The Reluctant Rhino

by Doug Roland

         Our recent visit to Kruger National Park in South Africa included three night game drives and two morning hikes.  As typical tourists, we looked in the wild for animals we only knew from the zoo.  We wanted to see where and how they really live.  Spotting any animal in its habitat is an exciting thing, and Kruger is the gold standard for real habitat.  

Kruger can't be comprehended if compared to a zoo.  The park is huge, about the size of Israel.  There are literally thousands of animals there.  Our guide, Mark, reminded us that his purpose was to protect the animals and that there are no guarantees that we would see any. The animals are not like dancing hippos, there to entertain. The park  belongs to the wildlife. The animals would be just as happy to be left alone.  They are not looking to make new friends.  Undiscouraged, we pursued them on foot during the day and vehicle at night. 

When I was in high school, a night drive meant a warm summer night looking for a different sort of game.  I drove around town in a 1956 two-tone Ford, windows down, left elbow out, and high hopes that Aqua Velva would lure my prey hither.  This was different. 

In the game parks of South Africa, the vehicles are charitably referred to as land cruisers.  They are actually trucks with a frame welded to the bed.  The frame supports three rows of tiered seats behind the driver.  The front windshield is lowered to the hood allowing a place for Mark and his assistant to put their rifles.  There was nothing to keep out the wind.  

The first challenge was the climb to our seats.  Monkey bars bars and rope climbing came to mind.  The first step was about four feet, from which one more or less falls into the bench seat.  On the first night, there were eight of us, four from the U.S., two from Brazil, one from Jakarta and one from Cape Town.

The top-heavy cruiser was not intended for comfort.  We drove through dry river beds, listing about 20 degrees left and right. We hung on like urban cowboys. No sooner did we get used to it, than the sun began to disappear.  It was mid-winter in the bush.  There no windows or heaters save the layers we brought along. The cruiser did, though, have heavy ponchos for the passengers.  I wrapped myself and pulled up my turtle neck sweater to my nose.  When my eyes watered in the cold wind, I thought about those warm, Indiana summer nights.  

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Despite the gymnastics, rough rides and the discovery that it gets cold in Africa, the rides were rewarding.  On one of them, we came upon a peaceful scene with several elephants dining on a hillside at sundown.  We stopped and watched from our perches. The posed no threat being  far more interested in getting their tons of daily food than messing with us.  Later, near a paved road, we saw a male lion lounging contently on the long grass playing kissy face with his main squeeze. We took as many photos as the light would allow.  The male looked our way, yawned deeply and return to his companion. There we were, voyeurs in the night.  

       On our final night, we left camp at dusk. The little dirt road near the camp soon deteriorated to little more than a path of deep ruts, and dry river beds.  We came up to a fairly open part of the bush.  Two or three rhinoceros were quietly grazing.  Mark turned the engine off, and  we waited for whatever would happen next.  Two rhinos wandered away, leaving a lone male who slowly ambled in our direction.  We watched him while wondering if a truck converted to an open air passenger van would match up to a rhino with a bad disposition.  

The rhino comes with a lot of baggage.  He has no front teeth and the visual acuity of Mr. Magoo.   As weird and prehistoric as he looks, he is attracted to females but only for purposes of mating . . . . . by fighting.  It's the only time the rhino uses his horns.  Not long after he mates, he divorces and lives a solitary life.  

While the rhino has no known predators, save one, and, while he has very thick skin, he is hounded by the lowly tick that attaches itself to the rhino's skin, causing the rhino to wallow in the mud to seek relief. 

Not unlike most of us, rhinos are fussy about where they sleep, even to the point of being territorial about it.  We were parked maybe 50 feet from a little muddy patch of dirt, the site of his "bed" for the night. He would find it easily enough unless we were too close, but he wasn't sure where we were. 

Looking at his eyes, it's obvious he cannot see well.  He is, however, endowed with a distinct sense of hearing. His ears look like little periscopes that pivot independently over 360 degrees to obtain information. As he gazed at us through his ineffective eyes, we stared back at him with cameras and video. The clicks, whirrs and beeps were data for the rhino's calculation. The computer in his head was triangulating.  Advantage rhino. He moved a little closer to his spot.  Mostly he was annoyed.  Our land cruiser held its ground, and he became more restless.  We remained quiet.  Finally, he walked the last few paces and laid down in the shallow mud.  Now that he was settled in, Mark did not want to start up the noisy engine and disturb him.  There's no doubt he knew we were close.  But the rhino now occupied his place of rest and would defend it.   

