“This engaging, nuanced, and thought-provoking book does an excellent job introducing complex concepts in clear, accessible ways. Christine Jeske makes a persuasive case about the ways in which hard work is not working for South African youth (and others). A pleasure to read.”

– Carrie Lane, California State University, author of A Company of One

“In South Africa and far beyond, the dogma that “hard work” will lead to a “proper job” and a satisfying life is turning out to be a cruel myth for many. But at the same time, new visions of what a “good life” really is (and how one might achieve it) are starting to emerge. Christine Jeske, a gifted writer and subtle listener, is a superb guide to these new visions, and to the lives that are beginning to be imagined and lived in their terms. Lucidly presented and full of engaging ethnographic detail, this book should see wide use, including in classrooms.”

– James Ferguson, Stanford University, author of Give a Man a Fish

“The Laziness Myth is engaging, and its methodology and analysis makes a valuable and timely contribution to studies of poverty, unemployment and inequality in South Africa and the Global South. The book systematically confronts dominant narratives about unemployment and poverty by exploring counter narratives of poor South Africans with great detail and care.”

– Sarah Mosoetsa, Associate Professor of Sociology, University of the Witwatersrand, author of Eating From One Pot

“With evidence of extensive fieldwork, research and reflection, Christine Jeske shows how variously situated individuals relate work to the good life, the challenges some face in attaining it through work, and how they find the good life anyway. She excels at storytelling, setting vivid scenes that keep her book lively and relatable.”

– James Chamberlain, Mississippi State University, author of Undoing Work, Rethinking Community

Bullet, a South African man now in his late twenties, graduated from one of the top public high schools in his province. Upon graduation, he accepted a partial scholarship to enter a pre-law degree program at the University of Witwatersrand, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. One year later, Bullet walked out of the university, never to return. He had not had a job for years when I met him in 2014. And he said he was doing exactly what he was made to do.

This is a book about the ways people seek a good life. Specifically, it’s about how their various ways of seeking a good life do—or don’t—intersect with work. It’s a book that will help you understand some of the global political and economic trends that make it rare for people like Bullet to find the good life through a paid job, and how people like Bullet go on finding the good life anyway. Ultimately, it’s a book meant for generating new ways of thinking about work and the good life so that more people can find lives that they consider good. 

Bullet grew up in Mpophomeni, a “location” or “township” where many black South Africans were forcibly relocated in the mid-twentieth century under apartheid, the government-imposed system of racial discrimination. Like most of the black South Africans in his province of KwaZulu-Natal, he was ethnically Zulu and spoke isiZulu with his family and township friends. Unlike most of his peers in the township, though, he attended a school that had once been reserved only for white South Africans descended mainly from English and Dutch settlers. Since 1994 when the country held its first elections including citizens of all racial backgrounds, changes in the constitution made this school available to anyone. The only catch was they had to pay the school fees of about a 10,000 rand (written R10,000, about $1,000 in U.S. dollars). His family had pooled thousands of rand each year from his father’s job as a truck driver to pay the school fees and transportation money for him to attend school in predominantly white town of Howick, about fifteen kilometers from Mpophomeni, in KwaZulu-Natal Province of South Africa. His parents were proud when their son graduated from Howick High and headed to law school, seeing this as a clear step toward the good life. Bullet, however, grew up hearing conflicting messages about what made life good.

“I never went to bed and just had this beautiful dream of going to court,” he told me. “Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped out, but just, it seemed, it seemed so unnatural to me. You know? Cause I come from a location, I don’t feel comfortable in that environment. I never did.”

…

Bullet grew up in a social world where, as his lyrics said, “life is hard.” In 2014-2015 when I began research, only about two in five working-aged adults were counted as employed. The official number of those classified as “unemployed,” 22 percent of the population and rising, counts only people who have spent time actively searching for work in the past week. That number left out people in the position Bullet was in, neither actively seeking work nor employed. They were counted instead as “not economically active” or “discouraged work seekers.” Fifteen million South Africans—42 percent of the working aged population—fit Bullet’s category of non-job-seekers, a number nearly equal to the number of South Africans who did have jobs.

