The Path Is Found By Walking

Eight Strategies for Culture Shock

2012-01-25T18:36:00.001-08:00

You do not have to live in a Zambian mud hut or find yourself to be the only gringa in a crowd full of thousands of Ticos to experience culture shock, or a sense of surprise that you have found yourself in a certain corner of the world (even if this corner of the world happens to be at home). We all know that culture is everywhere and regardless of whether one has traveled abroad they have experienced a world view different from their own. Culture weaves its way into age groups, work environments, family dynamics, recreational activities, the online world, etc. etc. In the last ten days, I've been a foreigner in Costa Rica, then a foreigner among foreigners because I speak Spanish and have lived with the locals. I've also made interesting observations on the lifestyle of backpacker travelers, surfers and the beach community of Santa Teresa, CR. I realize that this trip of mine to Costa Rica is merely that, a vacation, and not a living experience. Therefore it should be a breeze for me to pretend I'm a Tica or a beach bum for a mere two weeks. For the most part, it does seem that my ability to adjust to another culture has come as easily as remembering how to ride a bike. However, there have been a few moments of struggle which have led me to create the following list of strategies for a fun survival.

The cliff notes version for friends who have told me I can be too verbose:

1. Be grateful for everything
2. Laugh

3. Chew, smile, and swallow
4. Dance, even if you think you don't know how to
5. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the view

6. Take care of yourself

7. Drink a little bit (with caution)

8. If all else fails, ask for forgiveness, forgive yourself and move on.

The rambling version (mostly for myself):

1. Be grateful for everything

This trip has left me with a predominant feeling of gratitude. Gratitude for various stories listed in this blog, gratitude that I have gotten to experience so much of the world over the last ten years, and mostly for the relationships I have made doing so. My Costa Rican family was the first family of foreigners who taught me lessons on generosity. They fed me, sheltered me, loved me and taught me Spanish ten years ago and have repeated such gifts in the same manner this time around. I am so thankful they have trusted me enough to let me peer into and become a part of their lives for a little while. Moments that make cultural immersion worthwhile include the following:

Daniela and I curling up with her mother Irma in her bed as we watched a Peruvian cooking show after stuffing ourselves with rice, beans and fish. We only payed slight attention to it as we distracted ourselves with laughing (bring in strategy #2 below) about me being the "hija perdida¨ and discussing how different life in Colorado would be for them, how they would die in the snow and cold. They say that one day they will visit and I can only hope this is true as I would love to pay back a small amount of all gifts they have shared with me.

Being grateful of course also includes constant reminders about appreciating everything that is wonderful about home, something I hope to write more about in a future entry.

2. Laugh

Something else to be grateful for? The capacity to laugh with others and at myself.

During one of the nights we were staying in San Carlos, Daniela and I were changing into pijamas when she suddenly shrieked upon the discovery of a cockroach on her shirt. Shooing it away near my feet, I had an immediate reaction of fright and did a creepy crawly sort of dance. Once again we could not stop laughing. Who would have ever thought a cockroach could have such an effect?

3. Chew, smile, and swallow

Another time I have been forced to laugh at myself has been me and the challenge of eating meat down here. Prior to this trip I convinced myself I was going to stick as much as possible to my oh-so-prenentious pescatarian diet (and to be a little bit more easy going said that an occasional piece of chicken could be fit in). My how that has flown out the window, starting with me consuming a delicious pineapple cream cheese dip at a Costa Rican uncle's birthday party last Saturday. I pinky swear that I did not notice the flakes of pink as I commented to Daniela how rico the dish was. All she did was laugh and ask in a sarcastic, carniverous way whether I knew I was eating pork. With an abashed no, I said it did not matter because I was in Costa Rica and could do whatever I wanted, taking a bite of the steak on her plate. Daniela's response to this was that I only care about American animals and not the Costa Rican ones.

I thought that the meat eating of that night would be an isolated event but of course the next morning awoke to my host mother Irma serving me a Costa Rican breakfast plate complete with a heaping portion of ham and eggs casserole (note that it appeared impossible to pick the ham out of the eggs). I know that I could have politely reminded Irma that I ¨usually¨ try not to eat pork, however the pride and generosity with which she had served the plate led me to my decision to forfeit my desire to not eat meat. My strategy at this point was to chew, smile, be grateful (strategy #1) and swallow.

Since becoming a semi-vegetarian many have asked me whether I have noticed changes in the way I feel in my body. I had never been sure of the answer until now that I have been reintroduced to the consumption of pork and beef on this trip. I must have a stomach of steel as I have not felt physically ill per se (or at least have not yet) BUT I have become acutely aware of an undefined, difficult to explain, fog of heaviness and disgust in my stomach.

I will not say that I regret eating the pork but will declare that I plan on returning to my vegetarian lifestyle with a vengance upon my return Stateside. And will be grateful there that I have full choice over what foods I want to nourish my body with, as well as the access to markets where I can buy them.

4. Dance, even if you think you don't know how to

Just do it. Don't think about it too much. See other blog entries for details.

5. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the view

Give me an i-pod and a window seat on any sort of bus and I am a patient, content girl. It may sound strange to some but bus rides with good views are often my most memorable and favorite parts of traveling. I am sure this origniated with the drive between San Jose and San Carlos I grew accustomed to many years ago. It was so nice to experience the views on this journey again this time around. This 2.5-3 hour long ride of windy roads blanketed by an ephemeral mist of fog showcases so much beauty. Coffee plantations are chiseled into the faces of lush, green, rolling hills. On the edges, houses painted with bold colors and topped with corrugated roofs hang daringly close to the edges. You pass pastures of cows munching on grass in between small, lazy towns that hug themselves to the side of the road. People that live in them seem to always be enjoying the simplicity of life- whether it is the older woman lounging on her patio as she munches on a bag of plantain chips, the farmer with large sombrero and heavy black boots walking alongside the road, or the soccer team of boys sitting in a circle on a green plaza in front of one of the town's cathedrals.

On this drive I found myself thinking about a lot of different people in the world- my sister in Portland came to mind, my Mom in the suburbs of Denver, my best friend in New York City, my Zambian family back in Africa. It seemed a miracle to me that so many places and lives were all existing simultaneously.

6. Take care of yourself

One of my biggest challenges of traveling recently has been finding the appropriate time and space to take care of myself physically and mentally. I previously mentioned how little my Costa Rican life seems to have changed since coming here years ago. Something major that has, however, have been my discovery of how much of an impact yoga, meditation and eating healthy can have on my life. There were several days I went on this trip without incorporating any of these into my time and the absence of them did not go unnoticed in my body or mind. This brings me back to the aspect of gratitude and how traveling can make you realize the benefits of your life back home. I have much more control over what I eat back there, have a plethora of yoga teachers to learn from, as well as have a beautiful, quiet and adequate space to meditate in.

