A mid-September's night post

** 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.

Ten of the week

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.

And I'm back

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.

Stuck

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.

The vision?

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.

Wanted: a place to go and 2-ply TP

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.

What up?

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.

Alas no fish

Got back yesterday from a fabulous four days on the Kafue River.
Fishing didn't exactly happen, but got lots of sun and reading in. I'm
enjoying my tan and the book won't be leaving my mind anytime soon
(Infidel – read it; we all have an obligation to acknowledge her
story).

Most of the people at this lodge were white South Africans. A lot of
them are doing business with the mines in the Copperbelt. The
camp/lodge seemed to be their chosen place to meet up with family and
friends. It was interesting to be in their company. I think they found
us ridiculous, especially when we said that we had taken a minibus and
then hitched to get to the lodge. Obviously, when you have money, you
can live very well in Africa. I had never seen a speedboat equipped
with a sound system worthy of the coolest teenage boy until now. It is
easy to judge non-black people that live here, but at this lodge, I
found most people appreciated and were thankful for the local staff
that helped make their vacation completely relaxing and responsibility
free. One young South African guy made a point to say, "It's not
racism; it's just two different ways of life coinciding. I have a boat
and I can also pay a local villager to fuel and wash my boat, so that
he feed his family." I see his point; though I don't think I can live
that way… the contrast is too much. However, I don't seem to have a
problem to mooch of people who do live that way. I got a lift back to
Lusaka with a South African couple in their giant 4x4 hauling a giant
boat. It doesn't exactly compare with a cramped, overloaded, brakes
only sort of work minibus.

Anyway, I'm back in Lusaka for a little bit. What I'm up to these next
few days: 1. Holding a workshop for my colleagues to develop the
organisation's three year strategic plan. Blah. 2. Planning my next
getaway. Hmm… where to next.

Silly Boys

On a typical Thursday afternoon, I was making my way from my office to
a school in town. It is generally one of the more positive walking
experiences, mostly because I know most of the people I pass. There
are all the gardeners, guards, people who sell stuff, and the man that
fixes my shoes. On this particularly Thursday, a few hundred metres
before reaching the main road to catch the bus, I noticed three young
men carrying 50kg bags of maize on their head. They stood out because
normally you never see young men doing anything, much less
transporting food on their heads.

One boy put down the sack to take a drink of water and in doing so
noticed that I was walking about 10 metres behind them. When he put
the load back on his head, he quickly jogged to catch up to his
friends, my guess to tell them about me. By this point, I had closed
the distance to about 5 metres; one boy snuck a quick glance, but
couldn't really turn his head around because of the weight of the bag.
Of course, the other boy had to look as well. Unfortunately, he turned
too quickly and the bag started to slide from his head. It threw his
balance, so not only did his bag fall to the ground, his foot slipped
off the tarmac road onto the dirt shoulder causing him to stumble. Not
surprisingly, his friends laughed at him. I took this chance to pass
the group and even as he tried to stroke his ego by calling out to me,
he remained the one making the fool of himself. That is one tale of
three silly boys.

This has to be one the funniest incident to happen to me yet. I wonder
what would happen if someone knockout gorgeous walked down the street.
It seems silly Zambian boys would be knocked off their feet,
literally.

//

Hurray! Heading out of Lusaka for long weekend - sun, books, and good
friends. Happy Canada Day!

Top Secret

The wife of a certain American is in Zambia today. I only know this
because I'm well connected ;) (or so I like to think I). She is
visiting a USAID funded project and then touring a market. When her
super secret security people arrived in Lusaka last week they realised
it would be virtually impossible secure the area. So, her security
crew have demanded a fake market be set up. A fake market? They
probably won't tell her, but for today there is an extra market, where
all the stall are the right dimensions and there are no corners that
her super secret security can't control. I've been told that she'll be
wearing flat shoes so gravel is not a problem, but rocks are not
acceptable. Everyone involved in this façade also has to be screened;
that is, go through checks to see if you are who you say you are. I
wonder if the super secret security realise that some people may not
have birth certificates or citizenship cards. Maybe someone forgot to
include in the memo that this project is targeting vulnerable people,
especially women-headed households. Someone also forget to include
that Zambia is a developing country. The markets and everything else
are not what they are for no reason. What is this fake market good
for… perhaps her people have choreographed her buying something.
Goodness me.

Brr...

Brr… all I can think about is that I’m cold. I have to learn not to get cold in the first place because warming up is impossible. Thinking about happy things:

• Started my morning with a cappuccino and chocolate croissant!
• Made hummus for lunch!
• Made a new batch of granola and managed to get satisfying chunks!

Granola will be good for tomorrow with passion fruit yogurt. Is it yogurt or yoghurt? It's both. No need with an English vs. English discussion.

Dinner and a movie

A dinner and a movie like in Lusaka? Yuppers! Oceans 13, and burger and fries! Oh how satisfying!

Lundazi

Sorry I’ve been missing from the blogosphere. But, I’m back! I’ve uploaded a few posts written a few weeks ago and below are some notes from my last week in Eastern Province. I think I will try my hand at stream of consciousness posts – writing an actual post proves to be too draining at the end of the day. Plus, I can no longer sit comfortably on the couch in the evening because I run the risk of hypothermia! Yes – it is cold! I am wearing woolly sock and if I had a toque and mittens, I would wear them too. It is actually cooler in the house than outside (something to do with tile and concrete I think). Anyway, it’s cold and as someone who is not usually cold, I don’t really know what to do about my cold hands and feet. I don’t really like wearing socks, but it is getting to that, even to bed. Socks in Tropical Africa – yes, apparently so when it’s winter.

