Recap

I haven’t written in sooo long! I can’t even really think of all the things that have happened since I last wrote, mainly because the days go by slow as a clogged drain, but the months fly by. I’ve been here a year already! February 10th made a year in Zambia and that makes me an official volunteer and living in the village for 7 months. Ok, so lets just do some highlights of the last few months and I promise I’ll keep up with it after this.

GLOW Camp: I have two GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) clubs in operation at two nearby(a relative term) schools and this past December we had our area’s annual camp where each participating volunteers were allowed to bring two girls for five days of the types of sessions we do in our regular clubs, food and fun. And I really did have fun. I let teacher/counterpart of both clubs be the ones to select which girl went, one from each club. The picked girls that answered a lot of questions and had more outgoing personalities, and spoke pretty good English, though none of those were a requirement. Anyway, I’m glad they did. I did not know these particular girls very well before, but now, I’ve grown to know and like them.

During the camp, sessions were led by volunteers selected in advance to lead. We talked about boys, sugar daddies, our bodies, confidence, just about everything a girl aged 12-16 would be interested in or have questions about. We played Capture the Flag, a big hit, and visited Chishimba Falls and Kasama Girls Secondary School. I think next year I would like to be the lead facilitator. We’ll see.

Thanksgiving: Thanksgiving was spent at the provincial house with the other volunteers. At one point I thought about cooking a meal for the families I am closest to, but maybe I overthought the amount of preparation it would take and possibly alienating myself from other people who could get the impression that I only want to associate with those families, who are also the families of my counterparts. Probably overthought that.

Anyway, we did not have a turkey, but we did have a whole, fresh pit roasted pig. The pig was so fresh, she was alive and kicking when they brought her to the house the day before. One of the volunteers did the slaughter and the buried her in the pit fire after stuffing it with fruit, and glaze. The next morning we pulled all the meat off the bones and devoured it. So tender. So delicious. There were also plenty of desserts and sides. It really felt like a normal Thanksgiving which I was so glad about because its my favorite holiday and I’ve never had a miserable one yet. I made my family lemon chess pie which is out of this world when I’m making it for myself. But any time I make something for a group, it is going to go wrong. I used all the zest without accounting for how gigantic these lemons were, the texture was…off.

Victoria Falls/Livingstone: For New Year’s, Livingstone seems to be the Mecca of vacation spots for volunteers in Zambia and every other surrounding country. I met a lot of volunteers I probably otherwise would have never seen even though we’re in the same country. I met volunteers from Namibia and Tanzania. It was pretty cool to just automatically have something in common with random people. We could just relate. How many other strangers can I meet and start commiserating or extolling living in villages, learning new languages, and integrating into new cultures? Not that many. We visited Victoria Falls which is huge. This time of year it was a little skimpy. I’m told that during April and May, that’s when you would just be blown away, but I was still impressed. A couple of volunteers bungee jumped off the bridge between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Others went to the Devil’s Pool. Good times for all.

Wounded Knee: Christmas night. I spent Christmas alone, it was like any other day in the village, nothing special. That night though, I’d been having problems with my water filter leaking. And not because I banged it with a hammer a couple of times. I banged it with a hammer BECAUSE it was leaking and I thought it could fix it. And I was mad. After that, I went from the kitchen, came back in and slid. I was about to crash down onto the red hot coals of my brazier (that’s a real paranoia I’ve developed since then) but just in time, I twised my leg as I was sliding. My knee got the memo a little too late that we were changing directions and was subsequently dislocated. Oh the pain. I screamed a couple of times and literally bit the wall as I maneuvered it back into place. The next day the house’s driver came and got me and I was able to experience first hand a developing countrie’s hospital system. We really have it so good in America, I must say we’re spoiled. So now, about two months later, I still can’t put full weight on it when kneeling and can’t bend it all the way. I think something may kind of still be wrong with it, or maybe that’s just how long it takes to heal. C’est la vie.

America: I went to America in January! I had originally thought I would not go back until my time was up, but I was ready to come home for a little while. Other volunteers talk about the reverse culture shock the experienced when they went back. Being bewildered to tears by the selection in Wal-Mart and the amount of traffic and cars and people everywhere. I felt nothing of the sort. Honestly it was like I never left. I thought I’d be forgetting how to drive and get places, or at least be nervous about getting back on the road. It was like I’d never stopped driving. There weren’t even any foods or restaurants that I just HAD TO HAVE, but I still enjoyed myself. I saw my nephew, I’m always worried he’ll forget me. And I met my 6 month old niece for the first time. That was really the best part of going home. It was the reason for going home. It was time to reinforce the familial bonds. I also spoke to two classes at Virginia State University about Peace Corps service and in doing so, earned two days of vacation back! But even if that incentive were not there, I’d still gladly speak to anyone about the organization’s merits.

So that’s the recap. Next time, things will be more up to date and detailed because I’ll remember more because they happened more recently. Haha. Thanks for reading!

 

 

 

Wailing Women

The sudden eruption of what sounded like a sea of ghosts coming to life at 2:30 one Saturday morning was not even startling when it woke me. I wasn’t surprised. I’d felt it coming all the day before. I’d felt strangely eerie that night to the point where I closed my window before I went to bed because the moon looked scary. I wasn’t startled. I immediately sat up and knew that he’d died.

About a month ago, my next door neighbor was attacked by a dog and bitten on the lip. This neighbor was also my counterpart’s brother and the village church’s newly elected church elder, a young husband, a father, and a really nice man. I remember the day the bite happened. I was standing outside my house about to deliver some ill-fated stewed tomatoes (never cook tomatoes in an aluminum pot!) to his sister. This sister happened to come walking past my house going to her house and she was wailing. The wailing the women do here is a sound where you take a deep breath and release a high, shrill “Ahhhh”. In the next breath they say a string of rapid lamentations that I can’t catch. I only can discern when they start off the sentences with “Oh mayo”. Mayo is mother in Bemba. She went wailing on to her house, not even seeing me. Later, I took over the tomatoes and asked what happened. With red eyes, a shaky voice, and a worried frown, she tried to tell me something about her youngest brother. Language barrier. She pantomimed and talked and what I gathered was that he had been bitten on the lip by a dog. That’s what I thought she said, but why would she be crying about that? Maybe I misunderstood. The next day at church, he was holding a cloth to his lip. It didn’t look like a horrendously bad bite. I concluded that maybe the sister is just tender-hearted and was upset at seeing her brother hurt. She is a sweet lady, hence the tomatoes.

Life went on as normal. He seemed fine to me. He and his wife went about their usual business making mud bricks. His wound took a long time to heal, but I figured the location of the bite had something to do with that. About two weeks later, a cousin of their’s visited them and stopped by my house on his way home since I was outside. He related the tragedy to me in English that my neighbor had been unable to get the rabies vaccines he needed after the dog bite. He had been to two clinics and neither had the shot available. He also told me the dog was sick and had been attacking everybody. Oh.

A while later went on and as far as I knew everything was fine. I had Googled the symptoms and survival rate of rabies in humans. The predictions seemed pretty grim. But I told myself, the dog must not have been rabid. He’s doing fine. Then one night, the church’s pastor went to their house and laid hands on him. I knew this because I could hear him praying and shouting from my house. The next morning when I came out, their yard and house looked abandoned. Usually there are always toddlers and children over there helping his wife and just hanging out. He and his wife were gone. I saw their two young children out and around the village as usual. The saying “It takes a village to raise a child” really was born out of Africa in a setting just like my village. I saw one neighbor outside bathing the couple’s son one evening, they ate their meals at their uncle’s and aunt’s houses. The little girl was carried everywhere on the backs of various cousins, aunts, and friend. I’m sure they arranged for designated people to watch them, but this type of mothering everyone’s children is normal every day here.

