Hitch-hiking to Malawi was rather uneventful this time around. For half the trip I took proper buses to meet up with my 3 pals and we were off to conquer the great depths.
The day before we started the scuba course we had to do a bunch of paperwork. Which always stresses me out. Especially these days when I don’t know which name to use and who in which country is my emergency contact (I still put you Mom). My favorite part was the huge checklist of medical issues to prohibit one from swimming with the fishes. The kind of list you finish reading and automatically flex like a bodybuilder because you figure if all these things haven’t killed my incredible self than this somewhat dangerous activity has no chance.
Then we briefly met the man who was to be our instructor for the next 4 days. And that’s when my confidence of kickin scuba divin’s ass depleted –he was British. As in English. The people who speak gibberish. I can understand Scottish folk thanks to my Dad’s obsession with Braveheart but Im completely lost with Londoners. Luckily there is a lot of hand signals in scuba diving which Im great at thanks to softball. In fact, we invented many of our over the next few days. Most were along the theme of what one would expect coming from a group of health volunteers that routinely teach sex education. Extra points for signing behind the instructor’s back while a person was performing skills such as removing the mask and putting it on again. Which I was a victim of as I started laughing and choking violently and thought ‘well this it it, Im going to drown because of an obscene hand gesture.’
But before we could dive we had to do classroom work. Which meant I had to decipher a British description of another foreign language – physics. As if I have to understand density and thermocline in order to swim. Fuckever. As soon as he diagrammed a balloon, substitute your lungs, as bursting during ascent I was with the program. Keep breathing to equalize – no problem Im a breathing machine.
And then came the construction of the gear. So that we all felt like superheroes. Eventually. The first day I ended up drenched in sweat and bleeding. Apparently wet suits aren’t supposed to feel as tight as they look. And once I figured out all of the snaps, dials and buttons – I was no longer intimidated by the tank but feeling confident to discover the world underwater. Of course there was always the getting back into the boat after a dive. Going into the water from the boat was fine. Flipping backwards is just like falling, which my clumsy self is great at. But pull this 200 pounds back into the boat was a cruel joke by our British gnome friend. I even tried waving them off, ‘its cool, Im just gonna swim it in.’ But they insisted on a group effort to pull me in so that I ended every dive face-down on the deck, fins in the air, hyperventilating and flippin off my “supportive” laughing friends.
I will say that even though they had their shit together on land, I was most comfortable down under. Sinking is no problem and I was often found, sitting on a rock or chillin upside down while my friends took their precious time over-equalizing and finding ‘neutral buoyancy.’ Another stupid theory to describe going with the flow of maintaining a swimming level.
We went on 5 dives and saw some cool fish and rock formations. At the end of the course nobody could really hear and it took nearly a week for our ears to fully equalize. A week that I spent kayaking, snorkeling and cliff jumping.
During my travels back I sat by a woman with a disproportionate baby. Bottle head baby rocked and jiggled with every bump and the curiosity drove me to poke him. Which made him giggle and jiggle. When we arrived at the station the mom handed me the baby then disappeared for a nerve-wracking 15 minutes that I spent singing my hopes of mommy’s return for the top-heavy iwe.
Now safely back in Choma, Im starting off for the village today to have an important meeting where I beg for another family to let me live with them. I don’t have a specific family in mind, Im just going to sell my skills. Which now include scuba diving! That’s bound to impress these landlocked peoples.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Mid-Term Conference
In-Country Stats
Books Read: 98
Books Written: ¼
Snakes In Hut: 3
Snakes Killed: 0
# of exotic diseases self-diagnosed: 3
# of exotic diseases professionally diagnosed: 0
Rules broken: 4
Sunglasses owned: 2
Sunglasses lost: 2
# of people punched: 3
# of times I’ve been punched: 0
Weight loss: 15 pounds
Animals owned: 2
Animals I still own: 0
# of bike crashes: 5
# of knives owned: 3
# of knives I still own: 1
Songs written: 4
Things I’ve Learned
1. Rookie mistake of washing reds with whites applies to every color of Chitenges and your favorite shorts
2. Either name the bugs or kill them because staring at them just makes them scarier
3. The grit of dirt shines pots and pans. Its nature’s elbow grease.
4. Never take your hands off the handlebars.
5. Never wear tropicals when gathering firewood. Potential for machete slashing toes of trip/faceplant to the amusement of locals.