Notes from Lundazi:

• The road between Chipata and Lundazi is even worse during the dry season because I guess rain makes road muddy, softer and more forgiving. My colleagues and the organisation’s vehicle stayed in Chipata while I made the journey to Lundazi by bus. I think it’s scarier by bus because I have little control over the situation except to not the get on the bus in the first place. The bus spent most of the three hour trip with two tires on the road and two off, alternating on different sides of the road depending on the potholes. I tried to read but could barely finish a sentence before the bus veered to the opposite side almost giving me whiplash. This wasn’t the bus that I took, but one company has as its slogan – Safety First, Arrive Alive. Is that supposed to make me feel safer?
• Read Kapuscinki’s Shadow of the Sun. It is striking how I can look out the window and see the villages and scenes of “Africa” Kapuscinki vividly describes. You wonder how a book written in the late 50s can still describe today.
• First day I arrived in Lundazi someone from the hospital came by the office asking for gauze. A young boy came into the hospital with his face burned off. The hospital did not even have gauze. I handed whatever pieces of gauze I had in my first aid kit. It wasn’t sterile gauze, but I guess it’s something. Something is not enough. Boy oh boy.
• Ran into a few Peace Corps volunteers in the Lundazi area – impressed with their perseverance. However, not sure what the point is of putting a young American in the most rural of villages. Is Peace Corps more about cultural exchange than development? One girl biked all day just to reach Lundazi from her village.
• Peace Corps are very creative… or are bored out of their minds and going crazy. One girl is knitting hats for her village. Another has made all sort of items out of chitenge fabric – wallet, ipod holder, book covers.
• Climbed a boulder in a village to get cell phone reception.
• Visited a school where a number of children had scabies. Apparently, even more of a problem during rainy season. Went to see the nearest health clinic. Not exactly a clinic - no health workers, no supplies. What to do?
• Talked to a med student working at clinic. Some of the things she sees would make it difficult to sleep at night (won’t share any of those stories here). In a lot of the villages, a under-five clinic have been set up. That is, a clinic specifically for mothers to bring in their children to have their development monitored. The med student described a situation where severely malnourished children were coming into hospital with under-five cards that plot the progression of malnutrition. What?! There is monitoring, but no intervention. Women are trained to plot the dots, but are not trained them to read them. So, when the child’s weight drops below a healthy range it does not ring any bells because they are just dots. One four year old child came in weighing 8kg.
• Pumping water from a borehole is exhausting. Taking bucket baths saves water.
• I love Cranium! Should have brought the Cranium – Canadian Edition with me… wonder if it exists in travel size.
• Stars! The company of stars makes me feel alone, but not lonely.

Making wishes

I feel like the tooth fairy, Santa Clause, fairy godmother, or whoever else listens to people make wishes. This past week has been busy with community meetings. Getting parents, teachers, and community members to share some of their wishes, dreams, visions for the school is the one of the first activities we do in a session on community school planning.

It all started like this. I attended a parent/community meeting a few months ago at one of the schools that my organisation has supported with books, furniture, and training for teachers. It started out as a typical meeting discussing tensions between the teachers and parents and church (school is held inside church premises). Then the committee opened the discussion of future plans for the school. The room was silent. Now, I have become accustomed to allowing periods of silence before anyone answers, but looking around the room, it didn’t look like anyone was coming up with anything. So, I decided to take advantage of the fact that people are inherently interested in me because I’m different and use myself as an example.

I start talking about myself and how one person gets a chance to go from once upon a time being born in small town Alberta to Zambia. Sharing any kind of information about myself always seems to gets people’s attention. I blab about making wishes on shooting stars as a kid that I would one day get to travel and visit other countries. Interestingly, wishes cannot directly be translated into the local language. Dreams is lotto (I think of lottery to remember the word). I think the shooting star explanation is cheesy makes me sound like a nutcase, but seems to translate well and get people excited.

Then, we open the floor up and people share their wishes. The first few responses involved fixing current problems: new latrines, fence, more books, teachers’ salaries, etc. Then as the energy kept building, people start talking about having the school go up to grade 12, adult classes in the evening, technical courses like tailoring, computer lessons, a bus to take pupils on field trips. Cool!

I was impressed by the ideas people were coming up with. People need to be given the opportunity to speak and I think hear each other speak. The hierarchies are so ingrained that most people expect to be told what to do and for those in authority to have the answer. There are a few standard wishes of infrastructure improvement, but the bigger dreams vary depending on the community. It’s a fun and energetic exercise to start with. While the bulk of the session is about how to plan and mobilise resources, the initial dream and goal setting stage really sets the tone.

Hired Help

A woman visiting the house yesterday remarked, “Your house is dusty! Don’t you have a maid?!” My housemate noted that it was a good thing it was just Monday and the floor were just swept the day before. If the woman came by on Friday, she might have declared our house a no-go zone. It’s just dust that is really beyond our control because rainy season is over and it, well, hasn’t rained in a while. Being the first flat in the compound also doesn’t help because every vehicle roaring by stirs up the red dust that inevitably coats everything.

I’ve written before about my reasons for not getting a housekeeper. The main one being that I feel I should be responsible for my own mess. I don’t have any plans to hire anyone, but when someone asks how I could possibly do my own cleaning, I start to wonder whether I’m holding onto a principle. After all, I could be providing employment for one person and possibly assisting the person’s family. The woman adds, “This is Africa, everyone has a maid.” My reaction is then never to hire a housekeeper! However, in recent weeks I’ve been thinking about hiring someone just for a few days a week. There would be some clear boundaries. All the mess in my room is mess I am responsible for. My housemate and I would still do our dishes after dinner. So the bulk of the work would be keeping the living room, hallways, and stairs clean and dust free. Now with laundry – I’m undecided. I can say that I normally enjoy doing laundry. I look back fondly to my university days and laundromats with industrial sized machines. Oh the joy of machines that can wash and dry three weeks worth of laundry in two hours. Here, I am finding that my weekend time is becoming increasingly valuable and having to get up early enough so that my clothes will be dry by the end of the day is distressing sometimes (especially when hung over). So, I’ve been thinking someone to help with some laundry might be nice. But then, my clothes are falling apart as they are. The controlling part of me might be upset if something was destroyed.

