"Im going to sleep Lweendo." "ok, sleep well my friend."
The Next Day
You didnt get up. You are weak. Again with the traditional. With the witchcraft medicine. The old women come. They pray and you drink roots stewed to soothe demented spirits.
The Next Day
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
No one greets me. Is this the beginning of the end? The old Man visits. You cant walk. You cant even sit. The old Man staggers with the weight of your wobbly body as he places you on a bicycle and together you weave a wistful route to the clinic.
The Next Day.
"Lweendo, its maybe a bit malaria." No, No, No. "Do you know your status?" You dont answer. You dont eat. More women. More roots mixed with the nurse's random medication. A brother. An uncle. A sister. A friend. They mumble 'its ok.' They never smile again.
The Next Day.
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
I go to town. I see Boss. You are fading. Should I force you to the hospital? Boss asks "what is our role? what is the worst that can happen?" I say You die and I live with the guilt because I didnt try. So we go now says Boss and I.
We pick up a friend. He translates to the wives 'its time to go, help has arrived.' I kneel at your bedside. "is it ok? can we take you to the hospital?" No more traditional. You say yes. You are pale. You are trembling. You lay in the back with your mother and a friend. District regulations force us to journey to a further hospital for a transferral. The officer signed your papers. Told me you needed tests, we needed to hurry. Boss drives and I stare at the thundering clouds beckoning my melancholy.
Months of rumors. Of demon posession. Of ancestoral haunts. Lead to me carrying you up hospital steps. Please dont die. Please dont die. Please dont die.
The Next Day.
"Its positive Lweendo." The words were heavy; pregnant with pain, swollen with stigma, floundering with fear. "I know, its ok, I know." Expression of emotion in this moment's confession. Repression of the past seals the confusion for the future. No more 'what if.' No more 'perhaps.' Stand up for your life. If you stay still, the world presses in. If you take one step, you press back. You choose. You move.
"Dont tell my family." Tears and trembling lips. Signs of ignorance. Please dont die. Please dont die. Please dont die. By accepting the present state due to the behavior of the past than together we challange the future track.
Lead to us carrying eachother.
The Next Day.
You can sit! I joke and you smile. You eat and you know the new life will take awhile. They say rest, gather your strength. Make sure to come in three weeks with a friend. Your mother shook my hand and wore a big grin. I said "tomorrow I will come again. Now you sleep well my friend."
The Next Day.
We are going home. Bouncing along in the crusier, listening to the Beach Boys. You smile. You say you had a great dream last night. You were in AmericaLand with me and Chabota, laughing and speaking beautiful American english.
Scattered children consolidate at the Big Mama's House. "Thank you Lweendo for saving her life." Introduced to me their eyes reflect their mother's history. The oldest, a man studying the economy. Please dont die. The middle, a boy growing up solemnly. Please dont die. The youngest, a girl skipping gleefully. Please dont die.
The truth is you still have to fight. Tension in my neck. Block my shoulders from rest. Encourage you to live with no regrets. A cousin dropped by and along with tears in his eyes, his silence was indicative of an unrelenting pride. So I shook his hand and managed "dont worry brother. she will be fine."
I lied.
The Next Day
At church today they mentioned your name. Said you were sick but didnt give the reason away. Now the people smile as they pass by. They thank me and I see in their eyes the hope of a saved life. Your mother is so strong. Always at your bedside. She makes sure you take your tablets on time. Another cousin came to me, hopeful, for this week mirrors her own misery. She assures me we will speak with you so you will know the future isnt bleak.
The Next Day.
I stay away during the day. There are so many people, with so much to say. As the sun sets and the sky turns to pink and gray I figure I'll walk over to say goodnight.
But the air is wrong the closer I get to Big Mama's House. You are crying. You are screaming. Little Chipego and Riana huddle at the porch. There is just enough light so I can see they are as afraid as me. I take a deep breath and go inside. The room is lit by a single candle: haunting shadows danced along the mud-bricked wall. The wives and I are crowded, sitting by the mattress on the floor-its a horrific sight. The doctor had said this may be a side effect but its worse than I imagined.
Naked and flailing your arms, you are ranting and breaking into church hymns. You sit up and grab my shirt, interspersing 'Lweendo' and 'Chabota' in your flurried tongue.
"I dont know what your saying." Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
Im afraid so I start to cry, when your oldest child walks in, my tears I try to hide. Then he yells and the wives are listening, sitting. Its so loud!
