Ulesi means Lazy

Zambians are really hard workers. Everything they do seems to me to be such a tedious task, because of the luxuries that I grew up with. Where they will spend all day husking and shucking hundreds of ears of maize, sifting and pounding thousands of kernals, drawing water, gathering firewood, and cooking for many hours, I'm just like "Um, I think I'll heat up some spaghetti tonight.."- something that I bought in a store, packaged, and only have to boil in water for a few minutes. They have to prepare their fields by hand (no use of animals or machines in my village), they have to harvest all of their land, and if they want to eat, the rains better come. Their lives depend on the workings of nature. The water source in my village is a shallow well. If the rains don't come, or if they don't come soon, the well will dry up. If people plant their fields at the first rain, and then it's weeks until the next one, they will not have food. If people wait to plant their fields, and the rains come early, then they will not have food. If the well dries up, the women will have to walk, which they do barefoot in the hot sand littered with feces and sharp objects, to another watering source even further away, and carry their water back. 40L on their heads, 20L in their hand, and a baby tied to their front sucking on a breast. If they have to walk further to get water, that means less time can be spent preparing food, doing chores, and completing other activities that are required just to live day to day. They work from sun up to after sundown, beginning the day by sweeping out their huts and living compound then scrubbing their floors by hand, to washing their dishes in the dark after feeding their families dinner. They're awake by 4am, and go to bed around 9, or sometimes stay up the entire night drumming, singing, and dancing. They even work in the hot midday sun, a time when I'm usually hiding out in my hut, and they never complain about a thing. It makes me feel pretty lazy somedays. I still get up at 4, but after using the chimbuzi (toilet), sweeping out my hut, watering and placing my herbs outside, I usually crawl back into bed and read for a few hours. Somedays I read in bed the entire day. Sometimes I don't feel like lighting the brazier, and thats when I eat peanut butter out of the jar or just raw sweet potatoes for dinner. If I skip a bath one evening because i don't feel like making a fire, boiling water, and kneeling on the ground to wash myself out of a small bucket, they will wake me in the morning and tell me I need to bathe right then.

I don't find myself longing for the luxuries of back home, but somedays I do miss certain things. Sometimes I wish I could just turn a knob and have hot water come out of a shower head that I can stand underneath. Sometimes I wish I had an electrical outlet and could plug in a fan, or charge things, instead of having to bike 20km to a house, whose power might not even be on that day/weekend/week. I don't really think that life is tough here, it's just different and calls for a lot more physical work than back home. More work, and definitely a lot more time to do get things done. No pushing a button and zapping food to cook in 3 minutes!

There's a lot that I thought would be difficult that I actually really like. I enjoy going to fetch water with the women, and having them laugh at me when I get tired from only drawing 20L  from the well. Or as I stumble and spill water while trying to carry it on my head. I enjoy my long bike rides, sometimes hours long, to get to places. It challenges me, its doing good things to my legs and for my heart, and I get to meet people in every village that I pass through, as well as bike through such beautiful landscape.  It can get really hot, but there's always a mango tree to sit under, fresh fruit to eat, and women to laugh with. The language can get really frustrating at times, but I'm still studying and I know it will come in time. The best thing to do is laugh at myself when I mess up, and keep trying. I'm beginning to understand more each day. I drew light switches on the wall in each room of my hut, to give my hut some humour, but I really like that my hut is lit by just candles. I rarely use flashlights or headlamps, unless I'm out after dark. I think it's really cool about writing people letters and cooking and reading by candlelight only... Speaking of which, I think it's cool to be writing people letters in general. I like getting to put my thoughts to paper with a purpose, and I like that someone halfway across the globe will hold that paper in their hands in a few weeks and learn a little bit more about what life is like in Zambia. Sure, it's not instant communication, which I do sometimes need, but there's something special about a letter. I know how great I feel when I receive one, and I'm sure it excites my friends back home to see a personal letter from Africa. It means that someone took the time to sit down and devote time to someone else that they can't otherwise communicate with.

