Inanity

Inanity (n)- a nonsensible remark or action

A tour of the spiders in my house:
Friend. Friend is the largest and first named of my arachnid co-dwellers. If Friend’s body, unshelled peanut sized, were in the middle of my hand, its legs would extend over the edges of my palm. I realized how uneasy the spiders here make me feel but wanted to keep them (the alternative being killing them or chasing them out of the hut). If I was going to share space with these creatures, I had to think of them as my friends, as enemies of my enemies: beetles, ticks, roaches, and especially mosquitoes. Part of befriending these spiders includes giving them silly names. Friend lives behind my calendar and usually pokes several legs or a head out of the paper in the evening.

Patsy. Patsy is smaller, about the circumference of an average plum. Patsy lives in a space between the bricks above the cubby where I keep my toothbrush. Most of my spider friends are wall crab spiders- large and nocturnal but almost entirely sedentary. They stay in the same spaces, night after night, diligently patrolling their chosen hunting grounds.

Scoot. Scoot used to live on a wooden board I had leaning up against the wall. However, I used the board to make a shelf for my kitchen, and Scoot has not been spotted since. Sorry, Scoot.
Eleanor. Eleanor is about the size of Kennedy half-dollar. The legs might still extend over the edges. Eleanor lives on my door, usually on the crossbeam that is at eye-level, making close quarters when I squeeze out the door to go to the bathroom at night. The spiders are fairly skittish, scampering off at the first sight of external movement within their territory. When I open the door, Eleanor scurries through the cracks in the beams to the other side, usually. I may have inadvertently fed Eleanor to Friend last night. After I returned from the bathroom, I didn’t see Eleanor in the usual position but saw Friend with a familiar shape and many legs in its pedipalps.

Lurch. Lurch isn’t a wall crab spider and it more mobile but is a befriended spider all the same. Lurch is longer and leggier than my other friends and looks something like a Daddy long legs. Lurch lives in the rim of the basin I use to wash my hands and is entrusted with the task of keeping insects away from the open water. Friendship in exchange for small labor.

And yes, I realize how inane this all is. It’s a result of two components: Relative boredom and loneliness in my little hut that feels far too big for one person, especially in a society where people live together in family groups. Secondly, I have a desire to live harmoniously with the creatures here and to accept that large spiders, as well as annoying mice, venomous snakes, caterpillars that make your skin burn, beetles that secrete acid, painful ant bites, and diseases like malaria, HIV/AIDS, Dengue fever, and schistosomiasis are real and present threats here. In comparison to the list of things I must protect myself from, hand-sized spiders are a manageable non-threat. If I can successfully live with uncomfortably large spiders, I can better (and more realistically) focus on being successful in other areas.

An update: Eleanor has relocated to the beam on the right side of the door. Phew! I don’t know what (or who) Friend was eating.

Regius

Regius (adj)- royal

After many arranged days and subsequent cancellations (mantra: breed patience, not resentment), we set off to visit the chief! I had very little idea of what to expect. During training, we were briefed about etiquette when visiting a chief but each experience is likely to be different. The tribal chiefs in Zambia comprise the traditional leadership which works in tandem with the modern government. There is a hierarchical system of chiefs in each tribe, which works to maintain local leadership within tribes and within tribal regions. To me, it seems chiefs and tribal leadership are the figures that handle day-to-day issues as they arise in people’s lives- land disputes, divorces, arrivals of new residents, interpersonal conflict, theft, and cultural celebrations. The chiefs also usually are the owners of the land, and people either lease or buy land from chiefs for agriculture and villages. On the everyday basis, a common person is much more likely to interact with a chief than with a member of parliament or other governmental official. The chiefs are accorded that respect- even the MPs or President will show appropriate deference to a chief, I’m told.

I was fortunate to be accompanied by my counterpart and my host father, who acted as examples of proper behavior. They made me feel nervous, though! As soon as we parked our bicycles by the gate, they transformed from gentlemen into tittering schoolboys, acting nervous, speaking in hushed hurried tones, and looking around with what seemed to me like apprehension. We rearranged the bicycles against the trees at least three times before they were satisfied. These men take a royal visit seriously.

 The palace is located in about the center of the village and has a long path leading to the gate. If one wants to meet with the chief, you approach the gate and wait for the chief’s retainer to notice you and come out to greet you. The retainer asks your purpose for visiting the chief. If it is a worthy matter and the chief is available, the retainer will take the message to the chief while you wait outside the gate.