I do try to remind myself here though that even though I can not do a full hour of asana (the sanskrit term for yoga poses) or find a quiet space for fifteen minutes in which to meditate, this does not mean that I can not take a deep breath from time to time or do a forward fold in the privacy of a bathroom.

I am also grateful (strategy #1!) that I am currently writing this from Playa Santa Teresa. I am here taking a break from being Tica and playing catch-up on my spirituality, as well as having fun in the sun. Yoga classes to the sound of ocean waves abound here and I have plans for my first meditation on a beach. I also, of course, am planning on engaging in all of the other strategies discussed on this blog entry here (see below).

7. Drink a little bit (but with caution)

I have to admit that some moments here, drinking has been the best remedy. When I first arrived in Santa Teresa all by myself, I was terrified of being lonely for many days and that I wouldn't make friends. A little wine to the rescue to try to combat that shy side of me and I found myself having interesting chats with backpackers from Germany, Denmark, England and San Francisco.

Another situation in which drinking seemed to be the best resort was last Sunday when Daniela convinced me to accompany her to a party in a town called Palmares. This turned out to be a sort of carnival, music festival and drinking fest all mixed into one. Under the hot Costa Rican sun, I suddenly found myself packed into a crowd full of drunk, college-aged Ticos, dancing in a way that Daniela described as vulgar (means the same in English) to reaggeton (I have no idea how you spell this) music. In Costa Rica apparantly at concerts a large part of the party culture involves cooling off by dumping beer onto each other's heads as well as spraying it into the rest of the crowd. At first I was slightly annoyed by all of this and felt incredibly old which had me feeling sad for a spell. Costa Rican Imperial and Rock Ice with lime to the rescue! This way I was more able to effectively dance and laugh with Daniela and her cousin Mariela at all of the borrachos in the crowd.

8. If all else fails, ask for forgiveness, forgive yourself, and move on

Nine hours, a nasty shoulder-strap sunburn and a beer-an-hour later, I was no longer able to effectively implement the strategies above. I kept telling Daniela that I was too American and too old to be at Palmares, frustrated with the fact that her and a boy she is dating (post breakup) kept telling me we would be leaving in 30 minutes even when they had said that hours before. As day grew into night (nights have been surprisingly cold in San Jose) and the pork I had eaten fermented in my belly along with the beer, I was no longer a happy camper. How quickly I seemed to have forgotten the laid back lifestyle of Tico Time (not to mention its Zambian cousin). I feel embarrassed about this bout of mal humor and wish I could have maintained more of a free spirit. Fortunately, this brings me again back to strategy number one. I am so grateful that I have created a relationship with my Costa Rican sister where she can see the bad side of me but forgive me and love me anyway.

As I mentioned, I am in Santa Teresa Beach for today before heading up to Playa Conchal tomorrow to finish the trip out with my host family before I catch my flight back to Colorado on Monday. Once again, I will find myself in a cultural situation where all of the above tips will be quite necessary. :)

It´s Tico Time! Part Two

2012-01-19T16:00:00.001-08:00

We like to pretend that we can measure time on calendars and watches with concrete minutes, hours, years, etc. My last few days, however, have left me seriously questioning whether we are all just fooling ourselves with the whole keeping track of time thing. At various moments throughout this vacay I feel as if I am in some sort of movie that flashes forward in time, then backward. Forward, then backward. Underlying themes touching on the theory of relativity and quantum physics are also somehow mixed in.

Maybe I should write the script sounding not nearly as dramatic and mind-boggling and a little bit more tropical. Also, I should caution my liberal arts degreed self before I start throwing in words like quantum physics. But the point I am trying to get across is that my mind keeps tripping in amazement over how little time seems to have changed things here in the last ten years. Then I of course contradict myself and make observations on the subtle things that have in fact changed. Nevertheless, people, relationships, sights, tastes, smells, sounds, feelings, and emotions that I have not experienced in such a decade have come rushing back to me in familiar waves. I also simply can not believe that it has actually been ten years since I stepped foot on this soil! I hate to use a cliché but time really does fly. And it is frightening how quickly.

If you read the post below, you know how nervous I was on Monday. I was flying into a foreign country all by my lonesome with no plans at all except to trust the hunch that I would be taken care of by a certain Costa Rican family I met ten years ago and had kept in mediocre touch with since. I also had a Lonely Planet guidebook in my backpack and plans of heading to the beach just in case they forgot about me.

How crazy I was for thinking they would forget about me! I so easily found their faces in the crowd waiting for arrivals outside of the airport on Monday morning that I could not help but squeel with delight and excitement as I skipped over to them. With the exception of my host sister Daniela´s longer and blonder hair, Daniela, Irma (my host mother) and Alvarito (my host brother) all looked the same. The custom of greeting them all with kisses on their right cheeks came surprisingly natural to me. Daniela handed me a bunch of flowers with tiny lavendar buds on them and started chattering away in her high-pitched voice, asking me if all the yoga I´ve been doing lately was why I was so much more flaca (slender) than when she last saw me.

Alvarito drove the same car I had ridden in ten years ago to a house that he and Daniela shared with their cousin and another roommate in San Jose since they both moved down here to attend the University of Costa Rica. Upon our arrival, Irma immediately went to work in the kitchen and I quickly realized that no, it was not the yoga that had made me much more slender since they had last saw me. It was being far far away from Irma´s home-style typical cooking. Before I knew it I had a massive plate of gallo pinto smeared with natilla, platano maduro and a massive chunk of queso fresco right in front of me. The best part? The rich cup of Costa Rican coffee that had no need for sugar.

How many feelings and memories can somehow exist in certain foods eaten in the right time and places! As soon as I took a bite of the black beans and rice breakfast, I was filled with a strange sense of nostalgia. Similar emotions presented themselves when I ate the first box of Mac and Cheese sent to me in Zambia, the first bite of nshima I made with my American friends upon returning to the U.S.

At this point, the exhaustion of the red eye flight began to take its toll on me and I started to become humbled at my Spanish speaking abilities. Nevertheless, I finally figured out what Irma was telling me and am so glad I did as it brought a smile to my heart. She shared with me how she still owns a party supply store in San Carlos and tapes local cooking shows a few times a week. She asked me if I remembered the time that I cooked their entire family french toast and joked around with me that I should be a guest on her cooking show during my time here and teach her audience how to cook french toast like we do in the U.S.

After breakfast, the entire day was filled with reminiscing as we strolled around San Jose. We laughed about the time I confused the words maquillaje with mantequilla and asked my host sister if she was going to put butter on her face. We bragged about the time my host sister and I walked to La Fortuna from Ciudad Quesada to participate in a Costa Rican pilgramige (a distance of around 40 kilometers). We recalled the time I came back to Costa Rica on a senior high school trip with three of my best friends and attended her quinciñera.

