New Year's Resolutions

For 2013, I have two simple goals:

1. Remove the word "should" from my vocabulary.
2. Live in community, in honor of Ben Horne.

Merry Christmas 2012!

In keeping with tradition, I'll sum up the year in a spur-of-the-moment Christmas letter:

Happy Holidays to all!
The past year has been so full of rich experiences that I'm struggling even to begin.  To break it into pieces:

Work: I'm a volunteer in the Rural Education Development (RED) project, and my primary focus has been co-teaching at the zonal centre school a stone's throw from my house.  Terms I and II found me co-teaching Grade 9 Maths with a wonderful community volunteer teacher who has become my best friend in the village. He left to begin studies at the University of Zambia in July, so in Term III, I continued with Grade 9 Maths (sometimes with another teacher), and I also co-taught Grade 9 English with a teacher new to our school.  I'm also taking part in a study run through the CDC (Center for Disease Control) and PMI (President's Malaria Initiative), examining the use of and damage sustained by LLINs--Long-life insecticide-impregnated mosquito nets.  I've had several counterparts in this study and it has been a much-needed and fabulously interesting way to get myself out of school and into the community.  I've appreciated the trust bestowed me as people I don't know well allow me into their bedrooms (a very private space in Zambia) to examine their nets.  I've done a bit of work at other schools--paying a few school visits, organizing and conducting a book inventory at the next nearest government school--but sometimes I feel my most valuable work is one-on-one tutoring or homework help, often with my family members or other pupils on weekends or in the evenings.

I've had a chance to do some HIV/AIDS work, which boils down to informal conversations and condom demonstrations.  For example, one afternoon I was hanging out on my porch with two of my best friends, 20-something men in the village, and we were able to discuss sexual behaviours in Zambia and America, some of our own personal choices, and male circumcision.  This kind of organic idea-sharing and planting-seeds-for-behaviour-change represents what I love best about my job here--the way it seeps effortlessly into the rest of my life if I just let it.

My fabulous team of district volunteers organised a Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) in April and a Camp ELITE (Empowering Leaders in Training and Equality) in December.  Basically these camps train grade 8 and 9 youth as peer educators in life skills, gender issues, and general empowerment in single-sex camps.  (ELITE also incorporated football training.)  We also train a community counterpart, and ideally each PCV-counterpart-youth team creates a club at their school to help transfer these skills to other youth as well.  Both camps were a great success.  Making the clubs work is more challenging, but as we say here, "bit by bit."

I've done a bit of work here and there at the clinic, helping out with Under 5, and I did a test-run of sorts with a short informational lesson on water purification with mothers at a postnatal clinic session.  I'm looking forward to doing more community education through these channels in the coming months.

A community library has not gathered the impetus it needs to transition from idea to reality yet, and I'm wary of pushing my own agenda.  However, my mother and sister both generously brought books in their suitcases, and I'm trying to promote a reading culture through exposing children to those.  We have a district library that has really encouraged me with its potential, and I've been working with a few other volunteers to help put the books in order.  We have big hopes that we can help train the library staff on how to maintain this order, expand their collection, and attract the public.  It will be an ongoing project, but I hope that my work has helped the staff to build a relationship with Peace Corps and that others will continue to carry on what we're starting to really make the library a great resource for those in the district.

As a second-year volunteer, I've tried to be a good resource for newer volunteers, taking part in an orientation panel, hosting second site visit for the new Mbala district RED volunteers, and helping design and facilitate In-Service Training for the first-year RED volunteers in August.  It's empowering to be part of a great team of talented and committed individuals!

Play: I love my house and my community, and I take plenty of time for myself to sleep, sew, write, paint, and read.  I don't bike on a daily basis due to my location and how my work has been focused, but I've had some lovely rides to other volunteers' sites and town.  Larry London's music mix blaring through the shortwave radio remains one of my favourite hours of the day, and letters from family and friends are the best things one can find in Mbala!  I've tried to reconcile two distinct parts of Peace Corps/Zambia--the personal village experience and the crowd-of-other-Peace-Corps-volunteers experience, and I hosted a cool Unity Day/American independence day party that merged the two as well as I hoped.  Nights here and there in Mbala and Mpulungu, helping out with a volunteer's health day in Central Province, visiting Kasanka National Park for the bat migration, and time at the provincial house for biannual meetings, new volunteer posting, and other work/events have provided many opportunities to develop friendships within the Peace Corps family.  Of course, visits from my mom and sister Beth were big highlights of the year!

Love: It's impossible not to think about marriage and babies in a country where every young woman has a child strapped to her back.  That said, I'm not coming home with a spouse or a child, and I'm really happy to still be shaping my own world and figuring out my own vision for the future.  When I find someone who shares the vision, perhaps the horse and carriage will follow, but in the meanwhile I'm very happy to be unattached!

Family: I've missed some big things at home this year: the birth of fourth son, Asher, to my brother Bryce and sister-in-law Ronda; the high-school graduation of my sister Beth, and countless school activities of my other siblings Jim, Anne, and Becky, plus the occasional visit home from my soldier brother Mike.  However, I was privileged to share my Zambian home with my mom during her whirlwind tour in April and with Beth during her 5-week stay in June/July.  Between these two visits, I was able to share in a safari to Chobe Park in Botswana, visits to Kalambo and Victoria Falls, general silliness in Livingstone, and quality time roaming the areas most important in my life here.  I've also experienced some changes in my Zambian family as people tend to be a bit transient in my village, and while I'm excited that I'll get more time with my American family in the very near future, I'll be terribly sad to leave behind my Zamfam.

All the rest: Peace Corps is known to be full of ups and downs, and I've had my share of frustration, disappointment, and uncertainty about my role and my work.  Nonetheless, I'm always aware of the incredible gift that this entire experience is and of the stream of sand that marks my rapidly-diminishing time here.  I have so much I still want to learn, do, and experience in my remaining months, and I'm really excited about soaking in every moment.  I'm scheduled to leave my community around April 11th, officially 'ring out' of the Peace Corps on April 18, and spend a few weeks traveling in Tanzania before I go to my South Dakota home in May.  In June I'll be back to Cambridge with Harvard Summer School, and August will bring another new entry into one of my favourite places: The Great Unknown.

The year has been an amazing one.  I'm so grateful for good health, meaningful work, and a breathtaking environment to live in, but most of all for the wonderful people who fill my world.  Thank you for sharing your lives with me!  Wishing you all the best in 2013.

With love,
Andrea (/Rose)

Reacquainting myself with the butterflies

(written in October/Nov/Dec 2012)

It's a funny thing, Peace Corps, or any experience living in another country.  The fact that I have a blog when I never did before implies that this is different than my previous locations and endeavors.

Or maybe not.  Maybe I'm not sharing more, just using a public forum as an efficient, reliable, and free way to communicate with people I'd otherwise be in touch with personally, over the phone, via gchat, or the swift ponies of the USPS. 

But I don't think so.  A blog is easy and efficient, but it hasn't wholly replaced other forms of communication.  I've sent a couple hundred letters, and I make use of Skype, email, text messages, and the occasional phone call.  I set up a blog before coming here because I thought I'd have things to say, things that might appeal to a broader audience.  I'm not alone.  Most of my Peace Corps colleagues have blogs; only a handful of friends at home do.  Of those I can call to mind, most of those written by people who are currently in the U.S. were temporary records kept during travel, extreme pursuits (e.g. extended hiking trips), or--in particular--time spent in other countries.

Why is this? We expect the distant to be exotic, filled with spectacular detail.  We imagine others will want to see it through our eyes, and that we will want to remember it in technicolor.  Blogging is a form of accountability, forcing us to document the experience for others and for ourselves.  In the Peace Corps, it's practically in the job description; our third goal is to share information about the culture and people in our country of service with Americans.  We even include blog activities on our quarterly work reports. 

