Holidays and Happenings.

Muli Uli!

      I’ve now entered the 3^rd stage of my service. I have completed Community Entry, a time in which I was supposed to immerse into my community and not leave my village. I feel like I did a good bit of immersing and improving of my Tumbuka, and now I’m happy to be in the phase of which is my actual service. I’m also now free to take vacation and have visitors, which I’m stoked about. Here’s an update of the last few months:

      I’ve spent holidays away from home before, but I’m pretty sure this last Christmas was the first one that I’ve spent without my family. I don’t think I realized that at the time, but I do remember it being a bit difficult to go through the day. First of all, it definitely didn’t feel like Christmas here. I don’t have stores, malls, or car radios constantly playing cheerful holiday music. In my area, there definitely weren’t any Christmas decorations up. There was no going to pick out a tree, no lights to hang. And it was about 100 degrees! On Christmas Eve I went to a nearby village to see a man who raises chickens. I wanted to buy two, and I heard that they were sold in Chigona, which is a village about 9km away. When I rode my bike there with my friend Joe who was visiting, everyone we asked about chickens was absolutely wasted. I really dislike dealing with drunk Zambians, and avoid it at all costs if possible, but I had promised my village I would bring chickens for Christmas so I felt I had to follow through. First off, everyone was pointing me in different directions on where to find the chicken man. Then the guy was gone, but I was dealing with his brother. I was asking everyone for someone that spoke English, because I wanted to bargain for the chickens. Instead, I had a bunch of drunk men grabbing my arms and ignoring me, but only talking to Joe. He kept telling them that I was the one they needed to speak to, I was the one that was speaking to them in Tumbuka, but they wouldn’t give me the time of day because I am a woman. I finally just grabbed some chickens, paid them the outrageous price they were asking, and stormed out. That’s the first time that a Zambian has pissed me off since being here, and I’m usually really easy going and accepting of how I’m treated.

      On Christmas morning I woke up and Joe and I each killed one chicken over the trash pit in my back yard. Apparently there are different methods to chicken killing, and Zambians do not appreciate it if you just chop off the head and let the chicken run away. But when they kill animals for food here, they lay them to bleed in a certain way and do it in a humane and least messy way.

My chicken and Joe's, who did not let his bleed out correctly and cleanly :)

      I then plucked and cleaned them with my amama, and helped her prepare them for cooking. I attempted to make sima in my hut, and I thought I’d be creative and put salt and pepper in while I was cooking it, but I guess that doesn’t work because my sima didn’t turn out as sima. All the women in my village have been giving me sima- cooking lessons because they knew that a man was coming to visit, and it is a womans role to cook sima for the man. I think they were a bit disappointed when I wouldn’t let them see or eat my sima, because I was embarrassed by it :)

With [most of] my Host Family in front of my hut. Prince and Agnes, Chimwemwe, Jones, and Alfredi holding Chewbacca. Christmas Day.

 

      We had a nice Christmas lunch of chicken and sima, everyone around my hut that wanted chicken was able to have some, and then Joe and I rode our bikes into the BOMA to have a Christmas dinner and gift exchange with all of the other volunteers in my district. There was a ton of food, from cabbage and stuffed bell peppers, to mac and cheese and deviled eggs. For desert there were cobblers, fudge, cakes, and pies. Pretty amazing that they were able to cook all this with local ingredients, and in an oven that barely fits one plate, with only two burners. We had all drawn Secret Santa names- the girl that got me made me two pot holders with aliens on them :D They’re pretty awesome. I got to talk to my family that night, and it was really hard to hear them all together. I think this is the first time I’ve really been homesick since leaving. And the fact that I hadn’t gotten a single letter, card, or box since October (and didn’t until the end of Jan) made it a little harder, almost as if I was forgotten. But I know I’m not, and I know I don’t need to get anything to know that people are thinking of me.. It was just tough being so far away from all my family and friends.

