(written in October/Nov/Dec 2012)
It's a funny thing, Peace Corps, or any experience living in another country. The fact that I have a blog when I never did before implies that this is different than my previous locations and endeavors.
Or maybe not. Maybe I'm not sharing more, just using a public forum as an efficient, reliable, and free way to communicate with people I'd otherwise be in touch with personally, over the phone, via gchat, or the swift ponies of the USPS.
But I don't think so. A blog is easy and efficient, but it hasn't wholly replaced other forms of communication. I've sent a couple hundred letters, and I make use of Skype, email, text messages, and the occasional phone call. I set up a blog before coming here because I thought I'd have things to say, things that might appeal to a broader audience. I'm not alone. Most of my Peace Corps colleagues have blogs; only a handful of friends at home do. Of those I can call to mind, most of those written by people who are currently in the U.S. were temporary records kept during travel, extreme pursuits (e.g. extended hiking trips), or--in particular--time spent in other countries.
Why is this? We expect the distant to be exotic, filled with spectacular detail. We imagine others will want to see it through our eyes, and that we will want to remember it in technicolor. Blogging is a form of accountability, forcing us to document the experience for others and for ourselves. In the Peace Corps, it's practically in the job description; our third goal is to share information about the culture and people in our country of service with Americans. We even include blog activities on our quarterly work reports.
However, this is not just an adventure, a trip, or an extended vacation. This is my job, and my village is my community. The people who make me crazy, touch my heart, and take my breath away are my neighbors, my co-workers, my family. This is where I live.
Yet--as I near 20 months here--it's still pretty wild. My village center sits abreast of a main tarmac road, and we get visitors fairly frequently. NGOs pass through to do one-off "sensitizations," as public awareness campaigns are termed, donations are channeled through the local World Vision office; researchers from a government ministry or the university stay overnight at our school while conducting field work in the area; the occasional tourist stops by on the way to or from Mpulungu, our port town on the shores of Lake Tanganyika. Every time these visitors stumble upon me, a sometimes-boisterous, sometimes-reserved white girl attempting to speak the vernacular and moving around at ease, clearly accepted as part of the surroundings, I can't help but gloat a little in my head: "Yep, I LIVE here."
What that means exactly, I haven't quite figured out myself. As I started whittling away at my last six months, I had to accept that my time here is limited. I won't always live here, so I must, as a friend advised, "suck the marrow out of each and every day." How much I must devote myself to doing something, to "making a difference," as they say, and how much I should simply soak in as much as I can, just wake up and experience what each day brings with no agenda. I don't know how to find the balance between those two approaches.
In Northern Province, Peace Corps Volunteers have a tradition of writing a final message on the walls of the provincial office bunkhouse when leaving the country. One person wrote in 2005, "Can you still feel the butterflies?" We start blogs because we want a way to record the butterflies, as we find them. Perhaps not just the butterflies we feel--the nerves as we enter the country for the first time, meet our training host family, watch the Peace Corps vehicle pull away after dropping us and our stuff off so that we can begin two years in our community--but the butterflies we find, too. The beautiful creatures that flit around before me on an almost daily basis, a visual representation of all the small miracles that are all around me. The paradox is that as I become more comfortable, I lose track of the butterflies. As Zambia becomes normal, I can forget what a privilege the opportunity to be here is.
So back to the blog--my accountability, my link to you. I hope that I can take advantage of the time remaining to share glimpses of Zambia, butterflies and all, with you. Then, when I have the chance to be with you in person, perhaps we can replace the keyboard and screen with some chocolate and mugs of tea, which also create a fabulous forum for conversation exotic and ordinary alike.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Different
(begun 5 October 2012, finished 13 December 2012)
I'm not sure what it was. The way the light hit, already high in the sky at half past six. Maybe the way Ba Aggie asked if the friend whose wedding I'm attending tomorrow is "black, black," pinching her own forearm, "or mizungu (white)?" When I responded that the bride is Zambian, she still wasn't convinced. "Zambian Zambian?" she asked, seeking clarification, as opposed to non-black Zambians, whose number is few.
Maybe it was my big hiking backpack, half-empty to leave room for groceries on my return; the large bag feels more ridiculous on every trip because no one else has anything like it. Perhaps it was just the last few weeks of thoughts: knowing that I have six months left here and wondering if I have accomplished any of the things I'd sought out to do.
There I stood on the side of the tarmac, awaiting the inevitable passage of a bus or private vehicle, thinking, "They will always see me as different."
I've gone through the bulky cultural handbook that is Peace Corps standard issue, some of it many times over. One of the parts of adjusting to any culture, it claims, is the eventual realization that people are fundamentally different. That culture is more than food and fashion preferences. That we are shaped in profound ways by the setting in which we are raised. That we view the world through different lenses, that our foundational beliefs and assumptions are not the same. I've had my own lightbulb moments, too: a vivid one was when I stepped out of a school workshop to help the women teachers finish preparing and serving food and realized that they didn't feel put upon or discriminated against--they actually preferred cooking to sitting in an endless meeting. I had a revelation then that any advocacy I do must be based on what people themselves want, not what I assume they want, though sometimes those assumptions are so deeply engrained in my being that I have to step outside myself to see them for what they are.
I came to the conclusion early on that it is possible to live here for two years and never really become integrated into the community. I was dismayed. As time has passed, I've had to constantly ask myself what I want to change to match Zambian culture (e.g., taking time to greet people and observe formalities), what I need to keep to be true to myself (e.g. reading a lot), and what I can blend to find an equilibrium (e.g. wearing dresses made by local tailors from traditional material, but in more Western dress styles.) I've tried to respect the value of speaking the vernacular, as my experience so far has shown that language is the key that opens every door. As I've entered the last quarter of my service and re-evaluated what I hope to achieve here, I've reminded myself that one of my "roles in development" is that of learner, and that I want to spend much of the next few months as a sponge--soaking in the rhythm of the village, savoring relationships, discovering as much as I can.
Because we are, fundamentally, different. Nonetheless, we share many things in common, and these things can--and must--overrule our differences. As President John F. Kennedy said in an address at The American University in June of 1963, "If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can make the world safe for diversity. For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children's future. And we are all mortal." Our lives and pursuits look different, but the core of our existence is the same.
