Title Explnation: "You know and I know that we are all people, you know and I know that we will all get through the difficult things together." - Lyrics from the song "mailo" by K'milian, a popular Zambian artist.
Written October 7, 2009
Hello to my dear friends, family and any welcome strangers keeping up with this blog. It seems that time passes by more rapidly as I get further and further into my Peace Corps service and I’ve been finding it increasingly difficult to make the time to write and tell you about the past few months of my Zambian life. I have seen the steepest of highs and the deepest of lows recently in the roller coaster of emotions I have been riding since February 2008. I suppose I will choose to end this entry on a happy note, meaning I will tell you about my most recent challenges and difficulties first.
On August 8 life showed its unjust side with the death of my 35-year-old host brother Godwin. There were too many reasons why his death was so tragic; the age at which his life ended, the fact that he left a wife and five young children behind, that I watched my host mother bury a son in a grave right next to her husband’s, who had died just two short weeks earlier. Part of me is still struggling to understand such tragedy. My heart still feels sorrow, guilt, pain and emptiness as I think about it.
The circumstances of Ba Godwin’s death are still unclear, but I am certain that it was related to complications having to do with his HIV positive status. Part of me wishes to describe to you in detail the enormous effects this virus has had on members of my host family, even beyond the heavy burden of grief they have experienced in recent months. Part of me wants everyone to understand the type of heartache I have witnessed, only experiencing a mere fraction for myself of what my host family gone through.
But the other part of me also feels like this situation is somehow too personal for my host family, perhaps too poignant for me to merely describe in a public blog. There are many lessons and observations I have made about HIV/AIDS that I would love to share in person upon my return to the States if anyone is very interested. For now though I will simply say that Ba Godwin’s death has impacted me profoundly. Before his death it was so easy to pretend that the suffering of HIV was a thing of the past. That people who become infected with the virus simply can go on ARVs and live long, healthy lives. It was so easy for me to pretend that the symbols and objects of HIV in Zambia were limited to red ribbons, signs promoting abstinence and perhaps the ubiquitous SUVs promoting mobile testing and ARV services.
Now, though, when I think of the acronym HIV a medley of memories runs through my mind. I think of the empty house on my compound where Ba Godwin and his family once lived (his wife and children have since moved to her parent’s compound). I remember the face of Ba Godwin’s oldest son (also named Godwin) as he sprinkled dust onto his father’s grave as well as the face of his four-year-old son, Griven as he sat and colored with me after his father’s funeral in such an innocent way, still not understanding he would not ever see his father on this Earth again. These are just a few memories. I do not tell you these to make you also feel my sadness, but in an attempt to have more people understand that there are individual faces to all of the statistics we hear daily about those who suffer from HIV/AIDS.
Unfortunately, the impacts of HIV have not been the only hardships I have witnessed in recent months. Starting in mid-September, families’ stores of food begin to deplete and become difficult to replenish until the rains produce more harvests in late December to February (depending on how the family’s farming and gardening capabilities). Most villagers rarely begin to have food security again until March. Villagers refer to this time period as “hunger season”.
Obviously I was living in Zambia this time last year as well, but I can not remember being as affected emotionally by “hunger season” as I have found myself to be this year. Last year I remember “pretending” to myself (I think as a coping mechanism) that “hunger” season was just an exaggeration for a time period where villagers have fewer crops to snack on. I refused to believe that villagers actually feel real hunger.
This year, changes in my life have forced me to realize the sad truth that there is in fact little food available during these months. Last year I ate nearly all my meals alone after cooking “muzungu” food for myself which I had bought in Mkushi. Over the course of the past six months however I have been eating supper more frequently at my friend Paxina’s house until it had become typical for me to eat with her family every night. I have been trying to contribute my share to these meals; sometimes supplying charcoal to cook on or beans or rape (collard greens) for all of us to eat with the nshima Paxina makes. When I first started eating with her host family I felt a bit self-conscious; wondering if I was a burden to have over every night, worrying I was overstaying my welcome she had so warmly extended to me. But that worry of intruding on her family gradually subsided as I realized it pleased Paxina to have me over just as much as it provided me the joy of sharing a meal and conversation with other people.
Since hunger season has begun I am facing more of an ethical dilemma which goes far deeper than me worrying about whether I am overstepping a family’s boundary. This worry is different because Paxina is always sure to give me the biggest and best portions of food. Of course she is following the rules of warm Zambian hospitality and ensuring that her visitor and guest (I can never seem to shake these labels off no matter how much time passes) is fully satisfied. But what am I to do if she gives me the meatiest fish to eat while her family shares one tiny, bony fish? What am I to do if I am served a huge portion of beans that I know could better nourish Paxina’s three-year-old daughter, whose body is in such need of protein?
It would be culturally inappropriate of me to explain such guilty feelings to Paxina and would most likely be taken as an insult if I only ate a small quantity of the food she has served me. So lately and reluctantly I have been limiting my nightly visits to Paxina’s house to once a week. I pretend I have gotten busier at night as an excuse for my absence and try to make up for it by chatting with Paxina on walks to and from Fiwila. I am not sure whether or not she understands that I have been coming over less often because of food supply or not.
Additionally I have been trying to provide my host family with protein-rich foods a few times a week. I realize there are various risks in doing this. Peace Corps stresses not giving “hand outs” to anyone and to solely focus on knowledge sharing. I am aware of the fact that I might be increasing their dependency on a fleeting source of food because I only have six months until I leave them for my home in the States. I am also aware that many members of Fiwila are extremely jealous of my host family simply because of the fact that I live on their compound. If they were to discover the various foods I provide my family with from time to time it would only increase their envy.
I am aware of the drawbacks to boosting my family’s nutrition yet I still do it. Sometimes it is just right to go against generic rules. I do not think I could live there and feel okay with myself if I didn’t. I also feel like the circumstances of the two deaths in my host family so close to the season of hunger also justifies me to do what I’ve been doing. Funerals are generally expensive in most parts of the world and Zambia is little exception to that fact. Both my family and I understand it has been a particularly difficult year for them and they have been working hard to ensure they have plentiful harvests next year. They have fetched my water, swept my yard, given me gifts of food, looked out for my safety and security and helped me care for my pets over the past 18 months without asking for anything in return. I think I can “hand out” a small amount of food in return.
Well, now that we’ve gotten through the difficult news, let me tell you about the fun, happy stuff! On August 15 I took a much needed break from the hardships of village life and headed on a month long road trip with my friends Patrick, Julia and Alec through Namibia and on down to Cape Town, finishing in Johannesburg. It was wonderful to have the ease of our own transportation in the Toyota Yaris we picked up in Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. I also feel lucky to have seen such a significant chunk of Southern Africa this way; not visiting solely the major cities and tourist destinations but also the places in between. The landscapes of Southern Africa are stunning. Zambia of course has some beautiful views and national parks, but it was so refreshing to see some geographic diversity. We saw open plains scattered with African animals, vast deserts of sand dunes that eventually met the sea, spectacular mountain ranges, and valleys scattered with annual wildflowers.
In addition to the geographic diversity, it was fascinating to get a taste of how countries in Southern Africa can vary in levels of development as well as culture. Many parts of Namibia felt more like Western Europe to me than stereotypical Africa; I was shocked at how developed it was. We saw so many different skin colors in the two countries we visited; the blacks in Nambia seemed to have different shades of skin than the blacks in Zambia. There were such large populations of white people almost everywhere we visited. I only wish I had more time to better understand the current race relations in these areas. There was still much evidence of the painful past of apartheid in both Namibia and South Africa; one major example being the dilapidated townships on the outskirts of sparkling, prosperous cities. There is still large evidence of a stark contrast between the privileged and the poor. Namibia and South Africa were also different because there was little evidence of rural communities or villages along the main road, whereas in Zambia you see thatched roofs on top or mud huts littered along the way between main towns.
We had such wonderful experiences on our journey! We climbed massive sand dunes, went sea-kayaking with seals, walked on beaches, observed how sea salt is extracted from the ocean, explored the breathtaking Cape of Good Hope, smelled African flowers in the Kirstenboch Botanical Gardens, got drunk off of South African wine in the gorgeous vineyards of Stellenbosch, and plenty of other activities I’ll spare your envy by not mentioning. But I will tell you that we saw the following animals over the course of our month-long journey (without stepping foot into a single zoo!): a jackal, hyraxes, elephants, hyenas, warthogs, right whales, dolphins, seals, African penguins, baboons, ostriches, impala, a Springbok, giraffes, flamingos, pelicans, numerous beautiful pure-bred dogs (hey you don’t see those in the village!), and so many more I know I am forgetting. At least you get the idea.
We also made sure to satisfy our appetites with any food other than nshima, tomato, cabbage, beans or Soya pieces. I think we could have won some sort of award for the amount of food we ate in addition to how diverse it was. Anyone reading this most likely has access to all the foods we ate and could care less about it, but I am proud of the fact that after 16 months in the bush we got to savor Thai food, sushi, prawns, angel fish, fresh salads, hummus, Chinese food, German food, any and all types of meat, pizza, hummus, burritos, cheese, cheese, cheese, bagels! Not to mention the diverse options of beer available to us. I have to stop typing these out considering I currently can’t get my hands on any of these delicacies! I don’t want my mouth watering too much.
Not surprisingly, I found it a bit difficult to adjust to life back in Zambia following such a pleasurable, comfortable, stimulating vacation. But, as always, it is beneficial for me to think happy thoughts and dwell on the positives. I have noticed lately that I am much busier with Peace Corps projects that seem more destined for success than some I tried to carry out in my first year. I am putting a lot of concentration and effort into training a group of high school students to educate their peers about sexual health, decision making and HIV/AIDS. This training has been rewarding and has kept me busy. I am also preparing for and am greatly looking forward to Camp GLOW in December, which you hopefully have already heard about somehow. If you haven’t, I’ll be reporting on it later.
Although I often find myself counting the days until I will be back home with all of you, I know I still have many lessons to learn, things to accomplish first and events to look forward to. For one thing, there are green, marble sized buds growing on the mango trees outside of my hut. And in less than a few months’ time I will be enjoying their delicious fruit! Better yet, when they are ready for plucking, my wonderful sister will be here visiting with me. I can’t wait to show her my life here then travel to Zanzibar together.
And I also try to remember how lucky I am any time I have the privilege of receiving a heartwarming smile from any of the village children surrounding me. I try and remember that these moments are limited.
Until next time, I love you all!
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Mwende Bwino, Bashikulu. Tukalamifuluka (Farewell, Grandfather, We Will Be Missing You)
“Mr. Godwin Mulomo was 84-years-old. He was born in 1925. He died on Friday, July 24. He suffered from a chest cold and from asthma. He had ten children, 6 males and 4 females. One of them has died but nine are living. He had 46 grandchildren and 35 great-grand-children.”
These are the words of the “life-story” of my host-father, read aloud (in local Bemba language) by his second-born son, Nighton, in a church service which paid tribute to the life of Mr. Mulomo, who might possibly have won the contest for cutest old man in the world.
Part of me smiled inside upon hearing such a simple eulogy for the man who I called “bashikulu” (the Bemba name for grandfather). Maybe it was due to my amazement that he had managed to live to know 35 of his great grand children. But I was also taken aback by how little else was said about what a wonderful man my host father was. Even though I understand the importance Zambian villagers place on birthing many children, part of me wanted to cry out during the service, “Say something else! Why finish there? Why don’t you mention something about all of the things I have heard about Bashikulu’s life in recent months? What about him speaking both Swahili and English? What about him being a cook for missionaries in Fiwila for several years? What about him caring for orphans unrelated to him? What about him being famous throughout Fiwila for having such a decent character?”
But I chose to leave the mourners in peace by only asking these questions in my mind. Right now though I think I will take advantage of this blog entry by sharing with my readers all of the special things that I will remember about Bashikulu.
I will remember his wonderful smile of crooked teeth and how frequently he laughed.
I will remember how warmly he welcomed me to live with his family on his compound and how he made sure to greet me every single morning to see how I had woken up.
I will remember how much he reminded me of my own Grandfather Mahan in the sense that he was always finding a task to do in order to stay busy. That kept him content as ever.
I will remember all of the sounds that came from the direction of Bashikulu’s insaka that just had a way of making me feel full of simple joy. As he went about completing the clear-cut projects he set up for himself, he would either be whistling a happy tune or belting out a traditional Bemba song with no shame whatsoever. I loved hearing his long sigh of evening contentment as he rested by the fire in his insaka after a long day’s hard work. I always chuckled to myself when one of his grandchildren would patiently yell “Bashikulu… Bashikulu…BashiKULU!” in order to get his attention away from something he was so intently focused on doing; and to also assist his 84-year old ears, which became hard of hearing some time ago.
I will remember how he would frequently come find me in my house just to make sure that the time on his black plastic, two-dollar “made in China” wristwatch was exactly on time up to the minute even though I knew that he secretly told time by the sun anyway. I loved it when he came to find me after the face of the watch had become detached from the band and how thrilled he was after I doctored it up with a bit of packaging tape.
I will remember him laughing and laughing with a sort of childhood innocence at the various puppies that have come to stay for short whiles on my compound and how much fun it was to watch him with my kitten, Tulo, when I first brought him home with me.
I will remember watching him pass by my house in his Sunday best, faithfully on his way to church every week.
I hope I carry these memories with me, putting into practice his simple lesson of enjoying life, something he practiced everyday.
I suppose you might be curious what a Zambian funeral is like and I feel it might be therapeutic for me to write about it considering what an intense event it was for me.
Starting in February, Bashikulu began to act differently, not himself at all, constantly complaining of body pain. It progressed further and reached its peak about a few weeks ago, which is when I knew I should prepare myself for the worst. I believe he had a stroke the week before he died from the evidence that one morning he could no longer move his right arm or leg. As I watched my host family having to carry him around everywhere, I wished him quick relief from his suffering, knowing that he of all people would not want to live in such a way.
I guess that I got my wish, considering he passed away around 7 pm the night before my birthday. I was in my house preparing to go to Mkushi the next day when I heard the wailing, howling and sobbing begin outside and I knew then that I would be attending a funeral instead of going to Mkushi. Paxina, my host parents’ grand-daughter quickly came to my house with tears in her eyes to tell me Bashikulu had died and that she was going to cell phone network in order to alert other relatives of his passing. I numbly asked her if there was anything I could do and she calmly replied, “just sleep”.
However I got little sleep in the next forty-eight hours. It was clearly the family’s time for mourning and the Zambian way of grieving is done through loud wailing, weeping and chanting. A while back, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer commented that he thought Zambians got over deaths quickly and after witnessing their grieving process, I wondered, if what my friend believed was true, if the reason was because of their overt display of grief. The wailing lasted through the first night and continued in intervals the whole of the following day.
I woke up the day following Bashikulu’s death feeling awkward and helpless. I sat on the front porch of my house watching different community members slowly come filtering in to enter my host parent’s house, where I knew that Bashikulu’s body was. I had never set foot inside my host parent’s house (the majority of Zambians spend most of their days outside in their insakas) and I felt discomfited entering it. Paxina noticed me sitting on my porch and came over to encourage me to go visit Bashikulu.