I had a pretty uneventful New Years, but it was actually quite nice. On New Years Eve, I stayed late at my clinic because a woman in our waiting mothers room went into labor in the morning. I’ve never witnessed a child birth, and I think this was a drastic labor and delivery to start with. The girl was young, 16, and having her first child. While she was laying on the table, holding her own legs up, she started screaming and crying about her right leg cramping up and having stabbing pains. Zambian women aren’t supposed to make any noise when they deliver, they usually do it silently, so the two midwives that were in the room with me were getting very upset with this girl. They kept yelling at her and telling her she was weak. When she couldn’t stop screaming, they climbed on the table and pushed their hand down over her mouth. They took two clamps, attached them on either side of her inner thigh, and twisted her skin tightly. When I asked why they did that, they said it was so she would feel pain in that area and push harder. When she continued to cry and smack her leg, they slapped her repeatedly and screamed in her face. They pointed to her stretch marks, and asked me if I knew what they were. I said “Yes, those are stretch marks, and women get them during pregnancy when their body changes and grows rapidly and stretches the skin.” They told me “No, they are marks because she must be a mischievous girl and is sleeping around.” They talked about the girl right in front of her, and laughed about it while she sat there in agony. She had a prolonged second stage of labor, and something was obviously wrong. At this point they decided that the baby wasn’t going to come easily, and she’d have to be transported to the hospital. They started filling out charts (something they should have done the minute she went into labor) making up dilations, blood pressures, and maternal and fetal heart rates for the last 11 hours, since they hadn’t recorded these throughout the day. The ambulance, a small covered wagon type thing attached to the back of a motorcycle, arrived a bit later to bring her into Lundazi Hospital. She gave birth to a baby boy a few hours later.

      I was only responsible for wiping her butt and cleaning up after she would defecate herself this time, but it was more a terrifying experience because of how I saw my midwives treat this poor girl. I certainly hope they aren’t like that with everyone, and I see definite room for improvement and areas of training for my clinic staff and volunteers. I have yet to be around for another labor and delivery, but as it’s something that I’d like to learn how to do, I hope I have more positive, smooth experiences in the future.

      That evening I was in bed and asleep by 9pm, I didn’t even try to make it until midnight. There is no drinking in my village, so there were no big dance parties like I had half expected. All was quiet until the next day, which is a large Nyao celebration. Nyao are the masked dancers that are the tradition of the Nyanja and Chewa tribes, both of which live in my area. I went to the next village over from mine, Chigadula, and it was packed with more Zambians than I’ve ever seen in such a small area. There were people everywhere selling cookies, soft drinks, chips, popcorn, etc. All the kids, both young and old, were out playing with each other or watching the Nyao circle. I’ve also never felt stared at more in my life, as when I was walking through with Prince and going to the dance circle, every single persons eyes were on me. I guess there were people that came from all over, so a lot of them didn’t know me and had no idea why I was there. The headmen offered me a seat next to them, in the Chief’s overstuffed chair. We sat right behind where all the dancers sat and awaited their turns, so I got close up looks at their feathered masks.

       I sat and watched them dance to the drums and singing for a few hours, then had a beautiful sunset walk back home with my host father. Another gorgeous, mostly calm day. And it was nice not to start this year off with a hangover :)

Sunset, Jan 1, 2013

      On January 5^th I hit my 3 months as a volunteer. This is when Community Entry finished for me, and the next day I made my way down to the Capital, Lusaka, for In-Service Training. I caught a hitch out there with an ambulance, who was transporting a patient that was healing from a crocodile attack. He talked my ear off the entire way, but I did play cards with him for a bit, then end up giving him the stack of cards (from Monteray Bay Acquarium!), and I saw all of his gnarly scars from the attach. His legs were torn up from the croc’s tail swiping him when it knocked him into the water and locked its jaw around both his forarms. They were pretty mangled, and he showed me how he couldn’t move some of his fingers or make a fist because the tendons had been severed. We talked about the Physical Therapy he was doing, and I gave him some additional stretches and strengthening exercises. I was dropped off at Great East Hotel and reunited with everyone from my in-take for a week of trainings, workshops, and celebrations. Halfway through the week our counter-parts made their ways to our hotel for a two day workshop, in which they discussed Behavior Change, Sustainable Development, Peace Corps, and Project Design and Management. My host father, Prince, attended the workshop as my counterpart, as he is very active in our community and is a health volunteer. He was so excited to get out of the village and go to a big city, and he loved sitting in the workshops. At the end, him and I sat down and picked an area of which we’d like to start a project in our village. We decided to do Village Inspections, which is where you go hut to hut and give a score based on if they have pit latrines, dish racks, clothes lines, trash pits, gardens, etc. The main focus is on hygiene, which fits in because I’ve been waiting to do hygiene talks and build Tippy-Taps (a hand washing station that costs next to nothing to construct) and challenge my community to use them as well. However, rarely anyone in my village or the surrounding ones have pit latrines, and just use their fields as a bathroom. This is obviously not hygienic and leads to the spread of disease, so Prince and I designed a project to have villagers improve the environment around their huts while learning about disease and sanitation.

