The views and opinions expressed here are my own and do not represent those of the Peace Corps or the U.S. Government

Friday, March 16, 2018

Viscerotonic

Viscerotonic (adj)- having a comfort-loving personality

Having been in my village for six weeks straight, I am definitely ready to not be here. I don’t want to feel like that- it implies this life is a temporary one, that can be escaped from when I’m ready to press “pause.” For everyone around me, this is life. There is no pause button. Life here isn’t so, so difficult but there are certainly discomforts to which I’m not sure I would ever grow accustomed. 

In town this week, I’m looking forward to eating whichever fruits and vegetables I choose (within reason: we’re still in Zambia), being able to contact my friends and family at any hour of the day, not having the wrong amount of sunlight to charge my devices, not having to fix my bicycle, and sleeping well because NO MICE. They have been rustling around in my thatch roof for nights on end, keeping me from getting any worthwhile sleep. Plus, eating through my vegetables, toiletries, papers, and leaving messes for me to clean up. I think they are purposefully knocking down spice bottles off my shelf to try and wake me up. One even decided to enter my bed and woke me up while it was sitting on my pillow, even though my mosquito net was tucked in.  

Are all these complaints things to which I would adjust if I didn’t have the memory and option of living without them? I think of a Scottish couple that runs a bible school in my neighboring district. They have lived in Zambia for thirteen years and have Scottish blankets and Scottish coffee mugs at their school.

 I don’t think we ever forget the comforts of home. If someone from here were to be transplaced, I imagine they would miss the pleasures of bathing in the river, calling out to friends in the next village, or the smell of cassava drying in the sun. Home is not only a time and a place but a set of things that make up our culture.


Work here is also challenging, to be constantly trying to engage people, wrangle people, and converse with people. Maybe especially as a self-identified introvert (currently in reform), I need a few days with permission to not be actively working with people or struggling to communicate. I don’t feel like I need a break from work though. In contrast, I feel like I’m not doing nearly enough in my village. It’s the everyday hassles of life in a rural village from which I could use a temporary reprieve. 

31 October 2017

Friday, March 9, 2018

Philopatridomania

Philopatridomania (n)- homesickness

Being in a radically different place like this, it’s bound to happen that I would be missing home. I have days like today, where I just ache with wanting the comfort, familiarity, confidence, ease, and surroundings of home. I especially want to be with my family and with Stephen, or at very least to be able to talk with them. Ah! My heart is hurting. These feelings swell and shrink, especially when I’m able to touch base with my people, when I’m actively engaged with my community, or when new events happen (magpie brain).

Other times, the feeling of homesickness is not a chronic ache but an acute, specific longing for a particular time, place, or thing. The onset and specificity or these ones surprises me! I think I should write them down, both so I can laugh at myself but also so I can appreciate these things in an entirely new way when I have them close at hand. They’re mostly food, which embarrasses me.

What I have missed acutely so far:

-making tea with an electric tea kettle

-a chocolate croissant, preferably from the one café in Valley Fair mall

-Tumblr

-a mai tai

-seashells

-cheese quesadillas

-curling up with a movie after a hot shower

-gooey American style pizza

-spinach salads

-a fresh-picked strawberry


-writing surfaces (desks, tables, chairs of the appropriate height)

-perfume 

Friday, March 2, 2018

Remeant

Remeant (adj)- coming back, returning

Being in Port Elizabeth again was staggering. Each view brought waves and waves of nostalgia, of places I didn’t know I remembered and of memories long buried. Many, many of the memories were with Stephen, so a remeant trip in that city with him made the nostalgia even grander. 

It was overwhelming how much of the city stayed the same while it was me that had changed. I remember the Walmer township being one of the first views from the plane and in 2012, I thought to myself, “THIS is the real face of poverty.” This time, I was amazed to see how NICE the township looked, in comparison to villages and some parts of Lusaka, I presume. The houses have plaster walls, are painted bright colours, have electricity and metal roofs, and have communal water sources. I’m remembering the Cape Town township I stayed in had running water inside the house, too. 