I will never be a Zambian woman. I don't want to be. I decorate my house as I want to, not following local trends, and since there are plenty of beans and leafy greens around, I've had no desire to acclimate my palate to dried fish and caterpillars. But these things exist on the surface. When I go to a funeral, I can't summon the wails that my fellow women deliver. It feels artificial to me; we don't grieve in the same way. But we all grieve, and mindful of cultural expectation, I can enter the home and sit with these women, silently paying respect, and when we gather en masse as the coffin is lowered and dirt shoveled back in place, my own tears flow unbidden, matching those around me. We are not the same. Integration is work and requires effort and intention. I haven't yet reached the level of integration I had hoped for, and perhaps I never will. Nonetheless, the fact that I can get anywhere close is incredible. That little Zambian girls can see me as a big sister and know my moods and idiosyncracies is a miracle. To some I am and will always be an outsider. But a few of the people I'm close to will agree, I hope, with what artist Collin Raye says when he sings: "I laugh, I love, I hope, I try. I hurt, I need, I fear, I cry. And I know you do the same things, too. So we're really not that different, me and you." Differences are more than skin deep, but so is our shared humanity.
I'm not sure what it was. The way the light hit, already high in the sky at half past six. Maybe the way Ba Aggie asked if the friend whose wedding I'm attending tomorrow is "black, black," pinching her own forearm, "or mizungu (white)?" When I responded that the bride is Zambian, she still wasn't convinced. "Zambian Zambian?" she asked, seeking clarification, as opposed to non-black Zambians, whose number is few.
Maybe it was my big hiking backpack, half-empty to leave room for groceries on my return; the large bag feels more ridiculous on every trip because no one else has anything like it. Perhaps it was just the last few weeks of thoughts: knowing that I have six months left here and wondering if I have accomplished any of the things I'd sought out to do.
There I stood on the side of the tarmac, awaiting the inevitable passage of a bus or private vehicle, thinking, "They will always see me as different."
I've gone through the bulky cultural handbook that is Peace Corps standard issue, some of it many times over. One of the parts of adjusting to any culture, it claims, is the eventual realization that people are fundamentally different. That culture is more than food and fashion preferences. That we are shaped in profound ways by the setting in which we are raised. That we view the world through different lenses, that our foundational beliefs and assumptions are not the same. I've had my own lightbulb moments, too: a vivid one was when I stepped out of a school workshop to help the women teachers finish preparing and serving food and realized that they didn't feel put upon or discriminated against--they actually preferred cooking to sitting in an endless meeting. I had a revelation then that any advocacy I do must be based on what people themselves want, not what I assume they want, though sometimes those assumptions are so deeply engrained in my being that I have to step outside myself to see them for what they are.
I came to the conclusion early on that it is possible to live here for two years and never really become integrated into the community. I was dismayed. As time has passed, I've had to constantly ask myself what I want to change to match Zambian culture (e.g., taking time to greet people and observe formalities), what I need to keep to be true to myself (e.g. reading a lot), and what I can blend to find an equilibrium (e.g. wearing dresses made by local tailors from traditional material, but in more Western dress styles.) I've tried to respect the value of speaking the vernacular, as my experience so far has shown that language is the key that opens every door. As I've entered the last quarter of my service and re-evaluated what I hope to achieve here, I've reminded myself that one of my "roles in development" is that of learner, and that I want to spend much of the next few months as a sponge--soaking in the rhythm of the village, savoring relationships, discovering as much as I can.
Because we are, fundamentally, different. Nonetheless, we share many things in common, and these things can--and must--overrule our differences. As President John F. Kennedy said in an address at The American University in June of 1963, "If we cannot end now our differences, at least we can make the world safe for diversity. For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link is that we all inhabit this small planet. We all breathe the same air. We all cherish our children's future. And we are all mortal." Our lives and pursuits look different, but the core of our existence is the same.
I will never be a Zambian woman. I don't want to be. I decorate my house as I want to, not following local trends, and since there are plenty of beans and leafy greens around, I've had no desire to acclimate my palate to dried fish and caterpillars. But these things exist on the surface. When I go to a funeral, I can't summon the wails that my fellow women deliver. It feels artificial to me; we don't grieve in the same way. But we all grieve, and mindful of cultural expectation, I can enter the home and sit with these women, silently paying respect, and when we gather en masse as the coffin is lowered and dirt shoveled back in place, my own tears flow unbidden, matching those around me. We are not the same. Integration is work and requires effort and intention. I haven't yet reached the level of integration I had hoped for, and perhaps I never will. Nonetheless, the fact that I can get anywhere close is incredible. That little Zambian girls can see me as a big sister and know my moods and idiosyncracies is a miracle. To some I am and will always be an outsider. But a few of the people I'm close to will agree, I hope, with what artist Collin Raye says when he sings: "I laugh, I love, I hope, I try. I hurt, I need, I fear, I cry. And I know you do the same things, too. So we're really not that different, me and you." Differences are more than skin deep, but so is our shared humanity.
...and still to dust
In June 2011, I posted about my first experience at a Zambian funeral in my community. The following is an addendum to that post.
Eighteen months later, I’ve been to more funerals and paid respects to funeral homes, within my Zambian host family and circle of acquaintances, within the community at large, and even in other towns. On a recent visit to a new volunteer’s home in my district, I had the opportunity to attend her first community funeral with her, explaining the process as best as I was able. I still can’t force myself to wail; it is not my natural way of grieving, and though I’ve toyed with the idea of treating it as an acting exercise, the reality of death seems too grave to be treated lightly. Instead I try to show respect in a natural way, acknowledging that sometimes I just can’t relate. I had a visitor recently, and as we woke up—preparing to catch an early bus to the Provincial capital for a meeting—I heard a moving procession of wailing. “Someone’s just died at the clinic,” I said; my siblings also heard it and confirmed the death, telling me it was the infant child of an acquaintance.
“I have to go,” I told my friend. “I know we’re on our way out, but we need to at least go visit the home.” We placed our packs outside the funeral house, and I directed him to the small assembly of men already congregated by 6:30 a.m. I entered the home, sitting on the floor and bowing my head down with such focus that it took me about ten minutes to recognize two of the women from my host family were on either side of me. I sat in the simple room, deliberating over a hand-made sign that had been hung as a wall decoration which read, “It is not a mistake to be born in a poor family.” In the center of the huddle of women, the dead infant’s mother cried out, “Umwana wane, ndapaapa weni?”—literally, “My child, whom will I carry on my back now?” When I looked up and saw tears rolling out of my host mother’s eyes—her own one-year-old baby on her lap—I was reminded that these women aren’t just grieving out of compassion for their friend. They are communing with her, because they understand. My host mother lost her first-born child, Samuel, years ago. He would have been 17 years old by now. She knows what it means to bury a child; perhaps she is crying for her late son as much as she is crying for her friend’s loss. I can, I hope, have compassion, but I know nothing of what it means to be a mother, and even less what it means to watch your own child precede you in death. The women know, too, that this divides us. That I don't really understand.