Prince Kamanga and I at Great East Hotel after our workshop.

      At the end of our training week there was an incident, and because I want to convey my whole experience while in Peace Corps Zambia, I will write about what happened. I know my family and friends read this, as well as incoming volunteers and possibly their parents, but I hope I don’t shed a light on Zambia or Africa as being ‘dangerous’. I’d rather people know about this so that they know better how to protect themselves. I was in an area of LSK that is referred to as the “dirty market”. I did not wish to be there, but that’s where I happened to be dropped off, and it’s not somewhere I would have gone alone. Yet, I was alone, and with my large travel backpack and purse. Some guys started hassling me and trying to get money. Others were harassing me verbally, or trying to grab my arms. A trucker saw this and stopped, asked me if I needed a ride. As I’ve hitched with many awesome truck drivers, I didn’t hesitate to take that way out. I told the man that I was a volunteer and could not pay, and asked if he would take me to Arcades (a mall near my hotel) for free. He said it was not a problem, and I got in. I asked him how long he’s been driving, and he said he had just gotten here from South Africa, where he lives. I asked if he knew where Arcades was, and he told me he didn’t, but would ask someone. I told him if he could get onto the main road, Great East Road, I would be able to direct him from there, but that I didn’t know my way around this side of town. He started driving in the right direction, but then began heading West. I made a mental note of this, but did not say anything because I didn’t know how the roads connected, and thought he might know better than I. After a few minutes of heading West and watching the sun creep slowly down, I asked him again if he knew where he was going. He said he did, but that he had to just pick something up at the Pick’n’Pay. I asked where that was, he said it was just near. At this point, I started to get nervous, but that was mostly because I had no talk time on my phone, so I was realizing that I couldn’t text or call anyone to let them know where I was. The driver turned down a dirt road, I asked him what he was doing. He told me he was going to park and get out to ask someone where Arcades was. Instead, he drove down this dirt road until there weren’t people around, and pulled into an empty parking lot. At this point, my stomach and heart were in my throat, my hands were sweating, and I was becoming fearful for my safety and security. I kept trying to page people on my phone, especially our Safety and Security Officer, but couldn’t get through because I had no money on it. I pulled my purse onto my lap, and slowly slid my hand down to the bottom of it, where I carry a Rajah switchblade. When he parked the car I knew this was my chance to get out. He turned to me and said “If you don’t have any money, how are you going to pay me?” I pulled my knife out of my purse, unopened, and rested it on my leg where he could see it. I told him very calmly, “I’m going to grab my bags, and get out of the car and leave. You’re going to stay here, and you’re not going to follow me.” Then I proceeded to do just that, and as I jumped down out of his cab I took off running. I rounded a corner and saw two men standing outside a car, I told them I was in trouble and needed help, and they kindly drove me to my hotel. I was really shaken up, but after talking to my friends and deciding I needed to report this, I called Peace Corps and told them what had happened. Over the next few hours I was on the phone with the Safety and Security Officer, who offered to come meet me in person, and with Medical, as well as the Crisis Victims Advocate in Washington DC. They let me stay with my friends that night, but then moved me to Peace Corps Headquarters the next day so I could meet with the Medical Staff and talk further about my "kidnapping". They offered to fly a counselor out from DC, which I declined, but I’ve had a few follow up phone calls with them. I’m extremely lucky that I was able to get out of that situation, because all I could think of was the worst possible situation happening. I worried that I would never see my friends or family again, but I got away and I’m okay. He didn’t touch me, and I don’t know what he was planning on doing, but I’m glad I didn’t have to find out. I’m thankful I had my knife on me, and I’m even more thankful that I didn’t have to use it to really protect myself. The experience affected me in a few ways- for one, it definitely stripped the confidence I had to be walking around alone here. It ruined my trust of people. These were both obvious a few days later when I had to return to my site; I felt an immense amount of anxiety about having to hitchhike again, alone, and so soon. But I did it. And I also learned a few things from this. I learned to never travel without talktime, so I linked my phone to mobile banking so that I can always call or text someone in case of an emergency. It reiterated that I should carry my knife, even though physical defense is not Peace Corps tactic. And it taught me to get more information about the people I hitch with- I had not asked this guys name, nor had I looked at his trucking company name or license plate number.  I realize this can happen to anyone, and while I wish it hadn’t happened at all, I’m glad it happened to me and not someone else. I’m glad I was able to keep a steady and calm mind and have control over the situation.

