I have one brother, m'bale, and one sister, alongo. My sister has two alongo, brothers.
Nyanja has its fun little nuances. In this case, abale refers to same sex siblings, while alongo means opposite sex siblings. (or m'bale/mulongo—the m'/mu simply means younger while the a- prefix is respectful to elders (but also plural)). This isn't so bad to understand in relation to myself—but what really throws me is when I'm talking about my brother, m'bale, then go to ask my classmate about her abale, we are now talking about her sisters. I imagine this is a small taste of challenges to come, at least in terms of wrapping my head around a new language. I'm sure the miscommunications will be hilarious. Wait, did I just say I want to date your brother or your sister? Well, either way, cabwino.
It's really fascinating to go through this whole learning process again, especially as I'll be on the giving end in the near future. Winnie is an excellent teacher, and I'm definitely taking mental notes as I imagine how I might explain English to people who speak Nyanja. I won't know as much Nyanja as Winnie knows English, but a lot of the time she is able to illustrate things without much verbal explanation. She shows us, and we attempt to make our own sense of it before she intervenes with any English translation.
It's rigorous. A day of language class is roughly four hours, six days a week (plus various other job training). I like to joke that my two classmates will grow to despise me in this 11 week period. The small class size is great for all the extra practice we get, but I also acknowledge that Adrienne and Robin will probably want plenty of space to talk about something else besides where our parents are from for the umpteenth time. It would be hard to be around anybody for such a duration, but so far we all share a really great sense of humor. I like how Robin teases me like an old friend would, and we feel extra accomplished if we can get Winnie to laugh, too. Our team name, the Nyanja Ninjas, is catching on.
It feels like weeks have passed, but we're only on our sixth day of language training. I come home to my host family who are eager to hear what I've learned, but mostly I just want to pull my brain out of its socket and replace it with a steaming lump of nshima. I am what I eat: a mushy cornball. A delicious mushy cornball.
My amai (mother), Quinn, is a wonderful woman. She is so caring, and it's really interesting to see how invested she is in hosting Peace Corps volunteers. They truly accept them into their home as family, and being their twelfth surrogate child, she is no stranger to my alien behaviors. She's also a total badass. She can pick up a pot of boiling water without complaint. She cooks so often—I hardly see her taking a break unless it's the end of the day. Even when atate and I are done eating, there is no expectation for us to help. Feeding me is just a small part of her job. She is eventually going to train me (as required by Peace Corps) to do everything from laundry to fetching water to cooking, and all things in between. The domestic chores are way more time consuming without modern conveniences. Stoves don't turn on with a click and you can't walk away from the wash basin hoping the clothes will get the stains out on their own (I've tried this approach many times). For now she is doing a lot of these daily tasks, but eventually I will be taking over for myself and even reciprocating in whatever way I can. She asked me to fetch water from the well today so at least I'm starting to feel useful. Peace Corps might be funding my meals and living quarters, but the payment doesn't fully cover the extent of the effort involved in housing me—especially when you observe all that Quinn does. She has asked me to cook an American meal for her and the family, so I'm definitely wishing Laura were here to help me blow them away. Maybe I can sit on the floor as she and her husband eat at the tables and sofas.
I love the way my host parents speak so proudly of their wodzipeleka (volunteer) host children, but part of me is a bit concerned. They certainly want me to do well, but you should hear how they speak of a man who terminated his service early because he wasn't adjusting. With that pride comes a risk of immense disappointment, and suddenly I felt a pang of fear that I can't live up to the challenge. They are very casual about expressing their hopes for me: if I am number one in my class I might be asked to read a speech in Nyanja at the swear-in ceremony. No big deal or anything, but they mention it daily. Amai will even loudly call her friends to announce that they have a new volunteer in the house. Just like any parent, the success of the child reflects on them. They have wishes for me, a stranger in their home, and I can't help but want to honor them. I never thought I could truly have two sets of parents, but here I am. Quinn is even writing letters home to my parents (and the other volunteers!) so I must keep her well supplied with stamps. She seems to love getting to know us, and now that the dust has settled (actually literally impossible here?) I realize I've stumbled on a deeply enriching experience: I get to observe, close up, how another family in a wildly different culture operates on a daily basis. I may never fully understand the different values and motives, but I won't really have such an intimate encounter ever again in my life. I plan to relish it, even if it can be challenging at times.
Village life is comforting. Nobody is in a hurry. Things seem to move with tranquility. As I ride my bike to and from school all I can hear is wind, crickets, and the occasional farm animal (and maybe the sound of my bike being slowly eaten by dust). Even those giant ants that hissed at me last night seemed to do so with a bit of languor. People operate on a different timetable here; some even rely on the sun to tell time (although my Amai is very proud of her punctuality). This can be frustrating at times if you're trying to hold a meeting for instance. Your participants might show up hours late, but we're told it's a good sign if they show up at all. Certain things take precedence over others, and people must focus on taking care of their daily jobs before other needs can be considered. Unfortunately, education doesn't necessarily seem like a priority in some places. Speaking English or using a computer isn't going to bring in the harvest, so I can't project my values on those who just may not want them.
I've befriended a young boy named Joseph, who happens to be my amai's nephew. He found my name tag which popped off my shirt during the morning commute. You should've seen his grin when he handed it back to me. We can't communicate much yet, but I learn something new to ask him every day. So far I can only ask basic questions about his family. This morning he showed me his custom built slingshot and practiced his aim with objects around the yard. His clothes are falling apart, but he was wearing good shoes and enough layers to keep warm. I later saw him leading an oxcart full of maize to make a delivery. He seems pretty savvy for an eleven year old! He told me he's in grade 3, which would be a few years behind for his age. You see this sort of thing all around you, and we're told that it gets harder as we are placed at our sites. Seeing children with broken shoes and tattered rags really tugs at you, but it's also refreshing to see people so happy with so little. Even a marginal improvement in health and sanitation would make a tremendous difference in their lives, but such things don't happen overnight.
My atate values education above all else. He is getting older, now retired from his government job of over 35 years. Even though village life is relatively inexpensive, supporting seven (now five) children is not. He tells me of the many improvements he had conceived of for his home, but decided to postpone them simply because he knows his children's education comes first. He says if he had not chosen this, they would eventually resent him for not giving them the tools to support themselves when he passes. He still has two children left in grades 11 and 12, but he is cheerful despite his tight financial situation. His concerns are many, just like anybody else, but he doesn't get bogged down by this burden. He loves to take initiative and get things done, even if it's not the most efficient way. He had to roof his own house simply because the contractors said his house was too big to be roofed. Yes, his two room house is just too big. He retorted with the question of how people go about roofing a school, but their inability to answer only seemed to fuel his determination. Even though the center support beam is askew, he did a spectacular job with it. The house is weathered and modest, but it keeps the rain out just fine. Now he wants to build a fence for the compound and construct a new well with a solar powered pump system. The fence will keep the pigs out (which were eating his baby chickens) and the solar powered pump will let them have plumbing throughout the compound. Then the bathroom sink might be something other than a board tied to a jug of water with a hole in it (admittedly super sweet jury rigging).
Ten weeks of training left seems like a lot at this point, but it will fly by as we hardly get a moment to catch our breath. Today is Sunday so I am joining my amai for church while atate is in Lusaka. More stories to come!
