 88% are black. This translates into about 600,000 people who do not have a “history of opportunities.” Just in this area alone. Recall the country is estimated to be home to 47 million. The resulting poverty breeds disease, crime and corruption.
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There are sections of East London where the local Gonubie newspaper owner Ron Jones, says he would not travel even with a pack of white people. He tells us that we tourists are easy to spot because we tend to look around rather than focus directly on where we are headed. He also says that when tourists bump into someone we raise our hands as if to apologize rather than just “push ‘them’ out of the way.”
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His comments on the police were enlightening. He believes that as affirmative action is now in place, more people who were unemployed, underprivileged just a few short years ago are now in positions of authority. He tells us it’s relatively common for a police officer to succumb to the temptation of a bribe or be busy at another place seeking a pay-off when summoned for crime control by a citizen. Of course, we take his comments with a grain of salt, but as our earlier posts indicate, this view law enforcement prevails.
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Again, as posted earlier, the National Chief of Police has alleged underworld ties. The national Director of Public Prosecutions has issued a warrant for arrest of the chief. But chief denies that the warrant exists. And for certain, the President has suspended the Director of Public Prosecutions for inability to get along with the Minister of Justice. So the reasoning at the white street level goes, “If these things are happening at the top, believe anything you hear about what the local cops are doing.”
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Speaking of greed and corruption, the television news this morning has as the top story an article concerning the National Soccer League’s Board of Directors. It appears that the board is negotiating the players contract with the government for next year. The board has voted to take a ten percent commission on the final figure of the compensation package. This may amount to about one million Rand for each board member. The Minister of Finance is decrying this and is accusing the board of violating both the national and soccer league constitutions. The news station is asking their viewing audience to vote by email their opinion of this development. Surprisingly, this could be a close vote.
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The prevailing view of the whites is that the black tribes are of a different culture. That whatever is available for the taking is “fair game.” This mindset is evident as everything is barred, locked or chained – schoolroom doors after hours, car doors, trailers, benches, you name it.
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This unfortunately spills over to Rotary. Black membership is low or non-existent in clubs we visited from Potchefstroom in the north to Gonubie in the south. Besotho Rotarians from Lesotho explained the black mindset. Those of the black cultures generally believe that one should not volunteer, or work for free. They do not agree that money collected by the clubs should be given away.
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The Besotho Rotarian speaking of those which shared his black heritage concluded by gesturing as he explained: as long as black business and professional leaders continue to approach life like this – he holds his hand out as if to receive something – and not like this – he gestures with his hand as if to give something – we will not have significant numbers of blacks in South African Rotary clubs.

Of the Bush and Manhood

Of the Bush and Manhood

Mark here: A local custom in this area is for the Xhosa men to enter the bush at the age of eighteen in order to find their manhood. This is a three week trial that begins with a week of hydration depletion, continues with a circumcision and ends with a beating at the hands of the men in the village to welcome the young men into the fold.
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Now this may sound like a strange thing to those of us in the west, but it is a time honored tradition here in the Queenstown area and the local villages. One of Elliot Masoka’s young foster children is about to undertake this experience and he is both excited and a bit frightened by the task at hand. “I must do it, regardless of what I feel,” says the young man with a wide smile upon his face. It is an honor to make it through the experience, but there is also a dangerous side to this practice that has led local clinics to develop a monitoring system for the young men that undertake the journey.
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Each young man must appear before the clinic and sign waiver forms stating that they understand the dangers of the circumcision and will allow themselves to be worked on by doctors if their health is in question. The circumcision is often performed with a rusty knife that has been used on countless other young men about to enter the bush in search of their manhood and can cause bleeding and infection leading to death. In the past it was estimated that one of every five young men going through this process would die from such infections and the clinics have stepped forward in an attempt to quell this issue from growing. This is yet again an example of old traditions being challenged by western science and elders in the villages wondering what they should do. “It is difficult to change the views of the older people in the village,” according to health care supervisor Zuko, “but it can be done through an understanding of the tradition and an explanation that we are only trying to keep the young men healthy.”
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For those of you wondering how this is can even be an issue it must be taken into account that these village inhabitants have lived this way for generations in a closed society barely touched by outside influences until recently. Changing the past is difficult, but with people willing to make the difference such as Elliot Masoka, Dr.Lee and Zuko there is little doubt that this metamorphosis will be successful.