While we waited for the retainer to return, my counterparts briefed me on the clapping procedure, which is a way to show respect in Lunda culture (as well as other Zambian cultures). At this point, I was sweating in my chitenge, which is of course what a woman should wear to see the chief. The retainer returned and said the chief would be pleased to meet with us. He opened the gate (which was like the levered arm on a modern parking garage, except made of sticks and not motorized) and we approached. When we reached the opening to the gate, we knelt and clapped a series of seven quick claps, three times. Then we stood and followed the retainer onto the palace grounds. I had imagined us entering a court of palm fronds and reed mats for the subjects but we were instead led into a modern living room, with overstuffed sofas and a coffee table draped in lace doilies. The schoolboys and I panicked for a few moments about where each should sit, then roosted and waited for the chief to enter. We left the largest armchair at the front of the room open, thinking it a fitting seat for a chief. My counterparts whispered in Lunda until the chief entered from behind a curtain. We immediately knelt and repeated the clapping procedure. The chief took his seat, not in the large armchair but in a humble wooden chair in the back corner of the room. He greeted us and welcomed us, then asked us to explain our presence. My host father did all the speaking, in Lunda, so I was struggling to follow along. I know there was some discussion of Peace Corps, the aquaculture project, and how long I would be staying in the village. The chief spoke directly to me then, while my ataata (host father) translated. He said I was very welcome to do my work and that he would treat me like a daughter, even though our skin is different. He spoke with my counterparts somewhat more, then blessed us all. I was called forward to present my gift, which was a packet of 1kg sugar and some cooking oil, to the retainer and was thanked by the chief. Bringing gifts is the compensation for the chief’s time. The nature of the gift reflects the nature of the issue- a packet of sugar or a chicken (but not a black one) is appropriate for audience and small disputes, while goats or even a cow are required for more serious issues.

We filtered out and were ushered by the retainer past the gate, where everyone seemed to breathe and speak normally again. The presence of the chief, humble though his nature, commanded reverence. I feel protected and supported by living within a chiefdom, especially one so far away from other arms of the Zambian government.

The only troubling component of the visit was the chief, in his wooden chair in a dark corner, was wearing a hat that partially obscured his face. I’m seriously worried if I were to pass him on the road or see him in the market, I wouldn’t recognize him by face.

Addendum: The above situation actually happened two weeks ago in my village. Did I jinx myself? I was bicycling home, up a decently steep hill in the afternoon sun, when a man called out to me from the side of the road. He was coming from a house where music was playing and many men were sitting drinking. I was tired and not eager to stop to be talked at by a drunk person, so I waved and continued biking. The man started following me, still calling out and telling me to stop, so I finally braked hard (in a little bit of a huff) and turned around, saying “Okay,” with more than a little disgruntle in my voice. The man started talking to me and I didn’t know who he was, but he was being followed by a worried looking younger man, clearly sober and in stark contrast to the speaker. It quickly sunk in that this younger man was the chief’s retainer, which of course means the drunk man speaking to me is… the chief! I immediately kneeled down and clapped, then stood and apologized to the chief. He had been drinking liberally and was slurring his words somewhat, so I apologized for not understanding and wished him well. I only hope he has a less than clear memory of the interaction. At least I’ve seen the chief in daylight now!

1/Boondoggle

1/Boondoggle

Apologies for a less than loquacious account- I just wanted to post an update to village life quickly before I head out of town and away from internet access.

This week marks a month since moving to the village (although I'm in the provincial capital this week for meetings) and even looking back on what I wrote three weeks ago, I can see a huge difference in my integration, my language skills, my work prospects, and my settled-in-ness (what a compound word).

In the past few weeks, I have not be extraordinarily busy but I have kept occupied and made some connections in  my village and catchment area. I took myself on a walk to the clinic and met the local clinic worker, a lovely young woman who shared details of Zambia's health system. On my walk, I wandered to the next village, greeting people, and ended up running into a former counterpart of the previous volunteer at my site. We sat and talked and planned a community meeting for the next week. Other volunteers have said the work "just happens." The idea of work "just happening" while I sit and twiddle my thumbs was unsettling- I felt the need to go out and find work. My host family is very helpful and supportive but has been encouraging me to stay in, to become accustomed to life in the village. For one of the first times in my life, I'm taking the requisite initiative to *get stuff done* As unsteady as it feels, it is also necessary. Since moving in, I've met the clinic worker and talked about helping with malaria work, met the new headmaster at the equivalent of middle school in my community and chatted about plans for me to teach science, met various government officers in Ikelenge, met with an immigration officer and renewed my pre-work permit paperwork, attended an agricultural show for the district, met with other Peace Corps Volunteers in the district, chatted briefly with a few fish farmers in my area, greeted neighbors copiously, attended church, visited the chief (which deserves its own account, to come), and goofed around with the children who live near the spot where I have network in my village.

In addition, I have had two community meetings with two different villages in my catchment area. While the Lunda is still somewhat elusive to me, I have benefited from wonderful counterparts who translate for me. We used participatory tools to do a needs assessment for the community, as well as discuss daily schedules and existing strengths in the area. The outcome of both of these meetings was nutrition groups, especially focusing on helping  mothers ensure their children grow well. I've started meetings with one of the groups so far and it has been going well. Perhaps more enthusiasm than organization as yet.

The fish farming work is still dragging its feet (or rather I'm dragging on creating it, if I'm the active party here now) but I'm content with the work I have,  the lifestyle I'm leading, and the prospects for the next two years. And it's only one month into community entry!