His fourth or fifth day in the hospital, I felt a little agitated. I asked one of his young nieces about his condition. She said he was “Cimo cine”. The same. I didn’t even know how that was to begin with. I hadn’t been able to ask my counterpart since he, their other brother/headman, the sister and the wife had been staying at the hospital with him since he went in. Later I asked his sister in law. I could see the grief in her face though she didn’t get dramatic when she told me he was very sick. That night was the night he passed. His family got back to the village around 2:30 the next morning. I’m guessing they waited til then to inform the rest of the family.

Aftershock

As the screaming started, I heard wailing voices start at houses around me, picking up the call as it reached their ears. Soon I heard their sister walking by wailing. Its strange how well I know these people’s voices. As she walked to her house, every woman in earshot woke up, picked up and carried the sound. And that is how news of the death got around. A true domino effect. Immediately I heard the wailers walking past my house on the way to gather at the headman’s house.

At a time like this, maybe a month or so ago I would have wondered what was the “correct” thing for me to do. This isn’t my culture. Should l stay in the house and go visit my counterpart in the morning? Will it look bad if I don’t come? Seven months in, it didn’t cross my mind. I was already crying right along with them, yeah I was going to join them. I threw on some clothes and headed out into the moonlight that looked so eerie earlier. It was so bright it looked like the sun was about to come up. When I got to the house, the men were sitting across from the house on benches and the women were sitting around the perimeter of the house on the foundation. Some were up pacing back and forth. All the women were wailing and screaming. I took a seat on the side of the house and sobbed quietly. The children that come by my house all the time were walking and screaming, the women were thunderous. It sounded like that scene in Titanic after the ship sank and everyone was in the water freezing. Pure agony. After about 15 minutes, I went home. People were still coming. I knew they would stay there in that same way the rest of the night. It was nonstop until late the next morning.

In this culture, a funeral lasts three days and three nights. I didn’t stay the night. They know this isn’t my culture, but I came and sat several times. When I went back the next day I already knew how to conduct myself. I’ve been to two other funerals under supervision and guidance. I walked to the door step, left my shoes outside, walked into the room and took a seat on the floor against the wall. In silence. There were maybe 8 or 9 other women there already seated. We did not even verbally greet each other. You just go, sit, and be in your own little world unless you happen to catch someone’s eye. Then you might cup your hands and make clapping motions as a sign of acknowledgement.

Eventually the wife was escorted back into the room. They had just led her out as I arrived. She was flanked by two sisters in laws and looked like this was probably the worst day of her life. I saw her eyes involuntarily close and she nodded a few times. At this point she had to have been awake more than 24 hours. Eventually she bunched up a jackets, pulled a chitenge over herself as a cover and laid down, as did the sister in law beside her. I can imagine the constant stress and activity of having company 24/7 for days added on top of the stress of losing a loved one must be entirely draining. But this culture believes in physically surrounding the bereaved.

Eventually one of the women started up spontaneously wailing and crying. She went on for as long as she felt she needed to I guess. No one makes a move to quiet, suppress, or comfort another when there are expressing their grief how they see fit. I like that. After staying about an hour and a half, I abruptly went home. I’m told by a friend that I’m experiencing culture shock which I’ll have to write more about in another article. But basically seven months into my stay, things that I’ve been slightly annoyed by all along have lately felt intolerable. I’d made up my mind that in the future when these things occur, I would just stop everything, pick up, and leave. So that’s what I did.

Later that night I went back. There were at least 60 people camping out in the yard. They had reed mats spaced around the yard for people to lay on and several campfires were going so it was well lit. A church choir was there to sing literally all night with few breaks in between. In the background you could hear women crying and screaming periodically. Later on a preacher would preach. After about 50 minutes I went home, annoyed again. I think by Night 2 after another irritating Day 2, people had started to get the idea/point that the muzungu (word for Not Zambian) was a bit testy and temperamental, and I didn’t have any more issues. On day three mourners walked several miles to the town to the burial and gathered back at the house for the final day.

In Memory

It’s the same way I feel any time anyone I know dies. Regretful and vaguely guilty with a bit of uncertainty. Did he know I really liked him? Did I show him I appreciated that he was always friendly and greeted me every time I saw him? Did I ever indivertibly offend him? These are thoughts that always plague me in this situation.

I’ll never know that answers. I can just honor his memory. I won’t forget how kind he was to me. I’ll remember he and his brothers putting the roof on my insaka and my counterpart introducing him as “He is our last-born” The baby. The pride of their family. I’ll remember how he and his wife always seemed to enjoy each other’s company, the affection he showed his children. I’ll remember one Sunday during a praise and worship song at church how he jumped up and tied a chitenge around his waist and danced in the aisle. The children went crazy and got in the spirit of things too. May he rest in peace.

In Memory of “Bashi Emmanuel” Ba Elder Moses Mukuka

We’re Off to See the Wizard

I’ve been surrounded by royalty the pasts couple of days. In Zambia there are traditional leaders and state leaders. The people who live in big cities and suburban areas adhere to state authority. Zambians who live in villages are subjects of a line of headmen or headwomen, local chiefs, and one paramount chief. The land they live on is owned by the chief system, and they are allotted plots to farm and live on. If someone commits some type of crime, other than a very serious one such as murder, the chiefs are the ones they are reported to. Through the headmen first. The chief can order you to serve “jail time” by being a slave in his palace for however long he may deem. I use the term slave because it’s forced, unpaid servitude. You have lodgings at his palace to stay in, they feed you, but the work you do is the punishment. I’ll call it an indentured servant if that sounds better. I guess at worst; the chief could evict you out of the entire kingdom if your transgression was bad enough. And that is the condensed lowdown of the traditional authority mu Zambia.

Ukusefya Pa Ng’wena

Saturday, I attended the annual Bemba tribe festival celebrating the founding of their tribe. That day I left the provincial house with a few other volunteers and we quickly flagged down a bus that was part of the caravan of cars, trucks and buses leaving the town of Kasama for the village Ng’wena of where the tribe first settled. We were able to get that ride for so cheap, K20, we just knew the day was going to be good. A few other volunteers had come the day before and camped out so they were there already. Camping out is also what a lot of the Bembas that came from long distances did. I’m told there was lots of dancing and singing all night as different village groups auditioned for a spot to perform as entertainment the next day. A traditional dance group from my village was among them. I’d seen them practicing playing the drums and singing. I never saw them dancing even though I sat in on a few of the sessions, which I was thought was strange, but later on I saw why.

When we got there, there were four huge tents set up surrounding a stage. One tent was for the commoners, the others seemed to be set up for esteemed guests with one small one set up for the paramount chief and his entourage. He sat on a very large chair, I wouldn’t call it a throne and in front of him sat this crocodile shaped palanquin with an easy chain inside. I missed it, but he is always carried in on this to symbolize the crocodile that the Bemba tribe walked across as a bride when they arrived at this village.

Entertainment

We found our group which was pretty easy because, they’re all White and pretty much everyone else at the festival save for a few photographers were African. A few had been lucky enough to get seats, we latecomers were not, so we sat on the ground a little more than half in the sun, which was blazing. We watched a large group dance performance, I decided I couldn’t take Big Red frying my face any more and choses to go stand nearby the paramount chief’s tent in the shade. Two more of us volunteers were already standing there and taking pictures. We got a pretty up close view of the next group of dancers. Four girls dressed in traditional clothing and hairstyles danced on stage then came down and danced in front of the chief and other guests. Bemba dancing is all about hip shaking for the most part. And they shake them. Wow. I was able to score a few pics of them, but a video would have done it more justice. Eventually a young man joined them carrying and spear and a hatchet, he shook as much as the girls he performed with. It was really nice. It just struck me that the girls were wearing leggings. They had very short skirts and wore white tank tops. In Zambia, it is improper to wear clothes exposing your thighs. Before colonialism, and Christianity reached this county, they wore outfits like these girls, minus the leggings and the tank tops. I just thought it was so interesting that even for this performance showcasing traditional dress, they still had to adhered to the more recent rules of decency.