Throughout PE, nice houses and businesses accent their gazebos and braais with thatched roofing for an authentic African look (in my external opinion). In stark contrast, thatched roofing is used in the village setting because it is free to grow, harvest, and build. 

Things I remember being dowdy in South Africa looked outright luxurious this time around. Paved streets with curbs, planted flower gardens, numbers on houses, even roundabouts on small streets: all just exclaimed development! People dress nicely, the taxis are still new and appear solid (I rode in one in Lusaka that had loose wooden planks as a floor and you could see the road underneath), and people have options. 

The economic and racial disparities were still shocking to me. I guess, this time I could see how much wealth is present in the municipality, if not in the society as a whole. There are ritzy cafes, security details, billboards, traffic control measures, and active construction works. What is lacking is support infrastructure: there were still hungry, homeless people on street corners, without shelters or social welfare available to offer help. 

Maybe a city inures us to collectivism. Here in Zambia, even lazy drunkards belong to families, are tolerated and fed, because where else could they belong? In the city, we assume SOMEONE ELSE will take care of them. In some cities, that may even be true. 

7 September 2017

Friday, February 23, 2018

Genethliacon vol. 25

Genethliacon (n)- a birthday ode

Today was remarkably Wednesday, birthday and all. There was none of the weight of a Monday nor the freedom and possibility inherent in weekend days. It was business as usual, which was alright by me.

 I think this birthday doesn’t feel so weighty to me because this whole year is monumental. It will stand out in another ¾ of a century to me. I can rent a car without paying through the nose. What does feel weighty is the entrance into this ten-year period where I would like to establish the foundations for the rest of my life. Ten years from right now, I hope to be comfortably settled in a town, with a partner and ready, if not already planning for children. I hope to have a job that satisfies me, to have beehive(s), and to still be knitting. I feel like I’m ready for that life. 

If twenty-five years marks the climb into adulthood, maybe the next twenty-five years arching towards fifty, mid-life, imply a downward course towards settling. Settling in, settling down, not settling for less, unsatisfied. Being here has taught me that it can be so pleasant to be comfortable. Comfortable to be clean, surrounded by love, to have options, to have work surfaces, and to have help at hand. 

That doesn’t imply not learning or not working hard. I think after my time here in Zambia, I won’t feel the need to prove that I’m tough enough, resilient enough, to keep going. Toughness and resiliency would be welcomed, though. 

Today I had two small breakdowns which felt uncontrollable and were undoubtedly culturally inappropriate. On the phone with my mom, we started talking about being far away and her tear-choked voice talking about her own father drove me to tears. Three men stopped to greet me as I was tearfully on the phone. Why do Zambians start talking to you when you are clearly on the phone? They asked me who had died (because a death is the only time when adults cry in this culture). I said no one had and said goodbye to them, somewhat briskly.

 Then, talking to Stephen later I became so overwhelmed. We were talking about heavier things than I wish we had been, plus my phone had momentarily become unresponsive. I was wondering if I could still manage to get to Lusaka for meetings next week without a working phone. Then a maama approached me and started trying to tell me something I did not understand in the least (while I was also clearly on the phone). I told her I didn’t understand with tears brimming, then turned away and cried, again. I’m not proud and it was an uncomfortable moment. 

When I came back from the boma, recovering from my thirst and the heat, I promptly fell asleep for several hours. The only explanation I can give is emotional exhaustion. Maybe physical, too. I’m pretty sore from my gardening yesterday, in unexpected places like my hands and my abdominals.


In summation, twenty-five doesn’t feel like a spectacular change. Compared to times before, I’m maturing still. I’m learning more about life and my place in it. The number marks a progression, not defines it. Is that even proper English? More to learn, obviously. 

6 September 2017

Friday, February 16, 2018

Grilse

Grilse (n)- a salmon that has returned to freshwater after a single year at sea

First day back in the village after a month! I think this is a sort of turning point in my service. Reiterating thoughts I shared with family- I know I’m not totally happy here. At least, not as happy as I am at home or with my loved ones. I’m not as comfortable and not as healthy, physically or mentally. I know these things and I am going to choose to stay.

