Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about… who’s never left home, who’s never struck out…
… she needs wide open spaces…
Yes, yes it is indeed the Dixie Chicks crooning in my ear. Some how it fits as I bumble down the Great East Road to, you guessed it, Eastern Province.I am a wide open space kind of gal because my no-fail antidote to feeling frustrated, bogged down, stuck is to find wide open space: feel the grass under my feet, the wind in my face, and the big, bright, blue Zambian sky all around me. Not surprisingly then, my last post (last year!) was also inspired by a trip down the Great East Road.
Driving down this road feels like an adventure – feels alive. As I leave the stresses of the city, the piles of paper on my desk, this is the Zambia that I will keep with me. The challenges of poverty and inequities loom all around, but truly engaging communities and working with people matters and it is a start. Yet in the day to day, it’s hard to move past the frustration with everything – systems, society, workplace. So perhaps, I’m really just another disillusioned person in development. And, there are so many voices out in the blogosphere who tackle the big bucket of development issues. Admittedly, I am a blog reader (all the while secretly wishing to be a fabulous blogger). I chuckled recently at a water engineer’s blog post when she mentioned one thing she would miss about Zambia were the shouts of “iwe” (you) in the street. Umm… no; I won’t miss that. It is certainly interesting to contrast the feelings of the early months of being in-country with the later months – where I am now.
I stopped writing this blog sometime ago because I stopped feeling I had anything to say. I was sad, depressed, angry, and it was not how I wanted to reflect. It felt like a vicious never-ending circle: I was angry and equally angry that I felt angry. Now I am wrapping up my time in Zambia in the next few months. It feels ok to go. I’ve been working and transitioning with my colleagues all along. Simpler things like staying up-to-date on the status and happenings of all community schools. And bigger things: What is the future of community schools in Zambia? What is the organisation’s position on community schools? Where does the organisation want to go? Personally, I am thankful that I am out of the phase of feeling there is no end. I have an end date, a date to look forward to seeing Canada, friends, and family again. Friends here have asked me if I’m going to have a going-away party. I think not. I’m in a slinking out of town mood. My leaving is not notable. A goodbye dinner would be nice and that is all I could want. These last few blog posts will be my way of saying goodbye. I still don’t know if I have anything to say, but at least I have this fantastic blue sky to write under.
** Sorry folks! I know it's now mid September and I haven't even managed a single blog post! I hope you're well whether it's fall/winter or spring/summer. **
I'm back in Lusaka after what seems like an eternity, albeit only two weeks in Eastern Province. My colleagues and I held a teacher-training workshop, facilitated community meetings, and squeezed in as many monitoring visits as possible. The workshop was hectic, community meetings painstakingly slow, and school visits meaningful. Little did I realise how exhausted I would feel from the strain of travelling on difficult roads, eating copious amount of local food, and not being able to get or stay clean. Nevertheless, I came back to awaiting arms and flowers – nothing beats that.
I've made the journey to Chipata and Lundazi a few times before. I think the more I travel these roads, the more difficult it becomes. I enjoy road travel; the problem I have is when there are more potholes than tarmac surface on the so-called tarmac road. So, it is as if you're off-roading on road. You can't read because it's too bumpy, talk because the rushing wind is too loud, nor sleep because your head might smack into the window. Thankfully, I could count on iPod for company. Sixteen hours one way on the road with one fuel stop is a very long time.
At the end of each day I was coated with fine red dust and since Chipata and Lundazi seemed to be experiencing difficulties with council water supply, all I could do was draw water from the well, heat it, and aim to rinse myself off by pouring buckets over myself. Yes, I appreciate just having water, but I've been thoroughly spoiled with my hot shower in Lusaka. I admire Peace Corps volunteers for embracing (or at least trying to) village life. And speaking of villages, at the end of each community meeting we were always invited for a meal. Actually, since I don't think we could ever refuse, I should say we were expected to stay for a meal. Can you guess how many meals I had to eat… 15 community meetings equals 15 meals. I need a break, a very long break, from local food. No more nshima (maize paste), no more village chicken or goat or kapenta (smelly small dried fish that gave me a hives! Thank goodness for antihistamines!), and no more rape (spinach like vegetable cooked with tomatoes, onions, and lots of salt). At one of the last meetings, someone asked my boss why I was not eating a lot and he replied, "she has problem." I do have a problem with the food – the consistency, sometimes the taste – but as I discovered there is no respectful way to refuse it. But don't worry, after a break from it, I'll be able to enjoy the occasional nshima meal.
