What I will Likely Miss from Nyilamba, my Village

Chicken politics

The pride of having cooked a decent meal

The attunement to weather/nature patterns

The feeling of being tough enough

Star baths (bathing in my open shelter at night, under the stars, with candlelight and soft steam)

Bucket baths in general

Owl hoots at night

The cozy coolness of my thatched house

Unrestrained weirdness: the perks of living alone

Chance moon sightings through the east window. The tiny window opposite my bed occasionally 

lined up perfectly with the rising moon and filled my whole room with moonlight.

The excitement of a city treat-cheese, chocolate, milk, or nice wine

The joy of clean self (heightened contrast)

Pineapples

My friends Nick and Sid close by

Freedom to have a glass of wine, if I so choose (the PCVL house is part of a dry property)

Feeling camaraderie with almost strangers over small things in common

The taste of the mineral water

Laughing doves

3 August 2018

A Few Things I have Learned in Peace Corps

What privilege is (options, in a word)

What boredom is (not having to work)

I am a cat person, not a dog person

How to tell if I have giardia

What depression feels like

How to appreciate humanity (so much less misanthropy)

Why some development programs fail

I seem to use far less toilet paper than some others

How to look critically at programs aimed at fixing others’ problems

How bureaucracy can fail (both US and Zambian)

How to be assertive

How to laugh at myself

How to connect with God

How to accept my emotions and the beginnings of how to not let them control me

How thought shapes language (instead of vice versa)

28 July 2018

Things about which I am Greatly Relieved Upon Being Offered the Peace Corps Volunteer Leader Position

Being able to see Stephen graduate

Not having to worry about a new chimbushi (Pit latrines do fill up. After five and a half years of PCVs using it, mine was becoming dangerously full and a new one needed to be built.)

Not having to dig a new trash pit (this same day, I went and started to dig one anyways. My ataata and a neighbor rushed over to help me. Initiative is all it takes?)

No anxiety about what I will do for the next year

No anxiety about whether or not I will be hired as PCVL

No anxiety about if my bicycle will last another year (I was doing great compared to some of my friends’ rides. Those things were barely hanging on)

No worrying about the wet moulder of rainy season

Being able to continue being a PCV without being uncomfortable

Far fewer chimbushis (again with the pit latrines. Using them is fine. I just don’t like that you have to go outside at night or that they’re perfect hangout spots for snakes, bats, rodents, giant crickets, and big ol’ spiders)

The end of this stagnation in the village

The number of friends and peers who have great confidence in my future success

My host family is understanding and accepting of my switch to Central Province

My future boss is also understanding and communicative in such a refreshing way

I will be around people most, if not all the time

11 July 2018

Things of which I am Tired

Being sick

Not having network

Being seen as a free thing giver

                Or a white

                Or a female

                Or a foreigner

                Or a novelty

                Or anything other than a person, first

Roosters

Being undervalued

The immediate future being uncertain

The constant back and forth of staying here or going

Not having any work to do

People (mostly counterparts) being flaky with me

Being suspicious of everything that comes near my mouth

Every bump in the night causing panic

Sleeping alone, alone in a house

Being out of touch with my friends

Having way too much time alone

Coming up with productive ways to spend time

3 July 2018

Things to have Newfound Gratitude for

Having Stephen in my life (vs. not having him at all)

Having network a short walk away (vs. a long walk or not until a city)

Having flies in my chim (vs. snakes)

Having meetings with one or two people (vs. zero)

Having the flat path to my village dry (vs. flooded)

Having friends far away (vs. none at all)

Having options re: my role here (vs. static assignment)

Having this period of discomfort be a temporary learning experience (vs. my everyday existence)

Having a few good options of meals to make (vs. eating the same two foods every meal, every day)

Being able to sometimes connect with friends and family (vs. never or only at the end of these 27 months)

Being somewhat open in my mental state, being mature enough to look with a gentle and also analytical eye (vs. being fixed or done)

Being bored (as opposed to ceaseless toil)

