Randomness...

hi folks - just a quick update while I'm still in Lusaka and basking in my free internet.

First for those of you who get letters, if you could save them for me that would me awesome. I want to photocopy them as a rememberance of my service someday. If it makes you feel like a 1940s war wife, all the better.

Also, a CD player is next on my list of things waiting at home to be sent so I need music! Send me anything new, theme cd's, funny songs, or npr episodes (especially This American Life).

And if you scroll down there's a new book list of things I've read. Let me know if you want recommendations.

New photos are on Facebook.

Okay. Off to Malawi for the Lake of Stars music festival. Be jealous.

Trival Pursuits

I am sitting on my reed mat at a recent stitch 'n dish, or so my neighbor and I call our somewhat bi-weekly combos of lunch and chitenge quilting. Depending on how aggravating village life is the "dish" might change to the less tame "b" word but as this is a family-friendly blog and as both of us are pretty laid-back persons we'll stick with the "dish." (Besides then you get the benefits of the double meaning - food and conversation - and I do love a corny pun.)

And the conversation is the fodder for this post (though the food wasn't so bad either.) So getting back to my reed mat... On this day, we were discussing the role of the Peace Corps Volunteer and more specifically, our fear of not leaving any lasting work after our two-year stay. (Side note: most stitch 'n dish topics are not nearly so existential, this was a bit of an oddity.) I have mentioned previously that I did not come to Africa to effect a development revolution and have no illusionment about the ability of two years of work to surmount long standing systems of inequity. In fact, I still consider my decision to be a selfish one, shelfing a decent education and skill set that could have best served the greater good in some inner city school or cash-strapped NGO. Granted, that's just my opinion - I'm sure most PCVs would disagree. Even so, for all of my talk of being wise to the development crawl, I would still like to thinkof my work here as being somewhat beneficial. I think the "Is my time on Earth making it a slightly better place?" is a fairly universal dilemma whether in a mud hut in Africa or a skyscraper in NYC, unless of course you're amoralistic or certain former politicans.

So what do I do with that time here anyway? Basically everyone I talk to stateside has asked me what the heck my job is and I have so far pretty adeptly dodged the question. Reason being my job description is murky. Peace Corps PR solgan reads the Toughest Job You'll Ever Love. Internally we PCVs sub Toughest for Vaguest. On paper, I'm supposed to be improving the quality of education in my rural zone (equivalent of a US district) and increasing the number of children who can access said education. It all fits into the Ministry of Education's overall plan and more broadly the Millenium Development Goals, complete with statistical indicators and target dates. On the ground level, of course, things aren't so cut and dry. I have 6 government schools and 5 community ones, though I do most of my work at my zonal center school that is 7 km away. I observe classes and give feedback on how to provide child-centered learning. I run workshops or trainings on teaching methods. I work with school officials to write proposals and teach computer classes. I talk abou HIV prevention at the clinic during antenatal sessions. All this sounds lovely on paper. But when faced with the larger issues to rural education I often feel I am pedaling away on a stationary bike (no pun intended). Indeed my least trivial work is often that that doesn't fit neatly into numbers and reports.

In an environment where girls marry young and leave school younger, my status as a college-educated, single 23-year-old is slightly mind-blowing. I cherish my position as a strong feminine role model. Beyond that, I often serve as an ad-hoc cultural ambassador, answering questions ranging from American courtship rituals to the presence of poverty in the States. But one of my most trivial (and most valued) pursuits is just being me.

I once asked a Peace Corps trainer why she liked working with PCVs. She said, "All Americans are different. All Zambians are the same." While that is far from a general rule, culturally Zambia values community over individual efforts. This results in some beautiful traditions but it often boils down to conformity. I have never embraced my American individualism (and my own innate quirkness) more. Ayn Rand would be tickled pink with my acceptance of the ego. Don't worry my leftist comrades, in other areas of my life I remain decidedly non-Randian.

