well, very sorry it's been so long since i've written, i don't have a very good excuse for my apathy other than that i feel like there's not too much going on that's worth writing about. i work in an office all day now in front of a computer, and most of the time feel very little like a zambian peace corps volunteer, seeing as the essence of that experience is getting dirty and smelly for weeks on end in the bush, emerging to eat enough dairy to get sick, and then heading back to the village. however, lusaka is proving to be a lot of fun of the more conventional variety; there is a large community of western aid workers, embassy staff, etc., who live here and manage to keep themselves entertained--braiis (cookouts), ultimate frisbee, the hash (a group of people who get together and run pre-laid out courses that are deliberately confusing so most people get lost--all for the sheer pleasure of it...weird, i know) and other activities along those lines. the beauty of it is that, specifically with americans, there is an instant bond and the feeling of kinship that comes with being countrymen in a different country--that feeling is so strong that many of them are even willing to cart peace corps volunteers around in their vehicles and overlook the fact that we're the american equivalent of poor relations with bad table manners.
my new job is in the public health sector, a field i knew next to nothing about before starting this job, so i've been learning a lot. the program has a heavy emphasis on anti-retroviral therapy and antenatal care; as i've spent most of my life being largely grossed out by the idea of childbirth, i've had to spend a lot of time with a dictionary figuring out what all the terms associated with antenatal care mean...however, discovering, for instance, what 'meconium' is has not helped me in the grow-up-about-childbirth category at all. since smartcare (the name of the project i'm with) concerns electronic medical records, many of the people i work with are software/computer guys--there's actually only one other person in the office without a computer background, so i spend a lot of time exchanging eye rolls from across the room with her. pretty much the only way to confuse me more than i am when dealing with antenatal terms is to use some software programming lingo around me. on the rare occasion when i haven't successfully avoided a software-related task, i find myself during the briefing meetings trying to take my cue from people who know what's going on: i'll watch them out of the corner of my eye, and if they nod in agreement to something that's been said i'll nod as well in what i hope is a sage manner, and throw in a concurring grunt if their nodding seems to be particularly committed. the irony is, of course, that i used similar methods in the village when i was confused, so it's a technique i've perfected.
over easter i went down with a group of pcvs to livingstone in southern province, to see victoria falls. this was my third time down there so i'd seen the falls before but had never done a proper tour of them, and decided to do it this time. the night before i went a girl who had gone earlier told me she spent the entire time they were at the face of the falls simply shouting "it's intoxicating!" well, that actually proved to be a pretty good description of the experience. in tonga, the language of the tribe in that area on the zambian side of the zambezi river, the falls are called mosi-oa-tunya, "the smoke that thunders." david livingstone reportedly said upon first seeing them "...scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight;" i wasn't able to muster anything quite that poetic, although i took a stab at it with "holy crap, they're massive." and i was right, they are massive, about a mile wide and 360 feet tall, the water plume it sends up can sometimes be seen 30 miles away, and during peak flow times about 105,000 cubic feet per second of water plummet over the falls. obviously, though, numbers don't begin to capture the size and power of victoria falls that you experience when you're close up against them.
the falls stretch in a gently curving fashion all the way across the zambezi river, the far side being lost in the mist. livingstone island, a small patch of tangled, heavy vegetation perched on top of craggy sheets of bare rock sits directly in front of the falls, only about 200 feet away, and offers an unparalleled view and the opportunity to get completely drenched. there is a small clearing where crowds of people congregate before heading down the trail that takes you over the bridge and onto the island; here, people who have just returned from walking the trails are wringing out their clothing and checking to see if their cameras survived the trip, while tourists preparing to head down the trails are donning rainjackets and wrapping their electronic gear in plastic. my group stopped here briefly so we could make similar preparations; i opted for a stylish red sox poncho (some of my more low-brow companions claimed to be embarrassed by it; normally that type of mis-guided remark would upset me, but this time i simply reponded with the observation that they're stupid).
as you start down the trail the rock path starts to become slick with moisture, and soon the overhanging branches are shedding heavy drops of water on you. there is a steady roar and you can glimpse through the trees a mountain of churning water, and then you step out from the relative protection of the woods and into one of the bare overlooks jutting out over the edge of the gorge. chunks of greenish-white water tumble slowly over the lip of the falls and disappear into the fog below, and a perpetual haze of mist comes streaming back up with force, as if fired from a water cannon. the slick black face of the cliff off to your right has swathes of soggy moss clinging to it, made into tenuous islands by the streams of water gushing down the surface of the rock. the trees toss and sway in the wind churned up by crashing water, the same wind that is sending sheets of fog swirling around you and driving heavy rain onto your head and shoulders, all in the midst of a bitingly sunny day. you turn and look at your friends; the closest ones have an exhilarated look on their faces that are flushed red from being pelted by water and wind, their eyes are squinting against the onslaught and their soaked hair is plastered down on their heads. farther away your friends are fuzzy smudges in the mist until they get closer and their bodies begin to take on definition, the same silly grin creasing their faces that you know is plastered on your own.
then you step onto the cable bridge that leads to livingstone island; it hangs there over a gorge, in front of the face of the falls, streams of water flowing down it ankle-deep in places; pot-bellied indian men with their shirts off are dancing and laughing in the driving fog, kicking and splashing in the pooled water like children after a rainstorm. you lean over the edge of the bridge with a hand raised to protect your eyes that are being pelted so insistently with water; a slightly dizzy feeling grips you as you confront a wall of angry water whose dimensions can't be discerned as they're cut off by the mist, a wall barreling its way down into the gorge. your disorientation is increased by the confusion of competing gusts of wind striking you from below, behind, above, and in front, and you're completely overwhelmed with the giddiness of being in the grip of an unimaginably powerful force. it is, in a word, intoxicating.
so, victoria falls is beautiful, though the experience is much more than simply viewing them, the sensations you experience in the mist and the rain and the wind are equally important. it's the only natural wonder of the world i've seen, and it was all i think a wonder of the world should be. as always, you'd be much better off seeing it for yourself rather than taking my word for it. i hope you are all well. best, josh
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Zanzibar
it's been a whirlwind month or so, i'm back in lusaka after a lot of traveling. it looks like now i'll be starting my new job in the middle of february as there have been some problems finding housing for me here in the city--in the meantime i'll take the opportunity and go out to eastern province to visit some friends there.
this account of the last month is going to be more of an 'impressionist' piece, basically an excuse to transgress even more rules of proper (i.e. good) writing than i normally do.
four of us headed to kasanka national park in the middle of december to watch the annual migration of straw-colored fruit bats. there is a two-month period every year when, for reasons no one's sure of, a swarm of approximately 12 million of these bats migrate to a small forest in kasanka national park. every evening they leave the shelter of the forest en masse to feed on fruit in the surrounding areas; i've been to watch twice, and the spectacle has not gotten any less amazing. we walked with a guide out to the edge of a plain that borders the forest in question; right around dusk a few bats started flapping their way up out and out of the treeline. that must have been some sort of cue for the main body of bats, because suddenly an absolute swarm of black dots swirled into the area and started towards us--being from maine i couldn't help but be reminded of a massive cloud of black flies. for 45 minutes about 12 million bats that can reach up to 1 kg in weight each streamed over our upturned, gaping faces, a perforated torrent bobbing and weaving but all moving in the same general direction. it ended as abruptly as it had begun with just a few stragglers flapping their way out of the woods and into the darkness, leaving us still mumbling incisive observations like 'wow, that rocked,' and 'that's a lot of freaking bats.'
we returned to our campsite and crawled into our tents; i'd strategically placed mine on a slightly damp, muddy-ish bit of ground thinking it'd be softer. what i somehow failed to think about was that this is the middle of the rainy season, and damp, muddy-ish ground at the base of gradually up-sloping land just above a swamp might potentially be a natural drainage area. all of this did occur to me at around 2 am when the bottom of the tent started rippling like a waterbed and we were forced to wade our way out of a newly-formed river that would probably get marked on most maps. we spent a cramped and cold night in the land cruiser with me huddling in the back, trying to hide from the accusing glares i knew the others were firing into the dark at me.
after that adventure/misadventure, we drove to kapiri mposhi and got on a train for dar es salaam. it took about 45 hours total to get there, most of which was marked by a lot of boredom and sleeping. there were some fun moments, such as when we passed into tanzania and found ourselves without any way of communicating with the people selling food outside the train. doug had gotten his hands on a swahili phrasebook and kept trying out different phrases, most of which were met with puzzled stares. the rest of us tried a melange of english, bemba, nyanja, and lunda, figuring that by talking slowly and loudly and enunciating clearly, people who had no experience at all with those languages would be able to understand us (on an entirely unrelated side note: back when joel was still visiting we went to the kala camp that houses congolese refugees. we started talking to a small group of boys, none of whom was older than 10 probably: i perpetrated my bemba on them, joel spoke with them in french, their native language is swahili, and they understand some english. so, these pre-teens knew 3 1/2-4 languages...great, i thought, now i can feel inadequate in 2 more languages besides bemba.) doug soldiered on with his own method though, at one point leaning almost entirely out the train window in pursuit of a chipati, mumbling unintelligible swahili at a street vendor while nicole supervised the process. nicole: 'that's not going to work doug, even if he understands you you're not going to understand his response.' doug, ignoring her, continued butchering swahili until nicole poked her head out the window: 'iwe. chipati. CHI-PA-TI?'