I take my perseverance of eating daily meals of nshima as a sign that I am settled in Zambia. I've also decided that I get a star for being able to greet, introduce myself, and say a few additional introductory sentences in three local languages! I also know a few motivational proverbs as well, which always scores more points with the community – yay me! But then again, a minus star for no longer making a notable effort to learn any more. The food, language, and greetings are most certainly part of the cultural experience of any country. For me, this past week, it was also a strain. When greetings take about an hour and the meeting themselves taking at least three because respect has to be given to each person individually, a little voice in my head went "Gah!". Yes, there is being culturally sensitive, but there are personal boundaries and meeting objectives, which unfortunately is on Western terms. I suppose what I'm trying to say is part of working here is finding a way to work within the way things are. That is to say, working towards your objectives on community terms. However, Zambia is becoming home. I know I am visitor, but on any particular day I work here, live here – I am present here. In Lundazi town, a shopkeeper said to me, "you are from America." I said, "no." He demanded, "where?" I said, "Lusaka". We both smiled.
A few more points from the trip:
Everyone wants something. I find it an annoying theme. Give us money. Give us roofing sheets. Give us a borehole. This is a legacy of development and humanitarian relief. Donors and organisations want to help (and feel good when they give people things) and of course, who would not want to receive free things. I overheard a man say once, "they have come; now we can rest." People inevitably become dependent on assistance and sometimes stop thinking about how to improve their own situation. One school wanted us to drill them a borehole. We asked a series of questions only to learn that there is a functioning well 50m away. The school simply did not have a bucket and rope with which to draw water. It was much easier and more convenient to ask that we drill a borehole directly in front of the school than figure a way to get a few dollars and buy a bucket and rope for the school.
Tough issues – early marriages, very young girls getting pregnant, coercion, abuse, defilement, rape. All these issues and more just highlight the realities of the most vulnerable people, especially young girls and boys. I feel strongly that working closely with communities is the only way to reduce the incidences of early marriages. It is about raising the awareness of community leaders and the community as a whole, and hopefully having them commit to stop marrying girls off early (for mbala – dowries, cattle, or due to pregnancies, etc) and allow the girl to finish her education. Organisations can advocate all they want, but without the buy-in of the community, significant and meaningful change will not happen.
It is never easy being the person, foreign or Zambian, to come into a community, especially a rural one and having to say that what they are doing to their girls is not right. A senior headman of one community, in fact married off his twelve-year-old daughter, a Grade 5 student to a fifteen-year-old boy, also a Grade 5 student. It becomes much more difficult in this instance to get support in the community; it will take time to get a trusted community leader to speak against the practice.
Another visit demonstrated to my colleagues that with our perseverance, raising awareness, supporting and empowering community leaders does work. We had held a workshop earlier in the year discussing girls' education and helping the community identify the factors holding girls back. During this visit, we continued the conversation where students also participated, and some students prepared some sketches and poems.
A poem I'll never forget, by Alicia, Grade 6 pupil:
My father can rape me,
My uncle can rape me,
My brother can rape me,
Society, society, please help me.
It was very difficult for me to digest how vulnerable some of these girls are. Rape is horrible – an atrocious, awful, traumatizing event that can happen to anyone. And when it happens we need to call it what it is – rape. Often times, I feel society hides behind technicalities; as in, calling the rape of a girl less than 18 years of age defilement. Or if you want to get even more technical, the age of consent may also be 16, as customary law dictates that girls can marry at 16. So defilement would also include the situation of an underage girl having consenting sexual relations. Because the girl could have consented, defilement seems to be a word that people can hide behind, and for me holds less weight of the horrific experience of rape. When consent is not given, it is rape. I have heard of parents/guardians convincing girls to say that they consented to sex and settle the "situation" by marrying the girl or another kind of settlement. Then there's the whole other challenge of proving a person's age without official birth documentation. And let's not forget boys can become victims of rape as well… something very difficult to bring forth in Zambia and many other countries. Through schools we can try to reach out to the community to support and increase girl education. At the same time, it is crucial to work with the parents and community leaders commit to supporting the girls' best interest.
