I was sitting with a glass of wine enjoying the first day in weeks that the sun had decided to peek through the clouds. That morning I had spent fishing with my bamama. With two long sticks and a piece of twine knotted to the ends of our fishing poles. Dressed in my new rainboots “ma jumbo” I trudged behind my barefooted bamama as she squished through the tall grasses and moist soil to the bank of our dam. She put the worm on my hook and with a piece of a flip-flop acting as a bobber, I dropped the line from our perch a couple feet above the water’s edge. Quickly the minnow sized fish were biting and since Im not one to touch anything squirmy we developed a system whereby she did the dirty work of baiting the hook and putting the fish in our bucket, while I got to feel the anticipation when dropping the line and accomplishment when pulling out the line with a dangling fish. After a few hours we had enough for the children’s relish (the term for the meat or vegetables accompanying nshima) so we arrived back at home to sit and rest. I proudly showed my bataata our catch and he laughed as I told him that I feared to touch the fish, asking me “Why do you fear a relish? Its our way.”
I was sunburned and tired like every good fishing day, feeling that I conquered the depths, provided food and yada yada yada. The pop in the swelling of my ego occurred with the pitter patter of 4 yr old Castro’s feet and the slurring of children’s excited words. Kid Tonga takes me almost as long as Old Man’s Tonga to decipher. But eventually I realized Castro said my bamama was calling me because the baby is coming.
Baby is coming? I got up from my comfortable seat and walked to the house of my bamama’s married daughter, Felista, located on the edge of our family compound about 100 yards from my hut. Baby is coming? Lately we have had puppies and goats popping up so I figured it was some other creature pro-creating and my bamama wanted to order me around.
Upon reaching the home, it was eerily quiet. I thought I was in the wrong place. No movement in the cikuta (outdoor kitchen). No movement in the goat’s home. Even the chickens had taken off for the day. So I started shouting the usual “odi” acknowledging my presence and began wondering if either Castro was playing a joke or my Tonga was much worse than I thought. Then I heard my bamama beckoning me from inside the house. I walked in to the dark, mud smeared walls as my eyes adjusted I saw my bamama standing over Felista who was lying naked on the thin mattress and breathing heavily.
Baby Person is coming!
“Lweendo we need a torch. And gloves. Run fast fast!”
So I sprint out of the darkness into the bright day with my mind racing faster than my feet. Baby Person is coming. We need to call 911. Baby Person is coming!
Upon entering my own dark hut I stumble around blind finding the gloves in my PC med kit and grabbing the headlamp off my bed. Then when sprinting back to Felista’s hut I made a conscious effort to focus my mind. Thank God I already started drinking. Its game time. I am 911.
Entering the hut for the second time I took in the surroundings. The thin mattress, lacking sheets, was a foot above the dirt floor on top a crudely crafted frame. I put the headlamp on my bamama’s head and we both put on gloves. I spread a piece of plastic over the mattress and Felista lay atop it. I held her legs and my bamama pressed on her stomach. And what do you know you seriously just have to catch the baby. The eerie quiet I perceived earlier now felt mystical. The blue slimy head was followed by all the correct body parts while a puff of “wow” escaped my lips. I began wiping away the fluids that seemed to encase the baby like shrink wrapped goods at the supermarket. My bamama picked up the same spool of thread we had used for fishing line that morning and cut two pieces. I held the sprawling fingers and toes as my bamama tied the knots around the umbilical cord. She then used a razor blade to cut the cord and blood swirled on the plastic with the other fluids. My bamama utters the first words encouraging the small gurgles to become a loud cry. Then she rushed outside for water as I nervously held the baby adding my English encouragements for the baby to cry. I took those few seconds to tell Felista she now had a baby girl. Then my bamama rushed in and spit water on the baby’s back which immediately drew forth the beautiful wails of a baby person. I wrapped the baby girl in a citenge and another thicker blanket then placed her on the dirt floor. We turned our attention back to the new mother and the dangling cord attached to a placenta. My bamama again placed her hands on the belly while gently pulling on the cord but when only half of the placenta would come our strategy was for gravity to take over. So I grabbed Felista’s arms and she slid off the bed along with the plastic to squat on the ground. Quickly enough it was finished and again Felista lay on the bed as I placed the baby beside her. My bamama finally smiled and let loose the African woman praise yelp as I was half crying and half laughing.
“Ah, was this your first time Lweendo?”
Which made me only laugh louder. Yes, definitely yes.