We had become unwitting antagonists, selfishly enjoying the rhino's dilemma.   The sun was setting and we had to leave.  Reluctantly, Mark started the engine.  The rhino did not charge.  Instead, he got up and  threw a little fit, jumping up and down and pawing at the ground like a two-year who refuses to share.  As we drove away, we looked back as the rhino returned irritably to his lodging for the night.  

            Footnote:

In spite of his being lonely and considered ugly by some, the rhino is sought by the Chinese and a few other Asian cultures for his horn.  Now that China has hit the economic lotto, it seems to be at a loss as to what to do with all its cash.  During the last 4-5 years some enterprising Chinese managed to convince some super wealthy and unfulfilled Chinese men that rhino horns contain aphrodisiac properties. Part of selling the idea was to set the price well beyond the middle class.  The liquid matter inside is sold for upwards of $60,000 per horn. This involves killing the rhino and cutting off its horn. The carcass is abandoned.  There are plenty of Africans willing to take a chance to make more with one horn than he's likely see in a lifetime.

If the poachers are not stopped, the species faces extinction within 10 years.  Over 200 have been killed this year so far.  Game officials and guides on the ground are ever alert for poachers despite the threats to their lives.  

The rhino lives in Africa, a great many of them in Kruger. It is a magnificent animal and has been around far longer than homo sapiens.  He's no threat to anyone and a real joy to visit whether in the bush or in the zoo. 

Life Goes On

by  Cheri Roland

Alain Nshimbi, his wife Georgette, and 3 year old son comprise one of our seminarian families from DRC; we enjoy greeting each other with “Bon jour.  C’est  va?”   In the midst of reeling from the seminary’s loss, on May 4^th a joyful much-anticipated event took place.  Georgette had a C-section and delivered a beautiful, healthy baby girl.  Cordesh and her mommy were discharged from one of the public hospitals a few days later.  But it soon became apparent to her parents that she was sick. They took her back to that hospital several times over the next two weeks, only to be told there was nothing wrong, and were sent home.  By the time her frantic parents finally got someone to pay attention a week ago, the hospital-acquired blood infection had thrown her into multisystem failure.  Cordesh was in critical condition.  They took her to another public hospital.  There the NICU staff did all in their power to save her.

Through the tangle of tubes and machines our interim president Peter Storey and Dean Sox Leleki  baptised her last Wednesday.   Two days later Alain requested the support of Shayne and Wesley Olivier, along with other family and friends, as the life-sustaining equipment was turned off.  

Cordesh’s funeral was very difficult for the wonderful village.   As part of ministerial formation, Alain had been assigned to Metro, an integrated Methodist inner-city congregation, so the service was naturally held there.  It was the same type of funeral service I was accustomed to, except for the meat locker temperature inside the sanctuary.   The presiding minister prayed the concluding words, The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken her back”.   I heard a soft voice directly behind me countermand, “No, it was NOT the Lord, it was the hospital!”  Not surprisingly, it was Peter Storey,  who had led the Christian churches’ fight against Apartheid.  Last night in Chapel he vowed to challenge this horrific incompetence and indifference rampant in public health care here.  Doug whispered to me, “The lion lives again!”

At the close of the service, a fellow Congolese seminarian carried the tiny casket out of the sanctuary.   Mother Georgette collapsed into wailing, sobbing repeated piercing staccato cries of high-pitched AYE-AYE-AYE.  Caught off guard, this hysterical outbreak startled me so I almost screamed.  Her distress, like a wave, echoed off the church walls, releasing a flood of tears from the entire congregation.