There are other things, like the 500 flies that buzz inside my kitchen during the day, or the scorpion spiders and mice that find refuge in my hut at night, but that all comes with getting to live here. And I've grown quite used to falling asleep to the sound of the termites eating my mud walls and building their home out of mine. I guess I can share. I'm thankful to sleep under a mosquito net each night, it's like my own secret fortress that no bug shall enter.  As it's been said, and what I think is the best description, is that living here in a mud hut is just like glorified camping. I thought I'd want a radio to help me fall asleep at night, but the truth is, I don't listen to any music except sometimes on long runs or bike rides. I'd rather my ears be filled with all of the life that surrounds me, which is something I don't expect to become tired of anytime soon. There is always laughter- women, men, and children laughing all day. There is never yelling or fighting, and the children rarely cry. Someone, if not everyone, is always singing. Each night, all night long, the drums are being beat in a nearby village. The silence that remains is filled by the crackling of fires and the sing-songy chirp of crickets.

I get to be in the nature, and that is where I'm happy. As long as the natural beauty of this world exists, and I may live to see it, the sunshine, the trees, the painted skies, the rhythm of people living peacefully and harmoniously, as long as this lasts, I cannot be unhappy. According to the cycle of emotions, I'm in my honeymoon phase of service here: excited and in love with everything. It's said that after this positive spike, there will be a negative one. And while I'm sure I'll face obstacles that will challenge me and put me down at times, I don't think I'll ever stop loving life here. This is me, I'm right where I should be. To be quiet and alone with the heavens, nature, and whatever I perceive god/s to be, is when I feel that all is as it should be, and that people are meant to be happy amidst the simple beauty of nature.

These are the things I think about during my sunset runs.

Off to meet the Prince

I have so much to write about that has happened over the last two weeks, but in all honesty, I feel horrible right now and am much too lazy to do so. This is my last hour that I will have internet and computer access until we have Provincial meetings on Thanksgiving, however, I've spent the last 16 hours with a stomach virus, have not gotten any sleep, and have some of the worst pains throughout my body right now. Stick it out.

Last Friday I swore in as an official United States Peace Corps Zambia Volunteer. It was a beautiful ceremony hosted by the U.S. Ambassador at his gorgeous house. Many currently serving Volunteers, Host Country Nationals,  Returned Peace Corps Volunteers, leaders, Headmen and Headwomen, and other dignified guests were in attendance. They said some wonderful words about Paul Blum, and about how he would have made an amazing volunteer, something of which I am very sure of. We had an empty chair for him, with a rug that was made for his family from all of our left over chitenge material (from the outfits we wore for the ceremony), and a rose on top of that. They flew his life long friend out from the US to accept his certificate. And then we all proceeded to be announced and accept ours as well. It was a fun time, and something that I'd been looking forward to and working towards since the day I stepped foot in this country. I have completed my job training, as well as learned the language to a degree well enough for them to be confident that I will be safe and able in my new village.

So today is the day. Today is the day that I am posted to my new village. Where almost all the other volunteers were able to travel to their villages for a night and meet some of the people that reside there, I was never able to make it to my village due to Pauls passing away the day we were to go. Which is completely fine, and I know everything will work out, but I'm pretty nervous about all of this. One thing I'm nervous about is showing up with all of this stuff- me being a first generation volunteer, I have a lot of crap because I have to furnish the place- them seeing me with a cruiser full of things, and then me telling them that I have no money, I'm really not rich, and I have nothing to give them but knowledge and a good time. On the other side of being nervous, I'm so excited. I can't wait to meet my counterpart again, and I hope that he is able to guide me and introduce me to the people and my clinic. I can't wait to meet my new host father, Prince Charles, because he's been calling the PC staff non-stop asking where I am and when I'll get there! I'm glad that they are really excited to meet me, but because I'm tired and grumpy and not feeling well right now, I know that when I get to my village all I will want to do is unpack, get organized, and sleep and probably crap my brains out for the rest of the day. But really, I'll be surrounded by kids and people wanting to meet me, wanting to eat with me, wanting to sit and stare at their first crazy white person.