My heart beat loudly as I entered their house. Inside, three sisters to my host parents were seated on the floor around a brazier which provided them with much needed warmth on a day which seemed to be around 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Bashikulu rested on a mattress behind their circle. I observed that my host mother was nowhere to be seen. Upon my entrance to the house, the women’s’ brief break from wailing ceased as they began their mourning once again. Not knowing how to go about wailing myself, I simply bowed my head and folded my head in prayer.
After about ten minutes, the women told me to go see my host mother and Paxina escorted me over to an enclosed insaka where Bamayo was resting, explaining to me that in their culture the wife of a deceased man remains separate from the body until after burial. We slid through the door of Bamayo’s insaka where she was sitting on a reed mat. She cried and wailed for a few minutes and again I bowed my hair in prayer. Tears filled my eyes, but none rolled down my cheeks. I remained there for a half-hour or so as I watched women visitors come trickling in to support my host mother. When I left Bamayo’s insaka, I did not know that she would not set foot outside of it until after Bashikulu’s burial.
Paxina then invited me to sit with her in her own insaka and I remained there most of the day. I watched Bashikulu’s daughters and granddaughters cook nshima for the many visitors who were trickling in to pay their respects to Bashikulu. Many community members sat in various respective gender circles throughout the Mulomo compound. I would not realize until a few hours later that all of the visitors would be staying through the night.
At least twice the various babies must have urinated me on and toddlers I held in my lap while their mothers participated in the mourning process or were socializing with friends and relatives. I stuffed myself with the frequent plates of nshima that were handed to me by Paxina and her mother, Julia. I shook my head in awe as one of Bashikulu’s pregnant granddaughters began to go into labor and was quickly ushered to the clinic. I endured many stares and questions from the visitors who were not used to the “muzungu” (white person) of the compound.
At one point during the day I enjoyed a long conversation in Bemba with the 84-year-old sister of my host mother. She informed me that her and my Bashikulu were born on the same day and asked me with a laugh which one I thought looked older. She non-chalantly showed me tumors developing around her ankles and explained to me with the movement of cupping her breasts that they were present there as well. Even though she had been going to various clinics and hospitals throughout the area, she was not able to find any treatment. All I could do was shake my head in sympathy. I listened humbly as she told me I had a good heart and how much she respected me for feeling sad for the family for their loss. She chuckled as she struggled to leave the insaka, explaining to me lightheartedly that when you’re old, it’s more difficult to move around.
As the day slowly turned into night, large fires were made in the middle of the various mourning circles around the compound to keep everyone warm for the night. I realized everyone would simply be sleeping on the ground outside. Even Paxina would not be sleeping in her comfortable bed in her warm house. I lent her a reed mat for extra cushioning for the night she would spend in her insaka. I even considered remaining the entire night with her, but she firmly explained to me that I wouldn’t be able to manage on the hard ground and that she would accompany me back to my house so that I could sleep on a mattress.
Outside of my house, my dog Buddy started barking at all the nighttime intruders on his property. He never spends the night inside my house but that night I forced him to keep me company by my bed despite his constant whimpers of protest.
As I got ready to crawl into my bed by candlelight, I listened to the murmur of the groups of people outside and suddenly heard a choir in the distance. The church choir was a few meters down the path leading to the Mulomo compound and slowly proceeded onto the property to camp out for the night. There was not once a two-minute cease in their beautiful harmony of song until sunrise. I thought to myself that there could not be a more peaceful, lovelier way to honor someone who has passed away, especially Bashikulu.
At sunrise, the wailing continued, but intervals between the cries were longer than the day before. Everyone lingered around the compound until mid-day while they waited for the Sunday church service to finish in order for Bashikulu’s service to follow. When it became time, a white truck backed up to the house and Bashikulu, inside his coffin, was placed carefully into the bed of the truck. A few of his grandsons provided the coffin with company as it drove slowly to the church and the rest of the crowd followed. As I watched the truck slowly drive away from the house with the children I had grown to know and love sitting in the back with their grandfather, I completely lost it. All of the tears in my eyes rolled down my cheeks and my jaw quivered. A woman I did not know came and stood next to me, softly murmuring “don’t cry, don’t cry.”
The church service was an austere hour, consisting of a few songs, communion, offering and a sermon. The father preached about whether or not people in the congregation were ready to pass over, explaining that Bashikulu definitely was and will be welcomed by God up in heaven.
After the service ended, there was another procession of the crowd as it walked over to the cemetery for the burial. I had never seen a Zambian cemetery before and tried not to stare somberly at the unmarked graves (Paxina had explained to me earlier that most in Fiwila are too poor to afford a headstone). The burial did not last long. I could not see most of it happening as I stood behind the large crowd in an attempt not to draw attention to myself. I was, however called forth at one point to join the “higher status” members of the community in putting flowers on Bashikulu’s grave. After it was covered in vibrant colors, a tin coffee cup was pounded into the fresh dirt of his grave. I had noticed earlier that cups, mugs or bowls were stuck into the dirt of the other graves surrounding Bashikulu’s. I have yet to ask a Zambian about this custom or tradition, but I would speculate its reason is to ensure that the spirit has something to drink from.
The crowd dispersed from the cemetery to their own homes and I returned with my Zambian family to ours. I stood around awkwardly for a few minutes and then heard my host mother calling to me. She had finally come out of her insaka of mourning. She smiled at me and told me to sit by a brazier because I looked cold. I felt a measure of relief at the normalcy of Bamayo’s conversation and went over to Paxina’s insaka to continue speaking with Bashikulu’s granddaughters.
Now, a few days following the funeral, I am filled with so much love for my Zambian family. They have kindly and humbly welcomed me into their lives and for that I am so grateful. And as I mentioned earlier, I will always remember Bashikulu.
These are the words of the “life-story” of my host-father, read aloud (in local Bemba language) by his second-born son, Nighton, in a church service which paid tribute to the life of Mr. Mulomo, who might possibly have won the contest for cutest old man in the world.
Part of me smiled inside upon hearing such a simple eulogy for the man who I called “bashikulu” (the Bemba name for grandfather). Maybe it was due to my amazement that he had managed to live to know 35 of his great grand children. But I was also taken aback by how little else was said about what a wonderful man my host father was. Even though I understand the importance Zambian villagers place on birthing many children, part of me wanted to cry out during the service, “Say something else! Why finish there? Why don’t you mention something about all of the things I have heard about Bashikulu’s life in recent months? What about him speaking both Swahili and English? What about him being a cook for missionaries in Fiwila for several years? What about him caring for orphans unrelated to him? What about him being famous throughout Fiwila for having such a decent character?”
But I chose to leave the mourners in peace by only asking these questions in my mind. Right now though I think I will take advantage of this blog entry by sharing with my readers all of the special things that I will remember about Bashikulu.
I will remember his wonderful smile of crooked teeth and how frequently he laughed.
I will remember how warmly he welcomed me to live with his family on his compound and how he made sure to greet me every single morning to see how I had woken up.
I will remember how much he reminded me of my own Grandfather Mahan in the sense that he was always finding a task to do in order to stay busy. That kept him content as ever.
I will remember all of the sounds that came from the direction of Bashikulu’s insaka that just had a way of making me feel full of simple joy. As he went about completing the clear-cut projects he set up for himself, he would either be whistling a happy tune or belting out a traditional Bemba song with no shame whatsoever. I loved hearing his long sigh of evening contentment as he rested by the fire in his insaka after a long day’s hard work. I always chuckled to myself when one of his grandchildren would patiently yell “Bashikulu… Bashikulu…BashiKULU!” in order to get his attention away from something he was so intently focused on doing; and to also assist his 84-year old ears, which became hard of hearing some time ago.
I will remember how he would frequently come find me in my house just to make sure that the time on his black plastic, two-dollar “made in China” wristwatch was exactly on time up to the minute even though I knew that he secretly told time by the sun anyway. I loved it when he came to find me after the face of the watch had become detached from the band and how thrilled he was after I doctored it up with a bit of packaging tape.
I will remember him laughing and laughing with a sort of childhood innocence at the various puppies that have come to stay for short whiles on my compound and how much fun it was to watch him with my kitten, Tulo, when I first brought him home with me.
I will remember watching him pass by my house in his Sunday best, faithfully on his way to church every week.
I hope I carry these memories with me, putting into practice his simple lesson of enjoying life, something he practiced everyday.
I suppose you might be curious what a Zambian funeral is like and I feel it might be therapeutic for me to write about it considering what an intense event it was for me.
Starting in February, Bashikulu began to act differently, not himself at all, constantly complaining of body pain. It progressed further and reached its peak about a few weeks ago, which is when I knew I should prepare myself for the worst. I believe he had a stroke the week before he died from the evidence that one morning he could no longer move his right arm or leg. As I watched my host family having to carry him around everywhere, I wished him quick relief from his suffering, knowing that he of all people would not want to live in such a way.
I guess that I got my wish, considering he passed away around 7 pm the night before my birthday. I was in my house preparing to go to Mkushi the next day when I heard the wailing, howling and sobbing begin outside and I knew then that I would be attending a funeral instead of going to Mkushi. Paxina, my host parents’ grand-daughter quickly came to my house with tears in her eyes to tell me Bashikulu had died and that she was going to cell phone network in order to alert other relatives of his passing. I numbly asked her if there was anything I could do and she calmly replied, “just sleep”.
However I got little sleep in the next forty-eight hours. It was clearly the family’s time for mourning and the Zambian way of grieving is done through loud wailing, weeping and chanting. A while back, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer commented that he thought Zambians got over deaths quickly and after witnessing their grieving process, I wondered, if what my friend believed was true, if the reason was because of their overt display of grief. The wailing lasted through the first night and continued in intervals the whole of the following day.
I woke up the day following Bashikulu’s death feeling awkward and helpless. I sat on the front porch of my house watching different community members slowly come filtering in to enter my host parent’s house, where I knew that Bashikulu’s body was. I had never set foot inside my host parent’s house (the majority of Zambians spend most of their days outside in their insakas) and I felt discomfited entering it. Paxina noticed me sitting on my porch and came over to encourage me to go visit Bashikulu.
My heart beat loudly as I entered their house. Inside, three sisters to my host parents were seated on the floor around a brazier which provided them with much needed warmth on a day which seemed to be around 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Bashikulu rested on a mattress behind their circle. I observed that my host mother was nowhere to be seen. Upon my entrance to the house, the women’s’ brief break from wailing ceased as they began their mourning once again. Not knowing how to go about wailing myself, I simply bowed my head and folded my head in prayer.
After about ten minutes, the women told me to go see my host mother and Paxina escorted me over to an enclosed insaka where Bamayo was resting, explaining to me that in their culture the wife of a deceased man remains separate from the body until after burial. We slid through the door of Bamayo’s insaka where she was sitting on a reed mat. She cried and wailed for a few minutes and again I bowed my hair in prayer. Tears filled my eyes, but none rolled down my cheeks. I remained there for a half-hour or so as I watched women visitors come trickling in to support my host mother. When I left Bamayo’s insaka, I did not know that she would not set foot outside of it until after Bashikulu’s burial.
Paxina then invited me to sit with her in her own insaka and I remained there most of the day. I watched Bashikulu’s daughters and granddaughters cook nshima for the many visitors who were trickling in to pay their respects to Bashikulu. Many community members sat in various respective gender circles throughout the Mulomo compound. I would not realize until a few hours later that all of the visitors would be staying through the night.
At least twice the various babies must have urinated me on and toddlers I held in my lap while their mothers participated in the mourning process or were socializing with friends and relatives. I stuffed myself with the frequent plates of nshima that were handed to me by Paxina and her mother, Julia. I shook my head in awe as one of Bashikulu’s pregnant granddaughters began to go into labor and was quickly ushered to the clinic. I endured many stares and questions from the visitors who were not used to the “muzungu” (white person) of the compound.
At one point during the day I enjoyed a long conversation in Bemba with the 84-year-old sister of my host mother. She informed me that her and my Bashikulu were born on the same day and asked me with a laugh which one I thought looked older. She non-chalantly showed me tumors developing around her ankles and explained to me with the movement of cupping her breasts that they were present there as well. Even though she had been going to various clinics and hospitals throughout the area, she was not able to find any treatment. All I could do was shake my head in sympathy. I listened humbly as she told me I had a good heart and how much she respected me for feeling sad for the family for their loss. She chuckled as she struggled to leave the insaka, explaining to me lightheartedly that when you’re old, it’s more difficult to move around.
As the day slowly turned into night, large fires were made in the middle of the various mourning circles around the compound to keep everyone warm for the night. I realized everyone would simply be sleeping on the ground outside. Even Paxina would not be sleeping in her comfortable bed in her warm house. I lent her a reed mat for extra cushioning for the night she would spend in her insaka. I even considered remaining the entire night with her, but she firmly explained to me that I wouldn’t be able to manage on the hard ground and that she would accompany me back to my house so that I could sleep on a mattress.
Outside of my house, my dog Buddy started barking at all the nighttime intruders on his property. He never spends the night inside my house but that night I forced him to keep me company by my bed despite his constant whimpers of protest.
As I got ready to crawl into my bed by candlelight, I listened to the murmur of the groups of people outside and suddenly heard a choir in the distance. The church choir was a few meters down the path leading to the Mulomo compound and slowly proceeded onto the property to camp out for the night. There was not once a two-minute cease in their beautiful harmony of song until sunrise. I thought to myself that there could not be a more peaceful, lovelier way to honor someone who has passed away, especially Bashikulu.
At sunrise, the wailing continued, but intervals between the cries were longer than the day before. Everyone lingered around the compound until mid-day while they waited for the Sunday church service to finish in order for Bashikulu’s service to follow. When it became time, a white truck backed up to the house and Bashikulu, inside his coffin, was placed carefully into the bed of the truck. A few of his grandsons provided the coffin with company as it drove slowly to the church and the rest of the crowd followed. As I watched the truck slowly drive away from the house with the children I had grown to know and love sitting in the back with their grandfather, I completely lost it. All of the tears in my eyes rolled down my cheeks and my jaw quivered. A woman I did not know came and stood next to me, softly murmuring “don’t cry, don’t cry.”
The church service was an austere hour, consisting of a few songs, communion, offering and a sermon. The father preached about whether or not people in the congregation were ready to pass over, explaining that Bashikulu definitely was and will be welcomed by God up in heaven.
After the service ended, there was another procession of the crowd as it walked over to the cemetery for the burial. I had never seen a Zambian cemetery before and tried not to stare somberly at the unmarked graves (Paxina had explained to me earlier that most in Fiwila are too poor to afford a headstone). The burial did not last long. I could not see most of it happening as I stood behind the large crowd in an attempt not to draw attention to myself. I was, however called forth at one point to join the “higher status” members of the community in putting flowers on Bashikulu’s grave. After it was covered in vibrant colors, a tin coffee cup was pounded into the fresh dirt of his grave. I had noticed earlier that cups, mugs or bowls were stuck into the dirt of the other graves surrounding Bashikulu’s. I have yet to ask a Zambian about this custom or tradition, but I would speculate its reason is to ensure that the spirit has something to drink from.