The history of the Bemba tribe was read, telling the story of how the tribe came to be and how a few of their traditions that they practice today started centuries ago. It was really cool. I can see that they take pride in their heritage. Then the dancing started. A village group came on and performed a song a dance. Different people walked up on stage during the performance and left gifts of money and even joined in the dance for a few steps before sitting back down. After each dance, the MC would tell us in Bemba and in English what the dance was about.

 

Dance of Death

I don’t remember what the first two dances were about, but the third one will never be forgotten. Any time a disclaimer has to be announced before, you just know… The MC let us know that anyone who may be sensitive to animal slaughter should probably not watch this dance as an animal would be slaughtered. This dance was about the hunting practices of the tribe. Wait, whoah. Slaughter?? I’m a meat eater, definitely. I know that animals have to be killed in order for me to have that meat. Of course. But for entertainment purposes. I’m sure he was eaten later, but it just seemed too tragic to me that he was led out on stage so unsuspecting. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn’t. Even as the group came out with a big net, a club, and a goat on a lead. Tears were in my eyes. They sang and walked the goat around for a minute as a few people stretched out the net at one end of the stage. Then the time came and all the people on the stage clapped and ran at the goat to chase him to the net where the executioner was waiting. The goat ended up diving under the net. The crowd jeered the man with the club for missing his target. They started the process again. This time, the goat was not as lucky. From where I was, I could not actually see the goat. I could only see the man’s long arm with that club going up and down several times. After quite a few blows, two men quickly picked up the goat and spirited him away out of the crowed. I’m assuming they finished him off when they got him away.

If I had stayed in my original seat on the ground, that goat would have been practically in my lap. He was right in front of the other volunteers. The reaction of the crowd was exultant. They were so excited from the time the MC announced the action that was going to take place. I’m just so shocked at how excited and giddy my fellow volunteers were as they filmed and took pictures of the event. I can’t imagine that they would have the same reaction if this same thing took place in the states. Do your convictions and morality really vary by geographical location?

Dance of the Muzungus

After that unpleasantness, I was pleased to get my mind turned to happier things. My village group performed! They took the stage and I ran and sat on the edge of it to get close(er) ups of them. They had camped the night before too, and a couple volunteers told me they had met them that night and told them that I was their volunteer. I was so proud. I was able to do a quick wave and get their attention. When they noticed me, we cupped our hands and did a clapping motion which is the equivalent of waving in Zambia. My Bemba tutor was the main singer. I could tell by everyone’s voices that they had been singing all night. They were pretty hoarse. Their dance was about making fire. While they sang and played the drums, a few men danced around one man sitting on the ground starting a fire by twisting a stick between his hand. You’ve seen the technique. This performance had all the photographers and videographers running up for a close up, I guess it was the highlight performance. The dancers got more frenzied as the first signs of smoke showed. He was so focused on his work, sweat was pouring down his face. I’m sure it was a lot of pressure. Finally the fire started and one man picked brought over a small pile of dry grass and lit it and held it up for the cheering crowd.

Immediately after the Firestarter dance, all the volunteers came to where I stood chattering in excitement. It seems they were randomly picked out of the crowd, I wonder how, to get up on stage and dance to the next song performed by my village. This seems to be one of the favorite pastimes of any Zambian with a drum and within thirty feet of a muzungu. They have to see them dance. Everyone else can be getting down, but it’s just not fun if the muzungu doesn’t put on a show. And they will steal the show every time. Even if they are just stepping from side to side clapping off beat, they will be the star of the show. All eyes will be on them even more so than usual. My friends asked if I was going to get on stage. Na kana. I refuse. I really get enough of being a spectacle when I’m not being a spectacle. I could write an entire thesis on the amount of unwarranted attention I get on a daily basis. For basic things like coming out of my house, standing in my yard, fetching water, riding a bike, scratching a mosquito bite, eating a cookie. I generally ignore it, but sometimes… I just don’t crave that much adoration. So while they jumped into the spotlight, I stayed on the sidelines and took pictures. Everyone loved it. They always do. Afterwards, my bamayo Bemba tutor asked me why I didn’t dance. That would have been a whole can of worms. I could see it. I would be called upon to do repeat performances every day in the village like a trick pony. Literally. They do it now and I’ve never given them as much as a two step. Imagine if I actually gave them a valid reason to ask me to dance. I’ll just stick to my usual excuse. I’m shy. The closing remarks of the MC commended the willingness of the group of people from “Europe? Maybe America?” to adopt the Bemba dances and integrate. Very willing. Good job.

All in all, I really enjoyed the festival. I hope you enjoyed this article. Sorry if it’s not my usual caliber. I’m usually writing in silence, now there are about six of the dancing muzungus on their laptops in the room with me having a lively conversation about the crazy possibilities that could happen if you informed your village that you were gay just as you were pulling away in the taxi to go back to the U.S. Lol.

Making the fire

Officially Zam’d

Zam’d- Peace Corps Zambia lingo for getting shafted, while in Zambia. Because you’re in Zambia. I’m sure each Peace Corps country has a similar phrase. Tan’d for Tanzania?

It Started Out So Well…

As is the case for when most people get Zam’d, it started out so good. They say in Zambia things go from good to bad and back and forth in seconds. Especially when you have a Zam attack coming. I was on the way from Lusaka. My program intake had just spent twelve fun filled days in Lusaka for IST. In Service Training. During this time, we learned additional subjects to fish farming like Animal Husbandry, Beekeeping, and the HIV work we are required to do like Grassroots Soccer. Its actually pretty fun. Has nothing to do with soccer, so I’m happy, because when I heard the name, I had decided we weren’t doing it in my village. I despise sports of all kinds. But back to the story.

I slept majority of the 10 hour trip back to Mpika, putting off stressing about the logistics of how I was going to get myself and all the stuff I bought back to my village. Also Peace Corps gifted us with about 40 pounds of reading material and other things like a soccer ball and a wooden demo penis. When I disembarked, I quickly secured a taxi for the price of 60 kwacha. I then proceeded to the nearest ATM. Out of service. I tried another. Out of service. One more left in the whole town. In service! Transaction was magically canceled with no explanation and my card was neatly returned. I should have known what was about to become of my day. I got back into the car and talked again to the driver who seemed not to understand good English or bad Bemba. I told him my village name and how many kilometers it was away. Keep this in mind. I told him where it was in proximity to a landmark for another town. He still seemed confused. Baffled was more like it. But he had enough presence of mind to change the price to 60 kwacha when he got it through to his brain that it was 17 k away. Ok. Fair enough. And we’re off!

We had to make a stop, to pick up my bicycle from lodge I had slept in the night before leaving for Lusaka. He promptly changed the price to 80 kwacha. Whatever. I had to take the front tire off to get it into the trunk of his car. We got on the road and he then asked for the 80 kwacha to put in his tank. I think he noted my ATM dilemma and was afraid I didn’t actually have money. I did have 200 kwacha. I gave him one of the hundreds to pay the attendant. I noticed he held onto the 20 kwacha change when he got back in. I know he didn’t just forget he was holding it because he continuously fingered it and switched it from one hand to the other. He was working himself up to something. After we started off again, he stated his case. “Madam. You said Chibanasa.”’Awe (No) I told you my village’s name and that it is past Chibansa” “Madam. That is 17k away. That’s a long way. 100 kwacha is just ok.” As though I wasn’t the one who told him this information. Before we left town! “We said 80” And so we went on down the road. I have been in this situation before where these “taxi” drivers suddenly change the price after you get down the road a ways. Not happening in the light of day and this close to my house buddy. I had already decided if he didn’t give my money willingly, I would snatch all three of his phones, and the charger when I got out. When the fight turned physical, I was pretty confident the villagers would help me. They like me most of the time. I bided my time quietly and waited. And so we went.