 That’s essentially the point of Peace Corps: to be somewhere radically different, to break from the comfort and ease of our known lives, and to try and serve the community in which we are placed. In this last aim, I will try my best. If, after two years, it is hard to see any difference, so be it. I will know I have tried, stayed committed, and followed through. This conviction will make a difference to me. So far, at every wrong turn I think about quitting, even if in a small part. Not an option. Needing medical or psychiatric care would be a different story; I acknowledge that. I’m in my seventh month, ¼ of the way through, and I have things to do! 

This is me being tough. 

All that said, today and yesterday were rough. I rode back to my village in the dusty heat and was warmly welcomed by my host family, which I loved. Anxious to try out my repeater, I plugged it in, turned it on, and…nothing on my phone. That was quite a blow. Mice (or worse) ate through a bottle of hair conditioner, some seed packets, one of my food bins, and pooped/nested in my clothes. Streams of ants (three different ones, to be precise) were in my doorway, by my bed, and around my water filter. The oil pourer I bought in South Africa is too small for any bottle I have. And! Someone stole my malaria medication while I was traveling. I have no idea when, as I didn’t check to see if it was there on my trip. I also lost a malachite heart pendant I bought at the Sunday market in Lusaka. I’m trying not to read into symbolism there.

On the positive side, my new shampoo makes my hair smell like honey. My angel of a host mom cleaned my house, washed my rugs, and planted my garden with tomatoes, beans, and rape (canola in American English). Apparently the pigs came and ate everything again. Some basil, mint, wusi, and tomatoes escaped. I taught my host brother Weston about mint and basil today.

Ataata has apparently been building toilets and educating about sanitation in Kaswaswa, Kafweko, and Ikongo (nearby villages), which is amazing. However, that, plus the work being done on their new house, means no cement or thatching repairs for me. I really can’t complain though and it honestly doesn’t bother me much. There is still time before rainy season. The hot season is upon us- I’m in pajama shorts for the first time since arriving. There are many noisy insects and they all seem to be thirsty. Plus, it’s very smoky. Thankfully I have apparently recovered from whatever nastiness was afflicting us at Camp TREE.

I dug a berm and one full bed in my garden today, plus some retention holes. It was nice to do physical labor but I could feel my weakness. My hands trembled still hours after I rested. The heat and sun made me pink, glistening, and light-headed. My neighbor Sid has said before it’s clear Zambians are more physically suited to this environment, while we are not. Let’s hope the garden goes better this time around. 

5 September 2017

Friday, February 9, 2018

Iracund

Iracund (adj)- having a tendency to be easily angered

I have been pervasively angry this week. Any way you could spin it: surly, disagreeable, isolated (and self-isolating), hormonal, curse-ridden, and sad. Disappointed, perhaps more accurately.

I usually contend it is better for one's happiness to count blessings, not grievances, but I think it I will try removing them from my mind by putting them here. I think what's happening is an amassed cohort of small frustrations is coalesced into one tumultuous thunderstorm in my head. I would really like to discharge some of its electricity before I leave for IST tomorrow, in order to help feel excited about returning a month from now. Here are my current frustrations:

-no network at home, plus feelings of discomfort/ridicule using the network on the hill
-terrible roads and sand -> less than functional bicycle
-back, knee, and wrist pain from bad roads, more physical labor than I'm used to, and bad sleep
-terrible skin here being publicly called out by Zambians- not so great for the self-esteem
-so hard to eat well here! My poor garden was ransacked and fresh fruits and vegetables are so hard to come by this time of year. I feel I'm not taking care of what I put in my body
-teachers at the school seem thankless, slow, not keeping time, don't spell particularly well, and seemingly don't teach!
-students not responding to my questions and saying they understand, when they clearly do not, in both English and Lunda
-people not coming to the meetings they specifically asked for. Lateness is fine by me, but just not coming with no notice or explanation frustrates me so much
-not having done any fish farming work
-cultural and linguistic isolation. I can't think of any way to beat the nighttime loneliness here. Books and music only go so far
- the bushfires
-how almost no one seems to understand my Lunda
-missing Stephen and family
-the f*ing flies. Writing that, I felt my blood pressure rise. Also, why I am swearing so much recently? In the past, my cursing is a direct influence of the people around me. No one here is cursing, not in English anyways. Is it just this cumulative frustration oozing out in explosive vulgarities?

