I Only Drink Beer in Africa

A huge part of my job and life in general is to be a good example of how a man should live day to day.  One can't counsel and admonish the homeless about poor lifestyle choices when you participate in some of those same choices yourself.
Further, as a Christian, I'm guided by my personal hero, Paul of Tarsus: "Therefore, if food makes my brother stumble, I will never again eat meat, lest I make my brother stumble." 1Cor 8:13.  I extend the "food" issue to include alcohol, drugs, loose women and all the other things that this world offers to put us in jeopardy of loosing our health/wife/immortal soul.
I enjoy a cold beer on a hot day.  God provided all the materials to make beer, even the intelligence to develop refrigeration.  It's all from God!
However, if I'm seen drinking is that a good witness to the men I counsel?  Not really.  Therefore I don't drink...except in Africa.


I've made four mission trips to Africa.  I visit and stay with a friend who has been working with orphans and disadvantaged children in the QuaQua Province of South Africa and across the border in Lesotho.
We usually start early in the morning transporting food and building materials to the villages that have allowed my friend to establish a feeding system for the children.  It's satisfying work and you feel good at the end of the day.
One day on my last trip, my friend and I were heading back home after a hot dusty day in the mountains.  We drove past this small town with a combination food store, cafe and bar all stitched together in what could only be called "rural African late 50s architecture".  The place was standing but that issue could be in doubt if a strong wind blew through.  My friend spots the place, looks at me and says: "Fancy a cold bier?"  "Well", say I "A bier would taste like nectar right now" and laughed.  With that, he wheels the big Rover off the road in hits the brakes, stopping about three feet from a table full of dubious locals.
"What are you doing" I ask, whereupon my friend says: "I'm getting a cold something.  I'm not sure what, but I'm getting something."
We walk in the place, open air accommodations of course, and sit down.  The only white men for miles and all the talking had stopped.  The music continued, but other than the sound of 80s Motown, there wasn't a word spoken.
A large woman walks over and asks for our order.  My friend slips into fluent Sotho and she smiles.  I open my blatantly American mouth and order...a beer.  It just came out.
I rationalized the next few minutes waiting for the woman's return that I was 10,000mi from home.  There was NO WAY a former homeless guy from eastern PA was going to walk into that building.  The doubts and trepidations continued until that cold sweating bottle of "who knows what" beer showed up on the table.  I took a long pull on the bottle (one NEVER drinks from a glass in the hinterlands of Africa) and felt that poorly made combination of God's providence and bounty claw its way down my throat.
It was heaven.

Every city has their homeless characters. Unique people, considering their lot in life. My town is no exception.
Last winter my director was concerned about the death of three homeless people within days within days of a particularly nasty Canadian cold air mass. “We need to talk to those men living under the bridge” he said. “We need to get through to them that it just isn't safe out there.” I asked when we were heading down to the bridge, but he begged off what with the budget planning and all.
I had a pair of boots in the truck along with an emergency bomber hat stashed under the seat. Off to the bridge community I trudged.
The first denizen I met was a guy I called “pirate Jim” because of his voice and inflections when he spoke. Nasty little bugger with a mouth like a Navy lifer. “What do you want a..hole?” “Just some of your time” I said. I asked how the half dozen inhabitants were dealing with the cold and was told to get the f... out of there and to mind my own business. Dealing with homeless pirates is a thankless job.
One guy popped his head out of his donated LL Bean tent and said hello. His name was John; “Cardboard John”. A very soft spoken man of 65 and somewhat thin for his height. I talked to John for some time and learned that he worked for many years at the steel plant and had a family a long time ago. I pointed out that he was probably eligible for some pension benefits and for sure Social Security. And then it began.
John told me the hard times started when the Australian secret service stole his identity when he was on R&R during the Viet Nam conflict. And that he needed to return to Australia and tract down that agent to get his identity papers back. I mentioned that there was the possibility that this “agent” might be dead by now to whit John agreed and hadn't made a serious attempt to return down under.
I continued to engage John in idle conversation, as best one can when talking to a schizophrenic, and suggested he come to the Mission's shelter until the cold snap passed. John replied that the Rescue Mission had burned down ten years ago. I asked him to walk with me out from under the cavernous bridge and after a few minutes, I pointed to a huge building across a busy street and said: “That's the Rescue Mission”. John looked at the building for a few moments, then at me, then back across the street. “Well, I guess it didn't burn down” he uttered under his breath.
John came into the shelter that frigid January day and stayed until the first warm day in March and disappeared. We missed him as we get few quiet, well mannered introspective schizophrenics.
Just before Christmas this year, I was doing data entry in the shelter when a tall, thin bundled-up man stood at the door peering in. “It's open” I called and in walked Cardboard John.
“Been to Australia yet?” I asked. “Naw, that intelligence guy died ten years ago”. “Pick a bunk John” was all I could respond.
*For those outside the mental health field it's helpful to understand that John's delusions and lack of time awareness does not constitute grounds for commitment to a mental health facility. John is not dangerous to himself or others. He eats every day and keeps himself clean. No MH Crisis worker worth his salt would waste three or fours of their lives trying to get the cardboard man committed.