Orthobiosis

Orthobiosis (n)- correct or moral living

After reading about the foundations of Transcendentalism and John Muir's environmental activism, I've been thinking about the idea of "living simply" as many of our intellectual and philosophical pioneers have advocated as a solution to both societal ills and the increasing impact of society on the environment. I understand- one who is consumed by thoughts of industrialization, of efficiency, of social propriety is not affected by the natural environment, cannot be made to move by the swirling wind and the sursurrus of tall grasses.

Still, I think equating a "simple life" with environmental engagement is problematic. People in Zambia (rural Zambia, anyways) may be said to live simply: we fetch our water and therefore are aware of its seasonal flux and the imperative of exercising parsimony. We cook food over fires, knowing full well the source of the fuel and again, the need to conserve it, for the sake of labor if not deforestation and financial security. We (how quickly I switch to "we" when I've only been here a few weeks) grow our food from nearby land and understand the amount of work required to feed a family. By nature of the requirements of life here, there is certainly a more established connection with the natural environment. If we had heating and air conditioning, running water, oil/gas/electricity, tractors, paved roads, motor vehicles, grocery stores, or internet connection, I cannot say the same knowledge of the land that sustains us would exist. The pioneers of environmentalism throughout time, from Humboldt to Muir to Leopold, say it is this essential connection to the land that develops and appreciation and in turn, a desire to conserve that which sustains us. That is not necessarily the case here. Twice this week I have attended meetings where community leaders have asked about building dams, not particularly caring about downstream circumstances. The annual burning of the bush has begun, to clear away grasses and potential habitat for mice and snakes. Mice escaping the fire are caught and eaten, while any snake is killed on sight. People see and understand the effect of their agriculture on the soils in the area, but move to newly cleared fields every few years rather than engaging soil conservation methods. Firewood is harvested as needed from the surrounding forest and I have seen no evidence of a sustainable management plan for firewood. People remark on the changing climate, observing shifting patterns of rainfall and higher incidence of drought but still associate diesel vehicles with wealth, and therefore status.

Perhaps knowledge and deep appreciation of land, creation of a personal land ethic, only comes in contrast to the lifestyle fraught with distractions of modernity. What is a simple life, then? I find myself thinking it is problematic, both environmentally and socially. Saying a rural life is simplistic is inherently condescending, as it compares to a modern, complex, "advanced" life, if we resort to Cartesian dichotomies. Even with the best intentions, expressing a desire for a simple life implies rural life is free from the problems of a complex world, which it is certainly not. The global connectivity of a single biosphere shifting climate is proof enough of that.

It is easy, somewhat, to focus on the here and now, the immediate surroundings and the immediate future in this lifestyle. Without internet connectivity, it's hard to know and subsequently be concerned about foreign politics, for example. People's concerns tend towards putting food on the table this evening and having money to pay for the upcoming term's school fees. There is certainly an easier path to mindfulness here. One can focus on the fire in front of your feet, cooking your food that you have grown, and seeing the trees and stars overhead. Just because mindfulness is facilitated, it is not a single state. There are young men and women here whom when asked, say they want to become doctors, teachers, or scientists after their education. To say that life here is simple seems to rob the youth of those who live rurally of the potential for technologically advanced, interconnected futures.

Sometimes I wonder if it is a desire of those with technologically burdened lives to shirk responsibilities that prompts statements like "I wish life were just simple," while picturing life in a rural setting. We don't want to deal with broken machines, troubleshooting software issues, traffic, demands of the workplace, plus the basics of survival. For we envision a simple life as one that focuses on survival necessities without the problems we perceive as societally-engendered complications. Our philosophical leaders say these complications only distract us from the truly important matters; freedom from them enables us to yearn towards an enlightened, clear life.

My Lunda is not nearly good enough to ask about philosophical inclinations of Zambians in my village, so this has to remain a one-sided perspective.

Stoup

Stoup (n)- a vessel for holding holy water

This week, I bring you, a poem!


In reverence of the spring

Sloping clearing
as if pulled by the gravitas
yearns toward yonder hollow
where through grasses parted and boughs disentangled
one discovers a humble temple
nestled into the forest shade
a canopy of verdigris a living crown

Beams like fallen pillars
grown hoary with moss and fern
ford a path to diminutive altar
sanctum sanctorum
a pool of lucid water
bubbling forth from the earth

Peer over the walkway's edge
See the ground murmurs, sways, sighs
a stream is proffered from unseen depths
and swells to the surface

A hopeful upwelling, an offering of existence
from the sacred to the
not profane
just ordinary
For this spring in its niche
sustains the ordinary
lives of people in the village
nurtures gardens
feeds fish ponds
cleanses children
and defeats thirst

Oh the taste of meek exsurgence!
Savour is an insufficient sentiment
It hearkens to ancient rocks
to gravel debris
of caverns under mountains
yet is every fresh.
Reviving more than body
rehydrating the spirit
Restoring umbilicus to Earth
and gurgling ever forth
adored.

