Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Knocked Up
The clock is tickin. Cliches. Those bothersome overused expressions that I suppose become clichés simply by the fact that they’ve been proven true for enough people. Like all humble writers I have thought myself to be far above any cliché factor.
I scoff at the preemptory “you know what they say...” before the dreaded life lesson wisdom. After all, I have no idea who “they” are and I want to be the one dispersing great wisdom.
And then it happened.
My younger sister called to say she is pregnant.
My YOUNGER sister.
My brain was stuttering like a prepubescent boy after having walked into the girls locker room. I forgot to blink. I was sure the operators of long distance cross continent phone calls were playing tricks by inserting bits of other peoples’ lives into my organized reality. I pulled it together to give my congratulations and held back what I was really thinking “but you went out of order.”
One would think the physical separation would ease me of any resentment or jealousy or embarrassment. And at first that was true. I filed this fam-add fact into the AmericaLand folder in my mental filing cabinet and got back to work.
Then I was asked to teach a group about family planning. A woman was asking how many children she should have, a man said his wife wanted sexy all the time, I was making them laugh – normal stuff. And then a girl brought up the pressure from relatives and tradition to fulfill her feminine duty of becoming a mother. And I heard the mental cabinet fling open as my WomanHood jumped out to scream, “tick tock motherfucker.”
This is not supposed to happen. I’m in the middle of a big adventure. I have plans for my life damnit. I reviewed these plans, mostly all the interesting jobs I want to try.
1. Sailor
2. Bartender.
3. Taxi Driver
Then began making this new life crisis appropriate adjustments.
1. Marry a Sailor
2. Barista
3. Mini-Van Carpool Driver
Reason eventually took over. I’m still young. There are no even possible candidates for daddy. I took calming yoga breaths and moved past this incident.
Then I moved to live with the new family. Where the cute iwes call me Auntie. One afternoon while I was helping some of the women cook I asked the one mixing nsima with a baby on her back how old she was. She replied, “I was born in 1987.”
The same year as my younger sister.
Then Moses ran up, “Ba Auntie, come play.”
My WomanHood again stepped out to inform me that I am in fact That Aunt. The fun one that plays games and gives out candy and never disciplines. Known as the cool one until the kid is in high school and wonders about his aunt that lives alone spending Friday nights watching Jeopardy with her cats. I might as well start stocking Whiskas now.
This time reason did not step up to save the day. I was no longer in denial about what was happening in AmericaLand and I embraced all levels of jealousy thinking about my mother and older sister (mother of 2) helping the newest inductee shop for those necessary supplies. Not like I could really contribute. The most time I’ve spent observing the Baby Game Plan is here in Zambia. Which means I would wrap the kid in a piece of cloth and give them some rocks and a stick to play with.
I began telling people in hopes I could hear some cliché. I was embarrassed to admit it but at this point I wanted the advice of “they.” But they just misunderstood my emphasis on ‘younger’ sister and were thinking my sister is some 14 year old hoochie. While I picked up the pieces to defend her honor and tried to weasel out some sympathy for me, they looked bored and wanted to know how excited I am to be an aunt.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Then I got a letter with pictures of my now full bellied pregnant sister.
And yes, she is beautiful and glowing. And yes, I cried looking at them. And no, my WomanHood didn’t shout allegations to shred my tender heart. Because I could see how happy she is. And that makes me happy.
So instead of reveling in the horrifying fact that I got drunk last night and wrote a song entitled “Sunrise” to my unborn child, I will embrace this holiday season and be the cool aunt going on another adventure through the Kalahari Desert in Namibia to the Skeleton Coast on this side of the Atlantic.
Tick tock.
I scoff at the preemptory “you know what they say...” before the dreaded life lesson wisdom. After all, I have no idea who “they” are and I want to be the one dispersing great wisdom.
And then it happened.
My younger sister called to say she is pregnant.
My YOUNGER sister.
My brain was stuttering like a prepubescent boy after having walked into the girls locker room. I forgot to blink. I was sure the operators of long distance cross continent phone calls were playing tricks by inserting bits of other peoples’ lives into my organized reality. I pulled it together to give my congratulations and held back what I was really thinking “but you went out of order.”
One would think the physical separation would ease me of any resentment or jealousy or embarrassment. And at first that was true. I filed this fam-add fact into the AmericaLand folder in my mental filing cabinet and got back to work.
Then I was asked to teach a group about family planning. A woman was asking how many children she should have, a man said his wife wanted sexy all the time, I was making them laugh – normal stuff. And then a girl brought up the pressure from relatives and tradition to fulfill her feminine duty of becoming a mother. And I heard the mental cabinet fling open as my WomanHood jumped out to scream, “tick tock motherfucker.”
This is not supposed to happen. I’m in the middle of a big adventure. I have plans for my life damnit. I reviewed these plans, mostly all the interesting jobs I want to try.
1. Sailor
2. Bartender.
3. Taxi Driver
Then began making this new life crisis appropriate adjustments.
1. Marry a Sailor
2. Barista
3. Mini-Van Carpool Driver
Reason eventually took over. I’m still young. There are no even possible candidates for daddy. I took calming yoga breaths and moved past this incident.