A train of cars tortuously crawled to a private cemetery, ironically in the shadow of the very same hospital that had killed her.  Here Metro Methodist Church has purchased land for church members in need of burial plots.  On a hillside were about fifty new graves, behind which were headstones peaking up from tall swaying weeds.  Psalm 103 came to mind: “As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.”  A hole had already been dug literally inches from another fresh mound of red earth and stone.  Fraying pieces of red carpet were draped over the sides and set under a row of rotting cloth chairs.   A temporary wooden cross adorned with handwritten words was stuck in the dirt off to one side.  The minister intoned our Lord’s final words of comfort.  As the diminutive wooden box was tenderly lowered into the hole, he invited anyone who wished to toss in a handful of dirt.  Georgette commenced wailing as fellow mothers surrounded her in mourning.   Ten seminarians took turns with two provided shovels to refill the hole, disregarding their dress shoes and clothes.  My big job was to hold suit coats as the men strained in the hot sun.  They lovingly sculpted the mound and planted the cross, reminding me of desert burials in old cowboy movies.    Eventually a permanent grave marker will replace the wooden cross.

And so a new life has commenced for this precious little family.  But they remain in the loving support of the wonderful village called SMMS. 

GOOD GRIEF

          by Cheri Roland

GOOD GRIEF, CHARLIE BRO… no, CHERI ROLAND!

This has been my mantra as of late.  Good grief!  Why can’t I get a grip?  Good grief, why can’t I stop wanting to cry?  Good grief, where has my energy gone?  Good grief, why do I still have a head ache?  Good grief, why do I feel tired after seven hours in bed?

I don’t want to write this, but something is nagging at me and that usually means the Lord’s prompting to attend to something I‘ve been avoiding.  Hectic responsibilities and crazy busy days are so useful for covering up emotional stuff.  Being buried in busy-ness is so much easier than facing the messiness of reality; this has been my defence mechanism, my modus operandi, for most of my adult life.  But working at the seminary has afforded both of us the luxury of time and space coupled with a very conducive atmosphere for contemplation, a scary thought for me in all its ramifications.

The “wonderful village called SMMS” has just come through the tragic suicide of our president on May 2^nd, the first day back from a five day holiday break.  “Stunned” doesn’t begin to capture the vibe.  Classes were cancelled as we came together as a village to mourn and cry and shout out our incredulous anger at a God who was supposed to protect us from this travesty.  One lecturer had his class write their personal “cursing psalms” which they shared with everyone.  We just abided in the Chapel of Christ the Servant for an undetermined number of days, while prayers and petitions for grace flew and circled and rose like flocks of doves moaning for peace.  But still there was no peace.

The entire seminary plunged into accepted “comfort the grieving  mode”, walking around the corner to visit wife Shayne and their sons, Peter, seminary student Wesley and pregnant wife Nicole, staff member Jon Mark and girlfriend Rev Diane.  But we all had obligations – to our classes, our studies, our duties, our schedules, our appearances.  The calendar was in stone.  So, we all pitched in to ready the campus to receive hundreds of mourners from all over South Africa on Friday, May 11.  Then we all braced ourselves and the campus to present a brave front at the very first graduation ceremony, Saturday, May 19^th, proceeded by the first Peter Storey Lecture that Friday evening.  As you can imagine, we staff members wore several hats simultaneously, and managed to march through each charade of celebration as time, like an ever-rolling stream, unsuccessfully attempted to sweep all our tears away. 

I’m left with lots of unanswered questions.  And I’m not alone.  Our village’s chief has run away.  He was our leader, visionary, counsellor, teacher, preacher, father, neighbour, boss man all rolled into the most dynamic personality I’ve ever worked with, under, around and through…  But I dealt sufficiently with my issues, emptied my wastebaskets of soggy Kleenex, and was “pastorally” offering my shoulder for others to cry on. Then, at our centering prayer group Wednesday, my smouldering ignored grief spewed out from my paved- over “Ross-volcano”.   Shocking it was, on so many levels!   And why does this bubble up other memories of loss and betrayal and pain?

What can anybody do in the inevitable face of grief? I look back at the sincere words of comfort I’ve dispensed (like pills?) over the years – HA!  So well-meaning and sincere and naïve they are. We physically cling to each other, in our humanness, unwillingly learning more about this foe with each new loss, strung as stepping stones over a rushing river dangerous in depth and intensity and will. But this is not enough.  I need more.  My heart needs surgical repair to seal that hole or I fear my soul will leak out!

