(written April 2, 2012)
I've been thinking a lot, lately, about what is to come after Peace Corps. Peace Corps offers non-competitive hiring status in government jobs for a year after completing service, and an RPCV friend told me when I was applying that those jobs would almost all be in Washington, D.C., unless I work as a PC recruiter somewhere else in the country. Since 2010, then, I've sort of figured that the Capitol city is where I'll end up after August 2013 (being that I have a seat graciously saved at Harvard Summer School for the 2013 term).
And more and more, I think of D.C. not just as "the place I'll be most likely to get a job" but as the place I want to be, for a few years. I've been there a handful of times; on my last visit, I was also beginning a job search and wrote down names of interesting leads as I meandered through the city streets. I ended up on the beaches of San Diego that time around, with no regrets, but D.C. lingers as a place I've thought about living in since I was 17 and applying to Georgetown. Come my return to the U.S., I'll be 29, still unmarried and childless, untethered, fresh from 2 years of grassroots development work in south central Africa. Why not D.C.? Why not now? After two years of thinking about the U.S.A. as her child, looking back at her mother from a foreign telescope, why not plunge into the epicenter of her policy and activity? As far as work goes, I'm not sure what I'll pursue, but much of what is there--government, think tank, nonprofit, academic--appeals to me, and I know from experience that it might be necessary to clock in some months with a temp agency and part-time or seasonal work, anyway. (So much for paying off that Ivy League degree...)
Most of my daydreams' hazy focus isn't on the work, anyway. Instead, I think about what D.C. will offer outside of work. The Mall, museums (for frizzle!), universities (maybe G'town will forgive me for declining their offer of admission and let me enroll in a continuing education class or, better yet, hire me), restaurants to suit every palate, funky shops, coffee shops. (I don't really like coffee, I just like the atmosphere.) Diversity--of people, language, economic status. Public transport. (G)old friends--in grad school or employed at the White House and in other branches of the government--and shiny new silver friends just waiting to be met. Clubs and meet-up groups; an LGBT scene. Hippie commune houses and shared apartments. Opportunities. Information. Activism. It plays across my mind like a wonderful parade.
It also sounds a bit stressful. D.C. is lovely when the cherry blossoms paint the trees, but it's still a city, and in the winter/precipitation it can be a cold, wet, sloppy mess. And those same people full of ideas and idealism and effort and skill can be a crowd of detachment, a throng of briefcases and blackberries and rushing to some Very Important Place To Be.
And right now, I have my own important place to be--a grade 9 classroom, teaching maths; walking along the tarmac with my counterpart, enrolling homes in a mosquito net research study; my own thatched home; cradling a porcelain mug of tea and listening to the radio or reading at nightfall.
I was asked recently--by new PCVs who'd arrived in-country 3 days prior--what I miss the most about America. "Nothing," I responded, surprised a bit at my own answer. After a few moments' reflection, I amended it: "Libraries. A good public library system. That's what I miss." (There's another point for the District; hard to do better than the Library of Congress!)
But I have all the books I need; I've read at least four long novels since Christmas. I give myself plenty of quiet time to devote to the books I find in the informal Peace Corps library, time I might not have in the U.S., even if a copy of every book ever published in America is at my fingertips. So what do I mean, I miss libraries?
I've never really understood missing. The concept, I mean. I've always been a big believer in making your life what you want it to be, in taking action to change whatever is in your power to change to make yourself happy. If "to miss" means to long for, ache over, wish to be near--well, why not make that happen? Granted, P.O.W.s don't have such a choice, but many of us do. But if "to miss" means to think fondly of, crave occasionally, have arise in your memory when triggered by a sound or sight or smell--well, then, certainly I know this well. I've been too many places, known too many people, not to have them skip through my mind intermittently in a kaleidoscope of recollections and brief yearnings.
Overall, these mental visitors have been welcome and kind, uninhibiting of my current experience. Do I miss my family? It'd be poor form to say no. Certainly I think of them, prioritize opportunities to see them over Skype, even let slide down my cheek a tear or two when I hear voices on the phone describe worries and situations I'm too far away to help (or accomplishments I"m too far to witness). But do I wish I were with them? No. Because I could be--all I have to do is say the word, and Peace Corps will hand me a ticket and have me on a westbound plane within about 48 hours. But this is where I've chosen to be, for now, and they are where they are supposed to be, as well. Ipso facto, I'm happy where I am.
Then why am I thinking about Washington well over a year prior to a chance to be there?
I've been accused of wanderlust, a charge I reject if considered a malady but gladly accept if considered a particular brand of delight in the journey. In the (almost) six years since college graduation, I've worked in 5 states + Zambia, not to mention my forsaken seabound quest. My first grown-up job lasted 27 months--incidentally, the exact length of time I've committed here--and since then, Zambia holds the record for longest time in residence. It feels like home here. And I'm certain I'll miss it when I'm gone.
I want to eventually cultivate the ability to be fully present (Peaceful Warrior-style) in each moment. To reminisce with affection and foresee with optimism, but to be totally content in the here and now, too. So far, I've found that the best way to do that is to leave. To enter each place knowing that my time is limited; to seize opportunities knowing that I may never have them again--because I'll be off seizing others. When I think about hearing street musicians in lovely Cambridge in July '13, or going to a jazz club in Washington the following autumn, I become newly aware of the voices and drumbeats outside my window--the grade 8 and 9 pupils at the dorms, my siblings singing through the dreariness of a rainstorm, the calypso sound of the Catholic choir in rehearsal. I look forward to the exhilarating variety of foods available in U.S. supermarkets, even while beaming with pride at my first from-scratch batch of tortillas and loaf of bread, and still tasting the airy lightness of a hot sugar-and-cinnamon crepe fresh from a Parisian street vendor. I think about all the great theatrical productions I've seen (especially black box shows in the Ex with Stephen) and hope to eventually have the opportunity again to be part of such manifestations of creation and imagination, but I know that right now I have a captive audience--young siblings anxious to play, learn, and grow with me--as well as a front-row seat to a nonfiction drama, one of struggle and triumph and hope, just outside my door every day.
I've been lucky--blessed--to be where I've been. I have so many hopes and feelings of excitement for wherever I'll go. I only hope I can remember that at the end, there's no day but today.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Biking
(written late March/early April 2012)
A few of the schools in my zone are 20+km away, up bush paths which are rugged, to say the least. Even during dry season, the rutted surfaces and rickety pole bridges have conjured images of imminent injury and my friend Huy.