After what felt like an appropriate amount of time, I emerged from the house and summoned my visitor. I saw my best friend in the village—who happens to be the next-door neighbor to the funeral house—sitting among the men, and I asked him where the child’s father was. He didn’t know, but as we grabbed our packs to leave, I saw him lying on his side, propped against the adjacent house, alone in his grief. He had helped me with the world map we painted at the school last year, and since then we’d been casual acquaintances. I wanted him to know that I cared, that I had come, even if I couldn’t stay. I didn’t know what was appropriate, but I followed my impulses and walked over to him, urging my friend to go ahead up the road.
Tears are not customarily shed in public, so it was sobering to see this man quietly sobbing. I crouched beside him and gently placed my hand on his back, wanting him to simply feel my presence. After a few moments, I stood and saw his eyes flicker open ever so faintly, acknowledging me. I joined my friend on the dirt road and asked another acquaintance, as we neared the tarmac, if it was OK that I wasn’t staying all day for the funeral. He assured me that by visiting the home, I had done what was expected, and no one would think me disrespectful for leaving to attend a scheduled program. I recently saw the child’s father during a church service, and he gave me a broad smile when we made eye contact; as we left the service and I asked how things were going, he told me everything was just fine. I wasn't shocked by his response; after all, the death was over two weeks ago. Here, we bury, and we move on, at least in the public eye.
I’ve never been so aware of the fragility of life as I am here, nor have I ever wanted so vehemently to live to an old, old age. Funerals here have helped me to remember that we only get a short shot at this endeavor, life. When my shot’s up, my body will return to dust.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Food Aid
A couple dozen 50-kilogram bags are stacked on overturned stools in the staff office at Masamba Basic School. "World Food Program," the bags are stamped. "Gift of Denmark." (Or in some cases, Germany.)
It's not the first donation we've had from the WFP, a division of the United Nations. Last year I sent home a label from a 5-liter jug of cooking oil from Italy. My mother commented that it was very international oil, having been grown, processed, distributed, etc. all in different countries. I hadn't noticed the circuitous journey of the food; I just thought it was neat to be seeing firsthand the distribution of what we hear about in the U.S. but don't really know much about.
Such a distribution is happening now. A Grade 4 pupil is dragging out a bag of maize meal, which cooked with water is the country's staple food, nshima. (And I do mean staple. A fellow PCV summed it up, "Nshima: It's what's for dinner. And lunch. Breakfast, too.") Outside, a horde of kids waits noisely as two 9th grade girls, directed by the first and second grade teachers, distribute the food into plastic bags and buckets the kids have brought from home. A big bowl of maize meal and two cups of some kind of legume per child. The elevated stoop where they stand is coated in the fine white powder, and since many of the pupils are reusing cheap, thin plastic bags from the local tuck shops, a steady stream of the corn flour and beans falls out of holes and tears in many of them.
If I'm correct, the maize meal was delivered in kernel form. Rather than being embraced as one may naively imagine (especially from an American perspective, in which anything free becomes terrifically exciting), the food was a source of consternation and caution at a staff meeting last term. It's maize-selling season, and many Zambians earn a large percentage of their income by selling their harvest to the Food Reserve Agency--that is, to the Zambian government. Teachers also take part, either by cultivating their own fields, paying laborers to work in their fields, or simply buying maize at a cut rate earlier in the season when farmers are cash-strapped and then re-selling it when the government comes around. Bags and bags of maize at the school, then, in full view of the local maize selling point, invites not only malfeasance but also the perception of such even if it doesn't take place.
Of course, the food is meant to be eaten by the children, not sold by them, so distributing maize kernels isn't ideal either. The ideal is a school feeding program. Easy, right? The food's here, the kids come, they learn, they eat, and off they all walk into the well-nourished, well-educated, prosperous horizon.
Not quite. The school's enrollment is roughly ~800, grades 1-9. Twelve teachers manage them, and we're lucky to have that many on staff. There is no kitchen or dining hall; cooking in rural areas such as this one is done over an open fire which involves a lot of natural charcoal (which much be purchased from the locals who make it) or firewood (which must be gathered). And of course, cooking takes time. (Consider the number of staff who put in hours of hard work every day to prepare lunch at McCook Central, the school in my small hometown in South Dakota, for a much smaller number of students.)
Let's imagine, though, that the school were incredibly well-organized and the community invested. Community volunteers could be assembled to cook a meal for the pupils, or at least some of them. This has been done before; on one day, grade one and two pupils ate after lessons; on the next, grades three and four, and so on. It worked OK, though the distribution of the food to pupils was a bit chaotic (they brought dishes from home and ate communally in small groups) and cut into--as the distribution at this moment is doing--teachers' instructional time with their pupils. Cooking a meal, though, is more than a raw ingredient and fire. At the very least, it's important to have cooking oil and salt. Naturally, water must be drawn (and carried) as well. We have maize meal and legumes. Free. Except the cost of oil, salt, and labor to prepare it into a meal for pupils would quickly accumulate. The assumption by the mere presence of the food is that the school doesn't have money for these things. And even if oil and salt were donated, how long would this food last? An organized school meal program for a school this size could take a lot of work and an ongoing supply of food.
But food is food, and we've just reached the end of hungry season, the period during dry season when gardens are fewer (due to no rain) and staples have not yet been harvested. (Of course, this varies family-to-family based on a multitude of factors.) So the solution the school reached was to sell a bag of maize to cover the cost of transporting the rest of the maize to the hammer mill, grinding it into meal, and transporting it back. The children take home the ingredients in their buckets and bags, where the problem of cooking and serving is eliminated; it will become part of the family's meal routine. In some cases, this meal will make a difference; a child who may have gone to bed hungry will know the comfortable groan of a filled tummy. In others, the food will seep into the normal supply, appreciated but not life-changing. In others, it may even cause the night's cook on duty (usually the mother or daughters, but sometimes a son) to overestimate, cook too much, and have more than usual left in the pot and tossed out after the meal.
I'm not opposed to food aid. Eliminating hunger is an obviously noble and necessary goal and arguably should be an international priority. The food given was nutritionally sound and culturally appropriate (as opposed to, imagine, air-dropped logs of pepperoni, blocks of cheese, or Little Debbie snacks.) I'm grateful the food is here and is going to use. I can't help but see, however, that what seems so simple--Hungry kids in Africa? Send food aid!--is really much more complex. Any real solutions will inevitably be local. This is what I'm learning through the Peace Corps. It's for this perspective--the one seen at eye level with some of these hungry kids--that I'm most grateful.
