The village exchange program

When I set up my home in rural Zambia, I expected the small village of Mfuba to be my universe – my reference point for what defines “rural Zambia.”

But as it turns out, there are a lot of us PCVs here – more than 280, last I heard – and each of us, in each of our individual villages, has discovered our own definition of “rural Zambia.”

PCVs (and staff) of Northern and Muchinga provinces, at our semiannual provincial meetings. Each one of our experiences has been shaped by a unique village placement.

According to the Peace Corps Annual Volunteer Survey, Zambian PCVs’ sites remain the most rural and “undeveloped” of any where the organization serves. Yes, this means almost all of us live that stereotypical Peace Corps experience – the one that barely exists anymore, but remains what most people imagine: thatched-roof, mud huts with no electricity or running water, in far-flung communities with limited transport options to the nearest town.

But within this basic framework, the differences among villages where we serve are infinite.

Mfuba has about 90 households – probably between 800 and 900 people total living in homes spaced some distance apart, with lots of trees in between. Other Zambian PCVs may live on a compound with just one other family, with their next-nearest neighbors a couple of kilometers away; or in a densely populated area, with several other houses right up against their own front yards. PCV host villages can range from just five or six homes with only a few dozen residents up to nearly 10,000 people in a single large village.

(If you want to know more about what life is like for PCVs in other countries, check out my friend Hannah’s blog. She’s trying to interview a PCV from every country where Peace Corps currently serves!)

Of course, I can ride my bike in just about any direction and visit a never-ending string of different villages, but spending time in a community where a PCV serves opens doors in a different way. Typically, that PCV has a ready-made circle of family, friends, and kids who will want to come over and hang out. He or she can act as tour guide and interpreter, opening up whole new worlds I’d never experience otherwise.

In all, I’ve visited 21 Zambian PCVs in their home villages. This includes Peace Corps-sponsored First Site Visit and Second Site Visit, as well as vacation time and days spent collaborating on work projects with my nearest neighbors.

Every community I’ve seen has been unique, reminding me that no two PCVs’ experiences are ever alike. An accident of geographical placement can have a huge effect on one’s time in Zambia.

Dan lived with neighbors packed right up against him – even though he lived 76 kilometers from the tarmac – while Scott has quite a bit of privacy in his yard, in spite of living just three kilometers from the sprawling town of Mpika. (You can see city lights from his yard at night. Whoa!)

When we visited Dan’s place for Independence Day, neighboring kids crowded right up into the doorway to watch Erica cooking.

At Scott’s site, Adam and Zach enjoy pizza – brought in by bicycle from just 5 Km away – and hair-braiding services.

Gordon’s site – like many in Eastern Province – boasted lots of climb-able rock outcrops, few trees, and high population density.

Looking across the soccer (aka bola) pitch at the closely spaced homes of Gordon’s village, Chimutanda.

Kate lives a short walk from a beautiful lake – but an even shorter distance from a rowdy bar that has negatively affected her service.

A traditional canoe on the shore of Lake Lusiwasi, in Kate’s backyard. This tranquil scene contrasts sharply with the thumping music and drunken banter at the nearby bar.

Taylor lives in the same vil’ as the Chieftainess, so she has government services and tuck shops galore – even though she is 56 kilometers of awful dirt road away from the nearest town. Morgan, on the other hand, hangs his hat only 17 kilometers from the tarmac, but his community is about as isolated as it gets: at the end of a dead-end road, its one primary school only built in 2006. Oh, and his neighbors found a hippo eating their crops last year.

Wading across the Lukulu River – same place where the hippo was found – at Morgan’s site.

Jim and Julie’s village – 45 kilometers from the nearest paved road – felt like a town to me. They have two lodges, an auto repair shop, and tuck shops that sell cold beverages and Kellogg’s Corn Flakes!

Luke lives between the Great Northern Road, which runs from Lusaka up to Northern Province, and the Zambia-Tanzania railway line, so he’s gotten used to the sounds of trains and big trucks barreling by all night. Christina’s home is just two kilometers from a good-sized town, so she can buy fresh vegetables every day, but she will never, ever know everyone in her community.

Faye’s community also felt a little overwhelming when I first biked in, what with the huge coffee plantation and processing plant. But the village where she actually LIVES, 3 kilometers away, feels as small and remote as anywhere you’d find.

The view from Faye’s front porch.

I’ve visited at least one village in every province where Peace Corps serves, except for Southern Province, only because I haven’t managed to travel there, period. (For the record, this includes: Northern, Luapula, Muchinga, Central, Eastern, and Northwestern provinces. Our few third-year, aka extension, volunteers often live in towns, or even in the capital of Lusaka, but that’s a much different experience.)

But the majority of villages where I’ve spent a night or two – 12 of the 21 I’ve visited – have been right here in Northern province, within the two districts that my own community straddles: Kasama and Luwingu.

Even within such a relatively small area, differences can be huge.

Though I’ve so far mostly mentioned physical differences, cultural and demographic characteristics typically have a much bigger impact on a PCV’s service. (So do the race, gender, and sexual orientation of a volunteer, but that’s a whole other post.)

Poverty and education levels vary wildly within the broad category of “rural Zambia.” Kids at some sites are visibly undernourished and neglected, while others look fine save for tattered clothes.

