written on different days throughout February, March and April, 2010
Five hundred twenty- five thousand six hundred minutes, five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear, five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes, how do you measure, measure a year?
-From “Seasons of Love” from RENT
Note: My apologies to my sister for connecting this final blog entry from Zambia to this song, as I can recall her not being completely convinced that this is one of the best songs from RENT. :) I beg to differ. :) :)
Two years is precisely one million fifty one thousand two hundred minutes. Give a few more for the extra two months tacked onto that for a pre-service training and you’ve got yourself a Peace Corps service (well, the kind where you don’t choose to leave early or are forced to for reasons beyond your control).
This vast number of minutes is amazing to me and picking time apart like this makes me even more aware of what a favor I did for myself early on when I made an agreement with myself that I would never count down minutes, days, weeks or even months that I had remaining in Zambia. I decided that counting down time, or over-analyzing its passing and taking me away from the current moment would be mentally insalubrious in general.
I did what I would describe as a satisfactory job of keeping my promise on that agreement. Sometimes I would overstep boundaries a little and count down days until vacations or other reunions with Peace Corps friends, or when my Mom and sister would be arriving in Zambia for a visit. I’m pretty sure I toasted a few drinks to the "one month" and subsequently "one year in the village" anniversaries. But for the most part I kept myself in check and focused mostly on the now.
That is, until now now (anyone remember me explaining that in Zambia you can double words to add emphasis? That wasn’t a typo). Sometime back in January, I gradually began becoming more acutely aware of the fact that I only had four months left, until I reached the current state I’m in (on this day of February 17) that I have roughly six weeks to go and this Thursday is when it will change to five. I find myself completing various activities wondering how many more times I’ll do such and such. Wondering, for example, if it will be the last jar of peanut butter I’ll ever buy in Zambia or last time I will ever observe the awesomeness that is a chameleon up close.
Maybe I can still congratulate myself that I couldn’t tell you the exact number of days remaining at this moment in time (February 17). I have a feeling though that as days become fewer and fewer, this may change. I’m pretty sure that all of this counting down is normal and I’ve only tended to feel bad about it lately because I know I’m now counting down in the sense that I want to leave Zambia. I used to be at peace with life here. Until a certain point, yes I got homesick and yes I missed my friends and family and yes I got tired and frustrated with living conditions here. But those feelings would usually leave as quickly as they had come; being replaced by a steady, sure, calm assurance that I was supposed to be here in Zambia, that it was the right time and place for me and that regardless of certain quibbles I had with my life here, I knew there still remained accomplishments to be made and lessons to be learned. I suppose it was in January that this “assurance” slowly faded away and my heartstrings began tugging me back to Americaland.
While I can say without a doubt that I want to go back home, I can’t necessarily aver that I am ready. All of us PCVs closing our services have been admonished that adjusting to home is oftentimes more difficult than adjusting to Zambia was. I know that home is not the same as I left it, nor am I the same person that left it over two years ago and it might take a while for us to reacquaint ourselves with each other.
I plan on entering the United States with a certain amount of caution and speculation. I am scared of the stressful culture that often exists in the American lifestyle, as well as mountains of materialism, not to mention all of the new and strange technologies that await me. I have a love/hate relationship with the thought that I soon might be the owner of an I-phone. I still have yet to figure out what Twitter is, but I do know I hate the sound of the word.
I have a plethora of other fears. Will I be able to get a job in the current state of our economy and will it be meaningful? Will I manage to pay bills after two years of the carefree life of a Peace Corps stipend in a developing country where utilities are not even an option to have? Will friends from back home remember me enough to include me most of the time in outings so I have a decent social life or will I become that weird girl that talks about Africa all the time? Will I remember how to drive and will I remember to drive on the right side of the road? Will I finally figure out what in the world I want to do in my life and subsequently choose, and get accepted, to a graduate school? What if after all this built up desire to go back, my wandering spirit catches up with me and I can’t wait to travel again? And the list goes on.