It has been fun to remember. Irma left on Monday back to the house that I lived with them in San Carlos and it really has been just Daniela and I spending some quality time together in San Jose these last few days. I have to remind myself to be patient and know that in the week to come I will be enjoying some more of Costa Rica´s natural beauty as well as meeting once again many other members of her family I became close with a decade ago. For now I am just enjoyng the unlikely friendship I speak so highly of.

I am proud and surprised to acknowledge that time has not seemed to have any real effects on the close relationship Daniela and I formed when we once shared a room together. I have no qualms with rummaging through her closet to try to find clothes I can borrow in order to not feel so incredibly gringa. Daniela broke up with her boyfriend of three years last week and she keeps bringing up the subject of boyfriends, husbands, children, life and we can not stop laughing about it all. I still get annoyed with her at how long it takes her to get ready to go anywhere. Staying with her has been much like visiting my American sister Emily in the U.S. We´ve gone shopping, cooked, watched movies, gone jogging, gone to a yoga class, laughed at her purse-sized tan mut of a dog named Loey.

Something that is much more Costa Rican, however, is the night life. Twice we have gone out to bars to dance the night away to live music. The nightlife down here is like some sort of drug for me- the latin music pulses through my veins and makes me feel a keen, simple and content aliveness. I am awkward at both dancing and flirting with boys when I go out back in the U.S. but down here I seem to take on somewhat of a different personality. It is fun to pretend that I am someone else for a little while. Costa Rican guys are excellent at twirling me around and making me pretend that I actually know how to dance salsa, kumbia, merengue. Perhaps it is the romantic aspects of the Spanish language, perhaps it is the confidence of knowing I possess the unique quality of being a foreigner, but it is incredibly easier for me to forget my shyness around males here. Friends, this is an entirely different story I´ll tell you about on a different occasion.

Though dancing and music were some of the qualities that began my love affair with Costa Rica so long ago, as we were out last night, I suddenly glanced around the room and realized I was the only gringa in the place packed full of Ticos. And suddenly I had the thought, ¨What in the world am I doing here? This is crazy. I should at least have one other American friend at my side.¨ A sense of loneliness creeped into me and I again thought about my sixteen-year-old self and wished I could go back in time to give her a hug. How did I have that much courage, that much strength, that much uniqueness as such a baby to have successfully immersed myself in this culture a decade ago?

Following these thoughts I was suddenly hit over the head with a brick of homesickness. This both surprised and confused me. For one, this trip is as short as the blink of an eye in comparison to ones I have embarked on in the past. I had only been here for three days (moments have creeped by but days have passed in a flash). Furthermore, my wandering spirit had recently been taunting me with thoughts of moving abroad again and continuing to live a life less ordinary. How in the world could I become homesick now ? It seemed utterly ridiculous and I wanted to dismiss the feeling immediately. Instead, I prayed that I would be able to embrace the feeling and be able to remember it in a few weeks´ time when I find myself back in Colorado life trying to figure out ways to make the normalcy of it all not feel too monotonous.

This is one of the reasons traveling has struck a chord with me- it never fails to remind you of all of the things that you love about home. Other reasons I am such an addict? That the balance between feeling incredibly uncomfortable but having an incredible amount of fun is something that makes me feel incredibly alive. Traveling has also been one of the easiest and most profound ways that I have learned lessons about myself. As the days progress here, I can´t help but wonder if this trip, one of the shortest, will be one of the most meaningful for me in regards to learning lessons about myself. I´ll save the details of this for another time.

Previews of other stories to be written about in the week to come? Tales of the Irazu volcano, heading back to San Carlos. a surprise birthday party full of extended family (another opportunity for me to wonder how in the world I got here), and an attempt for me to convince my host family that I would like to travel to the beach by myself and that this is normal for gringos and I will meet plenty of gringos there to keep me company and for them to not worry about me. We´ll see how that goes.

So much love to all. Pura Vida!

Iiiiiiiitttttttts Tico time! Part One

2012-01-17T14:55:00.000-08:00

Somehow, I am writing this from Costa Rica. How in the world did I get here? This is what I keep asking myself.

I theoretically got here close to ten years ago, back in June of 2002. As a sixteen-year-old I became friends with two boys from my high school class- one who had just completed a semester abroad in Chile and another who was about to depart. As I listened to their stories, my intuition suddenly shouted at me, ¨you should do that!¨, despite the fact no one in my family was particularly fond of international travel and the extense of my own experience at the time had merely been a week long humanitarian trip to Juarez, Mexico as a child. I still to this day marvel at how fearlessly I listened to my heart and forged the application process to become a high school exchange student. Several months later, I found myself boarding a plane to become immersed in Costa Rican culture for the next six months. It was one of the most terrifying things I had done with my life thus far but the thought of the adventure that lay ahead of me was too addictive to back out of.

It is quite amazing how my time spent in Costa Rica was the stepping stone for so many aspects of my future life. Costa Rica infected me with the travel bug, the only remedy being to experience twelve different countries since. I feel confident in saying I would not have had the courage to sign up for Peace Corps without having experienced first the training wheels of cultural immersion in this gorgeous country. Even today I work at a job in which Spanish communication skills are essential (and one of my favorite aspects of the work).

I feel that I owe so much of my Spanish speaking abilities to the Quirós Avila family who took me in as one of their own ten years ago. There are so many other reasons I am forever grateful to them. My mind keeps discovering fond memories and dusting them off as my host sister, Daniela, and I reminiss about our time spent together.

I remember the first night Daniela and her mother Irma picked me up from the exchange coordinator´s house and seemed to be speaking a mile a minute to me in Spanish as they brought me to a party at their house full of extended family. How everyone present had English speaking abilities similar to my beginning Spanish at the time but how patient and welcoming they all were with me- offering me as much arroz con pollo and tres leches as I could fill myself with.

Several months later they threw me a surprise birthday party, complete with shoving my face into the cake in true Costa Rican fashion and then giving me a Costa Rican makeover before I went out dancing for the night with my host brother Alvaro and other friends from high school.

My most favorite memory occurred a few weeks after I had arrived to live with them. Daniela and I shared a room and even though I had yet to become anywhere close to fluent in her language, we somehow one night found ourselves staying up late gossipping about boys despite the language barrier. We laughed until our stomachs hurt and corners of lips ached. In that moment I marveled at how beautiful it was that I was in such a unique position to form an unlikely friendship with this girl from a completely different culture and country than my own. This moment was key in stealing my heart.

Months later came the tearful goodbye at the airport as my first semester abroad had come to an end. I had not escaped homesickeness throughout my six months abroad and a lot of me was excited to be heading back to comfort, familiarity and loved ones. But leaving was not easy. Not only did my immediate host family- Daniela, Irma, Alvarito (host brother), Alvaro (host father)- accomany me to the airport to bid goodbye, but a large group of cousins, aunts and uncles also formed a circle around me as I gave kisses on the cheek to each and every one. Daniela was the final goodbye and I can still feel the pull on my heart as we grasped fists before I turned away from her as well as the tears that streamed down my cheeks on the airplane as I read a letter from her saying I would always be her hermanita (little sister) and how much she loved me.