The crowd dispersed from the cemetery to their own homes and I returned with my Zambian family to ours. I stood around awkwardly for a few minutes and then heard my host mother calling to me. She had finally come out of her insaka of mourning. She smiled at me and told me to sit by a brazier because I looked cold. I felt a measure of relief at the normalcy of Bamayo’s conversation and went over to Paxina’s insaka to continue speaking with Bashikulu’s granddaughters.
Now, a few days following the funeral, I am filled with so much love for my Zambian family. They have kindly and humbly welcomed me into their lives and for that I am so grateful. And as I mentioned earlier, I will always remember Bashikulu.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Mom's visit
Guest entry by Jen Stevens: July 4, 2009
After months of planning and anticipation, Rachel's Colorado Aunt Bev and I finally made it to Africa! Rachel and her boyfriend Pat (I approve!) met us at Lusaka airport the evening of May 9. We spent a couple of days exploring Lusaka, going to the market and meeting a group of other PCV's for dinner. Bev practiced the stick shift and left-road driving of the pick-up truck we rented for the 8-hour drive to Fiwila.
We were astonished at the number of pedestrians and bicyclists along the highway. Many vegetable stalls and poverty. Speed bumps and police checkpoints. We stopped at the Mkushi post office and Mesansa. The dirt road from there to Fiwila was a challenge to navigate and by then Bev was an expert. A narrow walking path barely fit the truck and ended at her compound. We were immediately greeted by a women and children. Surreal!
For the next 3 days we experienced life in the village and was amazed at how well Rachel has adapted. I loved watching her communicate in distinct English or Bemba and recognized by everyone with a smile as we walked around Fiwila. She fed us well, preparing spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce, rice with soy pieces, and even delicious banana bread! I even cooked sweet potato fries for one of our meals!
I laughed when handed a LIVE chicken as a gift. Later it was killed with another one and cooked for a special dinner in our honor the last night. We feasted with the women on traditional Zambian nshima and relishes, sitting on a bamboo mat in Rachel's insaka and eating with our hands. What an unbelievable experience!
I have memories of a million stars in the sky, beautiful landscapes, petting Tulo and Buddy, children laughing and playing with each other, no bad bug encounters, a great bucket bath in the shower hut, adjusting to the pit latrine, the squawking of chickens during the night, candles and flashlights.
On our drive back to Lusaka we were lucky that when we had a FLAT TIRE (!) it was in Mkushi where it was easily repaired. In Lusaka Bev's Texas cousin Tina met us at the hotel, and the next day we all flew to South Luangwa National Park for 6 days of safari. (That is another story...) Then we took another flight to Livingstone to visit Victoria Falls (amazing!) Rachel was a great roommate and traveling companion and helped her mother cope with all kinds of challenges. I learned just how far Zambia is both culturally and geographically from the United States. The trip was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and the most difficult part was having to say good-bye to Rachel at the airport and know it will be another 9 to 10 months before I get to see her again. But I believe she was meant to be a Peace Corps Volunteer and she IS making a difference in this world and I AM SO PROUD!!!
After months of planning and anticipation, Rachel's Colorado Aunt Bev and I finally made it to Africa! Rachel and her boyfriend Pat (I approve!) met us at Lusaka airport the evening of May 9. We spent a couple of days exploring Lusaka, going to the market and meeting a group of other PCV's for dinner. Bev practiced the stick shift and left-road driving of the pick-up truck we rented for the 8-hour drive to Fiwila.
We were astonished at the number of pedestrians and bicyclists along the highway. Many vegetable stalls and poverty. Speed bumps and police checkpoints. We stopped at the Mkushi post office and Mesansa. The dirt road from there to Fiwila was a challenge to navigate and by then Bev was an expert. A narrow walking path barely fit the truck and ended at her compound. We were immediately greeted by a women and children. Surreal!
For the next 3 days we experienced life in the village and was amazed at how well Rachel has adapted. I loved watching her communicate in distinct English or Bemba and recognized by everyone with a smile as we walked around Fiwila. She fed us well, preparing spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce, rice with soy pieces, and even delicious banana bread! I even cooked sweet potato fries for one of our meals!
I laughed when handed a LIVE chicken as a gift. Later it was killed with another one and cooked for a special dinner in our honor the last night. We feasted with the women on traditional Zambian nshima and relishes, sitting on a bamboo mat in Rachel's insaka and eating with our hands. What an unbelievable experience!
I have memories of a million stars in the sky, beautiful landscapes, petting Tulo and Buddy, children laughing and playing with each other, no bad bug encounters, a great bucket bath in the shower hut, adjusting to the pit latrine, the squawking of chickens during the night, candles and flashlights.
On our drive back to Lusaka we were lucky that when we had a FLAT TIRE (!) it was in Mkushi where it was easily repaired. In Lusaka Bev's Texas cousin Tina met us at the hotel, and the next day we all flew to South Luangwa National Park for 6 days of safari. (That is another story...) Then we took another flight to Livingstone to visit Victoria Falls (amazing!) Rachel was a great roommate and traveling companion and helped her mother cope with all kinds of challenges. I learned just how far Zambia is both culturally and geographically from the United States. The trip was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and the most difficult part was having to say good-bye to Rachel at the airport and know it will be another 9 to 10 months before I get to see her again. But I believe she was meant to be a Peace Corps Volunteer and she IS making a difference in this world and I AM SO PROUD!!!
Monday, March 9, 2009
Just Be Free
Written February 21, 2009
These are words I hear often from Zambians. They are words that I love. Usually I hear them when I am using my counterpart's workspace at the clinic or when I am company at someone's house. Sometimes I hear them from Zambian friends when they sense that I am holding certain comments back from them in order to be culturally sensitive. Even though these words may be simple and minuscule to a Zambian, lately I've been thinking about how good life is when I try to live by these words here and when I interpret their meaning for my own personal use. As more months have passed here and I am getting even more accustomed to Zambian life, I am finding it easier and easier to be free. Hopefully you might notice the subtle ways throughout this blog entry.
Mangos, lumps and lumps of nshima, rainstorms, the U.S. elections, chickens, gardening, a leaky roof, a new boyfriend, holidays with Peace Corps friends, rain, oh yeah, and I guess a bit of development work. The months between November and February brought me all of these (mostly) wonderful events and experiences into my life. I'll go into detail about some, but others, well, you'll just have to write me a letter to inquire about more information. :)
One night in November, I was awakened by a stream of water pouring directly on my head. The first rains of the season had come in with a bang. Of thunder of course. Despite all of the rennovations done to my roof in October, I discovered that it still leaked quite a bit. I realized I had passed a nice test of resiliency that night when I simply rolled over onto the dry side of my bed and fell back asleep
I also learned to love certain aspects of the rains. One of these was that they caused two of the trees in my front yard to provide bunches of delicious, juicy, fresh as can get mangos. Perhaps it was one day after plucking one off of a branch that I discovered how entertaining it is to watch storms roll in over the mountains of Fiwila. First yuou see the dark clouds form and then listen to the raindrops from a mile or so away. You can usually simply watch a sheet of pouring rain come straight towards you, waiting in a dry patch.
In addition to the trouble of getting me soaking wet all the time, I found that the rainy season also seemed to get in the way of Peace Corps work. During the rainy season, scheduled meetings get cancelled left and right and it also seemed that people were just a little bit more concerned with getting gardening and field work done rather than work with me (this of course is somewhat justifiable). I sometimes fear that its not just the rain that can be blamed for these unfortunate events. As I mentioned previously, work never really seems to go as planned and sometimes simply never happens at all. Occasionally this causes me anxiety, especially as my one year anniversary of being a Peace Corps volunteer appraoches. But I haven't given up yet and have learned to keep on keeping on.
Plus I need to give myself a little bit more credit because I have managed to keep myself busy with secondary projects (additional work that I wasn't necessarily trained to do). One of these has been working with a youth group, which two motivated guys in the area started in early January. This group is still very new, but we have been holding weekly meetings on Fridays (when it doesn't rain of course) to perfect the mission of the group as well as figure out how it will accomplish all of the short term and long term goals it has set for itself. The purpose of the group so far is to provide a safe and productive way for youth in Fiwila Cathment Area to entertain themseleves, whether it be through orgianized sports events, earning money by providing skilled labor to the community, further educating themselves about issues that affect them, or through further fund-raising in the form of IGAs (Income Generating Activitie, and acronym often used in Peace Corps). I am hoping that my next blog entry will include a lot more details about all the different activities we will be doing in the community. I should also add that there may be an opportunity for anyone out there who is interested to donate to getting this group off the ground. Please keep checking my blog for more information if you think you might be able or willing to do so.
Working with youth seems to be a reoccuring theme in my life because I also have been helping to form a girls club at a school in a village called Mulungwe that is about 25k away from Filwila. This club was formed after two girls from Mulungwe attneded Camp GLOW, a week long outdoor camp sponsored by Peace Corps Volunteers. Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) was held December 6-11, 2008 in Mkushi and each Peace Corps Volunteer from Central Province was invited to send two middle school aged girls and one of their teachers to the camp. I was one of a few PCVs who was able to to attend the camp because I am part of the group of four in charge of organizing and running Camp GLOW in 2009. I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent observing everything that happens at this camp. The girls spent the mornings learning valuable lessons in preventing HIV/AIDS and pregnancy, how to set goals, be more assertive, and have more confidence. In the afternoons we all participated in fun activities like rock climbing, canoeing, pottery and volleyball. Nights were spent dancing and singing around a campfire. The whole week was simply a great time and I am excited for the next Camp GLOW, was well as pleased to be helping the two girls from my catchment area teach skills and facts they learned to the peers at their school
Besides the two substantial activities of the youth group and girls club, my work is basically sporadic. A health talk here, giving advice to the staff at my clinic there. But I also have realized lately how important it is not to underestimate the power of relationship building. Not only does establishing good friendships and acquaintences make my quality of life better, I am also hoping these relationships will make work go smoother further down the road.
It makes me a very happy girl to report that I seem to be making a CLOSE friend in the village. And no, it isn't my dog Buddy. Her name is Paxina, she is twenty-one years old and moved onto my host family's compound back in October. She is the granddaugher to my host parents, Mr. and Mrs. Mulomo. She is still in high school, as it is very common for many students in high schools here to be in their early, even late twenties. She took a break from school when she became pregnant with her two and a half year old daughter Priscovia. There was a celebration a few weeks ago when she entered the tenth grade after passing a grueling end of 9th grade exam.
When Paxina first moved onto the Mulomo compound, I would go over to her insaka every now and then just to sit and chat. More recently though she has been inviting me over to eat dinner with her a few nights a week. I am really excited about this recent development. What a difference it makes in my overally happiness level just to partake in the act of sharing a meal with someone frequently! And what a difference it has made to have someone I can go to in the village who I can just be myself around. By that I mean not constantly speculating about my every act and utterance to make sure it is culturally appropriate or makes obvious the fact that I have more money than most villagers. I can joke around with Paxina and she understands. I can ask her questions about her country or Fiwila that I would never think about asking anyone else here. I laugh with her a lot. I am so thankful for this new friendship and the freedom it brings me in the village.
My friendship with Paxina has spiraled off into making new ones as well as making current ones better. For example, I have noticed a difference in the way I interact with my host mother. Maybe it was me who relaxed a bit, but somehow things have gotten more casual between the two of us. From time to time we even share supper together in my insaka, only the act isn't nearly the formality it was previously. Simply a modest dinner shared together, which is how I prefer it.
In addition to nice friendships in the village, as always I have my great Peace Corps family outside of it. We share all the important times together. We anxiously awaited the elections results together at our home away from homes, ATB lodge in Mkushi. We cooked (well some cooked while I mixed together some kool-aid) a lovely Thanksgiving meal together at the Serenje Peace Corps house as well as had a fun Christmas party there a few weeks later. I traveled down to Lake Kariba in Southern Province with several wonderful friends from my intake for Christmas day. Then January 20 was spent back at ATB rejoicing with others as we watched our new president take the oath. Finally, I stayed up trying to understand football, but merely enjoying half time as everyone else cheered on their favorite team for the Super Bowl.
A small tangent on Barack Obama, since I have been asked repeatedly about Zambians' reactions to the U.S. elections from those back in the States. I'll preface these comments by reiterating that all of the comments of this blog are my opinions only, not Peace Corps'. I don't want to be caught sensationalizing and this is Zambia, not Kenya, but I still figured I'd share with you a few observations I have made since Obama was elected president. Prior to the election, the only Zambians I heard discuss Obama were the wealthy and educated who occasionlly give me rides in Mkushi and Serenje. Now, those people still talk about Obama, but recently villagers have been asking me about him as well. When Obama was first elected, I was carrying around with me a picture of him off the cover of a Rolling Stone and would show it to anyone interested, proclaiming, "This will be America's new president." And always whoever I would be showing it to would get a huge grin across their face and ponder the picture for a few moments before finding someone else they could show it to and tell on their own, "this will be America's new president."
In late December, a boy named Derek who I had been helping with English approached me and stated matter of factly, "Ba Rachel, I don't know if you are aware, but Barack Obama was elected the new president of America."
In cities and towns, there are street vendors selling all sorts of Obama posters and calendars. If you're lucky you might even be able to stumble across an Obama chigenge. Now, perhaps all these smiles and sudden interest in the U.S. presidency would have happened regardless of who had been elected. Who knows, maybe somewhere out there, Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon chitenges exist. But I do think its safe to say that there are many Zambians here content with America's new president.
So with a new president in office, wonderful people surrounding me throughout Zambia and a few developing projects, I would say that I life is pretty good here. And I haven't even mentioned the new chickens I bought yesterday to keep Buddy and Tulo company or the small garden I am in the act of starting. I guess I'll have to save those fun stories for next time.
But for now, one year down, one year to go! I know two years is an awful long time to keep in touch with someone for, but please don't forget me in these last twelvish months. All of your correspondence keeps me sane and happy. I always love reminding myself that acorss the world there exist many friends and family I love oh so very much. Thank you so much for everything. Thank you Thank you. I miss you all tremendously.
One last comment. I apologize for all of the spelling and grammar errors! I typed this one myself and don't have the time to go back and proof read. Also spell check isn't working. Hopefully you got through the blog ok!
Mangos, lumps and lumps of nshima, rainstorms, the U.S. elections, chickens, gardening, a leaky roof, a new boyfriend, holidays with Peace Corps friends, rain, oh yeah, and I guess a bit of development work. The months between November and February brought me all of these (mostly) wonderful events and experiences into my life. I'll go into detail about some, but others, well, you'll just have to write me a letter to inquire about more information. :)
One night in November, I was awakened by a stream of water pouring directly on my head. The first rains of the season had come in with a bang. Of thunder of course. Despite all of the rennovations done to my roof in October, I discovered that it still leaked quite a bit. I realized I had passed a nice test of resiliency that night when I simply rolled over onto the dry side of my bed and fell back asleep
I also learned to love certain aspects of the rains. One of these was that they caused two of the trees in my front yard to provide bunches of delicious, juicy, fresh as can get mangos. Perhaps it was one day after plucking one off of a branch that I discovered how entertaining it is to watch storms roll in over the mountains of Fiwila. First yuou see the dark clouds form and then listen to the raindrops from a mile or so away. You can usually simply watch a sheet of pouring rain come straight towards you, waiting in a dry patch.
