Work

(written 9 December 2011)

Today I walked away from two old women in the road.  I had been greeting both, one coming from the field.  She asked if I “dug”—farmed—and I responded simply, “Ntakweti vyaalo”—“I don’t have a field.”  “Londa!”—“Find/borrow one!”—was her response.

Now sometimes I explain that I came from a farm, that I’ve been out to harvest (not yet to plant, though I’m sure I will go eventually) with various villagers, that I have a little garden at my house and make my own organic compost, etc.  But this time I kept it simple:  “Madame, nene mwalimu”—“Madam, I’m a teacher.”  

            “Mwemwe mwalimu, musiomba!”—“You’re a teacher, you don’t work!” she said, in a manner that felt accusatory.  I tried in vain to remember how to say “You’re insulting me” in Mambwe, so I just said it in English and walked away.  I was annoyed, and though my tone was still polite, I knew that my turned back would communicate the message I was failing to translate into the vernacular.  They laughed good-naturedly, the common response to awkward situations, and l continued walking along the road to the home of a local carpenter.

            Of course, I know where they’re coming from.  Everyone here is a farmer.  Teachers farm—even if it means they go to their field only once a week, on the non-Sabbath half of the weekend, or even if they contract out most of the actual labor to “piece” workers.  Farming is not always a livelihood here; it’s sustenance, or a little extra cash, or a continuation of a fundamental component of life as it has been lived for generations, as much for the sake of tradition as anything else.

            But it’s also a fallback, the ever-reliable Plan B.  I’ve asked what someone does when he or she finishes school, or drops out, or doesn’t pass the requisite exams to enter Grade 8 and Grade 10, and the response is almost always, “Yakalima sile.”  The “sile” means “just” or “only”—they just farm.  The mentality is this: anyone can farm, and most people do, but when you have no other options, you just farm.

            But I don’t.  So I’m an oddity.  With my family, colleagues, and friends here in Zambia, I can explain the difference in the agricultural systems of our two countries, and the various jobs I’ve had in my short career, but with a random stranger on the street, I’m seen as just lazy.  I don’t work.

            Please pardon the interruption while I mount my high horse. 

            I have a degree from one of the most respected universities in the world.  (Unlike most of my classmates, I do not yet have a master’s or higher degree, mostly because I’ve been working in the 5.5 years since graduation.)  I spent the greater part of my college years consistently sleep-deprived; I took a heavy classload and was active in extracurriculars.  I did independent research and wrote a 100+ page thesis—coincidentally, about farming.  I’ve held enough jobs and volunteer positions in and since college that I’ve lost count; in 2009 I worked in four different states in four distinct parts of the U.S.  (Which, by the way, tends to complicate one’s taxes.)  In the less-than-ideal economy of the U.S. in the time before I left, I swallowed my debt-ridden, degree-holding pride and worked temp, seasonal, and part-time jobs, some of them mind-numbingly boring.  I sometimes went weeks with no more than three or four hours of sleep at a snatch so that I could balance two different part-time jobs with screwy hours in order to make ends meet.

            And, to descend from my horse and return back to the tarmac where the women and I crossed paths, my hands were sore and blistered from spending the morning and the day before slashing and raking my yard into a semblance of order, and I was on my way to the home of the carpenter to learn woodworking by helping on the bench he’s building for me.

            So, Madame, with all due respect, don’t dare tell me I don’t work, just because my work may look different from yours.  As a Midwestern farm girl, it’s one of the worst insults you could give me.  And while I respect your work—and am loving the opportunity to learn how to garden, something I hope to continue back in the States—I’ve worked very hard, even in the land of opportunity, to give myself options.  Because while I respect you and the dignity in your way of life, being a farmer is not my vocation.  And I’m trying my damndest to educate a few of your children so they, too, can have options.

            But this is hard to explain.  How do I convey to someone who is illiterate---not, mind you, unintelligent, but illiterate—that reading and writing and thinking are work?  You can’t eat a book and certainly not an abstract thesis statement.   How do I justify my work as a “Volunteer”—a euphemism that works well in American parlance but might as well be in Chinese for all the sense it makes here—that provides me with a living allowance sufficient to live in more comfort (and certainly with less distress) than the majority of people in my community, even if on the whole my living standards are still relatively simple?  How do I explain to someone who has completed only a few grades of primary school that teaching requires more than standing in front of a classroom for 7 hours a day—that the more I feed my mind, on content or pedagogical technique or language study—the better teacher I will be, and those things all take time and are my work?

            People think it might be hard here because I have no electricity and use a hole for a toilet.  Those things are child’s play.  The bigger questions—the ones that have no answers, that don’t go away—they’re what make this experience challenging.  Cultural exchange is more than sharing different kinds of foods.  It is trying to understand the core elements of what give us each meaning in our lives, what shapes the very people we are.  And sometimes, it’s hard work, but it’s worth it.

Sorry, I left my flock of doves at home today.

At a training in August, we were discussing the harassment that occasionally happens when you're a foreigner in a strange country, and one of the Volunteers who had come in my intake said, "When it comes down to fight or flight, flight is always gonna be the better option, because you don't want to be that Peace Corps Volunteer who doesn't really have the peace part down."  We laughed, but it was true.

And it's true in a lot of ways.  Most of us joined the Peace Corps, I think, because somewhere in our core (no pun intended) we believe in the basic tenets of the organization: that countries are friends when their citizens are friends.  That we have a responsibility, indeed, a privilege, to share our skills in working not only for a better country and a better financial future but also for a better world.  That the roots of war and hatred might flourish in soil rife with poverty and misunderstanding, and that by nourishing the soil with something a bit different we might grow a better future for ourselves and others.

And all that sounds lofty and noble and idealistic, which is great in the big picture.  Not so easy in the small picture. 

Because believe it or not, even the most dedicated, most effective Peace Corps Volunteers are not surrounded, Cinderella and Snow-White style, by a flock of doves.  I get just as cranky here as I do anywhere else.  When--while painting a map of the world, no less--my teenage brother dipped a paintbrush still dripping with orange paint straight into the tin of bright blue, I called him out in not such nice terms, including an English profanity, followed up by, "Musi mano!"--"No brain in your head!"  He said nothing, but walked away.  When he came back, I pulled him aside and apologized for embarrassing him in front of his friends; luckily, we have a close relationship and he knows that (a) overall, I adore him and (b) it was pretty dumb to contaminate the paint.  I wish I could say it was a one-time loss of control, but when a young girl--one of the few with enough interest/curiousity/self-esteem/all of the above to come and participate in the project--was painting Antarctica, I didn't watch closely enough.  It seemed simple enough--another pupil had covered the pencil outline in white paint; she merely needed to fill in the continent with more white.  Unfortunately, she painted above the line.  With the white paint that was, already, not enough to provide adequate coverage for the real Antarctica, below the line.  I was not thrilled, and she learned that quite quickly. 

Sometimes there's not even a real explanation for where my little flashes of temper come out.  One of my teen brothers loves to come and sit outside my house in the evenings while I go about my routine.  Sometimes we chat in Mambwe or English; sometimes he asks questions.  Most of the time--I think he's in the midst of an adolescent identity crisis of sorts--he just likes to sit silently.  While this is a cultural thing that is disarming at first, I don't mind.  In general, I enjoy his company and go about my business, granting him leave to sit or go, to talk or to remain in his thoughts.  One day, however, things were not going right.  Lots of little things, so minor I don't even remember them: I may have burned a finger or dropped some things; I know that I tipped over my water filter while trying to fill it, etc. etc.  Nothing serious.  But one thing too many happened, and I said, "You know, it's a little frustrating having you just watch me while I stumble all over everything."  Walking back in the house, I added, "Just go away!" and threw my cutting board into my hallway.  Then I went into my room, collected myself, and came back out.  I'm not sure that Davie understood every word I said in my American English, but he got the meaning; he had, indeed, gone away.  I felt bad.  I wasn't mad at him; I was just mad, as we all are sometimes, and it was awkward to have a witness to that.  So I pulled myself together and joined his family, as usual, at supper a while later, hoping that my new attitude would show him I wasn't angry any longer.  When he didn't come visit for a few days, I spoke with him directly, apologizing for losing my temper and letting him know it had nothing to do with him personally.