The point of creating employment for one person is a significant one, especially seeing how dependent people are on any family member that brings in money. (Side note: one of my colleagues describes that as an African burden – if one is successful, one’s extended family will expect to be supported). There is a British guy I hang out with once in while, D. He’s lived in Zambia most of his life and recently told me about how he is helping his houseboy buy land to provide some security to his family in case something should happen to D or the houseboy. When I see them interact they are family. The British guy recognises how his houseboy contributes to his life. Certainly not everyone treats their hired help this way. D’s houseboy has four children and D pays their tuition. I hope this means that those four children will have the opportunity to do something other than service work.

Between the ages of 2 -5, I lived abroad and I’m sure my family became used to having help around the house. I vaguely recall having a nanny, whom I’m sure I forced to play with me. While I’m sure my parents had less to do around the house, I think they felt strongly that this was not how we were going to be raised – in my mom’s mind that we were going to grow up knowing how to do thing. Like clean up after ourselves. Do our own laundry. Cook for ourselves. I think if one grew up with hired help around, it would be very difficult to give that up – one can’t deny it’s a very comfortable luxury.

This woman could not believe that two foreigners do everything in their house themselves. “You must have a lot of time,” she says. “Um no, we both work.” When expats complain they have nothing to do on weekends that is because they don’t have laundry or floors to mop. I promise, it can be very satisfying. There is a fair way to employ workers and acknowledge what they do and the contribution they make to your life. So, I may hire someone, if the right time and person comes along.

The sunglasses wall

You can tell whether someone is truly smiling by seeing if the smile is coming through their eyes. At least, that is how I weed out the fake smilers. Because I don't like limiting eye contact, I've never been a huge fan of wearing sunglasses – expect when driving and trying to look cool. However, I have recently commenced a sunglasses experiment. That is, wear sunglasses while walking around and see how people react. On a day to day basis the comments I get range from Jenny, a Filipino actor on a popular soap here to the Chinese president. Someone always seems to have something to say about my appearance and for the most part I don't mind. It is often a source of entertainment, but it's a good thing I don't know the local language well enough to understand all of what that is said. Recently, there also seems to be increasing fascination with my hair. On a 6 hour bus journey back to Lusaka, I could feel the man sitting behind me touch my hair every once in a while; for all I know, he could have been touching it the entire time! And, while I was walking out of a bus station, a woman fully ran her finger through my hair! I was so stunned that I had to stop walking. Thank goodness for conditioner or that would have hurt. According to a friend, my hair is "to die for here" – fascinating. Anyway, in short, I get a lot of attention (as does the average foreigner who interacts with local people on a regular basis). I am getting tired of the attention, especially the people who are rude and violate my personal space. I wish I still had the tolerance I had when I first arrived, but I am reaching the point of almost saying "fuck off" to those who grab me, practice their karate chops in my face, and basically anything that classifies as inappropriate touching. I don't want to reach the angry profanity line. Hence, the sunglasses experiment.

The experiment
Purpose: To determine whether local people react differently to me when they can see less of my face.

Hypothesis: If people react to me based on my appearance and what they can see, by wearing sunglasses, I am reducing the amount of my face they can see, and thereby reducing what they can comment on.

Procedure:
1. Put on sunglasses – only wearing them when appropriate (i.e. outdoors, during daylight hours, and when it is sufficiently sunny)
2. Go about the day like normal.
3. Observe reactions, comments, and staring behaviour. Make mental notes.
4. At the end of the day and/or undefined time later, summarize mental notes, and make conclusion.

Observations:
- Usual glances and comments from guards by the office
- Exchanged usual greetings with gardeners and fruit seller by office
- People stared as usual on walk to town
- A few people glanced at me out of the corner of their eye, as if avoid fully looking at me
- I felt a strange anonymity I have never felt here before
- Squinted less in the blaring sun and got less dust in my eyes
- I felt reluctant to take them off when the sun was setting
- Got called Angeri Jory… Angelina Jolie?! Ha!... wishful thinking!

Conclusion:
It is too early to tell whether the hypothesis is correct. However, it is notable how I quickly became attached my sunglasses and almost relished in the feeling of being behind the sunglasses wall. I feel a great deal of conflict because I do not want to block out the interactions with the local environment, but at the same time I feel much more relaxed when I am not being hassled. Sunglasses are also practical; eyes are less itchy when there isn't dust in them – duh! However, I am getting the sense that sunglasses are a psychological crutch. Given how they made me feel, I might be tempted to wear them all the time, so I make a point of taking off my sunglasses when speaking to anyone, even if it is just a greeting in passing. I think as long as I abide by the sunglasses etiquette I will continue wearing them. When more observations are collected, I will try to make a conclusion on whether sunglasses have the power to avert violation of personal space.

NB. I will, of course, take the sunglasses off when flashing a genuine smile at someone. :)

//

I am such a geek… it's been forever since I've written an experiment. Sweet! That was fun!

Updates

The last few weeks...

I think I had a parasite… a few days of not nice diarrhoea. I am done with trying to diagnose myself using my traveller health book. Giardia? Bilharzia? Who knows. 

After one night of fever, sweating, and chill, I thought I had malaria. Thank goodness I don't. Although still not sure about the whole parasite situation.

Africa Freedom Day long weekend - ran away to an island in the Zambezi river. Just me and a few friends in our huts/tents relaxing with books and beers. Contemplated hunting the hippo that kept us awake at night, but getting chomped by a hippo not so appealing.

Back to civilization… and work. Plugging away at my manual to help school communities mobilize past planning. I'm compiling a bunch of already existing material for my organisation and hopefully making a summarized activity based programme for communities. Every time people attend workshops, I see them come away with manuals, which no one actually uses. So, I'm not wasting my time on a manual, but fun diagrams and activities… or so I think. Makes me think of summer camp.