The Road to Hell

I saw this smoke from a distance. We made the turn down the dirt road and after we got about halfway to my village, there was fire engulfing the road and fields on either side of it! The driver stopped the car and we stared in shock. Annually, after harvesting, the people burn the fields and all uninhabited areas in the name of clearing the land. Tis the season. Its very windy here, so every so often the wind would blow a torrent of fire right across the road and eventually the sparse brush in the middle caught fire. We couldn’t go through. I was so annoyed because I knew I’d have to take the footpath now, a 7k walk up and down hills, in the hot sun. The man turned around, drove back down the road and dropped me at the beginning of the path. I had to ask for my change mind you, and best believe he only gave me 20 kwacha back. I started to help myself to another ten when he got out, but I was too far away from the village to call for back up. Dude pulls off and I was so annoyed as I started to put the tire back on my bike. I’d have to walk it and balance all my stuff on the seat and rack. Wait a minute…am I missing a piece?

Must Jesus Bear the Cross Alone?

I’m a Christian and I couldn’t help thinking of our Lord and Savior and all He went through on the road to Calvary as I looked forward to my own trek. The cap that keeps the axle on the bike was long gone. Without that, the wheel does not turn or stay on the bike. I can vouch that this is true. I sat out there for about twenty minutes really wondering what to do. A passerby child stopped and looked at me looking at the bike for about 15 of those minutes. I could tell he wanted to help, but then his mother called him and he was gone. Finally, I picked up the wheel and dragged the bike on the one tire to the closest house. I don’t know these people. In fact, they weren’t even home. Only two children. Through motions and gestures I asked the oldest child, about 7 or 8 years old, if I could leave the bike. Hey, he nodded. I locked the bike to a tree just to make the point I wasn’t dropping off a free bike. The chain barely made it around the tree. The tire did not fit in the equation. I pray its still there. I told them I’d be back tomorrow and went back to grab all my bags.

I Shall Call the Pebble Dare

Off I started, all the way cursing the firebugs who foiled my whole plan of not having to walk 7 k with 50 pounds of stuff. Nothing cuts deeper than a duffel bag strap cuts into your shoulder that is loaded down with about 40 lbs of crap. A young girl coming from school came and offered to carry some stuff. I’m appreciative she came when she did because there is a tremendously steep hill we had to summit and I don’t think I would have made it. Unfortunately she lives at the top of that hill and I guess she did not fancy walking me to my village in that heat. I don’t blame her. I thanked her and started to trudge away. Out of nowhere four little girls from my village met me. Why they were going that direction, I do not know. Maybe they saw me. They ran over, so happy to see me and relieved me the lighter items, I held on to the heaviest. I was so glad to see them. I actually did think about them those two weeks. They chattered all the way. Me. I just tried to survive. It was a loooong walk. Finally, we reached home sweet home. I actually hugged the house.

When I got in, I called our provincial volunteer leader in Kasama, about three hours away. She said they do have another part I can come get. So tomorrow I’ll be packing light, walking the distance again, checking on my bike and asking if I can leave it another day and hitching it to Kasama. Tomorrow I’ll be on the road again. There I go. Turn the page. Zam’d.

A Taste of Zambia

 

There’s a piece of village chicken The green stuff is ifisashi The brown cubes are African polony The dried up black things are the caterpillars

Soya!

Nothing like a nice warm Coke to go with your nshima and relish!

This one is about Zambian dishes, and what the rural dweller typically eats on a daily basis. Not me, however, I subsist on PB&J, eggs, corned meat, and Pepsi but that’s another article. From what I’ve seen, Zambia doesn’t have many dishes to call it’s own. The meals are simple and do not vary greatly from day to day. Mainly the farmers eat what they grow. Maize, rape (collard greens), chibwabwa (pumpkin leaves) sweet potatoes, etc. But here’s what I put together.

Ubwali/Nshima

This is the staple food of Zambia. This is the food of Zambia. This is Zambia!! Zambia’s cash crop is corn and many farmers have government contracts to grow it and that is to provide cornmeal for nshima. Which is all nshima is. You boil some and gradually add more and more cornmeal until your wooden spoon is creaking and cracking the nshima is so thick. From there, you form individual hand sized lumps. And that is the meal. Nshima. Oh yeah, there are “relishes”. A relish is anything you have with the nshima like vegetables, chicken, pork, beef, soup, whatever. They are totally just there to compliment the nshima which you break bite sized lumps off to scoop up the relishes. I’ve heard it compared to Ghanaian fufu. You could even think about it like Middle Easterners eat their food using flat bread. On it’s own, is tasteless. A little corny like plain grits. Its not something I have to have. If I eat at someone’s house, I’ll eat it, but you won’t find me cooking it. And this is one of the biggest topics of village discussion of Madam Wendy. She dosen’t eat nshima. They are truly alarmed when they ask “What do you eat??” When I told them we don’t have nshima in the U.S….minds blown. Poof. Can’t fathom.

Caterpillars

I tried to like them. I wanted to like them. I wanted to discover a taste for something I’d never had when I came to Zambia and caterpillars just aren’t it. They are grainy, and hard yet chewy, the taste is…irony? They are sold dried in the open air markets and stir fried mainly as a treat. I think they are seasonal. One volunteer loves them, I just can’t see why. Hopefully I’ll come across someone who knows how to fry up these humongous grasshoppers here and I’ll like those. There’s a lot of meat on those bones. Shells?

Soya

Most rural people don’t have electricity, myself included, so there’s no refrigeration for fresh meats. Can’t kill one of your chickens every night, so whats a good source of protein?? Fish if you are a fish farmer, but otherwise, soya. These are packets similar to raman noodles, of dried soya mince, pieces, or filets in whichever flavor you choose. One of my favorites is Oxtail and Tomato. Mutton is a close second. Those come in minced. The fillets and pieces have look like teriyaki chicken in a Chinese buffet. Can’t say the texture’s the same, but Oxtail mince could pass for Taco Bell seasoned beef. In fact, when we volunteers want have a taste for fajitas or burritos, we use soya. It works.

 

Ifisashi

This is my favorite Zambian dish and the first and so far only, one I’ve learned to make. I had mushroom ifisashi at site visit and asked my host mom to teach me to make it. We didn’t have mushrooms so we used chibwabwa. I pounded groundnuts in one of those big mortar and pestle things. Looks fun. It was for the two minutes before my head felt like it was in the mortar with the groundnuts. After it was grinded down to a fine dust, we sprinkled a solid layer on top of the greens we had boiling and somehow later, it turned into a dish very much like Indian spinach gravy. Savory. Creamy. Only an aftertaste of nuts. Over the mushrooms was better, it was like the creamiest mushroom gravy on earth, but you can make it with different things.

Village Chicken

If you go to a restaurant that serves chicken with nshima or chips (fries), on the menu there will be a V for village chicken, or a B for broiler. Broiler is what we have. What you buy in the stores. Soft, white, normal chicken. Village chicken on the other hand is gotten from one of the free range chickens roaming the villages. Its skin is tough, leathery, and stretchy. Full of big pores where the feather were. The meat itself is dark, even the “white meat”. Its dark like duck meat. And just as chewy. I think this is because these chickens use their muscles more so they are aerated? The bones are HARD. Also like a duck. You really have to snap and pull those bones and tendons but the reward is sweet. Village chicken is ten times more flavorful than broiler. In fact, the chicken from the store kind of just takes on whatever flavor you cook it with. Village chicken has its own. Its all a preference though.