6. Its better to be polite than to be honest.
7. When running, never put the house key in your bra or it could be added to the list of things lost in the bush.
8. Always dance with rastas.
9. I should never own another pet.
10. People die.
11. Kids will do anything for sweeties.
12. Lusaka Zambians have no concept of Village Zambians.
13. Netball has no net.
14. I can start a fire with 1 match.
15. Organizations don’t care about people. People care about people.
It was great to see all my friends again. Besides social time though, the conference was a waste of time for me. Most people have moved on from HIV/AIDS to more tangible work such as agriculture and building projects. And I don’t blame them. It is disheartening to constantly face the beliefs that keep people from making decisions to protect themselves from something they will rarely publicly acknowledge. And it was even more frustrating to listen to the reasons administration is shutting down my program and my province. Because I don’t feel they are giving up on me but instead giving up on people that really need help. And that’s how I learned my latest lesson.
16. I lack the ability to bullshit.
Diplomacy is not a career for me. Which is fine. Because as far as Im concerned, it is a profession of dog-shit motives slicked in cookie dough breath.
I protest their filthy ways.
I attempt to fail at my ideals.
Tomorrow Im headed back to Malawi. This time Im taking a proper bus and meeting some friends. Im going to get scuba certified which Ive wanted to do for awhile. And hopefully I will dance with some rastas. Because that is always some fun. When I come back to good ole Zambia, Im having a village meeting to move because my wives left me and Ive realized I cant take care of myself. And I really want to live with a family. I hope yall are living it up in AmericaLand. Peace!
Books Read: 98
Books Written: ¼
Snakes In Hut: 3
Snakes Killed: 0
# of exotic diseases self-diagnosed: 3
# of exotic diseases professionally diagnosed: 0
Rules broken: 4
Sunglasses owned: 2
Sunglasses lost: 2
# of people punched: 3
# of times I’ve been punched: 0
Weight loss: 15 pounds
Animals owned: 2
Animals I still own: 0
# of bike crashes: 5
# of knives owned: 3
# of knives I still own: 1
Songs written: 4
Things I’ve Learned
1. Rookie mistake of washing reds with whites applies to every color of Chitenges and your favorite shorts
2. Either name the bugs or kill them because staring at them just makes them scarier
3. The grit of dirt shines pots and pans. Its nature’s elbow grease.
4. Never take your hands off the handlebars.
5. Never wear tropicals when gathering firewood. Potential for machete slashing toes of trip/faceplant to the amusement of locals.
6. Its better to be polite than to be honest.
7. When running, never put the house key in your bra or it could be added to the list of things lost in the bush.
8. Always dance with rastas.
9. I should never own another pet.
10. People die.
11. Kids will do anything for sweeties.
12. Lusaka Zambians have no concept of Village Zambians.
13. Netball has no net.
14. I can start a fire with 1 match.
15. Organizations don’t care about people. People care about people.
It was great to see all my friends again. Besides social time though, the conference was a waste of time for me. Most people have moved on from HIV/AIDS to more tangible work such as agriculture and building projects. And I don’t blame them. It is disheartening to constantly face the beliefs that keep people from making decisions to protect themselves from something they will rarely publicly acknowledge. And it was even more frustrating to listen to the reasons administration is shutting down my program and my province. Because I don’t feel they are giving up on me but instead giving up on people that really need help. And that’s how I learned my latest lesson.
16. I lack the ability to bullshit.
Diplomacy is not a career for me. Which is fine. Because as far as Im concerned, it is a profession of dog-shit motives slicked in cookie dough breath.
I protest their filthy ways.
I attempt to fail at my ideals.
Tomorrow Im headed back to Malawi. This time Im taking a proper bus and meeting some friends. Im going to get scuba certified which Ive wanted to do for awhile. And hopefully I will dance with some rastas. Because that is always some fun. When I come back to good ole Zambia, Im having a village meeting to move because my wives left me and Ive realized I cant take care of myself. And I really want to live with a family. I hope yall are living it up in AmericaLand. Peace!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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.
____________________________________________
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.
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.
____________________________________________
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.
Friday, September 11, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Homeward Bound: Lesbian Edition
Walkie Talkie has officially been brainwashed. At first I thought it was an innocent babysitting – catsitting. Then it was an obvious catnapping. I tried enticing Dub-T to return. Romantic songs on the guitar. Humorous anecdotes in radio code. Fish in milk.
But nothing worked.
