Zimbabwe "votes"

MORE THAN ONE BILLION DOLLARS FOR A SANDWICH reported the BBC in its recent coverage leading up to the recent Zimbabwe elections. My first visit to Zimbabwe following its independence from Britain in 1980 was in 1989 and I received just over two Zim dollars for my one US dollar. Thirteen years later as the situation in Zim started on its downward spiral I received sixty six Zim dollars for each US dollar. The current exchange rate in the hundreds of millions of Zim dollars to a US dollar tells the story of how far the country’s economy has tanked. The BBC also called Zimbabwe a country of “destitute billionaires”.

The recent sham election for president has caused me to reflect on the good old days in Zimbabwe when we, in Zambia, looked south with envy at how good they had it in Zim. It is unfortunate to see how the oppressed has again become the oppressor. From the safe haven provided by Zambia in the ‘70’s Robert Mugabe led the freedom fighters or terrorists, depending on which side you were on, to independence in April 1980. He represented those “oppressed” by white rule under Ian Smith. Now for years he has oppressing his own people with far greater tyranny than the Smith regime ever dreamed about.

In November 1965 I was a boarding student at Kabulonga School for Boys in Lusaka, one of about 50 students housed in the hostel known as Williams House. We were in the early days of integration in the schools after the segregation of British colonial days. I remember that in Williams we had Hamir, the Madagascan, and Biggie Nkumbula, the son of Harry Nkumbula, the leader of the African National Congress in Zambia, before President Kaunda banned it. We also had Indian students, like Chugani, who insisted in tuning his short-wave radio into Bombay for Hindi music every afternoon which only he appreciated.

I was not much attune to the politics of the day so really had no clue as to what was going on around us. However on the afternoon of November 11th one of the white boys in the senior room suddenly started run through the hostel yelling “UDI, UDI!” It took me a while to figure out what was going on but then I was told that Ian Smith, the white leader of Rhodesia, had signed a Unilateral Declaration of Independence (UDI) from Britain (see picture above) after all efforts had failed by Britain to convince the white minority government to move to majority rule before Britain would grant independence to the country as it had to Malawi and Zambia in 1964. As you might gather from he story above, there was a considerable amount of sympathy for the white minority regime under Ian Smith by other white people, and some were happy to shout their sympathies from the roof tops.

Following UDI the United Nations declared economic sanctions against Rhodesia which tended to hurt Zambia more than Rhodesia since, as a landlocked country, Zambia imported almost all its goods through the Indian Ocean port of Beira, Mozambique and through Rhodesia by rail and exported its copper by the same route.

(to be continued)

A Visit to the Minnesota Zoo

A Year in England - School Days (2)

SPORTS AND ATHLETICS WERE A BIG PART of my childhood and while I was never a star I enjoyed participating. I played football (soccer) for Royal Liberty, probably on a junior team. Because I was big, the second tallest in my class, had a big kick and was quite slow, I played full back and just kept hoofing the ball to the forwards. Our colors were blue and gold.

I also went out for competitive swimming in the spring. The school had an outdoor swimming pool and the day after the first practice my stomach was very sore. The water had been very cold, lower than 60 degrees (15C), so I blamed my soreness on the cold water. Later I realized that the soreness was actually from the lack of use of those muscles as it had been months since I had last been swimming in the Sakeji pool, a semi-weekly event. The end of the competitive swimming season was marked with a swimming gala (competition) where races were held within the age groups. I swam freestyle for Form 1 and came in third out of four. The fourth place student was home sick. I received a certificate to record my excellent placement.

I did not play cricket at Royal Liberty although I did participate in the informal matches on the playground during breaks and at lunch. The wickets were drawn with chalk on the school wall and we used a tennis ball. Towards the end of my time at Royal Liberty during one of these cricket matches I got into a dispute with one of the others I was playing with. Perhaps it was over whether I was bowled out or not or maybe he was making fun of my short trousers (long pants) and suggested I put jam on my shoes and invite my trousers down to tea. (I was growing and my mother was trying not to have to buy me new “longs” which I would not need back in Africa.) Anyway he got the better of me and instead of using my weaker cricket skills I engaged my stronger football (soccer) skills and kicked him as hard as I could in his backside. This was so unlike me that I think he was caught off guard but soon recovered and taunted me with, “And you are the son of a missionary!” Ooooooh, I was struck to the core!!

