A Beautiful Reaction

A single knock on my door brought me out of an intense Janet Evanovich reading session. Quickly I threw on some more appropriate clothes since hot season has brought me dangerously close to being a nudist. Standing at my door was my good friend Norah. She was, as always, impeccably dressed in a citenge suit and with downcast eyes she seemed to be lost in inner turmoil. Eventually she said, “Ba Lweendo, sadly we have made another friend.”
Norah is the ChairPerson for a support group of HIV positive people in my village. Ever since the VCT last month we have been making a lot of friends. Mobile VCT is a voluntary, counseling and testing event where people can get tested by a visiting NGO. It is supposed to limit the stigma since the testers have no connection to the community and wont create rumors concerning people’s status. Unfortunately the ramification of this often cleverly marketed event is a happily distracted people during an intimidating testing process followed by abandonment after the sometimes surprising and fear inducing results. Which is where Norah comes in.
Norah’s own journey through contracting HIV to becoming an advocate is inspiring to say the least. Widowed by a husband who was often gone working at mines in disease ridden cities, she learned of her status with the loving support of a brother while on what many considered to be her deathbed. She now lives with a group of women in similar situations. Together they farm and build and survive. Together they conquer the stigma that is as prevalent as the disease.
Since the VCT I have been Norah’s humble sidekick. We cycle or walk up to 20 kilometers each day in order to meet our friends. Most are women. Most are widows. Since it is a polygamous culture based on Old Testament law many widows are married into brother-in-law’s families. Thus spreading the virus. But some refuse the assurance of food security in polygamy and stay by themselves. Working hard in fields from dawn to dusk unless they fall ill. Others are children. Or married men, ashamed to tell their wives to be tested. Others are those with a promiscuous past. Which was the situation of our new friend.
Belita is a distant cousin of Norah’s and had recently moved back to the village life after years of being a sex worker in Livingstone. Norah told me that with that look we all get when describing a wayward cousin; a look that says I don’t approve but somehow still find the blatant naughtiness quite fascinating.
On the way to Belita we stopped to see 9 year old Mudenda. The virus has made her young body particularly susceptible to malaria and once again she was staying home from school wherein, due to absenteeism, she has yet to pass grade 1. Her mother and grandmother, both widows, were trying their best to care for her but were forgetful about maintaining the strict antiretroviral medication regiment. We instructed them on the importance of adhering to doctor’s instructions and made a note to get them a clock so they could administer the ARVs as instructed. The mother, also positive, was currently suffering from ovarian cysts and the two women were having difficulty maintaining a steady food supply. Luckily, it’s the time of year when NGOs are preparing food relief programmes so we made a note to include them on our village’s most vulnerable list.
We mounted our bicycles and continued on to Belita’s house. When we arrived and sat under the shade trees to greet some women I did my routine mental exercises to prepare for the now familiar scene inside the house. I have to quiet the cynicism and righteous indignation that flare up during these visits. I have to baffle the tears. I have to make some lame excuse at humor in order to calm a racing heart, dry my sweaty palms and avoid hyperventilating.
Ive realized through my visits with Norah that it is important for me to project calm. Because really there is nothing extraordinary for me to do. Except exude confidence for Norah. To push her to ask those uncomfortable questions. To provide some extra advice. To be the “all-knowing white” which is an unfortunate left-over concept of colonialism.
We entered the house and sat on the dusty floor next to Belita. She had the sunken features that highlight swollen feet and hands and frightened eyes. Wearing many layers and wrapped in blankets, she shivered and moaned. I greeted the other women in the room as Norah pestered Belita into remembering their cousinship. And then it was my turn to greet our patient. For my own reasoning I have made it a habit to lean in close, face to face, while holding a hand and smiling the biggest and goofiest smile I can muster. There are two possible reactions. Belita’s reaction was dancing light in her eyes as a tear leaked out and cracked lips sputtered about awkwardly. That was a Beautiful Reaction.
Slowly the women told about Belita’s decline and it’s a fine line to discuss. They tell me Belita has reaped what she has sown. An acknowledgement that her former occupation was a risky lifestyle but also unnecessary judgement against a dying relative. We found some papers that indicated Belita was aware of her status for some time before her family. That she had purposely moved back to the village to hide herself and die alone. This is the worst kind of stigma. General HIV education can sometimes relieve family member’s stigma but when the person hates themselves, they wont often give themselves a chance.
Which is why Norah is so effective. When confident. She tells her story and encourages people to stop judging their own desires, their own emotions, their own actions. I asked the pertinent questions: is she eating? is she throwing up? does she have diarrhea?
At about this time some women brought us lunch. Nshima and kapenta. I don’t normally eat kapenta, the dreaded staring contest meal. They are tiny fish cooked with tomatoes and onions; effectively rendering what I can only describe as eyeball soup with scales.
But here I was eating and talking about the decline of a human body during the stages before death while sitting next to a dying woman and encouraging the family to take her to the hospital.
As we cycled home I soaked in the events of the day. The conversations of the day. The meal of the day. And I realized how far Ive come. There is no way I could have done this a few months ago. Its not often that Im impressed with myself.
But it had been a Beautiful Reaction day.
When I arrived home I took up my normal spot to sit and watch the sunset. A teacher dropped by for a quick chat and greeted me by asking, “Why is it you don’t look as miserable as the one before you?”
A strange question considering the day I had.
While I cant comment for the volunteer before me, I can say Ive learned to be humble in my perspective.
Because Ive been there on the days that offer no beautiful reaction. And there is nothing different, nothing more I can offer.
Because this time next year my contract will be finished and I will return to what selfish people describe as the “real world.”
Because for me, my day was a job. A vacation. A part of my 2 year African journey.
Because for Mudenda, for Belita, for Norah – it is everyday life.
Because it is the real world.
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Belita died 5 days after this visit.

