The world was buzzing. Every nation greatly anticipated the transfer of leadership. A beginning. A change. A hope.
Now the t-shirts with Obama's face make sense. Now the calls in the market encouraging me to "greet Obama" make me smile. A beginning. A change. A hope.
For right now the world loves Americans.
I joined the large crowd at a bar to watch the event. With 40 Peace Corps volunteers and a couple hundred people whose accents littered the globe, we were jammed butt to gut. When the announcer began I first wondered why they got the guy that announces wrestling events. I concluded that the world's viewing audience was in fact ready to rumble.
I "mall walked" my way through the room gathering the bits of conversations. But when the ceremony began the silence held a presence among wide-eyes, half-opened smiles and those rings of condensation on wood tables. The oaths, the speeches, the prayers...and the cello? Did you see how BIG that guy was smiling? His smile was the loudest at the bar.
Every so often the crowd erupted and the atmosphere was buzzed more than me.
As the announcer instructed the D.C. crowd to stand for the national anthem I remembered how my "enlightened intellect" in college forbade me from singing a song about war and borders. But right then I looked around at the faces of soul-searching volunteers employed and supported by Uncle Sam. A beginning. A change. A hope. At an Irish bar in an African capital.
If that doesnt send red-white-blue through your veins than you should check your pulse.
So I stood, with my fellow Americans, and we sang the Star-Spangled Banner. The English man next to me was infected with americanitis as he sang every word LOUDLY. At the conclusion with the cheers turning into another round of drinks, I turned to the Englishman and he said, "I bloody believe in America."
My Zamlish reply, "even me brother, even me."
________________________________________
I just finished a week of training that officially ended my 3 month community entry period. The training was detailed information of project planning and understanding budgets of grants/donation money. So basically a lot of stuff I dont understand and will try to minimize as much as possible in my service.
Im a farmer. Im a listener. Im a writer.
I work with the soil. With the people. With my mind.
For?
A beginning. A change. A hope.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Who's Who?
Volunteers seemed to be divided into two major groups. Public and Private. Sure there are the few exceptions, but I will get to them later.
Public are the PCVs that dream of political glory to come. This job is really a service to their home country and a stepping stone to tailored suits and that daunting publicity for those classified government officials.
Private PCVs are the idealistic spirits choosing to live in the moment and are often so dedicated to their cause that they neglect things like english and personal hygeine.
These major groups are further split into different programs. For Zambia, we have LIFE, RED, RAP and HAP.
LIFE (linking income, food and the environment) PCVs are true MacGyvers. The ones that stare at mud and actually know how to turn it into bricks and then a stove! And they do it too. The Public LIFE PCVs are tree hugger politically charged with the fervor that makes you just wanna lick the dew off leaves and chew bark for protein. The Private LIFE PCVs want to escape to Walden Pond and live like John the Baptist.
RED (rural education development) PCVs are what happens when Richard Simmons meets Diane Sawyer...really excited about the facts and making sure others are pumped up for the program. The Public RED PCVs live in disbelief that educator's dont emulate policy and arrange computer donations to a school (even though most only have solar panel energy). The Private RED PCVs are friends with students and patiently waiting to return to the US and write a thesis paper on those under-educated peoples of Africa.
RAP (rural aquqculture promotion) PCVs are what happens after the ugly red-headed stepchild served his fraternity as the athletic coordinator. They seem to have been rejected enough in their life to work hard at something everyone else takes for granted. Public RAP'ers are educated in animal biology and the nutritional benefits of adding fish to a diet. Private RAP'ers love those scaly critters and physical labor so of course they will dig pond holes for 2 years!
As for those HAP (hiv-aids project) PCVS, of which I am an awkward member...we are the only acronym that doesnt include a solution and instead just states the problem. I dont know if its general in that it envelops income, environment, education and fish OR if its specific in that we project to fight a particular disease. All I know is that HAP PCVs are a mixture of Oprah's humanitarian concerns and Chris Rock's crude sarcasm. Public HAP PCVs know the medicine, know policy and strive to change the clinical employees in this developing system. Private HAP PCVs know people and hate a disease that seperates families. But both find jokes to be the form of relief in a bitter "project".
To understand the group dynamic:
LIFE'ers can save your life but if they fail (surely your laziness is to blame) than REDs can give a quaint speech at your funeral right after HAP'ers make inappropiate jokes about dust biting so afterwards you can let off steam at a bar with those RAP'ers.
