I was sitting with a glass of wine enjoying the first day in weeks that the sun had decided to peek through the clouds. That morning I had spent fishing with my bamama. With two long sticks and a piece of twine knotted to the ends of our fishing poles. Dressed in my new rainboots “ma jumbo” I trudged behind my barefooted bamama as she squished through the tall grasses and moist soil to the bank of our dam. She put the worm on my hook and with a piece of a flip-flop acting as a bobber, I dropped the line from our perch a couple feet above the water’s edge. Quickly the minnow sized fish were biting and since Im not one to touch anything squirmy we developed a system whereby she did the dirty work of baiting the hook and putting the fish in our bucket, while I got to feel the anticipation when dropping the line and accomplishment when pulling out the line with a dangling fish. After a few hours we had enough for the children’s relish (the term for the meat or vegetables accompanying nshima) so we arrived back at home to sit and rest. I proudly showed my bataata our catch and he laughed as I told him that I feared to touch the fish, asking me “Why do you fear a relish? Its our way.”
I was sunburned and tired like every good fishing day, feeling that I conquered the depths, provided food and yada yada yada. The pop in the swelling of my ego occurred with the pitter patter of 4 yr old Castro’s feet and the slurring of children’s excited words. Kid Tonga takes me almost as long as Old Man’s Tonga to decipher. But eventually I realized Castro said my bamama was calling me because the baby is coming.
Baby is coming? I got up from my comfortable seat and walked to the house of my bamama’s married daughter, Felista, located on the edge of our family compound about 100 yards from my hut. Baby is coming? Lately we have had puppies and goats popping up so I figured it was some other creature pro-creating and my bamama wanted to order me around.
Upon reaching the home, it was eerily quiet. I thought I was in the wrong place. No movement in the cikuta (outdoor kitchen). No movement in the goat’s home. Even the chickens had taken off for the day. So I started shouting the usual “odi” acknowledging my presence and began wondering if either Castro was playing a joke or my Tonga was much worse than I thought. Then I heard my bamama beckoning me from inside the house. I walked in to the dark, mud smeared walls as my eyes adjusted I saw my bamama standing over Felista who was lying naked on the thin mattress and breathing heavily.
Baby Person is coming!
“Lweendo we need a torch. And gloves. Run fast fast!”
So I sprint out of the darkness into the bright day with my mind racing faster than my feet. Baby Person is coming. We need to call 911. Baby Person is coming!
Upon entering my own dark hut I stumble around blind finding the gloves in my PC med kit and grabbing the headlamp off my bed. Then when sprinting back to Felista’s hut I made a conscious effort to focus my mind. Thank God I already started drinking. Its game time. I am 911.
Entering the hut for the second time I took in the surroundings. The thin mattress, lacking sheets, was a foot above the dirt floor on top a crudely crafted frame. I put the headlamp on my bamama’s head and we both put on gloves. I spread a piece of plastic over the mattress and Felista lay atop it. I held her legs and my bamama pressed on her stomach. And what do you know you seriously just have to catch the baby. The eerie quiet I perceived earlier now felt mystical. The blue slimy head was followed by all the correct body parts while a puff of “wow” escaped my lips. I began wiping away the fluids that seemed to encase the baby like shrink wrapped goods at the supermarket. My bamama picked up the same spool of thread we had used for fishing line that morning and cut two pieces. I held the sprawling fingers and toes as my bamama tied the knots around the umbilical cord. She then used a razor blade to cut the cord and blood swirled on the plastic with the other fluids. My bamama utters the first words encouraging the small gurgles to become a loud cry. Then she rushed outside for water as I nervously held the baby adding my English encouragements for the baby to cry. I took those few seconds to tell Felista she now had a baby girl. Then my bamama rushed in and spit water on the baby’s back which immediately drew forth the beautiful wails of a baby person. I wrapped the baby girl in a citenge and another thicker blanket then placed her on the dirt floor. We turned our attention back to the new mother and the dangling cord attached to a placenta. My bamama again placed her hands on the belly while gently pulling on the cord but when only half of the placenta would come our strategy was for gravity to take over. So I grabbed Felista’s arms and she slid off the bed along with the plastic to squat on the ground. Quickly enough it was finished and again Felista lay on the bed as I placed the baby beside her. My bamama finally smiled and let loose the African woman praise yelp as I was half crying and half laughing.