Blah blah blah

Oh, what of Lusaka… in my holy shit, I have malaria state (No worries, I don't!), I let myself indulge in thinking about the gathering of foreigners/expats/whatever we call ourselves.

There's something about inability to classify relationships here. How exactly does someone like me become friends with a middle-aged gem dealer/lion hunter/aspiring surfer. I have a feeling the relationship is unequal because I can only manage one slash tops in my description. I not sure what Western context would allow such an interaction to take place. Sometimes unlikely, but highly entertaining friendships just form. Some of them last a week. Some for a little bit longer unless the person leaves. And, some enter a zone of we're just here together. The people who are here for a while, but not staying forever are the ones that save me from sinking into actual despair because regardless what our jobs are, we all face the same frustrations. Who you are, what you've done in your past life, and even what you do now, do not really matter. On a very basic level, it is about two foreigners being able to relate on Western terms in a place where some days you feel like you haven't communicated with anyone. 

What is it about expats being drawn to other expats. Even though I'm hardly sure if I have any true Zambian friends, I still think that genuine friendship can still form over cultural divides. I have plenty of Zambian acquaintances through work. It is always a pleasure to speak with parents and teachers. The gardeners and fruit sellers around my office are wonderful. They notice everything. It's kind of scary, stalker-like, but thoughtful at the same time. I got an extra banana from the fruit seller who hadn't seen me for a week. I also have the amazing opportunity to work with some rural communities and it is always impressive how much communication can happen with very little words. Greeting by clasping my hands a few times and slightly bowing (actually more just knee bending) earns me uncanny respect and even more underserved authority. Then, there is satisfaction of finally understanding a snippet of Zambian humour. Even with the glimmer of connecting with people, I want more.

What I want are conversations that are meaningful on Western standards. Is that selfish? Outside of discussions for work, I don't think I've managed to get past "how are you?" I often feel my brain humming away trying to come up with things to keep a conversation going. Are there any more ways to ask a question to incite any kind of response? Is there a perspective that may make this discussion easier? I'm not making much effort these days in learning the local language, but even so I think there is a depth of conversation I can never reach. So, at the end of the day anyone who understands me even a little bit is good company. I don't have to edit out humour and sarcasm (and swearing) that may not translate. It seems that when expats get together, especially those working in development, we are using each other to connect with the things that we miss. I know I miss those insanely long conversations where every little point is analysed to no end. Coming home after a long frustrating day of work and being able to have a familiar conversation feels like leaning into a hug. To have someone put their arms around you and make you feel safe, so that for a moment, you can just let everything go. As much as I avoid being a full participant in the Lusaka expat social scene, from time to time I know I need interactions for which I have a frame of reference.

Oh, community schools...

I spent part of last week in the Copperbelt – a province that borders with the Democratic Republic of Congo. We (my colleagues and I) have some communication with the schools that we support in this province from the national office in Lusaka, but it is always challenging to get an accurate picture of what is actually happening on the ground. 

There are two predominant cities/towns in the Copperbelt – Kitwe and Ndola. They are mining towns and the majority of people settled here work for the mines. Not surprisingly, the road between Lusaka and the Copperbelt are the nicest I've seen in Zambia – paved, relatively pothole free, and with lanes and shoulders. A lot of development can come from the mines. The employment that mines provide is an obvious advantage, but they can also play a part in community infrastructure. I was also in awe of the size of the power grips supplying energy from Lake Kariba dam to the mines. Years ago, when the government used to own mines, they also provided housing, health care, education, post-secondary scholarships. Nowadays, Zambia is not benefiting the way it should or could from the mines. The government bends over backwards to attract foreign investors (very few restrictions, free electricity, etc) and copper is exported out, only to have processed copper imported back to Zambia. You don't have to be an economist to scratch your head.

Like Lusaka, Kitwe and Ndola have their share of shanty compounds. The ones we spent visited seemed less dense, but people did not seem anymore well off. There are ten community schools in the Copperbelt that my organisation supports in one way or another – school infrastructure, teacher and community training, and educational materials. I have been trying to implement some kinds of community needs assessment system to help my organisation plan what kind of support the schools actually need. This will also help coordinate what kind of assistance schools can benefit from other organisations. The provision of teaching materials has been very ad hoc. For instance, organisations buy books for whatever subject they feel like from year to year. Another health organisation may give 50 HIV/AIDS workbooks for grade 10 students to a school that only goes up to grade 7. It is understandable that schools want all the support they can get, but the schools and communities need to be part of the process of figuring out what is needed. Moreover, there is little assessment of what happens after the delivery of the materials. How long do the books last? Did an increase in books actually improve the student to book ratio or did the books just sit in the supply room? 

It is also becoming an increasing concern that a few of the schools we work with are not actually schools. That is, the schools exist for the community to get support from NGOs and donors. I would imagine most organisations deal with the issue of people selling resources/materials they have been given for money. What can we do with teachers who sell the textbooks for pocket money? Of the ten schools, my boss and I probably witnessed teaching and learning happening at three schools. Yet, teachers will assure us that their enrolment is normally much higher. One school records enrolment at over 500 pupils, but most days classes are only around 20 students, so 20 times 7 classes only makes 140 tops. There is a belief that the more student you report, the more materials and resources you will be given.

The management and operation of community schools needs constant monitoring. My organisation feels strongly about building up the capacity of communities to effectively manage their schools. It is a long-term commitment that we do not realise how much regular input is required. Each school had a head teacher and each cluster of schools has a zone committee, but even with those structures in place, being on the ground to see and hear things directly is essential. We want the community schools to be self-sustaining. However, I feel more and more these days that our concept is just good in theory. Some of the most successfully operated community schools in Zambia are the ones run by Catholic nuns. Too many factors can compromise a community school. i.e. to meet individual and household needs, teachers, parents and anyone else associated with the school will use school resources or materials. One community school recently sold their donated roofing sheets, so now the latrines have no roofing sheets.