As for those exceptions I mentioned. They are category shifters. Either through maturity or the influence of good ole' Zambians, they changed from their initial entry category. So they carry the purpose of Privates with the plans of the Public. Consequently, these are the volunteers I most admire. Am I public or private? Well, its too early for me to be an exception. So now I will stay true to my name and continue my lweendo.
P.S. Technically there is CAHP. The other health program that is being merged with HAP later this year. Because HAP is the best. Or maybe its the worst. Well, the most fatal definitly.
Public are the PCVs that dream of political glory to come. This job is really a service to their home country and a stepping stone to tailored suits and that daunting publicity for those classified government officials.
Private PCVs are the idealistic spirits choosing to live in the moment and are often so dedicated to their cause that they neglect things like english and personal hygeine.
These major groups are further split into different programs. For Zambia, we have LIFE, RED, RAP and HAP.
LIFE (linking income, food and the environment) PCVs are true MacGyvers. The ones that stare at mud and actually know how to turn it into bricks and then a stove! And they do it too. The Public LIFE PCVs are tree hugger politically charged with the fervor that makes you just wanna lick the dew off leaves and chew bark for protein. The Private LIFE PCVs want to escape to Walden Pond and live like John the Baptist.
RED (rural education development) PCVs are what happens when Richard Simmons meets Diane Sawyer...really excited about the facts and making sure others are pumped up for the program. The Public RED PCVs live in disbelief that educator's dont emulate policy and arrange computer donations to a school (even though most only have solar panel energy). The Private RED PCVs are friends with students and patiently waiting to return to the US and write a thesis paper on those under-educated peoples of Africa.
RAP (rural aquqculture promotion) PCVs are what happens after the ugly red-headed stepchild served his fraternity as the athletic coordinator. They seem to have been rejected enough in their life to work hard at something everyone else takes for granted. Public RAP'ers are educated in animal biology and the nutritional benefits of adding fish to a diet. Private RAP'ers love those scaly critters and physical labor so of course they will dig pond holes for 2 years!
As for those HAP (hiv-aids project) PCVS, of which I am an awkward member...we are the only acronym that doesnt include a solution and instead just states the problem. I dont know if its general in that it envelops income, environment, education and fish OR if its specific in that we project to fight a particular disease. All I know is that HAP PCVs are a mixture of Oprah's humanitarian concerns and Chris Rock's crude sarcasm. Public HAP PCVs know the medicine, know policy and strive to change the clinical employees in this developing system. Private HAP PCVs know people and hate a disease that seperates families. But both find jokes to be the form of relief in a bitter "project".
To understand the group dynamic:
LIFE'ers can save your life but if they fail (surely your laziness is to blame) than REDs can give a quaint speech at your funeral right after HAP'ers make inappropiate jokes about dust biting so afterwards you can let off steam at a bar with those RAP'ers.
As for those exceptions I mentioned. They are category shifters. Either through maturity or the influence of good ole' Zambians, they changed from their initial entry category. So they carry the purpose of Privates with the plans of the Public. Consequently, these are the volunteers I most admire. Am I public or private? Well, its too early for me to be an exception. So now I will stay true to my name and continue my lweendo.
P.S. Technically there is CAHP. The other health program that is being merged with HAP later this year. Because HAP is the best. Or maybe its the worst. Well, the most fatal definitly.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Saturday Morning Cartoons
On this rainy Saturday morning I find myself at the local Seventh Day Adventist Church. English thrown in to season their Tonga. I think Tonga sounds like bubbles. The deep bubbles massaging a hot tub and floating above to pop at the surface. And in the sermon they reach out to me with english phrases. "a flower blooms" tonga tonga "and God is love but" bubbles bubbles. But what? And where is this flower?
Im almost as lost as the time I alternated between attending Catholic Mass and Pentecostal celebrations. Everyone organizes their own language to describe that haunting spark that connects all humanity. If you dont know the lingo than you follow the herd. sit, kneel, stand, sit, utter Amen.
I sat next to the pastor's wife because she has the hymnn book I casually glance at to follow along. And on my other side sat a lady with bugs bunny stitched on her hat. I like sitting in places to be entertained.