And then I was in town catching a ride with a friend when he pulled up to a house and said he was making a purchase. “ah man, is this illegal? I don’t really like cops.”
Not that there are actually honest cops here.
I walked into the house compound with the friend and we were greeted by a young girl. No greetings were exchanged. She simply led us through a muddy path overgrown with shrubs and random groups of men eating nshima until we reached a large wooden box.
As she pulled the cover off, I gathered my strength and peered in the see...
Puppies!
Now I have made my disdain for animals clear in the past. But everything is cuter when smaller. Trust me, I’ve seen my brother’s baby pictures.
In this black sea of puppy bodies, intertwined and yawning, lay one white puppy.
A mezungu puppy!
He looked up to meet my astonishment (and to show off his one black eye). And we had a moment. Because I too know how it is to be a white in a sea of black.
A few moments later, back in my friend’s car, I stroked Mezungu’s floppy ears and went through the self-bargaining thoughts we all must face directly after impulse shopping.
‘You like dogs better than cats.’
‘But both are animals and the other one practically ran away.’
‘But Mezungu is a boy and Walkie Talkie is a girl. And you do have bad luck with girls.’
This is thought that won. Because two nights earlier, I had accidentally found myself to be the 3rd wheel on a lesbian date.
Lets get homosexuality out of the way. I have lesbian friends. I have gay friends. Its all good. People have types. I get it. But both these chicks were bisexual.
And I do happen to be bi-phobic.
Because there are no rules. Halfway through the meal Girl #1 announced she had to go to the bathroom. I motioned to stand up and realized Girl #2 wasn’t moving.
‘Oh, do we not do that?’ I mean I know its cliché but I totally go to the bathroom with chicks. It’s a moral support thing. And a gossip thing. Thumbs-up to both from me.
It was about that time that I started throwing back Long Island Iced Teas. We were talking politics and international development theories – real Save The World shit that in my book is confined to 3rd date level. Everytime a waiter came by Girl #1 repeated her mantra ‘oh, I don’t drink alcohol.’ So I repeated mine. ‘well I do boss. I’ll take her share.’
Yes, rules. Hetero-Rules. There are things you talk about on the 3rd date that you only laugh about on the 1st.
And I don’t care if guys are only after one thing. It doesn’t mean they are going to get it but at least I know the end goal.
To bring it back to 1st date humor I mentioned how the large amount of meat I ate in Costa Rica made me sick so Im currently embracing my inner vegetarian. Girl #2 asked of what I thought vegetarianism. Being a student of all “isms” I tried seriously to consider the views. I explained how I love talking to Rastas about the veggie lifestyle. Their zeal for all things living can be inspirational. Ultimately though, life is birth through death. It is a beautifully grotesque cycle.
And just like that we were back in 3rd date seriousness. Contemplation of death. Respect for life.
Apparently I was being insensitive.
So due to the fact that I make a bad lesbian, I bought a male dog.
When I arrived back at my house, I tried to take Mezungu around to greet people. But nobody knew the ‘mezungu’ term. Since Im not a fan of the Tonga equivalent, I began a search for a more appropriate name. The black eye led me to boxing terms. And the People’s Champ won out. So my neighbors and friends welcomed Champ.
And only one made a connection between Mezungu and Champ, ‘ah yes. The white one always wins.’
So now Im a bi-phobic insensitive skinhead sympathizer.
But nothing worked.
And then I was in town catching a ride with a friend when he pulled up to a house and said he was making a purchase. “ah man, is this illegal? I don’t really like cops.”
Not that there are actually honest cops here.
I walked into the house compound with the friend and we were greeted by a young girl. No greetings were exchanged. She simply led us through a muddy path overgrown with shrubs and random groups of men eating nshima until we reached a large wooden box.
As she pulled the cover off, I gathered my strength and peered in the see...
Puppies!
Now I have made my disdain for animals clear in the past. But everything is cuter when smaller. Trust me, I’ve seen my brother’s baby pictures.
In this black sea of puppy bodies, intertwined and yawning, lay one white puppy.
A mezungu puppy!
He looked up to meet my astonishment (and to show off his one black eye). And we had a moment. Because I too know how it is to be a white in a sea of black.
A few moments later, back in my friend’s car, I stroked Mezungu’s floppy ears and went through the self-bargaining thoughts we all must face directly after impulse shopping.
‘You like dogs better than cats.’
‘But both are animals and the other one practically ran away.’
‘But Mezungu is a boy and Walkie Talkie is a girl. And you do have bad luck with girls.’
