Rhodesia

Rhodesia (n)- region of southern Africa, named after British colonial administrator Cecil Rhodes, administered by the British South African Company in the 19th century and exploited for its gold, copper, and coal deposits.

If I was feeling my privilege in my village before, I am absolutely aware of it after having visited Livingstone, even as a Zambian resident, even on a Peace Corps budget. Everything seemed so startlingly NICE there, from sidewalks to landscaping to lodge options to building construction and infrastructure. I honestly cannot say how much of the town’s development is due to a lingering colonial presence (the ghosts of David Livingstone and Cecil Rhodes’ dreams) or maintenance inclined to encourage international tourism. Either way, it felt like an entirely different country. Even Lusaka, with its sparkling shopping malls and bustling traffic circles still feels distinctly Zambian. More than once I asked myself, “How did I get to be here?” I signed up to be a volunteer in a developing country, living and working at the same level as the community to which I am assigned. How is it I seem to be constantly trekking across the country for meetings or trainings, and properly gallivanting about the continent for work and vacation alike? Even in my village, I spend so much time idling while everyone around me is in a constant state of the labor cycle. As I write this, my amaama is insisting on sweeping outside my house, even though I did not ask her to and protested that I would do it later in the day. It rained all night and I thought the mud was  not worth sweeping this morning. In my lazy defense, the yard needs to be swept to rid it of chicken, goat, pig, and duck droppings, none of which are my responsibility.

Anyways, setting my lazy misgivings and animal husbandry grumbles aside, it seemed so remarkably unfair to me that I was able to visit and enjoy what is unarguably the nicest part of Zambia simply because I have the money to do so. I came from across the world, am here temporarily, and have no natural claim to the beautiful Victoria Falls. Why then, should I and other wealthy international tourists sit on the deck of the Royal Livingstone sipping beverages and gazing out at the river that is Zambia’s namesake? It doesn’t feel right. The lifestyles and livelihoods of the rural Zambian communities simply doesn’t allow for the extra time and money it would require to make such a trip. I understand entirely why a former volunteer in my district funded a trip for her host family to visit Livingstone. I was thinking about a similar undertaking and wondering…would it help right that wrong, in any small way? Even if I could fill a bus and take my entire village to Livingstone, what would they have gained upon our return? Exposure to the beauty and wonder of their homeland, surely. I think some resentment at their own lot in life would be present, too. Why should tourists, ex-patriots, and heirs of colonial wealth be afforded such luxury while the nation’s people eke out their livings? I have no idea if that sort of resentment is common in Zambia, though I have seen it in South Africa. According to the exhibits at the Livingstone museum, it’s not uncommon at all, along the entire rural/urban exodus.

The most troubling thing of me is that is all comes down to lots drawn in some cosmic game of a weighted die. Just because I was born into the family I was, in the country I was, with the skin colour and body I inhabit, I am afforded a whole host of privileges completely unavailable to anyone different from me. It is unjust. And it also just is, without any graspable means of an individual correcting the balance on a broad scale. The very idea that I can “give” two years of my privileged life to serve a developing community is indicative of the disparity in wealth. Let alone the millions who don’t particularly make any effort to correct this global wrong, or even recognize it. I’m also incensed by the collective admiration development/aid/relief workers are awarded by their friends and families at home, as if it takes a selfless and altruistic individual to want to do what is, if not right, at least steps in the right direction. As a dose of reality lest I stand too high and mighty, my being here hasn’t necessarily done anything for the wealth disparity in this village, this country, or the world.

The other thing that strikes me as an unfair result of drawing lots is the wealthy Zambians that are born/live in Lusaka and Livingstone. We ran into several school groups from wealthy Lusaka private schools while visiting the falls. While it’s marvelous these children have the chance to explore their country’s best, what about the rest of the nation’s children? It’s not just that rural children don’t get to visit tourist destinations on school trips, these other children don’t have school buildings to learn in, clothes without holes, or enough food to eat at home. It’s one thing to compare nation against distant nation.  For certain communities in the same partitioned country to be facing radically different struggles astounds me.

 I guess it kind of surprises me that so much of Zambian development is from foreign investors or contractors when there is obviously a certain degree of wealth in Zambia itself. Maybe the majority of wealth is exported as payment for these investments, I don’t know. I do know that in both rural and urban environments here, people expect foreign aid to stimulate development. Government is occasionally expected to provide stable personnel but never the funds or project management/initiative/follow-through that just might be enforced by tradition; I can’t claim to know this either.

What I do know is this unfairness of birth does not sit easily with me. It pops into my mind nearly every time I buy something not absolutely essential, every time I deny a request of goods from someone, and every time I think about my bank account here. I can’t quite imagine how these feelings will transform when I’m back ku Amerika.

6 May 2018