fortunately food was sold on the train, otherwise we would have starved to death. also fortunately, the train travels through selous game reserve, the largest reserve in the world, just before reaching dar es salaam. we saw giraffes, zebras, impala, warthogs, etc., as we cruised slowly by, lending some excitement to the monotony. from dar we took a ferry to stone town in zanzibar island, the largest of a cluster of islands collectively known as zanzibar. the island is outrageously beautiful, i felt the entire time as if i were living in a postcard. the whole island is ringed almost entirely by beaches--white sand, tall palms with thin, softly curved trunks that look as though they're constantly blowing in a gentle breeze, bright turquoise and green water, small thatched shade shelters, and arches and rock formations carved by the ocean into the mostly-coral shoreline. stone town itself is an interesting mixture of the old and new--narrow, twisted streets paved with cobblestones, the drab gray, soaring buildings that give off a slight air of neglect and antiquity crowding right up to the streets. looking up from street level there are only narrow slices of brilliant blue sky to be seen between the buildings, along with the wrought iron balconies that stud the faces of the structures and the tall, slatted black shutters swinging out above the street. arabic script flows along the sides of the buildings and above the doors of the mosques, through which barefoot men in orderly rows can be glimpsed genuflecting towards mecca. the dull, humming drone of the three-times-daily call to prayer echoes down the streets and hangs in the humid air. bundles of black wires snake up the sides of the building to connect to the antennae and satellite dishes poking into the sky from the jumble of tin roofs, each one a different shade of rust. men in white flowing robes with beards stride along the streets next to women wrapped completely in multi-colored hijabs but for their faces, clutching, incongruously enough, expensive cellphones and handbags. indian men and women, black africans and white, gawking tourists perpetually in danger of being run down by a scooter or large, rough wooden wheelbarrows piled high with goods pushed by men shouting warnings round out the population. the busier areas are chaotic, loud, and very exciting.
we made our way to the eastern side of the island to a place called jambiani. we stayed for the evening at a spacious, whitewashed house with columns out front and the sandy beach running right up to the porch. i wandered out into the warm night and sat in a reclining chair, gazing up through the palms at the bright expanse of stars stretching from horizon to horizon. as i dug my feet into the sand the palm fronds overhead clattered lightly together in the soft breeze, making a sound like rainfall, punctuated by the crash of the breakers against the beach about 25 yards ahead of me, the white foam from the waves glimmering dully in the dark. the owner of the place sliced up a pineapple for us and we chewed on the sweet, juicy pulp contemplatively, i for my part wondering how i'd been so lucky to end up in a place so beautiful.
the next two days were spent in bwejuu which was equally beautiful before we headed back to stone town. some more impressions of those following days: dancing on the beach during new years, fireworks spiralling up into the night sky and shattering over the applauding crowd, then falling asleep on the beach to the sounds of music, surf, and the quiet laughter and chatter of the people spread about over the beach. scubadiving, swimming along in a silent blue world, watching brilliantly-colored fish move over the surface of the mounded coral that rose in lumps from the sandy floor of the ocean, twisting slowly onto my back and watching platinum air bubbles with highlights of silver tumble and roll their way towards the surface. columns of small silver fish rising above my head, the entire formation flashing as the filtered rays of the sun caught their sides as they darted collectively at our approach. the gaunt ribs of a shipwreck looming out of the dull blue smudge of the water in front of me, a few small kicks lifting myself up and into a hole in the oyster-festooned side of the vesssel, allowing the current to pull me down through the body of the wreck, admiring the shattered remnants of the craft now chunky with marine growth, threading my way through the long fuzzy fingers of brightly-hued kelp stretching towards the surface and swaying slowly in the current. lying sprawled on the hard canvas canopy of the boat, letting the bright sun dry us off as we munched on falafel and spicy potato balls, the deep blue of the ocean spreading all around us, pitching us back and forth in the swells, islands dotting the horizon. standing under the shade of a massive tree at the end of a spice tour as a man with a sharp knife moved through our group offering us chunks of local fruits--pineapple, jackfruit, papaya, mango, oranges, limes, the juice running down our forearms. visiting the night fish market where all the local seafood is offered, each small wooden stand illuminated with lanterns and candles, piling a paper plate high with kebabs of barracuda, snapper, shark, king marlin, tuna, calamari, octopus, lobster, mussels, crab legs, all cooked up on the small wrought-iron braais and washed down with sugarcane juice. sleeping on the topmost deck of the ferry back to dar es salaam, 5 of us sprawled in a corner being rocked to sleep by the slow rolling of the boat. piling back into the train, exhausted, a little sunburned, sand infiltrated throughout our luggage, broke, saddened at leaving, yet still slightly jubilant and wildly happy at the experience we'd all just enjoyed.
hopefully you got a little taste of what it's like to travel to zanzibar, although i honestly can't begin to do any of it justice...it's just something you have to experience for yourself. i've been lucky enough to travel to a lot of amazing places, and though i debate back and forth with myself on this one, i think zanzibar so far was the best. if you ever get the opportunity...GO!!
this account of the last month is going to be more of an 'impressionist' piece, basically an excuse to transgress even more rules of proper (i.e. good) writing than i normally do.
four of us headed to kasanka national park in the middle of december to watch the annual migration of straw-colored fruit bats. there is a two-month period every year when, for reasons no one's sure of, a swarm of approximately 12 million of these bats migrate to a small forest in kasanka national park. every evening they leave the shelter of the forest en masse to feed on fruit in the surrounding areas; i've been to watch twice, and the spectacle has not gotten any less amazing. we walked with a guide out to the edge of a plain that borders the forest in question; right around dusk a few bats started flapping their way up out and out of the treeline. that must have been some sort of cue for the main body of bats, because suddenly an absolute swarm of black dots swirled into the area and started towards us--being from maine i couldn't help but be reminded of a massive cloud of black flies. for 45 minutes about 12 million bats that can reach up to 1 kg in weight each streamed over our upturned, gaping faces, a perforated torrent bobbing and weaving but all moving in the same general direction. it ended as abruptly as it had begun with just a few stragglers flapping their way out of the woods and into the darkness, leaving us still mumbling incisive observations like 'wow, that rocked,' and 'that's a lot of freaking bats.'
we returned to our campsite and crawled into our tents; i'd strategically placed mine on a slightly damp, muddy-ish bit of ground thinking it'd be softer. what i somehow failed to think about was that this is the middle of the rainy season, and damp, muddy-ish ground at the base of gradually up-sloping land just above a swamp might potentially be a natural drainage area. all of this did occur to me at around 2 am when the bottom of the tent started rippling like a waterbed and we were forced to wade our way out of a newly-formed river that would probably get marked on most maps. we spent a cramped and cold night in the land cruiser with me huddling in the back, trying to hide from the accusing glares i knew the others were firing into the dark at me.
after that adventure/misadventure, we drove to kapiri mposhi and got on a train for dar es salaam. it took about 45 hours total to get there, most of which was marked by a lot of boredom and sleeping. there were some fun moments, such as when we passed into tanzania and found ourselves without any way of communicating with the people selling food outside the train. doug had gotten his hands on a swahili phrasebook and kept trying out different phrases, most of which were met with puzzled stares. the rest of us tried a melange of english, bemba, nyanja, and lunda, figuring that by talking slowly and loudly and enunciating clearly, people who had no experience at all with those languages would be able to understand us (on an entirely unrelated side note: back when joel was still visiting we went to the kala camp that houses congolese refugees. we started talking to a small group of boys, none of whom was older than 10 probably: i perpetrated my bemba on them, joel spoke with them in french, their native language is swahili, and they understand some english. so, these pre-teens knew 3 1/2-4 languages...great, i thought, now i can feel inadequate in 2 more languages besides bemba.) doug soldiered on with his own method though, at one point leaning almost entirely out the train window in pursuit of a chipati, mumbling unintelligible swahili at a street vendor while nicole supervised the process. nicole: 'that's not going to work doug, even if he understands you you're not going to understand his response.' doug, ignoring her, continued butchering swahili until nicole poked her head out the window: 'iwe. chipati. CHI-PA-TI?'