“Ah, was this your first time Lweendo?”
Which made me only laugh louder. Yes, definitely yes.
My bamama went outside to dig a hole behind the house for the placenta and I walked back to my hut telling the men sitting so casually under a tree that we have been given a baby girl.
My bataata said we are lucky the baby is ok and the mother is ok. And after he laughed at my inquiry into his presence at any births he said, “no, no. I fear too much.”
But why do you fear? Its our way.
I weighed the baby 1 week later and she weighs a measly 4.4lbs. They asked me to fill out the birth form for the clinic and as they proudly watched my hand writing the name of the village and the necessary facts they officially announced the arrival of Baby Lweendo.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Feb Funk
For a few years now I have fallen victim to the February Funk. It seems unfair to have an entire month of bad luck but with how well the other 11 months always go, I guess I deserve it. I know I certainly cant help it.
The Clinic. Creeper Central. Everytime I go there I remember why I don’t go there. A woman greeted me “One day I will come and take you.” “um, take me where?”Laughter, no cackling!
I greeted the health technician newly arrived in Dimbwe. “hows the village life?”
“ah...but anyways I will become used to it in time. You will help be used?” Nope, not even a little.
My Bataata was in such a hurry to get there and then all we do is wait. And wait. And with every greeting, every smile, every awkward stare Im using up my daily quotient for cross-cultural interaction time. I can actually feel myself get weaker as the minutes drag to hours and my ears stop straining and my mind stops translating and my eyes stare at the ants marching along the crack in the cement floor. And then a whisper, “the woman was struck by lightning.” Yes! Village gossip. “She was sitting under a tree when the tree was struck. The dog, next to her, dead! The chickens, surrounding her, paralyzed! And her, yes even her, she lay dead for 1 hour. Her husband, fearing to touch her body. Her clothes, burned like rags.” Wait for it...The Zambians are dramatic in their storytelling. Fanning themselves and shaking their heads. The listeners are as loud as the narrator with sighs and gasps interspersing words. Wait for it...”God would not do this.” “I hear her right side is burned and missing.” And it is...juju! “yes yes. Bad magic. She is not being herself these days.”
Um no kidding. The woman was sitting and shelling nuts when she got lit up like a Christmas tree as surrounding animals died and she isn’t herself these days. Imagine!
“Lweendo, we are ready to begin the meeting.” My Bataata and I, along with one of the community health workers, sat with the new health technician, who said, “now lets meet. Time is money. Me, I keep time.” I almost burst out laughing. You may be Zambian but you have been in a village for 3 weeks. Time means nothing. Unless you mean seasons and the time it takes for the crops to grow. This Leather Wearing City Slicker has a lot to learn.
Now obviously my bad luck funk had yet to set in. For Christmas tree lady sure but this year the annoyances of February would be a slow onset.
I was called up to Lusaka for the dreaded swine flu vaccine which apparently is a big squabble in America but Ive long given up my body to the needles of Uncle Sam. So I decided to put some rare effort into my appearance and travel in style. The other volunteers in Southern are classy enough to travel on the Business Class of the bus line, why couldn’t I?! Mistake #1.
I dressed in trousers that were actually clean, my town trousers. And a shirt that had never been tainted with village dirt. I even did my hair. But even though I was looking like a white woman who obviously does business, I was told the elite line was full and I would be among the common folk on the 12:30 bus. I waited and I waited and at 2:30 they told me the 12:30 doesn’t actually exist. But the 3:00 bus will be leaving soon. This is preposterous! I have business. I could be getting the flu right now. And around 5:00 I was informed the bus had broken down. So I pulled my best ugly American and demanded my money back. I stayed in town that night with other volunteers that told me it was really my fault because I wasn’t being the simple village girl that I am.
The next day I went out dressed as scrubby as usual and hitchhiked with a caravan of Afrikaners. We were stopped by the police at every checkpoint and at one we had to wait for an hour due to a wrong bumper sticker or my bad luck.