Taking the time to visit communities is invaluable. Typically, monitoring visits are essential to verify that the recipients have spent fund correctly, met timelines, project goals. Moreover, I feel that visits can motivate, encourage progress, and demonstrate to communities that their voice and their reality matters. Sure, we need to know about number of orphans in the community and the state of the school infrastructure. Community schools know this as the school head master, committee chairperson, or village headman will recite a report to this effect. Communities have also figured out in some instances, such as with school feeding programmes,that over or underreporting certain figures is advantageous – i.e. more food, supplies, etc. Yet, beyond all the monitoring for the apparent reasons, I think it's a chance for communities in their own words tell us what is happening. Communities get the opportunity to contextualise their reality. Women may have a chance to have their voice heard. And it gives us a chance to hear their needs and goals, and even bigger, their hopes and wishes. We can guide action planning, build collaborative effort, and motivate communities. One woman said to me, "it means you care enough to travel this far to see us." It does matter. When combined with other programme activities to absorb transportation costs, monitoring visits can be a very cost-effective way to support community development. Now, we also need to follow-up on our commitments and ensure that in the end their voices do matter.
On one of the last visits, a school prepared a song for me with a chorus, "Thank God M has come." What do I say? My limited Nyanja vocabulary fails me. Ahh… thank you. Big smile, clasp hands, curtsy bow. Oh and God Bless You.
1. It's a full moon. Watching the night sky is something I always enjoyed. I just seem to notice it more. I suspect this is because I have nothing better to do and when the new crescent moon comes, it looks like the moon is smiling at me.
2. Inefficiency is frustrating. It has taken me over three weeks to try and get the phone line switched over to my name. Actually, all I wanted was to change the address in order to receive the bills… so that I could be a good person and pay the bills. However, I first had to terminate the phone line, then apply for a line, and then request the original number. Couldn't someone just punch in five digits of my post box into the computer? In addition, I had to photocopy my passport, registration card, employment permit, and almost got conned into giving passport photos until I clued into the scheme that maybe the guy just wanted my picture. When I asked why he needed photos, he faltered. Today I'm going to check if the bills are in fact being delivered to my post box. Fingers crossed.
3. Will people ever stop staring at me? When will I stop being novel? A man tripped over a tree stump while intensely starring at me.
4. I sent a package to Canada. The post office ran out of the larger denomination of stamps, so I had to stick a stamp on all free space on the front of the package essentially framing the address. Hope it arrives.
5. There is no equivalent word for sex in Chinyanja. In local language what is usually said is the man and woman are going to bed (side note: homosexuality is illegal). Furthermore, the words to describe sexual organs are derogatory and offensive terms. Interesting.
6. Talking on the phone is so refreshing. I used to spend outrageous amounts of time chatting about the details of our lives. I miss that. Can't wait until my next phone chat.
7. I've been looking for an iPod charger and I've found one. I am still in awe of what I can find here.
8. Printing digital photos here is ridiculously expensive. One photo is over 1$. There's no competition and really no strong demand. Just like buying an iPod charger, printing digital photos what not something I thought I would do here.
9. The case of the attack of red ants in office. First rustling in the wall and four cockroaches run out. Then the red ants spill out of the wall. Literally – spilling, flowing out of the wall. Apparently everything, including cockroaches run away from red ants.
10. I have a maid. That's what she calls herself – I prefer housekeeper. She's been to the house twice in the last week and I am slowly coming to terms with someone else cleaning my house, doing my laundry (!), taking out the garbage. Her cleaning standards are higher than mine. She dusted a high ledge that I would never even think to dust. How does someone take so much pride in cleaning up someone else's personal space. Her first words to me: madam, this house is very dirty. I like her.