Huy is a cleancut, straight-edge American of Vietnamese descent who likes to think he's edgy because he pursues extreme sports. Specifically, if I'm not mistaken, he loves snowboarding, rock-climbing, and trail cycling. He rides treacherous paths in national parks and recreation areas all over California because he likes, as far as I can tell, flirting with death.
I, however, prefer to avoid such intimacy with Death, at least for the time being. More than once I've thought to myself while attempting to reach my destination, "You've got to be kidding me." Yet I continue winding through the cornfield I've gotten myself lost in, or navigating the rutted-out road, or carrying my bike over the slippery branches that serve as a bridge. Still I set out, again and again. Recently, I was visiting several volunteers while en route to a meeting in Serenje. I left Mpumba, where Rae stays, despite a steady drizzle and a warning call from Joe--40 km south--that the roads were mucky from an all day rain. Rae's bike--which she kindly lent me--is two sizes too small for my frame, and the brakes were minimally functional, but I was optimistic.
Off I set down the first stretch--30 km of tarmac. The rain stopped after half an hour or so, and despite irritation in my knees due to the bike's small size, the ride was rather pleasant.
Joe had told me to call him when I reached the signpost for his school--his turnoff. When he phoned to check in, I was just a few kilometers away, happy to be almost three-quarters through the ride after nearly two hours.
When I reached the turnoff, though, I lost all coverage, and remembered that Joe used another network for specifically that reason. Feeling confident, I started off down the path. I'd been to his house once before, a year prior, in a Peace Corps Land Cruiser, and in my memory it was a pretty straight shot from the road.
My memory was rose-tinted, however. Bush paths seemed to spring up constantly, and at times it wasn't clear which way was straight (not that I was at all certain that I should be going straight). Whenever I passed a house or people, I called out, asking if I was headed in the right way to find Ba Joe--the white man--the school. But Kalonje is Bemba territory, and while Mambwe and Bemba are related, they're not the same, so at least one person responded to my muddled attempts at Bemba inquiries with a look of confusion. Even more disheartening, there were several long stretches with no houses and no people. I recognized some of the rock formations I passed, and I held on to the hope that eventually, all roads would lead to Joe.
Eventually, I crossed a short parade of women and children headed to the field. Two young girls rushed over to escort me, so I dismounted and released my helmet strap. We walked a short way, and they directed me to turn onto a path to the left. Thanking them, I remounted and went on my way.
Despite the rain, the path was filled with sandy patches, and I thought, "It'd be just my luck that I'd hit a patch of sand, slam into a tree, and get hurt because my unstrapped helmet (which Peace Corps strictly requires us to wear) flies off." Better to stop now and prevent such an occurrence, I figured, but the brakes were ineffective. "No matter," I thought; "lots of Zambians' bikes have no brakes. I'll do what they do," and I slid my left foot against the front tire.
Except it slid up into the bike frame, and in a split second, the bike did a 180, flipping quickly (aided by my cargo on the over-wheel rack--my personal bag and buns picked up from a roadside market) over my head. Before I even knew what was happening, I was on the ground, still on my bike, which was now on me.
"Well, that's ironic," I thought, noting gratefully that my helmet was still on, and untangling myself to resume the ride. Eventually I reached Joe's, but he was at the roadside, still awaiting me. Luckily, Val, another volunteer who was visiting (with the proper cell phone network for the area) called him to inform him of my arrival. When he made it back and I described parts of the paths I'd taken, he was bewildered. "I think you've charted some new territory," he said. Exploring the backroads of Kalonje: why not?
The path we took back to the tarmac the following day was, in fact, much less treacherous. This time, I kept my helmet secured and my bike firmly beneath me. Huy would be proud.
A few of the schools in my zone are 20+km away, up bush paths which are rugged, to say the least. Even during dry season, the rutted surfaces and rickety pole bridges have conjured images of imminent injury and my friend Huy.
Huy is a cleancut, straight-edge American of Vietnamese descent who likes to think he's edgy because he pursues extreme sports. Specifically, if I'm not mistaken, he loves snowboarding, rock-climbing, and trail cycling. He rides treacherous paths in national parks and recreation areas all over California because he likes, as far as I can tell, flirting with death.
I, however, prefer to avoid such intimacy with Death, at least for the time being. More than once I've thought to myself while attempting to reach my destination, "You've got to be kidding me." Yet I continue winding through the cornfield I've gotten myself lost in, or navigating the rutted-out road, or carrying my bike over the slippery branches that serve as a bridge. Still I set out, again and again. Recently, I was visiting several volunteers while en route to a meeting in Serenje. I left Mpumba, where Rae stays, despite a steady drizzle and a warning call from Joe--40 km south--that the roads were mucky from an all day rain. Rae's bike--which she kindly lent me--is two sizes too small for my frame, and the brakes were minimally functional, but I was optimistic.
Off I set down the first stretch--30 km of tarmac. The rain stopped after half an hour or so, and despite irritation in my knees due to the bike's small size, the ride was rather pleasant.
Joe had told me to call him when I reached the signpost for his school--his turnoff. When he phoned to check in, I was just a few kilometers away, happy to be almost three-quarters through the ride after nearly two hours.
When I reached the turnoff, though, I lost all coverage, and remembered that Joe used another network for specifically that reason. Feeling confident, I started off down the path. I'd been to his house once before, a year prior, in a Peace Corps Land Cruiser, and in my memory it was a pretty straight shot from the road.
My memory was rose-tinted, however. Bush paths seemed to spring up constantly, and at times it wasn't clear which way was straight (not that I was at all certain that I should be going straight). Whenever I passed a house or people, I called out, asking if I was headed in the right way to find Ba Joe--the white man--the school. But Kalonje is Bemba territory, and while Mambwe and Bemba are related, they're not the same, so at least one person responded to my muddled attempts at Bemba inquiries with a look of confusion. Even more disheartening, there were several long stretches with no houses and no people. I recognized some of the rock formations I passed, and I held on to the hope that eventually, all roads would lead to Joe.
Eventually, I crossed a short parade of women and children headed to the field. Two young girls rushed over to escort me, so I dismounted and released my helmet strap. We walked a short way, and they directed me to turn onto a path to the left. Thanking them, I remounted and went on my way.
Despite the rain, the path was filled with sandy patches, and I thought, "It'd be just my luck that I'd hit a patch of sand, slam into a tree, and get hurt because my unstrapped helmet (which Peace Corps strictly requires us to wear) flies off." Better to stop now and prevent such an occurrence, I figured, but the brakes were ineffective. "No matter," I thought; "lots of Zambians' bikes have no brakes. I'll do what they do," and I slid my left foot against the front tire.