Sometimes at school I would find the most awkward looking couple in the cafeteria and sit, slowly rubbing elbows with them and nodding my head in their direction. Once I even leaned in to answer a question in their confused conversation, "the term in mullato" rub, rub and then I got up and walked away. You ever rub elbows with a stranger? Its a weird sensation. I think because our elbows rarely touch anything. When a stranger touches your butt you know how to react. (well, usually. it relies on a sensitive Stranger-To-Butt ratio to determine Annoyance-To-Heres My Number reaction) But your elbow? Do you say,"um, excuse me. keep your pointy away from my pointy." Because that sounds lame.
So yes, sitting and being entertained while listening to bubbly tonga. Then Bugs got up and switched seats with a fat lady that put her hand on my knee, said "hello" and stuck out her tongue. The preacher continued tonga "for the erection" bubbles. My eyes shot open, "no bugs, come back Bugs!" Tell the fat lady to get her grubby hands off the skirt I scrubbed by hand yesterday.
Wait, did the preacher just say "erection"? The Pastor's wife showed me her bible study book. The title of today "Resurrection and Ascension". ok, phew I feel better. Its just the lack of "r" sounds and those breath filled "ss" that got me all riled up. pun intended.
Ah, crap. The kid wrapped in the citenge on the back of the woman in front of me just woke up and is staring at me. I give him 45 seconds before he starts to cry. I smile. blink kid. 30. I blew him a bubble from my ever present orbit gum. blink kid. 15. He starts tapping on his mom's shoulder. I smile. blink kid. 5. The mouth opens and the mom swoops him forward. ok, phew I feel better.
I look around the church and there is that familiar question in my mind. Where are all the people my age? My closest friends in the village are in their 30s. The rest are strong old women or dirty kids. I guess the children of the 80s are either working in town or dead; leaving their dirty kids to be whipped into shape by the strong old women.
Grubby Hands next to me is laughing. And quietly repeating bubbles "seka, seka" (laugh, laugh). I sucked in my elbows.
Glancing behind me I see Jane, wife #2 of the family I live with, yawn and smile as we lock eyes. The preacher said "vocation of trust and location of spirit." At least thats what it sounded like. Thats an intersting phrase. Before I had time to contemplate it they rang the cow bell and I stood with the herd for the closing prayer.
Or so I thought.
A lady, looking smart in glasses and a sweet leather jacket, steps forward and raised a wand. Yes! This is why I come. The singing grows louder with each verse - turns out Grubby Hands is a baritone, no surprise there. The wand is thrust about as if the lady was casting spells. While I was instinctively ducking and dodging, 3 young men with 2 makeshift guitars moved forward to sing a Mariachi style ballad. The her "Amens" throughout.
Another man steps forward and the herd politely sits to hear sermon #2. This man is much more fired up then the opening act earlier and he is passionately bellowing "Judas" every other sentence.
Which reminds me of my best friend's stuffed gingerbread man she named Judas. So now I picture him running along the rafters of this crumbling building. You cant catch Judas, RUN!
I should mention that there are 2 loofah sponge balls hanging from the rafters as decoration. So now Im giggling, as preacher man screams "Judas, Confess Judas" and I visualize a gingerbread man swinging on the ball, cackling "I wont confess."
And I look at Grubby Hands and whisper "seka, seka." She nods, I blow a bubble and we rub elbows.
Im almost as lost as the time I alternated between attending Catholic Mass and Pentecostal celebrations. Everyone organizes their own language to describe that haunting spark that connects all humanity. If you dont know the lingo than you follow the herd. sit, kneel, stand, sit, utter Amen.
I sat next to the pastor's wife because she has the hymnn book I casually glance at to follow along. And on my other side sat a lady with bugs bunny stitched on her hat. I like sitting in places to be entertained.
Sometimes at school I would find the most awkward looking couple in the cafeteria and sit, slowly rubbing elbows with them and nodding my head in their direction. Once I even leaned in to answer a question in their confused conversation, "the term in mullato" rub, rub and then I got up and walked away. You ever rub elbows with a stranger? Its a weird sensation. I think because our elbows rarely touch anything. When a stranger touches your butt you know how to react. (well, usually. it relies on a sensitive Stranger-To-Butt ratio to determine Annoyance-To-Heres My Number reaction) But your elbow? Do you say,"um, excuse me. keep your pointy away from my pointy." Because that sounds lame.