But that was a few months ago, and I still get less-than-cheery on a fairly frequent basis.  When teachers don't show up, when the teaching and learning aids in our first gtade classroom are pulled down for Grade 9 exams (it's a rule you can't have any kind of poster or aid in the classroom during these all-important high school qualifying exams) the week we're trying to review with our still-not-literate first-graders, when my kitten knocks over a lit candle into my lap while I'm trying to read, when someone who doesn't even know my name asks me why I can't donate money or "find a sponsor" in the U.S. to fund whatever project s/he has in mind...I am less than peaceful.  I am not a model of friendship and cooperation.  I'm cranky and snippety and sometimes downright mean.  Which, of course, is not really the point of Peace Corps.  But at the same time--this isn't a poster.  It's not a slogan, it's not a soundbite.  This is my life, and I'm here for two years, interacting with a lot of other people right smack dab in the middle of their lives.  I might really believe in all the goals of Peace Corps--but I'm still figuring out my own stuff, too.  Peace begins inside.  There's a wonderful quote: "Peace.  It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work.  It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart." (Unknown)  I guess no matter how much we believe in it, we can't create peace outside of ourselves unless we can find it within ourselves. 

I love my community.  And despite the noise, trouble, and hard work I might find here, it's a pretty good place to work on the calm in my heart.  Once I find it, I'll work on those doves.

Birth Announcement

On October 23, 2011, at approximately 4:00 a.m., my youngest sister was born.

I say approximately for two reasons: (1) I was not present at the time. (2)  The clock on the wall of the clinic ward reads, permanently, 10:42. 

The story of Mirabi (also pronounced Meleby--it's pretty much the same thing, and spellings are malleable here) begins somewhere around last July.  My host parents, whose field is a few kilometers away, had been spending all their time harvesting, even sleeping in a makeshift thatch shelter in the field to protect their crops.  Although I had gone a few times to help harvest, I hadn't really seen much of them for at least six weeks.  When the maize and beans and groundnuts were all in, they returned to their home, and I noticed for the first time that my host mother seemed a bit more rotund than she had previously.  Not long after that, she was busy crocheting, and when I asked what she was making she responded, "A baby blanket," but offered no more.

As the eldest of seven, I have vague recollections of my mother's numerous pregnancies, and I know that inquiring about one's gestational status requires delicacy and tact.  In general, if someone wants you to know, she'll tell you.  No word was mentioned, but fter a few more weeks, it seemed obvious to me that she was expecting, so I casually asked, "Kwashyala imyezi inga?" = "How many months remaining?"  She laughed and said, "For what?"

Quickly, I backpedaled, just as I would have done in the U.S.  "To go back into the fields," I said.  Planting.  Whether she bought it or not, I'm not sure, but the topic never came up again.

In October, I spent a week visiting a community school about 20 kilometers away.  I cycled back early Saturday morning, got my house in order, and went to the Seventh Day Adventist church where my host family are members.  I saw my siblings but not my host mother.  Afterward, a young woman named Jane, from whom I often buy paraffin, pencils, and the like in one of the small shops that line the business area of our village, told me that my mother was in the clinic.  "Yalkulwala?" I asked; "is she sick?"  Jane tilted her head and raised her eyebrows suggestively.  "It's time?" I ventured as a second guess.  She nodded in affirmation.  It's time.  So I gathered up my little siblings/cousins (it's all the same) and headed to the clinic near our house. 

When we arrived, I found my mother resting on one of the thin clinic mattresses.  Several other women, including her grandmother and sister-in-law, where seated on the other mattress and the floor of the small room.  I took a spot on the floor and chatted with the women.  Soon, one of them broke out lunch--nshima, the staple food, and vegetables to eat with it.  We ate communally and talked until I needed to leave for a meeting with a teacher, promising to return.  In the evening, I returned and sat until dark, when I decided it'd probably be best to go home.

In the morning, my family compound was quiet.  The children old enough to work were in the field; there weren't many others around.  I spent a few hours digging in my garden, washing laundry by hand, and building the beginnings of a thatch fence for the garden, accompanied by the two little sisters whose mother had gone to the clinic a bit earlier.  A bit after 9:00 a.m., the girls and I set off for the clinic.  "Yalwala," they said, explaining that their aunt was sick.  "Awe," I replied.  "Tumakwata baby!" = No, we're going to have a baby.  Clearly, it seemed, I had not been the only one left in the dark about the forthcoming child.

When we arrived, the clinic was calm.  My mother, noticeably slimmer, was stretched out on a mattress in the delivery ward.  Her grandmother was holding the new baby girl, who had silky hair and pale skin.  Having lived this scene many times before as a proud big sister, I was struck by the clean but bare room.  There were no monitors, no IVs.  No television, no balloons, no flowers.  Just a suitcase with some personal belongings, a mother, a baby, and some family members who'd come to help.   We had only been sitting and admiring the baby for a few minutes when the other women in the room gathered up the belongings they had brought--dishes, blankets, and the like--and made sure the room was tidy.  Then we set off together--even the exhausted mother, who'd given birth only hours before--simply walking out of the clinic and crossing through a small field and a soccer pitch that separates the clinic compound from our houses.

The day continued much as usual, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  The older siblings returned from the field in no rush, hoes over their shoulders.  They did not rush to meet the new baby or show any excitement; though I could see that they were excited, it was subdued.  There was  a strange hush of calm permeating the area. 

The father, unfortunately, was not there to greet his baby, nor would he be for another two weeks.  He was tending to another cycle of life; his twin sister had passed away just days before in Lusaka, the country's capital.  It made me wonder: was this lack of celebration, this business-as-usual approach to this precious new child a safeguard on emotion?  After all, death is not uncommon here, and the first few days of an infant's life can be a precarious time, particularly since they are not monitored and tested and coddled in a newborn ward, tended to by doctors.  A colleague told me that the birth of a new baby is a time of giving thanks to God because the mother has survived the dangerous ordeal of childbirth.  I saw Mirabi's entrance into the world as a parallel to my own entrance to Zambia, as she had to have been conceived right around the time my plane touched African tarmac.  It will be exciting to watch her grow...even if it's a sort of subdued excitement.

Meleby at 18 months, in April 2013

  

On Cats & Rats

I have a pet.  My first ever, really, which is quite an experience.  Her name is Lila ("Lee-lah"), which I chose for Mambwe reasons; most specifically, the verb "ukulila" means to cry or to make noise, and the first two days I had her, she whimpered consistently, meow-ing softly every 1.5 seconds.  Thankfully, she now spends a lot more of her time purring than crying.

As a farm girl, I had some affection for childhood pets, but I was never particularly close to any of them because they lived outdoors.  As an adult, I haven't gotten pets because my jobs/living situations haven't been very conducive.  And, as I explained once to a friend, "I don't want to be beholden to a dog."  I like being able to change plans, to leave for a few days, to pick up and move, and having a pet can complicate those things.