In addition to the trouble of getting me soaking wet all the time, I found that the rainy season also seemed to get in the way of Peace Corps work. During the rainy season, scheduled meetings get cancelled left and right and it also seemed that people were just a little bit more concerned with getting gardening and field work done rather than work with me (this of course is somewhat justifiable). I sometimes fear that its not just the rain that can be blamed for these unfortunate events. As I mentioned previously, work never really seems to go as planned and sometimes simply never happens at all. Occasionally this causes me anxiety, especially as my one year anniversary of being a Peace Corps volunteer appraoches. But I haven't given up yet and have learned to keep on keeping on.
Plus I need to give myself a little bit more credit because I have managed to keep myself busy with secondary projects (additional work that I wasn't necessarily trained to do). One of these has been working with a youth group, which two motivated guys in the area started in early January. This group is still very new, but we have been holding weekly meetings on Fridays (when it doesn't rain of course) to perfect the mission of the group as well as figure out how it will accomplish all of the short term and long term goals it has set for itself. The purpose of the group so far is to provide a safe and productive way for youth in Fiwila Cathment Area to entertain themseleves, whether it be through orgianized sports events, earning money by providing skilled labor to the community, further educating themselves about issues that affect them, or through further fund-raising in the form of IGAs (Income Generating Activitie, and acronym often used in Peace Corps). I am hoping that my next blog entry will include a lot more details about all the different activities we will be doing in the community. I should also add that there may be an opportunity for anyone out there who is interested to donate to getting this group off the ground. Please keep checking my blog for more information if you think you might be able or willing to do so.
Working with youth seems to be a reoccuring theme in my life because I also have been helping to form a girls club at a school in a village called Mulungwe that is about 25k away from Filwila. This club was formed after two girls from Mulungwe attneded Camp GLOW, a week long outdoor camp sponsored by Peace Corps Volunteers. Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) was held December 6-11, 2008 in Mkushi and each Peace Corps Volunteer from Central Province was invited to send two middle school aged girls and one of their teachers to the camp. I was one of a few PCVs who was able to to attend the camp because I am part of the group of four in charge of organizing and running Camp GLOW in 2009. I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent observing everything that happens at this camp. The girls spent the mornings learning valuable lessons in preventing HIV/AIDS and pregnancy, how to set goals, be more assertive, and have more confidence. In the afternoons we all participated in fun activities like rock climbing, canoeing, pottery and volleyball. Nights were spent dancing and singing around a campfire. The whole week was simply a great time and I am excited for the next Camp GLOW, was well as pleased to be helping the two girls from my catchment area teach skills and facts they learned to the peers at their school
Besides the two substantial activities of the youth group and girls club, my work is basically sporadic. A health talk here, giving advice to the staff at my clinic there. But I also have realized lately how important it is not to underestimate the power of relationship building. Not only does establishing good friendships and acquaintences make my quality of life better, I am also hoping these relationships will make work go smoother further down the road.
It makes me a very happy girl to report that I seem to be making a CLOSE friend in the village. And no, it isn't my dog Buddy. Her name is Paxina, she is twenty-one years old and moved onto my host family's compound back in October. She is the granddaugher to my host parents, Mr. and Mrs. Mulomo. She is still in high school, as it is very common for many students in high schools here to be in their early, even late twenties. She took a break from school when she became pregnant with her two and a half year old daughter Priscovia. There was a celebration a few weeks ago when she entered the tenth grade after passing a grueling end of 9th grade exam.
When Paxina first moved onto the Mulomo compound, I would go over to her insaka every now and then just to sit and chat. More recently though she has been inviting me over to eat dinner with her a few nights a week. I am really excited about this recent development. What a difference it makes in my overally happiness level just to partake in the act of sharing a meal with someone frequently! And what a difference it has made to have someone I can go to in the village who I can just be myself around. By that I mean not constantly speculating about my every act and utterance to make sure it is culturally appropriate or makes obvious the fact that I have more money than most villagers. I can joke around with Paxina and she understands. I can ask her questions about her country or Fiwila that I would never think about asking anyone else here. I laugh with her a lot. I am so thankful for this new friendship and the freedom it brings me in the village.
My friendship with Paxina has spiraled off into making new ones as well as making current ones better. For example, I have noticed a difference in the way I interact with my host mother. Maybe it was me who relaxed a bit, but somehow things have gotten more casual between the two of us. From time to time we even share supper together in my insaka, only the act isn't nearly the formality it was previously. Simply a modest dinner shared together, which is how I prefer it.
In addition to nice friendships in the village, as always I have my great Peace Corps family outside of it. We share all the important times together. We anxiously awaited the elections results together at our home away from homes, ATB lodge in Mkushi. We cooked (well some cooked while I mixed together some kool-aid) a lovely Thanksgiving meal together at the Serenje Peace Corps house as well as had a fun Christmas party there a few weeks later. I traveled down to Lake Kariba in Southern Province with several wonderful friends from my intake for Christmas day. Then January 20 was spent back at ATB rejoicing with others as we watched our new president take the oath. Finally, I stayed up trying to understand football, but merely enjoying half time as everyone else cheered on their favorite team for the Super Bowl.
A small tangent on Barack Obama, since I have been asked repeatedly about Zambians' reactions to the U.S. elections from those back in the States. I'll preface these comments by reiterating that all of the comments of this blog are my opinions only, not Peace Corps'. I don't want to be caught sensationalizing and this is Zambia, not Kenya, but I still figured I'd share with you a few observations I have made since Obama was elected president. Prior to the election, the only Zambians I heard discuss Obama were the wealthy and educated who occasionlly give me rides in Mkushi and Serenje. Now, those people still talk about Obama, but recently villagers have been asking me about him as well. When Obama was first elected, I was carrying around with me a picture of him off the cover of a Rolling Stone and would show it to anyone interested, proclaiming, "This will be America's new president." And always whoever I would be showing it to would get a huge grin across their face and ponder the picture for a few moments before finding someone else they could show it to and tell on their own, "this will be America's new president."
In late December, a boy named Derek who I had been helping with English approached me and stated matter of factly, "Ba Rachel, I don't know if you are aware, but Barack Obama was elected the new president of America."
In cities and towns, there are street vendors selling all sorts of Obama posters and calendars. If you're lucky you might even be able to stumble across an Obama chigenge. Now, perhaps all these smiles and sudden interest in the U.S. presidency would have happened regardless of who had been elected. Who knows, maybe somewhere out there, Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon chitenges exist. But I do think its safe to say that there are many Zambians here content with America's new president.
So with a new president in office, wonderful people surrounding me throughout Zambia and a few developing projects, I would say that I life is pretty good here. And I haven't even mentioned the new chickens I bought yesterday to keep Buddy and Tulo company or the small garden I am in the act of starting. I guess I'll have to save those fun stories for next time.
But for now, one year down, one year to go! I know two years is an awful long time to keep in touch with someone for, but please don't forget me in these last twelvish months. All of your correspondence keeps me sane and happy. I always love reminding myself that acorss the world there exist many friends and family I love oh so very much. Thank you so much for everything. Thank you Thank you. I miss you all tremendously.
One last comment. I apologize for all of the spelling and grammar errors! I typed this one myself and don't have the time to go back and proof read. Also spell check isn't working. Hopefully you got through the blog ok!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Uwakwensho bushiku, bamutasha ilyo bwaca (He who escorts you at night is thanked at dawn)
Written October 19, 2008
As I mentioned towards the end of my last blog, not all of my days are spent in the village, but enjoying my allotted time away by reveling in the pleasures of a hot running shower, electricity, delicious food, and most importantly, the fantastic company of Peace Corps friends. Before all that can happen I have to actually get myself out of Fiwila. The 30k (18.6 miles) bike ride and 50k (31 miles) "transport" can be quite an experience. The bike ride is exercise in the middle of Africa I generally enjoy and look forward to while taking transport is something I barely tolerate.
On mornings when I leave the village I rise as soon as the sun begins peeking over the hills behind my hut. I always pack my bag the night before and all I have to do is gulp down a bottle of Gatorade and chew a Cliff bar. I carefully secure my backpack on my bike, then check that all the candles are blown out, windows closed and front door locked. I set out a huge chunk of peanut butter for Buddy to eat so he is nicely distracted and won't follow me. (Twice he has done just that, no matter how many times I told him to go home or race far ahead of him.) I bike about a kilometer on a sandy bush path until I reach the main road. From that point the rest of the trip is on a worn dirt road where I have to look carefully for bike tire tracks to show best part of the road and helps prevent a flat tire or an uncomfortable, bumpy ride.
It is when I am on the main road that I am always reminded how fortunate I am to have a nice mountain bike. Peace Corps Zambia has TREK 3700's annually shipped from America. These red and white sleek bikes with thick tires, 21 speeds and cushioned seat is the envy of any Zambian who passes me. They ride dilapidated bikes usually assembled from a variety of used parts. Decent tires are rare for them and I wonder how they are able to survive the rough ride. My bike is just one of a great number of examples of how many nice things I own compared to a lot of locals who are just struggling to get by. I try not to dwell too much on this dichotomy because I don't like the thought that my wealth sets me apart from most people here and it makes me sad to think of the hardships they experience. Instead of worrying about why I was born into a life of financial well-being I just try to be thankful for the things I have that make life a bit easier and enjoyable while not flaunting them.
While still on the subject of my being different from the villagers in Fiwila I find it amusing that I probably look like an alien to everyone I pass while biking on the road to Masansa. Of course my white skin stands out. And I'm always wearing capris and a tank top (having not yet mastered the art of biking in a chitenge). My bike helmet flashes "muzingu". Finally, I'm listening to an energizing playlist on my I-POD to give me extra momentum and sometimes have the tube from my camelback hanging around my shoulder.
Now that you know all the details about equipment to survive the ride, let's get back to the journey itself. No part of the trip is flat and I am either battling a hill or flying down one. Rarely do I encounter any vehicles; just me and the African landscape.
Further along, as the sun climbs higher and higher, more people have begun their days and greetings of "muli shani" or Mwashibukeni" exchanged between me and women collecting water at a bore hole or cooking breakfast outside of huts that line the road. The kids have a field day when they see me approach. If one spots me, he springs off to alert his/her friends, brothers, sisters and then a whole clan of them jump out of the bush to greet, gawk, cheer or run along with me for as far as they can.
It usually takes me about 2 hours to reach Masansa, a "town" larger than Fiwila but smaller than Mkushi. It is more developed than a village because of two intersecting roads lined with small shops that offer cold drinks and a variety of goods not available to me in Fiwila. Other than that Mansansa doesn't have a whole lot to offer and it isn't exactly the pride of Zambia. Piles of trash litter the streets and even in the early morning drunks are wandering around.
When I arrive in Masansa I'm greeted by a few people who somehow know my name even though I can't recall meeting them. I have also been called Katie (who I replaced) even though we look nothing alike. My nearest Peace Corps neighbor, Phil, even gets called Katie at times! I tell him it's because they both have blond hair.
Every time I travel through the armpit of Masansa I have been lucky enough to be with Phil and/or Ted (another P.C. neighbor). Phil is in my intake and Ted had been in-country for a year when we arrived. The three of us get along well, frequently visiting at one another's site. I am especially grateful for their company in Masansa so I have someone to travel with to Mkushi or provide support in case one of the Masansa drunks gets out of control.
Before seeing what transport we have to Mkushi we drop off our bikes for safe-keeping at Max's house in the center of town. Max and his family have been friends of earlier PCV's. They force free cookies and drinks from the shop they own and offer nshima if it is during lunchtime.
As we leave our bikes with Max, we talk with him or one of his many relatives about Christianity (evangelism is popular here), how everything is in Fiwila, and whether we'll be voting for Obama in the upcoming elections.
The conversation is cut short by having to get on, or wait, for "transport". Official public transportation is not available for villagers needing to travel between Masansa and Mkushi, therefore private vehicles make money by charging 15,000 Zambian Kwatcha (about $3) for rides into town. These vehicles are typically small, run-down pick-up trucks and occasionally huge cantor trucks. On a good day an NGO (non-government organization) or white farmer will offer us rides in their comfy, cozy, air-conditioned cars, "buana" (wealthy) transportation.
I will, however, make you feel a bit of sympathy for me as I describe this mode of travel. We assume the worst, that our option will be the oldest truck in Zambia, so we arrive as early as possible hoping to be given the front seat in the cab of the truck. If we don't, we climb into the bed of the truck and sit with our backs up against the cab, hoping the driver won't make us stand the whole way in order to fit more passengers into the bed. We are usually the only ones waiting for the ride to take off, but the vehicle drives up and down the streets announcing the ride. In fifteen minutes up to an hour we will be "sardines" jam-packed in the back.
I have observed two unsaid rules about this transport. First, there are no constraints to the number of people a vehicle can carry. As soon as I think another human being could not possibly fit in, three women, six suitcases, a baby, and a chicken will climb on. The second rule is that there is no limit to the amount or type of luggage. Chickens, bicycles, cans of gasoline, kittens (mine in fact), old tires, you name it.
After everything is packed in as tight as possible, the truck starts down the long, winding and bumpy as hell road. If I'm able to move my limbs, I try to adjust myself so that people are no longer jabbing my side with their elbows or sitting on my shins. I know it has been a good ride if I manage to keep my legs from falling asleep. I also secure a chitenge around my head like a burka to keep out dust and wind out of my eyes, skin, hair and mouth. I use my I-POD to cope with the discomfort. I try to find anything secure to hold onto and do my best to enjoy the ride, which can take from one to three hours. It is a relief to finally reach Mkushi.
The journey leaving the village is easier than the one going back. Traveling in the morning before the hot African sun has risen is always best. Rides back to Masansa from Mkushi don't leave until after 1 p.m. and always sporadic. There's a certain amount of excitement leaving the village knowing the luxuries that await me, but returning is less exciting. Getting back on my bike is that last thing I want to do after the tough ride, especially feeling exhausted from lack of sleep and/or hung-over. The bike ride back to Fiwila has hills that are steeper and endure longer, and I have groceries and mail that weigh me down.
Now the journey continues out of the village and into my second life as a Peace Corps volunteer. I am happy to report that I don't always rough it at site. In fact, there are a variety of opportunities for me to leave the village and I do in fact leave every couple of weeks. Peace Corps understands that life can be harsh at times, therefore Peace Corps Zambia (unlike other countries) has "houses" in each of the provinces where they place the volunteers. We are allotted three days each month (may be for medical or safety reasons) to stay at this house for much-needed R & R. Volunteers in the Central Province enjoy the European youth hostel-type house in Serenje. We enjoy cooking meals together, playing games of Pictionary of Scrabble, and throwing theme parties. This is the only provincial house that does not have a TV (that was decided by the volunteers that it would take away from socializing). Once in awhile I do crave sitting on a comfortable couch with the lights off and watching a good movie.