This is thought that won. Because two nights earlier, I had accidentally found myself to be the 3rd wheel on a lesbian date.
Lets get homosexuality out of the way. I have lesbian friends. I have gay friends. Its all good. People have types. I get it. But both these chicks were bisexual.
And I do happen to be bi-phobic.
Because there are no rules. Halfway through the meal Girl #1 announced she had to go to the bathroom. I motioned to stand up and realized Girl #2 wasn’t moving.
‘Oh, do we not do that?’ I mean I know its cliché but I totally go to the bathroom with chicks. It’s a moral support thing. And a gossip thing. Thumbs-up to both from me.
It was about that time that I started throwing back Long Island Iced Teas. We were talking politics and international development theories – real Save The World shit that in my book is confined to 3rd date level. Everytime a waiter came by Girl #1 repeated her mantra ‘oh, I don’t drink alcohol.’ So I repeated mine. ‘well I do boss. I’ll take her share.’
Yes, rules. Hetero-Rules. There are things you talk about on the 3rd date that you only laugh about on the 1st.
And I don’t care if guys are only after one thing. It doesn’t mean they are going to get it but at least I know the end goal.
To bring it back to 1st date humor I mentioned how the large amount of meat I ate in Costa Rica made me sick so Im currently embracing my inner vegetarian. Girl #2 asked of what I thought vegetarianism. Being a student of all “isms” I tried seriously to consider the views. I explained how I love talking to Rastas about the veggie lifestyle. Their zeal for all things living can be inspirational. Ultimately though, life is birth through death. It is a beautifully grotesque cycle.
And just like that we were back in 3rd date seriousness. Contemplation of death. Respect for life.
Apparently I was being insensitive.
So due to the fact that I make a bad lesbian, I bought a male dog.
When I arrived back at my house, I tried to take Mezungu around to greet people. But nobody knew the ‘mezungu’ term. Since Im not a fan of the Tonga equivalent, I began a search for a more appropriate name. The black eye led me to boxing terms. And the People’s Champ won out. So my neighbors and friends welcomed Champ.
And only one made a connection between Mezungu and Champ, ‘ah yes. The white one always wins.’
So now Im a bi-phobic insensitive skinhead sympathizer.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Parable for Trainees
When you first arrive in country you are sent in smaller groups to stay with a volunteer for a few days to experience village life. I remembered this visit as my favorite part of training, even though you are belittled by the title “Peace Corps Trainee.” Everything is surreal and everybody is just as excited as you are.
Everybody except the host.
Which was me this time. It was interesting being on the other side. The trainees asked so many questions fast fast. I didn’t even have time to pretend I knew the answers. One topic addressed the amount of down time aka free time aka party time in the village. With cancelled meetings and seasonal fieldwork volunteers are forced to improve or invent skills. Mine aren’t really creative: guitar, reading, slingshot. Perhaps in an effort to compliment my time-consuming, mind-numbing, activities, these trainees assumed that my intelligence increased during this time of reading. Ive read 76 books so far! Alas, they didn’t know me before. I recall at one point feeling fairly intelligent. Somewhere between copying A-work algebra in high school and writing a college senior thesis on the misrepresentation of altruism in development organizations.
Sure, I read a lot. But with nobody around to discuss the issue, I typically agree with myself. Consequently my verbal communication has declined. Almost to the point of stuttering.
The trainees were still waiting for my reply on the quest to fill down time with enlightenment. So I told them a parable.
One day in Livingstone I had just finished a successful planning meeting with an NGO for mobile VCT. To celebrate I neglected the bars and ice cream, headed instead straight to the Livingstone Museum to further my intelligence high.
The first exhibit was a bit of a drag. Bones and Rocks. Tiny placards informed me how the variously pointed rocks were used for cutting skins. Im just not one to get excited about an old rock. Especially when I live in a village that isn’t very far removed from stone tools. And this theme, of exhibits mirroring current village life, continued. Because while my Tonga family may have adapted Western clothes, Western technology is (for the most part) an ocean away.
It was then that I reached a room with an entrance sign declaring “Welcome to Our Village.” A short description designated the room as an honest representation of a local village. I entered tentatively, ready to compare it to my beloved Dimbwe.
When I entered the room I was shocked. Its not everyday you see your house, your kitchen, your yard in a museum. The manikins performed average tasks such as fetching water, pounding ground nuts and sifting mealie meal. The entire room even had a dirt floor.