I’m drawn back again to the cursing psalms, humanity’s comfort for ages and ages past.  Psalm 22 is most eloquent.  I figure if it was good enough for Jesus…   Here I can cry and rail at the Lord, knowing that He is bigger than my insults.  Since He made me to begin with, He programmed me to react like this until sheer exhaustion finally rules and I’m done wallowing.   I think David had it right when he penned, “ Even though I walk through the valley” of death’s shadow; he points to the sign leading us on a journey with our tumultuous emotions,  even as my heart would prefer to take the detour.   But the response to “even though” is most important.  Even though we are wandering through the black shadow of gut-wrentching feelings, WE ARE NOT ALONE.  God promises to go with us!  The Holy Spirit promises to commune in our stead when we have no more words.

Pilgrim’s Hymn, by Michael Dennis Browne, has stuck in my soul as only a sung truth can be.

“Even before we call on Your name

To ask You, O God ,

 When we seek for the words to glorify You

 You hear our prayer;

 Unceasing Love, O unceasing Love

Surpassing all we know. 

Even with darkness sealing us in

We breathe Your name,

And thru all the days that follow so fast

We trust in You.

Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace

Beyond all mortal dreams.” 

So what have I learned about good grief after putting these thoughts onto paper (or screen)?  I guess I have given myself permission to cry, to question, to wander through “the stages” even though they aren’t following the correct order, for as long as it takes.   But I must trust my head knowledge, and allow that certainly that the Lord is with me and the Lord is with Ross to work on my soul.  Trust will keep a flicker of light alive until it again blazes up in joy.  Trust and grace.

Now come to think about it, this is the advice I’ve given others.

2 May 2012

by Doug Roland

Our story and experience of the tragic events of May 2, 2012, cannot be understood without a word about two people who have, in subtle but real ways, changed our lives.

In 2007, I asked Dr. Peter Storey if we could volunteer at the new seminary.   At that time the seminary was only in the minds of the founders. Two years later, Ross Olivier, a friend and colleague of Dr. Storeys' for decades, was appointed first President of Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary.  He was charged with carrying out the vision. The two worked closely together to give birth to the seminary.  They were deeply dedicated to the formation of leaders to transform the church and nation.  As to the details of how to do all that? Well, suffice to say that it was an uneasy peace.  So it often is with leaders of uncommon abilities and skills, and who are passionately dedicated to the same thing.  

We made our offer to serve to Peter in 2007, he assigned it to Ross and Ross invited us to come to South Africa in 2010.  He wrote one paragraph in an e-mail describing the vision of what he saw for us.  We have since given life to that paragraph.  For 17 months we worked with Ross side by side as full time staff members.  We learned quickly that he was a man of extraordinary vision.  Our job was just one of his dreams.  We became part of the seminary family.  We've lived next door to Ross and his family since we came in 2010.  We've become comfortable here.  Strangers in a strange land, we've achieved a rhythm. But on May 2, 2012,  the music stopped. Our president, our leader, our friend and our neighbor, had died.  

Late in 2011, Ross became ill.  We could tell that he was not quite himself.  He was diagnosed with diabetes, and he suffered pain from a condition in his right jaw.  He worked hard and succeeded in losing weight, but something was still wrong.  Fortunately, around that time, a longtime family friend , a retired psychiatrist, moved to Pietermaritzburg to be closer to his daughter. Ross was able to consult with him about his condition and treatment. 

He was in the hospital a couple of times near the end of the year to deal with the pain and to be observed.  The pain and his exhaustion from overworking was a recipe for what was to come.  Though we did not know it at the time, he had slipped slowly into depression, a disease as potentially lethal as most any.  Both pain and anti-depressant medicines were in play.  A delicate balance was difficult to achieve.

  At the beginning of this year, he came to the office a few times but stayed for only an hour or so.  In his last appearance before the entire seminary community, he proclaimed that the theme for the year was - "Live the Light".  He encouraged the seminarians to become as a Light in whatever they do.  He taught no classes, saw very few people and in some way seemed to be detaching from the seminary.  He wasn't the same.

Eventually, the Governing Council of the seminary, chaired by Peter, gave him three months medical leave, and delegated most of his responsibilities temporarily among members of staff.  The overall guidance was divided between Peter, and Bishop Purity Malinga, Vice-Chair of the Governing Council. It had become clear that the president would not be able to resume his work for at least the remainder of the year.