Boondoggle

Boondoggle (v)- to do work to keep busy

Here's how today went: wake up at 6:30, actually arise at 7:00, greet neighbors as soon as I open the door, fetch water from spring, start brazier, set water to boil on brazier. While cooking water, sweep house and front yard. Greet other neighbors. Once water boils, make tea and porridge, keeping most of the water for bathing. Eat breakfast, using leftover coals to make popcorn for a snack later. Greet host mother and host father. Use water to bathe, apply lotion, wrap up in chitengi and get dressed. Wash dishes using leftover bathing water. Set dishes to dry on rack made of sticks. Till a few beds in my garden and plant gathered tomato, papaya, and passionfruit seeds. Whisper encouragements to my little mint plant (encouragemints!). Use leftover clean dishwater to water garden and set buckets to dry. Eat popcorn. At this point, it's only 10:30 or so in the morning...so I sit and wait. I wanted to go to church to introduce myself but my host mother is not going today and my host father is not around. We're supposed to go meet the chief this afternoon, so I don't want to wander off.

I sit inside and knit, play games on my phone, listen to music, eventually collect the dry dishes, leave some behind because they're covered in ants, check on the garden two or three more  times, chat with some neighbors about their school work, watch the goats wreak havoc, test paint colours on my wall, go through all my photos, play my phone game again...time is dragging on. My ataata eventually returns (from church, apparently? There is so much I don't understand) and says the chief was not feeling well enough to meet with anyone today. We will go tomorrow. More sitting and trying to keep busy, trying not to think about the two years ahead that suddenly seem looming.

It's day five in my village and I have:
-built a shelf for my chisasa (bathing shelter)
-fixed/installed hinges on my garden gate
-started a compost pile
-tilled some beds and planted a colourful assortment of plants (fingers crossed they all grow)
-unpacked, rearranged clothing and furniture
-hung maps, photos, a calendar, and some butterflies on the wall
-affixed my mezuzah and had a great (as in funny) conversation with my amaama about mezuzot.
-made a jewelry hanger, a tp holder, and a pair of baby booties (plus the knitting needles from some building wire)
-fetched water, washed clothes, had clothes covered in ants, devised how to store clothes to protect from said invaders
-cooked popcorn, pineapple fried rice (with pineapple from my parents' fields, deeelish), some weird but tasty apple fried rice, crepes, more popcorn, tea...
-struggled, was chastised, struggled again, and I think figured out how to light my brazier properly. My amaama was muttering under her breath in Lunda something about a woman who can't light a fire.
-walked to the network spot (a hill about a twenty minutes' walk away) three times, greeting neighbors along the way. They all know my name but I am struggling to learn family names. There seems to be some reticence about just giving names.
-did my accounting from settling in purchases
-made a body pillow
-biked into the BOMA for a planned meeting with the district councillor, who was otherwise occupied
-met another volunteer in the area, who showed me around Ikelenge. It's small but has almost everything! We found apples, yarn, peanut butter, jam, oats, local fruits and vegetables, bicycle parts, sandals, and chitengi. We wanted bread but the baker was out.
-met my Department of Fisheries supervisor and the local agriculture officer, exchanged numbers
-very briefly met the local clinic worker and one of the organizers of a girls' group. I was expecting/hoping to sit down and talk plans but it was strictly an exchange of names and handshakes. Is that the Zambian way? Is that my American bias, thinking "let's get to business"?
-Read some of a biography of Alexander von Humboldt (it's called The Invention of Nature and is highly recommended)
-had a conversation of sorts with my headman
-tried to speak some Lunda. I'm really struggling with understanding people, which is keeping me from just going around to start conversations with fish farmers or strangers
-remembered to stretch/work out and take my malaria prophylaxis every day

This is a list I'm fairly satisfied with but when I think about this next list, I'm a little concerned.

Since arriving in the village, I have not:
-met with any fish farmers
-seen any fish ponds, except for a quick glance at my host father's since they are <100m away
-been introduced to any farmers outside my village circle
-visited the clinic, mission hospital, school, or police station
-met the chief
-toured/been explained the communities in my area. My ataata has mentioned making a map with me, so we'll see
-made any plans for community meetings or fish farming work
-had any real communication about how things are here. There has been a little surface level talk
-identified potential friends or new counterparts. A few of my neighbors seem nice?
-ate Nshima with neighbors. How essential is that really to integration?
-learned any information about the immigration office...I apparently have a meeting with them in a few weeks and no one has confirmed if we even have an immigration office in Ikelenge.

I know I need to have patience as culturally, things move slowly and people are very much occupied with their own lives. Overwhelmingly, I feel people in the village have been going out of their way to help me, whether by patiently listening to my broken Lunda or just greeting and welcoming copiously. I'm truly appreciative but I also was anticipating people wanting help, not people wanting to help me. I know Peace Corps' development happens at a grassroots level, and slowly, but as the village asked for a volunteer, there must be something(s) they want me to work on, right? I was expecting at least one individual to approach me and say, "Oh good, you're here. I want to talk to you about implementing X and how you might help." So far, as we say in Lunda, kosi (nilch).