I remember little of the classes I went to school to study. I really enjoyed History because of the teacher and didn’t enjoy Science for the same reason, which was to influence my decisions about classes back in Africa the next year. I did enjoy break and spending all my pocket money (two shillings and sixpence a week) on sweets (candy) at the school tuck shop until Dad found out and tried to instill some lessons about saving.

I nearly met my Maker at the end of school one day when I was heading home on my bike. Just outside the school grounds I was crossing traffic on the busy Upper Brentwood Road when the back bumper of a white Ford Thames van driving by caught my front wheel and took my bike from under me. I landed on the road and my bike was dragged for several yards under the van. The driver stopped quickly and people gathered around. I was shook up but not hurt; however my bike’s front wheel was badly bent. There was nothing I could do except walk home carrying my bike on my shoulder. One of my classmates, it may have been Copsey, kindly walked home with me and helped carry the bike. For several days, or even longer, I got to take the bus but eventually the bike was repaired and I resumed riding.

In December 1962 we were preparing to return to Northern Rhodesia. My classmates in Form 2L were very kind and wished me well. They pooled their pocket money and gave me a very nice pen and pencil set with which to remember them.

A Year in England - School Days (1)

THERE WAS NO WAY TO ADEQUATELY PREPARE for the change of culture between a mission school in the African bush and a government school in metropolitan London. On that first school day in January 1962 I rode my bike across Eastern Avenue (picture) and Main Road to my new school in my new blue and gold uniform blazer, tie, and cap, for my year in Form 1C at Royal Liberty Grammar School. I was in a class of about thirty other boys (it was a boys school) among whom were two named Copsey and Binks. They would prove to be the class clowns. Only last names were used both by the masters (teachers) and the students so I never got to know some of my classmates’ first names.

Discipline was not a hallmark of this otherwise prestigious school. When I sat down at my desk that first morning I could hardly find a spot on the wood lid that was not engraved with a swear word (the meanings of which I was yet to learn), a girlfriend’s name or a design engraved by the sharp point of a geometry compass filled in with ink with a dip pen. Writing on such a surface was quite a challenge.

When lunchtime came we all crowded into the assembly hall for a cooked lunch that cost my parents one shilling a day. The head boy, a position of honor and recognition, would first say grace, the same every day - “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful” – and then we would dig in. I cleaned my plate as I had been taught (mandated) at Sakeji and took my dirty plate and utensils to the designated area. I was astounded by how much food was thrown away by my fellow students into the bucket next to the dirty plates, and commented on it to some of them.

Among my classes was Music taught by none other than Mr. Alan Sharp who the students referred to as B. Flat. He had least control of any of the masters over my unruly classmates and we learned little. (My first grade teacher at Sakeji, dear old Miss Lucy Traise from Australia, had years before robbed me of any enjoyment of music I might have. She had the class of six-year olds sing the scale (do ray me fah…) and selected from the group those who sang off key and then had us all stand up front as she announced our deficiency to the rest of the class.). Back to Royal Liberty…one day some of the students, the usual culprits, got so out of hand that Mr. Sharp punished the whole class by assigning us all to write a two page essay on ‘The Evil of Drink’. I hated writing essays so this was the worst form of punishment for me. I went home and told my Dad that Copsey, Binks and others (not me!) had been misbehaving in class and now we all had to write an essay. Dad shook his head as he tut…tutted about the lack of discipline at the school as he often did because he had heard about its reputation from others than me, took pity on me, and dictated an essay for me.