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Pictured below is a woman using the white clay "make-up" commonly used by young men during their time in the bush. This serves as sun screen and also identifies the men as initiates.

Of Western Science and Local Superstition

Of Western Science and Local Superstition

Mark here: As westerners look at the HIV/AIDS epidemic in this country we can sit back and ponder the reasons why it happens, but never truly understand them until walking in the footsteps of a local clinic doctor or nurse. This is a country riddled by a disease that seems to grow daily and strike down youth and adult alike.
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Clinics in the rural areas are overwhelmed with nearly a hundred visitors a day with maladies ranging from tuberculosis to HIV issues. Government provided ARVs are free to anyone who has tested positive, but getting the patients to look beyond the local Sanghomas is a battle that is only just being fought. With the local villages filled with illiterate populations a wariness of the western sciences has taken hold and the HIV medications are being forsaken for the local healers and their cornucopia of herbs and such.
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For Dr. Lee and Zuko of a village clinic it is a slow climb to the pinnacle of understanding between the past’s traditions and the reality that is HIV/AIDS. Meetings with the local healers have taken place and the clinics are attempting to bridge the cultural gap between past and present so that the disease does not steal away another generation.
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Imagine halls filled with patients, a cacophony of coughs and crying children and the overworked and underpaid nurses and doctors doing whatever is possible to bring comfort to this mass of humanity. The next time a prescription is filled at the local Walgreens, remember Dr. Lee’s clinic and their broom closet of medicines that are dispensed through a slot in the wall by a volunteer with little or no training. It is all well and good, according to Dr. Lee, for the west to provide medications and money, but it is a grassroots approach that is needed to bridge the gap between the village tradition and the scientific growth in the field of HIV/AIDS medication. “Until that happens,” says Dr. Lee, “this is a battle that we cannot win.” For a country on the verge of losing a generation of its children this is one time where there is no room for failure. It is not a change that will happen overnight, but something that must be given time and approached with patience to do the right way. “It is not a manner if we can succeed”, says Zuko, a health supervisor at the clinic, “but that we must or we will lose our children.”

Of Hatred and Reconciliation...

Of Hatred and Reconciliation…

Mark here: During our stay in Queenstown we were fortunate enough to meet a man who had participated in the oppression under Apartheid that riddled this fine country. As a student demonstrator and victim of the police organization’s torture process Elliot Masoka is a living reminder of what this country has been through in the past twenty years.
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As a young man growing up in the black area of Queenstown he chose to join the Youth Movement of the ANC and stand up for the rights that he believed his fellow blacks were to have as human beings. He and his brother were eventually apprehended by the police, one of whom was his own uncle, and taken into custody as supposed members of an underground organization preparing to do battle with the regime in power.
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He was subjected to a variety of tortures, which ranged from wooden slices inserted under the nails of each hand to an unfathomable experience involving being stripped naked and having his reproductive organs battered with a desk drawer. These actions would understandably cause any human being to develop a hatred to the oppressors responsible, but Elliot has risen above the hatred that could have ruined his world and become an example of what South Africa can be in the future.
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He has quietly gone about his life and developed a shared mindset with Nelson Mandela of putting the past in the past and going forward into a future where all South Africans are equal…regardless of color.
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Elliot and his lovely wife Tandi have three children of their own and also provide a home for four foster children and a lovely woman named Grace, who is Elliot’s mother. This South African version of “The Waltons” is something to behold as they work together to provide each other with the best possible in terms of love, support and education.
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Elliot divides his time between a funeral parlor business, farming, parenting, church activities, Rotary, a bed and breakfast and acting as a father for the children living under his roof. This led to a recent heart attack for the forty-three year old man, but he refuses to be slowed in his attempt to make the world a place where his children can be proud of who they are and what they believe in. “I feel that my past has allowed me to see the possibilities of the future”, says Elliot and he has worked hard to show his family that color is not an excuse for failure or lack of pride.
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To Elliot South Africa is on the verge of either excellence or heartbreak and he is scared that it could fall into the same abyss that Mugabe has led neighboring Zimbabwe unless the politicians realize they are the leaders of a land thirsting for change. For all of us that hold images of the Apartheid era in our minds or wonder how this country could ever reconcile it is important to remember individuals such as Elliot Masoka. He was taken into the belly of the beast by individuals that saw him as little more than a servant and survived that journey to stand as an example of what this country is truly about…peace and rebirth.
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September 26 - 29 Queenstown and the Sangoma