Except it slid up into the bike frame, and in a split second, the bike did a 180, flipping quickly (aided by my cargo on the over-wheel rack--my personal bag and buns picked up from a roadside market) over my head. Before I even knew what was happening, I was on the ground, still on my bike, which was now on me.
"Well, that's ironic," I thought, noting gratefully that my helmet was still on, and untangling myself to resume the ride. Eventually I reached Joe's, but he was at the roadside, still awaiting me. Luckily, Val, another volunteer who was visiting (with the proper cell phone network for the area) called him to inform him of my arrival. When he made it back and I described parts of the paths I'd taken, he was bewildered. "I think you've charted some new territory," he said. Exploring the backroads of Kalonje: why not?
The path we took back to the tarmac the following day was, in fact, much less treacherous. This time, I kept my helmet secured and my bike firmly beneath me. Huy would be proud.
 |
| With Rae, just before leaving her house for the bike ride to Joe's |
 |
| The day after my bike tumble, working with Joe and Val on Joe's World Map project |
 |
| Biking adventures continue: Dec. 30. 2012 |
Friday, March 2, 2012
So No, I don't want to come to your Bible study
Dear beloved readers,
Some future entries may include thoughts about religion and faith; living in a Christian nation, I have a lot. I've decided to post a journal entry from quite a while ago, when I was feeling rather fiery, in the hopes that it might lend something to a better understanding of where my thoughts/feelings are, and where they've evolved from, in future entries.
(excerpts from a journal entry dated 21 May, 2011, about 3-4 weeks after moving to the village)
Just came from church--Seventh Day Adventists. I had already agreed to accompany [a fellow teacher at the school] to the Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall tomorrow, but my family was insistent--it's Visitor's Day and they had a choir visiting from Senga. Besides being gone Monday through Thursday [chaperoning a sports tournament], I was at Kaziwe School yesterday, an enormously productive visit--but that meant I really needed time to just be home. So this morning I got water, swept outside, washed a big load of clothes, heated water, ate, and roasted imbalala [peanuts], swept and mopped the kitchen, cleaned my water filter and organized some food between 6:30 and 9:30am. Then went to church, ate there. Just got home a bit ago--at 14:00. I've told the boys [at the school dorm] I'll come help them study, and the rest of my house needs a thorough sweeping and mopping. I need to study Mambwe and crack open more Peace Corps manuals; my bike tire is flat and Tony's needs oiling (I used it yesterday); both could use a good washing. And next weekend is the ceremony in Zombe so I think Babs and I are going. Already I'm trying to figure out how to stay ahead of housework and Peace Corps stuff so I can be gone from Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon.
Anyway, my hand hurts and I've not even started what I meant to write. The SDAs wanted me to stay for Bible study, and I read most of the "National Sunday Law" [which they gave me, as a visitor] in church--which is all the more terrifying as propaganda in part because the author seems to be smart and the data well-researched. I feel a bit defensive because it attacks the Catholic Church (though it never says "Catholic," only "Papacy" and "Rome,") basically saying it's an instrument of the devil. I don't mind going to church, but it's a little disingenuous of me. How do I explain that I don't really care if the Sabbath is Saturday or Sunday, and I don't think God does either? That I'm not all that tied to the idea of "Sabbath" anyway because "no work" depends on what you consider work, and it can be patriarchal. (We ate lunch at church--wonder if the women who cooked it considered it "work.") That though I am Christian, even Catholic (though I have bones of my own to pick with the Papacy and Catholic dogma), I also acknowledge that a big percentage of why I find truth in these beliefs probably is cultural (because I was born in a family/region/time where/when these were accepted as truth)? That my experience of God is the sum total of many, many things, and not just one book or preacher or prayer, and that I read the Bible with a bucket of salt? That I can only wonder how arrogant I would be to think I could navigate the labyrinthian contents of the Bible and come up with the TRUTH when hundreds, thousands of experts in theology, history, language, anthropology, etc. have done so and don't find agreement?
So no, I don't want to go to your Bible study; I do believe in God and I even enjoy the Bible but I probably won't agree with what you say and I can't begin to try to explain the simplicity (stemming from a maze of complexity) of my own belief to you, even in cizungu [English]--that God is love, God works in ways we can't imagine, truth is not singular. That I think God sees beyond the narrow, dichotomous definitions we create--sin v. good, homo v. hetero, truth v. lie. That I don't think paganism is wrong, though I don't really believe in juju [witchcraft] (and from my limited solstice-ritual experience, I'm not sure most pagans do either). The idea that Harry Potter promotes the occult (whatever that is) seems laughable to me, and sure--maybe we did evolve from monkeys, but please don't ask me again to explain whether I agree with "scientists" (this unspecified, homogeneous mass of experts in total agreement) or whether I believe the Biblical Adam and Eve story. My belief is--if I can say so without sounding pretentious--beyond that, over it, under it, through it--I don't worry about the details, in short. I believe in forgiveness, kindness, sacrifice, harmony, kinship, respect, imagination, wonder, grace, mercy. Aren't those enough?
Floor still needs cleaning, bikes repairing, pupils tutoring, so I'll close for now. A toi, Jesu--Rose
Some future entries may include thoughts about religion and faith; living in a Christian nation, I have a lot. I've decided to post a journal entry from quite a while ago, when I was feeling rather fiery, in the hopes that it might lend something to a better understanding of where my thoughts/feelings are, and where they've evolved from, in future entries.
(excerpts from a journal entry dated 21 May, 2011, about 3-4 weeks after moving to the village)
Just came from church--Seventh Day Adventists. I had already agreed to accompany [a fellow teacher at the school] to the Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall tomorrow, but my family was insistent--it's Visitor's Day and they had a choir visiting from Senga. Besides being gone Monday through Thursday [chaperoning a sports tournament], I was at Kaziwe School yesterday, an enormously productive visit--but that meant I really needed time to just be home. So this morning I got water, swept outside, washed a big load of clothes, heated water, ate, and roasted imbalala [peanuts], swept and mopped the kitchen, cleaned my water filter and organized some food between 6:30 and 9:30am. Then went to church, ate there. Just got home a bit ago--at 14:00. I've told the boys [at the school dorm] I'll come help them study, and the rest of my house needs a thorough sweeping and mopping. I need to study Mambwe and crack open more Peace Corps manuals; my bike tire is flat and Tony's needs oiling (I used it yesterday); both could use a good washing. And next weekend is the ceremony in Zombe so I think Babs and I are going. Already I'm trying to figure out how to stay ahead of housework and Peace Corps stuff so I can be gone from Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon.