fortunately food was sold on the train, otherwise we would have starved to death. also fortunately, the train travels through selous game reserve, the largest reserve in the world, just before reaching dar es salaam. we saw giraffes, zebras, impala, warthogs, etc., as we cruised slowly by, lending some excitement to the monotony. from dar we took a ferry to stone town in zanzibar island, the largest of a cluster of islands collectively known as zanzibar. the island is outrageously beautiful, i felt the entire time as if i were living in a postcard. the whole island is ringed almost entirely by beaches--white sand, tall palms with thin, softly curved trunks that look as though they're constantly blowing in a gentle breeze, bright turquoise and green water, small thatched shade shelters, and arches and rock formations carved by the ocean into the mostly-coral shoreline. stone town itself is an interesting mixture of the old and new--narrow, twisted streets paved with cobblestones, the drab gray, soaring buildings that give off a slight air of neglect and antiquity crowding right up to the streets. looking up from street level there are only narrow slices of brilliant blue sky to be seen between the buildings, along with the wrought iron balconies that stud the faces of the structures and the tall, slatted black shutters swinging out above the street. arabic script flows along the sides of the buildings and above the doors of the mosques, through which barefoot men in orderly rows can be glimpsed genuflecting towards mecca. the dull, humming drone of the three-times-daily call to prayer echoes down the streets and hangs in the humid air. bundles of black wires snake up the sides of the building to connect to the antennae and satellite dishes poking into the sky from the jumble of tin roofs, each one a different shade of rust. men in white flowing robes with beards stride along the streets next to women wrapped completely in multi-colored hijabs but for their faces, clutching, incongruously enough, expensive cellphones and handbags. indian men and women, black africans and white, gawking tourists perpetually in danger of being run down by a scooter or large, rough wooden wheelbarrows piled high with goods pushed by men shouting warnings round out the population. the busier areas are chaotic, loud, and very exciting.
we made our way to the eastern side of the island to a place called jambiani. we stayed for the evening at a spacious, whitewashed house with columns out front and the sandy beach running right up to the porch. i wandered out into the warm night and sat in a reclining chair, gazing up through the palms at the bright expanse of stars stretching from horizon to horizon. as i dug my feet into the sand the palm fronds overhead clattered lightly together in the soft breeze, making a sound like rainfall, punctuated by the crash of the breakers against the beach about 25 yards ahead of me, the white foam from the waves glimmering dully in the dark. the owner of the place sliced up a pineapple for us and we chewed on the sweet, juicy pulp contemplatively, i for my part wondering how i'd been so lucky to end up in a place so beautiful.
the next two days were spent in bwejuu which was equally beautiful before we headed back to stone town. some more impressions of those following days: dancing on the beach during new years, fireworks spiralling up into the night sky and shattering over the applauding crowd, then falling asleep on the beach to the sounds of music, surf, and the quiet laughter and chatter of the people spread about over the beach. scubadiving, swimming along in a silent blue world, watching brilliantly-colored fish move over the surface of the mounded coral that rose in lumps from the sandy floor of the ocean, twisting slowly onto my back and watching platinum air bubbles with highlights of silver tumble and roll their way towards the surface. columns of small silver fish rising above my head, the entire formation flashing as the filtered rays of the sun caught their sides as they darted collectively at our approach. the gaunt ribs of a shipwreck looming out of the dull blue smudge of the water in front of me, a few small kicks lifting myself up and into a hole in the oyster-festooned side of the vesssel, allowing the current to pull me down through the body of the wreck, admiring the shattered remnants of the craft now chunky with marine growth, threading my way through the long fuzzy fingers of brightly-hued kelp stretching towards the surface and swaying slowly in the current. lying sprawled on the hard canvas canopy of the boat, letting the bright sun dry us off as we munched on falafel and spicy potato balls, the deep blue of the ocean spreading all around us, pitching us back and forth in the swells, islands dotting the horizon. standing under the shade of a massive tree at the end of a spice tour as a man with a sharp knife moved through our group offering us chunks of local fruits--pineapple, jackfruit, papaya, mango, oranges, limes, the juice running down our forearms. visiting the night fish market where all the local seafood is offered, each small wooden stand illuminated with lanterns and candles, piling a paper plate high with kebabs of barracuda, snapper, shark, king marlin, tuna, calamari, octopus, lobster, mussels, crab legs, all cooked up on the small wrought-iron braais and washed down with sugarcane juice. sleeping on the topmost deck of the ferry back to dar es salaam, 5 of us sprawled in a corner being rocked to sleep by the slow rolling of the boat. piling back into the train, exhausted, a little sunburned, sand infiltrated throughout our luggage, broke, saddened at leaving, yet still slightly jubilant and wildly happy at the experience we'd all just enjoyed.
hopefully you got a little taste of what it's like to travel to zanzibar, although i honestly can't begin to do any of it justice...it's just something you have to experience for yourself. i've been lucky enough to travel to a lot of amazing places, and though i debate back and forth with myself on this one, i think zanzibar so far was the best. if you ever get the opportunity...GO!!
Friday, December 14, 2007
Jab, Iwe, Jab
I hope this email finds you well, I’m fine although a bit harried from trying to make all the last-second preparations for leaving my site. I’ll officially be leaving muyembe village on December 17, so just a few short days left. the following are a few odds and ends i've been meaning to mention in previous emails but never really got around to.
I keep waiting for the village to feel differently now that I’m about to leave, more dramatic some how, but it doesn’t. life continues on pretty much the same as always, with me bumbling my way through the village experience. I’ve told all my close friends that I’m leaving, their disappointment and sadness at hearing the news has been slightly gratifying but mostly painful. I’ve shared a lot of adventures, funny moments, mis-steps, and cultural understandings and misunderstandings with all of them. It is difficult to cultivate a friendship with most Zambians beyond a certain level because of any number of barriers—race, gender, culture, class, language, etc. but with some of my friends we were able to get beyond those, and the results were incredibly rewarding, allowing me a longer glimpse into Zambian life and the companionship of people with whom I could have an honest conversation about difficult topics.
One such friend is bana kaunda, the lady I wrote about some time back who lost her oldest daughter to a stomach ailment. Because of the barriers to friendship mentioned earlier, some people are hesitant to approach me to talk, ask if I wanted to join in an activity, etc., but that distance was never a problem with bana kaunda—she was always at ease with me and didn’t hesitate to ask if I wanted to be involved. She would wander over, for instance, and ask if I’d like to help her pound cassava (of course I said “no, that’s woman’s work,” but I appreciated the gesture nonetheless), or, just recently, if I’d like to observe a pre-marriage ceremony.
Realizing that this was a chance to add to my already impressive record of challenging Zambian gender stereotypes, I agreed. my status as a muzungu, my whiteness, and the fact that I was willing to take pictures of it all granted me exemption from the normal restrictions on male participation in this sort of thing, an informal ceremony intended to prepare a young girl for her impending marriage. The girl has to remain solemn at all times and immediately obey all instructions from the collection of banacimbusas—older, respected female teachers responsible for guiding the younger women of the village—who are conducting the proceedings. It was funny to watch these dignified women, quite drunk, squabbling about the details of the different rituals, dancing, laughing, and generally behaving as any group of friends the world over do when enjoying themselves. One old lady in particular was constantly hustling her stout body about, shouting orders at the girl, dancing, singing and laughing, her lined face lit with energy. At one point during her dancing she got a bit carried away and began hiking her chitenge above the knee-level threshold deemed acceptably modest in Zambian society. The other bamayos shrieked with laughter at her to stop, echoing the silent scream I’d emitted inside my own head. All in all it was a fascinating time and I was very fortunate to be allowed to watch—to my knowledge I’m the only male in peace corps zambia who’s observed this sort of thing (plenty of female pcv’s have).
I don’t think I’ve ever written about my charcoal-starting travails, mostly because it’s not that interesting and reflects badly on my ability to perform simple functions. Suffice to say there have been multiple occasions when it took me more than 2 hours to cook a meal, highlighted by me nearly hyperventilating after spending minutes blowing with all my strength on a single stubborn spark. However, I’ve persevered, refused to be beaten and finally conquered the problem: I bought a kerosene stove. It works pretty well although there are a few design flaws, most noticeably the one that enables it to try to kill me by emitting fireballs. The first time it happened I was cooking breakfast and received a glancing blow after I’d somehow convinced myself it was a good idea to bend over the burner to get a closer look. I was left looking singed but a good deal warier of kerosene stoves.
We’ve had a mini-drought that’s just broken, thankfully, in the last week and a half or so. Obviously, rain is hugely important for agricultural purposes but is also crucial for replenishing the nearby river that provides all the drinking, bathing, and washing water. The swimming hole I bathe in had gotten particularly disgusting, the last few times I was in there I couldn’t see my hands held at my waist below the surface—whenever I’d get water up my nose I could practically feel the schisto attacking my brain directly.