After the shot and upon my return I stopped at the atm to withdraw money before my trip back to the village. And due to some unknown monthly fee I was the equivalent of $5.00 below the minimum amount required to withdraw. I hate being broke in Africa! Just look around, you have no right to complain. This is when I knew the Feb Bad Luck Funk was in full bloom. I thought I would be safe in the village. Safe in the way that the juju spirits don’t know my ancestors so they cant find me (so says my friend Zulu) but on the 3rd day in the village I went a little crazy. Now before coming here my definition of crazy was unkempt hair, mismatching socks and a vocal muttering dialogue with me, myself and I. If that were the case I was crazy after my first month in village life. We don’t need details but I got the hell out of dodge and after a refreshing visit to Christa’s village I ended up in town with a visit from Carroll-Anne. Like the lazy host that I am, she bought and cooked the food while I watched. Since I trust Carroll-Anne’s judgment, I had her look at a peculiar 2 inch long red line on my foot. Something I had noticed a week prior and had dismissed as a floating vein. Carroll-Anne confidently voiced my silent fear that my innocent red line was an intruder. A worm. I quickly named him Mr. Squiggles in order to befriend the stowaway and relieve my dry heaving at the fact that there was a living and growing creature in my foot.
A few days later Mr. Squiggles and I said bye to Carroll-Anne and traveled to Tim’s village. He was hosting the new volunteers fresh from America for a few days so they could get their first view of village life. Either I’ve been here too long or these were just the lamest Americans accepted into Peace Corps. There was a couple from a certain part in the country (rhyming with Lexus) that seriously discussed getting a gun for their hut. Um, I think you joined the wrong Corps. They jumped at the bugs and complained about the rain and were just generally pathetic. Then there was this sweet Missouri botanist that giggled every time I said photosynthesis. So of course I said it a lot. She had some sweet camping gear that I give 6 months before Africa rips it all apart. And last but not least was the garbage man from Maine. Now that’s a man. He was so laid back about everything me and Tim swore he’s been here a year already.
They had so much energy. They wanted to start a fire and cook when it was pouring rain! I tried to explain I usually just sit and count raindrops but I was white noise to these excited newbies. They crossed the line when they asked for the amount of people we have helped. Me and Tim looked at each other and then chose random numbers. He said 120 and I said 25. It was my jersey number in high school.
What I had hoped was to be an encouraging time with people excited for the cause and full of wonder at each new thing turned out to be a draining 4 days defending the ways of Zambians and ensuring them that the bugs wont kill you...well, not that one maybe that other one.
Tim’s Bataata saw Mr. Squiggles and immediately grabbed my foot. The wife brought a burning stick and I started screaming for white medicine. The Bataata nodded and said, “We will make a small cut and apply fertilizer to kill the worm. Then we pull out the worm.”
That’s not white medicine, right?
Once in town I had planned to purchase pills that would dissolve Mr. Squiggles but I woke up with a fever and soon I was projectile puking everywhere. Everyone was a target. After a couple days of that the doctor confirmed I had the flu.
The Feb Bad Luck Funk’s Grand Finale.
But now its March.
I got paid.
Im less crazy.
I started the meds to kill Mr. Squiggles.
Im headed back to the village in my scrubby clothes excited to inquire about Christmas Tree Lady.
Heres to another 11 months of peace.
The Clinic. Creeper Central. Everytime I go there I remember why I don’t go there. A woman greeted me “One day I will come and take you.” “um, take me where?”Laughter, no cackling!
I greeted the health technician newly arrived in Dimbwe. “hows the village life?”
“ah...but anyways I will become used to it in time. You will help be used?” Nope, not even a little.
My Bataata was in such a hurry to get there and then all we do is wait. And wait. And with every greeting, every smile, every awkward stare Im using up my daily quotient for cross-cultural interaction time. I can actually feel myself get weaker as the minutes drag to hours and my ears stop straining and my mind stops translating and my eyes stare at the ants marching along the crack in the cement floor. And then a whisper, “the woman was struck by lightning.” Yes! Village gossip. “She was sitting under a tree when the tree was struck. The dog, next to her, dead! The chickens, surrounding her, paralyzed! And her, yes even her, she lay dead for 1 hour. Her husband, fearing to touch her body. Her clothes, burned like rags.” Wait for it...The Zambians are dramatic in their storytelling. Fanning themselves and shaking their heads. The listeners are as loud as the narrator with sighs and gasps interspersing words. Wait for it...”God would not do this.” “I hear her right side is burned and missing.” And it is...juju! “yes yes. Bad magic. She is not being herself these days.”