I'm not sure whether or not this helped. Between this, the yoga from earlier, and the tea I'm drinking, I feel better.

27 July 2017

Friday, February 2, 2018

Exiguous

Exiguous (adj)- very small in size or amount

Behold! Exiguous thoughts from the past six months or so. Not so small as to qualify as "tweets" but brief in my terms.

1 July 2017- Ants are my harshest critics. They never fail to draw unnecessary attention to every crumb I drop and every spot I miss on my dishes.


8 July 2017- The head teacher of a school flat-out fell asleep in the middle of a meeting with me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more awkward. I just sat there and waited until he woke up.

12 July 2017- Church conference in the U.S.: glass buildings, folding chairs, powerpoint presentations, suits, maybe communal prayers over banquet lunches.
Church conference in Zambia: a crowd of people in garishly bright colours jumping and singing in a circle deep within the trees. 

7 September 2017- I greeted a young man in Lunda and he responded with "Nyinka mali" [Give me money, spoken without respect]. Between that and all the CHIN-DE-LI! CHIN-DE-LI!s I got yesterday on my bike ride from Kalene, I'm feeling very grateful for my village and the respect they give me. Even if they don't come to my meetings or don't really understand me, they call me by name.

14 September 2017- Mice, ants, and goats destroy everything I love: A two-year journey in Zambia

17 September 2017- Prescott gave me a pineapple while I was out walking. I walked back to my hut with it on my head, in my chitenge, having conversations along the way about carrying things on one's head. I am a Peace Corps volunteer. 

22 September 2017- I didn't realise how much I rely on my neighbors Nick and Sid for social contact. Them both not being here this past week has magnified the feeling of cultural loneliness. Even if I don't see them, knowing they are only a few (or okay, several) kilometres away is surprisingly comforting. The normal approaches to handling loneliness don't work here. 

29 September 2017- I completely underestimated the difference being healthy would make in my service. The past few weeks of actual normal gastrointestinal health meant I had energy, dietary creativity, and much more optimism. Today is another sick day. I decided not to push myself to run this morning and it sort of set a precedence for failures (if mild ones) all day today. 

23 October 2017- My last pair of Locals slippers from Hawaii broke yesterday. I super-glued them back together but the end of an era is nigh. 

26 October 2017- A thought: our modern conveniences are what allow us to live independent, solitary lives, if we so choose. It no longer takes a village to raise a child, so we no longer live in villages. 

A work/life balance here is difficult because in addition to working, I have to do all my own time-consuming chores. In Zambian families, chores are delegated and divided, allowing enough time for school, church, field work, rest, and play. An empty day for me is still remarkably full, just through the necessity of everyday life here. 

7 January 2018- Sick sick sick sick sucks sucks sucks sucks.
 Part of me is saying GET THE HECK OUT OF HERE. 
Another part is saying you have to see it through, what would come now except regret and disappointment? 
Another part is saying just run away to Solwezi for a few days, or South Africa or home for a few weeks. 
Another part is saying Owwwwwwww

Friday, January 26, 2018

Eleemosynary

Eleemosynary (adj)- charitable, depending on charity

I have this thought ruminating about aid and development and culture…I don’t mean to be controversial but I think it is a thought worth sharing from the cultural side of things. Zambian cultures are collectivist, with each individual gladly willing to give what they have to make another better. Families are widely extended, with grandparents raising grandchildren or aunts and uncles raising nieces and nephews as their own children. Communities are very close knit, with greetings and time spent together valued higher than our American sense of efficiency or productivity.