The higher water level also makes it easier for me to fetch all my water. I use an old 20 liter kerosene can that is really heavy when full. To fill it entirely when the river is low I have to clamber out on slippery rocks into the middle and then try to hop back on the same rocks while lugging this heavy, unwieldy can. I never attempt this when people are around to watch as the potential for humiliation, which despite my frequent interaction with I’ve never gotten entirely used to, is simply too great. If people are around I assume a pathetic, bewildered air (easy as it’s only incrementally removed from my normal village expression) and wait for someone to take pity on me and order their child to fill my jerry can.
Zambia has the women’s world featherweight boxing champ, esther phiri. She’s a national hero and her bouts attract huge television audiences inside of zambia. She recently fought and beat a u.s. contender, opening me up to some good-natured ribbing from the Zambians I was watching the fight with and with whom I’d been trying to talk smack. The concept of ‘talking trash’ hasn’t really taken hold here, and it soon lost its thrill after the third or fourth time I would make an outrageous claim, something like ‘I hope esther’s enjoying her last few moments of being able to walk,’ and all the Zambians in the room would pause and give the comment the type of thought usually reserved for an idea with actual merit. when the fight was over i left, the first time in my life i've received hugs and handshakes from fans cheering for a person i'd just spent an hour trying to insult.
I attended esther’s previous fight in Lusaka when she beat a Romanian challenger. The title bout was a big disappointment with the challenger hurting her arm halfway through the 2nd round and conceding, but the 3 or 4 preliminary fights were a lot of fun. There was a huge guy several rows from us dressed in a fatigue hat, tank top, cargo pants, and chunky boots. Throughout each fight he would shout ‘jab, jab, jab, jab’ incessantly and so earnestly I felt like he’d be mortally offended if the boxer didn’t heed his advice. In between rounds he would turn to his companions and regale them on the same theme, waving his arms about and bobbing his head forward with the force of his conviction: ‘the jab, it is important. Yes, very important.’ At one point he rushed shouting to ringside, apparently so the boxer in the corner could more fully grasp the nuances of his advice. The security guards posted there to prevent just such occurrences dallied conspicuously on their way to remove him, although they assiduously attacked any smaller troublemakers.
Apart from the delight I took in watching the proponent of jabbing, the fights themselves were interesting. I was struck at how boxers moved when they were in tight with their opponent—I could only compare it to how I’d seen a snake dance about with its body raised off the ground as if a wire were running the length of it. The fighters would move the same way, erect in the middle of a hail of blows, moving with a fluid but incredibly rapid smoothness that would necessitate jerky or abrupt movements in non-boxers. When the boxers would start to really slug it out the crowd noise would swell into a mob roar punctuated, of course, by the bellowing from a few rows over: ‘jab, jab, iwe, jab!’
i hope you're all well. have a merry christmas and a happy new year.
I keep waiting for the village to feel differently now that I’m about to leave, more dramatic some how, but it doesn’t. life continues on pretty much the same as always, with me bumbling my way through the village experience. I’ve told all my close friends that I’m leaving, their disappointment and sadness at hearing the news has been slightly gratifying but mostly painful. I’ve shared a lot of adventures, funny moments, mis-steps, and cultural understandings and misunderstandings with all of them. It is difficult to cultivate a friendship with most Zambians beyond a certain level because of any number of barriers—race, gender, culture, class, language, etc. but with some of my friends we were able to get beyond those, and the results were incredibly rewarding, allowing me a longer glimpse into Zambian life and the companionship of people with whom I could have an honest conversation about difficult topics.
One such friend is bana kaunda, the lady I wrote about some time back who lost her oldest daughter to a stomach ailment. Because of the barriers to friendship mentioned earlier, some people are hesitant to approach me to talk, ask if I wanted to join in an activity, etc., but that distance was never a problem with bana kaunda—she was always at ease with me and didn’t hesitate to ask if I wanted to be involved. She would wander over, for instance, and ask if I’d like to help her pound cassava (of course I said “no, that’s woman’s work,” but I appreciated the gesture nonetheless), or, just recently, if I’d like to observe a pre-marriage ceremony.
Realizing that this was a chance to add to my already impressive record of challenging Zambian gender stereotypes, I agreed. my status as a muzungu, my whiteness, and the fact that I was willing to take pictures of it all granted me exemption from the normal restrictions on male participation in this sort of thing, an informal ceremony intended to prepare a young girl for her impending marriage. The girl has to remain solemn at all times and immediately obey all instructions from the collection of banacimbusas—older, respected female teachers responsible for guiding the younger women of the village—who are conducting the proceedings. It was funny to watch these dignified women, quite drunk, squabbling about the details of the different rituals, dancing, laughing, and generally behaving as any group of friends the world over do when enjoying themselves. One old lady in particular was constantly hustling her stout body about, shouting orders at the girl, dancing, singing and laughing, her lined face lit with energy. At one point during her dancing she got a bit carried away and began hiking her chitenge above the knee-level threshold deemed acceptably modest in Zambian society. The other bamayos shrieked with laughter at her to stop, echoing the silent scream I’d emitted inside my own head. All in all it was a fascinating time and I was very fortunate to be allowed to watch—to my knowledge I’m the only male in peace corps zambia who’s observed this sort of thing (plenty of female pcv’s have).
I don’t think I’ve ever written about my charcoal-starting travails, mostly because it’s not that interesting and reflects badly on my ability to perform simple functions. Suffice to say there have been multiple occasions when it took me more than 2 hours to cook a meal, highlighted by me nearly hyperventilating after spending minutes blowing with all my strength on a single stubborn spark. However, I’ve persevered, refused to be beaten and finally conquered the problem: I bought a kerosene stove. It works pretty well although there are a few design flaws, most noticeably the one that enables it to try to kill me by emitting fireballs. The first time it happened I was cooking breakfast and received a glancing blow after I’d somehow convinced myself it was a good idea to bend over the burner to get a closer look. I was left looking singed but a good deal warier of kerosene stoves.
We’ve had a mini-drought that’s just broken, thankfully, in the last week and a half or so. Obviously, rain is hugely important for agricultural purposes but is also crucial for replenishing the nearby river that provides all the drinking, bathing, and washing water. The swimming hole I bathe in had gotten particularly disgusting, the last few times I was in there I couldn’t see my hands held at my waist below the surface—whenever I’d get water up my nose I could practically feel the schisto attacking my brain directly.
The higher water level also makes it easier for me to fetch all my water. I use an old 20 liter kerosene can that is really heavy when full. To fill it entirely when the river is low I have to clamber out on slippery rocks into the middle and then try to hop back on the same rocks while lugging this heavy, unwieldy can. I never attempt this when people are around to watch as the potential for humiliation, which despite my frequent interaction with I’ve never gotten entirely used to, is simply too great. If people are around I assume a pathetic, bewildered air (easy as it’s only incrementally removed from my normal village expression) and wait for someone to take pity on me and order their child to fill my jerry can.
Zambia has the women’s world featherweight boxing champ, esther phiri. She’s a national hero and her bouts attract huge television audiences inside of zambia. She recently fought and beat a u.s. contender, opening me up to some good-natured ribbing from the Zambians I was watching the fight with and with whom I’d been trying to talk smack. The concept of ‘talking trash’ hasn’t really taken hold here, and it soon lost its thrill after the third or fourth time I would make an outrageous claim, something like ‘I hope esther’s enjoying her last few moments of being able to walk,’ and all the Zambians in the room would pause and give the comment the type of thought usually reserved for an idea with actual merit. when the fight was over i left, the first time in my life i've received hugs and handshakes from fans cheering for a person i'd just spent an hour trying to insult.
I attended esther’s previous fight in Lusaka when she beat a Romanian challenger. The title bout was a big disappointment with the challenger hurting her arm halfway through the 2nd round and conceding, but the 3 or 4 preliminary fights were a lot of fun. There was a huge guy several rows from us dressed in a fatigue hat, tank top, cargo pants, and chunky boots. Throughout each fight he would shout ‘jab, jab, jab, jab’ incessantly and so earnestly I felt like he’d be mortally offended if the boxer didn’t heed his advice. In between rounds he would turn to his companions and regale them on the same theme, waving his arms about and bobbing his head forward with the force of his conviction: ‘the jab, it is important. Yes, very important.’ At one point he rushed shouting to ringside, apparently so the boxer in the corner could more fully grasp the nuances of his advice. The security guards posted there to prevent just such occurrences dallied conspicuously on their way to remove him, although they assiduously attacked any smaller troublemakers.