In some villages, most kids don’t even make it to school; in others, a secondary school is within walking distance, and attendance at the primary level is at least decent.

PCVs in some areas work with commercial, export-oriented farmers who hire local workers. Elsewhere, meeting a farmer who tills more than two hectares (five acres) is rare, because all work is done by hand, with hoes.

Some PCVs live right up against Angola, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Malawi, or Tanzania, with all the resultant cultural and social exchanges that entails.

When we first arrived in Zambia, each of us had our own vision of what life in a rural African village might look like. Some of us got more or less what we pictured. Others, not so much.

But by and large, we’ve all made our peace, and our homes, regardless of where we’ve found ourselves.

The following is a sampling of photos I’ve taken in various Zambian PCVs’ home villages:

Kathryn walking past a field of maize. (This is a common site in everyone’s village!)

Adam and Taylor cooking on Taylor’s front porch.

Faye, posing with the center pivot just a few kilometers from her house. Irrigated commercial farming is a rarity in Northern Province.

Katie’s house, outside Mwinilungu in Northwestern Province.

In Samuel’s village, a man-made furrow carries water to crops even in the dry season, so people can farm year-round.

Adam’s sister Molly hanging with the kids at Scott’s site.

Evan’s (now Morgan’s) nsaka.

The beach behind Jim and Julie’s house, which overlooks an arm of Lake Bangweulu.

Trevor’s host brothers playing “drafts” on Trevor’s front porch.

Cooking and bike repairs in Jesse’s front yard.

Sweeping Christina’s yard.

Adam and Zach getting their hair braided at Zach’s site.

Kathryn with one of her kids, while cooking on her front porch.

This is where Melissa got her water. A far cry from my well, and from the boreholes some PCVs use.

Jim and Julie’s village boasts more shops than I’ve seen in any other PCV’s home community.

View of the main road that runs right past Adam’s house. (It’s dirt, and doesn’t get much traffic, but it’s about to be paved.)

Sunset behind Scott’s heavily deforested site.

Cassava drying along the banks of a river at Kathryn’s site.

Adam with one of his favorite kids.

Rocky river at Faye’s site.

The path to Rodney’s village – one of the most remote sites I’ve visited.

Trevor and his host brothers on their way back from gathering a little maize.

Adam and Dan cooking on Evan’s front porch.

Faye trying to fix a flat amidst a throng of onlookers in Morgan’s nsaka.

Faye’s yard.

Fixing a flat in Morgan’s village.

The view outside Christina’s front door. She painted a blackboard on the outside of her kitchen building (she doesn’t have an nsaka) so her kids can write and draw.

Jim and Julie have managed to make their home look more like an American living room than any other PCV I’ve visited.

Christina with the kids at her house.

The sex lives of muzungus

Depending who you talk to, I am either a complete floozy who sleeps with every male PCV I know, or a 37-year-old virgin.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the sex lives of muzungus is such a topic of interest. After all, we PCVs theorize endlessly about the sex lives of our Zambian neighbors, which seem on the surface to be so different from ours.

Rural Zambian couples barely speak to one another, let along touch, in public. Yet women are taught all kinds of ways to please their future partners at the elaborate overnight events preceding weddings, and they use various herbs and rituals to alter their bodies.

Bana Cibusa handing painted rocks to Ba Nellis and the bride, Ba Priscilla, on the morning preceding her wedding.

In theory, unmarried women and girls don’t yet know these things, but go to any Camp GLOW and it becomes apparent that they know more than they’re letting on. (It’s considered scandalous for a girl to admit she knows anything about sex or her body, so it’s sometimes tough to know what she actually DOES know.)

It’s common for PCVs to share bits of mildly scandalous info we glean from various Zambian friends, and then come up with our own half-baked theories. Why wouldn’t Zambians do the same?

I’ve heard only a sliver of what my neighbors thought when they saw PCVs Dan and Adam sleeping in the same tiny house as me – at the SAME TIME! Then just weeks later, Samuel came and slept with me. And later, Morgan shared the house with me AND Faye! Apparently even my cohabitation with my brother when he came to visit raised a few eyebrows.

In a society in which it is taboo for a grown man and woman (even a brother and sister) to sleep in the same room – let alone the same bed – imagine the scandal of this constant parade of sleeping partners.

Some time ago, I had a talk with a group of female neighbors about the fact that it is indeed possible for two opposite-sex Americans to sleep in the same room – even in the same bed – without having sex. I think I was able to convince them of this eventually.

But then Ba Dorothy asked, conspiratorially: “Yes, but what about the BLACK men in America?”

Ba Dorothy and I at Kasama Camp GLOW, with Harriet and Patricia (up front).

I found myself mildly offended, yet I couldn’t help it. I cracked up. No, Ba Dorothy, sexual norms aren’t genetic. They’re cultural. Men with a larger share of African ancestry are not sex maniacs, and men with more European blood are not sexless, as she was implying.

Then came Luwingu Camp GLOW. Like most PCVs – and most Americans – we in Luwingu are prone to hugging across gender lines. We made a point of being open with the girls and explaining to them that, yes, Dan and Erica are dating, as are Jesse and Hayley. But the rest of us are not in any kind of physical relationship with one another. Americans just don’t mind showing affection across genders.

