43 — Farm Life in a War Zone (Salisbury & Wedza: Aug 1977)

The door was now cracked open that led to the place where I would question the hard-headed certainty that I understood history from a divine viewpoint.  I could see that Thieme’s real-life applications of bible doctrine didn’t always hold up.  I began to wonder if his biblical interpretations were flawed as well.  Well, I couldn’t go there right now, I was in a war zone thousands of miles from a safe place to reexamine everything.  

My misplaced overconfidence in Thieme’s teaching needed to be removed one brick at time to avoid total collapse.  Well, at least some of the political/cultural bricks had been loosened from their foundation.  

Pegi made a friend who had immigrated to Rhodesia from Mozambique after the overnight departure of the Portuguese administrators in 1975.  When the communist-backed Frelimo government took over, most Europeans fled.  Since Beira in Mozambique had been the beachside resort of Rhodesians before 1975, it was relatively easy for whites from Mozambique to drive the “Beira Road” to Umtali on the border and from there to Salisbury.

Pegi’s friend was a newlywed and invited us for a Portuguese-style meal at the home of her mother who had immigrated with her.  During the course of the evening, the subject turned to religion.  

They were Roman Catholic and it was really the first time I had spoken in depth with someone who was Catholic since becoming a Christian myself.  But, my Jesus Freak, anti-organized church prejudice had been fueled by Thieme’s teaching.  He was intolerant of organized religion, teaching that Christianity was a “relationship” between God and man rather than a religion.  He saw religion as the enemy.  In his mind, it was religion that kept people from developing their relationship with God by insisting on dogma and ritual without understanding.

In my zeal to absorb his teaching, much of this as a reaction to my hippie roots which I had rejected, I was totally insensitive in my comments to this widow.  I don’t remember the specific subject, but I made some comment like, “That’s what you would expect from religion!”  The woman was so hurt by my insensitivity that she suddenly got up from the sofa and retired to her bed with a headache.  The evening was over and I had no clue what a jackass I had been.  However, I couldn’t help but notice the silence in the room.  We excused ourselves and went home.

My insensitivity was not limited to Catholics.  Pentecostals and charismatic Christians were also the objects of my disdain.  In my early days as a Jesus Freak, I had been warned not to associate with anyone who claimed to speak in “tongues.”  That seed of prejudice was fertilized by Thieme’s teaching that speaking in tongues was a psychological deception at best and demon possession at worst.  Apparently, his older sister had been a Pentecostal missionary in South America.  His need to assert himself intellectually over his own sister seemed to be at the root of vitriol against Pentecostalism.

Well, I have big feet, size 14, and yet I could still fit them in my open mouth easily.  You can imagine what the conversation was like as I drove with Capt Dodgen, a Pentecostal chaplain, on the long trip to Marandellas to visit a dairy farmer whose farm was on the edge of the Wedza Tribal Trust Land (TTL).  Although I made a conscious effort not to bring up the subject of tongues, Capt Dodgen made the mistake of politely asking me if I had been “baptized by the Holy Ghost.”  I had been through this debate before and had ended up faking “tongues” to get a Pentecostal preacher to leave me alone [see 18—Chris the Hippie Meets Chris the Hippie.]                                                                     

With Dodgen at the wheel, I opened my fat mouth and said something about tongues being “of the devil.”  I was fortunate that he didn’t swerve off the road from the shock!  We had been traveling down a dirt road for the last 20 minutes.  There was a lot of mud and some deep puddles from the recent rains.  But, the mud wasn’t the worry.  The worry was that dirt roads were easily mined, especially in this area where there had been recent terrorist activity.  We were in a little Renault R-5 and although it had a rubber and steel mesh mat on the floor boards, even a small antipersonnel mine could flip us over.

We were both relieved when we pulled inside the fenced compound that contained the farmer’s home.  My relief was from the mines, his relief was from my mouth.  