Um no kidding. The woman was sitting and shelling nuts when she got lit up like a Christmas tree as surrounding animals died and she isn’t herself these days. Imagine!
“Lweendo, we are ready to begin the meeting.” My Bataata and I, along with one of the community health workers, sat with the new health technician, who said, “now lets meet. Time is money. Me, I keep time.” I almost burst out laughing. You may be Zambian but you have been in a village for 3 weeks. Time means nothing. Unless you mean seasons and the time it takes for the crops to grow. This Leather Wearing City Slicker has a lot to learn.
Now obviously my bad luck funk had yet to set in. For Christmas tree lady sure but this year the annoyances of February would be a slow onset.
I was called up to Lusaka for the dreaded swine flu vaccine which apparently is a big squabble in America but Ive long given up my body to the needles of Uncle Sam. So I decided to put some rare effort into my appearance and travel in style. The other volunteers in Southern are classy enough to travel on the Business Class of the bus line, why couldn’t I?! Mistake #1.
I dressed in trousers that were actually clean, my town trousers. And a shirt that had never been tainted with village dirt. I even did my hair. But even though I was looking like a white woman who obviously does business, I was told the elite line was full and I would be among the common folk on the 12:30 bus. I waited and I waited and at 2:30 they told me the 12:30 doesn’t actually exist. But the 3:00 bus will be leaving soon. This is preposterous! I have business. I could be getting the flu right now. And around 5:00 I was informed the bus had broken down. So I pulled my best ugly American and demanded my money back. I stayed in town that night with other volunteers that told me it was really my fault because I wasn’t being the simple village girl that I am.
The next day I went out dressed as scrubby as usual and hitchhiked with a caravan of Afrikaners. We were stopped by the police at every checkpoint and at one we had to wait for an hour due to a wrong bumper sticker or my bad luck.
After the shot and upon my return I stopped at the atm to withdraw money before my trip back to the village. And due to some unknown monthly fee I was the equivalent of $5.00 below the minimum amount required to withdraw. I hate being broke in Africa! Just look around, you have no right to complain. This is when I knew the Feb Bad Luck Funk was in full bloom. I thought I would be safe in the village. Safe in the way that the juju spirits don’t know my ancestors so they cant find me (so says my friend Zulu) but on the 3rd day in the village I went a little crazy. Now before coming here my definition of crazy was unkempt hair, mismatching socks and a vocal muttering dialogue with me, myself and I. If that were the case I was crazy after my first month in village life. We don’t need details but I got the hell out of dodge and after a refreshing visit to Christa’s village I ended up in town with a visit from Carroll-Anne. Like the lazy host that I am, she bought and cooked the food while I watched. Since I trust Carroll-Anne’s judgment, I had her look at a peculiar 2 inch long red line on my foot. Something I had noticed a week prior and had dismissed as a floating vein. Carroll-Anne confidently voiced my silent fear that my innocent red line was an intruder. A worm. I quickly named him Mr. Squiggles in order to befriend the stowaway and relieve my dry heaving at the fact that there was a living and growing creature in my foot.
A few days later Mr. Squiggles and I said bye to Carroll-Anne and traveled to Tim’s village. He was hosting the new volunteers fresh from America for a few days so they could get their first view of village life. Either I’ve been here too long or these were just the lamest Americans accepted into Peace Corps. There was a couple from a certain part in the country (rhyming with Lexus) that seriously discussed getting a gun for their hut. Um, I think you joined the wrong Corps. They jumped at the bugs and complained about the rain and were just generally pathetic. Then there was this sweet Missouri botanist that giggled every time I said photosynthesis. So of course I said it a lot. She had some sweet camping gear that I give 6 months before Africa rips it all apart. And last but not least was the garbage man from Maine. Now that’s a man. He was so laid back about everything me and Tim swore he’s been here a year already.
They had so much energy. They wanted to start a fire and cook when it was pouring rain! I tried to explain I usually just sit and count raindrops but I was white noise to these excited newbies. They crossed the line when they asked for the amount of people we have helped. Me and Tim looked at each other and then chose random numbers. He said 120 and I said 25. It was my jersey number in high school.