A consequence (and perhaps a contributing factor) to my promotion of the individual, is that I spend a lot time thinking about, well, myself. Apart from some recluses and hermits, I think I am pretty high up there on the time spent alone scale. The opportunity to delve within yourself is hard to find in the fast-paced stateside world but I would recommend you try. The findings might surprise you. Walt Whitman's famous line "I celebrate myself and sing myself" is written large across the wall of my bedroom. Perhaps it ties back to my being selfish but I know the work of believing those words in my heart will be a lasting legacy of my time here.

And somewhere in that heart I know that I am doing something in Zambia. I am encouraging teachers to try new things, I am showing girls a different path, I am befuddling everyone with my strange Kamizhi ways. Hardly a blip on the statistical radar - those percentages and pie charts that find their way into reports that find their way to Washington that find their way into the Congressional budget hearings that keep me fed every quarter. No one ever said that Peace Corp's impact was capturable. But whether I am sewing on a reed mat, or biking to town at dawn, or just rejoicing in this crazy bundle of atoms that is me, I am certain of one thing. It is hardly trivial.

Must See TV

Not to be deter by the lack of true TV, my new favorite village activity is creating my own primetime line-up of programs. Which actually rivals some of the legit 'reality' series passing for entertainment these days. Here are some of my most watched favorites.

What Not to Wear: I'm sure many of you have lost sleep wondering what what happened to all of those neon tracksuits of the late 1980s. Despite their continued popularity among high school gym teachers, there simply isn't a market in America for all that indestructible nylon. But there are willing buyers aplenty in Zambia. Most of the Western clothes in country come via DAPPs, essentially thrift stores stocked with all the donated treasures that second hand shops couldn't sell. Yep, these are the duds that the Salvation Army rejected. Stacy and Clinton would have a field day. Besides the ubiquitous track suit, there's always plenty of t-shirts to amuse. Boy bands and pro wrestlers are staples for teenagers. Seems boys in the States aren't keen on having more desirable boys emblazoned across their chests. Others announce the wearer's relationship requirements - "No Money, No Honey" - or personal accomplishments - "I'm an honors students at Hooters" (seen on a girl of about 5). Another popular look is the hood of a ski jacket. Just the hood, snapped and tied. And no true fashionista would be complete without a holographic belt buckle. Bigger is better bu the image matters too. Obama, Tupac, Tom Cruise - all winking and flexing from the pelvises of Zambia like so many magical Harry Potter pictures.

The Truman Show: In the made-for-TV Zambia version of this Jim Carrey classic, I'm the one on view 24/7. Only no artistic director in a black beret is commanding a legion of staffers to accommodate my every need. If you never brought the concept that people could be mesmerized by one person's daily routine, you should meet my village. I get water every day, wash the dishes, sweep the yard but you wouldn't know it for the audience. Now if I could only find that door in the sky...

Kids Say the Darnest Things: Zambia could have kept this show on the air for decades. The communication barriers between me and the 20-or-so little rascals who hang around my house every day are substantial (basically I have the vocabulary of a slightly slow 2-year-old). Still they never fail to amuse me when I do manage to decipher the mile a minute babble emerging from their mouths. Often it is to tell me that I am committing some drastic error in my daily chores. "Kamizhi those socks are not clean" "Kamizhi you didn't wash the bottom of your pot" "Kamizhi you are sweeping your yard in the wrong direction." My response of "It's clean enough" elicits stares as though arms just sprouted from my head and a resigned "Oh Kamizhi." Nothing beats being schooled by a first grader in hygiene. Just like in America imagination games provide hours of fun. My kids have mastered the "Beep beep beep" back-up sound made by the Belga trucks working on the road. They've also constructed an elaborate network of sand highways in my (poorly swept) front yard. When my yard was filled with materials for building a kinzanga (a traditional gazebo for cooking and entertaining), the kids promptly erected the tallest pole and christening it "MTN" - the cell phone tower that was recently constructed on the road.