So...be more proactive (?) I plan to wander some, stop by the clinic and school, and keep struggling to introduce myself. I can't exactly organize meetings by myself or find fish ponds on my own. I tried asking a few people in Lunda and the conversations went much like this:
<Are there fish ponds around?>
<Yes>
<Oh, where are they?>
<Around.>
<Around where?>
<Just around.>
Oh. I still have a looooong way to go before I understand the culture, let alone integrate respectfully. I'm trying my best. Maybe culture first, then community?

Rebarbative

Rebarbative- (adj)- causing annoyance or discomfort

A travel narrative- but first a disclaimer: it remains to be seen whether this was a singular experience or business as usual when traveling through Zambia.

 Here goes! Saturday, we are picked up on a hired public minibus at 7:00. We go to Lusaka intercity, are accosted by taxi drivers and hawkers, go to the grocery store, take another public bus to the lodge, and relax. The next morning at 3:30, buses are supposed to pick us up to go back to the intercity station so we can make our way across the country. Buses do not come for two hours and bus drivers’ phones are turned off, presumably as they are sleeping. Replacement bans come to take us to the bus station. Buses are already leaving as we arrive. We argue for our tickets, then wrestle our way onto the bus. Setting off, we see Lusaka fading in the light of the rising sun. We are seated five in each row, with a very narrow aisle crowded by boxes and parcels sandwiched in between the two seat and three seat sides. I gingerly fight with the woman seated next to me. As she sleeps, her legs drift towards my half of the seat, pushing me onto the metal seat reclining lever that has been stripped of its plastic coating. This lever is lodged into my upper thigh for the remainder of the trip. We make several short stops along the road for people to relieve themselves but we make a longer stop in Chingola, at a reputed rest stop, where we are once again thronged by hawkers. I push my way down a back alley where the toilets are pointed out to be. The toilets are bowls on the ground with a curtain in front of two non-separated stalls, where women consistently poke their head around to check for vacancy. The toilets require a two kwacha fee. After Chingola, the road changes from tarmac to dirt and is quite bumpy. We drive along the dirt road with pick-up trucks, mining dump truck, and other buses. The dirt road is parallel to a seemingly fine tarred road that has been closed for unknown reasons. This is Africa.

We arrive in Solwezi, are thronged with hawkers yet again, wrestle our dusty bags from the underbelly of the bus, and make it to the provincial house. It feels like an American bubble, distinctly non-Zambian. Travel to visit our sites is further conducted by a Peace Corps cruiser and while long, is relatively uneventful. To my site, we travel down the main road heading west from Zambia to Angola, which you might imagine is a big highway, but you would be mistaken, as it is a dirt road wide enough for one vehicle at a time. I sit alone in the back, somewhat precariously. Picture this: I’m sitting on the seat, facing sideways, one leg holding down panes of glass leftover from making a window to prevent them from sliding. On top of the glass is a flat tray of raw eggs, which I’m also stabilizing with my foot. On the opposite seat are two 5L water bottles, which I’m trying to prevent from falling down onto the eggs by wedging my other foot onto the seat. I’m also holding a potted plant in one hand, which I’m taking to plant in my future garden. All that is missing is some bone china and a Faberge egg.

  Returning from my village, I wake early, walk about two hours down the road to my BOMA, and hail a ride to the next district in an open-air truck. More than once, I question- is this really my life now? I am dropped off in Mwinilunga, have a leisurely day with other trainees, spend the night at a lodge, and wake the next morning at 3:00 to board the bus back to Solwezi (about a six hour ride). The ride is fairly long but peaceful. We spend the night at the provincial house in Solwezi and take taxis the next morning around 3:30 to make the 4:30 bus to Lusaka. The bus leaves on time but is condemningly bumpy and awash with mechanical noises. Dust and dirt are circulating through the now obvious hole in the bottom of the floor. At one point, a large mechanical thud seems to suggest a part has come loose and fallen from the bottom of the bus. When we reach Kitwe (about a third of the way of the twelve hour ride to Lusaka), a safety and transportation officer boards the bus and starts asking questions. Apparently, someone has called to report the bus as unsafe. The officer agrees and announces that another bus will be sent by the company from Ndola, about an hour away. Settled. After the officer leaves, the bus driver announces the company will most certainly not be sending another bus from Ndola, but there will be one sent from Lusaka, which is eight hours away. Passengers complain but eventually start filing off the bus. We stay put for a little while, as an opportunistic preacher boards the bus. We heave small sighs and busy ourselves, intent on not offering him content for his lecture. He leaves eventually, but a rotation of hawkers board the bus, selling plate lunches, drinks, snacks, headphones, power banks, and washcloths (?). We take a little while to explore Kitwe, then return to an unchanged story. At this point, we will not make it to Lusaka before nightfall, so we call Peace Corps. Our coordinator demands to speak with the bus driver to explain our situation (she is a fierce and compelling woman who is very good at her job). She eventually suggests we change bus companies and worry about ticket refunds later. We cross the station to another company with our bags just as their bus to Lusaka is leaving. Somewhat defeated, we buy tickets from yet another company, repeatedly assured the bus will leave promptly at one o’clock. 12:45 comes with no bus. 13:00, 13:15, 13:30, and 13:45 come and go without a bus. Meanwhile, the replacement bus from the original company arrives, diverted from another route. Some of us go to see the situation there while others try to negotiate for refunds with the tardy company. The replacement bus starts rolling way but with pleads from the few volunteers, waits for the rest of us. We squeeze on and find our seats as the bus pulls out of Kitwe. I’m fairly certain we jumped the queue ahead of several other groups, as the ‘replacement bus’ was already mostly full of other passengers en route. The rest of the trip is mostly (or at least comparatively) uneventful. The window at my seat in the back row is tarred closed, which leads to a stiflingly warm and sweaty ride. We hit Lusaka traffic about two hours outside of the city but make it into Lusaka just in time. There is a law in Zambia forbidding buses from driving after 21:00 to prevent nighttime accidents. The buses must stop where they are on the road and resume their route at 5:00 the next morning. We arrived at the intercity station at 20:30, which means if there had been another half hour of delay in Kitwe or because of traffic, we would have been sleeping on the bus somewhere outside Lusaka. More likely, we would have called a taxi to drive us the rest of the way, as we are comparatively privileged compared to our Zambian hosts.