Anyway, my hand hurts and I've not even started what I meant to write. The SDAs wanted me to stay for Bible study, and I read most of the "National Sunday Law" [which they gave me, as a visitor] in church--which is all the more terrifying as propaganda in part because the author seems to be smart and the data well-researched. I feel a bit defensive because it attacks the Catholic Church (though it never says "Catholic," only "Papacy" and "Rome,") basically saying it's an instrument of the devil. I don't mind going to church, but it's a little disingenuous of me. How do I explain that I don't really care if the Sabbath is Saturday or Sunday, and I don't think God does either? That I'm not all that tied to the idea of "Sabbath" anyway because "no work" depends on what you consider work, and it can be patriarchal. (We ate lunch at church--wonder if the women who cooked it considered it "work.") That though I am Christian, even Catholic (though I have bones of my own to pick with the Papacy and Catholic dogma), I also acknowledge that a big percentage of why I find truth in these beliefs probably is cultural (because I was born in a family/region/time where/when these were accepted as truth)? That my experience of God is the sum total of many, many things, and not just one book or preacher or prayer, and that I read the Bible with a bucket of salt? That I can only wonder how arrogant I would be to think I could navigate the labyrinthian contents of the Bible and come up with the TRUTH when hundreds, thousands of experts in theology, history, language, anthropology, etc. have done so and don't find agreement?
So no, I don't want to go to your Bible study; I do believe in God and I even enjoy the Bible but I probably won't agree with what you say and I can't begin to try to explain the simplicity (stemming from a maze of complexity) of my own belief to you, even in cizungu [English]--that God is love, God works in ways we can't imagine, truth is not singular. That I think God sees beyond the narrow, dichotomous definitions we create--sin v. good, homo v. hetero, truth v. lie. That I don't think paganism is wrong, though I don't really believe in juju [witchcraft] (and from my limited solstice-ritual experience, I'm not sure most pagans do either). The idea that Harry Potter promotes the occult (whatever that is) seems laughable to me, and sure--maybe we did evolve from monkeys, but please don't ask me again to explain whether I agree with "scientists" (this unspecified, homogeneous mass of experts in total agreement) or whether I believe the Biblical Adam and Eve story. My belief is--if I can say so without sounding pretentious--beyond that, over it, under it, through it--I don't worry about the details, in short. I believe in forgiveness, kindness, sacrifice, harmony, kinship, respect, imagination, wonder, grace, mercy. Aren't those enough?
Floor still needs cleaning, bikes repairing, pupils tutoring, so I'll close for now. A toi, Jesu--Rose
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Vakay
"The nice thing about arriving somewhere new at night," Colleen--an agricultural PC volunteer--said, "is that when you see it in the morning, it looks different, so you get to arrive twice. The next morning, as I stepped out of our shared beach banda, I knew she was right. I'd reached Njaya Lodge, exhauted from three days of travel, including fifteen hours of buses and taxis and crammed minibuses that day, at dark and had been welcomed to a candlelit group dinner at a long table on the beach in front of our little banda. But in the morning, I could see what had been obscured in the darkness--the crystal blue water of Lake Malawi, the curve of the beach, the tree-covered cliffs off to the left. "This is unreal," I thought, before spending the next six days swimming, snorkeling, and sunburning in the great freshwater lake that forms the eastern border of most of Malawi.
Peace Corps, while a volunteer organization, carries a few elements of American job culture, including vacation leave. I earn two vacation days per month (training months excluded), and paid ones at that: $12/day--not exactly enough to fund a trip to the Swiss Alps or Cancun. Eight months into my service I hadn't yet used any of my vacation days, so I was excited to have a trip over the holidays, to see more of Zambia and cross the border to neighboring Malawi.
Christmas was spent with a few girls from my intake at a hot springs in my province; we rolled out of our tents Christmas morning to one of our crew sprinkling fake snow over us, to make the morning more "authentic," and spent the day sitting in the springs and indulging in a Dickensian Christmas feast at the white Zambian (of British descent)-owned lodge. Three days later I had made it to Nkhata Bay to join a different group of PC friends in this popular vacation destination. A few of us were planning to get our scuba certification (it's the most inexpensive place in the world to do it, I've been told) but the class was cancelled by the instructors for logistical reasons. So instead we hiked, we swam, we paddled traditional dugout canoes, we played a lot of Bananagrams, we read, painted, napped, ate, drank, and as Zambians would say, we enjoyed. Thoroughly. It was heavenly.
And while it made quite a dent in my PC bank account, it was, on a global scale, probably the best vacation bargain I'll ever find. Six days in what was to me a tropical paradise, for around $300, food and lodging inclusive. The accomodations were simple but cozy; one PCV joked, when the power went out at one lodge where we stayed, that they were lucky to have PCVs as guests because we hardly even noticed, being accustomed to no electricity. And the lakeside (or oceanside, since Lake Malawi is so big that I said it's essentially an ocean and called it as such jokingly throughout the trip) location was delightful, even if it is quite possible that schistosomiasis permeated the water in which we swam. (I'm working on picking up a post-exposure prophylactic, just in case. Schisto is no joke.)
The vacation was amazing, too, because of the company. In the presence of other Americans--especially those who live the way we do at the present time--we can show parts of ourselves that are cloaked in our communities, whether physically, like being able to wear a bathing suit or a knee-revealing skirt or pair of shorts, and emotionally as well. Our voices pour out jokes and conversation in our own accent and at a comfortable breakneck pace; sending and interpreting cultural cues come naturally and uninhibited. On vacation, I can be myself in a different way than I can at home in my village.
There's a chasm, however, that I must straddle between these two places and personalities. This is a reminder of how my life is different from many of my community members. I'm in a neighboring country, eating in a lodge restaurant and lounging. At one of the schools in my zone, over half of the 7th grade pupils have never been to the district boma (roughly equivalent to a county seat) of Mbala, 40 kilometers away from their school, a straight shot north on a tarmac road. As modest and inexpensive a vacation as this is, it's still a vacation, an undeniable mark of privilege.
Peace Corps, while a volunteer organization, carries a few elements of American job culture, including vacation leave. I earn two vacation days per month (training months excluded), and paid ones at that: $12/day--not exactly enough to fund a trip to the Swiss Alps or Cancun. Eight months into my service I hadn't yet used any of my vacation days, so I was excited to have a trip over the holidays, to see more of Zambia and cross the border to neighboring Malawi.