Yesterday I was able to post another new PCV, Joe, to his new village. That really helped me to see what it's going to be like when I get to mine. As we drove up in the cruiser, everyone was waving, then started coming over to his hut. We were instantly surrounded by so many people wanting to shake our hands and just watch, as well as a ton of people who wanted to help unload all of his things. They were really excited to have him, but they were also excited to have me because they thought I was staying! After we said good bye and I was leaving with the cruiser, the kids ran after us waving for quite some time. One family stopped the cruiser asking if they could have me as their Volunteer, everyone wants an American! I hope this is what my village is like today as well.

It is said that this next week is going to be the hardest week of my life. After being around other Americans and English speakers for the last 3 months, then spending over a week in a hotel or a house with electricity, running water, internet, and an actual city with roads and cars and shops, I'm going to go live in a mud hut, completely alone, back to the village life. They say that this first week is the first time I will experience what it's like to be [seemingly] completely alone. I'm going to feel like I have absolutely no one, especially if I don't have cell service at my site, and I won't be able to just go visit another American very simply. I don't know where my closest Volunteer neighbors live yet or how to contact them, so hopefully they seek me out. I don't know if my host family or anyone near me will speak English (my counterpart does, but he lives 30k away). But again, it's all going to be okay in the end. I'm going to make it through it, and I'm going to have a blast doing it.

I'm really happy where I'm at, I'm really happy to be able to have this experience, and I'm really happy that I'm able to share it. I'm amazed at how many of my friends, family, and complete strangers follow my blog. This is the 3rd goal of Peace Corps- to teach Americans about the people and culture of Zambia. I'm glad that I'm able to have an impact both here, back home, and in my friends lives across the world. It means a lot when you all write to me to say what you've learned; it means a lot when you ask how I'm doing and ask different questions about Zambia and my experience. It means a lot that you all care. Because all I've ever wanted is for people to care, and to care about others. It means a lot that I get to bridge that gap between America and Zambia, and connect you all to a culture, a people, and a lifestyle that many of you didn't know really still existed. Life is simple, and that's completely evident by how we live here in Zamtastic Zambia.

Get ready people of Kapichila Village- it's about to get crazy!!!! Cheers to the next two years!

A Westernized Zambian Kitchen Party

On Friday, Courtney and I were to start off to my sister, Mwaka’s, kitchen party in Kabwe, two hours from where we live in Chamuka. That night we would have stayed up all night dancing with my sisters. Unfortunately, because of the program scheduled to finish up PST (Pre-Service Training), Peace Corps would not allow us to leave early, and we had to depart the next morning. I woke up at 4am, put on my beige chitenge suit patterned with elephants and hunters with spears, and ate my breakfast. My sister Ruthie said that she had arranged for a vehicle to come to take us to Kabwe, and that it would arrive there at 6am. Courtney, her host mother, and her host baby sister, Lina, walked down to our house and shortly after, the vehicle was there- a ‘canter’, which is basically an open-back truck. The bed of the truck was about 8ft long, and had three wooden benches in it, two of which were laying down. Courtney and I climbed into the bed of the pick-up and took our seats on the wooden bench, and then our hosts, as well as 4 other women climbed in too. We took off down the bumpy dirt road, and stopped a little later, as a few Zambians came running up to the truck to hitch a ride. This occurred quite frequently during the journey, with Zambians boarding and alighting at different times; at one point in time we counted 26 of us on this truck. Because we had not picked up the other two wooden benches, everyone squished onto the floor of the truck or sat on the railings. One of the wooden benches had my feet pinned under me and was pressed against my shins, so every time we hit a bump (which was every half a second), the bench would slam into my shins and I quickly got knots and bruises up and down my lower leg.