These statistics have described South Africa for so long that unemployment has become “the new normal.” For comparison, the highest unemployment rate recorded in the United States, measured at the height of the Great Depression, was 22 percent. South Africa has sustained roughly the same unemployment rate for over twenty years, never dropping below 20 percent since reliable employment surveys began around 1994. Unemployment rates of young people in their late teens and twenties have typically been even 20-25 percentage points higher. In an opinion poll in the early 2000s, the overwhelming majority of South Africans cited unemployment as the most significant problem facing their nation. South Africa’s employment landscape in the past two decades has been described as undergoing a “seismic mutation” whereby unemployment becomes a condition in which “most people, most of the time will, for the foreseeable future, live.” When people talk about unemployment, though, they are often scratching the surface of deeper issues. Asking the question of what causes unemployment can lead us to questions about how inequalities are made and maintained, and how people decide who “deserves” to have a good life.

Here’s evidence that with God’s help all things are possible. These remarkable stories of South Africans who overcome economic, social, and spiritual oppression through faith are testimonies that missionary efforts are bearing incredible fruit. Two thumbs up for a great book.

– Tony Campolo, author and sociology professor at Eastern University

God made the first human by breathing into dirt. Jesus healed a blind guy by picking up mud, spitting in it, and wiping it on the man’s eyes. Jesus interrupted a death penalty case by drawing in the sand as people dropped their stones, and He told a bunch of religious folks if they want to enter the kingdom of God they need to play in the dirt with the kids. The Scriptures are full of stories of a God who is not afraid of dirt, who is just as likely to show up in the sewers of the slums as in the polished halls of the temples. Christine Jeske has felt the mud between her toes and has seen God at work in the dirt. This is a book of dirty theology. It’s about a God who is not scared of getting dirty, and invites us to join him in the mud. May we have the courage to roll up our pant-legs and follow.

– Shane Claiborne, activist and author

Into the Mud tells the real stories of Africa. These are not the tragic stories, fairy tales, or classic cliches of many novels. Instead, they are the stories of Africa today–of people struggling to better their lives, or finding hope in God and community. Jeske’s openness with her own story invites the reader into the realities of walking with your neighbor. This book will be valuable to individuals and groups in examining their preconceived notions of development and developing nations, or as they prepare for a cross-cultural experience.

-Pamela Crane, water project manager for Blood:Water Mission

Beautifully and engagingly written, Christine Jeske brings us deep reflections and poses important questions from the front-lines of ministry to the poor in southern Africa. Through a series of sensitively written, engaging, and evocative stories of ordinary people, a mosaic of Africa as it is today emerges before our eyes — complex, deeply Christian, caring, and humane. The key issues of mission, poverty, development, and justice surface through these compelling lives. This is a book that you must read.

– Bryant L. Myers, professor and author of Walking with the Poor

The curtains in my bedroom turn from grey to sunrise peach.  Dogs bark, calves bleat for food, and someone is hammering.  There’s a smell of smoke from a wood fire and the hum of water boiling for my husband’s tea.  A chill in the air draws me back under the covers.

The wood stove belongs to my neighbors on the left.  They are the laborers who clean my landlord’s home, drive his tractor, dig post holes, and shovel calf manure.  They use sticks to beat the grass for snakes as they walk and eat cornmeal porridge with shebo vegetable sauce.  They speak Zulu, and while “African” might seem a more politically correct word, in South Africa they generally go by the simple term “black.”

My neighbors on the right are “white,” but in every sense they also consider themselves South African.  They have a five-foot wide-screen television.  The father is known locally as “The DSTV guy.”  He drives around with his black employee making installations and repairs in five-star hotels and the homes of the wealthy.  Their children play cricket and will leave for boarding school when they’re 13.  They have three vehicles plus a four-wheeler, three motorcycles, and a horse.  They invite us for braais where they roast big slabs of steak on a barbecue fire.

Between them, I have my electric stove, my refrigerator, and my flush toilet.  My children speak just a few words of Zulu.  We attend a Zulu church and see Zulu people every day, but on weekends we invite foreigners and whites to our potluck dinners.  We drive a four-wheel-drive truck and a motorcycle.  We own a lawn mower, a vacuum, two cameras, and two computers worth more than everything in our Zulu neighbors’ homes.

