African Vineyard

September 11, 2011. Worshiped again at Edenvale Baptist Church, but this time the team had arrived and attended as well. Early service was pretty much full because SA Springbox team was competing in the World Cup Rugby game being broadcast during regular church hours. Every where we went after service, the game was being shown, even in the open African merchants' market...a screen (about the size of Texas, OK, I'm exaggerating, but it was huge.) was the center of attention. The Spirit was present and the service was amazing; we had the privilege of participating in the Lord's Supper with them. Although the sermon was one that God used to help prepare me for the week of work to come (Title: Keeping your eyes on Jesus), I must admit my mind and my prayers were on the service at Tucapau which would be taking place six hours later. As I am writing, it is September 16th and I am already back in Johannesburg. The first thing I did after I set up my computer was email SB for an update on the reception and the service and vote. I am thrilled that God is bringing Rev. Nixon and his family to Tucapau and at the overwhelming support he has received.  JD also helped keep me posted on these and other events taking place.

Zulu dancers at Merchants Market

After service from 10:00-1:30 we shopped at the African merchants' market and were on our own for lunch. Almost everyone was shopping for children or grandchildren as well as souvenirs for their prayer partners, but everyone took time to try the local delicacies (no one tried the pig.)  These Zulu dancers were amazing; another striking contradiction...singing and dancing to ancient songs of their tribe (for pennies)  in the middle of a multi-million dollar shopping mall with hundreds of tourists passing and stopping to take pictures or video. Tall and graceful men with pride in their craft whose feet and voices tell a sad and haunting story for what has been lost of their culture and not yet replaced with anything of lasting value.

Cross just inside main gate.

At 1:30, we loaded up for Aurora Primary School where we would spend the week. It took about 35-40 minutes to leave a metropolitan major city (with  McDonald's and  Kentucky Fried Chicken) and drive into the flat dusty rural farm land where Aurora is located. Termite hills are everywhere, some quite a few feet high next to fertile plowed fields waiting for a new crop to be planted. We reached it via an interstate highway that rivals anything we have in the States and an unpaved road that jarred us to the bone. We just had minutes to unload and pile back into the van for a visit to the squatters' camp where the children live when not at school (week ends and short school holidays).

After another 35-40 minutes drive, we arrived at one of the hundreds (perhaps thousands) of squatters' camps in South Africa. Dirt floors, raw sewage, limited running water (one faucet per row of tin shanties), no electricity, no play areas, no toys, hundreds of children, and ...dust...dust...dust...dust... In a camp of thousands, I saw only two dogs, no cats. Each small shack was measured and each was fenced. We walked the full depth of the camp, and in the midst of unbelievable filth, I found another incredible contradiction.. every so many feet there would be a small fenced square, neat and clean (as dirt can be) well tended with pride and many with small gardens of spinach. We stopped at two shanties very close together (one was the pastor's house and one was the church). His wife put a plate of food on a mat on the ground for her two babies. There were five other smiling children standing near by who started to walk away, but she waved them to join the two on the ground. Room was made for them around the single plate of food, no fighting or quarreling, pushing or shoving, just seven little hands reaching in (the oldest was probably five). Even with so little and in a world where fighting for life is the cause of any day, they understand the concept of sharing.  Further into the camp, Veronica introduced us to XXXX, a grandmother of two, whose daughter, caught up in the hopelessness of her life, sought refuge in drugs and abandoned her children... One of whom attends Aurora. We entered this place thinking we knew what we would find. No WORDS or pictures can convey the desperation of this place or the emptiness of the eyes of those who live here. The sheer will of the Human spirit to survive amid such waste still amazes me. We passed two shacks marked with green flags. These belonged to the local witch doctors. I did not take a picture of either. I did not need a picture to remind me of their presence  there. I expected to feel it, but I did not. I had no sense of evil or dread of satanic power. I did not feel threatened. I did feel that I was the object of curiosity and by those who were drinking, humor. 16 white Americans (who have everything) walking a filth strewn lane with thousands of black South Africans (who have nothing) surrounding us. I felt completely safe. I shouldn't have. Even Veronica does not go there without XXXX. He lead us in and we had protection behind us. Apparently the local police found out we were there and they drove through just to let their presence be known. If I were not a Christian, I could, as others have, assume there can be no hope here...but Veronica and her husband see hope in every child...through education...a way to learning about Jesus who is the only way to (eternal) life.