My bamama went outside to dig a hole behind the house for the placenta and I walked back to my hut telling the men sitting so casually under a tree that we have been given a baby girl.
My bataata said we are lucky the baby is ok and the mother is ok. And after he laughed at my inquiry into his presence at any births he said, “no, no. I fear too much.”
But why do you fear? Its our way.
I weighed the baby 1 week later and she weighs a measly 4.4lbs. They asked me to fill out the birth form for the clinic and as they proudly watched my hand writing the name of the village and the necessary facts they officially announced the arrival of Baby Lweendo.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Feb Funk
For a few years now I have fallen victim to the February Funk. It seems unfair to have an entire month of bad luck but with how well the other 11 months always go, I guess I deserve it. I know I certainly cant help it.
The Clinic. Creeper Central. Everytime I go there I remember why I don’t go there. A woman greeted me “One day I will come and take you.” “um, take me where?”Laughter, no cackling!
I greeted the health technician newly arrived in Dimbwe. “hows the village life?”
“ah...but anyways I will become used to it in time. You will help be used?” Nope, not even a little.
My Bataata was in such a hurry to get there and then all we do is wait. And wait. And with every greeting, every smile, every awkward stare Im using up my daily quotient for cross-cultural interaction time. I can actually feel myself get weaker as the minutes drag to hours and my ears stop straining and my mind stops translating and my eyes stare at the ants marching along the crack in the cement floor. And then a whisper, “the woman was struck by lightning.” Yes! Village gossip. “She was sitting under a tree when the tree was struck. The dog, next to her, dead! The chickens, surrounding her, paralyzed! And her, yes even her, she lay dead for 1 hour. Her husband, fearing to touch her body. Her clothes, burned like rags.” Wait for it...The Zambians are dramatic in their storytelling. Fanning themselves and shaking their heads. The listeners are as loud as the narrator with sighs and gasps interspersing words. Wait for it...”God would not do this.” “I hear her right side is burned and missing.” And it is...juju! “yes yes. Bad magic. She is not being herself these days.”
Um no kidding. The woman was sitting and shelling nuts when she got lit up like a Christmas tree as surrounding animals died and she isn’t herself these days. Imagine!
“Lweendo, we are ready to begin the meeting.” My Bataata and I, along with one of the community health workers, sat with the new health technician, who said, “now lets meet. Time is money. Me, I keep time.” I almost burst out laughing. You may be Zambian but you have been in a village for 3 weeks. Time means nothing. Unless you mean seasons and the time it takes for the crops to grow. This Leather Wearing City Slicker has a lot to learn.
Now obviously my bad luck funk had yet to set in. For Christmas tree lady sure but this year the annoyances of February would be a slow onset.
I was called up to Lusaka for the dreaded swine flu vaccine which apparently is a big squabble in America but Ive long given up my body to the needles of Uncle Sam. So I decided to put some rare effort into my appearance and travel in style. The other volunteers in Southern are classy enough to travel on the Business Class of the bus line, why couldn’t I?! Mistake #1.
I dressed in trousers that were actually clean, my town trousers. And a shirt that had never been tainted with village dirt. I even did my hair. But even though I was looking like a white woman who obviously does business, I was told the elite line was full and I would be among the common folk on the 12:30 bus. I waited and I waited and at 2:30 they told me the 12:30 doesn’t actually exist. But the 3:00 bus will be leaving soon. This is preposterous! I have business. I could be getting the flu right now. And around 5:00 I was informed the bus had broken down. So I pulled my best ugly American and demanded my money back. I stayed in town that night with other volunteers that told me it was really my fault because I wasn’t being the simple village girl that I am.
The next day I went out dressed as scrubby as usual and hitchhiked with a caravan of Afrikaners. We were stopped by the police at every checkpoint and at one we had to wait for an hour due to a wrong bumper sticker or my bad luck.
After the shot and upon my return I stopped at the atm to withdraw money before my trip back to the village. And due to some unknown monthly fee I was the equivalent of $5.00 below the minimum amount required to withdraw. I hate being broke in Africa! Just look around, you have no right to complain. This is when I knew the Feb Bad Luck Funk was in full bloom. I thought I would be safe in the village. Safe in the way that the juju spirits don’t know my ancestors so they cant find me (so says my friend Zulu) but on the 3rd day in the village I went a little crazy. Now before coming here my definition of crazy was unkempt hair, mismatching socks and a vocal muttering dialogue with me, myself and I. If that were the case I was crazy after my first month in village life. We don’t need details but I got the hell out of dodge and after a refreshing visit to Christa’s village I ended up in town with a visit from Carroll-Anne. Like the lazy host that I am, she bought and cooked the food while I watched. Since I trust Carroll-Anne’s judgment, I had her look at a peculiar 2 inch long red line on my foot. Something I had noticed a week prior and had dismissed as a floating vein. Carroll-Anne confidently voiced my silent fear that my innocent red line was an intruder. A worm. I quickly named him Mr. Squiggles in order to befriend the stowaway and relieve my dry heaving at the fact that there was a living and growing creature in my foot.