Apart from the delight I took in watching the proponent of jabbing, the fights themselves were interesting. I was struck at how boxers moved when they were in tight with their opponent—I could only compare it to how I’d seen a snake dance about with its body raised off the ground as if a wire were running the length of it. The fighters would move the same way, erect in the middle of a hail of blows, moving with a fluid but incredibly rapid smoothness that would necessitate jerky or abrupt movements in non-boxers. When the boxers would start to really slug it out the crowd noise would swell into a mob roar punctuated, of course, by the bellowing from a few rows over: ‘jab, jab, iwe, jab!’
i hope you're all well. have a merry christmas and a happy new year.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Everyone Dance Now
i'm currently in lusaka, i just returned from about 9 days of hanging out with my parents and sister in cape town, south africa. it was a great time that i'll probably write more about later, for now i'm going to mention a few things about life back here in zambia.
a lot of you have asked exactly what i'll be doing in my new job in lusaka; the short answer is, i don't know. the program is relatively new and just starting to go nation-wide, so there are a lot of as yet unspecified work areas within the program that i'll be able to work on. the project itself has been initiated by the center for disease control (cdc) with pepfar (president's emergency plan for aids relief) funding. the cdc contacted peace corps and asked if there were any volunteers who could help them on the project as they needed people with village level experience, people who knew how to interact with villagers, explain concepts simply and clearly, organize village meetings, etc. since my peace corps group has an overlap problem that is forcing us out of our villages early, it worked out perfectly for me to join up with the cdc project. the title of the project is smartcare, and it has developed a small card with an embedded computer chip that will hold a person's entire medical history. the card can be read by a specially designed software program, so if a patient enters any clinic in zambia with smartcare capabilities, his medical information can be accessed by the clinic officer. currently all medical records are found in paper exercise books stacked in the clinics (if they bother to keep records at all), which obviously presents any number of problems. if the smartcare program is successfully implemented in zambia, it will be much simpler to track disease statistics (including hiv) and will help clinic officers accurately diagnose health problems and prescribe the proper treatment. it's a colossal undertaking as only 5 pilot clinics have smartcare currently, and the cdc has now started the process of getting the program into every clinic and hospital in the country. so, i and a couple other pcv's (and some ngo's and the zambian ministry of health, they'll help a little too) will be helping them do that in some capacity or another. so, in mid-january i will be moving to lusaka and start working with the cdc. obviously, leaving so early is bringing sooner than expected a lot of the emotions i thought i wouldn't have to deal with for a while about moving from my village. to keep it simple, it's a roller coaster, with doubt, sadness, guilt (that ever-present friend of all pcv's), happiness, etc., all making themselves felt. but, ultimately i know this is a great opportunity to do some valuable work.
i've mentioned before zambians' kindness and hospitality, but something i don't think i wrote about was that this concern for muzungus' well-being seems to be shared even by strangers. my pet theory concerning this phenomenon is that all white people are seen as foreigners (the meaning of the word muzungu, a word directed at me approximately 6 million times a day), which means they're guests, which means hospitality usually demands that they be treated helpfully. i left my bike in kawambwa one day to accompany tom, my missionary friend, to kazembe to look at the orphanage he was building. on our way back it began to pour, and i had visions of my bike getting entirely drenched. when we arrived at the store where i'd left it the bike was sitting underneath the roofed porch and a zambian man i'd never seen before was drying it off with a rag.
similarly, i was recently riding in a minibus up to kawambwa and hating every second of it. my knees were ground into the seat ahead of me and i was carrying my heavy bag on my lap as there was no place to set it. people were pressing into me from the side and behind, and sweat was trickling down my back while the hot, stagnant air reeked of body odor and fish. then, we drove into a rain storm and suddenly water was pouring down the side of my face from a leak just above my head. the entire bus erupted into a chorus of 'tsks, tsks' and the man behind me thrust his cupped hands out to try to catch the stream. there was a general stirring as people squirmed and twisted to make way for a bucket to be passed forward, which the man held up to the leak until it stopped. i slumped forward, wet and still hot, tired, miserable, and wishing the ride was over, but with one difference: now i was smiling.
we recently had a week-long workshop in mansa and instituted a rule with punitive intent: if you were late to sessions, you had to sing and dance in front of the entire group. the only problem is, zambians love singing and dancing and are blessed with virtually no self-consciousness; the only people hustling to their seats were the americans while the zambians continued to amble in leisurely. several times, a zambian would be serving his sentence in front of the group and be joined by other zambians of their own free will. at one point dan's two counterparts were up singing and dancing; dan, being new to the country, trying to be supportive and engaged, and forgetting that he is white, joined them. now, i've reflected a lot on zambians' previously mentioned un-self-consciousness, and concluded that part of it is that they're tremendous dancers, so they have no reason to be embarrassed. this is not true for white, male pcv's, however, of which dan is one. furthermore, sometimes a pcv's self-delusion concerning his dancing skills, coupled with zambians' supportive attitude and general unwillingness to criticize a muzungu, can result in some truly heinous dance moves. dan entered the fray and immediately perpetrated a flamenco/macarena hybrid dance on the unsuspecting crowd; this being a professional occasion i had to content myself with chortling behind my hand and biting back the taunts that instantly sprang to mind.
but here again is one of the beauties of living in zambia: it's okay to be a rotten dancer. no matter how wretchedly uncoordinated and awkward one looks on the dance floor, you're still going to be a rock star--a standing joke in pc circles is that the first time a volunteer dances in the states he will find himself alone in the middle of the dance floor, gyrating clumsily and wondering why he's not being mobbed by happy people wanting to dance with him. so, later that night as i found myself with my arms slung around the shoulders of two sweaty zambian guys as we hopped around the dance floor in time to the beat of euro-techno music, i had reason, not for the first time, to be grateful that they don't mind terrible dancing here.
a lot of you have asked exactly what i'll be doing in my new job in lusaka; the short answer is, i don't know. the program is relatively new and just starting to go nation-wide, so there are a lot of as yet unspecified work areas within the program that i'll be able to work on. the project itself has been initiated by the center for disease control (cdc) with pepfar (president's emergency plan for aids relief) funding. the cdc contacted peace corps and asked if there were any volunteers who could help them on the project as they needed people with village level experience, people who knew how to interact with villagers, explain concepts simply and clearly, organize village meetings, etc. since my peace corps group has an overlap problem that is forcing us out of our villages early, it worked out perfectly for me to join up with the cdc project. the title of the project is smartcare, and it has developed a small card with an embedded computer chip that will hold a person's entire medical history. the card can be read by a specially designed software program, so if a patient enters any clinic in zambia with smartcare capabilities, his medical information can be accessed by the clinic officer. currently all medical records are found in paper exercise books stacked in the clinics (if they bother to keep records at all), which obviously presents any number of problems. if the smartcare program is successfully implemented in zambia, it will be much simpler to track disease statistics (including hiv) and will help clinic officers accurately diagnose health problems and prescribe the proper treatment. it's a colossal undertaking as only 5 pilot clinics have smartcare currently, and the cdc has now started the process of getting the program into every clinic and hospital in the country. so, i and a couple other pcv's (and some ngo's and the zambian ministry of health, they'll help a little too) will be helping them do that in some capacity or another. so, in mid-january i will be moving to lusaka and start working with the cdc. obviously, leaving so early is bringing sooner than expected a lot of the emotions i thought i wouldn't have to deal with for a while about moving from my village. to keep it simple, it's a roller coaster, with doubt, sadness, guilt (that ever-present friend of all pcv's), happiness, etc., all making themselves felt. but, ultimately i know this is a great opportunity to do some valuable work.
i've mentioned before zambians' kindness and hospitality, but something i don't think i wrote about was that this concern for muzungus' well-being seems to be shared even by strangers. my pet theory concerning this phenomenon is that all white people are seen as foreigners (the meaning of the word muzungu, a word directed at me approximately 6 million times a day), which means they're guests, which means hospitality usually demands that they be treated helpfully. i left my bike in kawambwa one day to accompany tom, my missionary friend, to kazembe to look at the orphanage he was building. on our way back it began to pour, and i had visions of my bike getting entirely drenched. when we arrived at the store where i'd left it the bike was sitting underneath the roofed porch and a zambian man i'd never seen before was drying it off with a rag.
similarly, i was recently riding in a minibus up to kawambwa and hating every second of it. my knees were ground into the seat ahead of me and i was carrying my heavy bag on my lap as there was no place to set it. people were pressing into me from the side and behind, and sweat was trickling down my back while the hot, stagnant air reeked of body odor and fish. then, we drove into a rain storm and suddenly water was pouring down the side of my face from a leak just above my head. the entire bus erupted into a chorus of 'tsks, tsks' and the man behind me thrust his cupped hands out to try to catch the stream. there was a general stirring as people squirmed and twisted to make way for a bucket to be passed forward, which the man held up to the leak until it stopped. i slumped forward, wet and still hot, tired, miserable, and wishing the ride was over, but with one difference: now i was smiling.