It's not the first donation we've had from the WFP, a division of the United Nations. Last year I sent home a label from a 5-liter jug of cooking oil from Italy. My mother commented that it was very international oil, having been grown, processed, distributed, etc. all in different countries. I hadn't noticed the circuitous journey of the food; I just thought it was neat to be seeing firsthand the distribution of what we hear about in the U.S. but don't really know much about.
Such a distribution is happening now. A Grade 4 pupil is dragging out a bag of maize meal, which cooked with water is the country's staple food, nshima. (And I do mean staple. A fellow PCV summed it up, "Nshima: It's what's for dinner. And lunch. Breakfast, too.") Outside, a horde of kids waits noisely as two 9th grade girls, directed by the first and second grade teachers, distribute the food into plastic bags and buckets the kids have brought from home. A big bowl of maize meal and two cups of some kind of legume per child. The elevated stoop where they stand is coated in the fine white powder, and since many of the pupils are reusing cheap, thin plastic bags from the local tuck shops, a steady stream of the corn flour and beans falls out of holes and tears in many of them.
If I'm correct, the maize meal was delivered in kernel form. Rather than being embraced as one may naively imagine (especially from an American perspective, in which anything free becomes terrifically exciting), the food was a source of consternation and caution at a staff meeting last term. It's maize-selling season, and many Zambians earn a large percentage of their income by selling their harvest to the Food Reserve Agency--that is, to the Zambian government. Teachers also take part, either by cultivating their own fields, paying laborers to work in their fields, or simply buying maize at a cut rate earlier in the season when farmers are cash-strapped and then re-selling it when the government comes around. Bags and bags of maize at the school, then, in full view of the local maize selling point, invites not only malfeasance but also the perception of such even if it doesn't take place.
Of course, the food is meant to be eaten by the children, not sold by them, so distributing maize kernels isn't ideal either. The ideal is a school feeding program. Easy, right? The food's here, the kids come, they learn, they eat, and off they all walk into the well-nourished, well-educated, prosperous horizon.
Not quite. The school's enrollment is roughly ~800, grades 1-9. Twelve teachers manage them, and we're lucky to have that many on staff. There is no kitchen or dining hall; cooking in rural areas such as this one is done over an open fire which involves a lot of natural charcoal (which much be purchased from the locals who make it) or firewood (which must be gathered). And of course, cooking takes time. (Consider the number of staff who put in hours of hard work every day to prepare lunch at McCook Central, the school in my small hometown in South Dakota, for a much smaller number of students.)
Let's imagine, though, that the school were incredibly well-organized and the community invested. Community volunteers could be assembled to cook a meal for the pupils, or at least some of them. This has been done before; on one day, grade one and two pupils ate after lessons; on the next, grades three and four, and so on. It worked OK, though the distribution of the food to pupils was a bit chaotic (they brought dishes from home and ate communally in small groups) and cut into--as the distribution at this moment is doing--teachers' instructional time with their pupils. Cooking a meal, though, is more than a raw ingredient and fire. At the very least, it's important to have cooking oil and salt. Naturally, water must be drawn (and carried) as well. We have maize meal and legumes. Free. Except the cost of oil, salt, and labor to prepare it into a meal for pupils would quickly accumulate. The assumption by the mere presence of the food is that the school doesn't have money for these things. And even if oil and salt were donated, how long would this food last? An organized school meal program for a school this size could take a lot of work and an ongoing supply of food.
But food is food, and we've just reached the end of hungry season, the period during dry season when gardens are fewer (due to no rain) and staples have not yet been harvested. (Of course, this varies family-to-family based on a multitude of factors.) So the solution the school reached was to sell a bag of maize to cover the cost of transporting the rest of the maize to the hammer mill, grinding it into meal, and transporting it back. The children take home the ingredients in their buckets and bags, where the problem of cooking and serving is eliminated; it will become part of the family's meal routine. In some cases, this meal will make a difference; a child who may have gone to bed hungry will know the comfortable groan of a filled tummy. In others, the food will seep into the normal supply, appreciated but not life-changing. In others, it may even cause the night's cook on duty (usually the mother or daughters, but sometimes a son) to overestimate, cook too much, and have more than usual left in the pot and tossed out after the meal.
I'm not opposed to food aid. Eliminating hunger is an obviously noble and necessary goal and arguably should be an international priority. The food given was nutritionally sound and culturally appropriate (as opposed to, imagine, air-dropped logs of pepperoni, blocks of cheese, or Little Debbie snacks.) I'm grateful the food is here and is going to use. I can't help but see, however, that what seems so simple--Hungry kids in Africa? Send food aid!--is really much more complex. Any real solutions will inevitably be local. This is what I'm learning through the Peace Corps. It's for this perspective--the one seen at eye level with some of these hungry kids--that I'm most grateful.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
So I did come to your Bible study
(written 7 September 2012)
So I did, after all, come to your Bible study. The SDA (Seventh-Day Adventist) church camp ran from Sunday to Sunday. I thought about tagging along to spend the first night there with my family, but they left while I was napping after I returned from a different church service on Sunday. I couldn't commit the week, but I knew they'd appreciate my presence, particularly on the Sabbath--Saturday--for the culminating service.
Come Saturday, my bike was locked up in the World Vision office with a flat tire. (Long story.) I had a spare tube at home but it also needed patching, and the mend kit was with the bike. My friend Philip, a community volunteer at World Vision, said he'd track down the key and bring it by 7 or 8 am Saturday. At 9:00, I phoned him. The person with the key was gone, he said, but he'd bring it in the afternoon, which of course wouldn't help me make it to the service.
Bikeless, off I set down the road. A mini-bus passed me within about 15 minutes, and I could have easily boarded had I chosen to wait for it at the "bus stop" in my village, but these things are unpredictable, and walking seemed like the best choice. I also got two or 3 offers to ride on the bike rack (one was even padded) of others en route to the church service. I've ridden bike-taxi-style before, however, and it's not very comfortable for either party. I'm not light, nor do I have the requisite core strength to balance comfortably, so I politely declined the offers.