So yes, sitting and being entertained while listening to bubbly tonga. Then Bugs got up and switched seats with a fat lady that put her hand on my knee, said "hello" and stuck out her tongue. The preacher continued tonga "for the erection" bubbles. My eyes shot open, "no bugs, come back Bugs!" Tell the fat lady to get her grubby hands off the skirt I scrubbed by hand yesterday.
Wait, did the preacher just say "erection"? The Pastor's wife showed me her bible study book. The title of today "Resurrection and Ascension". ok, phew I feel better. Its just the lack of "r" sounds and those breath filled "ss" that got me all riled up. pun intended.
Ah, crap. The kid wrapped in the citenge on the back of the woman in front of me just woke up and is staring at me. I give him 45 seconds before he starts to cry. I smile. blink kid. 30. I blew him a bubble from my ever present orbit gum. blink kid. 15. He starts tapping on his mom's shoulder. I smile. blink kid. 5. The mouth opens and the mom swoops him forward. ok, phew I feel better.
I look around the church and there is that familiar question in my mind. Where are all the people my age? My closest friends in the village are in their 30s. The rest are strong old women or dirty kids. I guess the children of the 80s are either working in town or dead; leaving their dirty kids to be whipped into shape by the strong old women.
Grubby Hands next to me is laughing. And quietly repeating bubbles "seka, seka" (laugh, laugh). I sucked in my elbows.
Glancing behind me I see Jane, wife #2 of the family I live with, yawn and smile as we lock eyes. The preacher said "vocation of trust and location of spirit." At least thats what it sounded like. Thats an intersting phrase. Before I had time to contemplate it they rang the cow bell and I stood with the herd for the closing prayer.
Or so I thought.
A lady, looking smart in glasses and a sweet leather jacket, steps forward and raised a wand. Yes! This is why I come. The singing grows louder with each verse - turns out Grubby Hands is a baritone, no surprise there. The wand is thrust about as if the lady was casting spells. While I was instinctively ducking and dodging, 3 young men with 2 makeshift guitars moved forward to sing a Mariachi style ballad. The her "Amens" throughout.
Another man steps forward and the herd politely sits to hear sermon #2. This man is much more fired up then the opening act earlier and he is passionately bellowing "Judas" every other sentence.
Which reminds me of my best friend's stuffed gingerbread man she named Judas. So now I picture him running along the rafters of this crumbling building. You cant catch Judas, RUN!
I should mention that there are 2 loofah sponge balls hanging from the rafters as decoration. So now Im giggling, as preacher man screams "Judas, Confess Judas" and I visualize a gingerbread man swinging on the ball, cackling "I wont confess."
And I look at Grubby Hands and whisper "seka, seka." She nods, I blow a bubble and we rub elbows.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Be Our Guest
You ever smell the person your talking to and they smell so bad that you can hear what they're saying over the sound of your judging thoughts? And then you realize your the one that smells! Yea me neither.
You ever know that what your about to eat is going to make you sick? And not sick in a Im so full I couldnt possibly eat another piece of chocolate cake, and you do. But sick in a oh dear Lord if I can make it through this creature dish I vow to dedicate my first born to you just like Abraham and Isaac, Hannah and Samuel, the Big Man and Jesus.
Well I should probably just join a convent and sell my ovaries for these vows are starting to add up.
I was a guest. It was my first meeting with the Zimpelele women's group and they were serious about being taken serious. They had long drawn out speeches about their hard work that is raising money for the orphans in the area. I admit, I was focused and drawn in. They even sang upon my arrival! They showed me some vegetables they were growing which included the largest onions Ive seen in Zambia. These werent just my kind of women, these were MY women. All in a group. Loving me, loving them.
And thats why when they beamed at the presentation of their recently acquired cow, I started to worry. Because Zambians have this thing for milk. sour milk. like not yogurt and not cottage cheese. Just, hi, Im milk in a country with no refridgeration.
Hi, Im the honored guest.
This greeting of the meal reminded me of the first time I tried Kapenta. My host family was so eager for me to try all Zambian delacicies and when they put forward a bowlful of kapenta (small sardine like fish with wide-open eyes just judging you as you eat them) we had quite the introduction. followed by a conversation that ended in an argument. I cant blame them though. If some large creature were going to cook and eat me I would stare them down the whole time too.