There is an opportunity to see movies and cable TV at a lodge in Mkushi called ATB, as well as indulge in divine meals and incredible hot showers. Though it is equal to a Super-8 motel, it feels like the Ritz to us and we splurge occasionally to spend the night there. This is where we will congregate to watch the upcoming American presidential election coverage.
Other than going to Serenje or Mkushi the Peace Corps lifestyle includes heading south to Lusaka. August 17 - 24 I met with all the volunteers I flew into country with back in February for a week-long in-service training. We learned more about how to be better PCV's, and savored food and activities only available in the big city. Each night we chose from Indian, Chinese, Lebanese, or simple sandwiches or pizza, followed by dancing or a movie. I sat in the back of an American-style theatre terrorized by The Dark Knight with a few friends.
Another reason to leave the village is because I am blessed with 24 vacation days a year to use however I please. As I write this, I have plans to hang out in Livingstone in a few days, a town outside of Victoria Falls. I have also traveled to Nkhata Bay on Lake Malawi with nine other PCV's after the in-service training I just described.
Malawi was the best: freedom from work and worries from being at side, luxurious, fun, beautiful, relaxing, an adventure (Not surprising, transportation there was quite an effort and included a packed bus in which one of the passengers suffered and recovered from a seizure without half of the bus even noticing.) There were 10 of us who stayed at a very nice lodge close to the shores of the lake. The rooms were clustered around a porch where we could hear the sounds of water lapping up onto the rocky beach.
Half of the group spent their days becoming scuba-certified. I saved my pennies and sun-tanned, having intriguing conversations with friends, walked to town to explore and converse with locals or other foreigners, or swimming and snorkeling. One day all ten of us went out with two Malawian guides and motor boats to tour Nkhata Bay and feed eagles, cliff jump, and so more snorkeling and lounging in the sun.
As I mentioned towards the end of my last blog, not all of my days are spent in the village, but enjoying my allotted time away by reveling in the pleasures of a hot running shower, electricity, delicious food, and most importantly, the fantastic company of Peace Corps friends. Before all that can happen I have to actually get myself out of Fiwila. The 30k (18.6 miles) bike ride and 50k (31 miles) "transport" can be quite an experience. The bike ride is exercise in the middle of Africa I generally enjoy and look forward to while taking transport is something I barely tolerate.
On mornings when I leave the village I rise as soon as the sun begins peeking over the hills behind my hut. I always pack my bag the night before and all I have to do is gulp down a bottle of Gatorade and chew a Cliff bar. I carefully secure my backpack on my bike, then check that all the candles are blown out, windows closed and front door locked. I set out a huge chunk of peanut butter for Buddy to eat so he is nicely distracted and won't follow me. (Twice he has done just that, no matter how many times I told him to go home or race far ahead of him.) I bike about a kilometer on a sandy bush path until I reach the main road. From that point the rest of the trip is on a worn dirt road where I have to look carefully for bike tire tracks to show best part of the road and helps prevent a flat tire or an uncomfortable, bumpy ride.
It is when I am on the main road that I am always reminded how fortunate I am to have a nice mountain bike. Peace Corps Zambia has TREK 3700's annually shipped from America. These red and white sleek bikes with thick tires, 21 speeds and cushioned seat is the envy of any Zambian who passes me. They ride dilapidated bikes usually assembled from a variety of used parts. Decent tires are rare for them and I wonder how they are able to survive the rough ride. My bike is just one of a great number of examples of how many nice things I own compared to a lot of locals who are just struggling to get by. I try not to dwell too much on this dichotomy because I don't like the thought that my wealth sets me apart from most people here and it makes me sad to think of the hardships they experience. Instead of worrying about why I was born into a life of financial well-being I just try to be thankful for the things I have that make life a bit easier and enjoyable while not flaunting them.
While still on the subject of my being different from the villagers in Fiwila I find it amusing that I probably look like an alien to everyone I pass while biking on the road to Masansa. Of course my white skin stands out. And I'm always wearing capris and a tank top (having not yet mastered the art of biking in a chitenge). My bike helmet flashes "muzingu". Finally, I'm listening to an energizing playlist on my I-POD to give me extra momentum and sometimes have the tube from my camelback hanging around my shoulder.
Now that you know all the details about equipment to survive the ride, let's get back to the journey itself. No part of the trip is flat and I am either battling a hill or flying down one. Rarely do I encounter any vehicles; just me and the African landscape.
Further along, as the sun climbs higher and higher, more people have begun their days and greetings of "muli shani" or Mwashibukeni" exchanged between me and women collecting water at a bore hole or cooking breakfast outside of huts that line the road. The kids have a field day when they see me approach. If one spots me, he springs off to alert his/her friends, brothers, sisters and then a whole clan of them jump out of the bush to greet, gawk, cheer or run along with me for as far as they can.
It usually takes me about 2 hours to reach Masansa, a "town" larger than Fiwila but smaller than Mkushi. It is more developed than a village because of two intersecting roads lined with small shops that offer cold drinks and a variety of goods not available to me in Fiwila. Other than that Mansansa doesn't have a whole lot to offer and it isn't exactly the pride of Zambia. Piles of trash litter the streets and even in the early morning drunks are wandering around.
When I arrive in Masansa I'm greeted by a few people who somehow know my name even though I can't recall meeting them. I have also been called Katie (who I replaced) even though we look nothing alike. My nearest Peace Corps neighbor, Phil, even gets called Katie at times! I tell him it's because they both have blond hair.
Every time I travel through the armpit of Masansa I have been lucky enough to be with Phil and/or Ted (another P.C. neighbor). Phil is in my intake and Ted had been in-country for a year when we arrived. The three of us get along well, frequently visiting at one another's site. I am especially grateful for their company in Masansa so I have someone to travel with to Mkushi or provide support in case one of the Masansa drunks gets out of control.
Before seeing what transport we have to Mkushi we drop off our bikes for safe-keeping at Max's house in the center of town. Max and his family have been friends of earlier PCV's. They force free cookies and drinks from the shop they own and offer nshima if it is during lunchtime.
As we leave our bikes with Max, we talk with him or one of his many relatives about Christianity (evangelism is popular here), how everything is in Fiwila, and whether we'll be voting for Obama in the upcoming elections.
The conversation is cut short by having to get on, or wait, for "transport". Official public transportation is not available for villagers needing to travel between Masansa and Mkushi, therefore private vehicles make money by charging 15,000 Zambian Kwatcha (about $3) for rides into town. These vehicles are typically small, run-down pick-up trucks and occasionally huge cantor trucks. On a good day an NGO (non-government organization) or white farmer will offer us rides in their comfy, cozy, air-conditioned cars, "buana" (wealthy) transportation.
I will, however, make you feel a bit of sympathy for me as I describe this mode of travel. We assume the worst, that our option will be the oldest truck in Zambia, so we arrive as early as possible hoping to be given the front seat in the cab of the truck. If we don't, we climb into the bed of the truck and sit with our backs up against the cab, hoping the driver won't make us stand the whole way in order to fit more passengers into the bed. We are usually the only ones waiting for the ride to take off, but the vehicle drives up and down the streets announcing the ride. In fifteen minutes up to an hour we will be "sardines" jam-packed in the back.
I have observed two unsaid rules about this transport. First, there are no constraints to the number of people a vehicle can carry. As soon as I think another human being could not possibly fit in, three women, six suitcases, a baby, and a chicken will climb on. The second rule is that there is no limit to the amount or type of luggage. Chickens, bicycles, cans of gasoline, kittens (mine in fact), old tires, you name it.
After everything is packed in as tight as possible, the truck starts down the long, winding and bumpy as hell road. If I'm able to move my limbs, I try to adjust myself so that people are no longer jabbing my side with their elbows or sitting on my shins. I know it has been a good ride if I manage to keep my legs from falling asleep. I also secure a chitenge around my head like a burka to keep out dust and wind out of my eyes, skin, hair and mouth. I use my I-POD to cope with the discomfort. I try to find anything secure to hold onto and do my best to enjoy the ride, which can take from one to three hours. It is a relief to finally reach Mkushi.
The journey leaving the village is easier than the one going back. Traveling in the morning before the hot African sun has risen is always best. Rides back to Masansa from Mkushi don't leave until after 1 p.m. and always sporadic. There's a certain amount of excitement leaving the village knowing the luxuries that await me, but returning is less exciting. Getting back on my bike is that last thing I want to do after the tough ride, especially feeling exhausted from lack of sleep and/or hung-over. The bike ride back to Fiwila has hills that are steeper and endure longer, and I have groceries and mail that weigh me down.
Now the journey continues out of the village and into my second life as a Peace Corps volunteer. I am happy to report that I don't always rough it at site. In fact, there are a variety of opportunities for me to leave the village and I do in fact leave every couple of weeks. Peace Corps understands that life can be harsh at times, therefore Peace Corps Zambia (unlike other countries) has "houses" in each of the provinces where they place the volunteers. We are allotted three days each month (may be for medical or safety reasons) to stay at this house for much-needed R & R. Volunteers in the Central Province enjoy the European youth hostel-type house in Serenje. We enjoy cooking meals together, playing games of Pictionary of Scrabble, and throwing theme parties. This is the only provincial house that does not have a TV (that was decided by the volunteers that it would take away from socializing). Once in awhile I do crave sitting on a comfortable couch with the lights off and watching a good movie.
There is an opportunity to see movies and cable TV at a lodge in Mkushi called ATB, as well as indulge in divine meals and incredible hot showers. Though it is equal to a Super-8 motel, it feels like the Ritz to us and we splurge occasionally to spend the night there. This is where we will congregate to watch the upcoming American presidential election coverage.
Other than going to Serenje or Mkushi the Peace Corps lifestyle includes heading south to Lusaka. August 17 - 24 I met with all the volunteers I flew into country with back in February for a week-long in-service training. We learned more about how to be better PCV's, and savored food and activities only available in the big city. Each night we chose from Indian, Chinese, Lebanese, or simple sandwiches or pizza, followed by dancing or a movie. I sat in the back of an American-style theatre terrorized by The Dark Knight with a few friends.
Another reason to leave the village is because I am blessed with 24 vacation days a year to use however I please. As I write this, I have plans to hang out in Livingstone in a few days, a town outside of Victoria Falls. I have also traveled to Nkhata Bay on Lake Malawi with nine other PCV's after the in-service training I just described.
Malawi was the best: freedom from work and worries from being at side, luxurious, fun, beautiful, relaxing, an adventure (Not surprising, transportation there was quite an effort and included a packed bus in which one of the passengers suffered and recovered from a seizure without half of the bus even noticing.) There were 10 of us who stayed at a very nice lodge close to the shores of the lake. The rooms were clustered around a porch where we could hear the sounds of water lapping up onto the rocky beach.
Half of the group spent their days becoming scuba-certified. I saved my pennies and sun-tanned, having intriguing conversations with friends, walked to town to explore and converse with locals or other foreigners, or swimming and snorkeling. One day all ten of us went out with two Malawian guides and motor boats to tour Nkhata Bay and feed eagles, cliff jump, and so more snorkeling and lounging in the sun.
Nights were spent eating the best meals I've had since setting foot in Africa and enjoying Carlsburg beer, a nice change from beer typically available in Zambia. Sometimes we'd chill on the beach with some of the local Rastafarians, singing around a campfire as they tapped on drums. Other nights we'd go dancing in town. At times, though, this vacation got a little "spring break-ish" (I won't go into detail here). We'd conclude the evenings back at the lodge to drag out mattresses onto the porch to sleep under the stars.
One aspect I just loved about Malawi nights was watching the fisherman travel out in the lake. They would leave on their dug-out wooden canoes just as the sun was setting and remain until dawn. A single lantern would travel out with three canoes, and as they got out far enough, the only evidence you would see of them would be lights dotting the horizon.
Oh Malawi. What an escape from the real world of living in the Zambian bush. Combining the week of my in-service training, the vacation to Malawi, and a few days in Serenje after that, I was gone from Fiwila for close to three weeks in August and September. I would love to report that after such gallivanting I arrived back at site relieved to be back home-sweet-home.
To be blatantly honest this was far from how I really felt. Back during training, I listened to experienced volunteers who advised us to just get through the first three months of community entry, that this would be the most difficult time in service. Perhaps I took this advice too seriously and after six months in-country I made the casual assumption that I was home free. Little did I know that my own tough times were still ahead.
I arrived back to site forgetting what it was like to not have the simple luxury of a simple shower every day, what it was like to have convenient and delicious food a restaurant away. The most difficult part, though, was going back to the loneliness and isolation that can come at site, a slap in the face compared to the constant company of great, familiar friends from my own culture and similar background.
Unexpected events also amplified the difficulties I was experiencing. The roof of my hut had needed to be re-thatched long before I was placed at site and the only requirement that Peace Corps has for villages to host a PCV is that they provide safe and livable housing. My village finally got around to fixing my roof the week I returned in September. I was thrilled that I wouldn't have to endure a leaking roof during the rainy season, but during the three weeks that my host father carefully thatched new grass onto the top of my roof, I had to keep every item in my house packed away as well as tolerate dust endlessly falling onto everything, including my bed.
During this same period, the Environmental Health Technician at Fiwila Health Center, the person I worked closest with, was transferred to the Mkushi hospital and that position was left vacant for several weeks. My loneliness was accentuated by the fact that my dog, Buddy, had seemed to favor a neighboring family more than me. I convinced myself that things were more awkward than ever with my host family. Then the Zambian telecommunications provider changed ownership and suddenly I was unable to receive or send any text messages from my cell phone, cutting me off from the outside world.
A journal entry from October 3 describes how I was feeling during this state of depression:
"Some weeks, some days, some hours, some moments I am miserable here. I get tired of needing water but needing to wait for my host family to bring it to me because they act embarrassed if I try and fetch it myself. I get tired of being along 75% of the time. I get tired of always being the outsider and people continuously watching my every move. I get tired of dirty hands, dirty feet and for that matter all other body parts. I get tired of this intense October head and the relentless flies and other bugs it brings. I get tired of not having easy access to fresh fruits and vegetables. I get tired of not having cell phone coverage. I get tired of missing all of the people I love most in my life. I get tired of always having gloomy thoughts."
As you can see, this rough patch I went through was pretty bad. BUT, I got through it!! I am still here! And I am HAPPY! Many factors helped me wait out the hard days instead of throwing in the towel. For one thing, I got to get my house in order after the roof repair was finished and my hut feels more like home. I also had the space to get back into the practice of yoga and meditation and realize how important this routine is for me, keeping me more optimistic and aware of everything. I also went back to daily writing in my journal, which I had stopped doing somewhere along the way because I was just lazy.