However, community school do exist to fill a gap in the Zambia's education system and when you look for it quality education is happening. UNICEF Zambia recently reported that if Zambia is to achieve the millennium development goal of universal primary education (quite possibly the only MDG that might be attainable), education provided in community schools play a huge role. Is having materials and resources misused just a small by-product in supporting those who do actually benefit from our support. My sense is that people know that donors will always come, so selling a book once in a while for a few extra kwacha will not really ever seriously impact the school. We certainly keep supporting schools that have obviously mismanaged and misappropriated materials. So, what to do?

An HIV Picture

One of my placement objectives is to mainstream HIV and AIDS activities into my organisation’s programmes. So far some approaches include sessions on HIV prevention and ARV treatment in teachers’ training workshops, youth peer education groups, and using school open houses as opportunities to link communities to VCT (voluntary counselling and testing) programmes. I’ve been involved with HIV prevention education for a variety of audiences, so I’m familiar with the usual introduction: What is HIV? What are the modes of transmission? What factors increase risk? In projects I’ve work with in Canada, there seemed to be a sense that the disease didn’t really refer to us and no one was particular worried about contracting HIV. What is starting to occur to me here is how close a connection everyone has to HIV.

We’ve all heard the statistics on HIV rate in sub-Saharan Africa – as high as 1 in 4 adults is infected in some areas. The average life expectancy in Zambia is now around 35 years old. An indicator in the Human Development Index (2004) measures severe health deprivation by calculating the probability of not surviving past the age of 40 – in Zambia, the probability is 60%. What this means in real life is regular funerals. In the little over five months in Zambia, I have been aware of the deaths of four teachers from schools that my organisation supports. I have also been to two funerals. Before coming to Zambia, I had only ever attended two funerals in my whole life. As my relationship develops with colleagues and friends, I am realizing the extent of the toll of HIV. Everyone has a connection to the disease. Someone in the family is infected. Someone is taking care of children whose parents have died. People take time off from work to take care of family members or attend funerals. People come down with pneumonia and no one is sure whether we will see them again. Outside of my work, I hear the stories as well. A few weeks ago, a guard lost his sister and yesterday, I heard that my tailor’s son died. Probably not all these deaths were as a result of HIV, but there is a good chance they were. I find it shocking that people will never say this person died from HIV. It just goes to show how high the stigma is. Yes, technically it is a whole slew of other opportunities infection and illnesses that kill the person, but very, very few people will say the word AIDS. However, everyone assumes. How could you not when the person is in their 20/30s and rail thin.

While I still strongly believe that prevention through comprehensive life skills based education is important, I also believe that testing and treatment programmes must be increased. At the same time of prevention young people from becoming infected, the caregivers of the young people must also be kept alive. Making treatments more accessible and available will also breakdown the stigma of HIV. I wonder if I will ever be able to ask someone straight out whether they have HIV. My worry is that the person probably assumes they’re positive, but has never actually been tested. No matter how many HIV programmes are in place, the pandemic cannot be slowed down without good leadership and coordination. Government and community leaders as well as church leadership can do a lot in passing on the correct information and promoting testing and treatment. Instead, incorrect and superstitious information float around. A Zambian paper published an article last month on how the Americans have a cure for AIDS, but are withholding it. There are so many facets to the HIV pandemic. I am acutely aware of how poverty increases one’s vulnerability to the disease, but I am convinced that sound prevention education can play a role.

//

Stephanie Nolen, my Globe and Mail hero has a new book, 28: Stories of AIDS in Africa. The Globe and Mail website had some excerpts from the book; they seem to have since made them subscription only, but this video should work.

Alive in Zambia

It is yet another typical sunny Sunday afternoon – sitting in my backyard under a giant blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds, eating an orange, with my laundry blowing in the wind. I'm feeling content. While not much has changed in my life since last week, I think I've had a lot of time to think about what I want to do. I now have a plan: stay if certain things happen; don't stay if it doesn't.

For most of the week, I was facilitating a Lusaka zone teachers' workshop consisting of all the teachers from the community schools we support in Lusaka. I am generally disgruntled when it comes to workshops here, but since the focus of this particular workshop was planning what teachers will do in their schools, I am hopeful that something will actually come out of it. It was a significant moment when a teacher stood up and said to fellow teachers that they know what to do and the disconnect is the actually doing. We talked about everything from why teachers do not write lesson plans to why teachers do not follow up on disclosure of child abuse. Countless workshops have iterated the procedures for both, but maybe this time addressing motivations and practicing the steps may make at least a few teachers put things into action.

Some memorable comments for me from the workshop:
-You must eat your cupcakes! (Because four cupcakes were budgeted per person per day (don't ask me why), I accumulated a lot of cupcakes after three days, which I smuggled out and gave to the guards and miscellaneous children in my compound.)
- I can write my lessons, but do not.
- I am motivated to plan my lesson when you are here. You should marry me and I will always write my lesson!
- I will come to your office on Monday and bring the money to marry you.
- I thank God for this workshop and God bless you! (In which case, God owes me money for talk time and photocopying).

I think I've been thinking a lot more about what makes me happy here and while I'm currently feeling the contented lazy kind of happy, I wouldn't mind a few moments of being deliriously happy. This, I think is a sign I need a vacation. So, what is special about living and working in Zambia? After all, it was completely my decision. I had a dream that I went to sleep in Zambia and woke up in suburban Canada, driving an SUV, with a golden retriever in backseat, and buying Costco (wholesale) sized products. I wanted to drive away to the distant mountainous horizon, but I wasn't allowed to change my path and the SUV had a voice that kept asking me why I would want to leave my suburban dream. I think if I could think of a complete opposite to my life now, it would be that. I appreciate what a suburban life in Canada offers – it's conveniences and comforts. For a brief moment this morning, I was secretly wishing for a Shopper's Drug Mart so I could buy new lip gloss. What it comes down to is the chance to experience a certain unpredictability and intensity of everyday life here. 