Christmas was spent with a few girls from my intake at a hot springs in my province; we rolled out of our tents Christmas morning to one of our crew sprinkling fake snow over us, to make the morning more "authentic," and spent the day sitting in the springs and indulging in a Dickensian Christmas feast at the white Zambian (of British descent)-owned lodge. Three days later I had made it to Nkhata Bay to join a different group of PC friends in this popular vacation destination. A few of us were planning to get our scuba certification (it's the most inexpensive place in the world to do it, I've been told) but the class was cancelled by the instructors for logistical reasons. So instead we hiked, we swam, we paddled traditional dugout canoes, we played a lot of Bananagrams, we read, painted, napped, ate, drank, and as Zambians would say, we enjoyed. Thoroughly. It was heavenly.
And while it made quite a dent in my PC bank account, it was, on a global scale, probably the best vacation bargain I'll ever find. Six days in what was to me a tropical paradise, for around $300, food and lodging inclusive. The accomodations were simple but cozy; one PCV joked, when the power went out at one lodge where we stayed, that they were lucky to have PCVs as guests because we hardly even noticed, being accustomed to no electricity. And the lakeside (or oceanside, since Lake Malawi is so big that I said it's essentially an ocean and called it as such jokingly throughout the trip) location was delightful, even if it is quite possible that schistosomiasis permeated the water in which we swam. (I'm working on picking up a post-exposure prophylactic, just in case. Schisto is no joke.)
The vacation was amazing, too, because of the company. In the presence of other Americans--especially those who live the way we do at the present time--we can show parts of ourselves that are cloaked in our communities, whether physically, like being able to wear a bathing suit or a knee-revealing skirt or pair of shorts, and emotionally as well. Our voices pour out jokes and conversation in our own accent and at a comfortable breakneck pace; sending and interpreting cultural cues come naturally and uninhibited. On vacation, I can be myself in a different way than I can at home in my village.
There's a chasm, however, that I must straddle between these two places and personalities. This is a reminder of how my life is different from many of my community members. I'm in a neighboring country, eating in a lodge restaurant and lounging. At one of the schools in my zone, over half of the 7th grade pupils have never been to the district boma (roughly equivalent to a county seat) of Mbala, 40 kilometers away from their school, a straight shot north on a tarmac road. As modest and inexpensive a vacation as this is, it's still a vacation, an undeniable mark of privilege.
Fail. Fail. Fail.
As the class matron for Grade 8A, it was my duty to write a comment on each pupil's report form at the end of Term 3 in December. I had seen unclaimed report forms from previous terms and was saddened by how generic, oversimplified, and even condescending they seemed: "Very poor results. Simply try harder." I hoped I could offer a sensible and more uplifting alternative.
Two weeks after the term's end, I found myself alone in the school head's office, flipping through the file that held each pupil's form. Most of the end-of-term grades were written in, and I had the attendance register at my side so I could reference it. My hope was to make each comment balanced, encouraging, and personal. Unfortunately, my main focus that term--co-teaching grade 1--meant my attention was focused on learning the names and personalities of the 100 pupils in that grade. Additionally, the teacher with whom I had to agreed to co-teach maths for grades 8 and 9 had left unexpectedly early in the term, and it was never entirely clear who was assigned to take his position. (Needless to say, maths were taught infrequently at best for the next eight weeks.)
So I found myself looking at a list of names, only a handful of which I knew. Having not taught any of them, I didn't know their classroom comportment or behavioral idiosyncracies. Nonetheless, I was determined to improve on "simply try harder."
Grades in Zambia are rather different in composition from those in the U.S. A teacher in any subject there can point out a breakdown of every assignment and its value, and students can and often do focus their energies on certain projects based on how much weight they bear on the final grade. Not so here. Pupils are many, teachers are few, and (as any teacher anywhere can confirm) the time it takes marking papers is extraordinary. Assignments are most commonly short exercises, following a few examples, and written in a bound exercise book (so pupils can't hand individual papers in) and corrected in class. This Example-Exercise-Mark protocol is embedded in school culture, interrupted only by mid-term and final exams, which for some inexplicable reason are given in a unique timetable outside of the normal class schedule, so that two weeks (or more) out of every term are devoted completely to exams, and not to learning. The class grades are then compiled exclusively from these exam scores. The exercises give practice to the pupils and vital feedback to the teacher on whether or not they've understood the lesson just taught, but the scores stay on the page of the pupil's book, in the all-important red ink, and come end of term time it is an exam (or two) alone that determines their success or failure.
As I saw flipping through the pages, one for each pupil, the balance was comfortably in the hands of Failure. There were a few 1s and 2s (the highest marks--no A, B, C, or Ds here) and a smattering of 3s and 4s, but the overwhelming presence on the pages was F--fail. Fail. Fail.
I could have predicted as much. (In fact, when the deaf pupil was sent away because an administrator felt the school was ill-equipped to teach him--or at least that's the light I cast the decision in to make it more palatable to me--I said to a friend, "Yes, it's true, he probably would fail. But most of the class will fail. At least he would have learned something and made some friends!" So I wasn't altogether surprised to see the poor results. I was disheartened, though, because even though I didn't know most of the pupils individually, I had been to "prep"--night study time at the school--and watched them studying. I know the effort it takes to come to school--scrounging up the K80,000-100,000 (US $16-20) school fee and uniform components each term, walking or biking far every day or living in the dorm (single-sex buildings with two empty rooms of concrete walls and floors, where students sleep on shared reedmats and blankets and do all their cooking, cleaning, and otherwise caring for themselves). One of my brothers is not related to my host family at all, but rater bikes 50km down a dirt path at the term's start and lives with my family, away from his, for the next 13 weeks, because this school is the closest one (offering grade 8 and 9) to his home.
So the effort made just to show up every day at school is a significant one. The children--or rather pupils; children is a bit of a misnomer as a number are 18 or older--are not, of course, always "serious"--they're teenagers and have a lot of other goals in their day beyond learning the past continuous verb form of English--but they do, fundamentally, want to learn. And while I have plenty of beef with Zambian teachers, who can frequently find a plethora of reasons not to show up at school (ranging from rain to, no joke, "a dog ate one of the chicken's eggs"), as well as with the Zambian system that allows these absences to go on while the teachers still collect their civil servant paychecks, most of the teachers do, fundamentally, want the pupils to learn. In this case, two volunteers--teachers untrained and unemployed by the Ministry of Education but recruited, hired, and paid by the school/community had carried the bulk of the Grade 8 and 9 subject load. I had observed them all term showing up and teaching and I could see their dedication.
And yet--despite pupils who want to learn, and teachers who want to teach--failure almost across the board. What are we doing wrong?