Bitterly I stand and step outside. I look to the moon then your son walks out, head down on his chest. I grab his shoulders, lean him to my breast, and together we weep out the confusion of stress without rest.
Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
The Next Day.
You are quiet this morning. My stinging eyes are swollen from the emtions of the night. You are tired. You barely eat. Dont give up. Dont give up. Dont give up.
Your uncle took me aside and for the first time he said 'its bad, he worries you will die.' He told me they may send for the witchdoctor again. "No!" I burst out than took a breath and calmed my self. I explain its the medicine. "it makes the body strong but it hurts the mind sometimes." He understands and we share our concern that you dont eat. Your vomiting in your sleep. Your sweating, your shaking, your breathing is painfully labored.
Its just you and me in the room now. You are wrapped in blankets and sheets. "Do you fear? Does it hurt?" Dont give up. Dont give up. Dont give up. "Lweendo, Im going to sleep." "ok, sleep well my friend."
These are the last words we speak.
The Next Day.
More people visit. People are everywhere. I want them all to go away. Its too much for me to try and believe. I dont have any energy. I sit and stare at the sky. Im trying to relax but its pointless, doubt has poisoned my mind. At nightfall I walk to the house. Again I sit with the wives. Your eyes are different. Your lips are swollen. You shake your stiff body and spittle streams out the side of your teeth. As your mother spoons water in your mouth, she begins to cry. Im sitting in the corner. Why. Why. Why.
The Next Day.
There is no change in you. Only change on the faces of the women that love you. Finally my fear is mirrored. The wives ask me for tablets for the pain in their heads. I give them ibuprofen knowing it wont soothe their aching hearts.
They ask if Boss will come again. I say no. Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
Im ashamed. I want to run away. My heart burns with rage at the fact that there is nothing for your pain.
The Next Day.
I awake to the sound of gentle rain. Walking behind my house to hide between maize stalks. I stop and feel the droplets. Nature's tears mix with my own, swirling around my eyelashes. I cry out the Lord for strength. Knowing deep in my spirit that today is the day.
Inside the room in Big Mama's House. Your eyes are wide with fright. Your concave chest heaves moist breaths as if your swimming in a sea of disease. This morning the rain keeps the vistors away. So it is just your mother and me. But I dont think you know we are here. I think you only know the end is near.
You've lost control of your bodily functions and as we move you to the side your mom wipes the black plastic laid down as a sheet. The honesty of this moment penetrates my broken heart and numb mind. Im sorry. Im sorry. Im sorry.
The somberness of the day intensifies the rain as it strips from us the facade of a healing hope we all wore this past week. I sit in the corner of the room noticing the setting sun strike an array of colors through the window and into the mortar cracks cobwebbed across the walls.
Filled with emotion so intense that I fear the waves of anger and grief will swallow my sanity, I step outside praying for relief. In the middle of my words, in the middle of my requests: the wailing offends the tin roof like an onslaught of obscenities.
You died.
The Next Day.
Wailing continued throughout the night. Women, men, your children, your family. Running and screaming. Pleading and cursing. My feet found my way to my door. Inside my hut I found the peace to believe you are no more.
With daybreak the crowd gathered. Louder and louder the people from villages crawling on the ground, honoring your name. Alone in my hut, I cried all day. The wives told me to go to the house. To see you. But I refuse to see your dead body.
People come to pay their respects to me. Knocking on my door, all I want is privacy. I picked up my guitar to drown out the noise. And eventually in the afternoon I wandered outside.
Encouraging words to 'cry out the Lord' and 'feel no despair' pecked away at my calamity. At dusk, the vehicle brought the coffin and I cringed with every smack of the hammer sealing the lid with certainty. The mass of mourners stood to walk towards the freshly dug grave and along the way the pallbearers sang words of hope and grace.
We knelt around the grave and listened to the Man preach and pray. The men grabbed shovels and the women sang to drown out the echoes of dirt slapping the sides of the box tucking you carefully away into the soil of which you first came. An uncle was called upon to recount your history and towards the end he began to speak of me. He commended my attempts to save your life. He encouraged the community to comfort and continue to support me. Surprised and humbled I couldnt help but to weep. Thinking of a way for me to honor your memory.
The Next Day.
Wailing continued throughout the night. Women, men, your children, your family. Running and screaming. Pleading and cursing. The church gathered in front of the house. The choir sang. The preacher spoke. I spent the day writing you a song.
Its amazing, this complexity of grief. I smile at the thought of the sound of your voice. I cry at the fright of the last look in your eyes. I rage at the suddenness of your finality. I fear for my lonely months to come. Im thankful for every meaningless moment we spent under the sun.