On May 2, Peter came to the seminary to work on planning for the seminary's first graduation. He met with heads of department that morning. The rest of us went about our usual business.  The seminarians were in class, or doing their field education, or were studying as the end of semester is close.  The seminary hummed along.  It was a beautiful, sunny day.  We had just come off a 5 day weekend, were rested, and life was mellow.  It felt like any other day. Ross and his wife, Shayne, had just returned from a two week respite at their house near the South Beach. She felt well enough to leave Ross at home, and to come in and work a little.  Ross rested at home.  

Shortly after lunch, Peter called the staff into an emergency meeting.  Something was wrong and we hoped it wasn't what we feared.  When I walked in, it didn't look or sound the same.  Some stood, some sat.  There was an uneasy tension in the room, broken only by soft voices.  Someone closed the door.   Visibly shattered, Peter stretched his hands upon the table as if he wanted to embrace all of us.  Choking back the tears, he blurted, "My friends, Ross has left us!"  A collective gasp, then muffled crying and unabashed grief.  

  

About an hour earlier, Peter had asked Shayne if he could meet briefly with Ross to go over a few details regarding the graduation.  Ross had been sleeping when she left home, so she called first to wake him up.  He didn't answer.  She asked Peter to wait 10 minutes while she went  home to wake him up.  A little later, Peter went to the house and noticed that the garage door was partially open.  He found Shayne there holding a lifeless body. Ross had ended his life.  

The staff was stunned, having lost our leader, our compass, our friend.  Peter knew that we needed to be led to some sense of comfort.  Like us, he wanted to cry out, and ask why at times like these.  We knew Ross had been in a dark place but none could fathom the depths.  We alsoknew that our faith would carry us through, but the knots in the gut do not soon dissolve. Sorrow is a stubborn emotion. The Chaplain then read Psalm 23 from his cell phone.  

An immediate concern was to get the information out accurately, especially to the seminarians, while we still had control of it.  Peter decided that the information would be transparent.  We would not dance around the suicide issue. 

Some staff comforted each while others returned to work.  An emergency meeting of the seminarians was called for 3pm, about an hour away.  

The seminarians returned quietly to campus.  The word was out, but not the details.  They entered Christ the Servant Chapel with reverence.  A place normally full of raucous joy was a place of sorrow.  Someone began the old hymn,  "Be Still and Know.'  The community met in a way it never had.  We grieved together. 

  There were no robes or vestments.  Everyone still wore what they had put on in the morning. The table at the alter was barren save a single Bible.  Faces were buried in arms or were expressionless.  There was no liturgy for this moment.

Peter began by retelling the events of mid-day and comforted the community in the same way he had comforted the staff.   

"Remember this day,"  he said.  We have lost . . . " one of the giants of the Christian faith."  

He was a "great human being that took the audacious adventure of starting a new seminary."  "He literally gave his life for this place." 

He then reminded us that  . . . "we are also Easter people, and Easter ends with a cross and with an empty tomb.  Thank you for listening and for letting your hearts to begin to break with us."

A quiet hymn followed.  The Chaplain read from 2 Corinthians 4:7-9, the passage about jars of clay. 

  The Dean prayed asking us to …"cradle the family in our prayers." 

The service ended with the hymn:

"Ha ke mpotsa tsepo ea ka

ke tla re, ke"

(If you ask me where my trust lies, it's with Jesus)

iSimangaliso Wetland Park

by Doug Roland

Maybe it's because South Africa as a developing country is simply closer to the earth than highly industrialized societies. The deep connection to the land is felt and exhibited by South Africans of every race. If you stay around here long enough, you begin to see why. When we are out in the bush, there's a feeling of the land talking to you, even showing off a bit.

A couple of weeks ago, we drove to the iSimangaliso Wetland Park, about 3 1/2 hours east then north from here. Accommodations abound in the little village of St, Lucia. The Indian Ocean is a 15 minute walk away. The town is surrounded by the park, the bush, and a major estuary full of hippos and crocodiles. It's a big place.

The park extends northward 34 kilometers from St. Lucia to its terminus at Cape Vidal. A two-lane paved road runs through the middle. The park itself covers 332,000 hectares, has 526 bird species and some of the largest sand dunes in the world. Imagine 34 kilometers of coastline without a single condo, hotel or casino. And it almost didn't happened.

