Volume 4 - Chapter 9

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Diary of a Traveling Preacher

 

Volume 4, Chapter 9

 

January 19-February 11, 2002

 

 

Since my arrival in South Africa, my Indian disciple, Laksminath das, has

been inviting me to participate in one of his daily Food for Life programs.

For more than five years he has practically single-handedly been cooking and

distributing over 50,000 plates of prasadam each week in the rural areas

north of Durban. Known as Kwazulu Natal, the region is inhabited by Zulus,

the largest of the African tribes in South Africa, many of whom live in

abject poverty. Knowing that crime is rampant in the area, and that the

presence of white people in the South African townships is not appreciated

by those who suffered under apartheid, I hesitated to go.

 

Last month, Laksminath's Food for Life van was hijacked at gunpoint in broad

daylight. He had stopped to give some prasadam to a few young children on

the side of the road, when three men pulled up in a car, jumped out and

aimed an AK-47 at him while demanding the keys to his van. Laksminath got

out of the van slowly and stepped to the side. The men jumped in the van and

sped off - with a quarter ton of prasadam inside. When the police found the

van five hours later in a nearby township, it had been stripped of

everything - the engine, doors, windows, tires, and even the prasadam!

 

Since then another group of men tried to hijack his new van. He was driving

through a township when a gang blocked the road. Several men came forward

and again demanded the keys to the van. Not seeing any weapons this time,

Laksminath refused, saying, "I'm feeding your people. Why do you want to

stop me?"

 

One of the men replied, "Where do you get the money to feed us?"

 

Laksminath answered, "From God"

 

The man shot back, "Why doesn't God take care of me!"

 

Laksminath screamed at him, "If you call out to Him, maybe He will. Why

don't you chant Hare Krsna!"

 

Startled, the man stepped back and said to his friends, "Let him go."

 

Laksminath drove off, but he stopped a few hundred meters away. Taking the

big pots from the back of the van, he called out in a loud voice, "Hare

Krsna! Come and get prasadam!" Soon several hundred people gathered with

bowls in their hands to receive the Lord's mercy.

 

His boldness and determination have made Hare Krsna a household word among

the Zulus. Wherever you drive in the greater Durban area, little Zulu

children are often seen begging at the stop lights. Whenever a devotee

drives up, they start jumping up and down excitedly calling out, "Hare

Krsna! Hare Krsna!" But instead of asking for money, they ask for prasadam.

Their enthusiasm alone is evidence of Laksminath's service.

 

Once Srila Prabhupada was walking on the beach in Mumbai with some of his

disciples. At one point, a little girl walked by and with folded hands said

to Srila Prabhupada, "Hare Krsna!" Srila Prabhupada smiled and turned to his

disciples saying, "You see how successful our movement is?"

 

Confused, one devotee said, "Successful? Srila Prabhupada, only one little

girl has said Hare Krsna."

 

Srila Prabhupada replied, "Yes, if you take just one drop of the ocean and

taste it, you can understand what the whole ocean tastes like. Similarly, by

this one girl greeting us with Hare Krsna, we can appreciate how far the

chanting of the Lord's name has spread."

 

A few days ago, wanting to reciprocate with Laksminath's service, I agreed

to accompany him into a Zulu township. The next morning, I was napping after

the temple program when a police officer knocked on my door. Half asleep, I

called out, "Who's there?"

 

"Sergeant Singh. Durban Police," came the official reply.

 

Still a little jittery about the idea of going into a Zulu township, I

jumped up and answered the door saying, "Oh, Sergeant Singh, thank you for

coming. Would you like to come in for a moment?"

 

"No, Swami," he replied. "Laksminath and the boys are waiting for us at the

Food for Life kitchen. Let's go."

 

Grabbing my japa mala, a shoulder bag and my danda, I followed Sergeant

Singh to his police car where he opened the trunk and put my bag inside.

Before closing it, he pulled out his service belt holstering a Tanfoglio 9mm

revolver. Taking the gun out of the holster, he checked the chamber to see

if it was full of ammunition. Looking at me he said, "It holds fifteen

rounds. But don't worry, I probably won't have to use it. The Zulus in the

townships love Laksminath. He's got carte blanche to go into the African

areas where no Indian or white man would dare go. But resentment against the

former apartheid regime still runs deep in the townships, and we can't take

any chances. Since he was hijacked a couple weeks ago, we go with him

anytime he calls us. You've always got the oddballs out there - and the

desperate. They're mighty poor folk."

 

With the lights flashing on top of the police car, we pulled out of the

temple complex with Laksminath and a few other Indian boys in his Food for

Life van behind us. Another car with 4 lady devotees also followed.

Sergeant Singh smiled and said, "A police car with flashing lights gives an

air of importance to the mission, don't you think?"

 

"Yes, officer," I replied, "you're welcome anytime."