Having sunshine for warmth and drying and charging and growing

Being well, when I am well

Sweet hugs from small children

15 June 2018

A Soundscape of a Rural Zambian Village

Roosters crowing

Goats bleating

Cassava being pounded in mortar and pestle

Children babbling in play

Hoes being hammered back into shape

Mothers yelling for children to come

Scuffs of plastic slippers on sandy soils

Bees droning

Flies buzzing

Doves cooing

Pans and pots being scrubbed with dirt

Conversations drifting through the air

Children wailing

Mothers harangueing children

Young men belting the moment’s popular song

Motorcycles whirring through the bush

A slaughtered goat screaming

A radio blaring gospel music

Brooms swooshing across dirt

Wind bristling through the trees

A passing choir singing hymns

The rumble of a truck, far-off

People greeting each other, always

9 June 2018

P.S. My notes and catharsis about life have been taking list forms lately

Relativism

Relativism (n)- the doctrine that knowledge and truth are relative to contexts

I was in a thoroughly negative, angry headspace two days ago but couldn’t bear the thought of my new pretty journal (thanks, Ava!) starting with such negativity. Thankfully, time has cooled by head.

That day, I walked to a meeting where women fought over the few supplies I brought them, struggled profusely to communicate, was harassed in both directions along my walk (“my wife, my wife, I will marry you”), was grabbed in a hugely inappropriate way by a child who knew exactly what he was doing, and came home to unwind and clean up only to find my bathing soap had been stolen.

 All-in-all, I was filled with rage. Not the gloomy, pessimistic displeasure with surroundings typical of my bad days here but a burning hot, outwardly focused RAGE. I felt this community/culture had no respect for women, for personal property, or for my giving of my time and energy to be here.

With a bit of temporal distance, only the issue of respect for women is still eating away at me. This is the second time my soap has been stolen so I probably should have known better than to leave it in my chisasa (bathing shelter). If someone needs soap that badly, fine. Be clean. 

On the fighting over materials, it occurred to me how very little most people have. If most of what you own is geared toward basic survival (eating and keeping warm), I can see how you would eagerly grab for an extra tool (sewing needles, scissors) or something to beautify a very modest dwelling. I brought chitenge cloth, needles, thread, and scissors for women to sew along the bottoms of their mosquito nets. The fabric helps prevent rips in the net, encourages people to take the nets out of their packaging and actually use them, and also serves as a little extra decoration.

My friends here and I were talking about how surprised we are that the promise of free things doesn’t always entice people here, especially compared to in America. What does it say about our American culture that people who have so much need only the suggestion of more to become engaged? I guess the surprising thing here is what works and what doesn’t. Free education, experience, even seeds and jewelry have not worked at all in my rural village setting. Clothes, fabrics, and food are sure successes.

The other overwhelming feeling is an awareness of what an anomaly I am…I have no ground to stand on criticizing folks for acting a bit overzealous in some areas but having no motivation in others. I don’t have to farm my own food; I don’t have children to raise; and money for incidentals isn’t really an issue here. I’m loath to bring up any complaints about my work with neighbors and counterparts because I’m so overwhelmingly fortunate and still can’t find a way to be happy.

All in all, it’s me who has the problems, not the community I’m working with. Between three different villages, about 36 women (and one man) beautified their mosquito nets and had a refresher on critical information on malaria.

Here is my amaama Judith, on the left, and amaama Sylvia, on the right, working on their mosquito nets inside my house because the rain picked up.

Here are some of the ladies of KuMukaala village working on their nets as well. 

9 June 2018

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

Sciatheric

Sciatheric (adj)- relating to the measuring of time by shadows

There are so many ways to think about time. New ones surface almost every day.

In a three week period, I had 1) a kidney infection stemming from an untreated UTI, 2) schistosomiasis, which probably made me more likely to have UTIs, 3) a second UTI, and 4) dysentery (!). I was a sick puppy, particularly with the kidney infection. 

 There were certainly a handful of moments where I had proper conception of how sick I was and the though arose often, “Okay. I give up. I need to go home.” It being either the dead middle of the night or without network access, or both, there wasn’t anything to do but wait, trying to sleep until the morning came. 

With sleep or with sunlight, my conviction to flee vanished, each time. In the wee hours awake, I planned out my homecoming, or what the next six months or so until Stephen finishes his PhD might look like. There being a path, a home to return to, a tentative plan for the proximate future was so very comforting. Even if I don’t need to act on this plan, its existence is a salve to anxiety and fears. 