The only other comical part of the journey was disembarking the bus. The bus pulls into the opening of the station and lets people get off, find their bags, and be on their way. However, the bus only stops for about five minutes and there are again throngs of taxi drivers and hawkers flocking the bus, offering Zambians rides to places in town and offering Americans/foreigners rides to Livingstone, where they assume we must be going. In the hubbub, I don’t find my bag before the bus pulls away. I follow the bus as it drives around the station, looking for a place to park. After several laps with me and other Zambians jogging in tow, the bus stops so we can collect our bags. Mine was in a service compartment close to the front of the bus, away from everyone else’s bags. We take a Peace Corps approved taxi to our predesignated lodge, spend the night, and drive back to Chongwe the next morning. It was quite an adventure, to say the least.

Travel in Zambia is inherently more challenging than cross-country travel in the U.S., as we are used to good roads, rest stops, and an expected level of service from hired companies. Zambians are not afforded these luxuries and to a certain degree, have come to accept travel the way it is, imperfect and uncomfortable. I found it immensely interesting that the Zambians on our broken bus also reached a point of declaring the travel conditions unacceptable, and demanded the transportation officer step in. By American standards, that point might have come earlier in the travel, but it came nonetheless. As humans, we all have a level of discomfort that necessitates remedy, even if that level varies depending on the comfort we are raised to expect. 

Code-switching

Code-switching- (n) modification of behaviour to adjust to cultural norms


Benefits of village life:
You can always hear children laughing (and okay, sometimes crying)
No electricity, water, gas, or cable bills
You never have to scrub your toilet, bathtub, or kitchen counters
You never have to vacuum (but sweeping is a necessity, especially outside)
You never have to worry about a dishwasher, refrigerator, washing machine, dryer, oven, or television needing repair
You don't have to have misplaced paranoia about microwaves giving you radiation poisoning
Because there's no WiFi, you can text/call/facebook from anywhere
You never have to call a plumber
You are never stuck in traffic
You don't have to worry about buying gas, car insurance, registration fees, or oil changes
Sleeping under your mosquito feels like camping out in a fort every night
You get to bathe under the stars or while watching the sunrise
You can control the temperature of your bath water absolutely perfectly
There's always time to rest, to read, to play, to just be

This list is partly in jest but is meant to show some of the pleasures of living in a different way than we're used to in the U.S.

I wanted to take the opportunity to list some of the major differences between Zambian and American life that I have noticed so far, from a perspective of being here only a month or so (time is speeding along!)

Zambian definition of nakedness is from the belly button to the knees, for women. Women wear long skirts made from fabric called chitenge (or chikwembi in Lunda). While chitenge come in many colours and are a way to express fashion, they are also conservative and multi-purposed, as baby carriers, pot holders, head wraps (chitambala), picnic blankets, etc. Wearing close-fitting pants that show the shape of the thighs is inappropriate, which has been a struggle for me who loves wearing leggings to run or do yoga in. That being said, I love wearing chitenge. The folds at your waist make perfect little pockets for your phone, money, or emergency t.p.

Children are given a high degree of independence, allowed to self-soothe when they cry and roam freely to play with each other. Compared to Zambians, modern American parenting patterns look like intense coddling.

That being said, family is integral to the culture and is broadly extended, so cousins are more like brothers and sisters. My little host sister calls all her aunts 'Mommy' or sometimes 'Momiwe,' an adorable portmanteau of mommy and the Bemba word for 'you' (iwe), often shouted at misbehaving children. She even calls me Momiwe (or Jacqueliney), usually when I'm tickling her.

Picking your nose in public is totally okay.

Talking about the bathroom, however, is socially unacceptable. One does not announce they are going to the bathroom, just politely excuses themselves. There are a number of endearing euphemisms, including "I think I need to pick some mushrooms." One does not show they are carrying toilet paper, nor ever expose their underwear. The clothing that touches one's personal areas is considered to be also highly personal. After underpants are washed, they must be hung to dry inside the house, where no one will see them.

