Sunday, September 9, 2012

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.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

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.