I was able to return to Costa Rica six months later in order to show three of my closest childhood friends how beautiful the country was. Afterwards, Daniela and I exchanged snail mail letters back and forth and gradually the gap between the envelopes arriving became longer and longer. I completely lost touch with Costa Rica during my time in Zambia but one day was ecstatic to see that Daniela Quirós Avila had added me as a friend on facebook. (I often am convinced Facebook is unhealthy for me but it is for reasons such as reconnecting with friends from around the world that I inisist on maintaining a profile). We began to chat little by little and one day I found myself promising her that Costa Rica would be the next place on my list to visit.

I realized back in November that in 2012 it would somehow be the ten year anniversary since I first met Costa Rica. This made me work hard to discover an affordable plane ticket here. Before I knew it, I was flying over the rolling, green hills of the outskirts of San Jose in the early morning hours of yesterday. Butterflies in my stomach flapped away as I wondered what it would be like to once again meet these foreigners I consider my family.

Part two to come. I am in Costa Rica after all and don´t want to spend too much time on a computer! ;)

Long Time!

2011-08-15T15:46:00.000-07:00

Wow, blog, you and I have a lot of catching up to do! As they say in Zambia, long time! One reason you haven’t heard from me is because for a while I didn’t think I had anything interesting or worthwhile to tell you. Now that I’ve begun thinking about exactly what it is I want to tell you, however, I realize that I have too much to tell you, don’t know where to begin and am unsure that if I do whether I will know how to stop.

I want to tell you that in the last 12 months my job has been to help teenagers ease the stress and fear of having babies, to learn along with diabetic patients about how to manage their disease, to help parents devise plans of disciplining their children and teach them how to potty train (my least favorite topic of the day), to assist women who want to leave their alcoholic, abusive or unfaithful husbands, to feign the part of a mini-mental health counselor (when I’m in doubt I always resort to discussing deep breathing), and so on. It is a tough job because I’m always out of my comfort zone, I am usually seeing a whole lot of suffering, and I am confined to the indoors all day. It is a good job because it has taught me a lot about myself and what I want for my future "career", has given me many inspirational coworkers as my teachers and it allows me to help others even if I don't always know how to help.

I also think it would be therapeutic, yet undesirable, to tell you about the cloud of anxiety and depression that has hung over my head the last year or so. The simple version is that a little bit of the paragraph above, along with snippets of the paragraph below mixed together to create the perfect conditions for my last months of melancholy. I’ve been learning about how to bring in more sunshine though. My therapy has been spending significant amounts of time in the Colorado mountains, practicing as much yoga, meditation and prayer as possible, reveling in live music, rambling in my journal every day, reminding myself that I don’t have to be brushing my teeth under the moon and stars to gaze at them in wonder, laughing at things that aren’t necessarily so funny, and keeping people that understand me close to my heart. Funny how all of these therapies are exactly what brightened my day in Zambia. How I wish it was as easy here to carve out time for such essential treatments.

Mostly blog, I want to tell you about how much I miss Zambia and how much it aches. I want to tell you how sometimes I will silently whisper Bemba words to myself, simply to make sure I haven't forgotten too much. I want to tell you about the nights I’ll have vividly dreamt about returning there and seeing how much the children from the Mulomo family have grown, and will wake up with a pain in my heart at how quickly time passes by. I want to go back to the girl that wrote entries to you years ago and remind her to savor every moment, even though I know she did her best.

I want to tell you about how grateful I am that a girl named Natalie moved into Fiwila about a year ago, but how jealous I am when I log onto facebook and see photos posted of MY village that I did not post. I am so thankful that Natalie helps me keep in touch with my friend Paxina and because of her every so often I will get bright pink airmail envelopes from Mkushi as proof that I did actually live in Zambia and that no, Paxina has not forgotten about me.

I want to tell you about how much I miss lazy mornings, 30 k bike rides through the African bush, falling asleep to children singing in harmony under a glittering sky, gazing at a fire almost every night, and the ever present feeling of aliveness no matter how uncomfortable, annoying or inconvenient life there could be.

I remind myself that I can choose to carry all of these moments and friendships with me as long as I wish and friendships don’t disappear with distance. But I also remind myself that I am grieving a loss of how things once were and that it is okay to feel sad. That I do not have to apologize of the fact that I have been home for 16 months now and still don’t feel adjusted to American life. I remind myself how thankful I am to have friends from Peace Corps going through the exact same thing that I can laugh with and whine with about how damn difficult and stressful it can be here.

I lastly want to tell you about my feelings of guilt, confusion and helplessness weeks ago as I sat on the cozy couch in my mother's air-conditioned home, eating ice cream and watching CNN. How Anderson Cooper appeared from Somalia and the screen flashed images of children dying from lack of food. How he interviewed Jill Biden urging Americans to donate money to a certain organization which I had seen operate in Zambia and, in my humble opinion, not necessarily use funds appropriately. For everyone else that is interested in how they can help during this crisis, please see the following link to read more about an initiative created by one of my Peace Corps friends:

https://usa.wfp.org/campaign/absurd

So, in a nutshell, blog, this has been my last year. I plan to continue learning about myself and how I can remain a world citizen even if I am no longer considered an expat. In fact, I’d like to talk with you more. I know I could continue telling you about my life curriculum above, but I think I’ll save most of it for my journal.

Quarterlife Crisis?

2010-10-10T15:39:00.000-07:00

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”
–Maya Angelou

“So, tell me a story about Zambia…”
As soon as I hear the beginning words of this phrase from a well-meaning stranger, interested loved one, or polite acquaintance, I try to turn the cringe in my mind to a smile on my face as I dodge what I know in reality is a decent and courteous request. If my sister happens to be by my side, I dodge the question off on her since she might be able to default to the captivating tale we shared together of “Muzungus Rafting the Great Zambezi.” Anything so that I don’t have to explain the intricacies of the life I lead a mere six months ago that now seems as ephemeral as a dream. I know it should be easy to tell a story, however… I find it the opposite. Why? Maybe I’m simply lazy. Perhaps I’m worried that summing up a story from Zambia into a mere minute’s account isn’t enough to do my experience justice. Or maybe, something I consider last but avert thoughts from quickly, I actually miss Zambia and me not talking about it is a way of ignoring this feeling.

In addition to story requests, a voice in my mind keeps urging me to write down some of my feelings and experiences about readjusting back to life in the States, and in a States-like way I am quickly distracted by some other activity until that voice comes back again as a whisper. I have been putting this blog entry off for too long and I think it’s too important for me not to process some of my thoughts, feelings and experiences into words, so here I go. (Disclaimer: I’ve recently been told that blogs are supposed to be short. Oops? Next entry? And for now I’ll just try and share the most important snippets).