As I neared my destination, I encountered Jonathan, a Peace Corps neighbor who lives 20 km south. His derailleur had split in 1/2 while he was riding so he ended up walking/Fred Flinestone'ing his bike to my house, where he left it and continued on his way north to visit another PCV. So I wasn't the only one making the journey. The 6-10 km (distances are approximate) walk took almost two hours, in part because of several stop-and-chats: a group of women drinking maize beer who asked for my friendship (and my handbag), a young girl who ran up and hugged me, then continued stroking my forearms while she asked for my bicycle, my hat, some money, etc. (Did I mention that I wasn't riding my bicycle?) By the time I reached the camp, the service was nearly over. Nonetheless, my host father, looking particularly dapper in shirt and tie, ushered me into the temporary structure of wood and thatch, and I squeezed in on the ground near my family and other community members. My 7-year-old-host sister was delighted to see me, and the baby, while suspicious of my presence as usual, refrained from crying out in terror, as has been the norm.
When the service ended, I greeted many, much like church services at home, although to be honest I felt more comfortable here. I was shown into my family's temporary home--a marvel of thin tree uprights and walls made of cement sacks--and sat on the ground outside with my sister, who cuddled next to me. Many people at the camp came from other areas, so I encountered curious stares and friendly greetings. Some marveled at the scene--a few young African kids dozing in the afternoon sun with their white American big sister. (Such is the magic of Peace Corps.)
I had lunch with extended family in their little shanty tent. (The whole settlement was a wonder of speedy craftsmanship and clever use of resources) and soon a bell called us back to Bible study.
I've never been to SDA Bible study before. My family often invites me after I've come to SDA church, and I think they're considered equal parts of the Sabbath observance. But three-plus hours of a religious service that's not of my faith and is largely unintelligible to me (being in Bemba, which is only related to Mambwe, the language I've studied) is about all I can handle in a day. Saturday afternoons at my house frequently include a range of SDA children who come to play while their parents are at Bible study. Today, then, was my chance, particularly since I had the poor form to miss most of the service itself.
A well-respected church and community leader (he's also the treasurer of the school's PTA) announced the groups we'd be breaking into for the discussion. Ages 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-35, and so on. He originally announced that the last group would include people "up to 100" but then amended it after comments from the audience; it seemed that perhaps there was a member or two present who had surpassed 100. Immediately after the groups were announced, the women on the ground next to me said, "You'll stay inside, right? Do you want to get married?" I wasn't sure what they were talking about, but I knew that at 28, my age put me in the range for group 4, so I rose to leave when group 4 did. More voices weighed in: "You should be here," "You're not married," etc. I frequently don't understand 100% of what's going on, so when I feel confident that I have, in fact, understood a direction, I become a bit defensive. "He didn't say anything about marriage; I'm 28, this is where he said to go," I responded. Soon enough, a few people I know better, including Mr. C., the head teacher at one of the schools in my zone, directed me in the direction of a group gathered on the ground.
"You're preparing to marry," a man stated. "Awe, nskupekanya," (No, I'm not preparing), I replied, and it's true. Marriage will, I hope, be in my future, but it's not on the horizon. My response didn't change his answer: "OK, then this is your group."
I looked at the peoples assembled--primarily 16-to-20-year-olds. "But I'm 28!" I exclaimed.
Mr. C. interjected, "Mutakweti nganda; you should be here," he said. Ntakweti nganda? I inferred the meaning--I don't have a family of my own--but I do have a house, one I manage just fine, if you ask me. I may live alone in the house, but don't I still qualify as an adult woman?
I felt my throat become tense and tears collect as I took a spot on the grass among the small crowd. Many were my pupils, or at least adolescents I knew from school. I tried to analyze why I was feeling such a strong emotional reaction. I felt shamed in a way I hadn't before, as though my legitimacy as an adult was in question because I'm unmarried.
Nonetheless, I sat and rationalized my assignment. I'm here for the ride. Does it matter which group I'm in? I'm curious to hear what will be said in any of them. (Except for the young children's group. They mostly sang songs, and I've heard or sung most of them before with my siblings.) And some of my favorite people are in this group, I told myself. (I tend to like kids and teens more than adults on any continent.) My emotions calmed. By the time I was used as an example, I was feeling less insulted about the whole thing. The topic was "family living," and in this subgroup the focus was on finding a spouse.
"Imagine you set your eyes on Rose," Mr. C. said to those assembled, using my village name. "Awe," I interjected good-naturedly. "These are schoolchildren! I'm an old woman." The kids laughed. I think he advised them that whoever they set their eyes on, they should pray to God about it. (In the case of me, it will require an inordinate amount of prayer, really more effort than I'm worth. Better to set sights elsewhere.)
I picked up bits and pieces of the Bemba/English/Mambwe mix--involve your parents in advising you on your choice of spouse; find out about the family background of a potential partner; don't marry someone for the money they have or the job they do. Set goals for yourself, prepare yourself to be a good spouse, choose a "life partner" (they actually used this term, which felt very progressive, even if still embedded in a highly heteronormative perspective); don't be in a rush to marry. Again I was used as an example: "Look at Rose. She is still a student. She is not married, but she will marry once she's finished her education."
Well...not exactly. Certainly one reason I didn't marry young was my pursuit of higher education, and I've used myself as an example in this way many times. But I obtained my degree over six years ago, and while I hope to have Master's and PhD degrees eventually, I'm not waiting to get married until after I complete those. (Though perhaps a joint marriage/funeral could kill two turtledoves with one stone.)
I'm not married yet because I haven't yet found the person I want to marry, or if I have I'm not aware of it. I have not yet had a relationship reach the level where we are ready to commit our lives to each other. Certainly I have, at times, wanted to be married and felt ready for it, but I am only 50% of the equation. I don't want to be married just for the sake of being married, and an unexpected side effect of my time in Zambia is that I'm developing an increasingly clear picture of what I want in a spouse and in a shared life together. On the whole, I'm very happy not to be married now, and lately I've taken great pleasure in enjoying my youth and the possibilities that being untethered allows.
I'm curious, too, about the implication of the statement Mr. C. made. It's a bit bizarre to some that I'm 28 and single, but most accept that I've gone to school, pursued a career (however meandering), and am still planning to marry one day. But what if I weren't? What if I'd said, "No, sir, I'm not waiting to finish school. I don't want to be married. Ever." Then what? That would be a much coarser pill to swallow, I'm sure. Not want to be married? But...why?
I could chalk this up to Zambia's more traditional society, in which familial and gender relationships are laden with much value. But it's true in American culture as well. Marriage isn't expected as early in one's life, and gender roles are becoming far more malleable, but marriage (or civil union in some states) is still assumed to be an eventuality. We're all expected to have--and to want--families of our own, even if we have careers too. In the U.S., there's more room for discussion, however. In Zambia, expectations often boil down to "the Bible says..."