And now these pupils, though encouraged to repeat grade 8, would advance to grade 9. The fact that they made it to grade 8 marked one hurdle leveled already; places are offered only to those who pass a standardized grade 7 exam. But it's multiple choice, so by luck many students enter grade 8 despite being illiterate. The grade 9 exam is different. There's little multiple choice, and while the exams are sometimes frustratingly riddled with errors, they are difficult and written in English, the official national language but one that continually overwhelms and intimidates the pupils, who take notes (copied verbatim from the board) in it daily but generally haven't a clue as to what the words they're writing means.
The grade 9 exam marks, for many Zambians, the ending ritual to their education. Students must pass (with a score of 40% or higher) at least 6 subjects to advance to grade 10. A few will repeat grade 9 if they're unsuccessful, but most will just go home and work the fields (or in the case of many young men, hang out and drink away the day), marry, and have children. At least three girls in grade 9 were already pregnant. Another generation will be born to parents who can't read and understand a newspaper article.
My comments to the grade 8 pupils were, in the end, still fairly generic: "You have great potential, but it's essential you come to school every day," "Try sitting near the front of the classroom and don't be afraid to ask questions," "You have a great attitude and you work hard; let's find ways to improve your English in grade 9 as it will help your performance in all subjects." And now many of them are in grade 9, where I'm co-teaching math with one of our superbly motivated volunteer teachers, mixing it up by piling on homework (two assignments in the second week alone, a large departure from the norm) and otherwise fiddling a bit with the system. I've been in my village for 9 months now. I have 15 remaining; this class is the only one I'll accompany through an entire school year. My hope is that somehow, there will be fewer Fs on report forms in the coming December.
Two weeks after the term's end, I found myself alone in the school head's office, flipping through the file that held each pupil's form. Most of the end-of-term grades were written in, and I had the attendance register at my side so I could reference it. My hope was to make each comment balanced, encouraging, and personal. Unfortunately, my main focus that term--co-teaching grade 1--meant my attention was focused on learning the names and personalities of the 100 pupils in that grade. Additionally, the teacher with whom I had to agreed to co-teach maths for grades 8 and 9 had left unexpectedly early in the term, and it was never entirely clear who was assigned to take his position. (Needless to say, maths were taught infrequently at best for the next eight weeks.)
So I found myself looking at a list of names, only a handful of which I knew. Having not taught any of them, I didn't know their classroom comportment or behavioral idiosyncracies. Nonetheless, I was determined to improve on "simply try harder."
Grades in Zambia are rather different in composition from those in the U.S. A teacher in any subject there can point out a breakdown of every assignment and its value, and students can and often do focus their energies on certain projects based on how much weight they bear on the final grade. Not so here. Pupils are many, teachers are few, and (as any teacher anywhere can confirm) the time it takes marking papers is extraordinary. Assignments are most commonly short exercises, following a few examples, and written in a bound exercise book (so pupils can't hand individual papers in) and corrected in class. This Example-Exercise-Mark protocol is embedded in school culture, interrupted only by mid-term and final exams, which for some inexplicable reason are given in a unique timetable outside of the normal class schedule, so that two weeks (or more) out of every term are devoted completely to exams, and not to learning. The class grades are then compiled exclusively from these exam scores. The exercises give practice to the pupils and vital feedback to the teacher on whether or not they've understood the lesson just taught, but the scores stay on the page of the pupil's book, in the all-important red ink, and come end of term time it is an exam (or two) alone that determines their success or failure.
As I saw flipping through the pages, one for each pupil, the balance was comfortably in the hands of Failure. There were a few 1s and 2s (the highest marks--no A, B, C, or Ds here) and a smattering of 3s and 4s, but the overwhelming presence on the pages was F--fail. Fail. Fail.
I could have predicted as much. (In fact, when the deaf pupil was sent away because an administrator felt the school was ill-equipped to teach him--or at least that's the light I cast the decision in to make it more palatable to me--I said to a friend, "Yes, it's true, he probably would fail. But most of the class will fail. At least he would have learned something and made some friends!" So I wasn't altogether surprised to see the poor results. I was disheartened, though, because even though I didn't know most of the pupils individually, I had been to "prep"--night study time at the school--and watched them studying. I know the effort it takes to come to school--scrounging up the K80,000-100,000 (US $16-20) school fee and uniform components each term, walking or biking far every day or living in the dorm (single-sex buildings with two empty rooms of concrete walls and floors, where students sleep on shared reedmats and blankets and do all their cooking, cleaning, and otherwise caring for themselves). One of my brothers is not related to my host family at all, but rater bikes 50km down a dirt path at the term's start and lives with my family, away from his, for the next 13 weeks, because this school is the closest one (offering grade 8 and 9) to his home.
So the effort made just to show up every day at school is a significant one. The children--or rather pupils; children is a bit of a misnomer as a number are 18 or older--are not, of course, always "serious"--they're teenagers and have a lot of other goals in their day beyond learning the past continuous verb form of English--but they do, fundamentally, want to learn. And while I have plenty of beef with Zambian teachers, who can frequently find a plethora of reasons not to show up at school (ranging from rain to, no joke, "a dog ate one of the chicken's eggs"), as well as with the Zambian system that allows these absences to go on while the teachers still collect their civil servant paychecks, most of the teachers do, fundamentally, want the pupils to learn. In this case, two volunteers--teachers untrained and unemployed by the Ministry of Education but recruited, hired, and paid by the school/community had carried the bulk of the Grade 8 and 9 subject load. I had observed them all term showing up and teaching and I could see their dedication.
And yet--despite pupils who want to learn, and teachers who want to teach--failure almost across the board. What are we doing wrong?
And now these pupils, though encouraged to repeat grade 8, would advance to grade 9. The fact that they made it to grade 8 marked one hurdle leveled already; places are offered only to those who pass a standardized grade 7 exam. But it's multiple choice, so by luck many students enter grade 8 despite being illiterate. The grade 9 exam is different. There's little multiple choice, and while the exams are sometimes frustratingly riddled with errors, they are difficult and written in English, the official national language but one that continually overwhelms and intimidates the pupils, who take notes (copied verbatim from the board) in it daily but generally haven't a clue as to what the words they're writing means.
The grade 9 exam marks, for many Zambians, the ending ritual to their education. Students must pass (with a score of 40% or higher) at least 6 subjects to advance to grade 10. A few will repeat grade 9 if they're unsuccessful, but most will just go home and work the fields (or in the case of many young men, hang out and drink away the day), marry, and have children. At least three girls in grade 9 were already pregnant. Another generation will be born to parents who can't read and understand a newspaper article.