       I made it back to my site, and I’m sticking around here for as long as I can. I will travel to Serenje, in Central Province, next month for a National GLOW Meeting, but other than that, I’m trying to keep the traveling at a minimum for now if I can help it!

Oh, and I let a Zambian villager shave off all my hair.

Introducing Chewbacca

     Chewbacca is really growing on me. Aside from the fact that he is triple the size of all the dogs from his litter, or even those a little older (I have a high protein and carb diet, he has a high protein and carb diet; I eat a lot of veggies, he eats a lot of veggies), I’m really starting to get attached to this dog that I said I wasn’t going to get attached to. I just wanted a dog while I’m here for protection, but he’s turning into so much more than that.

      He is now such a sweetheart; when he was little the village kids would hit him, trip him and pull his tail, making him bite and snap a lot, which isn’t how I wanted him raised. Zambians do not treat dogs, or any animal for that matter, in the same way as we care for them in America. And I don’t mean as far as dressing them up, letting them into the house, on the furniture, or even in our beds. I tell them that you can train dogs to be good, and they can be really loyal, protective, useful, and lifelong pets. I understand that they don’t keep dogs because it’s another mouth to feed if you want to keep them healthy, and that’s tough when you’re already scrounging for food for yourself and family. Plus, most Zambians are terrified when a dog runs up to them, because most dogs are wild and feral from being beaten their entire lives and never fed. I’m glad that I get a chance to show Zambians how to treat a dog, because it’s hard to constantly see dogs being kicked, hit, and having rocks thrown at them as well as always hearing their yelps and whimpers.

     Chewbacca is such a mama’s boy (because he has no dad?). He’s always climbing onto my lap and loves to cuddle, which is the opposite of all the other dogs around here. He follows me everywhere: to the garden to weed (he even helped me dig up all of my onions! Too bad he was a few months too early, as they had just sprouted), to fetch water at the well, and wherever I go on walks. He’s just started running after my bike, so now the kids have to hold him back when I leave because if I’m biking, it means I’m going on a far journey and will be gone a significant amount of time. Plus he’s still so tiny and always walking between my legs and tripping me, that I wouldn’t want him running between my tires while I’m going downhill or anything! When I talk to town he trots alongside me; when I go teach at the school he comes and sleeps under my desk or by the children’s feet. The school kids love him and think it’s hilarious that my dog goes everywhere with me. He comes to meetings, which distracts all the kids that would usually be staring at me and making a meeting difficult. I’ve even taken him swimming down in the river. The first time he jumped right in and swam across, now he won’t go near the water whenever we come to a river we have to cross to get to a nearby village. He makes me carry him; he’ll sit there and wine from the other side until I come back and get him, and then the whole time I’m wading through the water with him safely in my arms, he’s paddling his little legs along with his nose stuck up in the air, like he’s doing all the work and is drowning! He cracks me up, but I hope he starts really crossing by himself soon, since I won’t be able to pick him up much longer at the rate that he’s growing.

      When I’m out all day at the clinic, he plays with all of the kids in the village. It’s really cool to see how much they all love him; I think growing up with a good dog as a child is a great thing. He looks out for the little babies, he lets the kids put clothes on him, and he’s pretty good about how rough they are. He lets me hold him upside-down in my arms like a baby, in fact it’s his favorite sleeping position. Point is, I’ve never had a dog like this, where I know he’s going to be such an asset to me staying sane and protected and happy during the rough times of my service here. And I know the kids have never had a dog like this, or gotten to love an animal like this. It’s definitely going to be tough to leave him in 2 (or 3) years from now. At this moment, he’s asleep at the foot of my bed where I have a little (contained) fire going to keep me warm during cold and rainy season.