Back to the women's group.
We sat down for lunch. THe women huddled on the ground under a tree and me, sitting in the outdoor kitchen with the men. This always confuses me but at least Im not one of those girls thats afraid to eat in front of men.
So after the typical cwibuntu, nsima and chicken (chicken is only typical for guests, so thats one point Me) they brought out the milk. And I, looking nervous, tried to play the polite "Im full" card but it wasnt working. The main man told me I had two options. The fresh milk just taken from the cow - yes that cow right over there. Or the sour milk which would impress them and lead to many more successful meetings.
I thought it over. Doesnt milk have to be pasteurized?
So is option one, sick? and option two, death?
Because if so, I totally choose sick.
And I did, choose option fresh milk.
And mixed it with nsima and sugar. It was delicious.
The good Lord held up his side of the bargain. So I guess I'll just to wait to break the news to my baby's daddy.
You ever know that what your about to eat is going to make you sick? And not sick in a Im so full I couldnt possibly eat another piece of chocolate cake, and you do. But sick in a oh dear Lord if I can make it through this creature dish I vow to dedicate my first born to you just like Abraham and Isaac, Hannah and Samuel, the Big Man and Jesus.
Well I should probably just join a convent and sell my ovaries for these vows are starting to add up.
I was a guest. It was my first meeting with the Zimpelele women's group and they were serious about being taken serious. They had long drawn out speeches about their hard work that is raising money for the orphans in the area. I admit, I was focused and drawn in. They even sang upon my arrival! They showed me some vegetables they were growing which included the largest onions Ive seen in Zambia. These werent just my kind of women, these were MY women. All in a group. Loving me, loving them.
And thats why when they beamed at the presentation of their recently acquired cow, I started to worry. Because Zambians have this thing for milk. sour milk. like not yogurt and not cottage cheese. Just, hi, Im milk in a country with no refridgeration.
Hi, Im the honored guest.
This greeting of the meal reminded me of the first time I tried Kapenta. My host family was so eager for me to try all Zambian delacicies and when they put forward a bowlful of kapenta (small sardine like fish with wide-open eyes just judging you as you eat them) we had quite the introduction. followed by a conversation that ended in an argument. I cant blame them though. If some large creature were going to cook and eat me I would stare them down the whole time too.
Back to the women's group.
We sat down for lunch. THe women huddled on the ground under a tree and me, sitting in the outdoor kitchen with the men. This always confuses me but at least Im not one of those girls thats afraid to eat in front of men.
So after the typical cwibuntu, nsima and chicken (chicken is only typical for guests, so thats one point Me) they brought out the milk. And I, looking nervous, tried to play the polite "Im full" card but it wasnt working. The main man told me I had two options. The fresh milk just taken from the cow - yes that cow right over there. Or the sour milk which would impress them and lead to many more successful meetings.
I thought it over. Doesnt milk have to be pasteurized?
So is option one, sick? and option two, death?
Because if so, I totally choose sick.
And I did, choose option fresh milk.
And mixed it with nsima and sugar. It was delicious.
The good Lord held up his side of the bargain. So I guess I'll just to wait to break the news to my baby's daddy.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Ken Jennings?
I was in the middle of a dream. I was a student at Fuller Theological Seminary and as punishment for making clearly inappropiate jokes about the term "Fuller" I was being made to watch an Extreme House Makeover marathon, hosted by Ken Jennings. (that guy that won Jeopardy too many times)
Obviously it was a dream displaying many resentments harboring in my subconscious. So there I was in a board meeting room, resembling the hall in the University of Oklahoma's library that houses the doctoral theses (which, oddly enough, resembles the great dining hall in Harry Potter films). Anyways, Im sitting, watching Ken Jennings drone on about some poor family which I feel something move across my feet.
It was at this moment when I woke up from the dream and realized I was feeling something moving, across the soles of my feet. So I did what anybody would do after bring startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I started kicking like Mia Hamm in the womb. While simultaneously reaching around for my headlamp. I looked like an epileptic doing snow angels.
Much to my dismay I had been moving around a lot that night and now I was severely disoriented as to my position on my bed in relation to said headlamp.
So I did what anybody would do while being severely disoriented after being startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I curled up into the fetal position and told myself I was in Mother Mary's womb. Safe and softly floating in the holy mother's fluids.