I ran away. I needed some perspective – on work, on my new living arrangement, and on being in Zambia. Then I came back and one day at the office made me want to run away again. I'm trying to find a feeling that maybe cannot be found. Malawi is beautiful. After four days on the beach, I was slowly getting to that feeling – waking up happy and with a relatively clear mind. I'll take a beach and good book any day. However, dealing with a typical Monday morning at work clouded whatever space I had cleared in my mind. Another vacation is in order – soon!
I've written on Malawi before – on how I think it seems better of than Zambia (nicer roads, infrastructure) and people seem friendlier. However, I suppose it's the difference between visiting a country and living in one. Of course, I've had more of a chance to discover what I don't like about Zambia. Still, while rural Zambia compared to rural Malawi are indeed very similar, I find Lilongwe, the capital less hurried than Lusaka. I was shocked at the lack of hassle I got going through the bus stations in Lilongwe, which some days I feel is impossible in Lusaka. Maybe I smelled bad in Lilongwe and people kept their distance.
I could talk more about the beautiful secluded beach, which I was happy to find mostly tourist and backpacker free, but the bus journey back from Northern Malawi was a nut case.
Bus 1 – Mzuzu to Lilongwe Official bus capacity – around 20. Actual number of people packed in – 40. The "seat" I thought I had was actually a quarter of one seat and half of a seat 10cm lower. So I lost all feeling in my butt and because a giant bag of rice took up most of my leg room, all the feeling in my legs went as well. Had a good chat with some medical students from Wales doing electives in Malawi. They commented on the poverty: "I didn't expect the poverty to be this bad." Hmm… yeah poverty. It is possible that I've stopped noticing it after a while. It had blurred, become less obvious. Interestingly, I think I needed that reminder from a new pair of eyes that this poverty is extreme, unnecessary, unacceptable. There will always be poorer and richer people… just not the kind of poverty that dictates life or death.
Bus 2 – Lilongwe to Mchinji (near Malawi/Zambia border) I had a seat in the minibus, but it didn't have a back. Okay for the first hour, but soon discovered it was hard to sit properly so my back wasn't oddly curved. The man beside me was carrying a television. When the bus hit a pothole too hard, the tv shifted and squashed me to the window. Then I felt something move under me. Umm… someone else's feet… no! Two chickens! How did I not notice them when I got on the bus. Then for the next hour all I could think about were those poor chicken. I had visions of them breaking free and wreaking havoc in the minibus. When we the police at roadblock insisted on searching the bus, we all tumbled out – not unlike a clown car. Then to my surprise, a white guy had somehow also been squashed in. And get this, another Canadian from the same province. What are the chances – first to run into another foreigner on a minibus (there are a plethora of minibuses to take), to meet a Canadian, and then a Canadian who grew up not far from where I did.
Bus 3 – Chipata (near Zambia/Malawi border) to Lusaka Went to bus station to make sure I had a ticket for the first bus out in the morning. I discovered that if you arrive at night and taking the 4am bus, you can sleep on the bus. I'd never done that before but the hassle of getting a taxi at 3am, wasn't really worth it so, I boarded the bus and went to sleep. At about 1am, a group of 15 young English kids boarded the bus. Huh? Yup, so at one point there were more white than black people on the bus. I was confused. Chipata is not exactly a tourist destination.
Needless to say, I was sore, tired, and dirty when I finally rolled into Lusaka.
Back at work for a week now. Plans for the new little bit: Workshops. Monitoring visits. Hiring new staff – hopefully. Ministry of Education working group. Book distribution. HIV programmes at village level. Youth group launches (hmm… PEPFAR and abstinence based programmes – a future post).
I need ideas for happy posts. Maybe I should write about beaches and good books after all.