I know I am lucky to have two homes, two families (or possibly more, if the Clarkes and extended family are included). Here in Zambia, in Ikelenge, in Chinyaji, my other families often feel so incredibly far away. I’m realizing though, after being here a year and with another year to come, the monumental planetary gap between this world and my other one is slowly being bridged, I suppose by virtue of me. Even if my other families will not truly know this once and former home of mine, I will have intimate, true knowledge of this place and its people and so it will cease to be foreign or far.

                                                                                                                        

One year from today, I will no longer be a Peace Corps Volunteer and I will have completed my service to the very best of my capability. While twenty-seven months seemed an interminable sentence, twelve months or even 365 days seems a conquerable challenge, dotted with milestones to mark the passage of this experience.

Yes, I will undoubtedly be wracked with pain and discomfort again, thanks to some unseen denizen of “a fecalized environment”.
Yes, I will certainly feel the urgent need to run away, run home, run to Stephen, run to comfort again. Yes, I know I am strong enough to hold on, fighting both disease and those urges, asking for help when needed and rebuilding strength to return to my community and be as good a Volunteer as possible.

Easier said than done, perhaps? I was given a motivational boost by two women in KuMukaala who greeted me yesterday saying, “A sista, shikenu mwani!” The added respect, especially in contrast to the usually informal language here made me feel both appreciated and integrated, in a way I haven’t felt before. I still awkwardly gesticulated through the program I had planned, but it certainly felt as though I was wanted and welcomed.

Now if only I could elicit the same sentiment from the ladies in my closer village, Nyilamba. I need to figure out how best to engage them while meeting their expressed needs. Three flops so far. ;)

4 May 2018

Meliorism

Meliorism (n)- the doctrine that the world tends to become better or may be made better by human effort

 I’m caught up in my privilege tonight. Not only as being a citizen of the developed world, purely by chance, but also my comparative luxury in my position here. I have so much, more than enough to live comfortably (and the extra money in my bank account here confirms it). 

Would it be so wrong to give a child a coin here, give someone a new bucket or tin of shoe polish there? 

I understand the problematic nature of external aid giving commodities freely, as well as the undesirable association of foreigners with aid/wealth/freebies. It feels so rude though, to deny people simple requests over and over again, especially when it would be so easy to grant them.

 Moreover, in the beginning of my service, it made sense to deny demanded gifts, so people would get to know me and understand the motivations of Peace Corps better. Halfway in, people clearly have not accepted that my role is not to give things and it doesn’t feel like people have any interest in getting to know me. 

I’m just realizing people here almost never ask me about my life prior, my interests, anything that makes me, me. I receive sweeping questions about happenings in the US or very specific questions on day-to-day life here (Mwaya kudi? <Where did you go?>, Mwadyang’a? <Do you eat this?>, Munakuya kudi? <Where are you going?>). 

Is this an element of collectivist culture, where one’s unique personality fades within the context of community? Is this because I’m an outsider, while everyone here has an intimate knowledge of each other’s histories, so it’s not thought to ask? Is it because I don’t ask enough? I’ve asked my host family and the children personal sorts of questions, but rarely adult acquaintances. Maybe I need to be trying more.

On the subject of giving, I feel like if people knew me as a person, they wouldn’t make grand demands. Small presents, like the kinds I give my host family, are an easy way for me to give back in a material way. 

Does it have to be giving back, in order to avoid the issue of aid dependency? I think it has to be incentive or payment. That implies I am benefiting from the transaction, which isn’t what I want either.

A few times, community members have used me to convince each other to participate in projects or programs they requested from me. “She has come all this way to help us, now we have to help her,” is how the argument usually goes. What I want is to be able to give, to share what little I have, with the community without any attachments or implications. 

I don’t know how to do that…The embassy grant perhaps? It’s a program from the US Embassy to give funds for community based projects…but it requires the community to be mobilized and organized. Otherwise, connecting sub communities to capacity building sources of funding? That makes me feel like I’m doing well at my job but not well at being a decent, generous human.