At nightfall the wailing turned to melody. And our mourning turned to dancing. Somehow I was called upon to sing and perform my grief in song.
This would be a first for me. To stand in front of an assembly and sing. But for you, for your memory. I picked up my guitar and took a calming breath, then closed my eyes, to begin My Lament.
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Sleep well my Friend
Burning Embers
As you slipped away
It was your last breath
That said you couldnt stay
Men dug your grave
So you can rest
Wont see your face
On this world again
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Be still my Friend
Women wail
As I try to hide
The rain beats down
From the darkened sky
Children run to play
And though your gone
My spirit knows
That your memory lives on
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Cry out to the Lord
Goodbye my Friend
Goodbye my Friend
Goodbye my Friend
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
IST
In-Service Training. In theory, its the conclusion of 3 months in village life and the beginning of your projected work. In reality, its a family reunion.
You get to see who cut their hair and who gained weight. Rumors of people lighting their roof on fire or becoming fluent in a tribal language are given a chance to become factual or die like that poor dog by the hands of the crazy PCV.
It began as we all slowly arrived at the PC office in Lusaka. Many had spent the entire day (or a couple days) on slow transport. They smelled, they were hungry, they were cranky from Zam Pop blaring continuously over buzzing bus speakers. I was refreshed after sleeping my usual 12 hours in the comfort of the Choma House, taking a hot shower, watching the Sex and the City movie over breakfast and then reclining for the 4 hour bus ride. Life in So' Pro' is smooth.
Hugs were exchanged and everyone packed large smiles into the land cruiser for the bumpy trip to the training institute. The accommodations were dorm rooms and mostly people stayed with their long-lost buddies from training.
Except me.
I don't know how it happened.
One minute we were talking. Everyone was laughing. Than like a fire-drill everyone scattered and I was left swatting mosquitoes and trying to remember if I packed bug spray.
Now I wont blame Carroll-Anne (and you shouldn't either) because her pro-activeness to guarantee herself a bed only proves how well she knows my meandering. Later when it leaked that we weren't together, she would have to deal with people quacking their judgments. But I know she needs a well-situated room and she knows I need a story.
And thats how I came to room with the Ironman.
Ironman is over 40, ex-navy, from the Pacific Northwest and into real estate. Oh, and he is an actual Ironman. Which is cool cuz I like irons and men. His side of the room was polished and looked an ad for UnderArmor. I dumped my notebooks on my guitar case, popped open a bottle of wine and looked at the ceiling with hoped the mosquito net would hang itself.
Eventually Ironman hung up my net and we got to talking about his alma mater, Portland State, where I coincidentally took 3 classes in 2 quarters to comprise my "Freshman Year of College."
Ironman is a 2nd year RAP volunteer and was attending IST to help train my intake. Classes started the next morning and after the free-for-all environment of village life, we all found the 8-17:00 schedule a bit daunting.
I slept as minimal as possible. With the midnight walks lit by the moon, taxi rides to town with RAP guys and their beards, and dance parties to Steely Dan...i mean who could deny themselves of that type of entertainment.
And then the MIT kids showed up.
They were 5 intelligent people aimed at teaching 30 hungover/adventure seeking/slightly trouble-making volunteers about appropriate technology.
I don't think we made a good impression.
I swear I tried. The first session I attended was the constructing of a device to shell ground nuts. The shelling of ground nuts is a time consumer for village women and it hurts my fingertips so I understood the appropriateness. It was the technology part that confused me.
Triss, the Cambridge student studying at MIT for a year, was constructing this gadget with cement and screws and fiberglass and complicated engineering terms tainted with a British accent. The first step was to use butter to lubricate the equipment. Then metal was moving around, I was having flashbacks to my brother's lego sets, practical questions were asked and Answered and when I was called on to tighten a bolt, I stammered "uh, you lost my with the butter dude."
I snuck back in the crowd, borrowed a friend's i-pod and retreated to my Iron Room to release all the building structures occupying my mind. Eventually I re-emerged ready to tackle subjects concerning human trafficking, soya milk and corn-cob charcoal.
After a couple days when my brain felt like it might explode just to put itself back together, we left the training institute to relocate at NRDC for the second part of IST that included our village counterparts. This relocation meant the possibility of re-uniting with my buddy Carroll-Anne. And in spite of if she was tired of taking people's shit or actually missed me, I agreed to leave IronMan and the daily breakfast of coffee and oatmeal.