Watching the sunset at IST, in the early days of our service, with three of my best friends: me, Adam, Samuel, and Ryeon.

We thought they understood.

But then, in a lesson about how HIV spreads, Dan decided to use the PCVs as examples of multiple concurrent partnerships (MCPs), which is a major factor in the spread of the virus in Africa. “So let’s say Ba Terri and Ba Adam are dating,” Dan started out. “And they are not using condoms.” (Giggles throughout the room.) “Adam thinks Terri is being faithful, but then she goes and sleeps with Jesse, Tristan, and me.” (More giggles.) “And I have HIV. What will happen to Terri and Adam?”

Of course, Dan explained dutifully that this was just an example, but you could see the gears turning in their wide-eyed heads.

Adam later overheard a group of girls speculating about a tangled web of multiple PCV partnerships. I must admit, I found this kind of hilarious.

Then, only weeks later, I heard the exact opposite.

I was chatting with Ba Dorothy, Ba Nellis, and Bana Brennam about my PCV predecessor in Mfuba, Ba Steve. As usual, they were expressing horror over Steve’s childlessness – at age 62.

“Ah, he will die alone,” Bana Brennam said, shaking her head sadly.

“He just doesn’t feel sex,” Ba Dorothy added.

Wait, what?! Ba Dorothy, what do you mean by that?

Intense laughter. Then, “He doesn’t want sex.”

Are you saying you think Ba Steve has never had sex?!

Silence. Then, “Well, he doesn’t have children …” (I’ve since learned that the older women know of a whole range of herbs that can “cure” men of infertility. How do they know when it’s the man who’s infertile? “Oh, we know!” Banakulu Line once told me – again, to much laughter and knowing looks among the other women.)

Suddenly, a light bulb went on in my head. “Wait, do you think I’VE never had sex?! Because I don’t have children?”

Silence. Raised eyebrows.

“Family planning!” I exclaimed for perhaps the 100^th time in my service. “We use family planning! We decide not to have children until we’re ready!” (“Family planning” is the term for any form of birth control here.)

The women remained dubious.

“Wait, is this why you think muzungus can sleep together without having sex? That we have no sex drive?”

More raised eyebrows. Basically, that seemed to be exactly what they were thinking.

Strangely enough – culturally – I was more outraged by this implication than I was when the GLOW girls thought I was sleeping with four different male PCVs.

Imagine that: I have my own cultural perceptions of sex, too.

How long should we drag this out?

Some of you may have noticed that I haven’t posted in a month. Though, let’s face it: this is nothing new. I often go a month or more without a post, then vomit out five posts in four days.

It’s not because I’m not writing, and not because there isn’t anything to write about. If I had the time and the Internet access, I’d probably write a post every single day. Life in Zambia – or in general – never ceases to amaze me. There is SO MUCH I’ve never included here.

Problem is, I currently have a backlog of about 10 posts I’ve written in the vil’ but never published during my limited time in town; a list of yet-to-be-written post ideas about the length of my arm; and less than two months left in Zambia.

So I have a proposal: What if I keep writing for a little while when I get back to the States? Thoughts? Comments? Are you sick of me yet, or do you wanna keep thewandererinzambia going just a little while longer?

For me, it might be therapeutic to continue my Zambian ramblings for a little while, to ease the transition back ku Amelika. For you? Well, you’ll have to let me know. Wanna stick with me for a little while?

Letter to my successor

My successor is already preparing to come to Mfuba Village – without even knowing it.

As I write this, he or she is packing bags, saying goodbyes, and going through all the excitement and anxiety I was feeling two years ago.

Next week, this person – along with the rest of the LIFE 2015 intake – will board a plane bound for Lusaka. This person won’t know until late March that Mfuba will be his or her new home, but the stars are aligning nonetheless.

If I could write a letter to this person, here’s what I’d say:

Mwaseni kuli Mfuba! (Welcome to Mfuba!)

You have no idea how lucky you are. An infinite number of random coincidences (or fate, depending on your persuasion) have brought you here, to arguably the best Zambian village you could ever hope to live in.

The Mfuba Cooperative, serving up ubwali.

Others will tell you that I’m just biased – that all PCVs come to love their villages, regardless. But that’s not entirely true.

Some PCVs struggle with unmotivated communities, a lack of good counterparts, theft, kids who don’t respect them, or neighbors who are just plain mean to one another.

I’ve been blessed with the opposite. And now you are, too.

Don’t get me wrong: Mfuba and its residents have their flaws, which you’ll discover soon enough. As an American, you’ll find all the same frustrations you’d find anywhere else in Zambia.

But don’t worry about all that just yet.

First, embrace the excitement and enthusiasm that this wonderful community will soon shower upon you, as they did upon me and my own predecessor. Try to speak Bemba even if language isn’t your forte, play with the kids even if you don’t like kids, and dance even if you feel shy.

Dancing with Ba Memory.

They’ll love you for it.

Mfuba is the home of many patient Bemba teachers, children who are ridiculously respectful and helpful (most of the time), and adults who will embrace you as one of their own.

Obed (foreground) and Boke are rarely happier than when they get to help me with some chore.