After a long journey, we finally made it to Kabwe around 8:30. My sister told us to leave our things in the truck, and we would walk around the BOMA (which is a small town, stands for British Overseas Management something). Little did Courtney and I know that we’d be hanging out in the BOMA pretty much all day. We went into a few stores, looking for something for my sister Ruthie to buy for Mwaka as a Kitchen Party/Wedding gift. After a while, she decided on some kitchen pots, and we then ventured into a Shoprite grocery. I was carrying my baby niece, Jesska, in a carrier on my front, and I got a lot of strange looks and overheard a few conversations about a white/blonde woman carrying a black baby. But I’d just smile and kiss her on the forehead and act like she’s mine. J We went and found some tuck shops, drank some cold water (you don’t get cold things very often here!!!, this is something to write home about), ate some bread, and then found our way to some shacks in the back of a parking lot, which would look completely sketch and I probably would have never ventured into alone, or even in America, but sketch is just the way that things look here even when they aren’t. Our hosts sat us down in a little shack that was playing music, handed us the two babies, and then said they’d be right back. A few hours later, Courtney and I started to wonder if they’d left us with their screaming crying one year olds and ran away, and we thought about calling our language teacher to see what we should do. Thankfully they returned, but the wait was still not over. They wouldn’t really let on to what was going on, and by now it was 1pm, and they still hadn’t mentioned the kitchen party or when we would go there. However, I know that we are on Zam time now, so I didn’t bring it up. I figured it would happen when it was meant to happen.

We eventually got in a taxi around 2pm, and it took us out to a very fancy pre-school. This is where the kitchen party was to be held. Now, before I talk about what the kitchen party actually was, I will mention what I had been told/what I thought the kitchen party would be like. From my understanding, we would be with a few women, out in the bush, with a couple of drums. From what I’ve been told, the kitchen party is where older women (but never the mother of the bride, it’s forbidden for her to talk about sex with her children) would show the bride different dances that represent different sex positions and sexual acts. They would school her in ways to please her husband, as they are supposed to have sex on the first night of their marriage. On the night of the marriage, the older women will place money on the bed under the sheet, and the couple is to do the dirty, and if the man finishes, then they will place the money a certain way. If the sex was good and the man is able to finish, this means that the marriage will be good. However, if he doesn’t, then the women will come in and know that the marriage will not go through. Anyways, back to the kitchen party assumptions. I’ve been told that while the women are doing these dances to the drums in the bush, the bride has to get naked and climb a tree, the tree signifying as the man. When we present the presents that we have brought for the bride, we are supposed to dance with our hips. To my understanding, men are not allowed to be present during the kitchen party.

How it really was: As we pulled up to the preschool in the taxi, I heard loud, American music blasting from speakers within the school walls. When we entered, we saw many white chairs, streamers, balloons, a fancy table splayed with hot food trays, a huge sound system set up with 5 young men DJing, and many awnings. And there was an actual brand new kitchen, pretty much. There were cabinets and table tops, an oven/stove, a microwave, a dining room table, and reed mats full of gifts for the brides kitchen- everything brand new and sitting out there on the cement. The guests were dressed in beautiful chitenge dresses, even the little kids running around popping balloons were wearing their Sundays best. My host mom came out, wearing a gorgeous gold ensemble with some major earrings and a brand new hair wig; she looked beautiful, and I was so happy to see her, as she’d been gone for a few days. She told me that Mwaka had just arrived and was in the back of the pre-school, and invited me to go take pictures of her. When I walked into the back room with my big fancy camera, I was really surprised to see Mwaka looking so sullen, almost as if she was drugged. She looked amazing, in a white and black chitenge dress and her hair pulled back and decorated with white beads, her makeup done just like brides in America would have it. But she just looked so sad, she wouldn’t smile, wouldn’t say a single word, and would only look down at the ground.