The rolling hillside lent a beautiful backdrop to the afternoon, and I caught the eyes (non-romantically, of course) of a few pupils and family members of whom I'm particularly fond throughout the discussion. I wouldn't say I learned from any angle that isn't anthropological or of a social science nature, but those observations alone were enough.
The middle-aged women, it turns out, learned some things a bit...spicier. They huddled around and hinted about learning how to please their husbands, agreeing to teach me later. After all, I likely won't be in Zambia when I do become a married woman.
Night was falling, so I got a ride back to Masamba; about 15 of us squeezed in the covered bed of the PTA treasurer's truck. (Yes, he owns a vehicle, and yes, it's a big deal.) I returned home exhausted from my morning walk and the emotion triggered in the Bible study, but delighted with the experience. In our pursuit of significant others, wherever we live, we're constantly learning about ourselves, and my day at the SDA Bible study contributed to my own ongoing lesson.
So I did, after all, come to your Bible study. The SDA (Seventh-Day Adventist) church camp ran from Sunday to Sunday. I thought about tagging along to spend the first night there with my family, but they left while I was napping after I returned from a different church service on Sunday. I couldn't commit the week, but I knew they'd appreciate my presence, particularly on the Sabbath--Saturday--for the culminating service.
Come Saturday, my bike was locked up in the World Vision office with a flat tire. (Long story.) I had a spare tube at home but it also needed patching, and the mend kit was with the bike. My friend Philip, a community volunteer at World Vision, said he'd track down the key and bring it by 7 or 8 am Saturday. At 9:00, I phoned him. The person with the key was gone, he said, but he'd bring it in the afternoon, which of course wouldn't help me make it to the service.
Bikeless, off I set down the road. A mini-bus passed me within about 15 minutes, and I could have easily boarded had I chosen to wait for it at the "bus stop" in my village, but these things are unpredictable, and walking seemed like the best choice. I also got two or 3 offers to ride on the bike rack (one was even padded) of others en route to the church service. I've ridden bike-taxi-style before, however, and it's not very comfortable for either party. I'm not light, nor do I have the requisite core strength to balance comfortably, so I politely declined the offers.
As I neared my destination, I encountered Jonathan, a Peace Corps neighbor who lives 20 km south. His derailleur had split in 1/2 while he was riding so he ended up walking/Fred Flinestone'ing his bike to my house, where he left it and continued on his way north to visit another PCV. So I wasn't the only one making the journey. The 6-10 km (distances are approximate) walk took almost two hours, in part because of several stop-and-chats: a group of women drinking maize beer who asked for my friendship (and my handbag), a young girl who ran up and hugged me, then continued stroking my forearms while she asked for my bicycle, my hat, some money, etc. (Did I mention that I wasn't riding my bicycle?) By the time I reached the camp, the service was nearly over. Nonetheless, my host father, looking particularly dapper in shirt and tie, ushered me into the temporary structure of wood and thatch, and I squeezed in on the ground near my family and other community members. My 7-year-old-host sister was delighted to see me, and the baby, while suspicious of my presence as usual, refrained from crying out in terror, as has been the norm.
When the service ended, I greeted many, much like church services at home, although to be honest I felt more comfortable here. I was shown into my family's temporary home--a marvel of thin tree uprights and walls made of cement sacks--and sat on the ground outside with my sister, who cuddled next to me. Many people at the camp came from other areas, so I encountered curious stares and friendly greetings. Some marveled at the scene--a few young African kids dozing in the afternoon sun with their white American big sister. (Such is the magic of Peace Corps.)
I had lunch with extended family in their little shanty tent. (The whole settlement was a wonder of speedy craftsmanship and clever use of resources) and soon a bell called us back to Bible study.
I've never been to SDA Bible study before. My family often invites me after I've come to SDA church, and I think they're considered equal parts of the Sabbath observance. But three-plus hours of a religious service that's not of my faith and is largely unintelligible to me (being in Bemba, which is only related to Mambwe, the language I've studied) is about all I can handle in a day. Saturday afternoons at my house frequently include a range of SDA children who come to play while their parents are at Bible study. Today, then, was my chance, particularly since I had the poor form to miss most of the service itself.
A well-respected church and community leader (he's also the treasurer of the school's PTA) announced the groups we'd be breaking into for the discussion. Ages 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-35, and so on. He originally announced that the last group would include people "up to 100" but then amended it after comments from the audience; it seemed that perhaps there was a member or two present who had surpassed 100. Immediately after the groups were announced, the women on the ground next to me said, "You'll stay inside, right? Do you want to get married?" I wasn't sure what they were talking about, but I knew that at 28, my age put me in the range for group 4, so I rose to leave when group 4 did. More voices weighed in: "You should be here," "You're not married," etc. I frequently don't understand 100% of what's going on, so when I feel confident that I have, in fact, understood a direction, I become a bit defensive. "He didn't say anything about marriage; I'm 28, this is where he said to go," I responded. Soon enough, a few people I know better, including Mr. C., the head teacher at one of the schools in my zone, directed me in the direction of a group gathered on the ground.
"You're preparing to marry," a man stated. "Awe, nskupekanya," (No, I'm not preparing), I replied, and it's true. Marriage will, I hope, be in my future, but it's not on the horizon. My response didn't change his answer: "OK, then this is your group."
I looked at the peoples assembled--primarily 16-to-20-year-olds. "But I'm 28!" I exclaimed.
Mr. C. interjected, "Mutakweti nganda; you should be here," he said. Ntakweti nganda? I inferred the meaning--I don't have a family of my own--but I do have a house, one I manage just fine, if you ask me. I may live alone in the house, but don't I still qualify as an adult woman?
I felt my throat become tense and tears collect as I took a spot on the grass among the small crowd. Many were my pupils, or at least adolescents I knew from school. I tried to analyze why I was feeling such a strong emotional reaction. I felt shamed in a way I hadn't before, as though my legitimacy as an adult was in question because I'm unmarried.
Nonetheless, I sat and rationalized my assignment. I'm here for the ride. Does it matter which group I'm in? I'm curious to hear what will be said in any of them. (Except for the young children's group. They mostly sang songs, and I've heard or sung most of them before with my siblings.) And some of my favorite people are in this group, I told myself. (I tend to like kids and teens more than adults on any continent.) My emotions calmed. By the time I was used as an example, I was feeling less insulted about the whole thing. The topic was "family living," and in this subgroup the focus was on finding a spouse.