(I'm still having trouble uploading photos.)
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The Rotarians we met at Queenstown so far are our kind of people. Reg and Helen Morgan are progressive, amiable people. He’s an Anglican minister who is interested in helping all; she’s a former radical youngster who was routinely watched by the security police during the “struggle” against Apartheid.
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My host PJ Colete, an attorney, resigned from the first Rotary club and founded the second club when the membership refused to admit women and blacks, coloreds and Indians as members. Way to go, PJ!
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PJ, born of an English speaking family of Dutch heritage and Renise from an Afrikaner family have five children (including a set of triplets). They live in a large rambling home, which has seen ongoing reconstruction and expansion since 2001. As far as I could determine each child has his or her own bedroom (complete with wireless internet). The two full-time nannies share a room with private bath. There is the extra large kitchen with adjoining family room – with mounted flat screen SONY. A very large formal dining room with an immense table set for ten could easily accommodate sixteen (OK, fourteen, PJ tells me) comfortably. When we joined hands to say Grace before dinner we last two were so far away from each other at this regal setting that we had to do so “wirelessly.”
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I have not been around to see the house, but one particularly interesting entry way has three sets of double doors all 18 paned glass opening on three of its walls and the fourth a water feature along the stairway going up to the new two story wing. This houses the master suite and office with a commanding view of the front yard. The sitting room is now full of office furniture from PJ’s law office – he’s in the process of moving again.
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The kitchen has a scullery. This is the second home I’ve been in that has such. These are becoming more common as we move from Afrikaner homes, which typically had braai areas with wet bars. The scullery is a bright area for food prep (not cooking) and cleaning up. This area is the usual workplace of the domestic while the kitchen is reserved for the owners cooking. .
I’m housed in a guest room attached to the garage just next to the pool. This as opposed to the coy pond in the front of the house. (OK, it's nice, but you should see the places where some of the others are staying!) PJ and Renise’s place is surrounded by a six foot high wall; this in contrast to all other homes in which we’ve stayed that have a metal spiked-top metal fence. The gate is electric, operated by remotes attached to their key rings. the gates are also operated from the intercom telephone in the kitchen. The sets of keys are overwhelming. They are what we referred to a skeleton keys in my childhood, at least a dozen including the high tech car keys of the current generation. And the Colete family has at least a dozen sets of these hanging on the wall. They have keys for every room in the house as well as their home by the sea (read, Indian Ocean) and the eight-bedroom guesthouse they operate as well as PJ’s law office. They travel with one or two sets as well as the ever-present cell phones. With five kids, a law practice and guesthouse and ongoing reconstruction of all of this as well as coordinating Rotary functions and arranging tours and meetings for GSE team members, the phones ring about every ten minutes. .
PJ served for six years on the local [city] council. He is a member of the ruling party in the country the ANC. He’s a lone white face in the overwhelmingly black party of Nelson Mandela. He has sat through six years meetings with 47 other council members, some tedious beyond common sense, working to secure electricity and water to the black and Indian communities, which adjoin the old white Queenstown.
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As we drove through this town of 8,000 white, 5,000 coloreds and Indians and an estimated 87,000 blacks, the old racial housing boundaries are falling away. Non-white middle class families are moving into the fringes of the formerly white section; as the blacks move up into better homes and out of the squatter camps, more arrive to take their place. An apparently unending tide of people moving into corrugated metal shacks with dirt floor, open to the wind. The fortunate have electric power by illegal extension cords carrying 220 volts buried a few centimeters below the surface.
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A particularly peculiar magazine cover caught my eye today. A South African mag called Country Life, similar to our Sunset magazine, was lying on the end table at my hosts B&B. The cover showed a squatter's metal hut painted bright lime green with a quite white woman dressed very trendy, planting flowers. The article was entitled "Squatter Shack Chic." It suggested that even you can make that squatter's shack look upscale with a bit of paint and some antiques. How ironic that the very basic of shelter for hundreds of thousands of dirt poor has moved into style. Well, maybe except for the cold, unbearable heat, dirt floor, lack of plumbing, smells, garbage and crime.
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There a number of government built brick homes. They all look alike and are neatly rowed. These were given away to qualifying families. The tragedy is that many have been sold for the few thousand Rand they are worth with the families returning to the squatter camps. These people are now prohibited from ever again qualifying for this free housing.