Two classmates who would become my friends were Cope, B.A. and Michel, J. Cope was a short round fellow with whom I would ride to school. He family were Salvation Army so I found a spiritual ally in an otherwise nominal environment. Our friendship was somewhat tested one day later in the year in Physical Training (Gym) class. Our PT teacher, an older gentleman, had been a championship boxer and felt we should learn to box so showed us the moves and then paired us up to box each other. He paired us by weight. Cope and I were similar in weight but he was about six inches shorter than me. How could two friends be expected to fight each other? I clearly had the advantage with my height and reach and Cope pleaded with me to be gentle on him. The dreaded day came for our match and an Ali – Frazier contest it was not. I think we both were graded with a ‘D’ and neither I nor my parents were unhappy.

Michel was far from athletic; today he would probably be called a nerd. He was the target of a lot of teasing from the other boys that caused me to have a soft spot for him. He was from a Roman Catholic family and we would occasionally talk about spiritual things, contrasting his church life with mine. I don’t remember much of our conversations but do recall that we spent a lot of time together wandering the halls during breaks.

(c) 2008 roy kruse

A Year in England - Enrolling in School

IT HAD BEEN SEVEN YEARS since I had first been to England in 1954 and I remembered little of that previous visit. I was four and Esther was two and our family had stayed in the home of Mrs. Brand at Leigh-on-Sea near Southend-on-Sea along the Thames estuary east of London. It snowed that winter and Esther and I enjoyed playing in it and getting our mittens wet and our fingers frozen.

Now I was twelve and well into my school years so of highest concern was making sure that our education did not suffer too much in the transition from Sakeji mission school to public school in England. We had just completed a school year in Northern Rhodesia, which ran on the calendar year, but in England the school year had started in September so we were a term into it. Dad and Mum had to figure out whether we jumped ahead nine months or repeated three. Dad lined up an interview with the headmaster of Royal Liberty Grammar School (picture) in Romford where we were now living in a brand new house built especially for missionaries on leave. Romford is situated in Essex on the northeast limits of greater London. The interview was necessary as I had not taken the Eleven Plus exam which determined who was academically qualified to attend a grammar school which focused more on academics as opposed, for example, to a technical school.

The day for my interview arrived and Dad and I took the number 103 red double-decker London Transport bus from the house in Rise Park to Romford Station and connected with the 66A bus to the gates of the school in Gidea Park. The headmaster was Mr. Newth and we were ushered into his office here he sat in his suit and black robe smoking a pipe. He was a short man, heading towards retirement in the near future, and had a gruff demeanor. I remember nothing about the interview except that he sought to test my French. I had already had two years of French at Sakeji and the Royal Liberty first year students had just started in September so I should have been well ahead of them. He muttered a couple of phrases through his pipe and I had no idea what he was saying. He expressed surprise at my lack of knowledge of the French language. I felt stupid but afterwards I told Dad that his pipe had caused him to slur his words and after he explained what I supposedly had not understood it was very elementary. Nevertheless he had agreed to my enrollment in the prestigious institution but suggested I brush up on my French before classes started again after Christmas.

The next step was to determine how I would get to school each day. We had no car, and public transport – two buses each way – would get expensive. So with the help of Uncle Phil Hickley or perhaps his brother David, Dad’s boyhood friends from the village of Thundersley near where Dad grew up and who owned an appliance store and service station, I received a pre-owned bicycle that would carry me across Romford and back each day. I recall that it would take me about half an hour to cycle to school. I had to cross the very busy Eastern Avenue, the main road into London and then make my way across the eastern part of the city bypassing the down town area. Crossing Eastern Avenue proved to be quite a trick in the winter when "pea-souper" fogs would settle in and I had to listen for gaps in the morning rush hour traffic to get across.

I was enrolled in Form 1C, the first year for the school and equivalent of about Grade 7. While many schools streamed students on the basis of test results where A were the brightest, Royal Liberty, being a grammar school, considered all its students bright and simply had three first year classes designated 1A, 1B, and 1C. We (1C) were, however, the best in the frequent rubber band wars between the classes. When September rolled around and I moved up to Form 2 we all had to choose a second language besides the ubiquitous French. I had previously taken Latin (the other options were German and Spanish) so I became part of Form 2L.