However, this is not just an adventure, a trip, or an extended vacation.  This is my job, and my village is my community.  The people who make me crazy, touch my heart, and take my breath away are my neighbors, my co-workers, my family.  This is where I live.

Yet--as I near 20 months here--it's still pretty wild.  My village center sits abreast of a main tarmac road, and we get visitors fairly frequently.  NGOs pass through to do one-off "sensitizations," as public awareness campaigns are termed, donations are channeled through the local World Vision office; researchers from a government ministry or the university stay overnight at our school while conducting field work in the area; the occasional tourist stops by on the way to or from Mpulungu, our port town on the shores of Lake Tanganyika.  Every time these visitors stumble upon me, a sometimes-boisterous, sometimes-reserved white girl attempting to speak the vernacular and moving around at ease, clearly accepted as part of the surroundings, I can't help but gloat a little in my head: "Yep, I LIVE here." 

What that means exactly, I haven't quite figured out myself.  As I started whittling away at my last six months, I had to accept that my time here is limited.  I won't always live here, so I must, as a friend advised, "suck the marrow out of each and every day."  How much I must devote myself to doing something, to "making a difference," as they say, and how much I should simply soak in as much as I can, just wake up and experience what each day brings with no agenda.  I don't know how to find the balance between those two approaches.

In Northern Province, Peace Corps Volunteers have a tradition of writing a final message on the walls of the provincial office bunkhouse when leaving the country.  One person wrote in 2005,  "Can you still feel the butterflies?"  We start blogs because we want a way to record the butterflies, as we find them.  Perhaps not just the butterflies we feel--the nerves as we enter the country for the first time, meet our training host family, watch the Peace Corps vehicle pull away after dropping us and our stuff off so that we can begin two years in our community--but the butterflies we find, too.  The beautiful creatures that flit around before me on an almost daily basis, a visual representation of all the small miracles that are all around me.  The paradox is that as I become more comfortable, I lose track of the butterflies.  As Zambia becomes normal, I can forget what a privilege the opportunity to be here is.

So back to the blog--my accountability, my link to you.  I hope that I can take advantage of the time remaining to share glimpses of Zambia, butterflies and all, with you.  Then, when I have the chance to be with you in person, perhaps we can replace the keyboard and screen with some chocolate and mugs of tea, which also create a fabulous forum for conversation exotic and ordinary alike.

Different

(begun 5 October 2012, finished 13 December 2012)

I'm not sure what it was.  The way the light hit, already high in the sky at half past six.  Maybe the way Ba Aggie asked if the friend whose wedding I'm attending tomorrow is "black, black," pinching her own forearm, "or mizungu (white)?"  When I responded that the bride is Zambian, she still wasn't convinced.  "Zambian Zambian?" she asked, seeking clarification, as opposed to non-black Zambians, whose number is few.

Maybe it was my big hiking backpack, half-empty to leave room for groceries on my return; the large bag feels more ridiculous on every trip because no one else has anything like it.  Perhaps it was just the last few weeks of thoughts: knowing that I have six months left here and wondering if I have accomplished any of the things I'd sought out to do.

There I stood on the side of the tarmac, awaiting the inevitable passage of a bus or private vehicle, thinking, "They will always see me as different."

I've gone through the bulky cultural handbook that is Peace Corps standard issue, some of it many times over.  One of the parts of adjusting to any culture, it claims, is the eventual realization that people are fundamentally different.  That culture is more than food and fashion preferences.  That we are shaped in profound ways by the setting in which we are raised.  That we view the world through different lenses, that our foundational beliefs and assumptions are not the same.  I've had my own lightbulb moments, too: a vivid one was when I stepped out of a school workshop to help the women teachers finish preparing and serving food and realized that they didn't feel put upon or discriminated against--they actually preferred cooking to sitting in an endless meeting.  I had a revelation then that any advocacy I do must be based on what people themselves want, not what I assume they want, though sometimes those assumptions are so deeply engrained in my being that I have to step outside myself to see them for what they are.

I came to the conclusion early on that it is possible to live here for two years and never really become integrated into the community.  I was dismayed.  As time has passed, I've had to constantly ask myself what I want to change to match Zambian culture (e.g., taking time to greet people and observe formalities), what I need to keep to be true to myself (e.g. reading a lot), and what I can blend to find an equilibrium (e.g. wearing dresses made by local tailors from traditional material, but in more Western dress styles.)  I've tried to respect the value of speaking the vernacular, as my experience so far has shown that language is the key that opens every door.  As I've entered the last quarter of my service and re-evaluated what I hope to achieve here, I've reminded myself that one of my "roles in development" is that of learner, and that I want to spend much of the next few months as a sponge--soaking in the rhythm of the village, savoring relationships, discovering as much as I can.

Because we are, fundamentally, different.  Nonetheless, we share many things in common, and these things can--and must--overrule our differences.  As President John F. Kennedy said in an address at The American University in June of 1963, "If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can make the world safe for diversity. For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children's future. And we are all mortal."  Our lives and pursuits look different, but the core of our existence is the same.

I will never be a Zambian woman.  I don't want to be.  I decorate my house as I want to, not following local trends, and since there are plenty of beans and leafy greens around, I've had no desire to acclimate my palate to dried fish and caterpillars.  But these things exist on the surface.  When I go to a funeral, I can't summon the wails that my fellow women deliver.  It feels artificial to me; we don't grieve in the same way.  But we all grieve, and mindful of cultural expectation, I can enter the home and sit with these women, silently paying respect, and when we gather en masse as the coffin is lowered and dirt shoveled back in place, my own tears flow unbidden, matching those around me.  We are not the same.  Integration is work and requires effort and intention.  I haven't yet reached the level of integration I had hoped for, and perhaps I never will.  Nonetheless, the fact that I can get anywhere close is incredible.  That little Zambian girls can see me as a big sister and know my moods and idiosyncracies is a miracle.  To some I am and will always be an outsider.  But a few of the people I'm close to will agree, I hope, with what artist Collin Raye says when he sings: "I laugh, I love, I hope, I try. I hurt, I need, I fear, I cry. And I know you do the same things, too. So we're really not that different, me and you."  Differences are more than skin deep, but so is our shared humanity. 

...and still to dust

In June 2011, I posted about my first experience at a Zambian funeral in my community.  The following is an addendum to that post. 

Eighteen months later, I’ve been to more funerals and paid respects to funeral homes, within my Zambian host family and circle of acquaintances, within the community at large, and even in other towns.  On a recent visit to a new volunteer’s home in my district, I had the opportunity to attend her first community funeral with her, explaining the process as best as I was able.  I still can’t force myself to wail; it is not my natural way of grieving, and though I’ve toyed with the idea of treating it as an acting exercise, the reality of death seems too grave to be treated lightly.  Instead I try to show respect in a natural way, acknowledging that sometimes I just can’t relate.  I had a visitor recently, and as we woke up—preparing to catch an early bus to the Provincial capital for a meeting—I heard a moving procession of wailing.  “Someone’s just died at the clinic,” I said; my siblings also heard it and confirmed the death, telling me it was the infant child of an acquaintance.  

“I have to go,” I told my friend.  “I know we’re on our way out, but we need to at least go visit the home.”  We placed our packs outside the funeral house, and I directed him to the small assembly of men already congregated by 6:30 a.m.  I entered the home, sitting on the floor and bowing my head down with such focus that it took me about ten minutes to recognize two of the women from my host family were on either side of me.  I sat in the simple room, deliberating over a hand-made sign that had been hung as a wall decoration which read, “It is not a mistake to be born in a poor family.”  In the center of the huddle of women, the dead infant’s mother cried out, “Umwana wane, ndapaapa weni?”—literally, “My child, whom will I carry on my back now?”  When I looked up and saw tears rolling out of my host mother’s eyes—her own one-year-old baby on her lap—I was reminded that these women aren’t just grieving out of compassion for their friend.  They are communing with her, because they understand.  My host mother lost her first-born child, Samuel, years ago.  He would have been 17 years old by now.  She knows what it means to bury a child; perhaps she is crying for her late son as much as she is crying for her friend’s loss.  I can, I hope, have compassion, but I know nothing of what it means to be a mother, and even less what it means to watch your own child precede you in death.  The women know, too, that this divides us.  That I don't really understand. 