On reflection that sounds disgusting and perhaps blasphemous but right then it was overwhelmingly sooting and surprisingly orienting! I found my headlamp.
Its probably a good time mention my mosquito net, aka the Force Field. Which I have had (up until 2 days ago) complete faith in. What happened 2 days ago?
Well, trying to conserve batteries, I was using a candle to read in bed and, hey, guess what, mosquito nets are flammable. But dont worry, I fixed the hole with a clothes pin...or so I thought.
GAH!
Huge WARNING signs. Open hole in Force Field. Startled awake by an Intruder!
It was time to reasses the the situation.
Headlamp: ON
Phone: 2:34 am
Orbit Gum: Chewing (yes, i sleep next to a pack of gum)
I proceeded to conduct a thorough perimeter check for any untucked areas in addition to the gaping hole.
Perimeter secure.
I conducted a scan, like if X-MEN'S Cyclopes was a grocery store cashier. I was no missing a square inch of my bed. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Kunyina. Tagwe. Nothing!
And thats exactly what I found. Or didnt find. Are you disappointed? I was. Actually no, I was distressed. I mean who can go back to sleep after that.
Good think I keep a bible next to my bed. Leviticus ought to do the trick.
19:11, do not steal. I did use my neighbor's spoon without asking today.
19:30, observe my Sabbath and have reverence for my sanctuary. Damn, today was Saturday and not only was I mocking a theological institution in my sleep but I was awake wishing to occupy the same place as the baby jesus.
This wasnt working. I turned off my headlamp. I spit out the gum.
And started to recite the preamble to the Constitution. "We the people of the United States in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility..."
Ensure what?
That bastard Jefferson!
And to think I told a friend she should name her dog after Jefferson. But she chose Kilroy, a bar she frequented back home, ah yes home where I slept peacefully without a force field, fields like corn and wheat and cotton, cotton candy like soft pillows...
Startled awake at 6:45 by my rooster.
My rooster's name is Ralph. I hate the name almost as much as I hate the rooster.
As the rising sun shed its light into my hut the groggy recollections of the night's activities charged back into focus.
I glared down at my feet and there, wrapped in the net was the anklet my sister had given me. dangling at just the right spot to tickle my toes.
So I chuckled at my paranoia and as I went about getting ready for the day, I promised myself I would never be a grocery store cashier.
Post-Script: Ralph as since been killed. He was delicious (thanks for the fajita seasoning mom) and I enjoyed de-feathering him very much.
Double Post-Script: Jefferson did NOT write the preamble to the constitution. But I bet many of you didnt know that. And seeing as how we are free to interpret the document, Im free to reassign the author.
Triple Dogg-Dare Post-Script: Goin back to the village after Thanksgiving (which was awesome). I will be back Dec 20 on my way up to Northern Province for Christmas. Im doing great but my friends need prayers for their backs, which are abused here.
Obviously it was a dream displaying many resentments harboring in my subconscious. So there I was in a board meeting room, resembling the hall in the University of Oklahoma's library that houses the doctoral theses (which, oddly enough, resembles the great dining hall in Harry Potter films). Anyways, Im sitting, watching Ken Jennings drone on about some poor family which I feel something move across my feet.
It was at this moment when I woke up from the dream and realized I was feeling something moving, across the soles of my feet. So I did what anybody would do after bring startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I started kicking like Mia Hamm in the womb. While simultaneously reaching around for my headlamp. I looked like an epileptic doing snow angels.
Much to my dismay I had been moving around a lot that night and now I was severely disoriented as to my position on my bed in relation to said headlamp.
So I did what anybody would do while being severely disoriented after being startled awake during a Ken Jennings extreme house makeover edition marathon as punishment for being a naughty seminary student : I curled up into the fetal position and told myself I was in Mother Mary's womb. Safe and softly floating in the holy mother's fluids.
On reflection that sounds disgusting and perhaps blasphemous but right then it was overwhelmingly sooting and surprisingly orienting! I found my headlamp.
Its probably a good time mention my mosquito net, aka the Force Field. Which I have had (up until 2 days ago) complete faith in. What happened 2 days ago?
Well, trying to conserve batteries, I was using a candle to read in bed and, hey, guess what, mosquito nets are flammable. But dont worry, I fixed the hole with a clothes pin...or so I thought.
GAH!