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PJ pointed out that children are the heads of many as parents are dead from AIDS related causes. We see trash everywhere in the squatter camps and along many of the streets in the RDP housing area. PJ tells me that time and again, litter control and clean up efforts are good for a few days then the rubbish is redeposited. There is no sense of community pride or environmental concern. This is coupled with the total vandalism of municipal efforts at fencing and recreational buildings and equipment. What ever can be dismantled and hauled away is sold for scrap or used for building shacks.
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Security and building techniques are ever-changing. This in response to the persistence and ingenuity of the masses of humans here. These forces operate as waves on the shore, constantly wearing away at the man’s efforts at safety and civilization.
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Queenstown is laid out as a hexagon. The city center, has a small six-sided park called, “Freedom Square.” This misnomer, lost on most here, aptly represents the ill logic that is contemporary South African politics. Further out from the city center the streets are laid out in typical grids.
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The older section of Queenstown houses Queens College, a boy’s high school. This large campus is replete with numerous well-maintained athletic fields and early 20th century two-story building on beautiful tree-lined streets. The girl’s version is traditionally called the girls "high school." A distinction rooted in the English tradition of education being primarily for males. This is still reflected in male alumni being referred to as “Old Bys”; as in “the Old Boys Association.” A-hah! The legendary term Good Old Boys has an origin. (By the way, we learned that the phrase "Hair of the dog that bit you" may have originated in parts of the world where a dog bite was treated by taking some opf the offending dog's fur, burning it, and rubbing the ashes in the wound. This was used by the Xhosa people to pmomote healing.)
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Whew! Every time we go for a spin or sit for a chat our heads are filled with facts, history and stories. My Goodness! Where to start now.
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Blacks are now called the “Previously disadvantaged.” Women of all races are “Historically disadvantaged.” Colored and Indian may be considered, hmmm, my hosts were not sure what. And of course white men don’t count.
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Politics here are zoological. Welcome the Monkey House. Nonsense along with corruption and petty jealousies and greed surface daily in the news. Let’s see if I can get this straight. The newspaper headlines today have something to do with the Director of Public Prosecutions (read Attorney General) was fired earlier this week by the President (read Archibald Cox and Richard Nixon) because he had issued an Arrest Warrant for the Chief of the National Police (read Director of the FBI). Thus he was removed from any investigation into one of the President’s cronies.
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The papers also carried a story regarding allegations that the local Chief Constable of Queenstown was found driving an allegedly stolen car.
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Yesterday afternoon and evening was especially rewarding for us. Bongile Mngambi, a previously disadvantaged Rotarian (this may mean he was once a member of the Fraternal Order of the Elks) took us to the Macibini location where he is the principal of the school. Bongile’s Xhosa name translates “To be thankful.” We’ve discovered many names have meanings. We’ve learned that “Michael” translates “White-haired Rotarian.”
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The settlement is as quiet as one can imagine. I mean really quiet. One hears some birds, the occasional lowing of a cow. The valley is broad and the setting sun casts a golden glow on all. There are no paved roads; no water or sewer lines, no electricity in most of the rondovals. Cooking is done out-of-doors in three-legged pots over fires made of dried cow and sheep dung. We saw this.
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He showed us the newer school with no plumbing! Water drains form the rooftops into cisterns - large plastic tanks at each end of the buildings. These are now dry because of the draught. The bathroom, well, there are no bathrooms, just privies. There school needs to buy water by the truckload to fill the tanks. But they have no money.
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The kindergarten has 75 kids in one room with one teacher. The kids sit four to a desk. But Bongile is as proud as he can be! There is a school, the kids attend school rather than stay in the rondovals all day and watch the goats and sheep graze. They are learning to read and write. And he is the principal – a very prestigious position here in Macibini.
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Bongile took us to a set of rondovals where the sangoma or “healer” lived. After about 20 minutes on pleasantries and conversation, he summoned us out of the car. The sangoma, a heavy set smiling woman of about 35 invited us into her hut. She had herbs and roots drying on the floor. There were pelts of various sorts hanging from the walls. There she played drum and sang. Then invited her initiate to play the drum while she danced clapped and sang! We were awestruck that she would do this for us. The sun was setting, the darkness of the hut and the rhythms of the drum, singing and clapping set the tone – this was the Africa we had hoped to witness!
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What an amazing adventure!