It is not one of the other for me. For now, I am happy for the opportunity to be in Zambia. Simple experiences like walking down the street can suddenly turn into so much more – good and bad. I found this scrawled in a notebook. I'm can't recall when or where I copied it down, but I am finding it profoundly true here: 

People say that we're searching for the meaning of life. I don't think that is it at all. I think that what we're seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purest physical plane will have resonances within our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.

May 1

I realise I’ve been off the blogging radar for a little bit. I’m still working with my organisation, but have now come to full realisation that my placement is not really working. The major epiphany of last week is that my placement objectives are not possible without the involvement of my colleagues. It sounds simple, but admitting that to myself has taken this long. If my colleagues do not actually want to engage with me, anything I may contribute is not sustainable. While I think I have put myself out there to build relationships with my colleagues, I have doubts whether we will ever reach a point where we are actually working together. I’ve even wracked my brain wondering whether I am capable of working with others. As the only non-Zambian member of the organisation, I believe there is an expectation for me to do things – do the trainings, write the manuals, getting proposals funded, organise workshops, etc. However, here’s the catch, building the capacity of the organisation requires not only the involvement, but also the commitment of my colleagues. What good is it for me organising a teacher’s workshop, when I do not have at least one colleague working with me through the entire process. The bigger realisation is that no amount of committed and effort on my part will make my placement work unless the organisation is equally serious about seeing the objectives through.

With all that said, what’s new with me?

-- What is not new is my wardrobe. I am tired of all my clothes. I think I actually have a work clothes rotation so that I don’t even have to think about what I should wear. I need new shoes as well. For the past few months, I’ve been meaning to go to the second hand clothes/shoes market on the weekend. Apparently, with a bit of perseverance, digging through piles of used goods may find you decent new-ish used items. However, when Saturday morning rolls around, the last thing I want to go is get up and jump on a minibus to dig through piles. A lot of used clothing here comes from Canada/US and I have definitely seen little league sport jerseys. I think I passed a guy in a Brampton Cubs t-shirt yesterday… as in Southern Ontario Brampton? The poor guy was probably wonder why I was starting at him.

--It’s getting colder. We have beautiful day time highs of 30C, but it usually drops to 10-15C during the evening. I feel so un-Canadian saying this, but I’ve had to put on long sleeves and my woolly socks in the evening. I’ve also been wearing my fleece vest in the mornings. This morning, I was wishing I had my puffy down vest. When have I ever worn anything fleece or down filled above 0C temperatures? I think describing the Calgary winter chinooks phenomenon – all snow melting in one day and Calgarians bringing out the shorts – would be hard to explain. People are even wearing toques now. Come winter in July/August, I’m wondering whether I’ll see a mittens and snowsuits.

--One of the schools we work with has links with an organisation that gets people in the US to sponsor children. As someone who grew up seeing the Sunday morning commercials for sponsoring children, it was fascinating to hear how sponsorship is presented from the developing world side. The person representing that organisation put it this way, “the whites in America will see how the children are living and will want to help to pay for school and medicine. We put pictures of how the children live on the website so they will want to make the house better too.” For the agencies that arrange sponsorships, it is a numbers game. The school got a request for x number of students to support. Yet, it could not be determined whether the sponsorship would continue up to Grade 12.

No thanks, friend

Can we be friends? My answer to that question used be, "ahh, sure…
okay." Today, I heard myself say, "no, thank you." The same kind of no
that you would say to something you didn't want, like moldy bread
(sorry, my mind is on the fact I will have to eat cereal tomorrow
because the bread has gone moldy). I have officially given up thinking
I could be friends with Zambian men. I believe it is impossible to
have platonic friendships here with the opposite sex. The few Zambian
women friends I have here support my view, so I don't feel so bad just
saying no. Since I arrived, I think I have been open to friendships
with people that I've crossed paths with. Random meetings on the
street do not get my phone number, but someone I actually have a
conversation with might. However, when it the "friendship" turns into
persistent calling and telling me that you think about me all the
time, that is the end of that. It sounds harsh, but I don't have
enough fingers to count the number of times that has happened. The few
times that have actually bothered me are when the person in question
is someone I've met in a professional situation and my guard is down
because wife and kids are in the picture. I've met a lot of people
here and maybe I'll lose out on potentially meaningful relationships,
but I think for the time being everyone I meet will stay at an
acquaintance level. Something else I heard myself say to the taxi
driver that drove me home, "yes, I'm married; my husband is at home
with the kids." And his response, "That is good. Me, I want to be your
friend."

On expat life

The definition of expatriate I accept is broad to include anyone
living and working outside of their country of citizenship. Whether by
choice or chance, many foreigners in Zambia find themselves falling
into the expat world. In Lusaka, the places that frequently have
mostly foreigners include the two shopping complexes, movie theatre,
established restaurants and cafes… basically any Western type hangout
places. I must admit the strange and somewhat uncomfortable feeling I
used to get when I went to any of those places is dissipating or I may
have just accepted that sometimes I want a cup of coffee or a movie
and I will not feel guilty because I can afford to.

One amusing thing I have noticed in the expat circle is how expats
will size each other up. I must get equally stared at by Zambians and
non-Zambians; at least, Zambians don't bother trying to be discrete.
It's odd, but is I think I have also picked up this strange exercise
of trying to figure someone out when you see them. Why is this person
here? Who do they work for? Where are they from? Coming home from
grocery shopping, I saw a girl with a backpack and bandana walking in
my neighbourhood. From the fact that she had a backpack and was
wearing Chaco sandals, my conclusion was she is either travelling or
with the Peace Corps. I could be wrong, but I have correctly
identified Canadians just from Mountain Equipment Co-op gear and
anyone with a Nalgene bottle is guaranteed from Canada or US. I think
it's strange… foreign people trying to figure out other foreign
people. It is even more amusing when people do a full head turn to
check out people while driving. NGOs usually have their logo on their
vehicles and diplomats, embassies, UN have specialised plates, so I
have driven with people who look at vehicles and say hmm… that person
must work for that organisation. I guess on a human level people are
just curious and looking out for other people that maybe they can
identify with.