In Masamba, though, my pet serves two very useful purposes.  First, she's (as my PCV neighbor Tony would say) an assassin.  My rodent problem had reached an all-time high.  Twice on weekends I had called in my hardy teenage brothers to kill a rat I'd seen scurry across the floor.  After waking up many nights feeling vibrations on my bed, I was vindicated when I woke to the familiar sensation and discovered a mouse/rat (they're all the same to me) clinging, upside down, to the top corner of my mosquito net, not so many feet from my head.  One of the mice killed by the teenage brothers (through repeated attempts to whack it with a big stick while it raced around my spare room) had three tiny mice still suckling; they threw the whole little family into my trash pit in lieu of a funeral.  When I went back to look later, two of the babies were not dead and were trying to ascend the sod sides of the pit to escape.  Apparently there were other babies left unattended, and they do not understand mousey protocol, because about a week later I was disturbed all night by incessant seke-seke mice noises.  (A certain type of mice is called seke-seke because, I believe, "ukuseka" means "to laugh" in Mambwe, and they taunt you with their ridiculous high-pitched laughing noise.)  I also kept hearing sliding along the black plastic lining of my roof, and I finally became so paranoid that there might be a snake up there that I woke up my three teen brothers around 3:00 a.m. to come check.  Three short-clad, bare-chested teenage boys in the bedroom of a schoolteacher is not highly culturally appropriate, either here or in the U.S., but they're my brothers, and family take care of each other.  Armed with a stick, they beat at the ceiling above my bed until one little baby mouse fell out, dead, but the noise continued.  "Ali aingi," they said--"there are many."  Reassured that there were only mice and no snakes, I thanked them and went back to sleep, but in the morning I was so fed up that I took the stick myself and beat at the roof until two baby mice tumbled out and I could scoop them up with a piece of cardboard and throw them in the pit.  And all that's not to mention the rat I found dead on my stoop one day, cause unknown. 

I have a mousetrap that has proven utterly worthless, but then again I haven't made much effort to bait it.  I've avoided using poison because in some places, people eat rats, and I can't stomach the idea of possibly poisoning a person by accident.  Additionally, as annoying as it is to have live rodents in your house, I think I'd be even more troubled by a rodent that ate poison and then crawled up in the thatch and died, perfuming my house for weeks with ceremonial decomposition.

As luck would have it, I told a friend about my ongoing rodent problem, and his fiancee happened to have new kittens for sale.  A week or so and 10,000 kwacha (about $2) later, I found myself with a new companion.  Which brings me to the second purpose of my pet.  I didn't think I was lonely, but I have to say having a cat in the house made me realize the pleasure of company, even that of the feline persuasion.  I talk with her (usually in Mambwe) when I enter or leave the house; she's slowly learning to sleep on my stomach or at my side and not on my neck; occasionally I berate her for nearly burning down my house due to her carelessness around candles; in general, we interact as many roommates might.  It's delightful.

And since she came, I have heard a seke-seke in the roof only once.  I looked at her and said, "Hear that? Go get it."  I haven't heard or seen sign of a rodent since.  And hence the second phonetic implication of Lila's name: Nalyla sana.  (I am enjoying!)

Hut Sweet Hut

I live in a mansion.

It's true--my four-room house with a hallway, a small area that was formerly an indoor bathing space but is now a storage closet, five windows and two doors, would be large for a typical family, and I live alone with a 3-month-old kitten.  Another PCV asked me once, "What do you do with four rooms?"  Had I been quick-witted, I would've replied, "A lot of cleaning."

The house was not built for me; it was vacant when the community was preparing for a PCV--months before I knew I was coming to Zambia--and the families who live on this compound (really just a cluster of houses behind the soccer and netball fields) were willing to have me as neighbor, daughter, sister, friend.  Nonetheless, a lot of work was done in preparation for my arrival.  The dirt floor was covered with concrete; the walls were smeared with white limestone to ward off termites (and spread light into what can otherwise be a very dark space), the thatch roof was lined with black plastic (like that used for trash bags in the U.S.) to minimize dust and termite waste descending inside.  The open-air windows have wooden shutters that lock securely, as do both the front and back doors.

An insaka, which resembles a gazebo but has a thatch roof, was built outside so I can host visitors.  (It's not culturally appropriate for visitors to enter in some cases; as a single woman it would be untoward of me to have a male guest in the house.)  Though I assisted, two of my host family members--a married couple in their 30s--built my grass bathing shelter within a few days of my arrival.

When we were nearing the time to move in to our new homes, one of my friends exclaimed, "I'm a homeowner for the first time!"  It's true--though some may see (from American views tainted by the extreme frivolity projected by Entourage and Sex and the City and, let's be honest, any of our myriad television shows and films) our accomodations as simple, a lot of work has gone into them, and as Peace Corps volunteers our houses are still nicer than those of at least 50% of our community.  I recently sat out part of a rainstorm in a two-room house where the matron said she has raised 10 children.  Ten children over the years, growing up in a two-room house, without so much as a curtain dividing the sitting room from the bedroom, the family's few dishes displayed on a shelf made from a split log.  Indeed--I live in a mansion.

Signed, Katito

(written 20 November 2011)
I saw him in the market--my old friend.  I greeted him, then beckoned for him to come, to follow me.  He trusted; he came.  At my house he politely sat on the small stoop when I entered, after I finger-spelled "Kalibu"--Welcome.

His face lit up with knowing recognition when I brought out the two books that had come in a package I'd been awaiting for almost three months: introductory sign language texts with lots of pictures and photos of vocabulary.  For over an hour we sat, going through the books, him demonstrating the signs or signing "same," and showing me the sign he had learned for the word depicted in the book.  Many signs sprang forth from deep within my memory, as I remembered my youngest sister learning to sign as a toddler.  How I wished she could be here with me and my friend, teaching and translating!  I brought a family picture to point her out to him and communicated that she knows sign.  He asked if she is deaf; I said no, but didn't know how to explain Down Syndrome.  It didn't matter.  We sat there, as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, learning fast and slow and work and monkey.  I laughed out loud more than I had collectively over the past month.  Dipping into this language--even just at the water's edge--was so invigorating!  And Katito--I've written about him before.  I've said his smile could make the world go round, and I'm still convinced of that.  I sat there thinking, "I don't know why, but it feels like this teenage boy is my best friend here."  Watching his hands speak, I was struck by the sheer beauty--of the language, alternatingly amusing and profound, and of his execution.  We could communicate on only a primitive level, though we've had written conversations before.  When there's no paper, he uses a finger or a rock to scratch letters into the darkness of his forearm, briefly leaving faint spellings on the skin.  We had once, in the market, "sung" the national anthem together, as he signed the written lyrics as I pointed to them.  And we'd had a long, fairly confused written conversation during Term 2 about the possibility of him attending school in Term 3, since his family can't currently afford the boarding expenses of the school for the deaf in Kasama.  That conversation, involving a lot of coaxing, was followed by one with his older sister, and weeks later, one with his mother at their home.  My school head, once a special education teacher, had agreed that he should come and that he would be sponsored by the school--meaning he wouldn't need to pay the K80,000 (roughly $16) school fees for the term.  I had been thrilled when he showed up, a week late notwithstanding, in Term 3, and I bustled him into the classroom, asking for a pupil to be his helper, negotiating arguments between the handful of boys who jumped up, eager to help communicate the teacher's spoken words into his notes.  When new Peace Corps Volunteers on a mid-training visit chanced by and introduced themselves to the class in their sparkly new Mambwe, the pupils were in awe as I fumbled through finger-spelling their names for Katito.

"I helped get this boy into this classroom," I though.  "I have done something here."

And when I learned, the next day, he'd been sent away by another administrator unaware of the previous arrangement, I was crushed--and furious.  But I kept my cool, letting another teacher address the administrative dissonance, and accepting that I couldn't force the school to admit him.  And, too, as personally defeated as I felt, I reminded myself that the mentality of inclusivity, of every child's potential despite obvious deficits in teaching--it's true that none of the teachers sign, and this school is not the ideal school for him--of the importance of the social aspect of school--these ideas are cultural, and personal, and I can't expect everyone, particularly those with such different backgrounds, to share my views on them.

Now here he was, as the term drew near to a close, sitting on my stoop.  And I felt that if he were my brother, my son, my heart could not be more overflowing with love than it already was.  Something about him--his heart seems so pure, his mind quick, his smile so ready.

"I can't leave this place," I felt sure.  Oh, not that I've been wanting to leave; but the past few weeks have seen a few bouts of melancholy, of ambivalence, of burn-out with the term that had so many obstacles to what I wanted to do--things beyond my control.  Not wanting to go, but not at every moment wanting to be here.

Katito brought me back.  I can't wait to see where our language and friendship goes.  Oh, and Mom--he said to tell you thank you for sending me the books.