Saint Jesse

After District Conference we acted like tourists and shopped in the souvenier stores in downtown Maseru, Lesotho. A brief history: when the Afrikaneer Vortrekkers moved into this area to escape the British in the Capetown area, they pushed the Basotho tribespeople over the Caledon River into what is now Lesotho. In the 1980's Lesotho was ranked as the third poorist nation in the world. It's improved a bit we learned.

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Before we crossed the border, we visited the Folk Art Market. This cooperative was founded by Peace Corps volunteers. A number of Basotho women, using local wool, weave by hand traditional scenes on handbags, tapestry, placements and coasters.

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We travelled over the border into South Africa and Ficksburg. This small city on the Lesotho border is by far the quaintest, safest and most reminescent of the old midwest we've yet encountered. The tree lined streets shade older stone homes, many without bars on the windows and some without the imposing spiked fences we've seen in previous towns. Perhaps it's a matter of time, after all, Ficksburg is a city of about 5,000 mostly whites and the adjoining black township, with high unemployment, are you ready for this, is 80,000!

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But the town bustles. The downtown shops are open and used - again, no megamalls here. The streets are quiet after hours. The local real estate market is on the upswing as crime-sick residents of Johannesburg discover the serene setting against the Soutkop ("Salt head") rock outcropping. Cherries, peaches and asparagus grow in abundance here, locals can drive just a few blocks before passing someone they know and wave to. "B&B" signs are many giving this shady town an extra plesant feel.

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We toured the Jesse Poly Clinic on the Lesotho side of the border. Here we met a most remarkable man. Dr. N. Gyasi-Agyei is from Ghana. He's a Rotarian living in Ficksburg who makes the daily drive over the border to serve as the only doctor in the area administering to the Basotho. He's a striking figure, his skin darker than the Basotho, he dresses in white from head to toe, easily standing out in any group. His ever present smile, sparkling eyes and warm demeanor combine to draw people to him. He patiently explained his efforts to "Try to fix the dying" in a country ravaged by HIV/AIDS. A saint, he's ben here for 17 years.

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Dr. Jesse explained that while there are no exact figures on the extent of the HIV infection, he's able to estimate from testing pregnant woman the rate to be almost 50% of the population that visits his clinic. In Maseru, the capitol, he estimates the rate of infection to be 46%. Lesotho is third in the world, behind Swaziland and Botswanna for HIV infection.

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The clinic is supported by grants from the Irish, German and Japanese governments and private groups including the Clinton Foundation. More money is needed to supply life-saving ARV drugs and to promote education.

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Our Rotray hosts, Verney Halse, Vernon Joughin and Jim Lundberg saw to it that we were happy in Ficksburg. More to come...