What I had hoped was to be an encouraging time with people excited for the cause and full of wonder at each new thing turned out to be a draining 4 days defending the ways of Zambians and ensuring them that the bugs wont kill you...well, not that one maybe that other one.
Tim’s Bataata saw Mr. Squiggles and immediately grabbed my foot. The wife brought a burning stick and I started screaming for white medicine. The Bataata nodded and said, “We will make a small cut and apply fertilizer to kill the worm. Then we pull out the worm.”
That’s not white medicine, right?
Once in town I had planned to purchase pills that would dissolve Mr. Squiggles but I woke up with a fever and soon I was projectile puking everywhere. Everyone was a target. After a couple days of that the doctor confirmed I had the flu.
The Feb Bad Luck Funk’s Grand Finale.
But now its March.
I got paid.
Im less crazy.
I started the meds to kill Mr. Squiggles.
Im headed back to the village in my scrubby clothes excited to inquire about Christmas Tree Lady.
Heres to another 11 months of peace.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Wham, Bam, Screw You Nam!
He was wearing a Che Guevara t-shirt over baggy jeans straight from my sister’s rave days and carrying a silver briefcase. Those are three things I wouldn’t trust when seen solo but when combined I knew I had to talk to that guy.
My chance came when I was enjoying an after dinner glass of wine with my friends Carroll-Anne and Shadow. (Shadow is a traveling name. Carroll-Anne hates her traveling name so I only use it when face to face to get a thrill from her death glare). This interesting adorned man, now wearing a Coat of Character, put said coat on a trembling Shadow in a gentlemanly gesture. As with most gentlemen and their gestures he failed to notice that Shadow was trembling from his creepiness and not her temperature. I took it upon myself to introduce myself and question the Coat of Character. A coat not unlike those adorning many homeless men walking the streets of a big city. A coat that says people have died while wearing me and their souls stitch my inseam. A coat when combined with Che Guevara t-shirt, rave jeans and non-descript briefcase alert ME that I will do everything to be That Guy’s friend so that when anthrax tainted ecstasy is released at the next labor union strike and He starts collecting body pieces (because what else would he put in a briefcase) then I would be safe and happy with own Coat of Character. And so, C.J. from Durban became a prominent figure in our Namibian vacation.
Up until this point vacation had been somewhat normal. I met up with 7 friends in Livingstone for Christmas. They all live in other parts of Zambia so it was fun for me to show them around TongaLand. We visited Victoria Falls and I can now say that if all my friends jumped off a bridge, I wouldn’t. Because one by one they went bungee jumping and I cringed while videotaping. Of course this was partly because the day before I had assumed the Meryl Streep role in The River Wild and rafted the Zambezi River. Ive been rafting numerous times before and enjoyed the slight adrenaline rush coupled with laughing while bouncing along. This time there was no laughing. At my place in the front, alongside PCV Tim, we got a clear view of the rapids to come as the boat dipped down seconds before collision and I would inevitably utter a curse word. After a couple hours Tim couldn’t handle it anymore and yelled at me over the crashing waves. “Seriously Britt, those could be the last words I hear!” So I switched to something more appropriate for his mid-western Catholic upbringing and started hailing Mary like baby Jesus at supper time. Our boat flipped twice. I was thrown out 2 more times. Once I slammed headfirst Crash Dummy style into the rocks on the river side when we were wildly spinning. And I took a paddle to the face. Now I know why they make you wear helmets. When we docked at the end I nearly kissed the shore and promised never to test fate again. Thus I was videotaping and feeling like an accomplice to more asinine actions.
Our one day stop in Windhoek was over the weekend when everyone was in transit to the beach town Swakopmund for New Years. It made the capital seem like a ghost town and mistakenly modern. For when Carroll-Anne and I sat down at a proper table with advertisements shouting off the wall we thought these were signs that we would actually get what we ordered. But when bowls of lettuce showed up and we were told that the ingredients were missing to make lettuce into the distinguishing salads we had ordered, I knew the amenities were a façade. “Can I say something? I want to say something.” No. You will sit there and eat your leaf and think menacing thoughts of this restaurant and this country and this continent. Just like me. “ok, Nana. You can say something.” Even though this is extremely crisp lettuce. And they even washed it!