After a lot of sitting around and waiting (and me taking a million pictures of the kids dancing), the women started to beat the drums and it was announced that Mwaka was coming out. She was preceded by a girl dressed in, what I assume, is the traditional woman dancer-wear, beads covering her face, shakers on her legs, and other things I can’t find the words to describe- see picture. As this girl danced in front, Mwaka was led out by one woman in front of her and one woman behind her. Except you couldn’t see Mwaka, she was in the middle of the two women, covered by a chitenge, almost like a non-transparent veil, almost like a Chinese dragon. They led her to the porch, where they sat her down on a mattress, still covered, and stared at the ground. The MC of the party sang obnoxiously over the music, and women came and danced, with distinguished control of their hips and badonkadonks. A while later, Mwaka’s husband arrived, wearing a chitenge suit that matched her dress. Although he didn’t smile, he looked a lot happier to be there than she did. His entrance was also preceded by a group of women dancing, which led him to the stairs beneath where Mwaka was seated. After some tribal songs and dances, he was then able to slowly roll the chitenge that covered Mwaka back, revealing her to the rest of the party. After he had uncovered her, the MC made him hug her and kiss her, which neither of them seemed to want to do, and then he presented her with baskets and fruit, she presented him with a basket of fruit, and people came up to place money around them. Mwaka then laid on the ground and clapped three times for him, then rolled over to her other side and clapped three more times before getting up, covered in dirt. This was then done for her mom, as they presented the couple to both of their mothers. The entire time, Mwaka did not look up or smile, but she did cry when she hugged her mom.

The group of women danced Mwaka and her husband to the entrance, where she hugged him goodbye, and then returned to her spot on the mattress to stare at the ground some more. It was then announced that food was being served, and although it was just getting started, we were supposed to leave at 17 hr, which is was already passed. They said Courtney and I should eat first, of which we were stoked about because 1) we were starving and 2) they had beer. Beer that was free, and beer that was cold. We stocked up (actually, the lady handed us each two from the get-go, without us asking) and chugged them down along with our food. At that time, my sister said that we had to go, for the canter that drove us here was about to leave. But of course, we couldn’t leave without presenting our gift to Mwaka and dancing! Courtney almost got out of it, until I said that I couldn’t dance without my other Muzungu, and that the gift was from both of us (we got her a toaster) so we had to present it together. So, the dance floor cleared and we shook our butts, to everyones amusement. When I turned around everyone had their cameras out and were smiling and laughing. Everyone except Mwaka. I told her I loved her, to which she did not respond but continued looking at the ground, I grabbed a few more free beers for the road, and we headed out. When we arrived back at the truck we found that it was completely full! There wasn’t any room for us to sit in it. However, because we had already paid the man to take us there and back, and we had hired him for the day, he had to make room for us. Or rather, we had to make room for ourselves. We climbed over and on people to get in, I ended up sitting with one cheek on a tire on the floor, squished up into the fetal position, with my sister sitting on one of my knees and Courtney’s mom sitting half on me. Courtney got to sit on the bench instead of on the floor by peoples feet and crotches, (I HATE FEET!!!!! AND THEY SMELLED!!!!) , but I can’t say that she got a better seat than I did. One of her legs was hanging over the edge of the truck, she was holding my 1 yr old niece, and there was a man sitting on the cab of the truck dangling his legs onto Courtney’s shoulders. We were definitely squished. How squished, you ask? We counted 49 Zambians in the back of that truck. People were standing up and surfing back, because there was no room for them to sit. Definitely not safe, but the driver was trying to make money. My legs fell asleep, my foot was bent in a weird position, I had shooting and throbbing pains up my leg and into my back, and it was hot as hell… But you know what? I didn’t hate it. Because it’s the Zambian culture and I got to experience it. I got to experience how they transport when their only other option is to walk for a few hundred kilometers. And after an hour or so, people started getting off as we would pass their villages, until there was enough room for us to maneuver, and I could join Courtney and sit on the bench. Then when enough of them had gone and there were only the few of us that had started off together left, I got to sit on the edge of the truck, under a beautiful night sky with an almost full moon, and watch the road come ahead of us as the cool wind blew past my face and I thought: how lucky am I to be in this beautiful country.