Welcome to your new house. I’ve tried to fix it up as best I could, and it’s a pretty cozy place if I do say so myself. Try to embrace all your visitors and not hide inside with all the windows closed too often, but do it when you really need to.

The big poster on the wall translates: “Welcome to Mfuba!” It was left for me, and it’ll be waiting for you, too.

The loungin’ spot – for when you need a break.

Welcome to your very own field. I hope I’ve left the soil in better shape than I found it in. I also hope you’re a better farmer than I was. But if you’re not, don’t worry: you can’t really “fail” at farming here, as long as you keep trying and keep greeting everyone who walks by while you’re working.

In fact, this is true of anything you do here.

Welcome to the Mutale family. Or the Kasonde family, or any other family you choose to adopt. There isn’t a family I’ve met here who wouldn’t be overjoyed to share ubwali with you on a regular basis.

I hope you come to like ubwali. It can be the thing that binds you to your new neighbors and lifts you up when you’re feeling down.

I also hope you get to know the kids. They are some of the kindest, funniest people I know, and they will love you forever if you give them just a little of your time.

The best part of the job.

Welcome to life as a third-generation PCV. You’ll often be compared to me, and to the first-gen PCV, Steve.

Don’t listen to any of it.

It doesn’t matter what Steve or I did or did not give, did or did not do. It doesn’t matter if your habits or your food preferences or your tree-planting skills or your Bemba vocab is better or worse than ours was. As long as you come with good intentions and are willing to laugh at yourself, they’ll love you.

Work hard, because your neighbors will expect it of you. But don’t be too hard on yourself, and don’t work yourself into the ground.

Remember what they tell you all through training: “Relationships first, work second.” Because it’s true.

Maybe most importantly of all, don’t listen too much to me.

Partly because I often didn’t follow my own advice. I sometimes snapped at people for no good reason, chased kids out of my yard, threw myself into too many projects, worried too much, isolated myself, forgot to step back and laugh at myself. In spite of how amazing Mfuba is, I created problems in my own head and had plenty of bad days anyway.

But mainly because, who cares what I think? I’m on my way out.

Mfuba is your home now.

I ask only that you try your best, every day, to be a good person, and to remember that this village is full of good people, too.

Lead with your heart, and you will find yourself welcomed in every way.

Highs and lows: a retrospective

Here I am. Community Exit. My last three months in Mfuba Village. A time for wrapping up, and for reflecting.

For me, that process began earlier this month, at our COS (Close of Service) Conference, where everyone from our intake got together one last time – all 36 LIFE and RAP PCVs who flew into Zambia together on February 13, 2013 and have made it through almost two years of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows.

We attended all the usual Peace Corps administrative sessions, this time meant to prepare us for leaving our villages, leaving Zambia, and returning to the States – or to wherever else life might take us.

But mostly, we shared stories. Stories encompassing all the human emotions you could possibly imagine, jam-packed into these less than two years that sometimes feel like a lifetime. Stories that caught us up on one another’s lives. Stories that reminded us: we’re all in this together.

Watching the sunset at IST, in the early days of our service, with three of my best friends: me, Adam, Samuel, and Ryeon.

Those stories – and the love and emotion behind them – reminded me of all the things I love about this big, beautiful, utterly chaotic country. And all the things I love about this big group of beautiful, utterly chaotic PCVs.

In one of those official Peace Corps sessions, we got together in small groups to write up four lists: “Things We’ll Miss,” “Things We Won’t Miss,” “Challenges,” and “Successes.” I was glad that in our group – and I think overall – the “Things We’ll Miss” outweighed the “Things We Won’t Miss.” Challenges and Successes were about equally represented.

Personally, I realized that a lot of the “Things I Won’t Miss” are minor things, of little consequence, while most of the “Things I’ll Miss” loom large in my mind. Especially the people. The first words that came out of my mouth when I was asked what I’ll miss were: Boyd and Stephen (aka Bwalya).

Things I’ll miss: Ino, Agri, Obed, and Katongo.

Things I’ll miss: the NoPro Peace Corps crew.

Almost everything I’ve considered a “Challenge” during my service has been largely or entirely in my own head.

Life is funny that way. We look back at the hard times and notice how they made us grow. We remember our struggles and laugh – or at least smile, glad that THAT’s over! Any traveller knows that the worst experiences often make the best stories – after a bit of time has passed.

In that spirit – the spirit of reminiscing, story-telling, and appreciating all aspects of the Peace Corps roller coaster – I offer up here my own four lists.

Things I’ll Miss                                                             Things I Won’t Miss

Daily chaos                                                                 Misunderstandings

Zambian family and friends                                    Amaguys hassling me in town

Ubwali                                                                         Gender inequality

Communal eating and sharing                               Always being “other”

Everyday inspiration                                                Stress

Spending time with the kids                                   Being surrounded by hordes of kids

PCV solidarity                                                            The phrase, “Ah, we blacks.”