Huge WARNING signs. Open hole in Force Field. Startled awake by an Intruder!
It was time to reasses the the situation.
Headlamp: ON
Phone: 2:34 am
Orbit Gum: Chewing (yes, i sleep next to a pack of gum)
I proceeded to conduct a thorough perimeter check for any untucked areas in addition to the gaping hole.
Perimeter secure.
I conducted a scan, like if X-MEN'S Cyclopes was a grocery store cashier. I was no missing a square inch of my bed. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Kunyina. Tagwe. Nothing!
And thats exactly what I found. Or didnt find. Are you disappointed? I was. Actually no, I was distressed. I mean who can go back to sleep after that.
Good think I keep a bible next to my bed. Leviticus ought to do the trick.
19:11, do not steal. I did use my neighbor's spoon without asking today.
19:30, observe my Sabbath and have reverence for my sanctuary. Damn, today was Saturday and not only was I mocking a theological institution in my sleep but I was awake wishing to occupy the same place as the baby jesus.
This wasnt working. I turned off my headlamp. I spit out the gum.
And started to recite the preamble to the Constitution. "We the people of the United States in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility..."
Ensure what?
That bastard Jefferson!
And to think I told a friend she should name her dog after Jefferson. But she chose Kilroy, a bar she frequented back home, ah yes home where I slept peacefully without a force field, fields like corn and wheat and cotton, cotton candy like soft pillows...
Startled awake at 6:45 by my rooster.
My rooster's name is Ralph. I hate the name almost as much as I hate the rooster.
As the rising sun shed its light into my hut the groggy recollections of the night's activities charged back into focus.
I glared down at my feet and there, wrapped in the net was the anklet my sister had given me. dangling at just the right spot to tickle my toes.
So I chuckled at my paranoia and as I went about getting ready for the day, I promised myself I would never be a grocery store cashier.
Post-Script: Ralph as since been killed. He was delicious (thanks for the fajita seasoning mom) and I enjoyed de-feathering him very much.
Double Post-Script: Jefferson did NOT write the preamble to the constitution. But I bet many of you didnt know that. And seeing as how we are free to interpret the document, Im free to reassign the author.
Triple Dogg-Dare Post-Script: Goin back to the village after Thanksgiving (which was awesome). I will be back Dec 20 on my way up to Northern Province for Christmas. Im doing great but my friends need prayers for their backs, which are abused here.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Dinner Table
I love the relationships that are formed over a good meal. The cooking aspect is something Im slowly appreciating. The eating aspect is easier to appreciate. The way food opens the soul of conversation is a holy invention often manipulated by pride.
Thats why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Everyone attempts to respect the holiness of communion and conversation of life flows as easily as a head wound.
On my first Thanksgiving out of the country I am spending the week with other development workers at the Namwianga Mission. Some of which develop the mind (teachers), the body (physicians), and the soul (missionaries). And throughout this time together the holy communion of dinner table conversation turns to the challenges in AIDS work.
The frustrations, the myths, the fact, the hopes, the plans of each worker for the people we are all growing to love. loving to grow?
Prevention to students?
Outreach to mothers?
Education of clubs?
I believe the key is behavior change. With something as abstract as a disease that takes time to infiltrate the body's defenses it seems education lacks impact. But how do you break the chains of tradition?
Hope of the future is often clouded by present horrors.
So how do you escape when trapped?
I believe behavior change is a direct result of relationship influence. Anytime I followed through with a decision it was based on the influence of my family and friends. Influences of encouragement. of fear. desire to imitate or to shed any resemblance.
So it seems that this united people of Zambia must unite with an Influence. People must come together to create behavior change.
For if one can infect so many with a disease than for hope of health to be contagious One must become Two.
Them must become Us.
You must become Me.
Food must become Talk.
Prevent.
Outreach.
Educate.
Above all, Relate.
Holy communion dinner table conversation - Where hope develops the mind/body/soul to change.
Thats why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Everyone attempts to respect the holiness of communion and conversation of life flows as easily as a head wound.
On my first Thanksgiving out of the country I am spending the week with other development workers at the Namwianga Mission. Some of which develop the mind (teachers), the body (physicians), and the soul (missionaries). And throughout this time together the holy communion of dinner table conversation turns to the challenges in AIDS work.