After what felt like an appropriate amount of time, I emerged from the house and summoned my visitor.  I saw my best friend in the village—who happens to be the next-door neighbor to the funeral house—sitting among the men, and I asked him where the child’s father was.  He didn’t know, but as we grabbed our packs to leave, I saw him lying on his side, propped against the adjacent house, alone in his grief.  He had helped me with the world map we painted at the school last year, and since then we’d been casual acquaintances.  I wanted him to know that I cared, that I had come, even if I couldn’t stay.  I didn’t know what was appropriate, but I followed my impulses and walked over to him, urging my friend to go ahead up the road. 

Tears are not customarily shed in public, so it was sobering to see this man quietly sobbing.  I crouched beside him and gently placed my hand on his back, wanting him to simply feel my presence.  After a few moments, I stood and saw his eyes flicker open ever so faintly, acknowledging me.  I joined my friend on the dirt road and asked another acquaintance, as we neared the tarmac, if it was OK that I wasn’t staying all day for the funeral.  He assured me that by visiting the home, I had done what was expected, and no one would think me disrespectful for leaving to attend a scheduled program.  I recently saw the child’s father during a church service, and he gave me a broad smile when we made eye contact; as we left the service and I asked how things were going, he told me everything was just fine.  I wasn't shocked by his response; after all, the death was over two weeks ago.  Here, we bury, and we move on, at least in the public eye.

I’ve never been so aware of the fragility of life as I am here, nor have I ever wanted so vehemently to live to an old, old age.  Funerals here have helped me to remember that we only get a short shot at this endeavor, life.  When my shot’s up, my body will return to dust.

Food Aid

A couple dozen 50-kilogram bags are stacked on overturned stools in the staff office at Masamba Basic School.  "World Food Program," the bags are stamped.  "Gift of Denmark."  (Or in some cases, Germany.)

It's not the first donation we've had from the WFP, a division of the United Nations.  Last year I sent home a label from a 5-liter jug of cooking oil from Italy.  My mother commented that it was very international oil, having been grown, processed, distributed, etc. all in different countries.  I hadn't noticed the circuitous journey of the food; I just thought it was neat to be seeing firsthand the distribution of what we hear about in the U.S. but don't really know much about.

Such a distribution is happening now.  A Grade 4 pupil is dragging out a bag of maize meal, which cooked with water is the country's staple food, nshima.  (And I do mean staple.  A fellow PCV summed it up, "Nshima: It's what's for dinner.  And lunch.  Breakfast, too.")  Outside, a horde of kids waits noisely as two 9th grade girls, directed by the first and second grade teachers, distribute the food into plastic bags and buckets the kids have brought from home.  A big bowl of maize meal and two cups of some kind of legume per child.  The elevated stoop where they stand is coated in the fine white powder, and since many of the pupils are reusing cheap, thin plastic bags from the local tuck shops, a steady stream of the corn flour and beans falls out of holes and tears in many of them.

If I'm correct, the maize meal was delivered in kernel form.  Rather than being embraced as one may naively imagine (especially from an American perspective, in which anything free becomes terrifically exciting), the food was a source of consternation and caution at a staff meeting last term.  It's maize-selling season, and many Zambians earn a large percentage of their income by selling their harvest to the Food Reserve Agency--that is, to the Zambian government.  Teachers also take part, either by cultivating their own fields, paying laborers to work in their fields, or simply buying maize at a cut rate earlier in the season when farmers are cash-strapped and then re-selling it when the government comes around.  Bags and bags of maize at the school, then, in full view of the local maize selling point, invites not only malfeasance but also the perception of such even if it doesn't take place.

Of course, the food is meant to be eaten by the children, not sold by them, so distributing maize kernels isn't ideal either.  The ideal is a school feeding program.  Easy, right?  The food's here, the kids come, they learn, they eat, and off they all walk into the well-nourished, well-educated, prosperous horizon.

Not quite.  The school's enrollment is roughly ~800, grades 1-9.  Twelve teachers manage them, and we're lucky to have that many on staff.  There is no kitchen or dining hall; cooking in rural areas such as this one is done over an open fire which involves a lot of natural charcoal (which much be purchased from the locals who make it) or firewood (which must be gathered).  And of course, cooking takes time.  (Consider the number of staff who put in hours of hard work every day to prepare lunch at McCook Central, the school in my small hometown in South Dakota, for a much smaller number of students.)

Let's imagine, though, that the school were incredibly well-organized and the community invested.  Community volunteers could be assembled to cook a meal for the pupils, or at least some of them.  This has been done before; on one day, grade one and two pupils ate after lessons; on the next, grades three and four, and so on.  It worked OK, though the distribution of the food to pupils was a bit chaotic (they brought dishes from home and ate communally in small groups) and cut into--as the distribution at this moment is doing--teachers' instructional time with their pupils.  Cooking a meal, though, is more than a raw ingredient and fire. At the very least, it's important to have cooking oil and salt.  Naturally, water must be drawn (and carried) as well.  We have maize meal and legumes.  Free.  Except the cost of oil, salt, and labor to prepare it into a meal for pupils would quickly accumulate.  The assumption by the mere presence of the food is that the school doesn't have money for these things.  And even if oil and salt were donated, how long would this food last?  An organized school meal program for a school this size could take a lot of work and an ongoing supply of food.

But food is food, and we've just reached the end of hungry season, the period during dry season when gardens are fewer (due to no rain) and staples have not yet been harvested.  (Of course, this varies family-to-family based on a multitude of factors.)  So the solution the school reached was to sell a bag of maize to cover the cost of transporting the rest of the maize to the hammer mill, grinding it into meal, and transporting it back.  The children take home the ingredients in their buckets and bags, where the problem of cooking and serving is eliminated; it will become part of the family's meal routine.  In some cases, this meal will make a difference; a child who may have gone to bed hungry will know the comfortable groan of a filled tummy.  In others, the food will seep into the normal supply, appreciated but not life-changing.  In others, it may even cause the night's cook on duty (usually the mother or daughters, but sometimes a son) to overestimate, cook too much, and have more than usual left in the pot and tossed out after the meal.

I'm not opposed to food aid.  Eliminating hunger is an obviously noble and necessary goal and arguably should be an international priority.  The food given was nutritionally sound and culturally appropriate (as opposed to, imagine, air-dropped logs of pepperoni, blocks of cheese, or Little Debbie snacks.)  I'm grateful the food is here and is going to use.  I can't help but see, however, that what seems so simple--Hungry kids in Africa?  Send food aid!--is really much more complex.  Any real solutions will inevitably be local.  This is what I'm learning through the Peace Corps.  It's for this perspective--the one seen at eye level with some of these hungry kids--that I'm most grateful.

So I did come to your Bible study

(written 7 September 2012)

So I did, after all, come to your Bible study.  The SDA (Seventh-Day Adventist) church camp ran from Sunday to Sunday.  I thought about tagging along to spend the first night there with my family, but they left while I was napping after I returned from a different church service on Sunday.  I couldn't commit the week, but I knew they'd appreciate my presence, particularly on the Sabbath--Saturday--for the culminating service.

Come Saturday, my bike was locked up in the World Vision office with a flat tire. (Long story.)  I had a spare tube at home but it also needed patching, and the mend kit was with the bike.  My friend Philip, a community volunteer at World Vision, said he'd track down the key and bring it by 7 or 8 am Saturday.  At 9:00, I phoned him.  The person with the key was gone, he said, but he'd bring it in the afternoon, which of course wouldn't help me make it to the service.