"Imagine you set your eyes on Rose," Mr. C. said to those assembled, using my village name. "Awe," I interjected good-naturedly. "These are schoolchildren! I'm an old woman." The kids laughed. I think he advised them that whoever they set their eyes on, they should pray to God about it. (In the case of me, it will require an inordinate amount of prayer, really more effort than I'm worth. Better to set sights elsewhere.)
I picked up bits and pieces of the Bemba/English/Mambwe mix--involve your parents in advising you on your choice of spouse; find out about the family background of a potential partner; don't marry someone for the money they have or the job they do. Set goals for yourself, prepare yourself to be a good spouse, choose a "life partner" (they actually used this term, which felt very progressive, even if still embedded in a highly heteronormative perspective); don't be in a rush to marry. Again I was used as an example: "Look at Rose. She is still a student. She is not married, but she will marry once she's finished her education."
Well...not exactly. Certainly one reason I didn't marry young was my pursuit of higher education, and I've used myself as an example in this way many times. But I obtained my degree over six years ago, and while I hope to have Master's and PhD degrees eventually, I'm not waiting to get married until after I complete those. (Though perhaps a joint marriage/funeral could kill two turtledoves with one stone.)
I'm not married yet because I haven't yet found the person I want to marry, or if I have I'm not aware of it. I have not yet had a relationship reach the level where we are ready to commit our lives to each other. Certainly I have, at times, wanted to be married and felt ready for it, but I am only 50% of the equation. I don't want to be married just for the sake of being married, and an unexpected side effect of my time in Zambia is that I'm developing an increasingly clear picture of what I want in a spouse and in a shared life together. On the whole, I'm very happy not to be married now, and lately I've taken great pleasure in enjoying my youth and the possibilities that being untethered allows.
I'm curious, too, about the implication of the statement Mr. C. made. It's a bit bizarre to some that I'm 28 and single, but most accept that I've gone to school, pursued a career (however meandering), and am still planning to marry one day. But what if I weren't? What if I'd said, "No, sir, I'm not waiting to finish school. I don't want to be married. Ever." Then what? That would be a much coarser pill to swallow, I'm sure. Not want to be married? But...why?
I could chalk this up to Zambia's more traditional society, in which familial and gender relationships are laden with much value. But it's true in American culture as well. Marriage isn't expected as early in one's life, and gender roles are becoming far more malleable, but marriage (or civil union in some states) is still assumed to be an eventuality. We're all expected to have--and to want--families of our own, even if we have careers too. In the U.S., there's more room for discussion, however. In Zambia, expectations often boil down to "the Bible says..."
The rolling hillside lent a beautiful backdrop to the afternoon, and I caught the eyes (non-romantically, of course) of a few pupils and family members of whom I'm particularly fond throughout the discussion. I wouldn't say I learned from any angle that isn't anthropological or of a social science nature, but those observations alone were enough.
The middle-aged women, it turns out, learned some things a bit...spicier. They huddled around and hinted about learning how to please their husbands, agreeing to teach me later. After all, I likely won't be in Zambia when I do become a married woman.
Night was falling, so I got a ride back to Masamba; about 15 of us squeezed in the covered bed of the PTA treasurer's truck. (Yes, he owns a vehicle, and yes, it's a big deal.) I returned home exhausted from my morning walk and the emotion triggered in the Bible study, but delighted with the experience. In our pursuit of significant others, wherever we live, we're constantly learning about ourselves, and my day at the SDA Bible study contributed to my own ongoing lesson.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Where I Come From
As I write this, I'm at our provincial office/house with over twenty other volunteers. A number of people have finished their two years of service and will be leaving the country soon, so we gathered for a celebration (80's themed dance party, of course) last night and many of us visited a nearby waterfall today. (See previous post, Holy Water, for my first experience under the waters of Chishimba.) The musical selection here at the house is always rather eclectic, with the number of volunteers and their various interests in music, and Alan Jackson's song Where I Come From came on moments ago.
Where I come from, it's cornbread and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of front-porch sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven,
Where I come from
I don't know if this song describes my childhood in South Dakota, necessarily; I've never even had a front porch. It does seem to represent the pastoral ideal, however, particularly of the American south. And with a few slight adaptations, it's quite true for many in my community in Zambia, too:
Where I come from, it's shima and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of insaka sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven,
Where I come from
Of course, most people can't afford chicken often, but it seems to be a favorite relish and is often served to welcome visitors or celebrate an event. And not everyone has an insaka, or small gazebo-like structure for sitting, cooking, and eating, particularly among Mambwes; they seem to be more common among Bemba families. But everyone sits, or "tutensies,"on little stools in their courtyard, often for long portions of the day, so "a lot of little-stool sittin'" would work as well. And in this predominantly (and proudly) Christian nation, you can believe there's a lot of workin' hard to get to heaven.
I often find that country music lyrics describe some of the things I like best about Zambia. A perfect example is Tracy Lawrence's If the World Had a Front Porch:
If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then
We'd still have our problems,
but we'd all be friends
Treatin' your neighbor like he's your next of kin
Wouldn't be gone with the wind
If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then
This song amuses me, because in Zambia it seems like everyone is next of kin. Large families and marriages that stay within the community mean everybody is related. On a serious note, though I like the notion of a front porch, a gathering place for reflection, relaxation, and community. But it's not really about the porch. It's about taking the time to sit and be together. Shelling groundnuts (peanuts) is a common activity this time a year, and it's a lovely one. In the U.S., if I want peanuts, I buy a pack of Planter's. Here, they come from the field, and there's something very familial about gathering around a basket and shelling groundnuts together. (For one, you can't eat a pound at a time, because it takes a while to shell them.) The world can't get a front porch, or little stools in a shared courtyard, or whatever. But all people, in their little family units, their little communities, can. We can all take the time to be together. And at the core, our lives aren't all that different. After all, isn't a lot of our life eating, going through daily routines, trying to support our selves and family, and trying to be the best people we can be (whether that be in pursuit of a heavenly afterlife or not)? The details change, but seems that these are some of the common threads that fill our days, at least where I come from. All the places I come from.