This little South African microcosm that I call home is a constant reminder of the way the world works today.  There’s a strange juxtaposition of my white landlord, his son raising Holstein calves, the Zulu laborers with their bathtub outside for washing clothes, and me with my overseas bank account.  It’s a world where every choice I make will be viewed by neighbors on every side, and a world where I can make the deliberate choice to stop and notice my own neighbors, too.

“I love how Christine and Adam Jeske retell their adventures, together, with honesty, humor, and humble wisdom. This Ordinary Adventure is a rich and engaging story that all of us, regardless of our narratives, dreams and circumstances, can relate to in some way. And that’s what makes this book a must read, because Christine and Adam’s ‘ordinary’ story opens our eyes and hearts to all of the possibilities, wonder and beauty that can be found in our own stories. And there’s nothing ordinary about that.”

– Matthew Paul Turner, author, speaker and blogger

“Adam and Christine Jeske are completely serious that they can have an ‘amazing day’ regardless of what’s thrown at them via background, culture, environment or relationships. The best part is that their invitation to this way of thinking extends to everyone! This Ordinary Adventure is strong stuff for those seeking to experience life in all of its fullness . . . no matter where they happen to be.”

– Steve Haas, vice president/chief catalyst, World Vision United States

Chrissy was whacking a butcher knife on the top rack of the dishwasher.  I sat stunned on the couch across the room.  I couldn’t quite make out whether she was using the blunt edge of the knife or the sharp.  In our 11 years of marriage, I had never seen anything like this from Chrissy.  I figured we could deal with the dings in the dishwasher rack later, as long as Chrissy didn’t throw the knife at me.

“We’re not amazing anymore!”  She shouted, loudly enough that I hoped the kids had fallen asleep quickly.  “I’m sick of trying to have all these great adventures.  I’m sick of trying to do something amazing every day, because I can’t.  I can’t do it.  My life is boring.” Whack!

I let out a breath. “This is it,” I thought. “It’s all unraveling. She’s right.” We’d been back in Wisconsin for ten months, after years traipsing around the globe as do-gooders. The normalcy was strangling us.

The day was my birthday.  I turned thirty-three, a third of a century.  Until this moment, I believed the day was going pretty well.  Some coworkers had surprised me with ice cream sandwiches just before the end of the workday.  When I got home, Chrissy was arriving from schlepping the kids across town to pick up a last minute gift, a sweatshirt that turned out to have too short of sleeves for my chimpy arms.

But the other presents she and the kids found were all winners—a stainless steel travel mug on clearance, a second-hand book that Phoebe picked out, and argyle socks from Zeke.  In addition to the last minute shopping in the afternoon, Chrissy had taught piano lessons for three kids.  She ran out of time for a birthday cake, but I genuinely didn’t mind.

We ate fish for dinner, a delicious meal of parsley and lemon. This gave some semblance of elegance and celebration in that quick hour between greeting each other and leaving again as a family for the kids’ first elementary school open house in the United States.  There we admired our children’s crooked letters and drawings of kites and their names printed on their very own cubby holes, amidst the flocks of other moms and dads in their suits and yoga pants. Now back at home, a simple question of “How was your day?” had somehow prompted not the happy birthday musings I hoped for, but rather this whirlwind of electric angst.

“I’m sorry, okay?  I’m sorry!” Chrissy seethed.  “I want to be amazing, but I can’t do it.  I hate it.”

She paused, and I knew she had more to say.  After 11 years of marriage, I’d learned enough to know when not to interrupt (at least sometimes).  And I knew where she was coming from, because I suddenly realized that I was in the same place. I wanted to reassure Chrissy, “We’re doing great. Our life here is remarkable—we’re living some great stories, we’re not like everybody else!” All lies.

For years, we had been trying to live a life charged with energy and risk, trying to do good as we lived in four very different countries around the globe, avoiding the shackles of the status quo. We attempted to make every day amazing or even just notice how it already was amazing. We had traveled around the world, and the last thing we wanted to do was just keep up with the Joneses.  Instead we had become the Joneses. My international adventure muscles had atrophied. My intensity had waned. I needed stop denying it: I had been domesticated.