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.