Bikeless, off I set down the road.  A mini-bus passed me within about 15 minutes, and I could have easily boarded had I chosen to wait for it at the "bus stop" in my village, but these things are unpredictable, and walking seemed like the best choice.  I also got two or 3 offers to ride on the bike rack (one was even padded) of others en route to the church service.  I've ridden bike-taxi-style before, however, and it's not very comfortable for either party.  I'm not light, nor do I have the requisite core strength to balance comfortably, so I politely declined the offers.

As I neared my destination, I encountered Jonathan, a Peace Corps neighbor who lives 20 km south.  His derailleur had split in 1/2 while he was riding so he ended up walking/Fred Flinestone'ing his bike to my house, where he left it and continued on his way north to visit another PCV.  So I wasn't the only one making the journey.  The 6-10 km (distances are approximate) walk took almost two hours, in part because of several stop-and-chats: a group of women drinking maize beer who asked for my friendship (and my handbag), a young girl who ran up and hugged me, then continued stroking my forearms while she asked for my bicycle, my hat, some money, etc.  (Did I mention that I wasn't riding my bicycle?)  By the time I reached the camp, the service was nearly over.  Nonetheless, my host father, looking particularly dapper in shirt and tie, ushered me into the temporary structure of wood and thatch, and I squeezed in on the ground near my family and other community members.  My 7-year-old-host sister was delighted to see me, and the baby, while suspicious of my presence as usual, refrained from crying out in terror, as has been the norm.

When the service ended, I greeted many, much like church services at home, although to be honest I felt more comfortable here.  I was shown into my family's temporary home--a marvel of thin tree uprights and walls made of cement sacks--and sat on the ground outside with my sister, who cuddled next to me.  Many people at the camp came from other areas, so I encountered curious stares and friendly greetings.  Some marveled at the scene--a few young African kids dozing in the afternoon sun with their white American big sister.  (Such is the magic of Peace Corps.)

I had lunch with extended family in their little shanty tent.  (The whole settlement was a wonder of speedy craftsmanship and clever use of resources) and soon a bell called us back to Bible study.

I've never been to SDA Bible study before.  My family often invites me after I've come to SDA church, and I think they're considered equal parts of the Sabbath observance.  But three-plus hours of a religious service that's not of my faith and is largely unintelligible to me (being in Bemba, which is only related to Mambwe, the language I've studied) is about all I can handle in a day.  Saturday afternoons at my house frequently include a range of SDA children who come to play while their parents are at Bible study.  Today, then, was my chance, particularly since I had the poor form to miss most of the service itself.

A well-respected church and community leader (he's also the treasurer of the school's PTA) announced the groups we'd be breaking into for the discussion.  Ages 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-35, and so on.  He originally announced that the last group would include people "up to 100" but then amended it after comments from the  audience; it seemed that perhaps there was a member or two present who had surpassed 100.  Immediately after the groups were announced, the women on the ground next to me said, "You'll stay inside, right?  Do you want to get married?"  I wasn't sure what they were talking about, but I knew that at 28, my age put me in the range for group 4, so I rose to leave when group 4 did.  More voices weighed in: "You should be here," "You're not married," etc.  I frequently don't understand 100% of what's going on, so when I feel confident that I have, in fact, understood a direction, I become a bit defensive.  "He didn't say anything about marriage; I'm 28, this is where he said to go," I responded.  Soon enough, a few people I know better, including Mr. C., the head teacher at one of the schools in my zone, directed me in the direction of a group gathered on the ground.

"You're preparing to marry," a man stated.  "Awe, nskupekanya," (No, I'm not preparing), I replied, and it's true.  Marriage will, I hope, be in my future, but it's not on the horizon.  My response didn't change his answer: "OK, then this is your group."

I looked at the peoples assembled--primarily 16-to-20-year-olds.  "But I'm 28!" I exclaimed.

Mr. C. interjected, "Mutakweti nganda; you should be here," he said.  Ntakweti nganda?  I inferred the meaning--I don't have a family of my own--but I do have a house, one I manage just fine, if you ask me.  I may live alone in the house, but don't I still qualify as an adult woman?

I felt my throat become tense and tears collect as I took a spot on the grass among the small crowd.  Many were my pupils, or at least adolescents I knew from school.  I tried to analyze why I was feeling such a strong emotional reaction.  I felt shamed in a way I hadn't before, as though my legitimacy as an adult was in question because I'm unmarried.

Nonetheless, I sat and rationalized my assignment.  I'm here for the ride.  Does it matter which group I'm in?  I'm curious to hear what will be said in any of them.  (Except for the young children's group. They mostly sang songs, and I've heard or sung most of them before with my siblings.)  And some of my favorite people are in this group, I told myself.  (I tend to like kids and teens more than adults on any continent.)  My emotions calmed.  By the time I was used as an example, I was feeling less insulted about the whole thing.  The topic was "family living," and in this subgroup the focus was on finding a spouse.

"Imagine you set your eyes on Rose," Mr. C. said to those assembled, using my village name.  "Awe," I interjected good-naturedly.  "These are schoolchildren!  I'm an old woman."  The kids laughed.  I think he advised them that whoever they set their eyes on, they should pray to God about it.  (In the case of me, it will require an inordinate amount of prayer, really more effort than I'm worth.  Better to set sights elsewhere.)

I picked up bits and pieces of the Bemba/English/Mambwe mix--involve your parents in advising you on your choice of spouse; find out about the family background of a potential partner; don't marry someone for the money they have or the job they do.  Set goals for yourself, prepare yourself to be a good spouse, choose a "life partner" (they actually used this term, which felt very progressive, even if still embedded in a highly heteronormative perspective); don't be in a rush to marry.  Again I was used as an example: "Look at Rose.  She is still a student.  She is not married, but she will marry once she's finished her education."

Well...not exactly.  Certainly one reason I didn't marry young was my pursuit of higher education, and I've used myself as an example in this way many times.  But I obtained my degree over six years ago, and while I hope to have Master's and PhD degrees eventually, I'm not waiting to get married until after I complete those.  (Though perhaps a joint marriage/funeral could kill two turtledoves with one stone.)

I'm not married yet because I haven't yet found the person I want to marry, or if I have I'm not aware of it.  I have not yet had a relationship reach the level where we are ready to commit our lives to each other.  Certainly I have, at times, wanted to be married and felt ready for it, but I am only 50% of the equation.  I don't want to be married just for the sake of being married, and an unexpected side effect of my time in Zambia is that I'm developing an increasingly clear picture of what I want in a spouse and in a shared life together.  On the whole, I'm very happy not to be married now, and lately I've taken great pleasure in enjoying my youth and the possibilities that being untethered allows.

I'm curious, too, about the implication of the statement Mr. C. made.  It's a bit bizarre to some that I'm 28 and single, but most accept that I've gone to school, pursued a career (however meandering), and am still planning to marry one day.  But what if I weren't?  What if I'd said, "No, sir, I'm not waiting to finish school.  I don't want to be married.  Ever."  Then what?  That would be a much coarser pill to swallow, I'm sure. Not want to be married?  But...why?

I could chalk this up to Zambia's more traditional society, in which familial and gender relationships are laden with much value.  But it's true in American culture as well.  Marriage isn't expected as early in one's life, and gender roles are becoming far more malleable, but marriage (or civil union in some states) is still assumed to be an eventuality.  We're all expected to have--and to want--families of our own, even if we have careers too.  In the U.S., there's more room for discussion, however.  In Zambia, expectations often boil down to "the Bible says..."

The rolling hillside lent a beautiful backdrop to the afternoon, and I caught the eyes (non-romantically, of course) of a few pupils and family members of whom I'm particularly fond throughout the discussion.  I wouldn't say I learned from any angle that isn't anthropological or of a social science nature, but those observations alone were enough.