 

We drove north out of Durban for one hour through sugarcane fields to Kwa

Mashu, the native land of the Zulus. After another hour, we pulled up

along a ridge overlooking a beautiful valley. Sergeant Singh said, "A few

hundred kilometers north of here the Boers defeated the Zulus in the Battle

of Blood River in December of 1838. The river was previously called the

Ncome River, but so many Zulu warriors were repulsed into the river and

killed in that battle that the water turned red. This huge valley once

provided the Zulus who lived here all they required for their livelihood.

Now many of them have left to live in cities like Durban and Johannesburg.

The land lies barren and those that are left live in shacks."

 

As I surveyed the sloping ridge going down into the valley, I saw small

dwellings assembled from all sorts of material - pieces of old corrugated

metal, planks of wood and sheets of plastic - all bound together in various

shapes and forms. I couldn't imagine life inside such shacks.

 

Sergeant Singh continued, "To many 19th century Europeans, the Zulu

epitomized the romantic notion of the 'noble savage.' While they may indeed

have been noble, they were far from savages. Their warfare was characterized

by iron-willed discipline, and their society by a sophisticated culture

influenced by the environment in which they lived. Even though most Zulus

have become westernized, many of them adhere to their traditional customs,

rituals and ceremonies. Just look over there, coming up the path, that's an

isangoma - a traditional healer."

 

I looked at the path coming up the valley and saw a stocky woman with a

headdress of hundreds of colored beads.

 

"She's the village doctor," said Sergeant Singh. "Look closely and you'll

see a dried goat bladder plaited into the beadwork of her headdress. She's

also carrying the traditional wildebeest tail fly whisk. They say isangomas

can communicate with the village ancestors. They're masters of a form of

natural medicine using a vast range of herbs, plants and roots."

 

As she walked by our car I smiled at her, but she didn't seem to notice me.

 

"They're often in a kind of trance," said Sergeant Singh. "Unfortunately,

the original Zulu culture still exists only here in the rural areas. In the

cities, they are prone to drinking, fighting and stealing. In Durban the

crime rate among Zulus is escalating out of control, and over half of them

have been found to be HIV positive."

 

"Good candidates for Lord Caitanya's mercy," I said.

 

Laksminath's van, which was parked behind us, came alongside and Laksminath,

a big smile of anticipation on his face, said, "Let's do harinama from this

spot down into the valley. I'll drive the van in front of the kirtan party

and Sergeant Singh can follow behind. We'll distribute prasadam at the

bottom."

 

Picking up a mrdanga, I adjusted the strap and began warming up, playing a

few beats on the heads of the drum. I said to Laksminath, "When we get

there, how will the people know we're distributing prasadam?"

 

He replied, "This is not the first time we've been here. The sound of your

drum will announce everything. Just look what a few beats have done!"

 

Turning my head, I was startled to see hundreds of Zulu children, most of

them half naked, running towards us along the dirt road leading into the

valley. They had all kinds of receptacles in their hands for getting

prasadam - bowls, cups, pots, dishes, and even big garbage bins. They were

running and calling out, "Hare Krsna! Hare Krsna! Hare Krsna!"

 

I continued playing the drum and began singing Hare Krsna. The three boys

that had come in Lakmimath's van joined in playing kartalas. Within

moments, all the children had surrounded us. Immediately swept up in the

kirtan, they began dancing. Sergeant Singh said, "They love the drum

beats. It's in their blood. Wait till you hear them sing. Zulus have

beautiful voices!"

 

Hearing that, I requested the kids, through a small sound system, to repeat

the maha-mantra after me as I sang. As they all responded in unison, I was

struck with wonder. They really did have beautiful voices! Harmonizing

naturally, they sounded like an experienced choral group. I thought to

myself, "This is a kirtan man's paradise!"

 

Following Laksminath's lead, we all began to move down the road into the

valley. As he went to his car, Sergeant Singh whispered in my ear, "It's all

very fun, but remember that you're an uninvited guest in a hostile

environment. And you're white. Don't go off the beaten track and always keep

your eyes on me."

 

As we chanted, the Zulus in the shacks along the way started lining the

road. Most smiled and waved, but I noticed some hard glares among the older

youth. I kept looking back at Sergeant Singh, and as I did he would flash

the blue lights of his police car.

 

I kept the kirtan going strong, playing the drum as hard as I could and

chanting loudly. The sound reverberated off the nearby hills, announcing our

descent into the valley. Although there may have been some risk going into

that shanty town, I was in bliss. The kids were responding to the kirtan

like nothing I'd ever seen. It may have been in their blood, as Sergeant

Singh had said, but the fact was that for the time it took us to get to the

bottom of the valley, they were in Lord Caitanya's sankirtan party, becoming

purified, dancing and chanting Hare Krsna in delight.