And all of the good things spiraled down from there. One of my host family's granddaughters, Paxina, moved onto the compound with her husband and two-year-old daughter. We will often sit outside of one of our houses to chat and she has even insisted on helping me do household chores, showing me the proper Zambian way of doing things. I think we might just be forming a genuine friendship and I am thrilled that it takes away from the loneliness that I have been struggling with at site.
The E.H.T. position at the clinic was also replaced by an incredibly friendly and experienced guy who is more passionate about his job than any Zambian I have met. To my surprise, he expressed an immediate enthusiasm for working with me and wants us to learn from each other, working together to help us become better at our jobs. He made me feel a lot better about potential projects because it is impossible for me to be doing this work by myself. Working with Zambian counterparts is best due to cultural sensitivity and issues of sustainability.
My relationship with my host family has also improved: I think it is all about my new perspective. I'm learning not to expect anything from them and to just take what comes. It is okay that I'm not incredibly close to them like I was living with a family in Costa Rica in 2002. It is okay that I don't eat dinner with them every night. We still can enjoy living on the same compound while teaching each other about our respective cultures.
I also felt better about my relationship with my host family because of a single act my Ba Mayo (host mother) did. She walked over to my house one afternoon with an invitation to accompany her to the family's garden. This was the first interaction she had initiated with me beyond bringing me water, starting my brazier or sweeping my front yard. I was thrilled to follow her on the quiet, peaceful bush path to the garden. As we silently walked, I nonchalantly observed her bare feet and the fact that she was effortlessly balancing a 10-litre jerry can of water on her head. I fully embraced that moment, thinking " I am actually in Africa right now!".
When we reached the garden, she proudly showed me the crops of sweet potato and pumpkin leaves, maize, tomatoes and beans. She smiled and asked me if I knew how to cook pumpkin leaves. When I said that I did, she picked the best leaves and gave them to me. I felt humbled that she offered me this generous gift, especially at this time when Zambians struggle to find food as they wait for the rains to come and their crops to grow.
Lastly I need to mention that my Peace Corps friendships have meant everything during this experience of living in Zambia. Phil, Ted, and others were great helping me through my melancholy, listening to my venting and complaining. I am thankful for their advice and encouragement. I could not do any of this without their help as well as all of the encouragement and support from friends and family back in the States. I hope that I will be able to give back such support if needed from any loved one in the future.
Of course I could keep going on and on, but this entry has gotten quite long and I'm trying to get this off in the mail for my mom to type up. I'm concluding this entry with two more sections. I send all my good thoughts and love to everyone back home. I miss you dearly and love you so much. I appreciate your continued correspondence.
A Few Things I Bet You Didn't Know About Zambia.....
*Public displays of affection between members of the opposite sex is a huge no-no, however it is common to see two heterosexual male friends walking down the street holding hands.
*Zambia is currently preparing for presidential elections the last week of October. The previous president, Dr. Levy Mwanawasa, passed away in August.
*Women give a slight courtsy while giving any object to someone else. I have picked up this habit.
*When washing clothes, you must be careful about pesky little bugs called bot-flies. If the clothing is still damp or has dried near any bushes and is worn within three days, the bot-fly will burrow into the skin and hatch eggs (you will feel!). The only treatment is to apply Vaseline in order to smother the fly so it will work its way out of the skin or to leave it and let the eggs hatch. You need to make sure the area is not a zit and try and pop it! My apologies for this gross information. Thankfully I have not had this experience.
*When speaking in Zam-English, various adjectives can be accentuated by repeating them when used at the end of a sentence. For example: the weather in Zambia is hot hot. The meeting is starting now now. (Everything in Zambia starts later than they say it will!)
*The phrase "oh Ba Rachel, you are getting very fat" is a huge compliment. (I try not to over-analyze it.)
Questions From Letters
How many people live in Fiwila?
The Fiwila catchment area is close to 6,000.
How many people are seen at the clinic every day?
Each day is different. Those seen for everyday ailments such as headaches, stomach aches or malaria symptoms average twenty. On the other days when the clinic offers family planning services, an ante-natal clinic for pregnant women, and under-5 clinic for mothers and their children, the numbers vary from as little as five or as many as thirty-five.
In one blog entry you said you did not know how people got their food. Have you figured that out yet?
I must not have articulated myself very well! Most everyone in Fiwila lives off of subsistence farming, meaning they grow nearly all of their food. Harvest is from April - July. Currently farmers are preparing for the rains to come in November. Villagers occasionally hunt bush meat. Small household items such as sugar and cooking oil can be purchased at small shops in Fiwila or they travel to Masansa for special purchases. Maize can be brought to a "chigayo" in Fiwila where it is ground into cornmeal used to make nshima.
Have you had to wear your rain jacket yet?
I've seen rain twice and that was during training. Never fear, life will be interesting come November when the rainy season begins! I'm kind of looking forward to it.
Do you need to keep food and drinks cold?
Of course! I just use my freezer! Just kidding.........I have to sacrifice my love of dairy products and use only powdered milk.
How do you get all you need to your hut without a car?
I use bike rubbers to tie everything to the back of my bike, and some loads can be quite heavy! It takes extra planning to be certain I buy items I need the most in Mkushi.
When do you start your actual work?
This is complicated. If you recall, my community entry phase of my service from May - August focused only on adjusting to village life, meeting people, and learning Bemba. Now that is over and I can technically start the work I was trained to do, however my job training and working with "Neighborhood Health Committees" can be difficult. There are eleven of these groups in my catchment area and only two have shown real interest in working with me so far. NHC members are all volunteers, and considering that people are struggling to feed their families, volunteering on an NHC isn't exactly a priority. Some of the NHC's are inactive.
While part of my job is to motivate volunteers in the community, I can't force people to work with me. I wait patiently, hoping that will happen at some point. I advertise my services at the clinic and try to be aware of any activities where I can be of use. I hope that the new Environmental Health Technician who I previously mentioned, will be able to form strong NHC's in the community so that the Fiwila catchment area can be educated on health issues. Since this work may not materialize the way Peace Corps or myself envisions, I am looking for other projects to work on. I'm currently tutoring the EHT at the clinic about developing health projects and giving health talks more efficiently and effectively. I'm also starting a nutrition club which will help educate the community and provide cooking demonstrations.
Lastly I am trying to start a girls' club at Fiwila's high school and teach "life skills". This girls' club would explore communication skills, self-esteem, HIV/AIDS education, etc. The headmaster informed me that I will have to wait until the beginning of the school year (January 2009) as the school is too busy at this time.
As you might infer, development work is slow, needing tons of patience and may produce intangible results. So I wait around a lot and hope that one day I will feel that I have performed meaningful work. I visit the clinic every day, often just sitting and talking with patients while they wait to see the nurse, or I study Bemba. I do a lot of reading, or simply enjoy the peaceful village surroundings. I know I am becoming smarter and stronger, and that could help me to help someone else down the road......
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Welcome to my life
written July 23, 2008
I have been procrastinating writing this blog entry for awhile now. I had an idea a long time ago to do a "day in the life" type of entry, and told myself I would write it when my days got just a bit more exciting and were filled more "save the world" kind of work. Well, in a few days I will have officially been living in Fiwila for 3 months and my days are not necessarily going as well as I would have hoped. Don't get me wrong: there are many aspects of my life right now that I love. So a few days ago, I took a deep breath and realized that 3 months is not really that long of a time. Living in the middle of Zambia was never supposed to be easy anyway. I have plenty of time to figure out how to make my days the way I want them to be. So I decided to go ahead and describe one of my days for you now. I figure it will be fun to write a similar entry a year from now and compare how things have changed. Here it is, in all its glamour, a typical day in the life of yours truly...............
My alarm sounds at 5:30 and I let it snooze as I gather up the energy necessary to get out of bed by listening to upbeat music on my I-POD. A half-hour later it is usually my bladder that finally forces me to rise and walk outside to the pit latrine. My fear of being anywhere outside of my mosquito net at night as well as the lack of public toilets have forced me to become an expert at "holding it."
As I walk back to my hut, the sun is beginning to rise, but no one has emerged from their own huts yet. I take advantage of this time of day to do my own routine of yoga, meditation and prayer. I certainly don't want to get too "new age" on anyone, but I have been enjoying the time to explore my own spirituality, what works for me and what doesn't. I have also noticed that my days seem much better when I have done a few yoga poses and read an encouraging word or two from different prayer books.
After my new age activities, I continue with my morning routine by getting the brazier hot enough to cook on. A brazier is a cast iron basket that holds charcoal. Sometimes they are hard to light, but I am lucky to live with a helpful hose family who who help by putting hot coals from their open-air fire on top of my brazier.
I put water on for tea and as I'm waiting for it to boil, I flip on my short-wave radio and tune in to Voice of America and later to the BBC. I am so thankful to have discovered both of these broadcasts, which keep me well-informed about worldly events and help me feel more connected to you. The Voice of America even has a quick segment at the end called "Today in History" (announced in a bold voice) and I listen closely to brush up on my history knowledge.
Breakfast is usually oatmeal but sometimes I splurge on granola. I also have become quite the baker and have made many varieties of pancakes, crepes, biscuits, banana bread, cornbread, and brownies all on the brazier. Anyone who visits me will not go hungry! I cook breakfast on my front porch, even though that is not the custom here. Zambians cook in "insakas", like a gazebo. Most insakeas are partially enclosed with mud or sticks and have a grass roof. This is where Zambians spend the majority of their time at home. If they are not cooking in the insaka, they use it to receive visitors or simply warm themselves by the fire.
I have my own insaka which has recently undergone major renovations by my host family. My Bataata (host father) is in the process of re-thatching it and my Ba Mayo led the rest of the family in constructing a partial enclosure of mud bricks around it. After all that work, they painted the walls with thick bold stripes of orange, black and white. I'm uncertain if they were mainly concerned that I was cooking on my front porch. I have now decided to cook all my dinners in the insaka but will continue my morning routine by cooking breakfast on my front porch.
After breakfast I wash dishes using 2 large buckets of water, one for washing and one for rinsing, plus a kettle of hot water for the nitty-gritty. This is when I belt out whatever song is on my mind at the moment, anything from Disney to James Taylor. I have always loved to sing, but you would have never found me back in the Sates singing as loud as I do here! There is no shame when it comes to vocal chords in Zambia. While I'm doing the dishes, my Ba Mayo strolls over to my porch, balancing a 20-litre bucket on her head and casually drops it off for me. I am always humbled by this daily action. Not only am I in awe that she, at 70-something years old can perform such an act with such little effort, I am also baffled as to what exactly I have done to receive such service. The 3 water containers on my porch are always filled to the brim. A few times when I have started walking over to the "dambo" to get my own water, someone comes running up to me with a look of "how could you do such a thing!", takes the container from my hands and gets the water for me.
After leaving the dishes out to dry on a 4-ft. tall drying rack platform made from sticks, I get ready to walk over to the health clinic. This is about the time I contemplate heating up bath water. I usually decide against it because it takes up so much time and because June and July have been surprisingly colder than I expected. Many mornings when I wake up it is cold enough to see my breath! Even at noon I am most comfortable wearing top and bottom long underwear, a chitenge, AND a sweatshirt. Being naked outside in such cold temps (especially when the wind is blowing) is not exactly a pleasant experience. I figure I will be cleaner in October when it's said to be sweltering hot.
Once I put on one of the 3 outfits I rotate wearing as well as taking care of other miscellaneous tasks that would only bore you to describe, I lock my hut and start heading to the clinic. My bataata catches me on my way out so that we can have our daily conversation.
"Ba Rachel!" he calls to me, walking over and smiling his fantastic smile of crooked teeth. He shakes my hand with a firm grip and says, "Ba Rachel, Mwabuka?" (Have you woken up?)
"Eh, Bataata."
"Mwashibuka bwino?" (Have you woken up fine?)
"Eh, Bataata, nashibuka bwino, nga imwe."
"Na ine nashibuka bwino." (And I have woken up fine.)
"Mwaya ku cipatala nemba?" (Are you going to the clinic now?)
"Eh, naya, ku cipatala nemba."
"Okay, okay," with a slight nod of the head and huge grin on his face, "thank you, thank you."
Each morning the conversation is exactly the same. My Bataata, who claims to be 82-years=old is quite the character. He is always content, smiling and laughing. The fact that is no taller than 5"4", with a thin frame and slight hunch in his back can be deceiving. One would think that after so much living and raising children he would want to relax most of the day. Instead, he is constantly finding some sort of work to do like chopping firewood or improving one of the family's 4 insakas. The other day Bataata told me in broken English that he has lived in Tanzania and the Congo, which doesn't surprise me one bit.
After Bataata and I have greeted each other I actually do start walking to the clinic and my dog, Buddy, is not too far behind. One the path we pass many people and I greet them with a smile, a slight curtsy and a "muli shani" or a "mwashibukeni." In the Bemba language there are about as many greetings as there are daily activities. Here are just a few:
Mwashibukeni mukwai (how goes the morning?)
Mwasamilileni mukwai (how goes the learning?)
Cungulopo mukwai (how goes the evening?)
Mwaikaleni mukwai (how goes the sitting?)
Mwabombeni mukwai (how goes the work?)
Mwatandaleni mukwai (how goes the walking?)
and.....
Mwasalipeni mukwai (how went the killing of the dangerous animal such as lion or snake?)
That last one I haven't heard with my own ears, but I did find it in my dictionary and thought is was quite funny. I usually stick to 2 or 3 greetings just to keep it simple.
By the time I get to the clinic it is about 9:30 and I give a standard greeting with a slight curtsy of course, to all the people outside of the clinic waiting to be seen and then I greet the clinic staff. There are 2 casual daily employees, Ba Kennedy and Ba Mapulanga who are in charge of cleaning and other tasks, but I am convinced that they are the ones who actually keep the clinic up and running. Then there is Ba Monica, a clinical nurse about my age from the Copperbelt (the most developed part of Zambia). She is always looking very pretty, wearing high heels and her nails freshly french-manicured and frequently applying lip gloss. (All the visiting male Peace Corps Volunteers immediatly fall in love with her!)
There is also Ba Ella, the plump and happy head nurse. She has been living and working in Fiwila for the past 17 years and is well respected by the community. I admire her diligence.
Lastly, Ba Aiden is the 28-yr.-old Environmental Health Technician who is responsible for going out into the vilages giving health talks. She figures out things like how many people have pit latrines or sleep under mosquito netting. She usually accompanies me when I go to various villages outside of Fiwila in my catchment area.
I never know how my days are going to go until I arrive at the clinic. Some days I study Bemba while waiting to see if there's anything I can help out with. Other days I sit through 5-hour long meetings either at the clinic or out in the field somewhere. There are also days that the clinic is short-staffed and I become a stand-in nurse. At the under 5 clinic I assist mothers in weighing their children on a hanging scale, recording on a chart showing whether the baby is growing at a healthy pace. At the ane-natal clinic for expectant mothers I have done everything from dispensing iron, folic acid and anti-malarial tablets to handing out mosquito nets to measuring their bellies with a measuring tape.