     
Chewbacca is a 10 week old Rhodesian Ridgeback, and I can already tell he’s going to be huge, which I’m excited for. I hope he’s like a horse, so I wouldn’t have to bike everywhere and Zambians would truly think I’m crazy ;)  

2 Months in the Vil: Part II

     By the beginning of my second week in the village, I was starting to settle in and get a routine going. My closest Peace Corps neighbor, David, and his girlfriend Colleen who is posted on the other side of our district, came and sought out my hut. This was also the first day that it rained, so I really enjoyed seeing some American volunteers, and sitting with them in my hut watching the lightning and listening to the thunder and rain outside my door. Now, David and I hang out a few times a week, try to coordinate projects together (He is a AgroForestry/Land Conservation Volunteer), and visit each others villages to have meals together. Colleen is moving in with David, so they both come out to my village every Saturday and do tree nurseries while teaching my village, and we have dinner together.

     I began going on evening runs, always around 5 pm because dusk is the golden hour. It's not too hot, and I get to watch the sun begin to set as I'm running through gorgeous terrain. I run on bush paths, which are trails that connect different villages and a small dirt road. A lot of my trails are sand, sometimes the path goes down to a river and is flooded a bit. Sometimes I'm running through grass, sometimes corn, sometimes under a corridor of large trees. I run past massive gardens, rivers and ponds. Goats, pigs, chickens, cows, and children get in my ways. Everyone outside their huts waves and smiles at me and calls my name as I run by. "Yebo!" I reply, which means yes, okay, or fine, according to my language book, but here it is also used as a quick sort of "Hey!" instead of having to stop and shake hands with everyone. Some times the little old grandmas try jogging a few steps to give me a high five and laugh, so I'm often slowing down. As I run by people and they ask me what I'm doing (Zambians don't understand the idea of running for fun or exercise), I say "Chimbira ya ine! Run with me!" and motion them along. They think it's funny, and I enjoy it, especially when I have a tail of 50 children following me. That means I just got those 50 children to run 2 miles.

     On my 10th day in the village, Prince knocked on my door early in the morning. "Pack up all of your things, you have to move out," he said. Then, he ran off. I had just finished unpacking! I tried to find him to ask him to explain, when he popped up out of nowhere and started taking all my things out of my hut. Finally, he told me that people were coming to spray, and as I glanced around my village, I noticed everyone else had moved all of their things out, though their piles were a lot smaller than mine. Even though they saw me move in, I still felt guilty about how much I had. A canter truck pulled up and two men got out, wearing all white hazmat suits, with ghostbuster tanks on their backs. They were here to do IRS- Indoor Residual Spraying, a service that the government provides for free which sprays chemicals in peoples huts to kill mosquitos (and other bugs). They sprayed all of our walls and roofs, but we had to keep the doors closed and stay outside for over an hour before moving back in. I went and grabbed my nail polish, and started painting the babies fingers and toes, and had lunch (sima and potatoes) with the village women.
   