My comments to the grade 8 pupils were, in the end, still fairly generic: "You have great potential, but it's essential you come to school every day," "Try sitting near the front of the classroom and don't be afraid to ask questions," "You have a great attitude and you work hard; let's find ways to improve your English in grade 9 as it will help your performance in all subjects." And now many of them are in grade 9, where I'm co-teaching math with one of our superbly motivated volunteer teachers, mixing it up by piling on homework (two assignments in the second week alone, a large departure from the norm) and otherwise fiddling a bit with the system. I've been in my village for 9 months now. I have 15 remaining; this class is the only one I'll accompany through an entire school year. My hope is that somehow, there will be fewer Fs on report forms in the coming December.
The first day of school
(written 9 January 2012)
The first day of school, 6:50 AM. School begins at 7:00 AM. The timekeeper--a mystery still unknown to me--rang the old tire rim at 5:45 this morning, and again at 6:30, but the schoolyard is deserted now. The first grade teacher came to open her classroom and then went to the roadside to pick up her son's school uniform, which will be delivered shortly by a passing vehicle. The acting head teacher's daughter scurried out from her home moments ago, but has gone to play somewhere solitarily while awaiting her friends. A little boy in school uniform greens is standing under a mango tree.
Nothing is wrong--and yet everything is.
It's the first day of school, but the opening staff meeting (scheduled for three days ago) hasn't taken place. The teachers think they know what classes they're teaching, but they aren't sure. The time table for the upper grades hasn't been set yet; we're rumored to be getting two new teachers, but who knows. One teacher went unexpectedly on leave last term and administrators aren't sure if or when he will be back.
The first day of school, and there's nothing doing.
The opening of a new school term is always anticlimactic. There's no janitorial staff here, so the first day--even up to the first week--is spent on cleaning and maintenance. Pupils sweep away spiderwebs, termite residue, rats' nests, and dust that have accumulated during the monthlong term break. They slash the grass, grown high in this rainy season; sweep the schoolyard with brooms of ferns and branches; organize the books. They move desks and, on their hands and knees, rag-mop floors with water pumped from the borehole. When all this is prepared, they might start lessons.
The first day of school, 6:50 AM. School begins at 7:00 AM. The timekeeper--a mystery still unknown to me--rang the old tire rim at 5:45 this morning, and again at 6:30, but the schoolyard is deserted now. The first grade teacher came to open her classroom and then went to the roadside to pick up her son's school uniform, which will be delivered shortly by a passing vehicle. The acting head teacher's daughter scurried out from her home moments ago, but has gone to play somewhere solitarily while awaiting her friends. A little boy in school uniform greens is standing under a mango tree.
Nothing is wrong--and yet everything is.
It's the first day of school, but the opening staff meeting (scheduled for three days ago) hasn't taken place. The teachers think they know what classes they're teaching, but they aren't sure. The time table for the upper grades hasn't been set yet; we're rumored to be getting two new teachers, but who knows. One teacher went unexpectedly on leave last term and administrators aren't sure if or when he will be back.
The first day of school, and there's nothing doing.
The opening of a new school term is always anticlimactic. There's no janitorial staff here, so the first day--even up to the first week--is spent on cleaning and maintenance. Pupils sweep away spiderwebs, termite residue, rats' nests, and dust that have accumulated during the monthlong term break. They slash the grass, grown high in this rainy season; sweep the schoolyard with brooms of ferns and branches; organize the books. They move desks and, on their hands and knees, rag-mop floors with water pumped from the borehole. When all this is prepared, they might start lessons.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Always an adventure...
(written 17 December 2011, in a letter to my mother)
Well getting here-my friend Eric's--was an adventure! I was waiting for a truck going this way, and I don't know the lay of the land. So if they say, "We're going to Mwamba"--is that before Kaka, where he lives? After? Different direction? Anyway, I asked, "Can you get me to Kaka, or not?" But a guy running the store where I was waiting (along with many others waiting for transport) said he'd talk to the driver. He did, and then they said, "Let's go," so I assumed I'd get here--maybe pay a bit extra to get taken farther or slightly out of their route.
We all loaded into bed of the Canter--bags of fertilizer, 5 bikes (I left mine in Mbala because I already had a backpack, a big hobo-sack of vegetables, and two big packages of Eric's I was bringing him from the post office), 26 people or so, and all their belongings. We stopped to unload and reload everything in another part of town, stopped again to get fuel, and got on the way probably by around 14:00 or 15:00. My hobo sack got stepped on so what started as veg appeared to be becoming V8 based on the wetness of the cloth. The road passed through several villages--where other Peace Corps Volunteers live, in two cases--and at one point, after dropping a bunch of people, one of the lorry boys threw out a pink plastic bucket, assuming it was forgotten by one of the people who'd dismounted. Within seconds, it was clarified that the owner was still riding, and would very much like his bucket back. So the truck stopped and the man who'd been so hasty to toss it over ran back down the road to retrieve it. The drive continued, on and on; beautiful scenery, an endless drive. Along the way, I saw the most incredible rainbow I've ever witnessed: an enormous arc of color (both sides visible, something I've almost never seen) over the gorgeous African savannah.
Then the truck stopped, me the last passenger other than lorry boys, and I was told to get on another Canter that happened to be there. 15,000 kwacha ($3) paid, I transferred over to the truck that carried fewer people but lots of stuff. The people were drunk (or many of the men--passengers, that is, not driver) and amused by me; I was annoyed: the first ride had been peaceful. At one point, it started to pour, but we quickly pulled a tarp over everything in the truck bed, including ourselves, and kept tooling down the road. The downpour was brief. I tried not to worry as the sun was going down and the people kept saying, "Kaka's still far--and we're not going there." Several proposed I sleep at their houses (which I have done before; see previous entry "Mumalala kuno") but part of the Mambwe conversation to each other included a man having "a taste of me," an obvious sexual reference. I refused that adamantly and everyone was amused, again, that I had understood. We stopped to unload fertilizer, and there was an argument (and numerous recountings) about how much was supposed to be left at this stop, of which variety, etc. Shortly thereafter, I was dropped at a fork in the road. Me, my backpack, 2 annihilated packages disintegrating by the minute, and a dripping V8 bag. Lots of drunk guys at the little junction informing me that Kaka remained 10 km down the road not taken by the truck, which had forked to the left. Ten kilometers--roughly 6 miles. And it's 18:00. Losing sunlight super rapidly. We broker a plan for bike transport: 1 bicycle for the junk, 1 for me and my backpack, K30,000 ($6). So that's how I ended up spending the next hour and 20 minutes on the over-the-back-wheel carrier rack of a skinny but strong, sober, teenage Zambian boy who had just written his Grade 12 exams a few weeks prior.