That’s when I noticed the woman in the corner aiding her small child in urination. This was no manikin. This was real life human relief on a dirt floor, inside a museum building, on the corner of a city street. Im not sure what the appropriate response shouldve been but I simply smiled and moved on. It was an authentic representation afterall.
The trainees stared, looking a bit perplexed.
And so I revealed the moral of the parable:
No matter how intelligent you are, you still have to drop trousers to take a piss.
Everybody except the host.
Which was me this time. It was interesting being on the other side. The trainees asked so many questions fast fast. I didn’t even have time to pretend I knew the answers. One topic addressed the amount of down time aka free time aka party time in the village. With cancelled meetings and seasonal fieldwork volunteers are forced to improve or invent skills. Mine aren’t really creative: guitar, reading, slingshot. Perhaps in an effort to compliment my time-consuming, mind-numbing, activities, these trainees assumed that my intelligence increased during this time of reading. Ive read 76 books so far! Alas, they didn’t know me before. I recall at one point feeling fairly intelligent. Somewhere between copying A-work algebra in high school and writing a college senior thesis on the misrepresentation of altruism in development organizations.
Sure, I read a lot. But with nobody around to discuss the issue, I typically agree with myself. Consequently my verbal communication has declined. Almost to the point of stuttering.
The trainees were still waiting for my reply on the quest to fill down time with enlightenment. So I told them a parable.
One day in Livingstone I had just finished a successful planning meeting with an NGO for mobile VCT. To celebrate I neglected the bars and ice cream, headed instead straight to the Livingstone Museum to further my intelligence high.
The first exhibit was a bit of a drag. Bones and Rocks. Tiny placards informed me how the variously pointed rocks were used for cutting skins. Im just not one to get excited about an old rock. Especially when I live in a village that isn’t very far removed from stone tools. And this theme, of exhibits mirroring current village life, continued. Because while my Tonga family may have adapted Western clothes, Western technology is (for the most part) an ocean away.
It was then that I reached a room with an entrance sign declaring “Welcome to Our Village.” A short description designated the room as an honest representation of a local village. I entered tentatively, ready to compare it to my beloved Dimbwe.
When I entered the room I was shocked. Its not everyday you see your house, your kitchen, your yard in a museum. The manikins performed average tasks such as fetching water, pounding ground nuts and sifting mealie meal. The entire room even had a dirt floor.
That’s when I noticed the woman in the corner aiding her small child in urination. This was no manikin. This was real life human relief on a dirt floor, inside a museum building, on the corner of a city street. Im not sure what the appropriate response shouldve been but I simply smiled and moved on. It was an authentic representation afterall.
The trainees stared, looking a bit perplexed.
And so I revealed the moral of the parable:
No matter how intelligent you are, you still have to drop trousers to take a piss.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Four Wives Club
Polygamy is starting to make sense. Since the husband died before I lived here, I don’t know what its like having a man around the houses. But without that drama its like a tamed version of Desperate Housewives. Similar to a sorority, they have a name that binds them and there are rumors of pregnancy for all those random children walking around. But instead of ‘baby daddy’ questions, everyone wonders ‘whose your mama.”
Wife #1 is Ruth. And this lady is old. I like her because we cant understand each other but we both respect each other by not trying. She isn’t one of those annoying people that blabbers on which is good because Im not one of those people-pleasers that pretends to listen. Ruth has gray chest hair. This means that she could kick my ass. And I would let her. When Agreenar dies, she hugged me as I cried. Ever since then, Im Ruth’s #1 fan.
Wife #2 is Jane. Agreenar’s mom. She is a little lady and she loves to smile. Which is great because her teeth don’t like to stay in her mouth. Jane does blabber on. But Ive learned tricks to dealing with this. Like pointing out a scary bug and slipping into the shadows as she kills it. Most recently (and more disagreeably) she has catnapped WalkieTalkie. Currently planning search and rescue by means of mouth-watering-whisker-twitching fish via direct route through musuku trees to my casa Hansel and Gretal style. Minus the oven, since thankfully, Jane doesn’t have one.
Wife #3 is Naomi. Whom I relate to wasabi. I thought we understood each other in the beginning. She smiled and I smiled and then BAM, inhaled instead of swallowed and tears form while Im choking on realizing there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Besides, she squints as she looks at me. And I have yet to figure out if its because she doesn’t trust me or because my skin is so pale she doesn’t know if I actually exist.