So You Think You Can Dance?: Answer in Zambia, yes. Everyone, male or female, young or old, has the ability to dance the pants off of just about 3/4 of the populace of the States. And they dance. Dancing is part of weddings, church (where they often dance their tithe up to the basket), school activities and just everyday life. It almost makes you wonder if they are dancing so much just to make this chronically uncoordinated American feel woefully inadequate. But no, talks with other PCVs confirm, Zambians just love to dance. I've gotten a few offers to be taught and may give it a try but I'm not predicting any competitions in my future.

So there you have it, my substitute boob tube entertainment. So far everything been signed on for the fall but time will tell if any pilots challenge the ratings for next seaon.

Happy.

Don’t ask me to describe this. These words jumped from my pen as I sat to write this entry.

I hesitated to document my daily life here. Why? Because I am no able anecdote of Africa or even of Zambia. The country that I have known for these past three months is diverse and shifting, a study of contrasts and contradictions - as we all are. So do not ask me to capture this is sentences and thought trains. There is too much and my words will fail. Do not ask me to catalog this in facts and absolutes. I cannot be your reference point for this world so far away.

That said, I made this blog to communicate with you – family, friends, random visitors from the Internet ether. I do know that I miss you all dearly (well, maybe not so much for that last group) and I want you to know how I spend my days here. You shouldn’t have to suffer for my fits of relativist angst. Just bear in mind the above disclaimer and bear with me – your self-conscious, slightly neurotic narrator.

I have now been “at site” for over a month. The world before Mufumbwe is rapidly falling away. Mine is an existence of bucket baths, pit latrines and solar charger battles. I get excited to buy tomatoes and sweet potatoes and bananas. I race the sun – getting where I need to be before the heat of midday, hurrying home again before the fall of dusk.

The same sun wakes me at dawn. Now during cold season, it gets down to about 58 degrees in the mornings. While in D.C. that would have signaled full-on skirt and tank top weather, here it just means freezing. I usually need to don a pair of thick knee-highs, a knit cap, a scarf and my North Face fleece to summon the willpower to get out of bed. Yes this is the same girl who frequently left the house without a coat on in the dead of New York winter. Most mornings I bike the seven kilometers to my head school after breakfast. My role there is to assist with teacher trainings, resource development and really anything education-related in the zone. As of yet, my actual job is still vague so more on that some other time. Regardless, they keep me quite busy that side (a Zambian idiom) and thoroughly enjoy feeding me nshima – the cornmeal staple of the country – whenever the opportunity arises.

Afternoons, I am often left to my own devices, which has been very good for my reading habit. I lay in the hammock and devour books, practice yoga, or visit with the neighborhood ladies for a Zambian version of Stitch and Dish. So far my country craft tally is 1½ knitted scarves, one embroidered LL Bean backpack, 2 aprons and a fair amount of crayon-based wall graffito.

Not to say that I am just twiddling my thumbs over here though. The basics of cleanly survival (succumbing to dirtiness would actually be quite easy) takes up large swaths of daytime. I wash my dishes in buckets and my laundry by hand. I sweep my house – constantly – and so my neighbors don’t judge me, I sweep the dirt in the yard. I draw water from a well and, if I am feeling brave, I carry it home on my head. I bathe outdoors, something that I don’t anticipate getting sick of in 27 months. We don’t have markets here as most people grow what they need for themselves. If someone has extra, say tomatoes to sell, they place of small bowl of them in their walkway and wait for buyers. Kind of like a lemonade stand minus the actual stand part and the oh-so-eager kids. It definitely makes one appreciate the produce section though. On free days, I may bike into town – 20 kilometers away – and enjoy a cold drink and TV news, but only if there’s electricity, a risky bet.