The middle-aged women, it turns out, learned some things a bit...spicier.  They huddled around and hinted about learning how to please their husbands, agreeing to teach me later.  After all, I likely won't be in Zambia when I do become a married woman.

Night was falling, so I got a ride back to Masamba; about 15 of us squeezed in the covered bed of the PTA treasurer's truck.  (Yes, he owns a vehicle, and yes, it's a big deal.)  I returned home exhausted from my morning walk and the emotion triggered in the Bible study, but delighted with the experience.  In our pursuit of significant others, wherever we live, we're constantly learning about ourselves, and my day at the SDA Bible study contributed to my own ongoing lesson.

Where I Come From

As I write this, I'm at our provincial office/house with over twenty other volunteers.  A number of people have finished their two years of service and will be leaving the country soon, so we gathered for a celebration (80's themed dance party, of course) last night and many of us visited a nearby waterfall today.  (See previous post, Holy Water, for my first experience under the waters of Chishimba.)  The musical selection here at the house is always rather eclectic, with the number of volunteers and their various interests in music, and Alan Jackson's song Where I Come From came on moments ago.

Where I come from, it's cornbread and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of front-porch sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven, 
Where I come from

I don't know if this song describes my childhood in South Dakota, necessarily; I've never even had a front porch.  It does seem to represent the pastoral ideal, however, particularly of the American south.  And with a few slight adaptations, it's quite true for many in my community in Zambia, too:

Where I come from, it's shima and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of insaka sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven,
Where I come from

Of course, most people can't afford chicken often, but it seems to be a favorite relish and is often served to welcome visitors or celebrate an event.  And not everyone has an insaka, or small gazebo-like structure for sitting, cooking, and eating, particularly among Mambwes; they seem to be more common among Bemba families.  But everyone sits, or "tutensies,"on little stools in their courtyard, often for long portions of the day, so "a lot of little-stool sittin'" would work as well.  And in this predominantly (and proudly) Christian nation, you can believe there's a lot of workin' hard to get to heaven.

I often find that country music lyrics describe some of the things I like best about Zambia.  A perfect example is Tracy Lawrence's If the World Had a Front Porch:

If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then
We'd still have our problems,
but we'd all be friends
Treatin' your neighbor like he's your next of kin
Wouldn't be gone with the wind
If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then

This song amuses me, because in Zambia it seems like everyone is next of kin.  Large families and marriages that stay within the community mean everybody is related.  On a serious note, though I like the notion of a front porch, a gathering place for reflection, relaxation, and community.  But it's not really about the porch.  It's about taking the time to sit and be together.  Shelling groundnuts (peanuts) is a common activity this time a year, and it's a lovely one.  In the U.S., if I want peanuts, I buy a pack of Planter's.  Here, they come from the field, and there's something very familial about gathering around a basket and shelling groundnuts together.  (For one, you can't eat a pound at a time, because it takes a while to shell them.)  The world can't get a front porch, or little stools in a shared courtyard, or whatever.  But all people, in their little family units, their little communities, can.  We can all take the time to be together.  And at the core, our lives aren't all that different.  After all, isn't a lot of our life eating, going through daily routines, trying to support our selves and family, and trying to be the best people we can be (whether that be in pursuit of a heavenly afterlife or not)?  The details change, but seems that these are some of the common threads that fill our days, at least where I come from.  All the places I come from.

25 August 2012

The following is a journal entry.  While I generally know when I'm writing in my journal whether it's intended to be a personal entry or whether I'll edit and type it later as a blog post, I'm terribly behind on writing 'posts,' and I thought perhaps this would be, at least, a little glimpse into my daily life and thoughts, however banal they may be.  I've included a few notes for clarification.

It's been a lazy Saturday.  Not to say I've done nothing; I woke unbidden around 7:30.  Swept out the house, fixed a flat on the bike and cleaned it with a dry brush a bit, washed some clothes, went to Munada [our monthly traveling-market day] with Kapula and Dina, where I met some German travellers (who I think were some kind of volunteers in Ghana at some point), made banana bread, roasted groundnuts, hung out with the family some over lunch, read most of the newspaper filler that was in the box Beth's friends sent her.  Bathed, soaked my feet, painted my toenails blue to get  me out of my comfort zone.  (Also, they've been deep red for the past month and my two pink options are, I believe, in my makeup bag at the provincial office in Kasama.)  The girls were over (Kapula, Dina, Sarah, and Precious) and did some watercolor painting, nail painting, storybook-tamba'ing (note: ukutamba means to look at; I mix Mambwe and English frequently, even making verb creations through partial conjugations from both languages.)  Oh!  I finally finished my little ABC game too and they tried it out.  I'd planned to mark the Maths mock exams today, but Mr. M. finished them.

There's no boredom.  Always something to do.  I'm still trying to find a sense of peace, of picking one thing and doing it and not worrying about the 20 other things on my list.  Being in the moment.  Not worrying about what's expected of me or what I should be doing.  Trying to ask myself, "What, exactly, do I want to do, right now?"  Luckily for me, chores like laundry and tap'ing manzi (there I go with another mixed verb conjugation; ukutapa amanzi means to draw water) do fit in there, or I'd be hungry and dirty a lot.  But even as I write this, my mind wanders to the 2 books I'm reading.  Letters to write.  The screen adaptation of Nine Hills to Nambonkaha that's sat untouched for over a year.  Paintings to make.  The bit of sewing that remains on the third cushion cover.  Prep for the term--I've done so little~!  And rebuilding the ulusasa (bathing shelter), and thatching repair, and concrete, all things I want to look into--if not finish--within the next 3 weeks.

But a lazy day is OK.  Quieting my mind is good.  Racing thoughts fill mental space but actual do...not much.  It's been a good day, a peaceful one, and the fire should be going again so I can put on water for tea and for the flask (thermos) as the last remnants of light slip away.

He said it better...

While at the Room to Read stand at the Zambian Agriculture Show (similar to a big state fair) last weekend, I found a book of poetry by Jack Prelutsky.  I realized that the following poem expressed what I was trying to say in the previous post "Alone in My Home," only much better than I did so myself.  I'm delighted to share it with you!

When I am Full of Silence  by Jack Prelutsky

When I am full of silence,
and no one else is near,
the voice I keep inside of me
is all I want to hear.
I settle in my secret place,
contented and alone,
and think no other thoughts except
the thoughts that are my own.

When I am full of silence,
I do not care to play,
to run and jump and fuss about,
the way I do all day.
The pictures painted in my mind
are all I need to see
when I am full of silence...
when I am truly me.

In Memory of Ben Jammin

(written 30 July—6 August, 2012)

There have been only a few moments in Zambia in which I’ve felt disconnected, far away.  Once, in a minor way, scanning the list of names attending my 5^th college reunion on my internet phone while tucked into bed in my hut.  A few weeks later, in a more fervent, desperate way, when I got wonderful, frightening, and confusing news about a few family members in a matter of moments, and a variety of emotions washed over me, soaking me in a pool of loneliness.  And today, when I learned that the bodies of my friend Ben Horne and his climbing partner Gil had been found on the mountain they were climbing in the Andes.

When I heard, a few days ago, that the two were missing—and had been for a few days—I knew the odds weren’t good.  I knew the risk of what Ben was doing, the inherent risk in most all of the things Ben did.  Not silly, reckless things, but feats of physical and psychological strength, skill, and stamina.  And while the news that he was out there missing on a mountaintop in Peru was troubling, it wasn’t shocking.  The thought that came to me was simply, “He doesn’t live life sitting down.”  As saddened as I was by the possibility that he may have died out there, climbing, while reading emails about search-and-rescue missions and prayer meetings, it also seemed a completely natural and logical conclusion—of course Ben would die doing something he loved.  Maybe not so tragically soon, but eventually.  We all die, but we don’t all live.  It seemed somehow fitting that Ben’s death would come from his unabashed pursuit of life in all its fullness.  An adventurer to the end, always pitting his  mind and body against harder and harder challenges, defying limits, embracing adversity, enthralling in the summit, the finish, and most of all, the ascent/race/journey itself.