we recently had a week-long workshop in mansa and instituted a rule with punitive intent: if you were late to sessions, you had to sing and dance in front of the entire group. the only problem is, zambians love singing and dancing and are blessed with virtually no self-consciousness; the only people hustling to their seats were the americans while the zambians continued to amble in leisurely. several times, a zambian would be serving his sentence in front of the group and be joined by other zambians of their own free will. at one point dan's two counterparts were up singing and dancing; dan, being new to the country, trying to be supportive and engaged, and forgetting that he is white, joined them. now, i've reflected a lot on zambians' previously mentioned un-self-consciousness, and concluded that part of it is that they're tremendous dancers, so they have no reason to be embarrassed. this is not true for white, male pcv's, however, of which dan is one. furthermore, sometimes a pcv's self-delusion concerning his dancing skills, coupled with zambians' supportive attitude and general unwillingness to criticize a muzungu, can result in some truly heinous dance moves. dan entered the fray and immediately perpetrated a flamenco/macarena hybrid dance on the unsuspecting crowd; this being a professional occasion i had to content myself with chortling behind my hand and biting back the taunts that instantly sprang to mind.
but here again is one of the beauties of living in zambia: it's okay to be a rotten dancer. no matter how wretchedly uncoordinated and awkward one looks on the dance floor, you're still going to be a rock star--a standing joke in pc circles is that the first time a volunteer dances in the states he will find himself alone in the middle of the dance floor, gyrating clumsily and wondering why he's not being mobbed by happy people wanting to dance with him. so, later that night as i found myself with my arms slung around the shoulders of two sweaty zambian guys as we hopped around the dance floor in time to the beat of euro-techno music, i had reason, not for the first time, to be grateful that they don't mind terrible dancing here.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Ba Zungo
i'm currently in lusaka nailing down the final details of the job i'll be working for my last 8 or so months of service. i have finally gotten everything arranged, which is a relief as i've been working on it for a while. i'll send you more details on the job later, the biggest aspect of the transfer is that i'll be leaving my village earlier than expected.
a large part of what makes my village life so interesting at times is, of course, the people who live there. one of my favorites is a man named ba zungo. he's a retired school teacher who probably weighs in at 90 lbs. soaking wet; he's about 5'5" maybe, his face is deeply lined and his balding head is studded with tight tufts of white hair. he has a strange habit of screwing up one side of his mouth when he speaks which gives his face a lopsided appearance during conversations, an impression that becomes even more pronounced when you notice he is missing two of his front teeth on the right side of his mouth. i'm assuming he can walk normally but i've rarely seen it because he staggers everywhere he goes as he is perpetually drunk on kacasu, a village-brewed moonshine that can literally make you go blind or worse--the fact that ba zungo is still alive is a testament to the stunning tenacity of the human body.
ba zungo gained brief notoriety in a small circle of my pcv friends when shawn, richard, and joel were all at my house one day. ever the gentleman, ba zungo lurched into my yard to greet the visitors, and immediately asked them why they couldn't assist him financially. they for their part asked him why he didn't spend the money he used on kacasu to meet his other needs. ba zungo straightened up, blinking owlishly for several seconds as he pondered this impertinence; then, a look of triumph flashed across his face as he hit upon the ideal retort. turning to shawn, thrusting a finger at his pendant-adorned neck, ba zungo parried with his own query: "let me ask you a question. what is that necklace?" so that gives you an idea of what a thrill it is to talk to ba zungo, it is regularly the highlight or lowlight of my day.
a short time ago i happened across him early in the morning looking particularly sharp; his shirt, rolled up at the cuffs to hit just below his wrist, were clean, his trousers bunched around the waist by his cinched-up belt looked pressed, and his vest was only missing two buttons. i remarked on how smart he looked and he launched into a long soliloquy about how hard zambians work and how he in particular toils night and day, but when he gets dressed up no one asks him to work. reflecting that this seemed like a solid strategy for shirking one's duties, i said goodbye and we parted ways. later that day many of my villagers gathered to help build a nearby house. ba zungo, now thoroughly drunk, saw me and told me he was on his way to change as he now was going to be doing some 'rough' work and he didn't want to spoil his clothes. he went on at length about how difficult the job would be and how messy he was going to get until i managed to shoo him gently out of my yard. even with all his claims about his work ethic, however, i still wasn't surprised when i looked over about an hour later and there was ba zungo, sitting on the ground and shouting orders at everyone that they were all ignoring. i decided to walk by the house for a closer look on my way to the river; ba zungo, apparently exhausted from hindering other people's work all day, was now stretched out flat in the shade while about ten men, all pouring down sweat, bustled around constructing the house in the intense heat. i laughed and filed away the memory to tease ba zungo with the next time he claimed to work hard; however, i'd underestimated him; as i walked away he spotted me from his supine position, and his thin voice floated after me: "you see ba joshua? this is how we africans work."
i hope all is well in the states, i know things are great in new england right now, given the boston sports teams' successes. i've spent hours hunched over the computer trying to download clips of red sox and patriots games, cursing slow internet and drinking up every 2 second clip i manage to watch. it's a great time to be a new england fan, it just figures i'm half a world away while it's happening.
a large part of what makes my village life so interesting at times is, of course, the people who live there. one of my favorites is a man named ba zungo. he's a retired school teacher who probably weighs in at 90 lbs. soaking wet; he's about 5'5" maybe, his face is deeply lined and his balding head is studded with tight tufts of white hair. he has a strange habit of screwing up one side of his mouth when he speaks which gives his face a lopsided appearance during conversations, an impression that becomes even more pronounced when you notice he is missing two of his front teeth on the right side of his mouth. i'm assuming he can walk normally but i've rarely seen it because he staggers everywhere he goes as he is perpetually drunk on kacasu, a village-brewed moonshine that can literally make you go blind or worse--the fact that ba zungo is still alive is a testament to the stunning tenacity of the human body.
ba zungo gained brief notoriety in a small circle of my pcv friends when shawn, richard, and joel were all at my house one day. ever the gentleman, ba zungo lurched into my yard to greet the visitors, and immediately asked them why they couldn't assist him financially. they for their part asked him why he didn't spend the money he used on kacasu to meet his other needs. ba zungo straightened up, blinking owlishly for several seconds as he pondered this impertinence; then, a look of triumph flashed across his face as he hit upon the ideal retort. turning to shawn, thrusting a finger at his pendant-adorned neck, ba zungo parried with his own query: "let me ask you a question. what is that necklace?" so that gives you an idea of what a thrill it is to talk to ba zungo, it is regularly the highlight or lowlight of my day.
a short time ago i happened across him early in the morning looking particularly sharp; his shirt, rolled up at the cuffs to hit just below his wrist, were clean, his trousers bunched around the waist by his cinched-up belt looked pressed, and his vest was only missing two buttons. i remarked on how smart he looked and he launched into a long soliloquy about how hard zambians work and how he in particular toils night and day, but when he gets dressed up no one asks him to work. reflecting that this seemed like a solid strategy for shirking one's duties, i said goodbye and we parted ways. later that day many of my villagers gathered to help build a nearby house. ba zungo, now thoroughly drunk, saw me and told me he was on his way to change as he now was going to be doing some 'rough' work and he didn't want to spoil his clothes. he went on at length about how difficult the job would be and how messy he was going to get until i managed to shoo him gently out of my yard. even with all his claims about his work ethic, however, i still wasn't surprised when i looked over about an hour later and there was ba zungo, sitting on the ground and shouting orders at everyone that they were all ignoring. i decided to walk by the house for a closer look on my way to the river; ba zungo, apparently exhausted from hindering other people's work all day, was now stretched out flat in the shade while about ten men, all pouring down sweat, bustled around constructing the house in the intense heat. i laughed and filed away the memory to tease ba zungo with the next time he claimed to work hard; however, i'd underestimated him; as i walked away he spotted me from his supine position, and his thin voice floated after me: "you see ba joshua? this is how we africans work."
i hope all is well in the states, i know things are great in new england right now, given the boston sports teams' successes. i've spent hours hunched over the computer trying to download clips of red sox and patriots games, cursing slow internet and drinking up every 2 second clip i manage to watch. it's a great time to be a new england fan, it just figures i'm half a world away while it's happening.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Lusaka Death Traps
i'm in lusaka for about a week for our mid term medical examinations, after a year all pcv's come down here to get poked and prodded and searched for parasites, diseases, etc. usually some volunteers get a nasty surprise when test results come back, but fortunately most of the stuff that gets picked up is easily dealt with.
i came down a few days early to explore getting a position with an ngo or some other sort of aid organization. the next group of life'ers coming into the country will get here in february--this is the group slated to replace my intake, so we have to leave our villages earlier than expected to make way for them. so, while it will be sad to leave my village earlier than expected, it is a great opportunity to get an interesting position with one of the many organizations that do aid work in this country. usually ngo's are fairly willing to take on pcv's as we're university graduates from the west, we have development experience, and, most importantly, we're free labor since we'll still be supported by peace corps. currently i'm looking at trying to work with iom, crs, or world vision, although the difficulty so far has been making contact with someone in these organizations in the position to make a decision about taking me on. but, i'm hopeful something will work out, it's an exciting opportunity.
this email is going to be entirely random as i really don't have much to report, so i'll just write a bit about a few things i find funny/interesting about my life over here...if you look for a coherent theme to these stories, you'll be disappointed.