Everyone bustled around filling out the paperwork to get a room and Carroll-Anne looked at me like my mom used to when I didnt do the dishes.
"You didnt get the form, did you?"
I bunched up my shoulders and smiled innocently "uh, they ran out. maybe they will bring more."
"Your the only one that didnt get one!" she exclaimed.
Honestly, I dont know why she puts up with me. But this time it wasnt my fault. It was my fault back when people gave her shit for when I slept outside and woke up with my eye swollen shut. And it was my fault when she had to lie to my host-family to say I was sick when I was actually playing football. Oh, and then there was the time we had to switch meals because I "ordered wrong" and was immaturely dumping/smearing food on the table in appreciation of their poor customer service.
But not this time! This time my aversion to paperwork and checking boxes had no role in my inability to obtain a form. Sure, I do hyperventilate with the boxes instructing me to fill using block print. And, my paranoia forces me to triple-check my drivers license so I dont mis-spell my middle initial. But Im working on growing up. And grown-ups fill out forms.
So I nudged the guy standing next to me and got him to ask around for a form. Eventually we got our room and I was pleased to see the net was already hung.
The counterparts seemed to enjoy the sessions and offered an insightful view on the role of the PCV in village life. We split into our provincial groups and discussed specific issues affecting Southern Province. Things like food shortage, lack of schooling and alcoholism.
At the end of the week we left the family reunion to return to our villages having an idea of the projects that would address the needs of our community. In addition to this, I hope to improve my role in friendship. Carroll-Anne cooks, she lies for me, tells me where to go and generally keeps me on schedule. When asked what I bring, she says, "your funny and you play the guitar."
Which I think translates to "you give me something to worry about and sometimes your annoying."
So yea, Im on the lookout for friendship skills. And I need something tangible. None of that emotional support bullshit.
Anyone got any ideas that don't include technology or forms?
________________________________________________
YOU ARE MY OBJECTIVE
They teach us development isn't building, isn't structures. But our surveys count these things. They analyze statistics and ignore the complexity of the individual within the community.
Count the latrines. The wards at the clinic. Number of people in the household. Number of orphans. Types of medication.
Do you wash your hands?
Do you have a bathing shelter?
Do you attend school?
Do you do...?
Do you do.
Who are you?
You are not your latrine. You are not your education level. You are not your dirty hands. You are not a disease.
You are you?
You are you.
Enter my soul survey.
I cant care about your school. I cant care about your clinic. I cant care about the soles of your shoes. Until I care about you.
Who are you?
Maybe someday I will return to the meetings and to the "sustainable development objectives." But today I need to care about you. I need to know why you cant sustain. Why you want to sustain.
Why you are you.
And maybe in finding you...
I'll find me too.
You get to see who cut their hair and who gained weight. Rumors of people lighting their roof on fire or becoming fluent in a tribal language are given a chance to become factual or die like that poor dog by the hands of the crazy PCV.
It began as we all slowly arrived at the PC office in Lusaka. Many had spent the entire day (or a couple days) on slow transport. They smelled, they were hungry, they were cranky from Zam Pop blaring continuously over buzzing bus speakers. I was refreshed after sleeping my usual 12 hours in the comfort of the Choma House, taking a hot shower, watching the Sex and the City movie over breakfast and then reclining for the 4 hour bus ride. Life in So' Pro' is smooth.
Hugs were exchanged and everyone packed large smiles into the land cruiser for the bumpy trip to the training institute. The accommodations were dorm rooms and mostly people stayed with their long-lost buddies from training.
Except me.
I don't know how it happened.
One minute we were talking. Everyone was laughing. Than like a fire-drill everyone scattered and I was left swatting mosquitoes and trying to remember if I packed bug spray.
Now I wont blame Carroll-Anne (and you shouldn't either) because her pro-activeness to guarantee herself a bed only proves how well she knows my meandering. Later when it leaked that we weren't together, she would have to deal with people quacking their judgments. But I know she needs a well-situated room and she knows I need a story.
And thats how I came to room with the Ironman.
Ironman is over 40, ex-navy, from the Pacific Northwest and into real estate. Oh, and he is an actual Ironman. Which is cool cuz I like irons and men. His side of the room was polished and looked an ad for UnderArmor. I dumped my notebooks on my guitar case, popped open a bottle of wine and looked at the ceiling with hoped the mosquito net would hang itself.
Eventually Ironman hung up my net and we got to talking about his alma mater, Portland State, where I coincidentally took 3 classes in 2 quarters to comprise my "Freshman Year of College."