Once the news hit me, of course, I had to make a mental shift.  From the Ben Jammin on my mental list of people I really need to write letters to, to the Ben who has become a past tense.  Who lives in memory.  Who won’t be there to catch up over barbecue and beers at some point in the future, but who touched my life in the past.  


I don't think I've spoken to Ben since our phone chat in August/September when I was invited to Lesotho. But after looking over the "Memories of Ben" document that friends were compiling and starting my own list,  I became newly aware of what a strong role he played in my life in San Diego those ten months of 2009/2010.  It makes me miss him--now, gone for good. And miss Shannon, and Huy, and other mutual friends, and makes me wish that I could be there with them, wish I could be part of the communal grieving and healing. Were I in the U.S., I'd almost certainly be booking a flight to San Diego. But I'm here, in Zambia. A tiny part of that is due to Ben.

We met originally at a Second Sunday Supper (previously known by some other name, now forgotten) at the UCSD Newman Center, where we talked about running the Boston Marathon and his upcoming trip to Israel.  At a church welcome picnic on La Jolla Shores not long after, I took advantage of the fact that he was one person in the crowd I had met before and struck up conversation about his trip to the Middle East.  The conversation led into others, and I lingered long past sunset.  Having not much else to do, I hung around after the picnic finished and helped load up the grill and leftovers in his car and take them to his house a few blocks away.  He noted that now I knew the place and would be able to attend his multi-cultural party the coming weekend.  Which I did, bringing along flags from my collection to help with the world-themed décor.  Just like that, I was in.  Between Ben and Huy Nguyen, (who later told me he had conspired with Ben to nab me for their group), I was warmly welcomed into “kewlestscc,” a small church community of young adults who met for dinner, conversation, and Bible reflection at various members’ homes every week.  I had been in the state for approximately a month, having moved to California on a bit of a whim, with no job, no permanent housing, no network of friends awaiting me.  I found the first two, in one way or another, on my own, but Ben played a crucial role in securing the third.  SCC became such a highlight, such a core part of my life, that individual meetings hardly register in my mind anymore.  There were so many that I can’t count them or recall them in order.  SCCs were routine, as much as taking a shower; always refreshing and enjoyed immensely but not individually distinct.  I do, however, remember moments, comments, feelings from individual meetings.  Ben could always be counted on to offer educated insight or stir up an argument.  I once joked with him that we disagreed on everything. Nonetheless, no matter how much my opinion differed from Ben’s, it was always invigorating to talk with him, because his conversation provoked thought. 

As central as SCC gatherings were, my memories of Ben float around so many other shared events, often with the same core group of friends but always open to others.  A Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert at Christmastime that he organized a group to attend, describing it as an excessive display of pyrotechnics, his Superbowl party, YAG planning meetings and retreat, various running events.  We supported mutual friends at the Carlsbad Marathon and ½ Marathon; I was among those he supported in the La Jolla ½ Marathon, exchanging a high five as I passed by his bench in the last mile or so.  As Huy and I drove to L.A., we stopped to support him as he completed a triathlon somewhere up the coast.  Ben’s athletic prowess was inspiring, and he was refreshingly candid about his experiences.  After completing the IronMan competition, and as I was lamenting that I was failing in my attempts to learn to surf, he mused that he perhaps should have never done the IronMan after all.  Instead, he could have spent the training time surfing instead, given his proximity to the ocean and the “extremely athletic” nature of the sport.

Ben was a man of so much skill.  An athlete, an academic, a man of religious scholarship and devotion.  In some ways, though, what most mystified me was his inexplicable ability to manage time.  Ben did so much but was always game to hang out.  I never heard an opportunity for social time turned down by “I have to work,” or “I have to train,” or “I have tests to grade,” though of course he did have all those things to do.  His life must have been inordinately busy, but it never seemed that way.  When he was with you, he was there.  Anything else occupying his life would find time elsewhere, and interactions with him were unencumbered by any sense of hurrying on to the next task.  He loved a chill, laid-back party, and as someone who loves hosting but becomes extremely overwhelmed trying to make everything run smoothly, I both envied and learned from his wildly different approach.  Ben had a grace to hosting that reflected his inability to worry.  His philosophy was to throw some meat on the grill, chill a case or two of beer, assemble a motley crew and let things roll.  He didn’t seek to impress anyone.  He just enjoyed being with people, and brought his stress-free vibe to any gathering.  This ease of being didn’t seem to be a skill he practiced, but one that came naturally to him.  He once tried to rally financial support for Wikipedia, and talked about the significance of the loss were it not to exist.  Liora jokingly asked him, “Whatever would you do with your time?”  I remember sitting there in awe that this guy, who could spend so much of his time with friends, could also spend his precious personal time “procrastinating” online, though of course his form of procrastination was endlessly feeding his craving to know more, to understand better, and to contribute his own knowledge to the public canon.

Ben could always be counted on to enlighten us on theology, politics, and a host of other issues, and he was able to do so in a way that didn’t seem pedantic or preaching.  While his field of study was political economics, there was only one economic concept that I associate strongly with him: consumption smoothing.  The idea was that he wasn’t going to wait until he was rich to enjoy his life.  Rather, he would try to average his expenditures and divide them over his life, both before and after reaching that particular earning potential.  “The basic idea,” he would say, “is that you don’t spend all the money you make in your first year right then.  Because you’ve already spent it.”    While not necessarily indicative of his rational economic insight, the theory was highly indicative of his approach to life.  He wasn’t going to wait until he was 50 and wealthy and then live exorbitantly.  Instead, he was going to live.  In the moment.  Traveling, journeying, seeking adventure, sucking the marrow out of all he could find to savor.  Sure, it might cost a bit more than he’s earning currently, but over the course of time, it’d all average out.  Don’t wait until tomorrow, consumption smoothing said.  Do it today.  Tomorrow will find a way. 

The more I think back to sunny San Diego, the more I find Ben’s presence: my farewell pool party, meeting his nephews on La Jolla Shores, Taize prayer sessions at church, in the side chapel, and once at the beach just after sunset.  But perhaps the most valuable time I had with him was an afternoon we spent together in January 2010, when I was applying to Peace Corps.  San Diego was being pummeled with uncharacteristic rainstorms, and I made my way to his house on the bus.  (As it turns out, I saw a job advertisement on that particular bus that helped keep me from financial destitution the next five months.)  We had talked previously about Peace Corps and his experience in Kyrgyzstan.  He had likened Peace Corps to a Harley Davidson--not necessarily the best motorcycle, but the one with the most brand clout—and had encouraged me to explore other organizations that did similar work, as well.  He later told me that Liora and he had discussed it, and they felt Peace Corps would be a good fit for me because I lacked the defiant, anti-authority streak that was part of Ben’s personality (particularly, perhaps, when he was younger, as he joined the Peace Corps straight out of college).  On this particular afternoon, I went to hang out with him for the first (and perhaps only) time one-on-one, to pick his brain on lots of subjects, including the Peace Corps.  I wanted to figure out if I was applying for the right reasons or was just tired of the endless job search and paycheck-to-paycheck nature of my life in San Diego.  I had left an incredibly challenging, rewarding job in North Carolina the year before, and while I loved many aspects of the life my California adventure brought, I missed having meaningful work.

“I’m not helping anyone,” I said, curled up on the couch in the living room that played host to so many gatherings.  His response changed my perspective.