6 April 2018 

Equiponderate

Equiponderate (adj)- to be equal in weight, to balance

The past few days in the village have felt like a precarious battle between super-ego and id, to put it in the Freudian terms that are resonating best with me. The super ego is driven, wants to hold meetings even while it’s raining, can’t fall asleep because of anxiety about too much to do, wants to stick to an exercise plan without any modifications, and most importantly, feels guilty not only for taking things easy, but for all the work I haven’t done yet.

The id, on the other hand, is being self-serving and a little lazy. The id wants to stay in bed an extra hour, then spend all morning cooking or putzing around the house. It thinks asking for meetings now is over-reaching, when people are clearly busy in their fields most of the day. It is putting in the bare minimum so I can feel comfortable, rested, and not stressed. It feels anxious too, not about all that has to be done, but about sticking out to ask for others’ participation, about starting projects that might fail, and about pushing myself too far such that I’m wholly miserable.

The balance is coming out in surprising ways. I did the proper exercises, according to Ms. Super Ego, and then was so sore for the following two days that I couldn’t walk to go meet my counterpart. I was so ashamed of myself. This morning, sitting around knitting in a treasured patch of sunlight, clearly allowing the id to dominate, my counterpart came to find me and we sorted out our business. On days where the id dominated and I feel lazy/worthless, I keep telling myself that there are manifold more chances to be productive here. On days where the super ego wins, I feel tired and potentially neglected by my own self, ultimately so much more satisfied with myself. 

I’m wondering where this comes from- is a dominating super ego key to a strong work ethic or to the nature of the American labor force even? I certainly see duties being performed here but less to self than to parents, family, local leadership, or even to community. I, on the other hand, would of course be ashamed if I didn’t work hard for my village, but I think more ashamed by myself and maybe by my country than by the people here.

Where I’m struggling now is accurately recognizing which things are failures on my own part (lazy id) and which are situational failures for which I need to not blame myself (overactive super-ego). The question I keep asking in the mornings is “What more can I do today?” And then decide from there. It feels like walking a tightrope.

22 January 2018

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. 

Miasma

Miasma (n)- foul vapors from rotting matter

It has been a bit of a rough homecoming, as I anticipated, though for different reasons. Being greeted warmly and leaving network behind felt generally nice. I was thinking, to escape that feeling of refreshing e-mail every five minutes in anticipation of an expected message is a surprising relief. Amaama aired out and swept my house yesterday and greeted me with a warm hug and ruckus cheering.

Inside the house was another story. All my clean clothes on my shelves had grown a nice layer of mold, as well as my leather jewelry, shoes, and knife case. Yuck. My roof leaks substantially and my host family didn’t have the time to patch it, so there is a mildew smell over everything, including the spot next to my pillow. I slept the other way on my bed and I was bothered by a smell of cooked cabbage.

This morning, as I was washing my mildew-y clothes and my (also mildew-y) dirty clothes from before the trip, I found two dead, decomposing mice in my hamper. They had eaten through a shirt of mine, pooped everywhere, and were now just mats of wet fur with grubs and maggots wriggling through. I think it speaks volumes on my oversaturation with cabbage here that I thought weeks-old decomposing mice smelled like cooked cabbage. This may have been one of the more disgusting things I’ve dealt with in my life. 

But I dealt with it, washed my clothes, and have enough sunlight to hang them up to dry. Fingers crossed it stays that way! I want to wash my sheets tomorrow! I’m surviving but wow am I exhausted, even after ten full hours of sleep, plus a four hour nap yesterday. Yikes.

I had such trepidation about returning to my village. There was a moment at the Lusaka airport upon returning, after seeing scores of families joyously greeting their loved ones, where I just wanted to walk right back in and board a plane to somewhere I knew I would be loved and comfortable. I’m not sure if that was P.E. or San Jose but in that moment, it didn’t matter. In leaving the airport, it just felt like I was walking away from all I know and love.

The same feeling was present in Solwezi. I was dreading sacrificing network (because at that time, it did feel like a sacrifice. Now, not so much) and returning to the dietary limitations of the village. Now that I’m here, I feel much more comfortable and settled than I had remembered. Yes, moldy clothes, lugging water, and leaky roofs suck, but generally life is okay. I’m going to be okay. And I’ll be stronger for it.

28 December 2017

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

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

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 

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

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

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

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