Soon we were on our way to Swakopmund. The attractive, middle aged Afrikaner woman giving us a ride smiled as Gizmo commented on her music. “It’s my son’s cd.” As she slipped off her wedding ring. “Im going to meet my girlfriends for the holiday. What are your plans?” Gizmo’s WASP eyes lit up and I ordered 2012’s earth ending quakes and fires to ascend right now.
But then we found ourselves at the backpackers lodge and in company of permanent resident C.J. “Ive been here for 3 months but my country, they doesn’t know it. I have a doctor’s note.” Wink. A doctor’s note? What sickness keeps you out of your own country?
My friends and I breathed in the salt air and arrived at the open air club on the sand with the loudest music and 90% of Namibia’s high school student body. What? The place was swarming with acne, hair gel, neon sunglasses and Smirnoff Ice. Apparently we had stumbled on Southern Africa’s version of Spring Break Cancun. This scene would be repeated night after night until New Year’s Eve when it was crowned with sweaty bodies dancing around a bonfire. And this is where I blame the downfall of the rest of our trip.
Every year I have an anti-social tradition of staying in and reflecting on all the bad times of the year past while realizing Ive made it to another year with brand new horrors awaiting. Its not pessimistic. Its realistically slapping the world in the face before it pinches you back. But this year I get sucked into teenie bopper angst and what happens...
The Skeleton Coast Automobile Debacle. Why is it called the Skeleton Coast? Is it a graveyard? Of ships? Of animals? No. Of your pride? Of your checkbook? Of your bladder? Yes.
On New Years Day I walked all over the town with Carroll-Anne just to discover the rental car’s office was closed. Of course that turned out to be the wrong company and though we were a couple hours late to the proper company, our reservation and vehicle were gone due to a 10 minute wait policy. Apparently some things in Africa do operate within 10 mins. Things like greeting the woman selling bananas then buying bananas then thanking her and then sending greetings to her family. And things like American rental car companies.
Two days later we were on the road. But not in one large vehicle. The 8 of us were split into 2 tiny Nissans meant to be taxis. When me and the only other person knowledgeable and experienced with driving a standard realized we had left our licenses at PC HQ in Lusaka, the two with licenses started hyper-ventilating. We needed Carroll-Anne and Buck to drive us out of this teenaged hormone city and far away from C.J. with his suitcase and Coat of Character. I remembered how stressful it was for me to learn and how long it took to be comfortable. How I hated my mom for yelling “push in the clutch.” How I hated the car for having 3 pedals. How I hated every driver for honking when I stalled.
And now I and the other knowledgeable person were going to sit shotgun and teach and yell and be hated! So I looked at Carroll-Anne and did what any friend would “Im abandoning you. I’ll be in the other car coaching Buck. Your gonna do great.” Thumbs up!
What I forgot to factor in was the fact that my great state of California gives away licenses like Halloween candy. So most of my instructions weren’t “push in the clutch” but remember you have to steer and the brake is for stopping.
The worst place for car trouble is the desert. The majestic desolation steals hope of passer-bys due to the 360 degree view of the horizon which reminds you that urination will be in full view of God, the coastline and the other 7 people on this trip that you now hate because your teaching and ADD male how to drive and your best friend is mentally abusing herself while they all giggle and take pictures of NOTHING! Its sand. Get over it.
The Skeleton Coast was sand and water and a teeth stained dude wearing a Cowboy hat who sold us a tire for our FIRST flat. Lets just say Nissan taxis were not meant for canvassing the African bush.
Arriving back in Zambia has never felt so good. We don’t drive here. And when a vehicle we are in breaks, village ingenuity fixes it with spit and melted flip-flops. But now, due to the over charges with the vehicles, Im in debt to Carroll-Anne. Did I mention she is a great driver?!
Everyone has their theory of when the trip went wrong. Some don’t even think it went that wrong. I guess we all made it back safely so there is a surprise.
And of course, I can rest assure that I’ll have a heads up on the next house/trance dance Latin induced attack via briefcase so I can hide in my own Coat of Character. But if anyone wants my advice?
Stay the hell out of Nam.