Despite these sometimes overwhelming fears, I can’t wait to tackle them. I can’t wait to figure out how to balance the most wonderful aspects of American culture I have missed and Zambian culture I have been given, and then throw out anything else I don’t want anything to do with. Plus, just in case you didn’t catch it before, I WANT to come HOME. I constantly catch myself daydreaming about…climbing Colorado mountains this summer and trying to get back into skiing in the winter, driving down mountain roads blasting new country music, reconnecting with dear friends, cheering on the Rockies, playing the piano until my fingers are sore, spending precious moments with Granddad Mahan and laughing in the kitchens of my Grandmom Mahan and Grandma Wanda, attending cousins’ weddings, savoring an ice cold Blue Moon garnished with a juicy orange slice, gorging myself on copious amounts of Mexican food, pulling out freshly laundered clothes from a washing machine and an hour later basking in the warmth of the aftereffect of a nice comfy sweatshirt being tossed in the drier, filling my I-POD with songs I haven’t heard over and over and over again….
Hopefully you get the point? I’ll pinkie swear you that I could go on. Especially about the food items I’m going to eat. I find my mind imaging all these events constantly, but I still always try and call on my self-discipline before I start counting down the seconds left and bring myself back to Zambia and enjoy the time I have left here as I am sure I will be missing it at some point.
It was a few days ago that I was repeating my typical thought pattern of time, home Zambia, time, home, Zambia when I playfully started to wonder how many kilometers I had biked so far in my Peace Corps service. I wish that like some of my friends, I had kept record of this on an odometer. Nevertheless I calculated a rough estimate of distance pedaled these past two years and it turns out I cycled at the very least 1200 kilometers! That is 745 miles for all you Americans out there!
Calculating that I might as well have cycled more than the distance of Denver to Norman got my mind spinning and I started wondering what other sorts of “numbers” I have racked up over the years.
For example, I know that I have read 78 books up to this point, along with a few armfuls of National Geographics and Economists as well as an embarrassing amount of trashy magazines like US Weekly and even at one point a National Enquirer (these are my confessions).
I have reluctantly been proposed to more times than my fingers can count by various “amaguys” who always seem to think that I have every reason to say yes, despite the fact that we usually have only just been acquainted a few minutes prior.
The snake that slithered back and forth between my feet not too long ago brought my snake sighting count up to at least 13. I’ve battled at least twice that number of rats (and by “battled” I should clarify that I mean shoving plugs into my ears, diving into bed through the comfort that is my mosquito net and covering my head with a blanket).
I have briefly wondered how many times I have been soaked by the rain, how many anti-malaria pills I have swallowed as well as how many mosquito bites I haven’t been able to stop scratching. It’s a miracle I haven’t gotten malaria yet, but I should be careful not to jinx myself because just the other day I was saying to a friend that I was lucky to have not “joined the club” once throughout my whole service and then a few days later on my last bike ride to Fiwila, became a lucky club member (um…to those of you who don’t know what this euphemism refers to, 1 -you probably don’t want to know and 2- I probably will be reluctant to tell you once I leave this place so its probably better not to ask ;) )
I know what you must be thinking by now. Perhaps somewhere along the lines of “goodness gracious, this girl is so negative. No wonder she wants to go home. And up until now, she has mentioned nothing about Peace Corps work. Is this where my tax dollars have been going? To pay pessimistic Peace Corps Volunteers to sit in their huts all day and read?”
Well, I’m glad that you have asked. Forgive me for that long rant about snakes, malaria pills and what not. To be completely honest, sometimes it's a bit fun to brag about how much we have to rough it in the bush bush. And it’s also better to save the best for last anyway, right?
So let me tell you about the numerous lumps of nshima I have devoured and cute babies I have held (sometimes doing both of these activities at once!) Unfortunately, I can’t tell you how many magnificent African animals I’ve had the privilege of spotting, but I can tell you my passport proudly has the stamps of six different African countries.