The ante-natal clinics are really something else. Many women travel from as far as 25 km away, often walking more than 3 hours. Their actual visit with clinic staff takes less time than it would take to go through a McConalds drive-thru. At every ante-natal clinic there is always at least one girl around 16 or 17 expecting her 2nd or 3rd child. Many of them have no idea how old they really are.
I am hoping that once my Bemba improves I can start giving health talks to the women waiting at the clinic. I have been told that a lot of them are unaware of the proper ways to take care of themselves during pregnancy, so I figure I can at least lead discussions on good nutrition and well-being, proper breastfeeding, etc. I think this will be a comfortable role for me.
After time at the clinic, I stroll over to Fiwila's "market" to try my luck finding tomatoes or bananas. A busy day finds 3 or 4 women selling whatever produce that may be in season. Often, though, there is no one selling and I rely on care packages in order to get at least 1 serving of fruits or vegetables for the day.
After passing the market I go over to "network" so I can check my cell phone for text messages and sometimes when I am patient I will check my e-mail. There are about 3 locations in Fiwila where if you stand in just the right spot and hold your phone in just the right way, one or 2 bars will magically appear. I have concluded that being able to receive text messages in this manner is just enough for me. In a way I have enjoyed cell phone freedom; not feeling the need to have my phone on me 24/7 or constantly checking for missed calls. I'm able to have phone conversations with loved ones back home often enough when I am in Jkushi or Serenje.
After spending anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour sending text messages or e-mails, I head back to my hut. On this path I walk past houses built by the mission for certain prominent members of the community. Two of my favorite girls, Chibola and Tedro live in one of these houses with their grandmother and come running to me to give me big bear hugs. Tedro is around 10 years old and shows a kind of innocence as she rambles on to me in Bemba. Her younger cousin Chibola, who might be 7 years old is stunningly gorgous and jumps around like a frog as I ask her what she learned in school that day. Both will continue babbling on to me until I get tired of trying to figure out what in the world they are saying. I walk away from them smiling as they wave and scream goodbye, grateful for their patience and their unconditional loe for the village muzungu.
Assuming I haven't been called to any meetings at the clinic or elsewhere I typically eat lunch at home. Lunch is sweet potatoes cooked earlier that morning, variations of peanut butter or snacks from care packages. It is never anything extravagent because I don't like to light the brazier mid-day.
Soon after lunch I hear a tiny voice at my front door.
"Odi?" (a word intended to demonstrate a visitor is present)
I step out onto my porch and look down at Humphrey, a 4-year old with pouty lips, long eye lashes and an incredible display of confdence for a boy his age.
"Mpeleniko amasweetie."
He has been politely requesting sweeties from the beginning, even before I had any to give. It was only a few days ago I finally caved in and bought a bag to satifisy his craving. I have to be careful about who I give sweeties to and when because I hand out one thing to one child, and before I know it, there will be 10 kids at my door expecting the same.
Sweeties are not asked for every day. Sometimes it is akakopo or amabuku. I learned quickly that all sorts of trash is like gold to these kids. They go crazy for things like empty tuna cans, powdered mild containers, old toothbrushes, used soap containers, and broken ziplock bags to make toys. I am amazed at their creativity. A favorite item they make is a "motorcar" from different materials and they attach long sticks for pushing them and race around them around the compound. I love to hear the wheels of the motorcar spinning in the distance when I'm in my hut near the open door. Suddenly the flash of someone pushing a motor goes past my hut.
Amabukus are magazines either sent from home or donated to the Peace Corps. I usually hand out one for them to share, and a group of children huddle around the pages of National Geographics or Newsweek, devouring the photos of world leaders or exotic animals. It is fascinating to watch because even the tiniest detail of an image is noticed.
Sometimes the kids entertain me for hours. I am happy that there are 5 high-school-aged girls who live in different huts on my family's compound and often drop by to visit. For a while we would sit on my front porch in silence because of the language barrier. But recently I started to teach them card games which have rescued me during awkward silences.
One of the girls, Pokas, keeps asking me to teach them an American song. I love that they want to learn one but I've taken a long time to decide on which song and also worried that my voice will crack or not sound very good (like when I'm washing dishes!). I finally wrote out the lyrics to the Beatles' "Blackbird". After realizing that's not exactly American, I wrote out lyrics to our national anthem as well as a church hymn I learned as a child, "I Lift My Eyes Up." All of the girls sing in the church choir so I thought they'd like that hymn. When Pokas drops by again I want to teach her these songs, then ask her to teach me a few from Zambia.
Some days I will also go over to my host family's yard to sit with Ba Mayo and her 29-year old daughter Ba Brenda. They sit on a reed mat, but give me one of their stools because I am a visitor and a muzungu. I help them remove maize kernels from the husk or peel cassava or sweet potatoes.
Whenever I have any interaction with my host family my muzungu status is never ignored. I am always given a stool even if 7 other people are seated directly on the ground. I have asked to eat dinner with them a few times, which takes a lot of courage on my part because I would much reather be invited. A few of my Peace Corps friends claim it is okay in Zambian culture for a muzungu to invite themselves to dinner and I should not feel uncomfortable asking. The few times I have asked, though,m it becomes a hute "to do" and my Ba Mayo serves me in my insaka with extravagent relishes (foods eaten with nshima). Even if my Ba Mayo feels honored to treat me this way, I feel uncomfortable with it and most nights I prefer to save her the additional work and just cook for myself.
If I am not visiting with anyone I usually read in my insaka or in a hammock hanging inside my hut. I've always enjoyed reading, but now have a new renewed passion here. I've read everything from The Golden Compass to For Whom The Bell Tolls.
At about 1700 (5:00 p.m.) I fill the brazier with charcoal and walk over to my family's insaka for fuel. Dinner alternates between pasta, rice and bean dishes. Special nights I indulge in macaroni and cheese sent from home or have pancakes. I has been lonely to eat by myself at night and my biggest struggle so far. Perhaps one day I will allow my host family to treat me like royalty. For now I am at least grateful for Buddy's company.
By 1900 (7:00 p.m.) it is dark and I get ready for bed, joking that I've become like an old woman due to my early bedtime. Honestly, I'm scared of the dark and can't wait to tuck myself in under the protection of my mosquito net, knowing it may be a false sense of security from the many critters that could wander into my hut
I read and write in my journal until 2000 (8:00 p.m.) or so. I hear children laughing as they sit around the fire or my Bataata giving a satisying "end of the day" sigh. I blow out the candle resting on my bed frame and get a good night's sleep.
Hopefully you can now imagine what my life is like here in Fiwila. I spend my Saturdays at the orphanage and we read magazines, play cards or play frisbee. Occasionally I am lonely, homesick or worry about my work and may spend the day laying in the hammock and immerse myself in a book. I try to remind myself that I would also have these kind of days in the States. Then there are days when I make the 80 km journey to unite with my American friends in Mkushi or Serenje. This involves a 2-hr. bike ride and a 1 to 3-hr. transport either sitting or standing in the bed of a pickup truck with 20 or so other Zambians. That, of course, would take a whole other blog entry.
As always, please write. I love you and miss you all.
I have been procrastinating writing this blog entry for awhile now. I had an idea a long time ago to do a "day in the life" type of entry, and told myself I would write it when my days got just a bit more exciting and were filled more "save the world" kind of work. Well, in a few days I will have officially been living in Fiwila for 3 months and my days are not necessarily going as well as I would have hoped. Don't get me wrong: there are many aspects of my life right now that I love. So a few days ago, I took a deep breath and realized that 3 months is not really that long of a time. Living in the middle of Zambia was never supposed to be easy anyway. I have plenty of time to figure out how to make my days the way I want them to be. So I decided to go ahead and describe one of my days for you now. I figure it will be fun to write a similar entry a year from now and compare how things have changed. Here it is, in all its glamour, a typical day in the life of yours truly...............
My alarm sounds at 5:30 and I let it snooze as I gather up the energy necessary to get out of bed by listening to upbeat music on my I-POD. A half-hour later it is usually my bladder that finally forces me to rise and walk outside to the pit latrine. My fear of being anywhere outside of my mosquito net at night as well as the lack of public toilets have forced me to become an expert at "holding it."
As I walk back to my hut, the sun is beginning to rise, but no one has emerged from their own huts yet. I take advantage of this time of day to do my own routine of yoga, meditation and prayer. I certainly don't want to get too "new age" on anyone, but I have been enjoying the time to explore my own spirituality, what works for me and what doesn't. I have also noticed that my days seem much better when I have done a few yoga poses and read an encouraging word or two from different prayer books.
After my new age activities, I continue with my morning routine by getting the brazier hot enough to cook on. A brazier is a cast iron basket that holds charcoal. Sometimes they are hard to light, but I am lucky to live with a helpful hose family who who help by putting hot coals from their open-air fire on top of my brazier.
I put water on for tea and as I'm waiting for it to boil, I flip on my short-wave radio and tune in to Voice of America and later to the BBC. I am so thankful to have discovered both of these broadcasts, which keep me well-informed about worldly events and help me feel more connected to you. The Voice of America even has a quick segment at the end called "Today in History" (announced in a bold voice) and I listen closely to brush up on my history knowledge.
Breakfast is usually oatmeal but sometimes I splurge on granola. I also have become quite the baker and have made many varieties of pancakes, crepes, biscuits, banana bread, cornbread, and brownies all on the brazier. Anyone who visits me will not go hungry! I cook breakfast on my front porch, even though that is not the custom here. Zambians cook in "insakas", like a gazebo. Most insakeas are partially enclosed with mud or sticks and have a grass roof. This is where Zambians spend the majority of their time at home. If they are not cooking in the insaka, they use it to receive visitors or simply warm themselves by the fire.
I have my own insaka which has recently undergone major renovations by my host family. My Bataata (host father) is in the process of re-thatching it and my Ba Mayo led the rest of the family in constructing a partial enclosure of mud bricks around it. After all that work, they painted the walls with thick bold stripes of orange, black and white. I'm uncertain if they were mainly concerned that I was cooking on my front porch. I have now decided to cook all my dinners in the insaka but will continue my morning routine by cooking breakfast on my front porch.
After breakfast I wash dishes using 2 large buckets of water, one for washing and one for rinsing, plus a kettle of hot water for the nitty-gritty. This is when I belt out whatever song is on my mind at the moment, anything from Disney to James Taylor. I have always loved to sing, but you would have never found me back in the Sates singing as loud as I do here! There is no shame when it comes to vocal chords in Zambia. While I'm doing the dishes, my Ba Mayo strolls over to my porch, balancing a 20-litre bucket on her head and casually drops it off for me. I am always humbled by this daily action. Not only am I in awe that she, at 70-something years old can perform such an act with such little effort, I am also baffled as to what exactly I have done to receive such service. The 3 water containers on my porch are always filled to the brim. A few times when I have started walking over to the "dambo" to get my own water, someone comes running up to me with a look of "how could you do such a thing!", takes the container from my hands and gets the water for me.
After leaving the dishes out to dry on a 4-ft. tall drying rack platform made from sticks, I get ready to walk over to the health clinic. This is about the time I contemplate heating up bath water. I usually decide against it because it takes up so much time and because June and July have been surprisingly colder than I expected. Many mornings when I wake up it is cold enough to see my breath! Even at noon I am most comfortable wearing top and bottom long underwear, a chitenge, AND a sweatshirt. Being naked outside in such cold temps (especially when the wind is blowing) is not exactly a pleasant experience. I figure I will be cleaner in October when it's said to be sweltering hot.
Once I put on one of the 3 outfits I rotate wearing as well as taking care of other miscellaneous tasks that would only bore you to describe, I lock my hut and start heading to the clinic. My bataata catches me on my way out so that we can have our daily conversation.
"Ba Rachel!" he calls to me, walking over and smiling his fantastic smile of crooked teeth. He shakes my hand with a firm grip and says, "Ba Rachel, Mwabuka?" (Have you woken up?)
"Eh, Bataata."
"Mwashibuka bwino?" (Have you woken up fine?)
"Eh, Bataata, nashibuka bwino, nga imwe."
"Na ine nashibuka bwino." (And I have woken up fine.)
"Mwaya ku cipatala nemba?" (Are you going to the clinic now?)
"Eh, naya, ku cipatala nemba."
"Okay, okay," with a slight nod of the head and huge grin on his face, "thank you, thank you."
Each morning the conversation is exactly the same. My Bataata, who claims to be 82-years=old is quite the character. He is always content, smiling and laughing. The fact that is no taller than 5"4", with a thin frame and slight hunch in his back can be deceiving. One would think that after so much living and raising children he would want to relax most of the day. Instead, he is constantly finding some sort of work to do like chopping firewood or improving one of the family's 4 insakas. The other day Bataata told me in broken English that he has lived in Tanzania and the Congo, which doesn't surprise me one bit.
After Bataata and I have greeted each other I actually do start walking to the clinic and my dog, Buddy, is not too far behind. One the path we pass many people and I greet them with a smile, a slight curtsy and a "muli shani" or a "mwashibukeni." In the Bemba language there are about as many greetings as there are daily activities. Here are just a few:
Mwashibukeni mukwai (how goes the morning?)
Mwasamilileni mukwai (how goes the learning?)
Cungulopo mukwai (how goes the evening?)
Mwaikaleni mukwai (how goes the sitting?)
Mwabombeni mukwai (how goes the work?)
Mwatandaleni mukwai (how goes the walking?)
and.....
Mwasalipeni mukwai (how went the killing of the dangerous animal such as lion or snake?)
That last one I haven't heard with my own ears, but I did find it in my dictionary and thought is was quite funny. I usually stick to 2 or 3 greetings just to keep it simple.
By the time I get to the clinic it is about 9:30 and I give a standard greeting with a slight curtsy of course, to all the people outside of the clinic waiting to be seen and then I greet the clinic staff. There are 2 casual daily employees, Ba Kennedy and Ba Mapulanga who are in charge of cleaning and other tasks, but I am convinced that they are the ones who actually keep the clinic up and running. Then there is Ba Monica, a clinical nurse about my age from the Copperbelt (the most developed part of Zambia). She is always looking very pretty, wearing high heels and her nails freshly french-manicured and frequently applying lip gloss. (All the visiting male Peace Corps Volunteers immediatly fall in love with her!)
There is also Ba Ella, the plump and happy head nurse. She has been living and working in Fiwila for the past 17 years and is well respected by the community. I admire her diligence.
Lastly, Ba Aiden is the 28-yr.-old Environmental Health Technician who is responsible for going out into the vilages giving health talks. She figures out things like how many people have pit latrines or sleep under mosquito netting. She usually accompanies me when I go to various villages outside of Fiwila in my catchment area.
I never know how my days are going to go until I arrive at the clinic. Some days I study Bemba while waiting to see if there's anything I can help out with. Other days I sit through 5-hour long meetings either at the clinic or out in the field somewhere. There are also days that the clinic is short-staffed and I become a stand-in nurse. At the under 5 clinic I assist mothers in weighing their children on a hanging scale, recording on a chart showing whether the baby is growing at a healthy pace. At the ane-natal clinic for expectant mothers I have done everything from dispensing iron, folic acid and anti-malarial tablets to handing out mosquito nets to measuring their bellies with a measuring tape.