African Polony

I finally had some I liked and now I want to learn to cook it. I’m told its simple to make this meat-like-loaf. It’s the texture of thick bologna, kind of tastes like it, kind of smells like it. You’d be surprised to know there’s no meat involved. Years ahead of Smart Dogs and Morning Star Farms. There are four ingredients: Water, soda, groundnuts, and wild orchid root called chikanda. Yes, orchids grow wild here. I’ve seen them. Not the finicky phalentopolis we try and fail to grow in the U.S., but orchids all the same. Yes, these orchids grow here in full sunlight, in fluxuating temperatures, and with no Miracle Gro special potted soil mix for orchids, or weekly plant food, nobody to make sure its getting enough light, but not too much light lest it wither and die the next day…Anyway, they take the root of this, and the other ingredients and put them together to make a meat substitute. Go figure. When you rarely have meat, you can scramble some eggs, slice the polony, and if you really want it, and really wish it, you could almost convince yourself you’re eating fried bologna and eggs.

Bush Meat

Its meat from some animal that lives in the bush…No one can ever think of what species this animal is, I guess they just recognize it when they’re hunting, kill it and eat it. No questions asked. Or maybe there’s not a particular type, maybe it’s  just whatever you successfully hunt in the bush. I don’t know. It was offered. I ate it. Tasted a little like goat. Pretty tough. Lot of salt. Meh.

Update!: I made the African polony. It takes HOURS! You have to pound the groundnuts and the orchid roots, separately, for as long as it takes to grind the down to a fine dust. And it takes long. Now that it’s off my bucket list, I’ll just buy a piece of it rather than ever make my own again. Haha

 

Field Day

Every muscle in my boy aches. Particularly my pelvic muscles. I could not figure out why I was having body pains. Pretty quickly my slightly hypochondriac mind conjured up malaria as a possibility. Oh, no did I forget my Mefloquin?? Just as I was reaching for that box of Coartem and the phone to call the Peace Corps Medical Office with my diagnosis, I remembered. Limbo.

Two days ago, it started with just two girls coming to see me. They sat on my porch with me and answered a satisfied “yes” to every question I posed or statement I made. “How old are you?” “Yes”, “Do you like school?” “Yes” “What is your name?” “Yes” They didn’t know what I said. Didn’t care, they were just pleased to be hobnobbing it with Madam Wendy. I didn’t ask them to call me. Makes it sound like I run a house of ill repute. Eventually when they agreed that yes, their hair was on fire, I stopped talking. And we just sat. Can I just interject here to say that I am not a person who loves children? Don’t get me wrong, there are children that I love. Like my nephew. There are even children that I like. My nephew again and two of my four godchildren. I’M KIDDING! I don’t dislike them, but I don’t like them solely on the basis that they are children. That’s fair, right? But I digress.

Anyway, two more girls happened by. This is it is in the village. Where two or three are gathered, more will come. Never fails. I suppose the person walking by assumes they are missing out on something important, then it looks more important because now there are ten people standing in a huddle. Snowball effect.

Anyway the second set of girls were carrying groundnuts they had just picked. They dumped a few in my hands then sat down with us. One girl started tossing the nuts in the air trying to catch them in her mouth. We watched, cheered and laughed. Then another started doing it. Since I figured they weren’t leaving any time soon, I got in on the act. That sent them over the edge when they saw me participating. They started shrieking the trademark Zambian sound of excitement, surprise, or reaction to a juicy story “Ee-yaaay!” When you try it, pretend your voice is on a fast moving boomerang. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

From there we were tossing nuts into each other’s mouths and missing most of the time. I just said a blessing in my mind over those nuts because nobody’s hands were clean and the ones we missed, were picked up and thrown again. From there the girls picked up a long stick and played a game similar to the concept of a SkipIt. I’m old. They dragged the stick side to side while the player jumped over it. Seemed easy enough. And fun so I jumped in and kept egging the girl on “Faster, Faster” I think she figured I was old and wouldn’t be able to keep up if she went faster but I wanted to play. She sped up, I tripped. Oh well.

By now a group of at least 20 children were watching from the church yard. They edged closer and closer until finally I told them to come on and play. Let the games begin!

High Jump

Two people held a stick for the players to take a running leap over. Like hurdles. Each round they raised the stick higher and higher. I played until my foot caught the stick at knee level. The last players were jumping at chest level. I mean a grown woman’s chest with very supportive underwire. I literally could not watch in the moment they went over, sure somebody was about to take a spill. Some did, but these kids were amazing. Particularly the last girl standing. She was so long and graceful, it looked effortless. The last boy had the holders with the stick at neck level before I put a stop to it. He was going to try it though?

Limbo

I suggested the Limbo as an alternative. Can you believe they’ve never heard of it? Usually I am not the most limber person when I play this ku America. But that day I was leaning and shimmying, dusting those kids. They really struggled to bend over backwards, as young as they were. So I came in and cleaned up. I leaned back so far, I saw the stick, the sky, then the kids behind me cheering me on. I think that was about the time rigor mortis set in.  But in that moment, it was worth it. I’d started to feel like the mean old lady that only ever said, “Muli Shani”, “Get out of my trash pit!”, and “Uh uh, tecissuam (that’s bad)”. But today I wasn’t dismissing them or waving them away like flies. We were having fun.

When it started getting late and they had to go home, in a dejected voice I asked “Oh, you’re leaving? Ok. See you tomorrow”

Overnight Celebrity

This was planned to be called “A Wedding Story” but turns out there was no wedding. The intent of last night’s ceremony was lost in translation when I was invited. I was invited by a neighbor’s granddaughter’s ceremony who was getting married. That was the description. Thinking I would be attending a wedding, I went with my host mom and walked, to my surprise, straight into an infamous Zambian ceremony I’d read about and hoped to be invited to. The Overnight.

I walked into a dim room where eight or nine other people were sitting on the floor. Following my host mom’s example, I laid on my right side, cupped my hands and clapped twice, turned onto my left side and clapped again before placing some money onto a chitenge covering a pot into the center of the floor. A lady that I have missed seeing since site visit directed me to sit next to her. She speaks pretty good English, so she told me the money was for the bride to have for herself when she gets married. Almost like a dowry. Or a rainy day fund. Speaking of the bride, where was the lady in white? I deduced that she was the pretty young woman sitting across from me looking uninterested and slightly annoyed to be there. I’ve noticed it seems most pictures of African marriage ceremonies, the women look like they couldn’t care less to be there and don’t want to get married. I’m sure inside they are as jittery and excited as any other bride, but perhaps they’re not supposed to look eager?

Goody Basket

The basket under the chitenge was eventually uncovered and all the items pulled out. There were about thirty handmade clay figurines inside, each different with a different meaning and song illustrating it’s meaning. They looked like something you would see in an ancient African art museum. It was so cool to see that people actually still use things of this nature. My second counterpart, the bride’s grandfather, is fluent in English and often translates for me in meetings when I don’t feel like wasting time stumbling to find the words. He listened to each song and told me what they were singing about. I remember two hats represented a male and female eagle and the moral of the song was not to marry a man who is aggressive or argumentative…? Ok, don’t understand the relevance, but good advice nontheless. There was a figurine of a pregnant woman with a baby strapped to her back to show that there should be no space between babies. Ha!A canoe. They sang a song while a woman dipped the canoe over imaginary waves. I think it was something sexual because she whispered the meaning to the girl. Some objects left no question as to it’s nature. A stick shaped like a penis. Self-explanatory. A female figurine with a cleft in her groin area. A male figure they placed her under. My counterpart tactfully did not translate the songs for these, and I didn’t ask, but I think I got the gist. After the songs they handed each object to the bride who took and held them reluctantly while they did a little speech about each one. My host mom even jumped in and narrated a couple of the figurines. I did not understand if this is something you have to be trained for, but I’m thinking every married woman has these symbols memorized from their weddings. Oral tradition?