Public singing and dancing                                     Being “on” 24/7

Wild fruits                                                                  Jealousy among neighbors

Bad music on buses                                                  Bad music on buses

Living outdoors                                                         Rats in my house

Biking everywhere                                                    Bats in my house

Big rain storms                                                          Termites in my house

Hitch-hiking                                                              Transport in general

Street food                                                                  Littering

Fetching water                                                           Hot season

PCV friends

Slow pace of life

Speaking Bemba

Constant learning

Challenges                                                                     Successes

Lack of alone time                                                Personal relationships

Begging                                                                Cultural integration

Guilt                                                                      Sharing new ideas

Lack of set work schedule                                   Camp TREE

Gender inequality                                                 Camp GLOW

Zambian government                                         Farmers adopting Conservation Farming

Finding balance                                                   This blog (in spite of formatting issues)

Broadness of the LIFE program                          Cross-cultural connections

Isolation and loneliness                                       Mfuba’s community demonstration field

Self-doubt                                                           Sticking it out

Anger and judgements                                Being called “Bemba beene beene” – a “true Bemba.”

The missing shoe

A group of young Mfubans has just departed my yard, and, yet again, there it is: the lone shoe.

One left-behind shoe. Photo courtesy of Cody Heche.

I’ve no idea to whom it belongs.

Pink flip flop, rubber boot, or black plastic women’s flat, it could have arrived with most any of the kids who’ve just left. Style, size, and intended gender of footwear, like that of most clothing in this hand-me-down world, is only sometimes related to the actual size or gender of the owner.

A rubber boot left in the crook of a tree. Photo courtesy of Cody Heche.

And, like most other personal items, kids will exchange shoes on a whim.

It’s not uncommon to see both children and adults wearing a different shoe on each foot. Maybe one half of the pair has disintegrated beyond repair, seams blown out entirely, rubber too far gone for yet another fix-it job, sole worn completely through to daylight.

This shoe may have been purposely abandoned. Photo courtesy of Cody Heche.

More often, though, one shoe is simply, momentarily or permanently, lost.

Photo courtesy of Cody Heche.

At first, it seemed strange – beyond belief, even – that someone could forget ONE shoe. Could simply walk away with only one REMAINING shoe, and not notice. And that this phenomenon could be so common that, in Mfuba and across rural Zambia, one can find lone shoes scattered across such varied locales as forests, schoolyards, and rooftops.

Photo courtesy of Cody Heche.

(My PCV friend Cody pledged to photograph every left-behind shoe he came across during his service. He gave up, after less than one year in Zambia, because the sheer number of lone shoes in need of photographing was taking over his life. This project of his was what first inspired me to write this post.)

But after a while, the reasons behind the phenomenon of the left-behind shoe became apparent.

Simply put, no one here is accustomed to wearing shoes. Many kids don’t even have a pair, and only borrow from friends to play or to dress up.

Even adults, who invariably own at least one pair, if not two or three, are typically much more comfortable going barefoot. It’s how they grew up, too.

Ba Allan Mwango carving wooden cooking sticks. He owns a few pairs of shoes, but rarely wears them around the house.

When playing any kind of game that involves running – from organized netball or bola (aka “soccer”) to kids’ games such as the dodgeball-like “bonga!” – children and adults alike will instantly ditch their shoes. It’s just easier to run and jump barefoot than it is while wearing cheap plastic shoes.

Almost everyone on the Mfuba football team plays barefoot.

Shoe-free zone at the Camp GLOW tug-of-war contest. Notice all the left-behind shoes in the background!

Those who own a decent pair of shoes or rubber boots will sometimes wear them to work in their fields, so they don’t accidentally hack off a toe with a hoe or an ax or step on a sharp tree stump. There are a lot of stabby seeds and weeds out there, too, as my own softie feet can attest, but most five-year-olds’ feet are tough enough that I don’t even see them flinch.

Katongo getting a splinter out of his little brother Agri’s foot.

Rural Zambians will also wear shoes to protect their feet when walking long distances.

But it’s also common to see people walking barefoot with a pair of shoes in their hand or on their head. Sometimes this is because the shoe owner has reached a podiatrically difficult part of their journey: a rickety log bridge, for example, that’s easier to grip and balance upon without shoes.

Woman walking across a dam with a baby on her back and shoes in hand.

More commonly, the shoe-carrier is going to school or church or somewhere else important and wants to keep those nice shoes from getting dirty or worn. Within 100 or so meters of the destination, he or she will transfer the clean shoes from head to feet.

(Zambian adults are, in general, about 87 times cleaner and more presentable than any PCV you’re likely to find. The kids are about as filthy as any kid in any country who goes barefoot and wears just one set of ragged clothes day in and day out, though their parents do try.)

Muddy feet and muzungu feet. (The former are Stephen and Boyd’s.)

With the transient nature of footwear here as background, it’s no longer so surprising when I find a stray flip flop on my akantamba (outdoor dish rack) or on the roof of my nsaka.

Photo courtesy of Cody Heche.

What’s more surprising is how anyone manages to keep track of their shoes at all.

Mwisakamana

22 December 201

“Always perform with detachment any action you must do. Performing action with detachment, one achieves supreme good.” — Bhagavad Gita

Why must I always seek words of wisdom in books and spiritual texts?

My neighbors give me the same advice, in much more practical form, almost every day:

“Mwisakamana, Ba Terri.” (“Don’t worry, you silly muzungu!”)