I’ll mislead you by starting at the very beginning. I arrived at George Bush Intercontinental Airport on April 23, 2010 after 3 international flights, the latter being close to 16 hours long. I was dazed from jetlag and culture shock. After landing, I spent close to a half hour in the restroom freshening up and emerged to find a slithering customs line that I swear was as long as a football field. I realized as soon as I joined in that the people I was waiting with were not the same from my flight. Everyone was in shorts and straw hats. Everyone was complaining that their flight from Cancun had arrived too late. Everyone was in a hurry. There was an overwhelming amount of white people and an underwhelming amount of diversity. And yes, I repeat this was the customs line of an international airport. Part of me wondered if I knew what I was getting myself into with this whole returning back to America business. And then, a few folds back in line, I spotted a girl I would guess to be around the age of four years old with chin-length jet black hair and almond shaped eyes carrying a backpack that fit her perfectly. She was holding hands with a middle aged woman who shared none of her physical characteristics. The girl peered up at the woman, who returned the glance with a huge, genuine smile and a compassionate, “you are doing a wonderful job, honey!” And with that simple observation I smiled my first smile since getting back home.

Since then, my return to the States has been easier than many other returned Peace Corps volunteers told me it was going to be. By saying this, I mean that I actually don’t freak out when I walk down the cheese aisle of the grocery store. I mean that I feel normal enough to laugh hysterically rather than over analyze our society when my sister facebooks me a link to a company that makes hoodies and tank tops for cats. I mean that I am fortunate enough to have loved ones who “get” me and give me the patience, love and understanding I need even if they don’t necessarily “get” Zambia.

But I still would never describe my return as easy. Among other things, the job market was a tough adjustment to get used to. And after recently conquering that obstacle, I have been forced to surmount the challenge of adjusting to a structured 40 hour-work week and face the reality of what being an adult actually entails. Frequently I have wondered if I am undergoing a quarterlife crisis.

But I’d rather put all that aside. Instead, I’ll sum up the most challenging aspects of my return in three distinct parts. The first, I would like to call the icibotolo (eee- chee- bow- tow- low) syndrome. The symptoms of this are summed up as me never failing to think of the children running around on the Mulomo family compound whenever I am forced to dispose of any sort of mildly recyclable material, such as a plastic bottle or tin can. Sometimes I even catch myself thinking, “oh the ‘iwes’ are really going to find a creative way to play with this one.” And then I stop, realize where I am, and figure out where the nearest recycle bin is.

A second routine thought process I’ve had in the last six months is one which I will title the WWPT habit. What Would Paxina Think. In the year 2010, I have flown on at least 19 different airplanes (to be fair this includes layovers and plane changes). What would Paxina think? Not only what would she think if she actually knew this, but what would she think if she could have been seated in the seat right next to me on just one of those plane rides? What would she think of the loud roar of the jet engine, the intricate designs of the earth viewed from the clouds above, or the way the plane feels like it is never going to slow down once it makes contact with the tarmac after reaching its destination? What would she think about that? What would she think if she was with me in that spa I had the luxury of spending an afternoon at last weekend? What would she think of getting naked and climbing under a sheet in order for a stranger to rub their hands over her skin? Would she think it was nice? What would she think if she knew that the cost of getting naked and climbing under a sheet in order for a stranger to rub their hands over her skin costs more money than she might see in an entire year? What would she think if she were in my mother’s house right now with me, seated by my side as I type this all out on this foreign object of letter and number squares, tapping sounds, and bright colored light? What would she think of all this fancy furniture in the living room and glass dishware in the kitchen cabinets? What would she think if she found out I have gone six months without eating nshima? I really miss the sounds of the mealy meal dripping and kerplunking into the soft boiling pot of water resting on the open air fire as Paxina gently stirred it around and around until she found the rhythm that would turn into the thick mush of nshima. Who would have thought I would end up missing the sound of a Zambian food more than the taste?

I am rambling. Furthermore, my thoughts were just interrupted by me feeling a need to remind any who might be confused reading this that Paxina was my best friend in Zambia. Our friendship was the most simple I have ever had and I keep her tucked away in a special corner of my heart.

Back on track to the final noteworthy adjustment to coming home. This one does not necessarily manifest as one of my thought patterns, rather something I would describe more as an unconscious awareness. Life is too normal here in the U.S.A. I feel myself falling deeper and deeper into mundane tasks and routines and start to feel like I’m losing myself and a feeling of being fully alive. I have watched way too many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy recently. Today I made mac and cheese and did not savor every single bite. I got into my car yesterday and did not appreciate the comfort or ease of the ride. I have not a clue the next time I’ll need to have my passport ready to go. In the mornings I wake up to the humdrum motors of cars on the road rather than chickens squawking, birds chirping and children laughing right outside my window.

But I have recently undergone an epiphany in my mind which I would like to share. I have realized that allowing life to be normal here in the U.S. is a choice. Deciding to let it become normal is something easy to do, therefore it is something essential to watch for. If I am not careful, I will miss the tiny adventures being offered to me each day. Adventures like savoring the smell of winter wafting in with the breeze yesterday afternoon. Just because I don’t have to brush my teeth outside every night doesn’t mean that I can’t take time to notice whether or not the moon is full or half, waxing or waning.

Additionally, if I don’t take initiative to make things I want to happen actually happen, then chances are likely more of the mid-level adventures available to me will pass me by. So I try and take chances, big and small, and take risks right here in Colorado. I think this is something I didn’t quite understand before leaving for Zambia.

One final shred of my recent enlightenment to share. I knew that life in Zambia was going to be challenging. Therefore, I tried my hardest to stay mentally fit every single day in my own way in order to still be able to enjoy the journey along the way. (Did I really just unintentionally rhyme three times?) Anyway, the point I'm trying to get at is...why not be as ambitious with life here at home?

“kwenda kwa kolokfwa ne nzubo yanji” (kikaonde language) like a snail with his shell, a wise man takes his wisdom with him wherever he goes

2010-04-17T06:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Educate A Woman, You Educate A Nation

2009-12-19T02:57:00.000-08:00

Written December 11, 2009

Mary could not stop smiling and it seemed to me that her joy was contagious, slowly drifting over to me and filling my heart with a simple feeling of happiness. It was the afternoon of Thursday, December 3 and the sunny weather corresponded with the mood floating about the air. It was the fourth day of the week-long Camp GLOW, held in Mkushi at Ndubaluba Outdoor Centre, which has standard "camp" facilities similar to any average summer camp you would imagine in the States; bunk beds in small chalets, a dining hall, outhouses, an obstacle course, a climbing wall, a lake and trees surrounding it in the background.