Description of Pictures in last blog posted by PCV Christa
1. Signpost leading to my village; Dimbwe
2. Standing in front of my house with my Bataata, Fellow
3. Pretending to help fix my bike, PCV Tim is on the right
4. Moses - the 2 year old brat
5. Forgot the kids name, he is in charge of the goats
6. Clyde – he is in charge of the cows
7. Choolwe
8. Castro
9. Sitting with my boys at my house
10. My bathing shelter that is currently occupied by a dog and her brand new 6 puppies
11. My latrine – should have a roof but it’s a work in progress
12. Cikuta – the kitchen the family cooks in, the dish rack on the right, the structure on left is used to store maize
13. View from my house. Garden and fields.
14. The well
15-pictures of the inside of my house
My chance came when I was enjoying an after dinner glass of wine with my friends Carroll-Anne and Shadow. (Shadow is a traveling name. Carroll-Anne hates her traveling name so I only use it when face to face to get a thrill from her death glare). This interesting adorned man, now wearing a Coat of Character, put said coat on a trembling Shadow in a gentlemanly gesture. As with most gentlemen and their gestures he failed to notice that Shadow was trembling from his creepiness and not her temperature. I took it upon myself to introduce myself and question the Coat of Character. A coat not unlike those adorning many homeless men walking the streets of a big city. A coat that says people have died while wearing me and their souls stitch my inseam. A coat when combined with Che Guevara t-shirt, rave jeans and non-descript briefcase alert ME that I will do everything to be That Guy’s friend so that when anthrax tainted ecstasy is released at the next labor union strike and He starts collecting body pieces (because what else would he put in a briefcase) then I would be safe and happy with own Coat of Character. And so, C.J. from Durban became a prominent figure in our Namibian vacation.
Up until this point vacation had been somewhat normal. I met up with 7 friends in Livingstone for Christmas. They all live in other parts of Zambia so it was fun for me to show them around TongaLand. We visited Victoria Falls and I can now say that if all my friends jumped off a bridge, I wouldn’t. Because one by one they went bungee jumping and I cringed while videotaping. Of course this was partly because the day before I had assumed the Meryl Streep role in The River Wild and rafted the Zambezi River. Ive been rafting numerous times before and enjoyed the slight adrenaline rush coupled with laughing while bouncing along. This time there was no laughing. At my place in the front, alongside PCV Tim, we got a clear view of the rapids to come as the boat dipped down seconds before collision and I would inevitably utter a curse word. After a couple hours Tim couldn’t handle it anymore and yelled at me over the crashing waves. “Seriously Britt, those could be the last words I hear!” So I switched to something more appropriate for his mid-western Catholic upbringing and started hailing Mary like baby Jesus at supper time. Our boat flipped twice. I was thrown out 2 more times. Once I slammed headfirst Crash Dummy style into the rocks on the river side when we were wildly spinning. And I took a paddle to the face. Now I know why they make you wear helmets. When we docked at the end I nearly kissed the shore and promised never to test fate again. Thus I was videotaping and feeling like an accomplice to more asinine actions.
Our one day stop in Windhoek was over the weekend when everyone was in transit to the beach town Swakopmund for New Years. It made the capital seem like a ghost town and mistakenly modern. For when Carroll-Anne and I sat down at a proper table with advertisements shouting off the wall we thought these were signs that we would actually get what we ordered. But when bowls of lettuce showed up and we were told that the ingredients were missing to make lettuce into the distinguishing salads we had ordered, I knew the amenities were a façade. “Can I say something? I want to say something.” No. You will sit there and eat your leaf and think menacing thoughts of this restaurant and this country and this continent. Just like me. “ok, Nana. You can say something.” Even though this is extremely crisp lettuce. And they even washed it!
Soon we were on our way to Swakopmund. The attractive, middle aged Afrikaner woman giving us a ride smiled as Gizmo commented on her music. “It’s my son’s cd.” As she slipped off her wedding ring. “Im going to meet my girlfriends for the holiday. What are your plans?” Gizmo’s WASP eyes lit up and I ordered 2012’s earth ending quakes and fires to ascend right now.
But then we found ourselves at the backpackers lodge and in company of permanent resident C.J. “Ive been here for 3 months but my country, they doesn’t know it. I have a doctor’s note.” Wink. A doctor’s note? What sickness keeps you out of your own country?