Sex Education

After the goody basket was finished, my counterpart did his claps and left the room. More women had joined the group by this point and this is where things took a different turn. Zambian style dancing consists mainly (only) of the hips and pelvis. How fast, how slow, how smooth, how deliberately you can make the thrusts and twists. Upon first seeing these dances, they looked suspiciously sexual to me. I was taken aback when I first saw children dancing to music this way. Even the youngest ones could put an amateur bellydancer like myself to shame. I don’t even try to compete. From the outside looking in, it looks bizarre to see them, but I understand now, that’s just how they dance. It comes from their traditional dances and who am I to impose my line of thinking on someone else’s culture? The rural Zambian society is pretty conservative. They don’t wear shorts above the knees. But the dancing kind of hinted to me that there was a hidden side to the typical rural dwelling Zambian.

Using these dances, the ladies demonstrated some technical aspects of, ahem, marital duties. I’m blushing as I’m typing. I mean they got down. One woman would start the song, take the floor and the rest would join in as she showed the girl a couple of positions that had to do with the song. During some songs the bride was made to get up and do what the instructor was doing. I just didn’t know where to look. Sitting butt level with a woman wiggling her butt, am I supposed to look at it? Haha. I respectfully averted my eyes at first. Then I tried taking cues from the other ladies including the bride when she wasn’t being instructed. They were watching her hips with no shame, ululating in encouragement when the dancer really got into it. Finally I forced myself to get over what I’ll call prudishness I wasn’t even aware I had and watch. But when one of the especially talented women got on floor and did a very explicit move, I involuntarily pretended to scratch an itch on the top of my head and hid my eyes behind my arm. That brought so much laughter from the women and prompted them to make all kinds of comments and questions to me. I pled the fifth. I don’t know anything, never seen anything. Completely unknowledgeable in these matters.

 

They kept urging me to dance, but I gotta say, I sat out because these women would have showed me up SO bad! To be clear, these were not stripper moves. They weren’t pop locking on a headstand or any stunts like that. It was actually all informative maneuvers for a bride to learn. I resolved I’d practice at home and at the next one I’d debut my moves, but for now, I’d plead shyness. Heck, I was shy! When people think of African women, mostly we believe they are conservative, which a lot of the time they are in dress and behavior. If we thought about it, we might believe that it follows that they are also conservative behind closed doors. We believe that as Americans we are the most sexually liberated, expressive and free. But I can tell you that all the Zambians in the room were nothing but celebratory and comfortable with the demonstrations. The one American in the room had to look away a few times. And its not just me. I guarantee you would feel the same reaction in that situation. But we are the ones who walk around in public half naked!

Except for myself and the bride, no other unmarried women were allowed. Like I said, it seemed all married women know the songs and dances and each spontaneously got up and did a song and dance. And each of them could move like a professional. These are women I know from around the village, preacher’s wives, choir leaders, mothers and grandmothers, just friendly ladies. They don’t dress sexy. Usually in work clothes for farming. You wouldn’t think they would ever do these things. But come to think of it, all of them have several children… I made sure to mention this correlation and they got a kick out of that. Haha.

And the Beat Goes On

 

My host and I got there about 7:00 p.m. I’ll admit it still didn’t click that I was at an Overnight until about 1:00 a.m. when I decided I was ready to go home. Four ladies had been going on the drums so hard that after a while each of them needed Vaseline for their hands because they had blistered and cracked. And they kept going. Song after song. I really like watching them. Usually on t.v. you see the men beating out the tunes for dances, but the three occasion I’ve seen people playing the drums here, aside from children, they’ve been women and they’re passionate players. I was pleased to see one of the oldest women in the village, so old she is one of the few remaining that has tribal tattoos on her face, jump on instrument and she was beating it for all it worth all night! Go Bamayo! Still, things cease to be as fun at 1 a.m. when you’re used to going to bed at 8:30 or 9:00. Most of the others had been nodding and dozing, only to be shaken awake and made to sing the response to whatever song was being sung. The bride was exhausted; I imagine she’d been up all day. I knew there had been a ceremony in the forest before coming to the house. Could be the real reason she was looking done with it all by the time I saw her.

Let’s Dance the Last Dance

I decided it was time to make my excuses and go on home since it appeared everyone else was content to keep sitting and nodding. I moved from a sitting to a kneeling position. The music stopped. Ba Wendy is going home?? Oh no! No no no no no. Awe! Bwaila (its late). I was led and literally put to bed on a mattress with three children in the next room. That’s when it sank in I was in for the long haul. I’ve gotten pretty used to my house these days, I don’t sleep as well in other places now. I definitely don’t sleep as well when there is singing and drumming going on in the next room and a little kid keeps trying to steal the blanket off my toes. And I fought for them. It was fuh-reezing. Did you know it gets very cold in Zambia? Cold season is not just called that in comparison to the U.S.  Surprise.

After I dozed off, a few hours later the drumming stopped and I peeked in the room. Everyone was wrapped in their chitenge laying down asleep. So I take it I was the only one who didn’t get the memo an overnight was a sleepover. Don’t go there. Over-night. I get it now. When light finally began to show, the drumming started up again and I made my way back to the room. Most were awake. Some were still trying to sleep off the effects of the homebrew. Good luck. Eventually someone outside started singing and crawled in the room on all fours with a plate of ubwali on her back with another woman following her with the relishes (chicken, greens, and beans). Breakfast. After a few more songs and drumming, it was broad daylight and time to go home and start the day. The last song was about it being time to go home and take a bath, but you can’t go back to bed because its time to start the day. And, quite surprisingly, I went home, bathed, and started the day.

-Side Note: I have left out some parts of the ceremony. I do not wish to reveal all of what is a very important tradition to the people who practice it and make it common and subsequently trivialized. I hope in what I have shared, none will find offense.

 

Peace Corps Workout Plan

“1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and get them sit ups right

And tuck your tummy tight, and do your crunches like this…”

– The New Workout Plan, Kanye West

I used to be the type to do sit-ups sporadically. I was dedicated in the gym for a while. Sometimes I even deprived myself of food I like. I was never truly satisfied with the results. There was always something that needed to be worked on, and I gave myself “summer bikini goals” every year and when summer time rolled around…speaking of rolls. Haha. Since coming to Zambia I haven’t been on any (self-imposed) diet or workout plan. Yet somehow I’ve been dropping the weight without even trying. Let me tell you how you too can lose weight. It won’t be easy, these are major life adjustments, but you will achieve results in one month that you’ve been working towards for years.

Get Plenty of Rest

All weight loss gurus quip about this, but I think they may have underestimated just how much sleep is needed to achieve your goal. What time does the sun go down where you live? Try this, cook your dinner before the sun sets, eat it right after. Limit yourself to one small portable flashlight or head lamp, aside than that, use no electricity. Pretend there’s a 7 hour time difference between you and all your friends and relatives. You can call and text them, but keep in mind that when it’s night for you, they are just going on their lunch break, and when they get off, it’s about 11 p.m. where you live. So keep the fantasy going and limit your talk time accordingly. OK! You can read a book if you like that or listen to a battery powered ipod or radio. Try tuning into the BBC. If you do these strictly, by 8:00 you will be ready to hit the hay. Climb in bed, turn off your lamp and you’ll be snoring by 8:30. Wake up around 7 a.m. and you will have gotten the 10.5 hours necessary to slim those thighs.