work in the village is going well, i've been doing mostly dry season gardening projects and seed multiplication for certain plants. people have some time on their hands right now as harvest season is over and planting season has not yet begun, so traditionally this is when volunteers have the chance to do most of their work.
we recently got some karaoke cd's that can be played on our dvd player at the mansa house, an addition that has brought a whole new element to the social life of the house. it's generally agreed that i'm the most enthusiastic singer, which is a bit like getting the 'most team spirit' award for sports--it's the only nice thing that can be said about someone's efforts. but hey, i'll take it.
i've been slowly beginning to get the knack of traveling by minibus around lusaka; it's not for the faint of heart, that's for sure. the busses themselves are uniformly ramshackle, closest in size to a 16 passenger van in the states except narrower with a lower roof. they're moving masterpieces of jerry-rigging, testaments to the ingenuity and 'makedo-itevness' of whomever's in charge of keeping these things running...i don't know how they keep it all together without duct tape, but they manage. occasionally the conductor will have to kick and punch and pull at the side sliding door to get it to open, and then jam it back into place when it needs to be closed. many of the windows are broken out and taped over with thin plastic, and often the interiors are stripped so just bare metal is showing all about. i once sat with my feet on a piece of metal flooring that was removed to reveal the gas tank directly below; i've watched a gang of men lift a minibus off a curb where it had gotten stuck, and it's practically standad operating procedure to have to give the busses a push to get them moving. they cram 4 or 5 people onto benches designed for 3, then go careening around town blaring their horns, committing any number of traffic violations and ill-advised maneuvers, leaping out of the bus to try to convince potential passengers to risk their lives with them, and fighting with other bus conductors. they speak mostly nyanja here in lusaka so i don't understand most of what they're yelling at each other, but often it needs no interpretation, the basic gist of an obscenity usually translates effectively.
bargaining over prices is a fact of life here, one i usually don't enjoy very much. as a white person you're instantly marked as a tourist, and people will often jack up a price accordingly. taxi drivers are the worst for this, often quoting a price that's 2 to 3 times higher than it should be. i love watching another pcv bargain with a taxi driver because everyone has their own method; elly will skewer them with a glare, heave a world-weary sigh, then say "ok, now give me a serious price." some volunteers will browbeat a taxi driver, lecturing them that they shouldn't try to cheat us just because we're white. others will claim they're just a volunteer and don't have the money to pay an outrageous fare. some pcv's critique the quality of the product they're purchasing, pointing out flaws that should merit a lower price. shawn used this technique occasionally. i accompanied him one day on a shopping trip to the market to buy some cloth for his mother. he entered a little stall and asked the price of a chitenge, and was told 10,000 kwacha; as i wandered away to look at another part of the market i heard shawn's opening gambit: "10,000?? that thread had better be made of real gold..."
when quoted the white man's price i usually erupt into laughter like i've been told a great joke, and sometimes i'll even slap the person's shoulder like i get it and hit them with a follow-up joke, like, 'is that the price for a ride or the whole car?' (i didn't say they were good follow-up jokes). my nuclear option is the walk-away, i turn and take a few steps as if i'm prepared to leave, at which point i'm usually called back with a better offer. the walk-away has to be used cautiously though, a few times i haven't been called back when bargaining for some crafts that i really did want; then, of course, my pride wouldn't allow me to return and admit they'd won.
occasionally bargaining over a price becomes a matter of principle, you resent the fact that they tried to cheat you so you find yourself haggling ferociously over something like 500 kwacha, approximately 25 cents. i was in shoprite once and saw shawn waiting grimly by the cashier with a dogged look on his face. i walked over and asked him what he was doing, he replied he'd been waiting about 5 minutes for his change and wasn't going to leave it until he got it. there's a permanent change shortage in this country, and shoprite is notorious for shorting their customers if they don't have enough change. but shawn had had enough of being short-changed and was making a stand, a statement of principle, even. another 5 minutes passed as i waited with him and eventually he wilted in the face of the cashier's greater determination not to give him any more money. we trudged out of the store and i asked him the amount he'd been owed. '100 kwacha,' he replied.
i hope you are all well.
i came down a few days early to explore getting a position with an ngo or some other sort of aid organization. the next group of life'ers coming into the country will get here in february--this is the group slated to replace my intake, so we have to leave our villages earlier than expected to make way for them. so, while it will be sad to leave my village earlier than expected, it is a great opportunity to get an interesting position with one of the many organizations that do aid work in this country. usually ngo's are fairly willing to take on pcv's as we're university graduates from the west, we have development experience, and, most importantly, we're free labor since we'll still be supported by peace corps. currently i'm looking at trying to work with iom, crs, or world vision, although the difficulty so far has been making contact with someone in these organizations in the position to make a decision about taking me on. but, i'm hopeful something will work out, it's an exciting opportunity.
this email is going to be entirely random as i really don't have much to report, so i'll just write a bit about a few things i find funny/interesting about my life over here...if you look for a coherent theme to these stories, you'll be disappointed.
work in the village is going well, i've been doing mostly dry season gardening projects and seed multiplication for certain plants. people have some time on their hands right now as harvest season is over and planting season has not yet begun, so traditionally this is when volunteers have the chance to do most of their work.
we recently got some karaoke cd's that can be played on our dvd player at the mansa house, an addition that has brought a whole new element to the social life of the house. it's generally agreed that i'm the most enthusiastic singer, which is a bit like getting the 'most team spirit' award for sports--it's the only nice thing that can be said about someone's efforts. but hey, i'll take it.
i've been slowly beginning to get the knack of traveling by minibus around lusaka; it's not for the faint of heart, that's for sure. the busses themselves are uniformly ramshackle, closest in size to a 16 passenger van in the states except narrower with a lower roof. they're moving masterpieces of jerry-rigging, testaments to the ingenuity and 'makedo-itevness' of whomever's in charge of keeping these things running...i don't know how they keep it all together without duct tape, but they manage. occasionally the conductor will have to kick and punch and pull at the side sliding door to get it to open, and then jam it back into place when it needs to be closed. many of the windows are broken out and taped over with thin plastic, and often the interiors are stripped so just bare metal is showing all about. i once sat with my feet on a piece of metal flooring that was removed to reveal the gas tank directly below; i've watched a gang of men lift a minibus off a curb where it had gotten stuck, and it's practically standad operating procedure to have to give the busses a push to get them moving. they cram 4 or 5 people onto benches designed for 3, then go careening around town blaring their horns, committing any number of traffic violations and ill-advised maneuvers, leaping out of the bus to try to convince potential passengers to risk their lives with them, and fighting with other bus conductors. they speak mostly nyanja here in lusaka so i don't understand most of what they're yelling at each other, but often it needs no interpretation, the basic gist of an obscenity usually translates effectively.
bargaining over prices is a fact of life here, one i usually don't enjoy very much. as a white person you're instantly marked as a tourist, and people will often jack up a price accordingly. taxi drivers are the worst for this, often quoting a price that's 2 to 3 times higher than it should be. i love watching another pcv bargain with a taxi driver because everyone has their own method; elly will skewer them with a glare, heave a world-weary sigh, then say "ok, now give me a serious price." some volunteers will browbeat a taxi driver, lecturing them that they shouldn't try to cheat us just because we're white. others will claim they're just a volunteer and don't have the money to pay an outrageous fare. some pcv's critique the quality of the product they're purchasing, pointing out flaws that should merit a lower price. shawn used this technique occasionally. i accompanied him one day on a shopping trip to the market to buy some cloth for his mother. he entered a little stall and asked the price of a chitenge, and was told 10,000 kwacha; as i wandered away to look at another part of the market i heard shawn's opening gambit: "10,000?? that thread had better be made of real gold..."
when quoted the white man's price i usually erupt into laughter like i've been told a great joke, and sometimes i'll even slap the person's shoulder like i get it and hit them with a follow-up joke, like, 'is that the price for a ride or the whole car?' (i didn't say they were good follow-up jokes). my nuclear option is the walk-away, i turn and take a few steps as if i'm prepared to leave, at which point i'm usually called back with a better offer. the walk-away has to be used cautiously though, a few times i haven't been called back when bargaining for some crafts that i really did want; then, of course, my pride wouldn't allow me to return and admit they'd won.
occasionally bargaining over a price becomes a matter of principle, you resent the fact that they tried to cheat you so you find yourself haggling ferociously over something like 500 kwacha, approximately 25 cents. i was in shoprite once and saw shawn waiting grimly by the cashier with a dogged look on his face. i walked over and asked him what he was doing, he replied he'd been waiting about 5 minutes for his change and wasn't going to leave it until he got it. there's a permanent change shortage in this country, and shoprite is notorious for shorting their customers if they don't have enough change. but shawn had had enough of being short-changed and was making a stand, a statement of principle, even. another 5 minutes passed as i waited with him and eventually he wilted in the face of the cashier's greater determination not to give him any more money. we trudged out of the store and i asked him the amount he'd been owed. '100 kwacha,' he replied.
i hope you are all well.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Mutumboko Ceremony
It's been a while since I've written as things have been hectic here. A new intake of volunteers flew in so I've been down in Lusaka for the last couple of weeks helping to train them; we've only just finished getting the last of the new Luapula volunteers placed in their villages. It was interesting to see how they reacted to being dropped out in the bush, it brought back a lot of memories of how I felt more than a year ago when I was placed. For the most part they smiled bravely and waved as we pulled away, but I've been told that almost all the female volunteers cry when they get left, and probably some of the guys as well. Quick tip: should you ever find yourself dropping off a girl in the middle of an African village for the first time, resist the urge to try to be funny. Humor is wildly underappreciated in those situations, as I discovered.