In other news, my 4 wives left me. They moved and left piles of rubble where cute houses once stood. And my dog followed the 4th wife. Before this starts sounding like a bad country song, since Ive been in the village for 1 year now we all have to meet up in Lusaka to be poked and prodded and deemed strong enough to make it through another year. I hope you are all enjoying the beginnings of fall! Peace Out.

Pin the Tail

I sat by the window in the dimly lit room. It was a chilly Oklahoma winter morning and my hands shook as I shoved fundraising letters into envelopes. Sitting by the window was my attempt at warmth; mentally willing the sun’s energy to penetrate me like a ray burning ants through a magnifying glass.
I wasn’t in deep thought. Rather my mind was as numb as my fingers. Routinely performing my job at the homeless shelter. And when I stopped to stare out the window my eyes took in an event that at another point in time would have disturbed me.
Two men were walking the corners of the intersection. Both with steely stares focused like lasers out of their empty eyes. One dressed in an armor suit of denim. The other mirrored my own style of black peacoat over sweats.
I waited for the impending clash.
The denim man gripped the pipe with both hands. The other held up a baseball bat.
Do you know the sound of cracking bone?
I sighed and went back to stuffing envelopes. This time, oddly enough, with steady hands. Because sometimes images are filed away. Along with all the emotions. Everything is rushed to be stored in the dusty part of the brain. These moments are sleeping demons. Monsters that erupt into reality when the dusty files are accidentally accessed. This is the truth of the fact that you cant stop life from happening to you. The decisions and words and actions of another will always impact our lives; even if they’re only stored as sleeping demons.
To escape my demons I run to a special spot shaded by a circle of trees. Sometimes I bring a book. This was one of those times.
I was thankful for the cooling shade as the beginning of hot season had dawned that morning when my nightmares became day dreams. Everyone wonders how they’ll react when thrown into moments of injustice. But nobody knows because we are all slaves to our defenses. These days I live amongst peaceful people so my fantasies of tragedy have become schematics for conversations of ignorance.
And under the shade of trees I read to escape my mind. But soon a curious driver stopped his truck to talk to the lonely white woman.
After I gave the now scripted explanation of why I’m here; this obviously educated man spoke to me about what he called “myths of HIV” that I quickly deduced meant more to him than any “fact” he had heard. The term “myth” doesn’t scare Africans (an extremely spiritual people) like it does fact focused Americans.
He began, “you see, Americans have created AIDS to kill us Africans so that they can steal the natural resources from our beautiful land.” Mistakenly I argued from a practical point of view. Trying to show logically that all these American NGOs and government funds would not search to be a solution to the problem they created. He ended, “you are merely a blindfold. Sent here by your government to blind my people from the reality of that disease which kills them. You have the cure! You are a blindfold.”
Flashback to a week earlier when I ran into a group of girls that attended my same small college. They are here for a few months working at the clinic of the local mission. Their eyes betrayed their admiration of my work and they commented on my “fun” lifestyle. I’ve never felt so different than who I once was than at that moment.
I’ve talked a lot with PCVs about the people we’ve become because our time here. I’ve talked a little about the person I was before I came. I was a very spiritual person frustrated with the shortcomings of what I refer to as ‘Consumer Christianity’. So I made decisions that led me into a more ‘social gospel,’ a hands-on application of those values I claimed.
Talking with that man awakened sleeping demons. Because my reaction was to steady shaking hands and file it numbly into dusty envelopes.
Because while I may not be blindfolding others, I couldn’t deny that sometimes I wear the blindfold.
Living immersed in another culture I struggle with the Coldplay lyric: “Am I a part of the curse or a part of the disease”.
Some may say that the fact that I still recognize problems means I’m on track to my bigger purpose.
But the thing is, I was more disgusted with the cheerful girls than with the man in the truck.
The obvious support of each other’s relationships made my blood boil with jealousy. The ease with which they can connect with their love ones back home that saves them from missing life altering celebrations. The convenience of electricity that saves them from bruised egos attained while faceplanting under the weight of a large bundle of firewood. The honesty achieved through the ease of common language conversations that saves them from being the joke of every mis-translation. The assurance of future plans that mirror the people they were before.
I envy their remembrance of before.
Do you know the sound of cracking bone?
Because I run to escape my demons by blindfolding myself as I purposely pin the tail on an asinine life of altruistic consumption.