Now back to Mary, her smile, and the happy mood in the air. Mary was busy participating in an activity which Ndubaluba calls "initiatives". She and nine other girls (half of the girls present at the camp) were unraveling the solutions to three problem-solving tasks. Most young adults in America also participate in similar “critical thinking and team building” games at some point in their lives. Fewer Zambian women, however, find themselves in such situations and observing the girls’ thought processes and teamwork to complete the puzzles was quite entertaining.

Mary and the girls had already solved their first two tasks, one where they figured out how to lead a small ball from a tree into a coffee cup, placed on the ground about ten feet away. They could not use their hands, rather ruler-sized, hollowed out sticks given to each participant to guide the ball along its path. I apologize I am struggling to find the correct words to properly describe this complicated activity to you, but hopefully you understand the gist of it.

This particular task took the team of girls about ten attempts before they accomplished it correctly. The first five tries were a bit trying to watch and at one point I feared they would get frustrated and give up on the activity before they solved it correctly. But slowly they caught on and with the guidance of one of Ndubaluba’s teachers named Sarah, the girls all learned to solve the challenge together by communicating with each other, engaging their full concentration, as well as believing in themselves. As soon as the ball hit the bottom of the coffee cup, such an eruption of cheers and high-fives broke out, you would have thought they had each won a hundred (U.S.!) dollars. But the only thing they had won was the simple satisfaction of solving a problem.

The girls went on to a task where a whistle was hung from a tree in a way that it was several feet above the team’s reach. The challenge presented to the girls was to have five different girls blow the whistle separately without anyone using their hands to guide the whistle to their mouths. This task turned out to be a breeze for the team; however an equal amount of cheer and celebration broke out once they were finished.

Their third and final task was called the “spider’s web”, which was a series of ropes tied between two trees so that there were ten different sections of “web”. The girls were instructed that they all had to pass from one side of the spider’s web to the other with a few rules: each girl had to pass through one of the sections and as they were passing through, they could not touch any part of the rope with their skin or even clothing. I myself was quite amused as I observed them working out the problem in their heads, figuring out how to lift each girl carefully through each section and coming to the revelation that the easiest sections to pass through must be saved for the first and last girls who passed because there wouldn’t be enough people on either side of the web to lift the first and last girls up and through.

This challenge took some time, but the team of girls passed it with flying colors and again, their success was celebrated just as they had their previous tasks. For many of these girls, it would be the first and maybe last time they would be exposed to such activities which demand such a unique use of the brain as well as coerce such communication with one another.

It was in these celebrations of completing problem-solving games that I had noticed Mary’s smile. It was in this moment that Sarah, the teacher leading the activities turned to me and said, “Such happiness from such a simple activity of team-work and problem solving. This is the real them.”

Later on that day, I glanced over at Mary and saw the same smile still glued to her face, as if it would be there permanently. And I thought to myself, “Oh how I wish everyone who made Camp GLOW possible could be here in this very moment to just see this smile.” It seemed that this would be a recurring thought of mine throughout the week.

It also entered my mind the afternoon we all went canoeing. I wished that everyone could have seen the girls as they all tightly fastened their life jackets and talked about how scared they were of water, but how at the end of the day, we practically had to pull them out of the lake they were having so much fun. Throughout the week, I kept getting asked when we would be going canoeing again.

I wish you could have seen them conquering the climbing wall, another one of their fears and their smiles every time another one of them reached the top of it and repelled back down.

I hope you can imagine the morning sessions where they learned from fellow Zambian women role models about everything from HIV to peer pressure, confidence, abstinence as well as safe alternatives, rape and sexual abuse and prevention of teenage pregnancy. Topics were facilitated through discussions, songs, dances, games and plays.

I wish you could have heard the comments from ten adult community mentors at the camp (each one accompanied a pair of girls from their villages) as they sat in similar lessons each day. After a guest speaker from an NGO in Lusaka spoke to them about recognizing, preventing and dealing with rape and sexual abuse in their community, several of the adults mentioned that the lecture had influenced their thoughts on the subject. Even a few added that they now have a better idea of how to handle specific incidents which were happening at that very time in their communities.

I wished you all could have been in the room with us as wee sewed sanitary pads together using local citenge material and bath towels. This took two nights to complete and the second night as we were sewing, we simultaneously watched the movie A Walk to Remember using a projector. I’m not sure how much of the movie’s English the girls understood, but it was the closest many of them had ever come to watching a film on a theatre screen and they at least seemed thoroughly entertained, laughing at random moments in the movie while us Americans could only guess about what it was from our culture which they found so humorous. We were proud, though, when some of the girls were able to pick out such themes as peer pressure and healthy romantic relationships from the movie, as these were similar themes they had been learning throughout the week.

A final activity which I’m sure you all would have loved to see was the talent show which concluded the end of the camp. There were many acts including singing, dancing, poetry and plays. I was particularly proud of the girls as I watched them on stage because most of their talents incorporated lessons they had learned throughout the week. For example one play told the story of two girls who found themselves pregnant and HIV positive after getting involved with some sketchy men. Several poems preached about making a better world for each other and others talked about testing for HIV and caring for those with HIV.

Even now as I write this blog entry a week after Camp GLOW has taken place, I can not get many of the songs out of my head which the girls sung repeatedly throughout the week. I am hoping the girls are also experiencing this as well, perhaps as another assurance that they will not forget the lessons and activities they experienced at Camp GLOW. I’m hoping that the songs will be a reminder to them to start girls’ clubs back in their villages with the assistance of the community mentor who attended the camp with them along with a local Peace Corps Volunteer. This way, the messages of teamwork, communication skills, abstinence (or safe, smart sex), confidence, goal setting and many other important topics will be passed on to many more girls.

To all of those out there who assisted in finding funding for Camp GLOW, I hope this blog entry has done a little bit for you to see what your money or good thoughts and communication efforts went towards. I can assure you that your support was used wonderfully. Mary’s smile is proof of that. :)

Walishiba, Nalishiba Ati Bonse Tuli Bantu...Walishiba, Nalishiba Ati Bonse Tulapitamo Fyashupa

2009-11-03T04:48:00.000-08:00

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!

Mwende Bwino, Bashikulu. Tukalamifuluka (Farewell, Grandfather, We Will Be Missing You)

2009-07-31T03:16:00.000-07:00

“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.

Mom's visit

2009-07-04T10:42:00.000-07:00

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!!!

Just Be Free

2009-03-09T03:13:00.000-07:00

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!

Uwakwensho bushiku, bamutasha ilyo bwaca (He who escorts you at night is thanked at dawn)

2008-11-11T07:17:00.000-08:00

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.

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......

Welcome to my life

2008-08-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Apali umunwe, e pali ibala (where there is a finger, there is a cultivated field)

2008-05-28T08:52:00.000-07:00

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

Permanent assignment selected!