The frustrations, the myths, the fact, the hopes, the plans of each worker for the people we are all growing to love. loving to grow?
Prevention to students?
Outreach to mothers?
Education of clubs?
I believe the key is behavior change. With something as abstract as a disease that takes time to infiltrate the body's defenses it seems education lacks impact. But how do you break the chains of tradition?
Hope of the future is often clouded by present horrors.
So how do you escape when trapped?
I believe behavior change is a direct result of relationship influence. Anytime I followed through with a decision it was based on the influence of my family and friends. Influences of encouragement. of fear. desire to imitate or to shed any resemblance.
So it seems that this united people of Zambia must unite with an Influence. People must come together to create behavior change.
For if one can infect so many with a disease than for hope of health to be contagious One must become Two.
Them must become Us.
You must become Me.
Food must become Talk.
Prevent.
Outreach.
Educate.
Above all, Relate.
Holy communion dinner table conversation - Where hope develops the mind/body/soul to change.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Juggling Thoughts
Help me.
His words are rattling in my mind like a continuous pinball machine.
The sound of them. The meaning of them. The honesty is the request.
Where is your pride? Help yourself!
Sustainable Development.
Teach me how to help myself. Help me to help me.
When you give are you supposed to care what the person does with the gift?
What is policy but the prevention of a broken heart and the redistribution of guilt?
_______________________________________
Lately people have been commenting on my walk. Ive never really thought about it. I walk how I feel. Agreenar loves it and says I walk like a soldier. Which makes me think of high steps and precision. Neither of which are my favorite things. So perhaps it has to do with confidence. Are you a head high and shoulders back or a looking at the grit in the ground type walker?
Im a roamer. My head is high so my vision can roam the sky. clouds, birds, the position of the sun. My eyesight darts among the tree trunks and I nestle my dreams in the leaves.
In small town life people always ask where your headed. Its disconcerting to them when I say I dont know. So sometimes I say the school or the clinic or my home. Depending on which direction Im meandering in. yes, meandering. This is how I walk. Sure, sometimes I have meetings and then I ride my bike. Because if Im supposed to be there then I would rather be There and not on my way. Which is why I like living where Im not supposed to be anywhere, because then its like I can be everywhere.
Meandering through towns, villages, roads and paths.
Through relationships, conversations, decisions.
A destination brings limitation.
My soul is shut up in confinement as the adventure of breath steadies.
Steady breath is disconcerting.
It inhales expectation.
It exhales results.
Yes, the way that I walk is meandering breath.
shallow and deep, short and drawn out, staggered and haughty, exasperating and demanding.
My breath
the barometer of my vision.
Is the Compass
of my footprints
Meandering through this disconcerting life.
His words are rattling in my mind like a continuous pinball machine.
The sound of them. The meaning of them. The honesty is the request.
Where is your pride? Help yourself!
Sustainable Development.
Teach me how to help myself. Help me to help me.
When you give are you supposed to care what the person does with the gift?
What is policy but the prevention of a broken heart and the redistribution of guilt?
_______________________________________
Lately people have been commenting on my walk. Ive never really thought about it. I walk how I feel. Agreenar loves it and says I walk like a soldier. Which makes me think of high steps and precision. Neither of which are my favorite things. So perhaps it has to do with confidence. Are you a head high and shoulders back or a looking at the grit in the ground type walker?
Im a roamer. My head is high so my vision can roam the sky. clouds, birds, the position of the sun. My eyesight darts among the tree trunks and I nestle my dreams in the leaves.
In small town life people always ask where your headed. Its disconcerting to them when I say I dont know. So sometimes I say the school or the clinic or my home. Depending on which direction Im meandering in. yes, meandering. This is how I walk. Sure, sometimes I have meetings and then I ride my bike. Because if Im supposed to be there then I would rather be There and not on my way. Which is why I like living where Im not supposed to be anywhere, because then its like I can be everywhere.
Meandering through towns, villages, roads and paths.
Through relationships, conversations, decisions.
A destination brings limitation.
My soul is shut up in confinement as the adventure of breath steadies.
Steady breath is disconcerting.
It inhales expectation.
It exhales results.
Yes, the way that I walk is meandering breath.
shallow and deep, short and drawn out, staggered and haughty, exasperating and demanding.
My breath
the barometer of my vision.
Is the Compass
of my footprints
Meandering through this disconcerting life.
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