This farm was typical of others during the war.  The farmhouse was surrounded by a 14’ chain-link fence topped with razor wire.  This fence had nothing to do with preventing theft.  When the gate was chained at night, the fence served as a barrier to terrorists.  The dairy barn and other out-buildings were outside the fence as were the brick and thatch huts where the farm workers lived with their families.  

The farmer was returning from the dairy and greeted us as we climbed out of the Renault.  Now, I had visited some ranches in south Texas where ranchers carried rifles, but it took a moment to adjust to the sight of this farmer with an Uzi submachine gun slung over his shoulder.  This was a war zone and the Uzi and security fencing were part of everyday life for a Rhodesian farmer.  

Another fact of life in a war zone was that his children spent the weekdays at their boarding school an hour’s drive on those same dirt roads to Marandellas, the nearest town.  They boarded their children because of the war, not because of the drive.  It was just risking too much to travel those roads every day, even in the daylight.  No one traveled at night.  Not only did you risk attack by terrorists at night, but also from the Rhodesian Security Forces who would not be able to distinguish friend from foe in the darkness.

We chatted for about an hour over a cup of tea, seated near the fireplace which was stoked up to take the chill off this winter day at 4000 feet.  Although the farmer was a Christian and that is why we were visiting him, we studiously avoided any discussion of religion—it was safer to talk about politics as that was something on which we all agreed.  Dodgen and the farmer were both in the same Pentecostal denomination and the two of them spoke privately for a few minutes while I drank in the view of the Wedza valley from their hillside home.

Both Capt Dodgen and this farmer would have significant roles to play in my life.  Capt Dodgen’s part would play out a few months later.  The farmer would become my close friend when we returned six years later in 1983.  His farm would actually become our home and base of operations in 1983-86.  

But for now, Capt Dodgen and I had more driving to do.  We were on our way to visit troops stationed on the border with Mozambique.

Next:  44 — Tea with Land Mines (Umtali, Rhodesia:  Aug 1977)

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40 — Unstable and Unreliable (Salisbury: May 1977)

I was troubled.  It was time to assess.  There was no question that I had been royally screwed up as a hippie/student in Madison.  The hallucinogenic drugs that I had taken in the late 60s in an attempt to discover the purpose of life made things worse.  [See “4-Who Is Timothy Leary”,“5-Seven Days in May – Part I” and “6-Part II – Jewish LSD Freak”.]

Yet, my “born-again” experience had given me a fresh start in life and Col Thieme’s teaching had put my life back into order.  I was grateful to Thieme and his extensive teaching ministry.  It was as if he brought me up from childhood again, reeducating me in the essential elements of living a responsible and meaningful life. 

His teaching was peppered with history both ancient and modern.  It reawakened my interest in history and I began to read voraciously, starting with ancient centers of civilization such as Egypt, Mesopotamia, the Indus Valley and China.  I followed history from these recorded beginnings through the European world hegemony, the settling of the New World, the American War Between the States (as our Civil War is called in the South), through the World and Cold wars.

I had also deeply imbibed in his “systematic” theology which had its foundation in the scholarship of the Plymouth Brethren, the Scofield Bible, and Dallas Theological Seminary.  The Colonel’s unique contribution was to overlay a broad understanding of history with a system of theology that “made sense” of human history—past, present and future.

Placing myself squarely in the center of his teaching, I made it a habit to live out bible doctrine.  If this is truth—it should work applied to daily life.  So far, I believed that I had been successful in living out bible doctrine on a daily basis.

But now, I was having some doubts about Thieme’s theological/historical interpretation with regard to Rhodesia.  The Rhodesian government was not doggedly resisting world pressure to move toward majority rule.  My discussions with Kinny and Dave Phelps had revealed that Smith’s Rhodesian Front government was actively involved in discussions with the British and even Mugabe and Nkomo, the two primary terrorist leaders.  Kinny’s brother, who was in the minority conservative opposition, the Rhodesian Action Party (RAP), was totally opposed to Smith’s willingness to compromise. 