When the sun sets at 6:30, I retreat to my little home. I fill a brazier with charcoal and start my fire for the night. My cooking skills have yet to follow the same learning curve as the rest of me but I still manage to scrape together one hot, mostly edible meal a night. My cat Dorkus – a big orange fluff-ball inherited from a previous volunteer – eats most of my leftovers, as well as copious amounts of little dried fish called kapenta. He seems to have the appetite of most teenaged boys or a Hoover vacuum cleaner. But his antics are sometimes my sole entertainment for the night so I put up with the expense. It’s like Animal Planet for one.

Before coming to Zambia, I read this prediction on another Peace Corps blog: Volunteers who go to Asia become mystics, those who go to Latin America become revolutionaries, those who go to Eastern Europe become drunks, and those who go to Africa come back happy. And yes, there is happiness in the slow fading of days and the simple activities that fill them. In doing chores that modern appliances have made obsolete. In living and working in this community, among these people who have done everything conceivable to welcome this stranger in their midst.

And so, that is that. I have begged not to describe and then droned on and on. But this bit cannot contain everything. Even now, I am bursting with additions and revisions, disclaimers and tangents. I do not have the nuance to offer the whole picture. I have been given four colors when what I need is a 96-count Crayola crayon box. But I am happy. And for now, that is enough.

Where have you been, my darling young one?

This one has been far in the days since I hurtled it, a bit unwillingly, into the stratosphere and away from the comforting stability and warmth of the Earth. There were times when I doubted my ability to reach this time, this end of training.

But now, we are here. And I am ready. An adventure is beginning. In a day or two, I will be at my site, in the first home of my own.

The house – as I am sure all of you are dying to know – is a little white and blue gem surrounded by fruit trees and sunshine. There are mangoes, guavas, papayas and lemons growing in my yard. There is a vegetable garden and a soybean plot. There is a chicken house (should I decide to get some) and two trees that are waiting for a hammock to be strung between them. There is a bathing shelter for bucket baths and a pit latrine. I only miss indoor plumbing when I brush my teeth – strangely.

There are two rooms and a pantry. There are two lazy boy chairs sitting around a brazier. There is a bike and a bookshelf to filled with novels and notebooks. There is me.

Training is over. Three days ago, me and 34 of my new found friends stood on the lawn of the U.S. Ambassador’s residence and said the same oath that President Obama had uttered in my D.C. months earlier, to defend the Constitution and protect the country we still knew as home. We sang the U.S. and Zambian national anthems, with my voice cracking from pride in my home and for these amazing people singing next to me.

“Make me an instrument of your peace…” began the country director in her address. She read through the prayer and my heart beat against the St. Francis medal that dangled below my dress. I felt once again the simple truth that I was meant to be here, the soft force of encouragement from somewhere I couldn’t see.

I have traveled in two months. My self is wider. I won’t say I have grown because that is too cliché and not entirely true to the reality of I feel. But my experience is more capable, my being is more expansive. I have pushed out new boundaries from my skin and understanding and now wait for an existence that will fill them.

I have seen poverty. I have seen standards of living that before I had only known about through development classes and Christian adopt-a-child commercials. I have seen a hundred students crammed into a classroom, lacking books and efficient teaching but filled with a desire to learn. What has this brought me – this understanding of lives so closed to the opportunities that stretch before me like America’s mid-western prairies? These new boundaries are membranous – they let pass through these truths and it becomes a part of me, as this food grown in African soil becomes the cells that comprise the physical me. I do not know what will happen when the cells of my being have this muscle memory of Zambia. I do not know self these nutrients will construct.

Things.

We all have our "one thing" - the thing that it will be hard to live with or without. The pit latrines, the lack of fruit, the staring, the this, the that.

But they aren't just one thing. They are many. Added to casual conversation. Whispered in the back of the mind. We are making sacrifices. we must remind others and ourselves that this life is but a 27-month adventure. It is not a natural state.