I know I have savored at least 24 luminous moons, especially those where the village children have taken advantage of the extra evening light and I fall asleep to the sounds of boys drumming and singing the latest Zampop songs while the girls sing church hymns in harmony off in the distance. I know the number of these moons, but I’ve lost track of the times I have marveled at the moonless night sky packed with stars. Without a doubt, I will miss the breathtaking Zambian sky. At any time of day, whether it be the sparkling stars twinkling down on me, the powerful dark rain clouds off in the distance or the restorative sun sending its reflections to clouds as the Earth orbits around it, I can gaze at the sky and believe in God once again.
I suppose I am fulfilling the title of this web page well as I ramble on. I’m going to continue doing so by completely digressing from my earlier pattern of counting out my Peace Corps events and experiences and now describe for you some of my most favorite memories that cannot actually be numbered because each is so special. I think these must be some that I am most proud of, which I suspect will be the ones I will remember after I leave this place. As the lyrics to the song from RENT suggest, one should measure their life in moments of love. Well, if this is true, I’ll go ahead and deem these past two years as a success. Read on and judge for yourself.
I may not have completed all of the tasks that Peace Corps assigned me to do, but I feel like my Peace Corps service was justified through occasional conversations I would have with a teenage boy who would take the initiative to visit me in my insaka from time to time to ask me relationship and HIV related questions. He would always bring a friend along. The first time he came to my insaka was the first time I felt like I was doing work that actually mattered. What a feeling.
May I never forget the beautiful smiles of women here. Thinking about the faces of the girls who participated in Camp GLOW as well as other women I have worked with in the Fiwila community puts a smile on my face. This leads me to remember a certain health training I did last April and all of the women who celebrated its completion by forming a circle, singing, clapping and shaking their hips. I acted shy and insecure when they tied a chitenge around my waist and forced me to join them, but I was secretly loving every minute of it.
My heart was broken one day not too long ago when a few of the girls from the orphanage were escorting me back to my house and one casually mentioned to me that she wished her skin was white like mine because then she would be beautiful. We spent a long time talking about Beyonce, Barack Obama, Rhianna and Oprah after that. I can only hope that might have changed her mind at least a little bit, at least a start.
I hope that I always remember the determination and eagerness that some high school students showed to me as they answered questions in an “HIV/AIDS Jeopardy” game we were playing. I can only hope they will take the answers to these questions out of the classroom and into their real lives.
I will always have a place in my heart for all of my Peace Corps comrades who have been an essential part of me making it through the endless ups and downs that is this crazy life here. Peace Corps attracts some truly crazy, but amazing and wonderful people who I have learned so many lessons from and will never ever forget.
I can’t speak of friends without mentioning my best Zambian Buddy. This dog, Buddy, has TRULY gotten me through village life with his unconditional love and constant companionship. He rarely failed to happily greet me every morning, as he rose out of the lazy man chair he would always lounge in. With his typical Buddy snarl which actually was a smile and his endless whimpering sounds meaning he was greeting me good morning, he would come running over to me and give me a giant dog hug. He accompanied me everywhere…to meetings, the clinic, church, my network spot…you name it, he was always one step ahead of me, trotting along with his Buddy ears flapping up and down to the beat of his paws tapping the ground. Oh, Buddy, I love you and I am so thankful to have found you a happy home with my friend Ba Katongo who will get you nice and fat and give you all the attention and love you deserve.
And then there is my Zambian family. A family who has allowed this strange muzungu that is myself to stay on their compound to observe their everyday lives for two whole years and have patiently put up with me not being able to carry water on my head or peel cassava correctly. They have generously fed me, many times when they really have had no food to give, and have given me extra lessons in generosity, hospitality and kindness to strangers. I have laughed with them and cried with them and am so grateful for the memories I have of these lovely people.