Don’t be attached to whether your trees die, or whether weeds overtake your field.

Don’t worry about whether the co-op’s conservation farming demonstration field is planted properly (or at all). Don’t worry about whether Mfuba gets its hybrid goats, or its honorary forest guards, or a metal roof for its school.

Mfuba Co-op members preparing their conservation farming demonstration field.

Just keep on digging and planting and teaching and making phone calls and visiting government offices, without attachment to the outcomes.

Mwisakamana.

Easier said than done. Especially with the end of my service looming.

In just four days, I will go on the last vacation of my Peace Corps service. Then straight to Lusaka for COS (Close Of Service) conference – the last PCV workshop for the group I came into Zambia with back in February 2013. The one where we’ll be advised on how to wrap up projects, leave our villages, and re-enter life ku Amelika.

Then I’ll have three months left in Mfuba and – capwa – two years gone.

I know that all work here happens panono panono (bit by bit). That culture and my own learning curve have always dictated a slow, faltering kind of progress. That – as all PCVs are taught – it’s rare to see any lasting change during one’s service.

Even change that occurs somewhere down the road is likely to be small and incremental.

But it’s hard to accept sometimes. I want to SEE progress! I want my field to be a lasting teaching and learning tool. I want the co-op to have a successful demo field from which they can learn and multiply new seed varieties. I want my neighbors to have better and more varied sources of income. I want Stephen and Boyd and Cynthia and Cila and Obed to get a good education.

Homework time on my front porch.

I am attached to these things. To the idea that my actions have the potential to help bring them about.

Or maybe what I’m really worried about is the possibility of leaving Mfuba with my neighbors still thinking I didn’t do anything for them in these two years.

Maybe I’m really just trying to assuage my own guilt about returning to the land of comfort, excess, and store-bought food while my neighbors stay right here, hand-tilling their fields and struggling to get their kids through Grade 9.

So what is it I’m actually attached to? Seeming like a good person? The sense of satisfaction that comes from seeing a big project through to completion? The warm, fuzzy feeling of having done something “good”? The ego-driven desire to “leave my mark”?

Because, really, whatever happens in Mfuba – in the next three months or the next three decades – isn’t up to me. It’s partly up to my neighbors, separately and collectively. Partly up to global politics. And partly up to twists of fate and chance that I’ll never understand.

So why AM I so attached to the results of my daily actions here?

Perhaps I should take the advice of Lao Tzu:

“A tree that fills a man’s embrace grows from a seedling. A tower nine stories high starts with one brick. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Act and it’s ruined. Grab and it’s gone. People on the verge of success often lose patience and fail in their undertakings. Be steady from the beginning to the end, and you won’t bring on failure.”

Or maybe I should just take a deep breath and listen to the words of my much-more-succinct Bemba teachers:

“Imiti ikula empanga.”

“Small trees make the future forest.”

(Not so) black and white

15 December 2014

“Ba Terri, do you have something to make my skin white like yours?”

Of all the things that pain me here – of all the heartbreaking injustices and inequalities – this one hurts the most. The desire to be white.

Today the question came from Cila – one of the most adorable little girls I have ever known, of any color. Just six years old, and already she’s soaked it in like a little sponge: black is NOT beautiful.

Cila in all her glory.

It seems I spend a lot of time in Mfuba trying to convince young girls that they are pretty. That they look better when they don’t cake their faces with white powder. That, actually, I love their hair as much as they love mine.

GLOW girls Harriet and Mwape.

To no avail.

No matter how many times I told Cila how beautiful I think she is, she was unconvinced. “No, Ba Terri, black skin is NOT beautiful!”

There are so many dimensions to this, it’s impossible to know where to begin.

Yes, girls of all races often want to look different than they do. Self-loathing is something in which girls the world over are well-versed.

Camp GLOW teaches about self-confidence, assertiveness, and self-esteem.

And yes, in America, black kids definitely grow up with society telling them – in ways both subtle and overt – that white is where it’s at. That black equals other, equals inferior.

Of course, there is a whole heart-wrenching, muddy history to this kind of internalized racism – one which, as a white person, I will never fully fathom.

But here in Zambia, self-loathing among my neighbors seems to have a whole other dimension.

Boys, too, tell me they don’t like their skin, their hair, their bodies. Men ask me if I know of any lotions to lighten the skin of their wives.

Shouts of “muzungu bele” (which I’m now virtually certain means “beautiful muzungu” – at least to most people) follow me wherever I bike.

Of course, my experiences are mostly limited to a very small, very rural slice of northern Zambia. In the provincial capital, Kasama, I’m sometimes greeted with indifference and occasionally scowled at.

Yet once, in the capital, Lusaka, of all places, two men told me that they believe in the Bible – rather than in the spiritual practices common in most of Zambia just 100 or so years ago – because, “we believe God sent white people to teach us the right way.”

When I heard that, it felt like a thousand lightning bolts crashing in my head all at once. Every time I’d heard, “Ah, we blacks. We are so far behind” suddenly made a horrifying kind of sense.

Except that it makes no sense at all.

Here, black people are far and away the majority – not some marginalized group. (Though, of course, they ARE marginalized on the world stage.) Here, within living memory, white people took over land that did not belong to them, imposed taxes that local people (who did not use money) could not pay, then forced them to work in mines so they COULD pay.

