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

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. 

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