Of course, one of those lovely people is Ba Paxina, who has provided me with so much happiness over these past two years with our daily chats in her insaka and the fact that she has taught her daughter Priscovia to call me Antie Rachel. Words cannot describe how happy I am to have found an unlikely bond and friendship with Paxina. I will simply say that I love her and am so very proud of her.
If Paxina and Buddy were my two best Zambian friends, I must mention the third. Her name is Priscovia, also known as Prisco or Coco. She will turn four years old in May, yet even at three years somehow seemed to understand me more than any other adult in Fiwila did. She isn’t quite yet old enough to recognize the color of my skin, and especially does not treat me any different from anyone else because of it. I am endlessly grateful to her nonjudgmental company in my insaka or on my front porch and will always remember the way she would babble my ear off in Bemba, rarely getting tired of me asking her to repeat herself.
One of my most cherished Zambia moments took place on one of her typical visits to my insaka. I was cooking a lunch of sweet chili Soya pieces for myself when she meandered over to join me. She climbed up into my lazy-man chair, perched herself on the edge of it with her feet dangling over the ground and asked me what I was cooking and if she could have some of it. I followed the hospitable aspect of Zambian culture and willingly gave her a generous child-sized helping once I had finished frying the Soya pieces in the gelatinous, red, spicy sauce. I have no idea why it somehow escaped my mind that generally you don’t give four year olds spicy food. It finally did after she had shoved a heaping spoonful into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, then simply looked up at me with her big brown eyes, pouted her lips and took in three deep breaths of air in a row. I laughed and laughed, gave her a cup of water and explained to her that she didn’t have to finish the food. She did not say a word, but continued to take in bites then consecutively take in breaths. I briefly wondered if she already had learned that aspect of Zambian culture where you eat whatever food is offered to you and was just trying to show me some politeness by finishing the spicy dish. Nevertheless, as soon as I speculated that, a drop of food missed her mouth and hit the ground. She looked over the chair and slowly reached over to scoop up the dirty food with her fingers and before I could stop her, plopped it into her mouth. Then she pouted her lips and sucked in the longest breath of air. I just laughed again and wondered to myself whether the love I feel for her is anywhere similar to the love a mother feels for her own child. It breaks my heart I will no longer be around to watch her grow up.
Now that I have talked about all of my vital friends and family here in Zambia, I could never finish this entry without talking about all of you who are bothering to read these words. To anyone and everyone who has sent a kind text, facebook message, long letter, package, e-mail or has simply kept me in their thoughts or prayers, I cannot say thank you enough.
I would guess that many people out there wonder about how I could possibly spend such a long time away from friends and family back home. Honestly, I have been one of those people myself. In the past three months, I have been dealing with the painful experiences of discovering my grandfather has cancer and losing both my childhood friend Alex and my beloved dog Jasmine. Of course, grief is always a painful process, but I feel that being isolated here in Zambia and trying to deal with it on my own has augmented the heartache of it all. Part of me has wondered several times if I’m crazy for being here for so long.
But then there are those times that I get a long letter from a friend or family member that proves to me that no matter what, some relationships simply never change and those that are truly important in my life will always be there. There have even been letters from people I hadn’t connected with for years prior to joining Peace Corps. There have even been letters from strangers. I love that.
I love that this experience has shown me how much love and support I do have from people back home. I love that because of me being here, my Mom has been on safari. I love that my sister and I had a one of a kind experience of “muzungus rafting the great Zambezi” which we will joke about forever. I love that when I get home, I will appreciate the company of those I care about to a heightened degree that I might not have felt if I didn’t leave for a while.
I know once I step ground onto Denver International Airport, all the memories of leaving will all come back to me. I’ll see my Mom’s smile and remember how she pushed me onto that plane two years ago and even as I was shaking with fear, stood her ground and didn’t shed a tear in front of me; instead she just smiled and held me as she confidently asserted it would all be great. She was right.
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