Boy oh boy, I'm stuck on what to blog about. I feel stuck. I am really unsure what will happen. Will I stay in Zambia? What would it take for me to stay? How many reasons would I need to leave? A small note: yesterday, I gained some much needed perspective when I sat with some teachers at their staff meeting. It's been one of my "projects" to get weekly staff meetings happening at the schools… the Ministry has a lot of programmes that support teacher training, but it often doesn't go beyond the formal workshops. Since March, I've been working with the teachers to plan their meetings and how the trained teachers can mentor untrained teachers and also how they all can support each other. I know nothing about school administration, but it's about building basic support systems. A lot of the teachers were prepared for the meeting and actually reflected on what we talked about last meeting. I felt really proud of the teachers at this school. Maybe it took months and months of work, but something is happening. More importantly, I could tell that they were proud of their progress. I guess sometimes for me to put all the frustration I have with the organisation in perspective, I need to remind myself of who ultimately I am working for. But hmm… it's not enough. I feel lost and can't seem to get make that big decision. It's just a weird place for me. Sure, I've lost direction in my life before, but for now I am direction less. I am waiting to see what could happen, especially now that the head of the organisation keeps saying that he and other staff are committed to working with me. We'll see. I've probably been stuck for a while, but now it's more profoundly affecting me. I feel unlike the person I think I am. Sometimes I feel like I've lost my smile. I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in a while yesterday; for the briefs moments when I saw him I felt that warm, radiating smiley feeling inside that I hadn't felt in a really long time. It lingered a little bit after he left, but then it faded away and I felt like I am now. Stuck.
Ten random things to fill up space on this blog:
1. I feel like getting a dog. The idea came when I spent a few days in the company of two beautiful, giant dogs. They sure made me feel special… the whole snuggling under my legs won me over. Unfortunately, I can't really take care of a dog right now. It's still a nice thought though.
2. My housemate will be leaving Zambia at the end of July. She's been in Zambia for almost two years and has played a huge role in my life here. I will be sad to see her go. She's the one that always looked out for me here. I will miss our long conversations over enormous cups of tea.
3. I now eat tuna regularly because of my housemate.
4. I need to hang out with friends who will do more than drink. Maybe play scrabble and drink?
5. I'm not allowed to drink for a little bit because I'm on crazy antibiotics for a bladder infection. It sucks – both.
6. I went to a funeral this week. It felt like two because on Monday my colleagues and I went to console the family. On Wednesday was the actual burial. Both were emotionally draining and I don't know how to digest having been to four funerals in seven months.
7. The weather at night is still chilly – between 5–10C would be my guess. Last night I slept in my sleeping bag, in my bed, under the covers.
8. MEC catalogues make me deliriously happy – even in pdf form. I like dreaming about all the camping gear I could get my hands on. Thanks bro!
9. Postcards also bring a bright light to my day. Thanks E!
10. I broke my sunglasses when I carelessly threw them in my bag. Sunglasses are now my security blanket, so I promptly bought another pair. Because the police have cleared out all the little stalls around town, cheap sunglasses are hard to find. But while in a minibus stuck in traffic, some guy who happened to be selling sunglasses came to my window. I now have a giant pair of wrap around D&G shades. I doubt I have the attitude to pull it off, but they'll do until I find a more normal looking pair. I think the sunglasses practically take up almost a third of my face.
So here I am… stuck with a pair of huge, fake D&G shades. I hope you are all well wherever you may be.
All of the planning activities I've been doing with my organisation has brought up many questions about the direction of the organisation. Is there a direction with the programmes of the organisation? I am mildly distressed the it is difficult to get people thinking about the ultimate goal, the vision. There's a written down vision and mission, but the link on how it guides the organisation's activities is tenuous. We hold teacher and community training workshops. My colleagues seem to think that the workshops will continue forever. Maybe that is the true. But, the workshops are supposed to contribute to something… like maybe attaining the objective of the workshop. Do we intend to build schools, drill boreholes, build latrines indefinitely? Will be also be giving school supplies and textbooks indefinitely? One of my main objectives is to mainstream HIV/AIDS into programmes. I hate "in" words like mainstream; people say it because they think it is what you want to hear. Mainstreaming HIV/AIDS has been an objective of the organisation for the past five years and no one seems to have any issue with mainstreaming being part of the next five year plan. But wait, isn't the goal to mainstream, not to continue to mainstream. That is once HIV/AIDS is indeed mainstreamed into programmes, all programmes will included HIV/AIDS in one way or another. Right now, I seem to be the only once convinced on this. However, I can understand that with anything it is always easier to set the goal than to put actions to the goals.
