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?
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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.