Katito with me in April 2013, just days before my departure from the village

Eat, Pray, Love, Repeat.

(written 5 November 2011)
Today, for the first time in 9 months, I started reading a book that is not new to me.  I did so with a bit of...not guilt, per se, but a sense of wasting time.  There's a vast Peace Corps library of books here; I recently started Scribbling the Cat: Travels with an African Soldier and need to finish it, since it's been on my shelf for 6 months and others may want it.  And Heart of Darkness--shouldn't I focus on that, so that I can finish before Thanksgiving, since it's on my 17-year-old sister's AP Lit reading list and it would be cool to be able to discuss it with her over our next Skype date?   But I had grabbed The Shack and Eat Pray Love off our shelves in Kasama to share with a teacher who'd asked me to pick a book for her.  Both I have read and enjoyed immensely; I thought she, as a devout Jehovah's Witness, would find the former either beautifully heart-wrenching or blasphemous, and I'm curious as to which, and the latter would share a female voice very different from those here.  Neither book was brought for my own benefit; I've read them, and I have dozens of purely-for-pleasure books, not to mention a deep stack of professional manuals and guides, vying for my attention each day.

But I plucked Eat Pray Love from the shelf, thinking I'd just glance over a few favorite parts while drinking Milo (a cocoa-like powdered concoction) and eating Petit Beurre cookies dipped in peanut butter and honey as thunder rolled overhead.

It is every bit as good as I remember.  And dipping your feet back into the waters of an old literary love takes you back not only into the world within its covers but your own past life and the person you were when you first discovered it.  Back on my bed in North Carolina, on the phone with Kevin, who recommended it to me, right around the time (if I remember it correctly) I was considering a drastic move to NYC, a switch from the wooded wilderness to the concrete jungle, from an "office" of rocks and split-log-benches and open air and wood-fire-heated tents to a tiny closet of a cubicle in a slim doctor's office (that more closely resembled a corridor) in Manhattan.

Those of us in the still-single-but-not-actively-looking-but-not-ruling-out-the-possibility-of-stumbling-upon-someone category may think of past romantic encounters as those who have shaped us and our current picture of what the perfect forever partner might look like.  Interestingly enough, several of the people who've most influenced what I'm looking for (though don't read me wrong--it's much more of a "if you see cookie dough ice cream at the store while you're there, grab a container" kind of looking than an actively fueled pursuit) don't make it on the list of Jacobs-have-I-loved.  Nary a kiss was shared, and while in some cases there may have been romantic interest on the part of one of us, it never came to fruition in any official or physical sense.  But there are rendez-vous of the soul, and such is what I shared with Kevin--a brilliantly lit spirit, the kind of wanderer who is never lost, who resists sturdy stability and lives, instead, with a kind of never-ending wonder and appreciation for each new day.  No wonder, then, that he so enjoyed a book about seeking--in the world and in oneself.  It is a compliment to me that he knew I'd like it, too, though of course it was a bestseller (and later made into a film) so I'm not all that special. 

So, my feet well-softened by the swirling waters of these memories, I re-encounter the story, now with 3.5 more years of life behind me.  And I understand better the heartbreak of her divorce and failed new love, having been witness to my parents' own bitter parting over the past 18 months.  (Though I might add that my mother and her co-worker, with whom I saw the film--neither had read the book--last winter while both were in the throes of ugly divorces, lamented that not everyone having such a crisis can jet off, all expenses paid, to find themselves in a year of living abroad.)  And being almost 28 now, I'm closer to Liz's age at the beginning of her book--so while our lives are very, very different, I can get a better feel for the stage of life in which the book is set. 

So while at first I was hesitant about re-relishing a favorite rather than forging ahead and lengthening my list of new written influences, I've decided that I'm not wasting time.  I'm revisiting an old love, but she looks different because I have changed.  Her description of her faith is, though simultaneously more crisply catch and eloquent, almost identical my own.  Did I feel that way three years ago?  Did this book plant a seed, or nourish a change already germinating?  What more in the story will spark something in me in a new or different way this time around?  So I'll savor every bite of this delightfully decadent, rich but tangy book again.  Then I'll get back to my list.

Mumalala kuno

(written 14 October 2011)

As I rolled my bike out of my freshly-mopped house, I heard thunder roll in the distance and wondered if I should nix the biking idea and just try to catch a bus or a hitch.  But the sky was still sunny, and I hadn't biked to Mbala since May, always justifying a ride to myself because I (a) needed to look nice upon arrival, (b) was leaving at the end of the day, when dark was falling, so as not to miss a class or other work obligation, (c) hadn't been feeling so hot and thought the ride would be torture, or (d) some other excuse.  A hitch can be free; bus transport is K10,000, or $2--easily manageable on a Peace Corps Zambia volunteer's budget.  K10,000 will also buy me a box of chalk (100 pieces), or an imported Cadbury bar, or a taxi from the supermarket to the Peace Corps office when I'm in Kasama.  So it's a bargain when you consider it can get you 35 kilometers in half an hour; biking takes over two hours and a tremendous amount of energy, despite being on tarmac the entire way.  But although I have the option of bus transport, many villagers don't.  K10,000 will buy a lot of vegetables--several meals for a family--and a lot of household budgets are tight.  Besides, I earn respect when I bike the distance, and the view is spectacular. 

So off I went, checking my time: 14:01.  The post office closes at 16:00 on Fridays, so beating two hours was my goal.  I chomped on a piece of gum and raced away, exhilarated by the mini-adventure ahead of me.

Ten minutes later, my temples throbbed and I was already tired.  Darn gum and overzealousness.  But I kept going, trying to channel an amazing yoga instructor from the Wilkes County, North Carolina YMCA, who reminded us to soften the muscles around our jaws and eyes (and elsewhere).  Passing many houses along the way at the prime time for "tutensy-ing," or sitting around outside chatting, meant the exchange of greetings was non-stop.  "Muli uli mukwai!"  "Ningo sile!"  (“How are you?”  “Just fine.”)

After a while, the clouds above-- at first a wildly fascinating horizontal whirl, shifting in a way that reminded me of film camera tricks, like when you zoom in and pull back quickly and simultaneously--began to darken.  The hint of thunder became real, and I wondered if I should pull over at a house or roadside shop/shack to wait out the rain that seemed imminent.  But there was no rain, yet, and it can go for hours, so I decided it'd be best to get as far as I could and pull off the road when really necessary.

The sky got darker, the wind picked up, the thunder grew regular.  But still no rain.  I was surprised--it seemed odd--but grateful.  I passed Katito, which I generally assume to be the halfway point, and still no rain.

Then the skies opened, and the heavens poured down in all their authority.  The drops fell swift and sharp, like pine needles pricking my skin at each contact.  "Well," I thought, it was nice while it lasted."  Within minutes my tan cargo pants were soaked through.  There were no houses in sight.  I thought about pulling over under a tree, but the rain was falling so strongly it didn't seem like a tree would provide enough coverage to make a difference.  Plus, there was lightning, and standing under a tree seemed unwise.  I thought back to my wilderness counselor days--if you see lightning while canoeing, you get out of the water.  But I’m not in a river, and the water is still falling all around.  Is it safer to stand or to go?  My bike is metal, but the tires are rubber, the seat and grips and pedals all plastic or rubber of some sort.  It seemed safest to plow ahead.

But the lightning got closer.  I tried to remember the old trick to determine distance--count the seconds between lightning and thunder, divide by some obscure figure--I never did really know it.  And the thunder was sounding before I saw lightning--wasn't it supposed to be the opposite?  But it seemed close.  Not flashes in the distance but around me, near.  Do I stop?  Go?  Call my family, just in case?  Could I really die here, struck by lightning?  I began to pray, fully aware that people do this all the time when they smell death and then promptly forget about it once danger's past.  My faith has been malleable lately; some particularities about my religion that once seemed absolute to me no longer do, but I didn't apologize for this.  I prayed for safety and basically said, "I hope I've lived a good life," then prayed again for safety, repeating the prayer to St. Michael, which as a child/teenager I often used for comfort and protection, particularly when I was alone and in the dark.