Then I moved to live with the new family. Where the cute iwes call me Auntie. One afternoon while I was helping some of the women cook I asked the one mixing nsima with a baby on her back how old she was. She replied, “I was born in 1987.”
The same year as my younger sister.
Then Moses ran up, “Ba Auntie, come play.”
My WomanHood again stepped out to inform me that I am in fact That Aunt. The fun one that plays games and gives out candy and never disciplines. Known as the cool one until the kid is in high school and wonders about his aunt that lives alone spending Friday nights watching Jeopardy with her cats. I might as well start stocking Whiskas now.
This time reason did not step up to save the day. I was no longer in denial about what was happening in AmericaLand and I embraced all levels of jealousy thinking about my mother and older sister (mother of 2) helping the newest inductee shop for those necessary supplies. Not like I could really contribute. The most time I’ve spent observing the Baby Game Plan is here in Zambia. Which means I would wrap the kid in a piece of cloth and give them some rocks and a stick to play with.
I began telling people in hopes I could hear some cliché. I was embarrassed to admit it but at this point I wanted the advice of “they.” But they just misunderstood my emphasis on ‘younger’ sister and were thinking my sister is some 14 year old hoochie. While I picked up the pieces to defend her honor and tried to weasel out some sympathy for me, they looked bored and wanted to know how excited I am to be an aunt.
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Then I got a letter with pictures of my now full bellied pregnant sister.
And yes, she is beautiful and glowing. And yes, I cried looking at them. And no, my WomanHood didn’t shout allegations to shred my tender heart. Because I could see how happy she is. And that makes me happy.
So instead of reveling in the horrifying fact that I got drunk last night and wrote a song entitled “Sunrise” to my unborn child, I will embrace this holiday season and be the cool aunt going on another adventure through the Kalahari Desert in Namibia to the Skeleton Coast on this side of the Atlantic.
Tick tock.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Movin On Up...
Awe-inspirirng African moments are few and far between these days. That horrible “same ole thing” sinks in and I get writers block because nothing surprises or engages my creativity. How did I become used to Africa? Time. I don’t believe time heals. I believe time dulls. And I don’t like it.
Last night I jumped off the truck thankful for a full moon. Since it would be my first night with my new family I was anxious about finding the place in the dark. But, as always, the Zambians were ready to help and a neighbor brought an ox cart for the journey. So I sat bumping along through the bush guided by the moon and stars. Before I moved it took me 5-10 minutes after the 3 hour truck drive. The ox cart arrived at my house after an hour and I had to wake up my Bataata to have him give me the key to my house.
I gotta say this new house is way nicer than my old hut. Its 13x9 and split into 2 rooms. Alongside a dam so now I have waterfront property in the midst of banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees. But the best part is the ma deco (decorations) the family left on the wall for me. A calendar from 2004. Which was when I finished my freshman year in Oregon and decided to move to Oklahoma. A poster “6 priority practices for child survival in our communities.” Im an advocate for de-worming and vitamin A. Also, the token cardboard featuring shiny packages of biscuits and sweeties (cookies and candy). Without a doubt my favorite ma deco is the poster with young, smiling women entitled “Virgin Pride, Virgin Power.” That’s right people, Im keeping the dream alive.
Exhausted from my journey I went straight to sleep excited for the morning and what I hoped to be a block breaking new African day. I awoke to kids screaming. I don’t care what country your in, this is the worst alarm clock because it means you start out the day cursing. And then you just feel dirty. So my dirty self focused on the new bag of coffee I bought, which was beans not grounded. So I went to work grounding it by smashing with a stick when the children swarmed.
It was 4 year old Castro that caught on the fastest that my name in Lweendo and not white person. So he was in charge of ordering the other iwes to get with it. The first luxury to living with a family was sending a teenaged boy for charcoal. (which is more effective than firewood in rainy season). This was great because Im a bit clumsy when riding my bike with a big bag of charcoal wobbling to its own rhythm.
While I was preparing breakfast the kids ran around my house asking what the English word was for everything. This may have been cute before the dull African time thing but all I could think was “get out of my house and stop touching my things.”
And apparently they didn’t understand this Tonga command because those little shits broke my slingshot and then turned on my boxed wine spout and then walked away all pimp like. So we had a little sit down session “this is Ba Lweendo’s vino, if you touch it, I beat you.”
After I straightened out the iwes, I turned my attention to the headmen. Because even though my house is finished, my toilet and kitchen and bathing shelter are all in repair.
At the headmen meeting I noticed that bucket hats and gum boots seemed to be the pre-requisite. Along with the ability to talk without listening to anyone in your immediate vicinity.
And there was I, in the immediate vicinity.
My trick with dealing with dealing with headmen is my trick with dealing with every male. I compliment them on a well done job they have yet to undertake. These compliments build somewhere in their spastic brains until they “decide” they can and in fact will “take care of that for you honey.”