Where I come from, it's cornbread and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of front-porch sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven,
Where I come from
I don't know if this song describes my childhood in South Dakota, necessarily; I've never even had a front porch. It does seem to represent the pastoral ideal, however, particularly of the American south. And with a few slight adaptations, it's quite true for many in my community in Zambia, too:
Where I come from, it's shima and chicken
Where I come from, a lot of insaka sittin'
Where I come from, tryin' to make a livin'
and workin' hard to get to heaven,
Where I come from
Of course, most people can't afford chicken often, but it seems to be a favorite relish and is often served to welcome visitors or celebrate an event. And not everyone has an insaka, or small gazebo-like structure for sitting, cooking, and eating, particularly among Mambwes; they seem to be more common among Bemba families. But everyone sits, or "tutensies,"on little stools in their courtyard, often for long portions of the day, so "a lot of little-stool sittin'" would work as well. And in this predominantly (and proudly) Christian nation, you can believe there's a lot of workin' hard to get to heaven.
I often find that country music lyrics describe some of the things I like best about Zambia. A perfect example is Tracy Lawrence's If the World Had a Front Porch:
If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then
We'd still have our problems,
but we'd all be friends
Treatin' your neighbor like he's your next of kin
Wouldn't be gone with the wind
If the world had a front porch
Like we did back then
This song amuses me, because in Zambia it seems like everyone is next of kin. Large families and marriages that stay within the community mean everybody is related. On a serious note, though I like the notion of a front porch, a gathering place for reflection, relaxation, and community. But it's not really about the porch. It's about taking the time to sit and be together. Shelling groundnuts (peanuts) is a common activity this time a year, and it's a lovely one. In the U.S., if I want peanuts, I buy a pack of Planter's. Here, they come from the field, and there's something very familial about gathering around a basket and shelling groundnuts together. (For one, you can't eat a pound at a time, because it takes a while to shell them.) The world can't get a front porch, or little stools in a shared courtyard, or whatever. But all people, in their little family units, their little communities, can. We can all take the time to be together. And at the core, our lives aren't all that different. After all, isn't a lot of our life eating, going through daily routines, trying to support our selves and family, and trying to be the best people we can be (whether that be in pursuit of a heavenly afterlife or not)? The details change, but seems that these are some of the common threads that fill our days, at least where I come from. All the places I come from.
25 August 2012
The following is a journal entry. While I generally know when I'm writing in my journal whether it's intended to be a personal entry or whether I'll edit and type it later as a blog post, I'm terribly behind on writing 'posts,' and I thought perhaps this would be, at least, a little glimpse into my daily life and thoughts, however banal they may be. I've included a few notes for clarification.
It's been a lazy Saturday. Not to say I've done nothing; I woke unbidden around 7:30. Swept out the house, fixed a flat on the bike and cleaned it with a dry brush a bit, washed some clothes, went to Munada [our monthly traveling-market day] with Kapula and Dina, where I met some German travellers (who I think were some kind of volunteers in Ghana at some point), made banana bread, roasted groundnuts, hung out with the family some over lunch, read most of the newspaper filler that was in the box Beth's friends sent her. Bathed, soaked my feet, painted my toenails blue to get me out of my comfort zone. (Also, they've been deep red for the past month and my two pink options are, I believe, in my makeup bag at the provincial office in Kasama.) The girls were over (Kapula, Dina, Sarah, and Precious) and did some watercolor painting, nail painting, storybook-tamba'ing (note: ukutamba means to look at; I mix Mambwe and English frequently, even making verb creations through partial conjugations from both languages.) Oh! I finally finished my little ABC game too and they tried it out. I'd planned to mark the Maths mock exams today, but Mr. M. finished them.
There's no boredom. Always something to do. I'm still trying to find a sense of peace, of picking one thing and doing it and not worrying about the 20 other things on my list. Being in the moment. Not worrying about what's expected of me or what I should be doing. Trying to ask myself, "What, exactly, do I want to do, right now?" Luckily for me, chores like laundry and tap'ing manzi (there I go with another mixed verb conjugation; ukutapa amanzi means to draw water) do fit in there, or I'd be hungry and dirty a lot. But even as I write this, my mind wanders to the 2 books I'm reading. Letters to write. The screen adaptation of Nine Hills to Nambonkaha that's sat untouched for over a year. Paintings to make. The bit of sewing that remains on the third cushion cover. Prep for the term--I've done so little~! And rebuilding the ulusasa (bathing shelter), and thatching repair, and concrete, all things I want to look into--if not finish--within the next 3 weeks.
But a lazy day is OK. Quieting my mind is good. Racing thoughts fill mental space but actual do...not much. It's been a good day, a peaceful one, and the fire should be going again so I can put on water for tea and for the flask (thermos) as the last remnants of light slip away.
It's been a lazy Saturday. Not to say I've done nothing; I woke unbidden around 7:30. Swept out the house, fixed a flat on the bike and cleaned it with a dry brush a bit, washed some clothes, went to Munada [our monthly traveling-market day] with Kapula and Dina, where I met some German travellers (who I think were some kind of volunteers in Ghana at some point), made banana bread, roasted groundnuts, hung out with the family some over lunch, read most of the newspaper filler that was in the box Beth's friends sent her. Bathed, soaked my feet, painted my toenails blue to get me out of my comfort zone. (Also, they've been deep red for the past month and my two pink options are, I believe, in my makeup bag at the provincial office in Kasama.) The girls were over (Kapula, Dina, Sarah, and Precious) and did some watercolor painting, nail painting, storybook-tamba'ing (note: ukutamba means to look at; I mix Mambwe and English frequently, even making verb creations through partial conjugations from both languages.) Oh! I finally finished my little ABC game too and they tried it out. I'd planned to mark the Maths mock exams today, but Mr. M. finished them.
There's no boredom. Always something to do. I'm still trying to find a sense of peace, of picking one thing and doing it and not worrying about the 20 other things on my list. Being in the moment. Not worrying about what's expected of me or what I should be doing. Trying to ask myself, "What, exactly, do I want to do, right now?" Luckily for me, chores like laundry and tap'ing manzi (there I go with another mixed verb conjugation; ukutapa amanzi means to draw water) do fit in there, or I'd be hungry and dirty a lot. But even as I write this, my mind wanders to the 2 books I'm reading. Letters to write. The screen adaptation of Nine Hills to Nambonkaha that's sat untouched for over a year. Paintings to make. The bit of sewing that remains on the third cushion cover. Prep for the term--I've done so little~! And rebuilding the ulusasa (bathing shelter), and thatching repair, and concrete, all things I want to look into--if not finish--within the next 3 weeks.
But a lazy day is OK. Quieting my mind is good. Racing thoughts fill mental space but actual do...not much. It's been a good day, a peaceful one, and the fire should be going again so I can put on water for tea and for the flask (thermos) as the last remnants of light slip away.
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