Public school in England held many surprises for me after the sheltered environment of a mission boarding school in the middle of Africa.

(c) 2008 roy kruse

First Flight

IN EARLY DECEMBER 1961 THE END OF TERM AT SAKEJI SCHOOL soon arrived and parents drove from considerable distances to pick up their children for the Christmas holidays. With my parents in England they obviously could not come and arrangements had been made for my siblings (Esther (10), Gordon (7)) and me (12) to be taken to Mufulira on the Copperbelt to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Barham who would put us on the plane to England. My memory of that trip to and those days in Mufulira is a blur although it could not have been long.

The day arrived to for our flight to London, the first time we had not traveled by train and ship via Cape Town. We were quite excited, as we had never before been on an aeroplane, as we spelled it. The Barhams drove us the thirty miles to Ndola and checked us in for the flight on British United Airways (BUA), the largest competitor to government-owned BOAC. It had recently upgraded its fleet with the Bristol Britannia, a four-engine turbo prop, for the London – Southern Africa routes and we boarded one for our flight to London, which would have an intermediate stop in Entebbe, Uganda. It was the latest airline marvel, known as the Whispering Giant for its quieter ride than other planes. We taxied out to the end of the runway and turned around for our first take off anticipating being in London and with Dad and Mum in about twelve hours. But rather than pick up speed as expected we taxied back to the terminal and eventually disembarked. One of the engines had experienced a problem, possibly a bird had flown into it.

Fortunately for us the Barhams had chosen to watch the take-off, as Mr. Barham had never seen a Bristol Britannia. Otherwise they would have been on their way back to Mufulira and we would have been at the mercy of the airline. It soon became evident that we would not be flying out that day and were sent home to wait for a phone call. However we were not allowed to retrieve our baggage, already cleared through customs, so all we had were the clothes we were wearing.

As it turned out the Britannia would not be repaired very quickly and BUA would have to arrange to get another aircraft to Ndola. This would take a couple of days. The Barhams borrowed clothes for us from another missionary family staying in Mufulira at the time – the Greenhows. I was given a shirt and pair of long pants from Tim, who although about my age was shorter than me. The pants reached only two thirds of the way down my calves, but we made do in typical the missionary fashion when unexpected events occurred.

Eventually the call came – the replacement plane had arrived in Ndola. When we got there we discovered that it was an older Douglas DC-6. We boarded it fifty-six hours after our intended departure time (Mr. Barham had worked it out) and the flight to England would take twice as long as originally planned because the DC-6 did not have the range of the Britannia, requiring two additional refueling stops. Although I don’t remember, we must have taken off for Entebbe fairly late in the day and flown through the night. Between Entebbe and Khartoum, Sudan I remember the flight attendant offering breakfast but none of us felt like food. The plane seemed to feel every bump in the sky and after the long delay the experience of our first flight had us all feeling a bit woozy. We refueled in Khartoum amidst the sand and in a hot desert wind. We then headed for the tiny island of Malta in he Mediterranean where we landed after dark.

It must have been nearly midnight when we finally touched down at London’s Gatwick airport and the journey was not yet over. I had never had to negotiate customs and immigration on my own let alone for three of us. We did not have passports like everyone else because we had been listed on our parents’ passports. Instead I had been given special papers prepared by the British embassy in Lusaka but I hate being different in situations like this. The officials looked so stern and it didn’t help that passengers ahead of us were being asked questions and having their suitcases searched. I did not have any confidence that we would see our parents again. I shed some tears and maybe that helped. We eventually emerged from that very scary gauntlet to see Dad’s familiar smiling face alongside Uncle John (my mother’s older brother) who had driven Dad to the airport to meet us. Dad looked fine but only later would I understand that, while physically well, he had suffered considerably emotionally but would make an amazing recovery and in just over a year we would be back in Northern Rhodesia for perhaps his most fruitul years of ministry.

Our next adjustment would be to British culture. Neither Esther nor I recalled in a meaningful way our visit to England seven years earlier and anyway the country had changed a lot. And after spending all our school years at a small mission school in Central Africa we would have to adjust to British public schools, a significant adjustment in itself.