The Transatlantic slave trade didn’t have a huge impact on far-south, landlocked Zambia, but it still weighs heavily on the history of the region.

In my mind, Zambians should HATE white people. Or at least strongly distrust us in the way that many black Americans do.

Yet somehow, we are revered. Greeted with huge smiles, asked to name babies, and looked to as if we are the messiahs of “development.” There are people living within 10Km of me who know more than I do about a whole range of subjects. Yet no one listens to them. They listen to me, because I am white.

Ironically, all the attention we get as white PCVs (and, let’s face it: the vast majority of us ARE white) drives most of us nuts. Me included.

Black PCVs have a completely different experience here. As one of my PCV friends recently noted, while talking about white PCVs’ annoyance at being constantly stared at: “Welcome to my world, all my life.” Meaning, the world of a black person in America.

Only in America, white people don’t usually stare at black people with awe and reverence, or because we think they are beautiful. White people in America typically stare at black people the way I imagine black Zambians SHOULD stare at white people here: with an unspoken, entitled sense of being the dominant race.

Except that, like Cila,most Zambians I know seem to have absorbed to the core of their being – without even realizing it – that they are somehow inferior.

Cila (second from right), with friends Donna, Line, and Minus.

And what’s even worse is this: Cila and her friends aren’t the only ones who believe it. They didn’t get this idea out of nowhere.

Millions of people worldwide – mainly white, mainly privileged, mainly a lot like me – believe it, too. Not out loud. No, that would be racist. Often, not even consciously.

But we’re all simmering in the same murky, prejudiced soup, with all our flawed notions of “other,” “different,” “good,” and “bad.” We white people penned the recipe, but everyone has soaked up the same destructive thoughts, whether we acknowledge it or not.

I’m not saying I’m above any of this, or that I have any profound answers that wouldn’t sound ridiculously trite.

All I can do is look at my kids – all my little Bemba brothers and sisters – and tell them over and over how beautiful they really are. Not MORE beautiful than me, but just the same. And then keep saying it until we all believe it.

Me and my kids.

Northern Zambia by bike

I’ve covered a lot of territory on my trusty Peace Corps-issued mountain bike. But I just completed the best bike adventure of my service in Zambia – possibly the best adventure I’ve had here, period.

Over the course of nine days, with a few rest days in between, I biked 930 kilometers (almost 580 miles) of dirt, gravel, tarmac, and bush path. I traveled from Mfuba, around the west side of Lake Bangweulu and into Luapula Province; to the lakeside town of Samfya; up the road north to Mwansa, Mwense, and Kazembe; east to a whole bunch of beautiful waterfalls; further east on the worst road I’ve ever been on to Mporokoso; and finally my longest-ever day of riding, from Mporokoso back to Kasama. Tomorrow I’ll bike my usual 90 km from Kasama back to Mfuba, officially getting myself over the 1,000-kilometer mark, just to sound a little more bad-ass.

Along the way, I traveled with a changing cast of PCV friends, and biked a couple legs on my own. I visited the villages of five different PCVs; followed the waterways of the vast Bangweulu watershed; explored small towns; and camped beside some of the most beautiful waterfalls I’ve ever seen.

Undertaken during the hottest, driest part of the year in Zambia, the journey was mostly sunny and sweaty, though it did pour rain for about 20 km one morning, which was nice. Luckily I found rivers to jump in almost every day.

The ride itself would’ve been well worth it, but ultimately the trip’s most memorable moments were spent with people: the Zambians who offered me directions, food, and occasionally music, as well as my fellow PCVs, some of whom I hadn’t seen in many, many months. Long talks around campfires; communal meals; swimming, sliding, and jumping off various waterfalls; and just hanging out by the waterside were what really made the trip.

Below are selected photos from the journey. More can be found in the Northern-Luapula Bike Adventure Gallery.

A family that invited me to eat ubwali with them, about 70 km into my first day on the road. When I heard, “Iseni! Tulye ubwali!” (“Come here! We’re eating ubwali!”) from the side of the road, I took it as a good sign. And of course I couldn’t say no.

Me getting across a janky log bridge on the way to Chungu. I took my heavy panniers across separately.

Adam and Taylor cooking breakfast in the morning sunshine.

Loading up bikes onto the rowboat that would ferry us across to Kasaba. I think we had six bikes in all on that boat, plus the passengers.

Sunrise over Lake Chifunabuli, seen from PCVs Jim and Julie’s yard in Lubwe.

Biking along the road from Lubwe to Samfya, which totally reminded me of biking through scrub brush in coastal California.

Me and my favorite guys in Zambia: Samwell, Zach, Jacob, and Adam.

Me at the top of the long hill (which wasn’t really that long) right before Intumbachushi.

Ryeon and I arrive at the falls!

Me and Samwell.

The jump!

Gathering storm clouds over a lower falls. We got rained on a fair bit during our two-and-a-half days at Intumbachushi.

Warming and drying our butts around a charcoal brazier kindly loaned to us by the ladies cooking us ubwali at Nayafede Restaurant in Kawambwa, where we took refuge from the downpour.