A few days later Mr. Squiggles and I said bye to Carroll-Anne and traveled to Tim’s village. He was hosting the new volunteers fresh from America for a few days so they could get their first view of village life. Either I’ve been here too long or these were just the lamest Americans accepted into Peace Corps. There was a couple from a certain part in the country (rhyming with Lexus) that seriously discussed getting a gun for their hut. Um, I think you joined the wrong Corps. They jumped at the bugs and complained about the rain and were just generally pathetic. Then there was this sweet Missouri botanist that giggled every time I said photosynthesis. So of course I said it a lot. She had some sweet camping gear that I give 6 months before Africa rips it all apart. And last but not least was the garbage man from Maine. Now that’s a man. He was so laid back about everything me and Tim swore he’s been here a year already.
They had so much energy. They wanted to start a fire and cook when it was pouring rain! I tried to explain I usually just sit and count raindrops but I was white noise to these excited newbies. They crossed the line when they asked for the amount of people we have helped. Me and Tim looked at each other and then chose random numbers. He said 120 and I said 25. It was my jersey number in high school.
What I had hoped was to be an encouraging time with people excited for the cause and full of wonder at each new thing turned out to be a draining 4 days defending the ways of Zambians and ensuring them that the bugs wont kill you...well, not that one maybe that other one.
Tim’s Bataata saw Mr. Squiggles and immediately grabbed my foot. The wife brought a burning stick and I started screaming for white medicine. The Bataata nodded and said, “We will make a small cut and apply fertilizer to kill the worm. Then we pull out the worm.”
That’s not white medicine, right?
Once in town I had planned to purchase pills that would dissolve Mr. Squiggles but I woke up with a fever and soon I was projectile puking everywhere. Everyone was a target. After a couple days of that the doctor confirmed I had the flu.
The Feb Bad Luck Funk’s Grand Finale.
But now its March.
I got paid.
Im less crazy.
I started the meds to kill Mr. Squiggles.
Im headed back to the village in my scrubby clothes excited to inquire about Christmas Tree Lady.
Heres to another 11 months of peace.
The Clinic. Creeper Central. Everytime I go there I remember why I don’t go there. A woman greeted me “One day I will come and take you.” “um, take me where?”Laughter, no cackling!
I greeted the health technician newly arrived in Dimbwe. “hows the village life?”
“ah...but anyways I will become used to it in time. You will help be used?” Nope, not even a little.
My Bataata was in such a hurry to get there and then all we do is wait. And wait. And with every greeting, every smile, every awkward stare Im using up my daily quotient for cross-cultural interaction time. I can actually feel myself get weaker as the minutes drag to hours and my ears stop straining and my mind stops translating and my eyes stare at the ants marching along the crack in the cement floor. And then a whisper, “the woman was struck by lightning.” Yes! Village gossip. “She was sitting under a tree when the tree was struck. The dog, next to her, dead! The chickens, surrounding her, paralyzed! And her, yes even her, she lay dead for 1 hour. Her husband, fearing to touch her body. Her clothes, burned like rags.” Wait for it...The Zambians are dramatic in their storytelling. Fanning themselves and shaking their heads. The listeners are as loud as the narrator with sighs and gasps interspersing words. Wait for it...”God would not do this.” “I hear her right side is burned and missing.” And it is...juju! “yes yes. Bad magic. She is not being herself these days.”
Um no kidding. The woman was sitting and shelling nuts when she got lit up like a Christmas tree as surrounding animals died and she isn’t herself these days. Imagine!
“Lweendo, we are ready to begin the meeting.” My Bataata and I, along with one of the community health workers, sat with the new health technician, who said, “now lets meet. Time is money. Me, I keep time.” I almost burst out laughing. You may be Zambian but you have been in a village for 3 weeks. Time means nothing. Unless you mean seasons and the time it takes for the crops to grow. This Leather Wearing City Slicker has a lot to learn.
Now obviously my bad luck funk had yet to set in. For Christmas tree lady sure but this year the annoyances of February would be a slow onset.