     I've started helping out at my clinic after I observed there a few times. I realize I haven't written much about my job, or what it really entails. The beauty of Peace Corps is that I'm my own boss. I'm the one that's out here, in my village all alone, seeing how the people are living, seeing what they really need. I'm supposed to be the link between the people of my catchment area and the Ministry of Health, which is a segment of the Zambian Government responsible for health. Since I go into the BOMA about once a week, I can relate issues from my clinic to the District Health Office there, or hitch into my provincial capital and meet with the Prov Health Office.
    There are 3-4 main topics that I work under as a PCV. HIV/AIDs Education and Prevention, Malaria Education and Prevention, and Neonatal, Maternal and Child Health. So far, the one I'm doing the most work with is the latter. Every Tuesday and Friday at my clinic are Ante-Natal days. On Tuesdays, we do bookings for new mothers. This means all these pregger women sit on our stoop and I call them into an office one at a time, and fill out their registration card. I butcher their names, village names, and husbands names when I try to write & spell whatever they tell me. Most of them have never been to school or dropped out at a young age (so they could get married and start having babies), so I have to speak to all of them in Tumbuka, and I don't understand half of what they say. When I ask them how to spell their names they look at me like I'm crazy, because there's no way they know how to spell their own name. I ask them when they last had their period, and for some reason, about 90% of them tell me August. So I add 9 months and 7 days to whatever date they give me, and write that as a tentative delivery date. I also have to ask them how many children they currently have, and what years they were born. The women never know the dates, they just tell me how old they think their child is and I subtract the years. It's always astonishing to me when women who are in their 40's are registering with me to have their 7th or 8th baby. No bueno. But it's even more astonishing when I have a 16 year old sitting in front of me telling me this is her 3rd child. Also no bueno. The next question, which is always a difficult one for me to ask because I don't know how to respond, is how many of their children are alive, and how many have died. From that, I have to find out if it was a still birth, or if the child died after being born, and what year that was. Always a tough one. Then I weigh them, hand them a mosquito net to sleep under (which they will probably never do) and send them back out to the porch to wait. Once I've booked all the new mothers, we call them in one-by-one again to do an HIV test, get iron supplements, tetanus shots, and malaria prophylaxis if they're in their 2nd trimester. The HIV test is a simple finger prick, drop of blood onto an RDT, and it gives results within 10 minutes. So far, of the 37 women and 3 men I've tested, no one has tested positive. After I call them in and watch their faces change from anxiety to happiness as I reveal their test results to them, we have them lay down on a bed for a pelvic exam. This is the part where I'm still observing with a midwife. I've been feeling the masses, using only hands and knowledge to determine how far along a woman is and in what position the baby is in. After that, we tell them when they should next come for a visit, and send them on their merry little ways.
    Once a month my clinic does Under 5's, which is a time for all the mothers to bring their children under 5 years old in to the clinic for weighing and tracking, as well as shots. We have a sling which is more or less attached to a hanging grocery veg/fruit scale, and we hang that from a strong branch under a large tree. One by one the babies are placed, screaming and crying, into the sling while I record the weight that I read. I record this on a card that every mother should have, that tracks the childs growth every month, and shows whether they are malnourished or not. The children that are underweight, severely, slightly, or on the decline, I refer their mothers to another clinic worker to learn about proper feeding and nutrition, which I will eventually be lecturing them on. Sometimes, the moms have lost their childs card, so they hand me an empty composition book, which I then have to fill out with the childs name and age. This is the tricky part. 1st off, again, mothers rarely know when their child was born. 2nd of all, they give their children weird ass names. I know a Bornface, Ason (a son...), Alone, Lasson (last one), and other funky things. There are kids named Memory, or Mountain, or Blessing, or even Obama or Barrack. And sometimes I ask a mother their baby's name and all I get is silence and a dumbfounded look. These are the times that, when they don't know their own childs name or I can't understand what the heck they are saying, I write "Emily" or something simple like that :) When I leave, there are going to be so many kids with easy American names.
     Somedays I go into the clinic and all thats going on is medication dispensing. As a PCV, I am not allowed to dispense medication, but I sit with my pharmacist, learn about the different drugs they have and uses, and do pill inventory for them. It seems like my clinics answer to mostly everything is Coartem, which is used to treat Malaria. I know malaria is a huge problem in my area, but there is not really any hard evidence of that. This is what it looks like when I go to my clinic: ~60 men, women, and children sitting on the cement benches right outside the clinic door. My coworker has collected all of their books, and is calling them in one at a time. She calls someone in, they sit in a chair next to their desk. "Suzga vici? What is the problem?" She asks. "Nalwala nthumbo, na mutu. I'm sick in the stomach and head." She writes out the prescription for malaria in their book, and hands them malaria medication. Almost every single person is the same deal. They get different dosages for different ages/weights, but there is never a malaria test done to see if thats what the person is actually suffering from. And they never see a doctor or are examined. They're in, and they're out, and everything is completely free for them. We keep a tally of how much and of what medication we dispence, and that's probably why our clinic reports such high malaria rates. Not only is this a problem because the Zambian government won't always be able to offer free health care if they run out of funding, but also because people aren't learning anything from this process, nor are they bettering their lives. If half of the people that are given mosquito nets actually use them to sleep under, or have their children sleep under them, we would see a huge decline in the incidence of malaria, of child mortality, and we would have more drugs to offer the people who really need them for real reasons. But... it's Zambia.
