Abaculus

Abaculus (n)- a small tile used for making mosaics.

Please enjoy some more abacula, small portions of the mosaic that makes serving as a Peace Corps volunteer such a rich experience.

31 December 2017

Today it feels like this community is doing far more to help me than I am doing to help them. On my own here, I’m rather helpless. How could I possibly build a chinsambu (kitchen hut) or a chimbushi (pit latrine) on my own, with no prior knowledge? When I’m SO far out of my comfort zone, how could I possibly grow big enough to not only take care of myself but help others, too?

All the same, I had a feeling walking around yesterday that this is my neighborhood, wild and undeveloped as it may be. I know my little roadside and have come to regard this as a place I’m familiar with, if not a place where I belong, so to speak.

7 January 2018

Small thoughts, again.

Sick sick sick sick sucks sucks sucks sucks

Part of me is saying GET THE HECK OUT OF HERE

Another part of me is saying you have to see it through, what would come now except disappointment?

Another part is saying “Just run away to Solwezi for a few days or South Africa for a few weeks.”

Another part is saying owwwwwwww.

7 January 2018

Things I have gained from Peace Corps (so far):

-an appreciation of how hard people work to survive

-valuation of friendships

-focus for some creative pursuits- jewelry, drawing, reading

-time for self-improvement- workouts, mindfulness, Torah

-increasingly confident people skills

-a new understanding of what a luxury boredom is

-courage to be alone with my thoughts

8 February 2018

While I was babysitting my petulant fire tonight, a piece of charcoal exploded and sent shrapnel shards into my face. One was 3mm from being in my eye. The sear of it shocked me but I immediately started crying from the fear of going blind. Sometimes I look at my life here and it makes total sense why Zambia has one of the lowest life expectancies in the world.

7 April 2018

Although Peace Corps can feel interminable, returning to the village today after a one-month absence has brought small reminders of time’s unending passage. I finished a container of dental floss I opened from new last year. My mosquito net is no longer carpeted by dead bugs, a sign the insecticide is wearing out. My giant tub of washing powder is half-finished. The first time I was here, in this house, was one year ago. The passage of time thus far is helping me feel ready for the year ahead. The second half should be comparatively easy, right?

17 April 2018

It’s feeling alright to be back here in cozy little Chinyaji hut-home. I don’t know how to pinpoint why, exactly. I’m possibly feeling generally well after a strong course of antibiotics and the parasite meds. I’m possibly just exuberant about all the good things to come. I’m possibly feeling grateful and grounded, knowing that this next year is going to pass as all years do. I look around my hut, think about my role here, think about what my life looks like on an everyday basis, and am reminded of how fortunate I am. Even though this is maybe not the most comfortable life in the world, it’s not unmanageable and it’s not dangerous. I feel contented, for the most part, and am not regretting this experience. My dad asked me the other night if I am learning anything here. While no, I am not making scientific discoveries or even really adding to my knowledge base about fisheries, as was my hope, I have learned immeasurable volumes about humanity and about myself. My dad also told me he thinks I was pretty tough before starting Peace Corps. I can tell the difference a year here has made in my assertiveness and my patience (or simple acceptance, perhaps?). These two qualities together imply I not only can handle challenges that arise, but know how to pick my battles, too. 

Pileus

Pileus (n)- the umbrella shaped portion of a mushroom, the cap

The bus pulls off to the side of the road, into a turn-out watched by a few dilapidated shops. It’s raining softly and steadily, making a lulling cocoon of hammering in the bus. Before the wheels stop, bodies are flying, leaping, bolting from under the tin awnings of the shops toward the bus. Windows fly open and passengers lean out both sides, like a plow has cleared the central aisle. 

The runners have reached the bus and proffer their wares: great globulous orbs of white and off-white and brown as large as chickens, as large as hubcaps, as large as full-term woman swollen with child. 

It’s mushroom season. 

Hands fly out the windows as the mushrooms are vaulted up and up to meet them, perfect umbrellas against the rain. Crumpled bills are cast down in return, mostly to the sellers that are owed. Such urgency: the mushrooms are few and the bus will not tarry long. 

As more of the luminous hubcaps are transferred on board, an earthy, subterranean smell starts to glide through the humid bus along with a palpable air of satisfaction. 

One young seller has handed up his mushroom but has not been rained in cash as the bus starts to pull away. With eyes cast upwards, the rain on his stern face looks like tears as he yells to the woman with his wares. She doesn’t hear or pretends not to as the bus pulls into the road. He runs alongside, jumping through the door before it closes and battling down the aisle through smiling people cradling fungus in their laps like babies. The woman still doesn’t seem to notice him imploring her for the money until three other men start to yell. With an oscitant wave, she tosses the money in his direction and he caracoles back towards the door. 

The bus doesn’t even stop as he leaps out the door into the rain. 

He jogs back towards the coven shops and waits for the next bus to pass through.

10 November 2017

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

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

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

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!

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.

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.