This collection of "one thing" troubles me. we - I - must give up to live here. I must make do. And those that we are among do they know this too? Are their lives a constant state of deprivation or do they exist in an universe of ignorant bliss? I do subscribe to the "what they don't know can't hurt them" theory of development. But to conclude the other - that they are well aware, that they too have a small pile of "one things" that float around their heads like rainclouds, to conclude that is letting in a downswell of suffering and injustice that I do not have the courage yet to withstand.

I have voluntarily abdicated my "one thing." I have fled the land of HDTV and indoor plumbing for mud huts in the bush. Some speak highly of the Zambian lifestyle - living close to the earth. I too find myself exalting it.

Yet does this concept mesh with the Zambian goals of development? The head principal at a school I visited wanted a posting with a cell phone reception, wanted a computer, wanted a house that was more "humane" than her home with a tin roof and glass windows. The bus boy at the hostel wanted a ticket to America, wanted to meet Beyonce and 50 Cent. Those who have the money want to eat breakfast nshima - a highly processed, more expensive form of grain that lacks any of the nutritutional value found in the simpler village meal.

Do I approach them with the same objective? And if I do want to teach them to improve their quality of life, is it fair to impose this mindset on them? You can develop but only so long as you stay the same. I want your babies to live, your children to learn, your women to stay free, but only so long as your village remains the same, trapped in time. Isn't it wrong to deny the excesses whom which I fled? Or at least the dream of them?

America's pile of stuff, its Lady Liberty statue of electronics and make-up and salad spinners and Mavi jeans, Target aisles and Costcos, it did not make me happy. But I had the choice. Maybe for others, it calls out, its LCD latern burns brighter, it beckons to these huddled masses. Our life in America, chock full of stuff, speaks to others. Its voice is different but the words are the same. It reads the lines well-worn by religious freedom, by opportunity, by upward mobility. "Come here where you will be free. Be happy here."

I believe that this time Lady Liberty is lying. They believe she is telling the truth. How can we work together? More importantly, who is right?

"If i was a spider princess, things would be different..."

I am not a princess, spider or otherwises. Physically, I am no different than the me of 24 hours ago. These same cells and ligaments that now suspend thousands of feet over the Atlantic Ocean bear no different marks than those that waited tables in Bay Shore, that stocked shelves in Northampton, that dreamed away Washington nights. Still?

A goldfish will only grow as large as his tank allows. When those fins sense that the walls of plexiglass are closing in, the body just stops - a hibernation of development. Drop the same little guy in a backyard pond and he would grow forever.

I am no different. Still, deep in my tissues, in places dark and dangerous, a message has been relayed. The plexiglass is shifting. I am transplanting. Growth, once considered impossible, is a possibility again.

I do not know what shape this new body will grow into. Perhaps I will be a spider princess. Perhaps not. But things will be different.


(written in the plane en route to Johannesberg)

Another travelin’ song.

Leaving Northampton, leaving dark coffee-shops and hipster haunts, leaving this little room with its French windows and fake daffodils and cozy white bed. Wrapping up writer’s group, perhaps one of the most satisfying things in my life since Street Sense ended. Packing life into old green Volvo wagon and hightailing out of town, Jackson Browne blaring through speakers, running, once again it seems, on empty.

In October, this same rearview mirror shrunk down home – waiting tables, barista-ing, life on the Atlantic Ocean, sun-drunk familiarities. A frenetic June in northeast D.C. – heat strokes and thunderstorms, Sunday markets and pizza joints. Graduation, a sprint to San Francisco, before that, the little apartment in Northwest – homeless newspapers, radical musings, regalia, anticipation.

My life moves in circles of 3-and-a-half months, trained for an academic calendar that has since unpinned me. Yet like the girl with the red shoes, I cannot stop dancing. Jobs started and quit, internships engrossing and then dull, homes decorated and then deserted. Friends made and abandoned. My resume is but a testament to my inability to commit.

Things, people, inertia - they just don’t seem to get their claws in me. But Africa is waiting. It too wants its turn.