While I think I have fallen into the comforts and conveniences of the
expat world, I feel strongly not to give up some of things like
walking/taking local transport and shopping in markets because I feel
it keeps me grounded in what I think I'm doing here.

//

I have an answer. On Sunday, I successfully cleaned my house and
washed all my clothes. My decided firm response to anyone that asks me
why I don't have a maid (I mean, housekeeper) is that I find it
satisfying to do it myself. Yes, I will whine about doing it, but the
sight a shiny floor and a pile of folded clothes is fantastic!

Does it still count?

I'm not sure if I will keep this blog going because I really don't know what I am rambling about these days. Does cyberspace need my almost disillusioned perspective on development? However, I must say a huge thank you – zikomo kwambiri – to everyone for reading. A special thank you to friends who have considered some of the things I've written about and fired questions back at me. Thanks R for these questions. –m

Even if external aid doesn't really work, does it still count? I would never say that external aid and assistance doesn't help at all. Admittedly, I did have a conversation once about what would happen if all development agencies pulled out and the first answer we came up with is that a lot of people (national and international staff) would be unemployed… oops, we were supposed to say all the people who receive assistance would be affected. There are undeniable positive outcomes like children being able to eat and receive medical attention through programmes happening in schools. Donor money has enabled the building of roads, bridges, schools, hospitals, etc. However, is foreign aid and assistance meant to be indefinite? For example, a feeding programme addresses immediate hunger, but when the programme pulls out, people many not necessarily be in the position to help themselves, if they became accustomed to receiving aid. Another example comes from an article I read recently about how second-hand clothes flowing into developing countries actually hinders the development of local textile industries. But then again, someone who didn't have shoes yesterday could have shoes today. Development project are increasingly concerned with sustainability. Many people tout loan and microfinance projects as the sustainable way, but they do not always work if the community has not committed to the idea. There is no perfect development scheme. It really depends on individual communities and individual circumstances. However, at the end of the day, yes, it does still count that an orphan gets a one good meal through a feeding programme.

What are people's attitudes to foreign assistance? I would say that people working in development here question what they are doing – at least those working at grassroots level. People (i.e. me) come here and realise that there might not really be anything they (I) can do. With that said, I still think it is a process that I can perhaps make small contributions. Maybe my colleagues may end up learning a few things from me (or maybe not). I know I am gaining valuable insight into the realities of a local NGOs. As for what local people think… I'm not sure. I don't really know what to say to people who ask, "so did you come here to save Africa?" I don't expect to be appreciated or for anyone to care that I'm here, but it seems no matter what you do – learn the local language, spent time with people – you'll never really be accepted. I'm not the first person to come and I won't be the last, so in people's minds maybe I've come to help, but in the end I will leave.

//

Damn, at the end of each entry I feel like I need to apologise for yet another depressing post. Will try to write take note of more upbeat and fascinating things this weekend. Much laundry and housecleaning to do… the difficulty of going away on weekends… not complaints though, I'm still relishing in the feeling of being on the beach at the Lake Malawi.

Seeing the good

I am getting way too negative. It is really draining when only the
frustrations stand out at the end of the day. I realise my post
yesterday was a view of Malawi through rose-coloured glasses. All the
sun and relaxation probably put me in the frame of mind to see the
good things. Similar hopeful and optimistic things happen in Zambia –
one just needs to look out for them. I've been linking a number of the
schools we support with local peer education groups. Today, I
overheard a group of girls discussing with each other what someone
might offer them in exchange for sex (food, candy, a lift to town, and
the list continues). This made me think that building forums for such
discussions may have an impact on the lives of young people, even
though we do not do anything to directly address the poverty the
increases their vulnerability. However, on an organisational level, I
don't know if my colleagues realise the value of such partnerships and
will be willing to support the continuation of such programmes when I
leave.

Even though I could have shared a positive aspect of my day, the
girls' discussion, I came home ranting about all the kafuffles that I
had to smooth over because of the things that didn't happen, but were
supposed to while I was away. As our conversation grew in negativity,
my housemate and I resolved to take note of one good thing everyday. I
think I will start a list on the fridge and maybe at the end of this
month, I will report what we come up with. Our two points on the list
tonight include seeing a group of men hard at work at a woodworking
shop and two people working together to push a bike laden with giant
bags of charcoal up a hill. I guess for us seeing people hard at work
is a very good thing. For the record, it was not difficult to come up
with positive things; it was a matter of consciously noting them.

I'm going to entertain one big question before I call it a night – if
I no longer believe that sustainable development is possible, would I
be willing to admit it to myself and walk away?

Malawi

I'm back from Malawi. It was a quick five day trip to Lake Malawi (two
days of travel, three on the beach), but I feel like I've been away
for weeks. The lake felt like a sea and almost Mediterranean like with
clear water, nice sand, and white sunlit rock islands jutting out.
Sitting on the beach, reading, and watching the sun cross the sky was
just what I needed. I did not expect Malawi to be much different from
Zambia; they are neighbouring countries, and cultures and languages
cross geo-political boundaries anyway. The Chewa people in Eastern
Province, Zambia may consider themselves to be in the same group as
the Chewa in Malawi. Also, Malawian Chichewa and Zambian Chinyanja are
very similar languages. I don't know enough Chinyanja to notice the
difference, but I ran into no problems bargaining in Chinyanja.
Nonetheless, on the 9-hour journey back I made a list of some notable
differences:

>>Roads! Malawi has amazing roads. I think I am amazed because Zambia
has such terrible roads; the difference is noticeable immediately
after crossing the border. There are shoulders, lane markings, and
very few potholes. Not only are the roads amazing relatively to
Zambian roads, they were so good I almost got the feeling I was
drinking I was in Canada driving through the mountains. The landscape
is different, but I had the feeling of being on an open highway –
fresh air, blue sky, and endless horizon.