Now, balancing on the back of a bicycle is not easy and demands core strength I do not possess. Side saddle and straddling (we tried both) require you don't tip the bike over, keep your feet off the ground and away from tires/pedals, and ignore the metal rods sticking in your backside. And it can't be much better for the cyclist, trying to haul my not-so-skinny self down a dirt path, avoiding puddles and such. Half the ride was in almost complete darkness, the sky illuminated intermittently by flashes of lightning far in the distance. I had tried calling Eric at the junction but couldn't get through then or when we finally reached the Kaka school signpost. I knew only that he lived on the headman's compound, so we walked to the nearest house, where the resident assured me that Eric and the headman lived nearby, and appointed two of his children to escort me there. I thanked my bike taxi drivers, paying K40,000 and telling them to figure out how to divide it between themselves (I personally being of the opinion that the young man who biked me should get a larger share than the one who took boxes, of significantly less burden). Partly I was eager to "tip" because it was not an easy task, and I would have been in a jam without their help; partly I didn't have proper change for the K30,000 we'd agreed upon, and I knew it was unlikely they'd have K10,000 worth of change on them, so two K20,000 it was.
Then I reached the place, and it was all so easy. Just over an hour earlier--stranded 10km away, with too much to carry, night falling, and a significant distance to go. Now--just here, visiting a friend, joking with his family and eating nshima. One thing I'm constantly reminded of here is that all things come to pass--no matter how soaked/tired/dirty/etc. you may be in an unpleasant, but temporary, situation. For indeed, every situation is just that: temporary. And in Zambia, those temporary situations have a tendency to be, in addition, adventurous.
Well getting here-my friend Eric's--was an adventure! I was waiting for a truck going this way, and I don't know the lay of the land. So if they say, "We're going to Mwamba"--is that before Kaka, where he lives? After? Different direction? Anyway, I asked, "Can you get me to Kaka, or not?" But a guy running the store where I was waiting (along with many others waiting for transport) said he'd talk to the driver. He did, and then they said, "Let's go," so I assumed I'd get here--maybe pay a bit extra to get taken farther or slightly out of their route.
We all loaded into bed of the Canter--bags of fertilizer, 5 bikes (I left mine in Mbala because I already had a backpack, a big hobo-sack of vegetables, and two big packages of Eric's I was bringing him from the post office), 26 people or so, and all their belongings. We stopped to unload and reload everything in another part of town, stopped again to get fuel, and got on the way probably by around 14:00 or 15:00. My hobo sack got stepped on so what started as veg appeared to be becoming V8 based on the wetness of the cloth. The road passed through several villages--where other Peace Corps Volunteers live, in two cases--and at one point, after dropping a bunch of people, one of the lorry boys threw out a pink plastic bucket, assuming it was forgotten by one of the people who'd dismounted. Within seconds, it was clarified that the owner was still riding, and would very much like his bucket back. So the truck stopped and the man who'd been so hasty to toss it over ran back down the road to retrieve it. The drive continued, on and on; beautiful scenery, an endless drive. Along the way, I saw the most incredible rainbow I've ever witnessed: an enormous arc of color (both sides visible, something I've almost never seen) over the gorgeous African savannah.
Then the truck stopped, me the last passenger other than lorry boys, and I was told to get on another Canter that happened to be there. 15,000 kwacha ($3) paid, I transferred over to the truck that carried fewer people but lots of stuff. The people were drunk (or many of the men--passengers, that is, not driver) and amused by me; I was annoyed: the first ride had been peaceful. At one point, it started to pour, but we quickly pulled a tarp over everything in the truck bed, including ourselves, and kept tooling down the road. The downpour was brief. I tried not to worry as the sun was going down and the people kept saying, "Kaka's still far--and we're not going there." Several proposed I sleep at their houses (which I have done before; see previous entry "Mumalala kuno") but part of the Mambwe conversation to each other included a man having "a taste of me," an obvious sexual reference. I refused that adamantly and everyone was amused, again, that I had understood. We stopped to unload fertilizer, and there was an argument (and numerous recountings) about how much was supposed to be left at this stop, of which variety, etc. Shortly thereafter, I was dropped at a fork in the road. Me, my backpack, 2 annihilated packages disintegrating by the minute, and a dripping V8 bag. Lots of drunk guys at the little junction informing me that Kaka remained 10 km down the road not taken by the truck, which had forked to the left. Ten kilometers--roughly 6 miles. And it's 18:00. Losing sunlight super rapidly. We broker a plan for bike transport: 1 bicycle for the junk, 1 for me and my backpack, K30,000 ($6). So that's how I ended up spending the next hour and 20 minutes on the over-the-back-wheel carrier rack of a skinny but strong, sober, teenage Zambian boy who had just written his Grade 12 exams a few weeks prior.
Now, balancing on the back of a bicycle is not easy and demands core strength I do not possess. Side saddle and straddling (we tried both) require you don't tip the bike over, keep your feet off the ground and away from tires/pedals, and ignore the metal rods sticking in your backside. And it can't be much better for the cyclist, trying to haul my not-so-skinny self down a dirt path, avoiding puddles and such. Half the ride was in almost complete darkness, the sky illuminated intermittently by flashes of lightning far in the distance. I had tried calling Eric at the junction but couldn't get through then or when we finally reached the Kaka school signpost. I knew only that he lived on the headman's compound, so we walked to the nearest house, where the resident assured me that Eric and the headman lived nearby, and appointed two of his children to escort me there. I thanked my bike taxi drivers, paying K40,000 and telling them to figure out how to divide it between themselves (I personally being of the opinion that the young man who biked me should get a larger share than the one who took boxes, of significantly less burden). Partly I was eager to "tip" because it was not an easy task, and I would have been in a jam without their help; partly I didn't have proper change for the K30,000 we'd agreed upon, and I knew it was unlikely they'd have K10,000 worth of change on them, so two K20,000 it was.
Then I reached the place, and it was all so easy. Just over an hour earlier--stranded 10km away, with too much to carry, night falling, and a significant distance to go. Now--just here, visiting a friend, joking with his family and eating nshima. One thing I'm constantly reminded of here is that all things come to pass--no matter how soaked/tired/dirty/etc. you may be in an unpleasant, but temporary, situation. For indeed, every situation is just that: temporary. And in Zambia, those temporary situations have a tendency to be, in addition, adventurous.
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