2008-04-13T11:25:00.000-07:00

This is Rachel's mom again, writing for Rachel.

Her permanent assignment is in the Central Province, relieving Katie, a 25-year-old CU grad from California who has been there 11 months. The name of the village is Fiwila, which is 80 km away from the nearest town of Mkushi. There is a 30 km bike ride to the main road and another 50 km to the nearest city, Mkushki. An orphanage is nearby and she'll have a mutt, Buddy to keep her company.
Rachel recently got to spend 3 days with Katie, a 5-hour drive from Lusaka. It is a pretty area between hills. Her host family very nice with lots of kids and grandkids. Her 3-room hut is isolated from the main village, has a dirt floor. Very basic. Water 1/2 mile away which the kids will get for her. A health clinic is 2 km away -- 2 English speaking nurses, no doctor.
Rachel to be officially "sworn in" 4/25 then will spend a few days at the "Provincial House", a PC respite lodge in Mkushi. Zambia is the only PC country who has these lodges to help the volunteers cope with their remote assignments.
Rachel would love to get dried fruit and/or soup mixes sent if anyone is interested (along w/ previous suggestions). Use a large padded envelope OR flat rate packages.
Also note that she CAN receive e-mails and text messages via her cell phone!!!
Thanks for your interest and concern.
Jennifer

a quick update on living life Zambian style

2008-03-16T06:19:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone!!!! Muli shani??? (That's how are you in Bemba!) This is the first opportunity I have had to update my blog since arriving in Zambia and I am thrilled to finally have a chance to share with you a few stories. My wonderful mom has been doing an excellent job of updating you on news she has gotten through our phone conversations and I don't want to bore you with repetitions of what she has already written, so I think I'll go about writing this in a sort of unconventional way. I keep a gratitude journal here in which I write three things I am thankful for every night before I go to sleep, which has been an excellent way of keeping my morale up when the going gets tough and I thought I would share some excerpts of things I have written in there. Let me assure you that there are many things about life here that can get tough. NOt only am I training from 8-5 Monday through Saturday (and let me assure you that PC was not lying when they called it "intensive"), but me and my fellow PC trainees have a lot of other things to keep in mind, a few examples being that getting malaria at some point during service is common, we have been properly trained on how to deal with severe diarreah in the bush because we are guaranteed to get it (I can't wait to manage that one in a "pit latrine"), I have seen poverty so bad here that I feel guilty for relying on my cell phone, digital camera and I-POD every day, it is estimated that 1 in 6 people in Zambia are living with HIV/AIDS and on top of everything I live with mice, frogs and last night as I was writing what I wanted to say for this blog a snake slithered its way on into my hut and gave me what I can only describe as quite a surprise.

Anyway, the hard parts of service can really be overwhelming if I allow them to be, which is why it has been so incredibly important for me to take a few steps back and reflect on all of the beautiful, positive moments I have had here so far (because there are so many). The honest truth is that I am so happy to be here. I embrace the fact that I am challenged on a daily basis and i know that I am becoming a better person because of it. So, without further delay, here are a few moments I am thankful to have experienced here in Zambia:

- Spending time with my Aunt Linda in Washington D.C. (okay, I know this isn't Zambia but I had to include it). I had staging in D.C. where I was given a brief introduction to Peace Corps and when I wasn't "in class" my Aunt Linda took incredible care of me! She brought me out to last minute shopping trips, filled my stomach with delicious American meals, told me incredible stories and made sure my hotel room was stocked with snacks and a bottle of wine. Thanks Aunt Linda!!! You are awesome!

- Getting to know my fellow Peace Corps trainees and other PC staff. So many people i Have met here are fantastic and we've all been great at supporting one another. It is funny how diverse we all are in our backgrounds and personalities, but it sure has made things interesting and I"m happy to know I'll have these people around me for the next two years.

- Meeting village children on my first site visit to Eastern Province. In Eastern Province they speak Nyanja and when we first got to Meg's site I was frustrated that I couldn't communicate with any of the locals. Then one of the afternoons while everyone else was inside the hut and I had some downting, I decided to read a magazine on the porch outside. Before I knew it, I had close to twenty children in my lap whispering phrases in Nyanja and pointing at all of the colorful pictures in the magazine. At that point a friend of Meg's who spoke Nyanja and English came out of the hut and organized fun games with him, me and all the village children which consisted of holding hands in a circle, jumping around and singing songs. I didn't understand a single word but I hadn't laughed that hard at something so simple in a really long time.

-Riding in an ox-cart on our first site vist, enjoying every moment of the ride, then being scared to death when the cart broke from the weight of too many people. We found ourselves stuck in the middle of the bush with no torches (headlamps) and the Zambian sun setting. The oxen started getting a little freaked out too, but needless to say, we made it back to Meg's hut safe and sound.

-Watching little girls move their hips in crazy ways at a cultural dance we went to on first site visit. I am so jelous they can do that.

-Getting to know my host family, who are great. I feel like I am in elementary shool again because my host mom, ba Vainess, makes sure I am awake very morning at 6 am, warms up bath water for me, brings me my breakfast, sends me off to school with snacks in my backpack, then wants to hear all about what I have learned every day when I get home from school. My eleven-year-old host sister, Lucy is cute and we spend evenings together playing card games. I taught her the game spit and we play every night after dinner.

- Cooking caterpillars in tech class and eating them (they seem to be a delicacy here) then coming home a few nights ago with the language skills to tell my ba mayo (host mother) all about it. I told her I liked cooking the caterpillars but not eating them and she looked at me, smiled and asked "you don't like Kapenta either, do you?" Kapenta is a fish I can only describe as being similar to minnows and you eat the entire thing with the eyes staring back at you and all. While I was willing to try them once, I was so happy to know that my host mother had realized that I did not want to try kapenta again.

-That I have been brave enough to handle the frogs, mice (and now snakes) that seem to think that my hut is also theirs. Enough said there.

- Beautiful singing I hear all the time everywhere. Zambians love to sing a capella in excellent harmony any opportunity they get. My host sister, Lucy, sings every morning as she does her chore, which is washing dishes. On first site visit we went to an HIV/AIDS support group and as we were arriving, the entire group welcomed us warmly with a beautiful songs and clapping. I went to a non-denominational church last Sunday with my host family and the singing I heard there would be worth paying for, absolutely amazing. All the singing here has rubbed off on me and I too have started a morning song while I take my bucket baths in the morning, which by the way, being naked and pouring a bucket of water over your head while the African sun is rising is incredible.

- Watching the gorgeous African sky in general. I have seen nothing like it before. Whether it is evening and all the stars are out, during the day and a thunderstorm is rolling in, or the sun is setting as I am walking home from training, it never fails to be breathtaking.

- My host sister's friend and our neighbor, ba Judy, who has struck a soft spot with me. She is just so innocent and sweet.

