On Cats & Rats

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hut Sweet Hut

I live in a mansion.

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

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

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

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

Signed, Katito

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eat, Pray, Love, Repeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mumalala kuno

(written 14 October 2011)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Are We Workin' With?

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I love about America

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

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

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

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