Direct eye contact is seen as aggressive; it is most polite to look a little away from someone's eyes when greeting them. I keep forgetting, however, and have been spared social censure so far.

Personal space is not a thing- relating to the family, people are extensions of one another, part of a collectivist whole. If we are all one, bubbles of personal space doesn't compute.

Relatedly, greetings are very important. One wants to know where you are coming from, what is happening behind you to create your motivation for the day. Greeting also acknowledges and cherishes each other's existence, as well as shows respect. Lunda uses situational greetings, so instead of just saying 'Hello' or 'Good morning' you might say the equivalent of 'Good visiting,' 'Good sitting,' 'Good returning,' or even 'Good church-going.'

There is a whole phenomenon about time in Zambian culture, but I'll save that for another blog post.

I hope to continue building this list as I integrate into Zambian society, especially in my village in Ikelenge! Code-switching has been interesting so far- there is a huge pull to revert to American culture when around the other trainees, then return to greeting my host family appropriately when I'm returning home. What a pleasure, to be simultaneously a member of two different cultures!

Xenophile

Xenophile - (n) a person who is attracted to foreign cultures, peoples, and ideas.

I'm sitting on the stoop of my hut at my homestay, in the Chongwe district of Lusaka Province, Zambia. It's unfathomable how much I've experienced and thought in the time I've been here. I can already tell Peace Corps is going to expand my mind immeasurably. Upon arriving in the pouring rain, my host mother and host sister greeted me warmly and helped me set up my hut. It's a one room affair with a tin roof and a lovely little porch. After I settled in a little bit and managed to hang my mosquito net, I went to sit and chat with more of the family. One approximate flood of Lunda words later, I sat with my host sister while she braided aMaama's hair. It was amazing how comfortable it felt, even though I was entirely out of my element. Family is family, I suppose. Some of the younger children taught me some songs and dances from their school, including ones featuring phrases such as "God is great and god knows best," and "We can beat HIV, just use responsibility," as well as "Abstinence is the best." How much comprehension was there I can't say, as the children here learn Nyanja in school- no English until later. Eventually we were called inside to eat and I enjoyed a delicious dinner of nshima (part of Zambian identity, as far as I can tell), stewed cabbage, soya pieces with tomato and onion, rice, and tomato soup (which Americans might just call tomato sauce). We wash out hands before and after eating, as nshima is used almost as a utensil to eat everything else. I heard stories about my host sister's daughter, who is two years old but has a personality three times her size. After saying goodnight (and using the Chimbushi for the first time), I relaxed in bed, marveling at how much had been seen and done.

Humans are said to be creatures of habit, rarely breaking from our hammered-in routines. Indeed, the reason Peace Corps Zambia seems so drastic is not the idea of living without comfortable amenities like electricity and running water, as millions of people around the world do this just fine, but the idea of living in a way that is different from what we are used to. It is not uncomfortable to sit on a mud stoop, to cook over a fire, to shower outside in a grass bathing hut using a bucket, or even to squat over a pit latrine. I'm personally amazed at how easy it is to change- without Google, without a common language even. It made me think- what other kinds of things would be easy for people to change, if we just put ourselves in a different frame?
Already I'm appreciating people differently- how hard everyone around me is working just to help their family survive. I hope I never forget the feeling I had falling asleep the first night in homestay: a comforting amalgamation of wonder, surprised contentment, and optimism about my next three months, if not the whole two years here in Zambia.

Boon

Boon (n)- Something to be thankful for; blessing; benefit

Well, I'm off! By the time you're reading this, I will have landed in Zambia and be eagerly inhaling all the sights, sounds, and atmosphere of my host country. 

Preparing for Peace Corps service has taken much preparation. I would have been even more utterly lost without the help and support of so many people. From the very beginning, conversations with friends and family about whether or not Peace Corps was the right decision, a motivational speech from the lady at the Hilo Police Department while I was getting fingerprints, help navigating the requisite paperwork from the folks at the post office, the talk-it-through conversations with roommates covering to-do lists, advisors helping me file paperwork to finish my master's degree before my departure, people making time to spend with me whether traveling in person or communicating through video chats, incredible generosity in helping me find the items to make my life in Zambia more enjoyable, thoughtful connections to others who live/have lived in sub-Saharan Africa, wishes for safe travel, resources and preparedness from the Peace Corps staff, and most of all, endless love and support from my family. 

I have received an overwhelming boon of encouragement. It makes me tear up now, to feel so loved. I take great comfort in the idea of being in a foreign land far over the sea, undoubtedly occasionally lonely, but steadfastly connected and cheered forth by my own community at home. 

Sincere thanks, to all of you. 