“You’re helping us,” he said.  He continued that I was doing something worthwhile with my life, just by being a valued member of the community of which we were both part.  It made me feel good, naturally.  More than that, it helped shape the way that I see my Peace Corps service now, and the goals I have for how to live other chapters of my life yet to come.  I can only try to live the best life I know how.  I hope to do something positive here, in Zambia, just as I would hope to contribute positively to my community wherever I live.

Ben knew a lot of things.  He knew, better than most of us, how to live in community.  He was an inspirational spirit who embraced life in all its adventure and all its quiet wonders.  I went to live in San Diego because I felt it was where I was called to be at the time.  I didn’t know exactly why, but I’ve no doubt that knowing Ben was no small part of the plan.  His presence has not dimmed.   Ben Jammin, you always encouraged us to “maintain the light.”  We will do our best to maintain yours.

Eating Imbuzie

(Written 29 July 2012)

We arrived home around 9:00a.m., ready to move into action.  We were still tired from two nights’ holiday at Lake Tanganyika, but guests would start showing within a few hours for our Zambian Unity Day/U.S. Independence Day celebration, so there was no time to waste.  My sister Beth, who’d been in the country for two weeks, got to work sweeping the house while I went to borrow a hardier broom to sweep the yard.  Before I could start, however, I found a small animal tied to a tree: an imbuzie, or goat.  Or rather, the main course for our party meal.

My host father had procured the animal from a community member after a days-earlier bike ride into the bush with Beth and my counterpart yielded no fruit.  Or meat.  (One goat rumored to be for sale had died, another was far too small, and so on.)  My host father, having located a goat and brought it to me, had a trip planned for the afternoon, so he wanted to make haste in preparing the goat for cooking.

“Should we name it?” Beth asked, as the goat was led by its rope into my front yard, a lightly wooded area.  In moments, however, my father and two of my host brothers had the goat suspended from a slim tree by his two hind legs.  I went inside to procure a high-quality American knife and, for good measure, sharpened it.  Taking it outside, I toyed with the idea of wielding it myself, but decided to hand it over to my father, whose skill was much better matched to the task.  My brother Joseph and I held the head.  Which, as it turned out, was in itself a challenge.  The goat's cries as it was tied to the tree hinted that he may have been suspicious of his impending death, but the first cut brought forth the fight.  The knife was sharp, the cut clean and quick, but Joe and I struggled to hold the head still as the stream of blood rushed forth.

Should’ve thought to change my clothes, I thought, scooting back to keep the majority of my body as far from the red liquid as possible.  (My father had the good sense to wear easily-rinsed-off black rubber boots, the same I’d always worn milking cows as a child.)  Blood gushed over my hands, warm and smelling of goat’s milk.  There was so much of it, and it pooled in a bright red smear by the base of the tree.  The creature continued wriggling; my sister tells me I petted it and tried to calm its bleating.

Suddenly, the goat jerked: raised his head, arched his back, splayed his legs.  After a moment, he relaxed, then stiffened again, as though giving a final effort in his fight to resist death.

And then, the body fell limp, the river of blood ceased, and the goat was at last dead.

The testicles were cut off and tucked in the crook of a nearby tree.  The head was cut off as well, and then we began carefully slicing away the skin from the meat.  Bit by bit, gently but intently sliding the knife between the stretches of muscle and the thin fatty layer adhering the skin to it.  I folded the loose skin in my head so that I could grip it by holding on to the hairy side, uncomfortable with grazing my fingers across the interior side of the skin.  My brother complimented my technique and progress as more and more skin fell free of the body while my father worked on the other side.  Soon, all that remained was a headless body with hairy hooves giving the impression of stockinged feet on a stripped-clean carcass.

Next, out came the entrails, carefully removed and set in a large plastic tub.  The stomach was slit open, and a green soup of half-digested grass poured out on the lawn.  The spongy inside of the organ was rinsed and scrubbed until the water ran clear, as were the other organs.  My brother started squeezing small pellets out of a mess of bodily tubing—the intestines.  “What’s that?” I asked.  “Feces,” he responded nonchalantly.  Eager to embrace the experience, I also began gently pushing the small pieces out, softer and harder to move cleanly the further up the tube we went, so that the intestines could be rinsed and, like everything else, cooked and eaten.

The whole process felt much like a marvelously hands-on anatomy lesson.  While my knowledge of bones and organs is limited to high school advanced biology (shout-out to Mrs. Eickman!), and my memory not so great since that was twelve years ago, I couldn’t help feeling that its very core, a goat body looked fairly similar to a human one.  At least, many of the components are the same.

After the organs were disassembled and washed, the body was quartered and removed from the tree.  The rope was wound, and the men started chopping the meat into reasonable-sized chunks for cooking.  (For ease, we’d  decided to cook the meat in pots, rather than roast the goat whole.)  Meanwhile, I and my counterpart started sweeping the unwooded portion of my yard.  When the dish was overflowing with meat, my family asked if they could keep a portion of the leg for themselves ( a reasonable payment for the work they’d invested), fires were made so the rest could begin stewing, and that good American knife—now missing a chink thanks to hacking through bone—was washed and returned to the house.

I’ve always been a meat eater.  After participating in the slaughter of a goat, I still am.  There is something both ordinary and miraculous about the transition, however.  One moment, a bleating, breathing animal; the next, a bowl of meat, bone, and internal organs.  A body, not so different from our own, so complex in the workings of life, yet no more than a collection of a few parts once breath is gone.

It was a bit strange, having this animal die under my witness, and by my wallet, if not exactly by my hand.  Yet what is the difference between eating this meat and buying a pound of ground beef at Eich’s Meat Market?  Or a steak at Wellington Brown’s, for that matter?  Those of us who embrace  our  omnivorous nature must do so in full awareness of what it means to eat meat.  Those who find it unconscionable do right by themselves by becoming vegetarians or vegans.

But I’ve always eaten meat, and while Zambia has offered me the fresh perspective of seeing chickens—and now a goat—be transformed from a living creature to a protein source, I still feel pretty OK with eating meat.  I have deep respect for religions that acknowledge the sacredness of eating animal flesh by implementing restrictions on their slaughter, preparation, and consumption—Halaal for Muslims, kosher for Jews, for example.  While we held no particular ceremony as part of our slaughter, there was a fundamentally wholesome sensibility to the ritual.  This was not a meat-packing plant with conveyor belts and whirring machines, electricity everywhere running the butchering and water everywhere trying to keep things clean.  This was a quiet spot in my yard, quite like where the goat had been raised, with the sun streaming through the branches overhead.  The waste materials would be soaked back into the soil, further fertilizing all that grew—from death, new life.  My father and brothers executed the task with skill and strength, respecting the care and investment that it takes to raise a goat, respecting its financial worth.  (I paid K200,000, roughly $40, for the animal, the equivalent of the sale of four 50-kg bags of maize.)  While the goat didn’t serve as a religious sacrifice or anything deeply ritual, it was for  a celebration, a special occasion.  And since any meat, and red meat in particular, is a rarity for me and most village families, we shared an appreciation for the meal this animal would provide.

So, in a sense, we were in a ceremony of sorts, the same one that permeates most of village eating.  A respect for food, an appreciation for all the work (and divine providence) that are necessary for its abundance, a deep and natural connection to the Earth and all that inhabits it.  As the host that evening, I was so busy attending to guests that I didn’t actually take part in the meal.  Nonetheless, it was one of the most meaningful meals I’ve had a hand in since coming to this country. 

ciMambwe festival

(written as part of a quarterly Peace Corps project report, hence the slightly different style from my typical posts)
On June 8, I was asked to accompany pupils from the zone to a Mambwe festival/competition.  While several staff members were the official chaperones of this overnight trip, only two of us actually stayed at the venue with the pupils (others stayed with family in town).  I had accompanied the same teacher as a group of staff and students to the zonal sports tournament in May 2011, we had been co-teachers together in Term 3 2011, and I had stayed with her at her parents' home in Mbala when we attended a co-worker's wedding in September.  Needless to say, we are sufficiently comfortable working and traveling together.  The evening included "girl talk" with her and another teacher in the district, where they offered to pray for  my marriage possibilities so that I could be sure to marry before leaving Zambia.  In the morning we helped the children prepare and watched the competition, which involved representations from school zones within the district presenting sketches, poems, songs, and dances in ciMambwe.  I even had the privilege of meeting Father Andrzeja Halembe, the Polish Catholic priest who has spearheaded the translation of the Bible, a dictionary, a collection of Mambwe folktales, Catholic missals, and a variety of other literature into the Mambwe language.

