Search terms - A cultural encounter, Part 1 (of 4)

Bible translation status (red means that Bible is not in local language); http://worldmap.org

After a restless night, I spoke today at the Baylor Clinic’s morning prayer. Given how much I speak in front of groups as part of my current job, during such events my pulse rarely quickens. Earlie this week, when I was asked to stand in front of a full waiting room of children and caregivers and share a spiritual anecdote or teaching, however, the biochemical rush that couples fear immediately engulfed me, much like a fog. My cheeks warmed, my vision sharpened, and there was a soft but high-pitched buzzing in my ears.

I am no stranger to anxiety, but did not expect to feel it as a result of being invited to speak for five minutes to a group of our patients, especially when I had two days to prepare. I actually quite enjoy talking to groups of people, and I have become able to speak for about any length of time when the topic is pediatric HIV. I can speak about how the HIV virus looks, acts, and kills, how it evades capture and perplexes scientists. I can talk about the effects of the virus (physical, economic, social, cultural, political) and how Baylor’s Botswana-based programs are responding to this virus (clinically, programmatically, etc). I can explain why I believe that our response to the pandemic will define our generation…for better or worse. I can talk about how I feel when I watch an HIV-infected child die a preventable death, and how I feel when watching a child near death not only live but thrive.

But, when it comes to sharing my personal thoughts on spirituality with my African counterparts, words do not come as easily.

The two primary reasons for this are obvious: I am a Caucasian physician from rural Texas and, though a Methodist and dedicated to the golden rule and several others, I do not claim (or necessarily aspire) to have spiritual insight, per se.

So, I decided to look for some. For millennia, when seeking such insight, soul-searchers have reflected while peering into the night’s sky or perhaps sitting quietly in a peaceful place, legs crossed. I did not do this. I leaned over my desk and opened http://www.google.co.bw/.

My first search terms were: “Africa” and “Bible”

To be continued...

Mugabe, Zimbabwe, Children and HIV - Part 1 (of 10)

Zim dollars now come in ten million dollar bills, worth approximately ten dollars. If you find yourself with one, spend it quickly, as it expires within months.

There is a lot of talk about Zimbabwe these days. Robert Mugabe was once seen as a refreshing thinker, an embodiment of the hope for a peaceful, integrated postcolonial democracy. His country was the breadbasket of southern Africa and by any account a developmental success story. Now, Mugabe is referred to by many as “Crazy Bob” and, by most all accounts, the country is inching toward the precipice of war.

Mugabe’s journey from hero to villain to pariah led his nation on a similar journey, and now a millionaire in Zimbabwean dollars is approximately a one-aire in US dollars. There is no "Dollar Store" in Zimbabwe, for it takes ten thousand Zim dollars to buy just one penny.

Botswana, where I currently live, is one of Zimbabwe’s neighbors. Zimbabwe is a common topic of conversation here and has been for decades (well before Mr. Mugabe became Crazy Bob). While cultural commentary on this new site will be no means be limited to the topic of Zimbabwe, this is the first of a series of entries focused on this nation in particular.

The reason for this is simple: I am not an economist or political scientist. I am a pediatrician. The media coverage of the inflation and the election are interesting, but one must not forget that HIV in Zimbabwe kills over 40% of the children that die before five years of age (see histogram below). Violence is a very effective killer, but HIV is better. When we tally the lives lost after Zimbabwe recovers, I assert that the number will depend more on the preservation and resilience of the country's public health infrastructure than it will on exchange rates, party politics, machete's or bullets.

Last week, I was in Zimbabwe visiting Victoria Falls, and, as I boarded a Zambezi riverboat, a group of Zimbabwean men in traditional attire were singing a song that, when translated, has as its chorus, “Hard times don’t kill.”

Alas, this is untrue.