I was called up to Lusaka for the dreaded swine flu vaccine which apparently is a big squabble in America but Ive long given up my body to the needles of Uncle Sam. So I decided to put some rare effort into my appearance and travel in style. The other volunteers in Southern are classy enough to travel on the Business Class of the bus line, why couldn’t I?! Mistake #1.
I dressed in trousers that were actually clean, my town trousers. And a shirt that had never been tainted with village dirt. I even did my hair. But even though I was looking like a white woman who obviously does business, I was told the elite line was full and I would be among the common folk on the 12:30 bus. I waited and I waited and at 2:30 they told me the 12:30 doesn’t actually exist. But the 3:00 bus will be leaving soon. This is preposterous! I have business. I could be getting the flu right now. And around 5:00 I was informed the bus had broken down. So I pulled my best ugly American and demanded my money back. I stayed in town that night with other volunteers that told me it was really my fault because I wasn’t being the simple village girl that I am.
The next day I went out dressed as scrubby as usual and hitchhiked with a caravan of Afrikaners. We were stopped by the police at every checkpoint and at one we had to wait for an hour due to a wrong bumper sticker or my bad luck.
After the shot and upon my return I stopped at the atm to withdraw money before my trip back to the village. And due to some unknown monthly fee I was the equivalent of $5.00 below the minimum amount required to withdraw. I hate being broke in Africa! Just look around, you have no right to complain. This is when I knew the Feb Bad Luck Funk was in full bloom. I thought I would be safe in the village. Safe in the way that the juju spirits don’t know my ancestors so they cant find me (so says my friend Zulu) but on the 3rd day in the village I went a little crazy. Now before coming here my definition of crazy was unkempt hair, mismatching socks and a vocal muttering dialogue with me, myself and I. If that were the case I was crazy after my first month in village life. We don’t need details but I got the hell out of dodge and after a refreshing visit to Christa’s village I ended up in town with a visit from Carroll-Anne. Like the lazy host that I am, she bought and cooked the food while I watched. Since I trust Carroll-Anne’s judgment, I had her look at a peculiar 2 inch long red line on my foot. Something I had noticed a week prior and had dismissed as a floating vein. Carroll-Anne confidently voiced my silent fear that my innocent red line was an intruder. A worm. I quickly named him Mr. Squiggles in order to befriend the stowaway and relieve my dry heaving at the fact that there was a living and growing creature in my foot.
A few days later Mr. Squiggles and I said bye to Carroll-Anne and traveled to Tim’s village. He was hosting the new volunteers fresh from America for a few days so they could get their first view of village life. Either I’ve been here too long or these were just the lamest Americans accepted into Peace Corps. There was a couple from a certain part in the country (rhyming with Lexus) that seriously discussed getting a gun for their hut. Um, I think you joined the wrong Corps. They jumped at the bugs and complained about the rain and were just generally pathetic. Then there was this sweet Missouri botanist that giggled every time I said photosynthesis. So of course I said it a lot. She had some sweet camping gear that I give 6 months before Africa rips it all apart. And last but not least was the garbage man from Maine. Now that’s a man. He was so laid back about everything me and Tim swore he’s been here a year already.
They had so much energy. They wanted to start a fire and cook when it was pouring rain! I tried to explain I usually just sit and count raindrops but I was white noise to these excited newbies. They crossed the line when they asked for the amount of people we have helped. Me and Tim looked at each other and then chose random numbers. He said 120 and I said 25. It was my jersey number in high school.
What I had hoped was to be an encouraging time with people excited for the cause and full of wonder at each new thing turned out to be a draining 4 days defending the ways of Zambians and ensuring them that the bugs wont kill you...well, not that one maybe that other one.
Tim’s Bataata saw Mr. Squiggles and immediately grabbed my foot. The wife brought a burning stick and I started screaming for white medicine. The Bataata nodded and said, “We will make a small cut and apply fertilizer to kill the worm. Then we pull out the worm.”
That’s not white medicine, right?
Once in town I had planned to purchase pills that would dissolve Mr. Squiggles but I woke up with a fever and soon I was projectile puking everywhere. Everyone was a target. After a couple days of that the doctor confirmed I had the flu.
The Feb Bad Luck Funk’s Grand Finale.
But now its March.
I got paid.
Im less crazy.
I started the meds to kill Mr. Squiggles.
Im headed back to the village in my scrubby clothes excited to inquire about Christmas Tree Lady.
Heres to another 11 months of peace.
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