After a time, I saw a cluster of houses and a thatch hut where chibuku, or local maize beer, is sold.  I raced into it and embraced the dryness and shelter it provided.  A stone's throw away was a cell phone tower, so it seemed as safe a place as any during a thunderstorm--surely lightning would be attracted to it, rather than to me, right?  I checked the time--15:20.  Easily 2/3 of the way, hopefully more, I guessed.

I waited, shivering.  The thatch got me out of the rain, but I was soaked through, and the wind rushed in all around.  Twenty minutes, maybe more--the rain let up a bit, then poured down again; the lightning and thunder did not relent.  "This is dumb," I thought.  "There's two houses right there--one with metal roofing.  They're not vacant.  Go knock."  (Or, rather, call, "Odi"--the greeting that replaces knocking here.)

I locked the bike, grabbed my bag, and ran through the rain.  I went to the second building, with a thatch roof, on the porch of which 3 goats were seeking shelter.  "Odi," I called, but as the word was uttered I realized that the door was secured with a lock from the outside.  At the same time I peered around and saw a woman across from me, at the back door of the metal-roofed house, looking a bit quizzically at the strange, sopping mess that I was.  I tried to explain that I had been biking but was caught in the rain, but I fumbled with my words and accidentally substituted inyele, hair, for invula, rain.  I asked if I could stand on the porch of the locked house, but she beckoned me around to the front door of the house in which she stood.

I could feel warmth as soon as she opened the door.  The house was a typical Zambian one--sparsely furnished but clean.  A large bowl of corn kernels sat on the floor next to an antique Singer pedal sewing machine--typical of what you'd find in a seamstress's shop here or a in museum in the States.  She offered me a stool; being wet and dirty, I opted to sit on the floor.  The walls were hung with a filmy, diaphanous white fabric, presumably to brighten the room since the walls are brown, made of mud smear.  Seeing me shiver, the woman closed the metal door and opened a window so that we wouldn't be sitting in complete darkness.  We began to chat--the usual conversation about where I'm from, where I live, my job in Peace Corps, yes I know Mambwe--at least, I'm learning, panono panono ("bit by bit").    At times, we just sat.  It would have seemed very awkward to me had I observed the scene 8 months ago, but I know now that Zambians often just sit silently.  My fifteen-year-old Zambrother will sit for an hour or more, sometimes up in the tree just outside my door, while I cook, read, bathe, or go about business.  We often talk, too, but it's comfortable either way.  (Except for that one time I threw my cutting board across the room and told him to go away.  That was unfortunate.  But more on that some other time.)

From the curtain leading into the next room, I saw a small hand stretched out on a rug.  "Does this woman have a dead body in her house?" I wondered, half-indulging my imagination for a moment, though knowing that the idea was preposterous--it wasn't a real question so much as a quip I would have made if we had been talking in English.  Still shivering, I rubbed my hands together.  On the bike I was cold, but moving--quickly.  Now, I realized just how wet and cold I really was, despite being sheltered from the wind and rain.

The woman, whose name was Judiss (Judith?  Spellings are very malleable here) brought in the brazier, a small metal tray, of sorts, which holds a charcoal fire over which we cook, and the heat was wonderful.  My pants began to dry.  The child woke but was understandably disturbed by the strange white woman dripping in his house, and soon crawled back into the blanket on the rug, drifting back to sleep.

Other family members came--a woman and a man, one of whom was a child to Judiss, and their baby.  A big basket of groundnuts (peanuts) was brought in and we began to ukutongola, or shell them, putting both the shell and nuts (minus those who made it into our mouths) in a sieving basket.  Judiss's husband came home, and in the now-filled sitting room, Judiss began telling the others all about me, based on what we'd discussed alone together.  She was a regular expert by that point.

The rain and thunder didn't seem to stop, and it was getting late.  It had to be at least 17:00.  Mbala was still a long distance off, and it could be dark as early as 18:00.  Plus, the friend I had been going to see (the plan was to meet her in her village, another 90 minutes' ride north of Mbala, but she had been really sick so she planned instead to meet me in Mbala where we would stay in a guesthouse and where she'd have the comfort, at least, of an indoor toilet) was probably still at home, stranded by the rain.  There was no way I'd make it all the way to her now.  So I could--if the lightning stopped--just continue in the rain to Mbala.  But what might I find?  An empty room, at K50,000 ($10--the discounted Peace Corps price at a well-known guesthouse, but still a big fee to shoulder alone), possibly without hot water or electricity, since it cuts out city-wide frequently.  Here, I had heat, I was beginning to dry, and I felt comfortable.

We saw, through the now-open door, a few go by on bicycles.  I looked out and realized the rain was not nearly as heavy as it sounded by the amplification of the metal roof.  I hadn't heard thunder in a while.  But by now, darkness would be setting in soon, and the invitation had been extended a few times--more as a statement than an offer--"Mumalala kuno." ("You will sleep here tonight.")

The peanuts shelled, Judiss began to sweep up the detritus that had fallen on the floor.  I offered to help, but such was refused.  The younger man asked for my key to bring the bike to a more secure spot; Judiss's hat-wearing husband, who'd been drinking chibuku since his arrival home (he even warmed it in a pot--something I'd never seen before) and I moved into the small kitchen/pantry area.  Still wet, I changed into a sweater and citenge (an all-purpose 2-meter cloth wrapped as a skirt and worn by all women here), the dampness within lifting as I removed the sodden clothes.

The last-born child (I learned that Judiss had borne eight, six of whom were still living) returned home from her Grade 9 classes an hour's walk away.  She was strikingly beautiful and wore tight jeans--I wondered where she had changed out of her uniform.  We talked about the mock exams (woefully written, unfortunately) administered at the end of last term as Judiss cooked.  I had a moment of worry--"What if it's nshima and kapenta?"  Nshima I enjoy and eat with my Zamfam almost daily, but tiny dried-and-fried fish are not my thing.  I could manage a few, for politeness, I decided, and I'm not all that hungry.  The worry went away.  The family composition had changed a bit as the couple with the baby had left to go to their own house a few minutes’ walk away, and the parents of the baby who’d been napping on the rug had arrived, the father drinking some chibuku and giving some to the 2-year-old son, whose name was Future, as well.  We kept chatting and enjoying familial comfort and shelter together.  Soon, the grade 9 girl came to my side, "Tien--ivyakulya."  ("Come for the food.")  We ate together, just the two of us, at the table in the sitting room-- one dish full of rice, sweetened with sugar, 2 spoons.  It was delicious. 

Afterward, we sat again for a time in the kitchen.  I had been asked if it would be ok to sleep alongside the daughter in the sitting room.  “Anything is fine,” I responded, “thank you.”  I knew it was likely I’d sleep directly on the floor, perhaps on a reed mat.  The girl brought in a mat and laid it out on the floor.  She covered it with a blanket and brought a sheet and two more blankets.  She had jerry-rigged a light from batteries and a mix of flashlight pieces, and it was kept going throughout the night—perhaps so that, if I woke, I wouldn’t be afraid.  (I was, after all, in a strange house.)  I asked to be shown to the icimbusu (outdoor toilet), and I was escorted out with a light, where I ducked in to brush my teeth, use the small hole for its intended purpose, and send a quick text to my friend, explaining my no-show in Mbala.  Then we all said goodnight, and the girl and I curled up on the mat, each with a separate, thin wool blanket.  She gave me a lumpy sort of pillow, she herself using a sweater or something else for her head.

I don’t remember much thereafter, so I must have been out quickly, though it couldn’t have been much after 20:00.  I woke numerous times in the night, as the blanket was thin and the mat hard.  Each time, I turned a bit, pulled the blanket taught over my body and head (to shut out the jerry-rigged light and fend off any mosquitoes, since we weren’t sleeping under a net), and quickly fell back asleep.