The ante-natal clinics are really something else. Many women travel from as far as 25 km away, often walking more than 3 hours. Their actual visit with clinic staff takes less time than it would take to go through a McConalds drive-thru. At every ante-natal clinic there is always at least one girl around 16 or 17 expecting her 2nd or 3rd child. Many of them have no idea how old they really are.
I am hoping that once my Bemba improves I can start giving health talks to the women waiting at the clinic. I have been told that a lot of them are unaware of the proper ways to take care of themselves during pregnancy, so I figure I can at least lead discussions on good nutrition and well-being, proper breastfeeding, etc. I think this will be a comfortable role for me.
After time at the clinic, I stroll over to Fiwila's "market" to try my luck finding tomatoes or bananas. A busy day finds 3 or 4 women selling whatever produce that may be in season. Often, though, there is no one selling and I rely on care packages in order to get at least 1 serving of fruits or vegetables for the day.
After passing the market I go over to "network" so I can check my cell phone for text messages and sometimes when I am patient I will check my e-mail. There are about 3 locations in Fiwila where if you stand in just the right spot and hold your phone in just the right way, one or 2 bars will magically appear. I have concluded that being able to receive text messages in this manner is just enough for me. In a way I have enjoyed cell phone freedom; not feeling the need to have my phone on me 24/7 or constantly checking for missed calls. I'm able to have phone conversations with loved ones back home often enough when I am in Jkushi or Serenje.
After spending anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour sending text messages or e-mails, I head back to my hut. On this path I walk past houses built by the mission for certain prominent members of the community. Two of my favorite girls, Chibola and Tedro live in one of these houses with their grandmother and come running to me to give me big bear hugs. Tedro is around 10 years old and shows a kind of innocence as she rambles on to me in Bemba. Her younger cousin Chibola, who might be 7 years old is stunningly gorgous and jumps around like a frog as I ask her what she learned in school that day. Both will continue babbling on to me until I get tired of trying to figure out what in the world they are saying. I walk away from them smiling as they wave and scream goodbye, grateful for their patience and their unconditional loe for the village muzungu.
Assuming I haven't been called to any meetings at the clinic or elsewhere I typically eat lunch at home. Lunch is sweet potatoes cooked earlier that morning, variations of peanut butter or snacks from care packages. It is never anything extravagent because I don't like to light the brazier mid-day.
Soon after lunch I hear a tiny voice at my front door.
"Odi?" (a word intended to demonstrate a visitor is present)
I step out onto my porch and look down at Humphrey, a 4-year old with pouty lips, long eye lashes and an incredible display of confdence for a boy his age.
"Mpeleniko amasweetie."
He has been politely requesting sweeties from the beginning, even before I had any to give. It was only a few days ago I finally caved in and bought a bag to satifisy his craving. I have to be careful about who I give sweeties to and when because I hand out one thing to one child, and before I know it, there will be 10 kids at my door expecting the same.
Sweeties are not asked for every day. Sometimes it is akakopo or amabuku. I learned quickly that all sorts of trash is like gold to these kids. They go crazy for things like empty tuna cans, powdered mild containers, old toothbrushes, used soap containers, and broken ziplock bags to make toys. I am amazed at their creativity. A favorite item they make is a "motorcar" from different materials and they attach long sticks for pushing them and race around them around the compound. I love to hear the wheels of the motorcar spinning in the distance when I'm in my hut near the open door. Suddenly the flash of someone pushing a motor goes past my hut.
Amabukus are magazines either sent from home or donated to the Peace Corps. I usually hand out one for them to share, and a group of children huddle around the pages of National Geographics or Newsweek, devouring the photos of world leaders or exotic animals. It is fascinating to watch because even the tiniest detail of an image is noticed.
Sometimes the kids entertain me for hours. I am happy that there are 5 high-school-aged girls who live in different huts on my family's compound and often drop by to visit. For a while we would sit on my front porch in silence because of the language barrier. But recently I started to teach them card games which have rescued me during awkward silences.
One of the girls, Pokas, keeps asking me to teach them an American song. I love that they want to learn one but I've taken a long time to decide on which song and also worried that my voice will crack or not sound very good (like when I'm washing dishes!). I finally wrote out the lyrics to the Beatles' "Blackbird". After realizing that's not exactly American, I wrote out lyrics to our national anthem as well as a church hymn I learned as a child, "I Lift My Eyes Up." All of the girls sing in the church choir so I thought they'd like that hymn. When Pokas drops by again I want to teach her these songs, then ask her to teach me a few from Zambia.
Some days I will also go over to my host family's yard to sit with Ba Mayo and her 29-year old daughter Ba Brenda. They sit on a reed mat, but give me one of their stools because I am a visitor and a muzungu. I help them remove maize kernels from the husk or peel cassava or sweet potatoes.
Whenever I have any interaction with my host family my muzungu status is never ignored. I am always given a stool even if 7 other people are seated directly on the ground. I have asked to eat dinner with them a few times, which takes a lot of courage on my part because I would much reather be invited. A few of my Peace Corps friends claim it is okay in Zambian culture for a muzungu to invite themselves to dinner and I should not feel uncomfortable asking. The few times I have asked, though,m it becomes a hute "to do" and my Ba Mayo serves me in my insaka with extravagent relishes (foods eaten with nshima). Even if my Ba Mayo feels honored to treat me this way, I feel uncomfortable with it and most nights I prefer to save her the additional work and just cook for myself.
If I am not visiting with anyone I usually read in my insaka or in a hammock hanging inside my hut. I've always enjoyed reading, but now have a new renewed passion here. I've read everything from The Golden Compass to For Whom The Bell Tolls.
At about 1700 (5:00 p.m.) I fill the brazier with charcoal and walk over to my family's insaka for fuel. Dinner alternates between pasta, rice and bean dishes. Special nights I indulge in macaroni and cheese sent from home or have pancakes. I has been lonely to eat by myself at night and my biggest struggle so far. Perhaps one day I will allow my host family to treat me like royalty. For now I am at least grateful for Buddy's company.
By 1900 (7:00 p.m.) it is dark and I get ready for bed, joking that I've become like an old woman due to my early bedtime. Honestly, I'm scared of the dark and can't wait to tuck myself in under the protection of my mosquito net, knowing it may be a false sense of security from the many critters that could wander into my hut
I read and write in my journal until 2000 (8:00 p.m.) or so. I hear children laughing as they sit around the fire or my Bataata giving a satisying "end of the day" sigh. I blow out the candle resting on my bed frame and get a good night's sleep.
Hopefully you can now imagine what my life is like here in Fiwila. I spend my Saturdays at the orphanage and we read magazines, play cards or play frisbee. Occasionally I am lonely, homesick or worry about my work and may spend the day laying in the hammock and immerse myself in a book. I try to remind myself that I would also have these kind of days in the States. Then there are days when I make the 80 km journey to unite with my American friends in Mkushi or Serenje. This involves a 2-hr. bike ride and a 1 to 3-hr. transport either sitting or standing in the bed of a pickup truck with 20 or so other Zambians. That, of course, would take a whole other blog entry.
As always, please write. I love you and miss you all.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Apali umunwe, e pali ibala (where there is a finger, there is a cultivated field)
WRITTEN MAY 9, 2008
Hello dear friends and family! I am sorry for the delay in posting this blog! After wasting a lot of time and kwatcha (zambian currency) trying, but failing, to update you before moving to Fiwila, I have decided to write out entries by hand and sending to my mom to type up.
Because this could turn out to be quite long, I want to start out by thanking everyone who has sent letter, packages and/or encouraging words through e-mail. This communication has meant the world to me and now that I am done with training and have more free time, I hope that I can catch p on some letter-writing! I promise I will respond to any letter sent, however, I should mention that I live 80 km away from the nearest post office in Mkushi, and I will most likely only make it there every two weeks at best. I assure you that letters are still worth the trip!
It has been so long since my last posting I am realizing I have a lot to tell you about! I am finally out of training and experiencing the real world of a Peace Corps Volunteer in Zambia. Honestly, I was not too disappointed to have to say goodbye to training but was sad to leave my host mother, Ba Vainess and her granddaughter, Bu Lucy, behind. (Inserting "Ba" before one's name is a sign of respect). I am so grateful to my host family for patiently listening to my broken Bemba, as well as teaching me the basics of being a woman in Zambian culture. They showed me how to carry a bucket of water on my head, how to properly tie a chitenge around my waist and how to stir the nshima pot so it comes out to the perfect consistency. Chiting? Nshima? You might be asking yourself. This clothing and food are two of the most basic aspects of Zambian culture.
Chitinges (pronounced shi-tayn-gays) are large pieces of beautifully colored fabric that women here use many ways. They are mainly used as a wrap-around skirt usually covering up pants or another skirt underneath. (I myself think that is just too hot and just wear one to cover up my underwear). Chitinges can also be used as a hair wrap, curtains, a cushion for your head while carrying a water bucket, or as a baby carrier. Village women wear chitinges all day, every day, and I have taken to doing the same. Many Peace Corps girls still prefer good old trousers, but I think chitinges are actually quite comfortable.
Nshima (pronounced n-she-maa) is the staple food of Zambia and many other surrounding countries. Eaten at both lunch and dinner, it is made from mixing a little bit of boiling water and a ton of cornmeal. Once it has reached the desired thickness it is dished out into lumps. I would compare it to cream of wheat or grits, only much firmer. Once you've got a good sized lump of nshima on your plate you use your hands to pick up pieces and roll them into balls. These balls are used to pick up all the other food on the plate. In Zambia, this food is called relishes. Relishes vary between rape, sweet potatos leaves, cabbage, pumpkin leaves, pieces of soya (similar to chicken but is vegetarian), eggplant, or even pasta or rice. I have learned to love nshima but I also enjoy the sweet potatoes in all forms, pasta dishes I make for myself, roasted corn on the cob, and meat pies found in Mkushi. Unfortunately a lot of fresh fruit like Mangos are only available seasonally, which is why I have requested dried fruit to be sent to me by anyone who feels like sending me something.
How my village obtains food is puzzling to me. I guess I'll be getting my food by bike. When I moved in last week I arrived "Costo-style" with 5 bags of rice, 2 huge jars of peanut butter, a 2-year plus supply of toilet paper, etc. I felt a bit awkward because Zambians hardly ever buy things in bulk and I also realized later that I came with more supplies than what 3 entire families combined would have here. Whenever I get worried or anxious about how I will "survive" I tell myself to relax, because these villagers have done it just fine for many years.
Even though I am in somewhat of an isolated site for Peace Corps Zambia I am slowly finding myself to be enjoying what us trainees started calling the "bush bush". Fiwila is beautiful and situated between two lush, green hills. Where paths have not been cleared or huts been constructed, tall trees and thick bushes provide welcoming shade during the hot days. This is different from the Africa I had envisioned. My mom had asked on the phone if I worried about wild animals. I had to laugh because there are goats, chickens, bush rats, wall spiders, lizards and the occasional snake. Hardly the Lion King Africa! (Sorry, Dad, we will have to find Hakuna Matata elsewhere if you come and visit.)
Fiwila was home to an Anglican mission hospital a few years back and although it has now been converted to a simple rural health center, the remnants of the mission can still be felt today. The heart of Fiwila seems to be more affluent than other villages I have visited in Zambia. However, I think the villages near here may be poorer. I have met the local priest (who seems to be the head honcho) as well as several nuns who are very welcoming toward me.
I live on a family compound in a 3-room mud hut, the largest in the compound I am embaressed to say. I feel undeserving of the celebrity treatment I sometimes receive here. My 82-year-old host father and his wife live a few yards from my hut. Four of their ten children all have respective huts on the compound. More grandchildren than I can count or match parents to run around playing and laughing all day and they never fail to make me smile. This family has treated me like a princess by bringing me water from a nearby stream and constantly giving me gifts of corn, sweet potatoes or cornmeal. I haven't yet shared a meal with my host family but I hope to do so very soon! I should mention Buddy, the black and brown mut who was previously owned by Katie, the volunteer I have replaced. My first day here he somehow understood I was his new owner and follows me faithfully wherever I go. He happily comes bounding over to greet me as soon as I emerge from my hut in the morning. No dog will ever replace Jasmine in my heart but I am beginning to bond with Buddy and so grateful that he is here with me.
With all this talk about Zambian life in general, who would have thought that I actually have work to do? My job description under Peace Corps "Community Action for Health Project" or CAHP is so detailed AND ambiguous I hesitate to even try to explain it to you. Basically, I am a health educator, teaching villagers how to better manage the six major health "threats": malaria, HIV/AIDS, childhood health and nutrition, integrative reproductive health, water sanitation, and tuberculosis. Peace Corps places a huge emphasis on sustainability, so I am not just a health educator, but someone who teaches how to teach others about health. On the side, I am also supposed to do "secondary" projects and I am hoping to do some work at the nearby orphanage.
Most Zambians who I will be working with will all be volunteering their precious time for learning. Finding the motivating factor may be the challenge for me. I know now to take baby steps. For example, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment after explaining to one person here about the work I was going to be doing.
The Rural Health Center is about a mile away from my hut and staffed by 2 nurses, several casual daily employees, and an environmental health technician. I will be working closely with this staff, as they are often my best link villagers. On Mondays, women come to receive supplies and information on family planning. On Tuesdays and Thursdays an ante-natal clinic for check-ups and certain supplements for expecting mothers. Then on Wednesdays an "under 5" clinic for women to bring their children who are monitored for weight, nutritional status, and receive proper immunizations. All of these clinics provide a way for mothers to socialize with each other as they wait to be seen and also an excellent opportunity for me to provide some education for them.
Meanwhile, my first 3 months in Fiwila are called "community entry" and my only real assignment is to acclimate to life in an African village and learn as much Bemba as possible, meeting and connecting with the villagers. So far life here is easier than I expected, however, I have certainly had my "moments".
I sometimes lie awake at night wondering WHAT is rustling around over in the corner of my hut (thanks Aunt Linda and Craig for providing the life-saving earplugs! and I still cringe using the pit latrine. I often find myself wondering if I am truly capable of the task at hand and whether I will fit in in a society where it is still common to be a school drop-out by age 15 and begin having babies. I worry whether it is any of my business to think I have something of value to offer these people when all I really have is a bachelors degree in Spanish and Linguistics of all things. Nevertheless, it is an incredible feeling to have a conversation with someone you would have never in your life talked to otherwise and I have already met some truly incredible and inspirational people, both American and Zambian. I have no doubt I will emerge a better person from this experience. Living without electricity or running water is surprisingly easy. I also enjoy the freedom of wearing the same clothes every day without anyone caring or noticing. I have no idea what my hair looks like. I never take the African sky for granted and I am impressed at how the Zambians are so friendly and hospitable.
I still feel this is worth the effort. While I could write forever, I think this will be all for now. I miss you all more than you know and think about you all the time! Keep those letters coming! Thanks for listening!!!
Love, Rachel
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