People are also incredibly generous. My host parents often bring me fresh bread or pineapple from their fields, or hot coals from their fire when I’m having trouble getting my brazier started. Relative strangers have brought me a pumpkin, eggs, and fetched water for me. It makes me feel I am always taken care of. These are gifts give under no pretense, under no expectation to be paid or repaid.
It goes in both directions.

While people give freely, they also ask freely. My host family has asked me for tea, sugar, washing powder, medicine, to borrow clothespins…it’s neighborly and I consider it the least I can do, especially considering how well they take care of me. I try to be on the proactive side too, bringing small gifts like sugar or cooking oil to my host parents.

The culture of asking and giving goes beyond the local village though. In general, people ask for things and expect you to give. I have been asked for my bicycle, books, drinking water, seeds, money, food, fish fingerlings, extra help with school, even my hair.  Some of these are easy to give. Some are also easy to understand from a misconception of how Peace Corps works or from the perception that as an American, I must have wealth to share.

 I think it goes deeper than that, though. One time in Lusaka, a small child came up to a Volunteer and asked (well, stated), “Give me 1 kwacha.” The PCV, in jest, said, “No, you give ME 1 kwacha.” And the child pulled a 1 kwacha coin out of his pocket and gave it to the Volunteer. He gave it back of course but I think that illustrates the culture of giving, as well as asking for what is needed.

I find myself wondering if development is somehow slowed by the asking and granting. If Zambians are comfortable asking for perceived needs to be met by the government, NGOs, and foreign allies, and these needs are met, what impetus is there to be self-sustaining? If people or agencies are giving freely (as PCVs are giving their time and effort, As NGOs give supplies, as the government gives subsidies), what harm is there in asking?

 I think there is a certain American quality of shame in asking for help. It’s not necessarily healthy and probably speaks volumes on our stigma about mental healthcare. I can’t help but think the sense of shame in asking for help (and also receiving it, especially without recompense) drives individuals to “pull themselves up by the bootstraps.” These tough ones shoulder on towards success even if it means significant personal sacrifice along the way. Conservative Americans have voiced concern about “handouts” to everyday people struggling to make ends meet; it’s no wonder people feel shame or failure for having to ask. On an international aid scale, we provide these same sorts of “handouts” to entire nations, in various forms.

I’m not casting an opinion on aid, just noting cultural differences in its reception. I was talking with my Department of Fisheries supervisor and he said, “We have given these people the tools to dig ponds, fish to fill them, and the knowledge to maintain them. The rest is up to their motivation.” I think in a parallel situation in the States, people involved in such programs might feel a duty, almost, to work hard, succeed in their farming efforts, and show the providers their work has not gone for naught. There is certainly that drive in some Zambians I have interacted with but there is also contentment, or relative comfort, in asking for more or for blaming shortcomings on the situation. E.g. “We are very poor here.” “Transport is an issue.” “You never know about the timing of these things.” “Mali kosi [No money].”

Motivation is often mentioned as an issue to Peace Corps’ style of development. I feel like this would not be the case at home. Maybe project failures would happen due to lack of communication, failure to fully follow through due to dedication to other goals, or misuse of resources, but not to motivational flaccidity.

On our site visits during training, our Lunda hosts asked us why/how Americans are successful. We didn’t really know how to respond. We said we work hard, are pushed by our parents and peers, and certainly don’t have it all figured out. Zambians surely work hard. Look at any field in Zambia, knowing that it is hand-tilled, weeded, sowed, and tended. Look at any house and see it is made of hand-shaped bricks, hand-fired and hand-stacked, then covered with a hand-thatched roof made from hand-harvested grass. Look at the children who might not have enough to eat at home don their carefully laundered uniforms and march off to school, so determined to learn.

Where does our “American spirit,” touted as irritating by other countries, come from? Maybe it’s that “American dream” on the ever out-of-reach horizon. Maybe it’s being surrounded by reminders of others’ success: reality TV, advertising, general ubiquity of media showing lifestyles of the rich and famous. The wealthy loom high and gaze down from their perches. Another thing we told our Lunda hosts is that we as Americans have just been plain lucky. I think that is just it, somehow.

Written 1 July 2017