(c) 2008 roy kruse

Caught in the Political Storm

THE END OF MY YEARS at Sakeji School came quite suddenly six years after they began. In October 1961 Northern Rhodesia was in turmoil as nationalistic fervor was being stoked by various political leaders against the British colonial government, and anyone thought to be associated with it were subject to increasing pressure. Kawama Mission, where we had lived for ten years, is an isolated mission outpost in a long line of African villages that stretch along 80 miles of the Luapula River Valley. Through the years under the leadership of my father it had provided medical care and a primary school education for thousands of families in the surrounding villages. The mission church had provided a strong spiritual community when at the peal of the mission bell many would gather for daily early morning prayer meetings and hundreds would gather in the mission church each Sunday for worship and learning from the Word of God. Additionally my parents ministered with another dozen or more churches in villages up and down the Luapula River Valley and my father helped with the supervision of other primary schools. At no cost to the government he served as Manager of Schools and was thus also able to determine the religious instruction education in the schools.

Despite all that the mission had done for the surrounding communities local political agitators threatened my father, trying to intimidate him to throw his support to them and accusing him of being an enemy of the people if he didn't. Dad was never active in politics in his homeland so was not about to get caught up in a situation that would compromise the neutrality of the mission in local African politics. In his mind this would compromise his calling to serve all people. Threats were made to burn down our thatched roof house and the local police, based about twenty miles away at Mwense, did provide protection for several months. Dad was taken ill by the cumulative stress of running the mission, protecting single lady missionaries who were nurses at the hospital and who would also be harassed, and taking care of our mother and youngest sister who was just six months old. The three older ones of us were across the other side of the country at Sakeji School and had little idea of what was happening at home.

One October evening after dinner on that other side of the country the headmaster, Mr. Hess, called me over to take a walk with him to visit the building where the diesel engines that supplied power to the school were housed, normally out of bounds. It was not usually a pleasant experience to be called out by him - I had had my share of stripes for misdemeanors. But he was not upset, he just wanted to have a chat. He had received the news and needed to tell me that my father was quite ill and had had to leave Kawama Mission and had been advised to go back to England for medical help. The decision had also been made that the three of us would finish out the term at Sakeji which would end in early December. We would then be looked after by friends and put on a flight to London to be reunited with our parents and younger sister in England.

Later I was to learn that my father's condition had deteriorated to a point that he was bedridden and needed medical care. The political trouble had escalated over the weeks and wooden bridges on the main road along the valley were being burnt down, threatening to trap our family and others at the mission. The government had foreseen that possibility and had built a 'security' route with few bridges needed and all built with concrete. Adding to the agony of the time the mission church, a large mud brick and thatched roof structure that seated several hundred people, went up in flames after embers from a nearby bush fire on the grassy river plain were blown on to the dry grass of the roof. Dad received the news while in bed.

That October my mother, a strong lady, put her ailing husband and six-month old daughter into the family's 1956 black and white Ford Consul and drove the 130 miles (see picture) to Fort Rosebery (now Mansa) where I had been born twelve years earlier, where there was a doctor and hospital, and also caring friends at Mansa Mission. The doctor took one look at Dad and sedated him for almost three days. A few days later the trio moved on to Mufulira on the Copperbelt to stay with Mr and Mrs. Barham, very good family friends for many years. Arrangements were made for flights from nearby Ndola to London, the first time any of our family were to travel by air. Before they left arrangements were made for flights and immigration papers for our travel two months later.

Confirming the volatility of the times, a month earlier (September 18, 1961) Ndola airport had been the destination for United Nations Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld for meetings to try and negotiate peace for neighboring Congo when his plane crashed short of the airport under suspicious and never resolved circumstances. Hammarskjöld was killed in the crash and a memorial stands at the site. Roberta and I returned to Zambia from the United States in July 1971 just before the tenth anniversary of that crash and we attended a ceremony remembering Dag Hammarskjöld led by Zambian President Kenneth Kaunda.

(c) 2008 Roy Kruse