Wife #4 is Bedina. She is the one I spend most of my time with nowadays. Once when I was overwhelmed by a large group of visitors I hid in my hut. Worried that Bedina would have to justify my slightly offensive behavior, I tried to come up with an explanation. But she refused my words and said, “your same like me, same like my son.”
One day she came in my hut and asked about the box of wine. I told her what it was, “same like cibuku.”
“ah, yebo!”
“Do you want some?”
She nodded.
And took a gulp. And made the same face as a child swallowing cold medicine. The nasty red Robotussin kind not delicious purple Dimeatapp.
“ah, Lweendo. Its good for you but not good for me.”
Then she asked if she could have one of my bras.
“um sure. That’s kinda weird and it probably wont fit since you’ve had a lot of kids and everyone knows that jacks up your shit but if it will make you happy...”
It happened one day that Bedina was gone visiting a sick relative. Paying little attention to the question ‘but how will I eat’ lingering in my mind, I bravely decided to help the man demolishing Agreenar’s house (brick by brick) in order to build another structure somewhere else. It was strenuous with the blaring sun and soon my hands were blistering since we only had one tool that he was using to break up the clay mortar. Of course he took his cibuku breaks and seriously so I got to relax my dusty palms and cracked fingernails. (where was my brother and his Mary Poppins bag o’ tricks with gloves and tools).
All morning the children were bugging me. Asking to color or to play disckee (Frisbee) or football or dance or... As I yelled at them to “leave me alone, Im working” I saw the 2nd wife walking over, carrying my lunch.
And then it hit me.
I am the man of the houses.
Wife #1 is Ruth. And this lady is old. I like her because we cant understand each other but we both respect each other by not trying. She isn’t one of those annoying people that blabbers on which is good because Im not one of those people-pleasers that pretends to listen. Ruth has gray chest hair. This means that she could kick my ass. And I would let her. When Agreenar dies, she hugged me as I cried. Ever since then, Im Ruth’s #1 fan.
Wife #2 is Jane. Agreenar’s mom. She is a little lady and she loves to smile. Which is great because her teeth don’t like to stay in her mouth. Jane does blabber on. But Ive learned tricks to dealing with this. Like pointing out a scary bug and slipping into the shadows as she kills it. Most recently (and more disagreeably) she has catnapped WalkieTalkie. Currently planning search and rescue by means of mouth-watering-whisker-twitching fish via direct route through musuku trees to my casa Hansel and Gretal style. Minus the oven, since thankfully, Jane doesn’t have one.
Wife #3 is Naomi. Whom I relate to wasabi. I thought we understood each other in the beginning. She smiled and I smiled and then BAM, inhaled instead of swallowed and tears form while Im choking on realizing there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Besides, she squints as she looks at me. And I have yet to figure out if its because she doesn’t trust me or because my skin is so pale she doesn’t know if I actually exist.
Wife #4 is Bedina. She is the one I spend most of my time with nowadays. Once when I was overwhelmed by a large group of visitors I hid in my hut. Worried that Bedina would have to justify my slightly offensive behavior, I tried to come up with an explanation. But she refused my words and said, “your same like me, same like my son.”
One day she came in my hut and asked about the box of wine. I told her what it was, “same like cibuku.”
“ah, yebo!”
“Do you want some?”
She nodded.
And took a gulp. And made the same face as a child swallowing cold medicine. The nasty red Robotussin kind not delicious purple Dimeatapp.
“ah, Lweendo. Its good for you but not good for me.”
Then she asked if she could have one of my bras.
“um sure. That’s kinda weird and it probably wont fit since you’ve had a lot of kids and everyone knows that jacks up your shit but if it will make you happy...”
It happened one day that Bedina was gone visiting a sick relative. Paying little attention to the question ‘but how will I eat’ lingering in my mind, I bravely decided to help the man demolishing Agreenar’s house (brick by brick) in order to build another structure somewhere else. It was strenuous with the blaring sun and soon my hands were blistering since we only had one tool that he was using to break up the clay mortar. Of course he took his cibuku breaks and seriously so I got to relax my dusty palms and cracked fingernails. (where was my brother and his Mary Poppins bag o’ tricks with gloves and tools).
All morning the children were bugging me. Asking to color or to play disckee (Frisbee) or football or dance or... As I yelled at them to “leave me alone, Im working” I saw the 2nd wife walking over, carrying my lunch.
And then it hit me.
I am the man of the houses.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)