Finally I get up my courage. Must’ve been the awesome Spiderman leggings I found in Mansa!

The biking quartet arrives at the entrance to Lumangwe Falls.

Images from my two-week bike trip across Northern and Luapula provinces.

Me and Adam at Kabweluma Falls.

Me at Kabweluma Falls.

Sunset and storm clouds over Lumangwe Falls on our last night there.

Rainbow over Lumangwe Falls on our last morning of camping. I took it as a good omen, but that day proved to be one of the toughest of my trip: 90 hot, sweaty, bone-shaking kilometers on the worst road I’d ever seen in Zambia.

Lucas and Adam napping at the falls. I slept for quite a while myself. It was so cool and peaceful after so many days of biking and socializing …

Woo hoo! Lucas does a back flip off the bridge.

Surrealist, album-cover photo that Julie took of Adam, me, and Lucas in Lake Chifunabuli. The sand on the hills in the background looked so much like snow, it kinda killed me!

Lucas biking with friends on the way from Kawambwa to Lumangwe Falls.

Meet the Peace Corps counterpart

Meet Ba Allan. He himself would tell you, proudly, “I am the Peace Corps counterpart.”

Easy to say. But the follow-through is almost unimaginably difficult sometimes, and, far too often, I forget this. I forget to appreciate how amazing Ba Allan is. How lucky I am to have him as a counterpart, and as a friend.

Me and Ba Allan.

For those not familiar with Peace Corps lingo, a counterpart is someone in a PCV’s host community who works alongside the PCV, prodding people into action. Finding the right CP can make or break a PCV’s service, since any ideas for change – if they are to be sustainable – must come from within the community.

A good counterpart is very, very hard to find.

It takes a lot of guts be the person – in any community – to do things differently. To take a risk. To risk being a pariah.

That goes double for a PC counterpart introducing new (aka crazy) ideas to his friends and family in a place where culture and the status quo run deep. And working his butt off without getting a dime in the short term. (In the long term, we all hope that the counterpart’s new farming and business ventures will pay off.)

Like any good counterpart, Ba Allan is a respected leader in his community – one of those rare souls who actively seeks to make the world a little better, who sees learning as a lifelong process, and who isn’t afraid to shake things up a little. He was doing this long before I arrived.

Although he was only able to finish Grade 7, Ba Allan is one of the most educated people in Mfuba – the one everyone turns to for advice and help with translating government documents. He knows the value of learning. “Amasambililo tayapwa” (education never ends) is one of one of his favorite phrases. He is the only person I know here who helps his kids with their homework.

Ba Allan inspires me to be a better volunteer, and a better person.

He knows how to captivate an audience of any age, whether discussing conservation farming or record-keeping. He’s particularly amazing at teaching young people. Some of the best moments in my service have been spent watching him in action: busting out some song that the kids all love, getting teenagers to plant trees, or playing capture the flag.

Ba Allan teaching our Grassroots Soccer HIV/gender club how to plant moringa trees.

Ba Allan has a million ways of prodding his neighbors into action.

I sometimes lose faith in this whole “sustainable development” game, but Ba Allan never seems to.

“You are doubting,” he will say. “Don’t doubt.”

My biggest doubts, however, came not too long ago, when Ba Allan and I hit a rough patch in our relationship. I won’t bore you all with the details, but basically Ba Allan and I have very different cultural values and ideas about what development means. We see the act of giving, and the role of a rich American living in Mfuba village, in very different ways.

To be perfectly honest, Ba Allan drives me nuts sometimes. I am certain the feeling is mutual.

I’m prone to misinterpreting his sometimes cryptic way of speaking. Like all good Bembas, he likes to couch everything in metaphor and proverbs. Like all good Americans, I am great at ignoring subtlety and prefer to just get to the freaking point, Ba Allan!

Our mountain of misunderstandings and cultural differences finally caught up with us a couple months ago, and I found myself crying in front of Ba Allan and his wife, Ba Mary, confronted by their anger at me, and mine at them.

(It’s worth noting here that Ba Mary also deserves a shout-out, since, as Ba Allan likes to say, there’s no way he could be the Peace Corps counterpart without her. She’s the one who picks up the slack on their farm when he’s out teaching with me, who makes sure her husband gets food and clean clothes before heading to some workshop at some ungodly hour of the morning.)

I cried because I feared I would lose Ba Allan as a counterpart, and I don’t know how I’d be able to help our community without him.

Over the course of an afternoon, we patched things up. Now we’re slowly getting back to our old familiar hanging out and talking.

Ba Allan’s back to cracking jokes and sharing with me all his plans and dreams to improve life for his kids.

But I didn’t know for sure that I myself had moved on until just the other day. We’d been teaching in a village 12 km away, and this particular group began insisting that I “get their name out there” with local NGOs – basically so they can get a grant for some not-yet-defined project. Ba Allan admonished them: “Yes, and what have YOU done? Ba Terri got that NGO to come out here for the HIV testing event that you wanted, and she did all the work. Why are YOU not talking to NGOs in Kasama?”

In spite of everything, Ba Allan still had my back.

I could’ve hugged him. If only that were culturally appropriate.

As we rode home together, laughing about the day, I counted my blessings. I couldn’t ask for a better counterpart.