My friends and I breathed in the salt air and arrived at the open air club on the sand with the loudest music and 90% of Namibia’s high school student body. What? The place was swarming with acne, hair gel, neon sunglasses and Smirnoff Ice. Apparently we had stumbled on Southern Africa’s version of Spring Break Cancun. This scene would be repeated night after night until New Year’s Eve when it was crowned with sweaty bodies dancing around a bonfire. And this is where I blame the downfall of the rest of our trip.
Every year I have an anti-social tradition of staying in and reflecting on all the bad times of the year past while realizing Ive made it to another year with brand new horrors awaiting. Its not pessimistic. Its realistically slapping the world in the face before it pinches you back. But this year I get sucked into teenie bopper angst and what happens...
The Skeleton Coast Automobile Debacle. Why is it called the Skeleton Coast? Is it a graveyard? Of ships? Of animals? No. Of your pride? Of your checkbook? Of your bladder? Yes.
On New Years Day I walked all over the town with Carroll-Anne just to discover the rental car’s office was closed. Of course that turned out to be the wrong company and though we were a couple hours late to the proper company, our reservation and vehicle were gone due to a 10 minute wait policy. Apparently some things in Africa do operate within 10 mins. Things like greeting the woman selling bananas then buying bananas then thanking her and then sending greetings to her family. And things like American rental car companies.
Two days later we were on the road. But not in one large vehicle. The 8 of us were split into 2 tiny Nissans meant to be taxis. When me and the only other person knowledgeable and experienced with driving a standard realized we had left our licenses at PC HQ in Lusaka, the two with licenses started hyper-ventilating. We needed Carroll-Anne and Buck to drive us out of this teenaged hormone city and far away from C.J. with his suitcase and Coat of Character. I remembered how stressful it was for me to learn and how long it took to be comfortable. How I hated my mom for yelling “push in the clutch.” How I hated the car for having 3 pedals. How I hated every driver for honking when I stalled.
And now I and the other knowledgeable person were going to sit shotgun and teach and yell and be hated! So I looked at Carroll-Anne and did what any friend would “Im abandoning you. I’ll be in the other car coaching Buck. Your gonna do great.” Thumbs up!
What I forgot to factor in was the fact that my great state of California gives away licenses like Halloween candy. So most of my instructions weren’t “push in the clutch” but remember you have to steer and the brake is for stopping.
The worst place for car trouble is the desert. The majestic desolation steals hope of passer-bys due to the 360 degree view of the horizon which reminds you that urination will be in full view of God, the coastline and the other 7 people on this trip that you now hate because your teaching and ADD male how to drive and your best friend is mentally abusing herself while they all giggle and take pictures of NOTHING! Its sand. Get over it.
The Skeleton Coast was sand and water and a teeth stained dude wearing a Cowboy hat who sold us a tire for our FIRST flat. Lets just say Nissan taxis were not meant for canvassing the African bush.
Arriving back in Zambia has never felt so good. We don’t drive here. And when a vehicle we are in breaks, village ingenuity fixes it with spit and melted flip-flops. But now, due to the over charges with the vehicles, Im in debt to Carroll-Anne. Did I mention she is a great driver?!
Everyone has their theory of when the trip went wrong. Some don’t even think it went that wrong. I guess we all made it back safely so there is a surprise.
And of course, I can rest assure that I’ll have a heads up on the next house/trance dance Latin induced attack via briefcase so I can hide in my own Coat of Character. But if anyone wants my advice?
Stay the hell out of Nam.
Description of Pictures in last blog posted by PCV Christa
1. Signpost leading to my village; Dimbwe
2. Standing in front of my house with my Bataata, Fellow
3. Pretending to help fix my bike, PCV Tim is on the right
4. Moses - the 2 year old brat
5. Forgot the kids name, he is in charge of the goats
6. Clyde – he is in charge of the cows
7. Choolwe
8. Castro
9. Sitting with my boys at my house
10. My bathing shelter that is currently occupied by a dog and her brand new 6 puppies
11. My latrine – should have a roof but it’s a work in progress
12. Cikuta – the kitchen the family cooks in, the dish rack on the right, the structure on left is used to store maize
13. View from my house. Garden and fields.
14. The well
15-pictures of the inside of my house
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.
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