Drink Water

We’re going to have to do some more pretending here. Ok, pretend there’s no store within 6 miles of you. You have a bike. You have no car. You have a bike. When you do make the quest to town, you are there for all supplies needed to last for at least a week. You have a bike. If you forgo a head of cabbage and decide to suffice on collards alone as your one vegetable, you can fit three bottles of your choice of Coke products into your saddle bag. This is all the drink variety you will have for a week. Now for the rest of your hydration intake, there’s water. Walk ,1 miles to a neighbor’s house, or a creek if you have one nearby. Bring buckets. Draw or fill 5 gallons each and lug those back to the house. You can carry one on your head if you are skilled in that area. When you get home, dump these buckets into a huge vat. Boil for 20 minutes. You’re not done yet, now lift this vat to tip the hot water into a water filter. Wait about 40 minutes and drink your fresh, warm-room temperature water. I heard cold water was bad for you anyway.

Cut Back on the Sweets

In fact, limit yourself to the amount of sweets you can fit into a saddle bag each week along with all your groceries and, oh, those three bottles of soda. I almost forgot, the sweets you are familiar with and love are not available. No ice cream. Even if it could survive the bike ride, there’s no electricity at home. No refrigerator! Snack cakes don’t exist, just forget you ever met Little Debbie. Not very many candy bars and chocolate for sale here. I guess the heat and the electricity-less shops would prove to be to their detriment. Don’t despair though, there are biscuits (cookies) galore! Now, stores don’t always restock regularly, so be prepared to eat some stale ones if you really want them. And words like “Creamy, Chocolate, Strawberry, or Delicious” written on the packages don’t always mean that’s how it’s going to taste. This all serves as motivation not to buy! It’s a dieting tactic!

 Eat Less Meat

I’m no vegetarian (by choice), but I can agree that since my period of my meat-once-a-week began, the pounds fell off. This is how you accomplish that if you can’t just imagine giving up that cheeseburger. Go back to pretending that you have no electricity and you go to town once a week. There are no meat sources except for your neighbor’s chicken who come daily to raid your trash pit and you’ll be dragged before the chief if you steal/kill/eat one. Wait, life is still worth living. You’re still allowed to have chicken, beef, or sausage on the day you go to the market. At the butchery, allow yourself just enough meat that you can cook and eat that night, possibly have a bit leftover the next day sans refrigeration. So, stock up and eat up!

Eat Less

One Problem American overeaters have is that in America, eating is a pastime. Food is fun. We go out to eat, cooking is a hobby. Pretend its just for sustenance. Limit your seasonings to salt. No Emeril BAMming over here. Severely limit your access to a small variety of food that you shop for weekly. It’s not so fun anymore, huh? Eat the same thing every day. You’ll stop eating so much. Now, to further lessen temptation’s hold on you, when it’s time to cook, grab some charcoal, and a few matches. Find something to light it with. Put all this in a brazier and spend around twenty minutes fanning the coals to the right amount of heat, and cook your fabulous dinner. Cook fast so that you can use the coals to boil your water and heat bath water before the coals die. If you do it really fast, the brazier can serve as a heat source on cold and chilly nights. Feeling the burn yet?

Exercise

I know that people think of sit-ups, push-ups, jogging, and using different machines are the only way to do it. Unfortunately, we get burned out with the same old, same old. The fresher you keep your routine, the more likely you’ll be to stick with it. Here are some exercises to keep you going.

Guava tree climb: Total body workout Pick and climb.

200 Meter Water Bucket Dash: No more flabby arms!

Chimbusu Squat: Less strenuous than your traditional squat, this one works your buns and thighs. For added resistance, pretend flies are coming out of a pit slamming into your unmentionables. Lean and rock!

Bike everywhere you go: Throw some hills and sand pits in there. Make it an obstacle course.

Limbo: Find some local children and challenge them to a limbo constest. Works your stomach, pelvis, back, and muscles you didn’t know you had! Don’t play a recording of the song.

Treat Yourself

The Peace Corps workout is strenuous. Its all day, every day exercise and self-denial. Can you get a break? Remember those once a week 6 mile grocery runs to town? When you get to town, eat everything in sight. If there’s ice cream, eat two cartons, can’t take it with you. Stop at your favorite restaurant that offers nshima, sausage, village chicken, or broiler chicken. Don’t worry if you don’t have a favorite restaurant. They all have the same thing. Eat everything you thought about over the last week. Its not really cheating. You’ll work it all off in the 6 miles back.

This is the Peace Corps workout plan and I can provide testimonial that it works- Wendy

*This workout plan is satirical. It works, but I cannot be held responsible for a person passing out, becoming malnutritioned, or going crazy*

 

Don’t Fence Me in/ Turf Wars

My last post was titled “Our House, Its in the Middle of Our Street”. Did you wonder why? Let me explain. My yard is literally in the middle of five major footpaths. One from behind, one from the right, one from the left, and two in front. I still don’t think you get what I mean what literally. You’re not picturing it. Its not actually in the middle, it IS the middle. It’s the intersection of high traffic paths and unlike Providence, RI, everything dosen’t come to a stop at 6 p.m. From 5:30 til whatever early morning hours people decide to go home, they are walking through my yard. Brushing past my house, talking, playing music on their phones, glancing in the window…

On Wednesday, the committee came and started building my grass fence. Yayy! I had been told when I came for site visit in March that it would be up when I came to stay in April. Its now the end of May, but we’re not going to split hairs, point is, its underway. No more will I have children walking two inched past my window at all times of morning while I’m asleep muttering “Howareyou Howareyou” on the off chance that I’ll wake up an overnight morning person and respond “I’m fine, how are you!” So they can then in turn reply “I’m fine thank you”. That’s the highlight of their freaking day, so I meter out my replies sparingly. Now I can open my window at night when I have the light on with no worries that people walking by are getting a free show. I can come outside and wash dishes, I can walk to the chim without being an exhibit. “Look! She’s coming out of her house!” I can cook my dinner without attracting a crowd of children standing two inches away to watch. And I always cut myself, can’t get the fire lit, or some other mishap when they gather around watching and judging. The evil eye is real. Anyway, Yay fence!!

And now I’m kind of feeling bad about it. The fence, though in my yard, will prove to be intrusive. Now people will have to walk around my yard. Even the ten feet of fence frame they’ve laid has already proven to be an obstacle. I’ve heard people trip over it in the night, and I can assume what they said translated into “Hmm, when’d that get here? They’re building a fence? What kind of statement is Madame Wendy making here?” Its not that I don’t want people to come by at all. Its that I don’t want them to come all the time. I fear the fence will make it so that they don’t come any of the time. I won’t even see people passing by. The chickens can’t come and eat the moldy bread I throw out, Little Dog and Company won’t lay in the sun near my porch anymore. How will I see people in passing? I just can’t stand outside my fence and look casual all the time saying “Muli Shani” to everyone. That would be weird. All these reasons make me want to tell, them not to put the fence up and that all are welcome.