    So far, that's all that I really do with my clinic. I should be attending more meetings, but I'm either gone or not informed of when they are happening, and in the beginning there's not much I can teach about because I'm still getting the feel of how they do things. This is where I feel like I'm not doing a lot. And to be honest, a lot of the time I really feel like I have nothing to offer them. They are set in their ways, they've got a working routine, and I've never experienced hospitals in a 3rd world country so I don't feel like it's my job to come in and change everything. But it sort of is my job. Either way, I love the people that work at my clinic, and enjoy just going in and sitting with them and watching them work.
     One day I was doing Ante-Natals, and when I finished the booking of new mothers, someone went to cook food. They always provide lunch for us when we're working there the entire day, usually just some sima and a relish such as rape, cabbage, or kapenta. When I had arrived at the clinic that morning to do Ante-Natals, I noticed that there was a government cruiser out front and some people sitting under the tree where we usually hold community meetings. I went and introduced myself to the team that was there from Chipata, they were with the Zambia National Blood Transfusion Service, and said that they were there collecting blood donations. I talked with them for a while (it's always nice when people speak English, plus I'm trying to network with as many people and health organizations here as possible), exchanged numbers, then told them I would find them later as my pregger women were waiting for me. After the booking was finished and I was waiting for lunch, the ZNBTS came and got me to say they were taking off to other villages. They were traveling around to villages in my catchment area, villages that I had not yet visited, so I hopped in the cruiser along with them to go out and meet and greet. In the first village we got to, Samuelli, kids started running after the cruiser once they saw a muzungu in the back seat. We were swarmed with people immediately, a much larger turnout than they probably would have had if I wasn't there with them. Everyone wants to see the white person. There was a woman who wanted me to see her house, so I went off walking with her further into the village, to sit on a couch in her living room for a few minutes with her. Zambians love to have you see the inside of their huts if they have the littlest amount of money to decorate with. I sat there and she brought out a big bowl of groundnuts (peanuts) and handed them to me, then said she wanted me to meet her friend. We ventured further into the village, until I heard loud music coming from some speakers inside a hut at the end of a trail. As I stepped inside, the entire place was filled with women and children dancing, and there was barely any room to maneuver, but they fit me inside. Women fold and tie their chitenges up a certain way around their waist so that when they dance with their hips, it's exaggerated with the extra padding there. They tied one around my waist, and everyone gathered around to watch and laugh at me dancing. I always say "Nili bvina yaya, ndine tuba ya ndine soni! I cannot dance, I am white, and I am shy!" to which they tell me not to be shy. Zambians don't judge you at all, they just think it's great that a white woman is in their house, dancing (or trying to, at least) how they dance. After getting nice and sweaty, I sat on the couch and they served me some munkoyo, which is a village drink that they make out of maize, bark, water, and sugar, that they sometimes let ferment for a few days. I chugged mine down, as it's an acquired taste and I'm now getting used to drinking it (the first time I had it when I had just arrived in Zambia, it tasted like licking a cigarette ash tray). After that, I went back to the tree where we had set up the blood drive, but not without first stopping back at the first womans hut and stuffing all the peanuts from the bowl into my sweat pants pockets. She really wanted me to have them. As I returned, the ZNBTS staff informed me that no one was offering to give blood, and asked if I would as an example. Of course I said sure. Blood is blood and people need it everywhere in the world. If America never takes my blood again because I've served in Africa, then so be it, but it's not going to stop me from helping people where and when I can.
    I sat there on a reed mat under the tree in the dirt, they swabbed off my forearm with alcohol, then slid the needle into my vein. A little of my blood squirted out, which made the Zambians wince. They were also surprised to see how green and visible my veins were through my white skin. As the bag was filling with blood, I thought back to the lunch that I was about to sit down and eat before I jumped in their cruiser, and realized I hadn't eaten anything yet that day. It was 3pm. It took less than 3 minutes to fill up the bag, but as she started sliding the needle out of my arm and giving me cotton to clot the blood, I started feeling light headed. Then my hearing started to get fuzzy, as did my vision, and I told the nurse I needed to lie down for a second. Regardless of my not having eaten, this is a normal reaction anyways. And this isn't the Red Cross, there aren't fancy beds with blankets to lay back in while your blood is being taken, there are no cute little snack areas to hang out in until you're better. I laid back while they got me a softie, and from just laying flat for a few seconds and taking a sip of Fanta, I felt instantly better. However, the Zambians having seen this did not feel better about giving blood. I was supposed to inspire them, and instead I think I hindered it. I sat around making faces with all the children for a good 30 minutes, then people started to finally brave up and donate. We collected about 30 bags of blood between 2 different villages. But that's my experience with giving blood here. No squeeze balls, no gloves, no interviews prior or discrimination or waivers.