I had begun to see how difficult it was for Africans to bridge the gap from rural subsistence farming to become commercial farmers.  Blacks could own small shops, but only in the African townships.  Blacks could work in at menial, but there was no way for them to move into more meaningful positions held by whites.  Even the Rhodesian African Rifles had only just recently commissioned their first black officers.  However, this all black unit was still mostly led by white officers.

And then there was the whole issue of social interaction.  Abe and I couldn’t eat together.  Sure, white farmers would often work side by side with their African laborers, but the white man returned to his comfortable farmhouse while the blacks lived in huts on the white man’s property.

Even the food and drink was segregated.  White Rhodesians ate a healthy diet of beef, chicken, lamb, vegetables and fruit.  Black Rhodesians ate a fatty cut of “ration meat” and whatever else they could grow or scrounge for themselves.  Whites drank bottled beer—my favorite was “Castle” while others preferred “Lion.”  Africans were only allowed to drink in special beer halls.  They drank a stinky beer byproduct in plastic buckets.  Some of this was cultural.  Much was a matter of economic favoritism.

I wrote some letters to Col Thieme advising him of what I was seeing, believing he would appreciate the first hand reporting.  I didn’t air these concerns in my “public” letters which were published in the Berachah Church weekly bulletin.  Apparently, the Colonel and his close circle of friends were not happy about my reporting.  It seems that they didn’t want to hear anything that did not fit with the Colonel’s teaching.

This came to light as a couple of Thieme followers showed up on our doorstep.  One was a 19 year old from Houston named Matt.  His father was a regular attendee at Berachah, though we had never met.  His son had only limited exposure to Thieme’s teaching, but was looking for adventure, having recently graduated from high school.  Matt’s father paid his way to Rhodesia to join the Army.  Matt was a nice kid, but completely ignorant of the historical and political issues facing the Rhodesians.  He was just there for the wild ride.

“Kalanyoni” - Our new home on the Bulawayo road

Left to right:  American who was a manager at The Watergate, Matt from Houston, Jeff, Pegi kneeling with Rebel

[Matt finished his training with RLI, but after his first trip to the bush, he “took the gap” (deserted).  He called me just before he left for the airport.  I jumped on my camo-painted motorcycle and raced out to the airport to try to talk him out of leaving.  By the time I arrived, he was getting ready to board.  In uniform and with my Uzi over my shoulder, I was allowed into the departure lounge only to discover that the plane had just closed its doors for takeoff.  It was too late to stop him.  Some years later, I heard that Matt had gone off to Central America with Dirk from Belgium who had been in my training company.  They were looking for mercenary work.]

The other Thiemite who showed up was a “taper” from Perth, Australia.  He was visiting as a tourist and spent a couple of months in Rhodesia, making our home his base of operations.  He told us that Col Thieme’s executive secretary, Katie Tapping, had given him our address with the admonition that we were “unstable and unreliable.” 

Pegi and I were shocked at this revelation.  How could we be considered unstable and unreliable?  Katie’s explanation to our Australian friend was that we had begun to have the “wrong political opinions.”  Apparently, only the Colonel was allowed to interpret current history!  And, his interpretations from the distance of Houston were more reliable than our view from Africa!?!

I think this was intended to get us to toe the line with regard to our opinions, but it had the opposite effect.  This caused us to seriously doubt the Colonel’s perspective for the first time.  That led to us beginning to doubt his whole system.  Now, we didn’t just rip all of his teaching apart immediately.  That would take a few more years, but it was a turning point for us.

We were no longer Thieme devotees.  Now, he was just an important teacher in our lives.  We found ourselves beginning to reexamine everything, beginning with the whole idea of a military career as a Christian.  And maybe this was all to show me that I actually belonged in the ministry?

Next:  41 — Hugged Instead of Slapped (Salisbury:  July 1977)

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