In the morning, I woke to roosters crowing.  I retrieved the scissors that acted as a clasp to secure the back door and went outside to use the icimbusu.  It didn’t have a roof and the ground around the hole was spongy.  I checked the time; 4:50.  It was still dark, so I crawled back under the blanket, but there was no more sleep.  After perhaps 30 minutes, I rose and switched back into the pants and shirt I’d warn the day before, now mostly dry, if still dirty.  I scrawled a quick note, “Nataizya,” (“thank you”) and my village name and left it, with a few hard candies I had in my bag, on the table.  As I went to go, the three in the house woke to escort me out.  My bike had been stored in the locked building behind, and it was brought to me.  Then, in the early morning air, we bade farewell.  I didn’t know their surname; to this day, I don’t.  With the moon still high to my left and the sun just breaking over the horizon to my right, I continued to Mbala, arriving in about an hour’s time, and made it to the guest house (my friend had made it there, after all) to meet her.

The trip to Mbala was a bit of a bust.  The package from my mother (with sign-language books I need to work with Katito, mentioned in an earlier post of this blog), had not yet arrived; there was only one letter since my last visit a month ago.  I couldn’t find a few items I needed, and the big market I’ve yet to visit turned out to be too far to reach and still take the time I wanted to explore properly.  I did, of course, get to see my friend, which was worth it.   But it turned out that, rather than being an unfortunate inconvenience, my Zambian sleepover in itself was the best part of the experience.  I got caught in the rain and slept in the home of complete strangers.  What’s more, it felt completely comfortable, natural.  We conversed in Mambwe.  I understood the norms of Zambian households, so I could predict almost every move they made.  And I didn’t fight the reality of limited options.  Moreover, I was happy with this option as it presented itself.

Back in the USA, I’ve slept in my car on numerous occasions, generally to make good time on long drives or to save cash when a hotel stay would be only providing a bed, not an intentional getaway (as when I had a flight arriving in Charlotte around 18:00 and another leaving before 9:00 the next day and didn’t see the purpose of driving two hours home just to double back after a few hours’ sleep).  In the States, I’ve never gone to a stranger’s house expecting to be accommodated with open arms.  I’ve never had to stay in a place where there were no hotels available, where I really had no shelter in the form of a car or empty airport lobby or wherever I spent the night dozing.  In most places in the USA, there’s somewhere that you can wait the night out, sitting awake and alone, or where you can sleep for a price.  If you don’t have the money, that’s a personal problem; if you get in to New York Port Authority at 2 a.m. and force yourself to stay awake reading at a coffee shop until dawn breaks and you can go on your way, that’s your choice and you’re on your own.  That’s the beauty of removing money –and convenience—from the equation.  There was no hotel to stay in, and I was caught in an uncomfortable and potentially quite dangerous lightning storm, with impending nightfall.  So my choice was to stay with this family or endure the rest of the trip to Mbala.  I knew that, they knew that.  They welcomed me.  It was a beautiful thing. 

What Are We Workin' With?

When I was a wilderness counselor in North Carolina, I had a difficult time adjusting to the frigid conditions of living in a rustic camp setting.  Every morning during training, I'd wake up energetic but grumbling about the cold.  A fellow counselor said something to the effect of, (and this in no way resembles a direct quote) "It's gonna be cold every day.  So I don't need to get up and say, 'Oh, it's so cold.'  Don't be surprised!  It's cold, and that's what we're working with.  We just gotta accept it."

Zambia recently had presidential elections.  Running elections requires a staff, who of course need to be carefully selected and trained.  Naturally, many of those who are most qualified (with relatively high education and English-speaking levels, as well as a good understanding of democratic process) are teachers within the Ministry of Education.  Naturally, the training coincided with the first week of the school term, and the elections themselves with the third.  Naturally, transport limitations mean that even a commitment that lasts only a day requires one to leave a day early and come back the day following for almost any destination beyond 20 kilometers.

So I found myself, pumped up with so many plans now that I'm relatively well-integrated into the community, at a school severely understaffed for the crucial first days of the term.  On more than one occasion, I found myself  alone (or with one other staff member) at school at the time classes are scheduled to start.  In a school with an enrollment of over 700 pupils (though of course pupil attendance is also an issue), this is an overwhelming prospect. 

I remind myself, however, that problems are opportunities.  When half the pupils don't come, it's of course unfortunate.  Except that it means that all the pupils who have come have space to sit at a desk, rather than on the floor, and not trying to manage 100 energetic pupils means I might be able to actually teach a few.  Missing all of our administrators and most of our teachers in the beginning of the term is far less than ideal, but if it means that elections are carried out fairly and peacefully and ensure the stability of a young nation, perhaps it's a sacrifice worth accepting. 

So every day, when I confront a hurdle in the path that looks so clear in my mind, I have to remind myself: "You know this is an issue.  Don't be surprised when half the staff is missing, or half the pupils don't have pencils, or a small achievement you've worked really hard for is swept away by someone with a different perspective.  Don't be distracted by what isn't there.  Figure out what is, and do what you can with it."

I'm getting better at being undeterred by little frustrations and reveling in the high points that unfailingly balance out the low points of every day.  It's a matter of small steps, small victories, and a constant question in the back of my mind: "What are we workin' with today?"

What I love about America

I have a short list of several blog posts waiting to be written while I have some Internet time, but I feel compelled to skip them, for now, in a more spontaneous burst of thought.  On Facebook, attempting to upload photos, I saw a link for a video showcasing classes taught by one of my hip hop teachers (and friends) in San Diego.  Ahh, the wonders of YouTube...I wait for it to load, and then--I'm there.  Back in this magical city where I ended up by the grace of curiosity and enough money in the bank for a plane ticket.  Back in this studio, where I ended up (not without some nervousness, I might add) on a whim for a dance audition after stumbling across the ad on Craigslist while looking for jobs to keep me afloat.  There's the warm-up routine, the stretches and the energy, the fine coat of dust on the floor (no matter how much we swept it) that ended up all over you in your mildly-sweat-soaked baggy dance clothes, the beautiful windows where we watched planes take off from downtown and soar overhead in Point Loma.  There's one teacher, her wildly personal (and perfectly-suited) hairstyle shaking with vigor as she dances, her "My husband rocks" t-shirt proudly displayed, more evidence that this marriage is still one of the few I've ever witnessed that inspires me, that gives me hope for the marriage I hope to have with someone someday.  The video starts with some cool animation, and I think back to sitting in Angel's car at the bus stop, listening to him talk about learning PhotoShop by playing around with it, and I'm thinking now, just as I was then--wow!  Look at how professional this whole operation has become, because they work to figure out how to do sound editing, graphic design, photo manipulation, video composition. 

Then the dancing starts, and I can't help but watch the video again, again.  Even as I write this, I have to pause to watch it again, and for a third time tears form in my eyes.  Why?  It's not sappy, it's not particularly emotional, though I am a bit of a sucker for Katy Perry's Firework, to which the video/choreography is set.  It's not the choreography that brings me to the brink of crying.  I don't know what it is, exactly, but I think it's what I love about America.  It's the opportunity, the sense of possibility, that has permeated my whole existence.  That I could go to a strange city and become part of a family in the oddest of entities--an environmentally- and socially-conscious hip hop dance company, despite having no prior hip hop training, limited (and late-started) dance training in general, and no wealth of talent for this particular art.  It's about...the pushing of boundaries that happens so naturally in the U.S.  It's about riding the bus for 2 hours to be part of a 2 hour rehearsal, then 2 hours home, because it's where I feel myself--and not just my hamstrings--being stretched in new ways.  It's about...and I'm near sobs now, though I can hardly understand it myself...the relationships that are made, that connect, that form a special place in your heart even though roads may beckon elsewhere.  It's about all the possibility that lies before me, that always have, by virtue of where and when and how and to whom I was lucky to be born.  It's about what I will get to come home to, though I don't know exactly what or where that will be.