Ironman is a 2nd year RAP volunteer and was attending IST to help train my intake. Classes started the next morning and after the free-for-all environment of village life, we all found the 8-17:00 schedule a bit daunting.
I slept as minimal as possible. With the midnight walks lit by the moon, taxi rides to town with RAP guys and their beards, and dance parties to Steely Dan...i mean who could deny themselves of that type of entertainment.
And then the MIT kids showed up.
They were 5 intelligent people aimed at teaching 30 hungover/adventure seeking/slightly trouble-making volunteers about appropriate technology.
I don't think we made a good impression.
I swear I tried. The first session I attended was the constructing of a device to shell ground nuts. The shelling of ground nuts is a time consumer for village women and it hurts my fingertips so I understood the appropriateness. It was the technology part that confused me.
Triss, the Cambridge student studying at MIT for a year, was constructing this gadget with cement and screws and fiberglass and complicated engineering terms tainted with a British accent. The first step was to use butter to lubricate the equipment. Then metal was moving around, I was having flashbacks to my brother's lego sets, practical questions were asked and Answered and when I was called on to tighten a bolt, I stammered "uh, you lost my with the butter dude."
I snuck back in the crowd, borrowed a friend's i-pod and retreated to my Iron Room to release all the building structures occupying my mind. Eventually I re-emerged ready to tackle subjects concerning human trafficking, soya milk and corn-cob charcoal.
After a couple days when my brain felt like it might explode just to put itself back together, we left the training institute to relocate at NRDC for the second part of IST that included our village counterparts. This relocation meant the possibility of re-uniting with my buddy Carroll-Anne. And in spite of if she was tired of taking people's shit or actually missed me, I agreed to leave IronMan and the daily breakfast of coffee and oatmeal.
Everyone bustled around filling out the paperwork to get a room and Carroll-Anne looked at me like my mom used to when I didnt do the dishes.
"You didnt get the form, did you?"
I bunched up my shoulders and smiled innocently "uh, they ran out. maybe they will bring more."
"Your the only one that didnt get one!" she exclaimed.
Honestly, I dont know why she puts up with me. But this time it wasnt my fault. It was my fault back when people gave her shit for when I slept outside and woke up with my eye swollen shut. And it was my fault when she had to lie to my host-family to say I was sick when I was actually playing football. Oh, and then there was the time we had to switch meals because I "ordered wrong" and was immaturely dumping/smearing food on the table in appreciation of their poor customer service.
But not this time! This time my aversion to paperwork and checking boxes had no role in my inability to obtain a form. Sure, I do hyperventilate with the boxes instructing me to fill using block print. And, my paranoia forces me to triple-check my drivers license so I dont mis-spell my middle initial. But Im working on growing up. And grown-ups fill out forms.
So I nudged the guy standing next to me and got him to ask around for a form. Eventually we got our room and I was pleased to see the net was already hung.
The counterparts seemed to enjoy the sessions and offered an insightful view on the role of the PCV in village life. We split into our provincial groups and discussed specific issues affecting Southern Province. Things like food shortage, lack of schooling and alcoholism.
At the end of the week we left the family reunion to return to our villages having an idea of the projects that would address the needs of our community. In addition to this, I hope to improve my role in friendship. Carroll-Anne cooks, she lies for me, tells me where to go and generally keeps me on schedule. When asked what I bring, she says, "your funny and you play the guitar."
Which I think translates to "you give me something to worry about and sometimes your annoying."
So yea, Im on the lookout for friendship skills. And I need something tangible. None of that emotional support bullshit.
Anyone got any ideas that don't include technology or forms?
________________________________________________
YOU ARE MY OBJECTIVE
They teach us development isn't building, isn't structures. But our surveys count these things. They analyze statistics and ignore the complexity of the individual within the community.
Count the latrines. The wards at the clinic. Number of people in the household. Number of orphans. Types of medication.
Do you wash your hands?
Do you have a bathing shelter?
Do you attend school?
Do you do...?
Do you do.
Who are you?
You are not your latrine. You are not your education level. You are not your dirty hands. You are not a disease.
You are you?
You are you.
Enter my soul survey.
I cant care about your school. I cant care about your clinic. I cant care about the soles of your shoes. Until I care about you.
Who are you?
Maybe someday I will return to the meetings and to the "sustainable development objectives." But today I need to care about you. I need to know why you cant sustain. Why you want to sustain.
Why you are you.
And maybe in finding you...
I'll find me too.
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