The clearing on the edge of the valley. On a log under the pine tree in the yard. The bench off the harbour. I think in all the places I've lived, I've always found places where I could go to think, to read, to study, to hide, to just be by myself. There were always parks around, beautiful shady trees, and just somewhere not too far away to sit and usually let my brain give a stern talking to my heart. I was having one of those days and really needed a breather. Unfortunately, I don't really have somewhere to go. The only space I can really control here is within the walls of my house and once I leave anything could happen. Sometimes I walk to a neighbourhood down the street from my place where there is an amazing line of jasmine trees. I'm tempted to stop every time I pass these trees, but I doubt the guard would let me loiter outside someone's private property. I jog occasionally, though I'm still undecided whether it's a worthwhile pastime. The first time I went for a run, I felt inspired to run everywhere. People still stare, but the stares don't really penetrate and if anyone says anything, you don't really hear. One person I mentioned this to said that it's probably weirder to see a foreigner walking because no one will believe that you don't have a vehicle, but when you're running, people assume that you've decided to run. On the down side, sharing space with speeding cars is dangerous. I've been a little nervous walking around recently given the number of pedestrians that have died. But back to the point, is having a place for myself that important to me? These days, I seem to think it is.
This got me thinking about what do I need (even if they are actually wants)? There was an exercise that I remember doing in pre-departure training about our bottom lines – things that we could not give up. On the projects and trips I've been on before, living out of my backpack for a few months was acceptable. I mentioned before how I live relatively well here. My flat could be more warm and inviting, but I'm not complaining because I am really fortunate to have hot water and a shower. Nevertheless, when I visit the houses of other expats working here, it is unbelievable how you could have everything you could want at home. I spent one beautiful Saturday afternoon just outside of Lusaka sitting on a veranda, sipping a mint julep, looking out onto an open field and giant sky. It is like 1 ply vs. 2 ply toilet paper. Sometimes to save money we buy 1 ply, but why put up with falling apart toilet paper when you can pay for 2-ply that works better for the bottom line ;) It's a balance or so I used to think. I'm afraid I'm crossing the line into buying things that make me happier even though I don't really need it. It's not entirely clear to me why I don't want to cross that imaginary line, but I'm sure it's related to some deluded idea I have that by giving up the comforts of the Western world, I will somehow be making the world a fairer place. Yup, I am deluded.
I know, I know… what up with not blogging. There is stuff coming I promise. What you might be reading soon are posts on 1 vs. 2-ply toilet paper, development through play, and the vision. For now I'm sticking with basic emotions – I feel sad. And now, I'm admitting to the cyber world that I cried on Friday. I actually came home from work and bawled. How weird. I don't know if I've ever done that. I felt good to cry, but then all I wanted was a stiff drink. I'm also tired. Hurrah, points for me for identifying two basic feelings. I feel sad and tired. I've temporarily lost the energy to keep trying to get things to happen with my organisation. Let's hope this passes soon. I've recently crossed paths with a number of summer interns. I now remember why I always felt so positive at the end of a short-term project – you leave on a high. You leave with the feeling that things can still happen. You're not sure how much you accomplished, but you sure had fun and learned a lot. You're still enjoying being in a new place, a new culture. Basically, you leave when you still have the desire to stay longer. It's like leaving a party when it still happening; you'll always remember it as a good party even if it crashed five minutes after you left. I'm starting my eighth month in Zambia… the high is definitely gone. The reality blows a lot of the time because letting go of a rosy coloured pictured of development really gets you down to the real issues.
I'm an inspiration and adventure seeking Canadian girl. Lives for mountains, books, hammocks, Earl Grey tea, late night conversations, and those fleeting moments. Putting away the toque for a few years to live, learn, work, and play in Zambia.