 

As we went along more children joined us, spontaneously coming out of the

shacks with an ever-expanding assortment bowls and dishes. Some were so poor

they had only cardboard boxes from which to eat. But every one of them was

swept up in the nectar of sankirtan. The happy mood contrasted with the dirt

and filth of the township. Garbage lay everywhere and an open sewer often

crossed the dirt path we were following.

 

It was also very hot and humid. As the sun beat down on us, I lamented that

I hadn't brought a hat to protect myself. After an hour I was completely

exhausted, but tasting so much nectar with the huge crowd of children that I

couldn't stop.

 

Finally, two hours later, we reached the bottom of the valley, where

hundreds more people were waiting to take prasadam. I kept the kirtan going

though, as the children couldn't seem to get enough. They continued dancing

madly and a few of them even rolled about on the ground!

 

Eventually I brought it to a close and they all swarmed around me. They were

excitedly speaking in Zulu, of which I couldn't understand a word. Sergeant

Singh smiled and said, "They say they want more kirtan."

 

Because I didn't continue, they spontaneously started chanting, "Zulu! Zulu!

Zulu!" I thought, "Oh, I'd better bring them back to the transcendental

platform!" So I told Laksminath to open the van and start distributing

prasadam.

 

As he opened the doors there was a stampede of children towards the van.

Several of the Zulu men stepped forward and commanded the children to form

lines and wait patiently. After a few tense moments things were under

control, and I jumped inside the van to help distribute prasadam.

 

As I dished out the kitchri, rich with butter and various vegetables, the

children kept asking for ever larger portions. After an hour, a big group of

children motioned to me to come and sit with them on the grass. I got down

from the van and went over with Sergeant Singh.

 

There were well over 100 children sitting tightly in a circle, and as I sat

down they all pressed forward to be near to me. When I noticed that most of

them were suffering from one form of skin disease or another - ringworm,

impetigo, scabies - I moved back a little.

 

All eyes were upon me. At first they were completely silent, then one girl

at the back said something and the young boy closest to me reached out and

ran his index finger down my arm. Holding up his finger, he shook his head

and laughed. At that, all the children started laughing. Sergeant Singh was

also laughing, and I asked him what was so funny.

 

"The little ones have never been this close to a white man before. They

thought you painted yourself white," he said. "It's a custom among Zulus to

sometimes cover themselves with a whitish cream. It's seen as a sign of

beauty."

 

Then the boy proudly held up his black arm, and pointing to it started

chanting, "Zulu! Zulu! Zulu!" Suddenly all the kids started chanting the

same thing.

 

I interrupted and asked the kids to be silent for a moment. With Sergeant

Singh translating, I started telling them how actually we're not these

bodies, but our real identity is the soul inside which is an eternal servant

of God. They all stared back at me with blank faces, and I realized I wasn't

going to get far trying to impress upon these young Zulu children even the

ABCs of Bhagavad-gita. But by their enthusiasm for kirtan and prasadam, they

had already proven themselves worthy of Lord Caintaya's mercy. So I picked

up the drum, and even before I started playing it they were already moving

their bodies to an expected beat. When several of them called out "Hare

Krsna," the rest quickly followed.

 

Soon we were back in the spiritual world, chanting and dancing without

cessation - hundreds of small black bodies jumping and twirling in bliss.

Many of the children's parents were on the side, also moving to the sound of

the mrdanga and chanting the holy names. I thought to myself how Lord

Caitanya's sankirtan movement is indeed the perfect formula for developing

love of God in any part of the world. Nearby, just over 150 years ago,

fierce battles for land took place between Europeans and Zulus. Now, by the

mercy of Lord Caitanya, white men and Zulus were happily dancing together,

their combined voices echoing the holy names of God throughout the valley.

 

After a while, Sergeant Singh caught my eye and motioned that the sun was

setting. As much fun as we were having, it was too dangerous to remain in

the township after dark. I reluctantly finished the kirtan and got into the

police car. A multitude of sad faces looked on as we ascended the hill. "I

can't remember the last time I enjoyed a kirtan so much," I said to Sergeant

Singh. "I'll never forget these kids."

 

"They'll probably never forget you either," he said. "You'll always be

welcome back, and you won't need me next time. There's plenty more work to

be done here, Swami. There are 10 million Zulus in Kwazulu Natal, and they

all have sweet voices!"

 

"One who is untouched by any piety, who is completely absorbed in

irreligion, or who has never received the merciful glance of the devotees or

been to any holy place sanctified by them will still ecstatically dance,

loudly sing, and even roll about on the ground when he becomes intoxicated

by tasting the nectar of the transcendental mellows of pure love of God

given by Lord Caitanya. Let me therefore glorify that Lord Caitanya

Mahaprabhu."

 

[Caitanya-candramrta, Chapter 1, Verse 2]