- All of the little kids who come sprinting up to me on my walks to and from school. They give me giant hugs, clasp my hands and walk with me for a few meters. It always makes me smile.

- Just how friendly Zambians are in general. I am greeted by everyone, literally everyone I walk past in the village with a friendly "muli shani?" I refuse to believe that the reason for this is just because I'm a muzungu.

- Realizing that the job I am assigned to here (Community Health Development) is a perfect fit for me and that I think I will have a lot to offer. The program I am involved with is trying to decentralize health care and health awareness, bringing more of it to the rural areas of Zambia. My job is to capacity- build community based organizations to help them take chare of the areas of their health they can control themselves. I am also responsible for bringing communication from more urban areas to the community where I will be based. Once I find out my permanent site, there will be a lot more specifications on other jobs I can do there, including working with other NGO's. I am really excited.

Anyway, I hope that that this gives you a little bit more information on life here in Zambia. I apologize for the horrible writing (punctuation, run-on sentences and all) - I am in a huge hurry here at this internet cafe and am buzzed off of a few drinks (its been a while since we have all been let loose and our first free time to do whatever we want in Lusaka!) I promise to go into much more detail in my next few posts- Zambain culture is really interesting! I'm not sure when I will be able to access the internet again, but will update as soon as I can. In the meantime, please please please keep in touch. Snail mail is the best way, but I will take anything and if you can't bust out the stationary, please send me an e-mail and update me on what is going on in all your lives. I have yet to recieve any mail, but hope that letters are on their way! I should also add that right now I have an "internet phone" (not anywhere close to what you might be envisioning) and I can't access gmail on it, but sometimes can go on facebook so all you facebookers send me messages from time to time. I promise that as soon as all the craziness of training settles down I will be writing tons of letters as well. I love you I love you I love you. Until next time.

P.S. If anyone wants to include anything in the letters they send me, I would LOVE to get:
hand sanitizer (as much as possible), American candy (especially chocolate), photographs and the latest, most interesting news clippings on how Barack Obama and the Rockies are doing right now.

Classes begin.

2008-03-10T18:21:00.000-07:00

Jennifer again. Rachel now lives with her host family, a nice and interesting middle-aged woman and her 11-yr.-old grandaughter she is raising. This village is a 10-minute walk from the Peace Corps training center. Rachel has her own one-room hut as well as her own bath shelter and pit latrine. Communication with "Vainess" and her grandaughter is a challenge, and with a strict class schedule Rachel has little time to be alone. The "bush" landscape near Lusaka is completely different from anything she has ever seen and there are beautiful skies and sunsets. Daytime temps are around 80 degrees, always comfortable. She sounds great on the phone and says she looks forward to getting any letters!

update 03/02/08

2008-03-02T14:08:00.000-08:00

This is Rachel's mom, Jennifer. Rachel has been unable to access the internet so she has asked me to update her blog for her. So, here goes...........
I first heard from her last Tuesday 2/26 when she called to say she arrived in Lusaka in one piece. She sounded wonderful, saying "I love everything so far" and "the Peace Corps is really taking care of us." Her new cell phone # is (country code 26)-097-896-4899. (fyi: Lusaka is 9 hours ahead of Mountain Standard Time). The rest of the week she was to visit other volunteers "in the bush" till Saturday.
I talked to her again yesterday. She said she has had a great week. The Peace Corps training center is actually located in a compound outside the city of Lusaka.Before leaving on Wednesday, they had to choose a language after hearing presentations about various ones. Their future assignment location is based on this choice. She will be learning Bemba. They split up into groups of 5 and headed out to the country. Her 10-hour trip by bus led her to a village where she met a volunteer named Meg who was in her 2nd year of service. (Meg happens to be a Lewis and Clark College graduate, the same school where Rachel's sister, Emily, attends). Meg lives in her own hut, and seems to manage well without electricity and running water. Rachel had a "shower" in a grass shelter used for bathing, by pouring a bucket of water over her head: "the best experience ever!!" as it was evening and had never seen so many stars in the open sky above. On Sunday she was to meet her host family who live in a village close to the Peace Corps training where she'll stay the rest of her orientation period. Classes start on Monday, consisting of language training from 8 to 12 and technical training from 1 to 5.
Rachel would love to hear from anyone via letters or text messages. "I'll write back!!" and hopes to write her own blog posting soon.

Testing One Two Three

2008-01-20T14:53:00.000-08:00

I am teaching my Mom how to type blog entries for me while I am away... that's about it.

no use for a name (at least for now...)

2008-01-15T23:20:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay I'll admit it on my first blog posting ever. I am pretty disappointed in my lack of creativity for the title of this blog. I brainstormed for a while and finally decided, "how can I come up with a good name for a description of an experience I have yet to embark on in a country I have never set foot in?" That's like inventing the title of a book before even writing the first page- which some authors must do I guess, but do most? I would never do that. Anyway, the solution to this problem can be solved in two ways. Either I go to Zambia and decide a name after a few months of pondering it, etc. OR there can be a contest to come up with the best title for this blog. Basically, whichever comes first.

And while I'm at it, I guess I'll admit that the picture in the corner is obviously not taken in Zambia, but in Nicaragua. I figured I needed to try adding a picture and thought this one would suit because I'm planning on spending a lot of time in hammocks while in Zambia (assuming I figure out whether or not the rope kind or the parachute kind is best and that I actually buy one).

As you can infer from what I have just written, my thoughts on Peace Corps and Zambia are incredibly emotional and deep at the moment (hammocks, names for blogs, ha ha.). I keep thinking I'll update this one night to try and explain all the feelings and millions of thoughts that run through my head as I try to go to sleep, but I think my heart might explode if I try to find words for indescribable emotions that can contradict one another in a flash. Let's put it this way. The other day I was watching my Mom read (unbenownst to her...kind of creepy I know) and all of a sudden a huge wave rushed into me reminding me how much I love her and all I wanted was to be a little girl again and have her tuck me in at night while reading me stories until I fall asleep. BUT then reality regained its grip on me and I realized that I am not a little girl anymore and that although I will miss my Mom every day, I am (hopefully) making her proud by doing this.
Then tonight I laid in bed and turned the light switch on and off and thought while it was on, "my life right now..." and while it was off..."Africa" and tried to imagine going to sleep in a mud hut with all the critters I hear you have to make friends with over there. And I thought of how every day is going to be a new adventure and of all the new, amazing people I will meet. These are the thoughts that make me want to board that plane right now.

Anyway, this brings me to the point that for now my blog title, though somewhat dull, is fitting because I do tend to ramble on from time to time. Oh, and fair warning that I won't be spell-checking my words, I still don't know how to use commas properly, and I am addicted to inserting ellipses after every other phrase I write...

2007-12-28T09:53:00.000-08:00