A large group of us attended the Mutumboko ceremony just before I headed to Lusaka to help with training. The Mutumboko is a traditional Lunda ceremony (the people in my area mostly are by tribe Lundas but they speak Bemba because they were conquered by them some time in the past) performed by the Mwatta Kazembe, 1 of 7 paramount chiefs and the 2nd most powerful in all--only the Lozi king in Western Province commands more land and therefore more respect. The ceremony attracts about 10,000 people every year, so it's a big deal. The ceremony is really too complex to give you much of a detailed account of all that happens, so I'll try to hit some of the main points. Basically, it's pandemonium as soon as the Mwatta emerges from his palace. He came out dressed entirely in white with beads, an old Lunda sword, and a cow tail swish hanging off his costume in various places--he looked very Druidic. He followed a set path to the river with various stops to perform small rituals of varying significance, most of which was lost on me. At one point he crawled and rolled in the dust towards a sacred tree, sacrificed food like chicken, cassava, grounduts, etc. to the ancestors living in the river by tossing it all into the water, and was carried on the shoulders of his bodyguards back to the palace (his attendant knelt before him and the Mwatta climbed onto his shoulders. the Mwatta was quite a bit larger than his attendant yet the man gamely rose in slow motion, his whole body swaying and trembling with the exertion. Several minutes later the carrier had to be relieved, after which I'm sure he collapsed somewhere...it was a funny series of events) During this procession a soldier who was part of the protective circle formed around the Mwatta and his entourage by linking their arms together happened to catch my eye. I gave him a grin and a thumbs-up and suddenly he reached back and pulled me into the circle. So, there I was with the Mwatta Kazembe, his bodyguards, and his witch doctors with painted white faces and feathered headdresses. In the 14 months of out-of-placeness I've experienced here, this topped them all so far. But I was having a great time and his entourage was large enough, about 30 strong, that no one really noticed. I was, however, deeply interested to know if my presence so close to the Mwatta was some sort of taboo (only in the last 20 or 30 years have white people been allowed to attend this ceremony at all) that would result in my getting speared when people noticed me. Fortunately, no unpleasantness resulted.
The entire ceremony was basically a sustained shoving match as people jockeyed for the best viewing position. Thousands of people would run, jog, bump, and jostle their way from one station to the next. It was hot and clouds of dust hung suspended over the crowd during the last procession. I had lost contact with the other pcv's during all the commotion, my shirt was soaked through with sweat, the massive slit drum that had accompanied the procession was booming away, and I could taste the fine grit of dust in my mouth as I jogged along a short way behind the Mwatta's entourage. Occasionally they would suddenly stop and he would swish his cow-tail whisk around and do a bit of a shimmy while still sitting on his attendant's shoulders. The crowd lining the way would go wild, cheering, whistling, hooting, and trilling their voices in high-pitched cries. Then the slow, stifling, herky-jerky jog would begin again; this continued until we reached his palace, about a kilometer and a half away. There, the crowd made a rush to accompany the entourage into the palace while the soldiers tried to close the gates, which is how I found myself mashed up against one of the iron doors of the gate after I'd tried to use a massive soldier as a blocker through the rush. I scraped along the door and was basically shoved into the palace grounds by several soldiers behind me trying to get in, the Mwatta went into his palace, and that was it for the morning festivities.
The afternoon ceremony was a succession of different people performing the dance specific to the Mutumboko, culminating with the Mwatta coming out with war hatchet and sword. He danced for a few minutes in an elaborate costume, brandishing his weapons to symbolize the Lundas' victory over one tribe or another in the past. Once he had finished the Mutumboko was officially over...all in all, really interesting stuff.
It's strange to say goodbye to all the Luapula volunteers being replaced by this newest group. For those of you who've been reading my posts all along, you've often heard me mention Shawn, Richard, and Parker, my usual partners in the various expeditions I've undertaken and all of whom are leaving within the next couple of days. It is sad to see them go, but the new group is shaping up to be very solid as well. I'll end here as this post has gotten far too long, hopefully I'll be able to write another in the next month or so as I should be back down in Mansa towards the end of September. Stay well.
A large group of us attended the Mutumboko ceremony just before I headed to Lusaka to help with training. The Mutumboko is a traditional Lunda ceremony (the people in my area mostly are by tribe Lundas but they speak Bemba because they were conquered by them some time in the past) performed by the Mwatta Kazembe, 1 of 7 paramount chiefs and the 2nd most powerful in all--only the Lozi king in Western Province commands more land and therefore more respect. The ceremony attracts about 10,000 people every year, so it's a big deal. The ceremony is really too complex to give you much of a detailed account of all that happens, so I'll try to hit some of the main points. Basically, it's pandemonium as soon as the Mwatta emerges from his palace. He came out dressed entirely in white with beads, an old Lunda sword, and a cow tail swish hanging off his costume in various places--he looked very Druidic. He followed a set path to the river with various stops to perform small rituals of varying significance, most of which was lost on me. At one point he crawled and rolled in the dust towards a sacred tree, sacrificed food like chicken, cassava, grounduts, etc. to the ancestors living in the river by tossing it all into the water, and was carried on the shoulders of his bodyguards back to the palace (his attendant knelt before him and the Mwatta climbed onto his shoulders. the Mwatta was quite a bit larger than his attendant yet the man gamely rose in slow motion, his whole body swaying and trembling with the exertion. Several minutes later the carrier had to be relieved, after which I'm sure he collapsed somewhere...it was a funny series of events) During this procession a soldier who was part of the protective circle formed around the Mwatta and his entourage by linking their arms together happened to catch my eye. I gave him a grin and a thumbs-up and suddenly he reached back and pulled me into the circle. So, there I was with the Mwatta Kazembe, his bodyguards, and his witch doctors with painted white faces and feathered headdresses. In the 14 months of out-of-placeness I've experienced here, this topped them all so far. But I was having a great time and his entourage was large enough, about 30 strong, that no one really noticed. I was, however, deeply interested to know if my presence so close to the Mwatta was some sort of taboo (only in the last 20 or 30 years have white people been allowed to attend this ceremony at all) that would result in my getting speared when people noticed me. Fortunately, no unpleasantness resulted.
The entire ceremony was basically a sustained shoving match as people jockeyed for the best viewing position. Thousands of people would run, jog, bump, and jostle their way from one station to the next. It was hot and clouds of dust hung suspended over the crowd during the last procession. I had lost contact with the other pcv's during all the commotion, my shirt was soaked through with sweat, the massive slit drum that had accompanied the procession was booming away, and I could taste the fine grit of dust in my mouth as I jogged along a short way behind the Mwatta's entourage. Occasionally they would suddenly stop and he would swish his cow-tail whisk around and do a bit of a shimmy while still sitting on his attendant's shoulders. The crowd lining the way would go wild, cheering, whistling, hooting, and trilling their voices in high-pitched cries. Then the slow, stifling, herky-jerky jog would begin again; this continued until we reached his palace, about a kilometer and a half away. There, the crowd made a rush to accompany the entourage into the palace while the soldiers tried to close the gates, which is how I found myself mashed up against one of the iron doors of the gate after I'd tried to use a massive soldier as a blocker through the rush. I scraped along the door and was basically shoved into the palace grounds by several soldiers behind me trying to get in, the Mwatta went into his palace, and that was it for the morning festivities.
The afternoon ceremony was a succession of different people performing the dance specific to the Mutumboko, culminating with the Mwatta coming out with war hatchet and sword. He danced for a few minutes in an elaborate costume, brandishing his weapons to symbolize the Lundas' victory over one tribe or another in the past. Once he had finished the Mutumboko was officially over...all in all, really interesting stuff.
It's strange to say goodbye to all the Luapula volunteers being replaced by this newest group. For those of you who've been reading my posts all along, you've often heard me mention Shawn, Richard, and Parker, my usual partners in the various expeditions I've undertaken and all of whom are leaving within the next couple of days. It is sad to see them go, but the new group is shaping up to be very solid as well. I'll end here as this post has gotten far too long, hopefully I'll be able to write another in the next month or so as I should be back down in Mansa towards the end of September. Stay well.
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