Zambia National Blood Transfusion Service

Blood Donations

Making faces at kids making faces at me.

     Other things that have occurred over the last two months are, but are not limited to: teaching sign language to my village kids, learning to cook traditional Zambian food with my village women, playing soccer every day with someone, personally giving shots to my kitten to treat him for worms (the vet in town just gives me the shot and the bottle of medicine to take back to my hut and measure out and administer myself!), visiting the basic school and the community schools around me to observe and teach, getting a new roof for my hut... 3 times, planting a ton of trees all around my hut, growing and then killing herbs because I'm a horrible gardener, attending funerals in many different villages, painting my hut and the kids hands, doing a radio show, staking fish ponds, teaching about hygiene, making mango jam and mango wine, doing fertility dances with women, hitch hiking or biking everywhere, talking about health to anyone who will listen, discovering all the cool things I can cook over a brazier, and reading a crap ton of books. And by crap ton, I mean I've read 14 books in the last 2 months.

(L-R) Jonesi (host brother), Moniqua, Daphu, Alfredi (host brother)

Jones is always in my hut, I dress him in all my clothes and accessories- he's sporting my head lamp in this picture- and him and Moniqua are my little 3 y/o buddies. Moniqua is sick, so she always comes and eats with me, and I make sure she gets enough protein. Once or twice a week I make something for  all my village kids, usually it's popcorn. This was popcorn breakfast day. 

So one day, I took my soccer ball to a village next to mine that has a soccer field. My village kids and I usually play just outside my hut, and use bricks as small goal posts, so I thought it would be cool to go play on a huge field at the school, and that there also might be a few kids there so we could get a good sized game there. I underestimated the "few" kids that we'd find. Before I even got to the field, I had a tail of kids behind me. Then kids started popping up out of everywhere! The village grapevine travels at the speed of light, apparently, and kids were dropping out of trees, coming up out of bushes, and pouring out of little mud buildings running towards me. I quickly had upwards of 100 kids, and only 1 soccer ball. AND I had promised a group of girls we'd be playing soccer, but there were too many boys around to exclude them. I had no idea what to do, and my Tumbuka is definitely not developed enough for this situation, so I let the older kids take the ball to the other end of the field and I stood there surrounded, just staring all of them. A few of them had Zammade soccer balls- sand wrapped in plastic bags tied with bark from a tree, so I started kicking those around and running all over the fields with the kids. Then I tried explaining how to play tag to them, but they just thought I was telling them to run. So they all took off and ran a lap around the track, then back to me. I remembered that Zamkids copy everything I do, so I was like "Okay, perfect time to do some soccer training through running endurance." The kids that had returned from the initial lap stood there panting and coughing up their lungs, which really bothered me. There is no reason for children this young to be that tired from one small lap, which is a result of no physical activity in the schools, and poor lungs from all of the field burning, indoor fires, and inhaling of dust that Zambians do. I'll bet if they were to do a bunch of lung exams in the villages here, they'd find a lot of lung cancer. SO, I started running around the track and sure enough, all of the kids followed behind me. I did side step, karaoke, lunges, jumping jacks, jumping while running, running and touching the ground every few steps, high knees, butt kicks, and backwards running.. and the kids copied everything. They had such a blast doing it, as did I, because I was getting a nice work out and laughing the entire time. 

Oh yea, and this happened.