I love my life in the village.  I enjoy fetching water; I find hand-washing clothes to be therapeutic, even at 6:00 a.m. before school.  Bucket baths have a sweetness to them, and eating insima and soya and beans out of collective bowls on the ground outside my neighbors' house with people I consider to be family is my standard, and much-enjoyed, dinnertime ritual.  I don't consider my life full of hardship, though certainly it has frustrations.  Watching this video, I am filled with a yearning for home--if only one of my many homes Stateside--that I don't often feel tugging at my heart.  And simultaneously, it's a reminder of why I'm here.  Because there's something about opportunity, possibility, creation that I see in this dance, this movement, this endless work toward refining the abilities of the human body, that I want the children in my community here to have, to know.  We don't need electricity.  We don't need personal cars or brand-name shoes.  But creativity...education...ideas...belief in ourselves...this we need.  This is what I see, what I saw in this beautiful thing I got to be a part of, if only for a little while, on the West Coast.  This is what I want for the people I see daily...whether it's the middle-aged mothers who, for the first time, are learning to write their names and read first-grade books in Bemba as we sit together under the afternoon sun in a field where cassava is waiting to be harvested; or the first-grade, single-parented children who walk for over an hour to sit on the floor because there aren't enough desks and try to copy the strange shapes on the chalkboard (the teacher calls them "Math" but what does that mean?) adequately into their notebooks so they can get a check from the teacher; or the neighbor who's been successful, who has a grade-12 education (a rarity in rural areas like mine), but whose intermittent work seems enough to keep his family fed and himself lubricated with cheap liquor, because he doesn't know what to aspire to or how to reach it.  I wish they could see these people dance, could see the ideas they have--not just about motion and grace and beauty and skill but about the world we live in and what it can be--I wish they could be half the places I've been blessed to be, do half the things I've been blessed to do. 

So I'll return to my village, and continue to get frustrated with all the kinks in the system that make it all but impossible for kids to learn to read and write and think and dream, but hopefully I'll get a little visual in my mind that reminds me to show them what they're worth.  Kruciaal Element, Angel & Jaami--I love you.  Thanks for what you do, for what you are.  I hope I can do you proud.

On the Road

(written 23 August 2011)

Only kilometers out of Lusaka, the city begins to melt away.  I've secured a super hitch with a kind Zambian gentleman headed toward the Copperbelt; he'll drop me 1/4 of the way in Kapiri Mposhi (though, since I'm only endeavoring to cover 1/2 of the trip to Kasama today, he's really getting me halfway).  I'm venturing back to Mbala district the way someone might move cross-country to Alaska, with several overnight stops along the way.
[...later that day...]
My super hitch, in addition to transporting me in his clean (though not ostentatious) ride, bought me a Sprite and a tea break, let me doze in his car while he drove, and didn't once ask for my phone number.  He even bypassed the usual Kapiri junction to deposit me at a police checkpoint nearby, imploring the officers to help me secure a free ride the rest of the way to Serenje.  I'm not entirely sure if I should be attempting to secure a hitch or not; they've told me I can sit (and I am, resting on my blue Cabela's pack, with my back against the mud brick wall of the checkpoint post), but many vehicles, including cushy private ones, have gone past without inquiry.  Serenje isn't far--3 or 4 hours, at most--and it's still mid-morning, so I'm not worried, but it is interesting to see exactly what happens (or doesn't) at these checkpoints from the police's perspective.

It will be a few days before I arrive back at my own house and get to sleep in my own bed, but already I am shifting back into the Zambian territory I love.  The police, who are working 24-hour shifts, have made a big brazier out of a tire rim, and for lunch someone procured a live chicken, which--having suffered the fate of a sharp knife--is sizzling in hot oil at the moment.  Moments ago, for the first time in over two weeks, I used a grass-walled icimbusu (pit latrine) instead of a porcelain toilet, and it was lovely not to hassle with faulty flushing mechanisms or the reality of using a gallon of water to whisk away a few squares of toilet paper.  And Mambwe!  Though I fear I've gotten a bit rusty, having used it minimally in Lusaka (where English is the standard vernacular, and there are very few Mambwes in general, so different local languages are used), using it with the officers here has come naturally.  I'm not home yet, but I'm getting there, and it feels good.

In-Service Training

(written 17 and 18 August, 2011)

31 January 2011, Philadelphia, downtown Holiday Inn: Twenty-nine strangers from all over the U.S. line up to turn in paperwork and officially register for departure with the United States Peace Corps.  The scene is not unlike move-in day of freshman year, the University of Anywhere; the same conversation streams flow over and over: "Hi!  Where are you from?  Are you excited?  Me too!  How much stuff did you bring?"  Twenty-eight new friends (one is saying goodbye to her grandparents, who live locally) wander down the street, shivering in the winter air, and pile around tables in the second floor of a cozy, wood-stove-warmed local restaurant, completely overwhelming their two staff members with orders of wraps and fries and pitchers of soda and beer.

The next three days are a whirlwind of orientation to, and preparation for, what most of them have been thinking about (and waiting for) over a course of many months since submitting their applications:  Peace Corps service, two years living and working in a foreign country.  They are to work in development, but they are not "aid" workers; they are, as Peace Corps is an agency of the State Department, under the auspices of the U.S. government, but they are not diplomats.  Their job is, at its core, simply explained in 3 goals, shared by Peace Corps worldwide for 50 yeasr: to provide skilled labor to countries who have requested it, to help others understand Americans and United States culture, and to share a knowledge and understanding of their host country, its people, and its culture, with Americans.  These 29, as they are bussed from Philadelphia to New York City, board a South African Airlines flight to Johannesburg, switch into a smaller plane for the journey north to Zambia's capital, and touch down on the tarmac of Lusaka International Airport, join thousands who have made similar journeys, in heart as well as body, since the early days of President Kennedy's administration in 1961. 

The whirlwind, having crossed the ocean, doesn't stop; they are welcomed to the country by the open arms of PC staff, housed together in shared rooms in a training center, and--within days--trucked off in Land Cruisers, in groups of two to four, to visit Volunteers at their sites, to see "how Volunteers actually live," and to get a sense of what they've signed up for--if this is the right place, the right job, the right time for each of them.  (Over time, two decide that it is not, and with sadness but certainty, they bid farewell to their friends and board return flights to the States.)  Back from site visits, they are assigned to their new language--the country has 72, plus the official language of English, but they'll be learning one of five languages based on the region where they'll eventually be living.  Then they are each ushered to a host family, with whom they live for three months.  During this time, each day is filled with training: sessions on language, safety, health, culture, Zambian history, and--since their job is Rural Education Development (RED)--the structure of the Ministry of Education and current challenges in the educational system.

Likewise, the days are filled with the details of a new lifestyle: warm bucket baths taken outside in the privacy of a tall grass shelter; meals of nshima (the staple carbohydrate) and relish (the side dish accompanying nshima, generally meat, greens or other vegetables, beans, or eggs), waking and retiring in tune with the sun and moon's daily dance.  They begin to know and feel at ease with their host families and their trainers, both Zambian and American. They become closer to each other over glass bottles of Zambian and South African beer at the Stoop and games of football (soccer) and frisbee.  They test romantic possibilities and, more often, lament the gender imbalance, as the group has only 7 men to its now 20 women.  They meet more Volunteers, who share not only technical expertise in their work, but also stories and advice about life in country.  They visit their soon-to-be homes to test out their language, meet counterparts, and again decide: is this right for me?

Soon the rains begin to diminish and the mornings and evenings become cooler as the season begins to change.  Near the end of April, they bid goodbye to their host families; they swear in, marking their transition from Trainees to Volunteers; they enjoy a night of revelry together in a Lusaka club.  The next morning, they pile into Land Cruisers (now a comfortably familiar mode of transport) and head to their Provincial capitals, where they spend Easter weekend and a few days following buying household supplies and staple groceries.  They get comfortable in their Provincial houses and offices, and some get very comfortable with other PCVs passing through.  Days of anticipation and preparation melt into nights of warm group meals, candlelight and guitar music, movies and conversation, and the exhilarating kiss of beverages and new lips.

