I'm gonna take my own advice
'Til my demise
And live out the rest of my days
Taking my time
-Jim GuthrieSometimes the best times are when time seems to falter, or stand still, leap forward, or just generally do something you don't remember it ever doing. Time isn't ever actually doing anything, as we know, but when you notice your perceptions are rooted in some strange viewpoint, the way your life is framed seems to unhinge in some fun and interesting ways. I'm still learning what it means to be me, to exist in this time, to appreciate the experience, and to turn it into something meaningful to myself and those I love, and even those I don't know I love yet. It's daunting and exciting, and good old Jim's words seem to resonate with me again and again. Africa is my home for two years. Years that will feel impossibly long and disappointingly short.
But that isn't yet the timeframe I am working in. Only weeks have passed. My mind is a jumble of raw experiences still waiting to be processed. This occurs in no particular order, and sometimes not at all. I don't want to apologize to myself every time I manage to write something about what I'm doing here, but I suppose this is my lament: it all goes so fast, and I know small things are falling through the cracks, and the cracks only seem to get bigger over time. It hurts to know that something is lost, something always on the tip of your tongue or finger but never making it out. Maybe it hasn't really expired, but it's locked away for now.
Without further self pity, welcome to Zambia.
I am eagerly awaiting my first encounter with a Black Mamba or a spitting cobra. Maybe even a lion, or a hippopotamus. Heck, I'll even take some malaria at this point! I'm curious to experience the wild and deadly Africa we have stuck somewhere in our heads. At the moment the most threatening thing to my existence is a small cat sitting between my legs, most likely giving me fleas and ticks, but having just cleaned my hut of two weeks of black dust I'm more concerned about dying of asthma.
Yes, I'm back in my cozy little nyumba after two weeks of hustle and bustle, and I couldn't have realized how much I thought of Suse village to be home until I went away for a short time. I missed my host mother's nshima, my morning routine, running to the dam, and seeing those familiar faces at the training center. It seems that it doesn't take all that long to establish a new home. It may not run so deep, but the attachments are there. And I may not have all the little things I enjoyed back in America (admission: I may have felt a slight pang when I thought of making smoothies with Laura), but it seems like we just naturally pick up other tiny treasures given some time.
Two days ago (I should be scratching out these time markers as this post collects even more black dust) we returned from our first big trip to the Eastern Province. The purpose of this excursion was to visit our eventual permanent sites as well as stay with a nearby volunteer to learn some more about the daily 'ufa' grind (as in corn flour, not coffee) of village life. Our journey began with a long day of shopping, eating, and Jurassic World in Lusaka followed by a 4am wake up call to board our respective buses.
The Lusaka bus station brings new meaning to the word clusterfuck. First of all, it's full of drunks. I'd wager they're still drunk from the previous night, but it's just as likely they'll wake up and start drinking. Many of them live and sleep at the bus station, trying to earn money by doing whatever odd jobs they can find: carting around cargo and tourists for their friends' cab or bus, begging, fighting, who knows. Secondly, there's no apparent system for getting all of these enormous buses and quantities of people in and out of the compound. Buses enter through the exit, people jump in front of cars. One moment a man grabs onto my friend Shawn to tell him that he looks like John Sena while jesting to try and escape his grasp, and the next Shawn is 'gently' tapped by an oblivious minibus driver.
It was a relief to get our bags and ourselves on the bus, even if we had to hold our luggage on our laps for lack of storage space. Despite the calamity, the process of taking the bus was fun even if uncomfortable. I guess the novelty of chaos is nice every once in a while. I anticipate there may be minor thefts from time to time, but at least when traveling in a group we can look out for one another. Going solo will be another adventure altogether.