The best part of the trip, however, was the return, which was (like the ride there) in the back of a teacher's Toyota pickup.  We sang and laughed the whole way, including a song I definitely want to take back with me, which translates roughly to "Are you there, [fill in the blank]? We're coming/we've returned" and has a wonderfully adventurous feeling to it, both coming and going.  We reached Masamba at 18:00, and several of the children (from other schools in the zone) had a 2-4 hour walk home from there, clearly much too far to be started that evening.  Several of the teachers and I decided to split the students needing accomodation among us, with me hosting two teenage boys and two girls.  Since I generally eat nshima with my family, I don't have mealie meal, but another teacher sent some and some relish (having arrived too late to get anything from the market) along with the girls to my house.  My family allowed us to use their cooking fire to speed up the cooking process; the girls cooked nshima and one relish while the boys cooked another.  Meanwhile, I set up my spare room with a mosquito net, reed mat, and cushions.
 
The girls slept in my room and the boys in the spare room while I slept in my sitting room.  (I have an abnormally large house for a PCV.)  In the morning, I bought fresh fritters from the market and made tea and roasted groundnuts.  The children, meanwhile, were as self-sufficient as Zambian children always are, helping wash the dishes and sweeping my yard.  A few pupils who'd slept elsewhere joined us, and I escorted them all down my path a bit as they embarked on their hours-long walk home.

This experience was both enjoyable and affirming, because I felt very comfortable assuming the role as host.  My house has American qualities (e.g. books!), but ultimately it's constructed of the same basic materials theirs are, and I think it's comfortable without being ostentatious.  Had I been asked to host a year ago, I may have tried to provide a fancy American spaghetti meal or something, and not known how to entertain the children.  This time, I felt comfortable knowing they would expect--and probably prefer--nshima, that they would want lots of sugar in tea (or no tea at all) in the morning, that they would be delighted just sitting and talking together.  I have hosted a sleepover before, of little host sisters, which was also enjoyable.  That, however, was purely for fun--their homes are, after all, next door.  This situation was an opportunity to act not just as a big sister but as host in my professional role as a member of staff at Masamba.

Alone in my Home

(written 7 June 2012)

I really like being alone.  A lot.  Maybe too much.  I’ve written before that I like hearing the sounds of Masamba—of life around me, wherever I am, really—from the perimeter, without always taking part directly.  I think this is a good thing, in general, but I wonder why I choose to be on the perimeter.  For one thing, I love my house.
It’s my sanctuary, and though there’s nothing fancy about it, I’ve poured hours of work into personal touches here and there (including a spare room curtain that took six or more hours of hand-sewing today).  One imagines an African mud-and-thatch hut to be simple, uninviting even—a place used for shelter when necessary, to be protected from the rain and the darkness of night.  For many Zambians, that’s fairly accurate.  Homes are often shockingly sparsely furnished, and life is lived out of doors.  Vegetables are chopped, dinner is eaten, clothes
are washed, time is frittered away—all outdoors.  It’s not uncommon to visit someone, even a good friend, and never enter his or her home.  Houses are a necessity, but sometimes not much more.

My house would probably seen by most Americans as “improved” over village standards: windows with locking shutters, cement floor, limed walls, plastic lining the roof to minimize the dust.  And it has far more stuff than the average home.  Partly because I’m not as financially strapped as some, partly because I’m a packrat, and partly
because as an American I take both pride and refuge in my home.  I want it to be comfortable, warm, personal.  Many of the decorations and things that I (and other Peace Corps Volunteers) have made are not spendy.  Any Zambian could use scraps of fabric and other such locally available materials as well as I.  But in a village setting, my desire to decorate sometimes seems almost singular.

So I wonder if it isn’t a bit negative, this desire I have to be alone.  I wonder if it’s a problem that the person I most enjoy being with is…myself.  Of course, when I’m out I’m always on display.  Even if I’ve been around for a year, I’m still the fairest-skinned person most of my neighbors know, and anything I do invites observation.  A task as simple as getting produce from the market less than ¼ kilometer away can take more than half an hour with countless greetings and exchanges.  Home for me—unlike for my neighbors—is the only place I can settle in and be fully, truly myself.  And of course, home isn’t synonymous with solitude; more often than not I have siblings or a crew of small children over, be it for studying or conversation or simply to play in my yard because it is an extension of their own.  People ask me, “Don’t you feel scared living alone?”  On the contrary, I love it.  A fair number of Peace Corps Volunteers have someone—generally a teenager—live with them, and they find the
experience very enriching.  If the opportunity presents itself, I may do the same in my last 6-9 months, after my biological sister leaves from her summer visit.  In the meanwhile, I’m very grateful for the solitude provided by the haven of my home, even if--and perhaps indeed because--being there sometimes means being alone.

Fall Asleep Smiling

(written 6 June 2012)

There are few things I enjoy more than being snug in my bed listening to the sounds of Masamba.  The zonal children, here for a sports tournament, are singing, drumming, and dancing around a bonfire.  I went earlier but they’ve just now started, and I’m freshly bathed and under the covers.  This afternoon I afforded myself the rare luxury of a nap while the sounds of sports competition and revelry filtered in with the sunlight through my netted windows.  I enjoy being out on the field, watching the kids, but it is also nice to hear them from my house (and yard), to be alone while still reminded of the goings-on in the community by the soundtrack all around.

Back in September, the election results took several days to count.  One night I woke up to sounds of jubilation and thought to myself, “The results are out, and Sata has won.”  I knew the opposition party had emerged victorious because of the excitement I could hear.  Had the president in office, Rupiah Banda, been re-elected, many would have been happy, but their celebration would have been more subdued—much as if McCain had won, rather than Obama, in 2008.  On that night, I argued with myself momentarily in my half-sleep: should I go out and experience the election joy of a country that has only had a handful of presidential elections since gaining independence?  Or curl back into slumber? Sleep won out, but in moments like these, part of me still wonders if I shouldn’t be out there, experiencing every moment more fully—I only get two years, after all, and half of that time has transpired.  But the truth is, I am enjoying it.  It reminds me of the old joke about Canada being a loft apartment over a really great party.  It’s meant as an insult, but I wonder if the loft apartment isn’t the place to
be—enjoying vicariously the merriment below, all the while comfortable in PJs and slippers.

Not that I should be a hermit.  “Being seen” is important here.  Not like the L.A. “seen” of status and privilege, but the presence, the partaking of the communal consciousness of the environs.  The simple state of being with others and letting them know--by my presence--that I enjoy being with them.

Regardless of what transpires in the day, it’s an incredible luxury to have at its close a warm, safe, comfortable resting place.  Having seen many Zambian bedrooms as part of the mosquito net longevity study, I am very much aware of just how privileged I am to have a soft bed, pillows, and blankets, as well as a pretty bedroom and candles to cast a soft glow over it all.  Knowing that outside, things are growing, nocturnal animals engage in their business, and the moon rises steadily, I feel at once integrated into my natural settings and protected from them. Occasions like this, when the air is filled with youthful energy of music and laughter, I feel not annoyed by the noise but gently included in the party, and I fall asleep smiling.