Then they say, again, farewell.  Piled with plastic buckets and plastic grocery bags, the Cruiser pulls away with each person to deposit him or her in the home that awaits.  And then they are alone.

I am alone--in my village in the northernmost part of rural Zambia--having left my family and friends in the U.S. three months before, and having left all those who've become my support, become my confidantes, during those three months.  I'll see some of them in two months at a provincial meeting, and all of my training group in three months at In-Service Training (IST), and other PCVs here and there as we cross paths.  But for the most part, I am alone to make this real: to find my role, myself in who I will be, here in my community.  It's what I have been longing for, because I haven't always loved the 'gang of Americans' group dynamic; I didn't join Peace Corps to hang out with other Americans for two years.  But still, they are good people and are my family here, and now I'll be without them for a series of months.

Yet...I don't feel alone.  My family in the village is a web of siblings and children and cousins who respect my privacy but provide ready company.  Eight hundred pupils come to the school (a minute's walk from my house) when the term begins ten days after my arrival.  The teachers who met me on my visit in March welcome me back, and new ones come, and as the days and weeks pass I easily become comfortable with myself, my routine, my community.  Days are filled with classroom observations, weighing babies at the Under-5 clinic, frying fritters in the market, biking all over Creation to visit different schools in my zone, attending community workshops and meetings, studying with tireless grade 8 and 9 pupils, attending church services, making a compost pile, harvesting corn (by hand, of course), pounding peanuts into butter, constantly cleaning my house, practicing flute, reading, writing letters, organizing books in the school staff room, playing with my neighbor siblings, dancing with teenagers to the palpable rhythm of wood-and-animal-skin drum and voice, encountering challenges but relishing successes as well.

I make a few trips to my boma, Mbala, the nearest town, for meetings, for supplies, to celebrate the 4th of July with other PCVs and American missionaries, to attend a cultural ceremony in the village of another PCV.  It's always a bit strange to be out of my village, and I'm happy to return.  Two trips to the provincial capital, Kasama, two hours away by car, are more disorienting--not only because there I find a modern supermarket and an urban atmosphere but because there I find American PCVs, each with their own joys and stresses and approach within Peace Corps life.  My village is my home; it's safe, it's comfortable, and although it's not perfect (and I'm not sure on that last one), I love it there.

And so Community Entry--as those first three months alone are called by Peace Corps worldwide--comes to an end, as does the school term.  And the 27 of those Americans who first warmed to each other by a woodstove in Philly are called back from the reaches of Zambia to reconvene for IST.  They come, celebrating their reunion, full of stories, laden with lists of to-do and to-buy-in-Lusaka things, from "see the Harry Potter movie" to "contact solution."  They come mainly for more training, only now, they are not so fresh, so raw.  They come with intimate knowledge of issues that were raised in their pre-service training, those first three months in country.  Corporal punishment, high illiteracy levels, understaffing, and pupil defilement aren't just ethereal threats but active realities.  NBTL, SITE, ROC, TGM, SPRINT, CPD, DEBS--the acronyms now roll off their tongues effortlessly as they share all they've learned about the implementation of Ministry of Education policies within their zones.  They aren't just foreign visitors anymore; they are educational professionals, invested in their schools, well-informed and ever-learning to become some sort of authority on the content and structure of Zambian education.  They shift back into a professional world, even if it's only business-casual, with training sessions from 8:00 to 17:30 and tea breaks with scones and bedrooms with electricity and breakfast & lunch that's cooked for them  and seminar rooms with light and climate control and Powerpoint presentations and enough chairs, papers, and pens for everyone.  They are loaded down with even more books and manuals about teaching, about development.  Knowing what their specific communities need, they get more training on how to teach ESL classes, how to begin HIV/AIDS awareness projects, how to write proposals and help organize IGAs (income-generating activities). 

And they are dipped back into the broader context of their roles here.  They delve, together and with counterparts from their villages, into development theory--the abstractions of designing successful projects (those that address root causes of problems and are sustainable) and designing for behavior change, a model rife with vocabulary like determinants and barrier analysis.  They engage in discussions about whether it does more good than harm for a PCV to help a community bring in outside funding for any cause, and from where that funding should come; they discuss their current, blossoming, or hoped-for relationships with PCVs, host country nationals, or those determined ones across the pond who are counting down the days one by one. 

And they once again find delight among their green and brown bottles of Mosi and Castle.  Now in the city, they satisfy their palates with Indian and Thai and Mexican cuisine, with curry and mint and cilantro.  The savor the coolness of dairy in soft chunks of mozzarella and smooth sips of milkshakes.  Even if, in the village, they don't miss alcohol (consumed minimally or privately, since alcoholism is a rampant problem in rural Zambia and open consumption doesn't garner respect) and enjoy daily nshima with their families each night under the stars, once together again they nourish desires and habits and personality traits that go unfed in their homes.  They're still PCVs--more so now than ever, having successfully begun their integration into their communities and increasingly competent in their technical skills--but they're also young (in age or at heart) people abroad in an international city.  And they like movies and dancing and wine and staying up late and speaking in frantic American English.

And I am here, and I am empowered and encouraged by the professionalism of my colleagues, because they are colleagues, and they are doing so much already, and they are skilled and dedicated and invested.  I am honored to be part of this group.  But I'm not always 100% comfortable in the group, maybe because I, too, like movies and dancing and wine and fast-paced chatter, but I like who I am in the village better.  I love, selfishly, that I'm getting such a great education in my job: in direct experience and through training.  I enjoy the opportunity to interact with Peace Corps staff, both Zambian and American, and to learn about the different ways in which life can unfold itself in Zambia--because, just as in the U.S. and many countries, there is a whole segment of the population that is well-educated, has a relatively high socio-economic status, and lives city life.  And I, too, having dwelled both in small-town rural America and in some of the U.S.'s biggest cities, like the chance to take a taxi, to dine at a restaurant, to absorb the bright gleam of mall corridors.

But there's an interesting tension knowing that many of those who live in my village--the adults in our literacy class, the mothers selling tomatoes in the market--don't have these opportunities.  And I don't know if my colleagues, my friends, my peers in this group share this tension, so sometimes I feel not only jarred by being thrust back into this environment but alone in the questions I pose: about the inequality that still exists, the tremendous privileges I still experience even as a Peace Corps Volunteer living in the bush.

We have been here for six and a half months.  Close to one-fourth of the time we committed to spend in this beautiful country has passed already.  I live in the village, and that role, those emotional bonds, are perhaps my main focus, the core of my experience here.  But I'm also a RED 2011 PCV, and I'm sharing this experience with 26 others; we look forward to our shared Close-of-Service (COS) date, and all that we hope to accomplish before then, the way classmates look to graduation.  I'm an American, so there is a sense of camaraderie I may feel among other Americans--PCVs or otherwise--and ways that I can be myself that I don't fully experience with my local friends.  And I have a university degree and a wide variety of work experience, so at the risk of sounding conceited, I must admit that here, I'm among the intelligentsia, the academic and professional elite.  Whether I like it or not, this does set me a bit apart from some of the members of my community.

While I came, then, to be, as much as possible, a villager, I'm learning that these other roles (and many more I'll leave unwritten here) are part of me, too.  I can't escape them, and I'm not sure I should try.  Rather, I can delight in what I have, wherever I am.  Here in the LSK, it may be a milkshake and dancing to Justin Bieber at midnight against a backgroup of pulsating flourescent lights; in my cozy home near the Tanzanian border, it may mean a cup of tea and a novel before bedtime (read: 8:30pm) or an energizing literacy lesson in a cornfield where 40-year-old women are learning, some for the first time, to write their names, or sitting around the brazier with my Zambrothers and sisters, warming ourselves to a soundtrack of multiplication fact quizzes, songs, or Mambwe conversation.  Each experience, urban or rural, collective or all my own, weaves itself into this 27-month tapestry, forming a design still yet to be beheld.