We made our way sleepily to Petauke as the sun started shining on this dry, mountainous expanse of pale shrubbery, dust, and smoke. My neighbor and new friend across the aisle, Simon, kept me occupied with many stories about his upbringing and his philosophy on education. Having just wrapped up the final semester of university, Simon was heading to his hometown of Chipata with his sister Tabitha. Winnie did not believe that he was a Zambian because his accent was almost undetectable, but his Nyanja was apparently fluent enough to convince her. After hours of chatting we excused ourselves to nap and recede into our own minds, listening to music and periodically look out the window in between naps. We crossed a large river marking our arrival to the Eastern Province of Zambia, and before long we would be getting situated at our cluster site where another volunteer would be taking care of us for a few days.
Alice, also from California, graciously hosted three of us at her small home near Chikuse village for five nights before we dispersed to our individual posts. We were greeted by a tiny mob of twenty or so children, all eager to be around the new additions to the village. They kept their distance at first, but ever so slowly crept in until they were strewn about the stoop of Alice's hut. The girls didn't waste any time getting to braiding Robin's hair while I kicked a ball around with some of the boys. I was dead tired from the bus ride, but being around kids tends to wake me up again, at least to some zombie like level of operation. Nonetheless I couldn't last and I opted to sit and match the children, stare for stare. What was remarkable about being around the children with our host volunteer was to see the rapport she has built with these little ones. Their mothers would pass by, and Alice would introduce us, and it was clear to me that she was, after only a year of service, truly part of this community. It almost seems like she is a co-parent of a dozen children.
We rang in our first night with a hearty batch of tacos. The homemade tortillas were a fantastic touch. It was nice to break up the nshima monotony with some actual flavor (hot sauce?!), though I noticed I might have acquired a troublesome penchant for salt in the last two months. (On that note, my host mother recently told me that her upon a recent visit to the clinic her blood pressure was 170/120.)
Over the next few days we spent a lot of time at Alice's school. We got to sit in on her sixth grade class and also had to tend to our own Nyanja lessons in between. Winnie accompanied us all the way to the cluster site just so we could continue our education. We also had a lot more opportunity to practice language with the locals, but I still find it very difficult to comprehend native speakers. Also, people speak in another dialect (sometimes many dialects) that I haven't been able to clue in on. A good challenge, but the added effort to listening tends to drain me very quickly. I think we all felt similarly, so we would embrace our downtime by eating, chatting, and playing card games.
It was a treat to get out and explore. Alice took us to a small banana grove where we would put our teamwork skills to the test, building bridges to cross a muddy stream and helping Victoria remove some pesky thistles from her hand after her inquisitive nature acquainted us with our new friend, the buffalo bean. I happened to be touching some other similarly fuzzy yet innocuous plant at that same moment, but fate would only inflict one of us with the hundreds of tiny irritating thistles. They reminded me of the urticating hairs which tarantulas grow on their abdomens, sometimes flicking them with a hind leg to ward off predators. The hairs are the active ingredient in itching powder, and they can even cause a lucky recipient to go blind. I wasn't sure if the buffalo bean could be so temperamental, but fortunately the tweezers from my utility knife minimized the risk of any further aggravation. Victoria is now our honorary canary for the next two years, and now any time I doubt the safety of some situation I know I can send her in to faithfully report back to me. I wonder if she has a lovely singing voice
During our visit we had our first taste of teaching Zambian children. Each of us had to plan a lesson and give it a shot with Alice's sixth graders. While it was a lot of fun to get up in front of the kids, it really opened my eyes to the challenges of not just saying a bunch of things, but actually getting a point across to people who can barely comprehend you. It's not necessarily only a matter of speaking slowly, but also the fact that our accent is just so horrendously foreign. Similarly I can barely comprehend the children when they speak Nyanja let alone English. It will take some time for both teacher and pupil to adapt and get accustomed to each other. It's also going to be very difficult to reach everybody with such vast differences in ability, but I'm keen on developing my intuition for teaching and seeing how I might help those who struggle. Nonetheless, the kids seemed jazzed to have visitors. They enjoyed asking questions and we even had a little time to do the Banana song, a camp favorite of mine. Despite some stomach troubles and mild fever, I managed to pull through and have a memorable experience. I was a little disappointed that I missed out on our second taco night, though.