>>Zambians will be the first to tell you that Zambia is a friendly
country. Sure, Zambia is generally a friendly country, but my
experience is that it is an in-your-face kind of friendliness. The
local people I ran into in Malawi were more reserved and perhaps, as a
result their friendliness felt more genuine. At the campsite over
cheap beers and under a sky full of stars, I had some great
conversations with people from Lilongwe (capital of Malawi). I realise
that the people we ran into on the lake and in villages where we
stopped to buy crafts probably have regular contact with tourists, but
it still surprised me how little hassle we got. I have gotten used to
being asked for money and other things that I now notice when I am not
approached. No one said more than hello to me while I was on the
beach… all the attention I usually get is not good for my ego, because
now I expect to be noticed. Hah.

>>I think Malawi and Zambia rank closely on the Human Development
Index (I haven't officially checked). It is difficult to justify this
statement from the perspective of a visitor passing through, but
Malawi seems more developed. In addition to the roads, there seemed to
be more planning and organisation in the capital city. We only spent a
few hours in the city to get food and fuel, but I was amazed (again)
at the infrastructure. There are several modern glass buildings set on
tidy roads lined with shady trees. Lilongwe probably has its share of
shanty compounds, but from what we saw, it felt like people took pride
in maintaining the city – the streets were clean, most streets had
street signs, and traffic lights work! Lusaka doesn't really compare
except for the Western style shopping malls.

Another sign I took to mean things in Malawi are improving was the
number of Malawian families at the beach. A wonderful couple I met, a
midwife and a mechanic, brought their kids for an afternoon barbeque
on the beach. Resort places like the beach are usually filled with
tourists, but it felt nice to see a mix of tourists and local people.
Zambia's attractions are plenty – Victoria Falls, Luangwa National
Park, Lake Kariba, etc. However, many people I work with have never
been and I'm not sure will seek the opportunity to go.

I know I'm making broad comparisons without strong evidence, but
Malawians seem hopeful and more committed. The people I had a chance
to speak with seem to have realised their challenges and are finding
ways to improve their own livelihoods – we came across a huge
furniture and woven mat cooperative. I would like to see the same kind
of optimistic energy in Zambia. Seeing development agency signs and
project vehicles (as you see in Zambia, especially Lusaka) does not
mean development is necessarily happening in the country. There is no
doubt that a lot of money is pouring into Zambia, but until the
leaders and citizens take ownership of their future, no amount of
money will result in any real improvement. I hope I don't sound too
disillusioned because I do want to believe that development from
community level, not dictated by aid agencies is possible.

(I am curious what a development worker in Malawi would say about Zambia...)

Poo

It is not until I had my own poo issue that I realised how common it is a topic of discussion. I've been remarkably healthy so far until mid last week. I don't know what I ate, but it did not do my body good. When I was somewhat toppled over on the table at a Saturday night card game, someone asked me if I felt okay. I mentioned my stomach was giving me a bit of trouble. Then the conversation went like this:

"Stomach troubles?... oh, a PC way of saying that you have the shits."
Me: uh huh
"How many days?"
Me: 3
"Bloody? Gas? Cramps?"
Me: No, no, yes.
"Good, you probably don't have dysentery. Probably bacteria or a parasite. We've all been there."

There we were, on a relaxed Saturday night, five people working with various development organisations bonded over stories of diarrhoea. 

//
 
I'm in a lull. A work and life lull. Or maybe it's just the dread of Monday.

Sorry, can't think of anything interesting to write. I feel much less observant these days than when I first arrived.

Recap

I don't really know if there is any continuity in my blogging, so I thought I would do a little recap. I've been in Zambia for about four months or so. I work for an organisation supporting community schools, hence why I obsessively write about community schools. Most of my work currently involves developing school monitoring/evaluation systems, HIV and AIDS workplace policy, and training modules for teachers, school committees, and parents. There's a lot of potential in building the capacity of the organisation, but the catch as I've discovered is it is crucial that my colleagues are also be interested in building their own capacity. I believe in bringing out local solutions to local problems, but sometimes people are more interested in receiving aid or external assistance. In a way, I feel people expect NGOs and donors to hand out the solution. This brings up many questions with development work. I would even go as far as to wonder if development programmes perpetuate poverty by creating a dependency on handouts. Many big questions flow through my head and while I feel dazed thinking about the possible answers, I would be more concerned if I didn't question what I'm doing.

Outside of work, I'm still taking part in the same old stuff: yoga (only once in while because it costs money and I'm cheap), volleyball and football each once a week, and maybe a movie every few weeks. I've fallen into the company of good people. Last week was remarkably social, thanks to power cuts. In fact, I'm still feeling the withdrawal from the excitement of dinners, parties, and concerts. The next big upcoming event for me is a quick five day trip to Malawi. It's not really enough time, but we're headed to the lake and I could use sometime to chill out on a beach. I guess I should have taken more seriously that Zambia is a landlocked country.

I can't say that I love Zambia, but things are okay. I wonder about people who make sweeping statements like, "I love Africa." I almost don't believe them. There have been some great experiences mixed in with some pretty crappy instances. I think it depends on your level of exposure. Working in shanty compounds takes getting used to. I think very little phases me anymore because sometime I see Zambian flipping out at things I don't even notice. I would feel extremely under stimulated if I went back to Canada tomorrow. I recently put up a map of Africa in my bedroom and looking at that makes me marvel at the fact I'm here. A year ago, I would never have guessed that I would be in Zambia.