Three days later. Ive forgotten how loud it can be living with a family. People are loud. Our dogs chase our goats. The iwes are crying and running about. And my Bataata actually wants to talk. Im reminding myself this is what I want. Currently my Bataata is sitting under the mango tree, reading a book by David Baldacci. Or at least attempting to read it. I know I have trouble with the legal terms so it seems quite the endeavor for him to undertake.
I should mention some of their names. It will probably take me months to figure it all out but for now, the Simalimbika family. Bataata is Fellow. He has 2 grown sons and 1 daughter living on the compound. Collage, Fatty and Gloria. There are some teenage girls including Couple and Honest. Followed by the Rugrat crew led by Castro and Moses.
So this is my new home. It feels great to be away from my old living situation. Although Ive come to realize how selfish Ive become since living in solitude; which is never something you want to learn about yourself.
But Im seeing a new side to Tonga life. My Bataata is teaching me the history of our village. My Bamama is teaching me to cook. My teenage girls are teaching me to dance. My iwes are teaching me patience.
I think the biggest difference between Americans and other cultures is the idea that I can do anything. That my gender and my education and my background can be a catalyst and not a hindrance.
And that’s what Im teaching.
Last night I jumped off the truck thankful for a full moon. Since it would be my first night with my new family I was anxious about finding the place in the dark. But, as always, the Zambians were ready to help and a neighbor brought an ox cart for the journey. So I sat bumping along through the bush guided by the moon and stars. Before I moved it took me 5-10 minutes after the 3 hour truck drive. The ox cart arrived at my house after an hour and I had to wake up my Bataata to have him give me the key to my house.
I gotta say this new house is way nicer than my old hut. Its 13x9 and split into 2 rooms. Alongside a dam so now I have waterfront property in the midst of banana, mango, guava, and papaya trees. But the best part is the ma deco (decorations) the family left on the wall for me. A calendar from 2004. Which was when I finished my freshman year in Oregon and decided to move to Oklahoma. A poster “6 priority practices for child survival in our communities.” Im an advocate for de-worming and vitamin A. Also, the token cardboard featuring shiny packages of biscuits and sweeties (cookies and candy). Without a doubt my favorite ma deco is the poster with young, smiling women entitled “Virgin Pride, Virgin Power.” That’s right people, Im keeping the dream alive.
Exhausted from my journey I went straight to sleep excited for the morning and what I hoped to be a block breaking new African day. I awoke to kids screaming. I don’t care what country your in, this is the worst alarm clock because it means you start out the day cursing. And then you just feel dirty. So my dirty self focused on the new bag of coffee I bought, which was beans not grounded. So I went to work grounding it by smashing with a stick when the children swarmed.
It was 4 year old Castro that caught on the fastest that my name in Lweendo and not white person. So he was in charge of ordering the other iwes to get with it. The first luxury to living with a family was sending a teenaged boy for charcoal. (which is more effective than firewood in rainy season). This was great because Im a bit clumsy when riding my bike with a big bag of charcoal wobbling to its own rhythm.
While I was preparing breakfast the kids ran around my house asking what the English word was for everything. This may have been cute before the dull African time thing but all I could think was “get out of my house and stop touching my things.”
And apparently they didn’t understand this Tonga command because those little shits broke my slingshot and then turned on my boxed wine spout and then walked away all pimp like. So we had a little sit down session “this is Ba Lweendo’s vino, if you touch it, I beat you.”
After I straightened out the iwes, I turned my attention to the headmen. Because even though my house is finished, my toilet and kitchen and bathing shelter are all in repair.
At the headmen meeting I noticed that bucket hats and gum boots seemed to be the pre-requisite. Along with the ability to talk without listening to anyone in your immediate vicinity.
And there was I, in the immediate vicinity.
My trick with dealing with dealing with headmen is my trick with dealing with every male. I compliment them on a well done job they have yet to undertake. These compliments build somewhere in their spastic brains until they “decide” they can and in fact will “take care of that for you honey.”
Three days later. Ive forgotten how loud it can be living with a family. People are loud. Our dogs chase our goats. The iwes are crying and running about. And my Bataata actually wants to talk. Im reminding myself this is what I want. Currently my Bataata is sitting under the mango tree, reading a book by David Baldacci. Or at least attempting to read it. I know I have trouble with the legal terms so it seems quite the endeavor for him to undertake.
I should mention some of their names. It will probably take me months to figure it all out but for now, the Simalimbika family. Bataata is Fellow. He has 2 grown sons and 1 daughter living on the compound. Collage, Fatty and Gloria. There are some teenage girls including Couple and Honest. Followed by the Rugrat crew led by Castro and Moses.
So this is my new home. It feels great to be away from my old living situation. Although Ive come to realize how selfish Ive become since living in solitude; which is never something you want to learn about yourself.
But Im seeing a new side to Tonga life. My Bataata is teaching me the history of our village. My Bamama is teaching me to cook. My teenage girls are teaching me to dance. My iwes are teaching me patience.
I think the biggest difference between Americans and other cultures is the idea that I can do anything. That my gender and my education and my background can be a catalyst and not a hindrance.
And that’s what Im teaching.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Scuba Diving
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.
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.
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.
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