On Friday we departed from Alice's site. One of the PC staff, Chama, picked us up in the cruiser to transport us to our individual sites after a quick resupply run in Petauke. Having previously seen our main town on a Sunday (virtually deserted), it was a rush to see things in full swing. The market was buzzing with people, and I really enjoy going around the shops to haggle over the price of some bananas. I think I saved a total of 33 cents from probably four dollars of food (sweet potatoes, bananas, onions, and soya). My piggy bank is overflowing with kwashas.
The ride to be dropped off to our individual sites was surreal. It was hard not to contain the excitement, wondering if each new village we came upon was to be my new home. Of course all of the villages look approximately the same, but after so much waiting it was only natural to want to settle on a final image, a place in which I can finally cathect all of my fantasies. As the mountains in the distance drew closer, I was certainly full of nothing but fantasy. Which one would I climb first?
Upon arriving to Nkhungu village, my future hometown, I was not surprised to see that my house was not yet complete (this is expected), but I was surprised to find that my host family set aside one of the huts on their compound for my use, a small room complete with mattress and mosquito net. My host family was very accommodating. I was under the impression that I'd have to cook my own meals, but instead they fed me. Very well. I ended up giving them all of the food I bought to alleviate the extra burden of my ridiculous appetite.
The language barrier was much more palpable here. My father, Paul Phiri, speaks little English, but this just forced me to communicate with my broken tongue. I had a blast doing so. It was such a triumph to express even the smallest things when I finally understood a question. We had all of our meals together while the women and children are accustomed to eating outside in the dark. Zambians typically wash their hands with a pitcher of water where they eat, so my father and I took turns pouring for each other before digging into that piping hot nshima. I'm surprised I still have any feeling in my fingertips, but I like to think I'm well on my way to being able to pick up a scalding pot without any oven mitts. Paul tells me, "You are now Paul Phiri, too!" In no time at all, I'm part of the Mountain family. I like my new surname.
As a newcomer to the village, my surrogate father introduced me to easily one hundred people. I couldn't say much, but people got a kick out of even my basic speaking skills (another reason I'm thankful to be a first generation volunteer). My go-to lines were pure genius. Here's how a typical introduction goes, complete with literally translations for comic effect:
(Both parties extend hands to shake, left hand under the right elbow for added respect)
You are how?
I am well, and you?
Well!
(With hands still together, participants add a small variation to the hold in which the fingers clasp the top of the other's hand for a moment then return to standard shaking position)
Name your is who?
Name my I am Paul Chakerian, but in Zambia I am Paul Phiri now!
(Zambian laughs with delight, still holding hands)
You are enjoying?
I am enjoying much. I love to eat nshima!
(Zambian laughs hysterically, this time my host father reaches to grab my left hand in another handshake)
Ha ha, yes! I am happy to stay here!
(Hands return to their owners)
Go well!
(More laughter. Exit stage left)
Being treated this way, the undeserved celebrity status, reminded me a bit of Burma. It feels great to receive such a welcome, and I only hope I can live up to the challenge of not just meeting/setting expectations but shattering the preconceptions. But surely I will prove some of them right from time to time, much to my chagrin. I can't alter every mind, and I certainly will always appear to be a muzungu, a foreigner. I only hope that with a little more time to learn from each other, I can start to bridge that gap with mutual understanding. I still have much to learn. At times I find myself totally baffled or even put off by what I'm seeing around me, and I have to acknowledge that there are times when Zambians will think the same when they look at me.
A thing that delights me: seeing a child ride a bicycle. Now it's really quite amazing to see all the ways a small child can operate one of these things. Here are some techniques I noticed:
1. Leg through the frame. This one looks a bit awkward, but it allows the rider to pedal almost normally while off to one side of the frame (save for some potential chronic joint issues later in life?).
2. One foot at a time. This allows the cyclist to sit on the seat comfortably, but can be very height dependent. The rider can only reach one pedal at a time, pushing maybe for a ninety degree turn. I think most of the bikes are fixed gear which allows this method to work well, bringing the other pedal around within reach.