I also wanted to take a moment to identify the boon we, as Americans, live with in our everyday lives. Occasionally, a shake-up of the everyday privileges we enjoy is essential to our appreciation. From the day I received my invitation to serve in the Peace Corps, I began to reconsider the simplest of actions: turning on the light, using the faucet to get a glass of water, sleeping without a mosquito net, access to information, pursuing an education, having a flush toilet, being white in the United States, being moderately well-traveled... the list in interminable. In the past few days of staging, we have again confronted our culture, our perceptions, our values as Americans preparing to integrate into a foreign culture and our way of life is staggeringly comfortable. 

There's nothing like seeing your life from the outside to make you appreciate what you have. Even if you're not planning to live in a developing country, I encourage the exercise of gratitude for our boon. 

Equanimity

Equanimity (n)- mental or emotional stability or composure, especially under tension or strain

Peace Corps asks a lot of preparation from its volunteers! As you might imagine, the process of sending young (and older) Americans off to live in a foreign country is somewhat arduous, at least from this side.

For those of you who are curious, the Peace Corps application and preparation process consists of:

- a lengthy application online, including recommendation letters, essays, and lots of personal information about your life and experience.

- a telephone interview

- an invitation to serve, which must be accepted or rejected within three days

- legal clearance, including fingerprinting and background checks

- medical clearance, which was a barrage of paperwork, spanning blood tests, immunization history, additional vaccines, medical history, optometry and dental appointments, dredging up of paperwork and documentation from specialists of decades past

- application for a visa and Peace Corps passport (which is a temporary passport, parallel to a diplomatic document)

- submission of transcripts and proof of degrees

- financial and personal arrangements to be out of the country for two + years

- travel arrangements to a domestic staging event

- packing (that's an understatement)

- spending as much quality time as possible with friends and family ❤

THEN, if you thought you were done

- Staging event: where I am now, in Philadelphia, to pick up paperwork, attend training sessions, and meet my peers (three days)

- Travel to host country

- Orientation to Peace Corps in your host country (another three days)

- Pre-service training: ten weeks of intensive training encompassing cross-cultural skills, technical skills, local language, and education about life in your host country. In Zambia, I'll be staying with a host family during this period and learning how to be a local (hopefully).

- End of training evaluations: if I pass my language tests and am deemed ready to serve, I will swear in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer and be sent to live in a village.

This has been a one year process thus far. With all this preparation and build-up, I'm certainly experiencing a noteworthy range of emotions: excitement of this dream of mine coming true, fear of not being successful in my efforts, curiosity about my new life, anxiety about being so far away from loved ones, eagerness to get to work, Overall, a feeling of readiness, of openness to new experiences, of embracing all that is to come in the next two years.

The Returned Peace Corps Volunteers whom I have had the pleasure to meet all exude a remarkable, humble sort of confidence. It's competency combined with patience and tolerance, as well as a drive to succeed regardless of the work involved. What I hope to personally gain most out of being a Peace Corps Volunteer is something approaching that equanimity.

Entelechy

Entelechy (n)- the actualization of form-giving cause, as contrasted with potential existence.

Where my first knowledge of the Peace Corps came from, I don't know, but it has always been a dream of mine. Someday, once I was grown up, maybe I would travel to a faraway country and spend a few years of my life trying to help others. Even in it's childlike simplicity, I still like the idea.

That vague, well-intentioned plan of wanting to join the Peace Corps someday has quite suddenly seized entelechy. I have accepted a position with the Peace Corps and will be living in Zambia for the next two years. I will be a part of the Rural Aquaculture Promotion (RAP) project and my specific title will be a Rural Fish Culture Extension Agent.

The reality of this is slowly, slowly setting in. In small doses and tiny thought bubbles, I'm beginning to realize the actualization of my new job:

The reality of trying to pack for two years away (this could be going better at present)

The reality of moving thousands of miles away from friends and family*

The reality of needing to adjust to a foreign culture

The reality of learning a new language in order to communicate with the people of my host country (Zambia has about 72 unofficial, mostly tribal languages. I'll be learning one of six major languages most common to my assigned village. I'll keep ya posted!)

The reality of living abroad as an American and feeling disconnected to current events in our country

The reality of serving as a representative for our country (eep)

The reality of living without the comforts I'm accustomed to (there will likely be no electricity, running water, or internet access in my village)

The reality of moving to a country where people face an entire host of challenges to everyday life that are utterly unimaginable to me. Living with the constant risk of HIV/AIDS, malaria, parasites, venomous snakes, limited access to healthcare, malnutrition, and all sorts of other issues must require a different kind of strength.

The reality of living in a country where homosexuality is illegal and women are commonly seen as subservient to men (Female literacy is on the rise in Zambia, but still the rate of female literacy as a proportion of male literacy is 72%, Unicef Zambia stats)

The reality of my actions possibly being able to improve people's nutrition and quality of life, even in small ways

The reality of my actions possibly being able to prevent over-harvesting of existing ecosystems

The reality of following through on that dream of mine. Six-year-old me is proud of twenty four-year-old me.

The reality that I'm leaving, and therefore must be ready, in six days!

*I'm lucky enough to be closer to my sweetheart and his lovely family while I'm in Zambia. The feeling of having someone familiar in the same time zone, on the same continent, is astoundingly reassuring.