And then two phrases bring me back to the task at hand. Trash Pit, and Mango Season. All of my household refuse is collected in plastic bags, Wal-Mart style, tied, and thrown into the grave like pit in my front yard. It took me a while to start to notice something. It just didn’t click. I actually convinced myself the trash had disintegrated when I noticed that none was accumulating over time. Then one morning, I saw what was going on in my own yard. I heard voices outside. Typical for reasons I’ll get into later. I looked outside my window and I see a young boy climbing out of my trash pit with a plastic bag! WTH?? “Mayo! (Mother)” he shouted joyfully to his mother standing a few feet away collecting guavas from my trees. “Plasticky!” I flew out of the house yelling “Uh uh! Tecissuma!! (that’s bad). He, his mother, and siblings looked at me in confusion. “Don’t go in my trash pit” I told him. They shrugged and used my trash bag to hold more of the stolen guavas. I went back in the house and little by little came to understand, this was a regular thing. People were going on rummage sales through my trash. I don’t want to hear any hippie crap about one man’s trash being another’s treasure. What’s the problem? I’ll tell you. You feel violated when someone regularly comes into your yard and into your trash and sorts through what they want. You can tell a lot about a person in their trash. They’ll notice I have a Coke habit. All those empty bottles filling the pit at an astonishing rate, I’ll look overindulgent at best. The boxes of six packs of Oreos I went through? Now I have to be ashamed to even throw away the evidence of my gluttony. After a few more confrontations, with the same and different people, I started to consider crazy things like crushing glass and sprinkling it in the pit to catch the barefoot perpetrators unaware. They’d been warned. In the end I just burned it, but I can’t burn every piece every day. I need that fence.

Mango Season

Nothing, not even the trash pit battle has taunted the raging two year old suffering a case of the “Mine!’s inside me than the daily pillaging of the fruit trees in my yard. My yard contains numerous guava trees full to bursting. It has an orange tree, also full though I suspect it has some class of disease so I don’t eat them but that’s beside the point. The point is they’re MINE! This is one of the fine points of departure between American and Zambian culture. Ku America, we have property markers, property rights, property laws, and various punishments for stepping over these boundaries. This is mine, that is yours. If you want some of mine, you have to ask and its morally wrong to take without asking in America. I don’t care if you have a neighbor who lives alone and dosen’t even like apples but has beautiful full apple tree dripping with fruit in their yard. You better not go and pick any. You can watch the bud, ripen, overripen, and rot from your side of the street but you better not take one.

In Zambia, as I’m finding, if you see that your neighbor has something that you want, you take it. I understand I’m here to learn as well as share culture, but the American mindset is ingrained in my genetic code by now. I just can’t fathom…how is it appropriate to regularly come into someone’s yard, with 10 gallon buckets, with the intent to harvest fruit growing from trees in their yard?? It was a bit annoying, maddening even, when the casual passerby walked through, took one unripe guava, took a bite, then tossed it because it was unripe. Every day. It was slightly more annoying when the passerbyers climbed the trees to get the best fruit right at the top. Right in front of me, with no hesitance. But I tried to ignore it and told myself what the Bible says about sharing begrudging people your best…but I could not reason it out in my head to the point where I could be at peace watching women and children come every day, the same ones, with buckets and they just swarm the trees. They climb every guava tree, and take sticks, also mine, and beat the green oranges from the top of the tree because they’ve picked all the ones near the bottom. And this is all as I’m standing there!

The part that really eats me is that they don’t see anything wrong with it, and they look totally confused when I come walking outside in anger with an exaggerated look of shock and amazement and watch them. Theatrics are totally wasted one them. I just really wonder would they even bat an eye if I came into their yard today and climbed their trees and picked fruit or scavenged through their trash right in front of them? I couldn’t even get my nerve up to carry out such an experiment. Its not in my genes.

But these are guavas. And spotty orange and green oranges. I’ve bitten my tounge, held my peace and now they’ve all been picked. I can rest. But mango season. Mango season is coming up in January. I really like mangos. I like guavas too, but I really like mangos. There are five huge mango trees in my yard, and I will have them exclusively. The people can cast wistful glances at them all they want as they walk around my yard but I can’t let those go so easy. I can’t stand back and watch the rape of the mango trees as I watched the guavas being sacked. That’s the line. So, I need that fence. Fortunately, I am sure and have so much faith and confidence in the housing committee that the fence will be in place well before then.

These experiences have given me things to think about. Should there really be a limit on my giving? Would I give freely if they had just asked, was it really the principle, or was it the amount that bothered me? Culturally we have different mindsets. I would say in this case, a possessive territorial mindset is more closely related to animal behavior than being able to give and share. If Africa is the Cradle of Civilization, and socially speaking their behaviors concerning property are more advanced because ownership here is more fluid, does that mean that at some point after emigrating from Africa people from other lands have somehow reverted to thinking like cave men? Not to get all philosophical on you…whatever the case, however it came to be, that is my mindset now and I WANT THAT FENCE!

 

 

Our House, Its in the Middle of Our Street

Our House, Is in the Middle of Our Street

“Well I moved from my old house

And I moved from my old friends

And I moved from my old way of life

Thank God I moved out, to a brand new life” -Brand New Life

This is the start of my first 24 hours in my new house! I’ve been to the village before for site visit for three days in March. That’s the time trainees go to their individual sites to get a feel of the place. This is the time period where you can get introductions out of the way so you won’t be total alien when you come to stay. You can see what you’re working with as far as what your program entails. If you’re CHIP, you can visit the clinic, RED volunteers can check out the schools, and RAP volunteers such as myself can see what fish ponds are in place, how they’re being managed, and who has prospects to construct new ones.

This is also the time to check out home improvements needed. The community collectively, headed by a housing committee, pitches in to build or renovate your house bathing shelter (ulusalu), outhouse (chimbusu), and insaka (basically a pavilion). All four of these are required for volunteers to have and the must meet the minimum of Peace Corps stipulations regarding size, location, and security. Doors have to have locks, roofs need to be sound, house needs to be at least a certain size, etc. After those requirements are met, some communities stop there, some embellish. Volunteers can find a wide variety of situations at their personal sites. Some found huge houses, some found houses barely meeting or just under size requirement. Some had two rooms, some had hallways with numerous rooms (what??). The bathing shelters can vary in size to where you are able to cartwheel around on a concrete floor in a shelter the size of Kimye’s bathroom (I’m still jealous), or you can have a dirt floor with the straw walls sticking in your back every time you bend over.

My home has three rooms: a living room, a bedroom, and kitchen turned storage unit. I’ll use it to prep food and store supplies, but I prefer to cook on my brazier outside, in my insaka when they build it… I fried some delicious chicken in here last night, and the whole house heated up, the grease splattered on the floor, and everything smells like chicken now. Incidentally, several dogs have started hanging around my house.

My bedroom has a small purple rug, a ¾ sized bed, a fluffy purple blanket, and a really nice wicker hamper I got for SO cheap. K30…$3.00!! And a bed net. That’s the FIRST thing I put up. In Lusaka, I rarely got bitten. Even less so than summer time in Virginia. But here, the mosquitos are thick as thieves. My legs, ankles, arms, and even my neck are covered in bites. I slather myself in the musky smelling, albeit very affective Peaceful Sleep like it’s body lotion nightly. I can only hope we won’t find later that it contains some sort of carcinogen…even with that knowledge, I might keep using it and just use less. That’s how bad these blood suckers are. We were shown a map during PST that showed the prevalence of malaria in Zambia by shading the provinces in light to dark shades of red. Of course, Muchinga was one of the darkest, and I believe it because there are simply more mosquitos, more chances to contract.

And chances are abundant for them to attack me in my house. As I noted in the “Improvements Needed” section of my site visit worksheet I completed in March, one of the windows still needs a screen covering it and the door to my house has a 3-1 inch slanted gap separating it from the door frame. In the time between now and then, they have nailed a small piece of screen across the window. Far be it from me to complain that it’s not anywhere near the size of the window so there are wide openings at the top and the bottom. Oh, and the door is still exactly like it was. Mosquitos, come on in for the buffet! But we will work together to get it all done. We have two whole years together