3. The side scooter. On one side of the bike, one foot stays on the pedal and the other foot pushes. This only works with freewheels.
4. The crotch crusher method. Very straightforward, but I imagine they upgrade to number two as height allows.
I'll keep you posted as I discover more.
Still having not fully recovered from whatever stomach surliness I endured in Chikuse, I spent a lot of time resting with my new host family. My father has a large family, perhaps eight children. I had trouble counting, and when I thought I had met them all another one would materialize. And it just keeps going. Everybody seems to be extended family at the very least, and this is only the slightest of exaggerations. And I suppose it makes perfect sense. Anybody only ever moves to a new village if they marry into it. None of that 'a stranger comes to town' nonsense except for that crazy white person who just moved in next door. (Although I do hear talk about 'The Chinese' (this includes Koreans, Japanese, and probably most southeast Asians and Pacific Islanders) coming to Zambia and keeping chickens for a living, which, funny enough, is inciting some xenophobic responses from the natives. I suppose it's only amusing to me because of the hypocrisy ingrained in my own ancestry: Americans who had a similarly vehement response to immigrants after immigrating themselves and slaughtering the natives. Then again, I mostly descended from the Irish and Armenians, who've had their (un?)fair share of suffering. I myself have not suffered, and I am grateful to those who made it to America just so I could be born into a life like this. Privilege check!)
When I felt well enough to go more than 20 meters from a chimbudzi, I spent my time meeting the faculty and students of Matambazi Basic School and exploring the surrounding communities. For my first school day I observed a few classes and even got to teach a little bit of the seventh grade. I think my accent must be totally confusing, but I tried to speak as slowly and clearly as I could. I've noticed from the current volunteers that our speech patterns will become very monotonous and robotic over time, and it seems to stick even when they're around native English speakers. Maybe my brain will eventually take a hint and ease up a bit, too.
The few days in Nkhungu were just a little taste of things to come, and so far I can say I'm very glad to be posted there. The hospitality is unreal, and part of me just wanted to stay so I could finally settle in. But alas, the days flew by and we were scheduled to reconvene at our provincial house in Chipata near the Malawi border. I met up with my fellow Nyanja ninjas and we took some time to get acquainted with our new digs where we might spend a few days every month. Our prov house is really nice. It reminds me of a youth hostel: the walls are covered with photos of volunteers, shelves are stacked with movies and books, the furniture is worn out but cozy enough, and of course, the kitchen is fully stocked with the craziest assortment of pots and pans I've ever seen and enough spices to put India to shame. I wasted no time in turning some of those sweet potatoes into fried deliciousness. It was a treat to be able to make some simple food for the first time in months.
I spent my evening playing Settlers of Catan with the gang and overdosing on Internet, but I imagine the prov house will become a haven to speak in uninhibited English as it becomes more of a rarity to see other volunteers. Even though we've been so busy with training, having thirty other people to talk to during breaks and on weekends seems to help us all cope with stress. When I find somebody with a great sense of humor, I just want to bask in their company for a while, to riff on their jokes and just be at ease. I hope I'll find a different type of easy living at my post, but being able to creatively and deeply express myself might become more of a solitary rather than social pursuit.
I want to write and write, but for now I must call it 'good enough' and let the rest go for now. I'm happy to say that this blog hasn't been the only form of writing I've been doing, but of course I feel spread very thin and my will to work on creative projects is being tested in new and unexpectedly satisfying ways. No matter where the words end up, a journal or even a notepad as I scrawl out basic sentences in Nyanja, it feels cathartic to let my pen loose on a page or tap out messages on a iPad. I'm still working on a nice expression for that last one.
The next three weeks will be intense, full of lesson planning and teaching in the schools, followed by examinations of our language proficiency. I think we even have to do a practical exam on bike maintenance. We're taking the plunge again and again, but the end is almost in sight! When it comes I'll be sure to write something, at least a word, about my feelings then. It will probably be a mixture of relief and sadness, of parting and excitement for new chapters to write:
To be determined.