If you walked along the beach, then looked at the bottom of your feet, you would see that they are black. Dig a small trench and you'd find what looks like black sand. It's not. It's titanium, one of the world's precious metals. South Africa is a mining country and as you may have guessed, mining companies put a lot of pressure on the provincial government to sell the tract. But with the outcries from the thousands of people who use it and love it, the government held fast. Soon after it was declared South Africa's first World Heritage Site. Isimangaliso is Zulu for 'miracle'.

We learned that the park is slated to be part of a larger international park that reaches into parts of Swaziland, Mozambique and eventually Kruger National Park. It would become a single park 80 kilometers long and 23 kilometers wide. Odds are very good that this will be accomplished in a few years. Thought is also being given to expand further the park with the selection of preservation lands in Zimbabwe (post Mugabe), Zambia, Botswana and on to the west coast of South Africa and north into Namibia. The implications for the preservation of African species are obvious. So the little bit that we saw is a mere foretaste of what may come later.

iSimangaliso is the largest estuarial system in the country. The road offers several side roads (loops) through the park that deliver you to the brackish wetlands on either side. On the ocean side of the park there are seemingly endless vistas dotted with a handful of animals here and there and further out to a dark blue ribbon if sea. No evidence of human activity was seen. Grasslands in several shades of green extend for as far as you can see to the west. In a cloudless sky, the sun revealed salty marshes, teeming with life.

Several bird species, butterflies, crickets and all manner of tiny creatures thrive alongside one of the larger mammals - the communal hippos. The place is hippo heaven. They are everywhere, even known sometimes to wander about on St. Lucia's streets. Seems idyllic, but these are not pets. I'm glad the ones we did see (probably a 100 or so) stayed in the water. The park has 800 hippos and 1,200 crocodiles , but whose counting?!!

As in any bush area, there are monkeys who, depending on their moods, stay out of site, or challenge you on your turf. There was one who dashed into the garden of our B&B and charged a closed patio door next to ours and was met with a thud. He glanced at me somewhat stunned. At the same time, there was a family of about a dozen mongoose (mongoose?) squeaking and running in a pack, albeit aimlessly in the back yard. But when the monkey lost his battle with the door, they all fled, after posing for the obligatory pictures for a clan of German tourists.

One evening we took a boat ride in a long narrow lake. It proved to be a favorite haunt for hippos, and they did put on a show . . seeming to stalk us, then stop, then open wide their mouths, probably laughing inside at this weird species that will pay money to see them just swimming around as always. We also saw two sizable crocodiles, and a couple of flyovers by large egrets in formation.

On our last night, we booked a night ride through the bush. The park hosts a fair amount of leopards best seen at night. It also has a few species of chameleon found nowhere else. Our driver was an expert and spotted the little guys 20-30' from the vehicle. He then picked them up and brought them to us to see. Otherwise it was unremarkable except when, near the end, we came very close to two large white rhinos. By now, though, we've learned that when out look for wildlife, there are good and bad days and nights. We've yet to see a member of the cat family on our wonderings.

Our favorite part of the park is the longest loop. It leaves the main road for 18 kilometers on a dirt road along grasslands and marshes. Being in no hurry whatever, we stopped frequently to look at nyala, cape buffalo, Water buck, wildebeest, warthogs (fast becoming our favorite African animal), and more bird species than one would see in a lifetime. Other than a few fences and a distant power line, it was just us and creation. We are part of creation and so are these animals. Almost every time we came upon an animal, he or she would stop, and stare at us just as we were staring at him or her. In the couple of hours we were on the road, we did not see a single person or other vehicle. Imagine what the world might have looked like when man first appeared. This would have to be in the running.

Each time we come to a place where wildlife lives, whether it's exotic birds or the giraffes just a few miles down the road from where we live, there is a kind of communication that says we both belong here. This earth is shared and, if we humans will think about it enough, we will use our power of dominion for all our sakes. If I could put it another way, I cannot imagine a world without the other creatures who, like we, are here for a reason.

Footnote: Here is wishing you a wonderful Easter morning. May the messages you hear give you the hope you seek to bring peace to your lives.